Bound By Temptation (6 page)

There was a momentary stillness to her features. Life normally filled her in a way he had never before seen, and then in one instant it was gone. Until he experienced its lack, he had not realized its importance.

He saw her shake herself, although she made no movement. “No, that is not what I call love. I would be a fool to say that sex is not part of love, but love is not dependent on it.”

“Then what do you call love?”

Her soul hurt. His simple question of her flirtation had caught her unawares, and now she felt ripped open. She was not normally so fragile, but the desolation of not remembering
that night
was still with her, and his question struck at it.

At least she could relax her suspicions of him again. Violet might not care for her brother, but she had spoken of him as honest. She might not like what he did, but he never hid his actions.

That did not make his words less painful now. Clara did flirt. She did smile and flaunt and use every bit of her feminine wiles to control a situation.

It was the only way to survive.

She wished it were not so. Women who managed to survive without using those tarnished resources earned her greatest admiration. There were so few of them.

Men criticized a woman for using her femininity and punished her for not. It was the way of the world.

“Do you have no answer for me? I thought women could spend days talking of the wonder of love. You rebuke me for forcing my sister to marriage—a marriage she never once complained of to me until it was over—and then you can’t even tell me what this magical love is.”

She drew every inch of that feminine power to her and she smiled up at him. She relaxed the muscles around her eyes, making them soft and young. Her chin lowered, making her peer up at him through her thick, sooty lashes. And she smiled. Not the smile of a schoolgirl. Not the
smile one gives when presented with an unexpected surprise.

This was a woman’s smile full of knowledge and mystery, a smile of full lower lips, of darting tongue, of knowledge of just what a mouth can do. “Yes, I know what love is. I know it in all its aspects. I know the parts of it that draw and tempt a man to do things he would never do otherwise. I know the parts of it that grow and flourish as man and woman know each other with ever increasing intimacy.

“I know what it is to lie night after night wrapped in the same lover’s arms, never wanting to be anywhere else. I know the pain of being away from your love for even a moment and the joy of each reunion. I have been delighted by my husband’s smile and felt the pain of each disappointment more sharply than he.

“I remember the delight in the simplest of tasks because he was there with me. Walking across a field with him on a blustery autumn day was a far greater joy than the grandest of London balls.

“And I know love’s pain.” She let the smile fall from her face—this was something she did not speak of—lest this man, this near stranger, see the pain that she never revealed. “I know what it is to lose it all and to wonder if it was real. There is a pain in love, in always wondering if one is enough, if one does enough, if one is ever loved as much as one loves. And when one loses love, those questions never fade. One always remembers, and wonders.”

She dropped her face into her hands, not crying, but unable to face him and see the reflection of her emotion. The reflections of herself that she saw in others were always the most painful. It was easier to hide in a mirror than in the open eyes of another.

“You speak of your marriage.” His tone was flat, and she was thankful. Sympathy had never been her desire.

“Yes.”

“I am sorry. I’ve heard little of your life with Lord Westington beyond that he was a good man.”

“He was the best.” She still did not look at him. “I know that his goodness is forgotten in my actions after his death.”

“But only by others, never by you.”

“No, never by me.” She did look up then, letting him see the full irony of her expression. “Would you believe that everything I have done since then is because of him? That I live my life the way I do in his memory?”

His brows drew together, emphasizing the leanness of his features. “I can accept that it is so, but would confess no understanding.” He raised a hand and rubbed his temple.

She was glad of the gesture. It freed her from the temptation to explain. “You are in pain.”

“It is nothing.”

“You should rest. I will have the maid freshen a bed, and you should lie down for a few hours.” She issued the invitation before she could think—and was then left with too many thoughts. Had she
wanted him to stay? Or had she only been acting with proper kindness?

“No. I did not mean to stay. I truly only came to bring your things.” His brows had not relaxed, and she wondered if his expression was caused by the ache in his head rather than her own revelations.

She picked up the bell and rang it sharply. “That matters little now. You cannot go out in this weather when you are not your best.” She gestured to the window, where the rain was now pouring by barrels not buckets. “And if you will not think of yourself, think of your poor coachman. He’ll drown before you make it back to town.”

The maid arrived, and she gave direction without further ado, leaving him little choice. They did not speak again until the maid returned and led him away. She should perhaps have shown him to his room, but the desire to be alone was growing upon her.

She heard one muttered comment about managing women as he left, but it was not enough to bring even the hint of a smile to her face.

“The gentleman is burning with fever, my lady.” The maid’s voice filled the quiet room.

Clara glanced over at Robert, before carefully putting her wine down. He grimaced, and she could sense the words behind the expression. After their earlier comments that their visitor would find a way to prolong their hospitality, the irony of the situation seemed rife.

“Are you sure?” Clara could not resist the question.

The maid hesitated before answering. “Yes, I went to wake him as you asked, and I found him still sleeping and flushed. I tried to rouse him, but he only grumbled at me. There was no mistaking the heat rising off his person.”

Robert put his own half-f glass beside hers and headed for the door. “I suppose I must check on him. He will have to stay, of course.”

“Of course,” Clara answered, but she was already speaking to herself. She picked up her wine and downed it in a single swig. She considered Robert’s brandy before repeating the gesture.

Masters had been sent her to bedevil her. There could be no other explanation. She was being called to task for all the misdeeds of her life. There was no other reason he should leave her so unsettled—cause those strange tingles of awareness that so distracted her.

A loud crackle of thunder shook the floors, and she resisted the urge to stamp her foot in answer. Instead, she placed Robert’s now empty glass beside her own and went to advise the cook that dinner would be delayed.

She had only just returned when Robert entered.

“The maid is correct,” he said. “He has clearly taken a chill. I’ll have the physician summoned, but I am sure either of us could guess the outcome: rest, liquids, a dose of willow tea, and a good measure of hope.” He picked up his empty glass, stared
at it a moment, shrugged, and placed it back on the table.

“I’ll have his coachman advised that they’ll be spending the night. I am sure he won’t regret not traveling in this weather.” She walked back to the door, eager to escape as she examined her own emotions.

She was not distressed by illness, and not because it required his stay. No, this distress lay deeper, and she feared to examine the reason. Her emotions were raw enough without this added complication.

She could only wonder what would happen if she was forced to interact with the blasted man on a prolonged basis.

M
asters wondered if she’d ever take that step into his bedchamber. Everything he’d ever heard of her daring reputation seemed counteracted by the toes that never inched over the threshold—not in all the seeming eternity of the days he’d been stuck in this bed. The siren that all London had spoken of would never have been held by the bounds of strict propriety, but Lady Westington never took that single step. Only the sharpness of her gaze and the occasional undertone to her voice ever betrayed the woman he was convinced she hid within.

“Aren’t you going to feel my brow?” he asked. “How will you know if I am progressing?”

Lady Westington stood in the doorway and lowered her chin. “I can tell from the glint in your eye that you are doing well. The feverish look is gone. And your voice no longer sounds like you’ve a throat full of rusty nails. You may even be allowed out of bed tomorrow.”

“But what of today? If I stare at the bed’s canopy even a moment longer I will enter a state
of madness and you may never be rid of me.” He tried to inject humor into his voice, but was afraid he merely sounded peckish. He was sick of being in bed now that he again felt human, tired of being waylaid from his quest to find Isabella and her secrets. He needed to be up and moving.

“You sound like a child.” She spoke without the tinge of sarcasm he had come to expect. “I’d offer to have you moved to the library to sit by the fire, but I fancy you’d object to having the footmen carry you down the stairs, and I would not wish you to become dizzy and fall.”

“I do believe I can manage a flight of stairs without assistance. I have been walking for a few years now.”

She smiled with absolute kindness. The expression caught his breath. Where was the temptress of the first day? The woman who could make him grow hard while eating a slice of bacon? The woman who would peer at him so knowingly from under her lashes before slicing him down with her words? The woman who stood here now was neither of those. She was soft and feminine in the extreme, but her eyes offered nothing but comfort and solace.

And she wouldn’t step into his room.

What trick was she about?

It was impossible to ask her about that or anything when she stood where anybody might hear. Perhaps that was her plan.

It was maddening.

She stepped into the hall, and for a moment he feared she was gone. Instead, he heard her call for a maid and ask that the fire in the library be stoked.

“I shall probably regret this,” she said as she stepped back to the threshold. “You will need to let me go first on the stairs in case you should become dizzy.”

He examined her from the rounded toes of her slippers, up past the slight if well-rounded hips, over the slender ribs and perfect bosoms, finally ending on her slim shoulders. He could not imagine what she thought she’d do if he did fall. Most likely he’d sweep them both down the steps.

The words were on the tip of his tongue when he stopped. She was chewing on her lower lip and was not convinced that she was doing the correct thing. If he said anything she was likely to change her mind and leave him staring at the ceiling.

If he could get her alone in a room he might begin to question, to find out what she was about.

He nodded. “I promise.” He started to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “Is my robe here? I notice that my own nightshirt has miraculously appeared.”

“I had your driver fetch some of your belongings from The Dog while you were not quite yourself. Your valet has apparently arrived in the village and should be making his way here by the end of the day when he has put your trunks to rights. It appears that you suffered from the same illness as he. Hopefully, that means that you also will be up and about soon.”

She glanced up, mouth agape, as his bare calves made an appearance from beneath the covers and his bare feet slid to the floor. “Stop, I’ll get somebody to help.”

“I am quite capable of getting out of bed. Of course, if you think I need help, you’re more than welcome to give me an arm.” He hated that his legs wobbled as he stood.

She actually took that daring step into the room, hand extended toward him. Then he took another step, this one firmer.

She turned, her skirts spinning about her, and stepped back into the hall. “I’ll be right here if you need help. The robe you were inquiring about is hanging in the wardrobe. I am sure you can find it—or do you want me to call the maid?”

“I’ll manage.” It gave him a moment to walk unobserved to the cabinet. He pulled a pair of trousers up under his nightshirt and then yanked out the deep red velvet robe. The lush fabric had been a Christmas present from Violet, and he’d never known quite what to make of it. Was it a gift of warmth and color, or a comment on the stark way he chose to live his life?

“That’s beautiful.” She was looking at him with admiration.

His chest puffed like a cock on the walk. He’d never known a woman to have this effect on him.

She continued, “You didn’t choose it, did you?”

“I gave the fabric to my tailor.”

“But you didn’t choose the fabric.” She said it as a flat statement, expressing not the slightest doubt.

He shrugged and began the slow walk toward her. He had been in bed for only three days, no matter how long it seemed. How could he be so weak?

She waited until he was almost upon her before turning and beginning the walk down the hall toward the stair. He focused on the soft sway of her hips to distract from the effort of each step. He was glad she could not see his face and realize the effort this short walk cost him.

She stopped at the head of the stairs and waited. She did not turn back to look at him, and he wondered if she was granting him this small privacy.

The stairs seemed immense and long as they descended before her. He knew they could not be longer than the steps in his own home in Dover. The polished banister that ran down the side was the only blessing.

He placed his hand firmly upon it as he drew near to her. She still had not moved. Again he inhaled the rich scent of cinnamon. Truly, in all his years he had never known so tantalizing a scent to linger about a woman. It combined the deep, musky, and womanly with the memory of a young boy’s joy. It was no wonder he wanted to bite her.

She had never been so aware of a man. His physicality surrounded her in ways no other had, even at the most intimate of moments. Stepping away should have been easy, automatic, but instead, she
lingered, trapped by the sensations that arose in her body.

He was still pale from his illness. Lavender shadows lay heavy under his eyes and stubble darkened his chin. The threat he presented should have been lessened by his state, but it was not. She was as conscious as ever of the strength of his body as his arm slid past her to grasp the rail.

She drew in a deep breath, her chest filling. She held it for a moment, feeling the pressure build within her. She was vulnerable to no man.

She moved away from him, descending a couple of steps before pausing and waiting for him to move. He seemed as frozen as she had been. He hesitated, then took the first step down. And then the second. His legs wobbled slightly on the third, but she pretended not to notice.

She moved farther down the flight, waiting for him to follow.

She should call for a footman. It had been unwise to allow him to attempt this feat, but she had seen the boredom in his face as he stared blankly about the room and had wanted to grant this small mercy. And if she could get him alone in a room, perhaps she could further question him about that night. She still needed to find out why he was convinced she was a thief.

If Robert had not warned her, she would have questioned Masters in his chamber, but she would not go against her stepson’s wishes in his own home. It was still important that Lord Darnell believed she was reformed.

She smiled to herself. Wouldn’t they all be shocked if they knew that her reformation was real, that she never again intended to play wild games? All she wanted now was to find a peaceful, gracious life of her own—to find her own form of pleasure and joy. If she could just clear up this mess with Masters, that might even be possible.

“Do you want to go back?” she asked softly, her mood mellowed by her thoughts. “I can have a book sent up to you if you but let me know your taste.”

“No.” His voice was quite forceful despite the hesitation that was evident in his step. “It is getting out of the bedchamber that is the draw, not the thought of a book.”

A flash of disappointment hit her, and she realized that she had hoped she was the draw. Fool. It served as a reminder that she had no business thinking such thoughts. She was a new woman, or would be as soon as Robert was wed and she got back to London. It was important that she not forget the risk Masters still posed to her.

Somehow Robert had not heard of her adventures at The Dog and Ferret, and she wished to keep it that way. It was surprising that no one had mentioned her night of ale and cards. Mr. Johnson, at the very least, should have said something to him, but Robert had said not one word.

She peered over her shoulder at Masters. Could she trust him, or was it only his illness that had stilled his tongue? If she explained the situation
to him, would he hold her secrets tight? She tried to remember the things Violet had said about her brother. Many of them had not been kind, but Violet had said that he was a man of his word—too much so in some instances.

Even as she wondered, she heard a slight gasp behind her and felt his arm brush by her as he grabbed for the railing again. His fingers caught hold and held it tight. He tilted forward, and she stepped back, using her body to brace him. She turned toward him as his other hand came down on her shoulder, her breasts pressing tight into his chest.

His grasp was strong. The pads of his fingers bit into her flesh. She held back a whimper as she saw the strain upon his face. His mouth formed a curse she was well familiar with, but he released no sound.

Then he caught himself. His body straightened and his face grew expressionless. No, there was a definite expression; it was just not one of pain or dismay. His eyes focused first on her lips and then moved down to where their bodies pressed tight together.

He swallowed. She watched the Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and her mouth grew dry. She should step back. He was in control again, and there was no danger he would fall.

“You’re hurting me.” She turned her glance away from him and looked down to where his fingers were still locked about her shoulder, tanned flesh against the forest green of her shawl.

It took a moment longer than it should have for him to loosen his grasp, and even then he did not release her. His thumb swept up, pushing her shawl aside, stroking the bare flesh above her neckline.

The thumb was calloused. She had not taken him for a man to ride without gloves, but the darkened skin of his hands and the rough calluses on his fingers betrayed him. He did not follow every social nicety.

His thumb stroked again, running a line just above her collarbone.

She shivered. And her eyes rose to meet his. They were so dark. She had thought them so dark a blue as to be nearly black, now they appeared the black of obsidian—deepest pitch with only an iridescence of blue reflecting off the surface. Those eyes devoured her.

She didn’t think she had ever seen such want, such need.

He hesitated and she thought he would pull back. A cool breath of air passed between where their bodies met.

He swallowed again, the movement more felt than seen as she found herself lost in his desire. His hand moved from her shoulder, up and around the back of her neck, cupping the nape.

He pulled her closer, drawing her toward him. He bent forward. It was an endless moment as his lips descended. She had a hundred heartbeats to pull away, a thousand flaps of a butterfly’s wing.

She knew she should. She had acted unwisely in the past, but nothing compared to the foolishness of this kiss. He did not like her. She did not like him. They had nothing in common. Discord lay in their future.

She rose on her toes, moving toward him, as caught in the impossibility of need as he.

The first touch was soft. She had expected to be devoured by his hunger, but found the stroke of rose petals. His mouth brushed across hers, a caress as much of the imagination as of reality. It gave a hint of possibility, but nothing more.

She pushed higher, wanting more, needing to feel the firm pressure of command.

He drew back so that only his breath caressed her.

A world of possibility existed in that breath.

Just as she wondered if he would desert her, his lips descended. Again the kiss was soft and gentle, but now it grew deeper, the pressure greater.

Their mouths were still closed, but there was knowing in the simple movement of skin against skin. Her eyes drifted closed. It should have felt like the innocent kiss of a first love, but no bumbling boy’s kiss had ever made her long for so much more.

There was more want and desire in the basic pressing of lips than in the deepest kiss she had ever shared.

Together they were caught in a moment that could not last. She could step back or press forward.

Retreating had never been an option.

She opened her lips beneath his, issuing invitation. He stilled slightly at her movement and then his tongue swept across the gap. It did not seek entrance, but teased and played.

He tasted of licorice. Cook must have placed something in his last draught. Her own tongue darted out, seeking more, wanting more.

Her skin tingled as his hand slipped from her neck and trailed down her back, coming to rest at her waist. His other hand joined it, pulling her closer, their bodies resting fully together.

His position above her on the stairs caused some awkwardness and Clara stepped up, coming to stand between his legs. She slipped her hands inside the soft velvet of his robe, only the thin linen of his nightshirt separating her from his flesh. His fever had faded, but still he gave off waves of heat, encasing her in warmth and comfort—safety.