From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  Beneath the soft warmth of her breast pulsed a strong, treacherous heartbeat. “And who would save me from you?” He snatched his hand away. “Cover yourself and get out of my sight.”

  She reached out to stroke his face. “It was very good between us.”

  He caught her arm in a viselike grip, staying its progress. “Do not presume to touch me.”

  “You are afraid because you know I speak the truth. You’ll never know another woman like me.”

  “I pray that’s true.” He could never survive another like her. When he looked at her now, all he saw was the mangled, lifeless bodies of his men, the comrades he’d betrayed. “I cannot stand the sight of you.”

  “Why do you deny the inevitable? You know we were made for each other.”

  “You are truly delusional.” He spoke through clenched teeth, every muscle in him quivering with restrained temper. “Leave before all gentlemanly inclination deserts me and I mete out the treatment you so richly deserve.”

  She pulled her wrist loose, searching his face as if unwilling to accept his rejection. Finally, she reached for her cape, bending over and baring the smoothly curved arse he’d cradled in his palms more times than he cared to remember. He looked away. When she was clothed again, she said, “I never stopped loving you.”

  He laughed, mirthless and bitter. “Then God save me from love.”

  —

  “Vale. I wasn’t sure you’d come.” The Duke of Sunderford greeted Sparrow from his place at the head of the reception line. “You haven’t been terribly sociable of late. Yet here you are, one of our earlier arrivals.”

  He almost hadn’t attended. Sleep had been elusive following his encounter with Marie. Seeing her again resurrected the guilt and anguish he felt over the deaths of his men. However, declining to attend Sunny’s ball would have been unpardonably rude. More important, Emilia would be here and he needed to protect her.

  Sunny ran a critical eye over him. “I see your valet has outdone himself again.”

  “Has he?” He dipped his chin, casting a cursory glance down at Gibbs’s latest ensemble, a royal blue tailcoat with gilt buttons, while everything else—the cravat, waistcoat, breeches, and stockings—were all a pristine white. He shrugged. “If you say so.”

  Sunny looked pained. “The man’s exemplary taste and skill are clearly wasted on you. I’ve a mind to steal him away.”

  “I suspect he’d happily desert me. Serving the Duke of Sunderford would put Gibbs in raptures.” With a quick salute to his friend, Sparrow moved on. His valet had lectured him extensively on ballroom etiquette, which included not holding up the reception line by monopolizing the host’s time.

  He surveyed the ballroom’s gold-trimmed plaster ceilings, tall alabaster columns, and polished marble floors. Sunny’s servants had outdone themselves. Fresh white flowers were everywhere, rivaled in number only by hundreds of glittering candles overhead and on wall sconces.

  He scanned the crowd. Unfortunately, one of the first people his gaze landed on was Emilia’s betrothed, who made his way over.

  “Mrs. Dubois tells me the two of you knew each other in Paris,” Worsely said after a terse greeting.

  “Yes, a long time ago.” He reached for a drink from a passing footman in red livery. “The two of you seem very intimately acquainted.”

  Worsely’s brows rose. “Is that disapprobation that I detect in your tone?”

  “You are betrothed.”

  The bastard actually smiled, as if he found Sparrow amusing. “How common of you, Vale. You’re a viscount now. You must accustom yourself to the ways of people of quality.”

  “What can I say? My provincial side takes offense at your very public entanglement with another woman when you are to be wed in three weeks.”

  “I am not yet married.” Worsely sipped his drink. “Besides, among our sort, a bit of bed play on the side is to be expected.”

  Disgust seethed in his gut. “It would hurt Emilia terribly if your liaison with Mrs. Dubois were to become public.”

  “Emilia?” Worsely’s patrician face loss all sign of mirth. “Referring to my future wife in such familiar terms, when you are related neither by blood nor marriage, is outside the realm of decency. It just isn’t done among people of a certain class.”

  “Yes, I am the one who is behaving indecently,” Sparrow retorted, the words drenched with sarcasm. “If only you’d guard Miss St. George’s feelings as zealously as you protect her reputation.”

  Worsely regarded him with disdain. “You have much to learn about the ways of our class.”

  “To the contrary.” Sparrow kept his tone even, despite his mounting temper. “I think I’ve learned all I care to about your kind.”

  “Your dander is certainly up this evening. Are you certain we’re speaking of Emilia?” Worsely’s tone was icy. “Or is your gorge up because I am romancing the lady who gave you your congé?”

  He responded with a cheerless laugh. “Is that what Mrs. Dubois told you?” He shook his head. The bastard assumed he was jealous because of Marie. As if it was unthinkable for any man to fight over Emilia.

  “She is a goddess.” Worsely’s expression was smug. “There isn’t a man present who doesn’t want her.”

  Sparrow forced himself to relax his clenched jaw. Marie, for all her wiles, couldn’t hold a candle to Emilia, but this bastard was too blind to see it. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be so assured of my position with Miss St. George.”

  Worsely stiffened, his gaze alert. “Is that so? Do you nurture hopes in that direction?”

  “Not at all.” Sparrow guzzled some wine. “But you underestimate Miss St. George. She’s not some biddable fool who’ll allow you to insult her by parading your paramour in public.”

  The man’s answering smile radiated confidence. “It is you who underestimates me. I’m a diplomat. My main vocation is to bring people to my way of thinking. My bride-to-be is no exception.”

  Sparrow gritted his teeth. Surely Emilia would see Worsely for the despicable blackguard he truly was before it was too late. How could she not? But, then again, if Worsely applied the full force of his famed charisma toward charming her—something he hadn’t yet done in Sparrow’s presence—the knave might very well succeed in getting Emilia to the altar again.

  “Gentlemen.” A voice said behind him. Both men turned to greet St. George, who had Emilia on his arm. Sparrow forgot to breathe. Sophie had worked her magic again. Emilia was resplendent with her titian locks half upswept, glittering jewels nestled within. Soft green netting trimmed with matching beading and tassels covered her simple white gossamer gown, which skimmed her lush curves in a beguiling manner.

  “I’ve come to deliver Emilia to you, Edmund. I must go and see to Mrs. St. George. I’ll leave my daughter in your capable hands.” He turned to go.

  A becoming blush painted Emilia’s cheeks once he’d departed. “You’d think I was a package to be delivered.”

  “I see Sophie has outdone herself,” Sparrow said. “You are in excellent looks this evening.”

  Her color deepened. “You are very kind.”

  Worsely stepped closer to Emilia, as if subtly asserting his rights to her. “Who is Sophie?”

  “My new lady’s maid. You’ll recall I mentioned her to you.”

  “Ah yes, the one we are going to replace as soon as we are married.” He ran an appraising look over her. “My friend Mrs. Dubois is peerless when it comes to sartorial matters. Her hair, dress, and comportment are sublime. Perhaps she will condescend to assist you.”

  It took almost everything in Sparrow not to launch himself at the miscreant and pound some common decency into him. Did Worsely seriously intend to introduce Emilia to his mistress? Such abasement was not to be borne. Emilia’s ignorance regarding Marie Dubois’s intimate connection to her future husband only deepened the humiliation.

  To Sparrow’s satisfaction, Boadicea’s reaction suggested there was a limit to her tolerance. “That’s ver
y kind of you.” The words were crisp. “But I am quite happy with Sophie.” Holding herself very erect, looking every inch the indomitable warrior queen with jewels glistening in her fiery hair, she turned to Sparrow, effectively dismissing her betrothed. “I understand Sunderford has an enviable art collection. I should very much like to see it.”

  He bit back a smile. Worsely’s patronizing attitude had obviously gotten her back up. There was only so much a spirited female like Emilia could abide. “I thought you might.” He offered his arm. “Fortunately, I have the duke’s leave to show you as much of the collection as you’d like.”

  “Whatever are we waiting for?” She took his arm with the imperiousness of a duchess. “By all means, lead on.” She turned back to Worsely, inquiring politely, coolly, because it wouldn’t do to abandon her betrothed in the middle of a ballroom, “Won’t you join us?”

  “I’ll follow shortly, my dear. I see an acquaintance I really must greet first.” Despite the affable tone, something not entirely friendly glittered in his eyes.

  The muscles in Sparrow’s body tensed. At whom was Worsely’s malice directed? For the man to hold Sparrow in contempt for being too familiar with his betrothed, or possibly in relation to their conversation about Marie Dubois, made perfect sense and didn’t bother Sparrow in the least. But what if that animus was aimed at Emilia?

  Uneasiness slithered through his gut. The man showed very little carnal interest in his betrothed. In fact, he seemed to abhor her most appealing qualities—her outspoken personality, magnificent hair, and impossibly lush figure. So why marry her? For the coin was the most obvious answer. But the word about London held that Worsely was independently wealthy, thanks to a generous allowance from his grandfather the duke and a sizable inheritance from his mother’s family.

  Still, something wasn’t right. Worsely made him uneasy. And the man would soon have complete control over Emilia’s life. Once she married, the law would not view her as a person with legal rights; she’d essentially become her husband’s chattel, to do with what he pleased. Sparrow resolved to look into the man’s background for his own peace of mind, if nothing else.

  —

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before,” Sparrow said to Emilia once they were away from Worsely.

  They started up the stairs. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Standing up to Eddie when he mentioned relieving you of your lady’s maid.”

  “We aren’t even wed yet and he’s trying to choose servants for me?” The words were heated. “A servant is a very personal concern, especially a lady’s maid, who is privy to almost everything about her mistress. Edmund doesn’t control my life.”

  “But he will once you’re wed.” He felt the urgent need to warn her off a man who seemed to care nothing for her, who would flaunt his mistress under her nose. “If he wants to boot Sophie, he can do so as your lord and master. He can also forbid you from visiting museums to make your copies.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Despite the confident words, he registered the doubt in her voice. “He’ll be far too busy with embassy business to bother himself with what I and, eventually, the children, do all day long.”

  “Is that why you chose him? Because you believe he’ll leave you on your own?”

  “Most assuredly. Aside from the opportunity to travel, the knowledge that Edmund won’t always be underfoot is a great part of the appeal in marrying him.”

  “You mentioned children.” He regarded her intently. “I begin to see what you’re about. Worsely is just a means to an end for you.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  They reached the top stair and he directed her toward the gallery. “You get a husband in name who will perhaps put a child or two in your belly, but for the most part, you expect to be left alone.”

  “It’s not a love match,” she said. “There will be no reason to live in each other’s pockets.”

  “Are you certain he sees your future the same way?”

  “He has said he will not interfere with my painting and I take him at his word.”

  He thought of the animus he’d detected in Worsely just now. “Do you not wonder how far that tolerance will extend once you are married?”

  Their arrival at the gallery seemed to sweep thoughts of Edmund from her mind. She stared down the length of the impressive gallery where, interspersed along the cream paneled walls, among the portraits of Sunderford’s ancestors, were some of the finest pieces in London.

  Her beautiful eyes glistened with wonder. “How magnificent.” She went farther into the space, staring at the paintings, before whirling around to face him. “This is possibly the greatest private assemblage of art that I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  “I thought you might like it. I’m told Sunny’s collection is one of the most impressive in the metropolis.” Yet he suddenly felt like a cad for bringing her here. The last time he was in this room, he’d been in the company of three naked strumpets who’d taken turns playing croquet and performing various sex acts on his friend.

  She paused by the salmon settee and leaned one hand upon its gilded frame. “It makes no sense at all that a debauched rake could also appreciate art in this manner,” she declared. “And I must say, the Duke of Sunderford seems to be a perfect gentleman.”

  He stared at her hand touching the very sofa where his licentious friend had cavorted with the very naked Sylvie not even a sennight ago. Emilia seemed so fresh and innocent in comparison to that sordid scene. He grimaced, wondering how thoroughly the duke’s staff cleaned the furniture in this space.

  Emilia went on. “The duke was courtesy itself when he welcomed me and my parents this evening. I don’t know if I believe all of those scandalous stories about him.”

  “Believe them.” His protective instinct surged. She really was a terrible judge of men. Her betrothal to Worsely was proof enough of that. “Stay away from Sunderford.”

  She blinked at him, her eyes bright with surprise. “I thought the two of you were friends.”

  “We are, and I’m quite fond of Sunny. However, it is precisely because I know him so well that I warn you to keep your distance.”

  “You certainly know him well enough to have seen his collection. When did you have occasion to see it? It’s a bit out of the way, and you are not exactly a patron of the arts.”

  His neck heated. She had the right of it. The duke’s home was enormous and the gallery itself far away from the public rooms. “Sunny…er…the duke held a small party here not too long ago.”

  “Goodness, from the uncomfortable expression on your face, it must have been some party.” Color suffused her face, as if she’d suddenly remembered Sunderford’s reputation for scandalous routs. “Oh.”

  “Indeed,” he said briskly, gesturing her forward. “Would you care to stroll the gallery?”

  She walked ahead, seeming to examine the fine pieces, but then she halted and spun around to face him. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  He stared at her. “Beg pardon?”

  “At Sunderford’s scandalous party. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “This is hardly appropriate conversation for a lady.” He barely choked out the words.

  “Was Lady Harrington there?”

  He blinked. “What do you know of Lady Harrington?”

  “Only that you are keeping company with her.”

  “No.”

  “No, you are not keeping company with Lady Harrington, or no, she didn’t attend that evening?”

  “She was not present.”

  “It must be grand to be a man.” Her eyes flashed with feeling, the green in her gown picking up the play of gold in her gaze, bringing to mind a sun-dappled forest. “You can do whatever you want, cavort with as many women as you desire, and none of it touches your reputation. If I had attended Sunderford’s other party, which I’m certain was far more interesting than this priggish affair, I would be ruined, my reputation beyond salvaging.”
>
  This was the last subject he cared to discuss with her. He pulled at his cravat to loosen it. Gibbs had tied the damnable thing too tightly. “You would not have enjoyed it. I promise you that. I only stayed for a few minutes myself.”

  “How intriguing.” She tilted her head, her expression open and guileless. “Was it too depraved even for you?”

  “Even for me?” He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You do have a reputation for being something of a rake. It’s said that soon your reputation will rival Sunderford’s.”

  He flushed. “Who says that?”

  “People back home in Berkshire. They enjoy gossiping about you. We’ve little else to entertain us in the country.”

  He shook his head, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. “I’ll await you at the gallery entrance.” He had never cared about what people thought of him, but Emilia’s good opinion did matter. Very much so. “Take your time.”

  “Coward.”

  He spun back to her. “Being courteous is not the same as being a coward. This is not an appropriate conversation for me to be having with you.”

  “Stop being such a stick in the mud. You attend scandalous parties but are too embarrassed to speak about them. You’re a hypocrite.”

  He stepped closer, anger filling his chest. “I would never allow a man to insult me so.”

  “Alas, I am merely a woman, an ornament in the lives of men.” She spat the words. “Is that why you treat me like a child to be ignored?”

  “You are no child.” He inadvertently dropped his gaze from her face to the full slopes of her bountiful bosom. “Only a fool would mistake you for one. Or ignore you.”

  She took a sharp intake of breath. “Then pray don’t treat me like one.”

  Exasperated, he threw up his hands. “I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore. What do you want from me?”

  Instead of answering, she shocked him by showing him. Coming up on her tiptoes, she inched closer and sealed her lips to his.

  Chapter 11