Thinking that his silence had to do with some dark secret, she asked, “Who would I tell?”
Verity rolled over to have her stomach rubbed. His tongue went numb. “It’s hard”—and it wasn’t the only thing that was—“to explain. Just accept that there is an . . . unpleasant trait running through the males of my family.”
“Insanity?” She stood up, as if to leap for safety if he turned dangerous. Verity whimpered at the loss of her attention. “I have heard of that occurring in certain bloodlines. Your father is not locked up somewhere, is he? That’s not why he and your mother live separately, is it, and he never comes to Town?”
“Lud, no. My father has bad lungs, but his mental facilities are as sharp as ever, thank goodness, although some might consider him eccentric.”
“Ah, it is more like weak chins, then? But I see no similarities between you and your cousin, other than your coloring.”
“Daniel was not supposed to be affected, coming through the female line, my father’s sister, but he is, although not as severely.”
Her brows were puckered and her tongue flicked across her lips as she thought. He could tell she was running an inventory list through her mind. Gads, what was she imagining, some hideous deformity? He already had scars and wounds. “It is not exactly visible, like a birth-mark or baldness.”
“Ah, then it is a disease that strikes the men in your family at some stage in their lives?”
“Yes . . . that is, no. Please, just believe that I do not wish to bring forth a child who would be so afflicted.”
“What of the earldom? I thought that was drummed into a little lordling’s head, that his sole job in life was to beget the next peer.”
“I cannot do that.”
Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Cannot, or will not?”
Thunderation, now she was imagining him impotent! “I will not father a child and that is that!”
She accepted his adamance, for now. “Very well. There are ways, I have heard . . .”
Rex could see the blush start at her chest and rise to her cheeks. She was willing to initiate an affair, the little peagoose, but she could not discuss the earthier aspects. And she thought she was no longer a lady? “I do not have such protection handy. I could withdraw, but that is no guarantee.”
She pounded her fist on the mattress, to Verity’s displeasure. “Life has no guarantee! Can you not understand? I might not live long enough to bear a child! And to conceive in one night? My mother had one child in all her years of marriage. But now I see what it is. You are making excuses, one after the other. You do not want me. Tell me, is it another woman, so I shall merely be mortified, not shattered?”
He thought of Lydia Burton. He thought about lying, claiming a prior affection, a previous commitment, even a wife tucked away in the country. He could not lie, though. Zeus, no. “I doubt I have ever wanted a woman as badly as I want you.”
She snapped her fingers. “Good dog, Verity. Now get down.”
Chapter Twenty-one
She won. And what a prize! He was gleaming like a god in the firelight, all that she could see of him. Broad shoulders, well-muscled arms, the faintest line of hair beginning in the middle of his chest. The blankets covered the rest of him, but not for long, not with him wearing a grin half of resignation, half of expectation.
She was not quite sure what to do with the spoils of victory, but she claimed her ground, climbing up to the high bed. She started to pull the bedcovers aside but he held onto his sheet. He blew out her candle and turned down his lamp. “Not yet.”
If she was unsure how to proceed, Rex had strong notions about it. And strong arms, to pull her against him, her head next to his on the pillow, blond hair beside black. A sheet and a spider web of lace was between them, but she did not care, not in his embrace. There it was, that feeling of rightness, of safety and protection. More, of being cherished. His strength was hers, her softness was his. This was why she had been ready to toss her bonnet over the windmill, and toss herself at Rex. This and the kindling kisses he was raining on her eyelids, her ears, her neck. Now she did not have to think of anything but him, and how he made her feel.
Like a princess, like a fairy sprite, like clay for him to form in his knowing hands. Like a lady with her beloved. No fears and doubts loomed ahead, no secrets between them or distrust, only sensation and heat and a craving for more. Closer, warmer, faster. More.
Her gown disappeared. Maybe it burned up, her skin felt so on fire. Somehow she was hotter without it, with his hands on her bare flesh, up and down her back, on her waist, her backside. Now he was touching her breasts, then lowering his head to nip and nuzzle at the tips. The nipples were so taut they were as hard as the part of him pressed against her belly, through the sheet. She reached down, but he stilled her hand.
“Not yet.”
“You said that before.”
He kissed her to stop the conversation. He used his tongue this time, tickling and tantalizing hers, and she felt they were sharing the dance they had never had, and likely never would. The music of desire raced through her body, leaving her thrumming with the unspoken tempo, the in and out of the universal dance of love. She felt she would burst with the need for something, to reach some unknown plateau, to understand everything, to waltz among the clouds. She met his tongue with hers, and learned how to make him sigh and moan and pull her closer, as if they could become one. Soon, but not yet. Unless she expired first.
His hand stopped its tender exploration. His tongue withdrew and he pulled away, putting distance between them, besides the sheet. “I cannot do it.”
“I thought you said you could.”
“I can; I won’t.” His conscience was already raging at him about visiting a brothel; he could not live with himself for deflowering a virgin. On the same night? How could he touch this sweetly giving woman, after being, no matter how briefly or inconclusively, with a practiced whore who sold her favors for money? He could not.
No matter what Amanda said, she was not thinking rationally. Lud knew he wasn’t, with her beside him, not even the sheer nightgown covering her exquisite body. And where had the gown gone? he wondered. The dog must have eaten it.
She pressed closer, almost on top of him, her leg over his thigh. He recited the first page of the Aeneid. In Latin. Arma virumque. Arms and the man. His were reaching for her, despite his good intentions.
“It is my fault. You do not find me attractive. I am too forward. Too thin. I realize you only feel pity for me. I am sorry to have bothered you, yet again.”
So he had to kiss her, before the little widgeon fretted herself into another bout of weeping. “I told you, you are beautiful,” he whispered between kisses. “I want you. You are just right. See how well you fit in my arms?” He pulled her on top of him.
Which was a mistake. He should not have let any part of her touch any part of him, again. Now they were both on fire. “The Devil knows how much I want you, but this is wrong. Tell me to stop.” She did not. Instead she kissed his neck, and touched his sensitive ear with the tip of her tongue. He groaned at his stupidity for teaching her that trick not a moment before. He said it: “Stop,” in a voice lacking conviction, possibly lacking sound, for his every breath was gone.
“What if I said I am not a maiden? Would that ease your mind?”
Lud knew nothing but two days in bed with her, maybe three, were going to ease his body. “Say it.”
So she did, and she was lying, as red as the virgin’s blood that would flow for him and all the world to see, branding him a dastard. “Good try, angel, but I do not believe you. But I am too weak willed to let you go. We can still enjoy each other’s company.” He would not take her innocence, but he could still give her a woman’s pleasure.
She wept anyway, at the revelation of what her body could do, what he could do to her, for her. “I never understood how, how extraordinary the feelings are. But there is more. I know there is more.”
“You are no
t strong enough yet. I am not strong enough.”
“But you have not had your pleasure.”
“Yes, I have.” Listening to her cries of excitement, of ecstasy, of surprise, learning what she liked, were more sensuous than anything he could imagine, and more satisfying. To be entirely truthful, the experience was not quite as satisfying as being inside her would have been, but this way he could worship every inch of her tender skin, adore each curve and crevice, without the weight of guilt on his shoulders. “I am well pleased. Now you must go.”
If he had any second thoughts about her leaving, he was too late. She was already asleep. He could have woken her, but he was too busy studying her by the dying firelight, how her eyelashes had one tiny teardrop, how her sweet lips were partly open. Had he ever truly worshiped a woman’s body this way? He doubted it.
Rex was content, despite being unfulfilled. That no longer mattered. He fell asleep himself, smiling.
He woke up to the noise of the household awakening, dawn’s light edging through the drawn curtains. He kissed Amanda awake, and she immediately responded, her hand trailing down his chest where the sheet had become disarranged, on a mission of hesitant exploration. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed each finger. “No, angel. I am not enough of a saint to withstand that. You have to go to bed.”
“Hmm,” she murmured drowsily, rolling over against him.
“In your own bed,” he told her, groaning. “Murchison must not find you here in the morning, or Nanny find you missing. Can you imagine the uproar if you are not where you belong? Come, sweetings, it grows light, the servants will be up.”
“I am too weary. You have stolen away the stiffness of my bones.”
He knew where it had gone, too.
Rex climbed out of bed, glad she was turned away to hide his injured leg and his all-too-healthy manhood from her sight, and picked up his robe and her gown. He put his on, draped hers over his shoulder, and lifted her into his arms. “I seem to be making a habit of this, don’t I?”
She laughed softly, sleepily, sexily. Heaven help him, he wanted to carry her to the rooftop where no one could find them, no one could interrupt. He headed for her door. “I must be a saint, after all.”
She patted his cheek and kissed him, feeling the new growth of beard. “You are perfect. I think I love you, Lord Rexford.”
Luckily they were at her chamber, because he almost dropped her. “No, little goose, you are just in the afterglow of passion. Like Verity adoring Daniel because he feeds her. Not that you are anything like the dog. You smell much better.” He kissed behind her ear, where the scent of perfume still lingered.
She shook her head, the blond curls whispering against his shoulder. “No, I would not feel the passion if I did not love you.”
She truly, bluely, believed that. “Maybe women are different. But you have not known me long enough for such strong emotion.”
“You do not believe in love at first sight?”
“I hardly believe in love at all.”
“Well, I do. I shan’t ask anything more of you after tonight, however, I swear. Except to find the killer.”
“I’ll do that, and more.” He set her down atop her own bed, amid the tumbled sheets, and backed away quickly, before he was tempted to join her. “Things will be better, I swear. I’ll make everything right.”
“I trust you will,” came from the hallway.
Amanda squeaked and pulled the covers over herself. Rex turned, too fast for his bad leg, and had to catch himself against the wall. He straightened.
“Thank you for taking such excellent care of my goddaughter, Jordan. You may leave her now. I am assuming she took ill in the night. That is correct, Amanda, is it not?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she croaked from under the blankets. “Very ill.”
Rex thanked heaven not everyone could see the truth. He walked toward the door and shut it behind him, then he took stock of the woman he had not seen since before he left for the army. She looked tired and pale, likely from the hurried journey, but she was still a handsome woman, with a proud, erect bearing. She was staring at him, in turn, which made Rex uncomfortable.
“I shall be moving out shortly,” he told her. “I will be staying on in London seeking evidence to prove Miss Carville’s innocence.”
Lady Royce raised an eyebrow.
“She is untouched.”
“Not quite untouched, I would gather.” The countess lifted the gossamer nightgown from his shoulder. “We shall speak of this later, when we are both better rested. I shall expect you for luncheon.”
Ah, mealtime with Medea. She was the one, Rex recalled, who killed her children and served them up for supper.
He bowed.
Rex left the house early that morning, taking his horse to Hyde Park before anyone was out and about. Daniel would not rise that day—and if he did, he was bound to wish otherwise, with the headache he would suffer and the antidote Murchison would pour down his throat. Maybe that would teach him moderation.
Rex went in by the servants’ entrance on his return from the stable mews. Finally, wonderful smells of baking bread, frying bacon, and kippers came from the kitchens. If the cook was not accustomed to gentlemen in her domain, she must have been warned, because she set a plate in front of him without ordering him to the formal dining room. “Happy to feed a hungry man, I am, after all these years of cooking for your lady mother.”
Which reminder ruined his appetite.
After eating what he could, so as not to offend the cook for Daniel’s sake, he took himself to Bow Street, to offer his services for an hour or two to Inspector Dimm. He found the work satisfying. Lud knew, he needed something in his life that was. Without his cousin, he found a deck of cards and played patience at the desk outside Dimm’s office while the inspector interviewed suspects. One tap for the truth, two for a lie.
Dimm came out after twenty minutes, lighting his pipe and apologizing that there was not much work for the viscount today. “We’re getting caught up, praises be, and thanks to you, sir.” Then Dimm looked over Rex’s list of initials and suspects. He nodded. “That Cuthbert chap’s had some run-ins with the law. A bootboy in his household a few years ago, iffen I remember right.”
“Killed?”
“An accident, they declared it.” He knocked his pipe against the desk top in disgust. “With his neck snapped? The swells get away with a lot, and pardon me for saying so, my lord.”
“Whoever killed Sir Frederick will not get away with it, no matter his station. I promise you that.” One tap.
As the hackney neared Manton’s Shooting Gallery, traffic came to a standstill. A dray had overturned, spewing cabbages all over the street. Rex got down and walked, figuring his bad leg could use the exercise anyway. He had not counted on dodging rolling vegetables, the street urchins who were snatching up all they could carry, angry drivers, and curious spectators. He walked toward a side street to avoid the mess, but as soon as he left the main thoroughfare he felt an odd sensation, like a prickling behind his neck. Many of the officers in Spain used to claim they felt some such self-defense instinct, and they always listened to their bodies. Rex had not truly believed them, finding his own brand of magic bad enough. Of course, if he had honed those other instincts he might not have a bad leg and a scar on his cheek. He listened now.
He stopped to look in the window of a print shop, pretending an interest in a display of cartoons lampooning Prinny, as usual, while he studied the glass reflection. The only person nearby was a young clerk carrying a stack of books. So much for instincts. He went on, swinging his cane, knowing full well his scarlet uniform made him easy to track.
Damn, the odd niggling feeling persisted, so he detoured down a different street. A quick glance showed the same clerk still following, more closely. At the next alley, he pretended to stop to check his boot, and came up with a knife in his hand, which was quickly at the young man’s throat, as he dragged the clerk into the alley.
“You are following me. Who sent you? And do not lie.”
“Mr. Harmon.”
Blue.
“I do not know any Mr. Harmon.”
“Oh, um, Major Harrison. Yes, that must be who. But I mean you no harm, sir. The gentleman sent me to tell you to watch your back. He said you made more enemies than a fox in five henhouses in one night.”
Rex pulled the knife away from the man’s jugular. “Why not come up to me honestly if you had a message, instead of using stealth?”
“He wanted to see how vulnerable you were.”
“As you can tell, I am not. You can tell your superior that I do not need the warning, or a bookish bodyguard.” Then he felt the unmistakable pressure of a gun between his ribs. He looked down, and the pistol’s barrel was poking between the books in the clerk’s arms. He slowly loweredhis own knife to his side. “Point taken. Tell your master I have learned his lesson. I shall be more careful in future.”
“You might want to mind your manners, too, he said, begging your pardon, Captain. Better for your health, he said.” The clerk tipped his hat and disappeared.
The senior salesman at Manton’s recognized the gun in Rex’s sketch instantly.
“Oh, yes, we made that firearm. One of a pair, it was. And we have an order for another because one was stolen. In fact, I have the widowed one here, to match. Unless you found the missing piece? Mr. Cord would be delighted to have it back without the expense of having another made. They were his father’s, I believe.”
“Mr. Lysander Cord? Who resides at the Albany?” Rex recited from his list.
“You know the gentleman? Excellent. Then I am sure you can relieve his mind. Sentimental value, don’t you know.”
Rex did not know the man, but called at his rooms anyway. Sure enough, Cord explained that his prized weapon had been stolen a few weeks ago from his coach while he attended the theater. He spoke the truth.
Cord was also appalled that his missing gun had killed Sir Frederick Hawley, truly. He was not the murderer.
Truly Yours Page 19
