The Deception

by Catherine Coulter

  “And one of these spies murdered a man that the duke knows?” “Yes, Robert Faraday was a good friend to us all.” “You, Lord Pettigrew, you work for the government?”

  “Yes, I do. So does John and so does the duke upon occasion.”

  She simply couldn’t believe it. How could Houchard expect her to accomplish anything when the duke was so involved, and not simply a disinterested aristocrat? A friend of his had been murdered. Perhaps murdered by John Edgerton. Or even ordered by Houchard.

  “Indeed,” said John Edgerton. “We all do what we can, isn’t that right, Evangeline?”

  “Enough,” the duke said. He hated thinking about Robbie, about his needless death. It gnarled his in-sides, made him so furious he wanted to yell.

  “Let us hie ourselves to the dining room,” the duke said.

  Chapter 14

  “Come with me to the library for a brandy.” It was late, after eleven o’clock. She’d heard the loud downstairs clock chime long ago. She didn’t want to go with him. She wanted to crawl under the covers of her bed and never emerge. But she knew she couldn’t let him see that anything was wrong. And so she nodded, smiling her acceptance as if she meant it. As she followed the duke, she remembered John Edgerton’s words as they’d walked to the dining room for dinner: “I always knew you’d become only more beautiful. You know how much I wanted you.” “I was seventeen years old.” He’d shrugged. “Old enough. Women are always old enough. Then you turned away from me. You told your father that I was too old. I do believe the bastard agreed with you. I knew then that one day I would have him at my mercy.” He paused a moment, running his knuckles lightly over her cheek. “And you as well, of course. Yes, and now it’s happened. You will do exactly as I wish, Evangeline.”

  He was right. He’d gotten both of them, she thought. He’d had to stop when the duke had looked back at them, frowning. “Ah, I don’t want to make him jealous. I’m pleased he already wants you. It should make things very simple if he does find out about you and your, ah, mission.”

  “Nothing would make anything simple. You murdered one of his friends, this Robert Faraday. Nothing would stop him, particularly a woman he wanted to bed, which isn’t true in my case.”

  Once in the library, the duke walked to the sideboard. He poured each of them a glass of brandy. “It’s rich and deep and sinful,” he said, and clicked his glass to hers. He watched her over the rim of his glass.

  “What do you think of my great-aunt Eudora and Felicia?”

  “Lady Pemberly is very protective of you. Felicia, ah, one could never be bored in her company.”

  “And Lord Pettigrew?”

  “He is charming. He plans to marry Felicia.” “The devil you say.” A dark eyebrow shot up. “He told you that?”

  “Oh, yes. I assumed you already knew. He told me he would let her know of her good fortune in due time. He wants her to have a Season before they marry.”

  “Good God.” He swigged down the rest his brandy, turned, and stared into the fireplace. “Good God,” he said again. “The ways of a man’s heart are incomprehensible.”

  “I think they’ll suit admirably.” “And do tell me what you think of John Edgerton.” This was the only person he really cared about. All the others were just a prelude. She knew it deep down. There was no reason not to tell him the truth about him, at least a good deal. She raised her chin. “I don’t like him.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to marry me. My father wouldn’t consider it. I was only seventeen years old. Sir John was too old, much too old, and my father told him as much. I was surprised to see him this evening. However, since he is your friend, I will be civil to him if I ever have to be in his company again.”

  The duke shrugged, setting down his brandy glass. He felt better, much better, but that was ridiculous. Just because John had known her, just because he’d stared at her breasts—no, she didn’t like him. That was excellent.

  He said, “Both John and Drew work for the government, each following in his respective father’s ponderous footsteps.” He paused a moment. “I know that you dislike Napoleon. But you know, there are always villains skulking about. Please don’t worry. You’re safe here. I’ll see to it.”

  She could only stare at him, and slowly, slowly, she nodded.

  “I’m tired,” she said when the silence stretched too long. “It’s been a very long day. Full of surprises.”

  “Yes,” he said “My great-aunt coming with very little warning. She frets about me. She wanted to make certain you wouldn’t murder Edmund in his bed. Trust me, if she hadn’t been sure of you, she would have moved in without a by your leave, and probably slept at the foot of your bed to keep a better eye on you.” “Yes, she is very fond of you.” He walked slowly to her, stopped in front of her, and looked down on her face. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly. Like Edgerton, he lightly caressed his knuckles along the line of her jaw. She didn’t want to pull away from his fingers as she had from Edgerton’s. “I’ll take very good care of Edmund.” “I know you will. If I’d felt otherwise, I would have tossed you into a ditch. Curious, isn’t it? And you’ve been here only twenty-four hours.”

  “No, closer to thirty hours now. Actually I feel as though I’ve been here much longer. I’m very glad I came. I hope you don’t mind.”

  That made him smile. “There are many things I mind. However, at this moment you’re not one of them.” Then his look became intent. She recognized the change in him immediately. To her surprise, she responded to it. Her hands came up to cover her breasts, she couldn’t help it. “You’re looking at me again.” “It’s impossible not to.”

  “No, I meant that you’re looking at parts again.”

  “Impossible not to.”

  “I’m going to bed now.”

  He stepped back. He didn’t want to, but he did. He wanted to brush his knuckles over her breasts. He closed his eyes a moment, nearly feeling the softness of her white flesh. “Good night, Evangeline.”

  Evangeline opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. She rubbed her hand over her damp forehead, pushed her hair away from her face. Another nightmare, nothing more, nothing less. But it had been so real. She could still hear Houchard’s voice, dark and cold. “You’re too innocent for your nineteen years, Mademoiselle. You will be careful that the duke doesn’t toss up your skirts and take you without your even realizing what he is doing. You will be careful that your innocence doesn’t endanger your common sense. Your dear papa’s life depends on your clear head and your commitment to us.” He’d lightly rubbed her earlobe between his fingers. She’d jerked away, and he’d laughed.

  She rose and pulled on her wool dressing down. She pulled on her old slippers and headed downstairs. She didn’t want to go back to sleep anytime soon. She was afraid she’d see more of Houchard. She’d see if the duke had any books that looked interesting for reading in the middle of the night. She raised her single candle high in front of her as she walked down the carpeted corridor to the staircase.

  The vast house was quiet for the most part. There were a few creaks and groans that gave her a moment’s pause, but nothing to scare her into gray hair. Lying in her bed, bound to that terrible dream of thinking about why she was really here at Chesleigh, was far more frightening. The huge clock at the top of the central staircase began to chime. One short, loud stroke. She’d believed it much later. She was walking down the stairs, candle high, when suddenly the great front doors flew open. She froze where she stood.

  It was the duke. A slice of moonlight cast him into relief in the doorway. She watched him kick the doors closed with the heel of his boot, stride into the entrance hall, his step none too steady. She stepped from the shadows, her lone candle held tightly in her hand.

  “Your grace?”

  His head whipped up, and for a long moment he simply stared at her. He ran his hand through his disheveled hair, muttered an oath under his breath. “Evangeline? What the devil are you do
ing out of bed? Why are you standing here in the entrance hall?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I had a nightmare. I was going to your library to get a book. I’m sorry to have startled you.”

  “I’ll join you in the library,” he said. He strode to her and took the candle from her hand. “You can tell me about this nightmare,” he said over his shoulder.

  She realized he was drunk, not staggering and clumsy, but still he’d drunk too much. She shook her head. Why had he left his own house to drink? Where had he gone? What bothered him so much? The death of his friend? “I’m coming,” she called after him.

  She followed him into the library and watched him jerk off his greatcoat and gloves and throw himself into a chair before the fireplace. There were only embers burning, deep and orange, not giving much heat. She came closer.

  He was silent. She walked quietly to him and gently touched his shoulder.

  He was a bit drunk, but he wasn’t dead. He felt the heat of her hand. Slowly, he turned in his chair and closed his fingers over her wrist. “Why are you touching me?”

  “You seem faraway, sad, perhaps. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

  “Ah.” He pulled her wrist down and tightened her hand in his.

  “Please don’t break it, your grace. However will I control Edmund with just one hand?”

  He looked at her hand held tightly in his. Then he dropped her hand. “Forgive me, Evangeline.” He leaned his head back against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “You know I’m drunk.” “Yes. I wonder why. What troubles you?” He turned penetrating, dark eyes up to her face and said unexpectedly, “Do you often have nightmares?” “No, not really. It’s just that the recent weeks have been rather trying to me. Why are you coming home so very late? Why did you leave here to drink?” “Mind your own affairs, Madame. I don’t justify myself to anyone, least of all to a young widow who is here alone with me in my library and it’s after midnight and she’s wearing only her nightclothes. And she touches me.”

  She couldn’t explain why she did it, she just did. She eased down onto her knees beside his chair and looked up into his dark-shadowed face. “My nightclothes are more modest than a nun’s. Don’t try to embarrass me, although you do it very well. I’m sorry that you’re unhappy. I’m just worried about you.”

  “I don’t want or need another mother.” His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t just that she was wearing her nightclothes. Her hair was loose down her back, some of it falling over her shoulders.

  He reached out and began to wrap hair around and around his hand. “I don’t think it was very wise of you to come in here with me, Evangeline. You’re not ignorant. You’ve been married. You know what men want with women.” “You took my candle.”

  He kept wrapping her hair around his hand, slowly, ever so slowly. “I’ll let you keep to that little lie, at least for the time being. So the pleasure of my company had nothing to do with it?”

  She’d never known a man like him could exist. She was completely aware of his hand wrapping around her hair, pulling her close now, and then he leaned toward her. His fingertips traced the line of her jaw. He tugged the mass of hair wrapped about his fingers to bring her face even closer.

  Evangeline fell utterly still, as if she’d been set here with this man, his hand in her hair, his fingertips lightly caressing her. She wouldn’t have moved if the house was on fire. She just closed her eyes, waiting to see what he would do.

  “Did I tell you that your hair is exquisite?” She opened her eyes to see him gently rubbing a thick tress against his cheek. A fleeting look of anger or pain—she couldn’t be certain which—darkened his eyes.

  “Your grace?” She closed her fingers over his large hand. “I’m not your mother. I have no wish to be your mother. I just want you to be happy. Is it the lady who wed another man? This Phillip Mercerault?” He pulled slowly away. She wished in that moment that she’d kept her mouth shut. She wanted him close, wanted him to touch her. She couldn’t believe it, but it was true. Then she felt cold filling her. She was betraying him.

  She watched him look into the fireplace. He was still holding her with his hand wrapped around her hair, but more loosely now. “Sabrina?” he said. “No, she didn’t break me, Evangeline. There are other things at work here that make me crazed with helplessness.” He sighed. “You’re a romantic, like most ladies. No, I didn’t love her. No, she didn’t break my heart, whatever that means. I sometimes believe that such an emotion is quite beyond my ken. But I wanted her. I wanted to take her to bed, and that, Evangeline, is what most men want of women, nothing more, nothing less. Marriage is forced upon us so that we have an heir that springs from our loins and not from another man’s.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying that. Why would a woman do such a thing? There is love, at least I’ve heard that there is. I’ve read about it. So much has been written, so believably. Just because I’ve never felt it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.”

  She realized in that instant what she’d said. She grew utterly still, her eyes locked on his face.

  “Ah, we’re back to the esteemed André, that superior man who was your husband. You didn’t love him. What was it, a marriage of convenience? At least you have to know that I’m speaking the truth—a man weds a woman so that he can bed her whenever and wherever he likes.”

  “Andre wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a marriage of convenience.”

  “You didn’t love him.”

  “Of course I did. I was speaking philosophically.” “I believe,” he said, and there was something intent in his dark eyes, something that held her and frightened her and excited her all at the same time, “that you lie more fluently that you doubtless speak French. I will have to show you, remind you how things really are between a man and a woman.”

  He lowered his head, and she felt his warm breath at her temple. She felt his hand stroke her throat, and when his lips lightly touched hers, she felt something she’d never felt before. It was hot and deep in her belly and spreading throughout her body and she didn’t want it to stop, ever. His mouth was open, his tongue against her lips, pressing lightly. She parted her lips to feel his tongue. Without realizing it, she arched toward him, clasped her hands about his shoulders, drawing him closer to her. He released her mouth and rained gentle, caressing kisses upon her eyes, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. He drew back a moment, and his eyes were on her breasts. He watched his fingers move downward. Then he watched them begin to mold her breasts through her cotton nightgown and wool dressing gown. It wasn’t enough, and it was more than she could begin to imagine. “Oh,” she said, and leaned into his hands. “So many clothes,” he said. She didn’t move, scarcely breathed when he pulled her dressing gown open. She watched him as he unfastened the ribbons of her nightgown. She knew this wasn’t right. She didn’t know this man. He was going to see her breasts. She should stop him, but she wasn’t about to. All she wanted was his hands on her bare skin.

  She shuddered when his hands slipped into her opened nightgown and lifted her breasts. She breathed in sharply through her nose. Her back arched. What she was feeling, she couldn’t have imagined such a thing. It was too much, and, at the same time, not nearly enough.

  “Yes,” he said, “give me more of yourself. I knew you’d be beautiful. You’re very white, Evangeline, and your breasts fill my hands. You like me touching you, don’t you? You like my hands moving over your flesh.”

  He leaned down and began kissing her again even as his hands played over her, stroked her.

  She was betraying him. She felt awash with bitter knowledge. She pulled back slowly. His hands stilled on her breasts. She felt heavy and, oddly, very hungry. She looked at his mouth, at his dark eyes. “I’m sorry, your grace. I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m the one to be sorry,” he said on a sigh, but still he didn’t release her breasts. “You’re so beautiful. I hadn’t ever thought this could be so difficult.” Again, he was looking down at h
is hands holding her breasts, feeling them, stroking them. “I must release you, I must.” Slowly his forehead furrowing in near pain, he eased his hands away from her. He put his hands in his lap, folding them. He leaned his head back against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t dishonor you. You’re under my protection. You’re safe from everyone. In particular, you’re safe from me. You have to be. Please, close your clothing, Evangeline. Please. I can’t touch you again. It was hard enough for me to stop this time.”

  She stared up at him, mute, not moving. He wasn’t looking at her, but she felt him, felt him throughout all of her.

  He opened his eyes again and looked down at her. “You’re a very responsive woman, Evangeline. The sainted André was a very lucky man to have you.”

  “No,” she said, without thinking. “Really, this is the first time—oh, no. I’m sorry.”

  She still made no move to cover herself. The duke stared down at her bowed head. She was passionate. What if she hadn’t stopped him? He would have stopped himself, then. He wasn’t an animal. Her words struck the wrong chord in his mind. He shook his head. He was drunk. Everything was strange, off key when he was drunk, which he was too often these days. He had to bring it all to a halt. It was time to return to his life the way it had been, before Sabrina, before Robbie’s violent murder.

  He would prove to himself that he was again in full control. “Close your nightgown.”

  Still she didn’t move. It seemed that she couldn’t move. He laced her nightgown together over her breasts. He pulled her wool dressing down closed. Then he sat back, his chin resting on his fist. His flesh tingled from touching her.

  “Was your husband a selfish man who didn’t care for your pleasure?”

  Why had he thought that? She shook her head, trying to drag her wits back into her brain. “I don’t know what you mean.”