Mischief (7 page)

“I see.”

“You and I were quarreling a moment ago and I expect the emotions of the moment temporarily overcame your self-mastery.”

“I knew I could depend upon you for an intelligent explanation, Miss Waterstone.” Matthias’s eyes gleamed. “Are you ever at a loss for words?”

Uncertainty tingled deep within her. Surely he was not mocking her. “I expect there are occasions when even the most articulate person might be unable to find just the right word, my lord.”

“And other occasions when only action will suffice.” He cradled the back of her head in one powerful hand, held her still, and slowly bent his head to kiss her again.

This time the kiss was deliberate, calculated, and devastating. Imogen went limp in Matthias’s arms. She heard her cap fall to the carpet with a soft plop. Her hair tumbled free. Matthias buried one hand in it.

Imogen swayed. The world around her became fluid and began to dissolve. The only solid thing left in it was Matthias. And he was very solid, indeed. The strength in him at once overwhelmed and enthralled her. A sweet hunger swept through her. She locked her arms around Matthias’s neck again and held on with all her might.

“You offer one surprise after another,” Matthias whispered against her mouth. “Not unlike Zamar.”

“My lord.” She was dazzled by his words. To be compared to ancient Zamar was beyond anything. No one had ever paid her such a profound compliment.

Matthias eased her back one step and then another. She came up against the wardrobe without any warning. Matthias captured her wrists in his hands and pinned them to the carved mahogany door behind her head.
Holding her there, he freed her mouth to trace a scorching series of kisses down her throat. At the same time, he drew his thigh up between her legs. The skirts of her gown foamed over his breeches.

“Good heavens.” Imogen sucked in her breath. Matthias’s leg moved higher between her thighs. “I cannot think—”

“Neither can I at the moment.” He released her wrists. His powerful, elegant hands settled around her throat. He tipped her head back.

Imogen grabbed awkwardly at the handle of the wardrobe to steady herself. But at that exact instant Matthias whirled her away toward the bed.

Imogen forgot to let go of the handle. The wardrobe door came open with a jarring crash. The large object sitting on the middle shelf shuddered beneath the impact and started to topple forward.

Matthias tore his mouth away from Imogen’s throat. “What the devil …?”

Imogen watched in horror as the bowl slipped over the edge of the shelf and plummeted downward. “
Oh, no
.”

Matthias moved with startling, graceful speed. He released Imogen, stepped around her, and caught the bowl in a single lithe movement.

“Bloody hell.” Matthias gazed at the bowl cradled in his hands.

Imogen breathed a sigh of relief. “That was a very near thing, my lord. You move quite quickly.”

“When there’s a good reason to do so.” He smiled slightly as he studied the bowl.

His eyes still gleamed, Imogen noted, but not precisely the same way they had a moment earlier. She took a closer look at the bowl. It was delicately sculpted from a translucent blue-green stone. The stone was unique to Zamarian artifacts. Imogen had been told by one of her correspondents that the fashionable had labeled the color Zamarian green. The bowl was inscribed with words written
in a flowing script that was as elegant as the vessel itself. Imogen recognized the language immediately.

“Zamarian.” She gazed at the bowl with wonder. “Uncle Selwyn told me that he had some Zamarian artifacts, but I did not realize that he possessed anything so lovely.”

“It probably came from a Zamarian tomb.”

“Yes.” She leaned closer to examine the bowl. “This is a very fine piece, is it not? Look at the words. Informal script rather than formal. A personal offering left in the burial chamber of a loved one, if I am not mistaken.”

Matthias tore his gaze away from the bowl long enough to give her an assessing glance. “You recognize the script?”

“Yes, of course.” Gingerly she took the sea-green bowl from him and turned it slowly in her hands, marveling at the beautiful workmanship. “
As Zamaris embraces Anizamara at day’s end, our two spirits shall be joined for all time
. Isn’t that a lovely sentiment, my lord?”

“Hell’s teeth.” Matthias stared at her with a dark intensity even greater than that with which he had gazed at the bowl. “There is only one person other than myself in all of England who could have translated that line of informal Zamarian script so quickly and so flawlessly.”

Too late, Imogen realized what she had just done. “Oh, dear.”

“I presume that I have just had the pleasure of kissing I. A. Stone?”

“My lord, I assure you, I never intended to deceive you.”

“No?”

“Well, perhaps just a trifle. I was going to explain everything.”

“Eventually?”

“Yes. Eventually. At the proper time.” She tried to summon up what she hoped was a placating smile. “We have been so busy since you arrived, what with one thing
and another, that there simply has not been an opportunity.”

Matthias ignored the weak excuse. “The first initial is plain enough. And it’s obvious where the Stone came from, Miss Water
stone
. But what does the middle initial stand for?”

“Augusta,” Imogen confessed with a small sigh. “Sir, please understand. I have kept my identity a secret because I knew that the editors of the
Review
would never publish my researches if they learned that they had been written by a woman.”

“Indeed.”

“I intended to reveal the truth to you as soon as we were properly introduced. But you made it clear straight off that you considered I. A. Stone a rival. I did not want that view to cloud your perception of me or my scheme.”

“A rival?” Matthias raised his brows. “Nonsense. I do not consider I. A. Stone a rival. The word
rival
implies someone who is on an equal footing. I. A. Stone is a presumptuous little scribbler who bases her ridiculous conclusions on my articles.”

Imogen was stung. “May I remind you, sir, that good, solid interpretation of facts is every bit as important as firsthand experience.”

“There is no substitute for firsthand knowledge of a subject.”

“Rubbish. In the past you have leaped to a number of conclusions about Zamarian antiquities that were unwarranted by the evidence that you yourself discovered.”

“Such as?”

Imogen lifted her chin. “Such as those entirely unsupported assumptions concerning Zamarian wedding rituals that you detailed in your latest article in the
Review
.”

“I never make unsupported assumptions. I arrive at logical conclusions based upon firsthand discovery and research.”

“Indeed?” Imogen fixed him with a challenging glare. “You claimed that the bride had no say in her marriage
contract, when it is obvious to even an amateur that Zamarian brides had a great many rights and privileges. A Zamarian lady could even dissolve her marriage if she wished.”

“Only under extremely limited conditions.”

Imogen smiled coolly. “She could do so if her husband proved to be either cruel or impotent. That covers a great deal of ground, my lord. Furthermore, she retained control of her own property and income after marriage. That certainly puts ancient Zamarian law well ahead of modern English law.”

“Do not be too certain of that,” Matthias said. “When it came to marriage, the Zamarians were not so vastly different from the English. The man was the master in his own home. His wife was expected to be an obedient, compliant companion who saw to the running of the household and to her husband’s comfort. He in turn assumed the responsibility of protecting his wife and children.”

“There you go, making unwarranted assumptions again. After a thorough investigation of your writings, I have concluded that Zamarian marriages were based on mutual affection and intellectual respect.”

“Only a fevered imagination and a complete lack of firsthand familiarity with your subject could lead you to make such an outrageous statement. Zamarian marriages were based on property, social standing, and business considerations, just as most English marriages are.”

“That is not true,” Imogen shot back. “Mutual affection was the most important element in Zamarian marriages. What about the poetry you discovered in the ruins of the Zamarian library?”

“Very well, so a few Zamarian poets wrote a few silly romantic verses.” Matthias ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of exasperated disgust. “That proves nothing. Marriage was a business matter in ancient Zamar, just as it is here in England.”

“Are you claiming that the Zamarians did not believe in the power of love, my lord?”

“
Love
is a fine word for lust, which I’ll wager was well known to the Zamarians. They were a very intelligent people, after all.”

“Love is not the same thing as lust.”

“But it is, Miss Waterstone.” Matthias’s jaw tightened. “I assure you, I have drawn that particular conclusion from firsthand observation, just as I draw all my conclusions. Unlike some people.”

Imogen was outraged. “I am not entirely without some firsthand experience of the subject, sir, and I have drawn different conclusions.”

Matthias’s smile was cold. “You’ve had firsthand experience of lust? Would you care to go into detail, Miss Waterstone?”

“No, I would not. Such things are of a private nature.”

“Indeed. Well, allow me to give you a few of my own firsthand observations on the subject of love and lust. I am the product of a union that began in the fires of a grand, lusty passion. But when that lust cooled, it left only bitterness, anger, and regret in its wake.”

Shocked sympathy doused the smoldering embers of Imogen’s temper. She took a quick step closer to Matthias and then halted uncertainly. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not understand that this was such a personal matter for you.”

“Unfortunately it was too late for either of the two parties involved to escape.” All inflection had vanished from Matthias’s voice. “My mother was pregnant with me. Her family demanded marriage. My father’s family wanted my mother’s inheritance. It was a match made in hell. My father never forgave my mother. He claimed she had tricked him into marriage. For her part, my mother never forgave my father for seducing her and then turning against her.”

“What a dreadful experience your childhood must have been.”

An icy amusement appeared in his eyes. “On the contrary, I consider that experience to have been a salutary one, Miss Waterstone. I learned a great deal from it.”

“No doubt you feel you learned a terrible lesson.” Imogen suppressed a pang of sadness. Then a thought struck her. “You mentioned that you will be expected to wed now that you have come into the title. Surely you will seek happiness in your own alliance?”

“You may be certain of that,” Matthias said grimly. “I intend to contract a marriage based on a far more substantial foundation than one built on foolish romantic passions and lust.”

“Yes, of course,” Imogen murmured.

Matthias took the glowing blue-green bowl from her hands and gazed at it with deep contemplation. “I seek a bride endowed with common sense rather than one who has muddled her brains with romantic poetry. An intelligent female who is ruled by an educated mind. One whose sense of honor will ensure that she does not develop a passion for every dark-eyed poet who comes along.”

“I see.” It was difficult to comprehend how she could have been so wrong about this man, she thought wistfully. The Colchester of Zamar she had conjured in her mind was imbued with the very essence of romance. The real Colchester was obviously a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. “It is very odd, sir, but when I sent for you, I had convinced myself that we had much in common.”

“Had you?”

“Yes. But now I see that I was quite mistaken. We are as opposite as two people can be, are we not, my lord?”

He looked abruptly cautious. “In some respects, perhaps.”

“In every important respect, so far as I can see.” Imogen gave him a wan smile. “I hereby release you from your promise, my lord.”

He scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was wrong of me to expect you to assist me in my scheme.” Imogen studied the manner in which his sensitive, long-fingered hands cradled the Zamarian bowl. “You have quite convinced me that you are not cut out for this type of adventure and that I have no right to insist on your services.”

“I thought I made it clear that you are not going to get rid of me quite so easily, Miss Waterstone.”

“Sir?”

“I shall assist you in your plot. I may not be the man you believed me to be, Miss Waterstone, but I find myself consumed by a desire to prove myself something more than a milksop.”

Imogen was horrified. “Sir, I never meant to imply that I thought you a … a milks—”

He held up one hand to cut off her protest. “You have made yourself clear. You perceive me to be possessed of an overanxious, fainthearted temperament. I do not deny that there is some truth to that perception, but I’ll be damned if I will have you label me an out-and-out coward.”

“Sir, I would never have dreamed of labeling you a coward. A certain tendency toward nervous weakness is not something that should cause shame. It is no doubt a family trait, rather like that blaze of white in your hair. It is something over which you have no control, my lord.”

“Too late, Miss Waterstone. I have decided that I must fulfill my promise to your uncle. It is the only way I can retain even a few shreds of my pride.”

“I
was appalled, if you must know the truth,” Imogen confided to Horatia two days later as they set out for London in a post-chaise. They were alone in the carriage because Matthias had left the previous day with the list of instructions that she had given him. “He is doing this to prove that he is not lacking in nerve. I fear I wounded his
pride. I never meant to do it, but you know how I sometimes get carried away when I feel strongly about a matter.”

“I wouldn’t worry overmuch about Colchester’s pride,” Horatia said crisply. “He has more than enough arrogance to last him a lifetime.”