A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

  “Wouldn’t you like a poem written for you? And don’t say no,” he warned with a smile and a pointed finger, “or I’ll know you’re lying. Anyone would be flattered.”

  “You’ll know I’m lying when I inform you I’ve been lying,” she told him with a smirk. “Would you be flattered?”

  “I’d prefer a ballad, truth be told. Everyone likes a ballad. And I would prefer it told of my cunning wit and unparalleled courage, but if it must regal its listeners with tales of my dashing good looks, then it must.”

  She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “You should write your own ballad. I daresay no one could praise Viscount Renderwell quite like Viscount Renderwell.”

  “Ah, but I haven’t the talent for verse. That’s why I’d have commissioned the poet for you.”

  “A woman would prefer a poem written from the heart, not the purse.”

  “Any woman worth poetry is worth good poetry. And no woman deserves to have her name immortalized in bad verse.”

  She could only shake her head. “You are the single most unromantic human being I have ever met.”

  “I’ve romance,” he assured her. “But I do not press myself upon young women under my care.”

  “I am not a young woman under your care now.”

  “You’re partially right. Come here.”

  “I beg your pardon? Are you saying I am not under your care, or are you calling me an old woman?”

  “Neither.” He laughed. “Come here.”

  She scooted back in her seat. “Why?”

  “You’re a clever woman—I imagine you can work that out for yourself.”

  Of course she could work it out. That’s why she’d scooted. “You want to kiss me.”

  “No.” His lips curved in a beguiling smile. “I want you to kiss me.”

  Unbidden, a vision of doing just that popped into her head. Standing up, walking to him, bending down, and placing her lips against his while he sat still and unmoving under her attentions, the king on his throne, or possibly the wolf in repose. Either way…

  “Absolutely not.”

  “How do I know I’m not another Mr. Whitlock—another temporary amusement whose attentions you simply endured?”

  “That’s not… I did like Mr. Whitlock.”

  “Enough to cross a room and kiss him?”

  “I don’t have to answer that.” There was no good way to answer that.

  “I kissed you last,” he reminded her. “It’s your turn.”

  She made a face at him, unhappy with his choice of words. “Are we keeping score?”

  “Think of it as a transfer of control. Isn’t that what you want? To have control?”

  “I never said I had to do everything.”

  “Just tell others what to do?”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it. There was no denying that issuing orders came with being in control.

  “Ah.” Owen rose from his seat. “In that case…”

  Stepping close, he took her hand and slowly pulled her to her feet until they were standing mere inches apart. Her skirts rustled against his legs, and she caught the subtle blend of wintergreen soap and woods. He bent his head, and his breath was warm and soft against the skin of her cheek. “In that case…” He brushed his lips across her jaw. “Tell me what to do, Lottie.”

  Without thought, she turned her head in an effort to catch his mouth, but he moved away, staying just out of reach. His lips found the corner of her mouth for one tantalizing second, then pulled away again.

  “Tell me,” he whispered, and she could feel his smile against her skin.

  For one brief second, she wondered if she should take offense, but when she pulled back and looked at him, all thought of insult drained away. There was humor in his eyes, a bright, devilish light that danced and teased, but there wasn’t a hint of arrogance nor a trace of smugness.

  This wasn’t an attempt to embarrass her, she realized, nor a bid for dominance.

  It was an invitation to play.

  A new kind of pleasure warmed her blood and had her fighting back a smile of her own.

  “Tell you?” She pretended to consider that for a moment, then wrinkled her nose at him. “No, I don’t fancy kissing a man who has to be told how it’s done.”

  And with that, she slipped her hand from his and headed for the door with an exaggerated flounce.

  She made it two steps before he caught her waist and spun her around again.

  He was laughing when his mouth found hers, and she was laughing right back. It was a peculiar sensation to kiss a man while laughing. Peculiar, a fair bit awkward, and quite possibly the most wonderful experience she’d ever known.

  There was no trace of nerves as there had been in his room. There was no ugly little voice whispering in her ear, no shadow of a mistrust so recently set aside. There was only the laughter, the fun, and the sheer pleasure of being held.

  This, she thought, twining her arms around his neck, this will always be the summer with Owen.

  She let herself fall headlong into the moment, teasing him with light kisses, nibbling playfully at the corner of his mouth. She even heard herself giggle, a silly little sound she was certain she had never made before in her life.

  But when she grew bold and flicked her tongue into the warmth of his mouth, the mood shifted.

  Owen tensed, his arms banding tight around her waist. Intrigued, she tried again and was rewarded with a low, masculine growl. She had only a second to wonder at it, at the knowledge she had the power to pull the primitive sound from his throat, and then he was kissing her again. Kissing her differently.

  His mouth slanted over hers, hungry and demanding, again and again. It robbed her of thought, left her boneless and breathless. The world around her spun away in a disorienting rush. There was no more laughter, no more giggling, no more parlor. There was only Owen, the intoxicating kiss, and a biting urgency unlike any she’d ever known.

  She kissed him back with equal fervor, meeting his every demand with one of her own, and her response seemed to enflame him further. He walked her backward toward the wall in quick, stumbling steps, then pinned her there, pressing the hard length of his body into hers. His hands roamed over her possessively, molding her waist, caressing her hips, her thighs, brushing along the sides of her breasts.

  He trailed hot kisses down her neck, following the beat of her pulse to the tender spot above her collarbone, then lower still, to the heated flesh just above her neckline. He lingered there, tasting with wicked little flicks of his tongue, teasing with the gentle scrape of teeth. Slowly, he drew his thumb along the seam of her gown, letting the backs of his knuckles drag softly across the hard peak of her nipple.

  Her breath hitched and caught at the dazzling sensation, then released in a ragged moan when he pressed his knee into the folds of her skirts, finding the relentless ache between her legs.

  Frustrated by the layers of taffeta and linen that separated her skin from his touch, she writhed against him in a desperate bid to be closer.

  She dug her hands into the hard muscle of his shoulder, pulled at the fabric of his coat, speared her fingers into his hair.

  In some distant, disregarded corner of her mind, she was stunned by her own wild behavior. Shocked at the sound of gasps and moans and wordless murmurs and…footsteps.

  She heard footsteps.

  Both of them froze, went absolutely stock-still, as the heavy fall of boots outside the parlor doors intruded into their world. To Lottie, they sounded like cannon fire, and still she strained to make them out over the mad rush of blood in her ears and the silent prayer in her mind.

  Don’t stop. Don’t come in here. Please, don’t stop.

  They didn’t stop. They passed by harmlessly, slowly disappearing down the hall.

  She told herself to move. She knew she had
to move. And yet she stayed just as she was, wrapped in Owen’s arms, unable to do anything but drag in one unsteady breath after another. After what seemed an eternity, Owen shifted and spoke softly against her ear. “We’re in your parlor.”

  Her own voice came out a tremulous whisper. “Yes.”

  “Anyone could walk in.”

  “Yes.”

  He loosened his hold a little and leaned away, putting a few inches of space between them.

  The sudden loss of warmth sent a chill racing over her skin.

  Owen ran his hands down her back, chasing it away. “It’s all right.”

  “Yes.” Good Lord, could she think of nothing else to say?

  Embarrassed, and more than a little light-headed, she began a hurried and shaky attempt to straighten her dress, smooth her hair, and collect her scattered thoughts.

  Owen stepped back to give her room. “We should be more careful.”

  Oh, yes.

  She was considering an illicit affair. Illicit. How could she have lost control so completely, lost all sense of where she was and who else was in the house? “I cannot believe we were so reckless.”

  Reaching up, he twined a loose lock of hair around his finger, then surprised her by carefully pinning it back up himself. “It’s all right. Peter is occupied elsewhere.”

  “Peter isn’t the only other person at Willowbend.” She took a small step away from him and jabbed another pin back into place. “This can’t happen again. Not like this.”

  “No reason it should,” he returned easily. “Next time, just kiss me when I tell you to.”

  She paused with her hands still on her head. “What?”

  He laughed softly, but it came out a bit breathless, a bit rough, and she realized he was still every bit as affected as she. He was just better at hiding it.

  “You could try flouncing away a little quicker.” He stepped up and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. “But we both know I’d catch you.”

  * * *

  Owen returned from the woods with mud caked on his boots and the anger of thwarted vengeance eating at his patience. At Mrs. Lewis’s insistence, he scraped off the former by the kitchen door before heading upstairs. The latter he set aside to be called upon when needed. He knew how to wait. When the time was right, he would get his man.

  And his woman, he thought.

  The plan he’d formulated two nights ago was serving him well where Lottie was concerned. And why shouldn’t it? It was a well-reasoned, well-constructed plan.

  Well, no, it wasn’t really. It was more of an outline of a plan than an actual plan. But it did have an objective (obtain Lottie) and strategy (charm and seduce and, above all, protect) and even a contingency plan in the event the initial plan should fail (be better at charming and seducing). Obviously, the contingency could use a spot of work, but it was a start. It was sufficient to afford him a sense of control and balance.

  He just needed to flesh things out a bit more. He still needed to figure out what came next.

  Did he want Lottie for a dalliance? As a mistress? As his wife? A swell of pleasure and possession washed over him at the thought. So did the fear that it might not be possible.

  There were countless obstacles standing in his path. Some of them were merely logistical—marriage to a woman with an assumed name, relocating her family, the paperwork, the finances. It would take an incredible amount of work. But it could be done. He was a titled gentleman of wealth and influence—he could make it happen.

  He had far less control over the remaining barriers.

  He was a man of the law. She was a Walker.

  She didn’t trust him. She wasn’t always honest with him. She kept secrets from him.

  She might not have him.

  The possibility of rejection made him distinctly nervous. Lottie was clearly agreeable to a romance, maybe an affair. But she might not be willing to accept something as permanent and binding as marriage.

  He wasn’t sure he could be satisfied with anything less. He’d spent so many years trying to forget her, trying to pretend he didn’t still dream of her, didn’t compare other women to her, didn’t mind the way her image was always sitting in the back of his mind.

  Would he go back to that when the affair ended? Would it be worse than before? He wasn’t sure he could do it. He caught sight of her through the open door of the study at the end of the hall and, God help him, felt the world tip.

  And he knew in that moment that he would take whatever she offered. As long as he could have her.

  She was so lovely, utterly captivating. And rather serious at present. Her head was bent over her work, her hand scribbling industriously over a stack of papers. Though he was too far away to see, he knew there would be a furrow of concentration across her brow. He wanted to smooth it away and watch her smile. He wanted to see all of her smiles—the mysterious, the wicked, the carefree, the inviting. Most of all, he’d like to see that soft smile again, the one that had made him feel essential, made him feel powerful and humbled all at once.

  No other man could make her smile like that, and she smiled like that for no other man. He was sure of it.

  Gabriel’s voice sounded behind him. “There’s a pretty picture.”

  The sudden intrusion didn’t startle Owen; he was accustomed to the ways of his men, but it was a damned inconvenient business having stealthy friends. They were always popping up unexpectedly. “Indeed, it is.”

  “I was wrong, you know,” Gabriel commented after a moment’s study of Lottie. “She has changed.”

  Owen glanced at him, surprised at the comment. “Do you think?”

  “She’s happier now than when we knew her in London.”

  “Certainly, living with her father put—”

  “She’s far more generous with her smiles.”

  That wasn’t at all what he wanted to hear. “Not that generous.”

  “Haven’t you noticed? Well”—Gabriel sniffed and shot his cuffs—“maybe the extra smiles are only for me.”

  Owen had the singularly irrational urge to plant his fist in the man’s face. “You’ll keep your distance from Charlotte.”

  “Is that an order?”

  Only because basic civility and a long-standing friendship wouldn’t allow for a threat. Yet. “It is.”

  Gabriel laughed lightly and shook his head. “Thought that might still be the way of things. Don’t bother dusting off the dueling pistols, Renderwell. I’ve no designs on your Charlotte. A Walker woman would be entirely too much work. Although…” He went back to looking at Lottie, which made Owen go back to wishing he could punch him. “I imagine there aren’t many who would agree with me on that point.” He paused for a moment. “And there are a fair number of unattached men in the area, you know.” He paused again, longer this time. “The vicar’s son in particular seems a promising fellow—handsome, well set-up, and near to Charlotte’s age… Do you suppose they might…?”

  “Go to hell, Arkwright,” Owen suggested, amused despite himself. He knew for a fact that the vicar had no son but rather four unwed daughters of what many would say was too much education, two orphaned nieces with hair a most unfortunate shade of red, and a spinster aunt who did her reputation no good by making eyes at the widower Mr. Burns. Thank you, Mrs. McKinsey.

  Gabriel laughed again. “In good time, no doubt. But I’m for Kithan first. Jeffries will be expecting a wire.”

  Owen dragged his gaze from Lottie. “You know what to tell him.”

  “We’re passing through Kithan from the south.”

  That was still too close to Wayton and Willowbend for comfort, but it couldn’t be helped. They couldn’t be cut off from London completely. Jeffries would grow suspicious. “Give him two hours to respond, then I want you back, with or without an answer. Keep sharp on the roads.”

  “Always.”
He gave Owen a hearty pat on the back. “I’ll leave you to your pining, then.”

  “I am bloody well not—” Devil take it, the bastard was already halfway down the hall.

  But he wasn’t pining, damn it. Pining wasn’t in the outline.

  Twelve

  The next day, Lottie stood in the front parlor and basked in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun.

  It was lovely to be able to look outside again. She had insisted on finally opening the drapes, and a few of the upper floor windows.

  The closed and darkened house had started to take on the feel of a prison, and her staff was beginning to show the signs of confinement, growing anxious and short with each other. She sympathized with them, feeling rather edgy and short-tempered herself.

  Her lack of progress in deciphering the murderer’s cipher only added to her anxiety. She’d spent the entire night poring over the letters and the journals she’d smuggled into her room. She’d searched tirelessly for something, anything, that would help the investigation. The closest she’d come was discovering an old polyalphabetic cipher of her father’s that looked strikingly similar, with a mix of letters and numbers. But it wasn’t the same. The decryption method and keyword he’d used didn’t work on the letters.

  Frustrated and exhausted, she’d fallen asleep at her desk and awoken with a terrible crick in her neck and a sour temper. She didn’t even have Owen to cheer her. He spent most of the morning in and out of the woods, and he’d been in bed for the last few hours.

  No progress, no freedom, no Owen, and a staff that was beginning to sound more and more like Peter. It made her skin itch.

  Which is why she opened the windows. They needed sunlight and air. There was little danger in seeking both in the parlor. Only a fool would attempt to sneak across the predominately open expanse of the front lawn.

  Nonetheless, she kept back a few feet and kept a wary eye on the spots a foolish man might hide. The giant oak at the edge of the drive seemed a likely choice.

  She caught a flicker of movement and light out of the corner of her eye and absently turned to look for the source. A bird, she thought, or a squirrel running across the stable roof at the side of the house.