Twice Fallen (9 page)

“Bloody right it was quick. Isn’t that what you paid me for?” The familiar silhouette of Alfred Sharpe, a friend from the war, took shape in the shadows. “You know you’ve a bloody easy house to break into here with the windows and all?”

“Well, houses in London generally do have windows,” Damien murmured. He’d thought the same, but then again, there was no need to be on his guard. Still, old habits took time to fade. “I don’t keep much money on the premises, and if anyone is that determined, they are welcome to the strongbox. Let’s hope they haven’t stolen all the whiskey. Would you like a glass?”

“Am I breathing, sir?”

“Seems to me you are.” Damien gestured down the hallway, stifling a laugh. “My study is the third door down.”

“I know,” Alfred informed him. “I’ve already sampled the whiskey. Damned fine stuff.”

He had anticipated just that answer, so he was amused, not annoyed. Damien knew better than to keep important documents in such an obvious location, so the notion of someone prowling his study didn’t alarm him. He led the way. “Thank you. You can use the same glass, then.”

Sharpe made no sound behind him in the dark. No surprise. They’d learned that technique in Spain together and both knew it well. Damien already had seen that his silent movements startled and unnerved the housekeeper
he’d hired and needed to remind himself to clunk around a bit more when he got up in the mornings. With his pronounced limp, that should be easy enough.

Stealth did nothing but alarm the servants. He needed to adjust.

His study was a bit impersonal, the furnishings new, only one painting on the paneled walls; he hadn’t gotten that far. A miniature of his father, done the year of his unexpected death, sat on top of a glass-paneled bookcase, but aside from those two items, there was nothing personal in the room.

Pouring himself a glass, he handed the bottle over to Sharpe with a wry smile. “Well? What did you learn?”

“This wasn’t a challenge.” The young man lounged back, his nose poised over the glass as he inhaled sharply and then took a long sip. He was a bit of an enigma as he was obviously well educated but there was a slight Welsh lilt to his voice and he had the dark hair and coloring of a true Celt. One of the other operatives had once told Damien that Alfred claimed to be from a farm near Cardiff. The polished speech belied the latter, but what really mattered to Damien was that Sharpe had been an invaluable asset during their time in Spain. The man was a wizard at obtaining well-guarded objects, and that included information. In London and at loose ends, he worked for various solicitors on a strictly private basis, investigating everything from adultery to murder.

“I didn’t think it really would be difficult, but understandably, if I were asking questions about Lady Lillian, my interest might be misconstrued.” Damien kept his expression blasé. He wanted information, but he wasn’t going to explain why.

Actually, why the devil
was
he so interested anyway? He wasn’t sure of the answer to that introspective question, but what he’d just said was absolutely true. The
ton
was notoriously observant and any gentleman from a prominent family asking pointed questions about a marriageable young lady was bound to end up in the gossip sheets.

Sharpe went on. “Not too much to tell, sir. The lady eloped with Lord Sebring, but she must have changed her mind—maybe he wasn’t all he could be between the sheets, milord, you know what I mean—and he returned her to London, but not until they’d spent the night together at a cozy inn up near Northampton.”

Damien rather doubted an innocent young lady like Lillian Bourne would have the slightest idea whether or not her lover had acquitted himself well, so that seemed like an unlikely reason for the marriage to fall through, and besides, she must have known her reputation would be in tatters should she change her mind. “Why wasn’t Sebring compelled to marry her?”

“No one knows, at least not those I talked to. Lady Lillian’s father never challenged the bastard. Curious, that. You aristocrats like to kill each other over lesser slights than letting your daughter be tupped and then not made respectable after the fact. That’s why I think it might be her as refused Sebring, rather than the other way around.”

It
was
unusual, Damien had to admit. Her father had been an earl, and the English peerage was infamous for not taking insults lightly, not to mention the lingering taint on his daughter’s reputation. “Interesting,” he agreed, leaning back thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the painting above the fireplace.

He’d bought it in a dusty shop in Madrid and brought it back with him. The depiction of a Moorish castle at sunset reminded him of Spain in more than just the dramatic landscape, but also the brooding passion of a people who were never quite conquered despite their tumultuous history. The superimposed turrets against a lurid sky were reminiscent of the bloodstained past.

“It is,” Alfred agreed, his gaze speculative, “but not half as interesting as why you sent me sniffing around. If you don’t mind me saying so, you are well known for keeping your private entanglements separate from business.”

Had it not been for his recent meeting with Charles Peyton, Damien would have acerbically pointed out he no longer had a profession. Maybe that’s why he was so intrigued by the daring Lillian… because he was at loose ends, with an inheritance from his father generous enough he didn’t have to work if he didn’t wish to, but not the nature to sit idle.

He said with no inflection, “She isn’t an entanglement. We simply met under unusual circumstances and I was curious.”

“Memorable, is she?” Sharpe had remarkably already drained his glass and set it aside with a definite click.

All that pale skin, the enticing swell of her breasts under the flimsy chemise, the luminescent blue of her eyes… yes, Damien remembered Lily Bourne very well. “What about Lord Sebring? Anything unusual there?”

“Has himself a wife now. According to the parlor maid, a bit of a demanding one, Lady Sebring is, but she has her reasons. His lordship doesn’t spend a lot of time at home.”

Still pining for the woman who had agreed to run off with him but then refused the actual marriage? Damien had to wonder.

And also wonder why he cared one way or the other. It wasn’t like they knew each other beyond that one encounter.

Perhaps
that
was the problem.

T

It was so very Regina.

Tonight.

Nothing more. Just that one word, and she expected, of course, for him to not only understand but also come running.

He would resent it a little more, but he knew she didn’t intend it that way. Her artistic soul resisted formality and she would be confounded if he’d take offense because she’d invited him to join her for the evening in such a succinct manner.

So once he’d delivered his cousins back to the Bourne family residence in Mayfair, he requested to have his horse saddled. It was only a few blocks, but it had started to mist and he wasn’t so much reluctant to walk, but reluctant to
wait
.

Entirely different.

It was late, dark because of the drizzle, and he walked up the front steps after giving his mount over to a sleepy stable boy with his collar up around his ears.

This time, with her note, Regina had included a key. A first. A coup.

She invited no one into her life lightly.

James inserted it into the lock, turned it, and went inside, doing his best to not drip all over the polished floor of the foyer. It was no surprise there wasn’t a hovering servant, as she didn’t believe in them, so he carefully hung up his greatcoat himself. Light-footed, he made his way toward her studio.

As expected, there was a light under the door. He thought about knocking, especially as Regina was such a private person, but instead he thought of the key, turned the knob, and stopped cold in the very act of opening the door.

She’d been waiting for him. Or at least he hoped so, because all she wore was a pair of black silk stockings and ruffled garters. Nothing else. Her gaze was intent on the painting he’d seen in its inception last night. Without looking over she murmured, “Come in.”

He would have obeyed at once but he was frozen, caught in the vision of her lissome body so tantalizingly exposed in an erotic display of satiny bottom and bare breasts, her pubic hair a dainty dark patch between her legs, her long hair loose and shining. She bent forward to dab at the canvas and her lush bosom swayed just enough to make him take in an audible breath.

Which she heard. Half of London might have heard it.

Regina slanted him an amused glance. “You didn’t know I often paint naked?”

“No.” James struggled for a similar degree of sophistication as he stared at the beautiful silhouette of her
luscious nude curves. “But at least now I have a new fantasy.”

She pointed her brush at him playfully. “I’d love to hear it.”

Her outrageous nature was such a contrast to his conventionality. Was it the attraction? That they were so disparate in personality? Maybe it was, but he sensed it was something more than that. Certainly he was drawn to her in a fluttering moth-to-flame attraction, but Regina was not just eccentric—though he had to admit the description fit.

“I’d love to tell you.” He closed the door, his gaze predatory. “Or better yet
show
you.”

“There’s no bed.”

“Do we need one?”

She seemed to consider it. “We’ve always used one before, but I’m… adventurous.” She stretched then, her spectacular breasts showcased as her spine arched. Regina’s gray eyes held amusement. “But let’s keep it comfortable, shall we?”

He tugged at his cravat and promised darkly, “Whatever my lady pleases.”

It wasn’t like she didn’t know she’d been deliberately provocative… because actually, she didn’t paint in the nude at all. She wore boring, practical smocks to prevent her clothes from being soiled, and she quit as soon as the natural light faded, and usually took her dinner alone.

This was a theatrical performance extraordinaire designed to seduce.

“I like the idea of you pleasing me.” Her tone was low and deliberately sultry.

She’d summoned him and he had answered. Regina enjoyed the balance of power as it stood, but wasn’t sure how long it would take him to realize it might not be as one-sided as it seemed. James was intelligent, articulate, and polished—much more so than she was—and he would see through her soon enough. For right now, though, she liked being in control. His desire for her gave her the upper hand, and as long as she held him sexually, she was not required to address any other possibilities in their relationship.

“Hopefully you’ll enjoy every aspect of it,” he said huskily.

She was older. Considerably so. Not quite a decade, but at least seven years. She wasn’t fashionable, and he could easily make an advantageous marriage. At the moment he was still heir apparent to an earldom because his cousin’s wife had not yet given her husband a son.

Not to mention when it was all said and done, even though her brother was a viscount and openly—even warmly—accepted her as his sister, she was still illegitimate. It had never affected her sense of self-worth, but it had certainly influenced her life.

It was actually quite simple. While she could have James, she wished to keep him. When they tired of each other, she would go back to her emancipated existence.

Why did she have the feeling it would never be the same?

Regina brushed it off. At the moment all she wanted to think about was how she was naked, he was shedding his clothes as rapidly as possible, and in moments he would touch her and…

His shirt landed on the paint-stained floor with disregard
for possible damage, and his tailored jacket followed. Bare-chested, he sat down in her favorite chair to remove his boots and she languidly set aside her brush and moved toward him, the weight of her breasts heavy now that they had tightened in arousal. James watched her, tossing aside the second boot, and he leaned back, the bulge of his erection under the fine material of his doeskin breeches prominent.

The color of his eyes fascinated her. Azure, like a summer sky. Clear, beautiful, framed with long lashes a darker shade than his light hair. She’d thought about painting him—of course she had—but wasn’t quite sure yet how she wanted to do it. In her experience, a work was always first a fleeting thought based on an image. It then danced back to tantalize and tease, not a solid vision but a ghost, until it finally took solid form and she set a clean piece of canvas on the easel and went to work.

“I intend to enjoy this very much.” It was a travesty to waste a perfectly good brush, so she walked over and slipped it into a jar of spirits, and then wiped her hands on a clean cloth. He watched her—she could fairly feel the singe of his heated gaze, and she took her time before turning around. She was already readying for him, warm between her legs, anticipation building. “That,” she informed him, “is my favorite chair.”

He immediately started to rise. “And I’m sitting in the presence of a lady. Pardon me, but it’s blasted difficult to take your boots off standing up.”

“I’m not offended. Stay right where you are.”

James froze, and then settled back, his lean body tense. “Whatever you wish.”

“Besides, do proper ladies,” Regina asked him in a
provocative voice, sauntering over, “welcome gentlemen without wearing a stitch more than silk stockings and garters?”

“I admit I don’t care what other ladies do, only you.” James reached for her again, but she stopped short, shaking her head, her hair moving sensuously against her bare back. “Wait a moment, Mr. Bourne. We need to discuss the rules first. Shall we?”

His brows shot up. “What rules?”

She liked him like this—needy, wanting her, his body so obviously aroused. Regina lifted a foot and put it on the arm of the chair so he had a very clear, explicit view of her sex and was rewarded when a muscle twitched in his jaw. It was a decadent position, but she intended to have a decadent evening. “
My
rules. This is my studio, sacrosanct, inviolate, and no one is usually allowed in here. As my first guest, you must adhere to the protocol.”