Never Lie To A Lady Part 9

Her chin came up, and her eyes sparkled. "My G.o.d, Nash. Are you a high-stickler after all?"

Nash shook his head. "No, but nor am I a rash fool."

Miss Neville seemed to relax a little. "You are quite right to be careful," she answered. "But sometimes I despair of not having moved this business to America. England's taxation policies have become onerous, and the political restrictions placed on our business are...ah, but enough of this. I shall bore you unforgivably."

"I rather doubt you could ever do that, Miss Neville," he said. "You might shock me, perhaps, with your laissez-faire notions. And you understand, do you not, that it is considered most unseemly for a woman of your cla.s.s to espouse such ideas, let alone engage in business?"

She cast a curious, sidelong glance in his direction. "But do you find it unseemly, Lord Nash?" she asked. "Or are you intrigued by it? Are you put off by a woman who rejects the traditional role of wife in favor of personal and economic freedom?"

Nash was taken aback by the clarity her words. Was that what she was? And was he put off? It was a valid, if strange question. "I am not sure," he answered honestly. "I did not realize your views went so far as to cast aside that more traditional role."

"Come, Nash, you must never lie to a lady," she said sardonically. "Of course you realized it. Otherwise, you would not be walking arm in arm with me. You are hardly in the market for a wife."

"Indeed not. But what has that to do with anything?"

"You invited an unattached, ostensibly eligible female to stroll with you in front of half the ton," she answered. "Surely you comprehend the implication of your act?" She paused to turn around on the path. "Look, we are now out of sight of the others. But you do not care, because you already know, Nash, that your 'most prized a.s.set'-your beloved bachelorhood-is safe with me."

Nash stared down the length of the river behind them and realized that she was right. He was not concerned. Moreover, Miss Neville was perhaps the one woman here with whom he could be himself. And, distracted by the heat of their debate, he had forgotten to keep his guard up. They had long ago left the grounds of Henslow House. He reluctantly acknowledged that it was time to turn around.

"There was a little bench beneath the trees some distance back," he said. "Why do we not return to it?"

"A return to the bounds of propriety?" she teased.

"I am trying to show concern for your virtue, Miss Neville, much as it surprises me," he said dryly. "I suppose that the ruin of your good name is a guilt I should rather not live with."

"How very patronizing of you, Nash," she complained. "I believe you did not listen to a word I said."

"I listened," he returned. "But you are very young, my dear. And there is always Lady Louisa to consider."

Miss Neville's expressive face fell just a little. "I will own, Nash, that you are right about my young cousin," she confessed. "I wish to do nothing which might wrongly influence her, or hinder her chance at a good marriage. But I am almost thirty. I am not very young."

"My goodness, all of that, are you?" he said, smiling down at her. "You are a well-preserved specimen for such a great age. Have you all your teeth still?"

"You are teasing me, sir," she chided. "You think I will still end up at the altar when all is said and done. But consider this, Nash: Why should I subjugate myself to a man when I am perfectly capable of managing on my own?"

"You have your brother," he challenged. "Legally, it is he who is responsible for you."

"Come now, Nash," she said with a muted smile. "For all his harsh ways and blunt tongue, it would never occur to Kieran that it was his duty to govern me. You must understand how we grew up. And that in Barbados, women often own businesses. They travel unaccompanied, and even quietly take lovers if they wish."

"Do they indeed?" he murmured. What was Miss Neville suggesting?

Nash's mind turned back to his meeting in Lord Rothewell's study. The views Rothewell had expressed then were very much in keeping with Miss Neville's now. But he had suggested something else, too. "Actually, my dear, it was your brother who implied that you might soon marry."

She jerked at once to a halt. "Did he? Good Lord. I thought he'd given up that notion."

"Apparently not," said Nash. "Is there a gentleman pining for your hand?"

Miss Neville shifted her gaze back to the river. "There once was, perhaps," she answered. "But we have agreed we do not suit. My brother is naive if he thinks that will ever change."

"Nonetheless, the man still wishes to marry you."

She flicked an uncertain gaze in his direction. "How would you know?"

"I think, Miss Neville, that once a man had fallen in love with you, he would be hard-pressed to fall out of it again," said Nash in a lightly teasing voice. "I believe I shall keep my distance from you, my dear. I suffer my frustrations with little enough grace as it is."

"Heavens!" she said. "Have you a great many?"

"Frustrations?" He looked down at her, and took in her intelligent face and the expanse of ivory skin which revealed just a hint of what he already knew was a lush, enticing bosom. h.e.l.l yes, he was frustrated. But what the devil was he to do about it now? If he were going to seduce Miss Neville, he could at least do her the courtesy of seducing her in private. Against his will, Nash felt his mouth quirk with humor. "Yes, I have one or two frustrations, Miss Neville. And your hip brushing against mine from time to time is not helping them any."

Xanthia did not miss the innuendo. Her steps faltered just an instant, and at once, Nash's warm, steady hand slipped beneath her elbow. She flicked a quick glance up at him. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, and once again she was struck with the strangest notion that she was staring into the eyes of a kindred spirit. Another soul who was drifting, perhaps, and living a life which was somehow incomplete.

But what romantic drivel that was! She was wasting her chance. This was the perfect opportunity to learn more about Nash. To a.s.sess his character and attempt to find out if he was the man de Vendenheim believed him. To give him just a little rope and see if he was inclined to hang himself. She looked up to see the stone bench just beyond. It faced the water and was flanked by willows. It was private, yes-but not quite hidden, either. It was, in fact, quite perfect. The terraced lawns were just coming into view around the bend, and above, she could already hear the laughter from Lady Henslow's makeshift archery range.

She said nothing until they were comfortably situated on the bench. "There!" she said, carefully neatening the folds of her skirt. "This is quite nicely secluded, is it not? We may be seen, perhaps, from the lawns-but only our backs."

"Your words suggest we've something to hide," he teased.

"Have we?" Xanthia dropped her eyes to the faint bulge in his trousers and, tossing caution aside, leaned into Lord Nash and very deliberately set her hand on his knee.

His eyes lit with an inscrutable emotion. "Miss Neville, I beg you to be careful."

She let her lashes fall nearly shut. "We cannot be seen from this angle," she whispered. "Besides, it was you, Nash, who first spoke of your frustrations, was it not?"

He sat as stoically as was humanly possible under the circ.u.mstance, his eyes fixed intently on her slender, tempting fingers. To his extreme torment, she eased them higher. "Christ Jesus," he gritted. "I am trying to be a gentleman, Miss Neville. But someone is going to see you."

"Oh dear, you might be right," she murmured. But instead of moving her hand, she merely scooted a little nearer. "There, I think they cannot see now."

He looked at her a little grimly. "That was not quite what I meant."

"Nonetheless, it solves the problem," she said. The ridge of his erection was straining against the fine wool of his trousers.

Shamelessly tempted, Xanthia wondered how it would feel to stroke the hot, hard length of Lord Nash's obviously stiffening manhood. Somehow, she stilled her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Fleetingly, she forgot her purpose-forgot completely what de Vendenheim had asked of her-and thought only of what it would be like to lie pinned beneath Lord Nash's weight. To have that warm, spicy scent of his settle over her like a sensuous cloud. To take the heat and strength of him deep inside, and- "My dear Miss Neville," he murmured. "I think now is not the time and place."

Her eyes flew open, and she realized her hand was inching toward a most dangerous position. "When?" The word came out low and husky. "When, Nash, would be the time and place?"

"In another lifetime, I fear," he responded. "It would be unwise of you to tempt me in this one."

Xanthia smiled lightly. "But there is something undeniable between us, Nash," she murmured. "A simmering heat which keeps flaring to life when we are near. Tell me you do not feel it."

He gave a bark of sharp laughter. "I think that what I am feeling is b.l.o.o.d.y obvious." Then he covered her hand with his, gave it a hard squeeze, and deliberately returned it to her own lap.

Xanthia ignored the hint. "Are you...interested, Lord Nash?" she asked.

Something flared hotly in his eyes. "Do you understand what you are asking for, Miss Neville?"

She lifted her head and pinned him with her gaze. "I am asking if you will be my lover," she said. "For as long as it pleases us. Have you any commitment to another?"

Nash smiled sardonically. "Miss Neville, do I look the faithful type?" he returned. "I enjoy variety in my bedmates and tire of them quickly. And I must tell you frankly, my dear, that the very last thing I want or need is an innocent-particularly a well-bred innocent-in my bed."

"I am not precisely innocent, Nash," she murmured, allowing her bottom lip to lightly catch between her teeth. "I would, I daresay, be considered tainted merchandise-so none of your aristocratic friends would have me in their marriage bed anyway."

He drew away, something which looked like anger glittering in his eyes. "That is a little harsh."

"It is also true," she said. "Does it not ease your guilt?"

"As of yet, I've done nothing for which to feel guilty," he answered. "Not unless one counts that foolish kiss on Sharpe's portico. I knew, even then, that you were going to be trouble."

Xanthia gave him a slow, teasing smile. "Nash, if I no longer interest you, then you have only to say so," she murmured. "I am lonely but hardly desperate. London is filled with handsome gentlemen, and whilst I am not a beauty, I have been told I possess a certain charm."

For a long moment, he was silent, his expression darkening, his jaw tightly clenched. "I hope, Miss Neville, that you will not have a discussion of this nature with any other gentleman of your acquaintance," he finally said. Then abruptly, he rose. "I shall think on-indeed, I shall probably be obsessed by-your mad proposal, my dear. And I pray for your sake I'll do no more than that. Now, please allow me to see you safely back to your cousin."

Xanthia caught his hand. He bent over her, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes seemingly focused on her mouth, and for an instant, she thought he might kiss her again. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. But he did not bend lower. Instead, his eyes searched her face, as if looking for something.

Xanthia held his gaze. "Nash?"

Fleetingly, he hesitated. "No," he finally said. "No, this simply is not possible."

Again, she smiled. "Of course it is possible," she said. "Nothing is impossible if one dares to make it so."

His seemingly black eyes flashed again. He did not answer, but instead straightened up, and, taking her arm, he drew her up and set off in the direction of the picnic. "Nash, you are going to dislocate my shoulder," she complained.

He said no more until they had almost reached the first cl.u.s.ter of guests upriver. Then he stopped abruptly and turned to face her. "Miss Neville, you are playing with fire," he said tightly. "Please remember that whilst I am not a rake, I am certainly not a saint, nor anything remotely near it."

"No, I believe you once said you were a sybarite."

"Yes, selfishly and impenitently so," he said. "And a sybarite takes what he wants, then casts it aside when he has extracted from it all the pleasure he may. You would do well to remember that."

Then Lord Nash turned on his heel and went swiftly up the path.

Xanthia made the journey home that afternoon in a state of dreadful confusion. She was not perfectly sure just what she had managed to accomplish at Lady Henslow's. Utter humiliation, perhaps? She had tried to seduce Lord Nash-and she had almost accomplished it. As he said, he was no saint. He certainly did not look a saint. Indeed, he looked perfectly capable of all that de Vendenheim had accused him. So why had her brain been unable to keep hold of the fact that there was a purpose-a purpose far greater than physical pleasure-in what she was doing?

Xanthia was a person who carefully a.s.sessed her adversary, but something in Nash circ.u.mvented her usual caution. She kept thinking-imagining, really-that he knew her; that he understood her on some level which escaped most people. There was this terrible temptation simply to let herself go when she was in his company-to be...well, herself, really. But she was just deluding herself, or perhaps making silly, romantic excuses for the almost overwhelming desire she felt for him.

The man was quite likely a traitor. A smuggler. And someone had been killed, either at his word, or by his hand. Absent the heat of desire, Xanthia could remember de Vendenheim's warnings. There was a great deal at stake, politically and economically. Power and money. The two things people were so often willing to kill for. All that aside, de Vendenheim would have been appalled to know she had tried to sleep with the man. Xanthia herself was a little appalled; she wasn't even sure just what had taken hold of her. She had meant merely to flirt with Nash just enough to put him off his guard.

Blindly, she stared through the window at the thinning crowds along Piccadilly, and reminded herself that this was not about her. This was about greater things. It was a serious business, not some impa.s.sioned affaire of the heart. And yet, sitting with him this afternoon-touching him almost intimately, and yearning for his touch in return-Xanthia had trouble accepting that de Vendenheim's allegations could be true.

Was she really such a fool? Nash was as cold and controlled a man as ever she had met. Indeed, she understood perfectly well that, with this man, she was in over her head. He was not a scorned and prideful man like Gareth Lloyd, whom she could manage. He was unmanageable in every sense, and she knew it. And yet, she was not dissuaded. Oh, yes. Fool was indeed the right word.

She felt the carriage rock to a halt in Berkeley Square and heard Sharpe's footman leap down to drop the steps. Her mind forced back to the present, Xanthia kissed Louisa on the cheek and thanked Sharpe for the lovely afternoon. Then she went in, craving only a hot bath, a gla.s.s of sherry, and the solitude of her bedchamber, to receive instead the news that a caller had been awaiting her return for the last hour or better.

Apparently, her frustration showed.

"It is that foppish gentleman again, miss," whispered Trammel. "And he's brought a bandbox. His lordship is out, but the cheeky fellow asked for you, anyway. So I put him in the yellow salon with a gla.s.s of his lordship's best brandy, but he won't drink it. Sniffed it and put it down again. Have you ever heard of such a thing, miss?"

Miss had not. Perhaps she would just go into the yellow salon and drink it for him. G.o.d knows she needed something restorative. She went upstairs, mildly annoyed.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kemble," she said, sailing as breezily as she could into the room. "What a delightful surprise."

"My dear Miss Neville." The dapper gentleman made her a deep, elegant bow. "I see you took my advice-or very nearly."

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then realized he was looking at her dress. "Oh, this?" she said, lightly touching the fabric. "Yes, but it is just blue and gray."

"Yet very flattering nonetheless," replied Mr. Kemble. But it was said clinically, almost as if they discussed a business matter. Perhaps they did. Indeed, Xanthia would do well to think of it in just that perspective. A business matter.

"I have brought you a gift," said Mr. Kemble, producing the small bandbox.

"A gift?" Xanthia took it, and sat down. "You really should not have."

Mr. Kemble, too, sat. "You must open it, my dear. We must see if it fits."

Xanthia felt her eyes widen with surprise, but she did as he asked. It was quite inappropriate for a gentleman to give any sort of gift to an unmarried lady, and yet she sensed that this gift was somehow different.

Her eyes widened when she lifted the lid. Oh, yes. Definitely different. Nestled in a pile of wood shavings was a sort of little leather harness with a pocket-and tucked into the pocket was a small silver pistol. Gingerly, she lifted it out.

"Have you any idea how to use it?" asked Mr. Kemble hopefully.

Xanthia laid it across her knees. "Yes, actually. But I am out of practice."

"It is for close range only," said Mr. Kemble with a dismissive gesture. "Now I shall turn around, Miss Neville. I wish you to hike up your skirts, and make perfectly sure it fits."

She looked at him blankly. "If it...fits where, precisely?"

"Around your thigh," he answered, turning to face the wall. "And pull it tight, if you please. That pistol is deceptively heavy."

Feeling more than a little silly, Xanthia set her slipper on a footstool, drew up her petticoats, and did as he asked. The leather strap buckled snugly, as though it had been made for her. She put her foot down. "Yes, it fits," she said. "But do you really think-"

"Absolutely," interjected Kemble, spinning around on one heel. The man was quick as a cat, she noticed. "We cannot know what predicament might befall you, my dear, or how far away I might be."

Xanthia looked at him blankly. "How far away from what?"

"Dear me." There was a flash of black humor in his eyes. "Max did not tell you?"

"Lord de Vendenheim?" Xanthia shook her head. "No, he has told me nothing."

Mr. Kemble opened his arms expansively. "My dear, it seems we are to become inseparable," he declared. "I am your new man of affairs."

"I can't think what you mean," she said.

Mr. Kemble smiled tightly. "Your personal secretary," he clarified. "Your aide-de-camp. Your chaperone, one might almost say."

"But I do not require one," she said. "I have Mr. Lloyd and a counting house full of clerks. Besides, a chaperone? The notion is absurd."

"Cela va sans dire!" said Mr. Kemble, his brown eyes rueful. "But Maximilian would insist. So I am to accompany you to your place of business and give you whatever a.s.sistance I may whilst you are at home."

Xanthia pursed her lips. "You may inform Lord de Vendenheim that I have never had a governess and do not mean to have one now," she finally said. "I am quite accustomed to the Docklands, and I rather doubt I'll come across anything more dangerous than that here in Mayfair."

Mr. Kemble looked at her chidingly. "That is all very well, Miss Neville, but what of me?"