by Brenda Hiatt
Drawing level with the bracelet, he paused, facing away from it, and pulled out his handkerchief. He touched it to his nose, then moved it back to his pocket, dropping it at the last moment so that it landed nearly atop the fallen bracelet. Swiftly he knelt, scooping up the jewels along with his handkerchief.
This bauble would pay for a new wardrobe from Weston himself, unless he missed his guess, perhaps with enough left over to buy a pretty trinket for Pearl. He was just tucking the handkerchief-wrapped bracelet into his pocket when a strong hand gripped his wrist.
"And what might you have there, sir?" The Oakshire House head butler, radiating outraged sensibility, peered at him down a hooklike nose.
Luke froze, groping for a glib explanation. The last thing he could afford was a scene! He cleared his throat, his mind working frantically.
"Oh, darling, you found it!" Like a vision in shimmering peach, Pearl swept between Luke and the butler, deftly taking the bracelet from him before the butler could. "I was certain I'd dropped it in the atrium. How clever of you to retrace my steps and find it here!"
The butler's demeanor changed at once, and he backed away with a respectful bow. "My apologies, sir! My lady, if I can be of any service?"
"Thank you, Upwood. I'll certainly let you know," said Lady Pearl, pointedly dismissing the man.
The butler retreated, still mouthing apologies, and she turned to face Luke. "Now, perhaps you would care to tell me how you happened to be in possession of the Dowager Lady Glinnon's bracelet?"
CHAPTER 10
Pearl strove valiantly to keep her expression neutral, betraying neither the shock nor the disappointment she felt. It appeared her first suspicions had been correct after all: Luke was clearly the notorious Saint of Seven Dials. But that he would resort to thievery here, under her father's roof . . . !
"Why, Luke?" she asked softly.
She saw several expressions chase each other across his face as he too-obviously toyed with various explanations. Finally, guilt won out and he dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry, Pearl. I've lied to you."
"I'd rather figured that out." Still, she tried to keep accusation from her voice, tried to understand. "Come, let's go into the library. We should be able to talk there.
Though she half feared he would protest, he accompanied her without a word. The library, a smaller replica of the one the Duke maintained at his main Oakshire estate, was deserted, as Pearl had hoped. She took a chair facing the door, so that they could not be surprised, and motioned Luke to one close by. Silently he took it, still avoiding her eye.
"And now, if you please, the truth—all of it."
He frowned. "You won't like it, you know."
"Probably not," she agreed. "But I'd rather hear it than not. I told you everything you asked about my unconventional behavior last week. Now it is your turn."
He took a deep breath, then looked directly at her, his expression now candid. "Very well. The story I told you last week was far nearer the truth than the fantasy I have woven for Society. I really am plain Luke St. Clair, and no one else."
Pearl blinked, unable —or unwilling? —to understand. "But your time at Oxford? Your friends there?"
"Lucio di Santo was the identity I assumed to attend school, using references I forged myself— documents, correspondence, everything. Background —and blood —is at least as important for entry as tuition. And those I fear I had to manufacture."
"So your uncle in Italy . . . ?"
"Is completely fictitious."
"But the tuition? Someone must have—"
He shook his head. "I paid it myself. I merely made it look as though it came from another source."
"And the money, then and now?" she asked even more quietly. "I presume it cannot actually be credited to a generous employer?"
For a moment, he closed his eyes, as though waging an inner battle with himself. Then he met her gaze again, his own still frank. "No, it is as you've guessed. All stolen. I'm nothing but a common thief, Pearl—it's all I've ever been. I had no right to let you believe otherwise, to let you—"
She held up a hand to stem his apologies, ignoring the pain in her heart. "No, you did not. Still, I would hardly call the renowned Saint of Seven Dials common."
His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Who told you that?"
She gave a mirthless little laugh. "What, do you still have so little faith in my abilities? I admit I was slow on the uptake, or tried to be, though all of the evidence was before me. Did I not see you helping the denizens of Seven Dials myself?"
He shook his head and tried to speak, but she hurried on.
"I heard little Emmy Plank call you 'Mr. Saint' with my own ears. Then, of course, there was the theft at the Mountheath house, combined with your eagerness to leave it on the very night it occurred."
Whatever he had been about to say in protest, he abandoned with a sigh. "I admit, once I discovered that rumors of my existence had spread to your social circle, I feared you might make the deduction on your own. I only wish I had told you the truth beforehand. Before you ever had a chance to consider me a fit companion, to introduce me to your parents—"
"Or to talk you into a counterfeit courtship," she concluded, tears suddenly beginning to prick behind her eyes. "Did you agree only to afford yourself better means to steal? Shall I find one of your calling cards about the house?"
His shock appeared sincere —or perhaps she only wanted to believe that.
"Of course not! I agreed only for . . . for the reasons you laid out— though against my better judgement, I confess. I knew I hadn't the resources to extend my stay. That was why I had already told you I must leave. That's the truth, on my honor."
She understood, or hoped she did, though knowing he was right gave her little comfort. "A rogue's honor," she murmured, but then saw the pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry. Had I known what I was forcing you to, I would never —That is—"
"No!" He spoke urgently now, the intensity that drew her like a moth to a flame very much in evidence. Even knowing what she did, her wayward body ached for him. "You are in no way at fault. I'll make it clear to the authorities that you were completely blameless throughout."
"The authorities?"
"Do you not mean to call them? The Saint of Seven Dials is a wanted man, you know."
It was her turn to be appalled. "Of course not! How can you even suggest such a thing?"
"Why not?" He seemed honestly curious.
She stared at him, even in this extremity noticing the sweep of his dark hair, the masculine line of his jaw, his noble—yes, noble—forehead.
"You need to ask? You did me a great service last week, thinking me nothing but a simple serving maid. If you think I would repay that kindness with betrayal, then you must truly consider me no better than the worst of my class after all."
His expression became tinged with something like awe. "But I have betrayed you, lied to you. I can't imagine any woman, of any class, overlooking such a thing."
"Perhaps I am not just any woman," she replied with a shaky smile, trying to salvage what remained of her pride.
"No, that you certainly are not." His eyes were admiring, but held a shadow of pain, as well.
Uncomfortable at being credited with more virtue than she felt she possessed, Pearl forced a light tone. "In any event, it would be far too ironic to have you arrested for stealing Lady Glinnon's bracelet, as it is undoubtedly paste."
He blinked. "Paste?"
"Quality paste," she allowed, amusement at his expression distracting her for a moment from her own despair. "She loses things constantly, so her family has had all of her jewels replaced with exact replicas. It's well known that she never wears the real ones in public. In the morning I'll return the bracelet, saying I found it after the guests left, and no one will think a thing of it."
Shaking his head, he chuckled. "It appears I have lost my touch already." But then, sobering, "You understand, though, why I must leave?"
Reluctantly, she
nodded. "I do. But . . ." she paused, suddenly remembering her alternate plan. It was madness, of course —worse than madness. Her heart pounded at the very thought. Quickly, before she could dissuade herself, she continued. "But I have a favor to ask of you first."
"Another favor?" He looked wary, and she couldn't blame him. Nor was her request likely to reassure him.
Scarcely daring to breathe, she hurried on. "Several times it has occurred to me that the one foolproof way to evade the Duchess' machinations would be to render myself unmarriageable." She couldn't quite meet his eye, as she continued, "I'd like you to ruin my reputation — irretrievably —before you go."
He stared. "I beg your pardon, my lady? Surely you're not asking me to—"
"To deflower me, yes." Ignoring the quivering in her belly at what she was suggesting, she kept her voice and expression cool, as though discussing one of her social reforms. "Without my virtue intact, Obelia will be unable to prevail upon anyone to marry me. My estates will be secure, and I will be able to proceed with my plans for them."
Luke still looked as though he could not believe he had heard her aright. "You cannot have thought this through. You would be shunned by Society. You may wish to marry at some time in the future, to have a family . . ."
"Indeed, I have thought it through." So thoroughly, in fact, that even now she felt her color rising, a heat stirring in her nether regions. She had to admit to herself that she wanted him for reasons that had nothing to do with terms of inheritance —with Fairbourne.
"I care nothing for Society," she continued determinedly after a moment. "I plan to spend all of my time at Fairbourne once it is mine. I am far too strong-willed to marry, and I don't foresee that changing. A husband would only attempt to impose his will over mine. I would resist, and we should both be miserable. I'll deal much better alone."
And lonely . . . but she would not think of that. Not now. Not yet. Not while she still might have one night of passion with Luke. "Will you do it?"
Slowly, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lady. I simply can't—"
Disappointment and frustration seized her, but she refused to beg. Instead she stood, holding out a hand to him. "Wait. Before you refuse, I wish to show you something."
As though in a daze, he took her proffered hand and rose. Without another word, she led him to the corner of the library, to the right of the fireplace. There, she turned an almost invisible catch to open a narrow door, disguised as part of the mahogany paneling. She peered into the dimly lit servants' corridor, listening intently for a moment, before leading Luke through the door and closing it carefully behind them.
"A secret passage?" he asked in surprise.
"Not particularly secret, but hidden, yes. Many of the larger houses have them, so that the servants can perform their various duties without intruding upon the public rooms. I am surprised you have not found them of use yourself in your, ah, career. Come."
Though she still spoke lightly, her heart pounded at what she was intending. He mustn't suspect, though. Not yet.
Still seemingly bemused, he followed her as she led him quickly up a narrow flight of stairs, around a corner, and down another passage. To her vast relief, they passed no servants along the way— doubtless they were all busy serving the guests. At the end of the corridor, she cautiously opened another door, the one into her own sitting room.
"Wait here a moment," she whispered to Luke. Then, stepping into the room, "Hettie?"
Her maid, employed in winding up some ribbons at Pearl's dressing table, started violently. "My lady! Whatever are you doing in—"
"Escaping," Pearl responded, cutting her off. She closed the door behind her, Luke still in the passageway. "I've done it before, you know. Pray go downstairs for me and tell the Duchess that I have the headache. Mr. di Santo has gone, as he felt uncomfortable facing the company without me, so pray make his apologies as well."
Hettie sent her one piercing stare, but then nodded. "Of course, my lady. Then I'll return to help you out of your things."
"No need," Pearl assured her. "If you'll just undo these hooks at my back before you go, I'll put myself to bed. I really am quite tired. I shall see you in the morning."
Obediently, Hettie unfastened the back of Pearl's gown and then left, using the regular door, as she was going in search of the Duchess in the public rooms. Pearl locked it behind her.
At once she returned to the hidden door, half afraid Luke would have figured out her intention and disappeared. He was still waiting, however, and she ushered him into her rooms. "We can be private now," she told him, ignoring her growing nervousness.
He appeared to detect it, however, for he gave her a long, searching look before saying, "You had something you wished to show me?"
"Yes. That is . . ." Mindful of her unhooked dress, she awkwardly backed her way to her desk, to pick up a periodical. "The Political Register," she said inanely. "Have you read it?"
His expression told her how odd her behavior seemed, though he followed her to the desk. "Not recently. Is there a particular article you want me to see?"
How on earth did one launch a seduction, anyway? she wondered frantically. In a moment, if she didn't do something, he would be gone and her last chance with him. He reached for the magazine, but she tweaked it away before he could touch it, holding it behind her.
"Luke, I . . . " Boldly, she met his eyes, hoping he might read there what she couldn't seem to put into words.
That he read something there was clear. In his own eyes she saw a sudden longing, which became naked desire for an instant, before he as quickly concealed it. That one brief glimpse gave her badly-needed courage, however. Dropping the magazine behind her, she laid one hand on his arm.
He covered her gloved hand with his own, still gazing into her eyes. "Pearl, you are playing with fire that you don't understand. You are such an innocent."
Fire indeed. The flame behind his dark eyes singed her to her toes, but now she did not hesitate. With her other hand, she touched his cheek. "I know I am, but I want you to change that," she said softly. "Please, Luke."
He closed his eyes, and she could sense the struggle within him. The knowledge that he was tempted emboldened her further. She slid her hand from his cheek to the nape of his neck, swaying infinitesimally closer to him. A quick glance downward showed that he was most definitely affected.
His eyes opened, smoky with desire, though he held himself rigid beneath her touch. "Do you have any idea of what you're doing to me?"
"Yes, for you do the same to me," she said. "Please don't deny me, Luke."
With a groan, he crushed her to him, covering her mouth with his own. She returned the kiss with enthusiasm, fire licking along her extremities. This was what she had dreamed of ever since leaving his lodgings a week ago. This and more. Wanting to feel again his skin against hers, she stripped off her gloves one by one, without breaking the kiss. As she'd done once before, she threaded her bare fingers through his hair.
At her touch, however, he seemed to regain his senses. Pulling back, he regarded her longingly from only a few inches away. "We can't, you know," he told her. "I can't. I would never forgive myself."
"I'll never forgive you if you don't," she replied with a smile, intoxicated by his nearness and the sense of her own power over him. "It is my life, Luke, and I've made my decision —for independence. Help me to achieve it."
For another long moment he gazed at her, conflict warring within his eyes. She saw his surrender the moment he made it. With a glad little cry of triumph, she welcomed his kiss, his touch. He stripped off his own gloves, then clasped her free hand, flesh to flesh, while his other hand went to the nape of her neck, drawing her closer.
She pressed her length against his, reveling in his masculine hardness. Tall herself, it seemed right that he was several inches taller. Skimming her hands up the firm planes of his chest, she untied his cravat, then began working on his waistcoat buttons. She half expected another protest, but it d
id not come.
Instead, he shrugged out of his coat, then reached behind her. He paused, on discovering her dress was already unfastened, then chuckled deep in his throat. "Decisive indeed," he murmured against her lips.
"I'm accustomed to getting what I want," she whispered teasingly. "And I've wanted you almost from the moment we met." His waistcoat undone, she started on his shirt.
"It appears that rank has its advantages after all," he said with another chuckle. "Who am I to deny a grand lady like yourself?"
Who indeed? Pearl wondered. But only for an instant. Her whole being was focused on getting closer to him, on having the desire singing through her veins fulfilled. She had his waistcoat off him now, and his shirt. Luke had somehow worked her gown down to her waist, and was nearly done unlacing her light corset. A moment later, nothing but her thin chemise separated her breasts from his bare chest.
"I presume you have a bed nearby?" Luke asked as she stepped free of the shimmering peach folds of her gown. Pearl nodded toward her bedchamber door, which stood ajar. To her amazement, he swept her into his arms and actually carried her to the next room. If any other man had done something so high-handed, she'd have been outraged or even frightened. But with Luke, it only increased her desire.
Even as she registered her amazing attitude toward this man, he deposited her on the sumptuously quilted feather bed. Sitting on the edge, he removed his shoes —and then his breeches. Following his lead, Pearl whisked her shift off over her head while his back was turned. Then he faced her, his eyes aflame.
For an instant, at her very first sight of an aroused male body, Pearl quailed. Surely . . . surely this would be impossible? How . . . ?
Luke smiled tenderly and kissed her. "I'll be gentle, I promise. I don't want this to be something you'll remember with regret —ever."
