Читать книгу Hot Silk - Sharon Page - Страница 7

Grace ran blindly down the hallway. She passed a gentleman, but tears of humiliation blurred her eyes and she could not see him distinctly.

Oh God, he would recognize her!

She forced herself to stop. To turn. But the gentleman was not watching her in astonishment, as she expected he would be. He had reached the door of the study and she could only see his back. She shivered at the sight of his raven-black hair, even as Lord Wesley jovially greeted him.

“Wynsome! Come to pay tribute to the master?”

The master? As she tried to absorb what that meant, Wynsome answered, with grudging respect and salacious humor laced in his words, “So, you finally had lovely little Grace Hamilton.”

Grace shrank back against the papered wall of the hallway, fighting the hot bile that clawed at her throat. He’d shared his horrible plans with Wynsome all along. It had been a joke, a wager, perhaps. And she’d stumbled right into it, a stupid, gullible girl.

He’d made it clear exactly how ‘done with her’ he was. She’d whispered, “But m—marriage?” and he’d laughed in her face.

How many other gentlemen knew? Did they all?

“She’s a treat,” Lord Wesley said with callous triumph. “Every bit as good as I’d conjectured, given that she was a virgin. And, as you will note, she makes my twentieth virgin of the year. Your blunt is at risk, Wynsome. I’ll have bedded a hundred by Christmas.”

She felt pinned to the wall by their appalling cruelty. This was sport to them.

“The rest of the club will be astounded. There’s many who wagered more than they could afford, certain you’d never claim one hundred gently bred virgins.”

The rest of the club? There were others, possibly dozens, of men involved in this? Men who would all talk of her ruination. This would destroy her. Oh God, what had she done?

All of society would know—every gentleman who had treated her as a gently bred young marriage prospect. Wynsome knew—would he tell the Earl of Warren about it? Would the handsome, white-haired earl sneer at her, calling her the horrid names he had used on her mother?

“What have you done, my dear?”

She gave a strangled scream at the deep male voice that repeated the very question she’d asked herself.

Devlin Sharpe had seen many frightened women in his day. Terrified women. Desperate women. He had seen the eyes of women as they stood on the gallows and waited for the platform to drop away.

But he’d never seen such a mix of fear and loathing and anger shooting from such beautiful and determined eyes. Of course, he did not think he’d ever seen such an intriguing woman before—an intoxicating, alluring mix of angelic golden hair, pretty features, and enticingly carnal curves.

He held the lovely blonde’s gaze, aware from the way her eyes darted and her lips trembled that she intended to lie to him. “Don’t lie,” he warned. “Don’t give me a weak story and try to run away. I want the truth. I want to know what—or who—has hurt you.”

She straightened, moving away from the papered wall, and Devlin knew exactly what had happened. Her small fingers were curled around the crumpled sky-blue silk of her bodice, holding it up over her generous breasts. Beneath the light of the wall sconce, her soft hair was gleaming gold and poured in disheveled curls over her shoulders and down her back. A tear still clung to the lashes of her red-rimmed green eyes. She smelled of sex.

Hearing his half brother’s mocking laugh from the study was the final piece of evidence. “Did he rape you? Or just seduce you?”

Furious at his damned brother, he’d let a snarl creep in to his expression and she drew back. “I should go,” she whispered.

“Not through the corridors of a crowded house with your dress hanging off you. Come with me.”

“Why?” Her golden brows drew together in suspicion. Now the woman was cautious.

“I can negotiate this house without anyone seeing us.”

Obviously she could not understand why any man would wish to do her a kindness. She took another step away from him. “You…you are a highwayman, aren’t you?”

“Of course I would never admit to that, Miss…what is your name, by the way?”

Since he’d first spotted her startling golden hair in the ballroom and then indulged himself with a good look at the rest of her, he’d wondered who she was. None of his father’s servants had obliged him with a name—they’d been more interested in tossing him out on the gravel drive.

Pity they did not know the secret entrances to the house as he did.

“Your name,” he repeated.

“If I do not tell you, it will be one less man who knows.” Her lips formed a sneer at that, and he knew she meant her anger for herself.

What was it with some women that they absorbed their anger instead of using it for some good? His mother had been like that—taking every blasted insult and slap his father had bestowed upon her and swallowing it up herself.

“I know my half brother,” he stated, determined to place blame where it lay. “What did he promise you?”

She shook her head. “It hardly matters what he promised me. I should have known he did not mean to stand by his words. I, of all people, should know that—” She stopped abruptly. “Did you murder Lady Prudence’s lover, or is that something you will also not admit to?”

Murder? Hell, so that was the way the gossipmongers had described it. Since that had been his reason for returning here, it struck him on the raw. “I shot him in a duel,” he said brusquely. “It was all damnably honorable—and I lay stress on the word honorable. It was also deserved. Not legal, of course, but I doubt that will be the crime I’ll ultimately swing for. It was not murder. I am not asking you to follow me for nefarious reasons, love—and I do need a name to call you, or you will have to listen to endearments all the way up the stairs.”

She goggled at him, as young women so often did, but from the slight curve of her lips—immediately quelled—he knew she’d followed his quick speech. “Hamilton. My name is Grace Hamilton.”

Devlin took a step backward and crooked his finger. “Trust me, Miss Hamilton. You cannot stay out here with your gown half off. And even if I button it for you—”

“I know. I look far too obviously like a harlot.”

She’d tried his patience too far. More roughly than he should, he caught hold of her wrist and forced her to follow him down the hallway. She dragged her heels but had no choice. A thump of his fist against the appropriate molding gave a snick and he pried up the secret panel. “In there—there’s a hidden staircase to the upper floors. I apologize in advance for the cobwebs and the dust.”

Plain fear showed in her large, round eyes. Blast. “I have no intention of hurting you, Miss Hamilton. But I promise you, if Wesley took your innocence, he’ll marry you.”

She paused at the foot of the stairs. “You cannot force him to.”

Devlin waved his hand to encourage her to get up the stairs. “A man with a knife at his back can be forced to do anything.”

She laid a slender bare hand on the rickety balustrade. “I don’t want that. I don’t want to marry him. I just want to…to turn back time.”

“Sweeting—”

She stomped her slipper on the worn floor, the thump swallowed up by the stale air. “Don’t. My name is Grace. I told you what it was and I want you to use it. Don’t call me names like that.”

A strand of a spider’s web dangled in front of her face, and she flinched as he brushed it away. The way she’d recoiled made him want to rip out Wesley’s sorry guts. Gently, he shook his head, wearing what he hoped was a soothing smile. “I cannot call you Grace. That is an intimacy a man like me is not allowed. I can call you ‘love’ or ‘sweetheart’ and live up to my audacious nature, or I can call you ‘Miss Hamilton’, showing you due respect.”

He’d hoped to relax her by making her laugh but she threw up her hands, which made her bodice gape. He caught a glimpse of lush ivory curves with a deep shadowed valley between. His throat dried and his blood rushed down to his cock, making it instantly as hard as iron.

“I don’t want due respect!” she cried. “Nor do I want to be an anonymous ‘love’. I want—Oh, this is ridiculous. What does it matter what you call me? I can imagine what everyone else will call me.”

With that, she turned and began to clomp up the stairs.

“A little quieter, Miss Hamilton,” he advised, though he hated quenching her spirited anger. It was just what she needed—the best remedy for humiliation. “A little discretion will keep our secret a secret.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered ahead, to the dark and the cobwebs. “Why would you help me?”

“I might be a highwayman, but there are certain things I do not steal.”

“Like a woman’s virtue?” Disbelief rang in her voice.

“Like a woman’s heart. Now tell me your story. All of it.”

When it began with, “I should have known better—”, he growled, and she tried again.

“Lord Wesley has pursued me for a week. He’s found ways to get me alone, to be suggestive. I knew he desired me, and I…I cared for him. I should have known that lust might not mean his heart was engaged, of course!” She turned, as though to ensure he was not laughing at her. He was not. And he never would. His heart hurt for her.

“I would not have let him…well, I was not going to meet him after all. I knew I should not. But he found me, and he told me he wanted to marry me. He asked me what my answer was. And I said yes! And then, it seemed so right to…well, to…I should have known better.”

“And waited until he put a ring on your finger to discover he’s a piece of shit? Far better you find out now.”

She gasped. “It wouldn’t have come to that. He never intended to—”

“Stop interrupting my attempt to make the appropriate point, Miss Hamilton. The mistake isn’t yours. It’s his. Now let us get you to your room and I’ll take care of his bloody lordship.”

She stopped on the stair and turned again, brow furrowed with worry. “What do you intend to do?”

“I will ensure they do not ruin you. I can ensure this is kept a secret. I promise you that.”

“Why would you do that for me? When it’s my own fault.”

“It isn’t your fault. You’re human. You believed a blackguard.”

She sagged against the banister. “I’ve ruined everything. I can’t marry. I—”

“There are men who aren’t so worried about having a virgin. They’d rather have a woman they enjoy spending time with. They’d rather have love. Now, which is your bedroom?”

That startled her, but she dutifully answered. “The green room. It overlooks the west pond.”

“It’s at the end of this hallway, then.” He urged her up to the landing, knowing he should open the door and let her go. But he bent over her hand, pressing his lips to her fingers, just a brush, and then he rose. “You gave your heart. It is and always will be the most precious gift.”

“One I gave to the wrong man.” She gave a laugh, a soft, wild laugh. “I gave my innocence to the wrong man.”

She was vulnerable now. And enticing, even in the faint light glimmering in from the hallway, even when surrounded by creaky wood framing and a few centuries of dust. She was pink and gold, the sort of treasure that tempted men to madness. He’d faced down pistols, but it took all the courage he had to abruptly turn her by her slim shoulders. To not take advantage and press his mouth to those soft pink lips.

“Slip out into the hallway and go to bed, Miss Hamilton. Bathe yourself, slip into your warmed silky sheets—” He almost stumbled over that image. “Close your eyes and sleep, love.” He whispered it. “Do not worry about tonight. I will take care of everything.”

“It is not so simple as that,” she declared, showing a flash of pride that he could have applauded. “I have no idea what to do when I wake up tomorrow.”

“Go on about your life, Miss Hamilton.” He thought of all the times he had thought he could not bear to see the sunrise, the nights he thought he couldn’t stand to live another day. But he had.

“My life is about marriage, Mr. Sharpe,” she whispered. “That is the direction of my every day.”

He wanted to say that it still could be, but instead he said, “Then perhaps you should find a new direction for your life, Miss Hamilton.”

Then he opened the door, checked the hallway, and watched her go.

This was what she got for looking to a man to rescue her.

Grace threw her crumpled satin gloves to the smooth counterpane covering her bed and she stalked to the bellpull to summon one of Lady Prudence’s maids. Unlike all the other women here, she could not afford to bring her own.

A rich, earthy, unfamiliar scent touched her nose and she panicked. She released the tasseled rope before she gave the tug that might ring her death knell. She smelled of him.

She could not be attended by a maid. Not when her dress was a wrinkled disaster, her hair was a mess, and she wore the undeniable smell of a man. But she could not take off her own gown and corset. And she needed washing water.

Struggling with the buttons, she stalked to the ewer and basin. There was some left, cold, but it might be enough to rid her of this smell. She could sleep in her corset—well, not sleep, just wait for dawn—but there was still the matter of her dress.

As she struggled with the buttons she could reach, then wriggled and jumped and grunted to get the dress off, Grace muttered aloud, “Lord Wesley is a lily-livered rodent who is not worthy of licking my boots. Horse droppings are more noble than he!”

It might have been silly, but it made her feel better. And as she gave a final push and stepped out of her gown, she sighed with relief. She left her dress in a puddle on the floor, hoping that might explain away the wrinkles, then grimaced as she poured the last of the water into the basin.

She supposed it was punishment for being a fool. She dampened the washcloth and shivered.

Marriage was to be her salvation—it was the only way out—and now she’d thrown that away. As penance, she scrubbed herself hard with the cold washcloth.

What was she to do? She had inherited none of her father’s talents, unlike Venetia who could paint and her sister Maryanne who was a gifted author. She was not in the least bit artistic, unless one counted a flair for throwing herself into dramatic disasters.

Of all Rodesson’s daughters, she had inherited the most from their mother Olivia:—her blond hair, fine and pale but strong enough to curl and wave, and her mother’s famed features. Her eyes were green—like those of her infamous father. Gentlemen admired her figure, which she felt was too plump and generous. But the elderly matrons of Maidenswode, the ones who no longer bothered to watch their tongues, insisted that men were attracted to a generous bosom. Her breasts were apparently worth their weight in gold.

Certainly Lord Wesley had admired her breasts. Apparently it was the only thing he wanted about her.

“No.” Grace said it aloud, to make it more resolute, as she rinsed the cloth. “I have to move forward. I need to decide what I can do. There is still marriage after all. I could marry an older gentleman. There’s any number of older wealthy peers who would like my breasts, I’m sure—”

“Sweetheart, you do not have to sell yourself that way.”

Startled by the familiar male growl, she turned to the door, suddenly tense, aware, uncertain—yet liking the thrilling mix of sensations. “I locked that.”

Mr. Sharpe shrugged. “Indeed, you did.”

“Do you make a habit of breaking into women’s—” She paused, aware of the heat in her cheeks, aware she wore only her corset and shift. Of course he broke into women’s bedchambers. He was both a pirate and highwayman—two male pursuits that involved stealing women’s virtues.

Mr. Sharpe looked annoyingly smug. “It might surprise you to know that I do not. I usually await the inevitable invitation.”

He leaned elegantly in the doorway, propped on his arm, legs crossed at his booted ankles, obviously awaiting hers. The blue of his eyes kept her mesmerized—sapphire blue, dark and glinting in the light of her one candle and her low fire. As spectacular a color as she’d imagined and entirely unlike Lord Wesley’s, thank heaven.

Why had he come? What did he want? If she had sense she would send him away, but she needed him—if only to undo the knot in her corset ties. “You may come in, because otherwise someone will peek out their door and see you standing there.”

She couldn’t help but give a triumphant smile as he hastened off her threshold into her room and shut the door behind him.

His masculine scent, different from his brother’s—more earthy, more spicy, entirely seductive—filled her senses, filled her room.

He filled her room.

And in that instant, as she drank in his astonishing height and his wide shoulders, she remembered Lady Prudence’s stark fear and accusations. She turned away, struck by nerves, wondering at her own sanity, and she crossed her arms over her breasts. He had openly admitted to dueling and she had brought him into her bedroom.

But he’d rescued her. He had made her smile when any sensible, well-bred woman would be crying so hard she would have to wring out her bedspread.

“I spoke to Wesley.”

That caught her attention and she spun around. “What—good heavens, your neck is bleeding!”

His lips parted; his teeth flashed in the audacious grin of a man accustomed to taking what he wished. “Not anymore. I used my overpriced and overstarched cravat to soak it up.”

“Lord Wesley attacked you? What did you do in return?”

“I took that stupid knife off him, took him over my knee, and spanked him.”

“You didn’t! You couldn’t have possibly done so!”

He calmly peeled off his glove and winked. “I thought my hand might still be red. My palm is still stinging. I felt childish, bullying behavior deserved a child’s punishment. I would have used a belt on him, but the coward fled out into the gardens.”

She snorted. Then clapped her hands to her mouth in horror. She’d meant to laugh in the demure and melodic way that women should do, but her natural laugh came out. The horrid snort that always sent her sisters into gales of laughter. Inappropriate laughter, theirs might be, but it was feminine at least.

The highwayman in her bedroom grinned broadly. “Good Lord, did that sound come from you?”

“Yes,” she declared with defiance, aware that they now stood on either side of her bed, which was neatly turned down for the night.

He raked back his long blond hair. “You are lovely, aren’t you?”

Embarrassment struck. “Before you raised your hand—or your belt—to Lord Wesley, did you discuss my…my reputation?”

“Why do you think I was flogging his backside, Miss Hamilton? It wasn’t for exercise. It was an indication of how seriously I would humiliate him, hurt him, destroy him if he dared to breathe a word of what happened.”

She was half-undressed, and had no idea what to think. How could a highwayman be her knight protector? “But he is your brother, and he must know you wouldn’t seriously hurt—”

Clenched in a fist, Mr. Sharpe’s hand rested against the fluted column of her bed. His dimple deepened. “He knows I would. How do you think I got him to stop lording his legitimacy and his title over me? I kicked his little bottom at school with my booted foot.”

Grace realized that for all she was barely dressed Mr. Sharpe’s eyes never left her face. It gave her an odd sense of courage and focused all her thoughts on him. “You went to school?”

“Do I appear uneducated? My master of literature was certain I’d never be more than a hulking, semiliterate beast.”

“But you do not use your education!” she protested. “You—”

He leaned closer and the spicy hint of sandalwood, the delectable warm smell of his skin, intoxicated her. It spoke of the most intimate things he did—bathe, shave, even sweat.

“Do not doubt that I use every one of my lessons, Miss Hamilton. I’ve been known to quote Shakespeare while blowing the mast off an English warship.”

“You never have!”

He was laughing now, quietly, the sound throaty and deep. “What—the Shakespeare or the warship?”

“The warship,” Grace answered, her tone sharpened by his teasing. “Wouldn’t you have been hunted down and strung up by now? You are not exactly secretive, are you?”

“Suffice it to say that I performed some duties for his majesty that made amends.”

“For destroying ships? What did you do? Capture a continent and stick the flag in the middle of it?”

“Essentially, yes.” He laughed. It intrigued Devlin that Miss Grace Hamilton was speaking entirely about him. It was something he was not accustomed to—generally he let women prattle on about their worlds, content to listen to the lilt in their voices as they spread gossip.

He should go. It was his intention to protect her reputation, not destroy it by taking up residence in her bedroom. But as he was about to bow and bid her farewell, he saw the glint of a tear in the corner of her eye and knew her courage was about to fail her.

“And what can I do?” she asked. “Become a governess? Oh, wait—my schooling is almost nonexistent and most ladies want young women of impeccable reputation for their children. Perhaps I’m qualified to scrub the floors—”

“Gently bred women rarely are. I’d never employ one to tend my home.”

“Mr. Sharpe, this is serious. I—” Her lashes swept over her eyes and one sparkling diamond of a tear rolled past her slim nose.

“Don’t.” He was on his feet in an instant and in front of her, his gloves off. With his index finger, he brushed away the tear, his rough fingertip gliding over her soft, glowing skin. His finger shook. Slightly, but he felt it.

Unable to resist, he brushed his wet fingertip across the curve of her cheek to her slightly parted lips.

She arched up on tiptoe and her palm cupped his jaw. Damn, he hadn’t bothered to shave today, enjoying appearing at the ballroom with a day’s growth of beard, though it itched. He hadn’t worn facial hair since he’d sported a neat beard as Captain Devlin Sharpe.

He had been a pirate, but there were treasures that he refused to plunder. A wide-eyed eighteen-year-old was one. “This is not wise, Miss Hamilton.” He caught her hand, squeezed gently, and drew her fingers away from his face.

Her moist, full lips parted, leaving him breathless.

“I want this,” she whispered. “I want to erase the bad with…with—”

“Grace—”

She put her fingers to his lips and he, who had captained a ship, who commanded a gang of unruly thieves, shut his mouth. He wanted too much to hear this and his heart was in his throat as she whispered, “With you.”