No true gentleman, p.13
No True Gentleman, page 13
“I fear so.” Cecilia frowned, and turned her gaze to de Rohan. “Constable Sisk has already been through most of Julia’s things, but she’d left her traveling desk at Holly Hill. It contains her old calendars, an address book, a bit of correspondence. Shall I bring it all round to your rooms? I could do it on Saturday.”
Saturday. He had been expected to dine with his grandmother. “Yes,” he answered, noting the dark circles beneath Cecilia’s eyes. Nonna Sofia, it seemed, would have to wait. He would send Nate to Wellclose Square with a message.
Gracefully, Cecilia leaned forward to touch him on the hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice finally breaking. “Oh, Max. Thank you.”
De Rohan smiled gently. “And now, my dear, you must go straight home. At once.”
“Yes, I must! I’ve a fear my husband is at home with a colicky baby.” Cecilia leaned across the carriage to clasp one of Catherine’s hands in her own. “And dear Catherine! How glad I am that we have become friends. Will you and Isabel call on me soon? Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Certainly, if that is your wish.” Catherine sounded mildly surprised.
Cecilia relaxed back into her seat. “Then I thank you both again. I must apologize for having disturbed your—” She hesitated, coloring ever so slightly as she searched for the right word. “Your evening alone.”
De Rohan did not know what to say. Was that what he and Catherine had had? An evening alone? The phrase implied a great deal. Resolved not to think of it, he threw open the door, leapt out, then lifted Catherine down. Cecilia’s coachman whipped up his cattle and rattled away into the night.
As they walked in silence, Catherine held herself a little away from him, her hand barely grasping his arm. It was as if the brief conversation with Cecilia was forgotten, and the words he’d spoken over dinner had returned to drive an invisible wedge between them. He regretted such words had been necessary. But he had needed to speak them, had had to discourage her, for his sanity’s sake.
Along the lane, most of the houses lay in darkness, with many of the street lamps blown out by the wind. At the next corner, yet another sputtered and died. With his vision limited, de Rohan’s remaining senses leapt to full alert, a reflex honed by years of prowling pitch-black alleys and fog-shrouded rivers. He became acutely aware of the faint fragrance which rose from Catherine’s hair. He could taste the hint of salt and smoke in the damp air. His ears caught the soft strains of a Haydn quartet carrying on the wind from some elegant drawing room near Cavendish Square. All of this he drew in, as intuitively as he breathed. And so it was that de Rohan sensed rather than saw the man who moved through the gloom toward them.
On gut instinct, he jerked Catherine nearer to his side and shot a protective glance over his right shoulder. There was nothing. He tried to shake off the unease which suddenly gripped him. It had been a strange night, that was all. Ever cautious, de Rohan moved to urge Catherine across the street, but a passing dray cut them off, its lone lamp barely piercing the gloom. It was enough, however, to cast shape and shadow to the man up ahead.
The dray rattled past, and darkness swirled in again. Instinctively, de Rohan fisted his hand about his walking stick and rolled onto the balls of his feet. The man neared, his footsteps slowing. “Beg pardon, gov,” said his disembodied voice. “Can yer direct me ter ’Enrietta Street?”
De Rohan jerked his head over his shoulder. “Henrietta Street is opposite the square,” he snapped impatiently. “Go through, and you cannot miss it.”
In the murk, Catherine sensed that the man raised one hand. “Obliged,” he said, his voice strangely soft. A little snick sounded in the darkness, and she heard de Rohan curse beneath his breath.
The man laughed. “No need ter cut up rusty, sir,” he whispered as de Rohan shoved Catherine behind him. “I’ll just ’ave the lady’s pretty ear bobs and be on me way, awright?”
Catherine’s shoulder scrubbed the wall as de Rohan urged her deeper into the darkness. “Stand aside, you fool!” he growled. “I’m an officer of the Crown. The lady is under my protection.”
“The baubles or me knife?” growled the man, edging toward them. “What’s it ter be?”
Everything happened at once then. The man floated from the gloom, and Catherine felt de Rohan’s muscles harden powerfully. She sensed rather than saw his arm whip up and out. The man feinted, then lunged. Swift as lightning, de Rohan’s stick came crashing down. It thudded sickeningly against bone. With a cry of agony, the man reeled into the wall, his knife clattering onto the pavement.
In that instant, however, Catherine was seized from behind. A cold hand thrust over her shoulder, clawing roughly at her pearls, yanking them until she choked. Fleetingly, her fingers struggled at her throat. The pearls were cutting into her flesh. De Rohan had spun about, cursing as he shoved her between his body and the wall. His stick came up again, and the second attacker staggered back. The clasp broke. Catherine sucked in her breath on a wheeze.
“Stop, thief!” de Rohan bellowed into the night.
From the direction of Cavendish Square, Catherine heard pounding feet racing toward them. And then the strange man from the chophouse came hurtling out of the darkness. “Max, behind you!” cried Mr. Kemble. Smoothly, de Rohan whirled about. Catherine’s pearls clattered and spilt across the cobblestones as Kemble took the thief down into the filth of the street.
In the darkness beside her, Catherine heard de Rohan pounce upon the first man. Fists smacking into soft flesh. Grunts and curses. The sound of someone gagging. And de Rohan spewing a string of vitriolic Italian as he pummeled the thief into submission. Catherine pressed herself flat against the wall, trying to stay out of his way. Across the street, a window flew wide. Yellow lamplight washed the pavement.
“Murder! Murder!” screeched the onlooker.
One hand pressed to her mouth, Catherine stared. De Rohan had shoved the first man up and against the brick wall by means of his walking stick. With a violence she’d not dreamed he possessed, he repeatedly rammed one knee into his ballocks as he forced his stick across the man’s windpipe, choking the breath from his body with both fists. Impotently, the man clawed and kicked, his toes no longer touching the pavement. De Rohan did not relent.
Then, from the corner of her eye, Catherine saw Kemble emerge from the shadows. With surprising strength, he dragged the second thief onto the pavement and tossed him in a heap at de Rohan’s feet. He slid a wicked-looking piece of metal off his knuckles and into his coat pocket, watching dispassionately as de Rohan strangled their assailant. By now, the man’s tongue had protruded from between his bluish lips.
“Really, Max, must you do murder in the middle of Marylebone?” asked Kemble dryly. “He’ll lose his bowels, and you know I cannot abide a stench!”
As if pulled back into reality, de Rohan gave a satisfied grunt, jerked back the stick, and let the man slither down the brickwork. Grasping his throat and wheezing for breath, the thief surrendered, bent double, and collapsed across his partner. “Vaffanculo!” de Rohan spat down at him, whirling about to seize Catherine.
Roughly, he dragged her into the murky light. “Good God, are you hurt?” he demanded, his hard black eyes running over her. Only his viselike grip on her arm betrayed the depth of his fear for her.
“I’m f-fine,” she managed. “Wh-what did you say to him?”
In the gloom, she felt a bit of the tension flow out of him. “Something like ‘go bugger yourself,’ ” he muttered. “I recall you’ve a passing familiarity with the phrase.”
Catherine suppressed a hysterical laugh. But in truth, she’d begun to tremble down to the soles of her slippers. He sensed it and slid a wide, warm hand up her spine, drawing her against him. “My God, Catherine!” he murmured against her hair.
Wordlessly, she pressed one temple into the soft fabric of his cloak and melted into the comforting scent of warm wool and male heat. Kemble prodded at the groaning men with the toe of one boot. “These handsome fellows anyone you know, old chap?”
Max shook his head. “Petty cutpurses,” he said grimly. “I should have expected it when the wind whipped up.”
One eye on the thieves, Kemble fished about in his pocket, then thrust out his hand with a flourish. “For you, madam.” He let Catherine’s pearls spill from his fist, cleverly catching the last strand on the tip of his index finger. “Bring them to my shop next week. It will be my pleasure to clean them for you.”
With a cry of relief, Catherine plucked them from his finger. His eyes still on the fallen men, Max continued to slide a soothing hand up and down her back. “I owe you, Kem,” he said quietly. “Again.”
“Yes, a new pair of gloves, to be specific!” agreed Kemble, peering down at his hands, his nose wrinkled in disdain. “I swear, Max, you are the very devil on a fellow’s wardrobe. These bloodstains will never wash!”
“Maurice Giroux may bill me for a score of ’em,” said de Rohan wryly. “If it will put an end to your carping.”
Without fully releasing Catherine’s hand, de Rohan knelt to study their assailants’ faces. Kemble joined him. In the darkness, de Rohan’s gruff voice rumbled softly, while Kem snapped out pithy retorts. Like some mystical shape-shifter, it seemed Kemble had reverted to his earlier façade, the charming, sharp-tongued fop. Not an hour past, she’d remarked how rarely people turned out to be what they first seemed. That was certainly true of Kemble. But Max de Rohan? Oddly, no. He was precisely what she’d thought him upon their first meeting: swift, ruthless, and—when pressed—quite cruel. And so why were her knees still knocking? She was safe. And his actions had been by no means unjustified.
Just then, a commotion arose behind them. “Ah,” said Kemble, rising gracefully to his feet. “That would be Maurice now, bringing the watch. Take Lady Catherine away, Max. I shall see these rogues taken up before the Queen Square magistrates. Your statement can wait until tomorrow.”
Catherine thanked him profusely for the return of her necklace. And then, placing a firm hand in the small of her back, de Rohan urged her away from the scene. For many minutes, Catherine walked beside him in silence. Halfway home, she found her tongue. “Max, what will happen to those men? I mean, after your statements are given and they have a trial? What will become of them?”
For a moment, he was silent. “They’ll hang, Catherine.”
“Oh.” Fleetingly, Catherine squeezed shut her eyes. “That seems . . . harsh.”
“Tonight, I think it most merciful,” he said grimly.
“But whatever their intentions, you did stop them. And we are relatively unhurt.”
De Rohan sighed deeply into the darkness, and she could sense the doubt and resignation in him. “Had they attacked someone other than you, I’d probably press for transportation,” he quietly admitted. “We’ll hang a man for bloody near anything in this country. That is why Peel wants criminal law consolidation.”
That was one of his tasks at the Home Office, Catherine recalled. “It would be more fair for these men to be sent away, would it not? So that they might be punished for their crimes but have a second chance to make something of themselves?”
De Rohan was quiet for a time. “If that is what you want, Catherine,” he finally answered, “then I shall see to it.”
Strangely, and despite her earlier terror, it was precisely what she wanted. “Thank you,” she said. “And thank you, too, for saving me. You were very brave.”
“Or very stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have hailed a hackney.”
Together, they stepped off the pavement and crossed the street to the opposite corner. “I really have been too long in the country, have I not?” she said, still holding his arm. “As you once said, it really is not altogether safe in town.”
Max could not miss the apology in her tone. He tucked her hand into his elbow, and laid his own over it. “I blame myself, Catherine,” he said quietly. Somewhere in the midst of the excitement, he’d stopped using her title. And for tonight, at least, he did not wish to pick it up again. “It is my duty to keep you safe.”
“And so you did,” she interjected. “But why should I be your responsibility? I was a fool to go out on foot wearing such jewelry. You cannot be the savior of the world, you know.”
He stopped in the middle of the pavement and spun about to face her. It was as if his heart had leapt back into his throat, and for a long moment, he was unable to speak. “It is my duty,” he repeated firmly. “When you are with me, Catherine, you will be safe. Always.”
She nodded, and stiffly, he jerked back into motion. What had he just said? Why had he spoken as if they had a future? They didn’t.
Good Lord, there was a disquieting sort of comfort in Catherine’s companionship, as contradictory as that sounded. He found her just a little too easy to be with. She was neither haughty nor pretentious. She possessed a forgiving nature. And despite her effortless dinner conversation, she was one of those rare women who seemed equally content with a man’s silence, filling it with nothing but the warmth of her smile. Will Wodeway, he was beginning to suspect, had been an exceedingly fortunate fellow.
At once, he shook off the thought and slid his hand beneath Catherine’s elbow, carefully escorting her up the unlit steps. A silent night now enveloped the fringes of Marylebone. Up and down the lane, coal fires had been banked for the evening, spiking the air with wisps of sour smoke. In the shadows, Catherine turned to face him, fumbling in the depths of her reticule. She extracted a key and looked up at him. Even in the darkness, Max could feel the heat of her eyes on his face.
“I’m going to be perfectly brash, Mr. de Rohan, and say what I fear you will not,” she whispered, her voice sounding anything but bold. “I should like to see you again. Would that be possible?”
Max dragged the sharp air into his lungs and slowly blew it out again. “It really would not be prudent, Lady Cath—”
“I asked if it would be possible,” she gently interjected. “As to prudence, I’ll gladly argue that one, too. But not on a stone-cold doorstep.”
Suddenly, Max realized Catherine’s teeth were chattering. Good Lord, was chivalry dead? His, apparently, was comatose. He reached nearer to take the key from her hand, but just as their hands touched, another blast of wind swept down the street, tearing a strand of Catherine’s hair from its neat arrangement and whipping it into his face. She was so near, he could hear her breath catch. Could smell the scent of her hair again. Suddenly, his restraint felt . . . not prudent but a little foolish, when mere moments ago, she’d been half strangled to death. Life was so uncertain.
Yes, suddenly, it seemed the wisest thing in the world simply to pull her into his warmth. With a soft gasp of pleasure, Catherine came against him, sliding her hands up the fabric of his lapels and brushing her cheek against his shoulder. Shuddering ever so slightly, Max cast his eyes to the heavens . “Dio confonda i superbi,” he muttered, drawing her to his chest.
But what had once seemed like madness now felt perfectly necessary. He opened his hands against the wool of her wrap and let his palms press beseechingly into her shoulders. She felt so warm, so wonderfully alive. Her hand slipped farther up his back, her palm opening, spreading wide against the wool of his cloak. Somewhere near her feet, he heard metal tinkle against marble, then go bouncing down the steps. Maledizione! The bloody key!
He did not care. He cared only that in this one fleeting moment, Lady Catherine Wodeway felt as if she belonged right against his heart. In the darkness, it seemed easier to surrender, as if that which he could not see was somehow not real. But she felt real. So real that he somehow dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers. To his surprise, Catherine angled her head, rose unsteadily onto her tiptoes, and kissed him back. Her effort was artless, almost awkward, and yet the explosion was instantaneous. Raw need driven by fear slammed into him like nothing Max had ever known, and roughly—too roughly—he jerked her nearer, deepening the kiss.
Catherine gasped but did not draw away. Instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, dragging her body against his. The gasp became a soft sound of need. Again, he raked his mouth over hers, heedlessly chafing her with the stubble of his beard. Max did not need to see the elegant line of her jaw or the inviting swell of her bottom lip to know that he had to taste her more deeply. His body had thrummed with lust the moment he’d seized her hand and swept her across Walrafen’s ballroom.
As if reading his thoughts, Catherine slanted her mouth, invitingly parting her lips. Gave herself up to him. Max captured her face between his hands. The rush of sensation when he thrust his tongue into her mouth was wild and fierce. Uncontrollable. He could feel her breasts flatten against his shirtfront, could feel his own heart pounding again. Blood rushed to his groin. His head swam with the scent of her. His breath came fast and shallow.
Dio mio, he thought. Madness. A madness he could not stop. She was una bella strega. A beautiful witch. He had to force himself to slow. His hands left her face, caressed her throat, slid lower.
Catherine had convinced herself that she’d wanted just one more taste of Max de Rohan. But his mouth was still redolent of expensive burgundy—rich, velvety, intoxicating—and she knew at once she was addicted. Stroking and exploring, tongues sliding sinuously together, she savored the heat and scent of him. His hands were strong, his mouth skillful. And yet he trembled as he touched her, shivered as he seemingly lost himself in her. His caresses flowed over her, cupping her breasts, curving around her waist, and stroking the swell of her buttocks, as if the shape of a woman were something new and wondrous to him.
She rose higher and gasped. He was fully aroused, his erection hard against her belly. His teeth caught her lip and feverishly bit, and something feral and urgent shot through her. His large hands lifted her, pressed her back against the door. She felt the wood scrub against the back of her cloak. Willingly, wantonly, she arched into his body. Passion burning out of control, his mouth tore from hers to trail down her throat. His breath was searing against her skin, as if her every nerve ending had suddenly come to life.
