Sylvia Day - [Georgian 03] (6 page)

He was so hard, so solid, Amelia wanted to cling to him and touch him without impediments. Only one man had ever held her this closely. Only a short time ago, she would have said her ability to enjoy such an embrace with every fiber of her being had passed with Colin. Now, she knew that wasn’t true.

How extraordinary to have found Montoya.

Or more aptly, how extraordinary that he had found her.

“That night . . . You recognized that others were coming,” she pointed out.

“I did.” The line of his lips hardened. “I am a man encumbered by a tainted past. It is why you should not send for me.”

“You did not have to come.” A tainted past, one that allowed him to recognize covert signals that most aristocrats would fail to notice.
Who was he?

The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, and she touched it with her fingertip. She could not see any deformity through the eyeholes of the mask or around his mouth. What she could see were dark eyes of a slightly exotic slant and a mouth made for sin. The curvature, shape, and firmness were perfection. She could imagine hours of kissing him and never growing bored. Whatever else may be wrong with him, she thought she might be able to bear it.

She touched the edge of the mask. “Let me see you.”

“No!” He pushed her hand away roughly, then caught it again and kissed the back. The press of his lips left tingles, even through her glove. “Trust me. It would be difficult to bear the truth of it.”

“Is that why you will not court me?”

Montoya stilled. “Would you wish me to?”

“Do you feel this way about many women?” Her gaze dropped to his throat where she watched him swallow hard. “I have felt this way about only one other man, and he is lost to me, as your love is to you.”

Suddenly his embrace tightened, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You have mentioned a lost loved one before,” he rasped.

“Sometimes it feels as if a piece of me is missing. It is unbearable. I do not understand why I feel so vividly about him after all these years, as if he might return, as if some part of me expects him to.” Her hands fisted in his coat. “But when I am with you, I think only of you.”

“Do I remind you of him?”

She shook her head. “He was vital and unrestrained; you are more subdued, but in a . . . primitive way.” Her smile was sheepish. “That sounds silly.”

“The primitiveness comes in response to you,” he said, nuzzling his jaw against her temple. He was so close, the smell of him inundated her senses and made her giddy. Joy, hot and sweet, filled her. The sensation of being alive after years of numbness. She felt guilty for that, burdened by a sense of betraying Ware, but she could not fight the attraction to Montoya. It was too strong, too heady and intoxicating.

“I would be willing to explore it . . .” she offered shyly.

“Are you propositioning me, Miss Benbridge?” he asked with a low laugh that she adored from the moment she heard it. It was the kind of laugh one worked to hear again. Already her mind was sifting through anecdotes she could share that might make him merry.

“I want to see you again.”

“No.” He cupped her nape and held her cheek to his chest, wrapping his big body around her. It was safe in his embrace. Warm. Delightful. Could two people spend hours hugging? A derisive snort escaped her. Hours of kissing and hugging. She was deranged.

“Was that a snort?” he teased.

She flushed. “Do not attempt to change the subject.”

“We should part,” he said, sighing with what sounded like regret. “You have already been absent from the festivities too long.”

“Why did you not say something when I first arrived?”

Montoya tried to retreat, but she held him to her. There was power in her proximity, she thought. The two halves warring within him—the part that wanted to hold her and the part that wanted to push her away—seemed stalemated when she was near.

Amelia smiled a woman’s smile. “You could not allow me to walk away, could you?”

“Is that vanity I hear?”

“Is that evasion?”

The flash of a rakish dimple made her stomach flutter. “If my circumstances were different, nothing could keep me from making you mine.”

“Oh?” She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Would you come bearing honorable intentions, or would you seduce me as you are doing now?”

“Sweet . . .” He laughed again. “The only seduction at work here is yours.”

“Truly?” Her breasts were full and heavy, pressing uncomfortably against her corset. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp. She
felt
seduced. Could it be that his body was responding to her as well? “What am I doing to you?”

“Why?” His smile was charming. “So you can do more of it?”

“I might. Would you like that?”

“When did you become so flirtatious?”

“Perhaps I have always been so,” she rejoined, batting her lashes coyly.

Montoya turned pensive. “Can Ware manage you?” He caught her wrists and pulled her hands away from his waist.

“I beg your pardon?” Amelia frowned as he evaded her and moved toward the door.

“You are mischievous baggage.” His gaze narrowed as his hand wrapped around the knob.

“I am not baggage.” She set her hands atop her pannier.

“You will forever land into trouble if not watched carefully.”

She arched a haughty brow. “I have been watched my entire life.”

“And yet here you are, luring strangers with tantalizing miniatures and holding a highly inappropriate assignation.”

“You did not have to come!” She stomped one slippered foot, irritated by his condescending tone.

“True. And I shan’t come again.”

His tone was too familiar. He had asked her if he reminded her of Colin. Up until this moment, he had not. They were built differently, their voices were inflected with dissimilar accents, and their strides boasted different kinds of confidence. Colin had a bit of a stomp, as if to forcibly establish his presence. Montoya had sultriness to his gait, a more understated way of defining his dominance.

But in their mulish determination to set her aside, they were the same. As a young girl, she’d no choice but to tolerate it. That was not the case now.

“As you wish,” she said, moving toward him with a deliberate swaying of her hips. “If it is so easy for you to walk away and leave me behind, it would be best if you go.”

“I did not say it would be easy,” he bit out.

Amelia set her hand atop his where it gripped the knob. “Good-bye, Count Montoya.”

He turned his head, and she lunged, pressing her lips to his. He froze, and she took the advantage, tilting her head to deepen the contact. His breathing grew labored, his skin hot. Still, he did not move. She was unsure of how to proceed, and without his participation the kiss became awkward. Then she thought perhaps she was overthinking the thing.

Closing her eyes, Amelia allowed instinct to take over. Her hands settled lightly upon his tense shoulders, and he shuddered. She licked his lower lip, and he groaned. Her stomach churned madly with delight and fear. What if they were caught? How would she explain?

Then she did not care because it was too delicious taking him as she wanted. He did nothing to help her, but he did nothing to stop her either. Stretching her arms up, she reached behind him and tugged off her glove; then she curled her fingers around his nape. The moment their bare skin touched she was lost to him. His mouth opened on a gasp, and she pushed her tongue inside, licking the taste of him as she would a favorite treat. She tugged on his queue, and he growled.

His tongue stroked along hers, a practiced, smooth glide that made her moan into his mouth. The tiny sound broke him. He moved so quickly, she barely registered it. The next she knew, she was pinned to the door by over six feet of aroused male, and he was kissing her back, ardently and possessively.

“Damn you,” he cursed in a harsh whisper. “I can’t have you.”

“You will not even try!”

“I have done nothing but try.
Nothing.
That does not change the fact that my circumstances make me unsuitable and dangerous for you.”

Montoya cupped her nape and slanted his mouth hungrily over hers. It was a dark kiss, rife with sensual intent. Delicious. She sagged into the door and took it, all of it. Every thrust of his tongue, every nibble of his teeth, every caress of his beautiful lips. She took it and begged for more with pleading whimpers that drove his fervency to greater heights.

There was a mask between them and endless secrets. There was the wall that existed between strangers who shared nothing of each other beyond a single moment in time, yet the connection she felt with him was there, threading through all of that.

Was it mere lust? How could it be when she could not see all of him? But this thrumming in her veins, the ache in her breasts, the dampness between her thighs . . . Lust was there, part of the greater whole.

“Amelia,” he breathed roughly, his warm breath gusting across her damp skin. His parted lips drifted across her face, from jaw to cheekbone. Then higher. “I want to strip you bare, lay you on my bed, and kiss you all over.”

She shivered, both at the serrated way he said her name and the images his words invoked in her mind. “Reynaldo.”

“I must leave Town or that will happen, and I cannot lay claim to you if we progress that far. Not now.”

“When?” Tormented by yearning and a body that was wracked with unappeased desire, she would promise anything in this moment to see him again.

“You have Ware, a friend of long acquaintance who can give you things that I cannot.”

“Perhaps you and I can be friends.”

“You do not know me well enough to say that.”

“I want to know you.” Her voice was a throaty purr. Never in her life had she sounded like that, and it affected him. She could tell by the way he wrapped himself around her in an even tighter embrace. “I would like you to know me.”

He pulled back, and she realized she found the mask attractive. Arousing. How odd, but true, nevertheless. She did not find it alarming, but rather comforting. She felt too open, and the sight of the mask shielded her as well as him.

“The only thing you need to know about me,” he said in a rasp, “is that there are those who want me dead.”

“Such a statement might frighten other women away,” she retorted, tugging his mouth back down to hers, “but I live with people who have similar problems. Some would say I live a similar circumstance simply by association.”

“You won’t change my mind,” he grumbled, licking at her parted lips, his body acting in opposition to his words.

“I
was attempting to leave the room;
you
detained me.”

“You kissed me!” he accused.

Amelia shrugged. “Your mouth was in the way. I could not avoid it.”

“You
are
trouble.” Bending his head, he kissed her one last time. Softer. Lingering. Her toes curled in her slippers.
“Now
, we must part, before we are discovered.”

She nodded, knowing it was true, understanding that she had been absent far too long. “When will I see you again?”

“I cannot say. After your wedding, perhaps. Maybe never.”

“Why?” She’d asked that question endlessly tonight and still couldn’t collect the answer. Did he not understand how precious it was to feel this alive around another being? She had not realized that she was dormant until she’d met him.

“Because Ware can give you things that I cannot.”

She was about to retort, when the doorknob jiggled. Her breath caught and held. She froze. Montoya did not.

He moved quickly, pulling back from her and fading again into the shadowy corner. She stumbled away from the door when it pushed open behind her. Turning, Amelia faced the intruding party.

“My lord,” she breathed, curtsying.

Ware entered with a frown. “What are you doing in here? I have been searching the house for you.” He studied her carefully; then his jaw tautened. “You have something to tell me, don’t you?”

She nodded and held a shaking hand out to him. He took it and drew her out of the room, pausing a moment to sweep the contents with his gaze. Finding nothing amiss, he led her away from Montoya and into a future that was far less orderly than it had been mere days ago.

“S
o that is the whole of it,” Amelia said, her fingers fidgeting with her teaspoon.

The Earl of Ware reached over and stilled his fiancée’s restless movement by covering her hand with his own. “No need to be nervous,” he murmured, his mind sifting through everything she had related.

“You are not angry?” Her green eyes were wide with a mixture of surprise and apprehension.

“I am not pleased, but I am not angry.” He smiled ruefully and settled back more firmly in his chair.

They were seated on the terrace of the St. John house, enjoying tea before their customary ride through the park. It was with some trepidation that he had passed the hours waiting to speak with her. He knew what a woman looked like after a heated assignation, so while Amelia’s revelation was in keeping with his own suspicions, he was sorry to have them confirmed.

“I do not know what to do,” she said, sounding forlorn. “I fear I am out of my depth.”

“And I fear I am not going to be much help,” he admitted. “We are friends, love, but I am a man first and foremost. It does not sit well with me to hear that you feel things for this stranger that you do not feel for me.”

As her hand twisted and gripped his tightly, a becoming blush spread across her cheeks. “I do not like myself very much at this moment. You are dear to me, Ware. You always have been, and I have not acted as you deserve. I pray you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He stared pensively over the rear “garden.” The word barely applied to the outdoor space that surrounded the St. John manse. Only low-lying flowerbeds alleviated the stark severity of the spacious lawn.

“I forgive you,” he said. “And I admire your honesty. I doubt I would have the fortitude to reveal so much were I in your stead. However, I cannot have a fiancée who is engaging in such behavior, especially in public venues.”

She nodded, looking like a chastened schoolgirl. While the scolding was required, he took no pleasure in it.

“You will have to decide, once and for all, whether you wish to wed me or not, Amelia. If you choose to proceed with our arrangement, you must act in good faith and deport yourself properly.” Ware pushed to his feet and rolled his shoulders back to alleviate the tension there. “Damnation, I do not like feeling as if you are being coerced to marry me!”

Amelia stood as well, her floral muslin skirts falling to a graceful drape. “You are angry.” She held up a delicate hand to stem his reply. “No. I understand. You have the right to be. Had you acted similarly, I would have been equally furious with you.”

Blowing out her breath, she walked to the marble terrace railing and leaned her weight upon her hands. He joined her, the lawn to his back, she to his side.

She was lovely this afternoon, as she was every afternoon. Her dark hair was arranged in artless, powdered curls that swayed around her shoulders. Her skin was pale as cream, her eyes as green as jade, her lips red like dark wine. He had once jested that she was the only woman he thought of in poetic prose, and she’d laughed with him, delighted at what she called his “fancifulness.” He was only fanciful with her.

“If we wed,” she murmured, “do you intend to be faithful to me?”

“That depends on you.” He considered her carefully. “If you lie there and pray for a swift finale, I probably will not be. I enjoy sex, Amelia. I crave it. I would not give up the pleasure of sexual congress for anything, even a wife.”

“Oh.” She looked away with a sigh.

A stray breeze blew by, rolling a tight curl along the tender, bared skin where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered, not with cold, but from the sensation. Ware noted that reaction, as he noted everything about her. Cataloguing the finer details for future use. Amelia was a tactile, sensual creature. Something he appreciated and had been gentle not to exploit, biding his time for the day when she would be his and he could teach her how to embrace that side of herself. With him alone.

Now, he had much to consider.

“I believe we could enjoy each other,” he offered, teasing her fingers on the ledge with his own. “I think sex between us could be much more than a chore, but only if you open yourself to me completely in that way. No shyness, no reserve. If our marital bed is welcoming, I will not go elsewhere. I am not a man given to the pursuit of conquests. I simply want to fuck and have a splendid time doing it. If I can do that with one woman, more the better in my estimation. Less work.”

The coarse word shocked her, he could tell, but it was the right word for how he liked his bedsport, and it was best she know that now. There would be no brief groping and grunting in the darkness. There would be illumination, flushed and sweaty skin, and many hours.

“Is that what passion in the bedroom is?” she asked, with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. “Animal urges given free rein? Is there nothing more involved in the process?”

It took him a moment to comprehend the question. “Are you referring to the glances your sister shares with St. John? Or how the Westfields look at one another?”

“Yes. They are . . . indecent, yet romantic.”

“You are not the only one to see such affection and covet it.” The inquisitiveness in her gaze made him smile.

“Do you?”

Ware shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his hip into the railing. “On occasion. But I do not pine for it or suffer from its lack. I think, however, that you do.”

As honest as ever, she nodded.

“I begin to see that my straightforward approach to wooing you was not the best,” he mused aloud. “I assumed that the miserable end to your first love affair would make you inclined to appreciate a more . . .
grounded
relationship. But you want the opposite, do you not?”

She pushed away and began to pace, which was her wont when agitated. At times like this, she reminded him of a caged cat prowling in its boredom. “I do not know what I want, that is the problem.” The look she gave him pinned him in his place.

“I am content. There is nothing more that I need.”

“Are you truly content?” she challenged. “Or do you simply accept that friendship is all that one can hope for in your position?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Who would you wed, if not for me?”

“I’ve no notion, nor do I care to think about it until absolutely necessary. Are you suggesting I consider alternatives to you?”

Coming to a halt, Amelia released a sound that reminded him endearingly of a kitten’s growl. “I want to be mad for
you!
Why is the choice not mine to make?”

“Perhaps you suffer from bad taste?” He laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him. Then he lowered his voice and stared at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “If it’s the mask that arouses you, I can wear one to bed. Such games can be fun.”

When her eyes went big as saucers, he winked.

Her hands went to her hips as she bristled; then her head tilted to the side. “Perhaps it is the mystery that intrigues me so? Is that what you are suggesting, my lord?”

“It is a possibility.” Ware’s smile faded. “I intend to make inquiries about your admirer. Let us see if we can unmask him.”

“Why?”

“Because he is not for you, Amelia. A foreign count? You have always longed for a family. You would not move away from your sister now that you are reunited, so what future do you have with this man? And let us not discount the fact that he may seek to wound me through you.”

She began pacing again, and he watched, admiring the inherent grace in her movements and the way her skirts swirled enchantingly around her long legs. “Everyone appears to believe that Montoya has no interest in me as an individual, only in the people connected to me. I admit I find it rather insulting to learn that those who claim to love me find it impossible to imagine a man desiring me for myself.”

“I can more than imagine it, Amelia. I feel it. Do not take my courtesy as a lack of desire for you. You would be wrong.”

Heaving out her breath, she said, “St. John is also attempting to find him.”

He expected as much. “If the man is hiding in the rookeries, St. John might succeed. But you said the count was finely dressed and cultured. He sounds as if he is a denizen of my social circles, rather than the pirate’s. My search may prove more fruitful.”

Amelia paused again. “What will you do if you find him?” There was more than a small measure of suspicion in her voice.

“Are you asking me if I will hurt him?” The question was not frivolous, as he was a swordsman of some renown. “I might.”

Her beautiful features crumbled. “I should not have said anything to you.”

Straightening, Ware moved toward her. “I am pleased you spoke the truth. Our relationship would have been irreparably damaged if you had presented a lie to hide your guilt.” As he reached her, he breathed deeply, inhaling the innocent scent of honeysuckle. He had long suspected that her body resembled the flower she favored, fragrant and sweet as honey upon the lips.

He cupped her face in both hands and tilted her gaze upward to lock with his. Something new swirled in the emerald depths and he found himself falling into them. “But that does not change the fact that the man knew you were mine and took liberties regardless. A grave insult to me, love. I can forgive you, but I cannot forgive him.”

“Ware . . .” Her lips parted, the seam glistening in the soft afternoon light.

Leaning over her, he bent to take her mouth. Her breath caught as she recognized his intent.

They sprung apart as Amelia’s sister and her husband joined them on the terrace, followed shortly by a maid bearing a new tea service.

“It is a lovely day,” the pirate said in his distinctive raspy voice. “We thought we would join you in the sunshine.”

Ware understood the warning. With a slight bow of his head, he stepped back farther. The former Lady Winter smiled at his perceptiveness. It was a bedroom smile, the one a woman shared with her lover after a bout of great sex. For Mrs. St. John, it was her only smile, and it was a lauded part of her appeal.

“We would enjoy the company,” Ware said, leading Amelia back to their table.

He spent the rest of the afternoon trading inanities with the St. Johns and, later, with those he and Amelia passed during their drive through the park. But part of his mind was actively occupied with the logistics of his hunts—the one for Amelia’s favor and the other for the masked man who sought to steal it from him.

 

“Are you certain the man’s name is Simon Quinn?”

“Aye,” the tavern keep said, setting another pint on the bar.

“Thank you.” Colin accepted the ale and moved to a table in the corner. The report of a man searching for him was disturbing, even more so because the one making the inquiries was using Quinn’s name. It could be Cartland, or one of the men with him, though the owner of the tavern was fairly certain the man did not have a French accent.

There was nothing Colin could do aside from settling in to wait, using techniques of concealment in which he was well versed. A man of his size could never hide completely, but he could make himself less noticeable by sprawling low to disguise his height and breadth of shoulder. He also left his hair unrestrained, which roughened his overall appearance.

The establishment itself made it easy to lose oneself among the crowd. The lighting was kept low to hide a multitude of faults and dirt. The dark-stained walnut furnishings—round tables and spindle-backed chairs—only added to the dimness of the interior. The air was filled with the smells of old and new ale and crackling grease from the kitchen. Patrons wandered in and out. Several were regulars whom Colin had spoken to previously.

Long ago, in his past life, he had frequented such places with his uncle, Pietro. Those lazy afternoons off had been spent listening to the imparted wisdom of a good and decent man. Colin missed him, thought of him often, and wondered how he was faring. Pietro had instilled strength of character in him and a belief in honor that had stood him in good stead these many years.

Colin’s hand fisted on the table.

One day, they would be reunited, and he would show his uncle how he had heeded those early teachings. He would free Pietro from his life of servitude and establish him in comfort. Life was too short, and he wanted his beloved uncle to enjoy as much of it as possible.

“Evenin’,” greeted a voice to his side, drawing Colin from his introspection.

Beside him stood an elderly gentleman who spent most of his life in the taverns on this street, offering companionship to those who would buy him a drink or something to eat. Occasionally, the man overheard something worth selling, and Colin was willing to pay for it, as he was well aware.

“Have a seat,” Colin replied, gesturing to the chair opposite his own.

Hours passed. He used the time to question those who found him familiar from his previous sojourns there. Many hoped to earn a coin or two by passing along information of note. Sadly, there was nothing of interest about Cartland, but Colin bought a pint for anyone who talked with him and used their company to deepen his disguise.

Then, quite miraculously, the man he most hoped to see appeared in a swirl of heavy black cape. Simon Quinn paused at the bar and exchanged words with the keep, then turned with wide eyes to find Colin waving from the corner.

“By God,” Quinn said as he approached, unclasping the jeweled frog that secured his cloak to his neck. “I have been searching all over London for you, half-starved, and you have been here in my lodgings the entire time?”

“Well”—Colin grinned—“the last few hours, at least.”

Quinn muttered a curse under his breath and sank wearily into the seat across from him. A pint was brought over, then a plate of food. Once he was fully settled, he said, “I come bearing both good and bad news.”