Masque of Betrayal (30 page)

“I shall have to alter my opinion, I suppose,” she replied, exploring the muscled planes of his back with her palms.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He breathed in the sweetness of her hair, already contemplating the delightful possibilities offered by the long hours still ahead.

“Dane?” Her voice was muffled, her face buried against his chest.

“Hm-m-m?”

“How long do we have to wait?”

He looked down at her and blinked. “For what?”

She gave him an exasperated look and dropped her pointed gaze to their still-joined bodies. “For this!” She wrapped one slender leg intimately about the powerful length of his thigh, gliding the sole of her foot along its hair-roughened surface.

Dane shook his head in amazement, renewed desire crashing through him like a tidal wave. “You stun me.” He tangled his fingers in her hair, lifting her face for his kiss.

“Why?” She wound her arms about his neck, the look she gave him pure seduction. “Don’t all brides ravish their new husbands repeatedly while the sun is still high in the sky and but a few hours have passed since the vows have been exchanged?”

Dane rolled onto his back, pulling Jacqui up to straddle him. “I don’t care about all brides,” he said huskily, gripping her hips and teaching her the motion, “only the impossibly outrageous one who belongs to me.”

Jacqui shook her head, breathless with passion. “I don’t belong—”

“Yes,
chaton,
you do.” Dane dragged her mouth down to meet his, negating her protest with the erotic circling of his hips, catching Jacqui’s whimper as sunbursts of sensation shimmered through them. “You belong to me,” he said in a ragged whisper, moving deeply within her. “Legally. Physically. Totally.” He melded their bodies together, watching her expressive features glaze over with passion. “You’re mine, Jacqueline,” he breathed, repeating the words he had spoken the first time they loved. “Mine.”

All was silenced but their need to be one.

I
BEG YOUR PARDON,
madam, but I have worked for Mr. Westbrooke for five years and I happen to know he despises sweets of any kind first thing in the morning!”

Stivers’s voice, always modulated and respectful, bellowed through the halls and echoed through the house. In the study, Dane rolled his eyes to the heavens, wondering if he would
ever
catch up on the Westbrooke Shipping contracts.

“And
I
happen to know you are wrong, Herr Stivers!” Greta snapped. “Herr Westbrooke
adores
my tarts … at
any
time of day! Now, stand aside while I take some to his study. The man works far too hard; he needs to keep up his strength!”

The sound of the kitchen door slamming made Dane wince. Resignedly, he put down his quill pen and massaged his temples. His once-peaceful home hadn’t been the same all week long. But then, he was married to Jacqueline now. So had he really expected anything short of utter turmoil?

“Come in, Greta,” he called, grinning as the very walls shook with the force of her knock. He rose, bracing himself against the side of the desk as Greta marched in and deposited a tray full of strawberry tarts on top of Dane’s towering pile of paperwork.

“You must be hungry, Herr Westbrooke,” Greta declared, hands on ample hips.

“Actually, I am, Greta,” he replied, surprised to realize it was true. “What time is it?”

“It is half after ten,” she scolded, tucking a wisp of hair demurely into her bonnet. “I am off to the market. But I couldn’t leave knowing you hadn’t eaten since last night.”

Not even then,
Dane thought, wondering what Greta would say if she knew he had skipped the late-night dinner she’d kept warm for him … and why. Greta’s cooking was superb … but his new wife’s enticements were far more alluring. “Is Jacqueline awake?”

“Yes, sir. Frau Westbrooke is dressing.”

“Good.” Dane headed for the door. “Then I’ll wait and join her for breakfast.” He gave Greta a melting smile. “Could you possibly bring the tarts into the dining room so I might share them with my wife, Greta? They smell wonderful!”

Taking up the tray, Greta flushed with pride. “Of course, Herr Westbrooke. Right away.”

“Thank you, Greta. You are indispensable,” he praised, following her into the hall.

“Among other things.” Jacqui muttered the words under her breath. She paused at the foot of the stairs, shaking her head as Greta fairly flew past, humming on her way to the dining room.

Dane walked over to greet his wife. “Good morning.” He traced the small pucker between Jacqui’s brows with his forefinger. “You seem perturbed, sweet.”

“My damned housekeeper fancies herself in love with you,” she retorted with dry exasperation. “It’s positively sickening the way she fawns and fusses over you.”

“Jealous, love?” Dane rubbed his thumb across her soft lower lip, chuckling at the poisonous look that was his response. “You needn’t worry about my becoming conceited,
chaton.
You keep me humble with expressions such as the one you’re wearing now.” He kissed her lightly, his voice growing husky. “After last night, this is hardly the manner in which I expected to be greeted.”

Jacqui met his tender, heated gaze, and a small smile played about her lips. “Why not? I have been allowed a scant three hours’ sleep and every muscle in my body aches.”

“Come back to bed with me and I’ll make the ache go away.”

Jacqui stopped the progress of his arms as they reached for her. “Dane … it’s nearly eleven o’clock. Shouldn’t you be at Westbrooke Shipping?” Concealing her annoyance was nearly impossible, for if Dane remained at home her own plans would be ruined.

Jacqui pressed her fingers tightly into her palms, as if the action itself could control her need to resume what she had begun late last night. Long after Dane’s steady breathing had assured her he was in a deep slumber, Jacqui had crept from their bed and, by the light of a single candle, begun Laffey’s column on the plight of Pennsylvania’s destitute farmers and the unnecessary taxes being levied on their whiskey. She desperately wanted to complete the essay and deliver it to Bache. But she couldn’t very well do that with her very astute husband lurking about.

“I was working in my study,” Dane said, as if reading her thoughts. He frowned, thinking about the untouched contracts on his desk. “Unfortunately, there is more work to do than the hours can hold.”

“Perhaps you need to hire a larger staff,” Jacqui suggested, deciding to bide her time. She took his proffered arm and strolled toward the dining room with him.

Dane shrugged. “It’s difficult to find men who possess both the intelligence and the integrity necessary to run my business.”

“What about women?”

Dane halted in his tracks. “Pardon me?”

Jacqui’s eyes sparkled. “What about women who possess both intelligence and integrity?” She clutched his arms in excitement. “Dane, let me work for Westbrooke Shipping! I can keep the ledgers better than
any
man you could hire.” She saw his jaw tighten, saw the indecision race across his face, and her temper flared. “I see,” she said, turning away. “You profess to support my independent nature … but it is all a sham when it comes to acting upon the words.”

Dane stared at Jacqui’s stiff back in silence. She was right about his reluctance … but wrong about his reasons. He did not doubt her capabilities, nor was his vacillation caused by anything so foolish as concern over her gender. But it would be idiotic to entrust his wife with Westbrooke Shipping when he remained so unsure of her motives. For she still guarded a secret … a secret Dane knew he must learn.

Unbidden, memories of the past few nights’ passion flitted through Dane’s mind … the total, natural way Jacqui gave herself to him, the uninhibited honesty of her response to their lovemaking … and his resolve melted. How could he doubt her when, time after time and in all ways but words, she told him she loved him? Further, despite his own carefully repressed declaration, he loved her with every fiber of his being. So how could he deny her anything?

“Jacqueline.” He glided his palms over her shoulders, pulling her back against him. “Why do you want to keep my ledgers? You already keep those of Holt Trading.”

Jacqui turned in his arms. “But for how long?” she said bitterly. “If there is a way to ease me out of that responsibility, Monique will find it.”

Dane tipped her chin up, asking one of the questions that had nagged him since their wedding day. “Why do you dislike Monique Brisset so much? I should think you would be grateful for your father’s happiness.”

Jacqui’s expression hardened. “And I would be …
if
I thought Monique was worthy of his love. But I don’t trust her, Dane. I just
know
she is using my father … and that she will hurt him terribly.”

“Why? How?”

“It is simply a feeling I have. Pure instinct.” She lowered her lashes. “I realize how absurd that must sound.”

“No, it doesn’t sound absurd,” Dane surprised her by answering. “I believe wholeheartedly in listening to one’s instincts.” It struck him that his words applied to a great deal more than Jacqui’s dislike for Monique. They applied to his faith in Jacqui as well.

Dane drew Jacqui to him, pressing her face to his chest and praying that he was not playing the part of a blind, lovesick fool. “Very well,
chaton
,” he murmured. “If you wish to help me with my business, it would be an honor to have you work for Westbrooke Shipping.”

Jacqui’s head came up instantly, her face aglow. “Do you mean that?”

Dane chuckled. “You know I never say anything I don’t mean. What wages will you require?”

“Oh, I think we can come to an agreement that is amenable to us both … with regard to wages … as well as other forms of payment.”

Hearing the suggestiveness in her tone, Dane’s arms tightened about her. “Now,” he commanded.

Jacqui shook her head, her eyes dancing, and extricated herself from his hold. “Oh no, sir, I couldn’t accept any payment until I’ve proven my worth. Besides,” she began to back up toward the dining room, “I cannot work on an empty stomach. So our discussion of payment will have to wait until lat …” She broke off, laughing helplessly, as Dane lunged at her, then raced through the doorway with her husband in close pursuit.

Both Greta and Stivers stared in openmouthed shock as the master and mistress of the house exploded into the dining room, circled the table twice, and finally collided into each other near the sideboard, breathless with laughter. Stivers stood, not five feet away, totally unsure of how to react when Mr. Westbrooke took his wife in his arms and began to passionately kiss her … and she him … in broad daylight and in plain view of any onlookers.

Greta, however, harbored no such reservations. “My tarts are getting cold,” she barked in their ears.

Dane made no move to release his wife. “Thank you, Greta.” His eyes remained on Jacqui’s beautiful, flushed face. He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “Didn’t you mention being hungry,
chaton
?” he questioned softly.

“I did.”

Dane guided her to her chair and eased her into it. “Never let it be said that I allowed my wife … and the keeper of my ledgers … to starve,” he said with mock seriousness. He sank into his own chair, only to leap up just as quickly, a spitting black flash of fur beside him. “Damn it!” Dane erupted, spinning about to confront the hated offender.

Whiskey landed gracefully on the carpet, then arched his back, hissing furiously, green eyes ablaze.

“That is it!” Dane roared. “I’ve withstood all I plan to from you, you vicious little viper … this time I’m going to wring your blasted neck!”

“Dane, don’t!” Jacqui was on her feet in an instant, stepping between her raging husband and spitting kitten. “He didn’t mean anything!”

“The hell he didn’t! He
meant
to rake off a layer of my skin!”

“You nearly squashed him,” Jacqui reasoned calmly, pointing at the chair. “Else he never would have—”

“Oh no? Then what was his excuse last night when he pounced on my face, claws extended, and attempted to maul me off the bed?”

Jacqui chewed her lip to keep from laughing. “He is not accustomed to sharing a bed with anyone other than me.”

“Then he’d bloody well better
get
used to it, and quickly, if he wants to live!”

“He will.” Jacqui shot Whiskey a pointed look. “Won’t you, Whiskey?”

Whiskey hissed louder.

“Whiskey!”

This time the kitten relented, skulking out of the room with a haughty air that told Dane their war was far from over.

Jacqui placed a restraining hand on Dane’s arm. “I’m famished,” she tried. “Greta’s tarts smell heavenly.”

Dane’s body, drawn taut as a bowstring, gradually relaxed. “Very well.
This
time.” He helped Jacqui into her seat “But I don’t know why the hell you’re so attached to that reprehensible cat. He has the foulest of tempers … save those times when he’s managed to sneak into my whiskey. He’s very docile when he is inebriated.” Dane glared down at the chair cushion as if to assure himself that the distasteful kitten was indeed gone, then settled himself for breakfast.

“At least Whiskey appreciates fine liquor,” Jacqui put in brightly.

“True. Hence I shall make certain to purchase additional spirits in order to accommodate your cat’s unusual preferences.”

“If you do that, the farmers will have additional taxes to pay, based on the system devised by your friend Secretary Hamilton.”

Dane slammed his untouched cup of coffee back into its saucer, splashing dark splotches of liquid onto the snow-white tablecloth. “Jacqueline, don’t start!”

Jacqui bit into her strawberry tart. “Treading where I oughtn’t, am I?”

Dane tossed his unused napkin onto the table. “I spent the greater part of the morning listening to your maid browbeat my poor, unsuspecting manservant. Following that, I was subject to your misplaced theories on my opinions of women and their abilities, not to mention being questioned for choosing to work in my own home today. I was then nearly maimed by your alcoholic feline and now you are preparing to begin a tirade spouting your bloody unrealistic, radical views.” He stormed to his feet. “Perhaps you were right after all. Perhaps I
should
do the remainder of my work at the office. At least there I can have some peace. If not of mind, then of spirit.”