Beyond A Wicked Kiss

by Jo Goodman

  Nodding, West put the last of it before her. "The man both dressmakers described is very likely Sir Alex Cotton."

  The cup almost fell through Ria's nerveless fingers. She caught it just before it spilled and placed it on the edge of the table quickly. "Oh, but—"

  "Piercing blue eyes," he said. "Do you know they each used the identical phrase you did? To confirm it beyond any doubt, I shall require a sketch of Sir Alex. Miss Taylor has already proved her talent. Perhaps you can persuade her to do another portrait. A copy of the one in the hall will be sufficient."

  "What will I say to her? She will want to know why I want such a thing."

  "I trust you to be inventive. Something will occur."

  Ria sucked in her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

  West stood, took Ria's hand, and applied only that pressure necessary to bring her to her feet. She stepped willingly into the circle of his arms, and his hands clasped together at the small of her back. He nudged her until she allowed herself to fall forward and come to rest against his frame, her forehead pressed to his shoulder.

  Ria wanted to sob, but her eyes remained curiously dry.

  "What manner of men are they?" she asked plaintively. "Sir Alex. Mr. Beckwith. Lord Herndon. All of them are involved in some way. Who have my employers been these past six years?"

  West's chin rubbed the pale crown of Ria's hair. "You know," he said quietly. "I told you at the outset."

  "You told me about schoolboys playing cruel games. Sir Alex is a man, West. What is he doing with one of my girls?"

  He didn't respond, but simply held her more tightly.

  "You will find her," she said. "Promise me that you will find her."

  "Yes." He felt her shoulders heave once, then she was weeping softly. "I promise." He held her in just that way until she quieted, and then he led her back to her bed. This time it was he who helped her out of her clothes and into a nightdress, and he who neatly turned back the covers once she was in bed. He laid a cool compress across her swollen eyelids and sat beside her until she fell asleep; he left a note that she would be certain to see when she woke.

  It was not long past eight o'clock when he finally took his leave of Miss Weaver's Academy, and he was careful to seek out Mrs. Jellicoe before he did so, paying her the compliment of remarking that her plum pudding was the finest he had tasted. On his way to the kitchen, he warmly greeted Miss Webster and Mrs. Abergast. He then happened upon young Amy and three of her friends in the entrance hall, and they fairly danced around him as he was escorted to the front door by Miss Taylor. Everyone inquired as to his health, and he replied that he had had the best of care.

  Draco had been brought forward from the stables and was waiting for him in the drive. West fixed his bag to the saddle and accepted the leg up Mr. Dobson supplied. He tipped his hat in the direction of Amy, her friends, and Miss Taylor, and then gave Draco a sharp kick with his heels and left the school behind.

  * * *

  Ria woke, found West's hastily scrawled note, and knew a keen sense of disappointment. Of course he had to leave. He could not very well spend the night in her apartments, not with the entire school knowing he was there. And there were the paintings that must be returned to Mr. Beckwith, if West did not determine that it was already too late.

  She took a headache powder and went to her sitting room. The table had been cleared, the leaves dropped back in place. The candelabra was set once again at the center of the polished mahogany surface. She lighted three of the candles, then lifted it by its pewter stem and carried it into the hall.

  Except for the intermittent creaking that was commonplace in a structure as old as Miss Weaver's, the school was quiet. Ria checked the front door and found it securely barred. Perhaps Miss Emma Blakely meant to remain in her room this evening, she thought. It was a bitterly cold night for a tryst by the firs.

  Smiling a little crookedly, Ria turned away and mounted the steps back to the hall. She walked slowly along the corridor, holding her light up to each portrait, studying the men who had governed the academy since its inception.

  Perhaps the most evil thing, she decided, was the benevolence she saw in their eyes. They were posed rather stiffly; invariably their form was correct, solemn and dignified, most of them unsmiling, but it had always seemed to her that with few exceptions there was kindness in the eyes.

  The portraits of the founders gave way to the governors of the middle of the last century, and she discovered it was more of the same right up until the present day. The style of posing changed only a little with the passing years, the manner of dress a little more. The somber black of the founders was replaced in due time by fine satins in brilliant hues and heavily embroidered waistcoats. Those were abandoned for the ruffled, foppish fashions that remained the vogue until Brummell dictated that simplicity would be the common mode. Over the course of more than a century, wigs became increasingly elaborate, then less so, and finally, among the most recent governors, they disappeared entirely.

  Mr. Beckwith's founding forebear was at least more candidly cruel in his expression than the others. There was a sharpness to his eyes and mouth that made Ria think he had not the patience for sitting under the artist's scrutiny. Perhaps the artist had been moved to paint his subject more honestly than the others had painted theirs. Perhaps they were all as cruelly featured as this first Beckwith, but had demanded that their portraits reveal a kindness to their nature that did not, in fact, exist.

  She studied Sir Alex's portrait last. His eyes were deeply blue, nearly the color of cobalt. They were also direct in their gaze, frank and forthright. It was his manner of regarding people straightforwardly that made his eyes seem piercing. There had been occasion for Ria to come under Sir Alex's scrutiny when he visited the school, but she had lived with the Duke of Westphal for too many years to be cowed by someone merely taking measure of her resolve. Sir Alex had only been mildly inconvenienced by her insistence that he wait until the girls were done with their lessons before taking them on a carriage ride.

  The light from the candelabra flickered wildly as Ria lowered it suddenly. Fat droplets of wax beaded on the floor. She brought it up quickly but could not hold it as steadily as she had before. It was her knees that were shaking, threatening to give way under her. Turning, she leaned against the wall and struggled for composure. She was glad for the lateness of the hour. If someone had witnessed her distress, she would have been hard-pressed to offer an explanation.

  Ria's breathing calmed slowly. Why had she not remembered Sir Alex's offer to the girls before? He'd come in the middle of the week so many long months ago. Tuesday? Wednesday? In the earliest days of autumn, she thought, at the end of September. She had put it out of her mind as soon as he left. An unannounced visit from one of the governors was not without precedent. She always accepted it as a good thing, an indication that the governors were interested that a certain standard of care was observed.

  The girls had been thrilled to be invited to ride in his carriage. Plump leather squabs. Well-sprung. Brass fittings. He had ordered his driver to ferry them back and forth to Gillhollow, where he purchased ribbons and trifles for them. Ria hadn't had the heart to deny them such a pleasure, nor deny Sir Alex the pleasure of providing it.

  That was how she had delivered Jane Petty to the very devil.

  Ria jammed her fist to her mouth to keep from crying out. "God," she whispered against her knuckles. "Oh, dear God."

  She stayed in that position, back to the wall, one hand pressed hard to her lips, the other with a death grip on the candelabra, until she knew her legs would support an independent step. The first was tentative, the second stronger, and then she was running for her own apartments, careless that the candle flames winked out one by one by one.

  She let herself in and closed the door quickly, leaning against it while she caught her breath. Her fingers loosened around the candelabra and it thudded dully to the floor. She let it lie.

  "Ria?" West stepped aw
ay from the apron of the fireplace and made himself visible. "Ria? What has happened?"

  She stared at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed, but had the presence of mind not to scream.

  West's long stride erased the distance between them. He took her by the elbows and gave her a little shake. "Tell me what has happened."

  Raising her face to his, she said with steely calm, "Release me."

  His hands dropped away immediately, and he took a step back.

  Ria slipped through the opening West created between himself and the door. Her restlessness could not be contained, and she paced off ten steps to the window, then half again as many back. Her fingers gripped the curved top rail of a chair for support. "I have realized that I might have prevented it, that is what has happened. Jane went with Sir Alex because I permitted it. She rode in his carriage like every other girl, but he used that opportunity to single her out. He culled her like a lamb from a flock of sheep, and I had a hand in allowing it."

  West wasn't certain he understood all that she was saying, but he had a clear enough sense that she was blaming herself. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known. Ria, listen to me; if you take this upon yourself, then you mitigate the responsibility that should be Sir Alex's. Do not do it. Do not make yourself sick over what you had no cause to do differently."

  Her head came up. "What if you cannot find her, West? What if we cannot prove what he has done? How will I protect the girls when he comes again to pluck another?" She saw that he did not have an answer at the ready, and the lack of one frayed her last nerve. Her vision darkened at the periphery first, and then she could not draw a deep enough breath. Light-headed and off balance, the room tilted as suddenly as she did.

  The last thing she knew was that West could not possibly catch her before she fell.

  * * *

  Ria's eyelids fluttered open. She was lying on her side in bed, and West occupied the chair she had previously used to watch over him. His head was tipped back, and his eyes were closed. Her guardian angel had fallen asleep. She smiled, stretched, and winced as pain shot through her shoulder. Feeling for the tender spot, she found it just below her collarbone. She peeled away the nightdress and looked at her skin more closely. Candlelight at her bedside was sufficient for her to see the slight discoloration that would certainly become a livid bruise in a day's time.

  She squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece, trying to remember when she had wound it last and whether it could possibly be accurate within even half an hour. According to it, it was a quarter past one o'clock. She had never fainted before, but she did not think it was natural to have remained unconscious for so long. It had not yet been eleven when she left her apartments to have a look at the portraits.

  "Feeling more the thing?" asked West, drawing himself up in the chair.

  She nodded. "I think I took leave of my senses," she said. "I am sorry you were witness to it."

  "I'm not, and there is no apology needed. Your nerves were overwrought."

  Her mouth curled disapprovingly. "Margaret's nerves are overwrought. I went a little mad."

  West chuckled. "As you wish." He pointed to the decanter of sherry on the table and the glass beside it. "I tried to get you to take a little bit of this earlier when you came around, but you would have none of it."

  "I came around?"

  "You don't remember? No, I suppose you don't You cursed me, you know, then you promptly fell asleep. I decided the wiser course was to let you remain that way. You can curse me anytime."

  Ria blushed a little. "Have I said or done anything else for which I must atone?"

  West pretended to consider this. "Atone? No, I don't think so... but perhaps you will explain the other remark you made... the one immediately before you cursed me."

  "I made a remark?" Her voice fractured the words a little as her throat tightened uncomfortably. "What did I say?"

  "Let me think on it. It was deuced peculiar." When Ria looked as if she might sling a pillow at him, he decided to be done teasing her. Resting his forearms on his knees, he regarded her frankly. "You said, 'I am very sorry to report it, Your Grace, but I have developed a tendre for you. Damn you to bloody hell.'"

  Ria was silent for several moments, but then she nodded faintly. "A Banbury tale if ever there was one."

  Chapter 11

  "I take it that means you don't intend to explain yourself," West said, grinning.

  "It means I don't believe you—therefore I have nothing to explain."

  One of his brows kicked up. "Are you quite certain you didn't say it?"

  Ria wasn't, but she knew she could ill afford to waver here. "I am not some great, gaping trout to be reeled in with that sort of bait," she said tartly. "Though it was a good effort and very well timed."

  "Thank you."

  Sitting up, Ria tugged on the fallen shoulder of her nightdress so that it covered her properly again. "What did I strike when I fainted?"

  "Ah, yes. That's going to be a nasty bruise, I'm afraid. You tipped the chair on yourself when you went down."

  "Then I didn't really manage it gracefully." She lightly massaged the site of her injury. "That is unfortunate."

  West chuckled. "Perhaps you will improve with practice. It is the sort of thing better done in my arms."

  "I fainted," Ria said. "I did not swoon." She gave him a meaningful look. "What are you doing here, and how did you get in this time?"

  "I hope you will appreciate my efforts to be discreet. I deliberately made a public farewell when I left some five hours ago so I could return without notice."

  "Oh." She wondered if he knew she was suddenly a little breathless. "That was very clever. Then you never meant to go to the manor."

  "So you did find my note. I left it in the event someone came looking for you. It was simply meant to support the story you gave that I had taken ill."

  "You manage details very well."

  He nodded. The colonel had always depended on him for that. "It is part and parcel of being a good clerk."

  Ria did not take issue with that assertion. It was true enough on the face of it, she supposed, but if West had ever been a clerk in the foreign office, then she was a bolt of Brussels lace. "And the other?" she asked. "How did you make your entry?"

  "That couldn't have been simpler. I left a window in your sitting room unlatched."

  "Of course." Affecting what she hoped was credible sangfroid, she said, "You have not yet come to the purpose of your visit."

  "No, I have not." West rose and began unbuttoning his frock coat. "I am coming to that directly."

  What small amount of imperturbability she had remaining vanished when confronted with the vaguely wicked glint in his eyes.

  "You have no objection?" he asked, pausing as he was shrugging out of his coat.

  "I... no... that is, no, I have no objection."

  "Good."

  He seemed perfectly at his ease, she thought, while she was nowhere near so. The only reason she could find for this turn in the road was that he was plainly initiating this encounter, and although she was more experienced now, she was less certain of what he might expect. "Will we be engaging in illustration number one?" she asked. "Or the other?"

  West's head broke clear of his shirt, but his arms were still overhead as he peeled it off. She was a complete original, and if he should forget it for even a moment, she was likely to remind him—saucy little baggage. He served up the answer that was certain to give her pause. "Neither."

  Ria swallowed. "Neither?"

  "I find myself in need of a good night's sleep. It seems I do that considerably better when you're near." He hung his neckcloth, shirt, and coat inside her armoire and allowed her a few minutes to decide if she was complimented or insulted. By the time he sat to remove his boots, it seemed to him that she had made up her mind. She was lying down again, stretched out on her side with her head supported by only one pillow. The other was plumped invitingly beside hers. Her outer arm extended at an angle along t
he edge of the blankets that were folded down, and her hand was curled in readiness to lift them and welcome him inside.

  It proved, he supposed, that he was a more accomplished liar than she.

  Wearing only his drawers, he slipped under the covers she raised for him. He turned on his side and faced her. Her hand brushed his arm as she drew the blankets up. She let them go, but her hand continued its climb, sliding along the slope of his shoulder, his neck, then stopped when it cupped his jaw. Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth.

  "Good night," she said. She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. It was not a gesture of passion but of sweetness.

  "Ria." Saying no more than her name, West changed the nature of her intentions to make them fit his.

  Her mouth moved over his, softly at first, dreamily, nudging his lips apart with her own, tasting him on the tip of her tongue. She edged closer, bumping his knees. He made room for one of her legs between his. The intimate tangle brought the hem of her nightdress to her thighs. His hand slid under the fabric and palmed her naked hip. She pressed forward and felt the hard and hot outline of his arousal against her.

  Ria's fingers threaded in his thick, coppery hair and toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. She felt him shiver at the lightness of her touch and left the stamp of her satisfied smile on his shoulder.

  He cupped her bottom and brought her hard against him where she had only teased him before. Her hips moved without the press of his fingers, rocking and sliding so that the barrier of material separating them became something better than insignificant; it became part of the abrading tension, resistance meant to be overcome—slowly.

  She caught his face in her hands again, planting kisses at the corners of his mouth, along his jaw, at the hollow behind his ear. She remembered how he had caught her lobe between his teeth, and she nipped him in just the same way, then flicked the spot with the damp edge of her tongue. The dimple that was always in evidence when he smiled held her attention for a time. Just as intriguing, though, was its less showy twin. She traced it with her nail tip and watched the curve become more pronounced as the corners of his mouth lifted.