Free Her Protector's Pleasure by Grace Callaway Page B

room.
    Marianne went in the opposite direction. The trio of large males stood in the atrium, organizing the passage to Hunt's club where they would await the kidnappers' ransom note. Despite her anxiety for Percy, Marianne couldn't help but notice Kent. He was the tallest of the three, his shoulders just as wide as the other men's despite his lankier frame. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his threadbare wool coat—did he own but one?—and his wavy brown-black hair was ruffled, as if he'd dragged a hand through it repeatedly.
    For some asinine reason, she found his dishevelment ... attractive. Above the slipshod knot of his cravat, his jaw appeared harder than steel, the muscle there ticking like a clock. 'Twas as if there were two Mr. Kents: the preachy policeman who walked the straight and narrow—and this one: a dangerous male on the edge. She knew which version she preferred.
    As if sensing her arrival, he jerked his head up. His mouth pulled tight at the edges.
    She ignored him and addressed Harteford. "I shall be joining in the night's mission, my lord," she said. "Kindly provide my driver with the directions to Mr. Hunt's club."
    "You?" Kent spoke up, his tone incredulous. "This is a dangerous undertaking. It has no place for a lady."
    Attractive … and with the uncanny ability to set her teeth on edge.
    "I make my own place in the world, sir." Flicking him a cool glance, she turned to the gaming hell owner. "Now, Mr. Hunt, the name of your establishment?"
    "The Underworld. Covent Garden," Hunt said, his gaze fixed on the exit.
    Harteford frowned. "Are you certain this is a good idea, my lady?"
    "Your wife suggested it. 'Tis either she or I who comes along this eve."
    That shut Harteford up. When it came to Helena, the man had the protective instincts of a bulldog. And apparently there was another guard dog in the midst. Kent's eyes roved over her, and Marianne's belly quivered. Strange, because she didn't like overbearing men. Amongst the ton , she was famed for three qualities: beauty, wealth, and indisputable independence. Gentlemen who pursued her knew better than to gainsay her anything, and her razor-sharp wit gave her a reputation for invulnerability. Coldness.
    Yet this river constable seemed to think that she was in need of his protection. 'Twas downright laughable. And oddly ... intriguing.
    "The notion is ridiculous. You cannot allow her to be involved," Kent snapped to the other men. Never mind that one was a marquess and the other owned the stews—the policeman in his drab clothes stood his own ground. And dash it if his dignity didn't shine through greater than any title or coin. "We are dealing with cutthroats here."
     "Men like any other," she interjected in a bored voice designed to drive him mad. It seemed to succeed. If he turned any ruddier, steam might spout from his ears. "Now we cannot afford to dally, can we? I shall meet you all at Hunt's club."
    "For God's sake, woman, use your brains for more than mischief this once! 'Tis a gaming hell—you cannot go there unaccompanied," Kent exploded. "Think of your safety."
    As Harteford stared at Kent and Hunt's brows climbed, a delicious and utterly diabolical notion took hold of Marianne. She had a moment's pause: why should it please her to push the upright Mr. Kent? Yet the imp of perversion was too much to resist.
    "See you there, gentlemen," she said. Heading to the door, she paused to add over her shoulder, "Coming, Mr. Kent?"
    The furrows on his forehead deepened. "With you?"
    "Well, of course." She settled a cool smile upon him. "You are the policeman, aren't you? Since it seems I must be protected, you may provide the escort."
     

NINE
    As the carriage clip-clopped toward Covent Garden, Ambrose did not know who infuriated him more: the wicked widow sitting across from him or himself. With her silvery skirts draped elegantly over the lavender squabs, she was the epitome of cool and collected. A queen supremely aware of her own