The Darkest Sin (22 page)

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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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“There is nowhere I would rather be,” she said, and he wondered whether she realized the impact of the staggering honesty of her words.
He shrugged off his riding jacket and shirt and came down on the bed beside her. For the next few hours, they made love furiously, stingy with their words and generous with their passion, in a feeble attempt to hold the menace outside the bedchamber door at bay.
“I can't bear it. This is almost too much,” Rowena managed to gasp at one point, her head falling back, the column of her throat arched. His fingers bit into her flesh as she convulsed around him. She fell forward with a moan, her forehead resting on his right shoulder, and he held her as his own orgasm slowly subsided.
She raised her head, still astride him, her lids heavy with spent passion. “Is it always like this?” she asked. It was precisely the question he didn't want to answer. “I have no way of knowing,” she said with her usual brutal honesty.
Rushford did. The other women he'd known, and one in particular, did not readily jump to mind. How the bloody hell had that happened, he asked himself silently, running a finger over Rowena's lips. He hoped his expression was not as bewildered and open as hers.
“No,” he said finally, unable to lie to her or to himself. “This is different.”
Her dark red hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her long legs stretched astride him. “In what way?”
“Some things are difficult to describe.” He lifted her off his lap, aware that his answer satisfied neither him nor her. “And we don't have the time at present to discuss why we happen to enjoy sexual congress as we do,” he continued, no longer able to delay what was inevitable. She could not stay at Alcestor Court. “Even the Baron's guests might be shocked if they guessed how we've been spending the afternoon.” He shook his head, taking in the sprawl of Rowena's naked limbs beside him, the unruly tangle of hair, her eyes soft with satisfaction. He watched as she gathered up her chemise and pantalets. “Particularly if the Baron believes that you have met with an accident.”
“I refuse to run and hide,” she said, her head emerging from a froth of silk.
“I'm sure running and hiding undermine your very principles,” he said, leaning forward to begin closing the small buttons on the chemise. “However, that doesn't help us with the unpleasant reality facing both of us. And do not deny the facts. You saw the girth straps and trench as well as I did.”
“All the more reason to stay. We are obviously getting closer to Faron, if your hypothesis is true.”
“Consider this, then, Rowena,” he said. “If my hypothesis is true and they wish you ill, they have probably discovered that you are not Miss Frances Warren.”
Her expression remained surprisingly calm. She took the drawers from the bed and stood to slip them over her feet, raising her hips to pull them up. “I believe it is Sebastian who recognized me,” she said tonelessly.
His chest tightened, and he didn't recognize the sensation until a moment later. Fear—for Rowena. “What makes you say that
now
?” he asked carefully. He tried to ignore how she lifted her right leg and slipped a lace-trimmed garter up to her thigh and then completed the same action with her left leg.
“His voice sounds familiar,” she said.
“Familiar?”
“Similar to what I remember.” A slant of her hair obscured her profile and expression. “What I recall from my nightmares about the abduction.”
“Why did you not tell me earlier?” he asked, knowing her answer before she could respond. “Because you knew that your recognizing Sebastian would have been one more reason to rule against your coming to Alcestor Court.” He paused deliberately. “That places Sebastian at the scene of your abduction.”
Concentrating on lacing up her corset, she did not meet his eyes. “I can't be sure.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, turning around to face him. “I don't relish your choice of words, Rushford. I was raised by my aunt to be an independent woman who definitely does not wish to be
ruled against
.”
Rushford rose from the bed. “Even if your life is at stake? And the lives of your family?”
Rowena immediately stopped getting dressed, awash in a sudden rage. “How dare you imply once again that I don't put my family first, sir? When you, I warrant, are more concerned about your bloody stone tablet than anything else. You would prefer me to disappear from view for fear that I might put at risk whatever plan you have in place regarding the Rosetta Stone—”
“Hold off!” he ordered, his voice dangerously soft. “The Rosetta Stone is no business of yours, as I've told you a dozen times. You will only endanger yourself and your family further if you become embroiled in this situation.”
“As though you know anything at all about loyalty, or love for that matter, Lord Rushford.”
“I would be careful what you say, Rowena.”
“I will say whatever I wish, sir,” she interrupted, her complexion paling, her eyes dark blue pools. “You have absolutely no power over me. I shall do precisely as I wish.”
Rushford seized her upper arms, and in reaction Rowena attempted to swing her palm against his cheek. Her hand hung an instant in the air before she spun away from him in horror. There was a lengthening silence as he looked away from her to gaze out the window. “This is all a mistake . . .” The rawness of the encounter left him drained. “I shall send for the carriage.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don't know how we arrived at this juncture.” The words between them were ridiculously formal.
“I wish you to return to London.”
“I refuse.” The silence elongated, grew heavy; then Rushford turned, shrugging on his riding breeches and shirt, and left the bedchamber, closing the door decisively behind him.
 
It was late and the dinner party in full play when Rowena finally presented herself, without Rushford on her arm, in the dining room. She did not know precisely what awaited her, and she dreaded it, along with the blaze of lights and music. Immediately, the dozen guests turned their heads to mark her entrance. Baron Sebastian's friends were perfumed and dressed in finery that glittered like jewels, all of them seemingly talking at once.
“You look divine, Miss Warren.” Lord Braemore was the first to speak, escorting her to the table and to her seat. From the periphery of her vision, she noticed Sebastian assessing her presence without surprise. She had waited for Rushford to return to her rooms to collect her for dinner, rehearsing how she'd intended to approach him and sweep all his objections aside. She would not return to London, she decided, dressing carefully for the evening. She was armored in a delicate dress of pale crepe de chine, matched by long silk gloves, and her blond wig piled high and fixed in place with a diamond pin from one of the Rushford family store of jewels. Drained and shaken by their last encounter, she had proceeded through the movements of getting dressed with curious detachment and careful deliberation, waiting in her rooms for Rushford until the sun was setting and the maid had arrived to light the lamps. Deciding to linger no longer, she'd descended the grand staircase alone.
“You were positively magnificent today at the hunt,” exclaimed Lord Cecil Braemore, taking the chair next to hers.
Miss Barry, resplendent in a glittering gown of gold brocade, concurred from across the table. “Positively Amazonian, from what I've heard,” she said, her smile brittle. “Of course, I was still abed. I do so loathe the outdoors, I must confess,” she added with a delicate shrug of her bared shoulders. “Thank goodness we have Miss Warren here to join the gentlemen in their exploits.”
Rowena smiled and answered with a playfulness she didn't remotely feel. “I certainly enjoyed the fresh air and the opportunity to ride. You keep a wonderful stable, Baron,” she said, bypassing the actress and directly addressing Sebastian down the length of the table.
As always, his attire was impeccable, the superfine fabric and exquisite tailoring of his waistcoat and dinner jacket the height of sophistication. His black hair was slicked back from his forehead, his eyes concerned. “How ever did we lose you and Lord Rushford during the run?” he asked. “As your host, I was quiet anxious, truth be told, my dear Miss Warren. I should not wish anything untoward to transpire over the course of these few days.”
Cecil nodded energetically in agreement. “Lord no! We shouldn't want anything to befall you, my dear.”
“Lord Rushford and I had quite an adventure,” she said.
The Baron's brows shot up. “Indeed?”
“A little mishap with the girth straps of my saddle. Nothing more,” she demurred.
The Baron's frown deepened. “I shall have my groom look into the matter at once. This is inexcusable, and I offer you my heartfelt apologies, Miss Warren.”
Lord Braemore patted her hand with relief. “Your experience as an equestrienne no doubt held you in good stead, Miss Warren. And at least you're back safely now in the bosom of Alcestor Court. Although such a shame that you missed the conclusion of the hunt. It was quite spirited.”
A footman placed a heavy linen napkin on Rowena's lap. “To be entirely candid, Lord Braemore, I don't actually like to hunt.”
The Baron's brows rose once again. “How can that be when you ride so superbly, my dear Miss Warren?”
“I have no desire to witness a bloody slaughter.”
“That's simply nature you are recoiling from,” the Baron answered smoothly. “I shouldn't have thought you to be so timid.”
“Hardly timid, sir, merely empathetic to an animal's plight.”
“A tender heart, then,” the Baron concluded.
“If you will.”
“Speaking of which,” Miss Barry interrupted with a flutter of a small hand, “where is that charming escort of yours, Miss Warren? Perhaps he has lost his appetite?” she inquired slyly.
Rowena did not reply, concentrating instead on the dish of quail placed before her. Conversation murmured around her, and she answered the occasional question directed to her mechanically and with as much false charm as she could muster. She looked about at all the rapacious faces around the table, her unease sharpening. Where was Rushford, she wondered, alarm blossoming like a bloodstain.
The Baron was explaining how he had come into possession of his country house in Dorset, his homes in France and Italy, and his peripatetic inclinations when it involved roaming the world. Soon after there were various remarks about retiring early, accompanied by sidelong glances and languidly exchanged looks. Her anxiety growing, she contemplated the last course of ices and petit fours placed in front of her. She was half listening to something that Lord Braemore was saying, her mind weighing the wisdom of forging ahead with Baron Sebastian—with or without Rushford. Planning ahead, unlike her prudent sister Julia, was clearly not her forte.
Rowena felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Cecil's eyes burning into hers, fueled in good part by too much claret at dinner. All around them, chairs were being pulled back, and couples drifting from the hall to the salon beyond. Miss Barry had already exited, she noticed, as Braemore leaned in closer, the overwhelming scent of heavy cream sauce on his breath. “I was hoping perhaps,” he began, bringing his face closer and lowering his voice for her ears alone, “that you might be in some ways tenderly disposed toward me, Miss Warren. Might a gentleman hope for the favor of an evening stroll through the grounds?”
Rowena knew well enough that it wasn't a stroll he had in mind. Night had already fallen, and she realized any stroll would take place upstairs in Cecil's bedchamber rather than on the dimly lit grounds. Yet this was the expected behavior of a mistress at a country house weekend, she thought, watching as Cecil put a finger to her chin and leaned forward to kiss her. Her stillness was all the encouragement he needed. He leaped upon her like a man at a feast, taking her face in his hands and kissing her crudely, allowing his fingers to wander the cleavage that had tantalized him from the moment she had entered the room. Stiffening in shock, with one part of her mind telling her this interlude was a necessity of the role she had taken on, she pushed him away. Her distaste trumped her good sense. She shot to her feet, the fine crepe de chine of her gown straining against Braemore's grip. “My apologies,” she murmured, ready to tear from the room.
Before she could take a step, the Baron appeared at her side. “I believe Miss Warren requires a few moments to herself, Cecil,” he said carefully as Braemore slowly released a handful of crumpled silk. “Shall we retire to the conservatory, my dear?” he asked, proffering his arm, and ignoring the other man's frustrated expression. Rowena had no desire to be alone with either man, but the look in the Baron's eyes, shocking as a flood of ice water, made her nod her head in assent.
 
When Rushford thought back on it, he should have been better prepared upon returning to his rooms. He had felt rather than seen the three men behind the door, and then very definitely registered their hands, firm and insistent, gripping his arms. Briefly, he thought of Rowena, waiting for him in the dining hall, but then he refused to think of her again.

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