The Bride Price (5 page)

Damnable curiosity made her play her part for the moment. “The wind?”

“Do you not hear it? The melody and soft refrain? You should channel it into your sketch.”

She cocked her head. She loved to sit outside her cottage and listen to the sounds, but she had never tried to channel them into anything else, always content to simply enjoy.

“The song of the trees swaying to the gentle rhythm of a conductor we cannot see. Listen to the music, Miss Sculler. Roseford follows nature. Only by opening yourself up can you capture it and break the lifeless chill.”

She gave him a sharp glance, but he merely smiled and hid aquamarine eyes once again, his fingers tapping some rhythm against his chest.

Caroline watched the breeze shift the wildflowers and crazed leaves of the ivy as they curled around whatever surface they could find, wrap
ping the Grange in an embrace. Something shifted in her mind, and she touched the chalk once more to the page. Her lines grew less straight and more fluid as she sketched the grounds, leaving the house alone for the moment. Her motions took on a staccato in the bounce of a squirrel, a slur as a snake slithered through the grass, and a run as nuts and leaves fluttered down the chimney bricks.

Two cooing doves caused her to speculate on the curve of the garden, and she pulled a finger around the edge.

The chattering of the robins, crows, and finches grew louder as aviary territory was determined.

“I do not require battlements, but if they mount a force for war, we may be in trouble,” she muttered.

One eye opened, and an amused indentation appeared in one cheek. “That we would.” He looked up into the trees. “When I was a boy, I wished to transform into a bird and fly away.”

“A vulture?” She settled in her seat, more relaxed now. While no one in her right mind would call the man harmless, there was something suddenly conspiratorial about him. She wondered if small prey were lulled into a false sense of security in the same way.

His mouth curved. “Nothing quite so vivid. I always admired the falcons, but a simple sparrow would have done.”

She looked down at the page. “When I was a girl I wished to be a princess.”

“A common dream, I’d think.”

“For a common girl.” She pulled a line across
the page that was more characteristic of how she’d been drawing at the start. A gloved finger trailed along the chalk path, and the heat of his body reached toward her as he rose and leaned closer.

“Perhaps not quite so common.” Fingers lifted her chin, then slid across the sensitive line of her throat and into her hair, pulling her closer. “Perhaps not quite so common at all.”

His fingers curled around her nape, a thumb touched her cheek, sliding across her skin. He pulled her toward him slowly, and when their lips connected this time, it was with a burst of fire. The gentle, slow slide of the first kiss giving way to a more overwhelming claim, his mouth parting hers, drawing her in with heat and tense hunger. She felt the pull of the spell, the insidious song teasing her to give in to that which she had so long denied.

When he finally released her, the look in his eyes promised a myriad of craven delights were she to give in. To give up the lonely world she had locked herself within.

“Are you going to finish the sketch of the house, or shall I continue kissing you?” He smiled slowly.

Calculated, assuredly. She concentrated on his raised brow instead of his heated eyes or curved lips. She couldn’t forget and get lost in the danger of the spell. She lifted the chalk in a shaky grip and drew another line, then two, following his example. She imbued movement into each line, seeking something. Yearning. A peak in isolation that craved contact.

“Much better.” His hand moved to her neck, rubbing and caressing, warmth springing beneath gloved fingers. The hum of the breeze charged, yet soothing. “What is it you see, lovely?”

She saw a house that was waiting. Slightly overgrown and wild, but a
home
nonetheless. A house in need of someone or something. She drew in the windows, glass peering outward like great eyes searching for their owner to return.

“Yes.” Fingers undid the strings of her bonnet, tugging it back from her crown. She let him, eyes closing as the shield was removed, but too desirous of the magic to tell him to stop. She tried not to watch as he peeled his gloves from his hands. “Much, much better.”

She pulled the stick over the outline of the gardens, suddenly drawing with more talent than she had any right to claim.

Bare fingers popped one pin from her hair, then two. Her hair fell in long chunks as it was freed. “A crime to hide this waterfall.”

Fingertips gently drew her hair to the other side, and she shuddered as his lips touched her neck. “Keep drawing, dear Miss Sculler. But listen to yourself this time instead.”

Wild lines formed as he did sinful things to the back and sides of her neck. Instead of taking her interest away, his lips and seeking fingers seemed to push the chalk faster and in the correct direction. Shapes formed; lines full of life and depth took hold.

Hands touched her nape, catching the valley and pressing, rubbing down the column of her
back. She drew in the chimney spine as he traced hers.

The roof pulled into domed tips as he pressed against her back, hugging her to him, his palms running down the sides of her body, over her stomach and up to caress the sides of her breasts. His hands drew peaks over the tips.

“Sir?” Her breath caught, her head tilted back on his shoulder as a thumb slipped inside the bodice of her dress and his other hand touched her knee, pulling her skirt up, up, up, then slipping underneath. He pressed his palm against the inside of her right knee and pulled it away from her other one, her ladylike position turning into something open and wanton, on view for the entire Grange, if not for the waist-high bushes in front of them.

The edge of his thumb tweaked her nipple under the rigid edge of her corset, causing her to shudder. She moved into the touch instead of away, having never felt the overwhelming magic of this type of desire where she didn’t have any inhibitions—just the touch of a man who was a master at his craft. She felt him smile against her throat. Skilled fingers investigated beneath her knees, her stockings, her garters, then moved farther up.

“I wonder what other things you are hiding?” he whispered into her ear. Fingertips curled around the heat at her base, as he successfully navigated the cloth of her drawers.

Overwhelming sensation filled her as she arched back against him. The paper fell from her hand; the chalk slipped from her grip. She gripped
his thigh, and a finger curved into her, causing her to arch further, her breast pushing into his hand, which had slipped inside her bodice to palm her, his other thumb rubbing a spot nestled between her legs.

A dam broke that had too long been controlled. Lingering anger with the earl mixed with the earlier frustration at the man devouring her, and swirled with the irritation over the hand fate had dealt Sarah. Here was someone allowing her to release those emotions instead of swallowing them like a lump of coal. All the past years’ turmoil—keeping herself in line and isolated—pushed out.

She could be anyone at the moment. Do anything. Here was someone she’d likely never see again. She was in fact not seeing him anyway, since he was sitting behind her, a phantom lover with skilled hands and a questing mouth who was mapping the planes of her neck more thoroughly than she’d mapped the estate grounds.

A second finger requested entry, and some semblance of sense returned at the thought that she’d never felt this vulnerable or out of control with Patrick. He’d never played her body with this sort of undeniable skill.

Her knees automatically pushed together. “I—”

He nipped her neck, and his palm hooked under her knee, pulling it over his thigh, opening her completely. Only this time, when she arched back, he easily slipped another finger in with the first, his thumb playing her like a mandolin player plucking at strings.

The sensations were vicious, delicious, and all-encompassing, reality and fantasy mingling. She moved rhythmically against his hand and violently arched back against him, whimpering for release.

He whispered words of encouragement as his fingers moved within her. Sharp waves of desire built into a crescendo for one, two, three beats of her heart before she convulsed wildly around his fingers, straining into him. He held her arched against him for a long minute, breathing heavily himself, before removing his hand and lowering her on the bench, one of her legs still draped over his lap, the other dangling uselessly on the grass.

He smoothed his hands down her flesh, down her dress, petting and soothing her as she gave a small shudder every few seconds, her breathing still heavy. His face was shuttered as if nothing monumental had occurred. He nonchalantly bent over her and lifted something from the ground. Her throat closed as she heard the crinkle of paper. She was in no position to stop him from destroying the sketch while lying on her back, her dress splayed about her, her body boneless. Betrayal and resignation washed through her as she watched him grip the paper’s edge. She closed her eyes as his fingers moved away, waiting for the first rip, the first crumple.

The steady sound of chalk pulling along paper popped her eyes open. “No, please—” She struggled upward, thinking she could stop him from ruining the sketch.

One hand touched her breastbone and pushed
her back down, not unkindly. He cocked a brow, turning his attention back to her prized work. She closed her eyes again, listening to the scritches and swipes. Trying to keep her overwrought emotions in a tight grip.

He shifted over her, a hand wrapped around her nape, and pulled her to meet warm lips in a drugging caress. Her eyes opened as his lips left hers, and he lowered her head gently back to the bench. A slow smile pulled across his lips, and a piece of paper settled on her chest.

“Until the next time, dear Miss Sculler,” he said in his deep, smooth voice. “Consider that a gift.”

His bare fingers pulled along her jaw, then he sauntered away, disappearing into the gardens.

She hastily sat up to inspect the vandalized drawing in the waning light. Shock held her immobile as she took in the lines and curves. The drawing had been decent before, if she did say so, but now…it was as if the house was alive on the page. Anyone seeing this would have the urge to visit, to see if real experience matched the vision. Only a truly gifted artist with an emotional eye could capture the essence like this and put it to the page.

Or someone who had a stake in the subject drawn.

She looked up sharply, but the man was gone.

Dear Reader, it has come to our attention that the men once known as the Tipping Seven, seven wastrels who became upstanding members of the
ton,
powerful men once shrouded in secrecy and darkness, are sponsoring a one-time competition to bestow riches on one of their progeny. King George the Fourth was an uncounted member in his days before he was Regent. Thus, it is little surprise that this tournament has the blessing of the King himself…

T
all, powerful oaks and maples lined the drive to Meadowbrook, Lord Cheevers’s country estate. Perfect gardens, manicured lawns, the trappings of wealth spilling out into the rich soil. Sebastien couldn’t care less about the landscaping, but what it represented, in the detail it was cared for, was power. And here where a tiny weed would be ruthlessly stamped out, where the curling ivy that some thought charming was killed at its root, the details were everything.

It was nothing like Roseford, where vegetation grew unchecked and free, twining vines that
spoke of life and fragrant wildflowers that spoke of happiness.

The face of the woman spilled into his vision, her wavy blonde hair freed and flowing over the stones and greenery of the Grange, head extended back in ecstasy.

He had been so angry to see someone there, cataloging the property.
His
property. The only home he had ever known.

And he had treated her horribly. But she had been a sweet fruit, ripe and blossoming. Something in him had snapped to know that she was another soldier of the earl, of the duke, taunting and taking that which he wanted most.

The kisses, the seduction, her response had made the entire episode worth his frustration. How close he had come to taking her and exorcising his ghosts. It would have been a first for him with someone he hadn’t fully investigated. There was something about the way she’d looked at him…

He wondered in what nook he’d find her here at Meadowbrook. Hopefully not in Cheevers’s chambers. A messy business that would be, to steal her from under the earl’s nose.

But on the other hand that would be very satisfying as well. He’d see where the cards fell.

He fully intended to have her again. She wasn’t a giggling debutante or blushing virgin, to his satisfaction. She might even occupy his bed for more than a few days. Few had before, but there was something about her, in her eyes, in her verbal and physical reactions, that indicated she would be
anything but boring. Something that proclaimed her a kindred spirit in her solitude. And there was so much potential there—wild and untamed.

The carriage slowed before the doors of the stately manor. One hundred rooms strong, situated on thousands of acres, it was a veritable trough of excess.

Sebastien stepped from the vehicle into the courtyard. A few carriages had arrived already, and he sent a cynical glance toward a man of his acquaintance who was nearly salivating as he surveyed the estate. His clothing was expensive, but his face held all the salacious slobbering of a scrawny fox. No breeding.

The man turned, and his eyes swept over Sebastien. “Deville.” Jack Bateman, the by-blow of the Earl of Browett, didn’t offer his hand. Sebastien didn’t offer his either. “Probably think you have a chance here. But this isn’t a card game, is it? I intend to win, Deville. Remember that.”

“I’m more likely to remember you for other failings, Bateman.” Sebastien continued forward without looking back.

Three other men near his age were standing beneath the towering portico. Two were friendly faces, if any of them could be considered friends for the next two months. The third was not unknown to him, but they’d never been introduced.

“Deville.” Timothy Timtree held out his hand, his dark hooded eyes sarcastic and jaded above his hooked nose. “Come to join the pony show?”

“Indeed.”

They shook hands, and Timtree gave him a
knowing look before introducing him to the third man. “John Parley, may I introduce Sebastien Deville?” He turned back to Sebastien with a smirk. “John is Basil Parley’s
third
son.”

“I’ve heard talk about you, Deville.” John Parley was a prig, with his slick pomade and nose two inches too high.

“Likewise,” he drawled, turning away from him.

Marcus Sloane, the remaining man, looked amused and extended his hand. “Deville.”

Marcus Sloane was a golden child, for all his illegitimacy. He even fit the description, with his blond hair and light brown eyes. He was invited to the best events and traveled in the highest circles. The Marquess of Sloanestone had no legitimate children, and treated his bastard son better than most peers treated their legitimate firstborns. He’d even given him part of his name for the birth certificate.

Too bad he was a bastard. The entailed estates would pass him by and revert to a cousin when the marquess died.

“Deville is Grandien’s bastard,” Timtree said to Parley.

“That much is obvious, Timtree. You’d have to be blind not to notice,” Sloane said wryly, as Parley sniffed his response.

Sebastien had long since learned to mask any feelings provoked by such comments. “Damn shame, as it prevents me from telling him what an ugly troll he is.”

Timtree cackled. There was no love lost be
tween himself and his father, Baron Tewks. He and Sebastien shared that trait, unlike Sloane.

A butler welcomed them inside, and along with Bateman, they followed the man into a great hall dripping with gold. Vast Corinthian columns and tall arches soared above.

“Capital,” Timtree uttered, jaded eyes firmly in place.

Bateman scrutinized everything, his eyes chronicling the wealth. Parley was trying hard to portray the priggish man that he was, pretending a nonchalance that everything in his vicinity was beneath him. Sloane looked perfectly at ease, which made sense since he lived on the extensive Sloanestone properties. But there was something in his eyes as well. Desire. Or maybe hope.

Sebastien surveyed the surroundings through a narrowed view—the gilt knobs, the frescoes that showed scenes of conquering armies and ruling deities. He had been surrounded by gilt and glitter his entire life—never quite touching it, always out of his reach.

He had never been inside the duke’s main country estate, his
sire’s
, but he knew it rivaled this one. He stamped out any traces of extraneous emotion, and kept a dark smile on his face, a long history at the card tables making the expression natural and usually unnerving.

The butler led them to the grand library. Several gentlemen were standing by the long row of windows overlooking the sidegrounds. He saw the duke holding court in a chair near the back. Their eyes met and held, before Sebastien contin
ued his perusal of the guests. The Tipping Seven were here in force, their bastards and spares present or trickling in behind him. As Timtree said, a pony show indeed.

His pride, the only thing he could call his, twitched.

“What’s this? A bunch of bastards wearing their hopes on their sleeves?”

Sebastien kept his hand in motion, fiddling with the watch at his pocket, not allowing his muscles to stiffen any more than they already had. He slowly turned, rage forming and then sliding, shoved, beneath a simmering pool.

“Lord Benedict. How…lovely.”

Benedict raised a brow. He might take after his mother in most physical aspects, but his brows were pure Grandien. A mirror of Sebastien’s own. “Surprised, Deville?” He smirked. “I see my father forgot to mention to you that I would be joining the merriment. Sad that they felt the need to include
natural
sons. Heard it was Sloanestone’s provision.”

Timtree snorted. “I heard it was because the stock was so poor in the crop of thirds and fourthies that they wanted to bring in some real contenders.”

Benedict inspected his cuffs. “Your father barely even rates on the social scale, Timtree. Do mind your manners.”

Timtree simply laughed. “You know even less than I credited, and believe me, I hadn’t credited you with much. Come, Deville, brighter pastures beckon.”

“Yes, run away, Deville,” Benedict whispered as Sebastien passed with Timtree. “Do it before you completely embarrass yourself.”

Sebastien turned and walked backward for a few steps, saluting Benedict in a base manner. “Because I so often embarrass myself where you are concerned. Ta, Benny,” he said, refusing to address him properly. “I look forward to the competition in a way I hadn’t quite expected.”

They passed the plinth in the center of the room, a mountain of documents meticulously stacked on top. Real. Sealed water-tight. The rewards of the games laid out and present. If he won he would gain a great deal. Power. Revenge. Satisfaction.

His mother’s land. Benedict’s humiliation. Revenge against his sire.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention.” Cheevers raised his hands imperiously. “Welcome to Meadowbrook. My distinguished friends and I are anxious to begin this unique and extraordinary competition. We will hold the majority of the games here on the estate, though we will be venturing to London for several games, since many in Town are privy to the competition and wish to observe some of the exploits. You are all aware of the prizes, but there are rules to review before we begin. If you agree to compete, you will sign the sworn statement to abide by the terms set forth. The terms are all or nothing. You don’t make the rules, you follow them. Is that understood?”

No one spoke, but the charged air said that everyone was listening.

“Various games will be involved. Everything
from shooting to gambling to boxing to studies. We seek a well-rounded gentleman. A Renaissance man. You will be put to the test. You will be ridiculed. You will be celebrated. Every participant who makes it to the end will receive an award. Each winner of the various games will receive monetary compensation. But there can be only one true winner.”

Sebastien knew that every man in that room expected that he or his progeny would be the victor.

“Points will be tallied from each game. If you dip below a minimum level in either the individual games or in the overall score, you
will
be ousted from the competition.”

Murmurs swept the room.

“Furthermore—” Cheevers gave a swift shake to his head, blond hair settling above light eyes. “Cheating will be punished swiftly and severely. If you are caught cheating you will be immediately ejected, and any persons involved will be dealt with as well.”

Sebastien watched the older men. The smirks that appeared told him everything he needed to know. Cheating was
expected
. Getting caught was not.

“There are fifteen participants. Winning an event is worth twenty-five points. Second place receives twenty, third equals fifteen, fourth receives twelve, and so on until the two last contenders receive zero. Once the third game begins, a competitor with less than five points will be eliminated. That level will be raised five
points, and then ten, as we cycle through to the end, until only those with a score over one hundred will be eligible.”

One man cleared his throat. “What if no one is above one hundred points, my lord?”

“Then you are all worthless.”

The older men laughed. Few of the younger did—thirds and bastards alike.

“The winner has the chance to forge his own destiny—to carry on the family tradition in a new way and on his own. Winning should prove that man up to the task.”

Silence.

“The terms are all here, if you haven’t read the documents already.”

Some of the men walked forward, Bateman among them. Sebastien watched his eyes shift back and forth over the words and was close enough to hear the conversation, hushed so as not to reach the older men on the edges of the room who had already started to place bets.

“Two thousand pounds a victory. Is that all?” Bateman groused.

“Forty thousand pounds to the ultimate winner and a producing property in Yorkshire, along with four other properties with moderate income. Enough to keep a man’s pockets full.”

“For one card game, perhaps. Especially for you, Petrie.”

Vicious snickers ensued.

“What’s this? A bride? Already selected?”

“What difference does it make? Any woman will do. Doesn’t much matter.”

“Ambitious of you,” Timtree drawled, his voice carrying.

“Chew my boot, Timtree.”

“It’s a bit rough on the leather, man. I prefer shinier fare.”

Someone whistled. “Look at this.” The sketch of Roseford was in his hands. “Beauty of a place.”

Benedict’s face became a study in gleeful malice as he peered at the drawing. He smirked at Sebastien. “A bit small, but the property is adequate. I’ll enjoy tearing down the house when I win.”

Murderous impulses rushed through him. Only if he was crippled and on his deathbed would he let Benedict win.

Sebastien looked to the edges of the room as the participants began to squabble. He curled, then uncurled his fingers, unwilling to let Benedict draw him into a scuffle this early. There were more formidable enemies in the room.

The older men watched with avaricious eyes. The duke’s stare was amused as he met Sebastien’s, then shifted eyes to Benedict, who had strode over to speak with Thomas Everly, another third son. The bitter, hollow place expanded. Revenge. It was the only thing that filled the void. If he won, two years from now things would be different. He would make things
very
different.

“Deville, what the devil are you doing? Look over the terms, man,” one of the illegitimate sons said. The contestants had started shifting, legitimate thirds and fourthies to one side, bastards to the other. Factions already in place, even in a competition that was completely every man for himself.

“I’ve already seen them,” he answered indifferently, absently watching Lord Cheevers leave the room.

The terms were well laid out. Implacable for all parties concerned. The problem was that the terms never told the whole story.

“Good, you’re here on time,” the earl said to Caroline as he strode into the study. He cast a critical glance at her clothing. “And at least you have on a clean dress today. The other night you looked as if you’d bathed in charcoal.”

She wiped surreptitiously at her pristine skirt. Thank God the earl hadn’t peered too hard at the marks.
Fingers gripping her thighs
,
hands touching her everywhere
. The evidence of her failure to keep herself in line. Perhaps she was destined to repeat her mother’s mistakes. Her
own
mistakes now.

“A mishap, as I told you.”