Philip Renshaw was watching her.
She opened the jewelry box again and took the bracelet out. The stones glittered coldly, like his reptilian eyes.
She had to find him, had to return the bracelet and demand her locket back. It was the only thing that tied her to him, the only proof that she’d ever meant anything to him aside from being his sister-in-law. Her stomach tightened. What would Evelyn say if she knew?
New heat warmed her face at the thought of confessing to her sister, but she had no other choice. She needed Evelyn’s help. She’d make Evelyn tell her where Philip was. It was a matter of life and death. Well, salvation and scandal, perhaps.
She crossed to ring the bell, and then threw open the wardrobe. By the time her maid appeared, Lucy had selected three of her most demure yellow walking gowns and tossed them on the bed, afraid none of them was quite demure enough.
“Go down and order the coach, then come and get me dressed.”
She crammed the emeralds into her bodice, and they chilled the skin between her breasts, just like Philip’s touch.
God knew what Philip might tell the authorities about her if they found him before she did. She had been stupid enough to think his ramblings were some odd kind of foreplay, or just an indiscreet jest to impress her with his family connections. He was a mere baron, bedding a countess, after all. Of course, he had to level the playing field, so to speak.
“Did you know that my mother was a member of the French royal family?” he’d whispered in her ear as he undressed her. “Louis XVI was my cousin. His brother, the duc d’Orleans, was next in line for the throne after they guillotined Louis, and the little dauphin died in prison. Orleans was too weak to take the crown, so he ran away, to England, seeking asylum and help from our king to put him on his throne. Did you know he’s here, even now, hiding on an estate in Buckinghamshire?”
Lucy hadn’t known, of course. Nor had she cared. She was a creature of love, pleasure, and comfort, and she didn’t give a fig about French kings. She’d lifted her breasts, licked her lips, hoping to distract him from his diatribe. She expected him to be impressed by the sight of her lush body, a body most men drooled over, but she was disappointed. He just kept talking. She’d grown bored, drank more champagne while Philip rattled on.
She knew now she should have listened more closely, should have told Frayne, or Somerson. But then she would have had to admit where she’d heard such a tale.
Philip’s face had been a bitter mask as he paced the bedroom. “I prepared everything for the duc’s arrival. I spent a fortune making over my estate in Dorset for him. No expense was spared.” He grabbed a pillow off the bed, tore it open and pulled out a handful of feathers. “I even had geese brought from France and plucked for his pillows. I made him a palace, filled with all the luxuries and comforts he was accustomed to in France.”
Philip’s eyes burned like the windows of hell, and it had given her shivers, turned her lust to ashes, as the feathers from plain English geese filled the room like snow.
“When my exalted cousin landed, did he come to me, greet me as family the way he should have done?”
He seemed to be waiting for her to answer, so she shrugged, and toyed with the lace edge of the sheet.
“No, he did not. He walked past me as if I were nothing. Nothing!”
Lucy had been irritated. She’d driven an hour into the countryside to this secluded house for their tryst, and he had done nothing but drink and rant like a madman.
“He got into another coach, a plain, ramshackle vehicle belonging to the Marquess of Buckingham. He snubbed me, madam, because Buckingham has a pretty wife and pretty daughters. He went to Buckingham’s estate at Stowe. Stowe!” He spat the word as if the place were diseased.
Lucy recalled spending a delightful fortnight at Stowe with Buckingham and his marchioness. She hardly blamed the French king for choosing Buckingham over Philip. She wished she had herself. He’d offered enough times.
She’d bitten her lip. He was still whispering as he mounted and took her roughly, as if he blamed her for his troubles.
“Napoleon,” he’d grunted in her ear. “He’s the future of France. Louis is nothing. He will never take the French throne, and I will make him regret his treatment of me.”
She’d stopped listening. She’d striven to get some pleasure out of bedding her sister’s husband, but there was none to be had.
She cringed inwardly now, recalling how he’d smiled afterward, a cold and superior twist of his thin lips that made her feel like the lowest whore as he dropped the bracelet on the bed between her thighs.
She’d been wrong about bedding him.
She couldn’t afford to be wrong about Philip Renshaw again.
Chapter 24
Sinjon’s breath caught at the sight of Evelyn, though he had promised himself it wouldn’t. She was sitting at her desk, the morning sun on her hair, as he entered the library. He was instantly, desperately, aroused, though they’d both been well sated when they parted at dawn. Had it been only a few hours since he kissed her before slipping out the door of the little bedroom?
He tried to concentrate on his task, which was delivering the morning mail on a silver tray. “The post has arrived, my lady,” he said, playing the perfect footman, aloof and courteous.
“Sam,” she said on a sigh, half rising from her chair. A blush washed over her cheekbones, and he swallowed a groan. It was going to be harder than he thought to keep their affair secret.
Evelyn looked like a woman who had been well bedded, loved an uncountable number of times, kissed senseless. Obviously, it hadn’t been enough for either of them. He had an erection that could knock the desk over, and she was looking at him like she wanted to devour him.
Her fingertips brushed his as he held out the letters to her, and the simple touch ran straight to his groin. He wanted to toss the damned silver tray aside and take her on the desk, or the settee, or even the floor, right here and now, and let propriety and discretion be damned. But that was impossible.
“Are you well this morning, my lady?” he asked.
She smiled wickedly. “Perfectly. And you?”
“I’m finding it difficult not to touch you.”
She came around the desk, and kept coming until the toes of her slippers stopped against his buckled shoes. “Then touch me,” she whispered against his mouth.
He didn’t need a second invitation. He stroked her face, felt the hectic pulse at her throat. He’d kissed her there last night, felt that throb under his mouth. Hell, he’d kissed every single inch of her delicious body.
He slid his hand downward, cupping her breast, remembering the way her nipples hardened in response to his touch. They peaked now under the crisp muslin bodice of her prim gown. He wanted to tear her dress off with his teeth.
But it was day, and he was still holding the tray of letters in one hand. He kissed her once, hard, and stepped back. “I’m supposed to be working. Anyone could walk in and—”
The door burst open.
They sprang apart, and the tray dropped to the floor between them with a clang. The letters swirled like leaves in the wind.
Lucy Frayne didn’t notice. Her eyes were on Evelyn as she crossed the room in quick steps, instead of her usual sassy saunter. Her sultry smirk was absent too, and her face was blotchy and unpowdered. Her high-necked gown was almost virginal.
Trouble. Sinjon’s stomach tightened.
She did not even spare him a glance, though he was the only male in the room and would ordinarily have drawn her attention at once.
He bent to retrieve the letters.
“Lucy, what’s the matter?” Evelyn cried, taking her sister’s hands. “Come and sit down.”
She led her to the settee, and Lucy drew a handkerchief out of her reticule, dabbed her eyes, and twisted it between nervous fingers.
Evelyn cast a sideways glance at him, begging for privacy, perhaps. He ignored her plea and concentrated on picking up the spi
lled letters, reading the addresses as he did.
The first envelope bore the crest of the Marchioness of Blackwood. Another was obviously an invitation, the only one she’d received in days. He picked up the third, and felt his skin heat.
Creighton.
He’d held enough vowels from the man to know his hand. He also recognized the family crest. He stared at the scrawled address, Evelyn’s name, and felt rage boil through him. He was tempted to pocket the letter, read it later. Wasn’t that why he was here, to spy on Evelyn, open her mail?
Did last night change the rules? Guilt tasted bitter in his mouth. Could he make love to her and spy on her at the same time?
“But you must know!” Lucy’s shrill cry drew his attention. She was on her feet now, staring down at Evelyn. He didn’t move, just stayed where he was, listening. “Evelyn, how could you not know where your own husband is?”
The door opened again, and Starling stood there with Marianne Westlake. Sinjon frowned, irritated at the interruption of what looked like a very interesting conversation. It appeared Lucy had received his message. He felt another pang of guilt. If he’d known Lucy would be so frightened, he would never have played such a cruel trick.
“Countess Westlake,” Starling announced from the open doorway. Neither Evelyn nor Lucy noticed. Marianne’s eyes kindled with interest at the conversation, and still the sisters failed to look up. They looked like two cats circling before a fight. Evelyn’s face was flushed and her eyes glittered dangerously, though her expression remained flat.
“I was of the opinion that no one knows where Philip is, Lucy,” Evelyn said, her chin rising along with her color. “There are rumors that he’s dead.”
Starling’s brows shot up as he met Sinjon’s eyes. “My lady, if you please, Countess Westlake is—”
“Don’t be a fool! We both know he’s not dead!” Lucy cried, oblivious to anyone else in the room in her desperation.
Starling started toward Evelyn, but Marianne caught his arm, listening with keen fascination. Sinjon’s stomach curled. Westlake would know every detail of this conversation before the day was out. What would he make of it?
Sinjon cleared his throat, expecting Evelyn to look at him, but her eyes remained on Lucy, her expression fierce and guarded. His gut tensed. Was she protecting Philip or herself?
“Why do you want to know where he is, Lucy? Do you need more fuel to feed the gossip? Do what Eloisa does and make something up if it pleases you,” Evelyn snapped.
Lucy drew a shaky breath. “Oh, Evie, it’s not for gossip!”
“Why, then?” Evelyn demanded, her back as stiff as a musket barrel as she braced for her sister’s explanation. She was holding herself together so tightly a tap on the shoulder would shatter her. Sinjon was as eager as everyone else in the room to hear Lucy’s response. How could she possibly explain such a sin against her sister?
A fat tear rolled down Lucy’s face. “He left something with me. Something I cannot keep any longer. I must return it at once.”
“What is it?” Evelyn asked.
Sinjon stopped breathing.
The Gonfalon of Charlemagne, perhaps?
But Lucy shook her head miserably and didn’t reply, the tears falling faster now. She turned pleading eyes on her sister. “Just tell him, Evelyn, I beg you. If you have any way to get a message to him, then tell him.”
“My lady, if you please, we have another guest—” Starling tried again, but Marianne stepped on his toe to silence him. Sinjon winced as the butler let out a most improper grunt of pain.
Lucy caught sight of Marianne at last, and her eyes widened. For a moment no one moved, then Lucy made a strangled sound and left the room as quickly as she’d entered, brushing past Marianne Westlake without a word.
“Countess Westlake has arrived, my lady,” Starling said pointlessly as Lucy passed him. Sinjon watched Marianne’s sharp gaze follow Lucy out.
Marianne glowed with curiosity. “Whatever was that about?”
Evelyn rose to her feet, her cheeks flushing anew with surprise. Her smile did not touch the ice in her eyes. “My sisters are emotional creatures,” she said. “Tea, please, Starling.”
Marianne wasn’t deterred. “It sounded quite serious. What on earth could Lucy have to say to Philip, and what does she have to return to him?”
Evelyn looked down at her hands, now clasped calmly in her lap, and pursed her lips, making it clear she had nothing further to say on the matter.
“You must admit her interest is most intriguing!” Marianne prodded. “Evelyn, do you know where Philip is?”
Sinjon held his breath as he waited for her reply.
“Oh, Marianne, not you too! Haven’t enough people asked me already? I am tired of the gossip, and the scandal. I have no idea where my husband is. I trust you will not ask me that again,” she added stiffly
Westlake’s wife fell silent, but her eyes roamed over Evelyn’s flushed face, as if trying to read her mind. She would hurry home and report Lucy’s odd visit to Westlake, and Sinjon wondered what the earl would do then. Probably search the Fraynes’ town house, including Lucy in the scandal, and it would be his own fault.
He placed the letters on the desk, including the one from Creighton, and stood at attention, the perfect footman, without ears or eyes or tongue. The conversation turned dull and ordinary, but he saw Evelyn suppress a shiver even as she discussed the warmth of the weather with her friend. She drew her shawl up over her shoulders.
She was afraid again, because of him. He clenched his fist. He could protect her, or destroy her.
Who knew treason could be so seductive?
Chapter 25
Evelyn went down the hall eagerly that night to meet her lover. Sam was waiting for her in bed, his body half covered with the sheet. The shadow of his erection leapt against the linen as she entered the room, and she felt an answering need surge in her own body.
She untied the satin belt of her robe, pushed it off her shoulders and let it fall. She was naked beneath, and his sharp intake of breath was gratifying, titillating.
“Come here,” he said, but she hardly needed encouragement. She was already falling into his arms, her mouth on his, pulling aside the sheet so she could touch him.
She had waited for this all day. She’d been tempted to summon her footman to the nearest broom closet, but Miss Trask, Charlotte’s sharp-eyed companion, had decided to spend the afternoon sitting with her in the library. Evelyn pretended to read, almost swooning with lust. Miss Trask feared she was fevered and suggested a tisane of feverfew and willow bark. Evelyn tossed it into a plant when Miss Trask wasn’t looking.
She had a number of reasons to want her wits about her—Lucy’s troubling words for one thing.
What could Philip have given to her sister, and why? The answer was ugly, and she forced it out of her mind.
She couldn’t wait to get to her lover, to find pleasure and forgetfulness in his arms. Feverfew and willow bark be damned—this was the cure for what ailed her, at least for a little while.
She lay in the warm circle of Sam’s arms in the afterglow of their lovemaking, breathing in the scent of his skin, feeling safe for the first time that day. She was drowsy, wanted to fall asleep with him and wake up and make love again before dawn separated them.
She wasn’t afraid of the dark, not with Sam. It was day that terrified her, brought forth her worst fears—Philip, Lord Creighton, Lucy. . .
She swallowed a sob of desperation that this moment could not last forever, and curled her fingers against the heat of his chest. He caught her hand in his, stroked it. “Is something wrong?” His voice rumbled through her breast.
The words hovered on her lips, but she shook her head.
He pushed a pillow behind his head and met her eyes.
“Is it about Lu—Countess Frayne’s visit?” he asked. She shut her eyes.
Not now, not here. Not him too.
“Can’t my sister pay a perfectly congenial vi
sit without questions being asked?”
“It hardly seemed congenial.”
She shifted away from him. “Lucy is a passionate woman,” she said, as if it excused her. The slight twitch of his eyebrows told her he already knew all about Lucy’s reputation. Sam wasn’t stupid. Perhaps he suspected the same thing she did, that Lucy and Philip had been—
Her stomach churned, and she got up from the bed, reaching for her robe, suddenly cold.
He leaned up on his elbow, watching her, his eyes in shadow. “Evelyn, do you know where Philip is?” he asked.
She sent a haughty glare over her shoulder, but his eyes narrowed, glittered.
“Don’t give me that look, my lady. In this room, we are equals, remember?”
She raised her chin as she tied to sash on her robe. “Not so equal that you may ask impertinent questions.”
He rose and began to pull on his breeches. “I see I’ve found the boundary line.”
“Am I not entitled to privacy?” she demanded.
He crossed to touch her cheek, his eyes soft, sympathetic, and she let him, trying not to swoon against his palm, wanting to fight the rest of the world, but not him.
He lowered his mouth to hers, began to undo her robe again, following the descent of the silk with his lips.
He had no right to ask, she thought. He was her lover, and that was all. Or was it? She trusted this man as she had never trusted another. He kept her safe, made her forget her worries. Still, her husband was alive, and this was adultery.
Just like Lucy.
She pulled away, suddenly feeling ill.
“Evelyn?” He set his hands on his hips and frowned.
“My husband is still alive, Sam. I am a married woman. I have no right to be here with you. I am no better than—”
He laid a finger against her lips. “Do you know where Philip is?” he asked again, softly.
“He could be outside this door for all I know. He might walk in here and kill us both. Aren’t you afraid?”
The Price of Temptation Page 16