A snigger from Winthrop was quick to follow her words. “Jaddie does have a spot of trouble in keeping up with his friends.”
“But Fitzwilliam has an unfair advantage over the rest of us,” grumbled Jadwin, once the guffaws had died down. “He is well versed in penning soulful rhyme.”
“You will all have a chance to display your particular strengths,” she replied. “Indeed, I shall now take a moment to explain in more detail the rules of the coming fortnight.”
The snick of silverware stilled.
“There will be six challenges, each designed to test a different skill. They will take place every other day, which shall suit the main schedule nicely, and they will…” She paused for effect. “… climax on the evening before the duke’s auction.”
A throaty laugh sounded from Dunster.
“The winner of each one will receive a special prize. In this case, I will treat the gentleman who comes out on top to a private poetry reading in the duke’s Persian Room. I have in my possession a translation of some Arabic bedtime sonnets that I daresay will prove most provocative.”
Winthrop drew in a deep breath, then echoed Jadwin’s sentiment. “Still, it seems Fitz is guaranteed to win.”
“Be assured, I shall not be grading the results with a schoolmaster’s eye. You may take liberties with the art form. I am looking for something original, unexpected. Indeed, I require it.”
“If you wish to experience poetry in motion, I should be happy to give you a private performance.” Dunster stood up, looking supremely self-confident as he tucked the challenge in his coat pocket. He gave a suggestive waggle. “Now, if you wish?”
Leveritt and Jadwin both rolled their eyes, but Winthrop clapped in appreciative applause. “I didn’t realize you had such a way with words, Dun,” he exclaimed.
“What other talents are you keeping hidden?”
“I fear Dunster is poised to steal a march on us,” added Fitzwilliam. “We had better sharpen our quills if we hope to have any chance of winning this part of the competition.”
“Speaking of winning and losing, you have yet to spell out the stipulations of this game, madam,” said Jadwin. “I assume there are some.”
“Only two, and simple ones at that. It must be written in your own hand on a single sheet of paper. And it must be delivered to me no later than the stroke of noon. I shall be awaiting the finished results in the Tudor Library, which can be found in the West Wing of the castle.”
Siena passed by Dunster, close enough that her skirts brushed his boots. A sidelong glance showed his mouth still curved in a scimitar smile. Hard, sharp, unyielding despite its rounded bend. The marquess was used to mowing through women like so many stalks of wheat. Or perhaps plowing through them was a more apt metaphor, she decide as he cocked a hip and assumed an arrogant stance.
“I should think you would find it rather dull to be sequestered in a room with only books for company, my dear Dove,” he murmured.
“The duke is accorded to have some fascinating treasures tucked away in the smaller library rooms through the manor house. No doubt I shall find something there to keep me amused.”
The marquess did not waste any time in looking to show up his rivals. Acting as if his conquest was all but assured, he gave a casual glance at his pocket watch. “Ah, just enough time for a nap … to rest up for the rigors of the competition.”
Fitzwilliam’s earlier comments seemed to imply that victory came easily to Dunster in affairs of the flesh. Siena studied his finely chiseled features and crown of blond curls a moment longer before lowering her gaze. Given his golden looks, she imagined that was true. Could such luck weaken a man’s character, spoil him into thinking he deserved special favors by virtue of his face alone?
“Any other questions, gentlemen?” she asked.
“Might you pass the strawberry jam, Winthrop?” murmured Kirtland.
“Until noon, then.” With a deliberate swirl of her skirts, Siena left the men to their eggs and gammon. Dunster was not the only man whose real motives provoked a multitude of questions. But at last she was on the way to discovering some answers.
The sonorous clock chimes were just fading when a flutter of paper tickled the nape of her neck.
Looking up from a display of Elizabethan jewelry, Siena accepted the last of the sonnets and tucked it into the folds of her gown. “That was cutting it rather close, Lord Dunster.” He had made no move to back away, and as she regarded his artfully arranged curls and smoothly shaven jaw, she was aware of the overpowering scent of his cologne. “A forfeit could have put you far back in the running for the ultimate prize.”
“I have no fears on that score. I’m very good at games-and I never lose.”
“A bold statement.” Siena teased at the tail of his cravat. “I have yet to meet a man who is immune to the vagaries of Fortune.”
His laugh possessed a cold conceit that grated on her ear. “Luck is said to be a lady. And ladies find me irresistible.”
She answered with a coy smile.
“Where are the others?” he asked, slanting a quick look around the deserted room.
“Fitzwilliam accepted an invitation to join Jadwin and Leveritt in a ride to the village, while Kirtland and Winthrop went off to view some of the other ducal collections.”
“And left a lady alone, without escort or entertainment? For shame. But then, they have always been rather rag-mannered when it comes to the opposite sex.” Dunster’s hand came to rest on the small of her back. “Why don’t we take advantage of the opportunity to begin our afternoon rendezvous a touch early? I am sure you will find the Tudor treasures here more to your taste than the Rembrandt etchings.” His fingers slid beneath her sash in a whisper-soft rustle of silk. “Some of the more intriguing items are hidden in the far corners of the room.”
Siena let herself be led past the curio cabinets and bookcases. The shadows deepened as they turned into one of the alcoves, the dark oak and aged leather lightened only by a single leaded window centered in a narrow arch.
“Yes, I see there are some lovely books to behold.” She paused and stood on tiptoe to take down a gold-tooled binding, aware that the stretch would slide the curves of her buttocks beneath his touch.
In the confined space, the echo of his quickening breath grew louder.
“I have something far more interesting to show you than a folio of flowers,” he murmured, his palm pressing harder against her flesh. Hot, heavy, it felt unpleasantly damp through the scrim of silk.
“Indeed?” Siena turned, angling her hips in a provocative tilt as she placed the book back on the shelf. The air had grown heavier as well, the sharp scent of masculine arousal overpowering the more subtle smells of old parchment and paper.
Without warning, Dunster thrust himself upon her and captured her mouth in a bruising kiss. Though his lips were harsh and hard, she kissed him back, curious to see just how far he meant to go.
Emboldened, the marquess forced her back against the carved acanthus moldings, his hands roving over her breasts. “Leave your door unlocked tonight,” he growled when finally he released her. “I’ll come to you later, when everyone else has retired.”
Siena pulled back, her lips roughened and raw from the force of his embrace. “La, that would be against the rules I have set out, milord,” she said, though she kept on teasing her thigh against his groin. It was, after all, her intention to drive all of the six club members to distraction when the opportunity arose. In the heat of the moment, they might be coaxed into making a telling mistake. “Or don’t you believe in playing fair?”
He groaned, a low, feral sound. “I believe in taking what I want.” Hot, hungry, his mouth pressed to the hollow of her throat. “And right now I want you, naked and writhing beneath me. Be damned with all this foolish child’s play. I’m the best man by far to satisfy your needs.”
So, the marquess believed in taking what he wanted. How would he react to having his desire thwarted? She decided to
find out.
Twisting her skirts free from his grasp, Siena slipped out of his arms. “Like the others, you shall have to prove it.”
His cheeks darkened to a bloodred flush. “You may think to jerk the others around like puppets on a string, but don’t toy with me, my dear little Dove. I do not take kindly to being manipulated.”
How interesting. The Marquess of Dunster had a volatile temper to match his overweening pride.
“Oh, come now, sir,” she chided, deciding to match fire with fire. “Don’t act the aggrieved innocent with me. In both your world and mine, it all comes down to manipulating others for the best advantage.” She smoothed the lace fichu back in place above her breasts. “You can hardly blame me for emulating the duke, who is dangling his precious books before all of your noses, waiting to see who will jump the highest.”
Dunster’s anger seemed to fade somewhat, though she doubted the flash of teeth was meant as a smile. “A clever little slut, aren’t you. Very well, how much do you want for a night in your bed?”
“I’d be a fool to make a deal before all the bids are in.”
“Bids?” Winthrop suddenly strolled into the alcove. To her surprise, the figure by his side was Kirtland. “Is there yet another treasure for sale that the rest of us have not heard about?”
“The marquess and I were merely discussing the theoretical fine points of an auction,” she answered. “It is fascinating to become acquainted with all the dealings that go on behind the scenes.”
“The action can sometimes turn ugly,” replied Winthrop. “You have only to attend a sale of prime horses at TattersalFs to witness the sort of cutthroat tactics that would put a Barbary pirate to blush.”
“I doubt I would be shocked, sir.” She moved away from Dunster, her skirts kicking up a from of lace around her ankles. “After all, I am quite familiar with the sale of flesh.”
“Unlike some places, the mounts at Tat’s are of prime quality, and trained to obey their masters,” said the marquess, his voice still roughened with displeasure. “There, at least, you can count on buying biddable beasts, who are easily controlled with whip and spurs.”
“An experienced rider ought not have to resort to such measures,” said Kirtland slowly, his gaze flicking from the marquess to her and back again. “Trust is far more effective than fear.”
Sharp as a faceted emerald, his green gaze did not miss much. Siena swore a silent oath. She must take greater care to keep even the smallest hint of emotion from her face.
“Perhaps you ought to inform Wellesley and his staff of that platitude,” snarled Dunster. “Coming from you, any talk of trust would surely make quite an impression.”
The earl’s only reaction was an unblinking stare.
“Now, now, Dun, let us not have any misunderstandings arise.” Winthrop gave a nervous laugh as he tugged at his watch chain. “We—”
“Oh, never fear, the marquess and I understand each other quite well,” said Kirtland in a perfectly pleasant voice.
But Siena saw that the earl’s eyes had lost all hint of color in the shifting shadows, and now appeared as two points of tempered steel, capable of cutting through solid bone and bravado.
Dunster must have sensed the same, for despite his sneer, he shifted back a step.
The earl flashed a glance at Winthrop. “Don’t feel compelled to step into the line of fire again. I don’t need any help in fighting my battles.”
“Er, yes, well…” Clearly flustered by the unexpected confrontation, Winthrop was slow in forming a reply. “All I meant was, we are all a bit on edge. Naturally, each of us wants those Psalters badly, but no need to let the rivalry stir up bad blood between us.” He blew out a breath. “Come, let us go cool our heads and tongues with a glass of the duke’s excellent claret.”
Dunster followed, not without a last, murderous scowl at the earl. Kirtland ignored the invitation, waiting until the two men had left the room before turning for the door.
As he walked off without a word, Siena swore again.
She had already sensed a subtle friction between Dunster and Jadwin. Were there other hidden hostilities? Beneath the show of masculine camaraderie, were all the club members at each other’s throats?
She, too, took a tight-lipped leave of the library. What she needed was answers, not more disquieting questions.
To her dismay, Orlov appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and fell in step beside her. “A damsel in distress?”
“Thank you,” she said tartly, hoping to brush him off. “But I am not in need of St. Georgi to slay any dragons.”
“Nyet?” He exaggerated a grimace. “It seems to me that one of those gentlemen leaving the library was breathing fire.”
She repressed a smile. Unlike most Russians, whose temperament tended toward melancholy brooding, he appeared to have an impish sense of humor. “The smoke and flames are directed at each other.”
“I wonder what has stirred such passion?”
“Books,” she said blandly.
“I never cease to be amazed at what people are willing to fight over,” he remarked. “A bit of paper hardly seems worth the spilling of blood.”
“A strange sentiment coming from you, Mr. Orlov. Aren’t you in the thick of the bidding?”
“Only at someone else’s behest. If I had my choice, I should be putting my talents to other, more pleasurable use.”
She could not help but laugh. “Give it up, sir. You are wasting your time—and your charm—on me.”
He winked as they came to the end of the corridor. “You are not the only one who feels compelled to give fair warning, golub. I do not surrender so easily.”
“Nor do I.” She turned, to find Kirtland watching them from the shadowed recess of the arched entryway. “Good day, sir.”
Having no appetite to join the evening festivities, the earl had ordered a cold supper brought up to his quarters. He had intended to pass the evening reading a book on Burgundian art that he had borrowed from the duke’s collection. But somehow his mind was too restless to concentrate on scholarship. After a short time he found himself putting it aside and taking up a different page.
However, the guest list sparked no sudden flash of insight.
Damn. Kirtland grimaced. Had his intelligence skills grown as rusty as his cavalry spurs? Tossing the paper aside, he began to pace the perimeter of his bedchamber.
Like the other members of The Gilded Page Club, he had been given rooms on the third floor of the castle’s East Wing, overlooking the interior gardens. Across the corridor, another eight competitors were housed in the frayed opulence of Restoration furniture and Georgian brocades.
Several of the octogenarian guests were quartered in the Central Tower in deference to their aged bones.
While below him, in all her solitary splendor, resided the Black Dove.
A lady as mysterious as her moniker. A contrast, a contradiction. A conundrum. She had adopted the name of a fluttering, defenseless bit of fluff, and yet she sported the tattoo of a hawk in flight. Wings arced, talons poised. She was anything but helpless.
Hawks were hunters—what was her prey?
The question had been an unpleasant echo inside his head throughout the day. Someone had sent her. His wits were not so far gone that he thought her targeting of The Gilded Page Club was just serendipitous coincidence. But why? As a distraction?
If that was her mission, she was doing a damn good job of it.
He paused to press his forehead against one of the windowpanes. The coolness of the night air was a welcome relief to his own heated imagination. Not that the sight before his eyes was designed to quell any flights of fancy. Limned in the moonlight, the ghostly glass spires of the conservatory looked even more dreamlike as they rose from the mists.
Exotic. Like the specimen plantings blooming within its earthy warmth. Like the sinuous stretch of a shapely leg.
The earl turned away, but not before catching a winking of light moving inside the struc
ture. A reflection of the stars, he told himself. Or was it yet another strange quirk of his own fevered brain?
He swore again. What perverse spell had taken hold of his senses since that midnight storm, that hellfire kiss?
He ought to be consumed with planning his strategy for acquiring the illuminated books. Yet his thoughts kept straying to the raven-haired Dove and her pliant curves, her unbending steel.
A female as unique as the Psalters.
If his hunch was correct, and she had been hired as a distraction, the rakish Russian seemed her most likely ally. There was something similar in their styles. A boldness tempered by a wary watchfulness. Velvet smiles masking iron wills. The taunt of hidden secrets. They made a formidable pair, if indeed they were in league.
Fire and ice. Kirtland felt a slow burn seep through his veins at the thought of them together, limbs entwined, golden hair tangled with raven curls upon the snowy sheets.
He drew in a deep breath, trying to cool the strange heat. He had withdrawn from Society for the very reason of avoiding the machinations of such men. And the wiles of such women. He had had enough of betrayal in all its guises. Those seeking power, prestige, or personal gain cared for naught but their own selfish desires. It was all a game to them.
A casual word, a vicious rumor—self-interest was at the heart of how things played out. A fact he knew all too well. And though he had claimed not to give a damn about the cuts to his character, perhaps the wounds were deeper than he cared to admit. Osborne had intimated that he ought to fight back against bitterness rather than retreat any deeper into a brooding blackness.
Was detachment from life an acknowledgment of defeat?
Of late, he had begun to wonder. The truth was, his self-imposed isolation was growing a bit boring—a vague unrest exacerbated by the revelation of how Osborne was putting his army experience to good use. Perhaps his friend’s teasing about being an idealist was not so far off the mark. He still felt that books were better companions than people, but he missed his military responsibilities, the sense of purpose, the challenge of outwitting a clever enemy.
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