A Rogue’s Pleasure (20 page)

Mouth trembling, she said, “But the dancing is only just beginning.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid I must.” He chucked her chin, and then dashed away.

“Milord!” Phoebe called after him, her voice shrill. “At least tell me where you are going?”

Anthony wasn't about to waste precious seconds fabricating a reply. Already hundreds of people packed the main paths. He could take his carriage or hire a boatman to row him across the river; either way it might take an hour or more to cross to the other bank. Plunging into the milling crowd, he shouldered his way to the entrance. In the torchlight, he sighted his carriage among the other vehicles parked outside the wrought-iron gate.

Masters broke away from the group of congregating drivers and started to lower the
carriage steps.

Anthony shook his head. “There isn't time. I have to get to Mayfair immediately. Help me unhitch the lead horse, then hand me that blanket from the seat.”

“But, milord, there is no saddle.”

“It won't be the first time I've ridden bareback. Now, do as I say!”

The intimate gathering at Lord Ambrose's town house proved to be very intimate indeed. As soon as Chelsea stepped inside the empty marble foyer, she understood that they would be breakfasting
à deux,
if at all. Except for the stone-faced butler who lit them to the parlor, the only signs of life came from her clamoring heart.

The simple truth was that Ambrose frightened her. True, he'd kept his distance on the drive home, although he could have easily pounced on her in his carriage. And yet the way he'd looked at her, his tongue rolling over his bottom lip, she'd been hard-pressed not to abandon her plan and call for his driver to stop.

But thoughts of Robert kept her in her seat. What right had she to cling to safety when her brother was somewhere in the city—helpless, alone, and afraid? His very life depended on her discovering the coins.

And so she was here, in the parlor of Ambrose's tomblike town house, searching.

“Where are your other guests?” she asked, curious as to what lie he would tell.

Lounging on a Grecian couch, he shrugged. “Still quaffing my champagne, I would imagine.”

Eyeing the carved chimneypiece, she wondered if one of the Egyptian figures might conceal a hiding place for valuables.

Deciding it was unlikely given the heat from the fire, she roamed the room, exclaiming over Oriental vases, statuary, and ancient artifacts, all the while searching.

“What interesting decor. Such unusual wallpaper.” She knocked her knuckles against the wall, searching for a hollow compartment. To cover the sound, she asked, “These dancing figures—are they symbols from some ancient script?”

He put down his drink and rose. “Indeed, the oldest language known to man.” Coming up beside her, he laid a proprietary hand on her shoulder. “Take a closer look.”

She did and heat suffused her cheeks. The black cutouts weren't dancing. They were
copulating
. Their two-dimensional bodies contorted into positions she'd never even imagined.

“Do you like it?” he asked, watching her face.

A chill raced her spine, bringing with it the urge to flee.
Calm, Chelsea. Stay calm
. “It's, er…quite original.”

“Yes, isn't it?” His pale eyes danced. “The ancients were far less inhibited than our own drab culture. It was common for Greek females as young as twelve to participate in the festival of Aphrodisia where there would be feasting, dancing, and…flagellation.” He sighed. “So few women today appreciate the balance between pleasure and pain.”

Her heart kicked against her chest, and the beginning of a sick headache drummed her temples. And, inside her head, Anthony's voice rang out:
He forced himself on the sister of a friend of mine
.

If only she could find those blasted coins.

“Have you anything to eat?” she asked suddenly. Nerves pitched her stomach but, with all the servants abed, perhaps he'd leave her alone to go forage through the pantry? “You did promise me breakfast,” she added with what she hoped was a sultry smile.

His gaze slid over her. “You're a little thing to have such a voracious appetite, but I like that in a woman.” His arms went about her, drawing her against him. “I'm a man of strong appetites myself.”

He buried his face in the curve of her neck and nuzzled. His nipping teeth hurt, and fear churned her stomach. Oh, God, she'd played out a similar scenario once before, with the squire. Only this time there was no fast horse waiting for her. In fact, no one even knew where she was. She'd finally gone too far.

He licked her cheek, raising fresh waves of nausea. And fear.

“You did promise a peek at the coins first,” she purred, pulling away.

He stepped back, eyes narrowed. “They will be on exhibit at the British Museum at the end of the month. Why not wait and see them displayed properly?”

Was that suspicion in his voice? She forced her lips into a pout. “Oh, but I'd so much rather you show them to me now. 'Twould be so much more
intimate
than a stuffy old museum.”

His lips stretched into a smile. “Very well. The coins are in a case in the trophy room.”

“Oh, they're not in here?”

Thank God she'd asked him outright; otherwise, she could have searched the rest of the night. Given the way Ambrose was looking at her, she doubted he'd grant her that much time.

“Because of their value I keep them under lock and key.”

He picked up a taper and lit their way to the grand staircase. Chelsea paused at the bottom and glanced back at the main door, grappling with indecision. Freedom and safety lay only a few feet away.

Ahead of her, Ambrose called out, “You do want to see them, don't you?”

The urge to flee was strong, but the lure of the coins as a means of securing Robert's release outweighed her fear. Steeling herself, Chelsea nodded and ascended. At the top, Ambrose opened a door to their right.

He stepped back for her to enter. Heart trouncing, Chelsea stepped over the threshold and into the blackness. She heard Ambrose's footfalls behind her, felt his breath on the back of her neck. Gooseflesh pricked her bare arms.

“Like it?” He held the candle aloft.

A redheaded woman, her eyes wide and face ghostly pale, stared back at her. She was facing herself in one of the room's many mirrors. Yet another mirror, a gilded monstrosity, hung from the ceiling above the bed. Candlelight glanced off the chains moored to the wall behind.

Chelsea swung around, her cry mingling with the soft squeal of the closing door.

“I thought you said the coins were in the trophy room?”

In the dim light, she could just discern his wolfish smile. “My dear, this
is
the trophy room.”

 

Anthony reined in his sweating horse across from Ambrose's house. Light shone from an upstairs window; otherwise, the house was dark. He dismounted and quickly tied the reins to a nearby post, unable to shake off the dread weighing like bricks on his chest.

Dear God, please let her be all right.

But she wasn't all right, and he could feel it. Her fear trembled through every sinew of his body; every palpitation of her heart hammered in his own breast. Just when this psychic connection, this spiritual joining, had come about he hadn't a clue, nor did he have the time to ponder it.

Blood drumming his ears, he crossed the newly paved street, vaulted up the front steps, and tried the door.
Locked
. He lifted the brass knocker and struck it. Twice, thrice, and still there
was no response.

“Open, damn you. I know you're in there.”

He pounded the black lacquered wood with both fists, determined to break through, if need be.

The door finally opened, and he looked up into a craggy visage, topped by a tasseled nightcap.

“I must see Lord Ambrose at once.”

The butler tugged together the lapels of his striped night robe. “I'm afraid his lordship is not at home.”

“Then I'll wait.”

Anthony shoved past the old man and stepped inside the foyer. Something fluttered in his periphery, and he swung around. Chelsea's shawl waved at him from a hook inside the vestibule. A man's top hat hung beside it and a walking stick was propped in the corner. He snatched the shawl and pressed it to his cheek. Chelsea's scent wafted to his nostrils. He could almost swear he felt the heat of her body trapped in the cashmere fibers.

She
was
here. And so was Ambrose!

Remembering the upstairs light he'd seen, he grabbed the butler by the lapels of his robe. “Give me that candle and your keys.”

Hands trembling, the butler reached inside his robe pocket and produced a brass ring from which at least twenty keys hung.

Anthony wrenched it away. “The key to the master bedroom? Which one is it?”

“The th-third one from the r-right.”

“You'd better be telling the truth, old man.”

Anthony took the stairs two at a time. He stepped off the landing just as Ambrose's angry voice rang out, “That vase was Yuan Dynasty! You'll pay for it in flesh, you little slut! Now get on the bed.”

The smack of a blow and a woman's shriek froze the marrow in Anthony's bones. Heart pounding, he turned the key in the lock, tore open the door, and burst inside.

Ambrose stood in the center of the room, one hand flicking a riding crop against his calf. Chelsea lay in a crumpled heap at his feet, her face hidden by her loosened hair.

“Well, well, Montrose, this is a surprise.” Ambrose swiped the back of his hand across the ugly cut on his forehead. “Care to join in or have you come simply to watch? Even a rake like you might learn something.”

Shoulders quivering, Chelsea pulled herself onto her knees. “Anthony?” She brushed her hair out of her eyes, and candlelight played on the livid bruise mottling her cheek.

Cannons fired inside Anthony's skull.
“Bastard!”

He rushed Ambrose just as the other man raised the crop. Anthony darted to the side, and the leather strap hissed over his shoulder. He grabbed Ambrose's wrist, squeezing until he felt the snapping of bones. Ambrose groaned and dropped the whip. Anthony kicked it aside, then smashed his fist into the center of his foe's face. Bone and cartilage crunched beneath his knuckles, filling him with primitive satisfaction.

Ambrose staggered backward, blood spurting. He cupped his nose. “Christ, I think you've broken it.”

Panting, Anthony backed against the bedpost. “Then it'll match the rest of you when I've done.”

“You're battle-crazed, Montrose. The war rotted your brain and now you belong in Bedlam, caged with the other lunatics.”

Anthony lifted one of the bejeweled manacles from the velvet counterpane. Chains rattled.

“I'm not the one whose sanity is in question, but you're right on one score. I've killed men for less.” He threw down the cuff and stalked toward Ambrose.

Ambrose flew to the door, but Anthony tackled him. They rolled across the floor, shards of the broken vase crunching beneath them. Anthony grabbed Ambrose's collar and stood, bringing the other man with him.

“This is for Fanny.” Anthony raised his fist and plowed into Ambrose's jaw. Blood and saliva sprayed from the slack mouth. “All the rest are for tonight.”

Drunk with rage, he fisted Ambrose in the gut again and again. His last blow sent Ambrose hurtling across the chamber into one of the mirrors. He fell forward, shards of glass raining down on him.

Sweat streaming his brow, Anthony picked up the riding crop and stalked toward the fallen man.

I've killed men for less.

He raised the whip.

“Stop it, Anthony!”

Chelsea pulled on his arm. She hadn't the strength to stay him but, when he looked into her pleading eyes, he felt the madness recede. He tossed the weapon aside.

She stared at the blood streaking the broken mirror. “Oh, Anthony, you don't think he's…?”

He dropped to his good knee beside Ambrose and pressed two fingers against the side of his enemy's neck. A steady pulse beat beneath the pads of his fingers, proving that the devil did indeed protect his own.

He stood. “He'll awaken with the very devil of a headache, but he's alive.”

She exhaled. “Thank God.”

She turned away and began fumbling with her bodice but not before he noticed that the top of her gown was rent, revealing her undergarments and a generous swell of cleavage.

His eyes flew to the bed. It wasn't mussed but, knowing Ambrose, that didn't prove anything. If Ambrose had violated her, neither Chelsea's pleas nor the certainty that he'd hang for murder would keep Anthony from finishing what he'd begun.

“Chelsea. He didn't…?” He couldn't bring himself to say the word.

She managed a wan smile. “No, he did not—thanks to you.”

Relief flooded him. He'd thought the war and the death of his two best friends had drained him of tears, but he'd been wrong, so bloody wrong. Choking down the lump in his throat lest he unman himself in front of her, he stripped off his cape and brushed it free of debris.

He draped it over Chelsea's shoulders. “Let's take you home.”

They descended the stairs. In the front hallway, Anthony tossed the keys to the butler, who cowered in a corner.

He took Chelsea's hand, and they stepped outside into the cool night. “My mount is across the street. Can you ride?”

“I think so.”

He untied the reins and mounted, then lifted her. Setting her in front, he tenderly tucked
his cape around her.

“Ready?”

She nodded, and he dug in his spurs.

After a few blocks, he slowed the horse to a walk, and then reined in beneath a streetlamp.

She pushed away from his chest. “Why are we stopping?”

“Because we need to talk and this is likely to be one of the only places we can be assured of privacy.”

Light touched her bruised face and weary eyes. “You were right, I was wrong…again. What more is there to say?”

“A great deal.” He touched her swollen cheek, his fingertips tingling from the light contact. “I want us to come to an understanding. Surely, after what nearly happened to you back there, you must realize that there are worse fates than becoming my mistress?”

Her gaze fell from his face and settled on his chest. At least she wasn't spurning him. Hope spiraled inside him.

“Darling, you've been through so much.” He ran his thumb along her lower lip. “Let me take care of you. Let me…love you.”

She lifted her eyes to his face. A steely expression stole over her features. “I can't.”

“Can't or won't?” Desperation stabbed him like a knife in the gut.

“They're one and the same.” She turned away, and the knife plunged deeper.

“Are they?” He pulled her back into his embrace. “What if I vowed to care for and cherish you for the rest of my days?”