Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (11 page)

She had no bond with Westwood, and she couldn’t let herself be so strongly influenced by whatever he or Miranda chose to do.

As proof that dancing was about to begin, a quartet was tuning their violins in the next parlor. The furniture had been shoved back to clear the floor.

Helen had no doubt that she’d be asked to dance, and while she yearned to take part, her participation would aggravate Miranda to an unnecessary frenzy.

She worked her way over to the double doors that led out onto the verandah, and she walked outside. The moon was up, the temperature balmy, so she didn’t need a shawl. She went to the stairs and down into the yard. The gardeners had placed lanterns on the paths, and she continued on to the far end and sat on a bench.

The windows across the rear of the mansion were open, light from hundreds of candles spilling out. The orchestra’s lively melody wafted toward her. The scene was magical, and she should have been ecstatic to be included, but as she observed, she suffered the worst wave of nostalgia.

She missed Harriet. She hadn’t seen her sister in weeks, which was always troubling, and for several days, she’d been very anxious, feeling that something had happened to Harriet. They were very close, and as twins, they had a mental connection that others didn’t share. But it was more than apprehension over her sibling that had her so wistful.

Her life should have been similar to this, one of ease and parties and wealthy friends. While her grandfather hadn’t been a nobleman, he’d been affluent, had owned a prosperous country estate, had fraternized in the highest circles of society.

She should have been a cherished granddaughter, should have had a marvelous childhood, then a fancy debut. There should have been a substantial dowry and marriage to a second or third son from a prominent family.

If matters had progressed as they ought, she might have had children already, and in recent months, the fact that she didn’t, the thought of what might have been, was weighing heavily.

Up on the verandah—to her surprise—Westwood stepped outside. He strolled to the balustrade and peered across the yard. Helen was far away and hidden by the shadows, but he seemed to be gazing right at her.

Like a silly, besotted girl, her pulse raced as she wondered if he’d come out specifically to find her. What if he had? What did it mean? What would he do? What should
she
do?

As if he sensed her location, he walked down into the garden and headed directly toward her. Shortly, he appeared on the path.

They stared silently, both knowing it was dangerous for him to be there, but neither wanting to be the one to say so.

“Why are you out here all alone?” he inquired.

“I just needed some time by myself.”

“I looked around, and I didn’t see you. I was worried.”

“I’m fine.”

At his statement, her heart pounded again. He shouldn’t have been thinking about her at all. He shouldn’t have been watching her, shouldn’t have noted that she’d sneaked away. But he had, and at having his fondness so blatantly revealed, she couldn’t fight the surge of happiness that swept through her.

“The dancing started,” he pointed out.

“I can hear the music. It sounds lovely.”

“I was going to ask you.”

“To dance?”

“Yes.

She scoffed. “You couldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“I’m your ward’s companion. People would have been scandalized.”

“How many times must I tell you that it’s my house, and I can act however I please?”

“I believe I’ve mentioned this before: You are mad.”

He grinned. “You wore the dress.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You’re very beautiful in it—as beautiful as I knew you would be when I picked it out.”

“Thank you.”

It was another indication of his elevated interest, and she couldn’t picture him with a seamstress, discussing fabrics and styles. Why had he noticed her? Why had he singled her out?

He was a rich, unwed earl. He could have any woman in the world. Why would he want
her?
It was too bizarre to be true.

He held out his hand, and she gaped, but didn’t take it.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“Out here?”

“Yes. You’re so concerned about prying eyes, and we’re all alone. There’s no one to see.”

She gazed about, knowing that he was correct and they had the large garden all to themselves. But still, the prospect of discovery panicked her. Then he smiled, his expression warm and tender, and in an instant, her reservations evaporated.

She placed her hand in his, and he drew her to her feet and snuggled her to his chest. The music playing inside was fast and merry, but they moved to a different rhythm, slowly swaying back and forth.

“I haven’t seen you in days,” he murmured. “It seems like an eternity.”

“Where have you been? I was afraid that you were...were...angry with me.”

“With you? Why would I be?”

“You asked me to be your mistress, and I refused.”

“I hate it when people tell me
no
.”

“I know that.”

“I have to admit that you often infuriate me.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“I realize that, but you infuriate me anyway. It’s what I relish about your company.”

“It is?”

“Yes. I’ve never met anyone with your gall or temerity.”

“I’m fairly harmless.” “Not to me, so I’ve been trying to stay away from you.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t control myself. I thought it best to put some distance between us.”

“But you came back.” She was so relieved that her knees were weak.

“Yes, I did.”

“I’m glad.”

“You, my dear, make it impossible to behave as I ought.”

”Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I haven’t any idea, but it’s silly to keep fighting it.”

Appearing positively infatuated, he peered down at her, and she couldn’t deny how amazing it was to have his attention focused on her. No one had ever looked at her as he did, as if she was unique and splendid.

He stepped to the bench and sat down, and he dragged her down with him and began to kiss her. His lips covered her own, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers in her hair. She’d pinned it up for the party, and he yanked at the combs, scattering them on the ground. The long tresses fell in a golden wave.

He lifted and turned her so she was on her knees, straddling him, her skirt rucked up, their loins touching. The position was naughty and thrilling, and as his hands drifted lower to clasp her buttocks, her spirit soared with ecstasy.

As he drew her female parts across his male ones, sparks of desire shot through her. She was electrified, stunned by sensation. He meandered upward to her bosom, to massage her breast, and the bodily titillation he generated was so stirring that she moaned aloud.

Chuckling, he nibbled under her chin, down her neck, to her chest.

“Do you know what transpires,” he asked, “between a man and a woman when they make love?”

“I have a vague notion.”

“It’s very physical.”

“I had heard that it was.”

He rooted to her cleavage, and through the material of her gown, he bit at her nipple. Her moan became a gasp.

“I want you,” he claimed. “I want you as a husband wants his wife.”

He pulled her loins more tightly to his, and he flexed against her. The friction of their clothes rubbing, of their private areas being crushed together, was too exciting. A pressure was building inside her, and it was arousing and frightening, as if she might explode with pleasure.

“What are you doing?” she inquired.

“I’m giving you a taste of how it can be for us.”

“I won’t be your mistress.”

“So you’ve said, but I’m hoping to change your mind.”

Somehow, without her being aware, he’d pushed down her bodice, so her breast was exposed to his eager mouth. He latched on to her nipple with no fabric to serve as a barrier.

At the same time, his hand had slipped under her skirt, and his fingers glided into her feminine sheath. She should have protested or stopped him, but she was too surprised to complain. She hadn’t known that a man would do such a thing to a woman, that the shocking caress would feel just right.

His fingers fit perfectly, as if her body had been created for him to fondle her in precisely that way. He stroked her and stroked her, driving her to an exhilarating precipice, and something in her seemed to shatter.

She cried out with a joy that went on and on, until she feared that it would never end. Finally, she reached a sort of peak, and she floated down, safely caught in his arms.

He was very smug, and he laughed.

“What...was that?” she stammered when she could talk again.

“It’s called the
little death
.”

On hearing the phrase, she shuddered and tried to move away from him, but he wouldn’t release her.

“Is it...is it...a normal occurrence?” she queried, terrified that there might be something hideously wrong with her.

“It’s very, very normal,” he assured her, and she breathed a sigh of relief while wondering what she’d set in motion.

Was the behavior addicting? Would she grow to crave it like a dangerous opiate?

Her dress was in disarray, her hair a total mess, so she wouldn’t be able to return to the party. She’d have to creep up the servants’ stairs to her bedchamber, would have to pray that no one saw her.

She felt happy and decadent, in awe of him and what he’d done to her. She wanted him to do it again—at once!—wanted him to show her more of his delicious debauchery, and she decided that if there was a road to Hell, she was swiftly marching down it, but she didn’t care.

She didn’t care about anything.

He was lost in thought, running a lazy hand up and down her back.

She wished he’d speak up, that he would tell her what should happen now. She was confused and inundated, and at that moment, if he’d but asked, she might have agreed to engage in any depraved act.

Luckily, the opportunity for further mischief vanished, for up on the verandah, someone called, “James! James, are you out here?”

Miranda’s voice crashed over them like a wave of icy water.

Helen gasped with dismay and slid away, clutching at her loosened bodice. She’d been so swept up that she’d utterly ignored the fact they were in a very public spot. Any of the guests could have stumbled on them, and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Was she insane?

She huddled next to him on the bench, barely clad and more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life.

“Dammit!” he cursed.

“Is she coming toward us?” Helen hissed.

“Yes.”

“I can’t let her see me like this!”

“No, you can’t. I don’t imagine the discovery would go over too well.”

She glared at him, and he was very calm and seemed faintly amused.

“What should we do?” Helen whispered.

“I’ll find out what she wants, and I’ll lead her back to the party. Then you can sneak up the rear stairs to your room.”

He was thoroughly composed, as if his being interrupted in the middle of a tryst was a regular incident for him—which it probably was. How many other times had he dallied in his garden with a foolish, smitten female?

As the realization hit home, her ecstasy fled, and she felt like an idiot. Why did she let him overwhelm her better judgment?

He rose, pausing to lean down and kiss her goodbye.

“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” he murmured.

Then he walked away, and shortly, she could see him up by the house with Miranda.

“Where have you been?” she cheerily said. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“I was smoking a cheroot.”

“Well, I have the most thrilling news.”

“What is that?”

“Lord Gladstone has arrived.”

“Gladstone?”

“Yes, you know...the new earl? The privateer everyone is gossiping about.”

“Oh, marvelous.”

“You’ve been wanting to meet him, so I sent him an invitation, and he’s here!”

Westwood steered her to the door, and within seconds, they’d disappeared inside. Though Helen understood that he didn’t dare glance back, she kept waiting for him to peek around, or to give some other sign of encouragement, but he didn’t.

She loitered, experiencing an emotion that was oddly close to betrayal.

Eventually, she ran to the servants’ entrance, not slowing until she was safely sequestered in her bedchamber. She staggered over to the bed, laid down, and stared at the ceiling. Sounds from the soiree wafted up the stairs, underscoring how she didn’t belong with the people down in the parlor.

Was Westwood thinking of her? Or had he—once she was out of sight—forgotten her completely?

She felt as if her heart was breaking, as if she’d done something very, very wrong.

“What am I going to do?” she inquired of the empty room, but the walls had no answer.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Don’t leave this cabin.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Give me your word.”

Harriet held up her palm, as if swearing an oath on a Bible. “I promise I won’t leave.”

Captain Harcourt scoffed. “As if I’d believe anything you say.”

She flashed her most innocent smile. “Where would I go?”

“Who the hell knows, but if I come back and find you’re out wandering the ship, I’ll paddle your bottom.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would, so don’t push me.”

“Why can’t I take a walk up on the deck?”

“Because it’s not safe.”

“But I’m getting claustrophobic down here.”

“It can’t be helped. My men aren’t saints. If one of them catches you off by yourself, there’s no predicting what might happen. I won’t hang a member of my crew simply because he couldn’t resist your dubious charms.”

“I’m not afraid of your crew,” she boasted. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“That, my dear, is precisely the problem. You’re too brave for your own damn good.”

He spun and left, off to do whatever it was he did in the long hours he was up top. She, on the other hand, had to putter around in the stifling, small room, and the solitude was driving her batty. She had no one to talk to, no one with whom to break up the monotony.