by Darcy Burke
He pulled her back up into his lap and hugged her tightly, his face buried against her neck. She ran her fingers through his hair as she waited for him to settle.
By the gods, Quince thought, how had she managed that? It had been the most intense pleasure of his life. Yet he was already growing hard again, his cock wanting desperately to be inside her. He would need to wait a few days considering how badly she had bled with her first joining. But oh, how he wanted her. She was his Venus. His Helen of Troy. He would gladly fight a nation to lie with her. He ran a palm over her breast, the ripe curve and turgid tip, and heard her soft moan of pleasure. Needing no other encouragement he pulled her dress down to expose the globe and suckled on her velvet skin.
"Quince!" she cried, gasping and writhing. He lifted her in his arms, knocking the chair over in his haste. In a few short steps he laid her on the bed. She bit her lip and looked up at him. "Quince, I can't..."
"Shh, I know." He lay down half on top of her and set to laving her nipple again, his hand caressing her other breast still covered by muslin.
"Oh, Quince..." She ploughed her fingers into his hair, gripping handfuls as she gasped in pleasure. He thought he might spill his seed again just listening to her exclamations of passion. He would do anything to make her feel as he had felt with her mouth closed around him during his release.
Sabre ran her fingers lightly over the duke's shoulder. She had convinced him to shed his jacket, vest, and shirt to lie with her flesh to flesh. After a lifetime of excellent ideas she felt this had been one of her best. Feeling his skin against her own was both thrilling and comforting. He had wrapped his arms around her and after some time drifted off to sleep and now snored softly in her ear. The last candle in her room had almost burned down and flickered with the dancing light that often came before guttering. She took those remaining minutes of light to study his face. The curve of his jaw, the straight line of his nose. If she had to choose between time like this with him and being a duchess she thought she would choose him. But he needn't know that.
EIGHTEEN
When Sabre awoke in the morning she was covered by a light blanket and found a note on the pillow next to her.
No, you are not going to London.
- Q
She laughed. He had expected her to argue about it but that had been the furthest thing from her mind. Running into her friends or family in London and having to explain herself would just be a complication. Hopefully he would return soon. But until then she could continue her mission to set Belle Fleur to rights. The staff did as well as they could, but certain things required decisions that no servant would feel comfortable taking upon themselves. And Sabre had never had any difficulty making decisions for others.
Quince hoped Robert would be in residence. Ten in the morning was something of an awkward time in the ton. Most of the beau monde wouldn't even be up yet, while others such as Robert, who had more productive lives, might already be downtown in their office. Having waited so long to open the second letter he had hardly given time for Robert to be involved in thinking through strategies. At last Robert's doorman opened to his knock and, seeing who it was, waved him in. "If you could wait in the study, please, sir. Mr. Bittlesworth is otherwise engaged for the moment but will want to see you."
The doorman led him to the study where he and Robert had met before, offered him a drink, which he declined, and left him to his own devices for the nonce. Although he was near vibrating with impatience no one who looked upon him would have guessed. He studied the hunting prints in Robert's office as though he had all the time in the world. Finally, at what he would guess was better than a quarter hour later, the door opened and Robert appeared.
"I received instructions," Quince said abruptly.
"I see. Drink?"
He didn't really want one but didn't want to alienate his host. "Whatever you're having."
Robert poured two tumblers of scotch and offered one to the duke. Quince was surprised at such strong spirits at this time in the morning but took the tumbler readily enough. Robert grinned as he sat down, indicating that Quince should take the chair opposite him. To treat a duke in such a casual way indicated either long-standing friendship or a great deal of disrespect. Quince wasn't sure which Robert thought he was exhibiting but they had never been particularly close.
"I suppose you know," Robert said without preamble, "the nickname we used for Gideon?"
"Of course. Lord Lucifer."
"Do you know the one we used for you?"
Quince frowned. He had hardly spent any time with the Bittlesworth boys and had a difficult time imagining he had earned a nickname with them. At his silence Robert continued.
"We called you Gideon's Angel." The younger man tossed back his scotch in one go. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the empty tumbler dangling loosely in his fingers. Robert had dark eyes and sometimes, such as now, his gaze could be more intense than a hawk's. "You were so fucking self-righteous all the time. As if you were averse to fun and couldn't even stand anyone else having it. But every time Gideon had a problem you were right there. Always cleaning it up for him."
Quince was surprised Robert bore such anger for him. For the most part he had stayed out of the way while the three of them had run wild all those years. Yes, when push came to shove he had always been there for Gideon, as Gideon had always been there for him.
Not sure what Robert was getting at, Quince relied on the iciness and hauteur that had seen him through many other unpleasant encounters. "I don't see what this has to do with the case at hand."
Robert laughed. A world-weary laugh without humor, too aged for his actual years. "No, you wouldn't."
Indicating that there was, somehow, a connection. Quince felt himself become confused, knocked off his balance. He had enough to worry about without this. He looked at Robert, truly inspected him. The young man seemed tired, haggard. Were this four, even two, years ago he would have assumed that Robert had spent the night carousing. But he didn't have the look of a man who had spent his evening in dissolute pleasures. This was the look of a man with too many cares, a man who had either worked or worried all night, probably both. For a brief moment Quince felt guilty for adding more weight to Robert's concerns by thrusting his own problems into the mix. Perhaps Sabrina had the right of it. Robert had too much to worry about whereas she had made Quince's issue her sole concern. The packet of papers she had given him pressed against his ribcage where he had stowed it in an inner pocket of his coat. He could take his leave of Robert and proceed with the plan that Sabre had outlined for him.
Robert set aside his tumbler and rubbed a hand over his head. "What I'm attempting to say is that even annoying little angels can be useful sometimes."
Not sure how to respond, Quince waited.
"Useful because they can be trusted to do the right thing."
For a brief, panicked moment Quince wondered if Robert knew precisely where his sister was.
Apparently past whatever maudlin mood had struck him, Robert held out his hand. "Show me the note."
"I burned it."
Robert narrowed his eyes at the news and Quince was struck with how the expression was exactly like Sabre’s.
"What do you mean you burned it?"
"I don't like the idea of someone finding out about it, so I store all of that information," Quince tapped his head, "in here."
"Fine. Recite it for me, then."
Robert closed his eyes as he listened, asking the duke to repeat it twice more. Finally satisfied, he nodded. "If you get another note, keep it. I would like to examine the handwriting."
Although uncomfortable with the suggestion, Quince nodded.
The younger man continued. "I don't like the idea that he has insinuated himself with your mother. I would like to dispatch two of my men to check on her."
Quince nodded again. "That would be something of a relief as I can't go to Bath immediately myself. And I can trust your discretion regard
ing my mother's household?"
"Of course," he confirmed. "My entire career is built on discretion. Now, as for the deadline for papers tonight..."
Quince pulled out the packet. "The plan is to provide him something, but also stall for time."
Robert nodded. "Good. What do you have?"
"A letter and three items." Quince tucked the single sheet with Sabre's instructions back in his coat pocket and handed the rest of the papers to Robert. The young man took them and looked through them. The letter was simple enough.
To my father's friend,
I find the most interesting things in my father's papers and thought you might like to see these. Perhaps if we meet at the Harrington ball we can discuss this topic further?
Your friend's son
Having looked at the items Robert said, "I understand why the invitation to the ball is in here, but what do the other items mean?"
"The first item is the last document in a trail of investments that smack of fraud which leads one to suspect that one of my father's friends may have duped him. The second indicates a mutual friend cuckolded someone and the children may be useful. In what way, I don't know, but suspect that the mere knowledge of it is somewhat incendiary."
Robert frowned at the second item and Quince knew he recognized the writing, just as Sabre had. "Were either of the notes in the same handwriting as these?"
"No."
He nodded and handed the packet back to the duke. "Unless you want us to deliver it?"
"I doubt that would go over well."
"Your plan seems a good one. We will watch White’s."
"Is that wise?"
Robert gave him a wolfish grin. "It would only be unwise if we were caught."
"One other thing," Quince said. "How I have received the blackmail letters disturbs me."
After he described how the letters would appear Robert said, "We will investigate your townhouse staff."
At that, Robert stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. He picked up Quince's tumbler where it had sat untouched on the table and downed that one as well. "Be careful tonight," he said. "The language this man uses... I believe him to be truly dangerous."
Quince nodded and followed the younger man to the front door. Once outside he let himself contemplate two things. First, Robert asked far fewer questions than Sabre did about the circumstances of the case. He hadn't noticed the first time because he had still been overwhelmed, and relieved that someone could help him. Second, he had felt no desire to tell Robert about The Four. During their first meeting he had only vaguely mentioned that his father had a number of dissolute cronies whose names he wasn't sure about. Now, when he was more certain that The Four were involved, he was also more circumspect in the information he gave Robert. His instincts had held him in good stead before so he didn't wish to betray them now. But if he couldn't trust Robert then what would he do?
The thud of a door and light from a lantern woke Sabre up.
"I should have known you would be in here when I didn't find you in your room." The duke's voice sounded... odd. It had to be the middle of the night. She shoved aside the bedclothes to sit up in his bed.
"What happened?"
He set the lantern on the table next to her and pulled a paper from his greatcoat. After shoving the paper in her hand he walked to the window, his steps stiff, jerky. She studied his silhouette. Had he been drinking? Or was this the expression of some emotion? She unfolded the paper and tilted it toward the light.
If you think to toy with me you have made a grave mistake. If you anger me further then perhaps I will need to share that anger with a sweet little girl I have seen at Miss Filbert's School. Do you think she would spread her legs for me? Do you think she would scream for me? I accept your invitation to the Harrington Ball and if you do not surrender the papers at that time, just know what may happen.
Sabre folded the paper up again. This time she wanted to burn the letter herself.
"Your daughter?" she asked.
Quince turned and stared at her for long moments but she was unable to see his expression in the darkness. "My sister," he finally said. His voice rose as he continued. "She's twelve years old. What sort of monster threatens to do that to a twelve year old girl?"
"When did you receive this?"
"It was on my bed in London when I returned to the townhouse at midnight. I had planned to stay there tonight, but after I found this..." He ran his hands through his hair. "I just couldn't."
Sabre slipped from the bed and padded over to him. She pulled the greatcoat from his shoulders and laid it aside. Then she took off his jacket, cravat, and vest. He stood quietly, watching her but not interacting.
She indicated a side chair. "Sit."
He did so and she removed his brown top boots and stockings. Standing up again she offered her hand to him and he took it as he rose. She led him to his bed and lay down with him, pulling the covers up securely around them. Nothing more could be done tonight but she could offer him the comfort of her touch.
Quince jolted awake from a dream. He couldn't remember most of it, only that it had been disturbing. Shortly before he awoke, he had been running down an endless hallway. He didn't know why he was running, just recalled the abject panic and anxiety that fueled his flight. It was a deeper and more intense emotion than any he had ever experienced in his waking life.
But he was awake now and Sabrina Bittlesworth was lying half on top of him in sleep. Her arm was curled over his chest, her leg wrapped over one of his. Feeling her warm skin, smelling that delightful scent she wore that he still hadn't identified, his heart rate slowed to a normal pace. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her awake and make love to her. But the memory of the brutal pain she had experienced in their first encounter was more than enough to stop him. He could wait.
Running his fingers lightly over her arm he encountered the healing scar from his blade. At first he frowned, remembering the moment when he had slipped past her guard and followed his instincts to score the win. Then after a moment he smiled. There was more than one way to work off the energy of their passion. He rolled her onto her back and she made a protesting sound. He took her lips in a swift kiss, then moved to kissing her throat.
"Quince!" She managed to sound both grumpy and pleased at the same time.
Her nightgown tied in the front and he set to opening it, revealing her beautiful bosoms. He suckled first one, then the other as she squirmed beneath him.
"Quince!" Now she was breathless. How he loved thrilling her. Cupping her breast in his hand, he moved his lips back to hers. They settled into a comfortable but passionate mating of lips and tongues. He was so hard he feared he might burst from his breeches. What he had hoped to be a simple awakening for a lover had turned into something too heated. Perhaps she would join with him. Certainly they had to do it again in order for it to get better. He pulled up the hem of her nightgown and ran his hand underneath, stroking the outside of her bare thigh. He felt her tilt her hips beneath him and the motion made him want to couple with frenzied thrusts.
Gods, he had to stop this before he was hammering into her whether she wanted it or not. He tore his lips from hers.
"I thought today we could practice." His voice sounded breathless and hollow, even to himself.
She looked at him blankly, clearly not understanding. Then he saw the light dawn in her eyes. "Really? When? Now? I need to go get dressed."
She wriggled and bucked, no longer with sexual desire but in order to dislodge him and escape the bed. Quince laughed. He saw now where he rated in her estimation. He rolled away and flopped onto his back. Once she was gone he could deal with the unrequited lust she left behind. But she surprised him by leaning over and cupping his manhood through his trousers.
"We'd best polish this sword first." She unbuttoned his flap and set to licking and sucking as though he were her favorite treat. He didn't know why he had caught Sabrina Bittlesworth's eye, but he could no longer regret it. As he
had known intuitively the first moment he saw her, she was the only woman for him. Perhaps her lineage didn’t matter. Perhaps nothing mattered but being with her.
NINETEEN
They practiced with tipped foils. The first quarter hour was spent in essentially play. Showing off, observing each other's style. After that they focused more seriously on form and technique. Sabre was willing to admit that Quince knew far more than she did on the subject, her humility at least partially because it was so rare to find someone who did. He had not only studied in France, Italy, and Spain, but Hungary as well. She had a special interest in Hungarian sabre fighting. Its focus on the wrist and speed appealed to her, but she had not met a practitioner. The duke promised to teach her everything he knew.
As she smiled up at him she thought that her prediction to Jack was already coming true. She could fence with him any time she wanted. Watch him any time she wanted. Now all that was left was to become his duchess. He stopped what he was saying to grin back at her, looking baffled at her brilliant smile. She kissed him and encouraged him to continue what he was saying.
That night as they snuggled on the balcony Quince said, "I'm not sure what to do about Jessica."
"Jessica?"
"My sister. I know bringing her here would not protect her any better than being at the school."
Sabre sat up and looked down at him. "Robert could dispatch men to protect her. Have you told him of this note yet?"
Quince skimmed his fingers over her arm. "I'm not sure I trust Robert."
Sabre seemed suspiciously quiet and Quince looked into her eyes. Her brows were furrowed and she seemed to be struggling to say something. "That is probably wise," she allowed.