Читать книгу Her Dearest Sin - Gayle Wilson - Страница 10

Madrid, 1814

“And finally, I would remind you that we are here as representatives of the Prince Regent,” the Duke of Wellington concluded, his piercing eyes examining each of his officers in turn. “I need not tell you what an honor—and a responsibility—that is.”

He inclined his head, almost a bow, before he turned. As if on parade, his staff followed him through the massive doors and down the steps of the residence that had graciously been made available to the former commander of the British forces in Iberia, now special envoy to the Spanish court. Waiting below were the carriages that would take Wellington and his party to the reception at the royal palace.

Some of the men who accompanied the duke tonight had been with him the last time he had entered Madrid—under far different circumstances than these. There was very little he could tell them about duty or responsibility they didn’t already know. And he, more than anyone, understood that.

“He’d rather be hanged, I venture,” Viscount Wetherly confided sotto voce to Sebastian as they followed their commander.

“He’d rather be charging an enemy,” Sinclair responded more accurately.

“He’ll find enough of those tonight. Not the sort one can take satisfaction in charging, of course. A gaggle of Spanish nobles determined to turn the clock back on the past five years. Can’t be done, if you ask me.”

“No one will,” Sebastian assured his friend with a grin. “Politics isn’t your forte, Harry. Leave the maneuvering to the Beau. At least he knows what message it is we’re supposed to convey to Ferdinand and his advisors.”

“That they shouldn’t let the Inquisition start burning people at the stake again, I should think,” Harry said. “Seems reasonable to me.”

And not so far from the truth of the matter, Sebastian acknowledged ruefully, despite his comment about the viscount’s lack of political understanding.

Wellington had been sent by the English government to advise the Spanish court that it would be the height of folly to attempt to undo the reforms instituted in the country while its rightful king had been in exile. No one, least of all His Majesty’s envoy, expected that mission to be a success.

“But will it seem reasonable to them?” Sebastian asked. “That’s the question. Not that Wellington gives a damn. He’ll deliver the prime minister’s warning because that’s what he’s been asked to do. What they do in response will be up to them.”

They were aware from bitter experience that Arthur Wellesley, now Duke of Wellington, had never suffered fools gladly. Riding a crest of unbelievable popularity due to his role in the defeat of Napoleon, he would have little reason to change that habitual attitude now.

“Have to confess,” Harry went on as they settled into the last of the line of carriages, “I’m not nostalgic about being back in Madrid. Can’t compare to the glories of Paris in the spring.”

“To the glories of the dancers at the Opera, you mean.”

“You’re simply jealous, my dear. I can’t be blamed that the loveliest preferred me,” Harry chided.

It was the kind of repartee they had engaged in a thousand times through the long years of their friendship—bragging about their exploits with the fairer sex or their ability to drink or to fight, each claiming superiority. This time, however, there was a small silence after the viscount’s unfortunate choice of words. And then the situation became even more awkward when Wetherly attempted to apologize for them.

“You know that ain’t the truth, Sin,” Harry said, his voice subdued. “No woman has ever preferred me to you. Not even after…”

The hesitation provided an opportunity for Sinclair to break into that nearly stuttering explanation, one which he gratefully took. “Not even after they’ve gotten a good look at my face?” he asked with a laugh, putting a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I didn’t mean that,” Harry said stiffly.

“Just because the lot of you pretend this doesn’t exist,” Sinclair said, touching the still-reddened scar that traversed his cheek, “doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Plain as the nose on Wellington’s face,” he said.

Sinclair never referred to the scar except mockingly, as he had done tonight and, then only in response to another’s comment about it. Most people assumed it to be the result of an injury received in battle. The few friends who knew the truth of the incident said nothing to disabuse others of that notion.

“You’re still the most dashing officer on the staff,” Harry avowed gallantly.

“And you, sir, are its greatest liar. I wonder Wellington puts up with you.”

“Keeps me around for my entertainment value.”

“And me for the unquestioned beauty of my countenance,” Sebastian said, grinning at him again.

“He’d be lost without us,” the viscount declared, sounding relieved that his faux pas had been so gracefully handled. “Should never have won the war if we hadn’t been here.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sebastian said, leaning back in the comfortable leather seat and closing his eyes. “Wake me when we arrive at the palace. It will be the one with all the torches.”

“Arrogant English bastard,” Julián Delgado said as he watched his king greet the special emissary from the Court of St. James’s, “flaunting his victories and his drummed-up titles.”

“Jealous, Julián?” Pilar asked.

“Of Wellesley? Hardly. I simply hate to see him lauded like some conquering hero.”

“He shall make his government’s request and be gone within the week. Why let his presence upset you? After all, everyone knows where the real power in Spain resides.”

He turned to look at her then, perhaps in an attempt to judge if the last had been mockery. It had been, of course, but she had become extremely skilled during the past year in hiding her true feelings from her guardian. She smiled at him before she turned back to watch the English duke present the members of his small party to the king.

“I’m not sure Fernando is as convinced of that as you,” Julián said, his gaze returning to the dais as well.

“I’m sure you’ll take the necessary steps to see to it that he soon will be.”

“As soon as possible,” he agreed, not bothering to deny what she had just suggested. “The quicker he recognizes his proper place in the scheme of things, the better it will be for all of us.”

“There are those who might think that smacks of treason. I should be careful where I voice that intent, if I were you.”

She didn’t look at him this time, knowing she was treading on very dangerous ground. Her guardian had no patience with any dissension with his opinions. Certainly not from her.

“And are you one of those, my dear?”

“On the contrary,” she said. “As always, I am your most ardent admirer.”

There was a prolonged silence after her lie. Through it Pilar’s eyes remained focused on the ceremony taking place, as if she were unaware of the perilous undercurrents of their conversation.

“Your tongue will get you into trouble if you don’t learn to control it,” Julián warned, his tone softer than that in which they had been conversing. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe His Majesty requires my attendance.”

He bowed to her formally before he turned, strolling to the front of the room. Her gibe had struck home, and Pilar’s lips curved into a slight smile of satisfaction as she watched him walk away.

The rather grandiose style of his evening attire was in marked contrast to the almost severe tailoring favored by the English party. Surrounded by the sea of blazing colors that represented the court dress of the Spanish nobility, the knot of black jackets, no longer clustered around the king, again drew her eye.

The somber hue of their clothing was not the only discernible difference in the appearance of Wellington and his officers. The fine cloth of their coats stretched across shoulders broadened by years of campaigning. Knee breeches and silk stockings revealed the long, muscled thighs and shapely calves of men who had spent countless hours in the saddle.

Pilar pulled her gaze away, unwillingly reminded of another English soldier. And of the price he had paid for her foolish attempt to escape her fate. A bitter lesson, especially for someone as headstrong as she had always been.

It was one she had not forgotten, however. Nor would she, she had vowed. Never again would she embroil someone else in her troubles. It was too costly.

Grateful that Julián had been called away, providing her a few moments of freedom from the facade she maintained in his company, she began to thread her way through the close-packed throng. The doors that led to the nearby palace gardens had been left enticingly open in a fruitless attempt to permit the cooler outside air to circulate through the crowded ballroom. Her progress toward them was interrupted a few times to return greetings from those who had known her father or who were friends of her guardian.

It had been a very long time since she had been required to attend such a gathering. She knew that Julián would never have brought her tonight if he had not believed her absence might cause comment.

When she eventually reached the balcony, she was surprised to find it deserted, perhaps because the official presentations had ended such a brief time before and the dancing was to begin shortly. Julián seldom danced, so it would be some time before he would look for her.

The king’s gardens lay enticingly below, free of crowds and clamor. If only she dared…

She glanced back at the ballroom, her eyes easily locating Julián’s dark head. He was engaged in conversation with several others of the king’s advisors. Such discussions normally occupied several hours. Surely this one would last long enough for her to escape for a few minutes that unaccustomed tumult.

Unable to resist the temptation, she hurried down the steps that led to the grounds below. It was not until she had entered the sheltering darkness under the ornamental trees, beyond the reach of the flambeaux that lined the palace walls, that she slowed, lifting her face to the breeze.

The scent of almond blossoms was heavy on the night air. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she was back on her father’s estate, far from the sights and sounds and smells of the city.

Drifting out from the ballroom came the strains of the seguidilla. She smiled unconsciously, remembering the first time her dancing master had led her though its intricate patterns. Lifting the hem of her gown with her left hand, she began to parody the steps as they would be performed inside.

As she danced, she circled in and out between the slender trunks along the avenue of trees. Her outstretched fingers trailed over their bark as she moved from one to another, keeping time to the melody that floated out into the garden.

So far from the lights of the palace, she had no fear she would be seen, and only an occasional welling of anxiety that she might be missed. Surely Julián would be more concerned tonight with keeping the king in line than he would be in keeping her in line. After all—

Her fingers brushed across an unexpected texture, one that was definitely not wood or bark. Despite the brevity of the contact, she knew at once that what she had touched was flesh and bone. A living, breathing body—here, where none should be.

Her involuntary gasp broke the stillness. She stumbled backward, putting a protective distance between herself and whoever was leaning against the tree.

“I do beg your pardon,” a deep voice said in English.

Her eyes found the small, glowing tip of the cigar he held. She wondered that she hadn’t been aware of its pungent smell. Of course, the heady fragrance of the flowering trees and her own childish masquerade had been convenient distractions.

“Who are you?” Pilar asked, taking another step back.

Had the man not addressed her in English, she might have been more frightened, convinced she had encountered some trespasser on the palace grounds. Given her previous interest in the Duke of Wellington’s party, however, she found herself more intrigued than apprehensive.

“Merely the victim of an unfortunate vice,” he said, his voice tinged with amused self-deprecation.

Her eyes followed the unhurried rise of the end of the cigarillo as he brought it to his lips. The tip flared briefly in the darkness as he inhaled, and then it was lowered again. This time the smoke wafted toward her, its scent as faint as the music.

Her father had smoked these same small, tightly rolled cigars, and their fragrance had lingered in his clothing. When she was a little girl, and her papa had been away too long, she would sneak into his chamber and open the door of the enormous wardrobe to breathe in the wonderful variety of smells she would always associate with him. These cigars. The oiled leather of his boots. Sandalwood and cedar. Horses. The aromas of home.

“Shall I put it out?” the Englishman asked.

She swallowed against the force of those crowding memories and shook her head before she realized he would no more be able to see that gesture than she could see him. All she could discern was his shape, black against the lesser darkness of the night, his chest centered by the pale gleam of his cravat. And, of course, the small glowing tip of the cigarillo.

“No,” she said, the word little more than a whisper.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Hearing the unfamiliar—and unmistakable—concern in his voice, her eyes stung with tears. She blinked, denying them.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here,” she confessed.

“Escaping?”

The word reverberated in her consciousness. Another memory.

“For the moment,” she said.

“Then we can be conspirators together.”

There was a heartbeat of silence.

“You’re with the English envoy.”

“The Duke of Wellington. Have you met him?”

“Not yet. He seems…” She hesitated, searching for a word that would not give offense.

“Ordinary,” the deep voice supplied, touched again with amusement.

Which made it even more attractive, Pilar decided. Confronted with his ease of manner, she was beginning to relax. Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be here, despite the fact that he was a stranger in a dark garden, she felt no sense of foreboding in staying to talk to him.

Even if someone came looking for her, it would be easy enough to fade into the shadows. No one would ever know she had been here. With the constraints under which she was now forced to live her life, this small, harmless adventure had suddenly become unbelievably precious.

Of course, whatever interpretation she chose to put on this clandestine encounter, she had no doubt what Julián’s reaction to it would be. Then she reminded herself again, almost fiercely, that he need never know. What were a few moments in a garden compared to a lifetime—

“It’s all right,” the Englishman went on. “Most people think him to be far less…extraordinary, somehow, than they had expected.”

Wellington, she realized. He had asked her what she thought of the duke.

“I don’t believe I have yet had time to form an impression,” she said.

“I see,” he said, the amusement in his voice still evident. “I should imagine that a lady like you has heard little about his military exploits.”

“Only that they were successful,” she lied.

And was rewarded by his laughter. Like his voice, it was rich and pleasing, clearly masculine, and yet, unlike her guardian’s, free of mockery.

“Somewhat,” he agreed after a moment.

“Did you fight under his command?”

“I was a member of his staff.”

“Then I am sure you must have the greatest admiration for him.”

“Of course,” he agreed readily, that tantalizing hint of amusement lurking.

“And as a member of his staff, what were your duties?”

“Primarily to dance attendance.”

“On the duke?”

“On whomever or whatever needed attending to. The role of staff is to make things run as smoothly as possible. The variety of tasks we undertake to accomplish that would probably amaze you.”

“I think I should like to be amazed,” she said promptly, realizing how much she was enjoying this.

There was no need to guard her tongue or to watch her back. She was simply a woman engaging in light flirtation with a gentleman who seemed skilled in the art.

“Carrying dispatches on the battlefield. Scouting. Procuring provisions when need be. Dancing.”

“Dancing?” she repeated, allowing her own amusement at what seemed to be a ridiculous non sequitur.

“Oh, quite the most important requirement in a staff officer, I assure you.”

Like his laugh, like the heady sense of freedom the darkness provided, his teasing was exciting.

“The ability to dance?” she mocked.

“And to be enormously charming while doing so.”

“I’m sure you excel at all of them,” she said.

“Would you care to put that to the test?”

“Here?”

“Or inside, if you prefer.”

“Not inside,” she said, the laughter wiped from her voice.

“Then…”

With the word, he threw the cigarillo away. Her eyes followed the glowing arc of its short flight, and when they came back, he was holding out his hand. It was close enough that she could see it, despite the darkness that obscured his face. Hesitating only long enough to draw a fortifying breath, she placed her fingers over his.

Even through the supple kid gloves she wore, she could feel its strength. A horseman’s hand, she thought, remembering the muscled contours of the Englishmen’s bodies, their strength more revealed than concealed by the superb cut of their clothing.

His fingers were perfectly steady, although she was aware that hers betrayed a small vibration. Anxiety or excitement? she wondered.

Then, as he moved, drawing her with him into the center of the arbor walkway, she decided it made no difference. One dance in the concealing darkness. And she was determined to make the most of it.

He turned to face her, bowing from the waist. She dropped a deep curtsy in return, and then, once more, they faced one another.

Here, away from the shadow of the trees, she could almost see his face. And her heart began to beat too quickly.

In perfect time to the measures drifting out from the ballroom, he began to lead her through the seguidilla. And she found that what he had told her was nothing but the truth. Despite the fact that the dance had never, so far as she was aware, traveled beyond her native country, his performance of the steps she had learned in childhood was faultless.

Under the spell of their perfection and the music, she began to relax again, perhaps even relishing the sense of danger in what they were doing. From that exhilaration or from the exertion of the dance, the blood in her veins began to flow more quickly, making her feel more alive than she had felt in months.

They moved together in exquisite union. His ability to anticipate the familiar rhythms of the ancient dance seemed no less than hers. She, who had been bred to feel them.

And then, as she made a turn, her eyes inadvertently found the lights of the palace. Someone was standing on the balcony, looking out into the garden. Without being able to discern anything beyond the shape and size of the figure, she knew in an instant who was there.

Like some faceless nemesis, her guardian was peering out into the shrouded darkness beneath the trees. And he was looking for her. Her fingers fell away from those of her partner, as her feet came to an abrupt stop, disrupting the pattern of the dance.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

The tone was probably no different than that of a normal conversation. To her, the question, and especially its masculine intonation, seemed magnified in the nighttime stillness. Loud enough for Julián to hear?

“I have to go,” she said.

She began to turn, and his fingers closed around her wrist. Her attempt to flee was effectively halted, not only by his hold, but by her shock that he would dare detain her.

She twisted her arm, trying to wrench it free. Instead, his fingers tightened over the bone of her wrist, gripping hard enough to be painful.

“You’re hurting me,” she said, twisting her arm again. “Please let me go.”

His hold was implacable, his determination seemingly unmoved by her plea. Heart hammering, she wondered what she could say that would make him release her before Julián found them.

As she tried to decide, her eyes again sought the figure of her guardian. He had left his position beside the balustrade and had started down the steps that led into the garden.

She wondered briefly, ridiculously, if the Englishman might be armed. But of course, no one would dare bring a weapon into the royal palace, certainly not a representative of a foreign government.

He was therefore defenseless. And Julián…

“You don’t understand,” she said, panic coloring her voice. “He’s coming.”

“Who’s coming?” he asked. His tone betrayed nothing except a calm curiosity.

“My guardian. Please. He can’t find me here with you.”

“Of course,” he said agreeably.

Rather than releasing her, he used the hand he had wrapped around her wrist to draw her into the shadows. Back under the obscuring canopy of trees they had forsaken to indulge in that dangerously exposed dance.

What had she been thinking to allow this? And the answer, when she was forced to acknowledge it, did not begin to excuse what she had done. If anything…

“You don’t understand,” she said again, still struggling to free her wrist.

“You don’t want your guardian to find you in a dark garden with a man. Believe me, even we English can understand that concern.”

“Then let me go,” she demanded, her fear producing a rush of anger.

She raised her free hand, trying to pry apart his restraining fingers. It was no use. His hold, tight enough that the fingers of the hand it controlled were beginning to grow numb, didn’t loosen.

“If he finds me here with you, he’ll kill you,” she warned. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, ragged in the darkness.

“He may certainly try,” he agreed, his voice too soft.

His other hand fastened around the one she had been using to pry at his fingers. As it did, he shoved her back against the trunk of one of the trees that lined the walkway. Positioning her arms at her sides and still gripping her wrists, he held her there.

Before she could protest, his body was pressed tightly against hers, the wall of his chest painfully flattening her breasts. She had time to turn her face, so that her check lay against his shoulder rather than be crushed under it.

His heart was under her ear. Despite his calm refusal to heed her warnings, it was beating as rapidly as hers.

“Shh,” he said.

In unthinking response to that command, she listened, straining to hear above the pulse of his blood.

“Pilar?”

Julián’s voice. But of course, she had known it was he since she had seen that figure on the balcony.

“Shh,” the Englishman warned again, the sibilance no louder than the sound of his heartbeat.

Because she had no choice, she obeyed, holding her breath so that nothing would betray their presence to the man who was hunting her. She could hear his footsteps now. Too near and far too dangerous.

Their bodies hidden from the walkway by the trunk of the tree, the Englishman released her hands. Terrified to breathe with Julián so close, much less to move, she closed her eyes, her lips trembling in a silent prayer.

The Englishman leaned back slightly, far enough that her sense of being held captive eased. She drew a careful breath, wishing she could warn him to stillness, but Julián was too close to risk even a whisper.

Then, unexpectedly, the Englishman’s palms encircled her face. He tilted it upward with pressure from his thumbs, which were beneath her chin. Startled, her eyes opened in time to watch his mouth descend toward hers.

She was too shocked to close her lips, so that his tongue had invaded before she realized his intent. His breath mingled with hers, the smoky warmth of the cigarillo pleasant.

She didn’t dare protest. Not with those footsteps coming closer and closer to where their bodies, entwined like lovers, were sheltered by the tree.

That was a lesson she had learned too well. Julián did not listen to explanations. He wouldn’t now. He would kill the man whose mouth was fastened over hers, his lips ravishing them expertly.

All she could hope was that the darkness would not betray them. And that what had happened before…

His mouth lifted, allowing her to draw another breath. During the past few seconds, she had forgotten how necessary that was to life. She had forgotten everything but her fear and the feel of this man’s lips moving over hers.

Warm and firm and knowing. So knowing.

Belatedly she realized the footsteps that had terrorized her were fading. Julián was returning to the lights and the crowded ballroom, while they…

Their breathing—his as ragged as hers—was still mingled. Just as his body was still intimately pressed against hers.

As the danger that Julián would discover them lessened, she gradually became conscious of other things. Sensations she had not been aware of before. The muscles of the Englishman’s chest moving against the tightening nipples of her breasts as he breathed. The strength of his erection, obvious through the silk of his knee breeches, which offered no more barrier between their bodies than the thin silk of her gown. And of long callused fingers that trembled as they touched her face.

“Why?” she whispered, finally daring that one word. “Why would you take this risk?”

“All life is risk,” he said. “Nothing makes it sweeter.”

“You risked death for a kiss?” she accused, her anger with his recklessness building again, now that the immediate danger had passed.

She raised her hands and forced his wrists apart, freeing her face. She put her palms against his chest, trying to push him away, but he refused to move.

With each passing second she had become more aware of the intimacy of their position. And for the first time, her fear of his intent was almost as great as her concern for his safety.

“Aren’t your kisses worth dying for, señorita?” he mocked.

“You’re a fool,” she said, pushing more strongly against his chest.

Suddenly his hands closed over her wrists once more, and he pulled her roughly away from the tree. Then, maintaining his hold with only his right hand, he began to drag her along behind him. Again she twisted and turned her captured arm, finally using her free hand to strike at his shoulder. He ignored the repeated blows.

“If I had a weapon, I swear I would kill you,” she said.

“Steal one,” he suggested. “You seem to be very good at that.”

At that same moment she realized he had been dragging her toward the palace rather than away from it. She stopped the barrage of ineffectual blows, trying to make sense of both that destination and his words.

By the time she had realized they were too reminiscent of that terrible reality to be coincidental, he had already accomplished what he had brought her so dangerously near the palace to do. The light from the torches on the balcony above them flickered over his face, revealing the scar Julián had slashed there almost a year ago.

“We meet again, señorita,” he said. “And this time, I believe the advantage is mine.”