Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride
‘Is there a chance of them deserting?’
‘It will be inevitable if The Cat hits their houses again. Livingston is ready to walk and Flack may be right behind him. They didn’t bargain on a risky venture. None of us did.’
Brandon closed his eyes. The meeting had brought everything to a head. He could not offer guarantees of safety for the investors. Nor could he offer guarantees of new investors coming forward. The current investors, particularly those with more invested, were anxious to stay on schedule and start framing the mill within the month.
‘The Cat should be pleased,’ Jack observed, idly twirling his walking stick between his hands. ‘You have to choose between her and the mill. It is interesting to me that there’s any choice at all. What do you think it says to you, that you’re even considering this woman’s safety above the financial well being of Stockport-on-the-Medlock?’ Jack paused, the look on his face indicating he was debating the wisdom of his next words.
‘What is it, Jack? Apparently you have something more you wish to say?’ Brandon said grumpily.
‘Hell, here it is, but remember we’re friends.’ Jack pointed the walking stick at him for emphasis. ‘You don’t think The Cat has real feelings for you, do you? She wants you to desire her, even fall in love with her. She is counting on it for her success. She knows that anything more between the two of you is not part of the game.’
‘Stuff it, Jack,’ Brandon growled. He wanted to say more. He wanted to say that whatever she had done in the past with other men or other ruses was different than what lay between he and she. What they felt for each other, the consuming heat of their passions, was real.
For the first time, Brandon realised how inane that explanation sounded. Was Jack right? Jack was an astute assessor of character. He would be a foolish man indeed if he rejected the very wisdom he had asked Jack to bring.
Across from him, Jack groaned. ‘Egads, you did think she had feelings for you. Your face says it all.’
The coach turned down the drive to Stockport Hall. Jack raised a curtain and peered out into the early grey morning. He let the curtain drop and sighed heavily. ‘Enough about your love life. I am going to bed for the remainder of the day. When I awake, I am going to take a long soak to alleviate my poor feet. Happy New Year, my friend.’
Happy New Year, his foot. Brandon cursed as he watched his friend sail through the doors into the warmth of the house without a care in the world. He knew it was something of an act. Jack had plenty of cares. He just didn’t let on about them. All the same, Jack didn’t have a seductive villain to subdue, a mill to build, a fortune to protect and a bloodthirsty Cecil Witherspoon to keep in check before someone got hurt or, worse, killed. Brandon could not remember a new year that had gotten off to a more ominous start.
He hadn’t a clue what his next move was. The only piece of luck he had was that The Cat hadn’t struck since Christmas Day. However, it was simply a matter of time before that bit of luck ran out. She’d assured him that night that she wouldn’t stop her raids.
Perhaps, like him, she was watching and waiting to plot her next move. The one certainty he had was that she would strike again and, if the investors were correct in their guesses tonight, he knew where and he knew when. He could prevent it if he could verify that Eleanor Habersham was The Cat.
To his way of thinking, there was only one way to find out quickly. He would have to take a leaf from The Cat’s own book and pay her a nocturnal visit of his own. If he was wrong and Eleanor was really no one more than Eleanor there would be hell to pay. But these were desperate times.
When to strike next? Nora paced the small parlour of the Grange, scanning the list of investors she held in her hand. The Cat was close to success. All the news she’d gathered at the New Year’s ball confirmed it; two investors were still needed and the others were getting nervous enough to consider pulling out. If she could keep up the steady pressure, the textile mill would become a moot development.
Once her work in Stockport-on-the-Medlock was done, she could move on, just like she’d done in Leeds, Bradford and Birmingham. The Cat of Manchester never stayed in any one place too long. It was her key to ensure The Cat lived all nine of her lives.
Eleanor Habersham could cease to exist. A new character could be created and the game could begin anew somewhere else where her efforts were needed; and there was always somewhere else. With approximately five hundred and sixty factories in the Lancashire region, employing one hundred and ten thousand workers, she had an amazing amount of job security—as long as she didn’t get caught.
The thought of accomplishing her goal and moving on did not fill her with its usual satisfaction. Instead, it left her feeling empty. Brandon Wycroft would be out of her circle of influence for ever. She would be responsible for his ruin and whatever feelings The Cat had aroused in him with her sensual games would be gone in the wake of his embarrassment and loss of face.
She did understand completely what he risked. A peer meddling in trade was highly uncommon, no matter how practical it might be. His failure with the mill would make him a laughingstock. The consequences he potentially faced sat poorly with her. It was becoming more difficult as the days passed to justify sacrificing one individual for the sake of many.
These were dangerous thoughts. She was too close to the Earl, developing real feelings for a man who should be her adversary. If she had any good sense at all, she’d seriously consider leaving Stockport-on-the-Medlock right away before the projected hazards became realities.
The mantel clock struck ten. Gracious! How long had she stood there, wool-gathering over Stockport? She glanced down at the list in her hand. St John’s would be her best option. It was time to hit there again and keep his fear alive. He was a big investor and, if he grew too complacent, he might decide to increase his level of financial commitment. She would go on Wednesday night when he and his wife were out at the Squire’s playing cards.
That decision made, she decided she could indulged in the luxury of going to bed early.
In the deep part of the night something or someone else found her too. Years of training had taught her to awake alertly and surreptitiously so as to rob the intruder of the element of surprise. Nora fought the urge to open her eyes. Instead, she let her other senses take in the alteration of the room. It might be nothing more than a branch scratching the window, but it always paid to be cautious.
She inhaled, her nose searching for a smell that verified the presence of another. The tang of spicy soap reached her nostrils. Stockport! He was burglarising her, the stubborn man.
If the situation wasn’t so dire, she would roll over and laugh at him, but now he had complete proof that The Cat at least lived with Eleanor Habersham, if not proof that they were one and the same. The dratted man must have been very sure of himself to have dared such an entrance.
Thankfully, she slept on her side, one hand under her pillow. Stealthily, she slipped that hand around the smooth handle of the small dagger she kept there for just such occasions.
The scent of his spicy soap intensified and Nora began to calculate how close he was. He must be very close for the smell to be so obvious. She listened for the sound of his breathing to affirm her guess. Yes, he was close, right next to the side of the bed at her back.
Nora tensed beneath the quilts and rolled, using the force of her arm beneath the pillow to fling it up and backwards, into Stockport’s startled face.
‘Stockport!’ She leapt out of bed, keeping the bedstead between them and brandishing her dagger.
Stockport staggered back a step under the surprise of the pillow and righted himself too quickly. She’d hoped he would trip or catch his foot on the bed, anything to slow him down and enhance her advantage. What she intended to do with that advantage, she had no idea. She was making this up as she went along. It didn’t help that Stockport looked completely collected.
‘Hello, Cat,’ he drawled in maddeningly smug tones, ‘Or should I say Eleanor? It’s hard to tell. That nightrail is definitely Eleanor’s, but the rest of you is all Cat.’ The conceited man let his eyes peruse her body in an all-knowing manner that made her feel exposed.
Nora tightened her grip on the dagger, desperately trying to quell the heat rising in her. ‘What are you doing in my bedroom?’
‘I’ve come to return your calls. It’s only seemly to reciprocate a call. I regret that I’ve been so tardy in doing so. You came to my bedroom and now I’ve come to yours.’ He smiled wolfishly and began to move.
‘Stay there. I won’t hesitate to use this,’ Nora warned as he circled the bed. She didn’t remember him being this large in their previous encounters. Tonight, she was fully aware of his height, the power of his broad shoulders.
‘I am not here to do you an injury, my dear Cat. I am here for proof.’ He bent to the lamp she’d left on the vanity and brought up the light until the room was visible.
‘What will you do with the proof?’ Nora asked warily. She had not believed until this moment that he would assist in her capture.
He grinned at her discomfort. ‘I rather like having you at my advantage for once. As to the proof, I want it so that you and I can strike a deal without any of your chicanery involved. I want you to know explicitly that I know The Cat and Eleanor are one and the same.’
Nora smiled at that. It was as close to conceding a small victory as she was going to get. Men like Stockport didn’t admit outright when they’d been gulled. She gave a small laugh. ‘So I did have you convinced that night at the card party. What changed your mind?’
Stockport looked up from a drawer he’d opened. ‘Nothing. Until I saw you sleeping tonight, I wasn’t fully certain my guesses were right.’
Nora raised her eyebrows at that, a smart retort rising to her lips. ‘Really? It is fascinating to speculate on what you might have done had you been wrong.’
‘I would have crawled back out the window and left poor Eleanor in peace. Aha!’ Stockport reached into the vanity drawer and pulled out her spectacles. ‘Eleanor’s glasses.’ He held them aloft and peered through them. ‘Just as I suspected, these lenses are hugely distorted.’
‘Satisfied?’ Nora lowered the dagger and moved towards him, wondering if her wiles would work dressed in unbecoming white flannel. She felt out of her element, not dressed for the part.
This time, Stockport was ready for her. ‘Not a chance. I might have proven to myself that I was correct about the connection, but this only proves to the public that Eleanor wears a wig and glasses. Where’s The Cat’s garb?’ His blue eyes darted around the room, seeking a likely hiding spot.
‘The deal you propose is nothing short of blackmail,’ Nora accused.
‘Tsk, tsk. Blackmail is such an ugly word. I prefer “protection”.’ His eyes lit on the wardrobe. ‘There’s a likely hiding place. Let’s see what Eleanor hides behind her bevy of ugly dresses.’
Nora experienced a moment of true panic. He strode towards the wardrobe and she knew it was do or die.
Chapter Eleven
Nora flung herself across the door.
Stockport laughed. ‘You might as well admit to the hiding place if you’re going to be so obvious. Step aside.’
She didn’t mind him finding the costume. He knew already. But she did mind him finding other items like the list of investors and the small amount of loot she had hidden there, waiting for a chance to change it into pounds.
‘I will not step aside, Stockport. However, I will admit that The Cat’s costume is inside. No gentleman would force his way into a lady’s closet.’ She hoped the appeal to his sense of propriety and honour would work. She looked up at him with a gaze of wide-eyed innocence known to have been the undoing of other men before him.
‘Touché, madame.’ Stockport put a hand over his heart. ‘Your appeal to my honour has me at a disadvantage.’
Nora dropped her pose, all business again. ‘Now that’s settled, tell me your bargain, Stockport.’
He had the gall to smile grandly as if he were enjoying this nocturnal visit far too much for his own good. ‘Call me Brandon. Since we are to be accomplices of sorts, we should be on first-name basis, Eleanor.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Nora snapped.
Brandon raised his eyebrows in query. ‘What shall I call you? I can’t call you Cat.’ He tapped a long finger against his chin. ‘I know, I shall call you Ermentraude. Yes, that’s precisely the name that comes to mind when I think of you, white flannel and all.’
‘Stop your teasing. This isn’t a game, Brandon. I have no wish to hang.’ Nora brought up the dagger once more, tensing.
‘Tell me your name,’ Brandon demanded.
‘It’s Nora,’ she ground out through her teeth. She stepped close to him so that the blade pressed against his white shirt. ‘I will thank you to take me seriously.’
Something akin to mischief flickered in his eyes. ‘Perhaps you will thank me to take you—preferably horizontally over seriously, but we can work with that. I’m told I am quite skilled at a variety of positions.’
Nora’s free hand shot up and slapped him with resounding force across the planes of his gorgeous face. ‘If that was the deal you were coming to negotiate, you can climb back out of the window right now.’ She gave an expert jab with her blade, slicing off an onyx stud from his shirt front to emphasise her point.
‘Ouch, that pricked, you vixen!’ Lightning quick, he grabbed her wrist holding the knife. Nora kicked him hard in the shins, succeeding only in raising his ire.
Instantly, she felt herself lifted off the ground and slung over his shoulder. He took two long strides and she was tossed on to her bed. Stockport followed her down, imprisoning her with the sheer size of his looming frame and forcing her to meet his impossibly azure eyes.
Her breath came in pants, her anger quickly turning to something more lethal than the blade limp in her hand. By all the saints, he was gorgeous and at close range he was nigh on irresistible.
‘How dare you?’ Nora berated. ‘I don’t like fast men.’
‘I don’t like conniving women.’ He was nearly as breathless as she.
She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You do too. You like the way I do things, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’ She twined her arms about his neck and brought his lips to hers in a searing kiss.
Nora could feel the pressure of his erection hard against the juncture of her thighs and felt her body thrill to it. She wanted him. Negotiations and deceptions suddenly seemed secondary in light of the primal need surging through her.
He drew back, resting on his knees, straddling her at the thighs. Nora cast him a questioning glance at his retreat.
‘I want you, Brandon,’ she said bluntly in case he had somehow misunderstood her body’s invitation.
‘I want you too, but not at knife point.’ He jerked his head towards her right hand. ‘Drop the dagger.’
‘Deal. Drop your trousers.’
‘Deal.’
The dagger clattered to the floor, followed shortly by the softer shush of trousers.
Negotiations were complete.
‘Say it again, Nora. Say you want me,’ Brandon murmured quietly as he resumed his position over her, hands on either side of her head, his lips flicking fire-hot kisses along the column of her neck.
She could barely think, let alone speak, but somehow she found the wherewithal to whisper it again. ‘I want you, Brandon.’
‘No games?’ His hand gently kneaded a breast through the flannel. His body might be ready, but his mind was sceptical, no doubt recalling the last time they’d played along these lines. He’d ended up tied to the bed.
Hungry for his full commitment, Nora offered the reassurance he sought. ‘It’s no game, not tonight.’ She leaned up to kiss him again. ‘Tonight, it’s just you and me, no politics between us.’
He studied her face, a sudden tenderness present on his own countenance that startled Nora. ‘Truly?’ he asked in near-reverent tones, indicating this was no game for him either.
‘Yes.’ She nodded, reaching for him once more and growing tired of the delays. With her two hands she reached up and rent the fabric of his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Then she began tugging at her nightgown.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, turnabout’s fair play.’ Brandon gave a sensual laugh and reached for the gown himself. ‘Do you have many like this?’
‘Two others.’
‘Good. Then you won’t miss this one.’ He grabbed up the fabric at the hem in both hands and ripped. Slowly. Revealing her to him inch by aching inch.
He was a torturer of the highest order. Nora closed her eyes against the onslaught of desire that took her the moment his lips caressed her exposed calf and moved their way up to her thighs. Never had she been so thoroughly or successfully wooed. His skill had not been exaggerated.
Nora tried to keep a part of her mind detached, focused on something else so that she would not be wholly consumed by the act she and Brandon were engaged in. She tried to think of her next robbery, tried to visualise the floor plan of the St John house, tried to remember Brandon was her enemy, and while there could be an objective moment of shared pleasure between them, there could be nothing more.
She failed utterly.
Her mental exercises were no match for the musky scent of his maleness and the clean spicy smell of his soap. His hands caressed and his kisses worshipped as he made his way up her body, laving and revering by turn until she was at last bare to his gaze.
With a lazy finger, he traced a circle about the aureole of her breast. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said simply.
Her heart sang at the plain compliment. It meant all the more for its lack of adornment and her desire mounted. She could feel her own slickness welling and she prayed it wouldn’t be long before Brandon brought his sweet brand of agony to an end. Nora writhed against him in encouragement.
‘Patience, Nora.’ He laughed softly before calming her mouth with a kiss. ‘I would not rush this and have it over so quickly.’ He tested her with a gentle finger and even that small, intimate invasion left her gasping.
His erection prodded the entrance to her soft core and she opened to it, spreading her legs wide to accommodate him between them. His heat was contagious and she was seized with an urgency to have him inside.
The sooner this exquisite distress was over, the sooner she could find her balance. She was fighting futilely and frantically now to save herself from complete capitulation.
He entered her with a sharp push that caused her to gasp and then he sighed, sliding home the rest of the distance. She found his rhythm and raised her hips to join him. Had anything ever felt so divine? Her body pulsed around his shaft, faster and faster until she knew she’d burst from the ecstasy of it. Desperately she strove to hold on to a piece of herself, to not give him everything.
‘Let it happen, Nora. We’ve been moving towards this since we met,’ Brandon coaxed hoarsely. ‘There, now, let it go. Come soar with me.’
And she did.
Nora exploded. Her senses were raw and vulnerable. She could feel Brandon’s weight as it sagged in satiation against her, having found his release as well. She could smell the musk of their lovemaking. She could taste the sweat of their efforts on her skin. Had she ever been more alive than she was right now?
Brandon rolled to his side and pulled her to him so that her backside lay tucked against him. Not for all the sterling in Britain would she have moved from that position, even if she could have willed her languid bones to do so. Overcome with an odd sense of completion, Nora fell asleep for the first time in years not wondering about tomorrow.
This was not what he had come here for, Brandon mused in the dark, watching Nora sleep beside him. He wished he could rest that easily. He idly fingered a long curl and let it fall against her exposed shoulder. He had come to strike a deal with her. He would warn her about the trap at St John’s in exchange for her promise that she would stop the raids. He wouldn’t expose her identity. She could move on. Then she would be someone else’s problem.
He didn’t want her to be someone else’s problem. He wanted her to be his problem, and his alone; not Witherspoon’s or St John’s, just his.
Tonight had complicated matters. He had not come here with any intention to bed her, but, having done so, he was forced to recognise that his attraction to Nora was more than easily slaked lust.
He would be severely compromised if the investors discovered this little liaison. Hell, the investors were the least of his worries. He was the local magistrate and he was bedfellows with the local underworld. Literally. Being with Nora could not happen again.
Nora, Nora, Nora, his mind chanted. At last, his passion had a name and visage beyond the alias and the mask of The Cat. They had made love twice more and each time had served to heighten his desire for her.
She fired his blood like no other. She was not interested in him for his title or his vote like the powdered women of the ton. She wanted him as a man and only as a man. The thought was stimulating and highly complimentary if he didn’t realise the reality behind it. She could not have him any other way. As a man and a woman, there were no barriers between them. Acknowledging him as an Earl and a mill owner erected plenty of obstacles.
Nora stirred beside him, reminding him that the night was passing and that he could not be caught at The Grange when the sun rose. He doubted his ability to resist another coupling if she awoke.
Brandon reluctantly rose from the bed, careful not to disturb her. He dressed in the dark, the lamp having gone out hours ago. He shrugged into the sleeves of his greatcoat and felt the imprint of the small notebook he carried in his inside pocket. Inspiration struck.
Kneeling by the sill, he took out the small lead pencil and notebook and wrote. He left the paper on the table next to her bed and said a silent farewell before exiting through the window.
He was gone. Nora knew it before she opened her eyes. The bed felt empty. A brush of her hand over cold sheets where he had lain confirmed it. Well, what had she expected? He could have not stayed. He couldn’t very well have walked downstairs and declared his presence to Hattie and Alfred or risk being seen leaving the Grange by anyone who happened to be taking a morning ride. It simply wasn’t practical.
Of course, ‘practical’ was merely a rationalisation to salve her wounded pride. He probably woke up and realised how foolhardy their passionate foray had been, just as she was doing now. And it was that—it was the most foolhardy thing she’d done since her brief marriage.
Nora rolled over on her back and moaned. What was it with her and handsome men? They were her Achilles’ heel. Her first husband had been handsome, conceited and lazy. She hadn’t discovered the last two traits until it was too late. Now it seemed she was on the brink of falling for another handsome face, this one entirely out of her league. A thief had no business giving her heart or her body to a peer of the realm. It would only serve to complicate things between them.
‘Hah!’ Nora snorted out loud to the empty room. ‘It was only sex.’ Perhaps saying it out loud would help her put everything into perspective. It wasn’t as if she was expecting him to offer for her after their night together—their incredible, exceptional night together.
It didn’t help. No matter how many times she said it, she could not convince herself it was only sex. She had wanted Brandon on a higher plane. She’d wanted him body and soul. And last night, he’d wanted her too, all politics aside.