blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah.
Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.
* * *
When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move.
Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight.
What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting.
The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night.
When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and good-nights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door.
When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’
Chapter Eight
Sloane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both.
He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place.
He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’
She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’
He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’
‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door.
He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’
She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.
‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’
‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’
But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers.
But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks.
His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door.
Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing… something.
She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.
But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not know which.
Amy waited in her bedchamber to help her undress.
‘Did you have a nice evening, Miss Hart?’ the maid asked as Morgana removed her gloves, resisting the impulse to stare at the fingers that had caressed his chest.
‘Very nice,’ she replied. She did not wish to talk. She did not want anything to break the spell of his touch, the nearness of his lips.
Morgana undressed as quickly as Amy’s assistance would allow, but she was eager for the maid to leave so she could think about him holding her in his arms.
What did it mean that he’d held her so close? Why had he released her? Why, oh, why had he not kissed her?
Amy jabbered as usual, while removing Morgana’s hairpins and loosening the plaits so her hair could be brushed. Morgana watched herself in the mirror, amazed that she still looked the same.
Soon enough she was tucked under her covers, and Amy had closed the door behind her. Morgana hugged a pillow, rubbing her cheek on the soft fabric, still feeling his hands gripping her arms, still filled with the clean masculine scent of him.
She squeezed her eyes closed as tightly as she could and rolled over.
He had pushed her away, after all. He did not want her. He wanted Hannah. Young, vibrant, beautiful Hannah.
Sloane melted into the darkness, standing in the shadows as she hurried through the doorway and out of sight. He stood in the darkness a long time, hoping the blood would stop surging through his veins.
He’d wanted her, wanted her like the very devil, like the rake he was. A second later and he would have tasted those lips, felt her soft body against his hard one—his much too hard one.
Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Sloane spun around and strode down the walk to the street. A brisk walk would cool his loins.
He made his way through Mayfair, in the general direction of Bond Street, caring not how far he walked. The night welcomed him like an old friend, and soon his step became lighter, quieter, smoother. He had almost forgotten this sensation, of moving through the darkness unseen, as if he were part of it. His agitation eased as the familiar role overtook him.
Slipping
