The Rogue (23 page)

“You are brilliant,” she said. She came to him, laid her palm on his chest, and went onto her toes. He bent his head and allowed her to kiss him. He savored the momentary pressure of her lips on his, her scent filling him, and his body's deep ache. He withdrew and went to the door.

“Off I go to hide my dusty boots under the bed so Viking will not scold.”

She did not smile, but he knew she watched him as he left.

S
aint returned from shopping the following day with news of buttonholes, gussets, French linen, and the certainty, he said, that Lady Hughes and Mrs. Westin were bosom bows.

Patience Westin was handsome but she was not a beauty or much of a conversationalist. Miranda Hughes liked to chat and adored beautiful people, like Constance's fencing instructor. Lady Hughes made this clear wherever they encountered her, drawing him away and putting her hand on him. Constance could not blame her. She longed to be alone with him and put her hands on him too.

Her birthday came and went without fanfare. She requested no celebration, only that Eliza accompany her to the bank to see to the transfer of her mother's fortune into her father's account, as they had agreed. Upon her return she found in her bedchamber a package of considerable size. Unwrapping it, she discovered a magnificent bow fashioned of polished wood that shone like a mirror. Twined about its string was a single white rose.

They continued her lessons in the ballroom. As he had at the castle, Saint drove her at a punishing pace, as though he still intended to depart soon and must teach her swiftly. He taught her to use the dagger with the sword. He said a dueler might wield a cloak in his other hand, or even a lamp if dueling before dawn, and that anything might serve as an effective companion weapon to a sword if a man had good technique. She asked if a woman might do the same, and he repeated to her that she had plenty of weapons already at her disposal. But this time he said it with a smile.

He remained warm and appreciative, but his flagrant attempts to arouse her ceased. They spent the days courting the elite of Edinburgh society, often apart from each other. After dinner each night he did not join her, Dr. Shaw, Eliza, and Libby in the drawing room for tea, but went out with his cousin to scour pubs and alleys for rumors of Chloe Edwards and the Devil's Duke. When he returned home each night he retired to his bedchamber. He did not again come to hers, and he did not again mention her scars.

Sometimes, when she met him in passing in the house, she considered grabbing him, pulling him into the closest room, and undressing him. She imagined him kissing her, touching her, giving her pleasure. Her husband. To whom she had told a secret that no one else knew. Then nausea would creep into her throat and shortness of breath into her chest, and instead she would greet him pleasantly and walk swiftly away.

But at night when she thought of his hands on her, she wanted more urgently to do what he had suggested: test her theory. Whatever pain came with it, at least she would know. They would know.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sterling,” he said as she walked toward the mews behind the house. He had been out riding and he looked tousled and delicious. He stopped before her, the sun bursting through clumps of clouds and setting puddles from a momentary rain aglitter at their feet. “Or are you Lady Constance?” he asked with a smile. “Or Lady Sterling? My lack of breeding is inconvenient at times, you
see.” His gaze swept from her hat over her breasts and waist to the fall of her riding habit's skirt.

“I thought you preferred
wife
.”

“I do prefer my wife, it's true. You are going riding, I see. With?”

“Gabriel.”

Both brows lifted. “We are reconciled with our former almost-betrothed, are we?”

“We have been invited to attend a special exhibit of medical instruments at the museum. It includes a selection of tools used in torture and executions.”

His face sobered. “Constance.”

“He offered the invitation to Dr. Shaw and Libby. They are right behind me now. I am going along to assess his interest in the items on display, of course.”

His jaw seemed to set. “All right.”

“I have my little dagger.”

“And I am certain it won't be a public sensation when you use it on him in the middle of the museum.” He moved a step closer and for the first time in thirteen days he lifted his hand to her face. “How you do court danger, my lady.” He stroked a single fingertip beneath her chin.

“It makes life more exciting,” she said, not bothering to control her abruptly quick breaths.

“I have an anniversary present for you,” he said, trailing two fingertips now along her throat. They were standing in an alley in broad daylight where anyone might see them.

“Anniversary?”

His fingers slipped along the edge of her collar. “We have been married two weeks.”

Her lashes felt heavy. “A truly significant milestone.”

“Given that after twenty-four hours you begged me to annul you, I consider a fortnight cause for real celebration.” His fingertips trailed upward and she tilted her cheek into his hand.

“I am on tenterhooks,” she murmured. “What is my present?”

“An invitation to an intimate supper party tonight at the home of Sir Lorian and Lady Hughes. For married couples only.”

Her eyes shot wide. “The best present imaginable!” She grabbed his arms. “I could kiss you for it.”

He smiled, very slightly. “Go right ahead.”

And quite suddenly he was not a warm or amusing companion, or even a punishing instructor, but a man with every muscle in his body trained to lethal power and desire in his eyes.

“Papa has been delayed, Constance,” Libby said as she walked from the house. “I think we should leave without him or we will be late. I do not want to make the duke unhappy, at least not before he invites me to see his collection of bones. Good day, Mr. Sterling.” She passed them by on her way to the stable.

Saint backed away and bowed. “I hope your journey into torture is enjoyable,” he said, his eyes dancing while Constance's lungs seized up.

Enjoyable torture.

Panic gripping her, she watched him walk away and wished she could shout at him to return and take her into his arms and still her shaking.

It was some time before she was able to steady her knees enough to mount Elfhame, so Dr. Shaw's tardiness did not matter after all.

A
S EXPECTED OF
a couple as acutely aware of fashion as Sir Lorian and Lady Hughes, their house was fitted out in the latest stare and the dining table laid with an exquisite repast. The other guests were the Westins and a pair Constance knew but whom Saint had not yet met: Lord Miles Hart and his wife, Clarissa.

“Lord Hart is a . . . ?” Saint asked her quietly as they went into the dining room.

“A baron, like your cousin. You should read the
Peerage
.”

“Now that I am hanging on to it by a golden thread?
But if I had, I would not have any excuse to lurk here at your shoulder, looking down at the expanse of beautiful breasts you are exhibiting tonight. This is an excellent vantage point.”

“Hush. You will make me blush.”

“That is the idea. Newlyweds, after all.”

Newlyweds in name only. His hand rested on the small of her back so innocuously that she wanted to pretend he did not know about the scars beneath his fingers, and that they were regular newlyweds who, after tonight's party during which they cast each other furtive glances, would eagerly return home and fall into each other's arms.

Sir Lorian was watching her. Assessing.

“Newlyweds with sophisticated tastes,” she whispered, and went toward their host.

A
FTER DINNER THE
women removed to the drawing room to drink tea and the men continued in the dining room drinking wine. Saint especially disliked this habit of the aristocracy. While Hart seemed a good enough sort, Westin and Hughes had long since begun to weary him. And separated from his wife now he could not look at her. He could not hear her speak or laugh, or watch the manner in which she drew a strawberry from a fork into her mouth, and fantasize about that mouth doing other things. To him.

This hanging about with men got tiresome swiftly when a man only wanted to be near his wife.

The gentlemen lingered and lingered, their conversation all hunting dogs and rifles, which might have been amusing if his eyes fixed on the candelabra in the middle of the table weren't still seeing Constance's cleavage. Chastity, when the woman he had wanted for years was literally within reach, was no picnic. Eventually he lost patience.

“Shall we join the ladies?” he interrupted, standing, not caring if he was breaking ten rules of etiquette.

Sir Lorian gave him a knowing perusal. “Eager to return to your beautiful bride?”

“Eager to return to a room full of beauties. I hope that does not make me unique here.”

“They say you are a crack fencer, Mr. Sterling,” Lord Hart said, coming to his side as they entered the drawing room.

“They say correctly, my lord.”
Make friends with the noblemen. Become an intimate confidant. Learn the secrets of the Devil's Duke. Solve the abductions and murder. Be discarded by a wife who no longer needs the assistance.

“How original.” Sir Lorian refilled Saint's glass. “A colonial merchant's son with skill at a gentleman's sport. I should like to see that.”

“I will be happy to oblige you, sir.”

Constance moved toward him. “Saint—”

“Ah, the new bride wishes to protect her bridegroom,” Sir Lorian drawled, his gaze traveling over her. “How delightfully sentimental.”

“My husband is an expert swordsman, Sir Lorian. I should not like him to injure you,” she said sweetly. “Or your pride.”

Saint glanced down at her lips, set in a semi-smile, at her hand upon his forearm—her strong, supple hand that had held a dagger close to his face before she had taken her pleasure from him.

With slightly lowered lashes, she said, “You mustn't taunt poor Sir Lorian, darling.”

Darling?

“I believe I am the taunted one here.” He looked to their host. “Shall we have a go at it, Hughes?”

“I rarely lose a bout, Mr. Sterling.”

“Then I shall try my best to be among the few.” He set down his empty glass and, flourishing his left hand, said, “At your service.”

Beside him he could feel Constance's excitement, the subtle shift of energy as Sir Lorian came to his feet and gestured to a footman.

“Bring my dueling foils and pads, and clear the parlor at once.”

“Excellent idea,” Westin said. “Always enjoy a bit of sport after a rich meal. All those French sauces make a man feel downright bellicose.”

Everyone followed Sir Lorian into an adjoining chamber, where servants rolled a harpsichord toward a corner and pushed chairs and tables against walls.

Constance grasped her husband's forearm.

“You must win,” she whispered. “Will you?”

His brow knit in comic perplexity. Then his gaze shifted to her mouth.

He unbuttoned his coat and peeled it off. She helped him and her temperature was too hot from only the sight of his shirtsleeves. His waistcoat, a fine garment of brocaded silk that she had not seen before, fit his chest snugly, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and his lean strength. She folded the coat over her arm.

“Thank you, madam.” He offered her the half smile that always turned her inside out.

The others took chairs at the edge of the room. Lord Hart and a servant bearing masks and padded coats joined the combatants in the center of the cleared floor. The footman offered a coat and mask to Saint.

He glanced at it. “Thank you, I won't need those.”

Sir Lorian's lips were tight. “Take them away,” he said to the servant.

“Gentlemen,” Lord Hart said. “I urge you to reconsider. At least wear the coats.”

“If my host wishes it.” Saint bowed.

“This is a friendly bout, Miles,” Sir Lorian said.

“Without protective clothing,” Lady Hart said, “couldn't they wound each other?”

“Nasty bruises, is all,” Mr. Westin replied, leaning back in his chair. “They're using
point d'arrets
. 'Cept perhaps to the face. But Sterling's already got that scar so he wouldn't mind it, I'm sure.” He chortled.

Lady Hart's eyes remained blank.

“
Point d'arret
means ‘stopping point,'” Constance said.
“It is a three-pointed tip bound to the blade with twine. It snatches at fabric, so the tip will stick but not penetrate.”

“Dear me,” Lady Hart said. “How do you come to know all of that?”

“I must have gleaned a few bits and pieces of knowledge here and there.” In grueling lessons that left her sore, exhausted, and thoroughly alive.

“Those chairs mark the end lines, gentlemen.” Lord Hart pointed to either side of the room. “I will call the touches. No right of way. No hits below the waist, and given your refusal to wear masks, no hits above the neck, if you will. No blood, of course. Fence to five touches.” He offered a sword to each man. “Agreed?”

Sir Lorian eyed his opponent indolently from beneath a poetic fall of sandy curls. “Agreed.”

“As you wish.” Saint accepted the weapon in his left hand, and walked several feet away.

On every surface of Constance's body, the tiny hairs stood on end.

The fencers saluted each other, pointing their blades upward before them then dropping the tips to the floor—Sir Lorian languidly and Saint with the same smooth grace with which he performed every action. Lord Hart called, “
Allez!
” and it began.

It went swiftly. Lord Michaels had often spoken of his cousin's prowess. She knew of his strength and speed, and she had seen him practicing with Mr. Viking. But she had never watched him face off against another man in competition.

He made it look as easy as strolling down the street. While Sir Lorian lunged and shuffled, Saint barely seemed to move, extending and parrying with such ease, advancing and retreating with such clean steps that she ceased holding her breath and instead allowed herself the pleasure of uninhibitedly watching him.