She cocked up one eyebrow and said something he couldn’t hear.
Excellent, they were working. He cupped his hand behind his ear. “What’s that?”
Marching over, she plucked the corks out of his ears and stuffed them into hers. “Thank you for these. Now I don’t have to hear you go on and on about what we need to buy for the baby and make for the baby and arrange for the baby. You’re worse than my mother, I swear.”
She had a point. He and Lady Margrave had surprisingly grown more friendly while plotting the future of his child and her grandchild.
He drew Clarissa between his legs. Reaching up to take out the corks, he said, “I’ll make you a pair, too. You can use them when your mother visits.” He spread his hands over her belly, his blood leaping to feel the subtle movements. “He’s really kicking today, isn’t he?”
“She is dancing. She has to practice making her father laugh.”
“Her mother already does plenty of that.” He kissed Clarissa’s clothed navel, then scattered more kisses up her stomach to her swollen breasts. “Among other things.” He nuzzled her nipple. “We should make love in this room. I’ve imagined it so many times.”
She looked scandalized. “In your workroom? Truly?”
“In every room in the house. Long before you married me, too.”
“I don’t believe you.”
With a sly smile, he rose and took her hand. “Come with me.”
He took her through the house to the conservatory, where he nodded to the dais by the window. “I’ve pictured you lying there naked, bathed in sunlight, while I take you.”
Reveling in her blush, he led her through the halls into the music room. “The possibility of sitting on that pianoforte bench while you rode me has seen me through many a dull recital.”
She gaped at him. “Not Yvette’s, I hope.”
“Good God, no. But yours, for certain.”
“Are you saying that my playing bores you?”
“I’m saying that it always provided a fitting backdrop for my fantasy.”
Raking her with a long, slow glance for emphasis, he laughed when she said, “Oh, Lord, now I’ll never be able to look you in the eye when I’m playing for guests.”
“Shall I go on?” he asked.
A look of challenge crossed her face. “I’ll bet there’s one room you haven’t imagined making love to me in. The kitchen.”
“Are you mad? Of course I’ve pictured you there, splayed on the table to provide me with a delicious feast.” When she looked surprised, he said, “Mind you, we could never serve food from there again if I acted on it, but God knows I’ve imagined it.”
She looped her arms about his neck. “When I married you, Lord Blakeborough, I had no idea you were such a naughty man.”
“Obviously, or you wouldn’t have assumed I could wait a bloody year to bed you.”
Remorse tinged her cheeks pink. “What if it really had been a year? Would you have complied with my terms?”
“Of course. But you wouldn’t have lasted that long. You’re too much of a naughty woman for that. And I was too bent on seducing you.”
She got that melting look in her eyes that never failed to enrapture him, and he was on the verge of dragging her into his arms and ravishing her, when a voice came from the door. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
Edwin cursed inwardly . . . and then realized that the voice was vaguely familiar. No—it couldn’t be.
But it could. “Niall?” Clarissa said, turning for the door. “Niall!”
She broke away from Edwin and ran to hug her brother. The man Edwin had remembered as being tall and gangly had filled out into quite a stalwart fellow. His hair was darker than Clarissa’s—more like sun-streaked bronze—but his expression was hard. Clearly his sojourn on the Continent had changed him.
Behind him stood Warren, who watched the siblings with a smile.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Clarissa asked. “Did you sneak into England?” She shook him. “You cannot be here—you’re a fugitive. They could hang you!”
“Doubtful,” Warren said as he glanced beyond Niall to Edwin. “After all the trouble Fulkham and I took to get him back legally, it wouldn’t make sense for the government to turn around and hang him. And I would be most annoyed.”
“So would I,” Niall said dryly. “I don’t fancy having a rope for a cravat.”
She whirled on Edwin. “Did you know about this?”
“Are you mad?” Warren put in. “Edwin would have told you at once. Which is why we didn’t tell him. We weren’t sure if it would work out, and we didn’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Edwin stepped next to her to slide his arm about her waist, feeling oddly protective. “So exactly how did you get it to work out?” he asked the two others.
“As it happens,” his brother-in-law said, “Durand was already becoming a problem for both the French and the English—making rash diplomatic decisions, squirreling away documents that were supposed to be destroyed, breaking agreements that had long been held. The attempt to blackmail you was the last straw. So Fulkham convinced his superiors that without my involvement, the man would never have been routed, and his attempts to ‘unveil’ a peer as a spy would have ended in disaster.”
“In other words,” Warren put in, “Niall got a royal pardon. And it didn’t hurt that after Prinny’s death, our new king was eager to issue a few royal pardons as part of his ascension to the throne. One of those went to Niall.”
“Without having to reveal any of your past, dear girl,” Niall added.
With a sniff, she patted her belly. “Clearly, I am not a ‘girl.’ ”
Niall laughed. “No, clearly not.” He sobered as his gaze met Edwin’s. “And if your new husband doesn’t take care of you, I shall challenge him to a duel.”
“Don’t worry,” Edwin said solemnly. “I would go to the ends of the earth for her.”
The serious statement brought the other two men up short. Then Niall glanced at Warren. “I can’t believe it, but you were right. He is in love.”
Clarissa slid her arm about Edwin’s waist. “Of course he is. I have that effect on men.”
The flippantly spoken words lightened the mood, as his wife had no doubt intended.
With a genial smile, Niall said, “I do hope we got here in time for dinner. I’m famished.”
“Yes, dinner will be served shortly.” Clarissa turned to her cousin. “Warren, are you staying?”
He shook his head. “I must return to London. Something has come up. But you and Niall enjoy your reunion. I’ll see you in a few weeks at the party at Keane’s.”
“All right.” She kissed her cousin, then turned to Niall. “Go on to the dining room. I need a quick word with my husband.”
Niall looked a bit taken aback by her bossiness, but then, he hadn’t seen her in seven years. He didn’t know the Clarissa whom Edwin knew and adored. The Clarissa who’d changed his life. Who’d made him whole.
Who’d proved that he did believe in love, after all.
Niall departed for the dining room, leaving the couple alone together.
Clarissa turned to Edwin with a sultry smile. “So, to return to our earlier conversation, would you like to know what room I’ve imagined making love in?”
That got his attention instantly. “Damned right I would.”
“Perhaps we should make it a wager.” She dragged one finger down his chest, making his blood heat. “If you guess the correct room, you get a reward.”
He swallowed hard. Amazing how she could still rouse him with one word, one look. One sensual insinuation. “A reward, eh? What sort of reward?”
Her minxish smile increased the pounding of his heart. “Oh, I don’t know. You can kiss my arm, I suppose.” With a knowing glance, she touched the inside of
her elbow. “Right here.”
“I have a better idea. If I guess the room, then I get to make love to you in it. After your brother has returned home tonight.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes gleamed. “That sounds like an excellent reward. But what do I get if you don’t guess correctly?”
“The same thing you get if I do—my heart, my body, my soul.”
“In that case, I can’t lose,” she said, her love for him shining in her face.
“Neither can I.” He drew her into his arms. “And that, my love, is the best kind of wager.”
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The Art of Sinning
* * *
Dominick Manton, the heir presumptive to the Viscount Rathmoor, has only ever wanted one woman—Jane Vernon, cousin to his late brother George’s widow. He and Jane were engaged before George’s betrayal tore them apart. Now he’s determined to get her back, but they’ll have to resolve the problems of their past. Can they do that after all these years when a treacherous plot to steal the viscountcy is afoot?
If the Viscount Falls
* * *
Investigator Tristan Bonnaud sets out to find gypsies, but finds Lady Zoe Keane, the daughter of the Earl of Olivier, instead. Tristan doesn’t expect to uncover Lady Zoe’s family secrets . . .or end up falling for the woman who will risk all to discover the truth.
How the Scoundrel Seduces
* * *
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The Danger of Desire
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One
London
August 1830
When Warren Corry, Marquess of Knightford, arrived at a Venetian breakfast thrown by the Duke and Duchess of Lyons, he regretted having stayed out until the wee hours of the morning. Last night he’d just been so glad to be back among the distractions of town that he’d drunk enough brandy to pickle a barrel of herrings.
Bad idea, since the duke and duchess had decided to hold the blasted party in the blazing sun on the lawn of their lavish London mansion. His mouth was dry, his stomach churned, and his head felt like a stampeding herd of elephants.
His best friend, Edwin, had better be grateful that Warren kept his promises.
“Warren!” cried a female voice painfully close. “What are you doing here?”
It was Clarissa, his cousin, who also just happened to be Edwin’s wife—and the reason Warren had managed to drag himself from his bed at the ungodly hour of noon.
He shaded his eyes to peer at her. As usual, she had the look of a delicate fairy creature. But he knew better than to fall for that cat-in-the-cream smile. “Must you shout like that?”
“I am not shouting.” She cocked her head. “And you look ill. So you must have had a grand time at St. George’s club last night. Either that, or in the stews early this morning.”
“I always have a grand time.” Or at least he kept the night at bay, which was the purpose of staying out until all hours.
“I know, which is why it’s really unlike you to be here. Especially when Edwin isn’t.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Wait a minute—Edwin sent you here, didn’t he? Because he couldn’t be in town for it.”
“What? No.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “Can’t a fellow just come to a breakfast to see his favorite cousin?”
“He can. But he generally doesn’t.”
Warren snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “Well, he did today. Wait, who are we talking about again?”
“Very amusing.” Taking the glass from him, she frowned. “You do not need this. You’re clearly cropsick.”
He snatched it back and downed it. “Which is precisely why I require some hair of the dog.”
“You’re avoiding the subject. Did Edwin send you here to spy on me or not?”
“Don’t be absurd. He merely wanted me to look in on you, make sure everything was all right. You know your husband—he hates having to be at the estate with Niall while you’re in town.” He glanced at her thickening waist. “Especially when you’re . . . well . . . like that.”
“Oh, Lord, not you, too. Bad enough to have him and my brother hovering over me all the time, worried about my getting hurt somehow, but if he’s sent you to start doing that—”
“No, I swear. He only asked that I come by if I were attending this. I had to be in town anyway, so I figured why not pop in to Lyons’ affair?” He waved his empty glass. “The duke always orders excellent champagne. But now that I’ve had some, I’ll just be on my way.”
She took him by the arm. “No, indeed. I so rarely get to see you anymore. Stay awhile. They’re about to start the dancing.”
“Just what I need—to dance with a lot of simpering misses who think a coronet the ideal prize.”
“Then dance with me. I can still dance, you know.”
No doubt. Clarissa had always been a lively sort, who wouldn’t be slowed by something as inconsequential as bearing the heir to the reserved and rather eccentric Earl of Blakeborough.
Clarissa and Edwin were so different that sometimes Warren wondered what the two of them saw in each other. But whenever he witnessed their obvious affection for each other, he realized there must be something deeper cementing their marriage. It made him envious.
He scowled. That was absurd. He didn’t intend to marry for a very long while. At least not until he found a lusty widow who could endure his . . . idiosyncrasies.
Clarissa stared off into the crowd. “As long as you’re here, I . . . um . . . do need a favor.”
Uh-oh. “What kind of favor?”
“Edwin would do it if he didn’t have to be in Hertfordshire helping my brother settle the family estate, you know,” she babbled. “And Niall—”
“What’s the favor?” he persisted.
“Do you know Miss Trevor?”
Miss Trevor? This had better not be another of Clarissa’s schemes to get him married off. “Fortunately, I do not. I assume she’s one of those debutantes you’ve taken under your wing.”
“Not exactly. Although she was just brought out this past season, she’s actually my age . . . and a friend. Her brother, Reynold Trevor, died last year in some horrible shooting accident, and she and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Trevor, have been left without anything but a debt-ridden estate to support. So Miss Trevor’s aunt, Lady Pensworth, brought the two of them to London for the Season.”
“To find them husbands, no doubt.”
“Exactly, although I think Lady Pensworth is more concerned about Miss Trevor, since the late Mr. Trevor’s wife has already borne him a child who will inherit the estate, such as it is. To make Miss Trevor more eligible, Lady Pensworth has bestowed a five-hundred-pound dowry on her, which ought to tempt a number of eligible gentlemen.”
“Not me.”
She looked startled. “I wasn’t thinking of you, for heaven’s sake. I was thinking of someone less wealthy, with fewer connections. And decidedly younger. She’s only twenty-four, after all.”
Decidedly younger? “Here now, I’m not that old. I’m the same age as your husband.”
“True.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “And given your nightly habits, you apparently possess the stamina of a much younger man. Why, no one seeing you in dim light would ever guess you’re thirty-three.”
He eyed her askance. “I seem to recall your asking me for a favor, dear girl. You’re not going about getting it very wisely.”
�
�The thing is, I’m worried about my friend. Miss Trevor keeps receiving these notes at parties, which she slips furtively off to read; she falls asleep in the middle of balls; and she seems rather distracted. Worst of all, she refused my invitation to our house party next week, which I had partly planned in hopes of introducing her to eligible young gentlemen.”
“Perhaps she had another engagement.”
Clarissa lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Right. She needs a husband, and you’re nicely trying to provide her with a selection of potential ones.” He smirked at her. “How ungrateful of her not to fall in with your plans.”
“Do be serious. When was the last time you saw any unmarried woman with limited prospects refuse a chance to attend a house party at the home of an earl and a countess with our connections?”
He hated to admit it, but she had a point. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
“Ask around at St. George’s. See if anyone has heard any gossip about her. Find out if anyone knows some scoundrel who’s been . . . well . . . sniffing around her for her dowry.”
The light dawned. During her debut years ago, Clarissa had been the object of such a scoundrel’s attentions, and it had nearly destroyed the lives of her and her brother. So she tended to be overly sensitive about women who might fall prey to fortune hunters.
“You do know that if I start asking about an eligible young lady at the club,” he said, “the members will assume I’m interested in courting her.”
“Nonsense. Everyone knows you prefer soiled doves to society loves.”
That wasn’t entirely true. He did occasionally bed bored widows or ladies with inattentive husbands. There were a great many of those hanging about—one reason he wasn’t keen to marry. He had a ready supply of bedmates without having to leg-shackle himself.
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