by Olivia Drake
“Because I had nothing to offer you. Nothing but the money to pay for your care by nuns who knew more about children than I.”
With a stab of torment she recalled the dreamy girl she had once been, crossing the bitter North Sea to wed an Englishman she had never met, with hope in her heart and visions of a real home and a family to love. “I never even knew you until I was sixteen. How could you have discarded me all those years, like unwanted rubbish?”
“It took me those sixteen years to make something of myself, to take a thief’s knowledge of jewels and use it in a legitimate form of trade. And I did. I convinced the European aristocracy that I could broker their family gems. I turned my life around and became the sort of father you could honor and respect.”
Tears seeped down his aging cheeks, but he made no move to wipe away the wetness. His unashamed show of emotion rattled her, made her ache to throw her arms around him in comfort.
Had he really changed his life for her? Or was he only lying to excuse his neglect?
Clenching her fists around the folds of her skirt, she said, “Why did you never tell me?”
“Because I feared the very reaction you feel now. I feared you would despise me, that you would shut me out of your heart forever. I did the best I could. Please forgive me, Norah.”
Sincerity throbbed in his voice. Tom between hurt and yearning, she choked back the sobs that burned her throat. In her agonized confusion one thought shone clear and bright. Her father. Jerome was her father.
The notion washed her in a thrill so intense she feared its brilliance. She was his bastard daughter. The disclosure tore apart the familiar ties of their friendship. She felt at a loss to reweave the broken strands of trust.
Seeking solace, she pressed her cheek to Kit’s shoulder, and he hugged her tight. “I don’t know what to say,” she murmured. “I need time to think.”
“I understand completely,” Jerome said. He stood slowly and looked at her, his eyes moist and mournful. “I only wish there were some way I could make up to you those lost years.” Picking up his top hat, he went out.
The minute his dignified form disappeared from sight, she ached to call him back. “On, Kit,” she whispered in a tangle of distress. “What shall I do now?”
He kissed her brow. “Shh. Don’t torture yourself. You’ll learn to have faith in him again.” He held on to her for a long, soothing moment. His expression hardening, he drew her to her feet. “In the meantime, we must tell the police about Bruce.”
Half a block down the street, Lord Bruce Abernathy, Viscount Carlyle, sat inside his carriage and peered through the mist. His muscles tensed as he saw a man emerge from the town house. Jerome St. Claire. The worthless blighter who had ruined Bruce’s mother.
Hatred swept hotly through his veins, chasing away the chill of an hour spent biding his time, waiting for the moment to savor victory. But the ambulance had never come, its team of horses blowing steam, its wheels clattering over the cobblestones.
And now, seeing Jerome St. Claire walking sedately off, Bruce knew the bitter sting of failure. The taste was even more galling in light of his ecstatic joy as Kit had burst into Jane’s house, the footman following. Then the servant had come back out, and the small white bundle he had placed inside the carriage still puzzled Bruce.
St. Claire strode past, one hand holding on to the brim of his top hat, his face tucked downward to ward off the light drizzle. Bruce made no attempt to close the curtains. The carriage interior was dim, the afternoon already beginning to darken into evening.
The filthy old goat. How dare that common thief walk the streets of London dressed as if he were a gentleman worthy of esteem?
Not for long. With the information Bruce had carefully gathered, Jerome St. Claire would be exposed for a petty criminal. Once Bruce relished his revenge, St. Claire would die, too.
But not with the dignity afforded Maurice. Bruce intended to see St. Claire suffer. He would be stripped of his bogus gentility and tied up. He would be naked and vulnerable.
Anticipation hardened Bruce. Permitting himself the luxury of fantasy, he reached inside his cloak and stroked himself through his trousers. Intense pleasure rippled through him. God. Wouldn’t that be rich? To use the man responsible for seducing Bruce’s mother. The man responsible for fathering—
Norah.
Blackthorne at her side, she descended the front steps. Alive and unharmed.
The erection wilted beneath Bruce’s fingers. He gripped the curtain, his eyes fixed on her flame-red hair and the pale oval of her face. She held her dainty chin with the hauteur of the aristocracy, as if she’d been born to privilege instead of sin.
His half-sister.
He had always sensed that Mother had a secret. How keenly he recalled the year of her absence, first to Italy on holiday, then home for a mere fortnight before she’d gone off again, for eight long months. He had spent his fifth birthday alone. Upon her return, she’d brought him lavish presents, but even the model of the HMS Wellington battleship couldn’t distract him from the truth. Everything had changed. He recalled the chill between his parents, the banked fury in his father, so easily sparked that Bruce had learned to avoid him. There had been many times when Mother had closed herself in her studio and painted dull landscapes for days.
Now he knew why. She had been grieving for her beloved bastard. After his father’s death the previous winter, she had told him the truth. With the fervent light of hope in her eyes, she had expressed her intent to acknowledge Norah. In secret, of course. It wouldn’t do to let society learn of her indiscretion.
Bruce had put a swift end to his mother’s misguided plan to welcome Norah into the family fold. He had threatened to expose the whole sordid story to the public, to make his mother and Jerome St. Claire objects of scorn, and to hurt Norah in the process. His mother had quickly backed down. Yet she stood firm on one issue: she meant to make Norah an heiress.
Resentment burned in him. He would never split the family wealth with a by-blow. That was why she must die.
Sullenly, he watched Blackthorne help Norah into the brougham. Had they discovered the strychnine? Or had the poisoned tartlets simply not worked yet?
He considered calling Jane. But he hated to let Norah out of his sight. When she fell, he wanted to be close enough to see her writhe in agony.
Putting his mouth to the speaking tube, he snapped to his driver, “Follow them.”
The carriage jolted through Mayfair, along Piccadilly, down Whitehall, and made a sharp left turn. A grouping of stone houses loomed through the mist. In the yellow glow of a street lamp, a squat-faced constable stood guard at the door of one building.
Bruce’s blood chilled. Scotland Yard. The medieval lodging of the ambassadors of Scotland now housed the Metropolitan Police.
The curtain slipped from his fingers. The interior of the carriage plunged into gloom. Hoarsely he ordered the coachman to drive on.
God! He’d been found out. Jane had turned informant. He’d wring her lily-white neck.
He clamped down on his fear and rage. He hadn’t time to waste on that bitch. He must act, and act fast. Only Norah mattered. How the devil could he pry her away from Blackthorne?
Thinking hard, he plucked the red rose from the cushion beside him and breathed deeply of its petals. The lush aroma washed him in single-minded loathing. Norah’s scent.
An idea pricked him, sharp as the thorn that scraped his gloved finger. The previous night he’d driven past the cemetery. No constable patrolled there anymore, but a couple of urchins had lurked among the gravestones. He had recognized one of them, the spike-haired lad who worked for Norah and lived at the orphan school where she taught.
Bruce smiled. Excitement grew in him, mounting into visceral pleasure. That fresh-faced boy would bring her running.
No sooner did he close the door to the bedroom than Kit drew Norah into his arms. Her silky scent, delightfully damp from the outdoors, washed him in a wave of love so po
werful he might have fallen had not he needed to hold her. “It’s nearly over, darling. Praise God the nightmare is nearly over.”
“But Bruce wasn’t at his town house.” Shivering, she looked toward the window, into the misty dark where the distant pinpricks of lights through the trees marked the Carlyle residence across the square. “If he went back to Jane and found out that his plan hadn’t worked...”
Wishing he could shed his own fears, Kit rubbed her arms. “The police are waiting at Jane’s house, too. He won’t get away.”
She tilted her head back. “He’s my brother. How could he hate me so?”
Moody sadness haunted her lovely features, lent fragility to her fair skin. He kissed her freckled nose, then brushed his lips across the warm satin of her cheek, to the mysterious glow of moonstones at her earlobe. “Maybe he’s afraid you’ll lay claim to the family fortune. He should realize you’re more precious than a vault full of diamonds.”
“Oh, Kit. I’m sorry for pushing you away yesterday in my office.” She nestled her face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t want you to keep your distance. I love you so much.”
A band of emotion tightened around his heart. Resting his jaw atop her fragrant head, he stroked her back. When he regained his composure, he murmured, “You were right to criticize me. I should have trusted you. Norah, I have a confession to make.”
She lifted her head. “You do?”
“I deliberately played on your physical passion as a way to distract you. To keep you all to myself. Because I was jealous of Jerome.”
Gazing into his solemnly handsome face, the darkly sensual features she had come to adore, Norah felt the flash of a joy so radiant it banished the darkness of despair. “At least now we know you haven’t any cause for jealousy,” she murmured. “However, I do hope you won’t ever stop seducing me.”
She slipped her finger between the silver studs of his shirt. Crisp hairs and warm skin met her touch, then the smooth disk of his male nipple.
He sucked in a breath and caught her wrist. Bringing her palm to his lips, he kissed her gently. “Charming as you are, we need to talk about Jerome and Lady Carlyle first. It’s not every day a woman learns the identity of her long-lost parents.”
She sighed at the reminder, the memories that crowded her. “I suppose they did what they had to, by giving me away.”
“But they never forgot you. Lady Carlyle is your faithful patron. And Jerome has been your devoted friend for the past nine years.”
“I know, but the memory of growing up alone still hurts.”
“That’s only to be expected, love. No matter what wonderful things my parents told me about my own mother, I couldn’t accept her for a long time. Because I wasn’t ready to see her as a real person, with strengths and flaws.” He cupped her cheeks in his big palms. “Your parents aren’t perfect, either. What would your childhood have been like if you’d been raised by a fallen woman and a thief? They coped the best they could with an unhappy situation. They settled you in a place where you could thrive and be safe.”
She closed her eyes. On a rush of nostalgia she saw the mossy stone fence enclosing the convent garden, felt the warmth of the sun on her face, smelled the incense drifting from the chapel. She had spent hours among the roses, fashioning necklaces from vines and petals, pouring her soul onto drawing paper and sketching dreams of the world beyond the cloistered walls.
Now she could see that she hadn’t been abandoned, but sheltered with the best of intentions. By two people who loved her dearly.
Pauvre petite. She is the product of sin. She can never wash away the taint of her bad blood.
But she had. Through their love, both she and Kit had vanquished the demons of the past. Together, they had created the new dream of a glorious future.
Smiling, she opened her eyes to her husband, solid and warm and all hers. She slipped her arms around his trim waist. “I suppose if I’d been a more devout girl, I’d have been content living among the nuns.”
His lips crooked upward. “I worship your irreverent streak. As long as you’re not throwing a box of condoms at me. Or running off and putting yourself in peril.”
“Never again, Kit.” She thrust away the abhorrent premonition of danger lurking beyond the protection of his arms. “I missed making love with you last night.”
“I had a devil of a time lying beside you in the dark and not reaching out. I was aching to kiss you here.” His palms molded around her breasts. Then one hand slid down between her legs, caressing her through the silk of her skirt and petticoats. “And here.”
“Mm.” Her brief satisfaction dissolved into the longing for a more intimate touch. Impatient with talking, she pushed off his coat. He assisted her, shrugging his arms free, then reaching around to unfasten the back of her gown. He slipped his hands inside and found her bottom, rubbing their hips together.
Their mouths melded in a deep kiss of equal need. They undressed each other, dropping their clothes in a heedless heap on the floor, until she could stroke his magnificent arousal. He lengthened and heated under her caresses, allowing her only half a minute before his need grew too great.
He carried her to the bed, came down onto her, and, in one bold drive, penetrated her. Norah moaned at the divine pressure of him inside her. His own harsh growl of urgency stirred her hair.
“God, Norah. I love this. I love you.”
She smiled, entranced by the ardor in his voice. “Who would have thought three months ago, we would be married? A widow afraid of lovemaking, and a rake who couldn’t commit himself to one woman.”
He grimaced. “Don’t remind me of my checkered past.”
“I’m glad for it. Otherwise you might have married someone else years ago.”
“I waited for you. Only you.”
He pressed deeper, withdrew almost to her entrance, then slid inside her again. The seductive friction scattered her thoughts like sunlight off the facets of a diamond. Lifting her hips, she wrapped her legs around his. She smoothed her hands over the ropy muscles of his shoulders and down his back, the slick strength and musky scent of his skin expanding her pleasure.
With earthy reverence, he kissed her breasts, her throat, her mouth until the world held only their hot impassioned bodies, their mingled cries and groans, the eloquent expressions of mutual adoration. The ultimate joy took Norah first, pulsing in sweet-sharp spasms that seemed to go on forever before fading, then peaked again when Kit surged into her one last time on the path to his own release.
She drifted back to the awareness of his harsh breaths, his trembling muscles. He rolled onto his back, draping her atop him. He rested his forearm across his brow and with his other hand worked his fingers through the tangle of her curls. “My sweet wife,” he said with husky satisfaction. “Love is quite the aphrodisiac. I never knew that until I met you.”
“Kit.” Too mellow and replete to do more than sigh his name, she laid her cheek on the springy black hair of his chest. His closeness was pure paradise. Thinking of Kit as her husband still held a faint surprise, a leap of joy at unexpected moments. Once she had resigned herself to a barren future. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought her life would take this course, that she would marry again and look forward to the birth of their baby, that she would know the bliss of true contentment.
A knock rattled the door. The sound was a brusque intrusion, shattering the spell enveloping Norah.
Kit pushed up on his elbow. “Who is it?”
“Herriot, milord,” came his muffled voice. “I’ve a message, delivered for milady.”
“Put it beneath the door.”
With a papery rustle, a white envelope appeared through the crack and slid onto the rug. Kit rose, crossed the room, and fetched the note for her. His naked splendor stole her breath. With effort, she turned her regard to opening the letter.
“It’s from Jerome.” Mystified, she read the page. Clutching the paper to her bare breasts, she focused puzzled eyes on Kit.
“He says not to redesign the royal tiara just yet, that I might still be able to use Fire at Midnight. What can he mean?”
Kit snatched the note from her and read it. “I don’t know. The police will seize the stone as evidence. You won’t be able to legally reclaim it for months. And the competition is the day after tomorrow.”
I’d do anything to get Fire at Midnight for you. Anything at all.
Jerome’s impassioned words reverberated in her mind, setting off an explosion of awareness. Her composure crumbled beneath the weight of panic.
“Oh dear God, Kit! He must have gone to Bruce’s town house to steal back the diamond.”
Surging up from the bed, she grasped Kit’s arm. “The police are watching Bruce’s house. If they catch Jerome breaking in, he’ll be arrested. They could find out about his past reputation as a thief and use it to convict him.”
“Not if I intercede.”
Grabbing his shirt from the floor, Kit jerked it over his naked torso. Norah padded after him and reached for her chemise. “I’m going, too.”
“No. You’re to stay put.”
“But he’s my father—”
“And Bruce is still out there somewhere. He wants to kill you.” Kit pulled her tight against him. “You’ll be safe here, with Herriot and Wickham and the other servants to protect you.”
“But I feel safest with you.”
“Shh. I won’t drag you into a volatile situation.”
Her panic deepened into fright. “You could be hurt—”
“Don’t. Please don’t fret.” His breath gusted warm against her cheek. “I’ll take care. You do the same.”
Releasing her, he picked up his trousers. Norah watched, her numb fingers clutching the chemise to her breasts. Dear God, her hunger for the royal commission now endangered the two men she loved most.
Fully dressed, Kit brushed a kiss over her lips. “Be patient, darling. I’ll return shortly. With Jerome.”
He strode out the door. Its closing eddied a current of air against her naked skin. Shivering, already missing his closeness, she dressed slowly. Then she leaned on the window seat and peered out. There were no stars, no moon tonight, only the occasional glow of a street lamp. The mist had grown too dense tor her to detect more than the hint of lights beyond the blackened tangle of trees in the square. The fog swirled thickest near the ground, denying her any chance of spying Kit’s broad-shouldered form.
