Her heart quaked. He was all around her. His weight against her back, his scent invading her senses as his flesh invaded her flesh. This was domination, pure and simple, and she found it unbearably erotic. A wave of pleasure rose again within her. Oh, let this moment continue. Let us be together forever. She was weeping, her physical ecstasy mixed and confused with a terrible feeling of impending loss she could not control.
“Lucy, I . . .” He thrust more roughly. Faster. He levered off her and pounded into her vulnerable body, and she felt his sweat spray her back. “Lucy!”
He grunted and shook, and she felt the warmth spread in her and couldn’t tell it apart—her climax from his seed planted within her.
THE FIRST THING SIMON NOTICED about Sir Rupert’s study was the prints on the walls. Botanical prints.
Behind him, Fletcher’s butler said, “Sir Rupert will see you shortly, my lord.”He nodded, already advancing on an engraving that depicted a gnarled branch with delicate flowers above and, incongruently, the fruit below. On the bottom of the picture, in archaic script, was the legend, Prunus cerasus. Sour cherry. He looked at the next, framed in gilt: Brassica oleracea. Wild cabbage. The leaves were so ornately curled they might have been exotic bird plumes.
“I’d heard you had an interest in horticulture,” Sir Rupert said from the door.
Simon didn’t move. “I didn’t know you had one as well.” He turned to face his enemy.
Sir Rupert was leaning on a crutch.
Simon hadn’t expected that. Here only five minutes and he’d been surprised twice already. This wasn’t going as planned. But then he hadn’t really known how to plan this, the final confrontation. He thought he’d already finished everything when he’d faced Walker. He hadn’t dreamed there was another to pursue until the dying man confessed as much. He didn’t dare discuss it with Lucy. After this morning’s sweet lovemaking, he didn’t want to upset their fragile truce. Yet he still had to see that she was safe, which meant eliminating the last man. Please, God, soon. If he could do that without Lucy finding out, perhaps they still stood a chance.
“Would you like to see my conservatory?” Sir Rupert cocked his head, eyeing him like an amused parrot.
He was older than the other conspirators, had to be in order to have fathered Christian. But still, Simon hadn’t braced himself for the lines on the man’s face, the slight stoop to his shoulders, and the bit of flesh that wobbled under his chin. All proclaimed him a man over fifty years. Otherwise he would make a formidable opponent. Although shorter than he, Sir Rupert’s arms and shoulders were heavy with muscle. Were it not for his age and the cane . . .
Simon considered the offer. “Why not?”
The older man preceded him from the room. Simon watched Sir Rupert’s painful progress down the marble hall, his crutch echoing each time it hit the floor. Alas, the limp was not faked. They turned down a smaller hall, one that ended in an ordinary oak door.
“I think you’ll like this,” Sir Rupert said. He produced a key and inserted it into the lock. “Please.” His arm swept in front of him, indicating Simon should go first.
Simon raised his eyebrows and stepped over the threshold. Humid air bearing the familiar smells of loam and rot enveloped him. Above those scents floated a lighter aroma. It was an octagonal room made of glass from the floor upward. Around the edges and in clusters in the middle were every kind of fruiting citrus tree, each in its own enormous pot.
“Oranges, of course,” Sir Rupert said. He limped to his side. “But also limes and lemons and various subgroups of orangelets. Each has its own particular taste and smell. Do you know, I believe if you blindfolded me and gave me a fruit, I could tell which it was merely by scoring the skin?”
“Remarkable.” Simon touched a shiny leaf.
“I’m afraid I spend too much time and money on my little hobby.” The older man caressed a fruit, still green. “It can be consuming. But so, for that matter, can revenge.” Sir Rupert smiled, a kind, fatherly man surrounded by his artificial garden.
Simon felt a welling of hatred and carefully suppressed the emotion. “You seize the bull by its horns, sir.”
Sir Rupert sighed. “There seems little point in pretending I don’t know why you’ve come. We’re both too intelligent for that.”
“Then you admit you conspired to kill my brother.” Simon deliberately broke off the leaf he’d been caressing.
“Tcha.” The older man made an irritated sound. “You reduce it to the simplicity of a babe knocking over play blocks, when it was nothing of the sort.”
“No?”
“No, of course not. We stood to lose a fortune—all the investors, not just I.”
“Money.” Simon’s lips twisted.
“Yes, money!” The older man thumped his stick. “You sound like my son, sneering over money like it dirties your hands. Why do you think we all, your brother included, went into the venture in the first place? We needed the money.”
“You killed my brother because of your own greed,” Simon hissed, unable to contain all of his rage.
“We killed your brother for our families.” Sir Rupert blinked, breathing heavily, perhaps surprised by his own candor. “For my family. I’m not a monster, Lord Iddesleigh. Don’t make that mistake. I care for my family. I would do anything for my family, including, yes, removing an aristocrat who would’ve let my family go to the poorhouse so he could stand on his noble principles.”
“You make it seem like the investment was sure to make money all along, yet it was a gamble from the start. It was hardly Ethan’s fault the price of tea fell.”
“No,” Sir Rupert agreed. “Not his fault. But it would’ve been his fault had he kept us from reaping the insurance money.”
“You killed him to commit a fraud.”
“I killed him to preserve my family.”
“I don’t care.” Simon lifted his lip in a sneer. “I don’t care what excuses you’ve made, what reasons you have in your own mind, what sorrows you seek to win my pity with. You killed Ethan. You’ve admitted the murder yourself.”
“You don’t care?” The older man’s voice was soft in the still, oppressive air. “You, who have spent a year avenging your own family?”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. A bead of sweat ran down his back.
“I think you do understand,” Sir Rupert said. “Do care, in fact, for my reasons.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Simon fingered another leaf. “You tried to have my wife killed. For that alone I will see you dead.”
Sir Rupert smiled. “There you are wrong. The attempt on your wife’s life was not my fault. That was the work of Lord Walker, and you’ve already killed him, haven’t you?”
Simon stared at the other man, tempting him with this hope of redemption. How easy it would be to just let it go. He’d killed four men already. This one said he wasn’t a threat to Lucy. He could walk away, go home to Lucy, and never have to duel again. So easy. “I cannot let my brother’s death go unavenged.”
“Unavenged? You’ve avenged your brother to the tune of four souls. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not while you still live.” Simon tore the leaf.
Sir Rupert flinched. “And what will you do? Make war on a crippled man?” He held up his crutch like a shield.
“If need be. I’ll have a life for a life, Fletcher, cripple or no.” Simon turned and walked to the door.
“You won’t do it, Iddesleigh,” the old man called behind him. “You’re too honorable.”
Simon smiled. “Don’t count on it. You’re the one who pointed out how very similar we are.” He closed the door and walked out of the house, the scent of hothouse citrus following him.
“YOU NEED TO HOLD STILL, THEODORA DEAR, if you want Aunt Lucy to draw your portrait,” Rosalind chided that afternoon.
Pocket, in the act of swinging her leg, froze and darted an anxious glance at Lucy.Lucy smiled. “Almost done.”
The three of them sat in the large drawing room
at the front of Simon’s town house—her town house as well, now that they were wed. She must start thinking of it that way. But truthfully, Lucy still considered the house and servants Simon’s. Perhaps if she stayed—
She sighed. What nonsense. Of course she would stay. She was married to Simon; the time for doubts had long since passed. No matter what he did, she was his wife. And if he didn’t duel anymore, there was no reason why they couldn’t grow ever closer. Just this morning, Simon had made urgent love to her, had even told her he loved her. What more could a woman ask from her husband? She should’ve felt safe and warm. Why, then, did she still have this feeling of impending loss? Why hadn’t she said she loved him as well? Three simple words that he must’ve been expecting, yet she’d been unable to form them.
Lucy shook her head and concentrated on the sketch. Simon had insisted this room be remade for her, despite her protests. Though she had to admit now that it really was lovely. With Rosalind’s help, she’d chosen the colors of a ripe peach: delicate yellows, sunny pinks, and rich reds. The result was lively and soothing at the same time. And in addition, the room had the best light in the house. That alone would’ve made it Lucy’s favorite. She looked at her subject matter. Pocket was dressed in turquoise silk that provided a beautiful contrast for her flaxen locks, but she sat stiffly hunched as if frozen in mid-wiggle.
Lucy hastily made a few more strokes with her pencil. “Done.”
“Huzzah!” Pocket exploded off the chair she’d been posed on. “Let me see.”
Lucy turned her sketchbook.
The little girl tilted her head first one way and then another, then scrunched her nose. “Is that what my chin looks like?”
Lucy examined her sketch. “Yes.”
“Theodora.”
Brought up short by her mother’s warning tone, Pocket bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Aunt Lucy.”
“You’re most welcome,” Lucy replied. “Would you like to see if Cook is finished with her mincemeat pies yet? They’re for Christmas dinner, but she might have one for you to sample.”
“Yes, please.” Pocket paused only long enough to seek her mother’s approving nod before darting out of the room.
Lucy began to put away her pencils.
“It’s very kind of you to indulge her so,” Rosalind said.
“Not at all. I enjoy it.” Lucy glanced up. “You and Pocket will be coming to dine with us on Christmas morning, won’t you? I’m sorry my invitation is so late. I forgot Christmas is only a few days away until Cook started baking pies.”
Rosalind smiled. “That’s quite all right. You are newly married, after all. We will be delighted to join you.”
“Good.” Lucy watched her hands placing the pencils in a jar. “I’m wondering if I can ask you something personal. Very personal.”
There was a pause.
Then Rosalind sighed. “Ethan’s death?”
Lucy looked up. “Yes. How did you know?”
“It consumes Simon.” Rosalind shrugged. “Sooner or later I expected you to ask about it.”
“Do you know he’s been fighting duels over Ethan’s death?” Her hands were trembling. “He’s killed two men that I’m aware of.”
Rosalind gazed out the window. “I’d heard rumors. The gentlemen never like to tell us of their affairs, do they? Even when it involves us. I’m not surprised.”
“Didn’t you ever think to stop him?” Lucy grimaced at her own lack of tact. “Forgive me.”
“No, it’s a natural question. You’re aware that he’s dueling partly for my honor?”
Lucy nodded.
“I tried after Ethan’s death when I first heard the gossip about duels to talk to him about it. Simon laughed and changed the subject. But the thing is”—Rosalind leaned forward—“it really isn’t about me. It’s not even about Ethan, God rest his soul.”
Lucy stared. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, how can I explain?” Rosalind got up to pace. “When Ethan was killed, it cut off any way for the brothers to come to terms with each other. For Simon to understand and forgive Ethan.”
“Forgive him? For what?”
“I’m expressing myself badly.” Rosalind stopped and frowned.
Outside, a cart rumbled by and someone shouted. Lucy waited. She knew somehow that Rosalind held the key to Simon’s single-minded quest for revenge.
“You must comprehend,” her sister-in-law said slowly. “Ethan was always the good brother. The one everyone liked, the perfect English gentleman. Simon almost by default took the only other role. That of the wastrel, the ne’er-do-well.”
“I’ve never thought him a wastrel,” Lucy said softly.
“He isn’t, really.” Rosalind looked at her. “I think some of it was merely youth, some of it reaction to his brother and how their parents saw the both of them.”
“How did their parents see them?”
“When the brothers were very young, their parents seemed to decide that one was good and the other bad. The viscountess was especially rigid in her thinking.”
How awful to be branded the bad brother at so young an age. “But”—Lucy shook her head—“I still don’t understand how that affects Simon now.”
Rosalind closed her eyes. “When Ethan let himself be murdered, Simon was forced to assume both roles. Both the good and the bad brother.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows. Was what Rosalind said possible?
“Just listen.” Rosalind held out her hands. “I think Simon felt guilty that Ethan had died defending Simon’s name in a way. Remember the rumors were that Simon was my lover.”
“Yes,” Lucy said slowly.
“Simon had to avenge him. Yet, at the same time, he must feel terrible anger at Ethan for dying in such a way, for leaving me and Theodora to his care, for being the good brother and martyring himself.” She stared down at her open palms. “I know I do.”
Lucy looked away. This was a revelation. Everything she’d heard about Ethan pointed to how good he’d been. It had never occurred to her that Rosalind might feel anger toward her late husband. And if she did . . .
“It took me many months to let Ethan go,” Rosalind said quietly, almost to herself. “To forgive him for dueling a man he knew was the better swordsman. It’s only been recently that . . .”
Lucy looked up. “What?”
Her sister-in-law blushed. “I . . . I have been driving with a gentleman.”
“Forgive me, but Simon said your reputation was—”
“Ruined.” Rosalind’s complexion was quite rosy now. “Yes, in the ton it was. My gentleman is a solicitor at the law house that helped settle Ethan’s estate. I hope you don’t think the less of me?”
“No. No, of course not.” Lucy caught Rosalind’s hand. “I’m happy for you.”
The fair woman smiled. “Thank you.”
“I only wish,” Lucy whispered, “that Simon could find such peace.”
“He’s found you. At one time I wasn’t sure he would ever let himself marry.”
“Yes, but I can’t talk to him. He doesn’t listen, won’t admit what he’s doing is murder. I . . .” Lucy looked blindly away, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t know what to do.”
She felt Rosalind’s hand on her shoulder. “Maybe there isn’t anything you can do. Perhaps this is something only he can defeat.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Lucy began, but Pocket charged back into the room at that moment, and she had to turn away to hide her eyes from the little girl.
The question hung there, unanswered.
If Simon couldn’t defeat his demons, if he didn’t stop killing other men, he would destroy himself. Maybe Rosalind was right; maybe there truly wasn’t anything she could do to stop his deadly path. But she had to at least try.
Surely there was someone else who felt as she did, someone who didn’t want this duel with Sir Rupert. She’d go to Christian if she could, but from his reaction at the Lord Walker duel, he would not have sympathy for her cau
se. Few would have the same feelings as a wife. Lucy straightened. A wife. Sir Rupert was married. If she could win his wife to her side, perhaps between the two of them they could stop—
“Aunt Lucy,” Pocket cried, “won’t you come taste Cook’s pies? They’re ever so good.”
Lucy blinked and focused on the little girl tugging at her hand. “I’m afraid I can’t right now, dear. I must go see a lady.”
Chapter Seventeen
Simon snipped off a dead leaf from a Rosa mundi. Around him the smells of the conservatory floated in the humid air—rotted leaves, earth, and the faint scent of mildew. But the perfume of the rose in front of him overpowered them all. She had four blooms on her, all different, the streaks of white swirling into the crimson on her petals. Rosa mundi was an old rose but a favorite nonetheless.
The leaf he’d snipped fell to the white-painted table, and he picked it up and threw it in a bucket. Sometimes a dead leaf carried parasites and, if forgotten by the horticulturist, would infect the healthy plants as well. He made it a habit to clean up as he went. Even the smallest of leftovers might later prove the doom of an entire table of plants.He moved to the next rose, a Centifolia muscosa—common moss rose—its leaves glossy green with health, its perfume almost cloyingly sweet. The petals in her flowers spilled over themselves, lush and billowy, shamelessly revealing the green sepals at their center. If roses were women, the moss rose would be a tart.
Sir Rupert was a leftover. Or perhaps the last of a series of labors. Whichever way one looked at it, he had to be dealt with. Clipped and cleaned up. Simon owed it to Ethan to finish the job. And to Lucy, to make sure she was safe from his past and his enemies. But Sir Rupert was also a cripple; there was no getting away from that fact. Simon hesitated, studying the next rose, a York and Lancaster, which bore both pink and white flowers on the same plant. He balked at dueling a man with such uneven odds. It would be a killing, pure and simple. The older man wouldn’t have a chance, and Lucy didn’t want him dueling. She would probably leave him, his stern angel, if she found out he was even contemplating issuing another challenge. He didn’t want to lose her. Couldn’t imagine never waking again with her. His fingers shook at even the thought.
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