The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (24 page)

Now it was Will who groaned, finding his pleasure in giving her pleasure. He quickened his stroke, swirling up and around, then sliding into the wet depths of her. She began to gasp for air; her grip of his shoulders tightened. “Oh Lord,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t, I should…God in heaven…”

She climaxed quickly with a spasm that Will felt reverberate throughout his body and into his cock. She sobbed with pleasure as she sagged against him, her forehead pressed against his, her breathing ragged, and her grip so tight that he wondered if she could move her fingers at all.

When she at last opened her eyes, she looked at him with such wonder and fulfillment in her eyes that Will felt an unusual tug at his heartstrings. He believed he could die a very happy man if he could give her such pleasure every day of her life. His body ached with desire, his heart pounded with exhilaration, but he felt remarkably—and uncharacteristically—satisfied by her pleasure alone.

“Will,” she whispered in amazement.

He folded her in his embrace, kissing her forehead as he leaned back against the cushions, Phoebe nestled into his side.

They lay that way for a time, staring at a fire that had begun to die. They talked about fanciful things, about dreams and hopes and pleasures. About Egypt, India, and Greece.

When she talked, Will smiled in the dark at the way her hands moved so expressively. He admired the way the light brought out the gold in her pale blond hair.

She was indescribably lovely.

But when the moon had moved across the sky, and most of the candles had burned out, it was time to return to the hall. He doused the last of the torches and led her back to the boat, his arm around her waist, clutching his very private journal.

Their trip across the lake was undertaken in silence; Phoebe still gripped the sides of the little boat, but her face was turned up to the night sky, her eyes closed as she basked in the moist, warm night air. There was no sound but the slice of his oars in the water and the creak of the old boat as it was propelled across the lake’s surface.

When they had made their way to the gazebo, Will paused. This was where they would part ways, where they would each slip back into their roles of master and servant. He looked down at Phoebe. The moonlight reflected the crystal pins in her hair, making them look like little stars. It was appropriate, he thought—he felt as if he’d moved among the stars this night. He gathered her in his arms, kissed her once more, then reluctantly let her go.

Phoebe’s smile faded; she drifted out of his arms until the only part of her that touched him, the only spot of warmth he could feel at all, was her fingers, which she entwined with his. “Thank you,” she said. “It was…” She glanced up at the night sky and sighed, smiling. “It was magical.”

His chest swelled with her words, and he felt the great satisfaction of having gone to quite a lot of trouble for the favor of such a smile.

Phoebe rose up on her toes, kissed his lips, then stepped away. Her fingers floated away from his, and still smiling, she turned and hurried toward the house.

He stood rooted to the ground, watching as she moved through the parterres like a ghost in her luminescent blue gown.

It was magical.

What had happened to him? How had he reached the precipice from which he had fallen this night? It felt almost as if he’d been building a ladder to it these last few weeks, building it higher and higher to a perch so small and so high that his only option was to fly or to fall.

Which had he done—fly or fall?

The question plagued him into the night as he lay sleeplessly in bed. He imagined Phoebe on the other side of the house, in her little bed next to her workroom. He imagined her in the most private of fantasies, lying with him, both of them naked, or holding herself above him as he moved deliberately within her. That image, the memory of those blissful hours on the island, and the knowledge that she was a servant, a seamstress, under his protection, kept him tossing and turning most of the night.

She was still very much on his mind the next morning when Farley informed him there were three gentlemen who wished to see him.

“Tenants?”

“No, my lord,” Farley said. “They’ve come from Greenhill.”

Will felt his gut sink. Intuition told him it was about Joshua.

His intuition was keen, as it turned out. The three gentlemen in question were horse traders, and had struck a deal with Joshua for horseflesh he did not own—the horses belonged to his father. Yet Joshua had deliberately given the men the impression that he, and he alone, owned them.

As usual, Will promised to make amends for Joshua’s careless and mendacious behavior. He walked the three men out into the drive, stood in the bright sunlight, and vowed to them: “You may trust the matter will be satisfactorily resolved, good sirs. I cannot abide even the slightest dash of dishonesty or deception. One who has chosen to deceive has lost my good opinion and support forever.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Mr. Broadwick, the one who had done the most talking on behalf of the three. He extended his hand. “I trust you will retrieve the money we laid in good faith and set this matter to rights.”

“You may be assured of it,” Will said through gritted teeth. Part of him wanted to let Joshua answer for his lies—let him see a jail, if that is what he deserved. But he thought of his father and knew that once again, he would buy Joshua’s honor.

He waited until the gentlemen had mounted their horses and ridden away from Wentworth Hall before turning on his heel and striding into the house, intent on seeing his father, and then strangling Joshua, before he was due to call on Miss Fitzherbert and her family.

He did not see the open window above him, or Phoebe sitting on the sill just inside, fingering the scarab he’d discarded last night, which she now kept in her pocket.

C aroline Fitzherbert dressed for tea in a new gown that she had commissioned a local seamstress to embroider in precisely the way Madame Dupree’s gown had been embroidered along the hem and the sleeves.

The seamstress had done a passable job, she supposed, but Caroline was not satisfied, and she would not be satisfied until she was Countess of Bedford and ruled over the London seamstress Lord Summerfield seemed to regard so highly.

As to becoming the countess, it was only a matter of time, Caroline felt certain. Summerfield seemed taken with her, and her mother had heard in the village that he’d mentioned casually to a friend he ought to be married before the end of the year.

Caroline looked in the mirror and smiled at herself. She would be a gracious and generous countess. She would not be the least surprised if Summerfield made his offer at the house party he intended to host the last fortnight of the month, where he could announce it to one and all. The country bumpkins adored such events.

Later, when the family butler informed her Darby was calling, she thought it strange that her butler would refer to the viscount by his family name, and noted that he had the wrong day. He was expected on the morrow, and she took his mistake as a sign of his eagerness.

But it was not William Darby who had come calling, it was his brother, Mr. Joshua Darby.

Joshua Darby walked into the salon with both hands clasped behind his back, smiling enigmatically. He was as tall as his brother, but not as broad. His eyes, a deep, rich brown, were much darker than Summerfield’s. He was wearing a dark coat and a striped waistcoat that made him look very lean. In a strange way, Caroline mused, he looked more civilized than Summerfield, which she thought odd, given this one’s reputation.

She was taken aback that he had called at all, and was confused as to why. “Mr. Darby,” she said uncertainly. “How…how kind of you to call.”

He said not a word, merely bowed his head, then dropped one hand that he had held behind his back, holding out a single rose to her.

Caroline looked at the rose, then at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, his voice smooth and deep. “I should think there are only two viable explanations why a gentleman would bring a handsome woman a single red rose.”

“Oh? And what are they?” Caroline asked suspiciously.

“One, that he offers his condolences.”

Caroline raised a brow. “Are you offering your condolences, sir?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what is the second explanation?”

“That the gentleman greatly esteems the lady.”

She made a sound of surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir, but there seems to be a bit of a misunderstanding. I am being courted by your brother, the viscount.”

Joshua Darby smiled devilishly. “I assure you, Miss Fitzherbert, there is no misunderstanding. You may now consider yourself being courted by two Darby men.”

His conduct was shocking…yet oddly fascinating. Caroline cocked her head to one side, assessing him. He was handsome, but there was the matter of his reputation. Moreover, he would never be the earl unless some awful tragedy made it possible.

He smiled at her, and Caroline was mildly surprised by her body’s reaction to it. Nevertheless, she had set the course of her destiny and would not deviate from it now. “I fear, Mr. Darby, that you have made an error in judgment,” she said coolly. “Nothing can entice me to be courted by two brothers. I cannot accept your calling, for I have an understanding with Lord Summerfield.”

He laughed a little and walked forward, halting just before her and touching the rose to the tip of her nose. “Don’t be so very certain of that,” he said, and smiled again.

A lack of the appropriate number of beads for Alice’s gown sent Phoebe to Greenhill that morning in the company of Frieda. When she returned to Wentworth Hall and her workroom, she put on her work apron, then put the beads into one of the boxes of thread and beads she now kept in her bedchamber, as the gowns and fabrics and dress forms had taken up all the space in the workroom.

She paused there to look again at the strange charm stone Will had pulled from his neck and tossed aside. It was green, flat, rectangular in shape, and polished to a shine. But several little figures had been carved into it. They were curious, a mystery…just like him.

When she walked back into the overflowing workroom, she realized that something seemed different. Or out of place. But as she glanced at the dresses in various stages of construct, the bolts of fabric stacked in one corner, the baskets that held needles and scissors and ribbons scattered about the floor, she could not put her finger on it.

Then she saw it—the dress form that had held Jane’s ball gown was bare. Phoebe gasped with shock—the gown was not yet finished, was still basted in some places and lacking the proper cover in others—how could anyone possibly have taken it? “Oh no,” she moaned. “Oh no-no-no! She wouldn’t dare!”

But apparently she had.

Destined for Jane’s room in the family suite in the east wing, Phoebe ran out of the room, flew down the steps to the first floor, traversed the corridor that connected the two main halls, and arrived at the first door of the family suite where she rapped loudly. “Lady Jane! Please do open the door!”

No one answered. Phoebe rapped hard again. One of the chambermaids poked her head out of a room across the hall. “What’s all the trouble?” she demanded crossly.

“Lady Jane,” Phoebe said breathlessly. “Have you seen her?”

“In the ballroom, with the dance instructor.”

Phoebe whirled about and hurried to the main staircase.

In the foyer, she looked right and marched down the refurbished corridor, stopping at each console to arrange the flowers. Who was it in this house that believed flowers could merely be tossed into a vase and left to arrange themselves?

She had no idea which was the ballroom, and paused and knocked on each door, winding her way to the back of the hall, pausing once more to rearrange a trio of porcelain figurines on a console that had been lined up like an invading army.

But then she heard music coming a little farther down the hall, and strode in that direction. Outside the door, she heard not only the music, but the sound of girlish laughter. She rapped on the door, did not wait for an answer, threw open the door, and marched inside, startling the inhabitants of the room out of their wits.

Jane was there, all right, wearing the gown Phoebe had not yet finished. Alice was also in the room, sitting on a window seat and looking rather cross. The dance instructor, a tall, reed-thin man with a bony nose, looked at Phoebe as if he expected her to announce the sky was falling, and just behind him was a young woman at the pianoforte.

“What are you doing here?” Alice demanded as Phoebe swept into the room. “Shouldn’t you be off sewing?”

“As a matter of fact, I should be…” Phoebe said breathlessly as she shot a dark look at Jane, “sewing that gown. It is not yet finished, Lady Jane. You must return it at once.”

“I told you it was not allowed,” Alice said triumphantly. “Now take it off before you send Madame Dupree into an apoplectic fit.”

Not surprisingly, Jane refused. “I will return it later, but I should like to see how the gown fits when I am dancing,” she said, and held out her arms to the dance instructor, her fingers daintily parted like those of a ballerina.

“Take it off, Jane,” Alice said. “You’re not allowed.”

“You are not the one to tell me what to do,” Jane shot back.

“Lady Jane, please,” Phoebe said as the instructor looked nervously from Jane to Alice and slowly took one long step back, out from between the two. “If you have ripped a basted seam it should be quite a lot of work to repair it, and there is very little time.”

“I don’t see the harm in wearing it for one afternoon,” Jane said airily, and like a spoiled child, she swished the train around in front, then back again.

Phoebe winced. The train was only basted on the back of the gown.

“If you don’t take it off, I shall tell Will,” Alice said.

“I don’t care if you do,” Jane said petulantly.

Alice instantly began moving. Jane was quickly behind her, carelessly reaching for her sister, but Alice easily shrugged her off.