Compromising Positions Read online

  Mystical Signs: Cancer

  COMPROMISING POSITIONS

  BY

  EMMA WILDES

  www.VenusPress.com

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  COMPROMISING POSITIONS

  Copyright © 2006 by Emma Wildes

  ISBN: 1-59836-355-7

  Cover Art © 2006 by Croco

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of America.

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  Dedication:

  For Virginia, one of my best friends in the world.

  Chapter One

  Glancing at the note in his hand, Andrew Carlton frowned. The ball was in full swing, the glittering guests swirling in time to the music or crowding the edges of the vast room. Over the din, he asked, “Who gave this to you?”

  A young footman in immaculate livery shrugged and said deferentially, “One of the maids, sir. Said a lady had asked for it to be given to you.”

  “Seems a damned odd place to meet,” Andrew muttered in amused resignation. “But then again, women have the most remarkable notions over what consists of a romantic setting, don’t they?”

  The boy flushed slightly. “I wouldn’t quite know yet, sir.”

  “Take my word for it, they do. All right, I suppose then I need you to direct me toward the wine cellar.”

  Obligingly, the boy took him through the crowd, their progress slow through the vast throng, until they gained the unobtrusive door through which the servants came and went to access the ballroom. The service corridor was long, mostly opening to hallways to the kitchens, but the steps at the end led downward, turning twice before reaching the bowels of the cellars under the mansion. There were various storage rooms, but the first door, undoubtedly normally locked against the pilfering of expensive bottles, stood open, the interior illuminated in a sort of gothic glow by several candles set in niches in the wall. Dismissing the footman with a generous tip and the subtle suggestion that he forget he had ever delivered the note just in case the mysterious lady who needed to see him so urgently was married, Andrew stepped inside.

  The floor was dirt and the huge room smelled like wet stone and dust. Walking down the aisle lined by the candle sconces, he glanced around. Rows and rows of racks held thousands of bottles of different kinds of wine, stretching back into complete darkness. Lord Landry liked his liquor, Andrew realized, giving the rack closest to him an appraising glance. Many of the labels were fine French vintages. However, his lordship’s tastes were the least of his concerns at that moment and he was beginning to get truly intrigued. Clearing his throat, he said, “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  Whirling around, Andrew saw a young woman stood only few feet away, the flickering light reflecting the uncertain expression on her lovely face. Ash blond and slender, dressed in a soft ivory gown that modestly displayed the creamy upper curves of her breasts, she looked out of place among the dark recesses of the cavernous room with her almost fragile, pure beauty. To say he was surprised was an understatement, and a small flicker of purely masculine alarm shot through his brain as he registered her identity. She too, seemed to be frozen and startled, her soft mouth slightly parted, wide dark eyes gazing at him from under their fringe of lush lashes.

  What the devil, Andrew thought silently, does the young daughter of the Duke of Dunbarton want with me?

  As if an echo of his own thoughts, the girl stammered, “Forgive me, but this is not at all proper. I know who you are, of course, but we have not even been properly introduced, and even if we had, my father would never approve of such a …clandestine meeting. Please excuse me.”

  “My pleasure,” Andrew said almost fervently, the implications of being alone even for a few moments with the very ingénue Miss Hatton staggering. But as what she said actually sank in, he frowned. “Just a moment. Did you not send me a note, asking me to meet you here?”

  In the very act of turning to hurry away back toward the door, the duke’s daughter stopped, checked for a moment, glancing back. “You, sir, sent me a note. It was a lapse in my judgment to come without knowing the identity of the sender, but it did say the matter was private and urgent and I suppose I was curious.”

  Ignoring the prim reprimand in her voice, Andrew said flatly, “I sent you no note, my lady. In fact, rest assured, if I did desire a meeting, which I don’t, I would simply ask you face to face. You have my word that I sent you nothing. As you said, we have never even met.”

  Confusion crossed her delicate features. “Then who did send me the note?”

  “I have no idea,” Andrew said truthfully and grimly, “but I do not like this one bit. I think we had best get out of here as soon as possible.”

  And even as he spoke, the door clicked shut loudly.

  Bloody hell.

  Dashing to the entrance, he found that it was indeed closed and the very solid, very heavy door, designed to keep the temperature even summer and winter, firmly barred somehow on the outside. Not having heard anyone come down the stairs or been aware someone had lurked there to deliberately lock them in, Andrew was both furious and troubled at the amount of stealth and trouble the person or persons that had trapped them there had taken.

  “Damnation, I believe we just fell for a very old trick,” he muttered, tugging ineffectually at the door handle again, then setting his shoulder to the dark panel and heaving with all his might. It didn’t even shift a fraction. “It’s no use. I guess we need to hope that the wine steward didn’t plan well enough for the party and needs more bottles sometime soon.”

  “I will be missed almost right away.” At his elbow, Miss Hatton looked more perplexed than frightened. “My father barely lets me out of his sight. I slipped away on the pretext I needed to…well, that is…” She blushed, her upper teeth sinking into her lusciously pink lower lip.

  Lord save him from innocent young girls. Andrew said dryly, “Everyone answers the call of nature, my lady. However, the fact that your father will miss you isn’t all that encouraging. First of all, I have the feeling that whoever decided to make us captives here is a fairly organized individual. It is easy to guess if you have suddenly disappeared, your father will, at first anyway, search for you discreetly. After a few hours an alarm will be raised, and at that time the servants might be questioned. Until then, unless the crowd dancing above us is extraordinarily thirsty this evening, we are stuck here.”

  “Together?” Her voice held a faint note that indicated her horrified realization of what potential disaster that might hold for her future. “I cannot be here alone with you for hours.”

  “I’m afraid neither of us has a choice.” He wasn’t exactly amused either, knowing that she was right—his reputation was less than pristine. The truth was that society in general considered him a profligate rake of the first order. It was fact to a certain extent, since in the past he had indulged rather freely in some scandalous and public affairs. While mastering the art of seduction in the beds of England’s most lovely women, he had spent years avoidin
g permanence with his skillful choice of partners, making sure his lovers were also experienced and sophisticated.

  Avoiding at all costs innocent young women with powerful protective fathers.

  The candles flickered, one going out in a small hiss of smoke. It was very quiet, not even the sound of the music or laughter upstairs filtering through the thick stone walls. The bottles reposed silently in their wooden racks, gleaming and covered with dust. For a long moment they simply looked at each other in mutual consternation, Andrew seeing reflected in Miss Hatton’s beautiful eyes a similar dismay that seemed to grow each second. She should be dismayed, for ever since her debut weeks ago, she had been by all accounts the reigning belle of the haute ton, considered a diamond of the first water with her pale flaxen hair, ivory skin, and flawless features. Despite the gravity of their circumstances, Andrew was still male and he could not help but notice with a practiced eye her breasts were the perfect size under the bodice of her fashionable gown. Opulent but not too large, full, high, and firm, and her hips were graceful and womanly. Not just beautiful, but actually stunning, the daughter of the Duke of Dunbarton would have her pick of any titled lord she might want to wed at the end of the Season.

  Unless, of course, she was ruined by an unsavory association with the very notorious Andrew Carlton, he thought with enlightened realization.

  “Someone did this on purpose,” he mused out loud, staring down at her. “It strikes me that one of us has an enemy, Miss Hatton.”

  “No doubt there are dozens of irate husbands that want your blood,” she said sharply, pushing past him to brace her slender body and shove frantically against the door, rattling the handle. “However, I do not see how this going to affect you, sir.”

  Having the uneasy feeling that her father would have an excellent idea over how this would affect him, Andrew said nothing, watching her futile attack on the solid wood barrier. After a few moments she desisted, her slim shoulders slumping in defeat. Her lips trembling, she gazed up at him, her dark blue eyes suddenly shimmering with tears. “What are we going to do?”

  The only thing worse than being suddenly stuck in a compromising situation with a very marriageable young lady, was being stuck with a weeping marriageable young lady. Andrew said soothingly, “We are going to make ourselves comfortable and wait, of course. The outcome of this does not have to cause either of us any grief…after all, my brother is the Earl of Wenton and your father is a powerful man, as well, so don’t worry. Here, my lady, let’s sit down and please take my coat, for it is a bit chilly in here.”

  Shrugging out of his jacket, Andrew placed it around her shaking shoulders and gave her his most persuasive smile, the one that had charmed legions of ladies in the past.

  Luckily, it never failed him.

  ****

  The man was beyond a doubt too handsome for his own good. Christa Hatton huddled in his jacket and observed Andrew Carlton from underneath her lashes, seeing him settle his wide shoulders against the cold stone wall, his long legs stretching out in front of him. Thick dark blond hair waved against his strong neck, his blue eyes were such a vivid color that they were almost startling, and his features classically formed: straight nose, high cheekbones, and that mouth…so well-modeled and capable of that infamous, wicked smile.

  Capable of other things, if the rumors were true.

  Minutes passed and she realized he was right, she should probably sit down and try to be as comfortable as possible until someone came to let them out.

  His coat smelled wonderful and intriguing, like bayberry and whiskey mingled with a singular masculine scent and she clutched it around her as she sank down in an attempt to sit gracefully despite her long silk skirts. Wincing at the idea of the dirt floor and the ivory material of her new gown, Christa attempted to find a comfortable position, curling her legs under her body. The situation was bizarre, there was no doubt about it, but she was absurdly glad he was there, since the disreputable and devastatingly attractive Mr. Carlton exuded an air of confidence and calm in the face of their current disaster. The thought of being locked in the cellar with him was scandalous, but the thought being locked in alone was awful. She asked with credible evenness, “So tell me, sir, do you have any candidates for this little prank?”

  “I’m thinking,” he admitted, giving her a sidelong glance. “It seems to me that this indirect and inventively devious approach indicates a female perpetrator. If a man wished to challenge me, he would do it face to face.”

  “You are legendary with a dueling pistol. Maybe he wouldn’t,” Christa argued thoughtfully. “What if he were older, someone who didn’t feel equal to an open confrontation with you, but instead wanted to embarrass you by embroiling you in a quarrel with my father?”

  His mouth lifted at the corner and his dark blond brows rose slightly in cynical reproof. “I suppose, in your mind, I must have seduced his wife.”

  “It does seem a logical conclusion.” Christa flushed a little under that steady blue gaze. “People…say things.”

  “Gossip isn’t exactly a bastion of fact, Miss Hatton. I caution you not to give it too much credence.” The man sitting next to her actually looked a little grim. “I am not a saint, I have never pretended to be one. On the other hand, I am not quite the amoral libertine the whispers suggest, either. This is hardly a subject for your innocent ears, but the truth is, if I am involved in any way with a married woman, it is only if she approaches me first and with the understanding that her husband is indifferent to her indiscretions. Unfortunately in our shallow society, that is all too often the case.”

  A little shocked but also able to register the solid conviction in his tone, Christa shifted uncomfortably. “Then why so many duels, Mr. Carlton?”

  His smile was cynical, his gaze shuttered. “I was young and heedless at one time. I haven’t met someone on the field in almost six years. Why the rumors don’t die away is a mystery to me.”

  She might be only nineteen and just launched into the social whirl, but even she understood exactly why women still whispered behind their hands over this man. It was more than just his compelling good looks. It was a unique masculine charisma that drew a woman like a beacon; a certain well-bred yet overtly sexual charm that was unmistakable.

  And disturbing.

  “What about you?”

  The question made her start slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Any dire enemies, Miss Hatton? After all, you are very lovely and the toast of London society right now. Surely there are jealous young women and their equally petty mothers who begrudge the attention and success?”

  It was astounding to think anyone would hate her enough to want to soil her reputation, but he had a point. She had heard enough catty remarks and endured more than a few killing glares from both young ladies and their sainted mothers. “I can’t think of anyone specific,” she said with a small shiver, “but you are right, this is a devious sort of thing to do. Luckily I kept the note, so we can at least prove we were lured here and deliberately locked in.”

  “Yes, I’m sure everyone will be anxious to believe us.” He looked sardonically amused. “And since the note isn’t signed, it will be only my word to say I didn’t write it. Although, quite frankly, I do not consider this a very romantic location for a tryst.”

  Considering the dim lighting and hard cold floor, neither did she. Christa said quietly, “No, but it was extremely easy to confine us, wasn’t it? And very unlikely anyone would hear us if we tried to yell for help.”

  “Very,” he agreed with disheartening finality.

  Lapsing into silence, Christa saw that another one of the candles had gone out, making the dank space even gloomier, the few sputtering stubs remaining sending fantastic shadows everywhere. She shivered at the idea of total darkness, for without a window or any other source of light, it would be pitched black. Knowing she would sound childish in front of the very urbane Mr. Carlton, she resisted begging him to see if there were more candles anywhere
, but her shivering increased despite his jacket around her shoulders.

  He noticed immediately with a small frown. “Are you still cold?”

  “A little,” Christa confessed, more the dread of total darkness than the cold floor making her quake, but he didn’t need to know that. Before she realized what was happening, she felt herself being lifted suddenly in a pair of strong arms and shifted to his lap, her body resting across his thighs and cradled lightly against his wide chest.

  Settling back against the wall, Andrew Carlton said calmly, “There. We’ll both be warmer.”

  Not certain whether to be outraged or grateful, Christa said in a strangled voice, “This isn’t exactly proper, sir.”

  “Neither is being together alone for hours. Don’t worry, Miss Hatton, your virtue is safe since I can’t really imagine anything less comfortable than ravishing you on a chilly dirt floor. Just relax.”

  Relax? Suddenly being held in the arms of a strange man--no matter how gorgeously attractive--was not exactly relaxing. However…almost involuntarily she found she did relax eventually, mostly because he was right, his body was hard and warm, and though they were virtual strangers, she irrationally felt safe in his arms. Her head nestled perfectly against his muscled shoulder and Christa could hear the strong steady beat of his heart under her ear. No longer trembling, she actually felt a little sleepy after a while, having been at the ball a good three hours before the fateful note was delivered to her, dancing every dance. “What if,” she murmured, “the servants who brought us the notes and guided us down here were bribed to keep quiet?”

  “Landry is a wine fanatic, hence this fine collection. Don’t worry, I don’t think for a minute that the purpose of this is to harm either of us except socially. The worst that will happen is that we will be here all night. In the morning, when the daily menu is set before the butler, he will send someone to retrieve the proper vintages for each course. With luck, we will be freed and can go discreetly on our way.”