Desire

Chapter Three

The dream was different this time. He lay wounded, dying, as usual, but he was no longer alone. A woman stood over him-an enchanting beauty with flaming hair and flashing eyes, her hands dark with his blood. His killer?

Lucian woke in a cold sweat, not knowing where he was at first. Searching the gray shadows, he felt the tension ease from his body.

He was lying in bed, the sole occupant of the prime guest chamber in the duke’s sprawling castle. It was early morning, if the faint light stealing beneath the gold brocade curtains was any indication. There was no sign of his prospective bride, even though in his dream she had seemed so vivid…

“It wasn’t real,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp. She hadn’t tried to kill him.

Sitting up, Lucian rubbed a hand down his face. All her talk of curses had evidently affected his intellect. His sea siren had somehow become entwined with his visions of death. His own death.

With an oath, he threw off the covers and rang for his valet before striding naked over to the wash-stand and splashing cool water on his face.

There was a simple explanation for his recurring nightmare, Lucian knew. During his last foray into France, on a mission to search for a missing Englishman, he’d had a near brush with death. He’d been forced to kill a man he considered a friend-a stark choice of kill or be killed. Guilt had eaten at him ever since. Guilt and a bleak premonition of his future. He’d been haunted by the same nightmare. He saw himself dying alone, desolate, unlamented, and unmourned.

He was not afraid of dying, precisely, Lucian acknowledged. Better men than he had given their lives in the decades-long struggle to rid the world of the Corsican tyrant. But the experience had undeniably shaken him.

For the first time he’d had to face his own mortality. He was not invincible, as he had somehow believed. The charmed existence he’d always taken for granted would not last forever. Life was, he’d suddenly realized, fragile and precious.

The incident had also made him aware of how little he had to show for his thirty-two years of living. True, he’d played a small role in trying to make the civilized world safe from French domination, working for the Foreign Office, advancing intelligence gathering for Britain. But if he died tomorrow, he would have no real legacy to leave behind.

That was what he wanted most now: a legacy. An heir. A son to carry on his name. The feeling had taken on increasing urgency in recent weeks. It was now a yearning, a hunger deep in his soul.

To sire an heir, however, he must first have a wife.

Lucian’s mouth curled wryly as he drew on a robe and pulled the sash taut. This was a novel experience for him, searching for a bride. He’d always fervently resisted the chains of matrimony, preferring instead the dalliances and seductions and brief affaires that had titillated society and earned him notoriety as something of a libertine.

He took great pleasure in his lovers, but the pleasure was mutual, he made certain of that. And the game at which he was so expert was understood by his partners, with no expectations of matrimony. He’d become quite deft at eluding the pursuit of those eager ladies who coveted his title and fortune.

Suddenly changing course-pursuing a marriage partner instead of being the pursued-had felt strange. Moreover, finding the ideal bride was not at all as easy as he expected. Regrettably, the women he most admired and respected were already wed or in a profession that society deemed unfit for nobility. Until he had happened upon Miss Brynn Caldwell…

A quiet rap sounded on his bedchamber door. When Lucian bid entrance, his valet stepped into the room.

“You require assistance, my lord?”

“Yes, Pendry. I have an important call to make this morning, and I wish to look my best. The green coat, I think.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Pendry responded, lifting an eyebrow at his master’s unusual concern with his appearance.

Flashing a grin, Lucian settled in a chair so the valet could shave him. His dark mood had shifted rapidly-from disquiet at his nightmare’s strange permutation to agreeable anticipation.

This morning’s call would be duty as well as pleasure, hopefully dispatching two birds with one proposal. For some time now he’d wanted a pretext to further his acquaintance with Sir Grayson Caldwell. This stretch of Cornish coast was a smuggler’s paradise, and Sir Grayson reportedly was the leader of the local ring.

Ordinarily Lucian wouldn’t concern himself with simple smuggling, no matter how illegal. The ring he sought, however, posed a far graver threat than usual. The contraband was not brandy and silk, but stolen gold.

Lucian’s challenge was to prevent government shipments of gold bullion-payments intended for Britain’s allies-from being stolen and smuggled to France to fund Napoleon’s armies.

He’d recently received intelligence that Sir Grayson was possibly involved in one of the thefts. If so, the baronet might eventually lead them to the ringleader, one of a dozen suspects who thus far had eluded England’s best agents.

That was the sole reason Lucian had come to Cornwall. Ensconcing himself on the duke’s estate gave him the opportunity to investigate Sir Grayson Caldwell.

Meanwhile, proposing marriage to Caldwell’s beautiful sister would certainly provide an excellent pretext for searching out his secrets.

Brynn woke suddenly, a cry on her lips. She lay there in bed, her heart thudding as the dark remnants of her dream faded. The image had been so vivid. A man-tall, lithe, dark haired, pulse-stirringly handsome-lay dying at her feet. Lord Wycliff? Was that his blood staining her hands?

A feeling of horror washed over her. Freeing her arms from the bedcovers, Brynn stared down at her hands in the early morning light. They were clean, white, unstained. Yet she couldn’t shake the needles of alarm crawling over her skin.

Dear God, was it happening again? The one time she had dreamed so vividly about a man, he had died, drowned at sea. Her suitors were often plagued with dreams of her, a result of the Gypsy’s curse, but rarely did she reciprocate.

A clammy chill swept her. Was her dream of Wycliff merely a grim illusion? Or was it a deadly premonition?

“You wish to court my sister?” Sir Grayson Caldwell asked, clearly surprised by Lucian’s request for permission to pay his addresses.

“Not court, precisely,” Lucian replied, sitting across from the baronet in the Caldwell drawing room. “I fear I haven’t the time for a lengthy courtship, since I must return to London within the sennight. No, I would prefer to settle the matter as soon as possible. I should like Miss Caldwell’s hand in marriage.”

Sir Grayson appeared to choose his words with care. “I can understand why you might be attracted to her, my lord. But in all honesty, I feel I must warn you… make you aware of what is driving your fascination. Brynn has a strange effect on gentlemen, causing them to lose their heads over her.”

“So she advised me.”

“She told you of the Gypsy’s curse?”

“Yes. Although I must say I find it hard to credit. Men are bound to pursue a beautiful woman. And your sister is extremely beautiful.”

“True, but with Brynn, the attraction is inexplicably forceful.”

“Then you give credence to her tale of a curse?”

Grayson hesitated a long moment. “I think it unlikely the curse is mere coincidence. Certainly our mother never doubted its power and stuffed Brynn’s head full of warnings from the time she was a child. After Mama’s death, however, the admonitions faded from Brynn’s mind-at least until she lost her first suitor to a tragic drowning at sea. She blamed herself for his death. Ever since she has virtually lived the life of a recluse for fear of repeating the tragedy.”

“I am willing to risk the possibility of a curse.”

“But she may not be. You should know that Brynn has turned down any number of proposals thus far. I doubt she will receive yours with any more eagerness.”

“I’m prepared to make her an extremely generous settlement. And her family as well,” Lucian added, glancing around the shabby if immaculate drawing room.

“I admit an infusion of funds would not go amiss,” Grayson said with a faint flush of embarrassment. “But you will not find it easy to convince Brynn-or to persuade her to leave our youngest brother. She has the raising of him, you see.”

“You have no objection to my suit, though?”

“No, not in the least. I would consider it an honor to claim a nobleman of your consequence as my brother-in-law. I am simply saying that I cannot force her to accept you. My sister has a mind of her own, I fear.”

Lucian smiled faintly. “So I have discovered,” he murmured to himself.

He found Brynn Caldwell in the unkempt garden where she sat on a bench with a boy who must be her youngest brother, Theodore. For a moment Lucian paused beside a linden tree and watched the two of them.

She wore a faded sprigged-muslin gown and a wide-brimmed bonnet to shield her face from the bright morning sun, yet that alluring aura of enchantment surrounded her, no matter the setting. And her effect on him was the same as before. Lucian felt a rush of heat to his loins that he had rarely felt with any other woman.

Theo was a gangly, bespectacled youth, all skin and bone, with a pale complexion and a shock of red hair that resembled a rooster’s plumage. The boy was reading a passage of poetry aloud with obvious reluctance, until finally he gave a sound of disgust and looked up at his sister.

“I do not see how Milton can possibly benefit me, Brynn.”

“Because it increases the breadth of your knowledge and widens your view of the world,” she replied calmly. “You cannot hope to have a well-rounded education with your nose constantly in a chemistry book.”

“But my experiment is at a crucial stage.”

She had an easy, musical laugh. “I am a cruel sister, I know. You would rather be in your dungeon of a laboratory, blowing things up, than out here in the fresh air.”

“I have not blown anything up in weeks.”

“For which I am profoundly grateful,” she said wryly, ruffling his vivid hair. “But if you will suffer through ten more minutes, you may return to your laboratory until luncheon.”

He grinned at that and opened the poetry book again.

Lucian found himself spellbound as he watched their interaction. He could count on one hand the number of genteel ladies who would show such warmth to a younger sibling. It gave him more confidence that she would make a good mother for his son.

He knew the moment she became aware of his presence. She looked up, her green eyes bright as new spring grass. Immediately wary, she came to her feet.

Theo’s voice trailed off as he realized there was an intruder in their midst.

“My lord Wycliff,” she said with forced politeness. “What brings you here?”

“You, Miss Caldwell.” Adopting a relaxed smile, Lucian moved forward. “I would like a private word with you, if I may.”

“We are in the middle of a lesson.”

The boy piped up. “That is quite all right, Brynn. I don’t mind leaving.”

Brynn flashed him a repressive glance. “This is my brother Theodore, my lord.”

Lucian offered his hand to shake, to the boy’s obvious surprise and pleasure. “Do I conclude correctly that you have an interest in chemistry, Mr. Caldwell?”

“Very much, sir.”

“I am acquainted with a number of members of the Royal Society,” Lucian commented casually, referring to the exclusive club of the country’s premier scientists. “And I had the pleasure of attending a lecture at the Royal Institution by Mr. John Dalton earlier this year.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Do you know Mr. Dalton, sir?”

“I have the honor of being one of his patrons. He wrote A New System of Chemical Philosophy.”

“Yes! It regards the weight of atoms. I have been attempting to isolate one of the elements he discovered-” The youth flushed and fell silent, evidently flustered by his loquaciousness.

“Mr. Dalton is my brother’s hero,” Brynn interjected. “Theo practically sleeps with that book under his pillow.”

“Then perhaps you would like to meet him,” Lucian suggested. “That could easily be arranged when you next come to London.”

Theo’s expressive face had brightened with anticipation, but then fell just as swiftly. “I will not be able to come to London, sir.”

Lucian met Brynn’s glance and discovered her frowning at him. “Perhaps in future you may. Would you permit me to speak to your sister alone?”

“Yes, my lord, certainly,” Theo responded without even waiting for his sister’s permission.

Brynn held her tongue until the boy had gone before fixing a stern gaze on Lucian. “It is cruel to raise his hopes that way when you have no intention of fulfilling them.”

“What makes you think I won’t fulfill them?”

“I cannot credit a man like you would concern yourself with a boy you don’t even know.”

Lucian answered mildly. “Your protectiveness toward your brother is admirable, Miss Caldwell, but I assure you, I am not making idle promises. Theodore seems extremely bright, and Dalton would be pleased to know he has a devoted admirer-and to encourage the boy’s interest in chemistry.”

Her expressive eyes turned troubled. “Even so, we don’t have the funds to afford a trip to London.”

“Circumstances can change,” he said cryptically. “Tell me,” Lucian added before she could reply, “has Theodore always been bookish?”

The question seemed to distract her, for her expression softened. “Always. It takes an exerted effort to lure him out-of-doors for a few moments each day. I don’t think it healthy that he locks himself away in a dark chamber with all those fumes and odors. But for some reason Theo finds his experiments fascinating.”

“I imagine it isn’t easy tutoring him in subjects that are beyond your ken.”

The slight flush on her cheeks was charming. “I do wish I were better equipped to teach him. We had to let our longtime governess go several years ago, and are not able to hire genuine tutors or send Theo to school as he would like.”

“He truly is eager to attend school?” Lucian asked, amused. “He must be a boy in a million.”

“He is,” she agreed with evident pride. “His greatest ambition is to become a scientist. He hopes someday to attend Cambridge to study chemistry.”

“Actually, that could be arranged.”

Her impatient look returned. “You are suggesting I believe in pipe dreams?”

“What if it were not a pipe dream? What if I were willing to fund your brother’s education entirely?”

She stared at him, suddenly wary once more. “What is your price?” she said finally.

“Must there be a price?”

“With you, I don’t doubt it, my lord. You have stooped to using extortion twice before-both times we’ve met, in fact. I am not so green as to believe your interest in aiding my brother stems purely from altruism. You would expect something in exchange for your generosity, surely.”

Lucian winced wryly at her poor opinion of his character, even though he couldn’t dispute her point about their encounters thus far. “Very well, if you prefer bluntness, my sweet firebrand… the price of my generosity is your hand in marriage.”

She backed up a step, clearly shocked.

Her retreat brought out the primitive male urge to chase fleeing prey in Lucian, but he forced himself to remain still, to keep his expression bland.

“You needn’t look as if I have suddenly sprouted horns, Miss Caldwell. I am asking you to marry me.”

“Marry you?” Her voice was breathless. “Why ever would you wish that?”

“Because I find myself at the point in life that I must wed and produce an heir,” he answered, almost truthful.

“But why me?”

“You don’t know?” His gaze swept her appreciatively, from her vibrant, momentarily tamed tresses, to her brilliant green eyes and lush mouth, her full, tempting breasts, her empire-waist gown that hid an enticing figure and slender, lithe legs… “You have only to look in a mirror to have your answer.”

She shook her head in exasperated denial. “I explained all that, my lord. The attraction you feel isn’t real.”

Lucian felt himself biting back a smile. The waves of attraction thrumming through him were very real. So was the heat, the lust he felt for her.

“I sincerely dispute that. It’s true I find your beauty alluring, but you have any number of attributes that are just as appealing. Intelligence and wit, for instance. And I’ve seen how you care for your brother. You would make a good mother, I think.”

Her exasperation only increased. “You have concluded that after, what? Three brief encounters?”

It did seem strange, his conviction that she was the bride he had been searching for. He had only just met her. Yet intuitively he knew a great deal about her. She had a fiery passion that could stir his blood. Doubtless she could be taught to be an exceptional lover. “Call it instinct, if you will.”

“I think your instincts have utterly failed you. There are countless reasons we would not suit. For one thing, I am not at all the sort to make a good countess.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because I am not easy in society. I am known as a recluse. And I am indeed a bluestocking, just as you accused me of being. I am considered unconventional, even ungenteel. I regularly help my brother-” She stopped herself, apparently reconsidering her admission.

“Those are crimes indeed,” he murmured.

Her chin rose at the teasing note in his voice. “Laugh if you will, my lord, but I assure you, I would not make you a comfortable wife.”

No, comfortable was not a word he would use to describe her, nor, come to think of it, was wife. Rather she was like a prize courtesan, one who made him think of tumbled silk sheets, of hot, exquisite wildness. He had only to look at her and he wanted to stir that wildness.

“I am not interested in comfort…” Lucian began, then caught himself. “Or if I am, it’s an entirely different sort of comfort. I think you’ll suffice on that score. I’ve kissed you-more than once. I have no doubt you could make a satisfactory bed partner.”

Her ivory cheeks took on a becoming flush, although she didn’t seem to have a ready answer. Finally she adopted a look of cool indifference. “I should think you would want a chaste bride, Lord Wycliff. If so, you will be disappointed in me. I have a well-earned reputation for promiscuity.”

He fixed his gaze on her mouth, remembering the luscious taste of it, the innocence. “Somehow I think you are stretching the truth again.”

Her flush deepened. “Well, it is not stretching the truth to say I don’t wish to have you for my husband. I have no desire to wed a libertine.”

“I think you’ll find my reputation highly exaggerated.”

“You are a founding member of the Hellfire League, are you not? A band of noblemen notorious for their scandalous exploits.”

“I engaged in a few scandals in my reckless youth, I admit, but my exploits have been far tamer in recent years.”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to credit,” she said tartly.

“I can provide you with countless character references, if you wish,” Lucian answered, unable to stem his amusement.

“No doubt.”

Taking a measured breath, she regarded him with a frown, as if searching her mind for other arguments to use against him. “I understand that you make your home in London. I am not fond of London.”

“Have you even been there?”

“Twice. Although it was a number of years ago,” she added reluctantly, as if compelled to be strictly honest.

“Twice isn’t sufficient for a fair test.”

“Perhaps not, but I like living in the country.”

“My family seat is in Devonshire and is charmingly bucolic.”

“I prefer Cornwall, the sea…”

“I have a castle in Wales with a spectacular view of the sea.”

She pressed her lips together, as if striving for control, which merely made him want to shake it loose. He wanted to slide his hands around her waist and bury his mouth against hers, to explore her, to seek out all the enticing places where her silky, delicate heat flared and burned.

“Well, none of this is to the point,” Brynn said finally. “I cannot wed you because I cannot leave here. I will not abandon Theo.”

“But if he were to go away to school? Eton, Harrow, Westminster?”

There was a moment of prolonged silence. He could tell by the sudden tilt of her chin that he had struck a nerve.

“That is exceedingly underhanded of you,” she said at last, her frustration evident, “to offer such a bribe.”

“It is exceedingly common, as well as practical,” he contradicted gently. “Particularly for a lady in your circumstances. Marriage in exchange for a fortune and title.”

“I am not interested in either.”

“You cannot be happy living in genteel poverty.”

“I can, my lord. I am.”

“Your older brother, Grayson, apparently doesn’t share your view. He seemed highly interested at the prospect of a generous marriage settlement.”

Her eyes flashing with pride, she locked gazes with him. “You think you can purchase me, Lord Wycliff? As if I were a broodmare?”

“I had in mind a more honorable position than broodmare,” Lucian replied mildly. “That of wife and countess. Most ladies would be flattered by my proposal.”

“Then ask one of them.”

When he made no response, she took a deep breath. “I thank you for the honor you do me, my lord, but I will not marry you.”

Determined not to accept her refusal, Lucian moved toward her. For a moment she looked as if she might bolt, but she stood her ground, even when he took her hand. Yet she was clearly discomposed when he turned her palm over and raised it to his lips, placing a kiss on the sensitive skin of her wrist.

Lucian was gratified to feel her shiver.

“You will want more time to consider my proposal,” he murmured, deliberately holding her green gaze.

“I… I do not need more time. I have given you my answer.”

“I still have hopes of persuading you. I will call tomorrow, my sweet. Perhaps by then you will have had a change of heart.”

Brynn watched him walk away, torn between disbelief on the one hand, dismay on the other.

His supreme confidence vexed her. It vexed her more that she was so susceptible to his practiced touch. Wycliff was a rake, a man notorious for bending women to his whim. A devil whose sensuality was so potent it was almost a visible force.

She should be able to resist such blatant manipulation. Yet that hadn’t stopped the warmth that suffused her body the moment his lips touched her skin, or quelled the longing that had risen in her at the seductive look in his compelling blue eyes. He thought he could vanquish her with the rapier-sharp edge of his rakish charm. Oh, he was arrogant and infuriating…

And yet he could afford to be confident of victory. He held the upper hand and he knew it. If he truly meant to fund Theo’s schooling…

With a murmur of distress, Brynn sat down on the bench and pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. She was still in shock over his proposal.

She didn’t plan to marry. It simply wasn’t worth the risk. She had always known she was different, that her future was not her own. For as long as she could remember, she’d been warned of the danger of falling in love. Not danger to herself but to the man she cared for.

The women of your house will be forever cursed for their beauty. Any man they love will die.

She hadn’t wanted to believe in the curse, but there were simply too many macabre incidents over too many generations to doubt its validity.

Her mother had suffered its terrible power. Gwendolyn Caldwell had lost her first betrothed to a bizarre accident-a bolt of lightning on a nearly cloudless day. Vowing never to love again, she subsequently married Brynn’s father, bore him six children, and died in childbirth, leaving her twelve-year-old daughter to raise the baby.

Brynn had clearly inherited her ancestor’s flame-haired beauty and, apparently, the same legendary allure. But after her mother died, she had disregarded the warnings and developed a girlish infatuation for the first young gentleman to seriously court her. When he’d drowned at sea, she had finally learned to accept her fate.

Afterward she’d gone to great lengths to avoid attracting men. Taming her vivid tresses. Dressing modestly-even primly. Hiding her dangerous allure. Remaining at home, out of the public eye, living an almost reclusive existence. Embracing being shunned. She’d encouraged belief in the curse and her reputation as a danger because it kept potential suitors at bay.

She didn’t want suitors. Didn’t want gentlemen she scarcely knew losing their heads over her, declaring their undying affection. She could never reciprocate their feelings. She didn’t dare accept their suit, for fear of what might happen. It was better not to risk the tragic consequences.

If there were times when she regretted her bleak future, when she felt achingly lonely at facing the prospect of a loveless existence, well then, she had only to recall her own tragedy to be reminded of the stakes. She could never fall in love. Never.

In any event, she was quite happy with her life, Brynn told herself frequently. She had no time for loneliness, no room for such vulnerability. No patience for suffering the dazed, spellbound beaus who pursued her. All her efforts were directed toward tutoring her youngest brother and helping her oldest brother save their family from dire penury-by smuggling and marketing contraband.

Brynn took a deep breath. Fortunately she had stopped herself from divulging her involvement in the Free Trade to Wycliff. She couldn’t expose their illicit activities to an outsider who might not understand, a powerful noble who could make trouble for them.

The immediate trouble now, however, was how to deal with her latest unwanted suitor.

Brynn shivered, remembering the heated look in the earl’s eyes. He claimed to want her for his wife. And underneath that irresistible, sophisticated charm, she sensed a determination that was deadly serious-and possibly deadly as well.

Just this morning she had dreamed of Wycliff, of his death. Even if she wanted to accept his proposal of marriage, she couldn’t simply ignore her dark premonition, could she?