Susan Carroll

by The Painted Veil

  Yet he reveled in the gentle way Anne removed his robe. He closed his eyes as her fingers roved over his chest and shoulders in tentative exploration. Her caress was almost enough to bring him to his knees.

  He gathered her in his arms, kissing her again, molding her breasts to his naked flesh, the warmth of her body flowing into him, sending heat rushing through his veins. Nothing stood between them and the culmination of desire except the coarse fabric of his breeches.

  Anne managed to undo the buttons, but he had to help her edge the tight cloth down his hips, his hands covering hers, gently guiding her. She bent before him, tugging the breeches to his ankles so that he could step out of them.

  Then she looked up, her gaze filled with a kind of wonder as she studied his legs, the hardened evidence of his arousal, the breadth of his chest, her glance finally coming to rest upon his face. The piercing clarity of her blue eyes shook him to the core of his soul.

  To have her kneeling before him in an attitude of adoration was so unbearable it was painful. Mandell made haste to draw her to her feet. Swooping her into his arms, he carried her to his bed and laid her upon the mattress.

  As he settled down beside her, her mouth sought his with a sweet eagerness. Her hands moved over his back and shoulders, exploring his body with increasing boldness. Anne had spoken earlier of her own desires, but he sensed she was striving mostly to bring him pleasure.

  He sought to match her generosity. He had little enough to offer her but the consummate skill as a lover he had acquired over the years, his intimate knowledge of a woman's body, her most secret needs.

  As he stroked and caressed her, he wanted to be able to do more for her, to murmur soft words in her ear. But the practiced endearments he usually employed seemed too hollow for such a moment, and as for whisperings of tenderness, he had none. So he had to content himself to make love to her in silence, communicating his need for her with his hands and his kiss.

  His fingers skimmed over her curves. Gently capturing her breast, Mandell placed his lips over the rosy-tipped crest, caressing it with the rough heat of his tongue. Anne arched back with a whimper of pleasure.

  She had seen the promise of passion in Mandell's dark eyes from their first encounter in a moonlit garden. It was a promise he now fulfilled, his kisses hot and sweet, his long graceful fingers working magic, making her feel things she had never imagined possible. No, not for the dull, virtuous Anne.

  She was a different woman in his arms, wanton, free and ... yes, beautiful. She could see the effect she had on Mandell and she could not suppress a tiny thrill that she possessed the power to stir him so.

  As he pressed her onto her back, holding himself poised above her, his face was flushed with passion, desire melting away the hauteur and the lines of mocking distance he usually maintained between them.

  A fine sheen of perspiration bathed his flesh, sweat glistening on the muscular contours of his shoulders and chest. His eyes burned into her, the cast of his mouth both sensual and tender as he kissed her.

  She was struck with a sense of awe at the sheer masculine power he possessed and knew a brief flickering of fear as he parted her legs. But he eased himself inside her so gently, tears sprang to her eyes. A sad thought came unbidden to her mind, that this was as close as she would ever come to Mandell, this union of their flesh. She would never touch his heart or soul.

  She embraced him with near desperation, seeking to take all of him into herself, striving to meld her body with his. He began to move inside her and she forgot all else but the bittersweetness of this moment when no barriers seemed to exist between them.

  Anne kissed him, arched against him, her body moving as one with his. The pleasure he brought her spiraled into something so intense, she cried out, digging her nails into his back.

  He groaned her name, escalating the rhythm, taking her with him into his own land of fire and shadow, seeking a mutual fulfillment that left Anne feeling shattered and spent.

  For long moments, Anne was conscious of nothing but clinging to Mandell, feeling the pounding of her heart slow to a steadier pace. As his own ragged breathing became quieter, he continued to hold himself inside of her. Anne savored the warmth, the intimacy of that joining, never wanting it to end.

  But he eased himself from on top of her. Although he gathered her in his arms, nestling her head against his shoulder, Anne had a chilling sensation that something was wrong.

  She had heard that once the passion was spent, a man would be done with the woman. It had certainly been thus with Gerald, When he had finished with her, he had buttoned his breeches, gave her a peck on the cheek and left the room.

  It was some comfort to Anne that Mandell yet clasped her tight in his arms, his face resting against her hair, but she could already feel him slipping away from her.

  She shifted enough so that she could see his face. His features were still, his eyes dark with some emotion she failed to comprehend. Disappointment in her perhaps? The confidence that had been born in her this night slowly began to die.

  He was so quiet she felt impelled to speak. “What happened between us was incredible,” she said shyly. “It was like nothing I have ever felt. I will never forget it.”

  Anne silently cursed herself for the inadequacy of her own words. She wished she could find some way to explain to him that what she had experienced in his arms had been wondrous, something bright and beautiful. She only wished it had been the same for him. When he still failed to speak, she knew it hadn't been.

  “Did you enjoy it, too?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course I did.” The kiss he pressed to her brow was as abrupt as his words. Anne sensed he wanted her to be silent, but she could not seem to do so.

  “I keep forgetting none of this is new to you. You must have experienced such pleasure dozens of times before.”

  Her voice was anxious and Mandell realized she was seeking reassurance. He should have been able to give it to her, but he was too thoroughly shaken. He was used to making conquests. But he had never surrendered so much to any woman as he had done with Anne tonight. It was as though in holding her so close to his body, he had also allowed her to draw too close to his heart. He could hardly admit such a thing to himself, let alone to her.

  Before she could stir any more such disturbing reflections, he sought to silence her. Turning her in his arms, he kissed her, her mouth soft and pliant after their lovemaking. When he broke off the embrace, he saw that he had appeased her anxieties if not his own.

  Nibbling at her ear, he strove for a lighter tone. “I fear you are far too easily pleased, my lady. Your late husband's performance in the bedchamber must have been quite unremarkable if you were so impressed by my poor skill tonight. The next time, when I am better rested, I will show you far greater pleasures.”

  “Will there be a next time?” Her eyes were far too wistful, too eager.

  He should have said no for both their sakes. Yet he found himself replying, “If you wish it.”

  “Then I shall become your mistress?”

  Anne watched Mandell's brows draw together in a frown. Her question seemed to disturb him.

  “Could you be comfortable in that role?” he asked. Anne hesitated only a moment over her reply. “Yes. Neither of us is bound by vows to anyone else. It would be different if I were not a widow and if you were married,”

  “There is no fear of that difficulty arising.”

  “Do you never intend to marry, my lord?'

  “I will be obliged to one day, find some haughty dame with enough ice and ambition in her veins to make a proper marchioness. Trade off my title and wealth to put an heir in the cradle of the august house of Windermere.”

  He meant to sound flippant, but Anne detected an underlying bitterness beneath his words.

  “It sounds like a very cold arrangement,” Anne ventured, reflecting that she certainly ought to know. Except that instead of ice and ambition, Gerald had wanted propriety and virtue,

 
Mandell smiled at her, stroking his fingers through the length of her hair. “One generally saves all one's warmth for one's mistress.”

  “You will have to forgive me, my lord, and remember that I am quite new to the rules that govern a relationship such as ours.”

  He dropped a kiss on her brow. “To begin with, you will have to learn to be more demanding. Tell me what carriages, what jewels, what expensive presents you expect from me in return for your affections.”

  Anne swallowed to conceal the hurt his words gave her, “My affections don't come so dear. All I want is more moments like we shared tonight, perhaps occasionally for you to play your music for me.”

  “You expect too little, my dear. Once again you make me doubt whether you are the sort of woman suited for this kind of liaison.”

  “What sort of woman do you think I am?'

  “The kind who will always need the prince on a white charger, whisking you off to the security of his castle, keeping you safe from all ogres and dragons.”

  “I already tried the prince,” Anne said, running her hand lightly up his arm. “It was very dull. I prefer to take my chances with the dragon.”

  “Even if he devours you?”

  “That would be a preferable fate to being buried alive in some silk-lined palace.”

  “I hope you still think so when you have been reduced to ashes,” Mandell said, his eyes intent and somber. “But now that I have known what it is like to have you in my bed, I am too selfish to forego that pleasure. I am exactly like that greedy fellow in Norrie's story, the one who robbed the world of spring.”

  “My lord Hades,” Anne murmured.

  “And now I have succeeded in dragging you down into my darkness.”

  Unless she was able to lead him up into the light. It was a foolish hope, but a persistent one. Yet Anne was wise enough to keep it to herself as Mandell gathered her close in his arms.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Over a fortnight had passed since the attack on Sir Lancelot Briggs, and the surly proprietor of the Running Cat hoped that all questions regarding the doings in his tavern had finally ceased. Since that fateful evening, Mr. George Nagle had been beleaguered by a succession of constables, Bow Street detectives, and even a magistrate. Many of the activities at the Running Cat would not bear close scrutiny by the minions of the law, and Mr. Nagle heartily wished that the Hook would be considerate enough to look elsewhere for his next victim.

  As he swept out the taproom, he reflected it was the first peaceful afternoon he had known since that wretched night. The tavern was empty except for the sailor, old Tom, passed out beneath one of the benches as usual, and one other customer who stood sipping a pint of porter near the back door.

  The quiet suited Nagle, who was in a bad humor, the lazy barmaid Jenny having neglected to clean up again. The girl was only good for such occupation as involved her being flat on her back on one of the beds upstairs. Nagle plied the broom with vigor, stirring up dust motes in the bright spring sunlight. He did not feet up to greeting any customers, not even with his usual irritable growl.

  But he straightened instinctively at the sight of the dark-haired gentleman who entered the tavern. He was tall, the cut of his frock coat severe, his whipcord riding breeches immaculate. Though the color was of a most somber hue, there was no mistaking the quality of the garments or the value of the signet ring the gentleman flashed on his lean aristocratic hand.

  Nagle stared in momentary astonishment. His tavern was occasionally frequented by members of the nobility, but none like this gent, who looked mighty high in instep, his lip curling with distaste as he crossed the threshold.

  Nagle had the odd feeling he had seen the man before. But he was discouraged from any further ogling by a pair of imperious dark eyes that stared him down, making Nagle feel it might be prudent to take shelter behind the bar.

  “Afternoon, sir.” Nagle nodded, infusing his voice with more respect than he showed most of his customers. “How can I serve you? A pint of ale perhaps? Or I do have a tolerable brandy.”

  “No.” A slight shudder appeared to course through the gentleman. “I am merely seeking information about something that happened two weeks ago.”

  Dropping his respectful mien, Nagle bristled like a cat stroked the wrong way. “I hope this is not about that bloody night that little fat fellow wandered out of here to get himself skewered, because I answered all the questions I'm going to on that score. I am not going to be plagued with every constable this side of the river”

  “Do I look like a constable?” the gentleman inquired icily with a lift of his brow. He drew an elegant calling card from his pocket and slid it across the counter.

  Nagle squinted at this, his reading abilities none of the best. He was able to make out that he was dealing with a marquis of some sort, but that did little to ease Nagle's belligerent stance.

  “All I want to know,” his lordship continued, “is if you or any of your staff noticed when Sir Lancelot left the tavern and if he was alone.”

  Nagle scowled, but gave a grudging reply.” I can only tell you, m'lord, the same as I told the magistrate. We cannot keep track of everybody's comings and goings around here. I can hardly remember what happened last night, let alone two weeks ago.”

  “But that night must have stood out in your memory. There was a fight, was there not?”

  “That's not such an unusual occurrence round here. Why must everyone keep bothering me about this business? Why not go ask your questions of the fellow best able to answer, that little Sir Whatsit that was attacked?”

  “Because Sir Lancelot Briggs has never recovered full use of his faculties. He remains unable to speak of what happened to him.” The marquis's hard stare did not waver, his haughty features, if anything, assuming a more rigid cast.

  “Out of his wits, eh? Too bad,” Nagle grunted uneasily. “But I cannot help you, m'lord. The most I recollect is that sometime after that brawl, the one gentleman as was fighting and that there Sir Briggs up and vanished. And as for the blond-haired fellow that took the worst of the drubbing, when he managed to get to his feet, he left howling for blood and vengeance against the whole world. Perhaps somebody ought to be asking that fine gentleman a question or two.”

  “I already tried. Sir Lucien has left London. Gone to Bath for the sake of his health, or so his butler says.”

  “How convenient for him.” Nagle sneered. “I wish I was there m'self.”

  The marquis lowered his eves and Nagle found it a great relief to be spared any more of that piercing gaze. But his tension returned as the marquis asked, “And what of this notorious footpad, the Hook? You must have heard something about him, some speculation as to his identity perhaps, some whisperings from your patrons?”

  Nagle began to polish the mugs behind the counter with a scrupulous attention they had never received before. “I've only ever heard enough to know the Hook is one person 1 want to stay clear of, and if your lordship is wise, you'll do the same.”

  Nagle did not look up from his task, but he could feel the power of those dark eyes boring into him. He heard the marquis's purse jangle as he laid it upon the counter. Nagle could not keep his eyes from straying to where his lordship fingered the soft leather in suggestive fashion.

  “Are you certain you remember nothing else about the night Briggs was attacked?' the marquis purred.

  Nagle licked his lips, but he had not entirely forgotten the presence of his other customer, the one who lingered in the shadows by the rear door.

  Nagle said, “If I remembered anything, I would have said so.”

  He could feel the weight of the marquis's displeasure. But all his lordship did was to lay several pound notes by his calling card. “If your memory should improve, sir, I trust you will wait upon me. I could make it worth your trouble. My name and direction are written upon the card.”

  Nagle nodded in jerky fashion. He did not feel able to breathe freely until the marquis had turned and strode back out o
f the tavern. Then Nagle pounced upon the card and the money, shoving them deep in the pocket of his dirty apron.

  The customer who had been lounging at the back of the tavern now stepped up to the bar. Nagle tried not to give a nervous start.

  “What was that all about, George?” the young man asked.

  Nagle knew enough about Gideon Palmer not to be fooled by the deceptive pleasantry in Palmer's voice.

  The tavern host forced a shrug. “Only some high and mighty lordship with nothing better to do than bother an honest working man with a deal of questions he can't answer.”

  “Mandell,” Gideon muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Palmer stroked the scar that disfigured his chin. “So what did his lordship wish to know?”

  “Just a deal of nonsense about the night that Briggs fellow was attacked and about the Hook.”

  “And what did you tell him my dear friend George?”

  The question was soft, but Nagle felt the hairs prickle along the back of his neck.

  “I had nothing to tell his lordship, did I?” Nagle blustered. “And I wouldn't if I did. I have too much regard for my own skin and besides that, I have no patience for fellows as would squeak for a handful of coins.”

  “At least that is one thing we have in common, George,” Gideon said with a silky smile. “Neither do I.”

  Mandell urged his black gelding through the gates into St. James's Park, the fresh smell of the grass and warm spring breeze dispelling the stench that clung to him from the Running Cat tavern, a noisome combination of sour spirits and stale smoke. There was nothing so enlightening, Mandell thought wryly, as returning to the scene of one's drunken revels when one was stone cold sober.

  He had only returned to the tavern out of sheer frustration at Briggs's continued silence. Although Lancelot had recovered enough to sit up in bed, he seemed to retreat deeper into himself each day, shrinking from receiving any visitors, especially Mandell. If Briggs's assailant was to be apprehended, Mandell realized he would have to seek information from some other quarter.