Truthfully he could not care less about a handful of scribblings describing an affair that may or may not have even occurred. He’d rather dazzle Eleanor with his bedroom skills than his ability to set off little bombs. He intended to make up for six years of neglect, as her husband and lover.
What remained uncertain was whether he could persuade her that he deserved the chance to try.
Chapter Five
A change of plans. Sebastien congratulated himself for having the foresight to exit the small door behind the musician’s stage, thus circumventing the crush that Eleanor would meet outside the ballroom. From there, he anticipated it would be easy work to find the letter. He soon discovered that Lady Trotten did not keep her private belongings in the bedchamber she shared with her husband. She maintained a separate suite at the opposite end of the hall. It was a good thing he’d learned to anticipate these unexpected detours. No doubt Eleanor was still searching the wrong chamber.
It took him an additional thirty-five seconds to pick the brass lock to a darkened anteroom furnished with a massive velvet chaise lounge that sat upon four lion-clawed feet.
Encircled in the far corner by three standing mirrors, the couch was clearly placed to invite moonlight encounters. One would hope, however, that what ever trysts her ladyship enjoyed in that corner were waiting for a more convenient moment.
At least, more convenient to the man who’d broken into the room.
No sooner had he slipped into his tunic the letter, designated as the one desired by its broken crimson seal, than he realized he was not alone in her ladyship’s room.
Neither was her ladyship. She was steering a man to the couch. Lovely time for her to conduct an affair.
“Je vous en prie, madame,” her enthusiastic lover gasped as he stumbled onto the chaise, so flattened beneath her generous form that all Sebastien could discern of him was one outthrust arm and a stockinged foot.
“I have no idea what you’re saying,” she whispered breathlessly. “But please don’t stop. I know our countries have been at war. Let’s make peace on our own terms.”
Sebastien leaned against the wall, sighing heavily.
Well, wasn’t this delightful?
If he failed to meet Eleanor at their agreed-upon time, he would never hear the end of it. She would accuse him of being an amateur.
He waited for several moments behind the dressing screen, trying to ignore the cries of passion that rose from the couch. At one point Lady Trotten’s lover screamed that she had killed him. Sebastien resisted the urge to look.
In an hour or so, he hoped to be suffering a similar turmoil himself. His wife had to know how much he wanted her. And he thought she wanted him, too. But then again he wanted her enough for both of them.
“Your breasts are like Anjou pears,” the adulterous man beneath Lord Trotten’s wife gasped as he resurfaced for air. “Your belly is an orchard of ripe offerings, a meadow of fertile pleasures, a—”
“Do speak in French,” she moaned. “And hurry up. My husband thinks I’m changing my shoes.”
Sebastien glanced up instinctively as the door opened to admit a silent black shadow. The eyes of the shadow caught his.
He smiled.
She moved toward him.
He shook his head in warning, waited until Lady Trotten gave another insensible groan, and stole from behind the screen to join Eleanor at the door.
Moments later Lord Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and his faithful cat, descended the main staircase arm-in-arm. Lord and Lady Boscastle had been separated for years by circumstances beyond their control. The ton understood the significance of an early departure. Who did not sigh in pleasure to see the tall, dashing baron and his loving wife reunited at last?
Lord Boscastle thanked their cuckolded host for a marvelous time, and walked his wife sedately to the carriage parked on the next street. Eleanor’s cousin was hunched over the coachman’s box, his harlequin masquerade disguised beneath a brown serge cloak and the reins looped over his wrists.
“You’re three minutes late,” he exclaimed as they approached. “I thought I was going to have to rescue you.”
Sebastien snorted. The day Will Prescott rescued anybody would be one for the history books. The young actor was as thin as a twig and half as intimidating, with barely a stubble of beard to prove his manhood. He quailed at the sight of fake blood on stage. He’d had nightmares since childhood. But he was Eleanor’s family and constant companion. Sebastien felt a reluctant fondness for him even if he suspected that she was the one who took care of Will, despite his claims to the contrary.
He climbed the steps after Eleanor and closed the door.
The carriage trundled off at a neat pace before either of them had a chance to sit.
Eleanor removed her cap, her dark red hair tumbling free. Sebastien smiled to himself as she dropped back against the seat and began tugging impatiently at her trousers. He wondered how long it would take her to realize she was trapped. And that he was willing to help her if she would only ask.
“I recovered the letter as promised,” he said, pretending not to notice her predicament until her indignant gasps grew too loud to ignore. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“You closed my tail in the door!”
“I didn’t—” He glanced down, grinning slowly. “Did I?”
She collapsed to the floor of the coach, flinging him a look. “Are you going to sit there with that awful smirk while I struggle to get it free?”
“You only have to ask if you require my help.”
“I thought I was asking.”
“It’s an honor,” he said, leaning over her. “After all, how many times is a husband asked to extricate his wife’s—well, it’s probably better not described.”
“No.” She swallowed as he bent his head to hers. “It’s better untrapped. This is very uncomfortable.”
“I can imagine.”
“It’s tempting to believe you did it on purpose.”
He tutted. “Should I ever have the pleasure of trapping you, it won’t be in a carriage racing through the streets of London.”
“I hope that isn’t a threat?” she asked softly, falling still.
He chuckled. “When have you ever known me to resort to physical force?”
“Sometimes I think I’ve never known you at all.”
“I intend for that to change. Assuming that you’ll give me a chance to prove myself.”
Her lips tightened in a beguiling smile. “I’m hardly in a position to do anything else.”
Ah, an opening.
Or was it wishful thinking on his part?
Damn if it mattered in the end. A man learned to put his foot in the door and make a place for himself.
“Sebastien,” she whispered uncertainly.
He took a breath. Her soft mouth tempted him. He leaned closer to kiss her at the inopportune moment that Will turned the corner on two wheels.
“Hell,” he said, and caught her under her arm, steadying her against the bouncing motion of the carriage. She started to laugh. For a moment he contented himself to hold her. Then slowly he lifted his other hand, stroking his fingers down her face, her throat. Her eyes darkened, holding his, drawing him to her.
“Dear me,” he said quietly. “You have gotten yourself in trouble, haven’t you?”
“I realized that on my wedding day,” she said.
“Ah. It comes back to haunt me. I’d hoped you would forgive and forget.”
“Sebastien, please. We can discuss our ill-fated wedding at another time.”
He pulled off his mask and went down on one knee, running his hand from the captured appendage to the seat of her trousers.
“I think I perceive the problem.” He patted her rump consolingly. “Your tail is attached to your costume. One clearly goes with the other.”
“How astute of you.”
Her champagne-scented whiskers tickled his nape for several tortuous moments, and her breasts, wh
ose shape he would never dream of describing as Anjou pears, pressed against his shoulder. Desire for her beat through every blood vessel of his body. She was his, and yet he was afraid he had lost her.
“What are you doing down there?” she asked in a hesitant voice.
He contemplated her hindquarters before glancing up again. “I was thinking how peculiar life is.”
“It’s hardly the time to turn philosophical,” she said with a frown.
He grinned.
This was the closest encounter they’d had in years. She was literally a captive audience, in a position he had dreamed about, and even though it wasn’t a situation conducive to lovemaking, he hadn’t come through hell to give her up without a fight.
He shook his head in bemusement. “In all the years we’ve been apart, I constantly wondered how you passed your time.”
“And now that your curiosity has been satisfied?”
He regarded her with a thin smile. “My curiosity hasn’t been satisfied at all. I have more questions than ever about your activities, although I’ll confess that during my worst moments I never pictured you in this situation.”
“No? Then how did you picture me?”
“I suppose I was afraid that I would have rivals for your affection. Gentlemen who considered an absent husband not a liability but a lure.”
She blinked as he slipped his hand around her bottom. “I’ve been at no man’s mercy until this moment,” she said. “Your imagination deceived you.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” he said after a pause. “However, I never imagined that my wife was involved in any manner of subterfuge. Or that my rival was to be you.”
“But once you found out—”
“I rushed back to your side, alarmed for your safety.” He gave the length of wool a tug. “You’re free,” he said, tossing her squashed tail into her lap. “You can get up.”
She rose from her uncomfortable crouch, studying him in—well, he couldn’t decide what that look on her face meant. He decided he’d done a reasonable job of concealing his own thoughts considering that he’d not only wanted to liberate her tail but to remove the whole damned costume and have his way with her.
She settled back against the squabs. “Thank you,” she said guardedly.
He shrugged, staring out the window so that he wouldn’t be tempted to take her in his arms again until they got home. A man who couldn’t control himself in a moving carriage could hardly hope to assert control in more important matters. “It was nothing,” he said. “Any husband would have done the same.”
Chapter Six
But he wasn’t any husband.
And she did not wish to be any wife.
Eleanor felt her heart pounding in countertime to the hoofbeats against the cobbles. She stole another peep at his angular profile. The night shadows suited his dark countenance. She had exerted all her willpower to keep from crumpling in his arms. She clasped her hands together, quickly looking away as he turned his head.
Too late.
His brooding glance met hers. A pleasant languor stole over her. She had not felt this helpless in years.
She forced herself to stare back into his fathomless blue eyes.
A flame of excitement caught in the air between them before he finally looked away.
She unclasped her hands, the blood flowing back stingingly through her veins. She had lived without him. She could do so again.
And yet she had seen desire in his eyes. What was he waiting for? How long could she continue to pretend that while the wounded part of her wanted to order him out of her life, the other part simply wanted—him? Years of his unexplained absence, of hoping for word to assure her that he was even alive. She had been lonely and furious. She understood that he did not wish to admit what kind of work he had done.
But what kind of man had he become? What dark deeds had he committed in the Crown’s name?
Did it make a difference?
Could she resist him?
Cynicism had sculpted intriguing creases in his face. She couldn’t keep from staring at him at the ball tonight. Sebastien had never been a shy man. Nor one who kept secrets. Now she sensed something calculating about him. Even his laugh held an edge that had charged the evening with an unexpected thrill of anticipation. He had flirted with her, yet kept a distance.
His eyes studied her with uncompromising intimacy. His smile promised and denied at the same time. Sometimes she was positive he wanted her. At other times, she wasn’t sure who he even was. He wasn’t the man who had chased and caught her in Spain.
He was far more dangerous.
But then again, according to the London newspapers, so was she. But she wasn’t really. Her monstrosity was a myth. While certain people in Society might attribute dangerous motives to the Mayfair Masquer, the truth was that her other identity balked at even swatting a fly. She fed stray cats in the street. Granted, she carried a pistol during her undertakings for the duchess. Heaven only knew what would happen if she needed to use it. She had never deliberately hurt anyone or anything in her life.
Sebastien had. But his actions had been such a protected secret that even the duchess’s contacts couldn’t uncover them.
Eleanor hadn’t tried to stop him when he’d accepted his nefarious assignment in France shortly after their wedding. It was obvious that he was relieved to be back in action and that he couldn’t stand feeling useless. What else could she do except let him go?
But since then, she often wondered what it had cost him to return to service. And as to the exact nature of his work, whenever she asked him, he replied, “I prefer not to talk about it.”
“Are you a spy, Sebastien?”
“Not exactly,” he would answer with a mordant laugh that made her think he was doing something worse.
“Well—are there other women involved?”
“Not in the manner you’re thinking.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there are certain government concerns of which a lady should not be aware.”
She had never been much of a lady, she wanted to shout. She was certainly strong enough to accept what ever the truth was.
How many ladies had held their bare hands over the perforated intestines of a surgeon’s patient in a midnight emergency? Or had assisted in numerous bloodlettings? Or who loved to play with leeches?
Or, the very worst, who wanted to grab her husband by the shoulders and kiss the devil until he begged for mercy?
No, she had never been much of a lady in Society’s sense of the word.
She made a better gentleman.
“We’re almost home,” he said genially. “And about time, too. I’ve waited forever for this night.”
She narrowed her eyes at his cheerful announcement. He’d been back in London for three months and hadn’t spent more than an hour or so in their town house. The way he acted one would think that their attendance at the masquerade tonight signaled the resumption of wedded bliss.
“I think we ought to go straight to bed,” he added, in case she had misunderstood him.
“I am tired,” she admitted, lowering her eyes. “I could sleep for a week.”
“I found the evening to be invigorating.”
“But you just said that you—”
“Yes. I did. We’re going straight to bed. We’ve waited long enough. We’re reacquainted, partners in this mission of yours. It is time, don’t you agree?”
Her throat closed with a pleasant sense of panic. She wondered what he would do if she refused him outright. Had she deceived herself into thinking he would quietly accept a rejection?
Or that she would be able to deliver one?
His smile acknowledged her uncertainty.
Perhaps this wasn’t her husband at all. Perhaps he’d had an evil twin hidden away that no one knew about. He had brothers he’d never discussed. Maybe one of them had snuffed out Sebastien, stolen his title, and returned to London to wreak havoc.
The carriage wheels hit a rut. She cursed Will inwardly for his reckless driving, then bounced forward. Sebastien’s muscular arms enclosed her. He murmured soothing words in her ear. Before she could assure him she was fine, he seized the advantage. His mouth covered hers in a dizzying kiss.
Or had she kissed him first?
She suspected she had, which did not bode well for her planned revenge. Up until then, they had both shown remarkable control. She hadn’t wanted to break first.
Her thoughts dissolved. Male power dominated her. Not an evil twin. This was the man who had taught her everything she knew about love and loss. Wasn’t she supposed to teach him a lesson? Didn’t he need to know that he couldn’t pop in and out of her life with impunity?
The carriage rounded another corner. Sebastien’s body steadied hers while her senses spun; her pulses throbbed in painful need. He exploited her response. He drew her closer, crushing her breasts to his chest, kissing her shoulders, promising her she wouldn’t be sorry that he’d come home. Her head dropped back as his hard mouth demanded more than she’d intended to give. At the very least he could tell her why he’d gone.
“We’re almost home,” she murmured.
“Thank God.”
His mouth captured her helpless moan. She melted into reflective submission, her hope for a forceful response less likely by the moment. With artful seduction he kept kissing her until it was torment not to ask for more. Finally she placed one hand around his neck and sank slowly back. He bent over her. His thick erection strained against her stomach. Her body responded eagerly to his potent sexuality.
He trailed his gloved fingertips across her collarbone, into her neckline, between her swollen breasts where her heart fluttered. A stinging flush rose to her skin, his caresses incendiary, a flagrant beguilement. She lifted her head to stare up into his strong-boned face.
A Wicked Lord at the Wedding Page 5