Bound By Temptation (17 page)

She paled slightly at his words. “No. I have no news of them.”

“What then?” He knew he sounded abrupt, but he found her pallor most unsettling. “And how did you know I was home? I have not even been here a full day.”

Clara stepped back from him and walked to the couch. She sat, her legs shaking. “I did not actually expect to find you here. I merely planned to leave a note asking you to call upon me when you returned. It was only when I knocked that the porter said you were in. I suppose he has come to accept our meetings. I told him I would show myself in.”

“That is simple enough.” He walked back toward her until he could smell the soothing odor of vanilla again. He stopped as his boot brushed her skirts. There was a curl falling over her cheek, and he had to tense his fingers to keep from brushing it aside. “You still have not said why you are here.”

“Yes, well—” She seemed to have difficulty finding the words.

“I suppose it must be one of my young misses.”

He watched her neck tighten as she swallowed. “Does it not occur to you that I might—”

For some reason she was having difficulty, and he rushed ahead to help her out. “Before you go on, I should tell you something.”

Her hands were twisted into a tight knot in her lap. He had never seen fingers so intertwined. She glanced down at her hands and then forced her eyes up to his. “I really should tell you first that…” She paused, and he could see her gulp as she tried to find the words. She licked her lips nervously.

Normally, it would have been the most arousing of gestures, but now he could only feel her distress. He started again, eager to remove her dismay. “No, let me speak. I must tell you that—”

“That what?”

He drew in his own deep breath. “I must tell you that I have decided to marry Miss Thompson.”

“Marry Miss Thompson?” her voice faltered. Clara could only drop her hands back to her lap. This was some trick of fate. She had come to tell him that they must marry because of the coming baby, and all he could talk of was Miss Thompson. It had not even occurred to him that her news could be about herself. She had tried to tell him and he had not listened.

“It has become clear to me that she will be a near ideal wife. She is fair to look at, of good conversation, fine breeding, and seems to have a most compatible temperament. I did consider Miss Pettigrew, but I must confess I find her a bit silly.”

“A bit silly.” She sounded like Miss Pettigrew herself, repeating phrases.

“Yes, I have found it difficult to have a decent conversation that does not involve ribbons, kittens, or her best friend, Betsy. I do desire to discuss at least a few more subjects.”

She knew he was attempting humor, but it fell flat. She forced herself to smile. “You want to discuss the newest height of heels for half boots, and whether blue or green is a more conducive color of paint for dining?”

“I don’t actually care for dining on paint.” His words seemed as strained as her own. While she had never questioned his sense of humor, it had
never been the main means of communication between them.

Fighting perhaps, but never poor jokes.

She relaxed her fingers, one by one, and smoothed her skirts. It was hard to understand what she was feeling. There was shock, certainly. A small measure of fear, perhaps. She had certainly never dreamed of being an unmarried mother. But there was no despair or anger.

She would have expected anger.

She stood and walked to the window, resting her face against the cool glass.

“Are you not going to offer felicitations?” His voice sounded right behind her. She had been so caught by her own thoughts that she had not heard him approach.

She blew out a long breath, watching as a circle of mist formed on the window. She lifted a finger and drew a line in the condensation. It seemed a moment for symbolism, but the line remained only a line.

She pulled herself straight and turned. “Of course, I wish you only the best. I merely thought to hold my congratulations until after Miss Thompson had agreed to the match. She has not done so yet, has she?”

“No, she has not.”

It was relief she felt. Plain and simple relief. Her mind told her that it was relief at his last answer, relief that he was not yet promised, that she could still tell him and change the future.

Her heart told her differently.

She was relieved that she would not be forced into marriage. He would not be a good husband for her. He was domineering and would expect obedience. He would try to rule her, and with the law on his side, he might succeed. She would lose all the independence she had worked so hard to obtain.

And as a father? She had seen how he raised his sisters, the extremes he had driven them to. If a wife was property, how much more so was a child?

Masters might have made peace with Violet, but he still was not sorry for his actions. He still believed he had done what was right at the time. He could not see that there had been any choice, that he could have given Violet, and then Isabella, a voice in their futures.

In choosing Miss Thompson, Masters had granted Clara another chance at freedom.

It felt as if a massive strain had been lifted from her shoulders. She granted him the first true smile of the day. “I am happy for you. I imagine that Miss Thompson will be just what you need in a wife.”

He looked cross for a moment, his brows drawing together tight. “I am sure that she will.”

“You sound upset by the thought.”

“Of course I am not. It is merely…” He let the words trail off.

“Merely what?”

He lifted a hand and rubbed his temple. “I am not sure. I expected a different response, that is all.”

She stepped closer toward him. Laid a hand upon his arm. This was the last time she would have the right to touch him; soon he would be promised to another. He let her fingers trail over the thick fabric of his jacket. “What other response? How should I respond other than with well wishes?”

He placed his hand over hers. “I suppose I expected you to argue, to tell me I must spend more time with Miss Thompson, that I should come to know her better.”

“Surely you are not upset that I choose not to argue, that I agree she will be a fine wife?”

“Of course not.” He did not sound so sure. “How could I be anything but gratified that you agree with me?”

“How could you be?” The heat of his palm warmed her cold fingers, did more than warm them. She could feel her heart begin to speed at the mere brush of his fingers.

She looked straight into his eyes, seeing the answering knowledge there. It was the last time they could touch each other, the last time they could do more than touch. After this afternoon they would never be alone together.

Indeed, they might never see each other again—or at least not for a long while. Clara knew that after this she would leave London and go far away. She didn’t have a firm plan, but clearly, staying here would prove impossible.

She slipped her fingers away from his and ran them up his arm and then across his chest. She could feel him shiver beneath her touch.

He did not have a waistcoat beneath his jacket, merely a shirt. She drew a circle around a button and then slipped a finger inside the front, feeling the firm heat of his skin beneath her fingertips.

He sighed. She could see question in his eyes and then acceptance. He slipped a hand about her waist and drew her closer until her hips nestled close between his legs.

“What is this thing between us?” he murmured.

She slid the button undone, slipping her whole hand beneath his shirt and over his heart. “I do not know. I have never felt its like. And do not comment that that is surprising or some other snide words designed to let me know what you think of me. If we do this, let it be honest—a few minutes of stolen pleasure and passion.”

He met her gaze and held it steady. “It is honest—as honest as any exchange ever is between man and woman.”

She wanted to pull back at that. Instead, she pressed her face against the fine linen of his shirt, hiding her face and her feelings. She had asked for honesty and could not fault him for being himself.

“I can settle for that.” She drew open his shirt and watched as the hairs on his chest stirred with her words. She blew softly, finding herself aroused by his response.

He hugged her close for a moment and then set her back. He put a finger under her chin and lifted it until she met his gaze.

For a second, they did nothing but stare. She could see passion to match her own in his gaze, but
also cool consideration. She could see him balance doing this against not doing it, balancing the needs of the moment against the needs of a lifetime.

There was knowledge in his glance also, the knowledge that this was the last time they could be together. His hand moved from beneath her chin to cup her face, his thumb stroking down her cheek.

She counted her own breaths and then his.

Whatever they did would be forever.

She turned her face into his hand and laid a kiss across his palm.

Where before there had been harsh passion, now there was warmth and gentleness—but passion still.

She watched his chest expand and fall. He dropped his hand from her face and stepped back, his eyes roving over her.

For a moment, she thought she had lost—that it truly was over—but then he spoke. “Clara, if we are going to do this I want to see you. I do not want some hurried affair in a chair. We have done that and it was wonderful, but it is not what I want. I want to see you—naked.”

H
e must be insane. It was the only reasonable explanation, but then, so must she be. He had just told her that he planned to marry another and they were going to make love on his rug.

And there was no question but that they were going to.

He might doubt his sanity, but he did not doubt his actions. He would do this and he would not regret it.

She stared at him blankly for a moment after he spoke, and then a slow, wide smile spread across her face. He could see the moment that she also accepted that there was no other possible outcome. “I’ll expect you to return the favor. I’ve a hankering of my own to see those fine legs.” She dropped her arms to her sides and turned her back to him, waiting for him to manage her laces.

Her shoulders were creamy white above the sunshine of her dress. He stepped toward her and laid a single kiss above the ruffled edging before lifting his head. His hands slipped about her waist, drawing her close. He pressed his hips into her soft but
tocks. There could be no heaven greater than this. He bent his neck and buried his face in her hair, breathing in that magic smell of biscuits.

He could have stayed like that forever.

Only, of course, he couldn’t—his body had other desires.

Slowly, he moved his fingers up her sides, lingering to trace an intricate knot of lace here and sleek satin ribbon there. She quivered each time his hands stilled, but made no other move. As he reached the lower curve of her breasts, he granted himself the liberty of sweeping his hand up the front of her dress. It was a soft, gentle sweep, barely brushing the fabric, but even so he felt her soft sigh as his palms moved over her hard nipples.

His hands longed to stop, to caress and fondle, to play until they were both beyond all thought, but he forced his fingers upward. He wanted this long and slow—it would need to last a lifetime.

He stopped moving, closing his eyes tight and drawing in slow, deep breaths. He counted each one, working to think of anything but the willing woman pressed so tight against him.

“Do you need help?” she whispered.

He chuckled softly into her hair. “Don’t hurry me. When your voice cracks like that on the low tones, it does do strange things to me, but I think you’ll be even happier if you let me progress at my own pace.”

“Then do it, but quit dawdling.” She pressed even tighter against him, moving her hips slightly
until he was nestled in the crevice between her buttocks. His fingers bit into her shoulders, and he wondered that she did not complain. He was surely leaving bruises.

“But you like it when I dawdle.” It was more of a gasp than a sentence.

“You don’t know what I like.”

“All the more reason to go slowly and find out.” That sounded steadier. He loosened his fingers and edged up her neck to swirl a finger around the back of her ear. Oh, she liked that—yes, she did.

Bending her neck slightly to the side, he replaced his fingers with his lips, nuzzling and nibbling. He gave one soft bite, followed by a kiss to make it better.

She was moaning now, her body curving back into his.

He nipped again.

This time she straightened but let her head fall forward, exposing the long, lean lines of her neck. He kissed her there, right at the nape. She liked that too—he found himself cataloguing the spot for the future—a future that would never be. It made this moment as painful as it was sweet.

Finally, he let his fingers find the fastenings of her gown, loosening it bit by bit—and with each bit came a kiss. One right there at the slight bump of her spine between her shoulders. One halfway down to the top of her chemise. Another just at the top of the chemise—he ran his tongue along the lace edging with that one. Then a kiss on each shoulder blade, the left one soft and sweet, the right one
more demanding—leaving a reddish mark where he’d drawn the blood to the surface.

His fingers were busy now, unlacing her light corset and pushing it aside. His fingers slid along the slick silk of her chemise and around to cup her breasts again; this time his thumbs stopped to play and circle the puckered tips.

He should have known she’d wear silk beneath all; the sheer fabric was no barrier to his eager grasp, the faint weave of the fabric only adding to both their pleasure. He pulled it tight against her breasts, sliding it back and forth along the peaked nipples. He could imagine how it would look damp, and translucent, her areolas showing through. Were they pink or brown or peach?

Suddenly, imagination was not enough. He spun her around in his arms, pushing her dress to her waist as he did.

Her head still hung forward, and he took a moment to raise it to his own. He let his gaze roam over her. This was what he wanted, what he needed. Her eyes were huge and unfocused, the centers dark. Her lips were swollen, awaiting his kiss, her cheeks flushed and full of color. And the rest of her…

God had known what he was doing—her narrow shoulders, full breasts rising above the loosened corset…Masters was impatient to see them and slipped his fingers beneath the corset to draw them up, resting them on the stiffened edge of the garment. They settled upward, draped only in that maddeningly thin silk.

He was breathing heavily now, panting, if truth be known. It sounded so loud, he was surprised his porter did not come running—although on hearing such a sound, his porter was sensible enough he’d have herded the rest of the staff down to the kitchens or out to the gardens.

He stared again at those taut peaks. This was his moment—he lowered his mouth and drew one into his mouth while his fingers cupped the other, playing, pressing, loving. He sucked deep, drawing as much of the breast as he could into his mouth, his tongue laving at the tip. This was heaven.

He drew back then and took in the artwork he had created. Her nipples were somewhere between peach and brown, a deep, ripe color that was surely made with him in mind. The damp silk revealed as much as it hid.

He moved quickly to the other breast, creating a matching pair. She was the most glorious thing he had ever seen.

Her fingers tangled in his hair now. Her urgency and impatience were clear in every tug and jerk.

He buried his face between her breasts even as his fingers worked at loosening the waist of her dress and sliding it to the floor. Her corset was harder, but with a few good yanks, and only the slight sound of tearing, that joined the dress.

He stepped back then and looked at her. The curves that had been hinted at while she was dressed were now fully revealed by the thin chemise, the
narrow waist and ribs, full perfect breasts, and gently sloping hips. He could make out the hint of dark shadow at the juncture of her thighs.

His body grew more impatient, but he forced it to obedience. In this he would rule, both himself and her.

He held out his hand and, when she took it with only slightly quivering fingers, led her to the thick rug before the fire. She slid to her knees with easy grace.

He ran a hand through her hair and down to her shoulder, beginning to push the strap of her chemise aside.

She caught his hand.

He looked at her in question.

“No, you first,” she said, her eyes moving along the lines of his body.

He nodded. This he could definitely grant her. He shrugged out of his jacket and began to unbutton those buttons she had not yet touched. When he started to pull his shirt open, he could see further desire flare in her eyes. He slowed his motions, teasing both of them.

He sat then and began to pull at his boots. When he experienced some difficulty, she came and bent over them, giving a good tug; when still this didn’t move them, she swung a leg over his, presenting him with the most delectable view of silk-clad buttocks as she pushed and pulled.

She freed the first one.

When she repeated the motion and began on the
second, her silk-clad behind became irresistible. He placed his now bare toes on her and first tickled and then pushed.

She twisted her head back to give him a good glare, but he could see the laughter hiding in her eyes.

The second boot came free, and she slid to the floor along with it. She turned and rose up between his thighs, her eager fingers finding the fastenings of his breeches. He closed his eyes as her fingers slipped inside and wrapped around him.

He knew his eyes were rolling back within his skull, but he could not control them as the sensation of her small fingers overwhelmed him.

This was heaven.

It was not the first time he’d had the thought, but each time it grew stronger in his mind. He had never experienced anything like this—passion and play, emotion and power.

Her fingers were back at the waistband of his breeches and he lifted his hips obligingly as she tugged.

He opened his eyes as she stepped back, breaking contact between them. Her hands were at her shoulders, and she pushed the straps down. The chemise slithered down so slowly that it seemed to take forever and yet be done in an instant. It caught briefly at her still peaked nipples before falling to her waist. A slight shimmy of her hips and it was on the floor, wrapping lightly about her feet like the gentlest of ocean waves.

Only in his dreams had he imagined such a sight.
Her body was all he could desire, but it was not this that held him. It was the look on her face. He could not have put a name to all he beheld there. He knew there was passion and desire, but, more than that, there was warmth, and comfort, a look of full offering. In this moment he felt that he saw all of her, down to the very dark reaches of her soul. She was naked before him, and not merely in a physical sense.

She took a step forward until she stood between his knees, the flesh of her outer thigh brushing him in the briefest of caresses. She leaned in toward him, her breasts falling forward like an offering of the gods, but still it was her face that held him.

Not only did she offer him all, he could see in her eyes that she saw him, and not just the cynical face he presented to the world.

She saw him.

It was a humbling thing.

It was the most powerful experience he could ever remember.

She stood there, staring for a moment.

Then she leaned forward, bringing her lips against his. It began as a gentle kiss, of the kind one might bestow upon a child, soft dry lips brushing soft dry lips. She pressed harder, and he was reminded of the first kiss a parlor maid had bestowed upon him when neither knew the art of the thing. It was a kiss of joy and promise.

Then her lips parted, tentatively, and he felt the first probe of her tongue moving against his mouth, seeking entrance. He opened his mouth and her
tongue slipped in. She moved with great care, as if each second, each move, was an experience to be savored.

She settled against him then, her bosom flattening against his chest, the soft weight full of the promise of future pleasure. He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her into him and lifting her to his lap so that he could support her fully.

He took command of the kiss, deepening it from those first tentative tastings to something fuller, deeper, more mature. His tongue thrust and probed, twisting in rhythm with hers.

She grew frantic beneath his onslaught, or maybe it was he who lost control. It became harder to know where one began and the other ended. She moved against him, her body beginning to sway in the dance of man and woman.

Her hips lifted and fell, her breasts swayed against him, first pressing and then falling back.

And her lips. There were not words enough in the dictionary to describe the magic that was her lips, her tongue.

Even when they stilled for a second, the heavy panting of two people who needed to fill their lungs loud between them, he could feel the passion and heat vibrating within her. He cupped her face between his hands and brought their foreheads together. They rested then, her eyes were closed, but the very softness of her face told him secrets he had never dreamed.

He ran his fingers down the long lines of her back, her buttocks, pausing to savor the sweet swell of a
hip, as he drew his hand forward. His eager fingers trailing along the soft skin of her inner thigh as they moved upward, seeking their goal.

Her eyes opened at that, her mouth forming an “oh” of surprise. He grazed the soft edge of her lower curls before letting his fingers sweep to their destination. She was moist and hot, her body betraying its urgent needs.

Her whole body clenched as he found the tight knot of nerves. He slipped a finger inside her, his thumb continuing to stroke the point of her desire.

His own body throbbed with the need to replace his fingers. His cock moving of its own accord as it made its desires known. He shifted her weight slightly and her legs fell open.

A low moan escaped his lips as he fought for every ounce of control he had.

He moved his fingers within her, forcing his mind away from his own needs and focusing only on hers. He closed his eyes, refusing to look at the voluptuous bounty spread before him.

He concentrated only on the silk and dampness beneath his fingers, moving, stroking, pinching, loving, only in response to those small movements he felt. Her body was tightening now, he could feel it in the clench around his fingers, the hardening of her muscles against his lap, and her breath—a sudden halting, followed by a deep, sudden inhale.

Her thighs tightened about his arm. He opened his eyes and watched her come apart. Her body
clenching and quivering and her eyes—wide and unseeing, filled with pleasure and discovery.

She cried once and then was still, other than the occasional shiver as her body recovered and awareness returned.

She lay still for a moment, then leaned up and kissed him. It was as soft and simple a kiss as the first one, but this was different. There was promise here, both of what had been and what was to come.

She slid off his knees and onto the floor. She slipped back until she lay flat before the fire. Her arms stretched toward the fire as if seeking to grow in length. Her full breasts flattened slightly, but the peaks still reached eagerly toward him, inviting his touch, his taste.