Wicked Intentions

  “No,” Lazarus growled, aware that he sounded like a dog standing guard over a bone.

  St. John raised his eyebrows. “Does she know your intent?”

  “She will.” And Lazarus turned and caught Mrs. Dews’s arm, interrupting her in midspeech. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I wish to find Mrs. Dews the best seat possible.”

  “Of course,” Sir Henry murmured, but Lazarus was already steering her away from the others.

  “What are you about?” Mrs. Dews looked none too pleased with him. “I had just begun discussing the amount of fresh vegetables we buy every month for the home.”

  “A most interesting topic, I have no doubt.” He needed to sit down, to rest a bit. Damn the wound in his shoulder.

  Her brows knit. “Was I boring them? Is that why you intervened?”

  His mouth twitched in amusement. “No. They seemed more than happy to listen to you lecture them on clothing and feeding urchins for the rest of the night.”

  “Humph. Then why did you take me away?”

  “Because ’tis always better to leave the buyer wanting,” he whispered into the dark hair over her ear. The silly red ribbon twined in and out of the glossy locks, and for a wild moment, he wanted to tug it free. To watch as her hair came tumbling down about her shoulders.

  She turned and looked up, so close he could see the flecks of gold in her light brown eyes. “And have you sold very many things, Lord Caire?”

  She was teasing him, this proper Christian woman. Did she have no fear of him? Did she not sense the darkness that bubbled deep within him?

  “Not things so much as… ideas,” he drawled.

  She cocked her head, those gilded eyes curious. “You’ve sold ideas?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he said as he guided her toward two chairs at the end of a row near the front. “I belong to a number of philosophical and scientific societies.” He seated her and flicked apart the skirts of his coat to sit beside her. “When one argues a point, one is in effect selling it to the opposition, if you understand me.”

  He didn’t mention the other type of “selling” he did—the luring of sexual partners into performing actions they would in other circumstances never contemplate.

  “I think I comprehend your meaning.” Mrs. Dews’s eyes lit with amusement. “I confess, I’d not seen you in the role of idea merchant, Lord Caire. Is that what you do with your days? Argue with other learned gentlemen?”

  “And translate various Greek and Latin manuscripts.”

  “Such as?”

  “Poetry, mostly.” He glanced at her. Did she really find this interesting?

  But her golden eyes sparkled as she cocked her head. “You write poetry?”

  “I translate it—quite different.”

  “Actually, I would think it somewhat similar.”

  “How so?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t poets have to worry over meter, rhyme, and the proper words?”

  “So I’m told.”

  She looked at him and smiled, making him catch his breath. “I would think the translator would have to worry over those things as well.”

  He stared. How did she know, this simple woman from another walk of life entirely? How had she with one sentence articulated the passion he found in his translations? “I suppose you have a point.”

  “You hide a poet’s soul well,” she said. “I would never have guessed it.”

  She was definitely teasing him now.

  “Ah.” He stretched his long legs before him. “But then there’s quite a lot you don’t know about me, Mrs. Dews.”

  “Is there?” Her gaze skipped over his shoulder, and he knew she looked at his mother in conversation with Lady Beckinhall in the corner. “Such as?”

  “I have an unnatural fondness for marzipan sweetmeats.”

  He felt more than heard her giggle, and the small, innocent sound sent a frisson of warmth through him. She hid her emotions so well usually, even the joyous ones.

  “I haven’t had marzipan sweetmeats in ages,” she murmured.

  He had a sudden urge to buy her a boxful just to watch her eat them. Her red lips would become sprinkled with the sugar and she’d have to lick them clean. His groin tightened at just the thought.

  “Tell me something else about yourself. Something true.” She watched him, those pale brown eyes mysterious. “Where were you born?”

  “Shropshire.” He looked away, watching as his mother made some comment to another lady. The jewels in her white hair sparkled as she tilted her head. “My family’s seat is near Shrewsbury. I was born at Caire House, our ancestral home. I’m told that I was a puling, weakly babe, and my father sent me away to the wet nurse with little hope that I would live out the sennight.”

  “It sounds as if your parents were worried for you.”

  “No,” he said flatly, the knowledge as old as his bones. “I stayed with my nurse for five years, and in that time, my parents saw me only once a year, on Easter day. I remember because my father used to scare me witless.”

  He had no idea why he told her this; it hardly showed him in a heroic light.

  “And your mother?” she asked softly.

  He glanced at her curiously. “She accompanied my father, of course.”

  “But”—her brows knit together again as if she were trying to puzzle something out—“was she affectionate?”

  He stared. Affection? He looked again at his mother, now making her way to a seat. She moved gracefully, the embodiment of cold elegance. The thought of her showing affection for anyone, let alone him, was ludicrous.

  “No,” he said patiently, as if explaining the intricacies of the English monetary system to a Chinaman. “They didn’t come to express affection. They came to see if their heir was being adequately fed and housed.”

  “Oh,” she said, her voice small. “And your nurse? Was she affectionate toward you?”

  The question sent a nasty wave of pain through him, the sensation exquisitely awful, and his shoulder throbbed in the aftermath.

  “I don’t remember,” he lied.

  She opened her mouth as if to question him further, but he’d had enough. “And you, Mrs. Dews? What was your upbringing like?”

  She pursed her lips for a moment as if she wouldn’t let him lead her into a different conversational avenue. Then she sighed. “I was born here in London, not far from the foundling home, actually. Father was a brewer. There are six children in my family: Verity; Concord, who runs the brewery now; Asa; myself; Winter; and my youngest sister, Silence. Father met the acquaintance of Sir Stanley Gilpin when I was quite young, and with his patronage, Father established the foundling home.”

  “A pretty tale,” Lazarus drawled, watching her face. She’d recited the story almost by rote. “Yet, it tells me very little about you.”

  She looked startled. “But there isn’t much to tell beyond that.”

  “Oh, I think there is,” he murmured softly. The chairs about them were beginning to fill, but he was loath to give up this discussion so soon. “Did you work in the home as a child? Were you schooled at all? And where and when did you meet your husband?”

  “I spent my childhood at home mostly,” she said slowly. “Mother schooled me until she died when I was thirteen years of age. Thereafter, my elder sister, Verity, took over the chore of raising us younger children. The boys were sent to school, of course, but there wasn’t enough money to send the girls. I fancy, though, that our education was quite adequate.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “But you haven’t mentioned the late Mr. Dews. In fact, I’ve never heard you speak of your husband.”

  She looked away, her face paling, a reaction he found infinitely fascinating.

  “Mr. Dews—Benjamin—was a protégé of my father’s,” she said quietly. “Benjamin had studied for the church but decided to join Father in his work to help the orphans of St. Giles instead. I met him when I was seventeen, and we married shortly thereafter.”

  “He s
ounds like quite the saint,” Lazarus said, irony dripping from his words.

  Mrs. Dews was somber, though. “Yes, he was. He worked incredibly long hours at the foundling home. He was always gentle and patient with the children; he was kind to everyone he knew. I once saw him take off his own coat and give it to a beggar who had none.”

  Lazarus gritted his teeth, leaning close to hiss, “Tell me, Mrs. Dews, do you have a shrine in your rooms to commemorate your dead saint?”

  “What?” She turned a shocked face to him.

  It only inflamed his urge to hurt her more. To make her feel so that he could revel in her reflected emotions. “Do you kneel before his shrine and genuflect? Does his memory keep you warm in your lonely bed at night? Or do you have to resort to other, less spiritual means of satisfaction?”

  “How dare you?” Her eyes sparked at his crude insinuation.

  His corrupted heart crowed at the sight of the rage his words had provoked. She made to stand, but he caught her arm in a hard grip, forcing her to remain seated.

  “Hush, now,” he crooned. “The music is about to begin. You wouldn’t want to storm out now and destroy all the progress you made earlier with Captain Lambert and Sir Henry, would you? They might think you a fickle creature.”

  “I loathe you.” She pressed her lips together, turning her face away as if the very sight of him revolted her.

  But despite her words, she remained by his side, and that was all that mattered in the end. He cared not a whit if she loathed him, even wanted him dead, as long as she felt something for him. As long as he could keep her close.

  HOW DARE HE?

  Temperance stared at her balled hands in her lap as she struggled not to show her rage. What had provoked Lord Caire’s disgusting attack on her and the memory of Benjamin? They’d been having a simple conversation about everyday things and suddenly he’d erupted. Was he insane? Or was he so jealous of a normal man—a man who could feel kindness and sympathy—that he must lash out at merely the thought?

  Lord Caire’s hand still gripped her elbow, hot and hard, and he tightened it at her shiver. “Don’t even think of it.”

  She didn’t bother replying to him. The truth was that a part of her anger had dissipated when she thought of his loveless childhood.

  Not, of course, that she meant to tell him that.

  Temperance looked away from him, watching as the guests found seats. Lady Caire let herself be seated by a handsome gentleman in a bag wig. The man was obviously younger than she, but he attended her quite tenderly. Temperance wondered suddenly if they were lovers. What odd morals the aristocracy had. Her gaze wandered to where Sir Henry sat beside a stout matronly lady, obviously his wife. She looked like a pleasant lady.

  Temperance caught a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye, and her head turned to follow the movement. Her breath caught. The elegant young lady from the retiring room was strolling toward the chairs. She seemed to be all alone, her pale green and silver gown a perfect foil for her bright red hair and graceful, long white throat. All eyes were upon her as she neared the chairs, but she seemed unaware as she sank into a seat.

  “Who is that?” Temperance whispered, forgetting for the moment that she wasn’t talking to Lord Caire.

  “Who?” the impossible man drawled.

  How could he not know? Half the room was gawking at her. “The lady in silver and green.”

  Lord Caire twisted his neck to look and then leaned unnecessarily close. Heat seemed to radiate off his body. “That, my dear Mrs. Dews, is Lady Hero, the sister of the Duke of Wakefield.”

  “The sister of a duke?” Temperance breathed. Goodness! What a very good thing she hadn’t known that when the lady had been helping her.

  She’d once stood on a corner for three hours just to catch a glimpse of His Majesty’s carriage in a procession, but that had been years ago. Besides, all she’d seen was a bit of white wig that may have—or may not have—been the king’s head. Lady Hero was right here in the same room.

  “Aye.” Lord Caire sounded amused. “And the daughter of a duke as well, don’t forget.”

  She turned and opened her mouth to set him down, but he placed a warm finger across her lips. “Hush. They are about to begin.”

  And she saw he was right. A gentleman in a splendid white wig and gold-trimmed coat had seated himself before the piano. A younger man stood by his side to turn the pages of the sheet music.

  Lady Beckinhall stood at the front of the room and made some type of announcement, no doubt introducing the pianist, but Temperance hardly paid her mind. Her gaze was fixed on the gentleman at the piano. He sat quietly, unsmiling even when Lady Beckinhall gestured to him. He merely nodded once curtly and waited as she seated herself. He stared at the piano keys before him, seemingly oblivious to the guests who still chattered behind him. Then abruptly he began to play.

  Temperance caught her breath, leaning slightly forward. The piece was unfamiliar to her, but the fine chords, the flying notes, lifted something inside of her. She closed her eyes, savoring the sweet swelling in her chest. Moisture pricked at her eyes. It had been so long since she’d heard music like this.

  So long.

  She drifted, her entire being focused on the music until at last it drew to a close. Only then did Temperance open her eyes and sigh.

  “You liked it,” a deep voice said next to her.

  She blinked at Lord Caire and realized that her hand was grasped in his. She looked down at their intertwined fingers, puzzled. Had she taken his hand or had he reached for hers? She couldn’t remember.

  He tugged gently. “Come. Walk with me.”

  “Oh, but…”

  She glanced at the piano, but the pianist had already left. Around them the other guests were standing or strolling, none of them appearing at all affected by the music.

  She turned back to Lord Caire.

  His blue eyes were intent, his high cheekbones ruddy. “Come.”

  She rose and followed him silently, paying no attention to where he led until he opened a door and ushered her into a small sitting room, lit by a fire.

  Temperance frowned. “What—?”

  But Lord Caire closed the door behind her, and she turned to see him advancing toward her. “You liked the music.”

  She looked at him in confusion. “Yes, of course.”

  “There is no of course.” His sapphire eyes seemed to glitter in the firelight. “Most who come to a musicale pay little or no attention to the music. But you… you were entranced.”

  He was so intent upon her that she backed up a step and found herself against a settee.

  Still he came closer, heat blasting from him like a furnace. “What did you hear? What did you feel in that music?”

  “I… I don’t know,” she stuttered. What did he want of her?

  He caught her shoulders. “Yes, you do. Tell me. Describe your emotions.”

  “I felt free,” she whispered, her heart beating hard. “I felt alive.”

  “And?” His face was angled, his eyes examining her.

  “And I don’t know!” She placed her palms on his chest, pushing, but though he stiffened at her touch, he didn’t budge. “How can one describe music? It’s an impossible task. One either feels the wonder or one doesn’t.”

  “And you’re one of the few who does feel it, aren’t you?”

  “What do you want of me?” she whispered.

  “Everything.”

  His mouth was on hers. Hot, insistent, working as if he meant to draw from her bodily what he couldn’t in words. She gripped his arms, unable to defend herself from this onslaught so soon after the ecstasy of the music.

  Eagerly she opened her mouth, wanting to taste, wanting to feel without guilt, just this once. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, withdrawing and thrusting again until she moaned and caught his tongue, sucking on it, tasting wine, tasting him. She wanted to pull the coat from his shoulders, to rip off his shirt and feel again the smooth skin benea
th. To place her mouth against his nipple and lick him.

  Dear God, she’d lost her mind, her balance, and her morals, and she no longer cared. She wanted to be free again, to feel without thought or horrible memory. She wanted to be born anew, pure and without sin. She ran her hands up his arms, squeezing, testing the hard muscles beneath until she reached his shoulders, then—

  “Damnation!” The word was a groan as Lord Caire ripped his mouth from hers.

  “Oh!” She’d forgotten his injured shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’ve hurt you.”

  She reached for him, not sure what she could do, perhaps only wanting to offer comfort.

  But he shook his head, beads of sweat on his upper lip. “Don’t worry yourself, Mrs. Dews.”

  He straightened from where he’d leaned against the settee back, but then swayed.

  “You need to sit,” Temperance said.

  “Don’t fuss,” he murmured irritably, but his voice was weak. Something dark stained the shoulder of his coat.

  Temperance felt a thrill of fear. His face was too red, the heat of his body too hot. She swallowed, keeping her voice calm. In her experience, gentlemen never wanted to admit weakness. “I… I find myself weary. Would you mind terribly if we left?”

  To her relief, he didn’t argue over her obvious stratagem. Instead, Lord Caire straightened and offered her his arm. He led her back to the musicale room. There he made his way far too leisurely through the guests, pausing to exchange banter with other gentlemen, before making his excuses for his early departure to the hostess. All the while, Temperance watched him anxiously, aware that sweat slicked his brow. By the time they retrieved her wrap, he was leaning heavily on her. She wasn’t even sure he was conscious of it or not.

  “Tell the coachman to drive to Lord Caire’s town house,” she told the footman as he helped Lord Caire up the steps to the carriage. “Tell him to hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the footman said, and slammed the carriage door.

  “Such drama, Mrs. Dews,” Lord Caire drawled. His head lolled against the squabs, his eyes closed. “Don’t you want to return to your foundling home?”

  “I think it best that we get you to your home as soon as possible.”