by Marlowe Mia
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Relentless as an executioner delivering forty stripes, rain lashed the tall palladium windows of the Montford library. A jagged fork of lightning brightened the low sky for a brief flicker, and then the day sank again into dreary greyness.
Lucian rubbed the back of his neck. It was far too nasty out to do any more digging, but there was little point, in any case. He’d already found the last piece of the puzzle.
But after two weeks of intense study, he still had no idea how it all fit together.
Perhaps if Daisy . . . No, he ordered himself sternly. He wouldn’t pine for a girl who obviously didn’t care enough for him to even say good-bye properly. As soon as he’d received her note, he slapped a saddle on his horse instead of bothering with hitching up the gig and rode hell-for-leather to Lord Wexford’s residence with little heed for the uneven cobbles and less for the foot traffic that scurried out of his path. He might have saved himself the panicked ride. He was turned away at the door.
Daisy was already gone.
It made no sense.
And neither did Caius Meritus’s cryptic love poem. Lucian painstakingly retranslated the tablet himself, taking into account Daisy’s view of it, and spent every waking moment poring over the document. But each time he reread the blasted thing, the bit about a wet tongue called to mind Daisy’s kisses, and he slipped into reverie. Her mouth was a whole world of delight, slick and warm. A man could lose himself in her kiss and never wish to be found.
Then if he managed to drag himself back to the document before him, once he reached the part about “her legs she spreads,” he was utterly lost again. That one time, when she was disguised as Blanche, she’d allowed him to reach under her skirts and rest his hand, however briefly, on her blessed soft mound. That intimate skin was smooth and beguiling, but hadn’t yielded to him.
What delights would he have discovered if he’d been able to convince her to spread her legs? The bare thought rendered him hard as iron.
The ping of a steady drip in the corner yanked him back from his imaginings. Avery, ever quiet and unobtrusive, had slipped into the library and placed a tin bucket under the worst leak. Now instead of a widening but silent puddle on the old Persian rug, Lucian was treated to an incessant reminder of why he desperately needed to find the Roman hoard before the place fell in on them.
The double doors of the library swung open and his father stomped in.
“What are you doing there, boy? Why aren’t you getting ready?”
“Ready for what, sir?”
“The Duke of Lammermoor’s masquerade, of course,” his father said. “Lady Brumley told me specifically that you promised to attend, so I hired a costume for you.”
“Father, you shouldn’t have done that,” Lucian said. “If you’d bothered to ask me, I’d have told you I have no intention of going to any silly masquerade when I have so much work to do.”
The earl glared down at the single sheet of paper on the desk. Before Lucian could put it away, his father snatched it up. Unfortunately, the page contained both the Latin and the English version of Meritus’s poem. His father was no scholar, but he read English well enough.
The earl chuckled softly, then burst into full-throated guffaws. “Work? This sounds more like play, lad.”
“You don’t understand. The poem has a deeper meaning. It’s the key to the treasure’s location.”
“There’s definitely treasure between a woman’s legs, all right.” The earl laughed all the louder. “Deeper, yes, indeed. The deeper the better. If you’re after spreading some slut’s legs, there’s no finer place to do it than a masquerade. Just make sure it’s Clarinda Brumley’s you’re spreadin’, though. We already know what kind of dowry she’s hiding between her thighs.”
“Father, you may as well know it now. I have no intention of wedding Lady Clarinda. Not ever.”
Even if it sent his father to Bedlam, Lucian had avoided this unpleasant truth long enough. To his surprise, the earl didn’t erupt in the fit of temper Lucian expected.
“Then how do you intend to do what’s needful by the estate?” his father asked, his tone rumbling with danger. “With this Roman nonsense?”
“Yes.” Lucian stood to look him squarely in the eye.
For once, his father’s skin wasn’t flushed with too much drink. His gaze sparked with intelligence, though Lucian sensed barely contained rage behind the earl’s grey irises. “You’re certain of it?”
“There is a treasure hidden, sir,” Lucian affirmed. “And I will find it.”
“Keep me apprised of your progress then. I have some plans for this treasure when you locate it. You’re not the only one who cares about Montford, you know.” Lucian started to protest, but when the earl narrowed his eyes, madness glinted behind them. His father cut him off with a dismissive gesture. “But if you do not find it, I expect you to consent to the match with the Brumley chit. You can begin by dancing attendance on her at the ball this night.”
“Sir, I have ever been a dutiful son to you, but what you ask is impossible.” Lucian set his jaw. “I will not do it. My affections are . . . otherwise engaged.”
“Otherwise engaged? Your affections be damned.” A red flush crept up his father’s neck, and a vein bulged on his forehead. Lucian almost wished the earl would explode in anger to release the pressure that was obviously building, but he continued to speak with soft menace. “Don’t tell me you’re nursing a fondness for that French whore.”
“No, sir. The lady in question is no whore.”
“Courtesan, then, but it’s the same thing, and certainly not worth losing a fortune over.” His father pulled out his snuffbox and took a pinch, a luxury they could ill afford, but one Lucian couldn’t deny him. Not if the white powder calmed his father. “Rut her blind, if you must, but a bint on the side should not detract a man from marrying well.”
“And did you keep a mistress when you married my mother?”
The snuffbox clattered to the floor, and the earl’s fist came flying before Lucian had a chance to duck. It connected squarely with his jaw, and he tasted the coppery tang of blood where his teeth cut into the inside of his cheek. When his father reared back for another blow, this time Lucian caught the earl’s fist and held him immobile. The manual labour of digging for the past months had strengthened Lucian, and when he tightened his grip, the earl winced.
“You will not strike me again, Father.” Lucian’s tone matched his father’s for silky menace.
Avery burst into the room, bobbing and darting about them like a wren on a narrow windowsill, looking for a spot wide enough to settle upon. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord, young sir.”
When Lucian and his father turned to glare at him, Avery gave them a stiff bow and held out a much-polished pewter tray with a sealed note on it. “This came for you by special courier just now, Master Lucian. One is dreadfully sorry to intrude, but since the writer didn’t wait for the regular post, one thought it might be important. And, perhaps, timely.”
It didn’t feel timely to Lucian. He was ready to have it out with his father once and for all. Whether or not Lord Montford was going off his cracker, Lucian was not going to marry Clarinda Brumley. The sooner his father got that little tidbit into his brain, the happier they’d all be. He nearly waved Avery away, but he caught sight of the script on the outside of the note.
It was definitely Daisy’s hand.
“I’ll take that.” Lucian released his father with a slight shove. The earl cradled his bruised fist and shot his son a look of pure malice, but didn’t move to interfere. Lucian strode away to have a bit of privacy, broke the seal and ran his gaze over the familiar round script. Being without her for a fortnight had left a dull ache in his chest. Now the ache faded. He should have trusted Daisy. A smile spread across his face. Then he tossed the note into the small blaze in the grate, lest it fall into unfriendly hands.
“What sor
t of costume did you hire for me, Father?” Lucian asked. “It seems I will be attending the duke’s ball this night, after all.”
Once all the debutantes went home, the Duke of Lammermoor’s masquerade was no less wild than the last one Daisy had attended. It almost seemed the same cast of characters from her great-aunt’s bacchanalia was in attendance. But this time, Daisy was in a stranger’s home, not her great-aunt’s.
She felt like a circus performer swinging high above the crowd, flying without a net.
Daisy willed herself not to shrink from the pointed stares of the men she wandered past. She’d managed to sneak Blanche’s red tulle dress, feathered mask and ridiculously high heels out with the rest of her belongings for her supposed trip back to Cornwall. It was deucedly inconvenient that she’d forgotten to include the white powdered wig and, more important, the filmy fichu to cover her exposed nipples. She walked slowly to hide her slight limp.
In the last couple of hectic weeks, Daisy had been busy. She travelled as far as Oxford in the company of a widow and her daughter, just in case Lord Wexford should check on her progress toward Cornwall. Then she pleaded illness and bade them to travel on without her. Once they were gone, she left Daisy Drake at the dusty roadside inn as well and returned to London as Blanche La Tour. She presented a draft on her account at the Bank of London made out to herself as Blanche. The skinny clerk frowned, but since Daisy’s signature on the draft matched the one on file, he reluctantly turned the funds over to the veiled Frenchwoman. She found a suitable house to rent, hired a discreet staff and settled in on a quiet, yet fashionable street and bided her time, trying to decide the best way to contact Lucian as Blanche.
The duke’s masquerade seemed made-to-order. Of course, she’d received the invitation as Daisy, but it was a masked ball, so she expected to slip in easily. She hadn’t realized she was missing that essential piece of her costume until her new lady’s maid helped her dress for the ball. There was no time to run out for another fichu, so she had to brazen the evening out, exposed nipples and all.
Now, if only Lucian made an appearance . . .
Finally she decided she’d have better luck trying to find him if she stayed in one place and let the dizzying crush wander past her. She’d already turned her ankle once on these confounded platform shoes. She didn’t want to do it again.
She found a bit of space near a curtained alcove and leaned against the wall. After a moment, she heard soft moans and a rustle of silk from behind the damask drape, then a whispered, “There . . . oh, God, yes! Just like that.”
Daisy ground her teeth, trying to ignore the grunts of exertion coming from the alcove.
The sounds of passion made her belly clench. She was acutely aware of an empty sensation. An ache began as a distant drumbeat and now throbbed in tandem with her quickening heart.
The clandestine lovemaking had already started all around her. Isabella was right: costumes allowed people to behave outrageously with impunity.
Daisy was ready to be outrageous, ready to put to the test all the delights she’d read about in Mlle La Tour’s journal, but she had to find Lucian first. Ignoring her body’s growing arousal and trying to seem bored and unapproachable, she sipped her champagne and let her gaze wander the room.
No sombre Puritan anywhere in sight.
But there was an elegant and deadly-looking highwayman eyeing her intently from across the room. From his rakish plumed hat to the lethal rapier at his hip, he exuded masculine energy.
There’s one thief who might take whatever he pleased from a woman and she wouldn’t complain a bit, she thought. But when he started her way, Daisy’s heart fluttered.
It was one thing to admire the fine line of a man’s form and another to want his attention when she was looking for someone quite different. How could she find Lucian if she were fending off advances from this gentleman-turned-robber?
He made a courtly leg to her, doffing his hat to reveal a head of thick, dark hair.
She whipped out her fan. It didn’t completely cover her bosom, but it was better than nothing.
“Bon soir, monsieur.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he stepped toward her, tipped her jaw up with one finger and regarded her steadily. Behind his black mask, fire burned in the depths of his dark eyes. Like a hare caught in the gaze of an adder, Daisy couldn’t move as he lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her softly, then with more insistence, tasting and sampling, sliding his tongue between her parted lips to smooth over the slick roof of her mouth and tease her tongue back into his.
Jupiter! It’s Lucian. She’d kissed him often enough as both herself and Blanche; now she’d recognize his kiss anywhere.
She let her fan drop on its wrist cord and grasped his shoulders, tugging him closer. True, he was kissing her as Blanche instead of herself, but at the moment, Daisy didn’t care. All that mattered was his blessed mouth on hers. His hands found her waist and pressed her to his hard body. She rocked her pelvis against him, but instead of easing the ache in her groin, the action made it worse.
Then he reached for the curtain and edged her toward the alcove.
“No.” Daisy pulled her lips free with monumental effort. “Someone is there already.” She forced herself to speak French to him, sagging against his chest. She inhaled his scent and smelled her own arousal, musky and sweet, as well. “Where can we go, Lucian?”
He took her hand. “His Grace has a fine library.” His smile was bright in the dimness of the great hall. “And I know how much you love books . . . Daisy.”
“Despite what the world believes about courtesans, pleasure is the true currency of love. Its coffers are replenished only by giving without thought of remuneration.”
—the journal of Blanche La Tour
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lucian led her unerringly, communicating through only the pressure of his hand on hers, through the labyrinth of merrymakers and dancers. When they finally turned away from the more populated parts of the duke’s imposing residence and down a wood-panelled hall, the noise of the ball dimmed to a dull rumble. Daisy skittered to come even with him.
“How did you know”—she panted with the effort of keeping up with him—“it was me?”
He smiled down at her, his gaze raking her pert nipples. They tightened further under his scrutiny.
“Let’s just say you have certain memorable attributes.” His smile flattened. “And you’re limping.”
Lucian scooped her into his arms and carried her down the dim hallway, past the suits of armour and waist-high Ming vases.
“How long have you known?” She draped her arms around his shoulders and pressed feverish kisses to his neck. The sweet saltiness of his skin made her mouth water.
“That you’re limping? I noticed just now. Those shoes ought to be outlawed.”
She swatted his chest. “No, I mean how long have you known that I’m Blanche?”
“Since the night you turned your ankle,” he said. “I suspected before then, but that night you let me touch your face, and I knew for certain it was you, Daisy.”
She’d been willing to let him touch far more that night. Instead he asked to feel her naked face. She’d felt disappointed at the time, but now happiness welled in her chest.
“Guess I’m not as clever as I thought. You must think me shockingly fast.”
“Beyond shockingly fast,” he said with a grin. He bent his head to kiss the curve of her breast, his warm breath teasing her nipples into aching points. “And I mean that in the best sort of way. I’ll never complain so long as you’re only this shockingly fast with me.”
He pushed through the tall doors into the duke’s dark library. Long shafts of moonlight spilled through the two-story windows to the polished oak floor. At any other time, Daisy would have been enraptured by the rows of books, by the spiral staircase in the corner that led to the upper collection, by the wall-size map of England behind the massive burled wood desk. But now, all she could think
of was the man who carried her as easily as if she were a child, and yet made her feel all woman when he turned his dark-eyed gaze on her.
He lowered her gently to her feet. Then he took off his plumed hat and tossed it to the desk. He unbound his mask and let it drop.
“Now you,” he encouraged.
Daisy pulled off the feathered mask and met his gaze. Lucian wanted her, not Blanche. She hugged that delicious knowledge to herself and decided she’d strip naked if he asked it of her.
“Let’s get those infernal things off,” he said.
She blinked hard, thinking he’d heard her exceedingly naughty thoughts.
“Before you fall again. The shoes, of course.”
He knelt and she lifted her hem enough to expose her feet and ankles. She balanced on her good leg while he undid the shoe on her sprained ankle. It was still bound with a length of cloth for support. He eased the shoe off and brushed his fingertips around her sore spot, his touch gentle, yet arousing. When he caressed her instep before lowering her foot, a tickling streak of pleasure shot up her leg and settled in her groin.
“Can you stand on it?” he asked.
“For a bit.” She lifted her other foot so he could remove that shoe as well. If he asked her to fly, she’d make an attempt.
When he was finished and she stood in stocking feet, he rose up, sliding his hands slowly along her legs, lifting her skirt and bunching the fabric over his arms as he came upright. Starbursts of sensation danced along her skin.
“You’re so smooth,” he said, as he covered her bare sex with one hot palm. “Now, where was I?”
“Right there.” She scarcely breathed. His fingertip slipped into her intimate folds as he held her. A shimmer of pleasure sparked between her legs, coursed through her, then returned to circle her most sensitive spot.
He bent to kiss her again, then nibbled his way down her neck to her breasts. She threaded her fingers through his dark locks as she’d itched to do since she was a girl. Her nipples drew up taut and aching in anticipation.