Suzanne Robinson (6 page)

“I got dusting to do, my lord.”

“I saw you.”

“My lord?”

“I saw you dusting. Diligently dusting. Forget the dusting.”

His lips were drawing closer and closer. Liza’s courage vanished. Bending almost double, she shoved her head under his arm and dove for freedom. She would have succeeded if he hadn’t twisted around and slipped an arm about her waist.

With a teasing laugh, he scooped her up and spun in a circle. Liza shrieked and closed her eyes to shut out the spinning room. The spinning stopped, but she was flying in the air. She cried out again, fearing a hard landing on the floor, but her body landed on cushions.

Eyes flying open, she found herself sprawled on the couch by the windows. A knee planted itself beside her thigh. An expanse of white shirt blocked her view as another knee shoved between her thighs. Air rushed out of her lungs when Jocelin Marshall lay down upon her body. Too startled to move, Liza stared up at him.

She found her voice and snapped at him as she would a disobedient dog. “Get off me at once.”

He didn’t bother to answer. His gaze was fixed on her breasts, which jutted forth with the aid of all the stuffing over them. He was going to touch her. Dear God, she had to stop him before he realized she was all padding.

“They told me you was a bleeding degenerate,” she cried as she began to shove him off her. “You ain’t going to do no perversions on me.”

His head came up then. All trace of humor vanished, and he jammed her back down on the couch by the weight of his body. Catching her wrists, he subdued her struggles and stuck his face close to hers.

“So, you’ve been gossiping about me with the
others. What did they tell you? Did they tell you about my women? Did they tell you how many?”

“No!”

He wasn’t listening, she could tell. In less than a second the viscount vanished. She knew when it happened, for after her denial, his eyes had changed. No more amusement, no mockery. The gunfighter was back, with his assessing, duelist’s stare. Silence filled the room, broken only by her labored breathing. Afraid to challenge him again, she waited. She shouldn’t have, for his gaze dropped to her breasts again, and then his weight settled on her.

“Been a long, long trip, honey.”

“No.”

He wasn’t listening again, for his knee shoved against the inside of her thigh, pressing her legs apart. Truly frightened now, she was caught between the desire to scream for help and the need to keep her disguise intact. He got her legs apart and settled between them.

“My lord, no. You said you didn’t, not with servants, and I don’t want to.”

“You will.” He held her wrists with one hand and touched his fingertip to her lips. “One thing you learn out west, good loving is scarce. You got to take it when you find it.”

“No!”

His hand wandered to her hip, then brushed down her thigh. Unfortunately, there was no padding to protect her when he slipped his hand under her skirts. His hand was warm as it caressed her ankle.

“You got small ankles for such a plump little thing.”

She kicked, dislodging his hand, but again he seemed not to notice her reluctance. Then it came to
her. He wasn’t going to stop. He’d forgotten where he was, who he was. She could tell by his drawl, by the way he moved his body, all loose-limbed and snakelike, but deliberate.

She raised her voice. “My lord, you must stop.”

“Why?”

She met his gaze and encountered ruthlessness fed by something fierce and unknown, something that caused his skin to burn and his hips to move against her in a way she’d never experienced. In that moment she knew that none of her reasons, based as they were on propriety and honor, mattered to this man. If she couldn’t stop him some other way, he would take what he wanted. He’d been doing it for too long in places where civilization wasn’t even a word.

“You—you can’t.” Where were her wits?

“Yes, I can. Now be quiet. Soon that whining’ll change to moaning. Then I won’t mind you making noise.”

“Ah-hum.”

She started at the sound of another voice. At the same time, Jocelin Marshall sprang off her, slapped his hand to his hip, where a holster should have been, and turned to face Loveday. She scrambled off the couch. Loveday regarded his employer calmly, his hands full with a brush and a shining top hat. Liza glanced uneasily from the younger man to the older. The viscount stared at the valet, his brow furrowed.

“Our new evening outfit has come from the tailor, my lord. If we are to have dinner in Grosvenor Square, we must try our new raiment to be sure of the fit.”

“Grosvenor Square,” the viscount said as if he’d never heard the words.

“Indeed, my lord. Lady Georgiana and her grace
have both sent notes. Lady Georgiana spoke to me herself and expressly asked me to beg of you not to be late, as she has missed your lordship greatly.”

“Lady—my sister.”

As Loveday spoke, the viscount blinked several times, then glanced quickly at Liza. His hand balled into a fist. He straightened, assuming a military stance, and placed the fist behind his back.

“Thank you, Loveday. I shan’t be late.”

“I assume Miss Gamp may go about her other duties?” Loveday asked.

“Of course.”

Liza’s mouth almost fell open as the gunfighter vanished again beneath the cloak of a bored nobleman. Without another glance at her, the viscount turned his back and walked to the desk. When she left, he was idly perusing the stack of invitations lying upon it as if his greatest concern was whether he would have time to visit his club tonight.

T
he plump and peevish maid had vanished from Jocelin’s thoughts. His family had accomplished this feat, though for a few hours he hadn’t thought it possible even for the Marshalls. Yet here he was, listening to the perpetually hesitant rustle of his mother’s skirts as she left the dining room, followed by the clicking of Georgiana’s slippers against the floorboards. When the doors closed, he abandoned his officer’s posture. Slouching down in his chair, he opened his coat, rested his ankle on his knee, and stuck his thumbs in his waistband.

He cocked his head and aimed a lazy, gunslinger’s smile at his father, who scowled at him in silence because the butler was offering him port.

Jocelin shook his head at the proffered decanter. “Whiskey, please, Vincent.”

When Vincent was gone, Jocelin downed his whiskey in one gulp.

“A sot’s drink,” the duke said.

Jocelin poured himself another glass and lifted it to his father. “To your newfound good sense in not inviting Yale this evening.”

“I wanted to talk to you, not fight to keep you from murdering my brother in front of me, sir.”

“As I said, good sense.”

The duke shook his white head and glared at Jocelin. He had the straight Marshall nose, so well suited for looking down at others. He looked down it now at his son.

“I’ll not argue with you. I sent for you because I’ve had enough of this useless wandering of yours. With—with Charles dead, it’s up to you to marry and produce an heir.”

Jocelin lifted a brow. “You sent for me?”

“Don’t be any more difficult than you must,” the duke said. “I sent a letter months ago.”

“Do you really think I came home because you told me to?” Jocelin smiled at his father’s consternation. “I came home because my business in America was finished, and I had more here in London.”

“You mean you grew tired of picking gunfights with barbarians and frequenting the company of red savages.”

Jocelin took a sip of whiskey and surveyed his father over the rim of the glass. Slowly he placed the whiskey on the tablecloth and traced its cut glass with the tip of a finger.

“I had business that needed attending to here,” he said, “and I’m not getting married, ever.”

The duke rose and walked down the length of the dining table to stand by Jocelin. He leaned over his son, his hand gripping the back of Jocelin’s chair.

“I thought you’d say that.”

Jocelin’s fingers tightened their grip on his whiskey glass, uneasy at his father’s ferociously pleased expression.

“I have but one answer for you,” the duke said. He paused, drawing out the suspense. Finally he went on. “If you don’t do your duty, the title will go to Yale.”

Silence fell once again. Jocelin lowered his lashes and held himself still. Ice colder than that of the Never Summer Range settled over the burning core of rage that served as his heart. He tried to think clearly. In his hatred of Yale, he’d never considered what would happen if his uncle inherited the title, and along with it all that wealth and power. Yale would use that wealth and power to prey on other innocents. Disgusted with his father’s ruthlessness, he retreated further into the protection of his gunfighter role, but the duke had caught him unaware. He didn’t quite succeed.

Lifting his gaze to the pale green eyes of his opponent, he whispered, “May God damn you to everlasting hell.”

“I’m so glad you understand your position.”

Jocelin took another sip of whiskey and gave his father a nasty smile. “I understand, but you don’t. I’m going to choose her.” He lapsed into his drawl. “And just think of what I’m going to bring home, Daddy.”

The duke straightened and looked down on his son. “For tonight I’m satisfied with one victory.”

Jocelin didn’t answer. He rose, snatched up his glass, and sauntered to the door.

“Mother and Georgiana are waiting.”

“You will marry, Jocelin.”

He turned on the duke, who took a step back upon perceiving the expression on his face.

“You’re such a God-fearing old fool. Don’t you shrink at what the Almighty will do to you for condemning a woman to marriage with me?”

“You exaggerate.”

Jocelin laughed. “Do I?” His voice lowered to a catlike hiss. “I’m all that is corruption dear sire. The queen says so. Wickedness and depravity lie down with me each night.” He put a hand on his father’s arm and leaned closer in confidentiality. “If you don’t believe me, ask Yale.”

When it was obvious the duke had no reply, Jocelin bowed and allowed his father to precede him into the drawing room. He went to his mother, who was running a scent bottle under her nose and dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She held out a trembling hand to him.

“My dear boy, how I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too, Mother.”

His gaze ran over her. She cultivated a pale complexion, so it was difficult to judge whether her pallor was due to frailty or powder. He regretted leaving her, for she needed someone who could stand up to the duke for her. She was still in mourning for his older brother, though he’d been dead for three years.

“You must help me deal with your sister,” the duchess said.

Jocelin glanced at Georgiana, who was thumbing through the pages of
The Times
with a deliberateness that warned him of trouble. She lifted her head and gazed at him over the gold rims of her spectacles.
They had both inherited the Marshall black hair and startling green eyes.

“Don’t smirk at me, you little curse,” he said. “What have you done?”

“Nothing, Jos, nothing at all.”

“It will be the death of me, her come-out,” the duchess said on a moan as she waved her scent bottle under her nose again.

“Mother, she’s too young to come out.”

The duke spoke up. “Nonsense. Next year she’ll be eighteen. The perfect age to marry. Not too young to have some judgment, not too old to be guided by her husband.”

“It’s not her age,” the duchess said. She touched her handkerchief to her lips, and tears made her eyes glassy. “It’s what she’s planning.”

The duke poured a cup of coffee and brought it to his wife. “Now, now, Delia, you mustn’t listen to her. She only says such things to set you in a twitter.”

Jocelin marched over to his sister and planted himself beside her on the sofa. Plucking the newspaper from her hands, he tossed it on the floor.

He turned her to face him and said, “Out with it. What are you about, little curse?”

“I don’t want to come out, Jos. I don’t want to get married and have to obey every whim of some strange man, go where he wants to go, do what he wants to do, sit at home while he carouses at his clubs and plays with …” Georgiana glanced at her mother. “Other ladies.”

Jocelin stared at his sister. “Where did you learn about such things?”

“Don’t spout that superior-male drivel at me, Jocelin Paul Marshall.” Georgiana pushed her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose and sniffed.
“Married women have no rights. Just look at Mother. She can only buy things if Father approves, read things he finds acceptable.”

“But it’s only proper that she be guided by his judgment,” Jocelin said. “She wouldn’t know how to decide such things for herself. She’d come over faint at having to deal with business affairs and politics. A woman’s mind is a delicate thing, unsuited for such heavy matters.”

Georgiana gave him a disgusted look. “I’ve solved the problem though.”

“What problem?”

“The problem of having to marry. I’m going to marry an old man.”

Jocelin grinned. “How old? Twenty-five? Thirty?”

“No, you simpleton. Eighty or ninety.”