How To Vex A Viscount (10 page)

For a moment, he imagined dipping his hands into her bodice and freeing those bound breasts. Would they be soft and pliant in his hands? Would her nipples draw tight at his touch? His mouth went suddenly dry and his breeches were suddenly tighter.

“Lucian,” her voice called him back. “Don’t you see?”

That was the crux of the problem. He was seeing entirely too much at the moment. He gave himself a mental shake. As enticing as those breasts were, they were Daisy Drake’s breasts. No good could come of unlacing that bodice.

“Oh, yes.” He willed himself to look away from her and at the tablet.

“Here,
Caius Meritus,
signed by his own hand.” She pointed to the signature mark at the bottom of the text. “It says . . . Oh, Jupiter! I can’t read it upside down.”

She turned it back around. “‘Bought at auction: one female Celtic slave, answers to Deirdre, to serve the master’s wife.’ I thought you said Caius Meritus was a freedman. Why would he call someone master?”

“For form’s sake, I imagine.” Lucian took the tablet from her and ran his finger over the incised block. “Our man Avery refers to my father as ‘the master,’ and he’s no slave. I suspect Meritus uses the word the same way, because the tablet I originally found declared the thief was a freedman. Seemed to be a particular bone of contention with the proconsul, Quintus Valerian Scipianus, that this Caius Meritus would serve the man who freed him so ill.”

Lucian frowned down at the tablet.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I know it’s foolish, but I hoped you’d found something more. Something that gave us a clue as to where the hoard was stashed.” Lucian sighed.

“But I did find something else about Caius Meritus. If we learn more about the man, perhaps we’ll be able to figure out where he hid it,” Daisy pointed out. “Did you think we’d find an ancient map with an
X
to mark the treasure?”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “No. I never expected this would be easy, else the Romans would have found it.”

She tapped her forefinger on her lips. “Perhaps the theft wasn’t about the money.” Daisy’s tone was suddenly more thoughtful.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe Caius Meritus was motivated by something else.”

“A whole year’s pay for an entire legion?” Lucian said. “Of course it was about the money. What else could it be?”

Her green eyes went suddenly unfocused, and Lucian could have sworn he saw her thinking, little hypotheses being tried on and discarded like ill-fitting suits of clothing. He’d rarely seen men exhibit such intense concentration. A woman, never.

“How likely would it be for someone to steal that much and get away with it?” she finally said.

“You have a point,” he conceded. “Not very, I imagine. Meritus must have known he’d have every Roman sword in the country after him.”

“Then his motive wasn’t to gain wealth.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts.

Lord help him! One of her nipples eased above the confines of her corset, a taut pink bump in the smooth, wet muslin. His collar had suddenly become too tight for him to swallow. He tucked a finger in and gave it a tug.

“He did go to great lengths to hide the payroll till he could return and retrieve it.” Lucian forced himself not to let his gaze wander from her eyes.

“Are you certain he meant to return?” Her delicate brow arched in question.

“Well, the tablet I found—”

“Which was written by someone other than Caius Meritus,” Daisy put in.

He conceded the point with a nod. “The writer of that tablet was convinced he meant to.”

“But if his motive was something other than wealth, he might not have intended to return,” Daisy said.

“He had to know he might not outlive the deed,” Lucian admitted. His growing respect for her sharp mind didn’t distract him from her pert nipple. It was as taut and inviting as Blanche’s rouged ones. He wondered briefly if Blanche would let him practice kisses on anything other than her lovely mouth this evening. If she would, he had a definite idea where he’d like to start.

“What would drive a man to commit an act of such desperation?” Daisy mused.

She was so lost in thought she seemed not to notice that his attention was fading in and out as well. But Caius Meritus was not the object of his fascination. Her taut peak was still above her corset, the darker skin visible beneath the wet muslin, but now it was perfectly smooth. Quiescent. Then, as if by magic, the little bump began to rise again.

“Love, perhaps?” she said.

“What?” That jerked his gaze back to her face.

“Perhaps Caius Meritus was motivated by love,” Daisy explained. “Perhaps he had something to prove to someone.”

“Does love entice a man to such lengths?”

“Love drives a man to all manner of stupidity. Have you forgotten Helen of Troy? Men have fought wars for love.”

“That was lust, most likely.” Lucian shook his head. “Not love.”

“Then it was even more stupid.”

“Well, if love makes a man stupid, I thank God I am not likely to be afflicted by it. However, I make no such claims for lust,” Lucian said with a grin, and was perplexed by her scowl. Then he noticed her teeth chattering. “Come, let’s get you into the study. Avery’s laid a little fire there.”

He put a hand to the small of her back and directed her into the tidy room. A lap robe was flung over one of the wing chairs, and he draped it over her shoulders. It shielded her from his gaze, and perhaps that was no bad thing. He derided himself for a cad. He’d been so caught up in the mysteries of her wet breasts beneath the thin muslin, he’d neglected to notice she was chilled from the rain shower she’d sprinted through to bring him this news.

“I’m sorry, Daisy.” He used her name without thinking. “I should have realized you were cold and in need of a fire.”

“That’s all right.” She snugged the rug around her with an almost feline grin. “You were distracted by my discovery.”

He decided not to let her know he was distracted by something other than the tablet he held in his hands. Two something’s his hands itched to hold but shouldn’t.

He heard the heavy tromp of boots and his father’s voice in the hall. He couldn’t make out the words through the thick oak door, but the tone was angry. His father was always angry these days. The stomping and growling faded as his sire moved on.

“Revenge,” Lucian said softly. “Perhaps revenge spurred Meritus. Men are motivated by that dark emotion often enough.”

Lord knew his father was. And Lucian had no clue what to do about it.

CHAPTER TEN

Londinium, A.D. 405

The sound charmed Caius toward the garden. The girl’s voice was like a flute, all rounded and wispy, with air wrapped around the tone.

And sad.

In all his life—and as nearly as he could reckon it, he was around thirty years old—Caius had never heard such a lament. The song weaved its melodic fingers around his heart and squeezed.

He peered from the corner of the villa into the mistress’s herb garden. The air was alive with the steady hum of tiny honeybees and the sweet scent of green, growing things. The new girl, Deirdre, was bent over, clawing at weeds, singing her sad Celtic song as she worked.

Then the song stopped and she straightened, arms extended over her head in a huge stretch. Her palla rose almost to her knees, baring shapely calves and delicate ankles. Her feet were naked, her toes and heels grass-stained. The fading sun flashed behind her, showing the separation of her thighs and a shadow of the dark triangle of hair under her thin palla. When she leaned down to grasp a long-stemmed cankerwort by its stubborn root, Caius saw the outline of her breasts swinging free.

The girl yelped suddenly.

Bee sting,
Caius decided.

She stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking fiercely. The innocent gesture made his body respond in a not-so-innocent way. He’d desired women before, but none had ever made him stiffen quite so unexpectedly.

He’d never had a woman.

When he’d been a slave, his master hadn’t permitted it. But now Caius was a freedman. If he wished, he might take a woman to his pallet. Though male slaves were in danger of emasculation if they were caught in unsanctioned coupling, a female slave was more prized if she proved fertile. He would bring the girl no harm if . . .

Without his conscious volition, he walked toward her. In the sparse amount of Celtic he’d gleaned from his dealings in the market, he told her to show him her finger. With care, he plucked out the stinger, still pulsing its venom into her reddened and swelling skin. He pursed his lips and blew softly on the spot.

“Better?” he asked.

Her smile washed over him like a breaker.

And he knew in an instant. He was a drowned man who just hadn’t quit struggling yet. It was said to be not at all an unpleasant end once a fellow gave up.

Best to let the deep claim him.

“The chase is far more important than the capture. A woman will never hold more power in a relationship than when it has yet to be consummated.”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Daisy raced up the long curving staircase, lifting her skirts and taking the stairs two at a time. Even before she reached the safety of her suite, she was unbuttoning her muslin overdress and calling out for Nanette to come quickly.

She didn’t know how long she had till Lucian turned up on her great-aunt’s doorstep with that lewd little Faunus figurine in his hand and lust in his heart, hoping to see Blanche. But she’d bet her best frock she didn’t have a quarter hour to spare.

“Oh, no, mademoiselle, if you wish to present yourself as a woman of pleasure, you simply cannot rush your toilette. It is not
done,”
Nanette complained as she oversaw the hastily prepared bath.

“He’ll be here any moment, I know it,” Daisy said from behind the dressing screen where she plopped down on a stool to yank off her stockings. They were a muddy mess, but it had been worth it to see the pleasure in Lucian’s eyes when she showed him the reference she’d found to Caius Meritus.

Besides, she’d sacrifice any number of stockings to pry him away from the likes of Clarinda Brumley.

But she hadn’t been able to rest on her laurels in the cozy little study. Her simple muslin dress had barely dried before the small fire when Lucian began to let her know—tactfully, of course—that he had a previous engagement for which he had to prepare.

He didn’t drop any names, but she knew he was thinking of his kissing lessons with Blanche La Tour.

With her!

She was pleased he seemed eager to see her as Blanche, yet it meant he rushed her out the door as herself.

She couldn’t quite decide how she felt about that.

“Oh, no.” She sneaked a peek behind the thick damask curtains down to the street below. The householders in the neighbourhood were setting out their required lanterns in the growing dark, and Lucian was climbing down from the barouche with the Montford crest emblazoned on the side. “He’s here.”

“Ah, but it does no harm to a man to make him wait,” Nanette said with a sly wink. The French lady’s maid had been with her great-aunt for years, all through Isabella’s scandalous and celebrated career as a courtesan. “In fact, whenever Madame entertained a lover, she had a hard-and- fast rule that her gentleman must wait at least twenty minutes for her appearance, even if she had been awaiting his arrival for hours.”

“On the theory that hunger is the best sauce?” Daisy guessed.

“Oui, mam’selle, you have it.
Exactement.
The appetite is increased with the waiting. It is how the game of love is played,
n’est-ce pas?”

It seemed a little underhanded. Daisy preferred things more straightforward, but she couldn’t quibble, since she was already engaged in a pretty flagrant deception herself. Still, playing Blanche was the most fun she’d had in years.

Wicked fun, she admitted, but fun nonetheless. An adventure worthy of the name.

Daisy sighed with pleasure as she sank into the warm hip bath and let Nanette scrub her back. Her belly growled softly, a reminder that she’d had only tea and biscuits since breakfast.

“Speaking of hunger, could we have a light supper served in . . . Jupiter! I don’t even know where I’m to entertain him,” Daisy said as she lathered her washing cloth with fragrant castile soap Aunt Isabella had had made especially. Even though soap carried a heavy tax, it was always plentiful in the Wexford household.

“But of course,” Nanette said, “a courtesan always entertains a gentleman in her boudoir.”

That made Daisy drop the washing cloth. She had to go searching for it by feel along the bottom of the copper tub. “I can’t—”

“Of course not,” Nanette said. “If you brought the gentleman to this room, he would immediately suspect something was amiss. A courtesan’s chamber is arranged for entertainment. You have no couch, no chairs, no table for the cards, if he should wish to play.”

Daisy didn’t think Lucian had whist on his mind.

“Wipe the smirk from your face,
cherie,”
Nanette advised. “I know you youngsters are taught that men are ravening beasts to be feared and avoided lest they throw themselves upon you at the least provocation, but it is not always so. Sometimes a man just wants a woman’s company—a little tête-à-tête, a little harmless play. Perhaps the play ends up in bed, but even for the real woman of pleasure, such is not always the case.”

“Really?” Daisy assumed men visited their mistresses solely for sexual gratification. Strangely enough, the idea that there might be a relationship with a courtesan aside from the bed seemed an even deeper slight to their wives.

“Bien
sûr.
A wife, she will prattle on about the household and the babies, always the problems and cares. But a light-o’-love, she talks about the man himself, his hopes, his dreams. Madame always said her gentlemen valued her friendship as much as her bed. But since your play is
not
to end in the bed, Madame has allowed me to set up the guest suite across the hall as the room of Blanche La Tour, ready for entertaining,” Nanette said. “It never pays to do things by half measures, Madame always says.”