A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  He swept her a magnificent bow. “Your workshop, madame.”

  A smile spread over her face as she rushed forward to examine the large iron-framed press centered in the room. “This is a new Stanhope press!”

  Richard smiled. “It’s pronounced ‘Stannup,’ not ‘Stan-hope.’ After England’s very own Charles Mahon, third Earl Stanhope. The ton calls him ‘Citizen Stanhope,’ because of his sympathy for your revolution.”

  Sabine examined the machine with interest. “I’ve heard these can print over two hundred impressions an hour.” She tugged on the wooden-handled lever at the front, which lowered the upper printing plate onto the lower, then turned and beamed at him, delighted with her new toy.

  He peeled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Now what else do we need to get started?”

  Sabine raised her brows. “Is the great Lord Lovell deigning to help?” she teased. “Are you sure you want to sully those lordly hands of yours with trade?”

  The look he shot her made her stomach flutter. “Oh, I’m more than willing to get my hands dirty.”

  Sabine ignored the innuendo and stripped off her gloves, hat, and pelisse, and laid them on a workbench next to a long-armed guillotine used for slicing multiple sheets of paper. “Very well. Even with this wonderful press, there is still much to do. This prints only one side of the banknotes at a time, so we’ll need to feed each piece of paper into the machine twice.” She sucked in a breath at a sudden thought. “We do not have the right paper! It must be a very particular combination of cotton and linen rags. Merde. We will just have to use plain paper and hope that Visconti does not check for a watermark.”

  Richard shot her a superior grin. “Over there.” He pointed to a wrapped rectangular package on a table.

  Sabine untied the string and gaped at the sheets inside. She held one up and let out a soft whoosh of disbelief as she detected the faint watermark border. “Where did you get this?”

  Richard’s expression turned smug. “Only one printer in all of England has the contract to supply paper to the Bank of England. Henri de Portal at Laverstoke Mill in Hampshire.”

  Sabine sent him her own smug look. “Ah, another Frenchman. We are extremely good when it comes to money.”

  Hampden ignored her jibe. “Castlereagh managed to pull some strings. Don’t ask me how, but I suspect that the Bank of England might be missing a bundle when they next take an inventory.”

  Sabine raised her brows. “Careful. That sounds awfully like condoning one crime to enact another. ‘Pardon one offense and you encourage the commission of many,’ ” she quoted.

  “Publilius Syrus,” Hampden said with a smile, correctly identifying the source.

  She inclined her head. “Next we need the right kind of ink. Printing ink is mixed with varnish, which gives it a distinctive sheen.”

  He pointed to several large bottles. “Over there.”

  Sabine busied herself setting up the room, then showed Richard how to feed each sheet of paper into one end of the press. “Be careful not to trap your fingers,” she warned.

  They settled into a companionable rhythm and she shook her head at the perversity of fate. She’d never imagined she’d be doing this again. And certainly not with him.

  Richard discarded his cravat and untied the neck of his shirt. She tried not to stare. Seeing him doing manual labor made her hot and bothered. The man really was too handsome for his own good. She left the press and inspected a pile of new notes they had produced. Richard joined her.

  “What do you think? Will they pass muster?”

  She ran her finger over the surface of one and nodded. “They feel right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She caught his hand and directed his finger over the newly printed note. “Do you feel those tiny bumps and ridges? The plate presses the paper with such force that not only is the ink in the engraved scratches transferred onto the paper, but the paper itself is actually pressed up into the tiny gaps. It leaves that distinctive raised pattern.”

  Richard’s finger brushed against hers on its path over the paper and her blood thickened. She knew she was babbling, but all she could think about was his body, there beside her. Heat fairly radiated off him.

  “Amazing how one can detect the tiniest variations with touch,” she croaked. “Our fingers are incredibly sensitive.”

  Sabine inhaled, imagining his fingers on her skin, learning the textures. Stop it! She forced herself to step away from him and pointed to the wording on the uppermost note.

  “ ‘I promise to pay,’ ” she read aloud and shook her head. “I always find it incredible that the entire system of money is based on something as nebulous as trust.” She glanced at him, then swiftly away. “Promises are easily made and easily broken.”

  Richard caught her chin. “Not mine,” he said softly. He turned her face up to his, forcing her to meet his eyes. “If I make a vow, I keep it.”

  She believed him. He would not take a promise lightly. He’d vowed to catch her, and here she was. He’d vowed to end Visconti, and she had no doubt that he would pursue him to the ends of the earth to get justice.

  And when he succeeded he wouldn’t need her anymore.

  She pulled away from his hand. “Let’s get back to work.”

  Chapter 50

  Richard straightened. “Time for a break.”

  He stretched, and Sabine tried to ignore the way his shirt tightened over his shoulders. She’d been intensely aware of his nearness for the entire time they’d been working. She found this new facet of him—the capable workman—just as appealing as the haughty Viscount Lovell. She forced her eyes away from the inviting line of his jaw and his perfect lips, and walked into the front room.

  She studied the cartoons that decorated the walls. “You English have a great tradition of satirical cartoonists,” she said over her shoulder. “Cruikshank, Hogarth. Gillray.” She pointed to an image of a grotesquely fat Prince of Wales in bed with his mistress, Lady Hertford. “I’m a great admirer of your Mr. Rowlandson. Look at that—he only needs to draw two lines to make something look real.”

  Richard came to stand beside her. She could feel the heat of his body next to hers and her mouth dried up. Printing was sweaty, physical work. He looked as he had after fencing, mussed and utterly delectable.

  She’d been naked next to that body. It seemed unbelievable.

  She wanted to do it again.

  “There you have it,” Richard said with a grin. “Your new profession. Instead of engraving banknotes, you can cause social disruption quite legally by becoming a cartoonist. I’m sure you’d enjoy swaying the thoughts and opinions of the general populace.”

  Sabine wrinkled her nose. “Influencing the mood of the masses seems like a great deal of responsibility.” She chuckled at an image of three gentlemen in a ballroom all bumping heads as they simultaneously bent to pick up a lady’s fan. It was entitled “Miseries of High Life.” “Your royal family does provide a great deal of fodder for mockery, however.”

  Hampden sighed. “I know. It’s almost too easy to laugh at them. The prince regent would be quite enough on his own, what with his debts, his gambling, his bigamy, and his adulteries. He may or may not have been previously married to the twice-widowed Mrs. Fitzherbert when he married Princess Caroline.”

  Sabine shook her head.

  “If Prinny’s behavior wasn’t bad enough, there are the ten other adult children of the king to provide entertainment. The Duke of York was investigated for his mistress’s sale of military commissions. The Duke of Clarence has had ten children by his mistress, the actress Dorothea Jordan. The unmarried Princess Sophia is rumored to have had an illegitimate child, probably by an elderly equerry. The Duke of Sussex contracted a marriage that was promptly declared null and void. And the Duke of Cumberland was suspected of having murdered his own valet.”

  “I thought our French royals were bad. Still, you may rest easy in your bed. If the country hasn�
��t risen up in revolution by now, it probably never will.”

  “No thanks to you,” he said with a smile.

  She felt the familiar, treacherous softening his teasing provoked and was swamped with an odd kind of despair. It would be dangerously easy to love him—and a fatal mistake. Her leaving was inevitable. She frowned at him. “I can’t concentrate with you here.”

  The dimple made an appearance. “That’s good to know.”

  She turned her displeasure to the stacks of neatly printed bills.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked when she shook her head.

  “They’re too new. There should be smudges and marks, folds and creases. A real banknote has been handled hundreds of times.”

  “Why is that a problem? Visconti will be expecting counterfeits, not circulated notes.”

  “We’d never leave them like this. They’re too conspicuous. We need to rough them up a bit.”

  “I have an idea.” Richard grabbed a handful and made his way to the back of the shop, where a narrow staircase rose to the upper level. Sabine had peeked up there earlier—it contained a small living quarters with a desk, an armchair, and a single, narrow bed, presumably for the printer’s apprentice, or for the printer himself if he was working late.

  Richard scattered the notes on the bed.

  “You want to jump on them?” Sabine asked doubtfully.

  A wicked light came into his eyes. “Not exactly.” He shot her a sly, questioning look, and she felt the color rise on her cheekbones as she recognized his intent expression. It brought a flash of heat to her skin and a spearing sensation between her legs.

  He took a step toward her and her eyes opened wide. “It’s the middle of the day!”

  He shot her an ironic, cynical look. “I know what time it is, Miss de la Tour. Come here.”

  “You are a very wicked man,” she chided, backing away. Her heart pounded madly in her chest. He made a grab for her but she skipped sideways, out of his reach. She darted one way, he went the other, each of them on an opposite side of the small bed.

  “I will catch you,” he growled. “I always get my man.”

  “Or woman?” she teased.

  She was thoroughly enjoying this childish game, the undeniable thrill of being stalked by such an attractive wolf. The low twisting in her belly wasn’t fear. It was longing.

  She feigned left, then changed direction and leaped up onto the bed, trying to dart past him, but he was too quick. He caught her around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and deposited her with a bounce on the narrow mattress.

  Some of the notes went flying and the metal bedsprings creaked in protest. Sabine let out a screeching laugh. She couldn’t seem to stop giggling. She was panting with exertion, her hand on her throat, gasping for breath. He took her hands, laced his fingers through hers, and spread them wide against the bed, over her head, holding her prisoner. The paper rustled beneath them.

  “I’ve caught you,” he leered in his best wicked-wolf voice. His deep baritone sent shivers racing through her body. “Now you have to pay.”

  “How much do you want?” she breathed.

  His eyes burned into hers. “Everything you have.”

  He lowered himself with tantalizing slowness. His mouth brushed hers, gentle at first, featherlight. As soft and sweet as the stroke of a sable paintbrush. Sabine moved up into it, pressing her body to the hard planes of his, wanting more.

  She felt the touch of his tongue and met it with her own. Her laughter stilled as play became serious. He kissed her again and again, endless, drugging kisses, clinging and shaping, learning the contours of her mouth with a dedicated concentration that left her trembling.

  She arched up, craving his full weight, but he held himself apart, above her. He pinned her hands and lowered his head to nuzzle her neck, the front of her gown. When he found the taut peak of her breast he lingered there, teething her through the fabric. Pleasure shot through her like fireworks.

  He released her hands and stood, but she swallowed her instinctive protest as he quickly stripped off his shirt. Then his breeches.

  The late afternoon sun slanted through the grimy windows, illuminating his glorious body. Those long, lean legs, the hard muscles of his chest. The undeniable evidence of his desire for her.

  Sabine shot him a slow smile.

  His chest was smooth except for an intriguing line of hair arrowing from his navel down to his impressive arousal. Sabine drank her fill of him. He had a scar on his pectoral and a new scratch on his arm. Her heart clenched. He wasn’t invincible, despite the air of invulnerability he exuded. She didn’t want to think of how easily he could have been killed in his wartime activities. A stray bullet, a lucky punch. Arriving at the scene of a bomb just a few minutes earlier and being caught in the blast. She shivered.

  Richard held out his hand. He pulled her to her feet, then turned her around so her back was to him. Sabine stood meekly as his fingers unbuttoned her dress; it fell at her feet in a rustle of fabric. Her short corset laced at the front. He turned her back around and bent his head, his expression intent as he loosened the laces.

  The corset fell away. His fingers brushed her arm as he untied the bows of her chemise at each shoulder and she caught her breath as the thin lawn skimmed down, leaving her completely naked to his hot gaze.

  This was entirely different from the passionate blur of before. This was slow and utterly deliberate. And just as arousing.

  Her breath was coming in short, excited pants. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but instead she simply stood there, enduring his silent scrutiny. A wave of self-doubt washed over her. Hers probably wasn’t the best body he’d ever seen. She pushed the thought away. She was here; those other women were not.

  She still wore her lorgnette: it lay between her breasts, suspended on its thin gold chain. Richard caught it and used it to draw her forward with a slight tug. Her breath hitched. He lifted the little glass and touched it to the side of her face, grazing the skin in a strange kind of caress. He followed the line of her jaw, then strayed lower, down her throat.

  She could barely breathe for wanting him. Her skin pebbled as he used the magnifier to describe lazy circles around her breast, circling in a spiral closer and closer to her nipple. His face was a study in concentration. He pressed the cool flat of it to the tip, and her stomach clenched in anticipation.

  “Please,” she whispered achingly.

  He glanced up. “Someone once told me that learning to forge something is like learning a language. You need to repeat it over and over again until you’re fluent enough to converse at a decent level.”

  Sabine frowned on a flash of recollection. She’d said that.

  The corner of his lips quirked. “It’s the same with making love.” He let the lorgnette drop and slid his arms around her waist. “Over and over again. Would you like to converse with me, Sabine?”

  Oh, the beast! He was certainly fluent in this particular language. And she’d be a fool to refuse. Sabine wrapped her arms around him and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  She held nothing back, kissing him with all the ardor in her soul, and he responded with gratifying enthusiasm. With a groan, he crushed her to his chest and lowered her onto the bed. The banknotes crumpled beneath them, but Sabine barely noticed. She was too intent on driving Richard beyond reason.

  Chapter 51

  Richard surrendered to the madness.

  Sabine bit his lower lip, sending a rush of blood to his groin, and then arched beneath him. He marveled at the perfection of her. She was small, so much smaller than him, but strong and supple and so vibrantly alive.

  He couldn’t stop touching her—the curve of her back, the line of her thighs, the silky-smooth texture of her warm skin. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers over her, depriving himself of sight, reading her body with touch.

  She’d been right about fingers, he thought dimly. Their sensitivity. Fingers were astonishing things. He explored every dip of
shoulder and collarbone, each hollow of rib and curve of breast.

  Hunger was rising in him and he pulled back, panting, trying to find that cool distance. It wasn’t there. She enchanted him, deceived him, bewitched him. He was addicted to the piquant danger of her.

  Last night he’d barely lasted five minutes. Pride demanded that this time he retain some control. He slid down her body, determined to demonstrate at least some of his expertise.

  She gasped when he settled between her legs and tried to pull him up by the hair, but he simply kissed the inside of her knee and told her to lie back and enjoy it. She almost bucked off the bed when he kissed her core, then sank back with a blissful sigh.

  Richard bit back a roar of triumph as a wave of fierce possessiveness welled up inside him. This beautiful, vexing creature was his. He used his mouth on her, his tongue. And then his fingers, sliding and teasing until she was incoherent, twisting on the bed, lost in sweet abandon.

  She cried out his name as her climax hit and he rose up and sank into her in one fluid movement. The sensation was so exquisite he stilled, needing a moment to regain the control that threatened to spiral away. Her inner muscles gripped him like a glove, and an odd emotion tightened his chest, something tender and grateful and oddly protective. This was where he belonged. Here, with this wonderful, impossible woman.

  Richard shook his head. Impossible. He didn’t need anyone. It was lust, that was all. Wonderful, glorious lust.

  He moved with deliberate slowness, brought her to the very edge, then drew back, taking his time, pacing them both to heighten the moment of release until she was begging him, shivering with desire. Every stroke brought him nearer to exploding and with a low groan of defeat he plunged into her, over and over, relinquishing control.

  There was nothing practiced or restrained about it. It was wild and abandoned. Free. He had no finesse at all. It was simply power and pleasure, unimaginable joy. He could feel the darkness pushing closer, sweet and rich, heard her cry out in delight—and he was lost. His own climax punched him in the back of the head like a prizefighter’s winning blow, and he slid into that dark sparkle of scarlet and black with a muffled groan of pleasure.