Your Wicked Heart

by Meredith Duran

  The thought echoed. Grew louder, emerging distinctly from the haze of pleasure.

  What was she doing? She was nobody; he was a viscount. What madness would bid her to give to him what little still remained of her own?

  She yanked free and stepped back.

  The compress fell to the deck with a wet, smacking sound. They stared at each other.

  Say something.

  “You’ll . . . want to hold that a bit longer,” she said. “The compress, I mean. I’ll just—”

  “Wait,” he said, starting to rise, but this time she was prepared for him. Spinning on her heel, she dashed out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Spence no longer understood himself in the least. And he was a man who needed to understand himself.

  His life had been defined by his difference from his family. A St. John only in name, people whispered—meaning it as a slur upon his joyless temperament in a family known for charm and whimsy, for even Uncle Richard had been a smiling, well-loved figure outside the house.

  But Spence had always taken the slur as a backhanded compliment. He was, indeed, nothing like his family. And it profited the rest of them to have his steady hand guiding their fortunes. He was resolute where they were fickle, steadfast where they were buffeted by whims and tempers. They relied on him for his cool head, his enterprise, and his discipline.

  Yet where was that discipline now? Although he had sworn not to touch her, he had done so. And if he was honest with himself—and he always was; one did not profit by self-deception—then he knew he could no longer trust himself around her.

  His intentions made no difference: he would touch her again before this voyage was over.

  But to what end? For while he had done dishonorable things in his time—kidnapping her among them—they had always been with a view to serving those he loved. To finding Charles, in this case.

  But if he touched her again . . . if he took her to his bed . . . it would not be for honorable ends. It would be only for himself.

  That night of the storm, he lay awake for long hours with these thoughts, his only company the sounds of the ship: the dull roar of the engine, and beneath it, the creaks and groans of the hull as it pushed through deep water. And he argued with himself, argued against the selfish course that seemed so inevitable. For he had seen her face before she had fled this room. She was not hardened, not practiced. The simplest touch had caused something tender and shockingly vulnerable to come into her face. She would not rise from his bed unharmed. She would not walk away from an affair unbroken.

  Nor, perhaps, would he.

  The next morning he sat down across from her in the dining room, and when she finally brought herself to meet his eyes, her face scarlet, he knew he could not do it. Perhaps for his own sake he would have seduced her, and to hell with the risk—would have seized for himself a few hours of unrivaled sweetness, the sound of his name on her lips as he brought her to pleasure. But at the sight of her, he realized that somehow she had come into his circle all unwittingly, without his permission. Somehow she had become someone he needed to protect.

  So he would protect her from himself. For her sake he would refrain from touching her, even if it killed him.

  Ludicrous thought! Such melodrama was beneath him. Yet the possibility felt very real to him as he watched her lift her teacup. Even the graceful bend of her wrist, the dimple of her elbow, were enough to cause his belly to tighten and his blood to surge with need.

  But his voice revealed none of this as he pleasantly inquired after her sleep. And he pretended not to notice the surprise in her face when he continued the conversation in this neutral, courteous vein—or how her breath caught when their hands brushed, much later, on the promenade as they strolled side by side in the morning light.

  She was under his protection, he reminded himself that afternoon when he stopped by her cabin to ask her if she had interest in high tea. And it became easier, as the hours passed and she relaxed again, to control his need. For his reward came in how she began to speak more freely, and to laugh, and to reply without hesitations, only occasionally casting him veiled, puzzled looks. Those looks asked a question—What has changed?—that he would never answer.

  This voyage would benefit her, in the end. He would see to her situation once he arrived back in London. Whether or not Charles had deceived her made no difference now. He, Spencer, owed her a debt—for forcibly removing her from Syra; from wresting her course out of her hands. In doing so, he had assumed the responsibility of ensuring that her course steered true.

  So he would find her a position. Well paid. A gentle employer. Certainly no one who would ever lift a hand to the staff.

  And he would take care of Pennypacker for her. That he would enjoy.

  At supper, she finally found the courage to ask him outright, “Is anything . . . wrong?”

  The soup course had just been laid. He took a sip of the bisque before replying. “I don’t follow you. To what do you refer?”

  “Oh, it’s just . . .” She looked down into her bowl. “Perhaps ‘wrong’ is not the word for it. It’s only that . . . you seem very calm today, I suppose.”

  As he formulated his reply, he allowed himself a brief, hungry study of her. It seemed she owned no dinner gowns, but she required none of the flounces or lace that ornamented the other women in the room. Her simple woolen dress, a rich azure, set off the rosy hue of her skin, the brilliance of her eyes, the sunny brightness of her hair. Her own natural features were her ornaments, which any other woman in the room might have rightly coveted.

  She deserved an artist’s attention, he thought. She deserved to be a muse, the object of endless tributes in watercolors as soft as her lips and skin, or in rich oils that would capture all her jeweled tones. She belonged in silks, in a house filled with flowers. She was the very essence of English beauty; home as the weary traveler imagined it—but never as he actually found it. Yet somehow she was real, a piece of sunlight sitting across from him.

  Her brows lifted in a silent prompt. He cleared his throat. “I am generally calm,” he said. True enough. But not since he’d met her.

  He’d supposed that to be a product of the circumstances. Now it came to him to wonder if she had not been the main cause of his disorientation. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her . . . perhaps some part of him had known.

  Focus. “Of course,” he continued, “this past fortnight has not been typical.”

  “Of course not.” She tried a smile, which did not linger. “You’re sure you’re well, though? Your knee does not pain you?”

  “It’s much better. Your compress worked wonders.” And then, because he sensed from her the slightest disappointment, he endeavored to be less formal. A tricky business, that: formality made a handy defense against his own urges. “Did the books suit you?” He had borrowed several volumes from the ship’s library for her.

  She brightened. “Oh, yes. There was a guidebook to Spain that I found marvelously engaging . . .”

  And off she went, chattering about Seville and Madrid, Cordova and San Sebastián—all places he had been, but which, in her telling, became strange and wondrous, full of amazements he did not recall noticing.

  Did he know that in medieval times, the lion statues in the Alhambra’s courtyards had spat water at the top of the hour as an ingenious timekeeping device?

  No, he had not known.

  And what of the aqueducts in Segovia? Over a thousand years old, yet still carrying water to the populace!

  By the time dinner concluded, he found himself tempted to plan a trip to Spain, simply to discover how blind he had been during his previous visits.

  And that night he once again lay awake after retiring, dwelling on a broader question: How blind had he become, all around?

  He had grown so accustomed to the comfort of rules and routines. When had he forgotten to look for the beauty in the world?

  The next morning, when he went to fetch her for breakfast, she was w
aiting, a new guidebook in hand. “France,” she announced. “I suppose you’ve been to Arles, but if you haven’t . . .”

  He shook his head. “No. What have you discovered?”

  He had been to Arles a dozen times, but he lied simply for the pleasure of hearing her educate him. And also for the simple pleasure of her smile.

  * * *

  On boarding the Augusta, Amanda had been piqued by Ripton’s icy reserve. The memory amazed her now. As Gibraltar rose on the horizon, a spiny rock starkly outlined against the burning sky, she only wished that it would retreat, recede, and give her another day or two to puzzle out Ripton’s alteration.

  For a sea change in truth had overcome him. Overnight, he had transformed into the most attentive and pleasant companion imaginable—and yet more reserved, somehow, than he had ever been before. And that reserve left her puzzled and increasingly frustrated. She wanted . . . she longed for . . . something else.

  She wanted what she saw on his face when he thought she was not looking. It was raw and hot and nothing a wise woman would desire. But each time she caught him watching her, she forgot to be wise. Her mouth went dry and she craved . . . oh, the smell of his skin, and the warmth of his body. She found herself riveted by his hands, the fingers long and elegant, the palms broad and strong. Once, she caught a glimpse of the muscles of his thighs through the thin cloth of his trousers when he knelt to retrieve her dropped glove, and her pulse pounded, and her head began to spin.

  When he stepped too near, she felt sick as though with a fever. It was his fault—the fault of his mouth and his eyelashes, which were as long as a woman’s, dark as soot. His fault for the way a crease appeared, bracketing his mouth, when he gave her a one-sided smile.

  He was charming. She did not want his charm. The more charming he grew, the more frustrated she became. And the more daring with her accidental touches.

  He was a man of control, and she wanted his control to snap.

  She was not a wanton. She only wanted his mouth on hers again. Once more. She had been so good, so virtuous. Surely she deserved just one more brush with temptation. She was strong. She would not let it go beyond that.

  She stole a glance at him now from the corner of her eye. He stood beside her at the rail, gazing out at the island. His profile looked stern, the faint shadow of an oncoming beard emphasizing the full, stern line of his lips. A fresh breeze ruffled his hair. It looked so soft. She curled her fingers into her palm so tightly that her knuckles hurt, but the urge remained to reach up and discover that softness. The urge made her ache.

  “We’ll be docking within the hour,” he said.

  “Yes.” Look at me, she thought.

  “The governor of Gibraltar is an old friend of the family. I expect I’ll have to attend a very tedious dinner tonight.”

  The notion briefly startled her. To dine with the governor! How grand!

  And then it left her strangely flat. For she was not invited, of course. Their proper worlds were very different, and now that they were back on British territory, his world would have no room for secretaries.

  “Of course.” She tried for a bright voice. “Take heart, sir! Gibraltar is an island. I very much doubt I could escape it on my own.”

  Frowning, he turned toward her. “You mustn’t think you need to . . . escape, Miss Thomas. If you wished to go on separately, I would book a passage for you.”

  Was she not even his captive anymore?

  She dug her nails harder into her palms. This news should cheer her. But clearly she was losing her mind. “Of course. Yes, now I think on it, I was not locked into the hotel room in La Valletta, either.”

  His frown deepened; abruptly he turned back toward the water. “You were right to call me a villain,” he said. “No doubt I will look back on all of this and be appalled by my behavior.”

  “But it was for a good cause,” she said. “You only did it to find your cousin.”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  A small vessel was coming out of port toward their ship—dispatched, no doubt, to confirm the health of all onboard. Gibraltar was famously strict about such things.

  “Perhaps that boat carries news of him,” she said brightly.

  His smile looked strained. “You have been very good company, Miss Thomas. If your optimism is catching, this journey will have been to my benefit.”

  Why did that remark make her heart turn over?

  Perhaps because he spoke of the journey ending.

  How odd! This voyage, which had started in true terror, had come to seem to her like the grandest adventure she would ever have. No doubt when she was eighty she would still think back with amazement on the strange events of the autumn of 1885.

  A strange prickle passed down her spine, almost like a premonition. She reached out to touch his wrist, her fingers coming to rest on the bare patch of skin revealed between cuff and glove.

  His body jerked at the contact, but his expression did not change. He remained facing the island, his look stony.

  “I know your cousin is well.” His skin was so warm. The sensation riveted her. “I feel it, deep inside me. And you should know that until we reach England, I will remain your . . . partner in the search. I will not leave without you.”

  He straightened and pushed away from the rail—and from her touch as well. He wore a smile as he faced her, but it looked false somehow. “And if any of me might prove catching, I would hope, for your sake, it might be my cynicism,” he said. “For you should not be so willing to forgive me, Miss Thomas.”

  He was right. But it made no difference. She took a deep breath. “Yet I do forgive you. I have come to think of you as a . . . dear friend. My lord.”

  He took a sharp, audible breath. And then, very abruptly, he pivoted away from her to look down the deck. “I should go see the captain,” he said. “You’re right: there may be word of my cousin on that boat.”

  “Yes, do go, then,” she said. But the speed of his retreat left her unsettled and oddly despondent.

  Biting her lip, she turned away. She did not like watching him go.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Isle of Gibraltar

  Spence returned late from the governor’s dinner, moving quietly through the hotel garden along the path that led toward his rooms. The night was dark, the sliver of moon veiled by clouds, and only by the dimmest hint of starlight did he make out the solitary figure sitting by the fountain, passing her hand through the cool, musical trickle of water.

  Her hair was down.

  He came to a stop, struck by . . . some nameless feeling, larger than his body seemed able to contain. Her hair cascaded down her back like moonlight, thick, glorious tumbles of curls, and with the statue behind her, and the white flowers shivering all around her in the warm wind, she looked timeless, a figure in a tapestry or an ancient painting of a pagan princess waiting for the gods to arrive.

  Her head turned. “Any news of your cousin?” she asked.

  That mundane inquiry broke the spell. He slowly released his breath. “No. If he passed through Gibraltar, he concealed himself from the governor’s notice.”

  “How odd,” she said. “Why would he have wished to do that?”

  He bit his cheek. Careless remark. Perhaps he should tell her of his suspicions—that Charles and her false betrothed might be one and the same. If those suspicions proved correct, and she ever learned that he had guessed it beforehand, she would be furious with him. Rightfully so.

  But even if Charles was guilty of deceiving her, she would never know, would she? Their paths would not cross again once they were in England.

  He took a hard breath against whatever emotion wanted to stir in response to that notion. Such was life. No use dwelling on the inevitable. None.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “I’ll have to think of some new strategy for the search once I’m back in London.” In fact, he hoped that Charles would be waiting for him there.

  If she noticed how he had evaded her question
, she did not remark on it. “You might go to Scotland Yard. I’ve heard that some of the detectives will take private work, and they’re said to be very discreet.”

  “That’s one idea.”

  She paused. “At least the dinner was pleasant, I hope?”

  “Staid,” he said. “Some very tedious talk of Spanish politics.” He had missed her. They could have traded speaking looks at the sour-faced remarks of the hostess.

  But the hostess would have aimed some of those remarks at Amanda. Pointed observations of her simple gown. And he would not have tolerated that.

  “I should like to see the governor’s house,” she said. “The guidebook says it’s quite beautiful.”

  “Mold on the walls,” he said. “I noticed it in the dining room.”

  Her laughter was soft. “What do you not find to be overrated, Ripton?”

  The question silenced him. Perhaps she was right. He was as stuffy as the crowd he’d just left. Bored out of his mind, he’d contributed little to the elevation of the talk. Right now, no doubt, someone in the governor’s house was commenting on how tiresome the viscount was.

  “Dinner parties do not please you.” She rose from the fountain and came toward him. “Nor do the Great Pyramids, or the look of Malta from off the coast. Your duties don’t make you very happy, do they? I wish I could show you how to be lighter of heart.”

  You do show me, he wanted to say. More than that, even. You make me feel lighter of heart.

  She came to a stop an arm’s length away, a breathless little laugh trailing from her. “But how presumptuous you must think me. That I, a jilted secretary, should be lecturing you on happiness . . .”