Noble Intentions

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Mmmm.”

The Black Earl gritted his teeth and refused to lift his eyes from the latest threatening letter that had arrived in the morning’s post. He had no need to gaze at his wife. He knew just how fetching she looked in a hunter green and cream dress, her fiery hair twisted into a simple chignon that he knew would immediately begin to disassemble itself into tendrils that would soften the planes of her face. He knew about the sweet swell of her bosom that led upward to the soft, rounded line of her shoulders, which in turn swept into the graceful curves of her arms, leading down to…blue hands.

He knew also what she would be doing. She was enjoying strawberries. In a manner guaranteed to make a saint fall. He grew hard just thinking about it.

He stared at the paper in his hand, not seeing the threats or the vile words, seeing instead the image of his wife as she had appeared the past night, curled up in his bed. He had been surprised to find her there after the scene at Countess Lieven’s, and especially after he had lectured her the entire way home about his expectations for his countess’s behavior. She had said not a word, sitting quietly as she listened to his reprimands until he began to feel he was an ogre, full of nothing but scolds and remonstrations. And yet she had sought his bed rather than her own. He had puzzled over this as he stood, candle in hand, gazing down on her for a moment that seemed to stretch into a thousand. Her hair had been loose, flowing over the white linen, flickering away from her as if she were a phoenix rising from the flames. His eyes traced a path down her satiny freckled cheek as it rested against her blue palm. She was asleep, and the sight of her so peaceful, so lovely, so very right did something deep inside him.

A tiny ray of light pierced the blackness of his soul and began to glow. He had wronged her, misjudged her. She was no Elizabeth, using his physical desire for her own gain; she was simply his Gillian, his wife, the woman who muddled her way through life with an impish smile and devilish twinkle in her eye. He sighed as he slipped into bed and curled up behind her, sharing her warmth, feeling suddenly as if a burden had shifted, lightening a little.

Why had she agreed to marry him? he wondered suddenly. Marriage to him offered security and a title, but he knew instinctively that neither mattered to her. He stroked the arm curled around her ribs and breathed in the seductive scent of sleepy woman. Why had she married him? The thought tortured him most of the night and into an indescribably lovely English summer morning.

“Mmmmmm.”

Her voice caressed him in a manner that was almost physical, and yet his reaction to it was far more profound than any mere physical reaction could be. The light inside him strengthened, casting the far edges of his soul into dark, forbidding shadows. He stared with unseeing eyes at the letter as he looked deep into the heart of the light. The light was Gillian. She had somehow managed to work her way into the deepest recesses of his being, and there she burned like a beacon. Noble waited with a sick feeling for the black thing that slithered around in his soul to find the brightness, to extinguish it, but the black thing was miraculously banished to a far corner. Noble basked in the glow of the light, feeling for the first time as if life did hold some promise, as if there was some reason for his existence.

“Mmmmm. So good.”

He sighed, unable to bear the torment any longer. He had to look. “Did you wish something, my dear?”

Gillian looked up from the pamphlet in which she was engrossed. “No, nothing, Noble. Thank you.”

He watched her reach for another strawberry and hold it before her mouth, her mind engaged in reading the literature before her. He felt his breathing stop as he watched, waiting. Slowly Gillian parted her lips, the strawberry a hairsbreadth away from that luscious mouth, the very tip of her tongue emerging to lightly stroke the fruit’s heavy round fullness.

Noble felt himself grow hard as steel at the sight. He swallowed back the tightness that threatened to choke him and tried to drag his attention from the erotic sight of his wife eating strawberries to the more important issue of who was threatening to do her bodily harm. The words swam before his eyes and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing. Would she have finished licking the essence from the strawberry by this time? Would her small white teeth be pulling at the succulent fruit, tugging its globular, delicate flesh with little nips until it surrendered to the lure of her sweet, hot mouth? Would her tongue make a reappearance as she licked the juices from her soft, warm lips?

He couldn’t help himself. He looked up. She was chewing, a green stem dangling between her long, delicate, albeit bluetinted, fingers.

“More strawberries, my dear?” he asked, his voice strangely hoarse. She looked into the bowl he was offering. “Well, I shouldn’t, but I do love strawberries so. Perhaps just one or two more.”

He deftly turned the bowl so she would have to take the largest one, a veritable giant among strawberries, one that had two distinct hemispheres. He felt himself harden to a degree he would have thought impossible outside the realm of marble as Gillian’s little pink tongue snaked out and caressed one side of the giant strawberry.

“Mmmm,” she murmured happily, her eyes closed in bliss as she gave herself over to the pleasure of tasting the mammoth berry. Noble thought he would either shame himself or swoon when she took one half of the strawberry into the hot, moist, silky cave of her mouth and sucked the juices from its flesh. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, aware only of his overwhelmingly intense desire to throw her down on the table and plunge himself deep into her womanly depths. Repeatedly. For a lengthy period of time, say a week or two. Maybe longer.

A small trickle of red juice escaped her lush, pink lips. Noble’s tongue swelled up at the sight of it.

“Gark,” he said, unable to tear his eyes from it as it traced a path down toward her chin.

“Pardon?” she asked, reaching for her linen napkin.

“Allow me,” he croaked, and lunged awkwardly out of his chair toward her, his own cloth held clenched in his fingers. He glanced at it quickly, calculated the amount of energy it would take to unlock his rigid fingers, and leaned down.

“You have some juice. Just there.” His voice was rustier than iron left in saltwater. “Allow me to attend to it.”

She turned her head slightly, the tempting fruit still held before her lips. Noble inhaled the sweet smell of Gillian mingled with the earthy scent of strawberry just before his tongue touched her skin. He followed the path the juice had made up to its source and paused, looking into her fathomless eyes.

“Bite?” she asked, her voice strange and rough. It reached out and struck a resonance deep within him, like a harp string quivering after it had been plucked.

Gillian’s lips parted. Her tongue pulled part of the strawberry into the sweet darkness of her mouth. Noble was sure he would die if he didn’t taste that piece of fruit. He gripped Gillian’s chair on either side of her and forced her head back as he claimed both her mouth and the strawberry.

He hardened to granite. The juice from the strawberry mingled as their tongues twined around each other, dancing, teasing, sending Noble into a blissful state. Little warning bells began to chime in the back of his head as he slid his tongue along the inside of her silken cheek, tasting strawberry, tasting Gillian, tasting paradise. He started to reach for her, needing to feel himself buried in her warmth, drawing from it, merging himself into it, into the heat that was Gillian. He needed her warmth to feed the light burning so bravely inside him. He needed her at that exact instant.

“ ’Ere be the kippers ye were wantin’—eh, take ’em back, lads. ’Is lordship isn’t ’ungry for ’em anymore.”

Noble snapped his head back from Gillian just in time to see the insolent grin on Crouch’s face before the door closed. He felt as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice water. He looked down at Gillian, down to where his fingers were white as they clutched the sides of her chair. Her breasts were rising and falling erratically, her eyes misty with passion. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

“Good, aren’t they?” Gillian asked hoarsely, and plucked the remainder of the strawberry from between his teeth.

“What is that you are reading so attentively?” Noble inquired some minutes later, when he had managed to wrest control of his mind away from the demands of his body.

“It’s an absolutely fascinating pamphlet I bought off a man in the square this morning when I was strolling with Piddle and Erp. It’s called Celestial Stimulation of the Organs, and it explains how one might, by using special Oils of Araby and balmy, ethereal essences, restore elasticity and good health to those who are suffering from bad humors.”

Noble, keeping his eyes carefully averted as she reached for another strawberry, asked if she were feeling ill.

“No, but you are.”

He looked up at her statement.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were most restless last night, husband. And this morning, when I asked you why you were looking so peculiar and disgruntled, you said you had a pain in your head. All signs, according to Dr. Graham’s helpful pamphlet, that your organs need attention.”

Noble thought back to the night of torment he had endured, a self-imposed night of torment borne of his desire to show his wife that he was more than just a lustful beast who valued his own urges more than his wife’s need to rest.

“I am quite well, I assure you, madam,” he said, lying through his teeth. He was a lustful beast. He wanted her, needed her, had to have her. That very moment. “My organs have no need of stimulation, celestial or otherwise. I do, however, believe that we did not finish our discussion about the proper way of organizing and structuring your life.”

Gillian looked surprised. “Would that be the lecture you delivered last evening?”

“It would. You looked tired, so I postponed the balance of the discussion until today.”

Gillian sighed. Dabbing at her mouth, she sat back in her chair with her hands folded demurely on her lap. “Very well, Noble, if it will make you happy, you may lecture me now.”

“Thank you. Now, as to—”

“It comes as news to me, of course, to find out my life is unorganized and unstructured.”

“You may be assured it is, my dear. As for last evening’s events—”

“Active, perhaps, or full of those marvelous little surprises that life always seems to offer, yes, I can see that, but unorganized and unstructured?”

“It is. How else do you explain that?” He waved toward her blue hands.

She considered her hands. “Curiosity?”

“Curiosity, lady wife, when held unchecked by common sense and rational thought, is nothing more than chaos. And as we have discussed at length, a chaotic lifestyle is not one that is conducive to a happy home.”

“But, Noble—”

He ignored her protests and spent fifteen minutes explaining again the importance of control and order in one’s life. He paced back and forth before the sideboard, his stride lengthening as he gesticulated when making particular points. He waxed eloquent as he presented both arguments and examples for her edification. He was pleased to see he had her full attention. Her eyes never left him as he offered her rational and valid reasons why she would learn to suit her life to his, and how happy their lives together would be once that seemingly monumental task had been accomplished.

“Now, my dear,” he finished, pulling out his pocket watch and consulting it, “I must keep an appointment, but before I go I will hear your plans for the day.”

“Hmm?” she asked dreamily, her gaze still intent on him.

“Your plans, madam.”

“Have you ever thought of wearing colors, Noble? Perhaps just a colored waistcoat? Not that you don’t look elegantly delicious in black, but I thought perhaps you might like, once in a while, to don a bit of color.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What has my method of dress to do with your plans for the day?”

She widened her eyes in response. “Why, nothing. I just asked a question. Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. My plans for today — well, I believe Charlotte is coming to help me with ideas for the drawing room you said I might redecorate. And we plan on making a call to a…an acquaintance. And then I thought I would take Nick to Regent’s Park to see the zoological gardens. Would you like to accompany us?”

“No, thank you, I have my own schedule to attend to. Very well, my dear, I hope you keep the precepts we have been discussing in mind as you go about your day.”

“Precepts?” She blinked at him.

“Yes, those that we’ve just spent the morning discussing. I will escort you to the Gayfields’ rout tonight if I am able; if not, I will send Harry or Sir Hugh and meet you there later.”

“But Noble, where—”

He was out the door before she could finish asking him about his plans for the day. And what precepts had they just discussed? Perhaps she should have been paying attention to what he was saying rather than woolgathering, but she couldn’t help it. Whenever he started in on his pet lecture, which she seemed to have already heard as many days as she had been married, her mind wandered.

She really would have to watch that habit; it was not a wise one to indulge in around the Lord of Kisses. He had enough ways of distracting her from her goal without her helping him by not paying attention to what he was saying.

Noble settled back into an armchair in Boodle’s and waved away the attendant. “Good morning, Harry. You look pleased with yourself. May I assume from that expression that you’ve had some luck?”

“Alas, not the luck you seek, my friend.” Lord Rosse proffered a silver cigar case to the Black Earl. “But something interesting, nonetheless. Did you know that Mariah has disappeared?”

Noble paused for a moment in the act of lighting his cigar. “I had some suspicion she had, since she vacated the premises of the house in Kensington so quickly. Her sister has no idea where she’s gone to ground?”

“None. She’s quite worried about her, as a matter of fact. Ah, Tolly, I thought we’d see you sooner or later. Come and join us.”

Sir Hugh had another chair placed in a manner that would allow him to keep an eye on all who passed, and seated himself with a great show of care for his peach satin waistcoat and taffycolored coat. “Rosse, Weston. I wondered if you would take advantage of your good fortune, Weston.”

“What good fortune is that?” Noble puffed gently on his cigar and tried not to look bored.

“Why, the sudden reversal of opinion, of course! You and your Amazon are the talk of the ton! Surely even you must have heard the talk, Noble. Everyone is talking about the kiss.”

Noble arched one sable eyebrow. “The kiss? What kiss?”

Rosse smiled as Sir Hugh adjusted his intricately tied cravat an infinitesimal bit to the right. “Must think of letting old Hudson go. He’s not as sharp with the Russian Waterfall as he should be. The kiss, man. The one she gave you in front of everyone at Countess Lieven’s last night!”

Noble gave in to the urge and looked bored. “I find it difficult to believe that my wife demonstrating a spontaneous burst of affection for me can cause such a scandal, Tolly.”

A spasm of distaste passed over the baronet’s face. “That’s where you have come up lucky. Her action, rash and indelicate though it might have been, has deemed her…has deemed you both…the toast of the Season. All the world loves a lover and all that.”

Rosse laughed at the look of chagrin on the earl’s face. “Now there’s a role I never thought you to be in, Noble. The passionate lover, unable to keep from your wife’s arms for the length of an evening.”

A dull red flush washed over Weston’s cheeks.

“It’s appalling!”

Both men looked surprised at the vehemence in Sir Hugh’s voice. “That is…not that you have suddenly become the toast of the ton, but that her…but that your wife…you must admit, Weston,” he stammered, “her behavior is better suited to a Cyprian than a countess.”

Noble’s narrow-eyed gaze flashed silver as it pinned Sir Hugh back in his chair. “You are speaking of my wife, Tolly. I find myself warning you again to temper your speech when speaking of her.”

Sir Hugh spread his hands in a sign of subjugation. “No offense was intended toward your good lady, I assure you, Weston. As one of your oldest friends, I simply want to make sure that she does nothing — inadvertently, of course — that might damage your reputation more than it is. God knows I’ve bent over backward trying to smooth things over for you…”

Noble made a dismissive movement and glanced at the clock residing on a table a few feet away. “Apology accepted. I have an appointment to keep shortly, Tolly. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what Harry has to say before I keep it.”

The baronet flushed and shot an unreadable look at him, then settled back in his chair with an expression approaching petulance.

“You were saying, Harry?”

“Ah.” Rosse raised an inquisitory eyebrow. Weston had no difficulty in understanding the movement. “Tolly, I’m sure, can be counted on to keep private all that is said between us.”

Sir Hugh’s round face lost its petulant expression. “Of course, my word and all that. What is the big secret?”

“Harry has done a little investigating into an affair for me. It seems someone wishes me ill, and made an attempt to imprison me the other night.”

Sir Hugh’s jaw dropped. “No! Where? When? What happened? Good God, man, you weren’t hurt, were you?”

Weston explained the situation in a few succinct sentences.

Sir Hugh cleared his throat and put a hand on the older man’s arm. “Anything I can do, Noble. I am completely at your service. And your lady’s, too, of course.”

Noble nodded and turned back to Rosse.

“Well, as I was telling Noble, there’s not much to go on now. His mistress, who wrote the note that was responsible for him being lured to the house, has disappeared. No one knows of her whereabouts, although the servants report she left in a hurry.”

“You’ve spoken with the servants?” Sir Hugh asked.

“Yes, I had some luck there and located the cook. All of the servants were paid two months’ wages and told to leave immediately.”

“That’s very suspicious!” Sir Hugh said.

Noble ignored him. “You found no report of a stranger being seen at the house? No visitors who were beyond Mariah’s normal circle of friends?”

“None. At least, none that I’ve heard from yet. I’m calling on a few men I know to help with the investigation, so perhaps they will be able to uncover something about her visitors.”

“Excellent. I’m sure you’ll have results, Harry. And now I must be off, gentleman. I have an appointment with a Mr. Stafford.”

“Stafford?” Rosse asked, steepling his fingers together under his chin. “Bow Street Runners?”

“Yes. I need an additional pair of eyes.”

“Focused on a certain Scotsman?”

“Among other individuals, yes,” Noble responded and started for the door.

“Weston — hold for a moment, man.” Sir Hugh hurried after the Black Earl. “Allow me to be of assistance as well, Noble. I will do whatever I can to aid you in this. Is there some task I can accomplish for you?”

“Nothing, thank you, Tolly.”

“Nonsense, there must be something.” Sir Hugh put a restraining hand on the earl’s sleeve. Noble, at the door, looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at the gently perspiring baronet. He bit back words of annoyance, reminding himself that Tolly was enthusiastic, if not overly bright. “I appreciate the offer, Tolly,” he said, collecting his hat and stick from the attendant. “I will let you know when I have something for you to do.”

Gillian was in the drawing room, holding up a piece of crimson Spitalfield silk against the wall and imagining a gilded ceiling with medallions formed from diamond and octagon shapes.

“What do you think, Nick? The crimson silk, or the bronze green silk? Or something else entirely?” Gillian asked, digging through a stack of wallpaper and fabric samples. “Here, look at this lovely blue. It’s called smalt. Isn’t it rich? Can’t you just imagine this room in smalt, with the woodwork picked out in gilt?”

Nick looked at the fabrics and selected one he liked. “Peach Blossom. Yeees, it’s lovely, but a little…well, pink, don’t you think?”

“What’s pink? Oooh, you have fabric samples? Did the earl give you permission to redecorate, then?” Charlotte bustled in through the door before Tremayne Two could announce her. “Let me see. No, definitely not pale colors, those are passé. You want a strong, vibrant color. I like this crimson.”

Gillian looked at the butler. “Tremayne, will you order the carriage brought round as soon as possible? Lady Charlotte and I have a call to pay.”

“Patent yellow, now there’s an ugly color. Did you hear that the Duke of Wellington has yellow in his drawing room? Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“This sea green would be a good choice for a dining room. What color is your dining room now?”

Nick looked at the sea green and made a face.

“It’s fawn. Oh, Tremayne? Would you have one of the boys bring Piddle and Erp around?”

Tremayne gave her a weak smile. Although the dogs’ digestive extravagances had apparently ceased, they were still prone to occasional setbacks, and the staff considered themselves martyrs to her dogs. “Certainly, madam. Er…will the hounds be riding in the same carriage as you, or should I have their carriage brought around as well?”

“Walnut is nice, too. With the fussy bits picked out in cream or stone.”

Nick nodded.

“Well, they can hardly protect me if they are in a separate carriage, Tremayne.”

“Protect you, madam?”

“But I don’t like this at all, this chocolate color. It’s much harsher than walnut. This lilac number two is pretty. What do you think, Nick?”

Nick pointed to the lilac.

“Yes, protect me, Tremayne Two. His lordship made me promise I wouldn’t go out without ample protection, lest his attacker try to kidnap Master Nicholas or myself.”

“No, I’ve changed my mind about the lilac, Nick, despite your preference for it. Picture gallery red number three. That’s a very popular color, I believe. Can’t you see the walls done in picture gallery red number three?”

Nick eyed the walls with a speculative gaze, his lips pursed. He shook his head.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, but I hardly feel the hounds are suitable protection.”

“No? I can see it. Well, perhaps picture gallery red number two.”

Gillian’s head began to spin as a result of the cross conversation, but she focused on what was most important. “I don’t agree with you at all, Tremayne. They are ample protection. No one would dare accost either Nick or me when in their presence.”

Nick tapped Charlotte on the arm and pointed out a swatch of sky blue.

“Mmmm. Yes, yes, I think you may have something there. Sky blue with the skirting boards painted in cream?”

“I hasten to remind your ladyship of the episode occurring just this morning in the park. If you recall, the hounds, when your ladyship was approached by the street hawker, dragged you a considerable distance to escape contact with the individual.”

“Then again, Gillian could go with a nice striped wallpaper.”

Gillian snorted in a very unladylike manner. “As I said, they were protecting me by removing me from what they thought was a threat to my safety.”

“I like this one with the honeysuckle border. It’s quite classical.”

“I beg your pardon again, my lady, but I don’t believe the hounds were attempting to remove you from a threatening person as much as they were attempting to remove themselves from a threatening person.”

Nick pointed to a busy pattern of leaves and flowers.

Charlotte looked thoughtfully at it. “Hmmm. Hedgerow. Nice, Nick, but I don’t think it would suit for the drawing room. A sitting room, perhaps, don’t you think?”

“Are you calling my dogs cowards, Tremayne?”

“What do you think of this one — Kingston Market? I like the blues and reds in it.” Charlotte held up a swatch.

Nick shook his head.

“Mayhap coward is too harsh a word, madam. Careful, perhaps? Cautious? Judicious in placing their trust in the kindness of strangers?”

Gillian glared at the servant even as Charlotte tossed aside another swatch, saying as she did so,“I don’t like this Swakely one at all, though. Much too busy, and it has yellow as a background. It wouldn’t do at all.”

“Cowards, Tremayne?” Gillian demanded.

“This leaf foil is pretty though. It has some nice shades of green in it.”

Tremayne sighed. “Cowards, madam. If I might be so bold as to offer your ladyship a suggestion, his lordship did mention in passing that he had instructed Crouch to attend your ladyship on all your outings. I would be happy to inform Crouch that you desire his presence.”

Gillian had hoped to escape without Crouch, who had voiced considerable opinions the day before about the wisdom of her paying a call on Lord Carlisle. She had finally extracted a promise from him that he would not tattle on her to Noble by agreeing that she wouldn’t visit Carlisle unaccompanied. That was what Charlotte was for.

“What am I for?” Her cousin looked up questioningly.

“Nothing, it matters not. Fine, Tremayne, tell Crouch we’ll be going out.”

“Well, that was fun,” Charlotte said, pushing the samples off her lap. “I think you’ll like our choices. Nick has a good eye for colors. Are we ready to leave? I made a list of things for you to ask Lord Carlisle, Gilly.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Here’s the list.” She handed Gillian a folded-up sheet of paper, then peered over her shoulder at it. “You’ll note the first item on the list is learning the names of Lord Weston’s mistresses.”

“Ladybuds,” Gillian said with a quick look at Nick.

“Ladybirds. Honestly, Gillian! The way you manacle the language is just disgraceful! Now, I’m not certain Lord Carlisle will know all their names, but you know how gentlemen are — they’re worse gossips than we women.”

“Exactly. Um…you have Lady Weston written down here next.”

“Yes, you said he made vague threats about Elizabeth, so he must have known her. Two birds with one bush.”

Gillian blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re killing two birds with one bush. It’s an expression. Haven’t you ever heard it? It means that you are taking care of two things at the same time. I would have thought that even in the Colonies such a common expression was used.”

Gillian opened her mouth to correct her cousin, then decided against it. “Mmmm…Income.” She looked up. “Why am I asking him about Noble’s income?”

“Not Lord Weston’s income, his income.”

“Why am I asking Lord Carlisle about his income?”

“Because he’s an earl, silly, and as everyone knows, an earl in the hand is worth…well, something. The point is that Mama would never forgive me if I was to let a perfectly good earl slip through my fingers because you were too obstinate to ask him what he’s worth.”

“Charlotte, the man may well be the one who is behind the attack on Noble! Would you want to marry someone with such a malformed and ill-natured character?”

“Oh, pooh, it’s nothing that I couldn’t take care of.”

Gillian rolled her eyes and looked back at the list again.

“Does this mean what I think it means?”

Charlotte looked over her shoulder again. “Padded? Well, of course it does! You wouldn’t want me marrying a man who pads his shoulders and calves, would you?”

“Well, of course not, whatever was I thinking?”

“Selfish, that’s what you’ve become since you’ve been married — very, very selfish, thinking only of yourself. Now then, is there anything else you think we should ask this Lord Carlisle?”

Gillian chewed on her lower lip as she thought. “I would like to know the nature of his argument with Noble, but I’m not sure how forthcoming he would be about that.”

Charlotte smiled a wicked smile, then suddenly the expression was gone, replaced by one of innocence so pure and sweet it would make an angel weep.

“Oh, you’re good,” Gillian said with a rueful smile. “You should really be on the stage, Char. Do you think it would work on him?”

Charlotte maintained the dewy-eyed, sweet expression for a few more seconds, then dimpled at her cousin. “Practice, my dear, it’s all practice. I will be happy to show you how to do it on the way to Lord Carlisle’s. It’s just a matter of projecting innocence, if you will…”

“Some other time, perhaps.” Gillian waved her cousin toward the door and turned to hurry Nick along. She was rewarded by the sight of a nine-year-old boy frozen in a pose of humble meekness and submission. He gazed at her with an expression so pure of heart it positively radiated ingenuity and artlessness. He batted his long dark lashes slowly over his silver-gray eyes, then peeked out from beneath them to see her reaction. Gillian laughed and kissed his rosy, cherub’s cheek. “Yes, yes, I can see you too should be on the stage. Come along, Mr. Kean. Your audience is impatiently awaiting your next performance.”

“Is it absolutely necessary,” Charlotte asked some minutes later, squirming in the seat and managing to poke her elbow into Gillian’s ribs, “that we bring those hounds? And your pirate? And three footmen? I feel as if I’m in the Lord Mayor’s parade.”

Gillian tried to expand her lungs enough to breathe a sigh, but was crammed in too tightly and had to make do with a tsk instead.

“Tsk, Charlotte! I tried to tell Crouch that it wasn’t necessary to bring three footmen with us, but he muttered something about Noble leaving orders that Nick and I not go out without ample protection, and this is Crouch’s idea of ample protection. I sincerely hope the carriage doesn’t collapse under our combined weight. It seems a little frail.”

Nick squirmed alongside her, flailed his arms and legs for a moment, then shot forward, gasping for air.

“Oh, dear, Nick, I’m so sorry. Could you not breathe? Are you all right now? It’s this tiny old carriage — the landau would have to take this day to have a faulty wheel.”

Charlotte pulled her head in from the window. “What?”

“Nothing. I was just explaining to Nick about the carriage, and why we have so much protection, although honestly, I would have thought that Piddle and Erp would be enough.”

“They are outside of enough,” her cousin replied, glaring at the seat opposite, where the two hounds were stuffed together, and with a sniff pushed the window open even wider. “This is ridiculous. I would have kept Papa’s carriage if I had known you were going to squish me into this minuscule little box with those two beasts. What will Lord Carlisle think when he sees how wrinkled my gown is?”

“I believe he will have more important things to notice, Char.”

Charlotte looked at her in horror. “More important than my gown? I think not!”

“Don’t be so self-centered. Gentlemen like Lord Carlisle have other things on their mind than concerning themselves with the state — wrinkled or unwrinkled — of gowns.”

“The gentlemen you know may have other things on their minds, but the gentlemen I know pay particular attention to a lady’s gown.”

“The gentlemen you know are fops.”

“Gillian!”

Gillian didn’t have the energy, or lung capacity, to argue the point any further, so she contented herself with running over the list of items she wished to discuss with the Scottish speeler earl.

The earl was just stepping into his carriage when they arrived. He paused, one hand on the carriage and a look of surprise on his face as it pulled up before him. He counted the liveried footmen clinging to the upper seats of the approaching carriage and almost bolted once he got a look at the behemoth who dangled from the rear.

“Crotch,” he spat at his coachman, and stepped back down onto the pavement. The coachman promptly pawed at himself in an attempt to make sure nothing untoward was showing.

“No, you fool, not yours, that one. That giant one clinging to the rear of that blasted carriage. It’s Crotch, Weston’s thug of a butler. What the devil is he doing here?”

There was a slight commotion as the carriage came to a halt. Several footmen leaped off the vehicle and surrounded it in a protective manner. The carriage swayed alarmingly from side to side, then a familiar red head popped out of the window.

“Lord Carlisle, how opportune our arrival was. Might I beg a few moments of your time?”

Carlisle blinked at the image before his eyes. She had escaped Weston’s clutches? A warm sense of satisfaction, coupled with a curiosity about her request, made him reconsider his morning’s plans.

“My time is yours, madam,” he replied with a courtly bow that was sadly lost on its recipient, her head having been retracted back into the carriage.

One of the footmen stood rattling the door to her carriage, and requested that the occupants unlock it. The carriage rocked violently back and forth, emitting periodic oaths and halfshouted exclamations that surprised Carlisle. What the devil was in that carriage? A bull? An elephant? Several elephants? The footman repeated his request, but it was lost in the cacophony from within. Curiosity drove him closer.

“If you would just move your leg, cousin…”

“Well, I’m trying, Char, but you’re on my gown and I can’t move. Argh!”

“Sorry, my elbow slipped…”

“Nick, darling, would you climb over…ow! Charlotte!..would you climb over Erp and slither through the window? I believe…Charlotte, if you poke me once again, I swear I’ll…”

“Bloody hell!”

“Charlotte!”

“Well, you’d swear too if your lovely blond lace just ripped off your sleeve.”

“Nick, you’re standing on my hand…ah, thank you. If you would try the window…oh, dear. Dickon, will you stop shouting at us, we’re trying. The door seems to be stuck! Blast!”

“Gillian!”

“Oh, don’t Gillian me in that tone; you’re the one who swore first. Will you kindly remove your elbow from my kidney, cousin?”

“Here, Nick, let me give you a little boost through the window, shall I?”

“Charlotte, if you hurt my child…”

“I shan’t hurt…that was my hair!”

“Sorry. My hand slipped.”

“I shan’t hurt him, but I will push the little blighter through since you seem to be incapable of it.”

“Ow! Was that absolutely necessary?”

“My hand slipped.”

“Ha!”

Half of a small boy suddenly emerged from the carriage window. Lord Carlisle, watching with the same sort of fascination that sweeps over those who pass by hangings, accidents, and other gruesome sights, stood mesmerized. How many people were in there? And what was an Erp? Was the child alive, or had he been ejected for other purposes? It was difficult to tell whether he was flailing his arms of his own accord, or if the footman, attempting to assist, was bobbing the lad around.

“Nick, darling, if you could push all the way through, I would be most appreciative. It’s not easy dodging your feet.”

“Ow!”

“You see, dearest? You just clipped your cousin Charlotte on the chin.”

“That little rotter! He did it on purpose! Scoot over, I’ll push him through the bloody window.”

“Charlotte, if you lay one finger on him…oh, dear God.”

The carriage suddenly stopped rocking. Carlisle leaned forward, a chill running down his spine upon hearing the dread in Lady Weston’s voice. What had happened? A sudden illness? Had the boy, who, if the footman’s unsuccessful attempts to tug him through the window were any indication, was stuck, collapsed? Had something happened to the lady named Charlotte, the one with the torn blond lace? Only a calamity of the most heinous kind could be responsible for the tones of horror echoed in Lady Weston’s voice.

“Dickon? Crouch? Will someone get the bloody door open right now? I think Piddle is going to be sick!”

The hairs on Lord Carlisle’s neck stood on end at the bloodcurdling scream that rent the air at Lady Weston’s pronouncement, but in the end, its owner was responsible for the resolution of the situation. After several loud wallops to the side of the carriage — Lord Carlisle assumed the lady Charlotte was kicking down the door — it popped open, and only the quick action of the footman named Dickon saved the small boy from crashing into the side of the carriage. Moments later the boy was pushed backward through the window, and two large, slobbering dogs shot out of the carriage, followed immediately by Lady Weston and a woman with, he couldn’t help noticing, an extremely wrinkled gown.

“Lord Carlisle.” Gillian bobbed a curtsy and tried to ignore Piddle, who was being noisily sick on the pavement next to her. “How delightful to see you again. Have you made the acquaintance of my cousin, Lady Charlotte Collins?”

“Lord Carlisle,” Charlotte curtsyed. “You must forgive my appearance. I seldom go out in public, my Mama being protective of my delicate sensibilities and naturally shy nature, but my dearest cousin begged me in such a manner that I was unable to refuse her request.”

“You will notice how modest and retiring she is,” Gillian said helpfully, unable to resist laughing at her cousin’s expression of innocence and shy maidenhood. Charlotte had told her that particular combination of expressions had garnered her three proposals of marriage.

“Er…of course. Most modest and retiring. Perhaps we might continue this fascinating discussion inside? Is your…uh…dog finished there? Yes? Perhaps Crotch would take them around back to the stables.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gillian didn’t think she had heard the earl correctly.

“Crotch,” he said, flapping his hands at the dogs, who had ambled over to him to conduct a quick gender check on this new person.

Charlotte let out an innocent, maidenly sort of gasp and fanned herself in a manner most becoming to a modest, retiring person.

A blush burned up Gillian’s face. God’s spleen, would she never be able to go anywhere with her dogs? “Oh, yes, of course, crotch. Lord Carlisle, I’m so embarrassed. They always do that. Piddle! Erp! Naughty dogs! I hope they didn’t…er…hurt you in their investigations. They like to smell people, you see, and try as I might I’m not able to break them of the habit of sniffing…er…of sniffing.”

The earl narrowed his eyes at her.

“What the devil are you talking about?”

Charlotte clutched her arm and hissed a warning not to pursue the conversation. Gillian ignored it. “Your crotch, of course.”

“My what?” The earl’s voice rose as Erp decided to investigate again. “Down, sir! Down!”

“Erp! Bad dog! Nick, darling, grab Erp and keep him from doing that. I do apologize again, Lord Carlisle,” Gillian said, holding on to Piddle’s collar. “But as we’ve settled the question of your crotch, might we go inside?”

The earl stared for a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them up again, she was still standing there, still smiling that charming, lovely, completely misleading smile. He began to feel sorry for the wife-killer Weston. He had a suspicion that this time the Black Earl had met his match.

The Black Earl was beginning to believe the very same thing. He emerged from his consultation with John Stafford, the chief clerk for the Bow Street Runners, and was assured of help gathering proof that the bastard McGregor was behind the threats to himself and Gillian, and the attack of a few evenings past.

“Are you sure it’s Lord Carlisle who is behind these letters?” Stafford asked.

“As sure as I can be without having his admission of the fact,” Noble replied. “The man is a heartless devil who preys on women. He is responsible for the death of my late wife, and holds great animosity for me.”

“I’m sure that is the case, my lord, but I must investigate the situation fully. Are you certain there are no other individuals who would wish to see you come to harm?”

“Any number, I’m certain,” Noble replied with a wry twist to his mouth. “Half the ton believes I murdered my wife, the other half believes I’m a notorious rake. None of them, however, are privy to the information that is contained within the threatening letters.”

“You will, of course, refuse to pay the blackmail sum demanded?”

“That goes without saying.”

Stafford nodded his head and glanced down at the most recent letter Noble had received. “I can give you three men, my lord.”

Noble stretched out his arm and retrieved his letter. “I had hoped for more.”

“I’m afraid three is the best I can do at the moment. They will be round your house in the morning.”

Noble wrote a few lines on the back of a calling card. “Have them present this to my butler, Crouch. Or Tremayne. Either of them; they’re both my butlers.”

Stafford raised his brows. “You have two butlers in one house, my lord?”

“Yes,” he replied, pocketing the letter and standing. “It was my wife’s idea.”

His words echoed in his head a short time later as his carriage rolled toward a certain address near Russell Square. Was it really Gillian’s idea to have the second Tremayne brother follow her up to his town house? She had said something about him helping Crouch learn to be less a pirate, which made no sense at all. Despite his hook, Crouch was not a pirate. Lord knew, the man got seasick just walking on a bridge over a river.

“Gillian,” he said softly, gazing out the window, blind to all but the image of the tall, redheaded Amazon who had moved into his heart. How had she done it? He’d never expected to feel anything beyond mild affection for a woman again, and yet she was consuming his every thought.

Gillian. Just the sound of her name sent tendrils of heat through him; many of them, it was true, pooling in his groin, but he was also conscious of a gentle, soothing glow radiating out from the bright light she cast, warming him and making him believe he was human again.

Gillian. His wife, the woman who bore his name and would bear his children. He thought of her plump and round with his babe, and a spurt of base masculine pleasure added to the warmth already heating him.

Gillian. The woman who was walking down the front steps of his most hated enemy’s house, her arm linked through his, laughing up at that bastard murderer McGregor with a smile that should be reserved solely for him.

Gillian!

“What the bloody hell is this?” he roared, jumping out of the carriage before his coachman could bring the horses to a stop. “By God’s ten toes, woman, what the hell do you think you are doing with that man?”

Gillian stopped on the last step, astonishment writ clearly on her face at the sight of her husband charging down the pavement toward her. “Noble?”

“Yes, Noble,” he snarled, and lunged toward the Scot.

“Noble! How wonderful you could join us! Nick, my dear, your papa has come to join us, isn’t that wonderful?”

Noble stopped, his hands a mere fraction of an inch from Carlisle’s throat. “Nick?” His voice was thick as he flexed his fingers. She had brought Nick with her? She had brought Nick with her while she kept an assignation with the man who was responsible for the death of his wife? She had brought his son with her while she tore out his heart and killed any last vestiges of human kindness left within him?

“Good afternoon, Lord Weston.”

Noble blinked at the sight of a lovely blond woman, a familiar blond woman, a woman who, if the maidenly blush and shy eyes were anything to go by, had just been released from a convent.

“You remember my cousin Charlotte, don’t you, Noble?”

“Ah…”

“ ’Ere ye are then, yer lordship. I was tellin’ the mistress that it weren’t right ’er payin’ this call without yer, but ye know ’ow the ladies is.”

“Er…”

“Charles, Dickon, ’elp Tremayne up there with those ’orses. They don’t like the looks of Piddle and Herp.”

“Uh…” Piddle? Erp? Noble peered between his wife and his enemy. Was there anyone from his home not present? As the heat from the suspicions of a moment before faded, a new fire roared to life when his eyes narrowed at the sight of that murdering bastard McGregor’s hand resting possessively on Gillian’s.

“Mine!” he roared, and scooped Gillian up and deposited her on the pavement behind him.

“I beg your pardon?” Gillian asked, poking him in the back. “Did you just shout mine in a voice loud enough to be heard in Canterbury?”

“Be still, woman, while I deal with this bastard,” Noble bellowed.

“Bastard, eh? That’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black,” Carlisle roared back.

“Mine? As in I belong to you, husband?”

“What the devil were you doing with my wife and son?” Noble yelled.

“As if I were your possession?”

“That’s none of your business,” Carlisle answered, his voice echoing off the houses across the street.

“I cannot believe you actually stood there and bellowed the word mine as if I were a toy and you a four-year-old child, Noble!”

“Like hell it’s not! I demand to know what they were doing here!” Noble thundered.

“Then why don’t you ask the lady?” Carlisle barked.

“I am not a possession!” Gillian raised her voice to match those of the two men.

“You keep my wife out of this! You’ll answer my question, or by God I’ll have my satisfaction over pistols!” Noble stormed.

“Name your seconds,” Carlisle retorted, his black eyes dancing with enjoyment.

“They’ll call on you this evening,” Noble fired back, his hair standing on end. “Wife! Come with me!”

Gillian recognized that Noble was in a bit of a temper, and with a wisdom that had hitherto been unknown to her, bit back her angry protests at his arrogant display of possessiveness and took the hand he held out. He stalked back to his carriage and would have made a grand exit it if had not been for the others.

“Charles, Dickon, get those ’ounds loaded into the carriage.”

Noble paused in the act of stuffing Gillian into his carriage and looked back. His gaze fell on that of his son, standing next to Charlotte, gray eyes shining brightly in the afternoon sun. “Nicholas, you will come with us.”

Charlotte, who had been hard-pressed to maintain an expression radiating demure, maidenly horror at the thrilling manly display, fanned herself briskly and suddenly realized she would be left to ride home in an ancient carriage with Piddle and Erp as her sole companions.

“Lord Weston!”

Noble handed Gillian into the carriage and turned to look at Charlotte.

She stood looking between Lord Carlisle and Noble.

“I…the dogs…you cannot possibly expect me…my lord, I…”

Gillian leaned out of the carriage. “I do believe this is a first, my lord. I’ve never seen my cousin at a loss for words.”

Noble grunted and would have left Charlotte to the dog’s carriage but for Gillian. There was a motive to her madness — she no more wanted to be alone with Noble where he would feel free to vent his anger on her regarding her visit to Lord Carlisle than she wanted to dance with a crocodile.

“I believe, my dear lady wife, your chances with the crocodile are substantially better,” Noble said through gritted teeth, and proceeded to ignore her and everyone else in the carriage by staring out at the passing scenery.

“We were just off to the zoological gardens,” Gillian started to say, but one look from Noble’s icy gray eyes made it quite clear that the visit was canceled. Gillian sent her son an apologetic glance and was heartened to see the boy give her a warm smile and a little shrug.

She mouthed to him that they would go another time, and settled back next to Noble. Charlotte exchanged sympathetic glances with her cousin and was not in the least bit sorry when the carriage pulled up before her house. Gillian wished to have a word or two with her, but Noble grimly assisted Charlotte down, then leaped back into the carriage and gave the signal to be on the way.

In an attempt to forestall the inevitable tongue-lashing she was sure was due her, Gillian clasped Noble’s hand in hers. His hand was unresponsive and stiff. Gillian mentally created, and discarded, any number of excuses and explanations for her visit to the earl. The carriage rocked as it bounced over bumps in the street, the familiar clop of the horses’ hooves setting up a rhythm in her brain. Although within there was naught but injured silence, outside the carriage horses neighed, dogs barked, people shouted, coachmen and grooms talked to their charges, vendors shouted their wares, and a thousand other noises wove together into the intricate tapestry that was life in London. Gillian closed her eyes and leaned slightly toward Noble, her thumb tracing circles on the top of his hand, feeling suddenly safe and secure even if her husband was shortly to lecture her as she’d never been lectured before. She slid her thumb down to the underside of his hand and made little massaging circles on the pads of his fingers, sliding up and down the length, feeling the strength that lay in those long, elegant hands. Noble did not respond to her caress, but neither did he withdraw his hand.

She continued to stroke and pet his hand while she considered the results of her daring act in visiting the Scottish earl — she was now in possession of a list of four names, women who had been Noble’s mistresses during the last fifteen years, as long as Carlisle had known him.

She hoped they could help her to figure out just what Noble’s relationship with Elizabeth had been like before his dear wife died — or not his dear wife, if what Lord Carlisle had said was true.

Gillian chewed on her lower lip. The earl must be mistaken. She knew Noble, and no matter how strong the provocation, he could never have murdered his wife, not even if he found her with another man, as Lord Carlisle implied. And the hints he made about Noble’s treatment of Elizabeth — well, those simply couldn’t be true.

Gillian rubbed Noble’s wrist and let her delicate, bluetinted fingers massage the top of his hand. No, the earl had to be wrong about Noble. Clearly he had gotten hold of the same misinformation that had flooded the rest of the ton, and just as clearly it was up to her to uncover the truth and clear Noble’s name.

A little sigh escaped her lips as she considered all she had to do, a sigh that went straight to Noble’s heart. He stopped fighting the desire to respond to Gillian’s gentle strokes and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t look at him, but sighed again as she snuggled up against him, content in the knowledge that everything would be all right. Noble wasn’t angry after all.

Noble was furious. He controlled himself in the carriage with an iron will that amazed even him, but once he arrived home, he demanded Gillian’s presence in his library. By the time she left the room, her face pale and tear-streaked, he had made himself absolutely and undeniably clear as to his feelings about his wife visiting the man who was responsible for so much misery and unhappiness.

“But Noble, why can’t I call on him if I’m suitably escorted?” Gillian cried after the bulk of his rage had been exorcised, tears trembling on the edge of her lashes.

Noble hardened his heart against the sight. “Because the man’s a murdering bastard, madam, that’s why you cannot call on him! From this moment forward you will have nothing further to do with him.”

Gillian had blanched at the word murderer. Noble’s accusations were so similar to Lord Carlisle’s, it confused her. “He’s a murderer? Whom did he murder?”

Noble’s jaw set in a manner that Gillian was becoming all too familiar with. He placed his hands on the arms of her chair and leaned down until he was a breath away from her.

“It is of no matter to you. Hear me well, wife. On this you will obey me — you will have no further contact with McGregor. If you see him at a public place, you will ignore him. If he approaches you and attempts to converse with you, you will walk away. If he sends you any correspondence, you will immediately surrender it to me. Do I make myself clear?”

Gillian stared deep into his icy gray eyes and saw Noble’s demons battling for control. There was anger and masculine dominance there, but there was also concern and something she didn’t recognize — something that made her feel warm and feminine and at peace with him despite the fact that she was, at that moment, the target of his wrath.

“What am I to you?” she whispered, unable to keep the words back.

His eyes narrowed. “You are my wife.”

The warm, peaceful feeling evaporated, leaving behind it the tears that had threatened earlier. “Is that all, Noble? It’s true, then — I’m just a possession? Something you purchased with a specific goal in mind? I’m nothing more to you than an object to be kept in its place and brought out when it pleases you?”

Noble didn’t know how to answer her, didn’t know how to erase the pain he saw in her lovely green eyes. The words were written deep in his heart, but they were too new, too fresh to be spoken out loud. The light that glowed inside him, her light, was still too weak to banish all the darkness. He gazed into her eyes and said nothing, damning himself for his inability to speak, for his desire to have that which he’d sworn he would never again seek, and for allowing her into the secret recesses of his soul, where no one had been allowed before.

He watched with tormented eyes as she first pushed ineffectually at his hands until he released her, then raced, sobbing, out the door. God’s eyebrows, what a mess he’d made of everything. Feeling his legs about to buckle under him, Noble sat in the chair Gillian had just abandoned and let his head slump into his hands. How the devil had things turned out this way? When had life slipped out of his control, turning it from a well-ordered and-structured, pleasant existence into this chaotic farce? How could a man be expected to function when all he planned, all he hoped for was dashed away and replaced…the thoughts suddenly stopped cold.

What was the use, why was he pretending to himself? His life had been well-ordered and structured before Gillian came to it, that was true, but it had also been a bleak and hollow life, a life without joy or warmth or…love. Chaos might dodge her footsteps, but it was a small price to pay to be loved by her. And what had he done in the face of that love? He’d blown up at her, yelled at her until she sobbed at his cruelty, tears streaming down her face when she realized that he would not, could not, give her the words she needed to hear.

Another woman’s tears came to mind, another woman’s tears as a result of his cruelty. Noble clutched the arms of the chair until his nails gouged crescents in the wood, but he paid no heed to the pain in his fingers. He was too busy fighting the crippling pain that gripped his soul.

Dear God, please don’t let me drive her away as I did Elizabeth, he prayed, his thoughts jumbled and confused, chasing each other in circles. Images of that night, that terrible night came unbidden to his mind, the image of finding his son curled up in a little ball in a pool of blood, almost out of his mind with terror. The night his wife died, the night he knew for a fact that hell existed, because he was in it. The feelings of guilt, once thought long gone, swept over him and merged with this new flood of guilt over his treatment of Gillian.

Noble Britton, the twelfth Earl of Weston, sat alone in his library and at last faced the emotions he had refused to acknowledge for five years: sorrow for the horrors he had forced upon his son, remorse for failing his first wife, self-pity for the hell he had lived in for so long. And finally, and most recently, shame for hurting the one person who meant more to him than life itself.

Gillian stood in the doorway of the library and hesitated. She had knocked, but Noble had not answered. Was he ill? So angry still that he refused to acknowledge her? She took a step forward, afraid to draw his attention to her and yet unwilling to face his wrath if he thought she was concealing the letter she had just received.

“Noble?” The word was so soft, even she could hardly hear it. She stepped silently toward the head that rested against the back of the armchair. Was he reading? Asleep? She came around the side and stopped, stunned by the sight.

He was asleep, his head resting at an angle that looked most uncomfortable, his hands curled into fists. His face in repose looked so unguarded, so young, so peaceful, but it wasn’t that unusual sight that made her heart constrict with pain. She bent forward and touched a finger to his cheek. Faint silvery tracks led down the angled planes of his face, down into the darkening shadows of his jaw.

He had been weeping. Her Lord of Rage had been weeping.