Authors: Christina Dodd
She held her hands an inch above his arms, not yet daring to contact his skin, yet she felt his warmth. She rubbed her palms up and down above his skin, and it was as if sparks arced between them. She didn’t have to touch him. The connection was there. His flesh drew her like a magnet. In a bold rush, she pressed her hand to his chest and felt the desperate rhythm of his heart. She flirted with her eyes—ah, the old skills returned so easily—and said, “How much longer do you think you can hold out?” She smiled a languorous smile that derided his self-discipline.
“You don’t understand the forces with which you’re playing.” He slowly came to his feet. “But it’s too late. You’re going to find out.”
She stepped back once, twice, half-laughing, half-frightened.
He thrust the point of the knife deeply into the wood of the table, and the haft quivered there. He stalked after her. Each footstep sounded heavily. He stared at her. His gaze scorched her. She felt like…like a lioness teasing her mate, knowing full well what the result would be. He would take her like the animal he was, and her desires would be satisfied at last. And in the end, that was all that mattered now. To be joined, to be filled, no matter what the consequences, pleasure…or pain.
Briefly reason surfaced in her mind. She wanted him too much. She felt too much for him. When they parted, there
would
be pain.
Then he reached for her.
Excitement vanished in a surge of good sense. She whirled to run. He sprang after her. Her shoes clattered on the floor. She stretched out her hand to touch the door…but before she could, he caught her around the waist. He held her against him, her back to his front, and she could feel the prod of his member against her bottom, the heat of his bare chest against her back. She stood docilely within his embrace, breathing as hard as if she’d run a mile, and she waited.
“What do you want?” he murmured in her ear.
“You,” she whispered. “Now.”
“That’s the right answer.” Going to the door, he turned the key and locked the door.
When he looked back at her, she trembled. He’d lost all the appearance of a dilettante; instead, he was steely, serious, frightening in his intensity. Coming back to her, he walked her toward her dressing table. A lace runner draped it. Her brushes were carefully arranged. Her reticule remained where she’d tossed it.
With a sweep of his arm, he pushed everything off onto the floor. “Bend over,” he said. “Brace your arms on the table.”
“But—”
“What?”
But there was a terrible vulnerability to such a position. Except for her stockings, she was naked from the waist down. To bend over in such a manner would leave her so exposed…
“Do you want me to love you?” Jude’s voice was deeply stern and inexplicably tender.
“God, yes.” She looked into the mirror at the man behind her.
The flickering of the fire burnished his brown hair with gold. His eyes were shadowed with darkness. His face was strong and austere. Never had she been so aware of his height. He towered above her, a mountain of a man, unyielding and eternal. His chest was carved marble, a sculptor’s dream, and his hands…he placed his hands on her bare shoulders, and they were big and capable. He slid his palms down her arms, wove their fingers together, and wrapped her in an embrace. He looked into the mirror at them, and with a smile he leaned down to bestow a kiss on her shoulder.
It was only a kiss, and only on her shoulder, but the touch of his lips was exactly what she wanted. How had he known?
Then he lifted his head. He took his hands away. “Lean down.”
In the mirror, she saw danger and passion.
She feared his danger, but she wanted his passion.
She rested her palms on the dressing table.
“All the way over.” He would not yield.
She kept her gaze fixed to his as she glided her hands across the polished surface. Lower and lower she bent, but she must not have obeyed quickly enough, for he placed his hand in the middle of her back and urged her the rest of the way down.
Now it was as she feared. She was exposed to him. He could touch her, gaze at her, in any way he wished. It was a yielding of self such as she’d never imagined.
“Look at you,” he commanded.
She stared into the mirror. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in wanton disarray. Her skin shone smooth and golden on her shoulders and her chest. As she shifted, her chemise teased at her breasts, displaying the swell of one, then the nipple of the other. Her lips were full and red; her cheeks were flushed peach. And her eyes…her eyes were shadowed with mystery and slumberous with pleasure. For the first time she saw herself as Jude saw her: beautiful, wanton, and passionate.
“Look at
us
,” he said.
He stood behind her, looking into the mirror, into her eyes. He was handsome in the sunlight, but he came alive in the light of flame. Each flicker of the fire bathed him in a sinister warmth that beckoned until all she craved was to do his bidding. He stood right behind her, his trousers brushing the backs of her legs, and when she stood on her toes, when she moved just right, she felt his engorged organ press exactly where she wanted it.
And she realized—they could make love like this, standing up, looking into the mirror, moving together in an odd, backward dance…and she wanted it. “Please,” she whispered. “I’ll die if you don’t make love to me soon.”
“You’ll die when I do.” He caressed her bottom, lingering as if the touch of her skin gave him pleasure.
“Wh…what do you mean?”
“Doesn’t your heart stop when you come? Doesn’t your breath cease? Is there thought in your mind, can you see, can you hear? It’s the little death, and we’re going to find it in each other tonight.” He explored her, brushing the hair, stroking up and down her slit, then gently opening her. “Many, many times.”
She whimpered from the pleasure of his touch, and whimpered more at the thought of the long hours of ecstasy. She stretched like a cat, arching her back as she tried to get close to his manhood.
It didn’t work.
“Open your legs just a little,” he whispered roughly, and when she did, he stood looking down at her most private parts.
She didn’t want to be embarrassed, but she was, and a flush spread over her chest, her shoulders, and flooded her face with heat.
“You’re beautiful, a goddess I must worship. You leave me no choice.” His finger sank into her. “I could get lost inside you and never return.”
She groaned with the bliss. Connection at last. As long as he did this for her, she could forgive him for teasing her at the opera during the first act. She could forget her shock when he slid under her skirt, put his mouth on her, and forced her to unforgettable ecstasy. She could embrace his despotism now.
He drew out his finger, damp from her desire, and used it to intimately circle her. He used his thumb to capture her feminine bud, then moving up and down, stroking it with leisure confidence that made her breath catch. She quivered on the edge of orgasm, almost there, so close…
His hands left her.
On the table, her hands clenched into fists. Her muscles tensed so desperately tight her shoulders trembled. “Please…”
“Yes.” In a flurry of activity, he loosened his trousers and rid himself of them. Again he stepped up behind her, his bare legs against her bare legs, his cock brushing her bottom. “Now.”
To line up their bodies, he bent his knees, and when he placed the head at the opening of her body, she jumped. It was an illusion, of course, but his heat was so intense she felt as if she’d been branded.
He worked his cock into her so…slowly. It was as if he were testing her, relishing every inch, taking the time to experience the friction. He wore a slight, anticipatory smile. That would have made her nervous, except that the feeling of having
him
inside her was an overindulgence past bearing. She could think of nothing else. He filled her. Inside her, the muscles clenched, trying to keep him inside, trying to hold him out. She found herself suspending her breath in anticipation as he slid closer, farther, grew larger. My God, so much larger. The sensation of satiation hovered just on the edge of pain…or was it pleasure? She couldn’t tell. Again she sensed it in her mind and in her body; he branded her with his fire, and she would never be the same.
At last he touched the center of her, a firm contact that sent heat streaking along her nerves. She groaned, a heavy, desperate sound and pressed her bottom against him, seeking that magic stroke that would give her relief.
Instead he slid back, a slow withdrawal.
Her fingernails scraped on the wood.
He eased out so far he almost left her body.
She nipped her thighs together, trying to keep him inside.
“God. Caroline.” He thrust back inside, all the way inside.
She groaned with relief, with growing desire.
He withdrew, thrust again, withdrew, thrust again, and suddenly they were moving together, the elemental rhythm driving them toward madness, toward glory, toward completion.
She watched in the mirror, her eyes so wide and unblinking they ached. No wonder he’d wanted this. He’d meant for her to see what before she’d only experienced. She loved the way they looked together. Loved his absorbed expression as he drove into her body. She wanted to watch it all, but as her delight intensified, she found her eyes drifted shut. She forced them open, but they closed again.
Completion approached. She tried to hold it off, wanting to hold him in her body, savor his possession. She wanted this pleasure to go on forever.
But there was no holding back. Spasms seized her, radiating out from the place where the two of them were joined, taking over her body. She couldn’t hear, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe. To the exclusion of all else, she was forced to concentrate on the sensations rampaging through her body. Jude owned her; he overwhelmed thought and will.
Or perhaps it wasn’t Jude, but the power of them locked together, motion and fury, sweetness and madness.
The joining was complete.
In the early-morning hours, Jude once again woke Caroline.
She groaned. In the dark, they’d made love so many times she couldn’t remember a moment when she hadn’t been either kissing or being kissed, full or being filled, aroused or fulfilled.
Could she make love again? Her body ached, yet she knew he had only to lie on top of her and she would yield. More than yield. She would want.
He threaded his hand through her hair and held her still for a long, wet, intimate kiss. “I have to go now.”
“No.” She stroked his waist, trapped him in her embrace. “Stay a little longer.” She couldn’t bear this…this leaving.
“My father would kill you if he found me here, and my mother would kill me.” It was darker in the room, the candles guttered out, the fire mere embers, but she heard the humor in Jude’s tone. “I want to die in your arms, but not like that.”
“Just a little longer.” She caressed his cheek with a kiss, a kiss he found with his lips and which quickly turned to more. To passion.
He withdrew with obvious reluctance. Sliding off the mattress, he paced across the floor, gathering his clothes. “I have to go. Last night I received a message, and promised I would visit this morning…”
“You’re going to that opera singer’s?” Only that could have brought Caroline out of her passion-induced torpor and into a sitting position.
“To Miss Gloriana Dollydear’s. Yes.” He returned to Caroline, stroked her cheek, and although she couldn’t quite see him, she knew he smiled. “Not for the reason you’re imagining, my darling, although I value your opinion of my virility. After this night with you, I couldn’t go to another woman’s bed without embarrassing myself. In fact”—his voice turned reflective—“after last night, I don’t know if I could ever again go to another woman’s bed.”
“Then go on and do whatever it is you’re doing. I trust you.” With a smug smile, Caroline slid back under the covers. “And I’ve never said that to another man.”
As the door shut behind him with a quiet click, she admitted,
Because I’ve never before trusted a man.
But she trusted Jude. She would trust him with her life. More important, she would trust him with her heart.
J
ude nodded a greeting to the two burly men who stood stoically outside the door of Gloriana’s flat and hurried inside. Wild sobbing drew him to the door of the tiny drawing room, and with a glance he absorbed the scene.
Blood spattered the carpet, the desk, a chair. Gloriana’s body sprawled on the floor, her breastbone shattered by a bullet. A young female, a girl he recognized from the opera’s chorus, held Gloriana in her arms and wept.
“Dear God.” Jude had seen Gloriana only last night. She had sung the lead in the opera. She’d passed him a note telling him to attend her in the morning. She’d been smiling, flirtatious, in good voice. Now…this. He had never imagined
this
. This carnage. This grief.
Throckmorton leaned against the wall, morosely watching the scene. “I don’t know what happened yet. As soon as the girl stops crying, I’ll get the details.”
“Is it her sister?” Jude thought of Caroline’s sister, and foreboding shivered through him.
“I don’t think so.” Throckmorton’s mouth was white and pinched.
So the scene had sickened him. It sickened Jude, too, but they had to know the facts. “Throckmorton, have you tried talking to her?”
“I don’t know what to say to crying women.” Throckmorton shuffled his feet. “I would have brought Celeste, she can talk to anyone, but not here. Not to this.”
“No.” Jude didn’t know how to talk to crying women, either, but he wouldn’t stand there amid the carnage waiting for silence. As he walked across the carpet, he heard glass crunch beneath his heels. Something had shattered: a vase, a glass.
Kneeling beside the girl, he rested his hand on her shoulder. “Miss, I’m Huntington. Over there is Throckmorton. We’d like to help.”
“Help?” She turned red-rimmed eyes on him. “What are you going to do, bring her back to life?”
“No. I wish we could.” He handed her his handkerchief. “What’s your name?”
“Mary.” She wiped her face and her nose. “Mary Channing.”
“Well, Miss Channing, what we can do is bring her murderer to justice.”
“Aren’t you the murderer?” She tilted her chin at Throckmorton. “You and him. I didn’t want her to get involved with this spying, but she loved the thrill of it. She never saw she could be hurt. Be killed. Now she’s gone, and it’s your fault.”
“My fault,” Jude repeated calmly, but he exchanged a glance with Throckmorton. Miss Dollydear wasn’t supposed to tell anyone what she’d been doing. Now they had proof she’d told this female. Who knew how many other people in whom she’d confided?
“You talked her into it,” Mary lashed.
“She wanted to do it.” Throckmorton didn’t budge from his place against the wall. “She was good at what she did.”
“I know.” Mary lowered her head, and tears seeped from between her lashes again. “But what am I going to do without her?”
“I’ll settle a pension on you,” Throckmorton said.
“That’s not what I mean. I loved her.” Bunching her fist, Mary held it above her heart. “I thought we’d be together always, and instead…I’m alone.”
“Oh,” both the men said together. They understood now. Mary’s wild grief was that of a beloved spouse.
Jude was ashamed, but he felt relief. He had feared Gloriana Dollydear had been indiscreet. Instead she had told her lover the truth, and it was to be hoped, only her lover. And on that thought came another; would he trust Caroline with the truth?
He would, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want her exposed to danger, and like a coward, he didn’t want to explain that he had already exposed her to danger without her knowledge. It would be better if Caroline never learned that information.
“Then, Miss Channing, you do want us to catch the men who did this,” Throckmorton said.
She nodded and worked hard to stop weeping.
“Did you see it happen?” Pulling a throw off the small sofa, Jude laid it over Mary’s shoulders.
“Not all of it. I was upstairs.” She took a quivering breath. “I heard the men shouting at each other.”
“What men?” Jude knew, but he had to quiz her.
“Those two foreigners. The count and the monsieur.” A sob broke through Mary’s fragile discipline.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a chair?” Jude suggested.
She shook her head hard and clutched the body tighter. “No. When I let her go, I’ll never hold her again, and I can’t…I can’t…”
“All right.” Jude interrupted before Mary started crying in earnest. “May I cover her? I don’t feel…it doesn’t feel right leaving her exposed.”
Mary looked down at the beloved face frozen in death. Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yes. You can cover her.”
Throckmorton tossed him a knitted blanket, and carefully Jude laid it over the poor, broken body. “That’s better.” It was. Covering Gloriana seemed respectful, the least he could do for the valiant woman.
The only thing he could do.
Throckmorton moved away from the wall. He dragged a chair close, sat, and leaned forward, hands clasped. “Miss Channing, I have to ask you questions.”
“I know.” She sniffed. “Go ahead.”
“You were upstairs. You heard the two men fighting.”
“I came downstairs.” Mary seemed steadier. “It was the monsieur shouting at the count. He asked what he thought he was doing. He pointed at Gloriana and said she wasn’t safe. He said the count let any woman lead him around by his balls, and now everyone would know what they planned to do.”
“Did the count say anything in reply?” Jude asked.
“I peeked in the door. The count was so angry, his face was bright red. I thought he was going to have apoplexy right there. He shouted back, said the monsieur got above himself. He said she was harmless, and anyway, it didn’t matter. And the monsieur said”— Mary’s eyes got big as if seeing the scene again—“the monsieur said, ‘No, it doesn’t.’ And he pulled a pistol out of his coat and shot Gloriana. Shot her. Just…” Like a striking snake, she turned on Jude. “It was dangerous. You knew it was dangerous.”
“
She
knew it was dangerous.” Throckmorton smoothly intervened. “Believe me, if I had thought this would turn violent, I would have pulled her out. I liked Gloriana. She was the best. She was my friend. She was my wife’s friend. Please believe me. I’m sorry, and I’m guilty, and I would do anything to turn back time.”
Mary took long, quivering breaths. At last she nodded, accepting Throckmorton’s apology.
Gently, Jude led her back to the interrogation. “Monsieur Bouchard shot Gloriana. What did you do?”
“I ran in. The count was yelling at him again, but the monsieur didn’t care. He threw the pistol over there.” Mary pointed toward the desk, where shattered glass covered its surface. “He broke the…vase…she…gave me.” Her tears started again.
“Handkerchief,” Jude demanded, holding out his hand to Throckmorton.
Throckmorton pulled the snowy white square out of his pocket and passed it to Jude. Jude removed his damp handkerchief from her hand and gave her the new one.
She struggled against the crying, anxious now to finish her story. “I lifted her up. She wasn’t dead. She tried to speak, but she couldn’t. So she…she wrote…” Mary extended her bare arm.
A smear of letters extended across her white skin. A word written in brown…in Gloriana’s drying blood.
Victoria.
In a daze, Caroline entered the breakfast room. She was late, for she’d fallen back to sleep after Jude left. Fallen to sleep as if she were still a debutante with no one to please but herself. Now she found Nicolette and Nevett wrapped in silence, but today it appeared that Nevett was the one walking on eggs. He clutched his coffee cup, but he stared anxiously at Nicolette as if waiting for her to speak.
Which she did as Caroline seated herself. “Caroline, tell His Grace how fortunate he was to avoid the opera last night. Tell him how long it was, how dreadfully boring, how the only diversion occurred during the interlude when the company was lively and in high spirits.”
“The interlude was lovely.” Caroline had the sensation of having stepped into a marital dispute, and she didn’t know quite what role she should play.
“Tell His Grace that he should compensate me for my suffering, which he did not have to endure because he was home in his study, basking in peace and quiet.” Nicolette shot Caroline a humorous glance from beneath her lashes.
Then Caroline comprehended, and she fought a smile. “It’s true, Your Grace, Her Grace deserves a knighthood for attending the opera unescorted and alone.”
“Or at the least a diamond necklace,” Nicolette said.
Caroline almost heard the snap as Nevett realized he was being teased. “Very well, ladies, you’ve had fun with me this morning.”
“Yes, I have, but I deserve more than fun,” Nicolette said. “I deserve that diamond necklace.”
Nevett’s eyes narrowed on her.
“Or at the least, the double stand of pearls I admired at the jeweler’s.”
He sighed heartily, then pulled a long, thin box out of his pocket. “I liked this one better.” Opening it, he displayed four strands of pearls on a bed of black velvet with a platinum clasp set in diamonds.
Caroline stared at the gift and her own words rang in her head—
A woman wants presents for no reason. Not because it’s a birthday or Christmas. Just because it’s Thursday
…
Nicolette took a protracted breath. “That’s beautiful.”
“It’s yours.” He put in into her hands and watched her delight with obvious pleasure. “To wear next time you desire to go to the opera.”
Nicolette laughed a little at his joke, but her eyes brimmed, her smile trembled. “I’ll wear it on a more special occasion than that.”
Caroline recognized the vow she was making to her husband. She saw him take Nicolette’s hand and lift it to his lips, and hastily lowered her gaze. This was private. This was the kind of love Jude said he wanted, the kind of love she hadn’t believed existed. Yet as she sat there, looking fixedly at her lap, she inhaled the genuine affection between Nevett and Nicolette. Against her better judgment, Caroline wished that she could have this with Jude.
True love.
“Caroline, would you help me with the clasp?” Nicolette’s voice sounded almost normal.
Happy to do
something
, Caroline leaped up and fastened the necklace for the duchess, then stepped around to admire it. “It’s stunning,” she said.
“It’s the wearer who makes it stunning,” Nevett said.
Startled, Caroline realized she’d heard that compliment before, from Jude to her, and she wondered if Jude would be as good a husband to his wife as Nevett was to Nicolette. And she hoped she was in France before that happened, because she didn’t know if she could bear it otherwise.
“Now, Miss Ritter,” Nevett’s gruff voice said, “you’ll give me a report on my son’s progress.”
“Progress?” For a horrifying second, all Caroline could contemplate was the night Jude had spent in her bed, and she had no desire to speak of that progress.
Gracefully Nicolette proffered her opinion. “The ladies swarmed him last night, I thought. Didn’t you, Caroline?”
“They did.” Much to Caroline’s concern, which produced a distress she didn’t want to feel. She was Jude’s governess. She wanted him to marry. She should not want him to make declarations like
I don’t know if I could ever again go to another woman’s bed.
“Who are his prospects?” Nevett asked.
“Lady Pheodora Osgood seems promising, although she does look on him as if he is not quite bright.”
Which proved that Lady Pheodora was not the wife for Jude.
“Lady Amanda seems to have forgiven him his early
faux pas
and now hangs on his every word.”
The hussy.
“The Misses Foley are charming”—
distressing
—“and they seem much taken with Lord Huntington.”
“Which one likes him best?” Nevett demanded.
“Does it matter?” Caroline snapped.
“No. No, it doesn’t.” He leaned back in his chair, smug and pleased with himself. “All that matters is that he marry and produce an heir or two. May I remind you, Miss Ritter, of what’s at stake here. Should my son marry or even become betrothed before the end of the Season, you’ll receive one thousand pounds.”
Nicolette gasped. “You’ve bribed her?”
“Of course I did, dear.” Nevett cast her a fond and exasperated glance. “I want results, and money produces results.”
Once again, Caroline saw the man behind the title: ruthless and utterly convinced he would have his own way. “Your Grace, I’ve been hired for less than a fortnight. Already I’ve produced a change in Lord Huntington’s behavior, and that change, small that it may be, has attracted the notice of this Season’s debutantes. They’re a little more strident than I remember”—last night some of them had actually elbowed her out of the way in their mad dash toward Jude—“but I do plan to collect that thousand pounds.” For no matter how much Caroline treasured the connection between her and Jude, no matter how compelling the passion between them, she had a responsibility to her younger sister. She clenched her fists as she remembered Genevieve’s sullen face, her palpable unhappiness. No amount of pleasure could remove Caroline’s responsibility. Nothing could diminish the bond of blood.
“I have the greatest confidence in you,” Nevett said. “I look forward to paying you one thousand pounds.”
Phillips appeared in the door of the breakfast room. He bowed toward Nevett, but he spoke to Caroline. “Miss Ritter, your sister has arrived and requests a consultation.”
Caroline had been thinking of Genevieve, so it took a few minutes before the words made sense. She came to her feet. “My sister? Genevieve? Here?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but brushed past Phillips.
“In the lesser drawing room,” he said.
What was wrong? Why was Genevieve there?
Caroline found her sister pacing the floor, and as soon as Caroline appeared, Genevieve launched herself at Caroline, crying, “I know what Father is up to. I know why he wants you to return home! I searched his study and I discovered the truth. Grandmamma has died and left you ten thousand pounds in her will, and Father wants it!”
Caroline hugged Genevieve and tried to assimilate the information at the same time. “Stop. Wait. Slow down. What do you mean, Grandmamma has died?”