How To Vex A Viscount (15 page)

“It’s all that mucking about in the dirt.” The earl exhaled noisily but finally bobbed his head in agreement. “Well, you’re no good to me this way, in any case. I’ll make your apologies and send ’round the leech.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, sir. I’m certain this will pass.” Even if Lucian were truly ill, they’d have to bind him to make him submit to his father’s quack of a doctor, with his foul lancet bowl and evil-smelling purges.

If the physician had been able to help the earl quell his temper, Lucian might have thought better of him. The earl’s melancholy was getting worse, his late-night drinking louder and more destructive. Lucian had had Avery hide his father’s pistols for fear that he might harm himself. Last night, the earl nearly dismantled his study looking for the pearl-gripped pair. His shrieks and curses rattled the rafters when he couldn’t find them.

When the morning dawned, Lord Montford shook off the black rage and donned his best remaining suit, chipper as a lark. Lucian chalked up the brightening of his father’s mood to the prospect of a match between Lucian and Clarinda Brumley.

Lucian wanted to please his sire, but not at that cost.

If he’d judged his father to be his rational self, Lucian would have had no trouble standing up to him directly. But because he suspected the earl teetered on madness, Lucian was loath to do anything that might send him careening over the edge. Bedlam, the only hospital for those with troubled minds, had an evil reputation. Lucian didn’t want to see his sire tossed into its maelstrom if he could help it. So he feigned illness instead of starting an argument.

Once his father left, Lucian threw off the bedclothes and dressed. He gave quick instructions to Avery to water the liquor in his father’s cabinet, hoping to tone down his nightly drunkenness, and hurried out to the site.

Daisy would be there already, he was sure. No matter how early he appeared, she always managed to beat him there, almost keener about finding the treasure than he. She’d be head-down, puzzling over some translation or reassembling a bit of broken crockery.

He wondered if the girl ever slept.

In fact, now that he thought on it, she was looking a bit haggard of late. Dark smudges had settled beneath her green eyes, and more than once, he caught her nodding over her work in the drowsy mid-afternoon. He appreciated her dedication, but he didn’t want her health to suffer for it.

In fact, there were many things he was beginning to appreciate about Daisy Drake—her quick wit, her scholarship and attention to detail, her creamy bosom.

Her lovely mouth.

He rarely looked at it without conjuring the memory of that stolen kiss. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could have sworn he scented a slight whiff of jasmine when he claimed her lips.

Blanche’s fragrance.

No, it was ridiculous. Daisy and Blanche could not be the same person. No respectable English miss would masquerade as a French courtesan. Daisy might be unconventional, but she was certainly respectable.

He peered around the corner of the open shed and found her in deep concentration over a pile of mosaic tiles. She was trying to re-fit them into the ancient plaster. A frown knit her pale brows together as her clever fingers worked.

He stared at her hands. Blanche had unbuttoned his breeches. She’d held his cock, caressed his balls and driven him nearly beyond reason. For a moment, he tried to imagine Daisy doing such a thing.

The notion was laughable.

In the simple muslin she wore to work amid the antiquities, Daisy’s breasts were pressed together and up, the creamy mounds displaying her gender. Lucian had suckled Blanche’s nipples, giving and receiving torment. He wondered if Daisy would tell him, as Blanche had, to nip her again.

He almost snorted aloud.

Daisy tipped up the portion of mosaic to get a better look at it, and all the little tiles spilled off onto the rough plank bench.

“Maudit, merde et sacre bleu!”
Daisy swore with vehemence.

Lucian staggered backward. The French invectives might have poured from Daisy’s throat, but the voice sounded exactly like Blanche’s. He ducked back around the corner, his mind reeling.

Daisy Drake and the French courtesan Blanche La Tour were one and the same. He was certain of it.

Almost.

Frustration sizzling, Daisy scooped up all the tiny pieces and started over. As soon as Avery told her that Lucian and his father were expected to call on the Bramley’s, she purposely picked a task that would occupy her for the better part of the day. Her annoyance over Lucian’s social calendar spilled into her work on the mosaic.

“Good morning.”

His voice nearly knocked her off the little stool upon which she perched. Lucian appeared in the doorway, his lean, masculine frame silhouetted by the morning sun, as beguiling as the fallen Angel of Light himself.

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she said. “Avery told me you were off to Lord Brumley’s estate for a day of merrymaking.”

“I had a change of plans,” he said curtly.

“Clarinda Brumley will be disappointed.”

“It will do her good not to see me,” he said with a quick grin.

Daisy’s belly clenched. He was ignoring Clarinda, just as she, as Blanche, had advised.

Jupiter! He must truly want the match then.

“What have you there?” He moved to stand over her.

“A mosaic,” Daisy said. “I can’t be sure I have all the pieces, but I believe it’s a representation of Ariadne.” She held a small tile up for him to see. “Doesn’t that look like part of a spool of thread?”

He leaned down and squinted at the tile. His fresh, masculine scent washed over her, and Daisy forgot to exhale for a moment.

“I think you’re right,” he said, straightening to his full height. “Poor Ariadne. First she saves Theseus from the Minotaur with her neat little rope trick, and then the brute deserts her on Naxos.”

“One might argue that’s the way of all men,” Daisy said sourly. After all, Lucian tried to seduce her as Blanche, and forced a kiss on her as herself, while in the midst of a politically and financially expedient courtship with Clarinda Brumley.

“That’s a cynical outlook.” He pulled a face at her.

“I’d argue it’s realistic.” Daisy stuck her tongue out at him in retaliation. Some things about their relationship had not changed a whit since they were children. “Nowadays, a woman must be prepared for a man to pledge his undying devotion and then keep a light-o’-love on the side.”

Lucian cocked a brow at her. “For an English maiden, you seem to know a good deal about men.”

“I know lots of things,” she said tiredly. Blanche’s memoirs were filling her head and stealing her sleep. “You might be surprised.”

Lucian considered her carefully for a moment, then turned his attention to the remains of the Ariadne mosaic.

“Well, we ought not shed too many tears for Ariadne,” he said. “There is a variation of the tale that says that after she was abandoned by Theseus, she caught the eye of Dionysus. Not a bad end for a mortal woman.”

“You do know your mythology, don’t you?” Daisy said.

“I know lots of things. You might be surprised.” He leaned over her shoulder, picked up a tile and placed it in a likely spot. “I surprise myself sometimes.”

Did she imagine it or did he just sniff her hair?
Well, that’s odd.

“What’s that fragrance you’re wearing today?” he asked.

“I’m not wearing any,” she said. “Too many bees in this field to douse myself with rose water.”

“It doesn’t smell like rose water.”

Each evening, just in case Lucian should take it into his head to visit, Daisy donned her Blanche disguise. That included a liberal spritz of jasmine. She did her best to scrub it off each morning, but evidently Lucian’s sense of smell was keener than most.

“Perhaps something’s blooming nearby,” she said.

“Perhaps.” His dark eyes were hooded as he looked down at her. There was something different in his gaze, a sort of disbelieving fascination. He stared as if he’d never seen her before.

She wondered if she’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “You look tired,” he finally said.

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern.” She swiped at her eyes with both hands. No, she wasn’t sleeping. She burned the candles down reading Blanche’s journal each night. Ever since Lucian had asked about that secret place on a woman’s body that when touched might drive her wild, Daisy had been searching for the answer. The French courtesan knew a good deal about her own body, and she recorded her observations with astonishing frankness.

When Daisy did a little exploring on her own, she quickly discovered that Blanche knew her subject exceedingly well.

So now Daisy knew. She was still innocent, but definitely not ignorant. But did she possess the courage to play the next hand as Blanche?

She didn’t know. Sometimes at night as she lay on her bed, her chest ached with longing. She might never marry. She knew that well enough. She was old for it now, and she didn’t like any of her choices. Better no husband than the wrong husband.

But she wanted to be touched. And she wanted Lucian to touch her.

“I haven’t been ’round to see Blanche lately.” Lucian’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “We parted rather badly the last time. Bit of a tiff. How is she?”

“She’s fine. Busy.”

“Hasn’t taken a lover, has she?”

“No, no, of course not!” Daisy snapped, then amended quickly, “She’s on holiday, remember.”

“Ah! That’s right.” He turned away to begin working on the tablet he’d started translating yesterday.

Daisy tried to focus on the mosaic, but the tiles kept blurring before her eyes. “Blanche misses you.”

He stopped, quill poised over his paper, and turned to her. “Did she say so?”

Daisy nodded.
In for a penny, in for a pound . . .
“She wanted me to tell you . . .” Her courage faltered.

“Yes?”

Heat crept up her neck and kissed her cheeks with flame. “She is ready to show you something you wanted to know about.”

A slow, sensual smile stole over his lips.

“That’s very . . . unexpectedly good news. Please tell her I shall attend her this evening. Would eight o’clock be convenient, do you think?”

Daisy swallowed hard. “She’ll look for you then.”

“It is said that the gods asked the Greek sage Tiresias which gender had the most capacity for pleasure in the act of love. ‘Women,’ he answered, and was promptly blinded for his candor.”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The long-case clock in the study below chimed the hour. Daisy checked her appearance in the mirror over her dressing table for the umpteenth time.

“He’s late,” she announced to her masked reflection.

Lucian had dismissed the workers early that afternoon, sending her home as well shortly before teatime. Daisy wondered if he’d decided to visit Clarinda Brumley after all.

Daisy turned away and resumed pacing. She still wasn’t accustomed to the tall platform shoes she wore as Blanche. They slowed her progress a bit as she circuited the chamber, clacking furiously on the hardwood.

She wasn’t wearing hoops. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to don something that might impede Lucian’s investigations later. So the fabric of her gown brushed against her thighs as she moved. Occasionally, the satin rubbed her sensitive mound. The slightest touch sent a little shiver over her. Even the pressure of her own thighs made tiny muscles contract in her groin.

Since she’d tested the eye-popping revelations in Blanche’s journal about that secret place that could drive a woman wild, Daisy’s body had risen in rebellion, refusing to quell its demands. Isabella had warned her of dallying with her body’s powerful urges, but Daisy hadn’t heeded her.

Lucian wanted to learn from her. Now she was armed with the knowledge he sought. Her belly jittered uncertainly. Did she have the courage to allow him to touch her so intimately, when the mere thought of it melted her like hot wax?

A light rap at the door halted her pacing. Nanette peeked in.

“Your gentleman, he is arrived,” she said.

Daisy drew a deep breath. “Send him right up.”

“But, mam’selle, he must be made to wait in order to fully appreciate the honour you give him,” Nanette said. “Twenty minutes, at the least.”

“Now, Nanette,” Daisy said.
Before I lose my nerve.

“It shall be as you say.” Nanette rolled her eyes. “But if you want my advice—”

“I’ll ask for it!” Daisy snapped.

The French maid’s eyebrows shot skyward, and Daisy felt instantly contrite. Nanette had been nothing but helpful from the very beginning of this caper. Daisy was churlish to take her frustration out on the woman who was more friend than servant.

“I’m sorry, Nanette. You’re right. But five minutes only. No more.”

Nanette smiled impishly and laid a shrewd finger beside her Gallic nose. “Oui, mam’selle. Five minutes.”

Daisy sank into one of the chairs by Blanche’s card table. No, perhaps standing was better. The difference between her height as Blanche and her normal stature was one of the most convincing pieces of her disguise. She popped to her feet.