A Sense of Sin (13 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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He didn’t understand, he couldn’t possibly understand the upwelling of emotion and need and desire. She had no words to explain.
He closed his eyes. “I’m no gentleman at all.”
She pulled the loose sides of her shirt back together and held them there, clutching them closed, until there was not so much as a sliver of skin showing. “I don’t believe you.”
He opened his eyes, but for the first time, he looked away, unable to hold her gaze. “You ought to.”
“No. Because if you weren’t a gentleman, you wouldn’t still be holding my horse, eight feet away from me. If you weren’t a gentleman, we’d be rolling—” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. They created too vivid an image in her brain. A vivid, intimate picture of what might happen if the Viscount ever forgot himself enough to
do
all the things of which he spoke. To touch her and kiss her and stroke her. The things that made her feel daring and restless and wanting. Wanting to do more than just talk.
Del was stunned. There was no other word for how blind-sided and nearly senseless he felt by the force of his need, his desire for her. For this woman he did not want, this girl he could not have.
He let his head fall back against the hard, uneven stones of the wall and rammed his thick skull hard against it, searching for the pain, seeking it even. Anything to keep him in place, anything to ground him to the spot where he stood. Anything to keep him from walking the five steps separating them and taking her bared breast into his hands and into his mouth and suckling her.
With a groan he turned, bracing one hand against the wall over his head, mooring himself there, keeping her from his sight and giving her a moment of privacy to restore her clothing to rights. He waited until he could no longer hear the rustling of fabric. “Are you all to rights?”
“Yes.” Her voice was threadbare and too quiet.
He understood. He was, after all that, at a loss for words. “Thank you does not seem adequate for the occasion.”
She smiled a little, with relief, he thought.
“We ought to go. I’ll be missed.”
She retrieved her mount and legged herself up into the saddle before he had collected himself to help her. In another moment she had the reins gathered in her hands, ready to move off. It was just as well. In his current state it was not safe for him to touch her, even something so innocuous as helping her into the saddle.
“Miss Burke.” He stayed her with his voice, low and urgent. “May I see you again?” Even as he said the words, he wondered what exactly he was asking. What in hell, she would think he was asking. “I find I must—I want—Will you see me again?”
God’s balls.
He’d been reduced to stammering entreaties.
“Yes.” Typical, straightforward Celia. No more than one word, when just the one would suffice.
“Thank you, Miss Burke.”
“Viscount Darling?”
“Yes?”
“Under the circumstances, don’t you think . . . well, might you call me Celia? I think perhaps we’ve come a bit too far for Miss Burke.”
“Yes.” He smiled at her simple, sweet, straightforward logic. “I suppose we have come a bit far. But you see, while I may think of you as Celia, I may not call you that, else I might forget myself and slip and call you by your Christian name at the most inappropriate or inauspicious moment. Perhaps it can satisfy you to know you are Celia in my secret heart.”
As soon as Del had escorted Celia as close as he dared to the gates of Fair Prospect, he turned and rode hell for leather back over the headland and home to Redlap Cove. He practically threw the reins to the stableboy, Jims, and made an immediate retreat into the sanctuary of the house. He was strung as taut as a halyard.
All because of a few hour’s worth of privacy with Miss Burke.
Celia. Sweet God almighty, Celia.
He took the stairs two at a time, intent upon reaching the privacy of his bedchamber, though he was alone in the house. McAlden kept his own rooms in one of the secondary cottages on the property, but he had deemed Darling too august a guest to stay anywhere but in the spacious guest chambers of the main manor house. At the time, Del had thought it a ludicrous courtesy, but he was more than glad of the silence and privacy.
He slammed his way into the chamber, taking his frustration out on the inanimate doors when he had much rather be taking them out in another, far more carnal way.
Damn my eyes.
Why did she have to be so beautiful? So god-damned beautiful it set his teeth on edge just looking at her? He knew deep in the empty, unused portions of his soul what he was doing was wrong, but was not able to stop himself.
God almighty, but he was a cad. He was bloody well able to stop himself. Trouble was, he didn’t want to.
Not only was she beautiful, she was responsive. So sweetly responsive. And as she was, it seemed, so was he. Just the sight of her one day ago, on the sand, stretched before him in the hot, heavy sunshine like some pagan offering, had nearly done him in. And today. The mere thought of what she would look like when he had all her clothes off, naked and waiting beneath him, had him harder than a swivel gun and twice as likely to explode.
Del gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw hard, and still he could not withhold the surge of pleasure that brought his cock erect between his legs.
He leaned his head back against the door and closed his eyes, the better to envision her again. The bright sunlight of the morning had slanted across her face. It had highlighted the contrast of her pale, pink-tinged skin against the dusting of freckles and the dark sable of her hair blown across her face by the breeze. Her articulate hands had seemed so deceptively delicate as she peeled off her riding gloves. So slow and nimble at the buttons at her throat.
He couldn’t withstand it any longer.
His own hand went unerringly down, his fingers making short work of the buttons at the flap of his breeches.
The memory of his first glimpse of her hidden flesh as the buttons of her habit came undone washed through him. She had quivered in anticipation as the tiny closures of her nearly translucent chemisette slipped apart to reveal the first sliver of soft white skin, her head tipping back against the wall at his words, exposing the long, long slide of her neck as it flowed down into the pale, glowing skin above her shift. Her throat working convulsively to swallow her fear and excitement as she let her fingers graze over her soft flesh and dip lower.
He took himself in hand and stroked up hard, pleasure coiling through him as he braced his legs apart and pushed his weight back into the stout panel of the door.
He could still envision the flush that began on her cheekbones when she closed her eyes and turned her face aside. The blush that spread slowly, like a smear of raspberry jam, across her chest as she slowly revealed one breast, uncovering it like a gift. Her beautiful naked breast, small and so perfectly round, held cradled by her quiescent fingers.
He stroked down, the friction of his fist tight on his cock-stand, fierce and blissful. He reached down and palmed his balls.
God, yes.
Her fingers so tentative as they searched out and found her nipple, and she felt the unexpected pleasure as she circled and then pinched the berry pink buds. The sound she had made as she plucked herself, the single note flying surprised from her open mouth, as if she had no idea. As if she’d never touched—
Aghh, God.
The rapture spasmed through him as he rocked his hips and slammed back into the shivering door frame.
Celia. Sweet God, Celia.
C
HAPTER
13
“C
elia, where have you been? I expected you hours ago.” Her mama called out to her the minute Celia stepped into the back hallway.
How did she always, always, know?
“I was riding, Mama, and I lost track of the time.” Celia did not stop, but kept walking towards the staircase.
“Celia.” Lady Caroline’s voice held all the cold and inexorable force of a glacier.
Celia came back to stand in the doorway.
“You did not take a groom with you.”
“I went out early and wanted to be alone. I wanted time to myself.”
Her mother looked at her in total silence for a long minute. “Pray, do not lie to me, Celia. Firstly, it is unbecoming in a lady and secondly, you do it poorly, for which, at this moment, I suppose I ought to be grateful.”
Celia held her silence. There was no possible response.
“Were you with him?”
Celia didn’t pretend to be evasive. Her mother was right—she wasn’t very good at it. “I met Viscount Darling up on Jawbone Hill, if that’s who you mean, and since I did not have a groom with me, he offered me his escort for the ride.”
“I see.”
“He was a perfect gentleman throughout.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Celia felt the first welling of stubborn, irrational anger. “And I’m glad of it. I was glad of the opportunity to talk to him and get to know him better. I like him more as a friend than any twenty other young men whom you always seem so eager to promote. He was well-spoken and kind, and I don’t know why you—”
“Of course you know why! He has made some efforts to repair his good name but he still has an unsavory reputation. A scandalous reputation. He drank to excess. He gambled. He consorted with all manner of—I will be blunt—reprobates, light-skirts, and criminals! Less than two weeks ago he was involved in a prize fight at a tavern on the waterfront. For years he had no regard for his family honor and he has, as yet, still not repaired his breech with them. And now it seems, out of all the rest of the world, he has developed a fascination for you. Can you tell me why?”
A fascination? Was that what it was? Whatever one called it, it was dark and needy and heady and confusing. And not something she could talk about with her mother.
“I don’t know! Perhaps because I was his sister’s friend. And because I have chosen to speak to him kindly about her.”
“You cannot make me believe you spent an entire morning and afternoon riding about the countryside, doing nothing more than talking about a nineteen-year-old girl who succumbed to a fever over a year ago.”
“No. But while we did talk of other things, as well as his sister, Emily, we did nothing else but talk. And I was glad for it. He was kind to me. He has lived a fascinating life.”
Her mother took a deep fortifying breath before she went on. “Celia, you are nearly a woman grown. You are rapidly approaching an age where your decisions will be all your own. I
beg
you to be cautious of this man. He ran away from his responsibilities to his family for years, abused his family’s honor by taking up a profession unworthy of an heir and then, once he did come home, he spent all his time in idleness and dissipation.”
“I disagree,” Celia countered stubbornly. “He did not take up an unworthy profession. He was trying to earn his own reputation as an officer and a gentleman, rather than merely inherit it.”
“Do you truly believe he has so quickly, in the space of less than a fortnight, reformed his character? He is not a fit companion for a gently bred young lady, no matter his fascination. Or perhaps, because of it.”
“Mama, he has no fascination with me,” Celia insisted, her voice rising in frustration. “He has not singled me out in any way. Our meeting was purely happenstance.” She was lying. Twice in the space of one conversation with her mother. It was astonishing to realize how little she knew herself. Or how little control she seemed to have over herself. She could not stop the lies once they had flown from her mouth. They had already taken on a life of their own. “You make too much of nothing.”
“Celia, I beg you. Do not lie to me and, please, for the love of God, do not take up the habit of lying to yourself.”
For one monstrous moment, Celia did not know what to say or do. It was as if the words had come out of her own mouth, her own heart. Hadn’t she said something nearly exactly the same to Viscount Darling?
Oh, God.
Who had she become? What more of herself was she willing to give up for the bliss and the pleasure. The temporary pleasure he would give her only as long as his fascination lasted.
Before she could put any more lies into her mouth, Celia burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry, Mama.” She had to speak around her gasping hiccups.
“My darling girl,” her mother was there in a trice, enveloping her in her arms, “I understand, I do. I was young once. I can see he is a fascinating man. But he is also a dangerous man. If I cannot keep the danger from finding you, then I will do what I must. I will consult with your father, but I can see nothing for it, but a removal. I think it’s time you had a season in London.”
Celia had always protested any of her mother’s plans to take her to London to show her off. If she must be bartered away like a prize ewe at the fair, Celia had always said, she’d much rather do so in the comfortable, secure environs of Devon and not in some dirty city.
Celia had never had a London season and at twenty, she felt a little old to be making a London come-out. But the city had many advantages, not the least of which was the residence of the Royal Society. Celia would also be able to pursue a number of publishers.
And Viscount Darling would not be there. She could put everything, the blackmail and the wager, behind her.
“Yes, please. Let us go to London.”
Lady Caroline’s eyes grew round with fresh worry. She had not expected compliance. “Oh my sweet child,” she breathed. “It must be truly worse than I thought.”
Lady Caroline and Celia settled into the Marquess and Marchioness of Widcombe’s spacious town house at No. 51 Grosvenor Street in the heart of Mayfair. Lord Thomas was kept by pressing business from going with them. They took only Fells and Bains on the journey, and of course the coachman, Mr. Thaddeus Filberts, and a full complement of footmen. The journey was uneventful and enlivened only by the bickering between Mr. Filberts and Lady Caroline, who questioned and taxed the man with everything from his choice of roads to his decisions about when to change horses.
The entire reason for the discord could be laid to the single fact that Lady Caroline could not countenance a driver who was not named John Coachman. As Mr. Filberts had been with Lord Thomas since before Caroline became his lady wife, he had declined to force Mr. Filberts to go by a name not his own. Lady Caroline insisted, however, invariably calling him John Filberts Coachman, and he responded with all the appearance of due deference to Lady
Carlin
. It was such amicable disdain, and of such longstanding duration, they all regarded it as a comic relief from the tedium of driving.
Mr. Filberts, against the express wishes of Lady Caroline, chose to enter the city from the southwest, along Knights-bridge Road. To Celia, the city seemed to appear abruptly out of the fields. At Hyde Park Corner the noise and congestion, and the sheer amount of people was astonishing. Thousands and thousands were everywhere she looked. She saw horses and carriages of every shape and description. There was something new to see at every turn.
“Don’t gawk, Celia dear.” Mama chuckled.
But Celia could not stop herself. She had been right when she told Viscount Darling a greater experience of the world would probably only lead to greater confusion. How could so many different, strange people live cheek by jowl, without driving each other to utter distraction? And she hadn’t yet even ventured out of the safe enclosure of the carriage!
Celia spent what daylight remained of their first day in London, and the greater part of the evening as well, ensconced in a window seat overlooking Grosvenor Street, watching everyone from the lamplighters to the housemaids go by. If she craned her neck hard, she could even catch a glimpse of Grosvenor Square at the corner. It was all so enormously diverting. Just what she needed to keep from thinking about leaving Viscount Darling and his icy-hot eyes behind.
But it did not exactly work. Thoughts of Viscount Darling, his eyes—and especially his words—kept Celia up for more than one restless, sleepless night. Neither her mind nor her body would let go of their attachment to him. Under his influence her body had become a
terra incognita
, an unrecognizable landscape full of sensations and yearning needs she could neither control nor abate.
The Viscount might still be in Dartmouth, but her days were full of him. Everywhere she went, she scanned the crowd looking for his tall form. Every new thing she encountered, she wanted to tell him about. Every man she danced with, she wished was him. And so it was, only two days later, while she was out shopping with her mama and Bains on Oxford Street, she did not hear her name being called until someone touched her on the arm. When she did, her heart leapt against her ribs, like a bird in a cage.
“Why, Miss Burke, is that you? I called, but you did not answer.”
“Oh, Melissa!” Celia put an involuntary hand to her chest to stem its pounding. “What an unexpected, but pleasant, surprise! What brings you to London? I thought you were quite settled in Dartmouth.”
“I was about to ask the same of you, but it must be the same answer—society and fresh amusement! And shopping of course. Mrs. Turbot and I were just on our way into this drapers for some ribbon. You appear to be going there yourself.”
“Yes, Mama is at the millinery shop just down the pavement, but Bains and I thought to look at some ribbon.”
Celia accompanied Melissa and Bains inside, though she cared little about the merchandise.
Melissa cooed and billed over the various wares hung for their perusal. “Why look at this!” she called. “You must see this, Celia. It is the most perfect ribbon. The sherry color would be absolutely perfect for you. It so perfectly matches your eyes.”
Celia smiled her thanks at the compliment. “You are too kind.”
“In that width, you must have it to trim a bonnet, or even a gown—a sash perhaps. If they have it in a smaller width you must have it for a hair ribbon. Oh, it is so perfect, you must.”
Celia could not join in Melissa’s girlish enthusiasm. When had she outgrown gushing in rapture over ribbons? No she had not outgrown it at all. She had simply never indulged. Ribbons were hardly the things to give her raptures. And hardly the things for which she would part with her money.
Celia had been hoarding her pocket money in the hopes of being able to afford some short excursions to more scientific venues than a drapers. “I think not.”
“Oh, come, I insist. It is too perfect to pass up.”
“I’m afraid I must.” Celia smiled politely and moved away, towards Bains.
Melissa would not let her go. “Why ever so?” she pouted. “There can be no reason you might not have it.”
“There is a perfectly good reason. I have spent all my pocket monies for the quarter on other things, and so, I must practice the strictest economies.”
From Melissa’s look, Celia knew she did not believe her. How could it be Miss Burke, the daughter of Lady Caroline and Lord Thomas Burke, and the granddaughter of the Duke of Shafton, had less money than Melissa Wainwright, the natural daughter of somebody unknown, who had only a small independence?
Melissa was still eyeing Celia’s reticule, as if she might snatch it to see for herself there were no coins within. “Well, I never. I could loan you the money.”
Celia wasn’t sure if she detected a hint of pleasure in Melissa’s tone, but she could understand it. After all, Melissa would see their situations very differently. “No. I thank you, but I couldn’t.”
Was there hurt defiance in Melissa’s eyes? Celia was resolute. “Not only because I cannot know when I will be able to repay you, but also because it is my fault I have run through all my monies so foolishly and I must make myself feel my loss. You must make me feel it.”
Melissa turned away, but she could not cover the vindictive triumph shining in her eyes at that moment. “All right. If you insist.”
There were some things he could do, and things he could no longer do. Del found that he could no longer, with any sort of moral conscience, continue. He could not let himself spend another illicit minute alone with Celia Burke. His self-control was in tatters and his purpose in coming to Dartmouth had crumbled to dust at his feet.
But he couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving, of quitting Dartmouth without some explanation on his part. He couldn’t leave without seeing her and speaking to her once more. He owed her that much.
Perhaps he owed her more. Perhaps the reformation of his character he had announced in jest to Lady Harriet Renning wasn’t as far-fetched as it had sounded when he had charmed his way into Celia’s life. Perhaps it was time he meant it—for his own sake, not just Emily’s.

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