Captives of the Night (27 page)

"You are
not
spending the night," she said shakily.

"That has become obvious," he said. "I am here because I wish to know how I distressed you. I do not know what I have done — whether I alarmed you or disgusted you — or how I did this."

She rubbed her eyes. 'It has nothing to do with your curst
technique
."

"So I am discovering." He gave her his handkerchief. "This appears to be a question of character."

"And
morals
. Mine, that is. Since you haven't any."

He seated himself on the bed near her feet, and leaned against the bedpost. "I do have rules, though," he told her. "One of them is not to become romantically entangled during a delicate investigation. It is distracting, and distraction at best impedes efficiency. At worst, it is dangerous. The trouble, in your case, is that the effort to resist becomes a worse distraction."

She pushed her hair out of her face. "To resist? You've shown no signs of resisting. On the contrary — "

"Yes, I leave it to you and, worse, I try to make resisting as difficult for you as I can." He smiled. "I know. But I cannot
resist
, you see?"

She scowled down at the handkerchief. "It hardly matters what you resist or don't. I started it — and took my damned time about ending it."

"That does not make you a whore. And certainly not a maggot — 'crawling' over me, you said."

"Well, I did throw myself at you, didn't I?"

" 'Crawling… like maggots… just as he said.' Those were your words a moment ago. Just as who said? Your husband?"

She began to fold the handkerchief. "In Paris, before we left, Francis told me the tarts swarmed over you like maggots on a ripe cheese."

"A vivid image." He considered. "Calculated, very likely. It is an image you would find especially repellent,
non
? And one which I should have the greatest difficulty eradicating. It appears he made it so that any attraction you might feel for me would give you great self-disgust, for you would see yourself as another maggot. Very clever," he added softly, "the way in which he poisoned your mind against me." He wondered what other kinds of poison Beaumont had fed her, and whether it was simply the one revolting image which had driven her away.

"
Was
it poison?" she asked without looking up. She was folding the handkerchief into smaller and smaller squares. "Was he lying?"

"When could he have observed such a thing?" he returned. "At orgies, perhaps? Is that how you imagine I spend my time? Lying in some brothel or opium den, with naked females by the dozens, writhing in lust about me?"

Her rising color told him he'd guessed accurately.

"Why not?" she said. I've certainly noted the debilitating effect you have on apparently respectable women at reputable gatherings."

"I have noticed you have a similar effect on men," he said. "Yet I do not imagine hosts of them crawling over your beautiful body. Only one. Me. And the image does not repel in any way.
Au contraire
," he said softly. "I find it most appealing."

She looked up. "Because you're a man. You've nothing to lose. As long as you keep within certain very wide boundaries, every conquest is marked to your credit."

By heaven, could she think nothing but ill of him? But this wasn't her fault, Ismal reminded himself. Her husband had poisoned her mind.

"Only if I flaunt them," he said, striving for patience. "And as to conquest — that is a matter of perspective. I told you my rules. And so, in our case, who has conquered whom, do you think?"

"I never cast lures!" she cried. "Even tonight. I only came to wake you up. And then…" She pressed the heel of her hand to her temple.

Just as she had done earlier, Ismal recalled. She'd made the same gesture a moment before she'd had the tantrum. Warily, he came off the bed. "Your head aches?" he asked.

Her eyes ominously bright with unshed tears, she turned away.

And Ismal cursed himself for what he'd done, whatever it was. Many people had such vulnerable spots, he knew: places where all forms of trouble — shock, grief, guilt, fear — settled and became a chronic physical ailment. His own troubles sometimes settled upon the scar in his side. Though the wound had healed years ago, it could throb as though freshly opened.

So her head must throb, because he'd opened a wound, made trouble. Because he
was
trouble to her, he amended unhappily. Years before, he'd opened the door that let Beaumont into her life, to wound and scar her, and now Ismal, the cause, reaped the results. A fitting punishment, he thought as he moved to the head of the bed.

"I can make it go away," he said gently.

"Don't touch me."

The words hurt more than he could have imagined. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss and caress, and drive all the trouble away with sweet pleasure. He wanted to hold her, shield her from all that caused her pain. Yet he knew shame hurt her most at this moment, and he was the cause. The only way to ease her pain was to tell the truth.

"It was not your doing," he said. "I was a villain to let you think so. I pretended to be asleep, so that you would come to wake me."

Still she wouldn't look at him. "I didn't have to touch you."

The self-loathing he heard in her voice twisted like a blade in his heart.

"I invited it," he said. "I know very well how to invite — in ways you cannot begin to imagine. And whether you had touched me or not, it would have made no difference. All I needed was to have you within reach. The rest was… seduction. For which I have no small talent. And, since you are strongly opposed to being seduced, I exerted this talent to the utmost."

She turned a wary golden gaze upon him. "Talent," she said. "You're telling me it was all
guile
— planned, from the start?"

"I could not help it," he said. "I want you very much. I have wanted you… for a very long time. I do not know how to make it stop. It is unmanageable, this desire. And so, I am unmanageable. I cannot even apologize. I am not sorry, except that I have distressed you. But even that is selfish. The truth is, I am sorry because you were distressed enough to leave my arms." He paused. "The truth is, I came to lure you back."

"To soften my heart," she said.

"Yes." He stepped back from the bed. "And in another moment, I shall be on my knees, begging you to take pity. I am abominable. A great problem."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, you are. Go away, Esmond.
Now
."

He went promptly because, though he'd spoken as truthfully as he could — more truthfully than he'd done in years — he could not overcome the habits of a lifetime. He had missed nothing — the way her eyes softened while he spoke, the way her posture eased and her body shifted ever so slightly, inclining toward him — and every instinct had urged him to take advantage. He
would
have fallen to his knees and begged, conscienceless beast that he was. Because he hadn't lied. He didn't know how to stop wanting her. And so nothing — honor, wisdom, caution, even pride — could keep him from trying.

On the stroke of noon, Nick entered Ismal's bedroom to announce Lord Avory's arrival. Ismal was still in his dressing gown.

"Shall I let him cool his heels in the library?" Nick asked.

"What sort of mood is he in?"

"About as beastly as yours." Nick slammed shaving materials onto the washstand. "I daresay you'll expect to get shaved in thirty seconds."

"You should not have let me oversleep."

"When I
tried
to wake you, you offered to relieve me of my private parts. In painfully explicit terms." Nick commenced to stropping the razor with vicious energy.

"I think I prefer to shave myself today," Ismal said. "Send His Lordship up."

Nick stalked out.

Ismal had lain awake a long time, pondering Leila Beaumont's aching temples and the self-loathing that seemed to be part of it — a shame Ismal had little doubt her husband had planted. Beaumont, dearly, had possessed a gift for poisoning minds.

Undoubtedly, Sherburne's mind had been poisoned, to cause such a bitter and painful estrangement from an adoring wife who'd erred but once — and then mainly thanks to her husband's provocation. Then there was Lady Carroll, who'd conceived such an intense hatred of Lord Avory… and Avory himself, with the terrible secret that prevented his wooing the girl he loved.

Unfit
, Avory had called himself. He had also pinpointed the time his problems had begun. Two years ago, right after Edmund Carstairs' suicide.

During his sleepless hours, Ismal had begun to formulate a theory. Now, as he began lathering his face, he prepared himself to test it. He wasn't looking forward to the procedure. He had become rather fond of Lord Avory… who was attached to him, trusted him, looked up to him as though Ismal were an infinitely heroic and admirable older brother.

Avory couldn't know Ismal was a vulture, waiting to pluck out his secrets.

Just as Ismal finished lathering his face, the marquess entered.

"Please forgive me," Ismal said as he took up the razor. "I overslept."

"I wish I had done." Avory plunked himself down on the window seat. "Instead, I spent the morning reviewing my accounts with Mama."

Ismal gave him a sympathetic glance. "Your expression tells me the experience was not agreeable." He began shaving, his mind working with the same brisk sureness as his hand.

"It is thoroughly
mortifying
to have to account — with receipts — for every curst ha'penny," his guest said. "Today I learned receipts aren't enough. I'm now expected to provide all the whys and wherefores as well. So we quarreled." He bent to brush a speck of dust from his boots. "I told her that if she disapproved of how I spent my paltry allowance, she needn't give me any. She threatened to oblige me. I recommended that she and Father make a proper job of it and disown me entirely," he said, straightening.

The vulture began to circle and descend.

"It is no use, you know," Ismal told him. "If you do not wish to inherit, you will have to hang yourself. They cannot disown you. You are all they have — the last male of your line."

"Not
all
they have. There are other branches of the family tree." Avory gave a short laugh. "Still, I most certainly am the very last of the
direct
line. Father's so proud of the fact that the title's gone straight from father to son since the time of the first Duke of Langford — unlike the convoluted genealogy of the Royal Family. As though that were anything to boast of, when it’s just a matter of luck."

His face hardening, he rose and moved to the dressing table. "It seems our luck has run out." He sank down into the chair and began arranging Ismal's toiletries in rows in order of size.

"So that is the problem," Ismal murmured as he angled the shaving glass for a better view of the marquess' countenance. "You believe you will fail to produce the necessary heir." He saw the muscle leap in Avory's jaw. "Or do I misunderstand?"

There was a very long silence. Ismal continued shaving.

"I shouldn't have quarreled with Mama," Avory said at last in a low voice. He was staring at the orderly arrangement he'd made. "I simply should have told her. But it's not the sort of thing one tells anybody. I didn't mean to tell you. But I seem to have dropped a broad enough hint. I'm always complaining to you. Sorry."