He stood stock-still at first, gave no response, but she could feel the stirrings beneath, sense the struggle that raged beneath that exterior of cool control. She kissed him again, plucking one kiss and then another softly from those firm sculpted lips, not with seduction but with a raw honesty of all that she felt for him—tenderness and understanding, desire and love. And he answered with a truth of his own, his mouth moving against her, kissing her with all that she had offered and more.
In his kiss, the barrier to all that he hid—passion and fire, gentleness and love—came crashing down. He kissed her with a strength of emotion that, now unleashed, towered above her. He kissed her mouth, the pulse-point in her neck. Kissed the length of each collarbone, and the hollow of her throat. His breath teased hot against the bare skin of her shoulders, making her skin tingle and shiver with longing for his lips. His hands slid around her waist, holding her to him, binding them together, as if she could ever want to be anywhere else. Their bodies had been made to fit together, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. He kissed her and everything of worry and responsibility and duty melted away. And with his lips upon hers she knew the truth—that for her there was only Linwood, that there had only ever been Linwood.
One hand slid to capture her breast, and she felt her body respond as if there were no layers of cloth to separate them, as if they were already naked and together. The other hand moved low, over her hips, caressing her, guiding her in this journey she knew now they had always been destined to make. He deepened the kiss, offering what only he could give, touching her, tasting her in a prelude of what was to come. And in the sharing of their mouths, and beneath the touch of his hands, she felt the flame of desire that had always burned between them flare and rage to a mighty inferno.
He unfastened her dress, freeing her breasts from her bodice, taking them in his mouth, kissing them, tasting them, working each hard-tipped nipple with his tongue until her legs were melting and weak and she was clutching his head to her and arching against him, needing this and more, needing him, only him.
But Linwood pulled back, and his breath was as hard and fast as her own, his eyes dark and burning with a depth of desire and emotion she had never seen in any man’s eyes before. He dispensed with his jacket, slipped off his waistcoat.
She reached out and pulled at his cravat, freeing him of it, her fingers sliding against the fine cotton of his shirt, needing to feel the skin beneath. He peeled it off over his head and let it drop away. The flicker of the candlelight danced upon the smooth sculpted muscle of his chest, down over the ribs of hard muscle that banded his abdomen. In reality his body was more magnificent than her imagination had ever dreamed. She reached out and ran her hands over him, stroking him, marvelling at how dark and golden his skin was beneath the whiteness of her fingers.
And then she was in his arms again and he was kissing her, their naked chests together, his fingers freeing her hair from its pins to thread within its lengths. Kissing her, touching her, teasing her. She could feel the press of his aroused manhood through his breeches, through her skirts. Their mouths clung as he backed her into his bedchamber.
His hands were gentle as they slid the rest of her clothing from her body, gentle as they laid her within his bed.
She watched him complete his undress in the candlelight, her eyes moving over the long hard length of him, knowing what was going to happen between them. And between her legs, so slick and heated, was an ache for him. Her eyes held his as the bed dipped and he finally covered her body with hers.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, just like in the dream. ‘Yes.’ And she opened her legs to welcome him in.
* * *
There was a calmness to the morning following the rain of the night before. The pavements were still damp, but the air touched a freshness against her cheeks and a sweetness to her nose. The dawn was only just creeping across from behind St James’s church spire, the sky streaking washed-out shades of night to blue beneath a golden light. She breathed in deep, feeling a sense of gladness and wonder at the new day that she had not felt before, and within her chest her heart swelled with joy.
The surrounding houses still slept, blinds and curtains still closed over windows like eyes shuttered within a face. The street was empty, save for a solitary street sweeper, broom balanced across his shoulder like a musket as he made his way to work. On the railings that lined the low wall beside her, a robin sat perched, watching her, his little red breast vivid, his brown feathers fluffed like a ball. The door shut quietly behind her as she climbed into Linwood’s waiting carriage and it rumbled off. She glanced up at the window of Linwood’s bedchamber, to where he lay naked and sleeping within the great four-poster bed. And she smiled and thought that in all of the years of her life she had never felt so happy. Linwood did not have the pistol. And that had to mean he was innocent.
* * *
The house was awake and waiting for her when she reached home. She could see the way the servants looked at her, the slight embarrassed knowledge, the way they could not quite meet her eye. They all knew she had not come home last night. They all knew it was Linwood she was seeing. But she did not care, whatever the gossip. Nothing could dim the glow that she felt.
Her body was sore, but it was a good soreness, a feeling of satisfaction, of completeness. She washed herself in warm water, washed the dried blood smears from between her legs. And she remembered his tenderness, his gentleness, the way he touched her, the whispered words in the dark dawn of a new day. Then she dressed herself carefully, choosing a pale yellow dress that reflected her new lightness of spirit. Only then did she let her maid in to coil and pin her hair up in a demure style. She looked at herself in the mirror and despite the lack of sleep there was no need for rouge on lips or cheeks. She smiled, a smile of utter joy, and the woman in the mirror looked radiant. She was in love with Linwood and nothing else in the world seemed to matter. She was in love and she did not think of her predicament or of his, only that she loved him, and that her body still throbbed from it.
The clock on the mantel chimed quarter to the hour. Her maid helped her into her matching pelisse. She wrapped a scarf of gold crochet around her neck, fitted her beige kid gloves and left for the meeting with Robert.
* * *
Linwood woke to the sound of carriage and cart wheels on the road outside. He felt relaxed, at ease with himself, happy. It was the first morning in years that he did not wake with the dread and worry of the day that lay ahead. And there was only one reason—Venetia.
The bed beside him was empty, the sheets cool. He threw back the covers and padded through to the drawing room. His clothes from which Venetia had undressed him the night before had been folded into a neat pile upon his desk. Of Venetia’s there was no sign. He smiled at her discretion as he headed back into the bedchamber and thought of how this strange game between them had played out. For all its risk, it had brought him Venetia. And he had fallen in love with her.
She was incomparable. Unique. A woman of passion and strength and yet with an underlying vulnerability. She was his, in truth now. And he was hers. He thought of their lovemaking, of its passion and gentleness, of the feel of her in his arms, of their bodies entwined afterwards. They had slept and loved, and slept and loved again, all through the night. And not once had he thought about Rotherham, or any of the rest of it. He had thought about Venetia. Only Venetia...and how much she meant to him. He smiled again as he glanced at the bed on which they had made love and in the light dimmed by the curtains saw the marks that marred the pale bed sheets.
He frowned, wondering what had caused them. Unmindful of his nakedness, he moved to the window and, wrenching open the curtains to let in the flood of daylight, turned to examine the bed more closely. And what he saw made his heart skip a beat. It was not possible, yet the evidence was before his very eyes. And then he remembered how very tight she had been, the way she had cried out and gripped so tightly to him as he had plunged into her. He had taken her with passion, wi
th urgency, with no account of inexperience. He had never deflowered a virgin, until now. But he knew in the cold clear morning light that, contrary to all appearances and beliefs, Venetia Fox had come to his bed a virgin. And he remembered what had passed between them in her parlour, of the way she had come so close, then pulled away. He had thought it a deliberate and cruel teasing on her part—now he understood better. He needed to speak to Venetia. He raked a hand through his hair and rang the bell for his valet.
* * *
The theatre was empty and in darkness. The draught almost guttered the candle in her hand as she unlocked the stage door and opened it, letting Robert slip inside.
‘How went it?’ he asked as they walked down the corridor to her dressing room.
‘Well enough.’ She did not look at him, did not want him to see the truth in her face, just led him inside and sat the candlestick down on the dressing table as he closed the door.
‘You found what we sought?’
She shook her head. ‘He does not have them, Robert.’
‘I hope you were thorough in your search.’
‘I found his safe box, looked inside at that which he values, those things that he holds dear and most secret.’ She felt her heart warm in the knowledge that thing was her. ‘There was nothing of what was taken from Rotherham.’
‘Did you check the bookshelves?’
‘Linwood’s library is bound in the same leather as Rotherham’s, and there are many books within it. I saw nothing that stood out as having come from elsewhere.’
‘Like finding a needle in a haystack.’ He touched his thumbnail to his lips, rubbing the tip of it between his teeth.
‘He does not have the pistol. You said yourself what that would mean—it proves his innocence.’
‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. He may have hidden it elsewhere.’
‘Or not at all.’
Her brother hesitated before saying, ‘We still have his confession to you...’ Robert’s eyes met hers and she saw the unspoken suggestion in them.
‘No, Robert,’ she said firmly and shook her head.
‘It is enough to have him arrested. I have checked with a man of law.’
‘I will not go to the police.’
‘Even though he has admitted that he burned our father’s house to the ground?’
‘That does not mean he killed Rotherham,’ she ground out.
‘You forget, Venetia—the witness who saw him leaving Rotherham’s house on the night of the murder. The witness who has, so conveniently for Linwood, disappeared.’
‘The witness may have been mistaken. Or maybe he had a wish to implicate Linwood in the matter.’
‘He is an honourable man and a most credible witness. Trustworthy. There can be no doubt that it was Linwood he saw.’ Robert’s gaze narrowed. ‘I think you protest Linwood’s innocence a little too strongly.’
She glanced away awkwardly before forcing herself to meet his gaze once more. ‘Not at all.’
‘You look different somehow, Venetia.’
Her heart skipped a beat, at how much Linwood’s loving had changed her.
He studied at her more closely. ‘You have done something differently to normal.’
‘A new day dress and matching pelisse,’ she said. ‘From Madame Boisseron.’
‘Very elegant. It suits you well.’
She gave a small half smile and was thankful that the light was so poor that he could not see the blush that was warming her cheeks.
‘I take it you got out in time.’
She hesitated for a second too long.
‘Venetia?’ he pressed.
‘Linwood came back early,’ she conceded.
There was a silence.
‘I was able to...manage the situation,’ she said, unwilling to reveal to her brother just what had really taken place.
She saw him swallow and give a single nod.
‘Does he suspect you?’
‘I do not believe so.’
He smiled. ‘I did not doubt you could do it.’
She could not return his smile. His words made her feel uncomfortable. She knew she should tell him, but what had happened between her and Linwood was too tender and private. She lifted the candle and, moving to the door, opened it. ‘It is done. He does not have what you seek. I will be a part of this no more, Robert.’
‘As you wish. You have played your role well, Venetia. And Linwood is none the wiser. You are a credit to your profession.’
His words sullied what had passed between her and Linwood, making it seem like something else. She felt sick at the thought. ‘You should leave before you are seen.’ She began to lead him along the corridor towards the stage door.
‘The hour is still early enough,’ he said. ‘The streets are practically dead and we are the only two people in the building.’
‘Even so, Mr Kemble will be here soon, and the set staff.’
‘So they will.’
‘We should not see each other again...for a while, Robert.’
‘No, I suppose it would not do for our relationship to become common knowledge.’
‘It would serve neither of our causes.’ She shivered just at the thought.
‘Goodbye, Venetia. And thank you.’
She nodded.
She turned the key in the lock behind him, leaning her back against the door and listening to the tread of his footsteps receding in the street outside. The relief was immense. The arrangement with Robert was over. Her brother had his mind made up. Nothing she said was going to change it. Yet their conversation had left a horrible taste in her mouth and an uneasiness in her stomach. She took a deep breath then walked slowly back down the corridor to her dressing room, conscious with every step of the ache and the tenderness between her legs. Francis. She wondered if he was awake yet, if he had seen her blood upon his sheets. And more than any of that, what on earth she was going to tell him when he came to ask her.
On the dressing table and rail she laid out her things ready for the night’s performance. There was a faint sound from the corridor. She frowned, wondering whether Robert had returned or another theatre worker arrived. So she picked up the candle, moved to the doorway and peered out into the corridor.
‘Mr Kemble?’
Silence.
‘Is anyone there?’ she called.
But the only reply was the echo of her own voice. There was nothing and no one, just the dim shadowed corridor. She shivered, chiding herself for own nervousness, and more glad than ever that the business with Robert was over.
She finished checking her costumes, then picked up her script and left by the stage door, taking care to lock it after her. The morning was fully light now. In the distance she heard a church bell chime nine. Out on the main street she could hear the rattle of carts and carriage wheels, the clop of horses and banging of doors; the rest of London had awakened. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her and climbed into her carriage that waited there in the alleyway. She did not look back out of the windows, just focused her eyes on the script in her hand, reading the words fruitlessly as her mind thought of Linwood and the passion and wonder of the night before. And so she did not see the dark figure that stepped out of the shadows and walked away in the opposite direction along the street.
Chapter Thirteen
Linwood stood at the window of his drawing room, staring out at the street below. All the lightness of the morning had expired. He had engaged in the game and he had lost. His stomach was filled with cold disappointment and the sickening realisation that what he had thought was happening with Venetia last night had been something else all together. A game that continued regardless. He had known the risk and accepted the gamble, staking his heart. And he had been bested by a master. Too beguiled by a beautiful face and a luscious figure, too engaged by a personality that flirted and parried and ensnared. She had filled his thoughts to the exclusion of all else, making him forget that which he needed to remember, makin
g him believe that the feelings between them were mutual. Two cloths cut from the same die, both him and her, or so he had thought. But it was as much an illusion as the woman he had thought her beneath the facade of the divine Miss Fox. He had thought he could tell when she was acting and when she was not. But he had been wrong. Last night’s performance had hoodwinked him completely despite all he knew of her. What an actress she was and he, a gullible fool.
In the daylight the blood on the sheets was a stark crimson. In the air he could still smell the scent of her perfume mixed with that of their lovemaking. Against the white of his pillow lay a single long dark hair. And it seemed he could feel again the satin of her skin beneath his hands, the soft sigh of her breath as he caressed her, the passion of her lips as they merged with his. He clenched his jaw so tight that it was painful and escaped to the drawing room, but the picture on the wall was not straight. And beneath was the safe box and all that she had seen within it, exposing the secrets of his heart for her to trample upon. He wondered bitterly that she had not told Clandon about that as well as everything else. He straightened the picture, as if by so doing he could wipe away her touch from it, and let his gaze drift to the bookcase. He stood there like that for a minute, feeling more alone, more hurt, more angry than he had ever felt in his life, which was ridiculous given all that had happened between his family and Rotherham. Then he reached out and rang the bell.
‘Change the bedding, every last bit of it. Air the bedchamber and this one, too, anywhere that she waited. Leave no trace that Miss Fox was ever here.’ He showed nothing of emotion on his face, just his usual deadpan serious expression. Then he took up his walking cane and walked out into the clear autumn day. He needed to think. About Venetia. About where the game went from here.
* * *
‘Lord Linwood called for you, ma’am. I told him you had gone to the theatre.’ Albert hesitated. ‘I hope I did not do wrong in divulging such information. He was most anxious to see you and given that it was him...’ The elderly butler cleared his throat and looked embarrassed.
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