“Celia.” His voice was a harsh warning, and also, perhaps, just enough of a plea.
“It’s hardly fair, Viscount Darling, for you to toy with my feelings and fill me with such sensations and such longing, without giving me the chance to play as well.”
“I hardly—”
He broke off when she moved her hands, massaging and kneading the thick muscles of his thighs.
“I don’t have your experience and knowledge, so I’ll have to guess. You’ll have to help me. Does this feel good?” She circled her thumbs on the inside of his thighs.
“Yes,” he bit off.
“But you don’t sound pleased.” Celia copied the words he had used with her. “Perhaps if I ran my hands along the length of your inner thigh, like this, you would like it more?”
In response, he put his hands out to either side of the carriage walls to brace his arms, and she suspected, to keep from touching her. But his body’s instinctive response to her was obvious. The fabric at the apex of his thighs tented.
Celia felt a surge of power and satisfaction she had never experienced before. It was singularly heady. She looked into his clear blue eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes, Viscount Darling.” Her hands massaged and kneaded him through the satin fabric of his breeches, and she could feel the hardened strength of his deeply corded muscles beneath her palms. “I can feel the strength of your legs. But that’s not where you really want my hands, is it? You want them here, on your—” She touched him lightly.
He seemed to wince and he sucked air in between his tightly clenched teeth.
“I’m afraid, Viscount Darling, I don’t know what to call it.”
He looked at her, a stare of such heat and nakedness she felt it within her, pulsating at her core.
“My cock, Celia, my cock.”
“Your cock.” Her whisper did not sound at all as sure as she had wished. “If I was more experienced, would I touch it? Would you like me to?”
“Yes.” He said it through clenched teeth, as if he were bracing himself for pain. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the leather squabs.
Celia let her fingers play lightly over the material along the length of his member, his cock. “And how would I touch you? Softly, as you have told me I should like to be touched, or differently, perhaps more firmly?”
“Harder.”
“Yes then, harder.” She pressed along the length of him. “Like this? Tell me how you want me to touch you harder.”
“Wrap your hand around.” His jaw worked as he spoke.
She did as he directed, wrapping her hand fully around the erect length of his cock through the interfering layers of his breeches. “I would imagine this would be so much better, so much more enjoyable for you, as well as for me, if I were touching your warm flesh instead of the cool satin of your breeches.” She kept one hand encircling him while the other sought out the buttons of the flap of his breeches. “If my hand were directly on your . . . cock.”
In a flash his hand came down hard over her wrists and in another moment she was lifted, pushed back against the bench, her wrists pinioned against the squabs. He held her there for a long moment as he struggled to calm his breath.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Do not play with fire, Miss Burke, unless you are quite prepared to be badly burned.” He loosened his grip on her wrists and slid slowly away from her. Then he banged on the roof of the carriage, drawing it to an abrupt halt.
“I will have to beg your pardon, Miss Burke. Gosling will see you safely back.” With that Viscount Darling left the carriage and departed into the night.
C
HAPTER
19
T
uesday at precisely ten-fifteen in the morning, Celia alighted from the Marquess of Widcombe’s grand town carriage onto the crowded pavement of Fleet Street. The coachman would go no farther. He did not want to risk his equipage nor his cattle on the close confines of George Alley.
Powell’s was a bookseller halfway down the block. With Bains clutching her arm, Celia went straight to the counter. Best to get it over with directly.
“I should like to leave this package here.”
The clerk glanced at the sealed envelope, supremely disinterested in her little drama. “For the post, miss? You’ll need the direction.”
“No, not for the post. For picking up, here.” How awkward. She hadn’t imagined dithering over how to leave her blackmail payment.
“Still, miss, it will need a name.”
Celia glanced at Bains for a moment, then leaned forward to say quietly, “I don’t have the name.”
“Like that, is it? Don’t suppose you’ll want to leave your name?”
“I couldn’t—”
“Right then, initials top right corner. Left by one well-dressed, cautious young lady. Fee to be paid by whoever picks it up. Will that be all, miss?”
Celia knew she had gone scarlet with embarrassment. “Yes, thank you.” She excused herself, only to bump into the customer directly behind her, a civil middle-aged businessman, who tipped his hat politely.
“Your pardon, miss.”
“Not at all, sir. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh, miss, you’ve dropped your reticule.” Before Celia could protest she had none, he pressed one into her hand with another tip of his hat. “Mr. Henry Younghusband at your service, miss.”
Viscount Darling’s runner. She thanked him with a quick curtsy and hurried to the coach with Bains. As soon as they were tucked inside the carriage, Celia pulled out Viscount Darling’s note.
I watch from the coffeehouse opposite, Younghusband from inside the bookstore, though it may be some time, even days before we know the outcome, if at all. I will be in touch. Do not try to contact me.
She would have to leave the business to him and hope for the best. Celia directed the driver to return immediately to Grosvenor Street. Her father had come up from Dartmouth and she would need to be more circumspect in her activities. He might not talk and lecture like her mama, but he was no less sharp for it. And he did not sleep till noon.
For the second time during her stay in London, the time wore heavily on Celia. She had no work of her own, no microscope nor specimens, though she did have correspondence with both the Abbé de Serra and Sir James, as well as with the printer, Mr. Faulder. Correspondence could only take up a fraction of the day. The rest must belong to her mama, shopping, and social events, none of which she could enjoy while her fate still hung in the balance.
More days passed, there was no word from Viscount Darling. There was simply no Viscount Darling. She had not seen him since the morning in George Alley. Strictly speaking, even then she had not seen him—she had only his note. He had not sent another. Celia had, of course, sent Bains over to visit with Mrs. Bobbins, but she came back empty-handed, with no news. It was supremely frustrating. Despite her attempts to see him, and speak with him, Viscount Darling remained resolutely uninvolved. There had been no attempt to arrange the sort of intimate conversations they had once shared. He was avoiding her at all costs. Presumably he had left or was planning to leave the rest of the money—the two hundred pounds—on his own, without her involvement. Or he had decided not to put up the rest of the money, choosing to cut his losses and leave her to deal with the rest of the mess by herself.
If that were to happen, she would have no choice but to tell her father. As it was, she was overdue to have a conversation with him regarding the Royal Society. She didn’t want him to hear it from anybody else.
In the meantime, she must smile and curtsy and dance as little as possible in the Dowager Duchess of Fenmore’s opulent ballroom. Celia had first danced again with Mr. Haythornthwaite and his breeding program, then retreated to sit quietly in a chair at the side of the ballroom.
She was unprepared when Viscount Darling suddenly asked in her ear. “Miss Burke, do you know who that woman is, there?”
She hadn’t even known he was at the ball. Indeed he hung back, at the division of the wall, as if he didn’t want to be seen with her. She sat only a foot from him, but felt none of his attention. His mind was elsewhere. Whatever fascination he’d had with her had run its course, as she knew it must. But knowledge could not fill the hollow empty space inside her. She looked along the wall of chairs as he gestured with his drink. “Mrs. Turbot?”
“The lady in the blue, old-fashioned gown with the white lace cap.”
“She is Mrs. Turbot, Melissa Wainwright’s companion.”
Viscount Darling made a guttural sound, like the snapping of a twig. “Melissa Wainwright.”
Celia felt an entirely unwelcome stab of jealousy, which left a sour, unpleasant taste in her mouth, as if she had swallowed a toad. Melissa was quite beautiful. Perhaps her petite, blond beauty would be a perfect match for Viscount Darling’s own gilded looks. “Have you not been introduced? I thought you had made her acquaintance in Dartmouth?”
“Dartmouth. And Bath.” But Viscount Darling was no longer having an idle conversation with her. Everything about him, his posture, the controlled tension on his face, had changed.
“Yes, from school. We spoke of her, if you remember, of me introducing her to influential ladies.”
“It will therefore come as a surprise to you that Mrs. Turbot was at Powell’s Booksellers Tuesday last and retrieved your packet. She took a hackney to a house on the outskirts of Marylebone.”
Celia’s stomach turned to water. Thank God she was already sitting. “I don’t know if that is where Melissa lives.”
“The same lady retrieved my letter at Robin Hood Court on Wednesday. I had assumed she was a servant. I might not have recognized her but . . .” He let the thought lapse.
“Does Melissa know?”
“That I suspect her, or that her servant retrieved the money?”
Celia shrugged hopelessly. The realization, the pain, crept through her slowly, a crawling numbness that somehow ached.
“I think it very likely Miss Wainwright knows everything. Mrs. Turbot is merely a servant in her household. Do you happen to know when she joined Miss Wainwright’s employ?”
“Shortly before Melissa came to Dartmouth, I thought.”
“That places Miss Wainwright at Miss Hadley’s School in Bath, in Dartmouth, and now in London. All three places from which the letters have come.”
“But she is my friend.” Misery stole Celia’s voice. “Oh, I hate people. I shall never understand them, ever. They are so lying and deceitful and hateful.”
“No one can betray like a friend, Celia. I think you need to get used to the idea Miss Wainwright was never truly your friend.” He added in an undertone, “The library at the end of the next set.” Then he bowed and stepped away. “Your servant, Miss Burke.”
“Celia?” Her mama’s smile was like a snowbank, blinding and icy. “You will excuse my daughter, my lord.” She inclined her head to Viscount Darling, took Celia’s arm, and led her away. “My dear child, you need not talk to the man if he upsets you so much. You look peaked and unhappy. We are at a ball. Smile. Here is Lord Monaton, asking for an introduction and to dance with you. This is my daughter, Lord Monaton. Celia, may I introduce Lord Monaton to you? My daughter, Miss Celia Burke.”
“Delighted, Miss Burke. Would you do me the honor . . .”
Lord Monaton was destined to be deeply disappointed in The Ravishing Miss Burke. She had absolutely no conversation for him. Her mind was elsewhere.
She could think of only two things. One, Melissa Wainwright had betrayed not only her, but Emily Delacorte as well, and deeply so. Two, if her blackmailer was Melissa Wainwright, then she and Viscount Darling had come to the end of their journey together. If they had finally solved the riddle that vexed them, they no longer had any excuse for seeing each other.
“I understand you have some knowledge of plants, Miss Burke.” Lord Monaton was talking at her as they stood at the head of the dance. “My own interest lies with roses. I have had some small success with crossbreeding a new species of China rose, from stock lately brought from China, you know.”
Was it wrong to pray it was not Melissa, just to prolong her acquaintance with Viscount Darling? What if she never saw him again? She would go back to Dartmouth and he might never visit there again. Or worse, if he did visit and brought some other woman, his wife with him. No, it would be better never to see him again.
So why did she feel like crying?
“I fear you did not enjoy the dance, Miss Burke. I will leave you with your father.” The lordling bowed to Celia and nodded to her father. “Lord Thomas.”
“Celia? Did you not enjoy meeting Lord Monaton? I had to cage the young man twice to get him to attend. I know he is a rosarian, but he shares your former interest in botany. The fellow is just about the only man under the age of thirty who will at once fit your criteria, my expectations, and your mother’s standards.”
A rosarian. A botanist. And she couldn’t even remember, two minutes after their dance, exactly what he looked like. Viscount Darling was right. All those weeks ago when he had made his bet. He had ruined her for all other men without once touching her.
According to her father, Lord Monaton was the one man she would have been happy to marry one month ago. He was young and handsome—and a lord. But she didn’t want him. She wanted what she could not have. What she could not stop herself from wanting.
“Celia, are you unwell?”
“No, Papa. I am only upset with some dreadful news I had of a friend. Someone I thought was a friend.”
“Viscount Darling?”
“No, no. Melissa Wainwright. She is not what she appears to be, it seems.”
“Is that because she is now dancing with Viscount Darling?”
“Is she?” Dancing with Melissa as he had never danced with Celia? “I daresay, he is exactly what she deserves.” She could only hope Viscount Darling would make sure of that. “Your pardon, Papa. If you will excuse me, I should like to repair to the ladies withdrawing room for a moment.”
Instead, she went directly across the house to the small library, the Dowager not being much of a reader, and made herself as inconspicuous as possible in a window alcove. She did not have long to wait.
Viscount Darling escorted Melissa in and closed the door behind them.
Melissa was speaking, “—and I cannot stay above a minute, I’m afraid, for it would be thought quite wrong of me to speak to you alone.”
“Really?” Viscount Darling had invested his voice with bored haughteur. “I should have thought being alone with a man like me would be very much to your desire, Miss Wainwright.”
“You mistake me, I—”
“Oh, I do not mistake you, Miss Wainwright. I think it only fair to warn you I have had you under investigation by a runner from the Bow Street Magistrate’s office. After all, I’ve already paid you twice. What could be better or more desirable for you than to have another opportunity to blackmail me.”
Melissa waited too long before she spoke. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“The Bow Street Magistrate’s office says you do know. I am inclined to agree with them, because they have proof. They will implicate your companion, Mrs. Turbot, as well. They, if they decide to take you into custody, have very harsh penalties.”
There was tension and anger in Melissa’s voice. “I begin to see why people have called you the Vile Viscount.”
“You have no idea, Miss Wainwright, of what I am capable. Shall I tell you? Shall I describe what I will say to others, to my friends, my fellow officers, when I leave this room after being closeted in here with you?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “You bastard.”
“Exactly. I am just the sort of bastard who would ruin you, right now, here on Lady Home’s carpet, without a second thought, and tell everyone I had pleasure in doing so and to hell with your accusations. You should have checked more thoroughly into my character before you decided to blackmail me.”
Melissa backed away from him, wary and nervous, but he was between her and the door.
“Frightened you now, have I, Miss Wainwright? Good. It shouldn’t take more than a word here or there among my associates in His Majesty’s Marine Forces, to have it said you’re easy goods. That you’ll spread your legs for anyone in a barracks, as long as they’ve the ready cash.”
“You unmitigated, filthy—”
“Yes, we’ve covered that, Miss Wainwright.”
“You have no proof, because none exists. You’re just trying to frighten me with your accusations. But I can make accusations as well. I can scream this room down around you in a minute and accuse you.”