Authors: Stephanie Stevens
"I would."
She looked at Austin; he tilted his head, pursed his lips, and responded to her unasked question, "He would."
She turned to appeal to Brent, gambling if any of these rogues had a shred of honor, he would. Had she wagered, she'd have lost.
His words confirmed it. "The odds are not in your favor."
In an effort to salvage some of her pride and knowing full well she could not go far, Clinton dropped her hand. She looked from one to another, and before she fled down the steps, she said, "You mother never deceived you in believing you share a common sire. She only neglected to tell you he resides in hell." She flew down the steps into the night.
"Ouch, that hurt," joked Austin.
"Must be your cloven hooves pressing against your new boots," teased Brent.
"No, I think my spaded tail is pinching the family jewels." Austin smiled, turning to Clinton. "Oh, well, I guess the family skeleton's out of the royal closet. The Barencourtes are the spawns of the devil." Austin roared with laughter, shaking his head, "You'll have the devil's own time taming her, brother. Which brings me to another devil. Your lady's stallion has been delivered to Wentworth into the capable doting hands of Keegan."
Lighting a cheroot, pausing as he blew a curl of smoke out, Clinton asked, "I trust you had no problem with him?"
"Depends on what you call a problem, Clinton. I found him to be quite spirited, much as your lady here, but easily appeased with bonbons. Had him eating out of my hand. Mayhaps you should try them with Tiffany."
Clinton smiled, refusing to be drawn. Austin continued, "It's a good thing you didn't send Tristan to do the job. He has no love for the beasts anyway, and this one is not exactly endearing."
"Is mother at Wentworth?" Clinton asked.
"Aye. She arrived today from Genoa on Tristan's ship. Tristan was a bit put out having to relocate the harem girl the dey bestowed on him to another ship."
Brent spoke up, adding, "Mother is in a flutter. She sent word she needed certain services and could I lend her my secretary, Loomis, to help with the invitations. Incidentally, Winifred is there, and last I heard, she and Mother already had handled the wedding arrangements."
Looking at each brother, Clinton asked a question neither wished to answer. "And what of Rory?"
Austin volunteered, "None of our captains have seen hide nor hair of him, but word is being spread across the high seas."
"I think our little brother will receive word from our network, Clinton," Brent reassured.
Clinton nodded in affirmation, pulling on his cigar. "Tomorrow we will head to Wentworth. I want Tiffany to meet the family and staff before we set up permanent residence there." Letting out a thin stream of smoke, he warned, "Not one word about the stallion; he's her wedding present." He looked into the darkness below, then raised his eyes to his brothers. "I've taken enough of your time. Go inside and find yourself some libation and amusement, for I have a pretty angry lady wandering about the lower gardens whom I must find and make atonement to."
Both watched Clinton make his way down the garden steps. Austin threw his arm about Brent's shoulders. "I hear Lady Markham is here, old boy; got her sites set for you, now that Clinton's out of the picture."
Brent turned, awarding Austin with a look that could kill.
Austin laughed. "She might be worth a toss."
"Don't bet on it."
Tiffany stood near the rosebushes, their heady fragrance wafting in the night air. She was unsure what made her angrier, Clinton's deception, his highhandedness, or his brothers.
"Ooooh, "
she cried, thinking about that motley crew. One was worse than the other! How could a family be plagued with more than one rake? No wonder their mother chose to reside in Genoa. The poor woman probably received only pitiful looks from her peers. Well, they were the least of her problems, and she quickly dismissed them from her thoughts.
Her emotions were in a turmoil. She felt guilt over her body's response. She felt hate and loathing for Clinton and what he made her feel. Her face grew hot recalling her reaction to him in the carriage. She was not that foxed to have not known what he was trying to do, she was just unable to stop the delicious, unabandoned feeling he aroused. Tears began to well in her eyes as she acknowledged her lack of resistance, wondering how she could be so weak to succumb to a man's touch, any man's touch, while she loved another.
She broke a rose from its perch, twirling its stem, worrying at her lip. Renewed anger surfaced as she thought what a fool she was, and how he had played her for one. Breaking down her resistance--what resistance? Making her yield to unbearable pleasure, deceiving her with loving words. While all the time what was shattering to her was merely a wager to win for him!
She stamped her foot, then crushed the rose head in her hand, its petals falling like tears to the ground.
"Tell me, Princess, what has angered you, and I shall run it through with my sword." Clinton spoke in mock chivalry.
Spinning around, she cried, "You! 'Tis you!"
"Moi?"
he asked innocently.
Tiffany dashed toward him, pummeling his chest, screaming, " 'Tis you, sir; run yourself through so I may gain some measure of satisfaction." He held her wrist in one hand, cupping her face with his other. He saw the tears in her knowing blue eyes. Pulling her up against him gently, he asked softly, "How have I angered you, Princess?"
"You deceived me, played me for a fool."
His questioning look caused her to run on, tears falling softly. "You are a master of deception, sir! You have repeatedly deceived me. At the track, at Chablisienne, and tonight." Her tears fell freely now and her voice broke. "I did not know you were the duke of Chablisienne, nor the duke of Wentworth. I do not want a marriage with either one, but no, you would bind me nevertheless, despite my wishes." She sobbed and choked out, "And you play me for a fool, my lord. You make me . . . forget myself and rav . . . ravish me on the floor of a carriage for a wager!'' She pulled forcefully away from him, a blush touching her face. She was grateful for the cloak of darkness. "You, sir, are a despicable cad!"
Clinton realized now where the true source of her anger lay--the stupid wager. He spoke softly, yet firmly. "I think, Princess, you accuse me rightfully in deceiving you about my identity. But whether you knew who I was or not, you would not have changed your mind and welcomed my suit. I think, Tiffany, that nothing short of what I've done would have made you mine."
She stiffened at his referral to her as his. "I could not have put it better, my lord. You are right. However, it changes naught; the fact is, I don't want you for a husband."
"You don't have a choice in the matter, Princess. It's been taken out of your hands. As for the carriage ride, innocent that you are, surely you felt the evidence of my desire as well. What happened between you and me is not something staged, something one can control. It's passion, love, pure, unadulterated passion."
He moved closer, separating the distance between them in two strides. "Passion not born of a wager, Princess. Hell, I don't need to prove I can win that bet; time speaks for itself."
He could not miss the narrowing of her eyes or the scorn etched in her words. "And so I have been informed of your expertise."
Refusing to be drawn, he changed the course of the conversation. "I won't apologize for making you forget yourself. I hope my touch makes you forget till you can't remember what it was you forgot."
His arrogance, his confidence, was too much for her, and she retorted, "You'll never have that power."
Tiffany did not miss the challenging smile that lifted the corners of his mouth or gleamed in his eyes. "One little finger, Princess, is all it takes," he said, raising his finger at her.
Again thankful for the night, her face burned with re-membrance. "Your arrogance is beyond contempt, my lord. Your touch, I loathe. I cringe at the thought of your touch; even now my skin crawls. 'Tis all your touch does!"
Like a flash he grabbed her, pulling her against him, replying in an awful voice, "Once I told you I am master of the game, and play by my rules; tonight I shall demonstrate that mastery." He captured her mouth with a demanding kiss, parting her lips forcefully beneath his, plunging his tongue into her sweetness, drawing her tongue into his mouth. His hands moved freely over her breast, caressing her nipples to hard peaks, rolling them between his fingers as his mouth worked its magic upon hers.
Tiffany felt as if a bird of prey had swooped down and carried her along the currents of the wind as sharp sensations ran from her breasts to that secret place where the beginnings of an unbearable ache rose to burn. But she struggled to free herself from the pleasurable trap he was setting for her.
Managing to pull her mouth from his, Tiffany gasped, "Stop! You will never be my master!"
As if to disprove her words, he moved his hand up under her skirt, touching the soft inner flesh of her thigh. She moaned from the pleasure and the frustration he was causing her, but she refused to surrender to him. "Let me go!" she begged, tossing her head from side to side.
Clinton's finger hovered above the spot he knew would be moist and warm if he touched it. "No," he whispered, "not until you admit I have the power to give you what you desire." He looked in her eyes, seeing the answer he sought. He held the strings to her passion. He had a powerful tool by which he would win her heart. He heard her groan as his finger teased her and then withdrew. "I have the power to stoke that fire which is burning in the pit of your belly." He moved his hand softly up her thigh, hearing her whimper. "I have the power to quench and release you." He felt her lean against him, and held her steady. His hand moved over the ebony triangle of curls. "Aye, I have that power, the power to cause you to cry my name." He slowly withdrew his hand and gently pushed her from him, holding her steady. "But you loathe my touch."
Her senses reeling, Tiffany stumbled, but quickly her anger steadied her. "You're right. So remember never to touch me again!" She raised her hand to strike him. Clinton quickly caught her wrist in a steel-like vise. His lazy smile was replaced by fury. His gray eyes were icy, hard, and held her own.
Tiffany never saw such menacing fury so tightly leashed. The grip he had on her wrist never wavered.
"Never-misdirect-your-anger-at-me!" Pulling her hard against him, he continued, "For I am not the source, nor will I tolerate it."
His tone was uncompromising. "Do not condemn me for the wanting of you. Condemn yourself for denying your desire. Scream your childish rage, but direct it at yourself, not me! Deny your body's response to my touch, lie to yourself, fight your own will. Do whatever you deem necessary."
He pulled her closer, her breasts crushed against his chest. He said in a voice that brooked no argument, "Know this well; all your denying will not alter the fact you belong to me. You are mine. And above all else, I will have no less than all of you--body and soul and heart." He released her abruptly and with deceptive casualness turned, strolling away, leaving her with his promises.
England, August 1818
T
iffany gazed up into the sky. Stars, like pinholes in the black curtain of night, twinkled, filling the sky. It is a beautiful night, she thought, cloudless, warm, fragrant. A soft summer breeze carried the night fragrances. She looked down at the empty drive, where amber lights from the flickering lanterns paved its cobbled way for the carriages soon to line it. Liveried footmen, like sentinels, stood awaiting the moment of their appointed task. The whisper of the summer's breeze would soon carry stains of a waltz. She strolled slowly from her balcony into her room.
The manor was silent, save for the occasional sound of a footstep, rustle of a gown, or the soft closing of a door. All preparations, any last-minute detail, had been capably taken care of by Aunt Winnie.
She stole softly to the bouquet of violets Clinton had sent and lifted a delicate flower to inhale its light scent. She smiled thinking a bouquet had arrived every day since she returned to Wentworth. Her mind drifted over the last weeks. She had ridden every day with Clinton over the endless acreage of Wentworth Estates. They had picnicked on the edge of a lovely pond, watching the graceful swans glide across its surface. They had gone fishing in the salmon-stocked rivers. She smiled recalling his look of amazement when she baited her own hook and cast her own line. Her smile widened and a mischievous gleam lit her eyes as she remembered the day. While pursuing a frog, she fell headlong into the river, and when he grabbed her hand to pull her out, she yanked him in.
Placing the flower back in the vase, she realized the past weeks had flown by. Meeting his family at Wentworth, she had been shocked to discover there was another brother, Tristan, and still another she had yet to meet. Tristan had the same uncanny resemblance to his older brothers, possessing the Barencourte smile. His, however, was far more disarming. She liked him--he was carefree, having an adventurous love of life, sailing the high seas. He proved to be as roguish as the others, though his style was more distinct.
Clinton had escorted her to every soiree, ball, and evening given over the past month. Often they were alone, and many times accompanied by one or all of his brothers. Many an evening spent in the Barencourtes' company ended in a card game where she was paired off with either Brent or Tristan. Brent showed her how to calculate the odds, and Tristan showed her how to cheat. Many times it was not until dawn that the games broke up and she, heavy-eyed, was led to her room, sleeping away the day.
Every day something was planned, either a picnic, sailing, or just riding for hours. Each night they attended an affair or spent a quiet evening playing chess or cards. She realized there had been only two occasions when Clinton was called away on business, and to her dismay, she had felt disappointed, even though he had sent one of his brothers to replace him. There was no denying she began to enjoy his company more than she should have. She also realized that he kept her so occupied that all the plans, preparations, and details were made while she was busy. She never uttered a protest, because he kept her too amused to realize it was all happening.
Sighing, she realized nothing was in her control. Clinton had effectively made her ineffective. Nothing had worked out as she had hoped for. He had successfully diverted her attention. She bristled at his highhandedness. Somewhere in the back of her mind, deep in her heart, she hoped Alan or some miracle would intervene, putting a stop to it all. Closing her eyes, she thought, Here I am on the eve of his victory night, the night when officially the world will know I belong to him. A soft knock interrupted her musing.