Never Lie to a Lady (31 page)

“Yes,” he murmured. “I do.” Then his hands came up to cradle her face as he slanted his lips over hers in a kiss of exquisite tenderness. It was a caress of sensual promise, and of something else, too. Gratitude, perhaps? But it was no less erotic for it. The kiss deepened, became something more. A bond. A promise. She felt her body melt and join to his. A rich sensual heat swirled about them, and it was just
them
. The two of them, sharing a oneness no one could understand.

They came apart gasping, holding one another’s gaze as if wondering what they had wrought. At least
she
was wondering. It was the most bizarre thing imaginable: to be tied in such a way that one could not move; to be totally at the mercy of another—and to want it. He sat back on his heels and let his gaze trail over her nakedness again.

Do you trust me?
he had whispered.

And that was the essence of it, was it not? As lovers, did they have trust? She looked at him, taking in the powerful, bulging thighs, and the broad shoulders, which were limned with light from the flickering hearth. At the thick, straight, too-long hair and harsh black brows. At the almost intimidating size of his erection.
A strong man
. Oh, yes. He was certainly that.

Nash reached past her and picked up his glass of port. Still watching her, he drank with relish, then banded one arm about her waist and kissed her deeply. Xanthia was amazed when her mouth flooded with the rich taste of wine. The sweet, heavy liquid swirled sensuously in her mouth as his tongue thrust deep. She swallowed, and it was a heady, purely erotic experience.

He drew back, his eyes burning with intensity. “Good God, you are the most sensual creature I have ever known,” he rasped. To her shock, he lifted the glass and let just a little of the port drip down the valley between her breasts. Her nipples puckered into impossibly tight buds as the port ran lower, down her belly, and farther still, teasing at her skin as it ran.

At the very last instant, Nash bent his head, thrust his tongue into her curls, and licked. Xanthia shivered at the sudden intrusion, and he made a soft sound of reassurance. Again, he stroked, sliding deeper. And then the wet warmth of his tongue trailed up her belly. Delved into her navel. Stroked along her breastbone, lapping up every trace of the rich, red wine.

Trapped on her knees, her arms tied high, Xanthia could do nothing but tremble with the pleasure of it. Nash brushed his lips along her jaw. “Do you wish me to stop, my love?”

“
Nooo
,” she whispered. “Don’t stop. Please. Go…back.”

He chuckled deep in his chest. “Go back where, love?”

Xanthia swallowed hard. “Back…down.
Please.
”

He stroked two fingers deep into her folds, just grazing her clitoris. “Back…
here
?”

Eyes closed, she nodded.

“Tell me where,” he murmured. “Be a good girl, and tell me just what you want.”

“
Taste me
,” she whispered, her words barely audible. “Use your tongue—and—and your fingers. Touch me. Oh, please, Stefan.
Touch
me. You know how to do it. How I want it.”

For a moment, he hesitated, tormenting her instead with his hand. He watched her face—she knew it, though she did not open her eyes. The sound of her desire was wet and erotic. The scent of raw lust was everywhere. Xanthia wondered how he maintained such restraint when she ached with the need to explode.

And then he bent lower, the soft, curling hair of his chest teasing at her thigh. When his tongue slid deep, she cried out, her eyes flying open. Xanthia could not move. The rope held her fast to his hot, ravening mouth. She was gasping. His finger slipped into her wet sheath, and on a sudden instinct, her every muscle seemed to contract. Nash played his tongue delicately, working her to the point of madness, until she was gasping, then fighting to suppress a cry of release. The waves of pleasure washed over her, making her jerk at the silken rope, which drew her body taut.

“Oh, let me down,” she whimpered as the heat of his body pressed against her, surrounded her. He was kissing her again—her throat, her breasts, her collarbones. It was not enough. “Oh, Stefan.
Please.
Let me down. I want it—
ah
!”

The thrust was hard. Gloriously hard. Deep and sudden. He had lifted her with one arm about her waist and impaled her on the hot length of his cock. He lifted her again, with a masculine grunt of satisfaction, and let her body slide down his own as he pushed himself deep inside her. He was so unyieldingly large, and she so slender, he held her weight easily and caught her nipple in his mouth as she descended. For a long, impossible moment, he held her there, bound by his arms and by the silk tie knotted about the canopy, a prisoner to his lust.

“Again,” she whimpered. “Stefan, again.”

Nash let his hands slide down her back, all the way down, until he cupped her buttocks in his palms. Then he obliged her, lifting her just a few perfect inches as he spread her wide to take his thrust.
“Ah
—
!”
she cried. “Oh, God. So perfect.”

“Perfect,” he echoed. “Yes, love. You are perfect.”

Xanthia let her head fall back. Felt him suckle her again. Felt him lift and drive deep again. And again. Their bodies grew damp as they slid and thrust. It was such a sensuously decadent sound, the sound of their flesh moving over one another. The sound of exquisite, perfect pleasure.

Their motions grew feverish. Urgent. Xanthia ached for him. A sob tore through her, deep and tremulous. A coal sheered off in the hearth, sending sparks into the air. She could hear his name, softly chanted in the gloom. Her voice. Her need. Again he lifted her. Opened her. Took her deeply. Over and over, until Xanthia was sobbing in earnest. Sobbing into his mouth, crying out his name. The waves of shuddering passion rolled over her. Against her length, his body shook with such primal strength the bed and canopy trembled with the force of it.

Xanthia returned to the present, still shaking. Nash’s head was tucked into the turn of her neck, and there was a warm wetness on her shoulder. She turned her head and kissed him, but for a time, he did not respond. When at last he lifted his face from her neck she saw his eyes were glistening.

“I am lost, Zee,” he whispered. “Oh, God. I am in so deep. I…”

“What?” She held his gaze intently. “Tell me.
Trust
me.”

“I love you.” He barely spoke the words. “The awful, gut-wrenching, head-over-heels kind of love—may God help us both.”

She did not look away. “You are not the only one,” she finally said. “You are not the only one in this bed who is…well, just a little frightened, I daresay.”

He reached high and deftly freed the knotted silk. Xanthia’s arms fell, and the silk slithered off her wrists. Wordlessly, he bore her down into the feathery softness of the bed. He set his lips to the warm turn of her neck and drew in her scent. It was as if they had mutually agreed not to speak of it; as if whatever it was that had sprung up between them was as yet too nascent. Too tender.

“Are you warm enough now, my love?” he murmured.

“Yes.” She breathed the word on a sign of exquisite pleasure. “Wonderfully so.”

He smiled softly. “You once said to me—it was the very night we met, in fact—that you hadn’t been warm in an age,” he said. “I thought—yes, in that very moment—how much I should like to make it my life’s mission to change that.”

My life’s mission…

Xanthia went very still beneath him. But Nash had resumed nuzzling her neck. He did not seem to be as deeply serious as he had been a few moments earlier. She relaxed and let her hands caress the taut, muscular swells of his buttocks.

“You have accomplished your mission, sir,” she said lightly. “Now kindly do not move. I shall go to sleep now, in utter warmth and comfort, and I shall try very hard not to snore.”

“Dear me,” he said. “Do you snore?”

She giggled. “Not usually,” she admitted. “But you are squishing me—albeit in a perfectly delicious way.”

He rolled to one side, and trailed his fingertip down her cheek. “Do you like it here, Zee?” he asked. “Do you like Hampshire? Brierwood?”

“It is a beautiful place,” she said, wondering at the question. “And the estate itself—well, is there another so fine in all of England? I have not seen it.”

He twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. “I wish it were just the two of us here, Zee,” he whispered. “We have so much to learn about one another. I dislike having all these people around us.”

“They are your guests and your family, and they are all lovely,” she said. “And as to the servants, I fear this house is too large for you to send them all on holiday.”

“Then there is but one solution.” He looked up at her mischievously. “We must run away.”

She laughed. “Where, pray, would we go?”

“To the Isles of Scilly,” he said.

“That sounds lovely,” she said. “But…no, too near. They might find us there.”

“Morocco, perhaps?” he proposed. “Or Crete?”

“Ooh, Crete,” she agreed. “Now all we need is a ship. Why do I never have one to hand when I need it?”

“Ah, but you are not the only one with a fleet at your command, my love,” he said.

She looked at him in mild surprise. “Am I not?”

“My yacht is at anchor in Southampton,” he suggested, throwing out his arm as if to direct her down a path. “My lady, the
Dangerous Wager
awaits your pleasure.”

Xanthia laughed so loudly she was compelled to slap a hand over her mouth. “The
Dangerous Wager
?”

“That’s how I won her,” said Nash. “Some fool in Brooks’s made such a wager one night and did not heed his friends’ advice.”

“And you won her from him?”

“Yes, and changed her name in honor of his folly,” said Nash. “The
Mary Jane
just didn’t have the right cachet.”

“No, indeed,” she said. “I must call on you, my dear, when next we christen a ship.”

“Ah, some small way in which I can further Neville’s business interests,” he said, smiling. “Alas, I fear it is the only skill I have. You will not need to worry, my love, that I will ever meddle in your work.”

“Oh, I think you have other skills which I can put to better use,” she murmured.

“Have I?” he asked. “I wonder what they are?”

He chuckled again, then drew her to him. Instinctively, she turned, and nestled her back to his chest. His arm came around, firm and strong, and his hand settled warmly on her belly. Xanthia had never known such comfort—or such joy. In her drowsy, satiated state, she wondered vaguely at some of his words. He spoke with such hope and such certainty—almost as if he knew something she did not. Certainly he did not sound like some casual philanderer who meant to break her heart and move on. But Xanthia was so physically sated by his lovemaking, she could barely think coherently.

She gave in to the sweet lethargy and relaxed in his embrace. In short order, Nash’s breathing shifted to the slow, rhythmic exhalations of deepening sleep. Xanthia lay still, drifting. This had been a wonderful, almost magical evening. She was not at all certain of where this strange liaison was going—but wherever it was, she was beginning to believe it was meant to be. She was beginning to believe that together, she and Nash might just be able to overcome any obstacle. Besides, what choice had she now? She, too, was head over heels. And Nash, she knew, would be worth it.

B
y midday on Saturday, all of Lady Nash’s extended family had arrived at Brierwood. Xanthia could already see that the affair would be much larger than she had anticipated. Lady Henslow’s grandchildren alone were numerous enough to field a cricket team of sorts—which they did, with the good-humored assistance of Mr. Hayden-Worth. Shortly after noon, he herded a group of them out onto one of the few patches of lawn in Brierwood’s front gardens and began to set up the wickets.

Caught up in the spontaneity, Lady Nash ordered a white tent and a pair of tables to be set up along the edge of the impromptu cricket ground, for the day had turned gloriously bright. Ladies began to drift from the house in light summer frocks, and carrying lace-trimmed parasols, as servants moved sedately through the sculpted gardens bearing wide silver trays of lemonade. Xanthia wandered along the edges, feeling neither a part of the festivities nor precisely an outsider, either.

Xanthia knew many of the guests vaguely, having met them at Lady Henslow’s picnic. All were friendly enough. But after a brief introduction to Xanthia, their surreptitious glances and the inevitable whispers always followed. Clearly, speculation was running rampant as to precisely why she had been invited. Xanthia did not know whether to curse Kieran or kiss him for having had the audacity to agree to this visit.

At that very moment, Lady Henslow’s eldest grandson, a long-legged young man named Frederick swung the bat with a most impressive crack. Xanthia looked up to see a streak of red go flying through the air toward one of the more distant fountains. The crowd sent up a loud cheer as Frederick and his second batsman went streaking up and down the field—not once, but twice. A moment later, the ball came in, shattering the wicket as the young men passed, but it was too late. The damage was done.

“Oh, bravo!” cried Xanthia appreciatively.

“An impressive lad, is he not?” said a quiet voice at her elbow.

She looked up to see Nash, still in his boots and breeches, standing at her side. He looked imposingly large today in a snug brown riding coat and glossy black boots, which seemed to have molded to his calves—and a fine sight they were, too.

She felt a faint blush settle over her face. “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling as he offered his arm. “I have missed you.”

“And I you, my love.” He patted her hand gently.

“I hear you have been paying tenant calls today,” she said lightly. “Did any of them recognize you?

Nash laughed ruefully. “Barely, I should think.” But he looked oddly somber.

“How did you find them?” she asked more seriously. “The crops have made a good beginning, I hope?”

Nash lifted one shoulder. “The Oldfields lost their eldest last week,” he said. “The most foolish thing—the boy fell from an apple tree and fractured his skull—and they are simply devastated. They have only daughters now. Oldfield is worried sick about the family’s future.”

Xanthia lifted one eyebrow. “Can a daughter not take over the farm eventually?”

“I cannot see how,” he admitted. “The sheer physical strength required—well, I don’t know, Zee. It is not for me to decide.”

“But the Oldfields fear you
might
decide it, I daresay,” Xanthia continued. They were strolling away from the billowing white tent and along the edge of the cricket field now. “You could choose not to renew the lease, and look for a more long-term tenant when the time comes.”

“I would not do that,” he answered. “Oldfield is a good tenant, and Brierwood is profitable enough without my stepping up on the backs of my own farmers.”

“Then perhaps you should tell him so,” Xanthia suggested. “At Neville’s, we sometimes pay a premium in order to retain a more experienced captain for a certain voyage. In the end, it is for the best, even though the man may sit idle a few weeks more than he otherwise might. Perhaps Mr. Oldfield should begin looking about for a fine, strong husband for one of those daughters? Perhaps he would do precisely that had he some guarantee of retaining his lease.”

Nash laughed, and covered her hand with his most protectively. “You are always planning and strategizing, aren’t you, my dear?” His mood seemed considerably lightened. “And as usual, you are not wrong. I will speak to my estate agent, and we will see what can be arranged for Oldfield.”

“I think it will be to your advantage,” she said. “A farm is like any other business. One must always think long-term.”

He drew her closer, and tightened his grip on her hand. “Do you know, Xanthia, how much I like having you here?” he asked quietly. “I value your thoughts and ideas. Your enthusiasm is almost contagious.”

Another crack of the bat rang out, and a second cheer went up from the field. Xanthia barely heard it. As if by mutual agreement, she and Nash had slowed to a halt. She had turned on the graveled path to face him and to study the harsh, lean planes of his face. He lowered his thick black eyelashes, and something in her heart leapt. Her stomach twisted with an ache which was not sexual desire, but something deeper and more fearsome. It was a yearning—a wish to spend every day of her life like this. With
this
man. Simply hanging on his arm and discussing the events of the day together.

She set one hand against his chest, an intimate and instinctive gesture. But she dropped it at once, remembering where they were. Nash’s dark eyes snapped opened, and his gaze drifted over her, searching her face.

What was he asking of her?
she wondered again. Where was this going? There was something…an unasked question. A hesitation.
Something.
Or perhaps it was but wishful thinking on her part. Xanthia blushed and turned away.

Just then, the sound of a carriage reached her ears. She looked past Nash’s shoulder to see a solid black barouche drawn by four glossy black horses come hurling down the carriage drive. There was a flash of recognition, and then…uncertainty. With a slightly unsteady hand, she pointed. “Stefan, who is that?”

Nash glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. “Just another of Edwina’s friends, I daresay.”

But it was not a friend of Lady Nash’s. Xanthia somehow sensed it. A little numbly, she turned and watched the carriage draw up before the massive double staircase. Two footmen went down the steps to meet them. With a cheerful wave, Lady Nash hastened from the white tent and started across the gardens. They were expecting guests. Luggage. Conviviality.

But these were not guests. Xanthia suddenly remembered where she had seen the carriage. She closed her eyes on a wave of nausea. Nash’s hands come out to steady her shoulders.

“My dear, are you all right?”

She set the back of her hand to her forehead. “Yes, I—I think…it is just the sun.”

“How thoughtless of me,” he murmured, his grip tightening. He escorted her to a nearby bench. “I wished to have you all to myself for a moment,” he said, fanning her with his hat. “When you are feeling better, I shall return you to Edwina’s tent.”

She nodded, but within moments, she heard footsteps crunching in the gravel. It was one of Brierwood’s footmen. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said. “There are two gentlemen just down from London who urgently wish to speak with you.”

Nash’s expression darkened. “I have guests.”

“Yes, sir,” the footman acknowledged. “But they say it is an emergency, my lord. They have come from Whitehall in some haste.”

“Good Lord,
Whitehall
?” Nash shook his head. “You’ve misunderstood. It’s my stepbrother they want.”

The footman shook his head. “No, my lord,” he answered. “They were very clear. Shall…shall I ask them to leave, sir?”

Nash looked down at Xanthia, who was still fighting the urge to retch. She let her hand slide from his arm. “You had better go,” she said quietly.

“Walk with me back to the house.” His face was lined with worry.

Xanthia drew away. “No, I—I am feeling better now,” she murmured. “I had best find my brother. People are staring. Please go.”

Nash nodded curtly and moved away.

Xanthia watched him stride across the gardens, tears pressing against her eyes, hot and desperate. Her every instinct screamed at her to
go
. To follow him. To protest his innocence—if indeed it was an accusation which had brought de Vendenheim so far from London.

But of course it was an accusation. And once Nash heard it—once he fully grasped all that had gone on—the very last person whose support or consolation he would wish for would be hers. Her only hope was that he would
not
fully grasp it—that he would never know just what had gone on or who had been involved—but it was a faint hope indeed. Xanthia set her hand on her diaphragm in an attempt to quell the nausea and set off in search of Kieran.

Nash escorted his unexpected guests into the Chinese salon, the room nearest the great hall, and bade them be seated. He glanced at the cards which the gentlemen had presented. “I hope you will understand, Lord de Vendenheim-Sélestat, that I have a houseful of guests,” said the marquess without sitting down.

“Just de Vendenheim will do,” said his guest.

The man was both leaner and taller, even, than Nash himself, which was most unusual. His eyes were heavy and hooded, and his olive skin was certainly not that of an Englishman.

The man’s piercing black gaze caught Nash’s. “Italian,” he said. “And Alsatian.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are speculating as to my origin,” said the man calmly. “No, I am not English.”

“I daresay that’s no one’s business save yours,” Nash returned.

“Nonetheless, sometimes it is easier simply to dispense with the curiosity,” said de Vendenheim.

“You must suit yourself.” Nash smiled faintly, then returned his gaze to the cards. “And…Mr. Kemble, is it? Do we know one another, sir?”

“Perhaps we’ve met,” said the man vaguely.

“Ah.” Nash laid the cards aside and sat down. “Well, I cannot imagine what the Government wants with me. After all, I take so little interest in it. In any case, how may I help?”

The man called de Vendenheim looked suddenly ill at ease. He cleared his throat roughly. “The Home Office has been making certain enquiries, Lord Nash, regarding some irregularities within the diplomatic community,” he began. “We would like to ask you certain questions in relation to those irregularities.”

“I do not know anyone to speak of within the diplomatic corps,” said Nash calmly.

There was a flicker of satisfaction in de Vendenheim’s eyes. “Oh, but we think you do,” he responded. “The Comte de Montignac, an attaché to the French embassy, has been in receipt of a large sum of money—
your
money, to put it plainly.”

Lord Nash went perfectly still. Alarm surged, but somehow he managed to suppress it. The memory of that tawdry night in Belgravia came back to him—and the threat which had followed some weeks later at Lady Cartselle’s masque. But it had been the Comtesse de Montignac’s threat, not her husband’s. And why would the Home Office give a damn about what was little more than a case of subtle blackmail?

“Lord Nash?” said de Vendenheim.

The marquess cleared his throat. “Whatever lies the Comtesse de Montignac may have told you are simply that,” he said quietly. “Lies.”

“But you gave her money to pass on to her husband, did you not?” said Mr. Kemble certainly. “A large sum of money. We should simply like to know why.”

Nash glowered at the man, wishing to the devil he could place him. “It is none of your damned business, sir,” he said stiffly. “I do not owe you any explanation, and indeed, I shan’t give you one. And no matter how one looks at it, it is hardly the business of the Home Office.”

De Vendenheim’s frown deepened. “Diplomats are prohibited from accepting bribes from citizens of the country to which they are assigned.”

At that, Nash threw back his head and laughed. “Prohibited by whom, de Vendenheim?” he asked, incredulous. “By their home country? Surely you are not so naive. In any case, the Home Office should concern itself with English law—none of which I have broken. As to French law, why, the entire government of France would collapse were bribery and blackmail to cease.”

He could see de Vendenheim’s frustration growing. “You do not seem to take this matter with the gravity it warrants, Lord Nash,” he snapped. “I can assure you, England still considers treason a hanging offense.”

“Treason?” said Nash very quietly. “By God, that is a dangerous word to bandy about, sir. You must hold your life cheap indeed if you dare come into my home and fling it at me.”

De Vendenheim did not look especially concerned. “I won’t give you satisfaction, Nash, if that’s what you are after,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “I am no gentleman, and I do not feel compelled to behave as stupidly as some of them do.”

Nash started from behind the desk. “Actually, I would feel pretty well satisfied to simply throttle you here and—”

“Please, Lord Nash!” Mr. Kemble held up a staying hand. “Might I suggest we all pause a moment to collect ourselves? My friend here has let his concern get the better of his tongue.”

“Yes, and his sense, too,” said Nash, “—if he has any.”

“But certain facts do remain, my lord,” Mr. Kemble calmly continued. “And some of them are, on their face, treasonous. French and English couriers have been secretly coming and going from the vicinity of this house for over eight months now, and—”

“What, you people have set
spies
on me?” Nash roared. “You have been
watching
my house? What else, I wonder, have you been up to?”

For an instant, Kemble faltered. “Only what was thought necessary, my lord,” he finally said. “You see, a few weeks past, one of the couriers was murdered at the White Lion Inn, just five miles south. He carried, as most of them likely did, some very interesting information well hidden upon his person, much of it in code.”

A grave unease was creeping over Nash, but he fought it down. “But you said from the
vicinity
of this house,” he repeated. “Not
from
this house.”

“We have no witness who can put any of them within the walls of this house, no,” Kemble admitted.