The Unraveling of Lady Fury Page 6

  “You sure about that?”

  “Sure about what?” Taking a deep breath, she tried edging her gown up a notch. It wouldn’t budge because she lay on top of it.

  Suddenly the mechanics of this, of keeping him at bay, did not seem so clever. But if she were to reach out and touch him in some way, that might be worse. No. She had done this now. She had made these terms, even if he hadn’t exactly kept a copy.

  She closed her eyes. It was easier in the dark to wriggle the skirt a notch or two. At least as far as her knees. She wasn’t going further than that. Surely it wasn’t beyond him to do the rest.

  She heard him take another bite out of the apple. He crunched so loud that she jerked her eyes open.

  “Of course I’m sure. I’m just making myself…ready…at ease.”

  He furrowed his brow. “You mean—”

  “That was why I went behind the screen. I’m ready and waiting for you.”

  God, would he stop chewing the apple and get to it? She had meant to govern this situation. Govern him. Not allow him to govern her.

  A deal was a deal. Had he not stood on that staircase and blackmailed her into it? Why should he sound surprised, as if he’d no idea what he’d been fetched here for?

  “Isn’t that a shame?”

  “A shame? What do you mean?”

  “What I said.” He tossed the hair out his eyes. “You’re wasting that cream. You know what I think of waste.”

  A faint smile edged his lips. Her heart almost stopped dead. All right, so he wanted to touch her. Preferred to, rather than have her use the cream. She didn’t want him to. But she could allow it.

  She had been wrong to insult him when she needed his seed. If he wanted to think she desired him, just this once, was it such a mistake? After all, her way wasn’t a raging success, was it?

  “Then I am sorry.” The words sounded mushy in her mouth. “I won’t do it again.”

  He took another bite of the apple and then tossed it over his shoulder. James Flint Blackmoore did not need prompting in the art of sex. He would understand what her words meant.

  It was more than she did herself at this moment, the way her mind raced at the thought of what was going to happen now finally she had his undivided attention. Or at least, she would have when he finished chewing.

  She waited, her heart in her throat, for him to hitch her skirt. Any minute now. God, she was so nervous, her eyes watered.

  “Is that right, sweetheart?”

  She nodded. Her throat was too dry to speak.

  “That’s good to know. You do what you like. Right now, this nice bed you’ve got here, what I’d most like to do is…sleep.”

  “Sleep?” She fought not to let her voice notch several octaves.

  “I’m kind of tired. Been a long day. Surprising too.”

  “James.” It pained her to hear what crept into her voice. The harrying edge that made her sound like a desperate woman. She was desperate.

  “What?”

  “I brought you here for a purpose.” She sat up, her scrutiny traveling over his face. “We agreed, did we not…after you offered…you would help me conceive the Beaumont heir.”

  “You agreed. There didn’t seem much fun in it for me.”

  She resisted the urge to strike him. Of course Flint Blackmoore would only think of himself. “So, what are you saying? That you’ve changed your mind? Because if you have, the door is—”

  “There’s no need for you to go getting yourself fiked up.”

  True. But she was.

  “Stropping neither.”

  “I’m not fiked up. Stropping either.”

  “That’s a change.”

  “I just thought… you offered. And as you saw for yourself, Thomas is in the cellar.”

  He nodded. “He looks like he’s staying in it too.”

  “I cannot keep him there indefinitely. If—if this is because I was lax in choosing you…”

  “You think I couldn’t bring you around eventually? I’m just not a performing seal. You let me get rested and I’ll see what I can come up with.” He sighed and settled himself down on the silk bedspread, his hands behind his head. “You can lie down beside me, if you want.”

  “I—”

  “Maybe you’d rather sleep in one of the other rooms? Or the chair there?”

  She would not be sleeping. How could she? She should just have taken the heir when he’d offered. How humiliating was this? To be refused in her own bed? She felt the blood flood and then drain from her face.

  “Are you saying that in the morning…”

  She should never have tried to shackle him with that contract. She should have been nice, welcoming, amenable. The things she could not be in connection with him.

  He deigned to open his eyes. “Hmmm? The morning…or whenever. Just let me get some rest in. You’ve no idea how tiring it is polishing shoe buckles.”

  She fought back fire. The tightrope she walked stood suspended across a gorge so perilous, she could not afford another slip. She didn’t want him pleading some woman’s excuse next. A headache. Or worse.

  “Of course. I understand.”

  He smothered a yawn. “That’s certainly a change. You don’t usually.”

  She bit her tongue. “And there is no problem. None at all. Just make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And we can talk in the morning.”

  “Suits me. Now, if you don’t mind being quiet?”

  She nodded. What else could she do but lie down at the far side of the bed…and pray?

  Chapter Four

  “Six months, Lady Margaret.”

  “Six months?” The dowager duchess could find no fault with the figure presented to her. Or Fury’s. “So?”

  “Alas, Thomas lived just long enough to know of the great joy that was going to be his. It has been a sad time for all. But, now I am home at Ravenhurst, I am sure my fortunes will improve.”

  Fury’s eyes pinged open before she could discover whether her fortunes did in fact improve. Her gaze shrank from the sunlight filtering through the shutters, and she realized, as she closed her eyes again, she wasn’t in a dream anymore. The nightmare was all still there before her. Beside her rather.

  She shook her head to clear it. Even as she tried, the clatter of crockery defeated her.

  “Good morning, madam.” Susan set a tray down on the dressing table. “Or would you prefer it in bed?”

  Fury bolted up. Coffee steamed in a silver pot. Was that fresh bread?

  “Where did you get—” Her gaze skittered sideways. She didn’t want Flint knowing her straits were so tight it was a wonder she could breathe through them.

  At least he was still here. He hadn’t run in the darkness.

  “Don’t worry. I pawned the salon candlesticks, madam. We can get them back before Signor Santa-Rosa finds out. But you’ll need to feed him.” Susan lifted the coffee pot. “Now…”

  Fury straightened her shoulders and tossed her hair out her eyes. She could see the tanned oval of Flint’s face behind the disheveled corn-hued hair. She could even hear him breathing. She felt exasperated just thinking about the fact she’d been forced to lie on top of the same bed as him all night, her nerves stretched to breaking point, while he just slept.

  Susan would think the deed was accomplished. No doubt, she even brought them breakfast in bed because she thought that was where they’d be spending the day.

  Susan smirked, as though she considered Fury a lucky woman with a man of Flint’s easy sexuality in her bed. But he was fully dressed, as she was herself. Didn’t Susan see that? Or the cinders dusting the dressing table? The markers of Fury’s own stupidity?

  “Just…just leave the tray there, will you?”

  “Madam, is everything all right?”

  “It…it will be. Thank you for pawning the candlesticks. I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it myself.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind
. But you’ll need money if you’re going to keep him.”

  Money. It was how her life revolved. The bitter need of it. What did Lady Margaret know of that, safe in Ravenhurst? Why, even in Fury’s dream she’d had that horrible, bombastic expression and seemed surprised Fury was pregnant. Fury would be surprised herself, the night she’d just spent.

  James Flint Blackmore, lying next to her again, after seven years. Fury had been at great pains to keep a foot free in the middle of the bed, as she lay staring at the ceiling. What had pricked her eyes had nearly betrayed her. The memories, the thoughts of the nights they had once spent together.

  “You can’t expect a gentleman to pay for himself in the circumstances.”

  Fury paced across to the dressing table, battling her annoyance. “He’s not a gentleman. But let’s not go into what he is.”

  Her hands shaking, Fury lifted the coffee cup to her lips, waiting for Susan to leave the room. It was morning, by God, and she needed to put an end to this charade. She had allowed herself, with good cause, to be drawn into making that contract. He had responded, as he always responded, by grabbing the upper hand. Her body would only be her downfall if she allowed it to be.

  This was a business agreement and the sooner it was undertaken, the better. The man was a privateer. Privateers had rules. He wanted his ship. She wanted the Beaumont heir. No matter how last night had happened, he surely understood that.

  “Wake up. Coffee.” Fury set the cup and saucer down on the bedside cabinet. And yet, even looking at him lying there, her heart tilted.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Coffee.”

  Cursing, he dragged the pillow over his head.

  “And hot rolls.”

  “What the hell would I be wanting hot rolls for this time in the morning? You lost your head?”

  The bad temper wasn’t feigned. He had been asleep. Last night she’d thought he had planned to bolt. No doubt he was furious he hadn’t.

  “No. But we do have work to do.”

  “You know what they say all work makes.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer rum? I can send Susan.”

  He took his head out from under the pillow, his eyes narrowed in a way she’d never seen before. For a second she wondered what had been inflicted on the man to make him look shocked that anyone would offer him anything.

  “Coffee’s fine. As long as you never poisoned it. How did Thomas die anyway?”

  “He just did. If I said otherwise, you’d never believe me.”

  The puzzled grimace convinced her she’d won whatever round this was. At least she’d given him something to think about. With Flint, that was everything.

  She reached for the butter knife. “Now then, some butter, some apricot preserve on your rolls?”

  “What?”

  “Some—”

  “I heard.” He grabbed a hunk of dry bread.

  She looked at him without flinching. “Isn’t this nice? Me seeing you again. You seeing me.”

  To be truthful, the way his eyes glazed and his teeth paused midway tearing off the hunk of bread, it was plain the last thing he wanted to see this morning was her. If she did not press the advantage now she’d lose it. Flint was slippery, waiting only for the moment her back was turned. He must be. Otherwise he’d have made some insinuating remark about the rolls.

  He tore another mouthful. “That depends.”

  “Of course it depends. Here you are, eating my nice bread and—”

  “On the eye of the beholder.”

  She forbore to tell him that was supposed to be beauty. And in. She supposed it was the same thing.

  “So don’t pretend we’re either of us dancing with joy.”

  “Very well, I won’t. Last night I gave you my rules, you gave me yours. Now…”

  She hesitated. She could send him back to Malmesbury. All it would take was a short note. Although notes and her were not exactly a raging success.

  James Flint Blackmoore and her were not a raging success either, which was why she wished her mind wouldn’t niggle about the way Malmesbury treated him.

  She could just let him go, but then she’d have to choose Southey or cast herself on Malmesbury’s mercy with some tale of woe. Being the little woman in need of protection was not a role that came easily. It would come less so with a man who threw a whip about the way some did their money.

  No. She must do this.

  She refilled her coffee cup. “This morning it’s time to parley. Privateer fashion. About this transaction. Because of course, if you’re somehow incapable…”

  He set his coffee cup down on the saucer with a clink and then passed the back of his hand over his mouth. He looked at her, his blue eyes studying her in a way she’d never seen before, his lower lip seeming much fuller than usual.

  “You just tell me when you’re ready.”

  When she was ready? Of course he meant to parley.

  “Let’s just do this. Just the way you told me. Since I’m not getting out of this.”

  She almost fell on the floor. But it would have ruined her attempt to appear stalwart, unflinching. Yet, it was what she wanted. More than anything. So why feel the need to procrastinate? That would be to show him nerves. She swallowed the knot that rose in her throat.

  “Very well.”

  She sat down, feeling the mattress sink beneath her quivering body. Prayers were for those who hadn’t come to the kind of place she had, so she emptied her mind. But she did drag a deep quiet breath. Until she had lain down, she’d no idea how much she needed to.

  Just the way she’d told him. Oh God, what was that again?

  “So…what…what?” God, this was worse than being a virgin again. The problem of her hands and what to do with them. At least that first time…that first time there had been no conditions like this.

  Flint had waited till the Calypso was underway, then he’d called her to his cabin. It hadn’t been quite as basic as that, in terms of what he’d then outlaid. At least he’d had the decency to let her eat supper first before offering to throw her overboard if she didn’t get into his bed. Nicely, his little smile suggestive of the fact he wouldn’t really do it. It was just his way of asserting himself. But there was so little telling with him, she hadn’t dared refuse.

  What should she look at now? The ceiling? Or darkness? Or—he rolled over—him?

  “What…what about my skirt?”

  “Hell, that’s not my worry, is it? I got enough going on.”

  At least he didn’t add You think I want to do this?

  Without a word she dragged up her skirt as far as her thighs. This would have been so different had she not made these conditions.

  She’d had to make these conditions. Already her heart kicked worse than a maddened horse. He hadn’t even touched her yet. Nor was he going to, she reminded herself.

  “You been busy with the cream under there?”

  She wasn’t about to admit to him, in her panic, she’d forgotten the necessary preparation.

  “Your consideration is flattering. Last night’s will suffice. After all, it’s not as if it were used.”

  What was this? She had at least expected Flint Blackmoore to attempt to seduce her, no matter the terms of the contract, which he had burned anyway. Flint liked to prove a point. And that point was that no woman born was immune to him.

  So the lazy smile, the little tease, the running of his deft hands over her body—these were the things she expected and was ready to resist. The things she was waiting for, with a certain uncertain abandon. But this man who simply undid the fastenings on his breeches…

  “What?” He caught her staring. “You did say to touch you little as possible. I’m just doing what I’m told.”

  Flint? Snowballs would survive in hell.

  She swallowed the thought. At least he must be erect. She could always count on him to be that if nothing else. She parted her legs. Oh, God, this was going to be basic, wasn’t it? Unless, of course, he said, Let me
, sweetheart. And then he…he…

  He didn’t. He didn’t do anything. A pity she hadn’t allowed a little contact. A kiss.

  She couldn’t. A kiss would have melted her. Even now.

  She turned her face away. When he touched her, she must offer nothing. This was for the Beaumont heir. Money. Lady Margaret. But it wasn’t all for that. The thought rose up and swamped her, and a betraying gasp escaped her. She doused the thought. She placed her palms against the silken bedspread to cool them.

  “Fine. Then do it.” She spoke as if she had lumps of ice in her mouth.

  “Your skirt. You want to take that up? It’s just, you did say.”

  “James…”

  She bit her tongue. She was not going to lose her temper. She had not, so far as she could recall, said anything in the rules about her skirt and who would not have the right to touch it. But she did not want to display herself to him in this cold, clinical fashion.

  “Of course.” She forced her lips to curve. Although quite how they curved, when they seemed frozen in her face, she didn’t understand.

  “I won’t look if that’s your worry. Even if it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “Are you enjoying this?”

  “What? You want to write that in your terms, I’m not allowed to?”

  “If I’d thought of it.”

  “You could be in trouble there if I don’t. That’s the fundamental difference between men and women. What you do about that is up to you. Though I’m guessing with that set of rules, enjoyment is off the menu.”

  Of course it was. But how like him to know so. And say so.

  “Now. Hold steady, while I get on top.”

  The commentary was unnecessary. Every breath clogged her lungs.

  “I think I said no talking.”

  “I’m just trying. You think you can move a little there?” He grunted. “Your legs, so I can get between them. You know, spread them or something?”

  She bit back a shriek as he set his knee between her legs. How awful this was. But she could not make it any different. Awful or not, what flared, what betrayed her, as his knee brushed her bare leg, was enough to convince her she had done the right thing to protect herself.

  He knelt between her legs, looking at her. “You all right there? You want me just to do it?”