Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Gillian flushed. Forcing a smile, she looked at her companion and murmured, “I apologize, my lord. I’m afraid that I am not used to hearing such extravagant compliments.”

  “Oh no,” he said, “don’t go all starchy and formal on me now. I much preferred the shy rose.” His gaze caressed her. “I wonder if you’ll be so charmingly shy in the morning?”

  She looked sharply at him, but he only smiled and, apparently having grown bored, began to work his wiles on the young woman seated on the other side of him. Grateful Winthrop’s attention was fixed elsewhere, she finished the meal in relative comfort.

  As the hour grew later, some of the gentlemen, Charles, Welbourne, Padgett, Canfield and Winthrop amongst them, disappeared into the nether regions of the house to drink and gamble, leaving the other guests to fend for themselves. Deserted among strangers in the gilt and cream salon where the other guests had assembled after dinner, Gillian tried her best to mingle, but the ladies were far more interested in the gentlemen than in talking to her, and the gentlemen ... After repulsing a drunken viscount’s attempts to kiss her for the third time, Gillian fled.

  Entering her bedroom, she leaned back against the door and took her first easy breath since she had descended the stairs that evening. She might be somewhat naïve and out of the social whirl, but only a fool wouldn’t have realized that this party was one that no respectable woman would have attended. What in the world had Charles been thinking bringing her to such an affair? Did he value her so little? Or was it his way of punishing her for refusing to play hostess to just the sort of party that was taking place downstairs at this very minute?

  Angry and puzzled, she walked across the room and sat down at her dressing table. Staring at herself in the mirror, Gillian considered ringing for Nan, but decided against it. Nan would be agog to hear about the party and at the moment, she wasn’t up to relating an expurgated version of the evening. Morning would be soon enough and perhaps by then, she thought wearily, she would have made sense of the evening.

  After removing the scant makeup she had worn, she undid Nan’s carefully arranged ringlets and brushed her hair until it fell in gleaming dark waves around her shoulders. Standing up, she kicked off her satin slippers and began struggling with the fastenings at the back of her gown. Her fingers fumbling with the ties and hooks, she crossed to the huge bed with its gold and rose velvet bed curtains; her nightgown and robe lay spread out across the mattress where Nan had left them for her. After several frustrating minutes, the last hook came undone and the gown finally slid to her feet. With corsets and stays no longer in fashion, Gillian was left wearing only a delicate lawn chemise and a linen petticoat trimmed in lace, and it took her only a second to be rid of them.

  Her fingers had just closed around the finely embroidered nightgown when she heard a sound. Whirling around, she clutched the flimsy garment to her breast and stared in horror as Winthrop, just as if he had every right, entered her room.

  His eyes assessing the charms barely concealed by the nightgown she held tightly against her body, he strolled toward her. “Charles said that you were beautiful,” he drawled, “but he failed to mention precisely how beautiful.”

  “C-C-Charles? My h-h-husband?” she stammered stupidly. “What are you talking about? Are you mad? Charles will kill you if he finds you here! You must leave! Immediately!”

  Winthrop laughed. “What an innocent you are! Who do you think sent me here?” Approaching her, he ran a caressing finger across her shoulder and down her arm. “So shy. Charles said that you might be recalcitrant at first, but that it was worth the effort to make you biddable.”

  Embarrassingly conscious of her near-naked state, the nightgown fisted in her hand providing little cover, Gillian stared at him openmouthed, unable to believe what she was hearing. Charles knew he was here? Had, if she understood him correctly, sent him here.

  Equally frightened and furious by the implication, her eyes narrowed and she said, “Let me understand you: my husband, Charles, sent you to me? To make me biddable?”

  Liking the silken feel of her skin beneath his fingers, hunger rushed through Winthrop. He was hard and ready for her, but the glitter in her eyes gave him pause. With one sweet pink-tipped breast peeking out from behind her nightgown and an enticing glimpse of the thick patch of curls nestled between her legs, she was everything Charles had claimed, but the expression in those long-lashed jeweled eyes ... He had understood from Charles that she had agreed to their bargain and that she was willing, if reluctant. The woman before him did not look the least willing, and she confirmed his impression by violently shoving away his wandering hand.

  “How dare you!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with rage. “I don’t know what my husband has told you, but there has obviously been a mistake.”

  Winthrop frowned. “Charles didn’t mention the vowels? Or our bargain?”

  “What bargain?” she demanded, clutching the nightgown even tighter to her body.

  He studied her, his frown growing, passion dying. “Your husband,” he began, “owes me a great deal of money.” For a moment his gaze skimmed over her near-nakedness. “And he knows that I have long, ah, admired you. He suggested a trade. He gets his vowels returned and I get a night with you.”

  Gillian blanched. “He g-g-gave me to you?” she whispered, revulsion in every syllable. “For the night ... in return for his vowels?”

  He nodded, looking unhappy. “It was my understanding that you knew and were willing.”

  Whatever vestige of affection she might have held for her husband died in that moment, but beneath the hurt, the grievous wound to her heart and pride, she was aware of a glorious sense of freedom seeping through her. By his own doing Charles had freed her from their travesty of a marriage. But first, she thought, her jaw clenching, she had to deal with Winthrop... .

  Winthrop was a strong man, and Gillian knew that in any contest of strength he could overpower her. Finding her unwilling, and unused to being thwarted, rape was not out of the question... . Hiding her fears, she held her nightgown like a steel shield against her body and regarded him. He did not, she decided, look like a man with rape on his mind.

  Winthrop had few scruples, but he was sober enough to balk at outright rape. And it was clear from her reaction, and the set of her jaw, that rape was the only way he would have the lady in his bed tonight.

  “There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” he muttered.

  “Indeed,” she said, icily polite, “that does appear to be the case.” Not giving an inch, she glared at him, her eyes glittering. “And since there does seem to have been a ‘misunderstanding, ’ I suggest that you leave my room immediately.”

  His gaze slipped down her body and he sighed. “You would have been worth every penny.”

  “No doubt,” she snapped. “But I believe I asked you to leave. Now.”

  Winthrop held up his hands. “Very well.” He bowed, turned on his heel and disappeared through the connecting door.

  Fearful he might change his mind, Gillian flew across the room to lock the door only to discover that there was no key in the lock. Heart banging in her breast, fighting back sobs of fright and fury, she raced back across the room to the bell rope that would summon Nan and yanked frantically on it.

  Remaining here for the night was out of the question, and with shaking fingers, she scrambled back into her chemise and petticoat. Her gaze fell upon the amber silk and lace gown and she shuddered. Charles had bought the gown for her ... for her to whore for him. Another shudder racked her. She’d rather die than wear that hateful garment again, and she hurried to the big mahogany wardrobe where Nan had hung the clothes she had brought with her.

  Her hand found the fawn and gold traveling gown she’d planned to wear for the journey home. She had just managed to drag it on and was fighting with the fastenings when a sleepy-eyed Nan stumbled into the room.

  Astonished to find her mistress dressing to travel, she gasped, “Madame! What are you
doing?”

  An unnatural brightness in her topaz eyes, Gillian said, “We are leaving immediately! Send a message to the stables for our coach and driver and tell them to be at the front door within fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes! Madame, it’s the middle of the night! Everyone is asleep and will have to be awakened—and fifteen minutes is hardly enough time for the horses to be harnessed. Besides, I cannot pack your things in that time, let alone my own,” protested Nan.

  “I don’t care what time of night it is,” Gillian said, thoughts of Winthrop returning adding a hysterical edge to her voice. “I will not remain in this house one minute longer than necessary.” More calmly, she added, “Worry about your own things then and as for mine ...” She glanced at the amber silk and lace gown with revulsion. “Leave everything here, it matters little to me—I intend to be gone from this house just as soon as possible.”

  Perplexed by her mistress’s actions, but seeing that there was no dissuading her, Nan made a face and said, “Very well, but first let me help you finish dressing.”

  A moment later, with Nan gone to get her own things and to send a servant to the stables for the coach, Gillian struggled with her hair. Her fingers shook and the gleaming strands kept slipping from her grasp, but she finally managed to push the thick mass into a haphazard bun at the back of her neck.

  Feeling more in control of the situation, Gillian took a deep breath. Nan was packing. The coach had been sent for. That left Charles ... A steely gleam in her eyes, her jaw rigid, she marched from the room, intent upon finding her husband.

  Unaware of the events that had taken place upstairs, as Gillian left her room in search of him, Charles was feeling rather smug and satisfied as he lolled back in the mulberry velvet chair and regarded the angry gentleman across from him. The gaming room was deserted except for the two men—the other male guests having abandoned the appeal of the cards and dice and sought out the charms of their various mistresses. Most of the candles had burned out and only a few gutted in their holders, leaving the room filled with shadows.

  “Give it to me,” demanded the gentleman across the green baize-covered table from Charles.

  Charles took a sip of his brandy and, carefully setting down the snifter, smiled at the younger man. Shaking his head, he said, “No. I’m sorry—you were the one who risked it on a throw of the dice. It’s mine now.”

  “But I told you, it was only until I could raise the funds to redeem it,” the other man protested. “I have the money now and to, to compensate you for waiting for your money, I’ve offered you more than the original debt.” Accusingly he stared at Charles. “You promised I would have it back.”

  “Well, yes, I know,” Charles admitted, “but, you see, you offered such an, er, generous amount for its return that it made me wonder if it would be unwise of me to let it go.”

  The other man surged to his feet, sending his chair tipping over backward. Fists clenched, a dangerous cast to his face, he growled, “You’re a fool if you don’t give it back to me.”

  Charles shrugged. “Perhaps, but all that needs concern you is the fact that at the moment I have no intention of giving it back.” Speculatively, he eyed the man. “I wonder why you are so desperate to get it back and what it is really worth to you.”

  “No more than I’ve already offered,” the gentleman snapped.

  Smiling, Charles shook his head. “Oh, I think you’ll go higher. It’s obviously worth a great deal more to you than the sum you offered me.”

  Infuriated, the other man leaned forward and snarled, “Give it back to me, you bastard!”

  “Temper, temper,” Charles taunted, toying with the younger man like a cat with a mouse. It was a mistake.

  With a cry of rage, the young man tossed the table between them aside and launched himself upon Charles. “Give it back to me!” he cried. “Give it back!”

  Charles sought to throw off his attacker, but caught by surprise, his opponent bore him to the floor. Hitting with a thud and more annoyed than hurt, Charles didn’t realize his danger. It was only when he saw the dagger that suddenly appeared in the other man’s hand that he realized he’d pushed his luck too far.

  Shaken from his complacency by the sight of the dagger, Charles defended himself savagely, and locked in a mortal battle, the two men rolled and tumbled across the floor, sending tables, chairs, cards, dice, snifters flying. Against an enraged, armed attacker, Charles had no chance. The dagger rose and fell and Charles knew a moment of panicked disbelief as the blade sank deep into his chest. By God! He’s actually killed me, was his last thought.

  Breathing heavily, Charles’s attacker rose to his feet. Stunned by what he had done, he stared at the body lying on the floor amidst the scattered cards and dice and overturned furniture. He swallowed. He hadn’t meant to kill him. He’d only come for what was his. It was Dashwood’s own bloody fault, he told himself, vindicating his actions.

  His thoughts raced as he stared at the body on the floor in front of him. His jaw clenched. What was done was done—and now to retrieve the cause of it all.

  Dropping down on one knee he systematically searched Charles’s body. Not finding what he was looking for, he cursed and stood up. What had the bastard done with it?

  The sound of an opening door sent him leaping into a shadowy corner. He must not be discovered here with a dead body on the floor!

  Startled by the sight that met her gaze, Gillian paused on the threshold. In the faint glow of the candlelight, she saw the overturned tables, the complete disarray of the room. “Charles! What is going on in here?” she demanded, taking a few cautious steps into the room. Thinking her husband must be hiding in the shadows, she snapped, “Oh, stop it! I know you’re here, the butler told me so.”

  Silence met her words. In no mood to play hide-and-seek, she said, “Very well! Hide like the coward you are, but know this! You ...” Something on the floor, sticking out from behind one of the overturned tables, caught her eye and she froze. Peering through the shadows she made out what looked like a boot... .

  Mouth dry, her heart thudding, she stepped nearer for a closer look. She recognized the man lying so still and lifeless amidst the wreckage of the room. Charles! With a cry she sank to the floor next to the body.

  In shocked disbelief she stared at him. It was Charles. And he was dead.

  Frightened now, averting her eyes from the bloodstains on his embroidered waistcoat, she staggered to her feet. Help. She needed help.

  Gillian spun around, looking for the bell rope to summon assistance. She never saw the man who crept from the shadows and struck her a vicious blow to the temple with the handle of his dagger. Light exploded behind her eyes, and she dropped to the floor beside the body of her dead husband.

  Chapter 1

  When the news that Marie Antoinette, the imprisoned queen of France, had been executed on the 16th of October of 1793 reached England, it hit Luc Joslyn hard. It wasn’t that he was an admirer of the queen or that he felt any loyalty to France, but for her to die under the blade of the guillotine seemed a terrible end for the woman who had ruled over the glittering court at Versailles. Of the poor dauphin and, since his father’s execution in January, titular king of France, there was little word.

  Not for the first time, Luc blessed his own timely escape from France and his unorthodox arrival in England in February. He’d known it was a fool’s errand, but ignoring all advice to the contrary, he’d sailed to France from America the previous fall, determined to find if any of his mother’s family had survived the savage upheaval that was taking place in the land of his birth. Despite a careful, diligent search, he’d found no trace of his mother’s family, and it was only by a stroke of luck that he had not died in France himself.

  A crooked smile curled the corners of his mouth. Thank le bon Dieu for Emily’s smugglers.

  Seated at a table in a quiet corner of The Ram’s Head tavern, Luc brooded over Marie Antoinette’s fate until his attention was caug
ht by a pair of gentlemen playing cards at a nearby table. Through hooded eyes Luc watched Jeffery Townsend lead Lord Broadfoot’s youngest whelp, Harlan, down the path to perdition. In the brief time he watched the pair, by his reckoning Jeffery had won over four thousand pounds from Harlan, and Luc, familiar with the Broadfoot family through his half brother, Viscount Joslyn, knew that Harlan couldn’t sustain those kinds of losses. A fashionable family could live for a year on six thousand pounds, and while Lord Broadfoot was known to be warm in the pocket, it was unlikely he would look with favor at his youngest son throwing away a small fortune in one night of gaming.

  Convinced that Jeffery was cheating and glad of the distraction from his bleak thoughts, Luc paid close attention to the flash of the cards, but he had yet to catch him at it. His azure eyes narrowed as Jeffery quickly won another hand and he decided that he really didn’t like Jeffery Townsend very much—even if he was the local squire and they were related by marriage.

  Staring at his sister-in-law’s cousin as Jeffery ordered another round of undoubtedly smuggled French brandy and suggested another game to his companion, Luc shook his head. Zut! How Emily, as warm and charming a young woman as one could find, could be related to an egg-sucking weasel like Jeffery puzzled him. Oh, there was a superficial physical resemblance, the Townsend cousins were blond and tall, but while Emily was as true and honest as the finest English steel, Jeffery ...

  Luc’s mouth thinned as the two men rose from their table and walked, in Harlan’s case unsteadily, in the direction of the private gaming rooms at the side of the tavern. The boy was foxed, and Luc had been aware of the liberal supply of liquor Jeffery had kept coming to their table since he had been watching them.

  It wasn’t his responsibility to guide the steps of a green boy, Luc admitted, but neither could he sit by and allow Harlan to be plucked naked by the likes of Jeffery Townsend. Unless he missed his guess, once Jeffery had Harlan in one of those private rooms, Harlan would be lucky to stagger home with his boots. Sighing, he rose to his feet.