by Hope Tarr
His lips stretched into a smile. “Very well. The coins are in a case in the trophy room.”
“Oh, they’re not in here?”
Thank God she’d asked him outright; otherwise, she could have searched the rest of the night. Given the way Ambrose was looking at her, she doubted he’d grant her that much time.
“Because of their value I keep them under lock and key.”
He picked up a taper and lit their way to the grand staircase. Chelsea paused at the bottom and glanced back at the main door, grappling with indecision. Freedom and safety lay only a few feet away.
Ahead of her, Ambrose called out, “You do want to see them, don’t you?”
The urge to flee was strong, but the lure of the coins as a means of securing Robert’s release outweighed her fear. Steeling herself, Chelsea nodded and ascended. At the top, Ambrose opened a door to their right.
He stepped back for her to enter. Heart trouncing, Chelsea stepped over the threshold and into the blackness. She heard Ambrose’s footfalls behind her, felt his breath on the back of her neck. Gooseflesh pricked her bare arms.
“Like it?” He held the candle aloft.
A redheaded woman, her eyes wide and face ghostly pale, stared back at her. She was facing herself in one of the room’s many mirrors. Yet another mirror, a gilded monstrosity, hung from the ceiling above the bed. Candlelight glanced off the chains moored to the wall behind.
Chelsea swung around, her cry mingling with the soft squeal of the closing door.
“I thought you said the coins were in the trophy room?”
In the dim light, she could just discern his wolfish smile. “My dear, this is the trophy room.”
Anthony reined in his sweating horse across from Ambrose’s house. Light shone from an upstairs window; otherwise, the house was dark. He dismounted and quickly tied the reins to a nearby post, unable to shake off the dread weighing like bricks on his chest.
Dear God, please let her be all right.
But she wasn’t all right, and he could feel it. Her fear trembled through every sinew of his body; every palpitation of her heart hammered in his own breast. Just when this psychic connection, this spiritual joining, had come about he hadn’t a clue, nor did he have the time to ponder it.
Blood drumming his ears, he crossed the newly paved street, vaulted up the front steps, and tried the door. Locked. He lifted the brass knocker and struck it. Twice, thrice, and still there was no response.
“Open, damn you. I know you’re in there.”
He pounded the black lacquered wood with both fists, determined to break through, if need be.
The door finally opened, and he looked up into a craggy visage, topped by a tasseled nightcap.
“I must see Lord Ambrose at once.”
The butler tugged together the lapels of his striped night robe. “I’m afraid his lordship is not at home.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
Anthony shoved past the old man and stepped inside the foyer. Something fluttered in his periphery, and he swung around. Chelsea’s shawl waved at him from a hook inside the vestibule. A man’s top hat hung beside it and a walking stick was propped in the corner. He snatched the shawl and pressed it to his cheek. Chelsea’s scent wafted to his nostrils. He could almost swear he felt the heat of her body trapped in the cashmere fibers.
She was here. And so was Ambrose!
Remembering the upstairs light he’d seen, he grabbed the butler by the lapels of his robe. “Give me that candle and your keys.”
Hands trembling, the butler reached inside his robe pocket and produced a brass ring from which at least twenty keys hung.
Anthony wrenched it away. “The key to the master bedroom? Which one is it?”
“The th-third one from the r-right.”
“You’d better be telling the truth, old man.”
Anthony took the stairs two at a time. He stepped off the landing just as Ambrose’s angry voice rang out, “That vase was Yuan Dynasty! You’ll pay for it in flesh, you little slut! Now get on the bed.”
The smack of a blow and a woman’s shriek froze the marrow in Anthony’s bones. Heart pounding, he turned the key in the lock, tore open the door, and burst inside.
Ambrose stood in the center of the room, one hand flicking a riding crop against his calf. Chelsea lay in a crumpled heap at his feet, her face hidden by her loosened hair.
“Well, well, Montrose, this is a surprise.” Ambrose swiped the back of his hand across the ugly cut on his forehead. “Care to join in or have you come simply to watch? Even a rake like you might learn something.”
Shoulders quivering, Chelsea pulled herself onto her knees. “Anthony?” She brushed her hair out of her eyes, and candlelight played on the livid bruise mottling her cheek.
Cannons fired inside Anthony’s skull. “Bastard!”
He rushed Ambrose just as the other man raised the crop. Anthony darted to the side, and the leather strap hissed over his shoulder. He grabbed Ambrose’s wrist, squeezing until he felt the snapping of bones. Ambrose groaned and dropped the whip. Anthony kicked it aside, then smashed his fist into the center of his foe’s face. Bone and cartilage crunched beneath his knuckles, filling him with primitive satisfaction.
Ambrose staggered backward, blood spurting. He cupped his nose. “Christ, I think you’ve broken it.”
Panting, Anthony backed against the bedpost. “Then it’ll match the rest of you when I’ve done.”
“You’re battle-crazed, Montrose. The war rotted your brain and now you belong in Bedlam, caged with the other lunatics.”
Anthony lifted one of the bejeweled manacles from the velvet counterpane. Chains rattled.
“I’m not the one whose sanity is in question, but you’re right on one score. I’ve killed men for less.” He threw down the cuff and stalked toward Ambrose.
Ambrose flew to the door, but Anthony tackled him. They rolled across the floor, shards of the broken vase crunching beneath them. Anthony grabbed Ambrose’s collar and stood, bringing the other man with him.
“This is for Fanny.” Anthony raised his fist and plowed into Ambrose’s jaw. Blood and saliva sprayed from the slack mouth. “All the rest are for tonight.”
Drunk with rage, he fisted Ambrose in the gut again and again. His last blow sent Ambrose hurtling across the chamber into one of the mirrors. He fell forward, shards of glass raining down on him.
Sweat streaming his brow, Anthony picked up the riding crop and stalked toward the fallen man.
I’ve killed men for less.
He raised the whip.
“Stop it, Anthony!”
Chelsea pulled on his arm. She hadn’t the strength to stay him but, when he looked into her pleading eyes, he felt the madness recede. He tossed the weapon aside.
She stared at the blood streaking the broken mirror. “Oh, Anthony, you don’t think he’s…?”
He dropped to his good knee beside Ambrose and pressed two fingers against the side of his enemy’s neck. A steady pulse beat beneath the pads of his fingers, proving that the devil did indeed protect his own.
He stood. “He’ll awaken with the very devil of a headache, but he’s alive.”
She exhaled. “Thank God.”
She turned away and began fumbling with her bodice but not before he noticed that the top of her gown was rent, revealing her undergarments and a generous swell of cleavage.
His eyes flew to the bed. It wasn’t mussed but, knowing Ambrose, that didn’t prove anything. If Ambrose had violated her, neither Chelsea’s pleas nor the certainty that he’d hang for murder would keep Anthony from finishing what he’d begun.
“Chelsea. He didn’t…?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
She managed a wan smile. “No, he did not—thanks to you.”
Relief flooded him. He’d thought the war and the death of his two best friends had drained him of tears, but he’d been wrong, so bloody wrong. Choking down the lump in his throat lest he unman hi
mself in front of her, he stripped off his cape and brushed it free of debris.
He draped it over Chelsea’s shoulders. “Let’s take you home.”
They descended the stairs. In the front hallway, Anthony tossed the keys to the butler, who cowered in a corner.
He took Chelsea’s hand, and they stepped outside into the cool night. “My mount is across the street. Can you ride?”
“I think so.”
He untied the reins and mounted, then lifted her. Setting her in front, he tenderly tucked his cape around her.
“Ready?”
She nodded, and he dug in his spurs.
After a few blocks, he slowed the horse to a walk, and then reined in beneath a streetlamp.
She pushed away from his chest. “Why are we stopping?”
“Because we need to talk and this is likely to be one of the only places we can be assured of privacy.”
Light touched her bruised face and weary eyes. “You were right, I was wrong…again. What more is there to say?”
“A great deal.” He touched her swollen cheek, his fingertips tingling from the light contact. “I want us to come to an understanding. Surely, after what nearly happened to you back there, you must realize that there are worse fates than becoming my mistress?”
Her gaze fell from his face and settled on his chest. At least she wasn’t spurning him. Hope spiraled inside him.
“Darling, you’ve been through so much.” He ran his thumb along her lower lip. “Let me take care of you. Let me…love you.”
She lifted her eyes to his face. A steely expression stole over her features. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Desperation stabbed him like a knife in the gut.
“They’re one and the same.” She turned away, and the knife plunged deeper.
“Are they?” He pulled her back into his embrace. “What if I vowed to care for and cherish you for the rest of my days?”
“Those are wedding vows, milord. You had best save them for your bride.”
Her voice was cold, but a fierce yearning fired her eyes. She cared for him. He knew it. And he wasn’t going to let her walk out of his life. Not without a fight.
“Dammit, Chelsea, Phoebe means nothing to me. I scarcely know her. Our marriage is a contract between two families, not two people.”
She jerked away from him. “Anthony, I don’t want to hear—”
He laid a finger over the juncture of her soft, open lips. “But you’re going to.” He drew a shuddering breath, steeling himself. If spilling his soul was what it took to convince her, then so be it. “I understand what it means to lose people you care about. I lost my two best friends in the war. Steven took sick just after Barrosa. In the end, ’twas the malaria, not the French, that got him.” His fingers clenched the reins. What he was about to admit was tantamount to pulling the stitches from a barely healed wound. “And later at Albuera, after I’d been hit, my other friend Peter…Well, the bloody fool unseated the French cavalryman who was charging me…and got himself trampled into the bargain.”
Her eyes softened. “Oh, Anthony.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. “You mustn’t torture yourself. You would have done the same had you been in his place.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “Would I? I’m not so sure. Even now I can’t help wondering…If I hadn’t pushed Cole to advance—hell, if I hadn’t persuaded Peter and Steven to join up in the first place…Why should I be the one to survive when better men—” His voice cracked, but he’d come too far now to turn back. He bit back the shame and forged on. “And then I met you. For the first time in more than two years…no, in my whole life, I felt—” he hesitated, searching, “—whole. As if my surviving, Peter’s sacrifice, might be to some purpose after all.” He lifted her slight hand and pressed the palm to his mouth, heedless of the tear trailing his cheek. “Now that I’ve found you, I can’t bear to lose you. I won’t lose you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Be my lover, Chelsea. I’ll steal away as often as possible to be with you and, in those stolen moments, we’ll know greater happiness than most lawfully wedded couples find together in a lifetime.”
“Oh, Anthony.” The clip-clop of approaching horses’ hooves striking the cobbles nearly drowned Chelsea’s choked sob. “If I’ve learned anything from tonight, it’s that nothing good ever comes of stealing.”
They passed a strolling lamplighter, torch in hand, but otherwise Mount Street was as dark and desolate as Anthony’s soul. But he wasn’t ready to concede defeat. Not hardly.
They dismounted. When he turned to tether the horse, Chelsea flew across the street.
He caught up with her at the town house entrance. Vaulting to the top step, he said, “I only want to see you safely inside.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” A lantern hung beside her door. Standing inside the feeble pool of light, she rifled through her reticule for the door key.
Metal rang against the flagging, and then glanced off the step.
“Blast.” She fell to her knees.
Anthony came down beside her. “Allow me.” Feeling in the dark, he found the key in the bushes. “Voilà.” Brushing soil from his hands, he got to his feet and helped her up.
“Thank you.” She held out her palm.
He hesitated. You really are a rogue, Montrose. He wasn’t proud, but he was resolved.
He pocketed the key. “The price is one kiss.”
One kiss. What he was about to do was wrong, but he closed his mind to the niggling self-reproach. Chelsea Bellamy might not yet realize it, but she needed him almost as much as he needed her. And he was willing to call on every dirty trick in his rake’s repertoire to prove it to her.
“Oh, Anthony, for pity’s sake.” A tear splashed her cheek. He reached out and brushed it away with his thumb just as another took its place. Seeing her like this tore at his heart, but he told himself he must be ruthless for both their sakes.
He lifted her chin on the edge of his hand. “One kiss, and then I’ll leave.”
He kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, each of her satiny cheeks. When he moved over her soft mouth, his lips butterfly light, she turned her face away.
“I must go inside,” she said, one hand balanced lightly on his chest. “Jack will be waiting up.”
Anthony glanced beyond her to the darkened windows. “I rather think he’s still at the Rookery.” Where I’m supposed to relieve him, inside of an hour. God, if only I had more time. “I’ll go in with you. We’ll wait for him together.”
She moved away. “No.” This time she sounded as though she meant it. “You’ve seen me to the door, you’ve had your one kiss, you’ve…” She threw her hands in the air. “This is goodnight.”
Anthony hesitated. A second later, inspiration struck. He lifted his right hand to the light. The torn evening glove revealed busted knuckles and an impressive smattering of dried blood. At least, he hoped she was impressed. Most of the blood was Ambrose’s but, if she assumed it was his, who was he to gainsay her?
“May I come inside long enough to wash my hand?” he asked mildly.
Her jaw dropped and her eyes softened. “Of course,” she said, and quickly unlocked the door. “But then you’re leaving.”
“Of course,” he replied.
Following her inside, he reminded himself that he was doing this for them both. She cared for him, he knew it. It was only her provincial morality—and her pride—that stood in the way of their mutual happiness. Once he breached her defenses, she would probably thank him.
She paused in the hall to light a candle, and then led the way through the house to the kitchen.
“Sit,” she commanded, nearly shoving him into a spindle-back chair set at one end of the pine table.
The very sturdy table. He thought of that evening less than a fortnight before when he’d nearly succeeded in having her on his dining room table. His desire, which he’d managed to keep dormant on the ride home, leapt to life.
&n
bsp; Still swathed in his cape, she went to a cupboard, pulled down a heavy white bowl, then moved to the sink to fill it. His offers of help brought more stern orders to sit still.
“At home we always used rainwater for washing,” she said, her voice rising above the sound of the crank. “But here, the air is so filthy…”
She was doing her damnedest to behave normally, but by now he knew her too well to miss the nervous trill in her voice or the way she caught at her bottom lip with her teeth. She was unraveling before his very eyes, which signified…
I’m winning. In another few minutes he’d have his cape off her and then the gown. Or perhaps, in the interest of time, he’d leave the gown on. Either way, this time they’d finish what they’d begun.
But his imminent victory rung hollow. Certainly he wasn’t the first lover to use trickery to woo his lady. But what he was about to do was far worse. He was using Chelsea’s own fine qualities—her caring, sympathetic nature—as a weapon against her. And he felt profoundly, deeply ashamed. Good God, could it be that Anthony Grenville, one of London’s most notorious libertines, had grown a conscience?
He was still pondering the possibility when she returned to set the bowl of water, a clean cloth, and a dusty bottle of some spirit—whiskey, most likely—on the table.
He picked up the bottle. “Hmm, dare I hope you’ve changed your mind and plan on having your wicked way with me after all?”
“No, you dare not.”
Cheeks flushed, she pulled out a chair beside him and sat. Careful to avoid his gaze, she reached for his hand. Through the remnants of his glove, he felt her fingers, cold as ice. And suddenly he knew that, as much as he wanted her, he didn’t want her this way.
“This isn’t necessary. I’m fine.” He gripped the chair arm, starting up.
She braced a hand against his chest. “You’re not going anywhere until I clean those cuts.”
Several shirt buttons had gone missing in the fight with Ambrose, and springy dark hair teased her palm. When she pulled away, her hand was shaking.
