A Matter of Temptation (9 page)

S
itting on the floor in the corner of a darkened room, Prisoner D3, 10 stared into the gray darkness. He’d awoken to find himself there, in solitary confinement, no windows, no light, the damned hood covering his face. He had yet to remove it.

What if someone opened the door? What if someone saw this face that he hated? This face that looked exactly like his brother’s?

He wondered at the time. What was his brother doing now?

Surely he’d not carried through with the wedding ceremony. Of course he had. His brother had always wanted everything—everything to
which he wasn’t entitled. He’d want the future duchess of Killingsworth as well.

With a growl, Prisoner D3, 10 smashed his fist against the floor.

He
can’t have her! She belongs to me. Everything belongs to me!

He got to his feet and began to pace. The voices of his ancestors were calling to him. He’d failed them.

He had to escape. He had to reclaim that which belonged to him.

Sunlight danced across her eyelids, only Torie didn’t want to awaken. She wanted to stay where she was. It was so comforting there. She felt safe, secure. And above all, cherished.

As she worked her way through the fog of sleep to wakefulness, she became increasingly aware that she
was
protected, nestled within a cocoon—the plush softness of the coach seat on one side of her, the firm warmth of a man on the other.

Her husband.

Holding her breath so as not to disturb him, she carefully twisted her head until she could see his face. He was asleep, just as she’d been only moments ago.

His head was tilted at an odd angle that she was certain would cause him to have a stiff neck for a good part of the day. His hair was no longer styled, but locks had fallen across his brow. One of his arms was beneath her, the other draped in
nocently over her side, not holding, but simply resting.

She studied his face, features she’d thought she knew, but in sleep he seemed more like a stranger. His lips were slightly parted. Long, thick eyelashes rested on his cheeks. She’d never realized before how many lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes and mouth. And how deep they were. As though they’d been carved by hardship and suffering, rather than joy or merriment.

Reaching up, she touched his unshaven chin. She’d never before seen him so unkempt, and yet she found herself attracted to the disorder. It made him seem incredibly approachable, not quite so noble.

She realized she would see him like this every morning for the remainder of her life.

She turned her hand and feathered the back of it against his dark, rough stubble. Before she’d barely begun, his eyes fluttered open, and she found herself gazing into a blue as deep as the night. And yet there was sadness, like someone on Christmas Eve staring into a shop window at his heart’s desire, yet knowing he would never possess it.

With a tender touch, he skimmed his thumb over her cheek. “You have the softest skin.”.

His voice was raspy from sleep, but his eyes contained an intimacy born from having her within his arms, and it would take little now for those arms to close around her, for that mouth to play over hers…

“Cucumber.”

His brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

She felt the heat rush to the very spot he was touching. “I apply a special cream that is made with cucumber.”

“I’ve always fancied cucumber—but to eat, not to put on my face.” He gave his head a subtle shake. “Women are such odd creatures.”

“I’m not certain I appreciate that assessment.” She ran her finger up to his temple. “You don’t look as though you slept well.”

He shook his head slightly. “I watched you sleep for a good part of the night.”

“You must have been bored to tears.”

“I was fascinated. The moonlight on your face…I have never seen anything that brought me such pleasure.” He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “We need to untangle ourselves.”

Only she didn’t want to untangle herself. “Let’s begin the morning with another proper kiss,”, she rasped.

His gaze drifted down to her lips, his fingers tightened on her wrist. Sometime during the night, he’d loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt. Now she watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

“Please,” she whispered, hating that she sounded as though she were begging, hating that she had to suggest it again rather than have him take the initiative. He was a man, and it was a man’s nature to want a woman, and it was a
woman’s nature to hold him at bay—until they were legally wed. Then the barriers could come down and the passion could rush in.

She watched his eyes close, his lashes rest along the curve of his cheek, as he lowered his head slightly, bringing his mouth slightly above hers. She felt the whisper of his breath wafting over her lips, warming them, just before he settled his mouth firmly over hers.

It was a cautious kiss, not much different from the one he’d delivered at the church, only this time his mouth was centered over hers, rather than to the side, but it was fraught with…insecurities. As though he feared she’d not welcome his advances.

She wasn’t certain why she knew that. Only that she did. He didn’t come after her with amorous intentions or passion. He seemed to be simply testing the waters of her desire, and she wondered if desire was stirring through him at all.

Last night his Kiss had contained more passion. Was it because he’d delivered it through a veil of darkness? Did the sunlight make him self-conscious—even of a simple meeting of the lips?

As his mouth played lightly over hers, she wanted him to lose control, to want her, to need her….

“Robert,” she began, the word forming the opportunity for him to slip his tongue into her mouth.

At that moment, everything changed. The na
ture of the kiss deepened, heated. She heard him groan, felt the rumble of his chest against hers, the almost painful tightening of his fingers on her wrist. His tongue swept through her mouth, igniting her passion as easily as a match to kindling.

She heard a whimper, a sigh, surprised to discover they were coming from her. She angled her head slightly to give him easier access—

Then he was gone, pulling away from her, the look in his eyes that of a man horrified by his behavior.

“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely, his breathing coming in short pants.

“What is there to forgive?”

“I will not take you in the coach, like a barbarian”.

She knew she should have felt insulted; instead she was elated. He wanted her. He truly did. Did he think lovemaking required gentlemanly behavior? How boring. At this moment she thought she might prefer a barbarian.

“I wouldn’t mind,” she stated truthfully.

“Wouldn’t mind?” he asked as though he’d forgotten his earlier comment.

“Being taken in a coach. The intimacy—it’s all I’ve been able to think about of late—what it’s truly like between a man and a woman. I know it’s scandalous—but surely you’ve thought of it as well.”

His eyes darkened with intensity, his gaze seemed to turn inward as though he could see
those very thoughts. “Every moment since I met you.”

She released a self-conscious laugh. “But you were always so proper. I had no idea. You never even hinted—”

“It’s easier to hold at bay that which has never experienced freedom.”

“I don’t understand.”

“To give voice to my desires would make them more difficult to control. It is the nature of the beast, to be aroused by a scent, a touch”—he skimmed his finger along her cheek—“a promise.”

“I’ve never known you to be so poetic.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if you pretended that you only just met me yesterday.”

She smiled. “But then we’d have no history, no memories of times spent together. I can’t erase twelve months of knowing you as though they didn’t exist. Without them, I might never have found myself beside you at the altar yesterday.”

“Of course.”

Strange, but she thought she heard disappointment in his voice.

“It’s because you mean so much to me that I don’t want to cast those memories aside,” she said, trying to persuade him of her sincerity.

“If not the memories, then you must at least cast me aside. My body grows numb.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”

Without creating further intimacy or being too personal, he tried to extricate himself from the
intimate position of having her lying atop him. He lost his precarious balance on the edge of the seat, his arms flailing as he sought to keep himself from falling off the bench while she scrambled to move away from him, so he could move more freely. He succeeded in righting himself and lurching to the opposite side of the coach.

“Damnation!” he bellowed, jerking upright, hitting his head on the coach ceiling. His hand had gone to his backside and he was twisted around, looking back, and she realized with startling clarity that he’d sat on her hat pin.

She pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing at the comical expression of confusion on his face. The coach began to slow, and he tumbled back onto the seat. She swallowed back her laughter.

The coach stopped, the door opened, a footman peered inside. “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”

“Everything is fine. Do have us stop at the next inn as I’m quite famished.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The footman closed the door. She heard him talking to the driver, then they were once again off.

“Your hat, Duchess.”

She took it from him. He’d not only sat upon a pin, but the feather as well, because it was broken, hanging limply to the side.

“And your pin,” he said gruffly.

She took the bent object from him. A bubble of laughter escaped. “I’m sorry.”

“As well you should be, laughing at another’s misfortune.”

The second bubble of laughter stopped abruptly, because she couldn’t quite identify his tone. It wasn’t anger. It sounded quite a bit like amusement, an attitude more along the lines of what she’d expected.

“I believe you shall have to purchase me a new hat.”

“I would rather you wear your hair unadorned, preferably without pins”.

“Without pins, it would be”—she touched the nape of her neck and realized she must look a fright—“rather untidy.”

Something flashed over his face that she couldn’t decipher: desire, anticipation. And she couldn’t help but wonder if he had visions of mussing up her hair while ravishing her with more kisses.

He looked out the window, gazed behind him. “We’re nearing a town. We should be stopping soon.”

“Good,” she said. “I think I need to put myself back to rights.”

He gave her a sly look. “No need to do so on my account.”

She averted her gaze. He seemed more at ease this morning. But then so was she. Marriage re
quired adjustment, and she was beginning to think they were moving along splendidly.

Robert wanted to tiptoe his fingers rapidly up and down her sides, poke her stomach, tickle her, make her laugh. Her short burst of laughter in the coach had left him yearning to hear more. Her laughter was a bright, jovial sound, like sunlight piercing a dark forest, offering hope that something brighter waited just beyond the shadows.

Damnation, he thought he might spend his life willingly dropping on hat pins just to hear her laugh.

As he sat across from his wife at the table in the inn, he wondered how often she’d laughed for John. If she was truly Robert’s, he would seek to make her laugh all the time, to smile, to have her eyes sparkling. He would strive to bring joy to her because so doing would bring joy to him.

He wished he knew how to amuse her now, short of making a fool of himself.

Her appetite seemed to be with her as she finished off the last of the eggs on her plate. She’d left him for a while. He was fairly certain she’d scrubbed her face because her cheeks were pink. And she’d straightened her hair because the few errant strands that had worked their way free during the night were now in place again.

A pity, that.

He hated to see anything deprived its freedom—even a strand of hair, but especially hers. He would
so like to see all of it free, cascading around her.

“How long is your hair?” he asked.

She looked up from her plate, her brow knitted, and he feared for a heartbeat that it was a question to which he should have known the answer.

“It stops just past my hips,” she finally said quietly. “Perhaps you’d care to brush it sometime.”

He thought of gliding not a brush or a comb through the strands, but his fingers. Over and over until they became entangled in the dark curtain of her hair. It reminded him of polished mahogany, a sheen so rich that just the thought of it cascading around her was enough to stir his desire.

“Would you brush mine?” he asked, meaning to tease.

But the warmth he saw in her eyes only served to ignite his passions further.

“Could I use my fingers?” she asked.

His voice became lost to him, and he could do no more than nod.

Her lips parted, her tongue slipped out slightly, slipped back in. “Then, yes, I should like very much to brush your hair sometime.”

He held her challenging gaze for what seemed a lifetime. Were women no longer the shy creatures he’d known in his youth? Dear Lord, but she was a danger he could ill afford.

Clearing his throat, he came to his feet with less force than he had during their last meal to
gether. “I must check on the preparations for our departure. Excuse me.”

If it were at all possible, he needed the driver to deliver them to Hawthorne House before nightfall, before he once again had the opportunity to hold her within his arms, because he wasn’t certain he’d be able to restrain himself from doing more.

Torie found the journey today to be more pleasant, a bit more as she’d expected. She regaled him with tidbits from her youth, about which he’d never before expressed an interest. While he relied heavily on her to carry the conversation, he seemed enthralled by anything she told him, as though he was as enamored of her voice as of the details of her stories.