The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  Why the blazes did he keep talking about food? As if he knew she couldn’t put a thing past her teeth.

  “Later.”

  “If you say so.”

  His hands eased inside her wrap. He pulled her hard against him, kissing her. The pressure was less than usual. In fact there was almost something sensuous in the feel of his lips today. Sensuous too about the way he edged the robe off her shoulders, leaving them exposed.

  Feeling the mattress sway beneath her knees, she trembled. He drew her closer, so although she felt dizzy, the hard points of her nipples brushed his shirt. Then he removed that. The jostling intensified her nausea. If only she could lie down. She would in a minute and then this would all be all right. But for now… She swallowed.

  In addition to her discomfort the sun blinded her as it shone across the bed. She should never have opened the shutters this morning but she had done so in the hope of feeling better. Then she had retched long and hard over the balcony. The thought made her feel worse than she already did.

  She only prayed Flint hadn’t been in the garden at the time.

  Actually she didn’t. She prayed for this to be over soon. Was there even a point to doing this when her head pounded? She should stop this now. But his eyes held hers with that hot gaze. The one that, under other circumstances, made heat streak over her whole body. Except now, what broke out…

  She swallowed. The thought of returning to the stuffy atmosphere of Ravenhurst, of never seeing him, never feeling his mouth, his hands, on her body again, made her throat clench. That was a dull, gray life of propriety and duty, which would claim her soon enough. A secured future. One for which she longed. But one that could never include moments like this. She must enjoy the moment.

  She found the fastenings of his breeches. All the same it would do no harm to hurry things along a little.

  “You’re eager this morning.”

  A word might be her undoing, especially with what hit the backs of her teeth. She sighed. Gliding sideways she cast herself onto the mattress. The room spun, but she fixed her eyes on the ceiling. Now she was lying down she might feel better. After all, her troubles started this morning when she had gotten up. So, if she just lay down from now on, would he even notice?

  “I am a little. It’s how you make me.”

  His jaw dropped open. As if she lied through her teeth. She was going to do something else through her teeth in a moment, if he did not hurry up.

  “Is that so?” He edged her wrap apart so his fingers touched her naked waist. “It’s just you’ve never said so before.”

  “I’m sorry about that. But you know we agreed, you know how much we need to do this for Storm. So…”

  He bent forward to claim her mouth and she groaned.

  “But, I fear the fish I had last night for supper just isn’t—isn’t agreeing with me very well.”

  “You want me to stop?”

  She was glad she was lying down. Him? Stop? Although he hadn’t really started. He wasn’t good at mastering his frustration that way once he did start though. In fact, she couldn’t think that he ever had in the old days.

  “No, I want you to give me…I want you to give me this baby. It’s regrettable when I don’t feel well, but it is a sacrifice I must make. And I shall be all right in a minute. I just didn’t want for you to kiss me, when I—I—”

  In a bid to avert what was coming she turned her face to the arm he had stretched out beside her. Despite the fact he edged a finger inside her now, what was coming wasn’t what she hoped and enjoyed.

  “I’m going to be—going to be—” She hesitated on the word sick. It was obvious, by the distressing noises that came from her throat, what she was going to be. Yet she swallowed hard, turned her head and considered—the ceiling was even more beautiful than usual, wasn’t it? The frolicking nymphs and that embossed…whatever it was called, that thing of Cupid. And Flint gazing down at her, puzzled longing stamped on his handsome face.

  “Fury?”

  “A moment, please.”

  Alarm shot through her although she strove to sound stalwart. He was going to ask. She didn’t know if she could bear it. But she couldn’t stop this.

  “If I could just sit up.”

  “Of course. Hell.” He pulled back. “You look pale. Are you all right?”

  His eyes, a cool, gleaming blue, assessed her. Apprehensive rather than knowing. Had they been knowing she doubted she could now go on with this.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Some air.” It was very necessary. Flint never got anyone anything. Unless the anyone in question was himself.

  Sitting up she felt better. At least she felt less likely to retch. More able to explain. She sucked in a calming breath.

  “That fish, that fish last night, just wasn’t… Do you know, Susan wasn’t very well either?” Susan would forgive Fury this lie. Another to add to the multitude. “She was up all night. I had to—I had to look after her.”

  “You don’t say.”

  His scrutinizing response didn’t fool her. He knew. Or he’d have said something cutting. He was set to go, and she was set to resemble a prized idiot. Imagine, not knowing what was wrong with her. Or worse. A desperate woman, trying to keep hold of a man with lies. A wanton. She just wished to hell she hadn’t lied.

  “She only got better a few hours ago. I thought—I thought I’d have to send for the physician.”

  So why did she keep doing it?

  He must know. If there was one man who wasn’t stupid about this matter it was him. Her throat dried. She lowered her eyelashes rather than meet his scrutiny.

  “At least, I almost had to send for him.”

  “I guess that makes three.”

  She blinked miserably. It did, didn’t it? Her, him, and the baby. He drew back. Here it was. She had never felt more stupid. Giving him this amount of balm for his masculine ego. At least she could go home to England and forget.

  “You know, Fury, I was up half the night?”

  “You were?” She fought to keep her voice from rising a whole octave. “I mean…you were?”

  “Felt like I was anyway. I gave up in the end trying to get some sleep. Hell, you know, there was me thinking you were trying to poison me.”

  Her eyes widened. The damn cheek was not something she would take issue with here. Not when there were too many others. Was it possible she was mistaken? Susan was mistaken?

  No. That would also mean the food was off the day before as well.

  “Isn’t that the sort of thing you do, sweetheart?”

  She tightened her jaw. She wasn’t so grateful she had to suffer his insults. “Perhaps we haven’t discussed this. But when this is over, I intend—”

  “When? You mean it’s not?”

  Uncertainty flickered. When he must know why did he ask? But if she told him the truth now, she’d look even stupider.

  She strove to sound assertive. “No. Of course, I will tell you when I am pregnant. Obviously there is no question of you returning to Malmesbury’s service, if that’s your worry. You’ve just said yourself, that fish. That horrible fish.” She turned her head.

  The little twist to his mouth, the uncertainty of it, and the furrow between his brows were things she honestly didn’t recognize.

  “Fish was off, sweetheart. You should lie down. Rest. We can get to this later. What’s one less session? We have all day, don’t we? Now, I’m going to get myself some breakfast.”

  Breakfast? And he had been ill half the night?

  She lowered her gaze. The one thing that would make any sense here, didn’t. He couldn’t possibly care for her. Even if he did, and she no longer said he didn’t, it could only be the tiniest fraction of what she felt for him.

  Why fool herself about that?

  Because then she’d have to believe that maybe he was suitable to guarantee all their futures, when she knew damn fine he wasn’t.

  * * *

  Her lies didn’t fool
Flint. She was paler than usual. Hell of a so. And her eyes weren’t green. They were forty shades of yellow.

  The fish? His backside. He’d seldom heard such—when it came to describing such things, fish swill seemed about right. Politer than horseshit.

  He tiptoed across the room and drew the shutters.

  Never mind seldom hearing such rubbish, he’d seldom talked it either.

  Blame it on the fact he was adrift. Pregnant. It wasn’t as if he could congratulate her.

  Not when he wasn’t meant to know.

  Why didn’t she want him to know?

  Frowning, he snapped the curtains shut. Before he ever set foot in this house, he could have answered the question about what she was playing at confidently. The way the dockside hussies queued for him. But she’d cured him of that notion, hadn’t she? What if all that kind forgiveness about Storm was an act? And really she planned on getting him lifted. Banged up in jail.

  “I’m going downstairs now. I’ll be back.” He hesitated. It was hard to believe though, the open way she’d been with him these last few weeks. “You need anything, or you don’t feel so well, just holler. You hear me?”

  Pregnant. Never mind her. It wasn’t even as if he could congratulate himself. Storm’s future was guaranteed. Halleluiah. For her. He wasn’t a lousy father. No. He was the man who had been asked to do something quite novel.

  So now the moment arrived, the one he dreaded, but knew was coming, what had he done? Told a pack of lies about being ill as her. He wasn’t pregnant. And his boat had just sailed into view, fully rigged on the horizon. Was he mad?

  Staying he risked even more—of himself. Years ago, when he’d felt threatened in that vague way by her, he’d taken steps to ensure his future. But this close he could see the soft rise and fall of her breasts. He supposed it had been easier then. He had been different, master of his world. She had been different, at his command. This partnership was different. More challenging. More equal. More enjoyable.

  He supposed he just didn’t want it to end. He’d no idea what the future held. Who did? But he thought about what his bed might. It was going to be empty, without her. She seemed right in it somehow. She seemed right for him. And a dockside whore didn’t compare.

  So he didn’t see why if she wanted to pretend for the few weeks they had left, he shouldn’t either. He would have his boat soon enough. And what better thing to make him feel like a proper man again than making love to the woman who carried his seed?

  * * *

  “Madam?”

  Not again. Fury dragged a pillow over her head to obliterate the sound and groaned. Then she threw back the sheet and retched. Every muscle in her stomach ached. A horrible, empty ache because she was barely able to eat.

  Other parts of her ached too. But that was a very pleasant ache. Eight weeks had passed, and how long she was meant to keep Flint thinking she still needed to conceive, she’d no idea. Being pregnant must do things to a woman’s body. She hadn’t realized she would feel so ravenous. For him.

  “What?” She croaked. Couldn’t Susan see how ill she was?

  “Madam!” Susan grasped her wrist and shook her. “I wouldn’t disturb you, but you have visitors.”

  “Oh, God, not Flint at this time in the morning. Can’t he wait?”

  “No. This is Malmesbury. And Lady Margaret.”

  Fury all but shot from the bed. Had her stomach felt queasy before, it heaved like an ocean now.

  “Lady Margaret? But Lady Margaret never leaves England. She never—”

  “Well, she’s here now. And she wants to see Thomas.”

  Fury thought she was going to faint. Thomas? He lay at the bottom of the ocean.

  “I told her you were indisposed.”

  “I am.”

  “But she was most insistent.”

  Whether she was or not, Fury would have to face her. It didn’t matter what secrets her book held, she did not want Lady Margaret speaking to Malmesbury. What if it came up in the conversation that Thomas was visiting his father? Lady Margaret would be most surprised. The old duke had been dead as a post for two years. She must do something.

  “Pass me that gown.”

  “But it’s scarlet.” Susan stared at the heap on the floor in dismay.

  “I don’t care if it’s aubergine with green spots. It will have to do.” Fury held out her hand. Malmesbury would want Flint back. And she had promised Flint otherwise. She could not let him think she’d double-crossed him.

  She dragged the silver hairbrush through her hair in quick jerks, all the while aware her hands shook as if a fever lay all along her veins. Then she tossed some cool water on her face. It didn’t help. She still felt horribly jarred, and her stomach twisted in knots.

  She could not be caught out. Not now. Not when the end lay in sight. But Lady Margaret abhorred her. And Lady Margaret was capable of anything. Would it not be simpler to run? Just take what she could and flee?

  “Go downstairs. Do what you can to offer them refreshments. Eavesdrop. I need to know if anything is said.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I don’t need to tell you what about. And if he should appear, warn Flint.”

  It would just take him ambling in without a cravat, flashing those lazy blue eyes of his, for Fury to be drummed out of here. Lady Margaret’s eyes were needle sharp. It would be just her luck for this child to come out as his very spit. Then how would Fury pass that off as a family resemblance? Uncle Montague? Or Victor?

  Worse, what if he just appeared like he had that day in the garden and kissed her? With Lady Margaret present, he’d have to kiss her too. It was unthinkable.

  Dragging the dress over her head, she fastened it as briskly as having ten thumbs instead of two allowed. But how awful to have to do this when her head pounded and blinding starbursts filled her eyes.

  As for that slimy poke, as Flint called him, it was a close run thing as to who she wished to see less, him or Lady Margaret. How could he be here at the same time as her? Fury thought she’d dealt with him weeks ago. Obviously not.

  She met her own troubled gaze in the glass. Did they hang women in Genoa for fraud, deception, and shoving their foot into their husband’s chest, causing him to fall down the stairs by accident? Then having him dumped at sea? Probably.

  She clamped her lips shut. At all costs if she was to protect Flint, she couldn’t afford to let the poke know she was pregnant. Her stomach’s behavior wasn’t something she could count on controlling. She must somehow dispose of him fast as possible. Also she was rather pale, wasn’t she? She pinched her cheeks. She was thin too though. It was in her favor.

  Crossing the floor, her heart thudded and her palms sweated. Not for the first time she wished she’d never embarked on this. How she descended the stairs she had no idea.

  The downstairs hallway stood empty, but even as she approached the sitting room she could hear voices. Lady Margaret—it was her all right—was holding forth on the vile heat of the nasty Italians. She must have meant the climate, since the men were not likely to ogle her. Why come here if she could not bear it?

  While Malmesbury, what little Malmesbury could squeeze into the tirade anyway, offered fawning agreement. He was not a man to do so. Ever. It could only mean one thing. He knew all about Thomas. Most importantly, he knew where Thomas was at that precise moment. He was probably going to blackmail her for that book.

  For a second Fury wanted to turn and run. But where would she go without a legitimate penny to her name and, now, two children to support?

  She supposed one thought, and one thought only, now made her straighten her shoulders and grip the handle.

  She had been foolish to drag on the association with Flint. After all, what was she going to do? Sit here till she grew as big as a house side and the villa was depleted? He wouldn’t stay around her then. He liked his women trim.

  Maybe the dowager toad’s presence was not a bad thing, if it now brought her to her senses and forced
a facing of that fact.

  “Mama!” Throwing open the doors, Fury forced a wan smile.

  Lady Margaret ceased in mid tirade to cast her eye upon her.

  “Susan has just informed me you were here. And you, Lionel.”

  It was the way to address them, wasn’t it? As if she had nothing to hide. And after all, now the cellar stood empty, it would be a hard job proving it.

  “And so she should have.” Lady Margaret spoke evenly, bitterly. “At ten o’clock in the day and you not even stirred. Pray tell me, are these disgusting habits Italian?”

  Lady Margaret was not one to show her enthusiasm, for Fury in particular. She was hot, she was bothered, and her ruched bonnet was not the thing to wear in this heat. On either side of the ribbon her cheeks drooped so fantastically, Fury marveled she could speak. Although she was not the least surprised it was rudely.

  “Things are very different here from in England, Mama.”

  “Frankly I don’t care what they are. When in England one should do as in England. And when in Italy, one should do as in England too.”

  “Which is why I am so astonished to see you here, Lionel.” It would help matters greatly in terms of what she should play here if she just ignored Lady Margaret and proceeded to glean some inkling of what exactly they were doing here together. Or whether they were here together at all. Perhaps it was simple chance, an unlucky throw of the dice, which had somehow caused them to career into one another. “Did you somehow meet Mama here in Genoa? Are you already acquainted?”

  “I met her by chance when she disembarked from one of my ships looking for Thomas.”

  Did she imagine it, or had the room become stuffier all of a sudden?

  “Is he back yet from visiting his father?”

  Lady Margaret started up in shock. “His father?”

  Lady Margaret swiveled her head. It spun so fast, Fury made a gesture of denial even as she expected it to grace the tiled floor, followed by herself. She seemed to stand there forever feeling their eyes feasting upon her. Although, in reality, no more than five seconds passed, during which time she quashed her desperate need to escape. Not to mention the dark contorted images that rose of herself dangling at the end of a rope.