by Amy Jarecki
The rumble from his sinful laugh vibrated through her. He needed to stop. And she needed to tell him, but the gripping, driving passion inside her took control and sent her to the brink of madness. Just when she thought she would burst, she shattered, but not into pieces, she shattered into a rippling maelstrom of euphoria.
Sher’s mouth eased against her as the thrusting of his fingers slowed. Gradually regaining her senses, Eleanor opened her eyes and met his gaze. It wasn’t teasing or knowing, rather was filled with passion and hunger.
“You…h-how did you do that?”
One corner of his mouth ticked up as he smoothed her skirts lower. “You have bewitched me and I am completely and utterly under your spell.”
It wasn’t her spell that had been so utterly intoxicating. Completely out of sorts, she tried to come to grips with what happened.
“Did you know you were a wildcat?” he asked, sliding up beside her.
No, she was not a loose woman, nor did she ever intend to become one. Eleanor placed her hand on his chest. “This-this-this cannot ever happen again!” Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and readjusted her clothing. “I most definitely am not a seductress. I-I have no idea what came over me.”
Spotting her reticule, she raced for it.
“Eleanor?” Danby said, hastening toward her. “What’s wrong?”
She thrust out her palm, bidding him to stop. “This is wrong. I lost my senses.”
Flay it all, the man’s kisses proved more dangerous than a love potion. Before he could catch her arm and convince her to stay or, worse, kiss him, she fled out the door and didn’t look back.
Chapter Eleven
Huffing, Eleanor crumpled her eleventh piece of stationery and threw it at the bin. Exactly how did one word a letter to a duke, telling him their little rendezvous had been a horrible mistake and that they must never cross paths again because every time she found herself in his presence, she turned into a seductress?
Or was seducee a better way of phrasing it? After all, Danby had mastered the art of seduction. Eleanor tapped her chin with her quill. Was seducee even a word?
Whatever came over her when His Grace was in her midst certainly was not natural. He was the only man she’d ever met who utterly disarmed her. He had made her break her own stanch rule never to become involved with a client.
Never to become involved with anyone.
And yet, there she sat unable to construct a simple letter telling him to enjoy his new bedchamber and the many unrespectable women he would ravish there.
“Gah!” she groaned, pushing her chair away from her writing table and dropping her head back. She never again wanted to envision Sherborn Price entertaining any woman in his bed. Not ever!
Especially if it wasn’t Eleanor. Which mustn’t happen again. The man was dangerous. In fact, now that he had rendered her powerless to resist his wiles, Danby was even more dangerous.
Good Lord, who knew a man could be so well-schooled in the art of feminine pleasure? Eleanor didn’t want to find out. She didn’t want to learn how he’d come by his education, making her purr and moan and writhe with such ecstasy. Who knew such feelings existed?
His last mistress, that is who.
Eleanor stood and paced. It had been three days and her lips still tingled from his kisses. She still felt his lips upon her breasts. And never in all her days would she forget his wicked, wicked tongue. The man was a devil. He’d trapped her within his web and rendered her powerless to smite his affections.
Every time she picked up her quill, she tried to write something along the lines of telling him she was too weak, or she must go away on a long voyage, begging him to forget her existence. But with her every attempt, her disobedient pen would write about his eyes, his touch, his lips, the soft, downy hair at his nape.
“His accursed nape is alluring, for heaven’s sakes!”
“I beg your pardon, miss?” Weston’s disembodied voice came from the corridor.
Dash it all, could she not have a moment of solace? “What is it?” she asked, trying not to sound exasperated.
The door opened. “I know you said you did not want to be disturbed, but I felt it too important not to bring the news to you straightaway.”
As soon as Eleanor saw Weston’s eyes, she knew she didn’t want to hear what he was about to say. But no matter what her desires might be, she must face the truth. “What disaster has befallen us today?”
“We were expecting the replacement shipment of tobacco and cognac within the week.”
“Yes, that is what I told everyone.”
“Well, Millward just sent news that the shipment was seized at the border.”
“Even with the paperwork prepared by the agent in Dundee?”
“It appears so. They arrested the driver on suspicion of smuggling.”
“Suspicion?” Eleanor paced. “So they’re fishing?”
“Possibly.” Weston wrung his hands. “This will ruin us.”
“Why?” Eleanor asked, knowing full well the butler didn’t have the answer. “Why us?”
“We’re not the only privateers suffering. The prime minister is clamping down and word on the street is everyone’s panicking.”
“Well, we must nip this in the bud as best we can. Tell the driver to ready the carriage at once. I must have a word with Mr. Millward immediately.”
Earnest held the door while Eleanor stormed into the little office where Millward had acted as an importer for the past decade. “Why did you not bring the news of the seizure yourself?” she demanded, stopping at his writing table while her eyes were about to pop out of her head.
The clerk immediately hopped to his feet, as did a young man no older than seventeen. “Forgive me, Miss Eleanor. I felt it best to notify you straightaway whilst I gathered more information.” He gestured to the lad. “This is Tommy Kerr, son of the driver the customs officials arrested at the Scottish border.”
Eleanor’s gaze darted to the boy. “You were there?”
“Yes, ma’am. I always ride with me da—take care of the horses and the like.”
“Why did they not arrest you?”
The boy shrugged. “I reckon they didn’t think I was important enough.”
Eleanor moved to a chair and sat. “I need to know exactly what happened. Weston said they seized the shipment on suspicion of smuggling. Why? Was the paperwork not in order?”
“Mayhap it wasn’t.”
“You don’t know?”
Millward used a kerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I fear it is because the importer of record on the documentation was Lion’s.”
Eleanor snapped open her fan and commenced furiously fanning her face. “Lion’s? This business is a model importer.”
The little clerk tapped a stack of papers on his writing table. “I think we raised suspicions when I paid the duties on the Madeira shipment.”
“One would think quite the opposite,” said Earnest from his place at the door.
Eleanor had to agree. After all, they had paid promptly when the ship arrived in the Pool of London. “Are your nerves acting up, Millward? Perhaps you ought to have a nip of brandy to calm yourself.”
The man shook his head. “I may be easily riled, miss. But this time I know what I’m on about. Remember a while back, a fellow came in asking questions about our Madeira importing venture? Kenrick was his name, remember?”
A lead ball sank to the pit of her stomach. “The nosy fellow. Yes, I thought he’d move along and annoy someone else.”
“Since we last talked, I’ve come across him now and again.”
“Where?”
“Well.” Millward’s gaze slowly shifted to the window. “At the moment he’s across the street smoking a pipe.”
Eleanor didn’t dare look. She didn’t dare move. “Earnest, pretend to check the carriage and glance over your shoulder. Have you seen that fellow before?”
The footman scratched his shoulder, over which he stole a gl
impse. “Can’t say I have.”
“Look there,” said Tommy. “He’s leaving.”
Eleanor snapped her fan closed and thrust it toward the door. “Follow him. And make sure he has no idea what you’re up to.”
“You know me, miss.” Earnest gave a wink as he opened the door. “I’ve mastered a knack for being a ghost.”
After the footman took his leave, she turned to Millward. “Immediately dispatch anonymous missives to every customer and tell them the prime minister and his task force are behind the drought. If he wants to declare war, then we’ve no choice but to fight.”
Though Danby might be implicated through association, she intentionally chose not to point his way. Let the clubs form their own opinions.
While Eleanor was out, a painting she’d purchased for her father had arrived. Since there was a child in the house, she’d had her reservations about putting it up, but the picture of three nude women dancing was art painted by one of the masters. She desperately wanted her father’s improvement to continue—even after Danby was but a faded memory.
Weston carried it to the viscount’s chamber while Eleanor led the way. “Papa, I have a new acquisition for above your mantel.”
Her father looked up from his chair, interest filling his eyes. The reaction made her bubble inside. Weston moved in front of his invalid chair and Eleanor removed the wrapping. “’Tis entitled Three Nymphs by the Sea.”
Her father’s eyes widened as his lips curved in a semblance of a smile. “Nice.”
Releasing a happy squeal, she dropped to her knees and clasped his hands. “I thought you’d like it. I think it is very tasteful. And invigorating.”
Ever so slowly, he raised his hand and cupped her cheek. “Ta.” He whispered the child’s expression of thanks. But that one tiny utterance was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“Well,” she said, standing and brushing out her skirts. “I’ll leave Weston to hang it for you, Papa. We’ll sup soon and I’ll take my dinner in here with you.”
She may be on the verge of complete ruination, but nothing could put a damper on her joy. At least that’s what she thought until Earnest returned, entering through the mews’ door that led to the kitchens.
He swiped a sugar biscuit and was awarded by a thwack on the hand with a wooden spoon. “Did I say these were free for the taking?” asked the cook.
“Don’t mind him,” said Eleanor, finishing her tea. She’d been waiting for the footman under the guise of a spot of tea and a biscuit herself. “He’s been doing my bidding all day, he deserves a reward.”
Snorting, Earnest grabbed another as together they headed for the library. As soon as the door closed behind him, Eleanor’s smile faded. “What news?”
The footman gulped down the last of his treat. “You’ll never believe it.”
“With all that has transpired? Tell me the worst.”
“I followed Kenrick into Westgate Gentlemen’s Club, where he went straight to the billiards room—with a ‘closed’ placard on the door.”
“Oh dear.”
“You can say that again. I walked around the outside and tried to peer through the windows, but the drapes were closed—not lace, either. Red velvet drapes totally blocked the view.”
“But aren’t heavy drapes common for a gentlemen’s establishment?”
“Perhaps, though in this instance, I’m rather convinced the curtains were closed for secrecy.”
“Understandable given the ‘closed’ sign.”
“I went back to the bar and ordered myself a pint—stood where I had a clear view of the billiards room door and watched until a waiter went in with a tray full of ale.”
“Were you able to see inside?”
“I wish I weren’t. Kenrick was in there with the Duke of Danby and a few others—one I know for certain is a Bow Street runner.”
The bottom dropped out of Eleanor’s stomach.
Her head swam while she stumbled to a chair and tried to catch her breath. Yes, she’d known Danby was leading the prime minister’s task force. She’d known she was under his scrutiny. But to be colluding against her while seducing her in his bedchamber was not only deceitful, it was perfidious!
Their entire romance had been a sham and, when his man hadn’t uncovered any skullduggery, the duke had deigned to seduce her. What did he expect? That she would reveal all her secrets during the throes of passion?
Earnest hastened toward her. “Are you all right?”
“I will be,” she said, patting her chest. “First tell me, did Danby see you?”
“No, miss. As soon as I caught sight of his profile, I turned my back.”
“Thank heavens for small mercies.”
She eyed the mantel clock. Prinny was in residence at Carlton House. If she arrived within the hour, she’d catch him before he supped.
Chapter Twelve
The valet entered the dragon’s lair with a silk banyan draped over his arm. “Do you wish to retire for the evening or will you be going out, Your Grace?”
Sher hadn’t dreamed up the new moniker for his bedchamber until he arrived home from the meeting with his team at Westgate. Now it seemed rather fitting.
He dismissed his man with a wave of his hand. “I haven’t decided yet. I’ll ring should I need you.”
Not only had Eleanor Kent eluded paying duties on the Mandarin chancellors, there was absolutely no record of the statues having arrived in the kingdom, though the King’s Jewel had returned from Constantinople not long before Prinny had commenced remodeling the pavilion. And such a malfeasance also implicated the Prince of Wales in her smuggling empire. In truth, Sher was all too aware that if every member of the ton were tried for avoiding import taxes, they’d have to re-erect the medieval walls of London and convert the city into a prison.
Dammit all, Kenrick had also reported that the woman had run for Lion’s as soon as she’d received word that her shipment had been stopped at the border. Sher’s team had proved good.
Too good.
The runner, Davis, had compiled a list of all importers under suspicion and issued it to all ports of entry—including the crossings from Scotland into England. Lion’s paperwork may have been impeccable, but that was yet to be seen.
And why the bloody hell was Eleanor shipping tobacco and cognac into Scotland and sending it south?
As soon as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. Only months ago, he’d been in Admiral Dryden’s library looking at a map detailing customs patrol ships. There were no patrols north of the Firth of Forth. Clearly, Miss Kent as well as a number of other privateers had smuggled their goods somewhere north of Edinburgh and thought they were clever enough to transport it down the Great North Road.
Fie!
And he thought he’d been clever, enlisting her services to help with a ridiculous chinoiserie remodeling venture. And blast his mother for her resistance. Now Sher had to sleep in a bedchamber in which every detail was exquisitely appointed by the smuggling vixen herself.
Even the scent in the room reminded Sher of Eleanor. That goddamned bed reminded him of Eleanor.
Kissing her.
His lips on her breasts.
His hands running up those lithe, creamy thighs.
Eleanor in his arms.
Eleanor purring with pleasure.
His fingers tangled in Eleanor’s wild mane of auburn tresses.
By God, merely the memory of that woman’s hair made him hard. Made him want. Made him ravenous.
She may not be a practiced lover, but the woman was a natural-born seductress. She had ensnared him wholly in her web.
Bless it, ever since Sher had sat beside her at Prinny’s dinner in Brighton, he hadn’t so much as looked at another woman. Had she slipped him some sort of potion? The vixen had certainly wound herself around his heart. And he’d acted the dupe, convinced she knew nothing about the skullduggery happening beneath her roof.
Dear God, I was such a fool.
; Eleanor hadn’t gone to Evesham’s ball because of her friendship with the duchess, she had gone to rub elbows with powerful men who owned or sat on the boards of clubs. Moreover, Eleanor Kent was a spinster because it suited her.
She dallied around the fringes of polite society, playing the dutiful daughter while she commanded one of the most powerful smuggling operations in Britain.
Sher found himself standing in front of a vase—placed on the pedestal reserved for a bedamned Mandarin chancellor. God on the bloody cross, Sher couldn’t care less about acquiring the artifact. He’d wanted to ensnare a smuggler.
Sure, he knew the woman to be attractive, but he hadn’t counted on finding her kind and giving and loving. And if she were truly all those things, why was she also a bloody pirate? How could he respect her now?
He grabbed the vase and threw it at the marble hearth. “Rot in hell!”
Sher stood shaking, angry with her, but angrier with himself.
Hartley barged into the chamber, his bloodshot eyes panicked. “Is all well, Your Grace?”
“Bloody marvelous,” Sher growled, marching past the butler. “I’m going out.”
“Good evening, Your Grace, I say, it is a surprise to see you here tonight,” said the steward in the front hall at White’s. Generally, the man was affable, going to great lengths to ensure members were welcomed, but this evening he stood with an expression as unpleasant and as sour as a green apple.
“Is that so?” Sher asked, handing his hat and coat to the man. He’d known the steward for years and had never received such a greeting.
“I hear there’s a high-stakes game of whist in the card room. I’d wager there’s room for one more.”
Well, that is more like it.
Still, Sher gave the man a thin-lipped nod. “Is there?” he asked noncommittedly. He had no intention of joining a game. Playing cards took a keen focus of the mind and, presently, he intended to drown himself in a bottle of the club’s finest cognac.
He took a volume of Keats from the shelf and sequestered himself in a wing-backed chair by the hearth, as far away from the card room as he could be.