Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

If Winterset Grange looked austere and forbidding from the outside, its interior resembled something out of Ancient Rome at its peak of debauchery and excess.

Being without her spectacles was both a hindrance and a blessing. Everywhere Minerva turned, she saw blurred depictions of flesh. Paintings of lascivious nudes covered the soaring walls, stacked bosom-to-backside three tiers high. Decadent sculptures winked out from alcoves. Some ambitious decorator had splashed gold leaf over everything.

The sculpture nearest Minerva appeared to be Pan, cavorting and twisting atop a Corinthian column. If she squinted, she could make out the fine silver and rosy veins of the stone. Italian, most definitely.

“Such lovely marble, to be so misused.” She ran her fingers over the cool, smooth stone. Then withdrew her hand immediately when she realized the cylindrical protuberance she’d grasped was not a horn, nor a pipe.

Casting about for a safe place to rest her gaze, she looked to the wallpaper. A traditional, pleasant gold-and-white toile pattern of couples dancing. Or were they?

She squinted and peered closer, forcing the pattern into focus.

No, the couples weren’t dancing.

“Payne! It is you.” A man sauntered across the hall to them, dressed in a lazily tied banyan. He seemed young—near to Colin’s age, she’d imagine—and he brought with him an air of cultivated dissipation and the vague scent of opium smoke. He was flanked by two women even more scantily clad than he—one smooth and fair, the other titian-haired. Minerva couldn’t make out the women’s expressions, but their sensuality was a palpable force. She felt their gaze on her, cool and prickling.

This mousy girl can’t be one of us, she imagined them thinking.

I’m not, she wanted to shout. She had this brief, vivid vision of giving Colin, his debauched friend, and these two loose women a good dressing down, smashing priapic Pan to the floor, whirling on her heel, and—

But she had no money. Nowhere to go, and no means of getting there. She didn’t even have her spectacles.

So Minerva lifted her chin and cocked her hip. She shuffled closer to Colin and moved to prop her arm on his shoulder. Of course, with her vision so hampered, she misjudged and propped her arm on air. She stumbled and fell into him instead, splaying one arm over his chest and trying for all the world to look as though she’d meant to do that.

She didn’t think anyone was fooled.

One woman began giggling. The other laughed out loud.

Minerva wanted to sink through the floor.

“Ladies,” the man she presumed to be the Duke of Halford said, “you remember my good friend Payne.”

“But of course,” one of them cooed. “We’re old friends, aren’t we?”

Now Minerva wanted to sink through the floor and die there. She understood Colin was angry, but how could he do this to her?

Colin inclined his head. “Always a pleasure, Hal. Sorry to arrive unannounced. Hope you don’t mind the imposition.”

“Never an imposition! But gods, you did appear from nowhere. I didn’t even hear your carriage in the drive.” The man relinquished his hold on one of the ladies and gave Colin a genial punch on the arm. “The butler told me you’d arrived, and I didn’t believe him. Last I heard, that cousin of yours had you on a short leash.”

“I’ve slipped it, apparently.”

“Good for you. Your timing couldn’t be better. Prinny’s expected to pop round later this week. Girls, go find that puckered housekeeper of mine and tell her to ready Payne’s usual suite.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Halford sent the ladies on their way with a resounding smack to the backside. Then Minerva felt the duke’s gaze slide to her. Her skin crawled.

“Now,” he said, “let’s see to your baggage. Aren’t you going to introduce her, Payne? Don’t believe I’ve seen this one before.”

“No, you haven’t.” Colin trailed a reassuring touch down her back. “Melissande is new.”

Melissande? She briefly closed her eyes to avoid rolling them.

“Not your usual sort, is she?” the duke asked.

“I’ve always enjoyed variety. She may look innocent, but in the bedchamber she’s very surprising.”

“Is she, now?” The duke spoke to her. “Well, then Melissande. Surely my friend will have told you, we’re all friends at Winterset Grange. Aren’t you going to show your host a bit of appreciation? Perhaps you could start with a kiss.”

Her stomach lurched.

Colin’s arm tightened around her waist, lashing her to him and forbidding her to move. He said easily, “You’ll have to excuse her. She doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“Not a word?” The duke chuckled. “Parlez-vous francais?”

“No French, either. She hails from some tiny Alpine principality. Can’t even recall the name of it. They have their own dialect.”

“Hm.” The duke considered. “Fortunately, pleasure is a universal language.” He swept a finger over Minerva’s bared shoulder.

She glared at him, seething. Duke or no duke, ruse or no ruse, symposium or no symposium—Minerva refused to abide such treatment. Even if she lacked a proper lady’s beauty, accomplishments, and social graces, she was a gentlewoman and a free-thinking individual. She had her dignity.

When Halford’s presumptuous touch trailed downward, teasing toward her décolletage, she bristled—and smacked his hand away.

Then she bared her teeth and gave a little growl. Violence was a universal language, too.

“Watch yourself, Halford.” Colin tensed. No good humor in his voice now, only threat. “This one’s not to be trifled with. A friend of my cousin’s in the War Office asked me to keep on eye on her. There are rumors, suspicions. The Crown’s intelligence suggests she’s either a princess in exile or a cold-blooded assassin.”

The duke gave a bark of laugher. “Judging by that bruise on your jaw, my wager’s on the latter. But speaking of wagers, come along. Everyone’s in the card room.”

The duke turned on his heel—his bare heel, for he seemed to be wearing nothing beneath the banyan—and padded down a long corridor.

Colin and Minerva lagged several steps behind.

“Now I’m a cold-blooded assassin?” she hissed. “Where do you come up with these things?”

He shushed her, purposely slowing his paces so that they’d drop even farther behind. “It’s called improvisation, remember? I had to offer some explanation for your behavior.”

Ahead of them, the duke called out to a friend as he turned a corner.

Once Halford was out of sight, Minerva stopped dead in the corridor, wrenching out of Colin’s embrace. She didn’t understand how he could do this to her—be so protective and self-sacrificing one moment, and then so patronizing the next.

“I do not deserve this,” she whispered. “Just because I made the mistake of accepting your . . . attentions . . . last night, that does not make me a whore. How dare you lump me in with those debased women?”

“Believe me, those women would not call themselves debased. And what makes you think they’re whores? Perhaps they’re ladies, every bit as pedigreed and well-bred as you, who understand what you don’t. How to enjoy themselves. How to have a good time.”

“What?” She jabbed a finger in her own chest. “I understand how to enjoy myself. I understand how to have a good time.”

He cocked his head and drawled, “Oh, of course you do.”

“How dare you.” Now she jabbed the same finger in his chest. “How dare you bring me to this place and subject me to that leering, grabby duke.”

He grasped her wrist and lowered his voice. “How dare I, indeed.”

She didn’t have to see his expression to know he was angry. The fury radiated from him.

“How dare I risk my life to save yours, when you all but threw yourself to the highwayman. How dare I bring you to a comfortable house, where we can find food and a night’s shelter after a day of rambling woods and fields. How dare I.”

His hands slid up her shoulders and stopped halfway between her head and neck. As though he were trying to decide whether to kiss her or throttle her.

She would put up a fight, either way.

“We’re going to go into that card room now. We will eat, drink, and play their game. As soon as we’re able, we’ll slip upstairs and have a good night’s sleep. I swear to you, you’ll leave this house tomorrow morning with both your virtue and that disapproving personality intact—tucked safe inside your little shell—so long as you do two things.” He gave her head a little shake. “Stay close to me and play your part.”

“The part of a cold-blooded assassin? I could get inspired for that.”

“The part of my lover.” His fingers slid up and through her hair, dragging exquisite sensation over her scalp. “Search deep inside this clever mind, and try to see if you can’t dredge up the imagination to pretend. To convince those around us that you find something in me to admire. That against all odds, you actually prefer my company to a clod of dirt.”

The ragged hurt in his voice took her by surprise. So here was the reason for his changing moods and erratic behavior. Somehow, in attempting to guard her own fragile emotions, she’d managed to make him feel lower than dirt.

“Colin . . .” She stroked his lapel. “I can convince them I like you. That won’t require imagination.”

This thumb traced her jaw, and his voice went husky. “Won’t it?”

“But no one will believe we’re lovers. You heard those women laugh. You said it yourself, back in Spindle Cove. No one will believe you want me.”

With a groan, he slid his hands down her back. Cupping her backside in two hands, he lifted her and pressed her into the nearest alcove. The possession in his manner thrilled her, and so did the press of his hard, muscled body against hers.

He pressed a kiss to her ear. “What if I said I was an idiot that night?”

“Then I would agree.”

“What if I told you everything’s changed?” He kissed her neck. “That in the past four-and-twenty hours I’ve wanted to murder three different men just for daring to touch you—one of them a duke. That I am desperate with longing, consumed with wanting you. As I’ve wanted no other woman in all my debauched, misspent life.”

His tongue traced her pulse, and her breath caught. “Then I would doubt you,” she breathed.

Why?”

“Because . . .” Because I doubt myself. “Because I know how easily you lie.”

He clutched her bottom, bringing her pelvis flush with his. His hardness ground against her, sending pleasure rushing through her veins.

“Feel that?” he growled.

She nodded. Good Lord, how could she not?

“I’ve been hard for you for days, Minerva. Since before we even left Spindle Cove. If you believe nothing else, believe this.” He rocked against her. “This doesn’t lie.”

Colin was done pretending.

He ushered Minerva into the card room. After he’d greeted the half dozen familiar faces assembled about the green felt tabletop and introduced his feisty foreign mistress-or-murderess Melissande, he took his own chair.

And taking Minerva by the hips, he put her on his lap. Nestled her sweet little backside on his left thigh, draped one arm about her shoulders, and let his hand dangle directly over her breast. With lazy motions, he traced the delicate border where her altered neckline chafed against her exposed décolletage.

“Stay close,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. While he was in the neighborhood, he took the chance to catch her tiny earlobe with his teeth.

In sum, he made the two of them very, very cozy. Not to create appearances for Halford’s sake. Not to prove a point to her, or to anyone.

Simply because he wanted her. And he was done pretending otherwise.

“Well, Payne.” The duke reached for the deck of cards. “The game is brag.”

Colin surveyed the coins and gambling tokens scattered on the table. “Stake me a sovereign’s worth, will you? I’m not carrying much coin on me.”

“But of course.” The duke slid him two stacks of shillings, each ten pieces tall.

Minerva tensed in his lap.

“Hush,” he murmured against her hair. “Trust me.” She should understand this was necessary. A few hours at the card table earned their board and keep.

She made a doubtful noise in her throat. But she kept still.

“Be a good host, Hal, and have one of these liveried jackanapes fetch my lady food and wine? She could do with some nourishment.”

“So could you, from the looks of you.”

“Yes, well.” Colin grinned. “We’ve quite exhausted each other over the past few days.”

The gamblers around the table laughed heartily. The duke merely waved for servants to bring refreshments and began to deal the cards. Halford was always all business, in the card room.

Colin turned his attention to the cards. Minerva turned hers to the food.

She took care of him, in small ways. While he concentrated on the hand he was dealt, she had his glass filled with claret. Now she prepared for him a slice of roast pork, sandwiched between two halves of a buttered roll. In the process, she dabbed a bit of butter on her thumb. She put her thumb to her mouth and sucked it clean. Colin knew she didn’t intend the motion to be coy or provocative. Which made it arousing as hell.

He’d noted this about her, ever since that first night in the turret. There was an earthy, natural sensuality in her, but it only emerged when she felt confident. Or when she’d had a little wine. He wondered what it would take to coax this Minerva out into the world, permanently. She would need a steady supply of assurance, he supposed. Perhaps her participation in the Royal Geological Society could give her that, to some degree. But the right man could do far more. The right man could plant seeds of confidence, deep inside her, and nurture them to healthy, robust vines that reached and stretched, offering sweet, bountiful fruit.

The only fruit she cared for at the moment was the plate of grapes and apricots before them. Filling her famished belly was clearly her primary goal, and she went about it with energy—devouring wedges of cheese and slices of ham. When a passing servant offered her a tray of bite-sized tarts, she abandoned her wineglass with an eager gasp and reached for a tart with either hand.

She popped one in her mouth and offered the other to him.

Rather than take it with his fingers, he grasped her wrist to hold it steady. Then he devoured the morsel of pastry directly from her fingers, letting his tongue swirl over her fingertips. She sighed, and the little sound was more honey-sweet and sinfully delicious than a jam tart could ever hope to be.

Halford cleared his throat. “It’s your bet, Payne.”

Colin shook himself and sent a shilling wobbling toward the center of the table. “Yes, of course.”

He played, they ate. When they’d both consumed their fill, Colin waved for servants to remove the plates and trays.

Minerva made herself comfortable in his lap. Her fingers curled into the fringe of hair at his nape, toying idly. She stroked up and down the tendons of his neck, soothing away the tension coiled there. Little brushes of kindness he didn’t deserve.

He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, “You do know I’m sorry? For earlier.”

She gave a slight nod.

With a breathy groan, he slid his arm to her waist and gathered her close. She laid her head on his chest.

He kissed her crown. “Sleep, if you wish.”

She released a full-body sigh and melted in his embrace. This easy intimacy between them . . . it made sense, he supposed, given their adventures over the past few days and nights. But still, it came as a surprise.

He’d been physically intimate with many women, and he’d felt emotionally close to others. But thus far, he’d assiduously worked to keep the two social spheres separate. There were women Colin counted as friends, and then there were women he bedded. Anytime he’d allowed the two groups to overlap, it meant trouble.

Minerva Highwood had meant nothing but trouble to him, since the very first.

But by God, he’d returned the favor. As she curled into his chest, she felt so small and fragile against him. In the past four-and-twenty hours, she’d walked untold miles across the English countryside, surrendered all her money at gunpoint, pulled a knife on a highwayman, and entered a house that oozed such Bacchanalian excess as to send a gently-bred virgin screaming. And all this, just one day on the heels of her first proper orgasm.

Never once had she dissolved into helpless tears. Or begged him to just please take her home. Not one woman in a hundred would handle herself so well in similar circumstances.

He made a vow to himself, then and there. If he did nothing else right in his life, he would do this: deliver Minerva Highwood to Edinburgh for her scientific presentation. On time, in one piece. And with her virtue intact.

Some way, somehow, he would make these good intentions come out right.

He gently stroked her hair and back with his left hand as he gathered his cards with the right. “Sleep,” he murmured again.

As she shifted in his lap, her thigh rubbed against him. His body’s reaction was immediate, instinctual. Blood rushed to his groin, hardening his cock and loosening his tenuous hold on those cherished principles. He wanted her physically, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise.

But he must endeavor to hide this other, more visceral reaction—the overwhelming, tenderness rising in his chest.

The simple, unthinkable fact that he cared.