Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14)

by Christi Caldwell

  She dimly registered him covering her with his muscled frame, and then reaching between them to free his shaft. He laid between her legs and thrust home.

  Bright, blinding agony pulled a cry from her lips.

  He stiffened; his breath came in desperate, ragged pants. “Bridget?” he asked, his voice hoarse with confusion and desire.

  A tear squeezed out from beneath her lashes and she concentrated on breathing and the feel of him filling her.

  All his muscles leapt with tension under her palms. “I don’t understand? I thought you were married…?” Confusion spilled from his hungry gaze.

  “Please don’t stop,” she begged, clutching at his sculpted chest. She didn’t want to answer questions and what was more…she wanted to know all that came with this moment.

  Sweat beaded his brow and then, clenching his eyes tight, he found her again with his fingers. That expert caress stirred the earlier longing and as he rekindled that desire, her hips of their own volition began to move.

  His breath came harsh and hard, as he drew out and then pressed back inside, slowly. And as the initial pain dissipated, she felt other things: the slow, exquisite drag of him inside her tight channel, the pulsing at her core, as he pulled her higher and higher toward that ledge he’d brought her to earlier. Panting and moaning, her own incoherent pleas were muffled inside her head as she met him stroke for stroke.

  He quickened his thrusts and Bridget wrapped her arms tight about him, holding on for all she was. Vail covered her mouth again, sliding his tongue in and out in rhythm to his hips. On a scream, she shattered in his arms. His body stiffened over hers and then Vail deepened his thrusts. He shouted his release to the rafters, filling her with his seed. Her channel pulsed around his throbbing length and he continued to pour himself inside.

  And then with a harsh gasp, he collapsed atop her.

  Chapter 16

  My God, she was a virgin.

  His weight resting on his elbows, his chest heaving from the force of his release, Vail remained frozen—motionless.

  It couldn’t be.

  There had to be another explanation why a widow was in possession of her virginity, still. Or had been. For he’d rutted between her legs, taking her atop a table like she was a corner street doxy.

  Questions and confusion broke through the fog of desire and drew him into the cold, unwelcome world of reality. Stiffening, Vail shoved himself upright and, more slowly, Bridget dropped her legs over the edge of the table. Fingers shaking, she tried to right her garments.

  Wordlessly, he pushed her hands away and saw to the task himself. He dragged a kerchief from his pocket and gently cleaned his seed and her blood from her center. She winced.

  After her dress fluttered back into place, Vail dropped that rag to the floor. “You were a virgin,” he said tightly, the pronouncement an obvious one that bore stating, anyway.

  She gave her head a tight shake. “N-No.” Her teeth chattered and she hugged her arms close to her chest, rubbing those limbs.

  A thousand and one questions whirred around his mind, with not a single one taking root. She’d been a virgin. And somehow, this act that had gone against every moral he’d held himself to, grew in wretchedness. Nausea churned low in his belly. “You are not a widow.”

  She could not have been? Or could she have? Mayhap her husband had been a bookish man… He swiftly shoved the foolish idea back. Any man who called her wife could have never been married to her without knowing her mouth, breasts, and center the way Vail just had—the way only he had known.

  “Bridget?” he snapped.

  “I am not a widow,” she confirmed, setting her feet on the floor. She took a step.

  She was leaving?

  Vail shot a hand around her forearm, catching it in a firm grip, and staying her retreat. “You are not leaving, madam,” he said tersely.

  If she’d never lain with a man that spoke to another lie. There’d been no Mr. Hamlet, devoted bookseller. “Why?” he managed to grit out.

  Bridget skittered her gaze about, giving her the look of a cornered hare. “Because it is far easier existing in a world as a widow than it is as an unwed woman on her own.”

  That is what she’d been. A pang struck in the vicinity of his heart, but he thrust it back. All the earliest reservations he’d carried about this woman slid forward. “It is one thing to present that illusion to the world, madam.” He understood those fears she raised, even as he’d not experienced them. “But you’d keep the truth from me?” Vail despised himself for the wounded edge to that query.

  She hugged her arms about her waist in a lonely embrace. “There didn’t present a time for me to make mention of it.”

  Restless, he stomped across the room. Rescuing the kerchief that contained the evidence of Bridget’s innocence, he hurled it into the waste bin beside his desk.

  A light knock sounded at the door. “Not now,” he shouted. Bridget glanced around the room with frantic eyes. Why…why…she sought escape. From me? His nostrils flared as his fury only grew. “Perhaps when I shared everything about my bloody family and self, you might have made mention.” He gritted his teeth so hard, pain radiated along his jawline.

  Another knock landed on the door panel, this one more urgent. “Bloody hell. Not now, Gavin,” he thundered. He scraped a hand over his face. Now, he’d taken to yelling at his brother.

  “B-But, Vail, it is a matter of import. Or that is the way I understand it. I wouldn’t wish to be one who didn’t…”

  Cursing under his breath at that untimely interruption, Vail stalked across the room, and yanked the door open.

  “…so it seemed better to simply intrude,” Gavin finished. He blinked and then beamed at catching sight of Bridget. “Oh, hullo, Mrs. Hamlet. You’re in there, too.”

  Bridget called out a weak greeting, lifting a hand for Gavin.

  “Were you unable to sleep, Mrs. Hamlet? I wasn’t as well, which is why I happened to be in the kitchens when someone came ’round back—”

  “Gavin?” he asked impatiently.

  “Oh, yes. Right. Right.” Muttering under his breath, Gavin fished around one side of his jacket and then the other. His eyes brightened. “Here it is.” He handed over the note. “It was delivered a short while ago for you. The young lad indicated it was to see your hands immediately. That is was a matter of import.”

  Vail unfolded the ivory sheet and quickly scanned the missive containing but one word and a name.

  Urgent

  Tabitha

  Crumpling the page, he stuffed it inside his jacket. This was the letter sent when whisper of threat or danger was picked up in those streets of London’s dregs. “My horse,” he said tightly. Gavin rushed off, leaving him and Bridget alone. He eyed her with the same suspicion he’d shown at their first meeting. “This discussion is not over, madam.”

  She gave a shuddering nod.

  Vail motioned to the door.

  Bridget held her hands up. “I don’t…”

  “Out, madam. I have a meeting.”

  Her entire body jerked as though he’d run her through. Head held high, she marched past him and strode down the hall. After she’d gone, he pulled the door shut. Withdrawing his timepiece, he collected the special key that hung from the chain, and locked the door. He let the chain fall and slammed his fists against the door. Damn it. He’d hurt her with his orders and, yet, after what he’d discovered a short while ago, he had every reason to doubt her. And had he not been roiling with frustration and outrage over her lie, he’d have told her that whenever that note arrived, his Collection Rooms were locked.

  There’d be time enough to sort through the tumult of this evening when they both were clear of head. And he, visiting King Street at this hour, and word from Tabitha could afford nothing but.

  A short while later, his reins handed off to a waiting Jeremy, he found his way inside the Coaxing Tom. Vail blinked, adjusting his eyes to the thick cloud of cheroot smoke that hung over the g
aming hell. From across the room, he found Tabitha. Perched on Mr. Barrett’s lap, her lips close to his ear, she paused, as her gaze collided with Vail’s. Without another word for her client, she hopped up, and sauntered through the club, expertly dodging the grasping hands of drunken patrons.

  Twining her arms about his neck, she stretched up on tiptoe and sought his mouth. It was an act he’d participated in countless times, with no other purpose but deception in mind. Having just left Bridget’s arms, however, it felt wrong and vile. He turned his head slightly and her kiss grazed his cheek.

  “What is it?” he demanded in hushed tones, gathering her around the waist.

  By the frown that reached her eyes, she’d detected his evasiveness. “Not here,” she said, instead. Taking him by the hand, she cast him a come-hither stare and led him through the busy club to her private rooms.

  As soon as she’d closed the door behind them, he pressed her again. “What is it?”

  “Yar never impatient to the point of carelessness,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. “Ya don’t speak business on the hell floors.”

  No, he didn’t. By God, man. Clear your damned head. “It is late,” he offered, grimacing at the weakness of that.

  Folding her arms at the middle, she plumped her enormous breasts up. “Does this ’ave anything to do with the lady whose got ya smitten?”

  His face went hot and he resisted the urge to yank at his rumpled cravat. Word of Bridget had found its way to even these streets. Bloody damned gossips. “Is that what you’ve called me here for? To speak about my new housekeeper?”

  Tabitha said nothing for a long while and then whistled through her teeth. “It’s true, then, isn’t it? I never thought I’d see the day, Vail Basingstoke, the Bastard Baron and ruthless businessman, is smitten enough that he’d be thinking about a lady and not being called in the dead of night.” There was nothing teasing there. Rather, pity coated her words. The prostitute shook her head sadly.

  Disquieted, he squared his eyes on her face. “What is it?” he repeated, this time forcing aside thoughts of Bridget Hamlet.

  “Two lords were ’ere earlier. Didn’t get their names, but they were dressed fancy like and speaking the King’s English like George himself.”

  Instantly alert, he pressed her for more. “What were they discussing?”

  “Yar Chaucer.”

  That book slated for auction at the end of next week. It was estimated to bring more than one hundred thousand pounds to his purse and was coveted by all collectors. His ears immediately pricked up. “And?”

  “And one of the nobs was saying to the other gent not to worry that ’ed have it for him.” Tabitha hesitated and the regret deepened in her usually hard eyes. Unease churned in his belly and he couldn’t get the proper words out to urge her to finish the damned telling. “Said all the gossip is that yar too busy lusting for the woman to know she’s there to steal it from under yar nose.”

  His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, making it impossible to form words. “What woman?” he asked when he trusted himself to speak.

  “Didn’t say,” Tabitha said gruffly. “Only that she’d been there less than three weeks and had found a place in yar bed.” She paused. “Even though she’s an ugly bit of baggage.”

  Been in his household three weeks…? There was one, and she’d ensnared him, but possessed a beauty that would have set a statue to weeping. It couldn’t be her. It was impossible. He shook his head slowly as a dull humming filled his ears. “You’re wrong.” That denial emerged gravelly. “It’s not…” It wasn’t Bridget. And he’d certainly not stand here defending her to this woman, or any other.

  He took a step toward the door and Tabitha moved away from it, holding a hand out. “Said she’s ugly but no one knows more about books than her.”

  She may as well have kicked him hard in the belly. Vail staggered back a step. “Mm. Mm,” he muttered, giving his head a frantic shake. “It’s…whoever it might be, is not…”

  …The woman knows how to properly handle antique books. She not only knows how to care for them, but also has an appreciation for the contents within. And she fluently reads and speaks Latin, French, Italian, German, and Spanish…

  Vail froze as all the reservations which he’d buried roared to the surface, overwhelming him. Pacing the small confines of Tabitha’s rooms, he pressed his fingertips against his temple and willed his thoughts to some semblance of order. Think, man. Think.

  How did such a woman come to be in his employ? Stanwicke. Stanwicke, who’d provided the references and also sold him a counterfeit copy. Then all the details he’d not allowed himself to see before this moment rolled into one another. She’d been a virgin. She’d not been married. She’d never revealed a single piece about herself, until this night when he’d demanded some personal story.

  And he knew.

  Vail jolted to a stop.

  Bridget Hamlet was a bloody, goddamned liar.

  Bridget was a bloody, vile person.

  In light of the suspicions she’d roused this night by lying in Vail’s arms and the barely concealed fury before he’d parted, she could not remain here. He was too clever and would have questions, and piece together that she was nothing more than an imposter.

  Tears clogged her throat and she choked them back. Useless. Tears had never solved a problem and they’d certainly never succeeded in erasing her hurts. They’d never ease the agony of leaving this household. She stopped outside his office.

  Nay, not leaving his household—leaving him. Bridget laid her palms against the door and rested her forehead between them. I cannot do this. I cannot steal from him. I need to take Virgil and go.

  She knocked her head silently against the wood panel. And where would she go? She’d not even two hundred pounds to her name, and a child and an old maid to look after. For a brief fleeting flash in time, she allowed herself the thought of laying this burden at Vail’s feet. Of telling him all. He was a baron. An honorable lord, respected by the ton, with extensive connections all over England.

  A wave of sadness assailed her and she shoved away from the door, resigned. In their world, a father would always have rights to his child before all others. It wouldn’t matter that Archibald had forsaken the boy all those years ago or that Bridget had cared for him as a mother. The world would only recognize a powerful nobleman’s right to his child…and his word won out above all—especially over that of a deaf, scarred sister. Not even Vail in all his strength and power could change the rules and laws that governed Society.

  Bridget caught her lower lip painfully between her teeth. There was no other choice. Until she drew her last breath, Vail Basingstoke would hold every corner of her heart, but Virgil was the other half of her soul.

  Fiddling with the ring of keys, she selected the corresponding one for his office. Bridget jammed the slip of metal in and the lock gave. She quickly let herself in. Blinking to drive back the dark of the room, she pushed the door slowly closed behind her.

  He’d locked the doors to his Collection Rooms. It had been the first warning that he’d ceased to trust her—deservedly so. But it had also been the greatest indication that she needed to leave. Now. Heart pounding loud in her ears, she rushed over to Vail’s orderly desk. Dropping into the folds of his leather seat, she yanked open the center drawer. She felt around the inside for a hint of metal. Scrunching her brow, she reached her hand further inside and searched around.

  Nothing.

  Bridget sank back in the chair. Did you think he’d simply hide the book in plain sight? Absently, she pulled out drawer after drawer, methodically searching them, and finding nothing. Shifting to the bottom left, and final one, she dug around. Empty.

  Teaming with frustration, she jumped up. Think. Think. Where would he keep something of such value that mattered so…

  She froze. Her heart thumped wildly. Quitting Vail’s office, she moved out into the hallway, beating a familiar path, and then stopped outside the Portrait
Room.

  Swallowing hard, she forced herself on wooden legs forward to that peculiar throne-like mahogany chair…under Erasmus’ painting.

  She stopped, staring up at the smiling boy, joyous in his innocence. Yet, by what Vail had shared, the child had known great evil. And he’d still known happiness because of Vail. “I have to do this,” she whispered to his memorialized self. There were no acts of heroism to see her with the fortunes Vail had known. There was no avenging sibling, swooping in to aid her. The world was remarkably limited in the opportunities it afforded women. Knowing that did not ease the guilt clogging her throat.

  Kneeling beside the chair, she tugged at the edge of the seat. When there was no miraculous give, she bent, studying the underside of it. A strand of hair fell over her eye and she blew it back. She squinted and then a faint glitter of metal caught her eye.

  Numb, she stretched a hand under and fiddled with that tiny latch.

  The faint click sounded like a gunshot in the silence, as damning and evil. Fingers shaking, Bridget shoved the lid up and peered inside. Her stomach lurched and, even as she removed the velvet sack resting atop a feather pillow, she knew.

  Bridget pressed her eyes closed, warring with herself. The instant she absconded with this book, her time with Vail would end, and she’d leave, dishonored…as deceitful as her brother and sister.

  She slid the book out, hoping she was wrong and there was some other valuable work hidden in this cherished place.

  All the air left her on an unsteady exhale.