Masque of Betrayal (16 page)

“I’m not bitter, Mother,” Dane was responding. “Merely resigned.”

Lenore sighed, nodding her understanding. How could she argue with Dane when her motives had been—still were—much the same as her son’s? She loved Edwin, had loved him since she’d been little more than a child. But, despite her love, she was no longer the impressionable and adoring sixteen-year-old girl he had wed thirty-three years ago. Somewhere in the process of her growth and maturation she had become a very strong woman with beliefs that were the antithesis of her husband’s. Lenore needed her own voice, and Edwin, unyielding in his opinions of a wife and marchioness’s proper role, refused to allow it to her. Finally, she had been compelled to seize it herself. So, in 1783, she and her embittered son had sailed for America … alone.

“Mother?” Dane’s concerned voice broke into Lenore’s reverie.

She squeezed his hand. “If I were to spend the morning in the city, would you have time for lunch?”

The charming smile returned to Dane’s face. “For you … I always have time.”

Lenore smiled back. “Good. Then I shall do some shopping. And Dane,” she added, “I really am looking forward to meeting Jacqueline. She must be a very unique woman.”

Dane nodded, nearly laughing aloud. Unique? Yes, Jacqueline was that. And Lord knew what else. His insides knotted as he recalled what had been plaguing him earlier. He needed to see Jacqueline … and soon.

Jacqui hadn’t slept a wink since Saturday.

Both nights she’d lain in bed, tossing and turning … and burning; hearing Dane’s dark promises, feeling his exhilarating caresses on her most intimate flesh. Again and again she relived that staggering explosion of pleasure that erupted inside her at the last.

So this was the wondrous act that people whispered about, lived for, died for, longed for. So this was where the wanting actually led.

I love you, Jacqueline Holt.
Dane’s declaration drifted through Jacqui’s thoughts again.

She was not fool enough to believe that the tenderly whispered words had been motivated by anything more than passion. Nor did she want them to be. But the invitation that lay beyond the words, the sensual enticement that danced like live flames in Dane’s silvery-gray eyes, called to Jacqui like a siren’s song, luring her to fulfill their heated vow.

Oh, how she wanted him. Over her, inside her … teaching her all she ached to know, all his powerful body could give.

Dane was right, damn him. What he had prophesied would indeed occur. She would go to him. She would join herself to him until the bone-melting ecstasy had played itself out. After which she would be whole, sated, wise in the answers she sought.

But Dane was wrong about one thing.

She would never belong to him.

Her mind made up, Jacqui dressed quickly in a gown of pale peach, which made her look soft and feminine and, hopefully, desirable. She then tied a bonnet beneath her chin and hastened off into the warm June day, bent on seduction.

Westbrooke Shipping was on Market Street, a healthy walk from the Holts’ home. Jacqui hurried along, not pausing to catch her breath until she neared the docks. Dane’s office was just beside them, a modest brick building with large, airy windows. Cautiously, Jacqui approached, uncertain, now that she was here, of how to go about announcing to Dane that she had come to take him up on his offer, from inside the open windows, laughing voices drifted out to her, and with her usual curiosity, Jacqui peered inside. And froze.

Dane was teasing and hugging an attractive dark-haired woman, who was, in turn, clutching him possessively and ruffling his hair. She appeared to be of middle years, but was nonetheless quite striking.

Jacqui felt ill.

Before she could be seen, she retraced her steps, running nearly all the way home. The delicate filaments of trust, newly formed and fragile, splintered further with each step.

Tears were unacceptable. Jacqui chose anger.

How stupid could she have been? she fumed. To actually think that what Dane wanted, needed, was
her.
When, in fact, any female body would do, had apparently
been
doing, if what she’d seen today was any example. Abstinence was, quite obviously, not even a consideration in Dane’s mind. Nor was faithfulness.

She should have known better than to allow herself to care.

Jacqui spent the day in her room, alternately pacing, cursing, and planning Dane’s demise. She called a halt to her internal tirade only long enough to finish Laffey’s column, which had to be delivered that night, and to eat dinner, so Greta wouldn’t be suspicious.

Just after dusk, Jacqui slipped into a dark gown, slid the column inside her sleeve, and headed down the stairs. It was not a pleasant night for her weekly mission, as a severe summer storm was about to strike. The winds had picked up and occasional bolts of lightning streaked across the hot, humid skies.

As Jacqui moved down the deserted hallway, she could hear Greta finishing up in the kitchen and scolding Whiskey, who had sprung onto the counter to sample the leftovers. George was working late. Jacqui wouldn’t be missed.

She opened the front door and walked headlong into Dane.

“Hello,
chaton,
” he said in an odd voice. “Were you on your way out? I wouldn’t suggest it … there is a bad storm brewing.”

Jacqui blinked and hot color rose to her cheeks. How dare he come here tonight … after what she’d witnessed! “
You
wouldn’t suggest it?” she spat. “What I do is none of your business! So get out of my way!”

Dane started. He had not known what to expect from her after Saturday night, had not even been certain of his own actions after all he had learned today. But this?

He caught her elbows as she attempted to walk past him. “Jacqueline … what is it?”

She threw back her head, her eyes flashing midnight fire. “I don’t wish to discuss it … or anything else … with you, Dane. Now let me pass!”

She was exquisite in her rage. All the warmth and tenderness Dane had tried to suppress churned through him. It was no use.

He dragged her back against him. “You’re angry at me.”

“And you are a scholar.”

He chuckled. “Care to tell me why?”

“No, actually I don’t.”

He lifted her up until their faces were level. “Is it because of Saturday … of what happened between us?”

Jacqui’s flush deepened. “Nothing happened between us. For that you’ll have to go to one of your other paramours.”

“My other paramours?”

“Please don’t pretend. If nothing else, be honest with me, damn you!”

Dane looked genuinely puzzled. “I have always been honest with you, love. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t even
seen
another woman since you and I met.”

Jacqui bristled. “Not even today?”

“Today?”

“I saw you, you bastard! I saw you with her! Kissing her … holding her!” She pounded on his shoulders with her fists. “Don’t make it worse by lying to me!”

Dane made no move to still Jacqui’s flailing wrists. He simply carried her back into the house, through to the sitting room, and sat down on the settee, placing her on his lap as she battled frantically to free herself.

“Now,” Dane said calmly, ignoring her struggles, “what is this all about? What woman did you see me with that I was supposedly kissing?”

Jacqui paused to catch her breath. “Let me refresh your memory,
Mister
Westbrooke. A mature woman … lovely dark hair … tastefully dressed … in your office this morning?” She saw understanding dawn on Dane’s face and continued. “I see you are beginning to remember. Good. Do you also recall kissing her?”

“I do.” Dane grinned. “Several times, in fact.”

Jacqui’s jaw dropped. “You admit it?”

Dane’s smile widened. “Certainly. What I don’t understand is what
you
were doing at Westbrooke Shipping. Dare I hope that you came to see me?”

Mortified, Jacqui recalled the reason she had gone to Dane’s office. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” He couldn’t help himself; he kissed her. Her
very
real,
very
artless jealousy enthralled him … for several reasons.

Jacqui dragged her mouth away. “How dare you?”

“Do you want to know who she is, Jacqueline?” he asked softly, bringing her lips back to his.

Jacqui shook her head wildly. “I assume she is merely one in a long line of your
women
… the wife of a business associate, perhaps?”

“My mother,” he murmured against her warm cheek. “And there is no long line of women … there is only you.”

Jacqui grew very still. “Your mother?”

Dane laughed softly, gliding his thumbs up and down the silky column of her throat. “I do have one, you know.”

“Your mother,” she repeated again, feeling like a complete fool. “I had no idea your mother lived in Philadelphia.”

“There is much about me you don’t know,” he whispered, pressing her into the cushions and following her down. “Let me teach you.”

Jacqui took his kiss blindly, opening her mouth to his tongue and lifting her arms to wrap about his neck.

Inside her sleeve, she felt the papers rustle against her skin and reality flooded back in a great, untamed wave.

“Dane … not now!” She shoved him away and wriggled out from under him.

“Why? Don’t you believe what I’ve told you?”

“Yes, I believe you.” Nervously, she rose, fixing her sleeves and smoothing down her gown. “But Greta is in the kitchen and my father is due home from work any moment. This is hardly the time …”

He stood and took her in his arms. “Tell me you’ve thought about what happened Saturday. Here”—he glanced meaningfully at the settee—“in my arms. Under my body, my hands.”

“I have,” she admitted in a small voice.

“So have I. Constantly.” He gazed down at her, his eyes dark with emotion. “Did you also think about what I said … about your coming to me?”

“Yes.”

“And?” He lifted her hands to his shoulders and Jacqui froze, feeling the papers slide up to her elbow.

“Dane, you have to leave.”

He looked stunned. “Why?”

“Because … you must. I have things I need to take care of, right away.”

“What things?”

Jacqui thought frantically. “I need to help Greta in the kitchen.”

“Haven’t you eaten? It’s almost eight o’clock.”

“No … yes … I mean, she needs my help in straightening up.”

“I see.”

“So you’ll have to go.” She was already tugging him toward the door.

“When will I see you?”

“Soon. Tomorrow,” she hastened to add when she saw the glower on his face.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “And every day thereafter.”

In that instant Jacqui would have promised him the world if he would only leave. She was already going to be dreadfully late. … She only prayed her young messenger would still be waiting. “Yes, Dane. And every day thereafter,” she vowed.

Dane’s eyes narrowed on her, like a tiger sizing up its prey. Then he nodded. “Very well. I’ll go.” He kissed her lightly. “But I’ll be back, Jacqueline. Tomorrow. Always. Remember.”

She shut the door behind him and let out her breath. That had been close … too close.

She waited a full five minutes and then slipped out into the night.

The rain poured down in torrents.

Jacqui caught her breath, feeling her saturated gown mold itself uncomfortably to her chilled skin.

The rain wasn’t terribly cold, but the air was so hot that the water felt icy as it struck her in relentless sheets. Thunder crashed through the heavens, heralded by the jagged streaks of lightning that pierced the skies and shot precariously close to the soggy ground.

Jacqui wiped the rain from her eyes and inhaled sharply. Thank goodness the storm had held out until her papers were safely delivered and she was well on her way home. She was now but a few blocks from her house, but the area between here and Spruce Street was lined with trees, the perfect targets for wayward lightning bolts. The last thing she needed was to be assaulted by a heavy falling branch.

The alternative was to use the roadway. Jacqui had never even considered that in the past, for fear of being seen, but who would be about in this downpour to witness her flight?

Hurriedly, she moved toward Spruce Street, staying along the road’s edge, but as far from the trees as possible. She was getting quite a soaking, but it was better than being hurt.

Most of the houses were dark, their occupants abed, as it was close to ten o’clock. Sidestepping a puddle, Jacqui ran on, suddenly wondering what Dane would be doing now. Would he be asleep … or awake … possibly thinking of her?

She had certainly been thinking of him … and the great relief she had felt upon learning that his “paramour” was, in fact, his mother. He had said there were no other women in his life, that he wanted no one but her.

Lord knew she wanted him.

Spruce Street appeared and she stopped, panting, running her fingers through her wet curls. She remembered from her father’s records that Dane lived on Pine Street … just one block farther south. Jacqui stared through the rain, shivering, this time not with the cold but with a new and exciting thought.

It was late. Both her father and Greta would assume she was asleep by now. No one would visit her bedroom until morning. She was wildly curious … and absolutely unwilling to spend another restless night in solitary ignorance. Her heart began to pound furiously. Dared she?

It was scandalous; it was unheard of; it was insane.

It was perfect.

Dane stared into the fireplace. It was rare for him to light a fire in June, but the air was chilled from the storm, and besides, the darkened sitting room seemed to suit his pensive mood tonight.

He stretched, leaning back in his chair and sipping at his brandy in the hopes of shaking his intangible restlessness.

Maybe not so intangible, he thought, finishing his drink. The ache that filled his mind, his heart, and his loins had a definite name: Jacqueline.

Dane stood, running his fingers through his hair. Her totally irrational, thoroughly adorable reaction tonight had more than confirmed what his instincts had told him … that Jacqui’s obvious, though grudgingly admitted, feelings, her delightful and heady possessiveness, were indeed genuine. Whatever else was true, Jacqueline cared.