The Dangerous Lord (30 page)

But not by him. My God, this morning when she'd slipped out of her drawers…

He groaned. She was a piece of work. The image of her naked body, drenched in sunlight that kissed the high, small breasts and the tempting curls between her legs, was still emblazoned on his memory. As were all her come-hither-but-not-now smiles. If he hadn't taken her virginity himself he'd doubt her virtue, but apparently her provocative instincts were as natural to her as writing gossip. She'd be the death of him yet.

A self-mocking smile touched his lips. And yesterday, he'd had the arrogance to think this would be easy! If he didn't take care, she'd have him blurting out not only all the secrets about his past, but a thousand others, anything to regain the privilege of spreading those supple white thighs and—

Bloody hell. Time for a new strategy. But what? Overt attempts to seduce her merely roused her determination to resist, and covert attempts made her respond in kind, only to stop short of the act.

William bounded toward him, dragging behind him the hobbyhorse he'd received from “Father Christmas,” an elaborate affair with real horse's hair that Ian had picked out with the boy especially in mind. George and Ansel had already darted out the door to try theirs on the stairs, and James sat beside his sister beaming at a set of woodcarving tools.

But William approached Ian with a shy smile. “Look, Lord St. Clair, it has leather reins and everything!”

The boy's excitement banished any lingering resentment he'd felt toward the lads for ruining his plans for his honeymoon. “You know, William, now that I've married your sister, you and I are brothers. So why don't you call me Ian?”

William beamed. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Ian lifted the boy to sit on his knee, surprised
at the flood of familial affection that possessed him. “And when your sister and I return to town next week to bring you and your brothers to Chesterley, we'll see about buying all of you real ponies.”

“'Ods fish!” William threw his arms about Ian's neck. “You're the best brother ever!”

“Or at least the richest,” Felicity quipped. When Ian grinned at her undaunted over William's head, she added, “You'll spoil them if you keep that up.”

“I'm merely looking for ways to keep them occupied in the early-morning hours, so they don't go about knocking on people's bedroom doors.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, you overshot your mark.” She swept her hand around the room. “Father Christmas has been far too extravagant.”

“I should hope so. He seems to have bypassed the Taylors lately, so he owed them more than usual, don't you think?” He jiggled William on his knee. “Do you mind Father Christmas giving you so many presents at once, my boy?”

The answer was predictably a loud “no.”

“You see?” Ian continued laughingly. “The males of this family have no trouble agreeing on anything. You're the only naysayer.”

She sniffed. “Because I'm the only sensible one.”

“Does that mean you don't want the gift I bought for you?”

Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “You bought me a gift?”

“Of course. You're my wife.”

Averting her face from his, she stammered, “Y-Yes, but I haven't got one for you…that is…there was no time—”

“And no money. It's all right.”

He set William aside, and the boy dashed from the room
to join the other two triplets, shouting, “Guess what, Georgie! Ian's gonna get us real ponies!”

Ian stood, then walked to the window and retrieved a stack of presents from behind the curtain. Returning to where she sat, he handed them to her. “I don't need anything. You do.”

Her eyes shone with delight as she took the packages from him. “I don't know what to say.”

“Open them before you say anything. You might not like them.”

He found himself tensing as she reached for the small rectangular box on top. He hadn't given many gifts to women, but somehow he'd assumed she wouldn't be like his few paramours and wish for baubles and frills and lace. Now he reconsidered. He might have been wrong; she might hate it. But it was too late to do anything about it.

Opening the box, she withdrew a silver-plated cylindrical object. She turned it over in her hand in perplexed concentration.

James had come to sit cross-legged beside her on the floor, and now he peered over her shoulder at the object. “What is it?”

“It's a fountain pen,” Ian explained. “A man named John Scheffer obtained the patent on it last year. It makes the inkpot unnecessary.” He took it from her and demonstrated how it worked, pushing a little button that triggered the release of ink to the nib. “I've invested in Scheffer's company. I think it'll be a great success. I asked him to make this one specially for you after we returned from the Worthings last week. See here? It's engraved with your initials.”

After using a scrap of wrapping paper to wipe off the little bit of ink that had collected on the nib, he handed it back to her. She clasped it so silently, his throat went raw. She hated it. Damn. He should have bought her more of the fripperies in the other boxes, instead of risking such a foolish gift.

A pen was too commonplace, not passionate enough for her wild nature. But what did he know about buying gifts for a wife, especially one as unusual as Felicity?

At her continued silence, Ian said offhandedly, “Go on and open the others. The pen is more an experiment than a gift anyway. I thought you could use it and tell me if it works right.”

Then she lifted her head, tears shining in her eyes. “It's the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”

The look on her face made his heart leap, an unfamiliar sensation. “You like it.”

“Oh, Ian, I love it! I hate those messy inkpots. This will be so useful.” Rubbing tears from her eyes with one hand, she carefully replaced the pen in its box with the other. “I'll treasure it always.”

He cleared his throat, unused to such effusive thanks. “Here,” he said, thrusting the second gift at her again. “Open this.”

“You shouldn't have bought so much. I feel awful that I have nothing for you.”

Yet she opened them all with enthusiasm. The rest of his gifts were more typical—a lace fan, silk hose, and a pair of exquisite ruby earrings that he'd paid a king's ransom for. Although she exclaimed loudly over each one, when she was finished it was the pen she took out to examine again. As she stroked it, pleasure shining in her face, he thought of her hands on him that night. My God, what he wouldn't give to have them on him again.

Suddenly she glanced up at him, her pretty face brightening even further. “Wait!” Turning to James, she whispered instructions, and he ran off.

“What are you up to now?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her smile was secretive. “You'll see.”

James returned moments later with a framed canvas. He handed it to his sister, who held it out to Ian. “This was
Papa's favorite painting,” she explained. “I couldn't bear to sell it. But now that we're married…well, I see no reason
you
can't enjoy it.”

He took the canvas from her and stared at it in surprise. He could easily see why her reckless father had liked it. It was a harem painting, probably meant for someone's collection of erotic art, though not badly done. A dusky-skinned sultan stood upon a dais with chest bared and arms crossed. Below him a bevy of scantily clad young women posed in various positions about a pool painted in lush colors.

“You're giving me an erotic painting?” he asked.

Her quick blush and furtive glance at James, who was listening avidly, told him she hadn't thought of it like that. “It's not…Well, it is, but…It's by a Spaniard. That's why I thought of you. Though the artist isn't anyone of consequence.”

“No, he wouldn't be.” He examined the painting more closely, unable to keep the smile off his face. Only Felicity could give her husband something so patently scandalous for a seemingly innocent reason.

“Papa bought it because he admired the colors and the lines,” she persisted.

“I'm sure he admired them a great deal.” He chuckled. “Especially the flesh colors and curving lines.”

“Ian!” she exclaimed with a worried glance at James, who'd lost interest in the conversation and now examined her new pen. “The sultan is also well-done, don't you think?”

The sultan? He looked at the figure again. Then it dawned on him why she'd thought to give him the painting. The realization lightened his mood considerably. His eyes met hers over the top of the canvas. “Very well done indeed.”

“You can tell the artist was a Spaniard,” she babbled on.
“He made the sultan look Spanish. His features are Castilian, not Turkish.”

“Yes, Castilian.” He lowered his voice. “Like mine.”

Ducking her head, she swallowed, the motion of her throat doing something wicked to his insides. “Anyway, I thought you might like it. And now I'd best go help Mrs. Box oversee the preparations for dinner. If you'd keep an eye on the boys for me—”

“Certainly.” She thought to run off after dropping this surprise in his lap, did she? “You and I can discuss the painting later.”

Her gaze shot to him. “What do you mean, ‘discuss it'?”

“I'm curious to know what attracts
you
to the painting.”

“Me? Nothing at all.” But her high color confirmed his suspicions, as did her mumbled, “I-I'd better go.”

He watched, trying not to laugh as she fled the parlor. At last he'd figured out his strategy for winning her. He hadn't gained a bit of ground by advancing on her with all the subtlety of a battalion. She wanted him as badly as he did her, but whenever he blustered at her and backed her against a wall, her pride rose against him.

No, he must use her own needs against her. He must provoke her, tempt her. Her pleasure at his gifts, her shy offering of a most erotic painting, demonstrated that she felt enough ambivalence about him to be vulnerable to courtship. Now that he thought of it, she'd succumbed to his seduction after his week of heightening her jealousy and his day of squiring her about town with her brothers.

So although he was impatient to have her in his bed again, he would progress slowly, wooing her without any overt advance until he had her on her knees begging him to take her.

He had a week alone with her. If by the end of that time he hadn't brought her willingly to his bed, he was no kind of tactician at all.

O
n the third night after her wedding, Felicity sat writing with her new pen at the table in her spacious bedchamber at Chesterley. But her mind soon wandered from her column to her enigmatic husband.

What was she to make of Ian's behavior? After their Christmas morning confrontation, she'd expected a long and bitter battle. One she would win, of course, but still a battle. She'd been determined to make him see the advantages of a true marriage, where the partners shared everything with each other. Abstinence from marital relations had seemed the only thing that might make an impression on him.

Now she wasn't so sure. After she'd spent all of Christmas morning and afternoon girding herself to resist his too-tempting kisses and caresses, there'd been none. He'd given a reason for it the day he'd brought her here—some non
sense about allowing her time to adjust to the marriage—but she didn't believe
that
for a moment. Ian had never allowed her time to adjust to anything before. Why be so considerate now? Besides, Ian never acted without a purpose. He was up to something.

Very well. Ian might be a master at stratagems, but she'd spent an inordinate amount of time studying the workings of the men and women who populated London society. Surely she could figure out his intentions.

But not tonight, she thought wearily. This wasn't the time to brood on such matters, not when her courses had just come, with all the attendant discomfort and moodiness. She should dwell on happy things, on how much she liked Chesterley and its staff, who'd surprised her with their welcome. When her courses were upon her, she couldn't think rationally. She made mountains out of molehills and cried for no reason, which was
not
an advantage when dealing with her husband's cool tactical mind.

My husband
. The thought gave her a little thrill. Oh, why must the thought of his being her husband soften her resolve?

Perhaps because as Lord St. Clair, he'd been the enemy and as Ian, he'd been an irritation, even a temptation, but not someone capable of altering her life substantially. As her husband, however, he was the most the dangerous creature on earth, an incubus rising up from hell and demanding her soul in exchange for satisfaction of her wicked desires…her hot, abandoned dreams…her flagrant fantasies…

She sighed and took up her pen again. These days she dearly wanted to strip naked and throw herself at the man's feet. Which was exactly what he hoped for.

A knock at the door between their bedchambers made her jump. “Who is it?” she snapped without thinking.

“Your husband, who else? May I come in?”

“Of course.” Good Lord, how did he do that? Appear like that whenever she thought of him? And even know to
use the one word calculated to reduce her to mush? The man truly was the devil.

Especially now, when he entered the room wearing only a half-buttoned shirt that scarcely disguised the breadth of his dark-skinned chest and a pair of pantaloon trousers that fit snugly over strong thighs. Give him Persian garb and he would be her sultan in the flesh, all rough features and exquisite muscles and splendid economy of motion.

Not that his state of undress should surprise her at this time of the evening. Still, he seemed to only enter her bedchamber when he could reasonably do so half-dressed, as if to use the casualness of his attire to reinforce the intimacy of their being husband and wife. Then he roamed the room with familiarity, or worse yet, sprawled on the bed to discuss the day's events or plans for the morrow.

The man didn't miss a single opportunity to disturb her equilibrium. Thankfully, she had good reason to rebuff him this evening if he should try, for surely he would not wish to bed her during this time of the month.

Besides, tonight he didn't look like a man bent on seduction. He had a newspaper tucked under one arm, and although she was scantily clad, his eyes flicked only briefly over her attire. “I missed you at dinner. Your maid informed me you were unwell.”

She blushed. “Yes.” She said nothing else. He might be her husband, but discussing her monthly courses with him seemed too intimate.

“I brought you the latest edition of
The Evening Gazette
. I thought it might cheer you.” His expression was unreadable. “I see Lord X announced our marriage.”

“It would've seemed odd if Lord X had ignored such a topic.” She swallowed. Had he read the entire article? And what did he think? Two days ago, she'd thought that a little prodding in her usual manner might have some impact on him. Now she wasn't at all sure that had been wise. “You don't mind, do you?” she ventured.

“That everyone knows I married you? Why should I?” He ambled toward her. “But as you know, that wasn't all you discussed.” He lifted the newspaper and read:

“Yes,” she responded nervously, “I inserted my usual commentary.”

“You mean, your usual reprimand.” He folded the paper with a smile. “Tell me,
querida
, do you intend to lecture me in
every
edition of your column?”

Drat it, he wasn't even angry. “It's a thought,” she said peevishly. “It got your attention in the past, didn't it?”

With a roguish smile, he dropped the newspaper in her lap. “Yes, but if you mention our marriage in every column, even the most dim-witted reader will eventually guess your identity.”

His continued good humor made her feel defeated. She returned to writing. “Rest assured, I've no intention of doing such a ninny thing.” Especially when her one mention had nettled him so little.

“That's a relief.” Leaning over her, he snatched up the article she was working on. Quickly he scanned the lines, and his smile abruptly vanished. “How very interesting, my dear. Apparently you don't need to mention our marriage to make your point. You simply choose those pieces of gossip that are material to our situation.”

His amused tone had hardened to sarcasm. “Merrington's mysterious quarrel with his uncle? Pelham's latest mistress and his pathetic wife's ignorance of his unsavory character?
How clever of you to lecture me in a manner no one would understand but you and me.” He tossed the foolscap on her writing table with a look of disgust.

She'd certainly gotten a reaction now, only this wasn't one she'd sought. “I didn't lecture you in this column. I simply wrote gossip as I always do. You're reading more into it than I wrote.”

“Oh, yes, it's mere coincidence that you mention Merrington and his uncle.”

“That tale has been all the talk of London, and you know it!'

A wealth of contempt laced his tone. “And what about Pelham? You can't tell me that the ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his silly wife by taking mistresses before her very eyes' isn't meant to be me. I know you too well.”

The unfair accusation stung. She would never liken Ian to Pelham, of all people! “Apparently not as well as you think. It isn't about you, Ian.”

“But you do enjoy taunting me in your column. And an ‘unfeeling brute who enjoys mocking his wife'—”

“Everything is not always about
you
.” She rose from the chair, emotions roiling as she crossed the room to put herself as far away from his nasty temper as possible. “How clearly must I say it? I didn't even consider our situation when I wrote it!”

Bracing his hip on the writing table, he glared at her. “You forget that I'm an expert on your column. You never poke fun at the helpless or the weak as you do here with Pelham's pathetic wife.”

“Perhaps that's because she isn't pathetic, nor do I refer to her as such.”

He ignored the remark. “Besides, there's too much passion in your words for them not to have some personal meaning. ‘Unfeeling brute'? ‘Mocking his wife'? As a spy, I excelled at interpreting coded messages. But then you know that, don't you? That's why you write such things—
so that I'll understand your meaning even when no one else will.”

“Sometimes you can be such an arrogant ass!” The foolish man refused to listen to her, and she was in no mood for this. Resolutely, she headed for the door. “Think whatever you like. Clearly I'm not the only person in this marriage who jumps to conclusions.”

In a few strides, he was beside her, catching her arm to halt her. “You can't mean you pilloried Pelham and his wife for their own sakes? He's a vain idiot, to be sure, and has an eye for young women, but…” His words trailed off, and she felt his hard stare on her. “Wait a minute. Your father designed one of Pelham's houses, didn't he? I heard the duke mention it once.”

Old memories rose to choke her, and she nodded, unable to speak.

Ian's fingers tightened on her arm. “At Lady Brumley's ball, Pelham made remarks about your person that I shrugged off because he speaks of all young women that way, but—” He turned her to face him, his expression stark in its remorse. “My God, he did something to you, didn't he? That's why you wrote about him! He hurt you!”

“It was nothing…a silly nothing.”

She bent her head to hide her tears, but he wouldn't let her, tipping up her chin so he could look at her. When he saw the tears in her eyes, he swore under his breath. “Obviously not a silly nothing.”

That was all it took for the tears to escape and flow freely down her cheeks.

Looking stricken, he gathered her up in his arms and moved to sit on the bed where he could cradle her on his lap. “There, there,
querida
.” He stroked her back, her hair, her arms. “You mustn't cry. He can't hurt you again.”

“I know.” She rubbed away the tears and cursed the melancholy that made her so weepy at this time of the month. “I'm not afraid of him.”

Ian pressed soft, penitent kisses into her hair. “What did he do? And where was your father? Why wasn't he protecting you?”

“You mustn't think it was Papa's fault. He was always so engrossed in his work that he never noticed the men's advances.”

Ian stared at her, a mixture of horror and disbelief on his face. “
Men's
? Pelham wasn't the only one? What did they do? How did it happen—”

“Truly, it's not as bad as it sounds.” She lifted her face to his. “Papa took me along when he visited his employers, and occasionally…one of them or their sons were a bit forward, that's all.”

“That's all?” His jaw tautened and his eyes sparked fire. “Tell me who hurt you, and I swear I'll—”

“No one did anything more than steal a kiss or two,” she lied, alarmed by his sudden fury. “You know yourself I was a virgin when we made love.”

“Yes, but there are more ways to hurt a woman than to take her virginity. Pelham must have been cruel indeed if you feel compelled to write like this about him. You don't show your claws heedlessly.”

She shrugged and bent her head, but he grasped her by the shoulders. “Tell me, Felicity. What did Pelham do to you?”

She'd wanted for so long to tell someone everything, and Ian had caught her in a weak moment. The words poured out of her. “He cornered me in the library at his estate. Papa didn't need me at the moment, so I'd gone there to read.”

The image shot instantly into her mind…Pelham entering the room, the nasty smile that had spread over his face, the way he'd trapped her in the armchair with his thick body. She went on, almost in a trance, “His kiss so took me by surprise that I didn't at first react, but when he…he put his hands inside my bodice, I slapped him.” Which
had done nothing, of course, except make him laugh and squeeze her breasts cruelly. But she couldn't tell Ian that. “That was the end of it.”

“Put his hands—Damn him, I'll put my hands inside his
breeches
and tear off his balls! Better yet, I'll put my hands around his throat!”

“No! It was long ago, Ian. It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Clearly, it does.” He gazed into her face. “And I know Pelham. A slap wouldn't deter him.”

She glanced away, unable to lie again.

“Tell me the rest,
querida
,” he coaxed.

“There's not much else to tell. He grabbed my hand and forced it against his breeches. So I…I squeezed him as hard as I could and he yelped. Thankfully, that brought his wife. She burst in just as he drew back his hand to hit me.”

“My God,” he said hoarsely. “You made a narrow escape.”

She hadn't thought of that before, but it was true. Everything could have been worse. Pelham hadn't taken her virtue; he hadn't even gotten the chance to really hurt her. Yet she'd nursed her grievance against him and his wife for years, letting it—and other incidents—color her perception to the point that she'd regarded every man of rank with suspicion. How foolish.

“I wish I'd been there to see his wife reprimand him,” Ian added.

“The only person she reprimanded was me.” Strangely enough, however, she spoke the words with no rancor. It was as if telling Ian about it vanquished its power to hurt her. “Lady Pelham marched me right off to Papa, announcing that I was a wanton and a flirt and that he ought to cane me soundly.”