The Devil's Pearl Part 4

He followed her in and closed the door behind her. "I will serve as your lady's maid."

Imagining him lacing her stays, combing out her hair and pinning it up in some elaborate coiffure nearly made her laugh, but instead she gave a terse nod. "Very well."

Then she realized he'd be close. Very close. Touching her, watching her bathe. She drew in a breath. "But I shall undress myself."

"All right." He lowered himself onto the striped divan near the tub. "Proceed."

She kicked off her shoes and knelt to remove her stockings. "How long do you plan to keep me here?"

"Forever."

Startled, Julia looked up to find him gazing at her, the expression on his face indiscernible. "You cannot, Devlin. I have work-"

"At Ayers's tailoring shop. I know." His gaze raked over her in a slow, burning trail. His voice was gentle. "That explains the beauty of your dress. You designed it and sewed it, didn't you?"

"Yes," she whispered. Unaccountable heat rushed to her cheeks.

In an attempt to make her happy, Algernon had offered to take her out for an evening in London. Julia hadn't had a fine dress to wear, so he'd provided her with the yards of beautiful sapphire silk. It had taken her two weeks to make it-the first to design a stylish dress that she could don and remove without the a.s.sistance of a maid, and the second to sew it.

"I can't allow you to continue there. Though if you wish to continue sewing as a hobby, I will not prevent it."

She shook her head. He wasn't making any sense. "I cannot stay here."

"Why?"

She dug her toes into the soft Turkish carpet. "Because-" She swallowed and tried again. "Because I know..."

Her voice faded to nothing. How to explain this to him? At the age of ten, Julia had vowed she would never allow herself to become a woman reduced to nothing by the false love of a man, a woman seduced and then abandoned, her heart broken. And yet, with Dev, she had come so close. She'd been thoroughly seduced...but she'd come to her senses and left before she'd lost everything.

To keep her shaking hands occupied, she removed her garters. "I know what men are like with women like me. I-I've seen it." And she had, not only with her father's rejection of Eliza, but later, with her uncle and his flippant dismissals of his many mistresses. "You keep women until you tire of them and then you discard them."

She felt his gaze moving down her leg as she rolled a stocking to her ankle.

"Do you think I would have discarded you?"

Staring at her bared calf, she said, "If you had, it would have killed me."

His voice was low, dangerous. "So you cast me off instead?"

"I cannot be anyone's mistress. Not ever again. It was a mistake. I was naive to have let you...let us..." Her breath hitched, but she let it out, slow and controlled. "I am sovereign over my own body, Devlin. I must remain so." If she was to remain sane. If she was to remain whole.

He rose, pinning her with his dark gaze. "Like you were sovereign over your body this morning?"

She glared at him, clenching her fists at her sides. "How dare you."

"Don't tell me you hated it. Don't tell me you didn't want it, that you didn't savor every moment of it." He stepped close enough that she felt the heat radiating from his body. A part of her-a very big part-wanted that heat to wrap around her, to warm her. "Because I did," he continued. "I wanted it. I savored every moment."

She opened her mouth to deny it, but she couldn't lie to him. Just the memory of how he'd possessed her made her want to beg to be possessed once again.

He brushed his fingers lightly over her lips, then covered her shoulders with his hands, turned her to the side and began to unb.u.t.ton the b.u.t.tons that ran down the waist of her dress.

She stood still, her eyes drifting shut. He moved slowly, steadily working at slipping each tiny b.u.t.ton through its hole. Her wicked flesh had no intention of resisting him. His nearness heightened her senses. Her heartbeat thrummed in antic.i.p.ation. She imagined his big hands traveling over her body like they had this morning, over her waist and thighs and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, softly sc.r.a.ping her sensitive skin with calloused fingers. He'd curl his hands around her b.u.t.tocks and lift her, then push her down onto him. She'd ride him hard, fast, feeling him stroke the deepest parts of her.

Her dress slipped off her shoulders. Her petticoat followed. She stepped out of them, and he turned her to face him so he could work the laces on her stays. She clasped her hands together behind her so he wouldn't see the raw skin on her palms. When he lifted the stays away, she was left wearing only her chemise and drawers.

His gaze slid over her body, lingering on her nipples, which bunched tight against the thin linen.

She wanted to touch him. To explore the hard ridges of his chest, run her hands over his taut behind, tangle her hands in his thick, dark, curly hair.

Desire pulsed through her body, centering between her legs in a slow, simmering fire. She had never stopped wanting him. Not once, not for one second. During those long, lonely nights in Paris, she had dreamed of him, of his wide mouth closing over her breast, of his thick, muscular body over hers, of the way he shuddered when he came. Of that moment of perfect masculine vulnerability when he emptied himself inside her. She'd awakened from these dreams shaking with l.u.s.t and trembling with need, her body aching to be filled by him.

She spun away, reaching down to pull the chemise over her head, then shimmying off her drawers. Fully naked, she took a step toward the bath, wishing she could run to it and dive in, irrationally thinking that somehow the water would hide her wantonness.

"Stop, Julia."

She stopped, but a voice-that voice born of the diseased lump of fear and distrustfulness that resided deep within her-screamed, Don't stop! Run! Hide!

Dev stripped her defenses and left her so open and vulnerable and raw that in the end, all she could do to protect herself was run.

"Look at me."

Slowly, she turned to face him, raising her gaze to his.

His expression softening, he moved toward her, reaching out to her. Fighting not to move into his arms, she squeezed her fists tight at her sides.

He cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. His touch was warm, smooth, like melted chocolate. "Was that why you left? To become sovereign over your own body?"

"Yes," she whispered.

His fingers tensed minutely. "You shunned me publicly. You made me a laughingstock."

Julia remembered the crowd of onlookers as she and Lord Clayton had strode away from him. She remembered how he had shouted at her, begged her to stop. "Julia!" he'd cried. "Don't do this!"

She closed her eyes, remembering the despair of that moment. How difficult it had been to see the expression of misery on his face and still walk away.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean for any of that to happen."

A month earlier, she'd made an effort to leave him during one of their liaisons, but his seduction had been so thorough that she'd abandoned her plan.

Feeling weak and cowardly and at a loss as to how she could call it off between them, she'd ignored his summonses for the following weeks. She met and befriended Lord Clayton when he'd come to visit her uncle, and he'd invited them to the opera-to lift her spirits, he'd said, though she hadn't told him why she was sad. At the time, she'd thought the gesture so kind.

Then, she'd seen Devlin in the box across from Lord Clayton's, and she hadn't known what to think, what to do. She'd spent most of the performance gazing into her lap. Then, afterward, Dev had approached her, giving her no choice but to make things between them patently, publicly, clear.

Her uncle, waiting in the carriage, had heard enough to deduce exactly what had happened. The atmosphere in the carriage was strained, but he held himself in check as long as the viscount was near. As soon as Lord Clayton left them, he raged at her. He called her a wh.o.r.e, a failure, an embarra.s.sment to her family. Even then, Julia had thought it hypocritical, considering the number of mistresses that had circulated through his bedchamber over the years. But she knew all too well how different the expectations were of men and women.

Then, her uncle had thrown her out. Wanting nothing more than to be as far away from London as possible, she'd gone to Algernon, told him everything and begged for the funds to cross the Channel.

Now Devlin stood before her, close enough to touch. Every nerve in her body reached out to him, ached to move into his embrace, but her few remaining wits held her back.

"You are so beautiful."

She looked down at the intricate swirls on the carpet and spoke in a voice below a whisper. "Someday I will not be."

"You will always be beautiful to me. It is not in your youth that I see your beauty. It is in you."

"I want to believe you." She wanted to believe him so badly. But that festering lump of distrust within her wouldn't be ignored.

"What could I do to make you believe?"

"Nothing," she responded instantly, then she flinched, immediately regretting it. That one word had sounded so cruel.

He released his hold on her cheek and stepped back. She looked up at him, and there it was. The broken shadow of pain that resided deep in his eyes. She moved with him, slipped her arms around his waist, and rested her forehead on his chest.

Gently, he pushed her away. "Take your bath, Julia."

She blinked up at him, bewildered. His mouth was set in a tight line. Tension radiated from his body.

He jerked his chin at the tub. "Go on. Take your bath."

Taking a shaky breath, she turned toward the tub and stepped in. The silky warm water caressed her skin. She sank into it and scrubbed her body with the soap he handed her. Dev watched silently, scrutinizing her every move, taking in the most private parts of her body and trailing paths of heat along her skin everywhere his gaze touched. When she sank her head into the water, he went behind the tub and with sure, gentle fingers, washed her hair.

Without saying a word, he helped her out of the bath and used a thick towel to dry her. He lingered over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and smoothed around her nipples as if they were made of the most delicate crystal. Julia had to bite her lip to keep from gasping as the gentle touches seemed to travel beneath her skin, making her core clench and her legs quiver. He dropped to his knees, swiping the towel over the flare of her hips, then over her thighs, nudging them apart before raising questioning eyes.

Hesitantly, she widened her stance and with just the slightest hint of a smile curving his lips, he stroked the towel over the slick flesh between her legs. Sensation, hot and sharp, spiked through her. She gasped and her knees buckled, but with lightning reflexes, he grasped her waist so she wouldn't fall.

Trembling, she gripped his shoulders and watched him. His eyes narrowed with intensity and focused on his task. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths. He was aroused, but he made no move to try to claim her.

"Dev," she whispered as he dropped her chemise over her head. His touch had turned her body into an aching, needing, wanting thing. The fabric felt wrong against her skin, scratchy and uncomfortable. Only Dev could soothe her, Dev's skin against her skin, the weight of his big body on her, covering her. He was the only remedy for her ache.

He gathered her gown, stockings, shoes, and drawers in one hand and arched an eyebrow at her. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"I am serving as a lady's maid. A very poor one, I'm afraid." The sincerity of his tone masked a rare hint of roguish humor.

She wanted to strip off her chemise and beg him to take her again. She wanted to go down to her knees and take him into her mouth. She should want neither after what he had done to her...and yet she now knew without a doubt that there was more to this than him simply kidnapping her so he could possess her body.

Against her will, her hand had already tugged her chemise up to her hip. She forcibly relaxed her fingers and the chemise dropped back to her knees. "Not so very poor," she told him.

"I will return you to your room." He held the door open and she walked past him and through it, burning with the desire to have him once more, drowning in uncertainty. He was a man who knew what he wanted and took it. Always, without fail. What was he playing at?

Entering the room behind her, he laid her clothing over the chair back. "Your dinner will be up shortly. Is there anything else I can get you?"

He meant to leave her here, alone. Without taking her to bed. Shock muted her for a long moment. Finally she murmured, "No, nothing else, thank you."

He stared at her in a most unnerving way. She stood in the center of the room, gazing at him. The hair p.r.i.c.kled on the back of her neck.

She was a fool. Here she was again, sinking into the fairytale. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember that last afternoon in the inn.

Very nice, he had said just before walking away, leaving her naked and alone. I left a little something for you on the table.

It was better this way. Making love with him would only make it worse, wouldn't it?

"Goodnight, Julia." Devlin slipped out the door, closing and locking it behind him.

She didn't know what Dev was doing-what he wanted. But she did know one thing: He was a danger to her. Now more than ever.

She turned to the window.

Dev had paced his drawing room so much today he feared he had worn a trail on the carpet. He poured himself a gla.s.s of brandy and tossed it back in one burning gulp. He poured another and set about pacing again.

Ayers had explained everything to him.

After a difficult year on the Continent, struggling to make ends meet by sewing for various dressmakers, she had returned to England to work in Ayers's fashionable tailoring shop. He had told Dev she was an extraordinarily skillful and creative seamstress.

He grunted, sank into his armchair and stared into the fire. He had promised her cousin that he'd do right by her, but he had botched things so terribly, he didn't know how to fix them, how she would ever forgive him for what he'd done.

Today he had tried to show her that he cared for her, that he could be gentle and kind without throwing her into bed. He'd tried to apologize to her through action, but it had been awkward. He was nothing but a clumsy oaf. He didn't know how to treat her when he was not bedding her, and his discomfort had clearly shone through. All throughout their encounter, she had looked upon him with wariness and distrust.

How could he regain her trust?

Ayers had told him she became too attached to him. She'd loved him desperately and believed he saw her only as his mistress, so she had escaped to France to avoid the inevitable heartbreak. Then, despite the advances of Clayton and others, she had remained chaste.

How could he have been so stupid? He had thought only of himself, not of her soft nature, of her reputation, her dreams and aspirations. He had thought she understood how much she affected him, how deeply he had fallen. They had spent so much intimate time together-happy and companionable, sometimes rough, sometimes gentle, always affectionate. But he had never once told her with words how strongly he felt. He had merely lived in the joy of the present and thought she had, too.

Of course she believed he did not love her. What reason had he ever given her to think otherwise?

He finished the brandy, rose, and stalked to the sideboard. This time he grabbed the entire decanter instead of pouring himself another gla.s.s as he remembered how he'd treated her last night.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it all. His head ached with guilt. He was a churl. She deserved so much better than him.

And yet he could not let her go. His need for her had nearly killed him this afternoon when she had pushed herself, naked, into his arms. It had nearly driven him mad as he had watched her bathe, watched her rub the soap over her body, so sweetly seductive yet seemingly unaware of how she affected him.

No, he couldn't let her get away from him again. But how could he convince her that he wanted her forever? How could he make her believe in him, trust him?

The brandy wrapped itself around his nerves, smoothing them, gently opening the path toward a solution. He tilted his head back and let his eyelids drop, leaving the drink to its subtle work.

The answer came to him all at once. He rose, set the decanter on the side table and felt his lips twist into a smile. He knew what he had to give her. It was so easy. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner?

He dashed up to his dressing room and yanked open his armoire, searching its depths until he found a small box he hadn't touched for many years. It opened with a screech of rusted hinges. He rummaged around inside and before long he found what he was looking for. He tested it in his hand, feeling its weight before stuffing it into his pocket.

He sprinted to her room, turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

A blast of cold evening air greeted him. Moonlight streamed through the open window.

Julia was gone.