Black Silk (22 page)
Then his gut had rebelled and he’d retched up most of the alcohol. Disgusted, he’d stumbled upstairs, washed out his mouth, bathed his face, and flopped into his bed. The canopy had been slowly rotating above his head—or so it appeared—as he dragged himself to his feet and lurched into Maryanne’s room.
There, stretched out in her bed alongside her warm and lovely curves, he’d understood. Anyone who knew him declared he lived for the moment, immersing himself in wild orgies, unfettered sex, drinking, and gaming. It wasn’t true. He was locked in the past. He spent his present trying to escape the past by staying drunk and randy.
Now he drew back from Maryanne’s kiss and eased her hands from his neck.
Her forehead furrowed.
“I’ve done something wrong. It’s the debts, isn’t it? Are you angry about me publishing erotic books?”
“No, love. Not angry. Impressed by your courage and cleverness, yes.”
“I thought you’d be shocked, horrified, furious.”
“Why? Because you wished to help your family?”
“No, because Georgiana—”
“Wants money? Now that you’ve married a viscount, I assume she felt a little blackmail was in order.”
She looked so relieved. “I never once thought she’d do such a thing. Of course, I never planned to marry. Marcus settled an immense dowry on me—oh, but you know that.”
His lips quirked. “After he was finished shouting at me, Marcus did discuss the marriage settlements.”
Maryanne winced. “I’m so sorry he shouted at you. It was all my fault, after all. You didn’t even know who I was.” She took an unsteady breath. Why did it bother her still that he hadn’t been able to look into her eyes at the scavenger hunt and see who she was, despite the mask, despite being in a scandalous place a good girl had no right to be in? “How could you have? Did you even notice me, Maryanne, a little mouse who scurries into her little hole beneath the skirting board?”
“Love, I don’t think you were in disguise that night in the salon. It was the skirting-board mouse that was your disguise. Why were you always trying to hide behind a book?”
Maryanne’s jaw dropped. Oh, he was too astute, her husband. She’d always used her books as a shield. If she curled up small enough, perhaps she could crawl under one and simply not be….
How many times had she thought that as she’d seen her mother cry over Rodesson?
“But you must be angry. Georgiana has threatened to reveal…what I was doing—”
“Publishing erotica,” he supplied. “And she’d have me by the ballocks forever, is that what you’re worried about?”
She nodded, startled by his conspiratorial tone.
“Sweeting, I have men shooting at me—I’m not worried about Georgiana.” He brushed his lips over hers, ignited sparks that sizzled to her quim. “But I am worried that you seem determined I should be angry. That I should resent you. I don’t, Maryanne. We’ll weather this.” Dash laid his hand over her tummy. “There is something I have to tell you,” he said. “About a woman named Amanda Westmoreland.”
Lover? Mistress? Maryanne’s heart set up a patter like a frightened rabbit.
“That’s why Sir William came here. They’ve found Amanda’s body.”
The words rang in her head like pealing bells, and she almost missed the rest of his words. A woman he’d grown up with, a baron’s daughter, a woman Dash had thought to marry. And then they’d parted—for some reason—and she’d run off to Gretna Green.
“Who did she run off with?”
“She vanished along with the steward’s son, who was a handsome wastrel with an eye for the ladies and hopes of good prospects. It was assumed they’d quickly return and he’d be hoping for his father-in-law’s support. But they never came back.”
“Didn’t anyone wonder why? Didn’t anyone look for her?”
“We assumed she believed she’d been cut off from her family—and her blasted father threatened as much. But it doesn’t matter. She never left. Someone killed her.”
“But not you.”
“Though I seem the most likely suspect, don’t I? She tells me she loves someone else, and then, within days, she’s dead?”
Confused, she stared. “You can’t possibly be trying to convince me you did do it!” But she understood now why he had not wanted to make love or play erotic games. It had not been her. It had been this nightmare from his past.
“Maybe I am.” He jumped up and ran his fingers so harshly through his black hair she was certain he tore some out by the roots. “You want to believe me innocent. I’m not. I’m responsible for her death. It’s my blasted fault—”
“Why?” She felt so exposed and awkward, naked. She curled up her legs, put her hands across her breasts. “How can it be your fault?”
“She was killed because of me. By my uncle. Or my cousin. Craven or Barrett. Damn, whichever one it is, I’ll rip out the blackguard’s heart with my bare hands.”
He was striding toward the door and snatched up his shirt on the way. Craven or Barrett? Had he known them all those years ago?
Was he going mad? The attempts on his life, this nightmare from his past—was this horror destroying his sanity?
“Dash!” She reached out to him, even though the motion bared her breast. “Wait. Please.”
He paused long enough to turn the key in the lock to open the door.
“Stop! You can’t rush off like this!” What if he confronted Craven or Barrett and got himself killed? Slipping off the daybed, she grabbed the silken jumble of her gown. Overwhelmed by skirts, she struggled to find the bodice.
She clamped the dress in front of her in a bronze tangle as he opened the door.
“You could get yourself killed.”
He glanced back, his cheeks sharp and hollowed, his mouth a grim line. “But what if I told you I deserved to die? I have killed. I killed my uncle’s son. My eldest cousin. He was an innocent man, and I watched him die.”
The door slammed behind him.
Curling up with her dress, Maryanne cowered as if she’d been hit. Tears burned her eyes and then flowed like a stream of raindrops down her cheeks.
He was wrong. She
was
just a scared little mouse.
She wanted to hide.
Coughing, Maryanne fiercely wiped the tears away. She wasn’t going to cower and let Dash either get shot or go mad.
She had revealed everything to him because he told her to trust him.
Her gaze fell on the jeweled shackles. She was going to force him to trust her and tell her everything, even if she had to shackle him to do it.
Four little beds stood in a row, stripped of pillows and sheets. And a cradle. Maryanne rested her hand on the cradle and swung it gently, and her heart gave a forlorn lurch as she looked at the empty little beds.
In a few months, she would be gazing down at her baby in the cradle and shushing him—or her—to sleep.
What if I told you I deserved to die?
Of course, Dash wasn’t up here—but she hadn’t found him anywhere else in the house. As for asking the servants, she’d been far too ashamed.
Excuse me, but could you tell me where his lordship went after he stormed away from me?
She’d encountered Lady Yardley and had all but turned and ran. And, worse, the Duke of Ashton was arriving, which had the staff in a tizzy. A search hadn’t even turned up Sir William; she prayed that meant the baron was with Dash and talking sense to him.
Was he truly in danger of losing his mind? Or was he just confused in his shock and anger, and he’d mistakenly blended the past—Miss Westmoreland’s murder—and his present investigation of Craven?
“Maryanne?”
She hadn’t expected a voice, and she spun around, her hand colliding with the swinging bassinet. She bit back a cry as Anne walked into the nursery.
“I was looking for you, Maryanne. I’d hoped we could make plans for decorations.”
Christmas. Anne wished to make plans for Christmas. Dimly Maryanne remembered promising to do it. And she had forced Anne to come here in search of her—which must be painful. Anne’s child should be sleeping here. She should not have lost her baby.
Maryanne snatched her hand away from the ornate cradle. She did not know what to say. By instinct, she almost dropped into a curtsy.
“It’s been a very long time since I was in this room.” Anne turned in a circle, her green skirts swirling around her. “I was quite young when I left, just nine. Lady Yardley took me—oh, yes, I told you that.”
Maryanne wondered why—from Mrs. Long she’d learned that Dash’s uncle and aunt had moved in here after his parents’ deaths and had stayed until he finished his schooling. Why had Anne not stayed in the house also? Was his aunt not also a “feminine influence”?
Instead of asking any of those things, Maryanne stood in silence, feeling awkward. “I’m sorry.”
Anne swung around to face her and strolled over toward the cradle. Maryanne swallowed hard—it must be wrenching Anne’s soul to look at it.
“About our parents? It was a long time ago. I am sorry, it’s true, to have lost them so early, but I have good memories.”
“Does Dash?” she asked impetuously.
“Of our parents? Yes.” Lovely, slender, gloved in fine muslin, Anne’s hand touched the cradle and set it rocking. “I have convinced Nigel I’m ready to try for another child.” She glanced up, her smile warm and friendly. “You know how men are. They fear we are far more fragile than we are. He’s afraid I will have my heart broken again.”
“You won’t. I’m sure—” Maryanne broke off. It was a foolhardy thing to say. To reassure something that could never be promised. And what did she know of bearing children? Anne must think her a fool.
“Thank you.” Anne moved around and linked arms. “It is nice to hear good thoughts for once. And to have hope.”
“Put the wretched pistol down, Lancelot.”
Dash leaned back into his leather club chair and laid the pearl-handled pistol on his desk. He threaded his fingers behind his head and frowned at Sophia as she stormed into his study.
Sophia never moved with such thunderous anger; she usually floated with languorous grace, her hips swaying seductively. But she slapped her palm onto his desk and leaned over, her eyes flashing fire. “What did you tell her? I saw her race upstairs—to the nursery, no doubt, pale as a ghost. What exactly did you say, Lancelot?”
He straightened. “Who? Who raced upstairs? Anne?”
“Your wife!”
Maryanne had rushed up to the nursery? Was something wrong? He was on his feet—then hesitated. What a blasted idiot he’d been. She was enceinte, and he’d upset her. “I told her about Amanda Westmoreland. Maryanne is in a delicate condition and—”
“She’s a robust woman, I assure you.” Sophia picked up the pistol and took aim toward the fireplace. “Excellent weapon. Not that I’d expect any less of you. And Sir William spoke of the tragic discovery of the girl’s body to me. But why would that affect your wife so much? Surely she doesn’t think you responsible?”
Hell, he’d shouted at her as she’d protested his innocence. “Maryanne seems determined to believe the best in me.”
“Have you told her about your years with your uncle?”
“I did mention that I killed my cousin.”
Sophia swung around, and Dash found his gaze focused on the barrel end of his pistol. He pushed it gently aside; her hand was shaking.
“This is enough!” she cried. “I will not countenance this any more. Go upstairs and tell her about your upbringing. Immediately. For if you do not go at once and find your wife and speak about this, I will tell her. She will never forgive you if the words come from my lips and not yours. Understand this.”
“You want her to think me either wounded and pitiable and to break her heart over me, or to have her think me unstable and insane? No.”
“You have let your wife believe you are a murderer. I do not understand why you wish to continually seek punishment for what was not your fault. Tell her everything.
Everything.
At the very least, she deserves to know before your uncle, aunt, and cousin arrive. There is danger, and your wife needs to know from whence it comes. Do not be a fool. Whip yourself after. Let her whip you. I do not care, but tell her.”
M
aryanne joined in the laughter as the sleigh skimmed over the sloping, snow-covered fields. She clung to Dash’s arm as they swooped down a hill. Sparkling white flakes flew at them, kicked up by the hooves of the black horse in the jingling traces.
In the opposite seat, Anne snuggled against her husband, and they shared a laughing kiss. Maryanne glanced up at Dash—for all he grinned, his black eyes alight, she knew he carried two pistols in his greatcoat pockets. Two because one pistol, once fired, was useless.
But his deep, throaty laughter sounded completely genuine. And for that reason, she wasn’t cuddling against him. Would a sane woman caress a wild cat? She couldn’t understand him. He had been wild with fury, mad with grief, and now the tempest was gone.
But her stomach was still churning, her nerves still tingling.
And she couldn’t stop thinking about those pistols. Weaponry for a jaunt across the snowy meadows to attend supper at a neighboring estate. It seemed madness, but Dash’s life was at risk. Yet he had been calm as he had found her in the nursery, as he’d apologized for his “outburst”—an inadequate word for the way he’d almost demanded she think him a villain.
Of course he had said nothing about his parting statement. And she’d been too weak to press. Meekly she’d slid her arm in his and let him lead her downstairs to meet the Duke of Ashton. Hating herself with every step.
Dash had been wrong—she wasn’t truly bold like Verity. She was Maryanne Mouse.
And so, after pummeling herself with those thoughts, she’d been quaking as she met Ashton.
The imposing duke had been charming and had shown no sign of recognition. He hadn’t seen Maryanne Hamilton behind the mask, at least. Her fears had been silly and unwarranted, of course. Dash hadn’t recognized her, and he’d made love to her. Why would the duke?
Still, she’d made flustered comments about travel and weather, relieved when they joined Lady Yardley, Anne, and Moredon, and she could merely sit and nod.
And within a half an hour she would have to be social again and meet the local gentry.
Maryanne swallowed hard.
Dash slid his arm around her waist beneath the fur throw wrapped around them. “I want to talk to you later,” he murmured against her ear. “In private.”
She flicked a glance to Anne and Moredon, who had turned to watch the horse canter up a small knoll, and were waving to Lady Yardley and Ashton, who cuddled in another sleigh. Sir William and Harriet sat across from the lovers. Jack Tate had removed himself to a local inn. Apparently Tate felt it inappropriate to stay under his host’s roof after a botched attempt to seduce the man’s wife.
“Yes,” she answered, determined to sound determined. “We will.”
Surprise could hardly describe the way his square jaw dropped and his dark slash of brows shot up. Then his dimple deepened, and his wide smile dazzled her more intensely than the white snow. “We will,” he echoed.
But what was she to learn? That Dash was actually a murderer?
This man, her husband, was a stranger to her. And what she kept learning was horrifying—men who wanted Dash dead, a mysteriously unhappy childhood, a murdered fiancée, his admission that he had killed his cousin….
She eased away from Dash as the sleigh crossed another open meadow and approached the estate of Lord and Lady Markham, an Elizabethan house set amidst enormous gardens. Frosted with snow, the house looked like Dash’s—like a fairy tale setting come to life.
Excitedly Anne pointed to a frozen pond, and Maryanne craned to look. Dash murmured, “No ice skating for you, love.”
Which gave them the perfect reason to find a moment alone.
Though it seemed an endless wait before the party gathered skates—curious contraptions with sharp metal blades and tangled leather straps. Standing at the window with Dash to wave farewell to the sleighs leaving for the frozen lake, Maryanne took a deep breath.
Meeting her hosts and the intrigued guests had passed like a whirlwind—Maryanne couldn’t remember what she had said. No one spoke of her being enceinte. How many of them had guessed?
Surely her every word and awkward gesture made her hosts, the vicar’s wife, and the other ladies aware that Dash had married beneath him. And they must guess the reason why.
She almost wished she could climb on a table and declare it to the room. That would be far easier than waiting, her fingers clenched around a glass, waiting for some sharp-tongued cat to insult her.
They were all so welcoming and nice. Was that truly how these great ladies felt about her? Or was it simply Christmas cheer? Her glass was never empty.
She had slipped away to the retiring room, returning just as Sir William and Dash also moved out of the drawing room into the corridor. Sir William had clapped a hand to her husband’s shoulder. “Miss Westmoreland died a long time ago. It’s not your fault, Swansborough. You did what you could. Now you have a wife who cares about you. A child. Make love to your wife.”
Make love to your wife.
As Maryanne stepped back from the window, the sleighs out of sight, Dash’s hand clasped around hers, strong fingers threading between hers. He slid his fingers up and down, and she melted—her spine became hot wax, and her cunny became moist with immediate desire.
They were not alone, of course. Footmen stood impassively about the drawing room. She wished she could send them away. Her legs quivered, and she wanted to stumble to the sofa and pull Dash down on top of her.
“Let us gather our coats and stroll out on the terrace. Enjoy the bracing air.”
She prayed it might cool her down, and once they were dressed and out of doors, she selected a cold stone bench to sit upon. Ice crusted the sculpted edge. The instant Dash helped her lower her bottom to the smooth surface, she shivered as cold shot through her thighs and derriere.
At least she wouldn’t be distracted by desire….
But he propped his booted foot on the edge of the bench, and his greatcoat fell open, giving her a view of his muscled legs and his crotch.
She gulped. But boldly reminded him, “You wished to talk.”
“Yes. About my past.” His gaze dropped to her lap. As he cleared his throat and said, “Every child deserves to grow up with love,” she knew he was thinking of their child as well as himself. “So many don’t,” he continued. “You’d think I would have known nothing but privilege, security, safety.”
She shook her head. “I know it is not as simple as that.”
“You, Maryanne, are very wise.”
She didn’t believe that, but she laid her hand on his arm. “What happened to you, Dash?”
“My uncle, James Blackmore, always resented being the second son, but he always hoped to inherit once my daring, neck-or-nothing father conveniently killed himself in an accident. My father was wild and bold—he traveled the world as a young man. He raced carriages, gamed for insane stakes, and took any dare suggested to him. Hotheaded, he’d won any number of duels. He was exactly the sort of peer who burns brightly and dies young. All my uncle had to do was bide his time. Unfortunately I was born before my father had the accident my uncle had dreamed of. My father was driving the carriage too fast—”
“Both your father and mother—”
He nodded. “She both loved and loathed his recklessness. Unfortunately her taste for excitement ended in her death, too. Which left myself and Anne alone. But ever since I’d been born, I’d been plagued by accidents. My birth ruined my uncle’s plan. But infants—and young boys—often don’t survive.”
Cold slid over her entire body; her fingers stiffened, her toes were numb, her lips refused to move. “Do you mean…when you were a baby, a defenseless baby, your uncle tried to kill you?”
He shrugged. Shrugged! “I can’t testify to what happened when I was an infant, though apparently I almost died in my cradle once. After that my mother spent every night with me, watching over me. And when I was a boy, I was the most accident-plagued heir in England.”
“Good god.” Shivers racked her body; her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. “Didn’t anyone realize? Didn’t anyone stop it?”
“I think my mother suspected. She watched over me as closely as she could. I think it drove her mad—she was high-strung, often hysterical. Once I saw her hammering my father with her fists, screaming at him. I wondered…if that had caused the accident. She hadn’t wanted to leave me, and my father insisted they travel. I wondered if she was urging him to race home.”
Tears brimmed in Maryanne’s eyes, hot against her chilled skin. She understood. He’d felt responsible for his mother’s death. The same way he felt guilt over Amanda Westmoreland. She tried to stand, wanting to wrap her arms around him. “Your cousin—”
Her boot slid on a patch of packed snow, and she flailed.
Dash grabbed her and scooped her into his arms. “Come inside. You’re cold.”
“You didn’t kill your cousin, did you?” She clutched his lapels, but in his arms she couldn’t shake sense into him. “What happened, Dash? What truly happened?”
An intense fire burned behind his long-lashed black eyes. “I let him walk into my uncle’s trap. It seemed bloody poetic justice to let my uncle’s greed cost him his beloved eldest son.”
His mouth, lips soft and parted, lowered to hers. His hand splayed over her bottom, gently kneading as he claimed her mouth in a kiss. Sensual. Languorous. He plundered her mouth until she thought her spine would dissolve.
Her courage did.
She closed her eyes and lost herself in the kiss. The kiss of a master.
The kiss of a man who wanted to hide from the past.
But she couldn’t let him kiss away her senses. She knew what she had to do. She must lure him to bed—and then force him to talk before they made love.
It was a frightening gamble. He might refuse. He might walk out on her rather than tell her more.
He needed to use sex to escape, and if she told him he no longer could, might he go to another woman’s bed?
“‘The Countess’s Lovers,’” Dash read, and he glanced over to Maryanne, pleased to see the pink blush touch her cheeks. They were in her bedroom, and he was lying on her bed with a book. With one of her books.
While he’d acquired this book she had published, he’d never actually read it. Still, a collection of erotica came in useful—women, he’d discovered, responded lustily to the written word.
“Come to bed,” he urged, “and I’ll read you a bedtime story.”
He cradled the book on his palm and glanced down to the first page. “‘Chapter One. Her ladyship, the notorious and buxom countess, picked up the riding crop and commanded the insolent footman to present his posterior and drop his breeches. As two perfect, sculpted arse cheeks came into view, she paused long enough to sweep the handle of her crop between her thighs. Artfully she stroked her cunny as the young man’s black breeches slid down to his boots. Oh, how she ached for a young man’s hard cock inside her, thought Louisa, the countess. But a countess did not stoop to finding her satisfaction with a mere footman, no matter how large his staff, how beautiful his buttocks, or how—’”
Dash broke off.
Two naked breasts bounced in front of his eyes, obscuring his view of the page and the accompanying illustration of her busty ladyship and stiff-cocked servant. Maryanne had stripped off her shift. Berry brown and large, her nipples jiggled in front of him, the perfect complement to her pale, round breasts.
“Georgiana had a secret mission with her books,” she murmured. “Even though they were intended to please men and were about male fantasies, Georgiana insisted we depict the complex business of making a woman climax. She refused to let an author write that a man thrust a few times into a woman and that made her come. For it is more difficult than that.”
He tossed the book aside, wrapped his hand around his wife’s waist, and pulled those breasts to his mouth. “I know, and now I know why you take charge of your pleasure,” he murmured before tasting her sweet flesh.
The wicked woman straddled his thighs and wriggled her luscious, hot quim over the ridge of his cock. He loved how playful she became in bed.
“I might be only a viscountess,” Maryanne whispered, her breath a tease on his ear, “and you are most definitely not a footman, but your naked posterior makes me mad with desire.”
He released her nipple long enough to rasp, “Are you certain? I’m sitting on it right now.”
“And I am sitting on you.” As though her intent were torture, she clasped his shoulders and danced upon him, her hips sinuously rotating on him, her sweet cunny brushing his shaft.
He dipped his finger into her navel, and she stopped, giggling. “Oh, don’t. It tickles.” She drew back her hair, revealing wide eyes, starkly honest and concerned. “I was going to deny you. I cannot let you use sex with me to escape the past. We have to face it together.”
“We will, darling. Immediately after I’ve made love to you and we’ve both exploded like a bottle of shaken champagne.”
“Oh, you are impossible to resist. The thought of you exploding that way…your body bucking with a violent orgasm, and your face revealing every inch of your agony—”
“Maryanne, love, your words are more exciting than any book. You drive me mad.” Dash threaded his fingers in her hair and drew her mouth to his as he struggled to tug down the sheets clamped between her cunny and his cock.
Her plump silken bottom rested on his thighs. Her wet nether lips pressed to his rigid shaft. Her inquisitive hands teased his nipples, stroking his chest hair. Her breath skimmed his skin.
He adored everything about her.
She didn’t want him to die, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be dead.
He filled his hands with her generous breasts, savoring their weight. She rose on him, wrapped her palm around his cock. Her fingers tightened around the shaft as she guided the blunt head to her plump, sticky lips.
She arched back as she took his rod inside. She plunged down on him so her full derriere landed hard on his thighs and ballocks. He moaned into her mouth, and she kissed hungrily as though she could taste his groan of pleasure. Fiercely she rode him, and each delicious slap of her arse, each stroke of her tight passage drove him wild.