by Laura Parker
It was one provocation too many for Devlyn. “I think you don’t understand the nature of my torment. Let me demonstrate.”
Grasping her by the arm, he dragged her until she was completely off her seat and halfway into his lap. “Now tell me you would not rather forego any bit of feminine vanity if you knew how much it rouses my interest?”
“I believe I should not be afraid to be myself, no matter the consequence,” she answered over a heart beating so loudly she was certain he must hear it.
Devlyn could not hear her heart but he could see her pulse beat furiously in the indentation of her throat. The exotic perfume rising from her skin stirred him with the sweet aching that had become part of being in her company. Staring at her face only inches from his own, the absurdly red-gold filigree of the curls escaping her bonnet, it came to him that she had been in his arms long before last night had kissed him with a passion that he sensed lived just beneath her modest surface. What difference if she would not tell him when or where or why? She was here, in his arms, and she was not protesting that fact. She had been a married woman, he reminded himself. There should be no false modesty or maidenly confusion once he made his declaration.
“I want you, Japonica. And I believe you want me. So then who will deny us?”
For a long moment Japonica held rigid in his embrace. Her hips were thrust against his thighs and every breath made muscles shift beneath her. He was real as he had never been before, a flesh and blood man, no phantom of her dream world or seductive conqueror seen through the haze of an opiate dream. She saw herself reflected in his gaze, saw all the longing in her expression she must never give voice to, and then his lips descended upon hers.
At that moment the coach lurched and swerved as if making a sudden turn in the road. She heard the horses whinny in alarm and the coachman’s hoarse cry and crack of his whip. The coach went over on two wheels, canting the interior so that she was thrown against the door and Devlyn rumbled after her. Then as if shoved by a strong hand, the coach righted itself, slamming back onto the paved road with a jolt that splintered the axle and wrung a cry from her. Even as Devlyn grabbed for her, she pitched forward and struck her head. Bright points of light sprang up in her vision surrounded by a field of black. She heard her name called repeatedly but it was a dim hollow sound like a voice calling down a well.
Cursing like the seasoned soldier he was, Devlyn pulled himself up from the floor of the coach and twisted around to gaze out the sprung coach door. On the road ahead in the slanting rain he saw the indistinct shape of two carriages. Closer by he could hear the Shrewsbury postillion and driver shouting and working to free the horses from their tangled harnesses.
“There’s been an accident on the road ahead,” he said. “Are you hurt?” When she did not answer, Devlyn swung round and looked down. Japonica lay at his feet. There was a bloody smudge on her brow and the thin trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth.
Quickly and with the precision of years of calculating the dead on the battlefield, his fingers slid round under the slender curve of her jaw to find the pulse. It beat quickly. Whispering a prayer of thanksgiving he squatted down beside her. As he did so, the coach moved to the accompanying creak of its suspension. To judge by the angle of the cant it had lost a wheel. He was not much concerned. What worried him was the stillness of the lady before him. Reaching out, he loosened the ribbons of her bonnet and removed it. As carefully as he could, he slid his right arm under her shoulders and lifted her up against his chest. “Are you badly hurt, my lady?” he asked softly.
Her eyes opened. He saw in them bewilderment and a touching pain. And then she said in Persian, “Is it you, memsahib?”
He frowned. “Who am I, bahia?”
A tremor of emotion passed through her, her lips quivered, and then she blinked. He knew the exact moment she recovered her senses, and with them the hesitation that seemed an innate part of her. “Why—Lord Sinclair.”
He felt the anguish of the lost moment. That is not what she meant to say but he could not even guess how to discover what it was.
“We lost a wheel.” He cradled her head against his chest with his left hand. Her satin-smooth skin felt as cool as ice. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head a little. “Banged and bruised.”
He did not believe her because she moaned as she tried to shift herself away from him. “Don’t move.” Carefully, he ran his hand down each of her arms and then strongly along either side of her body from underarm to waist.
“Does this hurt?” he questioned each time.
Each time she answered in a breathless, “No.”
He pressed against her abdomen and then the small of her back. Finally he said, “Try to move your legs.” He watched intently as she moved first the right and then the left. For the first time he smiled. “Perhaps you are right. You’re not badly hurt.”
But he did not like the way the bruise was blooming on her forehead nor the trickle of blood oozing from her lip. He touched her lip. “Have you loosened a tooth?”
Japonica felt around in her mouth with her tongue then slowly moved her head in the negative. “Only bit my tongue.”
The coachman stuck his head in the gap where the door had been. He looked stricken. “You okay gov’nor? Lady Abbott… ?”
“We’re both well enough. A few bruises, that’s all. What caused our accident?”
“Gor!” The coachman glanced back over his shoulder. “ ’Twas a bad spill on the road, my lord. A phaeton clipped the mail coach. Tried to go round them. Swear I did! But we came upon ’em so sudden like. We lost a wheel, the road being slick and all.”
“Go and see if you can be of help. I’ll be right there.” He looked down at Japonica. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. I’ll be fine, really.” She sounded steadier and even smiled at him. “Little of consequence damaged other than my dignity.”
He bent a hard stare on her, reluctant to release the woman in his arms.
Who will deny us? She had not answered his question but this did not seem the time or place to continue.
He shifted her onto the slanted seat and reached for the coach blanket with which to cover her. “Don’t move. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He climbed out of the overturned coach into the misty day and headed toward the two vehicles on the road ahead. One was a massive coach, the other a slight large-wheeled racing equipage. It was a well-traveled road. Many who had been stopped by the accident were coming forth from their own vehicles to lend aid.
His own coachman met him halfway. “ ’Tis a nasty business, gov’nor. The whip of the high flyer was badly injured when he was thrown.”
“Then there’s nothing to be done.” Devlyn turned back. “We’ve lost a wheel. I shall inquire as to whether another carriage can take Lady Abbott up.”
“No need, m’lord. I’ve sent the postillion to ask. Only it may be some time before traffic is moving again, what with the weather and the wreckage to be cleared.”
“Very well.” Devlyn turned away and strode back to the coach. He did not think what the waiting would mean to his or Lady Abbott’s comfort. It was cold. His clothes were slick with December rain. Sitting motionless would no doubt quickly become a great discomfort. He did not care. He climbed back in.
She sat on the slanted seat, her ankle propped on the opposite perch. “I did hurt my ankle. Nothing serious,” she added with a quick smile that did not quite meet her eyes. He knew that she was thinking, as he was, of the seconds before their accident.
He moved carefully onto the seat beside her and rested his elbows on his knees as if he were weary. “We will be here some little while. We’ve broken a wheel.”
“Then we are very lucky,” she answered solemnly. “I heard the driver say someone was badly hurt.”
“Fool in a high flyer trying to overtake the mail coach. Damn fool.” He reached out and cupped her chin, turning it this way and that un
til he was satisfied that she had suffered no more than a single bruise on her forehead. Then he caught her by the waist and pulled her in against his chest. “We are lucky. Very lucky.”
Japonica relaxed willingly against him. The tremble of feeling inside her was not all nerves. How solid he felt, warm where she was cold, strong where she felt weak, brave when she wanted to weep. And she could not tell him any of her feelings.
“You are cold?” He pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it close. “Is that better?”
She lifted her head from his shoulder. “No.”
She saw the question in his eyes a scant second before he bent to her and his lips descended upon hers.
The heat of his breath came through parted lips, moist and hot against her mouth. The gentle flick of his tongue across her lips made her gasp and then his tongue boldly entered. The pleasure was too strong to resist. She reached up and encircled the strong column of his neck with her arms and gave into the desire to match his boldness, offering him stroke for stroke of her own tongue. His arms tightened about her, drawing her fully into his lap.
The spiraling dizziness of their kisses continued some minutes in silence, broken only by their sighs and gasps. His hand found her breast through her cloak and he stroked her softly as he pulled her against him. She turned into his embrace, wanting the feelings that she had never been fully certain of until this moment to go on and on. As his arms tightened about her she felt a hunger in him, tasted the delight of a forbidden night so long ago.
He lifted his head almost reluctantly, his hand coming up to frame her cheek. There it was in his passion-smoked gaze, the question she dared not answer and the one he very slowly put into words. “What… are … you … to … me?”
She turned her head away, anguish making her wince. “If you cannot remember, I cannot tell you.”
“Cannot or will not?”
She shook her head, the bright red tangle of her curls tickling his face.
“Then I will have to discover the truth for myself.”
He tucked her head beneath his chin and rested his cheek against her hair. She smelled of henna and tasted of Paradise. This time she had not pretended that they were strangers. He supposed it was a woman’s prerogative to be mysterious where matters of the heart were concerned. And he was sure now that it was a matter of the heart. The rest could wait, even the raw ache consuming him. In this moment he was content for the first time in a long time.
Chapter Sixteen
“She don’t look like a dowager.” The tortoiseshell lorgnette rose up to cover a pair of eyes as pale a shade of gray as the day outside the Shrewsbury Mayfair residence.
Japonica could scarcely remain still as she was inspected from crown to toe and crown again by the tall elegant lady who had appeared in the entrance to the Shrewsbury dining room. The old-fashioned viewing device was an affectation, she decided, for the lady was in all other ways in the kick of fashion. She wore a long-sleeved walking dress of striped sarcenet and a scarlet velvet cap ornamented with rows of pearls and ostrich feathers that bobbed as she spoke.
When she was done with her inspection, the lady snapped her lorgnette closed by slapping it against her palm. “Devlyn, you may introduce me.”
Devlyn, who had risen from his seat upon her appearance, looked as unruffled as was possible for a man whose supper had been interrupted by an uninvited guest. “You were told we were not at home, Aunt Lacey.”
“Nonsense, Dev. I am family. I am famished, as well.” The lady sailed up to Devlyn and turned her cheek, offering him its apple roundness that he dutifully pecked. Satisfied, she turned to the nearby chair at the table while a footman scurried to pull it back for her.
She favored Japonica with a sweet smile as she sat. “Don’t look so worried, child. Devlyn is like a son to me and I’ve been these last twenty years a mother to him. But he’s been very naughty. He claims he cannot remember me.”
“It is not a claim, Aunt Lacey. It is a regrettable fact that I have lost years of memory.”
“Fustian! You remember something. Did you not write me a fortnight ago to ask me to stay away from London? What is a mother to think but that you are in desperate need of her?”
“Mother or aunt?” Japonica whispered with a glance at Devlyn, for the lady seated with them did not appear to be a day older than he.
“It is a complex equation,” Devlyn answered grimly.
Lady Simms shook her head, setting in motion not only pearls and feathers but also the ebony curls that framed her piquant face. “Do not mind his temper. Men are such difficult creatures. They bluster and blunder about then dare those who love them best to come to their aid.” She looked back at Devlyn, her gaze as bright and direct as an owl’s. “I have been in town two full days, yet they tell me each time I call that you are away.”
“I have been,” Devlyn answered shortly.
“I am mollified. You are here and I am here.” She picked up the hastily laid napkin and shook it out. “We shall sort the rest in a trice. Has the soup been laid?”
Devlyn turned to Japonica, his face a composite of consternation and fatigue, both of which she shared. “I had thought to spare you any further trying moments in this day but I fear it is not to be. Forgive the interruption of your meal and allow me to present to you my aunt, Lady Simms. Aunt, this is Japonica Abbott, dowager viscountess of Shrewsbury.”
Japonica rose to her feet to offer the lady a curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet at last another member of the Shrewsbury family, Lady Simms.”
“We ain’t kin.” Lady Simms spoke in the abrupt manner of beau monde, all hauteur and censure, but Japonica found she did not resent the lady, for she was happily buttering a roll as she spoke. “I had heard the Indian Dowager was young, Devlyn, but this is ridiculous. How do you expect to explain a schoolroom miss to your acquaintances?”
“Do I need explanation?” Japonica inquired, though she knew she was not being addressed.
Lady Simms bent a significant glance on her nephew as she took a bite of her roll. “Not that I give a fig what you two have got up to. I can plainly understand why you shut yourself up with a readymade mistress. Coming home to find yourself a viscount and nicely set up into the bargain with a widow under your roof? Too much temptation for a gentleman long absent from the niceties of civilized life. But to indulge your luck while all of London is agog with interest in her? It is just not done. Appearances, Devlyn! Appearances are everything.”
“I don’t understand,” Japonica said, though she thought she did all too well. “I am thought to be Lord Sinclair’s mistress?”
“Gossip,” Lady Simms said shortly. “Devlyn’s actions are those of a man in thrall to a woman. My dear, they say he is even dressing you.” She frowned. “I do hope he did not choose that gown for you. It is much too matronly. But the green silk should be a dream. With your complexion and hair? Faugh! If I were you, I should drive about bareheaded in an open barouche every afternoon there was sun!”
“That is quite enough!” Devlyn had seen Japonica blanch and then color up as his aunt prattled on. “You entirely mistake the relationship between the viscountess and me.”
“Do I?” Lady Simms’s gaze ranged back and forth between the two. “Do I, indeed? Well, I beg pardon. Though it won’t change gossip a jot. All of London suspects you share a torrid tendre given license by your proximity under the same roof. Then when you are seen buying her clothes? Quel divertissement! Of course, I must officially disapprove. Ah, turtle soup!” she cried in delight as the footman served her bowl. “My prayers are answered.”
“What sort of mother are you?” Japonica questioned in distress at the many shocks she had endured. “That you would believe these aspersions against your son—or nephew …”
“We are actually cousins,” Devlyn cut in, his expression an enigma.
Lady Simms’s nod set pearls and feather and curls aswing. “Took Devlyn in when hi
s parents died in the epidemic of ’88. He was eight and I seventeen. I had just wed. My husband was kindness itself. We agreed to rear Dev as our own. He was a very clever if mysterious child, full of moods and prone to secretiveness. ‘Twas a mother’s part I’ve played, for I’ve never had children of my own. Both of us care deeply for Dev’s future.” She turned a warm glance on Japonica. “Do, we wonder, do you?”
“Of course,” Japonica said slowly—the lady seemed as much an oddity as anyone she had ever met. “But let me assure you, Lady Simms, that we have not spent a single night unchaperoned beneath the same roof. My step-daughters have been with me the entire time.”
“And quite a debauched picture that makes.” She paused to swallow a spoonful of soup. “Of course, that sort of gossip will never reach my ear direct. But Leigh, my dear husband, is abuzz with oui-dire from his club. Some of it quite outré. Devlyn may have lived in the East these last ten years but it does not follow that he has developed the proclivities of a Caliph. Formed his own harem, indeed!”
“Enough, Aunt!” Devlyn had watched a sick look steal over Japonica’s features and wished at the moment he could stuff his loquacious relative back into her barouche and drive it into the Thames. “You are distressing Lady Abbott.”
“Am I?” Lady Simms looked utterly surprised. “But I have brought you the most delightful on dits upon which to dine. Are you not prodigiously diverted?”
Japonica could feel Devlyn’s daunting gaze on her like the weight of judgment. She did not have the courage to look him in the face. Had he known what was being said? Did he care? She knew enough of the world to suspect that these rumors might improve his standing among the masculine set. But for her, and the Shrewsbury girls, it could spell utter social disaster. Seeking to learn the extent of the damage, Japonica asked, “As a member of the family, I am certain you were quick to defend Lord Abbott’s daughters as well.”
“Defend them? The Shrewsbury Posy?” Lady Simms shuddered. “It were a mercy they were not drowned at birth!”