How To Vex A Viscount

by Marlowe Mia

  She’s too tall, he realized suddenly. He’d always perceived Blanche as being much more delicate, but if he hadn’t been blindfolded, this woman could look him squarely in the eye. The crown of Daisy Drake’s head would fit snugly beneath his chin.

  His belly spiralled downward. Was that disappointment? Had he been hoping she was really Daisy?

  “You’ll have to remove my wig first,” she said, her voice breathless.

  “Gladly.” He tried not to let puzzlement creep into his tone. Would a courtesan have a catch in her throat over allowing a man to take off her wig? He lifted the powdered confection from her head, and she took it from him.

  “I need to return this to its stand,” she explained. He heard the tip-tapping of her heels across the hardwood.

  Then there was a clatter and a loud thump.

  “Blanche, are you all right?” He put a hand to the blindfold, but remembered his oath in time.

  Silence.

  “Blanche?” He’d give her another heartbeat or two and then the binding was coming off his eyes, oath be damned. Then he heard muttered curses—the same string of invectives Daisy had used over the ruined mosaic—and then the scritch of fabric rustling, the scuffle of heels on hardwood.

  “Oui, I’m fine,” she said.

  His hearing grew more acute with the loss of his vision. When she made the return trip across the room, her gait was different. Was he hearing a limp?

  “Did you fall?” he asked.

  “My skirts are too long,” she said defensively. “I should have worn my hoops.”

  Or perhaps her shoes are too tall, Lucian thought. Could she be wearing a pair of those ridiculous Venetian platforms that had become so deucedly popular?

  If so, maybe she wasn’t too tall to be Daisy.

  Her scent told him she was closer. He reached out a hand to find her and came into contact with a soft breast. She was dressed en déshabillé, as she’d been on the first night he visited her. He’d noticed before she blinded him with satin that her frilly corset ended in a half shelf beneath her breasts. Only the thin fabric of her chemise stood between him and her warm, smooth skin.

  “There you are,” he said.

  “Here I am,” she whispered, surprisingly enough in English. Blanche always spoke French to him, but without any voice behind the sound, he couldn’t detect whether she breathed those words with an accent or not. She gave herself a slight shake.

  “Je suis ici,” she amended.

  He stroked her slowly, and it almost seemed as if she leaned, catlike, into his touch. Her nipple hardened beneath his palm. He ached to slide his hand beneath her chemise and cup her breast. If he lifted his chin just so, he could peer beneath the blindfold enough to steal a glimpse of her breasts, ripe and round. The sweet hollow between them disappeared into shadow while the rest of her skin was kissed golden by the kindly candlelight.

  He would have loved to stay right where he was and pay heartfelt homage to her lovely bosom, but he had business elsewhere. He gave her softness a slight squeeze and let his fingers wander north. Her skin was smooth beneath his questing hand. The pulse point at the base of her throat throbbed fast as a hummingbird’s wing.

  He traced her jawline with both hands, and his thumbs met at the tip of her little chin. Daisy’s face was also heart-shaped, broader at the cheekbones and tapering to a point that stopped just shy of sharp. Then he smoothed over her cheeks till he reached the feathered edge of the mask. He felt his way around to reach the bow behind her head, stepping closer to her. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He could feel the expansion of her ribs with each inhalation. She tilted her pelvis to meet his rock-hard one. It was almost as if her body melted into his.

  Would Daisy Drake be so bold?

  The ribbon holding the mask gave way, and he lifted it from her face.

  “Do you need to put this on a stand as well?” he asked.

  “No, I’ll just lay it here on the table.”

  Was it just his imagination or did she traverse the short distance in little hitching hops?

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I told you I’m fine,” she snapped, and he heard the strange sound again as she returned to stand before him. “I’m back.”

  He reached for her, and this time he aimed higher. He couldn’t be sure he could abandon her breasts a second time. His hands came to rest on her soft, bared shoulders. He leaned forward to kiss her.

  She met him halfway, slanting her mouth on his. He palmed her cheeks, enjoying the feel of her nose against the side of his instead of the ticklish, feathery mask. Her lips parted softly. He answered the unspoken invitation, not rushing in this time, but slowly, savouring the taste of her mouth.

  While remembering Daisy’s.

  Daisy had tasted of orange-spiced tea and sweet biscuits in the hot, dusty shed. This woman’s mouth was tinged with wine, a full-bodied red that mingled with her heady jasmine fragrance enough to thoroughly befuddle him.

  Shouldn’t he be able to tell if he was kissing the same woman both times? Perhaps he didn’t have enough experience with kissing in general to know.

  But her kiss was wonderful, whoever she was. Her lips were soft and pliant beneath his. And her clever little tongue darted in with a series of teasing advances and retreats.

  Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, since she’d been wearing a wig. He plucked out the pins as he continued to kiss her, letting them drop unheeded to the floor. He shook her hair loose and spread it over her shoulders and down her back.

  As he kissed her, he ran his hands over her hair’s length, testing his theory. About right for Daisy, he decided. The long locks curled softly around his fingers, as he imagined hers would.

  Then he remembered the main reason for inducing her to remove the mask. He pulled back and let his fingers explore her face. He brushed his fingertips across her smooth forehead. He traced her brows with his thumbs, trying to create a mental picture of her face. Her eyelids trembled as he pressed a soft kiss on each one. He kissed the tip of her nose and was delighted to find that it turned up ever so slightly.

  Just like Daisy’s.

  He gathered her in his arms and searched for her mouth again. He stole her breath and replenished it with his own. He suckled her bottom lip and then gave it a soft nip.

  She moaned into his mouth.

  He must be getting quite good at kissing, he decided. Encouraged, he did it again.

  Her moan grew louder.

  She pushed against his shoulders, and he suddenly realized she was moaning in pain, not passion. He released her and felt her nearly topple. He caught her and hugged her close to his chest.

  “Ow,” she whimpered miserably.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I turned my ankle when I fell. I thought I could ignore it, but I can’t. It hurts like the devil.”

  Lucian stooped and picked her up.

  “Oof!” Her breath rushed out in a cross between a yelp and a yip. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to carry you to your bed so you can get off your ankle.”

  “But you can’t see,” she protested. “You might walk us into the fireplace.”

  “Are you giving me permission to remove the blindfold?”

  “No!” Then she softened her tone. “No man sees my face, Lucian. It is my rule.”

  “And a deucedly inconvenient one at present.”

  “Nevertheless, you gave me your word.”

  “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “Give me directions to your bed then, unless you want me to stand here holding you all night.”

  “Lovely as that sounds, it’s not terribly practical. Make a quarter turn. Bien. Sidestep once to your right. Take three longish strides—Oh!”

  His shin barked against the side slats of the four-poster and they both tumbled onto the feather tick, with Lucian landing atop her crosswise at what felt like her narrow waist.

  She made an “oofing” sound.

&
nbsp; “Have I injured you further?” He scrambled to right himself.

  Her whimper dissolved into a nearly hysterical giggle. “No, I just...I had plans for us, you see...but now, of course . . . my ankle’s throbbing and . . . Oh, Jupiter! I can’t believe how atrocious my luck has been this night.”

  “Mine as well, but there will be other nights,” he said, finding her hand and giving it a squeeze. And days, too, if he had anything to say about it. “Let me see about your ankle, then.”

  “No, Lucian, you promised.” He heard the bed creak and imagined she’d sat bolt upright.

  “I didn’t mean I’d literally ‘see’ anything.” He spoke with the same soft tone he’d use to calm a startled horse. He patted his hand across her body and splayed his fingers over her flat belly. “I merely want to check on your injury using my hands, not my eyes. Settle yourself.”

  He felt her lie back down.

  “Very well,” she said softly.

  He moved his hand slowly, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. With regret, he forced himself not to linger over the juncture of her thighs. If she was injured and in pain, she wouldn’t appreciate his exploration of that happy region.

  Please, God, let there be other nights! He sent his prayer skyward as he settled a hip on the bed beside her.

  Her thigh quivered slightly as his hand continued to slide down to her knee and onto her hard shin. When he reached her hem, he turned it up, draping it over her knees. If only he weren’t blindfolded, he’d be feasting his eyes on her slender calves and neatly turned ankles.

  He discovered in short order that his fingers served admirably in his eyes’ stead. She was wearing thin stockings. Lucian found the garter behind her knee and gave the ribbon a tug. He rolled the stocking down a delicate curve, past a small bump of ankle bones, and, oh! There was the cold, rough touch of her gem-encrusted shoe.

  “Nothing amiss here that I can feel.” He lifted her foot and slipped the shoe off. Before he set it on the floor beside the bed, he ran his hands over it and was delighted to find that the platform must have added at least six inches to her height. It certainly explained why she took a tumble.

  And so much more.

  “It’s my other ankle,” she said.

  He reached for her right leg and pulled the stocking down. When his fingers reached her swollen ankle, she flinched.

  “I’m sorry to hurt you,” he said, “but if your ankle is swelling this much, we must remove the shoe and stocking quickly, while we still can. May I?”

  “Please.”

  Trying to be as gentle as possible, he tugged off the clunky shoe, then eased the stocking over her tight flesh. This ankle was twice its normal size and much warmer to the touch than the rest of her skin.

  She might have broken a bone. Any thought of further dallying fled from his brain. “You need a physician, and quickly.” He stood.

  “Lucian, remember your promise. Oh, wait! I have it. Now you may remove the blindfold.” Her voice seemed muffled.

  He peeled off the dark cloth and looked down to see that she’d covered her face with a pillow. He stifled a laugh. So Daisy still wasn’t ready to give up the farce. Very well. It had been an enjoyable game of seduction and chance thus far, and now that he knew a few more of the rules, he fully intended to win the final hand.

  Then his gaze travelled down her prone body to her poor ankle. Even in the dim light, he could tell her flesh was darkening with an evil bruise.

  He bent over and lifted her hand to his lips. “I bid you farewell, my little French bird.”

  “Lucian, please tell—”

  “Fear not. I will alert the staff to your situation. Please send word when you are ready to receive me once again. Rest assured, my dearest Blanche, I remain your devoted admirer.”

  Then he turned and strode to the door. Once it closed behind him, he sagged against it for a moment. An invisible hand squeezed his heart and wouldn’t let go. The tenderness and concern that engulfed him now were just as potent as the passion she’d stirred in him before.

  Maybe even more so.

  Daisy—confound it!—Drake! Of all the women in the world, why on earth did it have to be her?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Londinium, 405 A.D.

  Caius finished tallying the last column on the bill of lading for the shipment due to leave on the next square-rigged vessel bound for Rome. Tin and amber, sealskins and thick wool from beyond Hadrian’s Wall far to the north, where the savages still painted themselves blue for battle. This was a goodly haul for the greater glory of Rome.

  Caius rechecked the final figure. Then he made his mark and laid aside his stylus.

  He dragged a hand over his face. He received a small commission on each of the loads he assembled and oversaw. Perhaps next month, when the proconsul sat in judgment once again, Caius’s stack of coin would be sufficient to induce him to release Deirdre from service.

  On that happy day, Caius would make her his wife.

  It couldn’t come too soon. They still met by moonlight each night, their loving both wilder and more tender than Caius had a right to expect. They shared themselves, not just their bodies.

  She told him of her childhood near a tiny island in the middle of the great river. Time out of mind, it had been a sacred place to her people, a place of forbidden magic. Since the Romans had outlawed druidism, the rites performed there had ceased, but the stones still stood, and the hidden cave summoned her to explore deep within “the goddess,” as she called it. Deirdre had no magic, to her sorrow, but it pleased her to think the lordly Romans believed that little patch of ground so haunted they feared to set foot on it.

  Last night, as Caius and Deirdre lay together in the fragrant garden, passion-spent and covered with a light sheen of sweat, she’d confessed that she might be bearing his child.

  His child. He blinked back tears. Since he had been stolen from his Germanic village as a boy and pressed into the Roman’s service, he never dreamed he’d ever father a child of his own.

  If it was a boy, he’d name him Artos. It was close to the name that had been his own before the slave brand was burned into his shoulder. His new Roman name had been plastered on him that day, along with the numbing salve that sped his healing. In time, the brand’s scar healed cleanly. Even though he later earned his freedom, his spirit had never completely recovered from the shock of slavery.

  Now Deirdre’s love was healing his vanquished soul.

  Caius wondered where she might be working now. He knew it would be foolish to display his affection openly. Even asking to purchase her had won him some good-natured ribbing from his friends. But he felt a sudden need to see her, if only to bask in the light of her fleeting smile.

  He left the countinghouse near the wharf and trudged back to the proconsul’s villa. Deirdre might be in the lady of the house’s suite of rooms, in which case, he’d not be able to find her. But she might also be working in the kitchen or, if he were very fortunate, in the garden. He might sneak a kiss or two there.

  He found her behind the grape arbor, but all thought of stealing a kiss quickly fled. She was weeping. Silent shudders racked her frame. Brown spots of dried blood marred the white of her palla across her breasts and down lower.

  “You’re injured.” Caius dropped to his knees beside her.

  She shook her head. “The proconsul . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  There were rope burns on her wrists and ankles. And a sore-looking love mark on her nape. The Roman governor had indulged in his favourite form of entertainment.

  Ravishing a bound victim.

  And this time Scipianus had chosen Deirdre. Caius hugged her close and let her sob. Hatred fisted in his chest.

  “He—”

  “Hush.” Caius cradled her head against his heart. Best to let her cry away the pain. Reliving the ordeal by speaking it aloud would only hurt them both.

  Especially since there was nothing to be done but hope the proconsul lo
st interest in her quickly. If she stopped struggling, if she didn’t cry out, he’d turn to one of the smooth-bottomed little boys who mucked out the stables, or maybe the new goose girl.

  But Deirdre couldn’t keep silent. “He’s going to do it again tomorrow. He said so.”

  In halting tones, Caius told her how to feign indifference so the proconsul would cease molesting her. It was information bought with a price. He’d been very young when Scipianus became his master.

  Instead of realizing Caius shared her pain, Deirdre grew indignant. “You won’t do anything to stop it?”

  “What can I do?” She belonged to the proconsul, like his horse or his hound. Caius hated it, but unless Scipianus agreed to sell her, he was within his rights to use her as he pleased.

  “You could be a man.” Her chin trembled. “You could kill him.”

  Before Scipianus became a politician, he’d been a soldier. Barrel-chested and beefy-armed, he was a formidable fighter, made even more fearsome by callous cruelty. Caius still occasionally woke drenched in sweat, trembling from a night terror of the proconsul. Caius was a boy again, tasting stale garlic breath, feeling thick fingers on his member, the fist that tightened on his young balls. . . .

  Caius hated Scipianus with every fibre of his being. But he feared him even more.

  Life was all that mattered. Years of slavery had taught him that. Survive and there was hope, even if it was but a slim one. The weight of law was on the proconsul’s side. If Caius killed Scipianus, neither he nor Deirdre would see the next sunrise.

  “I cannot kill him,” he admitted. Shame curled around his heart. “Please, Deirdre, say something.”

  She looked at him with naked loathing, then turned away.

  “Don’t you see?” He grasped her shoulders and made her face him. “If I kill the proconsul, they would put us both to death.”

  And it would be a terrible death. Public and protracted and painful.

  “Among my people, dishonour is worse than dying,” she said softly.

  “You’re not among your people. This is the Romans’ world,” he said. “But we will get through this somehow. I will see you free. I promise.”

  “I hate you,” she said simply. “And I will free myself.”