Nicole Jordan (37 page)

Seeing his grim expression in the dim glow from the exterior carriage lamps, Diana affected an indifferent smile. “Actually, I was reflecting how my ardor all those years ago was merely a girlish infatuation.”

“Good,” Thorne said tersely. “I’m pleased you have finally come to your senses.”

She raised an eyebrow, determined to remain cool. “I never would have suspected you to be the kind of man to fall prone to jealousy.”

“Well, you can revise your suppositions. You are mine, love, and I have no intention of sharing you, even if it’s merely in your thoughts.”

His show of possessiveness was flattering but misplaced, Diana thought, regarding him narrowly. “I am
not
yours, Thorne. We have a pretend betrothal, nothing more.”

“We have a great deal more.”

Sliding an arm around her shoulders, he drew her close against his side.

Diana stiffened, yet desire flared inside her, fanned to instant life at his touch, even before Thorne bent to kiss her. Clamping her head between his hands, he slanted his mouth over hers and took her lips in a searing assault.

The very rawness of his male hunger caught her off guard. But when his tongue danced, dueling with hers, plundering, she found herself surrendering helplessly to the fierce, sensual caress.

His eyes were hard and bright when he drew back. Before she could even take a breath, he clasped her hand and guided it to his groin, making her feel the hard bulge beneath the fabric of his satin breeches.

Her mouth went dry.

He opened the front placket so that his swollen arousal sprang free. Then grasping the skirts of her evening gown, he pulled them up to bare her naked thighs. His quick, hard breathing feathered her face as his hand slipped between her legs, pressing against her feminine cleft.

“Thorne…”

“Be quiet,” he ordered.

He spread his fingers against the quivering softness of her sex, feeling the heat and dampness and need of her. She was wet silk between her legs, and his caressing fingers made her flow even hotter, more wanton, teasing a moan from deep in her throat. Her hips arched in desperation as she rubbed herself against his hand in time with the rhythmic rocking of the coach.

Thorne felt a surge of triumph. She was trembling now, making no protest as he pulled her astride him. One thrust, he knew, and she would be writhing in his arms.

His hands gripped her yielding buttocks and ground her against the hard ridge of his manhood. He thought he would explode without her moist heat around him.

Lifting her up, he entered her swiftly, feeling the delicious clasping and gripping of her inner muscles around him. She gloved him so hotly, so tightly, that he knew he could finish before he gave her any pleasure.

Thorne gritted his teeth, fighting the shudder of stark heat that sizzled through him. But when Diana bucked against him, he gave a growl that was raw and primitive and kissed her again fiercely.

A taut, savage need was blazing between them now. Want had become craving, and his own rough excitement was matching Diana’s frenzy. She welcomed the hard thrusting of his body as he took her, his tongue plunging in the same demanding rhythm as he filled her again and again.

In the next instant a low, rough groan burst from his throat. His control snapped, shattered, while she ignited with fiery urgency. His lips drinking in her wild moans, they came together in a firestorm of pleasure.

When at last it was over, Diana collapsed weakly against him, their breaths rasping in harsh gasps.

Dazed, Thorne sprawled on the carriage seat beneath her, trying to make sense of their primitive, reckless coupling. From the moment he’d entered the carriage behind Diana, he’d fought the savage heat of his body. And the instant he touched his mouth to hers, he’d been wild to get inside her, to claim her for his own.

He hadn’t meant to take her like that, with such raw, unbridled need. But he couldn’t regret making love to her.

He suspected Diana regretted it, however, for she suddenly pushed herself off him and retreated to the opposite seat, smoothing down the skirts of her gown with tight, jerking movements.

“I cannot believe I let that happen,” she muttered to herself, not even looking at Thorne.

“Why not?” he asked sardonically as he rebuttoned his breeches.

“Because I had just vowed to myself—” Diana cut off the answer she’d begun. “Every time you touch me, I turn into a perfect wanton.”

“I fail to see the problem.”

“Thorne…”
She gritted the word in frustration, before taking a deep breath. “For one thing, I don’t dare risk bearing a child out of wedlock.”

“If that should come to pass, we’ll be married at once.”

Her body stiffened, her chin rising stubbornly. “No, we will
not,
Thorne. This has to end. We cannot continue this way.”

Just then, the coach began slowing. Frantically straightening her bodice and hair, Diana clenched her jaw, yet Thorne suspected she was even angrier at herself than at him.

When the coach rolled to a halt, however, she lifted her gaze to meet his sternly. “Please do not call on me tomorrow—or any time in the near future. We need a respite from each other.”

Before he could reply, a footman opened the carriage door and let down the step. Diana alighted and fled, running up the entrance stairs to her house before disappearing inside.

Thorne sat there unmoving, jolted by her abrupt dismissal—and even more disturbed by how badly he had lost control of himself. His savage jealousy had driven him to treat Diana like the veriest doxy, taking her in a
carriage,
for Christ’s sake. He’d been determined to claim her and make her forget that damned Ackland, who had dominated her thoughts all evening.

Wincing as her front door slammed shut, Thorne wondered if he should go after her. Perhaps if he exercised his most valiant charm, he might be able to soothe her obviously distraught temper.

Then again, perhaps it
was
a good idea for them to have a brief respite from each other. They’d been together in each other’s company nearly every day for weeks now, until just recently many of those hours engaged in fervent passion, satisfying their every lustful desire.

His own response to their carnal interludes, Thorne acknowledged, was totally unexpected. He’d been certain that once he made love to Diana a score or so times, his desire for her would diminish to a manageable level. Yet his sexual attraction had swelled to almost frantic intensity.

He had never been so hungry for a woman before, so hot. He couldn’t get enough of her. He spent the hours away from Diana craving the feel of her, the touch and taste and smell of her. And when he was with her, all he could think of was making love to her again. Even when he’d been deep inside her body just now, feeling every ripple of pleasure from their explosive climax fade, he’d wanted her again.

No, Thorne thought, setting his jaw. He wouldn’t follow her and try to apologize. A respite was just what they needed. Time for his burgeoning obsession for Diana to cool.

Perhaps then he could regain command of himself and quell the ruthless craving that had grown nearly beyond control.

Thorne was still telling himself that two nights later when he visited Venus’s sin club. Instead of diminishing his craving, however, the enforced time apart from Diana had only increased his frustration. By the time he arrived, his restlessness had grown so strong, he was ready to lash out at anyone at the least provocation.

He could have eased his sexual needs with one of Venus’s doves, of course, but the thought of bedding any woman but Diana was frankly distasteful.

He was also supremely frustrated by the lack of progress at exposing Nathaniel’s murderer. Yates had received letters from several retired Guardians, but none of them recalled any Forresters or knew of any mission twenty years ago that might have provoked the Forrester children’s enmity.

Thorne himself had revisited the Foreign Office and made certain every old case involving French spies had been reexamined, but the name Forrester was never mentioned in any file.

The only positive evidence that they were on the right track had come to light yesterday. The larger of Venus’s two bruisers had gone missing since the coach incident a fortnight earlier, but returned to work last night. Macky had reported that Sam Birkin was favoring his left shoulder, an injury that could have been caused by a bullet wound from Thorne’s pistol. It seemed highly probable that Birkin was indeed the highwayman he’d shot. Regardless, both bruisers were being closely watched by Macky and two more of Thorne’s men, who’d been employed at the club as servants.

Thorne had hoped to relieve some of his frustration by joining a game of faro with his friends, but the moment he entered the club’s glittering gaming room, he discovered a new concern that soon had his blood boiling. A significant number of the company had eschewed cards and were standing around discussing
him.

“If it isn’t the famous buck with the bare chest,” Lord Hastings drawled, welcoming Thorne into their group.

“How does it feel to be immortalized half-naked on canvas, Thorne?” Lord Boothe added.

“Yes, my lord, do allow me to commend you on your fine figure,” a third gentleman commented with an amused smirk.

Having no trouble pretending puzzlement, Thorne raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I beg your pardon? What in Hades are you all talking about?”

Hastings answered the question for him. “The portrait hanging at Attree’s exhibit. Boothe saw it there this afternoon and dragged the rest of us to view it. I must say I was impressed.”

Thorne frowned, recalling that James Attree was the wealthy Cit with a passion for art who had recently purchased several of Diana’s paintings.

“Indeed, you lucky devil,” Boothe said, laughing. “Every woman in London will want you once they get a glimpse of that painting.”

It took some questioning, but Thorne eventually deduced that the shipboard portrait of him had somehow wound up in James Attree’s private collection and put on exhibit, but how it had gotten there, Thorne couldn’t begin to guess. He didn’t believe Diana would have sold it for public display…. Unless she had been so irate at his boorish behavior the other night that she’d acted out of vindictiveness.

The thought was barely formed when Venus came up to him and offered him a snifter of brandy, then took his arm to draw him away from his still-snickering friends.

“My darling Venus, you have my undying gratitude,” Thorne remarked sincerely. “How did you know I needed rescuing?”

“I could see you were being roasted unmercifully.” A frown shadowed her beautiful face. “This cannot be good for Diana’s reputation, I shouldn’t think.”

“Have you seen the painting?”

“Yes, at Attree’s place this afternoon. When I heard of it, I felt I had to see for myself. It is a stunning piece. Very sensual and alluring. She captured you to perfection—your virility and the wicked devilry in your eyes.”

“Is it so obvious Diana painted it?” Thorne asked with a sinking heart.

“The canvas is unsigned, but it wasn’t difficult for me to guess the artist, since I have seen her other work. I’m certain the world will suspect her, even if it can’t be proved.”

Thorne ground his teeth even as he feigned a smile for the benefit of his watching audience. It was irritating to find himself the subject of so much amused gossip, but he was incensed that the painting had been made public when it should have been something intimate and private between him and Diana. And very likely, this new titillating incident would once more make Diana the center of scandal.

It required a strong effort to refrain from storming out of the club and marching over to Attree’s mansion to quiz him about how the portrait had come to be in his possession, but Thorne remained at the club until late that evening, preferring not to give the appearance of being overly concerned.

He was up early the next morning, however, intent on seeing the exhibition for himself. John Yates was already in the breakfast room when he entered, enjoying eggs and kippers and reading the
Morning Post.

Thorne had just taken his first drink of coffee when Yates nearly choked on a mouthful of egg. Unable to speak for coughing, he handed Thorne the newspaper, which was folded back to the third page.

A cartoon leapt out at him—a lifelike caricature of himself as a ship’s masthead, his hair blowing in the wind, his bare chest puffed out, and a lecherous grin on his face. The wicked drawing was by Thomas Rowlandson, England’s most popular cartoonist.

Thorne clenched his jaw and rose without a word, not waiting to eat before calling for his carriage.

He interrupted Mr. Attree at the breakfast table, but the merchant was eager to receive so illustrious a caller as Viscount Thorne.

“A pleasure indeed, milord,” Attree exclaimed. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Surely you can guess why I am here, sir.”

“The portrait?” The florid-faced man looked rather uncomfortable, almost guilty, in fact.

“Precisely. I am curious as to how my portrait came to be in your possession.”

“Why, I paid a pretty sum for it, to be sure. ’Twas for sale in a public gallery on Bond Street. The proprietor always informs me when a good piece shows up in ’is shop. I recognized Miss Sheridan’s style at once and wanted it for me private collection.”

“May I see it?”

“But of course, milord. The exhibit is not open to the public until ten, but I will escort you meself.”

Mr. Attree preceded Thorne to a separate wing of his house—a wide, well-lit hall that had been devoted to art. Unlike the Royal Academy exhibitions, whose walls were crammed edge to edge with paintings, Attree’s collection was displayed with taste and care. Thorne’s portrait hung near the center of the hall, surrounded by four other signed works of Diana’s, which the merchant owned. Her exquisite artistic style was indeed readily recognizable, and so unmistakably distinct that the unsigned portrait of Thorne fairly shouted the artist’s name.

When Thorne stood staring grimly at the grouping, Attree grimaced. “I take it you ain’t ’appy to be on public display like this, milord?”