The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

North laughed. “I’ll just bet it did.”

She was beautifully skilled, Marcus thought. He said aloud, “You know what I really like about Lisette, other than the obvious things? She’s always talking, chattering really, flitting about the chamber, always moving, telling me jests, laughing, always laughing. She’s never silent, never like—”

“Like what? Like who?”

“Like the damned Duchess, if you would know the truth of it.”

North Nightingale looked at the fast-flowing Seine in the distance.

“You’re a fool, Marcus.”

“Stow it, North. I’m a lucky man, so very lucky. Do you know that in my pocket at this very minute is a bank draft for two hundred pounds? My quarterly allowance for being the bloody earl of Chase, all duly notarized by Mr. Wicks. It’s taken long enough to catch up to me. I do wonder how Mr. Wicks found me.”

“I do too. You’ve managed to keep yourself hidden from everyone else in England. You won’t turn down the funds will you, Marcus?”

“Hell, no. A goodly portion of it goes to Lisette’s upkeep.” He smiled at that, wondering what Mr. Wicks would say if he knew the old earl’s groats were being spent on his hated nephew’s mistress. Well, the old bastard had had his own mistress, the Duchess’s mother. Odd, how it seemed different, given the Duchess.

Where was the Duchess? Back at her damned cottage? Or reveling in her fifty thousand pounds in the middle of London society, entertaining gentlemen who doubtless all drooled on her, damn her beautiful blue eyes. He’d thought about her many times, wondered about what was in her damned mind, wondering, always wondering in those off moments, if there had been a man to protect her, to pay the rent on Pipwell Cottage, to pay Badger, to pay . . . God, none of it mattered now, not her motives, not her, none of it. His rage still burned deep and bright and strong. He never would see Chase Park or her or any of the other Wyndhams as long as he lived.

He wondered if the American Wyndhams had arrived yet to take over all the unentailed properties. Aunt Wilhelmina couldn’t take possession, he recalled, until after the sixteenth of June.

Then it would belong to the Americans, at least all of it would after his demise. Trevor! That damned bloody dandy with his fop’s name. Marcus could barely stomach even thinking about that name and the man it called to mind. He realized he had sworn to let that bloody Trevor inherit the earldom. Yes, Trevor Wyndham, the earl of Chase. It had a ring to it, a ghastly ring, but he accepted, even wanted it.

“Where the devil are you, Marcus? You’ve been silent as the Duchess you’ve told me so much about.”

“I’ve told you very little about the Duchess. Very, very little.”

“Just last week when you were quite foxed, you told me a bit more than very little.”

“Contrive to forget it. I have. I’ve forgotten her. I hope she has a protector, she’s her mother’s daughter, isn’t she? Actually I was just thinking about my cousin Trevor—Jesus, Trevor!—it’s too nauseating to contemplate. I’m certain he’s slender as a girl, with soft skin and hair, ah, but just hair on his fop’s head, nowhere else on his body. And he probably lisps and wears his shirt points to his ears. He probably has as much muscle as Lisette.”

North laughed and punched Marcus in his good arm. “Here we are at Lisette’s charming apartment. Go relieve yourself, Marcus, and try to enjoy yourself as well. Have Lisette position you in a more charming frame of mind. After all, I’m the one with the dark soul, with the black meanderings, not you. See that she takes care of you and I, well, I believe I will have a tidy little dinner and see what else the evening has to offer.”

The men separated and Marcus knocked on Lisette’s front door. He listened, hearing her light footfalls as she ran to answer the door. Lisette never walked or glided. She was never silent when he made love to her. Ah, how he loved to hear her scream when he brought her to her release. Not like that damned Duchess. Doubtless she’d be silent as the tomb.

Lisette DuPlessis looked pleased to see her Major Lord, as she called him in her lisping English—bloody foppish Trevor probably said it just the way she did—only he didn’t have her marvelous breasts that drew his hands and his mouth in rapid succession.

She took his cape, his cane and unstrapped his sword, touching it lovingly. She ran her fingers over his scarlet and white uniform, delighting in the feel of the fabric and of him, just beneath it, speaking all the while, telling him what she’d done since she’d last seen him, which had been only the night before. She spoke to him now in French, save for his title, and since his French was nearly as fluent as his Portuguese, he had no difficulty speaking and understanding. Ah, but she’d taught him sex words over the past weeks that curled his toes and made him hard as a stone.

He kissed her, then discovered he didn’t want to stop. Her breath was warm and sweet with the rich red Bordeaux she’d drunk. She was drinking too much, he thought, but for the moment, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to be inside her. Her breathing quickened, and her hands, never still, never lingering, made him wild.

He wanted to go slowly, but Lisette knew men very well, despite her tender nineteen years. She knew he wanted her, knew that he was wild with lust—a young man was always wild with it—and thus, she accommodated him with aplomb, stripping off his clothes in a moment of time, drawing him quickly into her bedchamber and onto her bed, covering him, urging him to come inside her. He did and it was over too quickly.

He said finally, once his breathing had slowed, and his heart was nearing its normal pace again, “I’m sorry, Lisette. I’m a pig.”

Her busy hands were busy on his back, stroking him, long deep strokes, sweeping over his buttocks to gently ease between his legs. She giggled, bit his chin. “True, my lord, but I will be understanding. Will you promise to do better next time?”

He grinned down at her, feeling all the grinding boredom of the day fall away from him. “Yes,” he said, rolling off her to rise to stand beside the bed. “Yes, I will do much better.”

“Already, my lord?” She eyed him with enthusiasm.

PARIS, HOTEL BEAUVAU, RUE ROYALE

Badger wouldn’t meet her eyes.

She eyed him with growing impatience. “Come, Badger, did you find him? Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes,” Badger said, nothing more, nothing less.