The Lady's Deception

by Susanna Craig

  At the creak of a hinge, she spun her head in alarm and discovered Paris standing in the doorway, his greatcoat slung over one arm.

  “Am I too late to say goodnight?” He spoke low, but as always his voice had the curious power to travel across the room and slip under her skin.

  She clutched the blanket tighter. “Your sisters are asleep.”

  “But you are not.” He stepped fully into the room and gestured about him with the arm covered by his coat. “I apologize for this uncomfortable arrangement. It was the last room they had. I’ll sit up in the pub tonight, of course. I only wanted to make sure you had everything you need.”

  She managed a nod.

  “They assumed we were traveling as a family.”

  Understandable, and mostly correct. But did that mean…? She released the blanket and raised her hand to stroke one cheek. “Do I truly look old enough to be the girls’ mother?” Had the trip left her as haggard as that?

  A silent laugh lifted his chest. “I had expected you to express more horror at the thought of being mistaken for my wife.” He turned back toward the door. “Good night, Miss Gorse.”

  “Wait.”

  He paused but did not immediately turn around.

  Beneath the blanket, she twisted the tie of the nightgown around one finger. “I owe you an explanation, Mr. Burke.”

  As he turned, she saw surprise, or something like it, flit across his face. “No. At least, not tonight.”

  Would there be another opportunity? “Please.”

  Slowly—reluctantly?—he crossed to her. When he reached the fireplace, she rose, offering him the only chair. He shook his head. “I’ll make do with the floor.”

  She could bear a great many things, as it turned out. But not that. She could not allow him to sit at her feet while she explained how and why she had lied. Why she had left. She lifted his greatcoat from his arm and laid it across the empty chair, then sank to her knees. “As will I.”

  As she arranged the blanket around her, he leaned back against the seat of the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. Now that she had an audience, her courage flagged. “I—I’m not quite sure where to begin,” she whispered, praying not to disturb the girls.

  The flickering firelight gave his dark features a more than usually devilish cast. He crossed his booted legs at the ankles, his arms over his chest, settling in for a long tale. “In Berkshire, I should think.”

  He remembered. Of course he had remembered. “I was not born there, if that is the jest you mean to make,” she replied, grateful for once to sound so prim. “I was born at Gorsemere Park, in Suffolk.”

  “Your father’s house,” he prompted.

  “The traditional seat of the Viscounts Setterby, yes.” It was not at all the story she had intended to tell. But perhaps it was best to begin at the beginning. “I have little memory of the place. My Papa died when I was not quite five. I have little memory of him, either.” She focused on the fire, unwilling to see either pity or its absence on Paris’s face. “My half-brother, Charles, now holds the title. You’ve met him, I think?”

  “Yes. But how did you know?”

  The question brought her gaze back to him. “A gentleman came to see you. A, uh, a Mr.—Greaves?”

  “Graves.” Before her eyes, his jaw turned to granite.

  “He mentioned you’d gone to Kilready.”

  He nodded, a single dip of his head.

  She could read nothing in the gesture—nothing more than confirmation of her worst fears, that was. She fought the impulse to glance over her shoulder, as if she expected to find her brother standing on the threshold. Instead, she drew a deep breath and continued. “Charles said Gorsemere was ramshackle, and there wasn’t—isn’t—money to repair it. He closed it up and settled in London. He moved Mama and me to another of the family properties, Tavisham Manor. In Berkshire.” She was determined to make him understand that she hadn’t lied about everything. “A modest little house, really, despite the name.”

  “Is your mother still living?”

  Rosamund shook her head. “She died when I was thirteen. Of a fever she contracted while visiting among the cottagers, bringing them food. Charles said I must—I must learn from her example.”

  “Her generosity?”

  Such a simple question. How often had Paris asked one like it in his capacity as barrister? How often had it brought a witness to tears? She could feel their salt stinging in the back of her eyes and her throat, and she swallowed against the sensation, pushing back against the memory of Charles’s words, carried along on the tide. It’s too dangerous. You mustn’t go among those people again. Think what happened to your mother. “He only wanted to keep me safe,” she insisted, more to herself than Paris. But was it true? If she had been safer, certainly the poor families who had counted on the support of the lady of the manor had been less so.

  “He cared for you himself after that?”

  “Oh no. He hired Mrs. Sloane to keep me company.”

  “And was she kind?”

  “She…” Oh, she’d set out with every intention of being honest with Paris. Why did the truth suddenly seem so complicated? Charles was strict with himself, with everyone. Certainly it was no surprise he had hired a woman after his own principles. “She was not cruel.”

  The lines of fatigue in Paris’s face settled into hardness, though he said only, “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I don’t suppose Charles exactly relished having the responsibility for a young girl,” she quickly made excuse. “He visited Tavisham, on occasion.” How silly to compare her feelings on those occasions to the delight on Daphne and Bell’s faces whenever their brother walked into a room. “I had everything I truly needed.”

  Paris lifted one brow. “Did you?”

  The crackle of the fire was loud in the stillness that followed his question. When she dropped her gaze, she discovered she’d once more tangled her fingers in the tie that gathered the neck of her nightgown. She released her grip and watched the ribbon unravel as swiftly as her illusions. “No,” she whispered, the truth tearing at her mercilessly. I didn’t have love.

  She hadn’t realized she was shuddering until Paris’s arm came about her shoulders, drawing her against the firmness and warmth of his chest with one hand while the other tucked the blanket more securely around her. “He w-w-wanted me t-to w-wed his friend, Lord D-Dashfort,” she managed to get out past trembling lips and chattering teeth.

  “Shh,” he murmured, passing a soothing hand over her hair.

  But she needed to speak, to finish her story. “I think that’s w-why he b-brought me t-t-to Ireland. S-so it would be harder for me to say n-n-no this t-t-time.”

  His hand stilled. “This time?”

  She was hardly aware of having said those words, but hearing him repeat them, she knew they were true too. Why, it would take more than the fingers of one hand to count the friends Charles had brought to Tavisham in the last couple of years. To shoot, he had said. At the time, the frequent visits had baffled her; Charles had made no secret of his disdain for country life. But perhaps a part of her had always suspected that her brother wanted to relieve himself of the burden of caring for her. What better way than by marrying her off?

  She didn’t speak again until she was certain she could do so without stammering. “Yes,” she said, holding herself up a little straighter, twisting in his half-embrace to face him. “But this time, I got away.”

  “You did.” He nodded encouragement, and the firelight slipped over his raven hair and glittered in his beard.

  But the words offered little comfort when she recalled what had happened since. “Oh, why did you do it? I could’ve explained.” She fought to keep her voice from rising. “I was wrong to lie, but you had no cause to seek out my brother, to—”

  “I didn’t,” he interrupted hasti
ly, shifting closer to her once again, as if to offer further reassurance. “I had no idea I would find him in Kilready. The business that took me there had nothing to do with him. Or you. It had to do with a poor boy imprisoned in Dublin, whom I hope to defend from changes of theft.”

  She struggled to mask her surprise. It was not the sort of case with which she would have expected one of Dublin’s top barristers to concern himself.

  “I met Lord Dashfort quite by happenstance as I was preparing to return to Dublin,” he continued. “He’d been out riding with his children, and another gentleman. Your brother, as I came to understand. The village was all atwitter with the story of the young woman who had refused the earl’s offer of marriage. But I had no notion it was you. I would never have made the connection if Dashfort’s son hadn’t asked if there was any news about Miss Gorse.” She felt more than heard his hesitation before he added, “I’m afraid I did a poor job of masking my astonishment when I heard your name.” In his dark eyes, she once more glimpsed an unmistakable glimmer of guilt.

  She froze. “Did my brother take note of your reaction? If he seeks you out to discover the reason for it…”

  “I did not even give my real name. He has no way to find me. To find you.”

  She knew from experience that Charles would not be so easily thwarted. “You’re right, of course. It’s impossible,” she lied, forcing a smile. Once more she raised her hand to Paris’s face. Gently, this time. Beneath her cool touch, his skin burned as if with fever. “I’m sorry for striking you earlier. As your sisters will tell you, I’ve not been myself these last days. I—I panicked. I expected any moment to see Lord Dashfort and my brother behind you.”

  His hand came up to hold hers in place. She relished the pleasing prickle of his beard against her palm. “You won’t.”

  She had not always understood her brother. But she did now. She knew it was not a promise Paris could keep.

  “I should go downstairs,” he murmured, not releasing her hand.

  After dredging up the ghosts of her past, and fearing what lay in her future, she couldn’t bear to be left alone now. That tempting lock of hair had fallen over his brow. Her heart fluttered in her breast, an uncertain rhythm that made her lightheaded and breathless.

  “Please,” she whispered, leaning closer to him. “I’d feel safer if you stayed.”

  * * * *

  Safer.

  Paris supposed she meant it as a compliment. She still had no idea the danger he posed. The heartbreaking trust she’d shown in him tonight, trust he had in no way earned…

  “Did he hurt you?” he demanded. “Dashfort, I mean.” The damage her brother had done was evident.

  She flinched. “No.”

  “When you first came to Merrion Square, you told me the gentleman had taken certain liberties—”

  Her hand slipped away from his face, and her steady blue gaze with it. “He kissed me. Or tried to.”

  “Ah.” As he feared, he’d behaved as badly as Dashfort. Or worse. “Perhaps I didn’t deserve to be slapped tonight,” he told her. “Last week, however…” Her chin jerked up again, but he kept speaking, forestalling her protest. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. Forgive me.” It was his turn to cut his gaze away. “And I suppose when my gifts arrived—intended, please believe me, only to make amends for my boorishness—you must have thought—” He shook his head. “No wonder you left.”

  “It would take more than a bonnet and a pair of shoes to drive me away,” she said, sounding bemused. Perhaps even amused. Once more she held him prisoner with those eyes. “And also more than a kiss.”

  Swiftly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  This time, however, she wisely pulled away before he could kiss her back. “You taste sweet,” she said, running her tongue over her lips. “Like tea.”

  “When I don’t taste sour,” he reminded her gruffly. “Like whiskey. What exactly is it you want, Rosamund?”

  A nervous laugh rippled through her as she tipped her head to the side. Her hair tumbled over her shoulder, and the firelight transformed it into a cascade of gold that rivaled the beams of the midday sun. He wanted to lose himself in its depths, no matter if he got burned. Desperately, he tried to replace the image before him with the memory of her on a previous night, when she’d worn her hair in a prim, neat braid.

  It made no difference at all.

  “No one in my life has ever asked me that question,” she marveled, her voice soft. “Except you.”

  No. Not soft. Prickly. Aristocratic. English, for God’s sake.

  “Then you ought to consider carefully before you answer it.” His own voice was little more than a growl. “Go to bed, Rosamund.” He jerked his chin toward the screen. “Over there.”

  “Have you ever tried to sleep in a bed with two young children and a kitten, Paris?”

  It was an argument he knew he was unlikely to win, not least because he could think of no way to make the circumstances she described sound appealing. So he changed tactics. Leaning toward her, gentling his voice, he said, “You’re in shock, I think, my dear. You don’t want me.”

  She appeared to consider his words for a long moment. And when she at last nodded and said, “I think you’re right,” he told himself he had no cause to feel hurt. Then she added, “Right about the shock, I mean. I’m so cold. And I—I can’t seem to… I need…” The room’s shadows were deep, but he could nonetheless see the pain in her eyes.

  “Aren’t you the slightest bit worried I might be overcome with passion and ravish you?” he asked—intending the words as a teasing reminder that they were on the verge of dangerous territory here. A warning he promptly undercut by glancing toward the screen, behind which slept his sisters. Soundly, he hoped.

  Her gaze followed his and the corners of her lips turned up. “On the floor of this shabby posting in? No. I trust nothing untoward will happen here tonight. But you did ask me what I wanted,” she repeated, smoothing her palm over the hearthrug, “and my answer is—”

  He reached out to brush a fingertip across her lips. “Shh. Save those words. Think longer on my question. One day you will realize you want something, someone other than…”

  She looked up at him, unblinking. Unpersuaded.

  He lifted away his hand. “All right,” he whispered, resigned. “Lie down.”

  The better part of him hoped that when it came to it, her senses would return and she would refuse. But the rest of him wanted to roar with satisfaction when she smiled a wicked little smile of triumph and stretched out obligingly on the floor, one arm tucked beneath her head. He covered her with the blanket.

  After banking the fire, he tugged off his boots and lay down beneath his greatcoat, farther away from the hearth and what he hoped might pass for a respectable distance from her. At least he’d be close at hand, if there were any trouble—

  Every attempt at rationalizing his decision scattered when she scooted closer, closer, until the curve of her backside was pressed against his groin. This was an entirely different kind of trouble. He willed his heart to stop pounding, to stop driving blood into his cock, where it most emphatically was not needed.

  “That’s better,” she muttered. “Warmer.”

  Much warmer. “Roisín,” he sighed against her hair.

  She stiffened slightly in his arms, then tested the unfamiliar word. “Roisín. What does it mean?”

  “Little rose,” he said simply, wondering whether she knew he’d borrowed the name from his sister’s book.

  “Oh.” Her swift release of breath sounded disappointed. “It’s just the same as ‘Rosie.’”

  He pulled her closer still. “Not to an Irishman.”

  She seemed to consider his reply for a moment before saying, “Goodnight, Paris.”

  He felt certain that the spark of desire burning inside him—in addition
to the hard floor—would ensure he passed a damned uncomfortable few hours. But as soon as she spoke, a wave of relaxation swept over him. With his arms wrapped tightly around her, absorbing every rise and fall of her breast, he soon dropped into a deeper and easier sleep than he had known in months.

  Chapter 17

  Rosamund awoke with a shiver, alone on the cold hearth.

  Panic fluttered through her chest before she could stop it. She still could not explain, even to herself, why she’d been so desperate to make Paris stay with her last night. Persuading him had taken every ounce of her courage and something else besides. Something she hadn’t even known she possessed. Mrs. Sloane would have called them feminine wiles.

  Perhaps she had been in shock. Would that explain—to say nothing of excuse—her erratic, improper behavior? Not just last night, but every night since she’d met him? Enjoying the intimacy of a midnight conversation. Relishing the feel of being held in his arms. She had so little experience making her own choices. Why, just look at the foolish ones she’d made! Kittens and sticks of barley sugar and…Paris. Sweet things that would inevitably grow up, melt away, turn bitter.

  Then, in the faint morning light, she saw Paris’s greatcoat still draped over the chair. He hadn’t left her. Not yet.

  She sat up, stretched stiff muscles, and rose. Behind the screen, Daphne and Bell slept on; Eileen was busily engaged in her morning ablutions, washing vigorously between spread pink toes. Pale sunlight pierced the thin curtains covering the window beside the bed, and when she peeked out, she could see rough water in the distance. Too rough? Would it be very poor form to pray that the ships would have to remain in the harbors of both Holyhead and Dunleary, so that her brother could not come after her, and Paris could not leave? Oh, she felt like a ship, buffeted by winds of uncertainty, not knowing whether she most wanted an anchor or a sail.