she gasped, because he had unbuttoned her dress and slipped aside the shoulder of her chemise and was cupping one breast with his sword-calloused palm, caressing it deliberately, wickedly until the sensitive peak leapt to his touch. She felt an answering pulse at her very core, full of liquid warmth as she realised it would be so easy just to melt into his strong arms. So easy to let him bed her …
A sharp knock, at the door.
Garrett’s voice. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Captain.’
Alec drew slowly back from Rosalie and swore under his breath. ‘Whoever it is, tell him it’s not convenient.’
A pause. Then—’I think you’ll want to see him. Captain. Sir.’
Alec turned to Rosalie, his jaw set. Once more he was tough Captain Stewart, master of a lowlife soldiers’ hostel. ‘I must go. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t even think of leaving.’
He was gone. And she felt desolate. She clutched the bedpost, white-faced. Once more she’d succumbed to this dangerous man—she was surely losing her wits. She pushed herself up from the bed. Despite what he said, she had to get out of here! But—that threat. Stop asking questions, whore …
Talk about being trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. She tried again to get up and walk around the room, but within a few moments she had to sink back on the bed, because her legs felt like cotton wool.
She closed her eyes and surrendered briefly to despair. And the worst thing was—she was just starting to realise how very much she wanted to be wrong about Alec Stewart and Linette.
* * *
Garrett was waiting for Alec out on the landing. ‘Listening at keyholes, Garrett?’ queried Alec caustically.
‘No!’ Garrett looked hurt. ‘No, God’s truth … Captain, Lord Conistone’s waitin’ in the fencing hall for you!’
Lucas. Indeed, this was the first good news Alec had had for a long time. And his friend had called at the right moment, because a few more minutes with Mrs Rosalie Rowland and he’d have been hard put to stop himself seducing her there and then. My God, whether she intended it or not, everything about her was an erotic enticement: the defiant flash of her eyes; the way she tossed her hair to face up to him; the stubborn pout of her full, rosy lips.
Alec was no stranger to female enticements and he’d enjoyed many a willing bed companion. Yet something about her was so damned vulnerable. If she was playing games, she excelled at them, because she was driving him wild.
He’d longed, how he’d longed just then to caress her into submission with his lips and hands. He was possessed by an image of her naked, her slender legs wrapping around his as he sheathed himself in her again and again …
God, Alec, don’t. She’s dangerous. A whore and a scandalmonger. A dousing of cold water for you, man.
That threatening note had been nasty. Someone vicious was after her—the same person doubtless who’d made her homeless through the fire. She would make enemies easily, with the mixed messages she sent out. One minute all erotic allure, the next, prim as a young school miss …
You can’t take her as your mistress. You mustn’t.
Physical pleasure for a man of Alec’s station was easy to come by, but intimacy of any other sort he’d sworn to avoid for good. His mind wandered back to the painful memories of a spell of home leave when he’d become betrothed to a pretty young heiress who thought herself in love with him. She’d been an innocent, of course, well chaperoned because of all that money. She’d kept asking about the battlefields of the Peninsula, but she’d not wanted to know the harsh reality, so he kept it from her. Kept himself from her, until in a fit of petulance she’d broken their betrothal last spring. Which was as well, considering the dark secrets already unfolding at the heart of his family.
Now Alec’s thoughts ran riot as he made his way to the fencing hall. What the hell was he to do with Rosalie Rowland? He cursed anew when he saw that some of the plaster-and-lath ceiling had fallen in overnight thanks to a spell of heavy rain; cursed again when he had to push aside that great mutt of a dog who leapt up eagerly to greet him. ‘Garrett, I thought I said—’
‘Aye, Captain. I’ll find a new home for him soon enough.’
Alec sighed and went to greet his oldest, his truest friend.
Lucas Conistone, Earl of Stancliffe, looked just the same as ever: effortlessly elegant, his clothes exquisite. Alec clasped his hand. ‘Lucas, by God! I thought you’d become a rustic, never to grace the city again. When did you arrive in town?’
‘Late yesterday.’ Lucas smiled. ‘Even Verena felt it was time to catch up on the gossip of the ton.’
Alec noted how his friend’s handsome features lit up as he spoke his wife’s name. ‘How are Verena and the children?’
‘Well, all well; the children cannot wait to see Hyde Park, and the Tower, and so on. Verena—oh, she pretends, you know, to take an interest in clothes and balls and such, but really …’
‘Really, she’s just happy wherever you are, Lucas, admit it!’
‘Indeed.’ Lucas’s elegant drawl softened. ‘I’m a lucky man, Alec.’
Garrett came in, grinning all over his face because he thought the world of Lucas Conistone. He carried freshly polished glasses and a bottle of burgundy. Alec glanced at the label and whistled.
‘Brought by his lordship, Captain,’ explained Garrett, expertly wielding the corkscrew.
‘Are we celebrating something?’
Lucas nodded. ‘Remind him, Garrett. And pour yourself a drink also, man. You were there, too.’
Garrett lifted his head proudly. ‘Two years ago to the day, the garrison at Bordeaux surrendered to Lord Wellington! There was still Toulouse and Waterloo to come, of course. But Bordeaux was the beginning of the end for Mister Nap!’
‘Indeed,’ affirmed Lucas, lifting his glass. ‘Here’s to victory.’
‘And here’s to those who didn’t make it back,’ added Alec softly. Suddenly serious, all three raised their glasses, thinking of the dead and wounded. Then Garrett, a broad smile once more splitting his face to see these old friends together again, left them with the wine.
They talked for a while about the war and mutual acquaintances. Then Alec wryly indicated Lucas’s fine clothes. ‘You said you were a lucky man, Lucas. You’re also a damned expensively dressed one—now, let me guess—boots by Hoby, coat tailored by Weston? I wonder what it’s worth to keep quiet about the filthy clothes you wore to play the spy in Portugal? My God, you used to go unwashed for days on end!’
Lucas pointed at him, laughing. ‘You, too, Alec—you were with me on some of my most dangerous adventures, remember? We were ragamuffins, both of us! But that’s all behind us. And your father’s not well, I hear.’
‘My father’s not well and I’ve got a brother I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.’ Alec finished off his wine. ‘My father’s gone to Carrfields, though that’s not
