Royal's Bride (19 page)

Sherry seemed to be contemplating Rule’s suggestion, watching the tall, black-haired man over the rim of his brandy glass. “Perhaps Tsaya could predict you will get high marks in your final exams.” He arched a light brown eyebrow. “You will, won’t you?”

“I’ll do well enough,” Rule said. “I always have.” The youngest Dewar brother had always been an extremely bright student. He had extended his studies, likely to avoid any sort of responsibility for as long as he could, but lately he was growing bored. He was ready to live his life. Royal just hoped the path he chose would be a wise one.

Royal straightened on the leather sofa. “Tsaya has been invited to a musicale given by Lady Severn at the end of the week. If you will be there, she could make the prediction then. The exams are coming up. You could return with the news of your good fortune shortly thereafter.”

“I shall make it a point to attend Severn’s ball.” Rule grinned, carving a dimple into his cheek. “It shouldn’t be an imposition. The countess is purported to be beautiful and her husband as old as Moses. They say she is quite inventive in bed and I should like nothing better than to find out.”

Royal shook his head, but a smile lurked on his lips. “You are incorrigible, brother mine.”

“And at my age, you weren’t the least bit interested in women?”

He had been, of course. He’d had more than his share of ladies over the years. “Point taken.” On Barbados he had kept a beautiful half-caste mistress. If he hadn’t been short of funds, he likely would have set up a woman in London to see to his needs.

Lately, much to his surprise and chagrin, he seemed to have lost interest in the female gender.

Except, of course, for Lily.

The thought did not sit well.

“All right, then,” Sherry said. “Royal, you will see Lily at your meeting Wednesday next, correct?”

A tightness settled between his shoulder blades. She would likely be there. He wished he wasn’t looking forward to the meeting so much. “If she’s not, Jack Moran will get word to her.”

Sherry cast a pointed glance at Rule. “And we can count on you to attend the Severn affair?”

“Have no fear. Since my brother is determined the mysterious Tsaya is forbidden, I shall fix my attentions on the delectable countess.”

Royal couldn’t help a smile. Knowing his brother as he did, Lady Severn would no doubt wind up in his bed.

His thoughts returned to the upcoming event. Annabelle had managed to get Loomis on Severn’s guest list. According to Charles Sinclair, it was just about time for Tsaya to start reeling the bastard in.

It was raining. Preston Loomis always hated going out in the rain. As he hurried toward his carriage, he glanced up from beneath the umbrella his butler held over his head into the sullen gray sky. Heavy drops of water managed to soak his expensive black evening coat. If there was a moon, he couldn’t see it.

Grumbling, he climbed the iron stairs and settled himself inside the coach with a sigh of relief. Aside from the dismal weather, his life had taken an interesting turn of late. He had met a beautiful woman, in itself not particularly surprising. Since he had become a wealthy man, beautiful women often sought him out.

But this one was different. This one intrigued him as none had in a very long time. He wondered if she was
merely a woman playing a role, doing her best to make a living as his mother had done, or if she was actually related to the one truly spiritual person he had ever known.

Tsaya claimed to be the grand-niece of Madam Medela, a Gypsy seer with the power to predict the future. Medela wasn’t a con. In all the years he had known her, the old woman’s advice had never failed him or his mother. Since her death, making his way in life had been far more difficult. Although he was a rich man now, he felt adrift, alone in a harsh world in which he had never truly belonged.

Was it possible the ancient Medela’s grand-niece had inherited her same awesome powers? He tried to think back…the old lady had never talked about her family, though once she had said that her gift was passed down to her through the female side of her clan.

Was there a chance Tsaya could guide him, give him that feeling of control he’d had when her aunt was alive?

He had to know the truth.

The carriage rolled beneath the portico of the mansion belonging to the Earl and Countess of Severn. He passed through the receiving line and began making conversation with some of the guests. All the while his glance searched for Tsaya.

It wasn’t until the first half of the musical entertainment was over, Signor Franco Mencini, an opera singer currently in vogue, that he saw her walk through the door.

Preston set his glass of champagne on a passing waiter’s tray and started in her direction.

L
ily smiled at the circle of young men surrounding her. Well, not truly her, but the mysterious Gypsy, Tsaya, a group that included Rule Dewar. As they had planned, Tsaya predicted he would pass his school examinations at the top of his class.

Rule had been far better behaved tonight, no longer the brash, overbold rake used to getting what he wanted from a woman, but a polite young man who treated her with respect. She wondered what Royal had said to keep his brother in line.

Royal
. He was here tonight, though his unofficial fiancée wasn’t. Jocelyn was meeting her lover at the Parkland Hotel, and Lily discovered she was jealous. Jo was bold enough to act on her convictions. Lily wished she were daring enough for an assignation with Royal.

Unfortunately, her sense of honor would not let her, though her heart and body wanted to make love with him above all things. Jocelyn was, after all, her cousin,
and no matter the lack of feelings Jo had for Royal, the pair was soon to wed.

Lily turned away from where the duke stood in conversation with his friend, darkly handsome Jonathan Savage, determined to keep her mind on the job she was there to do. From the corner of her eye, she spotted her quarry and he was coming her way. As tall, imposing, silver-haired Preston Loomis walked toward her, Lily smiled and excused herself from the group of young men, giving him a chance to seek her out.

Loomis stopped directly in front of her. “Madam Tsaya. It is good to see you.”

“You, as well, Mr. Loomis.”

“I wanted to let you know that your prediction came true. I won quite handsomely at cards the night I played with Lord Nightingale. You seem to have an interesting talent.”

“I am fortunate, I suppose. I am able to help certain people, and the hostesses at these affairs pay me well for entertaining their guests. Still, at times it seems more a burden than a gift.”

“In what way, may I ask?”

She toyed with a fold in her gaudy silk skirts. “Though I predict only good fortune, I sometimes see things I would rather not.”

“You have made a prediction for me. Do you see bad things in my future?”

She looked up at him, studied his face, noticed the way his mustache followed the line of his upper lip. “I see nothing tonight.” She continued to watch him, closed her eyes a moment, opened them and gave him the news they had planned. “Soon you will meet someone…an
older woman. I do not understand what it means, but your fortune will be enhanced by this woman.”

He smiled. “Is that so? It will be interesting to see if you are correct.”

“You said you knew my great-aunt.”

“She and my mother were quite good friends. When my mother died, Madam Medela and I continued our friendship. I am surprised she never mentioned you.”

“I was only a child when I knew her. Mostly I have lived with my mother on the Continent. I have only been back in London for the past few months.”

“Your aunt was an amazing woman.”

“I have only the shadow of her talent. Still, if I feel a connection to someone, as she did to you, my skills can be quite useful.” There it was—she had dangled the carrot in front of his nose. It remained to be seen if he would take it.

“By useful, do you mean profitable?”

She shrugged her shoulders, making the red silk of her blouse slide sinuously across her bosom. “If destiny wishes, it can be so.” She gave him a fleeting smile. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have other guests to whom I must speak.”

“Of course.” He made a slight inclination of his head. “Perhaps we will talk again.”

Lily made no reply. He needed to come to her and she dared not make it too easy. Moving across the room, she paused next to Lady Annabelle, who drew her into her circle of friends and began to chat with her as if they were old friends—which, it seemed, considering their conspiracy, might actually come to pass.

Lifting her full, moiré skirts out of the way, Jocelyn hurried up the carpeted staircase of the Parkland Hotel. Though a gas chandelier burned overhead, the lobby was dimly lit. Perhaps other patrons wished to keep their identity secret.

With the hood of her cloak pulled over her head, Jocelyn hurried along the hall, skeleton key in hand. At the door to her bedroom suite, she fumbled, trying to push the key into the lock. The door swung open before she could manage and Christopher Barclay stood in the opening.

“You’re late.”

She brushed past his tall figure as she swept into the room. “Only an hour or so.”

Christopher caught her arm and turned her to face him, sending the hood of her cloak tumbling backward. “The rest of your dandies might enjoy waiting on your every whim, but I do not. If you say you will be here, you had better be on time.”

Jocelyn gasped as he hauled her into his arms and his mouth crushed down over hers. His kiss was hot and hard, his tongue demanding entrance, then plundering the inside of her mouth. This wasn’t the tender lover who had taken her virginity, and it occurred to her that he was angry.

“I—I had trouble getting away,” she explained as he pulled the tie on her cloak and tossed it away. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” The words whispered out on a breath of air as he kissed the side of her neck, deftly worked the buttons at the back of her gown.

Christopher’s dark head came up. “Perhaps you were busy entertaining your duke.”

The words stunned her, though they shouldn’t have. Everyone in London was talking about the Gypsy woman’s prediction, wondering if the heiress and the Duke of Bransford would soon be engaged to wed.

“It isn’t official. The announcement is yet some weeks away.”

“So it’s true.”

She shrugged the shoulders left bare by the cut of her ball gown, though at Christopher’s harsh regard she hardly felt nonchalant. “A marriage of convenience, nothing more.”

“Which is exactly what I am to you—a convenience.”

Her gaze met his. She saw the sparks there and the undisguised heat. “You knew it would come to this sooner or later. Have you changed your mind?”

A slightly mocking smile curved his lips. “Why would I do that? I have the use of your luscious body, and both of us can continue to enjoy the pleasure we get from each other.”

“That…that is true.” And yet there was something in the way he said it that bothered her.

Jocelyn didn’t have time to ponder as he continued undressing her, stripping away her gown and petticoats, untying her corset and tossing it away, tugging her chemise off over her head. He turned her toward the mirror above the dresser, moved behind her and began to fondle her breasts. There was something incredibly erotic about seeing herself naked while Christopher remained fully clothed, and a spiral of heat curled low in her belly.

“Ripe,” he said, cupping the heavy globes. “Like plump, delicious melons.” He squeezed and lifted, and
her nipples stiffened, rubbed deliciously against his palms. She felt his mouth against the nape of her neck, then his teeth biting down on an earlobe.

Pleasure tore through her, sent a flood of dampness into her core. His hand skimmed over her belly, traveled through the moist, dark curls between her legs, and a finger slipped inside her. Jocelyn trembled.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded, sliding the finger a little deeper, moving it over the bud at the apex of her sex. He rubbed and she bit her lip to keep from begging him for more.

“Tell me what will please you, Jo.” Aside from Lily, he was the only person on earth who dared to call her that. But then Christopher dared just about anything.

He nipped the side of her neck to regain her attention. “What do you want, Jocelyn? How shall I take you?”

His finger probed and she quivered. “Deeper,” she whispered. “Faster. Please don’t stop.”

He laughed softly and his hand fell away. Angry at the way he toyed with her, Jocelyn opened her mouth to rain down an angry retort. The words died on her lips as he shrugged out of his coat and began to strip away his neck cloth. He removed his shirt and shoes and the balance of his clothes and walked toward her, as naked as she, a magnificent specimen, his body lean and fit and as solid as granite.

He was hard, rampantly so, his member thick and heavy, straining upward from the nest of dark curls between his legs. If she hadn’t known how good it would feel to have him inside her, she might have been frightened by the size of him. He stopped in front of her, cupped her face between his hands, tipped
her head back and claimed her mouth in a deep burning kiss.

Jocelyn moaned. Her arms slid around his neck and she clung to him, absorbing his musky scent, her nipples tingling where they pressed into his chest. Christopher kissed her one way and then another, hot, wet, drugging kisses that left her mind spinning and her knees weak. She barely noticed when he turned her to face the mirror, urged her forward till her palms settled on the tapestry stool in front.

She started to rise, unsure what he meant to do, then felt him behind her, urging her legs apart, setting his hands on her hips.

“I’m here to bring you pleasure. That is what you want from me, and I intend to give it to you.” His hand roamed over her bare bottom, making her skin tingle.

She gasped as he found her passage, positioned himself and surged forward, impaling her completely. He paused a moment, giving her time to adjust, then reached around and began to stroke the nubbin at her core. Streaks of sensation flashed through her, and intense, scorching heat. Christopher started to move and pleasure washed through her, and a need so powerful she moaned.

The pinnacle loomed ahead, the place of sweetness and light he had taken her to before.

“Chris…!” she cried out as he thrust into her again and again, driving her toward the promise of fulfillment, pounding relentlessly, taking her hard and deep. He thrust into her until she reached her peak, and tumbled into a shattering climax before allowing his own release.

She was barely conscious when he withdrew from inside her, turned her around and gathered her into his arms.

For an instant he just held her. She felt the press of his lips against the top of her head, then he straightened away.

“There is much more I can teach you—if that is still your wish.”

She gazed up at him, the sweetness of their coupling still humming through her veins. “You know it is.”

Christopher bent his head and pressed a tender kiss on her lips that seemed in contrast to his demanding lovemaking of moments ago.

In silence they both began to dress. As soon as he had finished, Christopher helped her button and straighten her garments, moving with a brisk efficiency that told her just how much practice he’d had. Once she was properly clothed, he turned and strode to the door.

“Send word when you wish another lesson.” Then he turned the handle and walked out of the suite.

Jocelyn stared at the place he had been. Her body still pulsed from his touch. Pleasure still warmed her insides. Christopher had fulfilled his part of the bargain. He had behaved exactly as she had intended.

She didn’t understand why it bothered her so much that he had left her the way he had.

Preston Loomis sat brooding in front of the fire in the study of his Mayfair town house. As he stared into the flames behind the grate, images of Tsaya slipped through his head. With her light eyes and pale skin, she looked nothing at all like Medela. Even the straight black hair didn’t match the coarse gray strands that
belonged to the Gypsy. But Medela had been an old woman when he had met her as a boy. She was an ancient, wrinkled creature when she died.

Was it possible they were related? The connection was distant. It was possible, he supposed.

His head turned at the ring of footsteps outside the study door.

“Come in,” he called out to the man in the hallway, Barton McGrew, his man of affairs—or at least that was the title Preston had given him. But Bart’s job had nothing to do with pushing papers around a desk. He handled whatever Preston needed done and nothing was too much to ask.

“Pour yourself a drink and sit down.”

McGrew did as he was told, filling the crystal glass a little too full, then sipping the extra so that it didn’t spill onto the expensive Persian carpet. Bart might have only the barest social polish, but a man like him was invaluable.

“What can I do for you, boss?” McGrew heaved his bulky frame into the chair across from where Preston sat on the leather sofa.

Preston had known Bart for years. The two of them had grown up together in a sleazy neighborhood in Southwark. McGrew was the only man who had known him as the infamous Dick Flynn. Aside from his mother and perhaps the old Gypsy, Medela, Bart was the only person in the world Preston completely trusted. Mostly because the big looby was somewhat bird-witted and, except for his loyalty to Preston, entirely without scruples.

And he depended on Preston for everything.

“There is a woman…” Preston began. “She uses the name Madam Tsaya. I want to know everything about her.”

“How do I find her?”

Preston gave him the address he had obtained from Lady Severn, a house in an unremarkable neighborhood in Piccadilly.