Wicked Wager Page 8

  Tugging nervously at her gloves, Celeste tried to adopt an expression of distant admiration for the works of art surrounding her. She was a lady of fashion with a love of art and must not draw attention to herself.

  Canvases in various degrees of completion leaned against the sides of the walls, and on easels, while a gauze-draped chaise longue in the far corner suggested where the artist’s model might repose when she sat for the artist.

  A well-dressed couple at the far end of the room, speaking with the painter, were the only other occupants, she noticed with beating heart as she searched for Lord Peregrine.

  She was unsure if she were relieved or otherwise that he was not here, but the possibilities so tantalisingly within reach made her mouth dry and her palms clammy as she gazed at the serene visage of the artist’s beautiful muse and wondered what it must be like to enjoy such freedom.

  Perhaps one day Celeste might know peace when she’d done all that Raphael required of her; though what entertainment would be on offer after she was married and gone to Jamaica was another matter. This afternoon’s little jaunt, sanctioned by Raphael and with such clear instructions on what she must achieve, was the most license she’d been granted since she’d worn her hair loose and unpowdered.

  Taking a few regal steps towards a cluster of oils, she glanced about the room. He was still not here.

  Oh dear Lord, she felt sick with anticipation. Soon she’d have to put to the test her abilities to extract information from someone far more experienced than she in the arts of sophisticated obfuscation. She bent towards a painting of a girl on a swing, closing her eyes as her thoughts whirled.

  Then a rustling beside her and a familiar murmur made the blood rush to her head.

  ‘The beauty of the artist’s muse is but a pale imitation of yours, Miss Rosington.’

  So he was here. She tried not to be discomposed by his words, not batting an eyelid as she took the arm the viscount offered her, inclining her head in polite appreciation as he indicated a painting of the titian-haired beauty dressed in Grecian robes appearing to rise up from the sea.

  ‘You flatter me, my lord,’ she replied under her breath, as she obediently allowed herself to be led to the most secluded part of the room. ‘There is no need for it, though. I came, didn’t I?’

  ‘You came, and I can’t tell you how pleased I am, though we did not part on the best of terms,’ he conceded, strolling past painting upon painting with barely a glance. ‘This time I promise to be better behaved.’

  ‘I feel relatively safe in such a public place,’ Celeste replied wryly.

  So far, so good, she thought. She’d managed to hide the visible signs of her palpitating heart.

  He stopped and stared thoughtfully ahead. For the moment, all trace of the infamous seducer had vanished. His contemplative gaze was full of intelligence, his mouth cast in a pleasant curve and her heart lurched a little. But when he looked down at her, his eyes were suddenly hooded and there was speculation in his expression.

  Celeste turned away, disliking what she saw. He regarded her as an opportunity or a conquest, rather than an attractive woman, and the knowledge was deeply dampening. How thrilling life had been when she believed Lord Peregrine genuinely entranced.

  Misery swamped her. ‘You think I’m guilty in my dealings with Harry Carstairs, don’t you, my lord?’ She slanted a desperate look at him, as surprised by her spontaneous candour as clearly the viscount was, but before he could answer she forced herself to go on. Now she knew how she must proceed: with the truth. Without transparency there could be nothing gained from this association. Yes, Raphael had counselled her to use every feminine wile at her disposal to prise the locket from Lord Peregrine, but Celeste was a poor liar. She’d stumble at the first post. And oh, it was a bitter pill to understand the real reason for Lord Peregrine’s interest.

  ‘You pursued me, my lord, both at Vauxhall and at Lord and Lady Cowdril’s house party—after you learned I was the woman last seen with Harry.’ The breeze through the open window ruffled the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck and she shivered, for now there was no turning back. Squaring her chin, she added, ‘So either you are intent on punishing me, or there is some other means by which you believe you can profit by our association … is that not so, my lord?’

  She observed the flare of surprise in his eyes, followed by a more thoughtful look as he straightened his queue, the froth of lace at his wrists obscuring for a moment the working of his features. ‘Come, Miss Rosington. Step over the threshold into the next room for but a moment. Your maid will not miss you.’

  He took her hand and led her into the gloom beneath the low eaves. A room clearly not intended for visitors. She should not go, of course. He would try and kiss her and maybe she would let him; yes, and fondle her and make her feel things that would serve forever as a reminder of how much she was missing in her real marriage.

  She should not go when she knew his intentions went no further than base seduction, but oh, just to feel for a few moments would be worth all the years of loneliness that stretched ahead of her; even if he was just a grubby seducer with such different motivations from the ones she’d originally attributed to him.

  Obediently she allowed him to lead her over the threshold, her nod to Mary leaving the girl in no doubt that they were not to be disturbed.

  In the darkness she could just discern the outline of his face as he loomed above her. He held her hands up to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.

  ‘You are an honest woman, Miss Rosington,’ he murmured, ‘and brave too. Yes, you are right, I did seek you out after I learned from my sister of your association with Harry.’

  She heard his gentle sigh as he stooped to bring his head closer. ‘An association which has brought her great torment and which you’ve not begun to explain.’ He released her hands and gently cupped her face, his expression searching as he whispered, ‘Miss Rosington … will you explain to me your interest in Harry Carstairs before I am candid about my interest in you?’

  Celeste closed her eyes as he began to caress her cheek, surrendering herself to his gentle touch as he traced the outline of her lips with his forefinger, mesmerised as he went on in a low murmur, ‘For I am more than interested, but I must know if Harry is your lover.’

  ‘My lover!’ She jerked her head away, stepping back quickly as she shook her head. ‘Harry Carstairs is not my lover!’

  A shaft of light from a grimy skylight spilled onto the floorboards between them. Across the pool of dancing sunbeams, Celeste faced him squarely. Raphael would wring her neck to hear her speak so plainly but Lord Peregrine was not a fool or likely to be easily deceived. Nor, fortunately, was he looking at her as if he suspected she was trying to deceive him.

  She took a deep breath, focusing on a dancing sunbeam rather than Lord Peregrine’s face. In that instant she determined that she would tell him the truth: everything she knew, Raphael be damned. Clenching her fists she took a deep breath and prepared herself, wondering if Lord Peregrine would manage to contain his inscrutable mask by the time she was done and wishing she were as practised at keeping her real thoughts to herself.

  ‘Harry Carstairs is a friend of my cousin and intended, Lord Ogilvy,’ she said carefully. Lord, honesty was one thing but she must ensure no hint of scandal attach to any of them by the time she was done. It wasn’t just Celeste’s reputation that hung in the balance, for if she were responsible for tarnishing Raphael or Harry, her existence would be intolerable. Choosing her words with even greater care, she went on. ‘When Harry disappeared mysteriously shortly after arriving in England, Raphael was beside himself with worry. More so when he learned Harry was in danger.’

  ‘In danger?’ Lord Peregrine raised an eyebrow.

  So he had not known? That was some small relief. Celeste nodded. ‘Harry had been supposed to meet Raphael, that is, Lord Ogilvy, immediately after visiting his lawyer but he never turned up. When Raphael made enquiries, he was told Harry
had not returned to his townhouse which, if you did not know, was engulfed by fire only a week ago, though whether that has any bearing on what happened to Harry cannot be known. Then finally Raphael received a message from Harry.’ Celeste sighed, remembering Raphael’s relief when he learned that his friend was safe.

  ‘Go on,’ Lord Peregrine signalled with a slight nod.

  There was nothing to be gained by keeping anything back. ‘The note had been written in haste by Harry to Raphael, telling him Harry had been held captive on the way back from his lawyer’s. He said he’d escaped and was in hiding in the basement of his townhouse and his life was in danger; that those who would see him dead were just waiting for him to come out.’ She had to tread carefully now, for the truth was one thing but the reasons behind it could not be divulged. She slanted a look up at Lord Peregrine. ‘He said he truly believed that unless he could escape, in disguise, his throat would be cut.’

  ‘Good God! Harry Carstairs must have had some formidable foes if he believed that … unless he were not of rational mind.’ Lord Peregrine lowered his head. ‘Have you any idea who these cutthroats were and why they wanted Carstairs?’

  Celeste was glad of the gloom. Lord Peregrine would be less likely to discern the nervous working of her features and suspect she was not telling him everything. ‘I think these men felt they’d been cheated. Harry owed a lot of people rather a lot of money.’

  She was relieved when that seemed to satisfy Lord Peregrine, who said, ‘And I presume the message came in the locket asking you to bring him clothes to effect his disguise?’

  Celeste nodded, glad he could see the connection and hoping he believed it exonerated her.

  ‘But why send the locket?’ He straightened and gripped her forearms, frowning. ‘And why did Lord Ogilvy send you to rescue Harry, my dear, if such danger threatened?’

  Celeste dropped her head. ‘Raphael believed I was the only one he could trust to do what needed to be done.’ She remembered her own dismay at being faced with such a terrifying situation. Mary had accompanied her to the basement door after Raphael had walked them silently through the streets, ensuring to the best of his ability that no one saw Celeste enter. He’d hired a street urchin to create a minor disturbance a few yards away, pretending the lad had stolen from him so all attention would be diverted from someone entering the Cadogan Square premises.

  ‘The locket was very valuable apparently,’ Celeste added. ‘Harry knew Raphael would understand the graveness of his situation if he sent it rather than just a note, which might go astray. He also suggested that I be sent as I could discard my cloak and several petticoats and so effect his means of escape, without compromising mine.’

  ‘What a brave young woman you are.’ Lord Peregrine smiled wryly but Celeste was unable to see the humour. The events of that night were still too raw.

  She squeezed shut her eyes. ‘A judicious combination of threat and inducement served to do the trick.’

  ‘Well, I shall start with inducement.’ Suddenly Lord Peregrine’s breath was tickling her ear as he gently wrapped his arms about her. The warmth of the contact seeped through her as she rested her head against his chest, revelling in the rare sense of sanctuary as he murmured, ‘Your betrothed has certainly sought to profit from you before you’re even married. Do you love him so much that you’d so willingly sacrifice your safety?’

  Or my reputation? she thought with despair, replying with resignation as she buried her face in his striped waistcoat, ‘As I said, a judicious combination of threat and inducement works wonders when one has little in the way of bargaining power.’ Celeste did not resist as his hands stroked her cheeks before trailing down her throat, sliding beneath her fichu to explore the sensitive skin above her décolletage. The human touch he offered so soon after she’d revealed the terror of that night was cathartic, laced though it was with danger.

  ‘And of course I know the rest of the story, my dear,’ he murmured, as he continued to caress her with gentle fingertips. ‘My sister chose an inopportune time to pay a highly inappropriate visit and she found you divesting yourself of your petticoats to help Carstairs and so jumped to her own conclusions.’

  ‘That is the truth of it, my lord,’ Celeste whispered, nuzzling closer against him as she twined her arms about his neck, to deepen the contact.

  This moment would be the pinnacle of all she’d ever enjoy; she realised that in the dark recesses of her brain as she only half consciously tried to draw from him all the sensations her affection-starved body craved. ‘You sought me out to punish me for destroying your sister’s happiness, as you believed it, but I have told you the truth.’

  Whether he believed her or not, she’d never know, but she could enjoy this. In a darkened room in an artist’s studio she’d be safe from straying too far from the boundaries of what was acceptable. But for now they had the privacy to indulge in the kissing and fondling she was all to ready to throw herself into, body and soul.

  In days she’d become Lady Ogilvy, after which her life stretched into the barren unknown. She’d be living in a country she had no desire even to visit, away from all that seemed safe and that had sustained her until now. Allowing Lord Peregrine the liberty to kiss her and stroke her in the darkness would not trouble her conscience, while he’d be only too happy to be given such licence.

  ‘I could never reconcile the impression I gained of you with the hardened jezebel my sister—and others—would have you painted.’ She heard the suggestion of humour in his voice. ‘And I would never have asked the question of a hardened jezebel, but I would ask it of you, sweet Celeste …’

  She opened her eyes and her heart flowered to see him staring down at her with such desire. ‘May I kiss you?’ He moved his head closer. ‘I thought the precaution of asking wise, in view of the repercussions last time I attempted such liberties.’

  Celeste blinked open her eyes. ‘I promise I won’t slap you this time, my lord.’ With a smile she primed her lip with her tongue. ‘It’s true; before, I felt you were indeed taking liberties, but this time I very much want you to kiss me.’

  His smile was so full of tender humour she nearly dragged his head down to begin the kissing herself.

  Instead, closing her eyes with a shiver, she surrendered to the sweet touch of his lips bearing down on hers with gentle and growing urgency. Her heart was free of guilt and her body ready to receive the love and desire Lord Peregrine was ready to communicate.

  Even when his hand strayed to her décolletage, slipping beneath her tight bodice, she did not withdraw. She was hungry for the physical, revelling in the spears of sensation that shot from the point of his touch to somewhere in the pit of her roiling belly. Her breathing quickened, sudden short, sharp breaths leaving her starved of air and something just out of reach that she could not articulate.

  It was forbidden, fascinating, all-consuming and it may be the only opportunity she’d have in her lifetime to experience the desires of body and heart.

  ‘Ah, my lord, but you do exquisite things to me,’ she murmured, shifting slightly to accommodate his change of tactics.

  A moment before Lord Peregrine had been toying with her nipple. Now suddenly he swooped, pushing her left breast out of its confines and taking it into his hot, greedy mouth.

  Celeste squeaked and held him tighter as he suckled her nipple. She felt the cord of connection between them grow tauter and her brain reel into the ether on a cloud of rapture as her body succumbed to unknown pleasures.

  If only Lord Peregrine were her husband, then this and so much more would be sanctioned.

  If only he were her husband?

  If pigs could fly …

  Miserably she dragged her mind back to reality.

  There was as much likelihood of Lord Peregrine making her his wife as there was of Raphael loving her.

  Chapter Eight

  Sincerity was not an emotion with which Perry was much familiar or that, until now, he’d particularly esteemed. His rela
tions with women had taught him that one never said what one really felt.

  Now, with Miss Rosington responding to his overtures with all the enthusiasm that he might once have regarded as the hallmarks of an experienced jade, he could think only of how he might protect her and her innocence.

  For this was enthusiasm born of innocence. She truly had not experienced the sensations he was delivering, and clearly with such success.

  Xenia would say he’d been hoodwinked.

  He didn’t care, but nor did he believe it. He did, however, believe Miss Rosington’s story.

  Voices growing louder nearby suggested they would be wise to halt their lovemaking, though Peregrine was reluctant to relinquish Miss Rosington at the same time as he was careful to hold her away from the possibility of being recognised, should by some chance an intruder appear.

  He caught her smile as he shifted her gently.

  ‘That was even nicer than I’d expected,’ she whispered, straightening her fichu and ordering her hair. Her smile grew wistful. ‘It shall sustain me when I’m in my new island home.’

  He was shocked by the jolt of alarm that speared him. ‘You are leaving London?’ He’d not expected that.

  She blinked, looking surprised. ‘You did not know? Raphael and I sail directly after we’ve said our vows. I don’t know when or if I shall be back.’

  The idea that he’d not see her again was suddenly untenable. Peregrine had fondly imagined many future such trysts, stolen moments when Celeste’s new husband, whom she’d roundly declared she did not love, was otherwise occupied.

  Now the thought of never seeing her again left him curiously bereft.

  He leaned forward to cup her face, strange thoughts he’d never imagined entertaining chasing themselves around his brain. Call him a fool, but surely there came a time in a man’s life when he’d be a fool to act counter to every instinct that screamed at him?

  ‘You can’t leave.’ He shook his head, not caring that the trappings of the careless philanderer he was so at pains to cultivate had well and truly fallen from his shoulders. She was leaving the country? No, he could not let this be. Contouring her face with his hands he looked deep into her eyes. ‘I had not realised your departure was set in stone. That it was so imminent.’