by Liz Carlyle
Napier offered her his arm, very certain that matters would not end with the boathouse.
Even on the water, however, one could still hear his cousins arguing in the distance. And it suddenly seemed to him that they were bent, the whole damned family, on sullying Burlingame with their petty quarrels and undercurrents of animosity.
It was a beautiful place, yes. But like a glistening apple with a rotten core, it felt suddenly distasteful to him.
The boathouse was an open octagon railed all around in an oriental style, save for two sides left open to land boats. In the low, open rafters someone had stored a single scull and a small skiff, but they looked little used. Napier led Lisette just inside, then spun her around, urging her back against one of the columns.
Her breath caught teasingly when he wedged one leg, pinning her. “Oh, my,” she murmured breathlessly. “What can you be thinking, Mr. Napier?”
“I’m thinking I should like to kiss you,” he said, lowering his mouth, “and you well know it.”
Humor lit her eyes. “Ah,” she said softly. “And I thought you’d decided me dull.”
“Oh, you’re a lot of things, my dear,” he rasped, “but dull will never be one of them.”
Then he kissed her thoroughly and she permitted it, opening willingly beneath him, both her hands flattening against his back then sliding inexorably lower. When she entwined her tongue with his, Napier felt that familiar surge—that inexplicable rush of desire and yearning and, yes, a little fear—just as he’d known he would.
But this time there was no desperation in it. The longing felt as enduring as it did unassuasive. There was no need to rush. Not when a man was already lost.
When at last he pulled away, her humor had turned to something else. Lisette’s lips were swollen with desire, her eyes wide and limpid in the moonlight. On a long exhalation, he set his forehead against hers.
“Lord, I needed that,” he said, “to get the vile taste of Gwen and Tony out of my mouth.”
She gave a thready laugh, and set a hand to his cheek. “You’ve been avoiding me again.”
He still stood with one hand braced on the column, his head bowed. “I have tried, Lisette, to show restraint,” he said quietly.
Her hand fell. “And you have,” she answered, “until now. Just be aware all that restraint gives Lady Hepplewood hope.”
“Hope? Of what sort?” But he shouldn’t have been surprised; Gwyneth had suggested the same.
“Hope that you’ve tired of me,” Lisette clarified. “Hope that she might still make a match between you and Diana.”
“Did someone tell you that?”
Lisette caught her lip between her teeth. “Diana did,” she finally said. “Yesterday.”
Napier gave a bark of laughter. “Still afraid of being saddled with me, is she?”
“Yes,” said Lisette, “and she is an utter fool.”
Napier looked down at her, searching her face, but Lisette had gone perfectly still.
Suddenly, she drew a quick breath and went on. “In any case,” she said, the words rushing forth, “I begin to think your great-aunt would marry that poor girl off to the village blacksmith given half a chance.”
“So I’ve risen in Lady Hepplewood’s esteem, then?” said Napier sardonically. “Until now I imagined myself ranked somewhere behind the boot boy.”
Lisette laughed, but almost at once the heavy silence fell again. On an inward sigh, Napier kissed her—on the forehead this time—then gave her his arm and led her in a sedate stroll around the pavilion as she looked out across the glistening water. But his mind was in turmoil, searching for something he really should not wish to find. Hoping, perhaps, for something that simply did not exist.
Lisette was an actress nonpareil, he reminded himself. She had to be. She could never have survived otherwise, masquerading for all those months as a hard-bitten newspaper reporter with a taste for vengeance—something he was pretty near certain she’d done.
Moreover, he greatly feared she’d lived—probably been forced to live—a similar ruse in Boston. Perhaps her latest role as doting fiancée was simply bleeding over the edges of her script. And driving him mad in the process.
“Well,” she said when his smile had entirely faded, “have you found your mysterious letter paper yet?”
He shook his head. “Thank you, though, for your efforts. Jolley has been mightily impressed.”
“Alas, I’ve run out of places to steal it,” said Lisette, “unless I start to pilfer unoccupied bedchambers. Well, everyplace save the late Lord Saint-Bryce’s study.”
“Indeed?”
“You must admit it’s tucked rather out of the way,” said Lisette defensively. “One would think a gentleman’s study would be in a grander location.”
“Marsh told Jolley that Saint-Bryce had his study moved upstairs when Bea was born,” said Napier. “His wife was not well, and he wished to be near the child.”
“I think I would have liked your uncle,” said Lisette a little wistfully. “But for whatever reason, his study is always locked when I pass by.”
“Locked?” said Napier. “That’s a little odd.”
She cut him a sidling glance. “I might take a hairpin,” she suggested. “I have, admittedly, never actually picked a lock, but I’m not above trying. It’s the most ordinary looking mechanism imaginable.”
“No hairpins,” he said darkly.
“Oh, good heavens,” she said. “What can they do, have me drawn and quartered? In any case, Napier, trust me. I’m too quick to be easily caught.”
“That,” said Napier grimly, “has certainly been my experience.”
She stopped, turning to face him. Even in the gloom, her face seemed to pale. “What, pray, is that supposed to mean?”
Napier was weary of the charade. “Damn it, Lisette, you know what it means.”
She arched one brow. “It sounds as if you hope to catch me at something,” she suggested. “But I thought we had a bargain?”
“Don’t twist my words.” He set his hands on her slender shoulders and gripped her hard. “And no, I don’t deny you’re good at what you do. Perhaps life has left you little choice. But are you ever going to trust me, Lisette? With anything other than your body?”
She shook her head; one swift, short jerk. “No,” she whispered. “And you don’t want me to. If you can’t think of me, Napier, think of your career. Your honor.”
He tightened his hold on her shoulders. “As if I haven’t already compromised both of those?” She tried to turn away, but he forced her back. “Lisette, I’m long past worrying about deniability. My God, I’ve climbed in bed with the Earl of Lazonby—the most devilish, duplicitous fellow imaginable—to protect you.”
At that, she went rigid. “No,” she corrected, “you climbed in bed with him to protect your father. And if you’ve begun feel guilty for that—if you can’t live with yourself—don’t blame me for the choice you made.”
She was right.
Damnation! When had his determination cleaved so cleanly he’d lost sight of his intent? When had her desperation become his?
“But perhaps you no longer need Lazonby’s good will.” Her voice was cold. “Perhaps you can prove your father’s fine standard of living was all because of Duncaster.”
He dropped his hands and pinched hard at the bridge of his nose. “This is not the conversation I wished to have right now, Lisette.”
“Nor I,” she said. “Nonetheless, it seems to be the one we’re having.”
“Then, no, it wasn’t just Duncaster’s money,” Napier snapped. “I’m not an idiot, Lisette. I told you I looked at those accounts. Besides, we both know Sir Wilfred told the truth about my father; a man doesn’t lie when he’s got a gun to his head and about to meet his Maker.”
It was no more than a turn of phrase, but it seemed to push her over some sort of edge. She made a pitiful sound; the faintest thing. Then she turned and sank onto one of the benches by the railing
, her eyes wide.
He had hit upon the truth, he realized, or a part of it.
Certainly someone had got a confession out of Sir Wilfred—and the tool used to do it was more apt to have been the gun that shot him than any sort of gentle persuasion.
“Perhaps I can guess what happened, Lisette.” He stood rigid before her. “Because I know you. Because I know what you’re capable of. Especially when you’re angry and in pain.”
“Do you, then?” She licked her lips uncertainly, refusing to hold his gaze. “Well. My congratulations to you, Napier. Because I have no idea what I’m capable of. And I’m not sure I can even feel pain anymore.”
“Lisette.” Napier knelt before her, gripping her shoulders again. “Lisette, just tell me you didn’t—”
But she leapt off the bench and strode away, planting her hands upon a span of railing on the opposite side—away from him. She looked as if she were shaking. He had no wish to frighten her, but damn it, he had to know.
Was there even a shred of truth to Lazonby’s mad story? Or had Lisette simply shot a man in cold blood? And if she had, did it even matter to him anymore? He had the most dreadful feeling that it didn’t. That he’d do anything—lie, cheat, forsake his duty—anything to protect her.
He wanted suddenly to take the first train back to London, and shake the truth from Anisha. But that assumed Anisha knew the truth. That she’d been conscious, or even present. And it assumed he could get past her new husband—past Lazonby, who had every reason to want Sir Wilfred dead and every reason to lie—at least for as long as it suited him.
And then, yes, Lazonby might well turn on Lisette and blame her with the murder, for theirs was an unholy alliance. Jack Coldwater and the Chronicle had had ruined him in the court of public opinion, methodically and viciously, and Lisette had been behind it all.
And now Napier was left to pray that Lazonby was a better man than he’d believed. He had to take comfort in Anisha’s judgment in marrying the fellow, and perhaps in her capacity for mercy. Were Lazonby fool enough to go back on his statement—not something a man would do lightly—then surely Anisha would stop him?
He drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly, resisting the urge to tell Lisette that whatever she was, whatever she had done, it simply did not matter. Yet he remained frozen in place. Not because it wasn’t true, but because Lisette would never have believed him.
There was nothing but the sound of water sloshing around the pillars below now. Gwyneth and Tony had long ago gone inside. Even the owl had stilled. At last Lisette turned around. Behind her, the lake glittered like a backdrop of diamonds, but her face lay in shadows.
“You brought me here, Napier, because you thought I was a good actress,” she said, her voice surprisingly resolute. “And because I can be determined and yes, perhaps even a little ruthless. So let me do what I came here to do. Let me, for once, do the right thing.”
“And just what would that be, Lisette?” he asked quietly.
“Well, I know what it is not,” she said, her voice grim. “It is not right for either of us to continue to blame Lazonby for our troubles. You called him devilish and duplicitous. I . . . I once thought the same. But whatever he is, I had no right to ruin his life. I had no right. And I am so deeply ashamed. I will live with that all of my days.”
It was as close to an admission as Napier was apt to get. “Lisette,” he said, stepping toward her.
She threw up a hand, palm out, to stop him. “I cannot undo the pain I’ve caused Lazonby or anyone else,” she said. “For my sort of sins, perhaps there is no redemption. But perhaps I can right someone else’s wrong. I can get inside Saint-Bryce’s office. If I’m caught, I’ll bat my eyes and play dumb. I’ll tell them I meant to visit Bea and got turned round. That the door was unlocked. Let them sort it out.”
Lisette drew in a ragged breath, and waited for Napier to speak. She did not think she was on thin ice here; no, not yet. But she was sick in the pit of her stomach, and very uncertain. Moreover, a part of her was tired of worrying. Perhaps she should confess everything to Napier, pen a note of abject apology to Lazonby, and let them throw her in prison for killing Sir Wilfred. Doubtless it was what many people would think she deserved.
Napier stood now by the bench, his long, harsh jaw set like stone, his dark hair tossing lightly in the breeze coming off the water. When he turned to face her, Lisette knew that he was wrestling with some sort of demon. A choice he did not wish to make.
She only prayed it had nothing to do with her crimes.
That telling hand went to his waist again, and he began to pace. Slowly. Like the predator he was, perhaps. Yet despite the danger and the thwarted emotion he radiated, Napier looked every inch the wealthy aristocrat in his dark frock coat and elegant breeches.
Duncaster insisted upon old-fashioned formality at dinner, attire that became Napier’s finely muscled legs. Even now she could see in her mind’s eye the hard bulges of his bare calf and thigh; could almost feel the weight of his leg thrown over hers, and the soft brush of hair that dusted—
Dear heaven!
How could she think of such a thing just now? She must have made a sound—a laugh, no doubt, at her own stupidity, for Napier was staring at her. Then the scant clouds shifted, casting him in shadows.
“Lisette—” he said, his voice raw.
She threw out a staying hand, and shook her head. “I know you are apt to be my undoing, Napier,” she said, the words a little unsteady. “I’ve known it since the moment you came walking up Sir Wilfred’s lawn. I could see it in that awful, purposeful stride of yours. I feared I’d eventually be done for, and that even Lazonby—with all his tricks and machinations—would not be able to save me from myself.”
“Lisette,” he said. “Lisette, I am not your enemy.”
She kept the hand up, for what little it was worth. “I don’t know anymore,” she said. “I didn’t count on you . . . on this . . . this thing I feel. I can’t bear it. Please don’t let me make a fool of myself, Napier. Not over you.”
He crossed the boathouse toward her, his tread heavy and ominous. “How am I to know what this is?” he whispered. “How am I to know how you feel? Or know anything about you?”
“I feel like a fool,” she said harshly. “That’s how I feel. As to the rest, you know what you need to know. May we let it go, Napier? Please. I’m doing what I promised. I’m keeping my end of the bargain, and you know it.”
Anger sketched across his face. “So you just want me to let everything go,” he said. “You don’t want to trust me with the truth. You don’t want anything more than this hellish bargain between us. You don’t want us to . . . to be honest. To be intimate in any meaningful way.”
Lisette closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “Oh, Royden, you know I desire you.” His name slipped so easily from her lips. “One more of those knee-melting kisses, and probably I’d lie with you right here and now.”
“But it would be just sex,” he gritted, stepping toward her. “And you would have no finer feelings for me.”
For a long moment, she hesitated. “No,” she whispered. “It’s lust, Napier. And if we’re wise, that’s what we’ll both call it.”
He walked away then, all the way to the edge of the dock. There he hesitated, silhouetted in the moonlight, his hands clasped behind his back so tightly it looked painful.
“Then you leave me in an untenable position,” he finally said, his tone harsh. “If I argue, you’ll call me a cad. If I tell you I don’t care what you are, you’ll call me a liar. You’ll sleep with me if I press the matter. So long as we don’t talk. About anything personal. Does that about sum it up?”
“I—yes, I daresay it does.” She hung her head.
“Then we do indeed find ourselves at an impasse,” he said. “Shall I leave you now, Lisette? Is that what you wish?”
She threw up her hand impotently. Oh, she knew what she wished—and what she deserved. She felt the hot press of tea
rs behind her eyes.
Napier radiated anger now. “Just tell me, Lisette, to go,” he said, “and I will. Tell me never to kiss you again. Never to touch you. To surrender all hope of having anything more of you. And trust me when I say that, in this moment, all those words would feel like a mercy.”
She swallowed hard, and finally found her voice. “You don’t want me, Napier,” she said, lifting her hand again. “Don’t imagine yourself in love with me, for God knows I don’t want to fall in love with you.”
Napier felt something deep in his chest twist like a knife. Before he knew what he was about, he’d closed the distance between them and dragged Lisette hard against him. “Fine, then, lie with me here and now,” he rasped. “As you say, it’s just lust. It won’t matter.”
“Napier, I never meant—”
But his mouth seized hers, shutting off the words with a kiss more domineering than tender. It was pure male possession. Something frighteningly akin to rage roiled inside him as Napier thrust deep into that warm sweetness that was almost painfully familiar to him now.
She trembled, but didn’t pull away. Entwining his tongue with hers, Napier pressed his hips into Lisette’s with unmistakable intent. In response, she made a soft, feminine sound of uncertainty. Hot need—that raw male wish to have her—shot through his body like a lightning bolt.
But the heels of her hands were still wedged hard against his shoulders. Lisette shoved, but the desire and the rage and that aching sense of loss had churned up anew and Napier could not relent. He burned for her. And she burned for him. Let her walk away if she could summon the will; he would damned well not make it easy. He needed to have his way in this one, simple thing, needed to force her actions to belie her cold words—or force her to backhand him royally.
It seemed he hardly cared which, for when her hands relaxed, Napier deepened the kiss, urging her back against the wooden column of the boathouse, plunging his fingers into her mass of curls to still her face to his kisses. He could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. Could feel his cock surge hard as a tipstaff against the soft swell of her belly.