Nicole Jordan (12 page)

And Deverill knew it as well. She could see triumphant satisfaction in his eyes, and his husky voice held a raw edge when he spoke. “
That
is what it feels like to be a flesh-and-blood woman, sweeting. That is what you’ve been missing with Heward.”

The mention of her betrothed sent a wave of cold reality rushing over Antonia and made her stiffen.

“You need to go,” she said in a shaken voice.

Deverill held himself rigid for a protracted moment. Then drawing in a long, ragged breath, he released her and let her slide to her feet.

His hands braced her until her weak limbs could support her, but Antonia hastily pulled away. “Please! Just . . . go.”

He inhaled another measured breath and stepped back, his jaw tight. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared down the steps, through the arched doorway into the gardens.

A wave of disappointment crushed Antonia. She hadn’t wanted Deverill’s embrace to end—nor had he, it seemed.

Moving unsteadily over to the bench, she sank down and buried her face in her hands, aghast at what she’d done. Once again she had allowed Deverill to provoke her into behaving like a wanton.

Yet what had she expected? She lost every shred of willpower when it came to him. She’d never known a man so overwhelming, so damnably tempting. From the first moment they’d met, she had felt the heat between them. Deverill made her heart pound and her senses reel. He tore down her defenses and made her do wicked, scandalous things, as he had just moments ago. She could still feel the delicious moistness that seeped from her swollen flesh-folds.

Antonia groaned. If she didn’t stop, she would ruin all her plans for her future. She couldn’t afford any hint of scandal to her reputation.

Shivering, she made herself stand up, girding herself with fresh resolve. She had to crush her attraction for Deverill, before she did something irrevocable. He was simply too dangerous. Meanwhile, she had to end all contact with him. Otherwise she couldn’t trust herself—or him.

Clenching her jaw, Antonia left the gazebo, heading for the house. She intended to write Lord Heward without delay, to ask him to move up the betrothal announcement.

She would still have three weeks until they said their vows and the marriage became irrevocable. Surely by then her trustee would have resolved the appalling allegation that the company’s ships were transporting slaves and disproved Heward’s complicity.

A public announcement of their engagement would show Deverill that she was serious. And once she was officially betrothed, she would be in a far stronger position to resist the arrogant, vexing troublemaker who was proving to be far too irresistible.

Seven hours later, Deverill was still cursing himself for allowing his rampaging emotions to get the better of him.

He’d spent the evening at a gaming hell with one of his fellow Guardians—Beau Macklin, who answered to “Macky”—but upon returning to his suite of rooms at Grillon’s Hotel, rather than retiring, Deverill had made major inroads into a bottle of the hotel’s finest brandy.

Coatless now, he lay on his bed, his hands laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, a half-empty snifter of brandy on the table beside him.

During the entire evening, he’d failed to get Antonia off his mind even for an instant. He kept remembering his rage when she’d divulged that she had been intimate with her betrothed.

His first automatic response had been denial. He was unaccountably jealous at the thought of any man making love to Antonia, particularly Heward. And if she had shared the baron’s bed, it was too late for her to quietly call off the betrothal.

It was a distinct possibility, however, that she had permitted her deflowering, even requested it, just as she’d asked for
his
kiss four years ago. She was certainly adventurous enough.

Deverill was still reeling from that blow when she’d boasted about Heward being the better lover. All his primitive instincts had been aroused, and he’d been filled with the fierce determination to prove her wrong, to show her that she knew nothing about pleasure.

He had given her her first climax, he was certain. But then, he wouldn’t expect a man of Heward’s stamp to be concerned about a woman’s pleasure.

The trouble was, Deverill admitted, that
he
had been the one caught off guard. He had reacted with pure, jealous male rage. And then controlling his desire for her had become nearly impossible. Hearing the smokey, sultry sound of Antonia’s whimpers, seeing her eyes hazed with desire, he’d wanted nothing more than to plunge into her honeyed warmth and devil take the consequences.

Damn Antonia anyway. He should take himself back to Cyrene and leave her to her fate. Except that he couldn’t. Not until he knew for certain if her betrothed was guilty of murder.

Remaining in London would require every ounce of patience and adeptness he could muster, though, since dealing with Antonia after this latest storm would prove an even greater challenge. And crushing his own desire for her would be the hardest trial of all. She brought out duel urges to protect and conquer, even as she clouded his senses.

He could envision her now, her burnt-flame hair streaming across her passion-flushed face, her lithe body straining for his touch. She would arch and moan beneath his teasing caresses. . . .

A rap sounded on his door just then, pulling Deverill from his erotic thoughts. He frowned, knowing it was nearly two o’clock in the morning, and barked an invitation to enter. To his amazement, Baron Heward stepped into the room.

The nobleman still wore elegant evening clothes, as if he’d spent a night on the town. And he carried a walking stick that looked curiously like the sword sticks of an earlier era, a prosaic accessory that hid a deadly steel blade.

“Pray, don’t rise on my account,” Heward said as Deverill sat up. “I don’t wish to put you to any inconvenience.”

Pushing back against the headboard, Deverill leaned against the pillows and rested an arm on his updrawn knee. “To what do I owe this honor, my lord?”

Heward tendered a faint smile. “I have come to extend the proverbial olive branch, if you will, Mr. Deverill.”

Few things managed to surprise Deverill, but this definitely was one. He knew Heward was quietly furious at him, both for his unwanted interference with Antonia and for raising the issue of his American cousin’s confiscated ships. But Deverill kept his surprise to himself.

He gestured toward the armchair near the bed, offering his unexpected guest a seat. “Would you care for a brandy?”

“Thank you, no,” Heward replied as he settled in the chair and suavely crossed one leg over the other.

“Olive branch?” Deverill repeated curiously.

“I have instructed Maitland Shipping’s director to turn over the four vessels your cousin purchased before the war. Director Trant tends to become . . . overly zealous in his management at times. But I want you to know that he acted without authority in this case. I did not approve the confiscation.”

With effort, Deverill kept his skepticism from his tone. “And is your approval required for such decisions?”

“Not required, but Trant normally follows my wishes, since he knows I will own Maitland Shipping one day soon. In fact, within the month.” A glint of smugness entered Heward’s eyes. “Perhaps you will congratulate me, Mr. Deverill. Antonia and I have made up after our little spat this afternoon, and she has agreed to make me the happiest of men. We are advancing the date of our nuptials and plan to make the formal announcement at week’s end and to begin calling the banns this Sunday.”

Deverill felt all his stomach muscles clench.

Heward smiled pleasantly, obviously knowing his revelation had struck home. “I comprehend entirely why you have been pursuing her. A woman of Antonia’s beauty and spirit is an exceptional prize. But I confess to great relief. For a time there, I thought you might manage to turn her head. Admittedly I was jealous of you.”

“I trust you will understand if I don’t congratulate you,” Deverill said finally.

“I understand.
You
are jealous.”

When Deverill felt his jaw tighten, he forced himself to relax and say calmly, “I merely want Antonia to be happy and well cared for.”

“I will take excellent care of her, I assure you. As my baroness, she will lack for nothing.”

Deverill subjected the nobleman to a hard scrutiny before saying softly, “Good. But let me offer you a warning, Heward. Samuel Maitland was a close friend of mine, and I intend to do everything in my power to see that his daughter is protected. If I discover you have mistreated Antonia in any way whatsoever, you will answer to me.”

Heward’s forehead furrowed in a puzzled frown, his expression all innocence. “But of course. And I appreciate your concern for her. But you truly have no cause to worry.”

The baron smiled again as he fingered the knob of his walking stick. “Now that we have the air cleared, Mr. Deverill, I hope that we can cry friends. Samuel Maitland held you in high esteem, and any friend of his is a friend of mine. And since I won the prize . . . A victor should be gracious in victory, don’t you agree?”

Deverill found it difficult to maintain even a pretense of civility when what he wanted to do was wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Heward’s face with his fists. “I fail to take your meaning,” he said coolly.

“I would like to make amends for us getting off on the wrong foot. A show of goodwill on my part. I would be honored if you would allow me to sponsor you for membership at White’s.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Heward had surprised him. White’s was one of the premier gentleman’s clubs in London, a bastion of conservative Tory politics. Perhaps Heward thought he was being generous to throw his support behind a man with questionable claims to gentility.

“Thank you,” Deverill replied, “but I have a subscription to Arthur’s. A less aristocratic club, to be sure, but I prefer the company there.”

Heward did not appear overly disappointed. “Perhaps you would be interested in a different sort of sport, then, Mr. Deverill. You have heard of Madam Bruno’s?”

Bruno’s was a notorious sin club that catered to the more adventurous clientele, Deverill knew. “I have heard of it, but have never attended.”

“I would very much like you to be my guest there. They offer exquisite female companionship . . . which might serve as consolation for the disappointment of failing to win Antonia. Of course”—there was that faintly taunting smile again—“their sensual charms in bed cannot compare to my lovely Antonia’s, but I can vouch that several of Madam Bruno’s beauties are quite skilled.”

Deverill nearly leapt up and reached for his guest’s throat. It was infuriating to hear Heward boast about having lured Antonia to his bed. No doubt he’d sought to make her his conquest from the beginning, since seducing her ensured she would eventually have to wed him.

Deverill’s first inclination was to refuse the invitation outright. The last thing he wanted was to attend a sin club with Heward. And yet he was curious to know what sort of sexual sport Heward regularly chose to indulge in. More critically, he could observe for himself how Heward dealt with his ladies of the evening, to see if there was any truth to the tales of his brutality.

It would also be an opportunity to become further acquainted with the baron and perhaps discover how he’d initially insinuated himself into Samuel Maitland’s good graces.

So Deverill gritted his teeth and accepted the invitation. “You are very gracious, Heward. I would enjoy visiting Madam Bruno’s.”

Heward flashed a gratified smile. “Oh, I am certain you will. Are you free tomorrow evening?”

“For such a pleasant diversion, I will make myself free.”

“Excellent,” Heward said, rising to his feet. “Shall we say eight o’clock, then? My carriage will call here for you. We can dine in the company of Madam Bruno’s doves and then sample their delights for the remainder of the evening. No, don’t get up,” he added when Deverill swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I can show myself out.” Heward made an elegant bow. “I am gratified that we could clear up this minor misunderstanding between us.”

Staring after his departing guest with severe dislike, Deverill waited until the door was closed before reaching for the half-full brandy glass beside the bed and draining the contents in one long, burning swallow.

Five

In the elegant private parlor of Madam Bruno’s sin club, lamplight gleamed off the crystal and silver gracing the dining table. In the darker corners of the room, strategically placed daybeds awaited the pleasure of the guests.

Deverill lounged at the table, silently sipping a fine port wine. On his left, a pretty blond Cyprian tried to attract his wandering attention, while across from him, Heward was engaged in a flirtation with a sultry brunette.

Upon arriving, Heward had chosen both beauties from a selection of nearly two dozen on display in the large drawing room of Madam Bruno’s house of pleasure. “You will appreciate Felice, I promise you,” Heward said of the blonde.

Deverill had shrugged with indifference. As long as his partner didn’t have auburn hair to remind him of Antonia, he was satisfied. With Felice clinging to his arm, he’d followed Heward upstairs to the private parlor to partake of an excellent dinner.