by Shana Galen
Pelham crossed to her bed and peered down. “It’s signed, All my love, Lucifer.” He looked at her, hands in his pockets, expression haughty and holy. How she hated that expression. She notched her chin up, building her wall of protection a little higher.
“Could this Lucifer have been a lover?” Pelham asked.
“No,” she said immediately.
“No?” He gestured to the bed. “Surely you don’t remember every one of your lovers. There must have been dozens.”
She wanted to laugh—or cry. “Dozens?” Or perhaps she should hit him. Right now she was so angry and frustrated and scared she wanted to pound her fists into this unsympathetic duke’s chest until he gasped for breath. But there was more than one way to do that. She sidled up to him, put her hand on his chest. He wanted to step away; she could see it on his face. She made him so very, very uncomfortable. “Oh, I think it has been more like hundreds. But as I told you, Lucifer was in my drawing room the other night. I had never seen him before.”
“Then why?” He gestured to the bed again. He was all but itching to move away from her. She would have liked nothing better. She could smell his scent. The mint fragrance was familiar to her now. She wanted to see if this man would break. Oh, he wanted her, but would he give in to temptation? She needed to know what kind of man he was. Could she trust what he said, or would his baser instincts lead him?
“Symbolism, I suppose,” she answered. He began to move away, but she lifted a gloved hand and traced it down his cheek. He froze. “I know this must be a disappointing picture of my famed boudoir. And I so hate to ruin your fantasy.”
“I never fantasized—”
“No? You never fantasized about me lying on this bed?” She sat. “Naked and breathless. Calling your name?” She lay back on the bed and gave him a catlike smile.
He stood stiff and unbending. “You should rise. Sharpsly will want to see this, and you should leave it undisturbed.”
“Sharpsly already knows who’s responsible for Lady Elizabeth’s death. This won’t make any difference. Come here,” she purred. “Just one kiss.”
He was tempted. She knew the look of desire in men’s eyes. It was there in his and was just as dangerous as every other look he’d given her.
“Get up.” He turned away from her. “Take what you need and meet me downstairs.” He walked away, and Juliette rolled off the soiled bed. She knew she’d never touch it again. She was like that bed to Pelham. Irreparably soiled.
And if he knew the truth?
But why should she tell him the truth? He wouldn’t believe it. Let him think what he would. Let him judge her as so many others had done. She didn’t need or want his approval. She frowned as she righted a chair and piled petticoats onto it. Well, she didn’t need his approval anyway. Why she wanted it, she would never know. A lingering weakness from the silly girl she had once been.
The door slammed open, and Pelham rushed in. Juliette jumped. “What is it?”
“The men I stationed spotted someone suspicious. There is a man in the alley behind your house. They fear there might be trouble. I want you to close the door and stay in this room. Do not leave.”
He turned, and she caught his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I want to see this Lucifer.”
“No!” She yanked him back. “No. That’s what he wants. He wants to lure you out. Once he does so, he’ll kill you.”
Pelham frowned at her. “No. He wants to break in and get to you.”
She shook her head. “Think, Will. If he wanted to get in without your men noticing, he could have done it. He managed to kill your fiancée on a balcony at Carlton House in the middle of a ball. He can gain access to my town house.”
Pelham considered for a long moment. “What am I supposed to do? Hide in here with you?”
Yes! she wanted to shout. Why did men have to be so utterly ridiculous and rush into danger at each and every opportunity? But she knew how to deal with men. She’d had years of experience. “You’re supposed to protect me.”
“You?” He raised a brow. “You’d give him one of your icy glares and slay him on the spot.”
“You say the most romantic things.”
There was that ghost of a smile again. “We’re not staying in here,” he said, taking her hand and starting for the door.
“Too tempting?”
“Too obvious.” He stood in the corridor and looked left then right. “Do you have an attic?”
“I suppose.” She didn’t really know, though she had vague recollections of instructing servants to put this or that in the attic. None had ever contradicted her.
“Where’s the access?”
“I… ah…”
“Isn’t this your house? Didn’t you inspect it before purchasing it?”
“I didn’t purchase it. The Earl of Sinclair did.”
Pelham’s dark slash of brows came together. “Ah, your protector.” Without waiting for her assistance—not that she could offer much—he started up the stairs to the upper floor. When he reached it, he found a hatch and lowered the ladder to the attic. She’d expected the attic to smell musty and the ladder rungs to be covered in dust, but everything smelled fresh, as though it had recently been cleaned.
She was thankful for her wonderful servants and glad she had sent them away from all this danger.
“I’ll go first,” Pelham told her.
She watched him ascend the ladder. He had long legs, muscled legs. He probably rode horses at his country estate. He obviously spent some time outdoors. He wasn’t pasty white like most of the men she knew. He had a nice backside, too. She had a good view of it from below. It looked firm and solid, not saggy or all but nonexistent.
He disappeared for a moment, and then his face reappeared in the hatchway. “Come on up.”
She lifted her skirts and climbed the ladder. The action reminded her of her childhood, playing in the stables and on neighbors’ farms. That was a world away from who and where she was now. She gazed about while he pulled the ladder aloft and closed the hatch. There was a small window to one side, and she supposed if she’d had enough servants, one could have slept here. It was not large enough for two, especially not with a man of Pelham’s size taking up so much room. A trunk had been shoved in one corner, and she opened it, curious as to what it contained.
Pelham was at the window, looking down, probably wishing he was there with his men. “Can you see anything?” she asked.
“Not much.” He glanced at her. “If I put that trunk over the hatch, no one will get up here without us allowing it.”
She stood, and he closed the trunk and shoved it over the hatch. When he had it positioned just so, he opened it again. “What’s all this? Something the previous owner forgot?”
She shook her head. “No. This is mine.”
He frowned and held up a sober brown dress and ugly half boots. “These are yours?”
“In a different life,” she said, pulling out a drab gray dress and a horrid hat. He was watching her, obviously trying to imagine her wearing these conservative gowns. She set them aside and lifted something wrapped in linen. She opened the linen and immediately wished she hadn’t.
“That must be you,” Pelham said, angling his head to see the two framed pictures. “But who is the man? Your father?”
“Mr. Oliver Clifton. My former husband.”
“Oh.” He shifted and stepped back, obviously uncomfortable.
“I told you this was from a different life.” Looking at the clothing, the pictures, the few treasures she’d managed to take with her when she’d fled, made her sad. She missed her mother and her brother, too, even though he cared more about his reputation than he did about his sister. She hadn’t seen either of them in years.
She pulled out another linen-wr
apped item and unwound it to stare at a portrait of her mother and father. She angled it so Pelham could see. He was going to hurt his neck trying to crane it unobtrusively. “These were my parents.”
“Are they dead?”
She stared at the picture. “My father is. I don’t know about my mother. I haven’t seen her in eight years. But even if she’s still alive, I’m dead to her. When Oliver filed for divorce, she and my brother told me they never wanted to see me again.”
“So your husband divorced you?”
She nodded. That wasn’t the full story, but it was true nonetheless.
“Why?”
“Why else? Criminal conversation.”
Pelham’s eyes widened, and she shook her head, surprised anything she should say or do would shock anyone anymore. Surprised he didn’t already know she’d been divorced for crim. con., otherwise known as adultery. But he didn’t spend much time in London and spent no time that she could recall with the denizens of the demimonde.
She wanted to tell him the stories of her adultery weren’t true, but that would require her to reveal the full truth. And that she could not do. She hadn’t told anyone but Fallon and Lily and Lady Sinclair. Pelham was not exactly offering a shoulder to cry on.
“He looks a great deal older than you,” Pelham said, obviously trying to break the awkward silence.
“He is. I married when I was seventeen. He was forty-one.”
“And I suppose you fell in love with a younger man.”
“Mmm.” She tossed the portrait of Oliver back into the trunk without wrapping it again. Then she tossed that of her parents in, too. She would burn the contents of the trunk when she was done. Burn it all except…
She stared at a dirty white piece of fabric, grasped it, and gently tugged Mr. Whiskers from under a stack of dingy shawls.
“What the devil is that?”
She smiled and hugged the much-loved stuffed rabbit. “Mr. Whiskers, of course.”
“It looks like a dirty rag.”
She rolled her eyes. “You, sir, have no imagination. Mr. Whiskers—who is a rabbit, since you have no imagination—was a good friend for many years. My mother made him for me when my father had forbidden me to have dog. And then even after I did have a dog…” She trailed off, remembering the chocolate puppy Oliver had given her as a wedding gift. He’d been so soft and warm, so wriggly, and his big brown eyes had looked at her with such trust, such love from the first moment she held him.
How was she to know she was bringing him into a nightmare?
“Your father finally relented?”
She glanced up at Pelham. He was sitting on her trunk now, an indulgent look on his face. “No. My husband gave me a puppy, the sweetest creature.” She could feel the sting of tears burning her eyes and then, to her horror, one of the salty tears dropped onto her skirt.
“What is the matter?” Pelham asked, sounding horrified. She glanced up at him. He looked ready to bolt.
“Nothing.” She swiped at the tears. “I was just thinking of the puppy.”
“What happened to him?” Pelham asked warily. He obviously feared a fresh outbreak of tears.
“I don’t know. When he was angry, Oliver always threatened to kill Brownie. I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I didn’t think he’d go that far.” She was weeping now, unable to stop herself and mortified that she should make a scene in front of the last person who would be even remotely sympathetic.
And then to her shock, he was kneeling beside her on the floor, and he set Mr. Whiskers gently on the trunk and put his arms stiffly around her.
She was so surprised, she stopped crying and looked up at him.
“Did he kill the dog?” Pelham asked quietly. Something in his eyes made her think he understood.
But how could he? How could anyone who had not lived with a man who took pleasure in terrorizing everyone around him and who sought to control his wife through any and every means necessary?
“I don’t know. I—I made him angry. Something silly. I had disturbed his papers or some such thing.” She gave a half laugh. “You would probably have sided with Oliver and not thought it silly at all. But I was so young and so careless about small matters. I didn’t think. Even though I knew the consequences, I didn’t think.”
She remembered it had been a beautiful spring morning. She’d gone out to help their housekeeper hang the laundry, taking the frisky dog with her. They’d played tug on the rope and fetch, and he’d chased her through some nearby wildflowers.
Oliver had been gone that morning, and she felt free and happy. After an hour or so, she and Brownie stormed into the house, and she hadn’t even looked at her shoes. She’d tracked mud onto the floors, and the dog’s paws were dirty as well. She’d poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher and watched Brownie happily lap water from his bowl. Then she’d stupidly—stupidly—set the pitcher on the table without looking. Oliver always had their manservant lay his papers on that corner of the table. He liked to look over business at meals. She’d put the pitcher on top of the papers, ruining them when the condensation ran down the sides of the cool pottery.
“What happened?” Pelham’s voice was quiet, steady. He didn’t ask what she meant by consequences or agree that a man’s business papers were sacred. He simply encouraged her to continue.
“Brownie disappeared, and I never saw him again. I searched for him. I looked everywhere, but I never found him.”
“Did you ask your husband about him?”
She nodded. “He never said a word, but he smiled.” She put her hands over her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know how to describe it. It was a small, sardonic smile that let me know he had gotten rid of my dog. I suppose he saw it as payback. I ruined something he cared about, and he took something I cared about.”
“A dog is not the same as papers—no matter how important.”
She was acutely aware of the warmth of him now. His arms had relaxed slightly, so he wasn’t holding her quite so tensely. She smelled the wool of his coat and the clean, soapy smell of the linen of his shirt. She looked into his eyes. They were a deep blue, such a pretty color, and mysterious, like he was. “I never said Oliver was a fair man,” she said.
“What kind of man was he?”
Her gaze flicked down to Pelham’s lips. “The kind I don’t wish to discuss.” She felt warm, safe, and beneath that, the faintest hint of yearning. How long had it been since she had kissed a man? Been kissed by a man?
Pelham disliked her. Somewhere deep inside she knew that. She wanted to detest him, too, but how could she when he held her while she cried over a dog lost years before? How could she hate a man who sat on a rough attic floor with her, probably ruining trousers that cost more than one of her best gowns? How could she hate a man who had treated Mr. Whiskers—who really was little more than an old rag now—so tenderly?
She rose slightly on her knees so their faces were level. She waited for him to push to his feet, but he didn’t move. She could have sworn he didn’t even breathe.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. The frisson of skin on skin sent a shiver through her, but she checked her impulse to seize him and devour him hungrily.
She was not an impulsive child any longer.
Well, she was no longer a child, anyway.
Instead, she traced the strong plane of his cheek with the palm of her hand, feeling the first hints of stubble on his bare skin. Vaguely, she remembered taking her gloves off and setting them on her dresser in her room. Now she was glad. She liked the feel of his skin. It was actually warm, proving he was indeed human.
She breathed in his scent, the taste of tea and jam on his lips, and then brushed her lips over his again.
He was a statue. Her gaze flicked to his, and his eyes were wide but dark,
so dark. With a half smile, she flicked the tip of her tongue out and scraped it across his lower lip.
He inhaled sharply, and his arms tightened around her.
“Shall I stop?” she whispered. “I know this is wildly inappropriate.”
“There’s little about you not inappropriate,” he answered, his voice husky.
“And I think you might just like that about me.”
“No. I—”
She didn’t give him time to answer. She slanted her mouth over his, claiming his lips in a kiss that made heat pool in her belly and her entire body tingle. She was certain his face must be tingling where her fingers still touched him. He didn’t resist her, but neither did he return the kiss. She’d had enough of men forcing themselves on her to want to avoid doing the same at all costs.
She pulled back and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He stared at her. How could his eyes be so dark and so lovely? Blue velvet, she thought. They reminded her of her favorite riding habit.
“Why did you?” he asked.
“Why does anyone do anything?” She pushed back, broke his hold on her. “Because I wanted to.” She stood and felt her walls drop back into place.
He was still stone. “I’ve given you no encouragement.”
“No,” she reassured him, raising her chin. “You have actively discouraged me. And I can understand why. Your fiancée is dead. To kiss me—to kiss anyone—a day after her murder would be callous indeed.” She strolled to the window, hoping to God they could be out of here soon so she could stop feeling like such a dolt.
“And yet you kissed me.” His voice came from behind her and sounded steady and logical. Everything she was not.
She waved a hand. “Momentary lapse of reason. Your manly charms overwhelmed me.”
“Is this a game to you?” He stood, and she heard the swish as he dusted off his trousers.
She spun back to face him. “No. But I should think before I act. I wanted you, and so I took you. It won’t happen again.”
He stared at her. “Bloody hell but you’re frank.”