Carnal Deceptions (16 page)

“He has made himself scarce since the night of the Gray’s ball.” Tess spoke in measured tones hoping to keep the searing disappointment from her voice.

The velvet curtains parted again and a far more welcome figure made his entrance, Captain Gibbs in full dress uniform.

His wiry hair had been tamed for the occasion but a couple of stubborn tufts still stuck up boyishly. His broad grin warmed Tess’s heart.

Sloan acknowledged the captain with a lazy nod. He sat at ease, not the least bit ruffled by the captain’s presence. Yet when Lord Marcliffe had strode into the ballroom the previous evening, Tess had sensed his agitation. It occurred to her that Lady Stadwell’s scheme had really been rather brilliant. She had correctly gauged the character of the enemy. But there had been one small flaw in her thinking. Sloan was not obsessed with both men, but only one man; Lord Marcliffe.

“How ever did you know to find us?” Lady Stadwell asked Captain Gibbs.

Evidently, Tess was not the only one who found his sudden appearance suspect.

Captain Gibbs gave a hesitant smile, then, glancing at Tess, responded. “Why, I spotted Miss Starling’s famed hair from across the theatre.” He moved to stand beside Lady Stadwell’s chair. “Miss Starling, are you enjoying the music?”

Tess laughed. “It hasn’t started yet, Captain.”

This was clearly unfamiliar environs for the captain. Apparently, Lord Marcliffe was enlisting all his friends to keep his aunt safe. Tess moved to the edge of her seat, placed her hand on the railing and peered over the balcony. Her gaze hopped from one tall, dark-haired man to the next.

Sloan propped his chin atop interlocked fingers and turned to stare at her. His eyes were a crystalline blue and they chilled her to the bone. “And who might you be looking for, Miss Starling?” He pulled a pair of opera glasses from his pocket and offered them to her. “Perhaps he will be easier to spot with these.”

“Spot whom?” She refused the glasses and settled back in her seat. “I was watching the orchestra tune up.”

He slid his eyes sideways, regarding her beneath hooded lids. “I think I shall brave your aunt’s temper tonight. For I fear the prize will be snatched from me.”

Tess nodded weakly, unable to come up with another excuse for postponing the betrothal announcement. She dreaded to think how Lady Stadwell would take the news and even more so how Lord Marcliffe would receive it. Or perhaps she dreaded more the thought that he would be indifferent to the idea.

The captain cleared his throat. “How are you occupying yourself these days, Sloan?” He kept his profile to the captain as he spoke. “Dirtying my hands with trade,

actually. Overseeing a shipment to China.”

Tess became alert. Her lessons with Lydia Midwinter had convinced her that a mistress could coax the information from a man with sweet talk and a talented body. Would any subject be taboo in the bedchamber? Masquerading as a prim daughter of a viscount, all she could do was glean information by paying close attention.

“What type of goods?” the captain asked.

“I’ve no doubt Lady Stadwell and Miss Starling would prefer an end to this dull conversation.” Sloan flicked the lorgnette handle and opened the spectacles. He scanned the crowd. “That is Jessup across the way, is it not? I imagine that hitch in Marcliffe’s step has hobbled him. Such loyal friends to look out for his interests.”

Lady Stadwell looked past Tess and aimed a fierce gaze at Sloan, who paid her no mind and continued to study the audience. “He is hardly lame, sir. On most days you would not even notice his injuries,” she said.

“My dear lady, do not take me to task. Your nephew is completely admirable.”

Lady Stadwell sat back with an indignant rustle of taffeta and Sloan gave Tess a conspirator’s wink. “I only wish I could boast of an exemplar war record.”

The man was obsessed with Lord Marcliffe. It wasn’t only Tess’s pedigree that he was interested in, it was her connection, no matter how vague, to Lord Marcliffe.

The orchestra began, the stage curtain drew up and Tess glanced down. Dizziness overtook her. She had to get out of the confines of the box. “Lady Stadwell, you were absolutely right about the shawl. It is completely frivolous. I feel a chill. I am certain I have something warmer in the coach. I shall have Cyrus fetch it for me.”

“Child, you did not bring anything else,” Lady Stadwell said. “It’s sweltering in here,” Sloan said dismissively.

Tess ignored him and stood on wobbly legs. “I am certain I left my pelisse in the carriage after our walk in the park.”

With an audible sigh, Sloan got to his feet.

“You will miss the opening.” Lady Stadwell began untying the ribbon of her mantle. “Take mine. I am perfectly warm.

“Most definitely not. Now do not fret. I will be back shortly.”

Thankfully, Sloan kept his negligent stance. He did not seem in any hurry to act the escort or offer to get the coat himself.

Tess placed a restraining hand on the captain’s arm as he made a move to follow her through the curtains. “No, please. I will not have anyone miss a minute of the music because of my vanity.”

There was an attendant at the entrance whom Tess instructed to give her regrets to the occupants of the loge, to explain to them that she was suffering a headache. Outside, she spied Cyrus in conversation with John, the coachman. Tess draped the shawl over her hair and hurried to the other side of the road. She peeked behind to find Cyrus in pursuit.

“No need to worry, Lady Stadwell is perfectly safe with Captain Gibbs.” She tossed the words back at him as she hurried her step. Who would have thought such a big man could move so swiftly? It occurred to Tess suddenly that not only was Lord Marcliffe protecting his aunt, but he was keeping Tess on a restrictive leash.

Tess weaved between parked coaches, through tight, dangerous spots that brought her too close to the harnessed horses. She knew Cyrus’s bulk would not allow him to follow.

A shabby rented carriage stood in an alleyway. With a frantic wave, she hailed the driver and he tipped his hat at her approach. She rattled off the address of the townhouse as she boarded. Tess sat back against the cracked leather cushions and smiled to herself.

Tess knew she faced one more obstacle before she could enjoy a few moments of peace. Predictably, Jane came running the instant Tess entered the townhouse. The maid was always ready to pounce, far too helpful in Tess’s estimation.

“Jane, you have uncanny hearing,” she said with frustration.

Jane smiled as if it were a compliment and pursued Tess up to the bedchamber. “You’ve come home alone, my lady? If you don’t mind me saying so, he’s a handsome one.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Sloan, of course.” Jane hung up the dress and with deliberation smoothed out the wrinkles. Next, she concentrated on laying out Tess’s gloves, lining them up precisely in the wardrobe drawer.

“Please leave that be and help me out of my stays.” When the undergarment was finally loosened, Tess yanked it off and threw it atop the chair.

Jane picked up the silver-backed brush from the bed stand. “Shall I brush your hair out, my lady?”

Tess snatched it from her. “Please, I have been fretted over by mother hens all night.”

Jane looked stricken. She curtsied and shuffled out.

Finally alone, Tess plucked the pins from her hair and shook out her mane of curls. She threw herself atop the bed and lifted her heavy hair so that it cascaded over the pillow. The linen felt deliciously cool against her nape.

Tess sat up to pull the sheet over her bare legs. “Oh, damn,” she cried as her hair snagged on the ornate ironwork of the headboard. Blast Lydia Midwinter and her absurd bed. For a part of this wretched evening, she’d managed to escape Sloan, Lady Stadwell and even her dogged protector, Cyrus, at the theatre. Now she was caught fast by the diabolical bed. It seemed even inanimate objects were conspiring to remind her that she’d forfeited her freedom for the pursuit of revenge.

Wincing, she twisted around to get a better view. Her cry, which had not been particularly loud, brought the sound of boots thundering up the stairs. The heavy footsteps could only belong to Cyrus. Naturally he'd followed her home, she thought with irritation. In this most compromising position, on all fours with only the thin chemise covering her bottom, she yanked furiously on her hair, only to tangle it more.

“Cyrus, stay right where you are,” she ordered. The footsteps were just outside her door. “Cyrus, I shall have your head if you step one foot in this room.” She heard the click of the latch. “For god sakes, I am not decent!”

She felt the breeze whisper over her bare legs as the door swung open then shut. “From this vantage point, I’d say you are quite plainly more than decent.” She gasped at the drawling, familiar voice. If she turned her head to look at Lord Marcliffe, she risked pulling an entire hank of hair out along with the scalp it was attached to. She had no choice but to remain in this humiliating position. His breathing sounded ragged as he placed his candle on the bedside table.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“That’s the gratitude I get. Cyrus came to the club, worried because you’d raced home from the theatre. I was concerned.”

“Cyrus, I assume, was stationed outside the building shadowing my every move. My very own bodyguard. And I assume Jane is in your employ because she is always watching me, as well.” She stopped struggling with her hair for a moment and twisted her face enough to see him.

“Cyrus, yes. Jane’s curiosity I take no credit for.”

“Do you take no credit for Gibbs and Jessup, as well?”

“You might say they are lending me a hand.” His mouth tilted into a crooked, cocky smile. “So, rabbit, what were you running from?”

She knew he expected her to admit she was escaping Sloan, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “The theatre was stifling, overheated. I stepped out for some air and, on impulse, hired a cab. I did have a message delivered to your aunt and Sloan explaining that I had a headache. I do hope Sloan won’t be terribly angry.”

“How thoughtful of you to be so concerned about Sloan’s feelings,” he said, his tone thick with sarcasm. “You never give me the same consideration.”

“So punish me,” she dared him.

He took her words as an invitation and shoved the hem of her chemise up over her hips so that her naked bottom was exposed to him. He groaned as his hand slid up the inside of her thigh. His fingers flicked over the moist, pink folds of her quim. She was convinced he was purposely teasing her. She wanted him so badly. Gripping the headboard with her hands, she parted her knees and tilted her bottom upward, offering it to him. In return, he delivered a solid slap to her backside.

“Oh,” she said, surprised mostly by the fact that she enjoyed it. She could feel the heat from his handprint and she itched for more. He forced her knees farther apart just before his big hand delivered another punishing slap. He’d positioned his hand in such a way that his fingers struck her quim, leaving a stinging, delicious ache. Her bottom felt hot, and she was sure it was quite red.

“That’s enough,” she said, out of pure frustration. She wanted him inside of her.

Wanted him to thrust hard and deep as he spanked her. But she would not beg.

He flung himself down on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He stretched out his legs and leaned back against the headboard. She was happy to see the frustrated sulk on his lips. He made no move to disentangle her hair. Instead, he scrutinized every visible inch of her. His lips kicked up into a nasty smile.

“Damn, but you are glorious from every angle.” He was near enough for her to taste the whiskey on his breath.

Unshaven, his black hair overlong, he looked nothing like a peer of the realm. More like a brigand, she thought, as she glimpsed the pistol tucked in his waistband.

“Why are you armed?” she asked.

“Cyrus said you nearly got yourself killed diving between the carriages. I thought you might be in trouble.”

She tugged the hair that anchored her to the bed. “I am in trouble. Hand me some scissors, so I can cut myself free.”

“Not a chance.”

“This bed is miserable. It is the second time this week I’ve snagged my hair on it.” “I’m only sorry I missed it the first time,” he said with a chuckle and turned onto his

side, his shoulder nestled against her breast. Her nipple tightened at the feel of him. He

stiffened. She knew he’d felt her reaction to him. “Christ,” he muttered, and she felt a slight tremor run through his body.

He seemed to be able to see better in this half-light than she, and his deft fingers soon had her freed. She crawled hurriedly off the bed and covered herself with a quilt.

“I’ve something to show you.” She removed the paper-wrapped item from the dressing table by the bed. “Sloan has said he intends to sell tea to China.”

Lord Marcliffe laughed. “Tea?” He heaved himself off the bed.

“I thought it ridiculous myself. And then I happened upon this.” She handed him the small parcel.

“Just happened upon this, did you?”

“Well, actually, I snatched it from the underbrush where he’d discarded it.” He raised a black brow in question.

“He’d taken me to the gardens one night. As the fireworks were thundering, a man approached. I’m not certain there was even a word exchanged between him and Sloan. But that little package did pass between them.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “You went to Vauxhall alone with Sloan?”

“Of course not. In truth, it was your aunt who occupied Sloan’s attention for a moment while I retrieved that. It doesn’t smell much like tea, does it?”

He whistled thinly through his teeth. “Such sweet lips, such an outrageous lie. How did you really come by this packet?”

She shrugged, pretending nonchalance, but she intertwined her fingers to stop them from trembling. “I lifted it from his pocket, like a regular cutpurse.”

“While my aunt distracted him?” His skeptical brow lifted higher. “She has far more skill in espionage than I would have credited. I will have to congratulate her.”

“Aggravating man.” She snatched a pillow from the bed and smacked him with it.