Cheryl Holt (5 page)

He declined to feel any emotion toward her! He abhorred her kind! It was neither his affair nor his problem if she had a corrupt relative who was endeavoring to drag her into some sort of public calumny, of which he would play no part.

Shifting restlessly, he merely wanted to exit the dreadful scene. If he was extremely lucky, he’d never again have occasion to cross paths with the hapless woman!

“I must be off,” he lamely communicated, “and don’t worry. This incident will remain our secret. No one will ever hear of it from me.”

Her attention lowered to his bared stomach and, though he hated to acknowledge it, the sensation tickled all the way down to his toes. He instructed his feet to move away, but they wouldn’t comply. Rooted to the floor, he let her look her fill. For a woman who’d purportedly been traumatized and assaulted by his male presence, she was distinctly inquisitive, and he was vain enough to admit that he liked how her absorbed regard roved over him.

Astounding him immensely, she spoke. “Would you explain something before you go?”

“If I am able.”

“When we were in the dressing room”—she stopped, swallowed, fidgeted with her robe—“what were you striving to achieve?”

What! A damned virgin?

“Oh, Lord, spare me.” He groaned and tilted his head back, pressing a finger and thumb against the bridge of his nose, praying for fortitude while fighting the fierce headache that was forming. “Say it’s not true! You can’t be a virgin!”

Silence was his answer, and he whipped his gaze to hers, requiring that she look him in the eye, but she wouldn’t. She was excessively interested in a spot somewhere over his shoulder, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Forced to recognize how untried she actually was—she couldn’t even verbalize what had occurred between them!—he calmed himself. “You don’t have any idea what we were about?”

“I suppose you were . . . we were . . .”

White-hot anger set in. At her. At her family. At himself for the predicament in which he’d almost landed. How he’d like to march downstairs and have a chat with her scheming cousin! He never would, though, because he couldn’t risk inciting a furor over their clandestine contact.

Michael was not his brother, James. James had few reservations about the upheavals he sporadically inflicted on the members of the Quality, and if the occasional innocent became ensnared in his wretched machinations, he didn’t
care and suffered no compunction to make amends.

Not so, Michael. He’d never furnish others with reasons to compare him with his father, the Earl of Spencer. The earl had seduced Michael’s mother, sired two illegitimate boys on her, then left her alone to raise them while he went on his merry way.

Michael would never commit such a callous exploit, so while he had no qualms about copulating with the degraded wives and widows of the
ton
who sought his favors, those favors never extended to their chaste daughters, because he declined to end up shackled for all eternity to one of the selfish, spoiled snivelers.

And now that he thought about it, why the hell was she quizzing
him
about prurient behavior? She was hardly a girl fresh out of the schoolroom.

“How old are you anyway?” he peevishly posed. “Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

“What’s my age got to do with anything?”

“You’re too old to let yourself get involved in a mess like this!”

“I am not old!”

“For pity’s sake, you’re a spinster—”

“I’m not a
spinster
!”

“—prancing about this dissolute mansion, where there are nothing but rakes and rogues lurking in the halls.” He indicated her curvaceous torso. “You stroll about naked, with your doors unlocked. What did you expect might happen?”

“I never go visiting! I never guessed that a man would just . . . would just . . .”

To his dismay, tears welled into her lovely eyes. He couldn’t abide female histrionics! If she commenced, he couldn’t guarantee what he might do. “Don’t you dare cry!”

“Then stop yelling at me!”

“I’m not yelling!” he hissed rabidly.

“Yes you are! This has been an horrendous event. You’re not helping by being so grouchy!”

She was plainly not prone to sentimental outbursts; one
impeccable tear tracked a charming trail down her cheek, and she glanced away. Flustered, she battled to stabilize her breathing and regain control, and he heaved a resigned sigh.

The ice around his heart began to melt. Incapable of sustaining his upset, he swiped his hand across her silky skin, capturing the warm moisture on his thumb, then he stuck it in his mouth and sucked at the salty drop. She was out of her league in this residence and with these people; a lamb led to the slaughter.

How could he leave her to her own devices?

“I was touching you,” he patiently elucidated, “as a man touches his wife. They do things to one another.”

“What things?”

“They kiss and caress each other. It’s arousing and pleasurable.”

“But we’re not married.”

“We don’t have to be. A man always relishes a woman’s passionate company, and the two participants need not be wed to practice intimate indulgence.”

“If we’d continued, you’d have taken my virginity?”

“Yes.”

“In what manner is the deed accomplished?”

How on God’s green earth had he fallen into the middle of this conversation?

Gently, he admonished, “I hardly think I’m the one to advise you.”

“No, I don’t suppose you are,” she agreed, after a protracted contemplation.

“What is your name?”

“Sarah.”

He nodded; it suited her.

“Sarah”—he determinedly rolled it off his tongue, and it felt just right—“you can’t stay here in Bedford.”

“What do you mean?”

“This house, this party.” He gestured around, including all that was transpiring under the mansion’s taciturn roof. “I realize that you are desirous of a country holiday, but this is not the simple rural assemblage you imagine it to
be. The people who have traveled from London . . . .” Briefly, he considered minimizing the gravity of her circumstances. After all, she was unsophisticated and would have no idea that men and women conducted themselves in such an egregious fashion. Yet he couldn’t have her discounting the perils. “The guests are not here for socializing and entertainment.”

“Then why have they come?”

“To have sexual relations.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Aye.”

She weighed this information then, skeptical, she grinned. “I don’t believe you.”

Capturing her arm, he ushered her toward the wall that faced the outer hall. “Look!” He lifted the painting he’d rearranged and pointed to the peephole. “Men can prowl in the corridor and spy on you.”

On tiptoe, she flattened her eye to the hole. Faced with the bald confirmation, she was less assured when she shifted back, and she dubiously folded her arms over her alluring bosom. “Why would they want to?”

“Men like to watch. It’s titillating for them—especially when the woman doesn’t know. It makes a man wish to sneak inside and do things he oughtn’t.” She shivered, and he dropped the painting back into place. “This house is teeming with these blasted holes. Never permit this picture to be shoved aside or removed. Always check it.”

Still doubtful, she moved to the bed and, like a sailor drawn by a mermaid’s siren song, he followed. In a mere handful of minutes, he’d been captivated by her, powerless to separate himself. It was far past time he departed, but like a smitten lad, he kept prolonging their discourse so he could linger.

“This seems so far-fetched.”

“Yet it’s true, Sarah. The other guests have been in the city for months, and they’re bored. They’re seeking distraction. I won’t go into the details because they’re too delicate.”

“I’m not a child!” she huffed, piqued. “What do they propose?”

He’d hoped that she’d be easily shocked, and thereby easily induced to return to her own home, but clearly, she was exceedingly stubborn, so he clarified starkly. “They will tarry in each other’s bedchambers where they will engage in the sorts of physical sport I attempted with you. The difference is that the women are willing.”

“But they’re nearly all married.”

“None of their husbands are here.”

“So?”

“They plan to dally with other men.”

This news gave her pause, and another, more disturbing possibility presented itself. “Will
you
philander with any of them?”

“However many ask,” he candidly replied.

The fact troubled her, and her brow wrinkled in consternation. “Why would you?”

The answer to her interrogatory was so long, and so complicated, that he wasn’t sure he could provide an accurate rejoinder if he’d had a week to contemplate one. He couldn’t rationalize the sick recreation he pursued. She would never understand, and while he’d satisfied himself that he suffered no stabs of conscience over the state of his carnal dissolution, he found that he couldn’t justify his conduct to her.

He settled for, “I’m bored, too.” Declining to furnish an additional excuse for an inquisition, he parried with, “Promise me that you’ll go home first thing in the morning”

“Why would I? These tales you’re spinning are preposterous. My very own brother suggested that I attend this party. He wouldn’t implicate me in such an abominable undertaking.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Her denial wasn’t quite as vehement as he might have predicted. Had he heard equivocation? He sidled nearer, until the sparks were flowing between them once again. Unafraid, she glared up, challenging him.
“Sarah, listen . . . I’ve been acquainted with Lady Carrington for many years.”

“So have I. Pamela is a friend of my family.”

“But you don’t know everything about her, or you wouldn’t be here. She has a distinctive reputation.”

“What sort of reputation?”

“For hosting lewd parties, the more wicked the better. I’ve attended many of them, and I’m not joking; it’s risky for you to stay.”

Unable to resist, he laid his hand on her nape, feeling the petite, fragile bones of her shoulder. She accepted the gentle caress, a major feat after what she’d endured from him earlier. He stroked up her neck and lifted her chin with his thumb. “I don’t want you swept up in any disaster. Leave! Tomorrow!”

Just then, a soft knock sounded on the door, and the knob rotated unsuccessfully, but solely because he’d possessed the foresight to secure it when he’d had the chance.

Very softly, a female called, “Sarah . . . ?”

“My cousin Rebecca,” Sarah whispered, and her eyes narrowed with trepidation and a hint of indignation.

Staring her down, he dared her to form the correlation, to deduce for herself that she was in the middle of something much deeper and larger than she could handle.

He leaned in, inhaling the smell of roses that clung about her. No gentleman by any stretch of the imagination, his lips grazed the curve of her ear. “I must be away,” he mouthed. “Keep your doors locked—at all times. Both the one that opens out to the hall, and the one between our rooms. And
go home
in the morning.”

She turned slightly as though she might argue, and the shift brought them so close that their lips were all but joined. Only a breath separated them. Their eyes connected, and expectation hovered in the moment.

Almost against his will, he was spurred toward her, but he was neither his impulsive brother nor his incorrigible father. He was a mature, twenty-eight-year-old man, who would control his unruly, libidinous cravings.

He bestowed the lightest kiss, just because he could and she couldn’t refuse, but he didn’t attempt more.

“Promise me,” he mouthed, once more.

Belligerently, she simply smiled, and he ached to compel her acquiescence. Undeterred, her cousin tried the knob again, and he whirled away, not permitting himself a backward glance at her seductive form.

The lass was hazardous. To his equanimity. To his wellbeing. To his keen drive for self-preservation. So he’d make certain there’d be no further opportunity for stolen kisses.

On nimble feet, he vanished into his room, closed and barred the door behind.

Sarah tossed and turned and finally gave up any attempt at sleep. She was uncertain of the time but figured it had to be after two. The fire was out, and a glimmer of moonlight glowed in the window. The mansion was unnaturally quiet, and she lay still, listening to the beat of her heart.

After the dashing Mr. Stevens had so fleetly fled her room, she hadn’t closed her eyes a single second. How could a woman possibly rest when so much new stimulation had been thrown at her?

Everything was tangled in her mind: Michael Stevens, the house, the party, her brother, her cousin. The jumble of images played over and over, and she couldn’t stop contemplating what had happened and what it all meant.

Mostly, she couldn’t quit thinking about Michael Stevens. Now that she’d had opportunity to ponder their meeting with a clearer head, she wasn’t angry or distressed. She was curious. Their corporeal adventure had been dramatic and thrilling and, though she was loath to admit it, he had left her hungry for more.

She felt as though she’d read the initial chapters of an exciting novel, but the book had been snatched away just when she was getting to the good part, the section that would have explained the secret intricacies of the plot. Yes, it had been inappropriate for him to come into her room, and yes, it had been wrong for him to have handled her as he’d done, but regretfully, she couldn’t find the temerity to be sorry, and she wished she hadn’t become overwhelmed and bonked him on the noggin. If she hadn’t reacted so timidly, like the spinsterish virgin he’d accused her of being, she might now be cognizant of numerous libidinous
particulars about which she’d ruminated for years.

Their encounter had been amazing, breathtaking. He’d touched her in ways she’d never imagined a man might touch a woman and . . . it had been wonderful. Shocking, too, but
wonderful
was the only accurate method of describing it.

All these hours later, her body was alive and thrumming with an unfamiliar, exotic energy, as though it had been is hibernation and had just been awakened. Her nipples were alert and aroused from how he’d pinched them. Whenever she shifted about on the bed, the fabric of her nightdress irritatingly rubbed against them and made her wish he was present to fondle them again.