by The Impostor
Which made it all the more stunning when she said, “Will you take me to your bed until neither of us can speak a word of sense?”
He could only blink at her for a moment.
“For if you do not throw me down on that ridiculous pile of sensuality in the corner and make me beg for mercy, I think I shall die on the spot for wanting you so.”
He needed no further prompting. Like a greedy man reaching for gold, he took her into his arms and drew her close. He kissed her, savoring the softness of her fine mouth and the feel of her eager body against his.
Kissing his way down her neck and up again, he nibbled gently on her earlobe. “Reach into my pocket, my fearless rose.”
Surprised, she laughed. “Already?”
He took her soft skin between his teeth and bit down just enough to make her quiver. “My waistcoat pocket, rosebud,” he murmured in Monty’s jaunty tones. “And none o’ your sass.”
He felt her small hand twisting its way into his pocket.
“I feel something. What is this in your—” She halted with a gasp. Dalton smiled. Perhaps high-flown words were not needed between them.
The ring was a single brilliant emerald nested in carved gold. Clara felt her breath catch as she realized that the carving was a bounty of perfect roses, spilling from the gemstone down the arch of the ring.
“Once again, we have the same idea at the same moment.” Dalton stepped back and took the ring from her. He raised her left hand to his lips. “I’ve not done well by you, my love. I want to start again. I want to court you properly.”
Clara’s hands began to shake as he slid the exquisite ring onto her finger. “I don’t want to start again. I want to make love to you now.”
He pulled her close, wrapping her tenderly in his strength. “Marry me?” His breath was warm in her ear and she felt her spine weaken.
“I love you, Dalton Montmorency, whether you be lord or thief. I will be your mistress. If you don’t want a mistress, I will be your lover in whatever stolen time that I may have.” Please, no, for I would die by inches without you.
Warm fingers caught at her chin and raised her gaze to his silver one. “You’ve never told me that you love me.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I have.”
He shook his head slowly. “No. This was the first time. I daresay I would remember, since I suddenly feel thirteen feet tall and powerful enough to toss Kurt across the room.” With a small smile, he stroked his thumb along her eyelash, taking up the single tear that had gathered.
She took a breath and twisted the ring on her finger. “Yes, I love you, but I fear I shall make a rather outrageous Lady Etheridge.”
Dalton stilled, but did not release her from his embrace. “Look at me, Clara. Is that all you see? Lord Etheridge?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “That is who you are.”
“Look beyond that, I beg of you.” His voice caught, a tiny break of desperation.
It shot through her like an arrow. She was hurting him.
“Look beyond his lordship,” he whispered. “For there I stand, without you.”
He bent his head and brought his lips close to hers. “Marry me,” he whispered. “For I love thee well, my flower, and cannot draw another breath without thee by my side.”
His breath brushed her lips, causing them to tingle, and his words freed her heart and drowned her objection. She laughed shakily through her tears and reached for him.
“Very well, then, I’ll marry you.” She kissed him hard. Then she grinned dangerously. “How many cats will Etheridge House hold, anyway?”
Epilogue
Dalton stood in the doorway of the attic studio, watching his wife draw. She was doing very badly indeed. In fact, he’d never seen her do worse.
He’d come upstairs with a basket of Kurt’s best and a bottle of wine, hoping to tempt Clara into a Bedouin picnic. And then some food.
Yet now he was too concerned to care about curling up with her for an afternoon of not napping. For Clara to be drawing so very badly, something must be wrong. Her talent had only grown in the month since their marriage, for she had all the time and resources in the world at her disposal in her position as identification artist for the Liar’s Club.
It was working, too. Clara had begun teaching the trainees to draw, and was now herself able to draw a usable portrait from a mere verbal description. The Liars were all honing their observation skills in the process, as they vied to impress Clara with their prowess. Collis, who had recently entered training, was her best student.
But this…
“My flower, are you quite well?”
“Mm-hmm.” The drawing continued, each line shakier and more incomprehensible than the last.
Dalton was becoming truly frightened now. He came quietly up behind her and took her drawing hand in his. Something was wrong, her fingers were not right somehow… he was holding the wrong hand!
“Why are you drawing with your left hand?”
Clara finally turned to him and smiled. “Oh, hello, darling. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I know. You were concentrating too hard. Why are you drawing with your left hand?”
“For Lord Liverpool, of course.”
“Liverpool? But why would he care—” Oh, no. “Clara, tell me that you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“Well, truthfully, Dalton, he said that Sir Thorogood could never draw again. He said nothing about Mr. Underkind.”
Dalton closed his eyes. “And who is Mr. Underkind?”
“You’re holding him.”
Dalton opened his eyes and looked down at the small smudged hand in his. Her left hand. Which would produce drawings nothing like her right hand, once she’d practiced enough.
Mr. Underkind meant trouble. Mr. Underkind would likely bring the wrath of Lord Liverpool down upon their heads just when things had finally quieted.
Mr. Underkind would drive Liverpool completely around the bend as he wondered who it was.
Dalton couldn’t help it. He laughed.
“I think I’m going to like Mr. Underkind.” He lifted her charcoal-smeared hand to his lips and kissed it. “How about giving Mr. Underkind a rest for a few minutes?”
Clara’s brows went up. “But I only just taught him how to draw a good circle.”
Dalton leaned close and whispered in her ear although there was no one else about. “I have cream puffs.”
“Ooh.”
He nibbled her earlobe. “And strawberries.”
“That sounds lovely.”
He worked his way down her throat and bit gently at that tender spot where neck became shoulder. “I’ll let you be on top.” He licked the spot where he’d just bitten. He could feel her breath quicken. “But there’s only room for two in the tent. You’ll have to leave Mr. Underkind outside.”
“Mr. … who?”
READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
CELESTE BRADLEY’S NEXT BOOK
The Spy
(Book Three in the Liar’s Club)
NOW AVAILABLE FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS
The evening after their adventure on the streets, Phillipa found herself putting Robbie to bed although she was fairly sure it wasn’t a tutor’s job to do so. Yet if not her, then who? Certainly not Mr. Cunnington.
“He’s goin’ out again.” Robbie’s face was entirely expressionless. The very portrait of accustomed loneliness. “He’s always goin’ out.”
Phillipa didn’t know how to comfort him. Robbie’s guardian seemed fond enough of the boy, although she hadn’t been about long enough to form an opinion on the matter.
Time for a change of subject. “You’re not going out anytime soon either. Master Robert.” She shook her finger in his face but not too close. He might yet prove to be a biter.
His little face paled. “You goin’ to cane me, then?”
Cane him? For dropping in on Mr. Cunnington’s club for his tea? Good Lord, where had
this child been?
Still, she couldn’t let him think he could pull that sort of stunt every day.
Propping both fists on her hips, Phillipa looked downat her student disapprovingly. “You, me lad, are about to experience the patented At water tickle revenge.”
Robbie jumped up to run, a giggle already bubbling through his mock fear. Phillipa snapped him up just before he made it to the door. He must not have been trying very hard, for he’d surely learned more speed than that in his nine years on the streets.
She swung him yelping into the air and brought him down onto the rag before the fire, her fingers raking his bony little sides.
Robbie screeched, his rusty laughter another reminder to Phillipa of his short hard life before she’d met him. Grinning, she almost let him catch a breath before she began anew.
“Robbie the Rebel, are you? Robbie the Great Know-it-all, are you? You look more like Robbie Twitter-on-the-rug, if you ask me!”
Time to go in for the kill. The volume of Robbie’s screeches rose to full riot level. Phillipa heard another sound beyond it, but she didn’t identify it as the thumping of running feet in the hall until the door of the schoolroom crashed open.
“What the bloody hell are you doing to him?”
Before Phillipa could turn around, she was lifted by the scruff of her neck and dragged from Robbie.
She found herself dangling from James Cunnington’s grip, gagging on her cravat—which was apparently auditioning for the role as her brand-new Adam’s apple.
Then her gaze sharpened on James and her eyes bulged further. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t speak, for the man was more than a little naked. In fact, he was naked, but for a towel around his neck and a pair of drawers that clung to his bath-damp skin like paint.
He was revealed to her eyes in all his powerful beauty. His wide brawny chest, his rippling belly, the dark trail of hair that led the eye below the sagging waist of his drawers which did nothing to hide the muscular thighs framing what could only be It.
Great Greek Gods.
She desired him. The realization sent fresh strength into her struggles.
She wanted him, when she couldn’t bear to speak her own name in solitude for fear of discovery. When she couldn’t allow her body so much as a moment of freedom from its bindings and trappings.
With more strength than she’d known she had, she pushed herself from his grip. James laughed, obviously realizing his mistake, and gave her an apologetic grin. Phillipa forced a sickly chuckle to hide her appalling new awareness.
She lusted for a man who thought she was a man.
What a fix.