The Secrets of a Scoundrel (17 page)

Chapter 12

N
ick was entranced by her beautiful skin.

It was intoxicating to feel the way the tough, proud, no-nonsense lady melted under his touch, her body turning supple, yielding under his caresses. If he could have found a reasonable excuse to justify hitching her silk peignoir up over her long, lithe legs and rubbing cream all over them, too, he would have done it. He wanted to touch every inch of her. But he didn’t dare. All of a sudden, he was deathly afraid of making any sort of mistake with her.

This remarkable woman took his breath away. Instead, he was all but mute with yearning, and finally, he flinched when a knock at the door brought her massage to an end.

An expected interruption.

Still, he bit his lip and closed his eyes, struggling to tamp down his hunger for her.

“You are an angel of mercy,” she purred, as he covered her up gently with her dressing gown again. Somehow he found the self-possession to go and answer the door.

It was, of course, Monsieur de Vence, delivering their feast on a wheeled cart. He left them to enjoy the house bill of fare, and it did not take long for them both to realize that his wife, the cook, was a born genius.

November meant truffle season in France, therefore the meal was launched in fine style with a silky white truffle soup with asparagus.

Bellies warmed by the soup, they eagerly hurried on to the fish course of
sandre au beurre blanc,
or roasted pike perch with butter. The fish had a succulent, flaky texture and strong, good, pure, simple flavors.

Next came the main course, hearty
boeuf bourguignon,
fragrant with the red Burgundy wine in which the meat had simmered until it was falling apart. There was a lighter offering to choose from: smoked pigeon breast bristling with rosemary springs and smeared with cooked apricots; as well as a side dish of tender roasted carrots sprinkled with parsley.

They were merry with wine by the time they paused for the cheese course, merely a pleasant stop along the way to dessert, as far as Nick was concerned.

“Du fromage, s’il vouz plait,” Lady Burke teased him with a tipsy toast, lifting her glass.

“The blue, the brie with apple compôte, or the goat cheese, madame?”

“Oui!” she answered, beckoning him toward her plate.

Her motions seemed unsteady. Her eyes shone a bit too bright. He did not remark upon her state of elevation but served her once again.

At last, they rewarded themselves with the sweets course—vanilla macaroons made into charming little sandwiches filled with sweet pistachio cream.

Nick picked up his wineglass, then reclined on his elbow on the bed, watching her lick the cream from between two macaroons.

“I think I’ve gained five pounds just now,” she remarked in a wryly philosophical tone. “Which makes me wonder.”

“About what?” he asked indulgently.

“Why Hugh Lowell doesn’t move to France?”

Nick started laughing.

“I mean it! He is obviously a great gourmand, and the food here . . . well, it’s France.”

“I don’t think they’d have him,” Nick drawled.

“Of course they would! He’s not so bad.”

Nick shrugged. “He was more cooperative than I expected, I admit.”

“That’s because I charmed him,” she replied.

“No, you frightened him, I think. God knows you frighten me.”

She sent him a long-suffering look. “How did you ever end up in debt to the likes of Hugh Lowell, anyway? Smart fellow like you. It seems . . . out of character.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he countered warily. “Bad luck at the tables.”

She shook her head. “You perplex me. Why play there in the first place?”

He shrugged. “At first, it was just a matter of establishing my cover in that world. Gain his trust. I had to be convincing. And then, later on, oh, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want anyone bothering me whenever I wanted to play.”

“You mean like Beauchamp and Montgomery, trying to stop you?”

He sent her a mild, warning look. She was toeing her way onto sensitive ground.

“Why didn’t you just borrow money from one of them instead of using Lowell’s moneylenders? All your friends are wealthy men.”

He shook his head. “I don’t do that. I don’t take advantage of my friends.”

“Hmm. So, what’s your poison, then? Hazard? Faro? Whist?”

“Whist?” He looked askance at her. “Whist is for old ladies.”

“Well, then? What’s your game?”

“I don’t gamble anymore,” he replied, bristling a little.

She gazed at him.

“But . . . in my day,” he admitted a moment later—rather ruefully—as if a part of him needed to talk, “I would’ve bet on anything. I especially liked the prizefights. Horse races. Any stupid thing, really.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoed. “I don’t think I ever had a reason.”

“Of course you did. You’re Nick Forrester. You don’t do anything without a reason, not you. So what did you like about it?”

“This is a stupid conversation,” he informed her.

“Really? I find it fascinating. I find
you
fascinating.” She bit into the macaroon.

He scoffed and looked away, startled, not the least because he could feel his face flush with boyish embarrassment at her interest in him.

She swallowed the dainty mouthful and washed it down with a sip of Riesling. “Well, you are,” she said. “I want to understand you, Nicholas.”

“Why?”

“No reason. I want to know what makes you tick. For instance, what made you want to join the Order? What made you want to quit?”

“Oh, Lord,” he drawled, falling onto his back on the bed with a weary sigh.

“Tell me,” she persisted.

“Tell you what, precisely?” he asked, not at all sure he was ready for an interrogation.

“The real reason why you gambled.”

He was silent for a moment. “I guess it boils down to being oddly superstitious,” he confessed. “I mean, I should have died many times over in the field. But I always walked away in one piece, and it just seems to me that there’s got to be a reason—beyond being good at what I do, I mean. Either I’ve got nine lives like a cat, or there’s some reason I’ve been spared. Something maybe I’m supposed to do or be or see or figure out . . . I don’t know. I sound ridiculous, like some raving mad old gypsy woman.”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all,” she replied, smiling. “So you wanted to try to find a pattern? A sense of meaning.”

“Yes,” he said, sitting up in surprise to stare at her. “Exactly so.” Her immediate grasp of his bizarre motivation startled him but made it seem all right to say a little more. “I guess . . . I just wanted a sign. Some sort of sign that what I was doing mattered. That it was right.”

“Did you ever get one?”

“No,” he said with a wry, sad laugh. “I lost my bloody shirt. Obviously.” He sighed.

She stood up slowly, bringing her wine with her. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the gaming tables was the wrong place to look?”

He watched her in wary fascination as she came to him and sat down on his lap. “What are you doing?” he murmured.

A naughty half smile curved her lips as she glanced down at his mouth, and whispered, “I’ll give you a sign, Nicky boy.” She tilted her head and kissed him gently.

He shivered with pleasure, but held himself back, his pulse already drumming. “You’re drunk, my lady,” he said in fond, chiding amusement.

“So?”

“I’m not going to take advantage of you,” he said with heroic resolve.

“Please?” she breathed, skimming her lips against his ear.

God.
“No more wine for you.”

“But we’re in Paris.”

“That’s no excuse,” he teased softly. When he lifted her glass out of her hand and set it aside, she draped her arms over his shoulders and leaned nearer.

“I want to tell you a secret,” she whispered.

“Hmmm?”

“One day, when I was but a girl of seventeen, I followed my father to one of his meetings with you.”

“What?” He pulled back a few inches to chuckle at her.

“That’s right. I spied on you all. My father and his protégés.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Curiosity. Jealousy. I didn’t like being shut out of all the excitement! So I had to find out who or what was stealing so much of my papa’s attention from me. And there you all were, at the fencing studio. Hiding in plain sight, just like he taught you to do.”

Nick shook his head in astonishment.

“I remember you,” she murmured. “You were standing apart from the others, leaning against a column, looking annoyed.”

He smiled ruefully. “For some reason, they considered me difficult to work with on occasion. I have no idea why.”

“You started arguing with Warrington. Nobody argues with Warrington! The Beast.”

Nick rolled his eyes at the mention of the Order’s most vainglorious hero. “Dukes always think they walk on water. Somebody’s got to take them down a peg.”

She smiled as she clasped her hands behind his neck and gazed into his eyes. “Well, here’s the secret. You, Lord Forrester, became my favorite from that very day.”

“Did I, indeed?” he echoed, pleased.

“Strange, isn’t it?” she teased in a flirtatious whisper, while his heart pounded faster at this revelation. “Usually, the ladies all go mad for beautiful Beauchamp. And Lord Trevor Montgomery is so much nicer than you. So much more of a gentleman. Lord Falconridge as well. Then there’s Lord Rotherstone, who’s obviously cleverer than you—”

“No, just more devious,” he insisted with a smile.

“Warrington’s the mightiest—”

“Ha.”

“And then there’s Drake, Lord Westwood. I don’t know
what
to make of him.”

“Nobody does, believe me. Touched in the head, that one.”

“Yes, he is an enigma. But so are you, in your own way. Personally, I like a mystery.”

“And you know all this from one reconnaissance mission as a little, seventeen-year-old miss?”

“No, of course not. My father told me all sorts of things about you. All of you.”

“Did he really? He must have trusted you immensely.”

“Of course he did. We were the best of mates. He took care not to mention names, but I could usually figure out which one of you he was talking about.” She shrugged. “I don’t think he even realized that I was really listening. He just needed to get things off his chest. And who else could he talk to, really?”

“I wonder why he never introduced you to us all.”

“Isn’t it obvious? He didn’t want me falling in love. But he was too late.” She stroked his hair.

Nick was a tad bewildered. Surely this was just the wine talking. “Well, ahem, I’m sure a young girl like that is, um, prone to infatuations.”

“Yes, but I am thirty-four, and I fear I’m still not cured.”

Once more, he was blushing like a callow youth, staring at the floor, trying with all his might to hold himself back. Never had a woman talked to him this way. Not in all his life. He did not usually allow them close enough even to try. Normally, he’d have been done with her and on his way by now. But with her, well, even now, he could not look away from her dreamy, cobalt gaze.

“Is that why you came and got me out of prison?” he asked softly.
You can’t seriously be saying you’re in love with me.

She bit her lip and stroked his hair. “I hated the injustice of what they’d done to you. Locking you up in that hellhole after you’d given your whole life to the Order. Ever since you were a child.”

“I was never a child.”

She gazed at him thoughtfully. “You never did answer the question I asked you on the ship. How your mother ever agreed to it, how she parted with you.”

“What do you mean? I did it for her sake,” he answered. “To make her proud of me. And comfortable. And happy.”

“Did it? Make her happy?”

“No. She’s a miserable person. But I didn’t realize that till recently.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Did it make you happy, at least? Being in the Order?”

“Sometimes.”

“But eventually that changed?” she prompted softly when he did not elaborate.

“Yes.”

She toyed with the collar of his shirt. “So you went into the Order for your mother’s sake. What made you want to get out?”

He stared at her for a second. “They shot Trevor right in front of me. The enemy did. Shot him in the back, and down he went. My God.” He shut his eyes and shook his head, wincing at the memory. “
That,
” he uttered, “was my sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trevor, of all people. The good one. It should have been me. He’s too good a man. They never should have put him in the field.”

“My father never would’ve sent an unqualified agent out on a dangerous mission—”

“That’s not what I mean. Don’t misunderstand. He’s a damned fine agent. But he’s so bloody honorable. You can’t be, out there. Your father knew it, too. That’s why he put him with me. To stop me from going too far. Because he always knew that, one day, I would.”

“Too far how?”

He shook his head and pushed her away, moving her gently off his lap.

She stood up and frowned in thought, studying him.

Thankfully, she spared him the demand for a definition. She did not want to know how willing he had been to kill for the cause.

She picked up her wineglass and retreated to her former seat nearby. “At least you managed to save Trevor’s life.”

“Just barely,” he muttered. “You obviously don’t know the rest of the story; otherwise, you’d have been cured of your infatuation and wouldn’t keep looking at me like deep down you still think I’m some sort of hero in spite of everything.”

She arched a brow at him, keeping her distance at last. “Then perhaps you’d better enlighten me.”

“Yes. I should.” That would lay to rest her misguided admiration of him.

Still, it took him a long moment to come out with his confession.

“While Trevor was convalescing from the gunshot wound, I made up my mind, you see, to quit the Order. I didn’t give a damn anymore after seeing my best friend nearly slaughtered right in front of me.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “Trevor is not the sort who’d ever lie to our superiors. That meant that as soon as he reported back to the graybeards and told them I was a deserter, they would send out agents either to drag me back to face the consequences or shoot me dead if they couldn’t take me alive.