by Juliana Gray
The soft weight of her hands came to rest at the back of his head, threading through his hair. Her neck arched; her eyes closed. “Don’t say that. Don’t say I’m wicked. Only weak, horribly weak . . .”
A tear glittered on her cheek; he licked it away. “Is that what they’ve let you believe, all this time? Somerton? That damned tyrant mother of yours, God rest her rigid soul?” He returned his lips to hers, kissing away her objections, parting her lips with gentle insistence to brush the tip of her tongue with his. “You don’t need to be a paragon with me, darling. You don’t need to be perfect. Only be yourself. That daring, passionate soul of yours. I know what lies inside you, Lilibet, and I adore it.”
She shivered and clutched his hair. Ah, God, she was beautiful! He could hardly think for the lust roiling inside his body; every instinct screamed at him to take her, take her, right up against the bookshelf, on the sofa, on the floor. His hand shook with the effort of self-control as it edged aside the low neck of her nightgown. “Forget their damned silly rules, Lilibet. Be free of them.” Her breast spilled out into his hand, round and ripe and heavy. He glanced down.
“Good God.”
She spoke in a blurry whisper. “What is it?”
He weighed the breast in his hand, ran his finger over the wine-dark nipple, and watched the tip pucker into a hard, perfect, mouth-ready knob. His cock pushed frantically against the sturdy wool of his trousers.
“I stand corrected, darling,” he said in awe. “No longer peaches.”
Befuddled as it was, his brain didn’t perceive any signs of danger. The instant of hardening tension in her body went entirely unnoticed; he welcomed the motion of her hands to his chest as a caress. Or—even more promising—an attempt to shed him of a wholly superfluous jacket.
So it came as a shock to find himself flying through the air to land with a thud on his arse before the fire.
“What the devil?”
“Damn you for a seducer!” spat his angel.
He looked up. Her face was lit with rage, and—even more crushing—her breast had already been stuffed indignantly back into her nightgown.
“I am not a seducer,” he said, endeavoring to sound a trifle less petulant than he felt. Damn it all, what had he said? He’d only inferred a divine hand in the luscious architecture of her breast, if he recalled correctly. Most women would consider that a compliment.
Evidently not Lilibet.
“No longer peaches, indeed. No doubt you have a wide range for comparison! Apples, mangoes, melons.” She picked up her dressing gown and shoved her arms in the sleeves. “Perhaps even a few wretched grapes, from time to time, when your famous luck deserts you.”
“You’ve no bloody idea of my range for comparison,” he said. “And in any case, a small bosom can be quite elegant.” He rose from the floor with as much dignity as he could summon, resisting the urge to rub away the ache on his backside.
To say nothing of the ache in his groin.
She was retying the sash of her dressing gown, taking care to bring the lapels together as closely as physics allowed. “To think I let down my guard for an instant. After I’d promised myself . . .”
“Now look here, darling . . .”
She planted her hands on her hips. “I am not your darling!”
“You are forevermore my darling, and you know it.”
“You’ve no shame at all, do you? When I’m carrying another man’s child!”
He reached out to grasp her arm and spoke seriously. “You might or might not. But regardless of the seed, my darling, I claim the fruit as mine. As ours. I consider myself as bound to this child, Lilibet, as I am to you. Remember that.”
Her eyes widened into round blue pools. “Damn you, Roland. For God’s sake.”
She pushed his hand away and fled to the door, dressing gown swirling behind her, and grasped the knob.
And rattled.
He came up behind her and took the key from his pocket. “You’ll be needing this,” he said, and slipped his arm under hers to unlock the door.
ELEVEN
Abigail exploded into the dining room halfway through breakfast, to deliver her apology.
“The most dreadful emergency,” she said. “Morini brought word right after you left for the library.”
Lilibet set her teacup into her saucer and looked up. “Brought word about what?” she said icily. “What could possibly have been so important as to make you forget your duty? And is that hay in your hair?”
Abigail put a hand to her head. “No, straw,” she said. “From the chicken run. I . . .”
“The chicken run?”
“I was gathering eggs, for the priest’s arrival. He’s going to be here in an hour, a sort of Easter ritual, and he’s got to bless the eggs.” She picked the straw out of her hair, strand by strand, and shoved it into the pocket of her worn homespun apron. “Luckily the hens have cooperated, the dears.”
“Bless the . . . ?” Lilibet shook her head and put up her hand. “Stop. No more. Only tell me why you never came to the library last night.”
“I did come, later. Only it must have been after you made your escape, because the room was quite empty. I felt most abjectly wretched.” Abigail snatched a plate from the table and went to the buffet at the sideboard. Though their usual proper English breakfast was not in evidence this morning, Signorina Morini and the maids had still made a credible effort, with eggs and cured ham and cheeses, in addition to toasted Italian bread and a tantalizing selection of fruit preserves from last year’s orchard yield. “Did he ravish you extremely?” she asked, over her shoulder.
Lilibet choked on her tea. “No. No, he did not.”
“Really? How awfully disappointing. I think it might be quite nice, ravishment by Penhallow. If one had to be ravished at all, of course.”
“I’ve never had any complaints, Miss Harewood,” said his lordship, sauntering into the dining room at precisely that instant: almost as though he’d been listening at the door, which would not have surprised Lilibet in the least. “Perhaps we might consult your diary and arrange for an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not, thank you,” said Abigail, heaping a reckless dollop of peach preserves atop her mountain of toast. “The priest is coming this morning, and we’ve so much to prepare for.”
“What’s ravishment, Mama?” asked Philip, through a mouthful of egg.
Lilibet concentrated on the arrangement of food on her plate: ham in the middle, egg standing to attention in its cup, toast balanced precariously on the edge. It kept her from drinking in the sight of a freshly scrubbed morning Roland, his combed wet hair gleaming in the daylight and his cheeks pink from a recent encounter with the business end of a razor. For an instant, it almost seemed she could smell his soap, echoing through her memory. “Don’t speak with your mouth full, dear,” she said.
“Ravishment, my dear boy . . .” began Roland, from the sideboard.
“Your lordship!” snapped Lilibet.
“. . . refers to a long and spirited encounter between a man and a woman,” Roland went on placidly, filling his plate, “in which the chap inevitably finds himself vanquished by the lady’s superior art. Thus the term ravished, you see. To wit, conquered. Undone.” He settled down in his chair, morning tweeds stretching neat and flat across his shoulders, and flashed his brilliant smile across the table to Lilibet. “Annihilated.”
Philip’s brow furrowed. “But if you ravished Mama, that means you won the argument. Doesn’t it?”
“Merely the polite way of phrasing it.” Roland picked up his knife and fork and sliced at his ham. As he glanced down, a lock of damp tawny hair fell away to curl charmingly on his forehead. “To buck up a poor fellow’s spirits after such a thorough bolloxing. The teapot stands by you, Lady Somerton.”
She pass
ed the teapot to Abigail, who relayed it to Roland—the maids had disappeared in a flustered dash this morning, directly after laying out the food—and then Lilibet stood. “Come, Philip,” she said. “We must be off for our morning walk.”
He looked up. “What morning walk?”
“The one I’ve been meaning to initiate for some time.” She folded her napkin by her plate and held out her hand.
“But I’ve only just sat down,” said Roland, with a damned saucy wink. “You mustn’t leave on my account.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. We leave on our own account. Come along, darling,” she said to Philip’s mutinous face, forcing her voice into coaxing tones. “Perhaps we can go on a picnic, later.”
“Can Lord Roland come, too?” Philip slid off his seat with wary reluctance, ready to bargain.
“I shall be delighted to accompany you,” said Roland. “Name the hour.”
“His lordship cannot accompany us, of course,” Lilibet said triumphantly, “because of the wager.”
“Oh, Wallingford. He’ll never know.” Roland glanced at the doorway, with perhaps a trace of nervousness. “Where is the old fellow, by the way?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. Lady Morley left before you arrived, and Mr. Burke is, I presume, at his workshop.” She took Philip’s hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Don’t be too late!” called Abigail, as she hauled her son out the door, before any further arrangements could be suggested. “You’ll miss the priest! And the egg-blessing! It’s a jolly ceremony, really!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Lilibet muttered.
“Do I have to wear my jacket?” asked Philip.
* * *
So the women were plotting against them.
Roland shoved his hands in his pockets and tramped along the meadow grass with a broad grin on his face. The darlings. Wallingford, of course, would be pleased to hear this nugget of information, not that Roland planned to let it anywhere near his brother’s grasping ears.
He’d heard just enough from Abigail and Lilibet before entering the dining room to make the sequence of last night’s events quite clear. Poor Lilibet! No wonder she’d blanched when he’d locked the door. He’d ruined her plan in a single stroke. His smile broadened at the thought of Miss Harewood, occupied by whatever God-given emergency had arisen in the kitchen, while he’d caressed Lilibet’s luscious bosom in perfect safety, surrounded by the fire-warmed intimacy of the castle library.
For a second or two, anyway.
Of course, he saw no reason to let them know he was aware of their scheming. The legendary empty-headedness of Lord Roland Penhallow had served him well in his official clandestine activities, and he imagined a similar strategy should reap even more delectable rewards in a private capacity. With any luck, Lilibet would continue to draw him into intimacy, in the hope of being discovered, and he would continue to ensure that discovery eluded them.
Child’s play, for him. Useful, in fact, to keep his wits from dulling into utter uselessness while he waited for further word from Sir Edward on the matter of . . .
Roland stopped in midstride, his foot poised above the low stone wall separating him from the next terrace.
Somerton.
Good God. He should be shot. He’d had the perfect opportunity, last night, to learn more from Lilibet about her husband’s activities; instead, once he’d satisfied himself that she wasn’t in league with her husband, he’d shifted all initiative from one head to the other. He hadn’t troubled his brain any further, to perhaps try a few more pieces in the puzzle, to see whether they fit.
Pieces, for example, like that odd conversation from the road to the castle. He’d noted a flash of interest in Lilibet’s words at the time, and set it aside: Now his memory, a well-trained and flexible instrument, scrolled backward through its logbook.
What had Philip said?
Father finds out everything . . . Mama says Father’s a real live . . .
Philip!
Well, it’s a secret, of course.
Roland sat down heavily on the terrace edge. A real live . . . something. Something secret, apparently. Something to do with . . . what was it? Omniscience. That was the word she’d used. He could hear her dull, defeated voice pronouncing the syllables.
Somerton was omniscient.
Bloody hell. Right there before his nose. How much did Lilibet know about it, then? How had she come across the knowledge?
More to the point, what knowledge?
Surely, if Lord Somerton were involved in Navy intelligence, Roland would have heard of it long ago. It was just too delicious a piece of information for the gossipy intelligence community to keep secret, at least within its own boundaries.
Tell me, Penhallow, have you any enemies? Anyone who might wish to ruin you?
No. Surely not. Somerton had won the game, had captured the queen, over six years ago. Strictly speaking, Roland hadn’t so much as wronged the earl’s leftmost toenail until that fateful night in the inn. If anything, he should be the one wreaking ruin on Somerton.
And yet . . . it was a damned odd coincidence.
Sir Edward didn’t believe in coincidence. Dig deeper, he would say, and you’ll find the link. Dig as deep as you must.
The damp coldness of the stone wall penetrated Roland’s trousers to numb his backside. He stared out at the tops of the nearby orchard trees, at the long rows of vines to his right, their tiny green shoots still invisible from this distance. A golden morning light drenched every living thing, every new leaf and bursting blossom; gilded the entire valley laid out before him, and the yellow-walled village huddled comfortably in its center. Heaven, paradise, only he wasn’t really a part of it. Could not quite reach out his hand and touch it.
Did he tell Sir Edward, or not?
He’d promised Lilibet he wouldn’t reveal her location. Sir Edward would be discreet, of course, but inevitably the source of his information would get out. It always did.
He was a match for Somerton. He’d no doubt that if the earl came galloping down to Tuscany to retrieve Lilibet, he could defend her.
But he’d promised to keep her secret. And there was Philip, and the baby growing inside her: the baby they’d perhaps created together, he and Lilibet.
Or perhaps not.
Oh yes, Sir Edward, and by the way, I’ve had Lord Somerton’s wife under my roof the entire bloody time! Seduced her, in fact! Possibly even got her with child! Frightfully sorry I didn’t help you along with your investigation and all that, but I did tell her I’d keep it all quiet, if you see what I mean.
No doubt the Bureau of Trade and Maritime Information would see his point of view perfectly. No doubt Sir Edward would shrug his massive shoulders and figure that Lady Somerton’s presence under Roland’s castle roof was of no relevance whatever to his investigation.
A sticky wicket indeed.
Roland stood up and turned, nearly pitching himself into the wiry chest of the groundskeeper.
“Good God, man!” he exclaimed. “Could you not have announced yourself?”
Giacomo folded his arms with a belligerent air. “Is Signore Burke. He is needing your help.”
“Burke? Needing my help? You’re joking, surely.”
“In the workshop, down by the lake.”
“Yes, I know where he works. But why the devil would he need my help? The fellow’s soldiered on well enough before.” Roland spared a glance down the terraced hillside, in the direction of the old carriage house where Burke had set up his automotive works, or what there was of them.
Down by the lake.
Lilibet was down by the lake.
Roland turned a questioning eyebrow back in the groundskeeper’s direction and found himself the object of a rather fierce and staring frown,
as if Giacomo were trying to communicate something too subtle for words.
“Really, old fellow. You must try to make yourself clearer.” Roland tapped his forehead. “Not too much rattling around in there, I’m afraid. Gentle hints have a troubling habit of getting lost, and needing to ask for direction.”
Giacomo heaved a sigh that encompassed the entire race of Englishmen in its despair. “Before,” he said at last, “there was no women.” The heavy and disapproving emphasis he placed on the word women was about as gentle as a club to the backbone.
Roland’s ears lifted. Women, was it?
Burke, you old rascal.
All of Wallingford’s bluster about seduction aside, Roland had known for some time that a frisson of attraction existed between Phineas Burke and the Marchioness of Morley. He’d rather enjoyed observing it in action, in fact. The charming and beautiful Lady Morley was also a snob of the highest order, and watching her pant like an overheated lapdog after his untitled and unglamorous friend Burke—a handsome fellow, he supposed, though rather too tall and carrot-topped and taciturn for most women—had proven deeply entertaining.
But had things really gone so far? Had the Marchioness of Morley, darling of London society, really succumbed to Mr. Phineas Burke of the Royal Society? Or, as Wallingford suggested, was she trying to seduce him into forfeiting the wager?
And had poor Burke fallen in love with her himself?
Interesting development, indeed. Perhaps even useful.
“Ah,” Roland said. “Now we speak the same language. Do you know, I was just headed down to the lake myself. Perhaps I might stop for a look-in.”
He tipped his hat to Giacomo and headed down the hillside.
A bit of sport was just the thing in times of psychic anguish.
TWELVE
Lilibet hadn’t meant to fall asleep. What mother does?
She’d known she was weary, of course. One didn’t lie awake half the night, staring at the play of moonlight on one’s roof beams, burning with longing for tawny-haired English rascals, without feeling a bit out of sorts the next day.