Too Tempting to Resist (6 page)

An involuntary shiver coursed up her legs.

His hand was now caressing the inside of her thigh, moving higher, higher, higher.

Oh!

Eyes widening in wonder, Eliza bit back a cry as his touch threaded through her intimate curls. Gently, gently, his finger slipped inside her quim and found the tiny pearl hidden within the folds of flesh.

Heat rolled through her. It was good—beyond good.

“Spread your legs, sweeting,” he urged, delving deeper.

Eliza opened herself, feeling wickedly wanton. “Oh, yes,” she said, startled to hear her voice sound so lush, so smoky. “Yes.” She could feel a liquid burning between her legs.

His strokes were growing faster, more demanding.

“Oh, Haddan!” His name trailed off in a throaty moan. “I—I don’t know what I want—”

“Shhhhh.” His mouth teased at the corner of hers. “Of course you know,” he whispered. “Every woman does.” And then he was kissing her, and all further thoughts skittered away.

She moved, pushing again and again against his hand. Heat spiraled up from her core, cresting higher and higher.

“Oh, God,” he rasped. Eliza caught a glimpse of his eyes, gleaming like molten emeralds in the dim light, and was filled with a sense of wondrous power that she could ignite such a look in a man.

His fingers withdrew from her passage and Eliza, feeling suddenly bereft, cried out in protest. “Oh, Haddan, please!”

Gryff’s response was a deep groan. She felt his muscles tighten and his hips hitch…

Then she was filled again, this time with a thicker, warmer blade of flesh, sheathing itself in heat and honey.

She thought she was going to expire with pleasure.

He was moaning, too, thrusting into her hard and fast. Never had she felt so fiercely feminine.

Elation bubbled up inside her, escaping as a throaty laugh. The room began to spin and then all at once seemed to burst into flames. A shower of sparks seemed to scorch her skin, and as she arched in pleasure, Eliza was dimly aware of a cry, covered by his hand.

A groan rumbled in his chest, and an instant later he pulled back and she felt a splash of warm liquid on her belly.

“
Annwyl Dduw
,” rasped Gryff in Gaelic as he slumped against her body, his arms wrapping around her waist. His sweat-sheened muscles melted to a softer shape, though in the wavering candlelight his broad back was still a stretch of chiseled strength.

He whispered something else, but the words were oddly muffled—all she was conscious of was the feeling of floating on air in some netherworld of spun-silver sugar.

Oh, it was delicious.

Gryff moved, and suddenly her wrists were released. Her body—gloriously boneless—slid into his arms.

Holding her tight, he collapsed onto the bed, their limbs tangling in soft linen and silken laughter. Eliza closed her eyes, savoring the closeness of his big body, redolent with the musky scent of their passion. Breathing deeply, she smiled and sunk into sweet, sweet oblivion.

D
arkness, still and silent, shrouded the corridor. Despite the lateness of the hour, Harry and his friends had apparently not yet returned from their revelries, leaving the rest of the Abbey slumbering in peace and quiet.

Holding her breath, Eliza crept down the unlit corridor and slipped into the servant stairwell, offering up a prayer to every Deity in Creation that no one had witnessed her descent into depravity.

The chill night air licked against her bare arms, stirring a stark horror of what she had just done.

Now that Reason had reasserted its normal place in her brain, Shame swathed her scantily clad body.

“Oh, you wagtail hussy,” she whispered. Her aching loneliness, her longing need were no excuse for such wanton behavior. Clutching her torn gown, Eliza hurried her steps, desperate to escape to the sanctuary of her own rooms. A cautious peek showed the landing was deserted. She tiptoed across the parquet and darted into the dark corridor leading to her quarters.

As if I can outrun my misdeeds.

She was uncomfortably aware that her body was still warm with the heat of
him
, every inch of her skin redolent with his musky scent and the raw, unmistakable reek of sex.

Sex.
Her fingers found the latch to her bedchamber and yanked it open. Closing the door, Eliza slid the bolt into place and slumped against the paneled oak. Surely she would awake in a moment and discover this was all a bad dream. She wasn’t the sort of wild, wanton female who swung nude in smoky boudoirs. But the trace of redness on her wrists said otherwise. Rubbing at the marks could not erase the fact that she had behaved like a jaded harem girl, a sexual sylph luring men to feast on forbidden pleasures.

Me? Seducing the opposite sex? Driving the notorious Hellhound wild with desire for my body?

No, thought Eliza with a shiver of disgust. The brandy had addled her wits. Haddan had simply been drunk. Bored. Randy. In such a state, any female would have suited the purpose of satisfying his lust.

So don’t take it personally.

“I’m p-plain. And p-practical,” whispered Eliza, her mouth curling in self-mocking contempt. “Indeed,
I
ought to have a tattoo displayed prominently on my person, announcing that fact.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she threw her torn gown to the floor and pressed her palms to her forehead. “
ELIZA THE IDIOT
, emblazoned in large red letters. That way, every time I glance in the looking glass I could be reminded of my folly.”

After several long moments of silently contemplating her sins, Eliza pushed away from the door and padded over to her bed.

“What’s done is done,” she murmured, looking down at the shredded sleeves. She couldn’t change the past, but she could—
she would
—control the future.

Not for all the velvet-lined manacles in Xanadu could she allow this strange, frightening infatuation for the Marquess of Haddan to ruin all her plans. Freedom, independence, control over her own destiny…

I must not—I will not—succumb again.
And as her innate pragmatism slowly reasserted control over her rebellious thoughts, Eliza realized that there was one surefire way to put an end to any further temptation.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Wincing as pain pitchforked through his skull, Gryff waited a moment, then lifted his right eyelid a fraction higher. His sight was still blurred, but his other senses were slowly coming into focus.
Feel
—he could feel that he was lying naked, twined in a rumple of sheets.
Smell
—he could smell the beguiling scent of verbena and cloves clinging to the linen.
Hear
—he could hear the faint rattle of metal swinging overhead.

Chink, chink, chink.

“What the devil is that infernal noise…” Frowning, Gryff flopped onto his back and forced his other eye open. Bold as brass, a dangling manacle winked back at him.

Satan’s Ballocks.
He sat bolt upright as the memory of the midnight hours finally pierced the brandy-thick muzziness wrapped around his brain.

Maybe it was merely a wild hallucination, a figment of fantasy stirred by the demons of drink.

But no—another sniff said her lingering scent was all too real. As was the tiny strip of torn fabric lying atop the bedsheet.

Good God.
The sight of the sprigged muslin triggered a rush of heated recollections.
Flaming candlelight, burning brandy, smoldering desires.
He groaned.
Willing flesh, eager passions, yielding secrets.

Sweet, sweet ecstasy.

“Good God.” This time he said it aloud. “How could I have been such a bloody, bloody arse.”

His throat tightened in remorse. Regret. Not for the actual experience…which had been sublimely sweet. But for the shame of taking advantage of the situation. Gryff slumped back against the pillows, well aware that he had no right to castigate Leete for a lack of character.

I can hardly hold myself up as a shining light of gentlemanly honor.

Honor. He swallowed hard, trying to dispel the sickly, sour taste in his mouth.

The door opened quietly, though the sound was like another jab of sharpened steel against his skull.

His valet set down the tea tray and without a word began to straighten up the disarray. His coat and trousers were hung neatly over the dressing table chair…the wrinkled shirt and cravat were bundled and put away in a drawer…a lady’s stocking was unwrapped from around the bedpost…

“Prescott, you will dispose of that discreetly,” he muttered.

“Of course, sir.” His valet cast a curious glance at the sex toy but was wise enough to refrain from comment. Tucking the scrap of silk in his pocket, he went to the windows and opened the draperies.

“And you will begin packing.” Gryff winced as a blade of sunlight cut across his eyes. “Immediately.”

“Will we not be staying for the mill?”

“No, I want to leave this morning. You may tell Leete…” He massaged at his aching temples. “Bloody hell, tell him whatever you damn well please.”

“Very good, sir.” His valet carefully smoothed a crease from Gryff’s evening coat. “A pressing engagement calls us back to London—I shall take care of it.”

“And Prescott…”

His valet paused.

“Might you inquire of the housekeeper whether Lady Brentford has yet risen this morning? I should like to arrange a private word with her before I go.”

“Actually, I can answer that for you now, milord,” replied Prescott. “The lady left at first light. It seems she is in the habit of paying regular visits to her former governess in Harpden in order to attend the monthly meetings of the Oxfordshire Horticulture Society.”

Gryff propped himself up on his elbows. “And she was slated to depart this morning?”

“No, milord. She decided to leave several days ahead of schedule. But the housekeeper says that is not unusual, especially if the lady has supplies to shop for in town.”

What sort of supplies? he wondered—and then repressed a guilty grimace. A new muslin dress to start with. Along with a pair of silk stockings.

“I see,” he said aloud. Throwing off the coverlet, he swung his bare feet to the floor. “Then there is no need to delay our own departure. Kindly alert the stables to have my phaeton ready within the half hour. You may follow with the luggage carriage at your leisure.”

Prescott nodded. “And will you be wanting pen and paper, sir?”

“What for?”

“I thought that perhaps you would wish to leave a note for the lady.”

Saying what?
Oh, how delightful it was finding you trussed up in my bed. I had a lovely time tupping you witless. Indeed, I look forward to shedding my clothes—along with every last shred of gentlemanly scruples—and doing it again sometime soon. Respectfully Yours, the Heinous Hellhound

“No note, Prescott,” growled Gryff. “Just a cup of black coffee, if you please.”

A short while later, Gryff was on the road back to London, jostling along with a spitting rain and his own equally stormy thoughts as company.
Reckless.
Gripping the reins, he slowed his matched pair of grays through a tight turn. He had been reckless. Heedless of all but the moment of pleasure.

Trouble.
Once again, his devil-may-care disregard for the consequences of his actions had reared its ugly head.

It was a damnable weakness of his, and he was not proud of it. His drinking had nearly cost Connor The Wolf’s Lair. His dalliances had nearly broken a lady friend’s marriage. But they, at least, had known of his foibles, his faults. Lady Brentford did not. His taking advantage of her hidden passion had been shameless. She didn’t know the unwritten rules of London games, so in a sense he had cheated by using his charm and humor to seduce her.

Oh yes, he knew the effect his smile had on women. And it had been unfair to use it on an unsuspecting lady, who was in many ways an innocent despite her widowhood.

Recklessness over responsibility—it was childish. Bloody hell, he was no better than Leete, a selfish, weak lout.

The curricle’s wheels jolted over the ruts, sending a stream of chilly water splashing from the brim of his hat down beneath the collar of his coat. The drops trickled down his spine, stirring a shiver of reproach.

Strangely enough, it hadn’t been just a game at the time. Both unusual encounters with Lady Brentford had been unique—and not simply because they involved acrobatics and branches of wood. She made him feel…

“Be damned with feelings,” he muttered, shifting his sodden boots to steady himself against the bounces of the road. “The interlude was a moment of inexplicable madness. Lady Brentford is a sensible, smart female—I am sure that she is just as anxious as I am to forget that it ever happened.”

The ancient carriage lurched to a halt. Stuffing her sketchbook into her valise, Eliza wrenched the door open and dropped down to the ground before the coachman could come around to assist her.

“Thank you, Johnson,” she called to her longtime servant. “You may come collect me on Thursday.”

“Aye, milady,” came the reedy answer. A flick of his frayed whip set the lone horse into a shambling walk. “Assuming we are all still in working order.”

She watched the wheels wobble, knowing it was a miracle that the vehicle was still in one piece. It was only through Johnson’s ingenuity—and a pot of his mysterious glue—that the worn metal and wood held together.

Yet last month, Harry had purchased a showy new hunter.

Sighing, she turned and unlatched the garden gate. Soon the only road they all would be galloping down was the Path to Perdition.

“Eliza!” A tiny figure dwarfed by her white apron and oversized mobcap emerged from a tangle of wisteria vines, setting off a shower of pale purple petals. “How lovely to see you!”

In spite of all her worries, Eliza couldn’t help but smile at the vision in white with pastel speckles. Her old governess looked like an elfin sugar confection dotted with candied violets.

“I hope you don’t mind that I am here a day early. I should have sent word, but it was an impulsive decision,” she replied.
Like a number of other recent actions.
“Harry has a houseful of idiots and, well…”

“Oh, pish. I’m always delighted to see you,” said her old governess.

“Thank you.” Eliza looked away quickly, horrified to feel tears prickling at the back of her lids. With exaggerated nonchalance, she bent over a clump of flowers. “How lovely your daisies are looking.”

There was a moment of silence. “Are you feeling ill?”

“No!” She carefully brushed a bee from one of the curling stems. “W-why do you ask?”

“Because you are admiring the purple coneflowers.”

“Oh. Right.” Eliza quickly shuffled a step to her right. “I suppose that I’m a little…fatigued.”

“I don’t doubt it. Harry’s friends would exhaust the patience of Job.” Miss Augustina Haverstick’s soft smile belied the sharpness of her gaze. She would put a hawk to blush with her perceptive powers. And right now, Eliza was feeling like a field mouse caught far from any protective cover.

“Come, why don’t we go inside and fix a cup of tea.”

“I don’t wish to interrupt you—I can put my things away and make myself at home.”

“Yes, but I’m feeling in need of a bit of sustenance myself. There are strawberry tarts, fresh from the oven. And walnut shortbread as well.”

Eliza’s stomach growled. She had fled home without a bite of breakfast. “I adore your shortbread.”

“I do know you rather well, my dear,” came the dry reply.

Which was, fretted Eliza, a mixed blessing. The elderly lady was more like real family to her than any flesh-and-blood relative. If Gussie were to find her behavior beyond the pale, then she might have to crawl down a rabbit hole.

And hope that it burrowed all the way down to the pleasure palaces of Xanadu.

The comfortable clatter of making tea—the bubbling kettle on the hob, the
chink, chink
of the chipped Staffordshire pottery—helped ease the knot in her chest. For years now, this snug little cottage on the outskirts of town had been a safe haven from all the pressing doubts and fears that had encircled her life since leaving the schoolroom. Gussie had been a sage counselor, a patient confidante, a loyal friend.

But even the closest friend might shy away from the awful secret that she carried inside her.

As Eliza rummaged through the cupboard, gathering the trays and linens, she was sure that she could still feel the imprint of Haddan’s body on hers. No amount of scrubbing or scouring would remove the trace from her skin. Like a brand from a red-hot poker, it would mark her forever.

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” she whispered to herself. On second thought, perhaps she could take up novel writing, and illustrate the perilous Path to Perdition with drawings of fallen flowers. Geraniums for stupidity…

“Did you say something, my dear?”

“No, nothing,” mumbled Eliza, quickly moving to put out the forks and spoons on the kitchen table.

Augustina set the tea tray down, and performed the soothing ritual of pouring the fragrant brew. A plume of steam wafted up from the spout, its warmth punctuated by the cheerful rattle of the sugar and cream pots.