Bound By Temptation (7 page)

Could passion be safe?

The thought flickered through her mind. Passion and safety. It was a strange combination. The two should have been unable to exist together, but now combined in perfect unity.

Then his tongue flicked across her lips again and any semblance of thought was lost. This time the tip swept again and again against the space between her lips before seeking entrance.

She prepared herself for the onslaught. Men’s passions were unchecked once released. Yet he surprised her. He explored rather than ravished. And each playful sweep of his tongue invited her to join him.

For a woman who’d always strived for control, the invitation was irresistible. She found herself pressing toward him, her body, her mouth, each seeking closer, more intimate contact. It was her tongue that deepened the contact, delving into his mouth in an endless dance. It was her fingers that caressed his firm muscles and sought the openings in the fabric that would allow her to feel the silk of his skin. It was her body that pressed closer, pushing against his growing hardness.

She moaned with the pleasure of it, of him.

It had been far too long since she’d felt this way. She could not remember ever feeling this way.

His hands squeezed tighter at her waist, attempting to lift her to an even better position, to nest his erection at the apex of her thighs.

She felt him quiver.

Power and desire mixed and grew until they were her whole world.

She felt him shake—and curse.

He folded backward on the stairs, pulling her with him until she lay sprawled across his lap.

She hoped it had been a gesture of passion, a gesture of ardor uncontrolled and willing.

He swore again.

No, it had not been passion.

She pulled herself back, staring down at his flushed face, his brow marked with sweat. Frustration lay clearly across his features, but whether from interrupted passion or his own powerlessness, she could not say.

She slid off his lap and sat beside him on the stairs. His eyes were closed and she could sense his internal struggle. Watching him helped her to quiet her own demons; she was unused to unindulged desires. She could not remember a circumstance where completion had been so entirely denied. Her body burned with the need for his.

Her voice dipped as she spoke. “Are you injured?”

“No, I only need a moment.” He gasped slightly as he answered.

She rose to her feet, straightening her skirts and checking her fastenings. Miraculously, they all seemed undisturbed. Her hair had escaped, however, and she quickly finger-combed it into place. “I’ll fetch help. We will soon get you back to your room.” The moment away would give her a chance to collect herself.

“No,” he said, preventing her from leaving.

“But—”

“I said no. I am perfectly able on my own.” He did not look at her, and his voice was filled with ice. Pushing himself up, he stood with some effort. “Now do you wish to proceed or should I go on my own? I do not mean to allow some foolishness to prevent my escape from confinement.”

She wasn’t sure whether he referred to his infirmity or to what had happened between them. He was a man who would regard his own physical weakness as foolish, but it seemed more likely that he referred to the kiss.

It had been foolish—but still his words felt like
a slap, reminding her of her resolve only moments before to become a new woman. The kiss had been a grave mistake.

She tried again. “Please allow me to summon help. I do not wish you to injure yourself.”

“No, I do not need your help—not of any kind.”

“If you will not let me summon help, it would perhaps be best if you returned to your room. I was wrong to suggest that you might arise.” She knew displeasure was clear in her tone, and could only hope the hurt was not evident as well. She felt as if she had been slapped, hard.

He stood still and then took a careful step down the steps. His knuckles were pale on the balustrade, but he moved with steady precision. As he approached, she was forced to step forward and lead him down the stairs. She could have held her ground, but his face was so remote, without hint of warmth, that she did not want to risk further contact.

She walked ahead of him, step by careful step, until they reached the door to the library. She did not turn once but her every sense was aware of him behind him. With each step she waited for him to falter—he did not.

The door was partially open and she pushed it further. The fire had been set and the room was more than temperate. After debating whether to help him to his chair, instead she stood aside and let him enter.

He walked to the high leather wing chair near
the fire and sat, lifting his feet to the footrest in front of him. Only once he was seated did the strain leave his body. His shoulders relaxed back against the soft leather and his eyes closed. He turned his head from her as if he did not wish her to see his weariness.

“I’ll take tea. Lemon, no milk,” he commanded.

First he sat in her chair, then he ordered her like a maid. They were petty things, but they felt of great importance. A distinct lack of respect was shown in his actions. After the kiss he was probably thinking her the harlot he’d always believed her.

If he hadn’t lost what little color he’d had, she would have fought. Instead, she left the room to call for refreshment.

Outside the door, away from his view, she let her own shoulders slump. The kiss had been unimaginable. Her lips still stung from the slight bristle of his beard, and her mouth was still filled with his flavor.

She wanted to shout and scream. The truth was hard to face. In the years since her husband’s death, she’d had many lovers—far fewer than public opinion would believe, but in her own mind she qualified it as many. It was far easier than counting and being forced to remember each face, each man. Indeed, had there been only one she would have called it many for the sake of the anonymity that provided. She’d had many lovers, had done many things with them, and not one of them had ever made her feel as that kiss had.

It had made her feel fresh and new and full of possibility. Each soft caress of his lips had made her feel valued, something to be cherished.

Not even her husband had ever made her feel like that. Michael had awoken depths of passion in her, but it had always been earthy. They had known what was between them and enjoyed it to its fullest—with Michael the act had always been about enjoyment.

With Masters there had been more.

Damnation. She should not have given in. He was temptation sent to keep her from her plans of respectability.

“My lady, did you want help with something?” The maid’s voice startled her.

She was standing motionless in the front hall, staring into space; no wonder the maid stared at her as if she were possessed. Her thoughts were so scattered and erratic it was a miracle she could find an answer. “No—I mean yes, some tea please for the gentleman. Give him some of Lord Westington’s blend.”

It was a petty revenge.

“And for you, my lady?” the maid asked.

Clara would have dearly loved a cup of her own blend, but could not think of a way to have two pots without causing him to question. She couldn’t picture a man who liked lemon in his tea choosing a smoky blend.

Leaving the door open half a foot, she returned to the room and chose a chair a slight distance from Masters and sat, not saying a word as she picked
up her much despised needlework. She did not have it in her to begin the discussion she knew they must have. If he wanted to talk he could choose the topic of conversation.

The fire crackled and gave off small bursts of sparks. The wood must have been damp when set. At least it did not smoke.

“Do you have any sonnets?” he asked at last.

“Sonnets?”

“Yes, sonnets—poetry, anything but Byron.”

“You don’t seem a man for poetry. Are you sure you wouldn’t care for something more intellectual? Perhaps an economic or agricultural text?”

He appraised her with those dark eyes. “Don’t you believe poetry to be an exercise of the intellect?”

“Well, yes, I do. I would not have thought you would.”

Leaning back in the chair, he stretched his legs closer to the fire. “There is much we don’t know of each other.”

“That is true,” she answered cautiously.

“Much of what my sister has told you is no doubt correct. However, I imagine the portrait she painted was a trifle one-dimensional.”

Violet had described her brother as an ogre who had forced her into marriage with not one, but two old men—and there had been all those rumors when Isabella ran off and Lord Foxworthy was murdered. It was true that over the most recent months Violet’s tone had changed. She’d seemed more ready to look at Masters’s actions with un
derstanding, but Clara had assumed that was because Violet was in love and looking at the whole world in a new light.

Now she was not so sure. “Violet has never mentioned your taste in literature. She was much more interested in discussing your taste in matrimonial partners.”

“I assume we are speaking of her first two husbands.”

“And your own lack of a bride.”

He let his head fall back, and stared up at the ceiling. “From almost any other woman I would take that as the beginning of a flirtation.”

“It is not and you are changing the subject.”

“Perhaps I do not choose to discuss the way I raised my sisters and the decisions I was forced to make.”

“That is your prerogative, but then you leave me free to believe what I wish about you. There was much gossip when your younger sister ran off—and then there was Colonel Foxworthy’s death.”

“Yes—think what you will, you would do so anyway—as I do about you.”

So he did think her a harlot—and a thief. She must not forget that. She should ask him again about the watch—about
that night
, but her emotions felt so on edge after the kiss, she was not sure she was ready to hear him verbalize his clear opinion.

Instead, she sat straight, determined that the subject of his sister’s marriages and the gossip
about Isabella not merely be avoided. He could refuse to discuss it, but she would have it be a true decision, not just a turn of conversation. “So you have no desire to explain why you forced your seventeen-year-old sister to marry a man well over seventy?”

M
asters looked away for a moment. He was still unsettled from the kiss, his body still demanding more. He knew he had sounded brusque there on the stairs, but what was a man to do when his body screamed with frustration?

It was clear that Clara suffered no such difficulties. She was probably accustomed to such flirtation, and could throw off heady desire without a thought.

The kiss might have been a tool to relax his guard.

No, he did not really think that. It had caught them both by surprise, that was all.

But her question about Violet, that was another matter.

That required a moment’s thought.

He had known it would come to this from the first moment that he’d realized her identity. He filled his lungs with air and slowly exhaled. What was he willing to tell her? He had answered partially before, and she had not seemed satisfied. Saying more would imply a level of intimacy that he was not certain he wished to encourage.

A kiss was one thing, even a kiss such as they had shared. A kiss was physical, easily dismissed, if not forgotten. The sharing of histories, of minds—that was something else.

It was hard to know what to do. He could still feel the softness of her lips beneath his, tempting him on. But that is what she was, a temptress—and a thief. He must not forget it, no matter how delicious her lips, no matter how sweet her smile. His mother’s smile had been sweet on occasion, as well.

Even as he thought this, she stood.

He had waited too long to speak.

Her body was taut with emotion as she paced once across the room and back, almost vibrating with unsaid words. “If you don’t wish to discuss it, I can go. We really do not need to converse. The maid will bring your tea.”

She stopped by a shelf and grabbed a book. “Here, the latest of Wordsworth’s
Lyrical Ballads
. Not precisely sonnets, but perhaps you will find it entertaining.”

The book was heavy, but she held it out to him with her arm fully extended. He left her there, holding it, a moment before taking it and dropping it carelessly in his lap. Wordsworth had never been a favorite and offered no temptation now.

Her lips drew tight as she stared down at him. He could see that there was much more she wanted to say. An impulse to reach up and draw a finger across her narrowed lips took him. He sensed that
even in her darkest moments it would be easy to soften her, to bring out unwilling smiles.

Instead, he held firm, watching as she turned, and while she did not stomp out of the room, she gave every impression of doing so.

He waited until she was a step beyond the door to speak, one small step from being too far to hear. He did not speak loudly, as if testing the fates to see if she would answer. He was not yet sure what he meant to tell her. “Do you really wish to understand what happened all those years ago? To understand why things happened as they did?”

His words stopped her, but she did not turn. Her back stayed stiff and straight. She was as motionless as he had ever seen her.

When she did turn it was a toy dancer’s pirouette, her whole body moving as a solid piece. He was again reminded of the porcelain doll he imagined when first he saw her. Her lips were too pink against her pallid skin to be unpainted and her eyes glowed like glass jewels, echoing the bronze satin of her dress. It was only the faint lines of much laughter about her eyes that spoke of her humanity. For once he could not determine her thoughts.

She stepped toward him, back through the library’s doorway. “Mr. Masters.” Her voice was cool, but flowed smoothly like a brook. “I am not in the mood for games.”

“Nor am I.”

“Then what would you call this? You knew you were going to speak, but waited to see if I would relent before you were forced to.” She was more direct than any woman he had ever met. “What has happened between us the last days is most out of the ordinary. No, do not make some insinuating comment about whether anything can be out of the ordinary for one such as I. You know and understand me as little as I you. If you wish to explain your past actions, which have left me with a less than generous opinion of your character, then do so. I am as you find me and I do not feel the need to make excuses—not to anyone.”

The doorway framed her with light from the great windows of the hall. It was hard to discern her exact expression, but again he knew she would not surrender. He could play by her rules or not at all.

Before he could answer, the maid appeared behind her, a small figure of a girl encumbered by a great tray. Clara stepped forward and moved some small statuary about on the table to clear a place for the tray. She waved the maid away with the gentlest words, the ice of her temper contained.

When the maid had left, Clara’s glance caught on the two delicate Spode creamware cups. She stared at them for a moment. “These were a gift for my wedding. We do not normally use them.” Her voice was low, as if she spoke to herself and not to him.

She picked up the pot and filled his cup. She placed a sliver of lemon on the saucer and handed it to him. He took it from her, but held it without drinking. He stared at her still empty cup.

The decision was hers. Would she pour?

“You are sitting in my chair.” She continued to look at the empty cup and not at him. He wondered at her petty comment. It was out of context with what he knew of her. When she was mad, the storms brewed in her eyes. She did not play nursery games.

“I am sorry. I did not know.” He made no move to stand up.

“I realize that, but being a gentleman you should have waited for me to sit first.”

“And you would have placed me here, in the seat nearest to the fire, would you not?”

She lifted her glance to him then. “Given your health, yes.”

She still did not pour her tea.

“Would you like me to move?” It was a delicate balancing act between them. He did not wish her to leave, but was unsure how far he would go to make her stay.

“No. It was most impolite of me to mention it.”

“As it was impolite of me to sit first.” He relented slightly, sharing what he would never have shared with any other. “The truth is I was not sure my legs would hold me longer. I thought only of not having a footman summoned to be of assistance.”

“You have too much pride.” She said it flatly, leaving off the sting.

“Perhaps so.”

The silence was awkward as it had seldom been before. She shifted slightly from foot to foot, still unable to contain her nervous energy.

He was reminded of their first encounter when he held his tongue, waiting for her to speak. It was his turn. “Will you please take a seat?” He gestured to the low cushioned chair next to the tea table.

“Forgive my temper. I am afraid I am still unsettled by—earlier events.”

“The kiss.” Perhaps if the word was said the emotions could be laid at rest.

“Yes. It was out of character.”

Not from what he’d heard. He saw her catch his glance and her fingers trembled. It was clear she’d understood his thought.

She bit her lip, and then her chin jutted out with firm determination.

There was still doubt spread across her face, but she sat and, concentrating on the table in front of him, poured herself a cup, dousing it liberally with milk and sugar. She poured deftly, despite the tremor of her fingers, as if she had done so many times. Undoubtedly she had, although it did not fit with what he knew of her character.

He picked up his cup from the saucer and, after a squeeze of the lemon, lifted it to his lips. It was
hard to keep his expression still. He felt like he’d stuck his head over the fire openmouthed. Not even the fresh taste of the lemon could cover the taste of burnt leaves.

“It’s my stepson’s favorite blend.” Her mouth hooked up at one corner, and he knew his expression had not fooled her. He noticed she did not sip, but placed the saucer back on the table.

“It is most unusual.” He took another sip. Really, it was not so bad. He could begin to understand the attraction. He allowed a small grimace to pass his lips anyway. He would grant her the small victory. She deserved it for staying.

“You were going to speak of your sister,” she replied. “You know Violet is most dear to my heart.”

He wondered how little he could tell her. As long as her questions focused on Violet and not Isabella and Foxworthy, he was safe. He could tell no one the full story. He sensed that she would not be so easy to deter this time. “I know. From what she has said, I know she reciprocates the emotion.”

“I was not aware that you were in frequent communication with your sister. I cannot believe that I am an important topic of conversation.”

“You would be surprised. My sister holds you in high esteem and uses you as a frequent example of what a woman can be.”

A faint flush of color rose on her cheeks at the compliment. “But you do not.”

“I do not know you.”

“But that has not kept you from judging.”

That was hard to answer. Such discussion always reminded him of his mother, and that could only lead a foul taste in his mouth. “I would admit to not liking what I have heard. I have never been fond of licentious behavior.”

“Licentious. It is as good a word as any other, I suppose.” She picked up her tea and took the smallest of swallows. “It is much better with milk and sugar than lemon. But we are supposed to be talking of you and your relations, not mine,” she concluded.

He took another sip, then leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He closed his eyes. “I was seventeen when my parents died.”

With his eyes closed he could still see them as they’d looked that last day. His mother had worn crimson velvet, a dress she’d been particularly fond of based on the number of times he could remember her wearing it. She’d looked beautiful, but tired, as she’d prepared for another night’s revels. His father’s eyes had been shadowed as he’d said his farewells and donned his hat. He’d lost weight over the past months and his suit had hung a little loose. Other than that there had been nothing different from any other evening.

Nothing different until the knock on the door hours later, after which his parents’ bodies were carried in. His mother had still breathed and she’d called for his father again and again, each call quieter than the last. At the very last she’d grasped his hand tight and whispered, “I am so
sorry.” He’d never even been sure if the comment had been meant for him.

His shock had only grown greater over the following days as the few details came forth. His parents had been shot returning from a ball—their carriage stopped by masked men. That was all anyone knew. There was talk of brigands and highwaymen, of a lover’s anger, but no true fact ever emerged.

He was left with nothing. No knowledge. No single fact that could explain the devastation of the life he had always known.

He was left with nothing. Only two sisters. Two sisters and endless bills—and that final secret, his father’s treason.

“My parents died when I was seventeen,” he repeated the words. This time he opened his eyes and stared up at the elaborate frieze on the ceiling. It was better than seeing his mother’s beautiful face laughing in the candlelight as she left that final night. He hated that he’d loved her despite everything.

Clara answered softly. “You were much too young—not that there is ever a right age.”

“What has Violet told you of their deaths?”

“Only that she was not there. She spent the night with a friend and returned the next day to find the maids draping the house in black.”

“Isabella was still little more than three or four. I don’t believe she even remembers their deaths or them.”

“How did they die? Violet has never said.”

“They were shot.” He waited for her to ask questions. She stayed silent. He lowered his head and looked at her.

She stared straight at him. Her eyes were honey now, soft and glowing, but filled with sadness. Still she did not speak.

“They were returning from a ball. It was one of those things that never happen. Men with guns stopped the carriage. The driver and the grooms could do nothing to prevent the attack. The driver survived, injured. The groom did not. That is all that is known.” He closed his eyes again.

He felt a gentle pressure on his knee, felt her delicate fingers grip him. He didn’t know if she sought reassurance or offered it.

“My life changed in a minute. One moment I was thinking of university and of mischief with my friends and the next I was alone and didn’t know how to proceed.”

“When Michael, Lord Westington died, the feeling was the same.” Her voice was halting. “I remember being angry that he was late returning from his ride. He’d wanted me to go with him and I was sure it was a petty revenge.”

“But you were not left penniless with two sisters to raise, one still in the nursery. I do not mean to sound irreverent, but I do not see that you can know what I faced.”

“No, Robert was almost eighteen and had already learned much of what he needed to know
about running the estates. I still felt so alone. I knew Robert had just lost his father, but all I could feel was my own pain, that a piece of me had been lost.”

“It was the same with Violet. I knew she grieved, but I was too preoccupied with my own mourning—my own mourning and the creditors. They scarcely gave me a day before they appeared in droves.” He could not believe he was discussing this with her. One never discussed such things—not even with family—and Lady Westington was certainly not family.

“Perhaps that is what you never allowed Violet to understand—your need to deal with your own pain before you could see hers. Perhaps I am lucky that Robert and I never had such problems.”

He dropped his glance to the small hand that still gripped his knee. He wondered if she had forgotten it. Her thumb moved rhythmically across the thick velvet of his robe, sending small tingles up his leg.

Ignoring the desires her touch woke, he answered. “I am not sure that Violet and I did either until the matter of her marriage arose.”

Her finger gripped him once tight and then relaxed. He placed his own hand over hers. The unfamiliar intimacy felt both awkward and comforting.