When she opened her mouth to speak, he shushed her with his fingertips. Her hand remained trapped in his waistcoat pocket—sandwiched between the taut strength of his chest and the warm press of his ungloved hand. Beneath her palm, she felt a new thread of tension drawing through his body.
Good heavens. How had it come to this? His touch was on her lips. She was feeling his body.
He traced her lips with his thumb and leaned close.
“Oh, dear,” she breathed. “You’re going to kiss me now, aren’t you?”
It seemed inevitable. A matter of destiny. Eliza felt sapped of her last drops of resistance—and she felt very disloyal to poor, unmanned Peter Everhart.
But Mr. Wright didn’t press his lips to hers. Instead, he abruptly pressed his ear to the door and listened hard.
“What—?”
His thumb tapped against her mouth, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Not a sound.
Eliza pressed her own ear to the door. Soon, she heard it, too. Footsteps, coming down the corridor. She sucked in her breath.
The footfalls drew to halt just outside the room.
The door latch rattled. Once, then again.
“Harry?” A sultry, feminine voice slid between the door panels. “Harry, it’s me.”
Harry?
Eliza looked to him. Her stomach lurched as the truth of the scene became clear. He hadn’t been napping in this room. He’d been waiting for someone. A lover.
The shameless rogue.
An impatient knock sounded at the door. “Harry, are you in there? I brought champagne.”
His chest rose and fell in a noiseless sigh. But he didn’t answer.
After long moments, soft footsteps carried the disappointed lover away. Leaving the two of them to stare at each other.
“I told you,” he said. “You didn’t want to leave just yet.”
Eliza drew a slow breath. If she’d exited the room a few moments earlier, she would have crossed paths with his lover. She would have been seen fleeing a private encounter with London’s most infamous rake.
He stroked his thumb over the back of her trapped hand. “And no,” he said. “I didn’t plan to kiss you. Not just then. You’re rather young and…unfinished…for my tastes.”
She wrenched her hand away, feeling the sting of humiliation.
“You scoundrel,” she whispered hotly. “You planned an illicit assignation in my family’s morning room?”
He shrugged and ambled a few paces to the table where he’d left his drink. “Handy thing about morning rooms. They’re vacant in the evenings. Usually.”
“That’s revolting.”
“Not the way I do it.” He smiled. “I promise, it’s quite nice. Nothing like snails.”
“I’ll never sit on that sofa again.” She shuddered. “I should expose you and your debauchery.”
“Brilliant idea. Expose my debauchery, to the shock of”—he glanced at the empty room—“no one. And expose yourself to the scathing gossip of the ton. Silence is the better choice here, my dear.” He tipped his drink.
She hated admitting he was right. No one could ever hear of this—not even Georgie. She could only pray that he never related the tale.
He fished the key from his waistcoat pocket. “It’s yours now.”
She snatched the slender bit of metal from his grip.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
You’re welcome? The nerve of the man. “You expect me to thank you? For holding me against my will and subjecting me to cruel humiliation?”
“No,” he said. “You can thank me for saving you from a fate far worse. Do you not understand what just transpired? I sacrificed a bubbly, sensual delight—and a bottle of champagne—on your account. My evening is ruined. Your reputation is not.” He affected a gallant bow. “You’re welcome.”
Perhaps by forgoing his sordid tryst, Mr. Wright had preserved her reputation. However, he’d also saved himself a great deal of trouble. The inconvenience of facing an irate mistress tonight, or flashing pistols with her father at dawn.
She wouldn’t believe for a moment his motives were selfless.
“Don’t fancy yourself a hero.” Her voice and fingers shook as she fit the key in the lock and turned it. “You would not have been in this room at all if you weren’t the most appalling, detestable sort of man.”
He deflected all her insults with a single arched brow. “And you would not be here either, were you not the most intractable sort of young lady. But I’m not holding that against you.”
By the time she had the lock turned, he’d made his way to her side again. This time, he pulled open the door and held it for her. As a proper gentleman would.
He said, “It’s not so bad, you know.”
Just walk on. Ignore him. He’s only teasing, baiting—hoping you’ll ask.
“What isn’t?” she asked.
Eliza, you fool.
“Being us.”
“Us? I can’t imagine what you mean.”
He tamed a stray wisp of her hair. “I mean there are two kinds of people in this world, Eliza. Those who are good, and those who are interesting. You’re young yet, but you’ll see in time. It’s not so bad being on this side.”
“We are not on the same side of anything.” She strode through the entry, turned, and shut the door in his handsome, devilish face. “Not anymore.”
June 2, 1811