Date: 2011-07-01T21:00:00+00:00
Keywords: cookie429; Extratorrents; Kat
Description: Lord Trajan Randall is a rake and a whipster who holds women in contempt. The weaker sex may be all very well in the bedroom or the nursery, but beyond that Trajan has no use nor respect for them. Which is why Lady Caroline decides to teach him a lesson. A lesson the dashingly handsome Lord Randall will never forget. The Viscount does not believe in the "Petticoat Club", a legendary gang of women who take their revenge on rakes and noblemen like him. But all that is about to change. -- Highway robbery, abduction and wanton behaviour abound in this short sexy Regency novella from Elizabeth Moss
Publisher: Thimblerig Press

A MOST DANGEROUS LADY

Elizabeth Moss

First published by: Thimblerig Press 2011

Copyright © Elizabeth Moss, 2011

Third Edition

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book can be reproduced or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author.

This Third Edition reflects minor changes made in the wake of the publication of Poppeia and the Petticoat Club, its prequel.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1820

Lord Trajan Randall looked across at the dowdy, unprepossessing lady he was partnering in the cotillion, and forced a smile as they came together again.

Lady Caroline, only daughter of the Earl of Lacey, had been an attractive enough chit in her first season - almost tempting him into an offer of marriage, he recalled with a shiver - but her debutante glow had long since faded.

‘Enjoying your evening, my lady?’ he asked, wincing at the banality of his question, but utterly at a loss what else to say.

Lady Caroline’s aunt, a formidable lady in a purple turban, had cornered him earlier by the open doors into the garden.

‘Time you danced with my niece, Trajan!’ she had boomed in his ear, with all the crushing familiarity of a matron who had dandled him on her knee as a baby. Her subtlety was equally crushing. ‘You often danced with Caroline during her first season. Five years ago now, of course. And she’s still unmarried!’

Hard to conceive why, the Viscount found himself thinking ironically, eyeing the timid bespectacled creature opposite as the music ended.

‘Indeed, my lord,’ Lady Caroline belatedly replied to his question as she straightened from her curtsey, a slight flush in her cheeks. ‘Very much so.’

Trajan bowed gallantly enough to his partner, but inwardly he was reeling with boredom. Though not possessed of any keen desire for matrimony, he would soon have to make his choice from among the dozen or so eligible young debs making cow-eyes at him from across the room. He was leaving London tonight, and might not be back for a fortnight at least. Yet here he was, dancing one of the last dances of the evening with this unappealing dowd, famous for being marriage-shy.

With such looks, and little conversation, it was a wonder Lady Caroline did not disgrace her fine name by living out her days as an eccentric spinster.

‘May I escort you back to your aunt, my lady?’

And why must the foolish girl wear her hair drawn up in such a severe chignon, topped with those absurd feathers? She looked set to become an ape leader, an unweddable and unbeddable old maid.

Yet her eyes, though marred by spectacles, were a pleasing enough blue, and Trajan seemed to recall that her hair looked to better advantage worn down.

Lady Caroline accepted his proffered arm, then appeared to trip over her own feet, saved from a fall only by his swift grab at her waist.

Clumsy too!

A startled gasp escaped her ladyship as he righted her, still grasping her waist – which was, he could not help registering, alluringly slender.

Hurriedly, before anyone could comment on their closeness, Viscount Randall withdrew his hands. Yet Lady Caroline continued to stare up at him myopically through thick-rimmed spectacles that sat most uglily on an otherwise elegant nose.

‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ she breathed, a flush daubing her cheeks. ‘I lost my balance. You must think me so g ... gauche.’

‘Not at all,’ he demurred, pretending not to have noticed that she was staring at him a little too hard.

Trajan had seen her look at him like that before and was abruptly on his guard. Surely the little nincompoop had not developed some embarrassing tendre for him?

‘Ah – here is your aunt!’ he exclaimed with undisguised relief as they reached the refreshments table. ‘And your father too. A very good evening to you, Lord Lacey.’

‘Lord Randall, how are you?’ The Earl of Lacey shook his hand vigorously. ‘And how’s your mother?’

‘Hopefully well, sir. I am about to find out, since I am invited down to her estates in Kent. By breakfast tomorrow, I should be enjoying the charms of country life.’

‘What, you’re surely not driving down tonight?’

‘The roads are quieter by night, my lord. And there is a good moon tonight.’

‘Oh, quite so. I daresay you’re right. Damn ridiculous, the amount of traffic on the roads these days. So you’re to escape the clutches of London’s debutantes, eh? There’ll be some disappointed young misses in town when they hear of your departure!’

Lady Caroline’s somewhat flushed papa finished his glass of Madeira, handed it to a passing servant and gestured for another.

‘Look here, Randall,’ he continued, ‘ what do you make of these wild goings-on up at Hounslow? Just been telling my sister all about it. Though I believe you have your own theories on the matter.’

Trajan’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced with some surprise at the two ladies present. ‘My lord?’

‘Oh, don’t mind my sister Matilda. She was out in Spain with her husband for three years. Until he was shot, of course. Nerves of steel now. Won’t turn a hair, whatever colour the water. And Caro here’s the one who mentioned the dashed affair to me in the first place.’ The portly Lord Lacey turned to his only daughter with an indulgent laugh. ‘What did ye call it, m’dear? The Petticoat Club?’

Not surprisingly, given the scandalous nature of the story under discussion, Lady Caroline blushed. Her voice sank to an imploring whisper.

‘Hush, papa. People are staring!’

‘Let them stare! Nothing better for them to do, I daresay. As for this Petticoat Club, it can’t possibly be true. Young ladies stripping a gentleman of his ... his inexpressibles, damn it! Then tossing the poor naked fella out onto the heath for all to see?’ His lordship made a snorting sound. ‘Never heard of any female doing such a thing.’

Trajan nodded. ‘I agree, my lord. No gentlewoman would lower herself to such a breach of good conduct.’

Lady Caroline was looking at him with that odd, hard stare again. ‘What, sir, not even in revenge?‘

‘My lady?’

Viscount Randall frowned at Lady Caroline’s muttered question, delivered sotto voce and at such speed he doubted whether he had even heard her correctly.

What a strange creature she was indeed.

‘You may depend upon it,’ Trajan continued more gently, turning to her, ‘this Petticoat Club is a figment of some gentleman’s imagination or injured pride. Your sex, and you must forgive me for pointing out the obvious, is neither physically powerful nor bold enough to undertake what is essentially a criminal act of highwaymanship. If Sir John Dallenby was indeed stripped and deposited on Hounslow Heath in the middle of the night, this was not achieved by a gaggle of girls scarcely out of the schoolroom, as Dallenby so ludicrously claims, but by some wrathful debtor in search of his money.’

Lord Lacey clapped him on the shoulder approvingly. ‘That does seem the likelier explanation! Poor Dallenby, eh? Borrowed some blunt, forgot to cough up, found himself roasted for it.’

Lady Caroline’s aunt frowned. ‘But what about the unspeakable Buckby? Didn’t the man claim his coach was held up by a gang of armed women?’

‘Another fantastic tale. Whoever heard of such an outlandish thing?’ Trajan was warming to his subject now. ‘As I’ve said before, the whole thing’s a hum. Buckby didn’t want to admit he was caught off guard by a highwayman. Thought he’d throw his lot in with this Petticoat story, make it less embarrassing. But no female would be capable of executing such a daring plan.’

‘My lord!’ Lady Caroline’s voice sounded strangled.

Bowing over her hand, Trajan smiled into Lady Caroline's cloudy bespectacled eyes. She was not only a sorry antidote, he realised, but a simpleton to boot. Thank goodness he’d changed his mind about offering for her five years ago, or he might have ended up legshackled to this dim creature for life!

‘No one thinks any the less of your sex for it, Lady Caroline,’ he explained patiently. ‘It is the way of nature. Some deeds are simply impossible for a lady to undertake – and believe me, I would not have it any other way.’

CHAPTER TWO

Viscount Randall, enveloped in a thick, many-caped greatcoat and holding the reins in a slack grasp, his dark head slumped to one side, seemed for all the world like a man asleep as his new racing curricle – the envy of London’s keenest whipsters – dashed out of London on the newly-improved Deptford road. It was a breakneck pace, and although a lantern swung beside him, it remained unlit, his swift-moving greys guided only by the light of a full moon.

A few miles south of the river, an odd wailing noise brought his lordship upright in an instant, slowing the horses. Instinctively, Trajan felt for the flintlock pistol he kept beneath the seat in case of attacks by highwaymen. But his hand came away empty.

He cursed, recalling that the pistol was away at the gunsmiths. Nor was he carrying any weapons himself - not even a dress sword. Such precautions had seemed unnecessary on this short trip down to his mother’s estate in Kent.

The eerie wail came again. Then a ghostly white shape darted out from the trees at the roadside.

Some crazed woman, casting herself before the horses!

The animals reared up in a panic. Not entirely unspooked himself by this apparition, but too busy dealing with the matter in hand to act the idiot, Trajan leant back and hauled on the reins, calling out to the pair in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

‘Wooa there, Pepper! Come now, Salt!’

As soon as the pair of high-strung greys had jerked to an unsteady and reluctant halt, Trajan jumped down from the carriage to investigate what had frightened them.

Sure enough, a heavily-built woman in a white gown lay prostrate on the road before him, her head wrapped in a thick veil.

Trajan hesitated, remaining at the horses’ heads for a moment. He glanced cautiously about himself in the darkness. It was a common enough trick, to send a woman out in front of the horses to stop a passing coach, after which the rest of the gang would descend, to rob the unwary inhabitants of their possessions. But the road seemed quiet in both directions; there was no one else in sight.

A groan issued from the woman’s lips.

Trajan frowned, looping the reins around the nearest tree branch. He knelt beside the fallen woman. ‘Madam, can you tell me what has happened?’ he asked gently. ‘Were you attacked? Are you hurt?’

The loud click of a trigger being drawn back next to his ear made Trajan tense, then turn his head warily in its direction.

Furious at his own idiocy, Trajan found himself staring down the barrel of a very menacing pistol. Behind it, equally menacing, stood a shortish man in black, muffled and hooded, his voice gruff but unyielding.

‘Hands up, m’lord! And no nonsense, or you’ll regret it.’

‘I’ve nothing of value on me,’ he began angrily, then fell silent as the cold muzzle of the pistol made contact with his forehead. ‘All right, no nonsense. What is it you want, fellow?’

‘I want you to stand up. Slowly! Slowly! Now, take off that cape. Throw it aside and put your hands behind your back. That’s it.’

The man gestured impatiently at the woman, who had knelt up and was already engaged in securing Trajan’s hands behind his back with a length of rope.

‘Tie him securely and check for weapons. Don’t forget his boots!’

The woman came shuffling round, bent over, her hands slapping at his calves and thighs in a distinctly business-like fashion. Trajan realised with a shock that this was no woman. It was in fact a stocky man in a gown, his face partially concealed by a veil but decidedly too stubbly for a woman.

At that moment the man glanced up at him with an unmistakeable grin, as though he found Trajan’s predicament entertaining.

What a fool he was. Gulled by this pair of knaves like a regular green boy!

‘Now,’ his chief captor continued grimly, ‘start walking. My friend here will see to your curricle and horses. Go on, look sharp! Head for that gap in the trees. And don’t think of running off. I’ll be right behind you all the way, with this pretty little lady trained on your back.’

Since the ‘lady’ he had referred to was the flintlock pistol, still cocked and pointing at his heart, Trajan nodded and started walking.

Behind, he heard the slow crunch of wheels and realised that the man’s co-conspirator must be turning his curricle back towards London. He thought swiftly. These were no ordinary highwaymen, snatching gems and other valuables, then riding off into the night again.

Had they been given orders to kill him and dispose of his body in the woods? He had a number of enemies in town, it was true, and several gentlemen owed him substantial amounts of money. But were any of them this desperate to be rid of him?

He and his captor had been walking through thick woodland in an uneasy silence for some fifteen minutes before the other man caught up with them again, riding a stocky cob and holding aloft the lantern from Trajan’s carriage. The beam of light bounced eerily from tree to tree, illuminating the dark wood.

‘It’s done,’ this one told the hooded man, keeping his voice low. His gown had disappeared and now he was dressed, like his companion, in dark trousers and shirt, with what looked like an old hunting jacket slung over his shoulders, a generous muffler concealing much of his face. ‘They’ll be halfway back to town soon, I should think.’

Trajan’s blood ran cold. They were trying to conceal their whereabouts by sending his horses back to town as runaways.

Had his instincts been right? Did a shallow grave lie in store for him in these woods?

There was a light ahead. Some kind of shadowy dwelling, half-hidden amongst the trees; a light glimmered in one of its windows. As they drew nearer, he saw a rough shack, little better than a barn, with a horse tethered outside the ill-fitting door, peering round curiously as the three men approached.

Trajan’s eyes narrowed on the horse. It was a gelding, muscular and well-cared for, clearly of excellent stock. Not the horse of a common highwayman, he thought.

The man with the pistol spoke softly to the animal, then signalled his companion to open the door.

‘In you go!’ he directed Trajan, and gave him a less than friendly shove in the back to help him into the musty, candlelit interior. ‘Up that ladder and into the loft. We’ve made it good and cosy for you up there.’

It was nigh impossible to climb the ladder, steep and rickety as it was, with both hands bound behind his back. Still, with one man at his front, hauling impatiently on his coat, and the other bringing up the rear, encouraging him with prods and bursts of coarse laughter, Trajan finally managed it and fell forwards onto his face at the top.

The room in which he had landed was narrow but high-ceilinged, clearly once a hay loft, now given a homely air by the addition of an uneven wooden floor, one shuttered window and some crudely fashioned furniture. A small branch of candles, set on a low table and nearly burnt down to the nub, gave a soft flickering light to the room.

Seething inwardly, Trajan rolled over onto his back and stared up at his soon-to-be executioner. ‘Well, man, you’ve got me up here now. I’m not afraid to die. So get on with it!’

But the man with the pistol merely laughed, exchanging a knowing glance with the other man. ‘Eager for death, ain’t he? Come on, let’s make his lordship more comfortable.’

To his surprise, Trajan found himself dragged forcibly upwards and across the floor to a waiting chair. He was placed firmly upon it in a sitting position, each leg secured to the chair legs with rope, hands still bound painfully behind his back. Thus trussed-up, like a bird ready for the pot, Lord Randall waited in bitter silence for his captors to make known their intentions - determined not to give way either to blackmail or torture, whichever might be forthcoming.

Once he was secure, the hooded man turned to his companion. ‘You’d best go below. Saddle Jupiter. And prepare a special drink for our friend here. He looks in need of some shut-eye.’

‘You intend to drug me?’ Trajan watched in helpless fury as the other man descended the ladder, pulling the trapdoor shut behind him. ‘How noble of you.’

‘There’s no one around to hear you shout. But just in case, I thought your first night in our little establishment would be best spent asleep.’

His captor uncocked his pistol and laid it aside on a low table, dragging off his gloves. He seemed less gruff and threatening now that they were alone. Trajan frowned, watching him intently. Had there been a note of laughter behind his last words?

‘I’m sorry for the subterfuge, my lord,’ the man continued, swinging the cloak off his shoulders. ‘But you’ll soon understand how necessary it was.’

‘What the devil are you talking about?’

By way of reply, the man peeled away his heavy muffler, revealing an elegant white neck, a less than stubbly jaw and a soft mouth entirely at odds with his masculine attire.

Then the hood was thrown back too.

Trajan, utterly bemused, found himself staring into the captivating, heart-shaped face of a woman. A cluster of blonde curls bobbed about her shoulders and a pair of sparkling blue eyes watched from behind her black mask.

‘A woman!’ he exclaimed, staring. ‘I’ll be damned!’

The masked woman laughed at his shocked expression, her mouth twisting wryly.  ‘Very probably, my lord. But your appointment with the devil is not yet at hand, so let us get down to business instead.’ She took a step towards him, hands bunched into impressive little fists perched on each hip, her voice hardening. ‘It has been widely noted in London that you do not believe in the existence of a certain Petticoat Club. I am here to assure you, Lord Randall, that not only does this club exist, but it is very much interested in your much-vaunted disbelief.’

His eyes had narrowed fiercely on her face at her first words. Now, realising why he had been abducted – to be taught a lesson, no doubt, and then returned to the bosom of society in order to bear witness to the existence of their ridiculous Petticoat Club – he found himself laughing out loud.

To think he had been steeling himself to face a shallow grave out there in the woods when, in truth, it was merely a parcel of unruly girls who had disturbed his journey!

‘And how many of you are in this Petticoat Club, my dear?’ he drawled. ‘Just you and your lover there?’

He noted to his satisfaction the angry flush which rose in her cheeks at his jibe. ‘He is my servant.’

‘If you say so.’

Looking her over with undisguised contempt, he guessed his captor to be perhaps two-and-twenty, and clearly a woman of experience. Her speech was too refined for a common whore, but he could not bring himself to believe that such a creature could ever move in the higher echelons of society. Privately, he might admit to some grudging admiration for her courage and daring, but he would never allow that to show. Besides which, she was undoubtedly mad. Any female who dressed as a highwayman and abducted male members of the aristocracy - just to teach them a lesson in manners! – had to be touched in the upper storey.

‘You are free to mock me, Viscount Randall. But you may feel differently once you have been my guest for a few days.‘

‘You do not seriously mean to keep me incarcerated in this place?’ he demanded, his temper rising swiftly. ‘I grant that you took me unawares out on the Kent road. Brava indeed! But it would be wiser for you to release me. One word from me could see you and your friends brought to the gallows for this night’s work.’

She blenched at that, and he regretted his harsh words. To punish this woman for her impudence was certainly his plan. But he had no intention of seeing her swing by that soft neck.

Still, he told himself, the beautiful fool must be made to realise how much danger she was in – and for what? To preserve the reputation of some semi-mythical club whose only purpose was to punish men for their misdeeds towards women? Such misplaced loyalty would gain her more than she bargained for, he thought sternly, eyeing those alluring curves under her tight male clothing.

The door below them closed with a thud. His captor straightened, her mouth curving into a smile again as she reached for her cloak and pistol.

‘My horse has been saddled and I am bound for town. So this is goodnight, my lord. I wish you sweet dreams.’

Before he could muster a suitably caustic reply to that valediction, the lady highwayman had bent and kissed him full on the lips. No swift peck, but a long, lingering kiss. One of her tumbling blonde curls stroked his cheek, a soft tickling somehow redolent of strawberries, while her free hand lay warmly on his chest. Her tongue teased him until his mouth opened under that persuasion, when it darted inside, playing against his own.

Certainly no innocent, this one!

Such an impudent kiss from a commoner should, by rights, have left the Viscount cold. Yet to his embarrassment, the longer her kiss went on, the more violently his heart began to beat, until, by the time she moved away, Trajan had to shift uncomfortably in the chair, knowing himself to be inexplicably aroused.

‘You’ll return tomorrow?’ he asked huskily.

Her smile caught him on the raw, as did her quick glance down at his lap, swollen now with unmistakable excitement. ‘Perhaps, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘And perhaps not.’

CHAPTER THREE

Lady Caroline Lacey entered the bright, buttercup-yellow salon where she habitually entertained her morning callers, hands clasped devoutly together as though in prayer – an attitude she had learnt to strike whenever under observation, to avoid too close scrutiny.

As usual, her blonde hair had been drawn back from her face in a stern chignon, concealed beneath a lace cap. Her gown of demure dove grey and woollen shawl suggested the spinster, though Lady Caroline was in truth an heiress of but three-and-twenty and still perfectly eligible. A pair of spectacles – specially fashioned of plain glass, to give her the appearance of a harmless bluestocking without impairing her vision - were balanced precariously on the bridge of her nose.

Thus soberly attired, she surveyed her unexpected callers through thick-rimmed spectacles for one startled moment before curtseying.

‘Lady Julia, Miss Levenshulme, Miss Pickfords,’ she murmured, stepping into the elegant morning room. ‘What a surprise – though always a pleasure, of course! – to see so many of my closest friends gathered together under my father’s roof. But I trust there has not been some unfortunate accident since we last met? That you are all in excellent health?’

Without speaking, Lady Julia Fairfax’s gaze flickered discreetly to the elderly butler, Horton, still hovering in the doorway, and Lady Caroline turned to dismiss him with a nod.

As soon as the door had clicked shut behind her curious major-domo, Miss Levenshulme burst out, ‘Oh Caroline! What have you done?’ and Miss Theo Pickford burst into noisy tears.

From her reddened eyes and the pinkish glow of her nose, Caroline guessed that it was not the first time Theo had indulged in such unrestrained behaviour that morning.

Perched on the sagging edge of the only available chair left in the room, Caroline met the accusing stares of her friends with a stubborn tilt of her chin.

‘I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Amabelle. What, pray, am I supposed to have done?’ To this, she added, with a dash of her father’s impatience, ‘And for heaven’s sake, Theo, stop that missish snivelling! You do not look to any better advantage when blubbing, trust me.’

‘I have two words for you,’ Amabelle Levenshulme replied with icy emphasis. ‘Viscount Randall.’

Her hands convulsed in her lap, but otherwise Caroline gave no sign of having understood the reference.

‘Viscount Randall?’ Her thin brows rose in mock hauteur. ‘No doubt you will eventually condescend to add a few more words to that pair, my dearest Amabelle, if only to allow this fascinating conversation to progress any further.’

At this unpromising response, her friends seemed determined to make their feelings known at one and the same moment, resulting in a cacophony of furious accusations.

‘Caroline Lacey, you know perfectly well what -’

‘Viscount Randall is missing!’

‘You told us you were planning to teach him a lesson, but we never dreamt you meant to – ’

‘Just tell us, what have you done with his lordship?’ Lady Fairfax rapped out, her voice louder than the rest, and all four young ladies leant forward, urgently waiting to hear Caroline’s response.

‘Hush, hush!’ Caroline cast a sharp glance over her shoulder, but the thick oak door was still shut fast. ‘Do you want the servants to hear? You know it is not safe to talk in this house.’

Miss Levenshulme flinched. ‘You do not deny it, then?’

‘Since my very best friends already appear to have tried and convicted me, why should I bother with a defence?’

‘Caroline, this is nothing short of madness!’ Lady Julia Fairfax stuttered slightly in her panic. ‘Stripping Sir John Dallenby was one thing, and holding up coaches ... Well, no real harm was done there, and all of London laughed to see Buckby exposed as a shameless rake. But abducting a man like Viscount Randall? He is no fool. He will make a dangerous, unforgiving enemy for us!’

‘Fiddlesticks!’

Lady Julia was not reassured by that exclamation. ‘But do you not realise, the Petticoat Club will no longer be a joke but a scandal after this? And if our true identities are discovered, we could hang!’

‘Hang?’ Miss Theo Pickford moaned, then burst into fresh tears, sobbing into her fine linen handkerchief. ‘I ... don’t ... want ... to hang! What would papa say?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody will hang.’

‘Make no mistake, Lord Randall will seek revenge for this outrage,’ Amabelle insisted. She lowered her voice in response to Caroline’s warning frown. ‘So you admit that you are holding him? Where, exactly?’

‘You remember the place near the Kent road where we lay in wait for the Marquis’ carriage?’

‘That ramshackle old barn?’ Theo Pickford almost shrieked, her expression one of undisguised horror. ‘You have ruined us all with this mad venture, Caroline! When he escapes – ’

‘He will not escape,’ Caroline said confidently.

Amabelle Levenshulme searched her face. ‘You seem very sure. Is he being watched?’

‘Joseph is looking after our guest’s needs today. And I will be visiting him tonight.’ Caroline smiled thinly, remembering his lordship’s unflattering comments as they parted. ‘Hopefully the dear Viscount will be in a better humour when I see him. Such a bad temper, especially considering he has no one but himself to blame. Falling for that old highwayman’s trick, the lady in distress!’

‘But Caroline, why?’

‘Yes,’ Lady Julia agreed with Amabelle’s question. ‘What on earth possessed you to do such a dangerous thing?’

With her head held high, Caroline met their perplexed and angry gazes, aware that she had perhaps overstepped the mark by acting without their knowledge or consent, but determined not to give way now that the deed was done.

‘He has mocked us in public,’ she reminded them. ‘He made sport of the Petticoat Club, and even claimed it does not exist. Or that it must consist of common women of the streets. Cutthroats, pickpockets, courtesans and the like. His latest contention is that no gently-bred woman could manage to hold up a coach or strip a man naked.’ She paused, glancing entreatingly in Amabelle’s direction. ‘Viscount Randall was already our enemy before last night. He holds our entire sex in contempt. What else was there to do but teach the insufferable man a lesson he will never forget?’

‘I grant you,’ Amabelle murmured, ‘his open contempt for the weaker sex is indeed unspeakable. Nonetheless, you should not have acted without us.’

‘You are perfectly right. I do beg your pardon. However, there was no time to call a meeting. His lordship announced that he was leaving town last  night, en route to his mother’s estate in Kent. I returned home only to change my clothes and have Joseph saddle our horses. It seemed the ideal moment to strike, when Lord Randall was alone and his guard was down.’

‘Well, I very much fear you have gone too far this time,’  Julia said worriedly.  ‘The word is all over town that he has disappeared, and people are blaming it on the Petticoat Club. You know how often he has denigrated us in recent weeks.’

‘His disappearance is already known?’

‘His curricle was found early this morning, a short distance from Blackfriars. One of the horses had sprained his fetlock. Someone recognised the curricle, and the alarm was raised.’

‘How unfortunate! I had hoped for another day’s grace at least.’ Caroline bit her lip. ‘Have the Runners been informed?’

‘More than likely, yes.’

‘Then I dare not let him go yet. Not with the Runners about and the moon still so full.’ Caroline thought aloud, biting her lip. ‘Joseph and I will need time to clear our track firsts, make sure there is nothing at the place to identify us.’

Theo Pickford’s face wobbled with tears. ‘Do not visit him tonight, Caroline. Let your servant take care of him. If you are seen ... !’

‘I promised to bring Joseph more food and candles after nightfall,’ Caroline said firmly. ‘I gave my word. Besides, the poor man will need to sleep at some point, while I keep watch over our guest.’

Of course, Caroline would never admit to her friends how very nervous she felt about confronting Viscount Randall again, how her insides had somehow tied themselves in a knot and her traitorous hands would not stop shaking in her lap. Nor must they know how her body seemed to melt away like snow under the heat of Randall’s glance, a traitorous weakness that would entirely defeat the purpose of their secret society.

Lady Julia gripped her beaded silk reticule tightly. ‘Do you ... Do you need us to accompany you?’

‘Not at all. Indeed, it’s perhaps better that you go out tonight as usual and pretend there is nothing wrong. I shall slip out of the servants’ entrance as soon as the sun has set, and will in all likelihood not return before dawn.’ Caroline sighed. ‘Theo, please stop crying! There is nothing to be scared of. Even if I am caught, I would never betray you. Think of your sister Poppeia. When she married Lord de Cardin, she did not betray us even though her husband had discovered the existence of the Club.’

Theo Pickford nodded shakily, dabbing at her tear-stained face. ‘Yes, you are right. I should be braver, more like Poppeia. But I fear it is not in my nature. So you plan to leave at sundown? Will not your aunt or your father miss you at dinner?’

‘My aunt Mathilda has retired to bed with one of her famous sick headaches, and is unlikely to stir abroad again for several days. And my father?’ Caroline gave an abrupt laugh, considering how little interest her paternal relative had ever taken in her whereabouts. ‘My dear Theo, if he even leaves his club before midnight, ‘twill be a marvellous thing. Almost as marvellous, I should say, as the thought of Viscount Randall apologising to the members of the Petticoat Club for his ungentlemanly disbelief in our existence.’

CHAPTER FOUR

As she removed his gag, Trajan looked his masked golden-haired captor up and down with a cold eye, unwilling to betray by so much as a frown that he was heartily sick of this bare, gloomy room, his stiff-backed chair, and the enforced inactivity that had long since sent his nether limbs to sleep.

‘Finished whoring for the night, have you? Come to offer me terms for your surrender?’ he demanded, his gaze lingering insolently on the swell of her breasts as she unhitched her cloak and threw it across the low table.

Even dressed as a highwayman, the promise of her easy body aroused him intolerably, a fact which ought to have infuriated Trajan but left him eager instead to break free of his captivity and discover how willing she was to dance with the devil.

However, it would not do to rush his planned escape bid. She still held that damned pistol, for a start, as did her man below, and although he felt certain she would not shoot, he had no wish to risk sporting some unsightly hole in his chest.

‘My surrender, sir? The boot, I suggest you’ll find, is on the other foot.’

‘You expect me to surrender?’ he replied with a question, ironically indicating his bonds. ‘I would gladly accommodate you, my charming harlot, but alas, you have me at a disadvantage.’

‘I am no harlot, sir.’

‘Indeed?’ Trajan made his contemptuous disbelief apparent in that one pointed word, but shrugged. ‘Then what should I call you? I do not even know your name.’

Caroline turned away to hide the sudden blush in her cheeks, laying down her pistol. In truth, they already knew each other. They had even danced together last night, a humiliating experience she would rather forget. Though no member of the ton could be expected to recognise the timid and bespectacled Lady Caroline Lacey in this bold creature standing masked before him, thighs encased in breeches, breasts swelling beneath her shirt – despite the cravat with which she had tried somewhat unsuccessfully to conceal her bosom.

‘You may call me Desirée.’

Trajan laughed, and she spun back to glare at him, angry then.

Still, she reminded herself, it must have been a difficult day for his lordship, secured to a chair in this draughty old barn, only allowed up to answer the call of nature under the unwavering gaze of Joseph’s pistol and then tied up again.

Her stomach churned with nerves as she dragged on her crumpled cravat, tossing it aside with shaking hands, and then unlaced her shirt until her breasts were just visible.

This was no more revealing than any of the low-cut gowns she had worn in her first season, so absurdly keen to catch Lord Randall’s eye that she had flaunted herself at every possible opportunity. Yet here in this secluded spot, dressed as a highwayman, exposing the pale skin across the top of her breasts felt disgracefully provocative, as though she were offering herself to him without the slightest shame or reservation.

Perhaps the other members of the Petticoat Club had been right to question her motives in this case. Why had she chosen to abduct Viscount Randall and hold him captive? Was it really to avenge his jests at their expense?

Or was it because she could never hope to interest his lordship as Lady Caroline Lacey. But as the wicked, loose-living Desirée, she might at least enjoy a few hours of intimacy with one of the most sought-after bachelors in London?

In bemused silence, Trajan watched his captor tug off her cravat – possibly the most disastrous arrangement he had ever seen, though what else could one expect from a woman? - and drop it carelessly to the floor.

What was the crazed nymph doing now, he wondered? Undressing for him?

His groin ached pleasurably at the thought, recalling the parting kiss she had given him at their last meeting. His anger at being held captive notwithstanding, he found this highwaywoman damnably attractive and would not be fool enough to refuse a roll in the straw if offered.

She sauntered back towards him in breeches and loosened shirt. His eyes flickered appreciatively over her exposed breasts and the lithe slenderness of her legs, perfectly outlined in men’s attire.

‘Desirée,’ he repeated huskily, taking care not to laugh at her choice of name. ‘It is a long ride from town. Come sit on my lap, make yourself comfortable.’

‘How chivalrous.’

He shifted on his chair, meeting her gaze with complete honesty. ‘Why bother with a conventional courting? We both know how this ends.’

She took another step closer. ‘Do we?’

‘You want me, Desirée. That much is clear. And I am perfectly happy to oblige your needs. We have no audience, and unless your servant is likely to burst in on us, we will be quite private here for the next few hours. Tomorrow may bring a change in mood, if not circumstance. So why waste time on pleasantries?’

She paused before his chair, her gaze fixed on his face. ‘You are very sure of yourself, my lord.’

‘Sit on my lap,’ he invited her softly, ‘and you will discover how sure.’

‘You think I would not dare? You are mistaken.’

‘Prove it.’

Glad that the candles were behind her, leaving her face safely in shadow, Lady Caroline Lacey took a deep breath and swung one leg over his. The shocking closeness of his body was almost too much for her and she staggered, gripping his broad shoulders for support.

Shakily, she managed a laugh, worried that he would guess at her inexperience. Then she let herself slide down slowly onto his lap. Their bodies met with a sudden startling jerk as he raised his hips to meet hers.

His smile at her involuntary gasp was predatory and gently mocking. ‘Now do we understand each other, my dear?’

Caroline stared back at him. The swollen length of his erection pressing against her body had shocked her for a moment with its urgent reality, but she soon had herself well in hand.

What had she expected? Lord Randall thought her a whore and a common thief, her maidenhead long gone and her body open to any man who could pay or who interested her enough to make a dalliance worthwhile.

Much as she hated that error on his part, if she was to enjoy him tonight and still preserve her identity, Randall must not suspect that she was a virgin. A member of the ton – even a man of his rakish reputation – would never understand that a young woman of good family like herself might want to experience physical love outside wedlock. Besides, she could not bear to see this man shocked and disgusted by her behaviour. She would rather have this one night, and never see him again.

Moving beneath her impatiently, Trajan frowned. ‘I had not thought you such a tease,’ he said pointedly. ‘Do you mean to untie me or no?’

‘No.’ Shaken out of her reverie by his demand, she leant forward to kiss him boldly on the lips. ‘Joseph warned me specially not to let you loose, my lord. And we shall deal well enough together, I believe, with you still bound to the chair.’

As if to provide him with evidence of that statement, her body moved softly against his, rubbing suggestively across his groin, reminding him why he desired her. His inability to touch her in return was a source of frustration, yet an added excitement too.

Trajan groaned and gave himself up to the pleasurable sensations caused by a woman’s thighs, clad in men’s breeches, clamped so intimately against his own. Her breasts, warm and full, pressed against his chest like a reminder of bounty to come. If he must remain her prisoner for a while, at least he would enjoy it. Though a little more contact between their bodies was definitely required.

‘Do you enjoy frustrating men in this way?’

With a merry laugh, his captor leant forward. Her breath smelt sweet and fresh, her hair tickling his face. Lavender and lily of the valley. She pressed her lips more firmly against his and he acted swiftly, slipping his tongue into her mouth, remembering how they had kissed the night before.

To his delight, she did not pull away at this further intimacy, but let her tongue play coyly against his. Their tongues mated, slid together in a wicked dance, fenced with subtle and delicate manoeuvres, while his erection grew more tense, swelling out his breeches most uncomfortably.

‘Desirée,’ he murmured, shifting achingly beneath her.

She leant back and loosened his shirt, then dragged her hands slowly down his chest, fingers splayed, a suggestive smile on her lips.

‘Sir?’

His jaw clenched. ‘For pity’s sake!’

‘You want my pity?’

‘That’s not quite how I would describe my needs at this moment, no. But if you would consent to lower your hands, my dear, and unfasten my breeches – ’

‘My lord!’

‘We might both end this night a little more pleasurably,’ he continued, wholly unabashed by her exclamation. ‘I apologise for calling you a harlot before. If you were such, we would have concluded this business by now, nor is it likely I would be restrained in this inconvenient fashion. But whatever you are, madam, you have certainly aroused my interest. In general, I prefer to unfasten my own breeches, but since that is not to be, could you do me the honour?’

Behind her mask, Caroline stared at him with a dizzying mixture of desire and dismay.

His little speech had been meant to reassure her, but it had the opposite effect. On the one hand, she wanted nothing more than to unfasten his breeches and finally learn what it meant to satisfy a man, and not any man but Lord Randall, the man she had loved and watched in secret for so many years. On the other hand, the closest she had ever come before now to the contents of a man’s breeches was the occasional accidental brush while dancing. Though she certainly knew how they fastened and unfastened, having worn them herself, she reminded herself ironically.

‘Tormenting me again?’

She drew an angry breath at his words, her resolve hardening. She would soon show him the meaning of torment! Yet how to proceed without blushing and fumbling her way like a virgin on her wedding night?

‘Close your eyes,’ she whispered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You want me to satisfy you? Then do as I ask and close your eyes. You will see, it will make things so much sweeter for us.’

He was still frowning, but shrugged and obediently closed his eyes. ‘I’m not one for these games, Desirée. But if it will bring us any closer to a consummation, then so be it.’

She slipped down between his knees, crouching before him with her face on a level with his groin. From here, unfastening the fall of his breeches should be a simple enough matter. To her dismay though, his elegant shirt was in the way. She lifted it with unsteady hands, darting another quick look at his face.

If he were to peek ... !

But his lordship kept his word, eyes still closed as her fingers worked frantically at the fall of his breeches, finally closing on the warm, swollen hardness of his penis.

Caroline gave a little gasp and his eyes opened, shooting to her face, a hard flush in his own cheeks. It was all she could do to feign laughter, her voice husky.

‘My lord, you are indeed interested.’

Soon his erection was free of his breeches and cupped hotly between her palms. Caroline stared at it, her eyes drawn irrevocably to its proud jutting length, wondering how such a substantial thing could possibly fit inside a woman. Its impressive length and girth continued to expand in her fist, shocking her. Yet she had seen animals mate on her father’s country estate, and knew at least vaguely that love between a man and a woman took a similar course. If with somewhat more consideration for the female’s comfort, she hoped, remembering certain frantic and unsophisticated couplings she had witnessed in the fields.

‘Sweetest,’ he muttered, then gave the brief command, ‘Kiss me.’

His curt tone left her in no doubt what he meant.

Breathless, Caroline closed her eyes and leant forward, resting her flushed cheek against his swollen groin. She could not draw back from the brink of this adventure, however hard her heart thudded. Besides which, the thought of touching and tasting his hard body had kept her awake for many hours over the past five years. She might be uncertain of her skill but she was by no means reluctant to obey his command!

But just as her lips closed about his warmth, Caroline froze in horror. The thunder of approaching hooves – several horses too, by the sound it, and travelling at a tremendous pace – swept all thought of love from her mind.

Could it be the Runners, on their trail already? Had someone followed her from town tonight?

Lord Trajan Randall was right; her genteel birth would probably not save her from the gallows, especially once his detailed testimony of her loose character had been heard.

A vision of her father’s shocked and bewildered face flashed before her eyes. Caroline realised how foolish she had been, the terrible danger she had put herself in – and her faithful servant, too – with this madcap abduction.

She leapt up and replaced his leather gag without apology, threw her cloak concealingly over his lap, then grabbed at her pistol. There could be no escape now. The horsemen were nearly at the door.

Whoever it was, she must be ready for them!

CHAPTER FIVE

The trapdoor opened a crack and she whirled, ashen-faced. But it was only Joseph, peering up at her. He looked from one to the other grimly, seemingly oblivious to their various states of undress.

‘Snuff out the candles. And don’t let him make a sound. Not a single movement, do you hear?’ He nodded to the pistol in her hand. ‘Once I’ve got rid of them, I’ll knock before I come back up. If there’s no knock ...’

She nodded her comprehension and tightened her grip on the pistol as her trusted servant disappeared. It took all her concentration to cock the weapon, biting her lip at the loud clicking noise. There was sweat on her palms despite the chill of the night, and her hands were shaking. She might yet pull the trigger by accident and blow a hole in his chest!

As she tiptoed to snuff out the candles between finger and thumb, Lord Randall stared hard at her, his face barely visible in the darkness. Turning through the drifting smoke, she laid a finger to her lips, meeting his gaze with silent meaning.

But what hope was there that he would  keep their presence a secret, when he must be desperate to escape?

Although the only window was shuttered and barred, the moonlight still penetrated a few cracks, and from below firelight shone through the uneven floorboards.

She tried to read his face by that thin light, but it was impossible. Trajan had made no sound from behind his gag, but he must know that the slightest groan or thump of his feet would betray them utterly. The gleam in his grey eyes seemed to say as much, his head tilted sharply at an angle as though listening.

Then came the inevitable thudding at the door.

Her heart jumped violently. There could be only one reason for horsemen to call at such a remote spot at this hour of the night – they were searching for the missing Viscount.

Caroline stood astride a revealing gap in the floorboards and levelled her pistol warningly at the prisoner’s head. She would not shoot even if he gave away their presence, but Lord Randall could not be allowed to know that.

Her face intent, she listened in a taut silence as Joseph dragged open the door below, his sharp London accent suddenly thickened and countrified.

‘Yessirs, what may ee do for you gentlemen?’ he was asking. ‘It’s mighty late for callers.’

‘You live here?’

Joseph coughed long and noisily before answering the authoritative male voice. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Tenant, sir. To Farmer Redford, over Lambeth way.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘My wife is upstairs. Sick with a fever, sir.’

There was a hurried, low-voiced conference between the two horsemen, then the leader spoke again.

‘We believe a nobleman may have been attacked out on the main road last night. Do you remember hearing anything amiss?’ He paused, clearly trying to urge a reply. ‘Shouts, perhaps, or a gunshot? Riders passing by?’

‘Now, sirs, would that be last night or the night before - ?’

‘Come, Rupert.’ said the other man impatiently, interrupting him. ‘There’s nothing here for us. We must push on, further towards Deptford.’

But the first man was not so easily deterred. He hesitated, and through the gap in the floorboards Caroline caught sight of his face as the man leant further in, glancing searchingly about the lower half of the desolate building.

Sir Rupert Carnaby!

She recognised him with a cold shock that ran down her spine. This was no Bow Street Runner, but one of Lord Randall’s closest friends.

‘Farmer Redford, you say, is your landlord?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Very well. But if I find you’ve withheld any information, or if I cannot find this Farmer Redford to corroborate your story, I’ll be back with more men and tear this place apart. You understand?’

Joseph’s voice became a placating whine as the two men headed back to their waiting horses. ‘Sir, good sir, I’ve done no wrong. As the Lord is my witness, I heard nothing, sir.’

As soon as the sound of the horses’ hooves had thudded into the distance, there were two sharp raps at the trapdoor, then it was thrown back.

Joseph, disguised again behind his muffler, looked up at her sternly. His voice was quite changed from the one he had used to deceive their visitors.

‘You heard what was said, Miss?’

‘I heard.’

‘We can’t stay here. Once they discover there’s no such person as Farmer Redford, they’ll be back.’ Her servant glanced at their prisoner, then back at her. ‘I say we strip him and leave him on the road for his friends to pick up. Same as the others.’

She bit her lip, reluctant to concede defeat so readily, but nodded. He was right, of course. What else could they do? To stay here would be to risk almost certain discovery and disgrace. Joseph might be her servant, but she had long trusted him and looked to him for advice and discretion when planning her Petticoat Club adventures. She needed Joseph’s help more than ever tonight.

‘Not on the Deptford road though. He might be found too quickly there, and we need time to return safely to town.’

‘Where then, Miss?’

She thought for a moment, then smiled, uncocking the pistol and laying it aside. ‘Vauxhall Gardens. It is not far from here, and seems a fitting enough place for his lordship to spend the night. The gardens should be closed by the time we arrive. With any luck he may not be discovered until first light.’

Joseph shook his head at this dubious plan but did not try to dissuade her, not doubt seeing the light in her eyes. He knew of her feelings for Lord Randall. Caroline had never stated them openly, but her old servant understood her well enough to realise when her heart was involved –  and when she would not be gainsaid.

‘And how are we supposed to carry him there?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Unless he’s to ride behind one of us? I don’t like that idea, begging your pardon.’

‘Go back to town and fetch the carriage. We shall conduct him to Vauxhall in the early hours and continue on to town afterwards.’

‘This is madness. We should leave him here for those men to find, and go home safe while we still can. Don’t forget, my ... ’ Joseph bit his tongue on ‘my lady’, ‘if anything untoward was to happen to you, your father would have my hide for it.’

‘Nothing will happen.’

Her servant’s face said otherwise, his dry glance taking in her own disordered clothes and Lord Randall’s ruffled appearance, though he did not bother arguing.

‘And if those two busybodies return while I am gone?’

‘If you are so concerned, leave me the other pistol. Two pistols will serve to keep them at bay, surely? Besides, our friends will not return tonight. You heard them. They are heading towards Deptford and will no doubt stay the night there.’ She shook out her golden hair defiantly; she would have her time alone with Lord Randall tonight, otherwise all this would have been in vain. ‘Come, I shall help you saddle up.’

Once Joseph had set heels to his sturdy cob and clattered away into the wood, Caroline returned to the upstairs room and pushed the trapdoor open with a thundering heart. Lord Randall turned his head to study her in silence, his face still in darkness, the candles unlit. Her mouth dry, she closed the trapdoor and approached him, glad of the mask which concealed her growing flush.

They were utterly alone together now, with a good hour or more before Joseph returned with the carriage.

Moonlight lay across the wooden floor, spilling through the shutters across the window. She stood above her prisoner in the eerie white glow of moonlight, remembering how she had first fallen in love with this man after he had fought a duel – quite forbidden, of course, much that he had cared for such laws. Such bravery and lack of compromise! He had wounded the notorious rake Rexburgh, calling him out over some unknown lady’s honour, regardless of the other’s noted expertise as a swordsman. Though his own skill had proved better in the end.

She wondered if Trajan was as deadly with pistols, and laid her two weapons out of reach on the low table.

Lord Randall watched her, his expression surprisingly calm. As soon as she removed his gag, his first words were, ‘Who are you, Desirée?’

‘Come, sir, do not wish for the moon.’

‘Your real name, if you please.’

Hoping to distract him, she swung her leg over his tethered body and felt him tense. Her brows snapped together in quick irritation. ‘Reluctant?’ she asked. ‘You were not so cold and forbidding before your friends came in search of you.’

‘Who says they were my friends?’

She realised her slip too late, and shrugged lightly as she made herself comfortable on his lap, her fingers toying playfully with his open shirt. Trajan could not be allowed to realise that she had recognised them.

‘Why, sir, who else could they be but friends of yours? I could hear by their voices that they were gentlemen, real Quality. Not the damned Runners.’

‘You are acquainted with the Bow Street Runners?’

‘Intimately.’

His eyebrows rose coldly. ‘Such a dangerous lady.’

‘Scared?’

‘Not at present, no. Though I will admit to a certain trepidation while you were pointing that pistol at my head earlier,’ his lordship replied, a bite to his voice that had not been there before. ‘Those particular pistols are finely balanced weapons. I own a pair myself. But they are possessed of a hair-trigger. The merest slip of your finger and I would have been unable to oblige you in any way tonight. Which, I presume, is still your intention?’

‘But how can you doubt it, sir?’

Their eyes met for a long moment. Her gaze dropped compulsively to his mouth: strong, rakish, uncompromising, his lips parted slightly, as though impatient for hers.

‘Very well,’ he said tightly. ‘Then let us put an end to this idle fencing, delightful though it is. Kiss me, Desirée.’

Caroline drew a shaky breath. He had demanded the same before his friends arrived, and she had acquiesced. Now he meant his lips – the intimacy of a lover’s kiss!

His jaw and chin were darkly stubbled, rough-edged. He had been dashingly clean-shaven when he first came driving out of the dark on the Kent road, but now he looked more dangerous than ever. Almost piratical, she thought, and leant back on his lap, breathless and dazed by the enormity of what she had done.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously on her masked face. ‘Changed your mind, madam?’

Had she changed her mind? Had she thrown away her chance to have this handsome, arrogant creature at her mercy, bound for her pleasure. No, her soul cried out! This was a man who would never look twice at her of his own accord, the clumsy Lady Caroline with her dowdy gowns and bluestocking spectacles. To seduce this man had long been her dream, to seduce him against his will, and then cut him loose – never to be the wiser whose was the body he had enjoyed.

‘It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, of course,’ Lord Randall continued coolly, tilting his head to examine her face. ‘Yet you seem such a singularly determined woman, I find it hard to imagine you falling prey to your sex’s gooseish inability to make a decision.’

‘Gooseish? I should have left the gag in place,’ she replied sharply, then bent towards his lips with swift intent. ‘But here’s a better way of silencing your insults, my lord.’

Trajan seemed surprised by the contact, then warmed to her kiss, pressing his whole body up towards her, his lips parting to admit her tongue.

She explored the inner warmth of his mouth, letting her tongue dart and play against his, her hands tugging on his hair until she had his head in just the right position. There, she held him still, kissing him freely and openly, making sport with his mouth. And as they kissed, her thighs slid across his, rubbing up and down as she held herself on tiptoe, knowing how much she tormented him by the way he was breathing, sharp and shallow gasps.

He groaned, and soon the urgent swelling in his breeches told of his arousal. ‘Desirée. You’re driving me insane.’

Caroline rocked on his lap, and felt him shift against her, his eyes closed, his face grimacing as if in pain. Yet he nodded, urging her with his hips to keep rocking.

‘Yes,’ Trajan whispered in her ear, his voice hoarse. 'I can’t describe what you’re doing to me, sweet Desirée. Only move a little faster.’

‘Hush,’ she admonished him, and bent to press her lips against his mouth again. ‘There’s no hurry, my lord. It’s a good hour before Joseph will return, and we can accomplish all in that time.’

Trajan said nothing more, allowing her free rein to do as she wished. But his swollen organ refused to be ignored, jutting hard against her thigh, demanding her attention. The memory of its girth scared her. But she was no coward, Caroline reminded herself sternly. Nor would putting off the inevitable achieve what she wanted from him.

Wriggling one daring hand down between their bodies, she grasped his erection and stroked it, less afraid to touch and stroke him now that she had already seen the beast.

Trajan closed his eyes, barely moving beneath her, wholly her prisoner. That velvet-snouted creature of his seemed to swell further, his shaft thickening at her touch, rigid as iron. Caroline groaned at its pulsing heat, kissing him and rocking on his lap as her hand played him back and forth, back and forth, trusting to her instinct.

Hungry for something she could not fully understand, Caroline shook with desire. She sighed and moved her hand and body to the rhythm of his jerking hips. Between her thighs the soft flesh grew hot and damp, aching and swelling almost like his own. She rode his lap as though riding a horse, gripping his manhood in one fist, her eyes closed, head thrown back. His chair creaked in the dim glimmer of moonlight, the chair legs scraping repeatedly against the wooden boards.

Soon a high-pitched keening sound seemed to be dragged out of her throat direct from her belly, issuing forth like strange birdsong on the stillness of the night.

Caroline stared down at him as her echoing cries died away, scarlet-faced and shocked by the force of her response.

‘Unmask,’ he insisted, breathing hard. ‘Unmask, and let me see you properly.’

Caroline shook her head, still too delirious with excitement to reply. Instinct bade her kiss him into silence once more, her mind working feverishly while she took his mouth. He is mine, she thought triumphantly! I have loved Trajan in secret for years, and now at last he is mine! And yet, if she loved him, could she truly give her innocence to him like this, her name unknown, dressed in a man’s clothing, seeming to him a whore and an abductress?

Trajan frowned,  sensing her hesitation. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to change your mind. Typical woman!’

Temper flared through her at this latest insult. How dared he, after everything she had done to prove herself the equal of any man!

Instinctively, Caroline raised her hand to slap his face, and for a second was bewildered by the unholy gleam of amusement in his eyes. Then, too late to save herself, she understood his amusement.

The slap never reached his face.

His hand shot out of nowhere and grabbed her wrist, cruel and iron-hard, and before she knew what had happened Caroline was on the floor, on her back, staring up into his dark face, shocked and knowing herself to be utterly at his mercy.

Somehow he was free, no longer her prisoner!

‘Surprise!’ he laughed huskily.

Trajan bent his head and seized her lips in a ruthless, driving kiss which left her dazed and breathless - but in no doubt what was to happen next.

CHAPTER SIX

‘How the devil ... ?’

‘Kindling,’ Trajan explained, staring down into her startled face with relish. So his mysterious captor swore when she was angry, did she?

She did not understand him. ‘Kindling?’

‘Your servant kindly allowed me out of my bonds a few times today, to stretch and answer the call of nature. Usually, he kept a pistol trained on me the whole time. Earlier this evening, however, his attention was momentarily distracted. I took the opportunity to slip two pieces of kindling up the sleeves of my shirt. Highly unadventurous, I agree,’ he admitted, grinning. ‘There’s a pile of the filthy stuff against the wall there. When he tied my wrists together again, those pieces of wood gave me an extra inch or two of space to play with. Once alone, I worked the kindling free – which took a damnable long time, I can tell you – then wriggled my hands out of the rope. After that, it was a simple enough task to untie my legs.’

It had been hard too, forcing himself not to break free sooner, waiting for the perfect opportunity to take her unawares.

‘I had been planning to charge the door and make my escape that way. However, you arrived soon afterwards, and facing down two pistols seemed rather too heroic for me. So I looped the rope about my legs as though still tied, and kept my hands behind my back, hoping to avoid discovery until the moment felt more propitious.’

The mysterious golden-haired beauty stared up at him from behind her mask, her lips trembling. So he finally had her rattled, did he?

‘But you could have escaped at any time since Joseph left,’ she hissed at him. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I was curious to see how far you would go to punish me for my ... erm, misdemeanours ... toward women. Though frankly, this evening has hardly been about punishing me, has it? Rather more to do with your own pleasure, I suspect.’

She bit her lip, teasing it deliciously between perfect white teeth. He looked at that tiny soul-revealing movement, and his groin ached to take her. And he would take her, just as soon as he had the answer to his question. He would drink his fill of this lawless, irresistible woman, and enjoy every honeyed moment of his triumph. But first he would know her identity.

‘Now, who are you?’ he demanded, and lifted his hand to untie her mask.

She gasped and shrank away, but his hand slipped round her throat, holding her beneath him with a deliberate show of strength.

‘I will see your face, madam, whether you wish it or no. I advise you not to make me angry.’

He pulled the ties that bound her mask, yanking it free to reveal her face.

Familiar blue eyes glared up at him. A smudge of dark shadows beneath told of late nights spent in his company instead of her comfortable bed in town, the timid expression he knew so well replaced by one of unmitigated hostility.

‘Lady Caroline!’

Trajan drew a harsh breath of disbelief and rocked back on his heels, abruptly releasing her wrists. The pieces of the puzzle began to fall rapidly into place. His captor’s surprisingly elegant turn of speech, the ironic gleam in those blue eyes, the way Lady Caroline had defended the actions of the Petticoat Club – not through foolishness, as he had assumed, but because she was their leader.

How stupid he had been, how blind!

He stood up, then strode angrily to the window, tearing the shutters open. The full moon shone in, bright with ghostly light over the stark treetops. No setting for a mystery could have been better, he thought savagely. Except this was no romance, but a deadly serious misadventure that might yet end at the gallows for this earl’s daughter.

Lady Caroline was kneeling on the floor, her head bent, golden hair streaming over her face, her shoulders shaking, unfeminine and yet intensely desirable in breeches.

Damn it, was the chit weeping?

Trajan turned away, suddenly angry. Hell, she had thrown herself at his head, brought him here at pistol-point, kissed him, touched him in the most intimate way – and now she wept, as though he were to blame for all.

His eye alighted on the pistol she had laid aside on the table, and after a moment’s hesitation he picked it up. It lay heavy in his palm, a man’s weapon.

How had she been able to train it on him so long without her hand shaking?

He cocked the pistol and levelled it at her head, his voice thoughtful. ‘Tell me, Lady Caroline, who are your accomplices? The other members of this Petticoat Club – I want their names.’

‘I cannot tell you that.’

Examining her bent head, Trajan frowned. ‘What would you prefer, I wonder? For your family to share in your ruination and disgrace, to witness your public trial and probable execution? Or to mourn the death of a dutiful daughter, never knowing why she died?’

Lady Caroline looked up, then. She faced down the barrel of the pistol without any sign of fear in her blue eyes.

‘If those are the two choices open to me, my lord,’ she said simply, ‘I would prefer to save my father the pain of my disgrace. I will not give you the names of my friends. So pull the trigger if you must.’

Trajan looked into those courageous eyes and knew she spoke the truth. She would not betray her friends. Despite his anger at what had befallen him at her hands, he could not help but be filled with admiration for this woman. Faced with the prospect of imminent death, how many well-born ladies of his acquaintance would show such resolve, such a lack of self-pity?

Her courage was astounding!

‘And why choose me to punish?’ he demanded. ‘There must be plenty of other gentlemen in town who have offended your precious club.’

She seemed to swallow. Nervous at last?

‘I remembered your duel with Rexburgh in my first season. I could not forget how well ... That is, I wondered whether you were still handy with a pistol, my lord.’

‘You wanted to pit your skill against mine?’

Somewhat incredulous, he uncocked the pistol and placed it carefully out of her reach. Much as he admired her, he had no wish to end up on the wrong end of that particular muzzle again. He knelt beside her, and she looked at him wonderingly, her lips parted, a pulse beating rapidly in her white throat.

His desire to have her returned abruptly, and it was all he could do not to throw her to the floor there and then.

‘Well, my wildcat.’ He tilted her chin up towards him. ‘Where were we?’

‘My lord?’

‘My lady?’ he responded ironically. Damn, her mouth was inviting!

She gasped as he kissed her on the lips, and for a few difficult seconds he thought she would fight him off. Then her arms were flung about his neck, clasping him in a way that left him in no way uncertain of her willingness.

Free at last, his hands slid up to cup her breasts. They felt deliciously prominent under the man’s shirt.

Lady Caroline moaned against his mouth, inflaming his already unbearable desire. He wasted no time in tearing the wretched garment from her body. Bare at last, her breasts tilted up into his hands, delicately curved, the nipples stiff and white.

Trajan bent his head to suck one nipple into his mouth, and felt her whole body arch in response, not in shame but apparent rapture.

Was the girl more experienced than he had imagined?

The thought made him tense, suddenly disliking the thought of Lady Caroline in bed with another man. Yet why the hell should he care if some other man had been there first?

If she was not a virgin, so much the better. That way he would not have to worry about breaking her in gently, but could take the girl as forcefully as he wished.

Her hands were fumbling with his shirt. Trajan drew back slightly, allowing her free rein. She dragged the shirt over his head, then made for the fall of his breeches again, her hands practised. Nor did she look startled by his nudity but stared greedily, her hands resting on his bare chest as naturally as if she did this every night.

When he began to drag off her own clothing, convinced now of her experience, Lady Caroline gave a strangled cry and helped him.

Soon she too was naked, her body unnaturally pale in the moonlight.

Silently admiring her beauty, Trajan forgot that other men must have seen her like this, enraptured by the sight before him to care about such details. She was perfect as an ivory statue, a veritable Galatea come to life, those neat breasts and flat belly above curving hips and long, slender thighs, between which he knelt to admire the apex of blonde curls lying in wait for him there.

His hands slipped beneath her buttocks, raising her instinctively to his mouth. She moaned wildly as his tongue slipped inside, tasting her, exploring the sensitive nub of flesh there.

‘Trajan.’ Her head thrashed from side to side, her voice barely recognisable. ‘Please.’

He had meant to delay, to take his sweet time with her. But the violence of her response fanned his desire to white-hot flames. This would be no rape. Caroline was as eager for their union as he was, urging him on with guttural cries and moans. His hands shook, his face hot as he raised himself from her pliant flesh, his breathing laboured.

Was she ready for him? She had to be ready, for he could not wait!

‘Yes,’ Trajan muttered, replying to an unspoken question, and knelt above her on the rough wooden floor. He wished they had some comfortable feather mattress to lay back on. But this filthy place had been her choice, after all.

He parted her thighs and positioned himself between them. God, how he wanted her! He could not remember wanting a woman quite so urgently before. But then, he had never been faced by a wanton armed with a pistol before.

Lady Caroline arched against him as he drove powerfully inside her, her hands gripping his hips, nails digging into his skin.

‘Trajan!’ she moaned at his entry.

Shock dragged Trajan to a standstill. She had been a virgin, and he had just taken her without even the slightest consideration for her pain. There could be no other explanation for that brief second of resistance at his entry, and the slight frown furrowing her brow as he’d pushed further inside, intent on his own pleasure.

‘Caroline?’

‘Don’t stop,’ she moaned, undulating beneath him in a rhythm so primitive and suggestive it nearly sent him mad. ‘I want you, Trajan. I want this.’

Her first time, and he had behaved like an animal. He raised himself on his elbows, staring down at her in the moonlight. ‘Damn it, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?’

‘Because this is what I wanted, why I brought you here in the first place,’ she whispered, then hid her flushed face in his chest. ‘Oh god, I must have been insane. For the sake of one night!’ She sounded almost angry. ‘Yet what else could I have done? I was all but invisible to you.’

‘My god, Caroline, did that surprise you?’ His gaze raked her body, so voluptuous in naked surrender, her thighs and cradling hips fitting so perfectly against him. He buried his face in her golden hair, inhaling its rich scent. ‘Why conceal all this beauty under those dowdy old gowns?’

‘You wish to hear the truth, my lord?’

‘Oddly enough, yes.’

Caroline swallowed, staring at his chest as though afraid to meet his eyes. ‘In my first season, I had hoped to receive an offer from you. When none was forthcoming, I quickly realised that I had no interest in marrying another man.’

‘For pity’s sake!’ Trajan exclaimed.

‘One day, I fell into conversation with some friends and together we devised the Petticoat Club.’ She saw his harsh stare, and bit her lip. ‘Oh, for the first few years we played mostly harmless tricks on gentlemen who had slighted us. But then, we began to hear of greater atrocities. Girls left pregnant and unmarried for want of a fortune, some even taking their own lives in despair. In response, our tricks grew rather more serious.’

‘So you diverted attention from yourself as leader of this club by playing the part of an unattractive dowd?’

Lady Caroline nodded, silently searching his face as though afraid what she might find there.

‘A neat and highly effective stratagem,’ he muttered. ‘I would never have guessed at it. And you were right to be angry when I said no woman could undertake those deeds alone. Though you have made use of your servant.’

‘On this occasion only!’ she protested. ‘We do not usually hold gentlemen much beyond an hour or two. It was necessary to leave someone here with you, and there was no one else I could trust.’

‘Hush!’ He kissed her throat, the wild pulse beating there, deeply aware of how their limbs still tangled and overlapped. ‘No need to explain. You are an open book to me now, Lady Caroline. I know your secrets.’

She gripped his bare shoulders. ‘That is not all you know,’ she reminded him daringly, and met his lips with a burning kiss.

His body hardened irrevocably under that kiss. Her head dropped back with pleasure as he began to thrust  into her again, but delicately this time, almost too gently and delicately.

Caroline feared she would die from the pleasure of those soft teasing thrusts. But they were not enough to satisfy her.

‘More,’ she groaned, dazed and barely comprehending her own need.

‘Are you sure, Caro?’ His body shook with the effort of controlling his urgency, sweat on his forehead. ‘I may not be able to stop.’

‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,’ she whispered. ‘You’re a rake, so don’t spoil things by acting the gentleman now. I want you to take me!’

He obliged, only too eager to move into her more forcefully. Caroline raised her hips, fitting her rhythm to his thrusts, an unfamiliar pleasure beginning to build inside her, growing stronger every moment. So this was what they whispered about in private, those married women with their knowing smiles and disconcerting asides. Some wives hated their womanly “duties”, she knew. But others would fan themselves and look secretively at their husbands.

No wonder, she thought wildly, no wonder! All this heat, this almost unbearable pleasure.

Suddenly, he slipped his hand down between their bodies, finding and stroking her quim, his fingers moving in time with his thrusts, head raised to watch her face.

Caroline gasped, lost in the grip of something wonderful, indescribable, her senses spiralling out of control. She saw a myriad of dazzling colours in the moonlight, suddenly super-sensitive to the pressure of his hand, the cries of their voices, her whole being centred where their bodies met and joined. Trajan seemed to understand her need, his slow strokes bringing her ever closer to the edge of some mysterious cliff in her mind. And as she fell, tumbling back into space, she took him with her, her legs wrapped around his buttocks, her kiss releasing him.

She heard his passionate groan, and guessed that Trajan was spilling his seed deep inside her, unable to hold back any longer.

Lovingly, her hand pushed back the damp hair from his forehead.

He stared down at her as though he had never seen her before. ‘Caroline,’ he breathed.

‘Hush,’ she answered, burying her face in his hot shoulder to hide the tears in her eyes. It was done; it was over, and she regretted nothing except that it would never happen again. ‘Please don’t say anything. There’s nothing more to say.’

It was cold outside as Trajan saddled the gelding in the gloomy light of dawn, frowning across at her cloaked form huddled in the doorway. Every instinct told him to stay and protect her, yet at the same time he wanted to feel the road underneath him at a gallop, the wind in his hair.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Joseph will return soon with the carriage,’ Caroline said simply. ‘He’ll escort me back to town as agreed. You take Jupiter. Let your friends know you’re safe.’

Trajan nodded, resisting a powerful urge to return and kiss her.

It was best if he took a few days alone to clear his head and consider what had happened here between them. He was still reeling from his encounter with this incredible woman, and was not quite sure what to make of her, nor what he was truly feeling. His blood was running high and his body was on fire. This was no time to make rash decisions based on the emotions of the moment, he told himself sternly.

Trajan swung himself up into the saddle, gathering the reins in both hands. He said nothing but his gaze met hers through the chill misty air.

‘God speed, my lord,’ Caroline murmured, and disappeared back inside.

He was free.

Trajan looked up assessingly at the rough dwelling where he had been held a prisoner in such unusual circumstances, then he grimaced.

‘Get up, Jupiter!’ he urged the horse, setting off back to London at a fierce pace. ‘You’ll see your mistress again, never fear. Though whether I will is less certain.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

A week passed, and every knock at the door of their town house brought Caroline to the front salon window in trepidation. She was not sure what would be worse: to see Lord Trajan Randall on the front steps, or the grim faces of the Bow Street Runners.

No one came to accuse or arrest her, however, and there were no scandalous rumours at any of the salons or soirées she frequented to indicate that Trajan  had mentioned her double life to anyone in the ton. Though many were asking where he had been, and what the mystery of his disappearance was all about. Indeed, it was all she and her friends in the Petticoat Club could do not to stare at each other in consternation whenever his name came up.

Caroline’s relief at this unexpected escape from disgrace was tinged with fear. Trajan might have decided not to prosecute her for abduction, but if he had truly forgiven her, where was he?

Trajan probably never wants to see me again, she told herself bitterly. And who can blame him?

Finally, on the eighth day after her return home, gazing dully out of the window across the busy London street, Caroline heard a clatter of hooves below. Instantly recognising the forbidding countenance of the gentleman who had arrived outside her father’s house, she shrank back, her cheeks scarlet, her body shaking with sudden violent reaction.

Trajan had come. And he was alone. Not a Runner in sight.

Smart in a dark blue superfine coat, riding his long-tailed grey and leading her own dear Jupiter, Lord Trajan Randall looked every inch the dandy. And an unlikely match for the bespectacled Lady Caroline in her dismal grey gown.

What to do, where to go?

Caroline took a few lurching steps through the room. She grabbed at the back of the chaise longue for support.

If Trajan had come alone, he could not have informed the magistrates of her crimes!

But why?

Did this mean he cared for her, that he did not wish to see her punished for her impetuous crime? Or was he merely delaying her punishment, like a cat playing with a mouse, to make her suffer more?

Her knees seemed to be dissolving under her. It was all Caroline could do to remain upright. Yet it was imperative that she should give the appearance of calm when he entered the room, that he should not guess at the turmoil inside her.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror that overhung the fireplace, gave a muffled shriek and tore off her mop cap, tidying her hair with fingers that shook.

The door opened.

Trajan was admitted, his bow almost perfunctory, his eyes searching for hers immediately. His gaze was hard and stern as he stripped off his riding gloves, sending a cold shiver through her body.

Thank goodness her aunt was out that afternoon, calling on a sick friend, and so could not witness Lord Randall’s request to be alone with her. Or no doubt she would imagine that marriage was at last on the cards, Caroline thought wildly. Her aunt could not be expected to realise that her shameless niece had already played her only trump card – her virginity – and lost.

Left alone together by the disapproving butler, they looked at each other appraisingly. Caroline had imagined this meeting many times since that night, yet had always assumed that Trajan would take the lead.

When he said nothing, Caroline drew herself up, refusing to face her accuser in shivering silence like a whipped bitch.

She was an earl’s daughter and would behave like one.

‘No Runners with you, my lord?’

‘Caro – ’ he began to say, taking a step forward, then stopped and bit the word off impatiently. Riding gloves in hand, Trajan gestured instead to the window. ‘I have brought Jupiter back to you. Forgive me, I should have done so earlier. But I was visiting my mother down in Kent and could not leave too soon without arousing her suspicions.’

So that was where he had been!

‘It is a fine afternoon,’ he continued, and met her eyes. ‘Would you care for a ride in the park?’

‘Thank you, no,’ she replied colourlessly, and clasped her hands together in front of her chest as though praying. It was a familiar gesture for the timid, mousey Lady Caroline to make, and she saw his eyes flash bitterly to her stance, his lip curling.

‘Sir,’ she said, with a pretence at calm. ‘If you have come to punish me, I will understand. I treated you infamously and you have every right to be furious. Only do not punish the Lacey family for my own want of conduct. I will accept without question whatever punishment you choose. But I beg you not to make my shame public, nor to pursue the identity of my other friends in the Petticoat Club.’

Lord Randall tapped his riding crop against his boot a few times, watching her assessingly. ‘That seems a fair request. I have no bone to pick with your family, nor your dubious friends. So long as they never hold up my coach, they may continue their activities unabated. He hesitated. ‘So you will accept your punishment without question?’

‘You have my word on it, my lord,’ she agreed, then gave a twisted smile. ‘For whatever that is worth.’

‘Come here, then,’ he ordered her.

Heat flooded her cheeks at this lazy command. She took a few steps towards him, then hesitated, biting her lip. ‘My lord?’

‘Closer, madam.’

Caroline stopped, level with his chest, close enough to hear his breathing. Her knees were weak again, her whole body trembling.

You traitor, she berated herself angrily!

In a leisurely fashion, Trajan ran the tip of his riding crop down her cheek, her throat, following the line of her breasts in the thin muslin gown, down to her hips and thighs.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, his grey eyes unreadable. ‘Even in that less than flattering gown. But then, I have the advantage of knowing what lies beneath it, don’t I?’

Her chin came up at that insult. ‘Is this my punishment, sir? To become your mistress? Because I thank you for the offer, but I would rather ... rather some other punishment could be found for me.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You are in no position to argue, my dear. I have only to take my story to the Runners for your family and friends to be ruined along with you.‘

‘You would not dare!’

‘Try me.’

Caroline closed her eyes for a moment. Then slowly, she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips, laying her arms about his neck.

She could not allow her family to be ruined, her father’s name and reputation dragged in the mud. Nor would she betray the identity of her friends in the Petticoat Club. It was no hardship to be a rake’s mistress, and especially this rake’s. Though it would probably kill her once Trajan had taken his fill and cast her aside, as he did all his women in the end.

At least she would enjoy some short time with him, revelling in the pleasure of his hard body against hers in the night. There might even be a child from their union. The disgrace of that could be hidden, and then she would have a remembrance of their time together. Polite society half-expected her to retire to the country soon anyway, having failed to find a husband over five long seasons.

Trajan groaned under her mouth, and abruptly the kiss took fire.

They staggered backwards together until she came up hard against the wall of the salon. His hands supported her, his thigh pressing urgently against hers through the thin muslin. She remembered how they had made love and her body responded instinctively, wrapped about him like a clinging vine.

All laziness gone, his mouth slid down her throat and lingered hotly on the swell of her breasts, leaving her in no doubt of his intentions. She felt her nipples swell to his touch, growing heavy with desire, and moaned. It was not safe, she kept telling herself. Anyone could walk into the front salon and find them caught in this intimate embrace, and then she would be well and truly compromised. Yet her body would not listen to the reason of her head, urging him on with her sighs and caresses.

Eventually though, he was the one who called a halt to their lovemaking. Trajan put her aside with shaking hands, a hard flush in his cheeks. ‘Not here, sweet Caro,’ he muttered. ‘If we go any further and your aunt were to come in, she would collapse with shock.’

‘I accept the offer. I will be your mistress,’ she said simply.

He shook his head, laughing softly under his breath. ‘You truly believe I would accept you as my mistress?’

Her heart clenched in sudden terrible pain. She had been right. She was not good enough for him, neither beautiful nor decorous enough even to be his light o’love.

‘You ...!’ Her throat seized up with hurt. ‘Do your worst then. Take your story to the Runners and be damned!’

‘Caro, Caro,’ he said, catching her by the waist as she spun bitterly away. ‘Don’t be such a little fool. I want you for my wife. Not my mistress. What kind of man do you take me for? How could you think I would not wish to marry you after we had made love like that?’

She stared, not understanding. ‘So ... this is about your honour?’

‘No, no!’ Trajan held her so close she could hardly breathe. His voice in her ear was unsteady. ‘This is about my heart. It’s taken me a week of hard sleepless nights to realise it, but I’m in love with you. Caroline, you’re the bravest, most exciting woman I’ve ever known. I should have trusted my instincts that first season and asked you to be my wife, but I was a fool.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed shakily, incredulous but managing a short laugh. ‘You were.’

‘Well, I’m nearly thirty now, and hopefully not such a fool as to let you slip through my fingers again. Though I swear by all that’s holy, if you ever go out adventuring with your Petticoat Club again, I shall not be answerable for my actions.’

‘You cannot forbid me that!’

‘Can I not? Not even as your husband?’

She took a shuddering breath. ‘Not even then. You do not understand. We have work to do. We have wronged women to avenge.’

‘Next time you want to avenge a wronged woman,’ he said sharply, ‘ask me first, and I’ll see to it.’

‘You, my lord?’

She was incredulous, if somewhat excited that he had not dismissed the idea of avenging wronged women out of hand.

‘Yes, my lady. What kind of husband would I be if I allowed my wife to ride the streets of London with a pistol in her pocket, and did not even offer to lend a hand in the venture?’

‘A poor one indeed,’ she agreed candidly. She could not quite believe it though. She looked into his eyes and shivered, recognising the emotion there as one she was feeling herself. ‘Fine sentiments, my lord, but let us not forget that you have not yet asked me to marry you.’

‘How remiss of me.’ He sank to one knee, gazing up at her intensely. ‘Will you marry me, Lady Caroline? Or do I have to play the highwayman to get you into my bed?’

‘Oh,’ she gasped, sudden tears in her eyes, ‘my dearest Trajan. If only you would!’

This story is a sequel to the lively Regency romance Poppeia and the Petticoat Club by Elizabeth Moss.

If you enjoy Regency stories, why not read some other “Elizabeth Moss” Regency titles on Kindle?

The Uncatchable Miss Faversham (full length Regency Romance)

The Earl and his Tiger (full length Regency Romance – this title sold 32,000 copies between August 2011 and September 2012)

Poppeia and the Petticoat Club (Regency romance novella)