Tempt Me Twice

by Olivia Drake

  A short, stocky young man with intense brown eyes approached from her left side. “I beg your guardian to introduce us, fair lady.”

  Even as Uncle Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak, yet another handsome gentleman swept an extravagant bow. “May I offer you many happy returns of the day.”

  Surrounded by admirers, Meg laughed from sheer happiness. It was her birthday! She was a woman now. She could have suitors and flirtations, kisses and courtships. How pleasing it would be to accept love letters and poems written by ardent gentlemen. She might even receive a marriage proposal or two.

  “There you are, Miss Margaret,” Sir Charles said, stepping past the other men to take her gloved hand in his. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  A fluttery excitement took wing in her stomach. The baron’s warm gaze made her feel special, and Meg only just restrained herself from blurting out an assent. She mustn’t appear too eager.

  She coyly looked up at Uncle Nathaniel. “May I?”

  Uncle Nathaniel didn’t respond with his usual alacrity, and Meg was afraid that he too believed the worst of Sir Charles. What if he denied the request? Dizzy with anticipation, she held her breath.

  Then he nodded, although Meg noticed a troubled expression on his weathered face.

  With steadfast gaiety, she put him out of her mind. Sir Charles had singled her out for his attention! The mere touch of his gloved fingers on hers as he led her to the dance floor was enough to make her heart beat faster.

  They joined the line of dancers forming in the center of the ballroom. The music began, the sprightly melody stirring her blood. Sir Charles was much older than her, at least in his middle thirties, but that fact only enhanced his glamour. No doubt, he had courted many women. He had kissed them...perhaps even on the mouth. What would it be like to have those male lips pressed to hers? The daring thought made her giddy.

  As the dance steps brought him closer, his admiring blue eyes held hers. “You are the most exquisite woman here, Margaret. May I be so bold as to address you so familiarly?”

  “Yes, please! But my family calls me Meg.”

  “I prefer Margaret. It suits the virtuous maiden that you are.”

  Though she’d always thought her full name to be staid and dull, Sir Charles made it sound as if it belonged to a medieval princess. Indeed, she felt like royalty, gliding around him as he bowed to her in accordance with the dance. “Perhaps from now on,” she said, “I shall tell everyone to call me Margaret.”

  “Or you might allow me alone that honor.” He deftly caught her hand, drawing her closer. As they stepped in a circle, his amorous gaze bewitched her. “If you’ll permit me, Margaret, I’d like to show you my castle later. We could become better acquainted.”

  For a moment she forgot to breathe. Did Sir Charles mean to pay her court? Should she let him? Her most cherished dream was happening so fast...

  Then Meg remembered her vow to Kate. And Lady Stokeford’s warning: Men are often not what they seem to be. “I—I don’t know if that would be wise.”

  “My dear girl, rest assured that my intentions are honorable. You’ll be quite safe in my company.”

  “But I promised my sister...”

  “Then don’t tell her,” Sir Charles whispered in her ear, his warm breath making her shiver. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  Upstairs in the shadowed study, Gabe swore under his breath as he turned his pockets inside out. The rumble of distant thunder made a counterpoint to the anger that resounded in him. By the meager light of the candle, he scanned the plush gold-and-blue carpet.

  The blasted key had vanished.

  Time was running short; already he’d been delayed in the kitchens by Mrs. Swindon. Finally, he had come up here only to discover he had two keys instead of three—the one to the study and another to an ornate sitting room that he’d explored a few moments ago, without finding the goddess.

  He was missing the key to Damson’s private bedchamber.

  It could be anywhere. Down in the kitchen...in a dim-lit corridor...in the ballroom...

  The ballroom.

  With a jolt, he remembered Kate standing close to him, asking to go with him, smoothing her hand over his coat as if to coax him to her purpose. Ever since their encounter in her bedchamber, she’d acted cool toward him, and her unexpectedly seductive manner had sucked him into the quicksand of lust. Once again, he’d been gulled.

  Intending to find her, he stalked out into the gilded corridor. A sound stopped him. A quiet click from the direction of Damson’s bedchamber.

  Gabe pinched out the candle flame and melted into the shadows. A flash of lightning lit the empty passageway in either direction.

  He’d heard a door opening; he was sure of it. Was it Figgins on an errand? Damson, answering a call of nature?

  Or Kate, disobeying him again?

  Gabe stood perfectly still, listening. As the minutes ticked by and he heard only the occasional grumble of thunder, he drew the dueling pistol from inside his coat and crept down the corridor. Outside Damson’s bedchamber, he paused, his muscles taut.

  The ornate door that had been locked only moments ago now stood slightly ajar.

  The candle cast a small circle of light as Kate tiptoed through the vast, shadowy bedchamber. She could scarcely contain her excitement at having had the good luck to possess the right key. Shrouded in dark hangings, a massive four-poster bed loomed to her left. To her right she could discern several low, Roman-style couches arranged in a circle with large pillows scattering the center, as if Sir Charles liked to loll on the floor. Kate puzzled over that oddity for only an instant; then she turned her thoughts to finding the goddess.

  The feeble candlelight frustrated her. Spying a lamp on a low table by the ring of sofas, she lifted the glass chimney, using the taper to light the oil-soaked wick. A blessed brightness banished the gloom at this end of the chamber, at least.

  Only then did she notice the artifacts lying on the table. She frowned, baffled by their purpose: smooth, sausage-like objects carved from either dark wood or pale ivory.

  Turning her gaze away, she inspected the rest of the room. On the shelves that abutted the black onyx fireplace stood a collection of figurines. Walking closer, she saw they were naked men and women locked in scandalous positions. A flush suffused her. In defiance of decency, her imagination conjured images of her and Gabriel engaged in these forbidden, carnal activities.

  Appalled at herself, she moved briskly away, her slippers making no sound on the soft Persian carpet. She must hurry. Although Lady Stokeford would make excuses for her absence from the ball, Kate didn’t want to stir suspicion in Sir Charles. Nor did she wish to chance him popping in here and surprising her.

  Lord Faversham’s words came back to haunt her. My advice is that you and your sister depart from here at once. And never return.

  What had the earl meant? If he was a member of the Lucifer League, and if they planned to do something wicked...

  A bone-deep shiver coursed through her. Thank goodness Lady Stokeford and Uncle Nathaniel were keeping a close watch on Meg. But Kate couldn’t depart yet. She couldn’t leave the castle until she’d accomplished her mission. Sir Charles’s threat of guardianship made her all the more desperate.

  Where was the goddess?

  She made a quick sweep of every tabletop, peering into nooks and crannies where other erotic objects resided. She averted her eyes from the worst of them—humans mating with beasts, and even a marble statue of a woman being ravished by a hideous demon.

  What sort of man collected these evil things? With a sickening lurch in her stomach, Kate knew the answer. A man who had stolen her father’s greatest discovery. A man who would commit murder.

  A man who deserved her rightful revenge.

  Angry and frustrated, Kate scanned the gloomy bedchamber. Perhaps the statue had never even been here at Damson Castle. Sir Charles could have left it at his London home. Or elsewhere, for such a wealthy man surely
owned other estates.

  Then she spied a curtained area in the corner near the bed. A window? Or did it hide a door that led to another chamber?

  Hastening forward, she grasped the folds of cloth, the deep blue velvet rich and cool to her fingertips. A shiver swept over her skin, raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck. Then slowly she drew back the draperies.

  Gabe blessed the well-oiled hinges that allowed him to slip quietly into the bedchamber. Gripping the ivory butt of the pistol, he paused in the shadows by the door. By a curtain in the far corner of the murky chamber, a woman held a lamp aloft.

  Kate.

  Anger constricted his chest; a violent heat assailed his loins. The lamplight made her skin glow like alabaster. She looked delicate and sweet, but he knew her to be strong and keen-witted. And far too disobedient for her own good.

  As she parted the curtains, he stalked toward her, his footfalls muffled by the thick carpet. Then he stopped again, frozen.

  Instead of a window, the draperies hid an arched alcove. Within stood a marble pedestal holding an exquisite golden figurine.

  The goddess.

  Jeweled loops adorned the ears, and rose quartz gems marked the tips of her generous breasts. The essence of sensuality, she cupped her slender belly, her fingertips caressing an enormous yellow diamond nestled at the top of her thighs.

  The air seared his lungs. He’d last seen the statue in Cairo more than two months ago. But not even a flood of elation could drown his ire. “My compliments,” he snapped.

  Kate whirled around. “Gabriel!”

  He shoved the pistol inside his coat. “You stole the key. After I gave you strict orders not to come here.”

  “But I found the statue. Aren’t you glad?”

  “I’m glad you weren’t caught.” He stepped toward her, seizing her upper arms. “Blast you! Damson killed your father. If he finds you here, he’ll kill you, too.”

  Memory hurled him back to that darkened chamber at the inn, to Henry Talisford lying dead in a pool of blood. Gabe broke out in a cold sweat to imagine Kate doomed to the same end. He couldn’t fail her as he’d failed her father.

  “Papa died for the goddess,” she said fiercely. “I intend to use the statue to have my revenge.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here alone. That was foolish, Kate. Damned foolish.”

  “I don’t care. Only the goddess matters to me.” Pulling away, she whirled around to regard the statue.

  The hell of it was, he could understand her angry ambition. It was the same ambition that had spurred him ever since he’d awakened in a hospital bed, his back throbbing with pain, his thoughts dark with hatred.

  Yet now he cared more for Kate’s safety. He felt an affinity for her that he’d never felt for any other woman. Not even the goddess was worth Kate’s life.

  Stepping past her, he picked up the statue. The heavy artifact felt almost warm and alive in his hands. He let his exaltation come to the fore. At last he had it. The proof of Damson’s treachery.

  Holding the lamp, Kate leaned over his arm to get a better look. “She’s beautiful. Papa’s treasure.”

  With studied care, Gabe set the statue back on the pedestal. “And the means to Damson’s destruction.”

  Kate’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “Oh, Gabriel, we’ve done it. By morning, Sir Charles will be locked in prison, awaiting trial for murder.”

  His gaze clung to hers, and the joy there altered into something softer, a budding sensual awareness that he found more intoxicating than wine. Need overriding logic, he took a step toward her.

  She cocked her head to the side. “Listen!”

  Amid the growling of thunder, the sound of approaching voices came from the outer corridor.

  Gabe blew out the lamp. Then he thrust her into the alcove, yanking the curtain closed.

  There was barely enough room for the two of them. Kate sidled into the corner, and he pressed himself against her until they were wedged between the cold stone wall and the pedestal. His heartbeat surged, as much from an untimely arousal as the danger of discovery.

  Velvety darkness enclosed them. His jaw rested against her soft curls, and he breathed in her light, feminine essence. Her lithe form imprinted him, small shoulders, slender waist, rounded bottom. When she made a slight shift of position, her hip brushed against his stiffened cock. It was madness to fantasize about making love to her. Yet his imagination played out ways he could take her standing, drawing up her skirts, parting her legs, lifting her onto him—

  A faint rattling sound jerked him back to reality. The outer door opened and feet tramped inside. “It wasn’t locked, I tell you,” said a sharp female voice. Agnes Swindon. “You were up here last. You must have forgotten to secure the door.”

  “Shut yer blinkin’ trap,” a man growled. “And stand back. There could be thieves in here.” Figgins.

  His muscles tensed, Gabe spied a faint light beneath the curtains. He could hear the valet skulking around the bedchamber, peering into cupboards and creeping through the adjacent dressing room. Then the light beneath the draperies brightened as Figgins approached.

  Quietly, Gabe drew his pistol.

  At the start of the next dance, Lucy paired Meg with another partner. None of these wastrels were suitable company for an innocent girl, Lucy knew, but after tonight, Meg needn’t encounter them again. Noting the sparkling enjoyment on the girl’s face, she allowed herself a wistful smile.

  How wonderful to be so young and carefree. Let the girl flirt all she liked within the confines of the crowded ballroom. She was safe so long as she remained here, under Lucy’s strict vigilance.

  Sir Charles Damson was leading the Egyptian woman, Yasmin, out to the dance floor. Lucy’s gaze hardened on them. How gentlemanly he appeared to be, the perfect host. But she knew from the wisdom of years that depravity came in all guises. She had long relied on feminine intuition in determining the character of a man. In only one instance had perception confused her ...

  Someone goosed her on the waist, and Lucy whirled around, an icy reprimand poised on her tongue. Her anger turned to pique when she spied the ruggedly handsome face of her nemesis. “Nathaniel Babcock. Kindly keep your hands to yourself.”

  “And spoil our pretense?” His manner jaunty, Nathaniel slid his arm through hers, weaving their fingers together. “Come walk with me, my darling. We’ll steal a few moments alone. People expect an engaged couple to behave as lovebirds.”

  Though her heart beat faster, Lucy balked. “We mustn’t leave the ballroom.”

  “Ah, Meg will be fine. We’ll hear when the music stops.”

  This time, when he drew her toward the arched doorway, she let him lead her out into the echoing expanse of the grand corridor. Like the rest of the castle, it had an aura of lush drama, the high ceiling painted as a midnight sky strewn with stars, the candles in the wall sconces adding to the illusion of twinkling lights. Yet upon closer inspection, gargoyles and demons lurked in dark corners as if waiting to pounce. The sight made Lucy shudder.

  She was glad for Nathaniel’s companionship, for it distracted her from the ever-present worries. His playful nature was evident in the deep creases around his blue eyes and sensual mouth. She’d enjoyed the pretense of being his fiancé more than she could have imagined. It had brought to mind the days of yore, when they had carried on a light flirtation that had never quite deepened into love.

  Nathaniel had always kept himself just beyond her reach. Half a century ago, he had teased her with flowery compliments instead of heartfelt truths, involved her in mischievous pranks rather than serious conversations.

  Intrigued, she gazed up at him. What lay in his heart?

  The shallowness of a rake? Or the fascinating depths she had glimpsed in him from time to time?

  The muted sound of music drifted from the ballroom. As they strolled arm in arm into a small, dim-lit chamber, he looked at her and cocked a white eyebrow. “There’s a mystery in that smile of yours
, Lucy.”

  “I was remembering the time we went up to the roof and dripped water on the departing guests,” she improvised. “The Duke of Devonshire swore it was raining.”

  “Though there was nary a cloud in the starry sky.” They shared a laugh as Nathaniel guided her onto a chaise and sat down beside her. “We did have some good times. My biggest regret is that I wasn’t there the night you became a Rosebud.”

  Lucy smiled to recall how as debutantes, she and Enid and Olivia had had the madcap notion to put rouge on their nipples. They hadn’t stopped to consider the ballroom would be sweltering, or that the color would bleed through their white bodices. In the ensuing whirl of male attention, all three of them had become betrothed to dashing young aristocrats.

  If Nathaniel had been there, might she have chosen him, instead?

  It served no purpose to speculate. They were here only to help Kate and Gabriel achieve justice in the death of Professor Talisford. Even now, Kate was upstairs, searching for the statue. Lucy breathed a little fervent prayer for her success. And then another, that Gabriel would find Kate.

  As if he’d seen into her thoughts, Nathaniel growled, “I’ve a good mind to go after Kate.”

  Lucy curled her fingers around his sleeve. “Don’t you dare. She has Gabriel to protect her.”

  “Bah. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. He wants to seduce her.”

  “I pray he does.” Ignoring his sputter of angry incredulity, Lucy said calmly, “I’ve high hopes for a match between the two of them. That’s why I told Betty to stay away from the tower chamber tonight. If my grandson has any wits at all, he’ll take advantage of the opportunity.”

  Nathaniel bristled. “The devil you say. I won’t allow the cad to ruin my grandniece.”

  “Pish-posh. Gabriel will marry her, of course. He must.” Lucy made an airy wave of her gloved fingers. “So save your blustering, Nathaniel. Not every man is like you.”