Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

chapter Ten

Venetia deliberately did not see Linwood for three days following Mr Collins’s visit, by which time she had strengthened her resolve and cleared her head somewhat of the confusion of feelings surrounding him. She was shopping that day when she saw the two women walking in their direction on the opposite side of the street. She knew almost immediately who they were. The matron dressed severely in purple was Lady Misbourne, Linwood’s mother, and the young, blond-haired woman by her side must be his sister, Lady Marianne, or Mrs Knight as she had only recently become in what had been a scandalously sudden marriage.

She studied the two for a moment, so clearly mother and daughter despite the differences between them. The older woman was taller, with a body thickened by the years. Her demeanour held an air of superiority and snobbery, and her face a faded beauty marred by weakness. Lady Marianne was smaller than her mother, a little pocket diamond as the gentlemen would have said. The women were engaged in conversation, Lady Misbourne smiling indulgently at something that her daughter had just said.

She knew the moment that the two women saw her. Lady Misbourne’s expression froze in horror, before she issued a curt instruction to her daughter.

‘Avert your gaze, Marianne. This instant. We do not even see that woman’s presence.’ The words told Venetia that they were aware not only of who she was, but also of her association with Linwood.

Contrary to her mother’s command, Lady Marianne did not look away. She was as fair as Linwood was dark, petite and very pretty. And from this distance her eyes looked as black as her brother’s. There was nothing of condemnation in that gaze, only curiosity and considered appraisal.

‘Marianne!’ her mother snapped again and Venetia could see the outrage on Lady Misbourne’s face.

But Lady Marianne did not appear to be ruffled in the slightest. She held Venetia’s gaze, before turning her head to the front and walking on at the same unhurried pace, despite all her mother’s consternation.

* * *

Venetia saw Lady Marianne again that evening, across the dance floor of the ball she was attending with Linwood. The days apart from him had fortified her confidence. Tonight she felt her usual poised, self-possessed self. In defiance of what had gone before between her and him—in the glasshouse and in the carriage after Whitechapel—or maybe even because of it, she wore the black-silk evening gown, so scandalously seductive in its cut and fitting. Every lady’s eye was frowning upon it, every gentleman staring open-mouthed and drooling when their ladies looked away. And Linwood, well, she had seen the way his eyes watched her with such dark possession. It was her ultimate weapon. It gave her strength, to resist and to remember all that this game was about. She smiled and turned her attention to Linwood’s sister.

By the girl’s side stood a very tall, dark-haired man who, by the subtleties of the body language between them, Venetia knew must be her husband. Lady Marianne had not snubbed her in the street, nor did she snub her now, even if every other lady of quality here was doing so. Their gazes met across the floor, fleeting and yet there just the same. Linwood saw his sister and her husband, too, his gaze sliding from the younger woman across the floor back to Venetia.

And even though the expression on his face was more closed than ever she knew that he had not expected Lady Marianne’s presence. He showed not one sign of embarrassment, although the situation could be nothing other for him. The presence of his sister and his...inamorata. The word whispered a tingle down her spine that she deliberately ignored. It was hardly a fitting description of what she was to Linwood, but it was the impression that the ton was labouring under.

‘You did not know your sister would be here.’

‘I did not.’

‘A trifle awkward for you...and for her,’ she murmured.

Linwood said nothing, but she saw the tiny betraying flex in the line of his jaw. She should be glad of it, revelling in it, using the tactic to her best advantage. But when his eyes met hers she saw beneath the strong silent guise and it was not gladness or a sense of triumph that she felt but the uneasiness of his discomfort as surely as if it were her own.

‘Linwood...and the divine Miss Fox.’ Razeby’s cheerful voice broke the moment as he sauntered up.

‘Razeby.’ Linwood gave a curt inclination of his head.

‘If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.’ She drew her eyes from Linwood, glad of the interruption. ‘I must powder my nose.’

She threaded her way through the crowd, smiling in amusement at the shocked disapproving stares from the ton’s matrons and the wistful lascivious ones of their husbands. Linwood would certainly be black-marked for bringing her here, she thought. That he had defied their wrath to have her here with him was not something that she wished to dwell upon. Although the room was crowded a path opened up before her, some ladies and even the odd gentleman turning their backs to her. Venetia was not bothered in the slightest. She was well used to it; she was, after all, an intruder here in a place that was their territory. They would equally well have been just as unwelcome in the demi-monde.

When she walked into the retiring room the two matrons in there herded their young charges out, scowling, noses in the air, while the girls tried to steal surreptitious glances at the scandalous woman in their midst. The door closed with a resounding slam just in case she was not aware of their disapproval at her audacity to invade their world.

She had no need to use the chamber pots behind the screens. Instead, she stood before the large peering glass that had been set up within the room and reminded herself of what she had spent the past three days thinking. There was an attraction between Linwood and herself; she could no longer deny it. But what she felt for him was lust. And lust, no matter how strong, could be conquered. She was not some weak-minded, feeble-kneed woman to let herself be dangled like a puppet from the fingers of any man, and especially not Linwood. He had murdered Rotherham. The only reason she was here by his side tonight was part of this game to lure him into revealing the truth. There were questions to be asked, a tongue to be loosened, a murderer to be caught.

She fixed her hair and, removing a small pot of rouge from her reticule, applied a little to her lips.

The door opened.

Venetia did not even glance round, expecting the huff of disapproval and the slam, but there was only the quiet click of the door closing and the soft rustle of silk.

Within the peering glass, Venetia’s eyes slid from her lips to the space behind her and saw Linwood’s sister.

Lady Marianne did not look surprised to find her here. Their eyes held for a moment before she walked to stand by Venetia and share the peering glass. The reflected Lady Marianne smoothed a hand over the pale pink silk of her skirt. Venetia finished applying the rouge to her lips.

‘So you are the famous Miss Fox.’

‘And you are Lady Marianne.’ Venetia offered the rouge pot to the girl with a slight arch of her eyebrow.

‘Thank you, but, no,’ Lady Marianne declined most graciously.

‘Lord Linwood’s sister,’ said Venetia.

‘I own that privilege.’

‘I do not think your brother would approve of you talking to me.’

‘Probably not.’ Marianne smiled.

The two women looked at one another. Lady Marianne had the same eyes as her brother, eyes that showed a huge depth of complexity beneath the surface.

‘But you make him happy when there has been much to cause him unhappiness. And so I approve of you, as long as you do not hurt my brother, Miss Fox.’

There has been much to cause him unhappiness. Lady Marianne’s words seemed to catch at her. She brushed them aside, telling herself not to be so foolish. ‘I am sure that your brother is more than capable of looking after himself.’

Lady Marianne gave the tiniest shake of her head. ‘He is rather better at looking after others. But then I suspect you might know that already...’ she paused ‘...since you are in love with him.’

‘Lady Marianne—’ Venetia stopped herself just in time.

‘I recognise the way you look at him.’

‘Really?’ Lady Marianne’s calm certainty irked her. The girl had no idea of the way it was between women like her and men like Linwood, even were the illusion that the ton thought true.

‘Yes...’ Marianne paused. ‘Promise me you will not hurt him.’

She turned to the girl with a clever set down ready upon her lips, but there was something in Marianne’s expression that she could not bear to crush. Instead, she gave a nod of her head. ‘I should return to the ballroom. It would not do you good if it was realised that we had been in here together.’

Marianne smiled warmly. ‘I do believe you have a concern for my reputation.’

Venetia left before Marianne saw anything more of the truth on her face.

Within the ballroom Razeby was still talking to Linwood.

‘I seem to have developed something of a headache,’ she said without any attempt at making it sound convincing. ‘I wonder, Lord Linwood, if I might prevail upon you to escort me home.’

‘But of course, Miss Fox.’ Linwood’s eyes were on hers; his face was serious, betraying not a single flicker of emotion.

She let a little smile tease around her lips and she held his gaze with a boldness that had the ripple of a whisper around them.

‘If you will excuse us, Razeby,’ he said.

The marquis raised his eyebrows and grinned, giving Linwood a knowing look.

She rested her hand lightly in the crook of Linwood’s arm, as demure as any debutante, and together they left the ballroom.

When they were alone in her carriage and on their way along the road, he looked at her through the light of the flickering street lamps.

‘Thank you, Venetia.’

‘I am sure I do not know what you mean.’

He continued to hold her gaze and smiled, a real smile that transformed his face, and she felt her heart expand and flutter in her chest. She knew that he knew the truth, that she had left to spare his sister the embarrassment that their both being there was bound to cause, even if she had dressed it up as something else.

‘She has the same eyes as you.’

‘But a more tender heart.’

She thought of the night they had spent together in Whitechapel, of how he had cared about justice for a poor woman, how he had cared for her in the carriage afterwards and all that she had learned of him that vied against the terrible crime he had committed. ‘I am not so very sure of that, Linwood,’ she said softly.

He smiled again and the carriage rolled on towards King Street.

* * *

Linwood saw her again the next evening, in accordance with the handwritten note that had been delivered to him that same afternoon inviting him to dinner at her home. He had felt the heat curl in his stomach just reading it, at the thought of being alone with her in so private a place and all that such an invitation might mean.

The dining room of her house had that same elegance and sophistication as Venetia herself. The walls were a pale soft beige, the dressings all in matching caramels and taupes, creams and gold. Understated, tasteful, yet with a quality and class that many aspired to and few achieved. The long dining table was mahogany, carved by the hand of a master craftsman, the Turkey carpet thick and plush beneath the tread of his shoes. The fireplace was an Adams, an elegant design, inspired by the Doric columns of a bygone age. Above it was a large gilt-framed mirror and, on either side, a crystal-dropped wall sconce with a cluster of three candles. Opposite the fireplace was a large bow window, its cream curtains over-sewn with pale gold stripes, shutting out the rain and cold of the dark autumn night. On one of the walls he noticed a small Rembrandt. The lighting in the room was an unusual white-branched chandelier, hung with faceted crystals. It was lightweight compared to the heavy designs so currently in vogue, a combination of elegance and daring that was like that of Venetia herself, but then Venetia Fox was a woman who set fashions rather than followed them.

Linwood had thought of nothing other than Venetia in all of the past days. Whatever else she was, this attraction between them was real and solid, and escalating in ways he had not imagined. He had never wanted a woman as he wanted her. He had never wished to know one as he wished to know her. The desire was more than physical. He liked her. He admired her. He even respected her, his opponent in this game. A woman of courage and unflinching nerve, of confidence and strength, yet beneath it there was softness and compassion and vulnerability. There was a connection between them, a strange bond that he had not felt before. She felt it, too. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way her body leaned in to his, hear it in her voice. The game was immersing them both. And he embraced it.

He waited until she took her seat at the head of the table, before taking his at the foot. Ten feet of solid polished mahogany stretched between them.

‘Is it your own décor or that which came with the house?’

‘All my own.’

‘You have exceptional taste.’

She dipped her head in a tiny acknowledgement and her mouth curved in a smile.

‘I could not help but notice the Rembrandt.’ The painting was worth a fortune, more than even the highest paid and successful of all actresses could afford.

‘It was a gift.’

‘From an admirer?’ He thought of Clandon and felt that same wariness and anger, but even Rotherham’s bastard son could not have stretched to buy such a thing. And then he remembered Razeby’s talk of Arlesford and Hunter, of Monteith and York.

‘From my father.’

‘Not a country vicar at all, then.’

‘No.’ She glanced away and he sensed her unease over the subject.

They fell silent as Albert and the footmen arrived, bringing an array of silver serving dishes to set upon the table between them. Two footmen remained, standing smartly against the wall, eyes fixed front.

‘I hope you are hungry, Francis,’ she said and met his eyes directly once more. It was the first time she had used his given name, and he understood its significance.

‘Ravenous, Venetia,’ he replied, but his eyes were not on the food, only on her.

She smiled as she helped herself to a variety of dishes.

Linwood waited until she had completed her selection before making his. ‘The food is excellent.’

‘I shall pass on your compliments to my cook.’

They talked of easy things, things that were comfortable, and over which they seemed to have much agreement. They talked and ate, while the footmen topped up their glasses with fine wine. There was no pretence of champagne when it was just the two of them.

It seemed too soon that the food was eaten.

The plates were emptied, the cutlery abandoned upon them. They looked at one another across the length of the table.

‘Shall we retire to the parlour for a drink?’

‘I would like that, Venetia.’ He followed where she led, watching the hypnotic sway of her hips, smelling the subtle scent of her perfume in the air.

The parlour was a small room at the back of the house, furnished for comfort and privacy rather than show, but still with her recognisable stamp of elegance.

There was a small bookshelf, a proper desk rather than a lady’s writing bureau, and a sofa and matching armchair positioned before a roaring fire. It was tidy enough, but not pristine as the other rooms had been. There were letters and newspapers piled upon the desk, a collection of pens beside them, a romance novel left abandoned on the table by the decanter and a newspaper balanced on the arm of the chair by the fire, as if she had been reading it earlier in the day. The whole room felt snug, warm, private, providing yet another glimpse into the life of the woman beneath the mask of the actress.

They were alone, no sign of the servants. He closed the door behind him.

‘Brandy?’ she asked.

He gave a nod. ‘Thank you.’

She poured two glasses and passed one to him, lifting the other herself.

‘To friends, Francis.’ She raised her glass and held his gaze.

‘Friends, Venetia.’ He supposed that they were, of a sort, even if they were opponents, too.

They touched their glasses together and let them linger a moment before drawing away.

The brandy was smooth and mellow upon his tongue, as expensive as any in his father’s cellar. He watched her take a sip, watched her swallow it down, her every action unmistakably feminine in contrast to the masculinity of the drink.

‘Brandy, but not champagne?’

She smiled. ‘Are you shocked? Rest assured, I do not normally invite gentlemen to dinner, let alone take brandy with them.’ She moved to sit in the small armchair closest to the fire.

‘Then I am the first?’

There was a sober expression in her eyes before she nodded. ‘Contrary to what the world may think.’ The knowledge pleased him more than it should have.

‘Why not any of the others?’

‘An unnecessary question.’

‘Not to me.’

Her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass where it balanced on the arm of the chair, but her eyes, when they met his, were bold. ‘Maybe the question you should be asking is why you?’ Then she looked away, reaching to set her glass down upon the small table and inadvertently knocking the newspaper balanced on the chair’s arm to the floor.

She bent to retrieve it, but Linwood was there first, their fingers tangling together against the crackle of paper. Their eyes met. Desire pulsed and throbbed between them. He stroked a thumb against her fingers and felt her hand open beneath his. Her eyes seemed to grow darker. He felt the tiny shiver that rippled through her, saw the way her lips parted slightly before she lowered her gaze and slowly withdrew her hand from his.

They rose together, their breathing in unison.

‘The London Messenger,’ he said.

‘Your own newspaper.’

He gave a nod of acknowledgement and glanced down at the page she had been reading.

‘The murder of Rotherham,’ she said.

‘Has done wonders for the paper’s circulation,’ he said and knew that the game had just racked up a notch. He kept his voice calm and steady, as if the subject matter meant nothing to him.

‘That seems a harsh take.’

‘I am a harsh man. And I have made no pretence of my feelings regarding Rotherham.’

‘You have not,’ she agreed. She gestured to the newspaper article. ‘It makes no mention of the fire that destroyed his house.’

‘Little wonder. The fire was three years ago.’

‘Three years. How precise your memory is, Francis.’ She was a worthy opponent, indeed. He knew where this was leading.

‘Very precise.’

‘One might wonder as to why.’ She watched him.

‘It is not every night that a duke’s pile is razed to the ground. It was a spectacular blaze...by all accounts.’ Thrust and parry.

The tension hummed between them. They were dicing closer to the edge than ever before.

She paused and in that tiniest of silences was the roar of danger and desire. He knew the question that was coming next.

‘Did you witness it?’ she asked.

‘You are very interested in Rotherham, Venetia,’ he said softly.

‘Is not everyone?’ She held his gaze; watching him as carefully as he watched her. ‘And you have not answered my question.’

‘Half of London witnessed it,’ he said.

‘What sort of man burns another’s home to the ground, and a duke’s mansion at that?’

He thought of all the darkness of the past, and of Rotherham slumped dead across his desk with a bullet in his brain. He thought of Clandon’s suspicions, and of the questions that were now being asked about Rotherham’s murder. And he knew what he must do. He could see the flutter of the pulse in her neck, the dilation of the pupils in her eyes, each and every long dark lash that lined them. He stepped closer, moved his mouth to her ear. She made no move, stood as still as a statue, while all that was between them struggled and strained in the hiss of silence for release.

‘A man like me,’ he whispered. Her breasts rose and fell a little faster. He heard the soft quickening of her breath. ‘But then you have known that all along, have you not, Venetia?’

She nodded as if she did not trust herself to speak. Her lips parted slightly. ‘And the rest of it...?’ Her chest held still along with her breath.

The air was so tense that it almost crackled.

He shook his head, but did not clarify if it was a denial of guilt or a refusal to answer the question. ‘Let us not talk of the rest of it tonight.’

She released the breath she had been holding in a shaky gasp. They stared at one another without a word, before she moved to stand before the fire, looking into the flames that flickered warm and bright upon the hearth.

In the silence he could hear the crackle of the coal and the slow tick of the clock on the mantel. It clicked forwards and the chimes sounded for the hour.

His eyes moved along the line of the mantelpiece, skimming over the expensive ornaments, drawn to the one that seemed out of place. It was a small vase, cream with pink flowers and green leaves painted upon it. Cheap and brash, pretty enough, but the kind that were sold on the penny stalls. And, moreover, it was in a poor state. A crack ran down its body and there were two chips in the rim, one small and one large. Both showed the terracotta of the clay beneath. It was the one single object that looked curiously out of place in the beauty and elegance of Venetia Fox’s house.

They did not speak of the enormity of what was happening between them, of the layers of truth that masked deception and what lay beneath.

‘It was my mother’s vase,’ she said without looking at either him or the vase. ‘My grandmother, whom I never knew, bought it for her when she was a child. It is the only thing I have left of her.’

‘It must be very precious to you.’

‘It is.’ There was the resonance of such sadness and regret in her voice that he felt something tighten in his chest.

She turned to him then.

They both knew what this was about—Rotherham. The golden light of the flames danced on her face. And there was something in her eyes, something behind all the sophistication and dangerous game they were playing with one another, something that seemed to reach inside of him and stroke against his soul.

He reached his hand to her, threaded it through her hair and angled her face to his. ‘Too far for you, Venetia?’ he murmured.

‘On the contrary, not far enough,’ she whispered, his eyes scanning hers.

She dropped her gaze to his lips before raising it once more to his eyes. And in them he could see the same need, the same longing as raged inside of him. Outside the rain pelted hard against the window, rattling loud as hailstones against the glass. There was the howl of the wind and the sway of the curtains that had been drawn shut across the windows. But they only had eyes for one another.

He lowered his face to hers and kissed her with the passion that had been smouldering the whole of this night. And in reply he felt all that was in her rise to meet him. And it felt like coming home. In some deep way that made no sense she was his destiny; this woman who knew her power over a man, who was yielding to him even as she enslaved him further. He plucked the pins from her hair, letting the long, dark, glossy lengths tumble free, running his fingers through its silken lengths as he had done so often in the erotic dreams that haunted his nights since meeting her.

He felt her hands slide against the nape of his neck, felt them thread through his hair as she returned his kiss with the same ardent passion that was throbbing through his blood. He slid his hands up over the bodice of her dress, over her hips, tracing the hourglass curve into her waist and back out again to the swell of her breasts, so white against the dark red silk that contained them. With one hand he held her, with the other he ran his fingers over her breast, moulded his hand to it, squeezing it gently and feeling her arousal.

‘No corset...again,’ he whispered against her mouth.

‘I never wear one,’ she answered in a breathless whisper. He found the bud of her nipple through the layers of silk and rubbed his thumb against it. She gasped and arched, driving her breast all the harder into his hands. He held her close, his hand against her back, while he worked the same attention on her other breast.

His hand possessed her breast as his mouth slid to her chin, to the slender edge of her jaw, so fine and so feminine, and lingered there before following down the column of her neck. She let her head drop back, exposing her neck to him all the more until he found the spot where her pulse throbbed and raced and thudded beneath his tongue. He licked her there, sucked her there, grazed his teeth gently against her, while his hand and his fingers and his nails emulated each action against her breast. He could feel her breath hot and hard against the side of his temple, hear the way it shook and trembled in her throat. He took her mouth again, kissing her lips before drawing back to look into her eyes. Their breaths came in unison, louder than the wind and the rain and the tick of the clock, masking all save the beat of their hearts. And all that was between them, that had always been between them, passion and desire and heat and need, rattled at the chains in which they had sought to bind it.

He reached his hand to the short sleeve of her dress, where it hugged her shoulder and arm. His fingers lingered there, poised against the edge of dark silk as he met her eyes again. Her breath was so ragged that he could hear it loud in the room. Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he moved his fingers slightly, sliding them beneath the silk to the skin beneath.

Her breath gave a tremble. She swallowed and wetted her lips.

He slid the sleeve lower, exposing the white skin of her shoulder in full. His mouth touched where his fingers had been. He kissed there, then kissed the hollow between her collarbones. And as he did she kissed the top of his head, then drew his face up to hers.

‘Francis,’ she whispered and kissed his mouth. They kissed and he unfastened the hooks at the back of her dress until the bodice loosened and gaped, revealing the top of a thin white-silk shift which hugged her body. His hands traced over the shift, exploring her breasts as his mouth and hers mated again and again.

He slid the dress to tumble down her legs to the floor around their feet. She stood there, the thin white silk moulded to every contour of her body, masking her final nakedness from him. He ripped it open and it slithered with a soft whisper to land on top of the discarded dress. He cupped the curves of her buttocks, revelling in the feel of her before he lifted her to him and backed her flush against the wall beside the fireplace. She fastened her legs around him, her warm, moist core against his erection, their coupling prevented only by the barrier of his breeches and drawers.

‘Venetia,’ he whispered.

She kissed her name from his lips, stroked his hair from his face, the hard line of his jaw before kissing him again.

‘Francis.’ The pupils of her eyes were huge and dark. She was as breathless and lost as he.

He lowered his mouth, taking her breasts in his mouth, feasting upon each one in turn, driving them both on to what had always been inevitable from that first moment on the balcony.

‘Venetia.’

His face came up to hers, his lips taking hers. He loosed a hand to find the buttons on the fall of his breeches, desperate to free himself and plunge the heat of his length into her, needing to love her, to make her truly his. He thrust against her, pressing her against the wall with a thud as she clutched him to her. From the corner of his eye he saw the flicker of movement and reacted instinctively to catch the small battered vase that meant so much to her as it fell from the mantelpiece.

He opened his hand between them and showed her the vase that lay there. ‘Caught just in time,’ he said.

She stared at the vase, with an expression of shock. Something of the shock was still in her eyes as she raised them slowly from the vase to look at him.

‘Caught just in time.’ Her whispered echo held an undertone of horror. He felt her withdrawal from him before she moved a single muscle of her body. She freed herself, slipped from his arms and carefully set the vase back in its place upon the mantelpiece before pulling on her dress to cover her nakedness and turning to face him.

He stared in her eyes, trying to fathom the sudden change in her. But she was looking at him with that cool seductive look that was her guard, the passionate unbridled woman he had held in his arms only moments earlier was gone.

‘Venetia...’ he started to say.

But she placed a finger against his lips. ‘You may use my carriage. Goodnight, Linwood.’ She rang the bell upon the little table.

‘Linwood?’ he said with a quietness that did not mask the anger beneath it.

For a second her gaze faltered, but only for a second. The small half smile did not touch her eyes.

By the time her butler appeared in response to the bell Linwood’s breeches were fastened once more.

He met Venetia’s eyes one final time, then, without another word, turned and walked away.