Explosive. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
reaction, he moved languidly from the chaise to ring for a footman before adding, “And by the way, you never did recount the details of your meeting with Blackburn. Did the Marquess have a message for me, perhaps?” His look was as anticipatory as a fencing master waiting for the next thrust and parry.
A film of perspiration dampened her palms and she had a mad impulse to turn around and simply run out the door. Instead she answered abruptly, “He expects to be given the score tomorrow evening at the recital.”
Le Comte looked slyly triumphant. “Ever arrogant, our Marquess.” His eyes lingered on the Meissen clock over the fireplace, as though counting the minutes. “Yet he’ll learn, once again, that there’s a price to be paid for everything.”
The Frenchman was right. Loyalty, integrity, honesty—Devon had learned all too recently that they could be bartered for a price, or for a cause. As the door closed behind Le Comte all she saw was a swinging noose and all she heard was the mocking voice of the Marquess of Blackburn.
Do whatever you have to do to get the score. I’m sure you know how, Mademoiselle. All too well.
Chapter 4
Blackburn listened to the crescendo of violins, distant and lilting, wafting into the candlelit boudoir just as the woman draped over the satin and lace-strewn bed peaked for the second time. He felt her body tense, the lush, extravagant curves fill his hands moments before he, accommodating as ever, lost himself in her dark depths.
Several heartbeats later dusky eyes framed by a profusion of ebony curls opened lazily. “You may love me to death,” breathed a satiated Susannah Treadwell, “anytime.” Her intense gaze—supremely satisfied and simultaneously carnal—devoured the man whose lean powerful body had just given her an encounter with Eros she would long remember. She arched her back in languid contentment, a smoothly curved arm supporting her slender neck.
“My pleasure.” He moved away with economic grace to stretch his tall frame, nakedly confident, alongside the bed. Magnificently male in a casual sprawl, his broad shoulders were an incongruous match for the fragrantly tousled ivory sheets and lace-embroidered pillows.
The Lady Treadwell was in a class by herself, a woman whose lack of inhibition and insatiable proclivities matched his—stroke for passionate stroke.
Exactly how involved she was with Le Comte and the Eroica score was, of course, another matter and did absolutely nothing to keep him from enjoying the scarlet-tipped hand which lingered so effectively on his hard torso. The hand stole upward, infinitely slowly from the indentation of his navel, to caress the sculpted chest.
“Must we attend this tedious recital, Gray?” Lady Susannah pouted prettily, intent on her pleasurable exploration of a well-delineated pectoral. “I can think of far better ways to spend our time than waiting interminably for this pianist. I do believe Le Comte has temporarily lost his mind. All this excitement over a woman playing Beethoven. I saw her just the other day riding on Rotten Row. A shriveled bluestocking. Only wonder why Le Comte has taken an interest!”
Blackburn suspected the Frenchman had told Susannah very little about Devon Caravelle. He rarely supplied details, only money, aware that her elderly husband had run through his fortune long ago. The Frenchman had paid her well to offer him up to his abductors, he was sure of it.
Blackburn’s expression revealed nothing but amusement as he settled his long frame more comfortably on the overstuffed softness of the hastily commandeered bed.
“Quite the sensation from what I’ve heard. Could it be that you’re afraid of a potential rival? The way you propelled me out of that crowded hall tonight and up those stairs was nothing short of brazen,” he said with mock amazement, shaking his dark head while noting with an expert’s eye the heavy fullness of her impressively displayed breasts.
A husky laugh punctuated his remark as her warm, spicy scent formed a web around them. “Well, darling, I knew this guest room was unoccupied,” she purred convincingly, tracing the outline of a bruise on the left side of his jaw with delightful concentration. “I must have my pleasures. You know what a bore old Treadwell can be. How can you blame me?”
“The things we do for money, like marrying well in your case, seldom come easily I suppose.” Blackburn petted Susannah’s sumptuous behind lingeringly, philosophically flexible about such comparatively trifling moral issues. His life’s experience had made certain judgments impractical.
“I’m not pleased, however, that those beastly cutthroats were working on the behest of old Treadwell,” she lied effortlessly. She made a moue of distaste. “To attack you outside my town house the other night! I’m afraid that my husband has finally seen through the haze of his senility and realized what a ridiculous cuckold he’s become.”
“Many thanks for your overwhelming concern,” murmured Blackburn with considerable irony. “Mercifully, I recover quickly.”
“I have noticed that your recovery time is enviable.” Susannah turned onto her back in one calculated seductive move. “Which has more to do with my eagerness to escape with you this evening than anything Le Comte’s new mistress could possibly have to offer.”
“Those who have heard her play maintain she’s impressively talented. Her interpretation of Beethoven is said to be masterful.”
“Since when have you developed an interest in music?” Susannah asked sharply.
Since his encounter with an icy, fiery-haired woman in a dark cell by Blackfriars Bridge.
In the next instant he was beset by the image of Devon Caravelle emerging triumphantly from the Frenchman’s bed. He stretched his arms over his head and steeled himself. It wasn’t anything he wanted to think about—who she’d sleep with and what she’d do to keep the noose from tightening around that beautiful neck. Instead of the elation he expected to feel at upending de Maupassant’s plans, he found himself sinking into a cynical torpor. He shifted away from Susannah, her physical presence suddenly cloying.
“Anything I can do, darling?” He’d forgotten how perceptive Lady Treadwell could be. “You seem preoccupied suddenly.”
He smiled distractedly. “I think we should get back to the concert.”
Every muscle in his body felt tight, his jaw locked, his mind in turmoil. The intriguing and dangerous Devon could just as easily be playing him for a fool. Money was more often the motivator than loyalty to a political cause. Or the motives might well be political in nature. He drew a long breath.
The gloves would then come off. He’d never again risk a disaster like the one involving his murdered brother.
With heavy lids and darker intentions, he observed Susannah carefully. Much as it would wound her overdeveloped sense of vanity, he thought, wrapping his wrist in a swathe of her jet hair, this seemingly spontaneous seduction had been welcomed not the least for the sexual interlude as for the information he always gleaned from their postcoital conversations.
“A female virtuoso, it’s unusual, you must admit.” He pushed carefully, positioning a pillow behind his head.
Pouting her disappointment as the subject matter turned from her, Susannah tugged away her hair with small teasing gestures before inching closer to Blackburn. “Her mother, they say, was French, one of those horrid women who became involved with the radicals during the Revolution. Her father was English but nobody seems to know anything about him. They divided their time between London, Paris, and some absurd little cottage,” she revealed cattily. “I suppose she was born on the wrong side of the sheets, hence her French surname. Some men find that sort of thing attractive, particularly in a mistress.”
“De Maupassant and she met in Paris?”
“You’ve been listening to the same gossips as I have, darling,” Susannah scolded mockingly. “One hears that Le Comte’s son was taking music lessons from her at the Conservatoire. I presume, like any other woman with very little to trade upon, Mademoiselle sensed an opportunity and planned to make herself indispensable