Her mind emptied, except of one thought. He had done it to spite her.
“Whoa. Fury—what do you—steady—”
The consolation of seeing him duck disappeared when he grabbed hold of her wrists. She struggled, making herself look stupid. Wrists flailing. Breath coming in ragged pants. Like all those other times, when he’d insulted her, then had the temerity to browbeat her into his bed.
Was that to be next? In this place? The way he’d captured her wrists and twirled her around to restrain her and—his hand was in her hair. Stroking. Somehow her veil had become dislodged.
“Shh, Fury. Whoa…hell, what’d I go and say now?”
How could he not know what he’d said, what he’d done? No tigress in defense of its young could have sunk its teeth more ferociously than she did in that second. Right into his knuckles.
“Jesus! Goddamn bitch.”
If only she could clamp them on something else, but God knows what they might catch. She had to think of the heir not being infected.
Anyway, she would need to yank her teeth free. She would need access to his breeches.
“Ouch. Hell. Quit biting, will you?”
She should have done this years ago. To him. To Thomas.
Even if Flint wanted to cheat but couldn’t, how the blazes did that make it better?
What it made it was worse.
She elbowed his ribcage and sprang away.
She made a supreme effort to adjust her veil. “What you have said is probably not the point. We have an agreement.”
His blue eyes said that was unlikely. Indeed, they said that only in her dreams was it likely, although possibly her ability to return the interview to businesslike terms had stunned him. With so much at stake, what else could she do though?
“No. What we’ve got is some stuff you made up.”
“That is not so.”
“Stuff that involves me not even getting to kiss you.”
She clutched her reticule so it almost snapped in two. With effort, she unclenched her fists. Why on earth would he want to do that? Particularly when she had sunk her teeth into his knuckles?
“Now. I’m not asking you to stop doing that so I can kiss you. No.” He eyed her. “Because I know you’ve got your reasons.”
She swallowed a gulp. The manner in which he stared. Thank God, for the concealing veil. The blush pulsing to her hair roots would be undisguisable on her pale skin otherwise.
The things he knew and, worse, understood about a woman’s femininity. Her sexuality. And wasn’t remotely ashamed to discuss them either. The strange conviction rose, which she strove to quash, that it actually made him quite safe to be with.
She should turn on her heel and run. Not stand here listening to him. But she had sworn, hadn’t she? There would be no pawning of candlesticks to keep him here.
“I’m telling you right now, you want to get to it, from now on, we do it here. Your house if you prefer. Just so long as you know, that’s the deal and I’m for staying here, not there.”
“What?” Of course. She expected as much.
His supercilious eyebrows rose. “Just that.”
“I am not getting to it in a whorehouse.”
“What did I say? This isn’t a whorehouse.”
“It looks like one to me.”
“Clearly you ain’t never been in a whorehouse.”
She had lied, of course. The place looked perfectly all right. And clean. Sometimes places did. People did too. As it had yesterday, heat gathered in her hands. She stepped away. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Me, sweetheart?”
She felt his gaze follow her. But that may have been because her veil still stood at half-mast and she fumbled to straighten it.
“Oh, of course, I forgot. How hellish clumsy of me, not to remember to let you take what your father ran in Jamaica out on me.”
How dare he? She was not taking anything out on him. Certainly she was not taking that business of her father. “Well. Celia was in it.”
“Let’s leave her out of this, shall we? This isn’t about her.”
“Then what is it about?”
“Me, giving you my seed, so you can have that baby. It’s only going to happen if I stay here.”
She considered turning on her heel and leaving. Walking straight out of here and never coming back. But it wasn’t an option. Because it was as inevitable as night followed day, he spoke the truth. She needed his seed.
The suspicion crept that he’d only offered to help her with Thomas, taking advantage of her when she was weak and vulnerable, to maneuver her into this present position. Indeed it did more than creep, when she recalled how close his lips had come to hers yesterday. How caressing his gaze had been. And she, weak fool, had almost responded. Had not been able to face another session because of it. And thought, when she returned to her room, it was because they had had sex and he had been moved by the fact Thomas had beaten her.
When had James Flint Blackmoore ever done anything for anyone? He had succeeded for one reason only: She’d let him. In applying business rules to this transaction, she had failed to keep it businesslike.
In the pit of her stomach she shivered. Offering her body in fawning supplication had never been an option. It was less so since he’d said that she wouldn’t even let him kiss her. The absolute bastard. So what was she going to do about what he’d just said?
“But, but…of course.”
“Of course, what?”
She felt his gaze on her, with that harsh appraising gleam.
“Excuse me?” he asked. “Of course it’s not about Celie? Or, of course I can stay here?”
An illusion she could refuse him. If she went on with this though, she was going to have to take care to keep him at arm’s length, the things she had learned here today. About Celia, about those women.
In that respect it might be easier to let him just stay here, as opposed to having him under her nose at the villa.
But it would also mean trusting him to be faithful to her. It should not matter, when her only use for him was to father her child, if he chose to give some other woman the benefit of that body? Of his caresses? His kisses?
She still hated to think that it did and that she had no control over it.
“So then, Fury? What’s the answer to be?”
She smiled. It was important in acknowledging her defeat not to show she felt the bitter sting of it. It may even be…well, Flint was proud and he loathed being caged. Perhaps he felt better, throwing off the shackles of the villa. In that case she might feel she was doing a good deed for the damned bastard.
“Of course you can stay here.” He took a step toward her, and she held up her hand. “Although if you do—rule twelve—the onus will be on you to ensure you are not observed calling at the villa. Do you understand?”
“I’m not stupid. I think I get that you don’t want to be discovered.”
“Should you be—seen, that is—although the same goes if you are stupid, you may consider the arrangement terminated. Rule thirteen. I’ve no desire for my reputation to be ruined.”
She drew herself up. To her credit she uttered the remark without blushing. Already she’d lost restraint. And there was nothing so dreadful as trying to regain it while trying to proceed as if nothing had happened and she had greeted his confession about Celia and the whores with serenity and grace.
“Me neither, sweetheart. I’ve got my own to think of. Think how it would plummet being seen with some woman who just wants me for my seed.”
“I doubt that. I don’t think your reputation could get much lower than it already is.”
His gaze didn’t freeze as she hoped. Nor did he rake in deep bemusement into some subterranean depth. But it was still early in this encounter to reduce that dazzling grin to rubble.
“Takes one to know one, does it? You mind paying Frau Berthe on the way out?”
“Frau—”
“I told her last night you w
ould. She likes her money in advance. She was prepared to waive it last night but…” He poured some water from the blue jug on the nightstand into the basin. “She doesn’t look like someone you’d want to tangle with.”
Frau Berthe. That dreadful woman who’d answered the door with a rolling pin. No, she didn’t. In all her thoughts about keeping Flint at arm’s length, Fury had forgotten Frau Berthe.
She swallowed the sick thought. It was as if Flint smelled the fact she’d no money and was determined to break her. Every day, that little bit more. Till nothing remained. She could tell him of course. It might prove advantageous in bringing him home.
The knowledge sat uneasily that he’d think it a cheap trick, or worse, laugh and tell her to stop lying. Wasn’t she Lady Shelton after all? Or worse still, laugh period. Anyway, in some respects it was better to see him out of her sights.
She raised her chin. “By all means. I will get Susan to make the necessary arrangements with my banker.”
“Thank you. Frau Berthe likes a whole month up front if you’re staying that long. But I’m sure if you explain to her Susan’s making the arrangements, she won’t get fickle and aggravated. There’s nothing worse than a woman that gets fickle and aggravated.”
Did he, by any chance, mean Fury?
“And if I don’t?”
She couldn’t help it. A month? That might completely denude the villa.
“There’s plenty boats out there. Sure some of them are going to Jamaica. Or somewhere, that is. I can just sign on.”
He would too. He set his face in the basin of water in a lazy, unconcerned way and gurgled in it. A month? She knew she must do something to govern this. If she did not set conditions on this, his demands would be endless.
Not for sex. No, he was already getting that. But food. Drink. Maybe, for that matter, it might even be for whores. He was just low enough.
There must be a way out of this. A way to move even a boulder like Flint back up the hill.
“Of course.” In that second it came to her. “As I’ve already said, you will call discreetly at the villa, following at a safe distance when I leave here. Rule twelve. That will count for the requisite once. Then, you will return late afternoon. That will count as the requisite twice. Then, since it might be advisable to speed things up, after all, the sooner I conceive, the better, you will come back late evening. That will be three. Rule fourteen.”
Drops of water splashed from his face as he dragged it out the basin, but she continued anyway. If he thought she had somehow lost her senses and spoke randomly and desperately, he was mistaken.
“The villa is a full hour’s walk from here. Of course last night you had a cart.”
Oh, yes, six hours a day spent walking in the baking heat might factor in Flint’s considerations about staying here and spare her finances.
Although, God knows, even as she spoke, she realized she placed herself in further jeopardy, even if increasing their sessions by one should not make a deal of difference.
But after today, it was preferable to end this. The sooner the better. And the only way to end it was to conceive.
“I trust you are capable?” she added.
“Capable?” Baring his teeth in a grin, Flint flung the towel over his shoulder. “Hell.” Then he reached for the shaving soap. “I knew sooner or later you’d not be able to keep your pretty little hands off me.” He dunked the soap in the bowl. “We can make it four or five, six even, if you—” The door reverberated on its hinges, before he could say want.
Counting to five, the time he reckoned it would take her to reach the stairs, he cursed and flung soap and towel into the water. Capable? Him? Who no woman ever dared asked such a question of?
He closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was doing it again, wasn’t he?
Well, he wouldn’t do it. Why the hell should he? More pleasure was to be had screwing a statue. Least a statue didn’t complain. It didn’t have rules. Least with a statue, you knew straight upfront what you were getting.
Even those costly words she’d somehow leeched from him about Celie hadn’t satisfied her. On the contrary he had teeth marks on his knuckles to show he should just have kept his big mouth shut.
All he wanted was her to see she needn’t worry about him staying here, especially as it wasn’t as though he planned to budge back to the villa.
He’d thought she’d like knowing she was woman enough for him. But no. She hadn’t. Life was so much easier spitting on shoe buckles at Malmesbury’s, when his next thrashing was as much as he had to worry about.
Rolling his sleeves back, he bent over the basin, dabbed the pinpricks with the wet towel.
Next boat out of here, he was taking it. He was damned to her. Damned to her rules. And damned to ever setting foot back in that damned villa.
* * *
“You found your way then, James?” Fury shut her bedroom door. Obviously he had, but she said it anyway. After this morning the need to reassert herself on the situation was paramount. But she had the loss of Santa-Rosa’s silver hair combs and brushes to sustain her. What was one more bedding in these circumstances?
Financially staggering.
So she was not going to worry about stretching to three sessions a day when so far, God almighty, she had barely risen to two. He was here, wasn’t he? And once he saw how much of a plod it was back and forward, he was sure to come to heel.
“Sort of. I’d say so anyway. But maybe you won’t. So how about I just keep quiet and don’t say?”
She didn’t like the way he stood there. Or twisted his hat. As if he’d something very important to say to her. He probably did. It was just what she was waiting for.
“Look. If it’s about the walk. The thought of a carriage is nice but that is all it’s going to be.”
“That ain’t—”
“It was your idea, remember, not to come home. So, whatever it is, frankly, is your affair. Weren’t you the one this morning who thought six times a day was nothing?”
That little prick caught him on the hop. His tiny smile seethed.
He’d thought he could be clever here. And it wasn’t happening. Because learning what she had this morning about Celia, she was ready for this.
“That’s not what I want to talk about.”
“Your room is, of course, still here if you want it. If you don’t, that’s up to you.”
Besides, not only might she now have to pawn Salome’s hanging to pay for it, which she was unprepared to do, there was a decorum to be observed here. She didn’t want it getting around the carriage drivers that she received the same man three times a day at her villa, and no husband present. Not even a dead one.
“Now.” Fingering her wrap, she crossed to the bed. Then she peeled it from her shoulders. “It’s been twenty-four hours. Let’s do this, shall we?”
Flint stood riveted. Damn him to everlasting hell. The sight of her in her nightgown was nothing he hadn’t seen before, so why did he stare like that, as if his eyes were going to pop from his head? And if he wanted the carriage, as she knew he did, why not say so?
“Well?”
She was preparing to get on her hands and knees but there was something discomfiting about the heat of his stare, as if she were being a little too inviting. Although it might seem a fabulous invitation to any man, surely he knew it wasn’t.
“Well, what?” He knocked his hat against his thigh.
“Don’t be coy. What do you think?”
“Far as I know you’re not paying me to think. So I don’t give a rat’s tit what, sweetheart. Its ass neither. You want me to think, that’ll be extra.”
The grin wasn’t as pointed as usual. In fact it was more grit than grin. And why on earth, when this was bad enough already, did he keep glancing at the door? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know where it stood. Maybe that was the whole idea though? Another shabby attempt to beat her down about the carriage?
“Then I don’t.” She wriggled her gown above her
knees. “Although I don’t suppose it would cost that much.”
He gritted his teeth. She was sure he did. Too bad.
“Now, let me see. Just what would it cost? Hmm?” She tapped her forefinger against her lower lip, pretending to be doing her sums. “Half a lire? A quarter maybe?”
“Then that’s half a lire you can keep. The quarter too.”
“An eighth would be more likely. I was always prone to over calculation.”
“Look—” He took an angry step toward her.
“Is there something wrong?”
There was, wasn’t there? To do with that damned carriage in all probability. Or maybe it was what she’d said earlier about him being capable? What she’d said a moment ago for that matter. Whatever tiresome thing it was, she slipped a hand under the tumble of her hair and shook it, so it spilt down her back.
“It’s just…I’m waiting.” She knelt forward on an elbow. The trick here was not to look too seductive but get him to drop all this nonsense about whatever bothered him. To get him to come over here and perform as agreed. “I have very little time to waste.”
She edged her free hand behind her thighs and grasped the hem of the shift, waiting to adjust it.
He threw off his coat and crossed the floor. With one determined movement he grasped the hem of her gown from her. Then, before she could protest, he yanked it back, baring her flesh.
“My God, James, what do you think you’re doing?” She crawled away in shock. At least she did her damnedest. But he caught her ankle and yanked her back. “You can’t. I thought we agreed—”
“What do you think I’m doing?” His breath brushed her hair, as he trapped her beneath him. “I’m giving you the heir just like you want, sweetheart.”
Of course she should have known better than to ask him so stupid a question. Or to ask him to do this for that matter. Instead of wasting all that money on food, Thomas, and Frau Berthe, why hadn’t she just paid him to go away?
The Unraveling of Lady Fury Page 14