Desire n-3

by Nicole Jordan

  His expression hardened. “Please, Brynn, don’t ask me to do that. I have no choice.”

  “I am not asking you, I am telling. If you insist on taking it, I will have to inform Lucian.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “You cannot go to him, Brynn. He could ruin me. I think Wycliff already suspects me of being a Free Trader. He could order the excise men to hound our shores until I am caught. I could wind up in prison, despite your marriage to him. Is that what you want?”

  “No, of course not, but-”

  “It isn’t only my own skin that concerns me. It is yours and Theo’s as well.”

  Brynn felt her heart quicken in alarm. “Theo’s? What are you talking about?”

  Taking a deep breath, Grayson shook his head. “Nothing. I only meant it would reflect poorly on you if I were imprisoned. Don’t worry. I intend to deal with my problems. But I need this ring, just for a few moments.”

  “Grayson…”

  “Please, Brynn, you have to trust me.”

  She searched her brother’s face until finally he averted his gaze.

  “There is no other way,” he said in a low voice. “Please believe me, I wouldn’t stoop to this if I weren’t desperate.”

  Brynn started to reply, but then froze when she heard the murmur of masculine voices out in the hall. Giving a start, she spun to find Lucian standing in the doorway.

  She felt herself flushing with guilt, much as her brother had done moments before. They shouldn’t even be in here.

  Wondering how much of their conversation he had overheard, she watched him warily as he greeted Grayson pleasantly and shook hands. She could see no sign of suspicion in his demeanor, but still she found it hard to maintain her composure when Lucian turned his attention to her.

  “I was just giving m-my brother a tour of the house,” she stammered. “We were about to go in to dinner.”

  “Excellent. I hope you won’t object if I join you.”

  “No… of course not,” Brynn said, forcing a smile.

  For the rest of the evening she had no opportunity for a private word with her brother, either to question him about his cryptic comments or to demand that he return her husband’s ring.

  Somewhat to her surprise, Lucian put himself out to play the charming host, carrying much of the conversation since Brynn had little to say with her thoughts so distracted. She merely toyed with her food as she debated what to do. Smuggling brandy was one thing, but purloining Lucian’s property was unquestionably wrong.

  Still, if Gray was in trouble, Brynn argued with herself, she couldn’t simply abandon him. And if Theo was possibly in danger… She had to discover what was worrying him so.

  The chance to speak with her brother never came, however. At the end of the meal, Brynn left the gentlemen to their port and repaired to the drawing room alone, where she wound up pacing the floor. But when the two men joined her, the conversation remained centered on male sports.

  Finally realizing Gray meant to outwait her, she gave up and retired to bed, leaving Lucian to entertain him at billiards late into the night.

  She woke earlier than usual the following morning, just as dawn was breaking. Hearing the clop of horses’ hooves on pavement outside, Brynn threw a wrapper on and raced downstairs to find Gray preparing to leave.

  He looked up as she reached the front entryway.

  “Grayson,” she said tersely, “I believe you are forgetting something.”

  He smiled, glancing pointedly at the butler, who was directing baggage to be carried out to the waiting carriage. “Ah, yes, puss. I didn’t say goodbye.” Leaning toward her, he kissed her forehead even as he whispered in her ear, “Don’t scold, Brynn, especially in front of the servants.”

  “I will scold if you don’t immediately tell me what is going on,” she replied in a harsh whisper of her own. “What sort of trouble are you in?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “Grayson…” she repeated, her frustration welling. “What about the… object that doesn’t belong to you?”

  He reached into his pocket and pressed the ring into her hand. “Here, take it.”

  Her fingers closing over the cold metal, Brynn pasted a sweet smile on her lips for the benefit of the footmen. “If you ever do anything like this again, dear brother…” she murmured.

  “I know, you’ll have my head for fish bait.” He gave her a forced grin. “But this has saved my life, whether you realize it or not.”

  He kissed her cheek again and took his leave. Brynn shivered as she watched him go, wondering if Gray could possibly be serious about his life being at stake.

  The moment the front door had shut behind him, Brynn turned and slipped into the study, intending to restore the ring to its proper place.

  She had just reached for the desk drawer when Lucian spoke behind her. “Can I help you find something, love?”

  Brynn jumped in alarm and spun to face him. Meeting his blue eyes always jolted her, but this time they were particularly penetrating. She stared back at him, wondering with a sense of desperation what excuse she could possibly give him for being here.

  “I’m curious to know what has you so fascinated with this room.”

  “N-nothing,” she replied, knowing she was stammering again. “I… I am missing an earring. I thought perhaps I might have dropped it here yesterday.”

  When Lucian moved toward her, she took a step backward. His gaze raked over her, taking in her dishabille, from her hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders, to her wrapper that she had donned over her nightdress, to her bare feet.

  “Perhaps you should have put on shoes,” he murmured, coming to stand before her.

  She swallowed hard. “I… didn’t have time. I wanted to say farewell to my brother.”

  “Weren’t you concerned you would drive the footmen wild, roaming the house in that state of undress?”

  “I am perfectly well concealed,” she replied much too breathlessly. “More so than when I wear evening attire.”

  Lucian’s chiseled mouth curved in a smile. “For evening, you don’t normally wear your hair loose and flowing like that, looking as if you’ve just left your bed. You might give a thought to us poor mortals, siren,” he added before his smile suddenly faded.

  His charming remark had been automatic; part of the habitual seductive manner of a rake, Brynn realized. But he had evidently remembered whom he was addressing.

  His expression was solemn as he reached up to smooth a curling tress back from her face, but when his fingers brushed her temple, Brynn flinched. She was certain he hadn’t meant his touch to be arousing, but it seared her as if it were a brand.

  Uneasily she returned his gaze. Lucian was very, very still. Spellbound. She recognized the carnal haze in his eyes.

  She drew a sharp breath, knowing she would have to act to break the enchantment.

  When his gaze dropped to her mouth, she forced herself to smile coldly.

  As if he had no control over his actions, he reached up to caress her lower lip with his thumb. His voice was incredibly husky when he murmured almost to himself, “You play the ice maiden so well. It dares a man to try melting you.”

  He could melt her quite easily if she allowed him, Brynn knew, feeling her pulse quicken wildly.

  It took all her willpower to maintain her pretense of chill disinterest. “You aren’t alone,” she replied, injecting frost into her voice. “Any number of gentlemen feel that way.”

  His hand dropped as if he had touched hot coals, while the seductive warmth abruptly left his eyes.

  “I will be away for the remainder of the day,” he said tersely before turning on his heel and quitting the study.

  Brynn let out a shuddering breath. Suddenly remembering her purpose, she turned back to the desk and dropped Lucian’s seal ring into the drawer as if it were poison. Then she shut her eyes, feeling the violent thud of her heart.

  It dismayed her, having to
lie to Lucian. She despised deception. But she’d had little choice. She couldn’t expose her brother for fear of how Lucian would react. Grayson might be engaged in something illegal, but he was still her flesh and blood. Certainly she owed him more loyalty than she did her new husband.

  Didn’t she?

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucian dodged a blow and returned a punishing one of his own as he battled Gentleman Jackson himself. A crowd had formed around the ring, most of whom were watching in silent awe.

  Jackson’s Rooms on Bond Street was one of the finest pugilist clubs in England. Stripped to the waist and breathing hard, the two opponents had already gone six rounds with their bare fists. Lucian’s shoulder muscles ached, and he was sporting various new bruises, but he’d had the upper hand for some time now.

  Then he let fly another deadly punch, connecting with Jackson’s jaw and sending the former champion of England stumbling backward against the boundary ropes.

  Regaining his footing with difficulty, Jackson wearily held up his hands and grinned. “Pax, my lord. I know when I’ve had enough.”

  Nodding, Lucian hid his disappointment and shook hands, brushing off the Gentleman’s praise and the spectators’ accolades with strained patience. He was still hungering for blood as he picked up a towel and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Primal violence was supposed to relieve sexual frustration, but it had had little effect on his lust. Nor had it improved his mood in the least. He wasn’t sleeping well or concentrating on his work. He spent his nights tortured by his aching loins, burning to possess his elusive, tormenting wife. His days he filled with mind-numbing work or spent in places like this, soliciting punishing physical activity.

  Despite his resolve to keep up his guard, he’d become much too bewitched by Brynn. And now he was suffering from another kind of arousal altogether: suspicion.

  When he’d found her in his study this morning, he wondered if he was badly mistaken about her. He had thought Brynn uninvolved with her brother’s suspected treasonous activities, but after seeing them together-the guilty looks on their faces-he had to seriously question if he could trust her.

  Lucian swore under his breath. It was grating enough that his agents in Cornwall had nothing untoward to report about Sir Grayson-no evidence whatsoever that his nocturnal activities went beyond simple smuggling. Worse, they had no further leads regarding the gold thefts or the alleged mastermind, Caliban. Such impotence galled Lucian, but the possibility that he would have to keep an eye on his own wife in his own home filled him with anger.

  It was that dark thought that had driven him beyond his normal range of endurance when he’d fought Jackson, but he still hadn’t worked off his frustrations.

  Clenching his jaw, he tossed the towel on a bench.

  As he reached for his shirt, though, he looked over and spied the Marquess of Wolverton moving toward him. Dare wasn’t smiling.

  “What brings you here?” Lucian asked when his friend reached him. “I thought you considered fisticuffs barbaric.”

  “I do. Rapiers are far more civilized.”

  “Well, if this is a social visit, I should warn you, I’m in the devil of a foul humor.”

  “Then I regret to make it worse. I’ve heard a rumor I thought you would wish to know about.”

  “A rumor?”

  “Do you recall the contretemps that began at your aunt’s garden party?”

  Lucian winced at the memory. “How could I forget? Two young whelps quarreling over who could best teach my wife to shoot.”

  Dare nodded. “Pickering and Hogarth are still quarreling. The poet has challenged Hogarth to pistols, and they aren’t even planning to wait properly until dawn.”

  “A duel?” Lucian said, raising an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “They are fighting over your wife, Luce. It seems the two young sap-skulls have accused each other of impugning her honor. They are dueling over her as we speak.”

  To save time, Dare drove, since his curricle was immediately available. They took the North Road, heading toward a field just outside London.

  Lucian sat silently, his muscles rigid, his thoughts churning. They would likely arrive too late to prevent the duel and avert a scandal, but he had to try.

  When they drew near, a sinking feeling claimed him. They might indeed be too late. Several carriages had stopped beside the road, and a crowd had gathered alongside the field.

  What knotted his gut, however, was when he recognized a landau that bore the Wycliff crest on the door panels. Apparently it had only just arrived, for as it ground to a halt, a woman spilled out and began running toward the crowd.

  Brynn. Dear God.

  Riveted, Lucian watched as she pushed her way through the spectators and onto the dueling field, plunging directly into the fray barely an instant before shots rang out-

  Fear slammed into his chest.

  Leaping from the curricle even before it came to a stop, Lucian sprinted toward the crowd, terrified of what he might find.

  They were hovering around a prone figure, he saw with dread. Upon reaching them, he shouldered his way through, then skidded to a halt, shock taking the place of fear. Brynn was there on the ground, kneeling beside a man’s body, holding his bloody hand.

  For a moment Lucian felt his mind reel. The image was so much like his nightmare visions… except that in his nightmares, he was the man dying.

  He moved closer, his heart pounding. The prone figure was Pickering; the poet had clearly been shot but didn’t appear to be dead. An elderly man, evidently the surgeon, was inspecting his shoulder wound and elicited a groan.

  Young Pickering grimaced in pain at the prodding of his raw, bloody flesh, even as he gazed up at Brynn. “My lady…” he rasped, biting his lower lip.

  Tenderly she brushed a lock of hair from his brow. “Hush, don’t speak. Save your strength.”

  Lucian gritted his teeth, relief and jealous fury welling inside him. He wanted to wring Brynn’s neck for endangering herself that way, for scaring him half out of his mind, for gazing down so tenderly at another man, wounded or not-

  When Lucian moved possessively to stand beside her, though, Brynn looked up, as if sensing his presence. She was crying; he could see pale streaks on her face, anguish in her green eyes. Lucian felt something twist painfully in his chest, warring with his darker emotions.

  She froze for an instant when she saw him, but then the wounded man claimed her attention.

  “I would endure ten times the pain,” Pickering murmured hoarsely, “for but one of your smiles.”

  Brynn swallowed in a visible effort to hold back tears and might have answered, had not the doctor brusquely interrupted.

  “He should recover, but I must take him away to remove the bullet. Stand back, please,” he said to the crowd that was pushing in to gape at the wounded man.

  One young gentleman stood slightly apart-the poet’s opponent, Lucian realized. When Brynn rose unsteadily to her feet, Lord Hogarth stepped forward to address her in a pleading tone.

  “Please forgive me, my lady. I didn’t mean to hurt him, truly.”

  She whirled on him, her eyes heated through her tears. “I am not the one you should be begging for forgiveness!”

  Hogarth first looked startled by her vehemence, then wounded. He opened his mouth to protest, but Brynn cut him off. “This must stop, Hogarth. It will stop. I never wish to see either of you again.”

  “My lady…”

  “Please just go.”

  He looked stricken, but he seemed to comprehend her sincerity, for he took a step backward, then another, before turning and stumbling blindly away.

  Dashing tears from her eyes, Brynn watched as the injured Pickering was carried to the surgeon’s carriage. The crowd dispersed then, sending surreptitious glances at Lucian.

  Swallowing hard, Brynn risked a glance at him herself and felt her heart sink. His blue eyes were glittering dangerously.

&nb
sp; She didn’t protest as he took her arm in a firm grip and escorted her to the Wycliff landau. From the corner of her eye she saw his friend Lord Wolverton waiting beside his curricle, but Lucian gestured toward the marquess, indicating he meant to ride with his wife.

  He handed her into the landau, then settled beside her, shutting the door forcefully behind him. She could feel his simmering fury as the carriage began to move.

  “What are you doing here?” she murmured, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “What do you think I’m doing? I’ve come to fetch my wife. And I’m the one who should be asking that question. What in hell were you thinking, running onto a dueling field like that? You could have been killed!”

  “I wasn’t thinking…”

  “Obviously not!” His voice dripped sarcasm. “What did you intend? To watch with glee while your beaux annihilated each other?”

  “No, of course not. I was endeavoring to stop them.”

  His eyes were brightly blue, furious, beautiful. For a moment Lucian held himself rigid, as if struggling for control. “You might have employed a bit more discretion,” he finally ground out. “Didn’t you at least think to take an unmarked carriage?”

  He was referring to the Wycliff crest emblazoned on the carriage panels, Brynn realized. All of London would soon know of her presence on the dueling field.

  She turned to stare out the window, biting back her hurt, knowing Lucian had a right to scold. She had been horrified to learn from another admirer about the impending duel. Her only intent had been to intervene before someone was hurt, but she had been too late. She bit her lip, guilt gnawing at her.

  “I trust you’re satisfied,” Lucian said in a tight voice. “The scandal sheets will have a field day. What a spectacle-two fools trying to killing each other over my countess.” He reached across her and drew the shade down to cover the carriage window, then did the same on his side, as if to shut out prying eyes.

  “I didn’t want this to happen,” she murmured.

  “Don’t insult my intelligence by claiming you cared whether you turned me into a laughingstock.”