She bent to retrieve it, but Linwood was there first, their fingers tangling together against the crackle of paper. Their eyes met. Desire pulsed and throbbed between them. He stroked a thumb against her fingers and felt her hand open beneath his. Her eyes seemed to grow darker. He felt the tiny shiver that rippled through her, saw the way her lips parted slightly before she lowered her gaze and slowly withdrew her hand from his.
They rose together, their breathing in unison.
‘The London Messenger,’ he said.
‘Your own newspaper.’
He gave a nod of acknowledgement and glanced down at the page she had been reading.
‘The murder of Rotherham,’ she said.
‘Has done wonders for the paper’s circulation,’ he said and knew that the game had just racked up a notch. He kept his voice calm and steady, as if the subject matter meant nothing to him.
‘That seems a harsh take.’
‘I am a harsh man. And I have made no pretence of my feelings regarding Rotherham.’
‘You have not,’ she agreed. She gestured to the newspaper article. ‘It makes no mention of the fire that destroyed his house.’
‘Little wonder. The fire was three years ago.’
‘Three years. How precise your memory is, Francis.’ She was a worthy opponent, indeed. He knew where this was leading.
‘Very precise.’
‘One might wonder as to why.’ She watched him.
‘It is not every night that a duke’s pile is razed to the ground. It was a spectacular blaze...by all accounts.’ Thrust and parry.
The tension hummed between them. They were dicing closer to the edge than ever before.
She paused and in that tiniest of silences was the roar of danger and desire. He knew the question that was coming next.
‘Did you witness it?’ she asked.
‘You are very interested in Rotherham, Venetia,’ he said softly.
‘Is not everyone?’ She held his gaze; watching him as carefully as he watched her. ‘And you have not answered my question.’
‘Half of London witnessed it,’ he said.
‘What sort of man burns another’s home to the ground, and a duke’s mansion at that?’
He thought of all the darkness of the past, and of Rotherham slumped dead across his desk with a bullet in his brain. He thought of Clandon’s suspicions, and of the questions that were now being asked about Rotherham’s murder. And he knew what he must do. He could see the flutter of the pulse in her neck, the dilation of the pupils in her eyes, each and every long dark lash that lined them. He stepped closer, moved his mouth to her ear. She made no move, stood as still as a statue, while all that was between them struggled and strained in the hiss of silence for release.
‘A man like me,’ he whispered. Her breasts rose and fell a little faster. He heard the soft quickening of her breath. ‘But then you have known that all along, have you not, Venetia?’
She nodded as if she did not trust herself to speak. Her lips parted slightly. ‘And the rest of it...?’ Her chest held still along with her breath.
The air was so tense that it almost crackled.
He shook his head, but did not clarify if it was a denial of guilt or a refusal to answer the question. ‘Let us not talk of the rest of it tonight.’
She released the breath she had been holding in a shaky gasp. They stared at one another without a word, before she moved to stand before the fire, looking into the flames that flickered warm and bright upon the hearth.
In the silence he could hear the crackle of the coal and the slow tick of the clock on the mantel. It clicked forwards and the chimes sounded for the hour.
His eyes moved along the line of the mantelpiece, skimming over the expensive ornaments, drawn to the one that seemed out of place. It was a small vase, cream with pink flowers and green leaves painted upon it. Cheap and brash, pretty enough, but the kind that were sold on the penny stalls. And, moreover, it was in a poor state. A crack ran down its body and there were two chips in the rim, one small and one large. Both showed the terracotta of the clay beneath. It was the one single object that looked curiously out of place in the beauty and elegance of Venetia Fox’s house.
They did not speak of the enormity of what was happening between them, of the layers of truth that masked deception and what lay beneath.
‘It was my mother’s vase,’ she said without looking at either him or the vase. ‘My grandmother, whom I never knew, bought it for her when she was a child. It is the only thing I have left of her.’
‘It must be very precious to you.’
‘It is.’ There was the resonance of such sadness and regret in her voice that he felt something tighten in his chest.
She turned to him then.
They both knew what this was about—Rotherham. The golden light of the flames danced on her face. And there was something in her eyes, something behind all the sophistication and dangerous game they were playing with one another, something that seemed to reach inside of him and stroke against his soul.
He reached his hand to her, threaded it through her hair and angled her face to his. ‘Too far for you, Venetia?’ he murmured.
‘On the contrary, not far enough,’ she whispered, his eyes scanning hers.
She dropped her gaze to his lips before raising it once more to his eyes. And in them he could see the same need, the same longing as raged inside of him. Outside the rain pelted hard against the window, rattling loud as hailstones against the glass. There was the howl of the wind and the sway of the curtains that had been drawn shut across the windows. But they only had eyes for one another.
He lowered his face to hers and kissed her with the passion that had been smouldering the whole of this night. And in reply he felt all that was in her rise to meet him. And it felt like coming home. In some deep way that made no sense she was his destiny; this woman who knew her power over a man, who was yielding to him even as she enslaved him further. He plucked the pins from her hair, letting the long, dark, glossy lengths tumble free, running his fingers through its silken lengths as he had done so often in the erotic dreams that haunted his nights since meeting her.
He felt her hands slide against the nape of his neck, felt them thread through his hair as she returned his kiss with the same ardent passion that was throbbing through his blood. He slid his hands up over the bodice of her dress, over her hips, tracing the hourglass curve into her waist and back out again to the swell of her breasts, so white against the dark red silk that contained them. With one hand he held her, with the other he ran his fingers over her breast, moulded his hand to it, squeezing it gently and feeling her arousal.
‘No corset...again,’ he whispered against her mouth.
‘I never wear one,’ she answered in a breathless whisper. He found the bud of her nipple through the layers of silk and rubbed his thumb against it. She gasped and arched, driving her breast all the harder into his hands. He held her close, his hand against her back, while he worked the same attention on her other breast.
His hand possessed her breast as his mouth slid to her chin, to the slender edge of her jaw, so fine and so feminine, and lingered there before following down the column of her neck. She let her head drop back, exposing her neck to him all the more until he found the spot where her pulse throbbed and raced and thudded beneath his tongue. He licked her there, sucked her there, grazed his teeth gently against her, while his hand and his fingers and his nails emulated each action against her breast. He could feel her breath hot and hard against the side of his temple, hear the way it shook and trembled in her throat. He took her mouth again, kissing her lips before drawing back to look into her eyes. Their breaths came in unison, louder than the wind and the rain and the tick of the clock, masking all save the beat of their hearts. And all that was between them, that had always been between them, passion and desire and heat and need, rattled at the chains in which they had sought to bind it.
He reached his hand to the sho
rt sleeve of her dress, where it hugged her shoulder and arm. His fingers lingered there, poised against the edge of dark silk as he met her eyes again. Her breath was so ragged that he could hear it loud in the room. Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he moved his fingers slightly, sliding them beneath the silk to the skin beneath.
Her breath gave a tremble. She swallowed and wetted her lips.
He slid the sleeve lower, exposing the white skin of her shoulder in full. His mouth touched where his fingers had been. He kissed there, then kissed the hollow between her collarbones. And as he did she kissed the top of his head, then drew his face up to hers.
‘Francis,’ she whispered and kissed his mouth. They kissed and he unfastened the hooks at the back of her dress until the bodice loosened and gaped, revealing the top of a thin white-silk shift which hugged her body. His hands traced over the shift, exploring her breasts as his mouth and hers mated again and again.
He slid the dress to tumble down her legs to the floor around their feet. She stood there, the thin white silk moulded to every contour of her body, masking her final nakedness from him. He ripped it open and it slithered with a soft whisper to land on top of the discarded dress. He cupped the curves of her buttocks, revelling in the feel of her before he lifted her to him and backed her flush against the wall beside the fireplace. She fastened her legs around him, her warm, moist core against his erection, their coupling prevented only by the barrier of his breeches and drawers.
‘Venetia,’ he whispered.
She kissed her name from his lips, stroked his hair from his face, the hard line of his jaw before kissing him again.
‘Francis.’ The pupils of her eyes were huge and dark. She was as breathless and lost as he.
He lowered his mouth, taking her breasts in his mouth, feasting upon each one in turn, driving them both on to what had always been inevitable from that first moment on the balcony.
‘Venetia.’
His face came up to hers, his lips taking hers. He loosed a hand to find the buttons on the fall of his breeches, desperate to free himself and plunge the heat of his length into her, needing to love her, to make her truly his. He thrust against her, pressing her against the wall with a thud as she clutched him to her. From the corner of his eye he saw the flicker of movement and reacted instinctively to catch the small battered vase that meant so much to her as it fell from the mantelpiece.
He opened his hand between them and showed her the vase that lay there. ‘Caught just in time,’ he said.
She stared at the vase, with an expression of shock. Something of the shock was still in her eyes as she raised them slowly from the vase to look at him.
‘Caught just in time.’ Her whispered echo held an undertone of horror. He felt her withdrawal from him before she moved a single muscle of her body. She freed herself, slipped from his arms and carefully set the vase back in its place upon the mantelpiece before pulling on her dress to cover her nakedness and turning to face him.
He stared in her eyes, trying to fathom the sudden change in her. But she was looking at him with that cool seductive look that was her guard, the passionate unbridled woman he had held in his arms only moments earlier was gone.
‘Venetia...’ he started to say.
But she placed a finger against his lips. ‘You may use my carriage. Goodnight, Linwood.’ She rang the bell upon the little table.
‘Linwood?’ he said with a quietness that did not mask the anger beneath it.
For a second her gaze faltered, but only for a second. The small half smile did not touch her eyes.
By the time her butler appeared in response to the bell Linwood’s breeches were fastened once more.
He met Venetia’s eyes one final time, then, without another word, turned and walked away.
Chapter Eleven
As soon as the door closed behind him the smile fled Venetia’s face. She squeezed her eyes shut as if that could block out what had just happened between them, all the confusion of emotions that were roaring through her, and listened to the receding tread of his footsteps down the stairs and across the marble tiles of the hallway. She heard the murmur of Albert’s voice, the quiet opening and closing again of the front door, and she could not help herself. She moved to the window, lifted the edge of the curtain to look down on to the street and watch him as he walked out into the rain. He glanced up to the window at which she stood, meeting her gaze for a moment, the expression of that handsome face as closed and dark and dangerous as the night she had first met him. She felt a heat rise in her cheeks, felt a wash of shame and regret and, beneath it all, something else that she did not want to admit. Without waiting for her carriage he turned and walked away into the night, and as he did she saw the glint of the silver wolf’s-head walking-cane handle in his hand. She knew she should let the curtain drop and turn away, but she just stood there and watched him until his figure receded and eventually merged with the darkness.
There was an uncomfortable squirm in her stomach and a dull heavy ache in her chest. She let the curtain fall back into place before she sagged against the adjacent wall. Her eyes moved to find the little chipped and broken vase upon the mantelpiece. She walked towards it and, as she reached the rug before the fireplace, felt the press of hairpins through the thin soles of her slippers. She stopped and looked down at the dark pins scattered over the pale sea of the carpet. Carefully, she gathered each one, her fingers moving over them soft as a caress, knowing that his had been the last touch upon them. She did not attempt to remedy her hair, just left it long and tumbling over her shoulders, and sat the small pile of pins on top of the mantelpiece beside her mother’s vase. Her fingers reached to gently trace against the vase. Just like her mother. The words taunted through her head. She let her hand fall away and squeezed her eyes shut, balling her hands to fists, catching her breath. Never. But when she opened her eyes she was looking directly at the wall against which Linwood had pressed her and it seemed she could still feel the sweet caress of his hands, feel the heat and passion and tenderness of his mouth.
He made her forget all of her rules, made her forget who he was and what he had done. He had just admitted to her that he was responsible for the destruction of Rotherham’s house. He was the man who had fired the bullet into Rotherham’s head. Rotherham, as she always thought of him. Her father. And what kind of woman wanted a man who was capable of such things? Because she did want him. Wanted him so much that she ached in body and mind and spirit. She was fooling herself if she called it lust. Deep in her gut, in her very bones, she knew that what lay between them was much more than straightforward attraction.
He was clouding her judgement, swaying her from all that made her who she was. But when she looked in Linwood’s eyes, she did not see a murderer, she saw a man who understood, a man that did not play by society’s rules; she saw quiet defiance. He kept all of his emotions contained, controlled, and yet she had the feeling that he would move heaven and earth to do what had to be done. A man like herself. With as many secrets. A kindred spirit. Things with Linwood were spiralling dangerously out of control. She could no longer trust herself.
She clamped a hand across her mouth, afraid not of Linwood, but of herself. Just the thought of him made her pulse throb and her blood rush and her heart fill with yearning. When he touched her she was lost. The danger was too great to continue. She knew what she was going to have to do. It was fortuitous, indeed, that tomorrow was Tuesday.
Her eyes flickered again to the small battered vase. Maybe her mother was looking after her after all, better from beyond the grave than she had ever done in life.
* * *
Venetia’s rehearsal at the theatre the next afternoon was the worst she could remember. She forgot lines, missed cues and could not focus. She could see the way the rest of the actors were looking at her. A worried-looking Mr Kemble called a break.
Alice followed her into the dressing room, closing the door behind her. ‘What’s wrong, Venetia?’
‘Nothing is wrong,’ she said, facing her friend squarely and letting a small careless half smile play across her lips as if she were still in control of her emotions. But she was lying. What was wrong was what was happening between her and Linwood. She could think of nothing else.
Alice’s eyes scanned her face, with concern. ‘You look like you haven’t slept.’
‘I slept like a baby.’ Another lie.
‘It’s Linwood, isn’t it?’
Her heart jumped just at the mention of his name. It took every last shred of willpower to maintain a calm expression and to hold Alice’s gaze with her usual confidence. ‘You are obsessed with Linwood, Alice.’ But in truth it was Venetia who held that obsession.
‘Venetia...’ Alice sighed softly ‘...I’m worried about you.’ She took Venetia’s hand in her own. ‘I’ve never seen you like this before. Please tell me what’s troubling you?’
She only wished that she could. She shook her head and smiled to gentle the refusal. ‘I am just a little out of sorts. It is my time of the month.’ More lies upon lies. So many that she did not know what was real and what the lie any more. ‘I will take a couple of days off and I will be better when I come back.’
Alice gave a nod. ‘I’ve been too caught up with myself and Razeby. I’ll come round tonight. We can have a good old chat.’
Venetia shook her head. ‘Another night. When it is over.’ This game of entrapment that was raging out of control between her and Linwood.
Alice looked at her strangely, as if she knew there was something more going on with her friend than the monthly female bodily function, but she did not probe with more questions, she just gave her a hug. ‘I’m here for you if you need me, Venetia. Just remember that.’ She pulled on her shawl. ‘I don’t like leaving you here alone like this.’
‘Go,’ said Venetia. ‘Razeby will be waiting for you. Besides, I have plans of my own.’
‘If you’re sure...?’
Dicing With the Dangerous Lord Page 13