Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (39 page)

She entered from the dark narrow stair, blinking against the sudden glare of the sunlight shining through crystal-clean windows to bounce from whitewashed walls back into her eyes.

Damn, he should have drawn the draperies, he should have—

“Dalton, what is this?”

She was looking about her, her delicate brows drawn together.

He cleared his throat, which had closed at the sight
of her wide hazel eyes. “An artist needs a studio, does she not?”

She looked him in the eye and laughed, the sound bursting from obvious amazement. His heart fell with a sickening impact. “You don’t like it.”

Covering her giggles with her hand, she shook her head, looking around her at the mountain of supplies and the Bedouin nest. Then she must have seen his disappointment, for she composed herself quickly.

“It isn’t that I don’t like it. It’s only that—” She looked around her in disbelief once more. “All I need is a desk and paper and ink. I could work in any corner, had I candles enough.”

Ah, they had overdone it. He’d suspected as much himself. Cheering somewhat, he gestured to the printer’s rack. “There. Paper.” He patted the cabinet that held the array of pen-making supplies. “Ink! And should you need them on a cloudy day—” He threw open the cupboard door to show a solid two hundred fine wax tapers. “Candles!”

She gave up any semblance of control and threw back her head, laughing out loud. Dalton had to smile with her, for she was so obviously delighted with his excess.

Drawing one hand across her tearing eyes, she sputtered to a stop. “Dare I ask about the—?” She canted her head toward the shameless pile of luxury in the corner.

Dalton tugged at his cravat. “That was Agatha’s doing, I fear. I swear I never told a soul about—”

“No, I’m sure you would never lack for subtlety, Dalton. Not like setting this stage in an
attic
, or some such.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he gave up and confessed. “Very well, then, I lack subtlety. But I also thought it had good light.”

She gazed at him for a long moment. “Do you need a lesson in subtlety, my fine British spy?”

The sultry note in her voice made Dalton’s trousers tighten. She smiled and came closer, removing her gloves one slow finger at a time. Had the removal of kidskin ever been so subtly erotic? Or was it simply that every move she made fascinated him?

She drew near and he caught a whiff of roses. The memories it evoked nearly knocked him to his knees. He closed his eyes briefly in an effort to control his thoughts and he felt her touch upon his hand.

When he opened his eyes, she’d already turned away to examine the easel, leaving him clutching the soft skin of her gloves like a man clinging to a lifeline.

The easel was crafted of fine ash wood, and she ran her bare fingers over it appreciatively.

God, he would kill to be that easel!

“So sturdy,” she murmured. “Strong and tall and fine…”

His lips parted.

She laid her cheek against the smooth polished wood, closing her eyes with pleasure. “Do you not love to stroke a finely made piece?”

His hands started to shake. His neck was sweating and his chest felt tight. He was very careful not to look down at himself, for fear of what he’d see.

“I have a gift for you.”

He opened his eyes to see that she held out a scrolled paper. A drawing?

Then his eyes widened. She had carried nothing when she entered the room. Where had she kept it? And how could he live with knowing he’d missed seeing her retrieve it? His mind occupied with visions of garters and
fluttering petticoats, he absently reached for the drawing and unrolled it.

And nearly swallowed his tongue.

“This—this is pornographic!”

She gave him that wild-child grin and tilted her head at him. “Are you going to arrest me?”

He’d had enough. He reached for her. “No, I’m going to throw you down and turn this sketch into reality!”

She danced beyond his reach. “Not until you hear me out.”

Anything, he’d promise anything, if only he could bury himself in her fire once more. He hadn’t been warm in ages, perhaps forever.

His longing must have shown in his face, for she held up a hand to halt him. Then she faced him, her hands loosely clasped at her waist. She looked the picture of proper English womanhood in her lavender half mourning and her prim stance.

Which made it all the more stunning when she said, “Will you take me to your bed until neither of us can speak a word of sense?”

He could only blink at her for a moment.

“For if you do not throw me down on that ridiculous pile of sensuality in the corner and make me beg for mercy, I think I shall die on the spot for wanting you so.”

He needed no further prompting. Like a greedy man reaching for gold, he took her into his arms and drew her close. He kissed her, savoring the softness of her fine mouth and the feel of her eager body against his.

Kissing his way down her neck and up again, he nibbled gently on her earlobe. “Reach into my pocket, my fearless rose.”

Surprised, she laughed. “Already?”

He took her soft skin between his teeth and bit down just enough to make her quiver. “My waistcoat pocket, rosebud,” he murmured in Monty’s jaunty tones. “And none o’ your sass.”

He felt her small hand twisting its way into his pocket.

“I feel something. What is this in your—” She halted with a gasp. Dalton smiled. Perhaps high-flown words were not needed between them.

The ring was a single brilliant emerald nested in carved gold. Clara felt her breath catch as she realized that the carving was a bounty of perfect roses, spilling from the gemstone down the arch of the ring.

“Once again, we have the same idea at the same moment.” Dalton stepped back and took the ring from her. He raised her left hand to his lips. “I’ve not done well by you, my love. I want to start again. I want to court you properly.”

Clara’s hands began to shake as he slid the exquisite ring onto her finger. “I don’t want to start again. I want to make love to you now.”

He pulled her close, wrapping her tenderly in his strength. “Marry me?” His breath was warm in her ear and she felt her spine weaken.

“I love you, Dalton Montmorency, whether you be lord or thief. I will be your mistress. If you don’t want a mistress, I will be your lover in whatever stolen time that I may have.”
Please, no, for I would die by inches without you
.

Warm fingers caught at her chin and raised her gaze to his silver one. “You’ve never told me that you love me.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I have.”

He shook his head slowly. “No. This was the first
time. I daresay I would remember, since I suddenly feel thirteen feet tall and powerful enough to toss Kurt across the room.” With a small smile, he stroked his thumb along her eyelash, taking up the single tear that had gathered.

She took a breath and twisted the ring on her finger. “Yes, I love you, but I fear I shall make a rather outrageous Lady Etheridge.”

Dalton stilled, but did not release her from his embrace. “Look at me, Clara. Is that all you see? Lord Etheridge?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “That is who you are.”

“Look beyond that, I beg of you.” His voice caught, a tiny break of desperation.

It shot through her like an arrow. She was hurting him.

“Look beyond his lordship,” he whispered. “For there I stand, without you.”

He bent his head and brought his lips close to hers. “Marry me,” he whispered. “For I love thee well, my flower, and cannot draw another breath without thee by my side.”

His breath brushed her lips, causing them to tingle, and his words freed her heart and drowned her objection. She laughed shakily through her tears and reached for him.

“Very well, then, I’ll marry you.” She kissed him hard. Then she grinned dangerously. “How many cats will Etheridge House hold, anyway?”

Dalton stood in the doorway of the attic studio, watching his wife draw. She was doing very badly indeed. In fact, he’d never seen her do worse.

He’d come upstairs with a basket of Kurt’s best and a bottle of wine, hoping to tempt Clara into a Bedouin picnic. And then some food.

Yet now he was too concerned to care about curling up with her for an afternoon of not napping. For Clara to be drawing so very badly, something must be wrong. Her talent had only grown in the month since their marriage, for she had all the time and resources in the world at her disposal in her position as identification artist for the Liar’s Club.

It was working, too. Clara had begun teaching the trainees to draw, and was now herself able to draw a usable portrait from a mere verbal description. The Liars were all honing their observation skills in the process, as they vied to impress Clara with their prowess. Collis, who had recently entered training, was her best student.

But this…

“My flower, are you quite well?”

“Mm-hmm.” The drawing continued, each line shakier and more incomprehensible than the last.

Dalton was becoming truly frightened now. He came quietly up behind her and took her drawing hand in his. Something was wrong, her fingers were not right somehow… he was holding the wrong hand!

“Why are you drawing with your left hand?”

Clara finally turned to him and smiled. “Oh, hello, darling. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I know. You were concentrating too hard. Why are you drawing with your left hand?”

“For Lord Liverpool, of course.”

“Liverpool? But why would he care—”
Oh, no
. “Clara, tell me that you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“Well, truthfully, Dalton, he said that Sir Thorogood could never draw again. He said nothing about Mr. Underkind.”

Dalton closed his eyes. “And who is Mr. Underkind?”

“You’re holding him.”

Dalton opened his eyes and looked down at the small smudged hand in his. Her left hand. Which would produce drawings nothing like her right hand, once she’d practiced enough.

Mr. Underkind meant trouble. Mr. Underkind would likely bring the wrath of Lord Liverpool down upon their heads just when things had finally quieted.

Mr. Underkind would drive Liverpool completely around the bend as he wondered who it was.

Dalton couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“I think I’m going to like Mr. Underkind.” He lifted her charcoal-smeared hand to his lips and kissed it. “How about giving Mr. Underkind a rest for a few minutes?”

Clara’s brows went up. “But I only just taught him how to draw a good circle.”

Dalton leaned close and whispered in her ear although there was no one else about. “I have cream puffs.”

“Ooh.”

He nibbled her earlobe. “And strawberries.”

“That sounds lovely.”

He worked his way down her throat and bit gently at that tender spot where neck became shoulder. “I’ll let you be on top.” He licked the spot where he’d just bitten. He could feel her breath quicken. “But there’s only room for two in the tent. You’ll have to leave Mr. Underkind outside.”

“Mr. … who?”

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The Spy

(Book Three in the Liar’s Club)
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The evening after their adventure on the streets, Phillipa found herself putting Robbie to bed although she was fairly sure it wasn’t a tutor’s job to do so. Yet if not her, then who? Certainly not Mr. Cunnington.

“He’s goin’ out again.” Robbie’s face was entirely expressionless. The very portrait of accustomed loneliness. “He’s always goin’ out.”

Phillipa didn’t know how to comfort him. Robbie’s guardian seemed fond enough of the boy, although she hadn’t been about long enough to form an opinion on the matter.

Time for a change of subject. “You’re not going out anytime soon either. Master Robert.” She shook her finger in his face but not too close. He might yet prove to be a biter.

His little face paled. “You goin’ to cane me, then?”

Cane him? For dropping in on Mr. Cunnington’s club for his tea? Good Lord, where had this child been?

Still, she couldn’t let him think he could pull that sort of stunt every day.

Propping both fists on her hips, Phillipa looked downat her student disapprovingly. “You, me lad, are about to experience the patented At
water tickle revenge.”

Robbie jumped up to run, a giggle already bubbling through his mock fear. Phillipa snapped him up just before he made it to the door. He must not have been trying very hard, for he’d surely learned more speed than that in his nine years on the streets.

She swung him yelping into the air and brought him down onto the rag before the fire, her fingers raking his bony little sides.

Robbie screeched, his rusty laughter another reminder to Phillipa of his short hard life before she’d met him. Grinning, she almost let him catch a breath before she began anew.

“Robbie the Rebel, are you? Robbie the Great Know-it-all, are you? You look more like Robbie Twitter-on-the-rug, if you ask me!”

Time to go in for the kill. The volume of Robbie’s screeches rose to full riot level. Phillipa heard another sound beyond it, but she didn’t identify it as the thumping of running feet in the hall until the door of the schoolroom crashed open.

“
What the bloody hell are you doing to him?
”

Before Phillipa could turn around, she was lifted by the scruff of her neck and dragged from Robbie.

She found herself dangling from James Cunnington’s grip, gagging on her cravat—which was apparently auditioning for the role as her brand-new Adam’s apple.

Then her gaze sharpened on James and her eyes bulged further. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t speak, for the man was more than a little naked. In fact, he was naked, but for a towel around his neck and a pair of drawers that clung to his bath-damp skin like paint.

He was revealed to her eyes in all his powerful
beauty. His wide brawny chest, his rippling belly, the dark trail of hair that led the eye below the sagging waist of his drawers which did nothing to hide the muscular thighs framing what could only be
It
.