Lady of Intrigue

by Sabrina Darby

  Unravel me, he had said. As his mouth trailed down her body, she finally understood. His mouth closed over her, soothing her for the briefest moment before his tongue moved, kept moving, shooting tendrils of pleasure through her body with each lick. She had never imagined such a thing, imagined these ministrations as part of what occurred in sexual relations, and yet it was perfect.

  Pleasure gathered, grew, until she started to shift her hips to escape the mounting pressure, the need for something. As if she were gunpowder about to explode and yet she didn’t know how, didn’t know by what mechanism she could find such a release. She moved frantically beneath him, hands finally weaving through the curls of his hair as she gave in to the sensation, to him, to her desire.

  She scattered everywhere, into little pieces of thread fluttering through air, caught like sparkling dust in the afternoon light, floating down. He moved, loomed over her, settled his hips between her thighs, and the thrust of his hardness into her languid body was the most delicious thing in the world. She wrapped her legs around his, her arms around his back, and grinned over his shoulder at nothing.

  At everything.

  He’d unraveled her but now he was threading the loom again, putting her back together.

  Until he unraveled her again.

  The afternoon passed leisurely. Jane studied his body the way she had studied French, German, and Italian. Paid attention to what actions elicited involuntary moans, or made him lose control. In that plain, nearly bare little room, they made a home for themselves, a world that was just for them. But the sun shifted through the day, until it sent long shadows across the floorboards. She would have to return soon. Her father expected her to attend a dinner with him that evening, but with Gerard beside her, the long lines of his body beautiful as he rested, eyes half open, she wanted to stay. She wasn’t done touching him, tasting him, or simply looking at him.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said. “Everything has been taken care of. You will be…safe.”

  The words cut through the relaxing warmth of satiation. These last weeks had been an odd idyll. As much not a part of reality as their time alone after the carriage wreck. But if he left, now, on the quest to win her, everything would change. Most of all, he would go to England and she would still be here, in Vienna, indefinitely.

  She should urge him not to go, but the words were too harsh for this place, for the intimacy between them. She wanted to linger here in their own little world of the bed.

  “Tell me a story,” she begged, as if they were still on the road, learning everything they could about each other. Only now he knew her identity and she his. The secrets they still had were simply a matter of excavation over time.

  “I have six half siblings, four of whom still live. Templeton, who you know, is one.”

  She nodded.

  “After my birth, my father returned to England, begat his heir, then returned to France. My understanding is he wished to be out from under his father’s eye.” Jane laughed. Vincent Templeton must not have known his father very well if he thought Lord Landsdowne’s reach ended at England’s borders. “My eldest sister, Marie—when I found her she was married and with child. Happily, it seemed, in a simple life, and ignorant of all the rest of us. There was no reason to disturb her and so I did not.”

  “I assume then that she is still happy.”

  It was Gerard’s turn to nod.

  “Then there was Florian. He was born the year of the revolution, the year my father fled France for Spain. I found his grave, tiny, for that of a newborn. His mother was still alive but…not well.”

  “Why did you look for them? All you have in common is an absent father.”

  “Does your father have any bastards?”

  The question shocked her. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

  “My mother died so long ago. I know he has a mistress, but she is not…she is not paraded about. And there are no children, I know that much. If he has sired any with any other woman, supports any other households, I do not know of it. And I believe I would.”

  “You were curious enough about siblings to be able to answer my question,” he said pointedly.

  “I concede the point. I suppose I would want to know, though I do not believe I would go so far as to acknowledge them.”

  “As I myself am a bastard, I have nothing to lose.”

  She nodded.

  “And…Jane—” There was a note in his voice, something she had never heard from him before, something ragged and painfully honest and it pulled at her heart. “I am a man without a country, without people I call my own. My mother left her family for life as a courtesan. I was taken from her side at a young age, trained for…for death.” It was chilling to hear him finally admit it. This was not his matter-of-fact description of his life; it was something else, a pleading for her to understand. “You say I walk in the shadows, but I also walk alone.”

  “You want a family.” His sharp inhale was her confirmation. She reached out, pressed her hand to his chest. He grabbed her hand and drew it to his mouth, kissed it. Maintaining control. Of course. That need, she understood fully.

  “Clara was born in Spain with the pox and died early of it. Then Giana.”

  “The one you found in a brothel.”

  “The salacious detail is always the easiest remembered.”

  “It is also one of the few details you offered. Salacious makes the best stories.”

  “True.”

  “And is she family?”

  “I did not realize…I have been a man of action. Ruminating on the whys and wherefores were not part of my training. Unless, of course, it is to assess an opponent’s weaknesses.”

  “So you put her in that convent without much care for her desires and without any established relationship.”

  “I considered myself her guardian.”

  She nodded. Women were subject to the wills of their guardians across the world, submitted to their decisions because there was often no other recourse. But Gerard had not been this girl’s guardian in truth, thus, if she was so against a convent, why did she go?

  “Does she write to you?”

  He looked surprised. “Frequently. Long missives about embroidery and the making of mulled wine, for which apparently the convent is famed.”

  She laughed.

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  “I cannot be certain, naturally,” Jane said, “but I suspect that she very much would prefer a brother than a house full of sisters.”

  “I had no life to offer her.” Yet he wanted to draw Jane into his. “Only the money I had earned. But enough of this. You wanted a story and I have given you a list.”

  “You’ve laid out the tale of a man searching for his family.”

  “And learning that a man makes his way, makes his life and his family.” He rolled over, looming over her so quickly, caging her between the sinewy lengths of his arms, between the weight of his hips and the softness of the mattress beneath. “And you, Jane. I choose you.”

  The enormity of his statement clenched around her heart, gutted her with the weight of his expectation and his need. She wanted to do it, to be everything for him, everything he needed, and yet…she was not his savior, not a haven into which he could hide.

  She didn’t wish for either of them to cling to each other as some sort of escape from their lives. Not that she had anything in her life to escape. She had, at least she had had until Gerard had upended it, a perfectly enjoyable and respectable life.

  She met his voracious mouth with her own, wrapped her arms around him, around the smooth, muscular planes of his back, and though her heart leaped toward him, wished nothing else but to be a soft home for his, she could not tell him, Gerard, I choose you.

  When they were breathless and languid once more, Jane rested her head on his chest. For the first time that he could remember, Gerard was completely content. This woman against him, the late afternoon light filtering in through the window, illumi
nating dust motes as if they were fairy sparkles. Such a fanciful thought, and yet that was how he felt inside, as if this moment were happening to someone else, some man who deserved this woman and a normal life.

  “Don’t go.”

  The air shifted around him.

  “To London, you mean,” he said.

  He tensed, but she stayed where she was, as if nothing had changed. Yet, the silence was full of the knowledge that it had.

  “Yes. Stay here. Let us enjoy this time we have together.”

  He wanted to, wanted to desperately, but the minute they left the inn the world would flood back in. If he wanted to make her his for more than stolen afternoons, the sooner he acted the better. The only reason to linger was if this was all they would ever have.

  “You doubt I will succeed.”

  She rolled off him and stared down at him, unflinching. “Yes…and no. You think you have power, but when have you ever asked or demanded something of the people for whom you work? You are a servant to them.”

  She was here with him. She had come to him, and the look in her eyes…he had recognized it because that was how he felt inside. Yet the words were cold, an echo of what she had said to him that night on the road. And she meant them.

  Jane would not be happy with a man who lived his life at the beck and call of others, or living on the outskirts of society. He had seen her among her peers in Vienna. As much as she was his, she belonged to that life. If he wanted her, he would have to belong as well. An impossible feat, but he had done the impossible before.

  She shivered, sat up, slid off the bed, and then looked around the room for her clothes. She needed an answer, but what could he say that would appease her, that would convince her of their future together?

  “No…and yes,” he said finally, throwing her own words back at her. “In some ways you are right. Powell, all of this, is a result of a debt that needed to be paid. No matter how powerful one is, at some point, you must pay the price.”

  As his grandfather would. Jane doubted it but as well as she knew Landsdowne, she had never known the parts that Gerard knew.

  “You think you are powerful? What great kindness did someone do you that a man’s life is the price?”

  His jaw tightened. She was determined to push him away. He watched as she slid her chemise over her head and then started on the more difficult task of her stays. Her body was covered to him, another wall between them. It was understandable. Their love went against common sense. What woman would put herself under the protection of a man who kept secrets, a man she didn’t trust?

  Secrets. There were so many he could not share, but perhaps there was another story he could tell that would give her the information she craved.

  He put a hand on her shoulder, and she dropped her arms, released her breath in a shudder. He lifted the ends of the lace in each hand and they stood there in silence as he worked.

  “Before Badeau’s death—”

  She froze. “Badeau?”

  “My tutor, but I loved and hated him as a father. In his last years, he was more and more ill. He asked me to come with him to Turkey.” He laughed. “That mission was in fact for Landsdowne.”

  His hands rested on her back for a moment before he lifted them and took a step back. She picked up her dress and then turned to face him.

  “When was this?”

  “1810.” The hostilities between Russia and the Ottomans had renewed. Landsdowne had wanted information, and to help the nephew of a friend. It had been intended to be a quick trip into and out of occupied territory.

  Jane shook her head.

  “In any event, while there, Badeau visited a doctor, discovered his ailment was a canker of the stomach. There is more I am not at liberty to say, but we…we had to leave the area under the worst of circumstances. I could have managed on my own, but with Badeau, nearly crippled from the ineffectual treatments, it was more complicated. Szabo orchestrated our escape.”

  “Szabo?”

  Gerard let out a shuddering sigh. “Powell’s business partner and the man who orchestrated his demise.”

  She pinned him with her gaze, direct, curious. “Why are you telling me this? Is this not information dangerous for me to know?”

  “Yes, but it is also dangerous for you not to know from whom you may be under threat.”

  She swallowed hard. He wanted to take her into his arms, to protect her from everything, even himself, but her arms were wrapped around herself now and there was no room for him.

  “So,” she continued, “he knew Badeau and thus your identity as well, so when he called on the debt, you could not refuse?”

  “No. He knew us under different names, but yes, I could not refuse.”

  “From everything you’ve said about this man, there is no love lost between you. Why not just disappear?”

  He slid an impatient hand through his hair. “Because if I did I would have to leave this life entirely behind. And Szabo is not one to forgive and forget. If he ever did choose to find me, it is possible he could. Anyone under my care would be in danger as well.”

  “Giana.”

  Gerard sucked in a breath. “Yes, and my younger brother as well. And now…you.”

  She shivered.

  “So there you have it.”

  A story that told both of his power and powerlessness. Not all his decisions were for monetary gain.

  “I would make you my confessor, tell you every moment of my life, as dark and cold as they have been, and lay it out for your judgment if I could. But this knowledge, it is the type that endangers people. Powell was killed for such tales.”

  Her face was drawn and tight, the opposite of how she had looked in bed only half an hour earlier.

  “Imagine Landsdowne publically recognizes you, his illegitimate grandson, encourages his close society to accept you. Imagine you buy yourself an estate, show off your wealth…is that the life you want?”

  The life he wanted. He closed his eyes and for a moment a vision of verdant grass, laughing children, and Jane filled his mind. He wanted a family and peace. Landsdowne was not necessary, and it chafed at his pride to have to go to the man and ask for help, but to have Jane he would do what was needed.

  “Do you love me?” His own heart ached as he waited for her answer.

  “Yes,” she choked. “I do. But tragedies are written about fools who think love is enough.”

  His lips were tight, his jaw tight, but inside his heart was unfurling.

  “Say it again.”

  “That we are fools?” she said.

  He shook his head at her attempt to make it seem like the admission was less than it was. “That you love me.”

  She laughed derisively and stepped into her shoes. Then stumbled as he whirled her around and pulled her close. He grabbed her chin in his hand and stared down at her.

  She looked back, eyes wide and searching. There was nothing but the taut air between them, the pulse of her skin against his hand.

  “You have to let me go,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be a coward.”

  She pushed at his hand and then at his chest until he took a step backward and she was free.

  “I’m going to return now.”

  “To what? To your father? To the congress? Will satisfying your intellect alone be enough of a life for you now that you know how much more there is to be had?”

  His answer to that question for his own life was no. From the traces of thought and emotion that flickered across her face, he was certain his point had been taken. He took a deep breath.

  “Then go, Jane. But this is not over.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She didn’t see him the next day, or the next, although she scanned the crowds hoping for a glimpse of him. She kept turning corners and attending events with the faint hope that his face would be the next one she saw, his voice whispering in her ear, his hand reaching to draw her into a waltz. But that wishful expectation jarred with the knowledge that
he had left for England on his impossible quest. And with Gerard gone, Vienna felt empty.

  He had warned her to stop asking questions, to stop inquiring into Powell’s death, had suggested she was drawing the wrong type of attention, but Gerard’s absence was proof that the only danger was to her aching heart.

  Even so, Jane heeded him and avoided Albertina Abbings and Lady Heathland, and anyone else she had sought out purely for the sake of investigating Lord Powell’s affairs. However, Mrs. Abbings was not so easy to shake and Jane not rude enough to dismiss her in any overt way. It was Mrs. Abbings who Jane happened to be standing next to when the sound of indulgent hoarse laughter made them turn to catch sight of riotous curls gathered up with a sash, to see the mysterious woman Gerard had instructed Jane to gossip in front of but not attempt to identify.

  “I cannot imagine why she is here,” Mrs. Abbings said, disdain dripping from her voice.

  Jane hesitated, struggling to keep her curiosity at bay. She had promised Gerard she would not inquire and yet in this situation it was only natural to do so.

  “Elda Schmitt,” Mrs. Abbings said. “Of course you don’t know her. Why would you? But she is the mistress of a merchant. Lord Powell’s business partner, in fact.”

  Tension thrummed through her body as her mind engaged, but Jane struggled to look disinterested. “Oh?”

  “A very crude woman. Thinks that because her lover, who by the way has a wife and family in Buda, is a wealthy and powerful man, she is an arbiter of fashion. She is nothing but a common whore.”

  Jane coughed, looking about quickly, hoping no one had overheard that exchange.

  “I see I’ve shocked you. There is much you don’t know.”

  Jane had wanted to know more, but now she felt the danger here. She needed to find a way to extricate herself from Mrs. Abbings.

  “I imagine it isn’t for my ears. If you do excuse me, my father is waving at me.” Jane didn’t wait for a response, but as she went to join her father, she spared a glance at Miss Schmitt and found the woman staring back at her. That brief contact sent a frisson of fear through Jane. It was surely nothing, merely the sense of having been glanced at. But nonetheless Jane vowed to avoid Mrs. Abbings and Lady Heathland and anyone else remotely connected to Lord Powell.