A Sense of Sin (7 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

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

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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Something within him, a wave of feeling, crested and cast him loose. “Daring? Will you be daring enough to meet with me despite your mother’s prohibitions? Will you be daring enough to seek out the experience of the world you lack? Will you? Will you come with me? Into the dark?”
Celia Burke was under no illusions as to what Viscount Darling was asking. Despite the warning voices of her parents clamoring in her head, she wanted nothing more at this moment than to give in to the dark. To give in to him. Even in his present incarnation, she did not want to resist him and his dangerous, velvet-cloaked lures. Clearly, Viscount Darling was a man with great experience of the shifting shadows of desire and the pleasures to be had there.
She would take his devil’s bargain. She would put herself into his power.
Viscount Darling. What a name. Lizzie would have said something entirely witty about
that
, but Lizzie wasn’t there. Celia was quite alone and unequal to the wittiness needed to deal with such a name, or such a man. For the Viscount was without a doubt the most handsome,
darling
man she had ever laid eyes upon.
When he exerted himself to be pleasing he had the blond, blue-eyed good looks of a remorseful angel, the kind who would weep and still smile while smiting sinners. The smile seemed to hover just at the corner of his mouth, ready to pounce upon his lips at a moment’s notice. Oh, and what a smile it was. Dazzling in its brilliance. And his lips, so strangely soft looking in such a hard face. A man ought not have such beautifully bow-shaped lips. Yet the whole of his face, even with his incongruously soft lips, was wholly masculine.
She ought not be thinking anything about the Viscount’s lips or their lovely shape. No wonder her mother had warned her against him. He was already a bad influence on her wayward thoughts. How bad an influence he was to be upon her actions was yet to be proved.
“When you look at me like that, Miss Burke, I begin to be sorry I did not ask you to dance.”
“Why? You said you did not care to dance.”
He changed the cadence of his voice, whispering, creating an atmosphere of intimacy. “I begin to see the advantages it affords, for the opportunity to hold hands with a lovely young lady for a small length of time, without censure.”
“Oh, yes. I see.”
“Do you? Do you see I should have liked the opportunity to dance and hold hands with
you
, Miss Burke? But as you’ve been forbidden to speak to me, I can only assume you would have been forbidden to dance with me, as well.”
Her silence served as confirmation.
“And yet”—his deep voice dropped to a murmur—“though we are not dancing, we are speaking, aren’t we? Out here in the secluded dark. All alone.”
“You must think me a coward—only willing to speak with you when I know my mother will not see.” Her voice, so low and breathless, was unrecognizable to her.
“I think you prudent, for I know what my reputation would do to yours were we seen together publicly.”
“Perhaps. But I think you have gone to great lengths to hide the nature of your true character from people.”
“Oh, Miss Burke, never forget my unsavory reputation is well-earned. You must not forget that, even as you dare to meet with me. You must not forget, I was wanting to be able to dance with you, but not for the reasons you might suppose. Do you want to know why I want to dance with you?”
“Yes.”
“I should have liked to hold out my hand to you and feel the weight of your palm in mine, like a gossamer alighting upon it.”
Viscount Darling’s voice vibrated through her, slow and warm, like honey melting into a hot drink of spirits. It flowed over her as intimate as a touch.
“Perhaps I would have left off my gloves, in the anticipation I might better feel the heat of your skin through your glove.”
Celia almost looked down at her hand, to make sure it was still attached to her body, to make sure it was not nestled in his. The skin of her palm was warm and tingling, as if his bare, ungloved hand had caressed her.
“I would have contrived to put my hand in the slight indentation at the back of your spine as we moved through the figures or touch your waist to guide you down the line. You would have felt the heat and weight of my hand, even through the layers of your gown. Would you have liked that?”
The warm tightness deep in her belly was answer enough.
He did not wait for her answer, but went on. “And perhaps, if you might have given me the slightest hint you were not averse to my attentions, a look, a sigh, I would have contrived to take your elbow, as I led you back to your waiting mother, and my fingers would have found the soft, vulnerable skin of your inner arm just above the edge of your long evening glove, so I could discover, for one tiny moment, the silken texture of your warm flesh.”
Celia felt all atremble, like when she had had a fever last spring. Hot and cold, shaking from the confusing and contradictory feelings jerking and swooping inside her chest like a tethered kite.
She put out her hand to stop him, to preserve her distance and her sanity, to keep him from coming any closer.
Yet he never approached. He stayed where he was, across the gap of ten feet, pressing his back against the opposite wall. The span might have been two hundred for all that he would not pass it. His hands were tucked behind his back, pressed flat against the brick wall, as hers were against the column, tracing the slight texture of the plaster in substitution for tracing his face.
“And I should have liked to know”—his low voice rumbled on—“if after that one tiny moment, my touch had made your breath tremble within your chest.”
It was trembling now, even though he had never so much as moved an inch or a muscle. She tried to collect herself, to throw off this strange spell he had woven around her with his voice.
“Yes”—he gave her that slow, enigmatic smile—“I very much regret that I can never experience that dance with you, Miss Burke. It seems such an awful waste.”
C
HAPTER
7
“V
iscount Darling.” Her voice was breathless and low. She shook her head to clear it.
A noise, the sound of feet upon the gravel walks, had her turning her head. The musicians must have been taking a break, or it was late enough for the supper. She had no idea of the passage of time.
“I fear we are no longer alone, Miss Burke. You must step out.”
Celia recognized Melissa Wainwright as one of the young ladies approaching on the gravel path. She stole a glance towards Viscount Darling, but he seemed to have disappeared into the darkened depths created by the vines and branches of the ancient, sweet-smelling climbing rose. She hadn’t noticed it before.
Rosa damascena bifera
.
Celia schooled her expression to something she hoped approximated blandness and wandered slowly out onto the path, as if she had been walking the whole time.
“Oh, pardon me, Miss Burke. I don’t mean to intrude, but I thought I saw you out here by yourself. You are all by yourself, are you not?”
Ah yes, ruination seemed to be available at each and every corner. “Yes, of course.”
But Melissa was not convinced. “I thought I saw you come out with the Vile Viscount.”
“I spoke to him to give my condolences on the death of his sister. You remember Emily Delacorte, do you not?”
“I . . . that is to say . . . I cannot recall.”
“She was at Miss Hadley’s with us. She died from a fever. No matter. I came out after, for some quiet and fresh air when I noticed I’ve a small rip—a very tiny, slight rip—in my flounce. It’s small, but I fear another misstep could tear it further. I sent for my maid, Bains. I’m waiting for her now.” Celia stepped away from the arbor and twirled herself around trying to get a look at the offending tear, making a deliberate spectacle of herself to divert Melissa’s attention from the shadows behind her. “Mr. Percy Mandeville certainly has a lot to answer for. My advice would be to avoid dancing with him at all costs.”
“That’s easily enough accomplished, as I have not been introduced to Mr. Mandeville. You are lucky to have so very many admirers. But I don’t remember seeing you dancing.”
“Am I?” Celia chose the safer topic. “Yes, I’m sure I must be lucky. But the grass always does look greener from the other side of the fence, doesn’t it.”
Over Melissa’s head, Viscount Darling slipped from the far end of the arbor to the shrubbery beyond. When he would have passed completely from sight, he stopped, silhouetted against the dark enveloping green of the hedge and looked at Celia, his endlessly bright eyes holding her gaze in invitation.
They were not done. He would be waiting for her. In the dark.
“You mean . . . you don’t like it? All the attention.” Clearly, Melissa could barely conceive of such a thing. Her mouth gaped open in astonishment.
“I assure you, Melissa, there is nothing I like less than being put in front of people. It makes me dreadfully uncomfortable. The process of a ball so very much resembles the auction of prize sheep at the fair, I can’t like it.”
“You don’t like to dance, when all the gentlemen want nothing else
but
to dance with you? They all but fall at your feet, begging for the favor.” Melissa looked at Celia with something more cynical than wide-eyed wonder. “You don’t even like it, and all the young men are wild to dance with The Ravishing Miss Burke.”
“Oh, please don’t repeat that name. It’s just silliness. There are a great many women in Dartmouth, not to mention the rest of the country, who are far more beautiful than I.”
“But they’re not here, are they?”
“Of course they are. You’re here.” Celia couldn’t help herself—she reached out and touched Melissa’s arm.
Melissa drew back in astonishment.
“I’m sorry, I’ve startled you.” What on earth had prompted such behavior? Had Viscount Darling’s intense words uncoiled within her the need to touch
something
? To
feel
something?
Melissa looked uneasy, shocked even.
Celia felt like such an awkward fool. She talked on to cover her embarrassment. “I’m sorry, if I am the first one to tell you, but you must know you are a very beautiful woman. Surely others, or your Mrs. Turbot, for instance, has told you that?”
“No. Why would she do so?”
Celia smiled at the strange, changeable nature of people. They defied classification, they made no sense. Why should everyone in Dartmouth tell her
she
was beautiful and no one tell Melissa Wainwright? “Because it’s true. You haven’t lacked for partners this evening, have you?”
“No. You’ve been very kind in introducing me to your acquaintance.”
The words were correct, but there was an edge, a neediness to Melissa’s tone Celia began to remember from school.
“Well, now they are your acquaintance. You may do as you wish with them, without any interference from me.”
“Your cousin was kind enough to invite me, but others may not receive me when they find I’m not like you. That I’ve no money and no connections to speak of.”
“You have yourself, your conversation, your style. I hope you will not find Dartmouth society so high in the instep that they would behave so shallowly. I hope you believe
I
will not behave so shallowly.”
“No, you will be kind to me. You always have been kind. I can only hope others will follow your example.” Melissa tossed her chin up and put on a fierce smile, full of renewed purpose. “I will make myself a success.”
Celia could only admire such determination. “Of course you will. You already are.”
Melissa nodded, but didn’t seem inclined to move away or end the conversation. Viscount Darling would not wait in the dark forever.
“Well, thank you for your assistance. I’ll have to send again for my maid. I wonder where she could have gotten to?” Again, Celia performed her little dance of trying to look back over her shoulder to find the rip.
“If you’ll pardon me—if I may—it’s just here.”
And there it was. A small rip to the hem of the flounced border. How bizarre. And how fortuitous. It was pleasant not to be lying.
“There it is. Well, I suppose I should be thankful it wasn’t my toes. Although it was a very near run thing with Mr. Mandeville! I had hoped to escape unscathed.”
“Only slightly scathed, I’m sure.” Melissa’s good humor was returning. “I’m sure I could repair it for you in a trice.”
“Oh, I thank you very much for your offer, but I have already sent for Bains. I suppose I should go find her. Oh, look here she is. Thank you for keeping me company, Melissa.”
“You’re welcome, Celia.”
Celia turned to Bains and Melissa moved away, back towards the ballroom doors. The musicians were launching into another quadrille.
“Where is it, miss?” Bains crouched down to inspect Celia’s skirts.
“It’s nothing really, just there—the trim on the hem.” Celia waited until Melissa was well out of sight before she turned back to search the shadows of the arbor for signs of Viscount Darling’s presence. “How did you know to come out?”
“Footman, that Timothy Middlecroft, come to find me in the servant’s hall. You’ll need to come in where there’s better light.”
“I’ll come in, in a moment. You go get your needle and I’ll meet you in the withdrawing room.”
“Right, miss.” Bains rose. “You coming?”
“In a moment, Bains. You get your needle case and meet me there.”
“I don’t like to leave you all alone out here, miss.”
“I am perfectly fine on my own, Bains. Thank you for your concern.”
“If you’re sure, miss?”
“Bains. Just go. Please.”
The maid reluctantly retreated across the garden and down the kitchen steps without another word, though she cast at least two glances back over her shoulder as she went.
Once she was gone from sight, Celia backed around the column and ran into the arbor, down the covered walk until it gave way to the shrubbery. She waited for her eyes to readjust to the greater darkness of the tall yew hedges that separated the garden from the expansive lawns beyond.
Taxus baccata,
she noted absently. The moonlight, which had filtered through the branches of the arbor, was absent. The darkness was as soft and thick as velvet. Even the playful evening breeze had given way to hushed, sweeping quiet.
She ducked silently around the hedge and stopped herself just short of running into the wall that was his chest. “Viscount Darling.” Her voice was a rushed whisper. Up close, he was so much bigger, taller and broader than he had seemed when he kept to the shadows of the arbor. She began to feel overwhelmed, pulled into him as if he were a lodestone, as she had when he had filled the small book room.
“Miss Burke.” He smiled at her, but backed away without touching her, though he kept his clear blue eyes locked on hers the entire way.
She followed, because she could not
not
follow him, but she schooled herself to walk more slowly, letting a prudent space open up between them.
“I’m glad you came,” he began with a warming smile, and it was all she could do to stop herself from foolishly blurting out,
Me too
.
“We had not finished our conversation, had we? You had not yet decided if you would come with me.”
“I’m here now, am I not?” It was all the admission she trusted herself to give.
“So you are.” He smiled at her, a softening around his eyes, as if he were, for the first time she could discern, truly happy with her answer. “But it puts me in a bind, you see, Miss Burke.”
“Normally, if I find myself alone with a beautiful young woman in a hushed and darkened shrubbery, I would be formulating plans and schemes to try and kiss her.”
Did he not mean to kiss her? Was that not why he had invited her to this rendezvous? And was that not why she had come, so she could be kissed? It was not a flattering admission, but it was the truth. For all her declaration that he could not touch her, she was so near to him, and more than willing to have him do so.
“The difficulty lies in the fact that normally, I would never find myself with a beautiful young woman of good reputation and family in the first place. You are the first such young lady, brave enough,
daring
enough, to weather the storm of objections against me.”
Celia did not know whom she preferred, the tawny predator or the man she knew lay somewhere beneath his wolf’s clothing. “Are they really necessary, my mother’s warnings?”
“Oh, yes. Because you see, Miss Burke, I would like to kiss you. I would like nothing more. If you were some other woman, a barmaid or a widow or . . . but you’re not. You’re The Ravishing Miss Burke, granddaughter of the Duke of Shafton and niece to the Marquess of Widcombe. You are not for the likes of me.”
Celia remained quiet, surprised by the fluttering of disappointment in her chest. She was not to be kissed after all. It was almost a pity. Her eyes lingered over the dichotomy of his mouth. The straight, almost stern line, surrounded by the almost incongruously soft-looking lips.
“But I must be glad you’re not for me. If you weren’t so clearly out of bounds, I would move closer and inhale the scent of your perfume.” He moved closer, but didn’t entirely close the distance between them. His voice lowered again to an intimate rumble. “What is that you’re wearing, Miss Burke?”
She looked down at her dress and slightly lifted the material of the skirt between her fingers. “Pale rose silk, my lord.”
His eyes smiled as he shook his head. “I would have called it white, but it suits you very well. Just enough color to show off the cream of your skin and the dark silk of your hair.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“But your scent, Miss Burke?”
She ducked her chin to find a moment away from the intensity of his clear blue eyes. “Just soap, my lord.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “How straightforward you are, Miss Burke. No simpering, no flirting. May I tell you how refreshing I find such honesty?”
“No, my lord.” Her voice was losing all substance, the same as her resolve.
“Shall I tell you?” He leaned in and inhaled the warm air at the base of her neck. “You smell like that arbor, of jasmine and roses.”
“Damask rose.
Rosa damascena bifera
.”
“No Latin, Miss Burke. Just the summer scent of England and an English girl. But you’ve also got something else, something of the exotic East wafting about you. Incense and spices.”
“How can you tell all that?”
“Because I can. That’s how it is with you. I can find you in a garden full of fragrant, blossoming flowers, and I can find you in the midst of a pungent yew hedge. I could find you with my eyes blindfolded. In the dark.”
Her claret red lips formed that lovely, entirely kissable, silent
oh
of surprise.

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