Sylvia Day - [Georgian 03] (5 page)

“You could take her from the other man,” Jacques said.

He knew that, too. Had felt the wavering in her as they had danced and then again when they had kissed.

“I wish I’d never followed Cartland that night!” Colin growled, the frustration inside him a writhing, powerful thing. “Everything would be different.”

She would be in his bed now, writhing and arching beneath him as he rode her hard and deep, awakening the wanton he sensed was waiting just beneath the surface. In his mind, he could hear her voice hoarse from crying out his name, her satin skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

He would push her beyond reason, take her body places she never knew it could go . . .

“The twists in our lives happen for a reason,” Jacques said, returning to the desk and sitting across from him. “I could have lived the whole of my life without leaving France, yet I was destined to follow you here.”

Colin pushed the lewd images from his thoughts and opened his eyes. “You are a good man, Jacques, to carry your debt beyond the grave.”

“Monsieur Leroux saved the life of my sister and with her, the life of my niece,” he said quietly. “I cannot proceed knowing his murderer has not paid for the crime.”

“And how do we make him pay?”

The Frenchman smiled, bringing warmth to his hard features. “I would like to kill him, but that would put you at a marked disadvantage. With me as your only witness, you would find it extremely difficult to prove your innocence.”

Colin said nothing to that. Jacques had already helped far beyond what he had any right to ask.

“So he must confess.” Jacques shrugged. “I will take what pleasure I can from doing whatever is necessary to garner that confession.”

Nodding, Colin looked toward the window. Night had fallen hours ago. Shortly, he could leave and make discreet inquiries in his efforts to find Cartland before the man found him. But first, he would need some rest. “I will retire for a few hours, then set out and see what I can discover. Someone will have a loose tongue, to be sure. I just have to find him.”

“Perhaps you should contact the man you worked for here,” Jacques said carefully. “The one who directs Quinn.”

Colin had never met Lord Eddington, never exchanged a word or correspondence. All communications passed through Quinn, and as far as Colin knew, Eddington was unaware of the identities of the men working under Quinn. There would be no way to prove that he was a confidant. “No. That is not possible,” he said grimly. “We do not know one another.”

The Frenchman blinked, apparently so taken aback by the news that he lapsed into his native language.
“Vraiment?”

“Truly.”

“Well, then . . . that rules out that course of action.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, it does.” He pushed to his feet. “We will talk more when I awake.”

Jacques inclined his head in agreement and waited until Colin had left the room. Then he moved to the desk, where he opened a drawer and pulled out the white half mask.

Colin would not be attending any balls or masquerades, so his continuing possession of the mask betrayed its sentimental value. Jacques had watched his new friend with Miss Benbridge and knew the woman meant a great deal.

So he would watch her when he could and keep her safe, if possible. If God was kind, Jacques would finish his task, Cartland would have his comeuppance, and Colin would have the woman he loved.

 

As a child, Amelia had learned how to socialize with giants.

Of course, at that time, they had been imaginary. The man standing before her was quite real, but she knew he was the same sort of giant as the one in her mind—gentle and kind beneath a gruff, formidable exterior.

“This is extortion!” Tim cried, looming over her.

Amelia set a hand at her neck to rub the ache caused by craning so far back. “No,” she denied. “Not really. Extortion gives you only one choice. I am offering you options.”

“I don’t like yer options.” He crossed his great arms over his barrel chest.

“I do not blame you. I don’t care for them very much either.”

She moved toward the nearby padded window seat. The upper family parlor was packed with people, all employees of St. John. Some played cards, others talked and laughed boisterously, and still others napped where they sat, exhausted from running errands all day long.

“It would have been much easier for everyone if the man had simply stated his intentions directly.” Amelia shook out her skirts of yellow shot silk taffeta and settled as comfortably as possible in her evening attire. “But he did not, and so we must guess. I am not very good at guessing, Tim. I haven’t the patience for it.”

Looking up at him from beneath her lashes, she smiled prettily.

Tim snorted and scowled. “Don’t you ’ave something else to worry your ’ead o’er? Wedding gowns and such?”

“No. Not really.”

She should be consumed with the planning of her forthcoming nuptials. From waking to sleeping she should have no time for anything else. It was the most anticipated match of the Season and, if she maneuvered well, it could be a wonderful launch for her new position as a future marchioness.

Instead she was consumed by thoughts of her masked admirer. She was tenacious when intrigued and told herself that if she could only discern the man’s motives, she would be free to concentrate on more pressing matters.

It was prewedding nervousness. The need for one last peccadillo. A farewell to childhood whimsy.

She shook her head. There were a hundred names she gave to why she was so distracted by the masked Montoya. But the reason’s true identity eluded her.

“Well,
yer
not doing any searching,” Tim grumbled. “Not on my watch.”

“Fine,” she said agreeably. “Just inform me when you find him.”

“No.” Tim’s jaw took on that obstinate cant that was more bark than bite. He wore green wool trousers this evening and a black waistcoat trimmed with green thread. It was the most colorful ensemble she had ever seen him wear. His coarse gray hair was restrained in a braided queue, and his Vandyke was neatly trimmed.

Amelia adored him for the effort, knowing the care he displayed was due entirely to affection for her. He wanted to make her proud while he was following her about at the Rothschild ball this evening. He would not be attending, of course, merely watching from the outside perimeter, yet he’d taken pains with his appearance.

She was proud of him, regardless.

“Very well, then.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I shall search for him myself and drag you along with me, since you are to be my nursemaid.”

Tim growled and several heads turned in their direction. “All right,” he snapped. “I’ll tell you when, but not where or ’ow. But you should be forgetting about that man. ’E won’t be troubling you again, I promise you that.”

“Lovely.” She patted the space next to her and held her tongue regarding any further discussion on the matter. She would see Montoya again, alone. Whether that was within St. John’s captivity, or outside his reach. She had to. Something within her wouldn’t allow the matter to rest. “Come and tell me about Sarah. Will you be making an honest woman out of her soon?”

The floor vibrated with Tim’s heavy footsteps, and when he sat, the seat creaked in protest. Amelia smiled. “Was your mother a sturdy woman?”

His returning grin was infectious. “No. She was tiny, but then, so was I.”

She laughed and he flushed, so she changed the subject. “About Sarah . . . ?”

Sarah was Maria’s longtime abigail, a soul of discretion and loyalty. Tim had been soft on the maid for years, yet neither appeared to be hastening toward the altar.

“She won’t ’ave me,” he answered glumly.

Amelia blinked. “Whyever not?”

“She says my work is too dangerous. She won’t be widowed with children. Too ’ard.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “I do not understand that, to be honest. Love is too precious to waste. Waiting for the right time, the right place . . . Sometimes that never comes and you will have missed out on what little happiness was yours to claim.”

Tim stared at her.

“Do not discount me because I am young,” she admonished.

“Ye’ve yet to ’ave life knock you down.”

“I have had it hold me back, restrain me, keep me from the things I have wanted.”

“ ’Tis different to see something through glass than it is to ’old it in your ’and and ’ave it taken from you.” His eyes were kind. “Cease pining for yer stableboy. The earl is a good man to turn a blind eye to this.” Tim waved his arm in a sweeping gesture that encompassed the whole room.

Amelia sighed. “I know. I do love him. But it is not the same.”

“If the Gypsy ’ad lived, you would ’ave grown out of yer liking for ’im.”

“I do not believe so,” she refuted, seeing Colin clearly in her mind, laughing, his dark eyes bright with joy and affection. Then later, flushed and intent with passion. They’d done no more than kiss, but the ardor was there. The need. The sensation that the feeling would escalate into a blinding brilliance that might well be unbearable.

That sense of . . . anticipation . . . stayed with her. Unfulfilled. Untapped.

Until Montoya kissed her.

Then it had simmered inside her. Just for an instant, but long enough to reawaken what had long been dormant.
That
was what she could not explain. Not to anyone, not to herself. She had considered what, if anything, was similar about her two attractions. It was rather alarming to decide that she was attracted to the forbidden. To what she could not have. Should not have.

In the voluminous folds of her skirts, Amelia’s hand clutched the secret bundle in her pocket that she carried with the mad hope that she might see Montoya again.

“The Earl of Ware has come to call,” the butler intoned from the doorway.

Tim stood and held out his hand to her. “A good man,” he said again.

Nodding, she released the note in her pocket and set her fingers within his palm.

 

The man in the white mask was following her.

The mask was the same, but the man wearing it was not. This man was shorter, stockier. His garments, though of the same austerity as Montoya’s, were of lesser quality.

Who was he? And why did he hold such interest in her?

Amelia was crestfallen, but prayed she hid it well. Although she had known it was a possibility that Montoya had approached her for a reason beyond attraction to her, she had chosen to believe that it was personal, in the best possible way. His mourning for his lost sweetheart had been so like her own. She had felt a connection to him that she had previously felt only with Ware and Colin.

Had it all been a lie?

She suddenly felt alone and very naïve. The ballroom was a crush, the earl whose arm she held was charming and devoted, and someone was speaking to her, but she felt as if she were an island in a vast sea.

“Are you unwell?” Ware whispered.

Shaking her head, she tried to look away from the man in the white mask and was unable to. She damned herself for looking for Montoya. If she had not, she could have kept the fantasy of his interest alive within her. Now that it was gone, she felt its loss keenly.

“Should we stroll?” Ware suggested. He bent over her in a highly intimate pose made acceptable by his smile and a wink at the gentleman speaking to them. “Lord Reginald’s discourse is coaxing me to sleep, as well.”

Amelia fought a smile, but felt it tugging at the corner of her lips. She turned her gaze from the masked man who watched her so closely and met Ware’s concerned blue eyes. “I should like that, my lord.”

He made their excuses and began to lead her away. As often happened when he sheltered her, her heart swelled with gratitude. She prayed that the feeling would grow into love and thought perhaps after they consummated their marriage it might turn into that. He would have a care for her in that regard, too, she knew.

She glanced at him, and he caught her gaze and held it. “Everything I do for you, sweet Amelia, is for the occasional moments when you look at me as you are doing now.”

Blushing, she looked away and watched the man in the mask moving, circling the room at the same pace she was, keeping himself directly opposite her.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she asked Ware, smiling.

“Only a moment.”

A female guest walked past them, her appreciative gaze roving the length of Ware’s tall frame.

“You provocative devil, you,” Amelia teased.

He winked, stepped back, and kissed her gloved hand. “Only for you.”

She rolled her eyes at the blatant lie, then made her egress, heading toward the hallway that led to the retiring rooms. She took her time, making certain it would be easy to follow her, then slipped down the hall. There were plenty of guests mingling about. Music swelled from the open ballroom doors. Candlelight flickered in sconces along the wall. She felt safe.

Taking a deep breath, she pivoted on her heel and faced him.

He stood several feet back. Amelia arched a brow and gestured him closer. He smiled and approached, but stopped a discreet distance away.

“Y-your mask . . .” she began.

“His
mask,” he corrected with a definite French accent.

“Why? Does he want me, or St. John?”

“I do not know who St. John is.”

Amelia hesitated a moment, inwardly debating the wisdom of her actions; then she reached into her pocket. She withdrew what she hid there and held it out to him.

The Frenchman’s head tilted to the side as he considered her. He took what she offered and sketched a gallant bow. “Mademoiselle.”

“Give him that,” she said. Then, lifting her chin, she walked past him and returned to Ware’s side.

“F
or God’s sake! Why did you go?”

Colin paced back and forth before the fire in his study and growled low in his throat.

“Because,” Jacques said easily.

“Because?
Because!
” Colin glanced down at the object in his hand, a miniature of Amelia as only a lover should see her.
En dishabille,
one shoulder provocatively bare almost to the nipple, her hair loose and flowing, her lips red and slightly parted. As if she’d been fucked long and well.

Who was this made for? Not for him certainly. It would have been commissioned many months ago.

“She looked beautiful, monsieur.”

Pausing before the fire, Colin leaned heavily against it, wishing he could have seen her. “What color was she wearing?”

“Yellow.”

“She approached you?”

“In a fashion.” Jacques sat on the settee and tossed one arm over the back, at ease. Which was completely opposite of Colin’s own turmoil. “I admire her.”

Colin released his breath in a rush. “Damn it. I wanted to keep my distance.”

“Why? To keep her safe? She is heavily guarded.” The Frenchman’s fingertips drummed silently against the wooden lip which framed the back of the settee. “Why is that?”

“Her sister and her sister’s husband are both notorious criminals. They fear she will be used against them, just as I do.” Leaving the grate, Colin sank heavily into his seat behind his desk.

“I thought her father was a man of some consequence.”

“A viscount, yes.” At Jacques’s raised brows, he continued. “His avarice was exceeded only by his cruelty. He could see nothing beyond his own wants and desires. He married a lovely widow to gain access to her daughter, Amelia’s sister. He sent Maria to the finest schools, then sold her into marriage to men he eventually killed to obtain their widow’s settlements.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Jacques’s fingers stilled. “Why did she not flee?”

“Lord Welton had Amelia and was using her to gain Maria’s cooperation.”

The Frenchman’s face hardened. “I hope he has met his reward. There are very few things in this life that I find more detestable than crimes against one’s family.”

“His lordship was tried and hanged. In the course of her efforts to free her sister, Maria met Christopher St. John, a known pirate and smuggler. Together, they were able to manage a rescue and implicate Welton in the murders of Maria’s two husbands.”

Colin ran a hand through his hair. “The tale is far more complicated than that, but suffice it to say that St. John and his wife are two people with a multitude of enemies.”

“Considering Miss Benbridge’s past and present circumstances, it is even more curious that she would approach me as she did.”

“Amelia was never one to do what was expected.” His gaze returned to the miniature in his hand. It was an irresistible enticement that he must find a way to ignore.

“What did she give you?”

“An invitation.” A private request to meet with her at the Fairchilds’ musicale. Another chance to see her and speak with her.

“Will you go?”

“I think it would be best if I leave Town,” he said, considering alternative locations. He could travel to Bristol, where Cartland’s brood originated, and see what might be of interest there. A man like Cartland would not have a sterling past. There could be something Colin could use to lure the man into the open. “We cannot risk remaining in one location too long.”

“And I was just beginning not to thoroughly detest London,” Jacques said wryly.

Colin knew that although the Frenchman tried valiantly to hide it, he found England distasteful and obviously longed to go home.

“You do not have to come with me.” Colin smiled to soften his words. “Frankly, I do not know why you are here.”

Jacques shrugged his sturdy shoulders. “Some men are born to lead. I was born to serve.” He stood. “I will begin packing our belongings.”

“Thank you.” Colin closed his fist around the precious image of Amelia, then put it away in his drawer next to the mask. “I will join you.”

Rising to his feet, he told himself distance from Amelia was the best thing he could do for her.

But the image of her portrait refused to leave his mind, gnawing at his soul in a way he wondered if he would survive.

 

Amelia had always been known for her wanderings. Her unusual childhood led her to detest solitude as much as she craved it. She was never one to sit still for long, and she often made excuses to be alone, even at the most intimate of dinner parties. Ware understood her restless wanderlust, which was why he was always quick to suggest a stroll and a breath of fresh air.

So when she begged a few moments’ absence to use the retiring room, Ware paid her no mind, nor did Lady Montrose, who acted as her chaperone. They both smiled and nodded, freeing her to attend her assignation.

If
Montoya came.

She moved through the downstairs as silently as possible, slipping once into a conveniently located alcove when the sound of approaching voices made discovery a very real hazard. With a racing heart, she waited for the guests to pass.

Would he appear? Would he have found a way? His attendance at the masquerade led her to believe that he was a man of some consequence. A casual introduction to Lady Fairchild would have sufficed to be extended an invitation to tonight’s event. However, she had inquired about him and was answered with a blank stare.

He had not been invited.

That did not mean he would not be here.

If his interest in her was related to St. John, she imagined he would have the knowledge required to gain entry to the house and find the private sitting room. She could not decide if that meant it would be best for him not to come. With the household she lived in and the man she was promised to marry, she could not afford any more trouble. But her heart recklessly ignored the situation as a whole and concentrated solely on what it wanted. She wasn’t certain what she would do if he responded to her invitation; she knew only that she wished he would.

Anticipation and heady expectation filled her at the thought. She had dressed with purpose this evening, choosing a gown made of dark, thick sapphire damask accented with delicate silver lace at the bodice, elbows, and underskirts. With sapphires in her hair, at her throat, and adorning her fingers, she looked older and worldlier.

If only she felt that way inside. Instead she felt as she had as a young girl—breathless with the desire to see Colin and eager to feel the emotions that only he roused in her. She had thought she would never feel similarly again. It was both thrilling and frightening to feel that way about a masked stranger.

Finally, she reached the small sitting room she had specified in the note. Sarah had learned of the room from her cousin who worked in the Fairchild household. The abigail passed the information on to Amelia, wanting her to have a quiet place to retreat if necessary.

Pausing a moment with her hand on the knob, Amelia took a deep breath and attempted to calm her riotous nerves. It was hopeless, so she abandoned the effort. Opening the door, she slipped inside. The drapes were open, allowing a sliver of silver moonlight to slant in through the sash.

She waited just inside the door, giving her eyes the time necessary to adjust to the reduced lighting. She held her breath expectantly, her ears straining to listen above the rushing of blood, hoping that he would be there and call out to her.

But there was nothing more than the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

Amelia moved to the window and turned, taking in the contents of the room. Two settees, one chaise, two chairs, tables of various sizes scattered about . . . There was more, but no Montoya.

She sighed, and her hands moved restlessly over her voluminous skirts. Perhaps she had arrived too early, or he was having some difficulty gaining entry. She looked out the window, half frightened by the thought that he might be standing outside. But there was no Montoya there either.

A few minutes. She could spare that much.

As she began to pace, the clock ticked relentlessly. Her heart rate slowed and her breathing settled into a natural rhythm. Disappointment weighed on her shoulders and the corners of her mouth. After ten minutes passed, Amelia knew it was impossible to linger, though she thought she might wait all night if not for those who would seek her out in worry.

She walked toward the door. “Well . . . Now there is nothing to distract from the wedding plans,” she muttered.

“Who was the miniature created for?”

Amelia paused with her hand on the knob, shivering as that dark, deep voice wrapped around her like a warm embrace. Gooseflesh covered her bared skin, and her lips parted on a silent gasp. Wide-eyed, she pivoted slowly to face the room. It was then that she saw the faint glow of the white half mask and cravat in the far corner. Montoya wore black again, enabling him to hide in the shadows of the unlit room.

“Lord Ware,” she answered, slightly dazed by her phantom’s sudden appearance and the realization that he had been there the whole time. Watching her. Why the mask? What was he hiding?

“Why was it created?” he asked gruffly. “It is not a gift commonly given from a virginal bride to her fiancé.”

She took a step toward him.

“Stay there and answer the question.”

Amelia frowned at his curtness. “I wanted him to see me in a different way.”

“He will see you in all ways, in the flesh.” There was bitterness in his tone, and the sound of it softened her apprehension, which enabled her to say what she might not have said otherwise.

“I wanted him to see that I was willing to share that side of myself with him,” she admitted.

The sharp alertness that tensed his frame was palpable. “Why would he doubt it?”

“Must we talk about him?” Her foot tapped impatiently. “We have so little time since you spent all of it hiding in that corner.”

“We are not talking about him,” Montoya said silkily. “We are discussing why an intimate gift meant for your fiancé found its way into my possession. Did you intend for me to see you in a different way as well?”

Amelia caught herself fidgeting nervously and hid her hands behind her back. “I think you see me differently,” she murmured, “regardless.”

His smile flashed white in the darkness. “So if I, a stranger, can see you as a sexual creature, why would your future husband have difficulty doing the same?”

She held her breath, considering his perceptive probing. “What is it that you want me to say? It is inappropriate for me to discuss private matters.”

“Sending me a provocative image of you is appropriate?”

“If it troubles you so, return it.” She held out her hand.

“Never,” he growled. “I will never give it back.”

“Why not?” She raised one brow in challenge. “Do you seek to use it against me?”

“As if I would ever allow anyone else to see it.”

Possessiveness. Clear as day. He was possessive over
her
. Amelia was both startled and pleased.

“Why does Lord Ware not see you as you wish to be seen?” he asked, finally approaching.

His tall form stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, setting her heart racing. There was something so predatory, yet elegant in the way he moved, his tails swaying gently with his determined stride. Power leashed and clad in a civilized veneer. It made his allure even more seductive, made her want to see him unrestrained and free. His features were austere, his beautifully etched lips enticing her to kiss him.

That is what I want
, she realized suddenly.
That is why I needed to see him again.

She was willing to be honest with him in order to achieve that aim. “We are longtime companions.”

“Is it not a love match?” he asked, stopping a few feet away.

“I should not answer that.”

“And I should not be here. You should not have lured me.”

“You had me followed.”

He shook his head. “No. Jacques took it upon himself. I am leaving Town. I need distance from you, before this matter progresses any further.”

“How can you leave? Are you not haunted by our dance in the garden?” Her hand lifted to the sapphires at her throat. “Don’t you think about the kiss we shared?”

“I cannot cease thinking of it.” He pounced and caught her hard against him, as if something in him had broken free of its bonds. “Waking. Sleeping.”

She felt his gaze heating her mouth. She licked the lower curve and breathed in the scent of his skin. He smelled exotic, spicy, purely male animal. Something instinctive inside her stirred in response.

“Do it,” she goaded, her chest moving against his with rapid pants.

Montoya whispered a low curse. “You do not love him.”

“I wish I did.” Tentatively, her hands slipped beneath his coat and settled at his waist. His skin was hot, so feverish, she could feel the heat through his garments.

“Is your heart already taken?”

Her exhale was shaky. “In a fashion.”

“Why me?”

“Why the mask?” she retorted, hating the feeling of being stripped bare by his questions.

He stared down into her upturned face. “My visage is not one you would wish to see.”

She was deeply disquieted by the finality in his tone. The feeling of incertitude disturbed her to the point that she released him and attempted to step back. He held fast.

“Let us settle this now,” he said, reaching up to brush callused fingertips along her cheekbones. “What do you want from me?”

“Did you approach me because of St. John?”

Montoya shook his head. “My motives were simple. I saw a beautiful woman. I lost all sense of manners and stared, which made her ill at ease. I attempted to apologize. That is all.” His hands cupped her spine and stroked downward, arching her into him.