The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (12 page)

For long moments, she wasn’t sure where she was,
if
she was.

Her own breathing was outside her, above her, beyond her. She seemed to float in some impossible, soft brightness.

And only gradually did she realize she was actually still within the walls of the coach, and Sebastian was there with her, beneath her, warm and solid, as she clung to his neck, her forehead pressed against his cheek.

He didn’t tease her now, just held her firm in his arms, his hands stroking her back gently, as if helping her absorb the intensity of the waves sweeping through her. His breathing sounded as labored as hers did. And for long moments, they just breathed together. As peaceful as they’d ever been in one another’s company, all the prickly barriers between them smoothed away.

It was extraordinary, really. Close to blissful. A comfort with another person’s presence she hadn’t felt in . . . well, maybe ever.

As her heartbeat finally slowed, though, and her head stopped spinning, good sense began to creep back in. Yes, glorious tendrils of pleasure still unfurled themselves through her limbs. She couldn’t deny that. And something in her wanted to stay right where she was, curled against Sebastian, heartbeat to heartbeat, forever and ever and ever. But
bliss
wasn’t supposed to be the goal of this mission.

For pity’s sake, Sebastian Talbot didn’t even particularly
like
her.

Or she him, for that matter.

Neither of them was sentimental in the slightest, and neither had any business seeking comfort, seeking companionship. They had a job to do.

Damn it all, Sebastian had known what he was saying: it was dangerous, very dangerous, to lose control. Need like that was overwhelming, and its satisfaction intoxicating. It was powerful enough to pull her out of herself, pull her apart.

And that was something she absolutely could not afford right now.

Certainly not with this man.
This damnable, difficult, extraordinary man
.

Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she pressed her tongue hard against the roof of her mouth to try to quell them. She didn’t know how she was going to manage it, but she was going to have to be more on guard against him than ever.

Chapter Five

Sebastian was increasingly sure he was losing his mind.

Aside from a little blushing the next morning when she first sat down to breakfast, Rachel seemed to have taken the encounter in the coach in stride. She hadn’t said a word to him about it, and hadn’t shown the least sign that it had softened her feelings for him. As far as he could tell, she regarded what happened between them as a sort of successful scientific experiment, and him of as little interest as a discarded flask on a laboratory workbench.

Not at all the sort of reaction women usually had to his lovemaking.

He
was supposed to be the heartless one, damn it. The jaded rake, the cavalier rogue.

And here he was, scarcely able to take his eyes off of her as she leaned against the balustrade above the ballroom at the Countess of Leeds’ soirée, watching the glamorous crowd circulate below, far more interested in the orchestra than in him.

The soirée was somewhat disreputable—Salomé Mirabeau could not have attended otherwise—but still she wore one of Sal’s more modest dresses, a watered blue silk with a white sash and sheer cap sleeves, and he found himself thinking foolish thoughts about how prettily she filled it out, and how well the color set off the alabaster of her skin.

Worse still, he kept feeling the temptation to ask her to dance.

What on earth was wrong with him?

This was the price of being noble. Damn it all, he should have done what his body wanted in the coach and taken his full pleasure of her. Then maybe he’d be thinking straight right now.

He wasn’t here to admire Miss Covington’s lovely backside. He was here to keep an eye on Lord Henry Walters, who was attending his second social event in as many days.

And surely up to no good.

Sebastian and Rachel had done a brief circuit of the ballroom when they first arrived, diligently spreading the news that Salomé had accepted Sebastian’s protection. The duc du Bourge had been left
absolutement desolé
, skulking at the edges of the dancing ever since, sharing his devastation with other hopefuls.

Now Rachel and Sebastian stood on a little balcony, out of sight of the crowds, waiting for Lord Henry Walters to do something more interesting than converse with minor members of the House of Commons and dance graciously with a string of young matrons.

Perhaps Lord Henry never did anything more objectionable than that. But Sebastian would bet his eyeteeth the man was up to his elbows in something unsavory, and instinct said that once they caught scent of the trail, it would lead them in the direction of the French. And Victoire de Laurent.

Damn and blast Lord Henry.
Hurry up and do something, old man
.

Tomorrow at dawn Rachel and Sebastian would embark for Spain, and between now and then, Sebastian really needed something to focus on besides the fantasy of lifting those blue skirts and getting his hands on her lovely arse again.

Almost as if she knew what he was thinking, Rachel suddenly jerked upright, taking her elbows off the balustrade. “It can’t be!” she gasped.

“What can’t be?” he asked.

She pointed to the main room below them. “Down there.”

A new gentleman was moving towards Lord Henry through the mill of revelers, his back currently towards the balcony. Not someone Sebastian immediately recognized—a youngish man, judging from his slim back and cap of pale gold curls. A negligible figure, despite his expensive coat. But Rachel’s shoulders stiffened fractionally with every step the gentleman took.

When the young man stopped and bowed before Lord Henry, turning just enough to expose the edge of his profile, Rachel flinched.

“Him,” she said, spine taut as piano wire. “Do—do you recognize him?”

“Who? Young Narcissus there?”

He considered. The flood of gossip that poured from Lady Barham included the description of a fair-haired newcomer to the
ton
, the recent heir to some title or other—Fairfax, maybe? No—“Lord
Fairholme
, I believe it is. Do
you
recognize him?”

She hesitated. “Lord Fairholme?” Disappointment hollowed her voice. “No. He just . . .
reminded
me of someone. But my friend was no peer. He was poor as a church mouse. Poorer. Church mice loaned him crumbs from sheer pity.”

A dull pulse of warning throbbed behind his ear. “What friend is that?”

“Mr. Rapson. My tutor.”

Just then, Fairholme turned halfway round to greet some new lady who’d approached, and his profile became plainly visible. A bit older than he’d seemed from the back, perhaps a year or two beyond thirty. Refined, almost pretty, but with sharp intelligence in his expression.

Rachel gripped Sebastian by the nearest elbow. “It
is
him!” Her cheeks flushed, her eyes brightened. “It’s Mr. Rapson! Impossible, but it
is
!” She pivoted, heading for the stairs that led to the ballroom below.

Sebastian grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her to a halt.

“That man?” he said softly, his nerves thrumming. “That man
there
, talking to Lord Henry. That man was your tutor?”

“Yes!”

He pulled her closer against him, swinging them both behind the drapes that curtained the alcove, shielded completely from the view of others.

She gave a little choking laugh, her fingers prying at his hands. “Let go.”

“Are you mad?” His arms locked around her, a cage she couldn’t break. His heart was thundering—and, blast it all, his body was responding precipitously to hers, and despite his best judgment, he found himself growing rapidly aroused. He fought to tamp down those feelings, keep his mind on rational concerns. “You can’t go anywhere near Rapson.” he insisted. “He knew you
and your sister
. He knows there were two of you.”

“Oh! Oh, Lord.” She blinked then, as if just coming out of a sleep. “Of course. It’d be a disaster, wouldn’t it, if he called me by name?”

“By
name
? Bloody hell—could he tell you and Sal apart?”

“Yes. He was the only one who ever could.”

“Damnation!” What in blazes was her tutor doing here, anyway? How had a poor curate managed to become
Lord Fairholme
? And why in hell was he in conversation with the likes of Lord Henry Walters? “When exactly was the last time he saw you?”

“More than three years ago, when my great aunts died. And he hasn’t seen Sarah since she ran away—nearly ten years.” Her back was straightening again; she was gathering her forces, her self-command. “He’d never expect to see me dressed like this. Or acting like this. I could make him believe I’m Sarah.”

“But if he
should
realize who you are—”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway. He’d protect me. I trust him with my life.” Her expression was utterly guileless. Entirely too trusting.

“Hogwash!” He shoved her to the wall, intentionally rough, his hands pinning her shoulders. “I don’t care if he’s St. Nicholas—he’s not to be trusted.
No one
’s to be trusted.”

“That’s ridiculous. Mr. Rapson taught me everything that matters to me!” Thankfully, she had the discipline to keep her voice too low to be overheard, even as she writhed against his grip. “When my sister ran away home, his friendship was all I had in the world!”

“You’re in a different world now, ma nonnette. Our kind don’t have friends.”

“Clearly not.” She stabbed him with a glare. “Enemies only.”

Without breaking eye contact, she threw her weight suddenly to her left, trying to dart past him. He slammed his palm to the wall to block her, his arm an iron bar.

Unreasoning anger pounded his skull. He could not let her go downstairs where anyone else could see her. “Do that again, and I’ll put you over my knee and spank you!”

“Try, and I’ll bite you somewhere you really won’t enjoy!”

He nearly laughed: in that brief moment, she was Sal. Precisely like Sal. Dizzyingly so.

“Unlike you,” she said, “Mr. Rapson is a gentle man. A kind man. When my sister left, he wrote letters all over England, to every orphanage, every workhouse, every clergyman he knew, trying to learn where she had gone.”

“So he told you.”

“So he
did
. He showed me the replies. He always urged me to have hope that life would bring better things for all of us. When I had to leave Rookshead and take work with the Greeleys, I’d have despaired without those words.”

Sebastian closed his eyes slowly. Something about this story, about this saintly Mr. Rapson, rubbed him the wrong way. “Tell me this, sweetheart. When you were first in Helm’s office, you mentioned beating your minister at chess. Beating him quite handily, as I recall.”

“Yes.” She sounded puzzled.

“And may I hazard a guess as to who taught you the game? Could it have been your Mr. Rapson?”

She paused. “Yes, of course it was him. There was no one else in Rookshead who’d have agreed to teach me.”

He opened his eyes again, fixed her with a knowing look. “And I’ll lay odds he was very good at the game.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “He allowed Reverend Cadwallader to win, but privately he pointed out to me the many ways the reverend miscalculated. The matches Mr. Rapson and I played were . . . rather more aggressive in character.”

“An excellent strategist, then.”

“What of that? What are you accusing him of?
Intelligence
? He has that. He’s brilliant.”

“And this brilliant man stayed as a curate in that backwater for how many years? Never sought advancement until you’d left? And now suddenly turns up
here
?”

“Mr. Cadwallader was eventually going to retire, and Mr. Rapson had no other means to support himself while he awaited his opportunity to advance. They were a Dissenters’ church, not Church of England. Mr. Rapson had trained as an Anglican, but broke with them just before leaving Cambridge, over some subtle points of theology. He was a man of principle like that. Once he left, very few benefices were to be had.”

She squirmed in his grip. His fingers were squeezing her arms too tightly again, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“Stop and think. If your Mr. Rapson is Lord Fairholme now, he’s not precisely the same man you knew before. He didn’t communicate that little transformation to you, did he?”

“No. But I heard nothing at all from him while I was at the Greeley’s. He'd been called away from Rookshead for a family funeral just before I had to accept the offer of employment or be left with no roof over my head. I left a letter for him, but either the Reverend refused to give it to him, or the Greeleys held back Mr. Rapson’s letters to me. It was the sort of thing the lot of them would do, just for spite.” She fixed him with a pointed look. “Mr. Rapson would have told me the news if he could. We were friends.”