Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

S he'd left her fichu behind.

And his raging cock, begging for release.

The latter had been Nando's own fault. He had decided, drunk on the sweet elixir of Eleanora's cunny, that he would wait to take her. That he would make their first time together about her and her pleasure instead of himself and his own selfish needs. He had intended to take himself in hand after she fled his chamber as if it were Hades.

But then Bruno had arrived with Benvolio, and his plan had dispersed like a flock of startled fowls. Because Nando could not milk his cock until he came whilst he had an audience of a gray-and-white cat who possessed a tendency to curl up on his chest whenever he was lying in bed. Thwarted, he had enjoyed a happy reunion with the feline he had rescued from the London streets and who had been his constant companion ever since. He'd spent the remainder of the evening frustrated and sullen, attempting to sleep, Benvolio's fur stuck to his cheek and making his nose ticklish.

He had risen this morning with a desperate cockstand and no means of sating himself until later that evening. Supposing Eleanora would be persuaded to come to him again, that was. Which, given her ability to avoid him thus far today, seemed increasingly less likely. She'd been conspicuously absent at breakfast, which he had taken below instead of in his room. She and the princesses had then enjoyed luncheon an hour before the rest of the household. And now, it was approaching dinner, and he was roaming the halls like a starving wolf desperately attempting to scent his next meal.

Pathetic, really.

Nando didn't chase women. He didn't need to. They fell into his lap. But here he was, chasing shadows on the Aubusson, hoping for the slightest glimpse of Eleanora's figure enrobed in whatever hideous muslin frock she'd chosen for the day.

"Just the man I was looking for."

Damnation.

At the sound of Archer Tierney's voice behind him, Nando halted and spun about.

"Well, if it isn't my beloved jailer," he said, not without a hint of bite, for even if he was beneath the same roof as Eleanora, he was growing weary of his host's insistence upon keeping him here.

It was indeed beginning to feel just a bit like a gaol.

"Your protector is a much more apt descriptor, Highness," Tierney countered, unperturbed. "Since you appear to be in full possession of your faculties this fine evening, perhaps you will join me in my study."

He was referring, no doubt, to the laudanum Bruno had insisted upon pouring down his gullet.

"My wound is healing nicely. No need for laudanum at present." He smiled as if he didn't have a care.

In truth, laudanum might be required if he couldn't soon rid himself of the nettling urge to ease his sensual frustration. Not even the sight of a frowning Tierney and the notion of enduring another interview with the man was enough to entirely assuage his lust. It was damned disconcerting. He didn't recall ever being in such a state.

But perhaps that was because he had never previously encountered such obstacles in quelling his need. Certainly, he couldn't remember ever having wanted a woman as badly as he wanted Eleanora. She made him desperate for her.

"Excellent news," Tierney said, jolting Nando from his thoughts. "This way, if you please."

The man had the same way of commanding a room that Nando's older brother Maxim possessed, but Archer Tierney was no king. It was rather annoying.

"Is that a request or a command, Tierney?" he asked, his voice emerging harsher than he had intended.

After all, the man had extended his hospitality. And all indications from the reports Nando received from Bruno suggested that Tierney had the investigation into his attempted assassination firmly in hand. Nando himself didn't care to contemplate such troubling matters. The notion of his own mortality was disconcerting. He far preferred to distract himself with pleasure and indulge his whims rather than contemplate the finite nature of his time on terra firma.

Tierney raised a single brow, his countenance haughty enough to resemble any king's. "Mayhap it's both, Highness. Test me and see."

With that, he turned his back upon Nando and began striding away.

No one turned their backs upon the House of Tayrnes. The slight was no doubt intentional. And then there was the distinct and intentional abbreviation of his address— Highness instead of Your Royal Highness . Setting his molars on edge, Nando followed in Tierney's wake, joining him in a dark-paneled room that smelled distinctly of tobacco and smoke and looked far less regal than the rest of the town house. It was, he knew instinctively, a chamber that was Tierney's domain. No hint of a feminine hand here as was evidenced so plainly in all the other rooms with their abundance of flowers and lovely gilt-framed paintings and sumptuous furniture.

The chair upon which he sat was bloody hard.

"Whisky?" Tierney asked. "Cheroot?"

Ah, two vices he adored, along with women, of course. Finally, he was beginning to like the hardheaded bastard a bit.

"Both," he said mildly.

Tierney poured him a measure of amber liquid and presented a velvet-lined case bearing cheroots before serving himself as well. Silence reigned as they lit their cheroots and his host settled himself in his infinitely more comfortable-looking chair, thanks to the velvet cushion and back. The arms, however, were carved mahogany, a tusked wild boar represented on each.

Nando cast an acidic look in the direction of that seating instrument. "My goodness, you've had your likeness carved upon it."

Unkind of him, he knew, but he'd been walking about with a nearly perpetual cockstand all day, and he was feeling positively bilious as a result.

"A gift from my beloved wife," Tierney said smoothly. "Her Royal Highness informs me that the boar is a revered animal in her homeland." He paused, puffing thoughtfully on his cheroot. "She also told me she rather thought it resembled you."

Nando had taken a sip of his whisky and had to swallow with such haste that he nearly choked. The result was an indelicate, loud spluttering and a fine mist of Scots whisky raining on Tierney's desk.

"So sorry, old chap. I say, you aren't choking, are you?" Tierney asked with deceptive innocence and blatantly false concern.

"If you were in my homeland, I would have you jailed," Nando rasped without heat, his voice scarcely more than a croak. "I'd send you a diet of nothing but pig snouts for two weeks, and I would give you the leaves of the Iccysle plant to wipe your arse."

The Iccysle plant was native to Varros, and its deceptively inviting, lush greenery left anyone who touched it with a terrible, blistered rash.

"Fortunately, I have no notion of what the Iccy-lickle-whatnot plant is." Tierney grinned. "Else I might consider that a threat."

They locked narrowed stares for a moment. Nando gave in to temptation and took a long drag from his cheroot. It was excellent. Better than he'd expected.

He tipped his head back and exhaled a perfect ring of smoke, a trick he had learned long ago when he'd spent an indeterminate span of time at a seraglio during his more youthful and eventful travels.

"I'd never threaten you, Tierney." He grinned. "Where else would I have my supper or a roof over my head since I'm not permitted to return to my own abode?"

The truth of it was, he could return any time he liked—he wasn't being held against his will. But here he remained, bearing the insults of an English jackanapes. Sitting on a hard chair that was making his left arse cheek fall asleep. Suffering through the worst bout of unrelieved ballocks he had ever endured. His cock, now that he had allowed his mind to stray to the memory of Eleanora's cunt gripping his finger, remained half erect despite his present position and although he was occupying a room with another man whom he didn't particularly like.

"Indeed," Tierney drawled, exhaling his own cloud of smoke as he lifted his whisky in a salute. "However, I do believe you may be closer to returning to your own town house, Highness."

Highness. There it was again.

Nando sipped his whisky, telling himself to let the trivial insult go. "Oh?"

"My men and I have been making a great deal of inquiries, searching for anyone who may have been on the street the day you were shot," Tierney said, his tone businesslike once more. "We have discovered three different people who recognized a man in a greatcoat bearing down upon you that day. They all vow that it was the man who also raised a flintlock pistol and fired a shot at you before disappearing into the crowds."

This was news at last.

Nando's spine stiffened. "Who?"

Tierney exhaled a plume of smoke. "Are you familiar with the Earl of Levering?"

Nando's stomach clenched. The Earl of Levering. Damn the bastard to hell—he ought to have suspected the earl's furious hunger for vengeance hadn't been satisfied by Maxim's coin.

Nando flashed a grim smile. "I happen to be more familiar with the Countess of Levering than with the earl."

But Levering was no stranger to him after the man had caught Nando with his lusty countess. Lady Levering's carnal appetite had been astoundingly immense and perverse even by Nando's admittedly sordid standards, and although she had vowed that her husband would never know about their affair, her assurances had proved false.

Apparently, the bribe to avoid the duel hadn't been nearly as successful as Nando and Maxim had believed.

Tierney's mien was equally forbidding. "Good God, you've been bedding Lady Levering?"

Nando winced. "Our association is not a recent one. During my last trip to London, the countess and I enjoyed a brief entanglement that ended when her irate husband discovered us in an unfortunate state of dishabille."

A nice way of saying he'd been fucking the countess's mouth whilst she'd been on her knees, moaning around his cock.

The memory made Nando's gut curdle now. What the devil had he been doing, shagging his way through London without a care for whom he bedded or why or what the consequences might be? The notion of making love to anyone other than Eleanora felt suddenly foreign and as appealing as a spoiled bowl of fish soup. She was his, the only woman for him, and the knowledge was as profound as it was undeniable.

Why had he not realized it before now? Why had he ever believed that seducing her would be enough?

"Levering was furious with you?" Tierney pressed. "What did he say? Did he threaten you in any way?"

"He challenged me to a duel." Nando's right arse cheek was falling asleep now too. He squirmed on the seat. "Fortunately, we were able to avoid one."

"How?"

There was no polite way to phrase it that Nando could find. Not in English anyway.

"My brother bribed him with a massive sum," he admitted wryly. "Levering accepted the funds, and I was under the impression that the entire affair had been forgotten, if not forgiven."

"It would appear otherwise."

Nando took a sip of his whisky, needing distraction. "Indeed, it would."

"You have not been bedding her during this visit?" Tierney demanded.

Nando's ears went hot—he felt like a lad who had been caught with his first wench. "No. Not that it is any concern of yours where I put my prick, Tierney."

"I am conducting an investigation," Tierney said coolly. "Trust me, the last thing I wish for is to fret over the women you've been indiscriminately fucking."

Nando clenched his jaw. "You go too far, Tierney."

He inclined his head, looking decidedly unrepentant. "I am a man of plain speech, Highness."

"I do not bed every woman I meet," he felt the need to point out.

As he'd said, it was no business of Tierney's. However, the mantle of rakehell he'd always worn felt far too heavy suddenly. No longer a good fit.

Tierney shrugged. "As you say. Our primary concern is proving Levering tried to murder you. I had heard whisperings that there was an enemy of Varros and Boritania in London who perhaps wished to do you harm. However, I've discovered no evidence of that. I learned this morning that the man I suspected is, in fact, a Varrosian spy, sent by your brother to watch over you in secret."

How like Maxim to spy on him from afar. Nando was not surprised to learn that someone other than Bruno had been sent to London.

"Thank you for your efforts on my behalf," he offered grudgingly.

Tierney raised a brow. "Reserve your gratitude for my wife. I've expended these efforts on her behalf far more than yours. She considers you a trusted member of her inner circle, given your connection to the queen."

Tierney was making it more than clear that he harbored no love for Nando. Fair enough. Nando didn't particularly like the Englishman either. He couldn't begin to imagine why Princess Stasia had thrown over his brother Maxim to be this rugged, raffish rogue's wife.

"I will throw myself at her feet," he said.

Tierney's eyes narrowed. "If you venture anywhere near to my wife's feet, I'll kill you myself."

Unconcerned, Nando took a small puff of his cheroot, contemplating the information Tierney had just imparted. "Levering is an earl. I don't imagine that having him arrested for trying to murder me would prove easy."

"Nearly impossible," Tierney confirmed. "We have no proof to suggest he was responsible for shooting you, aside from the witnesses, and as a murder has not truly been committed…"

Nando wasn't familiar with the vagaries of English law, but the other man's countenance as his words trailed off suggested there was no hope at seeing the earl jailed for shooting him.

"Understood. Perhaps Levering's desire to kill me has been satisfied by my wounding," he suggested. "He's had his bit of vengeance and flesh now, along with a small fortune. One can only hope he is finally willing to move past any ill will he harbors against me for my association with his wife."

"I don't prefer to operate on hopes, Highness."

"And I don't like to be an unwilling guest at the town house of a cantankerous Englishman," he countered, feeling absurdly freed by the news. "I would prefer to return to my own home at the earliest convenience."

That would mean leaving Eleanora behind. Nando loathed the thought. Realization dawned on him suddenly with utter, perfect clarity. There was an option far preferable to abandoning Eleanora.

And that was taking her with him.

But there was only one way she would agree to accompany him, and he knew what that meant. He also found himself strangely at peace with the notion. The thought of wedding and bedding her had been a maggot in his brain from the moment he had first conceived it, refusing to let him go. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more natural and necessary it felt.

"I recommend remaining here under the watch of my own men," Tierney said, frowning, "but if you wish to go, I have no means of stopping you. All I can say is that you should take great care. Inform your bodyguard of what I've learned concerning Levering. And perhaps return to your homeland as soon as you are able to travel."

There would be no returning to Varros. At least not until he had what he wanted most.

A smile crept over Nando's lips. All he had to do was convince Eleanora to marry him.

" All my trousers?" Princess Emmaline demanded, her countenance a commingling of outrage and dread that would have been amusing were not the circumstances so dire.

Eleanora sighed, keeping her tone gentle, for she well understood the princess's fury was not directed at her. "I am afraid so, Your Royal Highness. The choice is your sister's and not mine. I am merely following her edict."

Her efforts at remaining sympathetic to the princess's plight went unappreciated.

The younger woman crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive pose, eyes flashing with defiance. "I won't do it. I won't give up my trousers. They are mine, and she cannot take them."

Eleanora resisted the urge to dig her fingers into her temples in an effort to relieve the dreadful ache in her head, which had been omnipresent throughout the day and was growing worse the longer she spent enduring Princess Emmaline's tantrum.

As it was, she'd spent the night before tossing fitfully in her narrow bed, unable to sleep for thoughts of Nando and the pleasure he had given her, tormented by longing and guilt in equal measures. And then she had returned to her duties by morning, dark circles beneath her eyes, utterly exhausted, contending with a charge who had somehow slipped from the town house without alerting the watchful eye of any of Mr. Tierney's guards and had gone riding.

Alone.

But that had not been the worst of it—oh no.

For the headstrong Princess Emmaline had also chosen to wear trousers for the occasion.

Eleanora had only made the discovery of Princess Emmaline's misadventure too late, when the princess had returned, sneaking through the halls like a thief intent upon filching the silver. Eleanora had known she needed to go to Princess Anastasia with her discovery for Princess Emmaline's own safety. It was a miracle that an unchaperoned woman in trousers hadn't been attacked or absconded with. All London was atwitter with the presence of the princesses and their outlandish ways. An enterprising criminal would have only had to take one look at the lovely woman in trousers and recognize her as one of the wealthy Boritanian princesses.

The result had been a stern admonishment for Princess Emmaline, followed by banishment to her room whilst Princess Anastasia decided how best to punish her sister for her misdeeds. Eleanora had been relieved when Princess Anastasia had reassured her that her position was not in jeopardy after the princess's antics.

And now, that punishment was finally being delivered by Eleanora—Princess Anastasia wanted every pair of trousers her younger sister owned.

"Princess Emmaline," she tried again, keeping her voice calm by miracle only. "You must understand how deeply worried your sister is by your actions today. There is great danger for a woman alone, particularly when she is dressed as you were and when she is easily recognized as a woman of great wealth."

Princess Emmaline's chin went up. "I will own that what I did was foolish. However, I would not have had to resort to such desperate measures had she and Mr. Tierney not chosen to keep me here as if I am a prisoner. I lived in a prison in Boritania under my evil uncle's rule, and now it would seem as if I have traded one gaoler for another. Furthermore, I fail to understand what my trousers have to do with any of this. They are not hers to take. They are mine."

"As you have said, my dear." Eleanora approached the furious princess, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "Your sister loves you and only wants you to remain safe during your time in London."

"No, what she truly wants is for me to marry some English fop so that she can forget all about me and carry on with her beloved husband," Emmaline countered. "She wants to wash her hands of me."

The princess was vibrating, such was her dudgeon. It didn't bode well for Eleanora's headache or her ability to collect the trousers.

Heaven save her from sisters. Eleanora found herself thankful in that moment that she had been her mother's only child.

She gave her charge another commiserating pat. "I understand it may seem that way, but I can assure you it is not. Your sister only wants your happiness, Princess Emmaline."

"If she wants me to be happy, then she will not take my trousers! They are perfectly acceptable in Boritania and the height of fashion. I'll not be forced to adhere to the silly rules of empty-headed aristocrats."

Eleanora winced. "What you did was reckless and foolish. If you will but calm yourself, you will acknowledge that your actions require an answer from your sister. What else is she to do? What would you do, if you were in her position?"

"I would allow me to keep my trousers because I would understand how terribly burdensome these English gowns are." Princess Emmaline issued a shout of pure, unadulterated rage that bordered on animalistic as she stomped her foot and clasped her fists. "May all the saints preserve me."

Eleanora's head throbbed with increasing insistence. Her day had been nothing short of terrible, from the moment she had risen from her bed to now. Dinner had been no better. She had been invited to accompany the family— sans Princess Emmaline—for their meal. Eleanora had been astonished to find Nando in attendance, looking unfairly dashing and quite as if he had never suffered a bullet wound. His unflappable charm had been firmly in place, and he had lavished attention upon everyone at the table.

Including Eleanora.

Every time their gazes had connected, she had felt it as viscerally as a touch. Of course, she had been thinking about what had happened between them every second since she had run from his chamber in disgrace the night before.

But she had to concentrate on the furious princess before her now and the unwanted task awaiting her.

"If you will not surrender them willingly, then I shall have no choice but to search for them," she told Princess Emmaline, resigned to her fate.

"No," the princess denied quickly, eyes going wide.

Too quickly.

Eleanora's eyes narrowed as she studied her charge. "Is there something you would not wish for me to find?"

"Of course not," the princess denied with similar, suspicious haste.

Oh dear. It would seem her day was going from dreadful to completely terrible. Eleanora was well-versed in the art of wrangling headstrong and rebellious charges. She had been at this inglorious vocation for years. And she knew when someone was hiding something.

"What is it?" she asked, hoping Princess Emmaline would make the concession and spare her the task of rummaging through her belongings.

The princess said nothing, her countenance torn.

"You have my promise that if the object is of no danger to you, I will not tell your sister," she added when her charge continued to hesitate.

Princess Emmaline heaved a sigh. "Very well. It is a book, if you must know."

"What manner of book could cause such concern?"

The moment the question left her, Eleanora understood. The expression on the princess's face spoke for her.

" The Tale of Love ," Princess Emmaline answered quietly.

The bawdy book was a compilation of lurid stories, supposedly written by one of London's greatest courtesans. Eleanora had heard her mother's friends speaking of it, and once, she had found a volume left in the drawing room after one of Mama's more raucous soirees. She had given in to curiosity and peeked.

"Ah," Eleanora said. "I understand your reticence. However, I can assure you I will keep the knowledge of the book to myself in exchange for your trousers."

The princess pinned her with a glare. "That is bribery."

She smiled serenely. "Occasionally, I am Machiavellian."

Nando had told her so. And thinking of him stirred the restless longing that had not been far since last night.

With a flounce, Princess Emmaline went to retrieve her trousers. No fewer than a dozen pairs, as it happened. Grimly, Eleanora departed from the princess's chamber, bearing all twelve of Emmaline's beloved garments. She was halfway to her room, where she would store them until she met with Princess Anastasia in the morning, when she rounded a corner and nearly collided with the very man who had been plaguing her thoughts.

Nando's hand clamped on her waist. "Steady, my dear."

His deep rumble, faintly laced with the traces of his native tongue, sent heat unfurling through her.

"Thank you." She stepped neatly from his grasp and dipped into a curtsy, trying to cling to her ever-diminishing modesty. "If you will excuse me, Your Royal Highness?"

His jarringly blue gaze slipped to the pile of folded trousers in her arms. "Why are you carrying garments about? Never tell me the princess has reduced you to a maid."

"Not at all. Her Royal Highness enlisted me in securing Princess Emmaline's trouser collection. Her defiance has led to some unfortunate…difficulties today."

And speaking of difficulties, the longer Eleanora lingered in the hall alone with him, the greater the temptation to steal away with him again. As it was, his scent had curled around her, shaving soap and a hint of smoke. His beauty was cruel. She wanted to look away just as much as she never wanted to stop drinking in the sight of him in his elegant evening wear, his snowy cravat tied in a simple knot that was a stark contrast to his golden skin.

The urge to place her lips there rose, strong and wild.

"Allow me to carry them for you," he said, reaching for the stack with his uninjured arm.

"But your wound?—"

He plucked them from her grasp with ease. "Has healed sufficiently. Tell me where we are going with Emmaline's trousers."

His proximity had an alarming effect upon her. Her foolish body had come to life, her nipples going hard against her stays, the ache between her legs renewed with such insistence that she had to press her thighs together in a discreet effort to quell the desire.

"It isn't proper for you to be so familiar with Her Royal Highness or her garments," Eleanora forced herself to point out.

Nando just grinned, the effect deadly to her ability to resist his charm. "My dear Eleanora, when have I ever given you the impression that I give a damn about what is proper?"

"Never," she admitted.

His grin deepened. "Then lead the way. I do so admire watching your hips sway when you walk."

Heat crept up her throat. "Your Royal Highness."

He leaned in to her, his lips so close that they grazed her ear as he spoke. "Don't pretend to be scandalized, darling. My tongue was inside you last night."

A strangled sound fled her. She felt as if she were about to have a fit of the vapors.

"This way," she clipped, forcing herself into motion before he goaded her into doing something utterly shameful.

She stepped around his tall, elegant form and hastened down the hall, doing her utmost to keep her hips from moving in the fashion he had suggested. The nerve of the man! Had he truly ogled her from behind as she had walked? No doubt he had.

His low chuckle, far too near behind her, told her he was aware of her thoughts and her attempt to keep from giving him something to watch. She might have decided against leading him to her bedroom, but she was keenly aware of the need to keep the trousers somewhere that Princess Emmaline would not have access to them. Fortunately, she had been given a chamber that was in a tucked-away corner of the town house where they ran little risk of being seen together.

She stopped before her door and turned back to him, reaching for the trousers. "Thank you for your help, Your Royal Highness."

"My pleasure." He relinquished the trousers as she struggled to keep herself from staring at his lips and remembering what they felt like on hers.

Eleanora cleared her throat. "Good evening."

She expected him to request an invitation into her private chamber. Or to offer some manner of resistance to her curt dismissal. Instead, he reached around her to open the latch and then offered her a courtly bow.

When he straightened, he held her gaze, his expression solemn for once—notably bereft of his usual endless humor and wry charm. "Come to me tonight, Eleanora."

The low words stole her breath.

"I cannot," she managed when she at last found the capacity to speak.

"Then I shall come to you."

"No." Her denial was swift and forced. "It is impossible, Your Royal Highness, and you know it."

"There's something I want to speak with you about," he said, startling her by tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. "A matter of grave import."

Her mind whirled with possibilities. Why would he wish to talk with her? Was it just a ploy to have her where he could seduce her? Did she dare risk discovery a second night by obliging him?

No, she couldn't.

"It would be a mistake for me to come to your chamber," she told him quietly. "I must put my duties to the princesses first."

As it was, she was on perilous ground, given Princess Emmaline's shocking defiance. No respectable household would ever again offer her a situation if she were to be found cavorting in a bachelor's room whilst she was meant to be guiding her charges on the principles of the ton .

"I'll be waiting for you," he said softly.

Bemused, she watched as he took his leave, striding down the hall with the purposeful walk of a man who knew his own glory all too well.

"Vain rogue," she grumbled to herself as she crossed the threshold of her modest chamber.

There was no way she was going to do something as foolish as seeking him out in his bedroom again. Not after what had happened last night.