by Jane Feather
“Brat.” He leapt after her as she jumped onto the sofa and scrambled over the back. She danced behind the table and stuck her tongue out at him.
“Tell me what it feel likes to be debauched, Hugo? Please, I’m dying to know.” She dodged sideways as he came around the table and sprang onto the seat of a chair, flinging a leg over the back preparatory to sliding over. The suddenness of her movement overbalanced the chair, and it toppled to the floor. Her startled shriek as she tumbled over in a swirl of skirts, stockinged legs waving indelicately in the air, brought a reluctant grin to Hugo’s lips.
He swooped down on her, disentangling her from the chair. “I’m not even going to ask if you’re hurt,” he declared, lifting her up and setting her on her feet. “If you are, it’s only what you deserve.” He smoothed down the back of her skirt with a degree of calculated vigor. “Don’t let me hear any more discussion on fallen women or debauchery.”
“No, Hugo,” she said with a docility every bit as feigned as her earlier fright. Her cheeks were pink with exertion and what he knew was arousal, and her eyelashes fluttered as she fixed him with a melting look.
“And don’t flirt with me.”
“I’m not,” she said truthfully. “Shall I lock the door?”
“Shall you what?”
For answer, she ran to the door and turned the key. “There now.” She leaned back against the door, her breast lifting with her swift breath, her eyes dancing with invitation, the rich sensual currents flowing fast in their deep blue depths. “We could be quick. We wouldn’t have to take our clothes off.”
Hugo was lost anew. Vaguely he wondered if he would ever be free of her spell, ever be able to resist her when she drew him into her realm of magic in this way. She was so sure of herself, of what she wanted, of what she was offering … and she was so sure of his response. She was archetypal woman.
She raised her skirt and petticoat slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. “We could do it standing up. Can it be done in that way?”
“Yes, it can,” he said savagely, consumed with the pure, primitive fire of lust. He crossed to her, tore loose the string of her drawers so that they fell in a silken rustle to her ankles, and unfastened his britches.
“Brace yourself.” He pushed her knees apart with his own knee and she laughed … an exultant laugh … as she obeyed, holding her skirts high, bracing herself with her shoulders against the door, reeling the molding of the paneling pressing into her back.
He entered the velvet moistness of her body with one swift thrust and she drew a shaky breath, smiling at him with luminous joy. He gripped her hips with both hands, his fingers curling into the satin skin as he drove himself within her. He could feel her pleasure mounting with each thrust just as he could see it on her face. Her tongue touched her lips and she laughed again. She never closed her eyes, not since the time he’d asked her not to, and he thought he would fall into the volcano of passion that beckoned with their midnight fires.
“Now,” she whispered suddenly. “Hugo, now!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he said. “But wait.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” He held himself still, deep within her. She held her breath in an agony of suspense, her body thrumming around his flesh. And then he moved and she cried out as her climax ripped through her.
Hugo’s head fell against the door as his own body swirled in the vortex of delight. Only when the passion was spent and his head cleared did it occur to him that he had been outfoxed again, craftily manipulated out of his anger and taken into a world far from the sway of the painted devils. How could he suffer guilt making such wondrous love to this uninhibited, artful minx who knew a lot more about the world than he’d ever given her credit for? Or was it that she knew a lot more about himself?
Chapter 20
“MAY I OFFER YOU a glass of claret, duke?” Hugo gestured politely toward the decanters on the sideboard.
“Thank you … thank you.” His august visitor watched as the wine was poured. “I trust you look kindly upon my suit.”
Hugo bowed in acknowledgment. He could hardly look unkindly upon the suit of the Duke of Alresford. It would be a brilliant match for Chloe. The duke was no fortune hunter and a mere ten years older than herself. “The decision must of course rest with my ward,” he said. “Chloe has a mind of her own.” He smiled and raised his own glass of claret. He was becoming expert at appearing to drink in social situations without doing so.
“I flatter myself that she is not altogether indifferent,” his grace said. It would be unspeakably vulgar to allude to his title and fortune, but his smugness was allusion enough.
“Then if you’ve discussed this with Chloe, duke, what more can I say?”
“Oh, goodness me, no.” The duke made haste to defend himself from any possibility of impropriety. “I wouldn’t broach such a subject without your permission, Sir Hugo. But I have been led to have hopes …” He gestured vaguely. “Miss Gresham is all condescension.”
“Is she indeed,” Hugo murmured. Chloe’s private mockery of her pompous suitor had enlivened the dinner table on more than one occasion. However, he considered it his bounden duty to promote the duke’s suit. Not that he had much hope of Chloe’s bending to his will.
“Rest assured, duke, I will inform my ward of the inestimable honor of your proposal as soon as she returns from her ride.”
Alresford put down his glass and took his leave. “Then I may expect a response before tomorrow.”
“I believe so,” Hugo said gravely, escorting his guest to the front door.
Alresford, like the rest of Chloe’s increasing cast of suitors and friends, had come to accept the eccentric Samuel as butler and doorman and took his hat and cane from the earringed sailor with barely a thought about his oddity. “I await Miss Gresham’s response most eagerly,” he said.
“To what?” Samuel demanded, closing the door behind him.
“A proposal of marriage. The lass is being offered the opportunity to become a duchess.”
“Much store she’ll set by that,” Samuel stated. “’Ave you seen ’er take off ’is funny way of wrinklin’ ’is nose?”
“I have. Where’s Peg?”
“Sittin’ by the kitchen fire with ’er feet in a mustard bath, eatin’ gingerbread,” Samuel informed him. “Lazy little devil, she is.”
“She’s entitled,” Hugo said. “At least until she’s had the baby. Then we’ll see what’s to be done with her.”
“I expect the lass ’as some notion.”
“I wish she’d come up with a plan for that damn bear,” Hugo said grimly. “It’s growing like a weed.”
The sounds of laughter came from beyond the front door, and Samuel pulled it open.
“Oh, thank you, Samuel.” Chloe walked in, her eyes bright with amusement, her cheeks pinkened with cold. She was followed by three young men, also laughing.
Hugo looked in vain for some female chaperoning presence … one of her escort’s sisters or at the very least a maid. But his ward had a lamentable habit of dispensing with such niceties. For some reason she seemed to avoid censure by all but the highest sticklers for behavior that in anyone else would be considered fast. But he’d seen her charm the severest matrons with the sweet smile and soft voice that she knew how to use to advantage. A crafty little fox was Miss Gresham.
“Hugo, you’re acquainted with Lord Bentham and Sir Frank Manton?” Chloe was saying, drawing off her gloves. “But I don’t know if you know Denis DeLacy. He’s only recently come to town.”
Hugo felt the ground shift beneath his feet. The young man was the spitting image of his father, Brian DeLacy. Brian, a close friend of Stephen Gresham’s, had been a chief player in the crypt. Brian had witnessed his friend’s death.
“I believe you knew my father, Sir Hugo,” Denis was saying, offering a frank smile. “He died two years ago, but I seem to remember his mentioning your name.”
It could be perfectly innocent.
They had been friends of a kind, members of the same social set. But what if Brian had told his son that Hugo had been a member of the Congregation? Did this young man know the story of Stephen Gresham’s death?
Hugo forced himself to smile and shake the man’s hand. He murmured some platitude while his thoughts tumbled in his head. They were all sworn to secrecy over the duel … a secrecy that surely encompassed a man’s son. But supposing Brian had broken his oath?
“I hadn’t seen your father for many years,” he said. “The war curtailed many friendships.”
“I came back to fetch Dante,” Chloe informed him cheerfully, for once too intent on her own plans to notice Hugo’s abstraction. “We’re going to take him for a walk in Green Park.”
“Did you leave your female companion outside the door?” Hugo queried, raising his eyebrows. “How very impolite, Chloe.”
There was an awkward silence, then young Lord Bentham said, “Fact is, sir, m’sister was to have accompanied us, but she developed a scratchy throat this morning, and it wasn’t thought wise for her to go out in the cold.”
“No, I quite understand that,” Hugo said. “And I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask you to excuse us for a few moments while I have a little talk with my ward.”
Without waiting for a response, he swept Chloe into the library and closed the door on her three escorts.
“You’re going to be stuffy,” Chloe stated.
“It won’t do,” he said firmly. “I’m sorry, I know you think it ridiculous, and so to a certain extent do I, but you may not racket around the town in the company of a gaggle of young men. Why don’t you persuade one of your girlfriends to join you?”
“It’s not so amusing,” Chloe said with disarming candor.
Hugo was betrayed into a half-smile. He guessed that after ten years in the unrelieved company of her own sex, his ward was finding the devoted attentions of the male thoroughly diverting.
“So I may go?” she said, seeing his expression soften and drawing the wrong conclusion.
“No, you may not.”
“Dante needs the exercise,” she tried with a hopeful smile.
“Then you’ll have to endure my dull company, lass.”
“You aren’t dull,” she said. “But …”
“But I’m not three young men making sheeps’ eyes at you.” He shook his head. “Go and give your swains their tickets of leave and then come back. There’s something I have to discuss with you.”
Disappointed but resigned, Chloe did as she was told and came back to the library.
“How would you like to be a duchess?” Hugo asked.
“Not at all,” she replied promptly. “Alresford?”
He nodded. “Consider for a minute, Chloe. Apart from the title, he’s young, good-looking, rich. Alresford Castle is one of the stateliest homes in the land. The mansion in Berkeley Square—”
“But I don’t want to marry him.” Chloe interrupted the catalogue of her suitor’s virtues with the simple statement.
Hugo sighed. “And you don’t want to marry Viscount Bartlett, or Charles Knightley, or the Earl of Ridgefield.”
“No,” Chloe agreed.
“I don’t think you realize, lass, that when you have practically every eligible bachelor in the ton at your feet, you have an obligation to accept one of their offers.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because that’s the way Society works,” he said, losing patience. “You insisted on having a come-out so you could find a suitable husband, and now you reject anyone who has the temerity to offer for you. What do you want?”
You. Chloe shook her head. “I’ll know when I find it.”
Hugo massaged his temples. “And in the meantime, you risk ruining your reputation with hoydenish excursions in the company of lads who have more money than sense.”
“At least they don’t pester me to marry them,” she said. “They’re not interested in marrying yet. And I’m enjoying myself. You told me I was to do so.”
“Don’t chop logic with me, young Chloe. These un-chaperoned expeditions have got to stop.”
“But you can’t expect Lady Smallwood to accompany me. She couldn’t possibly keep up.”
“I expect you to engage in the kind of activities at which your chaperone can keep up,” he declared. “I am very serious, Chloe.”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “May I go now? They’re waiting for me in the drawing room. We’re going to play charades, since we mayn’t go out.”
Hugo waved her away, shaking his head in defeat. At least a game of charades, however rowdy, could be supervised by his cousin.
But what of Denis DeLacy? The latest recruit to the ever-widening circle of admirers.
Taking his hat and cane, he left the house, walking briskly as he mulled over the situation. If DeLacy knew of the duel, then it was conceivable that he would tell Chloe. But why should he? There was no reason he should bear Hugo any grudge and nothing to be gained by such a revelation. He must have been a child of four or five at the time of Stephen’s death.
But what if he did tell Chloe?
Hugo walked faster down Bond Street. It was unthinkable that Chloe should hear from a stranger the story of her father’s death at the hands of her guardian … her lover. He had her absolute trust, and he would lose that—how could he help but lose it?
So should he tell her himself? Forestall any possibility of her hearing it from someone else? But he couldn’t endure the thought of laying bare such a story. He would have to tell her of the crypt … of the hideous ugliness of his early life. He couldn’t possibly sully her innocence with such a tale.
So how great was the danger she might hear it from someone else?
Jasper might tell her. Yes, he could imagine Jasper taking great pleasure in sowing such dissension and destroying all trust between his young sister and the guardian he resented so deeply. But he could outmaneuver Jasper. There was no way Chloe was going to have anything to do with either her brother or his stepson.
Frowning, Hugo decided that a few well-placed questions should give him some idea of what young DeLacy knew. If he felt there was any danger, then he’d have to remove Chloe from the young man’s orbit.
That settled, he went through the doors into Jackson’s Saloon. Gentleman Jackson was supervising a couple of young bloods sparring, but left them and came over to greet the new arrival.
“Practice, Sir Hugo? Or do you fancy a bout?”
“If you’ll give me a couple of rounds, Jackson.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
Hugo went into the changing room, well aware of the honor done him by Jackson, who sparred only with those of his clients he considered sufficiently skilled.
Marcus Devlin wandered over to watch the bout. No mean exponent of the sport himself, he was impressed by Hugo Lattimer, who managed to score several hits on the master.
“How’s the beautiful philanthropist?” Marcus asked as they went together into the changing room afterward.
“Indomitable,” Hugo said. “But at the moment she’s making me feel old and tired. When I left, my house was filled with slavering young men playing charades.”
“No suitors in the offing?”
“She won’t have any of them,” he said ruefully, toweling his head.
“Come to Berkeley Square and share a bottle of burgundy,” Marcus suggested as they left the boxing saloon. “My wife might be able to suggest some stratagem to encourage Miss Gresham to the altar. She’s really taken to Chloe. That unconventional streak rather strikes a chord.” He chuckled, remembering how Judith and her brother had cut a gleeful swath through the convention-ridden world of Society on both sides of the Channel. She’d certainly turned himself, a thoroughgoing stick-in-the-mud, away from the paths of strict righteousness.
Hugo accepted the invitation readily. Lady Carrington had stood a good friend to Chloe and, he suspected, was instrumental in smoothing the ruffled feathers of the highest stickle
rs when her unconventional ways drew censure.
To his surprise, he found Chloe and Lady Smallwood in Judith’s drawing room. True, she was surrounded by a circle of swains, including the three he’d left in his house, but there was nothing to take exception to. He greeted his ward with a brief smile and bent to kiss his hostess’s hand.
Judith smiled warmly at him and patted the seat beside her. There was something about him that she found immensely attractive. It was the little lines around his eyes, she thought, and the slight world-weariness of his countenance, as if he’d seen everything and done everything and found it all wanting.
Chloe watched Hugo covertly. He and Lady Carrington were engaged in the most blatant flirtation. She glanced up at the marquis, who seemed completely untroubled by the rapport between his wife and Sir Hugo, indeed was laughing with them over some scandalous on-dit that Judith had whispered into Hugo’s ear.
Chloe bit her lip, suddenly finding the conversation around her reduced to the inane chatter of a schoolroom. How could she ever hope to capture and keep Hugo’s attention when such a chasm of experience divided them? Of course he would find Judith Devlin irresistible. Several of Judith’s friends had joined the trio on the sofa, and to Chloe’s jaundiced eyes and ears, they seemed to be enjoying themselves twice as well as the younger party around her.
She stood up abruptly and addressed her chaperone. “Are you ready to leave, ma’am?”
“Goodness me.” Lady Smallwood had been having a most interesting chat with Lady Isobel Henley over a plate of honey cakes and was startled at this abrupt question. “Do you wish to leave?”
“I should return to the house and see how Peg is,” she said, searching desperately for something that would make her abrupt departure less discourteous. “The baby’s due any day now, and I don’t believe Mrs. Herridge is an experienced midwife.”
“And you are, Miss Gresham?” inquired Marcus with a half-smile.
“Well, as to that, I’ve never delivered a human baby,” Chloe said, distracted from her discomfiture by this interesting issue. “But I’ve helped to deliver a calf and a foal and a litter of puppies, and of course Beatrice had six kittens, so—” She stopped, aware that the senior half of the room was in fits of laughter while the younger members of the group were staring in total disbelief.
