When Maggie woke next, it was because Jerry, her dog, was breathing hotly into her face. Shoving him away did no good. He sat right back down in front of her, and panted some more.
Finally Maggie lifted her head to squint at the clock on her bedside table. Surely, if it was time for Jerry to be walked, it was time for Hill to come in and prepare her bath. Where was Hill?
But Maggie found that she could not see the clock on her bedside table, primarily because a massive bare shoulder blocked it from view. Staring at the shoulder, her sleep-blurred eyes coming sharply into focus all at once, Maggie was struck with the horrible realization that there was a
man
in her bed.
A
man.
In
her
bed.
Then memory came flooding back, and with it, a sense of mortification that sent hot color rushing into her cheeks. Good God. She had spent the night with Jeremy Rawlings.
Again.
More
than just spent the night with him, too. When Maggie thought of all the things they’d done during the night, her blush deepened to a fiery red. Oh, God, how could she have allowed it to happen? Once was pardonable. Twice, though reprehensible, was understandable, having liked it so much the first time. But three … no, four … Lord, how
many was it now? She could hardly keep track. But plenty. Plenty of times.
And still no proposal. No explanation—that she could believe—of the Princess Usha’s claims. Not even a single “I love you.”
And she had fallen into bed with him like a dockside doxy.
Again.
How
could she have allowed it to happen again?
How
?
But another glance at Jeremy, sleeping soundly beside her, revealed the answer to that question only too readily. Lying on his side, naked to the waist, his tanned skin startlingly dark against the blinding whiteness of the sheets, he reminded her of a slumbering god. Which god, though? He was far too large to be Pan, though he definitely had Pan’s mischievous personality. He was too dark to be Apollo, though even in repose, his well-formed muscles were evident. Perhaps he was Vulcan. There was something extremely diabolical about his thick black eyebrows, which, when he was awake, he was always lifting skeptically. Yes, Vulcan it was going to have to be … .
Maggie roused herself. Good Lord, what was the matter with her? She was slipping off into one of her painting dream worlds, when she had problems right here, in the real world! What was she going to do about this sleeping man in her bed?
She could tell by the gray light drifting in through the sheer white curtains that it was morning, nine o’clock at least. Any minute, Hill would be walking in … or at least she’d try to walk in. When she found the door locked, Hill was bound to panic, since in the course of her service to the Herberts, not a one of them had ever locked a door. And then Hill, in her fright, would rouse Evers, and Evers would undoubtedly call the footmen, and then Jeremy would have to unlock the door just in order to keep it from being smashed down. And then the entire household would know that Maggie and Jeremy had …
Maggie leaned over and shook Jeremy’s broad shoulder. “Jeremy,” she whispered urgently. “Jeremy, wake up!”
Jeremy sighed in his sleep and rolled over, so that his face was just inches from hers.
“Jeremy,” Maggie whispered again. “I mean it. You have to get up.”
Jeremy, without opening his eyes, reached out and snaked an arm around her naked waist. Even half-asleep, his strength was impressive. He pulled her against him as easily as if she were a ragdoll. “Morning, Mags,” he murmured into her hair.
“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me,” she hissed. “You’ve got to get out of here, before the servants get wind of it.”
“Hmmm,” Jeremy said, burying his face into the clouds of her hair, to nuzzle her neck, just below her left ear. “You’re always so pleasant in the morning, Mags. It’s one of the things I love about you. You’re terribly consistent.”
“I mean it, Jeremy,” Maggie said. She tried to ignore the shivering sensation he was creating as he nibbled at her earlobe: “Hill could knock at any second—”
“Oh, Hill won’t be knocking,” Jeremy informed her, lazily stroking her left breast. He watched in fascination as her responsive nipple immediately hardened beneath his touch.
“What do you mean, Hill won’t be knocking?” Maggie narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. “You. said you drugged her. Surely …” She gasped. “Jeremy, you didn’t
kill
her, did you?”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Of
course
not. What do you take me for, Mags? I only meant that the opium I slipped her last night has a rather, er, debilitating effect on the uninitiated the following morning—”
“You mean—”
“She’ll probably sleep through most of today,” Jeremy said, with badly feigned regret. “If she hasn’t vomited it all up, of course.”
“Jerry!” Maggie was so horrified, she didn’t even notice that the dog leapt excitedly to his feet at her cry, and began leaping about the bed pillows, yapping. “How
could
you?”
“Stop fussing over the woman,” Jeremy said, annoyed that she kept moving out of his reach. “I’ll give her a raise when she comes to. She’ll be fine.”
“A
raise
? Jerry, I haven’t been able to pay her regular wages in six months!”
Jeremy blinked at her. “Oh, well, then. I’ll give her her back wages, a raise, and a bonus for her loyalty.”
Maggie leaned back against the pillows, flicking an annoyed glance at him. “I think,” she said, “that the person who drugged the maid should have to walk the dog.”
One of Jeremy’s dark eyebrows lifted. He looked as if he were trying very hard to frown, but one corner of his mouth kept curling upward, betraying his amusement at her declaration. “Oh, you think so, do you?”
“I do,” Maggie said with a nod, leaning back against the pillows primly.
Jeremy gave up trying to frown, and smiled instead, all of his white, even teeth showing. “All right, then,” he said with a shrug. “Come on, Jerry. Papa’s taking you for a walk.”
The little white dog shook itself happily, and waddled to the end of the bed, where it leapt down upon an ottoman Maggie had put there for that very purpose, and from the ottoman to the floor. Jeremy threw back the bedclothes and rose, stretching until his joints popped audibly. Maggie, in the bed, knew she ought not to look at his naked backside, but she was completely incapable of tearing her eyes away. Jeremy’s buttocks were perfectly rounded, with concave indentations on either side of them, and not a hint of the coarse black hair that covered the rest of his body. He was, as Maggie had already determined, a perfect specimen of the human male, both frontward and back. How Madame Bonheur would have adored him as a model for their anatomy class! His inguinal ligament was really quite pronounced.
“Jerry’s lead,” Maggie said, clearing her throat a little as she watched Jeremy struggle into the trousers he’d abandoned the night before at some point during their lovemaking, “is hanging on a hook in back of the door to the dressing room.”
Growling to himself, Jeremy padded barefoot to the door, and found the collar and lead. “Right,” he said. “I’ll just pop back down to my own room for something more suitable
to wear. I do think the neighbors will talk if I appear walking down Park Lane in my evening wear at nine in the morning.”
“Whatever you like,” Maggie said airily.
Jeremy bent to fasten the dog’s collar, but the bichon frise twisted and cavorted so excitedly, it took him nearly a minute to find the tiny gold clasp. Maggie watched from the bed, bemused. When Jeremy finally succeeded in securing the dog, he straightened, and looked at her.
Sitting up in the white bed, with her dark hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders and a sheet tucked modestly up beneath her arms, Maggie looked exactly as he’d imagined she would after a night of torrid lovemaking. Her lips bore a slightly bruised appearance, from all the kissing they’d done, and there was a shine in her eyes he’d never seen before. More than anything, he wanted to crawl right back into bed with her. Damn the stupid dog, anyway.
“At your peril,” he said warningly, “do you move out of that bed before I return. Do you understand me, Mags? We have some things to discuss, you and I.”
Maggie, observing the challenge in his silver eyes, nodded mutely. She did not think arguing was worth the risk of delaying Jerry’s much-needed trip outdoors.
Jeremy, apparently satisfied with her response, put his hand on the doorknob. When it would not turn, he reached into his trouser pocket, ignoring Maggie’s derisive snort from the bed, and pulled out the key, remembering, albeit belatedly, that he’d locked it the night before to insure no interruptions. After casting a final warning glance at Maggie, he opened the door, peered out to make sure no one was watching, then slipped into the hallway, the dog bounding excitedly behind him.
Maggie, in the bed, smiled to herself. Jeremy had left behind his shirt, his socks, and his shoes, all strewn across the floor and jumbled with her own clothing from the night before. He was not, she noted, the world’s tidiest person, but then, neither was she. That was probably why they got along so well. Augustin was incredibly tidy, and was forever harping
at her for balling her gloves into her pockets and leaving her brushes soaking overnight … .
Then, as if someone had poured a pitcher of cold water down her back, Maggie bolted upright. Good God. Augustin. The exhibition. The exhibition was opening tomorrow night. The men were arriving to transport Maggie’s paintings at eleven. That was in—Maggie glanced at the clock on her bedside table—an hour and a half!
In a flash, Maggie was out of bed, and tugging on the bell pull.
Down the half, Jeremy threw open the door to his own bedroom and strode across it, Maggie’s dog leaping up against his legs, his little claws sinking in deeper and deeper each time.
“I
know,”
Jeremy snapped at the dog crossly. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
He banged open the door to his dressing room, waking Peters, who’d taken to sleeping on a cot beneath Jeremy’s many coats, despite an offer of his own room in the servants’ quarters upstairs. The valet apparently felt such a move might keep him from being readily available, should his colonel need him quickly.
“Colonel,” he cried happily, sitting up and wiping sleep from his eyes. “Bless me, is it morning already? Where ’ave you been? I waited up as long as I could, sir—”
“Yes, yes,” Jeremy said sourly. He dragged Jerry forward on his lead. “Walk this, will you?”
Peters looked down at the excited little dog, and the smile on his face faded. “Colonel! You can’t be serious.
Me?
Walk
that?
I’ll be the laughingstock of the—”
“Just do it,” Jeremy cut him off succinctly. “Now. What did you discover last night, tailing the frog-eater?”
Peters’s scowl grew even darker. “That if ‘e’s the one what tried to kill you, ’e musta ‘ired somebody else to do it. The Frenchie don’t ’ave it in ‘im, colonel. ’Is light was out by midnight. I never saw a man less likely to stab somebody else wi’ a knife, much less run ’em over with a chaise-and-four.”
Jeremy, flicking through the many garments hanging from
rods above his head, asked irritably, “Where’s my dressing gown? The silk one?”
Peters reached beneath the cot for his wooden leg, which he hastened to fasten on beneath the trousers he’d fallen asleep in. “Right there to your left, Colonel. You want me to keep tailin’ ’im then, sir?”
“Yes, of course.” Jeremy thrust his arms through the wide sleeves of a dressing gown made from Indian silk, embroidered all over with images of peacocks and tigers. “What other suspects do we have? It’s
got
to be the frog-eater.”
Peters looked skeptical. “If you say so, sir.”
Jeremy reached around his valet for the Star of Jaipur, which rested in its velvet sack on top of a chest of dresser drawers. Jeremy lifted the small bag, and opened it. The heavy sapphire rolled out into his palm, winking even in the dim light of the dressing room He tossed the sapphire into the air, then caught it, and dropped it into the deep pocket of his dressing gown. “Anything else, Peters?”
“Just this, sir.” Peters removed a folded square of paper from his trouser pocket. With a sinking heart, Jeremy recognized his aunt’s neat cursive, though the address looked as if it had been written in haste. Obviously hand-delivered, since it bore no postmark, its bearer had undoubtedly traveled all night to bring it from Rawlings Manor. “Looks like you’ve been found out, sir.”
“Damned newspaper article,” Jeremy growled.
Tearing the letter open, he scanned its contents briefly. He’d been found out, all right. Pegeen was furious. Apparently some complications—minor, but serious enough to have alarmed the surgeon—had kept her from making the trip back to London after the funeral, and Edward had stayed with her. But the fact that Pegeen was bedridden had not kept news of Jeremy’s return to England from creeping back to her. She had an uncanny knack, he remembered, too late, for ferreting out all sorts of information from the servants … even servants over a hundred miles away.