Breathing heavily, sighing softly, she let her tongue flick out to meet his. She relaxed into the kiss, in his arms, with her hands coming up to caress his neck, to clutch his shoulders as if she might fall off her chair otherwise. He kissed her neck, her ear, her chin, wishing he could start at her toes and kiss every inch of her. But he could not, not here, not now. He ended the kiss and stood, helping her rise, and smiling when he saw that her knees were wobbly. See? We do suit.
She slapped him, hard, smack across the face. I am not a loose woman.
He rubbed his cheek, which was all red again. And you accused me of being violent.
She started crying for real. She sobbed, I am not like my father. I am not what he says I am. You had no right to treat me like a harlot.
Damn it, I treated you like a desirable woman, nothing more. And I stopped, didnt I? I know you are chaste, and you will stay that way until the day we are wed. Even if it killed him.
You believed Snelling was my lover.
He handed over his handkerchief. I dont now.
She looked at him through eyes welled with moisture. Her misery almost brought tears to his own eyes, and shame and guilt to his heart.
Why do you believe me now? she asked. Did I kiss so poorly?
You kissed well enough to He did not mention how well. All she had to do was look. He blamed the dratted rulers of Almacks for insisting on knee breeches, and his tailor and Deauville for making them so blasted tight. His breathing was labored, his skin was flushed, and all he wanted to do was tear her clothes off with his teeth. And she thought she was a bad kisser? I would not care if you and Snelling had anticipated your vows, because it no longer matters to me. You were young; you were in danger. But I believe you did not, despite his efforts, because you said so, because you are a true lady.
And you trust me? Oh, no, you trust these odd instincts of yours.
Whatever the reason, I know you are no wanton.
She stared at him, considering. Then why did you kiss me like that?
Because I wanted to, by Jupiter. Because I have been wanting to since you got here. Like that? Sweetheart, like that and a great deal more, besides. Why, if you only knew the ways I want to kiss you, youd be wearing a permanent blush. As it is, Ill be wearing a permanent He did not complete that sentence, either. Now are you satisfied?
No.
Well, hell, neither was Daniel.
Chapter Twenty-eight
C
orie came to accept the temporary proposal. She did not like it, but she accepted it, and Daniel, for a while.
She felt as if she were a deer at a river, with the wolves behind her, and the water too wide to jump, too deep to forge. Shed just have to trust that the raging currents would carry her to safety.
If Daniel were the river, he made her feel safe, but the tides were notoriously unreliable. If he were the wolf, she was in desperate trouble because he was stubborn enough to follow. Now that he felt responsible for her, he would not rest until she was settled, to his satisfaction if not her own. Most dangerous of all, she found him far too attractive.
His kisses proved to her she was not entirely the dispassionate woman who shied from a mans touch. She liked Daniels touch very well indeed, and wanted more: more than was safe, more than was wise, and more than she wanted anything else in the world. Dangerous waters, for certain.
His kisses and caresses, his handsome looks and beautiful blue eyes, werent the only aspects of Daniel Stamfield that Corie admired. She knew other women noticed his strength and virile size, but she alone saw his gentler side. At first, hed stood by her through all the congratulations, the penetrating looks to see if the couple really meant to wed. He bought her a ring, in addition to the one his mother passed down, the one Peter Stamfield had given to Lady Cora on their betrothal. Daniel said he wanted Corie to have something all her own, so he picked a diamond for a Perfect Diamond, his note said. Or Deauville wrote for him.
He gave her the pleasure of going to dinners and dances and the opera without having to please anyone but herselfand him, who always did his best to appear cheerful and happy with their betrothal, despite all the teasing from his bachelor friends. He still grew hard of talking when she came down the stairs before an evening out, so she knew he admired her.
He still grew hard when they kissed good nightfor the benefit of his mother and the servants, she supposedso she knew he wanted her. She wanted him, too, so perhaps she really was a harlot at heart. Shed never succumb to such base emotions, of course, not when the engagement was a sham.
Speaking of shams, Daniel took her to art galleries and print shops. You really do not have to do this for me, you know. I adore the museums, but I like drives in the countryside just as well.
Happy to please you.
Corie looked for the telltale signs she was getting to know, and saw nothing to show he was feigning enjoyment. But his interest in the artwork turned out not to be on her behalf, anyway. He was happy she was knowledgeable about the artists, but he wanted only to hold the pictures, or touch them, just to see what they felt like.
You are not supposed to touch paintings, she whispered when the shopkeepers back was turned.
So he waited until her back was turned, too. One framed print felt wrong. So he could do it!
This one, he said, smiling, indicating the fake. Do you know the artist?
She was not as well schooled in current artists as in past masters, but she recognized the name on this print of a mother and child. Theyd just seen the signature of the artist, Noel Edel, at the previous gallery theyd visited, on a number of pen-and-ink sketches of horses, some of the winners of the past week. Shed noticed them particularly, because Daniel admired one he thought might be his cousins horse. He wanted to purchase it as a gift for his goddaughter until Corie pointed out the child would probably enjoy a doll more. Corie thought how lovely it would be to afford to purchase the drawing for Daniel himself, as a betrothal gift. She did not have the funds; they were not betrothed.
This Noel Edel print appeared to be in a style close to the horse drawing, but with less-bold lines and more-subtle shadings, but a portrait would have been done indoors, at leisure, not at the trackside. The subject alone might explain the differences in technique. Id have to compare the handwriting.
No, its a forgery. I am certain of it.
The gallery owner hurried over when his clerk heard Daniels comment. The owner was horrified that one of his works was of dubious provenance. But . . . but how can you know?
The lady is not only beautiful; she knows her art, Daniel explained. He could not say it felt wrong, just as he couldnt say that the mans shock did not raise a rash.
A new customer of his had brought it in that very morning when he came to purchase artwork for the new home he was building, the gallery owner, Mr. Findley, explained. Since the customer and his wife had not been blessed with children, the mother and infant drawing upset them. Findleyd taken the Edel print, because the artist was so popular now, and the customers order was so large. He proudly showed one back corner of the gallery, where all the paintings and prints were marked sold and a worker was building crates to transport them.
Findley asked Corie if shed mind looking these over in case hed missed another fake. She looked, but Daniel touched each one, to the mans horror.
Findley was relieved when Daniel put his hand under Cories arm, and more so when she declared everything seemed aboveboard, and quite beautiful. Your customer has excellent taste.
The paintings were some of the most expensive in the shop, the gallery owner admitted, and hed hate to give the customer anything less than the quality he paid for, especially when his lordships house, on one of the new squares being developed as London grew, was bound to be a showplace for the
ton
.
Daniel was ready to leave, now that his experiment had proved successful, but Findleys next words stopped him. The man studied the questionable Edel print, wondering aloud if he should mention it to his customer, then decided against it. After all, he paid full price for the lot of thesethe ones on the walls and the ones already cratedand paid cash, too.
Cash? Daniel asked.
Oh, yes, to my delight. Now I have no need to send a bill, then wait to collect, like with some of the other no He started to say nobs, then recollected that the couple in front of him were well dressed and educated, and the lady had a maid waiting outside. Other notable customers. I did not have to accept a bank draft, either, only to find the account is closed when one goes to collect.
Daniel was tallying up the number of crates. Cash, you say? That must have been a substantial pile of coins. I hope you took it to the bank immediately.
Oh, no. Who walks around with that heavy a purse? He paid by notes issued by the Bank of England itself. They are all safe and sound in my own vault until closing time.
Daniel smiled, a slow grin that showed a dimple. He looked younger, mischievous, and proud, all at once, Corie thought. She mistrusted that look.
He asked, Was your extravagant customer perchance a gentleman from Oxford?
Gracious, how did you guess?
Now Corie gasped. Snelling?
The owner looked at her. How did you know?
Were old acquaintances, Daniel said. In fact, I believe I can cancel his order, except for this one.
He took the fake Edel out of the mans suddenly limp grip. Which I will see delivered as soon as you tell me where.
But . . . but . . . the money?
As false as the print, I regret. And the government will want to collect it as evidence. But you will not suffer, since you havent delivered any of the artwork or tried to deposit the funds.
They left Findley in tears, but with the print wrapped in brown paper, and the address of the house being built, most likely on a foundation as shaky as the payments.
Daniel was walking too fast for Corie to keep up. Sorry, my love. I need to get you home and send messages for Trowbridge. I was right! The bill of sale, the counterfeit bills, and Mr. Findleys testimony will prove Snellings guilt. Then we can find out where the imitations are being printed, and the artist who dared copy the banknotes. He held up the wrapped picture. Likely whoever turned this out, too.
He was so excited, Corie did not want to mention they had not exactly proved the painting was a forgery yet. She wasnt entirely comfortable with the idea that a wrong feeling, after one touch, was a valid judgment. Lord Trowbridge will be pleased, was all she said, figuring the distinguished viscount would know best how to proceed.
Daniel turned and kissed her, right in the street. I am pleased, and I couldnt have done it so easily without you. Do you see what a good partnership well make? He kissed her again, to the amusement of passersby, and her maids blushes. You are a gem, my love. And I will show my appreciation tonight at Mothers dinner when we make the formal announcement of our betrothal.
Not another gift, Daniel. You are too generous, and we are not . . . partners.
Not yet, but we need to show everyone its a love match, you know. Besides, Deauville and Dobbson both agree its proper for me to give you gifts now that the notice has been in the paper. I . . . I like buying you presents. I like seeing you smile, Corie.
That raging river? She jumped right in.
Daniel left her off at Royce House, sent footmen off to Trowbridges home, his office, the bank, and his club, then went to Layton Square. He left his groom with the horses a few houses away from the one under construction, and decided to walk past, to reconnoiter, until reinforcements arrived.
Some of the window openings were still empty; the exterior was half painted, the entry not yet bricked. Scaffolds and ladders surrounded the outside, but only one man seemed to be working on the house, and he was loading an already-full wagon.
I have come to see Lord Snelling, Daniel said. I hoped he might be here surveying the progress.
The man spit a few inches from Daniels boots. Aint no progress and aint like to be. Theyve all gone to find the rotter. Sorry iffen hes a friend of yours. He waved vaguely at the stacks of tiles, the tools, and the piles of wood. Sorrier for us, getting paid with ass wipes.
Ass wipes?
Paper money. All its good for. Thats what we heard, anyway. Some toff said it right out at one of them fancy dos. Now the banks is lookin at the flimsies with magnifiers and half the shops wont take em in trade. The boss went to find out for hisself. Tsee if he cant shake some gold or silver out of him.
Do you know where hes staying?
He were out of town, but word is hes back, staying with his brother-in-law. An artist or something.
