The Lady's Deception

by Susanna Craig

  But first and last, he saw her eyes, flared with passion. Eager despite her innocence. Trusting.

  She was watching him too, watching his face as he drank in her beauty. She sat leaning back on her arms, her lower legs dangling over the high mattress. This gift…he knew he didn’t deserve it. But she was bestowing it upon him anyway. Slowly, she parted her legs, inviting him. He tossed aside his towel and went to her.

  It would be an exaggeration to say he’d formulated any sort of plan, though he could not deny having dreamed of touching her. His hands trembled as he set them at her waist and kissed her thoroughly before sinking to his knees.

  Ought he to have paused to pay tribute to her lovely breasts, or to stroke the curve of her waist? Every inch of her demanded his devotion. But this, this was the shrine at which he longed to worship. He traced the back of his knuckles up and down her silken inner thigh, drew in the sharp tang of her arousal. “Here, love?” he whispered, slipping one fingertip into her wetness. “Is this where it aches? Shall I kiss it and make it better?”

  “Yes-s-s.” Barely a hiss of sound. “Please.”

  Obligingly, he touched his tongue to the place his finger had found, tasted the spice of her. Her hips bucked. Holding her open to him, he kissed her thighs, the delicate crease of skin where her legs joined her body, the top of her mound, before setting his mouth to her in earnest, lashing her with his tongue and then taking her nub between his lips. Moaning, she clawed at the bed linens, and he imagined the stinging pleasure of those nails set to his back.

  Then she was muffling her cries against a pillow, coming long before he’d had his fill of her. He might never have his fill of her. It was like awakening from a dream to find it had come true, and by God, he wasn’t going to let it slip away from him again.

  Almost reluctantly, he picked up the discarded towel to wipe his face, then rose from the floor and lay down beside her on the bed. The linen was cool against his overheated skin. She was still struggling to catch her breath. “I—I didn’t—know. Oh!”

  As she curled against him, he wrapped an arm around her. “I’ll wager there’s quite a few lessons I could teach our governess.”

  She gave a breathless, incredulous laugh. “Really?”

  “Do you doubt me?”

  A dangerous question. One small hand came up to rest against his chest, carving out space between them. “Sometimes, yes.” Oh, those eyes, clear as a summer sky. Honest. “But not tonight.” She nuzzled closer again, set her lips to his ear. “Now, tell me how I can soothe your ache.”

  His body fairly throbbed with need. But when she spoke those words, his first thought was for another ache entirely: the pangs of grief and guilt that had been filling his chest and fogging his mind since last May.

  Gently, he probed the edges of that familiar pain. Still tender. But not unbearably so. He’d been certain that opening his heart to another would only make matters worse. What if…what if giving in to his desire, his feelings for Rosamund, was actually the path toward healing?

  “I think, maybe, you already have,” he said, and smiled when a frown of incomprehension wrinkled her brow. “But if you insist…” He rolled onto his back, lifting one arm to cradle his head, a posture that only highlighted his aroused state. “Do just as you please, love.”

  “What if I do nothing at all?” Hoisting herself up on one elbow, she looked down at him, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, her hair falling around them like a curtain of gold silk.

  “Don’t think I haven’t enjoyed myself already tonight,” he said, trying to keep both disappointment and desperation from his voice.

  “Oh, yes. I know. Why, when I first came in, it looked as if you were…”

  “Taking matters into my own hands?” he suggested with a naughty grin, half for the delight of seeing her blush.

  She ran a fingertip through the hair on his chest. “Will you show me?”

  It was his turn to flush. “Show you how I—?” Until she’d entered his life, he’d never been at a loss for words.

  She snagged her lower lip between her teeth and nodded.

  Though he’d never performed that particular trick for an audience, his cock was only too ready for him to oblige her. He swept his hand over his flesh, up and down, before settling to a firmer grip. He couldn’t deny it felt good—he couldn’t remember ever being this hard. From beneath lowered lashes, he looked at her, wondering if she liked what she saw.

  But she wasn’t watching the movement of his hand. She was watching his face, earnestly searching for something. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning closer. “Sorry I hid from you. But you’ve been hiding too. Please, Paris. Show me.”

  “Show you…?” He managed somehow to grind out the question. Or was it a question? He knew what she wanted from him.

  Everything.

  And what would she think when he gave it to her, when she saw his weakness, when everything he’d kept hidden spilled from him in a torrent?

  Her cool hand slid over his belly and came to rest around his fist. Quickly he shifted so that she was touching him and he was guiding her, harder, faster. The telltale spasm began in his cods and spread upward, driving a groan out of his chest. Her greedy gaze alternated now between her hand and his face. “Yes,” she whispered. He could not control the rictus of desire as it contorted his features, and she saw it all, the indescribable expression that only a man’s lover ever glimpsed, utter vulnerability, a grimace of pleasure-pain, his lips parted on a muffled cry as he spent.

  Heedless of the mess, she leaned over him and pressed her lips to his temple to catch a single tear that had leaked from beneath his lashes. “Thank you,” she breathed against his skin. “I needed to see you. All of you.”

  After that, what other secrets could be worth keeping?

  “I love you, sweet Roisín,” he murmured as he drifted to sleep.

  Chapter 22

  Rosamund woke in her own bed with a smile on her face. Not just because of what had happened last night, though her body still thrummed with remembered pleasure. And not entirely because of the last words he’d said. She didn’t know whether she ought to put much stock in that confession, under the circumstances. She certainly hadn’t expected it. But now that she had it, she was going to hold onto it.

  She was going to make him see that he deserved happiness as much as she did.

  Stretching, she sat up as the maid came in with hot water and wished her good morning. It would be good. She had something now that no one, not even Charles, could take from her.

  “G’mornin’, Miss Gorse.” The young woman curtsied. “Her Grace sent me to help you dress.”

  This, of course, meant borrowing more from Paris’s sister’s wardrobe. But the Duchess of Raynham’s clothes were considerably more lavish, both in style and quality, than plain Erica Burke’s had been. Rosamund chose a morning gown of fawn-colored poplin with a narrow stripe of pink, and with the maid’s skillful pinning, the dress looked as if it had been made for her.

  “Pretty as a picture,” pronounced the maid. “Now, if you’ll sit down at the dressing table, I can help with your hair.” Rosamund, who was still in a mood to indulge herself, complied eagerly. The maid picked up a brush in one hand and section of hair in the other. “Goodness me, ma’am. What’s happened to your neck? Oh dear, and here on your cheek, too.”

  Rosamund peered into the mirror at the mottled pink skin to which the maid pointed and remembered the pleasing burn of Paris’s rough beard. She flushed, turning her face redder still.

  “Well, Her Grace keeps a pot o’ cream for rashes and things,” the maid reassured her and went back to fussing over her hair. “She makes it herself, in the stillroom at Hawesdale. From flower petals and the like. Seems she’s always getting’ her hands into something she shouldn’t.”

  Once her hair was arranged, the sweetly scented lotion was
found and applied. Not everywhere, of course; Rosamund was rather enjoying the more private reminders of Paris’s touch.

  What had been his first thought upon waking up this morning? He’d fallen into such a deep sleep last night, she hadn’t been able to rouse him. Hadn’t been able to tell him what was in her heart. Though she’d been tempted to sleep beside him, it would have been inviting discovery. Instead she’d cleaned things up as best she could, managed to cover him with sheets and blankets though he’d still been lying crosswise on the bed, and sneaked back to her own chamber.

  Would she see him at breakfast this morning? And if so, how did lovers keep from blushing whenever they laid eyes on one another?

  She needn’t have worried. The breakfast parlor, a bright and airy room at the rear of the house overlooking the garden, contained only the duke and duchess and a pair of footmen, one on either end of a long sideboard filled with chafing dishes. Raynham laid aside his newspaper and rose when she entered. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “I hope you slept well, Miss Gorse,” said the duchess, smiling. Rosamund could not decide whether the words hinted at knowledge of anything that might have interfered with her rest.

  “Thank you, yes.” The unvarnished truth. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt more relaxed, despite the worries that plagued her. “And the lecture—was it all you’d hoped?”

  “Oh, indeed. Very informative. I’m hoping to supplement Mr. Beals’s research by examining the local botanical remedies for these tropical fevers. People do tend to underestimate the power of plants and flowers.”

  “They underestimate the power of lady botanists, too,” said her husband, whose eyes were once more focused on his paper. “At their peril.”

  Erica’s eyes flashed and then softened as she looked toward her husband with what Rosamund could only describe as a private smile. “Let me get you a plate, Miss Gorse,” she said, remembering herself and rising.

  “I can serve myself. You’ve done so much already.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve never been one for sitting still. Eggs? A bit of toast?”

  A footman poured a cup of steaming chocolate and set it down at the empty place at the table. Rosamund realized suddenly that no fourth place had been set. “Your brother does not join us this morning?”

  Erica gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “He was up at dawn. Might’ve gone for a ride with Raynham, but no. He insisted he had work to do. I daresay he’s arranging for his return to Dublin.” Her voice dropped, but Rosamund could’ve sworn she heard the duchess mutter, “Eejit.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” Rosamund did not realize she had grabbed her fork at the wrong end until she felt the tines prick deep into the soft flesh of her palm. He couldn’t really be leaving her, not after last night?

  As soon as the old doubt rose, she scuttled it. It was true that on each of the prior occasions when they’d shared an intimate moment—that first kiss, the inn in Wales—she’d woken to discover him gone. But he’d always come back to her. She had to trust that he would do so again.

  Just then, a commotion in the corridor drew everyone’s attention, and without any announcement, the Dowager Duchess of Raynham entered the room, with her daughter, Daphne, and Bell in tow. Raynham’s stepmother was an elegant, fair haired woman, surely not forty years of age, who moved with the grace one expected of a duchess. Her daughter, dark haired and sallow, looked to be a little older than Daphne.

  “Good morning, all,” the dowager duchess said, kissing both her stepson and her daughter-in-law on the cheek. “I hadn’t thought to call quite so early, but…” She gestured at the three girls huddled near the door, who giggled rather conspiratorially. “Daphne and Bellis were adamant that Viviane meet the famous Miss Gorse first thing.”

  Stunned, Rosamund curtsied to the duchess and was nearly knocked over by Daphne and Bell, whose arms encircled her waist as she rose. “This is a pleasant surprise. I expected you to have forgotten all about me by now.”

  “Oh, Miss Gorse,” Daphne chided. “How could we? We wouldn’t be in London if it weren’t for you. Paris never would’ve brought us otherwise.”

  “And we wouldn’t have Eileen if it weren’t for you, either,” added Bell.

  “Bell rescued the kitten,” she reminded them, as she greeted Lady Viviane and they all moved toward the table.

  “But you rescued Paris,” said Erica, in a voice only for Rosamund’s ears.

  Mr. Burke had said much the same only the day before. Instinctively, she parted her lips to deny it. She was the one in need of rescue. She was hardly in a position to be rescuing others.

  But the noise level in the room had risen tremendously, drowning out any reply she might make: voices and laughter and the clatter of silver and china as one of the footmen set three more places at the table. She hardly noticed when Mr. Remington entered with a letter for the duke.

  “Miss Gorse.” Raynham’s voice, though entirely unlike Paris’s, had its own way of slicing through the chaos and commanding attention. She might almost wish that every head in the room had not turned to look when he spoke.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “A note from Ashborough.” He gestured with the piece of paper in his hand. “As we feared, your brother has arrived in town. It seems he does not know everything, however. He wrote this morning to enquire whether any member of Mr. Burke’s extended family might tell him where you were to be found.”

  Rosamund released a shaky breath. “And?” Bell, still standing beside her, gripped her hand. She wanted the answer to that question herself.

  “Our next step depends at great deal on you, Miss Gorse. As you may or may not know, Ashborough acquired a vast fortune playing cards. I’m given to understand he’s quite adept at what gamesters call bluffing.”

  She could not quite decide whether the Duke of Raynham was making a joke. “Do you mean to say he would lie? For me?”

  Raynham gave a single nod. “If you wish it.”

  A temporary reprieve, at best. She shook her head. Lies were no way to live. And she could not continue to rely on others. She wanted this matter done, once and for all. “Yesterday, you indicated a willingness to meet with my brother.”

  “Of course. I am at your command, Miss Gorse.”

  “Write to him, please. Arrange to see him as soon as possible. This afternoon, if it can be done.”

  He nodded again. “Setterby will not trouble you after today.” The slightest flick of his hand sent a footman scurrying for pen and ink. “You may entrust the matter entirely to Ashborough and me.”

  She lifted her chin and straightened her spine and said in her most governesslike voice, “No.” Last night had given her a taste of her own power. Whatever came of it, she meant to go on making her own choices. She was done running from her brother. “I will be coming with you, Your Grace.”

  A chorus of concerned gasps rose around her, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see a flash of red as Erica shook her head. But she kept her gaze focused on the duke. A flicker of surprise—or was it approval?—crossed his otherwise impassive expression and was gone before she could even be sure she what she had seen. He bowed and tossed the letter onto the table. “As you wish.”

  * * * *

  They arrived at Finch House shortly before one o’clock, a considerably larger party than Rosamund had imagined. Daphne and Bell wished to see their parents; Erica had agreed to accompany them. The Dowager Duchess intended to call on Lady Ashborough, which meant of course that Lady Viviane had come too. And surely Eileen was secreted in the basket dangling from Daphne’s arm. Rosamund knew she ought to take comfort in the fact that everyone, even strangers, had rallied around her in this hour of need.

  And she might have, if only everyone had included Paris. Why had he hidden himself away again?

  Philpot bowed them in and led them to the same drawing room as t
he day before. Lord Ashborough rose to greet them. “Making our morning calls, are we? I’m sorry to say that my wife finds herself in some discomfort this morning and has decided to keep to her bed. Her mother is with her now, and Mr. Burke has gone out to fetch the physician. Just in case.”

  Despite the lightness of his voice, worry lined his handsome face. Rosamund recalled Bell describing her sister as being “in expectation of a happy event”; never before had she understood how pallid and ridiculous a euphemism it was for the anxiety and anticipation surrounding childbirth.

  “I’ll go to her, if I may,” said the Dowager Duchess. “I may be of some assistance.”

  Erica announced an impromptu plan to take the girls on a nature walk through the garden at the center of Grosvenor Square. Once she had rummaged through her sister’s escritoire for paper and pencils, and taken Elf’s leash in hand, the four of them—five if one counted the dog, and six if Rosamund’s surmise about the kitten was correct—set out. Rosamund wondered whether the duchess knew what she had in store for herself for the next hour.

  Then, of course, only she and Lord Ashborough and the Duke of Raynham remained. “You mustn’t trouble yourself about me,” she insisted to the anxious marquess.

  He managed a smile, though it lacked yesterday’s carefree charm. “To be quite honest, Miss Gorse, I welcome the distraction. I fear I might just run mad if left to my own devices.”

  For once, he did not seem to be exaggerating for humorous effect.

  “All right, then,” said Raynham. “Your brother is due on the hour, Miss Gorse, and his letter suggests that Dashfort will accompany him. We have some thoughts about how to proceed, but what did you have in mind?”

  She knew from Daphne and Bell that Raynham was a military officer. For a moment, she considered deferring to his judgment. But she did have one advantage: she knew the enemy they were to face.