
"Historical romance has never been so much fun!"~ Barbara Vey, Beyond Her Book
"Mia Marlowe is the queen of saucy historical romance!" ~ BooksMonthly
"Mia Marlowe proves she has the touch for strong heroines, wickedly sexy heroes, and love scenes so hot they singe the pages." ~ Jennifer Ashley, New York Times Bestselling Author
A Note of thanks from Mia Marlowe
This novella began as an adventure shared with my readers. I started it on my website in January 2010, intending to write a chapter a month, posting as the story grew so my readers could offer their suggestions for what should happen next. Half way through the year, I found myself under contract to write 5 full length novels and a novella for two different publishing houses. I believe in honoring my contracts, so that writing had to come first. But I also felt I'd entered into an implied contract with my readers for this story. I had to find out how Sebastian and Arabella's love affair turned out. Now I know and I'm thrilled to share it with YOU! Thanks for your interest in my books. Hope you'll love A Duke for All Seasons as much as I do!

Wishing you love that lasts,


Mia

P.S. Hope you'll visit me at www.miamarlowe.com! You never know when I'll start other online story!
'A woman, like a blooded hound or fine steed, has a finite period of usefulness. When that time has run its course, a prudent man divests himself of the asset without regret.'
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Sebastian Blake hated to wait for anything. Fortunately, he was the Duke of Winterhaven. It was a simple matter to let others wait for him. That's why His Grace settled into his private box at the theatre after the house lights dimmed and the gas footlights illuminated the Olympic's red velvet curtain.
Sebastian preferred to miss most of the overture, if he could. His late arrival kept him from having to brush off those who would use a chance meeting at the opera as an excuse to curry favor.
Or worse, ask for one.
"Celeste isn't joining us?" his friend Neville Granger whispered as the orchestra finished the overture with a flourish.
"Her season has passed," Sebastian said with a shrug. "We parted ways and she left with a generous pension."
Neville shook his head. "They don't call you The Ice Duke for nothing."
"Nonsense. Celeste knew exactly what to expect." Sebastian was faithful and devoted to his mistresses, but he always dismissed them with the turn of each season and found a replacement. The rules were explained at the start. In this way he never grew bored, never had to end a relationship in anger or face tearful recriminations. It was simply a function of the calendar, eminently logical, utterly civilized. "She has a new diamond necklace and I have my freedom, as per our agreement."
Neville brought his quizzing glass to one eye and swept the crowd below them. "Someday, my friend, you're going to meet a woman who can't be bought."
"On that day, I'll give you a bottle of that rare vintage of Spanish port you favor," Sebastian said. "Provided you stop grumbling at me about it now. This is how I've ordered my life. Four times a year, I engage in a brief chase and then give myself three months to enjoy my prize. Don't spoil this part of the process for me by scolding like a fishwife."
"Make it a case of that port and we have a deal."
"Done." Sebastian leaned back in the tufted seat, sure he'd never be called upon to make good that wager. "Now, tell me about this soprano you think I'd like."
"Arabella St. George. Shh! Here she comes."
Neville leaned forward so far, Sebastian feared he might tumble out of the box. Then his gaze flicked to the stage and he realized why Neville was willing to risk life and limb.
Normally Sebastian favored petite brunettes, but the footlights shot this woman's long pale hair with strawberry highlights. Tall and willowy, with striking, even features and luminous dark eyes, Arabella St. George possessed a fierce, almost other-worldly beauty.
Sebastian didn't consider himself the sort given to flights of fancy, but his imagination soared at the sight of her. She might be a changeling princess, offspring of the hollow hills. Or a pagan priestess demanding sacrifice. Or one of the three queens who bore King Arthur's body to Avalon.
Lord knew, he'd let her take his body anywhere she pleased.
Then the ethereal Miss St. George opened her mouth and began to sing.
No wonder Neville calls her a diva. Her voice was liquid seduction, a fiery blend of passion and pathos. Sebastian decided then and there, whatever else she was, Arabella St. George was going to be his.
At least for the coming season.
\*
"Good show, Bella," the stage manager said as he passed her open dressing room door.
"Thanks, William. Have you seen Irene?" Arabella called out from behind her dressing screen. The costume mistress was nowhere to be found just when she was most needed. Arabella had learned early in her career that there was no room for modesty in an opera troop, not with as many quick changes in the wings as she had to make during the course of a performance. "I've bungled the knot rather badly, I'm afraid. Step in here and unlace me, would you please?"
She turned her face to the wall and heard the clack of his heels on the hardwood. Capable fingers tugged at the knot and worked it free. Her corset loosened as the laces slipped through the eyes. The whale-bone prison fell to the scuffed wood floor. As a singer, Arabella always breathed deeply, expanding her ribs against the stays, but now she was finally free to move.
"Oh, that feels wonderful." She arched her back, lifting her arms over head in a huge stretch. Her thin chemise was of fine linen, but it strafed her nipples with enough friction to make them rise to attention. "Thank you, Will."
"You're welcome."
The rumbling baritone did not belong to William.
Arabella whirled around and looked up into a classically handsome face. His dark eyes glowed with a slow sensual fire and his lips turned into a practiced seductive smile. He might have stepped directly from a playbill for Don Giovanni, the tale of the consummate lover.
"You're not William."
"No, I'm not. Forgive me for not introducing myself, but when a lady is in distress, my first inclination is to first come to her aid." He removed his top hat, revealing a head of unruly dark waves Lord Byron might have envied. "I am Winterhaven."
She recognized the name and knew he expected her to curtsey and fawn over him, but she realized immediately who he really was. He was wearing the specified top hat, bearing a dozen roses and wore a white carnation stuck in his lapel.
He was the contact she was told to expect.
All she wanted was to rid herself of the cursed envelope as quickly as possible. But in case anyone might happen by her dressing room door, she decided she ought to treat him as if he were simply another opera devotee come to offer the usual overweening praise.
Honestly, does he have to pretend to be a duke?
She straightened her spine, ignored the fact that she was practically naked and offered him her hand.
"Arabella St. George, Your Grace."
"Enchanted." He bent and pressed a courtly kiss to her knuckles. His lips were warm and his breath feathered over the back of her hand. "Your performance was magnificent."
"Thank you, sir. I'm gratified to have pleased you." She accepted the bouquet and placed the fragrant offering in a waiting vase.
"Then perhaps you'd consider pleasing me more," the man said smoothly. "Do me the honor of joining me for supper. I've arranged for us to partake of a midnight repast in a private dining room at The Peacock's Tail."
Arabella had overheard one of the opera dancers telling her friends about The Peacock's Tail. It was an elegant establishment that boasted a French chef and sumptuous rooms designed as trysting spots for the upper crust's affairs du Coeur. Midnight supper at such a posh establishment was an enticing offer, but when she agreed to bear the envelope from her last singing engagement in Paris, she hadn't signed on to become someone's plaything.
"How kind, sir, but how premature. Alas, I'm elsewhere engaged this evening."
"I should have expected as much. A beautiful woman never dines alone." He took a step closer and lifted a hand to her cheek. "Allow me to tempt you to change your plans."
His mouth descended to hers before she realized he intended to kiss her.
Arabella appreciated directness in a man, so she didn't protest. She was no nun. She'd been kissed by adoring lovers, by tenors who'd really rather have kissed the baritone, and by a French count who knew a dozen delightful uses for his wicked tongue.
She considered herself well-versed in love play, but this kiss wasn't merely an appetizer. It was a feast.
A feast that made her hungry for more. Her body softened against his hard one without her conscious volition. Every bit of her tingled with awareness, with anticipation, with heat. Her bed had been cold for more months than she cared to contemplate, but her body had no trouble remembering the pleasure it was designed for.
But however much her insides ached, this man was part of the blasted game she'd been unwillingly sucked into. She wouldn't let herself be coerced into more. Arabella pulled away from him.
"With regret, I must decline."
With buckets of regret, she thought ruefully.
The bulge in his trousers was formidable and if his kiss was any indication, the "duke" was a lover of considerable skill. Despite his chilly formal demeanor, he was all fire underneath and his nearness sent a flurry of conflicting sensations coursing over her. She steeled herself not to meet his gaze as she donned the wrapper that had been draped over her dressing screen.
"Allow me to offer you a libretto of this evening's opera as a parting gift." She had tucked the incriminating envelope within its pages earlier, figuring her contact might appreciate a method of concealing the volatile thing he carried. She held it out to him now.
He stared at the Don Giovanni libretto, his brows nearly meeting over his fine straight nose.
"You'll find what you seek within its pages," she said pointedly.
"No doubt, Giovanni has many things to teach a man, but unless I find you within this little booklet, I will continue in disappointment," he said, taking the libretto and tucking it in his waistcoat pocket. "Thank you, Miss St. George. I will treasure this memento of our first meeting. However, you should know I am not accustomed to accepting defeat. You are a spectacular actress, but I recognize real passion when I encounter it. You were as moved by that kiss as I."
She bit her lip. Could he scent her arousal over the roses?
He dipped in the shallowest of bows and put on his hat in a fluid motion. "My driver and equipage will remain at the stage door for one hour, should your plans change. I sincerely hope they do. Good evening."
He strode away without a backward glance.
Arabella closed the door behind him, lest she be tempted to follow. The deed was done, the envelope delivered. Fernand and his cohorts would leave her in peace now. She'd never have to see any of them again. She escaped the ill-advised adventure with nothing worse than a few sleepless nights.
But why did her contact have to be such a delicious man?
She removed her stage makeup and re-applied a judicious amount of rouge for her exit from the theatre. It wouldn't do for a diva, even an exhausted one, to look like a washerwoman. Then she donned a simple gown, grateful that unlike her heavy stage costumes, she could dress herself in street wear. She was tying the bow of her bonnet, when someone rapped on her door.
"Come," she called out.
A man stepped into her dressing room, wearing a top hat and bearing roses. A white carnation winked at his lapel.
"Bonsoir, Arabella. I believe you have something for me."
Her heart shuddered at the sound of his voice. Fernand de Lisle closed the door behind him.
"Under no circumstances should a gentleman involve himself with a woman who has entanglements of a sort that might diminish his enjoyment of her."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
"Fernand," Arabella said, aghast. "I wasn't expecting you."
"You were told to look for a man wearing a top hat with a white carnation in his lapel, and bearing a dozen roses, non?" He made a sweeping bow and dropped the flowers on the floor. "Now, the envelope, where is it?"
Panic coiled her belly. "Why didn't Jean-Louis simply tell me you were the one who would meet me?"
So I could arrange to be where you wouldn't find me!
"Because, ma petite, you don't need to know everything."
Fernand swept her into an embrace with the assurance common to handsome men. She'd found his pale eyes beneath blond brows uniquely enchanting once. Now they seemed reptilian. She tried the firmness of his grip and decided a struggle would be pointless.
"As much as I would love to stay and renew our oh-so-pleasant acquaintance, I have some rather pressing matters to attend." His voice was a silky bass, but there was an underlying tone of menace she hadn't recognized when she first met him years ago. Now it was all she could hear. "I'll take what I've come for and be gone."
For a moment, she considered telling him that the Duke of Winterhaven was in possession of the wretched envelope and that he could be found at The Peacock's Tail.
But that would put an innocent bystander in Fernand de Lisle's path.
Not that Winterhaven was innocent. No man who kissed as he did could be considered such. But Arabella knew what Fernand was capable of.
Winterhaven didn't.
She forced a musical laugh as she extricated herself from his arms. "Honestly, Fernand, you don't think I keep it here, do you? Anyone could come into my dressing room."
"And no doubt anyone has. You have no secrets from me, remember."
She made herself smile at him. "The point is I don't have it with me at present."
"Then let us go collect it."
"I can't," she said, trying to keep her voice even, as if her heart weren't pounding hard enough to leap from her chest. "I'm . . . dining with the Duke of Winterhaven this evening."
"He is rather---what is the word?---'high-in-the-instep' for you, non?"
She shrugged. Perhaps the Winterhaven name projected enough power to protect her for as long as it took for her to retrieve the envelope. "His Grace left his coach and driver for me and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Neither do I, chérie." Fernand grabbed her forearm, twisted it painfully and pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear. "It was a mistake for you to move your family from the townhouse on Bent Street. It shows a lack of trust I find most troubling."
"This is between you and me, Fernand. Leave them out of it." She stomped on his foot and wrenched herself away from him, knocking the vase with Winterhaven's roses to the floor with a crash. It shattered into hundreds of shards and the perfume of dying roses filled the room afresh.
A rap sounded on the door. "Everything all right, Bella?" the stage manager called out.
Fernand's eyes flashed a warning.
"Fine, Will. Just a little clumsiness." William was a nice man. He had a family. The last thing she wanted was to put him in danger. "You'll have to send in the dustman after I leave."
"Right-o." Will's footsteps retreated.
"You know the difference between you and me, Bella?" Fernand popped his top hat back on his head. "You have a care for what happens to others. That, my dear, is a weakness you can ill afford."
"I mean it. Leave my family alone."
"Certainly. So long as you and I deal well with each other, there's no reason to involve them. I will be back tomorrow. Disappoint me at your peril." He paused at the door. "I found the child once. Do not imagine I can't find her again."
\*
"Arabella St. George is otherwise engaged this evening," Sebastian admitted.
"She turned you down?" Neville plopped into one of the two wing chairs that flanked the fireplace. A grin brightened his face. "Oh, my friend, you cannot imagine how my heart bleeds for you."
"Oddly enough, all I have to show for my trip to the opera is a new libretto, courtesy of Miss St. George." Sebastian took the Don Giovanni libretto from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the stack of books he'd brought for Neville from his library. Then he settled into the other wing chair with a snifter of brandy for each of them. He'd break out the cigars later. He kept a townhouse in London, but since his aunt and younger sister were in residence there, he preferred to confine his personal pleasures to the suite he leased at the Peacock's Tail.
"She'll come round," Sebastian assured his friend. "This is but a momentary setback."
"And Waterloo was but a lost wager for the French." Neville took a sip of his brandy. "Admit it. Have you ever been turned down before?"
"You're enjoying yourself at my expense."
"Not at all, Winterhaven," Neville said with a laugh. "Once I claim that case of port, then I'll be enjoying myself at your expense."
"You are far too consumed with my private affairs."
"Because I wish you to see you settled," Neville said. "You devote a great deal of time and energy to securing four women a year. If instead you found one you could love for the rest of your life, you'd be a much happier man."
"Granger, I'm delighted you've found your Christine, but just because you've decided to marry, it doesn't signify that all men should." Sebastian sipped his brandy. His father had devoted himself to one woman and died a disappointed wretch. "Besides, what makes you think I'm not happy?"
"You haven't got an heir."
"There's time for that." A duchess was on his horizon, but her shadowy figure was the far in the distance. A woman might be trusted to bear a man's heir with careful watching, but he knew better than to trust one with his heart. "And even once I marry, there's nothing to prevent me from continuing to order my personal life to suit me. A wife should have no cause for complaint so long as a man is discreet."
Heaven knew his mother hadn't been.
There was a rap on the door. Neville hopped up to open it and Arabella St. George stepped into the elegant suite with the same alluring presence she projected on the operatic stage. She was a diva to her bones.
"Good evening, Lord Granger." She offered Neville her hand. "Lovely to see you again. Are you joining His Grace and me for supper?"
Sebastian saw him fight the urge to swear.
"Unfortunately, no," Neville said as he dropped a kiss on her gloved knuckles. "However, I hope you'll consider another recital for my mother and her friends very soon."
"Please tell the countess I'd be delighted," Miss St. George said.
Even her speaking voice was musical and sultry. Sebastian was stirred by the mere sound of her.
"The opera company's season will soon be over. We might arrange something then. An evening of liebeslieder to celebrate your engagement, perhaps?"
"Enchanting. My fiancée adores German love songs." Neville scooped up the stack of books Sebastian had brought him, including the Don Giovanni libretto, and made a hasty exit. "Goodnight, Winterhaven. I trust you'll think about what I said."
Not bloody likely. Why should he settle on one woman when the world was filled with the gorgeous creatures? Sebastian sent his friend silent thanks for leaving so quickly and closed the door behind him.
"May I take your wrap?" Not waiting for her answer, he stepped behind her and slid the velvet cloak down her silken arms. A few tendrils escaped the chignon at her nape and a whiff of violets tickled his nostrils. Anticipation clenched his gut.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"Call me Winterhaven." He crossed to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the best French vintage The Peacock Tail's cellar boasted.
"Winterhaven." She rolled the syllables around on her tongue as if she were tasting them. "Is that your name?"
"For all normal purposes."
"Dining with me is not normal for you," she said as she accepted a glass. "My friends call me Bella. What do you think? Shall you and I be friends?"
"I sincerely hope so." Sebastian felt himself tumbling into her dark eyes.
"Then what is your name?"
Against his better judgment, he gave her the name only his mother had ever used for him.
"Sebastian. I like it. It suits you." She touched the rim of her glass to his. "To a lovely dinner."
He smiled down at her. "And to dessert."
"Selecting a mistress involves more than finding a pleasing bed companion. A gentleman must be sure the woman is an ornament to his arm and a credit to his reputation as a man of discriminating taste."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
"And when the second act began, the tenor and mezzo-soprano were nowhere to be found, so William, our stage manager, had to send in their understudies." Arabella took a sip of her wine.
Sebastian couldn't tear his gaze from her lips. Even though it felt like something a callow youth might claim, he truly did envy the glass because it touched her red ribbon of a mouth.
"Well, the principal singers were furious of course," she went on, "but the maestro told them that if the rest of the company had to wait till after the final curtain to seek their lover's couch, they could too."
Sebastian smiled indulgently. It had been a while since he met a woman who was so frank about matters of the flesh.
"Of course, the mezzo was just covering for the tenor," Arabella said before she popped a bite of orange into her mouth. "He was actually in the property mistress's closet with one of the baritones from the chorus."
Sebastian laughed. Arabella St. George told such engagingly ribald stories. They tripped off her tongue as easily as her high notes. She regaled Sebastian with naughty tales of the backstage doings at the opera company and sly little tidbits about heads of state for whom she'd sung private recitals. He easily envisioned her moving smoothly among his peers as they made the rounds of demimonde haunts, charming everyone as she went.
The only problem was that she seemed a bit distracted sometimes. He caught her gaze flitting about the room now and then as if she were looking for something in particular. It seemed out of character---as if the lady were in actuality a cutpurse looking for a likely victim. But then she'd flash him such a beguiling smile, he decided he'd imagined the whole thing.
By the time they reached the main course, he was thoroughly convinced he'd made the correct choice for his next mistress. Then she stumbled badly.
"But I've occupied the conversation for far too long," she said. "Tell me about yourself, Sebastian."
He shrugged. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
That was far too wide a net. He decided to limit it. "I am a Whig in matters political."
She laughed. "Our costume mistress has a parrot that claims to be a Whig if you offer him a cracker, a Tory if you give him cake! Rather like a real politician, I should think. You've told me nothing."
That was his aim. The whole point of having a mistress was having an entertainment, not being one. "I am the 8th Duke of Winterhaven."
"An accident of birth." She waved away the attribute that so entranced his other women. "Your title tells me about your station, not about you. Tell me something you like."
He frowned. None of his other women ever contradicted him or pushed him to reveal himself like this. "I like you," he said, not so sure he truly did now.
She raised her glass in salute. "Flattering, but you're stalling, sir. Tell me something I don't already know."
While he was perfectly willing to share his body with this delectable woman, he always kept a firmly erected barrier between himself and his mistresses. When he looked into her eyes, he realized he'd not advance his cause a bit by holding back.
"I . . . like raising horses on my country estate."
She smiled. "Good. Why?"
"Because it's the done thing."
"Oh, how deplorably dull. Never say that's the real reason or I'll believe you haven't an original idea in your head."
By thunder, no man had ever spoken to him thusly. Certainly no woman. "Miss St. George---"
"Bella, please," she corrected. "Do you know why I sing, Sebastian? Because it moves me." She leaned toward him and he forced himself not to be distracted by her décolletage. "Music is a demanding god. I can't have a normal life because of the odd hours, the travel, and the slightly disreputable company. But when I sing, the glory of sound shivers over me. Music gives me so much, that the dusty theatres, the despicable critics, the terror that something might go horribly wrong---none of those things matter. I'm never more fully alive than when I'm pouring out my soul in song."
"That's what moves me." She laid her hand on his. "I want to know what moves you. Now, tell me what you like about raising horses."
He liked the smell of a horse, the dusty warm scent of a gelding's shaggy coat on a brisk fall morning. He liked their soft noses and sweet breath. The homely comfort of a low whicker of greeting when he approached. He loved giving a spirited mount its head and flying across the---
"Freedom," he said softly. "I love the freedom of riding. The speed. The thrill of controlling a powerful animal with only my knees, reins and will."
Her smile washed over him. "You don't have to be the 8th Duke of Winterhaven on the back of a horse."
"No, I don't," he said, surprised that she'd divined his deeper thoughts so accurately.
"Someday, Sebastian, I should like to see you ride."
\*
It's not here. Arabella rifled through Sebastian's greatcoat pockets while he stepped out to see what was keeping their dessert. Oh, God, it's not here.
All during supper, she'd furtively surveyed the sumptuous room, looking for the libretto. There weren't that many horizontal surfaces where he might have laid it aside absently. She checked the small bookshelf, but there were only a few novels whose spines had never been cracked. The escritoire in the corner was locked, but surely he wouldn't have felt the need to place the libretto under lock and key.
Unless the duke had found the envelope tucked within Don Giovanni's pages and opened it. Unless he knew.
"Calm down," she ordered herself. Sebastian was a very closed off, very private person, but she'd been able to read him fairly well. She'd know if he had found it.
She brushed her fingertips over the window ledges to see if he'd propped the libretto there. The door opened behind her and she turned guiltily to face him as he came back in, followed by a footman.
"Looking for something?" Sebastian asked.
"Looking at something," she said smoothly. "Did you know you can see St. Paul's from here? It's really quite lovely by starlight."
"And some things are lovely even without benefit of starlight." His appraising gaze washed her with masculine approval.
She smiled at his compliment and settled back at the dining table where the footman put the finishing touches on their dessert. With a fine fork, he pricked the sponge cakes resting in shallow dessert-dishes. Then he poured on raisin wine and brandy in equal parts and once the cakes were thoroughly drenched, he sifted sugar on each of them. Just when Arabella didn't think she could handle another ounce of decadence, he spooned a generous dollop of custard alongside each cake.
The footman bowed and left them to enjoy their sweets.
"I'll never fit into my second act costume if I eat all that."
"Try it before you decide not to like it," Sebastian said, forking up a bite and offering it to her.
She opened her mouth and let the flavors burst on her tongue. "Oh, my! That's worth a trip to the tailor."
He offered her another and she took it.
"Oh, there's a bit by the side of your mouth," he said.
She ran the tip of her tongue around her lips.
"No, you didn't quite . . . allow me." He leaned over and licked the corner of her mouth, right at the juncture of smooth skin and moist intimacy. Then he pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes.
She wasn't sure what he saw in hers, but she saw . . . loneliness in his and her chest ached.
Then he kissed her.
His kiss in her dressing room had been practiced, smooth. This one wasn't. There was no sense of seduction, no hurried taking. It was more a gentle exploration. His mouth slanted over hers with surprising tenderness.
Then the kiss took a decidedly wicked turn. He stole her breath and nipped her bottom lip. His tongue made rough love her to mouth and her whole body sang. She draped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He stifled a groan.
"No, this isn't . . . " He yanked himself away, taking a deep breath, obviously bridling himself. "I don't usually conduct my affairs in this manner."
"I thought it was a grand beginning myself," she said with a chuckle. "How do you usually conduct your affairs?"
"In a thoroughly civilized way. Before we proceed, it is important---"
"Proceed to what?"
"To . . . become better acquainted," he said, neatly sidestepping the obvious. "I have a contract I should like you to look over and sign."
"Indeed?"
"It's all quite standard, I assure you and generous to a fault, I'm told."
"What sort of contract?"
He walked over to the escritoire, unlocked it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Then he returned to the table. "It's all here, laid out neatly. You will receive a liberal stipend for each of the three months we are together and at our parting, a pension to be drawn out for a number of years. I enjoy giving my mistress gifts, so if you prefer emeralds over rubies, be sure to let me know."
"You expect me to become your mistress?" She leafed through the contract in awe.
"I should think that's obvious."
"And the contract is for a predetermined length of time?"
"Yes, three months is optimal for---"
"No." She laid the contract on top of her brandy-soaked cake. A ring of gooey moisture soaked through the paper and made the neat script run together.
He couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd slapped him. "No?"
"No, I won't sign this contract. I won't become your mistress." Then she rose, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "I can't promise to stay with you for three months. I might be hopelessly bored with you before that time is up, but . . ."---she walked her fingers down his chest to the buttons of his trousers---"I will become your lover."
His breath hissed over his teeth. "When?"
She kissed his lips. Bella liked men. She liked Sebastian. And she needed more time to look for that envelope. "Right now."
"The first physical encounter with a prospective mistress sets the tone for all future interludes.
A wise man makes his expectations clear."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Sebastian knew it was the height of foolishness to engage in love play with a woman without benefit of a contract. She might decide to make more of their relationship than it was. She might make demands upon him he was unprepared to meet. An intimate encounter with a woman was not something a prudent man stumbled into without protecting his interests.
And his future freedom.
But at the moment, Bella's mouth on his made any thoughts of prudence flee away.
He loved the way she tasted, sweet with a hint of raisin wine and a splash of brandy. Her scent engulfed him, warm and musky. Her body pressed against his, her softness melding into his hardness. She didn't kiss like any woman he'd ever known. Usually his mistresses passively accepted his attentions. They took their cue from his level of passion, matching him surely but unwilling to initiate anything.
Bella took the lead, teasing him with her tongue and then withholding it. She kissed his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. A playful nip on his earlobe sent his groin into pleasurable agony.
"Bella," he murmured, not sure his voice would even work.
She pulled away and looked up at him, her lips kiss-swollen. "I like the way you said my name just then. It sounds as if you want me. Need me."
Her words were a dash of cold water. The 8th Duke of Winterhaven didn't need anyone. He cleared his throat. "I do want you." He plucked a couple pins from her hair and ran his fingers through the length that uncoiled. "That's not in dispute."
She caught up his hand and pressed a lover's kiss on his palm. He fought the urge to groan with wanting.
"But you don't need me?" she asked.
"Bella, I . . ." He clamped his lips shut. A duke, a man for that matter, ought not admit to need.
"Well, that's something of a challenge for me then," she said with a sly grin. "I shall have to make you need me."
The thought amused him. As if anyone could make him do anything he didn't wish. She wrapped her slender arms around his neck and turned her face up to him again. He claimed her mouth without further invitation.
"No, no," she said after a few moments, sliding her hands down so her palms pressed against his chest. "You're kissing me by rote."
"What?" No woman had ever complained of his kisses.
"Don't misunderstand. Your kisses would turn most women to water. When you kissed me before, it certainly weakened my knees, but this one was too practiced, too predictable. So many seconds slanted this way, so many turned the other. In another moment, I'll be presented with your tongue." She cocked her head at him. "A lady could set her pendant watch by that kiss."
He pulled away from her. She was either the most intriguing woman he'd ever met or the most infuriating. He wasn't sure which.
"Don't take it badly. I see so much potential, so much to hope for in you, Sebastian."
That's what he was afraid of. She was angling for more than the post as his mistress. It was inconceivable that anything beyond a light dalliance could exist between a peer of the realm and an opera singer. But he'd lost total control over this encounter the moment she refused to sign the contract.
"Do you know what I think?" she said.
"Have I any reason to hope I can persuade you not to tell me?"
She laughed musically while her gaze flitted around the room. Again, he was struck by the odd sensation that she was looking for something in particular. Then her dark eyes settled on him.
"I think," she said as she walked toward him with the sinuous grace of a she-leopard, "you've been spoiled by the intimate acquaintance of too many women."
"No man would see that as a detriment, I assure you."
"Probably not." She shrugged. "But the trouble is, when a man has bedded an abundance of women, we all run together for you. We become a homogenous entity, expendable and interchangeable."
To be fair, she understood him. Those were his exact thoughts. A woman was a woman, some more pleasing than others, but for all intents and purposes, the same. "And I suppose you expect me to believe you haven't bedded a great many men."
"No, Sebastian. I have too much respect for your intelligence to try to claim otherwise. I've had more lovers than most, I'm sure," she admitted. "But not as many as you think. And let me assure you they all stand out in my memory as unique."
"And what makes you think it's any different with me?"
She ran her fingertips along his arm, up to his shoulder and then teased the hair that curled behind his ear. "Prove me wrong. What color were your last mistress's eyes?"
For the life of him, he couldn't remember. When she wasn't trying to wheedle diamonds and pearls from him, Celeste favored . . . sapphires. "Blue," he blurted out.
"Too slow." She put her other arm around his waist and pulled him close. "The point is when we kiss, I want you to kiss me. Not those others. If you cannot give me an honest kiss, you may as well call for your driver and equipage to be brought around because I must go home."
"And what constitutes an honest kiss?"
"An honest kiss is a shared breath. Our souls mingle. It can't be reduced to words." She stood on tiptoe to nuzzle his neck and run her parted lips across his cheek. "It's not something I can explain, but I'll know if you do it. Kiss me as if you want to know me, not merely see my bosom."
He nearly trembled at the thought of her breasts. It was ridiculous. He was the 8th Duke of Winterhaven. He'd seen plenty of breasts.
But he burned to see hers.
"That's not really fair, you know. Any man would want to see your bosom. You can't hold that against me."
"I'll do better than that." She rubbed herself against him, catlike, and her bodice drifted downward almost baring the pink tips. His ballocks clenched. "I'll hold them against you."
None of his other women had spoken so frankly about the act of love. Her voice was like a caress to the groin. Just when he thought this trousers couldn't fit any tighter.
"But only once I'm satisfied that you want to see them because they are my breasts."
Bloody hell! He didn't just want her breasts. He wanted all of her. He bent to kiss her, tentatively this time, fearful he'd hopelessly muck things up. He kissed her closed eyelids. He ran his lips over her temples. Finally, he brushed her lips with his. She opened softly to him and he explored her mouth like the treasure it was.
The kiss was sweet.
God help him, needy.
"Mmm," she purred when they surfaced for air. "That was altogether lovely. And now I think you should send for your driver."
"But I thought you said---"
"Do you need me yet, Sebastian?"
He bit his tongue to keep from admitting it.
"That kiss was as honest as anyone could wish. I tasted your heart, and you've sampled mine," she said. "But if you can't admit you need me, we've had all the honesty you can stand for one evening."
He stomped across the room and pulled the bell cord. "You said you'd become my lover."
"I have," she said. "But a lover is not like a mistress, at your beck and call, always available, always a sure bedding. Sometimes, a lover says 'no.' For now."
He knew he ought to cut her loose and seek a less infuriating female for his next mistress. But for the life of him, even though he was frustrated with her, he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more challenged, more intrigued by a woman. For now. His body latched onto those words of hope.
"I'm leaving for a sennight at my country estate tomorrow afternoon," he said. "Say you'll come with me."
"I have two more performances to give before the end of the season."
"You have an understudy. Beg off."
She turned to let him drape her cloak over her shoulders. "Would it be just the two of us at your estate?"
He wished. "For the first day, yes, but my family, Lord Granger and his fiancé and both their mothers will be arriving the next. We'd have one day in the country to ourselves."
"Will you take me riding?"
He nodded. "I have a sweet-tempered mount that might suit you."
She grinned wickedly. "What makes you think I need a sweet-tempered mount?"
Sebastian's driver rapped on the door to signal that he was ready to collect her.
"Oh, a thought just occurred to me," she said, turning back to him. "Do you have that libretto I gave you?"
He glanced around the room. "I'm sure it's somewhere around here."
"Well, I want to sign it for you. Now that I know you better, I want it to be a personal gift." She leaned into him and he kissed her once more.
Perhaps she was right. Delay might mean more delight once he planted his flag on Mt. Arabella. He was willing to explore the possibility. He told her when to expect him to come by on the morrow.
"Be sure you find the libretto and bring it with you when we leave for the country then," she said and disappeared into the soft night.
Sebastian poured himself another brandy and settled before the dying fire. This was merely a temporary setback. Arabella was an intelligent woman, perhaps too intelligent. Once he had more time to present his case, she'd see the wisdom of a contract for both their sakes.
A rap on the door brought him to his feet in an instant. He rushed toward it with the school boyish hope that she'd changed her mind and come back. Instead, he opened the door to find Neville pacing before it.
"Has she signed your damned contract?" he demanded.
"No, but don't count on that case of port just yet, old son," Sebastian said as his friend barged into the room without an invitation. "The vixen is merely giving the hound a merry chase."
"She's gone?"
"Yes, but---"
"Good."
"Look, if you want the port that badly, I'll---"
"No, it's not that. I came to warn you to steer clear of Miss St. George."
Sebastian snorted. "In case it's escaped your notice, you all but introduced me to her."
"That was before I read this." Neville handed him the Don Giovanni libretto. Sebastian noticed this time that there was an envelope sticking out from its pages. "I thought you'd sent me a note and opened the seal before I realized it wasn't yours."
"What's in it?" Sebastian pulled the envelope from the libretto.
"Treason."
"A perfect mistress has no interests beyond her protector. If she does, a gentleman would do well to consider carefully whether she is worth protecting."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
"Treason? The devil you say." Sebastian snatched the envelope and read the curlicue script. The directive was in French on fine grained foolscap. "Good Lord. Names, likely places where the individual may be found, an offer of payment . . . this is an assassin's list of targets. Members of Parliament, a Major-General, the Prince Regent's cousin . . . what was Bella doing with it?"
"What indeed?" Neville said with a quirk of his brow.
"No, she couldn't possibly---" He caught himself. When she handed the libretto to him, what was it she'd said? He'd find what he sought between its pages. Sebastian's gut roiled. She knew the envelope was there and had mistaken him for the person to whom she was supposed to give it. "The seal was unbroken, you say?"
"Yes."
His senses were still awash in the woman's scent. She was sensual and slick and had manipulated him as neatly as if he were a green lad. Anger crept up his neck like a rash. But even now he couldn't conceive of her being involved in a series of political murders. "She may have been unaware what the envelope contained."
"But she was in possession of it," Neville stubbornly reminded him.
And she was trying to get it back, Sebastian realized with a jolt. Perhaps her kisses, her looks of promise, nothing of this beguiling, bedamned evening was real. Arabella St. George was merely trying to recover an incriminating document that had gone badly astray.
"Shall we wake the magistrate?" Neville asked.
Sebastian crumpled the foolscap in his fist. "No need. I'll deal with this myself."
If she was guilty, he'd be far less merciful than the magistrate.
\*
The next day, Sebastian was an hour late to collect her in his fine coach. Arabella was mildly offended, but decided to ignore the slight since he didn't even trouble to apologize. There was no point in antagonizing him since she needed to recover that envelope and quarreling with Sebastian over a minor faux pas seemed an inefficient way of doing it.
She expected him to attempt to seduce her during the carriage ride. There were plenty of adventurous possibilities in a small, but well-padded space.
But he was distant as they bounced along in his equipage. When she tried to engage him in conversation, he rapped on the coach's ceiling and signaled a halt.
"I'm inclined to ride," he said simply, as if no more explanation were required and climbed out of the carriage to mount the bay gelding one of his outriders had been leading.
"Beastly manners. No wonder he secures his mistresses by contract," she murmured. "Why else would they tolerate him for three months?"
She regretted sending notice to the opera company that she'd be unavailable for the final two performances of the season. If not for the need to recover Fernand's blasted envelope, she'd order the driver to return her to London.
He's discovered the envelope. That's why he's so changed toward me.
She shoved that thought aside. If that were the case, she'd be under arrest instead of rattling along toward a sennight at the duke's country seat.
Whatever was bothering Sebastian seemed to have been resolved by his ride. When they pulled to a stop before the gracious manor house at the end of a tree-lined drive, he handed her down from the coach with every courtesy. All the servants queued up to greet their returning master and he introduced Arabella to the butler and housekeeper as a celebrated operatic diva and his special guest.
"Once you refresh yourself, Miss St. George, I'll show you over the rest of place if you'd care to go riding."
"That would be lovely." After the stifling trip in the enclosed coach, Arabella's muscles ached for a chance at some exercise.
Sebastian fished out a stack of books from the boot. With a sudden prickle of awareness, Bella noticed the Don Giovanni libretto on top. "I only have to deliver these to the library and then I'll see to your mount. Mrs. Wiggins will show you to your room."
The housekeeper dropped a shallow curtsey.
"Cobb." Sebastian nodded sharply to his butler. "When the lady is ready, bring her to the stables."
Arabella smiled at Sebastian, hoping to rekindle some of the spark they'd shared at The Peacock's Tail. "You know how I look forward to seeing you ride, Your Grace."
He inclined his head in a stiff gesture that thanked her for remembering the servants were watching, but his sensual smile showed he'd caught the double entendre in 'ride.'
Ever correct. Ever lordly. Even in his amours, the duke was mindful of his station. Once in bed, would he still maintain such tight control or would he lose himself in heat and friction and animal passion? Just once, she wished she could see him driven beyond his ability to be in full command of himself.
He disappeared into the great house, leaving her in the care of Mrs. Wiggins and Cobb. She trailed them through the big double doors.
Sebastian's country home was as elegant and formal as the man himself. The foyer was tiled with Italian marble, clearly designed to impress. Arabella followed Mrs. Wiggins up a curved staircase to the guest quarters, asking about the general layout of the great house and the great people who'd lived in it as they went. The chamber she was assigned would have suited a princess.
"Ring for an abigail when ye've the need of one, miss." Mrs. Wiggins indicated the bellpull on one side of the sumptuous four-poster.
Bella thanked her as the woman left, but she was perfectly capable of dressing herself. She stripped out of her traveling ensemble and pulled on the forest green riding habit, whose shoulders were graced with epaulets a la militaire. Her fingers flew to hook the gold frogs marching down the bodice. She had to hurry if she was going to find Sebastian's library and filch the envelope.
She stole out of the guest suite and padded down the staircase, wary of servants. She had to locate the library before she was discovered by Mr. Cobb and ushered out to the stable. Fortunately Mrs. Wiggins had given her a detailed description of the ground floor and Bella was able to slip unnoticed through the long hall bedecked with fading tapestries. She padded into the sun-splashed library at the far southern corner of the house.
The room smelled of must and books and vaguely of Sebastian's unique scent. She spied the stack of books on the edge of the massive burled oak desk. Without hesitation, she skittered over to it and opened the Don Giovanni libretto. To her dismay, the seal was broken and the envelope empty.
"Looking for this?" Sebastian stepped from behind the door, dangling a sheet of foolscap before her. His eyes were dark and hard.
And sad. And in his sadness lay her only hope.
"If a prospective mistress presents troubling aspects, end the association at once. If a gentleman wishes a life filled with complications, he should seek a wife."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
"Let me explain," Arabella said, backing toward the desk. "It's not what you think."
Sebastian looked at the crumpled missive. "Oh? What do you think it is, then? A guest list for Napoleon's next ball?"
"I mean ..." Her thoughts darted furiously, more florid than a Mozartean cadenza and as damnably difficult to get a handle on. What could she possibly say that wouldn't make the situation worse? "You don't understand."
"Pray enlighten me." He approached with the stealth and menace of a hunter. "But be warned, madam. I will suffer no more lies from you."
"I haven't lied." The edge of the desk bit into the back of her thigh just under the crease of her bottom. "I'm only the courier. I know nothing about the contents of the envelope."
He leaned forward, trapping her between his body and the desk. "But you know enough to know possession of such a document would be considered aiding and abetting enemies of our country at the very least."
"I don't care," she cried angrily. "I had no choice."
Sebastian shook his head. "An independent woman like you who flouts convention because it amuses her? I find it difficult to believe you ever do anything because you must."
"I don't care what you believe." She lunged for the note, but he caught her in his arms, pinning hers to her sides. She struggled, but was no match for his strength. "Please, Sebastian. I'll do anything if you'll only give it back to me."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "Anything?"
She felt his body quicken, but his eyes were harder than the bulge in his trousers. He was close enough that his breath feathered hotly across her lips. If she tipped up her face, he'd probably not be able to resist the invitation to claim her mouth. But she sensed the tension in his body wasn't all sexual. Arabella couldn't tell if he struggled with the desire to ravish her or wring her neck.
Or both.
"I'll sign your contract. I'll do whatever you like," she babbled. "Truly, it's not what you think. You'd help a man who found himself in these dire straits. Won't you help me?"
He shoved her away and paced the length of the room to put some distance between them.
"No. I wouldn't betray my king and country for any man," he said, tugging at his jacket, but it was the cutaway sort and the line of his trousers left no doubt of his roused state. "Or any woman either."
"Would you do it for a child?"
He stopped pacing at that. "Explain yourself."
"If I don't deliver that envelope, he'll..." Arabella twined her fingers together, the picture of nervousness. Sebastian tamped down any feelings of empathy for her. She was a talented actress. It would behoove him to remember it. "You have no idea what he's capable of."
"Since I have no idea who 'he' is, I'm sure I don't," Sebastian snapped. "Start by telling me who you're dealing with and how you became involved."
She turned and gazed out the tall windows, as if she'd like to leap out, run over the rolling hill, and never look back.
"I first met Fernand five years ago when I was in Paris."
"What were you doing in Paris then? In case it escaped your notice, we've been at war with France off and on, for more or less forever."
"Yes, but even in wartime the French still love their opera and our troop of players had safe conduct." A sad smile tilted her mouth. "I realize now that Fernand planned this from the start when he approached me. Performers and diplomats are almost the only ones who can travel freely when there are hostilities between countries and no one takes an artist seriously off-stage. We'd never be suspected of involving ourselves in clandestine matters."
"Who is this Fernand?"
"Fernand de Lisle, Vicomte Gimois. His family lost their estates, their fortune, almost everything during the Revolution, but Napoleon reinstated his title," she said. "Estates and fortunes are more difficult to retrieve."
"Gimois?" Sebastian frowned. The name niggled his memory. "Ah, now I recall. Isn't he an attaché to the French ambassador in London?"
"Yes." Her shoulders sagged. "And the father of my daughter."
She had a child. That should have made Arabella even less appealing as a potential mistress, but the catch in her voice tugged at his heart.
"Where is your daughter?"
She turned and met his gaze. "As far away from me as I can bear. I know I'm not fit to raise a child, not with the hours I keep and the travel, never mind the general strangeness of theatre people. There was never any question of marrying her father. I'd broken it off with Fernand once I realized he only wanted to use me for his cause, before I discovered I was bearing his child. My Lisette lives with my sister and her husband. They've never been blessed with children so they're raising her as their own. I send them money faithfully for her care, but they love her dearly, and would have taken her regardless." Her chin trembled. "She calls me 'Auntie Bella' when I visit her. It shouldn't hurt, but it does."
She swiped away the single tear that spilled over her eyelid. "I suppose you despise me as unnatural for abandoning my child."
Her words knifed through his gut. Another mother who'd left her child sprang up in his mind's eye. He could still smell her perfume, sickly sweet and laden with essence of lilac. To this day, he couldn't abide them and had ordered every bush on his estate eradicated as if it were a patch of cankerworts.
But Sebastian's mother hadn't left him because it was in his best interests. She'd abandoned a five year old Sebastian to his stoic, distant father in order to run away with her lover. And never looked back.
"I don't despise you," Sebastian said. Arabella St. George had done the best she could for her daughter under the circumstances. The child wasn't tainted with bastardy. She was being raised by people who loved her.
And Arabella obviously suffered for her choice. If his mother had ever had second thoughts, Sebastian certainly wasn't aware of them.
"I was approached by a man the last time I was in Paris, who told me he had people watching my sister's home, watching Lisette. He gave me the envelope and a description of the man who would collect it from me in London. If I didn't do what they asked," she said, her voice edged with agitation, "Vicomte Gimois would exercise his rights and take her. I'd never see Lisette again."
"If a nobleman wants to claim a child as his, he's usually praised for it."
"That's not what Fernand will do." Her face crumpled in fear. "You don't know him. He's ruthless and cruel. Lisette is nothing to him but a tool to be used. He's an assassin. He'll kill her if I don't do what he wants. But you fit the description I'd been given for my London contact and that's why I gave the envelope to you. Then Fernand came and it's all such a horrible muddle. Don't you see?" She grasped both his lapels. "I have to deliver that note."
She pressed her body flush with his and stood tiptoe to kiss him, tentatively at first, then in a heated rush that went straight to Sebastian's groin. Her mouth was a wonder and he was pulled headfirst into her dark sensual heat. Her hands slid down his back and kneaded his buttocks. He groaned into her mouth.
Then, without stopping their deep kiss, she made a little room between them so she could undo the buttons over each of his hipbones. Her hands invaded his trousers and all rational thought fled from his mind.
Arabella wasn't bluffing when she said she'd do 'anything' to secure his help.
"A gentleman should take pains to insure that important decisions regarding his mistress not be made when his mind is compromised by the requirements of his body."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Arabella teased Sebastian's groin with the nearness of her questing fingers, but denied him the relief of her direct touch. White-hot wanting seared him. Her kiss was a drug, a mind-altering elixir more powerful than any poppy extract in a London opium den. Her hands fluttering over his groin threatened to reduce him to mindless incoherence.
"Help me, Sebastian," she whispered, between peppering kisses down his neck.
She grasped his shaft and his eyes rolled back in his head.
He lifted her onto the desk and rucked up her skirt. The heavy walnut furnishing had been in the family since before Cromwell. Many a time, Sebastian had watched his father poring over Chaucer or laboring on the estate ledgers behind the venerable piece.
The ancient desk had borne up under plenty of ducal occupation and diversion, but never anything like this.
The thought of the long line of his disapproving forbearers might have been what gave Sebastian the strength to stop, but he still possessed the presence of mind to make a rational decision on his own. Much as he wanted her, he couldn't trust this woman.
He grasped Arabella's wrists and pulled her hands from his trousers. He held her immobile while he willed his heart to stop galloping in his chest. The scent of her arousal tickled his nostrils and the look of abject need on her lovely face nearly weakened his resolve.
She's a traitor to her king, he reminded himself between heaving breaths. My king.
"Do not think, madam, that you may purchase my assistance with your sweet slit," he said as soon as he trusted his voice not to rasp with need.
Her eyes narrowed. "Why not?" she said through clenched teeth. "You thought to purchase use of my body for the next three months with your bloody contract."
He released her hands and stepped back, but the effort was Herculean. The way she was seated on the old desk, knees spread, her skirt hiked above the top of her lacy pantalets with one stocking bunched at her ankle--it was the most erotic pose he'd ever seen. He rearranged his small clothes and buttoned his drop-front trousers. Since he was fully roused, it was a difficult trick. When he looked back at her again she'd pulled down her skirt, but she was still perched on the desk.
"It appears," he said woodenly, "that we have sufficiently established that neither of us can be bought."
He walked around to the other side of the desk and rang for Cobb. She hopped down and twisted her fingers together in nervousness.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, white-lipped. "Summon the magistrate?"
"No." He tugged down his waistcoat, but nothing would disguise his current state. He sat in the leather desk chair before Cobb arrived. "I intend to protect the Crown's interest. And incidentally, yours."
Relief weakened her knees. Arabella sank into one of the heavy Tudor chairs flanking the small fireplace as Sebastian's butler entered.
"Contact our most reliable Bow Street Runner and ask for a complete dossier on one Fernand de Lisle, also known as Viscount Gimois, currently attached to the French embassy," Sebastian said crisply. "I want known associates, current whereabouts and as well as the usual curriculum vitae, military training, weapon of choice, etc."
Arabella bit her lip to keep from interrupting. What good would that do? If Fernand learned someone had taken an interest in his doings, it would only enrage him. And innocent people got hurt when Fernand was angry.
"Very good, Your Grace. It will take a couple days." Mr. Cobb made notes on a small pad of paper.
"Tell him I need his best speed, but not to sacrifice thoroughness," Sebastian added. "Oh, and be sure he understands discretion is paramount. The subject is not to know he is being investigated.
"Of course, Your Grace, will there be anything else?"
"Yes, I want de Lisle watched, surreptitiously. If he puts so much as a toe out of line, I wish to know of it."
Mr. Cobb nodded. "Immediately, sir."
"In addition, there is another matter of some delicacy and importance. There is a certain family I wish to safeguard, but they are not to know they have been brought under my protection," Sebastian said. "Miss St. George, the name of your brother-in-law and the location of his residence, if you please."
Arabella's breath caught in her throat. Sebastian was going to protect her Lisette. If he trotted out that ridiculous contract again, she'd sign it without a second thought. Anything to repay this bounty. She gave Mr. Cobb the information he needed.
"Special attention is to be given to the child," the duke said. "We have reason to believe she might be in danger. I want regular reports on her well-being. Is there anything else you require, Miss St. George?"
She shook her head. So that was the full power and majesty of a dukedom. All he need do was give the word and her problems faded away. But he didn't know Fernand, and she did. "However, you should be aware that the Vicomte is formidable. It would be a mistake for you to underestimate him."
"And it is a mistake for you to underestimate me." Sebastian's dark eyes flashed a warning.
"Of course, Your Grace," she said, using his title for Mr. Cobb's benefit. "I ask your pardon and thank you for your assistance."
He waved her thanks away as if the fact that he'd just assured her daughter's safety was a small matter. "Now I think we have delayed your ride long enough. Cobb, please escort Miss St. George to the stable and see that Fletcher saddles the mount of her choice. Then return with all speed. Another matter which requires our attention has just occurred to me."
Then Sebastian pulled a sheaf of papers from his desk and buried his nose in them, clearly dismissing her.
"Aren't you riding, too?" she asked.
"If I find I can spare the time. In the meanwhile, take Fletcher with you. My head groom is quite knowledgeable and will show you around the estate."
She followed Mr. Cobb out, her chest aching strangely at Sebastian's cold dismissal. She'd heard he was called The Ice Duke.
Now she knew why.
\*
As soon as Bella left, Sebastian paced his study, trying to make his body settle.
Fool, he cursed himself. The woman disordered his entire life and he rewarded her by helping her. If Neville named him cork-brained, he wouldn't be far wrong. At least Sebastian wasn't making her privy to all his plans. By the time Cobb returned, Sebastian was back behind his desk.
"I have a commission for an expert forger and will need someone whose utmost discretion can be counted upon. Summon that artist we used last time. Cavalli, I believe," Sebastian said. "And make sure Mr. Harris has a gang of dependable men available on short notice."
"Very good, sir. Where would you like them positioned?"
"London, I should think," Sebastian said. "That'll be all."
But as the butler turned to go, Sebastian stopped him. "Oh, and Cobb, tell the runner I need a full dossier on someone else as well."
"Who, Your Grace?"
"Arabella St. George," he said. "And send a case of that Spanish port to Lord Granger."
"Very good, sir. Would you like to include a note?"
"No. It's to settle a wager," Sebastian said. "Neville will know which one."
"If a man entertains the least doubt about his choice of mistress, he should cut off the association instantly. A wife, one must keep regardless of second thoughts. Only a self-flagellating fool keeps a mistress who fails to meet his expectations."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Sebastian mounted his favorite steed in one smooth motion and clattered out of the stable yard, kicking up a swirl of straw and clods of dirt in his wake. He leaned over the horse's neck, urging him to stretch out for more speed as they barreled down the tree-lined drive.
"Come on, you big bastard," he crooned to the gelding as he turned his horse's head off the lane and across the grassy meadow. "Show me what you're made of."
The horse laid back its ears and flew over the ground. Sebastian raised himself out of the saddle, knees flexed, leaning forward toward the flying mane. The world whipped past him in a greenish-gray blur. Blood pounded in his ears in tandem with the hooves pounding the turf.
For a moment, Arabella and her treasonous associations faded into the back of his mind and all he felt was the lightness of near flight and the freedom of simply being. His breath fell into rhythm. His thighs flexed in time with the muscles of the powerful animal beneath him. He squeezed the horse with his knees, giving a bit more pressure to the right and zigged around a walnut tree without a tug on the reins.
The horse responded as if it were an extension of his own body. He threaded through the copse of trees, ducking under low branches and splashing through a stream in full spate, droplets of water flying around him.
When a stone fence row rose before him, he and the gelding sailed over it as one.
No thoughts plagued him. No aching burn in his chest over Arabella St. George's damnable complications. No need to do anything, but ride.
\*
Bella's breath caught in her throat as she and the groom, Fletcher, waited on the crest of a rise. The mare Sebastian had lent her was quick and willing. She'd enjoyed a mad dash over the same meadow Sebastian now careening across like a man possessed. When he took the fence in a glorious bound and landed safely without the gelding breaking its stride, she sighed with relief.
"Don't ye be fretting for His Grace, miss," Mr. Fletcher said. "He's a proper terror on horseback and no mistake."
The way her chest constricted, Arabella suspected he was also a proper terror to her heart. She'd known countless men. She'd never known one like Sebastian. One who governed himself as rigidly as he controlled his mount, yet was capable of such reckless abandon in the exercise of his power. Her body was still achy with denied need after their blazing kisses in his library. Desire rose afresh as she watched him pound up the hill straight toward her.
When he reached her, he reined the gelding to such a sudden stop, it nearly sat on its haunches. Sebastian's chest heaved with as much exertion as his mount's. A light drizzle began to fall and his hair clung damply around his ears.
"That'll be all, Fletcher," Sebastian ordered his groom.
With a respectful tug of his forelock, the man wheeled his mount away and loped back toward the stables.
The rain droplets fell in fat splats now, but Sebastian just continued to look at her, his dark eyes gleaming with a feral light.
"The rain seems determined," he finally said. "Do you wish to return to the house?"
"I'm in no danger of melting," she said. "You know I'm not that sweet."
"Then follow me." He turned the gelding's head and led her down the hill away from the manor at a slightly less than breakneck pace.
Once they reached the valley floor, the sky opened and rain fell in slanting torrents. Sebastian didn't slow and didn't turn back toward the main house. Instead they galloped through the heath in the opposite direction. Arabella squinted against the onslaught, but managed to keep Sebastian's flying coattails in sight. When he turned down a trail cutting through the dense woods, she reined her mare to follow.
Her riding habit was plastered to her form and her hat was a lost cause, but the joy of the chase was infectious. She urged her mare as close as she dared to his horse's hooves. She caught a glimpse of a thatched roofline embedded in the canopy of green ahead. When the cottage came into view it seemed a bit shabby, but when lightning flashed and her mare shied and tossed her head, the shelter was a welcome sight.
Sebastian stopped ahead of her, dismounted and lifted her from the sidesaddle. "Get inside," he ordered, "and I'll see to the horses."
She lifted her soggy skirt and dashed for the door while Sebastian led their mounts to a small shed.
Arabella expected to be assaulted by dust and mold, but the inside of the cottage was surprisingly clean. Especially since no one answered when she called out to announce her presence. A fire had been banked in the stone fireplace to ward off mustiness and drive the chilly damp from the air. She stirred it with a poker and it flared to life, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
A brace of hunting rifles hung above the mantle. Based on the bearskin on the floor and the general masculinity of the heavy furniture, she surmised this was Sebastian's hunting lodge.
When he entered the structure behind her, his expression left no doubt of his quarry now.
He crossed the slate floor in long strides and swept her into his arms. He kissed her. Hard. Giving no quarter.
She responded in kind, devouring him when he lent her brief control in the kiss. His mouth burned across her jaw and down her neck. His hands worked at the gold frogs at the front of her bodice, exposing her stays and the top of her lacy chemisette. He tugged down one side to cup her bare breast. She moaned when he kneaded her flesh and then tormented her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. When he bent to suckle her, a trill of need sang through her whole body and her knees nearly buckled.
Arabella had always thought she'd never feel more alive than when she offered up her voice to the god of music. The delights of the flesh were all well and good, but even they had paled in comparison to the rewards of her art.
Not this time.
Who would have thought this complicated, rigid man would be the one to set her singing, blood and bone, body and soul?
She yanked off his cravat and worked furiously to remove his sodden jacket and shirt. Bella tasted the bare skin of his shoulder, smooth and wet, and she couldn't get enough of him. His chest was lightly furred with dark hair that whorled around his brown nipples. She raked her teeth over one and was rewarded with a low male growl.
He cradled the back of her head with his palm and took her mouth, while she fumbled at the trouser buttons at his hips. Her bare breast pressed up against him, skin on glorious skin.
She stopped thinking in complete thoughts and could only register disjointed impressions.
Slick. Hard. Wanting.
Sebastian pulled out the hatpin and discarded her sad little bonnet. Then he made short work of removing her pelisse and skirt. It was a convoluted process because as sections of her skin were exposed, he caressed and kissed and nipped each needy bit of her. It was as if he were consuming her one delectable bite at a time. She couldn't wish him to stop, however few pieces of her might be left when it was over.
Please God, she couldn't even let herself think of an end.
She plunged her hands into his trousers to hold his shaft. Long, thick, like a column of granite encased in smooth male skin. The very thought of taking him in made her weak and strong at once.
After he relieved her of her stays and chemise, he reached around her, his muscular arms beneath her bum, and lifted her off the floor. He carried her toward a waiting couch, toying with her nipple with his lips and tongue while he moved toward their goal.
He laid her on the overstuffed leather and looked down at her. His hair was wild. His eyes even wilder, glinting with the same lunatic light one saw in a stallion when the mares were in season. His trousers were slung low on his hips, ready to succumb to gravity, his splendid maleness on aching display.
"This has nothing to do with anything else," he said, his voice harsh, ragged with need. He yanked off his boots and let his trousers and small clothes pool at his ankles. "Not the damned envelope or anything I might do about it on your behalf."
"Or your damned contract," she countered.
He nodded curtly. "I realize I can't purchase you, Bella," he said. "You give yourself to me freely or not at all."
She extended her arms to him, but he caught up her wrists and held her fast.
"That means this isn't about what I'll do for your daughter either. I will help you in any case," he said darkly. "I don't want you to let me take you because you're grateful." He spat the word out as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
She ached to hold him, to engulf him. She'd go mad if he didn't do something soon. "I'm feeling many things right now, Sebastian. Grateful is not one of them."
He lowered himself and the insanity of lust began.
"No matter how delightful a woman's company may be in the boudoir, if she complicates a gentleman's life outside it, she ought to be dismissed and summarily shunned as if she were a case of the pox."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
This is lunacy, Sebastian thought. Stark, raving madness.
But for the life of him, he couldn't stop. Her silken limbs, her softness, the sweet mound of her belly and the tender triangle of pale red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs---every bit of her called to him like a siren on the rocks.
And, unlike Ulysses, he hadn't had the forethought to order Cobb to strap him to the mast.
He reveled in the sight of every secret part of her. He tugged on her nipples, suckling hard and biting down enough to make her cry out. He rubbed his face between her legs, drunk on her scent. Her small noises of need tightened his ballocks and primed his cock to throbbing hardness with each little sigh and every hitched breath.
Her hands roamed over him, teasing and prodding. When she bit his shoulder, he sank into her. Some of his past mistresses had complained of his generous size. He slid into Arabella's velvet tightness slowly in the hope that she could bear to engulf all of him.
She hooked her heels at the small of his back and urged him deeper. He rammed himself home, sheathed to the balls.
Her eyes flared, but she whispered his name and rocked against him.
The whole world went suddenly hot and liquid. Sebastian forgot himself in pure animal joy. At one point, he was vaguely aware that they'd slid off the couch and were coupling on the thick bearskin before the crackling fire, but he couldn't be bothered to care that the 8th Duke of Winterhaven shouldn't writhe on the floor like a mindless beast.
They rolled in a tangle of arms and legs and Bella ended up astraddle him. He usually preferred to be on top, but when she arched her spine, offering her breasts to him, he couldn't refuse. He claimed them both, rolling her taut nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.
Bella groaned and tilted her pelvis against him, her wetness slicking his belly, as she set an urgent rhythm in their joining. They strained against each other, driving each other to aching fury. He slid a hand down and thumbed her most sensitive spot, luxuriating in her responsive warmth.
"Oh," escaped her lips and she stopped moving to let his fingers whip her into a shuddering frenzy.
His balls clenched when she started panting. She sang an incoherent song of lust in short gasps and soft cries and deep moans. She cupped his face with both hands and stared into his eyes, daring him to look away. Then her body stiffened and her insides rioted in deep spasms around his cock.
A gentleman would withdraw, but Sebastian was past feeling human, let alone like a man who followed any code of "oughtness." He arched his hips and his release pounded into her.
All that was right in his world was wrapped up in this woman, this joining, this bond that made them one flesh.
He could no more sever their connection than he could order his heart to stop beating.
\*
The man beneath her bared his teeth in a feral grimace. As she'd hoped, Sebastian Blake had finally lost control of himself. He was wild and fierce and magnificent all at once. Bella reveled in his bone-jarring release almost as much as her own. She squeezed all her inner muscles and reached around herself to fondle his tight balls, willing his joy to last as long as possible.
When the last pulse died, she collapsed onto his chest, content to gasp for breath and listen to his heart thunder beneath her ear. There was still much she didn't understand about Sebastian, how he'd come to be so self-contained when there was a raging fire inside him clamoring to burst out, but her body knew him now.
And his knew her.
It was a start.
"Well, Your Grace, that was..." She licked his nipple and blew a steady stream of air across it while she searched for the right superlative. "...monumental."
"Your Grace? You dispensed with that formality during our first meal together and this is no time to resurrect it." His belly jiggled in a deep chuckle. "Is 'monumental' a reference to my size?"
She gave his chest a playful swat and met his gaze. "No, though you are most impressive. I was thinking more in terms of why people erect monuments---to stake a claim of remembrance." She kissed his neck. "If I live to be a hundred, Sebastian, I will not forget you."
He stroked her hair from root to the long tips, his fingertips running along her spine and staying long enough to trace a small circle just above the cleft of her bum. His chest rose with a deep inhalation. "And I'll remember you, Bella."
"Good." She rose up a bit and met his gaze. "And in case your next mistress asks, my eyes are brown."
"My next mistress? Dare I hope that means you've consented to become my current mistress?"
She forced a laugh. Why had she started the conversation down that road? The thought of him having a 'next mistress' bothered her more than she wanted him to know.
"You may hope, but you'd be wrong," she said, twirling the ends of her hair around one of his nipples. "I'm your lover, Sebastian, as I promised I'd be. But since you made it clear this isn't about anything beyond this moment, I still won't sign that contract."
She leaned down to kiss him. What started as a playful brush of lips quickly became a passionate challenge. He rolled her over and pinned her beneath him.
"The contract benefits you as well, you know," he said when their lips finally parted. "Why do you insist on thwarting me?"
"Because someone needs to."
Evidently, he was the sort of man who responded to a challenge. He'd started to soften inside her, but now his maleness roared back to life. She rocked her hips beneath him, welcoming a second round of loving.
"You're a powerful man, in every sense. You give a command and it happens." The ache that had been so lately assuaged started deep inside her again. "But it's not good for you, you know. No one should be in total control of every aspect of their life."
"And you've decided to be the one person I can't command."
She smiled up at him and squeezed him with her inner muscles again. "As I said, someone needs to."
He withdrew and stood over her, still rampantly male. Looking up at the hard lines, the corded muscle and smooth skin of him made her resolve waiver a bit.
"Have I offended you, Sebastian?"
"No. I simply want to take my lover," he emphasized the word with a verbal caress, "to the bed in this hunting lodge." He bent down and scooped her up into his arms as if she were feather-light. "Unless, of course, she objects to down pillows and satin sheets."
"Not at all." She draped her arms around his neck. "We find ourselves in complete accord." Bella nipped his earlobe. "This time."
\*
Sebastian and Arabella dallied in the hunting lodge for the remainder of the afternoon while rain fell in blinding sheets beyond the leaded window panes. They took turns tormenting each other with need, withholding and giving release. Sebastian rode her hard, pounding into her from behind while she balanced on her knees, clutching the iron headboard to remain steady. They both growled out their pleasure in unrestrained joy. Then after a brief respite, he joined his hard body to hers a third time with such heart-stopping gentleness, her insides melted with tenderness for him.
Then sometime during their gasping, whispered pillow talk, he drifted off between one sentence and the next. In the relaxation of sleep, the hard line between his brows softened and he looked years younger. Arabella drank her fill of him now that he couldn't catch her doing it.
If Sebastian were awake, he might see the wistfulness she tried to hide.
Physically, they were perfectly attuned. They both enjoyed the act of love in wide variety---tough and tender, heart-poundingly fast and tortuously slow.
When had she started longing for something more? Something from his heart instead of just his magnificent body.
But that wish was a receipt for disaster with a man like Sebastian. Anyone who felt he had to insulate his heart from involvement with a written contract limiting the scope and duration of a relationship wasn't the sort to give his affection just for the asking.
For the sake of her heart, she'd do well to remember it and guard herself from the pain of their inevitable parting.
I'll revel in the moment with him, Arabella decided. And be thankful for his protection of Lisette and his help in dealing with Fernand.
When the time came for their ways to part---and she'd take pains to see that she was the one who decided when that time had arrived---she would call upon her stage experience and make a dignified, dry-eyed exit.
So why did the sight of his sleeping face make tears gather now?
Sebastian stirred, so she rolled over quickly lest he catch her with glistening eyes. He spooned around her, pulling her close. His breath feathered warmly on her nape.
"You smell so good," he said drowsily.
She snuggled into his embrace, pressing her bum against his groin. "It's stopped raining."
"Damn," he said. "That means we ought to return to the main house before our absence becomes remarkable."
"You're concerned for my reputation?"
"Of course. As you're so fond of reminding me, you're not my mistress. You're my lover." He dropped a kiss on her shoulder and rolled out of bed. "As far as my household is concerned, you're my guest. So long as we were caught in the lodge by the elements, who can say we did anything but wait here for the storm to pass?"
He strode from the room, heedless of his nakedness, and returned with their discarded clothing.
"They're nearly dry," Sebastian said as he jerked on his smallclothes.
Arabella followed his example and dressed quickly.
"Ready?" he asked as she pinned her slightly bedraggled hat to her head.
"Almost." She crossed the room, stood tiptoe and kissed him. "I had a lovely time, Sebastian."
"So did I." He drew her close. "I'm sorry I fell asleep on you. This may surprise you, but I've actually never done that with a woman before."
"I can't say I'm shocked." She tugged on her riding gloves. "I expect you're the sort who feels he must leave as soon as possible after the deed is done."
His mouth twitched. "Guilty as charged. I always felt that if ever there's a time for a woman to make excessive demands on a man, it's immediately after the act of love."
"Perhaps," she said with a shrug. "Or maybe it's because sleep makes a person vulnerable. You never felt you could trust your mistresses enough to sleep in their presence."
Given the way she'd hidden the existence of the envelope from him at the start, she realized she ought not to have mentioned trust. A wall rose behind his eyes and she knew she'd taken a misstep.
"And you think I should trust you," he said, weighing every word.
"You already have." She patted his cheek, trying to keep the mood light. "Don't worry, Sebastian. It's safe to sleep with a lover. And I have no intention of making demands on you."
They stepped out of the hunting lodge into the waning moments of the day. The sun broke beneath a layer of gray clouds and cut through the forest. Its final rays cast long shadows across the rolling hills. The air held a whiff of coming evening, cool and green and rain-washed. The horses were ready for a gallop, but Arabella and Sebastian kept them to a walk on the sodden turf.
They didn't speak, but the quiet wasn't oppressive. Bella resisted the urge to fill the silence, deciding they both could use a bit of time to collect themselves and determine how the afternoon had changed matters between them. She was surprised, and more than a little glad, when Sebastian reached over to hold her hand at one point when their mounts fell into a steady gait beside each other.
She'd spent enough time on stage to know that words were ephemeral, not always to be trusted. That simple linking of their fingers was more reassuring of Sebastian's regard for her than a thousand sonnets.
When they crested the final rise, they reined in their horses so they could view the manor house framed by a golden sunset. A coach rolled to a stop at the front door of the imposing edifice. Sebastian swore softly, breaking their companionable silence.
"It appears my other guests have arrived a day early. Yes, there's Granger. That's my aunt and sister he's handing down now. And there's his fiancée and her mother. And Granger's mother," Sebastian said as the last woman emerged from the enclosed coach. "So much for a day in the country to ourselves."
"We've had quite a day, thank you very much," Arabella said, arching a brow at him. "Though I do wonder at so many ladies in one place. Usually a house party is divided between the genders with more even handedness. This gathering seems a bit one-sided."
"That's because they're here to plan Granger's wedding, God help him."
"Indeed. Then I'll be delighted to suggest some suitable music for the event. Why didn't you tell me?" She nudged her mount into a walk down the hillock. "I might have brought some sheet music with me."
"So you're infected with wedding pox too. I don't know why I thought you'd be different." Sebastian drew even with her. "Is there a woman alive who doesn't become maudlin and starry-eyed over the prospect of a man being leg-shackled for life?"
"Do you think that's how Lord Granger sees his coming nuptials?"
"No."
"Then why shouldn't we join him and his fiancée in their joy?"
"Because their joy will be so fleeting," Sebastian said gruffly. "Don't misunderstand. His Christine is a fine girl and no doubt, Neville is enraptured with her now. But no matter whom one marries, one eventually discovers one is married to someone else entirely."
"That's rather cynical."
"No, it's rather accurate," he said stone-faced. "Can you name a truly happy wedded couple?"
"That's not fair," Arabella said. "Naturally, unhappy liaisons will garner more attention if the couple is indiscreet enough to make their differences public. No one knows the condition of someone else's marriage except the parties involved."
"And their children," she thought she heard him say. But when she cut her gaze toward him sharply, he looked away.
"Well, I'm under no compulsion to marry, Sebastian. In fact, given my profession, it's best if I remain unwed since the hours required for performances and rehearsals leave little time for the running of a household. And I can't imagine exchanging singing for ordering menus and managing a staff," she said. "But unfortunately for you, you'll be expected to wed at some point."
He responded with a sound that might charitably be called a grunt.
"I daresay you've been schooled on your duty to produce an heir and continue your line. The time will come when you must choose a duchess," she said, determined for some reason to force him to admit it. "Marriage is not something you can ignore indefinitely."
"No, it's not. Someday I'll have to entrust a woman with my name and my title and my honor." Judging strictly from his tone, Bella would have guessed Sebastian was discussing a trip to the rack instead of the altar. "I'll have to fill a nursery with heirs and hope to heaven there isn't a cuckoo's egg among them."
"That's rather odd. I wouldn't have thought you'd worry about being cuckolded," she said.
He snorted. "There's never any dispute about a babe's mother, but it's the wise child, they say, that knows his sire," Sebastian said. "I'll have to marry eventually, but until the time rears its ugly head and refuses further delay, let me leave it alone."
He dug his heels into his horse's flanks and bolted down the hill as if he were fleeing an approaching horde of Huns.
"By all means, parade your mistress before your male friends. Inciting the envy of others is but one of her functions. However, do not, if you value your sanity, allow her the acquaintance of your relations."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Despite the dour nature of its host, the house party was a merry and convivial group. Lord Granger and his fiancée were so clearly besotted with each other; their joy couldn't help but radiate outward, covering the rest of Sebastian's guests with residual happiness. Arabella already knew Lord Granger's mother, the soon-to-be dowager countess once her son married, since she'd sung a recital at her home last winter to great acclaim.
She was pleased to be accorded the status of an honored guest by Sebastian's aunt, Lady Moorcroft, a flamboyantly dressed matron with forcefully expressed opinions to match.
Sebastian's sister, Lady Hermione, was a surprise because she was so unlike the duke. Where he was dark, she was light, figuratively as well as literally. A pretty blonde, she was at least fifteen years younger than Sebastian by the calendar and seemed ages younger by any other measure. Demur and sweet, her voice was rarely raised above sotto voce, and while she obviously respected her brother, there didn't seem to be much affection between them. Though she claimed to have no talent for music, Lady Hermione was a dedicated opera lover and made it a point to include Bella in all her conversations.
Only Lord Granger's demeanor was a little chilly toward Arabella, but she reasoned that any man as thoroughly enamored of his fiancée as Lord Granger was would naturally be reserved toward another unattached lady.
After a splendid supper, they retired to the music room. Though singing was her forte, Bella acquitted herself well at the keyboard. She sat at the pianoforte, deftly playing snippets of pieces she judged appropriate for the ceremony and wedding breakfast for the bride and her mother to approve.
"The trick is choosing music that is romantic without being overly sentimental," Arabella explained as she launched into a lush bit of Schubert and then segued into a sprightly Purcell tune.
Sebastian contributed little to the discussion of wedding music, but Arabella caught him watching her from the far side of the room when he was supposed to be playing chess with Lord Granger. Occasionally, she heard the harsh sibilance of a whispered conversation between the two men, a rasping counterpoint to the mellow tones of the grand instrument.
If she didn't know they were great friends, she'd suspect they were arguing. And over more than the chess match. Arabella wasn't surprised when they announced their intention to remove to Sebastian's smoking room. The other women took it as a cue that it was time to retire to their chambers for the evening, with the exception of Lady Moorcroft.
"Play that Bach prelude once more, if you please, Miss St. George," Sebastian's aunt said. "I should like to hear it again before I pronounce it suitable."
As the rest of the party said their goodnights and filed out, Arabella was happy to comply. The mathematical precision of Bach was always soothing and she sensed an undercurrent growing in the party that was anything but. Sebastian had been withdrawn and sullen since his other guests arrived and nothing she'd tried could cajole him out of it.
It was as if their time spent in the hunting lodge was a world apart. The afternoon of loving was unrelated to their present circumstance. In tedious reality, she'd been found in possession of a treasonous letter and he'd been forcefully reminded of his hateful ducal obligation to wed, bed and produce an heir.
The lyrical Bach counterpoint spooled off Arabella's fingertips, light as a faery's wing. Music always lifted her out of herself, transported her to a world filled with beauty and passion. Like the delicate tapestry of sound she created, Bella existed only in the eternal now, as removed from the stolid march of time as heaven itself.
Bella wondered if Sebastian could hear the dulcet tones from his smoking room. She wished she could transport him back to the hunting lodge with her as easily as she could play the prelude.
"Well, what do you think?" she asked Lady Moorcroft as the last chord dangled in space for several heartbeats before she removed her fingers from the ivories.
"I think you're far better suited for each other than my nephew realizes." Lady Moorcroft leaned one elbow on the piano lid. "Please tell me Winterhaven hasn't tried to convince you to sign one of those ridiculous contracts of his."
Arabella coughed to hide her surprise.
"Come, there's no need to be coy. We both care about him. I can see it in your face when you look at him. Well, has he or not?"
"Yes, he has, but I refused to sign it."
Lady Moorcroft clapped her dainty hands in delight. "Brava! Finally, he's met a woman who says no to him."
Arabella hadn't exactly said no that afternoon. She kept her face carefully neutral and hoped she was a good enough actress not to blush. If Lady Moorcroft was observant enough to mark how Arabella felt about Sebastian, she astute enough not to miss that sort of involuntary admission of guilt.
"For the record," Lady Moorcroft went on, "I'm not opposed to your friendship with my nephew. In fact, I hope it might blossom into something more."
"Your ladyship does me honor, but surely you realize I'm a commoner."
Lady Moorcroft laughed lightly. "I sometimes wonder if our American cousins may not have the right of it when they celebrate the self-made man. Or in this case, woman. You may be a commoner, Miss St. George, but you're an accomplished commoner." She strolled to the small sideboard, picked up the decanter and poured two glasses of wine. "And, based on your refusal of Sebastian's ludicrous contract, you're also a woman of great sense."
 "Then the world being what it is, you understand why I wouldn't expect my friendship with the duke to become anything more." Arabella took a cautious sip of the wine. The chasm between Winterhaven and a woman of no family was so wide, the far side of it was but a dark smudge on the horizon. Arabella couldn't imagine what Sebastian's aunt was angling for by even suggesting such a thing. "Despite the fact that I will not become his mistress, the duke loves music and invited me to join your party. That's all there is to it."Lady Moorcroft shook her head. "My nephew and his contracts. They're just the last in a long line of Winterhaven foibles."
A parade of portraits of Sebastian's dignified ancestors peered down at them from the music room walls.
"The duke is understandably proud of his lineage," Arabella said, feeling she ought to defend him.
"No doubt." Lady Moorcroft cast a disparaging eye around the silent gallery. "But don't let the duke's formality fool you. The Winterhavens aren't exactly the model of propriety. Never have been."
Lady Moorcroft tipped up her wine glass and drained it in a long gulp that would have done credit to a bar maid. Arabella was suitably impressed and it occurred to her that Lady M's unlooked-for confidences were probably related to the quantity of alcohol she had quietly consumed that night.
"Do you know why Sebastian insists on only three months duration for his amours?"
Bella shook her head, not trusting her voice. It was a safe bet Sebastian would never share the real reason.
"It's because of his mother. My younger sister." Lady Moorcroft refilled her glass and swirled the contents for a moment, letting the wine breathe. "Helen was a lovely girl, but flighty, you understand. She had a dozen offers the year of her come out, but the Duke of Winterhaven was far and away the best catch of the lot. They married and within the year, Sebastian was born."
Arabella bit her lip to keep from asking why this should make Sebastian so cautious about his relationships. Lady Moorcroft was spinning her tale in her own time. It was bad form to interrupt a raconteur mid-story.
"One shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but honestly, I've never seen why. They're past hurting, aren't they?" Lady Moorcroft said in a small voice as if debating with herself whether or not to continue. Then she shrugged and plowed ahead. "Sebastian's father was a hard man to know. Silent. Pitiless. And he ruled his family as he ruled his duchy, with an implacable iron will. That's him, scowling above the sideboard there."
Arabella was of the opinion that most people earned the face they wore. If so, the deep grooves between his brows and around his mouth showed Sebastian's father had spent far more time frowning than laughing. Pride glinted in his flinty gaze and the slight uptilt of his chin. Arabella recognized the determined set of Sebastian's jaw in the portrait of his father, and the beginning of the same frown lines.
"Helen was used to being flattered and courted. She'd been the belle of every ball she attended," Lady Moorcroft said. "Once he'd won her, the duke had no time for such nonsense. Trapped in such a loveless marriage, she wilted like a dying plant."
Arabella eyed the female portraits in the room. "Is there a painting of her here?"
"No. If there ever was, I suspect the old duke destroyed it," Lady Moorcroft said. "You see, before Sebastian had ridden his first pony, Helen ran away with the sailing man who captained one of Winterhaven's ships."
"She left her son?" Arabella had left her daughter too, but not for the sake of a lover. However her heart ached over the decision, she knew Lisette was far better off with Arabella's sister and brother-in-law.
"In fairness, she couldn't very well have taken the boy with her, could she? Winterhaven was too cold and proud to pursue her for her own sake, but he would have dogged her to the ends of the earth for the sake of his heir," Lady Moorcroft said between leisurely sips of wine. "I like to think Helen was happy with her lover. After all, she gave up everything to be with him."
Of course Lady Moorcroft would defend her sister, but all Arabella could think of was a motherless young Sebastian, abandoned to the care of his silent, pitiless father.
"Then one spring, little Hermione turned up at the gate in a basket. Helen had died in childbed and her lover had no use for the child. But since Helen was still married to the duke, the girl was accounted legally his. Hermione is Sebastian's half sister, though I think the old duke might have sent her to the foundlings' home if she hadn't had Helen's startling blue eyes." Lady Moorcroft finished the last of her wine. "Hermione was a winsome child. Always biddable. She was a comfort to the duke, I think, toward the end."
"But she and Sebastian don't get on?"
"No, I don't think it's that." Lady Moorcroft considered the decanter with a sideways glance as if to see if it held enough wine to make the trip across the room worth her trouble. "Helen both unites and divides them. I don't believe Sebastian ever gave up hope that his mother would come back. Hermione's birth meant she never could."
Lady Moorcroft might be a bit tipsy, but truth sang with vibrant tones in her words.
"So now, my nephew tries to control every encounter with women. Hence the contract," she said, sagging a bit against the piano. Then she waggled a finger at Arabella. "But you, my dear, just keep saying no to that bit of silliness. You'll make an honest gentleman of him yet."
Lady Moorcroft listed badly and threatened to tumble face first onto the Turkish carpet. Arabella rose from the piano bench and skittered around to her side. She linked arms with Lady M. and started toward the door.
"I'll do my best, milady," she said as they meandered through the connecting rooms to the curving staircase leading to the upper floors.
Making Sebastian an honest gentleman was an idea with real appeal. Though given the way her relationship with him had begun, with deceit and subterfuge, she wondered how an untruthful woman could go about making any man honest.
\*
"Neville, that's enough." Sebastian brought his fist down on the desktop hard enough to rattle the inkwell and set the stuffed owl on the corner atremble. "I told you I'd handle it and I will."
"I fail to see how making the lady your house guest constitutes 'handling' the situation." Lord Granger didn't seem the least troubled by Sebastian's anger. In fact, if his red ears were any indication, he was boiling with plenty of ire of his own. "You're dealing with treason here. If you aren't careful, you'll become implicated in her plans. Perhaps even branded her accomplice."
"Arabella is not a traitor," Sebastian said, willing it to be true. He hoped the dossier he'd ordered on her would bear out her story, but for now, he didn't dare show the slightest doubt to his friend. Neville had enough doubts for both of them. "She was coerced into her part of the scheme."
"So she says."
"And I believe her."
"Ever since we were at Oxford together I've had the utmost respect for that brain of yours. However, it seems to have gone on hiatus just now." Neville blew a cigar smoke ring into the air. "Which part of your anatomy have I the pleasure of speaking with at present?"
Sebastian frowned darkly at his friend. Was the fact that he'd already bedded the lady branded on his forehead? "I have a plan."
"Obviously, so does she."
"Arabella is a pawn in this. A courier only," Sebastian said. "I'd stake my life on it."
"You are. Depend upon it. May I remind you that the punishment for treason is still hanging, drawing and quartering?"
Sebastian glared at him. "Hear me out. It's no good taking the letter to the authorities. They'd only warn the persons who're being targeted and the assassin will simply go to ground. He'll strike in another way at another time. We need a stratagem that will lull him into a sense of easy success, and in so doing, we'll choose the ground we fight on."
Neville listened without comment while Sebastian explained what he proposed to do in order to stop the assassin in his tracks. Then Lord Granger pulled on his cigar three times, cogitating on the possibilities and weighing the options. Finally, he met Sebastian's gaze.
"It might work," he admitted. "But it's risky."
Neville didn't know the half of it yet. "There's more," Sebastian said. "I'm going to need your assistance."
When he finished outlining the rest of his plan, Neville let out a low whistle.
"Will you help me?"
"Yes, of course," Neville said, waving away the question. Then he fixed Sebastian with a penetrating glare. "Are you sure she's worth it? You could lose everything."
Sebastian didn't bat an eyelash. If Arabella had lied to him, he'd lost everything already.
"Above all else, a gentleman should take pains to see that while the needs of his body are fully met in the relationship with his mistress, his heart is never engaged."
~ A Gentlemen's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
A venerable old manor house takes on a different character by night than it shows to the world by day. Every shadow is a ghost of time gone by, each low creak of settling foundations a complaint from the past. A wakeful person is not likely to feel solitary roaming the dark halls. Shades of previous occupants lurk around every corner.
But Sebastian wasn't plagued by any of those late night spirits in his nocturnal wandering. The real woman in the silk-draped guest chamber so filled his imagination, there was no room for other fancies. He found himself standing outside Arabella's door before he realized that was his destination.
He raised his hand to knock but then stopped himself. The 8th Duke of Winterhaven didn't need her permission to enter a room in his own home.
Besides, he was in no mood to accept rejection and he couldn't be sure Arabella wouldn't tell him no. Until they'd taken refuge in the hunting lodge, she'd seemed determined to make a damned virtue of refusing him.
He turned the knob and slipped into the chamber. Silent as a wraith, Sebastian moved to her bedside. He'd thought her stunning on stage. Silvered by moonlight, she was nothing short of ethereal, his very own faery queen.
"Bella."
He hadn't meant to say anything. Her name simply escaped his lips without his conscious volition, a single word tribute to his need of her.
Need. All right, he'd admit it. She wanted him to need her and he did. He hoped she was satisfied.
She stirred and her eyes fluttered open. Wordlessly, she lifted her arms to him.
As Sebastian sank into them, a euphoric rush of emotions crowded his senses. He abhorred them.
Deucedly messy things, feelings.
They upset a fellow's well-ordered life and threatened to unman him. That's why he'd been so careful keep his under such tight restraint.
The reins slipped a bit as he let the sensations course through him unchecked. In all the years he'd lived in that manor house, he'd never felt at home. It was simply where he'd passed much of his childhood and later conducted the business of the estate, but there was no sense of belonging. If anything, it was more as if the place owned him.
As he buried his nose in Arabella's hair and inhaled her scent, he finally knew what home was, what it ought to feel like---all warmth and acceptance.
But he couldn't even convince her to stay with him for three pitifully short months. It confirmed what he'd always suspected.
There was something desperately wrong with him.
"I'm not a very good man," he said, his voice passion-rough as he devoured her neck with kisses. "You'd do well to remember it."
"Why do you say that?" She ran a hand over his head, smoothing his hair down.
It was like a benediction. Her touch encouraged him to open the firmly-barred door to his private pain, but he resisted.
"I've ordered my life solely for my own pleasure," he confessed. "And I've been selfishly happy that way."
She cupped his cheeks. "Have you been happy? Truly?"
Only momentarily, he admitted to himself. He laid his head beside hers on the pillow. Perhaps what he took for happiness was just absence of pain. Now that he thought about it, he really didn't have any true happiness with which to measure his life before Bella. In comparison to the brief, if tumultuous, time since he'd known her, those previous years were awash in shades of gray, dull and listless in his memory.
"Perhaps I wasn't happy and didn't realize it."
He'd certainly never felt like this before, so bewildered and out of his depth.
The really nasty part about feelings was that he was never sure how to name them. He understood desire well enough. That was easy. It was an appetite, no different than a man's craving for food or drink.
This wretched lump in his chest was indecipherable.
"Bella, I think. . . I need you."
She seemed to melt in his arms. "Oh, Sebastian, I hope so because I need you too."
Arabella kissed his closed eyelids, his temple, his earlobes. Her palms slipped under his shirt and smoothed over his shoulders. Desire flared in his groin but it didn't diminish the strange glow in his chest. He ached for her, every bit of him longing to both serve and be served.
In a horizontal dance of agonizing slowness, they stripped off the clothing that separated them. Skin on skin, they rolled under the sheets, kissing and caressing, fondling and teasing.
He suckled her breasts and rubbed his stubbled cheeks in the sweet hollow between them. Her soft sighs of need and pleasure twisted around his heart, binding him to her more surely than any contract could.
But did she feel the same sense of connection?
She needed him. That was something. But all his mistresses had professed that, one way or another. What they really needed was his money, his protection, his prestige.
Had any of them ever needed him for himself?
The lump in his chest constricted painfully and he wondered if the sharp pang had anything to do with love. Women set great store by that sentiment. Had he ever inspired that most bumfuzzling of emotions in a woman's heart?
Bella slid beneath the covers and trailed her lips over his chest. Then she moved downward. Animal heat flared in his groin as the blessed woman ran the tip of her tongue along his length.
Is this love? he wondered. This offer of exquisite pleasure when he hadn't even asked?
When she took him into her soft mouth, Sebastian decided he was doing far too much wondering.
It was time to simply feel.
\*
The rest of the week passed in pleasant, if more public, pursuits. The house party picnicked in the meadow, engaged in lawn bowling and archery, and enjoyed sparkling conversation over excellent evening meals. Each morning began with a convivial repast in the light-filled breakfast room.
And each night Sebastian joined Arabella in her chamber and stayed till the cock crowed the next morning.
She was becoming accustomed to the presence of his body beside her, often tangled up with hers in delightful ways, in deep relaxation. She wondered if she'd ever be able to sleep alone again.
Not that he lets me sleep much now, Bella thought wryly as she passed the marmalade to Lady Moorcroft. She sneaked a glance at Sebastian at the head of the table.
The difference in him since the beginning of the week was striking. The frown line between his brows was nearly gone. He'd always been devilishly handsome.
Now he looked content.
Mr. Cobb entered without a salver of buttered eggs or a fresh pot of tea in his gloved hands. Instead concern was stamped on his usually imperturbable features. "I crave your pardon for the interruption, Your Grace, but a gentleman is here to see you on a matter of some urgency. He awaits your pleasure in the study."
The butler handed Sebastian a note, which he unfolded and scanned quickly. The deep groove between Sebastian's brows returned.
He glanced toward Bella, his expression bland and unreadable, but his dark eyes flashed a warning. "Miss St. George, accompany me, if you please."
"Of course, Your Grace." She rose and joined Sebastian in the corridor outside the breakfast room. "What's this about?"
He offered her his arm. After she slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, he covered it with his. "It concerns your daughter."
Blackness gathered at the edges of Arabella's vision for a heartbeat, but she forced herself to draw a deep breath to keep the encroaching darkness at bay.
"Steady on, Bella," he whispered as they continued down the hall. "We'll know more once my man has given us his report."
She lengthened her stride to the farthest reach her column dress would allow, narrowly resisting the urge to hike up her skirt and run toward the study. Sebastian was remaining calm. She'd be no help to him, or to Lisette, if she went to pieces.
When they reached the study, they found Sebastian's Bow Street runner pacing before the fire, twisting his cap in his hands. He was the scruffy, indistinct sort of chap one might find loitering at any corner in London and not remember seeing. But the deep rings beneath his eyes were dark as bruises and his mud-spattered boots bespoke a hard ride.
"Well, Mr. Harris," Sebastian said as he ushered Bella to a chair and then took his seat behind his desk. "What have you to say for yourself?"
"I failed you, Your Grace. I ask your pardon," the man said with unflinching honesty. "We underestimated de Lisle's reach. I assigned two men to dog him, but he shook free. The man's a ghost. We had the family under our watch in Chelsea as you ordered, but the child still turned up missing."
Time stopped flowing around Arabella. Her insides went dead and hollow as a diseased elm. Mr. Harris seemed to say Lisette was gone but she was too numb to wrap her mind around the words that signaled her heart's doom.
"When?" Sebastian asked.
"Yesterday evening. After we realized the girl had been taken, I set one of my men to try to pick up her trail. Seems as if she's been taken back into the heart of London. Then since we were under orders to protect the whole family, I brought Mr. Boyle and his wife here and installed them in the hunting lodge for safekeeping. I trust that's in order."
Sebastian nodded curtly. "I assume you still have someone monitoring de Lisle's favorite haunts in town."
Mr. Harris's response faded in Arabella's ear to unintelligible noise as she stared out the window behind Sebastian's desk. Her sister and brother-in-law were just over the hillock, probably with the same horrified shock clawing at their innards.
Oh, Lisette. She covered her mouth to suppress a sob.
"And I have those dossiers you ordered, Your Grace," Mr. Harris said as he pulled a packet from one of the deep pockets of his greatcoat. "I'm thinking the Frog's known associates will give us a place to start looking for the little girl. But I have to warn you, de Lisle keeps fairly bad company." His gaze flicked to Bella. "The report on the other one is tame reading by comparison."
Other one? Who else was Sebastian investigating?
"I also have Cavalli's finished document for your approval. He's fashioned a seal to ape the old one if you're satisfied with the work. If not, he's always willing to have another go at it." Mr. Harris produced another packet, this one wrapped in oilskin to protect it from moisture. "For a reformed forger, the old fellow certainly likes to keep his hand sharp."
"That's enough, Harris," Sebastian said, obviously trying to quiet his servant. "You look done in. Can you ride?"
The man straightened to his full height. "It's been a couple days since I found my bed, but I'd welcome the chance to redeem myself in your eyes, Your Grace."
"Then you shall have it. Take yourself to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Wiggins to find you a plate of something. We leave for London within the hour."
Mr. Harris bowed deeply and strode from the room.
Once he was gone, the full force of the situation hit Arabella like a punch to the gut. Her worst fears had come to fruition. "Fernand has her," she whispered.
"But we have no reason to believe he's done her harm," Sebastian said, coming around the desk toward her.
Bella rose and paced away, determined to put some distance between them. She didn't want him to try to comfort her. She wanted her daughter.
"It's a thorough beast who'd harm a child," Sebastian said. "And a regular demon who'd hurt his own."
She skewered him with a look. "Then you have hit upon Fernand's character exactly. He'll use Lisette to get what he wants and when she is no more use to him . . ."
Arabella knew her heart was continuing to beat. She could hear it pounding in her ears, but she'd gone dead inside. As if she watched, disembodied, while this disaster unfolded around her. Her thoughts darted like a school of minnows, too numerous to count, too fleet to catch in a net. She was only able snatch up one.
"Fernand wants that envelope, Sebastian."
"Then we shall have to see that he gets it, shan't we?" He tore into the second packet, withdrew a single sheet of foolscap, and spread the missive on his desk. "Cavalli has outdone himself. The handwriting and most of the message is identical. Only the target has been changed."
Bella had never seen the contents of first message, but she approached the desk to read this one over his shoulder. Rather than ordering a string of political murders as Sebastian had told her the original did, the replacement note gave detailed instructions for the assassination of a single high ranking peer of the realm, one that should discomfit the British Crown with the audacity of France's reach. She squinted at the curlicue script for the name of the peer to be eliminated.
Sebastian Blake, the Duke of Winterhaven.
"Life teaches us there is an end to all things, however pleasant. When a liaison has run its course, the kindest method of ending matters is with directness. The sharpest cut heals cleanest."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
"No, I won't have it." Lisette was already in peril. Arabella didn't think she could bear putting Sebastian in danger too. "There must be some other way. You can't mean to do this."
"I don't. I mean for you to do it." He carefully folded and stuffed the missive into its envelope, melted a bit of red sealing wax and stamped it with the seal the forger had provided. The likeness was perfect. Arabella couldn't tell it from the original. "You must deliver the envelope to Fernand as he expects. We can only surmise he abducted your daughter to ensure your cooperation in this matter. So after he gives you assurances the child is unharmed, I want you to do exactly as he expects."
"But you've painted a target on your own back and with no guarantee Fernand will even return Lisette," she said. "I can't give him this. It's your death warrant."
"Let me worry about that."
No doubt Sebastian had resources she could only guess at, but so did Fernand. "Where is the original letter?"
"I trust the artist I commissioned to draft the replacement implicitly. He knew enough to destroy it once he was finished with it," Sebastian said. "And wild horses couldn't drag the names of the actual intended victims from me. If we are to play a game of brinksmanship with de Lisle, I don't care to hazard anyone's neck but my own."
"My daughter is still in jeopardy." She sank into a chair. She'd been so careful not to contact her sister in the little neighborhood of Chelsea once she moved them there, so sure Fernand would never be able to trace them. But Lisette was a beautiful child, all golden ringlets and pink cheeks. She was noticed wherever she went. For once, Arabella wished she were a little more unremarkable. Would her loveliness be enough to spark an ounce of paternal mercy in Fernand's cold heart? She doubted it. "How will this help Lisette?"
"You'll demand to see her before you tell Fernand where the envelope is. My operatives will be watching you both, though I warrant you'll never see them. Once Fernand reveals the whereabouts of your daughter, my people will arrange to steal her away. Then we'll bring her here to rejoin your sister and her husband. I've a mind to offer your brother-in-law a post that will keep them here indefinitely. Will that suffice?"
She nodded. Suffice? No words could express how the thought of Lisette growing up in security on this beautiful estate made her feel. Her heart jumped out of rhythm for a moment. The possibility that their plan might work sent life screaming painfully back into her chest. The full weight of her anguish over Lisette's abduction was better than the deadness that had descended on her earlier. Pain proved hope was still alive.
And so was her daughter.
"But once we have Lisette again, why must we still give Fernand the envelope?" she asked. "We know what devilry he's intending. Couldn't he simply be arrested or at least transported back to France?"
"He's attached to the embassy. Diplomatic immunity means he's untouchable unless we catch him in the act. Then in that case, de Lisle will definitely be . . . touchable." Sebastian picked up the letter opener on his desk and tested its sharp edge against the pad of his thumb. "I mean to save the Crown the trouble of either trying or transporting him."
Arabella blinked hard. Sebastian was a duke, a gentleman, yet he had no compunction about eliminating an enemy in the most permanent manner possible. Beneath the superfine jacket and neatly tied neck cloths, were all men truly only a few steps from feral? From the determined set of Sebastian's jaw, she didn't doubt it.
But the difference between Sebastian and Fernand was the underlying motive for their aggression. De Lisle was intent on killing in order to win back his family's lost fortune. Sebastian was trying to defend his country and rescue her daughter. In that light, Arabella thanked God for Sebastian's masculine ferocity.
The aching sweetness that had been growing in her chest for him all week suddenly burst into full bloom and with it came fear.
"Fernand is a trained assassin," she reminded him. "Not an easy man to kill."
"Neither am I." He laid the letter opener down and turned to gaze out the window. "It would be best if you don't have actual possession of this envelope. We need de Lisle to believe it never left London so he won't suspect a switch has been made. Can you think of a hiding place where it's unlikely to be disturbed?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, considering and discarding several spots in her London home. Not in her rooms. Fernand would tear up the floorboards there, if needs be. "In the theatre. Yes, the envelope should be safe enough if I put it in the Scottish play box."
"The what?"
"It's a box that holds all the props used the last time the theatre troop that shares the Olympic with the opera company did Mac---" Arabella stopped herself. Everyone knew the mere mention of Macbeth was enough to bring calamity. "If I put the envelope in the prop box for a certain Shakespearean story about a Scottish murderer, no one will bother it."
"Scottish murderer." Sebastian frowned. "You mean Macbeth?"
"Hush." She put her fingertips to his lips. "Do you want to tempt the devil? Don't say it aloud."
"Why not?"
"It's bad luck."
"I never suspected you for a superstitious person."
"All theatre people are superstitious to some degree. Besides, it's not superstition if you've seen the effects of the curse first hand," she said. "During the last production of . . . the Scottish play, there was a fire backstage on opening night. Midway through the run, a flat came down during the opening act nearly squashing the three witches. And on closing night, the director stumbled off the edge of the stage during his ovation and fulfilled the time-honored theatre saying."
"You mean he literally broke a leg?"
Arabella nodded.
"Then why does the Olympic even keep the box of props?"
"Because throwing it out might be even worse luck." She'd never heard of the Macbeth curse extending beyond the stage, but no one would want to risk it. "If the envelope is hidden in the prop box for the Scottish play, trust me, not a soul will bother it."
"Very well. It will have to do," he said as he tucked the envelope into his waistcoat.
"Wait. Don't you want me to hide it?"
"No, I'll make sure it arrives in London safely and finds its new home. You'll simple tell Fernand where it is. It'll be safer for you and for Lisette that way," Sebastian said. "Part of this scheme is choosing our ground and I think the Olympic will do nicely. Since the opera company season is over, how likely is it that anyone will be at the theatre?"
"The acting troop is on tour. Only our stage manager William will be there. Mention my name and he'll show you the prop box. Will can be trusted. The stage will be dark until fall unless there's a special event---oh!" She worried her bottom lip. "I promised Lady Granger I'd give a recital of German love songs. She said she'd hire the theatre since she wanted to invite more people than she could accommodate in her music room."
The countess had declared it would be one last hurrah before Society abandoned London entirely to the heat of summer and escaped to their country homes till autumn brought them back to town for the 'Little Season.'
"Good. My private box is not inconspicuous. It should prove too tempting for de Lisle to resist." Sebastian picked up one of the folders from the other packet Mr. Harris had delivered and leafed through it. "It says here the Frenchman favors small blades for close work. With my unprotected back to the door and my attention directed to the stage, de Lisle will think it child's play to dispatch me."
"Don't speak so." Arabella closed the distance between them. Sebastian had been distantly formal during the daytime, but she couldn't help wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his chest, no matter who might catch them thus. He smelled of sandalwood and saddle leather. So warm. So alive. "I . . . I can't lose you."
He slipped a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. "This from a woman who wouldn't even agree to a three month contract?" he said with a chuckle.
Fool, she named herself. She sounded needy and pathetic even to her own ears. Their relationship only retained what little balance it had because she held back her heart. If she admitted to the desperate sweetness in her chest, how would she be different from any of his past amours?
"What I meant was I can't bear to be the instrument of your destruction," she said.
"I greatly fear it is too late to worry over that."
He bent and kissed her. Need sizzled between them, a frisson of desire tangled up with danger and deceit. Sebastian was right. She'd doomed him from their first meeting, from the moment she'd mistaken him for the one to whom she was supposed to deliver the cursed envelope.
Mr. Harris's shadow darkened the doorframe and he coughed discreetly. Sebastian pulled away from Arabella and tucked the pages of Fernand's dossier into his pocket for future study.
"Tell Mr. Fletcher to saddle my mount," he said. The runner murmured his obedience and left. Sebastian turned back to Bella. "Convey my regrets to the others. They'll understand my departure if you say urgent business recalls me to London."
"Take me with you." The sooner she met with Fernand, the sooner they'd find Lisette, she told herself. Besides, an irrational part of her heart clamored that if she were with Sebastian, surely nothing bad would happen to him. "I can be ready to go in no time. There's no need for a carriage. I'll ride. My things can be sent on later. I won't slow you down, I promise."
"Bella, no," he said with gentleness. "You must be seen to return to London alone. In fact, after I leave, a histrionic fit denouncing me as a cad would not come amiss."
"But---"
He pressed his fingertips to her lips this time. "Wait until tomorrow to return to London. The world must see that we have parted ways lest de Lisle become suspicious. It's the only reason he'll believe you're willing to betray me."
She hated to admit it, but he was right. "I'll curse you for a perfidious wretch to anyone who'll listen."
"That's my girl." He smiled, brushed a kiss across her forehead and strode for the door. He stopped at the threshold. "Bella, when this is over . . ."
He'd want to take up where they left off. Even without benefit of the contract, she'd be his mistress for the season. Lady Moorcroft's encouragement aside, there could be nothing more for them. Bella only hoped their liaison would last longer than the turning of the autumn leaves.
"When this is over," she said with false brightness, "we'll dine again at the Peacock's Tail. And this time we won't pass up dessert."
His mouth lifted in a half smile and then he was gone. Bella sank into the Tudor chair again, balling a fist against her lips to keep from sobbing aloud. As if a giant cat batted her mouse's heart back and forth, she alternated between fear for Lisette and fear for Sebastian.
Compose yourself, she ordered with sternness. She'd be of no use to anyone if she allowed herself to go to pieces. She had to think. She had to stay sharp.
The lives of the ones she loved might depend upon it.
Love. Yes, she admitted to herself. She loved her daughter. What she felt for Sebastian was hot and desperate, but it was more than simply sexual. It was the mostly deeply troubling emotion she'd ever experienced. It must be love.
She drew a deep breath, swiped her eyes dry and stood, ready to return to the breakfast room to deliver a convincing tale to Sebastian's aunt about the way her nephew had abandoned his latest lover. Lady Moorcroft could be counted upon to shake her head over the duke's inconstancy. She'd spread the story to all who would listen once she returned to London, provided she tippled a few glasses of sherry first.
It would be good practice for trying to convince Fernand that she was more than willing to betray Sebastian. It would require all her stagecraft to pull off. Privately, she gave herself one chance in three of Fernand believing her.
She took a step toward the door when she remembered one of the folders Mr. Harris had brought to Sebastian still rested on his desk. He'd been investigating someone else in addition to Fernand. It would behoove her to be aware of anyone Sebastian mistrusted and steer clear of them as well.
The name at the top of the page forced all the breath from her lungs.
Arabella St. George.
There on the foolscap, all the foibles and missteps of her life were set down baldly---her obscure birth, the discovery of her unique vocal talent as a child, the death of her parents and the maestro who took her under his lecherous wing. She owed her unshakable singing technique to him, but when her body blossomed into the first flush of maturity, he also taught her other things. Things someone who still had a child's heart ought not to have learned until much later.
Then there were the other men who had figured in her life, listed neatly and in order. Men of title and importance were set down next to penniless baritones from the chorus. Their only point of commonality was the brevity of their sojourns at her side.
When she reached the section of the report dealing with her affair with Fernand de Lisle, her hand shook so badly she had difficulty reading the tidy script. Mr. Harris considered Arabella a willing accomplice to de Lisle's activities and recommended she be closely watched or better yet, turned over to the authorities.
How could Sebastian have ordered this witch hunt into her privacy?
She'd told him everything except the sorry bit about the maestro. When her singing master died, she'd come to terms with what had happened and decided it had not been her fault. She'd been more than a child, but not quite a woman. She was not responsible. It was something she reckoned long buried and of no import to anyone but herself.
How had Sebastian's agent even unearthed the sordid mess?
The rest of her life she took full responsibility for. She went into each affair with her eyes wide open and conducted the liaison on her own terms.
Except with Fernand. He definitely had the upper hand now since he had possession of their daughter.
And with Sebastian. Against her better judgment, she'd allowed him to take possession of her heart, even though he obviously didn't trust her.
She closed the folder and put the incriminating dossier in Sebastian's top desk drawer. He'd no doubt paid handsomely for it. He deserved to keep this record of all the squalid little details of her life before he burst into her dressing room wearing his blasted top hat, white carnation and damned red roses.
It occurred to her suddenly that Sebastian hadn't agreed when she suggested they take supper together at the Peacock's Tail once this was over. Her belly lurched uncertainly.
What if this wasn't a sham estrangement? What if, even without benefit of a contract formalizing their affair, Sebastian had just given her his conge in truth? The downward spiral in her gut confirmed this was more than a ruse to fool Fernand. Sebastian didn't want his name linked publicly with hers. The fact that his actions dovetailed with his duty to king and country was probably the only reason he agreed to help her recover Lisette.
This was a real dismissal. A rejection. She felt it in every fiber of her body.
She hadn't even lasted a fortnight with the Ice Duke, let alone a season.
Arabella felt a hard shell forming over her heart once more. She supposed she ought to thank Sebastian. His mistrust would make it far easier for her to convince Fernand she was ready to betray the Duke of Winterhaven.
"Once a gentleman has ended matters with his light-o-love, it is a grave disservice to both parties to continue any sort of congress. It smacks of sentimentality, confuses a man's past paramour and hinders the timely acquisition of a new mistress to replace her."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
As Sebastian had requested, Arabella waited until the next day to bid the rest of His Grace's guests goodbye and return to London. A violent summer storm and impassably muddy roads would have better suited her mood, but instead the weather was despicably fine.
She'd left Sebastian's elegant equipage at the post station nearest to London, electing to return to town in a common coach to prove her affair with the Duke of Winterhaven was over. Besides, the ducal landau was almost too broad for the narrow lane where she lived.
Bella kept a suite of rooms on the upper story of a respectable townhouse in the shadow of a more fashionable neighborhood. In addition to her boudoir, she had a lovely salon that housed her piano where she occasionally entertained small groups of friends---visiting artists and theatre types mostly. Her position with the opera company provided sufficient funds for her live more lavishly, but she'd been supporting Lisette by sending regular amounts to her sister. She also put money by for her daughter to serve as a dowry when she came of age. Arabella wanted Lisette to have choices she'd been denied.
She didn't mind the spartan quarters. She was home so rarely. In another month, the opera company would go on tour. It made no sense to have a fulsome home sitting empty most of the time when a simple utilitarian one would do.
But there was no denying the house looked shabbier than usual after Sebastian's grand country manor. Arabella glanced up and down the block, but saw no one out of the ordinary. If Sebastian's men were watching, there was no sign of them.
Well, he said I wouldn't catch them at it, didn't he? she thought as she entered the green door that needed a fresh coat of paint.
"Oh, Miss St. George." Her landlady called to her as she started up the stairs with her valise in hand. "There's a gentleman caller waiting for you in your salon. He didn't give me his name, but he said it would be quite agreeable with you if I let him in. He was such a forceful, lordly sort of fellow, I couldn't say no. Did I do right?"
Her traitorous heart did a little jig. Forceful and lordly. Sebastian was there. Who else would know she was coming home today? Maybe he couldn't live with the idea that they were finished and had come to amend their plans.
"Yes, Mrs. Burnham," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "You acted correctly."
Arabella fought the urge to lift her skirt and run the rest of the way to her upper floor. When she pushed open her door, she found all the drawers in her bureau pulled out and the contents upended in the middle of the room. Sheet music was scattered across the floor. The bust of Mozart that had lived on her piano was lying on its side with its marble nose broken clean off.
Fernand de Lisle was lounging before her small, cold fireplace, one booted leg draped over the arm of her chintz-covered wing chair. He leisurely ripped pages from a libretto of the Marriage of Figaro.
"Bon jour, chérie," he said without a glance in her direction. "Do you like what I have done with the place?"
Arabella set down her valise and advanced to the center of the room. The door to her bed chamber was ajar. Fernand had pulled her mattress from the frame for a thorough search. White feathers piled at the end of the bed like a downy snow bank. The Aubusson carpet was rolled to one side.
"At least you haven't ripped up the floors," she said, trying to project a calm exterior despite the fact that her insides were leaping about like tree frogs.
"Not yet." He punctuated his words by quickly tearing out another page.
"There's no need to destroy my things."
He bared his teeth in a feral smile. "My poor Arabella. No chance of replacing them with new ones, eh? I saw from the window that His Grace did not return you to London in style. You kept that man for even less time than usual. Or perhaps, he was the one who would not do the keeping."
"My personal life is none of your affair," she said tight-lipped, irritated that Fernand read the situation as accurately as she could sight-read a cadenza. "I have what you want."
"Ah, and I think I have what you want as well, non?"
"Yes." Arabella forced herself to sit in the chair opposite him. "It has come to my attention that you have taken a closer interest in your daughter."
"You give me too much credit. My feelings toward the child are far less patriarchal than you suppose." He dropped the tattered remains of the libretto and leaned toward her. "However if you give me the envelope, she will be returned unharmed."
"I have only your word that she is unharmed now," Arabella said, her spine like steel. When she was onstage, she sometimes erected a barrier in her mind between herself and the character she portrayed. It was for her own protection. The mind could not tell the difference between real and pretend and if she must die nightly, a little distance between her real self and her character was essential. She erected the same barrier now. If she let herself actually experience the fact that her daughter was in danger, she didn't think she could do what she must in order to free her. "I demand to see Lisette before I give you the envelope."
"Do you have it with you?" Fernand asked in the same beguiling tone the Serpent must have used when he told Eve she would not surely die. "Bear in mind I would not find searching you distasteful in the least. I can be most thorough."
"Give me credit for knowing that much about you, Fernand. You may believe me when I tell you I do not have it in my possession, but I know where it is. Now, where is Lisette?"
Fernand narrowed his eyes at her, clearly weighing her for veracity. "Tres bien, we shall grant your request. For sake of the old times, non?" He offered her his arm. "Come, chérie."
She swallowed back her rising bile and laid a hand on his forearm.
Fernand escorted her out of the house and down the block to a busier street where he hailed a hansom. Bella resisted the urge to look for Sebastian's men. If they were actually shadowing her, their task would be complicated by the cab ride. Her only consolation was that the London streets were clogged with market traffic and the going was slow.
She was surprised when Fernand signaled a halt before an old church and led her to the heavy oak door.
"Careful," she said as they entered the cool, silent nave. "The Prince of Darkness ought to feel wary when treading alongside the angels."
Fernand chuckled. "Have you not read that when the sons of God gathered in heaven, Lucifer was not shut out? He was allowed before the throne itself to accuse Job and no lightning bolts descended upon him. But you are right. I have no use for the church. However, today it will allow you to see that your Lisette, she is fine." He led her to the winding stairs leading up to the bell tower. "For now."
As they climbed, the stairs narrowed till Fernand's shoulders brushed both sides of the ancient stone. Bella strained her ears, hoping to hear Lisette's small voice above her, but only the whispered sibilance of air currents whooshing through the tower brushed by her.
When they emerged beneath the broad single bell in the tower, Bella discovered no one else there. "You promised to take me to see Lisette."
"And so I shall," Fernand said. "Never let it be said a Frenchman's word is not honored."
He pulled a small spyglass from his pocket and positioned himself to view through the wooden slats that protected the verdigris-covered bell from the worst predations of weather. "And there is your little cherub now. Come. See."
Arabella took the spyglass from him and trained it in the same direction. "I don't . . . oh."
Lisette was in a small garden behind a rickety tenement, chasing a puppy around the clumps of plantings as fast as her childish legs would carry her. An elderly woman watched from the back stoop and a lean, much younger man stood sentinel at the garden gate.
"I don't understand. You said you would take me to her."
"Non, I said you would see her. I did not promise she would see you. As you can tell, she is unharmed." Fernand leaned on the large bell and forced the clapper to strike the side with a long ringing tone. "Whether that happy state continues, it is entirely in your lovely hands."
While Arabella watched, the old woman's gaze jerked toward the bell tower. She scooped up Lisette and took her inside. The young man followed them back into the house.
"They will remove to a different location now," Fernand said. "On the off chance that you are foolish enough to believe someone might be able to snatch her from me."
Bella balled her fingers into fists at her side. If Sebastian's people were watching, they'd have no way to see where Lisette was and no hope of retrieving her. In this chess game of wits, Fernand was at least two moves ahead.
"Now, before my patience is exhausted, where is the envelope?"
Their opening gambit had failed. She had no choice but to make the next move. "It's hidden at the Olympic." She hoped to heaven Sebastian had found time to stash its replacement there.
"This I will not believe. Your dressing room I have already searched."
"It's not in my dressing room, but trust me, it's in a very safe place."
"If the envelope is in the theatre, why did you not give it to me the night I first demanded it?"
It was time to brazen out the play. Bella leaned toward him and patted his cheek. "Because, Fernand, you are only a French viscount of no fortune. I had a duke's coach and pair waiting for me at the stage door. There was simply no time for you and your dodgy games. Besides, I knew the envelope would still be where I left it once I returned to town."
He clamped her wrist in a painful grip. "You had better be telling me the truth."
She lifted her chin, unwilling to let him see he was hurting her. "You have my daughter. I have no reason to lie. There is a way for both of us to get what we want here. Give Lisette back to me and we'll go to the theatre to retrieve your envelope."
He released her wrist and motioned for her to descend the bell tower stairs. "First, we will visit the Olympic."
\*
Sebastian watched from his perch on the back of a hansom as Bella and the Frenchman emerged from the old church and re-entered their cab. It was Sebastian's idea to switch jackets and hats with Mr. Harris and hide in plain sight while the Bow Street Runner was disguised as his fare. No one ever marked a hack driver, and no one would expect to find the 8th Duke of Winterhaven in the gig's high seat. He rapped twice on the cover of the coach. Mr. Harris climbed out and went through the motions of paying for his ride.
"The child's not in the church or Miss St. George wouldn't have left without her," Sebastian said, one eye trained on the retreating cab Arabella and de Lisle entered. "She must be someplace near though. Have your men do a thorough search of the surrounding blocks. Find her, Harris. Everything depends upon it."
Then Sebastian flicked the ribbons over the back of the pie-bald cob and set off at a trot after Arabella. He was careful to hang back so as not to be noticed. When it became clear the Olympic was their destination, he pulled into a side alley, tied the horse to a lamp post and walked the rest of the way.
Much as he chafed to bring the confrontation with de Lisle to a head, he couldn't follow them into the theatre. It would endanger Arabella now. He had to let the Frenchman make the first move. Only once de Lisle made an attempt on his life would Sebastian be free to act.
He wondered if things would have been different if he'd behaved in a more gentlemanly manner toward Arabella that first night. If he hadn't assumed she'd become his mistress, hadn't acted as if their relationship was a fait accompli, would she have mistaken him for the sort of man to whom she was supposed to give the traitorous envelope?
Like everything else in his life, he expected her to fall neatly into his plans, never considering that her life might have its own twists and wrinkles that needed straightening.
He'd been a selfish bastard.
He checked the time on his pocket watch. Only five minutes had passed, but it seemed like an eternity since she disappeared through the theatre's side door. He really ought to have left this watchful waiting to his subordinates, but he couldn't bear to cool his heels in his townhouse, all the while tormenting himself with the thought of her forced to bear the company of a man who'd brought her such grief.
In truth, Sebastian couldn't bear not seeing her. It had been agony to leave her yesterday. Worse, not to be able to join her last night. He'd tossed on his empty bed for hours before he was finally able to shake the scent of her skin from his memory long enough to fall into a fitful sleep.
He hated that she had to accomplish this much of the plan on her own, but as soon as she emerged from the theatre, her part in this adventure would be finished. It had to be. He couldn't stomach placing her in proximity to de Lisle another moment longer than necessary. The lump in his chest, which he still resisted naming, hardened into a firm resolve. Whatever had to be done, Sebastian was prepared to do.
Arabella St. George would never suffer from the likes of Fernand de Lisle again.
"Every mistress is deserving of a final gift from her protector and none is so fitting as a dignified departure."
~ A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress
It took Arabella the rest of the day to set her rooms to rights again. The work helped her shake off the sense of violation over having her things destroyed. There was no help for her mattress, however, and she sent the boy who turned the spit in her landlady's kitchen to order a new one to be delivered.
Reordering the sheaves of the Marriage of Figaro libretto and reassembling her scattered music occupied her mind as well as her hands since the pages weren't numbered. She had to rely on her memory of the music and text to bind it all back into usable order.
It helped her shove aside the more troubling aspects of the day. Like seeing that strange old woman snatch up her daughter and spirit her out of sight. Lisette was too far away for Arabella to hear her, but she'd struggled against her captor and her little arms had stretch toward the puppy. Bella imagined her unhappy wails though and they strafed her heart.
As if her heart wasn't already bruised enough.
She'd seen no sign of Sebastian's men shadowing Fernand and her, though that didn't mean they hadn't been there. She expected the duke was firmly ensconced in his fashionable London townhouse, directing his forces like a general.
Or a puppet master.
She'd heard most peers found their lives so unspeakably dull, drinking, gambling and whoring were the only things that relieved the tedium of too much wealth and unlimited free time in which to spend it. Sebastian obviously sought to enliven his nights with his seasonal mistresses. He must have found it a stroke of luck that Arabella brought complications enough to occupy his days as well.
She was an entertainment. He'd made no bones about the fact from the very beginning. Despite their whispered confidences and pillow talk later, it was her own fault she had envisioned anything more.
Sebastian's dossier on her ended that fantasy. She was an underling to be investigated and used, if deemed fit. Nothing more.
Still, she'd found it hard to give Fernand all he demanded. After he tore open the note and read the contents, she hoped he'd take her to Lisette. Instead he demanded to know all she could tell him about the Duke of Winterhaven.
"Since His Grace has tossed you aside like a used handkerchief, it can cause you no grief to share what you know with the man who holds your daughter's life in his hand," Fernand said before he extracted every scrap of intelligence from her.
Once she told him Sebastian was on the guest list for the recital she was scheduled to sing for Lady Granger, he stopped badgering her.
"Even though the duke does not deserve your loyalty, no man can fathom the workings of a woman's mind," Fernand said. "You may be tempted to warn him."
"Trust me, I will not," she said, determined to stick to the story that she had separated from the duke under less than friendly circumstances. "If the man were ablaze, I would not spit upon him to put the fire out."
Fernand had laughed. "Truly, hell hath no fury, eh? Then I shall have to make sure I too do not find myself combustible in your presence, non?" Then all traces of mirth left his hard, handsome face. "And I shall keep the child until this is over, just to make sure you do not feel the need to . . . spit upon His Grace."
So Lisette was still a pawn in Fernand's game.
And Sebastian was in more danger than he realized. He expected Fernand to strike at the theatre and had ordered the rest of his life to make that option the most appealing for a potential assassin, but who could guess what Fernand might really do?
As night fell, Arabella sank into a chair since she had no bed at present, exhausted in spirit as well as in body. Cheek in hand, she skimmed the surface of sleep, skipping like a flat pebble over the sleek, dark surface but not actually sinking into it.
The sound of booted feet on the back stairs roused her to full wakefulness. Without a knock, her door swung open.
A man in a dark coat filled the opening.
"A light, Bella, and quickly," he said.
She recognized the half-whispered voice as Sebastian's and leaped up to light a taper. He was dressed like a dustman with a disreputable hat pulled down obscuring his face. He bore something wrapped in a blanket in his arms.
"Auntie Bella?" a small voice said.
"Oh, God." She nearly dropped the candle in her haste to set it back on the mantel. "Lisette."
She skittered across the room, her arms hungry to relieve Sebastian of his small burden. She clutched the child to her chest, tears of relief streaming unheeded down her cheeks.
"Are you all right, ma petite?" Arabella covered Lisette's face with kisses. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"They took my puppy." The girl's chin trembled and she squirmed in Bella's arms, probably because she was being held too tightly.
Arabella didn't care. She didn't think she could ever let her go again. Sebastian had to ease Lisette away from her and set the child on her own two feet.
"Don't fret about the puppy, sweeting," he said, squatting down to speak to Lisette at her eye level. "Once I take you back to your mother and father, I'll see that you have a pony instead."
The girl squealed with delight and draped her arms around Sebastian's neck in a quick hug.
Her mother and father. Of course, Arabella thought woodenly. Everything would have to return to the way it was. Lisette would go back to her sister and brother-in-law for her own good. Even though her heart ached to keep her child, she would always be simply 'Auntie Bella.'
"That's right," she said, fighting the tightness in her throat. "Your mama and papa have moved to a place in the country. You'll love your new home."
Lisette dimpled up at her and then was distracted by something on the floor beside the piano. She scampered away to investigate. "It's a nose!"
"Yes, Herr Mozart had an accident today." Arabella picked the damaged bust from the top of her piano and set it down on the floor. "Why don't you see if you can make his nose fit again?"
Once Lisette was happily engaged with trying to reattach Mozart's nose, Sebastian stood and took Arabella's hands.
"They're like ice," he said, bringing them to his mouth and exhaling his warm breath on her knuckles. "Are you all right?"
"I am now." She longed to take this man and her little girl and run as far away from London as she could, but the world would never allow such a thing. It should be enough that Lisette was safe.
And that Sebastian simply was.
He bent down to rest his forehead against hers, a surprisingly tender gesture. She burned to kiss him and felt him struggle with the same need, but since Lisette was only steps away, all Arabella could do was sizzle inside. Whatever else her complicated relationship with Sebastian was, it clearly was not over.
"Thank you," she whispered.
His dark gaze seemed to reach inside her and seek out the last wrinkle of her soul. "I didn't do it for your gratitude."
That's right. This was never about Fernand's schemes or Sebastian's contract or how he might use his station to help her and her child. Their bond, their joining, their whatever-it-was, was only about itself. "Then why?"
His face was so close she could have counted his dark lashes. There was a tenderness she'd never seen before in his eyes, a yearning. "Because Bella, I lo---"
"Herr Mozart doesn't want his nose," Lisette interrupted. "He won't keep it on."
The spell was broken and Sebastian released Arabella's hands. "I need to take her to the country this night," he said softly.
Bella nodded, though it lanced her heart to part with Lisette again so quickly. "The sooner she's out of London altogether, the safer she'll be."
"And de Lisle will have one less chip in the game," Sebastian said.
"He knows you have been invited to the recital."
"Good. I'll remain in the country for a week. It should be difficult for him to approach me there surrounded by my own people. Then I'll return in time to hear my favorite soprano sing." He leaned forward as if he would kiss her even with Lisette close by but stopped himself. "I've made lots of missteps with you, Bella."
She stifled a smirk. It was so unlike someone of Sebastian's station to admit to a mistake, she couldn't wait to hear what he considered a misstep. "How so?"
"The first time we met, for example, I kissed you without permission."
"As I recall, I didn't complain." She remembered it vividly. A perfectly seductive, practiced kiss. A kiss that promised pleasure. "I don't expect a duke asks permission for anything very often."
"I'm asking now."
Her breath caught in her throat. With that request, he'd leveled the field between them. They were no longer a duke and an opera singer. They were simply a man and a woman.
"Then I'm saying yes."
Very slowly, Sebastian leaned in and kissed her cheek, as soft and sweet and honest a kiss as she could imagine. He bared his soul to her in that giving kiss. It touched her heart and set her spirit alight.
Then he straightened to his full height. "Come, poppet," he said to Lisette. "We have a long carriage ride before us and your mother and father are waiting."
Lisette gave Arabella a quick hug around her knees and ran to his arms. He wrapped her in the blanket again and was gone before Bella could beg for one more kiss from her daughter.
Or him.
"God help me." She leaned her forehead against the closed door, listening to his footsteps, the measured smack of leather on wood like a fading dirge as he disappeared down the back stairs. "I love you, Your Grace."
Mr. Cobb,
Kindly locate the book titled A Gentleman's Guide to Keeping a Mistress by Lord Funderburk. It should be shelved in my library's reference section. Once you have found it, toss it in the nearest fireplace and set the damned thing ablaze.
Winterhaven
Arabella ran through a few dozen scales to warm up as she applied her stage makeup. Usually the backstage of the Olympic was a cacophony of singers and instruments tuning up their respective pipes, but on this night, only echoes of her own tones bounced back from the high ceilings.
Blast. Her vibrato was usually tight as a lark's. Now her tone had a wobble wide enough to drive a coach and pair through. She forced herself to focus on her technique, to control her breathing. Somehow, she had to pretend this was just another performance.
"Five minutes to curtain," the stage manager said through her closed dressing room door.
"William, come in, please," she called.
He poked his homely, good-natured face around the door. "Yes, Bella?"
"Do you remember the fellow who came here with me about a week ago?"
"The one who wanted to see the Scottish play box?"
"Yes, that's him. Have you seen him since?"
"No. Should I have?"
"You've taken a stroll through the house this evening, haven't you?" Bella tried to keep her tone casual. While performers weren't allowed to mingle with patrons before the footlights went up, the stage manager often made the rounds on the other side of the curtain to make sure the theatre-goers were happy. "I was thinking that gentleman might come tonight."
"No, can't say as I've seen him. He was a pretty remarkable fellow what with that pale hair and all. Handsome bloke. Think I'd have remembered him if I'd seen him again. Sorry, Bella. But cheer up. The house is packed."
As if to support William's words, the indistinct murmur of myriad conversations rose to a vibrant hum.
"Time to dim the house lights," Will said as he checked his pocket watch. "Your accompanist is already in the wings. In bocca al lupo, Bella."
In the mouth of the wolf. Theatre people told each other to 'break a leg.' Opera types wished each other well by reminding themselves they were about to face 'the mouth of the wolf'---the audience, the critics, the thousands of things that could go horribly wrong in a complicated performance.
But Bella wasn't the one facing the wolf this night. Once the gas footlights were glaring in her eyes, she wouldn't be able to see Sebastian alone amid the sumptuous appointments of his private box, but she knew he'd be there. It was the Duke of Winterhaven, resplendent in the full glory of his station, who would meet a French wolf once the houselights dimmed.
\*
Fernand tugged the turned-back cuffs at his wrists as he strode with purpose along the rear corridor of the theatre. The fit of the powder-blue livery that marked him as one of Lord Granger's footmen was adequate, he supposed. Disguising himself as a servant was brilliance itself, for no one ever looked closely at fellows in the frockcoats and breeches of the last century. He'd walked, bold as brass, past the stage manager without drawing so much as a second glance.
He was less pleased by the horsehair wig. It itched abominably. Fernand only hoped the fellow from whom he'd liberated the costume didn't have head lice.
If he did, the little beasties will trouble him no more, Fernand thought darkly. The real footman had been ridiculously easy to dispatch. The entire garroting had taken less than a minute and had been good practice for Fernand's real target this evening. He'd never used a garotte before and was pleased with the result. The footman hadn't managed a sound and there was no blood to speak of.
It was unlikely anyone would find the corpse until long after the recital was over. Especially since the hue and cry over discovering the cooling body of a duke in his private box would naturally overshadow the death of an insignificant footman.
He drew near the curtained doorway where a servant in the scarlet of Winterhaven's livery stood sentinel.
"My lord craves a word in your ear," Fernand said. He'd practiced for days till he could ape the English accent, shoving his voice back in his throat instead of letting the tone ring in his nasal cavities. Arabella had taught him that years ago, patiently showing him how to disguise his nationality. At the time, he'd let her believe he wanted to be accepted when he came with her to England.
Foolish girl.
"I don't serve Lord Granger," the Winterhaven footman said. "Why would I bear a message for him?"
"You won't serve His Grace much longer either if you ignore this summons," Fernand said loftily. "My lord has a message for the duke that will only bear so much repeating. He knows you have your master's ear. The fewer tongues that relay the information, milord says, the less likely it will be misunderstood."
"But I can't leave my post."
"I will stay in your place, if you like," Fernand offered. "But if his lordship gives you a guinea, I expect half."
"You think he will?"
"My Lord Granger has been known to be quite generous to those who please him," Fernand said.
A round of applause and shouted "Brava's" echoed from inside the hall.
The diva has made her entrance.
The first percussive chords of the piano introduction signaled that Arabella's recital had begun. Fernand recognized the beginning a song cycle of several German lieder. Since each individual song was considered part of a larger composition, there would be no more applause again until she reached the final note in the set.
Plenty of time.
"I trust you know where Lord Granger's box is located," Fernand said. The other footman rolled his eyes. Of course he did. "Oh! Do not intrude while the music is ongoing. Lord Granger would be most displeased. Wait for the applause."
The Winterhaven footman gave Fernand a withering glance. "And see to it that no one disturbs His Grace, even during the applause."
"I assure you," Fernand said smoothly as the other footman headed down the long curved corridor. He drew the piano wire garotte from its place of concealment in his capacious cuff. "No one shall get past me."
Sebastian leaned forward to watch Arabella. Statuesque and regal, she was every inch a duchess.
At least in a perfect world, she would be.
Her voice rang through the hall, expressive and voluptuous. He warranted most of the attendees would never know she had anything on her mind but her art. However, each time she swept her gaze in the direction of his box, the footlights caught a glint of terror in her eyes.
He was determined never to see that glitter of fear again. After this night, he hoped she'd have no cause for it.
Sebastian leaned back in the tufted velvet and crossed his long legs. He might project an image of repose, but every muscle in his body was tense. His ears pricked to any stealthy noise, waiting for de Lisle to show himself.
Sebastian had always been athletic. He rode like a demon and trained regularly with a fencing master. His skill with a pistol gave his enemies second thoughts about issuing a challenge for a 'polite exchange of bullets.'
But he'd never killed anyone.
He thought he heard the faint rustle of velvet behind him that might be a curtain parting. He drew his boot knife surreptitiously, careful to keep the blade close to his thigh and uncrossed his legs, but didn't turn around. Surprise was his friend. He would lure de Lisle close before he made his move.
Then the piano stopped. Arabella had missed an entrance and blanched pale as foolscap. She shrieked, a blood-curdling cry of such force and magnitude as only an operatic soprano could produce.
Sebastian leaped to his feet, but not quickly enough to escape the thin wire slipping over his head and choking off his wind.
\*
Beyond the footlights, the dark hall was a void. She knew the audience was there. She could feel them breathing with her during the long phrases.
Then Arabella had missed her entrance when she saw one of the few things she could make out from the stage---a flicker of light from the ducal box that meant the curtain over the door had parted. Someone had joined Sebastian there in the dark.
She reached for the highest pitch in her range and screamed, long and primal, with the full force of her lungs behind it to warn Sebastian. When she went silent, grunts and curses and the noise of a scuffle turned every eye in the theatre to His Grace's box.
Arabella ran to the edge of the stage, but the gas footlights were too bright for her see past. A masculine cry of pain rang through the hall and the audience gasped as a body tumbled out of the box and landed in the aisle a few rows back from the orchestra pit.
"William, bring up the house lights," Arabella shouted as she ran to the wings and sprinted down the stairs leading from either end of the proscenium. Her heart nearly choking her, she shoved her way through the throng to reach the broken man on the floor.
He was wearing Lord Granger's livery, but she recognized Fernand's pale eyes staring sightlessly under the white wig. The hilt of a dagger protruded from his chest. A debutante in a salmon pink gown swooned, but relief washed over Bella in waves.
She jerked her gaze up to the duke's box. There were several men jammed into the space, all with their backs to the main hall, but she couldn't see Sebastian. The crowd around her began to surge toward the exits and Arabella was lifted off her feet, swept along like flotsam on a river in full spate.
People shouted and shoved and more than one elbow connected with her ribs. Before she knew it, she was outside the theatre.
"Make way," Lord Granger bellowed and four men pushed past, bearing the body of a fifth between them. Arabella was too far away to catch a glimpse, but they bundled the man into Sebastian's elegant coach. Lady Moorcroft and Lady Hermione were handed in after him, their faces taut with concern. The driver snapped the ribbons over the backs of the matched bays and the brougham rattled away over the cobbles, dragging Bella's heart behind it.
The long row of private carriages before the theatre meant Arabella had to make her way against the throng to a side street where a string of hackneys waited for fares. She gave the driver orders to take her to the duke's townhouse, offering him one of her earrings as payment since she had no money with her, if he would only hurry.
Once she reached Sebastian's townhouse, she was met at the door by the butler. She had no right to demand to be taken to His Grace, so she asked for his aunt, Lady Moorcroft. Instead she was ushered into the parlor where Lady Hermione received her.
"Oh, Miss St. George, you are kindness itself to come at this dark hour." Sebastian's sister greeted her with outstretched hands and led her to the sofa. Hermione plopped down, her angelic looks marred by weepy eyes and a reddened nose.
"What news of His Grace?"
"I know nothing. He was insensate during the ride home and the doctor hasn't allowed me into his chamber since. He was so pale." Her chin wobbled. "Isn't it awful? Do you think Sebastian knew something like this was going to happen?"
"Why do you think he might have?"
"Well, he wouldn't let me sit in his box with him. He insisted we join Lord Granger's party instead," she said. "And to be honest, I thought it was because . . . well, I thought he was ashamed to be seen in public with me."
"I'm sure that's not true."
Despite her tears, she dimpled in a small smile. "My aunt has told you all, I understand."
"Enough to know that His Grace cares about you, obviously enough to protect you," Arabella assured her. "The duke has never spoken of you as his half-sister to me. Only as his sister."
Hermione erupted in fresh tears at this as the butler entered the room.
"His Grace is asking for you, Miss St. George," the man said. "Then he wishes to see Lady Hermione."
Relief flooded through Arabella as she squeezed Hermione's hand and followed the butler out of the parlor and up the long stairs to the ducal suite of rooms.
Sebastian was sitting up in his bed, pillows propped around him. As Hermione had said, his color was poor, but his eyes focused on Arabella with a reassuring sizzle.
"Out," he said, his voice a rasping shadow of its former booming timbre. Bella didn't care. He was alive. That was all that mattered. "Everyone but Miss St. George."
After the door latch clicked behind the doctor, Lord Granger, and the rest of the people who'd crowded the space, Arabella didn't wait for an invitation. She ran to the bed and climbed in beside him. Sebastian kissed her, on the mouth this time, a blessed rain after her heart's long drought.
"Oh, Sebastian." Bella pressed a string of feather-light kisses on the angry red ligature mark on his neck. "I love you so. If you still want me to sign your contract, I will."
"Actually," he said, "I've changed my thoughts about that. I have in mind a contract of a different sort. Marry me, Bella."
The dizzying leap from commoner to duchess stole her breath, but the chasm from lover to wife seemed even farther. "The world will not understand. Are you sure?"
"The world can go chase itself. I didn't give a damn what Society thought when I took four mistresses a year. I care even less what it thinks of my choice for a wife." His fingertips traced the curve of her cheekbone. "Oh, Bella, I thought I had things figured out. My life was laid out in neat quarters, the whole lot ordered just so. But then you came along and upended everything."
"Sound as if I'm not very good for you, then." She kissed him, suckling his lower lip for a moment. "I've stolen your former life from you, Sebastian. Do you wish me to say I'm sorry?"
"Say whatever you like. Just don't try to give my old life back to me. I love you." He tugged her close and she felt his heart beating against her chest. "And I won't be content until you're mine."
Tears of joy pressed against her eyes and threatened to spill over her lids. "Then my answer is yes. I am yours and you are mine, today, tomorrow . . . and for all seasons."
Award-winning author Mia Marlowe learned much of what she knows about writing from singing. A classically trained soprano, she gleaned the elements of storytelling while performing operatic roles. She describes her stories as a cross between Grand Opera and Gilbert & Sullivan . . . with sex!
Mia's work was featured in PEOPLE magazine and one of her books is on display at the Museum of London Docklands. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Italian, Japanese, Polish, Russian and Spanish. She regularly receives fan mail from around the globe and loves to hear from readers. Connect with her via www.Twitter.com/mia\_marlowe and www.Facebook.com/MiaMarloweFanPage or drop by www.miamarlowe.com and leave a comment on her very active blog. Mia Marlowe and her husband have lived in nine different states, but she now makes her home in the heart of New England.

Mia hopes you enjoyed A Duke for all Seasons and will look for her other titles. Happy Reading!


Also by Mia Marlowe:


Touch of a Thief


Improper Gentlemen


A Duke for All Seasons


Distracting the Duchess


Vintage Reads written as Emily Bryan:


Stroke of Genius


Vexing the Viscount


Pleasuring the Pirate


Coming soon from Mia Marlowe:


My Lady Below Stairs (November 2011)


Sins of the Highlander (January 2012)


Touch of a Rogue (March 2012)


Touch of a Scoundrel (July 2012)


Lord of Fire and Ice (August 2012)


Visit http://www.miamarlowe.com for Mia's latest news!

Try a taste of...
By Mia Marlowe
Chapter 1
November, 1856
Amjerat, a principality of India
On any given day, someone writhed in exquisite pleasure at the home of the most sought-after courtesan in Amjerat. Unfortunately for Captain Greydon Quinn, on this day it wasn't him.
"Very good, Quinn-sahib," Padmaa cooed as he lowered his mouth to her neck. She smelled of jasmine and musk and warm, roused woman. "You are fast becoming a master of the teachings of Vatsyayana."
He was fast becoming too much for his trousers, but this exercise was about giving bliss to the woman, so only Padmaa was gloriously naked. When Quinn set himself to learn the ancient pleasuring techniques from an obscure Sanskrit text called Kama Sutra, he realized there would be times during his sensual odyssey when sacrifice was required.
This was one of those times.
His groin ached in unrelenting need, but he concentrated on Padmaa's hitched breathing, on every shivering muscle beneath her golden brown skin.
"You are the best student I have ever taught," she said, her tone breathless. She took one of his hands and guided it over her belly to the soft, sweet delights between her legs.
By some oriental magic, Padmaa always removed all the small hairs on her body, even the ones covering her sex. Quinn found her smooth pudenda exotically erotic.
"Many of your countrymen come to me for training in the sensual arts, but so few complete the lessons." She made a soft purring sound and tilted her pelvis into his questing fingers. "Why do you think that is so?"
The way his body throbbed for release, Quinn was having difficulty thinking much of anything.
"Attend, Quinn-sahib," she said, when his fingertip slipped away from the spot Padmaa called her 'little pearl.' "You can do two things at once."
He drew a deep cleansing breath and resumed his intimate caress. Padmaa gave a soft moan of approval.
"I think it's a matter of time that keeps them from completing the training," he said through clenched teeth as he struggled with control. Her skin flushed hotly, sending a message of desire straight to his groin. It was all he could do not to yank down his trousers and bury himself in her soft wetness.
"Do we not all have the same length days, the same . . . heartbeats while we . . . live?"
Quinn was encouraged that Padmaa, an expert in the sensual arts, seemed to struggle with control as well.
"Yes, but we Englishmen divide our days up into nice, practical little hours and minutes." When Quinn first arrived in India, he'd railed at the Asiatic disregard for punctuality. Since then he'd realized there were times when the eternal 'now' could not be regimented into a western schedule.
"No, I think it is because most Englishmen seek only their own satisfaction, not ways to please . . . their . . . women . . . oh!" Her dark eyes rolled back into her head and her body stiffened in preparation for release.
As she came in shimmering waves, Quinn glowed with reflected pleasure. It made a man achingly alive to bring a woman to such a peak.
And he was sure she'd demonstrate her gratitude by returning the favor just as soon as she stopped convulsing.
There was a soft rap on the door. Quinn cursed under his breath. Padmaa rose shakily from their bed of cushions and wrapped a length of silk around her body. "Come."
"That was my plan," Quinn muttered. Pleasing a woman was all well and good, but a man had needs too.
It was Sanjay at the door, so Quinn rose to his feet.
"A thousand pardons, my friend." No one would suspect the man in threadbare leggings and tunic was the Crown Prince of Amjerat, but Quinn had accompanied Sanjay on several incognito adventures whenever his friend evaded his guards and slipped out of the palace. This was the first time Sanjay had interrupted Quinn's visit to Padmaa. "There is trouble at the temple."
"What kind of trouble?"
"A Thugee band entered the outer court," Sanjay said. "Already they have killed one of the priests."
Not all devotees of the destroyer goddess Kali practiced ritual murder, but Quinn had heard a group of Thugee were traveling south on the Grand Trunk Road, leaving offerings to their goddess all along the way. Quinn usually practiced tolerance when it came to the beliefs of others, but garroted corpses left a particularly unsavory trail of breadcrumbs. Each kill was considered an act of pujah, a veneration of Kali.
The British had attempted to quash the cult, but obviously some persisted. Now that this new band had reached Amjerat, Quinn could act against them.
He kissed Padmaa's cheek. "My apologies. I must go."
"Then your training is complete." Her musical voice was tinged with regret. "To give bliss without thought of receiving is the goal of the enlightened soul."
"I'm not all that enlightened." Quinn growled in frustration as he shoved his Beaumont-Adams revolver into his belt. "Believe me, I bloody well thought about it."
\*
At a brisk trot, Quinn followed the prince into the sultry night and down a narrow alley toward the imposing temple in the center of Amjerat's capital. They approached the temple's side door in case the Thugs had posted a guard out front.
"What do they want in the temple?" Quinn whispered as he and Sanjay drew near. Most victims of thuggery were caught stumbling home from the local opium den, too wrapped in their lotus-eating haze to put up much of a fight.
"I fear it is Baaghh kaa kkhuun."
"Blood of the Tiger?" Quinn translated for himself as he ran toward the small side door.
Sanjay followed. "Oah, yes. It is the red diamond that makes up the eye in our Shiva. It is said to contain immense power. In the wrong hands, the energy of Baaghh kaa kkhuun turns to evil."
"Then let's make sure it stays in the right hands, shall we?" Quinn drew his revolver, wishing he'd reloaded after target practice that afternoon. He'd been in too much of a hurry to get to Padmaa. Now he only had four shots instead of twelve.
Quinn kicked open the door and bellowed at the gang to stop. When one was outnumbered, a bit of bravado rarely went amiss.
This time, it only served to put the gang on alert. The Thug perched on two of the four arms of the massive statue at the far end of the temple tossed them a glance and continued prying out the eye of the god with a wicked-looking dagger.
Quinn raised his pistol and dropped four Thugs as they ran toward him and the prince, their long, curved swords glittering. He considered trying for the one clinging to Shiva, but the other four were closer. Besides, Prince Sanjay would take it badly if Quinn accidently put a bullet through his god.
As it was, he and the prince had to stand back to back, slicing away with their swords to fight off the rest of the masked gang. Blades arcing, Quinn and Sanjay turned in concert, a stylized dance of death. None who came within their reach escaped without at least one cut.
It never failed to astound Quinn how battle heightened a man's senses. He noted a hairy mole dividing the eyebrow of one of his attackers. The pungent smell of fenugreek and curry emanating from their flowing robes. The strident scream when Quinn's blade opened a vein and a fountain of red spurted into the air.
Quinn counted ten of them. He and his friend were both expert swordsmen, but all it would take was one lucky thrust from their attackers. If either of them went down, they were both dead.
Then the thugee defacing the god screeched out a high ululation. At the sound, the remaining band turned and ran after the man who had the red diamond clutched in a square of black silk.
Quinn and Sanjay gave chase, but soon lost them in the tangled rabbit warrens of the bazaar. Baaghh kaa kkhuun disappeared like a gob of spit into the Ganges. The red diamond left no trace as it descended into the rotting heart of Amjerat's underworld.
March 1857
London
This is positively, absolutely the last time, Lady Viola Preston promised herself as she squeezed through the ground floor window of the posh London townhome.
Viola had contemplated Lady Henson's new emerald necklace over the soup course at Lieutenant Quinn's dinner party last night, but then the lieutenant let slip that he'd brought back a couple handfuls of uncut stones from India. A newly returned nabob shouldn't flaunt the details of his wealth if he didn't wish to be relieved of it.
Viola's fence would have to chop up Lady Henson's necklace and even then, the gems were large and of uniquely deep color. They might be recognized. But uncut stones---and one of them big as a peach pit, if the lieutenant were to be believed---were nigh untraceable. Viola would get full value for them.
And then she'd stop.
Only once more, Viola vowed silently. Though, like the Shakespearean heroine for whom she was named, she'd miss wearing men's trousers from time to time. They were ever so much more comfortable than a corset and hoops.
From somewhere deep in the elegant row house came a low creak. Viola held her breath. The longcase clock in the main hall ticked. When she heard nothing else, she realized it was only the sigh of an older home squatting down on its foundations for the night.
The room she'd broken into still held the stale scents of cigar smoke and brandy from the dinner party of the previous evening. But there were no fresh smells, which meant Lieutenant Quinn had taken Lord Montjoy up on his offer to introduce him at his club this evening.
Probably visiting a brothel instead. No matter. The house was empty and why made no difference at all.
She cat-footed up the main stairs, on the watch for the help. The lieutenant hadn't fully staffed his home yet, but he'd brought a native servant back with him from India. During the dinner party, Viola had noticed the turbaned fellow in the shadows, directing the borrowed footmen and giving quiet commands to the temporary serving girls.
The Indian servant would most likely be in residence.
So long as I steer clear of the kitchen or the garret, I'll be fine, Viola told herself.
Besides, the stones would be in Lieutenant Quinn's chamber. Her fence had a friend in the brick mason's guild who, for a pretty price, happily revealed the location of the ton's secret stashes. Townhouses on this fashionable London street were all equipped with identical wall safes in the master's chamber. The newfangled tumbler lock would open without protest under Viola's deft touch.
She had a gift. Two, actually, but she didn't enjoy the other one half so much.
Slowly, she opened the bedchamber door. Good. It had been oiled recently. She heard only the faint scrape of hinges.
The heavy damask curtains were drawn, so Viola stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. There! A landscape in a gilt frame on the south wall marked the location of the safe.
Viola padded across the room and inched the painting's hanging wires along the picture rail, careful not to let the hooks near the ceiling slide off. She'd have the devil's own time reattaching them if they did. With any luck at all, she'd slide the painting right back and it might be days before Lieutenant Quinn discovered the stones were missing. After moving the frame over about a foot, she found the safe right where Willie's friend said it would be.
Viola put her ear to the lock and closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. When she heard a click or felt a slight hitch beneath her touch she knew she'd discovered part of the combination. After only a few tries and errors, the final tumbler fell into place and Viola opened the safe.
The dark void was empty. She reached in to trace the edges of the iron box with her fingertips.
"Looking for something?" A masculine voice rumbled from a shadowy corner.
Blast! Viola bolted for the door, but it slammed shut. The Indian servant stepped from his place of concealment behind it.
"Please do not make to flee or I am sorry to say I shall have shoot you." The Hindu's melodious accent belied his serious threat.
Viola ran toward the window, hoping it was open behind the curtain. And that there was a friendly bush below to break her fall.
Lieutenant Quinn grabbed her before she reached it. He crushed her spine to his chest, his large hand splayed over one of her unbound breasts.
"Bloody hell! It's a woman. Turn up the gas lamp, Sanjay."
The yellow light of the wall sconce flooded the room. Viola blinked against the sudden brightness. Then she stomped down on her captor's instep as hard as she could.
Quinn grunted, but didn't release his hold. Instead, he whipped her around to face him. His brows shot up in surprise when he recognized her. "Lady Viola, you can't be the Mayfair Jewel Thief."
"Of course, I can." She might be a thief, but she was no liar. "I'd appreciate it, sir, if you'd remove your hands from my person."
"I bet you would." The lieutenant's mouth turned down in a grim frown and he kept his grip on her upper arms. His Indian servant didn't lower the revolver's muzzle one jot.
"Did I not tell you, sahib? When she looked at the countess's emeralds, her eyes glowed green." The servant no longer wore his turban, his coal-black hair falling in ropey strands past his shoulders. "She is a devil, this one."
"Perhaps." One of Quinn's dark brows lifted. "But if that's the case, my old vicar was right. The devil does know how to assume pleasing shapes."
That was a back-handed compliment if Viola ever heard one. She hadn't really considered Lieutenant Quinn closely during the dinner party. She made little time for men and the trouble they bring a woman. Once burned and all that. Besides, she'd been too intent on Lady Henson's emeralds at the time. Now she studied him with the same assessing gaze he shot at her.
Quinn's even features were classically handsome. His unlined mouth and white teeth made Viola realize suddenly that he was younger than she'd first estimated. She doubted he'd seen thirty-five winters. His fair English skin had been bronzed by fierce Indian summers and lashed by its weeping monsoons. His stint in India had rewarded him with riches, but the subcontinent had demanded its price.
His storm-gray eyes were all the more striking because of his deeply tanned skin. They seemed look right through Viola and see her for the fraud she was---a thief with pretensions of still being a lady.
Quinn glanced at his servant. "Looks like I owe you a hundred rupees." He shook his head. "My money was on Viscount Fenway. He's always been a cad ever since we were at Eton together. I thought he'd graduated from cheating on exams to lifting jewels." He released her arms and took Viola's hand instead, making a slight obeisance over it. "My apologies for doubting you, milady. It appears you are the light-fingered wretch we hoped to catch this evening."
"There's no reason for rude names." She snatched her hand away. Perhaps if she kept him talking, she might sidle over to the door and escape. It would be his word against hers and no one who hadn't seen her unlock a safe would believe her capable of it. "Besides, a liar has very few stones to throw. Didn't you say you'd join Lord Montjoy at his club this night?"
"Yes, I did, but standing up a friend at his club and relieving a man of his jewels are not sins of the same magnitude, are they?"
"Relieving a man of his jewels." She shot a wicked glare at him. "Now there's a thought."
Viola wished she could call the words back as soon as they left her lips. Her association with Willie had exposed her to so many overheard vulgarities while she waited for his shop to clear long enough for them to conduct their business. It was coarsening her sensibilities out of all knowing. No lady would ever think such a thing, much less say it.
But Quinn just snorted.
"You'll pardon me if I don't quake in my boots." His grin faded. "But I didn't lie. I spread misinformation, a time-honored tactic used with good reason."
"And I suppose you think I couldn't possibly have a good reason for my actions," she finished, taking a nonchalant step or two toward the door.
Broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, Quinn matched her movement with the sinuous grace of a great cat. If she had to flirt her way out of this predicament, it wouldn't be the most onerous task she'd ever undertaken. But she'd only go so far. If she'd been willing to sell herself in the first place, she wouldn't have had to resort to theft.
"Now I suppose you mean to denounce me and see me ruined."
"I greatly fear I'm too late to be the instrument of your ruin, my lady."
Viola brought her hand up sharply to slap him, but he caught her arm in mid-swing and held it motionless. His intense gaze froze the rest of her. There was a thin scar running through one of his eyebrows toward the side part in his sable hair. Lieutenant Quinn might be rakishly handsome, but he was also a man of action. Dangerous. Among the men of the ton, he'd stand out as feral in the midst of domesticated stock.
"My servant has a loaded revolver pointed at your mid-section and he's overprotective to a fault." His voice dropped to a low purr of silky menace. "Are you certain you wish to strike me?"
"A lady cannot defend her honor without threat of gunshot?"
"So there is honor among thieves. I'd wondered about that." He motioned for the Hindu to lower his weapon with his other hand, while keeping hold of Viola's wrist. "That'll be all, Sanjay. The lady and I have things to discuss."
"As you wish." The Indian stowed the firearm in his wide sash belt and pressed both his palms together in a gesture of farewell. "Namaste. But guard yourself from demons, sahib," he shot an evil glare at Viola, "however pleasingly they disguise themselves."
Sanjay slipped out the door as quietly as silk flowing over bare skin.
"I demand you release me." Viola's wrist throbbed in his tight grip. She didn't want him to become aware of how fast her heart was hammering.
"You're in no position to make demands. Do you plan on taking another swipe at me?"
"Not unless you do something to deserve it."
"Fair enough." Quinn let her go and sat at the foot of his bed. "Now I'm fully prepared to hear why you've chosen to risk shame and prison for a few baubles."
"You would sit while a lady stands?"
"Of course not." He hooked an ankle over one knee. "Should a lady break into my bedchamber in the dead of night, be assured I will stand."
Viola narrowed her eyes. If he was set on insulting her, he'd never be moved by her plight. She drew her lips tight together. He did not deserve a front row seat at a recitation of her private pain.
"You're welcome to sit, if you like." He patted the brocade counterpane beside him.
"I'll stand." She folded her arms beneath her breasts. "Being a thief and being a lady are not mutually exclusive."
"It'll be hard to convince the magistrate of that."
"If you planned to turn me over to the authorities, we wouldn't still be here." Viola hoped she was right. It would kill her mother if she were arrested.
"Clever girl. I don't plan on hauling you before the magistrate. I shall have to add 'astute' to your list of qualities," he said with a grudging nod. "Did you know 'The Mayfair Jewel Thief' is famous even in Bombay? Stealthy. Only takes from those who can well afford to lose. Never fooled by fake jewels. You see why we set out to catch you."
She knew there was a sizable reward for her capture, but she didn't know word of her exploits had traveled so far. "Then your story about a fistful of uncut jewels isn't true."
"It's two fistfuls actually and they're real enough. Mostly." His gaze traveled down her body to her legs which were encased in skin-tight buff trousers. "I have no need to turn you over for the reward, so you and I will have to come to another arrangement."
"Another arrangement?" She folded her arms across her chest. "If you expect me to share your bed in exchange for your silence, you're destined for disappointment."
He chuckled. "That wasn't my plan, but it bears consideration. I'm gratified to hear you're thinking about sharing my bed."
This time, she was quick enough to deliver a ringing slap to his smooth-shaven cheek.
But Quinn reacted just as quickly. He pulled her onto the feather tick and pinned her beneath him. She sank into the mattress as his long hard body covered hers.
"Release me this instant!" Viola pounded against his chest with her free hand, but he caught it up and joined it with the other one he'd stretched out above her head. He wrapped his legs around hers and held her immobile.
"A woman who sneaks into a man's bedchamber shouldn't expect to emerge without paying a penalty." His mouth descended to swallow her protest in a demanding kiss.
She struggled beneath him, but then his lips softened. He slanted his mouth over hers, as if he sensed exactly how she liked to be kissed. His kiss became a beguiling summons instead of a forced intimacy. Her body responded with a disconcerting flutter in her belly and the beginning of a deep ache.
This is insane. Viola knew better than to let a man use her passionate nature against her. She willed herself to go limp and unresponsive.
He pulled back and looked down at her, curiosity arching his brow.
"Is that your idea of a penalty?" she asked.
"No, kissing you just seemed a good idea at the time."
"You don't think so now?"
"It might be a distraction. You see, we are going to be partners, Lady Viola," he said with certainty.
"Not very gentlemanly of you, lieutenant, on both counts." She fought to keep her voice even. "Have I no say in the matter?"
"About our partnership, no. Not if you wish to avoid the magistrate." His rough baritone rumbled over her whole body, leaving a shiver in its wake. His eyes darkened as he looked down at her and she felt his hard maleness pressed against the juncture of her thighs. "About whether it's more than business between us, yes. You have a say."
His heart pounded against her breast bone. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound would come out. Heaven help her, she hadn't been this tempted by a man since---she snipped off the thought. Viola knew better than to let her body make this decision. She sucked in a quick breath.
"Just business," she whispered.
"I'll accept that for now. But for the record, you're the one who brought up sharing a bed. If I let you up, will you refrain from pummeling me?"
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Quinn rolled off her and pulled her into a sitting position beside him. He was perfectly still for a moment, bridling himself. Then he rose and walked briskly to the chest of drawers. He pulled out a stocking and white handkerchief. After spreading the kerchief on the bed, he dumped the contents of the stocking onto it. A glowing rainbow of stones glittered up at Viola.
"You keep your jewels in an old stocking?"
He shrugged. "It seemed more secure than the wall safe with the likes of you prowling about London."
She frowned down at the gemstones. It was an impressive pile of riches, but the resonance was off. "Some of these aren't genuine."
He cocked a brow at her and nodded. "Show me."
She drew a deep breath and stretched out her hand. She'd do the pearls first. Their sibilant, watery voices were always easiest to bear. She picked up a gray pearl, a smoky iridescent orb. The low hum began inside her head.
Like a waving bed of kelp, the pearl spoke to her in wobbling, gentle tones. The words were garbled, and in no language she knew, but a quick vision of a wizened old gent with a purple turban and scarlet-dyed beard flashed across her mind. She dropped the pearl before the precious thing could show her any more.
It was unusual for her to receive a vision from a pearl. Perhaps it was because they were never as old as other gems. Perhaps the fragile substance resisted picking up imprints from its owners. Or perhaps pearls realized they too were mortal and didn't want to carry someone else's burden for the course of their stay on earth.
Whatever secret this gray pearl bore, Viola didn't want to know it.
"That pearl is real," she said. "And very old. You'll not find its mate. It will have to be used as a pendant."
"How do you know that?"
"I just know." How could she explain something she didn't understand herself? She only knew she was different.
And people mistrust those who are different.
She turned back to the rest of the jewels. One by one, she sorted out sweet-voiced carnelians and sultry-toned lapis lazuli, shoving their silent imitations to one side. Then she moved on to the harder gems.
The ones with more strident voices. The ones most likely to invade her mind with nightmarish images of their past. She gleaned out the rasping emeralds, the muttering sapphires and wailing rubies, sorting the paste gems off in a small pile by themselves. Some of the fakes were quite good and probably would have fooled most jewelers, but if a stone didn't speak to her, she knew it wasn't real.
Finally, she was left with only five diamonds. She drew a deep breath to steel herself against them. Of all jewels, diamonds screamed out the atrocities in their pasts most painfully. Perhaps being uncut would help. They couldn't have had contact with too many people.
"Why are you stopping?" Quinn asked. "Can't you tell with diamonds?"
She picked up the largest and breathed a sigh of relief. "Fake."
"You're sure?"
She dropped it on the floor and ground it under her boot heel. The stone splintered into shards.
"Damn. Sanjay had me almost convinced that one was genuine."
"Sanjay was pulling your leg." She winced at the slang that rolled so easily off her tongue now.
Viola reached for the next stone. The moment her fingertips brushed it, the diamond screeched at her, a high-pitched squeal on the edge of sound. She bit her lip and pulled back her hand before it could send her an image.
"Real."
Quinn moved the gem to the 'keepers' pile and it whined softly when he touched it.
How does he not hear that? It was unusual for a stone to speak without her touch merely because she was near. The gem must have a particularly vicious story to tell. This one she would avoid at all costs.
The rest of the diamonds were genuine. Viola managed to handle them quickly enough that only one was able to send her a red-splashed image of the moment the dark-skinned man who first dug it out of the ground was hacked to death for it. She swallowed hard and tried to expunge the horrific scene from her mind.
"So the rumors are true. You cannot be fooled by a fake, no matter how cunningly realistic." Quinn scooped up the genuine stones and replaced them in his stocking.
She stood. Barring that last diamond, she'd escaped rather easily. She doubted any of the visions lasted long enough to leave her with the grinding headache that usually accompanied the use of the gift. "I'm glad to have been of service. Now, if you'll excuse me---"
"Not so fast. I haven't explained the purpose of our partnership."
"But I've already culled your stones."
"That was only a test. I had to be sure you were the real Mayfair Jewel Thief. Sit," he said curtly.
His tone was so commanding, she obeyed reflexively. Then she stood back up. She wasn't one of his sepoys to be ordered about.
"Very well, I'll sit." He claimed the end of the bed again and grinned up at her.
Irritation fizzed up her spine, but she was the one who'd chosen to stand.
"Here are my terms and they are non-negotiable," Quinn said. "You will render me a burglary service, and at the end of our association, you will receive half the gems you just saw."
"My choice from among them?" Something inside her quivered with hope. It would mean her family's money troubles were over. She'd never have to steal again.
Quinn nodded.
"Very well. I accept your terms. What do you want from me?"
"What do you know about red diamonds?" he asked.
"Red diamonds? They're extremely rare." In all her thievery, she'd never run across one. "And because of that, they're worth the earth. But they aren't for everyone. It's said they often carry curses."
"Are you the superstitious sort?"
"No." It wasn't superstition to believe something true. She'd be able to hear the curse first hand. "But as far as I know there are no red diamonds in all England. And even if there was, I wouldn't steal it."
"Why?"
"Because it would be impossible to fence. And an absolute sin to re-cut into smaller stones. Red diamonds are never overly large to begin with, no more than five or six carats. What would I do with one?"
"Let me worry about that part." Quinn rose to his feet. "I need to see you home, Lady Viola. You have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow."
She was gratified to hear him use her title, but the rest of his words made her slant him a suspicious look. "What am I going to be doing?"
"You'll be leaving for Paris with me," he said. "There is a diamond called Baaghh kaa kkhuun en route to the Queen's royal collection. And I mean to meet the courier in France."
"Baaghh kaa kkhuun?"
"It means 'Blood of the Tiger,'" Quinn said. "And you, my Lady Light-fingers, are going to help me steal it."
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