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Authors: Susan Sizemore
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letters he had had Honoria
write to the British trade representative in the city — letters that
would ensure an easy captivity and quick freedom for her and her
companions if he were to hand them over to Ibrahim Rais for
delivery. He would see that two of those letters were delivered; he
could do that much for her. She had not questioned his asking for
three separate letters, though she had thought asking for Greek and
Latin as well as English was peculiar. He had told her that he was
testing her since she was so proud of knowing languages. That, at
least, had not been a lie.
"Two of the captives I hold will go to the cells in the Citadel,
lord," he told Ibrahim. He handed two folded letters to Ibrahim's
clerk. "We will transfer the red-haired woman from my ship to the
bagnio cells," he informed another of the servants. "She can at
least earn our master a commission on her sale."
"I cannot go in there," James said as he stood before the clean
white Georgian face of the Pynehams' townhouse. I cannot face
her. Not after what I did to her . He looked at his father in utter
panic. The cool blue gaze the viscount turned on him was pitiless.
"You do not comprehend, sir." The viscount said not a word, but
kept a stern, steady gaze on his son. James was well aware of the
man's own years' long search. "It does not compare," James told
him as a trio of familiar women, dressed as gaily as butterflies,
emerged from the next carriage in the line crowding the street
before the Pyneham residence.
The women crowded up behind them, leaving James no
chance to back away and run for his life. He took a deep breath,
reminded himself that he had faced hell itself a few times, and this
could hardly be very much worse. Duty and honor required this of
him, though the strange woman who awaited him inside would care
not a fig for the requirements of his conscience. The girl he had
known in Algiers. He sighed. That girl was gone forever. She had
been glad to go, though sometimes he pretended otherwise. He had
seen her face and form at the ball, and discovered his craving at
least was no pretense. But he had seen no sign of his Honoria's
personality within the stiff, stern, but altogether glorious shell of
the duke's daughter.
Perhaps he could remember the scent of his Honoria's skin
with vivid longing, and the feel of her legs wrapped around him
when they cradled him inside her, but that was only memory and
imagination. The woman he intended to claim was a stranger, and
clearly counted herself his enemy. There was battle waiting inside,
not reunion.
The relish of the challenge stirred to cunning life. He smiled
with wicked anticipation. Honoria, dried up and marinating or not,
had the same memories of his bedchamber as he. And he'd had
eight years more practice at making love. The woman who'd
snubbed him the other night was a bluestocking spinster, but she
had wildness running deep inside her that he knew very well.
Rumor and gossip proclaimed the duke's heir to be beyond
any interest in men, but she had been his wanton lover once. Was
the wildness dead? Had he killed her passion? There were heavy
bets laid in the clubs against the duke's heir taking a groom despite
the dowry and her father's open attempt to find her a husband. He
had heard those rumors without knowing the cruel jests were aimed
not at a stranger, but at a woman he'd known with delicious
intimacy. There were bets about who would take her and her huge
dowry.
James didn't want the dowry. He didn't want to win the
wagers. But, he decided as he stood on the steps, he would see that
no one else won the bets, either.
Then the women behind them were on the stairs. James found
himself suddenly immersed in the scent of perfume and the sound
of breathless laughter as his father made a witty comment to Mrs.
Ashby and her daughters. In this crowd, James marched forward
bravely into the lair of the Pynehams.
There were no odd looks
write to the British trade representative in the city — letters that
would ensure an easy captivity and quick freedom for her and her
companions if he were to hand them over to Ibrahim Rais for
delivery. He would see that two of those letters were delivered; he
could do that much for her. She had not questioned his asking for
three separate letters, though she had thought asking for Greek and
Latin as well as English was peculiar. He had told her that he was
testing her since she was so proud of knowing languages. That, at
least, had not been a lie.
"Two of the captives I hold will go to the cells in the Citadel,
lord," he told Ibrahim. He handed two folded letters to Ibrahim's
clerk. "We will transfer the red-haired woman from my ship to the
bagnio cells," he informed another of the servants. "She can at
least earn our master a commission on her sale."
"I cannot go in there," James said as he stood before the clean
white Georgian face of the Pynehams' townhouse. I cannot face
her. Not after what I did to her . He looked at his father in utter
panic. The cool blue gaze the viscount turned on him was pitiless.
"You do not comprehend, sir." The viscount said not a word, but
kept a stern, steady gaze on his son. James was well aware of the
man's own years' long search. "It does not compare," James told
him as a trio of familiar women, dressed as gaily as butterflies,
emerged from the next carriage in the line crowding the street
before the Pyneham residence.
The women crowded up behind them, leaving James no
chance to back away and run for his life. He took a deep breath,
reminded himself that he had faced hell itself a few times, and this
could hardly be very much worse. Duty and honor required this of
him, though the strange woman who awaited him inside would care
not a fig for the requirements of his conscience. The girl he had
known in Algiers. He sighed. That girl was gone forever. She had
been glad to go, though sometimes he pretended otherwise. He had
seen her face and form at the ball, and discovered his craving at
least was no pretense. But he had seen no sign of his Honoria's
personality within the stiff, stern, but altogether glorious shell of
the duke's daughter.
Perhaps he could remember the scent of his Honoria's skin
with vivid longing, and the feel of her legs wrapped around him
when they cradled him inside her, but that was only memory and
imagination. The woman he intended to claim was a stranger, and
clearly counted herself his enemy. There was battle waiting inside,
not reunion.
The relish of the challenge stirred to cunning life. He smiled
with wicked anticipation. Honoria, dried up and marinating or not,
had the same memories of his bedchamber as he. And he'd had
eight years more practice at making love. The woman who'd
snubbed him the other night was a bluestocking spinster, but she
had wildness running deep inside her that he knew very well.
Rumor and gossip proclaimed the duke's heir to be beyond
any interest in men, but she had been his wanton lover once. Was
the wildness dead? Had he killed her passion? There were heavy
bets laid in the clubs against the duke's heir taking a groom despite
the dowry and her father's open attempt to find her a husband. He
had heard those rumors without knowing the cruel jests were aimed
not at a stranger, but at a woman he'd known with delicious
intimacy. There were bets about who would take her and her huge
dowry.
James didn't want the dowry. He didn't want to win the
wagers. But, he decided as he stood on the steps, he would see that
no one else won the bets, either.
Then the women behind them were on the stairs. James found
himself suddenly immersed in the scent of perfume and the sound
of breathless laughter as his father made a witty comment to Mrs.
Ashby and her daughters. In this crowd, James marched forward
bravely into the lair of the Pynehams.
There were no odd looks
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