Author: Anne Stuart

Of course she ought to scream for help, but she was so frightened she doubted she could make more than a squeak. Besides, the man hadn’t threatened her, and she’d told him she wouldn’t shriek. It would feel as if she’d broken a promise. She tried to clear her throat, struggling for her voice. “I was looking for someone,” she managed to whisper.

“Now what fool left you to find a bedroom all by yourself? If it had been me I wouldn’t have given you a chance to get lost. I would have had you tucked away beneath the sheets before anyone noticed we were gone.”

Color flamed her face. He was being absurd, she thought, saying such things to her. He wouldn’t have done it if he’d gotten a clear look at her. Men didn’t put their hands on her, risk their livelihood, whatever it might be, by assaulting a member of the ton. It was clear by his voice that he was not a member of the ruling class, but what was he? Who was he?

“I was looking for my friend,” she said in a stiff voice. “My female friend.”

“Oh, do not say so, lass!” he crooned. “I hate to see you wasting yourself on another woman when there are so many men who would worship at your feet.”

All right, she was getting annoyed, enough that it overshadowed her usual timidity. “The room is dark, whoever you are. If you got a good look at me you’d know that no one is worshipping at my feet.”

He was still pressed against her, and his body was warm in the cool room. She realized suddenly that one of the tall windows leading out onto the tiny balconies that adorned Carrimore House was open.

“Ah, but I saw you quite clearly. I have eyes like a cat—I can see in the dark.”

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, particularly since he didn’t let her move. “I don’t imagine you’re here for any good reason.”

“I’m afraid not.” He sounded almost apologetic. “I’m here for Lady Carrimore’s diamonds.”

She breathed in, shocked. “She’s wearing them.”

“Oh, that’s only a very small part of her diamonds. She has cases of them. Or she did. They now reside in a silk bag, and they’re damned heavy.”

“You’re a thief!” she gasped. “That’s awful.”

“Not particularly,” he said in a cheerful voice. “I make a good living at it. And you needn’t cry for the poor duchess. Her husband makes his money in the slave trade—those stones don’t belong to her.”

“Then who do they belong to? Are you going to send them back to Africa along with the stolen natives?”

“Of course not. They belong to me, as of fifteen minutes ago. I would have been long gone but I heard you fumbling about behind the walls and I wanted to make certain I was safe. And I am safe, aren’t I, me darling?”

She wanted to deny it. “Why would you think you were?”

To her amazement he turned her in his arms, suddenly, still keeping her tight against his body, and she looked up, trying to see him. “Because you’re a pirate at heart, lass. I can feel it. You aren’t going to turn me in. Are you?” His voice was low, his face so close. His fingers caught her chin and tilted it up to his face. “Are you?”

“I … I ought to,” she stammered.

She couldn’t see much of him. Just a broad smile, and the glitter of his eyes. “You know I’m going to kiss you, don’t you? I shouldn’t. But I can’t resist. And you’re going to kiss me back.”

She was more shocked by that than by discovering he was a jewel thief. “I most certainly am not! I’m engaged to be married.”

“I hope he appreciates you. That’s not much of a ring on your finger—you deserve far better.”

She hid her hand and the pathetic ring in her skirts. “It’s good enough for me.”

“No, it’s not. He’s not. But there’s nothing I can do about that. Brace yourself, lass.” His mouth covered hers, and she jerked in surprise.

It wasn’t an indiscreet pressure of his lips against hers. It was his mouth, hot and wet and open, and the fingers that held her chin stroked her, tugging it, and she tasted his tongue.

She froze, not certain what she should do. This was ridiculous, it was bizarre, it was shocking. She couldn’t scream, and she didn’t want to fight. He slowly seduced her with his tongue, sliding it against hers with a steady, sinuous rhythm that she felt in her breasts, the pit of her stomach, between her legs. It was a kiss that caught her soul, wrapped it up and stole it away from her, and when he finally lifted his head she was breathless. And so was he.

“He doesn’t even know how to kiss you,” he said, a mixture of regret and laughter in his voice. “Such a waste, lass.”

She looked up at him in the darkness. And then said something she never would have thought she’d utter, not in a million years. “Kiss me again.”

And he did. She was clamped against his hard body, and he was very strong, and he lifted her, with seeming effortlessness, carried her, and she thought he was taking her to the bed, and she didn’t care. He moved her across the room, kissing her so deeply her brain was whirling, and they came up against a solid surface, and she wondered if he was going to take her there.

He moved his mouth, trailing kisses along her cheek. “Goodbye, lass,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. And a moment later she was out in a hallway, alone, no sign of a door in the damask-covered walls.

She was shaking. She realized with shock that he’d managed to fasten her domino back around her neck, though he hadn’t bothered with the loo mask, and she quickly reached for the hood and pulled it low over her flaming face. She rested her forehead against the wall, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the pounding of her heart to slow. She could hear the noise and music from the ballroom, and she pushed away, moving toward it in a daze, walking until she came upon some of the guests, until she found a cushioned chair near a window. She sank into it, sitting there in breathless shock. And it was there Miranda found her.

She shouldn’t be going off with him, Miranda thought, her hand on his arm, her gloved fingers resting on the superfine of his black coat. She could feel the eyes on them as they moved through the halls, but for once she knew those guarded, disapproving eyes weren’t meant for her. The Scorpion put the strumpet’s sins in the shade.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“Someplace where we can talk. I have a small task to perform and I thought you could bear me company while I did it.”

“A task?” That seemed absurd. What kind of task did one have in the middle of a ball? And Lucien de Malheur had people to perform his tasks—she couldn’t imagine him exerting himself for anything less than monumental.

“I think it would probably be better if I didn’t explain too much. We simply need to keep guard in a hallway, keep anyone from going into any of the bedrooms.”

“Why would people go into the bedrooms?”

“Oh, child, how can you be a fallen woman and still such an innocent! The Carrimores are very liberal hosts. They make certain there are bedrooms available for couples who feel the need to fornicate.”

The word startled her, but she was determined not to show it. “Why should they?” she said in a caustic voice. “Why can’t they just go home?”

“Because most of them have a husband or wife they have to take home with them, not the one they want to fuck.”

She ripped her arm from his, moving away from him. “You disappoint me, Lord Rochdale,” she said in a shaky voice. “I hadn’t realized you had the same low opinion of me that others have.”

“Now why would you say that? Haven’t you ever heard that word before? It’s what those guests are doing, and using prettier words for it is being disingenuous. I meant no offense.”

She stared at him. “Now who’s being disingenuous? You can’t use a word like that without expecting a reaction, not to a young lady of the ton. But then, you know I’m not a proper young lady. The truth is when I was part of polite society I was protected from such harsh realities. Once I was considered persona non grata I had no idea how people conducted themselves. So why use such words with me? Were you planning on seducing me? Oh, excuse me. Were you planning on fucking me?” She’d never spoken that word out loud, and the very utterance of it made her faintly breathless, but she was too angry to care. She’d trusted him, fool that she was.

“I’ve made you very angry,” he said, sounding sorrowful. “I didn’t mean to. It’s only a word, Lady Miranda.”

“So is whore. Lightskirt. Trollop. Outcast. All only words.”

He appeared unchastened. “Not to mention monster. Abomination. Villain. You can be assured I know a great deal about the power of words. I hadn’t thought you were so vulnerable.”

She stiffened. “I’m not.”

“Of course you are. I apologize. I wouldn’t want anything to hurt our friendship.” He took her arm, and his hand covered hers, stroking her reassuringly.

She knew she should pull away again. But he was looking down at her, his pale eyes were like ice, sharp and hypnotic, and she’d given up so much already. She didn’t want to give him up as well, even though she knew she should. This man was truly like a scorpion, a poisonous sting when one least expected it.

And then, to her amazement, his fingers brushed her cheek, turning her stubborn face to his. “Forgive me?” he said softly, and she felt herself slipping again, under his spell.

No wonder they called him the scarred devil. The Scorpion, who hypnotized its victim before delivering that lethal sting. When he touched her face she felt more than Christopher St. John had ever managed to elicit from her. It was dangerous, it was seductive and it shocked her, but she couldn’t move. She stood perfectly still, staring up into his ravaged face, and he moved closer, and she wanted him to kiss her.

“Ooops, sorry, old man,” someone said from the end of the hallway, and the couple disappeared in a welter of giggles and whispered comments, but he’d already moved back from her, and the moment was over.