Black Silk (23 page)
He gripped her breasts, kneaded them, pinched her nipples, ravaged her with his mouth, nipped her ears, licked her neck, drove hard into her, and played with her clit.
“And tell me when you’re going to come,” he growled, between nuzzling her earlobe and seeking the sensitive places on the delicate line of her neck.
She ground against his fingers, gasping. “Now! I think it will be now—oh!” Sweetly, high-pitched, her cry echoed like a harp’s music.
His muscles tensed like an over wound clockwork ready to fly apart. His ballocks tightened, his brain dimmed.
She bounced upon him, a slave to her pleasure, curls flying. And as she began to slow on him, he teased her clit, tweaked her nipple, and took her to climax again.
And again.
Until she screamed, “Dear Dash, no more! You must come!”
Never one to disappoint such a precious lady, he let go of his control. Wrapped his arms around her waist, slammed his hips up hard to seat his cock as deep as he could. His cum shot through him, and he roared with it.
It ravaged him, each thundered pulse. And, after, his muscles became as floppy as the sheets, and he fell back against the headboard. Laughter rose, but he didn’t know why. He was so drained he could barely move, and he wanted to laugh. “Maryanne, sweet Maryanne.”
She bent forward so her forehead touched his. He threaded his fingers in her silky tresses.
“I don’t believe you killed your cousin,” she whispered.
He had to face it now. Tell her the truth. He told her about his mistress, Lottie Ashley, and saw the uncertainty touch her eyes. “I kept mistresses, love, but have never loved anyone before you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not a child. It is a man’s actions that speak for him, not his promises.”
She stole his breath with her understanding, his wife. “But Lottie was attacked one night after leaving the theater—she had attended alone, in the box I rented, for courtesans do, to display their beauty and entice men. A mistress knows she must be thinking of her next protector.”
He took an unsteady breath. Shut his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the memory. “They cut her with a knife. Sliced her throat, but not deeply, thank God. Sliced her arms and her…middle. And they left her there, to bleed. She was found and saved.”
“It wasn’t your fault—”
“I couldn’t believe it was my uncle. Why should he hurt Lottie? But as Lottie healed, she described her attackers to me. She was a damned observant woman, and I was able to find one of the men, an albino, at a dockside inn. I jammed a pistol barrel into his mouth until he was willing to tell me who hired him. A Mr. Blackmore. But what my uncle didn’t know is that his precious eldest son, Simon, had come to see me. Simon knew his father wanted the title, knew how much my uncle hated me. You see, I was invincible. My uncle had tried a half dozen times to kill me, and I’d escaped every attempt. But Simon didn’t know his father had tried to murder me, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.”
“You didn’t want to disillusion him, make him hate his father?”
“I didn’t think he needed to suffer because his father was an evil, immoral bastard—” Dash broke off. Gave her a contrite look. “Sorry for the language. I forget myself.”
“It is all right. I have edited erotic stories, you might remember.”
“Simon went with me when I went to that dockside inn. I knew it was a trap, but I let him come with me. I let him walk into it without any idea what was waiting. He was stunned to hear the albino footpad claim it was his father who had hired him. He stopped me from killing the footpad, even though I sorely wanted revenge for Lottie. But as he hauled me back, the albino sliced me in the gut with a knife.”
He remembered Simon’s horror, how his cousin’s face had gone stark white. Blood had leaked from between his fingers as he’d pressed his hand to the wound. Simon had helped him out to the carriage….
“He got me home, where a note was waiting for me. They’d kidnapped Lottie and would kill her unless I brought a ransom to a warehouse near Temple Bar. I had an hour to get there, or they’d kill her. Simon wanted to go. I was certain it was a trap, but I couldn’t take the risk.”
“Dash—”
But he was lost in memory. “I got him to bandage me up as best as he could, and we headed there, both armed with pistols. My plan was to find a back way in—to send Simon in with his coat on and his hat pulled down, in the hopes they’d think he was me. I was still bleeding—it was soaking through the bandage—and I felt so weak I could barely stand. But I stumbled around the back. Saw a light in one of the windows. Two men were waiting in there. There was no sign of Lottie. My first fear was they’d killed her already. But then I realized…they didn’t even need her. I’d rushed into a trap out of blind terror. My uncle knew I’d do it. He’d counted on it. But he hadn’t counted on Simon being the one to walk into the room.”
“You didn’t warn Simon.”
“My legs were going weak from loss of blood. And I knew that next time they might kill Lottie. Or someone else I cared about. Possibly Anne. My uncle might use Anne as a pawn to hurt me. But if Simon got hurt…”
“You thought it would stop. Dash—”
“I found the door, though I was barely able to stand. My plan was to let Simon get wounded; then I’d rescue him. I know…madness…I wasn’t thinking straight. I knew Simon was armed. He never even got to that room. Someone shot him through the heart the moment he stepped through the door. Shot him in the dark.”
“What did you do?”
“I killed one of them, and then passed out. The other two ran. Losing his son destroyed my uncle. But it destroyed me, too….”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was your uncle’s evil that caused it.” She cupped his face with her small, delicate hands. “What do you plan to do? You can’t be planning to meet your uncle over pistols, can you? That’s madness.”
“I have to make it stop, Maryanne. Amanda Westmoreland was an innocent and lovely girl who had her life ahead of her. Eliza Charmody didn’t deserve to die in Hyde Park. And there’s Lady Farthingale—she might be dead. And the only way it is going to stop is if one of us is dead.”
“But it might not be your uncle this time. It could be your cousin Robert.” Heaven knew that living with such as monster as James Blackmore must have made his own children mad.
“It has to stop.”
“You don’t have to make amends to those women by offering your life!” she cried. “I—I can’t bear it, Dash. I want you. I love you! Do you understand that? If you die out of guilt you will take my heart with you. You have no choice but to live. To live for our child.”
“Sharp blades again.” He rolled her over so she tumbled onto the bed. “I promise you. Nothing foolish. No duels. But I will end this, Maryanne.”
Five times. Or six. By morning Maryanne had lost count of the number of times they’d made love. Her thighs ached. Red splotches dotted her breasts from his suckling mouth. Her head still buzzed with pleasure, and she could do nothing but sigh as Dash rose over her. She shook her head. Surely she would die if she tried to make love one more time.
“No, love. You made me talk. This is the price you pay.”
Slick with his juices and hers from a half dozen orgasms, her quim welcomed his rigid cock. He filled her, the swollen head nudging her womb.
She arched with him. Taking him deep. Withdrawing, moving in perfect unison with him, and driving up to take him once more. They reached climax together and fell apart, gasping for breath.
She held his hand, reassured by the loving way he squeezed hers. But could she ever ease the pain he still carried in his heart?
How could she make him move on from the past and look to the future?
“T
he kissing bough will be perfect there!”
Maryanne forced a smile at Anne’s enthusiasm as Anne pointed to the doorway leading from the ballroom to the enclosed gallery that overlooked the gardens. Silky ribbons tickled Maryanne’s palms as she followed Anne—she balanced the jumble of tangled ribbons they’d been working to sort and knew she should try to at least add a word in agreement. But her throat ached, and her head pounded with a headache.
Tomorrow it would be Christmas Eve day. The evergreen boughs and ivy, garlands and ribbons would be put up. Venetia and Marcus and their baby would be arriving.
Maryanne so wanted to think only of the future. Of the pleasure of seeing Venetia again. The joy in holding her baby nephew and anticipating her own child.
But she couldn’t.
Perhaps the future might never come.
Or if it did, it would be like the nightmares that now plagued her. At any moment, Dash’s uncle, his aunt, and his cousin Robert would arrive. She dreaded the arrival of the footman, the announcement…and then meeting the people who had tried to kill Dash.
In the past three days, there had been no other attack on his life. Nothing else had happened. Surely that meant his uncle was the culprit. That the killer was not Tate, Craven, Barrett, or even Ashton. It must be James Blackmore, and the evil swine was waiting until he was actually in Dash’s house to strike the final blow….
Or it meant it was Robert.
Or was it because Dash had kept her almost a prisoner in his bed for most of the last three days? He hadn’t been outside to be a target for the killer.
“I think ivy with ribbons beneath each sconce,” Anne mused as she swept a circle. Gold ribbons overflowed her hands. She paused, waiting approval.
“Certainly,” Maryanne answered. But she wanted to think of her three days in bed with Dash. Her cheeks heated at the memory of the erotic games they’d played. Sensations. Each game had introduced her to a favorite sensation. The husky sound of his voice as he’d blindfolded her. The brush of his fingertips lightly on her nipples, a sensuous contrast to his suckling lips. The scent of him—the clean aroma of his skin tinged with sandalwood soap and witch hazel after a shave, and the heady musky perfume of his underarms, the earthy and ripe allure of his cock.
It had been heaven, but it was as though Dash wanted to squeeze a lifetime of pleasure into just a few days.
Boots clopped across the wide expanse of the floor, echoing to the arched ceiling above. “My ladies,” the footman announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Blackmore and Mr. Robert Blackmore have arrived.”
Maryanne saw her ribbons tumble from her hands, the ones wrapped on spools rolling along the parquet floor. Anne was at her side in an instant. But Dash strode into the ballroom then. She heard Anne’s breath catch, and Maryanne’s entire body both melted and froze at the sight of him—nonsensical as it seemed, it was exactly how she felt.
Raven hair draping over piercing black eyes, Dash looked every inch the powerful viscount. An immaculate jet-black jacket enhanced his broad shoulders, matching the black of his shirt and cravat, the perfection of a shimmering black silk waistcoat. His legs stretched endlessly—from his lean hips to the floor—clad in snug trousers and gleaming boots.
He wore his wealth and power blatantly.
To goad, she knew.
Maryanne swallowed hard; the words he’d ground out in his deep baritone pounded through her mind:
The only way it is going to stop is if one of us is dead.
Her arm linked with Dash’s, her fingers resting on his steely forearm, Maryanne stopped abruptly on the threshold to the drawing room. Anne perched on the settee nearest the window. A wispy gray-haired woman sat at the other, her hand clamped on the wrist of a dark-haired young gentleman. The woman’s head wobbled gently, and the hand resting in her lap seemed to jerk of its own accord.
This must be Mrs. Blackmore, Dash’s aunt. And Anne was staring at her slippers, avoiding gazing at her aunt. Moredon stood at Anne’s side, his hip balanced on the embroidered ivory arm of the sofa. He clasped Anne’s hand.
Dash drew Maryanne toward his aunt. Panic raced through her. What would she say?
Then she saw him.
The elderly man slumped in the wing chair, a blue wool blanket tucked around him, an elaborately carved cane balanced beneath an enormous, clutching hand.
How offensive to think he insisted on a blanket when he’d tried to hurt a defenseless child! She longed to race forward and snatch away the blanket.
A white shock of hair framed his uncle’s heavy face. The thick cheeks made the dark eyes mere pinpricks in the florid flesh. She realized she’d released Dash’s arm, and, astonished, she saw Dash walk to his aunt.
He acknowledged the other ladies in the room, Anne and Sophia, and then greeted his aunt. With exquisite politeness. “It has been a long time, Aunt Helena. I trust you are well and the journey not too taxing.”
Dash’s aunt’s head jerked toward him. “N—no. Well, I am well.” She waved a hand toward his uncle, who rapped his cane on the floor in a rhythm that echoed in Maryanne’s head and reverberated through her teeth. “He is not well. Did you summon him to ensure he was dying?”
“It is the Christmas season, a time for family to visit. And you, God help me, are my family.”
“Do not bully a confused old woman, my lord,” Robert snapped.
Yet his aunt directed a flashing glare to her son. “I am not confused. Nor am I old. Whelp.”
And Dash astounded her again by laughing. “Touché, Aunt.”
His aunt flung her hand toward Anne. “Have you been to town? Tell me all. All the gossip. Please, my dear.”
Anne shot a desperate look to Dash, as though seeking his approval. Should she be civil or not? At his curt nod, Anne launched into lighthearted tales of London from the season.
A firm hand touched her elbow. Maryanne almost screamed. Dash led her to a wing chair beside Sophia. She felt as if she had walked on stage in the midst of a Drury Lane play. The mistress of the house should act the hostess—pour tea, summon cakes, and charm with delightful banter.
Instead, she gripped the arms of the chair.
Dash prowled over toward his uncle. She wished to scream
stop!
“What do you want, Swansborough?” James Blackmore’s voice croaked out into the room. “Why did you ask me here? What is your blasted plan?”
“What is yours, Uncle?” Dash threw out the question in a jaded drawl.
The cane tip slammed into the floor. “Mind your tongue, Swansborough. I will not conscience accusations from a debauched rake. From a bloody murderer.” Shakily his uncle rose to his feet, his face beet red, the blanket cast on the floor. “You deserve to rot in hell.” He spat at Dash. Spat at him!
Maryanne couldn’t hold it in. She couldn’t sit as a witness and pretend to be polite.
“How dare you!” she cried. Jumping to her feet, she slammed her hands down to the chair’s arms. “He was just a boy, and you tried to kill him for the title. You tried to destroy him, and you gave him a life of terror and fear. You do not deserve to be under his roof. You should be on your knees begging forgiveness.”
“Stop, Maryanne.” Dash turned on his heel to face her, but she ignored him.
She wanted to run to his uncle and slap him.
“That’s all lies!” James Blackmore shouted. “He always was uncontrollable, incorrigible. He was even before my brother and his wife died. Did he fill your head with lies about my evil behavior? Swansborough is the killer. He is the monster!”
It wasn’t true. Over three days Dash had revealed a little of what his uncle had done. His uncle was using Dash’s pain to hurt him. Maryanne was shaking; her gaze seemed to be tinged with red. “You shot at him with an arrow to make it appear to be a child’s accident.”
“Maryanne…” Dash was at her side, his hands on her shoulders, stroking and soothing her. “You mustn’t upset yourself, my love.”
Out of the corner of her eye Maryanne saw Anne pale, her green eyes wide. And she saw Sir William move quietly into the room, his cheeks bright with color. He seemed to give her a nod of approval—but she couldn’t stop.
“And the fire?” she shouted. “You discovered an old stable in which he used to play and set it on fire.”
Dash’s uncle clung to his cane, his body stooped, his shoulders slumped forward. It was the result of age, but also seemed as if his wickedness had eaten away at him, slowly consuming him.
“Shut up, woman! It was a candle that caught!” he shouted. “It was an accident. Just as the arrow shooting was. A foolish game played amongst boys. I believe he does think me responsible. He believes these lies.” Blackmore waved his fist at Maryanne, tugged at his cravat with his other hand. But his gaze slid away from her, moved to Sir William for just a moment—for a telltale moment, and she saw him watch for the reaction on the magistrate’s face.
Liar. He was the liar, of course.
“Stop.” Dash’s cold, dangerous voice resonated from her side, and she spun on her heel to meet Dash’s eyes, utterly black, untouched by candlelight. And she stopped.
Silence reigned except for the curious whistling sound spilling from Dash’s aunt’s lips. The clatter of Sophia’s lorgnette to the floor. The tinkle of the glass jewels on the candelabra disturbed by the fall of Blackmore’s hand on the side table.
“It’s not your battle, sweeting.” Dash spoke with unnatural calm.
But it was. His fight was her fight. She parted her lips, but the pain in his eyes made her stop.
Dash turned slowly to his uncle. “As for you, Blackmore, you have attacked my wife. I demand—”
“No!” Maryanne gasped.
He wanted to duel over this. He couldn’t. Blackmore was old, shaky, weak, but she could not let Dash face him over pistols.
Desperate, she reached out to Dash, but he prowled once more toward his uncle. She had forced this by speaking out. He could not let this go unanswered.
How stupid she had been.
“No!” she shouted.
Dash stopped. He faced her, his dark brows drawn together. She sensed Moredon approaching, perhaps to stop her, so she raced to Dash. Planted her hands on his chest.
“Please, no,” she begged, even as she knew it was hopeless. She couldn’t stop him dueling, even though it was illegal, and he could not back down now. “He could cheat—shoot first. Dishonorable men do. And a man who tried to kill a child can have no honor, no humanity, no heart.” She curled her fingertips hard into his biceps as if she could hold him in place and keep him safe. “Dash, please. If you kill him, a wicked but feeble old man, won’t you condemn yourself for it?”
“This isn’t vengeance, it’s to save lives.”
“Let justice be done. Sir William is here. Make him admit what he did, let him rot in a prison for the rest of his horrid life.”
“You are correct, Maryanne.” Dash’s lips kicked up in a smile. “I cannot put a ball in the chest of my own uncle. That is a line I cannot cross.”
“It bloody well is not!” Blackmore shouted. His face was red, the blood vessels pulsing in his temple. He leaned on his cane and pressed a hand to his heart. “You killed my son.”
Dash took her hands in his but craned his head to face Blackmore. “If you insist on meeting over pistols at dawn,” Dash snapped, “I might decide to play the perfect host and give you the pleasure.”
She shivered at his chilling tone.
“You will meet me over pistols, my lord.” Robert Blackmore threw out the words. “Not my aging father.”
“I would prefer not to shoot any member of my family. And as my wife pointed out, we are discussing dueling—illegal as it is—in front of Bow Street’s magistrate. We could find ourselves both in Newgate. I thought death would be the only way to solve this, but there will be no duel.”
“Your wife began this, Swansborough. My father deserves the opportunity to—”
“To what? All here know the past. All here know the truth.”
“You killed my brother, you blasted murderer.”
“Stop it!” Dash’s aunt screeched. “I can’t bear any more! I can’t bear to lose another son.” She dropped her face to her hands and sobbed bitterly. Then lifted her head. Pointed her shaking finger.
Maryanne took a step back, the gnarled finger like an arrow directed at her heart. “You began this, you witch. You whore. What other sort of woman would have Swansborough? Evil, wicked, wanton—”
Dash’s hands tightened around hers, but she felt her blood run cold.
“Mother, stop,” Robert pleaded.
“She must rest—” Maryanne began. But Helena Blackmore closed her fingers around the rim of a vase on the octagonal table at her side. Even with her shaking arm, her aim was true. Maryanne ducked, and the spun glass vase soared over her head. Shattered.
Dash had his aunt restrained in a heartbeat, his hands clamped on her wrists even as his uncle screamed curses at him. “If you think to hurt my wife, you will regret it.” His voice was ice. “Robert, let us take her to her room.”
Maryanne froze, expecting Robert to rebel against Dash’s command. But the young man nodded and wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulders. Murmuring soothing words, he led her from the room. A wave of Dash’s hand had two footmen escorting them and two to accompany his uncle. Maryanne broke her feet free of the floor to follow, but Dash murmured, “Stay.”
She did, until he followed his uncle and the two footmen out the door.
She couldn’t let him go alone.
Grasping her skirts, she rushed to the door, only to have to dart around a young, doe-eyed footman. “M—milady?” the boy stuttered.
“What?” But she saw that Henshaw was also with Dash, the footman, and his family. And Sir William brushed by her to join. She breathed a sigh of relief. She had nothing to fear. His uncle wouldn’t dare try to hurt Dash in such a crowd.
“A lady asked to see you. A Mrs. Watson. She went out to her carriage and left this note.”
Mrs. Watson? Georgiana?
Even as she opened the note, she knew what it would say. Georgiana wished to speak to her in private—and if she did not come, Georgiana would come to the door once more. The threat was obvious: her partner would tell all if she did not meet her. And promise money, no doubt.
