Once Upon a Highland Summer (39 page)
Read Once Upon a Highland Summer Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
I’ve been kissing your daughter.
That was the other problem—the luscious lips of Lady Julia, the bride-to-be, Carrindale’s unexpectedly lovely daughter. He’d noticed the stunning necklace she wore, of course, and the matching earrings, and then he saw the woman behind them, and the jewels had paled by comparison. She was even more beautiful than he remembered from their brief encounter.
Fool! He wasn’t a natural thief, didn’t find it easy, and the distraction didn’t help.
Thomas wasn’t the kind of man who lost himself in a simple kiss. He wondered how far he would have let it go if sanity hadn’t saved him. And what if he’d been caught with Julia in his arms? Would Carrindale have called the watch, or simply had him spirited away to a watery grave in the stinking Thames? The earl would certainly not insist that she marry a rogue like him when she had a duke in hand.
His pedigree was good enough, though not as high as the Duke of Temberlay’s, or would have been had his brother not disowned him for his sins. He was plain Mr. Merritt now, a man who made his own way in the world without family ties to help or hinder him. This adventure would gain him only a memorable kiss, perhaps a stolen tiara—and one of Julia’s diamond earrings, a souvenir of the encounter. It rested in his breast pocket now.
He licked his lips to refrain from taking it out and looking at it, and tasted champagne. He’d never kissed anyone like Julia Leighton. None of the rich widows, the bored
ton
wives, the milkmaids or whores he’d known compared. He marveled at Temberlay’s stupidity in not knowing how lucky he was. What kind of man could resist the delectable charms of a woman like Julia? They had been betrothed for years. Surely by now Temberlay had claimed his right to touch her, bed her.
He shook his head, freeing his mind from that image, so he could find the damn safe and get the hell out—
The rustle of silk caught him by surprise.
She stepped out of the shadows. A mixture of fear and unexpected pleasure kept him rooted to the floor.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked him. “I thought—”
He knew what she thought, that he’d left the ball—which he would have if he’d had any sense at all—and she’d never see him again. She would have wondered about her lost earring longer than she’d remember him. Suddenly the diamond bob weighed heavy in his pocket, and he could feel it against his breast like biblical guilt.
Though shalt not steal.
Not kisses, or jewels.
But a man had to eat.
He caught another hint of her perfume—it was on his clothes, would stay with him for days. Violets. It was a sophisticated, unusual scent for such a young woman. It spoke of hidden depths, secrets. Most debutantes wore lavender or rosewater.
“I—” He was lost for words. He glanced at the small landscape painting on the wall behind her, which probably hid the safe. For some reason, men like Carrindale always chose to hide their treasures behind nondescript art that wouldn’t otherwise have a place in their elegant homes. He could hardly stride to the picture, take it down, and ask Julia for the combination to the safe.
He supposed in other circumstances a gentleman—or even a rogue like him, if he had any sense—would bow, make a joke of his inexplicable presence in this dark room, say he mistook the door for the way to the jakes, and take his leave before there was trouble.
But he was already in trouble. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, the way the faint light outlined the shape of her neck and shoulders, the shadowed vee between her breasts, the ghostlike shimmer of her gown. The glitter of her jewels paled before the gleam of her eyes. His mouth watered.
“I—” He tried again, but she gave a desperate little sigh and rushed toward him. He opened his arms, caught her. Her lips landed on his, and it began all over again.
He was powerless to resist. He wanted this woman. He couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t been in complete control with a lover. He never lost himself to passion. Women were a means to an end, for physical gratification or gain. He offered them pleasure, took what he wanted, and left before they could beg him to stay.
But it was different with Julia, and he couldn’t begin to say why. Perhaps because she was forbidden to him, belonged to another man. Was it the thrill of stealing something he otherwise couldn’t have? No, it was the lady herself—beautiful, trusting, half innocent, unconsciously seductive. She’d set his blood on fire with a simple stolen kiss in a dark garden, and now—
He knew exactly what she wanted.
Him.
It wasn’t rescue this time. It was plunder. She was making soft sounds as she sought his mouth, pressed her lips and her hips to his. He lifted her into his arms, carrying her the few steps to the deep leather settee, laying her down, his body on hers, as desperate as she. Her arms tightened, pulled him nearer. He was wrapped in her perfume, mesmerized by her eager kisses. She let him raise her skirts, slide his fingers up the silk of her calves, thighs, hips.
Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, then fell away as he found the wet center of her.
“Oh,” she sighed, and his fingers played over her, bringing her pleasure before he took his own. She gripped his lapels, pulled him down against her as she cried out, her body bucking against his fingers. He caught the sweet whimpers in his mouth.
He reached for his flies, opened them expertly with one hand as he kissed her, unable to get enough of her mouth.
She gasped as he entered her, and tensed beneath him. She was tight, almost too tight.
Nervous, no doubt. He should have locked the door, but it was too late for that. He was beyond reason, beyond stopping, but she didn’t ask him to. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh, right through his shirt, a sweet, sharp, sensual pain.
He didn’t last long. One last, long thrust, and he filled her, felt the hot rush of release.
He fell against her, stunned. He stroked her face, kissed her gently, still buried inside her. He couldn’t read her expression in the low light.
What the hell had he done?
He moved off of her, turned away and used his handkerchief to clean himself before he fastened his clothes.
She sat on the settee, arranging her own clothing, trying to fix her hopelessly disheveled hair.
“Oh no, my earring! Well, my mother’s, actually. I’ve lost it! She’ll lecture me for an hour on carelessness, heedless behavior, and—” She began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Heedless behavior!” she said. Her laughter faded. “I should not have—”
Nor should he. Not here, not now. The stakes were too high. He sighed. He wished he could afford to leave here empty-handed, with nothing but the memory of a lover that finally made him feel something, even if only for a moment. The diamond in his pocket would feed him for a week, the Carrindale tiara for a month, and Julia’s necklace for half a year.
She was searching the floor for it, and he almost relented. Taking her hands in his, he pulled her close for a moment, distracting her. Desire surged again. What the devil was the matter with him? He did
not
allow his feelings to get in the way of his survival. He hadn’t even realized he
had
feelings until now. He kissed her gently, making it farewell. She pulled away.
He braced himself for tears, accusations, but she simply said, “You should go. The French doors lead to the garden, and there’s a gate that leads to the mews and the street.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“I shall go upstairs. I’ll send my maid down to mama to say I have a headache.”
There was no mention of Temberlay. Had the duke even noticed she was gone, that she’d been absent from the ballroom for nearly an hour? Thomas glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel.
Less than an hour.
He straightened his rumpled cravat as best he could and bowed over her hand. Her fingers coiled around his for a moment, as if she could not bear to let him go. He pulled free gently and let himself out.
It wasn’t until he’d reached his lodgings that he saw the blood on his handkerchief. How could he have been so stupid?
Lady Julia Leighton had been a virgin.
T
homas waited outside Carrindale House in the rain until he saw Julia get in the coach and drive away. He followed her to Bond Street, watched her alight and go into an exclusive modiste’s shop. He watched through the window as she tried on a gown of sapphire blue silk. The shop assistant spread a lace veil over her dark hair, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. Her wedding gown. He clenched his fists and stepped away to wait for her to emerge.
“Why Lady Julia, how pleasant to meet you here so unexpectedly,” he said brightly, as if he had merely chanced upon her in the street. He watched her pale cheeks bloom like roses, saw fear war with curiosity in her eyes.
She dipped a curtsy and turned to her maid. “Wait in the coach. I’ll be along in a moment.” After the girl complied, she whispered to him, “What are you doing here?”
“I found your earring,” he said, and taking her gloved hand in his dropped it into her palm. It was the only excuse he had come up with to see her again, returning what he’d stolen. Well, half of what he’d stolen. “It must have gotten tangled in my clothing when we—” She shot him a wide-eyed look of horror, and he fell silent. “Are you—well, my lady?” he asked stiffly, resisting the urge to touch her flaming cheek.
She glanced at the earring and closed her hand on it. “You’ve rescued me yet again.”
There were a million things he wanted to say—apologies, offers of marriage, confessions of feelings he had no right to, everything from concern to—affection. He’d call it that.
“Someday I shall have to return the favor,” she said.
“I came to see if—” But she tilted her head, and even if her blush betrayed her embarrassment at what had passed between them in the darkness of her father’s library, she schooled her expression into the same polite look of interest she’d given Fiona Barry in the park. She did not need him, after all. She was stronger than she looked. He felt admiration for her. She would make a magnificent duchess.
He took her arm and escorted her the few steps to her coach. “So when is the wedding to be?” he asked.
“January. At Temberlay Castle.”
They reached the vehicle, and he let her go and bowed. “Then I shall wish you well,” he said. “And happy.”
She lowered her gaze. “I am . . .” She paused, and he watched her throat bob as she swallowed the lie. “Thank you,” she managed.
He kissed her hand, felt her fingers tighten on his for an instant. He let her go and walked away, resisting the urge to look back. Whatever the future held for him, it did not include Julia Leighton.
LECIA CORNWALL lives and writes in Calgary, Canada, in the beautiful foothills of the Canadian Rockies, with five cats, two teenagers, a crazy chocolate Lab, and one very patient husband. She’s hard at work on her next book.
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