by Lucy Ashford
‘You will be Paulette,’ he said. ‘We shall make you Paulette, in every way.’
She tossed her head almost scornfully. ‘You sound as though you remember her well.’
‘I shall never forget her,’ he said. Then he glanced at his pocket watch as if the conversation was beginning to bore him. ‘Of course, Miss O’Hara, I’ll make it all worth your while.’
Her head jerked up at that. ‘You told me that before.’
‘And I’m saying it again. There’ll be a reward for you, if you’re successful. It’s up to you, what that reward is.’
She was walking slowly across the room again, her hands thrust in the pockets of her breeches, her head bowed in thought. As Beau watched her, he felt an unwelcome stirring of interest again. In those slim-fitting breeches, her derrière looked exquisite. Her chestnut curls were in glorious disarray, her waist was slim enough for him to grasp in his hands...
She swung round suddenly, and he hoped to God she hadn’t seen the darkening of arousal in his eyes. Lifting her head, she said, ‘You’re rich, aren’t you, Mr Beaumaris?’
He shrugged. ‘Rich enough.’
‘Then I want you to provide my actor friends with a London theatre.’
‘A theatre?’ He was astonished.
‘Yes! You could buy a lease, giving us a small theatre south of the river, perhaps, where my friends will have the freedom to put on whatever plays they wish.’ She was gathering speed now. ‘I want it in writing, Mr Beaumaris, and—and oh, my goodness...’
Her voice faded away.
‘What?’ Beau asked sharply. ‘What is it?’
Only then did he realise that her gaze had dropped to his hands.
‘You’ve unwrapped the bandages from your wrists,’ she breathed. ‘Those burns—they look so painful!’
‘They’re nothing,’ he lied. Impatiently he pulled down the ruffled cuffs of his shirt to cover them.
But she’d already stepped quickly up to him, and she pushed back the lace again. ‘The skin is blistering. You must protect it. You need some sort of salve—we used to use witch-hazel...’
Her fingers were gentle on his hands. Her slim body was warm next to his. He could so easily have pushed her away, but he didn’t.
He’d wanted to stay rational throughout this encounter. Wanted to stay cold-bloodedly in control—he was used to being in control, always. It was the sweet scent of her hair that did it, he told himself harshly, and now he was struggling to command his senses.
‘You sound as though you care,’ he said with a cynical curl of his lip. ‘Is that because my injuries were your fault?’
Her eyes shot up to meet his. ‘You did this to yourself, remember! Yes, I told my men to keep you prisoner. But that was because—because...’
It was because she’d had to wait till the morning for Palfreyman’s letter. It was because she’d thought this man was Palfreyman’s friend. It was because... Oh, heavens, what an utter, abominable mess.
She jerked away from him. ‘I’m going back to my room.’
‘I don’t think we’ve finished our conversation yet,’ he reminded her. ‘Yes, Miss O’Hara—you’ll have your theatre.’
She looked rather dazed. ‘I—I will?’
‘We’ll sort the details later, when our bargain is concluded—you have my promise. But you’ve not answered all my questions yet.’ His hand reached out to catch her arm. ‘You’ve still got those books, haven’t you? In that shabby bag of yours?’
Her insides churned with shock and dismay. ‘Yes. What of it?’
He was surveying her tight-fitting breeches and shirt. ‘Why do you guard them so carefully? Is it so you can study them by candlelight? So you can—perfect your professional skills?’
She caught her breath. Would he never forget those books? And then—what?—he was using his lean fingers to raise her chin, forcing her to look up at him. He was drawing his thumb slowly over her lower lip, and...
No.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She felt as if his dark eyes were burning into her soul. Then he cupped her face in his hands and brought his mouth down on hers. As her heart jolted and stopped, he parted her lips with sweet strokes of his tongue; he plundered her mouth with skilled caresses, stirring up feelings that she hadn’t realised she possessed. His hand had slipped round her hips to draw her close to his hard, unyielding body and flames of shock tore through her.
She hadn’t known. She hadn’t even guessed it could be—like this. The taste of his mouth and tongue was so dangerously good that she gave a low moan. Her breasts, pressed against the hard contours of his chest, were melting, yearning for more. Then his fingers slipped beneath the soft lawn of her boy’s shirt and roved upwards, finding bare flesh, and she felt her whole body tremble. Especially when his hand brushed the lower curve of one small, sweetly swelling breast...
The clock on the mantelpiece chiming twelve brought her back to her senses. Somehow, though her heart was pounding and her blood was drumming through her veins—somehow she pushed him away. My God, Deb. You might have decided to suffer his taunts and let him think you a whore. But you’re playing your part a little too well.
* * *
Beau was breathing hard. He could have done more than kiss her, he knew. Her lips were rosy and swollen. Her hair was a tumbled cloud, half covering her flushed face. She looked quite irresistible. He knew he could have drawn her into his arms and kissed her again until she melted, then carried her upstairs to the suite of rooms Palfreyman had reluctantly provided for him. He could have made love to her all night long. It was perhaps what she wanted. What she expected.
And his palm still tingled from the feel of the silken skin of her breast...
He saw her start to smooth down her shirt and her breeches—but her hands were trembling.
‘I’m sorry,’ Beau said.
Her eyes shot up to his—wary eyes, full of defiance, yet unexpectedly fragile. ‘You’re apologising? For the kiss, or for the insult?’
‘For both,’ he said. He exhaled sharply. ‘That shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t mean it to happen. And there won’t be a repeat of it. We’ll leave for London in the morning. And we’ll both of us remember that ours is purely a business arrangement.’
‘But of course.’ There was more than a hint of scorn in her voice now—as if she knew how his blood was still drumming through his veins, how harsh desire was still thumping at his loins. ‘But I think you’re the one who needs to recollect the exact nature of our arrangement —Mr Beaumaris.’
She’d already started towards the door, but at the last moment she swung round on him. ‘I keep my word,’ she said. ‘I hope you do too.’ And with that she left.
Beau paced the room, cursing himself. She was just what he needed. She looked so much like Paulette that, dressed in mourning, anyone who spotted the differences between her and her cousin would swiftly forget them. She was an actress. She was shrewd and tough—she had to be, thanks to the life she’d led. And he was going to make it work—damn it to hell, he wasn’t going to let this chance get away.
But he was going to have to be careful. This one was as beautiful as Paulette, but far more of a threat, because she puzzled him more and more. Those books of hers would shame some of the street walkers of Covent Garden. She blithely admitted they were tools of her trade. And yet she’d seemed so innocent—shocked, even, when he kissed her just now.
Another trick? A pretence of shy reluctance, to entice him into lust? She was a wicked little temptress. A clever actress, that was the sum of it. And that made her, he concluded bitterly, all the more fitting to play her cousin Paulette.
Because—before his brother died, and before she ran away—the beautiful Paulette had done her very best to seduce Beau himself.
* * *
&
nbsp; Instead of going to bed, Deb sat shivering on a chair by the window, wearing the expensive silk nightgown the maid had laid out for her. She couldn’t help wondering whose it was. Was it an old one of Paulette’s? She pressed her hand to her throbbing forehead, thinking that at least she should be grateful Mr Beaumaris hadn’t spotted the bruise that was hidden by her unruly hair, for it was beginning to turn an ugly shade of purple. After glancing at it again in the mirror—oh, no, it looked even worse—she went to pull back the curtains and gaze at the night sky.
Anything, to take her mind away from the horrifying fact that she was completely in the power of Mr Beaumaris.
She’d saved the Lambeth Players and she’d made her bargain. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Beaumaris was her enemy, every bit as much as Palfreyman was, yet she just couldn’t stop remembering how she’d felt when he’d held her just now. How she’d felt when he kissed her.
He’d done it to humiliate her—he’d made that clear. Her aim had been to keep him at arm’s length—to let him persist in thinking her a woman of the world, well able to take care of herself—but instead she’d made an utter fool of herself by submitting to his wiles.
Deb curled up on the chair by the window, feeling cold and wretched. Mr Beaumaris was surely the most cynical man she’d ever met. He’d talked on and on about his family’s honour, but when it came to her honour, he clearly thought her beneath contempt. Which was hardly surprising, since when he’d lured her into that wickedly delicious embrace, she’d melted. Just melted.
She shivered. You aren’t going to get any sleep at all if you keep thinking about him, you fool.
Well, since she didn’t feel she would get to sleep in this hateful house anyway, she might as well do something useful. Deb rose to her feet and went back towards her bed, because laid out on the counterpane was the heap of documents Palfreyman had reluctantly provided; Mr Beaumaris had brought them to her earlier.
‘You might find it useful to look through these if you can,’ he’d said in his usual brusque manner. ‘The more you know about Paulette, the better.’
Now she settled on the bed, propped herself up against the pillows, and flicked through the items listlessly. Who had collected them together? Her aunt Vera, probably. Mostly they were ephemera such as party invitations and dance cards; although some theatre programmes from Covent Garden and Drury Lane held her interest for a little while longer.
Some day, if Mr Beaumaris kept his promise, she would have a small theatre of her own. Some day, when all this was over...
The bruise on her forehead seemed to be making her whole head ache. She sat cross-legged on the bed, pressing a cold damp cloth to her temple, trying to will the pain away. Then she realised that a pile of papers had tumbled to the floor. Sighing, she bent to pick them up and was about to put them to one side, weary of reading, when she realised that these items were different, because they were about Paulette’s wedding in London last October.
Today saw the marriage of Miss Paulette Palfreyman, only daughter of Hugh Palfreyman of Hardgate Hall in Oxfordshire, to Lord Simon Beaumaris, of Hertford Street, London. The bride, who was given away by her father, was attended by six bridesmaids; while his Grace, the Duke of Cirencester, Lord Simon’s brother, gave an eloquent speech at the wedding feast...
For the next few moments Deb felt very strange, as though everything around her had somehow altered irretrievably. To all outward appearances, everything remained the same as before. She was still in Palfreyman’s house. She still felt afraid and alone. But really, nothing—nothing was the same. Everything was much worse.
What had Mr Beaumaris said to her earlier? I’m afraid that in the circles in which I move, it’s inevitable that you’ll face curiosity...
She’d heard of the Duke of Cirencester. Everybody had heard of the Duke of Cirencester. She remembered, all too clearly, the name by which he was known up and down the country—the Dangerous Duke. He’d earned his reputation because of his sharp tongue, and because of his renowned skill with both duelling sword and pistol. Also because of the beauteous mistresses he was rumoured to keep in sumptuous style, only to cast them aside, leaving broken hearts scattered in his wake.
Nobody—but nobody got the better of the Dangerous Duke.
Slowly Deb began to gather up all the programmes and cuttings and went to put them carefully on the dressing table. Then she blew out her candle and climbed beneath the counterpane of the bed, her bruised head throbbing so fiercely that she feared she might be sick. It was sixteen years since she’d last been inside this hated house, and here she was again. But this time, she was old enough to truly fear what lay in store for her.
Chapter Nine
By eight o’clock the next morning Beau was out in the stableyard, where his coachman was putting the last touches to the preparation of his carriage for the journey ahead.
‘With respect, your Grace,’ opined William, ‘I wouldn’t trust Palfreyman’s stable boys with a pony and trap, let alone your new travelling carriage.’ He paused to look around. ‘I take it that it will be just you and me heading back to London today?’
‘Not quite. You see, the young lady we brought here yesterday is coming to London with us also.’
William struggled. Then he said, with an effort, ‘Very well, your Grace. Miss O’Hara seems a quiet enough young creature—’
‘Here’s the point, William,’ interrupted Beau. ‘From now on, you will address the lady in question as Lady Simon.’
William’s honest face was a picture. ‘But Lady Simon was your brother’s—?’
‘My dead brother’s wife,’ nodded Beau. ‘Just so. The lady we “collected” from the Angel yesterday is Lady Simon’s cousin, hence the likeness. But for purposes of my own, she’s now Lord Simon’s grieving widow.’ He patted his stunned coachman’s shoulder. ‘I trust you to be discreet, William.’
Just then Hugh Palfreyman came out into the yard, looking flustered. ‘Your Grace. May I have a word—in private?’
Beau had breakfasted in his room, since he was of the opinion that the less time he had to spend with his host the better. But now he listened intently as Palfreyman explained that his niece was indisposed.
‘One of the housemaids took her some tea this morning,’ he muttered, ‘and the girl tried to keep her eyes covered with her hand. She had a slight megrim, she explained. But then the maid caught sight of her, and the sight was shocking, she said. So she ran down to tell the housekeeper—who told me—that one of the girl’s eyes is half-shut, and the skin around it is as black and blue as can be. I warned you, your Grace. I warned you that she is nothing but trouble—’
Beau said sharply, ‘I wonder if you recall that she bruised herself because your wife struck her, Palfreyman? And perhaps I need to remind you that you’ll treat the girl with respect—unless you want me to reveal to the world how the real Paulette has disgraced herself.’
Palfreyman’s pursed mouth opened and closed. Beau almost pushed the man aside and swept back into the house. Damn. It was a slight bruise to her forehead, she’d told him yesterday, and he’d not thought to question her about it. But he should have done.
He headed for her room.
* * *
Deb had woken early, taken one glance in the mirror and gasped. The bruise on her temple had darkened and spread, and now the eye beneath it was almost shut, with the skin around it an interesting mixture of black and blue, with a hint of purple.
At first she tried to brush her hair forward to hide it, as she’d done yesterday, but there was no concealing this. When a young maid came in with her morning tea, Deb tried to keep her hand over it; but the maid, as she went to draw back the curtains, caught sight of her and fled the room.
Deb sat there, her heart sinking. Oh, no. The maid would tell everyone, including Mr Beaumaris. Only he wasn’t Mr Bea
umaris, he was the Duke of Cirencester...
There was an ominous rap at her door. Then it opened, and Mr Beaumaris, no, the Duke was there. She clutched at her nightrobe and saw him taking in her startling appearance.
Dear God, thought Beau, she would hardly be able to see anything from that eye. ‘You should have told me yesterday,’ he rapped out. ‘Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?’
‘I saw no need to,’ she answered coolly. ‘I assure you, it’s not nearly as bad as it looks.’
Dear God, she had to be in pain. That swollen eye looked atrocious. He made up his mind swiftly. ‘You’re going nowhere near my house in London while you look as if you’ve been floored in a prize fight,’ he pronounced. ‘Instead we’ll go to Brandon Abbey, my country home in Hertfordshire.’
She looked quite distressed. ‘But that will delay your plans. I would rather get all this over with—’
‘I’m sure you would,’ he said curtly. ‘But my mind’s made up. We’ll stay in Hertfordshire for a few days, until I judge that you’re fit to be presented to society.’
Except for the darkness of her bruised skin, her complexion looked paler than ever. ‘Fit to be presented to society?’ she echoed softly, almost mockingly. ‘I’m afraid it might take me more than a few days to make me a suitable companion for a duke—your Grace.’
He looked up sharply. ‘So you’ve learned who I am?’
She nodded. ‘Was it your idea of amusement not to tell me?’
He pressed his lips together. ‘Often I prefer to travel incognito, as Mr Beaumaris. It makes life easier.’
She nodded, but found that her hands were shaking slightly. ‘Would it have been so very difficult to announce your rank to me at some point in the proceedings?’
‘Would it have made any difference?’
Deb shrugged. ‘I might have bowed and curtsied to you a little more, I suppose.’
She heard the rush of his indrawn breath, then his gaze swept over her, cold and expressionless. ‘We’ll depart for Brandon Abbey in an hour,’ he said, and with that he left.