How to Master Your Marquis (33 page)

He kissed her again and ran his tongue along her seam, from top to bottom.

Her hips jumped up from the cushion, her hands tightened in his hair. “Hatherfield!”

He swirled his tongue around her opening and darted inside, and out, and inside again.

“Hatherfield!” Breathless this time.

He lifted her legs and slipped them onto his shoulders, bringing her closer to his mouth, holding her secure so she couldn’t thrash free. He ignored his own rock-hard arousal and explored her with a patient tongue. Each lick had its own effect, each stroke coaxed its own sound from her throat, and he wanted to know them all, he wanted to know exactly what she liked best, and how she liked it. A rhythm developed, back and forth between them, and her noises deepened into sobs, into half-coherent begging, while his tongue circled the bundle of sweet nerves at her center, lazy and then quick, and she was lifting her hips to meet him. She was going to spend, he could actually feel the trembling pressure beneath his tongue, and he brought his hand around her leg and inserted one finger into her wet slit while he sucked her softly above.

“Hatherfield!”

Her shout rattled the bookshelves as she came and came in rapid pulses around his finger, the sweetest climax, on and on. He was drowning in her, lapping her up, her salty tang of release, and all he could think was
beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

She sagged slowly downward. He followed her. The lace edges of her petticoats tickled his cheeks, and her hands released his hair at last.

He lifted his head and saw the tip of her chin pointing upward to the ceiling fresco, at the far end of her heaving silver chest. He prowled upward along her limp body. The lamplight glowed along the side of her face, casting her cheeks in shadow, but no shadow could hide the telltale pink glow on the skin of a well-loved woman.

God, he loved that flush.

“Well?” he asked.

“My . . . my goodness.”

“Open your eyes.”

She opened them.

“Stefanie. Little one. That was the single most exciting act of my life.”

“I didn’t—” Her flushed skin grew even more delightfully pink, but she didn’t look away, not Stefanie. “I never even imagined.”

He lowered his head and kissed her again, and then he pulled down the bodice of her dress and freed one perfect breast. “I want you to let your imagination run free, love. I want to make love to you in every way possible. I want to know what
you
want, to . . .”

A small noise jarred the still atmosphere of the library.

In a single smooth movement, Hatherfield pulled up Stefanie’s bodice and leapt to his feet in front of the chaise.

Lady Charlotte Harlowe stood in the center of the room, her face white beneath her pale pink mask. A small key dangled from her right hand.

“Lady Charlotte. Good evening.” Behind him, Stefanie was rustling quietly, arranging her clothes. He folded his arms and planted his massive legs like two protective trunks into the ancient Kilim rug before the chaise.

Lady Charlotte whispered, “I have been a fool.”

He was silent. How could he speak into the waves of grief and shock that radiated from that small pale pink body, with its face of paper white?

“I’m sorry to have caused you any pain,” he said at last.

“Very well,” Lady Charlotte said. “I see where my duty lies.”

She turned and walked to the door.

Hatherfield bolted after her. “You are not to say anything of what you’ve seen, is that clear?”

She shrugged off his hand. “You will not address me half dressed, Lord Hatherfield.”

“She is my affianced wife. You will put her in gravest danger.”

The door slammed shut.

He turned to Stefanie, who now stood tying her mask around her head with calm hands. He was already buttoning his waistcoat. She picked up his tailcoat from the floor and handed it to him.

“Go to her,” she said. “Be kind. Forgive her. She loves you so.”

He shrugged into his tailcoat and took her by the cheeks and kissed her hard. “My
wife
,” he growled fiercely in her ear, as if saying the words really would make it so. “Stay here. Sit right on that chaise until I return. Do you understand me?”

She sank obediently on the chaise and lifted her hood over her hair. Her cheeks were still outrageously pink. “I understand you.”

He dashed out of the room, straightening his tie as he went.

TWENTY-FOUR

Old Bailey

August 1890

B
y the time Mr. Fairchurch had finished his questioning, the afternoon was well advanced, and the audience in the packed courtroom—jury included—was beginning to doze off.

Hatherfield’s outward face remained grave and guileless, but his interior walls smiled with satisfaction. Good. A complacent jury was a conservative jury, and a conservative jury might just be inclined to acquit him, in absence of any direct evidence linking the Marquess of Hatherfield to the crime itself.

Mr. Duckworth circled around his table, his hands tangled in a thoughtful knot behind his back. “Your lordship, your lordship,” he said, as if puzzling to himself. “A very neat story. A neat story indeed, and delivered with convincing effort. I applaud you.”

Hatherfield tilted his head expectantly.

“There is one . . . one small article of confusion. Or perhaps I’ve only muddled things in my head.” He tapped the skull in question admonishingly. “Would you perhaps do me the honor, Lord Hatherfield, of repeating your account of your actions at your parents’ house in Belgrave Square, on the night of February the—” he checked his notes “—the twenty-first of February?”

“I have already recounted them at length, Mr. Fairchurch. I should hate to weary the long-suffering gentlemen of the jury.” Hatherfield turned his head to the nodding gentlemen in question, and nodded in sympathy.

“Nonetheless. A brief summary will do. Let me start you off. You arrived at the house in Belgrave Square at a quarter past nine and proceeded to speak with”—again, consulting the notes—“the Viscountess Chesterton, and then to dance with briefly Lady Charlotte Harlowe.” He removed his spectacles. “And then our mysterious woman in silver arrived, and you danced with her until approximately ten o’clock, at which point you—well, it seems you disappeared from the witness account altogether. Do I have this correctly, Lord Hatherfield?”

Hatherfield smiled his best self-deprecating smile. “Not altogether. There was one witness.”

“Oh?”

“The lady herself.”

The gentlemen of the jury shifted about. The audience, under no obligation of dignity, tittered freely.

“Yes, of course. And this lady, where is she now?”

Hatherfield spread his hands. “I’m afraid she slipped away into the night, and I haven’t seen her since.” Which was true, in its way.

“Hmm. Slipped away.” Mr. Duckworth’s voice dripped with skepticism. “Let us suppose, then, merely for the sake of argument, that this lady of yours had been persuaded to stay within the circle of your charms, Lord Hatherfield”—cue the tittering—“instead of slipping away into the night.” He made a skittering motion with his fingers. “Let us suppose that she has given us sworn testimony to the effect that she remained in your company for the rest of the evening. Why, then, does no one report seeing the Marquess of Hatherfield leaving the party that evening?”

Hatherfield shrugged. “It was a considerable crush, after all. Any number of guests milling about, most of whom I don’t even know by sight. Come to think of it, any chap might have walked in off the streets that night, without being noticed by a soul.” He delivered this point with particular emphasis in the jury’s direction. “Besides, there was the lady’s honor to consider.”

“Oh, of course!” Mr. Duckworth snapped his fingers. “The lady’s honor! You left discreetly, then. A rear exit, perhaps?”

Hatherfield paused. “Perhaps.”

“You are under oath, your lordship.”

“Yes. Yes, we departed from the mews.”

“I see. Sneaking away, as it were.” A glance at the jury.

Hatherfield willed himself not to look at Stefanie, but he could feel her energy, her scintillating need to spring to her feet and identify herself as the lady in question, to strip herself bare in an effort to save him from the snare Mr. Duckworth was evidently trying to lay.
Stay down.
He willed the word to her.
Stay low. Let me do this.

He shrugged. “As I said, the lady’s honor was at stake.”

“Strange, that she never offered to return the favor. To save your honor, by testifying in your defense.”

Stay down, Stefanie. Please.

Hatherfield brushed at his sleeve. “Perhaps she did make this offer, Mr. Duckworth. But a gentleman does not purchase his honor at the price of his lady’s good name.”

A sympathetic murmur traveled across the courtroom, concentrating with particular emotion among the damsels in the corner. Under the guise of acknowledging their support, Hatherfield gazed across the benches, and in the upper right quadrant of his vision he saw Stefanie’s shoulders sink downward in relief.

Ah, little one. How could you doubt me?

Even Mr. Duckworth had the grace to look down and cough slightly into his closed fist. “Naturally. But the fact remains, your lordship, the court has no positive proof that you remained in the company of this lady throughout the course of the evening, and that you left the house in possession of her.”

“Nor have you positive proof to the contrary.”

The judge banged his gavel. “You are to answer the questions put to you by the prosecution, Lord Hatherfield, not to offer unsolicited statements of observation.”

“I beg your pardon. Have you another question for me to answer, Mr. Duckworth?”

Another round of tittering.

Mr. Duckworth looked up. “Perhaps, your lordship, you can find it within the bounds of your honor to inform the court which room you and the lady repaired to, when you first—er—slipped away from the ballroom?”

Hatherfield hesitated. “To the library, I believe.”

“You believe? You’re not certain?”

“Yes, it was the library.” Hatherfield smiled. “Quite certain.”

Mr. Duckworth turned to the judge. “My lord, the prosecution wishes to recall an exhibit to the court’s attention.”

“For what reason, Mr. Duckworth?”

“For possible identification by the witness.”

Hatherfield frowned. What the devil was this?

Mr. Duckworth was conferring with the officials in the corner, bailiffs or whoever they were. Hatherfield drummed his fingers against the rail and looked at Stefanie. She was watching Mr. Duckworth, and her face had compressed into grave lines. She leaned toward Mr. Fairchurch and whispered something in his ear.

Like a premonition of evil, a vague sensation began to stir at Hatherfield’s gut. He studied Mr. Duckworth’s lips, as if he could somehow divine his words. Divine his purpose.

The courtroom stirred, too. Whispering, murmuring. The gentlemen of the jury adjusted their collars in the hot afternoon air. Hatherfield remained quite still, his eyes fixed on the activity among the prosecution, the gravitational shift of the room from amused somnolence to anticipation.

An official emerged from the door at the side, carrying a small silver object in his hand.

“The murder weapon,” said Mr. Duckworth. “The object used by the murderer to stab Her Grace, the Duchess of Southam, several times, in a most brutal fashion.”

The official held it aloft. A slender sword, a foot long, honed to sharpness at one end. At the other end, a graceful handle, engraved with the ducal crest.

“Can you identify this object, Lord Hatherfield?”

“I believe it’s commonly used as a letter opener, Mr. Duckworth.”

“Ah. A letter opener.” Mr. Duckworth smiled. “And where, Lord Hatherfield, was your father the duke accustomed to opening his letters?”

“Not having lived beneath his roof in many years, I don’t feel myself qualified to say.”

“I will rephrase the question, then. Where, your lordship, do you last recall seeing this object, this letter opener, belonging to your father and with the crest of the Dukes of Southam plainly to be seen on its handle?”

Hatherfield set his lips.

“Your gentlemanly honor, no doubt, will compel you to answer me with the utmost honesty.” Mr. Duckworth smiled again. “Your lordship.”

The courtroom had gone silent. Astonishing, that so loud and so miserably restless a group of British subjects could hold themselves so entirely without sound. From the damsels, not even a sigh of trepidation.

Hatherfield sent a resigned glance to Stefanie.

“In my father’s library. I believe I last saw it in the library.”

TWENTY-FIVE