The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  Disgusted, Rushford released him. He strode to a desk in the corner and snatched a piece of vellum from the blotter. “Your signature and confession. And a promise of your further cooperation, which if you’re exceedingly fortunate, may mitigate the court’s judgment of your actions,” he demanded. “Or I shall inform the magistrates in the morning of your involvement in Felicity Clarence’s murder.”

  Galveston sucked in a breath and took the pen that Rushford offered like a piece of hot coal. Turning to the side table, he scribbled down several lines. Relief smoothed the lines of his face when he quickly finished. “You are very generous, my lord, to allow me this reprieve . . .” he opened his mouth to begin, but the rest of the words faded on his lips.

  “This isn’t a reprieve, Galveston,” Rushford corrected him coldly.

  Galveston tried to repair his rumpled clothes, shrugging his coat over his shoulders, attempting to knot his cravat. “See here, Rushford, the Cruikshank situation and of course the Duchess—” he began awkwardly but was silenced instantly by Rushford’s glacial stare, suddenly more frightening than the physical threat of violence.

  “We’ve concluded here this evening, Galveston,” said Rushford, watching the smaller man exhale slowly, a trace of color coming back into his face. “I shall let you know when I’ve finished with the Baron and, rest assured, we shall resume our discussion. I don’t foresee you fleeing to the continent ; you wouldn’t have a farthing without your wife’s largesse. If you cooperate, we may be able to mitigate the charges brought against you.”

  “How is that possible?” he asked in a choked voice. “How could you possibly circumvent an investigation once it is opened?”

  Rushford declined to answer, glancing instead at Rowena, who gazed at him questioningly. She moved away from the wall and the door, sensing that Galveston was close to making his exit.

  “I sense you are eager to depart,” Rushford said, standing aside. Galveston hurriedly smoothed back his hair, straightened his jacket, and then scuttled from the room like an insect. The door closed behind him and Rushford turned to Rowena Woolcott.

  Chapter 8

  Rowena’s limbs were stiff from holding herself rigid, her mind flying off in several directions, trying to make whole cloth of what she had just witnessed. She refused to back away from Rushford, who held her in the crosshairs of his dark gray gaze.

  “Where is your cloak?”

  “I don’t have one. I came without.”

  He nodded brusquely. “Very well. There is an exit at the back of the house, by the mews.”

  “You are clearly familiar with the escape route,” she remarked.

  “And a good thing,” he said, grabbing her arm. His eyes flashed his irritation. “We shall return to my town house unimpeded, if all goes well.”

  Rowena drew herself up a notch. “Your town house? I don’t think so. I shall return to my lodgings.”

  Rushford jerked open the door, flicking her a dismissive glance. “You are my mistress now, are you not, self-declared?”

  With his dark suiting marred only by the pristine cream of his cravat, he looked the devil incarnate, thought Rowena, and just about as powerful. At least, she thought with fatal optimism, she had finally captured and now held Rushford’s interest. “I did what I deemed necessary,” she said. “And don’t be preposterous, Rushford. We need only inhabit the roles for the sake of our audience. As tonight demonstrated. You were prepared to wage a night with your mistress, as I recall.”

  She tried to pull away from the hand on her arm, but he had already propelled them into the hallway, taking long strides toward the back of the establishment. A few voices could still be heard in the distance, the sound of crystal mingling with general laughter. “I trust I did not pique your vanity,” he countered tightly.

  She ignored the taunt, endeavoring to keep up with his strides. “At least you now agree on the wisdom of assisting me, given the interesting parallels that have risen to the surface this night.” The Frenchman and the drowning were uppermost in her mind.

  “You were the one who forced my hand,” he gritted.

  “As though anyone could,” she muttered, adjusting her wig, which had angled to the side in their rush to leave the club. “Do not play coy with me. Your appearance at Mrs. Banks’s this morning had to do with your suspicions, some of which possibly involve my circumstances, as I tried to explain to you at the tavern.”

  “This is not the place to discuss whatever parallels your imagination conjures, Rowena.”

  “Why do you persist in pushing me away? When we clearly have interests in common? Do you believe it is coincidence that you were alerted to the drowning of that poor actress? And what of the late Duchess—your duchess—whom everyone is so keen on mentioning, sotto voce, of course.”

  “You know nothing of my life, Rowena,” he said, warning in his voice. Copper pans hung overhead as they made their way through the kitchen, deserted now.

  “Was she your mistress?” Rowena asked. “The Duchess? It could explain your hesitation—”

  Rushford stopped, slamming her up against a counter, the pots clattering, his eyes bleak, his jaw hard. “Rowena.” His voice was quiet. “I do not wish to speak of it.”

  Rowena was shocked at the heat of his body inches from hers. “Very well,” she said carefully, wondering at the iron in his voice, and at the boundary she was not to cross. “However, I shall not return to Belgravia Square with you,” she said, sagging against him.

  “I don’t care what you wish,” Rushford snapped. “You set the wheels in motion this evening, Rowena, not I. And you will live with the consequences.”

  She stiffened against him, raising a fist to push him away. His broad shoulders were hard as a slab of stone beneath his coat. “This is not what I intended, as you realize full well.” He caught her wrist and jerked her even closer against him. “What are you doing?” she asked, confused. For a long moment, their eyes locked, their breaths mingled, suppressed rage and frustration bubbling between them. And then, as though there was no recourse, Rowena felt the urge to draw nearer to this man, dragged by the heat pooling in her stomach, familiar and yet exotic sensations that she chose not to consider too closely, not to consider at all. As though in a dream, she removed her fist from his broad hand and brought it around his neck, pulling his face down to hers.

  Before this day, she had never been kissed. And had certainly never initiated a kiss, a second kiss, as a matter of record, and certainly not experienced the dizzying power of raw masculinity. It was heady, this combination of anger and lust, coaxing at the tendrils of a dream yawning deep within her. His mouth was an inch from hers, she noted in the suddenly hazy recesses of her mind, and beautiful. In an instant, he’d closed the distance. A hungry urgency took over, their bodies molded together as though nature had intended the union, at once unmistakably familiar and unbearably exotic.

  The dance of his lips against hers was intoxicating, the silk of his heavy hair rich under her fingers. His tongue stroked and coaxed and she knew that this was not right, and yet every sweep of his tongue and thrust into her mouth was stealthily stealing her will. Rushford groaned into her lips, his tongue entwining with hers, capturing it, playing with it, his hand sliding around her waist, pushing closer to her, the hardness of the counter on her backside fading away.

  Unwilling to think, Rowena slid a hand around his chest beneath his coat, liberating the scent that she had come so quickly to associate exclusively with him. The faintest aroma of vetiver claimed a primal sensual ground, settling around her in opulent warmth. She would not lie to herself. She wanted him when she didn’t even know why or what precisely her feelings meant. His mouth moved over hers, his tongue languorously teasing as his free hands wandered over the boning of her corset.

  It was utter madness. It was anger, which she had witnessed in the study with Galveston, mixed with lust. Her frustration and her inexplicable attraction to this man. Nothing more. But it didn’t matter, any more
than his hard thigh sinking between her own, his chest against her breasts, his lips sliding along her jaw. She could lie to herself, pretend it was another of her dreams, the heaviness between her legs becoming an intense ache.

  She closed her eyes, willing the dream, her dream, to wash over her. Her womb was heavy and her breasts hurt, as she savored the wicked mouth against the skin of her neck, pleasured by the slow slide of his lips. She reveled in his hands, cupping and stroking, his fingers slipping into the shadows—

  A door slammed somewhere nearby, and Rowena’s eyes flew open at the sound, alarm drying her dream to a fine dust. Rushford did not wait but hauled her into his arms. Her head began to swim again pressed close against his chest, the profile of his hard jaw cut by the sensual mouth hovering over hers. Rushford jerked open the kitchen door and the night air swept over them both.

  The streets had been empty given the late hour, rendering their journey to the town house on Belgravia Square short. Dismissing the curious looks of his driver and butler with a curt good night, Rushford had bundled Rowena up the back kitchen stairs toward one of the five guest rooms in the back of the residence. He’d managed only two steps away from the bed, upon which he had deposited a mutinous and dangerously silent Rowena, to mentally brace himself against the oncoming onslaught, his pulse pounding and his breath coming as though he’d been running for days. The hardness in his groin mocked him without mercy.

  The memories came rushing back, making it no easier for him to forget what had transpired in the club’s kitchen or resist tearing off Rowena’s gown, the red velvet pooling around her in a crimson heap. The offensive wig was partially askew, the gold lush against her white skin. As though reading his mind, she pulled the curls from her head, revealing a sleek topknot and the elegant bone structure of her face. It was the last thing he needed. She pushed herself up against the pillows, ready to swing her legs out of the bed. “I cannot stay, Rushford. You cannot hold me here against my will.”

  For a brief moment, snared by the brilliance of her beautiful, intelligent eyes, he wondered who was the captive. Would she ever remember, he wondered, feeling a tightening around his conscience as well as his pounding erection. Philosophical flexibility should have been his for the taking, buttressed by a jaundiced worldview and a personal cynicism that had been forged by years of professional betrayal and cemented by the murder of his Kate. Christ, he was feeling guilty for the uncontrollable desire he felt for this girl sitting awkwardly on the wide bed. Desperate, he struggled to resist what was but a paler version of a passion he’d believed would never be his again. His enforced celibacy had been a form of self-torment, punishment for allowing the monstrous to have happened.

  He ran a hand through his hair and said without looking at her directly, “You need not flee, Rowena, I shan’t touch you again. You have my word.”

  She did not move from the edge of the bed, her slender neck bent as she seemed to contemplate the complex pattern of the parquet floor. “I apologize,” she said, glancing up at him after a moment. “I take full responsibility. The fault was mine. For whatever reason . . . I cannot hope to say why . . . I cannot account for . . . but I was the one who initiated the embrace this evening. I am simply embarrassed.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps it was the strain of the evening. However, it will not happen again, I assure you, my lord.”

  It was excruciating, the pain he felt at the innocence in her voice. When it was he who had taken advantage, and not for the first time. His mind spun back, hopelessly in thrall to the memories that her presence so easily conjured. Before the images could coalesce, he shut them down with brutal swiftness. He was wasting time—and endangering Rowena further. It was the bitterest irony that she had come to him for assistance when he would simply lead her back into the vortex of Montagu Faron’s making, so chillingly outlined by the foolish, unwitting Galveston earlier in the evening.

  “I take full responsibility,” he said abruptly. “Enough said about the matter.”

  Rowena sighed her relief. “Enough said,” she echoed. “Then I can return to my lodgings and we can meet tomorrow to discuss how you intend to resolve the murder of Miss Clarence, now that you have Galveston’s confession.”

  Relieved at this turn in conversation, Rushford shook his head. “Galveston is more valuable to us at large just now. His day of reckoning will come, never fear.”

  “I sensed that there was more.” Rowena swung to her feet. She moved elegantly, thought Rushford, in total control of her body without any of the simpering daintiness typical of her sex. “This Frenchman, for instance—” The sentence remained unfinished. Her eyes shone clear, without guile.

  And nearly killed him. “We can finish our discussion tomorrow morning,” he said tersely.

  “Very well, then, I can see myself out, my lord. Please, if you would be so kind as to arrange for a carriage, so as not to alert your servants to my presence.”

  “It’s a trifle late for that. And you’re not going anywhere. You are safer here,” he said, hoping to enlist her compliance for once. He walked over to the window, bracing his palms on the sill, turning away from her. The darkness of London stared back at him. “Let me know the location of your lodgings, and I shall have your belongings sent for.”

  “I thought we’d resolved this matter.”

  Rushford rubbed his chin, already rough with morning stubble. “You have declared to the world that you are my mistress. So tomorrow I shall have my solicitor see that you are established in appropriate apartments.” He turned back and glanced at her critically, taking in the rumpled, red velvet dress. “And we shall have a new wardrobe, the proper jewelry.”

  “Is all this window dressing necessary?” Rowena asked with the arch of a brow, her arms crossed.

  “Absolutely,” he said briskly. “Lord Rushford’s paramour should look the part, particularly if we are not to raise suspicion.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I have but one question.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Just one?”

  “Why the sudden volte-face, my lord?”

  Now was not the time for the truth. Rushford gazed up at the ceiling, ornately plastered with gilded laurel leaves, searching for an explanation that would satisfy. When he found none, he said, “You would not believe me if I said that you’d won—nay—worn me down. So let me just say that you have resurrected my chivalrous nature.”

  She nodded her head slowly, as though deciding whether to believe him. “I trust there’s more to your chivalrous instincts than you let on.”

  “You yourself have told me that you and your family are in grave danger, now more so given that you have exposed yourself to the world. The unfortunate wig, notwithstanding,” he added dryly. They both glanced at the curls lying discarded on the bed.

  Rowena fingered the knot of hair at her nape, long, lustrous and heavy in a man’s hands, Rushford thought suddenly. “It served its purpose, did it not?” she said. “Although we must find a replacement since you find it so odious and obviously not suitable for Lord Rushford’s mistress.”

  “All in good time,” he muttered.

  She picked up the discarded wig, contemplated it for a moment, and then tossed it back down on the bed. “You are using me, Lord Rushford,” she said sweetly.

  He was a man who generally had the power and the cunning to get what he wanted, and it amazed him that this young woman saw through him like a pane of glass. “As you intend to use me,” he said, keeping his voice even.

  She lifted her nose. “I can afford to pay you for your time and expertise.”

  “That’s ridiculous, as well you realize. I’ve never taken money from a woman, and I don’t propose to start now.”

  “However, you have no qualms about using a woman, do you?”

  As he had in the past. Again he wondered how much Rowena remembered in the shadowy recesses of her consciousness. His own memories, far too close to the surface, pierced him to the core. “It doesn’t signify i
f we both get what we want,” he said bluntly, deciding on a partial lie. “I will concede that there might be some connection between the murder of Felicity Clarence and your situation.”

  “But that’s not why you’ve finally decided to assist me,” Rowena said with a surprising insight into his character, or lack thereof. “At this point, having a mistress on your arm could help you achieve your own ends, making it easier for you to move in Miss Clarence’s and this Frenchman’s circles,” she analyzed with an astuteness that was shocking in its cynicism. “It’s clear to both of us that Galveston, horrible man though he is, doesn’t understand the half of it.”

  Rushford had underestimated Rowena Woolcott, but there was little use in holding back credit where it was due. “Well played,” he said, sensing that she wasn’t quite finished. And he was right.

  “I suspect,” she continued fearlessly, “that there is something more you seek, besides apprehending Galveston for the crime of murder. Something to do with this Frenchman. Sebastian. ” She pronounced the name with the proper French inflection. And, although she didn’t say it, something to do with his duchess. With Kate.

  “We will discuss the situation further tomorrow morning, when you are rested,” he repeated, wondering if he sounded even remotely convincing. Rowena Woolcott managed to open doors that should remain firmly closed. “If you require anything”—he gestured to the bellpull by the bedside—“the servants will be pleased to assist you. Your possessions will be delivered to your new apartments post haste.” There was a studied formality to his tone, a suit of armor hastily donned.

  And then he left her, just in time.

  For the first time in weeks, Rowena slept deeply, undisturbed by dreams or nightmares, awakened late by a morning sun saturating the heavy curtains shuttering the bedchamber. Before she could rationalize her decision to remain at the Belgravia town house, a discreet knock at the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman in a mob cap, hesitation marking her face.