Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Good Lord, you figured that out? You should be in intelligence work yourself." Nicholas finished the last of his brandy, then looked consideringly at the decanter.

  "Take some laudanum," she suggested. "The effects will be milder than trying to numb the pain with brandy."

  "I don't need either." His mouth tightened and he set his empty glass by the decanter. "Thank you for patching me up. I'm sorry that your first ball ended like this."

  "Well, it was certainly an unforgettable experience." She lifted the tray and walked toward the door.

  "Clare. Don't go yet," Nicholas said, a strained note in his voice.

  She turned back to the room. "Yes?"

  He was staring out the window into the quiet street, his breathing too quick and his right hand clenching and unclenching on the edge of the drapery. When he didn't reply, she said, "Was there something else?"

  Speaking as if each word was being wrenched out of him with hot irons, he said, "Clare, will you... stay with me for the rest of the night?"

  "You want me to sleep with you?" she said stupidly, more surprised than when he had asked her about Lucien's kiss.

  He turned from the window, and the sound of his harsh breathing filled the room. She realized that it was the first time he had looked directly at her since they met Lord Michael, and she was shocked by the stark anguish in his eyes.

  It was suddenly, blindingly obvious that his detachment had been a charade. She felt like kicking herself. Though she was supposed to be perceptive, she had utterly failed to understand his uncharacteristic restlessness and refusal to meet her eyes.

  Now his carefully constructed facade had shattered, revealing what lay beneath. Her heart ached for him; though she had guessed that it must be bitterly painful for a man who believed in friendship to be repudiated by a close friend, the reality was far worse than she had imagined.

  Misinterpreting her expression, he said haltingly. "Not as a mistress, but... as a friend." His hand clenched again and the tendons stood out like iron cords. "Please."

  She wanted to weep for his vulnerability. Instead she set down the tray and said quietly, "Of course, if you wish it."

  He crossed the room and enfolded her in a fierce embrace. She protested, "I don't want to hurt you."

  "You won't," he said tightly.

  She didn't believe him, but it was clear that his need for closeness far outweighed the physical pain. His yearning was almost palpable—for warmth, for friendship, for anything that could ease the betrayal he had suffered tonight.

  Careful to avoid his injuries, she linked her arms around his waist and rested her head against his cheek. They stood that way for a long time. When his breathing had returned to a more normal rate, he released her and said, "You're shivering. Climb into bed where it's warm and I'll join you in a minute." He went into his dressing room while she doused the lamps, took off her robe, and laid it over a chair. Illuminated only by the glowing coals in the fireplace, she slipped into his bed. Though she felt shy, she did not for a moment doubt that she was doing the right thing, for compassion mattered more than propriety.

  A minute later he returned wearing a nightshirt. She smiled a little, guessing that the garment was in deference to her maidenly sensibilities, since it looked as if it had never been worn. With the bandages covered he looked normal except for the desolation on his face.

  He slipped into bed on her left so that she was on his less-injured side. After kissing her lightly on the lips, he drew her head onto his shoulder and laced his fingers into her hair. "I didn't want to be alone," he whispered.

  "I'm also glad not to be alone tonight," she said honestly as she fitted herself against his side. Though she was aware of his pain, both physical and emotional, she also knew that her presence eased him as nothing else could have.

  The reverse was also true.

  He spoke only once more, saying bleakly, "He always called me Nicholas."

  And now Michael used only the impersonal "Aberdare." She made a silent vow: no matter what the future held, she would not become one of the people who had betrayed Nicholas's friendship.

  Chapter 19

  Though Nicholas hadn't expected to sleep, Clare's soft warmth overcame his grief and pain. He awoke with the dawn and lay very still, not wanting to disturb the woman slumbering in his arms. The worst was over; he had survived other betrayals, and he would survive this time. But it would have been much harder without Clare beside him.

  The night before, he had thought he was dissembling rather well, right up until the moment when she started to leave. Then a crippling wave of despair had engulfed him. In that moment he would have gone down on his knees and begged if that would have persuaded her to stay.

  It would have been better if he had managed to restrain himself until she was safely gone, for it was always a mistake to reveal weakness. But he had never made a practice of regretting what couldn't be changed, and he didn't now.

  Certainly he didn't regret having Clare in his bed. A trace of exotic perfume still lingered, triggering a vivid memory of how dazzling she had looked. This morning, in her relentlessly plain nightgown and with her hair escaping her braid, she was adorable, more enticing than the most expensive courtesan.

  He indulged himself in the fantasy that they were already lovers, and that soon he would wake her with a kiss that would be the first step toward fulfillment. His gaze went to her mouth. Even when she pursed her lips into her best schoolmistress glare, she could not suppress the natural fullness. In the muted morning light, her lips were so luscious he could barely restrain himself from sampling them.

  Mentally he reviewed the most memorable kisses they had shared. The list was lengthy, for Clare had proved to be an apt pupil in the arts of sensuality. The fact did not surprise him; he had learned early that intelligent women made the best bedmates. When they became lovers, she would be without peer.

  But since that hadn't happened yet, he must control his desire. He didn't think that restraint would be a problem—until he realized that he was already stroking her slim body.

  When he ordered himself to stop, his hand drifted to a halt on her breast, but refused to be lifted away. Through the no-nonsense flannel, he felt her heart beating against his palm.

  It was time to remove his hand. He told himself that, forcefully, and managed to raise his hand a couple of inches—far enough for his fingertips to begin teasing her nipple to tantalizing hardness.

  He didn't know whether to laugh or swear. His body's refusal to obey would be amusing, if it wasn't so dangerous.

  She gave a sigh of contentment and snuggled closer, her hand sliding lower on his torso. For an instant desire gained the upper hand, and he leaned forward. He would give her a deep kiss so that she would be aroused by the time she was fully awake. He looked forward to removing the flannel nightgown and uncovering her silken skin. When he kissed her breasts she would make that delicious choked sound deep in her throat. Then her eyes would drift shut as her yearning body conquered her overactive mind. The fantasy was so vivid that it almost overwhelmed him.

  But of course he couldn't do any of that. For a moment he felt paralyzed, caught between lust and conscience. To break the deadlock, he thought back to the worst moment of his life, an event so stomach-turning that it dampened his desire. Not entirely, but enough so that he could move.

  After gently working his right arm out from under her head, he slid from the bed, wincing as all his dormant cuts and bruises flared to painful life. But in spite of his care, Clare awoke.

  Her long dark lashes swept up and she regarded him gravely. In her deep blue eyes he saw shyness, but no regret. "Were you able to sleep?"

  "Better than I expected."

  She sat up cross-legged, blankets tangled around her, and regarded him with drowsy curiosity. "You keep saying that you're going to seduce me, yet you're passing up a perfect opportunity. Mind you, I appreciate your restraint, but it does seem odd."

  He smiled wryly. "I asked y
ou to stay as a friend, the kind of request you would find very hard to refuse. To take advantage of that would be dishonorable."

  She gave a soft, throaty chuckle. "Male codes of honor are very strange and inconsistent."

  "Undoubtedly true." His gaze went to the throat of her nightgown, where a small triangle of bare skin showed. Since it was the only visible part of her, it became amazingly erotic. Lucky he was wearing the voluminous nightshirt, which concealed his simmering state of arousal. Trying to move his mind to higher things, he explained, "Honor, like Methodist faith, is a highly individual commodity. I have no qualms about seducing you and ruining your reputation, but I can't do it by deception."

  "What kind of Gypsy are you?" she said teasingly. "I thought guile was a way of life among your mother's people."

  He smiled. "It is, but I've been corrupted by conventional British morality."

  She nibbled at her lower lip, which made him want to do the same. The idea was so appealing that he almost missed her remark when she said, "Will we be going home soon? London has been delightful, but there is much to be done in Penreith."

  "Trying to get me out of the line of fire?"

  "Yes," she admitted. "I can't imagine that Lord Michael will be pleased by the outcome of last night's encounter."

  "No, but he's not going to shoot me in the back," Nicholas said reassuringly. "Nor will I allow myself to be goaded into another fight of any kind."

  Clare looked unconvinced. "I hope you're right, but I'd still like to return to Wales soon. I've seen about as much of London as I can absorb."

  "Most of my business should be settled within the next few days," he said. "Then we can go."

  "Good." Looking happier, she scooted off the bed. "Time I was getting back to my own room. It's early enough that none of the servants need know where I spent the night."

  "Does it matter what they think?"

  She smiled ruefully as she donned her velvet robe. "Perhaps not, but since I wasn't raised as an aristocrat, I haven't your sublime indifference to other people's opinions."

  As she put one hand on the doorknob, he felt the same tearing sensation that he had experienced the night before when she had started to leave. It was much milder this morning, but quite unmistakable. Knowing that he was being a damned fool, he said, "I think I'll collect my kiss for the day."

  She turned back to the room, looking a little wary. "Shouldn't it be saved for later?"

  "You can always have more if you wish." He closed the distance between them in two strides and drew her into his arms. Though she caught her breath when she felt his erection through their nightclothes, she didn't pull away.

  With luxurious slowness he nibbled the lower lip that had attracted him earlier. Her mouth opened and her rough exhalation caressed his cheek. When their lips melded and his tongue slid into heated, welcoming depths, her tongue greeted his, touching delicately, then darting away in a brazen invitation for pursuit.

  The kiss went on and on, breathtaking and pulse-pounding. Dimly he realized that he had pinned her against the door and that their pelvises were rubbing together in a profoundly erotic simulation of intercourse. Her robe and gown lifted easily and he cupped her bare buttock in one hand, pressing her more tightly to his groin. "Ah, Clare," he said hoarsely. "You are so lovely. So desirable."

  He shouldn't have spoken, for his words caused her to open her dazed eyes and whisper, "It's time... to end this kiss."

  He was so far gone that he almost didn't remember their bargain. When he did, he groaned aloud. "Yesterday there was no official kiss. Can I collect it now?" Without waiting for an answer, he pressed his lips to her throat.

  She gasped, but managed to say, "No! Yesterday is over, and you can't collect kisses retroactively. Besides, there were plenty of unofficial ones."

  The primitive male part of his brain was not yet ready to give up. He kneaded her buttock, molding the smooth, firm curve. "Then can I take tomorrow's?"

  She gave a half-hysterical giggle. "If we were counting future kisses, your account would be somewhere around 1830. Enough, Nicholas."

  Enough. His breath rattled out of him. Remove your hand, even though it abhors the emptiness. Let her robe drop over her shapely bare legs. Set your palms on the door and push away from it, and her. Look somewhere else, not at her ripe lips and passion-drugged eyes.

  Honor. Remember honor.

  Now open the door so she can get the hell out before it's too late.

  One thing more needed to be said. "Clare." He swallowed hard and moved a safe distance away. "Thank you for staying."

  She gave him a smile of great sweetness. "That's what friends are for." Then she slipped out.

  He gazed at the closed door for a long time, body and mind both throbbing with needs, some simple, some not.

  Who would have thought that the prim schoolmistress could be so sensual?

  And who could have predicted that the irritating female who had come to Aberdare to bully him would become his friend?

  * * *

  The dignified doorman at White's greeted Nicholas as if his last visit had been the day before. The exclusive club looked exactly the same as it had four years before; only change would have been surprising.

  Since Rafe hadn't arrived yet, Nicholas wandered into the reading room and picked up a copy of The Times. As expected, Napoleon's abdication dominated the news, along with speculations about the future and self-congratulatory articles about the triumph of British courage and wisdom.

  Hearing a familiar voice, he glanced up and saw Rafe heading toward him. Halfway across the room, the duke was intercepted by an ebullient young man who burbled, "Have you heard the news, Your Grace? They say that Napoleon's dynasty will be set aside and the Bourbons be restored to the French throne."

  Impaling the young man with a glance, Rafe said in freezing accents, "Indeed?"

  The young man flushed, then backed away, mumbling apologies.

  Nicholas watched sardonically. When Rafe reached him, he said, "You're even better at terrorizing the impertinent than you were four years ago."

  "I should hope so," Rafe replied with a lazy smile. "I've been practicing."

  Nicholas had to laugh. "How many people in the world are allowed to see you as you really are?"

  "The arrogant side of me is quite genuine. Since you lack arrogance yourself, you have trouble recognizing it in others," Rafe observed. "But if you want to know how many people I actually relax with, the number is about six."

  In a rare show of affection, he put a friendly hand on Nicholas's shoulder. Caught unprepared, Nicholas flinched.

  "Damnation." Rafe hastily dropped his hand. "Sorry—you seem so normal that I forgot that your back must look like a chessboard. How bad is it?"

  Nicholas shrugged even though it hurt. "Nothing to signify."

  Rafe didn't appear convinced, but he let the subject drop. "Do you mind if we go directly to the coffee room? I was so busy being a host last night that I didn't eat much, and I seem to have missed breakfast as well."

  "Fine." As they headed toward the coffee room, Nicholas added, "After last night, I wasn't sure you would want to keep our engagement. Michael will look on this meeting as consorting with the enemy."

  "Don't be ridiculous—I'm not going to drop one friend because another is temporarily addled." Rafe smiled a little. "Besides, he won't know about it."

  In the coffee room, cold meats and other dishes were set on a sideboard. Few tables were occupied this early, so after selecting food they found a quiet corner where they could talk privately. Seeing the duke, a waiter brought a bottle of hock without being asked, then withdrew. When they were alone, Nicholas asked, "How is Michael this morning?"

  Rafe sliced a pickled onion in half and ate it with a piece of beef. "Physically he's all right, apart from a devil of a headache. Clare's diagnosis was confirmed by the doctor who examined him." He gave Nicholas a speculative glance. "I liked her very much. She has a cool head on her shoulders." After
a moment's thought, he added, "Very nice shoulders, too."

  "Yes to both observations," Nicholas agreed, not in the mood to discuss his eccentric relationship with Clare. "I'm glad that he wasn't seriously injured, but what about his mental state?"

  "When I visited him this morning, he was civil but very withdrawn, almost as if we were strangers. He didn't refer to the duel at all." Rafe hesitated, as if considering whether to say more. "When I mentioned your name, the shutters went up. Not a hint as to why he exploded last night, or if he intends to seek you out again."

  "If he does, I won't let him goad me into another fight," Nicholas said once more.

  "Not even if he insults Miss Morgan?"

  Nicholas's mouth tightened, but he said, "Not even then. My patience can outlast his insults. Nor do I care if he threatens to tell the world I'm a coward—I don't have that kind of pride."

  "You might not fight, but that doesn't mean he won't."

  Nicholas looked at the duke sharply. "No matter how angry he is, Michael is not going to try to kill me out of hand."

  Rafe looked troubled. "I wish I were sure of that."

  Nicholas snorted. "You know Michael—he can be a stiff-necked idiot, but he would never behave dishonorably."

  "Four years of war can change anyone. He said as much himself."

  Because it was Rafe talking, Nicholas gave serious thought to the possibility. He had known Michael Kenyon for more than twenty years, through good times and some bad. Michael had always had a fierce temper—and an equally fierce sense of honor. Dangerous, yes. Treacherous, never. Nicholas shook his head. "He can't have changed that much—not Michael."

  "No doubt you're right and I'm worrying too much." Rafe topped up their glasses with hock. "Actually, he'll be too busy to pursue a vendetta. He said this morning that since the war is over, he'll sell his commission rather than return to the army."

  "Good. Without battle to feed his madness, in time he should become himself again."