The Sinner (14 page)

The sight of her body, the warm connection of skin on skin, almost turned his desire cruel and dangerous. He leashed the primitive impulse to possess, but granted it one small liberty. Not waiting for signs of assent, he pulled the garments down her shoulders and arms until she was naked from neck to waist. At least this part of her would be his this night.

The exposure frightened her, but also aroused her more. The cautious notes on her cries barely sounded among those of a woman approaching abandon. Using his hands, he deliberately seduced her closer to that, to prove to them both that it was in his power to do so.

He stroked her breasts slowly, making circular patterns with his fingertips, teasing close to the tips. Their fullness swelled as her passion rose and rose. Her hips squirmed, rubbing him erotically.

When he finally moved his fingers toward her nipples, her body arched, begging for it. Her relief when he finally touched her did not last long. He palmed the tips very lightly, tantalizing her. The intensity of the pleasure soon had her crazed and biting back whimpers of frustration.

Her cries and movements made the urge to take her rise in his blood. Only focusing on her reactions and finding ways to increase her pleasure kept him in control. The impulse grew, however, dark and determined and convinced she wanted it. An emotion deep in his soul checked him. He could never betray her trust that way, nor risk hurting her.

That kept him from laying her down even though his body roared for him to. Even though her cries and movements said she was as ready as any woman he had ever had. Instead, he caressed down her body with one hand, to at least give her release from the mounting insanity.

She did not comprehend his intention at first, but her body knew. As he slid the bed gown up her legs, revealing their slender beauty, her legs parted and her knees bent, as if her womanhood welcomed what her mind did not understand. The movement made the garments’ billows slide down to her hips.

He pulled them up more, so he could see the top of her raised thighs and the dark patch of hair and the way she waited for what she insisted she did not want and could not have.

He caressed the soft flesh of her inner thigh and watched her hips subtly rise in invitation. Erotic images flashed in his head, of kissing where his hand lay, then higher. Of teasing the soft flesh hidden amidst those dark curls with his tongue until she moaned with pleas for completion.

The sight of her, the rocking of her hips, the intense fantasy, her cry of pleasure and surprise when he touched her—they all created a chaotic and relentless spike of need. When he slid his finger deep within the cleft obscured by those curls, his hunger peaked and split apart as release flooded him.

While the little cataclysm blinded him, Fleur rolled away and scrambled onto her hands and knees. She faced him during a moment of frozen silence that echoed with spent passion and shattered arousal. He doubted that his climax had shocked her back to her senses, since she was too inexperienced to understand what had happened. Probably the intimate touch had frightened her. She watched him like a cornered animal might eye a hunter.

He reached for her. “Come back, Fleur.”

She scooted away and rose up on her knees. Fingers fumbling, she covered herself and fussed with the buttons on the robe. “I do not understand you. You have no need of me for this.”

“If I had no need of you, we would not be here tonight.” He leaned his head against the wall and watched her fix her garments. Her confusion filled the air and colored her accusatory words. “Also, I think you understand me very well. It is yourself you do not understand.”

She got to her feet. “I understand myself, Dante. You are the one who forgets the truth.” She turned away. “I should have heeded your warning when you said you would not be kind tonight.”

He jumped up and grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. “You found me unkind, Fleur? If I had decided to take you, do you think those voices in the next garden would have stopped me? I’m not even sure
you
would have stopped me.”

“I would have had no choice but to try.”

“It did not sound that way to me. Do not pretend that you did not enjoy it.”

She pulled her arm free and walked away. “Do not do this again, Dante. It does neither of us any good, even if at first I enjoy it.”

Fleur sat at the window of her chamber again, unable to sleep. The party next door was ending, and muffled farewells came from the street in front of the houses.

Down below in the garden, Dante still sat among the flowers. What was he doing there? Perhaps he had fallen asleep.

Memories of being down there with him would not leave her head. Sweet memories, of the beauty of the night and music, and the intimacy of his embrace. Heady memories of pleasure owning her for a while, as it had behind the hedge in Durham.

Dreadful ones, assaulting her when he touched her in that scandalous way. The shock of the intense sensation had shattered her stupor. She had sensed the dangerous energy rising in him like an uncontrollable force. Awareness of her vulnerability had split through the mindless fog he had created in her head. Opening her eyes, she had seen her legs bent and spread and his hand reaching around her and . . .

And blood. She had seen red covering her thighs. That image had been in her head, but it looked so vivid and real. A chill had slid through her. It had numbed her so much that the pleasure instantly disappeared.

Only when she claimed the sanctuary of this chamber had she begun warming again. Returning to life. With resurrection had come the same horrible disappointment she had experienced in Durham. Disgust with her inadequacy still permeated her.

Dante still had not moved. He just sat there, one leg bent and knee raised, with his head angled back against the wall, as if he looked to the sky above her.

It
had
been unkind of him. He did not need her in that way, least of all tonight when he had surely been with a lover earlier. It had been cruel to remind her of what she could not be, could not have. Was he incapable of restraining himself when he was with a woman? Even her? Had she been so reckless as to tie herself to a man with boundless, indiscriminate appetites?

If so, they could not even be friends. That saddened her so much she almost could not accept it with composure. For a while tonight it had been much as it had on their wedding journey. Their embrace and pleasure had been as harmless as that behind the hedge.

Until her trust had been destroyed by that touch, and the image of blood, and the dangerous power he exploited.

It is yourself you do not understand.
Maybe not completely, but she understood enough. She had known that all her life.

She could not have passion. She could not have a husband or children. She could not have what most women took for granted.

It now appeared that she could not even have the pretense of some kind of a marriage. She could not have a friendship and closeness unthreatened by sensual expectations.

She had been stupid and naive to think it could be different with Dante Duclairc, of all men.

Dante still had not moved, but she did. She forced herself away from the window and tried to shut the sad longing out of her heart.

She looked at her
secrétaire
as she passed it. A letter lay there, written but not posted. It was to Hugh Siddel. She had delayed in sending it for reasons she did not even understand, reasons having to do with Dante.

The letter would go out in the morning.

She would not pretend anymore that her life had changed and that she should accommodate this husband.

After all, they were not really married.

Nor would they ever be.

chapter
14

D
ante stepped out of the Union Club on Cockspur Street. A damp fog had rolled into the city. He had seen it coming and had walked, so the horses would not be left standing in the mist.

He debated whether to go home. He wondered if Fleur would still be awake. Probably not. She made very sure that they would not be alone together again while the household slept. She even avoided him during the days now.

She probably realized that it did not take the silence of a sleeping house to tempt him. His desire was not waning, but instead gaining a keen edge. Three nights ago in the garden, he certainly had proven that. Whenever he saw her, whenever they spoke, he contemplated seducing her.

He headed in the direction of Mayfair anyway. He tried to block the fantasy that she waited for him so that the garden’s intimacy could be repeated. And expanded and prolonged.

Memories of Fleur’s naked body and breathless passion completely distracted him. The image of her at her window later, still connected to him by thoughts if not by flesh, dulled his senses.

The blow caught him totally unprepared.

It smacked into his shoulders with a force that sent him sprawling. A kick to his side made him flip onto his back. He instinctively crossed his arms over his head. Another blow aimed there, but he caught it on his forearms.

The stick crashed against his bone. Snarling, he grabbed for the weapon and held on despite the pain in his arm.

A flurry of kicks punished him. “Think to fight, do ya? Not so fancy now, is he? Give it to ’im good, for making us wait all this time in the cold.”

A passing carriage pulled to a stop in the street. The coachman yelled something and another voice joined the alarm. Through the mind-fogging pain, Dante heard boots running toward him and others running away. He fell back on the pavement, still clutching the thick stick.

“Hell, it
is
you,” he heard St. John say. “Thank God curiosity got the better of me and I followed you out of the club to learn what transpired in your conversation with Cavanaugh. Say something, Duclairc, so I know you are not dead.”

“I am only half dead, and regretting the part that lives,” he muttered.

“That will pass.” Firm arms braced under his shoulders. Two men lifted him to his feet. “My coach is right here. Easy now.”

“That hurts more than the blow.” Dante tried to move his arm away from St. John’s pressing fingers.

“I need to see if anything is broken.”

Dante sat on a chair in St. John’s library, stripped to the waist, as St. John conducted his examination. Diane St. John stood behind him, pressing a compress to his shoulders. A riot of pain screamed out from both their ministrations.

St. John ordered him to move his arm and fingers in various ways. He then did some excruciating probing around his ribs. “You will survive, although I do not think that was the intention.”

“The intention was theft. Where did you learn to be a leech?”

“It was useful on ships in my younger days.”

St. John appeared indifferent to both the damage and the pain he was causing. Diane, however, looked very solemn.

“This blow from the back could have killed you,” she said, removing her compress and replacing it with another. She loosely draped a blanket over his shoulders. “A few inches higher and it would have gotten your head.”

She stepped around and examined his arm. Their return to the house had pulled her from her bed, and her chestnut hair hung down her undressing gown in lengthy waves.

“I think that we should send for Fleur,” she said.

“There is no need. I will bring Duclairc home to her shortly,” St. John said.

“I will not need an escort. Also, I would prefer that Fleur is not told about this.”

Diane pointed to his side and the swelling on his arm. “Once she sees that, she will expect an explanation.”

Except she wouldn’t see this, Dante thought. St. John’s wife was currently seeing him more naked than Fleur ever had or would.

“I will give a story that does not worry her,” he said. “They were just thieves looking for a few pounds.”

She raised one eyebrow as she glanced at St. John. “I will leave you to my husband, then. He is far better handling such as this than I am.”

She departed.

“Did she mean you are better at handling wounds from a fight, or handling such as me?”

St. John lifted a brown bottle from a nearby table. “The wounds. Although I would never allow my wife to rub this liniment on such as you. Arms up.”

Grimacing, Dante lifted his arms. St. John rubbed some liquid from the bottle over his torso. It produced a warmth that burned at first and then penetrated to his muscles.

St. John moved behind him and sloshed some on his shoulders too. “I saw you speaking with Cavanaugh again. Have you learned anything from your inquiries?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Perhaps there is nothing to learn.”

“I think there is. He knows Siddel, you have seen them together. Yet he avoids any mention of the man and changes the subject whenever Siddel’s name is raised.”

“That is not very artful. If the avoidance had been less absolute, it would not be suspicious, but complete silence makes one curious.”

“Exactly.”

St. John replaced the stopper in the bottle. “That will help some, but not much. Tomorrow is going to be hell. Now, tell me how this happened tonight.”

“They were lying in wait for someone to come by. Whether it was me or just someone who appeared a good mark, I cannot say.”

“Let us assume it was you. Let us assume that the goal was not a few pounds but a good beating, and perhaps worse.”

“Let us not.”

“Duclairc, if you are someone’s target you need to take care.”

Dante put on his shirt with slow, painful movements.

St. John helped him with his coats. “Could Farthingstone have arranged this? If you are gone, she is again unmarried and vulnerable. With his efforts in Chancery delayed, he may have sought another solution.”

“They may have only been thieves, St. John. Or in the employ of someone who wanted revenge for something.”

“Or someone who wants you to stop asking questions.”

“Or someone from my past who would like to see me thrashed. Husbands can harbor resentments a very long time, I expect.”

St. John laughed. “That we can. I will have the coachman take you home now. Since it isn’t clear why this happened, and if the goal was your purse, your pain, or your death, I ask that you watch your back in the future.”

“I am relieved to see that the bruise on your shoulders is healing nicely, sir.”

Hornby made the observation as Dante put on a shirt. His valet had taken great interest in the progress of the swelling and discoloration over the last week, mostly because it gave him a chance to keep inviting the explanation that never came.

“Then you will be happy to know that my arm also no longer pains me, Hornby.”

While the valet laid out a choice of cravats, Dante took a little box from his dressing-table drawer and slipped it into the pocket of the frock coat hanging in front of his wardrobe. He intended to give the jewelry inside the box to Fleur this morning, so she would have it when she dressed for Lady Rossmore’s ball tonight.

“Do you know if my wife has gone downstairs, Hornby?”

His valet’s cherubic, pale face remained impassive beneath his thin dark hair. “I believe that she did, sir. Some time ago. She rises quite early.”

Hornby was the sort of person who spoke volumes with the most subtle inflection of his voice. His last sentence, uttered as a mere observation, had contained the barest nuance of dismay.

Dante had inherited Hornby eight years ago from a friend whose budding fortune had sunk with a ship in the Sargasso Sea. Hornby was an unusually loyal valet, willing to economize when bad wagers came due, happy to ignore the excesses of his master’s life. Time had bred familiarity, and in some ways Dante knew Hornby better than he knew anyone else.

The timbre of Hornby’s voice had not been a slip. The valet knew something that he shouldn’t repeat. If his employer insisted on dragging it out of him, however, he could be coerced to put discretion aside.

“Since she does not keep late hours, it is not surprising that she rises early. It may be unfashionable, but my wife is not a slave to society’s expectations.”

“So Williams has explained to me.”

“I hope that the two of you have not been discussing her habits. I won’t have it.”

“Williams was only trying to settle me in. Alert me to the household customs, so I would not be concerned. There was no tattling intended, I am sure.”

Tattling? Hornby must be bursting to be indiscreet if he dangled that word.

“She has customs that concern you?”

Hornby feigned discomfort with the pointed question. He handed Dante the hair brushes and tilted the toilet mirror just so. “Since you demand it of me—She walks out alone quite a bit.”

“On my instructions, that practice has stopped. I told Williams either to send for the carriage or have an escort accompany her.”

“Yes. Well. So he explained.” Hornby allowed himself a little sigh.

“And?” Dante obligingly prodded.

“Since you demand it of me—it appears that the lady countermanded your order, and even implied Williams would be released if he interfered or confided in you.”

“Are you saying that my wife disobeyed me and blackmailed Williams into cooperating?”

“He is distraught and does not know how to perform when his loyalties are divided in such a way. No servant would, of course.”

Hornby conveyed relief that, as a valet, his own loyalties would never be pulled in two directions.

“Since he does not know quite what to do, he has tried to please you both,” Hornby continued, while he concentrated on folding towels. “She goes out alone. However, Williams has someone follow her.”

Dante’s arms froze with the brushes poised over his crown. “The butler is having my wife followed?”

“To see that she comes to no harm, and to have an answer should you ask where she has gone.” He busied himself wiping around the washbowl. “Also, to make sure someone knows where she is, so that the episode from last spring is not repeated.”

Dante put down the brushes and turned his attention on Hornby’s very bland, very innocent face. “To what episode do you refer?”

“Since you demand it of me—last spring she would disappear and not return until after dark. It went on two days. Williams grew concerned and the third day he followed her. It transpired that she had been . . . visiting a brothel.”

“That is preposterous, and I will release Williams myself for spreading such tales. Fleur Monley did not go to male brothels. I doubt she even knows they exist.”

“Not a
male
brothel. Good heavens, no. One with women. A short while later she contributed substantial funds to a charity dedicated to saving soiled doves. She often conducts a few investigations, to make sure the charity can make a difference.”

Dante imagined Fleur paying morning calls on brothels to ascertain if the women wanted saving. There would be hell to pay if Farthingstone ever learned of this.

Hornby held up his coats and Dante slipped them on.

“It was just such an investigation that led to her arrest in the Rookery the previous winter, which is why Williams knew at once why she was at that brothel.”

This casual revelation hit Dante as he buttoned his waistcoat. He sighed. The day was not starting well. “When was this?”

“February a year ago. You remember, surely. There was that trouble. She was there, looking into the conditions of several widows and their children, and got swept up by the police along with the rabble. Fortunately, it did not become public, but—”

But several people knew, including everyone in this house.

Except him.

The servants had not spoken of it, not even when St. John had them interrogated. They had only admitted to Fleur’s secretiveness and communicated vague concerns.

Dante checked his cravat. “No doubt you are aware of the accusations that her stepfather is making. I am sure you know it is essential that none of the servants ever speaks of these episodes to anyone, lest it all be misunderstood.”

“Of course, sir. However, perhaps it is well that you know, since we all do.”

Dante left his chamber and entered Fleur’s through its door on the corridor. He heard her maid humming in the dressing room, already making preparations for the long ritual of dressing for a ball. Considering the day she faced, this had been a peculiar morning for Fleur to go out.

He had not seen much of Fleur since that night in the garden. He could not decide if she avoided him because she thought he had insulted and misused her that night or because her own reactions had frightened her.

He fingered the little box in his pocket. He had intended to give it to her personally, but now the gesture seemed somewhat pointless.

He could coax passion out of her, but she really desired no such intimacy with him. She did not think of him as a husband and felt free to ignore his most benign instructions.