In the Barrister's Bed

by Tina Gabrielle

  He chuckled. “It’s all true, but its proper name is a velocipede.”

  She approached the velocipede and ran her hand down the wood frame. “How does one ride it?”

  “This one was made for a shorter man, but I can still show you.” He straddled the frame and held on to both ends of the handlebar while his feet touched the ground. He pushed along the ground with his feet, and as he pivoted the handlebar, the front wheel turned and allowed him to steer. Then he started to run, increasing his speed. She clapped and burst out laughing.

  He stopped beside her.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked.

  “It belonged to Reeves. Bobby found it mounted on the back wall of the stables.” He pointed to an etching on the frame. “This particular one bears the mark of its inventor, Denis Johnson, a London coachmaker. Brent Stone obtained the letters patent for the man last December.”

  Bella’s lips twitched. “I can just imagine Sir Reeves riding it in London, strutting around like a peacock and showing off.”

  James rolled his eyes. “Such an unsavory image.” His smile changed and he looked at her in earnest. “Do you want to ride it?”

  She did and desperately. But how would she straddle it with her skirts?

  As if reading her mind, his gaze traveled her morning dress. “Don’t worry about your skirts. We’re behind the stables and no one can see. You’re free to ride.”

  “But you’re here.”

  He winked. “I promise to look away. Go ahead. Try it.”

  She lifted her skirts and swung her right leg over the frame. The tips of her toes reached the ground. She pushed off and began walking, slowly at first, then faster.

  “Don’t forget to steer!” James said as she came perilously close to riding into the oak tree.

  “You said you wouldn’t look!”

  “I’m not looking at your legs, just your form.”

  The statement seemed so ridiculous she laughed. She didn’t stop riding, however, and kept her speed. It was daring and fun and he shouted out words of encouragement. She rode in a large circle behind the stables for a full ten minutes until her legs tired, and she dismounted and rested the velocipede against the oak.

  She was breathless and flushed, and yet she felt as joyfully buoyant as a child on Christmas morning. James was the most exciting man she had ever known, and her already vulnerable feelings toward him were intensifying.

  “I knew a woman courageous enough to write and sell her work would be daring enough to ride a velocipede,” he said, with his irresistible grin.

  His words and nearness made her senses spin. She licked her bottom lip, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I find myself daring to try new things of late,” she said.

  Awareness passed between them, like the crackle in the air before lightning strikes. His eyes darkened to sapphire, and he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. His mouth covered hers hungrily. She wound her arms about his neck, and kissed him back, lingering, savoring every moment. This was what she wanted, what felt right.

  He must have felt it too because his kiss, his very taste and essence, felt different.

  His hands were everywhere at once—in the hollow of her back, at the curve of her waist, and higher still to cup her breast. When his thumb grazed her hardening nipple through the thin fabric of her gown, she gasped and drew herself closer. The scent of the outdoors on his skin, the warmth of his palm on her breast, and the velvet stroke of his tongue spun a magical web of raw need and sweet desire, which she knew had the power to bury and replace the dreaded memories of Roger’s sordid touch.

  Her blood pounded, her muscles tensed, her body aching and battling the remnants of her self-control for a taste of what he offered.

  He understood. She saw it in his eyes when he lifted his head, his hands cradling her face. “There’s something I must ask you, Bella. I was uncertain at first with our fight over the property, but no longer. Such an arrangement will solve our dilemma.”

  Harriet was right! He’s going to propose!

  He kissed her forehead, her cheek, the nape of her neck. “We both want each other, darling. There’s no denying the attraction and passion between us. You can stay at Wyndmoor for as long as you wish to remain.”

  His tongue flicked the sensitive shell of her ear, and a delicious shudder heated her body.

  “You needn’t worry about finances. All will be taken care of, your clothes, your carriage, the servants.” He emphasized each word with the brush of his lips across her collarbone. “I have business I must regularly attend to in London, of course, but I promise to return often. You needn’t fear anything,” he murmured. “I know how to prevent an unwanted child.”

  His lips were wreaking havoc with her senses, and her mind was sluggish to comprehend. Unwanted child? What was he saying? She was dimly aware that he hadn’t knelt down on one knee, hadn’t proposed. Understanding dawned, and with it a simmering anger.

  Crestfallen, her smile quickly faded, and she pulled back. “You want me to be your mistress?”

  His brow furrowed. “I never liked that term—”

  She pushed him away suddenly and took a step back. Her eyes narrowed, and outrage stiffened her spine. Reaching up, she slapped him.

  His expression was taut and derisive. “I take that to be a no.”

  Why couldn’t he be an old, ugly, wrinkled man? Why did he have to be so attractive?

  Dark eyebrows slanted in a frown. “You cannot still be pining for your husband,” he said. “I know there were no fond feelings between you.”

  How dare he! “Did Evelyn speak with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then what makes you believe I disliked my husband?”

  “I’m quite astute and have drawn my own conclusions regarding the level of passion in your marriage,” he said.

  “Then your intuition is not as honed as you believe, Your Grace. What I do believe is that your man has been following me. I spotted him when I was shopping in St. Albans. Did you tell him to look into my past as well?”

  A fierce shaft of blue fire shot at her before his gaze shuttered. “You’re being followed? By whom?”

  She had come to suspect the man outside the bakery in St. Albans was James’s hired investigator. As for the man at the Black Hound, she had been too distraught after escaping the bar fight and, in hindsight, couldn’t be certain they were the same person.

  The fury within her now throbbed in her voice. “I do not know. I’m certain only that you hired an investigator to look into matters, to look into me.”

  “You’re wrong. The investigator I hired has succeeded only in locating Sir Reeves. I never instructed him to follow you, and he has told me nothing of your marital relationship.”

  “Your instincts about me remained flawed, Your Grace. I’ll never be your mistress or your lover or whatever term it is you do prefer!” Turning on her heel, she fled toward the house.

  “You’ve been spotted,” James said.

  “That’s impossible.”

  James had met Investigator Armen Papazian in the library. After the disastrous scene with Bella outside the stables, he had learned that she had stormed into her bedchamber and had not come down since. This suited James just fine, he told himself, as he had an appointment to meet with the investigator.

  James paced the room. Papazian occupied an armchair by the window. The investigator was a short, but muscularly built man with black, unruly hair and olive-black eyes leveled under drawn brows. The man’s features appeared deceptively composed, but James caught the uncanny shrewdness in his gaze.

  Anthony Stevens swore the investigator was the best. So successful, in fact, that he had unearthed secret letters between a viscountess and her French lover who had happened to be a general in Napoleon’s army. The letters revealed the names of two members of the British army who had aided the French by selling them military secrets. The Regent’s top agents had been searching for the letters for two years without success
before Papazian found them a month before Waterloo.

  “She didn’t see me,” Papazian insisted. “If she noticed someone else following her, it was another man.”

  James stopped his pacing. “It makes no sense. Why would someone else be following her?”

  “Maybe it has to do with her deceased husband’s business ventures.”

  “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Roger Sinclair was a well-respected and wealthy Plymouth businessman. He specialized in importing commodities, mainly grain, barley, coal, and timber. His young wife rarely left home, and upon inquiry of the Plymouth townsfolk, people said she was ‘not of sound mind,’ and some went so far as to say she had gone mad. They sympathized with Roger over his wife’s infirmity and admired that he had not left her.”

  “That’s ludicrous. Bella is far from mad,” James said.

  “I tracked down Sinclair’s former steward. The man was tight-lipped at first, but he’s also a drunkard and was easy to bribe with a few guineas. He said Sinclair acted the perfect gentleman outside the home; he regularly attended church and donated generously, but at home, he was a tyrannical bastard and rigid master. He had a jealous and obsessive nature and rarely permitted his wife to leave the house for fear she would cuckold him. There were incidents of beatings, and he had frequently threatened to harm his wife’s elderly nursemaid if she defied him.”

  A flash of pure rage shot down James’s spine, and he clenched his fists at his sides.

  “There’s more,” Papazian said. “Despite Roger Sinclair’s public persona as avid churchgoer and supporter, he was a greedy bloke and consumed with increasing his fortune. After war with France broke out, Sinclair’s trade suffered and he began engaging in questionable activities. He started small, importing French brandy and other embargoed goods, but soon grew emboldened and began exporting guns and ammunition to the French troops. Roger Sinclair’s highly treasonous activities were never discovered by the authorities, and he died six months ago when he fell down the stairs while intoxicated and broke his neck.”

  “The reprobate died an easy death,” James said. “The punishment for treason is to be drawn and quartered.”

  James thought of Sinclair’s abominable treatment of Bella, and his blood simmered in his veins. He vividly recalled her excitement upon opening the letter from the Times. She had said her husband had not approved of her writing. And then there was her instinctive response to his touch, his kiss. Each time he held her she had molded her body to his, pressed against him with innocent ardor. James had known that her marriage had lacked passion. He had mistakenly thought her spouse had been a blundering fool. But now that James knew Roger Sinclair had abused and isolated her—had used Harriet as a weapon—he marveled that Bella’s spirit had not been entirely crushed.

  Sinclair deserved to be drawn and quartered alive for his treatment of his wife alone.

  James took a deep breath to calm his violent emotions.

  “As for whom Mrs. Sinclair spotted watching her,” Papazian said, “I assure you again it was not me.”

  “She claims she saw a man when she was shopping,” James pointed out.

  “I followed both women the day they ventured into St. Albans, but neither noticed me.”

  So why would anyone else follow Bella? The thought of her in danger made James’s gut clench tight. “We need to determine if it was you she saw.”

  “How can we do that? You don’t plan on asking her, do you? During the length of my career, I’ve yet to find a woman happy to learn a man had her followed,” Papazian said dryly.

  “Don’t be a fool. I’m going to introduce you as an old friend. Let’s say, Tom Jones. If you’re the man she spotted, I’ll be able to tell from her reaction.”

  It was a simple matter to arrange. Coates mentioned to the parlor maid—just as Harriet was passing by in the hall—that a neighbor and his wife were paying a visit to greet the new owner of Wyndmoor Manor.

  As expected, Harriet rushed to tell her mistress, and Bella entered the library within ten minutes’ time.

  Both James and Investigator Papazian rose to their feet.

  The first thing James noticed was she had been crying. There was a rawness about her beautiful green eyes, the delicate skin of her lids swollen. His stomach knotted.

  He wanted to go to her, to gather her in his arms and comfort her. He knew she had expected him to propose marriage rather than that she become his mistress. But marriage was too high a price. There had been women who had sought to marry him after he had achieved his success at Lincoln’s Inn. He had never considered proposing to any of them. He coveted his freedom, his bachelorhood. Marriage was to advance one’s social status and produce children. Growing up believing he’d been the illegitimate son of a duke, he had always despised the ton and never once wanted to join its ranks. And as for children, he liked them—especially young Phillip—but he could not fathom becoming a father himself as his own parent had been mostly absent and disinterested his entire life.

  Bella’s eyes darted from James to the investigator.

  James inclined his head, watching her features. “This is Mr. Jones, an old school friend.”

  Her brow furrowed. “A school friend? I was told neighbors were visiting.”

  “Who told you that?” James asked innocently.

  Bella’s face reddened as she no doubt recalled the source of her knowledge was none other than Harriet’s eavesdropping.

  James knew her well enough to understand her method of thinking. She was mulling over whether Harriet—at her advanced age—had heard correctly.

  But there was no glint of recognition in her eyes as she looked at Investigator Papazian. Clearly, she had never seen the man before.

  “Ah, I understand,” James said. “You must not believe all the servants’ gossip.”

  Bella’s eyes flashed with annoyance before turning to Papazian. “What school did you both attend, Mr. Smith?”

  “Eton. We were reminiscing of our youthful days,” Papazian lied smoothly.

  She smiled politely at the investigator. “I apologize for disturbing you.” She curtsied, and the swell of her breasts rose temptingly against the rounded neckline of her gown. The rich browns and reds of her hair contrasted with the ivory skin at her throat.

  James tamped down on the stirrings of desire and waited until the door closed behind Bella before returning his attention to the investigator. “She didn’t recognize you.”

  Papazian shrugged. “I told you.”

  Sinclair was dead. Then who was following her and why? Had Bella imagined it?

  For years she had been under the control of an obsessive and psychotic husband. James himself had tried a case where a wife who had been physically abused for over a decade had finally cracked and stabbed her husband in his sleep.

  But Bella didn’t fit that type of profile. James’s instincts were solid, and he had more than just instinct to rely on where Bella was concerned. Miraculously, her mind and spirit had not been broken by her spouse.

  She was intelligent and witty. She had pride and was compassionate and protective of those in her care. He understood pride, as it was all that had held him together during his lonely childhood spurned by his blood kin, and he admired her care of Harriet.

  Of all things, Bella Sinclair was certainly not mad. If she believed she was being followed, then James had no doubt that it was true.

  His heart hammered, and he felt as if his breath was cut off. The physical response was foreign, and with a sense of dread, James recognized it as fear. Fear for Bella.

  “Find out who’s trailing her and why,” he ordered.

  Chapter 15

  The morning after the fair, Bella rolled over in bed at the soft knock on her door. Harriet entered carrying a breakfast tray and opened the drapes to let in the bright morning sunlight. Bella groaned and covered her face with her pillow.

  “You never oversleep, luv,” Harriet said, pulling the pillow away.

>   Bella sat up. Her eyes were swollen and her throat raw. It had been years since she had cried herself to sleep. She had decided long ago that crying over the state of her marriage was not worth the effort; she had refused to shed a tear over Roger.

  But last night had been about James.

  “I was so certain he would ask me to become his wife, but instead he offered to make me his mistress. I acted like such a fool.”

  Bella knew she wasn’t experienced when it came to men. She had married young and had never had a London Season, whereas James was experienced and worldly. She must have appeared like an immature, lovesick girl. She had allowed herself to dream and resurrect her childish fantasy of the chivalrous knight. As if seven years of misery hadn’t beaten the fantasy out of her.

  Yet James had made it so easy to fall back into her old ways. He’d been carefree and fun during the fair, and afterwards, when he had shown her the velocipede. He’d called her courageous and daring for writing and selling her work. With a few chosen words of flattery from his lips, she had come close to eagerly handing her deed over to him.

  Foolish girl.

  “You may have played your cards just right. The duke is not accustomed to women refusing whatever he offers,” Harriet said.

  “Humph.”

  “Trust me. You haven’t seen the looks of him yet this morning. He’s in a foul mood and barking at his dedicated manservant.”

  “Good. All the servants think him charming; let them see him for who he truly is,” Bella snapped.

  Harriet removed her riding habit from the wardrobe. “You need fresh air. A pleasant ride in the country will do you good.”

  Harriet helped her dress, and Bella nibbled toast and sipped her tea before heading straight for the stables.

  Bobby wasn’t present. Rather than summon the lad, she decided to saddle her own horse. She reached for a bridle hanging from a hook on the stable wall, when an eerily familiar voice froze her hand in midair.