"I felt like a fool," she confessed. "But I'd do anything to stop this betrothal from happening."
His fingers paused. "Is this prospective husband so untenable, then?"
"No. Quite the contrary. The viscount is a fine man. But he's just not … not…"
"Not exciting? Not challenging? Not the kind of man who would find your actions tonight amusing?"
"Exactly."
"The viscount, you said. Are you, too, of noble birth?"
Aurora hesitated. "Yes, but my family is not the kind to call people out—in fact, they'd do just about anything to keep our name free of public scrutiny. So don't be deterred."
"A family after my own heart." Merlin's palm slid beneath her heavy mane, savoring its silken texture. "And it would take far more than the peerage to deter me." He sifted red-gold strands between his fingers. "Your hair is exquisite. Like a flaming waterfall."
"I … thank you."
Shrewdly he assessed her. "You have no experience at all with men—except, of course, for eluding them—have you?"
"Will you bolt if I say no? Because if so, I'll try to lie. Although I must confess, I'm not very good at it." She awaited his reply, wishing her wits had returned along with her sobriety.
"No, I won't bolt, and no, you needn't lie. I suspected you were an innocent the moment you began your charade. And I assure you, you'll go home as untouched as when you arrived." A hint of a pause. "Well, nearly."
"Is the two hundred pounds acceptable, then?"
"Um-hum." He lowered his head, brushed his lips across each of her cheekbones. "Is this what you had in mind when you referred to a compromising position?" he murmured.
"I think so, yes." Aurora's breath suspended in her throat, and the warm glow of the ale melded into a hotter, more compelling heat. "Are you a sailor?" she whispered.
"Only during those times when I'm en route to my destination."
"Which is where?"
His mouth traced the curve of her jaw, nibbled lightly at her chin. "Many places. The world is vast, filled with opportunities. I simply wait—then seize them."
"You've traveled?" Aurora's eyes drifted shut and she clutched the bedding as the swimming in her head intensified.
"For years." He framed her face between his palms, and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. "Do you think a kiss would be compromising enough?"
"I imagine it would be ideal." Was that the lingering effect of the ale talking?
"Shall we find out? Because if we're unable to be convincing, we'd best discover that fact now—before the dowager arrives."
"I suspect you're right." No, that was she talking. Aurora was still reeling over her own audacity when Merlin's mouth closed over hers.
God help her, was this a kiss?
Shards of pleasure screamed through her in hot, jagged streaks, the simple joining of their lips igniting sparks too erotic to bear, too exquisite to abandon. Merlin felt it, too, for she heard his indrawn breath, felt him stiffen with reaction, shudder as the unexpected current of excitement ran between them. Then he angled her face closer, kissed her again—this time more deeply—and Aurora was dragged into an explosive inferno of sensation, one she'd never imagined, much less experienced. Flames leapt from Merlin's lips to hers and back again, and the kiss took on a life of its own, their mouths meeting, parting, only to meet again.
His tongue delved inside, finding and claiming hers, then taking it in deep, heated strokes that made everything inside Aurora melt, slide down to her toes.
She responded on instinct, immersing herself in the magic, her hands gliding up to his shoulders, clutching the warmth of his shirt. He raised her arms, twined them about his neck, and lifted her against him, sealing their lips in a bottomless, drugging, intimate kiss, penetrating her mouth again and again until the very room seemed to vanish, until nothing existed but the torrent of sensation blazing between them.
Neither of them heard the commotion below. Nor were they aware of the sound of pounding footsteps ascending the stairs. Thus, when the door to their room burst open and an unexpected audience swelled on the threshold, they both started, pulling apart to stare dazedly at the intrusion.
A gasp rose in Aurora's throat as Slayde strode into the room, nearly shoving George, a half-dozen sailors, and a sputtering Lady Altec from his path.
"Aurora, what in the name of…" His words died on his lips as he spied Merlin, and Aurora would never forget the look of naked pain, of stark disbelief on her brother's face. "You?" he bit out. "Of all the men on earth, you?" Stalking over, Slayde dragged Merlin from the bed, his rage a palpable entity Aurora could feel. "You filthy bastard, not even your father would have stooped this low." His fist shot out, connecting with Merlin's jaw. "Did it give you pleasure to ruin an innocent young woman? To destroy her life simply because she's a Huntley?"
On the verge of striking back, Merlin stopped dead, outrage supplanted by shock. "Huntley?" His stunned gaze shifted to Aurora, raking her from head to toe as if seeing her for the first time. "You're Aurora Huntley?"
An ominous knot formed in Aurora's stomach. "Should I know you?"
With a harsh laugh, Slayde reached over, yanking Aurora to her feet. "Didn't he introduce himself before he took you to bed? No? Then allow me. Aurora, meet the man you nearly forfeited your innocence to: Julian Bencroft, the newly ascended Duke of Morland."
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Six long years.
Julian stood in the center of Morland's expansive library, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the formidable room. He saw beyond the oriental rug and mahogany bookshelves, beyond the high walls and gilded ceiling. What he saw were memories: ugly, indelible memories.
He'd nearly forgotten how much he despised this estate.
How many bitter arguments had he and his father engaged in within these very library walls? How many accusations had been fired between them before Julian had stormed off for good?
More than he could count, still more than he chose to remember.
Wearily Julian massaged his temples, then walked over to pour himself a drink.
His father had loathed the very sight of him.
That was fact, not supposition. Heaven only knew how many times Lawrence had bellowed his outrage, his shame, his censure … his remorse that it had been Hugh, not Julian, who'd been taken from him.
The last alone had hurt. Not because Julian gave a damn at being the object of his father's hatred, but because any mention of Hugh brought with it an acute sense of pain and loss. Julian had cared deeply for his kind, gentle older brother, an affection Hugh had reciprocated despite the fact that although separated in age by merely a year, their interests, aspirations—their very natures—had been as different as day and night. So far as Julian was concerned, Hugh had been his only family. When he'd died of a fever during his first term at Oxford, Julian's roots had died with him.
Still, Hugh had been the one thing Julian and his father agreed upon: more specifically, Hugh's suitability as the heir apparent. He would have made a fine duke, fine in a way that Lawrence, with his unprincipled, uncompromising values, couldn't begin to fathom. Hugh's qualities—compassion, decency, fair-mindedness—were the true foundations of nobility.
Julian's goblet struck the sideboard with a thud. What the hell was he reminiscing about? Further, why had he come back—not only to Devonshire, but to Morland?
The answer was laughable.
He'd come back to pay his final respects to a man who'd denounced him and was probably rolling over in his grave at the fact that Julian was the last remaining Bencroft and the sole heir to his precious title. A man who regarded Julian as lower than dirt and little better than a Huntley.
A Huntley.
As a result of last night's disaster, that name conjured up an entirely new image—or rather, an entirely new Huntley. An image that included a swarm of curious onlookers exploding into his room at Dawlish's as
he received an unexpected blow from the Earl of Pembourne … and a beautiful, candid, and incredibly exciting woman who'd set his blood on fire and then turned out to be none other than Aurora Huntley.
What had begun as an enchanting diversion had disintegrated into a nightmare worth forgetting.
Except that Julian couldn't shake the memory of Aurora's shocked, pained expression when her brother had revealed the identity of the man in whose arms she'd been caught. Nor the way she'd turned to look at him—not with hatred, nor with accusation, but with bewilderment, as if she couldn't fathom how all this had happened. Her vivid turquoise eyes had searched his face, lingering on his mouth, and Julian had read the conflict in that transparent gaze as clearly as if she'd spoken it aloud: Why hadn't she somehow known who he was? How had a plan she'd devised simply to extricate herself from an unwanted betrothal turned out to be the biggest scandal of her life, hurting not only herself but her entire family? Worst of all, how could she have reveled in the moments she'd just spent in Julian Bencroft's arms?
There wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. No apology could undo the damage that had been done, nor could a thousand avowals that nothing had happened, that they'd each been unaware of the other's identity, restore all Aurora had lost. Not that her brother would have listened anyway. After delivering his solitary blow to Julian's jaw, Pembourne had grabbed Aurora's arm and whisked her out of the tavern in less than a minute. Julian had followed shortly thereafter, having no intentions of fueling the fire by answering any of the aged dowager's rapidly fired questions or the sailors' bawdy comments.
Still, he felt guilty. Aurora had come to Dawlish's to free herself of a betrothal, ready to sacrifice her reputation in the process. Well, she'd certainly succeeded. Doubtless the intended bridegroom—whoever this oh-so-proper viscount might be—would cry off the instant he learned of his future wife's scandalous behavior. At which point Aurora would have what she sought.
But at what price?
"Forgive me, sir." Thayer, the longstanding Morland butler, knocked on the library door, interrupting Julian's thoughts. "You told me to advise you when Mr. Camden arrived. He's here and waiting. Shall I show him in?"
Slowly Julian turned, wondering—as he had so many times in the past—if Thayer ever changed expressions or lowered his nose even a fraction. "Yes, Thayer. Show him in."
"Very good, sir." Thayer disappeared, returning shortly with a tall elderly man who clutched a thick, official-looking portfolio. "Can I get either of you gentlemen anything?" the butler inquired.
"No. That will be all for now, Thayer."
"Very good, sir." He withdrew, shutting the door behind him.
The older man inclined his gray head, studying Julian with equal measures of deliberation and concern. "Hello, Julian," he said at last. "I'm relieved to see you've returned. Not only to England, but to Morland. It's been years since I've seen you standing within these walls."
Julian shot a pointed look at the family solicitor. "Don't become too accustomed to it, Henry. I don't intend to stay. After we complete today's business, we'll resume our routine practice of meeting in your office."
"When you're in England," Camden clarified.
"When I'm in England," Julian agreed, gesturing toward the sofa. "Have a seat. What can I offer you?"
"Whatever you're having would be fine." Camden lowered himself to the sofa and watched Julian pour a second healthy ration of brandy. "You arrived in Devonshire yesterday?"
"Yes. I left Malta within an hour of receiving your missive. Thank you for notifying me so quickly."
"Had I been certain of your whereabouts, I might have reached you sooner, giving you ample time to arrive home for the funeral. As it was, I could only guess based upon your last correspondence."
Stiffly Julian handed Camden his drink. "It wasn't essential that I attend the funeral. As for finding me, I never know where I'll be from one moment to the next. Trust me, Henry, you're more closely apprised than anyone of my whereabouts. Including myself, half the time."
"You're looking well," the solicitor noted.
"As are you. I trust your business is thriving as always?"
"Thankfully, yes. I can't complain. And you? How have your recent … adventures been?"
A corner of Julian's mouth lifted. "I'm not a pirate, Henry. All my business dealings are completely legal, if not orthodox. In any case, you needn't be afraid to mention them. And, to answer your question, my adventures have been quite lucrative."
"Good. I'll expect my ledgers to reflect that fact, then."
"And so they shall."
Self-consciously the elderly solicitor cleared his throat, obviously wrestling with his next choice of words. "Getting back to the reason you've returned to Morland, I'd feel remiss if I didn't offer you my condolences on your father's death—inappropriate as that might sound, given that I, better than most, know the differences that divided the two of you. Still, Lawrence was your father. Therefore, for whatever it's worth, my prayers are with you."
Julian traced the rim of his goblet. "You always were an incredibly gracious man, Henry—not to mention decent and honest. Why in the name of heaven you chose to work for my father, I'll never understand. Nevertheless I thank you for your kind words."
"My family has served yours for nearly seventy-five years, Julian, beginning with my grandfather and then my father before me. There was never a question as to whether I would continue in that tradition. Still, I won't deny there were subjects upon which your father and I strongly disagreed, most particularly those pertaining to the Huntleys and Lawrence's obsession with vengeance. Nonetheless I remained committed to serving him as honorably as I could. However," Camden added with a meaningful look, "that didn't include compromising my principles to accommodate him—even if asked."
"I understand," Julian replied, feeling a surge of admiration for Camden's integrity and candor. "What's more, I commend you." With that, he leaned forward. "Now, can we get to the purpose of this visit? I asked you to meet me here because I'd like to discuss the best way to go about selling this estate and putting the past where it belongs—behind us."
Camden frowned, opening his cumbersome portfolio and reaching in to extract a sealed document. "Before we do that, there's another matter we must see to first."
"Which is?"
"The reading of your father's will. Now that you've returned from abroad, 'tis time to address it. 'Tis also possible that hearing Lawrence's provisos could alter your plans."
"Really?" Julian felt more amused than worried. "Why? Did he decide to leave Morland Manor to some local urchins rather than to me?"
"Of course not. The estate, its furnishings, and whatever funds your father amassed are yours."
All humor vanished. "I don't want his money."
"Julian, please." The solicitor unsealed and unfolded the document. "I'm asking only for a few minutes of your time."
"I apologize, Henry. Go ahead."
"The will is standard, enumerating precisely what I've just said. Thus, I'll skip down to the final clause. 'Julian', it reads, 'unless, unbeknownst to me, your adventures have included the siring of heirs, you are now the last remaining Bencroft. This brings me no comfort. Like your great-grandfather before you, your hunger for parts unknown has induced you to forsake your responsibilities. Doubtless, within months of my death, the estate will be disposed of, the title gone, and the Bencroft name resting solely on your unreliable shoulders. For the title and estate, I realize you feel only disdain. But for the family name, the name that belonged to your brother Hugh and to the great-grandfather you so closely emulate, I allow myself to speculate otherwise. If I'm wrong, if you care not a whit if the Bencroft name remains sullied, disregard sentiment and view my forthcoming request as a challenge—the one thing other than money that propels a heedless mercenary like yourself. Either way, my request is as follows: Find and return the black diamond. End the curse. Clear the Bencroft name. Not for me. Not even for you. For Hugh. Fo
r his memory. Surely that is but a paltry task for a seasoned adventurer like yourself? Prove yourself, Julian. That is my request—no, my legacy—to you'." Camden looked up. "The will was properly executed and witnessed in my office last spring."
With a muffled curse Julian rose, walking over to gaze out the window. For long moments he said nothing, merely clutched his goblet and grappled with his father's words, with their ultimate impact. At last he turned. "Is that it?"
The solicitor lowered the pages to the table. "With respect to your father, yes. Other than to inform you that he began another comprehensive search for the black diamond during the final months of his life."
"Did he keep records on this search?"