“You see,” he continued in a quiet voice, running his hand slowly up her side to cup her full breast in his palm, “I’ve never had to subdue a woman before to seduce her.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“We could try the chains if you like.”
“On me or you?” she whispered, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Ladies first.”
He moved his other hand up under her skirt, finding his way across her bare thigh to the moist heat of her sex. Julia felt herself grow wet, aching, throbbing, her knees giving way beneath her. His fingers pushed, probed, took possession. The hidden pulse points of her body quickened in anticipation.
She gasped and turned her head to look down. “You devil, you’ve unfastened my dress again.”
He pulled her down onto the carpet, locking his arms around her firm white bottom. “If we’re going to duel, we might as well do it naked.”
She glanced up at the array of clubs and swords above her head. “Don’t tell me you brought me here to show me your cavalry saber?”
“My saber isn’t on the wall.”
“No?”
“But if you want to examine it, I’m sure it could be arranged.”
She stared up into his face. A vein pulsed in the hollow of her throat. He caressed it with his index finger. “Isn’t that dangerous?” she whispered. “I’ve heard that a saber is the most effective of all swords.”
“That’s very true. A saber can inflict great impact when wielded in the proper way.”
She breathed out a sigh. A warm tremor spread upward from her knees into her lower body. “How do you wield your saber?” she asked softly.
“For thrusting mainly.”
“For . . . thrusting?”
“Yes.” He moved against her, brought his mouth to hers. “You see, my blade is curved.”
“And the advantage of this?”
“It allows the swordsman to penetrate his opponent’s body more deeply.”
“Fascinating.”
“Are you interested in weaponry, Lady Whitby?” he asked, his mouth drifting down her neck to her breasts.
She felt as if she would faint against his hard, powerful body. The virile heat of him melted her, fused her to him. She had been made to belong to this man.
“I have recently developed quite a passion for it,” she whispered.
“How encouraging,” he murmured, as his sinful lips encompassed one distended pink nipple and suckled hard. “Perhaps I should give you a demonstration of my skill.”
“In here—”
“Of course.” He tore off his jacket with his right hand. “It is, after all, a weapons room.”
He knew they could not linger for much longer, or they would be missed again. But she felt so irresistibly vulnerable and deliciously enticing sprawled beneath his body. Could he help it if she touched his senses without even trying?
“You don’t need a weapon to conquer me,” he said in a subdued voice. “Against you I am completely disarmed.”
Julia released a wistful sigh. “We’d better get up and put ourselves together. I should die if anyone found us like this.”
“You’ll have to get up first.”
She rose gingerly and pulled up the sleeves of her dress. He reached up to brush a cobweb from her hair. As he was buttoning his jacket, the rumble of carriage wheels on the crushed shell drive echoed in the night.
“Oh,” Julia said, her face dismayed. “Odham and my aunt must have quarreled again. He’s leaving. I’d hoped they would reconcile.”
“That isn’t Odham’s carriage,” he said as he glanced at the door. “That sounds like Grayson and Jane have arrived. Prepare yourself for a grand performance.”
Chapter 27
The quiet countryside estate changed the moment the Marquess of Sedgecroft arrived. A procession of carriages lined the drive, and servants burst forth from the steps to unload the expectant marchioness and the vast array of trunks she had carted from London; Sedgecroft’s vitality charged the air as if stardust had fallen from the sky.
The family dogs set up a joyful keening; bright lantern lights flooded the endless rise of clipped lawn. Julia had escaped from the weapons room just in time to present a respectable façade. Not that Sedgecroft, with his history of seduction, would be for one instant deceived. He knew the look of a woman well loved.
Heath lingered behind for her to sneak out. In one way, Grayson’s arrival was a disappointment. He was a forceful personality, who tended to dominate one’s time. On the other hand, Heath realized that Julia’s guard would be increased. Grayson might be a gregarious, playful devil, but he was no one’s fool, and a good fighter into the bargain. He would be another watchful eye.
From the window Heath observed the entire ceremony of servants welcoming the master home with a great deal of mayhem and merriment. Grayson enjoyed putting on a show. In this he was better suited than any of his brothers to his role in life. The Boscastle patriarch. The scoundrel turned respectable.
Heath far preferred to remain in the wings and perform his own role in private. Well, privacy in the house now would be almost, but not entirely, impossible. There was a devious advantage in keeping Julia in the tower, however. He would merely have to visit her in secret, and secrecy only added a pinch of spice to the pot.
He turned from the window, shaking his head in resignation. If he had to leave Julia in order to hunt down Auclair, who better to guard her than Grayson? She would be protected as well as entertained and befriended by his lively sister-in-law, Jane. As he stepped toward the door, his gaze lifted to the handsome sword collection mounted on the wall. An ancient Roman gladius. A Spanish rapier. A basket-hilted broadsword of a Highland warrior.
He’d loved this room as a boy. Had admired the warlords who had wielded these magnificent weapons.
He had always imagined that one day he would grow up to fight duels, but war had dulled his appetite for bloodshed. Had he and his nemesis Auclair shared the same childhood dreams?
And then, in an instant, as if it were a code he was deciphering, he began to make connections in his mind that he had missed. He had explored the possibility that Baron Brentford was involved with Auclair, but Brentford was to all appearances an innocent if foolish man.
He lifted his hand to the hilt of the French cavalry saber on the wall, tracing his finger along the cold blade.
Why had he not considered the possibility that Brentford was an unknowing pawn in Auclair’s game? The melancholy young man had probably never guessed that he was being used as a method of revenge.
But, unwittingly to them both at the time, Brentford had revealed the clue in his conversation with Heath at the theater. Heath could hear the words echoing in his mind, Brentford’s voice, rueful and absurdly tragic.
I think that when I take my private fencing lesson in the morning, I shall ask my instructor to strike me straight through the heart.
And again at the park. Brentford had mentioned the man he had been racing his phaeton to impress.
His instructor.
Auclair, a member of the elite French Corp de Gards, a swordsman who lived to provoke duels, who profited by the death of others.
How long had he been hiding in London? Posing as a fencing master?
Where was he now?
Heath stared at the saber, removed his hand.
Auclair had not been employed at Angelo’s fencing studio. He had given private instruction to the wealthy young males of the ton, a notoriously loose-tongued group. He could have easily followed Heath and Russell’s movements.
He had to be found and eliminated before he made his next move.
The question was: Would it be safe for Heath to leave Julia to do the job?
Heath had plenty on his mind to keep him awake all night. The most pressing issue was to remove Julia from any threat of danger, then find Auclair. He had to admit a vital piece of the code still eluded him. Auclair’s motivation.
Why had Auclair
not been content to remain in Paris? Had he gotten into trouble with the authorities there? Yes, Heath had escaped him, perhaps made Auclair look inept and careless to his French superiors. But if every soldier went after his enemy counterpart after the war, the world would never enjoy peace. According to the War Office, and Hartwell’s information, Auclair had not been demoted after Sahagun. In earlier reports Heath had read, Auclair was reported to have climbed ever higher in Napoleon’s favor before leaving the army. For the first time he wished to meet up with Russell to understand. The two of them could have put their heads together to find Auclair.
“Heath? Is that you hiding in the hall?”
The graceful figure of his sister-in-law Jane flitted across his line of vision. She stood alone at the bottom of the stairs in a lynx-trimmed traveling cloak, her hand on the balustrade.
He smiled at her. “How is our expectant marchioness?”
“Carrying the devil’s seed if one may judge by the peculiar cravings for food that possess me.” She studied his torch-lit face in concern. “Oh, dear. I can see by your expression that you’ve heard the news.”
His smile vanished. “The news?”
She laid her hand on his forearm. “I don’t need to tell you to be brave. Having been born into the Boscastle family has of necessity hardened you to scandal.”
“What are you talking about, Jane?”
She swallowed. “I’m sure that Julia did not mean any harm by it. There has to be an explanation.”
He narrowed his eyes. “For what?”
“The scandal will die down eventually,” she said vaguely. “Take it from one who knows.”
“What scandal?”
She turned and climbed several steps, her cloak brushing the stone stairs. “Think of it as art, Heath,” she called down over her shoulder.
Was she grinning? Did he hear laughter in her voice? “Think of what as art, Jane?”
She vanished from his sight. He barely caught her parting comment. “Think of it as . . . a compliment.”
He found out a few minutes later exactly what Jane’s elusive remarks had meant. Grayson was waiting for him in the formal gold withdrawing room. The room reserved for company. For dramatic occurrences. For lectures from their father and announcements of engagements. And deaths. It was not called a formal room without good reason.
The marquess was standing in front of the fire in his muddied traveling boots, his hands clasped behind his back. Any other man would have been intimidated by his posture. But Heath knew Grayson a little too well.
He glanced around the room, assessing the situation. Hermia and Odham were sitting stiffly on the sofa with Julia wedged between them as if they were a pair of bookends.
Heath tried to catch Julia’s eye. She was deliberately avoiding his gaze. A very bad sign. Had Hermia or Grayson guessed what he and Julia had been doing in the weapons room?
She glanced up unexpectedly. Her gray eyes caught his. He grinned, but she dropped her gaze. She was embarrassed. His grin deepened. He’d never have guessed, not after the things they had done to each other.
His attention was diverted by the loud timbre of Grayson’s voice—his brother was shouting. Not an unusual occurrence, but . . . Heath glanced around in bewildered amusement.
“Are you shouting at me, Gray?”
Grayson sent him a black scowl. “Do you see any other of my scandalous siblings in the room?”
Heath straightened, the grin on his face frozen.
Grayson produced a paper from behind his back and waved it in the air. Heath did not immediately realize what it was. He might have paid more attention if he weren’t distracted by Julia, Hermia, and Odham quietly sneaking to the door. Escaping.
“Is there something wrong, Grayson?” he asked quietly.
Grayson strode across the room. “I thought you were the responsible one.”
“I am,” Heath said. Wasn’t he?
“Oh?” Grayson snorted. “I thought you were the brother I did not have to worry about causing a scandal.”
Heath shook his head. “What has been written about me now? I cannot defend myself until I see it.”
“Defend yourself? What defense is there against this?”
Grayson thrust the pamphlet at him. For a moment Heath did not recognize it for what it was. A caricature. One of those lascivious, sometimes clever, often vicious cartoons. A satire of Society that circulated the streets of London.
It was a printed sketch of a naked man, the anatomy distorted. He moved it to the light. Heath stared at his own image, dumbstruck for the first time in his life.
“Isn’t that you?” Grayson demanded. “It says it’s you.”
Heath arched his brow. “I never saw myself in this way, but it’s me.” Exaggerated. Quite flattering if one wanted to be turned into a caricature for public consumption. Was this how Julia viewed him?
“How did you allow this to happen?”
Heath looked up. No wonder Julia and Hermia had sneaked away. “I did it for charity.”
“Charity?”
Heath turned the pamphlet this way and that. No matter how one looked at it, he was larger than life.
“It’s for the Greek God Collection.”
“You agreed to pose nude for a public print for charity?” Grayson asked with a rude sneer. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to make a donation?”
“How many copies of this were printed?” Heath asked quietly.
“I don’t have any idea,” Grayson said. “Usually the damn things are littered over the streets of London. One can hardly count all the copies.”
“I see.”
“I wish I did.” Grayson sat down heavily on the sofa. “What am I to do? You were the model of exemplary behavior for the family. You were the one whom I ordered Drake and Devon to emulate. Do not follow my example, I said. Do not sin in my image. Aspire to be like Heath. Sin in secret. Do you have a defense for this?”
Grayson glanced around, realizing that his brother had not been responding at all.
“Heath?”
The room was empty.
Grayson was lecturing to the four wolfhounds that sat around the fireplace, tails thumping in friendly anticipation. They loved the marquess.
“And my parents thought I was the worst of the litter,” he mused.
Heath let himself into Julia’s room unannounced. She was sitting in her chair, pretending to read a book. He cleared his throat. She turned a page. He walked up to her and dropped the pamphlet in her lap.
“Is this how you see me?”
She whitened, slowly lifting her gaze to glance at the pamphlet. “It was supposed to be a joke,” she said in a whisper. “I never meant it for public scrutiny.”
“Public?” He circled her chair. “That is rather an understatement. By now it has probably sprouted wings and flown across the Continent.”
She angled her head to gaze up at him. “I am sorry, Heath.”
“How will I look to the War Office?” he asked, his strong hands planted on her shoulders.
She swallowed, braving a smile. “Exposed?”
“Quite.” He bent his head to her cheek, tsking. “My anatomical proportions are enormous. What were you thinking, Lady Whitby, you wicked creature?”
She drew a breath. His hands were stealing around her shoulders. “It could have been worse—Grayson did say that there’s a fortune being offered for the original.”
He removed the book from her hands. “I think we shall have to find another hobby for you besides sketching.”
“I think you might be right.”
“How,” he asked, kissing the sensitive spot under her ear, “are we ever going to explain this to Russell?”
She closed her eyes. “I’m very much afraid it explains itself.”
“Then it saves me the trouble, doesn’t it?”
“I think I have brought you only trouble,” she whispered with a shiver.
He buried his face in her neck. “I seem to have
acquired a taste for it, Julia. There’s no need to apologize.”
Chapter 28
Heath met alone with Grayson the following morning after a leisurely breakfast. Old friends had already begun to call on the well-liked marquess, who followed the family tradition of entertaining in grand style. Invitations to his parties were sought after by the aristocracy. Heath had always preferred more exclusive entertainments.
Still, Grayson could be the staunchest ally at times. He was nobody’s fool, a man of his word, and Heath intended to enlist his help in the matter of Auclair before country life distracted him. Not to mention his pregnant marchioness. Grayson had a full plate of life’s pleasures set before him.
“I can only conclude that Auclair holds a personal grudge against you,” Grayson said after a long pensive silence. “God knows why. Do you not have a guess?”
Heath shook his head. “Aside from the fact that I escaped him, no. But . . . anything is possible. Who knows what I have forgotten? I do not remember most of my ordeal.”
“Thank God,” Grayson said with great feeling. “Having seen the scars on your body, forgetfulness is no doubt a blessing.”
“I wish I knew. I wish I understood.” Heath’s voice deepened with emotion. “Perhaps if I understood, I would find the key to stopping him.”
“Do you have something he wants?” Grayson leaned forward. “Could he possibly want Julia? You said he left her bracelet in his glove to taunt you.”
“Why?” Heath’s face hardened at the very thought. Until now he had not wanted to admit the same suspicion had crossed his mind. “She has done nothing to him. I cannot believe that her husband did, either. Whitby spent his short military life in India. He was not a spy.”
Grayson sat back in his chair, gazing at the wall. “Auclair wants to intimidate you—he must hate you very much to take such risks to do so. It does not make sense. If this were a political assassination, Althorne would seem a better target.”
Heath stood. He found it increasingly frustrating to fight such a lethal enemy and not even be able to recognize his face except from the drawings that Colonel Hartwell had shown him after the war. “I want it over.”
The Wedding Night of an English Rogue Page 27
