How To Vex A Viscount (13 page)

Jupiter!
She bit her lower lip. Even though she still spoke in French, Daisy had accidentally let something she’d say as herself slip out in the heat of the moment. She forced what she hoped was a gay, courtesan-style laugh.

“My dear Lucian! Miss Drake told me of the very naughty way you baited her about her interest in the Roman phallic lamp.” She stroked his full length in an attempt to distract him. It seemed to work, for his dark eyes glazed over as she teased his taut skin with one hand and cupped his scrotum with the other. “It really was too bad of you.”

“I think you like bad, Blanche.” With a feral male growl, Lucian scooped her up and carried her to the bed. “You certainly bring out the wickedness in me.”

He dropped her on the thick feather tick, and Daisy sank into the soft mattress. Lucian followed her, covering her body with his. His weight felt wonderful, as if he were claiming her. Somehow, her legs separated of their own accord and his hips settled between them. Only the thin fabric of her skirt shielded her throbbing mound. Propped on his elbows, he lavished attention on her nipples, suckling, licking and tugging till Daisy nearly cried out.

The wanting was so keen. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye to slide beneath the half mask and disappear into her wig.

Why hadn’t Blanche’s journal warned how powerful these urges were? Even Aunt Isabella’s caution was far too tame for the wildness that surged through her. Daisy was stretched on a rack, but she didn’t want the torment to stop.

Lucian kissed her lips again and then her cheeks. He ran the tip of his tongue along the bottom of her mask.

“Take it off, Blanche,” he whispered. “Let me see your face.”

That would never do. “No, Lucian. No man ever sees my face.”

He raised himself higher on his elbows. “Never?”

She shook her head.

“Even your lovers?”

“Especially my lovers,” she affirmed. “A woman must retain a part of herself, you know.”

“You haven’t a scar or some other disfigurement, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“No carbuncle on your nose?”

She swatted his chest.

“Then why must you hide?”

“I’m not hiding,” she said with indignation.

He traced her jawline with his fingertips. “Your skin is like satin. Surely the part under the mask must be starved for air and sunlight.”

“My skin is fine just as it is,” she said stiffly.

“Is it this soft all over?”

She smiled at him, thankful for the distraction that let her regain a bit of control. “I would leave that to you to discover, but we have well exceeded the bounds of our arrangement already. Our agreement was an exchange of naughty art for kissing lessons.”

“Practice makes perfect.” He descended for a deep kiss. Daisy followed him willingly to that hot, dark place where pleasure was the only law. When he pulled back up, she laced her fingers behind his nape.

“You are a master of the kiss, Lucian Beaumont,” she said breathlessly. “I believe my work is done.”

“Surely there is more to be learned about pleasing a woman.” He nuzzled her breasts.

“Undoubtedly.” The ache between her legs kept advancing and retreating. Now it was on the march again with a vengeance. Where had he learned how to torment a woman so thoroughly?

“I’ve heard it said that there is a place on a woman’s body that, if touched, drives her wild,” Lucian said. “Is this true?”

Daisy didn’t see how she could feel any wilder than she did at the moment, but she allowed that it might be possible. She really needed to finish reading Blanche’s journal.

“Where did you hear such a thing?”

“At the clubs. Men talk, you know. Sometimes, it’s all bluster, but you never know when they’ve dropped in a nugget of truth,” he admitted. “Please, Blanche, is there such a place?”

She pushed against his chest and he rolled off her.

“There is, isn’t there?”

“If there were, it would give a man more power over me than I wish him to have,” she said, trying to sound as Blanche-like as possible. “Why should I tell you?”

“Tell me? I was hoping you’d show me.” Lucian reached down and slid a hand under her hem. His palm moved steadily up her leg.

Daisy started when his hand left her thigh and settled over her sensitive, hairless mound. She fought the urge to arch into his touch.

“I’m close, aren’t I?” he asked.

Blood rushed through her ears. Her head, her heart and her core were pulsing, throbbing in tandem. She had to regain control. How could she continue to masquerade as Blanche if she let him overwhelm her senses with nothing more than his warm hand?

“This was not part of our agreement,” she said, willing her voice to sound even. “Kindly remove your hand.”

He was still as stone for several heartbeats. Then he withdrew his hand and climbed out of the bed, tucking his shirttail back into his breeches. He strode over to the table, stiff-legged as a dog with his ruff up. Lucian retrieved his tricorne and cocked it on his head.

“Lucian—”

He turned to face her. “Is that all it ever is to you? Agreements? Trades? Goods received for goods delivered? Is there a heart beneath your lovely breasts, mademoiselle, or merely a ledger?”

“You know nothing of my heart.” Daisy adjusted her camisole so her breasts were once again covered.

“Then it does exist,” he said with a cutting tone. “I had begun to suspect it was as mysteriously missing as the Roman treasure I seek.”

She wished suddenly that she weren’t wearing a mask so he could see her dark frown. “Why are you so angry?”

“If you have to ask, you know far less about men than a woman in your line of work ought.”

Jupiter!
If Lucian didn’t believe her ruse, he’d figure out her true identity in short order. There was only one other young lady in residence in Lady Wexford’s home. Lucian would not take kindly to being deceived.

“And you know nothing of women if you fail to see the chase as the highlight of the game,” she said, calling up some of Blanche’s very words. “A woman, even one in my line of work, enjoys being wooed. Once again, you rush in, Lord Rutland. If you would learn to please a woman, you must learn patience.”

He studied the thick Persian rug beneath his feet for a moment. Then he looked back up at her and made a courtly leg in her direction.

“My apologies,” he said. “You are a free spirit, Blanche. You own yourself. I understand that. I know I have no claim upon you.”

He strode to the door and stopped with a hand on the crystal knob.

“But I wish I did.” He closed the door softly behind him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Londinium, 405 A.D.

The girl was there, just as Caius had hoped. He’d watched her surreptitiously for weeks. Each full moon, she sneaked out of her tiny cell of a chamber to perform some pagan ritual in the garden. He knew it was wrong to spy on her while she performed this rite.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t bear not to.

She crouched for a moment, her head tucked nearly to her knees. Then she stood suddenly, raising her slender arms in the silver light. He thought he caught a whispered Gaelic chant.

Deirdre’s back was turned to him, but he knew what was coming. Anticipation made sweat pop on his forehead. Languidly, she gathered most of her long hair up and twisted it into a knot on top of her head. The short curling hairs that escaped along her nape made Caius’s soft palate ache. He longed to claim that tender skin with his lips.

The girl put a hand to the neckline of her simple shift and slid the coarse material off, baring first one smooth shoulder and then the other. A grey shadow along the indentation of her spine divided the perfect, moon-silvered skin of her tapering back. Her slender waist was revealed as the homespun continued its downward course. She eased the fabric over the flare of her hips.

Caius’s palms burned to hold her inverted heart-shaped buttocks. His breath hissed over his teeth when she bent over to step out of her shift. For a blinding moment, he caught sight of the mysterious folds of her womanhood and the dusting of hair between her legs.

He touched himself, trying to still the ache. Nothing helped. He wanted the Celtic girl more than he wanted his next breath.

Then she began to dance. Moving to music he could not hear, she raised her arms and praised the moon with her whole body. Sinuous and slow, she circled the splashing fountain, turning gracefully on her toes, arching her back so her bare breasts were bathed in liquid silver.

Then the tempo changed and the dance became a frenzy. Her hips undulated as if she rose to meet an invisible lover’s thrusts.

Caius thought he might die of wanting. The gardeners would find his body in the morning amid the lavender and rosemary, his member stiff and swollen with unfulfilled need.

Then Deirdre’s dance stopped suddenly as she collapsed in a heap. She was so still, Caius wondered if she yet breathed. He stepped from the shadows.

Then she raised her head to meet his gaze. A flash of knowing sparked between them.

Deirdre had danced for him. Not the moon.

He strode toward her, pulling his short tunic over his head and dropping it in the cool grass. She stood to meet him, but when he was an arm’s length from her, she raised a forbidding hand.

“Do you love me, Caius?” she asked in her own tongue.

“Gods help me, yes,” he whispered in the same language. “I do.”

“Then I will have you,” she said simply, and moulded herself against him. Her skin was warm and smooth and covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. Deirdre smelled of musk and earth and green growing things. He found her mouth and joined his breath with hers in a kiss tinged with desperation. His soul flowed out of his body and mingled with hers, a bonding too complete to ever sever without damage to both.

Without knowing how, he found himself atop her on the fragrant grass. He worshiped her breasts with his mouth, revelling in the small sounds of helpless pleasure that escaped her when he suckled and nipped.

She was wet and hot. Her legs wrapped around his hips as she urged him deeper. He lost himself in her dark womb and didn’t care. He heard the rhythm of her secret music, moving in time with the silent Celtic roundelay.

His ballocks tightened as her wet sheath pulsed around him. He emptied his love into her, all his hopes, his desires, all he was; he gave himself without thought for what might come of this night.

Afterward, they lay twined together without speaking. The stars wheeled in his head and the smiling moon blessed them.

“Women are ever painted as either saint or sinner. When will the world realize we are all both?”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next morning dawned fair enough, but Lucian barely dragged himself out of bed. He blamed Blanche for his sleeplessness. She’d whipped him into an aching fury, then shoved him away like the heartless courtesan she was. He knew it was stupid to expect more.

The callow aspirations of inexperience.

She’d made no bones about the fact that she was a woman of pleasure. If he wanted a more intimate relationship with her, he’d have to produce the coin. Even though she’d seemed pleased by the Faunus statue, Lucian realized it would take something much shinier to induce her to reveal more of herself to him.

And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than just his lack of funds. Something else had made Blanche pull away. He’d bet his last good shirt she’d been as breathlessly excited by their explorations as he. He’d felt her tremble with need.

Was that usual for a courtesan? Surely one so well versed in the pleasures of the flesh would possess more self-control?

Or less.

She was nothing like he’d imagined a
fille de joie
would be.

Lucian tugged the bellpull for Avery.

“Good morning, sir.” The servant appeared so quickly, Lucian almost suspected Avery had taken to sleeping across his threshold like a faithful hound. “Will you be venturing out this day?”

Lucian knew Avery was wondering if he should lay out Lucian’s only remaining decent suit of clothes. Since Daisy Drake had spoiled his other set by emptying her inkwell on it, he was left with only the black with pewter buttons.

“No, I’ll be working at the site.” Lucian ambled to his nightstand and poured some water from the pitcher into the basin. He leaned over and dashed a couple handfuls on his face. The bracing liquid drove the last cobwebs of fatigue from his mind.

“Very good, sir.”

Avery disappeared into Lucian’s threadbare wardrobe and emerged with a serviceable pair of breeches and a simple shirt. The servant handled the garments with as much aplomb as if they were the latest foppery from France.

“How do you do that, Avery?”

“Do what, sir?” He laid the garments across the foot of the bed and produced a small whisk broom from his pocket to give the breeches a quick brushing.

“Act as if things were as they used to be,” Lucian said. “I know you’re working harder than ever since the staff’s been pared to the bone. We can’t begin to pay you what you’re worth, and yet you stay on, treating Father and me with the same deference, the same respect as when Montford was in its glory days.”

“One does what one can,” Avery said modestly. The tips of his ears flushed scarlet with embarrassment under Lucian’s praise. “But if one may be so bold, sir, it has been my observation that whatever the underlying truth, things are as one perceives them to be. It has been my honour to serve the house of Montford all my life. I believe it to be a worthy pursuit, despite appearances to the contrary.”

“A worthy pursuit.” That described Blanche as well as anything. A slow smile spread over Lucian’s face. “You’re a secret philosopher, Avery.”

“Ah, milord, you flatter me. Though I must admit I hold the venerable library at Montford one of the finest benefits of my position. I merely borrow the thoughts of greater minds,” Avery said with a thin-lipped grin and a twinkle in his grey eyes.