In Bed With the Duke Page 13

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emma sat on her bed in her room, propped up on her pillows, her book open in her hand.

  Everything was as it had been the night before. Her nightgown was white, clean, and worn, and buttoned up to her throat. Her hair was braided and carefully arranged over her shoulder. As before a storm growled in the distance, inching closer, sending wisps of wind swirling through the open window.

  But Emma wasn’t really reading. She was listening. Listening for a man’s step in the corridor.

  The hotel was silent. Sleeping.

  She shouldn’t want him to come. Her actions today had been foolish in the extreme. It was one thing to feel as if she had a debt to pay to the man who had rescued her from certain death.

  Last night she had paid that debt.

  So why had she so eagerly listened when Prince Sandre told of his plot to capture the Reaper? Why had she so desperately wanted to find some way to pass that report to him?

  She could tell herself it was because she was appalled by the conditions in the lower city and wanted to help. That was true. But her tense anticipation tonight proved she had another motivation.

  She wanted to see the Reaper again. She wanted him to feel gratitude to her. She wanted him to escape Prince Sandre so he could return to her arms and kiss her as he had kissed her last night. Because last night she had discovered a whole new, unsuspected facet to her personality. She was shallow and easily swayed by passion—she, a rector’s daughter!

  She laughed softly to herself.

  The candle flickered in the breeze.

  She glanced at it, then realized—a still figure, clad in a shroud, stood in the shadows.

  She should have been prepared. Instead she gasped. Jumped. Gave a little scream. “It’s you.” Putting her hand over her thumping heart, she said, “It’s you. You frightened me!”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How did you get in?”

  Of course, he still didn’t answer . . . but he moved into the light.

  He glided with eerie soundlessness, almost as if he really were a ghost, when she knew very well he was not. Last night he had proved that.

  “Did you get my message?” she asked.

  There was a flash of glee rapidly subdued. He removed his white gloves, tucked them in his belt. Putting his hand over his heart, he bowed.

  She relaxed against the headboard and smiled back. “Good.” She had helped him. “Mr. Lawrence is your friend? You sent him to me?”

  Again the Reaper bowed.

  His bare hands, she saw, were long fingered, broad palmed, tanned, and capable. The sight of them stirred her; it was almost as if he had revealed one of his secrets, showed her a part of himself no one else knew.

  “I’m going to spy for you,” she said.

  He shook his head, an emphatic no.

  “I want to. Really, it’s easy. All I have to do is flatter Prince Sandre, widen my eyes, and ask if I’ll ever be safe from the big, bad Reaper”—Emma pouted seductively, a skill she didn’t even know she had—“and he’ll tell me anything.”

  The Reaper frowned, and again shook his head.

  “Why not? He has spies everywhere. I visited the lower city and he knew about it. He knew whom I had visited and he knew what I had done. Someone there told him, and that’s not fair. You need to know who his spies are.”

  I will find out.

  She understood him so well, even without words. “I want to help you.” She didn’t have to tell him about Prince Sandre’s request to court her, and how much he frightened her. Let the Reaper think this was easy for her. “I did help, didn’t I?”

  Outside, the thunder rumbled, coming closer, and the candle once again flickered in the breeze.

  He nodded. He moved his lips as if to speak, then put his hand to the cloth over his throat. Then, in the first awkward move she’d seen him make, he swung around and stumbled toward the door.

  “Wait!” She scrambled out of bed.

  He turned back, eagerly, she thought.

  She came to a halt three feet away from him. “Don’t you want to kiss me?” she blurted.

  He froze.

  She closed her eyes in embarrassment. Had she really said that?

  His boots scraped on the floor. The scent of the Reaper, of leather and horse and man, filled her head.

  Her eyes flew open.

  He stood directly in front of her. His hand hovered over her head, and as if he couldn’t resist, he lightly touched her hair. Slowly, he slid his fingers along her dark braid, following it over her shoulder to the place where it rested on her chest.

  She put one bare foot on top of the other.

  He watched her face as if he couldn’t look away. He watched her intensely, passionately. He watched her as if she were the most enchanting woman in the world, as if he wished nothing more than to live this moment with her.

  She took a long breath, dragging air into her lungs.

  His gaze shifted to her breasts, pressed against the thin material.

  His hand was close, so close, holding her braid. He took a slow breath to match hers. He wanted her; she knew he did. . . .

  He seemed to recollect himself, shook his head, once, firmly, and started to step back.

  She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her chest.

  His palm flattened.

  The heat in her flared. It seemed the cotton between them dissolved, and she was left naked and trembling with desire. She wanted him to move his hand lower, to cup her breast, to stroke her nipple, to somehow make that swelling sensation get better . . . or be more.

  His broad palm moved, lifted her, pressed her yearning flesh. He took her nipple between his forefinger and thumb and lightly squeezed.

  Shock sent her reeling backward.

  He caught her, his arm around her waist, and brought her back, forcing her to stay in place while he squeezed again, then set in motion a slow, steady thrum of pinch and release, pinch and release.

  He wasn’t hurting her. But he was driving her mad. The sensation of wanting grew in her breasts and her loins. Her heartbeat escalated, throbbing in her throat and chest. He was branding her with his touch, his scent. . . . She gazed at his face. If only she could see him, really see him, but as before, the mask covered his upper face and drooped over his cheeks; his stark cosmetics, white and black, gave him the bone structure of a ghoul; and a hood covered his hair.

  If she met him in the broad light of day, she wouldn’t recognize this man. And he held her breast in her hand, held her passions in thrall. “Please,” she whispered.

  He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips, a mere brush of promise.

  Her lips opened on a sigh.

  His unspoken pledge became reality. He slanted his head to hers, smoothly matching their lips, exploring with his breath and his tongue until her eyes closed and she gave a whimper of need.

  Lightning flashed, bright on her closed lids. Thunder boomed, a cacophony of glory.

  Still he held her away from him, trapped in his embrace, held, but not held close.

  She moved closer.

  He moved back.

  He was teasing her, caressing her breast endlessly, building a dark torment that flashed with the brilliance of the lightning outside.

  At last, unable to bear it any longer, she grabbed pieces of the winding sheet that circled him and pulled herself close.

  He laughed soundlessly against her lips. His hand left her breast, moved to her throat, and, with deliberation, he opened the row of tiny buttons that closed her nightgown.

  The opening revealed nothing. Most dresses had a wider neck than this. But they were alone, at night, in her bedroom, and beneath the tissue-thin cotton, she wore nothing. When he spread his fingers inside her collar, sliding along the frail bones at the base of her neck, she felt naked. “Please.” This time it wasn’t so much a plea as a breath of self-consciousness.

  Even she knew it was too late for that.

&n
bsp; He pushed her against the wall, nudged her head back, and kissed her throat. He slid his mouth behind her ear, ruffling the delicate skin with his breath. His chest, his costume rubbed against her, and her nipples gathered tight, overwhelmed by sensation.

  Awareness built. Of him, playing her with his touch. Of herself, growing frantic and needy. Tears of longing pressed at the backs of her eyelids.

  He thrust his thigh between her legs, lifting her, setting her to ride him.

  The shock of contact made her back arch, made her shudder and sink her fingernails into his shoulders. This was indecent, to have a man, this man, know so much about her body and so expertly exploit her longings, and at the same time . . . Oh, God, the rocking motion forced fire to the ends of her nerves, to the tips of her fingers, to her breasts and deep inside. She burned. She panted. She grew faint from self-consciousness, from desperation, from the abrupt feast of sensation when she had been starving for so long.

  It seemed she had waited forever to experience this madness, and yet . . . until this moment, she hadn’t known such frenzy existed.

  Softly he bit her earlobe . . . and that single, bright, tiny jolt of pain was the lightning strike she needed. Pleasure assaulted her. Unprepared, she shuddered, pressing herself onto his thigh and ever closer to him, moaning as she galloped through the tempest of lightning-bright bliss, of tumultuous gratification, and all the while she held on to him for dear life, closer to him than she had ever been to another human being.

  Finally, the violence was spent and she went limp in his arms.

  As her breathing grew measured, as her scattered senses returned, she was aware once more of the rain-washed breeze blowing through the open window, of being in a tiny room with him. . . . He had stopped pressing his lips to her skin, tilted her upright, put her on her feet. She clutched him again, not wanting this bliss to stop, but he loosened his hold on her. He held her, running his hands up and down her back, until she had recovered her breath—and he had recovered his.

  She glanced at the bed.

  He shook his head, but a tiny smile crooked his cheek. It wasn’t a cruel refusal. More regretful than anything else.

  “Will you come back tomorrow night?” Did she even have any pride? Any finesse? If she did, it had boiled away in this rush of heat.

  He lifted his hands helplessly.

  “I know. You have other things to do. People to help. Injustices to fix. But I’ll see Prince Sandre tomorrow.”

  The Reaper shook his head.

  “I have no choice. He’s Lady Fanchere’s cousin.” He wants to pay court to me, and Lady de Guignard said it was for no good reason. “So I might as well listen to him. If I see you, I can give you the information.” Then a terrible thought occurred to her, and she added hastily, “But if you think there’s danger, don’t come. I could tell Mr. Lawrence instead.”

  The Reaper nodded.

  “All right.” She smiled and tried to look as if it didn’t matter one way or the other. “Please have a care for yourself.”

  He made a gesture that she easily read: And you.

  “I will.”

  He opened the door and slipped out so quietly she never heard the latch close.

  The wind picked up, lifting her nightgown to dance around her ankles. The storm roared around the hotel, closer and more violent. Lightning blistered the air.

  And good sense returned to her.

  What had she done?

  She had indulged in sin. She had wallowed in passion. She had luxuriated in scandal.

  Furthermore . . . she wanted to do it again. With him. With the man whose face she had never seen, whose voice she had never heard, but whose bravery she admired and whose body she worshipped.

  Would he return tomorrow night?

  Or would he die tonight?

  Chapter Twenty

  Emma woke to bright sunshine and a rapid knock on the bedroom door.

  She sat up, her heart pounding.

  They had killed him. They had killed the Reaper.

  “Emma?” It was Lady Fanchere’s voice. “Are you well? It’s very late, and we expected to see you sooner.”

  She sounded so normal.

  Emma looked around. Noted the sun was high. Realized she had overslept, that of all people, Lady Fanchere would not be bringing her that particular piece of bad news; Emma had no reason for panic. She took a deep breath to calm herself and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry; I think I . . .” Pushing back the covers, she climbed out of bed. “My lady, is all well?”

  “All is very well. Aimée and I are here to help you dress.”

  Emma stared at the door as if it were speaking in a foreign language. They were here to help her dress? “I can dress myself.”

  “We brought you some different garments.”

  Emma donned her robe. She should have gone to sleep earlier, but she’d been worried about the Reaper’s safety and excited by . . . well, excited. She was paying the price now.

  In a low voice, Aimée said, “I told you she would think this odd.”

  “She’s just tired,” Lady Fanchere said firmly. “She’ll appreciate this later, when she sees the prince.”

  Emma searched the room, searching for any sign the Reaper had been there, then jerked the door open.

  The two women stopped squabbling and fixed smiles on their faces.

  “Come in,” Emma said.

  Lady Fanchere brushed past her.

  Lady de Guignard lifted a carpetbag. “We gathered a few things from our trunks.” She brushed past, too.

  Emma peeked out, looked up and down the corridor. Empty. So she pulled back inside and shut the door, then leaned against it and considered the two ladies.

  They were both unpacking their finds, spreading them on the bed, and crowing like roosters over the sunrise. Obviously, they did enjoy dressing her as if she were a doll. She might have enjoyed it, too, if she didn’t know they were doing it for Prince Sandre. “What do we have here?” she asked.

  “After your fitting yesterday,” Lady Fanchere said, “I asked Madam Mercier if she had a gown that might fit you that hadn’t worked for another client.”

  “The gown Lady de Guignard gave me is more than sufficient!”

  Lady Fanchere pretended she hadn’t heard. “She didn’t have anything, but she had this instead!” She lifted a long drape of lace from the bed. “It’s a shawl of Belgian lace with an inset of Indian silk.”

  “It’s gorgeous, but not appropriate for a paid companion.” Emma could be as firm as Lady Fanchere.

  Lady Fanchere capitulated. “You are correct, of course. You have an impeccable sense of propriety, and that would be an asset for Sandre.” Seeing Emma draw back, she added, “Of course, what happens next is totally your decision. So we’ll put this shawl aside and bring it out only for the evening. Now, look at these cuffs and this collar. They will change your gown from pedestrian to celestial.”

  Indignation made Emma snap, “I love that gown, and I appreciate Lady de Guignard’s kindness in giving it to me!”

  “I liked it, too, Eleonore.” Aimée sounded hurt.

  “Ladies, we know the criticism any woman gets for wearing a gown more than once. We must disguise this reuse until Madam Mercier is done with Emma’s wardrobe.” Lady Fanchere looked so eager, Emma and Aimée exchanged glances and submitted.

  By the time they were finished, Emma was clad in Lady de Guignard’s gown, with white lace collar and cuffs, her beloved old shawl, a new bonnet of violet velvet decorated with fresh pale blue flowers, and soft black leather shoes. When she peered in the mirror, she thought she looked like a young lady in her debut year, young and innocent.

  She felt like a lamb to the slaughter.

  She dragged her feet all the way down the stairs, along the street, and into the assembly room.

  People turned and nodded at Lady Fanchere and Lady de Guignard, casual greetings to two of their own, but when they saw Emma in her finery, they put their heads together and goss
iped.

  Emma wanted to squirm in embarrassment. Instead she tried to walk, as she always had, one step behind the ladies.

  Lady Fanchere would have none of that, but pulled her between them and linked arms. “You’re right, Emma. With your bright eyes and pink cheeks, you need no decoration.”

  Prince Sandre walked in, looked around, and, when he caught sight of them, made a beeline toward them.

  Yes. A lamb to the slaughter.

  “Smile at Sandre,” Lady Fanchere instructed.

  Emma couldn’t. Then she did, because she had promised the Reaper she would spy for him.

  But the smile felt more like a stretching of lips across her bared teeth.

  Prince Sandre didn’t notice. Maybe he was used to smiles like that. Maybe he couldn’t tell the difference.

  Maybe he didn’t care.

  He bowed and smiled, suave and sure of himself. “Good morning, Eleonore, Miss Chegwidden.” His gaze skimmed Lady de Guignard. “Aimée.”

  They all stopped. They all curtsied.

  But Emma felt Lady de Guignard press closer, as if simply being in his presence frightened her, and squeezed Aimée’s arm comfortingly.

  “May I accompany you on your promenade?” His request was a formality; he fell into place beside Lady Fanchere. “Miss Chegwidden, you look very bright today, considering how late you were up.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “Your candle was lit very late last night.” He watched her from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

  Pressing her lips together, Emma turned her face away. She was not going to give him an explanation, not even a false explanation.

  “You did sleep in this morning,” Lady Fanchere said. “What were you doing so late?”

  Now Emma had no choice. “I was reading, my lady.”

  “As you were reading the other night.” He deliberately reminded her of those moments in her bedroom. “I hope you’re not a bluestocking. Too much intelligence is unattractive in a lady.”

  As if she knew that Emma’s hand itched to slap him, Aimée held her arm tightly at her side.