Guilty Series (25 page)

A
s he had promised Lady Fitzhugh, Anthony accepted the invitation to her card party, though he knew it would only inflame the already rampant gossip.

He wanted to see Daphne. He wished propriety did not prevent him from seeing her privately, but seeing her amid a group of people was better than not seeing her at all. When he arrived at the house in Russell Square, however, he received exactly what he had been hoping for—a chance to be alone with her.

The usual flutter of excitement the arrival of a duke created was followed by introductions to the other guests, and resulted in the inevitable awkward silence. Lady Fitzhugh cleared her throat and
turned to her husband. “Perhaps we should begin?” she suggested.

Sir Edward concurred at once. “Yes, yes, capital idea, Elinor. Let us start the play. A pair of us will have to make do with piquet, I fear, instead of whist. Mr. Jennings has developed a cold, and his wife sent word late today that they would not be able to attend, so we are two short for whist.”

Daphne turned to Anthony. “Perhaps your grace would prefer chess to cards?” she suggested, gesturing to the doorway that led into an adjoining room.

The silence that followed was not awkward, but deafening. For some reason, Daphne wanted a private interview with him, and though he doubted it was for the same reasons that motivated him, he was quick to take advantage of it.

“I love chess, Miss Wade,” Anthony said. “I would be honored.”

“Excellent.” She strode into the adjoining room, where the chessboard had been moved out of the way for the card party. He bowed to the other guests and followed her. When she sat down, he took the opposite chair.

“Your grace,” she began without preliminaries, “you have to stop—” She broke off, frowning at the smile on his face. “Why in heaven's name are you looking at me like that?”

“Because by tomorrow everyone in London will know we are engaged.” He gestured to the board. “A lady makes the first move.”

“What are you talking about? We are not engaged.” She frowned as she shoved a pawn two
spaces forward in an abstract fashion. “And I do not care in the least what people think.”

“In front of everyone else in the room, you have invited me to be alone with you,” he pointed out, moving his own pawn. “The inevitable conclusion is that we are engaged. If I had known it would be this easy, I would have maneuvered you into chess days ago.”

Daphne shot an impatient glance at the doorway and slid another pawn forward. “This is ridiculous. We are not alone and the doors are open. Lady Fitzhugh can see us perfectly well from where she is sitting.”

“It doesn't matter. We have moved into another room, and we are now having a private conversation. No couple not engaged are allowed this sort of liberty.” He moved his knight, and looked at her, still smiling. “When you were looking up rules in etiquette books, did you miss that one?”

“Anthony, you must stop this. The fact that I even need etiquette books proves what an inadequate duchess I would be.”

“You will be wonderful at the job once you get the gist of it. Everything you do, you do well.”

“That is not true, and it is not the point anyway. I am not going to marry you.”

“So you keep telling me, but I can only hope that one day, you will see my torment and take pity on me.” He pointed at the board. “It is your move.”

“Why do you do this?” she demanded, caring nothing for the game. “Because I am a temporary madness? When this madness has passed, what will take its place? Will this Marguerite return to your
bed? Or some new mistress perhaps? How many mistresses have you had, anyway?”

“More than one. Less than a dozen.”

“Have you—” She paused and looked away, and Anthony felt a glimmer of hope as she asked, “Have you seen that woman?”

She cared. She must, or she would not be asking these questions. He told her the truth. “Yes. Once, on the Row. I saw her from about seventy feet away. I had already sent her a letter and ended our arrangement.” He reached across the table and cupped Daphne's chin, returning her attention to him. “Are we playing Twenty Questions now,” he asked gently, “instead of chess?”

“No, but—” She pulled free of his grasp and glanced around, as if trying to think how to put what she wanted to say. “You once said I am a mystery, but it is you who reveals nothing. Since that dinner with the Benningtons, I have told you many things about me. My life, my work, my father, my…my feelings for you. Yet, you have told me only the smallest things about yourself. I do not know you well enough to marry you.”

“What would you like to know? Ask away. I shall interview for the post of husband.”

“I am not interviewing you for a post! And this conversation is making me appreciate more and more that nothing I would ask could be satisfied in words. Or flowers either, for that matter. You do not love me. You offer me your name only because you are determined that honor be satisfied, and be
cause you are so damned obstinate and arrogant and—”

“And you say you do not know me well enough to marry me?”

She made a huff of pure vexation, and stood up. Turning away from him, she crossed the Persian rug to the fireplace. He glanced at the other room and observed that Lady Fitzhugh was fully occupied with her cards. He got out of his chair and followed Daphne to where she was gazing into the fire. He halted behind her and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

“You know me better than you realize, Daphne,” he said. “No one knows me better than you do. No one ever will.”

She started to speak, but he forestalled her. “Listen to me. All week I have been trying to tell you and show you how much I desire you. I know words are inadequate to make you believe me, but I do not know how else to do it. What else can I do, Daphne?” He put his hands on her waist and pulled her back against him. “Could I say it with my body?”

She closed her eyes, but something changed in her. Something fluttered, softened. She lifted her hand, clenched her fist around air. “Don't, Anthony, don't.”

He pushed his advantage. “You desired me. Only a few weeks ago, in the antika.” He pulled back just a little. “Have you forgotten that?”

“I haven't!” she answered in a fierce whisper.
“Nor have I forgotten I am not the one you wished to wed.”

“But I never desired her the way I desire you,” he said. It sounded so lame, but it was the truth, and he was desperate. “It is you who no longer wants me.”

She shook her head, her eyes still closed, her lips pressed tight together as she made a tiny sound of dissent.

“You deny it,” he went on, “but you deny yourself so many of the pleasures in life. Why, when I can give you them all?”

A tiny moan escaped her lips as ran his hands up her ribs to her breasts. “I do want you,” she admitted in a whisper. “It isn't that. It was never that. I always—”

“Prove what you say, then.” He glanced over his shoulder at the door and pressed a kiss to her ear. “If you want me, spend the remainder of the night with me. We can go to my house. All the guests here will have gone by midnight and everyone will be in bed and asleep by half past one. Wear something to conceal your face. I will wait for you behind the mews with my carriage and have you back before dawn. Meet me there.”

“I won't.”

“I will wait all the same.” He kissed her cheek. “You see, Daphne? Honor is not my only motivation, for I feel quite dishonorable at this moment. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

 

He did not think she would come. The three hours that had followed his illicit suggestion to her had been excruciating for both of them, as they pretended to play chess and pretended to enjoy supper, Madeira, and small talk at opposite sides of the table. By the time the party ended, he thought that she would surely have changed her mind.

But no. A few minutes after the church clock nearby had chimed half past one, he saw a cloaked, hooded figure emerge from the stable into the alley where he sat in his carriage. He opened the door and she climbed inside. When she pushed back the hood of her cloak, there was barely enough light to see her face, but it was enough. “Are you certain about this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

That was good enough for him. Time enough later to learn why she had changed her mind. Just now, he did not care. He pulled down the window shade, tapped the roof with his walking stick, and the carriage lurched into motion.

With the last shade down, it was so dark inside the carriage that he could see nothing of her. Over the sound of the carriage, he could not hear her breathe. She did not speak. The scent of gardenia was the only thing that told him she was there.

That night in the antika, he had seen her only in the dimness of moonlight. This time, he was going to light all the candles he could find. This time, he was going to see her while he made love to her, see the perfect curves of her breasts and hips, see the
tapering length of her legs, see the expression on her face as she climaxed.

Anthony leaned back, concentrating on the sound of the carriage wheels, striving to drive away the hungry, aching need of his body. The carriage ride to Grosvenor Square seemed to take forever.

He took her through the stables and into the back of the house, for there were always carriages going in and out of the square at this hour, taking people home after parties such as the one they had attended, and even with a hood to cover Daphne's hair and shadow her face, he did not want to take the chance of anyone recognizing her.

Holding her hand, he took her up the back stairs, and through the dark rooms and corridors that led to his own suite. He went into the dressing room, woke Richardson, told him to fetch a footman to light a fire, and explained that he would not be needing anything further until morning. His valet departed, with only one quick glance at the hooded woman by the bed with her back to him.

When the footman came, Anthony ordered every candle in the room be lit along with the fire. When the servant departed, he turned the key in the lock. At last, he thought, drawing in a deep breath, then letting it out slowly. At last they were alone.

Anthony turned around. So did she.

She pushed back the hood of her cloak, and he studied her bathed in the soft light. He was reminded of the first moment he had ever seen her, for she looked much the same now as she had then. No straw hat, but the same solemn, baby-owl face and
a cloak, not a tattered and dusty one this time, concealing her body. Light reflected off of her gold-framed spectacles and kept him from seeing her eyes. She was much the same in all the superficialities, he supposed, but so different in a way much harder to define.

Tonight, all he wanted was to show her what he felt when he looked at her, not just what he saw. As he had told her earlier, if words and flowers would not suffice, he would use his body. He just hoped he could keep himself in check. Arousal was coursing through him like anarchy, but the next few hours were not for him. They were for her.

He moved to stand in front of her. He reached out and removed her spectacles, then placed them on the bedside table. He pushed her cloak off her shoulders. She wore no sensible dress of dun or beige cotton now, but instead the evening frock of midnight blue silk she had donned for the party. The neckline skimmed the edges of her shoulders, and the color made her skin look like pale gold in the candlelight. He traced her collarbone with the tips of his fingers, then cupped her cheeks and tilted her head back as he brought his mouth closer to hers. “Daphne” was all he could manage before he kissed her.

Beneath his, her lips parted at once, soft and lush and tasting of Madeira. Her eyes were closed, but he kept his open, for he wanted to see every nuance of feeling he could pull out of her with his hands and his mouth. He slid his hands up into her hair, grateful she had not become so fashionable as to
want all those silly ribbons and silk flowers so many other women seemed so fond of. There were no pins, either, only combs, and as he pulled them free, her hair fell in a thick, heavy wave down her back. The combs fell to the floor, and he tangled his hands in her hair, reveling in the feel of it, warm and satiny in his fists. He deepened the kiss, tasting the hot sweetness of her mouth.

She made a tiny, smothered sound of desire and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body closer to his and igniting his raw hungry need to be inside her, the need he was striving to keep at bay.

To buy time, he tore his lips from hers and trailed kisses along her shoulder to the pale blue ruching at the edge of her dress and back again. His hands left her hair and slid down to her waist. He wanted her out of all these clothes, but he forced himself to wait, containing his moves until her body told him the next one to make.

When she was quivering in his hold and making hushed little moans against his shirt front, he took the next step. His hands left her waist and moved up her back. He pulled back enough to look into her face as he gathered her hair and brought it forward over one shoulder. Then he began to undo the buttons down her back.

Her eyes were closed, her lips parted and her head tilted back, but as he pulled the dress down from her shoulders, she opened her eyes, and he felt her stiffen slightly, just a hint of resistance, but enough to give him pause.

She looked into his eyes. “Is this sort of thing usually done with candles lit?”

“Oh, yes. Most definitely.” He slipped the dress down her shoulders, but by the time he freed her arms, by the time the dress was down around her waist and he could see the soft white cambric bodice of her princess petticoat, she was pushing against his shoulders to stop him.

“Anthony, I think we should put them out.”

“Why?” He bent his head to kiss her neck. “I want to look at you. Do you not want to look at me?”

“I can't see anything,” she whispered. “You took my glasses. Again.”