Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

"I think we'll converse more productively at a distance," she said.

"I know you think I am unreasonable," he said. "But I am not altogether a brute. I wish to make amends." He laughed softly. "Come, I will teach you a trick—to manage me."

She gave him a look of patent skepticism.

"Well, then, what will you do?" he asked. "I am not like your husband. You have tried saying 'no' and I answer with coaxing. Or faulty hearing. The locked door is useless. You have tried taking a poker to me. Also useless. Do you wish to try something else—and risk failure? Or will you take advantage of my present remorseful mood and learn what I shall regret telling you later, when I recover?"

She supposed she had nothing to lose. If he was lying, she was done for. But she would be done for in any case. She tossed the sketchbook onto the worktable and crossed the room to him.

He shifted back and patted the exceedingly small space he'd made for her, near his waist. Cursing under her breath, Leila sat.

"There. Already I am quieting," he said. "Because you are near, where I want you to be, and I can feel your warmth."

She, too, was aware of warmth, and of the scent pulsing in it, exotic, male. Like invisible smoke, it mingled with her own, a thread of myrrh coiling through it—hers or his, she couldn't tell.

"Now, the trick is to lull my mind," he said. "You do not want me to think, because I am devious. You want to make the male instincts sleepy, dull. You make a bargain with me. Instead of the pleasure I seek, you will give me one more acceptable to you." He brought her hands to his face. "Weave me a dream with your hands. Make a beautiful painting in my mind," he told her, guiding her hands to his temples.

She didn't believe it was possible to lull or dull him in any way. On the other hand, she couldn't pretend she didn't want to touch him. The woman wanted to stroke and caress. The artist wanted to study the angles and curves of his intriguing face. She couldn't resist any more than the sculptor, Phidias, could have resisted, had Apollo appeared in his studio and, placing himself under the mortal artist's hands, given him leave to study immortal beauty.

She slid her hands free. "Don't tell me any more," she said. "Let me figure it out on my own."

Reminding herself that he wanted to be lulled and soothed—not examined—she began as she would have wanted someone to begin on her. Lightly placing her fingers at the center of his forehead, she brushed outward. Very gently. Not oil brushstrokes, but watercolor.

He closed his eyes and let out a whisper of a sigh.

She went on with feather light strokes from the center outward to the silken hairline. The faint lines on his forehead—indiscernible until now, when she concentrated there—eased under her rhythmic touch. She sensed, as well, the slight relaxation in his breathing.

Encouraged, she moved on to the bridge of his nose and stroked out over his eyebrows, noticing that they were shades darker than his hair, and just a tint lighter than his long, thick lashes. Then, down and outward she brushed her fingers, from the patrician nose out along the high angle of his cheekbones. She found the tiny lines she'd noticed weeks ago, which tightened when he was disturbed. She discovered as well something she hadn't noticed before. Just below his right ear near the jawbone was an irregular line of minute scars.

Whatever he was, whatever he'd done, he'd suffered more damage than she'd guessed. The awareness hurt, gentled her inwardly, and in an instinctive act of comforting, she stroked his hair back.

"Ah, yes," he murmured, turning his head into the strokes.

Like a cat, she thought, biting back what must surely be an idiotish smile. He wanted to be petted, wicked creature, and like any cat unself-consciously sought more.

But she liked it, too: the silken hair sliding over her fingers, the warmth of his scalp, the supple muscles of his neck, moving sinuously in response to her hand.

At this moment, he was a beautiful cat, delicious to stroke. She enjoyed the power, even the uncertainty of it—the awareness that he was dangerous and could turn upon her at any moment. The sense of imminent danger stirred its own dark species of pleasure.

At any rate, he seemed to like this best, and his breathing was slowing, deepening. Remembering the magic he'd worked on her, she focused on stroking and kneading his scalp and neck in the same hypnotic way.

The action lulled her as well. Her mind wandered through dreamy images—of shimmering golden cats prowling silk-draped rooms...deep blue midnight through an open window...the mingled scents of flowers and herbs and smoke...a faint melody, the aching wail of a woodwind...a summer breeze whispering in fir trees.

Entranced, she lost track of time and might have gone on petting her purring jungle cat all night, but even her strong hands had their limits. Aching muscles brought her back to the waking world...and to the realization that the purr she heard was the deep, steady breathing of a man sunk in slumber.

He seemed truly asleep this time, for when she took her hands away, he didn't move a muscle. Experimentally, she shifted away a bit. No response. She got up from the sofa. He was oblivious.

She padded quietly out of the studio and carefully closed the door behind her. Then, erasing the triumphant smile from her face, she headed downstairs. She found Eloise in the dining room, polishing the china cupboard.

"Monsieur has fallen asleep," Leila told her.

Eloise's sleek eyebrows went up.

"I don't know whether to wake him or not," Leila said. "The fact is, I'm rather tired myself, and he's arranged for me to meet with an important caller tomorrow. The Dowager Lady Brentmor. I want to be at my best."

Eloise nodded. "If he wakes, he will wish you to go back to work with him—for he is a man, and insensible. But you wish to make an early bedtime, which is wise. Go to bed, Madame, and enjoy your respite. Be assured he will be roused and out of the house before daylight."

"Yes. Thank you. And—and if he wakes before then—"

"He shall go home, Madame." She gave Leila a conspiratorial smile. "You need your rest. It will not be disturbed, I promise you."

Chapter 12

Three weeks later, Leila was beginning to wonder whether she really was being left to do all the work.

Esmond hadn't sneaked into her house since the night she'd put him to sleep. He had said something then about her finding her own way. Evidently, he'd meant it, because the following day, during her first meeting with Lady Brentmor, the dowager had relayed a message to that effect: when Mrs. Beaumont discovered something of importance, she was to summon the count. Until then, he'd keep out of her way. With which proposal Lady Brentmor heartily agreed.

"You ain't never done Society proper before," she had said. "It's work, my gel, and make no mistake. The last thing you'll need is him pestering you in the middle of the night when you're dead on your feet and your head's pounding like a steam engine. It's going to be talk, talk, talk, dinning in your ears until you wish you was born deaf."

As it turned out, the dowager hadn't exaggerated.

In accordance with proper mourning etiquette, the gentlemen could not ask Leila to dance or indulge in even the mildest flirtation. That left her most o

ften in the company of women and limited her exercise to talking and listening. Thanks to Lady Brentmor's inexhaustible energy, Leila had been talking and listening for nearly every minute of her waking hours.

At the moment, she was pretending to be listening to and watching a somewhat inept comedy being enacted upon the stage beneath the dowager's theater box. In reality, Leila was wrestling with a pair of riddles while trying very hard not to let her eyes stray to a box nearby. Lord Avory's box, to be precise, which he and Esmond occupied at present.

Leila didn't want to look that way. She had seen Esmond many times in these last three weeks at the various entertainments she attended. She had found that if she wanted to speak privately with him about the case, she was the one who'd have to make it happen. She had resisted that temptation. She meant to continue resisting until she had something of value to share. She wanted to present him with solutions or at least solid clues, not questions. And only if her information would advance the inquiry. She wasn't sure that her two riddles would. But they nagged at her.

First, there was Sherburne. Ever since she'd learned that he had led Society in snubbing her husband, Leila had assumed it was the only revenge he dared for Francis' debauching Lady Sherburne. According to the dowager's gossipy friends, though, Sherburne had first cut Francis at Lady Seales' rout. That had taken place more than a week before Sherburne destroyed his wife's portrait. Had he waited all that time after discovering Francis' treachery to take out his frustrations on the painting? Or had Francis previously offended him in some other way? If so, how?

The second problem sat beside her: Fiona. She had returned to London yesterday—without Lettice—and something clearly was wrong. She had hardly mentioned her sister at all, except in the most vague and evasive way. Leila doubted her friend would have returned if the girl were gravely ill. On the other hand, Fiona seemed far more troubled now than she had been when she left for Dorset. Her eyes were dull, her color poor, and she had been unusually subdued since yesterday.