Lord of Temptation (3 page)
Then a month ago her father had barked that she needed to snap out of this melancholy mood, as though she was a pea that could be snapped in half and the shell of her life discarded, while the soul remained. He wanted her to return to Society, to find another husband before she grew much older. She was all of three and twenty. So difficult to look back and realize how very young she’d been when Walter left.
Now she felt so remarkably old.
She knew her father was right. She needed to get on with her life. She knew Walter was not returning home to her, but she wanted the opportunity to say good-bye to him on her schedule, in her way.
Dear Lord, but she missed him. So much. Even after all this time.
She didn’t want to admit that the fury tonight felt good. So good. It had been so long since she’d felt anything other than grief. Well, except for the night when she’d met Crimson Jack and felt a slight stirring of—dare she admit it?—desire. When he removed her glove, when he touched her. Afterward she’d been glad that he declined her offer. She couldn’t imagine being enclosed on a tiny ship with him. Martha would be with her, of course. Perhaps even a second maid. The sensuality that oozed off the man would require an entire army of maids to protect her.
And here she was thinking about him again, the blackguard. He’d begun invading her dreams, her waking moments. She still seemed incapable of reading a book and absorbing the story. She would find herself drifting off with thoughts of
him
. She didn’t think of the old sea captain or the scarred one or the toothless one she’d approach about passage. She didn’t even think of the fair handsome one who had sat with a buxom redhead on his lap during their meeting. He had a boisterous laugh and a ready smile, but it wasn’t him she thought of. It was the captain with icy blue eyes that seemed to melt the longer they spoke. The one who made her wonder what it would feel like to trail her fingers over that unshaven jaw.
Walter had never been in her presence with stubble shadowing his face. All of his buttons were always properly done up. Not a single strand of his wheat-golden hair was ever out of place. The two men were complete opposites. The captain was not the sort to appeal to her in the least, so why did he plague her so?
She had no answer to that question as the carriage drew to a halt outside the manor. Suddenly she was incredibly weary. It seemed she only managed to attain any sort of energy when she was facing an encounter with Crimson Jack.
A footman handed her down from the carriage and she trudged up the stone steps, each one more laborious to reach than the one before. Once inside she felt the oppressive weight of despair. She would talk with her father. She didn’t want to enter the London Season. Not this year. Perhaps next.
“Martha, please give me a half hour or so of solitude and then bring me some warm milk with cocoa,” she ordered.
“Yes, m’lady.”
Grabbing the banister, Anne dragged herself up the stairs. The melancholy could overtake her without warning or invitation. It just seemed to slam into her of its own will. She didn’t like it, she didn’t want it. She needed Walter to conquer it. Her father didn’t understand that. He’d never needed anyone, not even her mother. Theirs had been an arranged marriage. They’d been content, but when her mother had passed away from influenza three years ago, her father had carried on.
Anne wanted to be that strong, but it seemed love made her weak, left her floundering when the one who held her affections departed this world.
She walked down the long hallway toward the corner room that was hers. Lamps were lit, but no sounds greeted her. Not a snore or a bed creaking or whispers. They were out, her brothers. Her father as well, no doubt. Why did men have places to go at night and women didn’t?
Going into her bedchamber, she closed the door behind her. After removing her pelisse and tossing it on a nearby chair, she began tugging off her gloves, refusing to remember how lovely it had felt as the captain had removed one. Fortunately she owned several pairs, but still she didn’t like that she had left one behind. When she was done she tossed them onto her pelisse and strolled to her mahogany wardrobe. The door released a quick snick as she opened it and reached into the back for the brandy she’d pilfered from her father’s collection. She knew ladies didn’t drink spirits, but she’d been so cold after Walter’s death that she’d been desperate for warmth. She’d found it one night in her father’s liquor cabinet.
She set a snifter on her vanity and poured herself a generous portion.
“I’ll join you.”
With a startled gasp she spun around, the decanter slipping from her fingers. It didn’t hit the floor and shatter into a thousand shards because Crimson Jack was close enough to snag it on its journey to extinction. Breathing harshly, she stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
Leaning slightly past her, he set the decanter on the vanity. Then he held up a hand before her face. Over it was draped her glove, the one she’d left at the tavern that awful night, the one he’d removed with such care.
“I came to return your glove.”
“How did you get in here?”
His gaze wandered over her features and she suddenly felt bared to his inspection. She desperately wanted to step back but she didn’t want him to view her as a coward.
“A tree grows outside your window. For a man accustomed to climbing sail rigging during a storm, a few branches offer no challenge.”
“If I were to scream, my father and brothers—”
“Are at their clubs. I doubt they’ll hear you.”
“The servants—”
“By the time they arrive, I’ll be gone.”
“Which is exactly what I want. Step back.”
With a slight bow he did as she asked. She could breathe a little easier now that she wasn’t inhaling his fragrance. Strangely his scent was sharp and clean. Tangy. Like an orange.
“You should not be here,” she said, wondering if she should in fact scream, not certain why she hadn’t as of yet.
“I do a good many things that I shouldn’t.”
He held up her glove again and she snatched it from him. “Thank you. You can be on your way now.”
“I thought to discuss your journey to Scutari.”
“As I shan’t be hiring you, I see no need.”
“You won’t find a captain willing to take you.”
She angled her head haughtily. “Not even for five hundred pounds?”
Seeing a momentary flicker of admiration, she knew she’d gained the upper hand. The next captain she approached—
“Not even for five thousand,” he said.
Oh, now would be a very good time to yank out his hair. Instead, she heard herself ask, “Why?”
“I told you. I want you on my ship.”
“Yes, and in your bed, I’m bloody well sure. Well it won’t happen. Ever. You disgust me with your suggestion that I barter away to you the one thing I hold dear.”
“Your fiancé doesn’t hold that place?”
The crack of her palm hitting his cheek echoed around them. He hadn’t tried to stop her, although after seeing the speed with which he’d caught the brandy, she was fairly certain he could have. His reflexes were sharp and quick. So why did he just stand there and take it? Why didn’t he step away or grab her wrist or shove her aside?
She stumbled back until she hit the wardrobe. “Please go.”
She hated the pleading rasp of her voice. But he was right. Walter should have been more dear than her virginity. He’d wanted it, the night before he left, and she’d been too damned proper to give it to him. Now she would never know his touch—and worse, he died never knowing hers.
The captain just stood there, studying her as though he could decipher every thought that rampaged through her mind. She hated him at that moment, hated him desperately.
She straightened her shoulders. “I’m calling the servants now.”
Tossing the glove onto the vanity, spinning on her heel, she headed for the door.
“A kiss.”
She spun back around to face him. “Pardon?”
“A kiss. That’s what I want you to barter for passage on my ship.”
“A kiss? That’s all?
A
kiss?” Surely she’d misunderstood.
Slowly he prowled over the thick carpet, silent as a wraith, until he was standing before her, his gaze smoldering as it dipped to her lips briefly. Then he was looking into her eyes, holding her captive as easily as if he’d bounded her with silk.
“A long, slow, leisurely kiss,” he whispered in a velvety smooth voice that sent a shiver of something that resembled pleasure scurrying along her spine. She suddenly felt so remarkably alive, so engaged. “On my ship, the moment of my choosing. If you draw back, then I get another until I am the one who ends it.”
“A . . . kiss,” she repeated. “That can’t be all you want.”
“No, it’s not all I want, but it’s what I’ll be content to take. Anything more, you must be willing to give.”
She shook her head. “You speak flattering words, designed to lure me, but I know you expect me in your bed.”
He touched his finger to her lips. “No. I expect nothing more than a kiss.”
“So why not take it now? Be done with the bargain?”
“Because I want to torment you as you do me.”
She couldn’t miss the hint of glee that jumped through her at his admission. “I torment you?”
“From the moment you walked through the door of the tavern on that stormy night. I don’t know why. I only know that you do.”
“Because you can’t have me.”
“Perhaps.”
She shook her head. “How do I know that once aboard your ship, you won’t force me?”
“Bring your lady’s maid, bring a dozen. In spite of my behavior, I assure you that when it comes to the ladies, I’m a man of honor. I could have stopped you from slapping me. I didn’t, because I deserved it. The words were uncalled for.” He shifted and suddenly a shining dagger was in her field of vision. “Carry this with you. If you decide it should be plunged into my heart, I won’t stop you.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say now.”
“A kiss, Princess, that’s all I require to take you to your fiancé in Scutari.”
She was probably a fool to trust him, and yet—
“When would we leave?” she asked.
“When would you like to?”
“Tomorrow. Midnight.”
“It shall be done.”
If he’d given her a cocky smile, a triumphant sneer, she would have left him waiting on the docks. Instead he merely extended a slip of paper toward her. “Instructions for locating my ship at the wharves.”
“You were rather confident that I would accept your terms.”
“Not at all, but I believe in being prepared.” He turned and in long strides headed for the window.
“Captain?”
He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder at her.
“You could use the front door,” she told him.
He grinned, a devastatingly sensual grin that brought out the glimmer in his eyes. “Where’s the challenge in that?”
Then he was out the window.
She scurried over to it, leaned out, and watched as he scampered down the towering oak like a monkey she’d observed at the zoological gardens.
She heard a knock on her door and glanced over her shoulder to see Martha bringing in her warm cocoa.
“Is everything all right, my lady?” the maid asked, and Anne wondered what her face must show.
Perhaps a hint of excitement, of anticipation.
“Begin packing our things, Martha. We’re going to Scutari.”
T
he following evening Tristan stood outside Easton House, his older brother’s residence. He didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had a ship to ready. But after visiting with Anne the night before, he’d gone to the docks to alert his men they’d be setting sail at midnight tonight. Upon arriving at his ship he’d found a note from Sebastian, inviting—a polite word for commanding—Tristan to join his family for dinner. Obviously going to see Rafe had been a mistake. His younger brother had no doubt alerted the older of Tristan’s presence in London.
He supposed he could ignore the summons, but during their youth they’d gone far too many years without contact. What was a couple of hours of inconvenience when they had the opportunity to be together?
He remembered a time when he would have simply walked into the house, but Sebastian had been a bachelor then and the house had seemed to belong to all three brothers. Now Tristan was more a guest, and his brother’s marriage to Mary had changed the dynamics somewhat.
He lifted the heavy knocker and released it. Just as he anticipated, a footman quickly opened the door and ushered him in. As Tristan was handing his hat, gloves, and coat to the servant, the aging butler appeared.
“My lord Tristan, welcome home.”
“Thomas, you’re looking well.”
“Couldn’t be better, sir. Thank you.”
“I assume the duke is in the library.” Making use of his well-stocked liquor cabinet if he were smart.
“Yes, m’lord. Shall I announce your arrival?”
“No need for such formality.” He strode through the familiar hallways, noting an empty spot or two where their father’s portrait had once hung. Their uncle had destroyed a good many of them. Tristan felt the familiar fury rise with memories of the vile man who’d sent them scurrying for their lives. His death brought no satisfaction.
As Tristan neared the library a footman bowed and opened the door. Tristan went through without slowing. This room had been his father’s domain. It brought a bit of solace but the sight of his brother standing near the fireplace brought more.
“Tristan.” The right side of Sebastian’s mouth lifted in welcome, the left side too badly scarred to do much of anything. His brother set aside his tumbler and was soon giving Tristan a bear hug and a solid slap on the back.
Then his brother released his hold and went to the liquor cabinet as though embarrassed by his warm welcome, one that was no doubt a result of Mary’s influence. “Why didn’t you send word when you returned to London?”
“I hadn’t quite decided what my plans were,” he said as he took the tumbler filled with amber that Sebastian offered.
“And now?”
“I set sail tonight.”
“So soon?” a feminine voice asked softly.
He spun around and grinned at the slender red-haired woman who had slipped into the room. “Now, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
He returned the tumbler to Sebastian, crossed the distance in three long strides, and lifted Mary into his arms, spinning her as her laughter pealed around them. Dear God, she almost made him feel as though he’d finally come home. By the time he eventually set her down, he was chuckling and they were both breathless.
“I hear you did your duty magnificently and provided my brother with his heir.”
She slapped teasingly at his arm. “It wasn’t a duty. And he’s already asleep, but we shall look in on him before you leave.”
“I’d like that.” He realized he’d been remiss in bringing a gift for the lad. He’d remedy that situation the next time he visited.
“Do tell us everything.” She sat in a large plush chair and Sebastian joined her, sitting on the arm, placing his hand on her nape as though he needed to touch her simply because she was near.
Tristan took his tumbler and a nearby chair. “Not much to tell.” Glancing up, he noticed the portrait over the fireplace. It was his brother, his damaged side partially hidden by shadows as he looked at his wife. “Nice portrait.”
“We were pleased with it. If you were staying longer, I’d have one done of Sebastian with you and Rafe.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure you’d have no trouble at all getting Rafe to agree to that,” he said wryly. He couldn’t imagine him agreeing to it. “Speaking of our younger brother, will he be joining us this evening?”
“No,” Sebastian said. “Unfortunately our relationship remains strained, and he declines our invitations.”
“But he sent word to you that I was here.”
“Yes. Don’t know if he knew you were leaving so quickly. Where are you going?”
He wasn’t certain how Sebastian would feel about Tristan’s journey to a place where so much blood—so much of his blood—had been shed. The last thing he wanted was to bring nightmares back into his brother’s life. “I’d rather not say. It’s a private charter.”
“I didn’t know you did private charters.”
“When the payment is right, I do anything.”
“Nothing illegal, I hope,” Mary said.
He winked at her. “Payment is everything.”
She scowled.
“Not to worry,” he assured her. “No danger awaits us on this trip.” But even as he said the words, he wasn’t convinced they were quite true. It
was
bad luck to have a woman on board a ship, even one as lovely as Lady Anne. He decided to take a risk. “Mary, are you familiar with the Earl of Blackwood’s daughter? Lady Anne?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I spent far too much of my life in the nunnery. I don’t believe we’ve crossed paths. Why?”
“No particular reason.”
“When do you ever ask questions that serve no purpose?” Sebastian asked.
He grinned. “Obviously tonight.”
At Sebastian’s narrowing gaze, Tristan stood. “I say, I’m quite famished. Any chance we can get this dinner under way?”
Neither his brother nor his sister-by-marriage moved a muscle.
“Does Lady Hermione know you’re here?” Mary finally asked, and he wondered what the devil had prompted that question.
“Why should she?” She’d flirted with him two years ago when he and his brothers had first returned to Society.
“She’s written me from time to time asking after you,” Mary answered.
“Surely she’s married by now.”
“I fear not. Apparently she is holding out hope that you would return for her.”
“It was innocent flirtation. I never once declared any feelings for her.”
“Be that as it may, I think she was quite smitten.”
“She’s a child.”
“Old enough to marry.”
“Not me, by God. I have no intentions of ever being shackled—” He cut off his diatribe as Mary angled her chin defiantly.
“Well thank you for that,” she stated tartly.
“You’re an exception,” he reassured her.
“I should hope so.” She studied him for a moment, making him uncomfortable with her perusal. “Do you plan to ever return to Society?”
He shook his head. “It’s not for me. I’m happier on the sea.” Or at least he had been. He wasn’t quite certain why this last voyage had left him so unsettled.
“But you worked so hard to see that Sebastian regained his place—”
“My love,” Sebastian said quietly, “my brothers have their own paths to travel.”
“Except that I truly believe all of you should be where you would have been had your uncle not sought to kill you.”
But he had, and they were forever changed. Tristan wanted to get off this maudlin topic. He quirked an eyebrow. “Still famished here.”
Mary laughed, a bit of forcing behind the sound, giving him what she knew he wanted. Bless her. Sebastian was a most fortunate man. Tristan doubted he’d ever find a love such as these two shared. It was a rare thing.
I
n her haste to finally see the beginning of her quest, Anne had neglected to take into account that she had selected the one night of the week when her father insisted that all his children join him for dinner. If he and her brothers followed their usual habit, they would all head to their various clubs shortly after dessert was served, but still she was so distracted by her own plans that she wished she could have avoided this situation.
She loved her family, she truly did, but the preponderance of male virility could be quite claustrophobic at times, especially as they believed that because she was female she required constant looking after, their opinions mattered more than hers, and the slightest upset could cause her to swoon—even though she’d never swooned in her life. Not even when she received word of Walter’s passing. She’d put up a stoic front and shed her tears only in private. He’d have been proud of her performance—because that was what it had been. Appearances. Everything was always about blasted appearances.
She wondered how her family would perform once they learned of her plans. She was going to leave them a letter so they would not worry, but they would not discover it until sometime tomorrow when they were all sober again. The trick, of course, would be slipping out of the residence without servants raising an alarm. Fortunately, only she and Martha were aware of the small packed trunk in her bedchamber. She would require trusted footmen—
“Keswick has returned to London,” Viscount Jameson, her eldest brother, said. All of her brothers were fair, but their hair contained various shades of gold that she’d always envied.
Each of them set aside their utensils at Jameson’s announcement and took a sip of wine as though he’d declared that he spotted Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein wandering about, and they were having a difficult time comprehending what it might mean. She loved her brothers dearly but they were, by far, the worst gossips London had ever produced.
“For what purpose?” Stephan asked.
“To reenter Society, I suspect. I’ve been told he has an heir now.”
“That didn’t take long,” Phillip murmured.
“What of his brothers?” Edward asked.
“If it goes as before, they’ll be right on his heels, won’t they?” Jameson answered.
“Can’t have that,” their father muttered.
“Why not?” Anne asked.
They all looked at her as though she’d sprouted horns. She was tempted to touch her forehead to ensure herself she hadn’t.
“You were in mourning when the lords of Pembrook returned to London two years ago,” Jameson told her. “Rough lot. No manners to speak of. They were raised outside the confines of Society. Quite barbaric.”
She envisioned them prancing around the ballrooms without any clothing. “I thought they were dead. Wolves had eaten them or something.”
“Yes, quite, that’s what we all thought,” Stephan informed her. “But apparently they ran off. Thought their uncle wished them harm so he could inherit the dukedom.”
“Did he?” she asked pointedly.
Her brother shrugged. “Was never proven.”
“Fanciful tales,” her father said. “Men do not kill to obtain titles.”
“I should hope not,” Jameson said. “I rather fancy a long life.”
Her father laughed. “As do I.” He sobered. “Anne, if these lords of Pembrook do make an appearance in the ballrooms, you’re to avoid them. I believe the Marquess of Chetwyn may have set his cap on you.”
“Walter’s brother? Why would you think that?”
Her father took a slow sip of his red wine as though she wasn’t waiting with bated breath for the answer. “Oh, just something I heard at the club.”
“Has it been wagered on?” Her brothers wagered on everything. They’d lost a small fortune because they’d expected her to marry Chetwyn rather than Walter. But she hadn’t loved the marquess. It was Walter who had stolen her heart.
“Might have seen something scribbled in the book at White’s,” Jameson said.
“Don’t look so devastated, sweetheart,” her father said. “It’s as I’ve said, you’ve far exceeded Society’s expectations with this mourning business. It’s not as though you’re a widow.”
“I don’t believe Society should dictate how long I mourn,” she said hotly. This had been a sore point between them. “That is a function of my heart.”
“Yes, well, it’s time for your heart to move on. And Chetwyn would make a jolly good match.”
“It would be almost like marrying Walter,” Edward said. He was her youngest brother, a year older than she, and apparently a numbskull.
“That’s disgusting. He’s nothing at all like Walter.”
“I should say not. He’s alive.”
She tossed her wine on her idiot brother, causing him to yelp, jerk back, and send his chair and himself to the floor. With him still sputtering, “See here now! It’s my favorite waistcoat!” she came to her feet amid the stares of those who remained at the table. “I’m trying to move on, and you all are making it extremely difficult. If you’ll excuse me, I feel a headache coming on.”
She flung her napkin to the table, turned—
“Anne,” her father barked in his not-to-be-ignored voice.
Grinding her back teeth, she faced him with her chin held so high that her neck was beginning to ache.
“We want what is best for you. You’re approaching an age when you’ll no longer be considered marriageable. It is my responsibility to see you with a husband so you are not a burden to your brothers.”
Yes, three and twenty was so terribly old. Perhaps rather than return from the voyage, she’d simply ask Crimson Jack to drop her off on a secluded rock somewhere. That had to be better than enduring such idiocy disguised as caring.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “And see to my duty this Season and secure myself a husband.”
Her father smiled. “That’s my girl.”
“I do love you all,” she added, “and know you have my best interests at heart. However, I’m going to retire now, so please enjoy your evening.”
And please, please, please, go to your clubs as soon as possible so I may make my escape from this madness.