Regency Scoundrels And Scandals. Louise Allen

hadn’t bent his head to sweep his tongue over those taut nipples he had felt fretting against his own chest, hadn’t let his hands take the sweet weight of her breasts in their palms.

      Because I want to make love to her, not just have sex with her. And make love when she is fully awake and aware of what she is doing, he thought grimly, not clinging to me because she is exhausted, frightened and I have saved her life—just.

      And what the hell am I thinking? Jack demanded of himself savagely as he slid down so his head went under the water. He emerged, streaming, and scrubbed his hands through his hair with intentional force.

      That was a grand duchess in that bed, not some game pullet, not even a sprightly matron who was interested in showing her gratitude for a well-executed commission in ways that went beyond paying his bill. That happened now and again. He never sought it, sometimes took steps to evade it and sometimes found it a mutually satisfying, if short-lived, encounter.

      This was different. The Grand Duchess Evaline was different. There was an innocence about her that was at odds with her marriage to one of the most hardened roués in Europe, a softness under that imperious manner that she could adopt at the blink of her long-lashed eyes. The memory of those lashes against his skin sent a stab of lust lancing into his already aching groin.

      It was going to be a long night. He might want to make love to her, she might, in her vulnerability and disorientation, turn to him, but Jack knew full well that he could not let it happen. She was chaste, he could tell that almost at a glance, and she would have had countless opportunities discreetly to be otherwise. The fact that she had not meant that this was something that was important to her, to what she was as a woman, and he could not destroy that.

      He opened his eyes, saw nothing but a mound under the white covers to show where Eva was, and began to scrub at the soles of his feet which seemed irrevocably black. Had she spurned de Presteigne at some point? His instinct told him that she had. The man would take that as an insult, would nurse it in his breast as a slight to be repaid. It made him even more dangerous—if he still lived.

      Jack climbed out of the tub, registering dispassionately the muscles that ached, the ones that felt least responsive. Weaknesses he could not afford, gaps in his training to be worked on. Tomorrow he wanted to ride, if Eva was up to it. Two of their pursuers were dead, he had made sure of that. But there remained de Presteigne—wounded certainly, and if alive no doubt as furious as a scalded cat—and the soldier who had fallen in the river who might have been able to swim.

      Pursuit was either still on their heels, or as far away as Prince Antoine, waiting impatiently in the brooding castle of Maubourg for news of the hunt. Ahead was safety. He rested one foot on the edge of the tub as he scrubbed the leg dry and reconsidered that thought. Safety unless Antoine had had the sense to send agents on ahead of de Presteigne in the hope that the colonel would act as the ferret down the rabbit hole and drive them headlong into his hands.

      Without ever having met Eva’s brother-in-law, Jack felt a deep dislike of the man, a traitor both to his own family and his country and the attempted murderer of his nephew and the boy’s mother. But that did not make him a fool, and to misjudge him could be fatal.

      Dry and warm at last, he padded over to the bedside and looked down at Eva. The thick plait had come loose from his inexpert attempt at pinning it up and lay on the covers, making her look heart-wrenchingly young. He thought about just falling into bed, then spent several minutes extricating the long bolster without waking her, and setting it down the middle of the bed. He might be resolved now to fight her sensual spell, but he would not have wagered so much as a groat on his body paying any heed to that if he touched her as he slept.

      The soft mattress took him like a cloud as he finally slid between the sheets and sleep swept over him even before he could pull the covers up to his shoulders.

      The tattoo of knocking on the bedchamber door had Jack out of bed with his pistol in his hand before he was even conscious of moving. The sun was streaming in through the window, the old clock in the corner registering eight. He took a steadying breath and called, ‘Oui?’

      ‘C’est Henri, monsieur.’ It must be, no one could imitate the groom’s atrocious accent.

      Jack turned the key in the lock and let the man in. ‘Thought I’d better check, seeing the time’s getting on.’ He glanced round the room and added reprovingly, ‘You know, guv’nor, you shouldn’t be walking about like that, stark naked with your wedding tackle on show. There’s a lady to consider, and not just any lady. She’s a grand duchess, when all’s said and done.’

      He looked defiant as Jack glared at him, but the retort came, not from him, but icy—if somewhat muffled—from the bed. ‘The Grand Duchess in question is right here, Henry, and the reason I am stuck under these very hot covers is to spare myself the sight you so graphically describe. If you gentlemen would be kind enough to remove yourselves, dressed or undressed, I would like to get up now.’

      Jack dragged on his breeches and shirt, scooped up the rest of his things and strode out of the room. ‘We will be in the private parlour, ma’am. Please be so good as to lock the door behind us.’

      The lock clicked before they were three steps along the landing. Jack dropped his shoes, swore mildly, and kicked them ahead of himself into the parlour. ‘You don’t half whiff, guv’nor. Like a flaming lily,’ Henry observed.

      ‘Gardenias,’ Jack corrected, dragging off his clothes again so he could put on his drawers and stockings. ‘Better than smelling like the banks of the Rhône, believe me.’

      ‘Can believe that.’ The groom hitched one hip on the window ledge and regarded Jack critically as he dressed. ‘You hurt any? You look banged about.’

      ‘Nothing that won’t heal soon enough.’ He felt as though he had been stretched on the rack, then beaten with broom handles, but admitting to that would only lead to Henry offering one of his brutal massages.

      ‘Good enough.’ The groom looked uncomfortable. ‘Look, guv’nor, you really shouldn’t be getting involved with her Highness like this.’

      ‘Like what?’ Jack demanded.

      ‘No, don’t you go pokering up on me, guv’nor, you look like your late unlamented father when you do that, and it’s enough to give a man the colic, with all due respect…’

      ‘The chance of some due respect would be welcome, but I suppose you are going to have your say,’ Jack retorted grimly. To an outsider the liberties he allowed the groom would have been inexplicable, but Jack was prepared to listen to a man whose loyalty and courage had been proven over and over again, even if his tendency to embarrassing frankness was legendary.

      ‘I am that. She’s a real lady, that one, and royalty, almost. You shouldn’t be—’

      ‘I’m not.’

      ‘Yes, that’s all very well for you to say, but when you come hopping out of her bed in a state of Abram, who’s going to believe that?’

      ‘You are, if I tell you so, you suspicious old devil. There’s a bolster down the middle of the bed every night—stop laughing, will you!’

      ‘Are you two going to indulge in whatever crude conversation is amusing you for much longer?’ a frosty, disapproving voice enquired from the doorway. ‘Because I want my breakfast.’

      Jack saw Henry’s jaw drop and turned slowly. The figure standing on the threshold was clad in breeches, boots, a snug-fitting waistcoat and white shirt. Her hair was bundled into a net at her nape and a neckcloth dangled from her hand. ‘Can one of you show me how to tie this?’ Eva enquired calmly, her eyes defying them to comment on her attire. ‘I must say, I had no idea how difficult it is to get into men’s clothes.’

      The unfortunate turn of phrase was too much for Henry, who collapsed in hoots of laughter. Eva went scarlet. ‘You should meet Mr Brummell,’ Jack said, attempting to save her blushes by pretending not to notice the double entendre. He kept his face straight with an effort that hurt and aimed