"Fischer!" Quentin Blackwell, Earl of Devlyn,
hollered for his butler as he strode through the front door
of his country home.
Behind him trailed two enormous wolfhounds. As Devlyn
halted in the foyer, he
peeled off his riding gloves and slammed his crop down on
the long table braced
against the wall.
The mirror overhanging the furniture flashed his
reflection at him, and he grimaced at his appearance. He
was a mess. The sleeve of
his jacket was ripped at the shoulder and a smudge of dirt
streaked its way across
his browned cheek, emphasizing the scar that ran from his
ear almost to his mouth.
Shoving a hand through his tousled black hair, he turned
and headed toward his
study.
With each stride he took, his fury grew. If it were
the last thing he did, he'd make Spencer Hamilton rue the
day he'd picked a fight
with the Devil of Devlyn's Keep. The insolent pup.
"Fischer," he roared. "Where the devil are
you?"
The door to the study slammed backward against the
wall as he stormed into the room. A moment later he was
splashing a stiff shot of
whiskey into a glass. Tossing the liquor down his throat,
he relished the burning
sensation. Where the hell did the boy get the idea that his
sister was the injured
party in their brief affair almost five years ago?
No doubt, Eleanor was responsible for the boy's
misconceived notions as to his sister's innocence. The idea
infuriated him. A
sudden snap rent the air as the glass he held shattered
under the weight of his
grip.
"God damn it!" He grimaced as shards of glass bit
into his hand. "Fischer! Get the hell in here!"
Whipping a handkerchief out of his pocket, he
proceeded to clean the small cuts lacerating his palm.
Behind him, he heard
footsteps hurrying into the study.
"I'm sorry, my lord. There was a minor catastrophe in
the kitchen and Cook required my assistance." The sparse
looking man eyed Delyn's
appearance with an arched eyebrow. "Another brawl, my
lord?"
Devlyn glared at his butler, manservant and all
around man of affairs. When one's finances were in such a
miserable state as his,
he was fortunate to have a loyal retainer like Fischer. But
the man had the ability
to make him feel like a chastened schoolboy at times. And
today wasn't a good day
for being chastened.
"I never brawl, Fischer."
He clenched his teeth at the skeptical look the man
gave him. At least not anymore he didn't. Granted, the man
had dressed his wounds
from more than one brawl in the past. The last time had
been when a sailor had
sliced his cheek open two years ago. It had taught him to
curb his temper and walk
away from a fight. Now as Fischer studied him with an air
of disappointment, he
grimaced.
"If you must know, the baron's youngest offspring
discovered I'd returned and tried to avenge his sister's
supposed
honor."
"I see."
"Damn it, Fischer. Even you think me
guilty."
"Not at all, my lord. I know you too well to imagine
you capable of betraying Miss Hamilton."
Devlyn turned away abruptly at the statement. No, he
would never have betrayed Eleanor. He'd been in love with
her. The day she'd broken
his heart, he'd set out to earn himself the title, Devil of
Devlyn's Keep. He'd
explored every debauched sin and deed in the past five
years with the sole purpose
of obliterating her from his mind.
Until today, he'd been successful in doing so. Then
Hamilton had accosted him at the pond this morning, ripping
open the wound he'd
thought scarred over completely. But it wasn't the wound
he'd expected. For the
first time today, he realized he didn't love Eleanor.
Probably never had. No, what
had scarred him was the injustice of it all.
Shrugging out of his torn jacket, he tossed it to
Fischer. "See that it's mended. I don't know when I'll have
funds to purchase a new
riding coat."
The humiliating statement made him twist his lips in
a bitter grimace. Eleanor Hamilton had done her work well
the day she'd betrayed
him. Running to her father, Eleanor had convinced Baron
Townsend to avenge her
so-called honor. The man had made it his business to
destroy what little of the
Devlyn fortune still existed. The bastard had almost
succeeded. If it hadn't been
for his attorney's quick thinking to shift his investments,
he'd be
destitute.
As it was, he retained his townhouse in Mayfair,
Devlyn's Keep here in Shellingham and a few small
investments that provided him
with enough to live on if he was frugal with his spending.
At least until his
American investments came to fruition, which he expected
sometime in the very near
future.
"Perhaps you might forgo my salary this month, my
lord. I think it might afford you at least a new coat. This
one is rather worn. I'm
surprised the sleeve hasn't ripped before now."
The man's generous offer made Devlyn tighten his jaw.
He often forgot how much Fischer truly was a part of his
family. He was the last
living Devlyn, and Fischer had been with him throughout his
younger years. Forcing
a smile to his mouth, he shook his head.
"I'm not that destitute, Fischer. You'll have your
salary as always, and you can't say you don't earn every
farthing."
"No, my lord. Indeed I can't." Folding the coat over
his arm, the manservant nodded toward Devlyn's hand. "Shall
I send Cook in to look
at that hand?"
"No, I'll be all right. That will be all,
Fischer."
"My lord." The manservant bowed and left Devlyn alone
with his thoughts.
Eleanor. He wanted to wring the bitch's neck, slowly
squeeze the life out of that dainty, golden-haired body of
hers. No, that would be
too easy a punishment for her. No. He wanted to humiliate
her. Make her pay for the
lies she'd told and the humiliation he'd suffered. And he
wanted to make Townsend
pay for trying to strip him of his fortune.
He'd been the innocent and gullible fool throughout
the entire thing. Eleanor had simply used him to avoid the
scandal her pregnancy
would have wrought. When she'd declared him the father of
her child little more
than a month after he first bedded her, he should have
known something was
amiss.
Unwrapping his cut, he stared down at the miniature
lacerations already puffy and red. He reached for the
brandy and poured a small
amount of the liquor over his palm. He grimaced. The
stinging reminded him of
Eleanor's betrayal. He'd been oblivious to every one of her
faults.
Instead, he'd allowed love to let him believe her
lies. He'd even come close to marrying the woman. Never
again would he allow his
heart to blind him in such a way. No doubt, she would have
continued her whoring
after they were married. But fortunately, he'd caught the
bitch and her lover
rutting like common beasts in one of the Townsend's horse
stalls.
It had hardly been surprising to see Eleanor turn
into a raving witch when he'd broken their engagement. Then
when Townsend had
confronted him over the matter, things had only gotten
worse. Eleanor claimed the
child was his and Townsend hadn't needed anything else to
propel him into
action.
Then, in less than a week, the bastard had put him on
the edge of financial ruin, while Eleanor had married some
unsuspecting member of
the peerage a few weeks later. Thoroughly disgusted, he'd
traveled to America to
try to rebuild his fortune. And while he was there, he'd
taken it upon himself to
explore every debauchery he could find. In doing so, he'd
achieved a modicum of
success, not only in his sinful endeavors, but in his
financial situation as well.
Still it would take several more weeks before his ventures
turned
profitable.
He wrapped his cuts with the clean side of his
handkerchief and moved to stand behind his desk. With his
uninjured hand, he sifted
through a thin pile of invitations. Word had already spread
throughout the county
that a Devlyn was once again entrenched in the keep. He
smiled cynically. It seemed
his neighbors were more than ready to overlook his past
transgressions. Well, to
hell with them. To hell with every one of them.
"My lord." Fischer's voice ended on a high-pitched
note pulling Devlyn's gaze up with a jerk. Whatever had
gotten his manservant into
a state of apoplexy had to be important.
"What is it, Fischer?"
"It's a lady, my lord."
"A lady?"
"Yes, my lord. But ... well, I'm
afraid...."
"Out with it, man!"
"It's Miss Hamilton."
His body snapped to attention, his limbs rigid with
tension. Eleanor. No. She was married now. She wouldn't use
her maiden name. Her
sister most likely, hoping for a verbal duel with him as
opposed to the physical
one he'd endured with the youngest Hamilton. Her visit
would no doubt be quite
interesting. "Send her in, Fischer. Send her in."
"Very well, my lord."
A moment later, he watched a tall, lushly figured
woman enter the study. Caesar and Beast immediately stood
up and approached the
woman. Despite their size and fierce appearance, the
wolfhounds were gentle
creatures, but his visitor couldn't have known that. He
waited for her to draw back
in fear. Instead, she scratched Beast under the chin and
tugged on Caesar's ear
before straightening.
Dressed in a royal blue riding habit trimmed in
black, there was a mysterious quality about her. Black
netting covered her face and
he couldn't distinguish her features. The woman made a
slight curtsey then inhaled
a deep breath. Behind her, Fischer closed the door to the
study. She jumped at the
quiet sound of the latch falling closed.
"Lord Devlyn. I hope you'll forgive my intrusion. I'm
sure it's unexpected." The husky sound of her voice tickled
his spine. It intrigued
him.
He gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk
and waited as she sat down. There was a fluid grace to the
way she moved. It
reminded him of a sleek cat. The dogs trailed after her,
and he scowled at the
traitors before ordering them to return to their usual
resting place. Sitting down,
he leaned back in his chair and threw his feet up onto the
desk. It was a rude
gesture and he knew it. Her body stiffened in response, and
he smiled with just a
touch of derision. Had she really expected him to be a
gentleman? He'd dispensed
with gentlemanly behavior a long time ago. The Devil of
Devlyn's Keep answered to
no one and did as he pleased.
"So tell me, Miss Hamilton, to what do I owe this
honor?"
"I ... I came here with a ... a proposition for you,
my lord."
"A proposition." He arched an eyebrow at her. The
woman had definitely piqued his interest. "Do go on."
"I'm here to offer you revenge."
The words made his limbs tighten with tension. What
exactly was this hussy up to with her offer of revenge?
Revenge for what? Despite
her efforts to hide her trepidation, he saw her hands
tremble, and the netting over
her face quivered from her rapid breaths.
From the tremor that shook her, he knew his
insouciant reaction intimidated her. He smiled slowly, the
slight curl of his lip
tilting upward on one side. Although he couldn't see his
own features, he knew his
smile emphasized the scar on his face. Women had told him
it gave him a dangerous
look.
"What an intriguing concept. Revenge on
whom?"
"My sister, Eleanor."
He'd expected the words, but they surprised him
nonetheless. So this was the mysterious Sophia Hamilton,
Townsend's eldest brat.
He'd never met Eleanor's only sister. She'd been away in
Scotland while he was
courting Eleanor.
"You're willing to betray your only
sister?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
A shudder shook her body as he watched the netting
covering her face stir with her accelerated breathing. The
sight fascinated him for
some reason. It reminded him of how fast a woman breathed
when she was on the
threshold of a climax during lovemaking.
"Because what my father and sister did to you was
wrong. Eleanor ... Eleanor has always been spoiled. She's
only ever cared for
herself, and my father has simply catered to her every
whim."
"This is all quite fascinating, but you'll forgive me
for being just a tad skeptical as to your offer."
"Of course, I understand. But I assure you, my lord,
I'm most serious about this. I have information that will
allow you to recoup what
my father stole from you, and at the same time, you'll have
the opportunity to
confront Eleanor with her lies and deceit."
"You've still not really answered the question of
why. Why are you willing to betray your father and
sister?"
Confusion and trepidation radiated out from her. She
sprang to her feet, twisting her hands around the riding
crop she carried. "I'm
sorry. I shouldn't have come. Please ... please forgive my
intrusion."
Not about to let her leave without learning more, he
scrambled to his feet and pursued her to the door. Her hand
was on the knob when he
braced his palm against the wooden barrier, preventing her
escape. She immediately
took a step back and he followed. Her height amazed him. If
he lifted her veil,
she'd be almost eye to eye with him. And something made his
hand itch to remove
that netting, but he refrained for the moment. Instead, he
trailed his forefinger
along the edge of her jaw, the coarse netting hiding the
softness he was certain
lay beneath the veil. It aroused him.
"Surely you don't think I'm going to let you leave
without discovering why you're willing to betray your
family."
"Please, my lord. It was a mistake to come
here."
"Perhaps, but nonetheless, I'll have an answer from
you."
"Or what?" The sudden challenge in her voice amused
him. At least she had backbone.
"Hmm, what could I do to persuade you to answer?" His
fingers touched the snowy cravat tied around her neck. With
a lazy movement, he
gently tugged at one of the ties. Her cravat tumbled open
to expose her creamy
throat. God, she was a tempting wench. She gasped as he
pressed his thumb against
the hollow of her throat. Again, the netting fluttered
wildly against her
face.
"My lord, please."
"Please is a subjective word, Miss Hamilton. Are you
asking me to do something wicked? Or are you begging to
tell me your reasons for
this interesting proposition of yours?"
"I ... I wish to ... oh bloody hell!"
Her abrupt response was so completely unexpected he
jerked back in surprise. She began to pace the floor in
front of him, and his eyes
narrowed as he watched her prowling. Again she reminded him
of a cat. After a
moment of tense silence, she stopped and whirled to face
him.
"My lord, I came here to offer you revenge on Eleanor
and my father because I want revenge too. You weren't the
only one they betrayed.
They betrayed me as well."
"I see." He folded his arms across his chest and
waited.
"When Eleanor became pregnant with her lover's child,
she needed a husband. You suited her purpose, but when you
refused to marry her,
Father helped her steal my fiancée instead."
"You were engaged to that weakling,
Shively?"
"Yes. He was ... he was my last hope."
"Last hope?"
"Yes. I'd already given up hope of ever marrying
until I met Andrew. I was never the pretty one in the
family."
He watched her take a deep breath as she slowly
reached up toward the netting covering her face. As she
revealed her features, he
eyed her with curiosity. For someone who believed herself
unattractive, she was
quite the opposite.
Although she wasn't a beauty by any stretch of the
imagination, her hazel eyes were large and echoed with
warmth, while her complexion
was smooth and creamy. Wisps of brown hair framed her heart-
shaped face and her
full mouth pouted in a manner that brought his cock to
attention. The reaction
startled him. Clearing his throat, he turned away from
her.
"I think you underestimate yourself, Miss Hamilton.
I'm sure there are plenty of men willing to offer for
you."
"No, my lord you're wrong. Offers of marriage have
been nonexistent for many years."
"Come now, I think you exaggerate."
"Do I?" With his back to her, he could almost see the
small shrug of her rounded shoulders. "Perhaps. Well, my
lord, you've received the
answer to your question. Now if you don't mind, I should
like to leave."
He didn't want her to leave. She intrigued him and
something about her made him feel protective of her.
Eleanor had hurt her too. He
understood that pain.
"Before you go, why don't you tell me what you'd
hoped to receive in exchange for this method of revenge you
offer me?"
"Marriage."
Stunned, he spun around to stare at her. "Marriage?
To me?"
"Yes."
"Good God, woman. Whatever made you think I'd make a
suitable husband?"
"I didn't. In fact, I knew you would be far from the
ideal husband."
"Then why settle for me? I'm sure there are any
number of men willing to marry you."
She heaved a sigh of annoyance. "I'd heard you were
intelligent, my lord; however, I'm beginning to have my
doubts. I'm Eleanor's older
sister. What man would want to marry me?"
"I can only guess at your age, but since Eleanor is
younger than I am, I'd say you're about my age."
Her pink mouth formed a moue of astonishment before
she burst out into laughter. It was a pleasant sound. "Oh
my word. I must admit to
being extremely flattered. But you see, my lord. I'm much
older than your tender
years."
Irritated by her amusement, he frowned. "I'd hardly
refer to the age of thirty-two as my tender years."
"It's quite tender when I consider my own age of
forty-one."
The comment made his jaw sag. How was it possible
that this attractive woman could possibly be so much older
than him? She hardly
looked old enough to be his age, let alone having almost
ten years on him.
Impossible.
"You jest."
"No, my lord. Sadly enough I'm an old maid. Any hope
of marrying vanished five years ago when Eleanor ran off
with my
intended."
"And yet you still want to marry?"
"Yes. I want to experience what it's like between a
man and a woman." She blushed and it made her look like a
fresh debutante. "I could
pay for the experience I suppose, but I'm not quite that
bold. Coming here was the
boldest thing I've ever done."
The idea of teaching this woman about the pleasures
of the body captured his imagination. An older woman who'd
not yet been initiated
into the art or power of lovemaking. An intriguing
possibility. His cock stirred
again. He stepped toward her and traced the curve of her
mouth with his forefinger
before his thumb pressed down on her lower lip. It was
plump and tender.
He heard the sharp intake of her breath. It excited
him. When was the last time he'd had the pleasure of
initiating a novice? Years.
The scent of lilacs drifted up into his nose as he lowered
his head toward
her.
"And you're willing to put yourself completely into
my hands?"
"Ye-yes."
"Are you certain of that? I've not earned my title
without a great deal of wickedness."
"Your sexual prowess has always been widely touted in
social circles. I doubt you've acquired more deviant
practices while in the
colonies." The pulse at the side of her neck fluttered
beneath her skin. He excited
her. A smile tilted his mouth and he leaned forward until
his lips were just a
hairsbreadth away from her shell-shaped ear.
"I believe you'll find the social circles are only
half accurate. I'm far more decadent than any rumors you
may have
heard."
"Oh," she breathed.
"So shall we strike a bargain then? My name and
experience for the means to avenge myself."
Speechless she barely nodded her head. What the hell
was he doing? A wife? He studied the woman in front of him
closely. Perhaps it was
time to try for an heir, and he could do much worse that
this delectable creature.
And if the woman didn't give him a child, then his cousin's
brat could inherit for
all he cared.
Another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he
watched excitement and trepidation flash across her
features. Her heart had to be
pounding in her breast. He glanced down at the snug fit of
her royal blue habit.
And they were firm, plump looking breasts too. It was
difficult to believe she was
so much older than him. The anticipation of the decadent
pleasures he wanted to
introduce her to as his wife made him grow hard as a rock.
His lips curled into a
deeper smile as he pinned her with his gaze.
"Then we're agreed. Revenge and nights of pleasure. A
decidedly decadent proposition."
LOVE'S PORTRAIT
By
Monica Burns
© copyright September 2005, Monica Burns
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright September
2005
ISBN 1-58608-642-1
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events,
and places are of the author's imagination and not to be
confused with fact. Any
resemblance to living persons or events is merely
coincidence.
Chapter 1
London, 1892
"It's wicked, Julia. Absolutely
wicked!"
Alva's squeal of shock made Julia Westgard smile with
delight. Her friend was right, the painting was wickedly
shocking. She turned back
toward the painting she'd commissioned. Tipping her head to
one side, she studied
it with a critical eye.
Was that really how Isaac Peebles saw her? The nude
painting made her look lush and sensual, almost beautiful.
Almost, but not quite.
She did like the way he'd captured the color of her hair.
Soft golden highlights
glistened in the dark red hair that tumbled over her
shoulders. It was her best
feature. And he'd made her eyes close to the green they got
when she was angry.
He'd made her gaze far more attractive than the plain hazel
one she saw in the
mirror everyday.
"I like it." Hands resting on her hips, she smiled.
"I like it very much. Do you think I should hang it in the
salon or the
study?"
"Good Lord, Julia. You cannot possibly be
serious!"
Tickled once more to have shocked her friend, Julia
turned toward the petite woman, the bustle of her gown
whispering softly at her
quick turn. The horrified look in Alva's blue eyes made her
realize she'd teased
her friend enough. One hand pressed against the dove gray
taffeta of her dress, she
shook her head.
"I'm teasing you. I don't have that much
self-confidence."
The relief on her friend's pale features made her
grimace. No, of course she didn't have that much
confidence. The confident air she
put on for family and friends was nothing short of bravado.
Everything she did was
an act to cover up the inadequacies she felt every day-the
shortcomings Oscar had
regaled her with the entire time they'd been married. Even
though he'd been dead
almost two years, she could still feel the sting of his
cruel taunts and
behavior.
Ever the impeccable husband in public, in private
he'd found numerous ways to shame and degrade her. From
vicious insults to the
occasional slap, Oscar had controlled every aspect of her
life. She'd never quite
figured out how she'd survived, but she had. And she was
all the stronger for
it.
Still, she'd yet to succeed in shedding herself of
the insecurities her husband had cultivated in her. They
were always close at hand,
just beneath the surface. It was one of the reasons she'd
commissioned the nude
portrait. It was her attempt to repair her spirit, to
regain the independence she'd
lost in her marriage.
"Ah, there you two are." Catherine Dewhurst poked her
head into Julia's boudoir. "I thought you two would be in
the study discussing the
latest review of Lady Windermere's Fan."
Julia stepped forward to embrace her cousin by
marriage. Of all her in-laws, Catherine was the only one
who could see beyond the
false façade. The woman had been her guardian angel on more
than one
occasion.
"I have something much more exciting than a review of
Oscar Wilde's new play. Come see what I have."
"Is it here? Finally?"
Julia nodded her head and grinned as her cousin moved
to look at the front of the painting. Catherine's face went
red before laughter
parted her lips.
"Oh my word, however did you manage to keep from
fainting, Alva?"
Affronted, Alva's pale face took on a pinched look.
"I have no idea. It's scandalous, I tell you,
scandalous."
"I don't think it's scandalous." Julia shook her
head
"Rubbish, it's shocking. Why, the man saw you
naked."
Frustrated with her friend's straitlaced tone that
sounded so much like Oscar's disapproval, Julia tossed a
pleading glance in her
cousin's direction. "Do try to explain to her,
Catherine."
"Perhaps she has a point, Julia. It is a bit …
risqué, even for you."
Disappointed by her cousin's response, she stalked to
the painting and replaced the cloth that had covered it
earlier. If she'd wanted an
unfavorable assessment of her behavior, she only had to
listen to Oscar's voice in
her head for that. It wasn't as if she'd gone without a
chaperone; she'd taken her
maid with her to each and every sitting.
Sitting for Isaac Peebles had offered her a freedom
she'd never experienced before. The portrait sittings had
been a release from the
rigors of society. More importantly, they had been a means
of freeing herself of
the yoke Oscar had settled on her from the day they were
married. With a final
adjustment to the cloth over the painting, she turned to
face her
friends.
"There. You don't have to burden your eyes with the
subject matter anymore."
Catherine arched her eyebrows at her and shook her
head. "I didn't say I didn't like it. I merely pointed out
that it was a bit more
... adventurous than most portraits."
"He did manage to get your hair color right, and
that's not easy to do. Even in the more…," Alva blushed
deeply, "... the more
intimate places."
The woman's words hung in the air for a long moment
as Julia stared at her friend in stunned silence. Was
prudish, little Alva actually
teasing her about the portrait? She shot a glance over
toward her cousin.
Catherine's expression was equally astonished. Indignation
tilted Alva's pointed
chin upward.
"Well, I can be daring sometimes too," she huffed,
sending them both a sheepish glance as the room exploded
with laughter. Julia shook
her head as amusement continued to bubble out of her.
"If you found the portrait daring, then wait until
you hear what I've planned for the Society's next
fundraiser." She turned to her
cousin. "Shall we tell her, Catherine?"
"Oh, there's no we in this idea at all." Catherine
carefully removed the hat from her head, meticulously
pushing the hat pin into the
back of the peacock feathered plumes that trailed down the
back of the accessory.
Sweeping the train of her dark green gown to one side, she
took a seat next to
Alva.
Julia faced the two women seated before her. Her best
friends. The only two people she could count on to love her
no matter what she said
or did. And of late, she'd been quite bold. Securing shares
in St. Claire Shipping
had been viewed by Oscar's family as not only excessive but
foolhardy as well. If
they were to discover she was actually reviewing accounting
ledgers and conducting
business in person with St. Claire, the family would close
ranks around her in an
attempt to control her just as her husband had. But perhaps
they would have good
reason in this instance.
Morgan St. Claire. The thought of the man sent a
shudder rippling through her. He was an arrogant bastard.
One who didn't like
anyone questioning his way of doing business-something
she'd done quite a bit of
over the past few weeks. Even she'd been surprised by her
daring, and it was a
miracle the man hadn't choked her yet.
Still, as an investor in his company, she'd insisted
on reviewing the books. She wasn't about to hand over a
small portion of her
fortune without solid evidence that the man knew how to run
his business. He'd
rebelled against the suggestion, but when she wouldn't
budge on the issue, he'd
begrudgingly agreed to her request.
The fact that he'd conceded defeat in the face of her
persistence had amazed her. It had been a small concession,
but one that had
bolstered her confidence more than anything else she'd done
since Oscar's death. It
had helped ease the feelings of worthlessness he had
fostered in her.
The question now was whether her friends would
support her in this new adventure she had devised. It was
for a good cause, and she
needed to do something daring. Something to break out of
the narrow confines of the
life she'd lived for far too long.
Even though Oscar was gone, the repressive atmosphere
lingered in the house they'd shared. It was as stuffy,
stiff and rigid as Queen
Victoria herself. That was why she'd chosen to do something
foolhardy and daring.
She would be the one in control--no one else. It would be
one more silent shout
against the oppressive life she'd endured for so long. One
more protest against
Oscar and his hypocrisy. She inhaled and exhaled a deep
breath.
"We're--" She paused as Catherine arched a
threatening brow at her. "I'm going to acquire a silk
handkerchief from Morgan St.
Claire and auction it off at the Society for Lost Angels to
raise money for the new
orphanage."
Alva tipped her head to one side, her expression
puzzled. "Well, that doesn't sound all that bold. I'm sure
Mr. St. Claire will be
happy to part with a piece of silk for the children."
"I don't intend to ask him for the handkerchief. I
intend to sneak into his rooms at the Clarendon tomorrow
night at the dinner party
he's having for his investors." Julia smiled at the
notion.
She was feeling quite pleased with herself about this
bold plan. To pull one over on Morgan St. Claire would be
almost as pleasurable as
when she occasionally found errors in his books. More
importantly, it would be a
blow in support of all the women he'd dallied with before
leaving them with simply
a monogrammed handkerchief as a token of the affair.
"Oh my! You can't do that, Julia. What if he catches
you?" Alva sent her a horrified look.
"I don't intend to get caught. I've already made
arrangements for one of the maids on his floor to give me
access to his
rooms."
"Couldn't you just ask him for the handkerchief? He's
such a gentleman, I'm sure he won't refuse your
request."
"Oh, don't get her started on Morgan St. Claire."
Catherine grimaced at Alva. "We'll be here all day
listening to her rail at the
man's shortcomings."
"But I've always found Mr. St. Claire quite
charming," said Alva in a bewildered tone.
Julia glared at her. "Morgan St. Claire is full of
himself and enjoys tempting women into heartbreak. He's a
scoundrel of the worst
kind."
"Which makes me wonder why you chose to invest in his
company?" Catherine sent her a look filled with mockery.
"Business should never be guided by emotions. St.
Claire Shipping is a sound investment."
"I see." Catherine's ironic tone earned her a look of
puzzlement from Alva and a glare from Julia.
"I still don't see why you're going to sneak into the
man's hotel room instead of just asking for a
handkerchief." Alva frowned in
disapproval.
Closing her eyes, Julia shook her head. "Because it
won't have as dramatic an impact if I ask him for one.
Sneaking into the man's
hotel room and taking a handkerchief without getting caught
will cause a stir among
the ladies. They'll want details about his hotel room,
which I'll be happy to
elaborate on as they bid on the blasted thing."
"Surely you're not going to admit to the Society that
you entered the man's room." Alva looked askance at the
idea and Julia frowned. For
once her prudent friend was right.
"I see your point." With a wave of her hand, Julia
smiled. "Well, I'll just explain that the woman who took
the handkerchief prefers
to remain anonymous. I can just share this mysterious
woman's adventures as she
might herself."
Catherine coughed her disapproval at this change in
plans, forcing Julia to send her another glare. She refused
to give way on this
adventure. It was something she had to do. She wasn't sure
why, it was simply that
she needed to test the waters and her new found courage. Of
course, she wasn't sure
how courageous it was to undertake such a foolish
adventure. But she'd declared her
intentions, and she refused to back down now.
Alva's brow puckered. "How will you prove that it's
really Mr. St. Claire's handkerchief?"
"His monogram. I have it on good authority that he
always gives a handkerchief to each of his ladies when they
part so the woman can
dry her tears." Julia grimaced at her words. The arrogance
of the man.
"Oh, that sounds so romantic."
"Don't be a ninny, Alva. It's not romantic at all."
Catherine turned her glare on Julia. "As for you, cousin, I
think you've gone mad.
If you're caught, you'll cause a sensation, with the
distinct possibility of being
ostracized. You know how the Queen is about circumspect
behavior. Although as far
as Prince Edward is concerned, the man would probably
applaud you. Still, polite
society won't overlook an outright indiscretion of this
sort."
Julia waved her cousin's concerns aside. "I won't get
caught. I have it all planned out. Dinner is being served
in St. Claire's private
dining room at the Clarendon. I'll simply ask to refresh
myself then run upstairs
and retrieve the handkerchief from the man's room. I'll be
back at the dinner party
before anyone is the wiser."
"What is that old adage? The best laid plans go
astray?" Catherine mouth was tight with disapproval, but
there was concern in her
gaze too.
"My maid knows the maid on St. Claire's floor. The
girl is quite trustworthy. I promise you, nothing will go
wrong."
Julia smiled at both of her friends. No, nothing was
going to go wrong, and she was going to enjoy auctioning
off one of St. Claire's
handkerchiefs. She would be the first woman to own one that
hadn't been handed out
in a moment of pity.
* * * *
With a smile pasted on her face, Julia cast a furtive
glance at Morgan St. Claire as he talked quietly with the
guest seated across from
her. She didn't know why the man unnerved her, but he did.
Tonight, he was making
her distinctly uneasy, far more than during their
occasional interactions at his
office.
He'd been nothing but charming since her arrival, but
there was a dangerous glint in his eye whenever he looked
at her. She couldn't
decipher the look, and the truth was she didn't really want
to. Her fingers grasped
the stem of her wine glass, and she took a sip of her
drink.
A king in his castle could not have been more at ease
than the man sitting next to her at the head of the table.
It nettled her to admit
it, but he was handsome. She approved of his clean-shaven
look. There was nothing
she despised more than whiskers down to the jowls or waxed
mustaches. His
appearance clearly indicated he was his own man and bowed
to no one--not even
fashion.
Observing him covertly as she toyed with her food,
she could understand why women fell for him. The chestnut
colored hair, those dark
brown eyes that seemed capable of seeing right through a
person, and then there was
the man's physique.
She'd heard he was a rower on Viscount Atherby's
rowing team. It would explain the muscles that rippled
beneath the snug fit of his
evening jacket. If she didn't find the man's arrogance so
irritating, she would no
doubt have found herself among the victims St. Claire
always left
behind.
Fortune had favored her as he'd left her alone with
the account ledgers she'd been poring over for the past few
weeks. It would have
been much more difficult if he'd hovered over her shoulder.
But he hadn't, and for
that she was grateful.
Lowering her gaze to her plate, she took a bite of
the poached salmon. Still, the man did know how to
entertain. The Clarendon was
known for exceptional meals, but tonight's meal was beyond
her expectations. In
fact, the entire dinner party illustrated the man's wealth
and power in a subtle
fashion, from the selection of foods to the delicate wines
served with the
meal.
"You seem distracted, Mrs. Westgard."
The deep note of his voice warmed her skin, and she
frowned at the tingling sensation skimming over her body.
What was she doing
reacting to him like this? This was St. Claire. A scoundrel
and ladies man to rival
any in the Marlborough Set, even Prince Edward himself. She
raised her eyes to meet
his searching gaze. Heavens, a woman could drown in those
dark, mysterious depths.
The thought made her tighten her grip on her fork. What on
earth was wrong with
her?
"No, I was simply enjoying this delicious salmon. The
hotel's chef has outdone himself. Do you suppose he would
send me the
recipe?"
"Actually I have a personal chef who prepares all my
meals, and I'm afraid Henri refuses to share his secrets--
even with me."
"What a pity." She enjoyed the morsel she popped into
her mouth. "This is a dish I could eat quite often."
"Then come back for dinner again, next
week."
He'd leaned toward her, his voice dropping a level so
that his invitation reached only her ears. Startled, she
almost dropped her fork.
The expression in his eyes was mesmerizing as she attempted
to force a confident
smile to her lips.
"I think that would be unwise. One should never mix
business with pleasure."
"Perhaps." He pulled away, one shoulder lifted in a
shrug. "Although I'm sure it would be quite
pleasurable."
She suppressed a shiver at the way he almost purred
the words. Dear Lord, the man's reputation was well earned.
His gaze was a sensual
caress as he scanned her features before moving downward to
her bodice. The warmth
of a flush filled her cheeks at the blatant stare of
interest. No, not
interest--insolence, that's what it was. He was being
insolent. She'd been a thorn
in his side for the past few weeks, and now she was paying
the price for daring to
question the great St. Claire.
He didn't take his eyes off her as he reached for his
wineglass. It was difficult not to swallow the knot in her
throat as his fingers
stroked the stem of the crystal goblet. Taking his time, he
drank from the glass,
and all the while she was hypnotized by his actions. A
secretive smile curved his
mouth and he arched an eyebrow at her.
Flustered and embarrassed that she'd been staring,
she jerked her gaze back to her plate and resumed eating.
With her head down she
didn't see him lean forward, but his presence was a hot sun
against her
body.
"You blush quite charmingly, madam. However, I do
confess to being curious as to what prompted such a
becoming color."
Irritated that she was acting like all the other
women who'd fallen for St. Claire's charms, she clenched
her jaw. Fixing a neutral
expression on her face, she met his mocking gaze with her
steady one.
"Are you flirting with me, Mr. St.
Claire?"
"Would you like me to?" There was a dark note in his
voice, and she shivered.
"No."
"As you wish." The enigmatic smile on his lips
evolved into one of dry amusement.
She tried to avoid drawing blood as she bit the
inside of her mouth. God, he was arrogant. The sooner she
secured the item she'd
come for the sooner she could leave. Perhaps Catherine was
right. Maybe she should
sell her interest in St. Claire shipping.
Being in this man's presence was becoming
increasingly difficult to manage. He was too sure of
himself, which made him
dangerous. The man probably thought she was ready to throw
herself all over him.
Well, he was in for a rude awakening if he thought Julia
Westgard was going to
succumb to his sensual charms. She'd had more than her fill
of pompous, controlling
men.
Without waiting for him to speak again, she turned to
the man on her left and started a conversation. Anything to
avoid conversing
further with Morgan St. Claire. Although she couldn't see
him watching her, the
blast of heat warming her skin told her the man's gaze was
still pinned on
her.
The effect of St. Claire's intent look was nerve
wracking and she barely managed to focus on her
conversation with the man next to
her. Being only one of two women investors in the small
party of twelve was enough
to strain even her own daring. She found herself wishing
Lady Falkenhouse was not
at the opposite end of the table.
For the first time she wondered why St. Claire had
placed her on his left. She frowned at the thought. That
would imply he'd
deliberately chosen her seat. No, she was reading too much
into the seating
arrangements.
With the meal almost complete, she excused herself
from the table. Aware that the moment of truth had arrived,
she left the dining
room. The warmth on the back of her neck was a clear
indicator that St. Claire's
gaze was following her, and she suppressed the butterflies
milling in her
stomach.
Once she was in the hallway, she quickly made her way
up to the fourth floor of the hotel. A young girl waited at
one end of the
corridor. Without speaking, the girl glanced furtively over
her shoulder then
quickly opened a nearby door before scurrying away as if
hunted. Uneasy at the
girl's behavior, Julia peeked into the room the maid had
unlocked. The first thing
she saw was a painting of the Calcutta, one of St. Claire's
prized ships. She
smiled to herself. Victory was close at hand.
Sliding into the room, she exhaled the pent-up
emotion that had been building inside her since she'd left
the dining room. For all
her bravado, she realized getting caught was not something
she wanted to
contemplate. There would be too much explaining to do, and
she didn't think Morgan
St. Claire would find her explanations amusing. Despite the
thought of her
intimidating host, she experienced the familiar rush of
exhilaration that always
flowed through her just before she was about to take a
risk. It was still quite a
new sensation, and she relished it.
Blood pumped its way madly through her veins as she
stared about the masculine room. It was as sensual in
nature as the man who slept
here. The large canopied bed was draped with heavy
curtains. It was difficult to
tell if they were navy blue or black. Gold tasseled cords
held back the material,
and the bed itself was covered with a matching spread. The
overall impression was
one of elegant decadence.
With a shake of her head, she grimaced. She was
wasting time. Dragging her eyes away from the bed, she
glanced around for the
wardrobe. The large chest was across the room, and with
swift steps she crossed the
floor to open the doors.
More than a dozen suits filled the massive storage
and she shifted her gaze to the drawers that lined one side
of the piece of
furniture. The first drawer revealed nothing but cuff links
and watch fobs. Closing
it, she moved on to the next drawer.
When it didn't offer up the treasure she sought, she
uttered a noise of frustration. She went through two more
drawers before she found
the prize she hunted. Triumph sailed through her as she
pulled one of Morgan St.
Claire's monogrammed handkerchiefs from the drawer.
"It appears you've found one of my
handkerchiefs."
A surprised cry flew from her lips. Whirling about
she saw her host watching her with a narrowed gaze. Arms
folded across his chest he
studied her in silence. The quiet echoing through the room
heightened the tension
brewing inside her, and she swallowed the fear threatening
to close her throat.
Dear Lord, how was she going to explain what she was doing?
"I … I'm sure this must look terrible to you, sir.
But it's not what it seems, I can assure you."
"I'm listening."
He was listening. Of course he was. The question
though was what to tell him. The truth. She could tell him
the truth. No, he'd
never believe her. If she were him, she wouldn't believe
her story. Stealing a
handkerchief to auction off at the Society for Lost Angels
would sound too
fantastic, and he would immediately label it a
falsehood.
"I … I was curious … I mean I wanted to know … umm …
I wanted to have one of your handkerchiefs."
"I see."
When he didn't move, she sucked in a quick breath,
suddenly conscious of the fact she was trembling. At least
he hadn't asked her to
return the silk material she held in her hand. The best
thing to do was flee. That
is if she could make her feet move. She took only one step
before he was blocking
her way.
She'd never seen a man move so fast or so silently
before. It was disturbing. He not only barred her path, but
he was inches away from
her. Having him stand so close to her set her pulse
pounding even faster than it
had when he'd first caught her in his room. She sucked in a
sharp breath. What if
he took this as a sign she was interested in him? No, she'd
made her distrust and
dislike of him quite clear.
"Surely, you're not leaving so soon." His voice was
as smooth as the silk she held in her hand.
"I … I've been terribly rude and ungracious in the
face of your hospitality, Mr. St. Claire. I am deeply
sorry."
"There's no need to apologize, Julia."
"Thank you, now if you'll excuse me, I'll return to
the dinner party." It was a struggle, but she managed to
avoid sounding as
breathless as she felt.
"There's no need to hurry. I came up to retrieve a
couple of papers for Jepson, but when we both turn up
missing they'll assume you
and I had unfinished business to attend to."
There was a glint of amusement in his brown eyes, and
she frowned at the slight curl of his sensual mouth. They
had no unfinished
business--
"You bastard. They're all going to
think--"
"I don't care what they think."
"Naturally, it's not your reputation in jeopardy,"
she snapped.
"Perhaps you should have considered the risks more
carefully before visiting my hotel room."
She grimaced at his words. It was incredibly
irritating to have to admit that he was right. She'd not
sufficiently weighed the
risks of her actions. Well, there was little she could do
about having been caught.
What mattered now was escaping.
"As much as I hate to admit it, you're correct, Mr.
St. Claire. I erred in my risk calculation. I apologize for
intruding. Now if
you'll excuse me, I'll rejoin the others."
In a quick movement, she tried to skirt him, but he
was faster. Once more he blocked her way. Heat radiated
from his hard, lean body,
and it created a frisson across her skin that alarmed her.
She swallowed her dismay
as she met his penetrating gaze.
"You've yet to explain why you needed one of my
handkerchiefs, Julia."
The way he said her name let loose a dozen
butterflies in her stomach. There was a possessive sound to
it, and she wasn't
quite certain what it meant. One thing was perfectly clear
to her. The resolute
line of his lips said she wouldn't leave the room until
she'd given him an
explanation for her behavior. She clenched her jaw in
frustration.
"If you must know, I wish to auction off the silk at
a luncheon for the Society for Lost Angels. We're trying to
raise money for a new
orphanage."
"And you thought my handkerchief would draw a large
sum." Humor sparkled in his eyes as he arched an
eyebrow.
"Unfortunately, there are a number of women who think
it romantic that you offer an abandoned lover a
handkerchief with which to dry
their tears."
He studied her with that mesmerizing gaze for a long
moment before he smiled. It was a smile of dangerous charm,
and she sucked in a
sharp breath at the power it held over her.
"And you do not subscribe to that romantic
myth."
"No, I do not."
"Interesting, although I'm not convinced any of your
Society's members will buy this small trifle."
She trembled as his fingers glided along the side of
her forearm before flicking the silk square she held
tightly in her hand. Even
through her evening gloves his fingertips singed her. The
amused skepticism in his
eyes infuriated her. The man obviously knew nothing about
the women in the Society.
The handkerchief she held would bring a tidy sum to the
orphanage fund.
"Shall we make a wager on that, Mr. St.
Claire?"
His gaze narrowed. "Hmm, an interesting notion. What
do you propose we wager?"
A shiver of trepidation skated down the length of her
spine. God in heaven, she was as reckless as Catherine said
she was. But she was in
the pond now. There was nothing for it, but to swim for
shore with what little
decorum she had left.
"If I sell the handkerchief, you must offer up an
equal sum for the orphanage fund."
Folding his arms, he arched an eyebrow. "An
intriguing wager. So if you sell this handkerchief to a
Society member, I'm to
offer up the same amount."
"Correct." For the first time since their
conversation began, she relaxed. She would still escape
with the means to increase
the orphanage finances.
"Very well, since you've laid the foundation for this
wager, I think it only fair that I name my terms if I
should win."
"Of course." She smiled at him with a touch of
self-satisfaction as she waited to hear his condition of
the bet.
"I saw a portrait recently, quite lovely in fact. I
want to see the model reclined in my bed, a willing
participant in a night of
passion."
The soft edge in his voice raised the hair on the
nape of her neck. Triumph mixed with desire to darken his
brown gaze and she
swallowed the trepidation squeezing her throat closed.
"I don't understand. What portrait are you referring
to?"
"It's quite erotic. Just looking at it made my cock
spring to attention."
The shocking words made her gasp, but words of
protest failed her. She could only stare into his eyes with
a sinking feeling of
horror as he offered her a wicked smile.
"Let me see if I can describe the portrait. The woman
is quite lovely to look at. Her hips are wide, softly
curved and voluptuous. Her
mouth is full and parted in a seductive pout. But it's her
breasts that I find so
entrancing. They're large and full. Quite succulent."
"Oh, my God."
"And her hair--it's a beautiful color. Not quite red,
not quite brown, even the nest of curls between her legs is
the same delectable
color."
He was describing her portrait. How had he seen it?
Isaac Peebles had given his word he wouldn't show the
painting to anyone. But how
else could St. Claire know about the portrait? A shudder
shot through her, and she
clenched her fists as she struggled to maintain a dignified
composure.
She wouldn't go through with it. She'd return the
bloody handkerchief and leave his room with at least her
reputation intact. No.
That was impossible. If she backed out of the bet now, he'd
be
insufferable.
It would be unbearable dealing with the man when it
came to her financial investment. No, she had to see it
through. He might have seen
the portrait, but it was in her possession. She had nothing
to fear in that area.
More importantly, he couldn't win this wager. She'd make
sure Catherine or Alva
would bid on the silk. After all, as long as one of the
ladies in the Society of
Lost Angels bought the handkerchief, she'd win.
"This woman in the portrait, do I know her?" She
tilted her chin at a proud angle, hoping to convince him
she didn't understand
him.
His hands grasped her arms and he pulled her against
his hard body. A small squeak of surprise escaped her. Heat
enveloped her and made
her heart race with excitement even though she tried to
slow the mad pace of its
beat.
A strong arm curved around her waist, binding her
close. His mouth was so close to hers she could smell the
expensive wine on his
breath. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would
be like to taste that
liquor on his tongue. Shocked by the traitorous way her
body was behaving, she
braced her hands on his chest and tried to push away from
him.
"Surely you're not going to deny that you have the
most delicious looking mocha nipples, Julia. Seeing them in
that portrait made me
ache to suck on them."
His fingers skimmed her exposed skin at the lower
edge of her bodice. The touch made her mouth go dry at the
sudden longing that
gripped her. What would it be like to be this man's lover?
Immediately, her mind
careened to a halt. Sweet heaven, she needed to keep her
wits about her where this
man was concerned. She needed to close this wager and flee
with what little dignity
she still possessed.
"I don't deny anything, sir. But if you think you can
win this wager, I dare you to accept."
"So you agree that if I win you'll recline yourself
on my bed." The look of satisfaction sounded alarm bells in
her head, but she was
in too deep to stop now.
"It is easy to gamble when the outcome is certain to
be in one's favor, sir."
"Then let us seal the agreement."
The sudden possession of his mouth took her by
surprise. The warmth of his firm lips covering hers made
her stomach flip with
excitement. It was like being engulfed by fire. As his
tongue swept into her mouth,
she relaxed into him, unable to prevent the wild reaction
of her body. Hands rough
with calluses scraped over her sensitive skin as he cupped
her face. It was a kiss
of seduction, possession and mastery all in one.
Her body reveled in the experience, all the while her
head was scrambling for clear thought. Rough fingers
trailed down to the base of
her neck, where a long finger slid under the edge of her
bodice. A wave of
sensation swept over her at the touch, and her nipples grew
hard as her breasts
swelled and tried to push their way out of her corset.
Sweet heaven, no wonder women fell at the man's feet.
His touch was like a drug. He captured her mouth again, his
kiss drowning out every
one of her thoughts. She found herself clinging to him with
abandon, while strong,
rough fingers undid several buttons at the back of her
dress. In protest, she tried
to push away, but her gown slipped off one shoulder before
she could free
herself.
One tapered finger slid its way between her skin and
corset, and she gasped as he gently eased her breast up so
her nipple popped over
the edge of the snug fitting garment.
"Beautiful," he murmured as he lowered his head and
flicked his tongue over the taut bud. The action singed her
skin and she uttered a
soft cry. An instant later, his teeth gently clamped on her
and tugged at the
nipple in a playful manner. The world shifted beneath her
feet.
"Please … please…." Her voice evaporated as he began
to suck on her breast. The pleasure singing through her
veins was indescribable.
Moist heat gathered at the apex of her thighs. A moment
later, she wondered what it
would feel like for his hand to touch her intimately. The
picture shimmering in her
head shocked her.
Wrenching herself out of his arms, she backed away
from him. He looked completely unfazed by their recent
embrace, and she was certain
she looked disheveled and disconcerted. In the back of her
mind, she knew all too
well that the only reason she was free was because he'd
been willing to release
her.
Embarrassed, she adjusted her clothing with great
speed, all the while fully aware of his dark eyes watching
her. It was disturbing.
Even more so because, deep inside, she liked the way he
watched her. The way he'd
touched her.
Shaken by the knowledge, she struggled to regain her
composure. Her gaze flashed toward him only to see him
smiling at her, the glow of
desire in his eyes. "I shall enjoy having you in my bed,
Julia."
His confidence should have frightened her. Instead it
infuriated her. Her senses restored somewhat by his
arrogance, she glared in his
direction. "I think not, sir. You forget that I hold the
upper hand."
Sweeping around him, she raced from the room. She
heard his laughter trailing after her. It made her heart
lurch with an intense
pleasure she didn't want to feel, but the sensation spread
its way through her body
like a raging river. It made her want to return to his arms
and experience the
delight she was certain she'd find there. Oh, if only she
were that