Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3)

by Barbara Monajem

  She felt her cheeks heat.

  “I’m supposed to be the one blushing, not you,” he said. “In fact, considering that your heroines obviously do the same to themselves, although you manage to couch their activities in euphemisms that can be interpreted otherwise, I wonder why you blush at all.”

  Oh, God. She buried her face in his chest.

  “Let’s see now, what else is there? The scullery maid mortified me by saying I needed to practice kissing . . . on someone else.”

  Daisy choked on a giggle. Oh, God, what am I going to do? “I assume you found someone to practice on.”

  “And I assume that means you enjoy my kisses.” He took her in his arms.

  Helpless longing suffused her as she wound her arms around his neck. “You know I do.” Her heart thudded, and she could scarcely catch her breath.

  He kissed her forehead, her brow, then worked his way down, kiss by kiss. The corner of her eye, her temple, her earlobe, the pulse point below her ear. Helplessly, she let her head fall back so he could kiss her throat.

  And at last her mouth again. God help her, she’d never been so hot in her life, not even in her wildest fantasies. His firm body molded perfectly to hers. Her breasts tingled and flushed against his chest. His hands shaped themselves to her bottom and pulled her close. Even through her clothing, she felt the heat and length of his erection.

  And then what would happen next came back to her with a crash, and she tore herself away, panting. “I can’t,” she whispered, “no, I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?” He was breathing as quickly as she. “Can’t make love to me before marriage? Understood. We’ll wait.”

  “No.” She shook her head too wildly. Even in her distress, she knew she looked a fool. “Can’t marry you. Can’t go to bed with you.” Which seemed so unfair and cruel, because she wanted to. “Or anyone.”

  “Why not?” He stood away, his exasperation plain. “Just tell me, love. Trust me at least that much.”

  She shook her head.

  “I won’t hurt you. I won’t betray you or abandon you.” He paused. “I can’t think of anything else to say I won’t do, because I don’t know what you’re afraid of.” Another pause. “Have I done something to make you believe I’m untrustworthy?”

  “No,” she cried, “no, it’s not your fault.” It’s mine. It will always be my fault. She couldn’t bear to let him know how useless she was. How bloody boring. “I just don’t want to. That’s all. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I like kisses, but that’s all I want.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Daisy. There’s no shame in craving passion.”

  “I’m not ashamed!” No, she was mortified.

  “I suppose it’s all for the best.” His voice was sober and flat. “I would dearly love to take you to bed, but it’s not the right time.”

  “There won’t be any other time,” she said. “The threat to my life is practically over, and therefore so is our association.”

  “No, it bloody well isn’t,” he said. “Neither the threat nor the association. I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you in the inn, and my desire has only increased since I’ve come to know you. I know you desire me, too, but something happened to you, perhaps when that smuggler Reggie bedded you, making you afraid of sexual intimacy.”

  The mortification doubled. “How dare you speak to me in such a way?”

  “How dare you retreat into pretense?” he countered. “You’re no delicate flower, and I refuse to treat you as one. You long for passion. You are naturally a sensual woman, or you wouldn’t have seduced that fellow.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and as I told you before, it’s none of your business.”

  “The first few times I touched you, even in complete innocence, you flinched. You’ve since become accustomed to my touch, which leads me to believe you will enjoy even more of it.”

  She bit her lip. He might be right, but she couldn’t risk it.

  “I’ve given you every reason not to be afraid of me, so that fearful response comes from elsewhere. Unless you tell me otherwise, I cannot help but assume the smuggler frightened you in some way.”

  “I am not afraid,” she snarled. “Of anything. Please leave.” She felt her lip quivering and suppressed it hard. She would not cry. She would not.

  “I can’t bed you—I can’t marry you—if I have no idea at what point you will suddenly shrink from me.”

  “You’re not going to marry me,” she snapped.

  “I want to marry you.” His voice rose. “Don’t you understand? I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life, but most of all, I want you to enjoy yourself with me.”

  She had no idea what to say to that. Earlier, when he’d said he was in love with her, she’d interpreted it as lust. This was different. It sounded real. As if it would last forever.

  He lowered his voice again to its habitual calm. “If I’m properly informed, I have a far better chance of giving you pleasure. That’s what I long to do, sweetheart. To give you pleasure.”

  God, he was killing her with kindness, for she daren’t believe what he’d said about love. She clenched her fists. “Please leave,” she said again. She couldn’t bear the sadness, no, the pity in his gaze. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She willed them away.

  “Very well.” He let out a long, exasperated sigh.

  Her heart twisted with misery. She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t want to hurt anyone, but it seemed to be her destiny.

  “When you’re ready to trust me, let me know. Lock the door behind me.” He bowed, a curt, distant sort of gesture, and left.

  Then immediately returned. She hadn’t moved. “Didn’t I say to lock the door?” he demanded.

  “I will, not that I am in any way obliged to obey you. Why did you come back?”

  “To tell you that my things have been moved to the bedchamber next door, since supposedly we are married.” He sounded disgusted, and no wonder. She wasn’t even worth bedding, while he, because of a chivalrous impulse, was burdened with their false marriage. Well, he would just have to declare his ‘wife’ dead.

  “I’ll be there if you need me.” He left again, and this time he didn’t return.

  She locked the door behind him, undressed, and went to bed. Luckily, she was used to taking care of herself. The last thing she wanted, in this frame of mind, was to ring for a maid. She crawled under the coverlet and curled into a miserable little ball.

  She couldn’t sleep. She heard Melinda come up to feed the baby. A while later, voices drifted from the landing. Miles and the marquis, she thought. Footsteps sounded—some loud, undoubtedly Lord Hythwick’s, and the stealthier ones of servants. The house grew quiet, and still she tossed and turned. Her mind went round and round, from her own misery to the fact that she’d more or less fallen in love with Julian.

  Maybe it was only infatuation. He was kind and attractive and understanding, while she was vulnerable. As a Warren, she should know better than to delude herself about love. And yet, she liked him so very much, felt so safe and comfortable with him. How horrid of her to cause him unhappiness in return.

  Lord knew she didn’t want hurt him. Perhaps . . . perhaps she should just go ahead and trust him with her sad, sordid little story. She didn’t think he would blabber it about. In that sense, she did trust him, and he would be relieved not to have to marry her. She would talk to him in the morning.

  That decision made, she decided to stop thinking about it for fear she would change her mind. Instead, she concentrated on the thefts and how they could possibly be related to her story. She must solve the mystery quickly, not only for her own sake, but for that of the collectors who had lost or would soon lose their prized possessions . . .

  Well, she could do something about that. To hell
with her stupid reputation. If telling the authorities meant revealing her authorship, she would do so. The Warren family was burdened with so many scandals that one more would scarcely matter. In the morning, she would go straight to Miles, and—

  It struck her all at once. True, they weren’t in Manchester, the site of the next theft, but they weren’t far away. If Melton Mowbray was close enough to Leicester, Garrison House was certainly near enough to Manchester. And the next charm was a queen, the most powerful player in a game of chess. What if the object of the next theft was indeed Miles’s Spanish set, one of his favorite possessions?

  She could do something about that.

  She got out of bed, lit a candle, pulled on a wrapper, then slid her feet into a pair of slippers. At the door, she hesitated. Truly, there was no danger. The likelihood remained low that the thief knew where she might be, and in any case, a footman patrolled the house. She’d forgotten to get powder and shot for her pistol, but . . . So why not take a knife? She was used to being armed. She felt more comfortable that way. She strung a ribbon through the loop on the sheath that held her knife and tied it around her waist, under the nightdress.

  She picked up the candle and peeked into the dark passageway. All was quiet and still. She shut the door softly behind her and crept toward the stairs. The old boards creaked beneath her feet.

  She paused at the top of the staircase, listening hard. No sound but her own breathing . . . Leaning on the bannister to take some of her weight off the treads, she made her way slowly down.

  The Great Hall was a pool of silent shadows. She shivered, feeling watched by invisible eyes, but passed that off as a case of nerves. She had nothing to fear here in her cousin’s house. In fact, the footman was close by. The beam of a lantern and slow, measured footsteps heralded his approach.

  She didn’t want to encounter him, so she crossed hurriedly to the drawing room and pushed the door almost shut. The chess set remained on its board, the pieces ready for a new game. She set the pieces aside, turned the board over, and stowed the pieces within it, then shut it. The click as she latched it sounded sharp and loud in the stillness. She could no longer hear the footman’s steps. She blew out the candle and eased the drawing room door open. Across the Great Hall, the footman mounted the carpeted staircase. How thorough of Miles to have the man patrol upstairs, too.

  She tiptoed quickly forward, comforted to know that the way back to her bedchamber was entirely safe. Halfway across to the stairs, she heard a moan.

  She stopped. Listened hard. There it was again, faint but distinct. Heart thudding now, she crept in what she judged to be the direction of the moan . . . Near the doorway to the servants’ quarters at the rear of the house . . .

  A man lay curled up before the door. He wore no coat or breeches, only a shirt. She set down the chess set, held up the candle, and turned him a little. She recognized him. Gerald, one of Miles’s footmen. He must be the one on watch.

  In which case, who had just climbed the stairs?

  What was that dark blotch on his head? It was sticky, oh heavens, that was blood, but he was breathing, and he didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. Someone had hit him over the head and taken his clothing.

  And had now gone upstairs.

  She had to get Julian. And Miles. Get them both, get them now. But she dared not go up after the intruder. She must wake Reams and another footman. She stood to go through the door to the servants’ quarters.

  A shape leapt from the shadows, arms tightened about her from behind, and the candle clattered to the floor and went out. She opened her mouth to shriek, and a hard hand clamped over it.

  “Hush!” her captor whispered. “It is I, Philippe de Bellechasse. You are in grave danger.” He removed his hand. “Come quickly. You must hide.”

  Oh, thank God, it was only the marquis. He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the billiard room, and she came willy-nilly. They went through the French doors and hurried along the path through the rose garden. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a safe place. It is a pity you allied yourself with Sir Julian. He plays his part well, the quiet, scholarly gentleman, but he is not what he seems.”

  What was Philippe talking about? What did he mean?

  “Make haste! We must get you out of sight quickly.” He well-nigh dragged her to the summerhouse, letting go only when they were inside with the door shut. “You will be safe here.” Light from the full moon penetrated the windows. He moved the easel and chair aside and pulled the rug away from the trapdoor that led to the room below, with its Roman mosaic floor.

  Astonished, she stared at him. “How did you know where the trapdoor is?”

  “I have been here before,” he said. “Come, I will need your help.”

  “With what?” She came to stand next to him as he lifted the trapdoor and set it gently down.

  “Now, I must apologize.” He grabbed her hands and swung her over the opening in the floor. Too late, she struggled. He lowered her, kicking, through the hole and let go.

  She landed with a thump, one ankle askew. “Ow!”

  “I am sorry if you are hurt,” the marquis said. “It was never my intention to harm you. But you are a woman of courage. A little darkness will not daunt you. When it is safe again, I shall return to fetch you.”

  The trap door clanged shut, leaving her in darkness and silence.

  Chapter 12

  Julian retreated to his room next door in an uncharacteristically stormy mood. He’d had to control his voice. He never lost his temper, but Daisy was driving him mad. Why in hell’s name couldn’t she trust him?

  He sat for a moment. Frustrated, he stood, paced, then went to the window. The summer evening was slowly yielding to dusk. A shepherd and his dog herded their flock on a distant meadow. The Dower House showed no sign of life. Closer by, the summerhouse gleamed white against the darkening trees. He supposed he should make a point of viewing the mosaic beneath it, although it didn’t seem to matter as much as it would ordinarily.

  Damn, he wasn’t usually so ungentle, and never so with a woman. He didn’t think it was frustrated libido; he’d always had more than enough control over his physical desires. What burned most was not being trusted. He’d spent his entire life becoming and being a trustworthy man, unlike his father, who’d run into debt through sheer folly. He’d found a way to pay off the debts, but he’d sworn he wouldn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. He was and always would be a man of his word.

  But that didn’t mean she had to trust him. That was up to her, and he couldn’t do a thing about it except continue to be his usual trustworthy self.

  Except when it came to seditionists and potential traitors. God Almighty, he hated the job he was obliged to do, however necessary. Under ordinary circumstances, some of those so-called seditionists might easily become his friends.

  And, it seemed, a friend might easily become a thief.

  He turned from the window. He would speak to Daisy again later. She was safe for the moment, since everyone believed he was with her. For now, he had to decide how to confront Philippe de Bellechasse.

  He had no proof that Phillipe was the thief, which was why he’d made the suggestion that the thefts were connected: to see how both Philippe and Antoine reacted. Philippe, by far the cooler of the two, had given the obvious response, that it was unlikely. Then he’d hurried the lingering Antoine out of the room with a sharp command—before the man betrayed his consternation? That, on the contrary, seemed probable.

  The marquis had stayed at the Diving Duck several times over the past year or so, so Daisy had had ample opportunity to overhear something and then forget it. He’d recently visited several of the locations where items had been stolen. The fact that he’d volunteered information about one of the thefts proved nothing; it might be an innocent comment or a way
of appearing innocent.

  He didn’t think Philippe was here to steal, but rather to reconnoiter. Surely the theft would take place at a later date, when he—or more likely, Antoine—would not be suspected. The servant’s practice of selling silks and lace gave him access to many great homes, the opportunity to befriend the other servants, to spy out the premises . . .

  But, much as Julian wished he could place the entire blame on the servant, he couldn’t do it. The marquis was a cool, clever man capable of masterminding a series of thefts. Antoine, ruled by the resentments of his class, lacked the necessary forethought and self-control.

  No, the greater blame lay on Philippe. No doubt the marquis had friends all over England who trusted him, welcomed him, and then lost valuable possessions to him.

  Despicable, but to try to murder an innocent woman was far, far worse.

  He found it impossible to believe that Philippe was such a man.

  He pulled himself together. He should just get on with it. Perhaps a search of Philippe’s bedchamber would produce some solid evidence, and if he or his valet found him there . . . well, he would deal with that if it happened. He loaded one of his pistols, a small one that fit in his coat pocket, and armed himself with a knife as well. He didn’t think Philippe was so foolish as to attack him, but once trust was lost, anything seemed possible.

  A minute later, Julian tapped gently on the door of the marquis’ room and, receiving no response, went inside and shut the door behind him. He lit a candle and glanced about. The marquis was a tidy man, or perhaps that was the work of his valet. Julian went carefully through what documents and correspondence were to be found. An invoice for a crate shipped from Newcastle to the Diving Duck proved interesting. Did the marquis store his booty there temporarily, and then move it later to his own estate? Or did he smuggle it from there to France, perhaps? Despite his scornful words to Lord Hythwick, he might well be in the business of restoring plundered goods to their French owners, at a no doubt exorbitant price.