Текст книги "I Married the Duke "
Автор книги: Katharine Ashe
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“Princess,” Arabella whispered. “You should not have done this.”
“I didn’t.” Jacqueline placed the sparkling tiara above the gown on the bed, as though dressing the coverlet for the party. “It is from the comte.”
The maid’s hand flew to her mouth. “Jésus, Marie, et Joseph.”
“Clearly, he admires you,” the princess said. “As well he should. And he isn’t the only one. I’ve seen at least four of Reiner’s courtiers casting you interested glances down the dinner table—and two of them married, the philanderers.”
Arabella stared at the delicate tiara, a sprinkle of diamonds fanning out from a gathering of gems in the center set in the shape of a rose. “I cannot wear it.”
The maid made a moue of displeasure.
Jacqueline peered at her. “Do you dislike the comte? Really, Bella, if a man gave me a tiara this lovely I would wear it whether I liked him or not. All of my tiaras are royal heirlooms, thoroughly ugly and old-fashioned. This one is perfect.”
He intended to follow through on his threat, after all. He did not know that extravagant gifts meant nothing to her.
She dressed and left the tiara on the bed. But the princess barred the door and forbade her to leave the chamber unless she wore it.
Arabella allowed the maid to set it on her head and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like a princess. She touched the diamond ridges with a tentative fingertip. “Why did he not give it to me himself?”
“I suspect he feared that if he tried, you might throw it at his head.” Jacqueline’s brow went up. “You have a way of putting out barbs when he is in the room, Bella, and truly I cannot understand why. If any man should inspire a lady’s suspicions it is Lord Bedwyr, not the comte. Why, for all that he is a naval hero and bears that dashing scar, he is the veriest puppy.”
Arabella did not believe it. He had enlisted Jacqueline’s aid so that she could not refuse his gift, and yet he had not yet told anyone the truth. He was playing a deep game, like he had played with her from the beginning, and the panic he stirred in her washed against her relentlessly.
He was not a puppy. He was a wolf.
A CENTURY EARLIER, a grand room for balls had been built onto the castle’s farthest end to reach across the river, completing the bridge from one bank to another. A corridor from within the arched colonnade led into the magnificently high-ceilinged room, a door at the opposite side letting out onto a trellised walkway into the woods.
Tonight the ballroom sparkled with hundreds of candles and the reflection of torches set in buoys upon the river glittering through the windows that stretched from sparkling parquet floor to stucco-sculpted ceiling. The prince’s musicians were adorned in blue and gold livery, playing brightly to fill the vast chamber. Footmen in the silver and black colors of the duke’s household moved through clusters of guests, offering wine.
The guests were likewise magnificent. This was his world, the men and women of his society of whom she had only ever caught glimpses while readying her students, gowned and garbed at the height of fashion and all with an air of sublime superiority. The ladies, their lips stylishly rouged and necks draped with jewels, turned long-lashed eyes upon her and lifted their fans to whisper.
Arabella held her chin high, unfurled the lacy fan Jacqueline had given her and went into the crowd.
The queen entered on Prince Reiner’s arm, with Jacqueline behind. Guests dipped into bows and deep curtsies as the royal party made its way to the dais, where the prince deposited his mother in a gilded chair. Then he took his sister’s hand, led her down the dais step, and came directly to Arabella.
Astonished gasps were audible throughout the chamber.
He released his sister and bowed deeply over Arabella’s hand. “Comtesse,” he said quietly, “I should very much like the honor of a dance with the beautiful wife of my fondest friend.”
Jacqueline gaped.
Arabella could do nothing but allow him to lead her into the set. He smiled pleasantly, and it was all as if there were nothing unusual about a prince dancing with a governess.
“You should not have done this, your highness,” she whispered when the pattern brought them close.
“I could not do otherwise. It would evidence the greatest lack of gratitude on my part to fail in soliciting your hand for the first dance. This is, after all, your house.” He smiled.
“The guests think you are dancing with a servant.”
“The guests will know differently soon enough.”
Across the glittering room Luc stood in a cluster of ladies and gentlemen. As though he felt her regard, he turned and looked at her.
The dance came to an end and the prince bowed and went off. Jacqueline glided to her side.
“Comtesse? Good heavens, Bella, what have you hidden from me and why does my brother know when I do not?”
“He must have told him.” She grasped Jacqueline’s hand. “I am sorry I did not tell you. I didn’t know—”
“Oh, none of that. We all have our secrets, after all, though admittedly yours is an enormous one. I don’t know why you and the comte are hiding this from everyone, or why you are acting as a servant when you are the mistress of this house. But—” She looked through the crowd again, this time at Luc. “I must compliment you. Your husband is very handsome.”
“I don’t know what he wants of me,” she said honestly.
The princess’s wise regard settled on her. “Perhaps you should ask him.”
He was walking toward them. Jacqueline squeezed her fingers and moved away.
Then he was before her, taking her hand and bowing over it.
“How beautiful you are this evening, duchess. As always.” He brought her hand to his lips, turned it over and kissed the center of her gloved palm. Tingles shivered over her.
She dragged her hand away. “What are you doing?”
He smiled comfortably, confidently. “Making myself immeasurably frustrated. Come with me to the terrace.”
“No. Everybody will think you are trying to seduce the governess.”
“Hang everybody. And anyway I already accomplished that weeks ago. Come with me.”
He already accomplished that. “No.”
“Your greetings still leave much to be desired.”
“I suppose I haven’t sufficient practice being fondled in public.”
“Since I prefer fondling you in private, I will allow you this point.”
“That beach was hardly private.”
“True. But my imagination has run ahead with all sorts of plans for us.”
Her hands fisted. “Why do you tease me as though there is nothing else to be said?”
“What else should be said, then? How’s this: this ball is for you.”
“For me? But you—”
“Call it an betrothal party of sorts.” He glanced about them. “Now everybody is actually staring. Apparently a man is not allowed to speak at length with a beautiful lady in a ballroom. You must dance with me to soothe their outraged sensibilities.”
“I thought you said hang everybody.”
“Dance with me, duchess.”
“You confuse me.”
“And you bedazzle me.” His gaze slipped down her neck and caressed her breasts, then continued to her hips. He was handsome beyond her dreams in a dark blue coat that made his broad shoulders seem as though he could lift his ship from the water himself, and a single large sapphire the color of the night lodged in his neck cloth. A pristine black silk band covered his eye and even the scar seemed dashingly elegant. If she were a woman to have her heart stolen by a man’s consequence and beauty alone, she would be lost. But she had no heart to be stolen; she was safe.
“You must dance with me,” he said. “I will not accept refusal.”
“You enjoy having the upper hand.”
“Rather, I enjoy having my hands on you. It puts me in mind of that brief but memorable sojourn on the beach. Before the unfortunate incident with the knife, of course.” He smiled.
Her cheeks were hot. “I have heard you talking with the ladies-in-waiting. You do not speak to all women in this frank manner.”
“No. Only my wives, and among them only those who refuse my request for a dance.” He moved a half step closer and looked down at her. “Will you dance with me, Arabella?”
He had not spoken her name before. He seemed to caress it.
“I—I—” He tangled her thoughts and intentions. She knew he did it intentionally. “For three days you have not tried to speak with me alone, yet now you tease me as you did aboard your ship, as though nothing has happened in the meantime.”
“For three days of agony I have held myself aloof from you to allow you to become accustomed to the truth in your own time. Clearly that was the wrong tactic.” He glanced at the tiara tucked in her hair.
“Only a man of poor character would seek to cajole a woman with extravagant gifts.”
“You are no doubt correct,” he said. “Dance with me anyway.”
She could not resist him. She nodded.
Lord of the manor, he merely lifted a hand, and far across the chamber the orchestra commenced the new set. Then he took her fingers in his. His hand slipped around her waist and then up to the back of her ribs, unnecessarily caressing, but she accepted it. She lifted her hand to lay it upon his arm and he drew her into the waltz.
“Haven’t tried this since that reprobate put out my eye,” he said quietly, a smile in his voice. “I beg your pardon in advance for stepping on your toes.”
She looked up into a countenance of such simple pleasure that something tender and painful caught in her chest. Perhaps Jacqueline was right. Perhaps he was not always a wolf.
That assessment lasted less than a minute.
“Dear God. How I want to kiss you.” His voice was husky, his attention entirely upon her lips. “I need to kiss you.”
“If you kiss me here you will shame me.”
“If I kiss you here I will—” He broke off. “Was that a tacit acceptance?”
“I—”
“Not acceptance of the location of the kiss, of course. But of the kiss itself.”
She could not bear it. He made her want to laugh and cry and dance all at once. She directed her gaze pointedly over his shoulder. “You are—”
“Absurd. Yes, you have noted that before.”
“You cannot help but interrupt me. I was going to say that you are as much of a reprobate as your cousin.”
“In desire, perhaps. But my deeds are confined to one woman.” His fingers spread upon her back, teasing the edge of the gown then steeling over her skin. “His are distributed rather thinly amongst many. Regardez.”
Seeking distraction, sanity, anything to stanch the agitated heat gathering inside her, she followed his gaze. Lord Bedwyr stood at the center of a group of ladies, laughing as they waved their fans before their cheeks.
Arabella frowned. “I do not understand why he insisted on that farcical wedding.”
Luc drew her closer, beyond propriety’s separation, so that if she fought the strength of his arms she would trip.
“It was not farcical,” he said above her brow. “And he did it because he knew I wished it.”
“You did not wish to marry me anymore than I wished to marry you. You wished only to have me that once, as I did. We thought you would die. It should never have come to this.”
Finally it was said aloud.
She held her breath, biting down on the inside of her lip.
He did not deny it.
His hand tightened on her back. He drew her close and bent his head beside hers. “It has been more than a month, Arabella. Long enough to know.” His voice was rough. “Tell me. Do you carry my child?”
Crumbling a bit inside she whispered, “I do not.”
He said nothing.
“If the duchess’s child is a boy,” she said, “you needn’t worry about your brother inheriting.”
“Bedwyr told you.”
“No one needed to tell me. The whole household knows of your family’s situation. The ladies-in-waiting were gossiping about it all morning.” She could not meet his gaze. “I will accept an annulment without protest. I will expect nothing from you in return for it. No one else need ever know.”
There was a long silence.
“I do not wish an annulment,” he said.
“You do. You must.”
“No, I mustn’t, little governess who levels commands like she was born a duchess. What will you command next, I wonder. That I must find a fresh knife and continue the project those fellows began on the beach? Or perhaps you would command me to cut a bit higher, to carve out my heart and put it in a box on the shelf so it will not inconvenience you again.”
He could not mean it. He did not mean it. He flirted and teased as though it meant nothing, when it meant everything to her.
It meant everything to her.
The heart that she had thought did not exist now beat in a full galloping panic beneath her ribs. She had always run—from the foundling home, from the Reverend, and from the men who had tried to use her. But she could never run from him. The worst of it was that she did not wish to. She wished to be lost again, this time to him. Willingly she would lose herself and then she would be gone forever.
She broke free of his hold. They stood like Greek statues amidst the swirling skirts and coattails and sparkling jewels of dancers all about them. In his face she saw the truth. He had not told her everything about their hasty wedding. He was still lying to her.
“You speak as though your words have no consequences,” she said. “But this game is over. You must cease playing it.”
“I will not release you, Arabella.”
She reached up and dragged the tiara from her hair. “You cannot cajole my sentiments or purchase my obedience, my lord.”
Couples around them slowed and halted, watching.
He did not move to accept the tiara. “Now who seeks to shame whom?” His voice was a dark rumble.
“I am the only one shamed here. In trusting you I shamed myself.”
He snatched the tiara from her fingers, and in his face was furious vulnerability.
With her chin high as she passed between the guests, she fled. Every ounce of her self-possession fought not to run.
Chapter 12
The Bride
“They talked of it for hours.” Jacqueline stood behind her at the dressing table, passing the bristles of a silver-backed brush through Arabella’s hair. “French aristocrats are routinely scandalous, but they never expect it of the English. Your waltz and quarrel with the comte came as a refreshing surprise.” Her laughing gaze met Arabella’s in the mirror.
Arabella’s own eyes were clear. After she left the ball, she had removed the gown meant for a princess and gave it to the maid to take away. Then she sat by the hearth until the sounds of revelry faded and Jacqueline came to her bedchamber.
“Everybody would have known of the origin of the tiara soon enough anyway,” the princess said, brushing slowly. “The servants were probably gossiping from the moment I gave it to you. No information remains secret for long in a house such as this.”
“None?”
Jacqueline’s lips twisted. “Except perhaps the news that you are not in fact a governess.”
“I am a governess.”
“Only until the comte announces your secret wedding. Reiner thought he intended to do so tonight. Your quarrel must have thwarted him. Oh, Bella, you must make it up to him immediately so I can embrace you publicly as my friend and no longer my servant.”
Arabella stood and went to the clothing press and opened it. Jacqueline had lent her new undergarments; her old linens were folded neatly within. She moved aside the petticoat and revealed the ring nestled upon the chemise. She withdrew it and tied the ribbon around her neck. Wearing the ball gown, she had missed the weight of it. It was familiar. Comforting.
“Why is your marriage a secret?”
“Jacqueline, I cannot remain here.”
The princess set the brush down on the table. “You will not tell me the trouble between you and the comte, will you?”
“I am leaving tomorrow.”
“Does he know?”
He would discover it swiftly enough. But hopefully, with distance his lust and pride would cool and he would see that it was for the best. In the meantime she would begin searching for her father, this time without relying on a prince to reveal him to her.
“You must do what you need,” Jacqueline said. “I know nothing of the complications of married life, of course. But I wish you would remain.”
“I cannot.” The moment of panicked terror she felt during the dance had passed, but not the agitation to be gone and away from him.
“Bella,” the princess said, “I must admit to being sorry that you will not be with me in London.”
“You know all you must to acquit yourself splendidly.”
“I am uncomfortable with gentlemen,” she said with a serious twist of her brow. “I had hoped you would school me to become better accustomed to them.”
“I fear I would be no more knowledgeable than my student in that matter.” Not if Luc Westfall was her examination.
“That cannot be true. I am confined to whatever castle or party my brother and mother choose, and have known so little of men. But you have lived amongst London society. You must have had many adventures.”
“If by adventure you mean did I trust a man who promised to introduce me to”—a prince—“a possible employer and then discovered that he meant to introduce me instead to his own lust, why then, yes, I had an adventure.”
“Arabella! Was he a guest in the house at which you worked?”
“He was the elder brother of the children I cared for, and I had considered him a friend until then.” Her fingers curved around the ring dangling against her collar. “I told the housekeeper about what he did. She informed my employers, but they were unmoved by my story. They said I had seduced him. I was released from service.”
“They were unjust.”
“It was my fault.” It had always been her fault, from the first days at the foundling home to the terrible mess she was in now. “I was naïve. And I foolishly assumed that good character must always accompany a man’s fine appearance and wealth.”
The princess did not speak at once. “I see,” she finally said.
Arabella went to sit at the dressing table again and reached up to begin braiding her hair.
Jacqueline grasped her hand. “Will you leave tomorrow?”
“In the morning.”
“I will instruct the coachman to make the traveling carriage available for you.” She went to the door and paused there. “I will miss you, Arabella, as I would miss a sister, had I one. I do hope we will meet again soon.”
Arabella went to her and embraced her.
After Jacqueline left a maid entered to build the fire against the cool night. Arabella sat before the blaze plaiting her hair. But an hour later, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the window onto the black river, all the party lights doused and the magic gone, she was still cold. The castle was three hundred years old, and autumn had brought a damp chill to its chambers; it was no surprise she could not make herself warm enough to sleep. And she would never see him again.
She climbed onto her down-filled mattress and drew the draperies around her. The linens were all soft and scented of roses, and she was surrounded with ivory and gold. It was a princess’s bed, and for one more night she could pretend.
SHE AWOKE TO amber firelight spread across the coverlet from the foot of the bed. The comte’s silhouette showed dark as he parted the drapery. She saw only the contours of his shoulders and his arm holding aside the curtain and the outline of his waist; the full masculine beauty of his form was now concealed by the dark, where on the beach it had been revealed by the sun.
She sat up.
He said nothing but his chest expanded and, in the silence softened by the crackle and hiss of the fire, she heard his hard breath.
She went forward on her knees to the end of the mattress. He reached down and his hand curved around the side of her face, large and warm and strong. She turned her lips against his palm. He bent and lifted her to him and their mouths met.
He kissed her hungrily, holding her to him with his hands about her face. His thumb stroked along her jaw and down her chin, opening her mouth to him. He tasted of wine and heat and his desire for her. His tongue stroked hers gently, then sought her deeper. She took him in. With each meeting of his flesh and hers he made her want more of him.
“Sweet Arabella,” he whispered against her cheek. “What consequence could you fear so greatly, my little governess, that you run away from me?”
Loss. Betrayal. Heartbreak. The patina of too much pain lingered beneath her skin and circled her heart like a guard. She must not love him. But to remain with him and not love him was impossible.
“What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying what is mine by right.” He nuzzled her throat and she lifted her chin to allow him.
“You do not own me like you own this house and your ship.”
“Give me a wedding night. Finally.”
“We should not be wed. You should not be my husband.”
“Duchess.” He cupped her face in his hands and made her look at him. “You are my wife in God’s reckoning.”
“I don’t believe in God any longer.”
“Then believe in me.”
“Blasphemer.”
He grinned. “Hypocrite.”
“Kiss me.” Kiss me again and again, until I believe in God once more, because then I would know that this is a miracle and not merely a dream.
He stroked his fingertips over her face reverently, then he did as she bid him. She knew the flavor of him, the sublime shape and pressure of his mouth upon hers, the deep, pulling thrill inside her when his tongue touched hers. She knew the scent of sea and wind that even now clung to him.
Finally she allowed herself to touch him. Putting her hands on him, she followed the contours of his neck and shoulders with her palms and fingertips, learning his skin and sinew like she knew his character—strong, powerful, confident. His body was hard and large, and she knew he would never be hers, no matter what he said now, or did. He did not intend to hurt her; he would do so without even knowing it.
“You make me feel when I do not wish to,” she said, and to save her pride added, “And you are overbearingly arrogant.”
His thumbs caressed the undersides of her breasts. “Can we not call a truce?”
“As we did on the beach when you had me?”
“Perhaps for a bit longer than that.” He cupped her breast and she leaned into him. Then he stroked across the nipple. Her breaths stuttered. He caressed and she thought she might shatter into little pieces of desire if he ceased.
She clung to his shoulders. “You may have me now.”
“Yes, I was just coming to that.”
“Don’t laugh at me.” Inside her, everywhere, she needed him. “You don’t know what this does to me.”
“I know.” His hand swept down her back to her behind and pulled her against him. “Because it does it to me.” He kissed her deeply. She wanted to climb up him, to wrap herself around him. Her hands sought his chest, then his waist, needing to touch him everywhere and needing him closer. Her fingers collided with uneven flesh and his breaths caught. In the dim light the fresh scarring showed as a dark slash along his side.
“Ah,” he said low. “Minor inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” She had spoken wedding vows because of this wound.
“Rather, opportunity.” He tugged her from the bed, pulled her to him and kissed her. His hands ran over her back and down to her buttocks, then her thighs. Her nightrail slipped over her knees, his palms hot on her skin as he made her part her legs. She gasped, her body exposed to his, and he dragged her against him and her tender flesh met the fabric of his breeches.
“I—” She pressed into him. “I will fall.”
“I am here to catch you.” He drew her onto the bed, onto his lap, and made her straddle him. She did not understand what he wanted but she did it because he wished her to and because she longed to have him close. He kissed her, one hand tight around her hip, the other around her head. His fingertips dug at her bound hair.
“Dear God, why this infernal braid?” he cried as though in suffering.
She laughed.
He fumbled with the hair ribbon. “I will give you anything.” His voice was very rough. “Half—three-quarters—all of my worldly possessions if you will but help me here.”
She stilled his hands and easily unfastened the tie. “I don’t want those things.” She set to unbuttoning his breeches.
“Oh, duchess, duchess,” he groaned, spreading her hair over her shoulders, his gaze heavy with desire. “You may be the death of me yet.”
“I shan’t allow you to die because of me again.”
“I am dying now because of you.” His chest rose hard. “Touch me. Touch me now or watch me perish.”
“Another threat?” Her fingertips strafed his abdomen and the hard muscle there flinched.
“It is a threat only if you would regret my death.” He breathed unevenly. “Arabella, I beg of you.”
She touched him. Desperate though she had been to hold him off again and again, now she wished only to please him.
It was not what she expected. He moaned his pleasure, which she had thought he must feel, but she felt pleasure deep in her too as she touched him, exploring. He covered her hand with his and showed her what he wanted, moving her hand on him until he released her and aided her with the thrust of his hips instead.
“Is this all you want of me?” she said with a shaky voice.
“Yes– No.” His voice was strained. “God no.”
“Then what?”
“I want you to get on me.” His hands came around her hips. “But first . . .” He tugged the chemise from beneath her behind and dragged it up. Her arms and hair caught in it. He held her still, arms raised, hair spilling everywhere. “Oh, God, duchess.”
“I cannot see your face,” she laughed behind the curtain of her hair, “but you sound pained.”
“Pain, yes.” His hand encompassed her breast, warm and teasing the nipple. “Yes.” Then his mouth was on her, around the nipple, hot and wet. He bit lightly. Pleasure rippled through her.
“Free me.”
He dragged the nightrail off. Her hair fell in cascades. He twined a lock around his hand and by it he drew her to him.
She smiled and it felt glorious to allow herself for this moment to enjoy happiness. “Then you are, after all, the sort of man who will drag a woman to your quarters by her hair?”
“Not when she has already invited me into hers.”
“I did not invite you. You picked the lock.”
“The door was unlocked. You expected me.” His fingers stroked a tress from her brow. “You fight me. But you wanted me to come.”
She took his hand and placed it on her waist, and then with her other hand she found his arousal. She went up onto her knees and he said nothing as she fit herself to him, but he watched her face and his breaths were uneven. It was not the same as she remembered it from the beach after those first moments of pain. He was enormous and she was awkward.
His hand tightened on her waist. “Arabella, let me—”
She pressed her lips to his and he sank his fingers into her hair and held her to him as he kissed her.
“Come, beauty,” he said against her lips. “Open for me. Let me give you what you seek.” The tip of his tongue traced her lower lip, his hand curving around her breast. He stroked a thumb over the nipple and she shimmered like raindrops within. She bore down on him and was stretched, then full, then overcome. There was so much of him. Too much in her body and too much of him in her raw heart.
“You will not break.” He tilted her head back and kissed her throat as she sought breaths. “You were made for this,” he murmured, his mouth hot on her neck, his fingertips trailing down her belly. “For me.”
His thumb slid through the hair on her pubis and stroked her intimate flesh. She heard herself make a sound, a whimpering moan, and could not stop. He caressed her and spoke to her softly, and she pressed to him, desperation surging in her.
“More,” she whispered. “Please.”
He thrust her onto him. She moaned and went onto her knees then took him inside her again. Deep, in the back of her throat and everywhere, he pleasured her. He was solid, his hands strong, and she wanted all of him at once. She held his face in her palms and kissed him and greedily took him farther into her. She wanted more. She wanted him inside every part of her.
When the moment came, he held her, and she did not shatter into pieces or break or fight him. Instead she clung to him and when she would have cried his name, she bit her lips.
His skin glimmered with sweat, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. She ran her palms down the contoured muscle to his belly and allowed her fingers to cover the wound so near to where they were joined.
“You lived,” she whispered.
“I was well motivated.” He stroked the hair back from her face and pulled her to him. He kissed her tenderly, gratefully, she thought. Her heart was too full.
She drew away and separated them, and he lay back on the mattress and released a great breath. Cold in her damp skin without his body to warm her, Arabella wrapped the coverlet around her and curled up on her side facing him.
“Have you had what you wanted, Captain?”
His eye was closed but a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. “I have had what I wanted, little governess.” His voice was a quiet rumble, as though he were already half asleep.
“I am leaving here in the morning.”
“The hell you are.”
“I am.”
“How?” He turned his head then rose onto his elbow to face her. “Will a caravan of wandering Gypsies arrive and steal you away?”
“There will be no stealing away. I will simply leave as I arrived, through the front door, in a carriage.”
He stroked a fingertip along her shoulder, pushing the coverlet down her arm, his gaze following. “I don’t believe you. But if I did, I would not allow it.”
“Will you instruct the servants not to let me go? Will you lock the doors against my departure?”
His nostrils flared like an angry horse. “No.”
“Then I will leave.”
He got off the bed, and pulling his breeches over his tight buttocks and fastening them, moved to the bellpull and snapped it down. “Then you will need sustenance for your journey,” he said in an unremarkable voice, with the same lordly charm he used with the rest of his houseguests. He took up the dressing gown he had draped over a gilded chair and shrugged it over his shoulders. It was black and satin.
She sat up, drawing the bedclothes with her. “Even dressed as a lord you look like a pirate.”
He smiled and went to the door. “If you believe I look like a pirate, then you’ve never seen a real one.”
“Have you known real pirates?”
He went into the corridor, drawing the panel nearly closed behind him. But his speech with the servant he had summoned was sufficient to announce to the household that they were lovers, if the gift of the tiara had not already.
