Home for the Holidays (6 page)

He had never felt desire like this, so completely out of his control. It still amazed him, the strength of it, and the overwhelming urge he’d had to toss her on that nearby bed and ravish her in absolute, unrestrained abandon. Not that he knew much about ravishing, or doing things without restraint, for that matter. But he knew it was too soon to do anything of the sort with her.

She’d been aroused, yes—good God, how easy that had been—and likely would have offered only a token protest before giving in to that arousal. But that was not what he wanted. He wanted her complete surrender, wanted her begging for everything he planned to give her. Her ruination was going to be her own doing, merely helped along by him. His blasted conscience,
which seemed to be rearing its silly head at this late stage in his life, wasn’t going to be pricked when he was done with her.

He had now removed any other options for her as well, leaving her no choice but to accept his hospitality. He had already arranged for her furniture to be “stolen,” which was the story he would give her if she mentioned again needing to sell it. Having had anything of value moved to a separate location, he could even take her to the warehouse where it was stored if necessary, to show her that what remained hadn’t been worth stealing, so wasn’t worth selling either.

And her jewels would be inaccessible for her, the key to his safe unfortunately “misplaced”—for the time being. He hadn’t locked them away yet, though, held one of the earrings in his hand now, unconsciously rubbing it along the side of his cheek. He had watched them sway in her nervousness and thump gently against her neck. They’d still been warm when he’d picked them up, her heat in them, and he’d grasped that warmth tightly in his fist on the way out the door, unwilling to let it go, when he had just forced himself to let
her
go.

It was such a simple plan, this seduction. How in the bloody hell did it suddenly seem so complicated? But he knew why. He hadn’t counted on the effect she had on him, hadn’t planned on being charmed by her blushes, entranced by her
beauty, fascinated by her myriad emotions, nor aroused by an innocent touch and set on fire by her own desire.
He
was the one who had been seduced, and most thoroughly. And he wasn’t sure if he could manage to subject himself to that again, without bringing it to a natural conclusion.

He should distance himself, timewise, at least until he could get these unexpected reactions of his under control. Avoid her completely for a day or two. But there was no time for that. No more touching, then. The touching had been his own undoing. Surely he could conduct this seduction without physical contact. Work on her sympathies instead. Even resort to a bit of natural courtship of the less obvious sort. Seduce her mind first, then her body.

Satisfied with the new plan, Vincent finished off the brandy and didn’t refill his glass. And he was glad of the distraction when the knock sounded at the door now. Since it was only his secretary who ever intruded here, it wasn’t surprising to see Horace Dudley enter.

Vincent had forgotten, however, that he might need to be looking for a new secretary. A distinctly annoying thought. But just as stiff of form as he’d been last night when he marched off down that snowy street, Horace carried the promised letter of resignation in hand. Vincent didn’t give the little man a chance to present it.

“Put that away, Mr. Dudley. I have already rectified
what you found so objectionable, leaving you no reason to desert your position here.”

“Rectified? You’ve allowed the Ascots to keep their house?”

Vincent frowned over that absurd conclusion. “After all the effort and favors I called in to acquire it? No. But the lady is staying here until her father returns, so she won’t be sitting on some street corner, huddled in a blanket, half-buried in snow.”

Horace cleared his throat. “I hadn’t quite imagined such a dire circumstance, m’lord, but apparently you did.”

Vincent’s frown took on deeper lines. “Not a’tall, and beside the point,” he said briskly. “You will agree, however, that you no longer have reason to look for a new position?”

After the tongue-lashing he had received from his wife last night over his high morals, which wouldn’t put bread on the table, Horace was happy to say, “Indeed, and thank you, m’lord.”

“Back to work, then. You may concentrate now on those two investments we discussed last week. Oh, and summon my physician to the house.”

“You are feeling poorly?”

“No, but let the staff know that he’ll be here to take care of any illness or physical complaints they might have.”

“You should know they won’t come forward, m’lord. Physicians are much too expensive for minor—”

“I’ll take care of the charges.”

Horace blinked. “That’s quite—generous of you. Are you sure you aren’t feeling poorly?”

The frown became a definite scowl. “I haven’t gone daft, man, and I always have ulterior motives. Just make sure, if he’s asked by Miss Ascot, that he tells her he sees to the staff here each year at this time. And have him look in on her brother while he’s here. The boy has apparently been sick for some time now.”

“Ah, now I understand. You don’t want her to feel indebted to you.”

Vincent almost laughed at the misconception. Indebted would be nice, but would have to wait for something else to inspire it. His only concern now was to keep the lady from trying to pay for a physician herself. Horace didn’t need to know that, however, so Vincent merely nodded, allowing him to think what he would.

V
INCENT MANAGED TO DISTRACT HIMSELF FOR THE REMAINDER
of the afternoon. But by the time the dinner hour was approaching, he was so filled with anticipation of seeing his beautiful houseguest again that he knew damn well he didn’t dare. Not yet. Not when just the thought of her entering the room set his blood to racing.

Bloody hell. This just wouldn’t do. There was the chance she might not come down to share the meal with him. But just in case she felt common courtesy would demand it, he left the house. There was only one cure for his current dilemma, and there were several residences where he could find it.

He decided upon Lady Catherine. A widow of several years, she never failed to welcome him into her home. And since she was somewhat of a recluse, he rarely found her already entertaining when he called on her, as tended to be the case with the other women he shared company with. He didn’t keep a mistress, had never found the need to when he had so many invitations from the women of his acquaintance that he couldn’t keep track of them all. The few he regularly visited were the least complicated of the lot, enjoyed the independence that widowhood gave them, and wanted from him no more than he was willing to give, or at least strived to give that impression.

Catherine was a handsome woman a few years older than Vincent. She was indebted to him. He had arranged for her to acquire the house of her dreams, the one she had fallen in love with as a child and had wanted ever since. She had been unable to convince the owner to sell to her when she’d become a rich widow. It was how Vincent had met her, when he’d heard what she was after.

He hadn’t lied to Larissa when he’d told her how he made his fortune. Catherine had paid him an exorbitant fee for finding out what it would take to get the owner of the house to sell—in that particular case, a racing stable in Kent which the man had never thought to acquire himself, even though he was an avid horseman, and an invitation to meet the queen, both easily obtainable.

Catherine was still indebted, or felt she was. She really did love her house. Vincent often wondered if that was why there was always plenty of extra food available when he showed up unexpectedly, even though Catherine would otherwise have eaten alone.

The lavish meal, he enjoyed as usual, for she had a splendid cook. He even enjoyed her company, her fine wit able to amuse him occasionally, when he was a man who didn’t find much amusing. She expected him to stay the night with her. He had planned to. It was why he was there. But as much as he had been overcome with desire that day, he felt absolutely none that evening.

It wasn’t Catherine’s fault. She was as lovely and accommodating as usual. It was Larissa’s fault. She still wouldn’t leave his thoughts, even for the few hours he spent with another woman.

He left directly after the meal. Catherine was disappointed and had trouble hiding it, though she tried. He’d never done that before. But had he stayed, he probably would have embarrassed them both.

He returned home with dread, though, knowing full well that he was going to have a problem with Larissa’s close proximity that night. How utterly insane, to have put her in that particular room, with no locks on the doors between them. There were no guests expected over the holidays. He had wanted her where he could reach her. He
had been thinking, foolishly, of
after
The Seduction, when he expected to continue to share her bed, at least until her father’s return, and so had arranged the easiest access to it. He had
not
counted on being tempted beyond reason before he had her.

He’d been right. He was unable to sleep. He’d been right, too, that he’d be unable to resist entering her room that night. He had an excuse ready, in case she awoke. She didn’t. She slept very soundly. He didn’t even try to be quiet, wanted her to wake. She didn’t. She was driving him crazy.

Somehow, and he’d never know where he dredged up the will, he managed to get out of there without disturbing her. He even managed to get to sleep, probably because it was now near dawn. He’d actually spent most of the night in her room in a state of heightened anticipation that had finally drained him to exhaustion.

And he dreamed that she stood at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep, as he had done to her …

It wasn’t a dream. Larissa had been unable to sleep as well, though in her case, she didn’t know what was bothering her so much that all she could do was toss and turn and pound on her pillow every few minutes in vexation that sleep was avoiding her. She’d heard Vincent come down the hall, had known it was he, because their doors were the only ones at the end of the hall. She’d heard
vague sounds after that, nothing distinguishable—until the inner door to her room opened and she went so still, she briefly forgot to breathe.

It was he, and all those feelings he had acquainted her with that afternoon came back, just knowing he was there. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted, wasn’t going to ask. When she realized he wasn’t going to wake her to tell her, no amount of curiosity got her to open her eyes. She pretended sleep. She didn’t want to know, really didn’t.

Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he must hear it, and still he didn’t wake her. He made enough noise that she probably would have woken easily—if she weren’t pretending to sleep. Then he was quiet, so quiet, she could no longer be sure he was still there. Yet she couldn’t relax, wouldn’t open her eyes to find out for certain, either. A wise choice, because when he did finally leave several hours later, she heard him clearly, heard his sigh, too.

She unwound with the closing of the door. She hadn’t known she’d been so tense the whole while, and was sure to be stiff for it in the morning. But instead of turning over and finally getting to sleep herself, she found herself following behind the baron. Not immediately. She did
not
want to come face-to-face with him after that nerve-racking ordeal. Yet slowly she passed through the dressing room and into the bathroom, then stood at the door there that connected to his room, with her ear pressed to it.

Ten minutes passed, twenty. Her ear was starting to ache. The room was cold, too far away from the fireplace in the other room to have caught any of its warmth, the portable brazier in the corner unlit. Shivers were already passing down her spine in continuous trips. And then she did what would very likely be the most stupid thing she had ever done or ever would do. She opened his door.

She told herself she just wanted to be assured that he had gone to bed, that he wasn’t coming back. Yet when she saw him lying there in his big bed, she was drawn forward despite better sense that warned her not to.

She was mesmerized. There was enough light from the fire he had restoked to see him clearly. His room was warm as well, which was why she didn’t leave immediately. At least that was the excuse she gave herself for standing there at the foot of his bed, staring at him. That his chest was bare, even of a blanket, had nothing to do with it.

It was
such
a wide chest. Lightly sprinkled with hair, though because the hair was as pitch black as that on his head, it seemed a much thicker mat. He really did have the body of a man who enjoyed athletic endeavors quite often. His upper arms were as thick as small tree trunks; even his neck was thickly corded.

His jaw was dusted with dark stubble. He must have to shave more than once a day. Her father’s facial hair was
like that, grew back so quickly that, like most men, he simply sported a beard and merely kept it trim. She wondered why the baron didn’t, wondered so many things about him. Was he lonely without family? Whom did he talk to when he needed a friend? Did he have a lady in mind to start a family? Someone he was already courting? Did he even want a family of his own someday? He must. He had a title to pass on. Didn’t titled gentlemen take that sort of thing quite seriously?