Bound By Temptation (14 page)

His gaze held hers steadily. “I was not sure that we would ever speak of it.”

She longed to drop her eyes, but was afraid it would be seen as cowardice. “I am not sure that we are even now, but it clearly stands between us, coloring our words and actions.”

“Yes.”

He had not denied regretting it. Somewhere deep inside she had hoped he would. Despite everything, she realized she did not. Even as she had spoken the words she had known them for a lie. “We were foolish, but we hurt no one. It is over—
perhaps we had some curiosity that we needed to satisfy.”

“An itch we needed to scratch.” He spoke derisively but his expression was soft.

“Yes, and now that it is done perhaps we can move on. I will not deny that it has created some bond that I did not expect. Perhaps we can be friends.” She took the final step toward him and held out her hand.

He hesitated and then took it—palm to palm. His skin was warm, even through her glove. The tingles the contact produced were distinctly not those of a friend. She pressed her legs tight and ignored the tiny shivers.

It was harder to ignore her response as he lifted her hand and placed a light kiss on its back. He lowered it then, but did not release it.

“I have never had a female friend,” he said.

“Not even when you were young?” She should step back, withdraw her hand. This was not what she had intended. Instead, her gaze focused on his lips, awaiting his next words.

“No, not even then.”

“What of Violet? I have heard her speak fondly of your childhood together. I remember a story of you guiding her pony around in circles for hours.”

“I doubt it was hours, and she was likable enough, but I would hardly have considered us friends—but with you, it is different. I continually find myself sharing things I had no intention of speaking—ever. I do not know why, but
you always seem so ready to listen. Perhaps that is why I seem so judgmental. I am wary and react defensively.” He stared straight into her eyes. “I am doing it again. I can assure you I never meant to think such things, much less say them.”

His lips remained slightly parted, and she could see their slight vibration with each breath. They were such firm lips, she could remember how they had felt pressed against her own, how they had asked and commanded all at once.

She forced her gaze back to his eyes, only to find his glance settled on her mouth. Her breath caught, and she became aware of each movement, each swallow. Her tongue darted out nervously as her mouth suddenly felt drier than a desert. His glance followed its movement.

She shivered, sucking in a deep breath, and his glance dropped further. Her dress was not immodest, but it did reveal the top swell of her breasts. She shivered again. She felt her nipples rise to a point and dared not look to see if her dress revealed them. The blue velvet was thick, but fluid, and it was impossible to imagine what cover it provided.

Only it was all too easy to imagine. She wanted to close her eyes against the images that raced through her mind, but it was too heady an experience watching him. His pupils had grown large and she could feel the change in tempo of his breath. It caught and held and then sped. Now it was his tongue that flicked over dry lips.

She found herself leaning into him. Her glance moved between his lips and his eyes. His gaze remained fixed. She pulled in a deep breath, letting her chest expand, and he stopped breathing altogether. She felt so powerful—and yet so weak.

When his eyes finally returned to meet hers, she could feel the spark of fire between them. He moved forward until only a hairbreadth remained between them. When he breathed out, she breathed in the very air that had filled his lungs. His free hand rose and hovered above the skin her neckline bared. He did not touch, but she could feel the heat, the very vibration, of his skin.

It was a second frozen in time, a second that could decide the fate of their worlds. A single breath, a single touch, a single kiss, and things could never be the same.

She moved, a gesture so tiny it hardly seemed to count, and felt the silken skin of his lips against her own. She did not move to press and neither did he. It was enough to touch, to feel that connection with another. Their eyes acknowledging what their words never could.

His fingers brushed her breast, no harder than a butterfly’s kiss. She closed her eyes. Her entirety reduced to lips and breast. She felt him shudder, the movement coursing through her as well.

Then he was gone, cold air filling space where warm flesh had been.

Her eyes opened slowly. He had backed away and now stood a good foot from her. His expres
sion was shuttered, but she could see the difficulty he had in holding his expression still. It would be nothing to disturb his hold, to push him to that edge from which there could be no return.

She must not. She could not have defined why, but she knew that only heartbreak could follow such a choice. She turned from him and walked to the window, staring at the crush of carriages down the street. She focused on watching a single groomsman guide a curricle between two older, heavier vehicles. A single wrong pull of the reins and disaster could ensue.

She sucked in the muscles of her stomach, holding them tight until she felt she would pull apart. Her hand shook as she placed it upon the cold glass of the window. She was glad there was no reflection to be seen. She did not need to see herself shaken and haunted. She would imagine only strength.

She turned back to him. He had walked across the room and stood gazing into the fire with the same absorption with which she had addressed the window. “I will take my leave then. I cannot see that there is more to say.”

He did not look from the flames as she walked toward the door.

It was only when her hand was upon the handle that he spoke. “I will accept your offer. Help me find a wife. I am clearly in need of one.”

E
ven four days later, Masters did not know why he had spoken. It would have been by far the wiser move to let her go. But then he continually acted unwisely around her.

If he had just let her go, he would never have found himself in this ridiculous position of riding in circles in the park. She was late. Nothing else she did made life easy, why should something as simple as a stroll in the park be any different?

He rode past the same tree for the fifth time. Soon every newly leafed branch would be engraved in his memory. Where was the blasted woman? The plan was simple—she would walk by with her companion, he would dismount and join them, leading his horse.

Clara had explained that meeting in this way lacked all the pressure of setting an actual appointment to stroll. There would be no expectations and no need to follow the exacting strictures of public courtship.

And she had said with great emphasis, because they would be in public, she would be an accept
able chaperone. She had winked as she said it, letting him know that her standards would allow for a certain permissiveness of behavior.

His mind had immediately been full of hot, hungry kisses behind the pines. It reminded him of being a schoolboy trying to steal a kiss from one of the maids. He could only hope that he met with greater success now than he had on that occasion. There was something deliciously wicked about the whole situation.

He could picture Clara’s surprise as he pressed her back against the rough bark of the tree, feel her lips open beneath his in a gasp of surprise, smell the sweet smell of cinnamon wafting from her hair—only it wouldn’t be Clara.

It would be Miss Thompson—he believed. It was so impossible to keep the young chits straight. Yesterday, he had met with Clara and Miss Wilkes while shopping and invited them for ices.

Who ate ices in May? He shivered and drew the collar of his coat closer. There was that tree again, six times.

Then last night it had been dancing and polite chatter. He knew he had danced a reel with Miss Thompson. It must be she that he had
planned
to meet.

Then there she was, just as he rounded the next bend of the path. Half her wardrobe must be blue. Today it was the bright blue of a robin’s egg fogged slightly by early morning mist. Gads, when had such description begun to enter his mind? Her pelisse was blue. He would leave it at that.

Her hair was brushed high and caught at the crown of her head, elongating the elegant length of her neck. He’d never noticed her neck before, how long and graceful its lines were. A bonnet hung loosely down her back. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her wear a proper hat. Clara liked her freedom too much for that.

He allowed his gaze to drop lower. The close-cut lines of her pelisse emphasized every curve. He had known she was luscious in Norfolk, but now she seemed made just for his hands, his lips. If anything, she seemed fuller every day, more ready to fill his eager palms.

“Good day, Mr. Masters. It is wonderful to see you here. It is delightful that the weather has finally seen fit to turn.” Clara spoke the lines as if written by her governess. He could hear the lecture now—proper conversation when meeting a gentleman unexpectedly in the park.

He glanced up at the gray sky. “Yes, quite delightful.” Her lips were rosy today as if she’d bitten them gently to bring out the color. Violet had once explained such womanly secrets to him when she’d been but a girl. Had Clara bitten her lips just to present him with such temptation?

“You do remember my companion, Miss Pettigrew, do you not, Mr. Masters?” Clara gestured to the girl at her side.

Miss Pettigrew? Masters turned his eyes from Clara and examined the girl. Had he ever met her? There was something familiar in the shape of the jaw. Where was Miss Thompson? He had been
sure they were supposed to meet Miss Thompson today. “Of course, it is wonderful to see you again, Miss Pettigrew.”

The girl giggled, a high-pitched, shrill tone. That would have to change if he were to wed her. He could not face giggles at breakfast—or lunch or dinner, for that matter. Now, a laugh like Clara’s, that was the way to start a day. He didn’t think he’d even mind being woken from the deepest slumber by such a sound.

He was just starting to imagine the brush of her soft hair against his face and opening his eyes to her smile when Miss Pettigrew spoke. “What a surprise it is to see you here.” She giggled again. “Lady Westington was ever so kind to suggest that we stroll on this lovely afternoon. It is always so pleasant being out of doors.”

For a man who had been raised in the country, a London park hardly qualified as out of doors. Indeed, he’d seen hothouses that were wilder than these manicured lawns. “Fresh air is always refreshing. What else was there to say?”

“Oh yes, it is refreshing, most refreshing. I do so love being refreshed. From giggling to gushing.

He wondered if she would repeat each word he said in triplicate. “I do hope the weather holds. I fear the clouds are threatening.”

“Oh, don’t say such things,” Miss Pettigrew replied. “Threatening always sounds so, well, threatening.”

Miss Pettigrew repeated that only twice. He caught Clara suppressing a grin. She tried to put on
a stern expression as he turned to her, but failed. It was impossible to hide that gleam in her eyes.

“And you, Lady Westington, how do you find the weather?” he asked.

“I truly do find it most delightful. It is warmer than it has been the past days, and of that I can only approve. I have never been one for chilly days. I do not mind a true cold that causes one to bundle up from head to toe, but I dislike that lingering chill that seems to always catch one unprepared. I believe such days are best spent huddled under the covers in bed.”

Masters did not doubt the sincerity of her comment, but as he gazed up at the heavily clouded sky and shivered beneath his coat, he could not help wondering that she wasn’t in bed right now—and he wouldn’t have minded being there with her.

“I see from your look that you wonder that I find this day better than any other. I suppose I am ready for summer to finally take firm hold and will take every sign that it is truly here.” Clara turned and stroked a twig. “When I see the green filling the trees, I am convinced the weather will be good. I refuse to believe otherwise. It is probably why I am often caught unprepared when the weather becomes chilled.”

“I find myself growing chilled just listening to you speak,” Miss Pettigrew spoke up. “Being chilled is so unpleasant and it may lead to one catching a chill.”

Did
catching a chill
count the same as
chilled
? He wasn’t sure whether to count it as two or three.
He examined Miss Pettigrew’s face for any sign that she was hiding a great sense of humor. Could her words really not be deliberate?

He found no sign of anything but earnest attention. It was only as a deep flush rose on her cheeks that he realized how long he had been staring at her. He turned back to Clara, who still had that almost-grin upon her lips. “May I dismount and stroll with you? I cannot think of a more pleasant way to spend an hour than walking with such fair companions.”

“Oh, please do. That would be most pleasant.” Miss Pettigrew held herself to only one repetition.

“Yes, that would be most pleasant.” Clara’s eyes sparkled, and it was clear her words were most deliberate.

“Then let us all be pleasant together,” he concluded, and swung down from his gelding. He heard Clara’s snort even as she attempted to turn it to a cough.

This was not going the way she had expected. Or maybe it was going too much so. Miss Pettigrew was certainly acting perfectly on cue. She smiled and simpered and listened with eager ears to every word that Masters said. If she accepted it as gospel that every word must be either repeated or forgotten, that was hardly her fault. Clara had met the girl’s mother and she was exactly the same.

Masters was paying attention to the girl for all that his eyes frequently seemed to slip over to her. Clara slowed her pace, dropping back until she
walked a few feet behind them. It was important that Masters concentrate on the task at hand.

Miss Pettigrew might not be the most scintillating of company but she was good-hearted and ready to take direction. She was the sixth daughter of a viscount, with solid bloodlines on her mother’s side as well. There was very little not to recommend her. In fact, if she’d been a mare she’d have been bought in a moment.

Damn, she was thinking like him now. Women were not commodities. That was one of the reasons she’d decided to partake in this exercise. It was important that Masters realize he needed to actually know the girl before asking for her hand.

She slowed. The best way for them to get to know each other was to be forced to talk. A fine gray mist was beginning to form, unusual for this time of day. Each droplet slid against her cheek like a tiny tear.

What a morbid thought. She’d always loved a good misting, and this was not the exception. She’d been sincere when she described the weather as improved. She didn’t know why her thoughts were suddenly turning to tears.

Masters and Miss Pettigrew were a good dozen yards ahead. Her feet sped up even as she told herself that it was better to leave them alone. She merely wanted to be sure that Masters was not lecturing the poor girl again.

They had developed a special code for her to use when she felt that his pontificating was growing wearisome. She merely needed to use the word
roses
, or
daisies
, or indeed the name of any type of flower, and he would consider his words and change the subject.

Or at least that was the theory. In all honesty, she had to admit that it had been her plan and that he had been quiet in his agreement.

Catching up without appearing hurried was not as easy as it might have been. The mist had left her skirts decidedly dampened and they clung to her legs, making it hard to increase her stride. At least the velvet did not reveal far more than she intended. A muslin might have proved disastrous on such a day.

Or perhaps not—

Masters was striding forcefully ahead, seemingly unmindful of either Miss Pettigrew struggling at his side or Clara herself, still trying to catch up without resorting to a run. She wondered if transparent skirts would have slowed his pace. She rather thought they would have.

The thought had the corners of her mouth turning up just as she finally drew close.

“There really is no need for a woman to read the papers daily. Her husband can inform her of the happenings in the world and those points of interest he believes she should be able to discuss,” Masters expounded.

Clara almost stopped to shake her head. He could not really be spouting such nonsense. How was a woman to make her own decisions about what was important if she received information
only through a filter, and what if she found things interesting that her husband did not?

She was about to say something when Miss Pettigrew spoke up. Perhaps the girl had more gumption than she’d given her credit for. “Really, Mr. Masters, I find I must disagree. A woman must certainly look at the papers on her own. How else is she to know the latest news?”

“I am sure that her husband will be sure to discuss all the important aspects of the day’s news with her.” Masters held firm in his opinion.

“I doubt that.” Miss Pettigrew was also unpersuaded.

Clara was developing a distinct liking for the girl.

“And what do you think your husband would not share?” Masters used a tone that would have sent any dog running, its tail firmly between its legs.

Clara had to bite her tongue to keep from speaking. It was important that Miss Pettigrew find her own answer.

Miss Pettigrew’s shoulders slumped and she looked suitably cowed, but she did answer. “I am sorry, Mr. Masters, but I find that neither my father nor my brothers can ever get the gossip right. They don’t seem to understand the importance of whether it’s Lord M or Lord N and whether it happened at a soiree or a musicale. Please forgive me if I am wrong.”

The scandal sheets. The chit was concerned that
her husband wouldn’t pay attention to the scandal sheets. That was what this was about. Now Clara truly had to bite her tongue—so hard that she tasted blood.

“You are not wrong.” Surprisingly, Masters looked less disapproving and more pitying. “I rarely even look at such things, and when I do it is only because one of my sisters is convinced the world will end if I do not pay attention to some crucial detail.”

“Then you will understand the importance of my staying informed.” Miss Pettigrew again sounded confident.

“I assure you my wife will be free to read the gossip sheets all by herself.” Masters cast a look over his shoulder at Clara, and she was left wondering if eyes could smirk.

“That’s a relief. You had me greatly troubled,” Miss Pettigrew added. “I don’t mind being told about other countries and wars and the poor, but I would hate to miss any of the important things.”

“Be assured I would never force a woman to miss the important things.” Masters kept his eyes on Clara as he spoke, and she took a multitude of meanings from his words. She also did not miss the emphasis he placed on repeating the few words of Miss Pettigrew’s statement.

“Good, then that is settled.” Miss Pettigrew looked as if she were Wellington at Waterloo.

“Yes, it is all very definitely settled.” Masters slowed his own steps until he was next to Clara and Miss Pettigrew a few paces ahead. “Don’t you
agree, Lady Westington, that a gentleman should never keep his bride from the scandal sheets?”

“I am not sure that I think he should keep her from anything.” There, that was succinct and did not cast Miss Pettigrew in a poor light.

“Oh, I must disagree. I think there are many subjects unfit for feminine ears.” Masters spoke as if she were the only one there. “Surely you do not wish to hear of war and death, or be forced to listen to the minutiae of what happens in Lords each day.”

“It is my sons who will go to war and my country that is affected by each decision our government makes. How could I not want to know?” Clara addressed him with great seriousness.