Linwood leaned his face closer to the grille and smiled a smile that held all the deadly promise that was in his heart.
The turnkey blanched in response.
Linwood lowered his voice and looked the man in the eye. ‘The lady is my wife. And I am charged with the murder of a duke, no less. Yet I will be set free. I am sure that you understand how I will deal with any other man who looks upon her naked form. Do you think the law will prevent me?’
The little man swallowed nervously. ‘I’ll ensure that does not happen, my lord. Many congratulations on your nuptials.’
‘I am glad we understand each other.’ Linwood held the money to the grille, and a grubby hand relieved him of it.
‘Much obliged, m’lord.’ The cover snapped shut against the grille.
He turned to the sight that the man had been so desperate to see—the rear view of Venetia. The daylight kissed her body, marking its glory and its nakedness as all the more shocking. She had not moved, just stood there as if she were carved of the same perfect white marble as Venus herself, seemingly proud and cool and untouched by the man’s lechery or anything that was unfolding around her. He did not let himself acknowledge a single one of the emotions that were crowding in his chest. He had married her, and now he would lie with her, to save her and himself. He did not let his mind think any further than that.
He walked round to stand before her. ‘We will not be interrupted again.’
She gave a single regal nod, but still her eyes would not meet his.
He peeled off his coat and threw it to land on the table he used both for dining and letter writing, then loosened the knot in his cravat and, pulling the wrapped linen free, let it flutter to the ground. His waistcoat followed before he unfastened the button of his shirt collar, shrugging the fine white linen off over his head and discarding it. He sat down on the chair to divest himself of his boots and stockings. And then stood to drop his breeches and drawers. When he came to her once more he was naked.
Her focus remained upon some distant spot in the corner of the cell, but as he stood there and waited she slowly moved her gaze to meet his.
Her eyes really were like Rotherham’s, the pale blue silver such a stark contrast with the darkness of their expanding pupils, but what was in them was nothing of what he had seen in the duke’s.
Whatever blood flowed in her veins, whatever the truth of Venetia’s heart, the substance beneath the smoke and mirrors of their game was real and reciprocal. She was as powerless to turn away from him as he was to turn from her.
It was just sex, just lust, he told himself, and knew that he lied. He did not want to analyse what he felt for the woman standing before him, but he knew it involved his heart. She had breached his defences in a way that no one else ever had. She had beaten him at his own game when she thought him guilty. And was determined to save him now that she thought him not. She was Rotherham’s daughter. And she was his wife.
He felt the threat of emotion tighten in his chest and thrust the weakness away with the practised hand of a master. He said not a single word, just let his gaze drop to take in the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, the fine feminine line of her jaw and glistening temptation of her lips. And whatever the complexity of anger and hurt, desire and connection, surging through him he knew that right now, when the prospect of his own mortality and the truth of all that he had done, pressed so close, he needed her.
He could hear the sound of his breath coming too rapid and feel the hard thud of his heart. The quietness of the cell seemed to hum with the tension of all that was barely held in check between them. Raw guttural desire, lust...love. He snarled at the thought of the last of those, as if to deny it.
She wetted her lips, those lips that had tortured his soul with their truths and deceptions, and it was like the touch of a match to dry tinder. The illusion of self-control shattered as all that was between them ignited. He reached across the distance between them and pulled her into his arms.
She came without resistance, her mouth meeting his with a passion that matched that which burned in his soul. His hand wound itself in her hair and he took her with nothing of tenderness, angling her face to allow him access to the tender skin of her neck. She gasped at his onslaught and he felt her fingers digging into the nakedness of his back as she clutched him to her all the harder.
Their mouths were hard and hungry in their reunion, their bodies heated and slick and urgent.
One hand caressed her breast, his fingers greedy upon its bullet-nosed tip, while the other slid against her hip, cupping her buttock, lifting her against the thrusting
rigidity of his arousal.
He felt the scrape of her nails against his own buttock, felt the way her hand sought his heated manhood.
He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him as if she would take the length of him into herself as they stood there. He carried her to the bed and, laying her down upon it, covered her body with his own, desperate to sheath himself within her, desperate to ease this torture that was twisting through his blood, desperate to relieve the tightening ache in his chest.
The scent of her filled his nose, the softness of her skin as silk against his. She filled his every sense, she was everything he had ever wanted, everything that he ever needed—the woman who filled the void in his soul, the only woman that he had ever loved...the woman who thought he had tried to kill her. He forced the thought away and nudged his knee to splay her legs wider, ready to thrust within.
She gasped, and even as her hips rose to meet him he felt the sudden tremor of tension that ran from her fingertips to her ankles that were hooked around his calves. He stilled, staring down into her eyes while their breaths rasped and panted in unison. She had been a virgin until he had taken her.
He felt the way her hands pressed the tighter at his hips, urging him on. ‘Francis!’ she whispered and the shimmering silver of her eyes had shrunk to be replaced with the full blackness of desire.
He reached his hand down to the place between her legs and, stroking his fingers there, found her wet and slick for him. He massaged her, teasing against the sensitive bud that would bring her her pleasure, until she groaned her need aloud and arched her back.
‘Please...’ she gasped as her teeth nipped at his neck.
‘Please...’ he pleaded against her ear, before moving his mouth to hers again. Her teeth grazed his chin, his lips, before she kissed him and it was a kiss that mirrored both the desperation and the torture in his soul.
He slid his fingers into her and watched the heat flare all the hotter in her eyes. And when he replaced his fingers with himself he waited, letting her grow used to the girth of him, watching her, and all that was between them, this thing that was so much more than desire and lust, shimmered and throbbed and roared its strength.
‘Francis...’ Their eyes clung together as he began to move within her, slowly at first, and then faster and deeper and stronger as she rose to meet each thrust, until she sighed her relief and he spilled his seed within her.
* * *
He kissed the breath from her mouth with a gentleness that belied the fierceness of their lovemaking. And in his eyes, his dark soulful eyes, she saw not anger or condemnation, only tenderness and hurt...and something that looked a lot like love.
I love you, she whispered in her mind, and kissed him with all that was in her heart. She clung to him as if she could capture this most precious of moments for all eternity. I love you, as she drifted back down to earth in the strong protection of his arms. But the words were silent on her lips, and as the light and the magic and the moment faded she could not speak them.
He rolled off her and lay on his side. He spoke not one word, but his eyes held hers for a moment and she saw in them the echo of all that had just been before he turned away and climbed from the bed. He did not look at her again, just dr
essed himself quickly, smoothly, efficiently, the expression on his face closed, serious, as coldly handsome as the first night she had seen him. And the chilling silence of the cell cooled the wonder and the warmth and togetherness from her soul, leaving her feeling raw and empty and alone.
She swallowed down the lump that was sticking like a rock in her throat, too proud to show anything of her hurt. She rose and donned her clothes, affecting an unhurried and calm demeanour, ever the consummate actress, as if she were not weeping inside. The silence between them was louder than any words.
She kept her back to him as she fastened the pearl buttons of the dark green dress in which she had been married. Those buttons she could not reach she just left, but when she would have let the heavy hank of hair drop to disguise the gaping green silk, Linwood’s hand caught it, making her breath catch at his sudden silent proximity. There was a smallest of hesitation before she felt the brush of his fingers against the exposed skin of the nape of her neck. Her heart was thudding hard enough to escape her chest, but he stepped away when it was done.
‘We need to talk about tomorrow,’ he said, his voice betraying as little emotion as his face.
She gave a brief nod. ‘We do.’ They sat down on opposite sides of the little table. And like two strangers, rather than lovers, they began a cool and dispassionate discussion of what would take place at the trial. And in her line of vision, over Linwood’s shoulder, Venetia could see the bed and the rumpled sheets and covers still warm from the heat and passion of their lovemaking.
Chapter Eighteen
Within the cell afternoon faded to evening and evening to night.
‘Do you wish me to leave?’ Her hair still hung loose and long over her shoulders. She was almost as cool and self-possessed as the divine Miss Fox had been.
He knew he should send her home. She was his wife and no one could now doubt that the marriage had been well and truly consummated, not with the colour that touched her cheeks and the tousle of her hair and the beautiful wanton air of a woman well loved that clung all around her.
He shook his head. He did not want to say the words, did not want to admit the weakness, and yet he did not want to be without her, not tonight of all nights. He swallowed. ‘Stay,’ he said quietly, ‘if you will.’
She nodded and he felt the wash of relief spread through him.
His soul was filled with regrets and hurt and confusion. Shadows of the past and disillusions and betrayal. What did a man say to a woman under such circumstances, when she was his wife, when she was the woman that he loved?
‘Venetia...’ What words could he speak when heavy upon him was the knowledge that the morning would weigh his life in the balance and who knew better than Linwood that the best-laid plans could go so awry, just when you thought them done and dusted? The darkness hovered so close. He raked a hand through his hair.
She came into his arms as if she understood. Without a single word she pressed her mouth to his. And everything of his torment faded away. They loved with passion, with need and with tenderness. Loved through the darkness of that night. So that for those few hours they could forget the shadows of the past and the threat of future, and lose themselves in each other.
* * *
They had loved, and loved again, before the dawn came and it was time for her to leave, and travel home.
They did not speak, only moved in silence to dress and ready themselves for the day and all that it would bring.
He fastened her buttons.
She tied his cravat.
The whole of the prison slept. All was silent. All was still.
‘Francis, I...’ Her hand lingered, light as a breath, against the lapel of his jacket, her gaze was fixed as if she could see through the layers, the superfine and linen, the flesh and bone, to his heart. So many unspoken words whispered in the silence between them. Her eyes rose slowly to meet his, so beautiful and beguiling, and even now, even poised on the brink of losing everything, he thought he would not have done anything differently between him and Venetia.
She leaned so close that he thought she meant to kiss him; instead, she laid her cheek against his and let it rest there. It was such a small gesture, but it touched him in a way he had not expected. He could feel the warmth of her breath and the slight tremble in it. ‘I love you, Francis,’ she whispered, and then she stepped so quickly away that he could not catch her and banged upon the grille, pulling the dark hood of her cloak up to cover her hair as the door opened.
‘Venetia...!’
As she walked away through the doorway she glanced back over her shoulder and he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. But it was too late.
The door closed between them.
* * *
Venetia sat in court later that day, her face a mask of sublime control and confidence, while beneath the soft black leather of her kid gloves her knuckles shone white with the strain. With every fibre in her body, every ounce of her willpower, she prayed that it would all go to plan, that there would be nothing to allow the conviction of an innocent man.
‘M’lord, with regard to the witness for the prosecution.’ The barrister, in his black-and-white robes and the neat wig upon his head, addressed the judge presiding over Linwood’s fate upon his high bench. A hush fell over the public gallery within the courtroom. Each and every gaze turned to the woman who they thought ready to take the stand and send her lover to the scaffold. They stared with macabre and fascinated expectation. Within the small family group of the Earl of Misbourne, sitting there on those public benches, the pale blond hair of Linwood’s sister caught her eye. The two women exchanged a glance before Venetia turned her gaze to remain on Linwood alone.
‘Miss Fox refuses to take the stand and she cannot be compelled...given that she is no longer Miss Fox, but Lady Linwood.’
There was an audible gasp across the courtroom followed by the buzz of exclaiming voices.
‘The defendant and the witness for the prosecution are man and wife,’ the barrister added, in case anyone was in doubt.
‘Bleedin’ hell, he’s only gone and married her!’ someone shouted from the gallery.
‘Order!’ bellowed the judge, his elderly face stained ruddy. ‘I will have order in this courtroom.’ His gaze shifted to Venetia and lingered there for a moment with beady accusation before returning to the prosecution.
The gallery quieted to hear what he would say.
‘So now you are without Miss Fox, have you any evidence at all that Lord Linwood started the fire at the Duke of Rotherham’s London town house, or that he is in any way linked with His Grace’s murder?’
Her stomach squeezed in a tight knot of nerves. Her mouth was so dry that the sides of her throat stuck together and made it difficult to swallow. Beneath her gloves those demurely crossed hands gripped so tight that Linwood’s heavy signet ring upon her finger bruised the skin.
‘No, m’lord,’ the barrister for the prosecution finally said.
Thank God. Her eyes shifted to Robert, looking at him for the first time since she had entered the courtroom. His expression was sullen and angry. He sneered and gave a small shake of his head as if he could not believe the audacity of her and what she had done. All the sympathy was with the murdered duke’s son. All the antipathy with Linwood. She wondered what would happen if they knew that she was the murdered duke’s daughter.
She turned her attention to the judge as, at last, the moment for which they had waited arrived.
‘In light of the evidence presented before me, or lack thereof...’ the judge’s gaze flickered to Venetia’s and lingered for a moment ‘...with regard to the accusations brought against him, I have no choice but to direct the jury to find the defendant...’
And despite everything Venetia held her breath along with the rest of the courtroom.
The seconds
seemed to stretch. Linwood’s gaze was focused on some distant point. His face wore its usual closed expression—handsome, cold, impassive, as if his life did not hang in the balance. And still the judge paused, stretching the agony until she did not know how much longer she could bear it.
‘Not guilty.’
Her eyes closed as the breath she had been holding escaped with a sigh. The relief surging through her was so strong that she thought she might faint.
The courtroom exploded in a flurry of voices and activity. Venetia’s gaze met Linwood’s across the room and in that tiny moment before the bodies moved to obscure him something more than relief and success passed between them.
The formalities of the procedure were concluded in a blur, and then Razeby was by her side, guiding her away from the clamour of newspapermen.
* * *
The clock ticked loud and slow from its place on the mantelpiece in Linwood’s drawing room. Misbourne and his wife, and Marianne and Rafe Knight, all of them knowing that she was Rotherham’s daughter and yet saying not a word about it, had finally departed, their carriages cutting a defiant and triumphant swath through the crowd of pressman filling the road outside. Linwood dismissed his manservant, the same manservant she had faced so brazenly and boldly on the night she had come here to ruin the man who was now her husband. And only now, for the first time since the trial, were they alone.
Linwood stood by the edge of the window, watching the reporters in the street below as the light faded to dusk.
She sat in one of the armchairs by the fire.
The silence stretched between them and Venetia did not rush to fill it. Now that it was all over, exhaustion and uncertainty had replaced the strain and fear and dread. She rubbed her fingers against the knots of tightness in her forehead.
Linwood turned away from the window and came to stand before her. He watched her for a moment, with an expression she could not fathom. Then, reaching his hand down to hers, he drew her up so that they were standing with their bodies flush together. The fading light accentuated every harsh handsome plane and angle of his face, and revealed the dark smudges that sat beneath his eyes and a fatigue she had not seen in him before. And she felt her heart squeeze at the knowledge that he was not so unaffected by the day’s proceedings as he pretended.
Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison Page 45