by Liz Carlyle
She had come to love him desperately, she realized—so much so, she’d sooner die than disappoint him. And it was that realization which had been the font of last night’s tears. Royden Napier was a decent man, one of the few she’d ever known.
What a pity she had not chosen that light Lady Anisha had spoken of, instead of a vengeful darkness.
On a sigh, Lisette lifted her hand, and stroked a finger lightly along the firm line of his jaw. “Do you not think,” she murmured, “that if we’d met under different circumstances, if we were different people—just a little, mind—that we might have got on like a house afire?”
Instead, he merely snared her hand and carried it to his lips for an instant. “I’m too old for you, Lisette,” he said. “At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.”
“Good Lord.” She blinked at him. “You cannot be above five-and-thirty.”
“Too old in a way that has little to do with years,” he said quietly. “And I’m thirty-four, by the way.”
“That is no difference at all,” she said dismissively, “and when it comes to being old beyond one’s years, Napier, I think you forget to whom you’re speaking.”
“Aye, perhaps.”
They fell into a pensive silence for a moment, the quiet pierced only by something that popped in the fireplace, shooting a shower of sparks up the chimney. From without, the day’s heavy mist had turned to rain that still spattering lightly at the windowpanes. Napier sat now with his head hung almost broodingly, staring into the golden depths of the brandy he cradled, warming it with his palms.
“Tell me you found something of interest in Saint-Bryce’s study,” he said after a time.
Lisette straightened, and shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “The file drawers were empty and recently dusted. I saw no safe. No ledgers. No books of interest. The desk, oddly, I found locked—just before Mrs. Jansen found me.”
Napier cursed beneath his breath.
“It was quite all right.” Swiftly, Lisette explained.
“And she suspected you of nothing?”
“Merely of being a goose,” said Lisette, “which I often am. Case in point, here I sit with you, giddy at the pleasure of it, ignoring all risk to my heart. In any case, after finding me, she took me through to the schoolroom.”
Napier was looking at her oddly now. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “She took you through how?”
“There’s an old butler’s pantry that connects it to the schoolroom.” Lisette turned and tucked one leg beneath her, cradling her sherry in her lap. “At one time, the study must have been a breakfast parlor.”
“Or a nursery,” he said musingly. “These great houses sometimes had a place to prepare trays for the children. Is it possible to hear from one room to the other?”
Lisette shook her head. “I think not, but if one were in the pantry—yes, almost certainly. But it’s full of Bea’s books and toys. Dolls, mostly. I can’t think why anyone else would go in there.”
“Dolls, yes,” he murmured, shifting his gaze to the fire. “She mentioned it one day in the orchard. That her dolls lived in the pantry. That she played with them while her father wrote letters.”
“Hmm.” Lisette set away her sherry, her head still a little light from dinner. “Well, in any case, that’s what little I learned. Now, what did you discover from that sheet of paper you rooked out of poor Mrs. Jansen?”
Napier sighed, and slid forward on the sofa. A large morocco-bound book entitled A Geographic Survey of North Africa lay on the tea table before him. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it and extracted two pieces of thick, creamy vellum, one two inches shorter than the other.
“Have a look,” he said. “Though I can already tell you the two are a dead-on match. Jolley’s checked the watermarks—they’re Dutch, by the way—but the first one, the letter, has been trimmed across the top.”
They exchanged knowing glances. “That cannot be coincidence,” she said. “And this was sent to you? Anonymously?”
“Yes, as you guessed days ago,” he admitted. “It came to my house in Eaton Square—and, more interestingly, addressed to Baron Saint-Bryce.”
But Lisette was reading it now. “Good Lord, a concerned citizen?” she muttered. “And wickedness?”
“Not exactly damning language, is it?” said Napier dryly.
“Well . . . no,” she admitted, “but whoever wrote it wanted you here. And they knew your new title. Your home address.”
“And the paper came out of Mrs. Jansen’s drawer,” he added.
Lisette winced with doubt. “Yes, but anyone could have found that paper.”
“But why would anyone look?” he said. “It’s a schoolroom. There’s better paper—paper that doesn’t require the letterhead cut off—in nearly every room of the house.”
“It sounds as if one of the servants could have written it,” mused Lisette. “Which one of them cleans the schoolroom?”
“Jane,” said Napier darkly.
“Jane?” said Lisette in surprise. “Isn’t she the maid who sometimes sat with Lord Hepplewood when Gwyneth and Diana weren’t about?”
“Yes, but Jolley tells me the girl is illiterate,” Napier mused. “I think it cannot be her.”
“Mightn’t she have taken it for someone else?” Lisette suggested.
“I fancy not,” said Napier.
“Then . . . Mrs. Jansen?” Lisette found it hard to credit. “Why would she? And if she had, why would she have given you that paper so readily?”
“Indeed, she is more apt to have wanted rid of Saint-Bryce,” said Napier, “not bring me running down here to investigate his death.”
Lisette stared at him. “Why would she have wanted rid of Saint-Bryce?”
Napier looked reluctant to continue. Then he exhaled sharply. “It seems she and Gwyneth wanted the dower house rather desperately,” he confessed, repeating all that Gwyneth had told him. “I gather Gwyneth quarreled with her father over it. On more than one occasion.”
“And you fear that they perceived Saint-Bryce was standing in the way of their happiness?” Lisette was walking it through in her mind. “Yet that assumes they imagined they could eventually get round you in his stead. And more easily. But they would have to be utter fools to think you softhearted.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly, “but I’m afraid I already promised it to her.”
“To . . . to Mrs. Jansen? You promised her a house?”
“No, to Gwyneth,” he muttered, looking vaguely embarrassed. “In a moment of weakness the other night, whilst you were giggling like a schoolgirl with Lord Hepplewood.”
“Ah, so I was acting like a schoolgirl and you were flinging away bits of property that you do not even possess as yet.” Lisette laughed. “Good Lord, Napier, are we both utter frauds?”
“Perhaps we are at that.” Then, his mouth turning up in a weary smile, Napier shifted around to better face her. “Ah, Lisette . . .”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Here we are again,” he said, one shoulder propped against the sofa. “Nothing has changed since that day in the cottage. I still want you so desperately it hurts.”
“Well, then.” A soft smile curving her mouth, Lisette toed off her satin slippers, and climbed across his lap, setting one knee to either side. “Let me encourage your desperation.”
Napier smiled faintly, then, sliding his hands around the turn of her face, kissed her slowly and lingeringly. It was their first shared kiss, she realized, not driven by temper or rash desire. Instead it was a slow exploration of each other’s warmth as Napier’s fingers slipped deeper into her hair.
When he lifted his mouth away an inch, his eyes had gone soft with desire and with something that looked like frustration. “Lisette,” he whispered, “is it just the here and now? Is that all we have?”
“It’s all anyone ever has.” Lisette held his gaze unwaveringly. “Take me to bed,” she whispered, her nails curling into his shoulders.
“Please. Make love to me.”
“Tread cautiously, love.” He kissed her again, the mere brush of his lips over her cheek. “For I’m no gentleman, no matter how many titles they chain to my name. And for you—well, for you there’s an awful risk. You understand, yes?”
“A risk of a child,” she said, her face searching his, her hands warm and light on his shoulders as she balanced. “But there won’t be. I counted. Carefully.”
“Ah,” he said.
Faintly, she nodded. “I counted carefully,” she said again. “I’m very . . . predictable, you see. And quite good at arithmetic.”
“I wish to God you wouldn’t tempt me,” he whispered. “This—us—it’s so unwise.”
“Unwise for whom?” Lisette trailed a teasing finger around the turn of his jaw. “You desire me, at least a little. Even that first day in your office. I was half afraid, from the burning wrath in your eyes, that you might take me up on my foolish offer.”
“Witch,” he said hoarsely, cupping her face in his hands. “But I can’t believe that’s who you are, Lisette. You aren’t that woman at all, and—”
“Don’t romanticize this,” she interjected, pushing away a little to search his face. “Don’t you see? Therein lies the risk. If this is just desire—if it’s just pleasure—then it’s not so dangerous.”
“Ah, yes, your theory of non-attachment.” His voice had flattened. “I think we had this discussion already.”
“Yes,” she said swiftly. “But tonight, Napier, I’m tired. Of being alone. Of wanting you.”
“Lisette, it will never—”
“Shush.” She set her fingertips to his lips. “I don’t delude myself. In a few days, we’ll go back to London. We’ll go back to being what we used to be.”
“To one another?” His gaze drifted down her face. “And what was that, Lisette? Mortal enemies?”
On another faint laugh, she shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “We were nothing to one another. We scarcely knew of one another’s existence. I won’t be staying in London, Napier—perhaps not even in Britain—so I’m not looking to . . . to ensnare you in any way.”
He caught her wrist, kissing her pulse point. “And what if I wished to ensnare you?” he whispered.
“You would soon rue it,” she said honestly. “And you would always wonder—”
He dragged her to him and cut off her words with his kiss.
Napier wasn’t even sure when the longing in Lisette’s eyes became something he could scarcely bear. She wanted him to pleasure her—and he would agree to it, of course. No sane man would refuse her.
So he kissed her determinedly, as if he mightn’t stop, cradling the back of her head in his hand as his other hand worked down the buttons that fastened her blue dinner gown. The silk was cool against his hand, her mouth hot and seeking beneath his.
And as he worked each button free, he closed his eyes tighter, unable to bear the desire that softened her eyes and left her languid in his arms.
Couldn’t bear it because it wasn’t enough.
Not until she totally surrendered to him.
And Elizabeth Colburne surrendered to no one. She might surrender to his body—for this, for what he could make her feel. And he was making her feel—rather desperately, if her breathy sighs were any measure. She straddled him now, her head thrown back as he worked her bodice down. Her breasts sprang free, full and ripe, begging for his mouth.
Still cradling her head with one hand, Napier suckled Lisette until her fingers tangled in his hair and she began to whimper, and then to murmur what she wished him to do to her.
And he surely meant to oblige her; had meant to since allowing her in the door, if he were honest. Indeed, at this point, he could hardly have stopped himself. Scooping her in his arms, one hand sliding beneath her lush bottom, Napier rose from the sofa and carried her to the bed. Lisette was kissing him now, her lips sliding down his neck with murmured supplications, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her hands twining around his neck, sinuous as a cat.
Perching her on the edge of the high mattress, he undressed her with slow deliberation. When her fingers went impatiently to her hooks and buttons, he pushed her hands gently away, unwilling to surrender the pleasure.
Unwilling to give in to her completely.
“Patience, love,” he murmured. “I want to savor this.”
She dropped her hands and sat docilely. Lisette desired him for this one thing. And in this one thing, he was determined to have his way. With this one thing, he could enslave her—if only for an hour or two.
Or three, perhaps, if he measured himself out carefully.
Already Lisette’s eyes were glassy with need. The silk dress settled around her waist in a pale puddle, luminous against the cream of his counterpane. Her loosened corset followed, and her shift fell after that. Kissing his way down her breastbone, Napier snared the tie to her drawers in his teeth and pulled it free, pausing only to tease at her navel with the tip of his tongue.
She shuddered on a breathy sign. Then Napier lifted Lisette to her feet and let it all fall, leaving her bare save for garters and stockings. After dispensing with those, he swiftly undressed himself and this time she stood watching passively save for the occasional catch in her breath.
When his shirt drifted to the ground, she reached out and set her hand over his heart. He pushed his drawers and trousers down in an untidy heap, and her hand slid lower.
“Slowly, love,” he said, urging her back onto the bed.
Napier mounted her, crawling over her and pressing her down into the softness with his weight as his mouth took hers on a deep, plundering kiss. Lisette’s head fell back into his pillows. She exhaled on a little shudder, her hands going to the rounded muscles of his shoulders. He thrust his tongue into her mouth again, sliding it sinuously and repeatedly along hers in that age-old mimicry; warning her of his intent.
In response, Lisette sighed and let her eyes fall shut, her thick lashes feathering over her pale skin. Urging her legs wide with his knee, Napier turned his attention to her breasts, his cock lying thick and throbbing against the alabaster flesh of her thigh.
Strangely, she did not reach for him—did not run her fingers over his sensitive head or tease from him his essence as he’d thought she might. Instead Lisette lay quietly but wantonly beneath him, as if she knew what he wished.
What he needed.
To take her. Not against her will, no, but to be in utter control of her body—assuming there was no winning her soul. His hand weighed her swollen breasts in turn, thumbing her nipples into sensitive, dark rose nubs as he sat back on his heels and watched her breath ratchet up. Teasing her until the pleasure of his fingers became too much for her to bear and he was compelled to lean forward and soothe her with the tip of his tongue.
“Napier . . .” she whispered urgently.
Her patience—and passivity—was coming to an end, he sensed. As if he’d bidden her touch, Lisette began to move restlessly, the fingers of one hand stroking down the turn of his waist, then lower. His hand caught her fingers, then Napier sat up and drew them together through her nest of curls until her dew glistened both their fingers.
Her eyes widening, Lisette still lay against his pillows, her wild curls shimmering around her head like a halo of rubies, brilliant against the white linen. She looked like an angel—an angel, he feared, sent to show him hell here on this earth.
The hell of what he could not have. Not in any way save the most fleeting.
But fleeting passion, he had decided, was better than none at all.
In his mind, Napier considered all manner of tactics to torment and delay. He wanted to teach Lisette to touch herself as he watched. To tease her sweet nub with his mouth again. Perhaps even to feel the warmth of her mouth on him.
But she was untutored and already arching restlessly beneath him, and he—well, he was fighting down his own impatience. So he situated himself between those impossibly long legs and le
t his eyes feast, fearing he’d be wise to let Lisette’s feminine perfection sear his memory. For it was all, in the end, he might have.
“Lisette,” he whispered, “you are beautiful.”
And he meant it. Lisette was all leggy, coltish grace with firm, high breasts and a soft, creamy dip of a belly that invited a man to cradle his head upon it.
She gazed up at him through somnolent but knowing eyes. “And you are hard, physical perfection,” she whispered. “Come. Come inside me. Let me feel how perfect.”
Her throat worked up and down, her eyes pleading with him. But Napier had no intention of being rushed.
“Now,” she whispered.
In answer, he let his hands skate up the alabaster flesh of her inner thighs—all the way up—until he could run his thumbs along the lush folds of feminine flesh that embraced her delicate treasure.
Ever so gently he parted her and let his gaze take in the glistening, pearl-pink skin and the sweet jewel within. Lisette’s breath seized at the intrusion, her hand sliding restlessly down.
“Patience, love,” he said, touching her gently.
“Aah,” she whispered, her hips rolling against his hand. “Please. Inside me. Now.”
Again her hand lashed out, this time reaching desperately. And Napier knew if the witch stroked him once, he’d likely be lost. But it was no hard feat to snare her wrist in his and push her hand back up.
“Napier,” she begged, restlessly rolling her hips, “just hurry—”
But he was bloody tired of hurrying; he wanted to savor what little he had. To deny for as long as he could that the end neared.
“Don’t make me wait,” she whispered.
And suddenly the devil really was in him.
Later, when good sense returned, Napier blamed despair. But in that instant, he felt only raw, male frustration.
Reaching blindly around with his empty hand, he groped in the gloom until he found the cravat he’d tossed onto the bed. And before he’d had time to think better of it—before she’d even grasped what he was about—Napier had the linen looped around Lisette’s wrist and was urging it over her head.
“Napier?” Her eyes flew wide in the firelight. “What are you—?”
