Sylvia Day - [Georgian 04] (14 page)

“Excuse me, my lord.” He glanced at Simon. “Sir, you have a visitor.”

Immediately, Simon’s gut tightened with a volatile mixture of concern and anticipation. He did not ask who it was due to the earl’s presence. He simply nodded and pushed back from the table.

“If you will excuse me, my lord.”

“Of course.”

Simon felt Eddington’s gaze on him until the door shut on his retreating back. He glanced at his butler.

“Blonde and beautiful, sir,” the servant said in answer to the unasked question.

Sweat dotted Simon’s brow. He breathed shallowly, lamenting the fact that he had only to
think
of Lynette and his body responded with ravenous ferocity. If only he had the means to go away. For her sake.

Inhaling deeply, he crossed the threshold of the lower parlor and paused, noting the vivid blue of Lynette’s gown. She stood with her back to him, her fingertips caressing a lovely China vase displayed on a wooden pedestal. But she was not relaxed. Her shoulders were tight and the air around her vibrated with tension.

“Lynette,” he said softly, infernally glad to see her, “you should not have come.”

She turned and he realized his mistake.

“Mr. Quinn.” The voice was low and throaty, yet under-laced with steel.

He bowed. “Vicomtess de Grenier.”

Gesturing for her to be seated, he glanced back out the door and nodded to his butler to bring refreshments. As the servant hurried away to inform the housekeeper, Simon sat opposite the vicomtess and contemplated her openly.

He was in agreement with the sentiment that the mother could pass for a sibling. Their coloring—pale blond hair and blue eyes—was identical. In addition, the vicomtess’s beauty remained unmarred by lines and her figure was as svelte and sweetly curved as Lynette’s.

“You are very handsome,” she said, studying him with narrowed eyes. “I can see the appeal.”

Simon’s mouth curved on one side. “Thank you. I can see whom your daughter favors. You are both the loveliest women I have ever seen.”

“What of the assassin?” she asked coldly. “I assume she is lovely, too?”

“Yes, of course.” He settled more comfortably, admiring the vicomtess’s fire, which she had passed on to her daughter.

“Of course.” Her smile was tight. “What do you want?”

He arched a brow. “Cut straight to the point, I see.”

Her bare fingers tangled in her lap, the knuckles adorned with various precious gems of impressive size. Small diamond clips glittered in her hair and a sapphire hatpin secured her chapeau to her head.

The woman had come prepared to dazzle him with her wealth. He was impressed with her, but also deeply insulted. The latter emotion made him laugh. He had survived these many years by selling whatever someone would buy, including his body. It was a fine time to develop scruples.

“I want for nothing,” he said.

“You want my daughter,” she refuted, “or the money at her disposal.”

“I don’t want her money.”

She snorted. “Do not tell me it’s love. I can only stomach so much.”

“No,” he agreed, “it isn’t love. But I do want her and I am cad enough to have her if presented with the opportunity, which is why I have asked her to stay away.”

“How honorable of you,” she sneered, reminding him briefly of Lysette. Her blue eyes took on a brittle cast and the lush curve of her lips twisted with distaste.

“So pleased you approve,” he drawled, laying his arm along the back of the settee, knowing the overt familiarity would prick her already considerable temper. He, too, was growing angrier by the moment. It was all well and good to call him a selfish libertine when the label fit. It did not sit well when he was attempting to be self-sacrificing.

“Why choose my daughter?” she asked. “You could have any woman you want. A wealthy widow, perhaps? Or are they not malleable enough?”

Simon smiled without humor. “I know you find it difficult, if not impossible, to believe, but I am not fortune hunting. I admire your daughter. She displays the same strength of conviction that you show in coming here. She is also lovely and I am a healthy man. I cannot help but notice her physical charms. However, beyond that, I have no ulterior motive. She seeks me out, not the reverse. If she did not come to me, I would not go to her.”

Her jaw tightened.

“My lady.” Simon straightened. “It would be best if you leave Paris. I cannot stress that point strongly enough. The woman who so closely resembles your daughter is enmeshed in dangerous affairs. It would be deeply unfortunate if the two women were to be confused for one another.”

“This woman you call Lysette,” the vicomtess hissed.

“Lysette Rousseau, yes.” He shrugged. “I did not give her that name, so if you do not like it, do not upbraid me.”

The vicomtess paled and Simon took note.

“Is the name familiar to you?” he queried, setting his forearms on his thighs. “Any information you can share that would shed light on this matter would be greatly appreciated.”

“What concerns my family does not concern you!” She stood, a diversionary tactic designed to draw attention away from her distress. “You say my daughter seeks you out. Let us remove you, then. Allow me to send you on holiday.”

Simon rose with her. “No.”

“Come now, surely there is somewhere you should like to visit. Spain? Perhaps return to England?”

“Poland?” he bit out, linking his hands behind his back to keep from fisting them. His knuckles, sore and bruised from the tavern brawl the night before, protested. The pain focused him and reined in his growing temper.

“How about an extended holiday? One that lasts the duration of your life, hmm?” The vicomtess’s shoulders were pulled back, her chin lifted, her smile innocuous. A mixture of charm and determination. So like Lynette.

The woman did not realize it, but the deeper glimpse into Lynette’s life only made him want her more. The vicomte was a fortunate man to have such a wife. Lynette’s future spouse would be equally blessed.

The thought deflated him, draining his anger and resentment away and leaving only weary resignation behind.

“Name your price,” she urged.

Simon crossed his arms. “You assume I am inexpensive.”

Triumph lit her eyes. “To afford this?” She gestured around the room with a wide sweep of her arm. “I am a woman, Mr. Quinn. I am ever aware of price and affordability. Your departure will cost me a fortune, I know.”

His stomach churned and a bitter taste coated his tongue. To accept money to part with Lynette made him ill, but there was no denying the plan’s merit. If the vicomtess was willing to provide him with even half of what Eddington had confiscated, he could live comfortably for the rest of his days. He would be free of any encumbrance. He could pack his belongings, or leave them behind, and start anew elsewhere.

Lynette would be safe from his desires and the means he provided for her to explore her curiosity about Lysette.

Simon growled low in his throat, hating Eddington for putting him in the position of needing money to begin with. Because of the earl’s machinations, he was trapped here, in proximity to a woman he could not resist, yet could not have.

Unless he accepted the vicomtess’s offer.

He exhaled harshly, suddenly exhausted by the events of the last few days. “I need time to think.”

She seemed prepared to argue, then simply nodded. “I will send a messenger over in the morning. Will that suit you?”

“No, it does not suit me.” Simon glared at her, knowing she was only trying to protect her daughter, but detesting the fact that
he
was the hazard. “You believe it is concern for my welfare that goads me to even consider your insulting offer. But it is, in truth, concern for Lynette and the fear that if I do not take myself far away, she will cross paths with Lysette Rousseau.”

“And fall victim to ruination by your hands.”

“Certainly,” he agreed, seeing no need to mince words while having a conversation such as this one.

“Pity you will not use your own funds to travel.”

“Yes.” His jaw clenched. “A pity.”

Marguerite descended the short steps to the street and paused a moment to look at the home behind her, shaken by her meeting with the debonair Simon Quinn.

The man was dangerous.

She had not seen him well enough in the Orlinda garden. The air had been filled with smoke and her concern had been for Lynette and taking her to safety. In the clear view of a well-lit and tastefully decorated parlor, he had been breathtaking, his coloring of ink-black hair and brilliant blue eyes jolting to a woman’s equanimity.

Over the years, she had met many men. Rarely had she crossed paths with one possessed of the same voluptuary’s appeal as Saint-Martin. They boasted more than mere physical beauty as a lure; they looked at women with their senses, making her feel as if she were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. Their favor did not waver nor wander. They focused on her with knowing eyes, making her wonder if such attention to detail would carry into the bedroom.

Some women were immune to such confident sexuality. Marguerite was not one of them and Lynette was so like her.

Sighing, she gave her hand to the footman and climbed into her coach. She had once been certain that Lynette would marry young. Like Marguerite, she adored men and was sensual by nature. But the similarities between them were even more pronounced than Marguerite had first realized.

Just as Marguerite had once postponed the selection of a spouse until her mother had chosen for her, Lynette also did not seem inclined to pick. For years, she had thought her daughter was simply enjoying herself and felt no haste. Now she suspected Lynette had been searching for her own Saint-Martin. A man who would sweep her away and satisfy the cravings no lady should admit to having.

Unsettled, she placed her hand atop her corseted stomach. She knew Lynette well. By rashly threatening an arranged marriage to tame her daughter, she had incited a war of wills. Lynette was too headstrong, passionate, and staunchly independent to accept the will of another without a fight.

If she had been thinking clearly instead of in a panic, Marguerite would never have suggested such a thing. Now Lynette would rebel; she knew that like she knew the dawn followed the night. The only way to keep her daughter safe was to remove temptation. So she had dealt with Quinn immediately before Lynette had a chance to act.

But now that she had set her plan in motion, she required the money. She could not access de Grenier funds in sufficient quantity before morning.

There was only one person she could turn to with such a request, but meeting with him would require stealth, calculation, and more strength than she was certain she possessed.

“My lady?” the footman queried. “The direction?”

Marguerite took a shaky inhalation. “Take us home.”

Chapter 11

L
ynette impatiently waited two hours after her mother returned from her outing before sneaking out.

It was not uncommon for the vicomtess to take some time away after a row. Lynette had inherited the same wanderlust when aggravated, so she knew the feeling well. Sadly, she was not allowed the freedom tonight. Her only recourse was to pace the length of her room and think endlessly of Simon. No matter how it appeared, she believed him and she needed to see him, needed to warn him that her family may react in disturbing ways. She would not see him harmed in any fashion due to her.

And so it was that when the hour turned sufficiently late and the odds that her mother would attempt to speak with her diminished greatly, Lynette set in motion her plan to leave.

She stuffed pillows under her counterpane and topped the body-shaped form with one of her wigs. The ruse would not bear close inspection, but a quick peak from the doorway would give the impression that she was abed and sleeping.

Shielded by a cloak and hood, she exited to the rear garden, then out to the alley. There a stableboy waited, a young man named Piotr who had been with her family for years. She had always been kind to him, bringing him sweets and treats when possible, deliberately cultivating a bit of favoritism that had enabled her frequent bouts of mischief at home. Tonight he provided her with a pair of his breeches, a man’s cloak, and a tricorn. She changed in an empty stall in the stable, then met him outside.

He handed her the reins of a saddled horse, then mounted another to accompany her, as he always did. He had been trained to use a pistol with precision, as most of the male servants in the de Grenier household were. Simon’s admonishment to avoid confusion with Lysette Rousseau was foremost in her mind. To the casual observer, they were two young men riding alone.

The horses’ hooves clopped rhythmically along the street, lulling her into a semidreamy state. The night was dark, the moon half hidden by clouds. The breeze was slightly chilly and it slipped through the arm slits in her cloak, cooling her heated skin.

Would Simon be at home? Or would he be out? Perhaps he was not alone . . .

What would she say if he was entertaining someone when she arrived? A woman.

Lynette inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Her posture while riding—head and shoulders bent low to hide her features—only added to her sense of falling off a cliff. She was not a woman to cower in the face of anything, yet she was afraid now.

Afraid to be seen, afraid to find Simon occupied or gone, afraid her parents would never forgive her this transgression.

Yet she did not turn about. Her need to be with him was stronger than her apprehension. He calmed her, at the same time he revived the spirit she’d once had. The spirit suppressed when Lysette died. She felt like herself with him. Free of airs or evasions. Freed from the need to maintain an unfamiliar timid deportment.

Do not upset the balance. Do not give her parents reason to lament the misfortune of losing the good and quiet daughter, instead of the unruly one.

Lynette drew her mount to a halt before Simon’s home. She was not certain how she ended up standing before the door or why she was breathing as if she had run the distance traveled. She felt dizzy. Disoriented. More than ever, she wanted to cling to Simon’s strength.

She blinked and found the butler standing before her, a stocky man whose wig did little to disguise his youthful features. His only sign of surprise upon seeing her dressed in the garb of a male servant was a slight rise in his brow line, then he stepped out of the way without her saying a word and closed the door behind her.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice sounding as if coming from a distance due to the rushing of blood in her ears. “May I take your cloak and hat?”

She gave him the hat, but clutched the thick wool like a shield.

“I should warn you, mademoiselle, Mr. Quinn is in poor humor this evening.”

“Is he alone?” she whispered, emboldened by the kindness in his eyes.

“He has a guest in residence, but his lordship is otherwise occupied.” The butler gestured ahead with arm extended. “May I show you into the parlor while I inform Mr. Quinn of your arrival?”

“Would you mind terribly if I s-showed myself up?”

She was afraid Simon would make her leave if she stayed downstairs.

But she knew what would happen if she went upstairs.

The butler did as well, if the flushing of his cheekbones was any indication. His head tilted slightly. “Second door on your right,” he murmured. “I will see that your servant is shown to the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

Gripping the staircase railing with white-knuckled force, Lynette ascended carefully, her steps hesitant due to the shaking of her legs. She gained the landing and paused.

The hallway was barely lit; only two tapers in widely separated sconces shed any illumination. Although the décor was vastly different, she was reminded of the Orlinda manse. Her blood heated in response.

Light peeked out from beneath two doors. One on the left, the other on the right. She was passing the first when voices within arrested her. Her nerves were already strung tight by existing circumstances. She had no notion how she would survive a chance meeting in addition to that.

Fear of discovery froze her in place. Then, mercifully, the conversation grew more animated, ensuring that the participants were too engaged to hear her pass by. She was about to continue on when conversation ceased and the creaking of a bed was plainly heard. Biting her lip, she remained motionless.

A woman’s throaty laugh floated through the door, followed by a man’s.

The soothing baritone of the man’s voice thickened and became coaxing. The woman purred something that incited a masculine groan . . . followed by a rhythmic thumping that permeated the walls, strong and steady and endless.

Lynette’s lungs seized. Her hand rose to her throat as sweat beaded on her forehead.

Unable to stop listening, she sagged into the wall, her free hand fisting and releasing in the folds of her cloak. She clenched her thighs to ease a growing throbbing, and bit her lower lip as fevered cries of pleasure rose in volume and spilled freely out to the hallway.

She had no idea how long she stood there. She knew only that her senses were overstimulated, her skin too hot, her mouth too dry, her breasts too full and aching unmercifully.

The door on the right wrenched open and golden light flooded the hall. Lynette straightened as Simon strode out with a thunderous scowl. Breeches were his only garment. They were unfastened, revealing a tantalizing triangle of tawny skin and a thin trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the doeskin . . . just above the long, thick evidence of his arousal. His abdomen was laced tight with muscle, his fisted hands causing his powerful biceps to bulge. His hair was unbound, the silky ebon strands swaying around his powerful shoulders.

She had never seen anything as savagely beautiful.

Or wanted anything more.

Simon paused midstep, staring at her, unblinking. The tempo of the rise and fall of his chest altered, as did the air surrounding him. Fury turned into lust so hot it scorched her.

“Simon,” she whispered, raising her hand to him.

Two strides and he had her in his arms, cradled to his chest. Her arms circled his neck, pressing her breasts to his torso and her lips to his throat.

He smelled of tobacco and brandy and musk, and the fragrance soothed something restless inside her. She was where she needed to be, in Simon’s arms. Boneless, she held him as he carried her into his bedchamber and kicked the door closed.

I need you.
She wanted to say the words, but her throat was too tight.

Simon knew. His features were austere with hunger, his eyes feverishly bright in the light of the many candles. He set her on her feet by his massive bed and unfastened the frog at her throat. The shield of her cloak puddled around her feet, leaving her feeling as if she were naked, despite being fully clothed.

“What in hell are you wearing?” he barked.

“A disguise.”

“Christ.” His jaw tightened. “Turn around.”

Frowning, she did as he asked. She jumped as his hands cupped her buttocks and squeezed.

“Have you any idea what the sight of you hungering to be fucked does to me?” he asked crudely. “Then you compound the problem by displaying every curve of your body.”

It aroused her to be spoken to in that manner. She would not have guessed that would be true.

She faced him. “Is it anything like what the sight of this”—her fingertips touched his navel, then followed the trail of dark hair until impeded by his breeches—“does to me?”

He caught her hand and squeezed gently. “Why did you come?”

She smiled. “Would it ruin the moment to say I am here for me?”

“No.”

“My mother thinks marriage will rein me in. If that is truly her intent, I will take my pleasure now.”

Tension caused his chest to tighten into rock-hard, delineated muscle. She thought him beautiful, not in the elegant refined lines of statuary, but in the unpolished power of a man who survived by his physical strength.

“She came to see me tonight,” he murmured, gripping her hips and tugging her closer. “She offered to pay me to go away.”

Indignation and deep sadness warred for dominance. “What did you say?”

He met her gaze directly. “I told her I would consider it.”

Pain, sharp and searing, pierced through her chest. She inhaled sharply, but did not pull away. Perhaps she was naïve, but she did not believe a man could look at her as he did and not care for her at least a little. “Why?”

“My accounts have been seized. I cannot leave of my own accord, I cannot afford to.”

“Do you need to leave?”

“For your sake”—he pressed his cheek to her temple—“I would have.”

“Would have?” she whispered, her fingers kneading along his spine, feeling the way he tensed and quivered beneath her touch like a skittish stallion.

“No need to go now. I will have your virginity within the hour.”

Tangling his fingers in the tie at her throat, Simon tugged it free. His breath gusted hot and damp across her forehead, the sensation primitively arousing. “By the morning,” he purred, “there will be nothing innocent about you, I’m afraid.”

He had pounced, caught his prey, and was preparing to devour.

She shivered, more than ready. More than eager. “I am not afraid at all.”

He stilled. The energy he radiated was raw, possessive. She could smell the lust on him. Felt it in the shaking of his industrious fingers. Heard it in the laborious rhythm of his breathing.

Lynette offered him her mouth. He took it, his lips slanting across hers, his tongue thrusting deep, making her sex quiver and grow damp.

Simon’s hands cupped her breasts, the feeling intensified by the lack of material between them. Only the linen of her shirt and her chemise separated his touch from her skin. Then his right leg hooked behind the back of hers and tugged.

With her feet knocked out from under her, she toppled. Holding her firm to his chest, he cradled her down to the bed.

“Simon?” she gasped, suddenly finding herself beneath him.

“Every time you look at me, you beg me for sex with your eyes.” He crouched between her spread legs and began unlacing her boots. “You have driven me half mad. No more, or I will be in you before you are even undressed.”

Lacking experience, Lynette still knew that such was not the normal order for going about the business. The thought that she was with a man of uncommon appetite and skill kept her on a knife edge of anticipation, sharp and perilous.

As her feet were bared, gooseflesh spread across her skin. Simon must have taken note because he paused, his hands cupping the backs of her calves and stroking soothingly. He rubbed and massaged, moving down to her stocking-covered feet and pressing his thumbs into her arches. The heat of his sensual touch affected her deeply, arousing her as if it were the flesh between her thighs that he ministered to.

She moaned, her eyes closing in delight.

He pressed a kiss to the pad of her foot and stood, reaching for the placket of her breeches.

Without her vision, the sounds of the crackling fire and the distant sounds of his guests’ carnal activities were more pronounced, adding another layer to the sensual cocoon she floated in. The bed smelled of Simon, pure delicious masculinity. She turned her head, pushing her nose into the turned-down linens and breathing him in.

“I want the smell of you on my skin,” she confessed, her hands fisting into the bedclothes as his fingers brushed across her stomach.

Simon yanked too hard on the waistband of her breeches and she heard a tearing. She smiled.

“Hold tight,” he ordered. His arms were thrust beneath her and she was pulled upright. She gripped his forearms and held on, inhaling sharply at the sudden violence of the movement. She was stood on her feet, then summarily undressed.

Her breeches were pushed to the floor in one fell movement. The shirtsleeves took more effort, but not much. Her chemise was pulled up and over, leaving only her stockings as the last garments on her body.

Oddly, she felt overdressed.

Simon caught her up, lifting her feet from the floor.

Lynette’s head went back and she gazed up at him with wide eyes, her brain attempting to process the heretofore unknown sensory input—the feel of coarse hair and damp skin against her breasts, the kiss of air against her bare buttocks, the feel of a man’s arms against her naked back.

His features remained taut and strained by desire. Perhaps she should have been afraid of the lack of softness, but she could not fear anything about him. Lynette knew, as only a woman could, that the only thing that mattered to him in this moment was her.