Black Silk (13 page)
His hand slipped into his pocket, and he drew out a small pouch. “Though it’s anticlimatic, I should do this properly.”
Before Maryanne could blink, he had dropped to one knee. He spilled something from the velvet bag into his palm. Something that reflected candlelight like faceted glass.
He reached out and gently clasped her fingers. “My dear Miss Hamilton, will you make me the happiest man in England?”
It wasn’t glass, of course. The large, clear stone was most likely a diamond. Venetia possessed such things now, and Maryanne saw again how she was a product of her country upbringing. A noble lady would have thought “diamond”—not “glass”—at once.
So, however, would Georgiana, and that gave her courage.
“Goodness,” she teased. “You’re asking me to change my mind even after you’ve produced the ring.”
Frowning, he stared up at her. Oh, no—he thought she was serious. His lips cranked down.
She dropped to her knees in front of him, getting tangled in her skirts. “I meant it as a joke. A play on your words—you’d be the happiest man in England if I said no. I’m so sorry. I bungled it.”
“You didn’t, love.” The dimple returned, and his wide grin whisked away sensible thought. She struggled as she looked into his black eyes. The irises were as velvety black as the pupils. Surrounded by dark lashes, they were hypnotic.
If she took his ring, she would be the fiancée of this handsome, seductive…stranger.
He cupped her cheek, and the cool gold of the ring’s band touched her skin. A mere inch from her mouth, he smiled; then his lips softened and she knew…
A kiss to seal their fate.
It should be proper, brief, the touch of people who should understood they were strangers, who were embarking on marriage out of honor to correct a mistake.
But it wasn’t.
His fingers slid into her hair. Hot, beautiful, his mouth slanted over hers. Lovingly his tongue teased hers, and she soared between desire and tears. She’d worn no gloves, and she fed her senses on the feel of him beneath her fingertips. The soft silk of his hair. The roughness of his strong jaw. The slight rasp of stubble on his neck.
They would be wed. He would be hers.
Romantic foolishness. He never truly would be hers.
But she slipped her arms around his neck and impulsively pressed her breasts to his chest. In answer, he moaned into her mouth and melded his lips and hers. Fire burned inside her again. This heat could melt her, scorch her.
Dash leaned back, drawing her with him. He broke the kiss and sprawled onto his back upon the patterned carpet. With his arm crooked as a pillow beneath his head, he smiled a wicked invitation. “Climb on top, love. Pin me to the rug and have your wicked way with me.”
His hand pressed to the vee between her thighs, bunching her skirts between her legs, pushing against her cunny. Even that, even just that was maddeningly good. He rubbed there, against her aroused clit, until she was panting and moving against him.
He needed a wife, not a wanton, but she couldn’t stop.
Hiking her skirts to her hips, she straddled his legs—scandalous sin, this, in her brother’s home—and bent to press her kiss onto Dash’s full, firm, delicious mouth.
He coaxed her mouth wide, their tongues tangled. Her hair tumbled free of her prim chignon, ordinary brown curls dangling before her eyes.
Footsteps? Had she heard that? The creak of the door? Panic raced in her heart, and she jerked back.
A fevered glance behind proved it was only conscience. The door was still closed and locked, of course.
Strong fingers threaded into her mussed hair, and he drew her back to his mouth. “I want you now. I need to hear your cry of pleasure—it will be sweeter than even your ‘yes’ to my proposal. Or did you ever say yes?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know if I did. But yes, of course.”
“Of course.” Dimples bracketed his mouth as his fingers delved into the slit of her drawers.
She gasped as his fingers plunged up her cunny, his tongue invading her mouth. She feasted on his mouth and thrust against his hand as furiously as he tormented her.
Rough fingertips found her clit. She needed her release so much. She jerked against his hand, rubbing, exploring, seeking what she needed—
His fingers crooked, rubbing her clit so hard she saw stars. She grasped his wrist, stopping him.
He broke the kiss to laugh harshly against her lips. “So sweet and demure but such a wildcat about getting your orgasm, aren’t you, love?”
“Don’t stop,” she demanded. She kissed him again and rubbed against his hand—
Oh, yes.
“There will be no propriety in our bedroom, sweeting,” he promised. “Only the most inventive lovemaking for us. The delight of marriage is that we can explore whatever we want.”
Whatever they wanted? And he would know so much.
“Whatever you want, love. Bondage. Spankings. Dildoes in your creamy cunny and up your tight little arse.”
All his throaty promises excited her. Titillated, thrilled.
“Yes, Verity, fuck hard against my hand—I’m yours to use. Make yourself come.” Harsh, gritty, the words whispered against her lips.
“What if I want to soar across London in a balloon, f—fucking all the while?”
He cupped her breast, pinching her nipple. She was biting him, her teeth on his soft lower lip, biting and banging hard against his fingers.
“Ow! Blast, yes,” he groaned.
Oh! Like the crack of a whip, her body jerked in orgasm. It flooded, it overwhelmed, like plunging into cream and velvet and silk and sweat and joy and bliss….
She was falling—
She was. He’d lifted her and flipped her over, with one hand at her back to keep her safe. The rug rasped her bared legs. His hand was still at her cunny, which clenched madly, wanting his cock inside.
Dash was up over her, blotting out candlelight. His hand was at his trouser buttons. She arched up—
“Wait, love,” he groaned. “The babe. We can’t risk hurting the baby.”
“I
n the last three months, no more women have vanished,” Sir William said from the wing chair beside the fireplace in Dash’s bedchamber. “None have turned up dead.”
Dash tugged at the cuffs of his tailcoat, his gut in a knot. “This is the morning of my wedding, and you want to discuss missing women?”
He glanced at his reflection in the cheval mirror as he strode by—the nervous groom in a snowy cravat, ivory waistcoat, black topcoat, and immaculate trousers. Lines bracketed his mouth, and even he saw the tension in his eyes. In a quarter hour he’d leave for church, marry by special license, and brave the snowy roads to bring his reluctant wife to Swansley, his estate, for Christmas.
Sir William blew a ring of smoke. “It has to be discussed,” he returned, grim-faced.
“No women disappeared in London while I was away in the country with Anne.” Frustration forced Dash to snap, “You keep hinting at my guilt. Do you think I did it, Sir William?”
“Someone is going to great lengths to make it appear so.”
“I’m getting fed up with this. If you aren’t going to arrest me, give me some damned help. What do you suggest I do?”
“Stop pacing, Swansborough, for a start.”
“Any man facing his wedding is nervous. Are you planning to arrest me after the vows? Will you let me kiss my blushing bride first?”
“I don’t believe it’s you, Swansborough, though an arrest must be made. The
ton
is still horrified by that brutal murder in Hyde Park. Even though the victim was an actress.”
“You had the runners investigate Eliza Charmody’s death—her family, her former protectors—but you found nothing?”
Sir William gave a curt nod. “Nothing. And you pursued Lord Craven and his partner?”
“I’m to be married. I don’t want to discuss this now.” By the end of the morning, he would be married to Maryanne. Who had lied to him about her reasons for going to that salon—he had read it in her eyes. After spending his childhood with his mad uncle, he knew when someone was lying.
Surely Maryanne Hamilton, Trent’s sister-in-law, was not part of this plot to destroy him. Or was she? He couldn’t trust his uncle or his cousin, who were bloody family—why trust Maryanne, the stranger he was about to marry?
“This needs to be discussed, Swansborough.”
“I’ve already written to you about the details.” Dash groaned. “Craven keeps a small estate for notorious orgies, which I visited, but if he keeps ladies chained up on the premises, he’s damned good at hiding them.”
“What about your uncle?”
“He’s old and ill. Essentially bedridden.”
“But still able to employ people to carry out his wishes.”
Dash stopped his pacing by the fireplace. “Dangerous to hire others to murder women—too easy to lead to blackmail.”
“But your uncle isn’t entirely sane, is he?”
Just those simple words brought back Dash’s memories of a childhood of terror. But he refused to be a slave to fear, anger, and hatred on his wedding day.
Even if he wasn’t certain he could trust his bride.
“No, he isn’t sane,” Dash agreed. “And he’s willing to kill to get what he wants. From Buckstead, I hired men to watch his home. Trustworthy men, ex-soldiers—solid and thorough. I hired them to watch everyone in my uncle’s home, including my cousin Robert.”
“Did you go yourself?”
Hell, how could he admit the instinctive fear that had gripped him at the thought of seeing his uncle again? He was a grown man, not a frightened boy.
“Anne asked me not to,” he admitted.
“She knows someone is trying to frame you for kidnapping and murder?”
“Of course not. She overheard me discussing the trip with her husband.”
“Does Anne know about the past?” Sir William asked softly.
“She knows my uncle tried to kill me—she caught him at it once.” Dash’s cool, jaded tone belied the gut-wrenching jolt of fear that slashed through him at the memory. When he’d later caught Anne, terrified and hiding in the shadows, he hadn’t known if his uncle had seen her. He’d lived in terror for a fortnight because he knew if James Blackmore had thought his nine-year-old niece had seen him attempt to commit murder, he’d kill her to silence her.
At the time, Dash had thought Anne hadn’t understood what she’d seen. All the more dangerous, for an innocent slip of the tongue would have ensured her death.
Desperate, he’d turned to Sophia, who had assured him Anne would have her protection. And she had taken Anne away to live with her.
He owed Sophia a debt that would last a lifetime. She’d provided Anne with a safe home. With love.
“Lady Farthingale is still missing,” Sir William said. “We’ve found no trace of her after she was taken from Vauxhall.”
Dash rubbed his temple. Even though Lady F had been missing for three months, her only family were the children from Lord F’s first marriage, who did not care where their stepmother was. Her disappearance meant she wasn’t asking them for money.
“Potentially alive then,” he said hopefully.
“Or buried in a shallow grave.”
Dash’s gut lurched again, but he shook his head at the magistrate. “I doubt it if the plan is to make me look guilty.”
He had one lead—on a dark-haired Cornishman who had flirted with a pair of prostitutes and had mentioned a jape involving sex and a fat fee. A runner had found a man named Trevelyan Ball, who had been seen at Vauxhall and then had taken the Great North Road, but the trail went cold quickly. No one had seen a woman with him.
Three months had passed, and Dash was no closer to proving his innocence.
“Why are you marrying Trent’s sister-in-law?”
The question caught Dash by surprise. And he glanced up to a smile on his friend’s normally taciturn face.
“And in such haste?” Sir William added.
The answer was obvious, and he shot his friend a quick look. All of Society could easily guess the answer, given his reputation, but it was his duty to preserve his wife’s reputation.
“Love,” Dash answered. “What other reason drives a man to irrational measures?”
Sir William’s brow arched. “
You
have fallen in love?”
“Absolutely besotted.” Dash went to his desk, slid the small key in the uppermost lock, and opened the drawer. Pulling out a bundle of papers—copies of notes taken over the last three months—he tossed them to the polished surface. “Take these. I should have sent them to you, but I decided to propose as soon as I returned to London.”
He caught Sir William’s amused smile.
“I see you are not wearing black from head to toe for your wedding day.”
Dash felt his lips twist in a grimace. “No, on my wedding day I’ve no desire to proclaim my purgatory.” The mantel clock chimed the half hour. “It’s time for us to leave for the church.”
Soon, soon he would see his bride in her wedding gown. He started pacing again, suddenly eager to see her, as eager and nervous as a virgin schoolboy with a courtesan. He gave Sir William a jaded shrug. “I’ll be leaving for the country immediately after the ceremony—which should mean that no more women in London will be at risk. Thank heaven for that.”
Firelight glinted on the magistrate’s spectacles, hiding his reaction.
Soon he would be alone in a carriage with Maryanne. At the thought, his cock stirred. Swelling, straightening, leaking precoital juices into his linens. He remembered how tempting she’d looked as she straddled him, lust fierce in her normally gentle brown eyes.
But he couldn’t do anything to risk their child, which surely meant he couldn’t have lusty, wild sex with her. But he hungered to make love to Maryanne. To relive that moment in the balloon’s basket when he’d exploded inside her and felt like he was flying.
But hot sex would have to wait until she’d safely given birth.
Six long months from now.
A rap at the bedchamber door signaled that his carriage stood at the ready.
Time to tempt himself with a bride he hungered for but could not touch. A bride he desired but didn’t trust.
Sir William picked up the bound sheath of pages. “I never thought I’d see the day you put on the leg shackles, Swansborough.”
“Neither did I.”
Did all brides start their wedding day on their knees before a chamber pot? Maryanne set the pot aside and stood on shaky legs. Steam rose from the water in her basin, and she sighed in relief as she splashed it onto her face.
She threw another handful at her eyes and cleaned her mouth. With a soft towel at her face, she turned. Her silk gown lay on the counterpane covering her bed. A tug of the bellpull would fetch Nan, who would help her dress. For some reason she could not bring herself to start.
There was so much to do….
And she would be wed, even if she were fetched up at the altar wearing only her shift, with hair tangled and face still wet. Marcus would insist on that, no matter how hard Venetia fought him.
She couldn’t bear to cause them to fight. She had to wait and say it was her desire.
A glimpse of her cheval mirror showed a woman who looked as if she were facing the gallows.
In mere hours, she would kiss Dash as his wife. She would caress his broad shoulders, rest her hand on his powerful chest, she would undress and go to his bed.
Heat coursed through her. At once her nipples tightened beneath muslin, her breasts—already tight and full—ached. Another ache, deep and intense, began in her belly and flooded to her quim.
To protect the baby, to ensure she didn’t lose it, Dash had refused to make love.
He must hate her for trapping him.
Swallowing hard, Maryanne picked up the latest note Georgiana had sent—under a false name.
My goodness! Viscount Swansborough? How magnificent! How mad! How delicious. For there is no greater lover than he—his reputation is legendary. What a wonderful marriage bed you shall have, and I am so green with envy that my earl has taken to purchasing me emeralds by the score. But however did this come about, my dear? You must tell me all.
I have sent you the first pages for your opinion, for you can’t leave me now, not when we are in such dire straits! I’ve had no chance to have paste made of the jewels, so I have no funds as yet, and we must publish another book, though that blasted printer has sworn he’ll burn the next one unless he is paid. Please, please, please, my good friend—we are partners. You cannot forsake me now—
Five manuscript pages had been folded and tucked in the envelope. The beginnings of a new novel by Tillie Plimpton.
Maryanne shuddered. If their publisher was threatening to burn a book instead of print it, Georgiana had probably lied and the debts hadn’t been eased at all. Georgiana needed money.
What would happen if she wrote back to Georgiana and insisted she could no longer edit erotic manuscripts? Would her friend reveal all to Dash?
Would she demand money to keep her secrets?
Georgiana—blackmailing her. Why had she not thought of this possibility before? She’d thought they had been friends. She’d never thought a friend would turn against her.
What a fool she was.
Maryanne’s trembling hands tore the letter in strips, and she dropped two as she struggled to tear those into tiny chunks. She swept them all up, crumpled them, and then rushed to the fireplace. Her stomach tipped as she dropped to her knees and threw in the pieces. Even as the papers turned red and curled, she shivered with fear.
Dash would want to throttle her. He’d be furious—and they wouldn’t be able to fight the nasty rumors, for they would be true!
Given he enjoyed tying up women, heaven only knew what he’d do to her.
“Why are you not wearing your dress? What in heaven’s name have you been doing?”
Maryanne leaped unsteadily to her feet as Venetia swept in, her tiny son, Richard Nicholas Charles Wyndham, cradled in her arms. The room seemed to lurch beneath Maryanne’s feet.
Venetia knew about the letter….
No, of course not. Maryanne shook off the paralyzing guilt. Her sister had come because it was time—time to leave. And she was still standing in her shift and stockings with her hair tumbling loose down her back.
Her sister wore a lovely gown of dove-gray velvet with a lace-trimmed muslin blanket thrown over her shoulder to protect the dress from any baby accidents. Her sister, despite lack of sleep, glowed with delight as she stroked her baby’s tiny form.
“I was being sick,” Maryanne protested.
“I’m not surprised.” Venetia moved into the room, closed the door, and then marched to the bellpull. Even as she juggled wee Richard in her arms to free one hand, he slept on contentedly, dark lashes brushing cherubic cheeks.
Maryanne’s heart gave a pang. Soon she would be a mother holding a baby….
If she survived the horrible mysterious experience of childbirth. She’d heard Venetia’s screams. And Marcus had been at Venetia’s side to protect her; Dash wouldn’t do that for her, would he? He didn’t love her.
The maid would come soon—she only had a few moments to ask Venetia her question.
Didn’t you and Marcus make love while you were pregnant? It can’t harm the baby, can it?
But Maryanne couldn’t find the courage to put her question into words.
She must.
Dash wouldn’t wait six months for her. He would go to another woman’s bed. “Venetia—” Her words died away as she saw her sister’s pursed lips and serious eyes. Her heart gave a leap—Venetia’s expression could only mean trouble. What more could there be?
“Rodesson has come,” Venetia said. “To give you best wishes and a kiss before you wed.”
“No!” She’d spoken without thought, and the vehemence surprised her.
“Are you certain? He won’t go to the church, of course.”
“I know.” Marcus would give her away—he was her guardian, after all, and her father was supposed to be dead. Rodesson, the scandalous artist of erotic paintings, could not attend the wedding of a decent, proper young woman, a woman protected by a noble family. It would drench them all in scandal.
“I don’t wish to see him. He never wished to see me.” Maryanne wished that hadn’t sounded so petulant and young.