“Your secrets, Etienne?” Her hands were everywhere at once, touching and exploring and skimming his sides, lower and lower still.
And in that moment he knew it was already too late.
He couldn’t resist and didn’t want to. She pushed his trousers down his hips, freeing his hard member. Her hands cupped him and caressed him with a shocking confidence, and he moaned with the sheer sensation of her touch.
She drew him onto the chaise, the heat of her body searing his bare skin, numbing his mind to anything beyond the passion in her touch, the need swelling within him.
Here and now, he no longer cared if it was Toussaint she truly wanted or Richard. If she loved the earl or the artist. She was in his blood, in his soul. He wanted her with an ache so fierce it eclipsed all thought of right and wrong. All thought of honor and deception. He loved her and he wanted her and it didn’t matter who she wanted, who she loved.
He and Toussaint were one and the same. There was enough of the rakish artist in him to discard the consequences of this moment, enough of the man he had once been to cast aside all thought of repercussions, all concern for tomorrow. There was nothing in this moment but a single man and the one woman he loved.
But even as his body joined with hers and ecstasy swept away caution and control, he knew in some still sane portion of his mind that it would soon matter very much indeed.
It would be all that mattered.
* * *
They lay together silently, wrapped in a sense of contentment and serenity he’d never suspected could be the aftermath of the physical act of love. Now might well be the best time to confess all, although any urgency to do so had vanished. She was warm and supple beside him and probably quite receptive to the truth. He had an amazing sense of well being and the illogical belief that nothing could come between them now.
Gillian sighed, turned to him, and kissed him firmly. “I have never seduced a man before.”
“I would not have known,” he said lightly, remembering just in time to feign his accent. He chuckled. “You seemed quite good at it.”
“Thank you.” He could hear the grin in her voice. “I’ve been practicing.”
She sat up and bent over to find her shoes, then rose from the chaise. He watched her shadowy figure grope for the chair. She found it, slipped her dress on and her cloak. At once he realized she’d made certain she knew exactly where to find her clothing in the dark room. He propped himself on his elbows.
“You are leaving? Now?” He’d rather hoped that she’d stay until dawn, when the rising sun would reveal his face to her and alleviate the need for him to bring up the subject of his deception. He’d always been rather more successful at defense than offense.
“Yes, well, my carriage is waiting.”
“Did you not say you’d sent it away?”
“Did I?” she murmured. “What was I thinking?”
“Madame?” he said slowly.
“Monsieur, I have had a delightful evening. I do so appreciate your part in it.” Her tone was cordial and polite, as if she were thanking him for nothing more than a drive around the park.
She crossed to the door and opened it, silhouetted in the doorway by the dim light. “Oh, and I should hate for you to spend the rest of the night wondering, so I do think I should tell you before I go.”
“Tell me what?”
“The answer to your last question, monsieur,” she paused, “is no.” She closed the door behind her with a firm snap.
“What question?” he muttered and stared after her. He couldn’t recall any question of significance. He lay back and stared upward into the night. No stars shone tonight. Clouds obscured the heavens, a blessing earlier for keeping his secret from her, but now they seemed forbidding. An omen perhaps?
What question? He searched his mind. He’d been far too busy dealing with questions of his own to note anything of importance she might—
“I also once thought I couldn’t be with a man I didn’t love.”
“And now?”
He bolted upright.
“The answer to your last question, monsieur, is no.”
No? What in the hell did that mean?
He jumped to his feet and promptly bashed his knee on the chair. Pain shot through him. He muttered a curse, groped for his trousers, and pulled them on, then headed toward the easel, guided by the faint glow of the candle still burning on the wooden frame. He sank onto the stool before the portrait and stared at Gillian’s face.
She stared back.
No?
If she couldn’t be with a man she didn’t love …
His stomach clenched.
But she had been with Toussaint. She had in fact seduced Toussaint. And with a great deal of enthusiasm.
Did she then love Toussaint? Had his silly plan worked after all? And had it worked far too well?
The face on the portrait smiled a smug, satisfied smile.
Blast it all, what would he do now? Gillian had fallen in love with the wrong man, even if he was that man. He was his own rival. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to think.
What if he could get rid of Toussaint? His spirits lifted at the thought. Send him back to France, or better yet, kill the scoundrel. Perhaps in a duel? No, no, that would be too romantic. Besides, he’d need witnesses and an opponent.
A duel would create far too much gossip, and the last thing he needed was to draw the attention of the ton. What about an accident? He racked his brains for something plausible. A carriage accident perhaps? Or he could drown? That would work. His body would never be found.
Bloody hell, he couldn’t kill off Toussaint. Gillian would then be faced with a dead lover as well as a dead husband, and Richard couldn’t handle the memory of yet another man in her life. Even if he didn’t truly exist.
Of course, he could be wrong about her feelings. No. His heart sank. He should have known right from the beginning, regardless of her intentions, that she was not the kind of woman to share a man’s bed without love. And not the kind of woman who married without love.
Damn it all, he loved her. But she loved someone else. And she would hate him when she learned the truth. She’d never believe that this deception of his wasn’t strictly to gain her inheritance. And in truth it had been when this whole blasted mess had started.
Now, he didn’t care about her legacy. If he had to go the rest of his life painting under another name and trying to make repairs on an ancient roof and struggling to scrape up dowries for his sisters, it was well worth it if she shared that life with him.
He blew a long, resigned breath and met the gaze of the face in the portrait. He loved her. He’d never loved before and probably never would again. But how could he marry a woman who loved someone else?
He couldn’t. His pride wouldn’t allow it. Neither would his heart. It had all been so simple until love had entered into it. Damnable love.
Once again, irony colored his life. He who had never thought of love at all now found it was the only thing he could think about. The only thing he truly wanted.
And the one thing he couldn’t have.
Chapter 19
It had been three days since her seduction of Toussaint—or rather, Richard—and Gillian hadn’t heard a word from either of them. The first day she’d expected Richard to storm into her home raving over her scandalous behavior. She’d rather looked forward to that.
The second day she’d thought he might appear as if nothing had happened at all. That too would have been extremely interesting. Now, she wondered if perhaps he was too overwrought by what had passed between them to do anything at all. She certainly hoped so.
She smiled with satisfaction and finished the note on the desk before her. He’d had his opportunity. Now their future was in her hands. Besides, she had a legitimate reason for requesting his presence. She sealed the note and scribbled an address on a slip of paper.
Feminine laughter rang in the foyer outside the closed doors. A bark sound
ed in response, followed at once by an indignant voice. Any minute Wilkins would no doubt burst through the doors demanding a return to the calm and serene atmosphere he was accustomed to presiding over. Her house certainly wasn’t conducive to this many guests, and since their arrival it had seemed as if the very building would burst from the strain. Still, she was enjoying herself, even if Wilkins wasn’t.
Her grandmother was to blame for it all, or, perhaps, to thank. Regardless of her often stated belief that her offspring were well equipped to run their own lives, the dowager duchess was not above a bit of meddling if she deemed it necessary. And apparently, in this case, she had.
As if on cue, the doors flew open, and Wilkins stalked into the room with a vigor he hadn’t shown in years. “My lady, I must insist you do something at once or I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
She suppressed a grin. “Whatever it is, Wilkins, it can wait. Right now I need you to bring this note for Lord Shelbrooke to his solicitor and insist it be delivered at once. This morning, if at all possible, but by midday at the latest.”
Wilkins’s bushy brows drew together. “But what about—”
“I shall take care of it.” She stood, picked up the note and the paper, and handed it to the butler. “I’ve written the address here. Now, tell Lord Shelbrooke’s solicitor if this is delivered with due speed he shall be considered favorably by the Dowager Duchess of Roxborough—no—the Duke of Roxborough when it comes to any future endeavor.”
“My lady!” Wilkins’s eyes widened with shock. “Your father knows nothing about this!”
“No, but he could.” She ignored a tiny twinge of guilt. She’d never before used her family’s influence, but she’d never before been in a situation where she’d needed it. “And I’m certain he wouldn’t mind.” She waved toward the door. “Now then, off with you.”
He drew himself up in the best manner of a put upon family retainer and sniffed. “As you wish.” Wilkins turned and marched toward the door, muttering all the way. “Blasted business. House full of women.” He yanked the door open. “Damnable dog,” he muttered and snapped it closed behind him.
She shook her head and grinned. It wouldn’t be easy for him, but Wilkins was going to have to accept that if all went as she hoped, nothing in her life would ever be the same. With luck, Richard would be here in a few hours, and she had a great deal to do before then.
Odd how there wasn’t a doubt in her mind, or perhaps her heart, that Richard loved her. He hadn’t said it aloud, and there was a possibility he never would, but she knew it as surely as she’d ever known anything in her life.
She pulled open the top drawer in the desk and drew out the miniature he’d painted. She should have known it the moment she’d looked at this very personal keepsake, even though she doubted he realized it himself.
It wasn’t her soul he had captured in the tiny painting. It was his own.
Richard pulled back the knocker on Gillian’s front door and rapped as gently as possible. Even so, the sound reverberated through the house and through his head. He shuddered and clenched his teeth against the pain. He deserved it, had, in fact, well earned it by his concentrated effort to consume every drop of liquor that had come within reach. Still, the knowledge made it no easier to bear.
It had been three long days since the night with Gillian in his studio. He’d wanted to come before now, but he’d had no idea what he’d say to her and wasn’t certain he wished to hear what she had to say to him. However, her note today had requested a meeting, had insisted on it actually, and he could no longer delay the inevitable. No doubt she wished to break it off with him in favor of Toussaint.
The door opened with a faint squeal that probably went unnoticed most of the time, but at the moment it sliced through his head like a cold, pitiless blade.
Wilkins stood in the doorway and eyed him with disdain, as if he were to blame for the troubles of the world. “Good day, milord.”
“Wilkins.” Richard nodded.
With an obvious air of disapproval, the butler stepped aside to allow him to enter.
The light in the foyer wasn’t nearly as bright as the afternoon sun, and he was damned grateful for the respite. He blinked and noticed a familiar figure halfway up the stairs, with an open book balanced in one hand and an apple in the other.
He shook his head, winced, then peered at the vision. “Marianne?”
“Oh hello, Richard,” she said absently. Marianne cast a last reluctant glance at the book in her hand, then snapped it shut and turned toward him. “We were wondering when you would get here.”
“We?” His voice rose. What was going on?
“Um-hum.” She smiled pleasantly. “Becky and Jocelyn and Emma are around somewhere. And of course Henry—”
“Henry?” This made no sense whatsoever. Perhaps he was still foxed and this was nothing more than a drink-induced dream.
“Becky refused to come without him. And Aunt Louella couldn’t possibly leave Becky—”
“Aunt Louella?” He groaned. Even in his dreams the last thing he needed was his termagant of an aunt in London. Or any of the rest of them. “What is she doing here? What are any of you doing here?”
“I’d like to tell you,” she shrugged, “but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I really don’t know. But I suspect it’s quite interesting.” She grinned and headed up the stairs.
He stared after her. What was going on here?
The parlor doors opened. Gillian stepped into the foyer holding a snifter of brandy in one hand. He glanced at it longingly. “Richard, what a lovely surprise.” She beamed at him. “I wasn’t at all sure when I’d see you again.”
He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You sent for me.”
She laughed lightly. “That’s right. How could it have slipped my mind?”
“You insisted I come,” he said, his words measured. “Your note said it was a matter of some urgency.”
“It did, didn’t it?” She studied him carefully. “You look terrible, Richard. Are you ill?”
“Something like that,” he muttered.
“I’m sure you’ll feel better in no time.” She took a sip of the brandy, then handed it to him. “This will help.”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt,” he mumbled.
“Excellent.” A wicked gleam flickered in her eye. “Because we do need to talk.”
A heavy weight settled in his stomach. No doubt his heart. “Of course.”
“But first, you have visitors.” She waved him into the parlor. “They came here because they had no idea where to find you. It’s the oddest thing. I hadn’t realized until now that I had no idea where to find you either. We should probably discuss that as well, although I suppose it scarcely matters now. Besides, there is nothing quite as exciting as a man with secrets.” He stepped past her, and she smiled innocently. “Don’t you agree?” Too innocently.
“Good day, Richard.” His aunt’s forbidding tone grated on his already raw nerves. She sat on the settee and gazed at him in a manner distinctly reminiscent of Gillian’s butler.
“Aunt Louella.” He nodded a greeting, then dismissed all pretense at polite behavior. He simply didn’t have the patience necessary to deal with what was obviously a conspiracy of all the women in his life. “What are you doing in London? And why are my sisters here as well?”
“As always, Richard, it is good to see you.” She glared at him, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of trapping her gaze until she was forced to turn her eyes away. But he was in no mood for a test of wills. Given his current state of infirmity, she would probably win and hold it over him for the rest of his life—much as she had everything else he’d ever done.
He downed the brandy in one long swallow and noted the fact that if it hadn’t been for Gillian’s annoying habit of sharing his drinks, there would have been a great deal more. Although she was right: it did help. He set the glass on a table and forced a sm
ile to his lips.
“Forgive my bluntness. I have not felt quite up to snuff recently, and seeing you and Marianne a moment ago has come as something of a shock.” He stepped to her and kissed her lightly on a papery cheek. “However, it is, as always, a pleasure to see you.”
She snorted. “Don’t bam me, boy. I know you’d just as soon we’d stayed put in the country. Well, it’s been years since I’ve been to London and now that we’re here, we’re going to stay for a good, long visit. And do sit down. I can’t abide you towering over me.”
Relief surged through him. He sank down on the opposite end of the sofa and shook his head with a show of regret. “Oh dear, that may prove awkward. I am sorry, but I have the meanest of rooms and you can’t possibly—”
“They’re most welcome to stay with me as long as they wish,” Gillian said from somewhere behind him. He hadn’t realized she was still in the room, and he turned to find her leaning against the closed parlor doors. She favored him with that annoyingly brilliant smile of hers.
“Excellent.” He cast her the closest thing to a smile he could muster, then turned back to his aunt. “And do forgive me for asking again, but exactly why are you here?”
“It wasn’t my idea.” Louella opened a large fabric satchel wedged on the sofa beside her and rummaged inside. “Where is it?” She pulled out a wrinkled sheet of folded velum and waved it at him. “This is why we came.”
“What is it?” What could be so important that it would bring his entire family to town?
“A request of sorts, although it carries more the feel of a command,” she muttered.
“A command?”
“Indeed.” She craned her neck to see past him to Gillian and leveled her a suspicious glare. “From the Dowager Duchess of Roxborough.”
Richard looked at Gillian over his shoulder. “Your grandmother?”
“So it would seem,” she said lightly. There was definitely some kind of conspiracy here. Who played which role was still in question, but there was no doubt in his mind there was a plot afoot.
The Husband List Page 25
