Promise Me Heaven

by Connie Brockway

  “Are you not afraid we draw perilously close to an open window?”

  “No, indeed. Were I to dance out onto the air, what harm could befall me? For I swear I am already flying!”

  He drew her closer. She opened her eyes and he bent closer to her, unable to resist her near magnetic pull. She leaned in to meet his nearly imperceptible advance.

  And the dance ended.

  Thomas was breathing too hard, even considering the rigors of the dance. But he could not tear himself away from the promise in her fern green eyes. Her lips were parted, her color high. And then he saw, reflected in her dilated black pupils, Colonel Seward. So it begins.

  Thomas stepped back from her and bowed just as a male voice hailed her. “Lady Catherine!”

  In confusion, Cat looked at the handsome, slender blond man addressing her. She did not know him. Thomas’s face had become shuttered, an impersonal mask, and she felt an odd tension emanating from him. His hands were curled into near fists at his sides.

  “Colonel Seward, Lady Catherine,” Thomas introduced them. “Attaché, sometime secretary to the Foreign Office. Currently temporary social aide to Prince George.”

  It was a gross breech of manners to relay the history of a gentleman’s employment to a lady, and Cat looked at Thomas in shock. But he was watching Colonel Seward. The man returned Thomas’s gaze with bland indifference, only the dusky hue rising up his neck betraying any emotion.

  “Lady Catherine, I regret to inform you that Lady Montaigne White has been taken ill and requests your presence. Megrim, Mr. Montrose. I assure you ’tis nothing serious and completely unforeseen,” Colonel Seward finished with odd emphasis.

  “Please take me to her,” Cat said and followed Colonel Seward to the chamber where her great-aunt lay on a red chaise.

  Hecuba’s face was pasty and damp, her eyes closed.

  “Please arrange for transportation immediately,” Cat said, gaining her great-aunt’s side and taking up one wrinkled, beringed hand.

  “Of course.” Colonel Seward beckoned a footman and was on the point of instructing him when Thomas broke in.

  “I shall take Lady Montaigne White back to the hotel, Seward. Have the coach brought round in five minutes.” His tension was palpable. “There is no reason for you to leave, Lady Catherine. I shall see your great-aunt settled with Fielding and return for you.”

  “I couldn’t enjoy myself knowing that Aunt Hecuba—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—” Hecuba grumbled, adding as a repentant aside, “and sweet Jesus too, Lord bless and protect us—I have the headache, Catherine. I am not dying, not yet, and your fussing and fidgeting will only exacerbate my discomfort. Please stay.”

  “But—”

  Seward cleared his throat. “His Royal Highness would, I am sure, be most disappointed if you leave, Lady Catherine. Were you to consent to stay, he would extend his royal person as chaperone, with myself as surrogate, for the duration.”

  “That is very kind of you, Colonel Seward. But, Thomas, don’t you think…?”

  Thomas’s beautiful eyes were blank, deadened beyond recognition. “I think you are making a great deal too much out of a situation which does not warrant it,” he said. “I will return for you. You have nothing more to do than enjoy yourself for a short while. You can do nothing at the hotel but be underfoot. I beg you to stay, Cat,” he finished, an edge to his last words.

  Colonel Seward was watching them intently, his gaze flickering back and forth. The undercurrents were too strong. Unspoken words hovered between the two men. Cat could find no reasonable way to demur. She nodded.

  Thomas supervised Hecuba’s loading onto a litter that had been brought into the room. A pair of stalwart footmen lifted her, preceding Thomas out the door.

  “I will be back within the half hour. Seward, you will see Lady Catherine is well occupied until then?” Thomas asked tightly.

  “Yes.” The two men’s eyes held an instant longer than was necessary, and then Thomas was gone.

  Colonel Seward smiled at Cat. For the first time, she noted how handsome he was. And he was not so slight; it was just that his rapier-slenderness and breadth of shoulder were lost when he stood near Thomas. His hair was the color of old gold, neither blond nor brown, and his eyes were gray and searching.

  “Now, how shall we keep you entertained, Lady Catherine?” he asked pleasantly.

  A derisive laugh issued from near the doorway. Hellsgate Barrymore leaned against the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest, a sneer on his leathery visage.

  “Isn’t this interesting? Montrose flown. The ladybird still here—at least one of the ladybirds—and the ubiquitous and useful Colonel Seward raking his imagination for entertainment. Perhaps I can be of assistance? Let me see… I have it! Let’s tell stories.”

  Chapter 15

  The air in Thomas’s suite was thick with perfume, an exotic combination of musk and roses. He looked around the room, unwilling to play a juvenile game of hide-and-seek. Daphne’s shawl was draped over a chair, her shoes beside it. Hanging opposite the entrance door was a tall beveled mirror. He could see the entire shadowy room reflected in its length.

  “Daphne?” He started to close the door but, after a second’s hesitation, left it slightly ajar, hoping to dispel any sense of intimacy and communicate the message that he wanted her to deliver her information and be gone.

  “Patience, Thomas.” The husky accents purred from behind a painted screen partitioning the room.

  “You have some information you wish to sell.” He deliberately ignored the assumption in her tone, going to the sideboard and pouring himself a full glass of brandy.

  “Sell?” Daphne’s voice took on a pouty note as she emerged from behind the screen. She had undone her elaborate coiffure. Her dark locks hung in rippling disarray upon her bare, sloping shoulders. The transparency of the muslin clinging to her slender thighs revealed a shadowy apex.

  “I thought we were old friends. What is this ‘sell’? In the course of our… conversation perhaps I will be less than discreet. What woman would think to guard her so foolish female tongue when engaged in other activities? Later, perhaps, I am given gifts. But what is more apropos from an admirer? ‘Sell’ is so vulgar, Thomas.”

  “And we must never be vulgar, no matter how base,” Thomas murmured, downing the brandy in one long draft.

  “Exactly!” She held up her own glass to be filled.

  “Daphne, we are, as you have said, old acquaintances. Can we not be frank with one another?”

  Daphne wrinkled her small nose. “ ‘Frank’ is sounding too much like ‘honest,’ Thomas. When have such as we ever concerned ourselves with such pedestrian notions? ‘Honest’ is ugliness, hurtfulness. I am thinking it is better not to be frank.”

  She smiled seductively up at him, reaching out and delicately scoring his lean cheek with one long nail. His expression remained impassive. She glanced over to where the door stood a few inches ajar and narrowed her eyes. She sighed. “Fine. If you must be honest, by all means, get on with it.”

  “You are a rich woman, Daphne. The English government has been responsible for much of that wealth. Your associations with Bonaparte’s military have proven useful in the past. But Napoleon is no longer in power. I have some doubts as to whether any information you have to impart can be sufficiently useful to justify your presumed fee.”

  Her eyes flashed. She set her glass down hard upon the table. The brandy sloshed over the sides, staining the lace scarf.

  “How ugly, this ‘frank’! No, I do not like it at all. And you, mon beau raffin, you are unrecognizable!”

  Visibly upset, she swung away from him. The clock ticked upon the mantel, chiming the quarter hour into the silence. Finally she turned back, her small, white teeth glinting between her blood red lips.

  “Come, let us begin again. You are no gentleman to doubt my, ‘veracity’ is the word? But it was never your gentlemanly attributes that appealed to me. So see? I am
not angered. I tell you openly, Bonaparte is not so toothless as you English wish to believe. And I think the number of cannons secreted in the countryside awaiting Napoleon’s return is a matter worthy of your time.”

  “How many? In what part of France?”

  She laughed. “Ah, so intense! So patriotic! So determined and single-minded!” Silently she opened her hand, patting the fingertips of the other against her palm in a parody of applause.

  He continued to regard her stonily.

  “But I am not. I wish to renew our friendship before I entrust my secrets to you. You have, as I have pointed out, changed, and I do not feel quite sure of you any longer. Come, Thomas, prove to me you are the Thomas Montrose I have known.”

  His mouth became a hard line, but his voice was quiet as he asked, “And how am I to do that?”

  She crossed the small distance until she stood so close, her thighs bracketed one of his knees. She pressed against him, rubbing her hands up his hard, flat stomach to his chest. “Intimately.”

  “Lord Barrymore.” Seward bowed his head in recognition, his gaze never leaving the other man’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Seward. Don’t you have some pressing diplomatic endeavor to attend to? I will be delighted to keep Lady Catherine entertained for the nonce,” Hellsgate drawled, pushing himself off the doorjamb.

  Neither man missed the fleeting expression of entreaty on Lady Catherine’s face. She masked it quickly, Seward noted with approval as she turned a cool expression of appraisal on the dissipated earl.

  “That won’t be necessary, Lord Barrymore,” Seward said. “Though delightful in and of itself, my duty as Lady Catherine’s escort is just that. A royal directive. Mr. Montrose has kindly seen fit to escort Lady Montaigne White to the hotel, and His Royal Highness has asked me to attend Lady Catherine in his absence.”

  “Lady Montaigne White?” Hellsgate sneered. “The man is incorrigible. I certainly wouldn’t have abandoned youth for quite that much experience.”

  A tremor of revolt shook Cat’s body. Hellsgate was disgusting. She would have swept from the room had he not been blocking the door. Her only recourse was to stand mutely and ignore him. Seward moved forward to stand beside her.

  “Your choice of words is interesting, milord. I doubt whether I can decipher your meaning, but I am hardly one of your intimates. Perhaps the Prince Regent can translate for us?” Seward suggested.

  Barrymore laughed, a dry, harsh sound. “Is that a threat, Seward?”

  “A threat? Merely a thought, Lord Barrymore. As the Prince Regent’s insistence on good manners is well documented, I doubt your statement is as coarse as it appears to be. I merely look for someone to interpret.”

  Again, Barrymore let out a bark of laughter. “Very good, Seward. Very good, indeed.” He sketched a mocking bow. “I was only trying to be amusing. Apparently, I have failed.” His avid glance darted between Cat and Seward. “Let me explain. Anyone who knows Thomas Montrose’s reputation would be entertained by the comical notion of him involved with anything less than a young, comely, and willing consort. The beauties do flock to him so.”

  He turned one hand over to examine a nail. “And he is ever obliging. Why, one season he is reputed to have satisfied most of the tonnish female population. In a purely ‘social’ way, of course,” he finished, his gaze on Cat’s face.

  She would not serve herself up for his amusement. She turned to Seward. “I do not wish to know this person, Colonel Seward.”

  “But this person wants to ‘know’ you, Lady Catherine.”

  She tried not to look at him, but Hellsgate had moved to stand directly in her path.

  “Lord Barrymore, you are a—” Cat heard Colonel Seward start to say and knew he was going to offer Barrymore irreparable insult.

  “Please,” she cut in, “I would like to go back to the hotel. I feel my place really must be at my aunt’s side.” As an untitled functionary, Seward could ill afford to alienate one of the Prince Regent’s most notorious friends. Seward had been kind in a remote sort of way. It was not possible for Cat to repay that kindness by allowing him to chivalrously intervene in this battle she had begun with Barrymore.

  She needed to see Thomas. Only with him would she feel safe from the sordidness named Hellsgate Barrymore.

  Her request worked better to redirect Seward’s attention than she could have imagined. Abruptly Seward stopped, caught short as if by an invisible rope. His head swung toward her.

  “That really isn’t necessary, Lady Catherine,” he said, diverted.

  “I think it best.”

  “But I have not yet had the pleasure of a dance. The Prince Regent has provided excellent musicians.” He bent a most winning smile on her, and her intention wavered. Perhaps, if they left Barrymore behind…

  “Yes, excellent. Perhaps I will beg a waltz,” Barrymore interjected.

  Cat knew then. Hellsgate would hound her. She had pricked his overweening conceit and now he would see that she paid for the privilege. Cat shook her head. Seward watched her in growing consternation. “Lady Catherine, this isn’t necessary. The Prince Regent would be most annoyed—”

  “Mustn’t annoy Prinny,” Hellsgate sneered.

  “I wish to leave, Colonel Seward. Please see to it that transportation is arranged,” Cat insisted, desperate to be away from Barrymore, desperate to seek Thomas’s sheltering presence.

  “Lady Catherine, I beg you to reconsider,” Seward said.

  As Barrymore listened to the pleas on both sides of the odd, ongoing argument, his eyes narrowed. The haughty russet-haired bitch was hot to be off. The royal cat’s-paw was equally hot to have her stay. He knew Montrose and Seward had an enduring relationship, although friendship had never seemed an aspect of it. Montrose had obviously asked Seward to keep the wench here. And Barrymore suspected Seward’s commission was to somehow protect Lady Catherine. Hellsgate snickered. He had no such wish. In fact, strictly the opposite was true. The proud bitch ought to be brought down.

  “Come along, Seward,” he taunted. “The lady wishes to go. No gentleman would insist she stay. I’ll take her back myself.” He smiled as Cat’s eyes widened in horror. “No?” he continued in a gross imitation of concern. “I’ll go one better and prove to Lady Catherine that I am, in fact, a gentleman. I’ll order up my own coach. Don’t pale like that, dear lady. I won’t annoy you with my unworthy self. I shall stay here. I have two healthy footmen who will deliver you safely.”

  “I couldn’t presume,” Cat murmured, anxious to flee but disliking to avail herself of Barrymore’s favors.

  Seward sighed in relief, but Cat heard and now she looked at him, her eyes hard with determination, confusion evident in her low voice. “Colonel Seward, I wish to leave. I will be at the front door in five minutes. If Lord Barrymore’s coach is there and unoccupied,” she paused to look meaningfully at Hellsgate, “I will make use of his offer. However, I prefer to have my host make the arrangements for my transportation.” She slipped past Barrymore and headed from the room leaving the unflappable Colonel Seward swearing under his breath.

  Thomas took hold of Daphne’s wrist, wrenching the small hand from his chest. She twisted closer, brushing her barely covered breast against him. There was nothing appealing about the open lust in her expression. The difference between her groping and Cat’s untutored exploration was brutal but the memory of Cat in his arms betrayed him, causing his body to harden. Daphne purred triumphantly, rubbing one leg up between his thighs.

  “You are a beautiful woman, Daphne. But our association can no longer be of an intimate nature. I would not insult you by suggesting that we start at a point where we left off four years ago.” Thomas downed his second glass of potent spirits and set the empty glass aside.

  She laughed, squirming closer, her free hand pulling the shirttails from his trousers. “You do not insult me, Thomas. Or, if you do, it is only because you take so long to disrobe. Come, mon homme, I wish to see if you are still the magnificent an
imal I remember!”

  He watched her little tongue dart out to wet her small red lips. He remembered the full, lush curves of Cat’s wide, warm mouth and closed his eyes.

  “Oui,” Daphne purred, freeing her hand and working the stays of his shirt loose. He attempted to brush her busy fingers away, but she only laughed. Catching her shoulders, he gave her a little shake to gain her attention. She looked up at him, still undoing his shirt, still licking her lips.

  “I do not wish to be intimate.”

  “Your body says different.” Her hand trailed down the front of his pants to press against him. And his body, whetted by unbidden images of Cat and stimulated by her hand, grew even harder beneath her stroking.

  “I am just a man. Like many others.”

  “Not just,” she vowed.

  “Daphne, listen to me. In all honor, I cannot do this, no matter how tempting you try to make it.” He finally had her attention. The movements of her hands stilled. A line appeared between her thin, arched brows.

  “In all honor? Try?” Daphne squealed. “Is it this big-breasted English girl? Oh, it is too, too obvious. She is oh-so proper. So cold. So British. And so? You are to be cold and proper, too? Mon Dieu!”

  Her eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a throaty cadence. “But I know different! Or do you not remember the Palace Royal? I will refresh your memory. Three fille de joie complained their patrons were weak little men, with no stamina, no movement. You offered yourself to satisfy them. And when one of them said they would do it for free, you laughed. I remember, Thomas, you laughed! And you said since you would be servicing them, they ought to pay you. Oh, you were quite obliging, taking each in turn and saying, ‘Bring on the next.’ ” Her voice dropped huskily. “The management should have charged to view. So big, so powerful. Mais oui! Très, très satisfying.”