Never Lie to a Lady (18 page)

Unable to wait, he dragged his weight onto the table, crawling over her like some predatory cat. Beneath the mask, her eyes looked wild and uncertain. He kissed her again, stared into her eyes, and told her just what he meant to do next.

“All right.” She choked out the words, and swallowed hard. Then, more certainly, “
Yes
.”

Nash took himself in hand, and eased his cock into the slick heat of her desire. She gasped at the intrusion but set one purple slipper on the table edge and lifted her hips a little awkwardly, as if to meet his next thrust. He meant, he supposed, to go slowly. But the sweet artlessness of her gesture caught him unaware. And caught his heart in his throat. He could not wait. Could not think. Instinct seized him. He slid deep inside on a triumphant grunt.

Damn
. If she was not a virgin, she was close enough to scare the hell out of a man. Beneath him, she had frozen at the intrusion.

“Are you—is it—all right?” he croaked.

She nodded, her hair scrubbing softly on the table. “Yes. Good.”

He held himself perfectly still, biting his lip to still the urge to thrust again. Slowly, he felt her go limp, felt the walls of her womanly sheath begin to relax. And to tempt. He answered, moving gingerly back and forth.

“Ah,” she said, exhaling. “Lord Lucifer, that…ah,
that
is exquisite.”

He moved again, lifting himself high, and entering her in what he hoped was a perfectly positioned stroke. She met him thrust for thrust, rising eagerly to take him. To take him deep, and to take him into a world of unspeakable bliss. He knew it already.

Her flesh pulled at him, coaxed him, seduced him in every possible way. Her small, capable hands settled on his shoulders, then slid down to his waist. There was an unmistakable urgency to her motions, a hunger he knew and answered. She lifted one leg, and wrapped it around his waist. The sewing basket tumbled from the table onto the floor. The sounds of their lovemaking—the soft sighs and silken wetness—were glorious in the gloom. Then he felt her quiver against him, and knew.

He lost himself then, driving into her with a physical furor he had never known. She cried out, a soft, keening sound, and he held her to him as she trembled and shuddered beneath him. The last thing he felt was like a lightning strike, except the jolt was one of pure joy. A dangerous, almost certainly addictive, emotion.

Speechless and gasping, Xanthia lay in her lover’s arms for what seemed to her an eternity and yet an infinitesimal moment all the same. Slowly, their breathing returned to normal, and when at last she had returned fully to the here and now—and to the shocking realization that she had just made love to the man of her dreams on a housekeeper’s worktable—she was compelled to stifle a groan of mortification.

Just then, a clattering of heels arose in the stone stairwell beyond. Servants’ voices echoed down the passageway, shouting out orders about prawns and champagne and pâté; things which were apparently wanted in the dining room above.

He had rolled off the table and drawn her to his feet before the echoes died. “Good God, this was madness,” he muttered, swiftly neatening her clothing. “It is but a matter of time before one of the servants tries to come in, looking for clean tablecloths or some damned thing.”

“Don’t fret,” she whispered, with a neatening tug on his red waistcoat. “As you say, we are still masked.”

His gaze caught hers, fierce and hard. “God, I am such a fool,” he whispered—just before he kissed her again. His mouth hungrily upon hers, he set her back against the doorjamb and kissed her deeply and passionately, as if his need had been in no way slaked by the lovemaking.

They came apart breathless and gasping. For an instant, he hesitated, then, “Go,” he rasped, setting her firmly away. “You must go out without me.” He jerked the chair from beneath the brass knob, gingerly opened the door, and peered out.

“Anyone?” she whispered.

“They must have all gone down to the kitchens,” he said. “Hurry back up to the ballroom. Should anyone see you, you must say you are lost.”

Xanthia looked at him solemnly. “Oh, I rather fear that I might be,” she murmured. “Thank you, Lord Lucifer, for a most wicked evening.”

As if he were embarrassed, he looked away and jerked open the door. “Go,” he rasped. “I shall follow you after a time.”

But he would not, and she knew it.

Xanthia stepped into the passageway, knowing full well she had seen the last of her dark prince this night. The man in black silk would vanish into the gloom as swiftly as he had come—and nothing between them had really changed.

She heard the heavy wooden door close softly behind her, shutting her away from him. The magic and the seductive anonymity of the evening were at an end. Beyond, the stone steps loomed in the flickering lamplight.

Xanthia went up them alone.

M
ay came to Berkeley Square, and with it, a period of quiet. Lady Louisa and her father were invited to spend a few days in Brighton with friends, granting Xanthia a respite from the social whirl, if not from the demands of daily living. Nothing was heard from Lord Nash, and Xanthia mentally flogged herself about a dozen times each day for hoping—and perhaps expecting—otherwise.

Rather than permit herself to slip into low spirits, Xanthia worked long hours in an attempt to catch up on the tasks she had been shirking. Gareth grew more silent and more volatile with every passing day. And Rothewell simply grew more dissipated. One could no longer miss the deeply etched wrinkles about his eyes and the perpetual frown lines which gave his face character but little else.

None of this went unnoticed by Mr. Kemble, who seemed to make it his business to meddle in everyone else’s. One day when Xanthia was late coming down for dinner, Rothewell found himself faced with the full force of Kemble’s officiousness. He came upon the gentleman in question in the study, where he was attempting to reorganize the contents of Xanthia’s leather satchel.

“A hopeless task, Mr. Kemble,” he warned, going to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. “She’ll only stuff it full again as soon as you are gone—when
will
you be gone, by the way?”

“As soon as Max releases me,” he said fretfully. Having got all the papers out, he was having a devil of a time getting them back in again.

Rothewell tossed back a generous sip of his brandy. “Surely if Nash were going to make his move, he would have given some sign by now,” he remarked, staring into the depths of the amber fluid. “Xanthia has given him ample opportunity, has she not?”

“Oh, she has given him ample opportunity,” said Kemble. “But to do what? That, I think, is the question.”

Rothewell set his brandy down with a thud. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, never mind!” Kemble turned the satchel around on the desktop, and with a graceful hop, hefted himself up, and simply sat on it. “Ah, victory!” he said, as the thing compressed another inch.

“You are a clever fellow, Mr. Kemble,” said Rothewell over the rim of his glass. “I will give you that. Your tact, however—”

“Sadly lacking, is it not?” Kemble interjected. “Alas, it is the bane of my existence. I often cannot help but say what I mean. It is my life’s mission, I sometimes think, to help others see truth and folly for what it is.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Rothewell again.

“Well, take yourself, for example, my lord.” Kemble had slid off the leather bag and was neatly lashing both buckles. “I hear you have been spending a vast deal of time at the Satyr’s Club.”

Rothewell stared at him blankly. “
That
is none of your damned business.”

Kemble shrugged his elegant shoulders. “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But the Satyr’s Club is a perniciously wicked place, Lord Rothewell. You would do well to find another establishment in which to seek your—er, your sort of entertainments. I can suggest a couple of rather innovative brothels, if you’d care to try them?”

Rothewell felt both temples begin to throb. “Who the hell are you, to give me advice?”

“A man with vast experience in this city,” said Kemble calmly, “of both the high and the low sort. There is not a bawd, a blackleg, a cracksman, or even the most baseborn cutpurse in London whom I do not know by sight. I can pinpoint on a map every whorehouse, every rookery, and every fence, from Stepney to Chelsea.”

“Good God, man. Make your point!”

“I practically cut my teeth in the stews and hells of London, my lord,” he said quietly. “You, by contrast, have been here but what? Four or five months? Forgive me, Rothewell, but in
this
town, you are just a babe in the woods.”

Rothewell set down his brandy and stalked toward him. “Why, you pompous little prick,” he growled. “How dare you—”

Kemble held up an admonishing finger, and, inexplicably, Rothewell stopped in his tracks. “I am also the man appointed to keep your sister safe from all harm,” he said. “And a dead brother would, in my considered opinion, constitute harm, since the lady seems inexplicably attached to you. Ordinarily, her taste is more discerning.”

To give the devil his due, the fellow had a sense of humor. And for all his foppish appearance, he was not easily intimidated, either. Rothewell relaxed and gave a disgusted grunt. “A bit of a dramatist, aren’t you?” he said, strolling aimlessly back to his own desk. “I think I can take care of myself, wherever it is I choose to seek my entertainments. I do not think the Grim Reaper is as yet on my heels.”

“Have you any idea, my lord,” said Kemble, “how many men died in London last month of eating opium?”

“I haven’t a bloody clue.”

“There were six, my lord,” said Kemble. “Six
that were found
. Three pulled out of Limehouse Reach, and another three farther downriver. And of those six, four had been lately seen at the Satyr’s Club. Moreover, those French girls they keep will tip you the token without so much as a word of warning, for the place is riddled with the pox and they daren’t speak of it—and I mean syphilis, Rothewell, not the common clap. It robs a man of all sense, you know. But slowly, so that you have time to truly appreciate the horror of it all.”

Rothewell tossed off the last of his brandy in one swallow. “Aren’t you the crape-hanger from hell,” he grumbled. “Life is fraught with risk, Kemble. And death comes to us all.”

“To some sooner than others,” muttered Kemble. “And
you
are begging for it.”

“What did you say?”

Kemble set the satchel on the floor, and whirled around. “I said, my lord, that you are losing your looks,” he answered. “You have all the charm and beauty of a violent death warmed over. Honestly, have you seen yourself lately? Your skin tone is gone, your eyes are shot bloodred, and it appears that a drunken stonemason carved those lines into your face with a hammer and chisel.”

“Lines?” Absently, Rothewell slid a hand over his faint stubble. “Skin tone?”

Kemble leaned across the table, and took a full pinch of Rothewell’s cheek, then let it go again. “Do you see that? Do you?”

“No. It’s my skin—and I’m wearing it.”

“Yes, and it has no resiliency!” said Kemble. “No vigor! And that shade! Why, if you hadn’t a bit of your island bronze left, I daresay you’d have no color at all. What, pray, will you do in another six months?”

“Hang myself?” Rothewell suggested. “I mean, once a chap’s looks are gone, what else has he to live for? Good tailoring and a tight corset can only go so far.”

“Precisely!” said Kemble, missing the sarcasm.

A faint motion at the door caught Rothewell’s attention. He turned to see Xanthia entering. “Heavens, Mr. Kemble, are you still here?”

Kemble bowed stiffly. “If you are in for the evening, Miss Neville, I shall take myself off.”

“I am in,” she assured him. “But will you stay to dinner?”

“Thank you, no,” he said. “Good evening to you both. I shall find my way out.”

“And good riddance,” grumbled Rothewell, going to refill his glass.

Xanthia caught him lightly by the arm. “Must you, Kieran?” Her eyes darted toward the decanter. “I think we ought to dine now.”

She watched as her brother smiled stiffly. “By all means,” he said. “I would not keep a lady waiting.”

Xanthia forced a light laugh. “Not even when the lady has kept
you
waiting?” she asked. “And by her absence, subjected you to the advice and ministrations of Mr. Kemble?”

“Oh, you’ll pay for it, old thing,” he warned, offering his arm.

Xanthia shot him a look of sympathy. “Was it dreadful?”

“Yes, apparently, I am an aging old roué,” said Kieran, steering her toward the dining room. “A drunkard who has lost his looks and now subsists on Turkish opium and the purchased affections of pox-riddled prostitutes.”

“Dear me,” said Xanthia quietly. “I am very glad to have missed
that
conversation.”

They dined in companionable silence. Xanthia wondered what Mr. Kemble had really said to Kieran. Whatever it was, her brother appeared to be mulling it over. Or perhaps he was just suffering the blue devils again. She sighed inwardly, and motioned for the footman to refill her wineglass. Kieran would have to deal with his devils alone tonight. Xanthia hadn’t the strength.

It had been a long, hard slog in Wapping today. In between the rush of real work, she had written not just one, but
two
notes to Nash—and promptly torn them up, of course. Then she and Gareth had quarreled about the scheduling again, and it had ended in her overriding several of his decisions, something she tried to avoid. But the demands he made of the ships and their captains had become intolerable. It really was inhumane to turn crews around on so little notice and to behave as if everyone else ought to be the sort of emotionless automaton
he
had apparently become.

Oh, Xanthia was fond of Gareth. In her own way, she even loved him. And in loving him, she had come to know him for what he was: an intelligent, somewhat arrogant man who was honest to a fault and too handsome for his own good. Kieran believed her a fool for not marrying Gareth, but Xanthia knew something was missing. She wished to love with her whole heart—and perhaps when she did, the sacrifices marriage would require of her would not seem too great a price to pay.

She had often considered saying yes to Gareth’s proposals. But she had realized she could not when she found herself obsessed by how their marriage might affect Neville Shipping. Would he insist on taking over once they were wed? Probably. Gareth had once hinted that he believed Xanthia would be happier if she had a home and children to care for. Indeed, he might have tried to insist on it. But if they continued working cheek by jowl for years on end, might they simply come to find one another dull?

The risk was too great, Xanthia had soon realized. The continued success of the business had to come first. And if she were able to so easily put it first—to think of it as the thing around which their marriage must revolve—then Gareth was not the man for her. And Gareth deserved something better than a wife who did not love him enough to make him her utmost priority.

Lord Nash, on the other hand, had become a terrible distraction. But that aside, Xanthia rather doubted that he would ever trouble himself to consciously interfere in her work. And it sometimes felt as if her thoughts already revolved around him. Certainly she was unable to think clearly when he was in the same room—a bad sign, she feared. When Nash kissed her, the world swirled from beneath her feet, and her every thought was of his touch. Neville’s could go hang when she was in his arms. And that was a risk of an altogether different sort.

Suddenly Kieran’s voice cut into her consciousness. “So what of this business with Nash?” he asked out of the blue. “Just what is going on, Zee?”

“Going on?” Xanthia swallowed hard. Her brother looked in an ill mood. “With…Lord Nash?”

“Yes, Nash,” said Kieran. “Look here, Zee—did anything…
happen
at that masque last week?”

Xanthia feigned surprise. “Well, I
saw
Lord Nash,” she answered. “We spoke. He was very…amiable, I daresay, is the word I am looking for. But he did not press a wad of banknotes into my hand and beg me to run a load of rifles to Kotor. And he isn’t going to, if you ask me.”

“Humph,”
said Kieran. “He’s got no dog in this fight?”

“Oh, I would not say that,” Xanthia admitted. “I almost think he
would
do it, were he asked. But he hasn’t been. I’m quite sure of it.”

“Are you?”

“Utterly,” Xanthia confirmed. “I think Nash’s idea of aiding the motherland would be to run away and join the Russian Imperial Guard. And somehow, I must make de Vendenheim and Peel believe that.”

“If you say Nash is innocent, I believe you,” said her brother. “So bugger Peel and de Vendenheim. What are they to us? Or Nash either, come to that?”

Xanthia set her wineglass aside and frowned. “Do mind your language, Kieran,” she said. “This is our home, not a cane field.”

“I beg your pardon,” said her brother stiffly. “You must do as you please, I suppose. But as for that coxcomb Kemble, I should like to get rid of
him
, too. Indeed, I may well do it.”

“You have had too much to drink,” Xanthia remarked.

Kieran pushed away from the table. “No, my dear,” said her brother, jerking to his feet. “I have not had nearly enough. That is my problem.”

Xanthia crushed her napkin with both fists. “Kieran, stop,” she whispered.

“Stop what?” he demanded.

She lifted her gaze to catch his. “Kieran, can you not see?” she pleaded. “You are all I have. But you…you are becoming more like our uncle every day.”

Abruptly, his fists crashed down on the tabletop. “By God, Zee, I don’t need this!” he roared, as the glass and cutlery jumped. “Not from that upstart Kemble, and especially not from
you
. Like Uncle, indeed! I have not yet taken my riding crop to your hide, have I? Nor locked you in the cellar with the rats and the damp? Nor let my dissolute friends chase you round the dinner table?” His face was black with rage.

“That is not what I meant,” said Xanthia, unwilling to back down. “And I think you know it.”

Kieran braced both hands on the table’s edge and bowed his head. She could feel him grappling for control. “I know I do not need your advice, damn it,” he finally rasped, falling back into his chair. “I am not something for you to manage or to fix, Zee. I am not Neville Shipping. I am just a man, and I am living my life as I see fit. I will thank you to stay out of it.”

Xanthia forced her hands to relax. “You leave me little choice,” she answered, as her napkin slithered into the floor.

He had turned his face away. “No choice at all,” he said, as one of the footmen entered with a decanter of port. “I am well enough, Zee. Leave me be.”

Xanthia declined to stay for Kieran’s port and excused herself from the table. Pausing only long enough to snatch her satchel from the study, she went upstairs. But once alone in her suite, she was seized with a restless frustration and paced the floors for the better part of an hour. Eventually, she decided to skim some correspondence she’d brought home from work. Soon she had read four letters—without comprehending a word.