The Wicked One (18 page)

Eva gave him a last, lingering look, and then bit into the toast.  It tasted wonderful.  Hot and buttery and crunchy on the edges, just as she liked it.  She ate the whole slice, then another, and then attacked a slab of cold ham.

It was the first breakfast she'd eaten in over two weeks.

Chapter 15

For Eva, getting through the rest of breakfast was a nearly impossible ordeal.

With the nausea gone, her mind was free to wander, and presently, she became aware of other things:  the satisfaction of filling her hungry belly, the joy of being amid the cavorting children and dogs, the laughter of this extraordinary family — and Blackheath's thigh.  Oh, yes, his thigh.  She kept glimpsing it just beneath the edge of the tablecloth, a mere two inches from her own, close enough to touch, close enough to rob her of the ability to think of anything else.  She could feel the heat emanating from it, could remember the naked look of it from their one encounter back in Paris; could even remember how it felt beneath her fingers, the muscles like rock beneath the sparsely haired skin.

Eva tried to concentrate on her ham and toast.  On the antics of the three children.  On joining the conversation around her — and failed.  It wasn't long before the world began to close in, everything fading into the background, leaving nothing but Blackheath's presence beside her — and that thigh.  As he leaned toward her and offered another slice of toast, it brushed her own.  As she bit into the toast, the reality of his nearness was enough to dry out her mouth and cause her to nearly choke on the crumbs.  And by the time she finally got the hapless slice of bread down, she was obsessed with that tantalizing expanse of Blackheath's leg, all but hidden beneath the tablecloth.

Prickly heat suffused her blood.  It warmed her cheeks, changed the measure of her breathing.  She resisted the urge to peel off her jacket.  Fan her face.  God, it was hot in here.  Again, she glanced at Blackheath's thigh.  If they were on better terms she might have reached out beneath the cloth and playfully run her nails, the pads of her fingers, over it, savoring the feel of hard muscle sheathed by butter-soft leather breeches.  She would have liked to see if she could arouse him with just a touch, would have enjoyed the anticipation that later they might have sought a bed together.

But they weren't on better terms.

And they never would be.

She pulled her leg closer to its twin and with a somewhat shaky hand picked up her teacup.  Thoughts of going to bed with Blackheath, enjoyable as they were, would only get her nowhere.  Still, there was no harm in fantasizing over the idea — as long as she didn't forget that fantasy and reality were two different things.  Fantasizing over having his hands on her flesh, stroking her body to arousal as he lay her down on that giant medieval bed, was all well and good as long as she reminded herself that it was not going to happen.  Therefore, it was a fairly safe activity.  Strip Blackheath of his compelling nature, his ability to make her heart grow too hot and heavy for her chest, the glimpses he allowed her of a compassionate man beneath that ruthless, arrogant surface — and render him nothing more than a perfect specimen of a masculine body — and she would be all right.  But once she started adding character, feelings, and passion . . .

Well, at that point fantasizing started getting dangerous indeed.

Too dangerous.

Her palms were sweating.  Furtively, she wiped them on her skirts, wishing she could calm her thumping heart.  Wishing she hadn't started fantasizing, after all.  Really, she ought to know better.  She glanced around the table — but what she saw, as she allowed the present to overtake her once again, only added to her confusion.

There was Lord Andrew smiling into Celsie's eyes in a way that had his wife blushing; Eva suspected that
their
thighs were certainly touching, if not pressed against each other's.  Her face heated, and she jerked her gaze back to her plate.  Right, so Andrew was devoted to Celsie, but that was only because they were newlyweds; things would soon change.  She glanced at Lord Charles, who was spreading marmalade on a piece of toast for Amy.  A display of love and devotion?  No, nothing but an act, a gentleman living up to his name.  His sweet, doe-eyed wife really shouldn't be looking at him as though he were some earthbound god . . . but then, she was young and impressionable, and there was no denying that Lord Charles
was
an unusually handsome man, in or out of uniform.  Eva smiled thinly, satisfied with her conclusions.  But what of Lord Gareth, making his wife laugh with the way he was making foolish faces at their little son?  Well, his seeming affection for Juliet was easy to explain.  Men of Gareth's temperament — men who were gregarious, fun-loving, charming — were that way with
all
women, which is why they all kept mistresses.  Eva, feeling quite smug, returned her attention to her plate.  Gareth, of course, was no different.  She would bet money on it.

And then there was Blackheath.  What would he be like as a husband?  She could not see him behaving as his brothers did.  She could not see him exhibiting such softness, could not see him cherishing her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, could not see him displaying such love and affection.  He was different from his brothers.  He would certainly be a monster.

No, she wasn't missing a damned thing by refusing his offer.  She wasn't missing a thing by deciding not to join this family, by raising her child alone, by taking it back to America.  No, the three de Montforte wives, so happy and in love with their handsome husbands, did not deserve her envy; only her pity.  Oh, if only they knew what heartache lay before them.

"Uncle Lucien!  Will you take me to see the dungeon afterward?  Will you?"

Little Charlotte had leaped off her father's knee, raced around the table, and thrown herself into the duke's lap.  His thigh, that damnable thigh, was shoved sideways, bumping hard into Eva's leg.

Blackheath did not remove it.

Eva, startled, shot him a poisonous look of warning, but he only smiled and kept it there as the child settled herself on his lap and, giggling, began pulling at his stock.  Eva moved her leg away from Blackheath's, clamping her thighs together, swinging the both of them off to the side; Blackheath's followed, its considerable length pressing against her own, the child still giggling in his lap as she happily began to undo his necktie.

"I'm going to be your valet for the rest of the day," she announced importantly, then laughed as she set to retying the once-impeccable length of silk.

"What, not my groom?"

"Oh, no, that was yesterday.  Today, I am your valet.  You have made quite the mess of this cravat, Uncle Lucien!"

He chuckled, the very picture of innocence, but only he and Eva knew that beneath the tablecloth, quite a different drama was being played out.  His thigh still pressed against her own.  She was almost angled in half trying to escape it.  She directed her gaze, now a glare, straight across the table into the fireplace, determined not to let him know how much he was unsettling her.  And unsettling her, he was.  Her stays were suddenly too tight.  Her clothes were too warm.  Her pulse was starting to pound.

Damn him!

"All right, Charlotte, that's enough for now," the duke finally said, grinning as he removed the child's hands from his hopelessly spoiled stock.  "I will take you to the dungeon this afternoon.  First, the comtesse and I are going for a ride around the estate."

"Can I go too, Uncle Lucien?  Can I?"

"Next time, sweeting.  The lady and I have matters to discuss.  Now off with you!"  He rose, tossed the little girl high, and handed her, squealing with delight, back to her mother.  And then he extended a hand to Eva . . . who, with everyone in the room observing her closely, had no choice but to accept it and rise.

Bowing to the ladies, Blackheath led Eva from the dining room, hailed a groom, and called for their horses to be saddled.

"Really, Blackheath, I am not in the mood to go riding with you," Eva snapped, damning her body for responding in a most carnal way to his nearness.

"Then what
are
you in the mood for, hmm?"

"Don't use that suggestive tone with me.  What happened between us in Paris is most assuredly not going to happen again."

"What a pity.  And here I had such high hopes . . ."

"Quell them, then, and put yourself out of your misery."

He laughed.  "Misery?  Oh, no, madam.  I am quite enjoying the thought of future . . . encounters."  He walked along beside her, tall, arrogant, and amused, totally in control of the world that surrounded him.  "Surely you will agree that anticipation of the dessert always makes it sweeter."

She could feel that black, simmering gaze upon her.  Could feel it warming every inch of her body from head to toe.  "Really, Blackheath, you are the most pompous man I have ever met.  Just when I start to think that maybe I could like you, you have to say something stupidly, totally . . .
male
.  Let me tell you something.  I have no interest in going to bed with you, not now, not ever, so you might as well put the thought right out of your mind."

"You sound very sure of yourself, madam."

She slanted him a look of amusement.  "Having lived with myself for nearly three decades, I am more than sure of myself.  Besides, you're nothing but a typical man, Blackheath, thinking of one thing, and one thing only."

"Ah, so you would have me believe that you're not thinking of the same thing?"

"I am most assuredly
not
thinking of the same thing," she scoffed, but her color was high and she dared not meet his eyes.  She could feel that knowing gaze of his searching her face, then moving downward, lingering on the column of her neck, the swell of her bosom.  Her blood flushed with answering heat.  Desire tingled in her breasts, between her thighs, and she felt a sense of rising panic at her inability to control her body's response to him.  "Oh, no, that is the last thing on my mind."

"So what
are
you thinking of, madam?"

"Leaving," she said abruptly.  "In fact, this is my last morning at Rosebriar.  My maid is packing my trunk as we speak.  By this afternoon, I will be on my way south to the coast, and then back to America."

"I will escort you, then."

"What?"

"As far as the coast, at least.  I assume you wish to leave from Southampton or Plymouth?"

She eyed him suspiciously.  "Yes . . ."

"Ah, good.  I have an estate in Dorset that I would like to show you before you depart.  I had thought to give it to you, but . . ."

"
Give
it to me?"

They were almost out to the stables.  Lucien kept his expression perfectly affable, his manner inscrutable as he waited for her to take the bait.  "Well, yes.  You see, I have been thinking about our . . . impasse.  You have no wish to marry for fear of losing your freedom.  And to be quite truthful, I am not inclined to take a wife, though circumstances now necessitate a reappraisal of our mutual wishes.  In any case, I think the best solution to our dilemma is to marry but live separate lives.  I thought you might like to make Gingermere your permanent residence."

She narrowed her eyes.  "You would
give
it to me?"

"Yes.  I have been in contact with my solicitor, who went through hell and high water to find a way to deed it to you.  It is yours, if you want it.  Yours to run as you see fit."

She was staring at him, blinking — but he could see the excitement building in her eyes, could tell that he had hooked her, and hooked her soundly.

"You'll never have to worry about your independence again," he added, reeling her in further.  "All you'll have to do is collect and live off the rents, which will be yours to keep, to spend, to invest.  Raise cattle, grow corn, do whatever you wish to do with the place — it will be your nest egg for the future, your means of independence."

"And you would not interfere?"

I won't be alive to interfere.
  "No."

"What are the terms, Blackheath?"

"Marriage, of course.  As well as unlimited access to the child, a promise that you will cease your political activities — which, after we are wed, could get you hanged for treason — and" — he smiled — "an agreement to share a bed."

She flushed.  "Is that all?"

"Yes."

But even as he uttered the word, he knew he owed her the full truth.  She deserved to know the one stipulation of his will that would sour her on the idea:  that in return for Gingermere, she could never take the child out of England, or she would lose everything.  But surely that issue would never even come up.  After all, why would she want to leave, once he was gone?  The condition to keep the child here in Britain, where he could protect it even from beyond the grave, where his family would ensure that it would never lack for anything, was a mere formality.  He was simply protecting his heir — and the duchy.

Simply carrying out the responsibilities of his birthright.

She looked at him flatly.  "In exchange for marrying you, you'll give me Gingermere and my freedom."

"Yes."

She took a deep, bracing breath, and slowly let it out.  Her gaze was fastened on a distant hill.  "In that case, Blackheath, I'll be your wife."

Chapter 16

They left for Dorset several days later.

Lucien had used that time wisely.  He had sent for Fox and ensured that his will — and the transfer of Gingermere's ownership upon his death — was in order.  He had taken pains to ensure that his siblings didn't learn of Eva's acceptance of his hand, for he was not yet willing to concede that particular victory to them.

And he had sent more queries off to France regarding Perry.

For Eva, the days had passed in a mixture of excitement and nervousness.  Was she doing the right thing?  She looked forward to seeing Gingermere.  To investigating its possibilities.  How ironic it was that in marrying Blackheath, she would obtain the very freedom she'd feared she would lose.