The coach drew to a halt in front of Wortham House. His arm around her waist, Lucas helped her out. It was highly improper to hold a lady close in public, even when the woman was his wife, but he couldn’t release her when she looked so dazed and forlorn.
And as they entered the house, he allowed himself a surge of pure masculine triumph. He had eliminated his rival. Granted, he regretted distressing Emma, but there had been no other way. He couldn’t let her love any man but himself.
Love. Like a door opening to heaven, the thought dazzled him. No longer could he label his feelings for Emma as animal lust. As much as her body, he wanted her heart and soul. Forever.
The revelation staggered him. For better or for worse, he loved Emma. He loved the woman who had once betrayed him. He was twice a fool, and he didn’t give a bloody damn for the pain he undoubtedly would suffer in the future.
Emma pulled away from him. They were standing in her blue and yellow bedroom. And he had no notion of how they’d gotten here.
She removed her damp cloak and murmured something to her maid. The girl bobbed a curtsy, then scurried out the door. Seating herself on the stool at the dressing table, Emma removed the pins from her hair. The sobriety on her face pierced his heart. It was almost as if she’d forgotten his presence.
Lucas shrugged out of his greatcoat. He crossed the room and lifted the luxuriant fall of her hair into his hands. How thick and silky it was, damp from the mist. Bending, he kissed the tender nape of her neck. Then he picked up the silver brush and stroked it from the crown of her head down to her waist. The sheer sensual pleasure of it made him hard. No other man had seen her with her hair unbound. No man but her husband ever would.
No other man.
She took the brush from him and clutched it to her breast. Their gazes clashed in the mirror. “Why did you do it?” she whispered.
“Do what?”
“Why did you go poking into Woodrow’s private life? Why couldn’t you have let him be?”
She sounded almost angry. As if she resented him for pointing out Hickey’s base secret. Lucas gritted his teeth and strove to be understanding. “I was loath to see you hurt. The paragon seemed too perfect, and so I asked some discreet questions.”
“Of whom? Who would tell you … about that?”
He hesitated to describe the oily little pimp in the genteel bordello with its private back rooms. “There are places—private clubs—where a man can indulge his fantasies.” She needn’t know those fantasies often involved young boys, driven to prostitution in order to live. Hickey, at least, shunned that particular depravity. “According to my informant, Hickey is devoted to one man. They’ve been meeting regularly for five years.”
“Dear God. Who?”
“A certain illustrious member of Parliament who shall go unnamed.”
Sighing, she bowed her head and closed her eyes. The golden crescents of her lashes edged the delicacy of her eyelids. How pale was her skin, how vulnerable her fine-boned face.
Her melancholy rankled him. He felt the nagging urge to shake her, to make her notice him. “Of course, this revelation only confirms another important fact.”
She opened her eyes, her gaze wary. “What’s that?”
“He couldn’t have fathered Jenny.”
Emma stiffened. Jerkily she began rearranging the already tidy pots of cosmetics and flacons of perfume on the dressing table. “I see. You didn’t believe my word. That’s the real reason you investigated Woodrow.”
“Maybe so.” Catching gentle hold of her shoulders, Lucas swiveled her to face him. “You haven’t been entirely truthful with me about your past, Emma. You’re protecting the scoundrel who defiled you.”
“I’m not.” She lowered her gaze, her fingers slim and pale around a blue bottle of scent. “It’s simply best left forgotten.”
“Fine. Tell me his name, and then we’ll forget about him.”
“Stop badgering me, you … you …” With an exclamation of frustration, she flung the bottle at him. He caught it just as the stopper fell out and perfume spilled down his shirt and waistcoat.
“What the hell—” Whipping out his handkerchief, he scrubbed at the potent aroma of roses. “I can’t stop badgering you,” he snapped. “Any more than I can stop wishing you’d trust me instead of pushing me away.”
Rising, she faced him. “All right, then, I’ll entrust you with a secret. I broke off with Woodrow three weeks ago.”
That stopped him. “You did?”
“Yes.” She snatched the handkerchief from his motionless fingers and busied herself with cleaning his coat, then blotting his soaked shirt. “So you see, my lord detective, your little investigation was quite unnecessary.”
“Yet you went to see him today.”
“Of course. I consider him a friend. So does Jenny. I merely thought to invite him to visit us.”
Lucas tilted her chin up. He wanted to see Emma’s eyes when she answered his next question. “And why did you break off with him?”
“Because I want …” She pursed her pretty lips, then hurled the handkerchief to the floor. “Oh, blast you. Don’t you know? I want you, Lucas, and no other man. Only you.”
He gazed down into her flushed face and knew she spoke from the heart. The violent joy he felt defied words. It was every bit as frightening as it was awesome. She gazed at him anxiously, as if expecting his scorn.
To hide his own emotion, he spoke lightly. “Even if I stink of ladies’ perfume?”
“Even so,” she said, relaxing into a wistful laugh. “As long as the perfume is my own—and easily disposed of.”
She loosened the folds of his neckcloth and dropped it carelessly to the rug. Then she worked on the buttons of his waistcoat; it went the way of the neckcloth. Soon a pile of his clothing lay beside them, and she caressed his bare chest with her hands and mouth. Her pale hair rippled against his skin. With unsteady fingers, he unfastened her gown and let it fall. Willingly she lifted her arms as he removed her chemise. He kissed the upraised scar on her shoulder, her badge of dishonor, and the thought of losing Emma added urgency to his burgeoning desire.
Bringing her up against him, he held her silken body, the womanly curves he knew with intimate detail. She was his universe. The rest of the world faded away and there was only the two of them, needing each other, taking sustenance from the act of love.
“Emma,” he murmured. “Emma.”
She arched hungrily against him, her breasts brushing his chest, her lush curls teasing his loins. “Oh, Lucas. Love me.”
“Yes.” He couldn’t say more. He couldn’t voice the promises that knotted his throat. He was too afraid of losing her again. And so with wordless eloquence he showed Emma, carrying her to the bed and laying her down, where he could worship her with his body.
He loved her slowly, exquisitely, using rigorous restraint to prolong the building pleasure. And she loved him back with the tenderness of her touch and the softness of her cries. Letting his hands speak for his heart, he stroked her until she writhed and moaned on the verge of climax. Only then did he enter her, savoring the radiance in her beautiful eyes when their bodies became one.
No matter what mistakes had been made in the past, they belonged together. She was his woman, his wife, his long-lost mate. He moved inside her perfect passage, and the sweet agony of passion flared high and bright between them. It seemed he could never get enough of her; he could never get close enough. His blood pumped furiously with the effort. All at once, she cried out his name and her inner muscles spasmed around him, milking the seed of life from him, causing his body to convulse with the violent splendor of release.
They lay entwined in the timeless aftermath, with the fire whispering on the hearth and the afternoon slowly darkening to dusk. Lucas resisted thinking beyond the contentment of the moment. Doubts would come then, but for now, it was enough to hold Emma, to bask in a world alive with color and lit by his reckless love for her.
They shared a
lingering kiss. She sighed and stretched, turning her head to rub her cheek to his chest—and recoiling with a cough. Wrinkling her nose, she waved her hand to clear the air. “Phew! You still reek of perfume.”
He chuckled. “Through no fault of my own. Pray I succeed in scrubbing the stuff off before the masquerade tonight.”
Something flashed through her eyes, like the brief shuttering of light. Then she smiled again, the smile that always enslaved him. “Lucas. May I beg a favor of you?”
“That depends upon what you’ll give me in return.” His hand roved down her side, dipping into the curve of her waist and rising to the smoothness of her hip. “I can think of a few favors I’d like to beg of you.”
“Perhaps you’d better hear what it is first,” she said. “It’s in regard to my costume.”
“Ah, the goddess. If you wish me to play your adoring mortal, I am honored to do so.”
Her eyes sparkled up at him. “Don’t be silly. This is a matter of grave importance.”
“Then, pray, don’t hold me in suspense.”
“I’ve been pondering your idea of a goddess. And the problem is, I suspect half the ladies in attendance will dress as Diana or Aphrodite.”
“Then you shall play Venus. Hair like moonbeams.” He sifted the silken strands through his fingers. “A face to inspire a thousand sonnets to beauty.” He lightly ran his knuckles down her cheek. “A body to drive a mortal man to madness.” Feeling the rise of heat, he caressed her perfect breasts, watched the tips turn to rosy buds.
Laughingly, she caught his wrist. “Lucas, do let me finish. I should like to portray an exotic goddess from a faraway land. And therein lies the favor I must ask.” Her smile lessened, and she regarded him attentively. “May I wear the tiger mask to Vauxhall tonight?”
The request surprised him. Especially considering her antipathy toward the mask that day in the library. Against his will, the old suspicions seeped into his mind, testing the resiliency of his faith in her.
“Thieves and cutthroats prowl any public place,” he said. “I can’t be by your side at every moment.”
“This is a private party. And I’ll be surrounded by the ton. I’ve no intention of wandering away.”
“The gold will weigh heavy on your delicate head.”
“I’ll wear it for only a short time,” she said. “Just a few dances. And your valet can wait in the carriage to guard the mask later. Please, Lucas, I would have the most brilliantly original costume. Only think how amazed everyone will be.”
“They’ll appreciate your beauty more without a mask covering it.” He could have sworn she had changed, that she no longer needed to attract hordes of admirers. Yet he was unable to resist her appealing look. “However, if it pleases you, then yes, you may wear it.”
Closing her eyes, she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it ardently. “Thank you.”
He had the strange, fleeting impression of a desperate relief in her. He told himself he was mistaken. It was an unthinking suspicion brought on by too many years of cynicism. Why would she steal the mask, anyway? Her thieving days were over.
Caressing her hair, he pulled her closer to him, enjoying the softness of her breasts yielding to his chest. Yes, if he truly loved Emma, he had to learn to trust her.
Better he risk losing a priceless mask than her precious heart.
Chapter 22
Memoirs of a Burglar
Installment, the Last
… And so my friends, this final tale, like all the others, proves that a man may call himself a gentleman while lacking the honor of the lowliest groom in a stable. Lord J——P——may boast of shooting the Bond Street Burglar, but like all the Scoundrels of Society, he plays deep and uses his superior skills to ruin eager young blades and to gull amiable old men. Though his crime was avenged when I relieved him of his ill-gained bounty, he will forever bear the notoriety of felling the Seeker of Justice.
Aye, one fateful bullet has ended the illustrious career of the Burglar. I bid thee farewell, faithful Readers, and beg only that you shun those Amoral Gamesters who would dupe the Unwary. Beyond an occasional foray to seek the comfort of a Lady, I hereby retire myself.
Lord Anon, known as the Bond Street Burglar
“The tall one with the ginger hair must be the Burglar,” declared a rather stout lady dressed in the flowing white robes of Aphrodite. She nodded toward one of the many black-clad revelers at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. “How dashing he looks. Why, even his cravat is the color of midnight.”
“That is Lord Gerald Mannering, and he’s far too thin and lofty,” Miss Minnie Pomfret informed the group of awestruck ladies. “The Burglar is a smaller, stronger man. A most charming gentleman.” She lowered her voice. “As you know, he makes forays to visit his chosen ladies.”
A collective sigh swept the gathering, followed by a delirious gasp from Miss Pomfret. Garbed like a gawky Roman statue, she clasped her hands to her flat bosom. “Oh, my stars, it’s him. The masked man standing below the orchestra box.”
The stout lady raised her lorgnette. “But who is he? We simply must determine his real name.” In a twitter of excitement, she and the other women rushed into the throng of dancers and revelers.
Emma lingered alone in the shadows of a giant beech tree. She held the tiger mask in the crook of her arm. Her costume was a deep golden brown, and a hood comprised of the same dark hue concealed her pale hair. Certain she could not be detected in the gloom, she dawdled, watching the festivities for a moment and wishing she could be so carefree.
The lights of a thousand colored lanterns twinkled down from the grandstand. The traditional Guy Fawkes bonfires burned at the perimeter of the dancing area and warmed the chilly air. At least half of the gentlemen present wore black in imitation of the Bond Street Burglar. It made for an amusing sight. There were stout Burglars and skinny ones, swaggering Burglars and bashful ones. Some wore masks of ebony silk; others a more elaborate hooded cape. She’d like to see how many of these pampered noblemen could manage a narrow ledge four stories above the ground. At midnight, no less, and hampered by rain or fog.
And then her merriment vanished as she wondered which—if any—of these aristocrats was the blackmailer.
In a moment, she would have to make the exchange and betray her husband. She had to go now, while Lucas led an elderly duchess in the steps of a country dance. He looked magnificent in the peacock-blue robe of a maharajah, a golden turban upon his dark hair. A demimask made of peacock feathers hid his handsome features. How she longed to be whirling in his arms, lighthearted and happy … .
“Plottin’ yer next burglary, m’lady?”
The voice startled her. Jolted by dismay, she turned to find herself staring into the sly features of Clive Youngblood. The pigeon-breasted man wore his usual drab brown coat and battered top hat. He rocked back and forth on his heels as if he’d made a great discovery.
Little did he know.
With effort she composed herself. “Present your invitation, sir,” she said icily. “This is a private party.”
“Don’t get ‘igh and mighty wid me.” The Runner stepped closer and whistled. “’Hain’t that the tiger mask yer ’oldin’? The one what’s worth a king’s ransom?” His drooping eyelid blinked in suspicion. “Does yer ’usband know you ’ave it?”
“Naturally. In case you failed to notice, everyone is wearing a mask.” She waved a graceful hand at the crush of dancers, the many black-clad men squiring white-gowned goddesses. “By the by, this is your golden opportunity to find the Burglar. You’ve plenty to choose from.”
Youngblood scowled, and she knew she’d struck a nerve. He hitched his thumbs in his lapels. “Well, now. I might be lookin’ fer yer grandsire.”
“Then do run along. Before my husband notices you’re badgering me.”
She thought his face paled in the gloom. Casting a wary glance at the dancers, he said, “I do got business t’ tend to.”
Her knees weak with relief
, she watched him scuttle away, skirting the edge of the throng. He was heading away from Grandpapa, thank goodness.
Miss Pomfret and her court of ladies had reached their black-garbed quarry. Like a swarm of bees, they surrounded Lord Briggs. Even over the noise of the orchestra, Emma could hear his chortle of laughter. Dear Grandpapa. He did so enjoy the speculation, the notoriety, the queries about being the celebrated Burglar. These days, to keep the ladies guessing, he never so much as looked at a deck of cards. He’d been so lonely after Grandmama’s death. What a boon the Memoirs had been to his spirits.
The music stopped. The dancers would be seeking their next partners. Unable to spy Lucas in the crowd, Emma wondered if he had noted her absence yet. Pray God she could make the exchange before he realized she was gone. Pray God he would believe her trumped-up story that the tiger mask had been stolen from her.
Resolutely, she turned and headed down one of the many walkways that wended through the trees. The weather had cleared and the moon shone against the starry sky, though the air was damp and chilly, rich with the scent of autumn leaves. Jewel-bright lanterns were strung from tree branches to illuminate the path. A layer of straw had been spread over the muddy earth to protect the ladies from soiling their slippers.
Emma kept her head down as she passed a few strolling couples who had wandered away from the main party to steal a moment alone. She had been one of them once. On that long-ago night seven years ago, she had gone off for a promenade with a laughing group of young gentlemen and ladies. She had been a foolish girl, eager to taste life, impatient with proprieties, and when one penniless swain enticed her into lagging behind, she had gone with him. She did not now even recall his name. She remembered only that he had kissed her, fallen to his knees and begged for her hand in marriage, and with a few arrogant words of refusal she’d sent him packing. Heedless and headstrong, she had stormed off the opposite way, down a darkened path … .
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