“Tell me something you do regret, Geoffrey, besides the other night with me.”
He sighed, wondering what she wanted to hear from him. That he wasn’t the devil she had accused him of being? Very well, he’d humor her. “I regret not warning Constance Bennington that there was danger abroad in London. I regret leaving Charlotte at Munro’s mercy. I regret—”
Dianthe sat forward in her seat. “Did you receive a letter from Charlotte just before her death?”
“That is another of my regrets—that I did not communicate with her more often. That she did not feel she could ask my help.”
Dianthe’s eyes narrowed and she sat back, tapping her fan with one fingernail.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked.
“You are not the one I don’t believe,” she said cryptically.
“Are you keeping secrets again? I thought we were through with that.”
“Have you told me everything, Geoffrey? I think not. You were in Vauxhall Gardens the night Nell was killed, but you haven’t said why. You are looking for someone, but you won’t tell me who. Tit for tat.”
The coach pulled up with a lurch and he threw the door open. Somehow, Dianthe had managed to corner him again. But this was a case of too much knowledge being dangerous. Any woman but Dianthe would have listened to him and stayed sensibly at home until the matter was resolved. But she’d step into the fray without a second thought. “I’ve told you all I am going to, Dianthe.”
She stormed past him, then paused at the door for him to catch up. “Protecting me again, Lord Morgan?”
“I am not protecting—”
“Of course not. How silly of me. You are simply treating me like a brainless twit.” She opened the door herself and stomped into the foyer.
“Only when you act like one!” he shouted. How could she drive him to distraction so easily?
“How, prithee, have I acted like a brainless twit? I thought we were getting on quite well.”
“Damnation, I—”
“Pas devant les domestiques,” she hissed.
Not in front of the servants? Good God! When had they begun to sound like a married couple? There was a hurried scuffle in the vicinity of the hallway behind the stairs. Giles or Hanson had made a quick escape. Whoever it was wouldn’t be seen again tonight.
She tossed her shawl, fan and reticule on the foyer table and headed toward the ballroom. She was glorious in her fury—flushed with indignation and high emotions. How could he be both amused and furious at her?
“Come back here, Dianthe,” he called after her. “We are not finished with this discussion.”
“I am.”
He followed her into the ballroom and watched while she selected a foil and slashed the air. “Prescott will be here in the morning and—”
Facing the segno, the wall target, she executed a few nearly perfect lunges, striking principle organs. “As you’ve so often reminded me, you will not protect me, so I must be ready to do the job myself.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and observed her technique. She wielded the blade as if her life depended upon it. He was impressed. But target practice was different than a bout or a fight. “Knowing technique does not mean you are able to defend yourself.”
She turned to him and narrowed her eyes. “Do you think you can teach me something I don’t know?”
He removed his jacket, tossed her a pair of fencing gloves, retrieved his favorite foil from the rack, turned her toward the mirrors and took a position beside her. “There are a few techniques that Prescott will not teach you. They are dangerous. The sort you’d encounter on the street.”
He walked her through the botte de paysan, demonstrating the technique of gripping one’s own blade to make a two-handed stab at one’s adversary. Her movements were somewhat impeded by her gown, and he offered to wait while she changed her clothes.
“If I am challenged, do you think my attacker will wait for me to change?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she would only need to defend herself over his dying body, but he couldn’t allow her to count on him. “Watch, then, and follow me.”
When she had memorized the technique, he turned to face her and brandished his sword. He brought his sword down in slow motion, giving her time to grip hers and hold it out to deflect his descending blade.
“Good,” he said. “Again.” He continued with a variety of attacks and postures until she understood the timing.
“Now, passato sotto—the pass under. This technique will use your size to advantage. Take the initiative, Dianthe. Attack me. Hard, as if you mean it.”
Starting at the en garde position, she stepped into an aggressive riposte. Geoff ducked under her attack and dropped onto his free hand to deliver an upward counter thrust by tapping her side sharply. Her look of utter confusion changed to wary respect.
“Again,” she said, and made him demonstrate again and again.
When she tried the move, her satin slippers went out from under her and she landed on her bottom. She stood and turned her back to him, lifted her skirts and removed her slippers and stockings. She shed the dark wig and ran her fingers through her blond strands. By the time she turned to him again, he was completely aroused. Pale lavender stockings were puddled beside her slippers, and he recalled how those bare legs had felt against his hips, his cheek.
She held her sword out in an invitation and beckoned him forward with the other hand. He obliged. This time, Dianthe completed the drop flawlessly, and he marveled that she could do so in a dress. He could have easily evaded her sword, but he held his ground, wondering if she would complete the technique.
She did, tapping his side rather harder than she’d intended with the unguarded side of her blade. Though it barely stung, a thin red line appeared on his shirt, and Dianthe’s eyes widened.
“Oh! I didn’t mean to—”
“The fault was mine for not protecting my flank.”
“But this was not a bout to first blood. I was too aggressive. I…”
“There is no such thing as ‘too aggressive’ when you are fighting for your life. And no such thing as fair play. Do not expect it. Not even from me.”
Dianthe’s eyes glistened and she blinked rapidly as she stepped back and raised her sword again to the en garde position. Was she crying? How uncharacteristic of her.
He crossed her blade and exchanged a few blows before taking the advance. She successfully held off his attack with the two-handed technique, but he could not force her into the pass-under again. His scratch had frightened her and now she didn’t trust herself.
Seeing her fear, Geoff was suddenly tired of the games, the subterfuge, the secrets. He stepped across the distance between them and grabbed her blade. Her lips parted in a tiny gasp and her eyes shifted up to his.
“That is called seizure, Dianthe. It is a desperation move. Never do it to catch or deflect a descending blade or you will lose half your hand, and never do it without a glove.”
“Seizure,” she repeated, tears welling in her eyes.
“Best, but not always, done by seizing the hilt rather than the blade.”
She released her sword to him and he tossed it aside, slipped his hand around her waist and gathered her close. He dropped his own sword and cupped her cheek. “Dianthe,” he whispered on his way to her lips.
Her eyes closed when he made the contact, and her waiting tears slipped beneath the dark fan of lashes and spilled over her cheeks. His stomach twisted to think of her being so vulnerable. He ended the kiss and she settled her cheek against his chest with a shaky sigh.
“Why the tears, Dianthe? I am not hurt. And we have argued before. We’ve always been at sword point in one way or another.”
“I did not love you before.”
He held his breath. “Do you…love me…now?”
She shivered and her voice caught on a sigh. “Yes.”
She loved him? But how could she? He’d been so careful to kee
p her at a distance, to shock her and make her life difficult. He’d flaunted her as a courtesan, warned her she could not trust him, refused to protect her, and treated her like an annoyance. He’d reminded her over and over again that the only reason he was helping her was to repay his debt to her cousin.
But he’d never admitted that she’d taken his breath away the first time he’d ever seen her in her aunt’s parlor, and that when she’d cursed him for a devil, she had cut him to the quick. He’d never told her that he was often gruff with her because he wanted her so desperately and couldn’t have her, or that he dreaded the empty days and nights when she reclaimed her rightful life.
“Dianthe,” he said, his voice cracking over the force of his emotions. “I…not a single one of your kin would thank me for loving you, and a few would call me out. And they’d be right. I want nothing more than to despoil you. The effort not to do so has cost me more dearly than you can know.” He held her closer, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her scent. “I am not accustomed to being noble.”
“Do not try,” she said. “Finish what you’ve begun.”
He groaned. “My sanity is too tenuous to lie with you again without taking you, and while you are in my keeping, no harm will come to you through me.”
She was silent for a moment, nuzzling against his chest, then she pulled back a little and looked up at him. “I quite understand, and I would not ask you to compromise your principles. Then whom shall I choose for the task? Lord Lockwood has expressed an interest, as have his brothers. Or Mr. Munro or Senor Ramirez. Would they be better fit for the job?”
An uneasy feeling tweaked him. “What job? What are you talking about?”
“Deflowering me. If you will not, then who should? And once I am deflowered, will you have me then?”
He nearly choked on his reply. “I’ll kill anyone who touches you.”
“And I am determined it will be you. What will that take, Geoffrey? What will I have to do?”
God! How could he fight her when he wanted her more than life and breath? But how could he dishonor her and betray her cousin’s trust?
In his split second of indecision, Dianthe came up on her toes and lifted her mouth to his to give him a series of soft but insistent kisses. “I know you fear I will regret this tomorrow. I won’t. Tomorrow may never come, Geoffrey,” she said against his throat. “If I am found out and taken to Newgate, what do you think will come of me there? Will all I know of love be what they teach me? I cannot bear to think of it happening that way. I want you. I want the memory of you to be my sanctuary in whatever dark times are to come.”
He moaned and tightened his arms around her. After a moment, he lifted her and carried her across the great room to the stairs. Slowly, savoring every step, he climbed the long, curving stairway and walked down the hallway to his room. Yes, his room, just as she would become his tonight. He would lock his door and shut out the world. And he’d know true love for the first time. All the other women, all the other times, were merely a prelude to Dianthe.
Wavering between desire and doubt, Dianthe took comfort from the memory of Miss Osgood’s words. Embrace your sexuality and men will find you irresistible. Lord Geoffrey will find you irresistible. Oh, pray he did! Pray he would not be put off by her inexperience. Pray she had the courage to go through with her brazen seduction.
A single candle on his night table cast a dim light in the room. He laid her carefully on a bed of deep evergreen velvet before returning to lock the door, and she looked around at Geoffrey’s private quarters.
Leaves and graceful vines were carved into the cherrywood bed, and the feather mattress was as soft as a cloud. Four corner posts supported a canopy draped with evergreen hangings. The clean scent of his shaving soap wafted up from the down pillows and made her almost giddy. She felt strangely safe and content on that bed.
On the facing wall, a large fireplace held a heap of barely glowing embers, kept banked lest the night grow cold. A leather chair flanked by a table bearing a lamp, a book opened facedown to hold its place, and a decanter and glass gave evidence of quiet evenings in solitary pursuit. How odd that she’d never considered he might not go out every night. On the wall opposite the door, three tall windows framed by damask draperies.
She watched as he poured a deep red wine from the decanter into a glass and brought it to the bed. Placing it on the bedside table, he caressed her cheek.
“Are you frightened, Dianthe?”
She shook her head, but could not find her voice.
He smiled, seeing through her lie, and sat beside her. Slowly, with infinite sweetness, he met her lips and hovered there for a moment, barely making contact. “If you trust me, Dianthe, I can make this painless for you.”
She nodded. She’d heard there was pain at first, but she’d always thought it was unavoidable. In truth, it wouldn’t matter if it were agony. She would trust him, and she would take whatever came with it. How odd that she was now so ready to surrender the prize she had guarded for so many years and saved for her wedding night. A night that might never come if she were arrested.
He lifted the glass to her lips and she tasted a deep rich burgundy. Almost immediately, she felt her muscles release their tension and her breathing even. He took a sip and kissed her again. The flavor was on his tongue as it met hers, but it was more intoxicating coming from him.
He moved his hand from her cheek, down the curve of her neck to the slope of her shoulder, pushing her gown down her arm. But Miss Osgood said she should undress for her lover to give him pleasure. She shrugged his hand away and stood, praying that her knees would support her and that her courage would not fail. Silently, she repeated her mantra: I am Salome. I am Delilah. I am Aphrodite.
Geoff’s breathing sped up when she untied the ribbon beneath her breasts and unhooked the clip that held her bodice closed. Freed of the tight constraint of the fabric, her breasts swelled above the top. As he watched, a deep blush swept from her breasts to her cheeks. He was hard and ready, and he ached to touch her.
She paused, as if waiting for a sign that he did not want this. But he wanted it. Wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He could not take his eyes from her, and he gripped the bedpost so tightly he thought it might snap.
Pushing the sleeves of her gown down her arms, she stood still as the fabric made a lavender pool at her feet. All that remained were her chemise, French drawers and garters.
She lifted her chemise, slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of the drawers and unfastened the tapes. They slipped to the floor and her chemise dropped to cover her, gliding over her skin and clinging to her curves.
Geoff stood and went to circle her, bending so close that he could feel the heat from her body, though he forbade himself to touch her. Anticipation was a powerful aphrodisiac. A slight trembling began in her limbs and a little shiver indicated he’d been right. She was anticipating his touch, craving it, needing it.
His breath fanned her cheek as he whispered a single word. “Breathtaking…” Another shiver caused a little gasp.
He stopped behind her and tugged the tapes at the shoulders of her chemise. The fabric slid over her skin in a whisper as it fell atop the other discards. Her head fell back as if she were intoxicated with the boldness of it all, and he prayed that the violence of his passion would not repulse her.
She turned to face him and lifted her arms to work at the knots of his cravat, but her fingers were cold and she fumbled with the unfamiliar task. He gave her a tender smile and she returned it. He made no attempt to help her, nor did he betray any sign of his impatience or the lust surging through his veins. This was important to her, and he would not let his eagerness ruin it for her. When, at last, she removed the stubborn knots and freed the cravat, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head, whispering, “Thank you.”
He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it atop her things. Her gaze lifted to his and he realized that she was as anxious as
he. Oh, but he would give her the chance to accustom herself to this intimacy, and to become comfortable with the texture and heat of his skin, his scent, and to trust the strength of his self-control. Pray God it held.
She trailed her fingers from his shoulders downward, tracing the ridges of his muscles and finding the ragged rhythm of his breathing. She swayed forward and rubbed her cheek against the matting of hair on his chest. When she moved her hands downward, his nipples beaded against her palms and he shuddered. God, she was insanely erotic. Her curious blend of innocence and experience was a powerful stimulant.
She paused and touched them more carefully, and he knew she was wondering if they were as sensitive as hers. She surprised him by kissing him there, scraping her teeth across the hardened nub. He groaned and brought his hands up to cup her shoulders. Could she possibly be as aroused as he? No. She was too innocent of what came next to appreciate the nuances and the slow, steady rise of passion. Oh, she was coming to a simmer, but she was far from a boil. How long before she learned that he’d never say no? Never stop her, no matter what she wanted to do with him?
He couldn’t recall how many times had he done this, and with how many women. Countless. Yet this time was different. This time he was filled with a tenderness he’d never known before. This time he would trade his soul to make it perfect for Dianthe.
She paused in her exploration again as her fingertips traced the raised welt she’d inflicted when practicing the passato sotto. The cut was shallow and thin, no more than a sting, but she was distressed. Her tender conscience bothered him. Would she ever be able to defend herself if she was not willing to inflict damage?
But his thoughts were lost as she continued downward, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his trousers. He groaned, but remained steady, hoping she would have this part done quickly. She fumbled with the buttons of his waistband and he covered her hands with his to guide her through the task. One fumble, one misplaced touch, and he’d snap. He was already so hard that he could scarcely bear it.
Once his trousers were unfastened, he pried off his boots, then let her have her way.
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