Capture The Wind (44 page)

“Damn you!”

Her hand flashed up and back, as if to strike him, and he caught it easily, twisting her arm behind her back to hold it there. That action had the effect of pressing her tightly against him, and he could feel the rapid, furious rise and fall of her breasts. He glanced down at the enticing shadow between her breasts, and the creamy mounds that strained against her low-cut gown. It had the usual effect on him.

“Angela
 . . .
” The word was a harsh groan, quickly lost in the heavy mass of her hair when he pressed his lips against her temple. She struggled against him, but he could only think of the times he had held her, the nights aboard ship, and the night they had made love in the ocean. How had she forgotten them so quickly? Did she really think that all he wanted from her was this
 . . .
and this?

His hand skimmed down her back over bare skin and curves, coming to rest on the gentle slope of her hip to pull her even closer against him. Maybe she was partially right. He did want her. God, he’d thought of her during more long nights than he cared to recall, remembering the silky feel of her skin beneath his hands, the sweet curves of her body. He knew she could feel his desire—Christ, she could probably hear the heavy pounding of the blood through his body. There was something infinitely arousing about an angry woman. This angry woman, anyway.

Kit bent his head and kissed her, holding her chin in the cradle of his palm so that she would not twist away, his mouth burning across her parted lips until he felt her begin to yield. The heady taste of wine was tantalizing, the tentative touch of her tongue against his even more so. Senses reeling, he backed her slowly along the balustrade to the leafy bower of a potted tree with long, trailing branches. He paused beneath it, slivers of light like tiny stars across her face as she gazed up at him. Her lips were slightly parted and her cheeks flushed, her breathing as rapid as his. Kit felt a spurt of satisfaction.

“Now,” he asked huskily, “do you deny that you feel the same desire for me?”

For a moment, she just stared up at him. Then Angela lurched several steps from him, her voice a halting series of sobbing breaths. “How
 . . .
dare
 . . .
you! You do not
 . . .
know me
 . . .
at all. Do you really think
 . . .
that bedding you is
 . . .
all I want?” A tear escaped from one corner of her eye, trickling over her cheek and making a silvery path through her face powder. Kit lifted a hand to touch her, but she took a hasty step back, putting both palms outward to fend off his touch. “No. I’ve heard enough. This night is
 . . .
is too much. Leave me alone. Nothing is what I thought it would be
 . . .
nothing.”

Turning, she tossed the trailing train of her gown over one arm and lifted her skirts above her ankles as she ran the length of the balcony to a flight of stone steps leading to the garden below. She disappeared from sight while he stood like a statue, staring after her. She was right. Nothing was as
he’d thought it would be. Nothing.

Time did not erase all wounds, nor did it alter the past. It only distanced it until one was able to view it from a distorted angle. But one thing was certain—Charles Sheridan had not changed. He was still the manipulative bastard he’d always been.

Pivoting on his heel, Kit stalked to the French doors leading into the ballroom. The time had come to have a long overdue father-son discussion. There were some things that needed to be said.

Charles Sheridan’s elegant
brow lifted in a languid slant. “My dear boy, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Slamming his hands to the surface of his father’s polished mahogany desk, Kit snarled, “The devil you don’t! You know very well what I’m talking about. We have been through this before—remember?”

“Christian, have you dragged me away from my guests just to rail at me about ancient history? Can it not wait until a more appropriate moment?”

“No.” Kit straightened. “It will not wait. Did you think I wouldn’t realize what you’re doing? You interfered in my betrothal to Susan, and somehow—God only knows how—you found out about Angela. You’re doing the same thing. I recall your tactics quite well, so don’t play the innocent with me. Divide and slaughter. Offer enough inducements, and the silly chit will grab at the brass ring in the pudding quickly enough. It worked with Susan, but by God, don’t you dare try it again. I won’t have it.”

“Won’t you.” Sheridan sat down in his huge leather chair and leaned back, fixing Kit with a supercilious smile that did almost irreparable damage to his temper. “I don’t really see that you have much choice, Christian. Miss Lindell was left here in London on her own, and I took rather a fancy to her. She’s a sweet little thing, don’t you think?”

With great effort, Kit resisted the urge to throttle the duke. Logic demanded that he not murder his father with several hundred guests only a few rooms away.

“Why are you doing this?” he contented himself with asking in a much calmer voice than he’d thought possible. “Do you hate me that much?”

In the process of lighting a cigar, the duke went very, very still. He stared at his son over the flaring match until it burned his fingers and he dropped it with a muttered oath. Then he carefully placed the unlit cigar in a glass dish and leaned forward, meeting Kit’s eyes.

“Quite the contrary. I have never hated you. I spent ten years of my life scouring the entire world for you. And for my pains, I recovered a hostile brigand who loathed me upon first sight. Hate you? Oh no. I may correctly be accused of many things, Christian, but that is not one of them.”

“Then why?” Kit shook his head slowly. “Why are you doing this?”

For a long moment filled with silence and the steady, sonorous ticking of the ornate clock upon the mantel, Charles Sheridan gazed at Kit. Then he gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “You are mistaken if you think I am deliberately trying to sabotage you in any way. If anything, I have gone out of my way to alleviate any difficulties in your life. You simply choose to misinterpret my intentions.”

“Alleviate—” Kit bit back a choking snarl, amazed at his father’s allegation. “Am I supposed to throw myself at your feet now and thank you for
alleviating
my difficulties? Do you think I don’t know why you beguiled Susan away from me?”

“Exactly. You have no idea why I chose to show you the young lady for the greedy little baggage that she was.” The duke lifted his unlit cigar with an irritable motion. “Wasn’t her defection proof enough to you that her emotions were not involved?”

“And is that what you’re trying to do with Angela?” Kit leaned forward, placing his palms on the desk and bending until he was within inches of his father’s face. “Let me offer you a warning—do not attempt to manipulate me again. Especially not with Angela. I’m a grown man now, not a heartsick youth.”

“Dear me, does this mean you won’t run away from home again? The last time was such a noble statement, fleeing like a scalded cat instead of staying to face what any man with backbone would confront.” He struck another match, deliberately holding the flame to the end of his cigar with disregard for Kit’s proximity.

Kit drew back, his voice tight. “I was barely twenty. I thought I was in love. To have it revealed in public that the woman to whom I was betrothed was now my father’s mistress was a bit more than I could stomach. I didn’t leave England because of cowardice; it was revulsion that drove me to the sea.”

“And an affinity for piracy.” Putting out the match, Sheridan tossed it into the glass tray. “Your childhood prepared you well for thievery, while I did my best to instill proper values in you. If you think I forgot you once you left the country, you are very much mistaken. I was aware of every ship in the Sheridan line that fell into your hands, and of every port where you docked. I knew how much care you took, how much profit you made—all of it. You show an aptitude for trade that would delight a burgher. Why do you think some of my well-armed ships did not return fire upon you? Did it ever occur to you to wonder why ships in the Sheridan line would return fire on any flag but yours? Or did you even notice?” Tapping a long ash from the end of his cigar, the duke laughed softly. “Details, Christian, details. They are the very marrow of any thriving business. Ignore them, and you may find yourself on a corner begging for bread.”

“I noticed,” Kit said tightly. “But it suited my purpose to inconvenience you at every opportunity. I thought it a rather fitting reprisal against your arrogance.”

Sheridan nodded thoughtfully. “Then that explains several puzzling events. Very well—so you were astute enough to play both ends against the middle. Eventually, one must tally up the sums to see who has won.”

“The problem here is that I was not seeking vengeance or victory. You were just useful. My pursuit involved something quite different from what you may imagine.”

“Ah yes, the eternal quest for Vivian. You have heard, by the way, that she is back in London?”

“Damn you.” Kit stared at the duke. “Have you always known where she is?”

“Approximately. She is a relatively easy woman to pursue, once one discovers the trick of it. I admit that it was not always so easy. She can certainly be a conniving piece of work when she wants to be.”

Reeling, Kit felt as if he had been caught unaware by a ground swell. It was as if the carpeted floor had just been yanked from beneath his feet. “Where is she?” he asked hoarsely.

Charles Sheridan rose to his feet and crushed the cigar into the glass dish on his desk. “Patience, son. Work out one problem at a time. Do not fear—she will not be leaving London soon. When you see her, you must be well prepared.” His mouth twisted into a cynical smile that looked vaguely familiar to Kit. “I would not have you taken by surprise as I was. Vivian is a very unique individual, and a very dangerous one.”

Striding past Kit, the duke reached the door, then turned around with one hand on the latch. “This has been a most enlightening discussion for me, Christian. I hope it has been as revealing for you. Now, I must return to my guests before the gossip about your reappearance gets quite out of hand. Someone must be there to be certain the rumors are steered in the right direction. Oh—and welcome back. Your arrival was most timely this morning.”

Echoes of the closing door reverberated softly in
the huge study, and Kit stated blindly after his father. He had been expected. It had been no sudden shock or revelation to arrive at the house this morning, except for his own surprise at finding the bustle of preparations for the evening’s ball. He should have known. Filbert’s bland countenance and lack of shock should have more than prepared him. Why had he thought he could discompose Charles Sheridan in any way? The duke’s network of spies would make a king envious. More than likely, news of Kit’s arrival in London had reached the duke long before the Sea Tiger—disguised, of course, with a dragon bowsprit and new name—had even docked at the Pool. Turk, as usual, had been quite correct in stating that the Duke of Tremayne employed many methods of gathering knowledge. It was glaringly apparent.

So what did he do now? He had bungled his first meeting with Angela, but the shock of not only seeing her there, but having her introduced as his father’s
amiable companion,
had thrown him off-course. Instinct advised him to tread softly around her. God, he had probably ruined everything now. What had happened to his earlier plans to woo her slowly? Gone in a moment of anger
 . . .
now he had to start over. He’d thought—hoped—to court Angela as any proper suitor would do, to allow their relationship to grow slowly and steadily, without the restraints between them that had been formed upon their first meeting.

After all, he reflected wryly, it was hardly conducive to romance to have the object of one’s affections as a prisoner. That state in itself entailed certain disagreeable formalities. Turk had been right. As usual. So what did he do about it now? When she was publicly his father’s companion? It would hardly be to his credit to press his suit when everyone in London assumed that the duke and Miss Lindell were “keeping company.”

Kit drew in a deep breath. The best he could hope for at this time was to keep his head and not make any more mistakes. After all, no betrothal had been announced. Instinct told him that his father’s emotions were not involved, and he was certain that Angela was more bemused than in love. All he could do was bide his time and wait.

Having repaired the damage
done to the rice powder liberally applied to her face, Angela joined her mother after a lengthy search through the crowd. Alicia turned anxiously, relief on her face at her daughter’s appearance.

“There you are. Angela—it’s the most exciting thing! You will never imagine in a hundred years just who has made an appearance here tonight.”

“Lord Westcott. The duke’s son.”

“Oh. You must have heard.” Alicia turned to survey the crowd. “Have you seen him yet? I caught only a glimpse before he disappeared. Everyone is talking—he’s an earl in his own right, they say. Where do you suppose he has been for so long? Lady Farnsworth—her husband is Sir Percival Farnsworth, a baronet—said that Westcott must have been tending the duke’s foreign interests all this time. Do you think that possible?”