A Night of Forever

by Bronwen Evans

  As if triggered by her thoughts, the door beside her opened and Arend was there. He moved toward her with a languid grace that did not hide the tension vibrating around him.

  His heated gaze burned through the silk of her dress to the pulsing skin beneath. But even the heat of his desire could not stop her shiver.

  “I think we’re making a huge mistake,” she whispered before he could ask her anything. At his frown, she added, “She suggested I marry you for protection. She said Taggert had told her about the oil, and that my father’s death was suspicious. I could hardly tell her I knew she had not reported it to the magistrate.”

  At Arend’s curse, she took a deep breath. “It makes no sense, Arend. What reason could she possibly have for wanting us to be together?”

  He paced away from her, his frown deepening and his lips pursed. Finally he lifted his hands, a gesture of defeat.

  “I have no idea. But until we can discover her motives we must play by her rules.”

  Isobel pushed away from the wall. “You’re not suggesting we still go ahead with this betrothal?”

  “Why not?” he said. “It’s the only plan we have.”

  She could think of plenty of reasons why not. The mere sight of him made her warm and breathless. Physically, he was far more powerful than she. Far more experienced in the games men and women played. If she was not careful, she would become one of his discarded conquests, never content with anyone who wasn’t the one man she could never have.

  While she had been engrossed in her thoughts he had moved closer. She stepped back. The sturdy wood of the wall pressed against her spine, and yet still he moved closer.

  “Would a fake betrothal be so bad?”

  He stepped into her until his chest brushed her breasts. Heat radiated off him. She sucked in a breath, and his masculine scent filled her senses, making her head swim.

  “I can be very nice when I want to be,” he whispered, gliding a finger down her cheek.

  “I’m sure you can.” Her skin quivered, and she licked her lips, wondering if she’d made a huge mistake. She was about to find out. “I agree that if we are to win the game, we must participate. Victoria obviously wants this betrothal. If my becoming your fiancée enables us to expose her evil ways, then yes, I agree.”

  “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” A faint smile curved Arend’s mouth, and his arms rose to cage her in. “Let us seal our betrothal with a kiss.”

  She pushed at his chest, marveling at the strength beneath her palms. “I do not believe that is necessary.”

  His teeth flashed. “Necessary? Perhaps not, but some measure of familiarity is inevitable if we are to make society believe we are in love.”

  The word “love” punched into her stomach. “We don’t have to make the ton believe it is a love match. I’m an excellent catch and you…well, you are wealthy.”

  His grin broadened at her attempted diplomacy. “A wealthy rake? Perhaps ‘in love’ were the wrong words. Perhaps ‘infatuated with each other’ would be more believable.”

  “Infatuated” was too close to the bone. She was infatuated with him, but she doubted he cared a fig about her. His next words made her rethink.

  “You are a very desirable woman, Isobel.”

  That trace of a French accent was her undoing. She could not ignore the heat of admiration kindling in his eyes. Her hands, still upon his chest, flexed. Heat rushed into her cheeks. Had she just felt his muscles?

  She couldn’t think with him standing so close. “I’ve heard any woman is desirable in your eyes.”

  “Not true. I am very selective.” He all but chuckled. “What must I do to convince you? Perhaps this?”

  Taking one of her hands as they lay curled against his chest, he raised her fingers to his lips and brushed her knuckles in a feather-light kiss.

  She trembled.

  Slowly he leaned into her, holding her gaze, hypnotizing her, drowning her in his blatant need.

  Her lips parted as his mouth drew closer. One soft indrawn breath, and then—oh, mercy, his lips took hers in a soft, tender kiss. A kiss that tasted of the kind of passion that made her forget why this was not a good idea.

  Her free hand, seemingly of its own accord, wrapped round his neck to tangle in the soft, silky curls at his nape.

  His mouth demanded more.

  Then, to her shock, his tongue glided over her lips, probing, seeking entrance. She didn’t resist, simply opened for him, and he swept in. His tongue tangled with hers, stroking the inside of her cheeks—and oh, the sensation made her knees weaken.

  He tasted of forbidden things. Delicious things. Tobacco. Brandy. Arend. Arend. Arend.

  And the heady rush of her desire consumed her.

  When one of his large hands cupped her breast, part of her screamed to push him away, but she didn’t want to lose his touch, his closeness.

  She burrowed closer, wanting everything, needing more. Was this glory why women fell for rakes? In such pleasure, one could be so lost in the moment that one forgot it was a game.

  A game.

  And with that sudden, chilly reminder she regained her senses. It was a game. One she must not lose, or she lost everything.

  She turned her head, gently breaking the kiss. Then she stood, her breasts heaving, trying to get her equilibrium back.

  After one tension-filled moment, Arend stepped back. Only once there was more space between them did her head begin to clear.

  But she still carried the delicious taste of him. Would she ever be able to get rid of it? Worse still, did she want to?

  —

  Arend bit back a self-deprecating laugh. Who was the seducer here, and who the seduced?

  He too felt the scorching heat between them. Seducing Isobel was a task he might enjoy far too much. He ached to touch her, to kiss her, to…so much more. But not here. Not now.

  “I should apologize,” he said, “but I cannot say I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” When she looked doubtful he added, “Although this kiss was unnecessary, we will have to practice such small intimacies if we are to make Victoria believe you have grown agreeable to the match.”

  He expected some form of retort. But she stood there, stunned, gazing at him as if about to beg him to kiss her again.

  He took a step nearer, fighting the urge to drag her into his arms and ravish her—even in this hallway, where anyone who happened upon them would see.

  God, he hoped she was not a party to Victoria’s evil deeds. He’d hate to see a noose around that pretty neck.

  Her sweet scent rose to coil around his senses. Her bountiful breasts rose and fell in rapid succession, her nipples pebbled and straining against the silk of her gown, just begging for his mouth to suckle them.

  Not her breasts. Not here. Not now. Look at her lips. He focused on Isobel’s tempting lips and silently cursed his lack of control.

  “For instance,” he continued, “you should not flinch when I compliment you. Or turn your head away if I try to kiss your cheek, or pull your hand free of my grasp when I raise it for a kiss. That would set the ton gossiping as to why you have accepted my hand in marriage. We do not wish them to jump to the wrong conclusion, do we?”

  At his raised eyebrow, her face lost color.

  Good, he thought. She understood that one of the reasons society might consider she’d accepted this match was because she was with child and had no choice.

  “You’re saying we need to be on good terms, but not really good terms,” she said. “I need to let you show intimacies appropriate between a debutante and her fiancé, but nothing more.”

  “Correct,” he agreed. “A touch here and there, but nothing overtly sexual or sensual in nature.”

  She glared. “In other words, nothing like the kiss you just gave me.”

  He felt his mouth quirk up. “Precisely. Please forgive me. I forgot myself.”

  Her scorching look told him she didn’t believe a word.

  Wise Iso
bel. He held out his arm and tried to look penitent. “Come. We should go to supper before anyone misses us.”

  She accepted his support with only a slight hesitation, and he opened the door back into the empty recital room. As he drew her with him, there was one thing of which he was certain.

  Isobel had never been kissed before. He felt it in her hesitation, in her innocent touch. He saw it when she broke off the kiss, wonder in her eyes. And alarm. No woman who was not a virgin would fear her body’s reactions to his sensual onslaught.

  No woman was that good an actress.

  It appeared more and more likely that Isobel was innocent, and that her story about her father’s death was true.

  He wished it was not so, for two reasons. One, he would now feel guilty for exposing her to danger by making her spy on Victoria. And two, he could not in all conscience seduce her. Not if the betrothal was to be a sham. His body hardened in protest. He wanted her. Why was it that only women he shouldn’t want enticed him?

  Virginal, innocent debutantes were not for a man with his depraved soul. He would only drag her down into the mire.

  For her sake, he hoped he could resist her. For her sake, he hoped she could resist him. That kiss, however, indicated both states were highly unlikely.

  Chapter 7

  Victoria couldn’t put the announcement of their betrothal in the paper fast enough, and soon society was abuzz with the news. Already there was plenty of speculation as to why Isobel would marry the rakish Frenchman who was only a lowly baron. Had she been poor, his wealth would have been great enough to silence the gossip. But she was not, so the ton whispered and speculated—all the while agreeing that a man could never have too much money.

  Isobel rolled over in her bed and thumped her fist into her pillow. At last night’s ball Arend had been the perfect gentleman. He’d danced his regulation two waltzes with her. He hadn’t pulled her in close. He’d kept the appropriate distance between them. His only kiss had been on her hand.

  Through her glove.

  Yes, a perfect gentleman.

  So why, last night, did she have such a naughty dream of him? And of the places she wanted those lips to kiss, those hands to touch.

  Her body heated further remembering the conversation she’d had last night with Cassandra regarding the marriage bed.

  “I envy you one thing in regard to Lord Labourd.”

  “Really?” Isobel couldn’t think of one thing to be envious of, but then Cassandra didn’t know the truth about their arrangement, and pride kept her from sharing.

  “You’ll get to see him naked when he comes to your bed.” Cassandra sighed as she fiercely fanned herself. “I suspect all that muscled flesh would send my eyes and fingers wondering. Take my mind off, you know, the act itself.”

  “How do you know he’s muscled?”

  Cassandra raised her eyebrows and snapped her fan closed. “You told me, remember? After the musical soirée. You told me he kissed you in the hall and you felt his chest.”

  Isobel’s big mouth…

  Cassandra added, “At least the vision of manliness is likely to take your mind off the pain of your first time. I’ve heard it hurts like the devil.” She paused. “He’s a large man, and I suspect he’s large down there too. Are you afraid?”

  Isobel almost choked on her friend’s words. He was big, very big, it was true. She’d felt the evidence pressed to her stomach. But instead of frightening her, it only made her light-headed, as she longed to lie with him. To touch, caress, and see all of him.

  At last Isobel managed to say, “He’s also supposedly one of England’s greatest lovers. I’m pretty sure he’ll make my first time special.”

  Just then the portly Lord Denning stepped up and said, “First time for what?”

  They had looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  She’d privately thought a “first time” with Lord Denning would be extremely distasteful. Yet with Arend…Already her body burned for his touch.

  She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. It would appear she was no different from other red-blooded women who lusted after the handsome, mysterious Lord Labourd. Mystery, she thought, was the attraction. He was a closed book. She wished she could open him up and read his story. How did a man whose family had lost everything except an old, lowly English title happen to be in South America and find a diamond mine?

  Perhaps by revealing Victoria’s true nature she would get a chance to see Arend’s too. There was darkness within him, but there was also honor, loyalty, and love. She had no doubt of his commitment to his fellow Libertine Scholars. Why else would he go so far as to become engaged to a woman he did not care for?

  The thought of spending her life in love with a man who would not return her affection broke her heart. Imagine living in the same house day after day, close enough to touch, knowing that to do so would invite nothing but rejection. Imagine hiding how one felt, pretending to be nothing more than a part of the furniture. She’d be little more than a servant available when he required.

  At that thought, an idea occurred to her.

  A servant.

  Like Monsieur Dufort.

  She did not know if Monsieur Dufort loved Victoria, but she knew he guarded both her person and her interests as tirelessly as would any man in love. If she could find out more about him, perhaps they would have leverage. She might even find out some of Victoria’s secrets.

  She’d search his room.

  She called for her lady’s maid, Baxter, to help her bathe and dress. From her, Isobel learned Victoria had left an hour ago for morning calls. If Victoria was away from the house, then so too was Monsieur Dufort. She had better work fast in case the number of calls Victoria was making was small.

  The moment Baxter withdrew, Isobel made her way on silent, slippered toes to Monsieur Dufort’s room. To her relief—and surprise—it opened easily under her hand. When Baxter had told her that no servant was allowed in Monsieur Dufort’s room, she had assumed the door would be locked. No doubt the household staff was far too afraid of Dufort to cross him.

  She was about to step inside when she noticed a tiny black feather fluttering to the floor. Where had it come from? It must have fallen when she opened the door. She stood for a moment considering the feather, then retrieved it and tucked it into her pocket. She would place it back in the door before she left. She only wished she had seen precisely where it had been placed.

  She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

  It was cold. Not merely in temperature—it didn’t look as if the grate had ever held a fire—but also in furnishing. A bed, a wooden chair, and an armoire. The space was immaculately clean. He must do it himself.

  At least there were not many places for her to search.

  She hesitated before opening the drawers on the armoire, checking for more feathers or some other telltale signs that would tell Monsieur Dufort that someone had touched his things.

  Guilt hit her as she slid the first drawer open. She was violating his privacy. She hoped she would find something that would implicate him so she didn’t feel so bad.

  She searched carefully through his clothes, putting each item back as she had found it. By the time she’d searched the last drawer she had found exactly nothing.

  There didn’t appear to be any more drawers to hide…whatever he had to hide. That was the problem. She didn’t know what he might wish to conceal. The only place left to look was under the bed.

  She dropped to her hands and knees and looked under the bed. Her optimism rose when she found several trunks. She tugged the first one, but it did not move an inch. She would have to crawl under the giant bed and find how far she could lift the lid.

  To her dismay, the first heavy trunk was locked. So she rolled onto her other side and tried another.

  The lid of the second one lifted high enough for her to prop herself onto her elbows and peer inside. It was full of documents.

  Damn. She didn’t
have time to go through them all. She’d been there too long already. She stuck her hand into the trunk and pulled out a stash of paper.

  The first document appeared to be ownership papers for a company in Durham. A coal mining company.

  The second document was a map of the mine and the shafts running under the ground.

  She was about to return it to the trunk when a cross on the map caught her eye. There was a name next to the cross: Labourd.

  Arend didn’t own a coal mine, did he? He did, however, have a hunting lodge near York.

  She cursed under her breath and blew an errant curl out of her mouth. She couldn’t keep looking. Time was running out. She replaced all the papers carefully except the map and then shut the trunk. Then she backed out from under the bed. After a careful survey of the floor to make sure she’d left no marks, dust, or footprints, she left the room, replacing the feather in the door where she imagined someone might leave it to warn of unwanted visitors.

  She made it back to her drawing room without anyone seeing her. Once in her bedchamber she sank onto the bed and tried to gather her galloping heartbeat. She looked at the map, listening to the parchment crackle as her hands shook. She could not believe she’d done it, and without alerting anyone’s notice. She was almost giddy with her success.

  But the euphoria died as she thought of the danger she was in.

  She was safe in her room…for now.

  She took a moment to decide where to hide the map. In the end, she chose her reticule. No one would dare search her room while she was home, and she would take it with her when she went out.

  She and Arend were attending Lord Beaumont’s ball that evening. She’d show her fiancé the map and perhaps steal a moment alone with him on the balcony. Or, more scandalously, in the garden. An image of the Garden of Eden with its serpent sliding through the shadows flashed in her head.

  Try to remember that Arend is dangerous too.

  —

  “Someone has been in my room.”

  At Dufort’s words Victoria’s head jerked up from the missive she was reviewing. “Are you sure?”