Surrender the Stars (24 page)

He sketched a bow. "You are too kind, madame."

"Tell me, then, what have you been doing in America and why are you here now?" Taking his arm, she added, "And if you are now a married man, wildly in love with your wife and the proud father of several babies, spare me the details. I am not so talented at offering magnanimous congratulations as you."

"Your generosity won't be tested this night because I have no wife—or babies, to my knowledge. I've been living in Connecticut these last few years, when I haven't been at sea. I worked very hard, starting as a first mate on a merchant ship out of Boston, until I became captain of my own brigantine." He couldn't ignore the surprise in her emerald eyes. "Didn't think I had it in me?"

"No, of course, it's not that, but—"

"Never mind; I understand. At any rate, I led scores of privateering raids against my former countrymen, saved my earnings, and was about to buy the ship from my employer, Andre Raveneau, when the British attacked our port and burned every vessel in sight—mine included. It was then that Captain Raveneau asked me to pose as his son, Nathan, who is in the West Indies, and come with the family to London."

"But why?"

"I can't explain, Hester, except to say that I'm not involved in anything anti-British. I may have my faults, as you well know, but I like to think that I adhere to certain principles. Let's just say that we need to discover someone who may be acting against America."

"Hence your role as a dandy," she mused. "To keep people off guard. Very shrewd!"

"Devon Raveneau deserves the credit. Would I
choose
to play the fool?"

Hester laughed fondly. "No, I suppose not. And what about the young lady I met tonight? What is her part in all of this?"

"She's the Raveneaus' daughter." His eyes flickered away.

Hester took a deep breath and lifted her chin. "I see."

"Look, I've been thinking about Lord Chadwick tonight. Is he still among the hierarchy of the House of Lords?"

"They say he may be the next prime minister."

"Indeed! I'm impressed. Hester, I hesitate to presume upon our, uh, friendship, but it would be invaluable if I could meet some of those powerful Tories."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this! Do you realize what you're saying?"

"Yes, but I had to ask." Ryan's smile flashed in the shadows. "Will you think about it?"

"You're an Irish devil."

"So you have always maintained." He grinned, lifting her hand to his mouth. "It's in the blood."

Hester prayed that he didn't feel her shiver at the touch of his lips. "Speaking of which, have you communicated with your family?"

"No."

"But your brother—"

"He is well? His family?" Ryan's tone was matter-of-fact.

"He has a son and a daughter, who spend most of the year in Europe with their mother."

"Well, at least there's an heir." Ryan gazed into the distance. "And now, leave it alone." Pausing on the pathway, he murmured, "It's late. I should see you home before Francis grows suspicious."

"Yes, of course." She caught the edges of his sleeves. "How handsome you look in your frock coat and white cravat."

"Thank you."

"Ryan, have you really changed so much? Aren't you even going to try to kiss me?"

"I had my turn, Hester," he said quietly, his dark blue eyes agleam in the moonlight. "I'm not a boy anymore, and I have no taste for cuckolding your husband." Ryan spared her a reply by taking her arm and starting back toward the carriage. In a lighter tone he added, "Make no mistake, my dear—I don't mean to suggest I'm not tempted!"

Hester's laughter mingled with the music in the night air and she leaned against him as they walked. "How lovely to realize that if we cannot be lovers any longer, we loved well enough to remain friends."

Ryan stopped for a moment, framing her face between his hands, then bent to graze her lips with his own. "Well said."

Chapter 17

June 9, 1814

Sleep eluded Lindsay for most of the night. Occasionally she dozed, but she was beset by dreams crowded with vivid images and sensations. There were Ryan's eyes, midnight blue, gazing at her in a way that made her feel cherished, and then they were kissing, touching intimately as their clothing dropped away. An instant later, he would turn from her, embracing Lady Hester Chadwick and forgetting Lindsay's existence.

Sunlight streamed into her bedchamber at six that morning, just as it had each day since their arrival in London, for Lindsay chose to sleep with her curtains open so that she could doze and bask in the warmth. Today, however, her dreams were too disturbing and when she opened her eyes, she remembered that reality was not so different.

The day promised to be exceedingly warm, for already she felt damp in her thin nightgown and the tangle of bedclothes. Freeing herself of the sheet, Lindsay then lifted her curls so that they spilled upward over the pillow, haloing her face. She closed her eyes again, but the feeling of restlessness would not pass. Her breasts felt confined within her nightgown and she longed to bare her legs. Rebelliously, she removed the offending garment and stretched out across the sunlit bed.

I must be mad, she thought. Still, it felt lovely, her bare skin bathed in the pale gold light. Her eyes felt heavy as she extended first one long leg and then the other, viewing them through her lashes. Lindsay decided dreamily that they were quite pretty: slender and shapely. She touched her hipbones, then the slightly concave surface of her smooth belly, smiling. Gliding splayed fingertips over her narrow waist, Lindsay slowly moved them to brush the edges of her breasts. They tingled instantly in response. She paused for a full minute, shocked, afraid, then tentatively touched first swollen curves and then each taut nipple. Gasping, she drew her hands away as sensations of forbidden pleasure intensified between her legs. The feeling of yearning was almost unbearable and she blushed, ashamed and bewildered.

Quickly, Lindsay sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and drew her gown on again. She found herself wishing that she could go back in time, back to Connecticut when the household had risen early and she had eaten breakfast in the keeping room while Cassie bustled about. There had been a comforting discipline to those days filled with books, students, and lesson plans. If only the British—and Ryan Coleraine—had stayed away!

Longing for Cassie, Lindsay put on a pale yellow muslin dressing gown, ran both hands through her hair, and went barefoot into the corridor. Everyone slept later in London, and surely no one but the servants would be awake at this hour. It couldn't have been more than six o'clock. She padded soundlessly down the hallway until, reaching Ryan's door, she stopped in surprise upon finding it open.

He stood near the bed, its cream and green hangings soft and shadowy in the cool half-light that filtered through the curtained windows. Ryan had his back to the door, and Lindsay watched, frozen, as he removed and tossed his frock coat over a chair back. It was followed by a trim waistcoat of white brocade, a crumpled white cravat, and, finally, stockings and black breeches. She stared at his lean, brown, masculine legs, spellbound by their beauty. They were lightly covered with soft black hair, and the slightest movement on Ryan's part caused muscles to flex in his calves and thighs. Lindsay thought that no painting or statue she had ever seen depicting the male form had looked quite so splendid.

Ryan raked tense fingers through his hair, then made a sound that was half sigh, half yawn. When he began to remove his shirt studs, she panicked, realizing that he'd be naked in a moment. Then what would she do? Lindsay took one sideways step and, instantly, Ryan's head turned.

"Good morning." His brows rose leisurely as he faced her wearing only his half-open shirt. "Up early, aren't you?"

Relieved that he hadn't asked if—or why—she had watched him undress, Lindsay struck a challenging note. "How would you know? Isn't the hour
late
in your case?" It dawned on her then how much time had elapsed since he had departed with the carriage. Silvery sparks kindled in her eyes. "You must be exhausted!"

Ryan inclined his head, taking her measure. "There's no need for you to concern yourself," he said dryly. "I'll be all right."

"Oh, of course! You have the beauteous Lady Chadwick to coo and murmur over your infirmities!" She tossed back her dawn-colored curls and came toward him. "Furthermore, I find your conceit ludicrous! How dare you presume that I am concerned in the least whether you sleep or not? It matters to me not at all if you choose to spend your nights making love to married women! It wouldn't surprise me if you made a habit of such pastimes. Debauchery by night; sleep by day—the perfect life, I should think—"

Ryan reached behind her and closed the door firmly. "Kindly moderate your voice, Lindsay. You'll wake everyone in this house and all of Grosvenor Square in the bargain."

"Do you mean to instruct me on manners? What a joke! You could not presume to teach proper behavior to a tomcat! But, then, that's what you are, isn't it?"

He caught her wrists and stared down at her flushed, exquisite countenance, mere inches separating their bodies. "You betray yourself, my dear. You're awfully upset for someone who doesn't care what I do."

The nearness of his bare, tanned legs and half-exposed chest set her heart pounding. "Let go of me! I hate you!"

"Lindsay," he said quietly, "I did not make love to Hester. We talked, I took her home, and then I went for a walk."

"Do you expect me to believe that? Not that it matters! Someone else might swallow your glib lies, but you underestimate my intelligence—"

"Not that it matters," Ryan echoed ironically, "but do you ever admit to
feelings
that overrule your much-vaunted intelligence?" Slowly he drew her against him and continued in a soft, sober voice, "I don't expect you to bare your soul to
me,
but do you ever search it privately?"

Lindsay's gray eyes were huge in her now-pale face. She feared that he could feel her heart thudding against his chest through the thin stuff of her dressing gown.

"Of course I do." Her voice was brave but barely audible. "I search my soul regularly and, though I hate to disappoint you, I've never discovered any emotions there that have any connection to you, sir."

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. Their faces were so close that he could breathe in her soft, lavender scent. "I don't believe you."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"I didn't call you anything. I would never disparage your character, my dear, only suggest that you may not be facing the truth."

"And what is
your
version of the truth?" Lindsay inquired haughtily.

"This." His lips were parted when they touched hers, tasting each soft, sensual curve until they opened to him, trembling. Ryan enfolded her body in his strong embrace as she melted against him, and dimly he registered an instant's surprise at her sudden, eager response. Her hips arched upward; he could feel her breasts swelling against his chest through the muslin barrier separating their bodies. The sensation of her tongue exploring his mouth and Lindsay's urgent fingers on his shoulders, in his hair, drove him mad. His own hands slid over her hips as their kisses deepened, and then he molded the curves of her buttocks with long, taut fingers. When the pulsing spot between Lindsay's legs was urged flush with Ryan's fully aroused manhood, she gasped in reaction.

"Good Lord!" Stepping backward, she was slightly surprised to feel him release her instantly. Eyes wide, cheeks pink, Lindsay involuntarily put her hands over her tender breasts. "Would you have taken me in my parents' house? What sort of animal
are
you?"

"Lindsay..." He took a breath, wondering if this were all a bizarre dream. "Christ! It's not as if I was forcing you! You were as tempted as I—so hot, I nearly forgot
where
I was! I—"

Her hand flew up to slap his lean right cheek. "You are a debased, conceited pig! Is it not enough for you to make love to a married woman in the middle of the night? Would you take my virginity for breakfast, right under the nose of my parents, who have taken you in and loved you as a son?"

"For God's sake!" Ryan ground out angrily, endeavoring not to shout. "Why do you insist on twisting things and blaming me rather than facing the truth?"

"What is
your
truth? That I seduced
you?"

"Of course not." He put a hand out toward her, but Lindsay backed away. Sighing almost wearily, Ryan said, "The truth, if you would only confront it, is that I desire you—and you want me, too. It's nothing to be ashamed of, it's part of life! Haven't you realized that all the books in the world won't satisfy the craving you feel when we touch?"

Lindsay stared for a moment, speechless, then ran from the room.

* * *

"Well!" Devon put down her volume of William Blake when Ryan came into the sitting room. It was five o'clock, and it was his first public appearance of the day. "Up at last, I see!"