The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (11 page)

Suddenly Jillian became aware of the flock of young, eligible women staring with barely disguised interest at Graham. With his confession, he had increased the stakes, transforming from an aloof spectacle to a dashing rogue. Sighs of regret from the eligible girls—and even some prudish chaperones—rippled through the room. Murmurs of censure mingled with them.

Graham offered a humorless smile. "I think we'd best adjoin to a room where this may be discussed in private. But first, I beg a word with your daughter, Lord Stranton." And without awaiting her father's reply, the duke gripped her elbow and began escorting Jillian out of the ballroom.

"They shouldn't be alone! It's not proper!" Bernard protested.

She heard Lord Huntley's ironic reply, "I do believe it's a little late to worry about that."

Chapter Five

Jillian's mind whirled as Graham steered her into the expansive, pine-paneled library and shut the double doors. A brass key remained in the lock. He twisted it, locking them in. Or more likely, her father out.

He flicked a switch, flooding the room with electric light, and leaned against the door. Crossing his arms, he watched her.

"You disgraced me!" she said.

Unsmiling, he regarded her. "I rescued you, Lady Jillian—from that insipid fop determined to marry you. I did not mean to distress you, but I saw a solution best for both of us."

A flush burned her cheeks. Jillian gripped her gloved hands so hard she felt her nails digging into her palms through the thin silk.

"Why? Why?"

"I need a wife. You wanted to run away. Therefore, the solution: marriage to me."

"I hardly think that is a solution. And if you, sir, were in the market for a wife, surely you could find a willing candidate among the Marriage Mart without creating a scandal!"

"Perhaps I could find a bride among those giggling, whey-faced chits who circulate at these affairs. But I want you."

"I'm penniless. And you don't even know me!"

"We have a better beginning than many marriages. We already know each other's pleasures."

"You are quite mad," she snapped. "We spend one night together and you declare you do not want to ever see me again, and now you offer me your name?"

"I changed my mind."

"I have not. I will not marry you!"

"You have little choice now," he pointed out.

It was sheer madness. She felt caught in the vortex of some unstoppable force. "So you're forcing me into marriage by publicly telling society I'm not a virgin? You've ruined my father's good name."

The duke's expression shifted. His features became hard as granite, his eyes obsidian. She watched, uneasy yet fascinated. Jillian suppressed a shiver, reminding herself of the coiled power she'd glimpsed in the brothel.

"Ruined? I think not. On the contrary, he's gaining a duke for a son-in-law. And let's not forget finances. Your father is eager to make money from your marriage. I will offer the same marriage settlement Mr. Augustine offered."

Tears burned the back of her throat. "And the advantages for me, sir, once my father is paid? There are none."

A knock sounded at the heavy wood door. She started.

"Jillian? Your Grace?" her father called out.

The duke ignored it, watching her intently. She put a knuckle to her mouth, wanting to run away. Her nervous gaze darted toward the French doors at the library's far west wall.

Graham crossed the room to her. His voice was low and cajoling. "Running away isn't the answer, Jillian. I will provide generously for you and you'll have wealth and position. Just ask and I'll give it to you. Jewels. Furs. Gowns from the finest Parisian couturiers. Anything your heart desires."

"Anything my heart desires?" Jillian laughed. Oh, this was too priceless. Yes, he'd give her anything but the one thing she desired most: her freedom.

"What use is a fine gown and position when all of society sees me as a fallen woman? They can't wait to rip me to shreds."

The doorknob rattled—her father, trying to get inside. "Your Grace, a word please. I must speak with you," his disembodied voice called out.

Graham glanced at the door. "They'll forget about our rather questionable beginning once we're married."

"Forget? You know little about the
ton
, Your Grace, if you think they will forget. They have long memories."

His gaze narrowed. Once more she felt the coiled menace in this man, as if his polished exterior hid a dark core.

"No one will dare insult you if you are my wife. I promise you, I shall not tolerate one single affront."

"They won't insult me. They'll just ignore me," she demurred.

"They cannot ignore you if you are my duchess, Jillian. Think of it. I'm offering escape from being chained to the insufferable Mr. Augustine." He paused, a slow smile touching his mouth. "Wouldn't you prefer being chained to me? In bed, say, for long hours of delightful pleasure?"

Erotic heat shot through her. She tried to ignore it. "How do you know he's insufferable?"

"His mustache. Clearly he spends a great deal of time waxing it. Do you truly wish to become the wife of a man obsessed with his facial hair? His kisses must be as dreadful as the Macassar oil he smears on his hair."

"I wouldn't know," she murmured.

"He never kissed you?"

"He tried. I stopped him. It seemed to me as dreadful as licking beeswax off a staircase."

His abrupt, deep laugh nearly coaxed a smile from her. Jillian suppressed it. "Why do you wish to marry me? What possible reason could you have?"

"The most elemental one of all, Jillian. You're a beautiful woman and I want you in my bed."

A delicate shiver stroked her spine at the determined note in his voice. "S-sex is a feeble basis for marriage."

"Is it?" He advanced, a gleam in his dark eyes. She shrank back as his fingers found her cheek and stroked it in the barest of touches. Jillian closed her eyes, need shuddering through her. Ah, the power of his caress.

"I think it's a powerful reason to marry. It's how the duchy continues. I need a son." At this disclosure, her eyes flew open. Graham's level gaze flicked down to her flat abdomen. His large, warm hands settled on her clothed shoulders. She remembered them stroking and caressing, creating delicious heat. "I'm most eager to begin trying for an heir after we marry."

Warm breath tickled the sensitive back of her ear. He bent his heard toward her, and he whispered, "I'm afraid your options are quite ruined, Lady Jillian. There is no escape but marriage to me."

She swallowed, hard. Marriage was not the answer. Leaving England was. The duke had ground everything to a halt. Jillian worried her bottom lip. There was still the money hidden in her room. She could still escape. For now she'd pretend, to gain precious time.

"Very well," she muttered. "I'll marry you."

The barest smile touched his mouth. Then he dipped his head and kissed her lightly—a brief kiss promising sensual pleasures.

Yet it was pleasure she'd not experience, for she'd not marry him if she could run first.

Father might be appeased by Graham the duke instead of Bernard the insufferable, but deep down she had the uneasy feeling that Graham, with his dark intensity and dangerous charm, might prove the far more deadly choice.

Graham managed to rope in his raging emotions as he gripped Jillian's hand and prepared to face her father. Inside his head a voice screamed, are you mad?

Perhaps he was. Forcing her hand and ensuring his enemy would become his father-in-law sounded completely insane.

But keep your enemies close, his friend the Khamsin sheikh had once advised. How much closer than by making Stranton a relative?

Long ago, Graham had vowed never to marry. But this solution meant Jillian would remain under his care and protection when the larger scandal broke. Sexually she pleased him, and the thought of bedding her again swelled his body with pleasure.

And she could provide him with an heir. Having children would keep her occupied and out of trouble. And his dreaded nightmare would not come true as long as he kept her from the desert. Chances of her ever traveling to Egypt with him were as unlikely as him finding Khufu's lost treasure.

Graham tucked Jillian's hand into the crook of his arm. He forced a blank expression to his face and, inhaling a deep breath, unlocked and opened the door and stared into the enraged face of his enemy.

Graham had not confronted him for twenty years. Once, last year in London, he had run from this man in shameful fear. He would run no longer.

Blood roared in his head. He wanted to squeeze, to crush, to strangle. A bored smile played on his lips instead.

"Good evening, Lord Stranton. Your daughter has graciously agreed to marry me." Jillian pressed his arm in a warning.

Graham ignored it, his body taut and ready to engage the man in battle, verbal or otherwise. But Stranton just stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He did not look at his daughter.

"Whether or not she agrees is immaterial, Your Grace. Jillian will do as I tell her. She has disgraced me with her behavior and will not do so again."

Tendons stood out in Stranton's neck. The earl looked at his daughter with deep contempt.

"And I told you, Stranton, I take full responsibility for what happened. I seduced her."

Stranton smiled, his eyes cold. "I don't hold you responsible, Your Grace. I raised Jillian to resist, to not cave in to the sins of the flesh. She has failed me miserably."

Beside him, he felt Jillian tense. Graham realized the man was threatening her because she was a safe target who would not defend herself. He wanted to snap Stranton's neck. It would be so easy.

"We are all weak human beings, sir," he said politely.

"Weakness is no excuse for such a grave moral lapse."

Disgust laced the earl's voice. He narrowed his gaze at his daughter. She dropped her own to the floor.

"And my moral lapse?" Graham asked, studying the earl through hooded eyes.

Stranton gave him a fawning smile. "It is different for men, Your Grace. This is why my campaign to control the houses of ill repute is quite important. We must concentrate on regulating the behavior of wayward females. Perhaps you will take an interest."

"Perhaps." Graham had no intentions of a political career.

Encouraged, the earl went on. "I have lost considerable influence tonight because of her behavior. What she did goes beyond the pale. She publicly disgraced my name."

The man had all the emotional depth of a turnip. He cared only that he'd been embarrassed before his peers. "And now she will make amends when you make her your wife."

Graham suddenly felt a pressing urge to toy with the earl, like a cat swatted a cornered mouse. "I could make her my mistress," he said. He smiled inside as Stranton recoiled.

"I must recover my reputation. You need to marry her!"

"
I
do not need to marry."

Stranton hesitated. "It is your duty as an English gentleman to marry her, Your Grace."

"I have no desire to be an English gentleman."

Panic flared in the man's green gaze. "But, you... you offered for her hand."

"Perhaps I have changed my mind."

How does it feel to be utterly powerless, you bastard?

Powerless as Graham had been.

No other man would marry Jillian now. She had been a ripe peach her father had carefully preserved to sell at an exorbitant price, but Graham had plucked the fruit, bitten into its juicy center, savored its delicious taste and then replaced it in the bin. Without paying a single pence.

He stole a glance at Jillian. She stood, erect carriage, a silent wooden statue. Then she lifted her gaze to him. Moisture had turned her eyes to glistening gems. His heart twisted. He did not want to hurt her.

"Are you saying you will not marry Jillian, Your Grace?" Stranton asked.