Scandalous Regency Secrets Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

could stomach Corwin, even Mrs Corwin in her purple toque, at a pinch. What was tightening his gut was the thought of the simpering Misses Corwin: Miss Calliope, Miss Calenthe and Miss Coraline. One of them was the price Corwin was going to ask for his investment, Eden was sure. He’d marry a Corwin daughter over his dead body and he’d been certain of managing the thing tactfully in the end. Certain—until he’d heard the girls giggling and plotting together in the overheated conservatory.

      No time to think about that now. He lowered his feet back to the threadbare Turkey carpet, twitched his neckcloth into order and ran his hands through his over-long hair. Outside his office the corridor was deserted, with all the noise and the activity coming from the stage where they were striking the sets in one direction, and the Green Room where the actors were entertaining their friends and admirers in the other.

      Eden took a deep breath and stopped. Gardenia was not a familiar scent in the utilitarian passage outside his office door. Nor was the rustle of silk skirts from the shadows expected. As he realised it, he saw her, an indistinct form in the alcove opposite. Young, slender—he could tell that from the way she moved, the glimpse of white skin at neck and breast.

      Those accursed girls. He had thought himself safe for a day or two while they perfected their scheme to ensure that one of them was comprehensively compromised by him. But, no, here was the first of them, it was irrelevant which. If he pretended not to have seen her and went to the Green Room, she would be into his office, probably prepared to strip off for maximum effect when he returned, with or without a witness. And he was damned if he was going to stand here and shout for help in his own theatre, which seemed the only other option.

      Or was it? Perhaps he could scare the living daylights out of her. Eden smiled grimly, took a long step forward and caught the half-seen figure by the shoulders. She came easily, with a little gasp, like a maid into her lover’s arms, he thought with habitual cynicism, just before he took her mouth. Hard.

      She had been kissed before. At the age of twenty-five, and after several Seasons energetically avoiding becoming betrothed, Maude had flirted with sufficient young gentlemen and had dallied in enough drawing rooms to have experienced everything from gauche wet ineptitude, to boldly snatched kisses, to shyly gentle caresses.

      But she had never been kissed by a man who knew what he was doing and had no inhibitions about doing it thoroughly. How he managed it she had no idea, but one minute she was hiding in a dark alcove, poised to step forward and introduce herself, and the next she was moulded against the long hard body of a male who was quite frankly and obviously aroused, whose lips were crushed to hers and whose tongue was taking full possession of her mouth.

      For a moment she froze, passive with shock in his grip. Then her mind began to work and caught up with her body, already pliant in his arms. It was Eden Hurst who was kissing her. She had dreamt of this for months and now it was happening. Hazily she acknowledged that he had no clue who she was and that he also appeared to be thoroughly out of temper, but just now that did not matter.

      Maude found her fingers were laced in his hair, that romantic mane of black that gave him such an exotic appearance. Her breasts were pressed to his chest so that the swell of her bosom was chaffed by the brocade weave of his waistcoat and against hers his heart was beating, disconcertingly out of stroke with her pulse. But she was only peripherally aware of those tantalising discomforts. Her entire world was focused on what he was doing to her mouth and the devilish skill with which he was doing it.

      Should a kiss make the soft flesh of her inner thighs quiver and ache? Should the insolent thrust of his tongue send shafts of desire deep into her belly, setting going an intimate pulse that made her want to twine her legs around his and press herself hard against him?

      He growled, a warning she did not heed, was incapable of taking, then his hands slid to cup her buttocks and he pulled her up against him so that the ridge of his erection pressed into the delta of her thighs. Now she knew what her body was searching for. Roughly he pushed her back to the hard wall, letting the movement rock them intimately until she was moaning in total surrender against his mouth.

      And then, just when she would have gone to the floor with him, done anything if only his mouth had stayed on hers, he released her, all but one hand, and stepped back. He reached behind him to fling open the office door and the light spilled out across her face when he tugged her into its path.

      ‘Now let that be a lesson—hell and damnation,’ Eden Hurst said quietly, loosing her wrist. ‘You aren’t one of the Corwin girls.’

      ‘No, I am not.’ Thank God, I can still articulate. She reached out one hand to the wall beside her, unsure whether her legs would be as obedient as her voice. ‘I am Lady Maude Templeton, Mr Hurst.’

      ‘Then why the hell did you let me kiss you?’ he demanded with what she could only characterise as a total lack of reasonableness.

      ‘One, you took me by surprise; two, you are somewhat stronger than I am; three, you are very good at it,’ she said coolly. This was not the moment to cast herself into his arms and declare her undying love. Besotted she might be, but she had her pride. One of these days he was going to tell her he loved her, but he needed to find that out for himself.

      ‘Well, I thank you for that last,’ he said on a disconcerting choke of laughter. ‘You are not inclined to slap my face?’

      Maude very much doubted that her legs would allow her to take the two steps necessary to achieve that. ‘No, I do not think so.’ It was so long since she had been close to him that now it did not seem there was enough air to breathe. Or else that kiss had dragged the air from her lungs. ‘Perhaps I should explain why I am here?’

      ‘You want a job, my lady? I need a costume mistress and a scene painter. Oh, yes, and a couple of handmaidens for the farce.’

      He kept his face so straight that she could not decide whether he was totally literal or had a nasty sense of humour. ‘I doubt whether I would be suitable for any of those positions,’ she responded, deliberately matching his tone. ‘My sewing is poor, my painting worse and I would make a thoroughly heedless handmaiden. I have come to congratulate Madame Marguerite on her performance and to broach a matter of business with you, sir.’

      ‘Business?’ He studied her, expressionless. Maude was used to male admiration; this indifference piqued her, not unpleasantly. Her Mr Hurst was not in the common run of men. ‘Well, shall we start with Madame and then we can agree a more suitable time for a meeting tomorrow?’

      Maude would have thought him quite unmoved by what had just happened if it were not for the tension that seemed to flow from him, fretting her aroused nerves as though he had dragged a fingernail along her skin.

      ‘You are without an escort, Lady Maude?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, daring him with her eyes to make something of it. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to find me a cab later, Mr Hurst?’

      ‘You are a practical woman it would appear, ma’am. And one with strong nerves as well as—’ He broke off. Maude turned her head to follow his gaze. From the direction she had come there were soft footsteps and the sound of nervous giggling. ‘Hell.’ He caught her hand again and pulled her into the office, closing the door behind them.

      ‘Mr Hurst, I declare you appear quite hunted.’ Now she could see him clearly. The golden skin that always seemed lightly tanned, the dark brown eyes, the sensuous, sensual, mouth and the elegant, straight nose. She had been correct—those were diamonds in the pin at his throat and one old-fashioned cabochon stone in the barbarically heavy ring on his hand. And as he turned to face her, she saw another glinting in the lobe of his right ear. It should have looked effeminate, but it simply gave him the air of a pirate and she guessed that was quite deliberate.

      ‘Truer than you know, Lady Maude. Perhaps you would care to sit? I fear you are about to be the audience for a private performance of a farce.’ He gestured to a chair on one side of the desk and went to take the other, a great carved monstrosity of a throne with eagles on the back and lions’ heads on the arms

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