Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  “Jacobin.” Her name had never sounded better than murmured in those dark, warm chocolate tones. “Come to me again. Meet me at the Queen’s House tonight. It will be good.”

  She didn’t doubt the truth of that statement, but something held her back from giving in to her own desire. She shook her head.

  “Don’t say no, please.” Mesmerizing fingers were joined by warm lips, raising goose bumps over every inch of her body.

  “I can’t,” she managed to mutter, and pulled away before his nearness could be her undoing. “No.”

  “Very well. I must accept your refusal, but you can change your mind at any time, and I’ll be waiting.” He pointed out of the window. “Do you see that urn on the terrace? If you want me, tie something—a handkerchief—to the handle. I’ll be watching for it. I can see it from my bedchamber too. As soon as I see the signal I’ll meet you at the Queen’s House.”

  “A signal, yes, I see,” she blurted out. “I must go.”

  She fled before she could succumb to the lure of his arms.

  Shutting the library door behind her, she stopped and took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the wall.

  She was tempted to forgive him. She wanted to forgive him. She’d preached forgiveness, the lesson learned from her beloved father. She’d urged him to set aside his resentment, yet she wasn’t ready to do the same. True, he’d apologized for his deception, but did he really mean it? As Jean-Luc had pointed out, men would do and say anything when motivated by lust. Women too, perhaps. She wasn’t at all sure her own instinct to pardon Anthony wasn’t driven by a wish to surrender to the bliss of his embrace.

  And how could she entrust herself to a man obsessed with revenge, a passion that left a throbbing bruise on men’s spirits and could drive them to terrible deeds?

  Another understanding tugged at her now she was free of Anthony’s distracting presence: that he too had an excellent motive for Candover’s murder.

  Edgar Candover mulled over the fact that his coat had turned up in Chauncey Bellamy’s garden and wondered what it meant. He’d extracted the location from the Bow Street runner in exchange for some information about Jacobin. Nothing important, but enough to keep Hawkins happy. He didn’t want the man dashing off and arresting Jacobin for attempted murder.

  He knew quite a lot about Chauncey Bellamy, since the man had lost twenty thousand pounds to his cousin at a most convenient moment. Rather too convenient to Edgar’s mind. He didn’t entirely believe in that card game. Something in Lord Candover’s eyes when he triumphantly produced the draft to make good his loss to Storrington had raised Edgar’s suspicions. He was certain his cousin had been lying.

  Bellamy made a very nice suspect for the role of Candover’s poisoner. Edgar pondered what he might do with the information.

  “Good evening, cousin,” Edgar said, entering the library. “What brings you to Hurst so suddenly?” Candover’s arrival was unexpected. Normally he quit Hampshire for London as soon as there was a nip in the air, and rarely returned before the end of the spring season. “I fear you won’t be very comfortable here.” With Candover’s estate stressed by extravagance and ill-luck at the tables, he could no longer afford to maintain two full establishments. Most of the household had been fixed in London for two months.

  “I’m only here for a night,” Lord Candover replied. “I’m off to Storrington tomorrow.”

  “Please, cousin, not Storrington,” Edgar begged. “The estate can’t afford another loss like the last one.”

  “Don’t worry Edgar. I promised I wouldn’t play with the earl again. Not that I don’t believe I could win.” He held up a hand to fend off Edgar’s protest. “I’m not going there for cards but for food.” He chuckled happily. “Storrington’s managed to find a cook who’s a genius with desserts. The reports I heard after a dinner he gave in London last week! This woman makes Jean-Luc look like an amateur.”

  Good God, Edgar thought. That’s where she is. He knew Storrington had lately acquired a female pastry cook, but when his man had made the inquiry he was looking for a male, and Storrington’s servants had refused to tell him anything more.

  He was going to have to take a hand in this himself. He was very good at gaining the confidence of servants; they found his manner unthreatening. Hadn’t his uncle’s housemaid in London told him that Jacobin had been to visit the kitchen? Edgar had given her a sob story about his affection for his missing cousin, and she’d promised to let him know if the staff heard word from her. The girl hadn’t known where Jacobin was living, but she’d directed him to that ball at the Argyll Rooms.

  He needed to get down to Storrington soon. Hawkins wasn’t a stupid man and would no doubt locate a female cook within a matter of days. Edgar had to find her first.

  Over the next twenty-four hours Anthony managed to look out of the window at the urn several times. Perhaps a dozen or so. Not more, surely. It was remarkable how often business took him to the library. He hardly had to look for excuses. And of course he had to go to his own rooms, with their view of the terrace, to change his dress for dinner. And to sleep, sadly alone. He refrained from getting up in the middle of the night to look. It was too dark to see anyway (he needed to do something about that). Besides, the urn would still be there tomorrow, unless by some chance a garden ornament thief decided to visit Sussex in December.

  No such felon descended on Storrington; morning found the urn in its place, regrettably unfestooned with material of any description.

  The arrival of the post offered a distraction. As Anthony had expected, Candover was unable to resist the lure of sweets. He would arrive the next day.

  Jacobin must be told about the arrival of the guest, not only because she would be expected to prepare dainties for her odious uncle, but to warn her to keep out of sight.

  Anthony felt a certain reluctance to approach Jacobin, whose reaction to the news was unlikely to be positive. And he’d told her things he couldn’t have imagined confiding to anyone, with the exception of James. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, he shied away from further discussion of his most private concerns. He’d rather hoped their next meeting would involve her falling into his arms with a bed close at hand and other things than conversation on their minds.

  Faced with the prospect of an unpleasant encounter and little hope of anything else, he put off sending for her, dithering around for an hour or so until he saw her familiar gray-clad figure striding into the park.

  She sensed rather than saw him coming up behind her and increased her pace. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Anthony. Rather she wanted to see him too much.

  His long legs soon caught her. “Jacobin.”

  “My lord,” she said, still walking.

  “Not back to that.” He sighed. “Could you slow down, please?”

  “It’s cold. I need to move fast to be warm. If you wish for my company you’ll have to keep up.”

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  She’d missed him too. She had started to miss him almost as soon as she’d left him in the library and continued to miss him since. She wished he’d leave her alone so she could get on with missing him and not be tempted to do something about it. The mere sound of his voice made her far too happy.

  “You saw me yesterday.” Her lips twitched with the urge to smile.

  “Yes, I did, but I’d hoped to see you again sooner. My garden urn is distressingly naked.”

  By a miracle. She’d had to restrain herself several times, including once in the middle of the night, from dashing down and tying a ribbon to the handle.

  “It has occurred to me, my lord,” she said, on the theory that attack was the best defense against her own weakness, “that your hatred of my uncle gives you a strong motive for his murder.”

  Anthony seemed undisturbed by her statement. “If I’d been responsible for putting aconite in his pudding, don’t you think I would have been delighted to turn you over to the runners and see you h
ang for my crime?”

  Jacobin had come up with that argument herself. Every instinct told her that Anthony wasn’t a killer.

  “You don’t really believe I tried to poison Candover, do you?” he asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “But I do think you’re a deceitful louse.”

  “You are absolutely right.”

  That slowed her down. She turned to look at his face as she continued to walk at a more measured pace. She read nothing there but genuine contrition. “You should have told me you knew who I was.”

  “I should have. I was wrong and my excuses were worthless. I’d have done anything to win you, I wanted you so much. And I still do. I can’t sleep. I look out of the window at that urn a hundred times a day. I’ve even invented reasons to enter the house across the terrace instead of using the front door so I can look at the wretched thing again. I can’t stop thinking about you.” He ran a hand though his hair in the way he had when disturbed about something. His dishevelment made her think of rumpled sheets and him between them.

  “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  These were sweet words, blurted out without apparent forethought or a trace of design. But his obsession with Candover still disturbed her. She wanted Anthony happy and laughing, as he often was with her, not the dour, supercilious man she’d first known. She’d meant what she’d told him: she was certain that bringing about Candover’s ruin wouldn’t make him feel any better. Humor and affection were what he needed to dispel the ghost of his mother.

  And she doubted she’d long resist the urge to provide them. During an almost sleepless night she’d admitted to herself that she yearned to return to Anthony’s bed.

  The decision was made quickly.

  She would. This very night. But she wouldn’t tell him now. Let him continue to wonder. If, as he’d said, anticipation increased the appetite, then uncertainty must increase it doubly. Then later, while he was changing for dinner, she’d slip out to the terrace and deliver the signal. She’d feel his arms about her again, his naked flesh against hers, and they’d lose themselves in the delight of kisses and caresses and laughter and ecstasy, and he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. She’d drive the thought of her uncle from his head and make love to him until he never thought of Candover again.

  He interrupted her ardent imaginings. “I have something to tell you, Jacobin. Your uncle is coming here tomorrow.”

  It was like being drenched in icy water.

  “You’ll need to keep out of the way, but that won’t be a problem. You’ll be busy in the kitchen. You must cook your most lavish dishes for him.”

  Anthony’s trepidation about delivering the news proved justified. She stopped short beside him, and the expression on her face turned from softness to thunder. Her eyes flashed the accompanying lightning.

  “You expect me to cook for that swine? To waste the fruits of my art on offal?”

  “Think, Jacobin. He’ll be so gorged on the fruits of your art he’ll agree to play cards again and I’ll ruin him. We’ll both be avenged.” He hoped this appeal to her unfiner feelings would appease her.

  He was disappointed.

  “Jamais! I will never cook for that man. I’d die rather.” Her breast heaved magnificently. As always, Jacobin in a rage was a vision to be relished.

  “Please, Jacobin. You see, it’s your cooking he’s coming here for. He heard the reports of your triumph at my London dinner.” Play on her professional pride, that was the way to persuade her.

  Her eyes were wide with horror. “Now I know why you hired me. I never could understand it when you don’t even like sweets.”

  “That’s not true,” he interjected hastily. “I love some of your sweets! Little puffy—”

  She cut him off with a sweep of her arm. “Don’t you dare mention anything that has happened between us. The truth is I was bait. A fat, wriggling worm on the end of a hook to lure Candover here and let you enact your foolish revenge. I won’t do it!”

  “I’m afraid I must insist. Who does it matter who you cook for, anyway? It’s quite simple. You merely have to do your job, and finally the man will agree to a rematch at piquet.”

  Her expression was no longer liquid with rage. It was set in frozen fury. “Finally,” she pounced. “Finally, you say. Do you mean he has been refusing to play with you?”

  “Yes. He’s refused all my invitations until now.”

  “But he’s bitten at the big, fat worm on the end of your hook. You are clever, my lord. But has it occurred to you that he may still refuse to lose his fortune to you?”

  He opened his mouth but she cut him off again.

  “Of course it’s occurred to you. You know all about Candover. You know his stubbornness and you know his weaknesses. You know he can’t resist pâtisserie. You know he hasn’t had a pastry cook since Jean-Luc left. I’m not just bait, am I? I’m a stake. You intend to use me as a bet in another card game with Candover.”

  Put so bluntly it sounded shocking. “I hoped you wouldn’t have to know. There’s no chance of me losing,” he assured her.

  “My uncle is one of the best piquet players in England. When he loses it’s at whist with the prince and his friends. His skills at piquet have been keeping his estate from disaster for years.”

  “I am better. I’ve spent hours studying the game. He cannot beat me.”

  “Of course he can. I’m not stupid. I know the luck of the cards can be fickle and defeat even the best player. Do you intend to cheat? To fuzz the cards?”

  “Certainly not,” he said indignantly. “I’d never do anything so dishonorable. And I have no need.”

  “You speak to me of your precious honor,” she hissed. “Where’s the honor, I’d like to know, in using a human being as a stake, as a pawn in your game, not once but twice? I say this to your honor.” She spat on the ground.

  He’d never seen a woman so angry. For a moment he almost gave in, almost promised not to risk her. Loathing for Candover fought his desire for Jacobin. But the thought of renouncing his long-cherished vengeance was like a sword to the gut. He had to see the game through to the end.

  He’d lose her, for sure. She’d leave him now. That’s what women did when you allowed yourself to care for them. Like his mother. And his nurse. It was safer not to allow yourself to care.

  Ignoring the chill that was gathering around his heart, he wrapped his soul in hatred and assuaged it with the prospect of final victory.

  “Shall we discuss the menu?” he suggested.

  Chapter 20

  She spent hours in the inadequately furnished kitchen, oblivious of the hostility of Mrs. Simpson and her staff, preparing all her uncle’s favorite dishes. Except the rose Bavarian cream. She and Storrington had agreed, quite without irony, in the terse discussion that followed her capitulation, that a repetition of that particular dish might upset Candover’s stomach.

  As she stirred and kneaded and mixed and baked she felt as though her very essence was draining into the motions of her craft and her lifeblood was flavoring the food.

  The outcome of the card game didn’t concern her. Win or lose, she wouldn’t be there to see it. She was leaving as soon as dinner was served.

  “I need three more baking trays,” she informed Mrs. Simpson curtly. Crashing the metal plaques down on the marble slab, she imagined they were his head.

  How could he?

  Mirlitons and fanchonnettes—such pretty names for featherlight pastry frivolities—went into the oven. Bang!

  A noble earl. Pah! She’d known truer nobility in the servants’ hall. No cook, footman, or lowly scullion would play games with another’s life like those noble lords, Candover and Storrington.

  She beat violet essence into cream as though it were Anthony’s face under the whisk.

  Where she’d end up she didn’t know. Jean-Luc had given her enough money to pay for her passage to France, and it wouldn’t take her long to reach the coast. But people would be looking for her
. If she was arrested en route she’d land in jail.

  The prospect hardly dismayed her. Nothing mattered but her broken heart.

  Fool that she was, she’d fallen in love with him. Now she had to realize it. Now that he’d proven himself utterly unworthy of the emotion. And because she loved him she’d acceded to his request, agreed to help him lure Candover to his doom. And after she’d done this for him she’d never see him again. This time there could be no forgiveness.

  By late afternoon everything was ready, except beignets and cheesecakes, which must be cooked at the last minute and served warm. She stepped out into the kitchen court for some much-needed air when a familiar voice intruded on her despairing thoughts.

  “Well, well, this is a surprise.”

  Her uncle! She knew he’d arrived at Storrington, but never dreamed he’d demean himself by appearing in the servants’ area.

  “I came to find this famous cook of Storrington’s,” he said as his beady eyes took in the significance of her cook’s apron. “It appears that I have. I suppose Jean-Luc taught you the secrets of the kitchen as well as the bedroom.”

  That crack had to be pure spite. Candover was surely aware of his former cook’s nature.

  “It’s lucky he did,” she retorted. “It’s given me something to do so I don’t have to depend on your loving kindness.”

  “What a delicious irony that you’ve ended with Storrington.” His face darkened. “I was shamed when you ran off, you know. I had to renege on a bet and it cost me a pretty penny.

  Jacobin shrugged, determined not to show her consternation. “That was your problem not mine. I wasn’t yours to wager.”

  Candover’s bulk towered over her, his breathing stertorous and complexion apoplectic. “What else were you good for? I kept you for years. I decided to get some use out of you.”