True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (16 page)

The amber-tinted image of this woman
standing in his scullery, arms above her head, returned again like
a flame struck into being, flaring and stretching. The deep curve
of her waist, waiting for his hand upon it, the sensuous line of
her neck, traced by a dribble of water that caught the light and
sparkled lustily.

For one breathless moment he had
longed for her to turn and see him there.

What would she have done? What would
he have done? Usually he knew. With this woman he wasn't
sure.

Chapter Eleven

You will wonder why this
young man, with all his limbs intact, didn't go to be a soldier and
fight Napoleon. Well, this boy did not feel great allegiance to any
king or country— or even to the human race.

He had spent his youth
kicked from pillar to post, no one wanting him about for long. The
only thing he fought for was his own survival.

But he was young then, of
course, and youth is selfish. He knew no loyalty to his fellow men.
For the longest time he was all alone in the world, and glad of
it.

A man travels faster when
he is lighter and has no burdens to weigh him down.

"I heard once that you were American,"
she said, her pen still scratching away at the paper.

He leapt to his feet again and
returned to the window, although it was dark out, not even a moon
to trace the outline of distant waves. Distracted by his thoughts,
True saw nothing anyway. "Yes," he muttered, "I heard that too. I
spent time there as a young man, so that must be where the rumor
started. I sailed from Ireland, landed in New York and enjoyed
eight months in the company of a very generous, very wealthy, older
lady who helped me discover more talents than I knew I had. She
took me under her wing, sought to give me something of a
gentlemanly veneer."

"How fortunate that you found a
benefactress."

True strode back across the room to
where she sat, looking over her shoulder as she wrote. "I was
lucky, yes. She taught me a great deal. In bed and out of
it."

Her fingers tightened around her pen
and he heard a startled intake of breath. He smirked, feeling
playful.

"Shall I show you some of the things
she showed me?" Not waiting for an invitation, he dropped to the
cushion beside her on the little settee. "She taught me one of the
most sensitive spots on a woman's body."

"I don't think I—"

With great care he touched his finger
to the back of her neck and drew a circle on her skin, just below
the coils of damp hair that escaped her hasty knot. Did she tremble
or was that just a draft touching her pearl earbobs?

He ran his fingertip down the side of
her neck to the grey collar of her gown.

"It was all very pleasant until my
lady friend in New York began to consider me her pet. Wanted to put
a collar round this throat of mine. When I proved resistant to some
of her more...fervent...methods of training, she did not like me so
much."

"Oh." A fat splodge of ink spoiled the
paper and he thought he heard just the hint of a swallowed
curse.

"But our parting was amicable. We had
both received benefit from our companionship, and she repaid me
very well for the time I spent in her company."

She dipped her pen in the ink
again.

"After that I went south, rode a
paddle-steamer along the Mississippi river to gamble. That was the
first time someone shot at me. A bitter loser with a large pistol
and very bad aim. I dove overboard." He chuckled. "But I out swam
an alligator that night in the dark. I can only conclude the beast
had already eaten well that day, was feeling fat and couldn't be
bothered to race after me."

When he looked at his secretary she
had removed her spectacles to clean the lenses with a
kerchief.

"You don't believe I claimed victory
over an alligator, do you?"

"Oh, I can believe it. More likely
than the dragon you once fought, according to Damon."

He sank from the settee to the floor
by her feet, stretching his legs out, his upper arms resting on the
cushion behind him. "Yes, I had to adapt the story for the boys
when they were young. And it looked like a dragon to me in that
dark, swampy river, with bullets flying over my head." He smiled up
at her. "Occasionally I like to embellish just a little. Makes it
more exciting."

"I doubt you need to embellish
anything, sir," she muttered wryly.

After a pause while he
waited for her to finish cleaning her spectacles, he continued, "I
was a curious young man in those days, wanted to try everything
once. It often... cured me...." She had just wet her lips with the
tip of his tongue.
What was he saying? Oh,
yes
. "Cured me of the desire to do so a
second time. What about you?"

"Me?" She looked startled.

"Yes, you." He grabbed the spectacles
from her hand and held them out of her reach, wanting her answer
before he would give them back.

"Yes, I was curious, sir. But when I
asked questions it had a tendency to irritate people. I didn't have
the opportunity to try things for myself the way you did. I had to
rely on books, or answers. When anybody felt obliged to give me
any, which wasn't very often."

He thought that very sad. Couldn't
imagine not being able to do whatever he wanted, to feel and taste
for himself.

"Of course," he said
softly, "when I
wasn't
cured of the urge by trying something once, it was likely to
become my new addiction." True looked at her lips and saw that
she'd dampened them again with the tip of her tongue. "And then I
couldn't get enough of ...of it. Whatever it was."

"I have noted the tendency to
overindulge." A little smile wandered across her mouth as if it was
lost there.

The fire crackled and coughed. He
thought how pleasant it was to have her quiet, gentle
company.

"I would always answer your questions,
Mrs. Monday," he said suddenly, "if you wish to ask me
any."

She looked at him warily.

"I will tell you anything you want to
know," he added brightly. "Don't hesitate to ask."

After thinking for a moment she said,
"What if you don't know the answer?"

He grinned. "I'll make it up, of
course."

"Well, thank you for the offer," she
replied, her tone cautious and hand outstretched, waiting for the
return of her spectacles.

She had not, he noticed, offered to
let him ask her anything in return.

"Shall we get on?" she said
firmly.

True held her spectacles up to his
face and peered through them. Hmmm. Interesting. "By the time I
returned to England I had shot up several good inches and grown
into my breeches. I bought new clothes and a fine carriage, found a
name and set myself up as a gentleman of means, gambling in London,
Brighton and Bath. I made a study of every titled young man and
every inheritance in the country, so I knew where the pickings were
rich, and where they were not so well guarded."

"And I suppose it was not only
gentlemen who were taken in." She snatched her spectacles from his
hand and quickly put them back on her own face.

"Quite. There were ladies just as
eager to wager their baubles. And more."

She shook her head very slightly and
then pretended it was because of another inkblot and a faulty
nib.

"You, of course," he muttered, amused,
"would never have been tempted to misbehave with me, the way they
were. You are too shrewd."

"I am."

"You never enjoyed a moment of illicit
pleasure?"

Still looking down, she hid her face
from his perusal. "Pleasure does not have to be illicit,
sir."

"Oh, I don't know." He chuckled. "I've
found some of the best of pleasures seem to be on the forbidden
list."

No response.

So he continued, "So many foolish
young men ready to wager their fortunes, desperate for
entertainment. They ventured into the seediest of gaming hells,
where instantly they must be at some unease and on their guard.
What they needed, I saw, was a more refined establishment. A
gentleman's club that did not hide away in a side street like a
dirty secret. A place where they would feel in control, on their
own ground. It must be exclusive, with fine dining, chandeliers, a
French chef and polite staff in livery— where the gaming was almost
by coincidence."

"Which gave you the idea to open
Deverell's."

"Yes, I opened the club on St. James
Street in London the same year I returned to England." He stared
into the fire. "I enticed those bored young aristocrats, and
soldiers on leave, looking for excitement. I pampered them in the
plush environment of Deverell's. I spent every evening there and
the rattle of dice in the box became as regular to me as the rhythm
of my pulse." He smiled, thinking back to those early days of
success, how he could smell the money as it walked through his
door. "There, one evening, I came face to face again with the man
once rumored to be my father, the old squire's son. He didn't
recognize me, of course, but I never forget a face. With him was
his fiancée, a beautiful young woman draped in a great many gaudy
jewels. Lady Charlotte Rothsey, daughter of a Scottish
nobleman."

His secretary paused to fill her pen.
When she was ready again, he proceeded.

"Women were not permitted in the club,
but he brought her with him even so, to show her off I presume. I
had the immense pleasure of tossing them both out."

"How humiliating for the
lady."

He laughed. "Ha! Not Charlotte. She
has no sense of shame. She loved the attention. In any case, that
was how I encountered my future wife, while she was engaged to the
man who might have been my father. You will be shocked by that,
eh?"

Her mouth tightened, but she did not
reply.

True rested his arms across his parted
thighs, hands clasped together. "My reputation did not warn her
off. I told her I wasn't safe to be around. Never had been and
never would be. I warned her that I was not the sort to fall in
love. I'm not made that way. Even so, she pursued me. If anything,
my reluctance made her more determined." He stood quickly, resuming
a restless circle around the room. "Why do women always assume they
can change a man?"

"So Lady Charlotte
seduced
you,
" his
secretary muttered drily. "It was not your fault."

"I do not say she was solely to blame.
I saw a way to get my vengeance on the family who would once have
put a noose around my neck. I decided to steal her away from under
that man's nose, just because I could. Then I would take her in
every possible way and leave nothing for him to enjoy. Oh yes, my
plan was villainous.

Alas, one night in a woman's bed can
have consequences for a lifetime, especially when she has a scheme
of her own. When she is just as lacking in scruples as the man who
meant to use her in his game of vengeance." He paused. "Do I go too
fast, Mrs. Monday?"

Her cheeks flushed, she belatedly
shook her head.

"Do I speak of matters that embarrass
you?" he demanded.

"I'm sure I'll get accustomed to it."
She looked up, eyes wary. "You do not mean to describe it in
detail, surely?"

"It?"

"The act itself."

"The act itself?

She pressed her lips shut and
glared.

He laughed. "Fucking, Mrs. Monday. I
believe that is the word you seek. And no, I do not mean to
describe the fucking in great detail, inch by inch."

"Thank goodness," she muttered,
breathing hard.

"Wouldn't want you getting all
overwrought and agitated under your petticoats, would
I?"

She shot him a piercing
glare, much like a bullet and better aimed than those usually
headed his way. "I don't get
agitated
, sir. I'm a
lady."

"Is that so?" He tried to keep a
solemn face. "I've a lot to learn about proper ladies."

"So it would seem," came her tart
reply.

"Really, Mrs. Monday, you'll have to
make allowances for me."

"Allowances? Where would we all be if
we made allowances for bad behavior?"

"I don't know where for certain." He
smiled. "But we'd all be having a bloody good time with not a
damnable care in the world."

Was that the hint of a smile? Perhaps,
but she hid it well. As if she'd had a lot of practice.

What the devil was she up to in his
house, playing the meek and proper lady? And wearing spectacles
made of plain glass, behind which she tried to disguise herself as
harmless?

Chapter Twelve

So it began.

As he told her his story, Olivia felt
herself drawn in. He was interesting in ways he should not be, and
the fascination she felt at ten years old when reading about him in
the newspaper had not diminished when she met him in person. When
she got to know him as a real being, not just a dark, shadowy
legend.