A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) by Deanna Raybourn (english novels for students .txt) 📕

I would have traveled with you to the furthest ends of creation. I would have delivered the child. I would have married you and given the damned thing a name if you wanted.”

“I will never marry,” I reminded him sharply. He was standing scant inches from me now, his mouth temptingly close. I could smell sweetness on his breath—the honey drops he carried in his pocket at all times.

“I know. Neither will I. I have seen too much of that particular institution to last me a lifetime.” I was surprised at his statement but not the sentiment behind it. He had suffered at the hands of his wife, this noble and generous soul who deserved nothing but loyalty.

“Then we are agreed,” I replied. “We will never marry.”

“Never. Although, no marriage does not necessarily rule out certain marital activities,” he observed.

“Stoker—” I murmured. His hand moved up, his palm cupping my jaw as his thumb stroked my earlobe. I tipped my head back, arching my throat towards him as I twined my arms about his neck, careful not to disturb his wound. He put his mouth to the pulse in my throat, kissing a trail from my ear to the neck of my nightdress. I slid my hands into his hair, my lips parting as I said his name again on an exhalation of the sharpest, most exquisite anticipation.

His mouth dipped lower still, his teeth grazing lightly over my flesh with only the thin fabric of my nightclothes between us. I tightened my grasp on his hair as I said his name a third time, an incantation of sorts, a prayer, a charm of summoning.

But even as I moaned my encouragement, he pulled back, letting go of me so abruptly that I nearly fell over.

“My dearest Veronica,” he said, his eyes widely, innocently blue, “I must offer my most heartfelt apologies for letting myself get carried away. After all, you were the one who said we must keep our friendship foremost. Such demonstrations can only disturb and confuse us,” he finished with an air of feigned contrition.

“Revelstoke Templeton-Vane,” I said through gritted teeth.

He held up his hands. “No, no, I am most sincerely sorry. Whatever must you think of me?”

“Give me five minutes and I shall tell you,” I threatened.

Instead he patted me on the head in an avuncular fashion and I snapped at his hand as I had his brother’s.

“Now, now. That’s no sort of way to behave to a gentleman who prizes your friendship above all else,” he told me serenely. He gave a broad yawn. “I must say, the exertions of the day have left me heartily tired. I think a good night’s sleep is in order, don’t you? Good night, Veronica.”

He left me before I could throw anything more substantial than a baleful look in his direction, but I was quite certain I heard his laughter on the stairs as he went.

CHAPTER

13

After Stoker’s departure, I put the interlude to the side. Clearly, he was determined to punish me for pushing him away yet again, this time using my own physical desire for him as the instrument of torture. I thought back to his languid disrobing on the beach, the artful way he had pressed against me in the passageway. He had spent the better part of the day arousing my appetites and yet refused to sate them. I applied a little cold water to my person to cool my heated blood and put all thoughts of Stoker and his enticing presence from my mind. He was not the only one who could play such games, I told myself.

Besides, I reflected, there were more pressing issues at hand. To begin with, I was worried for Tiberius. Our friendship was a new and tenuous thing. We had seldom spoken of truly meaningful matters. As Stoker had noted, Tiberius had cultivated his air of cool detachment as a means of keeping the world at bay, and it had worked. Too well, I thought. It was difficult to penetrate to the heart of the man. Even his openness about his occasional sexual escapades was intended to alarm and alienate rather than create intimacy. He said shocking things in order to be thought outrageous, not to share anything real of himself. If one managed to remove his mask, he would be sure to have another smoothly settled into place before the real man could be glimpsed behind the façade. It was this very elusiveness that made him interesting to me. (Shall I explain the similarities between discovering his lordship’s true character and following the mazy, winding path of a butterfly determined to escape capture? They are legion, I can assure you, gentle reader.) This likeness to my favorite pastime and chosen profession was not designed for my benefit, but there were few people of the viscount’s acquaintance more qualified to appreciate it, I decided.

And I had seen enough of Tiberius’ true character to see in him much of his younger brother—far more than either of them would have liked. Stoker and Tiberius were wounded things, both of them still carrying the barbs and venom of the attacks they had suffered at the hands of others. Stoker was marked in ways he could never escape, both physically and mentally. But for all his wealth and polish, Tiberius was just as damaged. The only difference was that his money had afforded him better camouflage for the carnage.

Listening to him talk about Rosamund, I had been struck by the pain in his voice, all the more apparent for his efforts to conceal it. He had made his voice light, chosen his words carefully, but I had seen the tightness around his mouth, the white lines at his knuckles, the tautness of his hands. And that moment when he realized I saw and understood, when he had thrown himself into my arms and at last faced his pain . . . it was almost beyond bearing. No matter what happened in the castle,