Swept Away By a Kiss (26 page)

Valerie schooled her expression. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, Miss Brown. It has undoubtedly suffered worse.” Her gaze went to the Bible. “Do you read French, then?”

“French, my lady?”

Valerie cocked a brow. “Why, yes. This Bible is in French translation.”

Miss Brown stared at Valerie, eyes unblinking.

“But perhaps you did not have time to notice that before I startled you?” Valerie said, pasting a gracious smile upon her lips. “Do tell Lady March I am devastated her brooch has gone missing. I will inform Mabel, and if we come across it I will return it immediately.”

The woman moved toward the door. “I apologize for having disturbed you, my lady.”

“It’s nothing, Miss Brown. Do not mind it a bit. I am glad to have met you, in fact. Lady March sings your praises. Good afternoon.” Valerie shut the door.

She dashed to the night table and grabbed up the Bible. Her fingers shuffled swiftly through the thin pages, searching.

Trembling seized her. She threw down the book and gripped her hands into fists. There was nothing there. He had given it to her as a gift, pure and simple.

Valerie turned to the wardrobe. Drawing in a deep breath, she reached into the press and drew out a gown of sheer white silk shimmering with silver embroidery and tiny sequins. She laid it out in her dressing room beside a note for Mabel to press it for the evening.

But first, if she was to truly shine tonight, she needed sleep. Drawing off her riding habit, she went to the bed and curled up beneath the covers.

The sword sparkled in candlelight, suspended above the gray granite altar. She grasped the hilt, smoothing her fingers along the cold steel, gripped, and swung the blade downward. Metal reverberated against stone, but the blade remained whole, the altar unblemished, and she felt nothing.

She swiveled to face her opponent. Above his black, concealing mask, his hair shone like gilded bronze in the candle’s glow. Her sword arm rose again with deadly purpose. He mirrored her movements, lifting his blade tip to shoulder height. Then he laughed and pulled off his mask.

She screamed, and the madman laughed again, the sound echoing across the hillside as his pale blue stare drew her forward, his clawlike fingers curling in anticipation. Upon his shirtfront a stain soaked outward from the skin, arcing in a crimson crescent from his heart across the pristine, starched white fabric to the hilt of the carving knife embedded in his belly
.

Valerie’s sobs woke her. She opened her eyes wide, staring at the canopy and willing away the horrifying images.

Her dreams had grown worse since coming to Castlemarch. She wished she could talk to Valentine about them, or Anna. But she hadn’t told them about Bebain. Not the truth, at least, and nothing about Etienne. They would not understand about the dreams. They would think she was mad.

She wanted to tell the man she had known aboard the corsair. She longed to talk with him, to truly talk. Damn his changeable self, she longed for him. Etienne. Steven.

On the ship that day he demanded she call him by his real name, then he held her in his arms and touched her with a hunger she’d never felt from any other man. In her confusion of pleasure she barely wondered why he wanted her to speak that name.

Valerie gulped back the tightness in her throat and sat up, dashing the tears from her cheeks. Tears were for foolish girls. She must remain clearheaded.

She climbed from bed. At the mirror she studied the drawn skin beneath her eyes before meeting her gaze. Need stared back at her.

She did not care who or what he was, or what he called himself. She was in love with him. She had loved him for months and she still wanted him, with a desperation beyond bearing. Not because of who he was or wasn’t, his lies or subterfuge. He could be the local country vicar, a highwayman, or the king himself and she would still want him until the day she died.

He did something to her, stirred a passion in her soul. In those fleeting moments when his mask faltered, as in the drawing room after his battle with Lord Hannsley, she saw a hunger in his eyes equal to her own. Hunger that went far beneath skin, beyond flesh and blood.

He might try to push her away again. But tonight, she would not let him. And if he resisted, she would bribe him.

Chapter 25

December 22, 1810

THE RIGHT HONBLE. THE VISCOUNT ASHFORD

CASTLEMARCH, DERBYSHIRE

My lord,

I have discovered information regarding Mr. F’s debts to The Gentleman that I must relate to you. It would not be advisable to convey this by the post. Additionally, a messenger from Saint-Pierre awaits your instructions. Can you come to London immediately?

Bernard Farthing, Esq.
Farthing and Cooper Solicitors
Fleet Street, London

Steven placed a steadying hand upon the marble mantel of his bedchamber hearth. An unusual gesture for him, to be sure, but the news was not what he hoped for, although unfortunately what he suspected.

Anyway, he needed the support. He’d drunk too much brandy after leaving his dinner largely untouched. Insanely foolish of him, given the circumstances, but too tempting not to indulge.

Tonight she had been radiant.

Throughout the evening, when he managed to tear his gaze away from her, Steven had watched the other men watching her. One after another they sought her attention, finding ways to be near her, to touch her under pretense of some gallantry or necessity. Even the married men came under her spell, casting her appreciative looks behind their wives’ backs. Only her brother had regarded her with something less than pleasure. He looked worried. Steven had noticed that and refilled his glass.

Despite the attention she received, Valerie did not show special interest in any one man. She was friendly with Bramfield, but not markedly so.

Steven’s fingers pressed into the mantel’s edge.

The Honorable Timothy Ramsay, Viscount Bramfield. Genial, stalwart bastion of the English aristocracy with nary a blemish upon his clear white skin or pristine noble lineage.

As at breakfast, Bramfield’s gaze had followed Valerie all evening. Steven guessed the fellow’s thoughts, how her sea-blue eyes glowing with affection and trust could enchant a man. Once she had looked at him that way, at the priest he pretended to be. Then he betrayed her.

He glanced down at the missive from his solicitor. He must go to town, to leave her again, if only for a day. Merely a foretaste of what was to come, a preview of his eternal, unwelcome reprieve from madness.

A metallic click sounded on the other side of the chamber. Steven stilled, his muscles tensing, gaze flickering to the sword propped against a chair, close enough if needed. The bronze doorknob glinted in the firelight as it turned. A crack of light from the corridor lit the threshold. Valerie slipped inside and closed the panel behind her, pressing her back against it and turning the key in the lock.

“You are here,” she said, her voice breathless but level. Of course it was level. She was no shrinking violet, especially not when engaged in a daring escapade.

Steven commanded his racing pulse to steady. Her color was high, her shimmering gown taut across her perfect breasts, her eyes luminous in the firelight. If only he had a knife handy. It would be easier, after all, to cut out his heart right away than to endure the torture he suspected was about to come.

“Indeed I am,” he said coolly, leaning against the mantel. “It is half past one at night and this is my bedchamber. The issue, however, is not whether I am here, but that you are.”

She moved forward a step. Her gaze shifted around the chamber, then to the dressing room door before returning to him squarely. “Are you alone?”

“What are you doing here?” His voice was hard, but Valerie expected that. He stood in his shirtsleeves and trousers, the creased page of a letter in his hand. The fire illumined the chamber with wavering light, gilding his hair and casting his skin in a warm glow. His eyes were icy.

“The door was unlocked,” she said, heart slamming against her ribs.

“That hardly gives you leave to enter uninvited.”

“It seems careless of you not to lock it.”

“Your presence here proves it. What do you want?”

Valerie had silently practiced her speech all evening, searching out the opportunity to give it to him. When the party dispersed, she determined to see it through even if it meant this. But now that she was here, with him before her, breathtakingly handsome in the firelit intimacy of his bedchamber, her thoughts tangled. The only honest answer she could give was that she wanted to be in his arms.

“I want the same thing you want.”

He hesitated only the briefest moment before replying, “Do not presume to know what I want.”

But the missed beat sufficed for Valerie. Now the Marquess of Hannsley, Alistair Flemming, and the entire underworld of villainy would have to wait. This was not the opportunity she had sought for a day, but the one she had ached for since she first laid eyes upon Etienne La Marque.

She took a step forward. “I know you don’t want Sylvia Sinclaire.”

One brow lifted. “We have been attending to the endeavors of others, have we?”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

“You invade my private chambers in the middle of the night, then hand me orders? Your breeding is not what I imagined, my dear. Nor is your judgment.”

“You don’t care about my breeding. You don’t care about anyone’s breeding.” She moved toward him, pulse pounding in her throat where he must see it. “And my judgment is perfectly fine. I recognize desire in a man’s eyes.”

“Do you also recognize words upon a man’s tongue? Words such as leave now.”

“No.” She gulped in a breath and halted before him. His body was rigid. Steeling herself, she laid her hand upon his chest. Warmth stole through her, exhilarating. She slipped her fingers beneath the loosened laces of his shirt. He did not move.

“Give me what I want,” she said, unsurprised at the husky quality of her voice. Her fingertips were alive with pleasure, darting deep through her. His body, smooth and taut, intoxicated her. His heart beat hard and fast against her palm.

“Ah, I begin to see.” His tone was silken. “The scandalous young maiden has not yet given way to the respectable society matron she hopes to become someday.” He lifted a hand and traced a finger along her jaw to her lower lip. It was the barest touch, but sizzles of honeyed pleasure swirled up Valerie’s legs, twining in her core.

“You are talking to hear yourself speak,” she gasped as he trailed his fingers to the edge of her bodice, his touch burning her skin with sweet fire even as it remained light. “I don’t need words now.”

“What do you need, then, my lady?”

“I need—”

His hand slipped beneath her bodice, bringing her nipple to a quick, tight peak. She sighed and leaned forward. His touch felt even better than her heated memory recalled, as though her flesh had been made for him alone.

He bent his head and whispered against her cheek, “You need what Bramfield will not give you until he has put a ring upon your finger.” He grasped her waist and dragged her to him. His body was unyielding, his arousal hard against her abdomen. Valerie’s throat closed. She nodded, entirely awakened to him, heat flooding her.

“He fears to lose you.” Steven’s voice came close at her ear. “He fears his passion will not match yours, and that you will tire of him before you are safely his by law.”

His hands slipped down, curving around her bottom and pulling her flush against him from shoulder to knee. Valerie grabbed at his chest, twining her hands in the soft linen shirt as sweet sensation coursed through her, dipping between her legs in hot coils of anticipation.

“He fears you have not changed.” He stroked her thighs, slow, measured caresses to her waist then down again. “He fears that even if he wins you, once you speak your vows, you will cuckold him.”

“I would not,” Valerie uttered upon a ragged breath. “He is a decent man.”

“Then what are you doing here? Why aren’t you with him right now?”

She looked up, and his eyes seared her.