Earth, Air, Fire, and Water 04 - A Treacherous Proposition

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  “I expect him at any moment, my lady. He is putting up at the Blue Boar.”

  “Very odd thing, this.” Justinian took a sip of sherry. “I mean, your inviting him here. You really believe he is your brother?”

  “Not yet.” Vincent shrugged. “He knows that I do not accept his tale—that he is here pending probation. I made that clear to him. Perhaps one of you will discern something about him that I have not—either for or against his allegations. Are you acquainted with Delamare, Sudbury?”

  “I’ve met him. Don’t like him above half. Uh…” Justinian flushed. “Sorry. I mean, if he is your brother…”

  “Then you will like him no better.” Vincent’s oblique smile flashed.

  “Ha!” A crack of laughter burst from Litton. “Whether he is or not, very likely none of us will like him.”

  “Hush, Adam.” Helen’s gentle voice broke in. “I hear footsteps.”

  Durbin appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Delamare,” he announced importantly.

  Delamare stood for a moment framed in the doorway, body erect, head held high, light from the sconces in the hall haloing his dark hair. Vincent stepped forward and Diana heard an intake of breath from the assembled company. When seen together, the resemblance between the two men could not be missed.

  However, if Delamare were indeed Henry Ingleton, then time had not been kind to him. He looked older than the two years between Henry and Vincent would have made him. Perhaps the result of his years on the sea. He bowed, first to Vincent and then to the company. Litton and Caldbeck stepped forward, flanking Vincent.

  “My lords, may I present Henry Delamare?” Vincent extended a hand in his direction, and Delamare bowed again. “Lord Caldbeck and Lord Litton.”

  Both of these gentlemen offered their hand and Delamare grasped each in turn. Vincent scanned the eyes of all three. None of them revealed the least bit of emotion—no recognition, no hostility, no anxiety. Only the most formal courtesy. He made a note not to gamble with the lot of them.

  He gestured toward the room. “Please come in. Let me make you known to the ladies.” Delamare followed him to where the women stood watching, curiosity writ large on their faces. Vincent stopped before Lady Catherine, the ranking lady of the party. “Lady Caldbeck, this is Henry Delamare.” He indicated Diana. “Lady Diana Corby.” Henry bowed to each of them.

  An imp of amusement stirred in Vincent. He was looking forward to the last introduction. “Lady Litton, may I present your stepson?”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing Delamare’s urbanity crack. He cast a startled glance at Vincent. “My…my stepmother?”

  Helen chuckled. “Had you been with us at the time, yes.”

  “Forgive me if I call you not Maman.” The man made a fast recover, kissing the hand she held out to him. “It would be…quite impossible.” For the first time Vincent detected the hint of a French accent. Had he at last succeeded in damaging the man’s composure?

  Composure or brass-faced gall.

  Durbin again arrived in the drawing room, addressing Helen. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

  Vincent flicked a glance at Diana, then bethought himself of his duty to the Countess of Caldbeck and turned to her, offering his arm. No need to draw any more speculation to his relationship with Diana than necessary by altering precedence. He was moving to the door when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Delamare bow to Diana. Vincent checked for a heartbeat as he watched her smile up at the newcomer and accept his escort. Quelling a pang of jealousy, he led the countess into the dining salon and seated her properly to the right of his own place at the end of the table.

  With five men and but three women in the party, correct seating was out of the question—a matter that was hardly of burning importance to Vincent, in any event. However, he found himself less than pleased when Delamare positioned himself in the place of honor to Helen’s right at the far end of the board as though he was, in fact, a ranking earl. He placed Diana on his other side, thus establishing her as his dinner partner and putting an intervening place between her and Vincent.

  Vincent wondered if he caught just an instant of amused challenge in the glance his alleged brother sent his way as he took his chair between Diana and Helen.

  Presumptuous rascal.

  To Vincent’s relief, Litton took the chair between himself and Diana. Otherwise she would have been trapped between Sudbury and Delamare, both possibly among his enemies. He shuddered inwardly. Bad enough to have her within the reach of the debatable Henry—and out of his own.

  Should trouble arise, he would have to put his dependence in Litton to get her out of its way. He had made sure that both Litton and Caldbeck knew to suspect Sudbury, as well, and he knew they would react. That they both carried pistols.

  He had asked for help once again.

  Throughout dinner the informal conversation centered on Delamare. Everyone had questions for him, all worded with the utmost courtesy, all designed to fathom the truth of his story. Henry dealt with the questions gracefully, spinning tales of his life and his rise from cabin boy to ship’s master, entertaining them with anecdotes of his adventures and mishaps.

  Never explaining his appearance on the English social scene.

  Vincent pondered that. Appearing from nowhere, how had he been accepted even into the fringes of the ton? And where had he come by his own ship? Unfortunately these were not inquiries that could be phrased politely. But Vincent would ask them—soon or late, politely or otherwise.

  As he filed away details of Delamare’s narrative for further verification, Vincent struggled to smother his annoyance at the small attentions his avowed relative bestowed on Diana. Seeing to it that her glass was filled. Suggesting tidbits. Addressing his remarks to her. Looking into her eyes as he smiled. He didn’t have to be that attentive.

  The perfect dinner partner.

  Damn his eyes!

  Diana sighed with relief as she followed Helen and Lady Caldbeck back into the drawing room and found a place with them near the fire while the gentlemen drank their port in the dining salon. Delamare’s proximity at table had disturbed her.

  In spite of his impeccable manners, she had felt crowded by him. It seemed that his shoulder too frequently touched hers, that his elbow inevitably brushed hers when he moved, that whenever she glanced his way, she found his gaze waiting to engage hers.

  And, uncomfortable, she would quickly look away.

  Helen spoke first. “I pity Mr. Delamare, undergoing the scrutiny of those three over his port. So, what did you think?”

  Catherine thoughtfully rested her chin on one hand. “Very gentleman-like. Very persuasive.”

  “Perhaps too much so.” Helen stretched a slippered toe toward the fire. “I found myself believing everything he said until I recollected the unlikeliness of it. What do you say, Diana?”

  “I don’t know.” Diana tried to separate her personal response to him from the possible truth of his claim. “As you say, it all seemed perfectly reasonable when he said it. But, of course, I never knew Henry Ingleton as a boy.”

  “Nor did I.” Catherine’s brow puckered. “But I have the feeling that the man is just a bit too eloquent—that he could convince one of anything. Although that does not mean he is lying.”

  Diana considered that idea. “No, of course it does not. He might be trying to persuade us of the truth. Helen, was Vincent’s brother a sly child?”

  “Perhaps. He was just a little too young for us to be playmates, but I have the impression that he might have been.”

  “Does Delamare look like Henry?” Catherine asked.

  “I am trying to remember.” Helen closed her eyes for a moment. “I can picture his face, but whether it would grow into the face we see tonight…” She opened her eyes and shrugged.

  “He looks very much like Vincent,” Catherine observed.

  Did he? Diana saw the similarity, but… “He does, but somehow he also seems very different. His nature seems different.”
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  Both the other women looked at her. Oh, dear. Had her feelings for Vincent betrayed themselves in her words?

  Finally, Helen said, “Yes. But Vincent’s nature is very much changed in recent years. Still, you are correct. Vincent has never been persuasive.”

  Catherine laughed. “He has never wasted time with it.”

  Diana felt herself flushing. What they said was true. Vincent had never attempted to convince her to do what he wanted. He just did it and pulled her along with him.

  Except when he asked her to trust him.

  Then his heart was in his eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With so many potential observers of his activities in the house, Vincent dawdled in his own room until he was confident everyone else was safely tucked away before gliding down the hall on stocking-clad feet to Diana’s. But with yet another questionable presence in residence, he had no intention of allowing Diana to sleep in her room alone. Propriety be damned.

  As much as he might have wished it, Vincent found himself unwilling to be so discourteous as to turn a guest out to travel to his inn in the dark. The vexatious Henry had been assigned a bedchamber on another floor, in fact, the chamber Henry had occupied as a boy. Had Vincent given in to his inclinations, he would be housed in the farthest corner of the building from Diana, but that would create too much work for the staff.

  And it would be rather obvious. Vincent chuckled. If he truly had his way, the man would be in some far corner of the universe.

  As for confirming Delamare’s story, the evening had proved inconclusive. Vincent had no opportunity to talk privately with Litton and Caldbeck. If their suspicions had been increased—or decreased—he would have to wait until the morrow to hear it. In spite of the man’s convincing performance, Vincent’s own dislike of him had hardened.

  No mystery about that. Delamare’s gallantry toward Diana had awakened a demon of possessiveness in Vincent that he did not know he had. Vincent had never cared so much for any other woman, had never allowed anyone else to become important to him. All of his relations with the opposite sex had been casual, in fact, usually professional in nature. He did not allow strings.

  Until now.

  He could hardly bear seeing Diana on Delamare’s arm. The possibility existed, of course, that Delamare did not know that he and Diana were lovers. But Vincent did not believe that for a moment. The blackguard looked so damned proprietary. So bloody smug. No, his assurances to the contrary notwithstanding, the man was subtly setting himself as Vincent’s rival in every area.

  As Henry always did.

  Damnation!

  He tapped quietly on Diana’s door and waited impatiently for her to unlock it. He wanted to see her face, to feel her body beneath his hands. Barely waiting for the door the open, he squeezed past her and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind while she made the door fast.

  “God, I have wanted you alone.” He lowered his head to brush kisses across the nape of her neck. “At dinner I was ready to kill Delamare where he sat.” He lifted a hand to cup her breast.

  She covered it with one of hers, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “He made me very uncomfortable, but he had no way of knowing that you and I…” A flush crept up her neck. “Well, that we…”

  “Of course he knows.” Vincent moved his lips to a point just below her ear and she shivered in his arms. He pressed his rapidly growing erection against her soft bottom, gratified at her response to him. She was his, and by God, tonight he intended to see that she knew it.

  She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his. “I suppose everyone is aware of it by now.”

  “Yes, but that is of no consequence.” He covered her other breast with his free hand. “When we are married, these weeks will be forgotten.” He began to gently press her nipples between thumb and forefinger through the thin fabric of her gown.

  She slumped against him, her breathing quick and shallow. “Vincent… About marriage… I…”

  He gave her no opportunity to argue. He moved one hand slowly across her belly, letting it come to rest at the juncture of her legs. She gasped as he circled his fingers against her swollen nub. He put his mouth against her ear. “I will not take no for an answer, Diana. I will not give you up.”

  He increased the pressure between her legs and scarcely had time to cover her mouth with his other hand before she cried out. When she hung limply against him, he scooped her up and carried her to the tall bed. He laid her unresisting body down on the edge, facing him, and stepped between her legs while yanking at the buttons of his britches.

  The moment he had the flap undone, he grasped her thighs and thrust into her. She lay, eyes closed, arms flung over her head, moaning softly. He stilled himself, waiting to regain control. Then he used slow thrusts and the pressure of his thumb to shatter her again. He wanted more, wanted to see her beautiful face in the throes of release again and yet again, but the sound of her breathy cries, the wild response of her body around his, sent him soaring over the edge. He bit his lip to silence himself, pumping his essence into her.

  Making her his in the way of men and women since time began.

  This could not go on. She could not allow him to continue thinking that marriage to her was inevitable. Diana lay watching the sun creep over the edge of the world and slip its arms through her window, its fingers stroking the warm lights in Vincent’s hair where it lay against her pillow.

  She had not slept for thinking that she should tell him.

  She rolled toward him and found his gaze on her. The ardor in his eyes brought tears to her own. He wiped them away with a gentle hand. “What is it, Diana? Why are you weeping?”

  A sob came up into her throat, shutting off the words. He pulled her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. “Don’t cry. We are safer now than we have been since this affair began.”

  She nodded, choking back her sniffles. “I… I know. It is not that.”

  “What then?” Vincent rose on one elbow to look down at her.

  “It is… It is about… I cannot marry you.” The sobs broke through again. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel him becoming very still, wary. She took a breath and tried again. “You don’t understand, Vincent. I want to become your wife more than I can say. I have fallen in love with you—in spite of myself. But there are things…”

  “Things?” She could feel the tension in his body like a drawn bow.

  “Things you don’t know about me.” There…she had said it.

  “I know that, Diana.”

  Her heart almost stopped. “You…you know?”

  “I know you are keeping a secret from me.” He sat up and looked down at her, the covers dropping to his waist. His brow was furrowed, but he did not look angry. “You have done so since we left London. What is it?”

  “I cannot tell you.” It came out as a wail.

  “And why not?” He reached down to straighten her tangled hair.

  “You will despise me.” She rolled away and buried her face in the pillow.

  A firm hand on her shoulder rolled her back. “Look at me, Diana.” Reluctantly she met his gaze. “I cannot imagine anything that you could tell me that would make me despise you. However, if this secret affects your safety—or mine—I want you to tell me at once.”

  “I don’t think it does. It has nothing to do with anything that Wyn told me. I truly do not understand why anyone thinks I have any sort of information that would harm them. It is… It is something that happened…a long time ago.”

  He waited patiently, but she could not go on. Finally he said, “I have loved you for a long time, Diana. I cannot imagine your doing anything so awful that I would not wish to marry you, would cease to love you.”

  “But sooner or later, I would bring a terrible disgrace to you, and you would come to hate me.” Her resolve firmed. “I will not do that.”

  “Hmm.” He leaned back against the bedframe and studied her. “Very well. If it does not affe
ct our present situation, you do not have to tell me. But know this, Diana.” He rolled forward, leaning over her with a hand on either side of her face. “I will find out.”

  He rose and began to put on his clothes, looking back at her when he finished and reached for the door. “And it will make no difference to me.”

  Early that afternoon, his guests all departed, Vincent sat his horse under the shade of the spreading beech by the side of the lane and waited, the dappled sunlight and soft birdsong a stark contrast to his dark thoughts. What the devil had Diana done that she considered so disgraceful?

  It sounded rather as though she had consorted with another man at some time during her marriage to Corby. Vincent could hardly blame her if she had, considering her husband’s neglect of her. But it rankled that, if she needed comfort, the hypothetical comforter had not been he. He would have loved to provide that anytime these past two years.

  But he was getting far ahead of himself. He had no reason to believe any such thing of her, and that sort of behavior seemed so far out of her character… Besides, he would have known. He had spent a great deal of time in the Corby home. Vincent’s experience suggested that this great secret concerned something seen as contemptible only by Diana. Something for which no one would condemn her—except herself.

  Very likely he could ferret out the mystery if he wished. Discovering secrets was his business, after all. But he would not do that. Vincent wanted Diana to tell him herself. If he caught her in it, he would not feel able to trust her. He would wait for the answer. One thing he had learned in the intelligence trade was patience. Another was that secrets always came out. Always.

  But what in thunder could Diana’s be?

  These musings were interrupted by the cheerful sound of the sailor’s pipe. A glance down the road revealed the man in the shabby brown coat, his little dogs scampering along beside him. Vincent swung down from his saddle and waited until the man drew even with him.

  “Good afternoon to ye, me lord.” The ratcatcher tipped his battered hat. “I trust I find you well.”