Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  If she managed to preserve her virginity, she would be able to go back to Penreith and face down the gossip, for her conscience would be clear. But what would become of her if she surrendered? She could not imagine returning to her old life if she was a ruined woman. Yet there could be no future for her with Nicholas, who wanted to bed her mostly to prove that he could. Marriage was out of the question, and she could never live as his mistress even if he continued to want her.

  Abandoning the Lord's Prayer, she sent up a silent cry from the heart. Dear God, help me find the strength to break away from this dangerous dance before I destroy myself.

  She repeated the words again and again in the most desperate prayer of her life. But though she held herself silent and listened, there was no sign that anyone had heard. She felt no presence, no inner certainty of what path she should follow. She was alone, without guidance. The only reality was the seductive dance, which spiraled down into darkness, danger, and desire.

  As she wept into her hands, she felt more alone than ever before in her life.

  * * *

  As Nicholas reentered the library, Lucien was adding brandy to both their glasses. "Miss Morgan says that she is not respectable, and that you could tell me about it if I am curious." He took a small sip of spirits. "Which I am, very."

  In a few succinct sentences, Nicholas outlined the bargain he and Clare had made: her presence in return for his influence in improving the lot of the residents of Penreith.

  Though he deliberately gave no details, when he finished Lucien muttered an oath under his breath. "Bloody hell, Nicholas, what devil has gotten into you? You've had your share of wild escapades, but I've never known you to ruin an innocent."

  "Clare is no innocent," Nicholas retorted. "She is twenty-six years old, well-educated enough to qualify as a bluestocking, and admirably tough-minded. She is with me by her own choice."

  "Is she?" Lucien's eyes took on the green glitter that meant he was not about to let the discussion lapse. "If you feel a desire to strike a blow against womankind, find a bitch who deserves it. Don't ruin a decent woman by using her conscience and her caring heart as weapons against her."

  Nicholas banged his brandy glass down on the side table. "Damnation, Luce, I've never given you the right to censure me. That's why I always acted as an amateur rather than becoming an official member of your furtive little organization."

  Lucien raised one hand. "Pax, Nicholas. I don't particularly enjoy meddling, but I'm concerned by the situation, and it looks like no one else will speak for Miss Morgan."

  "I've no intention of hurting her."

  "But you already have. You must have some idea what the gossip is like in a village. It will be very hard for her to return to her old life."

  Nicholas stood and paced restlessly across the library. "Good. She can stay with me."

  "As a permanent mistress?" Lucien's voice was startled.

  "Why not? I could do worse, and often have."

  "If you feel that way about the girl, then marry her."

  "Never," Nicholas said flatly. "I married once, and that was once too often."

  After a long silence, Lucien said softly, "I've often wondered what happened between you and the beauteous Caroline."

  Nicholas spun on his heel and glared at his friend, his expression taut to the point of shattering. "Luce, the only way a friendship can endure is by having limits that can't be crossed. If you value our friendship, you'll mind your own business."

  "Obviously it was even worse than I suspected. I'm sorry, Nicholas."

  "Don't be. At least she had the consideration to die." Nicholas retrieved his glass, then raised it in a mocking salute. "To Caroline, who taught me so many useful lessons about life and love." He drank the rest of the brandy in one long swallow.

  Lucien watched in silence. He had assumed that four years would have been long enough for Nicholas to recover from the disaster that had sent him flying from England, but that didn't seem to be the case. Lucien was beginning to feel as concerned about Nicholas as he was about Michael.

  But he had learned lessons himself in the last difficult years. One of them was that there wasn't much a man could do for a friend... except to be a friend.

  Chapter 15

  Clare slept very little, but in the dark reaches of the night she found a bleak kind of balance. A good Methodist should be guided by inner knowing, and the only inner knowledge she had was that she wanted to be with Nicholas for as long as possible. Not as his lover; she doubted that she would ever be able to forgive herself for such a devastating moral lapse.

  But as she looked back at the time she had spent with him, the scenes were etched in her mind in vivid color. Next to that, the rest of her life appeared in shades of faded gray. This was the high noon of her life, and she sensed that when the three months were over, nothing and no one would ever move her as deeply as Nicholas. That being the case, since she was undoubtedly going to hell anyhow, she might as well enjoy the time with him rather than berate herself for her wickedness. She would have the rest of her life for repentance.

  Though she dressed with care, she assumed that Nicholas would sleep late, since he had probably stayed up until the wee hours with Lord Strathmore. She was surprised when he emerged from the breakfast parlor as she came down the stairs.

  He met her when she reached the bottom step and blocked her path. Without saying a word, he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Since she was standing on a step, they were almost the same height, which proved wonderfully convenient. His embrace held tenderness and a surprising element of yearning. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, she wondered if he too had experienced loneliness in the night.

  When the kiss ended, they stayed in each other's arms. A little shyly, Clare said, "You've claimed your kiss very early."

  "I like to surprise you. If you want another today, you'll have to initiate it yourself. I'll cooperate if I'm in the mood." Though his words were light, his eyes searched hers intently. "I'm going to be tied up with business for most of the day, but I'll be back by late afternoon. Is there anything you would particularly like to do this evening?"

  "I've always had a secret yen to visit Astley's Amphitheatre," she confessed. "Would that be possible?"

  His eyes began to sparkle. "You've a taste for clowns and equestrians? Easily done—there should be a show tonight. Think about what else you'd like to see in London. There should be guidebooks in the library." He put an arm around her waist and they went companionably in to breakfast.

  The day set the pattern for the week to come. Nicholas spent part of his time on business and the rest with Clare. He seemed to enjoy seeing the sights of London as much as she did.

  In the mornings they rode together in the park, and in the afternoons they visited everything from the crown jewels in the Tower to the Egyptian Hall to Week's Mechanical Museum, which featured an appalling clockwork tarantula. She refused to go to Madame Tussaud's Waxworks, knowing that lifelike figures of victims of the French Revolution would give her nightmares. Nicholas even took her to cabinetmakers and fabric shops so that she could select the new furnishings needed for Aberdare.

  Several times Lucien joined them for dinner, his cool amusement a contrast to Nicholas's vivid enthusiasm. Lucien's attitude toward Clare was courtly and a little protective, as if he were her older brother. Though she found his reserve a bit intimidating, she liked him a great deal.

  For safety's sake, she tried to keep the kissing sessions light and playful. Nicholas didn't force the issue, though his drifting hands covered more and more territory, and she found herself disinclined to make him behave.

  Altogether it was an idyllic week, though she suspected that it was the calm before an approaching storm. What form the storm would take she couldn't guess, so she refused to worry about it. Time was trickling away, and the best she could do was wring every drop of enjoyment from the hours spent with Nicholas.

  * * *

  Clare bent over the
billiard table, lined up her shot and stroked. As soon as the cue struck the ball she knew that she had hit slightly off center, but this time the cue stick didn't skid away. Instead, the ball rolled forward and knocked the object ball into the pocket. "Hallelujah!" she said gleefully.

  The London household needed little supervision. Since Clare had no talent for idleness, she divided her free time between the library and the billiards room, with the goal of becoming skilled enough to defeat Nicholas. Her progress had been slow until she had a cobbler in the next street cut a round leather button and glue it to the tip of the cue. Today she was using the modified cue for the first time, with remarkable results.

  She tried another shot, then a third, and successfully potted a ball each time. Lifting the cue, she regarded the tip with satisfaction. The leather softened the impact of the stroke, reducing the number of miscues and giving her much better accuracy. Smiling, she applied herself to practice. Nicholas would definitely have a surprise the next time they played.

  * * *

  "Just a moment longer, miss." The maid, Polly, slipped in one last hairpin. "There. Perfect."

  Clare studied her reflection, impressed. The maid had managed to style her long hair into soft coils that were elegant without being fussy. "You've done a wonderful job. I was afraid you would do something horribly complicated that would make me feel as if I were wearing birds' nests on my head."

  "It isn't that many years since women did wear birds' nests in their hair, not to mention model ships and vases of fresh flowers," Polly said. "My granny was a lady's maid, and she used to tell me stories about those old wigs." She edged a wave into the perfect position. "But you've wonderful hair, so thick and shiny. A simple style shows it off best."

  "Now for the gown." Clare stood and raised her arms while Polly dropped the blue silk dress over her head. It had been delivered that afternoon, just in time for the Duke of Candover's ball, and this would be the first time Clare put it on.

  While Polly hooked hooks and tied tapes behind her, Clare stroked the skirt, loving the fluid, luxuriant texture of the fabric. Tonight would probably be the only time she would ever wear it, since she doubted that the future would hold many balls.

  When Polly finished, Clare turned to look at herself. This was her first formal evening gown, and she was stunned by the image in the full-length mirror. Clare looked like a complete stranger—a provocative, sophisticated stranger.

  Seeing her expression, Polly said encouragingly, "You look splendid, miss."

  "I don't even recognize myself." The shimmering, iridescent hues of the silk made her complexion glow with delicate color and her eyes shine like enormous sapphires. She turned a little, watching the way the silk clung to an impossibly small waist, then flared over her hips. As she regarded the expanse of bare flesh exposed by her décolletage, her brows drew together in perplexity. "How can a gown and stays change a perfectly ordinary figure into one that's practically voluptuous?"

  "You have the best kind of figure, miss. Some would call it average, but you're round enough to look lush in the right dress, and small enough to look slim the rest of the time. You can appear almost any way you want to."

  Clare shook her head doubtfully. "I'm not sure I'll have the courage to wear this in public."

  "There will be lots of ladies with lower necklines."

  "But will they be ladies?" Clare said gloomily.

  "This will help. His lordship sent it." Polly lifted a velvet-covered box and opened it.

  Clare's eyes widened when she saw the triple rope of pearls. Nicholas was certainly treating her like a mistress, even though he wasn't getting his money's worth.

  Polly lifted the necklace and fastened it around Clare's neck. The cool pearls caressed her skin, the soft white echoing the silk flowers woven into her hair. They also made her feel a bit less bare. "Thank you for your efforts, Polly. You've managed to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse."

  The maid sniffed. "All I did was make the best of what you already had. I know ladies who would kill to have a complexion like yours, and without a trace of powder or rouge."

  Gesturing at her image, Clare said, "But I'm a stranger to myself. I don't know who that woman is."

  "That's you, miss, though maybe not a you that you're well acquainted with." Polly frowned. "There must be a better way to say that, but I don't know what it is."

  The clock struck nine. Time to go down to Nicholas. Clare draped a luxuriant kashmir shawl around her shoulders, then went into the hall and down the stairs.

  He waited in the hall below, looking even more diabolically handsome than usual. As always he wore black, which was set off by his white shirt and an embroidered white on white waistcoat. Hearing her footsteps, he glanced up with a smile. "Hasn't anyone explained that fashionable ladies are never punctual, Clare?"

  "I am neither fashionable nor a lady."

  He started to return an answer, but when she came into the circle of lamplight, he caught his breath. "No one seeing you now would believe that."

  The frank desire in his eyes embarrassed her. It also made her feel deeply, powerfully feminine, yet she could not stop herself from saying, "You're not going to perjure yourself by saying I'm beautiful, are you?"

  As she descended the last few steps, he replied, "Perhaps not beautiful."

  Her heart twitched; apparently she had wanted him to perjure himself.

  "Bewitching is a better word." He took the end of her shawl so that it unwound when he circled around her. "Irresistible." The shawl slithered to the floor and pooled around Clare's slippers. He leaned forward and touched warm, firm lips to the sensitive juncture of throat and jaw. "A potent mixture of innocence and sensuality."

  A strange, intoxicating feeling shivered through Clare, as much a product of his admiration as his kiss. All of a sudden she felt that she was that woman in the mirror—alluring, intensely female, as capable of playing the games of love as Nicholas. It was like being possessed by the spirit of another woman—one who was not at all respectable.

  "I'm glad you approve." She raised her hand and traced the planes of his face with her fingertips, taking care not to disturb the crisp folds of his cravat. He had just shaved and his jaw was very smooth. "Have I mentioned lately that you are undoubtedly the handsomest man in Great Britain, if not the whole of Europe?"

  He chuckled and reached for her. "Shall we continue this exchange of compliments upstairs?"

  Gracefully she eluded his grasp, knowing that her movement would release the scent of her perfume, a haunting wild rose fragrance that Polly had suggested. "It's time we were going. We mustn't miss the chance to find Lord Michael."

  "You're learning to be dangerous, Clarissima," he murmured, desire and amusement warring in his face.

  "I'm studying with the best."

  He laughed, then retrieved the shawl and draped it around her shoulders. The light brush of his hands sent fire racing through her veins. She took his arm and they went out to the waiting carriage.

  As they settled inside, Clare asked, "Why did Lord Strathmore say this wasn't a suitable place to take me? Does the duke throw orgies?" She let her hand rest on his and stroked his palm with her thumb.

  "Nothing like that, though it's true that few families would let their unmarried daughters attend. Rafe's entertainments are considered fast—the sort of occasion where a man might take his mistress, and perhaps meet his wife who is attending with her lover." Nicholas twined his fingers with Clare's and rested their hands on his knee. "Most of the women will be from fashionable society, but some will be high-grade courtesans."

  "How can I tell the difference?"

  "The most flamboyant will be society women," he explained. "The courtesans will be a bit more discreet."

  She smiled. In the intimate darkness of the carriage, it was easy to flirt. Polly had been right: the provocative woman in the mirror had been real—a dangerous part of herself that Clare had never acknowledged. Yet as she let her knee brush his as if by a
ccident, she did not regret what she was becoming. She would do that later.

  In the darkness Nicholas's mouth found hers for a long, leisurely kiss that intensified when he slid his hand under the shawl and caressed the back of her bare shoulders. Thirty seconds more, and she would melt at his feet and let him do whatever he willed.

  Remembering that offense was the best form of defense, she put her hand on his knee and squeezed. A tremor went through him. "Definitely dangerous," he said in a voice that wasn't quite level. His hand moved to her breast. "Do you want to learn how far it is possible to go in a carriage?"

  She gave a gurgle of laughter. "You said that the duke's house is quite near yours."

  "That isn't what I meant and you know it, minx."

  Her nipple hardened as his thumb teased it through the silk. Much more of this and they would be testing the limits of the coach in earnest. She drew a deep breath, then said, "Time to stop, I think."

  His hand moved from her breast to the safer territory of her waist. "For the rest of the night?"

  She thought. "Enough for now. It's too early to give up touching for the rest of the night."

  "I quite agree." He settled back against the velvet-covered seat, but kept her hand in his.

  As Clare steadied her breathing, she realized that trust was what made this mad game possible. Whenever she said to stop, Nicholas stopped, and his self-control gave her the freedom to play the role of siren. She smiled into the darkness and wondered what the next phase of the game would be.

  Chapter 16

  As they waited in a short receiving line at Candover House, Clare said, "Have you seen the duke since returning to London?"

  "I paid a call, but he wasn't in, so I left a card." Nicholas smiled. "Rafe sent back a note inviting me to the ball, with a threat to drag me here by the scruff of the neck if I didn't come voluntarily."

  "You'll probably be unable to do much except say hello to each other," she remarked. "I've always heard that a London ball has to be a great crush to be considered fashionable."