Susan Johnson (21 page)

“The servants,” she murmured. “Seriously, Duff, they might come in.”

“They won’t.”

Not a scintilla of equivocation echoed in his words, and for a moment Annabelle didn’t know whether to be grateful or cross. But the real Lord Darley was lounging in all his stark and sensual beauty—close enough to touch in his crisp white linen and bottle-green coat, while the sight of his apparently fully recovered and impressive cock stretching the soft buckskin was riveting.

His hands were resting on the gilded crocodile heads at the extremities of the Empire chair arms, his sprawl languid against the red striped silk upholstery, his gaze half-shuttered. “Did I mention how much you mean to me? You do,” he went on, answering his own question. He smiled. “I haven’t felt this good for a very long time. Humor me, darling—lift your skirt.”

“I will humor myself as well. I just want to make that clear.”

He chuckled. “I see Nelly Primrose has fled and in her place we have the imperious Miss Foster. I think I like her better, in any event. Submissive women are a bore.”

“Pray, abstain from mentioning your previous amours.” Annabelle quirked her brow. “Unless you wish a quid pro quo.”

“God, no,” he said with a grin. “It might curb my ardor.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” she noted sardonically, dipping her head toward his blatant erection. “He looks in excellent form.” Then she gracefully lifted her skirts and petticoat and held them out as a frothy frame to her lower body. “Do you like what you see, my lord?”

She stood before him, nude from the waist down, save for white silk stockings, pretty slippers in Pomona green kidskin and ruffled garters that matched the yellow ribbon in her hair. “One would have to be dead not to like what I see, darling.” He drew in a soft breath. “Indeed, it’s been much too long. Might I entice you to take off your gown as well? I would help you if I could; I apologize for my disabilities. I will make it up to you very soon.”

Aware that his chest wounds were still only partially healed, Annabelle didn’t question his asking her to disrobe herself so much as she took issue with the venue. She shot a quick glance at the door.

“Would you be more comfortable if the door was locked? Please, feel free to do so.”

His casual assumption that his privacy wouldn’t be breached annoyed her. Was his staff so accustomed to him having women in these rooms that none dared enter? “I gather your staff won’t come in,” she said, unable to dragoon her jealousy into submission. “Why is that?”

He lifted his gaze, a half smile on his lips. “They know I like my privacy.”

She abruptly dropped her skirts. “For activities like this, no doubt.”

“No. I never bring women here. You are the exception,” he said, and not waiting for the surprise in her eyes to be given voice, he added, “Now gladden the heart of an invalid”—he waggled his fingers—“and lift up your skirts again. Leave your gown on if you’re more comfortable that way, though.” He smiled. “After years on the stage one would think you would have exhibitionist tendencies in abundance.”

“Disregard for the censure of the world comes with wealth and privilege, darling.” She was appeased, or rather her jealousy was appeased, and she could smile as sweetly as he.

“I stand corrected, or rather, I sit corrected,” he replied pleasantly. “Let me see you now.”

“How far is Dr. Stewart from here?”

Following Annabelle’s gaze, Duff glanced down. A small bloodstain the size of a thumbprint had appeared on his cream-colored waistcoat. “It’s hardly bleeding. Don’t be concerned.”

“Duff, be sensible. You’ve moved much too much already with the drive over here. You could hurt yourself.”

“Byrne knows where Stewart lives. But we’re not going to need him. What I do need is you. And don’t say you don’t feel the same because I can smell your arousal from here.” A faint smile lifted his mouth. “Come now, you can’t always be sensible. We are not bookkeepers with balance sheets. I want to feel you close around me. I want to fill you and cram you full and make you scream like you do when you lose yourself to passion. So, tell me,” he said with a grin. “Have you practiced your usual prudence? Is your sponge in place?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed. He’d known the answer before he’d asked the question; Annabelle never took chances. He crooked his finger. “Let me see.”

After spreading his legs, he indicated he wanted her between them and she complied because she could no more curtail her lust than he. Her promiscuous indifference to reason unnerved her, but in the chaos of lust and desire overwhelming her senses, scruple was cavalierly dismissed.

When she stopped at the edge of his chair, he said quietly, “Spread your thighs.”

She obeyed. She could not have resisted no matter the cataclysmic consequences. Every beat of her heart echoed in the throbbing center of her body, every breath she took was one of longing for this man who was a byword for profligacy and vice.

“More,” he said, and as she complied, he leaned forward and slipped two fingers up her sleek, pulsing vagina. “There,” he whispered a moment later, his fingertips brushing the sponge. “I see you are impregnable, indeed. It almost makes one want to breach such an unassailable citadel. What do you think, Miss Primrose. Would you like your master’s child?”

A defenseless yearning, avaricious and improbable, swept through her senses like a flood tide. “Don’t say that,” Annabelle breathed.

It wasn’t an answer. It was a nonanswer. It was consent and permission from a woman who valued her independence above all else.

But then she suddenly said, “No,” in a strong, firm voice and tried to move away.

He held her in place, his fingers anchored in her heated cunt. “I won’t,” he murmured.

“Promise,” she said, vehement and emphatic, holding his gaze.

He could have said no. He could have done to her what he wished. Even now, in his invalid state. For a fleeting moment, he struggled with his volatile impulse to father a child on her. But ingrained habit prevailed in him as much as it had in her, and as quickly as she, he opted for reason. “I promise.”

“Now let me go”—she wiggled her bottom around his fingers—“and I’ll service you. You’re not strong enough yet for more.”

He didn’t remove his fingers, nor did his indolent gaze look as though he might. “If I wanted that,” he said, softly abrupt, “I’d call in a chambermaid.”

“That’s what I thought.” He was what he was and she’d do well not to forget it.

“So, then,” he murmured lazily, as though he’d not heard the temper in her voice, “would you like to come first—like this”—he moved his fingers delicately inside her—“say as a first course in the event I don’t last too long? I wouldn’t want you deprived of the multiple orgasms you favor.”

“You’re being foolish, Duff.” Her voice had turned gentle, her gaze on a second spot of blood that had blossomed on his waistcoat. “I can wait until you’re stronger.”

Having glanced down, he ignored what he saw. “If you choose to be selfless, I cannot.” He grinned as he slid his fingers free. “You may blame my aristocratic privilege or male selfishness or any of those faults you assign to men like me, but I must feel you”—his voice went soft—“everywhere. Come,” he whispered. “Come sit on me. I promise to barely move.”

He helped her unbutton his breeches, helped her climb onto his lap, his breath in abeyance after waiting for this so long.

She braced her hands on the chair arms to lower herself over his penis he held lightly in place beneath her. Careful not to brush against his shoulders or chest, she slowly lowered herself down his hard, rigid length until she rested gently on his thighs, his erection buried deep in her succulent flesh.

There was a moment of utter silence.

They were holding their breath, absorbing the full measure of sumptuous pleasure for a shimmering millisecond before galvanic delirium finally reached their brains.

She whimpered when the rush of ecstasy struck.

He grunted, as though punched in the gut.

A moment later, when he found the breath to speak, he whispered, audacious and heedless, “You cannot leave me.”

“No, never,” she whispered back, as rash as he.

They came quickly the first time, she moving more than he so his pain was kept to a minimum. But after that, anesthetized as he was by glowing rapture, he ignored health issues and proceeded to take a more active role, smiling with satisfaction as her orgasmic scream filled the room at their next climax.

“We should wait now,” she said afterward. “Until you’re better.”

In answer, he gripped her hips and drove her back down.

His virility was undiminished despite his orgasms, and she experienced a fleeting resentment at the thought of how many other women had been beneficiaries of his unflagging vigor. But Duff happened to flex his hips just then, ramming upward with a particular precision that resonated in every quivering nerve in her body, and after that, she disregarded the vexing question in lieu of more immediate sensation.

He was finally bleeding so much, she said emphatically, “If you don’t stop, I’ll shout for Byrne despite the circumstances. I mean it, Duff,” she added tersely. “I won’t have you bleeding to death for this.”

There was something in her tone that curtailed his lust, and glancing downward, he took note of a wide swath of blood that had soaked through his bandages, shirt, and waistcoat. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered.

“Don’t move,” she murmured, scrambling off him and shaking down her skirts. “Don’t move a muscle. I’ll find some towels and have someone go for the doctor.” After quickly making herself presentable, she arranged Duff’s clothing into some semblance of order and left to find Byrne.

While they waited for the doctor, Annabelle brought Duff another cognac and nervously eyed his pallor. “I blame myself,” she lamented, gently placing another clean towel on his chest. “I should have said no and meant it.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said softly as he rested his head against the chair back. “Honestly,” he said, smiling, “I’ve never felt so damned good. Stop worrying. I’ve bled more than this many times. If Eddie were here, he’d tell you as much.”

Hopefully, he was right, Annabelle thought. She’d never seen a man with so many old wounds. Perhaps she was unnecessarily alarmed.

Dr. Stewart said as much when he arrived. “A little too much activity, I see,” he noted casually, tactful enough not to allude to the pungent aroma of sex in the air. “We’ll have you bandaged up again in a thrice,” he added briskly.

“Tell Annabelle wounds bleed at times. I’ve had enough to know. She’s overly concerned.”

Annabelle had chosen to sit behind Duff’s desk, since her muslin gown was wrinkled beyond redress at the moment.

“Duff is right, Miss Foster. He will have occasions like this before he’s fully recovered. There’s nothing to worry about.” James Stewart was a worldly man, and knowing Duff as well as he did, he expected he might be called to minister to him once or twice again before his wounds had healed. Particularly if Miss Foster continued in residence.

As the bandages were being replaced, James Stewart and Duff conversed as though they were meeting under normal circumstances, the men remarking on some recent events in Edinburgh as well as an upcoming sale at Tattersalls. Once his task was complete, the doctor left with only a bland admonishment to rest for the remainder of the day.

“I’m not coming anywhere near you,” Annabelle asserted as the door closed on the doctor.

“I will oblige James.” Duff grinned. “I’ll give you my pledge in writing, if you come sit by me.”

He was content when she did as he asked.

He didn’t think beyond that simple joy.

Annabelle was less prone to
carpe diem
conceits, but in the snug comfort of Duff’s affection, she allowed herself to relish her happiness.

At least for now.

G
iles burst into his father’s library as the duke was conversing with his steward. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered, standing in the doorway for a moment before striding into the room. “Do you mind, Galworth?” He dipped his head toward the steward. “I won’t be long.”

“I gather this is of some import,” the duke said, leaning back in his chair as the door shut on his steward.

“It’s of considerable import!” Giles shifted his stance as he stood before his father’s desk. “Walingame is alive!” he blurted out. “They brought him home this morning!”

“So I understand.” Nothing moved in the duke’s placid pose save for a deadly gleam in his eyes.

Giles didn’t question his father’s sources nor the look in his eyes. “Good.” With an exhalation of relief, he dropped into the chair Galworth had vacated. “You’re going to do something, then.”

“Naturally.” Julius steepled his fingers under his chin and smiled faintly. “I have a vested interest in my children living long and productive lives. And men like Walingame who frustrate my plans must be dealt with.”

“Let me go with you.” His father wasn’t the kind to let others fight his battles.

“If you promise not to do anything hasty. One son shot by Walingame is quite enough.”

He shrugged. “I promise. What do you propose to do?”

Julius glanced at the small clock on his desk. “Your brother has gone out with Miss Foster. I’m only waiting for your maman and sisters to set out for their daily perusal of the shops on Oxford Street before calling on Walingame.”

“He might not let us in.”

The duke’s lashes fell slightly. “I don’t anticipate that happening. However, I suggest you arm yourself.”

“There’s no doubt the world would be a better place without Walingame,” Giles said bluntly.

Julius sighed. “Much as I agree with you, his cousin seems to be cut from the same cloth. I’m not sure sending Walingame to Hades will solve our problem.”

“Get rid of them both.” Blunt, gruff words.

“So bloodthirsty, my dear Giles. Recall the legalities, if you please.”

“I’m not sure Walingame understands such niceties.”

“He will, you can be sure,” the duke said, his voice hard as nails. “I intend to make my position uncompromisingly clear.”

Forty minutes later, the Duke of Westerlands’ carriage drew up before Lord Walingame’s house. Julius and Giles exited the carriage, two men jumped down from the driver’s seat, a groom was left to tend the horses, and the small group proceeded to knock on Walingame’s front door.

The footman who answered the knock opened the door without comment, as did a second servant who merely indicated the floor above with a raised hand. Without further communication, the duke and his entourage raced up the wide staircase lined with portraits of Walingame ancestors. Striding down the corridor, Julius counted doors as though he knew exactly where he was going, and having reached the fourth door on his right, he pushed it open and entered Walingame’s bedroom.

His sources were excellent.

Walingame sat upright in his bed as they strode in, shock writ large on his face.

“You should pay your servants better,” Julius said suavely.

“Get out!” Walingame shouted. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

“You may shout, but I fear no one will hear you. Or at least the men at your front door.” Who were even now on their way to Westerlands House to enter the duke’s employ.

Julius nodded at his two henchmen, and as though responding to previous orders, one man shut the door and stood guard while the second walked to the windows overlooking the street and took up watch.

“This won’t take long,” the duke murmured—whether to himself, his partners, or Walingame was unclear.

“I’ll have you dragged into court for this!” Walingame blustered. “I’ll have you sued for assault! For breaking and entering!”

“Let’s be done with him,” Giles muttered, pointing his pistol at Walingame’s head.

“Perhaps later, Giles.” Julius’s voice was bland as he moved toward Walingame’s bed, his booted footsteps on the carpet whisper-soft. Coming to a halt at the end of the bed, the duke surveyed the earl for a fleeting moment, his mouth set, his dark gaze malevolent. “I should kill you now for what you did to my son,” he said softly. “No one would fault me for it. But I’ll allow you to live under certain conditions. And you’d do well to pay attention to what I say, for I’ll say it but once.”

Walingame heard the suppressed violence in Julius’s voice, saw the enmity in his eyes, and shrank back against his pillows. Julius had a dark side, rumor had it, the death of the duchess’s first husband having always been open to speculation. Lord Grafton had been in the midst of a very public divorce case against his wife when he’d suddenly died of an apoplexy—at the same moment Julius had returned to London with Lord Grafton’s wife.

The timing had been suspect to those who thrived on tittle-tattle, talk of foul play rampant. Then, with the rushed nature of the widow’s new marriage—Elspeth and Julius had been wed within hours of Grafton’s death—there were those who said Julius D’Abernon, then Lord Darley, had done in his rival.

“If you so much as look askance at anyone in my family,” the duke began, disrupting Walingame’s fearful musing, “I will have you killed. And I won’t take the time to go through any of the formalities. You will be shot, or drowned or thrown down a cliff. Do you understand? The means of your death makes no difference to me. You put yourself beyond the bounds of protocol when you shot my son. Will or Morgan, here,”—he gestured at his men guarding the room—“will take your life without a qualm. Or I will, or Giles, or any one of my many friends who will be apprised of my warning to you. In fact, England will not be to your liking. I suggest you take yourself abroad forthwith. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“You can’t make me go,” Walingame challenged heatedly.

“It’s your choice, of course,” the duke said, his voice silken. “Go or die.”

Walingame blanched before the ruthlessness in Westerlands’s gaze.

“I believe we’re done here.” Julius stepped back from the bed and said in parting, “You will be watched until you leave England. If you return I will know it the moment you set foot on English soil; you won’t reach London alive.” Turning without another word, Julius signaled his men, and taking the lead, walked out of Walingame’s room.

“Do you think he’ll leave?” Giles asked as they strode down the corridor.

“He has a choice, but my guess is he’ll find the Continent more salubrious,” the duke murmured. “Men like Walingame are cowards at heart. Until the earl has departed England, however, there’s no need to mention any of this to Duff. I don’t want him calling out Walingame.”

“He might have heard already that Walingame still lives.”

The duke smiled and shook his head. “Byrne sent word that Duff and Miss Foster are enjoying some solitude in St. James. I doubt we’ll hear from him anytime soon. And Walingame will be gone by morning. Either willingly or not.”

Before the carriage drove away, Julius spoke quietly to Morgan and Will, who stayed behind.

As he entered the carriage a few moments later and took his seat across from Giles, he said, “In the interests of safety, I’d appreciate it if you’d not go much abroad tonight. Stay at your clubs or with the ladies you favor, but don’t go out alone into the night. I don’t trust Walingame. Once he sails tomorrow”—the duke waved his hand negligently—“life will return to normal.”