How To School Your Scoundrel, page 18
“Uncle . . .”
But the Duke of Olympia was already putting up his frilly pink parasol and straightening his skirts. “Until we meet again!” he called out, waving his hand.
SIXTEEN
The Earl of Somerton was scribbling furiously at his desk when Luisa entered the study ten minutes later. He looked up and threw down his pen. “There you are! Damn it all, Markham, where the devil have you been? I sent for you ages ago.”
“Walking outside.” The room was hot under the full glare of the morning sun. Luisa removed her coat and tossed it on the armchair. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve found them.”
Quincy leapt up onto her jacket, turned twice, and settled himself in the center of the brown tweed with an exhausted sigh. He placed his nose on his paws and stared up at her with reproachful eyes.
She turned slowly. “Found them?”
Somerton was folding up a paper with hard strokes. “They’re in Italy. Philip’s nursemaid was given the boot in Milan for being with child. No doubt her ladyship believes it to be mine.” His mouth curved into a sneer.
“My lord.”
“We’ll depart for London at once, and prepare for our journey from there.”
“Our journey?” Luisa swallowed heavily.
He looked up. “To Italy, Markham. They were last seen in Florence.”
“I . . . I’m going with you?”
Somerton’s urgent face stiffened into its familiar mask, the one he wore when assailed by emotion. “What the devil does that mean? Of course you’re going with me, Markham.”
Luisa shook her head, quite slowly, giving herself time to choose her words. “Sir, I cannot be a party to this expedition. I must beg to be excused.”
Somerton’s hands, which were raised to fold the paper, dropped back to the desk. “That is quite impossible, Markham. You’re coming with me.”
“I can’t, sir.”
He pounded the desk. “You will! You must.”
“You can’t ask this of me, sir.” She straightened her spine, straightened her courage. Her brain, still reeling from the information imparted by Olympia, tried to make sense of this new development. Lady Somerton was in Italy. She couldn’t go to Italy. What might Somerton have planned? She dreaded to know. And there was everything else, the desperate hope now revived in her heart: How could she go to Italy, when her people needed her?
“Why the devil not? You’re my secretary. I need you.” Somerton’s voice cracked slightly on the last words. Quincy’s head lifted from his front paws at the sound.
Luisa whispered, “What do you mean to do to her?”
“To her? I don’t mean to do anything to her, except to find out where she lives, to ensure my son is safe. It’s Penhallow I want, by God.”
Penhallow. Her cousin Roland.
Luisa curled her hands behind her back. “Don’t do it, sir. In the end, revenge harms most the one who perpetrates it.”
Somerton barked out a laugh. His eyes were so dark and hard, Luisa felt their despair in her bones. “As it happens, I don’t give a damn. I don’t care if I bleed for it. Penhallow must pay. By God, why do you think I’ve gone to all this trouble, all this time? For her?” His voice was scathing.
He stood behind his desk, large and brutal and snarling, the way a wounded beast might snarl to protect himself. Luisa watched his face, the proud bones of him, the broad planes and dark hollows. No, he wasn’t handsome. He was something beyond that, something ancient and austere, carved by a pagan hand.
I need you.
Her heart beat in hard, slow thuds that numbed her ears. She licked her dry lips. “For whom, then?” she said softly.
He held her gaze without moving, except for the steady rise and fall of his massive chest, a little too rapid. His black eyes watched and watched, taking the measure of her. “Whom do you think?” he said at last.
“For yourself. For the revenge you think your honor requires.”
With deliberate steps, he walked around the corner of the desk and crossed the rug toward her. The sunlight flashed across his face as he passed through the beams from the window, and then he stopped, in shadow, a foot or so away from her. So close, she could reach up and lay her palm against the sleek weave of his charcoal gray waistcoat, shielding the muscles of his chest. So close, she could see that his eyes were not quite black after all, but a dark rich brown, like the deepest molasses. Her breath left her body. She could not look away.
“Haven’t you guessed by now, Markham? I have no honor.”
The heat of his body touched her skin. “Yes, you do.”
“Then possibly, Markham, you understand nothing about me.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes, I do. I understand you better than you understand yourself. If you had no honor, you would have ruined me by now, knowing I was a woman. Instead you’ve let me continue on as before. You’ve ordered your servants to go along with my disguise. You’ve protected me, without even inquiring why.”
“Ah. You raise an interesting point, Markham.” Without breaking the charged gaze between them, Somerton lifted his hand and played with the folds of her necktie. “I’ve spent a great deal of time, far more than I should, wondering why you persist in this charade of yours, when we both know what lies beneath the costume.”
He was steering her deftly away from her question, and she knew it, but she was powerless to return. She was too conscious of his hand on her necktie, his warm gaze fixed on her. “Because, as a woman, I cannot remain under your protection.”
“That is not precisely true, Markham.”
“I will not remain under your protection as a woman, then.”
His nimble fingers were loosening her necktie, brushing the skin of her throat. He was inches away now, and his voice dropped even further, almost a whisper, stirring the thin atmosphere between them. “Markham. Did you really think you could hide from this forever? Live with me, by my side, without the two of us coming together?” His thumb pressed into the hollow of her throat. “Did you think this necktie of yours, this jacket and waistcoat, would protect you from the inevitable?”
Luisa tried to take a step backward, but his other arm slipped behind her waist and held her in place, like an iron bar.
“You want this, too, Luisa. You want me. You wouldn’t have stayed with me if you didn’t. But you’re afraid, aren’t you? You’re afraid of giving in, afraid of losing yourself in my bed. You go on wearing your neckties and think it’s enough to keep me at bay. As if that could make me want you less.”
“That’s not true.”
“Don’t be afraid, Markham. Luisa. Don’t be afraid of this. Have you never lain with a man before? I’ll be gentle, I swear it. I’ll worship you. Let me serve you.” The necktie fell apart. His large hand slid around the side of her throat. “Use me. Use my strength. God knows, I can give you that, at least. Whoever you’re hiding from, he’s no match for me. I will kill with my bare hands the man who threatens you.”
His words made her blood boil over with primitive heat. “I’m not afraid,” she said.
“No?” He seized the back of her head and kissed her.
The suddenness of his kiss froze her chest, froze her arms and her thoughts. As if she had been picked up without warning by an ocean wave and carried along its crest, with no idea where she might land.
His mouth was hard and hot and desperate. It hurt her lips, even as her belly ground against his, as the tips of her fingers tingled, as her flesh loosened, as her tongue reached out to find him.
“Christ,” he muttered. “Markham. Sweet Christ.” His lips softened into a caress, allowing the kiss to deepen and slow, allowing his tongue to slide luxuriously around her, his breath to mingle with her breath. Luisa had never felt anything so sensual, so deliriously intimate as the velvet stroke of Somerton’s tongue against hers.
Want. The word screamed in her brain. She wanted this, she wanted more, she wanted him. Had wanted him for months, had craved him since she first walked into his study in Chester Square. Her breasts, crushed beneath their linen bandage, constricted by layers of shirt and waistcoat and self-control, felt as if they might burst from the pressure of her yearning.
A man to get fine, healthy sons on her by night.
Oh, God. She was lost. Her hips moved into his; her right knee lifted all by itself, sliding upward against his massive thigh. She was kissing him, kissing Somerton, and her insides were liquid, and she was opening, opening . . .
Oh, God. She was lost. She shouldn’t feel this, she shouldn’t want this. She was a widow, she had shared a bed with another man, with her husband, not nine full months ago, a good, clean, virtuous married bed. This was a different embrace, a different universe of sensation. This was sinful, this was dark and delicious and . . .
Oh, God. Lost to all shame. Peter.
Poor Peter, eclipsed by the black sun of Somerton.
Somerton’s lips left her mouth and traveled to her ear. “You want me. Say it.” His hands cradled her head, his legs had planted themselves on either side of hers, like Roman pillars. Trapping her, protecting her. “Say it. Say it, and I’m yours to command. Your lover, to pleasure you in bed, to give you every possible luxury. Your right hand, to smite your enemies.”
She whispered, “You don’t know what you’re promising. You don’t know who I am.”
“Do you think it matters? The only thing that matters is that you’re mine, Markham. I protect what’s mine, whatever the cost. If it kills me.”
She was drowning in sensation, drowning in the dark heat of him. Her hands were traveling up his muscular back, sliding beneath his waistcoat. His lips came down on hers again, and she groaned into his mouth.
“Markham.” He pulled her face away. His voice was low and rough. “Stay with me. Come with me to Italy. I can’t do this without you.”
“Do what?”
“Finish it off. Slice this . . . this rotten limb from my body, once and for all. Rid myself of the corruption. Once he’s dead, the wound will close, and you . . . with your pure heart . . . by my side . . . in my bed . . .” His hands were stroking her bristling hair, as if to flatten it to her head. He kissed her again, with aching gentleness. He whispered, almost impossible to hear: “Help me, Markham.”
Your pure heart.
She yanked back from his embrace. The coldness of his absence shocked her; the look of sudden pain on his desire-flushed face made her throat hurt. “No! No, I can’t.”
His chest was heaving, as if he’d run for miles. “Why the devil not, by God? Your loyalty is to me.” He reached for her again and growled, “You’re mine, Markham. We both know it. At my side, in my bed.”
She held up her hands, palms outward. “I’m his cousin!”
Cousin.
Cousin.
Cousin.
The word seemed to echo about the room. No turning back now.
Somerton flinched. “His what?”
“His cousin. I’m Roland’s cousin.” She took a step backward and straightened her waistcoat. Her heart was still beating madly, in desire and fear and the imminence of her exposure before him. The weight about to fall at last.
Somerton’s eyes were narrowing, his body already tensing, as if anticipating the blow to come. His arms crossed against his chest, and his voice was cold and deadly.
“Explain yourself, Markham.”
Say it.
She lifted herself up in defiance. “My last name isn’t Markham. I haven’t got a proper last name at all, because I don’t need one. I’m Her Royal Highness Luisa, Princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, and Lord Roland Penhallow is my second cousin.”
“By God,” whispered Somerton.
His hands dropped to his sides. He stood stock-still, his face now drained of blood, his eyes stark and open with shock.
Behind her, Quincy made some movement, rustling against the upholstery of the chair.
“It’s not true,” said Somerton.
“You know it is.”
“You haven’t the slightest accent.”
“My mother was English, and so was my governess. English is my first language.”
He shook his head. “No. By God. Not the damned German princesses. It’s not possible. When was it?”
“October.”
He swore.
“October, when my father was murdered, and my governess brought us to England,” said Luisa. “To my uncle’s house.”
“Your uncle.” His hand slapped his thigh. “You’re Olympia’s niece. He planted you here.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
His eyes. Oh, God, his eyes. His expression, so soft with desire a moment ago, had hardened with calculation, each angle sharp, lips thin and tight. But it was his eyes that hurt her.
“Your dear old aunt in Battersea,” he said.
“Yes.”
“All this time.”
“I never betrayed you. I never told him a single secret. He never asked for that.” Her conscience pricked her. “Except once. Your letter to Mr. Wright. Because of Roland, you see. I know he was vile, he was deceiving you with your wife, but . . . he’s my cousin, and I couldn’t just stand by . . .”
Without warning, Somerton whirled around and slammed his fist into the wainscoting. An inhuman roar split his lungs apart.
“Please believe me. I never did you harm. I never would have done you harm. You must believe that.”
Another roar, not quite so loud. As of despair, instead of anger.
His hands slid up the wainscoting to rest on either side of his head, fingers spread, palms against the plaster wall. The sunshine tumbled unheeding through the window to his right, turning his hair a rich dark brown on one side, an inky black on the other.
A soft whine trembled from Quincy’s throat.
“A damned corgi,” said Somerton. “I should have known.”
“You must have known. How could you not? The clues were everywhere. My photograph was everywhere. My sisters wore whiskers, but they were too itchy for me, I couldn’t bear them . . .”
“Princess Luisa.” He still faced the wall. His voice was bitter. “Hiding from her enemies. How very clever of our friend the duke. I’m flattered he chose my humble establishment to shelter you.”
“He knew you would protect me.”
“Did he? Or was the old devil using us both for his own mysterious ends? No matter.” Somerton turned, and the face he presented to Luisa made her blood chill in her veins. “I could have saved him a great deal of trouble if he’d presented his bargain to me in a more straightforward and rational manner.”
“His bargain?”
“Indeed. A clever fellow like Olympia understands the art of the deal, the delicate balance of favor for favor.” He walked right past her to ring the bell for the footman.
She swiveled to follow his movements. “What are you doing?”
“Why, calling for Thomas, of course. We have a certain amount of packing to do, if we’re going to catch the last train for London.”
“I’m not going to London.” A shadow of foreboding stole across her brain.
“Aren’t you?” Somerton walked to his desk, without sparing her a glance. “But you can’t back out now, Mark . . . Dear me. I suppose Markham is hardly the proper protocol. Still, we had best call you by your accustomed name for the meantime, until your end of the bargain is fulfilled.”
“I haven’t made any bargain with you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Somerton was sifting through the papers on his desk. He looked up in feigned surprise. “Why, yes, you did. A favor for a favor. I understand Olympia wishes me to assist him in restoring you to your throne?”
“No! He never said that.”
“Of course he didn’t say it, my dear. A man of Olympia’s caliber would never be so crass. But we understand each other, he and I. I know exactly what he meant. A kind of calling card, in the manner of honor among thieves. He sent his most valuable prize, the queen of the entire chessboard, to me, because he knows I’m the only man in Europe with the necessary resources to set you atop your rightful throne, scepter in hand, once more. You do want to resume your throne, don’t you, my dear princess?” His smile was sneering.
“Of course. I want justice for my people. I want . . .”
“Very good. You give me Penhallow, I give you Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof. A fine trade, don’t you think?”
The door opened. Thomas stepped inside, before Luisa’s horrified eyes, and made his bow. “Yes, sir?”
“Ah. Thomas.” The earl’s eyes did not leave Luisa. “Kindly tell Graves that Markham and I will be departing on the evening train to London. Our things are to be packed up at once.”
“Yes, sir,” said Thomas.
Luisa stepped forward. “But I . . .”
“Tut-tut, Mr. Markham.” Somerton raised his finger. “We have our bargain, and I assure you, I don’t intend to let you shirk your end of it. Thank you, Thomas. That will be all.”
The footman bowed and left the room. Quincy jumped off his chair and scampered past Thomas’s feet, to disappear around the corner of the library.
“I never agreed . . .” Luisa began.
Somerton walked up to her. The door was still open to the library, exposing them to the eyes of any passing servant, but he didn’t seem to notice. He ran his finger along the edge of her jaw. “Think of it, Markham. Your kingdom restored to you, your enemies vanquished. Your father and husband—I believe you had a husband, too, did you not, the poor chap?—yes, your beloved husband revenged. Justice for your people. You have only to assist me in a single trifling matter.”
“It is not a trifle.”
“Compared to the fate of an entire people? I think, when you reflect on the matter, during our long and rattling journey to London, you will reconcile yourself to your duty. A princess must always put the needs of her people before her own personal inclinations, mustn’t she?” His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “Her own desires.”
She slapped his hand away.
Somerton laughed. He tilted his head slightly, watching her. “Poor Markham,” he said. “What an undignified arrangement you’ve endured, these past several months. Entirely unsuited to your station. I shall endeavor to make it up to you at every opportunity.”
