Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

chapter Six

‘Good idea of yours to come for an early morning ride, Linwood.’ Razeby smiled and sat easily as the two horses walked around Hyde Park. ‘Told you a bit of distraction would do you the world of good.’

‘More than you can know.’ Linwood’s mouth gave a cynical smile.

‘So how is the mysterious Miss Fox?’

‘Mysterious,’ said Linwood, and thought of how he had waited in the shadows of Hart Street to surprise her after the play, only to find himself the one surprised by her clandestine meeting with Rotherham’s bastard son—Robert Clandon. He wondered just what the hell Venetia Fox was up to—bedding Clandon while she played him? Or perhaps, given her significant interest in Rotherham the previous day, something rather more daring and dangerous. Either way, Linwood meant to discover more.

Razeby laughed.

The morning air held a slight mist, through which the sun filtered in pale white beams. The horses beneath them snorted, their breaths puffing white and smoky as Trevithick’s ‘Catch Me If You Can’ locomotive had been in his steam circus.

‘What is mysterious is how the hell you have managed to secure her interest when all others have failed. She turned down Hawick and rumour has it he offered her twenty thousand a year. And Devlin, who I know for a fact offered her ten. And I know that you have not the blunt to surpass that.’

‘Maybe Miss Fox is not for sale.’ He had thought the words she uttered in Fallingham’s antiquities room were the truth. But now, in light of Clandon, he was not so sure of anything about her any more.

‘That little spat with Hawick the other night. It was you, was it not?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ Linwood kept his mouth shut. Just as he always did. He was not a man given to revealing secrets—his own, or anyone else’s.

But Razeby was not fooled.

‘You are as secretive as her.’

Linwood said nothing.

‘Well matched, I would say.’

Linwood gave a smile. ‘Perhaps we are,’ he conceded.

‘I knew you liked her.’

‘I have never denied it.’ Even now, he did not. For he was attracted to her. He did want her. Her double dealing did not change that. Only made him more careful, more cautious. Indeed, given Clandon’s relationship to Rotherham, and Venetia’s questions on the duke, he had a positive duty to discover her more fully.

Razeby gave a quiet laugh and shook his head.

‘What do you know of her?’ Linwood asked the question behind his suggestion for the morning ride.

‘It is serious, then?’

‘I think perhaps it is.’ In a way that Razeby could not appreciate.

Razeby raised his eyebrows at his friend’s admission. ‘Well, in that case...’ He rubbed a buff-coloured gloved hand against his mount’s mane and the horse blew an appreciative wicker. ‘Her name has been linked with a number of high-profile men of the ton over the years, Hawick and Devlin being just the latest two. Never takes a man home from what I hear.’

‘Who are the other names on the list?’

‘Arlesford, Hunter, Monteith, and even York himself.’

‘Robert Clandon?’

‘No.’ Razeby frowned his perplexity. ‘Unless you have heard something that I have not.’

Linwood shook his head. ‘I must have been mistaken.’

‘I would not have had Clandon down as her type.’

‘What is her type?’

‘You, seemingly.’ Razeby smiled.

Linwood ignored the remark. He was too aware that Venetia Fox’s interest in him might not be all that it seemed. ‘Which of the men on your list was she mistress to?’

‘Ah,’ Razeby said. ‘That is not clear. She plays her cards very close to her chest does our Miss Fox, and a very nice chest it is, too.’ Razeby grinned at his own jest. ‘Also insists that the men in her life follow suit. The slightest indiscretion and she turns to ice. Come to think of it, maybe that is why she likes you.’

Maybe, but Linwood was not entirely convinced. ‘And her background?’

‘Truth be told, no one knows much about Venetia Fox before she was famous, except that she came up under Kemble’s wing at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden and has stayed loyal to him and his theatre ever since. They say she comes from respectable stock—that her father was a younger son gone into the church, and that Miss Fox was the only daughter of him and his good lady wife. It certainly adds to the mystique that surrounds her—there is something titillating about a priest’s daughter who should be so very good, but turns out to be so enticingly wicked and wanton. But whether there is any truth in the story...’ Razeby gave a shrug ‘...your guess is as good as mine.’ He paused. ‘If you are so interested, I’m sure the Order of the Wolf could find out all about her for you.’

‘The Order has better things to do.’ This was not a matter to be taken to the secret society of which both he and Razeby were members. The society existed for bigger, more important things, to see that right was done. Its members included some of the most powerful and influential men in the country, politicians, nobility, even royalty, whom he could not risk drawing more of their interest to Rotherham’s death.

‘It has, but matters are quiet for now, and I am sure if you were to mention it in the right ear...’

But Linwood shook his head. ‘I will deal with it myself.’

‘As you wish,’ Razeby said. ‘I would not look too hard if I were you, Linwood. She is an actress. And no actress gets to where she is without having a past that is less than lily white. But then you are planning on bedding her, not marrying her. And in that, experience in the bedchamber is no bad thing.’

‘No doubt,’ said Linwood ambiguously.

‘But enough talk of Miss Fox. The mist is lifting and Monty’s growing impatient.’ Razeby’s horse gave a little twitch as if to demonstrate his master’s words. ‘A monkey that I will reach Hyde Park Corner before you.’

Linwood gave a nod, accepting the wager, and the two of them spurred their horses to a canter through the drifting sunlit mist.

* * *

As arranged Linwood called for Venetia the next day at two. Although the day was fine he was travelling in his town coach rather than the landau. Although the curtains were open and the sun shone in through both windows, the atmosphere within it held an intimacy.

He had arranged for a hot brick for her feet and a sheepskin rug should she need it. The day held an autumn chill, but with her legs so close beside Linwood’s Venetia felt nothing of the cold. She was too conscious of his presence, of the intimacy of the situation, of the role she was playing. Yet the strange tension that was between them, that had been between them from the very start, was nothing of play acting. It was as real as the shiver that swept over her skin at his mere proximity and the somersault of her stomach every time he touched her. She was playing a woman in lust, when in fact that’s precisely what she was, no matter how distasteful, or how much she did not want to admit it.

They spoke little. No inconsequential talk. Nothing to break the ice of the tension that was between them. When they reached Gunter’s he helped her down from the carriage. Taking his arm, she walked with him towards the tea room. But as they would have entered a man was leaving. An elderly gentleman, well dressed, walking with a cane in his right hand, while his left arm hung at an unnatural stiff angle by his side. The grey of his hair was peppered with its original black. A neat trimmed silver beard did not disguise the haggard, ravaged face, the lines etched there or the suffering within those dark secretive eyes that seemed so familiar.

Beneath her hand she felt the muscles of Linwood’s arm tense, and the stiffening of his whole stance.

‘Francis,’ the man breathed softly. Venetia knew without being told who he was. The years had not been kind to the Earl of Misbourne, yet she could see in his face the man he had once been, a man that in his youth would have looked very like the one standing by her side.

‘Sir.’ Linwood’s voice was cold and formal with nothing of affection or the respect she had expected for his father. Indeed, his expression was harsher than ever she had seen it.

‘We have not seen you in a while.’

‘I have been busy,’ replied Linwood.

She could sense the strain between the two men, the unwieldy awkwardness that lay between them.

She saw Misbourne’s eyes flick over her.

‘May I introduce Miss Venetia Fox. Miss Fox, the Earl of Misbourne...’ the slightest of pauses before adding ‘...my father.’ There was an unmistakable bitterness to that last word.

Misbourne and Venetia made their devoirs before Misbourne turned his attention back to his son. ‘You will come for lunch on Sunday?’

‘I am busy that day.’

‘Then a brief visit whenever you can manage...for your mother’s sake. You know how she worries over you.’

Linwood gave a stiff nod before saying, ‘If you will excuse me, sir.’

‘Of course.’ She saw something of pain flicker in Misbourne’s eyes.

A small dip of the head in acknowledgement and the moment was over, Misbourne walking away, while inside Gunter’s tearoom Linwood and Venetia were shown to their table, but she saw Linwood’s eyes follow the figure that receded into the distance along the street. And she felt like she had had a glimpse into something very private, an anger and vulnerability that Linwood did not want the world to see.

He caught her watching. The look in his eyes was poised, waiting, defensive almost. But then the waiter was there, pencil and paper in hand, ready to take their order. Venetia turned her gaze to him, and, with a smile, asked him to list the choice of cakes for the day, giving Linwood the dignity of the space to regroup himself, even though Linwood’s proximity robbed her of her hunger and the scene that had just played outside Gunter’s front door seemed to echo between them.

‘So,’ she said softly when the waiter left.

She saw Linwood tense slightly.

‘Do you come to the theatre tonight?’

‘I do,’ he said, and there was a peculiar look in his eyes—was it relief or gratitude? ‘There is a certain actress I have a mind to see.’

‘You did not tell me you were a fan of Miss Sweetly.’

He smiled. His hand moved to lie flat upon the table, close to hers but not touching in this so public and respectable place. Yet she could feel the pull of their fingers, the sensation as if he had stroked his over hers. She turned her palm over and saw his gaze drop to where the buttons of her glove gaped to reveal the soft white skin of her inner wrist. And when his eyes met hers again it was as if something passed between them, something shared, something that she did not quite understand.

‘You know my interest is not in Miss Sweetly.’ His voice was low, intimate, velvet.

She held his gaze and kept her words as quiet as his. ‘And yet you recognise her from her days before she came to the theatre.’

He did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘I do.’

She had heard it from Alice’s mouth. She wanted to hear what Linwood would say. ‘Were you her client?’

He raised an eyebrow at her bluntness, then gave her back as good as he got. ‘I have no need to frequent brothels, Miss Fox.’

‘That is not what I asked you.’ It was nothing to do with what she was supposed to be gleaning from him, nothing to do with Rotherham. It should not have mattered to her in the slightest. But in a perverse sort of way it did. Very much so. She found she was holding her breath for his answer.

‘I was not her client, or that of any other woman of the night.’

‘But you offered to pay her.’

His eyes did not waver, just stayed focused on hers.

‘I did, indeed.’

It felt intense and dangerous and very personal, even though they were sitting here sipping tea and eating scones with cream and jam with the most respectable of London’s ton all around.

She leaned across the table to drop the words more quietly than the others. ‘For sexual congress?’

He gave a half laugh, half smile at that. ‘Have I not already told you that I do not pay for sexual congress?’

‘Again, Lord Linwood, you have not answered my question.’

‘And you do ask so many, Miss Fox,’ he said in a soft voice.

She felt a little stab of apprehension. Neither his expression nor the intonation of his voice revealed anything more of his meaning. But her doubt was soothed when he continued, ‘I am sure that Miss Sweetly has already told you the details of what I wanted from her.’

‘Then it may surprise you, as much as it surprised me, that she did not.’ She frowned slightly at the memory. It was hypocritical to feel hurt that Alice did not trust her with the details, given there was so much she, herself, was hiding, but she felt it all the same. ‘You wanted information, but about whom she would not divulge.’

There was a pause. She saw his gaze drop to where her hands lay upon the table, to where she was worrying at the button on the wrist of her glove. She stopped what she was doing and, lifting her delicate cup from its saucer, took a sip of tea before meeting his gaze once more.

‘She really did not tell you.’

Venetia said nothing.

Linwood’s gaze was dark and steady. ‘It is irrelevant to what is happening between us, Miss Fox.’

‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘You paying for information on one of Mrs Silver’s girls?’

‘I am the owner of a newspaper with an interest in such stories. Have you never done anything that you regret?’

‘I take care not to.’

He gave a nod of almost mocking congratulation.

‘Have you any other regrets, my lord?’ She arched her brow, her eyes as serious as his, daring him to tell her of Rotherham.

‘Something of the devil’s blood runs in my family, Miss Fox. A man cannot live a lifetime with such blood in his veins and not have regrets for the actions he has taken...even if they were for the best of reasons.’ His eyes were steady upon her, controlled, watchful in a way that made her feel like he could see right through her game.

Both his words and the look in his eyes made her shiver. She steered the conversation to safer ground, but it did not ease the tension that had appeared between them. It made her uncharacteristically nervous so that she was relieved when the time came to leave and he took her home. The journey was conducted in silence. Even when they came to a halt outside her house and Linwood helped her down from the coach he did not say a word, making her fear that she had gone too far in her questions of Alice and the brothel and Rotherham.

‘Good afternoon, Lord Linwood.’ She made to walk away.

He let her take a few steps before the words slipped from his lips, faint and gentle as a lover’s caress and with such a sincerity of feeling that it stroked a shiver from her scalp all the way to the tips of her toes. ‘You should know, Venetia, that I do not share. If you are mine, you are mine alone. As I am yours alone.’ He paused. ‘And if not, then we have nothing more to say to one another.’

She froze, her heart suddenly galloping, afraid of what he meant, afraid of where this thing between them was going, then turned to face him.

They stared at one another across that small space and all the street surrounding them seemed to fade to nothing.

‘Good day, Miss Fox.’ Linwood bowed, climbed back into his carriage and drove away, leaving her standing there still staring after him.

* * *

Three nights later Venetia arrived early at Razeby’s small private soirée he was holding in celebration of his new arrangement with Alice. Her friend was glowing in the role of the marquis’s hostess. She stood by his side, greeting each of their guests as they arrived.

‘I’m so glad that you’re here, Venetia.’ Alice smiled, then lowered her voice to a volume that was intended for her ears only. ‘I’ve invited Linwood for you, even though it goes against my better judgement.’

‘Thank you.’ Not for the first time Venetia wished she could tell her friend the truth of what she was doing.

She had spent the past days worrying over Linwood. Now she did not wait for the viscount to come to her, but threaded her way through the room towards him.

‘Miss Fox.’ Fallingham bowed when he saw her. ‘You know Linwood, of course.’

‘Of course.’ She slid her gaze to the man who made her blood thrum and her heart thunder.

Linwood drew her a small bow. He said nothing, but there was something in his eyes when they met hers that made his parting words after Gunter’s resonate between them. Three nights of pondering and still she could not decide if it had been a warning or a question, or both. Asking her to go beyond what had up until now been nothing more than flirtation and warning her that he would not tolerate unfaithfulness in the same breath. Both question and warning disturbed her far more than they should have. She felt like the game was moving in a direction she had not foreseen, one that was both frightening and enticing.

‘Miss Sweetly has done Razeby proud,’ said Fallingham, drawing her away from her thoughts on Linwood.

‘Indeed, she has, Lord Fallingham.’

‘It is good news about their arrangement.’ Fallingham was all politeness, but he was unable to resist a quick glance at her breasts.

Venetia could not bring herself to agree. ‘He makes her happy,’ she conceded and could not understand why, despite all of her warnings, Alice was so intent on being with Razeby.

‘As she does him. He is putty in her hand.’

I doubt that. Venetia smiled and did not say the words. She was under no illusions as to how Razeby saw Alice. He would use her and dismiss her just like every other man of his ilk treated every woman of Alice’s and hers.

‘A toast to Miss Sweetly and Razeby.’ Fallingham raised his glass of champagne.

Venetia raised her glass. Linwood did, too, but only Fallingham drank the champagne. Venetia noticed that Linwood did nothing more than touch the rim of the glass to his lips, in the same way as she did.

Their eyes met, each knowing the other’s secret.

Linwood’s eyes were dark and intense, and she felt the shadow of his last parting words still upon her. Was she his? It was the question she had asked herself these three nights past. She knew her own strength, knew her purpose in this game, knew she must not lose focus. If Linwood chose to raise the stakes a little, then Venetia believed herself more than capable of rising to the challenge. Besides, if the answer to his question was no, then she knew that he would walk away and Robert’s plan would be lost. And beneath all of those rationales was another reason that she could not quite bring herself to admit.

‘Ah,’ Fallingham smiled. ‘Here comes Clandon.’

In her shock Venetia sucked in a mouthful of champagne and had to swallow it down, half choking in the process.

‘My dear, Miss Fox, please allow me...’ Fallingham was poised with handkerchief in hand, ready to dab in all the wrong places. She ignored him, turning her gaze to Linwood’s and accepting the plain white handkerchief that he offered without a single word.

She pressed it to her lips, as if kissing it, as if kissing him, before returning the handkerchief to its owner.

Fallingham seemed to realise that he was staring at the pocket into which Linwood had just slipped the handkerchief. ‘Just toasting our hosts, Clandon,’ he said. ‘You know Linwood, of course.’

She felt a pang of annoyance that Robert had not warned her he would be present. She did not look at him.

Robert gave a nod, but barely glanced at Linwood. The air between them was all cold formality. She watched Linwood’s eyes move over the black band of grief around Robert’s arm.

‘So sorry to hear about Rotherham,’ said Fallingham. ‘Terrible way to lose a father.’

‘Indeed,’ murmured Clandon and his eyes held the sudden shimmer of tears before he glanced away and cleared his throat.

She saw the sympathy in Fallingham’s gaze.

Linwood’s expression remained its usual unrevealing, unsmiling mask.

‘But I am confident that our justice system will find the perpetrator.’ Robert sounded as pompous as their father had been.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Fallingham. ‘Have you been introduced to Miss Fox?’

Robert’s eyes met hers. ‘I have not yet had that pleasure.’ He bowed and looked at her with a degree of calculated interest that made her uncomfortable. ‘Miss Fox.’

Her brother was better at this game than her, she thought.

She curtsied. ‘My sympathies on your loss, Mr Clandon.’

‘Thank you.’ Robert’s gaze moved from her to Linwood, as if in expectation of him adding to the condolences, but Linwood remained stubbornly silent. The awkwardness of the moment stretched. The two men faced one another, neither seemingly willing to back down.

‘Clandon, you must allow me to introduce you to our hostess, Miss Sweetly,’ Fallingham said, placing a hand on Robert’s arm and defusing the situation by leading him away in the direction of Alice.

Venetia waited until her brother was out of earshot before she spoke. ‘You did not offer him your condolences.’

‘Because I am not sorry that Rotherham is dead.’ Linwood was watching her, his expression daring a response.

‘That is a dangerous thing to say when the authorities are searching for his murderer.’

‘Maybe I like to live dangerously...’ he stepped closer, his breath brushing her cheek as he whispered by her ear ‘...as dangerously as you, Venetia.’

Greensleeves was being played on the piano in the background, the notes soft and sweet and melodic. The room was bright with candlelight reflected from peering glasses and the thousand shimmering crystal drops that lined the heavy chandeliers overhead and sconces patterning the surrounding walls. All around them was the chatter and buzz of conversation—the deep tones of a man’s laughter, the flirtation of a woman’s response, the chink of glasses and somewhere in the distance the pop of a champagne cork. All of it was as nothing. Venetia and Linwood might as well have been alone. All of the pretence and flirtation fell away. She could feel the beat of her own heart—fast, hard, loud, and the way her pulse throbbed in her throat. Strings of bubbles fizzed from the glass in her hand. She watched their tiny trails, her mind sharpening, focusing, before she raised her eyes from the glass and looked into his. Black eyes that seemed to reach inside her and see too much, black eyes that lit a part of her she had not known existed until him.

‘I do not know what you mean, my lord.’ The words were breathy and low, and not through artifice. He could not know the truth of her, of what she was doing to him, could he? Maybe it was her own guilty conscience that gave his words another interpretation. And despite that danger, she had never felt more aware of him as a man or of the strength of the sinuous desire that rippled between them.

‘There is an unanswered question between us, Venetia.’

There were many unanswered questions between them, but she knew the one to which he was referring—the same one that had haunted her dreams for three nights. If you are mine, you are mine alone... And if not, then we have nothing more to say to one another. The echo of those words seemed to whisper between them.

‘We cannot have you keeping Miss Fox all to yourself, Linwood.’ Devlin arrived with Mrs Silver on his arm, breaking apart the intensity of the moment.

‘Indeed?’ said Linwood but his eyes stayed fixed on Venetia.

* * *

Linwood let the questions hang between them, the ones he had asked and the ones that were silent. That Clandon and Venetia had pretended not to know one another was a sign that boded ill. Was she spying for her lover? Or was Rotherham’s illegitimate son paying her? He remembered her strange response to his allusion to her performance, and he thought again of her questions that seemed to edge more and more around Rotherham and the duke’s murder. And he understood now what lay behind them. Clandon and Venetia thought him guilty of Rotherham’s murder. It was a bittersweet realisation.

Mrs Silver, madam of the highest-class brothel in St James’s, was wearing her customary muted dove-grey dress, as sober and respectable as those worn by her girls were provocative and revealing. Mrs Silver might have been accompanying him, but Devlin’s gaze was engaged entirely on Venetia, lingering over the curves that the audacious scarlet gown revealed too well. Venetia stepped closer to Linwood.

‘Miss Fox.’ Devlin kissed her hand. Venetia accepted his greeting with grace, but she did not allow her hand to linger in Devlin’s possession, withdrawing it immediately and slipping it casually around Linwood’s arm. It was a statement to Devlin and perhaps something of an answer to himself.

‘Linwood.’ Devlin’s gaze was cool and appraising, observing the message Venetia’s body was so clearly sending. Then to Venetia, ‘I saw your play the other night. Splendid performance. As usual.’

‘Thank you. You are too kind, sir,’ Venetia said and she smiled with her eyes, if not with her mouth, in that bold, provocative way he had come to recognise.

‘Have you seen it, Mrs Silver?’ Devlin asked the woman by his side.

‘I have not, sir.’ Mrs Silver smiled, but her gaze, when it finally moved to Venetia, was cold.

He noticed that neither woman actually spoke to the other.

‘May be I shall get up a little party and take you,’ Devlin said, but his focus was once more on Venetia, more specifically on the smooth white skin that the neckline of the scarlet dress revealed.

‘Such a delightful offer, but unfortunately I am engaged every night of this week, and next,’ said Mrs Silver.

Venetia’s mouth curved up ever so slightly at the edges, but the atmosphere between the two women was so frosty that Linwood wondered how Devlin failed to notice. ‘If you will excuse us...’ And with the smallest of curtsies Venetia and Linwood were drifting away towards the other side of the room.

‘Do you have your answer, Lord Linwood?’

He looked into those beautiful silver-blue eyes and all that they were hiding. ‘I am not sure that I do, Miss Fox.’

‘You wish me to spell it out, my lord?’

‘I wish to be certain of where we stand.’

She held his eyes for a moment longer. ‘Very well.’ She released his arm, stepped to stand before him and reached her lips to touch his ear. ‘I am yours. And yours alone.’

Even knowing what he now knew of her, even with the worst of his suspicions he felt the words stroke against him as if she had boldly traced her fingers against the length of his manhood.

Her gaze moved to his once more.

‘I am glad to hear it.’ He captured her hand in his, a small surreptitious movement, but one of possession before the crowd all the same. He would take what she offered because Linwood knew it was always best to keep one’s enemies close, and play them at their own game. And more than that, he wanted to ensure that Clandon’s suspicions remained focused on him alone.

And he would take what she offered, because, despite everything, he wanted her.

Devlin and Mrs Silver walked past them again. He saw the veiled hostility in Venetia’s eyes as she looked at the woman—and her realisation that he had seen it when she returned her gaze to his.

‘It seems I must work a little harder upon my acting skills when it comes to Mrs Silver.’

‘There is nothing wrong with your acting skills, when you choose to employ them.’

Her hand went very still beneath his.

‘Ever the flatterer,’ she said, choosing to take it as a compliment, but well aware of the edge to their conversation.

‘Never the flatterer, but then you know that of me, by now.’

‘I suppose that I do...even if I know little else of you.’ He wondered if she realised how close to the edge she was treading.

‘What precisely is it that you wish to know, Venetia?’ The nub of all that was between them.

‘All that you are, my lord.’ She looked into his eyes and beneath his hand he felt the stroke of her fingers against his palm before she slid them from his reach. He managed to prevent a blatant arousal, but only just.

‘You do not desire much.’

‘No.’ She smiled that dangerous seductive smile. ‘Only you.’

This time he did not smile in return, just pinned her gaze with his and did not let it go. ‘Then I shall tell you that which you want to know, Miss Fox.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper and breathed the rest of the words into her ear. ‘When you tell me what I want to know.’

‘And that is?’ Her whisper sounded breathless and he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek and the line of his jaw.

‘All that you are, Venetia Fox.’ He moved his face to stare down into her eyes.

‘A pact of honesty?’ She sounded amused, but there was a little flicker of something else in her eyes, something that looked triumphant.

‘We are sworn to speak the truth or say nothing at all.’

They were still standing too close, their faces poised as if they were about to kiss, as if they were the only two people in the room, as if there was no crowd surrounding them.

‘Do we have a deal, Miss Fox?’

She glanced down, her long dark lashes hiding her eyes, hesitating just long enough that he knew her glimmer of unease. But when she raised those beautiful pale eyes to his once more she showed nothing of disquiet. He had to admire the steeliness of her nerve.

‘We do,’ she said smoothly.

‘Let us seal our agreement.’

‘And do you have a suggestion for how we might do that?’ They were words designed to torture him. She was a woman who knew her power. Images of her naked and beneath him, of his mouth upon hers, of him riding her, swam in his mind. He thrust the imaginings aside with the ruthless hand of a master.

‘In the conventional way...for now.’ He took her right hand in his, a handshake in all except that they were standing so close it looked like the touch of two lovers. ‘Since it binds us in honour.’

She said nothing but beneath his hand he felt the tiny shiver go through her as she understood that she was, in truth, honour-bound.

And only then did he smile.