The Bride Price (22 page)

Fingers stretched into her hair, and she melted into him like oil on a master’s canvas. He tilted her back, pulling the fingers down, down, down, then gliding around her throat and down her chest. She saw his eyes search the room as his fingers circled her. Her head tipped back enough to see the sparse furniture. The only thing in the room that didn’t look like it would break upon impact was an ornate wooden desk covered in burgundy leather.

Sense returned as she realized what was about to happen, right underneath the earl’s nose, as he’d said.

“Oh no, I’m not—”

He pulled her head back up and devoured her lips. “I wouldn’t hurt your pretty back on that,” he said against her mouth.

She relaxed infinitesimally. “Just a kiss then?”

“I don’t think so.” He eyed her, and there was something about the way he was closing the physical gap between them, his mouth stalking her by inches, that made her heart pick up speed and beat wildly against his chest. His lips curved.

He let her go and she backed up a step, putting space between them.

Her nerves increased rather than lessening. She laughed unsteadily. “Shall we simply meet again at dinner then?”

“Oh, why don’t we.” His eyes said anything but, as he began to advance on her.

She backed up until she hit the table. She moved to skirt it, but he captured her wrist. He slowly brought it to his lips and kissed, licked, pulled at the pulse point.

He moved two steps forward until he had her in the vee of his legs against the desk, bending her slightly back. There was little use arguing, not when her heart was racing and her body ached for his.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t hurt my pretty back on the desk?” Her voice was a mere whisper under his hot gaze, which branded her as he had branded her neck minutes before.

“I won’t.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “But I never said anything about your front.”

Heat raced through her alongside panic as his words registered. She had thought surely that in broad daylight, even on the sun’s downward path, he would not truly go through with it. Anyone
passing by the windows on the grounds would be able to see them if he looked hard enough.

She scrabbled to get away, half of her fighting against him, the other half fighting herself as they brushed together repeatedly with her movements. “Sebastien, let me go.”

He nipped her ear. “No.”

“Sebast—”

He spun her around so fast that she would have tripped on her skirts if he hadn’t been in control of her motions.

“Sebastien, this is foolish. The earl is already angry and we were barely even caught in a compromising—”

He pushed her down on the desk, and she roughly grabbed for purchase. “It’s hardly a good idea to talk about another man when I’m about to brand you mine, Caro.”

His free hand unerringly worked up her skirts, fingers curling around her, discovering easily, to her mortification, how aroused she already was.

“I told you he—”

His hand pressed harder into her back, not enough to hurt, but just enough to push her breasts further into the leather. “I’m going to have you so hard that you won’t remember your own name when I’m done, no less your tatty husband’s name or anyone in between.”

Panic spiked again along with a fierce longing.

“Let me go,” she whispered, but her breath was too heavy, her voice too aroused.

“Never,” he whispered back.

And then he pulled her back against him, lifted
her skirts, and pushed her down again, causing the bunched cloth to collect underneath her stomach, lifting her. A smooth, rounded knob on the desk rubbed against her, and her words got caught in her throat as he paused for a second, then deliberately pushed her against the knob again.

A finger trailed around her heat and found its way exquisitely inside, crooking exactly where it should, stroking the perfect trail of fire. Her heavy breaths ghosted over the surface of the desk, and her fingers scrabbled for something to grip as her world tilted on end. She pushed against him, trying to push away from the desk, toward him, away from him—desires colliding into madness.

One hand nestled in the small of her back, continuing to hold her down. She heard the sounds of his trousers opening. Anyone could enter the room at any time and see them—almost full daylight, her bent over the desk, skirts everywhere, about to get tupped to kingdom come, Sebastien behind her, poised and ready.

Shock mixed with desire and understanding.

“Sebastien—”

He surged within her, and her plea turned into an animalistic sound at the sheer impact of him filling her so swiftly and at such an angle.

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Caroline stiffened, every muscle in her tensing, and his head dropped to her shoulder blades while he emitted some sort of breathy moan as she clenched around him.

His breath ghosted over her ear. “Mine.” Another deep thrust slid her exposed front over the
knob on the desk, setting nerves on the outside and inside into chaos, his statement pulling some sort of violent mating response from her.

“Tell me you are mine, Caroline.” He stroked into her, deeper still, and another sound ripped from her throat.

“There it is again,” a voice said.

She clenched in crazed warning, and he shuddered against her. “Seb—” Fabric tore and long fingers shoved something, some wad of cloth into her mouth. Then he was thrusting into her again, clearly not caring that there were people on the other side of the door and they were in imminent fear of discovery.

He pulled almost all the way out and slid back inside her in such a long, smooth motion that she bucked over the knob and it slowly slid against her in a manner that made her shudder harder and her fingers scrape furrows in the desktop. She bit into the material as hard as she could. He slid into her again, pushing all the way up, and her breasts spilled from her dress as they moved forward, dragging across the patterned leather, tracing every valley. She sobbed from the overstimulation.

“Sounds like a cat. Probably in heat. Maybe that ghost the women keep bantering about is true. Come on, you owe me that billiards game before dinner.”

Sebastien withdrew a few inches for a second as the footsteps pattered down the hall, then tilted her hips and drove into her so hard, hitting something deep within her, that she saw spots. The
need to push back into him and yell his name was nearly making her delirious.

He would own her then and she couldn’t allow that, not after the earl’s warnings or her own deep fears still seeded within. She dug her fingernails into the surface, knowing that even doing everything in her power to restrain herself, he would still pull whatever reaction from her body that he desired.

He paused for a moment, and soft kisses trailed up her backbone, to her nape, her hair carefully brushed to the side, his hands smoothing along the planes of her back, pulling heat up and out as he pushed them along her shoulders, along her arms which had gone lax under his ministrations, fingers trailing on the soft underside of her elbow, up her forearms and entangling with her fingers, pulling them against the leather surface of the top.

His lips maintained a steady rhythm.

“Say you are mine, Caroline.” He used their clenched hands to pull her back against him. The gentleness was gone once again, and savage need returned to its place. He rocked his hips into her, hitting places she couldn’t name. Making dancing stars appear in the leather and causing gouges to mar its surface. She could feel the intensity of his movements change, and it caused the buildup inside her to coil and ascend.

His hands moved to her waist, gripping her hips as he pounded into her, the knob, the leather, his claiming thrusts causing her to babble phrases
into the cloth that she didn’t know the meaning of. And from the muffled sounds above and behind her, he must have stuffed something into his own mouth as well.

All of a sudden he stopped, poised at the edge, and she strained back for him. “Say it.”

She shook her head, nearly delirious. She wouldn’t give him that power.

“Say it, Caro.”

He tore the fabric from her mouth and pulled his hands down to grip her breasts firmly in both hands, still edging into her in small stabs, but not enough to sate the overwhelming pressure. He rolled her nipples between his fingers and thrust into her, tearing a sob from her throat that formed the word. “Yes.”

The muffled shout accompanying the surge of him as deeply as he could go pushed her over the edge and she clawed the desk, clenching him into her over and over again, meeting every stroke until she was too weak to move and his forehead rested in the curve of her back. He slipped out of her, a twinge of loss, and gathered her, laying her on top of the desk, fixing her clothes and cleaning up, a slightly wild look in his once-jaded eyes.

“I told you, you were mine, Caroline.”

Secrets long kept rarely stay secret in a society so keen on rumor and innuendo, betrayal and pride. Be careful what you reveal in a game with consequences so far-reaching and wide.

A
log snapped in the glowing hearth. Chalk scratched over paper. She poked another hole in the needlepoint and pulled the thread through, enjoying the intimate atmosphere. She positioned the needle and nearly poked her thumb when fingers curled around her necklace, down the chain and over the heavy gold. She met his eyes, deep and questioning—his gaze full of curiosity and focus. She had hardly seen the jade edge to his aquamarine eyes in weeks, now that she thought on it.

He seemed to be seeking her permission. She cocked her head. One finger flipped open the locket.

“Who were they?”

She didn’t have to look down to know what he saw. “Mama and Papa.” She touched the edge. The miniature had been in there so long.

“You take after your mother.”

“Yes.”

“You look nothing like your father.”

“Oh, I do if you look closely enough.”

She watched him examine the portrait, light fingers caressing the gold. “In the cheeks, perhaps.”

“An old family trait.” She pulled the chain from him, examining the miniature.

“You haven’t a picture to put on the other side?”

“No.” She had once wanted one with fiery features and a reckless expression. Those fiery features had faded to a dull memory.

“Ah.”

He fingered a pastel with something like satisfaction in his gaze.

They went back to their tasks. He to his drawing, she to her needlepoint. It was soothing. In, out with the needle. No care except for executing the perfect stitch over and again. Her toes curled under him and he leaned into her. A lovely humming, a distant sound of music played by crickets and night birds filled the air.

The morning would bring the return of the guests and with them the competition. It would likely be awkward, at least for her. Sebastien rarely seemed to understand the concept of awkward.

She finished her last stitch and looked up to see him watching her, his supplies spread to the side of him. She set down her completed piece and held out a hand. Uncurling from his large cat sprawl, he lifted her easily and set her on her feet. Warm bare hands framed her cheeks. The energy drew into a lazy circle of need as he brushed her skin
with his thumbs, then pulled her closer, a gentle kiss that turned into heated embers of the fire.

He pulled her into the bedroom, and with a tangle of clothes and tumbled bodies he was stroking her inside and out, easily moving against and into her. A glorious feeling combined with the look on his face above her, an expression she couldn’t read as she arched back, he slid into her one final time, and she touched the stars.

She woke to the gentle light streaming in through the window and the sounds of her recently returned maid puttering in the kitchen. Nothing was on the pillow next to her. A stab of disappointment swept her, even as she called herself a ninny for expecting something to be there—rich brown hair attached to a breathtaking body, most desirably. Or a flower, a curiosity, a lovely sketch…

Nothing.

She bit her lip. Ninny she might be, but he’d never failed to leave her something—small personal gifts that delighted or amused her.

On Sunday he had left her a set of the finest pastels. On Monday he had left sketching paper that likely cost more than her yearly stock of food. On Tuesday he had left a beautiful, unsigned note that had caused her to kiss him immediately upon his arrival.

She closed her eyes. But the games were to begin again, and she was merely a delightful amusement herself. She couldn’t forget that in the midst of all the feelings he conjured.

She sat up, her locket heavy against her neck as it slipped to the side. She pulled it to lie in the middle of her chest. A smudge of chalk on the gleaming surface had her twisting it in her grip. She popped the latch.

Her breath caught.

A tiny sketch of a blonde fairy dancing, arms free, body flowing, nestled inside the once bare side.

Sebastien walked away from the cottage and across the grounds. He had fallen deeper into the abyss. Repulsed and attracted, envious and desperate. Being near her was like an addiction he couldn’t quit.

A carriage pulled into the drive, a distant dot from where he walked. He could see a few of the men already up and about the grounds, looking at the terrain for the next game, strategizing, possibly figuring out ways to cripple other contestants.

Benedict’s moppish brown head disappeared into the garden maze off to the left, Everly and Parley following behind—he could see Parley’s distinctly uptight walk and Everly’s red hair. Likely setting up some mischief or a malicious prank against one or all of the remaining bastards.

It had been a seductive notion to forget…to forget why he was here and why he needed to win. He wasn’t just winning for himself, though he would reap the rewards.

And a pleasant enough bride.

When he had set out at the beginning, Lady Sarah,
anyone
as the bride really, had been a foot
note, a codicil. The least important piece of the document. She was wellborn, pliable, quiet, could run a household. Nothing outstanding about her, but she would make a fine, respectable wife who would be forgotten as soon as the documents were signed and a few
legitimate
children produced. His lip curled. The games one had to play.

He still wouldn’t care even now if he thought for a moment that he could carry on his affair with Caroline and keep the status quo once he won. Though relying on the status quo was a rocky proposition. Rarely did it stay as it was supposed to.

What if she got with child? Doomed to repeat his father’s mistakes and inflict them on a woman for whom he actually cared? No.

And even so, if there was one woman in England who would not have an affair with a man married to her beloved cousin…well, he’d gone and started an affair with that woman.

There was time still available to push the subject aside. He’d put off thinking about it until he had to.

“Deville!”

He turned to see Sloane and Timtree motioning him over. He sauntered their way, amused to see Timtree’s eyes narrowed on the maze.

“Worried about the three wretches?”

“You saw them too?” Timtree’s mouth pulled into a tight line. He was in the middle of the leaderboard, and Parley and Everly had been running their mouths.

“I did.”

“We’re going after them.”

Sebastien snagged his sleeve before he could take another step. “Timtree, use your brain. They want someone to follow them. They were too obvious. Send a maid to find out what they are up to, or the widow you’ve been pushing against every flat surface of the house.”

Timtree’s color went high for a moment.

“And we’ll go up and look at them through the second-floor windows in the west wing. One of the windows looks straight down into the maze.”

Timtree’s color rose again, and Sebastien had the distinct impression that Timtree and his widow had made use of the maze over the past weeks—was it six now?

“Awfully fond of her, are you?”

Sloane stayed quiet, though his amusement was apparent as they walked through the high doors into the gilded back hall.

“As if you have any room to make judgments, Deville. Hardly strayed from the side of that blonde piece, if what I hear is correct,” Timtree said.

“Can’t expect me to give up a woman that delicious, can you?”

Timtree cast him a glance that held the slightest bit of serious regard. “I think you ought to be careful, Deville. Either that or let one of us have your place at the top. We’ll make sure those three are beaten.”

Sloane made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded like he was going to argue. He was in contention for first place, so Sebastien could appreciate his irritation.

“Timtree, dear fellow, you are mad.”

The hook-nosed man shrugged. “You realize it is only a matter of time before Benedict repeats the terms of your bet to her, don’t you?”

Sebastien froze mid-step, then forced himself to continue forward. “Of course.”

Bloody…no. He’d put the bet from his mind. Of course Benedict would blurt it out, and at the worst possible moment.

They climbed the stairs, and he nodded to whatever the other two were saying. He needed something on Benedict.

The second-floor west wing was mostly empty of guests. Servants, barely noticeable, walked in and out of the doors and down the halls, completing their tasks and keeping themselves out of the way. He contemplated a man dusting the relics atop posts in the hall. This was Benedict’s wing. That man probably had to clean near here every day.

He hummed to himself. He usually let his valet handle the information-gathering aspect, not wanting to dirty his own hands in the business, determined to win on his own and show them…something.

Sebastien shook his head to dislodge the cobwebs that had suddenly gathered. The hall came back into view, and he led the other two to the small alcove with the window. Grousett was excellent in ferreting out locations where either a liaison could take place or others could be caught in a liaison—whichever was needed. He had discovered this alcove overlooking the maze during
the first week. Sebastien had studiously avoided the maze since.

Another servant passed by with a dust cloth, but this man didn’t look at all like an upstairs servant. There was something entirely too shifty about him. Sebastien would think he was a thief, but for the way the other servants barely spared him a glance. They knew him.

The man had been heading right for the alcove, only shifting direction when he spotted them standing there. He dusted a bust that the other servant had already brought to a shine.

Ah. So Cheevers had finally started watching. Was he waiting in the wings to influence the game, if he found someone he didn’t want to win? Or just keeping tabs on things? Watching for future favors?

They gathered in the alcove and watched through the window. The threesome was doing something in the center of the maze. From the angle, it was hard to see exactly what they were doing, but it looked like they were setting up something inside one of the ledges.

Sebastien kept an eye on the servant who was absently dusting the wallpaper and trying not to be too obvious as he watched them. Even if they couldn’t pinpoint exactly what the three were doing in the maze, this spying venture had turned things well in Sebastien’s favor—just in a way he hadn’t expected.

“They are leaving. We could catch them. Let’s follow and see,” Timtree said.

Sloane and Timtree strode away, talking about
what they could do with the information and how they could trap the men. Sebastien waited until they were far enough away, then approached the servant with a smile on his face and a hand in his pocket.

Sebastien lounged in the sitting room and smiled in satisfaction when he heard the door open, then close.

Benedict walked in and immediately spotted him. “What are you doing in my rooms? Finney? Finney?” he called out, eyes never leaving Sebastien.

“Your valet is…out for the afternoon. No worse for the wear than what you did to mine, never fear.”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, casting suspicious glances around the space. “What do you want?”

“An exchange.”

“What do you have?”

“One of Cheevers’s servants saw you in the maze, going into my room and sending your valet with a ‘suspicious’ substance to the kitchens. Tut, tut, Benedict, I didn’t think you had been responsible for the more heinous attacks, but even pulling a schoolboy prank—will others believe that you had nothing to do with the actual poisonings?”

Benedict turned white.

Sebastien rubbed his thumb along the fabric on the arm of the chair. “He can tell the earl his findings at any time, no need for me to say a thing.”

Benedict’s chest pushed farther out on every breath. “And?” He crossed his arms tightly.

Sebastien lifted a brow. “And?”

“You are bloody well here to bargain, Deville; stop taunting me.”

“Ah, no one likes to play these games anymore. I have offered Cheevers’s servant an…incentive to keep the information to himself.”

He didn’t have to tell Benedict that another servant would likely tell Cheevers anyway. He didn’t think Cheevers was going to kick Benedict out without further provocation.

“Why? Why wouldn’t you want me out of the competition completely?” Every line of Benedict’s face drew taut in disbelief.

Yes, why was he not putting Benedict up for ejection? He could simply confirm to Cheevers exactly what had happened, let Cheevers know he knew, and the earl would likely be forced to act. The question made him shift in his seat.

“Because I don’t need to.”

Benedict snorted, sinking into a chair, obviously waiting for his demand. “Well?”

“Our bet on Mrs. Martin. It’s dissolved and it never existed. Do you understand?”

Benedict’s eyes went wide, then narrowed, considering. “A well-made bet, wasn’t it? I
knew
it.”

“You knew, you
know
, nothing.”

Dark humor appeared in his eyes. “You are in deep trouble, my dear illegitimate brother. I still plan to beat you, but all I really need to do is come in second, if you are first, don’t I? You won’t be able to sign.”

“I will be able to sign, and what’s more, I will do it with your face in mind.”

Benedict uncrossed his arms and tapped a finger on the chair. “We weren’t alone when we made that bet. How do you propose to keep the rest of them from telling her? Think you can blackmail everyone?”

“That is your job. Tell them whatever you need to in order to silence those who know of it.”

Benedict’s mouth turned down. “Mrs. Martin seems a good enough sort. Too good for you really. But then most are.”

“Yes, cry, cry, whinge, whinge. Is it a deal?”

Benedict traced the pattern in the chair. “Yes.”

He knew he was giving Benedict a weapon, but he would deal with the consequences. He knew how Caroline would react to finding out about the bet, even if it hadn’t ruled their interactions for weeks. With only a week to go, he didn’t want to kill their affair before it needed to be over.