"King Charles could do with a better advisor," Andrew was saying.
"I agree. It is not wise to antagonize the bourgeoisie. It was they who bore the costs of the Law of Indemnity. Then he alienated them further with the Law of Sacrilege. Then he dissolved the national guard. And to appoint Martignac as minister was most incautious." Esmond shook his head. "The world has changed. Even the King of France cannot turn back time to the old days. He cannot restore the ancien regime."
"Still, one can't altogether blame the French nobility for wanting to be restored," Andrew said. "Your family, for instance, lost a great deal. The Delavennes were believed decimated during the Terror, I understand."
Sympathetically as he'd uttered the words, Leila perceived the probe. Beyond doubt, Esmond did, too.
"To all intents and purposes, they were wiped out," he answered smoothly. "It is as though the Delavenne family was a great tree struck by lightning. Only one obscure shoot survived—like one of the sucker shoots the wise arborist normally prunes and discards. I am certain that if the king had not been so desperate to rebuild the ranks of the nobility, I should have remained in deserved obscurity."
"You couldn't have believed you deserved obscurity," said Andrew. "You did assume the title."
"I had little choice, monsieur. More than one monarch told me in no uncertain terms that it was my duty to be the Comte d'Esmond."
He was, truly, a marvelous liar, Leila reflected. Or rather, a genius at arranging truth to suit his purposes. He had not, for instance, claimed to be that "sucker shoot" of the Delavenne tree, merely arranged his sentences to make it seem so.
Aloud she said, "Naturally, you could not disregard Royal commands."
He sighed. "Perhaps I am a great coward, but in truth, Tsar Nicholas in particular is exceedingly difficult to disregard. As both Wellington and the Sultan have discovered."
Very neat, the way he shifted the subject, Leila silently observed.
"Certainly the tsar has placed England between the rock and the hard place," said Andrew. "Because of the atrocities against the Greeks, the British public wants an end to Turkish power. The politicians, on the other hand, aren't eager to see Russia controlling access to eastern ports. If one is coldly practical, one must prefer the weaker power in control," he explained to Leila.
"Oh, I understand," she said. "Lady Brentmor has explained the Turkish business to me. Her son, Jason, has been in Constantinople this last year, playing the thankless role of go-between—and greatly discouraged, according to his last letter, she says. According to her, the problem boils down to man's innate inability to keep his hands off what his intellect is unequipped to manage."
"I daresay she has the proper solution," said Esmond.
Leila shook her head. "Her Ladyship says there is no hope of solving anything so long as a man is involved."
Andrew smiled. "Her Ladyship is known to entertain an exceedingly low opinion of our gender."
"But she is correct," Esmond said. "Men are the inferior sex. Adam was made first, and the first effort is always the simpler and cruder one, non? With the second, one refines." His blue glance flickered ever so briefly to Leila—one sizzling instant's reminder—then back, all limpid innocence, to Andrew.
"An intriguing theory," said Andrew. "I collect you can account for the serpent in the Garden, then?"
"But of course. Temptation. To make life interesting, n'est-ce pas?"
"Of course, we must keep in mind that the story of Creation was written down by men," Leila put in.
"That sounds like more of Lady Brentmor," Andrew said. "A most extraordinary woman. But then, the entire family is. Fascinating character studies, Leila."
"As painting subjects, you mean."
"Yes—if you can get any of them to sit still long enough. The Brentmors, that is. Edenmont is another matter. He's always struck me as the serene island in the midst of a seething sea. Are you acquainted with him, monsieur?"
"We have met." Esmond's gaze strayed past Andrew. "Ah, Lady Brentmor comes—to scold us, no doubt, for monopolizing her charge."
Leila had an instant to wonder why the lines at Esmond's eyes had tightened. Then the dowager was upon them.
She cast a baleful glance over the trio. "I was beginning to wonder if you was putting down roots."
"Actually, we were having a fascinating discussion about islands," Leila said smoothly. "Andrew views Lord Edenmont as a serene one."
"He's lazy enough, if that’s what you mean."
"With all due respect, my lady," said Andrew, "he is most diligent in his Parliamentary duties. I daresay we shall see him back in London soon. I realize Lady Edenmont may not be up to the Season's exertions at present, but London is within reasonable riding distance for His Lordship."
"Far as I can see, it won't be any time soon. Mebbe not this century," the dowager grumbled, half to herself.
The lines at Esmond's eyes grew tauter. "Sometimes, the duties to the estate and family must come first. That is our loss. I am sure they will be much missed. I hope you will convey my good wishes, my lady. Maintenant, I must excuse myself. I shall be late for an engagement."
He took Leila's hand and barely touched his lips to her knuckles. An erratic current skittered through her nerve endings. "Enchante, Madame," he murmured. With a courtly bow for Lady Brentmor and a friendly nod to Andrew, he walked away.
"To be sure, he's a pretty enough rascal," the dowager said, watching him go. "You could do worse, Leila."
Leila hastily collected her composure and manufactured an indulgent smile. "Lady Brentmor can be shocking at times," she told Andrew. "She provides a detailed assessment of every man who looks my way."
"Don't see what's so shocking about it. Beaumont's dead. You ain't, as Esmond can see plain enough. And the man wouldn't back off for all Herriard's clucking over you like a hen with a new-hatched chick. Am I right or ain't I, Herriard?" the dowager demanded.
Andrew colored a bit, but managed a smile. "I had hoped I wasn't so obvious as that."
"Well, you was, and you ought to know better. People see you making such a fuss, they're bound to talk."
Leila wished she knew what the old lady was about. "Andrew was not fussing," she said. "He and the count were discussing politics, and it was most interesting."
He patted her shoulder. "No, my dear, Lady Brentmor has the right of it. I was fussing and it was very bad of me. Your position is delicate enough—"
"It ain't," the dowager declared. "If mine ain't, hers ain't."
"I do beg your pardon," Andrew said. "I did not mean to insult you, my lady. It's just that Leila is—well, she was my ward, once, and old habits are hard to break."
In other words, he doubted her ability to resist Esmond—the personification of Temptation. But it was too late for Andrew to help her. She didn't want to be protected from herself or Esmond and, in any case, Andrew's hovering about her would prove inconvenient to the inquiry. That must be what Lady Brentmor had decided. One could only hope she'd chosen the right tactics. Nonetheless, it was very difficult for Leila to stifle a nagging sense of guilt.
"It's your generous habit to be kind," she told Andrew. "You're both very kind to me. I'm exceedingly fortunate in my friends."
"You'd be more fortunate if they'd keep to what they know best," the dowager retorted. "See here, Herriard. This is just the sort of thing where a man's bound to do harm for all he means to do good. You leave her beaux to me, my lad, and you tend to her business affairs."
"I beg you will not give Andrew the notion that I'm collecting beaux, Lady Brentmor."
"I don't need to give him notions. He gets 'em all by himself." The dowager fastened her shrewd gaze upon Andrew. "I collect you checked on him in Paris."
"In light of certain rumors, I believed it my duty," he said stiffly.
"Oh, Andrew—"
"Well, it was, wasn't it?" said the dowager. "To make sure Esmond wasn't out at pocket or had a wife tucked away somewhere."
; Leila stiffened. "I suppose it's no use reminding either of you that you're putting the cart before the horse—and I've been widowed only two months—"
"My dear, no one is accusing you of behaving improperly," Andrew said soothingly. "It's simply that the count showed a marked interest in you in Paris, and he did admit—to a jury, no less—that he'd sought you out—and he does linger in London. While I cannot be certain he remains solely on your account, I felt it was best to err on the side of caution. I do regret, however, that this night I behaved, apparently, with far less discretion than Esmond. Lady Brentmor was correct to set me down, and I am much obliged." He quirked a smile at the dowager. "If a trifle abashed."
Her ladyship nodded. "There, I knew you was a reasonable fellow, Herriard. And you may be sure that when it comes to the marriage settlements, I'll leave the field to you." She and Andrew exchanged conspiratorial smiles.
Swallowing an oath, Leila looked from one to the other in disbelief. "You are shocking, both of you," she said.
They laughed at her.
Ismal was waiting at the top of the stairs when Leila returned. She scowled up at him when she reached the landing.
He leaned on the banister. "No, do not tell me. I can guess. After I left, the party became insupportable, and you died of loneliness and boredom."
"I died of mortification," she said.
"Then you must punish me. It cannot be helped."
Slowly she ascended the stairs, dangling her bonnet by the strings. The soft hall light glimmered in her hair, picking out threads of copper, bronze, and gold. Straightening, he moved to meet her. He took the bonnet and tossed it aside, then folded her in his arms.
"I missed you very much," he whispered against her hair. "All the time I stood before you and could not touch you and all the time I waited for you to come home."
"You shouldn't have gone to the soiree," she muttered. "You made it very difficult for me. You're an expert at deception. I'm not."
He drew back and looked at her. "But you did very well. You did not tear off my clothes and throw me to the floor and ravish me."
"Ismal."
"You did not make me scream and beg for mercy."
"Ismal."
"How terrible it was to wait, trembling with fear. Any moment, I thought. Any moment, the fire will blaze in her eyes and she will leap upon me and plunder and despoil my innocent body. I was aquake with…anticipation."
"You evil man. You found it all exciting, didn't you?"
"Yes. Also very frustrating." He took her hand. "Come to bed."
"We need to talk," she said.
He kissed her nose. "Later. After I have calmed down."
He tugged her along, on up the next flight of stairs and into her bedroom. By the time he closed the door, his heart was drumming with impatience.
"Calm me down," he said.
"You've ruined me," she said. "You've decimated my morals."
"Aye, they are gone. Forget them."
"Or maybe I only imagined I had them." With a small sigh, she reached up and loosened his neckcloth. Then, slowly, she drew it away. "Tear off your clothes, indeed," she said as she let the linen drop from her hand. "Wishful thinking."
She began to unfasten her bodice. "I'm not that desperate."
"I am." He watched while, one by one, the jet buttons sprang from their moorings, slowly baring an expanse of creamy flesh and embroidered black cambric.
A dark snake of heat coiled in his loins. He wanted to reach for her. He curled his fingers tightly into his palms.
She stepped behind him and eased him out of his coat as smoothly as the most practiced of valets. "Throw you to the floor, will I?" she said. "You're living in a dream world."
"A beautiful dream."
She unfastened her skirt in the same unhurried way. The black dress rustled to the floor, revealing a black demi corset and short petticoat.
She relieved him of his waistcoat, his shirt.
She surveyed his rigid torso. When he saw her gaze settle on the ugly scar in his side, he tensed, but she didn't touch it. "Guess what you're going to explain later," she said.
"Never." He managed a smile.
"We'll see." She untied the petticoat, and he watched it slither down over black silk drawers to pool at her feet.
He sucked in his breath.
"You're going to explain a lot of things," she said.
He shook his head.
Sitting down on the bed, she untied her kid slippers and lazily removed them. "Come here." She patted the mattress.
He sat. She knelt, and took off his evening slippers. Then she rose and, while the blood thundered in his ears, methodically unlaced her corset. It fell to the floor. Then the chemise. Then the silken drawers. Then the stockings.
No trace of black remained. There was only creamy, supple flesh...the tawny rose peaks of her lush breasts..the triangle of dark gold between her long legs.
"I like you very much," he said hoarsely.
"I know."
She found his trouser buttons. Clutching at the bedclothes, his eyes shut, he let her strip away the last of his garments.
"You said something about begging for mercy," she whispered. "About screaming."
He shuddered as her fingers stroked his thickened manhood. He didn't have to open his eyes to know where she was. Kneeling, between his legs. The awareness made him delirious. No. Yes. No.
Her tongue flicked over the hot flesh and searing pleasure tore through him. Yes.
He clamped an iron will upon his maddened body, and only a small groan escaped him.
And he endured, while she put him on a rack of erotic torture, toying with him, tantalizing, caressing with her ripe, wicked mouth.
He held himself in check, denying his body the release it screamed for until at last the iron bands of his will began to give way.
"Enough," he gasped. He pulled her away and up onto his lap to straddle him. "Mediant." He quickly found the center of her heat—slick, ready for him.
"I'm wicked. All day long I wanted you." Her voice was thick, dazed, her eyes dark with desire.
She gave a low moan as he smoothly eased into her. "Wicked," she repeated, wrapping her legs about his waist.
He crushed her softness to him, and she clung, her body answering the urgent rhythm of his possession. She was his. He had waited all this long day and half the night for the door to close on the outside world and shut him in with her. He had waited all these endless hours to hold her, be with her, part of her. No woman in all of creation loved as she did.
"Love me, Leila," he groaned against her mouth.
"I love you."
He took her love in a deep, searing kiss, and carried her with him to the last pleasure...and sweet release.
Wearing nothing but the silk robe Leila had laid claim to the night before—and wearing it only at her insistence—Ismal had crept down to the kitchen. He returned bearing a tray that held a small decanter of wine, wineglasses, and plates heaped with bread, cheese, and olives.
Sitting tailor fashion opposite each other amid the tumbled bedclothes, they ate and drank. She told him about Andrew's Parisian investigations, and how the dowager had handled the hapless solicitor, and he told her what the dowager had learned about the Duke of Langford.
Leila did feel that as a murder suspect, His Grace was vastly preferable to David or Fiona. On the other hand, she wasn't pleased by certain implications of the theory.
"I assume this means you'll be cultivating Helena Martin next," she said.
"You overestimate my stamina," he said. "Or perhaps you taunt. For you must be well aware that after you are done with me, there is nothing left for another woman."
"Oh, certainly I believe that," she said. "I also believe in gnomes, pixies, and goblins. How did you get that scar?"
"I thought we were speaking of Helena Martin."
There they were, the tight lines at his eyes.
"I'm tired of Helena Martin," she said. "Was it a bu
llet or a knife?"
"A bullet."
She winced inwardly.
He looked down at the scar and wrinkled his nose. "I am sorry it offends you."
"Not a fraction so much as it offends you, I collect. Who did it, then? One of your jealous wives? Or someone's outraged husband?"
"I have no wives," he said.
"At present, you mean. Nearby."
Sighing, he picked up an olive. "None. I never wed. Now what shall I tease you with instead, I wonder?" He popped the olive into his mouth.
No wives. The beast. She eyed him balefully. "Don't you think it was a trifle unkind to let me think you were married?"
"You were not obliged to think it."
"I wish Eloise had not pitted those olives," she said. "I wish there were a stone and you choked on it."
He grinned. "No, you do not. You love me very much."
"Really, you are so gullible," she said. "I always say that when I'm heated. Cats howl. I say, I love you.'"
"You howl also. You make strange little cries."
She leaned toward him. "You make some strange ones yourself." Drawing back, she added, "Are you going to tell me the story behind that scar or do I have to figure it out on my own, as usual? I've already got an intriguing theory, you know."
"You also had the intriguing idea that I had a hundred wives." He set the tray upon the nightstand. "Me, I have some intriguing thoughts regarding dessert." He stroked her knee.
"Why were you so upset when Andrew mentioned Lord Edenmont?" she asked.
"I must find some way to get even for what you did to me before," he murmured, trailing his fingers along the inside of her thigh.
She caught his teasing hand and brought it to her mouth. Lightly she bit the knuckle of his index finger. "Jason Brentmor spent more than two decades in Albania," she said gently. "That's common knowledge. He married an Albanian woman and produced one daughter, Esme. Edenmont married her in Corfu ten years ago. Fiona once mentioned that Lord Lackliffe told a romantic—and probably highly imaginative—story about it. He and Sellowby had been in Greece at the time. Lackliffe was at the soiree tonight."
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