by Sue London
“Why is that interesting?”
“Erichthonius used his lameness as a motivation to create a superior weapon and take over a kingdom. How many of us use our weaknesses in such a way?”
Quince looked down into her eyes again. She seemed so earnest in that moment. So pure.
“And,” she said, smiling again, “now that I’ve identified a constellation, hopefully to your satisfaction, what is your favorite, your grace?”
“Quince.”
“Quince,” she said lightly enough that it was almost a whisper.
“Do you know Lynx?”
She shook her head, looking back out to the sky. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“It’s very faint. Identified relatively recently. It wouldn’t have been one that Jack could have lectured in Greek. It’s a line there,” he said, pointing, “between Ursa Major and Auriga.”
“How many stars is it?”
“The line is drawn with eight stars.” He traced it with his finger, showing her the pattern.
She shook her head and squinted. “I’m not sure I see it.”
He shifted behind her, leaning down so that his face was near hers, and sighted down his arm. “From Ursa Major if you look to the left that is the brightest star of Lynx. Right now it cascades down over Auriga, toward Camelopardalis. I can show it to you on a star map in the library.”
“You may have to because I’m still not sure I see it.”
Leaning so close to her, he was enveloped in her scent and heat. Her hair smelled heavenly and was still damp from her bath. Noticing that only succeeded in making him think of that damnable tub in the duchess’s rooms. He had interrupted her bath that day in order to discomfit her as she had already managed to discomfit him in his own home. Instead he had only fueled his attraction to her. He hadn’t really seen much, but knowing that she was naked in the tub… It had led to him thinking often of how the exchange could have progressed far differently. How it would have progressed far differently if he were more like his friend Gideon. Lord Lucifer.
Quince straightened away from her but set his hands lightly on her shoulders, knowing it would keep her in place while he gathered himself. He was not, nor would he ever want to be, a man that others would feel inspired to call Lord Lucifer.
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Somehow this entertains you? Spending nights standing on the balcony studying the stars?”
Her tone was teasing but he could tell that she truly could not feature such an activity as entertainment. “Well,” he said, “I usually lounge on the balcony rather than stand, but yes. Essentially.”
She looked around and spotted the chaise lounge near the windows. “I see,” she said, walking towards it. She settled onto the chair and stretched out. “What you really like to do is daydream while staring at the stars.” She wriggled once to find a more comfortable position. “Yes, this has distinct possibilities.”
His hands felt achingly empty so he folded them together as he leaned on the railing to watch her. She was beautiful. He could stare at her in that pose for hours. If only she weren’t her father’s daughter. But if she weren’t Blaise Bittlesworth’s daughter, then what would he do? He had felt no desire to marry before now. Would he change everything in order to bring her into his life? Make her his duchess to keep her by his side?
She sat up again. “It’s not fair of me to monopolize the chair. Come,” she said, patting the cushion next to her. “Show me how to daydream under the stars.”
Quince was moving to do her bidding before he had a chance to think about it. Dangerous girl, he thought, made all the more dangerous by knowledge of her own power. She stood up as he approached and waved her hand to indicate that he should lie down in the chair. He did so while knowing it was among the riskier things he had ever done. She smiled down at him before turning and seating herself to lie along his front. Shortly she seemed to have everything arranged to her satisfaction although the two of them barely fit on the lounge together. Her head was tucked under his chin, her shoulders nestled into his chest, and she had wrapped his arms around her waist. Her bottom was pressed so intimately against him that he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
“So,” she said quietly, as though she felt a more somber note was appropriate for entering into his pastime with him. “What do you see?”
At the moment his vision wasn’t the sense he was most focused on. Scent, yes. Touch, God yes. And he craved tasting her like a man dying in the desert craves water. But she wanted to know what he saw. He cleared his throat and focused on the night sky above.
“One of the clues that I have is up there, if I can just figure it out.”
“Really? How is that?”
“My father had a group he ran with when he was younger. He would tell me stories about them. They did some quite… inappropriate things in their time. And when he would talk about them it was never by name, he would refer to them with an animal. It took me a long time before I realized what I was seeing in the late spring. All four of them, lined up.” He raised a hand to point at the stars above. “Leo, the Lion. That was my father. Ursa, the Bear. Draco, the Dragon. And Cygnus, the Swan. If someone has reason to be concerned about papers my father kept, it is probably one of them.”
“If your father was the Lion, who are the rest of them?”
“I don’t know.” Quince paused for a moment, wondering how Miss Bittlesworth would take his next bit of insight. Or if she might already know. “I only know that one of them is your father. But not which one.”
She was silent so long he feared he had indeed offended her. But she hadn’t moved, not even an inch. They were both silent for long minutes, pressed together in a delicious intimacy of touch.
Finally Miss Bittlesworth spoke again, her tone remote. “Tell me some of the stories and I can tell you which one is my father.”
Quince made a noise somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. “They are hardly stories fit for a young lady.”
She curled her fingers around his hand and squeezed. “Yes,” she said drily. “I’m obviously easily shocked.”
Bold as she thought she was, he didn’t want to give her the details of the group’s sordid excursions. Instead he thought to sketch their characters. “Leo, the Lion, was their leader. At least that was how he told it. As I’ve never heard any of the stories from the others I don’t know for certain they felt that way. But to hear my father, he was their inspiration and their organizer. If you had met him you would know it would be a role he would relish. He enjoyed control. In his final years he lost his iron grasp on affairs, but his pride kept him from admitting that. Something from which the duchy is still recovering.” He pointed to the sky above. “Next is Ursa, the Bear. He sounded a brute of a man. Arrogant, entirely self-concerned. Then Draco. Cruel and vindictive. And lastly Cygnus. Vain and secretive.”
They were quiet for awhile, staring up at the stars, and finally Miss Bittlesworth asked, “Is that all?”
“All that I want to say.”
She gave an unladylike groan. “You’ve described over half the men at the George and Vulture on any particular night.”
“What do you know about the men at the George and Vulture?”
“Society events get quite boring, but there is always a conversation of interest at the G and V.”
“I find myself shocked at you, Miss Bittlesworth.”
“Sabre,” she corrected. “And if you find yourself shocked then you obviously haven’t been paying attention.”
“How often do you find yourself at the George and Vulture?”
“As often as I can slip away. Which has been not at all since my return from Italy. My only regret of staying with my brother is that he keeps a closer eye on me than my parents do.”
“Yes, he’s obviously been very diligent, seeing as how his sister has hied off to a man’s house for a seduction.”
She was quiet longer than he expected her to be. “He thinks I’m at Jack’s.”
“Well, at least you didn’t try to convince me that you aren’t here to seduce me.”
She wriggled until she had turned over, propping herself up on an elbow to look down at him. The candlelight from their dining table cast a warm glow through the window and he could see the sincerity in her eyes. “You’ll find I’m not one to be coy.”
He stroked her cheek. Softer than rose petals. “I don’t think that’s true.”
She gave him a guarded look. “What makes you say that?”
He smiled. “Because, my little chameleon, I think you would do, or say, whatever is needed to achieve your goals.”
“You make me sound woefully untrustworthy.”
“That depends on your motivation.”
She gave him an angelic smile. “I have only the best of motivations, I assure you.” She turned over again, nestling back into his embrace. “Now, really tell me about these men, if you please. I can’t help you without facts, information.”
“From that sketch you can’t tell which one was your father?”
She was silent for a moment. “He could be any of them,” she said solemnly.
Quince could sense the gravity of her statement. The viscount was as unpleasant a man to his daughter as he was to others. “I don’t want to tell you about them,” he said. “I don’t like to think about them myself.”
“Yes, you seem able to avoid most everything you don’t want to think about.”
“You don’t approve.”
“Not in the least. We’ll open that letter before the night is out. But first, tell me some of these stories.”
He laced his fingers through hers as he thought. He didn’t want to tell her, but it was also true that he hadn’t yet figured out the connection on his own. For years his father had regaled him with those tales at the supper table. Stories that Quince had never wanted to hear, and that he certainly had never thought would be significant. He had done his best not to listen, to forget. But now it was time to try to remember, if only to divine which of his father’s friends would be the most alarmed at the idea of documents surfacing. Which one would not hesitate to use blackmail as a means to an end. The vindictive dragon? The self-centered bear? Or the secretive swan?
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he began. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, his fingers playing over the velvety softness of the back of her hand. “The stories that my father particularly liked to tell concerned the parties that he hosted for The Four. That’s what they called themselves, The Four. He would load them up into a windowless carriage that he drove himself, never taking the same route, and bring them to a special cellar out in the woods. They would bring all the food and drink themselves because no servants were allowed to know the location. And they would bring women. Whores. Blindfolded and bound.” He stopped stroking her hand for a moment, lost in the disgust of the memory. “That was his favorite part, I think. That the women were bound. He liked it if they fought of if they begged, so long as they were bound and unable to… unable to stop him.”
Miss Bittlesworth’s voice was subdued but steady as she asked, “What of the other lords?”
“Draco… Once he started drinking he would beat the girls. He enjoyed making them scream. Choking them.” He sighed. Remembering the stories was painful. And he certainly couldn’t tell Miss Bittlesworth the sort of details that his father had thought nothing of sharing. “Cygnus was… probably the least offensive of The Four. He only liked to… engage multiple women at once. Ursa, the Bear, was brutal and enjoyed some very distasteful acts. Often with women but also boys and young girls. He sounded beastly.” Quince tried to repress the details that flitted through his mind, far worse than anything he had hinted at. “Are there any you would rule out as your father?”
Miss Bittlesworth was silent for a long moment and finally said, “No. And it sounds like a Hellfire Club.”
Quince was disquieted that she found none of the descriptions to be out of character for her own sire. What had she seen of the man? And her knowledge of these activities was also disturbing. “What do you know of Hellfire Clubs?”
“I go to the G and V to hear the soldiers talk of battles in the war. But I hear other things. Horrible things. It makes me wonder why men have one face they show ladies and another that they only show in a place like that.”
“You would prefer that they consistently show their baser nature?”
“No, indeed. It’s not even something I would expect to change. But it makes me curious. It also makes me wonder how difficult it might be for us to reconcile your stories with the men as we know them in Society.”
“In Society, yes, but it’s apparent they can’t hope to step foot in the G and V without you knowing of it.”
She giggled. “It’s not quite that bad, I assure you.”
“I feel certain that at any moment you will tell me you are the proprietor.”
“No. But the man knows me. Or at least knows me as the little fat boy, Gaston.”
Quince laughed. “Little fat boy?”
“Yes, if I wear enough padding to disguise myself I’m quite the chubby little boy. The loose clothes of the serving class don’t help at all, may I add.”
“You didn’t seem particularly masculine at the duel.”
“No, those are the clothes that I wear when we duel at home. Out in the country.”
“Your parents truly do not pay attention to your whereabouts, do they?”
“So long as I arrive at supper on time there aren’t any issues.”
“Even I am starting to worry about how you spend your time.”
“Fear not. I’m usually with the other Haberdashers and we look out for one another.”
“Haberdashers?”
“Our club. Jack and George and myself.”
Quince felt an unfamiliar and fierce twinge. “Who is George?”
“George Lockhart. We all grew up together in Staffordshire.” Miss Bittlesworth sighed. “Now Jack is married and George is off to care for her ailing aunt in Scotland.”
At the hint that George was a girl after all, he felt the pain in his chest subside. He hugged Miss Bittlesworth closer. “And now you’re lonely?”
He felt her stiffen in reaction. “No, I’m not saying that. It’s simply different.” She sighed again, relaxing back into him. “I was gone for eight months and when I came back everything was just different.” Her tone had become a bit forlorn at the end.
“It’s the nature of growing up,” he said.
“Don’t patronize me,” she warned.
Quince smiled to himself. “Like it or not, I have a few years on you. Perhaps I know what I’m talking about.”
That made Miss Bittlesworth wriggle to turn around again. He was fairly sure that her skirt was becoming woefully tangled by this point.
“I’m not arguing whether you are correct,” she said. “I’m saying that you’re being patronizing.”
“And you don’t care for that?”
“Not at all.”
A lock of her hair had come free from its pins and curled down along her jaw. He smoothed it back behind her ear. As he watched, her expression changed from mild irritation to speculation, and then to a wicked delight.
“What?” he asked.
“It just occurred to me that I have the high ground. A strategically superior position.”
Quince ran his thumb over her jaw. “Really? And what do you plan to do with that?”
“Conquer,” she whispered before lowering to cover his mouth with her own.
Chapter Fifteen
Sabre could feel her own heartbeat increase as she leaned down to kiss the duke. When she pressed her lips to his she felt him tense. He gripped her arms and for a moment she was afraid he was going to push her away. Then he succumbed and pulled her closer. Their lips slid and clung in a dance similar in tempo to their duel. Sabre’s skin flushed and her breathing became uneven. She had been kissed many times, but never to this effect. She h
ad made a study of kissing, actually. It had started when she was six years old and convinced one of the stable lads to teach her. He had been only eight and more than happy to comply. She had continued this tutelage with the local boys until she was ten and her mother had found out. It had led to the most severe punishments she had ever known in her life, followed by years of lectures about her Reputation. And how her Reputation could be Compromised. But Sabre was nothing if not determined and had resumed her education on kissing as soon as she began to attend dances. All of that effort had seemed for naught now. Here was the man she was meant to kiss. No one else had ever made her feel like this.
Lying on his chest she threaded her fingers into his tousled hair and heard him moan low in his throat. His arms circled her and his hand fastened at the nape of her neck, holding her close. They deepened the kiss, mouths open and searching. Even this didn’t seem enough and she found herself overwhelmed with a desperate hunger. He moved his hands to the sides of her face and gently held her still while pulling his own mouth away. She heard herself huff in protest.
His breathing was as labored as her own. “A moment, please,” he said between gasps.
She nodded and, once he released her, nuzzled her face into his neck. His pulse was speeding in his veins, further testament that she wasn’t the only one affected. He put his arms around her again, stroking her back. Lower, she could feel his manhood jutting against her thigh. Some of the serving girls back home had been willing to tell her about what happened between a man and a woman. Opinions seemed to vary on how enjoyable the act was, and before now Sabre had wondered how it could be quite as transcendent as some girls as had described it. But that had been before his kiss. Before being pressed up against him in an intimate embrace. The only thing she wanted was to be closer to him. To feel his skin under her hands. She started to unbutton his shirt but by the second button he had captured her hand.
“Sabrina,” he said in a chiding tone. But he moved her captured hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips, her palm, her wrist.
“Quince,” she responded in a whisper, kissing his throat where his pulse still beat fast and steady.