Regency Rogues: Unlacing The Forbidden. Louise Allen

mean, in danger from gentlemen like you?’

      ‘No, not like me. A gentleman takes no for an answer. A buck like your friend back there is quite capable of taking other things. What might have happened if Hodge had gone to find the waiter, or to relieve himself? Do you think that maid of yours would have been any protection?’

      ‘Against what?’ Thea protested. ‘There are people all around.’

      ‘Against this,’ Rhys said as he jerked her off balance, out of the archway and into the deserted alleyway beyond.

       Chapter Eight

      Thea found herself trapped in a corner, her back against the brickwork, her body caged by Rhys’s. His hands were on the wall on either side of her head, his big feet bracketing hers in their fragile satin evening slippers. As she drew a trembling breath, her breasts touched his chest.

      ‘Let me go—you are hurting me.’ She tipped up her chin, a mistake. His mouth was just above her own.

      ‘I am not touching you,’ he pointed out, his voice reasonable. Only the brush of wine-scented air on her lips betrayed that his breathing had quickened.

      Thea jerked up her knee, but he was too close and it merely pushed futilely against his leg. She ducked to get under his arm and he closed his elbows tightly. ‘I’ll scream,’ she threatened.

      ‘I have only to kiss you to stop that,’ Rhys pointed out. ‘And do you know what your buck would do after that?’ She tried to worm backwards into the unyielding wall. ‘He would flip up your skirts and take you here where we stand.’ His knee pushed against her, separating her legs. She felt her skirt ride up, felt the pressure of his thigh against her where a flutter of arousal was shameful acknowledgement that her body wanted this, and more. He can feel how hot I am. How…wet.

      ‘You do not frighten me.’ But he did, she realised. This was Rhys, who would never hurt her, and yet it was also an angry man, aroused by frustrated lust, the violence of that brief fight and anger with her, the cause of all of it.

      ‘Then I am not trying hard enough,’ he said and she saw the glint of white teeth as he lowered his head.

      As he moved, so did his imprisoning leg. Thea dropped down between his arms, slid against his thighs and then rolled free to scramble to her feet as he turned and lunged for her. ‘I wouldn’t,’ she warned, yanking the long hatpin from her elaborate hairpiece. As she brandished it, the light from the lantern at the end of the alley glinted off the metal.

      There was silence, dangerous. The man she had thought she knew so well shifted on the balls of his feet as though ready to spring, a threatening stranger. What has happened to us?

      Then Rhys spoke, amusement threading through his deep voice. ‘I taught you that trick.’

      ‘I know.’ It was going to be all right. He has not turned into someone else entirely. ‘When I was twelve and that horrible youth staying at the Wilkinsons’ tried to pin me against the stable wall. I had no idea then what he wanted.’

      ‘You do now.’ Was he really amused or was this simply a trick so she would allow him close again? She wished she could make out his expression. ‘I am impressed by your speed, but I wish I could be convinced you could escape another man so easily.’ Perhaps his anger had subsided. The fluttering panic under her breastbone eased a little. ‘Are you going to put the skewer away now?’ Rhys asked. ‘You could kill someone with that thing.’

      ‘It was instinct, I would never have used it on you.’ Thea jammed the pin back in and tried to sort out her emotions. Rhys had ruined her evening, had completely overreacted and had unsettled her to an alarming extent. But he had rescued her from the importunate rake and by doing so had spoiled his own evening. She supposed they were even.

      ‘You would not have had the chance,’ Rhys said, coming closer.

      ‘I do wish you would stop looming over me like that.’ They might be even, but she was having to hold on hard to her self-control. Rhys had meant to frighten her and, although she would die rather than admit it, he had succeeded and that was infuriating. And he had aroused feelings she simply did not want to acknowledge. ‘Oh, Lord, my new gown.’ She brushed at the skirts with all the force she could not apply to boxing his ears. ‘At least the ground is dry.’

      ‘If you allow me to walk you home in a ladylike manner, I will show you how to use your hatpin for self-defence without littering the streets of Paris with wounded admirers. Which does not mean,’ he added as they crossed the road behind the Louvre, ‘that I’ll tolerate you putting yourself in a position where you might need it again. Do you understand me?’

      ‘Yes, Rhys, thank you,’ Thea said, striving for meekness and managing to sound at least biddable, she supposed. The flare of temper had subsided, but her heart was hammering and her blood seemed to be singing in her veins. It was the same way she felt after a long, hard gallop across country, or when she heard a beautiful piece of music…and yet, different. She was restless, there was an ache inside. Reaction, she told herself. And physical desire. She discovered that she was, perversely, happy.

      ‘I am sorry about your singer,’ she said. She had promised not to interfere with his enjoyment, she recalled guiltily. ‘Is she nice?’

      ‘Nice?’ Rhys chuckled, amused, it seemed by the foolish word. ‘I have no idea. But she is very beautiful.’

      Of course. Beautiful. Thea felt the champagne fizz of happiness go flat. For a brief few moments, veiled, elegantly gowned, she had been fought over and pressed against a man’s body as though he lusted for her. But, of course, it was no such thing. Her old friend Rhys had simply been protecting plain, ordinary Thea who had got herself into a pickle and had taught her a hard lesson. The air of Paris must be a drug, making her think she wanted something that, of course, she did not desire in the slightest.

      ‘Here we are,’ she said as the lamps outside their hotel came into sight. ‘You must promise me you will not be angry with Hodge. It was all my fault.’

      And most of all, my pleasure.

      ‘Good morning!’ Thea sounded quite disgustingly cheerful as she went to the buffet to inspect the chafing dishes.

      Rhys scarcely glanced up as he rose to his feet, the French newspaper crumpled in his grasp, then sank back onto his chair to bury himself behind its pages. ‘Morning.’

      He was not good at mornings and especially not after a restless night filled with highly charged, and highly confusing, erotic dreams. For some reason the woman he had been chasing, futilely, had brown hair, not blonde, and as he reached for her over and over again he was shaken by feelings of unfamiliar guilt.

      In broad daylight the dreams blurred into a half-remembered, discomforting muddle that he was doing his best to forget. He had completely overreacted with Thea last night; he could see that now in the bright light of morning. He could have rescued her from the importunate stranger and packed the lot of them back in a hackney carriage and brought his own evening to its probable outcome. As it was, he found he could not regret the missed encounter, which was strange.

      His mood was not helped by Hodge, who started nervously every time Rhys spoke and obviously found it hard to believe that he was not about to be instantly dismissed for allowing Thea to go to the Palais Royale. As if the man had a hope of stopping her once she got an idea into her head.

      ‘More coffee, Rhys?’

      ‘Please.’ With half his attention he was conscious of her bustling about while he wrestled with smudged newsprint and colloquial French. A waft of fresh coffee, the clink of china, the rustle of fabric as Thea settled herself at the table, a faint drift of subtle rose scent.

      Rustling? Scented? Thea? Rhys folded the