'Til Death Do Us Part

by Amanda Quick

  Her fingers shook a little as she undid the front of Trent’s dressing gown. She eased her palms inside the garment—and caught her breath when she felt the rough, etched skin that covered his left shoulder.

  He was nude above the waist. Below that, he was garbed in a pair of loose-fitting trousers of the sort men wore as nightclothes. She could see the clear outline of his rigid erection pressing against the fabric. The sight made her go very still.

  He raised his mouth from hers. Shadows moved in his eyes.

  “I should have warned you,” he said, his voice raw with some edgy emotion and the control that he was exerting to mask it.

  “About what?” she asked.

  “The scars are not limited to my face.”

  Very deliberately she rested one hand on the ridged skin of his shoulder.

  “It is not the look and feel of your scars that shocks me,” she said. “It is the knowledge that you must have endured a great deal of pain at the time you acquired them. Eudora told me Bristow hurled acid at you—acid that was intended to destroy her face.”

  Trent took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said. “The only thing that matters to me tonight is whether or not you are so repulsed by the sight of my scars that you cannot allow me to make love to you.”

  “There is nothing about you that I find repulsive. Quite the opposite. You are the most attractive man I have ever met.” She risked what she hoped was a sultry smile. “And I assure you, I have met a number of gentlemen in my business.”

  He ignored her weak attempt at humor. Instead he watched her with a seriousness that tore at her emotions.

  “Have you loved any of those other gentlemen?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He kissed her and she was once again lost to passion.

  She barely noticed when he drew the hem of her nightgown up above her knees. But the feel of his warm hand on the inside of her thigh sent a shock through her. She went still, her breath tight. Everything inside her was tight, as well. A tension unlike anything she had ever known seethed deep within her.

  He moved his mouth to her throat. “You are so soft. I could spend the rest of the night just touching you.”

  “I think I would enjoy that very much.” There was a shivery note in her voice now. “I like the feel of your hands on me.”

  He groaned again and his touch became ever more intimate. She knew a sudden wave of embarrassment when she realized that she was growing damp. Trent’s hand was wet and slick now—because of her. She stirred uneasily, at the mercy of a great confusion of the senses. She wanted more, needed more, but she was not sure exactly what it was that she craved.

  He did something with his hand and she drew a sharp breath. She gripped his bare shoulders, desperate now. What was happening to her?

  “Trent. Trent.”

  “Come for me,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.” She was breathless.

  “There is nothing to understand. Just abandon yourself to pleasure. I want to know that I can give this to you.”

  He probed deeper, slipping his fingers inside her. She almost shrieked aloud. She would have done so had she been able to catch her breath. Instinctively she tightened herself around him, searching for an escape from the impossible tension.

  It was as if he were drawing a bowstring tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap.

  When the release came she was overwhelmed by the cascading waves of sensation. Lost in the wonder of the moment she was only dimly aware that he had opened his nightclothes and freed himself.

  He gripped her legs and wrapped them around his waist.

  “Hold me,” he said.

  It was a command and a plea.

  She obeyed because there was nothing she wanted to do more than hold him. She wanted the moment to last forever. She tightened her legs around him and gripped his shoulders with all of her might.

  He thrust deeply, heavily into her. A sharp, lancing pain shocked her nerves, jolting her back to reality.

  Trent froze. “Calista.”

  “It’s all right,” she managed. She gripped him very tightly between her thighs. “It’s all right.”

  Trent hesitated and then, when she did not release him, he began to move within her. Slowly, deeply, deliberately at first. And then with more force.

  She was still struggling to adjust to the feeling of being so tightly stretched when Trent stiffened. The muscles of his shoulders were like steel bands beneath her hands.

  With an effort of will he pulled free of her body, grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket, and sheathed himself in the large square of linen.

  With a barely muffled groan, he gave himself up to his release.

  When it was over he clutched the damp handkerchief in one hand and braced himself with his other hand planted on the desk beside her thigh. He loomed over her.

  “Calista,” he said.

  She dared not move. She could not move.

  His eyes burned with the heat of spent passion.

  “Calista,” he said again. “You should have told me.”

  “It was my decision,” she said. “Never forget that.”

  He drew a deep breath. “May I say that I am very glad you chose tonight to make the decision?”

  She smiled. “You may.”

  He gave her a perfunctory little kiss on the forehead, made his way to the nearest armchair, and collapsed into it.

  Now that the passion and drama had subsided she was overcome with a sense of awkwardness. She had no idea how a woman of the world was supposed to act in such circumstances. Grandmother had offered no advice for such delicate situations. Then again, Grandmother would have been horrified by such a situation.

  She jumped down from the desk. But her knees proved unsteady. She swept out a hand to catch her balance and accidentally knocked a pile of client folders onto the floor. Her neatly detailed notes were scattered across the carpet. She ignored them to pull her wrapper securely around herself and tie the sash.

  Trent watched her intently, as if he could not take his eyes off her. She took a deep breath and seized what she could of her composure.

  “You’re certain you are all right?” Trent asked.

  She did not know what she had been expecting him to say but that particular question was not it. She was shocked to realize that, deep down, she rather hoped he would make a passionate declaration of undying love. She reminded herself that they were barely acquainted with each other. Which only made the entire affair all the more scandalous.

  Nevertheless, she thought, he certainly could have said something mildly romantic, or merely polite. At the very least he might have indicated that he had enjoyed himself. He was a writer, after all. He was supposed to have a certain fluency with words.

  On the other hand, he was not at his best when he wrote about Clive’s feelings toward the mysterious Wilhelmina Preston.

  “Of course I’m all right,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

  She crouched on the carpet and began to gather up the papers and folders.

  “Calista?”

  He pushed himself up out of the chair and went down on one knee beside her. He started to help collect the folders.

  “Don’t,” she said, more sharply than she had intended.

  He looked at her, brows slightly elevated. “I was only trying to help.”

  “I know.” Now she was angry at herself for the unwarranted flash of anger. “But it will be faster if I do it. I can identify my own notes more quickly.”

  “As you wish.”

  He sat back on his heels and watched her gather up the papers.

  “Calista,” he said again. �
�I’m sorry. It never occurred to me that this might be your first experience of this sort of thing. I swear, I never meant to hurt you.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a bright little smile. “No need to apologize, sir. But I will admit I am very curious about something and I would be glad of an explanation.”

  “What?”

  She stopped collecting papers and sat sideways on the rug, her legs curled beside her. “Will you tell me more about how you came by those scars? Eudora told me only a little. I realize it is none of my affair but given that you know so many of my secrets—”

  “You feel you have a right to some of mine.” He nodded and got to his feet. “You are correct.” He crossed the room, picked up the brandy bottle, and splashed some into a glass. “In and of itself, it’s no great secret, but we do not talk about it outside the family.”

  “I understand. Forgive me for prying.”

  He swallowed some brandy and looked at her. “Sometimes I think the real problem is that we don’t talk about it inside the family, either. You know how it is with family secrets.”

  43

  HE DECIDED TO tell her the truth, or at least the part of it she had asked for. He owed her that much, he thought. And as it was the only thing she seemed to want from him tonight, he would give it to her.

  In that moment he knew that he would give her anything she asked of him.

  An eerie sense of recognition—of knowing—slammed through him, stealing his breath. This was not how sexual desire felt. Desire hit a man hard and fast and then dissipated rapidly because there was nothing to anchor it. This was something more, something that went deep; something that felt timeless. Inescapable.

  This was the kind of powerful emotion that could alter the course of a man’s life—or seal his doom.

  The sight of Calista curled up on the carpet, disheveled and bewildered by what had just happened between them, unlocked a gate somewhere inside him. A new path was revealing itself, one he had long ago assumed he would never discover.

  Simultaneously, the realization that she might be regretting their passionate encounter filled him with a dread unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  He let the heat of the brandy warm him while he searched for a way into the story.

  “I told you that my mother’s second husband, Bristow, did not remain at the country house for her funeral,” he said. “He went straight to London and there he remained for several months. But eventually he returned to the village where Eudora, Harry, and I lived.”

  “Why did he come back?”

  “He managed to gamble away almost all of my mother’s inheritance. He found himself in debt to a very dangerous man.”

  “The crime lord, Mr. Pell?”

  “No. One of Pell’s competitors. The day Bristow showed up at the house I was not there. I had walked into town to browse in the local bookshop. When I got home the housekeeper was in a panic. Bristow had forced his way into the house. He was upstairs in my brother’s laboratory, shouting at Eudora.”

  “She told me that he had a terrible temper,” Calista said.

  “Bristow was screaming at her, insisting that she pack a bag and accompany him back to London. I told the housekeeper to fetch Tom, the gardener. Then I went up the stairs to the laboratory. Bristow was in a rage. It became clear that he had promised Eudora to a crime lord named Jenner.”

  Calista’s mouth dropped open in shock. “What?”

  “Jenner owned one of the gambling hells in which Bristow had lost a great deal of money.”

  “Your stepfather intended to use Eudora to pay his debts?”

  “Jenner was one of those men with a taste for innocent young girls. There was no shortage of them in London, of course, but most of his prey came from the slums. The thought of acquiring a respectable, gently bred young lady as his mistress evidently appealed to him.”

  “Poor Eudora. She must have been terrified.”

  “When he was finished with her, Jenner would have put her to work as a prostitute in one of the brothels he operated. On that day in Harry’s laboratory Eudora did not fully comprehend the fate Bristow intended for her but she knew more than enough about him to be terrified. When I walked into the laboratory I saw that he had backed her up against a wall. He had a flask of acid that he had picked up from Harry’s workbench.”

  “Dear heaven.”

  “Bristow was threatening to hurl the acid straight into Eudora’s face if she continued to defy him. Harry was also in the room. He was pleading with Bristow.”

  Horrified, Calista climbed to her feet, a couple of folders in one hand. “What did you do?”

  “When he saw me in the doorway, Bristow ordered me to leave. He threatened to throw the acid at Eudora if I took so much as a single step closer to him.”

  “He used her as a hostage?”

  “That was his plan but he was starting to panic. The three of us faced him from three different sides of the room. He could not watch all of us at once and it was me he feared the most.”

  “Yes, of course. You were the oldest.”

  “I told him that I would give him a family ring that had been handed down to me by my grandfather. I explained that it was worth a great deal of money—more than enough to pay off his gambling debts. Bristow didn’t believe me, not at first, so I described it in great detail—a single large ruby set all around with diamonds and sapphires.”

  “It must have been worth a fortune,” Calista said.

  “Bristow was suspicious, of course. He said my mother had never mentioned such a valuable ring. I explained that was because it was my inheritance. She had always feared that if he got his hands on it he would sell it. I told him that the ring was hidden in a secret drawer in my grandfather’s cabinet of curiosities.”

  “Where was the cabinet?”

  “It sat in a corner of the laboratory. Bristow told me to get the ring and show it to him. I went to the cabinet, opened one of the drawers, and took out a small box.”

  “What happened?” Calista asked, riveted by the tale.

  “Bristow became very excited at the sight of the box. He demanded that I put it on one of the workbenches. I went to stand at the open window instead. I threatened to toss the ring out into the same pond in which he had drowned my mother unless he released Eudora.”

  “He believed you?”

  “By then he was desperate to get his hands on that ring. I also pointed out that it would be very difficult to drag Eudora to London holding that flask of acid. I agreed to let him have the ring in exchange for Eudora. He was desperate so he took the bargain. I set the box on a workbench. He was still holding the flask in one hand so he was forced to release Eudora in order to pick up the box. The instant she was free I told her to run. She fled out into the hall. Bristow was enraged. But his rage was directed at me because I had tricked him.”

  “That was when he hurled the acid at you?”

  “By then he had opened the box and realized it was empty.”

  Calista’s eyes widened. “It was all a bluff?”

  “I told him a story, Calista. People will follow you anywhere if you tell them a tale they desperately want to believe. It’s astonishing, really, how gullible even the most skeptical person can be if he or she wants to believe.”

  “There never was a ring?”

  “If I’d owned such a ring I would have sold it and invested the profits immediately after my mother’s funeral because Bristow had devastated the family finances. No, there was no ring.”

  “That was quite brilliant thinking on your part, Trent.”

  “I make my living writing fiction, remember? I have always been rather good at inventing stories.”

  “But in that instance you paid a great price.”

  “I did the only thing I could think of under the circumstances.”

  “Yes, o
f course,” Calista said. “You had to protect Eudora.”

  She understood, he thought. Of course, she did.

  “I managed to turn partially aside and cover my eyes with my arm,” he continued. He looked down at the scars on the back of his hand. “The day was very warm. I had removed my jacket, opened the collar of my shirt, and rolled up my sleeves in the course of the long walk home. Not that the fabric was much protection. The acid burned through my shirt in places.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Tom, the gardener, arrived on the scene. He was armed with a stout shovel. With the flask empty, Bristow was unarmed. He fled toward the door, screaming at the gardener to get out of the way. I told Tom to let the bastard go.”

  “You could not allow Tom to be arrested for assault.”

  Again, she understood, he thought.

  “Harry doused me with the buckets of water he kept handy in case he accidentally set a fire with one of his experiments. It was all very chaotic for a time. When events calmed down, Bristow was gone. I learned later that he caught the train to London that same day.”

  “Eudora told me that Bristow died soon after that day. A fever, she said.”

  This was the tricky part of the story, he thought. He drank a little more brandy to give himself a moment to think. He had told the tale in its entirety to only one other person—Jonathan Pell. Until now only he and Pell knew the real ending.

  “I realized that when he’d had time to recover from events at the country house, Bristow would not rest until he found a way to get rid of me. Eudora was his only hope of escaping Jenner. I also knew that he probably did not have a lot of time. Jenner was not a patient man.”

  “You went looking for Bristow, didn’t you?”

  “Just as soon as my wounds had partially healed. But Bristow had gone to ground in London. It was not me he feared, but the man to whom he owed money.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went into the hells and started asking questions. Jonathan Pell was an up-and-coming crime lord at the time. At first I think he was merely intrigued, perhaps even amused, by my determination. He told me that if he helped me, there would be a price to pay. There is always a price, he said.”