War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 (6 page)

“Shall we see what pleasures we have in store tonight?” He lifted the nearest lid. “Fish in sauce, what a surprise!” He winked at her. Leaning forward, he sniffed. “Cod, I believe. I’m rather partial to sea fish. Shall we?”

“If you please, sir.”

He helped her to the food and then she found new potatoes to go with it. After shaking her napkin over her lap, she set to. He poured them crisp white wine that must have come straight up from the cellar. When she failed to stifle her moan of appreciation, he gave her a smiling glance and sipped from his own glass. “You like dry wine?”

“Yes, sir, and I like cool wine.”

“In this weather, so do I.” He sipped again, his throat moving as he swallowed.

Unfortunately he turned his head as he put down his glass and caught her watching. He said nothing, but kept her gaze for a fraught five seconds before he returned his concentration to his food. She knew it was five seconds because she counted, not daring to look away. In that moment, she’d imagined she’d seen something buried inside him, a deep trouble that he could not dismiss.

It must be her imagination, surely. She hardly knew him and she had little reason to indulge him. Except—she still had a mystery to solve and her time here was probably the only opportunity to solve it.

They moved through the meal with her account of her discoveries in the attic, but not the clothes. “I asked one of the footmen to carry the cradles down. They are not swinging ones, sir, and the sides are high enough to keep the babies in at night.

He pushed aside his plate. “Fascinating though this is, Miss Carter, I possess little interest in discussing my wards, unless you encounter a problem. If you need anything else for them, let me know and I’ll arrange it.”

“Yes, sir. Babies grow quickly, so they will need new garments soon.”

“Babies wear gowns, do they not?”

“Yes, sir. We can fashion them ourselves, but we may need to send for materials.”

He frowned. “I won’t hear of you slaving over infants’ gowns. Send out for them. There is a sewing-woman in the village. I’ll send for her and you may tell her what to do. She may alter the clothes you chose for yourself too.”

“Thank you, sir, but we can manage the work. Do you not want us to be busy?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “It is not necessarily. I want you to do your work to the best of your ability, and then the time is your own. I am not a harsh taskmaster.”

He frowned. At that moment he looked like the harshest taskmaster in the world, fierce and forbidding. A flash of apprehension crossed her mind and the notion he could do anything. He was unpredictable, volatile, like the wind in autumn. She needed more time here. Although these dinners made her uncomfortable, he had ordered it and he must have what he wanted.

She feared she would do something wrong and not know what it was.

“Do you read?” he said abruptly.

“Of course, otherwise what kind of governess would I make?”

He dismissed her answer with an irritable wave of his hand. The light had mellowed since they’d entered the room. How long had it been? This time of year it wouldn’t become really dark until about eight o’clock. It couldn’t be anywhere near that. She had not noticed the aspect of the house.

“This room faces east,” he said softly. Startled, she met his gaze. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You are remarkably easy to read, Miss Carter.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t realised. Her family certainly never read her accurately. Or not cared to. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I find it refreshing.”

He reached out, and then drew his hand back. Just as if he wanted to touch her. A frisson swept over the back of her hand, just as if he had, although he came nowhere near touching her skin.

Deep, deep inside, where she confessed her most embarrassing secrets, she wished he had. She wanted to know what his touch felt like, especially in such an intimate situation. Not she would ever let her desire go any further. Why would he want to do it? Certain he had not thought he could resist her all too easily, she only smiled, but her lips trembled the tiniest bit.

“Miss Carter, this is my question for this evening. Do you read for pleasure?”

The breath gusted out of her, relief at such an easy question. “Yes, sir, I do, given the opportunity.” He watched her and she realised she could continue or not. “I read anything I can find. It’s my solace. I can enter a different world when I read.”

“I see. We shall see what we can do about that.”

He commenced discussing subjects she might be interested in, starting with history. When he reached French and she shied away, he moved on to something else, almost seamlessly, but not enough for her to confess, “I find languages difficult. I learned enough to teach young children, but I have problems with the subject.” She paused. “I shouldn’t be confessing that to you, should I?” She pushed her wineglass away.

“I won’t tell anyone. Perhaps you need more practical experience. Talking with a Frenchman, for instance. How about your Italian?” He gave her a smile easier than any she had seen in him so far. Shock made her stop her breath. Was that smile what seduced her sister? Had he turned that on her? Because she feared she would be lost too, if he did that to her with intent.

“I speak no Italian, sir. Only what I can glean from my knowledge of Latin.”

“Do you read essays? How about the
Oration on the Dignity of Man?”

“Short, to the point and beautifully expressed.” She smiled. “I used to read it aloud to myself. Quietly, of course, not like Pico would have done.” She did not tell him that she’d fallen in love with the portrait of the philosopher in her copy of the writings of him and his friend Ficino. That, rather than philosophical concerns, had attracted her initially. But the essay was not a difficult read. “Profound in what it has to say about the creation of macrocosm and microcosm.”

“But outdated, don’t you think? Does it really have any relevance today?”

Plunging into a discussion of the essay, she forgot who she was in relation to him, only the joy of finally finding someone who had something interesting to say about the topic. Her reading had taken her into many unexpected avenues, but she had never tested her knowledge, too afraid of being labelled a bluestocking. But his grace didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to find it unusual that she enjoyed reading so much.

He broke into their discussion as if suddenly tired of the topic.

“Now it’s your turn. Ask me your question.”

“Are you the father of the babies?” she blurted, without allowing herself to think.

Chapter Four

Marcus almost laughed at her appalled expression. Clearly he’d succeeded into luring her out of her shell, so well she asked the question that must have nagged at her since she entered the house. He had told no one, except for Henstall, of course. He could rely on his butler’s discretion with his life. He could not say the same about this woman, however appealing he found her.

“I must trust you not to tell anyone else if I answer that.”

She stuck out her chin, making him want to use it to draw her closer. All evening he’d been watching her sweet lips, and her eyes sparkle as she drank more wine and began to enjoy herself. When had she last done that? He wanted to know more about her, suspecting there was much more under the surface. Teasing her, bringing her out proved good sport. He would not cheat by spreading out his senses and reading her mind.

Shock rippled through him. He had not thought of his predicament since they’d sat down to dinner. The remains of the food were cold, sauces congealed. They should have left the room long before this, but he was concerned he’d break the spell, that she’d retreat once more and he would be unable to reach her again.

She enchanted him. That fresh naïveté, so rare in the people he knew intrigued him, as did her intelligence. He did not need to know her full story to know that. She showed it every time that flash of apprehension shaded her eyes, and her mouth clamped shut, as if she’d said too much.

He owed her the answer to that question.

“I promise I won’t tell,” she said.

He waited for her to cross her heart in childlike fashion, but was disappointed when she did not. “No, I am not their father.”

Did he want to say any more? He did not. She could believe him or not, as she chose, but the truth was too raw and too new for him to easily share it with someone he’d barely met. Even if sometimes he felt he’d known her for years.

“Come, Miss Carter. Time for us to part, I fear. I have estate business to attend to, and you must attend to your duties.”

She rose gracefully, and curtseyed, her movements unconsciously elegant. He bowed in return, because she deserved it.

After she left, his demons returned.

He went to his room, tried to read, but it reminded him of the conversation with her earlier and subjects he still wanted to discuss with her. He paced the room, turned and paced back. He stripped off his neckcloth, which was positively strangling him, tossed it aside, and since the evening still held considerable heat, followed it with his coat and waistcoat. Damned inconveniences. What would whoever set fashions think of next?

He’d set one. He’d appear in public in a thick, shapeless tunic and breeches. No neckcloth, ever.

Grumbling, he wandered around his apartments, looking for something to do. He found nothing to hold his interest. Only that damned pixie woman. She looked at him as if he had the answer to everything, then gave him a cool response that knocked him sideways. He could never tell what she would say next, whether it was when she was doing her best to behave in a subservient manner or forgetting herself and answering back with something so impertinent it made him smile.

Finding sleep eluded him, and nothing to hold his interest, Marcus thought of the brandy downstairs. He had some in his room but the decanter was unaccountably empty. Unless Henstall had interfered again and ordered it not refilled. The man still thought of himself as Marcus’ father. It wasn’t as if alcohol would affect his health—as an immortal he would recover from any physical damage. Devil take it, one of his friends needed to keep himself sotted in order to stay sane. Marcus just wanted a reprieve from the agony ripping at him night and day.

It was dark, but he didn’t bother lighting a candle. He’d see his own way downstairs. He knew all the nooks and crannies of this house, every crack and imperfection. They were natural consequences of centuries of existence, at least for some. Not for him, though. He knew people as old as this house, fellow immortals, and they showed none of the vagaries of time. Except, perhaps, for a weariness of the soul.

At the age of thirty-one Marcus was only beginning to understand what he could do and what life might hold in store. The prospect sometimes elated him, sometimes filled him with horror. Two months ago, at the height of the London season, he wished for nothing else. Vigorous and popular, with a lover who was the most beautiful woman in the country, he’d savoured life to the full. Then it had come crashing down in a public and spectacular way. Now? Now, nothing.

He paused at the top of the stairs. He usually used the nearest ones, occasionally coming across a startled maid when he used the staircase meant for the servants. The staff here knew his ways, and most just bobbed a curtsey or nodded a bow and carried on. He hated pomp, barely put up with it when he needed to employ it, like at court, a place he avoided like the plague.

A sound drifted down to him from above. A cry, like a woman in distress.

He didn’t stop to think, but hurtled upstairs, taking the steep oak steps three at a time. Two floors brought him up to the nursery level, where the sound grew clearer. Familiar smells assaulted him: furniture polish, soap and chalk, an elusive smell that sank into its surroundings and never quite went away.

Following the noise, he opened the door to the night nursery. Moonlight glimmered through the windows and a shaded candle stood on the table.

Instead of the nursemaid, he found the woman he couldn’t get out of his thoughts. She was in a shapeless robe, just the kind of thing he’d been thinking about, only hers was worn, the pink faded to almost white by frequent washing. Underneath a white frill poked out at the neck. Her hair was neatly braided, and while one braid was coiled around her head and pinned at the top, the other had fallen free to tumble down her back, the ends unravelling as she rocked the wailing baby in her arms. The child was robust, too big for Ruth’s fragile frame.

Before he could out-think himself, Marcus stepped forward and took the struggling child from her.

The baby’s squalling stopped, and it hiccupped as it—he—stared up at Marcus. They gazed at each other, and Marcus watched as the face screwed up and he prepared for another yell. “Be quiet,” he said. At the same time, he spread his senses and entered the child’s mind. “He hurts,” he said absently. “His mouth.”

“He-he’s teething.” Marcus glanced at Ruth. Her mouth was open and her eyes wide, for the instant before she recovered herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they would disturb you.”

“They didn’t. I was awake anyway.”

“I just managed to get Peter to sleep.”

He glanced at the crib. Not the rocking ones he’d ordered from York, but older ones that sat firmly on the ground. “Do you think they hate the cribs?”

“I think it’s a mixture of getting used to new sleeping places and the pain. How did you do that?”

He gazed at the child. He could take some of the baby’s discomfort, and really he’d undergone much worse in his time. To a child unused to pain this would be an alarming intrusion. The baby’s eyes were drooping. The poor scrap must be exhausted. He glanced at Ruth. So must she. “What are you doing attending to them? Where’s Andrea?”

“Sleeping,” Ruth said. “She spent the past two nights sitting up with them, so I said I’d take charge tonight.”

“I see.” His lips firmed. He’d send a message to the agency in York first thing in the morning for another maid. He did not want Ruth acting the part of nursemaid, even though he’d told her she must do it. He didn’t like to think of her attending to someone else’s children, wearing herself out on the tasks someone else should be doing. He wasn’t a monster, not a complete one at any rate. He understood babies needed attention at these times.

“The experts say to leave them,” Ruth said. “If we did, nobody would get any sleep. They’re stubborn.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say “Like their father,” but what did he know about that? “Like their mother.”

“You knew her?”

He frowned at her. Her response was too eager, too needful. He felt her anxiety, saw it in her wide eyes and hopeful expression. “Yes, I knew her. In both senses of the word.” He did not want her thinking him a saint, which he might appear if he let her.

“When you said earlier—”

“I know what I said.” What madness had driven him to confess the truth to her? “I meant it. The timing is wrong, for one thing.” He could not father children willy-nilly. Immortals needed to put some thought into the making of children. “She was already pregnant when she invited me into her bed. Then she tried to blame the pregnancy on me.”

He lifted his upper lip in an expression of wry distaste. “I should not have gone near her in any case, so in a way this is my punishment. Society blamed the babies on me, and I had very little reputation to lose. What I had I would have lost if I did not take them so society still considers them mine. They are not, and I will not acknowledge them as such.”

“I see.” It hurt her that he could dismiss such precious babies so easily. She turned away to pick up the single guttering candle. Walking to the empty fireplace, she found another candlestick with a fresh candle and lit that from the old one.

“Did you burn all that candle tonight?”

“I was reading.”

Reminded of their conversation at dinner, he recalled she enjoyed reading. “You could not sleep?”

“No, I could not. The babies have grizzled all night.”

Having accomplished her task, she set the fresh candle on the table and snuffed out the old one by the simple expedient of pinching it between her fingers. It hissed, and a thin trail of smoke rose from the dead wick. She stared at it as if it held answers to all her questions, which he did not doubt were rioting through her fertile mind.

The baby had fallen asleep. Instead of handing the boy to her, he took him over to the empty crib and laid him down gently. The baby grumbled a little, but settled when Marcus pulled the covers over him. Sending a soothing message of tranquillity to the child, he straightened and turned to Ruth.

In her night-rail and robe, she appeared even more fragile. She might be tall, but her body was slender as a reed, fragile as a piece of fine china. Before his mind could tell him what a bad idea it was, he reached for her and pulled her close, to press against his body. When he curved his arm around her, he encompassed her easily. He used his free hand to tip up her chin, and then he kissed her.

She was deliciously warm and soft. When she gasped, he discovered her taste. Sweet, hot, yielding.
Addictive.
That word gave him pause, but it did not let it stop him from tasting her thoroughly.

When she moaned softly, he made a small sound of appreciation that reverberated right through her. He felt it, and he wanted more. He was holding her closely, so close she probably felt his erection, but she did not move away.

He could lose himself in her.

He must not. With a groan, he finished the kiss and released her. Turning, unable to utter a word, he left the room and went to find the brandy he’d been in search of so long ago.

* * * * *

Ruth stared after him, her fingers touching her mouth, still tender from his kiss. Even if she’d thought of it, she would not have pushed him away. He’d held her so carefully, but with a promise in his hard, muscled body. She’d never felt a man so close, so hot before, and in an instant several things became clear to her.

Like how her sister could let a man—two men—take her. If what Marcus said was true, Rhea must have known two men intimately. Why there were so many conventions set around the meetings between male and female? Just how much had she risked tonight?

Everything, and for her sister’s seducer.

According to his account, Rhea had seduced him. How much could Ruth trust his word? She had no idea, only her instincts, which said he told the truth. Instincts were notoriously volatile.

As must hers be. Between her legs, her private parts throbbed, tender where wetness gathered. She had never felt this way before, but then a man had never kissed her with such devastating effect.

Why had he done it? Probably because she was there, she concluded wryly. A female, relatively young, in her nightclothes. From the dire warnings her mother gave her daughters, that was enough to inflame the senses. Men did not need much, she’d told them.

This one didn’t. He had changed her with that one kiss. Perhaps for good.