Defiant Angel (11 page)

"Well, brother, here are the papers you requested. Our bank holds the mortgage and payoff, the liens total a small fortune." Brent Boyd Barencourte was the third son. Tall like his brother and possessing steel gray eyes, he carried the Barencourte devastating smile.

"Well done, Brent." Clinton looked up at his brother, who took a seat in front of Clinton's desk. "Tell me, Brent, how long can we forestall foreclosure?"

"Hell, Clinton, we own the bank. I'd say we could forestall it for however long you wish."

A sound businessman, Clinton asked, "I am aware of that, Brent, but what do we lose in interest?"

"According to my calculation, nothing if our bank in Genoa transfers the funds to cover the interest period."

Clinton leaned back in his chair, mentally calculating the rate and principal. Satisfied with Brent's strategy, he replied, "All right, that's what we shall do." He wrote a quick note on a sheaf of paper, folding it and neatly placing it in the envelope. "Brent, did Teaksbury give you any documents?"

Brent withdrew a large legal envelope and handed it to Clinton across the desk. Clinton quickly scanned the document, nodding his approval.

"What is it, Clinton?"

Clinton, smiling at Brent, responded easily, "Insurance, dear brother, insurance."

"Well, you'll need it. It's not every day you break a legal betrothal contract . . . You know as well as I do, the first contract is ever binding."

"True, Brent--" he waved the legal document "--but this nulls the precedent."

Brent rose to leave. "Well, Clinton, my carriage awaits and duty calls."

Clinton rose, shaking his brother's hand. "Thanks, Brent, for responding quickly to my missive."

"Hell, Clinton, it's not every day one's older brother decides to pay off another man's debt and at the same time steal the man's betrothed."

Clinton playfully slapped Brent on the shoulder. "Will you be attending Kent's ball?"

Shaking his dark head, Brent replied, "No, someone has to mind the family businesses."

Both men regarded one another, and Clinton spoke first. "I know what I'm doing, Brent."

Brent paused before answering. "I have no doubt you do, brother."

"Then what concerns you?"

"The repercussions, Clinton. They'll come, mark my words. Maybe not today or even tomorrow, but come they will." Brent picked up the mortgage papers, packing them away, and looked up at Clinton. "When that day comes, you'll have a lot to answer for."

"And just maybe, Brent, when that day comes, the answer won't be important."

T
housands of stars twinkled like diamonds against the black velvet sky, illuminating the moonless May night. From the terrace, under the star-studded sky, Tiffany stood gazing into the night. She had slipped away unnoticed from her admirers, escaping to the far corners of the terrace. She sighed; she was beginning to hate all the homage her suitors paid her, thinking their words trite and insincere. Tiffany wanted nothing more than to be home at Courtland Manor with Alan.

The orchestra began to play again, and the faint sounds of gay laughter escaping from the ballroom drifted on the breeze. The warm night breeze caressed the trees, their limbs swaying softly in time with the music. Tiffany thought the night divine, a night made for lovers. Alysse could not have wished for a more perfect night. Why, the night was so romantic, so in tune with the couple it honored. She smiled recalling a flushed, elated Alysse in pure white silk which rustled softly as she took her place beside Kent on the empty dance floor and proceeded to waltz as if they were the only two people in the room.

As the strains of the waltz began, Tiffany, closing her eyes, began to sway to the music, dreaming for the hundredth time a vision so tender to her. The night in her vision was not unlike this night, and as the music played on, it tugged at the strings of her heart. Wrapping her arms about her, swaying to the tempo, she imagined being held in Alan's arms, waltzing under a canopy of stars. The vision took on clarity; the night would be warm, clear, not a cloud to disperse the joy she felt or the glow of Alan's unspoken love. She gave herself wholly to the vision, losing for a moment reality.

"Dancing or dreaming?" an amused voice inquired, shattering her fragile dream, bringing her back to reality.

Tiffany slowly turned around, peering in the dark, and only able to see the form of a man leaning against the terrace wall, his features hidden by the shadows. She answered icily, "In either case, sir, you are intruding!"

An amused chuckle from the shadows was her only answer. The man stepped out of the shadows.

"You!" she choked out, disbelief numbing her brain, and any appropriate retorts that came to mind quickly fled.

Standing arrogantly, not two feet away, was Clinton Barencourte. Clinton casually strolled to the terrace wall, leaning negligently against it, smiling. Mocking gray eyes held stormy blue ones as he spoke. "Ah, introductions don't seem necessary. I am honored you remembered me, Princess. I must have made a lasting impression. You certainly did."

"Your arrogance is beyond contempt!" Tiffany felt his gray eyes roaming leisurely over her form, appraising her from head to foot. She glared as his insolent manner, noting how he leaned casually, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His gall appalled her. His arrogance was insufferable. She cried, "You scoundrel, you have the manners of an ass who knows no better than to gawk." Turning from him to make her way, she was stopped as Clinton reached out, grabbing her wrist, whirling her about, trapping her between his legs.

Pulling away from him only to be yanked back up between his legs, Tiffany struggled earnestly, growing more incensed by the moment.

"Why is it, Princess, whenever we meet, you wish to depart? I might begin to think you don't like me."

"I care not what you think, Mr. Barencourte. I must find Alysse. This is her engagement party, after all. Release me this instant!"

Instead, Clinton, in a deliberate display of his mastery over her, grabbed and held her other wrist, pulling her closer to his form.

Struggling ineffectually with him, Tiffany considered her options and how futile they were. Screaming would only serve to create a scene, which she certainly did not wish; kicking him was impossible, for he had her trapped between his legs.

Clinton held her securely by her wrist, watching her frantic struggles, idly wondering if her breasts would spill forth from her low bodice if she continued. The thought brought a wicked grin to his face, which Tiffany did not miss, and she ceased her feeble attempts.

Tiffany was frightened by his actions. Never had she dealt with a man so aggressive, so immune to her sharp tongue. She looked around for a champion, silently cursing herself for wandering so far from the ballroom.

Clinton watched the myriad of emotions cross her delicate features. He knew she was frightened, and was remorseful he caused such an emotion, but tonight the lines of battle must be drawn. He saw her questing looks and chose to replace her fear by raising her ire. "I would say, Princess, your attempts to escape the men trailing after you were successful." Sure enough, anger replaced her fear, and raising her chin defiantly and with an air of marked sarcasm, she replied cooly, "Not totally."

Clinton laughed, "Touche, Princess."

"Stop calling me that!"

"You don't like my pet name for you?"

Daggers of blue flames shot from her eyes. Struggling against his iron grip, she cried, "I am not a pet to be petted, mauled, or tethered. Now, let me go!" Clinton, holding her wrists capably with his hands, smiled, watching the volatile beauty.

Tiffany quickly bent her head to bite his hand, but Clinton was prepared and easily warded off the attack by standing and bringing her up against the hard length of him. "Oh no, my bloodthirsty wench, once bitten, twice a fool. I warned you I'd put your mouth to more pleasurable use."

Feeling his awesome strength and power, she gave over to scream, but Clinton's mouth captured hers, reducing the scream to a whimper. His body pinned her hands between them, freeing his own. His hand traveled to the nape of her neck, holding her head still as his mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss. The force of his lips parted her own and his tongue plundered the soft recesses of her mouth.

Tiffany placed her hands up against his chest to push away, but his other hand moved against the small of her back, pressing her against him. Struggling impotently against him, she felt his kiss deepen, and with it, a warm sensation spread in her belly. She caught herself and renewed her struggle. His kiss became more punishing. The more she struggled, the more insistent and forceful his kiss became. She fought the assault of his kiss on her senses. She struggled for control and pushed herself off the pinnacle of sensation he had raised her to. She ceased to struggle, becoming like stone in his arms. Clinton knew he had touched her and knew the game she now played. Lifting his mouth from hers, he caught the dazed, confused look in her eyes. He smiled broadly.

"How dare you!" she hissed, slowly bringing herself under control.

"Quite easily, I'd say," he taunted. Tiffany did not mistake the silent chuckle that preceded his next words. "I warned you, Princess, I would put your mouth to more pleasurable pursuits."

Stepping back from him, having regained full control of her faculties and feeling decidedly more confident, no longer held prisoner by him, she retorted coolly, "Pleasurable, hah, surely you jest. Perhaps a few more lessons in the art of kissing would do you good."

Turning on her heels with the intention of fleeing, she paused and foolishly, in an act of defiance, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Like lightning she was jerked back into his arms, her breast crushed against his powerful chest, her body pressed intimately against his. Clinton encircled hec slim waist, holding her tight against him. He cupped her chin, lifting her face, holding it so she could not turn her head. His steely gray eyes held hers in an unrelenting gaze. She had dropped the gauntlet, issued the challenge.

"A lesson, is it? Then let us begin and see how adept a student you are." The words were stated quite cordially, but she did not mistake the edge of steel behind them, nor the low, menacing way in which they were delivered.

"Lesson one, Princess." Clinton's mouth covered hers, possessing her with its searing insistence, forcing her lips to part under the pressure, and his tongue entered, ravishing its softness. Tiffany struggled against his assault, but he was so much stronger than she, and she was beginning to despair.

Clinton lifted his mouth and whispered hoarsely, "Now for lesson two." He lowered his mouth, capturing hers with a gentle kiss this time. His teeth tugged at her lower lip and he traced their pattern gently with his tongue. When she parted her lips to protest again, he captured them, moving his mouth softly, then deepening the kiss, caressing the sweet, warm recesses of her mouth. Tiffany's knees weakened and she whimpered as his tongue lightly stroked hers, gently coaxing it. She felt rising panic, feeling her body responding to his shattering kiss. Mustering every bit of her strength, she managed to pull her mouth away from his. But Clinton still had his arms around her. "You stir me, Princess, as no other," he said softly. Gripping her chin gently, lifting her head so he held her eyes with his, he said, "I've a mind to have you. Doubt not that I will." Her blue eyes widened as he continued, "I think it only fair to warn you, Princess, I am quite single-minded in my quest, relentless in my pursuit. I will give you no quarter until my goal is met. The rules are simply this-- there are none. All's fair in love and war, and you, Princess, will decide which it is to be."

Realization of what his words implied filtered through her turbulent thoughts, as did his next words, said in a voice uncompromising, yet gentle.

"Heed my words well, Princess. Never mistake me for one of those mincing fops who have trouble finding their way out of their breeches. I am a man full grown and have no such trouble."

Despite herself, she shivered.

"Choose carefully the game, Princess. I am master of the game and play by my rules, with one end in mind--to win!"

Rubbing his thumb softly against her kiss-swollen lips, suppressing the urge to kiss them, he felt the light pressure of her teeth against his thumb. He smiled at her show of spirit, knowing he had chosen well. He held her gaze and she held his in a standoff.

Tears of fury burning her eyes, Tiffany suppressed the urge to bite down on the soft pad. Clinton felt the trembling of her lips against his thumb; not wishing to injure her pride further, he withdrew it.

The sound of approaching footsteps caused Tiffany to realize how precarious her situation was. Free from any restraint, she brushed past him only to be brought back up against him.

"Let me go! You've had your amusement for the evening." She pulled earnestly against his arms.

Unseen, Clinton moved her into the shadows and waited for the couple to pass. He enjoyed the feel of her pressed against him, not struggling. He was reluctant to loose her from his embrace and blessed whatever saint was watching over him when the couple paused to chat.

Tiffany groaned. There was nothing she could do but remain in his arms, hidden. The nearness of him, his scent, the rock-hard muscle of his chest, assaulted her senses.

Knowing he had the advantage, Clinton leaned, nibbling at her ear, sending delightful shivers down Tiffany's spine.

"You cad! How dare you?" she hissed, not daring to move, fearing she'd draw attention to their hiding place. Clinton pressed on, enjoying every moment, lightly caressing her spine, resting his hands just a few inches below her heaving breasts.

Tiffany endured his touch, and the minute the couple strolled away, she pulled away, crying, "You really are despicable, Mr. Barencourte! I loath you, nay, I hate you, you have no idea of the depths of my--"

"While we dance you can tell me all those endearing thoughts." A smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and before Tiffany knew it, he was leading her toward the French door.

"Dance with you? Have you gone mad?" she exclaimed increduously as he pulled her along. She dug her heels in, causing Clinton to turn to her. Blue flames blazing in her eyes, she retorted, "I most certainly will not now or ever
dance
with you!"

Blocking her escape, he stated matter-of-factly, "You misunderstand, Princess, I'm not asking you. I'm telling you I want to dance." Tiffany's mind screamed in rebellion at his arrogance.

"Of course, Princess, if you prefer, we can go back on the terrace and pick up where we left off?"

Tiffany narrowed her eyes at him, dangerous glints of anger shooting from them. Dance with him! Why, that conceited ass; of ail the unmitigated gall. Never! She was about to protest but thought, what better way to be rid of him? He certainly would not be as bold and outrageous in a ballroom filled with guests. Besides, she mused, she would elude him once they walked in. He offered his arm, which she pointedly refused, instead charging ahead, entering the ballroom to flee. Clinton had anticipated her game, his arms shot out, capturing her wrists, spinning her around to face him.

A captivating smile lit his face just as he whisked her across the floor to the beginning strains of a waltz.

"Tsk, tsk, Princess, you have no honor?" he mocked.

"You're a fine one to talk of honor; why, I bet--" Clinton whirled her as the tempo increased, and Tiffany was unable to finish her sentence. The fast tempo of the waltz was not conducive to conversation, and as Clinton whirled her around and around, she truly began to enjoy the dance. Even as she thought how much she despised this arrogant man, she had to admit he danced divinely, as if he'd waltzed a thousand times, twirling and dipping her expertly.

As he led her through the intricate steps of the dance, Clinton observed her, appreciating the startling blue eyes which sparked with a life of their own, the faint pink flush staining her delicate cheeks, and the irresistible lure of her kiss-swollen lips. She was so young, he thought, he would have to be tolerant and patient with her.

Clinton whirled her around the floor and across the room in deliberate display. As the whirling couple passed, whispers, turned heads, and stares followed them. Tiffany couldn't help but laugh when he twirled her about, her gown flying out, her tresses flowing.

She didn't know where one waltz ended and another began, she was flying free! So free she failed to notice the pointed stares of the guests as Clinton whisked her about.

Vaguely she realized the set had ended and that she stood in the loose circle of Clinton's arms, in the center of the empty dance floor.

Shock slapped her square in the face seeing all heads turned in her direction. She glanced at Clinton, who smiled smugly at her. Her eyes widened, fury gleaming in their depths, as her thoughts rushed in. Why, he had publicly monopolized her! She made to pull away, but Clinton's words caused her to stop. "I wouldn't."

Slightly nodding his head in the direction of the guests, he continued, "For if you do, surely their tongues will wag."

She knew she was caught. Damn it! And he knew it, too. She glared at him.

"Smile, Princess." He shifted his eyes meaningfully, laughter gleaming in them. "They will wonder if something is amiss."

Tiffany quickly complied, affixing a weak smile to her lips. "You are contemptible, Mr. Barencourte," she whispered. Inclining her head coquettishly, she added, "You've knowingly placed me in quite an awkward position."

For the benefit of the curious stares, Clinton captured her hand, bringing it to his lips, placing a kiss upon it. Still holding it, he whispered, "Princess, I don't care what they think." Turning her palm up and before lightly tracing it with the tip of his tongue, he added, "Gossip has never interested me." He lowered his mouth to her palm.

Her smile belied the rage seething within her as his tongue swirled over her palm, sending unwanted shivers down her spine. She wanted nothing more than to wrench it away, but circumstances prevented such a display, for surely it would not go unnoticed. Clinton, having the advantage, took it, teasing her sensitive palm. Tiffany snatched her hand from him and dropped into a deep curtsy, as decorum dictated, and as she lowered her head, Clinton noticed the sneer on her face. He smiled mockingly.

Other than Clinton's obvious interest in Lady Tiffany, the guests watching saw nothing amiss in their actions; that is, other than Chad Devonshire. He leaned against a marble pillar, reading the truth of the matter. Barencourte was staking his claim, announcing to the male population his interest. His intent? Barencourte's reputation as a rake was explanation enough.

He watched Tiffany pause before stiffly accepting Clinton's proffered arm. Pushing himself off the pillar, Chad strolled toward the couple.

"Mr. Barencourte, I am sure you care not a whit for gossip because your reputation no doubt is as black as your heart. I, on the other hand ..." Tiffany stopped when Chad Devonshire appeared.

Chad stood before her; she quickly dropped into a curtsy in greeting to his slight bow.

"Lady Tiffany, as always, you look lovely," Chad said politely.