by Shana Galen
“I am at your disposal, my lady,” he said, all graciousness.
She sat up, and the sheets fell down about her waist. Lucien drew in a sharp breath at her nudity. “I see I was not being presumptuous at all.”
“I thought this might save us time.”
“In a hurry, are we?”
“Just eager.”
He made a low sound of agreement in his throat. “Then touch me.”
She’d seen his hands shake at the bookshop this morning, and now her hands shook as she took hold of the fall of his breeches. She felt like a virgin as she unfastened them and slid the clothing down over his hips, freeing his hard member.
He was aroused, by her. He wanted her. She could see it in the way he clenched his hands to give her time to touch him, the way his eyes devoured her body, the way he groaned when she stroked his manhood.
“You will be my undoing,” he said finally, after she’d explored every hard inch of him, cupping the soft underside and even running her tongue along the shiny tip. “I want to touch you. Let me make you ready, and then I promise I’ll allow you to have your way with me.”
His words, though partly in jest, sent a shiver of excitement through her. His gaze slid to her suddenly hard nipples. “Oh, you like that idea, I see. Far be it from me to deny you anything at Christmas.”
He touched her then, his large hands cupping her face so he could kiss her as deeply and thoroughly as he wanted. And then those hands were on her breasts, giving them the aching relief they needed but stroking a stronger need in her too. Finally, after forays to her belly, her legs, her buttocks, he cupped her between her legs, touching her in the place that throbbed for him.
“Yes,” she moaned, letting her head fall back and shamelessly rocking her body against his skilled fingers. He’d been kneeling before her, but now he skated his hands up and took her by the waist. He pulled her onto his lap, situating her so his erection brushed the tingling spot where his fingers had been.
“Put your arms around me,” he ordered. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, clasping her hands behind his head and feeling the tips of her breasts brush against his solid chest.
He kissed her, shifting her so her legs parted farther.
“Take me inside you,” he murmured, nipping at her jaw. “Give yourself the pleasure your body is yearning for.”
She was yearning. Everything in her reached and groped for that elusive pleasure. All she need do was rise up and tilt forward. His tip slid inside her, and she gasped at the beauty of it, of the feel of him inside her. She lowered herself, feeling him stretch her, fill her, claim her.
Her body moved without her telling it to. Her hips circled and thrust, and every single groan he made gratified her. His hands on her back tightened until the pressure of his fingers was all that anchored her.
“Lucien,” she gasped when she could not contain the spiraling feelings building in her any longer.
“You are beautiful, Cassandra. So beautiful.”
Her body unraveled then. Strand by delicate strand, tendrils of pleasure flowed through her until she practically sobbed with the exquisite torture of it.
Afterward, she was so boneless she slumped against him, and he rolled her onto her side, his arms coming around her to press her to his chest. She buried her face in the scent of him—the scent of both of them mingled together.
“I love you,” she whispered. She shouldn’t have said it, but she couldn’t let him go without saying it.
“Yes,” he said, and stroked her hair. “Yes.”
***
He was not a rake, but he knew very well how to play the part. Christmas morning he played it well. He rose long before Cassandra, trying very hard not to admire the way the first glimmerings of pale morning light washed the soft slopes of her back and hips.
He dressed in silence and crept out of her room, not to his own chamber, but downstairs, where the only servant about—a weary maid—glanced at him quickly before looking back at the fireplace she was lighting.
He put a finger to his lips and crossed to the front door. He unlocked it silently and paused before pulling it open. He should have left a note. Bloody hell, the woman had told him she loved him.
He loved her too—God, how he loved her—but he could not afford to love anyone or anything at the moment. If he loved her, he would leave her. Yes, it would mean giving up the hope of finding the articles he could only access with the papers his mother had left him, but those mattered nothing when he thought of the danger to Cassandra. Perhaps one day he could come back to her. One day, when assassins were no longer a threat, he could knock on her door again. She might welcome him back. She might still love him.
If she ever forgave him this treachery.
He opened the door and stood in it, dumbfounded. A coach with a ducal crest sat in front of the town house. Lucien watched the footman jump down and make for the door, indicating the conveyance had only just arrived. The door opened before the footman could reach it, and a well-dressed, fair-haired man stepped out. He waved the footman away and held out a hand. A gloved hand gripped it from inside the curtained coach, and then a woman with a hat that covered her face emerged. Cassandra had not said anything about guests, most especially not a duke. He wavered, torn between going back and leaving as planned.
And then the woman looked up, and his world flipped upside down.
She seemed equally shocked, staring at him in silence, almost as though she had seen a ghost. He knew the feeling. He’d thought she was dead. He’d already mourned her, and now to see her standing there, very much alive, was both confusing and an extraordinary relief.
“Lucien!”
He didn’t so much hear the word as he saw her mouth move. The man looked at him with interest, and Lucien had a moment to wonder who the devil he was and why he thought he had the right to touch her.
And then she was rushing toward him, and he didn’t think anymore. He met her in the middle of the walk, racing to embrace her and twirl her in his arms.
She laughed and kissed both of his cheeks, repeatedly. On a laugh, she said, “I thought you were dead.”
“I thought you were dead.” His eyes stung with what felt suspiciously like tears. He had honestly never thought he would see her again, would never see anyone from his past life again.
“I cannot believe it is you. Let me look at you.” She cupped his face and looked long and hard into his eyes. When she had seen whatever she searched for, she hugged him again. Hard. “My poor darling. What you have suffered. I can only imagine.”
Behind her, the man, presumably the duke, approached. As though she sensed his presence, she turned. “Nathan, I have forgotten my manners completely.”
“It’s quite understandable.”
Nathan? Lucien narrowed his eyes. Exactly who was this man?
“Prince Lucien Charles Louis de Glynaven, this is my husband, Nathan Cauley, Duke of Wyndover.”
“Your husband?” Lucien stared hard at the man.
The duke bowed. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Your sister did not sleep at all last night, I’m afraid. We received a letter from the manager of the Bank of England that you were alive. He thought you were an impostor.”
“I know this is terribly early, but I couldn’t wait another moment.” She glanced at the house behind him. “Mr. Sutton mentioned you were with Lady Ashbrooke, but how is it you have come to reside in her home?”
“How is it you are married?”
She laughed again, a sound so familiar to him, he wanted to hug her again. Vivi was alive.
“I see we have much to discuss. Might we go inside, where it is warmer? Or must you be away?”
“I...” What to say? That he was sneaking away like some sort of thief? “There are assassins in London,” he said finally.
The duke lifted a finger, and his outriders jumped down. “Watch the house,” he commanded. “Keep the horses moving. I don’t want the carriage spotted outside.�
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The four outriders spread out along the front of the house, while the coachman urged the horses to walk.
Well, they were safe enough, but Lucien could hardly invite guests into Cassandra’s home. “Very good,” he said. “Now there is just the matter of Lady Ashbrooke.”
“And what matter might that be?” said a voice from behind.
It was her, of course. She’d probably heard the horses and the voices. The entire house probably had. He turned. “Happy Christmas.”
“Is it?” Her blue eyes were wary. She’d dressed in haste, her lavender gown wrinkled and her feet bare. Her hair fell in golden waves down about her shoulders.
“It is,” Vivi said, flashing the smile she always gave when she wanted to charm someone. “This morning I have the best Christmas present I could ever hope for. My brother is alive.”
She looked at Lucien, who gave her a nod. “Princess Vivienne Aubine Calanthe de Glynaven, this is Lady Ashbrooke. Lady Ashbrooke, my sister and her husband, His Grace, the Duke of Wyndover.”
He wasn’t certain if he’d done all the introductions correctly. He couldn’t remember the exact protocol the English used.
Cassandra curtseyed. “Please, come in out of the cold and wet.” She indicated the few piles of slush that were all that remained of the recent snows.
Lucien had expected Cassandra to be less than hospitable. After all, she’d awakened Christmas morning to find her lover had fled and unexpected guests at her door. Not to mention, she was short-staffed since she had given some of the staff the day off. It was also no secret that her late husband’s sister was silently protesting Lucien’s arrival by keeping to her room.
But she made the best of it, going to the kitchens herself to ask for tea and scones and listening attentively to Vivi’s story. She’d been in the palace during the massacre and had escaped by hiding in the secret room. He did not ask her for the details of what she had seen and heard. He would ask her later, when they were both stronger and ready to confront that horrible time again. Their father’s trusted adviser, Masson, had helped her to safety in England before assassins had killed him. She and Wyndover had confronted three other assassins at his estate in Nottinghamshire. That explained why Wyndover traveled with additional guards.
After Lucien had also told his story, Cassandra, who had been quietly attentive, cleared her throat. “Princess, do you mind if I ask how you knew to find Lu—your brother here?”
Vivi withdrew the letter the bank manager had sent, whereupon Lucien showed his sister and the duke the papers he and Cassandra had found at the bookshop.
“But this is remarkable!” Vivi said. “We must see what is in that account.”
“Unfortunately, the bank is not open today. It’s Christmas,” Cassandra pointed out.
Vivi looked at the duke. He gave a sigh. “Give me a moment. May I borrow pen and paper?” he asked.
Cassandra directed him to the small desk in the corner of the parlor where they sat. Vivi followed him, watching over his shoulder as, presumably, he summoned the bank manager to the bank with the sorts of promises and threats only a duke can make.
“Would you ever have told me good-bye?” Cassandra hissed at Lucien when the duke was fully engaged in his task.
Lucien passed a hand over his eyes. “I should have left a note.”
“Saying what?” she asked under her breath. “Thank you and Happy Christmas?”
“No.” He rose from the chair where he was seated and joined her on the couch. “I would have said, I am sorry to have endangered your life. I was weak and foolish. I’ll leave now before I do you any further harm.”
She stared at him. “You are an idiot.”
Lucien blew out a breath. He had expected gratitude or, at the very least, understanding. “For trying to keep you safe?”
“No. For not understanding that you mean more to me than my own safety. That I understood the cost long before now and made the choice to help you anyway. I told you I love you, Lucien. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Yes.” It did. It meant everything. He loved her too. That was why he had to leave her. “That is exactly why I had to go,” he began.
She looked stricken, but before he could explain further, Wyndover stood. “I’ll send this directly. The bank manager will meet us with all haste, I assure you.”
Lucien wished he could have seen the missive, but the duke carried it to the door, where presumably he handed it to one of his men to deliver.
Vivi lifted her reticule. “Shall we go? I think it’s past time we saw what Mama has sent us from the grave.”
Chapter Eight
If Cass had not wanted to hit Lucien, hard, she would have enjoyed the duke’s carriage. It was delightfully luxurious with velvet squabs, brocade draperies, lovely brass lamps, and a silk interior. The footman gave them all warm bricks wrapped in cloth and cozy blankets. Cass thought the conveyance warmer and better appointed than her town house.
The men sat across from her and the princess, which made hitting Lucien more difficult. Unfortunately, it also made it easier to see his face. His beautiful eyes were filled with regret and apology. Apology for what? For leaving her or not loving her? She had said she loved him, and the words had driven him away. He was an honorable man. She had always known that. If he couldn’t love her, he would rather leave her than stay and give her false hope.
Perhaps she should have stayed home and allowed him to leave with his sister. That would have saved both of them the awkwardness of a good-bye. But she hadn’t been able to do it. She was a foolish, weak woman. She did not want to let him go yet. When he left, her life would return to the way it had been.
No, she would not go back to wearing widow’s weeds. In fact, it had felt wonderful to dress in this lavender gown, though it was desperately in need of pressing. No, she wouldn’t go back to bowing and cringing when Effie spoke, or trying to make herself invisible so she would not trouble anyone else.
But she would go back to a life devoid of passion. Her clothing might not be drab, but her life would lose all its color when Lucien was gone. She would rather be dead than suffer that fate.
She heard a loud explosion, and one of the horses screamed and reared. Vivienne cried out, and then everything was a blur of velvet and gold as the carriage tilted to the side before righting itself again. Cass pressed her hands to her ears to drown out the screeching sound before she realized it was she making the awful noise.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, holding in her screams. Her chest hurt from the way her heart slammed against it. Wyndover scrambled to draw his pistol as Lucien parted the curtains. Cass wanted to order him to close the curtains, to hide, but she couldn’t seem to utter any sounds other than screams. Beside her, the princess reached under the seat and withdrew a bow and arrows.
Cass half expected to wake at any moment, but when she heard another explosion and a man’s anguished cry, she knew this was no dream.
“Le reavlutionnaire!” Lucien shouted right before he pulled her and the princess to the ground. The window of the coach shattered, and Cass couldn’t hold back her cry.
More deafening sounds erupted. Cass looked up to see the duke lowering his pistol from the broken window. “Missed. Damn it!”
“Stay down,” Lucien ordered her.
Another pistol ball slammed into the coach, and Wyndover knelt beside her, adding powder and shot to his pistol. Meanwhile, the princess had withdrawn an arrow and nocked it against her bowstring.
“Careful, love,” Wyndover cautioned.
“Always.” Then she was up, and quick as a cat, she fired the arrow and ducked down again. Another explosion, this one rocking the coach again, and then Wyndover was up, firing through the window.
The duke flattened himself, but there was no return fire.
“I think I hit one.” The princess sounded hopeful.
“You hit?” Her husband scowled at her. “Perhaps it was my pistol ball.”
“Darl
ing, you know I never miss.”
Cass tentatively raised her head. Lucien’s body shielded her from harm, but he rose slightly to allow her to look up.
“Stay down,” he told her again. “They might be waiting for us to step out.”
“Good point.” Wyndover withdrew his powder bag again. “One of us will have to go out and assess the damage. I fear my coachman is dead.”
“I’ll go,” his wife offered.
Lucien uttered a word Cass did not know. “No, you will not. I’ll go.”
The princess looked at him as though he’d grown horns. “You don’t even have a weapon.”
“I—”
The door upon which Cass’s shoulder rested flew open, and she nearly spilled out into an assassin’s arms. Wyndover and the princess, who had been expecting another attack from the opposite side where the first shots had been fired, were unprepared. Cass screamed, right before she was yanked out by her hair. She would have fallen to the ground, but Lucien caught her arm.
For a moment, a dreadful and painful tug-of-war ensued, and then one of the princess’s arrows whizzed by, hitting the man holding her in the shoulder. He dropped her, and Lucien lost his hold. Cass tumbled to the ground. Her shoulder gave a violent scream of pain, but she managed to ignore it long enough to look about. Two more assassins headed for her. The first, a very large man, looked more angry than injured by the arrow in his shoulder. He ripped it out and growled at her.
With a swipe, he reached for her hair again, but Cass rolled away and under the carriage. She saw a blur of movement, and the assassin landed on his back beside the carriage, Lucien on top of him.
More shots rang out, and Cass was not certain if they came from Wyndover or the remaining assassins. Her gaze was riveted on Lucien, who fought the huge assassin valiantly but was losing ground. The assassin gave a heave, and Lucien flew off him, flipping onto his back. He lay stunned for a moment.
Behind him, another assassin came around the front of the carriage, his pistol in his hands.