In which chocolate is ignored
A liar can use both charm and charms to evade detection.
- from Lady Avely’s Guide to Lies and Charms
He now wore his disguise as Mr Fortnew. Startled, Judith dropped her knitting. Fearing that she had paled at the sight of him, she bent to gather it up again as calmly as possible.
“Dear God,” she said, “your moustache gave me a fright.”
Dacian grinned as he bore his burden inside. “Good afternoon, marchioness. Robert said you required drinking chocolate, and possibly some company to cheer your spirits.”
Inwardly, she cursed Robert’s officiousness, even if it had been born of kindness. “I am fine, thank you,” she replied coolly. “I merely require solitude.”
The rich smell of spices and cocoa wafted into the room. Dacian raised his brows as he set the tray down on the oak dresser. “You dismiss me, in fact.” He turned to stare at her over his moustache, as if she had announced an intention to clang the silver molinet against his head. She was aware of a desire to do so - except that she would not endanger chocolate in that way. He was not worth the passion he invoked, she told herself firmly.
She clacked her needles together with a grim focus. “You need not sound so surprised that I do not wish for your company.”
“Is it the moustache?” His hand went up and pulled the cravat pin out, placing it on the tray. The facade of Mr Fortnew vanished, revealing Dacian’s dark good looks, fine jaw, and lined cheeks. Judith tried not to glare, remembering that same cheek turned towards Lady Vosse.
“I thought I was irresistible.” He tried for his charming smile. When he saw how flat it landed, he wiped it off his face, much like the disguise. “Are you quite alright, Judith?”
“Really, Dacian,” she snapped. “Just because I am not desperately glad to see you does not mean I am labouring under an illness.”
“No,” he agreed slowly, “but what has happened to put you out of colour? Robert said you had an illuminating chat with Mrs Southcott.”
“I do not wish to discuss it right now.”
Dacian was silent a moment. “Very well. If it is peace you want, I will give it to you.” He paused. “May I at least pour your chocolate?”
“If you must,” she said peevishly, and turned her attention to her knitting. She could hear the slosh of creamy milk and the clink of the cup, and smell the fragrance of cardamon and nutmeg. Somehow the sweet scent did not have its usual allure, for she felt sick to her stomach. Dacian’s footsteps crossed the room, and she saw his hand reach out and place the cup on her bedside table. The same strong, long fingers that had clasped Lady Vosse’s in the meadow.
“There you go.” His tone was subdued. “I wish you would confide in me, Judith.”
Rage curled through her. How dare Dacian try his duplicitous charm on her now, a mere few hours later?
“You cannot have everything you wish,” she said flatly, “as shocking as that may seem.”
“I thought we were in this plot together?” His eyes narrowed. “Is your foul mood something to do with the arrival of Lord Triskett and Lady Vosse? Do you feel that they intrude?”
Judith shook her head. “There is nothing to intrude upon.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Why, Judith, I believe you are jealous!” Satisfaction coloured his tone. “You do care, after all! My dear girl, there is nothing to be jealous of in Isobel, believe me.”
His words rang true, but fury rose in her, along with an unwanted vein of sympathy for Isobel. Dacian might dismiss such dalliances as nothing, but she was certain Isobel hoped for more of his affections, as did Judith, if she was truthful with herself. Not this casual intimacy, with whomever happened to be on hand.
She stood and threw her knitting aside. “Oh, I suppose you are encouraging her advances for the sake of our investigation?” she said dangerously.
Dacian took a step back and held up his hands, his face incredulous. “Encouraging her advances? I was being friendly, I grant you, to put Isobel at her ease, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say…”
“I saw you,” said Judith, her colour high. “Do not fudge the matter, Dacian, with your prevarications. I saw you.”
“Saw me what ?”
At his confused expression, the first inkling of the truth began to bloom in her mind. “I saw you with Isobel - next to the conifers in the meadow.”
“What conifers?” He was now patently bewildered. “I have been inside all afternoon, I swear. Isobel went for a walk and I chatted with Biscuit, and then I wrote some letters, including one to Lewis. I haven’t been in any meadow. You must believe me, Judith!”
She stared at him, hearing the truth in his voice. Rage ebbed out of her, leaving her limbs shaky and her heart tumultuous. He had not been with Lady Vosse. She had seen someone else. Or something else.
He came forward and grasped her elbow, as if to steady her. “What did you see, Judith? What meadow?”
“I saw you and Isobel, clear as day, standing by some conifers.” She swallowed. “You were…intimately engaged.”
His grip tightened. “An Illusion? Good God.” Then he dropped her elbow, his eyes hardening. “And of course you believed it at once.”
Judith gaped at the sudden harshness in his voice. “It was right in front of me!”
His jaw clenched. “You are all too quick to believe the worst,” he retorted. “Just as you were on the matter of Mrs Bleau, when I told you she was in my bed chamber that night. You would not have believed the worst if you had not already possessed a low opinion of my character.”
“You deliberately misled me then! As I was misled today!”
Dacian’s face was cut in rigid lines, his black eyes snapping. “Yet both times it aligned with your true appraisal of my worth. It is quite obvious what you think of me, Judith.”
“What - that you are a rake?” Judith gathered her wits, trying to defend herself. “Everyone thinks that , Dacian. All of society knows that you cannot resist any… moderately pretty woman. I’ve seen you chase any number of skirts over the years. You cannot blame me now for painting your character accordingly!”
“What was I supposed to do?” he growled. “You were married, for God’s sake!”
Their gazes locked. There was a fraught, heavy silence. Judith’s heart beat in her throat. His mouth pressed in a hard line, his eyes sparking with anger, and something else. Pressure, subtle yet powerful, gathered in the air. It hung around them for a long moment, then faded.
Dacian heaved a sigh, though his fists still clenched by his side. “I cannot believe you thought I would march out there and ravish Isobel at the first opportunity!”
She swallowed. “I am sorry. You are right, I should have known better.” She wrung her fingers together. “It seemed so real! Yet forgive me. It seems I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgement.”
Abruptly, he rubbed his hand across his brow. “No matter. I should not be angry at you. No doubt anyone would have been fooled, and thought the same.” He took another step backward, putting some space between them, while avoiding her gaze.
“It did look exactly like you.”
He sighed again. “Describe the scene to me, please.”
“Um,” said Judith reluctantly, “you were holding hands with Lady Vosse, and…smiling at one another.”
Dacian raised a brow. “We cannot simply have been exchanging affectionate grins, to have put you in such a rage.”
“I was not in a rage,” said Judith faintly. Indeed, now she felt an overwhelming relief and confusion, to discover that she had been tricked.
A smile broke across his face, like sunlight after a storm. Judith felt her knees weaken with relief, and something else.
“Interesting,” he observed, “that our Illusor shows you merely the chaste clasp of hands, while for me he reserves the sight of bare bosoms.”
“It was not just hand-holding! You kissed her hand.”
“What, like a gentleman?”
She shook her head. “No, Isobel touched your face and then…”
Dacian’s eyes gleamed. “Show me.”
Her breath caught. “Don’t be salacious.”
“Not at all,” he protested. “I need to know what you saw, to examine what we are dealing with here. How exactly was I painted? How was the scene cast? It might give us some clue as to the culprit.” He stepped close to her and took her right hand in his. “We were holding hands like this?”
His fingers were warm, closing firmly round her own, which were ungloved. Speechless, Judith nodded. This close, she could see the faint line of the scar on his forehead.
“And then?” He pulled her closer, lifting her hand to his mouth. “Like this?”
“Dacian,” Judith managed. “It was the other…” She brought her left hand up to his face and cupped his cheek, avoiding his gaze, studiously examining her own fingers. “Then you turned your head and kissed the palm.”
She could feel his eyes intent on her. Then he did as she instructed, slowly turning to press his lips against her palm. The warmth sent a bolt of awareness spinning through her, as if the world had shivered under her feet.
“Like this?” His voice deepened.
Her own vocal cords, she found, were somewhat tardy. “Yes,” she gulped. “Then her wrist.”
He lowered his lips, brushing the inside of her wrist. She was tethered by the sensation. The rest of her felt as if it might burst into flames.
“And this?” He kissed just below her wrist. When she said nothing, he placed her other hand on his chest. Involuntarily, her fingers splayed, feeling the hard breadth of him. Her breath came out in a rush.
“And this?” He kissed the inside of her arm again and, shockingly, licked her bare skin. She quivered, affronted yet aching for more. His breath warmed the spot, then he put his open mouth on her again. She felt as if she were going to expire from need, the pull of it low and sweet in her body.
Of its own accord, her hand moved up from his chest, and she grasped his shoulder, bracing herself before she could fall over. His teeth pulled gently at her skin, his tongue flicking, and a moan fell from her.
He turned his head. Black hair brushed her arm, and she saw that his pupils were wide. “Then what?” His voice was husky.
“I didn’t see,” she confessed, her voice a breathy whisper. “I hid in the hedgerow.”
“Judith! For shame.” He paused. “I will have to use my imagination”
She gulped.
He traced his fingers along the underside of her bare arm. The sensation was exquisite, torturous, and dimly Judith wondered if she might faint from desire. Then he lifted his head and found her mouth with his.
He kissed her slowly and gently, as if he were afraid he might frighten her. Judith opened her mouth to him and thrust her body closer, desperately eager for more, too overcome to be afraid anymore. Dacian murmured with approval, and deepened his kiss hungrily.
She spun backwards in time. The magnetic force between them was the same as it had been all those years ago, by the river when he first kissed her, when they were young. Except it was stronger now; so powerful that Judith did not think it possible to ever move from his embrace again.
All she wanted was him; to devour the nectar of his touch. He returned the sentiment with a ravenous heat, his hands warm, curving round her lower back to pull her close.
Then a soft tapping came at the door.
The sound broke through their hazy awareness. Dacian stilled in her arms.
“The door,” he murmured huskily.
Judith clung to him, but the knock came again. He released her, pushing her away. Awkwardly, she ran her hands down her skirt and up to her hair. With a start, she realised that she still wore her mobcap, though it felt as if she had been completely disrobed.
Dacian was now five feet away, adjusting his breeches and smoothing his coat. His own hair remained in some disorder, black locks in disarray. His cheeks were flushed and he grinned at her, like a boy on Christmas morning. “Tell them to go away.”
“No, I can’t! It might be Robert,” she hissed. “Put on your disguise!” She cast a guilty glance at where her cup of chocolate lay untouched next to the bed.
“Must I?” He reached for the tray, where the cravat pin lay, and stuck it into the cloth at his neck. Mr Fortnew reappeared, thankfully overlaying Dacian’s roguish twinkle.
Judith cleared her throat, aware of her own high colour. “Come in,” she called.
The door opened and Robert peered inside. He looked from one to the other, and the full cup of chocolate. His brows raised in interrogation, then he recalled himself and shifted his gaze to the window like a good servant. “Excuse my intrusion, but Phyllis wants to know if you would like your supper now in the parlour.”
“Ahem,” said Dacian. “Now? Can it wait? Maybe for an hour or so?”
Judith frowned. She was beginning, with the advent of Mr Fortnew’s moustache, to recover her senses. She glanced out the window, to see that dusk was falling, the trees becoming silhouettes. Marigold would soon stir in her dresser, if she had not already been woken by their…argument.
“Nonsense, Dacian. It is time for supper. Thank you for notifying us, Robert. We will join you in the parlour shortly.”
Robert bowed. “Shall I fetch Wooten, your grace?”
Dacian was frowning at Judith, but he turned his head at this. “Perhaps after we eat. He needs a long sleep after his recent tribulations.”
“And I must change,” said Judith firmly. “As must you, Dacian. Enough of this nonsense.”
He straightened his shoulders. She could not quite be sure under the disguise, but she thought his face went blank. “Indeed, marchioness.” He paused. “I will see you in the parlour.”
When the door shut behind them, Judith sank onto her bed. She was shaky and charged with a confusing cacophony of sensations. Her body still ached with want, yet her surging desire was tempered by fear and doubt. What had just happened? How had he managed to seduce her, even as she had sworn she would not be seduced?
Curse the man. He would be insufferable now, convinced that he was indeed impossible to resist.
He had not dallied with Isobel. The relief of that still swirled in her mind. Yet why should that paltry fact make Judith throw herself into his arms? Was she so flattered that he would choose her to satisfy his masculine urges? Drawing a deep breath, Judith admitted to herself that it was true. Jealousy did indeed change one’s perception. Whereas before she would have kept Dacian at arm’s length, the thought that he might seek solace in Lady Vosse was untenable. Seeing it painted in front of her had driven that truth home with shocking vividness. Judith could not bear the sight or the thought of them together. She would much prefer that she be the Merry Widow of Dacian’s pursuit, rather than the Discreet Wife that Isobel offered.
It was a lowering reflection. Her desire and infatuation for Dacian had trampled upon her dignity and good sense.
She put her hands to her cheeks. They were still hot, her breath still ragged. What did she want of him? Having tasted his lips and felt his body against hers, she knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted all of him, every inch, around her, inside her, driving and wild. His hands and mouth, demanding and masterful, and her own hands tracing every hard, muscled plane and firm part of him, and drawing him close, as close as possible.
Lust. She drew a shaky breath. She was experiencing lust. It was a familiar acquaintance who had been away for some years. Its return was rather overwhelming. That was all. She was simply in lust, and so was he. What of it? They were two grown adults. They might indulge in it. They might give themselves the pleasure, even outside of marriage. She was past the youthful innocence that such strictures were meant to protect.
She rather thought she might die if they didn’t…
And Dacian - could it be that he wanted this as much as she did? He had looked so pleased. She shook her head. He was simply triumphant that he might pull down her bodice at last, a hunter closing in on a particularly elusive prey.
She straightened. Even now, her insistent need was fading, the fire receding to the burning of coals. She could refuse to stoke them. Throw water over them, even. She was here to solve a mystery, after all, and uncover the villain who had sentenced Dacian to exile, and perhaps even killed Harriet. There was no time for such trivial matters as lust .
Needlessly, she retied her mobcap ribbons twice, and took a few gulps of the now-cooled chocolate. It was time to reaffix her dignity, and prepare for supper. She would simply act as if that unfortunate interlude had never taken place.
Never mind that it was seared on her being, indelible and irrevocable as the Musing itself. And it seemed just as liable to give rise to Bemusement, for she felt shaky, befuddled, and quite confused.
She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing it, for it would stoke his already excessive self-regard.