Nick spread his arms to show he hid no tricks. “I don’t know.”
“He was supposed to be here.”
“He sent me instead,” Nick answered and decided to lay all his cards on the table. Then perhaps she would relax to tell him her purpose and he could gain a clue to the mystery of Ramigio.
“Lord Belkins owes me money. A gambling debt.” It was no news that Belkins was done up. He’d lost huge sums to men all over town and the rumor was he had little chance of meeting those obligations. “He came to me yesterday with an offer. He said he could arrange a meeting with Andres Ramigio, Barón de Vasconia, if I would forgive the debt, something I was willing to do. The barón took something from me once that I want back. I’ve been searching for years for him. You can imagine I leapt at the opportunity. I was expecting the barón to walk through the door, not you.”
His explanation obviously did nothing to ease her fears. She kept her fork pointed at him.
“What of yourself?” he prompted. “Why are you here?” And why did she expect to meet Belkins when he so obviously hadn’t planned on being here himself? If Belkins had passed up an assignation with this beauty, he was a fool.
A small worry line appeared between her brows. Her glance drifted to the door behind him and he knew she wanted to escape.
He wouldn’t let her do that. Not until he knew more about her. It had to be more than a coincidence that she, who looked so much like his vision at Delphi, should appear at the same time he’d been approached about Ramigio.
He tried charm, albeit his was rusty from disuse. In fact, his smile stretched his face in ways he’d not felt for quite some time. “I know I gave you a scare when you first came into the room. That wasn’t my intention. I beg you to accept my apology, Miss—” He paused, waiting for her to fill in the answer.
She hesitated, reluctant to relax her guard, but at last said, “Bowen. Miss Bowen.”
“Like in Hester Bowen?” he hazarded. “The woman who paid for this room?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Liar.”
Her eyes widened at the accusation. Nick almost laughed at having caught her in the fib. “Hester Bowen is known by every gentleman of my acquaintance. She makes certain it is that way. You are no Hester Bowen.” He flicked his gaze over her person in an appreciative way. “And you should be thankful of that.”
Risking that she wouldn’t bolt for the door, and undecided of what he’d do if she did, Nick walked to the table. He pulled his coin purse out of his pocket and held it up for her to see before dropping it on the table. “What is your name and why are you here?”
It is to her credit that she stood in indecision a moment. She didn’t trust him, and she shouldn’t. Her gaze dropped to the purse.
“Hester Bowen hired me to come here and deliver a message to Lord Belkins. He jilted her and she’s very angry. I don’t believe she knew anything about this Ramigio you keep talking about, Your Grace.”
Her lilting Scot’s accent didn’t detract from the culture and intelligence in her voice. She held her head high and her movements had a natural grace. This was not the sort of woman a man associated with Hester Bowen and her kind.
He moved the purse an inch across the table toward her, prompting her, “And your name?”
She swallowed, and then said, “Fiona.” She reached for the purse with her free hand, her shawl falling off her shoulder to hang loosely over one arm.
Nick snatched up the purse. “One second,” he warned. “You haven’t answered all my questions yet. Besides, I find myself hungry. Aren’t you?”
“No,” she said, even as her stomach rumbled loudly.
Color flooded her cheeks. Nick almost laughed until he saw the flash of irritation in her eyes. “I answered the questions that were important,” she informed him. “You are changing the bargain.”
“It’s my bargain to change,” he said. “And it is a long ride back to London.” As if to punctuate his words, a cold blast of air came down the chimney, making the flames in the fire dance. “A quick bite,” he urged soothingly, “and then you can be on your way.” He didn’t wait for her response but left the room, leaving the door open as he stood in the hall and called, “Denby, we want our supper.”
“I was supposed to hang the scarf from the inside door handle to the outside,” Fiona said. “That was the signal we wished to be served.” She raised a hand to self-consciously push a stray lock of her hair back in place.
He had her. He’d seduced enough women to know he’d crossed an important hurdle. Nick turned to give her a smile—and then was riveted in place by the memory of exactly when and where he’d seen her.
“Lady Viner’s ball,” he said. “You were even wearing the same dress.” Amazing that he could remember even that detail.
Her sudden stillness told him he was correct.
Nick walked back into the room, shutting the door. He leaned his back against it. “My mother had arranged a match for me to a young woman the Duke of Colster was trying to rid himself of.”
Her gaze narrowed. He’d touched a nerve. “He wasn’t trying to be rid of her. He’d thought to arrange a decent match.”
With a shrug, Nick told her it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. “Mother had made the arrangements on her own, asking a hefty price for her services. Mother has a greedy nature.”
“As I remember you weren’t very interested in meeting the young woman.” And then, almost as if her pride couldn’t stop her, she said, “Who is my sister-in-marriage now. She’s a fine woman and a good wife to my brother.”
“Then we wouldn’t have suited,” Nick surmised lightly. He wasn’t interested in the other woman or his mother’s misplaced avarice.
“She married my brother that night,” Fiona informed him proudly. “They are very happy together.”
Nick nodded, barely paying attention. She was so very lovely. “Fiona,” he said, wanting to test her name. “It fits you. There is a gracefulness to it.”
He wanted her.
The need was primal, instinctive.
It had been a long time since he’d desired a woman so much.
“I saw you in the ballroom,” he said. “I followed. You knew I was there.”
She didn’t deny the charge. Resting her fingers on the back of the chair as if needing to steady herself, she said, “You didn’t remember me when I first came into this room.”
The universal feminine complaint.
Nick let a slow, easy smile cross his face. “I should have. I’d been drinking the night we met in the ballroom. So, when I saw you, I believed my eyes deceived me.”
Her brows came together. “Why?”
He could have told her of her uncanny resemblance to the Oracle, of how he later had convinced himself it had all been the trick of a brandy-soaked mind. But then she would question his sanity, and he didn’t want that right now. It was hard to seduce someone who thought you were mad.
“Because you are so beautiful.”
Fiona was no fool. Her gaze went to the wine glass he’d emptied right before her arrival. She crossed her arms protectively against her chest, gathering her shawl around her as she did so. “You should stop drinking.”
Her tart comment startled a laugh out of him. She truly was unique. He pushed away from the door, coming toward her.
She shook her head. “I think I must go,” she whispered more to herself than him. She snatched up his coin purse from the table and would have hurried past him except that Nick caught her arm. He swung her around and without preamble, kissed her.
Fiona’s lips parted in surprise. Tension shot through her. She raised her hands to push him away.
Nick wasn’t about to let her go. He took her by both arms, turning his head, forcing the kiss, willing her to bend to him. She resisted, she held—and then she opened.
He didn’t waste time. He knew what he was doing. And yet, at the first full taste of her mouth, at the first hint of her submission, it was
he who was trapped.
Kissing her was different from kissing other women. The spark of lust that had driven him now exploded into something more powerful than he’d experienced before.
And when she melded her lips to his, when she kissed him back—tentative at first, but with growing desire—he had only one wish and that was to scoop her up in his arms and carry her to the bed.
Nick pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her waist, ready to do exactly that when a knock sounded on the door.
It was an untimely interruption. It broke the spell for her. She pulled back, struggling to be free.
At first, he held tight, wanting to keep her, to continue to explore this almost supernatural connection between them. After one kiss, he craved her, needed her. Denby and his supper dishes could go to the devil.
Her body arched, the heels of her hands pressing against his shoulders.
Through the haze of lust, he realized she was panicking.
He didn’t want that. He wanted to keep her, protect her.
He broke the kiss, and she started to collapse at his feet as if her legs could not bear her weight. He eased her back into the chair by the table.
Fiona struggled for breath, feeling as if she’d run a long, hard distance.
Dear Lord, she was shaking…and she didn’t dare look at the duke—or else she might rise from this chair and move right into his arms again.
What had come over her?
If it hadn’t been for the knock on the door, she feared where that kiss would have taken them.
She’d tried to resist. She’d just met the man. She was no whore. No Hester Bowen. Why, she and her former friend Grace McEachin had parted ways for that very reason. Grace had turned to the stage and to men who would protect her. She’d not understood Fiona’s pride. She’d not understood Fiona would think being a seamstress better than being a dancer and ogled by men.
The door opened. She didn’t know if the duke had opened it or not. Footsteps crossed to the table where she sat. Covered dishes were set on the table. Fiona kept her head lowered.
There followed the door closing. A wine bottle was uncorked. “Drink this,” the duke ordered. He filled the glass close to her place. He poured himself a glass before setting the bottle down.
When she didn’t drink he threw himself down impatiently in the chair beside her. He lifted his glass. “To your health, Fiona.”
He drained his glass, then put it aside to take hers and place it in her hand. “Drink it. You need the color to return to your face.”
She shot him a glance of surprise, her fingers automatically wrapping around the stem of her glass. “Why should you care about the color of my face?”
“We rakes don’t like seducing pasty white things,” he said in self-mockery. He began heaping food from the dishes onto her plate, his actions more that of a diligent nursemaid than a rakehell.
Fiona took a sip of her wine, the smells of roasted chicken, new peas, and hot bread threatened to make her swoon. Hester Bowen was probably wondering what was going on inside this room. For the briefest second Fiona felt guilty that the woman waited for her, but one bite of the tender chicken erased Hester from her mind.
She tried to eat daintily but within minutes she caught herself holding a piece of bread in one hand and a forkful of chicken in the other. It had been a long time since she’d had a meal such as this.
The duke watched her intently. His eyes were blue, midnight blue. His shoulders were broad and his body long and loose limbed. He moved the chair around to sit by her and stretched his legs out toward the fire, the very picture of a young lord at ease.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Fiona asked, swallowing.
“No, I prefer to drink,” he answered, pouring himself another glass of wine. He gave her a lazy, good-humored smile. “You know, you could have given me a false name.”
Too late Fiona realized he was right. “How do you know I didn’t?” she responded. She’d finished the last of her supper and laid her napkin beside her plate. She should leave now…but she found herself in no hurry to go back out into the cold, damp night. Hester would be angry that Lord Belkins had thwarted her plan for revenge and probably rant and rave all the way back to London.
Whereas here, she had a full stomach, a glass of wine, a warm fire, and the duke’s coin purse. The purse had been heavy. There was probably not as much as twenty pounds in it, but close. Watching the flames in the hearth, Fiona ticked off all the things she would do with the money: pay her landlord, buy a new pair of shoes, leave London completely…she would take Tad into the country where they would be happier—
His lips brushed against her neck. He nuzzled her ear.
Fiona thought her insides would melt.
She gripped the edge of the table knowing she should pull herself up and leave, except it was already too late. He kissed the line of her jaw—and she knew that she wasn’t against this. She had to be careful and not let it go too far, but a part of her was fascinated by him. He was the devil, tempting her…and what was wrong with just a moment or two more in his company?
He smelled of the night air, of leather and shaving soap. His whiskers tickled her skin. She started to laugh and he kissed her. Just leaned up and took full advantage of her relaxed, open mouth.
This time, Fiona knew how he liked to kiss. Funny, but after her initial, earlier shock, she didn’t mind kissing him. The soldiers, her rapists, had been rough and cruel. The duke was gentle and yet intent. It was as if he wanted to enjoy this kiss as much as she was.
With a soft sigh, Fiona leaned toward him. His arm slid around her waist. She rested her hand on his chest, surprised by how hard and muscular it was. A part of her mind warned her she must return to Hester; the other part had no inclination to do so.
His kiss tasted of wine. Heady, rich, fragrant wine. He leaned back and she followed, not ready to end this kiss so soon.
She felt his tongue tease hers. Startled, she started to pull back. His hand on her back wouldn’t let her move. “It’s all right,” he whispered against her lips. “Everything is all right.”
Fiona wanted to believe him. Fortunately, life had taught her cynicism. “I must go.”
He kissed the corner of her mouth and sucked on her lower lip. “No, you don’t.”
“Hester is waiting outside—”
The duke cut her protest off with another kiss, this one more demanding than the others.
For a moment, Fiona gave herself over to the kiss. She let him explore her mouth. Opened to him. Accepted him.
A low growl came from his throat. “You are so lovely. So very, very lovely,” he whispered against her mouth before kissing her neck, her chin, her ear.
Fiona fought for sanity. She reminded herself that he’d been drinking. A woman should never believe a man deep in his cups. Still, it was wonderful to hear. He was so handsome, so strong, and so bold. She basked in his praise.
He bit her shoulder, soothing her skin with a kiss, and then another and another. He was moving along her collarbone. Common sense intruded into passion, especially when he brought his hands around to cup her breasts and her bodice gaped open.
He’d unlaced the back of her dress.
As she’d been wallowing in his kisses, his clever fingers had been undressing her.
Fiona pushed him away, doubling one fist ready to give him a punch if necessary.
The duke had been diving forward, ready to bury his face in her breasts. He frowned at being pushed aside and reached to bring her back to him, but Fiona quickly came to her feet. She backed away from him, attempting to retie her laces as she moved.
“That wasn’t nice,” she whispered furiously at him.
Nice? He shook his head in confusion and then noticed her redoing her laces. “You are wrong,” he assured her. “It was very nice.”
Fiona made an indignant protest. Her fingers were clumsy but the dress was sufficiently retied to be decent. She straightened. “I believe I must go
now,” she informed him with all the crisp haughtiness of a duchess. She would have marched right out the door, head high, not even worrying about her shawl—except for his holding up the coin purse.
She froze, staring at the red leather purse. She could curse herself. Why hadn’t she placed it in her pocket when she had a chance?
“That’s mine,” Fiona said. “You gave it to me in exchange for information about Hester Bowen’s plans.”
“But I’m not through asking questions,” he said with no show of remorse. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead, giving him a boyishly handsome appearance. He was enjoying himself.
“We weren’t talking,” Fiona snapped.
“We would have…later.” He shook the purse. “Do you want it?”
At that moment, the attraction Fiona felt for him vanished. How dare he hold her purse hostage? She’d earned that money. It was vital to her survival.
And yet what could she do?
She clenched her hands into fists, hiding them in her skirts. She dearly wanted to set him in his place. Her hand hit the weight of the vial in her pocket, and she realized there was something she could do.
The Duke of Holburn thought he could do as he wished. She’d show him she was one woman who answered to no man.
Fiona smiled. Her earlier shyness fled in the face of her purpose. She slid her hand in her pocket and palmed the vial as she walked toward him. Still sitting in his chair in front of the table, he watched her approach, his eyes alive with interest. Looking past his shoulder, she could see the lip of his wine glass.
She sat on his lap.
The duke brought his legs up to support her weight. His hands went right for her waist.
Fiona smiled down at him. She pushed that lock of hair back from his forehead and slid her arms around his neck, the vial in her right hand. “What must I do to finish answering your questions?”
“Exactly what you are doing right now…” he answered, his lips covering hers as his husky voice trailed off.
For a second, Fiona almost lost her will in the onslaught of his kiss. What was there about him that could rob her mind of reason? She didn’t want to be a kept woman, had resisted the notion when Grace and others had recommended it. She’d avoided being this close to men in general since her rape and had never imagined even the intimacy of a kiss after the horror of that period of her life.
A Seduction at Christmas Page 3
