Pembroke Palace
Berkshire, England
Seven English bloodhounds, barely restrained by their leads, barked and yowled as they scrambled through the wet forest, leading the search party to the river. The spring weather had been unforgiving in recent weeks, and after a brief interlude of clear skies and sunshine, the heavy rains had returned with an unholy vengeance. The fields were sodden, flooding again, and the estate roads were mired in muck.
This day offered no reprieve. The driving rain came down in horizontal sheets, battering the trees and drenching the moss-covered ground.
Devon Sinclair, Lord Hawthorne, heir to the eminent Duke of Pembroke, rode high atop a black charger. He galloped through the woods, ahead of the search party, comprised of able-bodied servants and loyal tenant farmers, all soaked to the skin under the cold, incessant downpour.
Reining in his mount at the river’s edge, he turned in the saddle to address his brother Vincent, who rode up behind him.
“He wouldn’t stand a chance in this!” he shouted above the roar of the white-water current.
Vincent’s horse whinnied anxiously. “I still think this is a useless effort. He wouldn’t have walked from the station, if he even took the train to begin with. We’re not going to find him here.”
“We have to start somewhere,” Devon replied.
The keen hounds approached, staunchly committed to the task of sniffing out a body. The horses grew restless.
“We can’t continue to remain at the palace doing nothing,” Devon said, “while simply waiting for his arrival, or some news of him in the papers.”
The barking hounds caught up to them, and the search party split in two, one heading upriver, the other down.
“We’d be better off searching in London,” Vincent said as the wind whipped the tails of his riding cloak.
“If he were in London, he would have returned to the house in Mayfair,” Devon said, “for a change of clothes at the very least. No one has seen him in over a week.”
Vincent looked at his brother with concern. “You don’t think he might have run off, do you? Because he doesn’t want to marry?”
“And left us in the lurch?”
Devon was referring to their father’s insane demand that all four of his sons marry by Christmas, or they would all be disinherited.
Devon had already fulfilled his duty by taking a wife straight away, and Vincent had done the same a week ago. Now there were only two brothers left to satisfy the terms of the will—Garrett and Blake.
Garrett, at the present time, was ignoring their pleas to return from Greece, because he was—in the eyes of most—a careless, thoughtless son of a bitch.
Blake, the responsible one, was missing.
Devon’s horse stepped sideways and tossed his head. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Blake is the most dutiful of us all. He has always put his responsibilities first, without complaint. If any act of rebellion is going to occur, it will be Garrett, who is still sailing around the sultry Mediterranean without a care in the world. Even you or I would have been more likely than Blake to refuse Father, and we have already surrendered and become husbands.”
Vincent looked out at the raging river. “But we were difficult to press.”
“Yes, but we did it, didn’t we? Not only for our own inheritances, but for each other. Blake, on the other hand, would never resist Father’s wishes, whether or not his inheritance was at stake. He has always done his duty, and with a great sense of satisfaction. He is the most calm, reasonable, level-headed man I’ve ever known, and he is not…” Devon paused, searching for the right word to describe his brother’s agreeable disposition. “He is not selfish.”
Vincent nodded. “Which is exactly what has Mother so worried. She knows he would never disappear intentionally. She asked me last night if I thought he was dead.”
Devon glanced at him warily. “And what was your reply?”
A gust of wind blew across the river, sweeping spray up into the air.
“I suppose he could be lying in an alley somewhere,” Vincent answered truthfully, “robbed and beaten. Or he could have been tossed into the Thames by drunken thugs, all for the sake of a few stolen shillings.”
“Damn it, Vincent.”
The two brothers, similar in their dark features and proud stature, high upon their thorough-breds, said nothing for a long moment.
“We cannot let this situation take a turn for the worse,” Devon said at last. “Our family has been through enough tragedy in the past few years, and now, with Father’s madness…” He did not finish the thought. “We must find our brother.”
Vincent nodded. “The last time I saw him, he was in a foul mood after a long night drinking and gambling with a young buck he met, whose father was involved with the Horticultural Society. He also mentioned the young man’s sister, who had caught his eye—a woman he believed Father would approve of.”
“That will at least get us started. We will go to London today and find out who and where they are. With any luck, he has fallen head over heels in love and has simply forgotten to send word.”
“Love can make a man forget a lot of things,” Vincent said, referring to his own recent marital bliss.
They turned their horses away from the river.
“But in case that is not what has occurred,” Vincent said, “I will search all the usual dens of debauchery in London where a man can lose sight of himself. I know where they are because I’ve been to every last one of them. I will leave no stone unturned.”
“Good. While you’re doing that, I will contact the police and check the clubs. He can’t have fallen off the face of the earth, Vincent. Surely we will hear something from someone eventually.”
“God willing.”
They urged their horses into a gallop and made off for the palace.
Chelsea’s eyes fluttered open as the warm light of dawn poured softly onto the bed. She lay on her stomach, naked, the bed linens tangled about her legs. It was at that moment she realized she was still in her lover’s bedchamber and had fallen asleep and remained there all night. He was not, however, beside her.
With a sudden gasp, she whipped around and sat up, and was both relieved and disconcerted to see him sitting leisurely in the chair by the window, also naked, staring at her.
“Good morning,” he casually said.
She swallowed nervously, grabbed for the sheet and tugged it hard to cover herself.
“It’s always something,” he said, “how the light of day can cause the most adventurous women to suddenly withdraw into a charming cocoon of shyness.”
She became instantly defensive. “I’m not shy. But it is…” Pausing, she glanced around the room and spotted her nightdress in a heap by the door. “It is morning. People will be up. I should go.”
She wrapped the sheet around herself and awkwardly inched her way to the edge of the bed, which seemed unnecessarily large all of a sudden, and difficult to maneuver across. She swung her legs to the floor and reached down for her wrapper, while fumbling to hold the sheet in place.
Quickly and efficiently, she slipped her arms into the silk sleeves and let the sheet fall to the floor, then turned her back on her nameless lover while she buttoned her wrapper from top to bottom.
Finally, in a more decent order, she turned. “Thank you for last night. It was very nice.”
He sat with an elbow resting on the arm of the chair, a finger at his temple, watching her with amusement.
She nodded politely at him and tried not to blush or look down at his magnificent nude body as she started for the door. When she reached it, she bent to pick up her nightdress, not sure if it would be wise to walk back to her own bedchamber carrying it in her hands. What if she bumped into a servant?
Deciding to take her chances, she reached into her pocket for the key, but the pocket was empty.
Momentarily flustered, she hurried back around the bed to search the floor, while her lover in the chair did nothing but watch. She didn’t spot the key right away, so she got down on hands and knees and checked under the bed.
It was not there.
With an irritated huff, she stood up and faced him. “Give it to me, please.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why should I?”
Her temper flared. “Because the sun is up, and I don’t want to be caught in your bedroom with my hair in a tangled mess and my lips swollen from…”
“From what?”
“From a night of self-indulgence,” she replied.
He grinned wickedly. “Is that was it was?”
She took a few steps closer. “Where is it?”
“I’ve hidden it, but you’re welcome to search my person if you like.” He spread his arms wide.
She couldn’t help but look down at his legs and hips and the very arresting cluster of manhood growing larger and firmer by the minute.
“I am not going to put my hands on you,” she said. “It’s morning, and I have to go. Just give me the key.”
“Find it yourself.”
She pressed her lips together in a thin line. “Is it truly on you, or under you? Tell me that at least.”
“It might be.”
Riled by his teasing tone when she did not have time for this, she turned her head to the side, bent forward and slid her hands under his legs and buttocks. When she did not find what she was looking for, she checked along the sides and back of the cushion, leaning over him, shoving her hands straight down into the upholstery.
Her gaze was still averted, and she could feel his hot, moist breath upon her cheek while she searched. For a fleeting second she considered putting her hands on him after all, for her desires were beginning to flicker, but she ruled against it and straightened.
“You obviously don’t have it,” she said, “which was a most ungentlemanly trick.”
“We both enjoyed it. What’s the harm?”
“The harm is that I might be seen here by a servant, and my reputation is already in tatters. There is no need to see those tatters go up in flames as well.”
He considered that, and relaxed his shoulders. “All right. I’ll tell you where it is, but for a price.”
“Name it.”
“I want my life back.”
Her composure—which until now had been mostly steadfast—was blown off its course. She had not expected him to say that.
“I would very much like to give you your life back,” she said, “but it is not in my power. As far as finding out who you are, we have sent word to the magistrate here on the island, as well as the London authorities and newspapers. It might take some time, that’s all.”
He wet his lips, as if he were thinking of a way to negotiate for something more immediate. “You could at least let me out of this room and allow me to live like a normal human being. It’s hard to say what might revive my memory—a face, a conversation…”
“I suppose I could try to arrange that.”
“And no more laudanum.”
“I will speak to the doctor,” she said, “and also to my brother.”
“And mother,” he insisted.
“She won’t be pleased, nor easy to convince that you won’t brain us all in our sleep. She is like a brick wall sometimes.” She heard a noise in the hall, and her heart squeezed with panic. “Give me the key, if you please. I must get back to my own room.”
“I need some clothes,” he flatly said. “Right away, as soon as you leave here, you will bring me something.”
Her temper flared again. “I am simply supposed to do your bidding? I’ll need time to talk to my brother,” she tried to explain.
“Do you want the key or not?” He pulled a curtain open, and Chelsea squinted at the sudden light in the room. The servants would soon be bringing up a breakfast tray.
“You’re a tyrant.”
“Me!” He laughed. “I’m the one who’s locked up, remember?”
“That is not the case at the moment. You are the one with the key.”
“Yes, and it doesn’t feel very nice, does it? To be at the mercy of a complete stranger?”
Recalling what they’d done the night before, she felt obliged to correct him. “We’re hardly strangers now,” she said. “For one thing, you’re naked.”
“Yes, I am, which is why I want you to bring me some clothes before my breakfast tray arrives. I’ve had enough of that nightshirt. Will you agree?”
She hesitated.
He pulled the other curtain wide open. The sky grew brighter. It was overcast—pure white with low hanging clouds.
“All right, I’ll do it,” she quickly said. “I’ll find something of Sebastian’s. You look about the same size. Now the key, please.” She held out her hand.
He made no move. “How do I know I can trust you? Maybe I’d be better off keeping it and making a run for the back door, naked or not.”
“And where would you go?” she asked without humor. “You have no money, no home, no family to go to.”
The amusement faded from his eyes, and he looked at her with displeasure.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure you are more than aware—”
“Indeed I am, which is why I have no choice but to trust you to bring me what I need and make my convalescence here a bit more comfortable. You are the only person in the world I know. Except for the doctor, who wants to turn me into an opium addict.”
She spoke quickly. “I will make sure he refrains from prescribing anything else. Now the key, please.”
The desperation in her voice was palpable.
At last he stood up and walked to the clock on the mantel. He lifted it with one hand, and there was the key beneath it in a very simple hiding place.
He held it out to her. “As I said before, I am trusting you. Today, I would like to go for a walk in the garden, and I wish also to dine with your family.”
She took the key from him. “I will do my best.” She started for the door.
“And if you do a good job,” he said in a low, husky voice that sent shivers through her body as she slipped the key into the lock, “I will do something for you in return.”
“And what, pray tell, will that be?”
He approached and whispered in her ear, “I will satisfy your midnight desires again this evening.”
The eroticism of his words trembled through her, and she stopped breathing for a moment as she slipped out of the room.
It was exactly what she wanted. She could not deny it. The only problem was that it had nothing to do with duty or strategy—and everything to do with the heady taste of wicked pleasures and the promise of more to come.