Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

chapter Seventeen

Contrary to her expectation Venetia did not hear from Linwood the next day, or the one after that or even the next again. The days passed and the calendar crept closer to the date of the trial, so close that she feared he had changed his mind and could not bring himself to marry her after all, or that something had gone terribly wrong. She wanted to go to the prison again, to see him, to know what was happening, anything other than this turmoil of imaginings and doubts and fears. But her pride would not let her and she resigned herself to her original plan of refusing to speak as a witness at his trial. She did not know if she felt better or worse at the prospect of prison, only that she was the sole barrier that stood between Linwood and the hangman’s noose, and even then she was not certain that by refusing to speak she could undo what she had set in motion. And all her dreams and all her waking hours were locked within that nightmare.

The letter finally arrived two days before the trial. The familiar hand that had penned her direction, so strong and bold, made her heart skip a beat. She slipped the letter into her pocket before Alice’s watchful eyes and did not trust herself to open it until she was alone in her bedchamber. Her hands were shaking as she finally broke the seal and unfolded the thick-laid paper embossed with his crest.

His words were scant, the message brief: Tomorrow at the eleventh hour. It was signed L.

The relief was immediate and overwhelming...and transient. Tomorrow. Her stomach clenched tight at the prospect of what that day would bring.

A knock sounded before the door opened.

‘Venetia?’ Alice stood there, her face creased in concern.

‘You had better sit down, Alice. There are some things that I have to tell you.’

* * *

The next morning Venetia and Alice sat together in Razeby’s unmarked carriage as it carried them towards Newgate. Venetia had not slept at all since Linwood’s letter. Not for one minute of that long dark night. And yet this morning, on the way to her wedding, she felt strangely calm. She was wearing a sober plain afternoon dress of dark forest-green beneath a dark cloak and her hair was pinned up in a classical and tidy style. She wore only a pair of single, white drop-pearl earrings and not one other piece of jewellery. Hardly an outfit for a wedding, but she had no mind to tip off anyone who might be watching of what was about to take place. She dared risk nothing that might jeopardise the ceremony.

Alice glanced across at Razeby and bit at her lip before leaning close to Venetia and saying in a low, hesitant voice, ‘It’s not too late to change your mind, Venetia.’

Razeby must have heard Alice trying to persuade her against marrying his friend, but he made no comment. His usual smiling demeanour was gone. He looked almost as cold and serious as Linwood himself. There could be no doubting the gravity of Linwood’s position.

Venetia swallowed and carefully smoothed a wrinkle in her beige kid-leather gloves, such a small foolish detail over which to fuss given the magnitude of that in which they were enmeshed. The danger and desperation, the bald fact that Linwood’s life was at stake. She did not let herself think of what would happen if they failed in this venture...or, indeed, what, if they succeeded; just kept her thoughts still and her mind focused on doing what she knew she must. Even now she was playing the role of Miss Fox, even now pretending that she was cool and unaffected by what was happening. Even when both Alice and Razeby knew the truth—of her name and her feelings.

‘You know that I am not going to change my mind.’ They had been through the argument a hundred times since yesterday.

She heard again through her head Alice’s questions. What if you’ve got this all wrong, Venetia? All the evidence supports his guilt. What if it’s right and he really is the man that shot a bullet into your father’s head?

And her own answers, adamant and determined in their faith. He did not do it, Alice. It was against all logic, against all evidence to the contrary, but she felt the truth of it in the marrow of her bones and every beat of her heart.

And even were she wrong, it made no difference. She could not hang him.

* * *

Linwood was alone in the cell when they arrived. He had shaved the stubble from his face and his clothes were clean and as well presented as if his valet had dressed him. Just one glance at him and it was as if she had forgotten how devastatingly handsome he was, how very much he affected her...and how very much she loved him. She felt her heart miss a beat, felt the slight catch in her breath at the sight of him.

‘Miss Fox,’ he said coolly as if they weren’t just about to marry, then diverted his glance momentarily to Alice. ‘Miss Sweetly.’ He nodded at his friend. ‘Razeby.’ And then his eyes met hers again and she glimpsed the passion and intensity and emotion smouldering in their dark depths. He could hide what he was from the world, but not from her. The awareness of him tingled through every inch of her being. They were connected on some underlying intrinsic level, attuned, bound. What they were about to do was about saving him, nothing more. How could it be anything else after all that had happened, and all that she was? But beneath it were all the complexities of betrayal and deception...and of love and longing. There always had been.

The cell door opened and his father, the Earl of Misbourne, entered the cell and by his side was a tall thin man, dressed in the robes of a priest, a small battered black-leather book clutched in his hands. The sight of the priest slammed home to her the reality of what she was about to do.

The priest was a man older than Misbourne and he looked distinctly nervous, which was not surprising given how the authorities were liable to interpret the reason for the marriage. Venetia wondered if he had been coerced into being here. One look at the expression on Misbourne’s face and she knew that there were not many men who would argue with the earl.

The priest’s long bony fingers opened the book at a page marked by a thin red strip of ribbon. His eyes met hers, and she was not sure what it was she saw in them—curiosity, disapproval, pity? She refused to look away, to be cowed or ashamed in any way, just met his gaze with all of Miss Fox’s brazen confidence. It was the priest’s gaze that faltered, pretending to find his place on the page. She angled her head high and walked to stand by Linwood’s left side, but she did not look at him again, nor he at her.

‘Proceed,’ Linwood commanded the priest.

The priest began to speak. Words that would bind them together in law and in the eyes of God. Words that could not be undone. Words that would save Linwood from the unspeakable fate to which she had condemned him.

She gave her responses, as calmly, as unemotionally as Linwood himself, acting a part to hide the storm of emotions within her. Only when Linwood took her left hand within his and slipped his ring onto her finger did she betray herself a little. His hand was warm against the ice of her own, his touch light, but possessive as it closed over the tremble that beset her fingers. She did not dare look up into his face, lest the sight of those dark eyes break the fragile threads of her control.

The priest’s voice sounded again, speaking words which she did not hear. All she was aware of was the touch of Linwood’s fingers against her chin, turning her face to his, of the dark intensity in his eyes as he lowered his mouth to hers, of the heat and passion and promise in the meeting of their lips. He kissed her as if they were alone in the prison cell, as if the priest, his father, Alice and Razeby were not standing so closely by, watching. He kissed her as if she were not Rotherham’s daughter, as if she had not betrayed him. And, God help her, she responded to him as if she were the wanton the world thought her. Only when he broke the kiss did she step away, opening up a distance between them.

‘It is done,’ the priest said.

‘Thank God,’ said Misbourne and she saw the way the hard expression dropped away and the relief and fear that lay beneath it.

‘Congratulations, old boy.’ Razeby said the words lightly as he shook his friend’s hand, but the look that passed between the two men betrayed the seriousness of the situation.

Alice put her arms around Venetia and dropped a peck of a kiss to her cheek, but she could not bring herself to offer congratulations.

No one wished them happy. No one thought there could ever be any chance of that. And, absurd though it was, that small ridiculous omission made Venetia want to cry.

‘Let’s get you home,’ Alice said and slipped her arm through Venetia’s.

Venetia did not let herself look at Linwood. She feared that if she looked at him she really would weep. She fastened her cloak around her shoulders and began to follow Alice across the cell, as the tread of the priest’s steps fell in behind them.

‘Venetia.’ Linwood’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

She felt the shiver run all the way down her spine. Felt her stomach flip-flop, because she knew even before she turned what he was going to say. She closed her eyes, tried to gather herself, but it was no good. Her pulse kicked to a gallop. Her heart thumped hard as a hammer in her chest as she faced him.

‘If the marriage is not consummated, it can be annulled.’

‘You are surely not expecting her to...’ Alice’s voice died away in horror and indignation. ‘Not in this place.’

‘They will use any objection they can to invalidate this marriage,’ said Misbourne.

The silence was loud within the cell.

She could feel the pressure of Alice’s fingers against her forearm. ‘You don’t have to do this, Venetia.’

‘Linwood is right. And...I want to do this properly.’ Yet the thought of what must come after the ceremony, obvious though it was, had not occurred to her. Despite a lifetime in the demi-monde and being proclaimed England’s most beddable woman. Despite the blood that flowed in her veins. She smiled wryly at the irony.

She looked past the pity on Alice’s face and gestured to where Razeby was standing in silence. ‘Razeby will see you home, Alice.’

‘It would be my pleasure,’ said the marquis. His eyes met Venetia’s fleetingly and she saw something of understanding and respect. There was very much more to Razeby beneath his usual image.

She watched them all leave. And even when the door had closed behind them she did not turn round to Linwood.

He made not one sound, but it seemed to Venetia that she could feel his every breath in her own lungs, feel the thrum of his blood through her own veins, feel the beat of his heart in her own chest.

The door clanged shut and the jangle and scrape of the key turning in the lock was loud in the silence.

‘We cannot wait until nightfall, Venetia.’ His words were unhurried, cold, clinical, yet she could hear the faint undertone of something else. ‘News of our marriage will spread quickly. It would be expedient to have closed the loophole before any man of law can arrive.’ As if it were some legal process to be completed rather than an intimate act of lovemaking between two people.

‘I understand.’ She could not bring herself to meet his gaze. Her fingers were calm and methodical as they moved to unfasten the pearl buttons that ran in a line down the back of her bodice. Those she struggled to reach, Linwood dealt with, before stepping away again. She peeled the dress from her shoulders and, with the help of a little shrug, it slid down her body to land in a heap around her ankles. The single petticoat, and thin silken shift beneath, clung to the voluptuous curves of her body.

She made no sign of having heard the harsh intake of his breath. Her fingers plucked at the ties, allowing both to slither down in the wake of her dress. She stepped free of the clothing pooled around her feet and, reaching up, plucked the pins from her hair, so that the tight pinned coils unwound, to spill long and free and beckoning, over her shoulders. The fullness of her breasts nosed through the long curling strands of hair, the pale flesh so stark in contrast to the ebony of her hair, the rose-pink tips already defined and taut.

He could not help his eyes from tracing every line of that hourglass body, the roundness of her breasts, following in to the slender waist and soft womanly belly, and out to the curve of her hips. And despite everything of their situation, despite that he was a man used to wielding a control of iron over his feelings and desires, and the fact that the turnkeys were undoubtedly listening at the door, his body’s reaction was as uncontrolled and immediate as if he were still in his salad days.

The grille within the door slid open suddenly and the face of a turnkey leered in.

Venetia must have heard the opening of the grille, but she did not look round, just stood there, with her head held high, naked save for her white silken shoes and stockings.

However, Linwood moved swiftly to block the lecherous little man’s view before he had a chance to see what every man in London had wanted all these years, producing a wad of notes from his pocket, to dangle before the guard’s face.

‘To ensure that the grille remains closed for the duration of this day and the night that will follow.’

The turnkey’s greedy little eyes fixed on the roll of banknotes.

‘The same sum to follow in the morning when you have upheld our deal,’ Linwood said coldly.

The turnkey licked his narrow lips at the temptation, but he still hesitated, his gaze flitting beyond Linwood’s shoulder in a fruitless attempt to catch even the smallest glimpse of Venetia.

Linwood leaned his face closer to the grille and smiled a smile that held all the deadly promise that was in his heart.

The turnkey blanched in response.

Linwood lowered his voice and looked the man in the eye. ‘The lady is my wife. And I am charged with the murder of a duke, no less. Yet I will be set free. I am sure that you understand how I will deal with any other man who looks upon her naked form. Do you think the law will prevent me?’

The little man swallowed nervously. ‘I’ll ensure that does not happen, my lord. Many congratulations on your nuptials.’

‘I am glad we understand each other.’ Linwood held the money to the grille, and a grubby hand relieved him of it.

‘Much obliged, m’lord.’ The cover snapped shut against the grille.

He turned to the sight that the man had been so desperate to see—the rear view of Venetia. The daylight kissed her body, marking its glory and its nakedness as all the more shocking. She had not moved, just stood there as if she were carved of the same perfect white marble as Venus herself, seemingly proud and cool and untouched by the man’s lechery or anything that was unfolding around her. He did not let himself acknowledge a single one of the emotions that were crowding in his chest. He had married her, and now he would lie with her, to save her and himself. He did not let his mind think any further than that.

He walked round to stand before her. ‘We will not be interrupted again.’

She gave a single regal nod, but still her eyes would not meet his.

He peeled off his coat and threw it to land on the table he used both for dining and letter writing, then loosened the knot in his cravat and, pulling the wrapped linen free, let it flutter to the ground. His waistcoat followed before he unfastened the button of his shirt collar, shrugging the fine white linen off over his head and discarding it. He sat down on the chair to divest himself of his boots and stockings. And then stood to drop his breeches and drawers. When he came to her once more he was naked.

Her focus remained upon some distant spot in the corner of the cell, but as he stood there and waited she slowly moved her gaze to meet his.

Her eyes really were like Rotherham’s, the pale blue silver such a stark contrast with the darkness of their expanding pupils, but what was in them was nothing of what he had seen in the duke’s.

Whatever blood flowed in her veins, whatever the truth of Venetia’s heart, the substance beneath the smoke and mirrors of their game was real and reciprocal. She was as powerless to turn away from him as he was to turn from her.

It was just sex, just lust, he told himself, and knew that he lied. He did not want to analyse what he felt for the woman standing before him, but he knew it involved his heart. She had breached his defences in a way that no one else ever had. She had beaten him at his own game when she thought him guilty. And was determined to save him now that she thought him not. She was Rotherham’s daughter. And she was his wife.

He felt the threat of emotion tighten in his chest and thrust the weakness away with the practised hand of a master. He said not a single word, just let his gaze drop to take in the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, the fine feminine line of her jaw and glistening temptation of her lips. And whatever the complexity of anger and hurt, desire and connection, surging through him he knew that right now, when the prospect of his own mortality and the truth of all that he had done, pressed so close, he needed her.

He could hear the sound of his breath coming too rapid and feel the hard thud of his heart. The quietness of the cell seemed to hum with the tension of all that was barely held in check between them. Raw guttural desire, lust...love. He snarled at the thought of the last of those, as if to deny it.

She wetted her lips, those lips that had tortured his soul with their truths and deceptions, and it was like the touch of a match to dry tinder. The illusion of self-control shattered as all that was between them ignited. He reached across the distance between them and pulled her into his arms.

She came without resistance, her mouth meeting his with a passion that matched that which burned in his soul. His hand wound itself in her hair and he took her with nothing of tenderness, angling her face to allow him access to the tender skin of her neck. She gasped at his onslaught and he felt her fingers digging into the nakedness of his back as she clutched him to her all the harder.

Their mouths were hard and hungry in their reunion, their bodies heated and slick and urgent.

One hand caressed her breast, his fingers greedy upon its bullet-nosed tip, while the other slid against her hip, cupping her buttock, lifting her against the thrusting rigidity of his arousal.

He felt the scrape of her nails against his own buttock, felt the way her hand sought his heated manhood.

He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him as if she would take the length of him into herself as they stood there. He carried her to the bed and, laying her down upon it, covered her body with his own, desperate to sheath himself within her, desperate to ease this torture that was twisting through his blood, desperate to relieve the tightening ache in his chest.

The scent of her filled his nose, the softness of her skin as silk against his. She filled his every sense, she was everything he had ever wanted, everything that he ever needed—the woman who filled the void in his soul, the only woman that he had ever loved...the woman who thought he had tried to kill her. He forced the thought away and nudged his knee to splay her legs wider, ready to thrust within.

She gasped, and even as her hips rose to meet him he felt the sudden tremor of tension that ran from her fingertips to her ankles that were hooked around his calves. He stilled, staring down into her eyes while their breaths rasped and panted in unison. She had been a virgin until he had taken her.

He felt the way her hands pressed the tighter at his hips, urging him on. ‘Francis!’ she whispered and the shimmering silver of her eyes had shrunk to be replaced with the full blackness of desire.

He reached his hand down to the place between her legs and, stroking his fingers there, found her wet and slick for him. He massaged her, teasing against the sensitive bud that would bring her her pleasure, until she groaned her need aloud and arched her back.

‘Please...’ she gasped as her teeth nipped at his neck.

‘Please...’ he pleaded against her ear, before moving his mouth to hers again. Her teeth grazed his chin, his lips, before she kissed him and it was a kiss that mirrored both the desperation and the torture in his soul.

He slid his fingers into her and watched the heat flare all the hotter in her eyes. And when he replaced his fingers with himself he waited, letting her grow used to the girth of him, watching her, and all that was between them, this thing that was so much more than desire and lust, shimmered and throbbed and roared its strength.

‘Francis...’ Their eyes clung together as he began to move within her, slowly at first, and then faster and deeper and stronger as she rose to meet each thrust, until she sighed her relief and he spilled his seed within her.

* * *

He kissed the breath from her mouth with a gentleness that belied the fierceness of their lovemaking. And in his eyes, his dark soulful eyes, she saw not anger or condemnation, only tenderness and hurt...and something that looked a lot like love.

I love you, she whispered in her mind, and kissed him with all that was in her heart. She clung to him as if she could capture this most precious of moments for all eternity. I love you, as she drifted back down to earth in the strong protection of his arms. But the words were silent on her lips, and as the light and the magic and the moment faded she could not speak them.

He rolled off her and lay on his side. He spoke not one word, but his eyes held hers for a moment and she saw in them the echo of all that had just been before he turned away and climbed from the bed. He did not look at her again, just dressed himself quickly, smoothly, efficiently, the expression on his face closed, serious, as coldly handsome as the first night she had seen him. And the chilling silence of the cell cooled the wonder and the warmth and togetherness from her soul, leaving her feeling raw and empty and alone.

She swallowed down the lump that was sticking like a rock in her throat, too proud to show anything of her hurt. She rose and donned her clothes, affecting an unhurried and calm demeanour, ever the consummate actress, as if she were not weeping inside. The silence between them was louder than any words.

She kept her back to him as she fastened the pearl buttons of the dark green dress in which she had been married. Those buttons she could not reach she just left, but when she would have let the heavy hank of hair drop to disguise the gaping green silk, Linwood’s hand caught it, making her breath catch at his sudden silent proximity. There was a smallest of hesitation before she felt the brush of his fingers against the exposed skin of the nape of her neck. Her heart was thudding hard enough to escape her chest, but he stepped away when it was done.

‘We need to talk about tomorrow,’ he said, his voice betraying as little emotion as his face.

She gave a brief nod. ‘We do.’ They sat down on opposite sides of the little table. And like two strangers, rather than lovers, they began a cool and dispassionate discussion of what would take place at the trial. And in her line of vision, over Linwood’s shoulder, Venetia could see the bed and the rumpled sheets and covers still warm from the heat and passion of their lovemaking.