Kat Martin - Nothing But Velvet

v1.5

July 30, 2008

To my mother, Helen Kelly, for her unfailing love,

friendship, and support. Thanks, Mom,

you're the greatest.

E ngland , 1752

"I forbid it! Do you hear?" The duke of Carlyle's face turned a mottled shade of red beneath his mane of snowy hair. "You are a Sinclair," the duke said, his eyes locked on those of his handsome defiant son. "You are an earl, a peer of the realm, and heir to the duke of Carlyle. I will not allow your sordid relationship with that harlot to continue!"

Jason's spine went rigid. Standing in the ornate, walnut-paneled study at Carlyle Hall, the duke's lavish country estate, Jason clamped his jaw against the anger surging through him, the muscles tight across his broad shoulders.

"Forgodsakes, Father, the lady is the countess of Brookhurstnot some light-heeled tavern wench!" He was twenty-one years old, tall and well-built, a man fully grown, yet his father treated him as if he were still a half-witted child.

"She is also eight years your senior, a widow who has slept with half the ton. It is clear that she is also a woman who will settle for nothing less than the Carlyle title and fortune."

Jason's hands balled into fists. "I refuse to let you speak of Celia that way. And whether you forbid it or not, I'll see whomever I choose." Ignoring the sound of his father's meaty hand crashing down on his rosewood desk, Jason turned and stalked out of the study, his angry strides echoing on the black marble floors. Fury pumped through him, and humiliation, and an icy resolve to thwart his father by whatever means he could.

Outside the hall, his sleek bay hunter stood waiting, pawing the earth in restless anticipation. Jason gave the stableboy a curt nod of thanks and swung up into the saddle. In the window behind him, the oil lamp flickered in his father's study as the big man strode out into the hall, then the sound of a slamming door echoed clearly through the massive stone mansion.

A thread of uneasiness snaked along Jason's spine. Surely his father wouldn't follow him back to the inn. Surely not. Even a stubborn, arrogant man like the duke of Carlyle would never go so far.

Jason watched a moment more, but his father did not appear. Breathing a little easier, he reined away from the house, grateful the confrontation was over at least for the present. He set the horse into a canter, then relaxed a little more at the animal's steady, rhythmic pace. Stark rays of moonlight slanted down through the branches of the trees, and a slight breeze ruffled his dark brown hair, cooling the last of the anger that still burned at the back of his neck.

As the miles slid past, his thoughts moved away from his father's bitter words to the woman whose warm, pliant body awaited. Celia Rollins, Lady Brookhurst. Tall, slender, and beautiful, from the top of her elegantly coifed, black-haired head to her shapely breasts and narrow waist, all the way down to the high, feminine arches of her feet.

They had been seeing each other for the past three months, often meeting at the Peregrine's Roost, an intimate, well-appointed inn halfway between Carlyle Hall and the countess's country estate, Brookhurst Park. Tonight they had planned just such a tryst, and Jason grew hard inside his snug black breeches just to think of the pleasure he would find when he joined the countess in bed.

It was less than an hour till the familiar ivy-covered arch marking the inn appeared above the courtyard, setting his blood to pumping again. He rode into the walled interior, the horse's hooves clattering on the cobbles, dismounted, patted the bay's sleek neck, and handed the reins to a stableboy waiting out in front.

With long, eager strides, Jason started walking toward the rear of the building. Accessible from inside the tavern, as well as having a second private entrance outside, the room often served wealthy patrons. Jason hurried even faster, but a stirring at the corner gave him pause.

"A coin, sir? Spare a coin for a blind man and God is sure to bless you." He was a mangy creature, sitting hunched over on the ground, his body swathed in rags from head to foot, an old tin cup in one hand. Even in the darkness, Jason could see the sores on his pasty skin. He tossed a coin into the metal cup, made his way to the back of the inn, and took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. A single brief knock and Celia beckoned him in.

"My lord," she whispered, smiling as she went into his arms. She was slim yet voluptuous, a vision of loveliness in the glow of the small fire blazing in the hearth. "Jason, darling, I'm so glad you've come."

She pressed her lips against his and kissed him with eager abandon, making him instantly hard. Jason kissed her back with the same hot need he sensed in her, dragging the pins from her silky, waist-length hair. It shone blue-black in the lamplight and hung straight down her back, a midnight curtain that contrasted his own chestnut, not quite shoulder-length hair worn in a queue at the nape of his neck.

"Celia my God, it feels like years instead of only a week." He kissed the spot below the rim of her ear, trailed kisses along her bare shoulders, and frantically began to work the buttons on her gown, a heavy sapphire silk, nearly the same shade of blue as his eyes.

For a moment Celia faltered. "I-I was afraid I know how your father feels I thought you might not come."

"My father's opinion doesn't matter. Not in this." He kissed her again as if to prove it, then began to kiss a path along the arch of her throat down to her breasts, but a pounding at the door stopped him cold.

He wouldn't, Jason thought, imagining the angry, mottled face of his father. But as he feared, when he opened the door, the duke stood there in the opening.

"I've come to have a word with you. Both of you." Blue eyes clashed with blue, his father's gaze darkened with a hint of steel. The duke's fierce glare took in the countess's dishevel, her uncoiffed hair and rumpled gown. "I won't leave until I do."

Jason clamped his jaw, fury warring with humiliation, for Celia as well as himself. "Say what you came for, then leave." He stepped back as his father walked in and closed the door. Sliding a protective arm around Celia's waist, he silently cursed his father, and thanked God they were at least still fully clothed.

The duke of Carlyle fixed them with an icy stare and opened his mouth to speak. Then he frowned, his eyes shifting toward a movement at the door on the other side of the room. For a moment he just stood there. The echo of a gunshot ended what he might have said, the deafening blast filling the chamber, the lead ball taking him square in the chest.

The countess stifled a scream, and Jason gasped in horror at the scarlet blossom erupting in the middle of his father's silver waistcoat. The old man grasped the spreading stain as if he could keep his lifeblood from spilling out and pitched forward, both knees buckling beneath him.

"Father!" The word exploded from Jason's throat. He spun toward the duke's assailant, stared with horror into the familiar face of his half brother, Avery, who had climbed the outside stairs and fired through an open window, then Jason felt an agonizing pain burst in his head. The room began to spin and his legs refused to support him. Bright spots darkened his vision and began to close in.