by Lucy Ashford
Oh, no. Why hadn’t she guessed? The way he carried himself. The way he spoke. His natural air of authority. His father—an earl … She dragged in a ragged breath. ‘I see. And for what reason, Captain Stewart, did you decide it wasn’t worth telling me this earlier?’
‘I suppose I never considered it important.’ Alec pulled out a chair for her, his steady eyes never leaving her face. ‘And anyway, I thought we were both being selective about the truth.’
Yes. She made a tiny gesture of despair and sat down slowly. Yes, indeed. ‘But how can you turn your back on all this, to live in—?’
‘A wreck like Two Crows Castle?’ He pulled up a chair for himself at the table, next to her. ‘Simple—my father and I are not on the best of terms.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘And before your eyes widen at the thought of my incredible wealth, let me just point out that I’m due to inherit not one penny.’
‘Do you really think I’m interested in your wealth? I simply don’t understand why you had to deceive me, and—and …’
She stopped. He leaned across the table to put just the tip of his forefinger on her lips. And her words dried in her throat.
‘Deception? Now, I thought you were the master of that, Mrs Rowland,’ he said quietly.
At just one touch of his fingers, she found herself racked with stomach-clenching uncertainty. He was handsome. He was formidable. He was utterly dangerous. And soon she must ask him why her dying sister had breathed his name.
She forced herself to appear calm. ‘Where is your father?’
‘He’s at his estate in the country, with his wife—my stepmother.’ He was unfolding his napkin. ‘The clothes from which you had your choice up there are about to become my stepmother’s cast-offs. She feels that all fashions are sadly outmoded after three months.’
‘So your mother …’
‘Died long ago, in a hunting accident.’
Rosalie’s cheeks flushed. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise.’ She hesitated. ‘But this … this place, this food! Who …?’
‘I told you, my father is away. The food is an error.’ He was watching her quizzically as he began to carve a slice of ham for her. ‘And do you know, I think I’ve had enough of your questions for the time being, Ro Rowland. You’re not an investigative reporter now.’
She shivered at the sting in his calm voice. But—Alec Stewart, the black sheep of an extremely wealthy family. In those clothes, she could believe it. So different from his usual attire, yet still so rawly masculine. She tossed her head. He’d put them on to impress on her, no doubt, that he was an earl’s son! In case she started getting ideas above her station, perhaps.
‘Why don’t you eat?’ he asked almost languidly. ‘Take your pick. Chicken gélatine. Buttered lobster. Veal pie …’
‘I—I can’t. I’m worried about Katy.’
‘I’ve told you—Katy is quite safe at Two Crows Castle with my men guarding her. Happy, too. And you’re no use to her at all if you’re half-dead from hunger. Eat. Drink. You’ve been ill—you need to build up your strength.’ He’d already filled her glass with a fine white wine.
‘You are rather taking my breath away with all these surprises,’ she said as steadily as she could.
He was cutting some pie to put on her plate. ‘Then get your revenge. Tell me more about your childhood. You’ve already informed me your mother was French and your father an English painter. But wasn’t it a strange decision for your mother to move to England when he died?’
‘My mother had no family left in Paris. And I think my parents had always planned to move back to England some day. So she decided to take us—’
‘Us,’ he broke in. ‘Do you have brothers? Sisters?’
Oh, a blunder there. ‘A sister. One sister.’
He drank his wine, still carefully watching her. ‘And did your little family find a friendly welcome at this cottage in Oxfordshire?’
This time she met his brooding gaze steadily. ‘Thanks to the war, my mother’s nationality was regarded as little short of a crime. And the cottage turned out to be almost a ruin. Yet my mother would not leave—partly because she had nowhere else to go, but also because it had been my father’s dying wish that she come to the place he’d loved …’ She paused to fight back the ache rising in her throat.
‘And now your mother is dead. Your husband, too.’ His voice was soft.
Oh, Lord, her lies. ‘Yes, indeed!’ She drank some wine—she certainly needed it.
He met her eyes calmly. The light from the candles defined anew the sculpted planes and angles of his lean, square-jawed face. He continued, ‘So you decided to come to London. As a writer of scandal-broth, or as a prostitute at the Temple of Beauty?’
She should have expected it. She should not have let it wound her so. But it did, oh, it did.
She tossed her head in defiance. ‘Well, both, of course! I really do not see why I should not make extra money out of my experiences with the gentlemen of the town, by writing a piece or two!’
‘I can see why not,’ he broke in flatly. ‘It could be damned dangerous. Men don’t like their secret lives exposed.’
She gripped her wineglass. Was he warning her not to dig too deeply into his private life? ‘Oh, I make sure everything I write is completely anonymous!’
She laughed, as if it were all very amusing, but she could see he wasn’t amused in the slightest, because he cut in, ‘Somebody is worried about you saying too much, clearly.’ His eyes were fixed, darkly, at some place below her throat, and she realised that her fichu had fallen to display a disgraceful amount of bosom. Colouring hotly, she snatched it back up.
‘You’re thinking of that threat,’ she whispered.
‘Naturally. And there’s not only the threat, Mrs Rowland.’ His features were sombre. ‘My men have been offered money, to turn you and the child in.’
‘They’ve—’ The food she’d just taken stuck in her throat.
‘That’s right. There’s an underworld reward out for you. The usual sort of thing, all done anonymously. The word has gone round the lowlife drinking dens that if you and your child are delivered up at a certain time and place, the money will be handed over, no questions asked.’ He paused while the shock surged through her. ‘I know, by the way,’ he went on, ‘that Katy is not yours.’
This time she had to grip the table for support. Her stomach knotted. ‘What makes you think …?’
‘How do I know you’re lying? First: you seem to have no idea when her father died—in-deed, you’re not even certain of the child’s age. Second: I’ve noticed that whenever Katy sees you she says, ‘Mama?’—but she’s looking for someone else. Three: she was not with you when you first arrived in London.’
She stared at him, stricken.
‘Enough, enough,’ he said with a gesture of dismissal. ‘I have no right to question you so, and I assume you are looking after Katy for the best of reasons. Now it’s your turn—ah, how your writer’s mind must be whirling with curiosity. “What was it like being born into a rich family, Alec? And how, for God’s sake, did you manage to make such an almighty mess of it all?” Admit it, you’re just longing to know!’
‘I think perhaps you’ve already told me,’ she said tightly. ‘That you and your father are estranged.’
‘Indeed. And of course it’s the custom of the aristocracy anyway to leave everything to the oldest.’ He drank more wine.
‘But surely you could have married …’
‘Married into wealth? Ah, yes, once I was betrothed to the granddaughter of a duke. But she was in love with a make-believe hero—and, by God, she must count herself lucky to have broken it off, now she sees that I run a damned seedy fencing school in Spitalfields packed to the rafters with destitute ex-soldiers—out of whom I make absolutely nothing.’
A reminder of yet another of her errors. She bit her lip. ‘But surely,’ she began, ‘you would have had other choices! There can be no need for you to—to …’
&n
bsp; ‘To live as I do? Mingle with men of the lower class?’ His voice had become softly lethal. ‘For a courtesan and a pedlar of news sheets, you’re rather pompous, aren’t you, Mrs Rowland? Perhaps it’s your mother’s French blood showing through—’
He broke off, because she’d put her knife and fork down suddenly. There were small spots of colour burning in her cheeks. ‘Please do not insult my mother. You may say what you like about me—but not her!’
Alec looked at her, just for a moment. Curse it, this had been a stupid idea to bring her here. Doomed from the start. Furious with himself, he pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Come,’ he said. His dark eyes were shuttered. ‘I’ll take you back. Time we were leaving.’
She tilted her chin. ‘Very well. But I will get changed first. I do not wish to wear this gown a moment longer.’
‘As you wish.’ Swiftly he came round to draw back her chair and help her to her feet.
But the sudden warmth of his hand on her slender arm unsettled her so badly that she tripped as she rose and stumbled against the table, and worse was to come, for she realised in horror that the cursed fichu had slipped down, almost baring her breasts. Even as she dragged it up again she saw the look of scorn in his eyes. He thought she’d done it deliberately.
‘Well, Mrs Rowland,’ he drawled, ‘you’re playing dangerous games today.’
She whirled on him. ‘A gentleman, Captain Stewart, would have turned his eyes away!’
‘Oh, did you want me to?’ he asked softly. ‘I rather thought all that was part of your plan.’
She tried to push past him, head held high. He stood in her way. Her voice shook slightly. ‘Please let me pass. I just want to go and get out of this—garment. And return to Katy.’
He captured her shoulders, his long fingers warm and sensuous through the fabric of her gown. ‘Playing games,’ he repeated softly.
‘I think,’ she said steadily, ‘that you are the one playing games. And aren’t you enjoying them?’
‘Very much. Aren’t you?’
The air around them changed. Tightened.
‘Alec,’ she began, her insides suddenly lurching, but she had no idea what she meant to say. All she knew was that his arms were around her, his chest like a wall against her soft breasts. All she could see when she looked up was his hard face, burning with an emotion she did not dare to name.
Fight him. You have to fight him.
Yet his lips were wicked temptation. His hard-muscled body was a challenge and an enticement. Sal had told her it was easy to deal with men—Remember, they’re all ruled by one rather vital part of their anatomy—but Sal hadn’t told her how very difficult it would be to resist her own primal urges.
He fitted his mouth to hers and her world spun.
There was nothing gentle about his kiss. And Alec didn’t mean it to be gentle. His hands had snaked round her waist, pulling her close; her face was lifted to his, her eyes wide and flaring, her lips full—with doubt?—with desire? He claimed her mouth with the savage hunger he’d been feeling for hours. For days, damn it.
So had she, to judge by the way her hands had stolen up to cling round the nape of his neck, the way her slender body was moulding itself to his, as she surrendered to the fierce hunger of his lips and tongue. Heat consumed him as her hands swept his shoulders and he in turn let his own palms sweep down over the flimsy muslin to caress the curve of her hips, to splay his fingers and haul her against his hardening desire …
Dear God, swore Alec. She was inviting his ravishment. His sure hand caressed the column of her throat, sliding down to rest for a moment on the swelling curve of her breast, then slipping beneath the filmy fabric to caress one soft nipple with the pad of his thumb.
Rosalie felt the coral peak tingle and harden, tightening a cord of desire that reached to her womb, while his sensual wide mouth coaxed her lips apart and his tongue stroked hers with relentless, exquisite pleasure. His hand closed round her breast—warm, hard, erotic. Then he had her in his arms again and his kiss possessed her utterly.
Lost in a delicious haze of wine and longing, she was only faintly aware that he’d moved towards a sturdy chair and was guiding her on to his lap, still kissing her, as her arms clasped him instinctively.
And now, somehow, he’d eased her breast from her bodice. She let out a low cry of loss as he abandoned her mouth, but it changed to a cry of delight as his lips claimed one nipple. She gasped with amazement as his tongue, swirling round the stiffened peak, sent waves of rapture rippling through her entire body.
She clung to him as if he were her pillar of safety, when he was anything but; she was throwing her head back and gasping as his teeth nipped lightly, aware now that his hand was sliding up her leg, caressing the silken skin above her stocking top, stealing up to the juncture of her thighs, then seeking—and finding—the moist warmth at her feminine core.
She was damp, shaking, enraptured. Her hands digging into his hard-muscled back were her only anchor on reality. With devastating skill he swept his strong, knowing fingers across the swollen bud again and again, watching her with smouldering eyes as she arched herself against him, all restraint forgotten, and cried his name aloud as the sweet, unfurling spasms of her climax shook her body.
Her eyes had fluttered shut. Her lips were tingling and parted. Even when the last echo of rapture had died away, she kept her eyes closed. She had not known that she could feel like this. A savage pain clawed at her stomach. Perhaps she was a whore, to give herself so readily, so eagerly.
He was already lifting her from his lap and setting her on her feet. And he was—just watching her. She gathered herself up, feeling cold away from the shelter of his arms. Feeling—terrified at what she’d just let him do to her.
‘I rather think it’s yourself that you should not trust, Mrs Rowland,’ he said softly at last. ‘Do us both a favour by going and putting on a dress that at least covers you. Do you hear me?’
A feeling not just of anger, but of utter loss, was squeezing at her heart. ‘You misunderstand and misjudge me at every turn, Captain Stewart,’ she said in a low voice.
‘No doubt.’ He dragged his hand through his dark hair and stood up also; he was trembling with tension, she realised, as if every muscle in his powerful body was held on the tightest of leashes. His lip curled when he saw her eyes slide, horrified, away from his skintight breeches. ‘Indeed, I’m rather a handy scapegoat for all your foolhardy experiments, aren’t I? You can see it’s time you and I were leaving. Now. Go and wrap yourself in your usual drab attire, then we’ll get back to the child in your care. Or had you forgotten her—again?’
That hurt. Oh, that hurt. She clenched her fists. ‘It was you who insisted I stay here to be impressed by this place that was once your home! You who implied I ought to repay you for your dubious protection by spending two hours examining paintings, when I only wanted to get back to Katy! You are overbearing and unjust and hateful! Damn you to hell, Alec Stewart!’
He gazed down at her, his eyes bleak. ‘No need. I’m already there.’
She stumbled away.
Chapter Fifteen
Alec sat there with his head in his hands. His lust for her was raging. The hardness between his thighs still throbbed.
Rosalie Rowland. Writer, courtesan and all-round troublemaker. In her way she’d been absolutely right to accuse him of trying to impress her with this magnificent place that he’d once called home. Certainly, he’d hoped to trick her into making mistakes. Yet it was he who had handled everything so badly.
In fact, until she’d let her damned fichu slip like that, he’d begun to feel that he’d got everything wrong about her. He clenched his jaw. Damn it, she’d had a lucky escape. One more minute of her passionate response to his foolhardy kiss and he’d have been hard-pressed to stop himself ravishing her there and then.
Alec got to his feet and paced the room like a caged animal. Why had he let things go so far? Well, he had plenty of answers. Not least of his m
otivations—and certainly the worst—was his impulse to prove to himself that she was indeed any man’s for the taking.
Yet once again he’d been baffled by Rosalie Rowland. Most women of experience would have realised that Alec was aroused virtually to the point of no return. Most women would have offered some sort of physical relief—but she had made no attempt whatsoever to assuage his rampant desire.
The enigmatic, tormenting Mrs Rowland. Everything about her stoked up the fire of his vital male urges—but ever since that first night at the Temple of Beauty, he’d not been able to make sense of her. He was utterly perplexed by the way she moved and spoke so gracefully, by the way she’d so solemnly examined those pictures for him and calmly delivered her judgement.
At Dr Barnard’s tawdry show she’d stood out from the other jades like a pure-white wax candle burning amidst a mass of burned-down tallow ones. But how could she be unspoiled? Innocent? No. For God’s sake, she’d been married, she’d been at the Temple of Beauty! She was still lying to him; he’d still be thinking Katy was hers, had it not been for Mary’s suspicions—’She doesn’t even know the child’s age for sure, Captain Stewart!’ And of course there was Garrett’s news that last winter Rosalie had been visiting one London theatre after another, asking for someone called Linette.
Who was Linette? Alec drove one fist against the other. Who had sent that nasty threat? Who was trying to bribe Alec’s men to betray her? What the hell had he let himself in for, by offering to protect her?
Upstairs, Rosalie gazed at herself in the cheval glass. She’d swiftly got changed back into the old, drab gown, but she had yet to summon up the courage to go downstairs and face him after betraying herself yet again, this time with so much more than a kiss.
Dear God. The pleasure, the molten ecstasy summoned by his mouth, his long lean fingers …
She saw in the mirror that her lips were rosy and swollen from the harshness of his mouth. You must tell him that Katy is your dead sister’s child. You must ask him why Linette named him as she lay dying.