How To Vex A Viscount (20 page)

“Every woman’s happy ending.” Lucian lifted a cynical brow.

“That’s not true, and you know it as well as I,” Daisy said, thinking of her great-aunt’s distracted scowl earlier. Until that moment, Daisy hadn’t even considered the possibility that Isabella’s late-in-life union with a much younger man had brought her anything but happiness. “Marriage doesn’t necessarily result in happiness for either party, but one can hope.”

“Is that what you hope for, Daisy?”

He leaned toward her, sliding an arm along the back of the settee behind her.

“Seems to me I recall your saying something once about people coming into this world with the same wants and needs since Eden.” She drew a shallow breath. His warm masculine scent curled around her brain, making coherent thought a serious effort. His thigh rested only a finger’s width from hers. She remembered his leg’s rock-hard musculature, as well as his rock-hard member under her palms. She had to remind herself to exhale.

“Surely you hope to find happiness as well,” she managed to squeak out.

He smiled wickedly. “Some would argue that a man’s definition of happiness is considerably different from a woman’s.”

“Hmph! I suppose you are referring to the happiness you found with Mlle La Tour,” she said testily.

“Are you sure you want to discuss my adventures with that lovely woman?” He let his hand slip from the back of the settee to rest on her shoulder. The warmth of his palm radiated through the thin fabric of her
casaque.
She fought the urge to lean into his touch. “Such knowledge can be dangerous to a young lady of quality.”

“Knowledge is not something to be shunned.”

“Ah, as long as you made reference to Eden, I feel compelled to point out that’s what Eve thought as well. And look where her quest for knowledge led us.” He stroked her forearm absently with his other hand. “What is it about the forbidden that calls to us so strongly?”

“Is that what you like about Blanche, that she’s forbidden?” She turned her head to look up at him and felt his breath feather warmly over her lips.

“Really, Daisy, a gentleman shouldn’t discuss one lady with another.”

“Blanche would be pleased to hear you describe her as a lady,” Daisy said, her voice a mere whisper.

“And how would you know that?”

“Ah,” Daisy said, fascinated by the play of his tongue against his teeth and lips. “Blanche and I are very close. Almost inseparable.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “I daresay you are.”

“I’m certain Blanche wouldn’t mind if you told me what you like about her.”

“I don’t think it’s possible for me to explain to you what I like about Blanche,” he said. “I think I have to show you.”

His mouth descended to hers, and before she could protest, he covered her lips in a kiss that warmed her to her toes. Any thought of resistance died without so much as a whimper. Even the throb of her sprained ankle faded in the heat of his kiss. All that mattered was the smouldering touch of his lips, his tongue, on hers.

Her hands found his lapel and tugged him closer. His kiss deepened at her encouragement, and he explored her mouth with his tongue. His hand cupped her cheek, caressed her jaw and then slid along her throat. Daisy’s world spiralled down to their warm, wet mingling of breath.

He was kissing
her
—Daisy—not
Blanche. Oh, he’d done it once before, but that was only to prove a point. But this was a real, honest-to-goodness kiss.

No, make that an honest-to-wickedness kiss! Jupiter! The man certainly has learned quickly,
she thought dimly, remembering his first abortive efforts when he thought he was kissing an experienced courtesan. Now she’d bet Lucian Beaumont’s lips would beguile the most jaded woman of pleasure alive.

When his hand slipped lower to toy with the exposed tops of her breasts, she gasped into his mouth. He pulled back to look down at her.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his fingertips teasing along the top of her bodice. Her skin danced beneath his touch.

“That depends. Lucian, are you amusing yourself with me only because Blanche is unavailable?”

He laughed loudly. “No, Daisy. My relationship with Blanche has run its course. If I return to her again, it will merely be to bid her a fond adieu and wish her extremely well. You, Miss Drake, have completely captured my attention.”

Her lips twitched in a small smile. “Then don’t stop.”

Yet part of her was saddened that he tossed Blanche aside so easily.

Botheration! Living in two sets of skin is a difficult enterprise!

“Are you offering to teach me what you’ve learned from Blanche?” she asked.

His hand settled beneath her breast. Her nipple tightened into an aching point. She was sure he must be able to feel her heart hammering.

“What I learned from Blanche,” he repeated softly. “Mostly I learned that people are far more complex and surprising than we credit them. That one never knows exactly what is afoot in another mind. But if you and I continue down this road, I hope to learn what’s rolling around in yours. I want to know all your secrets, Daisy. Does that scare you?”

“No,” she said with only a slight gulp.

“I confess it gave me pause at first.” He grinned at her.

“I don’t frighten so easily. Kiss me again. And quickly,” Daisy said. “Before my great-aunt returns with your tea and crumpets.”

Isabella stopped so suddenly in the doorway to the parlour that Nanette nearly ran the tea tray into her derriere. There on the settee, Daisy and Lord Rutland were locked in an embrace.

The passionate tableau was more than Isabella had experienced in all her years of marriage, but she remembered what it felt like in minute detail. The first rush of longing, the drumbeat of desire, the heat, the chase—Isabella put a hand to her cheek and was mildly surprised to find it feverish to the touch.

He’s eligible and presentable, and Daisy seems to like him well enough,
Isabella thought as she waved Nanette back around the corner.
And it looks as though she took my advice about retiring Blanche.

As a former courtesan herself, Isabella had no stones to throw over anyone’s behaviour. If Daisy wanted to dally with the man, she wasn’t about to gainsay her. And if scandal ensued, they could always marry. Daisy carried a hefty dowry, and young Rutland held a venerable title. A well-moneyed match always made society forget to count months on the first pregnancy.

Surely Daisy would be happy with him. After all, such a vigorous display in the parlour boded well for his ardour in the bedchamber.

But for a marriage to work, it must function in all the rooms of the house. Heaven knew, she’d discovered the truth of that little gem to her sorrow. Isabella hoped for more for her great-niece.

In the hallway outside the parlour, she cleared her throat noisily and gave Nanette a loud, “And for pity’s sake, don’t drop the tea service. Who knows when the next shipment of fine china from Cathay will arrive?”

By the time she and Nanette rounded the corner to enter the parlour for the second time, Daisy and her new beau were perched at opposite ends of the settee, their faces flushing rosily.

The tell-tale blush of lust. Ah, yes!
Isabella thought as she settled herself to pour.
I remember it well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Londinium, 405 A.D.

Caius Meritus made his mark in the wax, signifying his authorship of the monthly report due to the proconsul. His stylus dug into the soft surface much deeper than usual. Caius laid down the sharp instrument and flexed his fingers. He fought the urge to run screaming through the villa. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was his hand stabbing the stylus into Quintus Valerian Scipianus’s black heart.

If only wishing would make it so . . .

It had been a week since Caius found Deirdre, her body silvered in the moonlight, stark against the dark water in the fountain basin. Water tainted with her life’s blood.

Just as she said she would, Deirdre had freed herself.

He pulled her cooling body from the fountain, too late to save her. All he could do was cradle her till the sun rose. Her limp form stiffened in his arms as he whispered his love, his grief, his plea for her forgiveness.

Perhaps it was better that she couldn’t hear him.

She might have scratched his eyes out rather than bear his touch.

He spent the money he’d saved to purchase her freedom on a fine gold necklace to bury with her. He doubted her spirit would rest easy, but perhaps the gift would help. He didn’t want her to wake in the land of her gods a pauper.

He tried to resume his life. His first instinct was to withdraw, to retreat into the bland mask of servitude and close down his heart. He didn’t deserve a woman anyway. If he wanted to survive, he must continue his service to the proconsul as though Deirdre didn’t matter.

But she did matter.

And after a week of numbing grief, Caius decided survival was highly overprized.

Now the only thing keeping his chest expanding for its next breath was the thought of revenge against the man who’d driven his love to her last desperate act.

He looked down at the wax tablet that catalogued the region’s output for the glory of distant Rome. Deirdre was reduced to a mere scratch or two on the report. A loss to be recorded, assuredly, but not given too much significance in the long scheme of things.

Caius slammed his fist down on the tablet.

Even if he thought he could manage it, killing the Roman proconsul would end the man’s suffering far too quickly. Caius had to find a way to disgrace him, to destroy him in the eyes of Rome, to ruin him. And then leave him to struggle on in a world that would despise him till he drew his last pathetic breath.

But how?

The proconsul entrusted all his correspondence to Caius. Scipianus was too busy buggering the newest little stable boy to bother with official business. Caius broke the seal on the latest dispatch and unrolled the scroll. Unshed tears made his vision waver uncertainly.

Caius pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked hard. The message on the scroll came into sharp focus, and he read the missive quickly.

This was it. The way to strike Scipianus where he would feel the blow most keenly.

An entire year’s pay for the Legion was due in next week. The proconsul was tasked with its safety and equitable distribution. If Caius were to make the payroll disappear—and he knew in a moment of blinding clarity exactly where to hide it so no one would ever find it—Quintus Valerian Scipianus would be shown to be ineffective and weak. He’d lose his rank, his wealth, his stature with the fighting men who guarded him. Every Roman hand on the island kingdom would be against him. Even if Scipianus survived the wrath of his own men, he’d forever be shadowed by a cloud of suspicion.

It was perfect.

It would inflict a festering wound upon Scipianus that would never heal.

But as much as he loathed the proconsul, Caius’s deepest contempt was for himself. More than anyone else, he’d failed Deirdre. Her blood stained his hands.

Once he made certain Scipianus knew who was the author of his ruin and why, Caius didn’t care what happened to him. Death—even a vicious, hard death—would be welcome as a warm, soft pillow.

“In the game of love, cheating is not encouraged, but it is sometimes the only way to win.”

—the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lucian squinted at the newest wax tablet Mr Peabody brought him. He wished Daisy were here. His Latin was adequate—after all, he’d puzzled out the original ancient record that revealed the existence of the Roman treasure— but Daisy’s facility with the dead language far exceeded his own.

“Do ye any good, gov?” Peabody asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Give me a moment. It may be nothing.” They’d unearthed plenty of unremarkable lists of shipments and trade goods. Of course, antiquities scholars would find them fascinating, but when one was on the trail of treasure, bales of wool failed to excite.

There was no mark on this new tablet that indicated the writing was done by Caius Meritus. The thief had thoughtfully labelled each of his tablets with his name in the lower right corner. The fist that formed these letters was less refined than Meritus’s neat script, but a word for a legionnaire’s pay,
salarius,
leaped off the tablet at Lucian. Caius Meritus was named several times. The rest seemed less like a Roman report and more like gibberish. Something about a wet tongue, of all things, and a pagan blade pointing to the goddess’s sheath.

Definitely something to take to the inestimable Miss Drake,
he thought with a chuckle.
Blade and sheath. Pretty obvious sexual references when you add the bit about the tongue.

Daisy had been curious about Roman visual arts. What would she make of its lascivious love poetry?

“Well, what’s it say?” Peabody wanted to know.