Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed (14 page)

This didn’t make sense. “But he’s a duke.”

“I’m the only one of the three officially declared a bastard. The other two are merely the result of questionable unions that have kept tongues wagging for years. Because their fathers acknowledged them, Cam and Richard
retained their rights and privileges. Cam’s mother overflowed with such family feeling, she shared her favors equally with the late duke and his younger brother. Nobody, apparently including the duchess, knows who fathered Cam, although at least his blood is unquestionably Rothermere. It’s a complete mystery who sired Richard Harmsworth. His mother never admitted who shared her bed, but when she produced Richard sixteen months after her husband left for St. Petersburg, her adultery was revealed. The late Sir Lester Harmsworth recognized the child as his in the absence of another heir, but there’s never been much doubt that he was absent at Richard’s conception.”

The anger she’d felt over Jonas’s indifference toward Roberta stirred anew. She surged to her feet and glared at him. “I would have thought you’d be the last person to crow over another man’s illegitimacy.”

He shrugged without rising. “Perhaps I appreciate having such exalted company on my dunghill.”

“That’s horrible. And mean-spirited.”

“You sound disappointed,
bella.
” His tone was snide.

She blinked away tears. She knew it wasn’t the right time to challenge him. Whatever his feelings about his old schoolfellow—she still couldn’t decide whether they were cohorts or opponents—the duke’s visit had left Merrick in a prickly humor. “I thought you were a better man.”

He laughed without amusement. “I told you I have no scruples. Dark deeds built my empire,
tesoro
. If the dark deeds harmed my cousin’s prospects at the same time, all the better.”

“I’m sure it can’t be helped,” she said sarcastically.

“Ah.” He surveyed her out of unreadable steel-gray eyes. “So that’s what’s got you all het up.”

“I can probably blame you for each of Roberta’s bruises,” she said, not trying to spare his feelings. “The mention of your name turns William into a maddened bull.”

If Merrick were a cat, his tail would lash in warning. “Do you hope for some expression of regret?”

She should step away and wait until they were both calmer. But some imp pushed her to needle him. “I’d like a return of the sister I remember, not the wreck she’s become after eight years as William’s wife.”

He sighed and turned to stare out the windows at the encroaching night. His tone became less confrontational. “If it’s any consolation, I suspect William would have beaten his wife, whether I’d existed as a thorn in his side or not. He’s a born bully. Even before he officially became the Hillbrook heir, he was cruel to animals and smaller children. My father banned him from the house before he was seven for torturing a tenant’s son with a branding iron.”

Sidonie was angry enough to ask the question that had troubled her since her first night at Castle Craven. “How did you get your scars, Jonas?”

He glanced back at her, his features a mask of inscrutability. “The results of a misspent youth. I was attacked before I knew how to defend myself from those seeking my destruction. I’ve learned better since.”

And those defenses were well and truly raised against her right now; she knew without him having to tell her. It must be as she suspected. He’d been scarred somewhere on the Continent when he traveled with his father. “Is that all you have to say?”

His stern expression didn’t ease. “Yes, I think it is.”

She marched toward the door with a dismissive flick of
her skirts. “Then I can only echo His Grace’s sentiments. May you and your secrets go to the devil.”

The beautiful, mobile lips twitched as he stepped forward to open the door for her. “I’ve been the devil’s minion for years,
carissima.
Never deceive yourself on that count.”

S
idonie’s eyelids drooped with weariness by the time Merrick joined her upstairs. It was past midnight, and she still wore the blue dress she’d put on earlier. She sat up in one of the gilded chairs by the blazing fire, determined to stay awake. Never again would he catch her unawares as he had last night. She’d wanted to stay angry with him after the way he’d rebuffed her in the library but he’d been such an urbane companion over dinner, her barbs had found no purchase against his smooth facade. It was difficult to keep sniping at someone who returned no reaction to one’s resentment.

Ostensibly she’d been reading for hours, but emotional turmoil scattered concentration. So much had happened today, her mind buzzed with questions and anxiety. Kisses, deepening attraction, confessions, the duke’s visit, William’s threats. And uncertainty about what would happen tonight. How could the rather insipid Edward Waverley hold her attention when fascinating Jonas Merrick might arrive any moment to share her bed?

After leaving the dining room, she’d made a halfhearted attempt to find somewhere else to sleep. But Merrick hadn’t exaggerated when he’d described most of the castle as uninhabitable. Since their picnic, the Turkish bower had been cleared of furniture and there was no fire in the dressing room with its much-maligned cot. Even so, she’d briefly considered taking some blankets from the bedroom and sleeping there, until she realized it was the first place Merrick would seek her. Hiding only put off the inevitable. And she’d promised to remain available to him, curse him.

She heard the door snick open. Nerves jumping like grasshoppers, she raised her head from the book she wasn’t reading. In his red robe, Merrick looked the soul of decadence. One hand curled around a half-full decanter of brandy and two crystal glasses dangled from the other. As he stepped into the room, the ruby ring flashed in the candlelight.

Insidious attraction rippled through her and her nipples tightened against her silky shift. “I hope you’re not naked under that,” she said before she could remind herself that his state of undress wasn’t the wisest choice of topic.

The erratic humor that always caught at her heart lit his face to brilliance. As he smiled, his white teeth were startling against his dark features. For a breathtaking interval, she didn’t see the scarring; she just saw a dazzlingly handsome man.

“Miss Forsythe, again you put me to the blush.”

She prayed he didn’t guess how her body hummed with awareness. She was appallingly vulnerable to him, especially at times like this when he wasn’t acting the rake but was purely his provoking, intriguing self.

“I don’t want you sleeping here.” With effort she kept her voice even, although her hands were unsteady as she shut the morocco-bound volume and placed it on the mahogany table at her elbow.

Merrick wandered across the room with a casual air she knew to mistrust. He set the glasses on the dressing table and filled them. “Don’t you?” he asked idly, approaching to pass her a brandy.

“No,” she said with lamentable lack of force. She’d expected more reaction to her statement. Raising her chin with a defiance that felt utterly manufactured, she accepted the glass. “No, I don’t.”

The only sounds were the fire’s crackle and the rain slamming against the curtained windows. The weather reminded her of the night she’d arrived, when she offered herself to degradation. Instead she’d found… what? She wasn’t sure she knew.

With the same unhurried air, he chose the chair on the opposite side of the marble hearth and sat with a flourish of red silk. She noticed as his robe parted that he wore loose gray trousers beneath. Relief tinged her next breath.

“Very well,” he said, still in that suspiciously mild voice.

This was all too easy. She drank to fortify failing courage, the brandy burning her throat. “So you’ll leave me alone?”

A smile teased his lips as he raised his glass in a toast. She tried not to watch the working of his strong throat as he drank. She sucked in a breath, but still her chest felt constricted. Air suddenly seemed in short supply.

“Of course not. You’d be disappointed if I did.” Laughter added such warmth to his words that she longed to extend her hands toward the heat.

Stop it, Sidonie.

“I’d live,” she said drily. “You said you’d cooperate.”

“No, I merely acknowledged your wishes.”

“You’d make a wonderful politician,” she said caustically.

“Come,
tesoro
. You know I won’t leave you alone tonight. This morning I woke in your arms. It’s a privilege I won’t willingly forgo.”

For one treacherous moment, she remembered how cherished and safe she’d felt lying next to him. When the last place she was safe was in bed with Merrick. Bracing her shoulders against the chair, she stared him down. She hoped he couldn’t see past her stalwart exterior to her susceptible heart. This new uninvolved Merrick left her drowning in a morass of confusion. She’d lay money he wasn’t nearly as tranquil as he pretended. When she met his silvery eyes, she saw the distance had returned. It made her want to scratch and kick at him until he returned to her.

Which was absurd. He’d never been with her. Not in any meaningful sense.

This was the third night from the mere week Sidonie had granted. Impatience tightened Jonas’s gut. Cam’s unwelcome visit had reminded him that he had only this short interval before the outside world shattered their isolation. Confound him for an arrogant dog, but he’d imagined she’d be under him by now. He had no difficulty reading the expressions flickering across her lovely face. Bewilderment. Irritation. Determination boding ill for his nefarious plans.

None the reaction he wanted.

He wanted melting surrender.

“You imagine you’ve got me where you want,” she said sharply.

“You can trust my honor,” he said, meaning it although he wished it wasn’t so. This awkward chivalry worked against all his predatory intentions. “Until you say yes, you’re safe enough.”

After a revealing pause, she spoke. “I won’t say yes.” She sounded sure, but he noted how her hand clenched in her blue skirts.

The fire blazing at his back was damned hot, no matter that it was cold as an ice storm in hell outside. Or perhaps he should blame the heat on his rampant lust. Jonas slouched in his chair and released the shoulder fastening on his robe.

“A gentleman would—” Any stricture faded and her gaze seared the triangle of skin under his open robe. She looked at him as she’d look at her first meal after a month of starvation. She looked at him as though he were a clear pool of water in the Sahara. It was like she touched him, although she remained decorously across the hearth.

Oh, Sidonie, stop torturing yourself. Stop torturing me. What use virtue if it smothers all passion?

She blinked as if returning to the real world and he saw the effort she made to wrench her attention from his chest. She lifted her gaze to his face, but he knew she didn’t really see him. His heart pounded like a drum and his grip on his glass threatened its destruction. If he’d guessed his nakedness would conjure this incendiary effect, he’d have run around bare-arsed the past three days. No matter that it was November and the wind off the sea cut like a saber.

He lurched forward to correct the slant of her glass. She seemed unaware of anything beyond the sexual energy blazing between them.

She blushed at his action and straightened against the
gold upholstery. He was a cad to delight in her confusion, but she had him in such a maelstrom, he was devilish tickled not to suffer alone. Her eyes were glazed, her cheeks flushed. She licked her lips, leaving them glistening and, oh, so kissable.

Her voice was husky. “Sir, I…”

Damn this. He stood and prowled across to retrieve her glass before she spilled brandy over her pretty dress. Her fingers trembled as she pulled free.

“Shh.” He placed the glass on the side table. Ignoring her discouraging posture, he started to take down her hair.

She batted at his hands. “Merrick! Stop it.”

“Calm,
bella
.” He stood before her, blocking any escape.

“I won’t be calm,” she snapped, trying ineffectually to stop him spreading the mane of hair over her shoulders. It crinkled after its confinement and caught the firelight, shining gold and brown and red, the rich colors of autumn.

“Sir? Merrick?” he chided gently, reluctantly raising his attention from her cleavage and reaching for her hand. He felt the soft quiver of uncertainty undercutting her outrage. “You know my name.”

Her voice resonated with wariness. “What are you up to?”

He urged her to stand. As expected, she pulled back against the chair. “Preparing to kiss you goodnight,
bella
.”

She cast him a look of smoldering dislike, which did nothing to hide the hunger darkening her eyes to starlit black. “Please leave this room.”

“Harsh, Miss Forsythe, harsh. Exiling me to a cold and
lonely chamber on a night that would freeze the balls off a marble statue.”

She blushed at his profanity. “Mrs. Bevan will lay you a fire.”

“Cruel as well as harsh. I’d lack the soul of charity to disturb her slumbers.”

“You haven’t got a soul.”