Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London)

by Lynne Connolly

  The hush in the conversation going on when they entered the academy told its own story. Nobody had forgotten the sparring or Marcus’s unusual behavior. They could hardly have done so, when town was not teeming with new scandals. He was stepping into the building for the second time in a week.

  Conversation started up again. Someone called, “I expected you to arrive with your new sparring partner, Malton!”

  Marcus chose to ignore the sentiment.

  Someone else did not. Alconbury, already in shirtsleeves, stepped forward. “Malton has a new opponent today.”

  Without warning, he tossed a sword across the space between them. Not a small sword. A saber. “Do you use daggers, Malton?”

  “I have been known to. I thought that was your weapon of choice?”

  “Sometimes.” Alconbury served him the same trick with a dagger. Marcus showed his teeth, baring them in a simulacrum of a smile.

  He handed the weapons to a silent white-faced Darius, while he stripped off his coat and waistcoat. They were too fashionably tight to help him in this fight. Alconbury tilted his head to the padded jackets on the wall. He was not wearing one.

  Impatiently, Marcus shook his head. “The day is too warm for one to be of use.”

  If Alconbury tried to kill him now, he would do it with half society watching and bearing witness. Was this his intent, to push a duel on to him? Marcus determined to defend himself, and no more. Alconbury would not find him rising to the challenge.

  Alconbury performed the salute, his saber slicing through the air with a lethal hiss. Cold-faced, Marcus returned the favor.

  At least the tips of the swords were blunted. If they had not been, Marcus would have chosen the vest, because a “fencing accident” could clearly prove fatal and have no serious consequences. With his father, Alconbury could probably get away with murder. But not from a man whose father was the Marquess of Strenshall. Marcus’s father would not rest until he had justice for his son.

  Alconbury must know that.

  With a gleam in his eyes, Alconbury tested him, struck his sword away, and went in for an easy dagger thrust. Marcus fended him off with no trouble. Marcus took his turn, trying a sideways sweep. Alconbury laughed as he slid his dagger down Marcus’s, with a swirl that threatened to push Marcus off-target.

  “I brought a message,” Alconbury said, “But I could not resist the challenge.” He lunged.

  Marcus retreated, only to advance when he reversed the attack with a twist of his wrist.

  Neither man was out of breath.

  Around them, the spectators shouted the odds and laid bets, the normal practice in this place when two adversaries engaged. “A messenger boy?” Marcus taunted him.

  “A message from myself. First hit?”

  One hit with those weapons would do the job. Marcus nodded. “By all means. I will try not to draw blood.”

  Alconbury laughed. “You can try.”

  The men circled each other, each looking for an opening. Alconbury stumbled, and Marcus took his chance. He drove forward, a flurry of clashes pushing Alconbury back. Unexpectedly, Alconbury regained his footing and struck. He’d been bluffing.

  Marcus backed up, trying to regain the impetus. He engaged the sword, and as they came closer, Alconbury swept his dagger in a wide arc. Marcus whirled his weapon around and in, locking the two men together.

  Their faces were close. Kissing close. Alconbury bared his teeth in a gesture of ferocity. He roared and then added, sotto voce, “We were not responsible for the attack on your wife or her father,” and sprang back.

  That was the message? “Am I to believe your word?”

  “Do what you will with it,” Alconbury said, and attacked again, beating Marcus back.

  Marcus was ready for him this time and defended ably, meeting each blow with one of his own. They struck with bone-jarring force, trading attack after attack. Sweat dampened their shirts, the fabric clinging to their bodies.

  They came close again. Both were breathing heavily. “Take care of your wife,” Alconbury murmured. “The other party has agents in the country. They can attack from anywhere.”

  “Then it’s as well I do, too.” He would send more people searching for the agents. He tended to believe the man after the second warning. He would not want to see Viola dead, because he must know who Marcus would turn to first. And he would stop at nothing.

  The notion of his wife’s death made him hesitate. Only for the fraction of a second, but enough to have Alconbury draw his blade along his sleeve. The sharp edge sliced through the fabric and touched his skin, delivering a long scratch.

  Alconbury drew back, waiting for acknowledgment. Blood seeped from the wound, staining the already ruined shirt.

  Marcus lowered his sword. “A palpable hit.”

  Alconbury raised a brow. “But we are equally matched. I have no idea what made you falter, but I was watching.”

  The thought of his wife dead. Would Alconbury know that? He’d spent most of the visit Marcus had paid him watching him and Viola closely. An observant man, then, and an intelligent one. A shame he was on the wrong side.

  Marcus shoved back a strand of hair that had come loose, amused to see his erstwhile opponent doing the same. Like him, Alconbury wore his own hair tied back, a developing fashion among young men. Alconbury’s hair was a darker shade than Marcus’s own, nearly black, and his dark complexion indicated the time he’d spent abroad.

  Darius helped Marcus. He folded back the rags of his sleeve and bound a clean bandage around the wound, which was not serious. Marcus was not sure how he’d explain it to Viola. Tell the truth, probably, since his wife seemed to see past every falsehood he tried to fool her with. Not that he had tried much recently. He knew when he was beaten. He thrust his arms into the sleeves of his waistcoat, and then his coat, as light as the tailor could make it, but still a substantial garment.

  Alconbury took care of his person himself. He appeared to have nobody with him, although the family had its adherents.

  He snapped a bow to Marcus and Darius. “An enjoyable bout, gentlemen. I have another appointment to see to, and I must go home and change before I do so. Good day.”

  They returned the bow.

  “Come and have a glass of brandy,” one of their acquaintances called across the room. “I won a hundred guineas on you, and I decided my man on the toss of a coin.” He patted his pocket. “A lucky coin.”

  Nothing loath, Marcus crossed the room to the long range of windows, where a low table held a collection of decanters. He accepted a brandy. The fine-cut glass caught the sunshine, and he looked away, temporarily dazzled.

  Outside, Alconbury was crossing the street, a crossing-sweeper industriously clearing the way for him. As he did so, Marcus’s cousin Helena emerged from the milliner’s, the same one Viola had been in that day. He smiled, remembering her fire, and watched Alconbury hesitate, bow, and then stride on. Helena stared after him.

  The man was only being polite. Perhaps Marcus’s family had misjudged him.

  Marcus turned away and put a smile on his face, lifting the glass to his lips.

  He must be mad, thinking like that, with his wife in danger and that man still at large. Alconbury was a member of the family that had opposed not only the Emperors, but the monarchy.

  What was he thinking?

  * * * *

  “What were you thinking?” Viola, in a fine rage, hurried to help Marcus out of his coat. When she saw the long bandage, blood staining the white folds, she went cold and had to clutch the arm of the chair Marcus was sitting in. “Marcus!”

  “It’s a scratch,” he said negligently.

  “I thought he was warning you off, not inviting you to fight him! Was it a duel?”

  “Certainly not. Duels are illegal. Merely a way of releasing excess energy and testing each other’s mettle. The tips were blunted.”

  “Obviously not well enough.” She hurried to t
he corner of the bedroom and poured some hot water from the can resting there into a small bowl. Hastily, she collected clean cloths, a towel, and a salve, as well as a clean rolled bandage. Tears threatened to fall from the shock of seeing her husband so marked. “You could have died. He could have killed you, and they would have called it an accident. I know they would have.”

  “Be easy,” he said, in a soothing tone.

  She was far from easy. With hands that shook slightly, she untucked the end of the bandage and began to unwind it.

  He put his hand over hers. He was not shaking at all. “I swear it’s not a serious wound. I only subjected myself to the bandage because I did not want to stain one of my favorite coats.”

  The bandage was a light one, but she put no store by that. “You were hurt, Marcus. What if you were killed?”

  “Sweetheart, I cannot hide away in the hopes I will come to no harm. I cannot preserve myself.”

  She stared at him, disbelief washing through her, anger simmering. “Then why do you expect to do that to me? You wanted to keep me immured in this house forever.”

  “Until we found who wished you harm.”

  She shook her head. “What if we never discover that? Will you wrap me up in footmen and lock me in luxurious houses with no chance of roaming free? When I went to the stables this afternoon with the intent of taking a ride on the Park, the grooms informed me there were no horses available. I could quite clearly see one, the piebald, and I know I can handle her. Did you give those orders?”

  Yes, he had. She just knew it.

  “I wanted to ensure your safety.”

  She exposed the wound. It was as he said, a superficial scratch. But men had died from such things once infection set in. “I will bathe this and apply salve every day until it is better.”

  He sighed. “You know how much I enjoy your touch. If I have to cut myself to receive such treatment, I might well arrange to do so, and keep a wound constantly on my person.”

  Smiling despite her concerns, she shook her head, her curls bouncing about her neck. “You do not have to go to such lengths.”

  “I know. We spend every night curled around one another, yet I still want more. Your touch is all I need, my lady, to make me better.”

  Now he’d made her laugh. “Such foolishness!”

  She would not rest until she had seen how badly he was hurt. “For all I knew, you might be one of those men who suffered wounds until they could not bear any more. By then it would be too late. I’ve seen that happen twice on the estate. Once a ploughman sliced his leg with a scythe so badly he had to fasten the bandage tight around him. The wound festered and he lost the leg. He was fortunate not to lose his life. Another man considered his knock on the head from a fight at the inn a small thing, even when he had repeated dizzy spells for two days afterward. A week after his injury, he dropped dead in the fields.”

  “I remember the last one. A villager, was it not? A man who the neighbors considered permanently sotted?”

  “Yes, but he was not.” She took care to bathe Marcus’s wound thoroughly. In trying to scare him, she’d scared herself.

  “Every day,” he said softly and kissed her forehead while she was attending to him, “I am of all things grateful this business brought me to you. I will not fail you, Viola.”

  “I know you will not.” When she glanced up at his dear face, he was smiling so warmly she caught her breath. “You never fail any of your family.”

  “You are more than family. You are my wife.”

  They exchanged a look so long and so sweet, she considered swooning from it, like the heroine in one of the novels she used to devour. The ones that went through trials and tribulations for the men they loved. She’d do that. Before, she’d considered their exploits foolish, risking their lives unnecessarily. She’d recently read Clarissa, who was pursued relentlessly by a blackguard who eventually took her virginity and left nothing in return.

  Marcus had taken her virginity. If he’d asked, she’d gladly have given it to him, even before they were married. In that inn room, she’d wanted him to, but he had refrained. She loved him for that. No, that was wrong. She just loved him. “Marcus?”

  He touched the underside of her chin, holding her steady while he kissed her. While Marcus’s actions outside the bedroom were those of a gentleman, inside their chamber he turned into the most passionate lover she could wish for. In a few other places, he was a veritable pirate, a marauder. Perhaps he’d waited for the sanctity of marriage, but he was certainly making the most of their union.

  And she most certainly loved him for that.

  He nipped her lower lip and then soothed it with his tongue. “You are delicious, sweetheart.” He nipped again. “And I find I am not in the least hungry for anything but you.”

  “Lady Honiston is coming to dinner. We barely have time to change.”

  “Lady Honiston,” he murmured, his lips so close to hers she felt every movement, “is a prosy bore. She is also not expecting all the family to dinner. She’s an old friend of my mother’s, not a formal guest. Val will have taken himself off already. He can’t stand her. I shall plead the exhaustion of the day, or maybe I do not wish to leave my wife, who fainted at the sight of my blood.”

  Jerking back, she exclaimed, “Marcus, how dare you say such a thing!” Although the sight of his blood had not been pleasant, she was far from fainting.

  “Then I will not say that. You have no right to be so irresistible, my sweet. Come.”

  “But the bandage!”

  “Hang the bandage. I promise not to get blood on the sheets.”

  Her eyes widened. But a wicked idea entered her head, one that would give the wound a chance to begin to dry up while she kept him busy. She fumbled at the fall of his breeches and found the first button. Six in all, three on each side. He went still, watching her as she unfastened them one by one. She reached inside and found his underwear, shoving it aside to get to the bounty beneath.

  He was half erect already, and as she closed her fingers around his length, he completed the process.

  “How could I have ever thought I could live without you?” he asked the ceiling.

  She had never seen him this close. He had been used to taking her in bed, ensuring her comfort and loving her until he was satisfied she had obtained the pleasure he wanted to give her. Making love that way was making her lazy, so much she had almost forgotten her resolve to learn every inch of him.

  Recalling what he had done on their wedding night and several times thereafter, she licked her lips. His groan gave her the deepest pleasure imaginable.

  “Let me see you, sweet,” he said, as he pulled at the fastenings of her robe.

  The robe she had donned before changing for dinner was fastened with two elaborate frogged toggles at the top and a sash around her waist. It was the work of a moment to get them undone, and then she had only her underwear on. He had returned from the fencing school just as her maid was helping her undress. She had considered an hour sitting on the window seat with her embroidery before Marcus had come in. Now she had something much better to do.

  Bending her head, she cautiously swiped her tongue over the shiny head. Her husband tasted salty and musky. The tiny opening at the top emitted a pearl of clear liquid. Greedily, she claimed it.

  He groaned softly. “Viola, is there no end to the surprises you bring me?”

  She hoped not. She wanted to be the one giving him surprises for a long time to come. At first his superior knowledge had made her give the lead to him. But his tutelage had been so very successful, she felt confident in this venture of her own. She sucked. Another groan was her reward, and another elusive taste of the most intimate part of him.

  Running her tongue over him, she explored the rest of the head, the flange beneath it, and the rest of his rigidly erect shaft. When she emitted a wholly involuntary “Mm,” a thump made her look up, still with his cock head in her mouth.
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  He had jerked his head back, hitting it against the back of the chair. But when he looked down, their eyes met in such a deep connection, with such intimacy, she would have been happy with that alone.

  Lifting his hand, he cupped it around the back of her head, threading his fingers between the waves. Several hairpins fell to the floor and over her clothes. “So very lovely,” he murmured. “You look so beautiful like that. I’ve dreamed of you doing this to me.”

  If her mouth had not been full, she might have asked why he had not requested it of her. Perhaps ladies didn’t indulge, but that was yet another reason why she was not a lady. Only a woman enjoying her man, exploring him.

  She cupped her palm around the furry sack, the balls moving at her touch. Gently, he pressed her head, showing her what he wanted her to do. Up and down, stimulating him with her tongue. Enjoying the expression on his face and what she was doing to him, she continued without further prompting. He did not look away again, but kept his eyes on her, so she could see his reaction to everything she did.

  “That’s it,” he whispered. “Oh, my sweet, you are—” He broke off with a laugh. “You are my wife. I love seeing you like this. I love what you’re doing. As if a thousand caresses touched me at once. You are drawing me out, every part of me.” He ended with another groan.

  Industriously, she moved her head, copying the motion he’d urged her into and adding touches of her own.

  He gasped, and in a sudden movement jerked her up, his hands under her arms. “On me,” he said. “Now.”

  She needed no more prompting. Sweeping her skirts up around her waist, she got to her feet and climbed on him. She draped her legs over the arms of the chair while he curved one hand around her waist to steady her. Then she thrust her feet under the chair arms, dangling so they nearly touched the floor. She found if she pushed her toes down, she could move on him the way she wished.

  Holding his cock, she guided it inside her, the way she had done that first night. But this time he slipped in easily. “You’re so wet.” His words, although explaining something self-evident, added another layer to their lovemaking. She knew she was wet—her thighs had grown slippery as she’d sucked him and she’d rubbed them together to gain a measure of relief.