Lord of Scoundrels

by Loretta Chase

  She was trembling now, and his loins were heavy and hot and more than ready.

  But he wasn’t done, and only the present could be trusted. This moment might be all he had. And so again he kissed and savored, all the way to her toes and back.

  Then he trailed his tongue over the velvety skin just above the dark nest of curls between her legs.

  “You’re beautiful, Jess,” he said thickly. “Every inch of you.” He slid his fingers into the damp, dusky curls.

  She moaned.

  He brought his mouth to the warm, moist core.

  She gave a low cry, and her fingers caught in his hair.

  The feminine cry of pleasure sang in his veins. The rich scent and taste of Woman flooded his senses. She was all he wanted in the world, and she was his, wanting him, slick and hot for him.

  He worshipped her with his mouth for wanting him. He pleasured her for the delirious joy of doing so, until her hands fisted in his hair and she cried out his name, and he felt the tremors shake her.

  Then, finally, he sheathed himself in her hotly welcoming softness, and joined her.

  Then the world shook for him as well, and if it had ended in that instant, he would have gone to damnation happily, because she clung to him and kissed him as though there were no tomorrow and she would hold and want him forever.

  And when the world exploded, and he spilled himself into her, it was as though his soul spilled, too, and he would have given up that soul gladly, if that were the price for the moment of pure happiness she gave him.

  The next day, Jessica gave him the icon.

  Dain found it at his place when he came into the breakfast room. It stood between his coffee cup and the plate. Even in the weak light of an overcast morning, pearls shimmered, topaz and rubies sparkled, diamonds shot rainbow sparks. Beneath the glimmering golden halo, the grey-eyed Madonna smiled wistfully upon the scowling infant in her arms.

  A small, folded piece of notepaper was tucked under the bottom of the jeweled frame. His heart racing, Dain took it out and opened it.

  “Happy Birthday,” it read. That was all.

  He looked up from the note to his wife, who sat opposite, her sleek hair framed by the hazy light from the window.

  She was buttering a piece of scone, oblivious, as usual, to the cataclysm she’d just set off.

  “Jess.” He could scarcely force the one syllable past his tight throat.

  “Yes?” She set down the knife and spooned a lump of preserves onto the scone.

  He thumbed frantically through his mental dictionary, looking for words, but he couldn’t find what he wanted because he didn’t know what he was looking for.

  “Jess.”

  The bit of scone paused halfway to her lips. She looked at him.

  Dain pointed at the icon.

  She looked at that. “Oh. Well, better late than never, I thought. And yes, I know it isn’t truly a gift because it belongs to you anyway. Everything of mine—or nearly everything—became yours legally when we wed. But we shall have to pretend, because I hadn’t time to think of, let alone find, a suitable birthday present.” She popped the buttered and lavishly sweetened tidbit into her mouth…as though everything had been thoroughly explained and settled and not a single fragment of the sky had fallen.

  For the first time, Dain had an inkling of what it must feel like to be Bertie Trent, owning the necessary human quantity of grey matter, but possessing no notion how to make it function. Perhaps, Dain thought, Trent hadn’t been born that way after all. Perhaps he had simply been incapacitated by a lifetime of explosions.

  Perhaps the term femme fatale ought to be taken more literally. Perhaps it was the brain she was fatal to.

  Not my brain, Dain resolved. She is not going to turn me into a blithering imbecile.

  He could handle this. He could sort it out. He was merely taken aback, that was all. The last birthday present he’d received had come from his mother, when he was eight. The tart Wardell and Mallory had supplied on Birthday Thirteen didn’t count, because Dain had wound up having to pay for her.

  He was surprised, no more. Greatly surprised, admittedly, because he’d truly believed Jessica would sooner throw the icon into a cauldron of boiling acid than let him have it. He hadn’t even asked about it during the marriage negotiations, because he’d assumed she’d sold it long since, and he’d adamantly refused to let himself imagine or hope, even for one half second, that she hadn’t.

  “This is a…delightful surprise,” he said, as any intelligent adult would say in the circumstances. “Grazie. Thank you.”

  She smiled. “I knew you would understand.”

  “I cannot possibly understand all the implications and symbolic significance,” he said very, very calmly. “But then, I am a male, and my brain is too primitive for such complicated calculations. I can see, however—as I did as soon as the filth had been removed—that it is an exquisite work of art, and I doubt I shall ever grow tired of looking at it.”

  That was gracious, he thought. Adult. Intelligent. Reasonable. He had only to keep his hand upon the table and it would not tremble.

  “I hoped you would feel so,” she said. “I was sure you’d recognized how remarkable and rare it was. That’s because it’s more evocative, do you not agree, than the usual run of Stroganovs, fine as they are.”

  “Evocative.” He gazed at the richly painted figures. Even now, though it was his, he was uneasy, unwilling to lose himself in it or examine the feelings it evoked.

  She rose and came to him and laid her hand on his shoulder.

  “When I first saw it, after it had been repaired and cleaned, I was much affected,” she said. “The sensations were very odd. Apparently, at this level of artistry, I am out of my depth. You are the connoisseur. I am merely a species of magpie, and I am not always certain why my eye is drawn to certain objects, even when I have no doubt of their value.”

  He glanced up, bewildered. “You are asking me to explain what makes this so extraordinary?”

  “Besides the unusual color of her eyes,” she said. “And the lavish use of gold. And the workmanship. None of these explains why it elicits such strong emotion.”

  “It elicits strong emotion in you because you are sentimental,” he said. Reluctantly he brought his eyes back to the icon.

  He cleared his throat and continued in the patient tones of a tutor. “One is accustomed to the classic Russian pout. But this is altogether different, you see. Baby Jesus looks truly cross and sulky, as though he’s tired of posing, or hungry—or merely wants attention. And his mama doesn’t wear the conventional tragic expression. She’s half-frowning, yes. Mildly irritated, perhaps, because the boy’s being troublesome. Yet she wears a glimmer of a smile, as though to reassure or forgive him. Because she understands that he doesn’t know any better. Innocent brat, he takes it all for granted: her smiles and reassurances, her patience…forgiveness. He doesn’t know what he has, let alone how to be grateful for it. And so he frets and scowls…in blissful infant ignorance.”

  Dain paused, for the room seemed to have grown too quiet suddenly, and the woman beside him too still.

  “It is altogether natural and human a pose,” he went on, careful to keep his tone light and neutral. “We forget that this pair represent holy figures, and focus instead upon the simple human drama within the artistic conventions and rich trappings. If this Madonna and child were merely saintly, the work would not be half so rare and interesting.”

  “I see what you mean,” his wife said softly. “The artist has captured his models’ personalities, and the mother’s love for her little boy, and the mood of a moment between them.”

  “That is what awakens your sentiment,” he said. “Even I find them intriguing, and can’t resist theorizing about what their countenances express—though they’re long dead, and the truth hardly signifies. That is the artist’s talent: He makes one wonder. It’s rather as though he played a joke on the viewer, isn’t it?”

  Glanc
ing up from the icon at Jessica, he made himself laugh, as though this heartachingly beautiful portrait of maternal love were merely an amusing artistic riddle.

  She squeezed his shoulder. “I knew there was more to it than met my untrained eye,” she said, too gently. “You are so perceptive, Dain.” Then she quickly moved away and returned to her seat.

  Not quickly enough, though. He had caught it, in the flicker of time before she masked it. He’d seen it, in her eyes, just as he’d heard it in her voice a moment ago: sorrow…pity.

  And his heart twisted and churned into rage—with himself, because he’d somehow said too much, and with her, because she’d been too quick—quicker than he—to perceive what he’d said, and worse, what he’d felt.

  But he was not a child, Dain reminded himself. He wasn’t helpless. No matter what he’d unwittingly revealed to his wife, his character had not changed. He had not changed, not a whit.

  In Jessica, he had found a good thing, that was all, and he meant to make the most of it. He would allow her to make him happy, certainly. He would let himself be flayed alive and boiled in oil, however, before he’d allow his wife to pity him.

  Chapter 15

  Andrews entered then, and the first footman, Joseph, with him. His Lordship’s beefsteak was set before him, and his ale. Andrews cut the steak while Jessica, who had wanted to perform that small service, sat uselessly in her chair, pretending to eat a breakfast that tasted like sawdust and was about as easily swallowed.

  She—the expert on interpreting men—scarcely understood her husband at all. Even last night, when she’d discovered he was not vain, as she’d believed, and that the love of women had not come easily to him, as she’d supposed, she had not guessed the extent of the trouble.

  She had merely reminded herself that many men couldn’t see themselves clearly. When Bertie, for instance, looked into a mirror, he thought a man with a brain looked back. When Dain looked into his, he somehow missed the full extent of his physical beauty. Odd in a connoisseur, but then, men were not altogether consistent creatures.

  As to the love of women, Jessica had never been exactly thrilled at the prospect of falling in love with him herself. It was understandable, then, that other women—even hardened professionals—might decide he was more than they cared to tackle.

  She should have also realized, though, that the difficulty lay deeper. She should have put the clues together: his acute sensibility, his mistrust of women, his edginess in his family home, his bitterness toward his mother, the portrait of his forbidding father, and Dain’s contradictory behavior toward Jessica herself.

  She’d known—hadn’t every instinct told her?—he badly needed her, needed something from her.

  He needed what every human being needed: love.

  But he needed it far more than many, because, apparently, he hadn’t had so much as a whiff of it since he was a babe.

  …he takes it all for granted: her smiles and reassurance, her patience, forgiveness.

  Jessica knew she should have laughed, as he had, and kept matters light, no matter what she’d felt. She should not have spoken of mamas and little boys they loved. Then Dain wouldn’t have looked up at her as he had, and she wouldn’t have seen the lonely little boy in him. She would not have grieved for that child, and Dain would not have seen the grief in her eyes.

  Now he would think she felt sorry for him—or worse, that she’d deliberately lured him into betraying himself.

  He was probably furious with her.

  Don’t, she prayed silently. Be angry if you must, but don’t turn your back and walk away.

  Dain didn’t leave.

  All the same, if Jessica had been a fraction less accustomed to male irrationality, his behavior during the next few days would have destroyed every hope she’d cherished of building anything remotely like a proper marriage. She would have decided he was Beelzebub in truth, and had never been a little boy at all—let alone a heartbroken and lonely one—but had sprung fully grown from the skull of the Prince of Darkness, much as Athena had popped out of Zeus’ head.

  But that, she soon understood, was what Dain wanted her to believe: that he was a heartless debauchee whose primary interest in her was lascivious, and who viewed her as an amusing toy, no more.

  By Friday, he had debauched her in the window seat of his bedroom, an alcove off the portrait gallery, under the pianoforte in the music room, and against the door of her sitting room—in front of his mother’s portrait, no less. And that was only the daytime depravity.

  At least when they were making love he was consistently passionate. Whatever he might be able to pretend when cool and rational, he could not pretend he didn’t want her—badly—or that making her equally lust-crazed wasn’t crucial element of the business.

  The rest of the time, however, he was the Dain everyone believed he was. For hours at a stretch he could be amiable, even charming. Then, for no ascertainable reason, he’d turn on her, trickling sarcasm over her like acid, or patronizing her, or casually uttering a handful of words nicely calculated to turn her mind black with rage.

  The message, in other words, was that Jessica was permitted to desire him; she was not, however, to insult him with any softer emotions, such as affection or compassion. She was not, in short, to try to get under his skin or—heaven forfend!—weasel her way into his black, rotten heart.

  This was not in the least fair, considering that the beast had already crept under her skin and was rapidly fastening like a pernicious parasite upon her heart. He didn’t even have to work at it. She was falling in love with him—in spite of everything and against her better judgment—more slowly, yes, but just as inexorably as she’d fallen in lust with him.

  That didn’t mean, however, that she wasn’t strongly tempted to do him a violent injury. When it came to being exasperating, Dain was a genius. By Friday, she was debating the relative merits of putting another bullet through him and trying to decide which portion of his anatomy she could most easily live without.

  By Saturday, she’d decided that his brain was probably the most dispensable.

  He had awakened in the wee hours, randy, and wakened her to remedy the ailment. Which, it turned out, required two treatments. Consequently, they’d overslept.

  As a result of their late start for Devonport, they arrived at the wrestling match minutes after it began, and failed to get a suitable place in the crowd. And everything was Jessica’s fault—because he wouldn’t have become randy, Dain had complained, if she hadn’t been sleeping with her hindquarters squashed against his privates.

  “We’re too close,” he complained now, his arm protectively about her shoulders. “In another few rounds, you’ll be spattered with sweat—and very possibly blood, if Sawyer doesn’t stop kicking Keast in the knees.”

  Jessica did not remind him that he was the one who’d insisted on elbowing his way to the front.

  “That’s how Cann dealt with Polkinhorne,” she said. “I understood kicking was permissible in west country wrestling.”

  “I wish that someone in this crowd believed soap and water were permissible,” he muttered, glancing about him. “I’ll wager fifty quid there isn’t a human being within a mile who’s had a bath in the last twelvemonth.”

  All Jessica noticed were the usual male odors of spirits, tobacco, and musk—and she had to concentrate hard to notice, because she was pressed against her husband’s side, and his distinctive scent was making her toes curl. It took considerable effort to remain focused on the match, when his warm body was conjuring heated recollections of feverish lovemaking in the small hours of the morning. His big hand dangled but a few inches from her breast. She wondered whether anyone in the crowd pressing about them would notice if she shifted to close the distance.

  She hated herself for wishing to close it.

  “This match is pathetic,” Dain grumbled. “I could bring Sawyer down with both hands tied and one leg broken. Gad, even you could do it, Jess. I cannot believe Sherbu
rne traveled two hundred miles to witness this abysmal spectacle, when he might have stayed comfortably at home and pumped his wife. One might understand if the girl were bracket-faced or spotty—but she’s well enough, if one has a taste for those China doll creatures. And if she isn’t to his taste, then why in blazes did the fool marry her? It wasn’t as though she had a bun in the oven—nor is she like to have, when he’s never home to do the business.”

  The speech was typical of Dain’s mood this day: All the world was in conspiracy to annoy him. Even Sherburne, because he had not…stayed comfortably home with his wife.

  Comfortably? Jessica blinked once in astonishment. Good grief, had she actually made progress with her thickheaded husband after all?

  Suppressing a smile, she looked up into his cross countenance. “My lord, you do not seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  “The stench is intolerable,” he said, glaring past her. “And that sodding swine Ainswood is leering at you. I vow, the man is begging to have his sotted head separated from his shoulders.”

  “Ainswood?” She craned her neck, but she could not recognize any faces in the mob.

  “You needn’t look back at him,” Dain said. “He is such an idiot, he’ll take it for encouragement. Oh, lovely, now Tolliver’s at it. And Vawtry, too.”

  “I’m sure it’s you they’re looking at,” Jessica said mollifyingly, while her spirits soared. The brute was actually jealous. “They probably had wagers going as to whether you’d come, and Ainswood is not leering, but gloating, because he’s won.”

  “Then I wish I’d stayed at home. In bed.” Dain frowned down at her. “But no, my wife’s existence will be rendered meaningless if she cannot see a wrestling match, and so—”

  “And so you sacrificed your comfort to indulge me. Then, after all the bother, it turns out not to be a proper match at all. You are vexed because you meant this to be a treat for me, and you think it’s spoiled.”