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She wondered if Deveril would truly miss her. Or would he just miss the sex? He would be furious, of that she had no doubt. He’d consider she’d betrayed him, though she’d taken nothing other than a diamond necklace and a couple of easier-to-sell pieces of jewelry which she considered more than adequate recompense for what he’d received in return.
She was nearly at her chamber. She just had to cross a landing, and then she would hurry out of her flamboyant gown and be forever rendered anonymous by her serviceable wardrobe. Soon her tenure as a courtesan would be at an end.
“Have you lost your way, madam?”
Startled, Jemima turned at the voice, some distance away at the end of the corridor. To her horror, a tall, lean gentleman with curling dark hair and a hooked nose was peering at her through the gloom. She felt like a beacon in her crimson and gold dress, standing in a pool of light cast by the candle sconces above her head.
“No, my Lord.” She turned her head away, but not before she caught his sudden stillness. He couldn’t have recognized her, but something had resonated. She began to walk more swiftly.
He was following her. More terrifying was the fact he didn’t address her again. He simply was striding, closing the distance between them.
Her heart was in her mouth now. Her fingers itched; the skin on the back of her neck began to prickle. She felt ill.
What was more important than anything? Getting the clay tablet from the urn in the Blue Room. She recognized the large urn at the end of the corridor she was currently treading. Byzantine, 200 BC. The Blue Room was on the left. She would have to duck in there. She hadn’t changed, and if she had to, she’d take her chances while she could.
“Stop! Aren’t you..?”
Taking a quick turn so Lord Griffith was still traversing the other corridor, she grabbed the doorknob and slipped inside. He thought he recognized her. Had he seen which door she’d accessed?”
The fear burned up her throat. Yes, this was the Blue Room, and there was the urn. But now the footsteps were just outside the door. He had seen her enter. The bed was empty, she thought. She’d dive under the covers, for she feared instant death if he chose to let himself in and find her alone in this chamber. He would do it too—slit her throat—for she was vulnerable, alone, in disguise, on the run. He’d fancy his chances.
Running now across the expanse of thick Aubusson carpet to the bed, she threw back the bedcovers. She’d cover herself…
But the bed was occupied. She nearly screamed, and for a split second awaited exposure from its no-doubt horrified occupant.
Instead, she felt a large hand feel for her in the dark. In the tiny bit of light cast by the guttering candle that had been left on the side table, her gaze raked up a long, lean torso, naked now, for the gentleman in question who had retired for the night wore no night shift.
In that split second before inevitable discovery, she focused on the pair of dark brown, surprised eyes that then kindled with the warmth of recognition as their owner breathed the words, “Jemima. So you came to me at last.”
She was about to rear back. To explain the misunderstanding. Her dilemma. Her fear. The consequences.
But now the doorknob was being turned. With a gasp, Jemima threw herself upon Lord Ruthcot’s neck, fastened her mouth upon his, and didn’t recoil when he threw his leg
over and kissed her back, deep and hard.
“Good God!”
She wasn’t sure who it was who said it first. Certainly, Lord Ruthcot expressed outrage without, fortunately, exposing Jemima’s identity, for he immediately held her protectively within his embrace while objecting angrily over her shoulder at the intrusion.
Lord Griffith didn’t need too much prompting to retreat. Clearly, he’d not been sufficiently convinced of Jemima’s identity to press his case.
“I had no idea, my Lord,” he stammered, as he obviously turned back towards the corridor.
The moment he closed the door, Jemima struggled out of the circle of Lord Ruthcot’s arm, straightening her skirts which had rucked up past her knees.
“I didn’t know…” Wildly she looked from the door then back to Lord Ruthcot who was propping himself up on his elbows and holding up the candlestick. He was smiling at her as if he was the cat who’d already swallowed the cream.
Jemima swung her legs over the side of the bed as she began her escape. Of course, she couldn’t stay a moment longer on a bed with a naked man who was looking at her as if she really was the most delicious creature who’d crossed his orbit in many a long while. Regardless of how inviting the prospect seemed at that moment. His musky warmth and obvious admiration had definitely found their mark in those crucial seconds he offered protection.
But Jemima was on a different mission. A life-affirming one that she would not allow to be swayed by the weakness of her clearly corrupted mind and body.
Lord Ruthcot reached over and pinioned her round the waist as he waylaid her, looking up at her from his supine position. His tone was warm and lazy. “You wanted to make the most of the final hour before you’re expected by Lord Deveril?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Admit it, my sweeting.”
Jemima shook her head. She was shaking, as much from aching desire as the shock of nearly being discovered by Lord Griffith. But—no! —she couldn’t succumb to Lord Ruthcot’s overtures. She couldn’t, for that would make her as bad as she was painted. In her own mind, she wasn’t Deveril’s mistress through desire. She’d chosen that path when the alternative was death through starvation or disease. She truly believed it. To offer herself up to Lord Ruthcot would make her a creature of contempt, and although the distinction wouldn’t be made by the public, her own perception was as important.
She was unable to control her breathlessness. “I was running from someone. This was the first room that offered sanctuary.”
Clearly, he didn’t believe her. His smile remained in place, and now his hand was toying with her thigh. He inched a little closer, and she closed her eyes against his seductive aroma of fresh sweat, wool, and a hint of leather overlaid with bergamot.
