Regency Rogues: Stolen Sins: Forbidden Nights with the Viscount (Hadley's Hellions) / Stolen Encounters with the Duchess (Hadley's Hellions)

‘As you can see, Mr Hadley lingered to thank me for dinner, and I’m afraid I waylaid him with some further conversation, even though he’d informed me he needed to get away to prepare for a meeting tomorrow. But I shall let him go now.’

Whatever her father might be thinking about finding the two of them alone together, he made no comment. ‘We will wish you goodnight, then, Mr Hadley. Thank you for attending our little gathering, and I hope we will have the pleasure of your company again soon.’

‘The pleasure was certainly mine,’ Hadley replied. ‘Lady Margaret, Lord Witlow, Lord Coopley.’ He bowed, and before she could more than nod, he strode from the room.

‘Will you join us, Puss?’ her father asked.

The last thing she needed now, with her body in an uproar and her mind in disarray, was to face her father’s all-too-perceptive scrutiny. ‘No, you’ll wish to finish whatever discussion was ongoing, and I don’t want to prevent you. I am rather sleepy, so I’ll take myself to bed.’

She rose and walked over to give each man a kiss, hoping her father wouldn’t notice her breathing was still uneven and her hands were trembling.

At a pace she hoped looked decorous rather than panicked, she exited the library.

The following morning, after tossing and turning for hours, Maggie got up at first light. Too restless, and irritated by her restlessness, to attempt to return to sleep, she decided to go for an early morning gallop. The rush of cold air and exhilaration of a hard ride would settle her, clear her muddled mind, and help her decide what she must do.

She rang for her maid, donned her habit, and as the first grey light broke over city, gathered her horse and a sleepy groom and set out for Hyde Park.

She knew what frustrated desire felt like—she’d experienced it often enough, after friendship with Robbie turned to passion, and before they could be wed. Tiring her body with a strenuous ride would dissipate it. If only it might also dissipate the confusion in her brain, and resolve the tug and pull between the compulsion to pursue a relationship with Hadley, and the caution that warned she had far too little self-control where he was concerned, and ought to avoid him.

Sending her groom home after she made it safely to the park, since the sun would be well up by the time she was ready to return, she urged her mare to gallop. For the next hour, she alternated between riding hard and resting her mount, until her hands ached and her legs were trembling.

But the clamour of her body for more of Hadley’s touch had not abated. Not was her mind any clearer than when she’d set out.

Irritated at herself for this unusual inability to make up her mind, she was walking her lathered mare along the path when, rounding a corner, she came upon the cause of her dilemma, trotting on a high-stepping chestnut gelding.

His horse, obviously fresh, reared up, giving Maggie a few seconds to calm the sudden racing of her heart at seeing Giles Hadley again.

He dismounted and walked towards her, his face alight in a smile. ‘Lady Margaret! How delightful to see you. Though it is rather early for a ride.’

Oh, how she could lose herself in that smile! It took all her increasingly feeble strength of will to keep herself from running to him and throwing herself in his arms. ‘I don’t like to waste the morning in bed. At least, not alone.’

Horrified she’d actually said that aloud, her cheeks flamed as, after a shocked moment, he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Now, that’s a sentiment with which I can heartily concur.’

He fell in step beside her—just a hand’s breadth away. The air between them fairly sparkled with sensual tension. Oh, she wanted…how she wanted.

She hadn’t felt this powerful an attraction, this irresistible a need, since the early days of her marriage with Robbie. Love might be out of the question…but it was only the matter of the ever-ticking clock before the possibility of passion was lost, too. Could she pass up this chance to feel again its heat and power and fulfilment?

A pied piper to lead her wherever he wished, he looked down at her as he took her hand and kissed it. ‘My very dear Lady Margaret.’

Her world narrowed to the wonder of his blue-eyed gaze, the force of the need flowing from her to him, from him to her, in that simple clasp of fingers.

Before prudence had a chance to try to wrestle will back under control, she blurted, ‘I’m about to be very unladylike. But as I discovered some years ago, one cannot depend on the future; if one sees something one wants, one should seize it while one can.’

His eyes searched her face. ‘And you see something you want?’ he asked softly.

‘You,’ she whispered. And then sucked in a panicked breath, terrified, once the word had been spoken and couldn’t be taken back, that her brazenness would shock or offend him, that he would utter some blighting word and walk away. Would he be gentleman enough not to make her a laughingstock at his clubs? she wondered, light-headed at the risk she’d just taken.

Never taking his eyes from hers, he shook his head a little. ‘Excuse me, Lady Margaret. Did you just suggest what I think you did?’

‘Yes,’ she said tartly, her face burning now with heat of another sort, ‘and I do wish you would answer, instead of staring at me in that confounding way. If you intend to refuse, please do so, and let me bid you good day and quit the park before I expire of mortification.’

‘You must know I’m not about to refuse!’ With a laugh, he lifted the hand she’d almost forgotten he still held and brought it to his lips. ‘You must excuse my shock; I’ve never been offered carte blanche by a lady before. But now that I’ve recovered, I have only two questions: Where? When?’

She better do this immediately, before she lost her nerve. ‘My house—Upper Brook Street, Number Four. Now. The elderly cousin who lives with me for form’s sake is very deaf, and never rises before noon. Come by way of the mews. I’ll tell the grooms to admit you.’

He nodded, and without waiting for anything more—she was now so agitated, she couldn’t have stood still a moment longer in any event—Maggie tugged on the reins and led her horse away.

Giles stared after the retreating form of Lady Margaret, still not sure he’d heard her correctly. Rapidly he replayed the conversation in his mind: yes, it had not been just wishful imagining. She really had invited him to become her lover.

Now.

Hell and damnation, what was he doing just standing here?

With a joyful laugh, he tugged on the reins to bring his horse close, then threw himself into the saddle. After one reckless, whooping delight of a gallop around the deserted Rotten Row, startling milkmaids and scattering cows, he pulled up, laughing.

He still couldn’t believe it. After the suspicion in the eyes of her father when he caught them in library last night—after kissing her with wanton abandon on the sofa in her father’s library, the door open, a roomful of guests only a few doors away, any one of whom could have walked in and discovered them, he’d thought he’d be lucky if she even spoke to him again.

He’d come to the park to ride before his meetings this morning, to clear from his mind the fog of last night’s brandy and to work out how best to apologise. He couldn’t explain it to himself—how he couldn’t be near her without wanting to touch her, couldn’t touch her without wanting the feel of her body pressed against his, his mouth on hers…

Instead of being forced to grovel for forgiveness for his effrontery, after three short meetings, she was inviting him into her arms. He shook his head, marvelling. The progression towards that invitation was like no path of seduction he’d ever trod before. There’d been virtually no flirting, no exchange of remarks laden with suggestive double entendres, no meaningful glances, no surreptitious touches in public, heightening desire by inciting it when it could not be sated.

Just a great deal of conversation centred on politics, sensual tension ever humming between them, and one sanity-robbing, blazing inferno of a kiss.

Lord bless a lady who knew her own mind! The connection must be as powerful for her as was for him.

He took another circuit around the park, letting the gelding walk off the heat of the gallop, until he judged the lady would have had enough time to return home and prepare herself. The thought of her removing her habit, brushing out her hair, waiting for him, naked under her dressing gown, tightened his chest and hardened other things until, almost dizzy with desire, he could scarcely breathe.

His mouth dry, his member throbbing, he imagined that first touch. He’d worship her with hands and mouth before the first possession. Giddy with delight, on fire with need.

As for the committee meeting to begin soon, he dismissed it without a second thought. The Whigs had been trying to pummel through a Reform Bill for almost ten years; this one could wait a few hours for his attention.

He—and Lady Margaret—could not.

Grinning, he turned his mount towards Upper Brook Street.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_018250d9-ab0e-530d-a7a4-074322507cff)

By the time Maggie reached her town house, the heat of the ride had evaporated, leaving second thoughts to ambush her with the ferocity of a Reform zealot decrying a rotten borough. As she turned her horse over to the groom, she opened her mouth to tell him a gentleman would be coming for whom he must unlock the gate…but the words died on her lips.

She took the stairs to her bedchamber, directing a passing housemaid to go for hot water and another to help her out of habit and into a morning gown. Although she did keep clothing in both locations, since she was to spend several days at her father’s town house, her lady’s maid would be awaiting her there. Polly would think her mad when she turned up later, saying she’d inexplicably changed her mind and decided to go to her own home after her ride to bathe and change.

Not as mad as Mr Hadley would think her, when he arrived shortly to discover she’d changed her mind about an affair.

Oh, why could she not have reined in her raging desire before she blurted out that ill-judged invitation? She’d rather walk through the House of Lords in her shift than suffer through the interview she was about to have with her erstwhile lover.

He was almost certain to be angry, and with good cause. At best, he would think her a featherhead who didn’t know her own mind; at worst, he’d accuse her of being a tease—or a wanton. It made her sick to think of forfeiting his respect and friendship.

She took a deep breath to settle the nausea. There were worse things. She could weather this loss.