Taste of Temptation (26 page)

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Authors: Cheryl Holt

Tags: #Romance - Historical, #American Light Romantic Fiction, #General, #Romance, #Fiction, #Fiction - Romance, #Love stories, #Romance: Historical, #Historical, #American Historical Fiction, #Regency novels, #Regency fiction

BOOK: Taste of Temptation
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“We don’t have to be married,” he gently said.
He stared at her, sensing the myriad of emotions careening through her. She was scared and worried, but curious, too, eager to try it while yearning for the fortitude to resist.
He kissed her sweetly, tenderly. “Let me do this with you. I want it so badly.”
“I don’t know ...” she wavered.
“Don’t you see, Helen? It’s the only way.”
“You make it so hard to say no.”
“Then don’t. Be happy. Join in.”
He pushed with his hips, as she gasped and arched up. To distract her, he clasped her nipple, twirling it between finger and thumb, wrenching her attention away from what was transpiring down below.
He buried his face at her nape, inhaling her lush scent, as he raised the issue that had been eating him alive.
“Tell me you haven’t lain with Dubois.”
“No, no.”
“Swear it to me.”
She pulled away so that he had to look at her.
“I barely know him, Tristan. He’s a peddler; he has a wagon parked out on the lane. He sells tonics and potions.”
“Why was he talking about you?”
“He fancies himself an expert on amour. He had this absurd idea that you were fond of me, that he could make you jealous.”
Tristan snorted, but didn’t respond. The bastard had made Tristan jealous, all right, having goaded Tristan to fisticuffs, when he’d never previously brawled over any woman.
He began again, diverting her, reveling with her. He kneaded her breasts, relaxing her, so that his phallus could continue its relentless incursion.
“We’re almost there,” he said, flexing, flexing.
“I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be. I would never hurt you.”
As he voiced the vow, he meant it, but in reality, he might end up being cruel, might end up hurting her in ways she could never imagine.
“You love me, don’t you?” she ludicrously queried.
He nearly replied with,
Love has nothing to do with this
, but before he could, the strangest remark slipped out.
“Of course I love you,” he told her. “How could you not know?”
“And you’ll marry me after, won’t you?”
Even in his aroused state, he was wise enough not to answer. With a groan of pleasure, of extreme need, he impaled her.
At the abrupt penetration, she moaned and tried to wrestle away, but he held her to his chest, her heart fluttering like a frightened bird’s.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Everything is all right now.”
“You said you would never hurt me.”
“The first time is the only time. From here on, it will always be marvelous.”
He wanted to give her a chance to acclimate, but he couldn’t wait. On finally being joined to her, his body rejoiced, his seed rushing from his loins.
He thrust, and the feel of her—so tight and hot and wet—was too much. With a sudden burst of elation, he spilled himself far inside her, being too overwhelmed to recall that he oughtn’t. He’d taken the ultimate liberty, and it was shocking, but incredibly satisfying, too.
He kept on till he was spent, then he slid away and snuggled himself to her. They were quiet, and he thought he should say something, but he couldn’t figure out what it should be.
His brain was jumbled not only from the sex, but from the alcohol, too. Already, he was falling asleep. He was being an inconsiderate brute, and he understood that he was, but he couldn’t help it.
“I went too fast,” he mumbled.
“No you didn’t,” she politely claimed.
“It will be better next time.”
“It was fine this time.”
“Rest with me for a bit,” he urged.
“I can’t. I have to return to my room.”
“I want to do it again. Unless you’re too sore?”
“No, I’m not too sore.”
An awkward silence descended, and since she was an incessant talker, it was obvious she was troubled or that she’d hoped for more from him than he’d given her. But he was a man of few words, and he never wasted any of them on frivolous matters such as romance.
Surely she knew that about him?
He was dozing off, and in his lethargy, he heard her say, “You promised, remember?”
“Yes, I did,” he replied, in his muddled condition, having no clue to what she referred.
“You’ll follow through?”
It was a question, but a prayer, too, and he lied, “Yes, I will.”
Her worries assuaged, she sighed and nestled closer, and he drifted off, with her in his arms and content in a manner he’d never been.
When he roused, it was morning.
His head pounded from a hangover, and the sunlight streaming in the window was inordinately bright. He moaned and rubbed his temples as he glanced to the side.
She was gone, not so much as a dent in the pillow to indicate that she’d been with him. The air was so still that, for a moment, he wondered if—in a drunken stupor—he’d dreamed the encounter, but there was blood on the sheet, on his phallus, proving that his memories were accurate. She had been there.
A flap of fabric stuck out from under her pillow. He lifted it and saw her shredded nightgown folded into a tidy square.
He pressed the garment to his nose and inhaled deeply, detecting her scent, liking to be reminded—immediately on awakening—so vividly of her.
Smiling, he rose to face the day, his first order of business to find her and let her know that she would be his—until he tired of her and moved on to another.
Chapter 15
“EVERYONE noticed.”
“So what?”
Michael glared at Tristan, who was sitting like a king on a throne at his library desk.
“We’ve been through this a hundred times,” Tristan scolded. “Must we go through it a hundred and one?”
“I’m a bloody earl,” Michael snapped. “If I want to dance three times with the same girl, I don’t see how it’s anybody’s business but my own.”
“It’s because you
are
an earl that it matters.”
Michael turned to the window, his attention captured by the sight outside. Jane was walking across the garden. She’d paused to remove her bonnet, and it dangled at her thigh, the ribbons threaded in her slender fingers. Standing as she was, with the sun shining down and the green colors of the park spread behind her, she looked so pretty that his heart pounded with pleasure.
“I’ve explained this to you over and over,” Tristan said. “I don’t know how to make you understand.”
“Try again.”
Michael was being deliberately obtuse.
He was aware that a man of his station had to be cautious with women. Until he was ready to wed, he could dabble with whores, but that was as far as his amorous adventures could take him. If he showed too much interest in any one female, hopes were raised; and in his world, expectations had to be acted upon.
Jane Hamilton was the sort of person any fellow would love to have as a mistress—but not as a wife. Never a wife.
Her ancestry alone kept her from being suitable. Then there was her father’s scandal, her poverty, her lack of a dowry. She brought nothing to the table. No money. No property. A bad reputation and no influence.
The worst strike against her was their affair. Though he had been the one to suggest and pursue it, her deficient virtue ensured that she could never be his countess.
He knew all these things. He realized all these things. And they galled him.
He liked everything about Jane, and while she wasn’t from the upper echelons of society, she was hardly a tramp, and he couldn’t treat her as he would a doxy. Rules had to be followed, customs maintained.
Jane had never mentioned the subject, but it was obvious she imagined he would shuck off the shackles that bound him to an aristocratic marriage. He wished he was that brave and chivalrous, but the sad fact was that he was the earl of Hastings and a peer of the realm. He would do what was best for the title, for the family, and for the heritage he’d inherited from his father and his father’s father before him.
But he couldn’t stop dallying with her, couldn’t stop wanting to be with her. He was in deep trouble, charmed and smitten and besotted, and he yearned to confide in Tristan, to ask his advice, but Michael didn’t dare confess what he’d done.
Tristan would be furious, and he’d send the Hamiltons away. Michael would never see Jane again.
“It was foolish of you,” Tristan nagged, “to dote on her.”
Michael whirled to face him. “It was a country dance, in a rural village. Who cares?”
“Maud cares. She’s been pestering me all day.”
“So don’t listen to her.”
“She knows more about these situations than I do. She saw you, and there were other people—people who matter—who saw you, too.”
“Name one.”
“I won’t debate the issue. You were in the wrong. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”
Michael shrugged, weary of defending himself. He wouldn’t be admonished as if he was still a lad in short pants.
“What about Miriam?” Tristan inquired. “Have you given any thought to how she must have felt?”
“She wasn’t ready to go on time, and Maud insisted we leave without her.”
“After she arrived, you didn’t ask her to dance a single dance.”
“She looked like a damned ghost, and I wasn’t about to parade her in front of my tenants:”
“I’m told you hurt her feelings.”
“She’ll get over it,” Michael replied coldly.
He was exhausted by Miriam and the charade Maud forced him to play. He would never marry Miriam, and Maud needed to stop encouraging her.
“I’m sure she will—eventually. You’re missing the point.”
“What is the
point
? I’m tired of waiting for it.”
“You behaved inappropriately. You’re held to a different standard now.”
“I like Jane,” Michael quietly stated. “I like her very much.”
“It doesn’t mean you can have her lead off the dancing.”
“Who should I have asked?”
“Anyone but Harry Hamilton’s daughter. She’s a per-feet candidate to tarnish your reputation, and I won’t have it.”
“Maybe it’s not up to you.”
“It bloody well is,” Tristan seethed, “as our dear father guaranteed by how he drafted his will.”
Michael pushed away from the window, and he walked over to the desk, studying Tristan across the long expanse of oak.
Usually, he was glad of Tristan’s friendship and guidance, glad for his sense of obligation that had brought him into their lives. Tristan kept him focused, kept him humble, kept him wise in his decisions.
It was no secret that Tristan would rather be anywhere else, and he stayed because he’d been pressured into it by their father. Tristan never shirked a task, never reneged on a promise, and generally, Michael was happy for his loyalty.
Yet Michael was overly enamored of Jane, and as a boy—now a man—who’d always been showered with everything he ever wanted, he found Tristan’s harangue infuriating. Michael’s temper flared, making him uncharacteristically insolent and out of sorts.
“You like to remind me,” Michael bristled, “that you’re my brother, but you forget that you’re only my half brother, and a bastard one at that. Father may have begged you to come here, but that was his choice, not mine. Don’t presume to command me over issues that don’t concern you.”
If Tristan was offended by the awful comment, he didn’t reveal it with so much as the blink of an eye. He was used to dealing with dangerous ruffians, with pirates and criminals and sailors, and Michael’s paltry attempt at bravado was probably laughable to the older, more worldly man.

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