Guilty Series (104 page)

“You're not soiled goods, damn it all,” he told her, “and it wouldn't matter if you'd been with a man or not.” He stood up. “I think we've both had enough brandy. It's time to go to bed.”

He took her glass and set it on the table, then seized her hands and hauled her off the desk. The moment her feet touched the floor and he let her go, she started sinking.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hooked the other behind her knees, lifting her. She curled an arm around his neck, gave another hiccup, and nestled into his shoulder. As he carried her out of the room, she nuzzled her face against his throat, and a shudder of pleasure rocked his body, pleasure so intense he almost dropped her on her gorgeous, shapely bum. With an oath he kept on, valiantly carrying her up two
flights of stairs, thinking with every step that if he didn't get her married off soon, he was going to go mad. Stark, raving mad.

He paused before her room, and it took him several seconds of maneuvering the handle before he could get the door open. When he succeeded, he used his shoulder to nudge the door wide. A maid had left a lamp burning, and Ian was able to see his way to the bed. Once there, he dropped Lucia onto the counterpane and started to turn away, but she grabbed for him, snagging one tail of his evening coat in her fist. “Sir Ian?”

He paused with a long-suffering sigh and turned toward her again, but he didn't look at her. Instead, he stared at the wall. A stronger man might have been able to risk a glance at the bed and the delicious dollop of heaven in a lacy white nightgown who was lying there holding on to his coat. Ian was not a strong enough man to chance it. “What?”

“I want to tell you something.”

“Can't it wait?”

“No, no. I'll forget.”

No doubt of that. She was so sloshed, she probably wouldn't remember any of this tomorrow. She tugged at him again, more insistent this time. Telling himself he didn't want her to tear his favorite evening coat, he sank to his knees beside the bed and reminded himself of stupid things like duty and honor. “What do you want to tell me?”

“I—” She shook her head, frowning with the effort of concentration. “Ooh, I feel dizzy.”

“I'll just bet you do. Put one foot on the floor. It'll help.”

She complied, her nightgown hiking up in the effort, and one long, shapely leg brushed against his belly. He stared at her bare thigh, feeling her skin burning him through the fabric of his clothes. He began to imagine what he'd be looking at if that nightdress had ridden up just a few inches higher.

Stark. Raving. Mad.

He forced himself to look back into her face. “What do you want to tell me?” he asked again, his voice harsh to his own ears.

“You'd better find me a husband who loves me.”

Aye, he'd better. Soon. “I shall do my best.”

“I know.” She smiled, and he wondered why whenever she smiled at him, it felt like a kick in the stomach. “I think you're a wonderful chaperone.”

He wanted to tear her nightgown off. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Her eyes closed and her hand fell to her side. She was out cold.

He studied her in the lamplight, knowing he should leave, but he could not move. There was no reason to stay, but he could not stand up.
In a minute,
he promised himself.
I'll leave in a minute.

He glanced at the bare leg against his chest.
Maybe two minutes.

He leaned in, the movement pressing her thigh to the side of the mattress. Before he could stop
himself, he reached out and touched her cheek, brushing back the tendrils of hair that had fallen over her face. He tucked them behind her ear. “Foolish, foolish Lucia,” he chided in a voice too low to wake her. “You're going to feel like hell tomorrow.”

He moved closer, and his lips brushed the skin of her earlobe. It was like kissing velvet. She smelled of apple blossoms and brandy and warm, sweet woman, and Ian knew that at some point in his life he must have done something truly heinous to deserve being saddled with her. Or he'd done something wonderful. He could never seem to decide which hand fate had dealt him.

Lucia Valenti was a menace to male sanity, a blight on heaven and earth. Even so, she could sin her whole life long, and when she got to the pearly gates, she'd have St. Peter on his knees begging her to come inside. She was manipulative and vulnerable and a pain in the arse, and she looked so damned beautiful that he wanted to move those few short inches closer and take another taste of her mouth—a long, long taste this time. He wanted to pull that nightgown the rest of the way apart, run his hands over the lush, exquisite curves she'd been flaunting in his face for weeks. He wanted to kiss her and caress her and take what could never be his. He wanted to sate the aching need that flared up every time she deigned to give him so much as a smile. He wanted those things more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

But there were rules about this sort of woman and this sort of situation, and Ian had always been a man who played by the rules.

He took a deep, long breath and stood up. “There's nothing wrong with wanting to be loved, Lucia,” he murmured. “Not a damned thing.”

He turned out the lamp and left the room, his body in agony. Sometimes, it was absolute hell to be a gentleman.

T
he only time Ian had ever stolen anything, he'd been five years old, and the consequences of eating the cook's entire plum pudding two days before Christmas had been a four-day bellyache and a month of imprisonment in the nursery. When he was twelve, he'd gotten caught kissing Mary Welton from down at the farm and had learned by his father's hand just how painful a riding crop could be. There was that trouble at Cambridge, of course, and Tess. It had taken him a year of intense study to make up for his failed examinations, and three years to get over his broken heart.

These, along with several similar events of his life, had taught Ian one important lesson.
Whenever he did something stupid, he paid for it.

This fact was brought home to him yet again the morning after getting drunk on brandy with Lucia. When he awoke, the shaft of sunlight that filtered between two closed draperies hit him right in the eyes and sent intense, shattering pain through his skull. He was paying now. In spades.

Ian groaned and rolled over with a curse worthy of a Portsmouth sailor. His head was aching fit to split, his stomach felt like lead, and he was sure that during the night someone had stuffed a wad of cotton wool into his mouth. Deciding a day in bed sounded like an excellent plan, Ian went back to sleep.

Sometime later, the clattering of tea things awakened him again. He cautiously opened one eye to find Harper standing by the bedside table pouring him a cup of tea. After stirring sugar into the tea, the servant set down the teacup and turned toward the window. Before Ian's dazed mind could appreciate his intent, Harper did the unthinkable. He opened the curtains.

“Hell's bells, shut those damn things!” Ian covered his face with a pillow, blocking out the light.

“Feeling a bit under the weather today, sir?”

He felt like death. His response was a grunt from beneath the pillow.

Harper seemed to understand that his answer was affirmative. “Miss Lucia said you might not be feeling quite the thing this morning, but she
would like to see you as soon as you are able to come down. It's important, she said.”

“Unless war has broken out between Bolgheri and England,” he mumbled, “nothing could be that important.”

He thought of the night before, of how much he'd had to drink. Lucia had consumed far more brandy than he, and if he felt this bad, she must be in dire condition. That thought cheered him somewhat.

She should feel bad, damn her. He remembered with vivid clarity the way she'd tormented him with that tipsy smile of hers and that half-opened nightgown, of how she'd sat there telling him about all the kissing she'd done in her life as if he was her goddamned priest. He thought of how she'd looked lying on that bed, all tousled and tempting, with that nightgown riding up her legs. He thought of how he'd done the honorable thing and walked away. It had nearly killed him. He hoped she felt wretched this morning. It would serve her right.

In fact, seeing Lucia in the misery of alcohol's aftereffects was such an appealing notion, Ian deemed it worth getting out of bed. He took a deep breath, tossed aside the pillow, and pushed back the bedclothes. Slowly, carefully, he got up.

With Harper's help, he managed to shave and dress. When he went downstairs, he found Lucia alone in the dining room having breakfast. As he came in, she glanced up, radiant and smiling in her butter-yellow dress, looking far too cheery
for someone who by all rights should be suffering as much as he.

He sat down on the other side of the table from her. “Where is everyone this morning?”

“Isabel is upstairs with her governess doing her lessons. Grace is in the drawing room with the Duchess of Tremore, and Dylan just left for Covent Garden to supervise auditions for his new opera.”

Ian nodded. Forgetting a lifetime of meticulous good manners, he plunked an elbow on the table and rubbed his tired eyes. When he lifted his head, he found her watching him.

Her smile was gone, and she was studying him with a grave expression. “You should have something to eat,” she urged, pushing a plate in his direction and gesturing for a footman. “You'll feel better.”

He caught a whiff of buttered toast and leaned back in his chair at once. The mere thought of eating anything ever again revolted him. “What did you need to see me about?” he asked tersely.

Before she could answer, the footman placed a plate in front of him. Ian closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Jarvis,” he said in a very quiet voice, “if you don't get that plate of bloody kidneys out of my sight this instant, I will kill you.”

Jarvis hastily removed the plate.

“Amazing.” Lucia shook her head and shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth. “You drank less than I did, and I feel wonderful.”

That obvious fact did not improve his temper.
In fact, it made him feel downright hostile. He scowled at her.

Not the least bit intimidated, she looked at him, pressing her lips together as if trying not to smile. After a moment, she said, “Dylan told me you never could drink very much without feeling awful the next day. He was right, I think.”

“You told Dylan about last night?”

“No. He noticed the empty decanters in the library this morning and came to the conclusion that you'd gone on a drinking binge. He seemed quite concerned about it. He said it's not at all like you.”

“It's not.” Ian closed his eyes. “I'm going mad. That's what it is. I must be going mad.”

Lucia appeared not to hear this pronouncement about his sanity. “Your brother asked me if there was anything wrong with you, but I assured him that nothing was amiss. We all do unpredictable things from time to time.”

“I don't.” He opened his eyes. “I never do unpredictable things. Never.”

Lucia didn't point out that two empty brandy bottles proved him wrong. Instead, she gestured to a tall glass beside his place at the table. “Your brother left a remedy for you. It works wonders, he said. He invented it himself.”

“Dylan would be the one to invent such a thing.” He eyed the brownish red liquid with doubt. “What's in it?”

“Tomato juice,” she said, munching on a slice of toast. “Lemon juice, spices, a tincture of willow
bark, and some sort of Russian liquor—vodka, I think he said.”

Ian's stomach wrenched painfully. “It sounds vile.”

“There's some other ingredient I'm forgetting.” She paused, frowning as she tried to remember what it was. “Ah!” she cried and gave him a look of triumph. “Clam juice.”

Ian jerked to his feet. “I'm going back to bed.”

He returned to his room, still shuddering at the thought of clam juice. He closed the curtains and stripped off his clothes, then crawled between cool cotton sheets, vowing that he was never, ever going to do anything stupid again. It just wasn't worth the pain.

 

“I think it's an angel.”

Lucia studied the cloud Isabel was pointing to, then she shook her head. Blades of grass tickled the sides of her neck. “No, it's an elephant.”

“No, it's an angel. She has wings. See them?” Isabel gestured with her finger in a sweeping motion. “There and there. And she even has a halo.”

“I still don't see it.” Lucia yawned, starting to feel sleepy in the afternoon sun. “I see an elephant.”

“You are hopeless at cloud shaping,” the child told her, and got up. “I'm going to go see what Mrs. March put in our picnic basket. Coming?”

Lucia shook her head. “In a little while.”

Isabel walked away, and Lucia closed her eyes. She inhaled the scent of grass and savored the
feel of the sun on her face. Despite all the brandy last night, she felt wonderful.

Ian didn't. Poor man. She'd wanted to tell him this morning that today was her birthday, hoping to wheedle out of him a visit with her mamma, but she'd taken one look at his face and changed her mind. She smiled, thinking of how he'd looked, so disreputable with his black eye, so wretchedly miserable in his condition, and so adorable when he'd glowered at her, that she'd just wanted to kiss him and make him feel better. If servants hadn't been in the room, she might have done it.

She thought of that kiss he'd given her two nights ago, and just the memory of it started her whole body tingling. If that was what he could do to her with one short kiss, what would a longer kiss from him be like?

Lucia wanted to find out. The idea of just wrapping her arms around his neck, planting her mouth on his mouth, and sending all his English proprieties to the wall was so tempting. He'd probably get angry. He'd call her a flirt and a tease again, and accuse her of toying with him. That man had anger hot enough to scorch a woman, but she'd wager his kiss was worth it.

Lucia snuggled deeper into the grass, thinking of the night before, of the feel of his arms around her as he'd carried her up the stairs. It couldn't have been easy, for she was not a small woman. Two flights of stairs, and it hadn't even winded him.

She remembered how he'd hurled that glass across the room and told her he didn't share Haye's opinion of her. Those words and the fierceness with which he'd said them had pierced her heart like a ray of sunlight, making her glow from the inside out. A woman could fall in love with a man who made her feel like that.

“Lucia?” Grace's voice called to her from across the lawn.

She rolled over in the grass onto her stomach and rested her weight on her forearms. She looked at Grace, who was seated with Daphne on a bench about twenty yards away. Isabel was with them, rummaging through the picnic basket. “Yes?”

“Are you certain you do not wish to go somewhere?” Grace asked her. “We should do something special today. After all, it is your birthday.”

Lucia smiled and shook her head, refusing again the offer of the two women to take her somewhere. “No, I am content to stay here.”

Daphne, who was holding her new baby daughter in her arms, looked up from the child and pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose. “What about taking our picnic to Hyde Park?” she asked Lucia. “That would be more amusing for you than the park here at Portman Square, surely?”

“Oh, yes!” Isabel cried. She came running over and dropped to her knees beside Lucia in the grass. “Let's go to Hyde Park. There's a good
breeze. We could fly kites. Or we could rent a boat and go punting on the Serpentine.”

Still smiling, Lucia rolled onto her back again and stared up at the sky. “Not yet.”

“We could at least walk down to the confectioner's on the next corner and get comfits for your birthday, couldn't we? Chocolates. Or toffee. Or peppermint sticks.”

Lucia was unmoved by these delights. “No, I shall stay here. I am waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“My birthday present.”

“Who is sending you a present? Lord Haye?”

“Not Lord Haye. It is my mamma who will send it.” Lucia smiled with anticipation. “Mamma always sends me something wonderful for my birthday, and I am not leaving until it arrives.”

Isabel heaved a sigh, gave up the fight, and fell into the grass beside her. “Your mother is a courtesan, isn't she?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “My mama was a courtesan, too. She died.”

Lucia turned her face toward the child's. “I know,” she said. “I am sorry. It would be the hardest thing to bear, to lose my mamma.”

“I barely remember her now, so I don't mind so much. When I first came here, I didn't like Grace, but it was because of Papa. I wanted it to be just us two, and I was jealous of her. But then, I got to thinking about how Grace would be a nice mother to have, and she is. She is very strict, but I don't mind.”

“My mamma is not strict at all.”

The child frowned thoughtfully. “Is your mother a good courtesan?”

“Ma insomma!”
she gasped, half-laughing, so astonished by the question, she didn't know what to say. “I don't know,” she finally answered. “Why do you ask me that?”

“Because if she is a good courtesan, you will get a very expensive present.”

Lucia couldn't help grinning at that. “True.”

“I hope your present comes soon. Then can we go to the confectioner's?”

“Si.
We shall get chocolates and go to Hyde Park and fly kites.”

“Good-oh!” Isabel endorsed this plan with wholehearted delight, but the plan never became reality. By nightfall, Lucia had still not received a birthday present from her mother.

 

That evening, Ian felt much better. He'd slept most of the day, waking in the middle of the afternoon only long enough to gulp down a glass of Dylan's awful concoction. Around five o'clock, he'd woken much more refreshed. He had bathed, shaved again, and dressed in evening clothes. Then he had gone to his club, where he'd engaged three men of his acquaintance for a few rounds of whist, men who thankfully did not know Lucia. By these efforts, he was able to avoid any woeful bachelors who might feel the need to confide in him. After all, interrupting a man's whist game was the height of bad taste.

He returned to Portman Square about ten o'clock. Grace and Dylan were out, but Lucia was home. She was in the library, stretched out in the chaise longue, reading a book.

“Good evening,” he greeted her as he came in. “Not gone out this evening?”

“No.”

He walked around his desk and opened his dispatch case. “Wasn't there a dinner party at Lady Fitzhugh's?”

She turned a page. “Yes.”

He began pulling out documents, but he continued to study her across the room. Gone was the radiant woman he'd seen at the breakfast table, and in her place was someone whose nose was suspiciously pink and whose cheeks were puffy. Ian's gaze moved to the wadded-up handkerchief beside her on the chaise longue. “What's happened?” he asked, returning his gaze to her face. “What's wrong?”