Black Silk (20 page)
Where was Dash?
She’d woken twice in the night to use the chamber pot, and he hadn’t been in the room. Should she have searched for him? It was all she could do to balance on the pot and then stumble back into her warmed bed.
She’d thought he’d gone to his room, to avoid her, to avoid having to reveal secrets. But this morning, in her nightgown, she slipped through the adjoining parlor and peeked through his door.
His bed had not been slept in.
And for the first time, she’d seen his bedroom. Her room sparkled in gilt, crimson, and ivory, with lacy curtains tied with golden rope and flocked paper and tasseled, exotic rugs. His was simple, austere. Deep green walls, a bare floor, and an enormous but simple bed.
He wasn’t at breakfast—she’d peeped into the dining room, taking care to ensure no one saw her. She didn’t want to have to chatter with Anne or Lady Evershire or Lady Yardley. She wanted to find Dash. But the breakfast room had been empty.
The corridor leading off from the doors was also deserted, so she hiked her hems and ran. She turned left, took a branch to the right, and then another to the left. She must be in the east wing. But a glance out a stairwell window revealed she was standing over the terrace doors—she was looking at the same view.
Bother, where was she?
A terse male laugh sounded from behind the double doors opposite. Dash—that must be Dash. She darted over and pulled open one door. Another laugh echoed from below. The ceiling arched overhead, and she stepped into the room onto a gallery. A wrought-iron railing framed it, running around the oval room. A voice, muted, rose from beneath her. Cool air rushed out to her—obviously this enormous room was not kept warm.
Gathering courage, Maryanne went to the edge, put her hands on the railing, and looked down.
A blond man leaped into view, dressed in flowing white shirt and breeches. He swung a foil around and barked a laugh toward the shadows beneath her.
A voice answered. Dash’s voice. Though she couldn’t hear all the words, she heard the name
Tate
.
Maryanne’s heart skipped a beat. The blond man must be Jack Tate.
Was this to be a duel over debts?
A hand to her mouth held back a gasp as she crouched down to watch between the pickets of the railing. Tate moved with lithe grace, slashing his blade at the air, a boyish grin on his tanned face.
Dash moved out of the shadow.
Her hand gripped the picket hard.
She’d seen him nude, but he was just as magnificently arousing dressed in breeches clinging to hard thighs and shapely calves, with an open black shirt thrown on carelessly. Loose at the neck, it revealed the curling dark hair she loved to run her fingers through and his large, sculpted pectoral muscles.
Dash was bigger than Tate, taller and broader. The flowing sleeves of his shirt outlined the bulging muscles of his arms. Foil in hand, he prowled to a table and lifted a slip of paper. “Your vowels, Tate.”
“Suggesting we play for them?” Jack Tate drawled. He brushed back his wheat-blond hair.
Dash ripped the paper in two.
“What in blazes are you doing?”
“They’re forgiven.”
“You must be joking, my lord. Don’t insult me. I’d rather fight for them.”
“Blackguard. I’ve a wife in a delicate condition.” But Dash readied himself, blade upright before him, his back to her.
Maryanne caught her breath as she gazed down from blue-black hair and broad shoulders to narrow waist and lean hips. Dash possessed the most entrancing derriere, and each shift of his weight tightened and relaxed the muscles of his haunches, deepening the shadow. Next time they made love, she’d urge him on top, slip her hands down to his buttocks, and stroke those firm hollows.
His rear tightened as he took a step, and her throat dried. She was indecently wet. Never before had she seen men fence or fight.
Tate swept an elaborate bow. “My apologies, Swansborough. If you’d care for another game of hazard, I’m at your service.”
Dash didn’t answer; instead he paced around, and Tate followed, so they slowly circled each other. Maryanne’s nostrils flared at the subtle scent—of male prespiration, of their skin, of their anticipation.
“I’d rather blades than dice,” Dash said, and Maryanne’s heart plummeted.
How could he?
Why would he prefer to risk his life than gamble and lose? Was it just male pride and madness?
Tate lifted his blade, still grinning. Waiting.
Dash instantly seemed to relax, to become fluid, but Tate carried tension. Did that mean Dash was the better swordsman?
Maryanne pressed closer to the space between the twisting white-painted iron pickets.
Dash lifted his blade in turn, but she could see only his back again. “Did you shoot at me two days ago?”
Maryanne choked on a gasp. How could he be so blunt?
Tate faced her. Surprise registered on his angular features, in the widening of his blue eyes.
“Shoot at you?” Tate repeated. He lunged, grabbing the first blow, but his blade clashed harmlessly with Dash’s. “I was in London until yesterday. The blizzard hit before I reached Tremouth, and I encountered Lady Evershire.”
They separated blades and retreated. Tate bounced on the spot, his breath a white puff in the cool air. “Enjoy this cold. Been spending too much time in the heated bedchambers of London ladies.”
“No doubt.” Dash drove forward this time, muscles flexing. Gleaming blades collided again. Dash used his to push Tate’s aside, and he pursued the advantage with a quick leap ahead. Tate darted back and brought his blade around to parry Dash’s just as the tip sliced toward his chest.
Dash’s blade arced so fast Maryanne could barely see the whipping of the thin steel. Clash after clash showed her that Tate was fighting desperately to hold on, that he was always in retreat. Tate reacted in defense. Dash was in control.
Her heart soared.
Dash’s hair dangled around him, wet with sweat. His forehead, cheeks, and chin gleamed with dampness, and his fine shirt clung to chest and arms, almost translucent where it touched skin. Yet he barely seemed out of breath. He leaped, darted, drove forward with elegant ease—he sprang faster than she could even gasp in reaction.
Pins and needles raced up her legs, where they were curled beneath her, but she stayed crouched on the floor, clinging to the railing.
Win, win, win,
she urged Dash.
“You arranged to meet Lady Evershire in Tremouth?” Dash asked as his blade slashed against Tate’s time after time, the clang ringing up to the ceiling.
“A chance encounter. Good fortune for me, for the inn was full of travelers stranded by the storm. I thought I might have to sleep in a stable. And of course, I couldn’t allow such a fate to befall such a delicate, cultured lady, so I drove her carriage here. No one surpasses me at the reins.”
Tate was still cocky, even as Dash forced him back toward a corner. Desperation glowed in Tate’s eyes. He gave a wild leap, landing on the cushioned seat of a chair, and he launched at Dash, blade slashing.
Maryanne screamed.
Dash jerked toward her as his blade flew up to block Tate’s blow. He missed, and the tip of Tate’s blade slashed his arm. The black sleeve parted.
Blood welled along the line.
“Stop!” she yelled. “Stop at once! I will not allow you to kill each other!”
Tate fell back, staring at her. Dash clapped his hand to his arm, his gaze fixed on her. He knew she’d snuck in here to listen. She’d broken his concentration and gotten him wounded.
What a fool she’d been! And now he was hurt. Almost tripping over her skirts, she clawed her way up to her feet. Blood dripped beneath his hand, leaked into the pristine lawn of his shirt.
She gathered her skirts and ran for the stairs.
She didn’t care how angry Dash would be. He needed her attentions.
“Apologizes on wounding your husband, my dear lady.”
Startled, Maryanne turned in the corridor outside Dash’s bedchamber to find Jack Tate lounging against the wall. His shoulder narrowly missed the gilded frame of an oil landscape. He still wore his open, sweat-soaked shirt and his tight breeches. He swept a bow. “Jack Tate, at your service.”
She tipped up her chin. “Do you call dueling with my husband a service to me?”
Tate’s bronze-red lips widened in a wicked grin. He moved closer so his elbow rested against the wall and he was towering over her. “I had no intention of seriously wounding a newly married man.”
“I doubt you could have. It was obvious who controlled the bout.”
He laughed, blue eyes twinkling. “You’re captivating. No wonder Swansborough was willing to fling on the leg shackles with you.”
“Was that intended to be a compliment?” She had no idea what prompted her to joust with him this way. He might be a murderer, and she was goading him. Yet she couldn’t stop.
“Yes.” His gaze swept over her, from her curls to her hem. “Pretty in a shy and naive sort of way. I would be honored, my dear, to be at your
service
.”
He lay such stress on the word, while winking, that Maryanne froze in place. “Are you suggesting…are you…?” She must be imagining it.
Tate’s voice dropped to a seductive growl. “Not an affair, my lady. I would never be so uncultured as to suggest that to a newly married bride while sheltered under her husband’s roof. I was thinking of a ménage-à-trois. Three in the bed.”
Her lips parted, but only a squeak came out.
“Swansborough’s notorious for enjoying crowded beds.”
She merely gaped into those laughing blue eyes. Was he trying to shock her? Frighten her? Make her doubt her husband? “Thrown out,” she croaked. “I could have you thrown out.”
“Are you certain you want that? A threesome would prove a far more pleasurable fencing match than the one you witnessed, my lady. Two swords jousting to be the victor—the one to make you scream your pleasure first—”
“Out! I. Will. See. You. Thrown. Out.” She threw the words at him, gasping between each one.
“I expect when you tell this tale to Swansborough, I will be.” And he winked.
“S
o, sweeting, why were you threatening to throw Tate out of the house? What did he say?”
Maryanne drew her hand from her fur muff and slipped her arm into the crook of Dash’s. Dash had shown her the grounds, the stables, and the snow-covered orchard. Several footmen had accompanied them, men in livery and powdered wigs who now waited, discreetly watching the woods and the house, as Dash stopped by the stone fountain.
Leather brushed her chin as he tipped it up. Serious dark eyes met hers. “What did he say?”
She glanced around; surely the footmen were too far away to hear. “He wanted to join us in our bed.”
“I’ll run him through.”
“No! Perhaps he only said it to goad you into a duel. Perhaps it was intended as a way to kill you.”
“It was an insult to you, love. That can’t be ignored.”
“And so you rush inexorably toward death. I don’t care if he stands on a Drury Lane stage and calls me a courtesan, I won’t have you risking your life.”
Dash crossed his arms over his chest, thrust out his lower lip, and she laughed. “You plan to ignore me, don’t you?” She sobered and glanced out over the lawns, blanketed by thick, dazzling snow. “He said you enjoy crowded beds.”
“I did. Not now.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe that, and you needn’t lie to spare my feelings.”
“I want to keep you all to myself, Maryanne.”
She’d read such fantasies and had been intrigued. Two strapping men, as Tate had suggested, both determined to win her favor with their prowess in bed? And she’d even, shockingly, been aroused by the scenes that paired two women with a gentleman. “I would never dream of doing such a thing.”
He growled, “You don’t think so, because you’ve never tried it.”
“And you have said I can’t.”
“Perhaps, if you wished to add another woman to our bed…”
She scooped up a handful of soft snow and pushed it against his chest. It clung to his black greatcoat.
“I didn’t like Mrs. Master’s salon,” she whispered, “before I found you there. There were eight men, and it was all very horrid.”
He grasped her wrist. “Eight! You didn’t tell me about this. Did they hurt you?”
“No!” Maryanne remembered to drop her voice. “A courtesan exposed her breasts, shoved me out of the way, and distracted them.”
“Thank the lord for that. And all this talk of crowded beds is making me hunger for our bed.” He adjusted his trousers. “We could slip off behind a grove of trees—”
“We can’t make love out here. It’s freezing!” Maryanne cried.
A boyishly beseeching look lit up his eyes. “We would heat up quickly.”
“It’s fine for you,” she protested. “You only need one part of your body, and you’ll be sliding that into warmth.”
Dash laughed so hard he lost his footing. His arms waved as he struggled to stay up, so Maryanne shoved on his chest. With a yelp, he tumbled back in the snow, laughing. “True, sweet wife,” he admitted in a soft voice. “Outdoor lovemaking generally favors the gentleman. Still, I promise it can be a—” He broke off, staring across the gardens.
“What?” She twisted to look.
“Lady Evershire. Off for a clandestine rendezvous.” He struggled to push himself out of the snow. As he jumped to his feet, he slapped at the white lumps clinging to his coat and trousers.
Maryanne squinted in the direction he was looking—she spotted Lady Evershire as the lady passed between snow-covered shrubs.
“Stay here with the footmen, love.” He hailed one of the young men over.
She grasped his forearm, coated in sticky snow. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to follow her.”
“Why? Perhaps she just wants a bracing walk on a pretty winter’s day.”
“I’ve known Harriet a long time. Only two things can stir her this early.”
The footman loped toward them.
“And they are?” she asked.
The words brushed by her ear. “Shopping and illicit sex.”
Maryanne waved the footmen away as she tripped up the path to the Tresdale—a small cottage on the neighboring estate to Dash’s. Her heart pounded, and not simply from chasing after Dash across packed, slippery snow.
Lady Farthingale kidnapped from Vauxhall.
An actress who vanished from Covent Gardens. Who had been found dead in Hyde Park.
Dash couldn’t have done such a thing—not protective, heroic Dash. He’d married her out of honor, and despite his notoriously dark sexual appetite, his sister and Lady Yardley insisted he was the most honorable man. On the other hand, they also believed him besotted with her.
Was he? How could he be? They were veritable strangers.
However, that honorable man was now crouched behind a shrub, peering in a diamond-paned window of the Tudor cottage.
He spied her—his hand abruptly waved at her to turn and go back, but she merely smiled, ignored him, and crept quietly toward the window where he stood.
She wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering in her velvet gown and fur-trimmed pelisse. Her half boots sank into the thick snow. “What are you watching?” she whispered, ensuring she stayed out of the view of the window.
He gave a low groan. “Harriet behaving witlessly with dangerous men.”
“Let me see.”
His arm embraced her and brought her forward—her boots sunk and stopped, and she arched up on tiptoe to see in. Lacy drapes were tied back and framed the scene—a cozy parlor heated by a blazing fire, a tea service on a buffet by the window. Movement caught her eye.
A naked woman sashayed in front of the window, her gaze directed away, golden blond curls tumbling down her back. A lovely back, with sloping shoulders, ivory skin, and wide, flaring hips that swayed temptingly as the lady walked. This lady obviously knew her allure.
Maryanne gulped as she recognized Harriet and saw two men emerge from the shadows, one possessing straight hair as golden as the lady’s and one with tousled brown locks. Both wore their shirts open with tailored trousers. Both held their naked cocks in their hands.
Laughing, Harriet held out her arms in welcome, and the men embraced her. The mirror over the fireplace reflected them. Craven’s handsome face, gilded by his pale hair, transformed into the leer of a satyr, his blue eyes narrowing in an almost comically lusty expression. The other man Maryanne did not know—he was dark, his jaw shadowed by dark stubble, his eyes black beneath straight, thick brows. He was not handsome but arresting; her heart beat faster as she watched him nuzzle Harriet’s slender neck.
As she waited to watch him do something scandalous.
She didn’t wait long.
“That’s Barrett. Craven’s partner,” Dash murmured.
Barrett rested his open gloved hand beneath Harriet’s full nude breast. Her breasts sloped forward, impossibly round, topped with thick brown nipples. Abruptly he bent forward and buried his face in between. Goodness, the man could smother himself in those.
Craven approached Harriet from behind, aiming his cock at her curvaceous ass. Barrett shifted to take Harriet’s right nipple in his mouth while he brushed his member between her thighs—
Maryanne pulled back. It was rude to watch, but she felt so heated, she must be melting a hole in the snow.
She met Dash’s amused gaze.
“So that is a threesome,” she observed.
Dash had to smother a laugh at Maryanne’s serious expression. Of all the things he’d imagined she’d say, that simple statement wasn’t one. He drew her back away from the window, his hand at her waist to guide her over the lumpy snow.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
“I was planning to wait—to make sure she emerges alive.”
Shielded by both the cottage wall and a snow-covered lilac, they were in a warm and secluded spot. He felt Maryanne’s breasts rise and fall against his chest.
“Have you had many threesomes with another man?” she asked, sotto voce.
“A few,” he admitted.
“Was it…interesting?”
“I did explore them for fun in my pursuit of mind-melting pleasure.” Did he reveal to his wife that the women most definitely enjoyed themselves with two mouths, two cocks, and four hands? What if Maryanne wanted to explore sexual fun?
Given his lifetime of sensual exploration, did he have any right to deny it to her?
Hell, of course he did. Yet most peers kept mistresses, and their wives took lovers.
The thought of Maryanne seeking pleasure and love in another man’s bed had his blood running as cold as the melted snow dripping around him. And if another man hopped into their bed and touched her, he’d rip out the bastard’s throat.
His arms tightened around Maryanne’s tiny waist.
If Tate touched her…
“I told you I believe Craven and Barrett are involved in white slavery,” he murmured. “But I can’t uncover direct proof. And Harriet’s love affair with both men has complicated matters. I can’t put her at risk.”
“But they could be responsible for that shot.”
He nodded. “And I suspect they are using Harriet to watch me. What worries me is that they will find her a liability—”
“Perhaps she is the one who wants to hurt you and she brought Mr. Tate to draw suspicion away from her lovers.”
“You have a torturous and clever mind, dear wife. I hope you never decide to get rid of me.”
“Be serious,” she hissed. “Of course not!”
“Why not? I’m beginning to lose count of the people who want me dead. Harriet. Craven and Barrett. Jack Tate. My bloody family—my uncle who inherits the title, my hothead of a cousin. You had a loving family, sweeting. I did not. Power and wealth were all that mattered in my family. My father had it and was reckless with it, and my uncle craved it.” He grinned at her horrified expression. “Even Sophia’s lover, the Duke of Ashton, holds a grudge because I shot him in the leg.”
“Well, I would never hurt you, Dash. Never.”
Did she protest too much?
A loud feminine cry sounded from inside the cottage—a shout of pleasure, not of pain. “Fuck me harder!” Harriet cried. “I want to be stuffed full of both your cocks.”
Dash clasped Maryanne’s hand. “Come, we should go back to the house.”
Confused, she held back. “Aren’t you going to stay to ensure Harriet’s safety?”
He backed away from the house toward the lane. “Not with you here, dear wife. I’m not keeping you out in the cold where we could get caught. Lusty Harriet will have to look out for herself.”
Frowning, Maryanne darted out from the cover of the lilac to join him. Dutifully she walked at his side as they hurried down the lane to the drive back to Swansley.
They had reached the thick grove of woods that bordered his lawns when she stopped. He halted, too, waiting.
She waved her hand expressively, her fur muff slicing through the air. “But, Dash, if you suspect all these people of trying to kill you, why on earth would you want them under your roof?”
He shrugged. “Confrontation. What is a Christmas gathering if not a time for confrontation?”
Fire lit up her brown eyes—his wife was preparing to argue, when a male voice shouted, “Swansborough!” and he looked up to see a gentleman striding their way, walking stick swinging, sunlight glinting off round spectacles.
He grinned first with recognition, but then doubts hit. Why would Sir William have arrived at his home unannounced? What had he learned? Was Lady Farthingale now dead?
But as the magistrate neared, he called out a hearty, “Good afternoon to you both,” and greeted Maryanne with a bow; then he straightened, clapping Dash on the shoulder.
Dash made the introductions and saw consternation come to Maryanne’s brown eyes. “Sir William Kent is an old friend. A man who was like a father to me.”
He’d hoped to use those words to reassure her, even though his own gut was knotted with apprehension.
“And he is Bow Street’s famed magistrate.” Maryanne tucked her hand into her muff and bit her lip. The glance she threw to Dash was fearful, as if she expected to see him thrown into irons.
Dash shook his head, turned to his friend. “What the blazes are you doing up here, Sir William?”
“Taking advantage of your hospitality, Swansborough. Were you both returning to the house?”
At Dash’s nod, the magistrate grinned. “Then let’s make haste. I’m in the mood for a warm brandy and a good fire.”
At least Sir William did not arrest Dash.
Shakily Maryanne sat down at the escritoire in the morning room. She set her candle on the blotter and drew Georgiana’s letter and the manuscript pages from within the folds of the shawl she’d carried to hide them. As she’d guessed, the morning room was empty. Maids had been in and out of her bedroom, and she was too afraid Dash would enter through the connecting door. Here, she could count on being alone. She hadn’t counted on the cold.
She smoothed out Georgiana’s letter on the blotter.
She had to write to Georgiana, but what could she say? And what of Tillie’s book? She certainly couldn’t edit it. She couldn’t continue to be Georgiana’s partner.
Dipping a pen in the inkwell, she drew the pen across a sheet of fresh paper.
I went to your rescue. I risked scandal because I believed you needed help….
She paused, the ink blotting onto the page.
She’d sensed that Sir William wished to speak to Dash alone, and she’d grasped the chance to rush here and write the blasted letter and be done with it.
But now she had no idea what to say.
A cutting letter might hurt Georgiana—and when the flamboyant courtesan was wounded, she sought revenge.
Or should she just stall for time?
Blast Georgiana for spending all their money, though Maryanne knew she was also to blame for merely trying to pay their authors and keep the creditors happy, without confronting Georgiana about her lavish and spendthrift ways.
She wished she had Dash’s courage. He welcomed a confrontation with a murderer!
“Who is in here, please?”
Mrs. Long’s voice startled Maryanne, and she jumped up from the plush seat, blocking the desk with her skirts. “I am in here.”
“My lady?” Pure surprise pitched the housekeeper’s voice upward as she entered the room. “My lady, I am sorry, but the morning room is not normally used after luncheon. The fire is not kept lit after that time.”