A Bride by Moonlight

by Liz Carlyle

  He wanted to kiss her until her breath came in gasps and her eyes were hooded and heavy with need. Wanted to thrust and caress and suckle until her cold, pale beauty was in utter dishabille. Wanted to force Lisette to . . .

  To what?

  To love him?

  It was logic bordering on insanity.

  And if he wanted a fight, he was not to have that, either.

  Instead, Lisette had begun to kiss him back. Deeply. Hungrily.

  He set a hand to her cheek, and on a soft groan, her hands slid around his waist, then under his coat, leaving him shivering with lust. He wished suddenly for the moonlight’s return—ached to see her eyes and the finely carved bones of her face. To see her desire for him—or at least the desire for what he could give her—writ plain upon her face.

  On a rough exhalation, Napier shifted his hands to cup the full swells of her breasts. Lisette sighed into his mouth. He snared his thumbs in her décolletage, and tugged both dress and chemise down until the pale mounds surged over her corset and into his hands.

  At last he lifted his mouth from hers, and let it slide lingeringly down her throat to catch a sweet, hard nub between his teeth. Gently he bit, teasing at the very tip with his tongue.

  “Oh. Napier.”

  The words were mere exhalations. Utter surrender. Lisette let her head fall back against the column, thrusting her bare breasts higher. Offering herself up for his pleasure. He accepted, suckling her hard—nipping first tenderly, and then not.

  She cried out, trembling against him. When he turned his attention to the other breast, her hands slid lower, all the way down to the hard muscles of his hips to pull him toward her in that most carnal of ways. Napier continued his torment, drawing the swollen bud more fully into the heat of his mouth, sucking until her breath began to come in soft, quick gasps. In the heat of their passion her seductive scent rose, maddening him.

  At last her fingers plunged into his hair on a cry.

  Napier was vaguely aware of the risks he ran. The risk of the moon’s return. The risk of discovery.

  The risk of losing his heart forever.

  He forced it all from his mind and instead fisted up her skirts in a rustle of silk, winding them higher and higher in his hand. Slipping the other hand between them, he urged her legs apart with his knee and found his fingers wet with her silk. She gave a little cry of pleasure at the touch, and Napier pressed his mouth to her ear as he slipped one finger inside her slick sheath.

  “Is this . . . just lust?” he whispered.

  She swallowed hard, her head still tipped back against the column, her knees sagging weakly. “Damn you, Napier,” she finally said. “I always knew you were the devil.”

  On a soft sound, he drew his fingers through her wetness again, this time grazing her sweet, quivering nub. She did not struggle when he shoved her skirts to her waist, nor when he pulled loose the tie of drawers.

  He watched in satisfaction as the silk sailed down her legs to puddle on the planks. Lisette had slender, beautiful legs that begged to be hitched about his hips, giving him free range to thrust and plunder. But first, he was determined to enslave her as he was enslaved, if only fleetingly.

  She stiffened with shock when he went down on one knee, and cried out threadily when he plunged his tongue into her heat.

  “Napier . . . ?”

  It was madness, perhaps. Especially for a man as calculated as himself. But he made love to her with his mouth all the same, easing two fingers into the wet tangle of curls, then into her silken passage. For long moments he thrust his fingers gently, tormenting her with his tongue, listening in satisfaction to her breathy sobs.

  She clutched the railing behind with one hand, the nails of the other digging into his shoulders. “Oh, God,” she cried.

  As her climax drew near, Lisette began to shake as if frightened, her hands moving as if to stop him. But he did not stop, and her fingers plunged into his hair again. Then she gave a soft, keening wail, shuddered, and then came apart beneath the gentle onslaught, her long, lithe body wracked with waves of release.

  She was so beautiful, caught in the throes of her passion, and that beauty only ratcheted his own need higher. He stood and held her as she rocked with the last waves of release, then swiftly opened his trousers, yanking hard at the buttons. Shoving the fabric down in a wad, he lifted her and pushed himself inside her awkwardly. He lifted her another fraction, and felt the hot length of his cock slide deep into her pulling wetness.

  Instinctively Lisette lifted one leg, hitching it over his hip. On a groan, Napier pinned her to the column with the strength of his body, lifted her in his arms, then took his own pleasure in thrusts so deep and so fast they would have shamed the greenest of schoolboys. There was no grace in his actions; it was a vulgar, desperate act, and Lisette was no woman of experience.

  Yet the shame did not slow him. His breath heaving from his chest, Napier thrust and thrust again, lifting her with each stroke until his pleasure came, blinding white and pure in his head. And as the last surge of his seed pumped into her, and the deep, shuddering weakness took him, Napier knew without question he was lost.

  CHAPTER 11

  Fanny to the Rescue

  Lisette and Napier returned to the house together, picking their way back up the path with rather more care than had been required to come down. The clouds had thickened now, and the moon showed little inclination to reappear. It was as well, Lisette decided, for the darkness helped to dispel the lingering awkwardness that now hung unspoken between them.

  But perhaps words had become superfluous? As with all things, it seemed that Napier could look straight through to the truth inside her. He sensed her most intimate desires, could edge near her most closely held secrets, and knew, perhaps, her darkest fears.

  Not for the first time, Lisette wished desperately she were more like her sister or her father. Easily self-deluded. Able to cling to hope when hope was but a pipe dream, ever certain that a life of happiness was not just around the corner, but that it was deserved.

  Instead Lisette felt the curse of Cassandra upon her shoulders. This would not end well for her; she was in deep, her heart already half broken, and she knew it.

  Nor, in the end, was she to have a reprieve from the awkwardness. Napier jerked to a halt halfway up the hill, and turned to face her in the gloom.

  “Lisette, I’m sorry,” he said. “What we did just now . . . nightingales in Covent Garden, I daresay, are treated with more grace.”

  She stood rigidly on the path. “Did I ask you for grace?” she said quietly. “You are an exquisite lover, Napier—a fact you doubtless use to your advantage. But if I told you I didn’t enjoy what we did just now, then we’d both know me for a liar.”

  “A lady deserves something a little more elegant than to have her skirts thrown up,” he said, his voice rueful in the dark. “A lady deserves . . . romance, Lisette. To be properly courted. Flirted with.”

  “But you are not a romantic, remember?” She forced a smile, though he could not see it. “And in truth, Napier, I cannot imagine a man less flirtatious.”

  “Christ, Lisette. That’s harsh.”

  “I don’t mean it so,” she replied. “It is who you are, and you’ve always been honest about it. And for a man who’s not a romantic, not flirtatious, and who possesses little in the way of charm, I’d say you’re doing pretty well for yourself. I haven’t yet found the will to refuse you. And I . . . well, I fear I never will.”

  She could feel him watching her in the dark.

  “Let it go, Napier,” she whispered. “Yes, we desire one another. And that might be unwise, but it’s neither vulgar, nor a crime. Let’s get back to worrying about what brought us here, and how we may resolve it.”

  For a moment, she thought he didn’t mean to answer. Then, after a long pause, Napier set off up the path again. “You’re right,” he said. “The sooner we’re finished here the better.”

  “Thank you.” She ignored th
e slight sting in his words. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “Very well.” He spoke in hard, clipped tones: the impersonal giving of orders that she remembered from Hackney. “Tomorrow morning after breakfast, go into the library. Alone, if at all possible.”

  “Certainly,” she replied. “And once there—?”

  “Act as if you are looking for a book,” he said coolly, “and keep one eye on the door. Eventually, Jolley will walk past. Follow him at a distance into the great hall. He will go up the main staircase to the south side of the second floor.”

  “South?” she said. “Toward the schoolroom and study?”

  “Yes,” said Napier tightly. “Jolley carries in his pocket a lock pick—”

  “Ah,” she murmured. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Just follow him,” Napier ordered. “If no one is about, he’ll have Saint-Bryce’s study open in a trice. I’d have him search it—he’s capable enough—but there’s no excuse for his being there should someone see him. And if you are seen—”

  “If I’m seen, I’ll deal with it,” she interjected.

  His lips thinned. “Very well,” he finally said. “Make a mental list of what’s in the room using your—what did you call it? Near total recall? God knows neither Jolley nor I have it. So survey the room and go through the desk. Take samples of any letter paper you find.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Where will you be?”

  “Unless it rains, I’m headed to Berkshire with Craddock to inspect one of Duncaster’s lesser estates,” he said. “We might be away the night. But Jolley can fetch me if need be.”

  “There will be no need,” she promised. “You may count on me.”

  “Thank you,” he said a little stiffly. “But after this, Lisette, I think we must make some hard decisions.”

  “What do you mean?” The words came out more sharply than she’d intended.

  He hesitated. “I should rather cross that bridge another day,” he finally said. “But I see little more to be done here.”

  He then offered her his arm—a sort of truce, perhaps—and they continued in silence for a time, soon reaching the edge of Burlingame’s formal gardens. Lisette curled her hand into the softness of his coat sleeve, all too aware of the strength that lay beneath.

  “Have you been in the schoolroom yet?” he eventually asked.

  “Yes, but I’ve been unable to have a good look at it.” Idle gossip seemed safer than dwelling on what had just happened in the boathouse. “Someone is always there. Do you suspect Mrs. Jansen of something? She seems the most benign of creatures.”

  Napier shook his head, but she felt some of the tension leave his arm. “I don’t know whom I suspect—nor even what I suspect them of,” he said. “Two deaths and two more perilously near it—and all in a few months’ time? Perhaps Underwood is sure Saint-Bryce died of apoplexy, but . . .”

  There was something he wasn’t telling her, thought Lisette. Something besides a rambling letter from an old man on his deathbed, and a pair of sick footmen. But at least they were back on their old footing.

  “And poor Prater,” she murmured. “Who could wish him ill? I cannot say as I care for Walton—he eyes women far too lasciviously to suit me. He’s begun to sneer at Mrs. Jansen. The poor creature is frightened of him, I believe.”

  “Walton had better be frightened of Gwyneth,” said Napier grimly. “She’s definitely capable of poisoning someone.”

  “Oh, it’s not just Gwyneth. There’s enough suppressed rage in that house to blow the roof off should someone strike a match wrong.” Lisette pulled her shawl tighter. “And then there’s that awkward business with Mrs. Jansen.”

  He flicked another glance in her direction. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, perhaps that’s why Walton sneers at her now?” Lisette felt her face heat. “Because his cause is so obviously lost, and his good looks are useless? I mean, really, don’t all you Englishmen have one of those odd, old-maid aunties tucked in a cupboard somewhere?”

  “You seem to become conveniently American when it suits you,” Napier remarked, “and I believe Mrs. Jansen is a widow. But do continue. I find your assessment fascinating.”

  “For all that they’re often together, I think Gwyneth and Diana hate one another,” she mused. “Though hate may be too strong a word. And Lady Hepplewood runs over Gwyneth, overruling her household decisions, and seems to quite disdain Diana. In fact, Lady Hepplewood gives the impression of being—well, just grief stricken. Weighed down with it. All the time. I think it’s made her bitter in her old age.”

  “Grief stricken? That’s not the term I’d have chosen.”

  Lisette shrugged. “But that’s what it is,” she said quietly. “I know grief when I see it. And I comprehend bitterness.”

  Napier fell silent a moment. “And Mrs. Jansen?” he finally said. “What do you make of her?”

  “She’s very quiet,” said Lisette, “but I like her well enough.”

  “I like her, too,” he said. “Does she fancy herself . . . er, emotionally attached to Gwyneth?”

  “I think it quite likely,” Lisette acknowledged. “They are in one another’s company whenever Mrs. Jansen’s duties permit. But what can that have to do with Lord Hepplewood’s death?”

  “In my experience, passion can be the source of much trouble,” said Napier.

  With a wry smile, Lisette considered how very true that was. “For my part, I worry more about Lady Hepplewood,” she said. “Why is she even living in Wiltshire? First we hear the house in Northumberland is drafty and run down. Then Diana—who would surely know—says that’s not the case.”

  “Perhaps there’s just no pleasing Lady Hepplewood,” Napier muttered.

  “It’s more than that,” Lisette countered. “And now we hear that Gwyneth is angry because Tony spurned her sister Anne—by the way, Anne is coming up from London tomorrow, had you heard? And bringing Miss Felicity Willet with her?”

  “I’d heard rumblings, yes.”

  “It’s all very odd,” Lisette went on. “Tony’s known in Town as a skirt-chasing wastrel, while Diana paints him a regular homebody who just wants to put his boots up by the fire. I rather like the fellow—one cannot help it—but I think he’s much deeper, and far more shrewd, than he lets on.”

  “Or perhaps Diana is naïve?” Napier suggested.

  Lisette twitched her shawl tighter again. The clouds scuttled past the moon, once more washing the gardens in light. Something was stuck in the back of her mind. Something that had flitted through her brain in the green bedchamber some days ago, and again just now. But she could not get it to alight long enough to be grasped.

  “Oh, well,” she said. “Diana may be a romantic ninnyhammer, but in other matters, she’s no fool.”

  “And being romantic generally makes one a fool?” he asked.

  She cut him a sharp glance. “Usually, yes.”

  “Ah, I begin to grasp your logic.” Napier fell silent for a time. “But have you never had romantic leanings, Lisette? You are, after all, a self-confessed romantic.”

  “Yes, but I could ill afford such fantasies,” Lisette retorted. “I was never the perfect princess, Napier, like Lady Anisha Stafford. My life was never a fairy tale. I will always be flawed. Always be different.”

  “But surely in Boston there was someone courting you?”

  Lisette disliked the direction they were taking. “A few young men, yes,” she said, “especially when Uncle Ashton’s health began to fail and it was clear I’d inherit the paper.”

  “Ah, yes, the opportunists,” he said softly.

  “Gluttons for punishment, more like,” she said as they turned into the carefully hedged parterres. “The paper lost money more years than not.”

  “And so you turned them away, brokenhearted?” His voice was faintly sardonic.

  “I saved them from their own folly,” she snapped. “And I had other plans.”

  “Yes,” he said grimly
. “I think you were too busy pursuing your mad notions of justice and revenge to think of your own future, Lisette. To think of what you might be giving up. I saw you with that child in your arms at Tafton’s. I saw the want and the ache in your eyes. So don’t even bother pretending what you’ve lost doesn’t matter. It bloody well does matter.”

  She jerked to a halt on the graveled path. “How dare you talk to me of pursuing mad notions!” she said, her frustration rekindled. “You’ve come all the way to Wiltshire for reasons you cannot even articulate. And whatever I’ve given up, at least the choice was mine.”

  For a moment he stood stock-still, blocking the path before her. Then, “Touché,” he said softly.

  Lisette felt herself trembling inside. “You offered earlier tonight to leave me to myself,” she replied. “May I now accept that offer? I should like to sit in the gardens for a while and enjoy the calm.”

  He bowed once, very stiffly, at the neck. “But of course.”

  Suddenly, and entirely on impulse, Lisette reached out for him, catching his hand. “Napier, I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish—oh, God, how I wish that life were different. That we’d met in a different time and place, and that we’d neither of us have any regret when all this was over.”

  His mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. “Damn me for a fool, Elizabeth, but I don’t regret anything we’ve done,” he said. “All I regret is the distance and the deceit.” Then, to her shock, Napier leaned into her and set his lips lightly to her forehead.

  And on her next breath, he was gone, turning and striding through the last of the gardens and up the veranda steps. Fleetingly, his broad shoulders and impressive height were silhouetted in the lamplight that spilled from the house. Then Walton pushed the door wider, and without so much as glancing back, Napier vanished.

  Drawing her shawl tighter still, Lisette stood in the suddenly cold air watching the house. After a few moments had passed, she saw his shadowy form go striding through the long colonnade. On a sigh, she sat down on the first bench she could find.

  Only then did she realize her hands were shaking quite visibly.