by Anne Stuart
“Are the two of you cheating?" He was stretched out at the foot of the bed, looking remarkably relaxed and almost human, Lina thought.
“If I were a man I would call you out for that," she replied in a non-offended voice. She'd been cheating quite flagrantly.
“So would I," Monty said with a laugh.
"Maybe I'd best give up gaming as well as whoring and drinking," Simon added. "I appear to be remarkably bad at it."
“In truth, I thought you had," Monty said lazily.
"I'd given up play with real stakes. Since real money wasn't being wagered..."
“I beg your pardon," Lina said. ''Does that mean you aren't going to pay me the twenty-seven hundred pounds you owe me?”
He laughed. "I believe the final number was in my favor. Lady Whitmore. You owe me three hundred and forty pounds."
"I think he's right there, love." Monty had dropped out of the game an hour ago to simply watch, a wicked smile on his face the whole while. "Best pay up."
She was feeling a little wild and reckless, but in a surprisingly good way. She leaned back against the pillows beside Monty, looting into Pagett's face. Now that he was no longer so grim he was actually quite handsome, and the premature lines only seemed to add to his appeal. He was going to make some pretty little mouse of a girl a most excellent husband. Unless he planned to spend his married life celibate as well.
"La, sir, I came out without my purse," she said archly. "Will you take my marker?"
"Don't trust her, Simon. She's got wicked wiles, and she'll run off without paying."
"You can always take it in trade," she said.
The words hung there for a moment, and the impenetrable, stony expression was back on Simon's face, the one she couldn't read. Contempt and disapproval, no doubt. With a tinge of guilt?
"Don't look like that," she said gaily. "I heard something in church, once, when I wasn't daydreaming. "The truth shall set you free.' Isn't that right? You think I'm a whore and you said so. I'm not arguing, I'm simply offering you my wares in exchange for the gambling debt."
"Don't.” The word was short and sharp.
She'd gotten a rise out of him. Not the right sort, of course. She suspected that particular part of his anatomy no longer worked, not if Simon Pagett told it not to. Her smile widened. "Oh, yes, that's right, you don't partake of pleasures of the flesh. Well, then, I'll simply have to owe you."
He'd moved down off the bed, reaching for his black coat, and Lina slid off beside him, her wide skirts rustling. She put a hand on his arm. "Oh, don't sulk. Admit it, we've had a pleasant night of it Quite the best night I've had in years," she said with a yawn she couldn't quite control. "We haven't fought, and clearly I've forgiven you your earlier gaucherie."
"Clearly," he said with a grim twist to his mouth. "It's late. I should go to bed."
"It's early. In the morning," she amended. She suddenly realized she was standing too close to him. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but for some reason his accidental nearness brought up strange feelings inside her. He was tall, yet he didn't make her feel weak, something that always brought out the worst in her. He gave the impression of quiet strength, when she was lured by noise and brightness. He was waging a battle for Monty's soul, and she fought with the devil on the other side. And yet...
She dismissed the odd, vulnerable feeling brutally. "You can always come to my room and I'll give you my voucher," she said in a silken voice. "For the debt I owe you,” she added, giving her most seductive smile.
“Don't." The word was short and sharp.
She'd gotten a rise out of him. Not the right sort, of course. She suspected that particular part of his anatomy no longer worked> not if Simon Pagett told it not to. Her smile widened. "Oh, yes, that's right, you don't partake of pleasures of the flesh. Well, then, I'll simply have to owe you."
He'd moved down off the bed, reaching for his black coat, and Lina slid off beside him, her wide skirts rustling. She put a hand on his arm. "Oh, don't sulk. Admit it, we've had a pleasant night of it. Quite the best night I've had in years," she said with a yawn she couldn't quite control. "We haven't fought, and clearly I've forgiven you your earlier gaucherie."
"Clearly," he said with a grim twist to his mouth. "It's late. I should go to bed."
"It's early. In the morning," she amended. She suddenly realized she was standing too dose to him. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but for some reason his accidental nearness brought up strange feelings inside her. He was tall, yet he didn't make her feel weak, something that always brought out the worst in her. He gave the impression of quiet strength, when she was lured by noise and brightness. He was waging a battle for Monty's soul, and she fought with the devil on the other side. And yet...
She dismissed the odd, vulnerable feeling brutally. "You can always come to my room and I'll give you my voucher," she said in a silken voice. "For the debt I owe you," she added, giving him her most seductive smile.
“Don't."
'There's that word again. It must be one of your favorites. Don't. No. Shall we add never to the list?"
Monty was sound asleep, and they both knew it. "Never is a dangerous word. Lady Whitmore," he said in an even voice. "And you know as well as I do that our stakes were artificial."
For a moment she didn't move. She wanted to be closer to him, to press up against him and have him put his arms around her, holding her. He was strong, in ways she couldn't even begin to comprehend, and that strength drew her to a dangerous degree. She wanted to bury her face against the somber black cloth of his coat, she wanted to stop smiling, stop laughing, stop dancing.
She wanted to run as far and as fast as she could.
She took a swaying step toward him, her most seductive smile on her lips. The carmine red had worn off hours ago, but she knew her mouth was one of her best features, full and inviting. Men loved her mouth, and Simon Pagett, beneath everything, was simply a man. "Our stakes were artificial," she murmured, "but my offer is entirely genuine." She reached out and gently stroked his chest, her fingers dancing on the thick wool. He caught her hand, stopping her. But he didn't release her fingers.
"Lady Whitmore," he said, and his voice sounded weary, "there is very little about you that is genuine. You aren’t the strumpet you wish you were. In feet, you are a kind woman who loves Montague very much, and for that I'm grateful."
"You have no cause nor right to be grateful," she said, her languor vanishing. "My affection for Monty has nothing to do with you." She tried to pull her hand free, but his grip lightened, and she was right. He was quite strong.
"True. But my feelings are my own. I reserve the right to feel anything I wish. Gratitude, disapproval.”
Her laugh was supposed to be light and airy. Instead it sounded bitter even to her own ears. "You don't feel desire, remember. Vicar?"
"I don't give in to desire. It doesn't mean I don't feel it quite profoundly. Unlike you."
She froze. "Don't be ridiculous. As you put it so elegantly, I spread my legs for anyone. I like to sleep with men. Is that so hard to believe? You think only men feel sexual desire?"
"I think women feel sexual desire quite strongly. I just don't think you do. You're a fake, a poseur. Lady Whitmore. You may open your legs, for whatever twisted reason you have, but you never open your heart."
Since he wasn't releasing her hand, she moved closer still, pressing her body up against his, her anger overcoming every other feeling that might have tempered it. "Spare me your homilies. Vicar, they make me ill." She rubbed up against him, like a cat in heat, mocking him, but as he released her hand he caught her arms, putting her away from him. But not before she felt the unmistakable outline of his erection.
"My, my... It seems your vow of celibacy might be ready to take a tumble. Unless you walk around with a spyglass tucked in your breeches. It seems you want me to spread my legs for you." Her smile was mocking as she waited for him to push her away.
He wouldn't pull her back, she
knew she was safe. She didn't want someone like Simon Pagett in her bed—he saw her with uncomfortable clarity. She preferred drunken lordlings and—
"I gave up meaningless couplings outside of marriage for reasons you couldn't possibly understand."
“Try me. And I do mean that."
“No," he said flatly.
"There it is again. No. Don't. Never. You really should find new words. Like Yes. Do. Always."
His fingers tightened, and he was going to kiss her. His grip was almost painful, and he lifted her off her feet, pulling her closer, and she wanted this kiss more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. His hands hurt her, though she doubted he realized what he was doing, and she closed her eyes, waiting for his mouth to meet hers.
And then she found herself plopped down on the floor, unceremoniously. "I refuse to play your games. Lady Whitmore."
She should have left well enough alone. He was far more of a danger to her equilibrium than the men she slept with—he had the capability of destroying all her hard-won defenses. But she couldn't stop herself.
"Coward," she said.
Monty let out a soft snore. Before she realized what was happening, Simon had grabbed her arms again and pushed her outside the tall French doors, out onto the stone terrace in the early-morning light. He pushed her up against the stone facing, holding her there, and put his mouth on hers.
It was astonishing. It was full-mouthed, seething with lust and abandon, and for a moment she froze. She'd been kissed like that before, and she knew all the tricks of a measured response. But those clever tricks evaporated, and she closed her eyes, sinking, sinking. He kissed her with a fierce hunger that shook her to her bones, a deep, carnal kiss that was more sexual than anything she'd done in her entire life.
He lifted his head, glaring down at her. "You think I don't feel desire. Lady Whitmore? That's not a trout inside my breeches. You think I don't want you? You're the only woman to make me this crazy in ten years. You think I couldn't break my vows and betray my conscience and take you standing up against the wall, right here, right now? Damn you."
He gave her a little shake, and she let out a small, a very small murmur of distress.
“But you don’t fool me. You don't like men, you don’t like sex which is far worse than simply being a loose woman. You don't even get pleasure out of the act."
"I get—" Her denial was immediate, but he cut her off.
“No, you don't. Which is why I'm not going to betray everything I believe in, in service to whatever sick game you like to play. I won't do it. Damn you." He pulled her back into his arms, and she looked up at him, torn, confused, longing. "Damn you," he said again, just a whisper, and his mouth found hers.
The kiss was gentle this time, but there was nothing innocent about it. It was sweet and sexual, a kiss of such unbridled longing that it frightened her, and she reached up, meaning to push him away, but instead her arms went around his neck and pulled him closer, down to her, losing herself in the wonder of his mouth.
It was amazing that anything could penetrate the sudden, unexpected, sweet haze of longing that swept over her as he wrapped his arms around her. Just her name, in a hoarse whisper, and she yanked herself away, expecting that Monty had woken up.
Instead she saw three figures at the end of the wide terrace. Two liveried figures, and a limp, berobed woman in between.
Charlotte.
14
Adrian Rohan lounged in the chair, surveying the busy club with a jaundiced eye. There was a great deal of noise coming from the faro table, where someone had clearly just won or lost a fortune. Normally Adrian would have risen and strolled over to see who had changed their life, at least for the day, but he was bored, restless, annoyed. Gaming had lost its charm for him, wine its taste, sex its delight. For the past three weeks Etienne had tried to interest him in his old pursuits, but nothing managed to entertain him. He'd made an effort, letting his father's cousin drag him off to the clubs, the bordellos, but nothing was able to capture his interest.
Not even the remarkable prowess of Madame Kate's best fellatrix could do more than produce a desultory release, when normally he would have enjoyed the act immensely. He moved through his life with a stunning apathy. He was tired of everything, including Etienne de Giverney, who was growing ever more tedious in his attempts to distract him. Drink bored him, high-stakes gaming was tepid, he'd had every woman that caught his fancy, everything was flat and tasteless.
"That fool Lindenham," Etienne wheezed as he sank into the chair opposite him. "Wagered the family estate on a roll of the dice. Always a bad idea, no matter how lucky he seemed to have been earlier in the evening. He'll probably blow his brains out in a fortnight."
"Or win it back next week," Adrian said absently. "Etienne, I'm thinking I might rusticate. Town has grown dreadfully stale lately, and I'm thinking a bit of fresh air and exercise might improve my spirits."
"You had plenty of fresh air and exercise at Montague's place. Then again, your little piece of fluff didn't let you out of your cave al all—no wonder you're feeling the need of blue sky. Assuming you'll find it in this dreadful country."
"If you don't like our weather you could always return to France, cousin," Adrian suggested in a sweet voice, unaccountably annoyed.
"And lose my head? I think not! I'm more than happy to wait out the revolution right here. It won't be long before the canaille give up. As long as they keep executing each other there soon won't be anyone left to rule, and they'll have no choice but to invite us back.”
"As you say," Adrian murmured, having heard all this before.
"Anyway, your estate adjoins that of your impressive pere, my boy. I have a difficult time feeling comfortable in the wilds of Dorset."
"I wasn't aware that I had asked for your company," Adrian murmured, his light tone taking the sting from the insult.
Etienne smiled with just a trace of malice. "Ah, but I know I am welcome wherever you go. Otherwise you risk the chance of becoming sadly bored> and I couldn't allow that to happen to my young protege."
The word startled Adrian. Did Etienne really see him as a protege? In what? Etienne's expertise was reserved for depravity and excess> and Adrian considered he did well enough on his own in that area.
Then again, what was the Viscount Rohan known for? The same kind of libertine behavior as Etienne, though in truth his bad behavior tended to be overlooked, due to the fact that he was both titled and unmarried.
Etienne didn't live on quite such an exalted level, and if it hadn't been for Adrian's sponsorship he would have been persona non grata at any number of places. He wasn't well liked. The English distrust of the French, even those exiled by their current bloodthirsty mess, was enough to keep Etienne from joining the uppermost tiers of society, theories Adrian took for granted. Etienne would be welcome at gatherings of the Heavenly Host, or galas thrown by women of dubious reputation, such as the notorious Lady Whitmore. But he was barely tolerated in his parents' household, and he'd been given the cut direct more than once since he'd been in England.
"I wouldn't think of dragging you away from London during the season," Adrian said with a touch more grace. "I simply find myself in need of a bit of solitude. I expect I'll go mad with boredom and be back within the week."
Etienne surveyed him for a long moment. "Why would you be in need of solitude? I've known you all your life, and I don't remember a time when you weren't ready for a lark."
"I was fairly subdued when my brother died." The words came out before he could stop them.
"Ah, yes," said Etienne in a suitably somber voice. "The poor boy. I wish I could have done more for him. So young, so strong, and then just...gone. The fever swept through him so quickly. I think your father blames me for his death."
"Don't be absurd," Adrian said in a sharp voice. "It was scarcely your fault."
"Of course it wasn't. But I expect your father believes that English doctors might have been able to save him. That if he
'd taken that fall when he'd been at home, the fever might not have been so virulent."
He hated this conversation. He hated talking about Charles Edward. His death at age nineteen had been devastating for all of them, but for a thirteen-year-old with a severe case of hero worship it had been unbearable.
He surveyed his cousin coolly. "You don't know my father very well. He's not the kind of man who spends time with words like if only. He took my brother's death hard, but the only one he blames is himself, for letting Charles Edward ride that horse in the first place.”
"The horse belonged to me," Etienne pointed out.
"So he did. And you warned Charles Edward many times. Unfortunately the more you warned him the more determined he became. Being willful and headstrong seems to run in our family."
"Indeed," Etienne said. "You realize that that was when I stopped practicing medicine for good. If I couldn't save my beloved cousin's oldest son then what good was any of it?"
Adrian turned to look at him, biting back his instinctive retort. Charles Edward would have hated the fuss—he'd been young, carefree, determined to live his life to the fullest, and he would have mocked any excessive mourning on their part. And like Adrian, he despised hypocrisy.
Francis Rohan, the Marquess of Haverstoke, was no more beloved than Adrian was a monk. The two cousins, Etienne and Francis, had genially despised each other. Etienne had always been convinced that Francis had stolen his birthright, simply by being born on the right side of the blanket. Bastard or not, Etienne de Giverney was French, and believed that he and he alone should be the comte de Giverney and hold in possession the family estates and the vast house in Paris.
Francis had given them to him. And the Reign of Terror had taken them away, a few short years