“Nothing.”
He picked up the clip of his step, all but pulling her along now. “I keep a vault in my dressing room. It isn’t my largest—that one is at Aberthorpe Palace, the family seat—but I think you’ll find something here to entice you. And”—a suggestive note the consistency of rancid oil entered his voice—“it adjoins my bedroom.”
“Oh, how delightful.” She giggled to keep from gagging.
Through the party, he led her, ignoring all calls for his attention. He was a man on a mission. Hortense was glad for the dagger strapped around her ankle. She trusted Jamie would do all in his power to keep her safe—she doubted it not for an instant—but a wise girl always had a contingency plan. This night wouldn’t go the way Rothesbury thought it would, not if she had anything to say about it.
And, truly, she was relieved to be passing through the fray of the party, for in her and Jamie’s absence, more inhibitions—and articles of clothing—had been shed, more closely resembling the decadence of an ancient Roman orgy than a proper English aristocratic ball. What permissions a simple mask allowed.
All too soon, they entered a room that could only be described as an unchecked explosion of gold and aubergine. Of course, Rothesbury’s bedroom would resemble a bordello. He snapped his fingers at the valet nodding off in a chair. “You are dismissed for the night.” A sly smile curled about the duke’s fleshy mouth. “And shut the door behind you.”
The servant sprang to his feet, offered Rothesbury a low bow, and vacated the room before Hortense could blink. The duke crooked his finger at her, and she followed him into his dressing room, where he removed a small painting from the wall, revealing a square black vault. He twisted the key in the lock, and the breath froze in her chest. The entire operation hinged on the sapphire tiara being in that safe.
“I know the perfect trinket for you, my delightful little marchioness.”
His hand slowly emerged…holding the sapphire tiara. She exhaled a sigh of relief that could have easily been mistaken for one of pleasure. “Oh, your grace, you can’t mean—”
“I saw how much you admired it.” He moved closer, the tiara held out before him.
Hortense willed her body to remain in place. Four minutes. That was the amount of time she and Jamie had agreed would be enough to secure the jewel. Still, she noted all the exits. Two doors and a window. She could escape one way or another. Her hands bunched into fists at her sides, ready, in case quick action was needed. She would aim low. He would never see the blow coming.
“Would you like me to remove my mask?” she asked, sweet and submissive.
“Oh, no, my pet, that’s part of the fun.”
Of course it was.
He settled the tiara on her head, and she let out a squeal of delight. “The delicious weight of all those jewels,” she exclaimed. “I must view myself in a mirror.”
He indicated the dressing room mirror, but she gave her head a shake. “I noticed a splendid gilt mirror in your bedroom. I would like to see myself in that one.” She needed to get out of this small, isolated room with him. She was too vulnerable in here.
He gave a chuckle equal parts salacious and indulgent. “After you.”
On light feet, she traipsed across the room, all giggly delight, and began preening before the mirror. Narcissus would have nothing on her for vanity. Rothesbury came up behind her, and every muscle in her body instinctively constricted. She hadn’t realized until this very moment how much bigger the duke was than her.
But she was quicker and smarter.
Right?
Right.
Andshe had a dagger strapped to her ankle. It had never once let her down, and it wouldn’t tonight, if needs must.
Yet when his hands trailed down her arms, her fingers again curled into fists. She might very well need to break role and fight this man off. She would be ready.
Had it been four minutes yet?
“I’ve never seen a more delectable temptation than your neck, Lady Clare. I must sample a taste.”
He lowered his head, clearly intent on pressing his fleshy lips against her skin. She was readying herself to deal him a blow to the nethers he wouldn’t soon forget when the door flew open and Jamie stormed into the room. “What in the blazes are you doing with my wife?”
High color on his cheekbones, metallic fury in his eyes, the anger radiating off Jamie wasn’t for show. He charged across the room and grabbed Rothesbury by the collar, forcibly pulling the duke away from Hortense. The next instant, it became clear that neither the duke nor her husband had ever engaged in fisticuffs, as they faced one another, each clearly calculating what to do next.
Rothesbury struck first, delivering a rather effete slap to Jamie’s left cheek. Jamie responded in kind, except his slap whipped Rothesbury’s head around. Hortense found herself stifling a chortle. She’d been itching to do that since she’d first met the man.
Enraged, Rothesbury latched on to Jamie’s hair, which only drew Jamie closer. The duke appeared to be trying to lock Jamie’s head beneath his arm. Interesting strategy.
On a roar, Jamie used his superior strength to pull away—minus a small handful of hair—and grab both sides of Rothesbury’s face. Then he jerked his head forward on a quick snap and butted Rothesbury directly on the forehead, eliciting shouts and groans as both men staggered backward, momentarily dazed, hands to their respective foreheads.
