by Olivia Drake
“I despised myself afterward,” he added gruffly. “I knew then that I couldn’t live like my father. I’d grown up seeing how his many affairs hurt my mother, and I swore never to emulate him.”
Her cheeks pink, Rory sat watching him with her fingers entwined in her skirts. He could only imagine what she must think of him, springing from the loins of such a father. Her good opinion shouldn’t matter to him. Yet it did.
Needing something to do, he opened a wooden box that lay on the desk. A row of cigars filled the interior, perfuming the air with their pungent aroma. He snapped the lid shut. “Those blasted letters don’t appear to be anywhere.”
Rory didn’t respond. She rose to her feet and went to the bookcase behind the desk. Behind him. Her light flowery scent enticed him as did her nearby presence. From the corner of his eye he could see her soft bronze gown and the cream sash that defined her slender waist. If he turned slightly in his chair, he could wrap his fingers around her hips and tumble her down into his lap. He could kiss her again, bury his face in the valley of her breasts, slip his hand beneath her skirts and—
“What about Lord Henry?” she asked suddenly. “Did your father try to corrupt him, too?”
Lucas refocused his thoughts. “Of course. But I was old enough by then to put a stop to it.”
Finding it too unsettling to sit so close to her, he sprang up from the chair and prowled the study. He checked behind the painting of a hunting scene on the wall, seeking a safe where the letters might be secreted. There was none.
Rory removed a leather-bound ledger from the shelf and took his seat at the desk. “The other day, you said that your brother went to Newmarket—to the horse races, I presume. Does he gamble?”
She had honed in on his darkest fear, that Henry possessed the same weak tendencies as their sire. Her sympathetic gaze enticed him to unburden himself. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “He hasn’t much money and I’ve given him strict limits on his spending. But I’m afraid…”
“Afraid?”
“That he might be tempted to play too deeply. He’s more like our father than I am, you see. He’s charming, sociable, flirtatious. Henry even bears a strong physical resemblance to him. The same blue eyes, the same devilish smile, the same jaunty mannerisms.”
“He doesn’t go around pinching ladies’ bottoms, does he?”
Lucas swung toward her in horror. “Did my father do that to you?”
“No! I stayed clear of the older roués.” She opened the ledger, though her gaze remained on Lucas. “But I shouldn’t think you need to worry about your brother. It isn’t his outward appearance that matters, it’s his inner character. And he seems to be a very polite, agreeable young man.”
Lucas looked behind another painting, this one of hounds milling around several red-coated hunters on their mounts. “He’s a daredevil, though. Never met a challenge he didn’t accept with relish. He’s especially fond of racing my tilbury.”
“That isn’t a sin. Though I imagine you’re thinking about how your father caused that coach accident by taking the reins from the coachman.”
The soft understanding on her face stirred a morass of emotions inside him. Guilt that he hadn’t been able to prevent the accident. Grief at his mother’s suffering. Anger at his father’s stupidity. And most of all, an acute yearning to pull Rory into his arms and lose himself in her warmth.
He closed the lid on those sentiments. He was venturing into dangerous territory. It should be Alice who stirred such feelings in him, not Rory.
She was frowning slightly, as if pondering more questions to ask. But she’d probed quite enough into his life. It was time to turn the tables.
“For someone who’s spent the past eight years in exile, you’re full of opinions,” he said. “What were you doing all that time?”
“Living in a cottage by the sea with my aunt Bernice.”
“I know that. How did you occupy your days?”
“Household chores. Sewing. Reading. The usual sorts of things.”
He had a hard time picturing her being content with domestic routines. While checking behind another painting, he couldn’t help needling her a bit. “Given your eccentric notions about the role of women, it seems you’d have taken up blacksmithing or doctoring or some other male occupation.”
Her chin tilted to a saucy angle. “I could have if I’d wanted to do so.”
“The other day, you professed to be a fan of that tabloid The Weekly Verdict. I’m surprised that in so remote a locale, you were even aware that such a radical journal existed.”
Her eyes widened and she quickly looked down at the open ledger on the desk. “I have a subscription. We do receive mail in Norfolk, you know.”
Despite her sarcastic retort, there seemed to be something furtive in her manner. Lucas couldn’t imagine what could be the cause of it. She was proud of her unconventional beliefs, so what would there be for her to hide?
He was about to ask when she uttered an exclamation. “Oh, look! Newcombe recorded a rather large bank deposit earlier this week.”
Lucas crossed the room to the desk. Stopping beside her chair, he leaned over her, trying not to stare at the delectable mounds of her bosom. He dragged his attention to the open ledger. She was pointing to a figure listed near the bottom of the page.
“Eight hundred and fifty pounds,” he read. “Is that the value of your stepmother’s diamond necklace?”
She tilted her face up to look at him. “It’s worth more, I’m sure. But if Newcombe pawned it, maybe he didn’t receive the full amount.”
“We checked all the major pawnshops, though. Unless he sold it to an individual.”
“Perhaps. I just wish we could be certain this is the proceeds from the necklace.”
“It should be simple enough to determine if he won a similar amount at the gaming tables recently. I’ll check into it.” He couldn’t help smiling into her sparkling eyes. “Well done, Rory.”
She smiled back and he experienced that peculiar catch in his chest that she always triggered in him. She really had the most fetching smile. It lit up her eyes and added vivacity to her beauty. That spirit and liveliness had attracted him to her from the very start—perhaps because it was missing from his own life. How unsettling to think he had become so burdened by duty that he had forgotten how to be happy.
Rory made him happy. The fire she ignited in his soul burned like an eternal flame. He craved her as much as he needed air to breathe. Yet she could never be his. For that reason, he must never kiss her again. He had no right to dally with her when he intended to wed another …
The muffled sound of voices came from out in the passageway.
Galvanized, he seized the ledger and shoved it back on the shelf behind the desk. “Someone’s coming.”
Her eyes wide with panic, Rory jumped to her feet. “Should we hide?”
“There’s no time.”
Lucas needed an excuse to explain their presence in Newcombe’s study, and he realized there was only one thing to be done. And what an enticing thing it was. He pulled her against him and captured her mouth in a kiss. She tensed in surprise, but only for an instant. Then her lips softened and she looped her arms around his neck. She arched on tiptoe, her bosom cushioning his chest, and the eagerness of her response unleashed a wild need in him.
The dam of his self-control broke and a rushing river of desire swept through Lucas. He rubbed his lips over hers, drinking the sweetness of her mouth and enjoying her wholeheartedly, for it was the perfect pretext for their presence here. They were two lovers seeking a private place to be alone. The more passionate their kiss, the better their chances of allaying any suspicions.
Rory seemed to realize that too, for she melted against him, her fingers threading into his hair and her tongue tangling with his. When she moved her hips, he felt it as a flash of lightning that sent all the blood in his body searing down to his loins. Everywhere she was soft, he was hard, a perfect match of male and female
. He cradled her bottom and pressed her closer, wanting her to know how desperately he desired her.
The allure of the forbidden beckoned to him. All the reasons why she was wrong for him slipped away into nothingness. There was only the here and now, the receptiveness of her feminine form and the insistent urge of his thirst to possess her. His entire body pulsated with the need to lay her down on the desk, to lift her skirts and sink into her velvet depths. He wanted so badly to hear her cry out in ecstasy that he was actually tilting her backward when a sound penetrated the fog of passion in his brain.
The door opened. The tramp of heavy footsteps approached. A nasty chuckle broke the romantic aura.
Lucas dragged his lips from hers. He looked over Rory’s head to see a lardy man who resembled a ball of butter from his graying fair hair to the round belly that strained the buttons of his yellow-striped waistcoat. Talking around the stub of a cheroot clenched between his teeth, Lord Ralph Newcombe said, “Well, well, what have we here? Two lovebirds, eh?”
Lucas glanced down at Rory, who had a sweetly dazed look on her face. She tried to turn her head to see who had come in. But he put his hand at the nape of her neck and hid her face in the lee of his shoulder. It was bad enough that Flanders had had a good look at her. Better that Newcombe didn’t recognize her, too, should she attend any future society events.
Lucas gave the man a casual nod. “I trust you don’t mind that Jewel and I have borrowed your study.”
“Be my guest.” Newcombe waddled to the desk and picked up the humidor of cigars. Tucking it into the crook of his arm, he flashed a grin that showed his yellowed teeth. “Old Dash would be proud. Indeed, he would. Like father, like son.”
The reference was a sluice of icy water that snapped Lucas to his senses. Nevertheless, it took several deep breaths to chain the beast inside him. Even then, his senses clamored against his rationality. Only long years of practice helped him to keep a lock on his base instincts.
He held Rory close until Newcombe left the study. The moment the door closed, he regretfully released her and stepped back.
She still had that adorable expression of desire on her face. It glowed in her soft doe eyes and glistened on her damp rosy lips. Out in the garden, it had been too dark for him to see the aftereffects of his kiss. But now the image of her radiant features would be imprinted on his memory forever.
His fantasies would be the only time he saw that look on her face again. He must never let himself touch her again. He would not be like his father, betraying his wedding vows by bedding a woman who was not his wife. The prison of his situation barred him from doing it.
“We’ve found out all we need here,” he stated. “Shall we go?”
As he’d intended, the coolness of his voice dimmed the passion in her eyes. She studied him quizzically as if pondering the abrupt change in his mood. “Yes. Of course.”
He forced himself to walk away from her and open the door. As they went out into the corridor, the rowdy voices and noisy laughter of the drawing room repelled him. “We’ll leave the back way.”
She balked. “I left my bonnet and shawl with the footman at the front door. Besides, didn’t you wish to find out the identity of Mrs. Edgerton’s lover? She is one of our prime suspects, after all.”
“I’m not allowing you to enter that pack of degenerates!”
“We’ll just have a peek in the door, that’s all. Now, don’t you think you ought to at least put your arm around me? In case we run into anyone, I mean.”
Feeling outmaneuvered, Lucas slid his arm around her waist and steered her down the corridor to the drawing room. At least he had an excuse to hold her close one last time. His hand rested on the womanly flare of her hip, and he breathed in the faint flowery aroma that belonged to her alone. Despite his iron resolve, he wanted to put his face to her bare skin, to see if that scent clung to her all over.
Rory came to an abrupt halt. She swiveled in his arms and looked up at him, her eyes large with shock. “Lucas, look,” she hissed. “By the fireplace.”
He hadn’t even realized they’d reached the doorway of the drawing room. They stood to the side, half hidden from the guests. From this position, he had a partial view inside the chamber. Ignoring the raucous gamblers at the tables, he flicked his gaze to the marble mantelpiece.
Mrs. Edgerton stood there, giggling like a silly girl as a black-haired man strung kisses over her face. The sight stunned Lucas. He recognized the knave from Rory’s entourage of suitors eight years ago. And more recently, from the encounter in the garden.
It was that swine Stefano.
Chapter 19
In the highest echelons of society, gentlemen choose their brides in much the same manner as they purchase fillies at a Tattersall’s auction.
—MISS CELLANY
The following afternoon, Rory stepped into the brougham with Lucas. The coachman set the vehicle at a jaunty pace through the Covent Garden neighborhood, where the busy street was lined with narrow row houses. They had just called on Colonel Hugo Flanders’s mistress, a frowsy actress who worked in one of the nearby theaters.
“What a pity Mabel didn’t have the diamond necklace,” Rory said. “Do you think we should cross Flanders off our list?”
“Not yet. Though he and Newcombe are certainly not my top suspects any longer.” Lucas gave her a pointed stare. “I think you know who is.”
He was referring to Stefano.
An inner quake shook her at the memory of seeing her former beau kissing Mrs. Edgerton. Rory had blinked, then blinked again, certain she was mistaken. But that classic Roman profile was intimately familiar to her. After all, she had once fancied herself in love with the man.
He had to be the mystery lover that Mrs. Edgerton had bragged about to Lucas. How had they met? Had it been at a society party where he’d been skulking, hoping to find Rory?
Yet she doubted his declaration that he’d returned to London in the hopes of winning her back. If that were true, he’d have quit looking for her upon learning she’d been banished to the country. More likely, he had been scouting for Mrs. Edgerton at Tinsley’s ball and had happened upon Rory utterly by chance. He’d decided on the spot to see if she was still as gullible as she’d been eight years ago.
The rat!
Nevertheless, Rory wasn’t convinced that Stefano was in cahoots with Mrs. Edgerton in the blackmail scheme. She and Lucas had debated the issue at length. Stefano was an unprincipled man, but she questioned whether he’d risk his diplomatic career again. Lucas had been adamant, though, and Rory suspected he was swayed by his contempt for the man who’d ruined her.
Her heart softened as she glanced at him sitting beside her. Lucas was gazing out the window as the brougham turned onto the Strand. The mere sight of him sparked an unquenchable fire inside her. She loved the slight curl of his hair over his collar, the strength of his jaw, even the gravity of his expression. She no longer minded his silences, either. He wasn’t a silver-tongued devil who spouted extravagant compliments in order to lure a woman into lifting her skirts. Lucas valued honor and integrity above all else.
Why couldn’t she have been wise enough at eighteen to entice a man like him? She’d been headstrong and spoiled, craving romance, ready to believe the lies of a charming foreigner. She had scorned Lucas Vale as a prig. If only she’d had the sense to value substance over flash!
Now she found him far more fascinating than any other man of her acquaintance. He had hidden depths that a woman could spend a lifetime exploring. A fever pulsed in her as she recalled his kisses the previous evening. The first one in the garden had been a revelation, unveiling the passion he concealed behind that stern mask. The second, in Newcombe’s study, had won her heart and made her realize just how perfect Lucas was for her.
Old Dash would be proud. Indeed, he would. Like father, like son.
Newcombe’s pronouncement had gone straight over her head at the time. She’d been too dizzy from Lucas’s embrace to realize the
impact of those words on him. It wasn’t until later that she understood why he had turned cool. The last thing he wanted was to become a lecher like his father.
She gazed out the window at the hustle and bustle of the city. Pedestrians traversed the foot pavement in front of the various shops and businesses. There were stores selling used clothing, a tobacconist with an array of pipes in the window, a furniture shop with a painted chair on a sign. How she wished she could just be a carefree shopper and forget the heartache that twisted her insides.
Lucas had to marry Miss Kipling in order to pay off his father’s debts. He would never take a mistress. Not that Rory would ever agree to such a role, anyway. She scolded herself even for being tempted by such a demeaning prospect. She had plans for her life. Plans that didn’t involve a man. She would continue writing under the pen name Miss Cellany. Being here in London had filled her head with ideas for future articles. Perhaps someday she would even publish a collection of her essays in a book …
A sign on one of the business fronts caught her eye. A lightning shock sizzled through her. “Stop!” she cried out.
Lucas immediately rapped on the front panel, and the coachman angled the vehicle through the traffic to park by the curbstone. Concern etched his brow as he studied her, and he took her gloved hand in his, squeezing it gently. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Under his sharpened gaze, Rory realized the utter idiocy of her impulsive shout. “Never mind. I—I thought I saw someone I know.”
Those penetrating gray eyes pierced through her fib. Lucas leaned over and gazed out her side of the brougham. In a moment, he turned back to her, a gleam in his eyes. “The offices of The Weekly Verdict. Did you wish to pay a call there?”
“No! Tell the coachman to drive on, please. Seeing it just … caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
To her consternation, he reached past her and opened the door on her side. “You want to go there. I can see that you do.”
“We haven’t the time to spare.”