Daphne wanted to argue, but there was much truth in what Charles said. She hated having his relatives think that she was so shatterbrained that on little more than a whim, she attacked her bedroom wall with sledgehammer and crowbar. But then, she reminded herself, they had found a secret door and staircase, so her whim had not been without merit.
Feeling a trifle better about it, she nodded. “Very well. We shall tell them that I was convinced that I had spied the outline of a doorway behind the wallpaper and that you, um, humored me and helped me make our discovery.”
They both turned to stare at the debris scattered across the floor of Daphne’s bedroom. “We shall have to tell the same tale to the servants,” Charles said.
Daphne sighed. “I know.” She wrinkled her nose. “I shall so enjoy being thought a perfect pea-goose by one and all.”
“You’re fair and far off with that thinking! Your intuition led to the discovery of a secret staircase, and that, my dear, will have everyone believing that you are too clever by half.”
Daphne shrugged and looked down at her ruined gown. “I don’t want to be thought of as clever, right now; all I want is a bath and a change of clothes.”
It was fortunate that both Daphne’s and Charles’s dressing rooms could be gained by the servants’ stairs and that by closing the door between Daphne’s bedchamber and the dressing room, all signs of their handiwork were out of sight. Having rung for baths for each of them, they parted, Charles entering his own private dressing room while Daphne rummaged through her armoire for a change of clothes.
Mindful of what lay on the other side of the door, once the hot water had been carried upstairs from the kitchen and poured into the big copper tub, Daphne dismissed her maid, telling her she would ring for her when, or if, she needed her attention. The bath was heavenly, and aware for the first time of aching muscles, she lingered in the warm water. She had washed her hair and skewered the dripping mass on top of her head with a large carved wooden pin. Her skin was all pink and rosy from a thorough scrubbing, and nearly boneless with relaxation, she lay her head back against the rim of the copper tub, closed her eyes, and sighed extravagantly.
“My sentiments precisely,” drawled Charles as he stepped through the door between her dressing room and her bedroom.
Daphne sat up with a shriek. “You startled me,” she confessed, guessing from his damp hair and the robe he wore that he had already bathed. Staring at the silky black hair that sprouted in the deep V neckline of the robe, she also guessed that he was naked under the garment. Their eyes met, and the expression in his green gaze made her pulse leap and a tickle of desire kick through her.
Crossing to the satin dressing stool, he picked up a heavy white towel. With a decidedly carnal curve to his full mouth, he murmured, “I apologize, but I fear, my dear, that I intend to do far worse to you than startle you.”
In one swift movement, he pulled her from the tub and gathered the towel around her naked body. Clamping her next to him, his mouth found hers, and he kissed her with a heat and hunger that sent lightning sizzling through Daphne. Breathless and dazzled by his kiss, when he swung her up into his arms and carried her into her bedroom, after it must be noted, shutting the door to the dressing room firmly behind him, she offered no resistance. A purely masculine smile on his face, he said, “Oh, yes, I shall certainly do much more than startle you. Much, much more.” And dropping her onto the bed, he jerked the towel away and tossed it on the floor.
Their lovemaking had always taken place at night in the concealing darkness and beneath a decent covering of sheets. Daphne was suddenly very aware that despite the lateness of the day and increasing clouds, intermittent sunlight still shone into the room…and she was lying totally naked and exposed before her husband’s roving gaze. Overcome with shyness, she flushed and sought to cover herself, but Charles gently swatted away her hands and said softly, “No, no, sweet, though our marriage is only a few weeks old, we have gone far beyond mere modesty.”
That wasn’t precisely true, Daphne thought half hysterically—they might know each other’s body in the dark but not in daylight! And with, she decided resentfully, one of them still clothed.
Burning with embarrassment, miserably aware of her own nakedness, she muttered, “That’s easy for you to say—you’re still clothed.”
“Easily rectified.”
He stripped off his robe, and it joined the towel on the floor by the bed.
Staring at all the muscled male beauty before her, Daphne forgot her own nakedness. He had made love to her numerous times, she had touched and fondled that splendid body to her heart’s content, but she had never actually seen him completely naked. She could not have looked away if her life depended upon it. He was beautiful, she thought giddily, her eyes traveling across the broad shoulders, wide chest, and down to the hard, flat belly. She gasped when her gaze found the thick, bulging rod springing up from the mat of black hair between his strong thighs. Oh, my. Wasn’t that simply magnificent!
“If you don’t stop eating me with your eyes, I am afraid that you will ruin my plans for a feast.”
Her eyes bright with budding desire, Daphne jerked her admiring gaze upward to meet his eyes. “Y-y-your feast?”
“Hmmm, yes,” he murmured as he sank down onto the bed beside her. “You. You look…luscious.”
Even with him lying equally naked beside her, Daphne was miserably conscious of the spill of sunlight into the room, of the fact that he could see her, and every flaw of her less than perfect body. She was aware of her too small breasts and boyish hips, parts of her that were always decently hidden by clothing or blankets or darkness. It was one thing to be bold and brazen in bed in the dark, but another to be lying here without wearing a stitch of clothes with the sun still in the sky! She wiggled around, trying to conceal her nakedness by dragging up a small portion of the coverlet, but Charles would have none of it.
Flipping back the coverlet, he ran a caressing hand over her shoulder and arm. “Still shy of me?” he asked softly, the expression in his eyes making her feel as if she was sinking into a pool of mulled wine.
“It seems so strange to be, uh, undressed during the day,” she offered uncertainly. “There is so much…light.”
“All the better to view the lovely sight before me,” he crooned, cupping one breast. “Just like this round little dumpling.”
His hand on her breast was heavenly, spirals of pleasure radiating outward wherever he touched. She licked her lip. “It, they aren’t very big.”
“No,” he agreed gently, “not big, just perfect.” Fondling her bosom, he added, “You see how they fit my hand. Perfectly.” He kissed her, his mouth warm and coaxing. When his head lifted, Daphne moaned in protest, needing, wanting more. His eyes darkened as they met hers. “And you are mine, all mine.”
Charles’s gaze dropped to her breasts, the nipples tight and rosy. Flicking a finger over one sweet nipple, he said, “I find I am in the mood for strawberries.” He bent and lightly closed his teeth over her nipple, and Daphne arched, delight streaking from her head to her toes. “No, not strawberries,” he said against her breast, “raspberries. Small, ripe, and all mine.”
He tasted the other nipple, his hands beginning a long, slow glide down her body. Fire and desire thrummed in his veins as he tasted and bit and suckled her breasts. Her skin was soft and smooth, like the finest silk, and he wanted to stroke reverently and grab with primitive abandon at the same time. He wanted her. Wanted to taste and sample every tempting inch of her in every imaginable way. Wanted her beneath him. On top of him. Locked around him. Wanted her beyond life itself.
Daphne gave herself up to the moment, conscious of the delicious weakness in her limbs, conscious of the glowing warmth flooding her. Every tug of his mouth on her nipples sent a wave of longing through her, every touch of his hands aroused an ache that begged to be soothed. She pushed her hips up against his groin, purring with pleasure when his swollen member lodged against her clef
t. Flinging one leg over him, she rubbed along the thick length of him, her breathing uneven and rapid when he rubbed back, increasing her desire.
Her hands explored at will, down his back, over his taut buttocks, even dipping daringly lower to caress and cup the tight sac between his thighs, and Charles thought he would explode when she touched him there. His plan for a long, slow seduction nearly went by the wayside in that moment, but with a groan, he moved away from her, his body slipping lower, his mouth sliding across her belly, downward, seeking the heart and heat of her.
When he buried his mouth in the curls between her thighs, when his tongue probed and his teeth scraped gently against the delicate flesh he found there, Daphne stiffened, astonished and just a little alarmed at what he was doing. Her first instinct was to stop him from such a lascivious, surely depraved act, but then his tongue swirled over a particularly sensitive spot, and hot, wanton pleasure washed through her, leaving only stunned acceptance in its wake. Stopping him was beyond her, the new emotions, sensations so intense she could only writhe beneath his wicked, knowing mouth and his able, clever fingers that he used so well. When ecstasy took her, she went willingly, spinning wildly into the velvet abyss.
But Charles was not done with her yet. As she floated slowly back to earth, he was there, caressing her, nibbling once more at her breasts, his hand gently moving through the curls at the V where her thighs met. Small shocks of pleasure still rippled through her, but then as they ebbed and Charles continued to taste and explore her, heat built beneath his hand, and the magic began again.
His mouth caught hers, his kiss hot and urgent, and when he parted her thighs and lowered himself between them, she was eager for him. Daphne’s arms tightened around him, and like a flick of flame, her tongue met and slid along the length of his, stoking the simmering fire that leaped higher and higher between them.
Charles possessed her in one frantic thrust, sliding deep within her, his hands on her hips holding her, positioning her beneath him as he plunged again and again into her. The soft sounds she made, the clench and clasp of her molten heat around him each time he sank into her was exquisite torture, the urge to drive harder, deeper, and faster warring with the longing to make this moment where they rocked on the edge of completion last forever. He fought to hold this moment, fought to meet her pumping hips, but his body demanded succor. Daphne’s low keening cry was his undoing, and he could not stop the rush, could not stop his seed from bursting from him. With something between a growl and a moan, he rode the wave, taking Daphne with him as the world vanished and they drowned in pleasure.
For a long time, they remained locked together, too satiated and replete to move. Eventually, Charles slid from between her thighs and lay beside her. Daphne turned her head to stare at him. Wonderingly, she touched his dark face. “I think,” she said slowly, “that we were just very wanton.”
He smiled. “Do you? Did you like being wanton?”
Dreamily, she said, “I think that I could become quite accustomed to it.”
He nuzzled her neck. “Then perhaps we shall do this often.”
Some time later, Charles descended the stairs and made his way once more to the library. He rang for Goodson, and when the butler arrived, he said, “Would you please inform my cousins and the countess that I wish to speak with them here as soon as possible? Also, bring a tray of refreshments for us.”
Goodson bowed and said, “I shall see to it immediately.”
While he waited, Charles lit the kindling on the hearth and once that was crackling nicely, threw on several applewood logs. With the snap of the fire in the background, he returned to the Beaumont family papers, idly turning this page and that, not certain what exactly he was looking for amongst the documents. A confession to all his wrongdoings written in Sir Wesley’s own hand would be nice, he thought. Or at least another mention of Katherine. And the fate of the child she carried. He didn’t disagree with Daphne’s belief that their little ghost was Sir Wesley’s child bride; he had the same sense that it could be no one else.
The sound of the opening of the door jerked his head in that direction, and he smiled as Marcus walked into the room.
Bearing a strong resemblance to both Julian and Charles, although not as striking as the resemblance between the other two cousins, Marcus had always been the quieter, the steadier, and least reckless of the three. The one cousin, Charles thought smiling, most likely to advise them to proceed carefully and not rush into scandal and danger. For all the good it did, Charles admitted to himself.
His expression wary, Marcus walked toward him, saying, “I mistrust that look in your eye. I sincerely hope that you are not about to spring something unpleasant on me.”
Before Charles could reply, Goodson appeared with a tray and the requested refreshments. He was still serving Charles and Marcus when Julian and Nell entered.
There was polite chatter as Goodson went about his duties, supplying everyone with a mug of the spicy punch, the scent of cinnamon and cloves mingling pleasantly with the faint hint of the burning applewood in the room. His services no longer needed, Charles dismissed him. He followed the butler to the door and once it had closed behind Goodson, Charles very deliberately locked the door.
Marcus, standing with one hand resting on the mantle of the marble fireplace, cocked an eyebrow at Charles’s action. “Secrets, cousin?” he asked.
Julian, seated on the damask sofa next to Nell, glanced at Charles as he joined them by the fire. The expression on Charles’s face chilled him, and he demanded, “What is it? Why have you gathered us here?”
Without preamble, Charles told them all. He explained the reasons for his trip to Cornwall, confessing his own inability to find any trace of Raoul to support his feelings and ending with the discoveries that he and Daphne had made.
“Daphne knows of Raoul?” Marcus asked sharply. “You told her about him and then dragged your bride of only days along with you while you searched for proof that he is still alive?”
Charles sipped his punch. “Yes, I did—and my bride would have it no other way. I did attempt to send her back here, but she would have none of it.” A faint smile flitted across his face. “Daphne is rather, er, intrepid and not to be swayed when the mood takes her.”
Her eyes dark with anxiety, Nell leaned forward. “Do you really believe that Raoul is alive? And somewhere in this area living off the jewels that his mother secreted away for him?”
“I do,” Charles said flatly. “And my reasoning is thus: we never found his body, and we should have. There have been at least two women, if not three, ripped to pieces in the manner that Raoul preferred. And many of Sofia’s jewels are missing, jewels that I know she owned, jewels that I saw with my eyes. Do I know the extent of her private jewel collection? No, of course not—the woman bought jewelry like a starving jackal attacks a week-dead carcass. But I know of several pieces that are missing, and it makes sense that she gave them to Raoul to hide or even hid them for him. We found no jewels at the house in Poole, but we did discover a cache hidden on his yacht.” Charles’s mouth tightened. “Whether any will be found in his Brighton or London rooms or at his hunting lodge or any of the other places he would have had access to remains to be seen.”
“But Nell never dreams of him anymore,” declared Julian impatiently. “Surely that counts for something.”
“Perhaps,” Charles said, “for some reason the link between them has been broken. Nell may no longer be beset by nightmares but that doesn’t mean that Raoul is not alive.”
“This is ridiculous!” snapped Marcus. “Just because we didn’t find his body doesn’t mean that he is alive. He was shot in the chest, twice, I might add, and he fell, what? Twenty or thirty feet down the sluice hole. It’s true the cavern below led to the river, but I hardly think he could have survived the river in the condition he was in. If, and it is a big if, he survived your bullets and the fall, he would have drowned once he reached the river. He’s dead.”
Jul
ian agreed with Marcus, but it was Nell who said slowly, “All of that is true, but suppose he kept a small rowboat there?” She swallowed. “And used it to escape?”
Julian studied her pale features. “It is possible, but…”
“Not only possible, but highly likely,” Charles said. His gaze traveling from one intent face to the other, he said, “I am convinced that he and Sofia, most probably Sofia, planned ahead for the day that Raoul’s monstrous behavior would be exposed.” He glared at Marcus. “The jewels are missing. And Daphne and I did find a cache of jewels on his yacht. And do not forget that bodies of women have been found here in an area that he frequented often and was familiar with.” He looked down at his gleaming boots. “I am convinced,” he said harshly, “that Sofia gave him much, if not all, of her personal jewelry and instructed him to hide it in places he could reach should the worst happen. Nell’s idea that he might have had a small boat ready with who knows what sort of supplies in it makes perfect sense. What is to say that he didn’t have another hiding place nearby? A place we didn’t know about that he could escape to initially, regroup, and then move on and…disappear.” His mouth grim, he added, “Raoul wouldn’t have thought of it on his own, but Sofia bloody well would have.”
Marcus took a long drink of his punch. Julian stared at the fire. Nell’s eyes were fixed on her lap, where her fingers were so tightly clasped the knuckles shone white, like bleached bones. Taking a sip of his own punch, Charles waited, knowing that each was considering the situation.
Julian spoke first. His voice heavy, he said, “Very well. It is possible.”
In a small voice, Nell added, “I think it is more than possible. I think it is true.”
Marcus sighed. “I don’t know if it is true or not, but I’ll concede that it is not beyond the realm of possibility.” He looked across at Charles. “So what do we do now?”
Seduction Becomes Her Page 27