Bound by Your Touch (14 page)

Scared away? That could not stand. She whirled back, the door slamming behind her. "Is it? How delightful to hear! Is it also to be expected that I should find you looking more colorful than a Christmas tree? I confess, ifIdrove an omnibus, I should not brake when you fell into my path."

He stared at her. With some satisfaction, she realized that she had managed to startle him. "Oh, you
are
entertaining," he said, and pushed off the chair to prowl toward her.

Alarm darted down her spine, settling, with a queer, pleasant shiver, in her stomach. "Don't get ideas."

"I can't help it," he said in a meditative tone. "You inspire them. May I say, this is a lovely coincidence. I'd been hoping to run into you."

"I can't imagine why. Good evening, Viscount."

A hand closed over her arm, pulling her back. "Can't you? I thought I'd just explained myself."

"Let go of me."

His light eyes moved down her arm, coming to rest on the bare patch between her glove and sleeve. His thumb setded into it, pressing gently, calling forth—with that one small touch—an acute awareness of how closely they stood. Her body came to life; her nerves lit: they remembered this, and more. They remembered how he had felt pressed against her. "That is what you are supposed to say," he murmured. "But tell me, Miss Boyce: do you really want me to let you go?"

There was her problem: she very much feared the answer was no.

His thumb made a slow stroke across her inner elbow. Her breath hitched. "I do not mean to ruin your exit," he went on, and his hand began to exert the lightest pressure—not enough to pull her forward, but enough to suggest the idea. "It looked very promising. You're very good in this role, aren't you?"

He was wearing a subtle cologne, the barest trace of scent, a cunning ruse that lured one to step closer and breathe more deeply. She fought the temptation by focusing on his mouth and instantly recognized that for a mistake. He had kissed her with that mouth. She wresded her eyes down to his open shirt—scandalous to appear in shirtsleeves, to bare the length of his throat to any passerby—and then, finally, to his free hand. His knuckles were split. He lifted them to her waist, his long fingers settling, light and warm, at the crook where her hip began. "What role?" she whispered.

"The typical spinster. Righteous, stiff, bloodless. You don't quite convince me."

"That's not my failing." Her words emerged in hushed tones, and suddenly the conversation felt intimate, as if they were whispering secrets. "If you subscribe to such preconceptions, you've only yourself to blame."

"Educate me, then."

The invitation solicited a quick pulse between her thighs. She colored. There was no reason for his words to affect her like this. But the scene was rapidly assuming an unreal quality, as though her mind had detached from her flesh, rising to float somewhere above her, permitting her baser instincts to reign.
You should go. You should turn away.
So a little voice nattered from that space of remove. This was how women were ruined. This was why they
let
themselves be ruined.

But curiosity held her immobile. No one had ever tried to seduce her. She could not count that incident with George; it was too shameful, and he had been drunk. Besides, he had blamed her for it.

The thought darkened her mood. She would have pulled free, then, but he chose that moment to close the distance between them. The fit of their bodies startled her. It felt like an answer to some question she hadn't yet thought to ask. Her curiosity did not feel satisfied, though. It felt. . . whetted.

"You are far from bloodless," he said into her ear. "On the contrary. You stick your chin out and practically invite people to bash up against you." His thumb pressed harder into her arm as his voice lowered. "And I will admit it, Miss Boyce: I find the prospect of a bashing irresistible. I'm always looking for new ways to break my head open."

"You're raving again," she whispered.

"No. You take my meaning. That's the joy of seducing an intelligent woman: you follow me perfectly."

His lips settled against her temple, and his breath washed over her in time to the thud of her pulse.

Goosebumps rose along her arms. His face turned, the bristle on his jaw scraping her skin as his teeth trapped her lobe. Heat, dampness—his tongue ran delicately along the tender rim of her ear.

She swallowed against an animal urge: she wanted to press her face into his throat. Oh God she wanted to do it so badly she could imagine exactly how his skin would feel beneath her lips and nose. What was
wrong
with her? She should never have come in here; she should have left as soon as she realized Mrs. Chudderley was not in danger. Her mistakes were very clear to her now, and how strange to think he encouraged them! He praised her for doing exactly what she should not do, and the fit of his body against hers was causing something within her to unfold, to grow stronger and clearer as it developed. Like an anagram unriddling itself, or a maze slowly straightening. With her face against his neck, the darkness would be so complete. Her eyelids trapped shut by the warmth of his skin. No distractions to prevent her from focusing on this inward sensation.

Her hands moved of their own volition, sliding up along his back. In the hollow beneath his Adams apple, a pulse throbbed, picking up strength as her lips touched it. His skin was hot, firm; it smelled of things she couldn't parse. Sweat, yes, but also something darker, thoroughly male. She had tasted him in his father's hallway, but he had smelled different then—more civilized and predictable. A wild impulse unraveled in her, spreading out to her fingertips, which curved and dug like claws into his back. She opened her mouth on his throat.

He made a guttural sound, but did not move. Did not question her. She held still, waiting. He must be shocked. Pray God he
must
be.
Reprove me,
she silently begged him, with the taste of him on her tongue. He tasted like salt and cream, darkness and heat; and he made no remark. In the hush, even his breath seemed to halt. The texture of him was rich and carnal, spiced like a fine dessert from a sophisticated kitchen, where sugar was considered too simple a flavor. She was so hungry for something new, and he had put his teeth on her. It was fair play.

Her teeth closed on his throat.

He reacted instantly. His hands drove up her rib cage
I
and caught her beneath her arms. He pushed her back against the bookcase and she caught one glimpse of his silver eyes before his mouth pressed against hers. This kiss was harsher, stronger, more delicious; she had more | of his tongue now, and she was willing to take all of it. Surprising him no longer mattered; the taste of him fired her blood, lured her body forward, stiffened her fingers on his shoulders to pull him in, until he thrust as closely against her as physically possible. His fingers would bruise her, but she liked the pressure.
More, more, more:
the word beat through her as her hands moved up to knot in his hair, tightening until it must hurt him. But his kiss spoke only of pleasure. Hot, wet, coppery, rich—

She wrenched her face away. The taste remained on her lips. "Stop," she managed.

He leaned back. The split in his lip had come open. The trembling hand she wiped across her mouth came away dotted with blood. Dear God. The sight girded her impulses, snapped her wits back into place. Mauling each other as if they were savages!

Her eyes lifted. She beheld him now through a haze of better sense. His face was a strangers, and she had more respect for herself than to settle for the cheap curiosities of a libertine s touch. She sidled away from him, along the bookshelf, her back thumping painfully over the leather-bound spines. When she was safely out of his reach, she said, "I hope you are entertained!"

A beat passed. He cleared his throat. He was still breathing heavily. "I do not think it one-sided," he said.

She could match that composure. "Of course it wasn't. I'm not the only one who plays my role well!"

His lips formed a smile that seemed more disbelieving than friendly. "Do you mean to call me a rake, Miss Boyce?"

"A cad, more like."

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. "I can only think of one caddish motive for touching you, and I will gladly admit it. My father thinks you very sensible. Disproving him, even privately, would delight me."

The taste in her mouth turned sour. "This is another episode in your silly game, then? You are shameless."

"I am honest," he corrected gently. "There are a dozen reasons to kiss you, and not all of them are good. They never are, I think. But rest assured, the most compelling reasons concern only you." His eyes dropped to her mouth, then, and all at once, she realized he wasn't joking. Whatever his motives, he felt this weird tumult as strongly as she.

The knowledge shook her as his taste, and the blood, had not. If he was baiting an ape-leader, she could dismiss him out of hand. But if he was genuinely interested in her . . . stars above, it seemed as nonsensical as the prospect of a zebra romancing a hen. Science did not support such mishaps! Like was drawn to like, and she was nothing like him at all. He belonged with a woman who looked like Mrs. Chudderley.

His
Fiancee.

Pain—humiliation?—spiked through her.
Mrs. \ Chudderley,
one of the most beautiful women in England. Oh, he was a rascal! "Your fiancee would not appreciate this.”

He frowned. "My ... do you mean Elizabeth?" What, did he have more than one tucked away somewhere? "On the contrary, darling. I expect she would be very entertained."

High-flyers.
Perhaps it was the shock of this little tete-a-tete, but she had difficulty mustering her usual contempt. "That's very odd, and I can't approve of it."

"You don't have to," he said with a shrug. "At any rate, we aren't engaged. It's a rumor, one she finds convenient. Keeps the fortune hunters away."

"Ha!" He thought her born yesterday. "That's a very
convenient
story, indeed.”

"Let me persuade you of my sincerity." His smile was ' meant to tempt. "You could make a study on it."

And he would manage to persuade her. She had no idea how he'd come to hold such a power over her, but every bit of her flesh responded to the prospect of an hour's distraction. She wrapped her arms around her waist, remembering now why she had been glad to be done with gentlemen. The nerves, the butterflies in the 1 stomach—the sickness of uncertainty—it completely unbalanced her, and she could not afford such distractions right now. But no doubt that was her main appeal: it must afford him real pleasure to set her on her ear, to watch a woman of good sense goggle and fluster despite herself. He would laugh about it with his friends later on.
Not bloodless,
he would tell them,
but a bit desperate, all the same.

The thought acted like ice. She was too smart to repeat her mistakes. She would not become entertainment for another handsome sophisticate whose real interest was reserved for women of equal flash. Not that she thought Sophie flashy, of course. But if not flash, then beauty. She started for the door. "Don't come near me again," she called over her shoulder, realizing, only belatedly, that it had been she who'd come to him, both this time and the last.

Thankfully he did not remark on it. But when she had reached the threshold, he did call, in a taunting singsong like some brattish child, "Save me a dance, Miss Boyce."

"I do not dance," she said firmly, and pulled the door shut on his smile.

Chapter Seven

It was a bad month that brought James to his father's home twice. As he entered, his body rebelled: throat closing, shoulders knotting. The place felt like a crypt. Stagnant, moist air, at least ten degrees cooler than the street outside. The scents of orchids and lemon wax were so thick that he felt dizzy as he made for the library.

The door stood open. As he paused to let his
eyes
adjust to the dim interior, his father's voice floated out, dark and noxious as tobacco smoke. "Late. What a surprise!"

Moreland sat in an easy chair flanking the low table by the hearth. He did not rise at James's approach, but the man beside him came to his feet. Dark, closely trimmed hair; a clean-shaven jaw; rigid posture. Military background? Contempt had James's lip curling. Yes, must have a soldier or two to keep order at the madhouse. God forbid the lunatics should forget discipline.

"This is Mr. Denbury," said his father. He had a cane propped by his chair—not something James had seen before. Doubtless the old loon was too proud to use it in public. "An attendant at Kenhurst."

"How do you do," said Denbury. His fingers were limp and damp, his handshake reluctant.

"Tolerably," James replied, and they took their seats. "Dwyer couldn't make it, eh?" Denbury shifted. "No, sir. He is unwell at the moment."

"Right." Poor chap was probably curled up in a ball somewhere, trembling. "What a shame. I would have been very gentle with him, this time. Do tell him I said that."

"Sanburne," his father said warningly. He had lost more weight, and the spareness of his frame was turning his looks against him. His high cheekbones now emphasized the sunken hollows beneath. Those deep-set eyes—Stella's eyes, such a bright and unlikely blue— were sinking also. He looked more devilish by the day. James hoped he did not survive to reach the point where small children ran from him. No doubt their fear would gratify him intolerably.