Wicked Intentions 1 (15 page)

“Aye.” Lord Caire sounded amused. “And the daughter of a duke as well, don’t forget.”

She turned and opened her mouth to set him down, but he placed a warm finger across her lips. “Hush. They are about to begin.”

And she saw he was right. A gentleman in a splendid white wig and gold-trimmed coat had seated himself before the piano. A younger man stood by his side to turn the pages of the sheet music.

Lady Beckinhall stood at the front of the room and made some type of announcement, no doubt introducing
the pianist, but Temperance hardly paid her mind. Her gaze was fixed on the gentleman at the piano. He sat quietly, unsmiling even when Lady Beckinhall gestured to him. He merely nodded once curtly and waited as she seated herself. He stared at the piano keys before him, seemingly oblivious to the guests who still chattered behind him. Then abruptly he began to play.

Temperance caught her breath, leaning slightly forward. The piece was unfamiliar to her, but the fine chords, the flying notes, lifted something inside of her. She closed her eyes, savoring the sweet swelling in her chest. Moisture pricked at her eyes. It had been so long since she’d heard music like this.

So long.

She drifted, her entire being focused on the music until at last it drew to a close. Only then did Temperance open her eyes and sigh.

“You liked it,” a deep voice said next to her.

She blinked at Lord Caire and realized that her hand was grasped in his. She looked down at their intertwined fingers, puzzled. Had she taken his hand or had he reached for hers? She couldn’t remember.

He tugged gently. “Come. Walk with me.”

“Oh, but…”

She glanced at the piano, but the pianist had already left. Around them the other guests were standing or strolling, none of them appearing at all affected by the music.

She turned back to Lord Caire.

His blue eyes were intent, his high cheekbones ruddy. “Come.”

She rose and followed him silently, paying no attention
to where he led until he opened a door and ushered her into a small sitting room, lit by a fire.

Temperance frowned. “What—?”

But Lord Caire closed the door behind her, and she turned to see him advancing toward her. “You liked the music.”

She looked at him in confusion. “Yes, of course.”

“There is no
of course.
” His sapphire eyes seemed to glitter in the firelight. “Most who come to a musicale pay little or no attention to the music. But you… you were entranced.”

He was so intent upon her that she backed up a step and found herself against a settee.

Still he came closer, heat blasting from him like a furnace. “What did you hear? What did you feel in that music?”

“I… I don’t know,” she stuttered. What did he want of her?

He caught her shoulders. “Yes, you do. Tell me. Describe your emotions.”

“I felt free,” she whispered, her heart beating hard. “I felt alive.”

“And?” His face was angled, his eyes examining her.

“And I don’t know!” She placed her palms on his chest, pushing, but though he stiffened at her touch, he didn’t budge. “How can one describe music? It’s an impossible task. One either feels the wonder or one doesn’t.”

“And you’re one of the few who does feel it, aren’t you?”

“What do you want of me?” she whispered.

“Everything.”

His mouth was on hers. Hot, insistent, working as if he
meant to draw from her bodily what he couldn’t in words. She gripped his arms, unable to defend herself from this onslaught so soon after the ecstasy of the music.

Eagerly she opened her mouth, wanting to taste, wanting to feel without guilt, just this once. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, withdrawing and thrusting again until she moaned and caught his tongue, sucking on it, tasting wine, tasting him. She wanted to pull the coat from his shoulders, to rip off his shirt and feel again the smooth skin beneath. To place her mouth against his nipple and lick him.

Dear God, she’d lost her mind, her balance, and her morals, and she no longer cared. She wanted to be free again, to feel without thought or horrible memory. She wanted to be born anew, pure and without sin. She ran her hands up his arms, squeezing, testing the hard muscles beneath until she reached his shoulders, then—

“Damnation!” The word was a groan as Lord Caire ripped his mouth from hers.

“Oh!” She’d forgotten his injured shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’ve hurt you.”

She reached for him, not sure what she could do, perhaps only wanting to offer comfort.

But he shook his head, beads of sweat on his upper lip. “Don’t worry yourself, Mrs. Dews.”

He straightened from where he’d leaned against the settee back, but then swayed.

“You need to sit,” Temperance said.

“Don’t fuss,” he murmured irritably, but his voice was weak. Something dark stained the shoulder of his coat.

Temperance felt a thrill of fear. His face was too red, the heat of his body too hot. She swallowed, keeping her
voice calm. In her experience, gentlemen never wanted to admit weakness. “I… I find myself weary. Would you mind terribly if we left?”

To her relief, he didn’t argue over her obvious stratagem. Instead, Lord Caire straightened and offered her his arm. He led her back to the musicale room. There he made his way far too leisurely through the guests, pausing to exchange banter with other gentlemen, before making his excuses for his early departure to the hostess. All the while, Temperance watched him anxiously, aware that sweat slicked his brow. By the time they retrieved her wrap, he was leaning heavily on her. She wasn’t even sure he was conscious of it or not.

“Tell the coachman to drive to Lord Caire’s town house,” she told the footman as he helped Lord Caire up the steps to the carriage. “Tell him to hurry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the footman said, and slammed the carriage door.

“Such drama, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire drawled. His head lolled against the squabs, his eyes closed. “Don’t you want to return to your foundling home?”

“I think it best that we get you to your home as soon as possible.”

“You worry too much.”

“Yes.” Temperance braced as the carriage swung hard around a corner. “Yes, I do.”

She bit her lip. Because despite her light words, she knew her worry was well founded. She very much feared Lord Caire’s wound was infected.

And infection could kill a man.

Chapter Seven

At Meg’s words, all within the room gasped.

“Nonsense!” the king roared. “I am beloved by my people. Everyone tells me this is so.”

Meg shrugged. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but they have lied to you. You may be feared but you are not loved.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “I will prove to you that I am loved by my people, and when I have done so, I will have your head to decorate my palace gates. Until then, you may reside in my dungeons.”

And with a wave of his hand, Meg was dragged away….

—from
King Lockedheart

Infection could kill within days—hours if the wound turned putrid rapidly.

Temperance couldn’t keep the morbid thought from her mind as Lord Caire’s carriage rumbled through the dark London streets. She didn’t even know where he lived or if they had a long ride or one of only minutes.
Perhaps she should’ve insisted he stay at Lady Beckinhall’s town house, despite his obvious desire to conceal his illness.

“You’re very quiet, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire said slowly from across the carriage. “I vow, it makes me nervous. What plots have you worked for me in that Puritanical mind of yours?”

“I only wondered how soon we would arrive at your house.”

He rolled his head, squinting out the window as night lights flashed by. After a bit, he closed his eyes again. “I can’t tell where we are. Halfway to Bath, for all I know. But never fear, my coachman is a humorless man. He’ll see us safely home.”

“Of course.”

“D’you like dancing as well?” he asked suddenly.

Was he delirious? “I don’t dance.”

“Naturally not,” he murmured. “Martyrs dance only upon crosses. I’m surprised you let yourself enjoy even something as innocent as piano music.”

“I used to have a spinet as a young girl,” she said absently. Surely they must be nearly there?

“And you played.”

“Yes.” She remembered suddenly the feel of the smooth, cool piano keys beneath her fingers, the sheer joy of producing music. That time seemed so innocent and far away now.

His eyes cracked lazily. “But you no longer play?”

“I sold the spinet after my husband’s death.” She waited for him to make a cutting remark about Benjamin again.

“Why?”

The simple question startled her enough that she glanced at him. He was watching her through slitted eyes, the blue of his irises glittering even in the dim carriage.

“Why what?”

“Why sell the piano you so obviously treasured? Did you fear you’d be tempted by the small pleasure of the music? Or was it something else?”

Temperance clenched her hands together in her lap, but her voice was calm as she replied with a half-truth. “We needed the money for the home.”

“No doubt you did,” he murmured, “but I don’t think that’s why you sold your spinet. You enjoy punishing yourself.”

“What a nasty thing to say.” She turned her face away from him, feeling the heat in her cheeks. Prayed he couldn’t see her in the dim carriage.

“Yet you don’t deny the accusation.” He grunted in pain as the carriage rocked.

She glanced swiftly at him, only to inhale as she met his sharp gaze. Even in his weakened state, she felt as if she were pinned by a predator.

“What imagined sin do you punish yourself for?” he asked softly. “Did you covet another female’s bonnet once as a child? Gorge yourself on sweetmeats? Felt a naughty thrill at a lout brushing up against you in the street?”

Raw rage, sharp and unexpected, washed over her, making Temperance shake. She restrained herself from shouting a retort only with difficulty. Instead, she breathed deeply, staring at her fists in her lap. To let herself speak now would be the height of stupidity. She’d say too much,
reveal
too much. He was perilously close to her secret shame as it was.

“Or,” Lord Caire’s obnoxiously calm voice drawled, “perhaps the sin was more grave than those I cite.”

She remembered that long-ago thrill when she’d catch sight of a certain man, his crooked smile making her heart leap so unbearably. The memories were shadows of her ancient emotions and desires, still lurking long after their progenitor had died.

Temperance lifted her head, staring into his wicked blue eyes, her jaw clenched. A slight smile played about his wide mouth, sensuous and seductive. Did he torture her out of curiosity? Did he enjoy her pain?

The carriage halted and Lord Caire broke their stare. “Ah. We’ve arrived. Thank you for accompanying me home, Mrs. Dews. Once I alight, the coachman will take you to your own home. I bid you good night.”

She was terribly tempted to simply leave him here. He’d taunted and prodded her like a little boy poking sticks at a caged monkey, purely for his own amusement. And yet when he stood and swayed, half slumping against the carriage doorway, she jumped up.

“I loathe you, Lord Caire,” Temperance said through gritted teeth as she took his arm.

“So you’ve informed me already.”

“I am not finished.” She staggered as he leaned heavily against her. A young footman opened the carriage door, and he immediately took Lord Caire’s other arm to help him down. “You’re an impossibly rude man, without morals or even manners, as far as I can see.”

“Oh, stop, I beg you, Mrs. Dews.” Lord Caire grunted. “You’ll turn my head with this flattery.”

“And,” Temperance continued, ignoring his words, “you’ve behaved abominably to me since the moment
we met—when you broke into my home, might I remind you.”

Lord Caire had made it to the street, where he paused, panting, his hand on the shoulder of the young footman who gaped at the two of them. “Is there a point to this diatribe, or are you merely venting your spleen?”

“I have a point,” Temperance said as she helped him up the steps to his imposing town house. “Despite your treatment of me and your own foul personality, I intend to stay with you until a doctor sees to you.”

“Flattered though I am by your martyrish impulses, Mrs. Dews, I have no need of your help. Bed and a brandy will no doubt see me right.”

“Really?” Temperance eyed the idiot man, swaying on his own doorstep. Sweat dripped down his reddened face, the hair at his temples was plastered to his head, and he literally shook against her.

In one swift move, Temperance elbowed him in his wounded shoulder.

“God’s
blood
!” Lord Caire doubled over, choking.

“Send for a doctor,” Temperance ordered the butler, who was standing wide-eyed at the door next to another footman. “Lord Caire is ill. And you two”—she jerked her chin at the footmen—“help Lord Caire to his bedroom.”