Rebecca Hagan Lee (12 page)

Blake dragged Jack to the top of the stairs. "Maybe I deserve punishment for being so damned arrogant, and so damned stupid, but there are other people involved who don't deserve to be hurt and humiliated. So heed my warning, Jack. I'm not going to kill you now. I'm not going to say a word. But I will kill you if I find you've been in my house again or sniffing around Meredith's skirts. And scandal be damned." With that final promise, Blake shoved Jack down the stairs. "Somebody take Jack home!" He shouted down behind him. "He's had too much to drink. I found him in my bedroom offering to help Meredith off with her dress!"

Jack paled, choked, then stumbled down the rest of the stairs when he heard his father-in-law's hearty laughter. "Boy, don't you know three's a crowd on a wedding night?"

But there was no wedding night. Blake spent the night in his dressing room.

Alone.

The following morning, he unlocked the door to his wife's room. He greeted her cordially, accompanied her to the wedding breakfast arranged by his parents, and later boarded a train bound for Vienna. But not before arranging for Meredith to be observed and guarded at all times.

The pattern for their marriage had been set. The ground rules established.

The earl and countess of Lawrence, like so many other fashionable Victorian couples, began married life as bitter antagonists who happened to share the same name, address, and very little else.

Their arrangement couldn't be called a marriage. It wasn't a relationship that even remotely satisfied Blake who wanted the kind of marriage his parents shared, but he tolerated it until he was mercifully released from it by Meredith's accident.

She was on holiday, fox hunting at Willow Wood, the Lawrence country estate, when her horse caught its foreleg on a fence rail. She tried valiantly to keep her seat, but the horse went down and she went with him. She screamed as she fell and her scream mingled with that of her mount as its leg splintered.

Meredith lay flat on her back, crushed beneath the weight of the horse.

Blake hurried to England from his post in Vienna, but by the time he arrived with his parents, Meredith was dead. Dead and hastily buried.

Meredith's family had arranged it all, they said, to spare him the sight of her crushed body.

A log rolled from the andirons into the glowing embers, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Blake stared down at the jewelry box on the table. He had planned to give the jewels to Meredith as a wedding gift, but he hadn't.

He had given the box to his father instead, and asked that it be locked in the safe at Lawrence House until he returned to London. The box had remained locked in the safe for years. Blake had never opened it again. He hadn't known the necklace was missing until four mornings ago, when he opened the Lawrence House safe and found empty the velvet spot where the necklace had lain for years.

He realized then that the necklace in Cristina Fairfax's possession wasn't a copy of his design. It was his. Stolen from safekeeping.

Blake smiled. He could easily imagine Meredith's rage when she discovered the intricately carved box inscribed "All My Love, Blake." And he knew without a doubt that Meredith had somehow gotten hold of the necklace and disposed of it. He felt it in his bones.

The crack of the crystal was so quiet that the pain took him by surprise.

He looked down to find the brandy snifter shattered in his hand. Blake sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth against the sharp sting as the golden liquor seeped into the cuts on his hand, merging with the deep red of his blood.

He opened his hand, allowing the pieces of broken glass to fall on the tabletop, then fumbled with the silk tie around his neck. Blake tore the tie free and wrapped the delicate fabric around his fist to staunch the flow of blood. Mackie would scold him when she saw his hand. It was covered with cuts and faint white lines, scars from other cuts. Over the years, numerous brandy glasses had succumbed to his grip when memories of his wedding night overcame him. Blake slumped into his favorite leather chair. Meredith had been dead over six years and she still had the power to enrage him. He shook his head.

When would it end?

He closed his eyes and leaned back against chair. It wouldn't end for a while. It couldn't. Not until he found out when Meredith had taken the necklace. Not until he learned how it had come to be hidden in Cristina Fairfax's pocket.

Claret is the liquor for boys, port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.

--SAMUEL JOHNSON 1709-1784

*Chapter Nine*

He couldn't say what woke him. It might have been some sixth sense telling him something wasn't quite right, but suddenly he knew he wasn't alone. He opened his eyes. The fire in the fireplace had burned out. The coals glowed reddish orange in the grate, but gave off little light. Blake shifted his weight in the chair, praying the comfortable leather wouldn't creak and reveal his presence. He wasn't afraid. He'd detected faint scent of jasmine and recognized his intruder.

Blake heard the scratch of a match, then smelled the sulfur as she lit the lamp on his desk. He held his breath, waiting for her to look up and find him sitting by the fireplace, but her attention was focused on his desk. She hadn't seen him because she was busy searching his desk drawers. She had come with a spoon in hand in order to force the drawers of his desk open, but it wasn't necessary. None of the drawers was locked. His important documents were in the safe, as was the household money. Everything of value in his office except the paintings and the objects d'art rested safely behind the marquess's portrait. Blake glanced down at the box on the table at his elbow. Everything except the small fortune in jewels he'd left lying on the table.

"It has to be here somewhere," Cristina muttered. "Surely he has a safe.

He's not stupid enough to leave valuables just lying around."

Blake winced at her words. That was debatable.

"Behind the portrait."

Cristina looked up at the portrait above her head. "I was getting to that,"

she said aloud before she realized she hadn't thought the words. Someone had spoken them.

Cristina whirled around so quickly her white nightgown fanned out around her. She clutched the spoon in her fist.

Lord Lawrence sat in a leather wing chair watching her. He nodded politely.

"Don't let me interrupt."

Cristina nearly screamed in shock and in relief because the voice belonged to Lord Lawrence, not some housebreaker come to steal valuables. Guiltily she realized she was the only one trying to do that.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, pointing at his chair with the spoon.

"I live here."

"I know that. What were you doing in here?" Cristina waved the spoon around, indicating the interior of his study. "The lamps were out."

"I was sleeping," Blake told her.

"I thought you slept upstairs. You're not supposed to be sleeping down here. Mackie said your room was down the hall from mine. I tiptoed past it."

In her agitation, Cristina rambled on.

"I didn't realize there were house rules concerning my sleeping habits."

Blake eased himself to the edge of the chair. "Do you mind finishing your search for whatever it is you're looking for, so I can go back to sleep?" He faked a yawn. "By the way, what are you searching for?"

Caught off-guard, Cristina forgot to evade his question. "My necklace. The one I had in the hansom cab. I couldn't find it upstairs. Can you tell me what happened to it and where I might find it?"

"You mean the emerald and diamond necklace you used to try to blind me?"

Cristina had the grace to blush as she nodded her head.

"In the safe." Blake left the ornate box full of diamonds and emeralds on the table and stood up. As steadily as he was able, he walked toward his desk and Cristina.

"The safe?"

"The one behind the portrait," Blake confirmed. "The one you were going to get to next."

Cristina's green eyes sparkled like the emeralds in the necklace. He was being so nice. "Will you get it for me?"

"I'd be happy to." Blake told her. "But I can't."

"Why not?" She knew there had to be a catch. He was being too nice.

Blake held up his right hand so she could see it. His palm was bandaged and the cloth wrapped around it was stained with blood, the dark brown of old blood and the brighter red of new, fresh blood.

"I can't turn the dial." Blake frowned at his hand and swayed a bit on unsteady feet. "I think I'm going to require a stitch or two this time."

Cristina rushed to his side. "This time? Do you cut yourself often?" She held his palm, trying to see the damage. He seemed completely in control, but Cristina was close enough to smell the brandy fumes. She groaned as he leaned on her.

"You're drunk," she accused. "No wonder you cut yourself."

"I've been drinking," Blake corrected. "But I'm not drunk. There's a difference."

"A minor point," Cristina reminded him.

"Not so minor," Blake responded. "The cut on my hand wasn't the result of drinking too much, but of not drinking enough to forget."

Cristina was intrigued in spite of herself. "Forget what?"

Blake shook his head. "About the necklace."

"What about it?"

"I can't turn the dial to the safe."

"I can turn the dial," Cristina assured him.

"No." Blake pulled his injured hand out of Cristina's grasp.

"Why not?"

"I won't give you the combination. Never trust anyone with the combination." He smiled at Cristina. "How do I know you won't try to steal from me?"

Cristina was indignant. "I'd never do that!"

"I didn't think so."

Realizing that even in his inebriated state he'd managed to trap her, Cristina stepped away from him, intent on locating the door.

Blake attempted to follow her, but light-headed from brandy and the loss of blood, he wobbled. Trying to steady himself, he reached for Cristina and grabbed a handful of white, lawn nightgown.

The fragile fabric came apart in his hands, baring her slim body.

They stared at each other in mute stupefaction.

Slowly, steadily, the light in Blake's eyes changed. Warmed. Smoldered.

He pulled her against his chest and covered her lips with his own in answer to his overwhelming need to feel.

Cristina stiffened immediately, expecting his lips to bruise, expecting his kiss to be hard, forceful. It wasn't. His kiss was exquisitely tender. He took his time, tasting, nibbling, learning the texture of her lips, the subtle contours of her mouth. Though his lips were cool, his kiss seemed to burn her skin with its fire and to run unchecked throughout the length of her body.

She was breathless from the force of emotion sweeping through her. She wanted to open her mouth and demand that he stop, and at the same time she wanted the intensely pleasurable feeling to go on forever. She purred with delight as his hand moved slowly and silkily up and down her spine.

His lips wreaked havoc on her fluttery pulse.

"Ah." Her breathless sigh reached his ears as his lips spread their trail of fire along the column of her neck, down the rosy peak of a breast.

Logic escaped her at this wondrous exploration. Cristina let herself be swept along on the crest of the intoxicating new emotions engulfing her. Her senses were acutely aware of him--the feel of his soft shirt pressed next to her uncovered flesh, the unique taste of his lips, flavored with brandy, and the intimacy of standing together, legs entwined. Cristina felt the play of his taut muscles, rippling with every movement, and the lean, hard length of him pressed urgently against her stomach while his hand and mouth roved over her, setting her nerve endings aflame.

"Kiss me, Cristina," Blake ordered, angling his good hand in her silky hair and wrapping the other around her waist to pull her even closer to him. "Kiss me back."

It was an order Cristina eagerly obeyed. She pressed her mouth to his and instantly felt his hungry, tangy-sweet kiss devour her. His tongue thrust against hers, an insistent, probing, relentless teacher. Her arms went around his neck and Cristina kissed him back, mimicking the actions of his tongue, restlessly searching the cavern of his mouth with all of her newly acquired skill.

He deepened the kiss and Cristina responded. She found the thick, coarse hair at the nape of his neck and explored it with her fingers. The feel of it excited her. She wanted to explore all of him, to feel the coarse hair that covered other parts of his body. The hair that teased the sensitive tips of her breasts where his opened shirt exposed his bare chest. She wanted to become as familiar with his body as he seemed to be with hers.

She existed for the moment and for this one man. She surrendered herself to him and stood quaking with emotion, waiting ... wanting ...

Blake understood almost immediately when Cristina decided not only to surrender, but to participate fully in what was about to happen. "Let me love you, Cristina. Let me teach you how to love me." He heard himself murmur the words and he couldn't believe what he was saying. The jasmine scent of her hair and of her body drove him mad. And the brandy was talking, making him maudlin. Yes, he wanted her, but... What did he know of love? The one time he thought he'd found it had been a disaster. He didn't know love. He didn't trust love. Yet when he opened his mouth romantic, loving phrases wanted to flow from his tongue. He was forced to bite them back. Sex, he could teach, but love ...

Blake broke the kiss. Every nerve in his body screamed at him, calling him ten kinds of a fool, but he gently pushed Cristina away. She was in danger.

She could be hurt. More importantly, he was in danger...

"Lord Lawrence? Blake?" She smiled up at him, waiting for him to continue kissing her.

"Go, Cristina." His words were rough, husky with emotion. "Go back to bed.

Now."

"Are you ... is everything all right?" There was concern for him in her eyes.

"I'm fine. But, you"--he ground his teeth together--"you're in grave danger. Go upstairs, now, while you can. And for God's sake, don't come back down here tonight."