Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
At that moment, the carriage pulled up in front of Mrs. Postlethwaite’s town house, and Beatrice’s thoughts turned to other
matters. “Do you see Mr. Wheaton’s carriage?”
She glanced up and down the crowded street. Two more carriages were behind them, and a pair of burly men loitered by the house
next door. Her eyes narrowed, but they looked nothing like the toughs who had attacked her and Lord Hope the other day. These
men were much better dressed for one thing.
“No,” Lottie replied. “But he will’ve entered through the mews so as not to draw attention to himself.”
That certainly made sense. This was only the third clandestine meeting of Mr. Wheaton’s Veteran’s Friends Society. Had it
not been a Society meeting, Beatrice probably wouldn’t have gone out at all; Jeremy’s death was too recent. But she was here
for Jeremy in a way. He’d been the one to introduce her to Mr. Wheaton’s thoughts on soldiers and what happened to them after
they retired from His Majesty’s army. Jeremy had cared deeply for the men who had served under him. He’d wanted them to retire
with enough money that they wouldn’t end up begging on the street. One so often saw those pitiful creatures, still in their
red coats, missing limbs or an eye, sitting on corners with a tin cup in their hands. Beatrice shuddered. She felt sure Jeremy
would understand her being here today.
She descended the carriage with Lottie and gave their names to the butler who answered the door. In a moment, they were being
shown into a small but neat sitting room, and Mrs. Postlethwaite was greeting them.
“How kind of you to join us, Miss Corning, Mrs. Graham.” Mrs. Postlethwaite took their hands and squeezed them gently before
leading them to a settee.
She was a lady of middling years, dressed always in somber gray and black, her silver hair pulled away from her face into
a simple knot and covered with a cap. Mrs. Postlethwaite had lost her husband, Colonel Postlethwaite, to action on the Continent
some years ago. She’d been left with a comfortable annual income and time on her hands, which she’d decided to put to use
helping the men her husband had led. The men she’d come to know over the years as she followed Colonel Postlethwaite on campaign.
Beatrice glanced about the room as their hostess led them in. Besides Mrs. Postlethwaite, there were perhaps half a dozen
gentlemen of middling to elderly years. Beatrice and Lottie were the only other ladies in the room, and Beatrice was grateful
that their hostess had made the case to include them in the society.
Mrs. Postlethwaite served tea and small, hard biscuits, and then Mr. Wheaton entered the room. He was a young man of average
height, his light brown hair clubbed back simply without powder of any kind. As usual, he wore a preoccupied frown. Mrs. Postlethwaite
had once confided that Mrs. Wheaton was in poor health and had been confined to bed for some years now. To have an ailing
wife and to deal with all the business being a member of parliament entailed must be a weary burden for the poor man.
Mr. Wheaton had a sheaf of papers in his hand, and he set these down on a table before clearing his throat. The room grew
quiet. He nodded in acknowledgment of their attention and said, “Thank you, friends, for coming today. I have some matters
of import that I’d like to discuss regarding the bill and the members of parliament we think we can count on to vote in its
favor. Now, then . . .”
Beatrice leaned forward as Mr. Wheaton outlined his plans, but a small part of her mind thought about how Jeremy would’ve
loved to be here. She’d not fulfilled her promise to him. He’d died before Mr. Wheaton’s bill could be passed. She’d failed
in that, but she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t fail the bill itself. She’d do everything in her power to help the bill
and all the soldiers who’d fought for England. The bill
would
pass. She’d see to it.
For Jeremy.
“T
HE MAN WHO
led the attack on you is named Joe Cork,” Vale said as he threw himself into a chair.
Reynaud looked up from the solicitor’s report he was reading and stared at his old friend. He was in a small sitting room
to the back of Blanchard House, which he’d commandeered as his study. There was an official study for the earl, of course,
but the usurper held it at the moment, and Reynaud’s solicitors were counseling patience. Thus this temporary refuge for business.
He’d be damned, though, if he’d give up residence in his own house.
“You found him, then?” he asked Vale.
Vale screwed up his mouth into a comical face. “Not exactly found, no. The blighter appears to have disappeared. But several
lowlifes identified him from the description given by my man, Pynch.”
“Pynch?”
“I say, you don’t know Pynch, do you?” Vale scratched his nose. “I acquired him after, well, after Spinner’s Falls. He was
my batman in the army and now serves as a rather uppity valet.”
“Ah.” Reynaud tapped the paper in front of him with his pencil. “And how does this pertain to the assassin?”
Vale shrugged. “Well, Pynch was the one I sent to make inquiries. Amazin’ what he can worm out of the most tight-lipped fellows.
But it seems this Joe Cork has flown the coop. No one’s seen him for several days.”
Reynaud leaned back in his chair. “Dammit. I’d hoped to find out who had hired him.”
“It’s a setback, I agree.” Vale pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling a moment. “Have you thought about hiring guards?”
“Already have.” Reynaud sat forward. “But not for myself. For Miss Corning. They came too close to her last time. If the knife
wound had been a little higher . . .” He trailed off, not liking to think about it. He’d dreamed about Beatrice’s blood on
his hands last night.
Vale’s shaggy eyebrows arched up his forehead. “Do you think they’ll target her as well as you? Surely if you simply stay
away from the gel, she’ll be safe?”
“But I don’t propose to stay away from her,” Reynaud said.
“Ah.” Vale stared at him for a moment, and then a wide smile spread across his face. “Like that, is it?”
“That,” Reynaud snarled, “is none of your business.”
“Indeed?” Vale was grinning like an idiot now. “Well, well, well.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I have no idea. I just like saying it. Well, well, well. Makes one sound uncommonly insightful.”
“Not you it doesn’t,” Reynaud muttered.
Vale ignored him. “Have you asked the question yet? I’m rather good at it, if I do say so myself. I got three different ladies
to agree to marry me while you were gone. Did you know? Some didn’t actually make it to the altar, but that’s another problem
altogether. Perhaps you’d like some pointers on—”
“I would
not
like any pointers from you, damn your hide,” Reynaud growled.
“But are you sure the chit even cares for you?”
Reynaud thought back to Beatrice eagerly parting her legs for him, her eyelids lowered, her throat suffused in a blush of
desire. “I don’t believe that’s a problem.”
“You never know,” Vale said chattily. “Emeline threw me over for Samuel Hartley, and the man’s not nearly as handsome as I.”
Reynaud blinked. “You were engaged to my sister?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you did not.”
“Well, I was,” Vale said airily. “Not that it lasted once Hartley put his fascinatin’ hooks into her. Now, my second fiancée
threw me over for a curate.”
Reynaud looked at him.
“A butter-haired curate.” Vale nodded. “I assure you. ’Course, that’s how I came to be married to my own sweet wife, but at
the time you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. I don’t suppose Miss Corning knows any butter-haired curates, does she?”
“She had better not,” Reynaud growled. And right then he determined that this thing would not drag on with Beatrice. He needed
a wife. She’d already given herself to him. It was as simple as that.
And tonight he’d prove it to her.
I
N THE MIDDLE
of the night, Beatrice woke and opened her eyes to a single candle shining in her bedroom. It should’ve startled her—frightened
her, even—but instead she lay quietly and watched as Lord Hope set the candle on a small table near the door.
“What are you doing?” Beatrice asked.
“Coming to see you,” he said, equally matter-of-fact. He had on a red and black banyan, and his head was bare.
He took off the banyan.
“
See you
seems to be a euphemism,” she observed.
He paused, his hands on the buttons of his shirt. “You’re right.” And he drew the shirt off over his head.
For the first time, she felt a flicker of fear. He hadn’t smiled. He was serious and intent, as if he performed a grim duty.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“It seems I do,” he replied. He sat on a chair to remove his shoes. “You seem to be uncertain of me—of us together. I intend
to make sure there are no uncertainties after tonight.”
She noted that he made no mention of love, and she felt disappointment shoot through her.
“Seducing me won’t prove anything,” she said.
“Won’t it?” He sounded unconcerned. “That remains to be seen.”
She watched him a moment as he stripped off his stockings, breeches, and smallclothes. He seemed entirely comfortable with
his own nudity, but she felt her breath quicken. When he’d bedded her the day before, she’d been in shock, only half aware
of what was going on. Now she was wide awake, her senses almost too alert to him. He stood tall and proud, his skin an even
light brown over his entire body. His arms and shoulders were leanly muscled, like a laborer’s. She remembered that he’d told
her he’d had to hunt for his food. There was black curling hair on his chest, but it wasn’t thick, and she could see the dark
brown points of his nipples.
Her gaze wandered downward, drawn inevitably to what lay between his thighs. The hair was thick and black there, as if to
highlight his cock, standing boldly. He was hugely erect, the veins of his penis standing out, the head glistening with moisture.
The whole was beautiful and at the same time intimidating in his obvious intent.
When she raised her eyes to his, he was watching her. He nodded and cupped himself. “This is for you. Look your fill.”
“What if I don’t want it?”
“Then you lie.”
That sent a spurt of anger through her. “I think I have the ability to know when I
want
something or not.”
He shook his head. “Not in this case. You’re new to lovemaking. You haven’t experienced a fraction of what can be between
a man and a woman.”
She was warm now, and wet, but she still addressed him testily. “And if you show me all that can be and I’m still not interested,
will you desist then?”
“No.” He strolled toward her, implacably confident. “You’ve given yourself to me. That choice has already been made.”
“But why me?” She truly didn’t understand. Why now? Why
her
? “Do you love me?”
“Love has nothing to do with it,” he said, and pulled the covers from her body. “This is much more basic than love. You belong
to me, and I intend to demonstrate that fact to you.”
“Reynaud,” she said softly, using his name for the first time, hating the pleading in her voice. She was so disappointed that
this wasn’t love to him. She wasn’t interested in his “more basic” feeling. She wanted his love.
He climbed into the bed and reached for her chemise. She didn’t resist him, because the reality was that she couldn’t. He
was right and a part of her acknowledged it. She had given herself to him. She did belong to him on some basic level that
seemed to bypass love altogether.
And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to watch his face as he lost control in her again.
Then it was too late for analyzing and worrying. He’d bared her body, and she lay before him like a feast for a starving man.
He just looked for a moment, sitting beside her, not moving, only his eyes roaming over her. She felt her nipples crest as
if displaying themselves for him. His face was grave. He reached out and touched her right nipple with only one finger.
Lightly. Delicately. Devastatingly.
She swallowed, feeling the heat build at her center.
“You are so pretty,” he said, his voice deep and rough. He circled that one nipple with his finger, his touch so light it
might have been a feather, and she shivered. “Your skin seems to glow from within, and it’s soft, so soft.”
His finger wandered down, lightly tracing the undercurve of her breast and then skimming over her skin to her other breast.
She breathed shallowly, the very lightness of his touch making her tremble with need.
“Your nipples are pink,” he whispered, brushing over the tip. Her nipples were so tight they ached. “But they deepen to rose
as they come erect. I wonder if I sucked them if they would turn red like cherries?”
She closed her eyes, feeling that one point of contact, so slight and so erotic. This wasn’t what she’d expected when he’d
declared his intent. She thought he would act quickly, consummate his desire in fast, hard moves.
Instead this was a slow, unhurried seduction.
His finger was wandering down over her ribs, gliding over her belly, circling her navel. She sucked in her tummy; the touch
was almost tickling.
“So soft,” he crooned. “Like velvet.”
He was trailing lower, and her whole attention was focused on that finger and where it was headed.
“Spread your legs,” he murmured.
Her heart leaped in alarm. “I… I . . .”
“Beatrice,” he said darkly, “spread your legs for me.”
Maybe it was because her eyes were closed—if they’d been open, if she could see him looking at her so intimately, she wouldn’t
have been able to do it. But as it was, she widened her thighs.
His finger dipped into her maiden hair, stroking through it. “So pretty, so sweet. I wonder what you taste like.”
And something touched her tenderly below her maiden hair, and it was soft and wet and most definitely not his finger.
“Reynaud!” she cried.
“Shh,” he whispered, his breath blowing across damp, excited flesh. “Quiet, now.”