The Wicked One (15 page)

"Which, may I remind you, is now safely out of your treacherous clutches, and shall remain so."

"As it's twice been my undoing, I no longer have need of it, so try not to revel in your triumph."

"Ah, yes, your
need
of it.  For what nefarious purpose was it intended, madam, that you were willing to inflict bodily harm on my brothers and break into my bedchamber in order to get it?"

"That is absolutely none of your concern."

"Perhaps not."  His smile was chilling.  "But I can assure you, I will find out.  In the meantime, I am still waiting for you to tell me how you managed to render me insensible back in Paris without even a blow."

"I am not about to share my secrets."

"Ah, so you intend to remain a woman of mystery, do you?"

"I intend to remain a woman of independence.  Now do stop talking to me, Blackheath.  I — I must think."

They continued on side by side, the horses blowing great plumes of steam from their reddened nostrils, their hooves sinking into creamy white mud as the track took them uphill between a copse of maple and beech; overhead, leafless branches scraped against the low pewter sky.  Lucien shot his companion a sidelong glance.  Her color was high, her eyes bright, and there were cracks in her otherwise composed bearing.  A thin smile stole over his lips.  He knew enough — more than enough — about women to know what those signs met.  He had rattled her.  Shaken her.  Thrown her off balance.

She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

And God help him, he certainly wanted her — despite his fury with her, with his brothers, with fate.  And how could he not?  He let his gaze slide over her bosom, admiring the way it filled out the rich plum velvet of her riding habit.  He suspected the nipples beneath were taut and hard, the coral flesh aching for his touch.  Well, they wouldn't be aching for long.  And neither would he — for there was no pretending the pressure in his loins was anything but what it was:  lust.  He wanted nothing more than to reach out, snare her reins, and kiss that proud, unhappy expression from her beautiful face.

Wanted nothing more than to slide his hand between the tightly buttoned closure of her smart-fitting jacket and let those perfect breasts fill his hand.

Wanted nothing more than to yank her off that horse, tumble her to the ground, and take her right here in the wet grass, over and over again, until he'd had his fill of her.

He tore his gaze away.  "So here we are, neatly maneuvered into a situation that neither of us wants.  Tell me, madam, how do you propose we settle this matter?"

"I should let you figure that out, since it's all your fault that we're even in this predicament."

"
My
fault?"

"Yes, yours.  If your sister hadn't found out that you — not some fictitious Spanish relative — machinated Lord Brookhampton's departure from England, your brothers wouldn't have gone to the lengths they did to give you a taste of your own medicine.  They are all very upset with you, you know.  And now
I'm
expected to pay the price for your diabolical schemes."

Lucien felt the blood drain from his face at this added disclosure.  "My sister — knows?"

"Of course she knows!  And don't think she's going to forgive you for it anytime soon, you monster."

Lucien took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly pounding heart. 
Hell and damnation!
  Nerissa knew. 
She knew.
  Oh, dear God . . .

He set his jaw.  "My brothers have good reason to turn the tables on me, but I can assure you it has nothing to do with Nerissa or Lord Brookhampton."

"Ah, yes.  I've heard all about how you
arranged
their lives, too.  You're despicable, Blackheath."

"Yes, so I've been told.  But this senseless bickering about my character will not resolve our own situation.  Let us get to the heart of the matter.  I assume it's marriage you're after?"

"Marriage?  Ha!  Marriage, especially to an odious monster such as yourself, would be a burden, not a blessing."  She jerked her head up, her gaze distant.  "Besides, I know far too much about men to ever regard matrimony as a state worth repeating."

"My dear Eva," he murmured sarcastically, "surely you must have had marriage in mind, otherwise you never would have sought me out in England, let alone remained here after learning of my brothers' plans for us."

"I came to England because I was asked to leave Paris and had nowhere else to go — another disruption to my life for which I can place all blame directly on you."

"An eye for an eye."

"This isn't funny, Blackheath."

"Indeed, madam, I am not laughing.  In fact, this is a serious matter we are discussing."

"I don't see as if we have anything to talk about."

"A child is something to talk about.  Regardless of the circumstances of its conception, regardless of our feelings toward each other, regardless of our mutual aversion to the idea of marriage, the truth is, you are in the family way.  I will not pay you off and send you away like some unwanted baggage.  I will not allow you to manage this complication on your own."

She gave him a sidelong glance.  "What are you saying, Blackheath?"

"That I see no alternative but to make you my duchess."

She paled and abruptly reined up her mount.  "Oh, no, Blackheath, don't even
think
it.  I will not — I repeat, not — even consider your proposal."

"You have no choice."  He brought Armageddon in front of her horse and down its opposite side so that the stallion faced the direction from which they'd come.  Eva was riding sidesaddle; her legs, hidden beneath generous folds of lush aubergine velvet, were all but crushed beneath his own hard thigh as he pressed his own mount close.  He snared her horse's reins and stared into Eva's defiant green eyes.  "And neither, I might add, do I."

"Of course you have a choice, men always do.  And you, being  a duke, have more choices than most."

"Not when the king himself decrees that said duke must marry."

"Your king — not mine.  I need not abide by his wishes, and won't."

"I am not asking you to abide by his wishes.  I am asking you to abide by the needs of this child."

Eva stared out over the heath for another long moment, fighting the urge to yank her mount — and her legs — safely away from Blackheath's thigh, fighting her rising panic, fighting the maelstrom of emotions that were making her heart spin like a top in her chest.  God help her, if she wed him and he were to learn the real reason she'd stolen the aphrodisiac, that same English king who wanted a marriage between them would have her head for treason.  Eva's mouth went dry.  She felt suddenly trapped.  Scared.  Desperate —

Something in her face must have alerted him to what she was thinking.  He leaned close — so close that she could see straight down into the empty black well of his eyes, straight down into the demise of her own freedom.  He reached out and grasped her chin, forcing her to look right at him.  "I warn you, Eva, that if you think to flee me, I will find you.  Always.  I will hunt you down as a wolf hunts a rabbit.  And I will not give up until I find you."  He released her.  "Do I make myself clear?"

She stared off over the heath, head high, refusing to look at him and hoping he wouldn't see her shaking hands or hear her suddenly pounding heart.

"Remember, it is not your wishes we are discussing here — but the needs of an unborn child.  I will give you until the end of the week to accept my suit, Eva.  No more."  He moved the stallion into her line of vision, forcing her to look at him, and into those black, black eyes that held no pity, and even less compassion. "Good day, madam."

He sketched a bow from the saddle, and it was only as he sent the hellish beast galloping off that Eva allowed herself to take a great shaky breath . . . and the very real freedom to feel exactly what she was.

Terrified.

Chapter 13

Lucien galloped back to Rosebriar, handed Armageddon to a groom, and immediately sought out Nerissa.  She was closeted in her apartments, unwilling to receive anyone.

He knocked on the door.  "Nerissa," he called gently.

"Go away, Lucien.  I have no wish to see or speak to you ever again."

If she had taken a carving knife to his heart, Lucien could not have felt more pain.  He bent his head and rested his brow on two fingers for a moment.  She was his sister.  His only sister, his littlest sibling, the only woman he would gladly have given his life for, if only to see her happy.  And now he had destroyed her — and any chance she might have had for finding that happiness.  He took a deep breath, let his hand fall to his side, and tried again.  "Nerissa, please.  We have much to discuss."

Silence.  Then the dull patter of feet across a floor, the latch lifting, and there — Nerissa.

The sight of her shocked him.  She had lost weight.  Her once-sparkling blue eyes were sunken and lifeless in cheeks that had gone hollow; her hair had lost its shine and her mouth looked as though it would never smile again.  She looked at him flatly, her face mirroring hurt, betrayal, and loathing.

"Why?" she whispered.  Her lower lip began to tremble.  "Why couldn't you have just left us alone, Lucien?"

For once in his life, Lucien didn't know what to say.  He moved into the room and shut the door behind him.

"You weren't content to all but ruin our brothers' lives," she continued in that awful, fragile whisper.  "Oh, no.  You had to play God again, didn't you?"

"How did you find out?" he asked hoarsely, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.

"Oh, one of your friends had a bit too much to drink at Celsie's and Andrew's ball and got rather loose of tongue.  He told me about the Spanish estate.  I guessed the rest.  You just wanted to get Perry out of England, didn't you?"

Lucien could not face the accusation in those tragic blue eyes.  He looked down and then away, his jaw hard.

"I hate you," she murmured.  "I hate you so much that it hurts to even look at you."

The words cut him to the marrow, but not as much as the revulsion in that once-trusting, once-loving face.  Nothing — not even death — could strike such a blow as that.  His stomach tightened, and pain seared his chest until it hurt just to breathe.  He deserved this, he could not deny that; but he could not stand here and face what had become of his little sister, could not stand here and know that he — and he alone — had done this to her.

He did not trust himself to speak.  He would talk to her later, when he'd had time to gather his thoughts, time to brace himself for her disgust and revulsion.  He bowed, turned, and somehow found himself at the door.  He had just lifted the latch when her voice cut through his stupor of grief, a tiny, pathetic sound that was little more than a choked whisper.

"Why?"  She paused.  "Why do you do the things you do, Lucien?

He remained where he was, staring hopelessly down at his boot.  "Does it matter?"

"You knew that Perry and I were as good as affianced, but you weren't content to wait, to give him the time he needed to make it official."

Lucien went very still.  He shut his eyes, his chest throbbing with agony.  How could he explain such a complicated thing to her, when he barely understood it himself?  He thought of his own childhood.  A childhood which had been sacrificed for the dukedom and the responsibilities that went with it, to this sibling and her brothers so that they could be young and carefree — a childhood that had ended the moment he'd found his father lying dead on the tower stairs, his neck broken.  Lucien had thought he was invincible, that the world would obey his every command.  But he had been unable to keep his father from falling down those stairs.  And he had been unable to save his mother when she'd followed him to the grave so soon afterward.

Was it any wonder that he'd been obsessed with control ever since?  Obsessed with ensuring that his world and those that inhabited it all went and behaved exactly to plan?

He turned away, his eyes bleak with pain.  He understood why he did the things he did . . . but his sister never would.  And the explanation, in light of the fact that he had — in seeking to exert control once again — probably killed the man she loved, sounded trite and pathetic, even to his own reasoning.

He had nothing to say to her.  Absolutely nothing.

He turned and left.

~~~~

Supper was a grim and silent affair.  Nerissa took her meal in her room.  Eva picked at her food, then pushed it around on her plate and stared miserably into her untouched wine.  Juliet, Amy, and Celsie tried to get conversation going, and eventually gave up when they saw their husbands exchanging looks of concern.  Lucien, though he ate in silence, noticed all that went on about him.  He was keenly aware of his sister's absence.  Of Eva's despondency.  But as for his brothers — he couldn't even bear to look at them.

He could not get Nerissa's face out of his mind.  Those empty blue eyes, that naked revulsion in her face, still haunted him.

Movement from across the table disturbed his morose reverie.  He looked up; Eva had pushed her plate away and was mumbling her apologies, her excuses.  The men rose respectfully as she stood and left the room.

With sullen eyes, Lucien watched her retreating back, then returned his attention to his plate.  He ate in silence, waiting until the meal was finished and his sisters-in-law had left before finally glaring up at his brothers.

"What ails her?" he demanded harshly of Charles, who sat nearby, pondering his own glass of sherry.

His brother lifted his pale blue gaze and regarded him levelly.  "She's pregnant, Lucien."

"Juliet doesn't eat much when she was carrying, either," Gareth added helpfully.

Lucien said nothing, though this reminder of Eva's condition did nothing to soothe his mounting frustration.  Frustration that he had no choice but to make her his duchess.  Frustration that she was determined to refuse him.  Frustration that the entire bloody earth had fallen off its axis.  He slammed his napkin down on the table.  By God, when had the world stopped obeying his command?