Beyond A Wicked Kiss (34 page)

"It was the colonel. Offered quite reluctantly, I assure you. I had no notion of it. You can be a deep one, South." West bent and picked up both cylinders, one in each hand, and carried them back to where South was sitting. "I did not know what to make of these. The colonel thought you might." He placed one in South's open palm but did not release it. He glanced once in the direction of the stairs, then back to his friend. "Perhaps it is better that you heard me come in. I think it would have been more difficult in the morning."

"Because of Miss Parr's presence, you mean."

West nodded. He watched South take the canvas and lay it crosswise on his lap. When he started to unroll it, West took a step backward, giving his friend a modicum of privacy.

"Oh God." South spoke the words under his breath, part prayer, part curse, as the painting was unfolded before him. He stared at it for a long moment, then swore softly and shoved the canvas off his lap.

West plucked it out of the air and rolled it up quickly. "Do you wish to see the other?"

"Should I?"

West could not school his troubled expression. The painting with the bull's head was more grotesque than the one South had already seen. Still, South should not have asked the question. It was not a decision West could make for his friend.

South held out his hand. "Give it to me."

West hesitated. His friend's complexion was ashen. Clearly he had some feelings for Miss Parr, else he would not have been affected so deeply by what he saw.

"It's all right," South said. "I want to see it."

West placed the second rolled canvas in South's extended hand. He looked away this time.

South opened it and gave it little better than a cursory glance before he returned it to West. "Where did you get them?"

"I stole them."

"Can you say more?"

This time West lied willingly. There was no reason for South to know the personal nature of his investigation. "I can tell you I got them from one of the ambassadors."

"They are not the sort of works of art likely to be reported missing."

"That's what I thought." West returned both paintings to where they had previously stood against the wall. As he considered what he must do next, he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. Strands of dark red hair were lifted from his collar to lay lightly at his nape. "You will not credit it, South, but what I am uncovering appears to have something to do with the bishops."

South's head jerked upward. "The bishops? Are you speaking of the Society?"

"I am."

Shaking his head slowly, South glanced toward the rolled canvasses again. "But not the Hambrick Hall boys."

"No. At least I hope it doesn't end there. Men are at work here, not children." West's voice dropped a fraction lower. "Not yet."

South nodded once. "What do you require of me?"

* * *

Ria sat curled in her favorite reading chair in the corner of her bedroom, the soft folds of her nightdress spilling round her. The book in her lap was unopened, but this was not her first reading. She had already memorized some of the verse, and as she rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, the words of
The Lily
came to the forefront of her mind.

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threatening horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

She was no Lily, Ria thought, nor even a modest Rose. More an immodest one, if she wanted to be strictly honest with herself—which she did not. Of late she had concluded there was no aspect of honesty that was inherently virtuous, especially in an examination of one's own character. Delusion and denial served better. At least she was finding it so.

While the Lily white shall in love delight.
The words drifted through her mind again as she considered whether it would ever come to pass that she would
in love delight.
Most likely it was a state of being confined to mad poets and young girls. No doubt Jane Petty had thought herself in love. She must have been filled to overflowing with the possibilities it presented to her, the realization of her every dream. It would be cruel to have that love crushed, crueler still to have it done by the very person one loved above all others. That was Jane's most likely fate.

An ache formed at the back of Ria's throat. She was becoming familiar with that pressure, the clog of tears that lodged there, the others that pressed at the back of her eyes. Blinking, she lifted her chin and turned her face toward the window. This winter's day sunlight was pale. There was barely strength enough in its transparent beams to push through the occasional fissure in the clouds.

The students would be rising soon. Ria could already hear the movement of the housekeeper and maids in the corridor. Cook and her young helper would have the porridge bubbling in the big cauldron, and the misses Taylor and Webster would be taking the last steps of their early morning constitutional. Mrs. Abergast disliked both porridge and walking, so she slept a few minutes past all the others and swore she was better for it.

Ria found that routines comforted. It eased her mind to know what she might expect in the next hour, day, even in the week. For the immediate future, she wanted to go forward as if by rote. What thought she could apply to this business of living would be given over to functions as dull as choosing what dress to wear or counting the number of brush strokes she applied to her hair.

Embracing the familiarity of these rituals would serve another purpose. Boredom, perhaps, was what she required to sleep deeply again.

A distinct
thump
in the adjoining sitting room caught Ria's full attention. This noise was followed by a softly pronounced curse and a flurry of movement in aid of making right whatever had gone wrong. Ria fairly catapulted out of her chair to get to the open doorway.

West did not look up, but continued to rub his thigh where the sharp corner of an end table had caught him solidly. "This table is not where I remember it. You moved the furniture."

"I hope Your Grace is not accusing me of laying a trap," Ria said. A smile edged the corners of her mouth upward. "It is daylight, after all."

Grinning, West lifted his head. "True enough."

It was not his reckless grin that made Ria's own smile collapse, but the condition of every other part of him. Indeed, the slightly wicked curve of his mouth was all about him that was familiar. She hurried forward, only to be stopped by the arm he put out.

"You should keep a distance," he said. "I am not at my best."

Ria's wide, blue-gray eyes swept the length of him, then made the same assessment from toe to head. She bit the inside of her cheek, holding back intemperate words. That he described himself as not at his best was a nice bit of understatement. Streaks of soot and sweat made his face almost unrecognizable. His features were drawn, the eyes infinitely weary. He smelled of smoke, and a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead was frizzled and singed. There were black streaks also on his nankeen breeches and ash on his boots. She suspected that when he removed his caped greatcoat, she would see more of the same. Only his hat seemed none the worse for his adventure.

All manner of questions occurred to her, but she asked only one. "What can I do for you?"

"Help me out of this coat, then find a sheet to cover a chair so I might sit."

It was a good measure of his complete exhaustion that he required assistance to remove his greatcoat. Ria gave it willingly, placing the coat over the back of a rocking chair while West tossed his hat aside and gingerly stretched his stiff limbs and slowly rolled his neck. She disappeared into her bedroom and returned quickly with a sheet. It did not matter to her in the least that his soot-smudged clothes would mark her furniture; she supplied the sheet because he would not sit down if she didn't.

West dropped into the armchair behind him as soon as Ria covered it. As tight and sore as he had been moments before, now he melted. His legs splayed, and his arms fell loosely on either side of the chair. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

He did not stir for so long that Ria thought he had fallen asleep. Several minutes passed when there was nothing but the light sound of his even breathing. She was preparing to rise from the bench beside him when his fingers caught her wrist.

"No," he said. "Sit with me a while longer."

Ria sat. For reasons that were not immediately apparent to her, she wanted to weep. She looked down at his blackened knuckles, at the smear of soot that crossed the back of his hand, but felt only the gentleness of his touch. She blinked back tears.

"What is it?" he asked.

She had not even realized he was watching her. "You make me afraid for you."

"I do? I assure you, it is not my intent."

Ria found it difficult to suppress the quaver in her voice. "You are pushed past the point of exhaustion, yet you are here. I cannot imagine what has befallen you, but it seems to me that you were fortunate to survive it, and still you have pressed on. Of course I am afraid for you. You demonstrate the good sense of a bag of beans."

With only the slightest encouragement from him, she was in his lap, her arms around his neck. The folds of her billowing white nightshift were quickly blackened with soot, but she was careless of those stains. No lily, she reminded herself, but an immodest rose.

She kissed him as if her life would have no significance if she did not. Her mouth slanted across his, parting his lips with the pressure of hers. Her arms slid forward, and she cupped his face lightly in her palms as she moved her mouth to the corner of his, then to his cheek, his temple, and finally along the line of his jaw. She caught him again, deeply this time, her tongue pushing against his. She felt her breasts swell even before his arms circled her back and pressed her closer. His woolen frock coat was gently abrasive against her cotton shift, and the buttons pulled at the material. The air between them was warm, but it threatened to become charged with heat.

His fingers wound in her unbound hair; it was like dipping his hands into cool spring water. He kissed her hard, needy for the taste of her, eager to be rid of the stale scent of smoke that was in his nostrils, and breathe in the sweet fragrance of lavender and mint that was peculiarly hers. It did not matter that she was in his arms—he felt that he was more in hers. If he had meant to shelter her by drawing her close, then he had not fully comprehended what she would give him in return. She was the one with the sheltering heart.

The knowledge threatened to overwhelm him.

Sensing that something had changed, Ria broke off the kiss and buried her face in the smoky folds of West's neckcloth. She held him tightly a moment longer while her uneven breathing quieted, then she raised her face. "I hope you are not in want of an apology."

He found he still had the wherewithal to chuckle. "And I hope you are not in want of a flannel. You will need several to clean your face."

Ria touched her cheeks, then regarded her smudged fingertips.

"Here, too," he said, placing an index finger against her lips, then showing her the evidence. "You are as soot-smeared as any chimney sweep."

She arched one brow at him, reminding him how she had come to be so. Her reproving look did not last long, however. She held out her hand to him. "Come. I know what is needed now."

Minutes earlier he would have sworn truly that he was incapable of rising to his feet, let alone rise in any other manner. He had underestimated both the pull of Ria's siren's smile and his response to it. It seemed very little effort was required on her part to move him. He could not even be unhappy about it.

Ria led him into the bedroom and closed the door. Without a word, she helped him out of his frock coat, his shirt, then guided him to the bed, bade him sit, then grappled with his boots. The more she touched him, the sootier she became, and never once did she try to avoid that end.

West lay back on the bed, naked save for his drawers, and watched her boldly strip off her nightdress before she climbed into bed with him. Her pale breasts were tipped in pink, and they brushed invitingly against him as she moved close. He looked at his hands, then showed them to her. "I will mark your skin if I touch you with these."

She said nothing, but caught his wrists and brought his hands to her breasts. She allowed his fingertips to graze her skin and his thumbs to pass across her nipples. The trail of his hands left the faint smudges he predicted. Ria raised her solemn gaze to his. "And I will be made beautiful by them," she whispered. "Everywhere you touch me."

He could have told her she was already beautiful, but was not confident of her accepting it. He showed her instead, rolling onto his side and pressing her back, then placing his mark on her, first with his hands, then his mouth.

He swept back the hair at her temples, sifting the silky strands with his fingertips. His lips found the soft hollow where her pulse beat so faintly and he kissed her there. Her skin was warm, flawless. He kissed her forehead, the corner of her eye. His head dipped, and he caught her earlobe with his teeth and tugged, then his lips touched that spot. He flicked it with the tip of his tongue and heard her breath hitch.