Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (39 page)

He laughed and swept her up in his arms, twirling her round and round on the way to the door. "What do you expect, I wonder? It's a perfectly ordinary room, exactly like your own." He stopped with her high in his arms and lowered his head to gently torment one swollen nipple with his teeth. Beth arched and gasped as an aching need filled her.

When he looked at her, she knew her eyes spoke for her, though she was beyond speech. She knew her eyes said, "I need you. Now." His breathing became ragged and his eyes were strangely dark with passion.

They were at the door to her bedroom. He hesitated as he considered the situation. "Do you know, delicious wanton, I will either have to put you down or ask you to manage the knob. I prefer the latter." He bent slightly and twisted so she could reach it. His lips took the opportunity to brush again across her breasts so that her fingers trembled as they tried to grasp the knob.

As she twisted to reach it, she felt him stiffen.

"What—"

He put her down so abruptly it came close to a drop. Shocked, senses adrift, left leaning against the wall, Beth watched him walk over and pick up a man's tricorne. He turned with it in his hand and stared at her. God knew what he saw in her face, but it was doubtless guilt. It bleached his fine skin.

"Lucien—"

"No." It was quietly violent.

He walked a few paces, stiffly as if in pain, and picked a crumpled cravat from a chair. When he turned to face her, he had regained a kind of control, brittle and terrible to see. "Part of your new habit, perhaps?" he queried, his eyes like chips of blue glass.

"You know it isn't." She tried a smile, but fear was icing through her, surely without cause. She would have to tell him about Clarissa. He wouldn't be pleased, but he wouldn't be too angry. Despite reason, instinct was screaming,
Danger!

"Of course I know it isn't," he said quite casually, turning and turning the hat in his hands. "Has it all been acting? What a fool you've made of me. It would have worked, too, if it hadn't been for this sluttish piece of carelessness. I would never have noticed tonight if your cries were false, if the bladder of blood had been employed." On the last measured, almost judicial, words, his eyes blazed fury and he hurled the hat viciously from him.

"Lucien," cried Beth, too frightened to think straight. "I don't know what you mean."

He strode over to her and grabbed her arms bruisingly. "Stop! Never again. We'll deal together if we must, but there'll be no more lies!" He punctuated the last three words with violent shakes.

"You're hurting me! I haven't lied to you!"

"You are a lie, damn you," he shouted and thrust her from him so that she staggered. He gestured towards the hat and the cravat. "Who owned that archaic piece, that rag? A groom, perhaps? Tell me your tastes, madam. I need to know if I'm to serve you as well as he did!"

Revelation flashed upon Beth. She ran forward. "No, Lucien, no! It's not that. I've never loved anyone but you!"

He backhanded her. She was thrown bruisingly against the wall, her brief cry silenced by shock.

After a blank, disbelieving moment he turned sharply away, his hands to his face.

Into the tomblike silence Clarissa burst, wild-eyed, with a candlestick in her hand. She saw Beth on the floor, hand to her throbbing cheek. She screamed, "You beast! You swine!" and went for the marquess swinging.

He was clearly disorientated by shock himself. She landed a crashing blow to his temple before he grabbed the weapon from her and wrapped her in a grip that prevented further assault.

By that time, Beth had struggled up and run over. "Clarissa, stop it! This doesn't help. Lucien, let her go."

He did so cautiously, and Clarissa fled to Beth's side, partly comforting and partly seeking solace. "I couldn't help but hear, Beth. He
hit
you!"

"Yes."

Beth and Lucien stared at each other in bleak silence. Could life ever be the same after that explosion of violence? How could she have been so dense not to immediately see what interpretation he was putting on things? Those careless words of so long ago were still coming back to destroy.

He turned away from them, moving slowly as if exhausted, and drained the long-forgotten wine.

"I think some rational conversation is called for," he said at last in a flat voice. "Are you willing to attempt it?"

"Of course," said Beth and seated Clarissa firmly in the straight-backed chair. She herself took a seat on the sofa and wondered if he would join her. She could have wept, and not because of the blow. Where had all that beautiful passion gone? Exploded in a brutal moment.

He preferred to stand. He was white-faced and rigid. He took up her towel and absently dabbed at the trickle of blood on his face.

"Who is she?" he asked. "And whose is the hat?"

"This is Clarissa Greystone, Lucien. She came disguised as a boy. I'm giving her refuge from her parents."

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. When he opened them again, it was to look at Clarissa with dislike. "Oh God."

Clarissa scowled back at him fiercely.

He turned back to Beth. "Can you forgive me? That was an unpardonable thing to do even if you were—I have no excuse except disordered emotions."

"You have every excuse," said Beth clearly, still rubbing at her throbbing face. She could taste blood where her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek. "If I found evidence you had the White Dove in your bedroom, I would have enjoyed doing much the same thing."

He straightened and frowned. "How did you...? No, let's not be distracted. I have to point out it is not the same thing, Beth. Women have a traditional right to express their grievance on a man's face. For one thing," he said, with a trace of bleak humor, "they can rarely land more than a feeble swat. You are likely to have a bruise there."

"I must practice my technique then," she said pensively, "against the time I need it."

He laughed briefly and looked a little more like himself. He soaked her washcloth in the water bowl and came to look at her face, turning her jaw with gentle fingers. He placed a gentle kiss where it throbbed the worst, then held the cloth over it. "I love you more for your gallantry," he said softly, "but I will never forgive myself for this to my dying day."

Beth took the cloth and held it. It was true she understood and forgave, but she was not sure she could ever feel quite the same about him. The next time he was angry, would she have to fear blows?

"So I would hope," broke in Clarissa shrilly. "Beth, don't let him cajole you. He
hit
you."

"We know that, Clarissa," said Beth in her best Miss Mallory voice. "I understand your feelings, but I have to point out that you do not understand ours."

Having quelled the girl, Beth filled in the details of Clarissa's situation. By the time she had finished, the marquess had a look of disbelief on his face.

"Beth, there's nothing you can do. Her parents have all the rights. Marriages like this are made every day. People learn to make the best of it."

"That is merely a sign of all that is wrong in the world," said Beth firmly. "Clarissa is not going to marry Lord Deveril against her will."

"Deveril!" he exclaimed, and Beth realized this was the first time she'd identified Clarissa's rich suitor. "That changes matters."

"How?"

"He certainly cannot be allowed to marry any gently born woman. Any woman at all, if it comes to that."

"Then you'll help her?"

He thought. "It's still not easy. We could probably keep her out of Deveril's hands, but there is no way in law of freeing her of her parents. It'll be another beating and another Deveril."

"No one can be as loathsome as Lord Deveril," said Clarissa with a shudder.

"There," said the marquess, "you have a point."

"And if Clarissa escapes," Beth said, "Lord Deveril will merely seek out another victim."

The marquess shook his head. "Am I to spend the rest of my life rescuing innocents from villains? There's a never-ending supply of both."

Beth smiled at him, despite the twinge of pain it cost her. "I will try to learn to ignore some of the troubles of the world, Lucien, but I cannot step over the victim in my path. At the moment, however, our main requirement is a safe haven for Clarissa. You know London. There must be hundreds of places she can hide."

"Not in the London I know," he said.

"I did wonder about the Delaneys," Beth said hesitantly.

"They'd be willing to help," he said, "but there are reasons it would be better not to involve them in anything to do with Deveril at the moment." He grew thoughtful. "You mentioned the White Dove. What do you know?"

Beth could feel her color rising. "She's the actress at Drury Lane. She's beautiful, and she's your mistress."

"Was. How did you know?"

"Was?" Beth echoed, a little glow starting within. She knew he wouldn't lie to her. He nodded. "Lord Deveril told me," she said.

The marquess's eyes flashed. "Did he, by God? It strikes me the simplest way out of this coil is to kill him."

"You can't do that!" Beth protested. Violence again. Was that his solution to everything?

"He is a bit old for a challenge," agreed the marquess thoughtfully. "I wonder if I can get him to challenge me."

Beth was horrified. "Lucien, it would be murder."

"Call it an execution," he said, and she saw, with dismay, that he was perfectly serious. Before she could marshal all the arguments against the evils of dueling, he spoke again.

"To return to the point," he said, seemingly much refreshed by the prospect of killing someone, "if you know about Blanche, she may provide the help we need."

"How?" asked Beth, finding this turn in the conversation no better. He might have given up the actress, but that was no proof he had given up his feelings for her.

"No one would connect Blanche with Clarissa, and Blanche would give her refuge."

"A Cyprian?" gasped Clarissa.

"An actress," corrected the marquess coldly. "And a remarkable lady. It's the only refuge you're likely to find. If your parents know you've visited Beth, they'll be on the doorstep tomorrow."

Clarissa looked to Beth for guidance.

"I think you should accept this help," said Beth. "It seems safe, and it's a trifle late for us to be fretting about your reputation, Clarissa. I truly don't know what's to become of you, but as you said, anything will be better than marriage to Lord Deveril."

The girl nodded. "Very well. What should I do?"

"Go and dress," said Beth.

When Clarissa had left the room, Beth asked, "Can she go to this place now? Or will Madam Blanche need warning?"

"How very discreet. I don't believe Blanche has a new protector, but I should send a message. She will be at the theater now, anyway. We'll have to wait an hour or two. A messenger.... Ah yes, the little bird."

He turned to go but then looked back. "Can you forgive me?" he asked seriously.

She smiled. "I already have. It all began when I convinced you I had known a dozen lovers. You were right—words have a life of their own once spoken."

He came and held her, a gentle hold of cherishing. "I stole it from Horace," he confessed. "'
Semel emissum volat irrevocabile verbum.'
Let's cap him with Virgil.
'Omnia vincit amor.'
I love you, Beth. Even if you were debauched, God help me, I would still love you. That was what drove me mad. I thought you a whore, but I still hungered for you."

Beth tightened her arms around him and completed his quotation, "'
Nos cedamus amori.'"

Let us surrender to love.

"I know you to be virtuous," he continued. "I know you to be a virgin." With a hint of humor, he added, "Unfortunately."

Beth laughed and looked up at him. "And I love you, though you're a barbarian." Shyly she added, "I, too, think it unfortunate."

But what she thought unfortunate was that the moment of delirious pleasure had been destroyed. She could not imagine how they were to recapture it.

He moved out of her arms. "I am not a barbarian," he said. "A barbarian would throw Clarissa out of the window and carry you to his bed. I'm a baboon in its milieu. I will act according to my code."

"Will you ever let me forget that?" she demanded.

"Never. It is the most wonderfully rude thing anyone has ever said to me."

"What
is
the code of a baboon?" Beth asked.

"I thought you knew. Must I lose my faith in you?"

"A baboon," said Beth, inventing quickly, "is always indulgent of its mate. It unfailingly helps the weak of its society, especially young females, and never seeks to kill except in the extremes of self-defense. It is also," she added pointedly, "totally monogamous."

"Hmm. In any primitive environment, baboons would be extinct."

"But this is London, the most civilized city in the world," declared Beth.

He raised a brow. "Remind me not to allow you out of the door unescorted, my naive blue stocking. I have to go and make arrangements." She could sense in him, as in herself, a simple disinclination to part, even for a moment.