Lady Vice (18 page)

He looked up, breathing heavily, and smiled, dark and sensual. His eyes were clear as clean crystal and they sparkled for her and her alone.

“Filled with passion, love?” he asked.

Her cheeks heated as she remembered his fantasy. She couldn’t say it, could she?

Love made her bold.

“I…” She swallowed through a desert-dry throat. “I want your cock.” Her words caused a rush of wetness between her legs.

“Ah, yes, Vinia.” Max closed his eyes and groaned. “Say it again.”

She licked her lips, no longer shocked. “I want your cock, Max
.
”

“I will never get enough of you.” He shivered through his hips. “I knew we would be like this.”

He stripped off his breeches and yanked off his socks. She watched, oblivious to her own nakedness. His arm muscles rippled and his legs curved with masculine strength. She loved every angle, every plane. When he stretched to lift his shirt over his head, she saw his body in full. Her breath evaporated…simply gone.

Captivating was the first word. Then, manly, delectable,
prime
.

His lips twitched. “You approve, I gather?”

“You are lovely.” A gift made for her keeping.

“Climb onto your bedcovering, love.”

“Not mine,” she murmured, stepping back.

His muscled legs followed her movement. He captured her waist as he pressed his lips to her neck.

“Yes, yours. I bought it for
our
bed.” His words scattered on quivering skin. “And at last
our
bedcovering will be christened.”

She would have sunk anyway, she wagered. Her knees had lost the will to stand. She sat on the bed, feeling deliciously decadent.

Cool air tantalized. Max slipped to her side, offering his warmth. He ran his finger along the under-curve of her breast.

“Perfect,” he said. “Pert and pretty,” he shook with a low snicker, “like you.”

He prevented her from covering her face.

“Why be embarrassed?” he asked. “There is no need.”

A fullness clogged her throat. Tears gathered between her lashes but did not fall.
No need to be embarrassed.
She swept her fingers across his forehead, brushing aside the strands of hair so she could better see his eyes.

There.
There he was. Her love. The man she had known her whole life. Tightness she had not realized she carried eased from her shoulders, warmed by his heat.

“I am not embarrassed,” she said.

He took her finger in his mouth and sucked. His tongue grazed the tip, just before her nail. The gentle pull of his teeth sent shocks up her spine.

Sitting up, she let her finger, damp with his kiss, meander over his throat. She smiled as his guttural moan rumbled through his stomach.

Leaning down, her hair spilled across his chest. She ran her tongue around his salty nipple.

He jerked. She giggled.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and flipped their positions. She squealed, suddenly pinned beneath a hungry, panting man.

Joy in bed was new, and she could not have been happier. She thrilled to the sound of his erotic, throaty laughter. Gifting pleasure to a man she loved was an experience like no other.

She pressed her breasts up against his hard chest. She pined for moans, groans, and laughs…passion’s sublime song.

Lusciously animalistic, he dominated. She arched upward, kissing him with fervor.

“Make me yours,” she said, her words wrenching from her throat as she tilted her head backward and curved her spine.

“You already are,” he murmured. “But let us seal the deed.”

With expert touch, he cupped her ass’s curve, urging her to tilt. His cock spread her folds, easily sliding deep.

Union. Passion. Light.

Keeping one hand in firm hold, he secured their position. With his other hand, he flicked the wanton ache in her nipples. Each of his thrusts met the coil of pleasure at her core.

She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, rocking closer with every breath. Light burst—a thousand tiny sparks flaring. She crushed her breasts to his chest, and her inner muscles clenched.

Max thrust twice through her shivers. With a long, deep cry that would be forever sealed in her heart, he stilled.

She wrapped him in her arms as he released.

…

Max had found heaven—or, perhaps he had found hell. He was not completely convinced of which, knowing only he floated in the hazy glow of tender—

Good God. When have I ever used the word tender?

He rolled to his side and fitted Lavinia against his heart, concentrating on her pulse. Her soft breath fanned his skin, and his thoughts dissipated into a pool of languid oblivion.

“You said you knew this would happen,” she whispered.

Stalling for time, he kissed the tips of each of her slender fingers.

“Until I saw you, I was not certain how either of us would react.” He paused to kiss her palm. “But I always hoped.”

If she were to parse his words, she would notice he had avoided her question. Of course he had not known, but it would be a lie to say he had not been driven by a kind of irrational desire.

Her lids fell and her gaze gentled. She looked dreamy. Perhaps she
was
from Elfhame after all, a fairy princess playing in mortal form. Never in his life had he seen, nor would he see, anything so beautiful.

She sat up. Her hair swished like a curtain, falling over her naked breasts. Her tiny palms pressed his cheeks. With her fingernails, she etched small patterns beneath his ears as she lowered her lips.

A gentle kiss—sweet and supple.

She leaned away, smiled demurely, and stretched. He sensed she reached for something she could not quite grasp. He understood. A powerful surge of yearning stole his breath.

No matter how much he felt like crowing, his elation brought him no closer to truly making Lavinia his than she had been when he was thousands of miles away. They had stolen an act of love, but he wanted to make her his in truth—not just in private, but for the entire world to see—a gentleman and his lady.

“So here we are, lying on a bed covering I carried across the continents for you—”

She laughed. “You sailed home.”

“Across one continent, then.”

Another laugh. In Lady Sophia’s garden, he had despaired of ever glimpsing the Vinia he had known. This was the second time he’d seen her carefree. He clasped her hand tightly, so very grateful to have been wrong.

“So” he continued, “when this is over…”

A sudden, nervous uncertainty massed in his throat, killing his words. Who was he to a fairy princess that she should condescend to his petition? He rested on his arm and drew her hair to the side, exposing her neck. He placed a kiss on her shoulder’s curve.

“
Umm
, that feels lovely.”

“
Shh
, Vinia,” he said, allowing his courage to build.

“Am I to be kissed and not heard?” she asked, teasingly.

“No, never. But interrupting is rude.”

“Apologies,” she said, grinning.

“Accepted.” What he wouldn’t do to capture that smile. “So, as I was saying”—He swallowed—“when this is over, will you make an honest man of me?”

“Oh Max,” she said, and her grin disintegrated. She rocked with shallow breath as she stared at his chin, reliving images he could not see.

“What is it, love?” he asked. “You want to be my wife, don’t you?”

Chapter Twenty-One

“I have seen and done shameful things,” she said.

Her lower lip quivered, twisting a dagger lodged between Max’s ribs. Her eyes, heavy with detested memories, dropped to the bed.

“If I were an honorable woman, I would not expect you to share my yoke.”

“We already spoke of this,” he said, folding his fingers into a half fist to staunch a trickle of anger. “I consider the matter resolved.”

Her gaze flew to his with the stinging swing of a trapball bat. Inwardly, he cursed his hasty reaction. A note of unintended irritation
had
crept into his voice. But after what they had just shared, how could she doubt him?

“I see,” she said. “One tumble and years simply disappear? Even you do not have such a gift.”

He trained his eyes to remain calm and coaxing. “You trusted me with your body. You can trust me with your heart.”

She lifted her brows as if considering. She tilted her head, hair wisping over her skin. Then, her face fell. “I
can
say facing the worst will be easier, knowing we’ve shared a perfect night.”

That
was her allowance? Warning clanged like distant church bells. “Your tone gives me pause, love.”

She sank into his pillow. “You said we had a lifetime to learn each other,” she said, in a voice so quiet, she could have slipped past sleeping Cerberus. “But while I am at risk, I cannot make promises.”

Max brushed her hair away from her face. Her skin warmed his fingers, but her paper-pale cheeks cautioned. She was rapidly slipping away, damn her stubborn, benumbed soul.

“I swore I would never let them take you. I honor my commitments. Do you understand?”

She stretched her lips, an incomplete smile, brittle as a dry bone. “You will do everything you can, I know.”

The ease, the closeness, the feeling of being wrapped in a protective blanket thick as Siberian snow cover, evaporated. He shrank, all at once becoming the defiant young man beneath her father’s glower.
What, pray tell, can you give my daughter that would tempt me to release her to your care?

Her father may have later admitted his wrong, but the moment’s degradation remained undiminished.

“You believe I can protect you,” he said, bolstering his dignity. Lavinia must believe in him. She
must
—now and forever.

“So valiant—you pitting yourself against the royal court.”
She might have substituted the words “what a sweet little boy.”
“Would you have me rob you of the fruits of your struggle and debase you as Vaile did me?”

Debase?
“I do not follow your logic.”

After all he’d done, she still gazed at him with a skeptic’s eyes. The beast inside him paced like a caged and restless tiger behind weakened iron bars, purposing to toss her, like battle-spoil, into its cave and defend the opening with bared teeth.

No.
A gentleman did not hoard, he protected. And a lady was to be won, not conquered.

Would that he could deftly maneuver a conversation with as much ease as his ribbons commanded his horses. He must urge Lavinia back, and to do so required stern and complete control.

“I frightened you,” he said. “Why?”

Her eyes flashed, reproachful, wary. “You really do not know?”

He shook his head no.

“You mentioned marriage. What if Montechurch—or the madam—reveal the whole truth?”

“I will not let them hurt you.”

She studied him in silent deliberation. “What if
I
must reveal the truth…to hurt them? I must use everything in my power to bring Montechurch to justice, including my shame.”

His heart twisted. “I do not understand.”

“Montechurch is, I believe, Vaile’s killer. If I am right, he will not stop until I am dead, too.”

Cold formed in geometric patterns on his neck, extending into his hair and down onto his back. Ruin herself? Ruin them both? This could not be the only way.

“What motive?” he managed.

“Efficiency.” She dropped her head, shielding her face with a fanned curtain of hair. “By killing Vaile and framing me, he would exact a double revenge, cold and efficient.”

Which was not a complete motive. “There is nothing efficient about this murder. Nothing neat. When Grimley came to question you, Montechurch hinted at your threat to shoot Vaile. Yet he declined to testify to the court.”

“He thinks himself grand, but he’s rarely been challenged. Don’t you see? Monte did not testify because he was afraid of what he’d reveal about his own perfidy.”

Monte?
“What is
Monte
to you? How well do you know your husband’s cousin?”

Her eyes were slick and thick with oily secrets. “Like the veins on the back of my hand.”

The beast’s ears turned forward, back muscles rippling.

She frowned. “I do not approve of your look. I have no feeling for Monte but disgust. He was Vaile’s constant companion. He is a despot and a braggart and, when in jeopardy, he becomes a howling child.”

He cursed the jealous beast to silence. So she knew her husband’s cousin well enough to call him Monte—what did that prove?

“Why grant him the intimacy of an endearment?”

“Vaile called him Monte.” She held his gaze, defiant, challenging.
You could have trusted me
.

“Does
Monte
have a weakness other than the secrets you keep?” he asked.

“Perhaps.” Memories cast patterns on her face like reflected clouds on a barley field. “He is terrified of his father. When his father demanded his presence, Monte became ferocious with Vaile and, in turn, Vaile with me.”

“Boot dirt,” he said, with disgust. “Both of them.”

“Together, their weaknesses were multiplied, but are they so different from the rest of your sex?”

“Night and day!”

She shrugged, rolling his astonishment off her shoulder like a loose lock of hair. “If you say so.”

“I hope you aren’t lumping me into a lot with them,” he said.

Distrust rested in her eyes, thick and dangerous as bog mud. “I haven’t much experience with men of honor.” Her voice went low and gritty—the same voice she’d used at Sophia’s. “Monte, on the other hand, I know.”

The warning bells that had been so distant now clanged inside the room. Suddenly, he
knew
she was already formulating a plan.

“What do you intend?” he asked.

She lifted her chin.

“For the thousandth time, Lavinia, I am on
your
side.”

Her eyes remained fixed to the bed. “If I must, I will confront Monte myself.”

“Absolutely not.”

She lifted her head, alert as a hunted fox. “Are you forbidding me?”

Montechurch’s agonized cry for Lavinia reverberated in Max’s bones. “Hell, yes.”

“I will consider your wishes, but trust my own judgment.”

Within himself he heard a growl—low and sustained. Hers was a careful answer, a wise answer, an answer the gentleman in him should honor.

What if she
could
influence Montechurch? Dare he dismiss such an opportunity?

He’d heard a tale in India about trickster weavers who told a maharaja about cloth so fine it could not be seen by those of low birth. Such a fabric never existed, of course, but in the tale, that did not stop the foolish maharaja from paying a fortune for air, all because he was certain of his superiority.

Was Montechurch such a man? Could he be tricked?

Even if he was, must Lavinia be the one to tell the maharaja he was naked? They had both lost so much already. And, once the whole truth came out, the story of her marriage to Vaile would follow Lavinia for the rest of her life.

Follow them both.

Competing impulses locked horns like Scottish stags in vicious confrontation. If he forbade her, she would assume he was rejecting her, not the idea. Revealing Montechurch for the blackguard he was
could
bring him down.

But she should, for surety’s sake,
listen
, damn Satan’s shriveled soul.

“He’s mad, Vinia. Not eccentric mad, but chained-to-Bedlam’s-floor mad.”

“No one knows his madness better than I.”

Their eyes locked and a phantom doubler to his chest left him winded. “You would do this, no matter what the threat—no matter what my wishes?”

“I don’t yet have a specific plan. We are finding out as much as we can about Monte and the brothel.”

So great was the danger, the warning bells stopped ringing, leaving an empty, eerie silence in his soul.

“What brothel?” he asked.

“Monte owns Iphigenia’s brothel.”

A huge piece of the puzzle moved into place. He frowned. So much for the money he’d spent on expert solicitors.

“How did you find out he owned the brothel?” he asked.

“I did not know until Emma told—”

“Emma?” he asked, his tone a tad strident. “Who is Emma?”

She searched his face with an odd expression. “Her Grace, the dowager duchess of Wynchester. She insisted I call her by her given name. She is quite friendly.”

Add one more to the side of avenging females. Before they had left Vaile House, Wynchester had warned him the harridan would meddle.

“Friendly,” he said broodingly. “Is that what they call it?”

Her eyes widened. She dropped one knee and sat straight.
Not good.

“You disapprove of Emma.”

“Not disapprove, exactly. You do not know her very well, you must admit.”

She drew her legs into her chest so she no longer touched him. Surely, the bed had turned to peat bog, and he was sinking.

Her eyes accused. “She called
you
her lovely young neighbor.”

“Wynchester told me—”

“Wynchester?” She stretched the name from wan disbelief to shrill displeasure.

He took her hand. “Tell me what else she said about the brothel. Let’s just forget I said anything about—”

“No. What did
Wynchester
tell you?”

He’d awakened standing in the center of an unfamiliar room packed with strangers. “Nothing. Wynchester told me nothing.”

Her color lightened as her anger receded, leaving something worse—resolve. She stared into his eyes for a long, silent moment and then started shaking her head
no
.

“What are you negating?” he asked warily.

“You,” she said. “I thought I understood you. I thought you understood me. I
told
you we are strangers.”

“Please do not retreat.” He reached out. “I only suggest caution.”

She flinched, avoiding his touch. “Yes, I imagine you would. You, who trust no one.”

Did he trust her? He wanted to say yes, but his trust was too young, too green, and the vine had not yet fully covered the walls he’d built between him and everyone else in the world.

He blinked as if to shake a daze. “What is happening here?”

She widened her eyes with brows raised, as if he’d asked the year, month, and monarch. “You forbade me to use my own judgment, and then you insulted my friend.”

“No.” Their conversation played at a double-time trot. “I don’t believe I did either.”

“Am I to doubt my hearing as well?”

He was suddenly shoeless in a ballroom strewn with glass. He exhaled, closed his eyes, and remembered the way she had held to his back in the moment of her surrender.

This is Lavinia. My love. My life. My duty.

When he opened his eyes, only he and Lavinia remained. Two people across a treacherous but navigable river. No matter—he’d cross rivers of fire if requisite.

“This is me, Vinia.
Me.
We share history. We’ve just shared passion. Even if I had strong concerns about the dowager, would you choose her part over mine?”

“I do not wish to.” Her eyes remained full of glossy hurt. “But judge her and you judge me.”

One misstep and he’d lose. She was already perched on the side of the bed, ready to flee.

“If I wish you to be cautious with the dowager, is that the same as judging you?”

She set her chin. “I went to a brothel, Max. Men—who knows how many—have seen me naked. They have seen me fucking—do not look away—what I did was
fucking
.”

Another phantom doubler. “The dowager was a madam. It is hardly the same.”

“So you
are
judging her.”

“That’s not what I meant.”
Christ
. “I do not know the dowager but for the occasional neighborly greeting.”

“But she was a madam, so she is worthless.”

“I never said…” He exhaled harsh and fast. “Look, I haven’t judged Maggie, have I?”

“Maggie is a servant. Emma is our equal.”

“Is she?” he asked.

She could not be serious.
Their equal
? The dowager duchess had been a mistress and a madam and God knew what.

“Proud Max,” she derided. “I was afraid of bringing shame to your name in the eyes of others. But I already shame you, don’t I? I always will.”

She reached for her dressing gown, but he cast himself in the way.

“Forgive my harshness,” he said. “Come back to me. You cannot shame me. I depend upon your good opinion more than you depend upon mine.”

She sat back, curled her arm around her leg, and rested her chin on her bent knee.

“Is that true?” she asked.

“I swear.”

“I spoke in anger,” she said quietly.

“Come.” He held out an arm. “Let me bring you comfort.”

She gazed at his hand with wary longing but held herself apart.

Male vanity.
Had Sophia not warned him that Lavinia would withdraw? She’d been right once more. He rolled his neck, intentionally softening.

“Would you like to don your shift?”

She considered, then nodded. He retrieved her shift, and she pulled it over her head. He waited until she settled back into the mattress—more comfortable, now covered.

“Let us start again,” he said.

“You have asked that of me before.”

“An apprentice does not learn his trade on the first day, or the first year. We will start again and again and again…”

“Really, Max?” Her eyes were red and heavy and burdened with unshed tears. “How many times are you willing to try?”