Ravishing the Heiress

Darkness was like a lover’s embrace, Helena Fitzhugh had heard it said.

Bollocks.

Nothing was like a lover’s embrace, with its warmth, strength, and passionate need. But a lover’s embrace made one look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena entered her unlit bedroom, surrounded by darkness, she sighed in contentment.

Or rather, as much contentment as possible given that her particular lover’s embrace happened through her chemise and Andrew’s nightshirt. But still, how new and thrilling it was to kiss and touch in the comfort and privacy of a bed, almost enough to pretend that the past six years never happened and that the only thing that separated them were two layers of thin, soft merino wool.

“Hullo, Miss Fitzhugh,” came a man’s voice out of the darkness.

Her heart stopped. David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, was her brother Fitz’s best friend—but not exactly a friend to her.

“Mistook my room for one of your paramours’?” She was proud of herself. Her voice sounded even, almost blasé.

“Then I would have greeted you by one of their names, wouldn’t I?” His voice was just as nonchalant as hers.

A match flared, illuminating a pair of stern eyes. It always surprised her that he could look serious—intimidating—at times, when he was so frivolous a person.

He lit a hand candle. “Where were you, Miss Fitzhugh?”

“I was hungry. I went to the butler’s pantry and found myself a slice of pear cake.”

He blew out the match and tossed it in the grate. “And came back directly?”

“Not that it is any of your concern, but yes.”

“So if I kiss you now, you would taste of pear cake?”

Trust Hastings to always drag a discussion in this particular direction. “Absolutely. But as your lips will never touch mine, that is a moot point, my Lord Hastings.”

He looked at her askance. “You are aware, are you not, that I am one of your brother’s most trusted friends?”

A friendship she’d never quite understood. “And?”

“And as such, when I become aware of gross misconduct on your part, it behooves me to inform your brother without delay.”

She lifted her chin. “Gross misconduct? Is that what one calls a little foray to the butler’s pantry these days?”

“A little foray to the butler’s pantry, is that what one calls gross misconduct these days? Or is that how one properly refers to the territory inside Mr. Martin’s underlinens?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Should I use the scientific names?”

And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was her steadfast policy to never let him enjoy himself at her expense, she declared, “Mr. Martin and I are friends of long standing and nothing more.”

“You and I are friends of long standing and—”

“You and I are acquaintances of long standing, Hastings.”

“Fine. Your sister and I are friends of long standing and yet she has never come to spend hours in my room. Alone. After midnight.”

“I went for a slice of cake.”

He cocked his head. “I saw you go into Mr. Martin’s room at forty minutes past midnight, Miss Fitzhugh. You were still there when I left twenty minutes ago. By the way, I also witnessed the same thing happening for the past two nights. You can accuse me of many things—and you do—but you cannot charge me with drawing conclusions on insufficient evidence. Not in this case at least.”

She stiffened. She’d underestimated him, it would seem. He’d been his usual flighty, superficial self; she wouldn’t have guessed he had the faintest inkling of her nighttime forays.

“What do you want, Hastings?”

“I want you to mend your ways, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. I understand very well Mr. Martin should have been yours in an ideal world. I also understand that his wife has been praying for him to take a lover so she could do the same. But none of it will matter should you be found out. So you see, it is my moral obligation to leave at first light and inform your siblings, my dear, dear friends, that their beloved sister is throwing away her life.”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Hastings?”

He sighed dramatically. “It wounds me, Miss Fitzhugh. Why do you always suspect me of ulterior motives?”

“Because you always have one. What do I have to do now for your silence?”

“That will not happen.”

“I refuse to think you cannot be bought, Hastings.”

“My, such adamant faith in my corruptibility. I almost hate to disappoint you.”

“Then don’t disappoint me. Name your price.”

His title was quite new—he was only the second Viscount Hastings after his uncle. The family coffer was full to the brim. His price would not be anything denominated in pound sterling.

“If I say nothing,” he mused, “Fitz will be quite put out with me.”

“If you say nothing, my brother will not know anything.”

“Fitz is a clever man—except when it comes to his wife, perhaps. He will learn sooner or later, somehow.”

“But you are a man who lives in the present, aren’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “That wouldn’t be your way of saying that I am empty-headed and incapable of thinking of the future, would it?”

She didn’t bother with an answer to that question. “It is getting late—not too long now before someone comes to lay a new fire. I don’t want you to be seen in my room.”

“At least I can marry you to salvage your reputation should that happen. Mr. Martin is in no position to do so.”

“That is quite beside the point. Tell me what you want and be gone.”

He smiled, a crooked smile full of suggestions. “You know what I want.”

“Please don’t tell me you are still trying to kiss me. Have I not made my lack of interest abundantly clear on this matter?”

“I don’t want to kiss you. However, I’ll settle for you to kiss me.”

Her, kissing him?

“Ah, I see you were hoping to stand quiescent and think of Christian martyrs mauled by the lions of the coliseum. But as you always tell me, I am a man of unseemly tastes. So you must be the lion, and I the martyr. I shall expect exceptional aggression, Miss Fitzhugh.”

“If I were a lion, I’d find you a piece of rotten fish, not at all to my taste and hardly edible, whereas I’ve just dined on the finest gazelle in the entire savannah. You will excuse me if I fail to summon any enthusiasm to fall upon you.”

“Quite to the contrary. I cannot excuse such failure. Not in the least. You will somehow summon the enthusiasm or I shall be on the earliest train headed south.”

“And if I do manufacture enough false zeal to satisfy you?”

“Then I shall say nothing to anyone of Mr. Martin.”

“Your word?”

“Your word that the kiss will be more debauched than any you’ve pressed upon Mr. Martin.”

“You are a pervert, Hastings.”

He smiled again. “And you are just the sort of woman to appreciate one, Miss Fitzhugh, whether you realize it or not. Now here is what I want you to do. You will seize me by the shoulders, push me against the wall, reach your hand in under my dressing gown—”

“I feel my bile rising already.”

“Then you are ready. Onward. I await your assault.”

She grimaced. “How I hate to spoil a perfect record of repelling you.”

“Nothing lasts forever, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. And remember, kiss me passionately. Or you’ll have to do it again.”

She might as well get it over with.

She closed the space that separated them in two big strides and gripped him by the sleeves of his dressing gown. Instead of pushing him backward as he’d instructed—as if she’d allow him to dictate the specifics of her ordeal—she yanked him toward her, fastened her mouth to his, and imagined herself a shark with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth.

Or perhaps she was a minion of the underworld, her mouth a swelter of burning acid and sulfur fumes, devouring his soul, savoring all the idle immoralities he’d committed in his lifetime as a palate cleanser between courses of more substantial sins.

Or a Venus flytrap, full of delicious nectar, but woe was he who thought he could dip a proboscis inside and sample her charms. Instead, she would digest him in place, the stupid sod.

Vaguely she sensed something hard and smooth against her shoulder blades. They’d been in the middle of her room, why was she being pressed into a wall? And why, all of a sudden, was she the one being devoured?

The muscles of his arm were tight and hard beneath her hands. His person was as tall and solid as a castle gate. His mouth, instead of tasting like a furnace of greedy lust, was cool and delicious, as if he’d just downed a long draught of well water.

She shoved him away and wiped her lips. She was panting. She didn’t know why she ought to be.

“My,” he murmured. “As ferocious as anything I’ve ever imagined. I was right. You do want me.”

She ignored him. “Your word.”

“I will say nothing of Andrew Martin to anyone, you may depend on that.”

“Leave.”

“You will invite me into your room someday.”

“When they hold skating parties in hell.”

“Sooner than that. Much, much sooner.” He smirked. “Good night, my dear. You were well worth the wait.”