The Sweetest Revenge

by Dawn Halliday

  Miss Juliette finally spoke, her whispering voice filled with disappointment. “Do you not care about what has become of them?”

  He released an annoyed breath. He used women as they used him: for temporary gratification. When it was over, he ceased to think of them, and he was certain they forgot about him, although his vanity secretly desired that they held on to some pleasant memory of the encounter.

  In the end, of course, there were certain things even he would always remember. Images flashed through his mind: the gentle graze of teeth over his earlobe, erect little nipples stained with berry juice, crimson lips panting his name over and over: Leo. Leo. Leo.

  “Yes, I care what becomes of them,” he said gruffly. “Of course I do. But our liaisons have little impact on their lives.”

  “That is a convenient way to liberate yourself of responsibility, Leo,” Lady M said dryly.

  “It is so easy for you, isn’t it, Lord High-and-Mighty?” Mistress Jane said, her voice full of scorn. “You flit from one woman to the other like a dissatisfied bee, but are you truly so naïve as to think it is as easy for us?”

  “Well…ah…” In truth, he had never put much thought into the fates of the women he’d bedded. This entire conversation was highly irregular. Never would he have envisaged himself in this odd position: bound and blindfolded, nearly naked, speaking to strange, angry, unknown ladies of his previous acquaintance about the women he’d possessed carnally. “I am careful,” he finished lamely.

  Lady M snorted. “Careful of what?”

  His face burned. He had a sudden urge to dump the basin of water over his head.

  “I am careful not to spread disease nor plant my seed. I am selective in my choice of ladies. I would not deliberately bed a virgin, for instance.” He swallowed, hoping they had no evidence to the contrary.

  “But you have.”

  Damn. He ground his teeth. “Accidentally. And only twice.”

  It was a small lie. The first time he had bedded a virgin was not an accident. The second time was a terrible mistake. After that, his guilty conscience had produced extreme measures of vigilance, and he had not touched a virgin since.

  Silence stretched, as thin as the most delicately blown glass, and Leo loathed shattering it. What would they demand from him next? He felt soiled by this conversation, by this humiliating situation as a whole.

  “You are lying to us,” Miss Juliette said softly.

  Lady M’s shoes clapped dully against the flagstones. “You destroy women’s lives without regret, without even a thought. You cause unhappiness, grief, shame. Are you so utterly muttonheaded as to be unaware of it?”

  He hesitated. An unsteady anger rose from the pit of his stomach. He was only slightly lying. He never caused unhappiness, grief, or shame. Most important, he was not muttonheaded.

  He shifted away from Mistress Jane. He could not lose his head in the presence of the three of them as he had yesterday; to do so would risk them leaving him. He released a measured breath. “You are wrong. I give women pleasure.”

  “But afterwards, you walk away. You take, Leo, you do not give!”

  “What would you have me give them?”

  After a brief, chilly silence, Lady M said, “Your name.”

  “Oh, that’s rich! Last I heard, polygamy was illegal in England.” He pictured himself with a harem of wives. All the women he’d ever bedded, crowded and naked, overflowing a sumptuous eastern palace, its gold-domed turrets glinting in the desert sun. The image brought an unbidden smile to his lips.

  “Do you believe you are being witty, my lord?” Lady M asked, her voice ice cold. “Clearly you have never considered monogamy.”

  His smile slipped a notch, then turned bitter. “You are wrong in that, my lady.”

  He had considered monogamy, but society itself, at once his only solace and worst enemy, had driven him from it. Young as he was, he’d been unable to stop it. God knew he’d tried. But he’d failed. He’d been too late in coming for her, and she’d died.

  He shifted his body and fought the urge to rise to his feet. The blindfold weakened him. He had never considered the significance of the use of his eyes before, but now he realized he was missing the subtle nuances of this situation, the emotions and expectations shared by an expression or a bit of body language. He could lower a woman’s defenses with his eyes, ultimately controlling the more vulnerable of the sexes with suggestive glances. By blindfolding him, they had taken away not only his ability to judge his enemies but stripped him of his most effective weapon.

  Why did he engage in this conversation at all? Who were these women to try to delve into his mind, coating his actions with their vile interpretations? It was one thing for society to view him as a dissolute rake—that was something he could ultimately take pride in, after all—but these women suggested he was guilty of a far more sinister crime. He could not abide these allegations.

  He liked who he was, damn it. Most of the time.

  He sat very still. “You asked me to speculate on the reasons behind your malicious attack and my subsequent imprisonment. You want me to admit to my misdeeds and repent. Very well. I commit a great offense against all the women I take to my bed. I pleasure them so thoroughly, they never forget me. I am a contemptible monster. I vow never, ever to bring pleasure to a woman again. I shall live like the most ascetic monk for the remainder of my days.” He twisted his rigid lips into a smile. “There it is. Please release me now.”

  Mistress Jane chortled.

  “I unfortunately forgot to add that your repentance must be genuine,” Lady M said gravely.

  “Of course it is genuine.”

  “It is not. In your heart, you believe you have done no wrong.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “But you have,” Mistress Jane said.

  His fists, painfully bound behind his back, curled. He wanted badly to punch something…someone. If he were free, he’d saddle his horse and ride to Jackson’s to spar with a few brawny fellows.

  But that was not possible, not now. He’d have to control himself.

  “I have never taken a lady by force,” he ground out, disgusted—no, sickened—by having to defend himself like this. “I have never given a woman anything but what she wanted, what she asked for—”

  “Vanity,” Mistress Jane murmured.

  “—and I reward her generously for her favors. What more could a lady ask?”

  He paused. If Lady M said “give her your name” again, he would punch someone. Somehow.

  They did not speak, so he continued. “I never feign to be something other than what I am. I do not falsely offer everlasting love—”

  A soft snort came from Miss Juliette’s direction. Forcing himself to ignore it, he continued, “I do not disguise myself as a scrupulous, monogamous lover. They all know me, know what I offer, know what they want. And they get it.”

  “Arrogance,” Mistress Jane said.

  He turned on her. “They get what they ask for. No more, no less. Did you not get it when I bedded you, Mistress Jane?”

  She stiffened beside him. “It does not signify.”

  “Doesn’t it? Well, the women I bed want exactly what I want, a moment of pleasure, a night of release. They do not want everlasting love or even marriage. Otherwise, why would they give themselves to me? Everyone knows I would never limit myself to a single woman for the remainder of my days.”

  “Why is that, my lord?” Miss Juliette whispered.

  He had no answer for her. He loved women—their physical attributes, the way their minds worked, their overall sweetness and softness. He loved bedding them, most of all. Women kept him sane. But no woman could compare to her. In his own distorted way, he would remain faithful to her. He would never marry.

  He took a shallow breath. He’d thought of her too much today. Far too much. He needed a drink. He needed Sutherland to distract him with a frivolous competition for a bit of skirt.

  It had only been a day, and these w
omen were peeling him apart, removing his layers of defense much more rapidly than he would have believed possible. If he was so reduced after one day, what would he be like in a week? A weeping, begging disaster?

  No. Not if he had any say in it. He straightened his spine.

  Miss Juliette tried again. “You said you considered monogamy, but then you said you would never have just one woman. You contradict yourself, my lord.”

  “Perhaps I do.” If she could see his eyes beneath the blindfold, she would see they shot daggers. “But I fail to see how it could be any of your concern.”

  “I am sorry. I just want to understand why…how….” She faltered, then stopped speaking altogether.

  “Do not try to understand me, Miss Juliette. It is an impossibility, even for myself.”

  “But that is why we are all here, Lord Leothaid, to understand you and to help you to understand us,” she whispered.

  “Then Mistress Jane is correct. We will be here a very, very long time.”

  “Do you really want that?”

  “I do not.”

  With a soft sigh and a rustle of silk, Miss Juliette lowered herself beside him on the chaise. Mistress Jane still pressed against his body on his other side.

  “I do not mean to upset you, my lord,” Miss Juliette said.

  What an outrageous thing to emerge from a villain’s lips, from someone who had captured him, chained him, and conspired to feed him appalling chicken.

  He took a deep breath, preparing to speak, but the words froze on his lips. Something about her…

  The way she had spoken, that hint of a…of an accent…

  He inched closer to her and inhaled deeply. Her scent…

  The air in the room thinned, then vanished altogether. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move.

  It all came together, a coalescing boulder of awareness in his chest.

  Miss Juliette was her. The woman from his dreams.

  No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  But it was. Only she possessed that particular scent—that gentle flowery smell with something unexpected, something wild, just beneath. It was faint, but he knew it. It smelled of heather. Of his home in the Highlands. The scent fit her perfectly. Like her, it was reserved and unassuming on the outside, wild and carefree within.

  She gasped, and he felt her stiffening beside him.

  The world tilted on its axis. He had last heard her gasp seven years ago. It was the noise she made when she came.

  Leo swayed, tried to regain his balance, then had the distinct impression of falling, flying off the edge of a cliff, hurtling toward jagged rocks below.

  It was impossible.

  It was undeniable.

  It all made sense, yet it made no sense whatsoever. She was dead.

  His mouth moved like that of a landed fish, gaping then closing, unable to summon a word.

  Her name. He’d avoided it like the plague. He never spoke it, had disciplined himself to never even think it. Now it came to him like a soft caress. It curled into his mind, steadied him, and finally revived his breath.

  “Belle?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Isabelle stood before the fireplace in Susan’s gilded drawing room. Tremors rolled through her body. She clenched her hands together to keep from ripping off her gown, petticoat, and stays. They had never felt so constrictive as they did at this moment. She just needed to breathe, to take in a lungful of pure, clean air.

  Susan, unruffled as always, glided beside her. She squeezed Isabelle’s forearm. “It is going to be all right, dearest.”

  Isabelle stared at her arm, then at Susan. She took a ragged breath. “He knew me.”

  “Yes, he did. That was unfortunate.”

  Bile rose in Isabelle’s throat. Unfortunate? It was much worse than unfortunate—it was a disaster.

  She sank to her knees. The pattern on Susan’s Turkish carpet swam before her eyes. Her cheeks felt like they might burst into flames. What had she done? Had she thought this to be some kind of game? The abduction of a lord was a crime punishable by death, and she had willingly participated in it. The ruse was over. She hadn’t thought of the consequences of her actions, not seriously. Not until now.

  She pictured herself in the gallows at Newgate, surrounded by other odious criminals at the morning hanging. The people would hate her for what she’d done to the handsome earl. They’d jeer at her, pelt her with foul things. The hanging itself would be nothing in comparison to what she’d have to endure first.

  She clutched her stomach. “Susan, I believe I’m going to be sick.”

  A flurry of activity ensued in the room. Isabelle was dimly aware of Anna’s arms wrapped around her shoulders as she whispered reassuring words. A maid held out a basin.

  Isabelle knelt over the porcelain container, heaving great breaths of air, but she did not retch. Anna squeezed her shoulders. Susan snapped orders. A maid tackled the tapes and buttons on her gown and petticoat, and finally, mercifully, plucked the laces along her backbone, liberating her of the stays.

  Slowly, Isabelle regained control. When she finally rose on shaky legs, two maids helped her to her room, laid her on the bed, and tucked the covers up to her chin. One of them sat on a chair beside the bed and spoon-fed her hot tea. Susan and Anna hovered at the other side of the bed.

  Isabelle waved her hand faintly. “All this really wasn’t necessary. I will be fine.”

  Her only true illness resided in her mind, and resting in bed and drinking tea wouldn’t help that.

  “Nonsense. You are as white as a sheet,” Susan said.

  “It is just that…that…I am afraid,” Isabelle whispered.

  She glanced at the dark-haired maid, unsure of whether she was revealing too much. The woman’s eyes were downcast, focused on her task.

  Susan dismissed the maid and lowered herself into the chair beside Isabelle’s bed.

  “Do not worry so,” Anna said, once the maid had shut the door. “We will not let him harm you.”

  “He will have me hanged,” she whispered.

  Anna stiffened. “Of course not. We would never allow it.”

  “She is right, my dear.” Susan touched a spoonful of tea to Isabelle’s lips. “We will protect you from him at all costs.”

  Anna plunked down at the foot of the bed and tucked her feet beneath her. “Maybe he didn’t refer to you at all. Isabelle is a common name. Who knows how many Belles he’s bedded?”

  “He knew.” Leo’s expression swam into her mind. He had lost his color and seemed to sway a bit on the chaise. She could almost see the memories slamming into him. He knew exactly who she was. “Oh, Anna, he’ll have me drawn and quartered!”

  “Never!” Anna exclaimed. “I would throw myself over your body to protect it, Isabelle. I would sleep with a hundred seven-foot giants like Pierre as payment for engineering your escape!”

  Isabelle glanced at Susan and caught the tail end of a grimace. Not for the first time, she wondered if there was something between Susan and the Frenchman.

  “How did Leo recognize you?” Susan searched her with penetrating black eyes. “Not by your voice—your whisper conceals your voice quite well. What do you think it was?”

  Isabelle closed her eyes, picturing the sensuous curve of his lower lip, the flare of his nostrils as he had breathed her in. “I believe he remembered my perfume.”

  “Really?” Anna exclaimed. “After all that time?” She jumped off the bed. “Where is it? I want to smell it.”

  “It is in the green case on the dressing table. My great-aunt designed the scent for me when I was a lass.”

  Anna found the little shagreen case, removed the stopper from the bottle, and held it to her nose. Then she passed it to Susan, who did the same.

  “It is a very pretty scent, Isabelle. Different. I can see why he remembers it.”

  “I put some on before we went down to the cellar, but then I thought I oughtn’t wear it, so I washed it off.” She had want
ed to rid herself of the memories—she never anticipated that the smell would spark his memories. “I don’t think I washed it well enough.”

  She shifted to a seated position on the bed and sniffed at her wrists. Indeed, the scent was still there, very faint, but present. Amazing that he could have identified her from something so weak.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw him standing as they had walked into the cellar tonight, his back as straight as if he stood at the reception line at a ball, his clothing disheveled, his face wary and alert despite the blindfold. His coppery hair had curled around his ears. When he had turned to her, his lips had tilted in blatant invitation.

  That was before he had recognized her, though. How would he look at her now? Would he think of her as she was, a painfully shy, dried-up spinster?

  “Imagine…remembering a scent after years and years apart from someone. It is so romantic, don’t you think?” Anna returned the perfume to its case and settled back on the foot of the bed, lying on her side facing Isabelle.

  “Romantic?”

  “Yes.” Anna sighed dreamily. “It could be a novel. A rakish dandy remembers the sweet maiden he lay with long ago, just by her smell, and falls madly in love all over again.”

  Susan groaned. “I do wish I could get you to read something valuable, Anna. Those novels you consume are confections for the brain.”

  “At least they are sweet,” Anna retorted.

  Susan arched her eyebrows.

  “Well, I do prefer the ones that end sweetly,” Anna said, grinning.

  The contrast between Anna’s playful attitude now and her behavior in the cellar reminded Isabelle of a kitten with sharp claws.

  “It would be romantic indeed, Anna,” Isabelle said dryly, “if only he had been in love to begin with.”

  “Did you not think he loved you? I mean, while you were with him.” Anna turned to her side and propped her head in her hand. “He was so gentle with me. I thought he loved me. I was sure of it.”

  Susan arched one perfect black brow. “You thought he loved you? After so little time spent with him?”

  “Certainly, I did,” Anna proclaimed.