Sapphires Are an Earl's Best Friend (9 page)

She laughed, though it sounded a bit too tinny. “Really, Darlington, are you even listening to yourself? Why on earth would I want to search your father’s library?”

Now he frowned. Good. He hadn’t figured that part out yet. And he wouldn’t. He was cleverer than she had first thought, but he would never suppose she was a spy. No, he thought he knew her. To him, she would always be the friend of the woman he loved.

“You are looking for money.” He had stopped advancing on her, and that was a good sign. Now, if she could just step out…

“Do gentlemen generally keep their blunt in the library?”

“I know what I saw!” He was exasperated, and that was good. Better him than her. “Damn it! I know there is something you are trying to hide. I know—”

“What is going on in here?” a voice boomed, and Lily jumped. Thank God she and Darlington were separated by several feet. The duke threw open the door and stormed inside. He was rather pathetic when he was in his cups, but when he was sober, he was a formidable man. She could well believe, when he was sober, that he could order the deaths of four men. He was cold and decisive, as powerful men often had to be. But, unlike his son, he had a weakness for women and wine. She would use that to her advantage.

“Your Grace!” Lily rushed to the duke’s side. “Forgive me for taking so long to return. I found the book I sought, but the earl detained me. He seemed to think I was here without permission.”

Ravenscroft looked at her, his eyes hard and cold. She stepped back slightly, a frisson of fear making its way along her spine. She did not like the expression in his eyes. Slowly, he turned his gaze to his son. “I heard you yelling at Miss Dawson. Is that how you treat my guests?”

“Father…” Darlington seemed to reconsider. “Your Grace, I know it is your custom to lock the library door. When I saw it was open, I chanced to look inside. I saw”—his gaze flicked to hers as though he was loath to refer to her so formally and politely—“Miss Dawson attempting to pick the lock on your desk.”

The duke’s expression darkened, and his hands clenched and unclenched. She could well imagine he wanted to snap her neck between his thumbs. Dear God, had she misjudged him? Was Fitzhugh right to warn her that the duke could be Artemis? If that was true, Darlington’s accusations would lead to her death. She spoke hastily. “And, as I told
you
, my lord, you were mistaken. I was merely glancing through the book. There it is on the desk.” She directed Ravenscroft’s attention to it. But he was still looking at her, and his eyes were narrowed with suspicion. She held her breath.
No, no, no. Do not suspect. Damn Darlington! Do not suspect…

“Is there something else I should know?” the duke asked. “I know my son is something of a gallant about Town. Have you and he ever—?”

“No!” she said quickly and with real horror in her tone. She didn’t think the relief she felt was audible. He thought Darlington her lover. He did not suspect her of spying. “Lord Darlington and I have known each other for years, but he was always too in love with my friend Juliette to ever think of me.” Lily did not look at Darlington. The last thing she wanted was to give him an opening to say something of what had occurred between them recently. She leaned close to the duke, making sure to rub her bosom against his arm. “I think he is upset that we are so taken with each other,” she whispered in the duke’s ear, making her voice husky and low. “The poor boy is still mourning his mother. Perhaps it is too soon for me to be here with you.” She stroked his arm with slow caresses. “Shall I return to London and wait for you there?”

“No.” The duke’s answer was definite and affirmative. “I want you here.” He pointed a finger at Darlington. “You are not yet master of this house. And while I am still alive, I will entertain whomever I wish without interference from you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Darlington glared at her as he spoke.

“I have tolerated your presence here, Darlington, because this is your home, and your mother wanted all of her children welcome here.” At that, Lily could see Darlington’s jaw clench. She could tell he wanted to make some remark or other, and she could imagine what it would be. The duke’s recent behavior did not exactly honor his late wife. But the earl was no fool. He kept his mouth tightly shut. The duke seemed to wait for his son to speak, and when he did not, he concluded, “But I will not hesitate to ask you to leave if it comes to that.”

“I understand perfectly, Your Grace.”

“You are dismissed.”

Without another look or word, Darlington departed. Lily wanted to go after him. She had not wanted to witness his dressing down by his father. She had not wanted to be the catalyst for such a thing, but he had left her little other choice. And she was at the end of her options with the duke as well. It was time to choose her path and live with its consequences.

“Your Grace,” she began. The duke turned and reached for her. She deftly sidestepped him, but this was no public ball or evening at the theater. She had nowhere to go, and he caught her hand and pulled her roughly to him. She crashed against his chest, and he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, holding her still. She took shallow breaths as she stared into his dark eyes. One move and he could snap her neck. He could kill her.

“I am sorry you had to suffer his presence.” Ravenscroft put a finger under her chin and raised it. “I will make certain he does not bother either of us again.” He leaned down and kissed her. His other kisses had been drunken or laced with excited passion. This kiss was different. His mouth punished hers, his teeth grinding against her lips painfully, his tongue delving inside her mouth until she almost gagged. He held her neck in the painful vise and forced her to tolerate him. Lily closed her eyes, but it was all she could do not to scream for help and push him away. Not that anyone would come to her aid.

Finally, the duke bent and nuzzled her neck, his breath like the fetid exhalations of the three-headed dog Cerberus who guarded Hades. “I missed you. I find myself thinking of you all the time. Last night I disappointed you. I will not disappoint tonight.” He looked into her eyes. “You will not disappoint me.” His hand reached for her breast and squeezed painfully.

“That is what I wished to discuss with you, Your Grace.” Lily swallowed. The proposal she was about to reiterate would very likely spur the duke to ask her to leave. Her departure now would jeopardize both lives and this mission. At this point, she would rather be asked to leave. It was all she could do not to tremble and show her fear. That was what he wanted. Fear aroused him, or so she surmised.

“Call me Hugh.” He kissed her ear and dipped his wet tongue in it.

“I care for you a great deal, Your—Hugh. As I told you before, I am tired of protectors. I am tired of the life of a courtesan.” As she spoke, she ran her shaking fingers down his chest. “And yet, I think—no, I
know
you and I would suit very nicely.”

“Why do we not adjourn to my chambers and find out?” He released her neck and took her hand. Now she resisted. With an annoyed glance over his shoulder, he released her. “What is the matter?”

“As I said, I made it clear in London, I do not want a protector.”

Now was the crucial moment. Would he throw her out? And would that not be a better option than securing his agreement? An engagement to the duke might spare her his attentions in the bedchamber now, but it would ruin her later. She had no intention of actually marrying the man, which meant one of them would have to call it off. No matter who called it off or the reason, she would end up the one damaged. Either she would be associated with a known traitor, or she would be the woman discarded by the powerful Duke of Ravenscroft. Either way, the gallants of the
ton
, those men who sought her attentions and ensured her livelihood, would consider her damaged goods. Speculation as to what the duke had found lacking would run rampant.

She would be done for.

She had no one in Town waiting to save her. Although the unions between the
ton
and the demimonde were generally perceived as mésalliances, they served only to elevate the courtesans involved. A broken engagement would send her to the bottom of the social ladder. Lily knew the Sinclairs would never allow her to return to the streets, but the fear haunted her nonetheless. What would it be like to have such a storybook ending? To know she was loved. To know she would be taken care of? To know she was safe?

Lily could not fathom it. And if she tried, she only began to hate her friends for having the one thing she never would.

Ravenscroft studied her for a long moment in which Lily felt as though her life hung in the balance. Finally, he nodded. “I will need time to consider such a momentous step.”

“Of course.”

He could not be completely surprised by her request. She’d hinted at it enough. He might have been expecting her to reiterate the demand. And he might have decided once he had her under his roof, he would tell her no and then do what he wanted with her anyway. She pushed the fear aside and ran a finger along his rough cheek. “But do not think
too
long. I’m not a patient woman.” She could feel his gaze burn her back as she strode out of the room.

Andrew headed back to his room, intent upon packing his bags and quitting Ravenscroft Castle until the god-awful house party was ended and Lily Dawson returned to London, where she belonged. On the way, he passed the music room, and the sound of the pianoforte drew him in. Emma looked up from the instrument and smiled at him. In the corner he spotted her governess—what was her name again?—sitting in a chair and doing needlework of some sort or other. It seemed to him that women were always doing needlework.

“Pray, do not stop on my account,” he told his sister. She nodded and began again. He had no idea what piece she played, but it was lovely, even if her fingers stumbled on occasion. “I have not seen you about lately.”

“That is because you banished me,” she said, her eyes on the sheet music before her.

“I?”

“You told Miss Peevy to keep me away from the amusements. I have been languishing in the nursery.”

Andrew covered a smile. Emma could always make him smile. “Perhaps you should try acting rather than music. You seem to have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Really?” She turned a page then glanced back at her governess, who was pretending, quite convincingly, not to be listening. “Do you hear that, Miss Peevy? The theater is not the work of the devil.”

“Yes, miss,” the governess said noncommittally. Andrew assumed they’d had this particular conversation previously.

“As you see, I am quite well protected,” Emma said, fumbling the piece and squinting at her sheet music. “Oh, I see. I forgot about the E-flat,” she muttered to herself.

“I am glad to hear it. His Grace’s choice of company leaves much to be desired.” He leaned on the instrument and watched her fingers.

“Well,” she began again, correcting her mistake, “you would know, as I noticed you did not see the need to quarantine yourself from our guests’ poisoning effect.”

Drama was indeed her talent. “I sense discontent.”

“Is it that obvious then?”

“Would a walk about the grounds alleviate your suffering?”

Her fingers paused, and she beamed at him. “It might.” She glanced at her governess again. “But will Miss Peevy be capable of protecting me?”

“Doubtful. I will have to accompany you to ensure your safety. I trust you have no objection.”

“None.” She rose. “I shall fetch my shawl.”

Andrew blinked. “You wish to go now? This moment?”

“Of course. I would not risk you changing your mind.”

Miss Peevy stood, her face disapproving. “You will have to resume your practicing when you return.”

Emma sighed. Clearly she had hoped to escape music for the day. “Yes, Miss Peevy.” She pointed at Andrew. “Do not move. I shall return in a moment.”

“Fetch your parasol as well!” her governess called, going after her.

A quarter of an hour later, he and Emma were walking the grounds of Ravenscroft. She pointed out all the places she remembered him causing mischief or injuring himself. Clearly she had idolized him when she was growing up. He did not know why he never saw it until now. She asked a tiresome number of questions about London, but he supposed that was natural in a girl her age. She would be coming out soon, and she probably had little else but her first Season to daydream of during tedious history lessons.

He answered her questions and attempted not to give her too much brotherly advice, and for the first time since his mother’s death, he felt a sense of confidence. Perhaps he could do his sister some good, and that would mean he was not utterly worthless. He was not completely incapable of acting in a ducal manner.

From as far back as he could remember, the importance of his future role and title had been impressed upon him. And as far back as he could remember, his father had declared him a hopeless failure. Andrew was not a good student or a model son. He was far better at breaking rules than following them, better at making friends than making certain an estate ran efficiently.

And the House of Lords—he could not even stay awake for the interesting courses at Oxford. How was he going to manage when some old codger went on and on about the tax on wigs or some equally tedious topic? He should never have been born heir to the title. Why could Katherine not inherit it? She’d be a formidable duke.

Only the Duchess of Ravenscroft had ever believed in him. Only she had remained steadfast in her faith in him—even when he was gallivanting about Town, drinking himself into a stupor, and chasing every woman who so much as smiled at him.

His father had declared him a disgrace—ironic considering the duke’s recent behavior—but his mother had never doubted him. Now he had no one who believed in him. No one to stand with him when the heavy ducal mantle dropped on his shoulders. Everyone thought him witty and charming and amiable. And he played his role well because the alternative was to show his true character. And no one wanted to drink with a man who was nothing more than an insecure lackwit whose only hope was to stumble through his tenure as Duke of Ravenscroft without ruining the family.

But here with Emma, Andrew felt a glimmer of hope for his future and that of his family. They were almost to the house when the steward found them. Andrew could see immediately something was amiss, and he sent Emma inside so the steward might speak to him privately.

“What is it, Helms?”

“There’s been a theft from the kitchen, my lord.”

Andrew frowned. “Go on.”

“The cook discovered cheese, bread, and several jugs of her cooking wine missing.”

“The cooking wine is not kept under lock by the butler.”

“Correct, my lord.”

Andrew motioned for the man to walk, and the two began in the direction of the kitchens.

“I asked Mrs. Fowler if she might not have miscounted or misplaced the items, and she assured me, quite vehemently, my lord, that she had not.”

In other words, she’d taken offense.

“She is quite frugal and thorough, my lord. I have no reason to suspect she is mistaken.”

“I will speak to her, Helms. It was probably one of our guests—perhaps it was filched for a picnic or a clandestine meeting.”

The steward cleared his throat, and Andrew wondered how much he knew about the guests currently in residence. “In any case, keep your eyes open. Let’s watch for anything else unusual.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

Darlington spoke with the cook and then a problem with one of the grooms demanded his attention and then the housekeeper wanted to speak with him about Lord Kwirley. Apparently, the viscount had made unwanted advances toward the parlor maid attempting to clean his room. He dealt with each issue as best he could, all the while wondering when everyone would begin laughing at the hoax. Darlington acting like a duke! How ridiculous.

By the time Andrew had finished addressing the household matters, it was the dinner hour, and devil take him if he would be forced to sit at a table with his father and the Countess of Charm. Even though it was more trouble for the already overworked staff, he asked for a tray to be brought to his room and ate it there with a book in hand. He had begun it several weeks ago and had not progressed very far—he was not a great reader—but he had persisted because he thought it important to understand something of farming if he would one day inherit an estate that depended so heavily on that occupation.

If only his friends could see him now. He’d be laughed out of White’s. The Darling of the
Ton
dining alone in his room, reading a book on farm practices. Good God, but he was as pathetic as Pelham.

A quiet knock sounded on his door, and he said absently, “Come.” He glanced at his clock. It was a bit early for his valet.

“Am I interrupting?”

Andrew jumped to his feet and stared at the woman standing in his doorway. She wore a sapphire-blue gown and matching jewels at her throat and ears. The material pooled around her, shimmering in the lamp light. Her hair shimmered as well, and he realized she must have pinned small, sparkly ornaments in it to achieve the effect. Finally, he blinked, and the horror of the situation descended on him. “What the devil are you doing?” He crossed to her, pulled her inside his room, and slammed the door. It occurred to him, belatedly, he would have done better to have pushed her out, but even he did not have that much willpower. “You should not be here. If you are seen—”

“Will I cause a scandal? Oh, dear.” She put a hand to her heart, feigning shock. “I fear my reputation would not survive.”

“Hang your reputation. I care about Ravenscroft Castle. I don’t know why my father insists on trying to run it into the ground.” It was supposed to be his legacy. His throat burned, and he glanced toward a silver tray on a small corner table. “Care for a drink?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Andrew smiled in spite of himself. Lily always managed to amuse him. Perhaps that was why he’d never thought of her romantically. She was approachable, and she made him laugh. She wasn’t dubbed the Countess of Charm without reason.

He lifted a decanter in each hand. “Brandy or sherry?”

She gave him a disbelieving look. “Need you ask? Next you will offer me ratafia.”

“The brandy then.” He warmed the glass then filled it half-full and handed it to her before pouring his own. The caramel liquid slid cleanly and sweetly down his throat.

“This is very good,” she said, and he noted she was looking around curiously now. He wondered what she thought of his room. He’d always been something of a hedonist, and he’d indulged in expensive rugs, heavy draperies, and a large bed replete with piles of pillows and plush bedclothes. He had two hanging presses to hold all of his clothing. Andrew was the first to admit he’d been a bit of a dandy. But that was before.

“What do you think?” he asked when she continued her appraisal.

Her gaze fixed on him once again. To be under the scrutiny of those emerald eyes was rather provoking. He sipped the brandy again.

“It’s comfortable, but then I’d expect nothing less. You’re not exactly austere in your lifestyle.”

It was true, and for whatever reason—the remnants of his earlier confidence—he took offense. “And what do you know of my lifestyle?” he said. “What do you know of what I’ve been through—what my family has been through—these past months?”

“You’re right,” she said, surprising him with her easy capitulation. “Your mother’s death has changed you. I see that. I judged on appearance alone.” She gestured to his room and then stepped closer to him, almost seeming to confide in him. “That is why I came to speak to you. I wanted to apologize for this afternoon.”

“I’m the one who should apologize. I accused you unjustly.”

She seemed to consider before she spoke again. “Appearances, as we just discussed, can be deceiving, Lord Darlington. There’s more to me than you see.”

“I’d be interested in seeing more of you then.” The words were out before he could stop them, before he even really knew what he was saying.

She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. But my real apology was about your father. I did not mean for the two of you to quarrel.”

He laughed. “Quarrel? You mean, you did not want to witness my dressing down.”

She sipped her brandy and gave him a considering look. “Why is it so difficult for you to trust me and so easy for you to think the worst of me?”

“I’d like to trust you, Lily.” He set his empty brandy glass on the table. “But I find it difficult when I catch you attempting to steal from my father.”

She shook her head. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Exactly.” He pointed at her.

“Thank you for the drink.” She handed him the brandy glass, but when he took it, she did not release it. “One last caveat. Everything is not always as it seems.”

“If I cannot believe my eyes,” he murmured, his fingers closing over her warm hand, “what can I believe?”

“What you feel,” she whispered. “What you know”—she lifted a hand and put it on his chest—“in your heart to be true.”

They stood frozen for three beats of his heart. He counted them, the flesh of her hand infusing warmth into him. And then, as one, they came together. He did believe in what he felt, and what he felt was desire. Arousal. Need. It was pure and visceral and only waiting for the right opportunity to be let loose. No one would interrupt them now. Nothing would save her from him now.

Or perhaps it was he who needed to be saved?

***

She was in his arms, and no matter how many times her mind screamed that this was a mistake, she could not seem to step away. His mouth covered hers hungrily, and she devoured him just as eagerly. When she touched him, everything inside her came alive. Every sensation was heightened—she felt the fine weave of his linen shirt, the hard muscles of his chest, the stubble on his jaw as his mouth met hers. The lamps flickered weakly; his face had been in shadow from the moment she entered his room. She touched it now with one hand, learning its planes and ridges, its slopes and edges. Her fingers raked through his thick, dark hair. It was soft and naturally curly.

She moved to kiss his neck and nip at his ear, catching his scent—a mixture of brandy and leather. She flicked out her tongue, teasing him just below the ear, and he inhaled sharply. Lily couldn’t have said why she did such a thing. She had wanted to taste him, to lick his skin and see if it tasted as delicious as he looked.

He pulled back, his dark eyes even darker from arousal. “What the devil have you done to me?”

“Should we stop?” she asked, surprised her own voice should sound so breathless.

“Yes.”

They stood for a moment, looking at each other, and then he kissed her again. This time he was the one exploring. His hands roved her back until they cupped her bottom, and slid to shape her hips then to measure her waist. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive as his fingers edged closer. She’d spent years attempting to stop men from groping her. Now, she wanted his touch more than she could have ever imagined.

One warm palm settled over her breast. His hand was strong and pleasantly weighted. He held her then caressed her, causing her nipple to peak and harden almost painfully. “Yes,” he murmured, leaving her mouth to torment her neck and shoulder. “Now you know how painful that hard, unfulfilled arousal can be.”