Secrets of a Proper Countess (3 page)

Just as desire was becoming frustration, he touched her. His fingers found the spot where she wanted him most. She arched her back and cried out, but he was ready for that. He caught her moan in his mouth and continued to circle the wild, wet bud with his fingers, taking her beyond madness to a place of such absolute pleasure she thought she would die without it, or perhaps die
of
it. She had no idea, but she never wanted it to stop.

He plunged his fingers inside her, working her, pleasing her, until she could stand no more. She grasped the damp wrinkled linen of his shirt and sobbed for breath.

He positioned himself and drove into her as she climaxed once more, sending her soaring even higher in that instant. Her body rippled around his, drawing him in, enveloping him. She seemed to fly forever, the hard thrust of his body into hers driving her back to the heavens whenever she began to descend to the earth.

By the time he groaned and arched into her one last time, she was spent, exhausted and sated with pleasure.

Blackwood held her as they caught their breath, and caressed her gently, drawing his cloak over the disarray of their clothing, keeping the cool night air off her sweat-soaked skin. He cupped her chin and turned her head so he could kiss her gently, his movements slow and languid and delicious. She could smell her sex on his fingers, and under his expert tongue she felt desire rising again, against all odds,
and she sighed and rolled her hips restlessly against his.

“I suggest we find somewhere more private for the rest of the night,” he murmured in her ear, nibbling on the lobe.

Sanity hit her like cold water.

She shoved him, and he rolled off the narrow bench and crashed to the floor with a grunt of surprise, tangled and tripped up by his sword. She fumbled for the ties of her clothing and searched the dark floor for her caftan and her slippers and her mask. She cast a horrified glance at the shadowy form of him, still sitting on the floor of the pavilion, unmoving. He was baffled, no doubt, but she had to leave. If she were caught—She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Perhaps it's time we had our own unmasking,” he said from the floor. “I'm Phineas Archer.” She was too embarrassed, too busy fumbling with her clothes to reply. “Well? Don't you think we should be properly introduced after what just happened?” he prompted.

“No!” she gasped. “Oh, good heavens! This should
neve
r have happened!” She could not find her other slipper in the dark, and the clatter of the sword warned her he was getting to his feet.

Startled, she took the single slipper she had and fled in her bare feet back up the stone path as if the devil himself was on her heels. He did not call her back. She slipped into the shadows as near to the house as she dared and straightened her costume with shaking hands, her body still tingling from his lovemaking. She hastily pulled her mask into place as she entered the ballroom, and beckoned a footman to summon her coach.

 

Phineas listened to the retreating sound of the bells on her costume as she fled. He fumbled for his clothes, tripping only once over the damnable sword. The erotic encounter had
been over too soon, but it was still early, and he had time to go inside and find what he came for. She wouldn't be guarding the door now.

He almost laughed out loud when he realized that the buttons from his breeches were gone and there was no way to close the front of his clothing. Whoever she was, she'd been one of the most passionate women he'd ever had. Unlike most of his lovers, she was ingenuous, eager to please and to be pleased. He would almost say she was a near innocent, though innocent ladies did not allow themselves to be seduced in dark gardens with two hundred people only steps away. Yet, despite the disguise, and the anonymity of the whole encounter, there was no artifice in the way she made love.

He grinned in the darkness. His mission was lost for tonight, and Lord Renshaw's secrets would remain his own for now. He wished she'd stayed a little longer. Just thinking about her had him hard again, his cock pushing hopefully through the ruined face of his breeches.

Yasmina. That's all he had, a made-up name. He shook his head, still dumbfounded, and searched the dark pavilion for his coat and his cloak. He wasn't usually so easily distracted when he had work to do, but she had been exceptionally diverting.

He found his garments easily, but the telltale buttons took a few minutes longer. A gardener or guest who found one button would hardly remark upon it. A scattering of six buttons in such a secluded spot screamed scandal. Phineas Archer was an expert at avoiding scandal.

Unless, of course, he wished to be caught.

He found the buttons and pushed them into his pocket. He pulled his cloak over his gaping breeches and turned to go, and almost tripped over something. It skittered away to hit the wall with a soft chime. He picked it up and carried it into
the light. It was the lady's shoe, delicate and encrusted with pearls and embroidery, with a curled-up toe that was hung with a little bell.

Phineas tucked the souvenir into his pocket and strolled casually toward the side gate like the seasoned rake he was supposed to be, and slipped out onto Brook Street to find his coach.

P
hineas opened one bleary eye the next morning at the soft rustle of his valet moving around his bedroom. Burridge was holding his ruined breeches in one hand and a handful of buttons in the other. The exotic little slipper lay on the desk.

“I don't tell tales, Burridge, so don't even ask,” Phineas said.

The valet grinned. “No, my lord, of course not, but I'd bet this tale would be interesting indeed.”

“Never mind. I've been waiting for you to put in an appearance this morning.”

The valet's eyebrows shot up into his neatly combed hairline. “My apologies, my lord, I had no idea you wanted me. Of course, any time you do, you need only ring the bell,” Burridge said pointedly. He concentrated on deftly folding the ruined breeches, and Phineas knew he was hiding a smirk. Burridge probably thought he had been too drunk to even find the damned bell.

He'd spent years cultivating his image as the worst rogue in London, until even his servants believed he was. It was damned irritating at times. He played his role so expertly he hardly knew which half of his personality was the real Phineas anymore. Was he the rake, the gambler, the seducer
of ladies young and old, or was he still an honorable man who just happened to handle the crown's dirty work?

Annoyed, he threw back the covers and sat up awkwardly. Burridge's eyes widened, and Phineas glared as his servant choked on a laugh, turning it into a cough.

“Just get it off, would you? It's been plaguing me for hours.”

Burridge immediately came to undo the clasp that still held the sword against Phineas's hip. He fumbled for a few minutes then looked up apologetically. “I'm sorry, sir, but it appears to be stuck fast. A bit rusty, perhaps. Should we summon Mr. Crane?”

Phineas gave the belt an angry tug. The last thing he needed was his dour butler seeing him in such a state, and thinking the worst.

“No. I'll dress first, then I'll find Crane myself.”

“Yes, my lord. What will you wear? Will you be going out this morning? Riding in the park, perhaps?” the valet asked as he crossed to the dressing room.

“Yes,” Phineas mumbled, still fiddling with the belt. “On second thought, no. At least not until I get this damned sword off.”

Half an hour later he was in the salon, dressed in fawn breeches, polished Hessians, and a crisp white linen shirt. He'd dispensed with a coat to allow his staff better access to the sword that clung to him like an eager lover who refused to be dismissed. Crane had given up after twenty minutes of undignified jiggling and tugging and suggested they send for the gardener, who arrived with an astonishing assortment of tools.

Phineas pretended to read the newspaper and tried his best to maintain his dignity while his staff knelt at his feet and worked to free him. If the ancestor who owned the sword had been present, he would have run the bastard through
with it. After he'd tortured the secret of its removal out of him, of course.

A maid came in with coffee, her eyes widening at the unusual sight. Phineas watched as she set the tray down and poured, nearly overfilling the cup as she kept one eye on the activity. She sidled away at a sharp warning from Crane, only to pause near the door, her lip caught between her teeth.

“What is it?” Phineas snapped.

All eyes turned toward the girl, who bobbed a nervous curtsy. “Begging your pardon, my lord, and Mr. Crane. If I might suggest it, I think Thomas could be of assistance,” she said.

Crane frowned. “The footman?”

“He had, um, special talents with locks and such before he entered service,” she explained, her face reddening.

“You mean he's a picklock?” Phineas asked, and the maid blushed.

“Oh, he isn't anymore, my lord! I mean, I'm sure he still remembers a few tricks o' the trade, but he'd never ever do any such thing now, of course.” She twisted her hands together. “Unless you wanted him to, and it was an order.”

Crane stood. “That will do, Mary.”

Phineas looked at the gardener. The man was eyeing the hatchet that lay at his feet. It was the only tool he hadn't yet tried. “Send for Thomas,” Phineas said wearily, and regarded the gardener coolly. “If he fails, then you can try lopping off my leg.”

When his grandfather arrived, and entered the room without being announced, Phineas was still seated in the chair, with three members of his staff kneeling at his feet, watching in fascination as Thomas the footman, former picklock, worked at the clasp of the sword belt.

“What in blazes is going on, Blackwood?” the Duke of Carrington demanded, glowering down his beaked nose at
his heir. He didn't bother to say hello, and Phineas felt his gut clench, ready for another confrontation. He should have realized that no pleasure was without punishment, and Yasmina had been exactly the kind of sinful indulgence that attracted retribution.

The servants almost knocked each other over trying to rise and bow to the duke at the same time, and Crane snapped to attention. “May I announce His Grace, the Duke of Carrington?” he intoned.

“Never mind, man, I'm here already!” the duke growled.

Phineas crossed his legs casually. “Good morning, Your Grace. 'Tis only a masquerade costume gone wrong. Forgive me for not getting up.”

The duke strode forward and assessed the situation. His sharp black eyes traveled over the sword, then swept up to glare at Phineas. “That's the Archer sword, you fool, not a masquerade costume! Get out of the way, all of you, before you damage it. It is a priceless family heirloom, captured at Agincourt by one of the first members of the Archer family.”

Phineas had heard the tale before, of course. That Archer, who humbly shot arrows for a living, had captured a French knight in battle, and wisely kept him alive. He'd won the sword, a rich ransom, and the king's favor.

His grandfather reached for a large ruby near the hilt of the sword and pressed. The belt parted, and he caught it before it fell to the ground. The staff sighed with relief.

“Out, all of you,” Carrington commanded, then turned to his grandson as they scrambled to obey. At least he waited until the door was closed, Phineas noted, before beginning his lecture.

“I suppose I should not be surprised by this. You have always treated your heritage carelessly,” he began, and picked up the untouched cup of coffee and sipped. He grimaced, set it down without a word, and crossed to pull the bell. “
Hot
coffee,” he ordered when the door opened almost at once. Phineas rolled his eyes. Crane had obviously been hovering, waiting for a chance to serve the duke.

“To what do I owe the rare honor of a personal visit, Your Grace?” Phineas asked. “You usually just summon me to Carrington Castle when you wish to give me a dressing-down.” It was almost two years since he'd seen him last, yet his grandfather never seemed to age. He always seemed as ancient, cold, and impenetrable as the very stones of the ancestral keep, even when Phineas was a child.

Carrington's eagle eyes roamed the salon of Blackwood House, examining the heirlooms and art that decorated the walls, and stopped on the dark space on the wallpaper where the sword normally hung. He replaced it on the hooks before turning back to Phineas.

“I am here because your sister is in Town.”

“Which sister, sir, Miranda or Marianne?” Phineas asked. He hadn't seen his younger sister Miranda since the duke sent her to school in Scotland, and it was months since he had a visit from his elder sister. He missed them, but circumstances forced him to stay away. They did not belong in his world, and he had not been welcome in their circle for years. He was eager for news of them, but didn't let it show.

“I'm speaking of Miranda. She's making her come-out this Season.”

Phineas looked at his grandfather in surprise. “Her come-out? Surely she's too young for that. She can't be more than fourteen or fifteen at the most.”

“She's eighteen!” Carrington snapped.

Phineas said nothing. How had little Miranda reached the age of eighteen without his noticing?

“Most girls come out at seventeen. I've made her wait an extra year, Blackwood, in the vain hope that you'd marry and reform before she was exposed to your disgraceful be
havior. I cannot wait any longer. She is the granddaughter of a duke, and I have only one great-grandson to date. If the worst should happen to Marianne's son, and you fail in your duty to marry and get an Archer heir, it may fall to Miranda to breed the next Duke of Carrington. If I might remind you, you have a birthday of your own coming up in a few weeks. You will be thirty-two.”

“I doubt you've come to wish me a happy birthday,” Phineas said lightly.

He went over the long list of his most recent misdeeds in his mind. It was too soon for his grandfather to have heard about his tryst in Lady Evelyn's garden. Unless he'd spoken to Burridge on the way in, of course. He wondered how long it would be before Carrington—and all of London—knew he'd come home last night with the buttons to his breeches in his pocket.

“I've come to invite you to Miranda's debut ball,” the duke said. He withdrew an envelope from his coat and tossed it on the table. Phineas picked it up and opened it, scanning the elegant engraved invitation briefly.

“Should I convey my regrets to you or Great-Aunt Augusta? I assume you do not actually wish me to attend.”

“I do not,” the duke confirmed. “But your sister does. Most heartily, in fact, so I've come to insist on your attendance.”

“Then for Miranda's sake, I shall be there,” Phineas replied stiffly.

The duke fixed him with an icy glare. “On one condition, Blackwood. I insist you curtail your whoring and gambling for the duration of Miranda's stay in London. I also expect, as I do every year, that you will avail yourself of the opportunity of being in polite company to find a suitable bride. It is past time you got an heir. If you do not, then I shall be forced to—”

“Leave every penny that's not entailed to Marianne's
son,” Phineas said, completing the familiar threat. The duke scowled. They both knew it was groundless. Carrington would never destroy the wealth and power of the dukedom, no matter how much he despised Phineas. It would break four hundred years of Archer tradition.

“Don't be flippant, Blackwood. You've had your years of freedom and frivolous behavior. It is time to accept your responsibilities and think of the future. I do get the London newspapers at Carrington Castle, you know. I'm fully aware of everything you get up to.”

“And I thought I was being discreet,” Phineas quipped, and watched his grandfather redden dangerously. Fortunately, Crane entered with the coffee.

Phineas waited until he set the cup before Carrington. “Whisky, please, Crane,” he said, and watched his butler's eyes dart to the duke for permission. “Now,” he ordered, and Crane crossed the room to the decanter.

There was no point in arguing with his grandfather. Still, the situation presented a number of problems. Either Whitehall or the duke was going to be very unhappy with him. He could not be rake and gentleman both. Duplicity made people suspicious, less trusting, and less talkative.

He took the tumbler of whisky Crane offered and downed it at a swallow under the duke's censorious gaze. “Another,” he said.

“It's not yet ten o'clock, Blackwood,” the duke said primly.

But he swallowed the second tumblerful as well. Discreet behavior was not how he did his job. This wasn't going to be easy. Or pleasant. Pleasure reminded him of the lovely Yasmina. Such encounters would be impossible if his sister was present. Still, he'd dare much to have her again, to touch her soft skin, hear that sigh, feel her nails in his flesh as he—

“Why are you grinning like that?” the duke demanded, shaking Phineas out of his erotic daydream.

“I was thinking of Miranda's debut, of course,” Phineas answered.

The duke glared at him. “Well don't smile like that at her. It's most unpleasant, and I was in earnest when I said that I expect you to behave yourself while she's in Town.”

Phineas got to his feet. “I'm sure someone will be providing you with regular reports of my activities once you return to Carrington Castle.” He cast a pointed glance at Crane, who had the grace to blush.

The duke raised his brows at the dismissal. “I'm staying in Town. When Miranda receives an offer of marriage, I must be available. As a matter of fact, I will be staying here.”

“Here?” Phineas asked, his stomach sinking. “With Great-Aunt Augusta, you mean?”

“Here,” the duke replied with a thin smile. “In this house.”