The click of a door closing softly and the sound of a footfall on the marble tiles of the hall made her turn swiftly. She had thought that she was alone, but now she saw that a tall shadow had fallen across the doorway.
“I thought that you had left some time ago,” she said as James Devlin came forward into the room.
Dev shook his head. “Your husband and I were talking.”
“And?” Lottie prompted. Had blasted Gregory defied her and offered the stupid boy his money anyway? She felt infuriated.
But Dev was shaking his head. “He won’t fund me. Says the venture is too risky.”
“I am so sorry.” Lottie swam forward and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You must be so disappointed, darling.” He looked disappointed, she thought, all youthful spirits downcast, so sweetly handsome she wanted to kiss him better. She pressed a glass of champagne on him. It was flat from standing but he still drank it down in one go and she gave him another, picking up a glass herself and clinking it against his in salute.
“Where does that leave you now?” she said sympathetically.
“With a half share in a ship and no money to sail it anywhere.” He sounded philosophical. Bless him, Lottie thought, he really was the dearest boy. Perhaps he was not as mature or as forceful as his cousin, a boy to Alex’s man, but he was here and he was extremely handsome and she was bored and miserable…
She took Dev’s empty glass from his hand and placed it on the table, leaning past him and brushing her breasts firmly against his arm in the process. It was a gesture that could have been entirely accidental—or not. She felt him stiffen, more so in some places than others, and smiled.
“Darling,” she said, straightening up and standing close enough so that their bodies were just touching, “is there anything that I can do to help you feel better?”
He was, she was delighted to discover, of extremely quick intellect. She really did not have to make her meaning any plainer.
His hands came up to grasp her upper arms and draw her in for a kiss that was not the hesitant, inexperienced embrace she might have expected but something altogether more knowing. She kissed him back eagerly, almost greedily, running her hands over his back and down over his buttocks, too, in those deliciously fitted pantaloons, pressing herself against his aroused cock, urging him closer. He met her demands with amusement and skill and she was just beginning to think she had fundamentally underestimated him, when he lifted her up and placed her on the table, tumbling her backward amidst the half-finished meringues and leftover fruit and moving their game into another league entirely. She felt strawberries squash against the back of her bodice and their rich, sweet scent stung the air.
“My gown!” She liked this dress too much to let some impetuous lover spoil it. But it was too late.
“You’re rich enough to buy another.” His voice was lazy. He completed the ruin of her clothes by tugging the bodice down to her waist so that her breasts were exposed. The material of the gown ripped, but before she could complain, she felt the cold, slippery caress of strawberries rubbing against her naked skin and then his mouth, licking, sucking, tasting her. She squirmed breathless and unbelieving beneath his ministrations, feeling the lust spiral tighter and tighter within her belly, trying not to cry out in disbelief and pleasure at the expert touch of his lips and hands. The door was open, she recalled hazily. Anyone might come in. The servants… They were always listening at keyholes, bearing tales. She had taken some risks in her time—indeed, to her it was part of the fun of the game—but this man was reckless to the point of madness. She had had no idea, no suspicion… Gregory knew of her little indiscretions, but he would divorce her if the scandal were too great. His pride would demand it. She simply had to put a stop to this. But oh, it was too sweet, too pleasurable to end…
His hand was beneath her skirts, on her thigh, and she ached to feel him within her. But then something touched her slick heat, something hard, smooth and broad, sliding inside her, icy cold encased in her warmth, the hilt of the frozen sword from the ice sculpture. The shock, the sheer illicit, erotic thrill of it made her half rise from the table with a gasp that was a mixture of astonishment, disbelief and wild excitement.
“You cannot do that—”
“I can.” He was easing her back down amongst the smashed meringues and scattered strawberries, leaning over to kiss her even as he threw up her petticoats, spread her wider and worked that wicked sword hilt inside her. He tasted of champagne and strawberries. She could feel the ice melting against her inner thighs, running in rivulets down her skin even as the heat inside her blazed to impossible levels. She arched upward and came in one huge, overwhelming roll of sensation, biting down on one of her embroidered napkins to prevent herself from screaming loud enough to wake the whole house.
When she came to her senses she realized that there was fruit in her hair and she was lying half-naked in a pool of melted ice. Dev was laughing down at her. In the half light he looked young and vital and very, very wicked. Lottie’s heart skipped a beat.
“You enjoyed that?”
“Oh, you…” Lottie was disconcerted to realize that she felt rather more for him than simple gratitude. She struggled to push aside some unfamiliar emotions and achieve her customary languor.
“Well, darling,” she murmured, “what a find you have proved to be!” She reached for him and was gratified to discover that he was very hard for her.
“Not here,” he said, scooping her up into his arms with an ease that was very seductive. “What do you say to a tryst in the gardens?”
“The summerhouse is nice at this time of year,” Lottie murmured as he strode toward the door leading out to the terrace. “Actually, I find that the summerhouse is nice at any time of year.”
ALEX GRANT SAT IN THE OFFICES of Churchward and Churchward, lawyers to the aristocratic and discerning, in High Holborn, and tried not to feel too impatient. This had most decidedly not been part of his plan. Since he was still kicking his heels in London waiting for his next commission from the Admiralty, he had decided to ignore all the tempting offers from the ton to grace their social events and to spend the day visiting a former colleague at the naval hospital at Greenwich. But when he had arisen that morning, his steward, Frazer, had told him glumly that not only were there no orders but there was an urgent letter from the lawyers—and true enough, when he opened Mr. Churchward’s missive that gentleman’s agitation had leaped from the page, summoning him immediately to a meeting in his chambers.
Now he was here, though, Mr. Churchward was remaining obstinately silent, for Lady Joanna Ware had not yet arrived and it would be quite improper, so Mr. Churchward said, for him to acquaint Lord Grant with the nature of the problem until her ladyship was present.
Alex drummed his fingers impatiently on the table beside him. His leg was aching today, the result no doubt of his exertions in Mrs. Cummings’s ballroom the previous night. It put him in an intolerant mood. There was no sound in Mr. Churchward’s office but for the rustle of papers, the muted rumble of traffic in the street below and the tick of the clock as it marked just how long Lady Joanna was keeping them waiting.
Alex had not intended to see Lady Joanna Ware again before he left London and the fact that he was now obliged to do so—or would be if she ever arrived—was sufficient to annoy him intensely. It was not, he assured himself, that he could not accept his congé. It was true that Lady Joanna had dismissed him the previous night in a manner that was fully as public and embarrassing as she had promised, but he was man enough to take that. She had given him fair warning, he had underestimated her and he had been bested. No, what troubled him was the matter of David Ware’s last words.
Alex had never questioned his late colleague’s integrity before and it disturbed him to find himself doing so now, particularly as he had no reason to doubt Ware’s embittered words about his wife. And yet… And yet Joanna Ware’s pale stricken face was before his eyes and remembering her expression made him feel
as though he had been kicked squarely in the gut.
“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong… I am sorry you believe that.”
He had felt her pain then. He had not wanted to; he had no desire to be moved by this woman or to feel any affinity for her and yet he had not been able to help himself.
It was easy to canonize a man after his death, especially a man like David Ware, who had already been hailed as a hero. Joanna must have been a very pretty adornment to Ware’s fame, burnishing his glory with her elegance and style. But then something must have happened; everything had gone wrong between them.
“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong…”
Somewhere in the recesses of Alex’s body he felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Joanna Ware. And yet his doubts lingered. On his deathbed Ware had called his wife a deceitful, manipulative bitch, harsh words, bitterly spoken. There had to be a reason…
Impatiently Alex dismissed his thoughts. He was not at all sure why he was expending so much time in thinking about Joanna Ware. It was infuriating and completely unacceptable that he felt drawn to her in some odd way in direct contradiction to what they both wanted. Yet he could not shift the feeling. It persisted. It made him angry and uncomfortable. He also profoundly disliked being dragged into David Ware’s personal affairs. When he had delivered his late colleague’s letter to the lawyers, he had thought that was an end to the matter and yet here he was; against his will he had been drawn further into Ware’s business.
He itched to be gone.
There was a flurry of noise outside the door and then the clerk threw it open with a somewhat theatrical flourish and Lady Joanna Ware swept into the room. Alex got to his feet. Mr Churchward leaped up, too, apparently so eager to greet his client that he managed to knock a pile of papers off his desk.
“My lady!” Churchward looked momentarily stunned and Alex knew how he felt. Joanna’s entrance had brought something bright and vital into the fusty room, chasing away the cobwebs and the shadows. For a moment Alex felt dazzled, as though he was looking directly into the sun. It was odd, he thought, for his overriding impression of Joanna had from the start been one of cool superficiality and self-containment and yet now she was all warmth and charm. It was like watching a different woman. She was shaking Mr Churchward’s hand and smiling in genuine pleasure to see the lawyer and her brittle façade was quite gone, replaced by a sincerity that seemed entirely genuine.
This morning Joanna was dressed in a primrose silk morning gown with a matching spencer trimmed with black lace. A delicious little hat sat on her upswept chestnut curls. She looked breathtakingly pretty, very young and disconcertingly innocent. It was a smart, stylish, expensive outfit, neat as a pin and yet somehow subtly seductive. Alex, unversed and uninterested in fashion, had not the least idea why the sight of so apparently respectable a gown should have precisely the reverse effect on him and make him feel distinctly unrespectable. It covered all of Joanna from neck to toe and it made him want to uncover her, preferably immediately and in intensive detail. He shifted slightly.
“I am surprised to see that your dog can move,” he said as the terrier trotted into the office in Joanna’s wake, the yellow ribbon in its topknot complementing her yellow silk perfectly. “I hope he has not found the exercise of walking from your carriage too onerous.”
Joanna turned. Her violet-blue eyes fixed on Alex and she did not look pleased to see him. Her luscious mouth tightened into a deeply disapproving bow, which contrarily Alex found extremely attractive.
“My dog’s name is Max,” she said, “and he is a border terrier and as such perfectly capable of vigorous activity. He simply chooses not to exert himself.” The dog, as though to make the point, graciously accepted a biscuit Mr. Churchward had taken from his drawer, curled up neatly in a patch of sunlight on the floor and went to sleep.
“Mr. Churchward did not tell me that you would be here,” Joanna added. “I was not expecting to see you.”
“I was not expecting to be here,” Alex said as he held her chair for her. “So both of us are disappointed.” He shrugged, turning to the lawyer. “As Lady Joanna has finally deigned to grace us with her presence,” he said, “shall we commence?”
“Thank you, my lord,” Mr. Churchward said frostily. He fidgeted a little with his papers and settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. “Madam…” His voice quivered a little and Alex realized that he was laboring under a strong emotion, “may I first say how sorry, how very sorry I am to be the bearer of yet more bad news in relation to your husband’s death. When we met a year ago to discuss the distressing terms of his will—” He broke off and shook his head. “It pains me greatly,” he added, “to bring yet more trouble upon you.”
“Dear Mr. Churchward—” there was more warmth in Joanna’s tone than Alex had ever heard from her before “—I fear you are making me nervous!” She smiled reassuringly at the lawyer though Alex thought there was an edge of anxiety beneath her assumption of ease. “You cannot be held responsible in any way for my late husband’s behavior,” Joanna said. “Pray do not concern yourself.”
Looking from Joanna’s composed features to Mr. Churchward’s anguished ones, Alex wondered for the first time about the depositions of David Ware’s will and about the codicil, that very document that he had carried back all the way from the Arctic at Ware’s behest. He had assumed that his late comrade had left his not-inconsiderable fortune to Lady Joanna to allow her to continue to live in the lavish style to which she was clearly accustomed. That would surely have been in keeping with Ware’s character, with his honor and his sense of duty. But now, looking at the lawyer’s gloomy face—and remembering Ware’s venom toward his wife—Alex realized that his assumption might well have been false.
“What were the terms of Ware’s will?” he interrupted.
Both Joanna and the lawyer jumped as though they had forgotten he was there. Joanna refused to meet his eyes, smoothing the material of her skirts in a quick, fidgety gesture. Churchward flushed.
“My lord, I beg your pardon, but I am not certain that it is your business.”
Joanna looked up suddenly and Alex felt the impact of her gaze like a physical blow, it was so keen and clear.
“On the contrary, Mr. Churchward,” she said, “I imagine that Lord Grant is here because David has somehow embroiled him in my affairs. If that is the case then he deserves to know the truth from the beginning.”
“If you wish, madam.” Churchward sounded huffy. “It is most irregular, however.”
“David,” Joanna said gently, “was irregular, Mr. Churchward.” She glanced back at Alex, took a deep breath and seemed to be choosing her words with some care. “My late husband,” she said, “left his estate to his cousin John Hagan in his will and cut me off without a penny.” She paused. “You may be aware, Lord Grant, that Maybole was bought with David’s navy prize money?” She waited and Alex nodded. David Ware, as a younger son, had not inherited an entailed estate. He had bought a piece of land at Maybole in Kent and had built a gaudy mansion in which Alex had been just the once.
“His arrangements,” Joanna continued, “left me somewhat financially embarrassed.” Once again she dropped her gaze and smoothed some imaginary crease from the pristine folds of her skirts.
“He did not explain his actions to me,” she finished, “but no doubt he had his reasons.”
“No doubt he did,” Alex said. He was shocked and puzzled that his late colleague had been so ungallant as to leave his wife penniless. It seemed quite out of character, but then had Ware not implied that he had good reason to mistrust his wife? Presumably he had done the minimum for her that he was required to do under the law.
“In my experience Ware was a good judge of character and never acted without just cause,” he said stiffly. “The provocation must have been considerable.”
He saw the angry color mantle Joanna’s cheeks. “Thank you for your unsolicited opinion,” she said coldly. “I mig
ht have known that you would take his part on the basis of no evidence whatsoever.”
“It was unforgivable of Commodore Ware to make so little provision for Lady Joanna,” Churchward muttered. The lawyer, Alex was interested to see, made no attempt at impartiality. “It was not the action of a hero.”
Mr. Churchward, Alex thought, was a man who approved of things being done in the proper way and David Ware had apparently transgressed that code in failing to provide sufficiently for his wife.
“Surely you had a jointure, Lady Joanna,” he said abruptly. “I cannot believe Ware left you utterly destitute.”
There was a small silence. Joanna bit her lip. “David did leave me a small sum of money, it is true…”
Alex felt a rush of relief that his faith in his late friend had not been misplaced. He could see clearly enough what must have happened. Ware had left his wife a perfectly adequate settlement but she was so spendthrift and careless that it was never enough.
“I suppose that it is a sum that you easily outrun with your extravagance?” he said. He allowed his gaze to sweep over Joanna and did not hide his scorn. “I can well imagine that you are expensive to run.”
“I am not a carriage,” Joanna said haughtily. “And yes—” she smoothed the skirts of her yellow silk “—I appreciate fine things—”
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