by Laura Parker
“What sort of need could such a gift assuage?” The moment the words were out, her mind supplied a suspicion. She glanced again at the diaphanous gown and then up at him, blushing deeply. “Oh!”
“Not the sort, by your expression, you are imagining.” His own expression was severe. “ ’Twas a spur of the moment purchase. Saw it in passing. Reminded me of you. Your hair … the color ….” The lift of her brows embarrassed him into silence.
Japonica looked again at the gorgeous example of feminine vanity and said in a dry voice, “This reminded you of me.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “Perhaps you had been imbibing even more freely than I have this night.”
Devlyn could not prevent a guffaw of laughter. “I had not touched a drop.” Though at the moment he was sorely pressed not to seek out a very deep drink. He was heartily sorry he had begun this nonsense. The only thing worse would be to continue to drag out the business. “The gown comes with an invitation. To dine. Next week. In London. ’Tis is a diplomatic affair, which you may find very dull.” He added each sentence as her face reflected a new question.
“I see.” Heart pounding in slow but heavy strokes, Japonica carefully folded the gown and laid it back in the box. “I thank you very much, Lord Sinclair. But I cannot accept such an expensive gift from a gentleman.”
“Don’t be a fool!” he said roughly. “It is no lover’s token. We are now related.” But he was not feeling very familial toward her at the present. Seeing her with the gown pressed however briefly to her bosom had conjured in his mind visions of her in that dress and very little else. Madame Soti had assured him that stockings and a chemise were all that could be worn under so sheer a gown. As he had bought stockings and a chemise, he knew how very little that was. He wondered briefly what the Shrewsbury Posy would make of the intimate apparel they had commandeered, then struck that disquieting thought from his mind.
“I have a need for a companion for an evening. Perhaps several evenings. A married lady of some good sense who will not embarrass me.”
“After this evening’s events I can only wonder at your certainty that I am that person.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Can’t hold you responsible for the whole of their natures. They can not have been under your influence above a year.”
“Less than a month,” she replied. Not wishing to pursue the question that came into his expression, she hurried on as she retied the bow. “Still, there must be dozens of London ladies who ….”
“I don’t know London’s ladies. I have been soldiering abroad most of my adult life.”
“The daughter of a friend … ?”
“Squire about a green girl who would most likely mistake the invitation as evidence of my pointed interest? Never!”
“A sister, cousin, a maiden aunt who … ?”
“I would sooner slit my throat.”
Japonica smiled, hugely enjoying herself. “It would seem you’ve given the matter some thought.”
“Extensive,” he lied, for he had thought of her and only her from the moment Ouseley mentioned the plan. “Alas, madam, you are my last hope.”
“How chivalrously put. I am charmed beyond imagining. Oh yes, quite put upon my head by your flattery.”
“You may cut the caper, madam. It is clear you will have none of it.” He reached out and snagged the box on his hook by the bow and lifted it off her lap.
Japonica met his angry stare and instantly regretted her hasty rejection of the gown. She could not very well admit that now. He might remember nothing of the past, but she did, and he had taken too much from her for her to accept anything from him. But his invitation had given her an idea.
“I have a suggestion which may supply the answer to your need. I understand it is not the usual thing for ladies who have not yet been presented at court to socialize in public, but I suspect allowances are occasionally made. Why not allow Alyssum to accompany you? She is pretty and I find quite biddable when not surrounded by her elder siblings. Yes, Alyssum would do nicely. And if she should chance to catch the eye of an eligible bachelor …”
“Enough!” The look he flashed her was of such loathing that Japonica could not be certain if it was for her suggestion or her daring to presume she knew his needs. “I am not a marriage broker!”
“Then I don’t know how it is to be done.”
The treacherous tears that should have swamped her half an hour ago rose to the surface. She attempted to hold them at bay with fingers pressed to the corners of both eyes. “I would do it all myself but I have no entree into London society. Without it, I fear I shall never accomplish Lord Abbott’s dying wish. I have made such a mishmash of things. A ver-ver-veritable …”
“Are you crying?” Devlyn bent forward in suspicion. “You are not to cry, madam. I forbid it!”
“Bedeviling man!” She stood up, full of wine and indignation. “You are bad-mannered and ill-tempered, with no respect for the foibles of others. I do not doubt that you have few friends and no wife. What woman would care to deal with you?”
He tossed the dress box aside and took a step toward her, drawing her alarmed gaze unerringly to his gilded stare. “No doubt you think you could deal with me.”
“Most probably. Though I dare swear it would not be worth the effort.”
He smiled. “So then you have a little courage.”
Japonica started. He had said those exact words to her the first night they met. And, as before, in this moment she wished she were a match for the lies in his eyes!
“You do not frighten me,” she said because, as before, he did exactly that.
“Bismallah!” he murmured under his breath and took her in his arms. A strange look came into his eyes as he drew her toward him and spoke to her in Persian. “You disturb my peace of mind. I will know what secret lies behind your gaze.”
The shock of his lips on hers lasted only a second, replaced by an overwhelming urge to discover if the reality of his kiss was as sweet a torment as her memory of the Hind Div’s.
She was not disappointed. The enveloping heat of his arms, the tender warmth of his lips, the sinuous stroke of his tongue, she had imagined none of it. She was only amazed she ever doubted the experience. The wild impetuous being who once longed for adventure stirred inside her. But this time it was not with the curiosity of ignorance. This was longing wrapped in the power of recognition. Her woman’s heart knew what he had yet to guess. This angry wounded stranger was her first and only lover. That connection was not broken. If only he could remember … if only she could tell him.
All too soon he lifted his head. Dizzy with amazement and warmth, Japonica gazed up at him. The passion kindling in his golden eyes was unforgettable. Once more she faced the Hind Div, sultan of the unexpected, ruler of mysteries locked away in her heart.
It did not last. As she watched, his expression changed by subtle degrees from desire and surprise to confusion then rejection.
“Sobhanallah! What madness is this?” He sounded angry, as if she had somehow tricked him into the moment.
A hot blush that had nothing to do with the wine suffused her skin. “ ’Twas but a kiss, memsahib!”
Her reply startled him. “How is it you know Persian?”
Japonica searched his face. Had he remembered nothing? Oh, but she remembered everything, the feel of his skin against her own, the power of his body moving over …. For one anguished moment the truth lay on her tongue. No, she could not, must not help him to a memory that could destroy her. She looked away. “I might ask the same of you.”
“I….” The answer failed him.
She saw arrive in his expression sudden wariness and a trace of fear. The Hind Div had been many things: boastful, courageous, arrogant, derisive, mocking, and sensual, but never afraid or vulnerable. Then she remembered. This man was not like other men. He had no memory of his former self. She reached up and touched his cheek. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her g
entle touch was too much. “Don’t!” He pushed her away but his hook caught in the sleeve of her gown. As she stumbled back they both heard the sound of material tearing.
Japonica looked down and saw the left portion of her bodice was ripped, exposing the chemise and a good portion of her breast. Embarrassed, she quickly tried to press it back into place.
Realizing what he had done, Devlyn felt a shaming blush climb his cheeks and resented it almost as much as her power over him. Why could he not contain his emotions? Better never to have touched her. What little dignity he had managed to salvage from his wreck of a life was preciously won and very tenuous. Better she dislike him than pity him. “I will leave you now. And if you have any sense you will hurry to your room and lock the door.”
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Why is that?”
The intent to insult was bright in his gaze as he moved it slowly down her body, accompanied by the swipe of his tongue across his lips. “I am within an eyelash of tumbling you on the carpet. In your present state you would not seem to have the good sense to deny me!”
He saw his barb hit home, for the blush shrank from her cheeks. “Insufferable!”
“Remember that and keep away from me!” He turned his back, angry to be retreating but desperate to get away from the sight and taste and fragrance of her. God, how he wanted her! It coursed through his veins like liquid fire!
He paused at the door, hurling at her a challenge. “You will forget what just occurred.”
“Certainly.” Shocked by her own feelings, she knew she must get away, and stay away, from him. She bent and picked up the dress box he had cast aside. “You will be wanting this.”
He made a slashing move with his good arm. “You will yet have a use for it when you accompany me to London tomorrow.”
“I certainly will not.”
“You will.” He did not spare her another look and slammed the door behind him.
The sound of the slammed door reverberated in the stairwell where Laurel and Hyacinthe hid. They had braved the cold dark backstairs in order to spy through the servant’s entrance to the library.
Hyacinthe nudged Laurel who was peeping through the keyhole as she longed to do. “What did you hear?”
Laurel straightened up from her crouched position and whispered, “He’s taking her to London!”
“Are we to be left behind?” Hyacinthe questioned.
“So it seems.” A violent jealousy convulsed Laurel’s expression but it could not be seen in the blackness.
“Good riddance, I say.” Hyacinthe sniffed. “My hair still smells of borax. Her potions make me itch. If she believes I will eat noxious greenery—! What?” she snapped, for Laurel had struck her on the arm to silence her.
“We have greater worries than a spoilt meal!”
“Why? What else did they say?”
“She will have his ear for the entire journey. Time enough to poison him against us. Is that not enough?” But Laurel had seen more than enough to scorch her to the soles of her feet. Lord Sinclair had kissed their step-mama! A thing so shocking to her sense of right that she could not bring herself to speak of it. Yet the image burned like carbolic acid in her mind. She had yet to set her cap for the viscount and the interloper in their midst had already outmaneuvered her.
“To think that plain, freckled-face slut—!” Laurel clamped her lips shut but her thoughts ran on.
She and her sisters had run upstairs to open their packages. Finding no cards, Peony opened the box that contained a silk chemise trimmed with bows and lace, Alyssum, pink silk stockings, Hyacinthe, garters with rosettes, Cynara, a hair clip with pink feathers and she, an India scarf. None but the scarf were suitable gifts for a gentleman to give anyone but his wife or mistress. Now she knew why. She had heard Lord Sinclair say they were meant for Japonica.
“Slut!” Laurel murmured. Gifts for Lord Sinclair’s new whore.
How had that been accomplished? When had they had time? Laurel cudgeled her brain for the answer and could not come up with a single clue, unless it be that they knew one another before now.
“But of course! That foreign gibberish they had spoken to one another while entwined, it must be that they knew one another before this week.”
“Entwined?” Hyacinthe whispered. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” Laurel set her jaw. Ever since she was old enough to do so, she had craved worldly attention and harbored a vague sense of resentment that forces beyond her control had so far kept her from receiving her due. That resentment found resonance in the scene she had just witnessed. A corrosive anger against her step-mama churned in her young breast. “There must be a way to spike her wheel!”
A soft shurring sound like that of fur dragged along a wall caused Hyacinthe to grab her sister’s arm. “What was that?”
Laurel shoved her away in annoyance. “Possibly a rat!”
“A rat!” Hyacinthe’s voice climbed more than an octave in two syllables.
Laurel clapped a hand over her sister’s mouth. “Come with me. We must send a letter to London. Several letters, in fact.”
With little else to do in the country, letter writing had become Laurel’s strong suit. She had a gift for barbed wickedness with which she entertained and appalled friends from her brief school days. In a quarter hour’s time, she had penned the Shrewsbury solicitor, a distant relative in the House of Lords, and made inquiries at the Horse Guards about the new viscount. She did not know precisely what she hoped to learn by her inquiries. Yet she had worded them as a younger sister who harbored a vague unease about the two new people in her life. She wished to be assured that there was nothing, no matter how tiny, that should concern her. After all, there were still children in the household and the two adults sharing their roof were neither wed nor related by blood.
When the letters were done, she set the seal to them and turned to Hyacinthe. “Ring for a footman. The dinner hour is long past and we’ve not yet had a morsel. I need sustenance!”
Bersham came in answer to her summons.
“Ah, dear Bersham,” Laurel said expansively, for intrigue had given her spirits a lift as well as increased her appetite. “My sister and I are in need of supper. Nothing heavy. Just a piece of capon, a serving of cold ham with egg sauce, and several slices of Shrewsbury cake.”
“Her ladyship has set the supper menu,” Bersham said, looking every bit as uncomfortable as he felt. “I will have a tray brought in.”
“I do not care a fig what that woman has set. I will have what I asked for. Bring it!”
A pained expression came over the old butler’s features. “I cannot go against the orders of the lady of the house.”
Laurel exchanged glances with Hyacinthe, who rose to her feet and bore down on the old man like a full battalion. “Listen to me, you mewling old fool! She may be mistress now but she will not be mistress for long! When she is gone you will have to deal with me again. Do you… ?” Her gaze fell upon the salver he carried. “What have you there?”
“Letters for Lady Abbott,” Bersham answered.
“Give them to me,” Laurel cried, treading on her sister’s toe in her haste to reach them. “Give them to me, I say!” When he did not immediately hold them out, Laurel snatched them from the tray.
“Lady Abbott’s been waiting for an important post for weeks,” Bersham said in agitation. “I brought them with me from London for that very reason.”
“We will see that she gets them,” Hyacinthe said in a tone meant to squelch further argument. “Laurel will take them up.”
Laurel studied the five missives in her grasp with a possessive intensity that neither sister nor butler could mistake for idle curiosity. She looked up suddenly, noting that they watched her. “Well? Be gone!”
“I will tell her ladyship to expect them directly,” Bersham said pointedly as he reluctandy departed.
The moment he was gone Hyacinthe
rushed up to her. “Who are they from?”
“I don’t know.” Laurel inspected each one again. “They were franked at a military posting in Lisbon.”
“Lisbon? But she is from Persia.”
“So she says. I have always thought her a liar and cheat I think I should discover that truth upon opening them.”
“You must not!” Hyacinthe looked horrified. “She will know.”
“Do you think I care?” Laurel whirled on her older sister with a malicious smile. “I will do whatever I think fit to save the family from the clutches of an adventuress! And you will do nothing and say nothing to deter me. For if you do, I promise I will pay you back most unkindly!”
Stunned by her sister’s unprovoked attack, Hyacinthe stared at her. “You would not!”
“I most certainly would!” Laurel squared her shoulders. At last life had tossed into her lap a delicious morsel of intrigue. It almost quieted her appetite for other things. She tapped the letters against her lips murmuring, “I do hope Bersham will hurry with the supper tray. I am quite famished!”
Chapter Fifteen
Devlyn could scarcely believe he had allowed himself to be dragged to church. Not only was he not a particularly religious man—though there were few doubters on the battlefield—he did not like making an exhibition of himself. An exhibition was exactly what he had become. The number of worshipers had doubled between the singing of the opening hymn and the beginning of the sermon. No doubt reluctant parishioners sprang from their beds as word spread quickly to the village that the new viscount Shrewsbury was in attendance. A steady stream of latecomers now filled the pews to overflowing.
The Shrewsbury pew, with its ornate gate and velvet seat cushions, sat at right angles to the rest of the pews, giving the parishioners an unobstructed and continuous view of the aristocrats in their midst. It made him want to hold his hat up to protect his left profile, for the eyes glued to it were chaffing his temper. Though it could not be seen as it lay in his lap, he doubted anyone remained in ignorance of his missing right hand. It had already provoked one incident this morning.