To Desire a Devil

  And they didn’t even appreciate his sacrifice. “We can give you some help, if you need it,” Vale continued, as mindless as a jackdaw, “on the wonders of marital bliss. At least I can.”

  He looked at Hartley in question.

  “As can I,” the Colonial replied. His wide mouth was straight, but something about it made it seem like he was laughing.

  “I’m glad to hear it considering that you’re married to my sister,” Reynaud replied with an edge to his voice.

  Hartley’s expression didn’t change, but his body seemed to grow more tense. “You should have no worries that I’ll take care of Emeline.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Now, now,” Vale said in a sickeningly sweet voice reminiscent of a nursery nanny. “I already gave him a drubbing for courting Emmie.”

  Reynaud raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

  “He did not,” Hartley said even as Vale nodded happily. “I threw him down the stairs.”

  Vale pursed his lips and looked skyward. “Not my recollection, but I can see how your memory of the event may’ve become hazy.”

  “Now, look here,” Hartley began quietly, a thread of amusement in his voice.

  “Gentlemen,” Reynaud said, “we need to come to the crux of the matter, for it is indeed only a week after my wedding, and my lovely wife will eventually expect me to wait attendance on her.”

  “Very well.” Hartley nodded, serious now. “What have you discovered since I last saw you, Vale?”

  “There are rumors both that the Spinner’s Falls traitor was a nobleman and that his mother was French,” Vale said promptly.

  Hartley cocked his head. “And where did you get this information?”

  “Munroe,” Reynaud said, Vale having informed him at their previous meeting. “The first bit of information he had from a colleague in France; the second—”

  “He got it from Hasselthorpe,” Vale said, “although he didn’t deign to share the information with me until a month or so ago.”

  Hartley looked at him curiously. “Why ever not?”

  Vale looked embarrassed.

  “I expect because of me,” Reynaud said. “My mother was French.”

  “Of course.” Hartley nodded.

  “No doubt he thought that if I was already dead, there was no point in casting doubt upon my name,” Reynaud said drily. “But since it happens that I’m not dead . . .”

  “Now we need to think of who else among the survivors had a French mother,” Vale said grimly. “Because whoever it is must be the traitor.”

  “But there isn’t anyone else,” Hartley said.

  Reynaud grimaced. “If you’re suggesting it’s me—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Hartley snapped. “Just listen. There’s you, me, Vale here, Munroe, Wimbley, Barrows, Nate Growe, and Douglas—I’ve talked to them all.”

  “Yes.” Vale said. “And all are from London and probably had ancestors running about in blue at the time of the Roman invasion.”

  “Thornton, Horn, Allen, and Craddock are dead,” Hartley continued, “but we investigated them thoroughly. None of these men had French mothers. There simply isn’t anyone else who survived who could be the man.”

  “Then perhaps it was someone killed,” Reynaud said softly. “Though that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Who else had a French mother?” Vale asked.

  “Clemmons had a French sister-in-law,” Hartley said thoughtfully.

  “Did he?” Vale stared. “I had no idea.”

  Hartley nodded. “He mentioned it once. A younger brother’s wife, but she is dead.”

  “It doesn’t fit in any case,” Reynaud said impatiently. “Not unless Munroe’s source was inaccurate.”

  Hartley shook his head.

  “We need to talk to Munroe, see if he has any recollection,” Reynaud said.

  “I sent a messenger to him some weeks ago,” Vale said. “But the man hasn’t responded.”

  Reynaud grunted. Munroe was well known as a recluse, but they needed his memories, too. Perhaps he’d have to take Beatrice on a trip to Scotland.

  But first there were more pressing matters to attend to.

  “I plan to plead my case before the special committee of parliament tomorrow,” he said to the other two. “So that I can regain my title as the Earl of Blanchard. And I’d like your help.”

  Vale raised an eyebrow. “You have it, of course, but what do you have in mind?”

  Reynaud glanced about them to make sure no one was paying special attention to their conversation, then said, “I have an idea . . .”

  BEATRICE LAID OUT her bookbinding tools carefully. She was always excited to begin a new project. She liked the anticipation of taking either an old and falling-apart book and putting it in order or taking what was essentially a sheaf of papers and turning it into a lovely book. It was almost an art, really. And she liked her tools and materials to be just so. The different-sized bonefolders aligned perfectly, the needles in their little box, the spools of thread lined up along the upper edge of her worktable. Later she’d look through her supplies of pretty paper and calf’s hide, but for the moment she was interested only in cutting, folding, and sewing.

  She hummed softly to herself as she worked, quite content, and thus it was with some surprise that she heard the clock in the hall and realized that it was almost time for dinner. Footsteps and male voices sounded in the hall, and she cocked her head, listening for her husband’s voice. She looked up when the door to her little sitting room opened.

  “Ah, there you are,” Reynaud said as he walked in.

  She smiled because it seemed she could not help but smile like a fool when she saw her husband. Every day she was married to him, she became more enthralled with him—and the knowledge made her uneasy. He’d still not said that he loved her, and he rarely showed her affection except in the privacy of their bedroom. Perhaps that was normal in a society marriage. Perhaps most gentlemen had trouble expressing affection.

  God, she hoped so.

  Beatrice looked down blindly at her worktable. “Did you enjoy your visit with Lord Vale?”

  “Enjoyed may not be exactly the right word.” He came to stand beside her table. “What is this?”

  “A book I’m binding for Lady Vale.” She looked up at him. “It’s for your sister. Apparently, your nanny read it to you both when you were children.”

  “Indeed?” He bent over her shoulder, studying the pages she was sewing. “I’ll be damned. It’s the tale of Longsword.” A wondering smile lit his face. “That was a favorite of mine.”

  “Perhaps I should make a book for us as well, then,” Beatrice said lightly.

  “Why?”

  “Well . . .” She looked down at her hands, carefully drawing the thread. “For our children, naturally. I’m sure you’d like to read them the book you enjoyed as a child.”

  He shrugged. “If you wish.”

  Beatrice wrinkled her nose, frowning fiercely to keep back silly tears. Childish of her to feel hurt at his dismissive tone. She drew a breath. “What did you talk about with Lord Vale?”

  “My title,” he said. “I intend to get it back tomorrow, if you remember.”

  “Of course.” She busied herself with her tools. He sounded so sure, but the rumors of his madness still swirled about the streets of London.

  “And once I obtain it, this house will be mine alone.”

  “I hope you’ll not mind Uncle Reggie and me staying here as well.” She tried to say the words lightly.

  “Don’t be silly.” He frowned.

  “I’m not silly,” she said, pulling her thread too tight. “It’s just . . .”

  “What?” he snapped.

  She laid down her work and looked at him, drawing a deep breath. “You’re obsessed with regaining your title, your monies, your lands, everything you lost, in fact, and I understand that, but there’s more than that for you to think about.”

  “What do you mean?”
he asked, his face sharp and lined.

  Beatrice lifted her chin. “Have you thought about what you’ll do once you become the earl?”

  “I’ll manage my estates, attend to my land and investments.” He waved an impatient hand. “What else do you suggest I do?”

  She laid a hand on her worktable, clutching the edge. He could be so intimidating when angered! “You could do so much good as the earl—”

  “And I intend to,” he said.

  “Do you?” Her voice was sharp, and she no longer cared. He was dismissing her and her thoughts out of hand. “Do you? All I’ve heard you talk about is your house, your monies, your lands. Have you no thought of how you’ll live your life once you already have all those things? You’ll sit in the House of Lords. You’ll be able to vote on bills before parliament, even champion your own if you wish.”

  “You talk to me like I’m an infant, Beatrice,” he snapped. “What are you trying to get at?”

  “There’s a bill that’ll be presented tomorrow,” she said before she could lose courage. “Mr. Wheaton’s veteran’s pension bill. It would provide for soldiers who are no longer in His Majesty’s army, give them a pension so they wouldn’t have to beg on the street—”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t have the time right now to—”

  She slammed her hand down on her desk, making the book slide to the floor. He turned, looking at her in astonishment.

  Beatrice drew herself up. “When will you have the time, Reynaud? When?”

  “I’ve told you,” he said coldly. “After I am certain of my title.”

  “You’ll just suddenly start caring for others then? Is that it?” She’d begun to shake. This discussion was no longer about Mr. Wheaton’s bill. It’d become bigger somehow. “Tell me, Reynaud, do you love me?”

  He cocked his head, eyeing her warily. “Why are you asking me now?”

  Hot tears stung her eyes, but she kept them open, staring at him. “Becuase I think you’ve kept your emotions under such tight rein for so long that you no longer know how to let them loose. I don’t think you can care for others at all.”

  And she walked from the sitting room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The princess shrank in fear, but though he knelt on one knee, Longsword did not flinch. He met the dragon’s charge with the steel of his blade. Once, twice, thrice, he swung his mighty sword, and when at last the dust had cleared and all was silent again, there lay the great dragon, dying at his feet. And as the beast died, its form changed until a horrid hag lay in its place, for it was the evil witch herself who had assumed the shape of a dragon.

  Well! The princess was quite pleased, I can tell you. She rushed to release her father the king. When it was made known to him that Longsword had by himself defeated the evil witch, the king was happy indeed to give his only child as a reward.

  And so it was that Longsword married a princess royal….

  —from Longsword

  It was well after midnight by the time Reynaud joined her in their bed. Beatrice lay still, feigning sleep. It was her wifely duty to let him make love to her if he so desired, but she certainly had no desire at the moment. Not when they’d argued. He probably hated her now for the blunt things she’d said, but she’d had to say them.

  She’d married a man who thought only of himself.

  So she stared into the darkness and breathed evenly and slowly, in and out, without hitch, as if she was deep in slumber. She listened as he undressed—the rustle of fabric, a soft mutter when he bumped into something—and she’d never felt so lonely in her life.

  He blew out his candle, and the bed dipped and shook as he climbed in. The bedclothes tightened on her shoulder as he pulled them over himself, and then he lay still. She stared into darkness. The minutes ticked by, and for a bit she thought he might’ve fallen asleep.

  But then he said, “Beatrice.”

  She didn’t move.

  He sighed. “Beatrice, I know you’re awake.”

  She bit her lip. It seemed rather silly to continue to pretend sleep, but if she acknowledged him now, it would be an admittance that she’d pretended in the first place.

  “I know I’ve disappointed you,” Reynaud said quietly. “I know I’m probably not the type of man you would’ve wanted for yourself, had you had the choice.”

  She curled her fingers into the coverlet but still didn’t say a word.

  “But I’m the man you have, and that’s final. You’ll just have to make the best of it.” He was quiet a moment. “And if you can’t be happy with me tonight, do you think you could at least come lie next to me? Dammit, I’ve grown used to holding you while I sleep.”

  As olive branches went, it wasn’t the most eloquent she’d ever heard, but it tugged at her heart anyway. Besides, she’d been the one to start the argument earlier. She’d been the one who chose to marry a man she knew wasn’t perfect. By rights, it should be her extending her hand in peace. Beatrice rolled over and came to rest against him.

  “That’s better.” He yawned and wrapped his arm about her, pulling her close. “You’re so soft and warm.” He was silent a moment, his breathing growing deeper; then he added sleepily, “And I like the smell of your hair.”

  His breathing grew sonorous, and Beatrice knew he was asleep, but she was still awake. She listened to his heartbeat, slow and strong under her ear, and the reassuring sound of his breaths. And she knew, suddenly and completely, like the last brick sliding into a wall, that she loved him, this strange angry, exotic man. Was her love enough for the both of them?

  She pondered the question for what seemed a long while, but she still had no answers when at last she fell asleep.

  SHE WOKE TO the slide of warm hands on her back, strong and steady, moving down, reaching her bottom under her chemise. She lay on her side in the big bed, facing away from him, cocooned in the covers and him, still mostly asleep. She could feel his humid breath against her neck. One of his arms lay beneath her; the other stroked her bottom. All along her back, he was a large, hot presence, surrounding and protecting her. She was embraced by his heat and his scent.

  In the world between dreams and waking, she felt him move against her, his hard erection insistent, demanding. She sighed a little, burrowing her face into the pillow. The room was gray with dawn’s advent, and she wanted him—needed him—even if he only desired her. The thought made her sad, and she pushed it aside, wanting to feel only him, to no longer think and worry.

  He hooked his hands under her knees, curling them forward, parting her legs, and he moved into the space he’d created. He was larger now, his erection pressing against her bottom, hot and insistent. He slid forward and then his penis lay against her feminine flesh. She was wet, and he seemed just right there. Perfect, as if he’d always meant to be in that part of her. His cock glided through her folds, the head bumping her clitoris. She panted, suddenly overwhelmed by sensation. If only he loved her, too, this would be perfect.

  But she would not think about that.

  His hand caressed her hip and slid around to her front, petting her curling hair, pressing her just there. From behind, he withdrew his cock in a slow, sensuous caress and notched himself in her, intruding.

  She moaned, threading her fingers with the hand that lay next to her cheek. It was suddenly too much, the sharpness of her desire mingled with the newfound knowledge of her love for him. Bittersweet tears pricked at her eyes.

  He squeezed her fingers and thrust a little, his breadth shockingly large in this position. Her mouth opened in a soundless gasp, and she arched her back a little, tasting the salt of her tears on her tongue. He was slow but insistent, steadily pushing, filling her in gradual, devastating increments. She lifted her upper leg a bit, hooking it over his calf, and suddenly he was all the way in, his length stretching her. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back toward him in submission. He kissed her neck, openmouthed, still and large within her.

  Then his hand moved, his finge
rs spreading to hold her femininity, and his middle finger pressed with exquisite accuracy on her sensitive bud.

  Her hips arched into him. “Reynaud.”

  “Hush,” he murmured against her neck.

  He withdrew his cock, his flesh pulling against the walls of her core, and thrust hard. She had to push one hand against the bed to keep from sliding. He withdrew and thrust again and she moaned.

  “Hush,” he whispered, seductive and invisible behind her. She felt the rough wet slide of his tongue on her neck.

  He jolted into her again. Steady, relentless. Each movement shocking in its own way. She closed her eyes, biting her lip. She wanted to push back. Wanted to jerk against him and make him go faster until she exploded. She wanted to scream aloud her love. But that knowing hand buried in the juncture of her thighs held her, imprisoned her so that he might pleasure himself and her at his leisure.

  He ground into her, pushing his hips until she felt the press of his balls against her wetness, until she was stretched wide open and waiting for his next movement.

  “Please,” she whispered brokenly.

  “Hush.” He took the lobe of her ear between his teeth and bit in warning, just as he withdrew and slammed into her again.

  Her breath caught, and her heart stopped—perhaps it broke.

  He twisted into her, large, male, demanding, and he slid his finger against her engorged clitoris, rubbing, pressing.

  She couldn’t stand it. She was going to explode, fly apart into a thousand small pieces that would never be put back together in this lifetime. She’d never be the same again. She shook her head, sobbing into the pillow, pressing her cheek against their clenched hands.

  “Beatrice,” he crooned, deep and seductive in her ear. “Beatrice, come for me.”

  And she did, crying, shaking, her body hot and needing more. Needing him even if he didn’t need her.

  He used his cock on her like a battering ram. Thrusting, pounding hard, and sparks of pure delight went off in her body, traveling through her veins, illuminating her limbs, shining like a sun within her.