She objected with a husky little mewl when he gently lifted her off his chest. He slipped off the bed, and she frowned, her skin cold where his body had warmed hers. She had forgotten he was still wearing his breeches until he peeled them off.
He stood naked before her for a moment, his body golden in the candlelight. He was more magnificent than an Italian sculpture, handsomer and more desirable than the men drawn in Philip’s books.
“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, my.”
Under her gaze, he hardened again, his erection rising. She reached out to caress him, and he drew a sharp breath. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed the tip. The musky scent of sex thrilled her. She looked up at him, saw desire darken his eyes. A thrill went through her, and she smiled, feeling wanton, powerful, a goddess with her god. She lay back and opened her arms, and he tumbled into her embrace.
She looked into his eyes as he entered her again with exquisite, maddening slowness, an inch at a time. She clasped her legs around his hips and shut her eyes.
If this was sin, then she could never, ever have enough.
L
ucy Frayne paced her bedroom. She’d drawn the drapes, ordered the doors locked, and still she didn’t feel safe.
Philip Renshaw was watching her.
The man was so slippery, she wouldn’t be surprised if he popped out from under her bed. Horrified, perhaps, but not surprised.
She’d received his message, a cryptic, garbled thing, delivered by a stranger at the front door, conveyed to her in an embarrassed whisper by her butler. She’d dropped her teacup in terror. Actually, she threw it across the room, as furious as she was frightened.
The butler had merely stepped out of the way, since he’d long ago ceased to be shocked by anything the Fraynes did. He summoned a maid to clean up the mess while he poured Lucy a tot of brandy to calm her nerves.
She’d swallowed the brandy in a single gulp and retreated to her bedroom. Now, she peeked through the curtains at the street below, scanning the sidewalk and shadowed doorways for any sign of Philip. She wouldn’t see him, of course. He’d simply appear, like an unwelcome shade rising from hell to claim her soul. Shivering, Lucy stepped away from the window.
She wasn’t willing to admit this was her own fault. Her brief affair with Philip had been born from a fit of pique. Frayne had commented that Evelyn was a beauty and would be a delight in any man’s bed.
She’d taken his comment as an insult and a challenge.
Her sister was as cold as uncooked bacon, while Philip had a reputation as hot as a sizzling sausage.
She’d thought seducing Philip would be an easy victory. She and Frayne had been trying to outdo each other for years. She was sure such a bold act would shock her roving husband, but she’d been curious as well. Philip had a string of beautiful mistresses. He held wicked parties at country estates. Women stood in line for their turn in his bed, and surely a man that popular must have
something
special. Her sister seemed to be the only woman in the world who did not see Philip Renshaw’s sensual appeal.
Lucy shut her eyes, feeling a rare blush heating her cheeks. It wasn’t a ladylike flush of mild surprise, or a response to a titillating memory. It was the hard burn of shame.
It turned out the only charm Philip possessed was the size of his fortune. He gave his lovers lavish gifts to make up for the fact that he was a selfish bully in bed.
She wished she hadn’t taken the magnificent emerald bracelet he’d given her, but it was worth more than half a year’s allowance, even for a countess.
She opened her jewelry box and stared down at the green stones. She’d worn them only once, to taunt Frayne, and he hadn’t even noticed. She slammed the lid shut, still angry.
A bead of sweat slid between her breasts, and she turned to look behind her, searching the shadowed corners of her boudoir. There was no one there, but that meant nothing.
Philip Renshaw was watching her.
She opened the jewelry box again and took the bracelet out. The stones glittered coldly, like his reptilian eyes.
She had to find him, had to return the bracelet and demand her locket back. It was the only thing that tied her to him, the only proof that she’d ever meant anything to him aside from being his sister-in-law. Her stomach tightened. What would Evelyn say if she knew?
New heat warmed her face at the thought of confessing to her sister, but she had no other choice. She needed Evelyn’s help. She’d
make
Evelyn tell her where Philip was. It was a matter of life and death. Well, salvation and scandal, perhaps.
She crossed to ring the bell, and then threw open the wardrobe. By the time her maid appeared, Lucy had selected three of her most demure yellow walking gowns and tossed them on the bed, afraid none of them was quite demure enough.
“Go down and order the coach, then come and get me dressed.”
She crammed the emeralds into her bodice, and they chilled the skin between her breasts, just like Philip’s touch.
God knew what Philip might tell the authorities about her if they found him before she did. She had been stupid enough to think his ramblings were some odd kind of foreplay, or just an indiscreet jest to impress her with his family connections. He was a mere baron, bedding a countess, after all. Of course, he had to level the playing field, so to speak.
“Did you know that my mother was a member of the French royal family?” he’d whispered in her ear as he undressed her. “Louis XVI was my cousin. His brother, the duc d’Orleans, was next in line for the throne after they guillotined Louis, and the little dauphin died in prison. Orleans was too weak to take the crown, so he ran away, to England, seeking asylum and help from our king to put him on his throne. Did you know he’s here, even now, hiding on an estate in Buckinghamshire?”
Lucy hadn’t known, of course. Nor had she cared. She was a creature of love, pleasure, and comfort, and she didn’t give a fig about French kings. She’d lifted her breasts, licked her lips, hoping to distract him from his diatribe. She expected him to be impressed by the sight of her lush body, a body most men drooled over, but she was disappointed. He just kept talking. She’d grown bored, drank more champagne while Philip rattled on.
She knew now she should have listened more closely, should have told Frayne, or Somerson. But then she would have had to admit where she’d heard such a tale.
Philip’s face had been a bitter mask as he paced the bedroom. “I prepared everything for the duc’s arrival. I spent a fortune making over my estate in Dorset for him. No expense was spared.” He grabbed a pillow off the bed, tore it open and pulled out a handful of feathers. “I even had geese brought from France and plucked for his pillows. I made him a palace, filled with all the luxuries and comforts he was accustomed to in France.”
Philip’s eyes burned like the windows of hell, and it had given her shivers, turned her lust to ashes, as the feathers from plain English geese filled the room like snow.
“When my exalted cousin landed, did he come to me, greet me as family the way he should have done?”
He seemed to be waiting for her to answer, so she shrugged, and toyed with the lace edge of the sheet.
“No, he did not. He walked past me as if I were nothing.
Nothing!
”
Lucy had been irritated. She’d driven an hour into the countryside to this secluded house for their tryst, and he had done nothing but drink and rant like a madman.
“He got into another coach, a plain, ramshackle vehicle belonging to the Marquess of Buckingham. He snubbed me, madam, because Buckingham has a pretty wife and pretty daughters. He went to Buckingham’s estate at Stowe.
Stowe!
” He spat the word as if the place were diseased.
Lucy recalled spending a delightful fortnight at Stowe with Buckingham and his marchioness. She hardly blamed the French king for choosing Buckingham over Philip. She wished she had herself. He’d offered enough times.
She’d bitten her lip. He was still whispering as he mounted and took her roughly, as if he blamed her for his troubles.
“Napoleon,” he’d grunted in her ear. “
He’s
the future of France. Louis is nothing. He will never take the French throne, and I will make him regret his treatment of me.”
She’d stopped listening. She’d striven to get some pleasure out of bedding her sister’s husband, but there was none to be had.
She cringed inwardly now, recalling how he’d smiled afterward, a cold and superior twist of his thin lips that made her feel like the lowest whore as he dropped the bracelet on the bed between her thighs.
She’d been wrong about bedding him.
She couldn’t afford to be wrong about Philip Renshaw again.
S
injon’s breath caught at the sight of Evelyn, though he had promised himself it wouldn’t. She was sitting at her desk, the morning sun on her hair, as he entered the library. He was instantly, desperately, aroused, though they’d both been well sated when they parted at dawn. Had it been only a few hours since he kissed her before slipping out the door of the little bedroom?
He tried to concentrate on his task, which was delivering the morning mail on a silver tray. “The post has arrived, my lady,” he said, playing the perfect footman, aloof and courteous.
“Sam,” she said on a sigh, half rising from her chair. A blush washed over her cheekbones, and he swallowed a groan. It was going to be harder than he thought to keep their affair secret.
Evelyn looked like a woman who had been well bedded, loved an uncountable number of times, kissed senseless. Obviously, it hadn’t been enough for either of them. He had an erection that could knock the desk over, and she was looking at him like she wanted to devour him.
Her fingertips brushed his as he held out the letters to her, and the simple touch ran straight to his groin. He wanted to toss the damned silver tray aside and take her on the desk, or the settee, or even the floor, right here and now, and let propriety and discretion be damned. But that was impossible.
“Are you well this morning, my lady?” he asked.
She smiled wickedly. “Perfectly. And you?”
“I’m finding it difficult not to touch you.”
She came around the desk, and kept coming until the toes of her slippers stopped against his buckled shoes. “Then touch me,” she whispered against his mouth.
He didn’t need a second invitation. He stroked her face, felt the hectic pulse at her throat. He’d kissed her there last night, felt that throb under his mouth. Hell, he’d kissed every single inch of her delicious body.
He slid his hand downward, cupping her breast, remembering the way her nipples hardened in response to his touch. They peaked now under the crisp muslin bodice of her prim gown. He wanted to tear her dress off with his teeth.
But it was day, and he was still holding the tray of letters in one hand. He kissed her once, hard, and stepped back. “I’m supposed to be working. Anyone could walk in and—”
The door burst open.
They sprang apart, and the tray dropped to the floor between them with a clang. The letters swirled like leaves in the wind.
Lucy Frayne didn’t notice. Her eyes were on Evelyn as she crossed the room in quick steps, instead of her usual sassy saunter. Her sultry smirk was absent too, and her face was blotchy and unpowdered. Her high-necked gown was almost virginal.
Trouble.
Sinjon’s stomach tightened.
She did not even spare him a glance, though he was the only male in the room and would ordinarily have drawn her attention at once.
He bent to retrieve the letters.
“Lucy, what’s the matter?” Evelyn cried, taking her sister’s hands. “Come and sit down.”
She led her to the settee, and Lucy drew a handkerchief out of her reticule, dabbed her eyes, and twisted it between nervous fingers.
Evelyn cast a sideways glance at him, begging for privacy, perhaps. He ignored her plea and concentrated on picking up the spilled letters, reading the addresses as he did.
The first envelope bore the crest of the Marchioness of Blackwood. Another was obviously an invitation, the only one she’d received in days. He picked up the third, and felt his skin heat.
Creighton.
He’d held enough vowels from the man to know his hand. He also recognized the family crest. He stared at the scrawled address, Evelyn’s name, and felt rage boil through him. He was tempted to pocket the letter, read it later. Wasn’t that why he was here, to spy on Evelyn, open her mail?
Did last night change the rules? Guilt tasted bitter in his mouth. Could he make love to her and spy on her at the same time?
“But you must know!” Lucy’s shrill cry drew his attention. She was on her feet now, staring down at Evelyn. He didn’t move, just stayed where he was, listening. “Evelyn, how could you
not know
where your own husband is?”
The door opened again, and Starling stood there with Marianne Westlake. Sinjon frowned, irritated at the interruption of what looked like a very interesting conversation. It appeared Lucy had received his message. He felt another pang of guilt. If he’d known Lucy would be so frightened, he would never have played such a cruel trick.
“Countess Westlake,” Starling announced from the open doorway. Neither Evelyn nor Lucy noticed. Marianne’s eyes kindled with interest at the conversation, and still the sisters failed to look up. They looked like two cats circling before a fight. Evelyn’s face was flushed and her eyes glittered dangerously, though her expression remained flat.
“I was of the opinion that no one knows where Philip is, Lucy,” Evelyn said, her chin rising along with her color. “There are rumors that he’s dead.”
Starling’s brows shot up as he met Sinjon’s eyes. “My lady, if you please, Countess Westlake is—”
“Don’t be a fool! We both know he’s not dead!” Lucy cried, oblivious to anyone else in the room in her desperation.
Starling started toward Evelyn, but Marianne caught his arm, listening with keen fascination. Sinjon’s stomach curled. Westlake would know every detail of this conversation before the day was out. What would
he
make of it?
Sinjon cleared his throat, expecting Evelyn to look at him, but her eyes remained on Lucy, her expression fierce and guarded. His gut tensed. Was she protecting Philip or herself?
“Why do you want to know where he is, Lucy? Do you need more fuel to feed the gossip? Do what Eloisa does and make something up if it pleases you,” Evelyn snapped.
Lucy drew a shaky breath. “Oh, Evie, it’s not for gossip!”
“Why, then?” Evelyn demanded, her back as stiff as a musket barrel as she braced for her sister’s explanation. She was holding herself together so tightly a tap on the shoulder would shatter her. Sinjon was as eager as everyone else in the room to hear Lucy’s response. How could she possibly explain such a sin against her sister?
A fat tear rolled down Lucy’s face. “He left something with me. Something I cannot keep any longer. I must return it at once.”
“What is it?” Evelyn asked.
Sinjon stopped breathing.
The Gonfalon of Charlemagne, perhaps?
But Lucy shook her head miserably and didn’t reply, the tears falling faster now. She turned pleading eyes on her sister. “Just tell him, Evelyn, I beg you. If you have any way to get a message to him, then tell him.”
“My lady, if you please, we have another guest—” Starling tried again, but Marianne stepped on his toe to silence him. Sinjon winced as the butler let out a most improper grunt of pain.
Lucy caught sight of Marianne at last, and her eyes widened. For a moment no one moved, then Lucy made a strangled sound and left the room as quickly as she’d entered, brushing past Marianne Westlake without a word.
“Countess Westlake has arrived, my lady,” Starling said pointlessly as Lucy passed him. Sinjon watched Marianne’s sharp gaze follow Lucy out.
Marianne glowed with curiosity. “Whatever was
that
about?”
Evelyn rose to her feet, her cheeks flushing anew with surprise. Her smile did not touch the ice in her eyes. “My sisters are emotional creatures,” she said. “Tea, please, Starling.”
Marianne wasn’t deterred. “It sounded quite serious. What on earth could Lucy have to say to Philip, and what does she have to return to him?”
Evelyn looked down at her hands, now clasped calmly in her lap, and pursed her lips, making it clear she had nothing further to say on the matter.
“You must admit her interest is most intriguing!” Marianne prodded. “Evelyn,
do
you know where Philip is?”
Sinjon held his breath as he waited for her reply.
“Oh, Marianne, not you too! Haven’t enough people asked me already? I am tired of the gossip, and the scandal. I have no idea where my husband is. I trust you will not ask me that again,” she added stiffly
Westlake’s wife fell silent, but her eyes roamed over Evelyn’s flushed face, as if trying to read her mind. She would hurry home and report Lucy’s odd visit to Westlake, and Sinjon wondered what the earl would do then. Probably search the Fraynes’ town house, including Lucy in the scandal, and it would be his own fault.
He placed the letters on the desk, including the one from Creighton, and stood at attention, the perfect footman, without ears or eyes or tongue. The conversation turned dull and ordinary, but he saw Evelyn suppress a shiver even as she discussed the warmth of the weather with her friend. She drew her shawl up over her shoulders.
She was afraid again, because of him. He clenched his fist. He could protect her, or destroy her.
Who knew treason could be so seductive?