The Countess Confessions (13 page)

No one would think it remiss of him to feign infatuation with his bride-to-be. But if he overplayed the role, Lord Ardbury would notice, and something, perhaps the sight of Emily standing beside Damien, might prompt suspicion.

In the event that Lord Ardbury realized the truth, Damien would not hesitate to wrestle the traitor to the ground and hold him there until the authorities could arrive. Despite having successfully having tricked several people, Emily had placed herself in peril. Damien could only hope she could remain levelheaded enough to throw Ardbury off her track.

Curse the winds of fortune. Had a man and woman ever been tossed together at worse time, in a worse place, or for a worse reason?

E
mily had taken shelter in the library, assuming her absence would go unnoticed, as it often had in the past. She might have guessed that Damien would pursue her. Now he had cornered her with her back to the door. There was no escaping him today. Nor after the wedding. Would he always be this attentive?

“I understand that facing Ardbury is nerve-racking for you,” he said. “But you’re not alone in this. I will stand with you.”

She frowned. He was staring intently at her left shoulder, and not with his usual sensuality. “Facing
you
is nerve-racking,” she said. “I came in here to escape.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea. How easily does that sleeve unlace?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I need to examine you from your left shoulder to the top of your breast.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Wouldn’t you rather check my teeth and knees for soundness?”

Dark humored danced in his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind taking you for a ride around the paddock, but it might look odd at a tea party.”

She backed away from the door and toward the corner, only to feel his hand capture her and pull her forward by the waist. She gave a strong twist of protest, just on principle, but unfortunately her heart wasn’t in discouraging him. It was too busy beating in her throat.

“Damien!”

“Yes, darling.”

“This sort of behavior can’t continue.”

“It can and will,” he said, consoling her, his hand stroking up her arm. “As long as you are with me, you are safe.”

“Not if I am required to start undressing in the library.”

“But I like libraries.”

She clenched her teeth. “So do I.”

“Maybe we can read together after everyone leaves,” he suggested, although his mischievous smile implied that reading did not figure high on the list of what he wanted to do when they were alone.

It seemed rules were meant to be broken by men of Damien Boscastle’s background.

She had a single moment to look up into his chiseled face before his mouth descended on hers. His lips felt indecent and delightful. It took all her dwindling reason to remember that he was kissing her in front of the window in full view of three guests who happened to be strolling toward the carriages parked in the drive.

“Damien,” she whispered. “We have an audience. This is a library, which is almost as sacred to me as a church. It’s blasphemy to accost a lady in her only port from the storm. Besides, everyone can see us through the window.”

“We are supposed to be in love. I think they will excuse us this performance. And I might not be an expert in the social graces, but I don’t think it’s polite to browse through books when one is giving a tea party.”

His mouth claimed hers again before she could ask him to at least close the curtains. And then it didn’t matter. His kiss deepened and demanded. It conquered her will and left in exchange a greed as wild as his own. The only difference between the two of them that she could identify was that while her body had softened, his had become hard and unyielding.

Damien was her complete and irresistible opposite.

She broke free for a moment. “Lord Shalcross—”

“You taste like the woman in my dream,” he murmured. His tongue sketched the shape of her lips, slipping back inside her mouth, flirting, taunting until her breasts tightened in response. She sagged against the support of his arm. Had she heard him correctly? Was the passion the scapegrace showed her meant for someone else? Had he just said that he was dreaming about another a few days before they would stand together at the altar?

“You shameless, deceitful—” She couldn’t find the words to describe what she felt at his confession. It was all she could do to take in air. “You’re kissing me like a libertine, and you expect me to be flattered that I remind you of another woman? A woman that you
dream
about? You are as tactful as an ape to mention her to me. I never told you about the man I dream about.”

He stilled. “You have erotic dreams about another man?”

“I didn’t say my dreams were erotic.”

He began to laugh. “The woman was
you
. What I meant was that you—she—was in my bed, about to ride me into oblivion, when I woke up.”

“Ride you into—really. I
wasn’t
in your bed. And I’ve never done anything erotic in my life.”

“You will soon enough,” he assured her, sliding his hand up between her shoulder blades. Her breasts brushed his shirtfront. If she went to pieces when all he had done was kiss her and whisper a few wicked words in her ear, then she would never survive their wedding night.

“I did dream about you the night we met,” he said.

“From your brief but vivid description, it was quite a sinful dream.”

“The only sinful thing about it was that it ended too soon.”

A warm sensation washed over her. She was powerless to resist him. “Was anyone else in this dream?”

His smile was utterly disgraceful. “You
were
the dream. And it was lovely. You and your breasts.”

She gasped, embarrassed, but at the same time longing to hear how wickedly she had behaved in his dream. In all fairness, she couldn’t resent his dream lover when it had been her.

He drew her closer, his other hand caressing the gap of skin between her glove and the sleeve of her gown. Little by little she dissolved. Her senses wanted to surrender. Her blood clamored for an ending to this confusion. What manner of husband would he make? He was a charming, conniving scamp. Well, it took one to know one.

“The window,” she whispered again. “They’ve seen enough.”

“But I haven’t.”

“We’re in the library, my lord.”

His voice vibrated with humor. “Are we?”

“Our performance is over—”

“You didn’t come here to read,” he said, looking around for a book she might have taken from the shelves. Then he grinned at her. “Neither did I. But I want to look at you, and I have a good reason for it. Your hair is truly red.”

“Yours isn’t,” she said crossly.

“You should have seen my valet scrubbing the henna out of it.”

“You’ve lost your nationality and about half your weight. Or is
this
another disguise? For all I know, you’ll be a Spaniard tomorrow.”

He gave a rich laugh, his gaze lowering from her face to her neckline, lingering there. She felt heat rise to her skin. “I hope you don’t think a book will come between us once we’re married.” He looked up at her. “And I’m not taking a position against literature.”

She stared up at him. “Don’t you think I understand that ours won’t be a real marriage?”

He frowned. “If I were a better man, I might not insist you surrender to me as part of our bargain. We could come to another arrangement for our needs.”

“But?” she queried, a hint of hope in her voice.

“But I’m not a better man,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I’m one who does what he has to do. And as a man, I find you rather appealing.”

“My life is shattered.”

He shook his head. “You missed your cue. You were supposed to give me a compliment back. Unless you think I have no redeeming qualities at all.”

“You’re—” She couldn’t admit how beautiful he was and that she was afraid he’d break her heart. She couldn’t confess that when he smiled at her, nothing seemed impossible. And that if she had become enmeshed in his conspiracy, there wasn’t anyone she trusted more to take care of her. “You are the most courageous man I’ve ever met.”

“And?”

“And I find you appealing, too, and if you use that as an advantage, I won’t ever compliment you again.”

Silence. Then he took her hand and led her into another corner of the room where the curtains were drawn, explaining over her objections, “I didn’t intrude on your solace to kiss you. That was a spontaneous pleasure. What I meant to do was take a close look at your bare shoulder.”

“You—
What?
”

He put one hand against the wall as a barrier to her flight. “Can you pull down your sleeve yourself or do you require my help?” he asked with the confidence of a man whose seductive powers he clearly took for granted.

She felt color rise to her face. “Can you control yourself before I pull an entire shelf of books onto your fatuous head?”

He smiled at her threat. “You misunderstand.” He brought his hand to her throat, tracing downward until his fingers slid beneath the sprigged poplin of her left sleeve. Her nipples tightened against her undergarments. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

•   •   •

Michael had been the first person at the party to notice his sister’s disappearance. He had been standing outside the billiards room when she had sneaked off down the hall to vanish from sight. He knew where Emily took refuge when the baron went on a drunken rampage.

But as far as Michael could tell, the baron had behaved like a gentleman, a proud father of the bride-to-be, all day. Something else had sent Emily into hiding, and Michael couldn’t take the chance that one of the traitors in the tower had already learned her true identity and traced her to the house.

“Where the hell is Shalcross?” he muttered, backing so erratically to the stairs that he almost knocked Iris into the banister.

“Sir!” she exclaimed in the prim voice that usually made him tease her.

“Where is my sister?”

“She’s saying good-bye to the guests, I think.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s gone off alone.”

“I’ll check upstairs,” she said, tightening her apron strings.

“I’ll search below.”

And below was exactly where he found Emily a few minutes later when he burst into the library and spotted her bare-shouldered in the corner with the man he was going to kill.

D
amien turned to shield Emily from the gentleman who had slammed the door with enough force to unshelve a volume of
Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
. He raised his hand to catch it, his body serving as a dressing screen while Emily retied her sleeve.

“This is not what it looks like,” Damien said, realizing the lanky man who had murder in his eyes was actually Michael.

Michael pushed a chair into the wall. “You rotten sod.”

Emily ducked beneath Damien’s arm. “He’s right, Michael. Stop abusing the furniture. There is a reason for this.”

He strode up to Damien, his eyes black with anger. “When a man undresses a woman against a wall there is only one possible explanation for his conduct.”

“Michael, you’re wrong.” Emily snagged his arm before he could take a swing at Damien. “He was only trying to see if the birthmark on my left shoulder was visible in this gown.”

“How does he know that you have a birthmark there?” Michael demanded, pulling out of her grasp. “I never noticed it, and I’ve lived with you since you were born.”

Emily took a deep breath. “I
don’t
have a birthmark. It was a spot of ink from the quill I was using to take notes on those cards that have caused all this trouble.”

“The cards didn’t cause trouble,” he said grimly. “Certain people did. What does a birthmark matter, anyway?”

Damien pushed away from the wall. “If not for your behavior, I’d take you for a civilized being.”

Michael glowered at him over the top of Emily’s head. “I’m beginning to rue the day I called you my friend.”

Emily placed the book that Damien had rescued on a chair. “
Michael
, listen for a moment. One of the men in the tower made a sketch of me to show the authorities. He drew a mark on my shoulder. The earl wanted to make sure it couldn’t be seen in this gown.”

Michael, uncomplicated male that he was, looked at Damien for confirmation. “Well, could it?”

“Not that I could tell,” Damien replied. “She said she washed it off the night of the party.”

“How good is the sketch of her?” Michael asked, calmer now.

“The dark wig obscured most of her features.” Damien glanced at Emily’s face. “With the exception of her eyes.” How the journalist had managed to capture their sultry mischief in such a rush of circumstances was a credit to his skill and of deep concern to Damien. Emily’s bright red hair attracted a man’s notice like a banner.

He studied her profile, the loose curls captured in a ribbon. She had eyelashes of an extravagant length and a smattering of tiny scars on her cheeks from what might have been a case of childhood pox. If not for all the excitement last night, he would have noticed the dimple in her chin. Thank God neither detail had appeared on the sketch.

She might not resemble the exotic fortune-teller who had intrigued Damien last night, but she had a secret allure that appealed to him a little more whenever he looked at her. He realized he had a long way to go before she would give herself to him of her own volition.

He would have to take, initiate, coax her, one move at a time.

There wouldn’t be enough time before the wedding to build trust between them. But he planned to take full advantage of their marriage bed. She seemed to have accepted that her life depended on Damien’s ability to protect her.

In fact, she had shown herself to be more levelheaded than any of the ladies Damien had known in the past. He was the one who had gone into a panic over the sketch. It made him wonder whether he had underestimated her ability to adapt to a crisis.

She had risked everything to take her destiny in her own hands. He would do well to remember that he had fallen for her artless scheme and had not even been her intended victim.