Fortune's Lady (20 page)

They found his secretary writing letters in the library. “Good lord, John, are you still here? Don't you ever go home?”

Walker smiled, abashed. “I was finishing some work, sir. I can leave now, if you—”

“No, finish whatever you're doing. We'll go in the drawing room. And John—we don't want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir,” called Walker to their retreating backs.

Cass let him pull her back down the hall toward the drawing room, wondering what he could have to say to her. He seemed so energetic all of a sudden, so intense, that she couldn't comprehend his new mood.

The crystal wall lamps on either side of the door were burning. He lit a taper from one and carried it around to every candle, until the handsome, high-ceilinged room glowed as if for a festive party. Then he took off his coat, threw it on the sofa, and went to stand before the long front windows, unbuttoning his waistcoat. She expected him to draw the curtains over the huge black squares, but he didn't. He turned around and faced her. “Come here, Cass. I want you to kiss me.”

Her eyes widened to saucers and she stared speechlessly. After a moment, her arm made a vague, hesitating gesture to the windows.

“Yes, I know—we can be seen from the street. That's the point. Wade has spies, and I don't want them to think we only touch each other when we're out in the world.”

She gave a short, nervous laugh. “You're joking.”

“Not in the least. Come, love, it's all for the plot. Purely professional and all that. Don't leave me standing here like an idiot.”

“I don't believe you,” she told him, even as her legs began to propel her toward him. She stopped when she was still four feet shy of him, and he made a lunge for her hand, pulling her the rest of the way.

“Would I lie?” he asked softly, resting his hands on her waist.

“Most certainly.” She was already stirred by the frank wanting in his dark-blue gaze. Alarms sounded in the back of her head, but she refused to heed them. It was only a kiss; so much hurt was in store for her—couldn't she take a moment's pleasure? His face filled her vision before her eyes closed and their lips met in the lightest of touches. She tried not to move, to savor the subtle sweetness of their mingled breath and the soft, intoxicating texture of his lips, but already she wanted more. Her arms came up and she ran her hands through his hair, as she'd wanted to do for so long. “I love your hair,” she almost said, but she was too shy.

He began kissing her face, her eyelids, murmuring in her ear. He slid his wet tongue along her jaw and delicately bit her chin, then moved down to nuzzle her throat. “I've been waiting for this all night.” She wanted to tell him she'd been waiting too, that she was falling in love, that she wanted him so much she was bursting. But she only whispered his name. He found her mouth and kissed her deeply. She was shaking. Holding her head, he entered her, tasting the sweetness, wanting more, more. “God, Cass, I'm weary of pretending I don't want you!”

She felt lit up inside. “Touch me, Philip.” Was she saying it or only thinking it? No matter—his hand went to her breast and she gasped in gratitude. They remembered the windows at the same moment and stepped backwards in tandem, like lovers dancing.

“I lied about Wade's spies.”

“I know. I don't care.”

Watching her face, he caressed her with both hands, feeling her breasts spring to life under his palms. She stumbled backwards until her shoulders were against the wall. “We mustn't do this,” she whispered in a weak, temporary burst of sanity. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can't help it. Neither can you.” He began to unbutton the back of her gown, kissing her all the while and murmuring lovely, absurd endearments.

“Oh, don't—” But she knew she didn't mean it, knew if he stopped now she couldn't stand it.

He tugged the top of her dress down, exposing the lacy shift underneath. No corset—thank God for Marie Antoinette, he prayed irreverently, before bending his head and putting his lips on her. He kissed her through the silky material until he felt her knees giving way. Then he gripped her around the middle and took her mouth in a frenzy of wanting.

“Quinn wants you to be Wade's mistress, Cass, but I won't allow it! Come and live with me. I'll take care of you.” Her eyes were closed, her lips parted; she moved her head from side to side. “Does that mean yes?”

“Yes.
No.
” She pushed back, trying to think, suddenly embarrassed because the front of her shift was wet.

“Yes!” he insisted. “Move in with me, Cass. Your aunt treats you like some poor relation. We'll—”

“I
am
a poor relation,” she said on a quavery laugh, trying to hold his hands still.

“You know you want to.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because. It's wrong.” Finally she caught his hands and made him stop touching her. Her voice came out high and light. “If you want me, Riordan, you'll have to marry me!”

A spontaneous laugh burst from his throat before he could control it. Cass wrenched free and would have escaped if she hadn't stopped to cover herself. He grabbed her back and pressed her hard against the wall, holding her face in his hands. Knowing an apology would be useless, he kissed her instead, sinking his fingers into the silky web of her hair, inhaling her fragrance.

“God, you're so lovely,” he murmured, touching her everywhere, making her kiss him back. He slipped her shift over one shoulder and softly stroked her bare breast until he could feel the tender flesh around her taut peak crinkle under his fingertips. She was trembling from the effort not to give in, and he was seized by a nearly violent need to make her surrender. When her mouth opened to him he kissed her ruthlessly, using his hands to mold her thighs, her buttocks, pressing himself against her.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Incredulous, shielding her with his body, Riordan turned his head to see the door opening slowly. Before he could roar out his fury Walker spoke in a voice quivering with embarrassment. “I'm most terribly sorry, sir—an urgent message just now—”

“Get out!” His rage made Cass jump and Walker blanch.

“Very good, sir. It's from Lady Claudia. I'll leave it here.” He set an envelope on the table and pulled the door closed in haste.

Cass crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to stop shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut when he rested his forehead against hers, knowing exactly what was coming.

“I have to see what it says.”

She pushed him away; trembling uncontrollably, she met his eyes. “Do you?”

He knew from her voice what it cost her to speak the words. He tried to bring her close, but she held herself back, curving her neck away from him. “Cass,” he said, “I have to.”

When he let her go, she turned around to face the wall. After a moment she heard him cross the room to the table, heard the ripping open of the envelope. A pause while he read. The sound of paper crumpling and then of him coming back to her. The touch of his hands on her bare shoulders.

“I have to go. I'm so sorry. It's her father—she says he's dying.”

She started to pull her dress up. He helped her. “Wait for me, Cass,” he whispered, buttoning the buttons. “Will you wait for me?”

She despised his comfort, the kindness of his hands on her skin. He was leaving, going to Claudia. Other than shame, she felt nothing but a black, bottomless despair. She turned around, dry-eyed. “No,” she said, on a note of finality that chilled them both. “I won't wait.”

Riordan smiled down at the stick-thin figure lying so still under the satin coverlet. “How are you feeling, sir?”

Lord Winston Harvellyn blinked in the dim candlelight and tried to smile. “Had no business bothering you this late, Philip. Women get wrought up. Nothing wrong with me a sound night's sleep won't put right.”

“We'll see about that,” Claudia chided gently. She sat on the other side of the bed, stroking her father's high, pale forehead.

“Touch of indigestion is all it was—I'll be sitting up at my desk in the morning, you see if I'm not.”

“I'm sure of it.” Riordan squeezed the bony hand lying open on the pillow and stood up. “We'll let you rest now, so you can be up all the earlier.”

Claudia rose with him. “Good night, Father.” She leaned over to kiss the aristocratic old cheeks. “I'm so happy you're better. If anything happened to you—”

“I'm good for a long time yet, my dear,” he said with a weak smile, patting her hand. His heavy eyelids dropped closed then, and he was asleep almost instantly.

Claudia spoke in a quiet voice to Lord Winston's manservant, who would sit up with him during the night, before she and Riordan tiptoed from the room. “Father was right,” she said ruefully, taking his arm as they went down the wide staircase to the hall. “I really shouldn't have bothered you.”

“Nonsense, I wanted to come.” He hurried on before the sheer enormity of this lie could discompose him. “You must have been terribly frightened.”

“I was, Philip. I sent for you almost before I sent for the doctor.”

“And the doctor said it wasn't his heart?”

“Yes, thank God. But he's been having these attacks more frequently lately, and they always send me into a panic.”

“He looks frail, but sometimes I think he's as strong as we are.”

“That's exactly what he says.” They were standing in the entrance hall under a massive crystal chandelier, unlit. “Thank you, Charles, I'll see Mr. Riordan out,” she said, dismissing the hovering butler.

“Are you all right now, Claudia? I can stay if you like.”

“I should like it very much,” she answered, startling him. “But it isn't at all necessary and you've been so kind already. Besides, it's very late; it wouldn't look quite right, would it?”

“I hadn't thought of that,” he admitted. He was uncomfortably aware of a feeling of relief. “Well, then, if—” He broke off when she ran a hand up his arm to his shoulder and looked at him with wide, searching eyes.

“But hold me before you go, Philip, will you?”

He couldn't have been more surprised if she'd asked him to carry her up to her bedroom. He had the wit to answer, “Delighted,” as he put his arms around her and drew her close. She smelled of the expensive perfume he'd once given her, and all at once he realized he was comparing her fragrance to Cass's fainter, more elusive scent. Guilt assaulted him. Why was it that when he was with Cass he never thought of Claudia, but when he was with Claudia—he put the bothersome question out of his mind and drew back to look at her.

Her eyes were closed and she seemed completely relaxed in his arms, for once. She really was a beautiful woman—perfect skin, classic features. He tilted her chin up. No resistance. He kissed her gently. She sighed and put her arms around him. Without thinking, he parted her lips with his. He felt her stiffen slightly and went back to light, soft kisses on her lips and cheeks. She relaxed again and tightened her arms around his neck. More as an experiment than from any real desire, he slipped his tongue into her mouth.

She jumped away as if he'd bitten her.

“Claudia—God, I'm sorry—”

“No, no, my fault—” She made frantic erasing movements with her hands and turned around so he wouldn't see her wiping her mouth.

Riordan ran a hand through his hair and stared at her rigid spine, feeling a mixture of dismay, pity, and disillusionment—but curiously, no surprise. “You don't really like it, do you, love?” he said gently.

“I'm so embarrassed. I don't know what to say.”

“Never mind.” He moved around to face her and folded her in his arms again, careful to keep his touch impersonal. “It's all right,” he told her, patting her shoulder. “It doesn't matter in the least.”

“It
does
matter,” she snuffled against his shirt. “I've heard the stories, I know you've had lots of women. That Merlin woman tonight, so beautiful, so—” She shook her head and wiped her eyes, fighting for composure. “Oh, Philip, how can you still want me if I'm cold?”

“You're
not
cold. You're not.” He wondered which of them he was trying to convince. “You just need time, that's all, and I can be very patient.”

“I don't know, I don't know.”

“
I
know. It's all right, Claudia. Everything's going to be all right.”

But as he held her stiff, unyielding frame against him he was filled with misgiving. What was he promising? What was he giving up? A coldness began somewhere in his midsection and rapidly spread through his whole body. His eyes were bleak as he stared over Claudia's head, knowing she couldn't warm him.

The next morning, before dawn, Riordan got out of bed and reached for his robe. Barefoot, he padded out of the room and went downstairs. There was a carafe of tepid water on his desk in the library. He poured a glass and carried it to the windowseat. Cass's windowseat. He thought of her as he'd seen her here a few days ago, hunched over some book, completely engrossed, her hair falling down in wisps around her face. Pausing occasionally to take off her new glasses and rub the bridge of her nose.

He took a swallow of water and made a face. He'd come down here to
stop
thinking about Cass, stop obsessively comparing her and Claudia. It was insane, it was disloyal—Claudia was incomparable and she was going to be his wife. That was that. Cass was the kind of woman a man slept with, took for a lover, but never, never married. Why couldn't she see that? Why couldn't she be reasonable and become his mistress? Her talk of marriage was ridiculous, a joke—no wonder he'd laughed! Who did she think she was? And who did she think she was fooling, telling him that making love with him would be “wrong”? She was only nineteen, and for all he knew she'd had as many men as he'd had women, deny it all she would. But whatever her game was, it wouldn't work, because he was marrying Claudia.