Off Kilter (36 page)

“No,” he agreed solemnly, “we wouldn’t want that.” He pulled into the lane that led back to his home, which wasn’t a kilometer past the photo site they’d just left.

They slid out of their seats as soon as he parked and met at
the back of the truck. They silently pulled out the gear as if they’d been doing this in tandem for years rather than days. She slung three straps over her shoulders and neck and hefted out one of the two aluminum cases. He grabbed the other one, and pulled out the tripod bags. They turned at the same time, and caught each other’s gaze … and smiled.

“Do ye like Christmas, Tessa?” He hadn’t meant to ask. Not yet. But he’d already gone and done it.

If the question caught her off guard, she didn’t show it. But their conversations had been so far ranging the past seventy-two hours, he doubted any subject would surprise either of them. Except, perhaps the one he had on his mind.

“Haven’t celebrated it in a long time, but I’ve nothing against it. Why?”

“We’ll be getting back from Malaysia right before the holidays. Everyone here loves that time of year. It’s cold and pretty inhospitable weather, and the days are short, so we really make the most of the merry occasion. Decorate, have different celebrations honoring any number of saints we can find a good reason to throw a
caleigh
for.”

“Sounds nice.” She walked with him to the front door. “Did you want me to work it into the story? Is there historical significance?”

They stepped inside and he stopped her from heading straight back to the room he’d begun making into her photo studio.

She turned back, a questioning look on her face. He slid the straps from her shoulders and eased the other one over her head, setting all the equipment on the floor.

“What is it? You can just ask,” she said. “I won’t mind.”

“I’m hopin’ ye still feel that way in a moment.”

“Roan …”

“It’s my favorite time of year. I think it’s the most hopeful, because it’s during a time when things appear bleakest. We have to work to stay cheerful, and we do. Willfully. Happily. I want to willfully make you happy.”

“As do I.” She stepped closer to him and reached up to cup his cheek. “What is it, Roan? Whatever it is—”

“I want ye to think about a wedding.”

“You mean, being the photographer? Is someone else getting married? I don’t think that would be a problem, but I should probably talk to them before we leave for the Malay—”

“No, ye willnae be taking the pictures of this wedding.”

“Oh. Okay. If it’s just making sure we get back in time to attend—”

“Tessa”—he cupped her elbows and pulled her closer—“I want ye to think about
our
wedding.”

Her eyebrows climbed. “We’ve been under the same roof for three days and already you—”

“I want you under the same roof for all of my days. I’m a traditional sort, Tessa. I’m no’ saying we have to marry this Christmas … I’m saying I want you to be thinking about it. During the holidays. And if it’s a yes, we’ll plan the wedding for whenever you want it. But … you should know, I’m going to push. A wee bit.”

“You? No.”

He smiled at that.

“I just have one question,” she asked.

“Only one?”

She tipped up on her toes and slid her arms around his neck, so their noses almost touched. “Do I have to wait until Christmas to give you my answer?”

“Aye,” he said.

Her brows furrowed in surprise. “Really?”

“I want you to be certain. For now, I just wanted you to know it’s what I want for us. So you have time to work it all through. I just … I wanted you to know. That’s all.” He smiled. “Fair warning, and all that.”

“Then I promise to give it close consideration.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. He knew it was ridiculously early to say anything about something as huge as marriage,
but the past three days … he just knew. And he knew how he’d be the longer they went on. So, better getting it out in the open.

“Good. That’s all I ask.”

“Well … I plan to ask for a lot more,” she said.

His brows lifted. “Do ye now?”

“I’ll want to know exactly what I’m getting myself into.”

“All right.”

“And,” she said, twining her fingers into his hair, and teasing his mouth closer to hers. “I like to do really, really in depth research.”

“Ah.” His body was on board with that idea instantly.

“I like to know my subject, inside and out.” She started to unbutton his shirt. “In fact, I like to start at the basics. Strip things down to their bare essentials. Get to”—she loosened his kilt—“the meat of it.”

He swallowed hard. Overachiever, indeed. Was he ever to learn that lesson about her?

“Would you like to start the formal interview here?” She jerked the kilt so it fell on the floor, then yanked her shirt over her head. “Or back in my office.”

“Actually,” he said, kicking the plaid away, “I was thinking that, in order for me to be, ye ken, the most relaxed and … open … to all of your probing questions …” He bent and put his shoulder down, then stood and straightened, with her draped over it.

“Roan!”

“We should start where I’m most comfortable.”

“I don’t think you’re showing your interviewer the proper respect.”

He kicked their bedroom door shut behind him, then slid her over his shoulder and down on the bed, following straight down on top of her. “Oh, I plan to show you the utmost respect. In fact … let me count the ways.”

“Roan—”

“One.” He shifted his weight and worked his way to … “Two …”

She squirmed, then giggled. He thought that was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.

“What, I’m dying to know, is three?”

He showed her.

“Oh.
Oh!”

They were married before Thanksgiving.

London, 1820

L
aurette knew precisely what she must do. Again. Had known even before her baby brother had fallen so firmly into the Marquess of Conover’s clutches.

To be fair, perhaps Charlie had not so much fallen as thrown himself headfirst into Con’s way. Charlie had been as heedless as she herself had been more than a decade ago. She was not immune even now to Con’s inconvenient presence. She had shown him her back on more than one occasion, but could feel the heat of his piercing black gaze straight through to her tattered stays.

But tonight she would allow him to look his fill. She had gone so far as having visited Madame Demarche this afternoon to purchase some of her naughtiest underpinnings. Laurette would have one less thing for which to feel shame.

Bought with credit, of course. One more bill to join the mountain of debt. Insurmountable as a Himalayan peak and just as chilling. Nearly as cold as Conover’s heart.

She raised the lion’s head knocker and let it fall, once, composing herself to face Con’s servant.

Desmond Ryland, Marquess of Conover, opened the door himself.

“You!”

“Did you think I would allow you to be seen here at such an
hour?” he asked, his face betraying no emotion. “You must indeed think me a veritable devil. I’ve sent Aram to bed. Come into my study.”

He
was
a devil, suggesting this absurd time. Midnight, as though they were two foreign spies about to exchange vital information in utmost secrecy. Laurette followed him down the shadowy hall, the black-and-white tile a chessboard beneath her feet. She felt much like a pawn, but would soon need to become the White Queen. Con must not know just how desperate she was.

Though surely he must suspect.

He opened a door and stepped aside as she crossed the threshold. The room, she knew, was his sanctuary, filled with objects he’d collected in the years he’d been absent from Town and her life. Absent from his own life, as well. The marquessate had been shockingly abandoned for too long.

She had been summoned here once before, in daylight, a year ago. She was better prepared tonight. She let her filmy shawl slip from one shoulder but refused Con’s offer of a chair.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, sitting behind his desk. He placed a hand on a decanter of brandy. “Will you join me? We can toast to old times.”

Laurette shook her head. She’d need every shred of her wits to get through what was ahead. “No thank you, my lord.”

She could feel the thread of attraction between them, frayed yet stubborn. She should be too old and wise now to view anything that was to come as more than a business arrangement. As soon as she had seen the bold strokes of his note, she had accepted its implication. She was nearly thirty, almost half her life away from when Conover first beguiled her. Or perhaps when she had beguiled him. He had left her long ago, if not quite soon enough.

A pop from the fire startled her, and she turned to watch sparks fly onto the marble tiles. The room was uncomfortably warm for this time of year, but it was said that the Marquess of
Conover had learned to love the heat of the exotic East on his travels.

“I appeal to your goodness,” Laurette said, nearly choking on the improbable phrase.

“I find good men dead boring, my dear. Good women, too.” Con abandoned his desk and strode across the floor, where she was rooted by feet that suddenly felt too heavy to lift. He smiled, looking almost boyish, and fingered the single loose golden curl teasing the ivory slope of her shoulder. She recalled that her hair had always dazzled him and had imagined just this touch when she tugged the strand down.

She had hoped to appear winsome despite the passage of time, but her plan was working far too well for current comfort. She pushed him away with more force than she felt. “What would you know about good men, my lord?” She scraped the offending hair back with trembling fingers and secured it under the prison of its hairpin. It wouldn’t do to tempt him further. Or herself. What had she been thinking to come here?

“I’ve known my share. But I am uncertain if your brother fits the category. A good, earnest young fellow, on occasion. A divinity student, is he not? But then—I fear his present vices make him ill-suited for his chosen profession. Among other things, he is so dishonorable he sends his sister in his stead. Your letter was quite affecting. You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble on his account, but I hardly see why I should forgive his debt.” He folded his arms and leaned forward. “Convince me.”

Damn him. He intended her to beg. They both knew how it would end.

“He does not know I’m here. He knows nothing,” Laurette said quickly, and stepped back.

He was upon her again, his warm brandied breath sending shivers down her spine. She fell backward onto a leather chair. A small mercy. At least she wouldn’t fall foolishly at his feet. She closed her eyes, remembering herself in such a pose, Con’s
head thrown back, his fingers entwined in the tangle of her hair. A lifetime ago.

She looked up. His cheek was creased in amusement at her clumsiness. “He will not thank you for your interference.”

“I’m not interfering! My brother is much too young to fall prey to your evil machinations.”

Con raised a black winged brow. “Such melodramatic vocabulary. He’s not that young, you know. Much older than you were when you were so very sure of yourself. And by calling me evil you defeat your purpose, Laurette. Why, I might take offense and not cooperate. Perhaps I
am
a very good man to discourage him from gambling he can ill afford. But I
will
be repaid.” He leaned over, placing his hands on the arms of Laurette’s chair. His eyes were dark, obsidian, but his intentions clear.

Laurette felt her blush rise and leaned back against her seat. She willed herself to stay calm. He would not crowd her and make her cower beneath him. She raised her chin a fraction. “He cannot—that is to say, our funds are tied up at present. Our guardian….” She trailed off, never much able to lie well. But she was expert at keeping secrets.

Con left her abruptly to return to his desk. She watched as he poured himself another brandy into the crystal tumbler, but let it sit untouched. “What do you propose, Laurette?” he asked, his voice a velvet burr. “That I tear up your brother’s vowels and give him the cut direct next time we meet?”

“Yes,” Laurette said boldly. “The sum he owes must be a mere trifle to you. And his company a bore. If you hurt his feelings now, it will only be to his ultimate benefit. One day he will see that.” She glanced around the room, appointed with elegance and treasure. Brass fittings gleamed in the candlelight. A thick Persian carpet lay under her scuffed kid slippers. Lord Conover’s study was the lair of a man of exquisite taste, and a far cry from Charlie’s disreputable lodging. She twisted her fingers, awaiting his next words.

There was the faintest trace of a smile. “You give me far too
much credit. I am neither a good man, nor, despite what you see here, so rich man a man I can ignore a debt this size. We all need blunt to keep up appearances. And settle obligations.”

Laurette knew exactly what his obligation to her cost him and held her tongue.

Con leaned back in his chair, the picture of confidence. “If I cannot have coin, some substitution must be made. I think you know what will please me.”

Laurette nodded. It would please her too, God forgive her. Her voice didn’t waver. “When, Con?”

He picked up his glass and drained it. “Tonight. I confess I cannot wait to have you in my bed again.”

Laurette searched her memory. There had been very few beds involved in their brief affair. Making love to Con in one would be a luxurious novelty. She was not prepared, however; the vial of sponges was still secreted away in her small trunk at her brother’s rooms. She had not allowed herself to think the evening would end in quite this way. But she had just finished her courses. Surely she was safe.

“Very well.” She rose from the haven of her chair.

His face showed the surprise he surely felt. Good. It was time she unsettled
him.

“You seem to be taking your fate rather calmly, Laurette.”