A Bride by Moonlight (13 page)

“Oh?” he said, daring her to confess the truth. “And what sort of
investigative
skills,
pray tell, would a grammar teacher from Hackney possess?”

Her face colored furiously. “You know I’m not a fool, Napier,” she said. “Very well,
yes
, I worked a little in Boston, helping Uncle Ashton with his newspaper. And I might do a dozen things more here at Burlingame, were you simply to tell me—”

“Miss Colburne,” he interjected.

“
Elizabeth
.” Her voice broke a little oddly. She let her arms drop and laid her hand on his arm. “Or Lisette if you like. That’s what my family always called me. But you can’t go on calling me Miss Colburne—not when you’re addressing me. It sounds . . . distant.”

But it was precisely distance that he needed; distance from her, and from that warm, verdant scent she favored. It mingled now with the dust and heat of the day to form a heady, feminine fragrance that tempted him to do just as she suggested. To confide in her—or worse.

She stepped nearer. “So it’s Lisette, then?”

Napier shut his eyes for a moment and tried to remember just who she was—and why she was here. “And you . . .” he managed, his voice entirely too low, “what will you call me?”

A teasing grin curved her mouth. “Saint-Bryce, it would appear,” she said, “if your family has any say.”

He turned back to the window, and set his hands wide on the sill, almost leaning out of it. A light breeze brushed his cheek, bringing with it the scent of fresh-turned earth and late-blooming apple trees and the soft
hoo-hoo-hoo
of doves awaiting dusk.

Saint-Bryce.

Was
that
who he was?

It did not help his state of mind when Elizabeth edged nearer, braced her smaller, paler hands beside his and leaned out with him.

“What a damnable coil,” he muttered, scarcely knowing which coil he meant.

“You aren’t contemplating a plunge to your death, are you?” she asked. “Because at this height, you’ll only break a leg and be trapped here, bedridden.”

He cut her a rueful smile. “Those bay towers out front?” he suggested. “Would that get the job done, do you reckon?”

She pretended to consider it. “I fear the pea-gravel would merely mar that striking face of yours,” she said lightly. “But you could climb that monstrous folly we drove past—and if you keep on with your high-handed attitude, I might be persuaded to give you a shove.”

Her tone was teasing but something in his heart twisted all the same. “Damn it, Elizabeth, don’t—” He stopped, and shook his head.

“Don’t . . . what?” Her brows in a knot, she touched his arm again.

He wished to the devil she would not. But he forced himself to look at her, at the translucent perfection of her skin, and what looked like earnest concern in her eyes. He burned for her—
ached
with it—even as he knew the danger.

“Don’t even say such things,” he managed. “Don’t even joke about them.”

Don’t make me think of what you might be. Don’t make me doubt you.

That was what he meant.

Already he was falling under her siren’s spell—falling, he supposed, for nothing save superficial charm and that wild, flaming hair. But beneath that beautiful façade lay a cold, calculating relentlessness. He knew, for he’d seen it firsthand when she’d alternately accused him of incompetence, accused him of taking bribes—offered, even, her own bribe—then offered him
herself
.

And all he’d been able to think about on that long, damnable train journey was that he wished to God he’d taken her up on the offer all those months ago. Even now his cock began to harden at the thought of her lush bottom as she’d squirmed off his lap on the train.

Somehow, he pushed away from the sill and away from her to stand up straight. “Perhaps you’d best go back to your room, Elizabeth,” he said evenly. “I’ll see you downstairs for dinner.”

But Elizabeth, wincing, had begun to unwind the elaborate satin cords from her tousled curls, still oblivious to his lust. “For my part,” she added, “I think Lady Hepplewood is an angry and bitter woman. Ah, yes, that’s more comfortable.”

“Lady Hepplewood is just overbred and overweening,” said Napier.

“No, it’s more than that.” Elizabeth was shaking loose her hair in a way that made him swallow hard. “Did you see her fist on that walking stick? If the human grip could shatter brass, she’d have the shards to show for it. And that poor Miss Jeffers—what is she, the lackey?”

“I gather, yes.”

“Poor girl,” said Elizabeth. “Having long played the grateful drudge myself, I cannot recommend it.”

Napier wanted to ask what she meant, but dared not deepen the air of intimacy. He needed to know nothing more of her; what he already suspected had left him feeling compromised enough.

Instead, he cocked one hip on the sill and crossed his arms, studying her. “Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “why are you not leaving?”

Her satin cords, or whatever they were, having been tossed aside, Elizabeth threw up both hands and looked at him incredulously. “Because we’ve work to do?” she suggested. “Because the sooner we’ve done whatever it is you’ve come to do, the sooner we’ll be away from here?”

Away from here.

Away from
her
.

God, he prayed for both—but for far different reasons, he was beginning to think.

Suddenly her eyes widened. She cut a glance at the door, then hastened to it, the green velvet of her carriage dress slithering enticingly over her hips. Then, to his extreme discomfort, she bent over a little and set an ear to a flat spot in the carved wood, providing a delectable view.

It seemed an eternity before she straightened and shook her head. “My imagination,” she muttered. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Napier sighed, and altered his strategy. “Make your point, but be quick about it,” he said. “In what way might you be of help?”

Again, the ingenuous expression. “Why, it’s hard to know,” she said, “when I’ve been told nothing of what brought you here. Nonetheless, I will have time alone with all your
maddening females
—and ladies do gossip. Moreover, they will take no notice whatever of another lady asking a great many questions. Indeed, given my odd predicament, they will wonder if I do not.”

“There is some truth to that,” he admitted.

“And then, of course, there’s Fanny.”

“Who, pray, is Fanny?”

“My
maid
,” she said impatiently. “Servants’ hall tittle-tattle is the purest form of gossip.”

“True, my man Jolley is invaluable in that regard.”

“Furthermore, Fanny and I are apt to be in parts of the house you will not,” she said. “While you’re closeted with Duncaster in some stuffy estate office, the ladies will likely take tea in the drawing room, or sew in the parlor, or read in the library. Are you looking, perhaps, for a weapon? Or purloined goods?”

He considered it for a moment, and wondered why he should not take her up on it. Elizabeth Colburne was a clever piece of work, and the fact that she made his cock throb every time she drew near was merely a testament to his stupidity.

“All right,” he said, setting one hand high on the bedpost. “I need every bit of gossip either you or Fanny come across, so long as you take no risk to get it. And I need paper.”

“Paper?”

“Letter paper,” he amended. “From every room in the house, ideally, though that won’t be possible. Give it to Jolley, or have Fanny do so.”

He could see her brain clocking along like a well-greased gearbox. “Someone has written you anonymously,” she said. “Or written something suspicious to someone, at any rate. And you wish to discover if the letter came from this house.”

“Never mind what I wish,” he snapped. “I just want samples of letter paper. Don’t do anything foolish. If you’re seen going through a bureau or a desk, just say you needed to jot down a thought or write a letter home.”

“Yes, to my dear uncle Rowend, no doubt,” she said dryly, “who will need time to plan the wedding.”

Napier barked with laughter. “Oh, doubtless.”

It was then that he made the grave misjudgment of looking at her—
really
looking at her. A grin had curved one corner of that lush mouth and those eyes were again glittering green with mischief.

Napier dragged a hand down his face.

“What?” she demanded.

But the gravity of his situation had returned tenfold. “I made a mistake,” he finally said.

“Oh?” She tilted her head as if to better see him. “Of what sort?”

“Of every sort,” he managed. “Bringing you here. The lies. The clothes. That damned wig. I don’t know, really, what I was thinking. All of it was . . . unwise.”

Her incredulous expression returned. “Well, this is a fine time to decide,” she grumbled. “I could have been halfway to the Côte d’Azur by now.”

He grunted. “What, I thought you were bound for Scotland, that last, lawless refuge of scoundrels?”

Her gaze swept over him, dark as the velvet of her gown. “Well, I was bound for somewhere far from you and Lazonby, that much is certain.”

“And would to God I’d let you go,” he muttered.

“Why?” she demanded. “You think me a criminal and—yes, you just said it—a
scoundrel
. Why would you let me go?”

Her head was still set to one side, her eyes drifting over his face, her full lips slightly parted, and that keen intelligence burning fierce and angry in her eyes.

Well, she wasn’t intelligent enough, apparently.

With one hand, Napier reached out and dragged her hard against him.

“
This
is why,” he said—just before he kissed her.

She scarcely had time to gasp before he’d captured that lush, taunting mouth in a kiss of long-thwarted lust. Her free hand came up to shove him away, too late. Acting on pure instinct, Napier forced her back against the massive oak bedpost.

She gave a soft moan; a sound of surrender, he thought, and on a surge of desire, he pinned her with the weight of his body, his mouth raking hers. Though she kept the hand set stubbornly against his collarbone, Elizabeth did not resist.

Not even when he half hoped she would.

Instead, when he drew his tongue over the delicate seam of her lips, she opened on a soft, welcoming sound and allowed him free rein, her reactions almost artless. Napier seized the advantage, slanting his mouth over hers, thrusting again and again, plundering the depths of her mouth.

Dimly, he wondered at her experience, but the thought washed away on another powerful surge—red-hot desire that shot through his belly and drew his loins taut.

Somehow, they slid away from the bedpost and Napier pressed her back into the softness of the mattress. Dragging himself over her, he deepened the kiss, tangling his tongue sinuously with hers, his unslaked need rushing nearly unchecked.

Her hands flowed over him, tentative and almost shy. Then one warm palm slid down his spine, searing him all the way to the small of his back. Silently he begged her to slide it lower, to draw his body hard against hers in that most wicked and suggestive of ways.

He swam now in sheer, sensual hunger and like a man drowning, felt himself floating toward that dark precipice. Beyond it lay a roaring waterfall of need from which there would be no turning back. Because she was dangerous, and would drag him deep. He’d known that.

He knew it now, but the feminine curves of Elizabeth’s long, lithe body molded too perfectly to his, and the warmth of her breasts and her belly pressing against him urged Napier to madness.

They had tumbled sideways across his bed, the down bedding billowing softly about them, and Elizabeth’s skirts slithered halfway up her leg. Driven by one thing now, Napier thrust again, rhythmically sliding his tongue along hers in blatant invitation. And when she drew up her knee on a soft sound of pleasure, it was as if the heat of her thigh left him shivering.

Napier was so lost, he scarcely realized his hands now cradled her face, or that his mouth had slid over her cheek and along her temple. That he was whispering things: mad words of worship and desire.

One hand went to the swell of her breast, inching the fabric down until the hard, sweet bud of her nipple grazed his palm, sending heat shafting into his groin again.

“
Ah, Elizabeth
,” he whispered, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear. “
Let me—
”

“N-No.” Gasping, she at last put her hand to good use, shoving it against his shoulder. “Napier, st-stop. I—
we
—we don’t want this.”

By God, he wanted it.

But her words were like a dash of cold water. Napier stopped, his nostrils flared wide, his breath already coming hard.

Beneath his weight, Elizabeth looked wanton and needy, her tumble of curls bright against the billowing whiteness of the counterpane. She desired him; in that his instincts did not fail. Her lips were wet and slightly parted now, her eyes somnolent and glassy green. He could feel her body trembling—but not, he thought, from fear.

“Elizabeth, you want this,” he whispered, half hoping she would deny it. “You want me inside you.”

Her eyes flicked to his, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. “Yes,” she rasped. “I won’t lie. But . . . we
can’t
.”

He kissed her again, more tenderly now, foolishly unwilling to surrender his half-won prize; the thing for which he’d burned for days on end—if not longer.

But she urged him gently away. “Please don’t,” she whispered, her long lashes fanning shut like lace above her cheeks. “We’ll regret it.
You’ll
regret it.”

He let his face fall forward to touch hers, and forced his breathing to calm. “Yes,” he said on a harsh laugh. “I would.”

“And I deserve something better,” she said softly, “than a man who will regret me. I am, alas, a hopeless romantic.”

He had nothing to say to that. And when her eyes went soft with tenderness, something in Napier’s throat constricted.

Good God.
She was a romantic?