The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 35

  “Merrick,” she murmured. But, to his dismay, she didn’t resist, only whimpered as he drew her against him.

  * * *

  Claire grew dizzy as he pulled her against the hardness of his body, pressing his broad chest against her breasts—the sensation utterly delicious.

  That face was like a guardian angel peering down at her, his blue eyes glittering like sapphires.

  His lips were so close to her own now that she could scarcely breathe. And then he whispered her name.

  “Claire,” he said, and it sounded like a cry for help.

  God forgive her, she knew he was going to kiss her. She knew she should stop him, but she couldn’t. She longed for him to hold her and chase away the chills and the darkness.

  And she wanted something else she couldn’t name.

  “Claire,” he whispered, his breath soft between her parting lips.

  Claire swallowed, vaguely aware that her fingers clenched the crisp, white shirt beneath his jacket. How they found their way beneath the frock she hadn’t a clue.

  Maybe she wasn’t so proper after all, she lamented, as his lips touched upon hers ever so softly, because her body convulsed in secret places she dared not even think about.

  Hot and velvety, his tongue slid into her mouth, shocking her with its warmth. Claire responded instinctively, mimicking his foray between her lips, sparring with him with her own tongue, mimicking his gesture.

  He swore and drew her against him, clutching her close as he ravaged her mouth with a fierceness that both surprised and thrilled her.

  Somewhere in the distance, fireworks exploded and people cheered. Or perhaps it was only inside her head, because something sensational exploded throughout her body, sending shards of color bursting behind her lids.

  A shadow flitted before her eyes, slipping back again into more shadows, but Claire was certain she’d imagined it in the dreaminess of the moment.

  Chapter 21

  “There you are! Confound it, Claire. You had everyone worried.”

  Dazed and breathless, Claire turned to face Lord Huntington, her hand going to her lips, though not out of shame. God help her, she didn’t even have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed, although her mouth felt bruised and swollen from Merrick’s kiss.

  “I—I am sorry,” she offered.

  Lord Huntington continued to rebuke her. “Alexandra said you’d received a strange message and left in a rush. Considering the circumstances, what were we supposed to think?”

  “As you can see, she’s perfectly fine,” Merrick interjected. “On the other hand, you seem to have a rather annoying habit of turning up at precisely the wrong moment. Tell me, Huntington—have you nothing better to do with your time than to follow my fiancée around?”

  Lord Huntington scowled at the question. “It does seem someone must chaperone her, since her prince charming is hardly a gentleman.”

  “You see something amiss with a man wanting a kiss from his bride?” Merrick asked, stepping forward, his stance confrontational, his hand clenched by his side. Claire had never seen a man look so quietly fierce.

  “She’s not your bride as yet,” Lord Huntington countered angrily.

  Claire might have panicked about the possibility of their coming to blows, but she suddenly bristled over Merrick’s question, and her anger took precedence.

  She’d had just about enough of both men.

  Botheration! She might have remained calm if only Merrick hadn’t said what he’d said. While Lord Huntington might actually have cause to defend her honor, he certainly couldn’t know it. And Merrick—well, he had no cause at all to expect a kiss from her. She wasn’t his bride!

  Lifting her skirts so as not to trip in her flight from the garden, she was anxious to escape their presence, but not before giving each man a small piece of her mind.

  “I am a grown woman,” she reminded Lord Huntington with as much aplomb as she could muster. “And you, sirrah, are not my father!”

  She turned to Merrick, raising her voice only slightly. “And you!” She cast a glance at Lord Huntington and the words caught on the tip of her tongue. She turned back to glare at Merrick. “You!” she repeated in frustration, and then spun away, marching toward the quadrangle.

  The truth was that she wasn’t certain who she was angrier with—Lord Huntington for hounding her, or Merrick for speaking so flippantly about something so precious as a kiss and for affecting such a casual attitude toward their situation. And more than anything, she was angry at herself for thinking any kiss from Merrick could be considered precious.

  Completely sobered by the exchange, Claire vowed to keep her distance from Merrick and to guard her heart. This was a business arrangement, after all, not a love affair, even if the man had a winsome smile and a voice that made her heart trip.

  He was using her, she reminded herself, and she was using him. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, and that was that!

  Sucking in a breath, she pasted on a false smile, refusing to look back. She couldn’t care less if either man followed. Lord Huntington could go twiddle his thumbs and Merrick could go straight to Jericho.

  * * *

  “Not an ounce of steel in that one,” Ian commented.

  Huntington cast him a baleful glare, but didn’t reply. Without another word, the man turned and followed Claire’s dust back to the festivities like a lovesick hound.

  Bloody bastard.

  Something like jealousy curdled in Ian’s belly as he watched the man go. Still, he was in little hurry to join them. Claire would be safe enough with her watchdog nipping at her heels and he wanted to savor the moment. His heart was still hammering and his flesh was still throbbing over the intimacy of their kiss.

  She was a termagant for certain.

  Who the devil would have thought he’d lose his heart to some hot-blooded city chit who could kiss like a temptress one instant and nip at his arse like a rabid dog the next—and that he would like it, no less.

  God’s truth, he wanted her even more than he wanted restitution from his father, he realized. In the end, if he could have Claire, and a little surety for his kinsmen, all would be well.

  The hedge rustled almost imperceptibly behind him. Ian spied the movement in his peripheral. “You can come out now,” he said to Ryo.

  Ryo hesitated only an instant. When he emerged, the little man was smiling with something that could be mistaken for pride, if Ian didn’t know better.

  “Very good, denka,” Ryo said, using that damnable appellation Ian couldn’t quite gauge the meaning of. To begin with, he’d called him denka-sama, eventually dropping the sama. It was a title of sorts, he was nearly certain, though what it meant, he couldn’t begin to imagine.

  “How did you know I was there?”

  “I saw the moon shine off your pate,” Ian lied.

  In fact, he’d only guessed. Who else would be keeping such a close watch over him?

  Ryo chuckled.

  It was the first time the bugger had shown the least bit of mirth or even cracked a smile. In his own surroundings, Ian hardly knew how to converse without looking for the humor of a situation. And no matter how desperate his men grew, they were always jesting and laughing together.

  Ryo gazed upward at the pyrotechnics finale. “The lady’s temper is as… expressive as those fireworks, hai?”

  Now it was Ian’s turn to chuckle.

  They shared a moment of camaraderie while the last of the rockets flickered and disappeared into the night sky. It was the first bit of ease he’d had since leaving Glen Abbey. Under different circumstances, they might have been friends, Ian thought, as he considered the man standing beside him.

  Ryo stood staring at the erupting sky, his hands clasped behind his back in a military fashion.

  There was so much Ian needed to know, so much he could never ask his father or his mother directly. Still, he hesitated, reluctant to speak openly about what they both already knew. Curiosity won over better judgm
ent. “When did you realize you had the wrong passenger?” Ian asked, dropping all pretense.

  “The first night,” Ryo said evenly. “When we stopped at the inn.”

  “How?

  “A simple deduction, denka. Your ring finger did not bear the royal crest. Denka-sama would never willingly remove it.”

  “Denka-sama?”

  “He is the crown prince. It is his title.”

  “And denka?”

  Ryo met his gaze and said, as a matter of fact, “You are your father’s son, but not his heir.” His attention returned to the night sky.

  Ian nodded and asked point-blank, “If it’s such a simple deduction, isn’t it curious my father hasn’t noticed the missing ring?”

  “Your father is preoccupied, denka.”

  Ian couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone. “That’s painfully obvious.”

  Ryo peered up at him, tugging thoughtfully at his small white beard. “In my country,” he began, responding to the comment with yet another riddle, “it is said that four things come not back—the spoken word, the spent arrow, the past life and the neglected opportunity. Your father is haunted by three of these ghosts.”

  The canny little Asian remained silent while Ian digested the information. Clearly, the letters revealed regret. It was obvious that harsh words lay between his parents. And yet their entire lives had passed without either attempting to make amends. How many opportunities had each let slip by?

  “You must take care that you do not follow his path,” Ryo added.

  In the distance, a pair of lovers strolled their way, spotted them, giggled and veered onto another lane.

  Ian thought of Claire and felt a stab of impatience.

  He had never been one to waste opportunities. He’d be damned if he’d let anything slide by: not Claire, not the chance to confront his father, not this moment to uncover more truth. With the fireworks over, it wouldn’t be long before guests ventured back into the Dark Walk. “Why did you not go back after Merrick when you realized your mistake?” he pressed.

  “What makes you think I did not?”

  Ian arched a brow. “And still you left him?”

  Ryo nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Life is the wisest of teachers, denka. My greatest concern was for his welfare and your friends took him well in hand, so I left him to follow his chosen path.”

  Ian had had little doubt his men would lead Merrick to safety once they recognized his face. “They’re good men,” he acknowledged. “But that doesn’t explain why you didn’t reveal me. For all you knew, I may have intended harm. I didn’t precisely welcome Merrick with open arms.”

  Ryo’s eyes narrowed. “It is said that when the character of a man is unclear, one need only to look to his friends. And so I knew.”

  Without thinking, the question slipped from Ian’s tongue. “Who are Merrick’s friends?”

  Ryo lowered his gaze. “Alas, true friendship is rare, denka. In this way, you are far richer than your brother.”

  Ian had suspected as much, and he felt a keen pang of loss for Merrick—for the friend and brother he might have had. “Tell me, Ryosan. What role do you play in my brother’s life? How is it you know him better than his own father?”

  “I am his sensei… his teacher.”

  “And his friend?”

  Ryo’s black eyes twinkled. “I believe it is time you made an appearance at your celebration, denka, or your bride will soon greet you with her own manner of fireworks.”

  “In other words, the lesson is over, old man?”

  Ryo shook his head. “I can only advise you,” he countered. “But if you do not soon listen to your heart, I’m afraid your lessons will only have begun.”

  Chapter 22

  It was nearly 3 a.m. before the party quit Vauxhall Gardens.

  Ian’s father, accompanied by the duchess, led the convoy of carriages returning to Berkeley Square. In the following carriage, Merrick and Claire rode in silence, in much the same mood in which they had ridden together the day of their first meeting, with one notable difference: Claire was coming home with him. That fact kept Ian grinning despite the baleful glances she continued to cast in his direction.

  She had yet to forgive him for some imagined slight and they’d spent the remainder of the evening standing side by side, making idle chatter with well-wishers while she tossed verbal daggers at him beneath her breath.

  In spite of that fact, Ian was enjoying the sight of her seated so primly before him. He admired the spitfire in her.

  Somehow, she brightened his moments; when she was near, everything seemed vivid and full. When she was not, he felt a strange void he’d never known could exist before now.

  He could easily grow accustomed to her presence, he thought. And it would be incredible to see her face every evening before going to sleep and each morning when he awoke.

  Och, he was smitten, and he hadn’t the first qualm over admitting that simple fact.

  Besotted. Lovesick. Taken.

  All these and more.

  She was tired; he could tell by her droopy lids, and he longed to bid her to lay her head upon his lap, so that he could remove her pins and run his fingers through her silky hair.

  “What was it like to have a brother?” he asked, trying to make conversation, wanting to know more about her and curious as to what he had missed as a child.

  She tilted her head, peering up at him quizzically, brows drawn together. “Why do you ask?”

  “I simply wondered.”

  She crossed her arms, rubbed them, and turned to stare out the window, even despite that there was nothing to see but darkened houses. “Ben and I are only two years apart,” she yielded. “He took care of me. He vexed me. But he was always there for me.” She sighed. “I only hope he’s well.”

  “As do I.”

  She met his gaze, her irritation softening a bit, her green eyes filled with anguish.

  “You don’t blame yourself for Ben’s circumstances, do you?”

  She shrugged. “When my father died and Ben discovered the debt we were in, he was concerned mainly for me. He worried something would happen to him and that we’d not have the means to support me through my old age.”

  She turned again to stare out into the night. “He and Papa used to jest that no man would know how to handle me—even were I not such a solitudinarian and I chanced ever to meet someone.”

  “A what?”

  She shot him an embarrassed look. “I don’t really like to be around strangers,” she explained.

  “You don’t strike me as being particularly timid.”

  “I’m not. I simply despise idle chatter. And I don’t like frilly dresses, shoes or politics.” She lifted an accusing brow. “Or, for that matter, rude people.”

  Ian smiled, endlessly amused by her mettle. Even as fatigued as she seemed, she had the heart to reprove him. “And what is it you do you like, lass?”

  “Philosophy,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Science, solitude, and truth. And butterflies. Tell me, why do you have such a strange accent? At times, it sounds slightly… Scottish.”

  Ian considered his answer carefully in light of her revelation and chose not to lie. Instead, he changed the subject. Soon enough, he would reveal everything. “Why butterflies?” he asked.

  She shrugged again. “Because they are born absolutely hideous and reveal their beauty only after time and to those who linger to see it.”

  He considered her explanation. The woman was, by far, one of the most beautiful human beings he’d ever encountered, but she seemed to take great pains not to call attention to that fact. Her dress was understated, she wore no face paint and her coif was simple.

  “Are you a butterfly, Claire?”

  Her head snapped up, her eyes slightly glazed. “What I am is fagged,” she replied tartly, dismissing the question. “If you don’t mind, Your Highness, I would rather not share my private thoughts with you. I continue to be gratef
ul for your help but I would very much appreciate keeping our arrangement on a professional level.” Then she turned again to stare out the bloody window.

  Ian was taken aback.

  “Certainly,” he relented, and sat back to mull over the evening, trying to determine what he had done to anger her.

  Kisses didn’t lie—she must have some feeling for him. In retrospect, he must have said something stupid to hurt her, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it might have been.

  Merrick was already gone the following morning when Claire descended below stairs to break her fast. The scent of sausage and bacon drifted out into the foyer, making her ravenous, despite the fact that she had a small, lingering headache after last night’s imbibing. Alas, Alexandra had warned her she might experience a twinge.

  In the dining room, His Majesty sat perusing the morning paper. She hesitated in the doorway, reluctant to disturb him.

  “Good day,” the King said, peering up from The Times. “Please join me, Claire.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and entered the dining room, whispering good-morning to the attending servant as she chose a seat at the opposite end of the table. She was famished, certainly, but there were boundaries she didn’t wish to cross, and disturbing Merrick’s father at his breakfast was one of them.

  “Why don’t you sit closer,” he suggested before the attending servant could pull out her chair.

  The servant immediately pushed the seat back under the table. Giving her an apologetic look, he barred its use by placing his hand firmly upon the back as though she would tussle him for it. Claire gave him a puzzled glance and chose a seat closer to His Majesty.

  Apparently, His Majesty’s every request was law, she thought with some bitter amusement and felt instantly sorry for the child Merrick had been.

  No wonder the man didn’t know how to ask for anything. He’d had a rotten example. Her own father would never have forced his will upon either of his two children.

  “You are, apparently, quite the darling this morning,” he said, pushing a section of The Times toward her. Something about his expression provoked her.