by Fran Baker
Caught off guard, Antiqua stammered a reserved disclaimer.
He slid onto the cushion beside her and tried unsuccessfully to capture her hand. “I’m a rogue to say such unprincipled things, I know, but you’ll have to own I’m given great provocation by your beauty.”
Antiqua did not know the art of playful dalliance. Instead of batting her eyelashes or coyly tapping his wrist with her fan, she inquired unsteadily, “Can it be—is it possible, my lord—have you not learned the fate of your brother?”
His expression was hidden as he stared down at his hands. Seeing his bowed head, his slumped shoulders, her heart ached for him. At last he raised his head and his cats’ eyes were dimmed with sadness.
“I do not know by what means you have learned of Thomas’s death,” he said heavily, “but knowing, you must also know something of the nature of it.”
She nodded and gave him the hand she had withheld a moment before. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
He kissed her palm. “Thank you, my dear. I cannot tell you what it means to be able to share my sorrow. It is on orders from the highest officials that his death not be disclosed, and so, you see, I am forced to play the part of the unconcerned man about town. My grief must be kept to myself . . .”
“How dreadful for you, my lord! Had I but known of your relationship in Calais, I could have spared you what must have been an appalling shock in Amiens!”
“You knew even then? I cannot express how severe the blow was when I arrived in Amiens. Added to my loss was the outrage I felt over knowing his death had been in vain. His mission, my dear, was a failure.”
“Oh, but it wasn’t! At least, not then.”
His clasp upon her hand tightened. He eyed her with first puzzlement, then cautious uncertainty. “How do you come to know of all this? How did you learn of my brother’s death?”
“I—I spoke with him on the night he died, my lord. We were staying in the same hotel. We had traveled from Calais in the same coach—though then I thought him to be a tutor—and after he was shot, he came to me for help.” Here, Antiqua could no longer meet the intensity of his lordship’s amber gaze. Her own fell to her lap. With difficulty she continued, “I am sorry, but there—there was nothing I could do to save him.”
”You must not blame yourself, my dear!” Placing his fingers beneath her chin, he raised her head and searched her face. “Thomas knew what he was doing. He knew the risks. In fact, he delighted in them! A tame life, a tame death would not have suited him at all. And if, as you say, he did not after all die in vain, then you must believe he is truly at peace.”
The soothing tone, the bracing words brought tears to her eyes. That he should comfort her touched Antiqua deeply. “Your brother did not die in vain, my lord,” she assured him. “Before he passed away he told me some of his history and he gave into my keeping—”
The soft swish of silk arrested her speech. Guiltily, she looked toward the opening. Standing there, one shoulder leaning casually against the frame, was Jack Vincent.
“Your over-vivid imagination at work again, Miss Greybill?” he inquired lazily.
Her mouth worked, but no sound was emitted.
Viscount Balstone, however, rose and said harshly, “You are acquiring the distressing habit of interrupting me, Vincent.”
As if such confrontations were daily doings, Vincent merely smiled. “Have I, Balstone? I can’t think how such a thing would become a habit with me, when seeing you at all is so . . . distasteful.”
Balstone’s intake of breath was an audible hiss. His amber eyes narrowed, his stance stiffened. Vincent ignored him, his gaze grazing past the Viscount to rest on Antiqua. He lingered over the scalloped neck of her gown, and she suddenly felt as if the neckline were much too low.
She leaped up in anger. “Will you kindly leave us at once!”
He did not appear disposed to do so.
She barely refrained from stamping her slipper as he stood smiling at her with that smile that bore little resemblance to a smile. She tried again. “You are not, Mr. Vincent, as you seem to believe, my keeper. And I’ve no wish for your company here. Now please go!”
“I can quite see that I am very much . . . de trop, shall we say? But whatever you may think of me, or how little you may think of your own reputation, Miss Greybill, I will not allow anyone who is living under my sister’s protection to be the least cause for scandal.” He straightened and held out a hand. “I suggest you allow me to return you now to Lady Julianne’s side.”
Antiqua raised her chin and stared haughtily at the open palm. She thought her heart was going to burst from overwork in the fractional seconds she awaited his reaction.
But it was not Vincent who ended the stalemate. Balstone stepped forward, saying, “Perhaps, Miss Greybill, you should accompany Mr. Vincent to his sister. There is little, after all, that he could do to harm you in such a public place.”
“I’m not at all afraid of him,” she said mendaciously. “It is merely that I do not choose to go with him.”
Vincent’s soft laughter incensed her.
Only the Viscount’s hand upon her arm restrained her from giving vent to her violent feelings. “It is obvious, my dear,” he said, “that the autocratic Mr. Vincent chooses otherwise. If you will give me leave to call upon you in the morning, I shall say goodnight.”
“Of course, my lord, I should be happy to receive you at any time,” she said prettily, refusing to notice Vincent’s evident amusement over this exchange.
Bending over her hand, Balstone whispered, “I’ll call upon you to discuss the packet my brother gave you.” More loudly, he said, “Until tomorrow then.”
The instant the Viscount had brushed past Vincent to vanish into the crowded card room, Antiqua rounded upon her companion. “How dare you! As if you’ve some right to continue to interfere in my affairs!”
“Affairs?” he murmured with an insinuating inflection that deepened the scowl on Antiqua’s face.
“Just stay out of my business!” she demanded. “You have no say in what I do or who I see or—”
“Are you trying to create just such a scene for the gossipmongers as I have been trying to avoid?” Vincent interrupted with deceptive calm. “Your voice needs but the slightest increase in pitch to achieve it.”
She realized there was not the least use in protesting. He always twisted everything to suit his purposes and that he did so with such maddening ease and confidence only added to her sense of injury. She arranged the draping of her shawl with great deliberation, then made him wait further while she smoothed the folds of her gown. At last she sailed from the alcove, her head held high, and her cheeks so warm she knew they must be crimson.
No words passed between them as Vincent escorted her to a large drawing room where knots of people were clustered in every corner. But, as always, Antiqua was distinctly aware of the closeness of his disturbing presence. She tried to tell herself that it was the heat of the crowded room that caused her breath to catch, but her thudding heart told her otherwise. Only once had he cast so much as a glimpse at her and in that brief, intense moment, Antiqua felt as if a heated brand had seared her skin.
Near an elaborately painted satinwood commode, on which rested a crystal decanter and several glasses, Lady Julianne watched the approach of Miss Greybill in the escort of her brother. Her fair brows were raised slightly, but she merely remarked, “I’d no idea you’d returned to town, Jack. I trust you found Father well.”
“He was as impassioned as ever,” Vincent replied. “After dressing me down severely for staying away so long, and wanting to know what the devil I was doing back, he received me with all the fervor any son could want. I shall recount the details of my visit at another time, my dear. For now, I must take my leave. Miss Greybill, your servant.”
Ignoring the look of disdainful indifference bestowed upon him by the young lady, he departed.
Lady Julianne drew that young lady toward a gilt chair, saying, “And now,
Antiqua, you must tell me what you thought of Miss Butterworth’s performance.”
Chapter 14
When informed that she had a caller on the following morning, Antiqua flew down to the sitting room to greet Lord Balstone. But the gentleman who turned from his contemplation of the flickering flames within the marble fireplace was not the handsome Viscount.
“Good morning, Brown-eyes,” Vincent said casually.
The shock of seeing him turned Antiqua to stone. Her mouth gaped half-open and the heat of a guilty flush rushed up her neck. Vincent tilted his head slightly and scrutinized her with narrowed eyes, running his gaze over the empyrean length of her ruffled round gown and stopping at last upon her face. She blushed harder.
“Cat got your tongue?” he prompted in a provokingly cool voice.
She rose instantly to the bait. “It’s merely that I’ve nothing whatever to say to you.”
“No? How odd. I was quite certain there was a great deal you wished to say to me last night.”
“The only thing I wish to say to you, sir, is good day.” She spun on her heel to leave.
One step brought him between her and the door. His shadow enveloped her. She bent her head, looking down at the floor as her heart knocked almost painfully against her ribs.
“Is that any way for a lady to dismiss her fiancé?” As he spoke, his breath wisped through her hair.
She raised her head. “You’re not my fiancé! And you’ve no right to issue a lecture on manners to me!”
A slow, sensual curve played upon his long, narrow mouth. She felt her anger draining away. He extended a fingertip. As light as butterfly wings, he traced the line of her cheek. She wondered how she managed to remain upright on legs that had suddenly turned to custard.
“Why is it that when we are together it is like striking flint with steel?” he asked in a hushed, husky tone. “It is not my wish, Antiqua, that we should argue whenever we meet. I should far rather we come . . . together . . . like this . . .”
His mouth slowly descended to hers and her breath caught in her throat as she thought, feared, hoped he was going to kiss her. Instinctively, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back. His breath misted her waiting lips. The heat of his body seemed to ignite within her own. Her nerves leapt and her blood raced and currents of desire and excitement that she had never before known flooded in her.
A second of eternity passed by. She swayed slightly. And then his kiss claimed her.
The ardor of her response surprised her. Her lips parted for him as if on command, and his tongue swept in to rub against hers in intimate love play. Feeling his arms tighten about her, she pressed herself to him. Breasts flattened against his chest, arms wreathed about his neck, fingers wound into the dark thicket of his hair, she could not seem to get close enough to him. She wanted, needed to be absorbed by all of him, and somewhere at the back of her mind, this frightened her as much as it thrilled her.
As if he sensed the battle within her, Vincent gentled his hold and eased his mouth away from hers, murmuring, “My little one, little one.”
Her eyes slowly opened and her words of protest at being released died unspoken. The dark glint in his blue eyes rendered her incapable of speech. She had seen that glint before, in a dim passageway in France, only then it had gleamed with cold indifference. There was no indifference in his gaze now, nor the least chill. Now his gaze was so heated, it blistered to the depths of her soul.
He drew in a ragged breath, struggling with his desire, and at length stepped back. “I knew when I first saw you,” he began, then paused to smile in a way which leaped through her heart. “Even as ripe as I was then, I knew those lips were designed for kissing.”
A light coloring prettied her complexion.
He laughed tenderly, then caught her hand. “Come, I thought we might go for an outing, to Hookham’s Library, perhaps, or shopping at Soho Bazaar. We might find you another hat with green ribbons.”
“Oh, yes, I should like that very—” Antiqua abruptly stopped. The excited shine faded from her eyes. She fixed them on the sight of her hand wrapped within the protection of his. She could not leave until after she had received Lord Balstone. But as simple an explanation as this was, she was vastly reluctant to give it to Vincent. She suspected he would not like it above half.
“If you do not wish to go out, my sweet, we could as easily stay here,” he suggested.
“No!” she exclaimed. She looked away and mumbled, “That is, I have—I’m expecting a morning call.”
“Ah,” Vincent drawled.
She waited. He did not ask the question, and because he did not, she felt perversely compelled to answer it. She lifted her chin and met his gaze with what she hoped was calm defiance.
“From Lord Balstone,” she said on an embarrassing squeak.
An inscrutable expression passed over his face. She licked her lips, her mouth now intolerably dry. He spoke and his deadly softness chilled her spine.
“Yet I told you, did I not, that I would not tolerate any dealings with Balstone?”
“You have no right to dictate any of my dealings,” she returned with more bravado than she actually felt.
“I have, my love, whatever rights I choose to take. Do not think to defy me, Antiqua. You will come to learn that I always mean what I say.”
“And I mean what I say!” She emphasized her crushing reply with a stout stamp of her foot.
The tight line of his mouth relaxed and though he did not actually smile, she thought she saw one hovering there at the corners of his mouth. It incensed her further. How dare he lecture and dictate and laugh at her? How dare he?
“I must bid you good-day, sir. I have to prepare myself for my visitor.”
The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by the dispassionate mask she knew only too well. “Very well, my dear, if that is what you wish, I shall leave. But for your own good, Antiqua, do not defy me. You shall only regret it if you do.”
He left her standing, the very center of her being hollowed by his abrupt departure. Slowly, she slumped unseeing onto the nearest chair. Thoughts tumbled frantically atop one another in her bemused mind, all of which smashed into the barrier of her distrust. But she was no longer certain if it were Vincent she distrusted or herself. She was not able to trust herself enough to trust him, for to do so would force her to acknowledge that guilty or innocent, it made no matter. She loved him. No other love, no other man would do.
Sunk in the depths of her reverie, she did not hear the footsteps behind her. It was only when a silhouette fell across her lap that she became aware of another’s presence. Her eyes swept upward. Hope vanished as they encountered a blue pair.
“Hullo, Antiqua,” Lord Rosewarren said with a sheepish smile.
“I’d thought you’d given up on me,” she said, rising to grasp his hands.
“No, no, no such thing, I assure you,” he denied hastily. He reclaimed his hands. “I may have lost my temper—well, dash it, I did and who wouldn’t with the fustian you were spoutin’ off?—but I’m not such a cad as to leave you in the lurch. I said I’d prove m’brother’s innocence and so I shall. Though only a mutton-headed fool would need convincing.”
Recognizing from the frown lowering the lady’s brows that he had made a mistake, Archie floundered, searched for a way to make amends and offered, “I say, Antiqua, that’s a deucedly becoming dress! You look quite smashing, a regular high-stepper!”
Antiqua decided to accept what amounted to an apology. “Thank you, Archie, but there’s no need to turn me up sweet. I’m willing to forget yesterday’s foolishness if you are.”
Patently relieved, Rosewarren quickly assured her he had a shockingly bad memory. Then a cloud settled over his countenance and he said heavily, “To own truth, Antiqua, I came because of those documents. Or should I even call them by such a name? I can’t say I’ve bethought me what to do about ’em, though,” he admitted in a voice of dejection.
“Nor have I,” s
he said, shattering his hopes of a solution.
“It’s a devilish coil,” he said.
They sat in a brief silence before Antiqua stirred herself to say without enthusiasm, “There’s so much I cannot understand. Last night, for example.”
“What about last night?” queried the bewildered Marquis.
“The manner of Lord Balstone. It puzzled me at the time, but I forgot—”
“Balstone!” Archie broke in. He threw her a look of disgust. “What the devil’s he got to do with all this?”
“Nothing exactly, except that when I met him at Countess Townsend’s last evening, I was surprised to see he wasn’t in mourning for his brother.” A frown furrowed her brow. “I was filled with all manner of conjecturings, but he later explained privately that the government wishes to keep Allen’s death a secret for the time being. I felt badly because it must have been such a dreadful shock for him when he reached Amiens.”
“Amiens? Balstone? Are you saying Balstone was in Amiens?” Archie’s voice scaled a mount of indignation.
“Only after his brother’s murder,” she put in hurriedly. “We met him in Calais, he was about to go on to Paris in search of Allen.” Seeing the heavy scowl on Archie’s face, she persevered, “But the thing I fail to understand is whenever Balstone and your brother meet, the two of them are like—well, a cat and dog caged together. Snarling and hissing from the instant they clap eyes on each other. And Vincent was just here, demanding I not receive the Viscount. But I cannot know whether that is a reasonable demand unless I know why he is making it. Tell me, please, what is the reason for their animosity?”
The young lord squirmed uncomfortably on his chair. Running his hand through his carefully disordered brown locks, he hemmed before finally clearing his throat. “It’s good advice, I’ll give you that. Balstone’s a rotter through and through. But the thing is, I don’t know that whole of the tale myself. It all began years ago—Jack was about my age, I guess, and though there was the deuce of a dust-up, I never did learn all the details.”
