Seductive as Flame

by Susan Johnson

  “You should probably talk to your husband about that,” Zelda casually said. “I’m not sure he takes orders from you. I know he doesn’t from me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long, tiring day.”

  As Zelda reached for the doorknob, Violetta slapped her wrist with her fan. “I’m not finished with you yet,” she acidly said.

  Zelda glanced at her wrist, then at Violetta. “I wouldn’t do that again if I were you.” She’d grown up with four very large brothers she’d had to wrestle to the ground on occasion in their youth. This woman was inconsequential in size and in every other way.

  “You don’t frighten me, you slut,” Violetta said with venom in her voice and gaze. “Stay away from my husband and son or you’ll be sorry.”

  “I’m sorry this conversation is even taking place,” Zelda softly said, tempted to slap the stupid bitch silly. Lady Dalgliesh was the last person to expect fidelity from a husband with her intemperate life. “Now get out of my way or I’ll make you get out of my way.”

  “If you touch me, I’ll scream,” Violetta hissed.

  “Good Lord,” Zelda muttered. “Are you drunk?” Then she heard running footsteps behind her, saw Violetta’s gaze narrow, and resentfully thought, Just what I need. To be caught in the middle of a domestic spat.

  “That’s enough, Violetta.” Coming up to his wife, Dalgliesh grabbed her arm and, rapidly altering the coarse, explicit words racing through his brain, growled, “Haven’t you something better to do? Mytton must be waiting for you somewhere. Go and find him.” He swung her around and gave her a push. “Stay out of my life.”

  His voice was so harsh and cold, Zelda wondered that their marriage endured. Divorce wasn’t out of the question if one had money.

  The earl watched his wife flounce off, waited until she was out of sight, then turned to Zelda. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he said. “I saw her leave the room with Mytton. I thought you were safe.”

  A moment of shock. “Safe?”

  Alec lifted his shoulder in the faintest shrug. “She’s a spiteful woman, ruthless, coldhearted . . .” His voice trailed off. “I’m sorry,” he quietly said. “About her, about this, about every fucking thing.”

  Zelda chose her words carefully. “The possibility of any further relationship between us appears more difficult than I anticipated.”

  “I understand.” His voice held a certain flatness.

  “Your wife’s obviously upset. I was under the impression your marriage was an informal arrangement.”

  “It is. I have no idea why she confronted you.” Unfamiliar with the role of supplicant, he couldn’t bring himself to explain his marriage with any specificity—nor could he for other reasons as well. As for Violetta—no explanation would suffice for her rudeness. “Are you all right? She didn’t—”

  “No, I’m fine. She surprised me, that’s all.” In any number of ways, but she wasn’t about to detail them to the woman’s husband. “But under the circumstances, perhaps we shouldn’t continue our friendship.”

  “I don’t blame you.” He’d half expected it. “You shouldn’t have to deal with Violetta’s abuse.” He paused, opened his mouth to speak, and changing his mind, said instead, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to check on Chris. Violetta may have upset him. I apologize again. I should have been more vigilant.” He bowed faintly. “She shouldn’t be back. Sleep well.”

  Zelda watched him until the shadows in the dimly lit corridor swallowed him up. For a moment more, she stood in the hallway—indecisive and bewildered, feeling a profound sense of loss.

  Then she turned, opened the door, and entered her room.

  “I’ll undress myself,” she said to the waiting maid. “I won’t be needing you tonight. And I’ll take breakfast downstairs in the morning.” She just wanted to be alone, now and later—without servants to intrude on her solitude. She was deeply unhappy. When she shouldn’t be. When she hadn’t even known Dalgliesh existed this time yesterday.

  How very strange life could be.

  Convoluted and inexplicable.

  Wretched for no good reason.

  Dropping into a chair by the fire, she stretched out her legs and studied the toes of her green silk slippers as though the answer to her emotional quandary lay in the gleaming silk. Or in the glowing fire, she mused as her gaze lifted to the small blaze on the hearth.

  But no answer arose in the dancing flames, nor in her heart or mind.

  Only the wanting remained, keen and avaricious, rash, desperate.

  And stubborn.

  CHAPTER 6

  “PAPA, IS THAT you?” A frightened little voice.

  “Yes. I’ll be right there.” Alec had been talking softly to Mrs. Creighton outside Chris’s bedroom door. He further lowered his voice. “John will drive you in the morning. I’ll be over to the hunting lodge as soon as I make my excuses to Fitz. And thank you again for fending off Violetta.”

  “The lad heard her though. He was shaking when I went in afterward. You really have to do something about that woman,” the nanny murmured, a stubborn jut to her jaw.

  “I know. Not tonight, though.” Turning away, Alec pushed open the door to Chris’s room. “Can’t sleep?” the earl sympathetically inquired. “Would you like a story?”

  Chris soon dozed off as he always did when Alec sat with him and told him a tale about knights or pirates or animals that talked. But after the young boy fell asleep, Alec remained seated on the bed, his eyes half closed, his mind racing, every muscle in his body taut with restraint.

  He knew what he wanted to do, what he shouldn’t do.

  And he was leaving in the morning.

  When Mrs. Creighton opened the door and motioned for him, he carefully rose from the bed in order not to wake Chris. Quietly walking out, and as quietly closing the door, he leaned back against the old oak panels and shut his eyes, overcome by an overwhelming weariness. Violetta seemed more of an encumbrance tonight—burdensome, obtrusive, unnecessarily hurtful to her son. And what had always appeared manageable was suddenly unmanageable. What had once been a marriage of expediency was now stifling and oppressive.

  All because he couldn’t ignore an ill-advised compulsion for a woman who, through no fault of her own, tempted him beyond bearing.

  His old nanny came up and touched his arm. “Go and get some sleep, laddie.”

  Opening his eyes, he came out of his musing with a good-natured smile for the woman who’d taught him his manners along with the strength of will to face the world. “You, too, Creiggy. I should be at the lodge by noon.”

  “We’ll be fine.” She patted his arm. “Take your time. John and I can entertain Chris”—she smiled—“almost as well as you.”

  Dalgliesh bent and kissed her cheek. “I’m in your debt once again.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve made me a rich old lady. But take some advice, laddie, and talk to your mother when you return home. You’ve more than done your duty by her.”

  “Please, don’t start,” Dalgliesh murmured. “I’m in a foul mood.”

  “As if you don’t have reason to be. You’re too dutiful, laddie, that’s your problem. I wouldn’t have put up with your wife so long, but that’s neither here nor there, nor my business in the end. Just don’t wait so long that she ruins the boy.”

  “You’re right. He shouldn’t grow up in fear.”

  “You should know about that.”

  “I had you, Creiggy.” Alec smiled faintly. “He didn’t dare touch me.”

  “Still, laddie, it leaves its mark. But enough o’ that. Your father’s long dead. Now go, get some sleep.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he cheekily replied.

  “Humph,” she said in that sharp, quiet voice that had made her the authority not only in the nursery, but in the household. “Don’t forget who changed your nappies.”

  Dalgliesh laughed and, with a wave, departed.

  Before he returned to his room, however, he made a brief detour.

  As wa
s the custom at country house parties, cards were slipped into brackets on bedroom doors, identifying the occupant. It ensured that a guest didn’t accidently enter the wrong room—although there were times when an inebriated guest did, the most celebrated instance when Charlie Berensford jumped into the Archbishop of Canterbury’s bed by mistake. But there was no mistaking Alec’s destination. He’d made a point of knowing which room was Violetta’s, as he did with everything concerning his wife. He had good reason not to trust her.

  Stopping outside the proper room, he warned himself not to lose his temper. Although the sudden light trill of Violetta’s giggles provoked a grimace. The confrontation was unavoidable, however, so drawing in a breath of restraint, he grasped the doorknob and, knowing the doors were left unlocked for the servants, he shoved it open.

  “Please, there’s no cause for alarm,” he casually said as he entered his wife’s bedroom and observed the couple in the bed scrambling to cover their nudity. “I won’t be long.”

  “How dare you, Alec!” Violetta cried, pushing upward into a seated position and clutching the bedclothes to her breast. “Get out or I’ll scream!”

  “Spare me the theatrics, Violetta.” The earl’s voice was softly contemptuous. “I just came to tell you I’ll be gone in the morning, so you’ll have to make your own way back to London. I’m taking Chris with me.”

  Her indignation turned to affront, temper flared in her eyes. “Where are you going? You can’t just take my son away! He needs his mother!”

  “Christ, Violetta, keep in mind who you’re talking to when you play the maternal card. But we’ll be at my hunting box if you require anything, although it looks as though Mytton is satisfying you well enough. Don’t let her work you too hard tonight, Freddy. She likes it first thing in the morning, too, although you probably know that.” Dalgliesh lifted one eyebrow. “Now, if you have any message for your son, I’d be happy to convey it to him.”

  “Of course I don’t. That’s not the point,” Violetta testily said, letting the sheet slip downward slightly to show off her fine bosom.

  “I know what the point is,” Alec curtly replied, wondering if she really thought he gave a damn about her breasts. “And I won’t have the boy used as a pawn. Is that clear?”

  His voice was so cold, his gaze like ice that even Violetta, who knew just how far she could force the issue of her son, opted for prudence. “I’ll miss the dear boy, but if you insist,” she pettishly said.

  He ground his teeth at her damned playacting. “I do insist.” The words were blunt as a hammer blow. “Just a last warning, Violetta,” the earl said with less passion, his temper curbed. “Do what you will, but you know the rules. The risk is yours to assess.” He’d told her the day they were married that she could go her own way, but if she were to become pregnant again, he’d see that she had an abortion. The marriage may have been forced on him, but he wouldn’t have a by-blow as his heir.

  “See here, Dalgliesh,” Lord Mytton sputtered, feeling he should come to his lover’s defense. “Don’t want you threatening the lady. Not the thing, damn it.”

  “I could threaten you, if you prefer,” Alec softly said, the menace in his voice smooth as silk. “Name your weapons if you think she’s worth it.”

  Freddy Chambers was shocked, then alarmed. “Good God! No one duels anymore, Dalgliesh! Are you mad?”

  “Resentful is the word, Mytton. But that’s where you come in to take my wife off my hands. I wish you a night of agreeable fucking. I won’t say superlative fucking because I know better, but then life isn’t perfect, as we all know.” Obliged to marry for money, Mytton had been able to barter his title and handsome face for a fortune. As was often the case, however, an antidote of a wife and her parvenu family had come with the fortune. “If no one has any further questions,” Alec said with a curt nod for the couple in bed, “I’ll take my leave.”

  For a moment, he stood motionless and indifferent as his wife stared at him with murder in her eyes and Mytton looked stunned.

  Then he walked out and closed the door behind him.

  As he traversed the quiet corridor, he gave himself the required lecture about doing the right thing, about not being reckless, about not being bloody-minded enough to take advantage of a woman who didn’t deserve it.

  Go to your room and get some sleep.

  Be sensible.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS CLOSE to midnight when Zelda heard the door open.

  She was still sitting in the chair by the fire, still baffled by the trackless tangle of her thoughts, still discontent. “Go away,” she muttered.

  “I would if I could.” Shutting the door, Alec advanced into the room. “At least I didn’t have to break down the door.”

  “I’m sure Fitz will be pleased. I forgot to lock it.” Along with forgetting to move for a very long time; the fire had burned low.

  He didn’t ask if he could sit for fear she might say no. He dropped into the chair on the other side of the fireplace. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I tried to stay away.”

  She finally looked at him. “Where’s your wife?”

  “I have no idea,” he lied. “Violetta went up to the nursery and frightened Chris. I sat with him until he fell back to sleep.” He stretched out his legs and exhaled softly. “She uses the boy against me—or tries to. It’s an ongoing battle.” He was tired, the grinding hostility exhausting. He looked away for a moment, his nostrils gently flaring. “I feel like I’m under siege at times. Tonight particularly. And Chris is getting to an age where—” He abruptly stopped. Personal confession was rare in his life, unprecedented in these circumstances. “Forgive me. It has nothing to do with you. It’s been a long day.”

  “It is late.” Zelda tried to speak in a neutral tone. “Everything will look better in the morning, I’m sure.” Although he looked so unhappy she felt an almost overwhelming urge to take him in her arms and comfort him.

  “If only platitudes would bring resolution to my life,” he sardonically replied.

  “I’m sorry. Hackneyed phrases are rather useless, aren’t they?”

  “In my case, yes. My life is an ungodly mess, and I’d apologize for involving you in it if it would do any good.” He shut his eyes briefly before he quietly said, “I shouldn’t be here. I really shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t care about her.” Zelda held his gaze, her eyes half shadowed in the light from the fading fire. “I’ve been sitting here telling myself to be prudent.” She shrugged. “To no avail.”

  “Tell me about it,” he muttered. “I’m not in the habit of calling attention to my—”

  “Amorous affaires?”

  “Diversions,” he brusquely corrected. “This isn’t though.” He slid lower in his chair. “I didn’t care tonight if everyone knew. It’s madness.”

  “Speaking of madness.”

  “Don’t, please.” He knew what she was going to say, had thought of little else since afternoon.

  “It’s been on my mind,” she said, ignoring him because she was the least likely woman in the world to respond to authority. “What you said in the kitchen was—”

  “Stupid. Don’t give it another thought.”

  She studied him for a moment, brooding discontent in every aspect of his face and lean, lounging form. “But I have thought about it—don’t look at me like that. You were the one who said it. Why?”

  He looked across the fire-lit space and met her gaze, his heavy-lidded eyes clouded with doubt. “I don’t know,” he guardedly said. “If I knew the answer to that, I could—” He exhaled softly.

  “Forget it?”

  “Exactly.” He turned and stared into the dying fire. “Having a child has never mattered to me,” he softly began, trying to arrange the tumult in his brain into a reasonable narrative as he contemplated the flickering flames. “I don’t need an heir. I have a cousin I’m fond of who has a large and growing family. And I’ve already seen to it that Chris is financially secure.” He chose
not to say: With a father like mine, the notion of fatherhood lost its luster. “So whatever bizarre impulse prompted me to make that offer to you is best forgotten.” His voice was crisp at the last, as though putting period to his monologue. Turning back to her, his smile was replete with well-practiced charm. “Now, tell me, was I discreet enough at dinner? I hope you noticed that I gave equal time to old Lady Ponsonby.”

  He’d politely ended any further discussion of children. “I noticed. Lady Ponsonby was quite enamored.” Zelda understood the topic was absurd. Dalgliesh’s reputed sexual skills would be more than enough tonight.

  “That was because we discussed the outrageous affront to society of the suffrage movement. She called it a mad, wicked folly. And all the misguided females who so forget every sense of womanly feeling and propriety should get a good whipping.”

  “Witless cow,” Zelda muttered.

  Alec grinned. “Apparently she’s not alone in her opinion. I was told the queen herself agrees. God created men and women differently and so they should remain each in their own position. The argument is irrefutable, Lady Ponsonby insisted. Would you like me to show you your position,” he sportively said, back in form, the game familiar. “I’m quite willing.”

  “Or I could show you yours,” Zelda lightly replied, suddenly feeling breathless and young, as if she were fifteen again. Although Dalgliesh wasn’t her adoring Johnnie Armstrong, but a confident libertine sure of his appeal.

  On the other hand, she was a confident woman.

  And he did appeal.

  “Since we’re neither adolescents as you pointed out this morning,” she murmured, offering him a captivating smile, “this won’t be a seduction so much as a lustful meeting of minds.”

  “Minds? I hope not,” he drolly replied, beginning to unbutton his waistcoat as though having been given leave to proceed.

  “Well, my mind at least will be involved. As for you, I’ll soon find out what’s involved, won’t I?” She lazily stretched, watching him begin to undress with delicious anticipation. “I must say, Dalgliesh,” she murmured, her voice a soft contralto, “I’ve been thinking about you, about this—a great deal.”