“Possibly. It wasn’t easy finding enough pure white feathers to cover a costume, so a few other birds sneaked in.”
“A hawk is a bird of prey,” he said reflectively. “This changes my perception of you.”
“I think you know more than you are telling me about the author of Wickbury.”
“Tell me your theory about him.”
“You give me your word you won’t laugh?” she asked with a wicked smile that made him want to kiss her.
“My word.”
“But I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Why not?” he said in surprise. “I’ve been on my best behavior.”
“Maybe it’s because you have a dangerous air that’s supposed to warn young ladies like me to be on guard.”
“You have a wicked air yourself,” he countered.
“Well, I don’t consider myself dangerous.” She hesitated. “Do you?”
“Very much so.”
She stared up at him for a long time. He thought she liked the idea of being a femme fatale. But she must have been regarded as one before. “I’ll tell you my theory about Lord Anonymous, but only if you promise not to make fun of me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. And I have to say, Anonymous aside, you have a way of heightening a suspenseful moment yourself.”
She lowered her gaze.
“A genuine page-turner,” he added. “I am hanging on your every word.”
She looked up. “My theory is that the writer is a woman.”
“He’s a what?”
“A woman,” she said again, with a certainty that hinted she knew something about him that he didn’t.
Lord Anonymous had been accused of many things, primarily that he had corrupted the morals of his readers with his dark plot twists and protagonists that acted beyond the pale. And, like any other author, he often inserted part of himself into his characters without realizing it. “Why a woman?”
“I explained it before. It’s the passion.”
He had to reflect on this. He had to prove to her that he was, well, not a woman of his word.
“No one has ever suggested such an outlandish idea before. It’s preposterous. Talk about a fairy tale.”
She gasped. “You said you wouldn’t make fun of me. And you are wrong. There was a critic in the Quarterly Review who suggested that Anonymous might be a retired French courtesan.”
He cleared his throat. He had missed that review. It wasn’t one of the slanders he’d invented on his own. Or perhaps Philbert had kept it hidden from him. He refused to let Samuel read any critiques while he was in the early stages of a book. Samuel would have to investigate this slur at another time.
Two minutes later he and Lily stood before a Gothic-design black wrought-iron gate built into a brick archway. He took a golden key from his vest pocket and opened the padlock. The rush of a waterfall rang in the garden stillness. Lily gazed through the gate. Her enraptured smile made sneaking from the party worthwhile.
“Welcome to Wickbury.” He guided her through a woodbine-smothered archway. “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
Chapter 8
He led her deeper and deeper into a maze of clipped box hedges. The music of water pipes drifted across the topiary walk. Despite all the anticipation surrounding the event, she doubted anything could match the magic of Wickbury. Or the pleasure of a private tour given by the duke. Yes, she was skeptical of his motives.
To be fair, he might have instigated their flirtation, but she had flirted back, thinking she could tease him with impunity. He’d promised to behave, even if his eyes suggested something else entirely. Something elemental and enticing and dangerous all at once. And what should she make of his alleged knowledge of Lord Anonymous? Perhaps her theory had been right. It made more sense that he was intimate with a lady author than with a man. And the duke’s reaction had been rather strong, now that she pondered it.
Fortunately she would not taste any forbidden pleasures in this garden. Chloe would intervene at any moment, and Lily would soon be relating her brush with scandal to her friends back home. She might neglect to mention it to Jonathan, however. She was supposed to be acting like his betrothed, not like a lady encouraging a dalliance with a man of Gravenhurst’s notoriety.
And then suddenly she forgot she had agreed to be another gentleman’s bride. She almost forgot the man escorting her. She felt him step aside so that she could enter a landscape of a literary dream, illuminated by hundreds of lights hidden in the labyrinth.
The storybook characters loomed larger than life at the end of the maze. She gazed up at the foreleg of the stallion Bucephalus, whose hooves could inflict a lethal wound and who had carried a wounded Lord Wickbury on several misadventures to safety.
Then her attention shifted to the two adversaries who had stolen her heart from the moment the author invented them. Michael, Lord Wickbury, and his arch-enemy, Sir Renwick Hexworthy. Mesmerizing, each in a completely different way. A lady would always choose Wickbury over Sir Renwick if she were asked. But that was the rub. Sir Renwick didn’t ask. He stole whatever, whomever he wanted, and the only woman he wanted could not decide on either man.
Hero and villain waged battle across a chasm between two enormous yew hedges that had been trimmed to resemble boulders. Lord Wickbury sat astride his horse, his broadsword lifted as if to spear a star. From the evergreen dragon on the opposite side Sir Renwick Hexworthy raised his rapier-wand to intercept the call for divine intervention.
And Lily stood directly below the magnetic powers, vividly imagining how it would feel to have two magnificent characters fighting over her. A shiver rippled through her. For a moment she believed the fantasy. How foolish of her. Her emotions had not run this wild even when she had read the books.
“Look at him,” she murmured.
“Wickbury?”
She made a noncommittal noise, too embarrassed to look at the duke. She could picture his mocking half smile. “Whom do you prefer?” she asked, not expecting a sincere answer. Somehow she couldn’t imagine the duke losing himself in the darkly passionate tales. He appeared to be leading an enthralling life of his own.
“It depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“On my mood. Or the story’s flow.”
That didn’t make sense to her. But then, he had pleasantly muddled her thoughts from the start, and she still couldn’t decide whether he was only pretending to be as devoted to Wickbury as were she and a legion of other readers.
“I wonder who will win in the end,” she mused.
“Isn’t it supposed to be Wickbury? I mean, they are his tales.”
“For now, perhaps, but Sir Renwick happens to be Wickbury’s half brother, and even though it isn’t explained, he could be a Wickbury himself.”
He looked at her. His books had started out simply enough. Wickbury was heroic and handsome. His adversary was vile and had been disfigured during an alchemical experiment by an erupting brew.
“It’s happened in stories before,” she said. “And Lord Wickbury could have children who might end up being little monsters.”
“Don’t you like Lord Wickbury?”
“Of course I do. Everyone does. But I suppose that’s why I feel sympathy for Renwick.”
“He is a monster. Why pity him?”
“It would be horrible to grow up in Wickbury’s shadow.”
Samuel was fascinated with her insight. Perhaps he should have sought out an honest reader’s opinion all along. Perhaps her perception would enable him to finish the last chapter of Book Seven that was tormenting him. “I don’t know what you mean, exactly.” But he did, and he wanted to hear it explained in her appealing voice.
“Sir Renwick,” she said. “If only he had another chance . . .”
Samuel glanced off in contemplation.
He had debated the same issue at his desk too many times to argue with her. Did a man always choose to enact evil? Did the why of it even matter in th
e end if he destroyed others? Should he be offered compassion or simply be stopped?
Samuel concluded that he must have some inherent capacity for evil or he would not have been able to create the fiendish characters who challenged his protagonists.
“Everyone expects Wickbury to win,” she said. “Shouldn’t it be a little harder this time?”
She had a point.
But who could predict what the future held?
A surprise revelation about two sons of the same sire? The black sheep could become a savior.
The two men could encounter an enemy that would force a temporary truce for a book or two.
Would it not make for an interesting twist?
Samuel’s publisher would not think so.
Still, in recent months Samuel had concluded that a writer should be unpredictable. Within a liberal framework of a certain predictability, that was. He did not want to betray his readers.
But who was Lord Anonymous to determine that an unwholesome character like Sir Renwick could not repent of his sins? He could always take another dark turn in the next book.
Lovely young ladies like Lily thought it was possible.
Samuel and Lord Anonymous, who infrequently acted as one, would like to make her happy.
He glanced up, appraising the topiary figures. “We will have to leave the story up to the author. I take it that you are impressed by the garden.”
“It’s wonderful. Except . . . where is the woman they both want?”
“The most desirable lady in England?”
“Yes.”
“She’s here.”
She glanced around in curiosity, wondering how she could have missed the provocative heroine. “Is she in the grotto? I don’t see her.”
“I do.”
The low insinuation in his voice sent a sizzle of impending danger down her spine. He was going to kiss her. And she was not discouraging him. She had not made a single move to dissuade him. He wrapped one arm around her waist. His other hand caressed a path from her wrist to her throat. The garden lights that danced above them grew dim. A dark warmth enveloped her.
This was the moment to resist. Chloe would come to her rescue. Lily had been warned. Which did not explain why she raised her face and drew a breath. Or why she laid her fingers on the duke’s forearm, thrilling at the latent strength that she could feel there. A nightingale sang from a nearby tree. His firmly molded mouth met hers with an intimacy that filled her with terror and wonder.
Slowly she parted her lips, the instinct undeniable. She realized what he would think—that she was inviting him to take more.
Perhaps she was.
He accepted.
There was no chance to change her mind. It happened too quickly. A rush of feelings overcame her, too intense, too tantalizing for her thoughts to follow. His tongue teased the contours of her lips before penetrating her mouth in a skillful play that demonstrated his reputation for persuasion.
She had been kissed before. But not like this.
Her mouth had never been seduced with such delicious intensity. His thumb caressed the cleft of her chin, the curls that fell against her shoulder. Shivers spun across her skin like cobwebs. Then slowly he sucked at her lower lip, his arm holding her immobile. His gaze bespoke wicked promises. She felt his intentions in the anticipation that pierced her awareness.
His slight looks had deceived her. Beneath his lithe elegance he was taut and untamed, his sinewy frame chiseled with agile strength. What else did his disguise conceal? Better that she never know. She wouldn’t see him after tonight, anyway.
He gripped her harder.
She did not resist.
He was relentless. The vanquisher with the virgin.
Perhaps he sensed that his kiss had unsteadied her. Perhaps he knew that she would sink to her knees if he released her now. She wasn’t the first woman he’d conquered in a dark corner.
Knight-errant.
He had meant to possess her the moment that their eyes had caught.
His hand caressed her hip. Silently she insisted that he stop. But the words never came. This gentle stroking stole her will. And still she let him kiss her, excitement flooding her veins, pulsing deep inside.
He was not forcing her. But was this surrender? His kiss awakened a part of her she had always known existed.
Why did her sense of passion demand attention now, with this man?
Could she ignore this yearning, or was it already too late? A door opened before her. Was it light inside or a portal to endless dark?
“Let us take off these masks,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
She didn’t want to be reminded it was only an illusion, the pleasure they shared. It was a fleeting dalliance he would easily forget. To see him unmasked would only strengthen his imprint on her mind. She would forbid herself to think of him after tonight.
“Whatever you want,” he whispered.
A sigh escaped her. She wanted more.
He ravished her mouth with unbearable sweetness. Then he bent his head to her throat. The yearning intensified. She wondered if he guessed how hard her heart was beating. Had she affected him like that, too? She hoped she had. Her body clung to his, scandalously close, close enough that she felt how strong, how male he was. He brushed a strand of sensual kisses from the rise of one shoulder to the other. She thought she might be melting from the inside out.
He kissed a trail to the soft cleavage that rose from her golden underbodice. She drew a breath. His fingers caught her hip harder, crushing her cloak, her gown, her skin. Belatedly she pulled to free herself. Her body trembled.
He grasped her hand, gathering her back against his heat.
“You promised,” she whispered.
“You are safe.”
“You said you would behave.”
“Take my word on it,” he said. “I am stretched on a rack of self-torture. Never have I denied my deepest nature as I am at this moment.”
“Deny yourself, indeed.”
“I am hanging by a thread,” he said softly.
“I trust it is a strong one.”
“It is not the strength of the thread that worries me,” he explained wryly. “It is the power of the one holding it.”
“You look powerful enough to survive a broken thread,” she murmured, her lips twitching in a smile.
“Perhaps it is the breastplate. It adds inches to my shoulders.”
Lily started to laugh. She had noticed strength in other areas of his body that she wouldn’t dare mention. “There were several ladies at the party following your every gesture. Your disguise had nothing to do with it.”
“Thank you,” he said politely. “But I was paying attention only to you. And now I suppose I shall prove I’m a man of my word—unless you give me permission to—”
“Enough,” she said, breathless with temptation, suddenly reluctant to escape the gauntleted arm that trapped her in this delicious tension.
“Enough,” he agreed reluctantly, and exhaled, relaxing his grasp but not quite letting go. “As you say.” He gave a shrug of resignation.
His mouth touched hers, flint to tinder, a farewell to sin unfulfilled. His black silky hair skimmed the bare contour of her shoulder. Even that accidental touch implied intimate pleasure. The tips of her breasts tightened as he released her from his warm embrace. She sighed, bereft of his disconcerting closeness, adrift in aching wonder. So this was how the duke had earned his acclaim.
Lily would like to believe that she meant more to him than just another conquest. She had never spent an evening like this and thought she never would again.
“It has to be his spell,” she said, lifting her gaze accusingly to the dark figure of Sir Renwick Hexworthy poised above them. “ ‘Conquer the night. Embrace what is right.’ Isn’t that the motto?”
The duke did not respond. No doubt he thought that she was rather silly for blaming a boxwood figure for inciting what could be expl
ained as earthly passion between two strangers who had temporarily lost control of their senses.
Still, it did seem to Lily as if the evergreen Renwick’s hand was pointing straight at her heart. Had the wand in his other hand moved? Had the wizard who sinned without conscience come to life to reproach her for kissing a duke who wasn’t even part of the tales? She noticed that Lord Wickbury, the Earl of Everything Perfect, had not lifted a leaf to help her.
A leaf, for heaven’s sake! She had been so swept up in the duke’s kiss and the enchantment of Wickbury’s imaginary world that she was reading her future in the foliage. Her future as another man’s wife.
She glanced at the duke in hesitation. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the topiary figures. He was looking at the feather that had drifted into the cleft of Lily’s bodice. At this rate Chloe, wherever she was, would have no trouble tracing her cousin’s location by the path of fallen plumes. The duke’s hand reached out to rescue the stray feather from Lily’s décolletage. A flush burnished her breasts with unbearable warmth.
“You—”
“You can’t go back to the party looking like a . . . plucked goose,” he interrupted, his brow lifting.
She studied him in dismay. “And you’ve got another feather stuck in your breastplate.”
His gaze dropped in amusement. In one casual gesture, he pried loose the feather and slipped it inside his sleeve alongside the others he had collected. “Now I have several bookmarks to remember our kiss by. When I finish the next Wickbury—”
He broke off, the wicked guilt in his grin too much for Lily to forgive. “You misled me,” she said, smiling tightly. “You don’t know Lord Anonymous any better than I know the prince regent.”
“That isn’t true,” he protested.
“I don’t believe you.”
“May Sir Renwick strike me down if I’ve misguided you.”
Lily waited, hoping for a branch to fall, a hint of breeze, a timely act of God to stir the wand.
“Don’t you feel foolish,” he asked, folding his arms, “waiting for an evergreen to answer?”
“Not as foolish as I do for believing your intentions. All you wanted to do was lure me alone into this garden.”
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