Clair felt a sudden brush against her sleeve and a cool wind on her neck. Startled, she turned to find Asher watching her with a proprietary look, his teeth white and gleaming.
"I should have known," she said. Drat! Ian still wasn't here.
Asher leered at her. "It must be my lucky night."
"Are you following me?" Clair asked, somewhat amused. Since Ian wasn't here, she might as well pursue her werewolf research.
"To the ends of the earth, Clair, the ends of the earth."
She laughed, the sound light and tinkling, causing Asher to smile. He could listen to her laugh forever. And he would, if he had his wicked way.
"Do you know, you are the first person to laugh at me in a very long while." It was not a question.
"How long? Ten years, twenty years? Hmm… a hundred?" she asked, crossing her fingers behind her back. It was a pretty weak ploy, but still she had to try.
In the pursuit of science, it was far better to try and fail than never to try at all.
The earl chuckled. "Come now, surely you don't think I am as old as that? However will my ego take this new insult?"
"With your consequence, I imagine you'll survive infamously well."
"Clair, you are a delight. Come away with me. We'll go to Paris and drink champagne in bed."
"Champagne gives me hiccups," she countered, keeping an eye out for Ian. Surely he would track her here, and soon?
Eyeing Asher, Clair got the feeling she might have bitten off more than she could chew. Especially when he said, "All right then, come away with me to the country."
When she gave him a frosty look, he added mischievously, "I am having a house party at Wolverton Manor from this coming Tuesday through Thursday, with a small ball being given on Wednesday. Would you and your aunt Mary do me the honor of attending?"
Clair wanted to jump for joy. The wolf was inviting her to his den! She could almost feel the plaque given for the Scientific Discovery of the Decade.
Yes, she would gain her proof, Clair thought, her mind spinning. But she had to admit to some surprise, in spite of her inner victory dance. Wednesday night was the full moon. All shapeshifters would shift into animal form during the full moon. How on earth did Asher plan to host a ball all furry and fanged?
The crafty earl must be plotting something. There was no way Asher could host a party Wednesday night, unless he planned to scare his guests to death with a demonstration of metamorphism. However, knowing the wily earl, Clair felt sure that Asher would come up with some emergency to leave his guests by themselves that night. But that would not stop Clair from getting her information.
"I would love to attend. However, I have a small problem. I have invited the Duke of Ghent for dinner on Tuesday and would hate to rescind?" Clair made it a question, hoping Asher would respond appropriately. He did.
"I would be delighted to extend the invitation to His Grace also," he replied gallantly.
"Then my answer is yes. Thank you." Clair beamed. Finally! This time, she was invited to a house and didn't have to break and enter to gather information. As an added bonus, Aunt Mary and Ozzie would have a chance to rekindle their old flame. And to top things off, Ian would be livid.
As casually as she could, she asked Asher if Ian would be attending.
"Over my dead body," the earl teased. Or was he teasing? "Speak of the devil, here he is. And yes, an invitation has been regretfully extended. One can always hope he will break a leg or neck before then."
Clair gave Asher a disapproving look, then peered around his shoulder. She spotted Ian making determined course toward them, his face the perfect picture of displeasure.
Asher studied Ian's face, registering the cold fury there. Bowing to Clair, he commented dryly, "I believe it would be in both our best interests for me to decamp." He gave her hand a courtly kiss. "But never fear, sweet Clair. I leave the field of battle tonight to return in victory tomorrow." Her fresh scent lingered in his nostrils as he walked off into the crowd.
Clair barely noticed Asher's departure as she watched Ian approach. Ian's face could be the pattern for a mask of wrath. His jaws were clenched, his lips pinched in a tight, fine line, and his eyes blazed like green coals. Heat rolled off him in fierce waves. Perhaps, she judged silently, she had pushed him a bit too far—just a tad. Perhaps Plan B was not quite as brilliant as she had thought.
Before Clair could even greet him, Ian grabbed her arm—none too gently—and hurriedly escorted her around the perimeter of the dance floor. He moved like a man on a mission, never giving his love a chance to speak.
Reaching the balcony doors, he pushed Clair outside and dragged her over to a dark corner on the far side of the massive stone terrace. Large ferns and other potted plants completely hid the place from prying eyes. There Ian glowered at Clair, barely keeping his already too heated feelings from boiling over and scalding her.
"I'm surprised I didn't catch you waltzing with the earl, arm in arm, cheek to cheek," he snapped.
Sniffing, Clair replied politely, "I wasn't in the mood to dance with wolves."
Ian shook his head. "Bloody hell! Enough is enough, Clair! I said I was sorry, damn it!"
Before she could utter a word in anger or defense, he grabbed her roughly by her shoulders and pulled her tight against him. She struggled, but to no good gain as his lips crushed against hers. Ian forced his tongue inside her mouth, breaching those sweet depths as he initiated a wild, plundering rhythm and held her in a bruising embrace.
His kiss burned Clair all the way down to her soul, setting her aflame. Cursing herself, she let the kiss continue, knowing that the lies had not been resolved, but she was helpless beneath the onslaught of his passion and her own. She could do no less than respond, since she stupidly loved this man—the betraying reprobate.
As experienced as he was, Ian recognized the exact moment Clair capitulated. In some dim part of his brain he knew he should stop kissing and start explaining while she was in a complacent mood, but he didn't. Asher's poaching had set forth a primal urge to make Clair his own. Ian ravished her mouth, taking her ample breasts in his hands.
By God! he thought lustily. Her bosoms felt as magnificent as they looked. Clair arched helplessly into his hands, powerless under his flaming kiss. She moaned softly, feeding his need to be deep inside her. Ian had never wanted anything as desperately as to make Clair his in both word and deed. Her fiery response had his body swelling near to bursting.
Grabbing the skirt of her gown, he pulled it to her knees and settled her on the terrace edge. Her skin was smooth as silk, he mused, as his fingers worshiped her thighs. Inching closer, he edged his way into the slit of her undergarments, groaning. She was wet and hot. Bloody hell, he needed to bury himself in her hot sweet place.
The touch of Ian's fingers on her cleft made Clair shiver. The feelings washing over her were like a tidal wave. Colors flashed in her mind's eye—colors of deep purple, amethyst, and lilac. She wanted to scream with pleasure. She wanted to shout with joy. She wanted to lie down and make love right this moment on the Benningtons' terrace. They could charge admission.
That single wanton thought brought Clair to her senses. Good grief! She was fornicating with Ian on the Benningtons' terrace with Aunt Mary and over a hundred guests in the ballroom less than five yards away!
Drat, drat, and double drat! Her lusty, wanton, red-blooded nature was going to get her sent to hell on a fast-moving train. She wrenched her head away from Ian, her breath coming in short jerky spurts.
"Ian, stop it," she warned, pushing against him. "Get your bloody hand out of my drawers."