by Lisa Bingham
“Don’t you see? You are his worst enemy, his ultimate foe. He won’t take you quickly.” Her voice dropped to a tortured warning. “He will make a sport of it. He will dangle you over hot coals. He will toy with you, torture you, demean you in every possible way. He will ultimately kill you. Not swiftly, but in the most painful and degrading manner he can devise.”
Rather than appearing frightened, Sullivan rose from the bed and padded toward her, weaving his fingers through her hair and forcing her to face him. “What did he do to you?”
“That isn’t important.”
“It is when you can’t let it go, when it intrudes upon what we have together.”
“Richard! I am trying to warn you.”
“I’ve listened to your warnings. I promise that I will take them into account. But I won’t run from here with my tail between my legs. Too much is at stake.” He bent so that she couldn’t avoid the iron determination reflected in his eyes. “Damn it, Chelsea, trust me. Trust me enough to see this through. To take care of you—and of me. I won’t allow him to bring harm to us.”
She didn’t speak.
“I will take care. I will be safe. I have people who are assisting me, people loyal to Biddy and her cause. You asked me once to work with you. You chided me once for ignoring my own family. Well, now that I’m helping them, you berate me still. Help me, Chelsea. Help me.”
Her nails dug into his wrists.
“Do you trust me so little?” he asked when she still did not answer.
“It’s not you I don’t trust.”
“Then make me understand. Tell me what happened between you and Nigel. Tell me … something.”
“I have an innate disbelief of perfect things. Invariably there is a flaw, a form of deception.” She touched his chest, his ribs. “But I am also a vain creature. I would have you think of me, not as I am, but of someone better. More beautiful, more skilled, more desirable.”
“You could never be more beautiful to me.”
She smiled shyly, and her expression gleamed with challenge. “Oh?” she drawled.
Pushing him resolutely toward the bed, she waited until he had dropped onto the covers, then retreated. Under his watchful scrutiny, she crossed to the dresser, opening one of the drawers. Even from his vantage point across the room, Sullivan could see that it was filled with silken underthings, lacy chemises, frilly pantalets, garters, stockings, and corsets.
Turning her back to him, she drew several items free. To his infinite consternation and arousal, she slid into a silk dressing gown, then moved to the opposite side of the room. It soon became clear that she intended to clothe herself.
Sitting on the chair several yards away, she gathered one virginal white silk stocking and inserted her toes into the delicate end, obscuring the creamy flesh beneath, while, inch by inch, she sheathed her foot, her ankle, her calf, exposing the shimmering fabric and elaborate pink embroidered clocking. After smoothing the gossamer hosiery into place, she wrapped a ruffled pink garter around her upper thigh, just below the hem of the stocking, and tied the rose-colored ribbon. Even from where he lay, Sullivan could see the wink and shimmer of beading, the subtle sway of tiny tassels. Elegant thighs.
Then she proceeded to sheath her second leg, just as slowly, just as decadently, just as enticingly. Sullivan’s breath came in shallow degrees. Where moments before he would have considered himself satisfied for a time, he felt himself responding.
When she had finished, Chelsea returned to the dresser. She allowed the robe to drip from her shoulders and puddle at her feet. The smooth line of her spine caught a whisker of shadow. The velvety skin of her back, spine, and derriere was bathed in mellow candle glow.
Reaching into the drawer, she withdrew another silk garment, this time rose in color, paler than that decorating her stockings and only a shade darker than her skin. Gathering it over her head, she shimmied into the rustling undergarment, allowing it to settle over her body like an opalescent cloud. The action brought a whiff of the exotic scent that clung to her skin and now tinged his own.
Last of all, she withdrew a tiny wisp of a corset, a mere confection of lace and ribbons and bows. Sullivan had never seen such a creation before. He had heard of them from his brothers—matinee stays, they were called. Proper women were said to wear them beneath their night rails to maintain the illusion of a tiny-waisted figure. But as far as Sullivan could see, the article served no real purpose other than to entice a man into seeing what lay beneath.
When Chelsea faced him, Sullivan swallowed against the tight clutch of desire that had settled in his throat … and much farther down. The chemise had been cut to ride low, exposing her shoulders to the tapers’ gleam. Except for the way the garment clung to the bastions of her breasts, there would have been nothing to keep it from dropping completely to the floor.
Bending slightly, Chelsea wrapped the corset around her ribcage, affording him a view of her swaying breasts. Straightening, she tugged on the satin ribbon wound through the handmade eyelets marching up the front. The span of her waist grew small, tightening into a rigid drum. Her breasts mounded high and firm and incredibly alluring.
“I used to wear these things under my woolen gowns when I came to fetch you for your lessons, Master Richard. You were so heathenish, so inappropriately garbed, I despaired of ever seeing you properly covered. I thought that nothing could ever be as disturbing to me as your nakedness.”
She shot him an indulgent look when he stretched like a preening panther, tucking a fist beneath his head to prop himself up at a better advantage for gawking.
“I’ve had these unmentionables for years. I bought them whenever I felt blue, tucking them away, never to be worn. But upon arriving at Bellemoore with my new charge, I found myself wanting to wear them. I think I did so because of the way you made me feel.” Her voice dropped, becoming husky, enticing. “I often wondered if you knew, if you guessed what I wore beneath those staid, conservative gowns.” With one last yank, she tied the ribbon in place. Her bosom pressed against the restrictive lace, the creamy globes quivering with each breath she took. The meager weight of silk coated her hips and her legs in the merest excuse of fabric. Each time she moved, the chemise shifted and swayed, offering peeks of bare flesh and naughty stockings.
“I thought that nothing could ever be as unnerving as the sight of bare skin. But when I saw you today, clothed so completely, I knew I was wrong.” Her smile held the temptation of Eve. “I discovered that I’m a woman who loves a mystery. Tonight I wallowed in the pleasure of seeing each layer unpeeled, bit by bit, piece by piece, to expose the treasures hidden beneath.”
She leaned one knee on the bed and bent over him, her bust straining at its bindings, the shaded outlines of her thighs beckoning to him beneath their icing of silk.
“I offer you the same joy of discovery, the same mystery. So that in the future, when you see me dressed in the uniform society dictates I wear, you will never forget what can be found beneath.”
She bent for his kiss, a kiss that soon exploded into a flurry of need, an overwhelming passion. At one point, Sullivan realized she had dodged the issue he had been trying to expose. She had still refused to tell him about Nigel. But then he didn’t care. He was lost in a maelstrom of white-hot desires.
Later, much later, as he plunged into her eager body, Sullivan admitted she’d been right in her assumptions. He would never forget kissing her nipples through the sheer chemise. He would never forget battling with the strings of her corset. He would never forget drawing the items free to expose what lay beneath.
But the hosiery he refused to remove. He remembered the promise he’d made that day on the moor—that someday, someday soon, he would make love to her while she was wearing nothing more than those stockings.
Sullivan sighed, wearily, happily. For the remainder of his days, he would be unable to forget those silk-clad thighs gripping him, the tasseled garters caressing him, as Chelsea and
he became one.
Chapter 21
Nigel rose from his wife’s bed and slid into the Turkish dressing gown. He didn’t glance behind him, didn’t feel so much as a pang of conscience for the bruises he’d left on her pale skin.
Not bothering to don more than that modicum of clothing, he returned to his room. Just as he had suspected, Reginald had returned and propped himself insolently on the bed.
Reggie stared at Nigel over the lip of a snifter of liqueur. “One would think that at your age you would grow less randy, but the opposite seems to be true.”
His employer spared him little more than a glance as he stepped to the armoire in the corner, opening the door to reveal the porcelain wash set hidden on a shelf inside. Stripping off the robe, he began to wash with clinical efficiency. “I would hope you haven’t been so foolish as to return without some news regarding the errand I gave you.”
Reginald balked at the silent threat, taking the time to sniff the brandy’s bouquet, then deliberately releasing the air. “Cane has disappeared. However …” He trailed into silence.
“What, damn it!”
Reginald’s lips quirked in barely suppressed malice. “However, I was able to determine that the stranger who spoke to your wife and the Dowager Sutherland’s impostor are one and the same.”
Nigel forgot his anger and stared at his assistant in disbelief. “You saw him?”
“At Bellemoore. He was in the garden, speaking to Beatrice Sutherland. He even addressed her as Grandmama.”
Nigel toweled himself dry and wrenched open the opposite armoire door, removing a freshly laundered set of underdrawers. As he stepped into the woolen legs and buttoned the front placket, he stared thoughtfully at the opposite wall.
“I have decided to forgive you for your previous outburst, Nigel,” Reginald said.
Nigel glared at him but did not respond. Reggie might challenge. He might bully and bother and bicker. But he’d always seen to Nigel’s needs.
“Would you like me to kill him?” Reginald asked with bland bluntness.
Deciding to placate his secretary, for the moment at least, Nigel shook his head. “No. Thanks ever so much for the offer, Reggie, but after all she’s put me through, I have a deep, abiding craving to see Chelsea Wickersham squirm. Once she’s agreed to return to me, I’ll take care of him myself.”
Reggie sipped at his drink. “And Cane?”
Deep in thought, Nigel stepped into a pair of trousers. When he spoke, his tone was hard. Bitter. “Find him and bring him to me. In chains, if you have to.”
“What’s the man done, Nigel?” Reggie asked mildly.
Nigel stuffed the tails of his shirt into his breeches, donned woolen stockings and shiny boots, fastened his cuffs, and slipped into a velvet waist and superfine frockcoat. “Never you mind. This is between me and Mr. Cane.”
Reginald frowned. His employer had never had any secrets from him before.
Some of Lord Sutherland’s snappishness returned. “What are you waiting for, Reggie? I told you to find Cane. Now.”
“What are you up to, Nigel?”
“That’s my affair.”
“You’ve always confided in me in the past.”
“Blast it all! Just do what I say!”
Reggie’s lips pursed in anger and irritation, but he complied nonetheless. Not because Nigel had told him to, but because he meant to uncover the reasons behind his employer’s uncharacteristic behavior. If the elusive Mr. Cane was at fault, Reginald would take care of him, too.
A tap came at the door. Sullivan was immediately awake. Sliding from the bed, he spared a glance for his companion and was relieved to see that she continued to sleep, undisturbed.
Pulling on breeches, socks, boots, and a shirt, he emerged to find Greyson waiting anxiously, a taper gripped in his spindly fingers.
“A visitor, sir.”
“Rupert?”
He shook his head.
“One of Lord Sutherland’s men?”
“No, sir. His wife.”
Sullivan took the candle. “Where?”
“I showed her into the studio. Away from prying eyes.”
“Very good, Greyson.”
“Would you like me to come with you, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve been expecting Lady Sutherland for some time now.”
As Greyson disappeared down the back stairs, Sullivan hurried the opposite way. Opening one of the double doors to the studio, he stood in the threshold, seeing the petite woman who waited, her back turned to him.
She stared at the painting of the woman she had betrayed so long ago. Her sister. Greyson had provided her with a brace of candles. They now sputtered on the desk.
“I loved him, you know.”
Sullivan didn’t wonder how she knew it was he who had joined her, but he didn’t question her instincts. Despite all that had happened, he felt an affinity with this woman. Perhaps because one so small, so delicate, so beautiful, should not be so inherently strong-willed.
“My intent to seduce your father was not entirely malicious. I thought that once Richard Albert had spent a full night in my arms, once he’d kissed me, caressed me, loved me, he would no longer care for Julie.”
Estella traced her sister’s canvas smile, touched the crinkled lines of laughter fanning from the corners of her eyes. “I was quite foolish. Quite foolish, and quite smitten. Julie was so innocent in the ways of the world, I was sure that she couldn’t possibly be in love with your father. Not really, truly, in love as I was,”
Night flowed around them like warm India ink, reminding Sullivan of the lateness of the hour. For Estella to come to him this way had been dangerous. For him to agree to meet with her without the benefit of someone to guard his back had been foolhardy. But somehow he sensed she would prove no threat to him, even though she had hurt his father immeasurably by falling into league with Nigel’s plans.
“Were you in love with him, Estella, or merely infatuated?”
“Amazingly enough, I love him still.”
“What about Nigel?”
She faced him, her chin tipping, a sad mixture of pride and defiance tainting her expression. “I have become the consummate actress. In the last thirty years, I have given him every reason to believe that I worship the ground he walks upon. He doesn’t know how I’ve strangled beneath his possessiveness, his jealousy. He doesn’t know how much I’ve grown to hate him for what he did to Richard Albert. Not to mention my sister.” Her voice dropped. “He doesn’t know that the son I bore him is not his own.”
Completely turning her back to the portrait, she walked forward. It was then, as she stepped more completely into the light, that he saw the bruises on her jaw.
When she noted Sullivan’s attention, she met his gaze with a piercing thoroughness that belied her petite frame.
“He hit you.”
“Mere badges of honor, I assure you. Do not worry overmuch. His actions gave me the courage to leave him, you know. Otherwise, I would not have met with you this evening. I told myself that I wouldn’t help you. I told myself I wouldn’t even allow myself to remember our brief tête-à-tête of this afternoon.”
“These changed your mind?” he asked, gesturing to the mottled colors beginning to appear.
“Surprisingly enough, not entirely. This is not the first time he’s done such a thing; it wouldn’t be the last. No … I grew tired of pretending,” was her cryptic reply. She reached beneath her cape to withdraw a sheaf of papers. “I believe you asked if I knew anything about the conspiracy to discredit your father. I not only knew about it, but, as a woman scorned, I did nothing to stop it. I thought that if I couldn’t have Richard Albert, I would take all he would have given me, the title, family wealth, prestige, and pass them on to the son he never knew he had.” She extended the ivory-aged parchments. “Take them.”
“Does Cecil know—”
“That you are hi
s half-brother? No.”
“You realize that if you do this, he will never stand to inherit. He might be the firstborn of my father, but even if the truth were known, he would be considered little more—”
“Than a by-blow bastard. I know. But in the last thirty years, I have also come to realize that I have more to offer my son than a legacy of deceit. He deserves more. You deserve more.”
She hesitated, then reached beneath her cape again. “I trust you, Richard Sutherland. I don’t deserve your kindness or your compassion, but you have given them to me freely, nonetheless. So I would like to leave you with two small gifts. The first is yours to use as you will.” She withdrew a letter addressed to her husband in her own script. “I have taken the liberty of explaining my actions and the true parentage of my son. If it can aid you and your cause, you may feel free to use it at any time and in any capacity.”
Her lips tightened, her chin trembled ever so slightly, but she determinedly pushed away her imminent emotions. “The second is not for you, but for Gelsey … no, Chelsea is her name now, I believe.” She clutched something hidden in her palm, then opened to reveal a pair of keys tied with a white velvet ribbon. “Tell her that I knew. That I knew and did nothing. I am deeply and most regrettably ashamed.” She dangled the keys, waiting for Sullivan to take them. Then she seemed to study those tiny pieces of iron with great remorse. “Tell her that I admire her greatly. She stood up to Nigel—something that until now I haven’t had the courage to do.”
Without further comment, she hurried from the room in a rustle of skirts.
“Estella,” he called quickly.
She stopped but did not turn.