Defiant Angel (19 page)

She ventured, "I asked you, dear, how long do you intend to refuse seeing him?"

"However long it takes for His Grace to realize I have no intention of seeing him or marrying him."

Nodding her head, Winifred watched Tiffany dash about the room.

"I see, and do you intend to remain closeted each and every day?"

Tiffany spun to face her. "I think he has gotten the message. And so I think it safe to venture forth. God knows I could not stand another day of this forced captivity!"

A smile crossed Winnie's face. "Self-imposed would be a better choice, my dear." Brushing her hair and tying it back with a length of pink ribbon, Tiffany looked at her aunt through the mirror, choosing to ignore her remark, believing her captivity, forced or self-imposed, was a direct result of His Grace.

Silence reigned until Tiffany, for some strange reason unknown even to herself, asked, "Was he angry?"

A twinkle gleamed in the green eyes. "I think a man of His Grace's caliber rarely shows his anger, dear, nor does he let it blind him from his purpose. That is not to say if he is pushed too far, he would not use his anger as a tool to gain his end. A man as he should not be easily dismissed, nor taken lightly."

Catching her aunt's eyes reflected in the mirror, Tiffany sat thinking about her words. She worried at her lower lip and turned to steal a glance at her. For a brief moment she had doubts about her plan but quickly shook them off. "Well, he has no reason to be angry with me. I have been indisposed, and Godfrey has told him as much. Not that it is any business of his." Tossing her head haughtily, she was quite pleased with her reasoning.

Winifred nodded her head in mock agreement, saying, "Of course, yesterday what was it Godfrey told His Grace? Oh yes, you ate something tainted and were indisposed, and the day before you had overindulged from your solitary celebration of your upcoming marriage." Regarding her niece, who quickly turned away from the knowing green eyes, she continued, "And today, well, what was it today? I seem to have forgotten."

Refusing to be drawn, Tiffany abruptly rose. "If you'll excuse me, Aunt, I think I'd like to ride."

Heading toward the door, she was stopped by Winifred's question. "And what excuse will you give him this afternoon?" Standing, Winifred closed the gap between them, continuing, "Or had you forgotten you're leaving for a weekend celebration at Chad Devonshire's?"

A look of despair crossed Tiffany's face, for she had indeed blocked out anything to do with His Grace and his arrangements. "Oh, Aunt Winnie, what am I to do? I am in such a pickle." Placing her hands over her face in misery, she whispered. "Why? Oh, why me? Why couldn't he have found another to possess, another to purchase?"

Winifred reached for Tiffany's hands, gently removing them from her face. Seeing the tears well up in the blue eyes, she brought her arms about her niece's shoulders and walked with her to the settee by the hearth. Sitting, she brought Tiffany in the circle of her arms.

Laying her head against her aunt's shoulder, Tiffany cried softly. Winnie gently smoothed her hair with a loving hand while Tiffany wept silent tears. Speaking softly, Winifred began, "When you came to me, I thanked God for sending me the daughter I never had. I love you more than if you were mine. I remember thinking that day how lovely you were. Like an uncut diamond; I saw its many facets, which with a bit of polish, would emerge brilliantly." Softly stroking her hair from her cheek, Winifred looked down at Tiffany's tear-streaked face, her own eyes beginning to fill. She sighed, "Over the years my little diamond lost its rough edges and became a gem so exquisite, so rare, so very priceless, for it shines brilliantly and sparkles with life."

Winifred lightly kissed the top of the raven head that lay against her breast as her own tears softly fell. "You know, dear, the diamond is a most desirable gem. All covet it for its value. Most lock this treasure away. But there are a few who value it above all else, for its brilliance and sparkle, and want to wear it, not box it. Your duke, my dear, is one of those special few."

Gently pushing Tiffany away, Winifred rose softly, leaving the room.

The wind in her face, her raven tresses loose and flowing, the warm sun caressing her, Tiffany rode with an abandonment she hadn't felt in days. Touche sailed over the last hedgerow, landed, kicking up her hind legs as if feeling the restraint as well.

Rider and horse recklessly rode, unmindful of the low branches of the woods they now entered. Suddenly Tiffany pulled sharply on the reins, halting the spirited mare just feet from the bluff's edge.

Dismounting and dropping the reins, unmindful that Touche moved away to graze at the grass near the edge of the woods, Tiffany walked quickly to the edge.

What a sight her eyes beheld. It was breathtaking. She looked upon the wonder with the eyes of a woman but the memories of a girl.

The bluff formed a sort of plateau three hundred feet or so above sea level. Its brooding, gaunt cliffs seemed barbaric, savage, almost ferocious, rising high, abrupt and precipitous. It was beautiful to her; the varied scenery, the clear and lovely light, the splendor of the cliffs whose ferociousness was softened by the fragile growth of wildflowers that dared take root.

Moving a tad closer to the edge, she heard the sound of breakers roaring, smashing against the rock, and the cry of gulls, music to her ears. She watched the sea beat on as it had against the wild coast all through time. Mesmerized by the sight, the smell, the sound, she moved dangerously closer to the edge, yearning for the freedom it offered.

Suddenly a hand, like iron talons, grasped her waist, lifting her back against a hard body, turning her easily so she faced her assailant.
"You!"
she screamed, pushing against his chest, then bracing her hands against him, leaning away while he held her firmly.

Moving away from the edge, carrying her against him, he spoke sharply, ' 'What the hell were you trying to do? Kill yourself?"

Her eyes narrowed, seething with anger. "You egotistical bastard! Do you honestly think you're worth killing myself over?" She began to Idck her feet and pummel his shoulders as he carried her away. Ducking her flailing hands, he moved his, cupping her buttocks and leaning forward slightly, causing her to fall precariously backward so instinctively she was forced to steady herself by her legs about his waist, her arms about his neck to regain her balance. Clinton held her buttocks tightly, pressing their loins together. His hardness pressing against her softness caused a surge of warmth to uncurl in her belly. She felt acutely aware of his swollen, hard manhood pressing between her spread legs.

Regaining her senses, she demanded, "Put me down this instant!" unwrapping her legs from his waist.

Clinton did not miss the quiver that shook her body on contact with his nor the sweet blush that crept up her cheeks.

A mischievous smile lit his face. "As you wish." He slowly lowered her so each part of her delectable body slid intimately down his length. Her hands glided down, feeling every firm muscle of his chest, touching the dark hair that lay exposed from his half-opened shirt. His hands remained possessively cupped beneath her buttocks, pressing her against his arousal.

Stains of scarlet appeared brightly on Tiffany's cheeks. When her feet touched solid ground, she leaned against him to steady her legs, still shaking from the erotic sensation, and then quickly pushed away from him, hoping she did not betray how unsettling the experience was.

"What are you doing here? Your actions are as misguided as your sense of direction, Your Grace. You are trespassing! This happens to be Courtland lands!"

Clinton had missed nothing of her reaction and smiled confidently. He leaned back against a tree, withdrawing a cheroot, lighting it. "This bluff, Princess, is the dowry you bring me, and as you are mine, so is it."

"A bit presumptuous, Your Grace."

"Not at all, Princess, it is a certainty." He blew a curl of smoke out, watching her toss her head at his comment.

Balling her hands on her hips, she retorted, "Nothing is ever certain, Your Grace."

"Ah, Princess, I beg to disagree. I was certain I'd find you here. And here you are."

Tiffany paused before asking, "Oh, and how did you know where to look?"

She was awarded with a devastating smile, one that made her feel weak-kneed and caused shivers to course down her spine. Before she succumbed to its effect totally, she caught herself, averting her gaze from his visage.

"You wound me, Princess," he replied mockingly, holding his hand over his heart.

"I only wish it were fatally, my lord!" she snapped, glaring at him.

Knocking an ash from the head of his cigar, he smiled, loving every minute of their bantering. He regarded her. "You don't remember, do you?"

"If it involved you, I thankfully forgot."

Ignoring her comment, he explained. "You know, Princess, as your soon-to-be husband, I really should take offense, especially since I've carried that fond memory for four years." Noticing her quizzical expression, he continued, "I recall a very young girl doing cartwheels on the bluff at dawn." Her wide-eyed look gave him cause to refresh her memory further. "Of course, I forgive you for defaming my sire then, for how were you to know it would come to this?"

Her mouth dropped as the memory of that day flooded back. It was him! He was the root of it all. The term "full circle" took on meaning.

"I was quite enchanted by you, even stirred by your innocent allure."

Tiffany was aghast at his admission that he had desired her as a girl. "You are despicable, my lord!"

"I take exception, Princess. I may be accused of many a sin or crime, but a seducer of children I am not," he quickly stated, defending himself.

Looking heavenward, Tiffany spoke her thoughts aloud. "But if only I were a man!"

"Or that!" He smiled devilishly. "A pederast I am not."

Narrowed blue eyes regarded him. "Do you mean to say, my lord, you arranged the betrothal then?"

Drawing on his cigar, blowing the smoke into the air, he shook his head. "Nay, Princess, the bloom was too tender to be plucked." He paused. "I was introduced to you in Paris at the opera just after your season."

At her skeptical look, he added, "You were surrounded by your faithful admirers and paid me no notice. I, however, recognized the bloom on the bluff." Blowing a stream of smoke out, he leisurely ran his eyes over her length, a wolfish smile etched on his face when he said, "Only, now the bloom has blossomed into a ripe, succulent fruit, ready to be plucked. You certainly ripened beyond my expectations."

Angry that he referred to her as a piece of ripened fruit, she turned her back, affording him a lovely view of her derriere, where his gray eyes rested with appreciation. She asked, "Was it arranged then?"

Lost in carnal thoughts involving her derriere, he had to ask, "Was what arranged?"

She spun around, catching his unguarded look of desire. "The betrothal, you dolt!"

"No. I kept tabs on you over the next couple years, but it was not until after the racetrack encounter that I decided you would be mine."

"You did, did you?" Rage at his highhandness flew like sparks as she marched toward him, hating his arrogant manner, his nonchalance as he leaned against the tree. "Well, let me tell you this; you have interfered with my life enough. No more, do you hear me? I don't want to marry you. Now or ever."

Pulling at his ear, his cigar clamped between his teeth, he regarded her. "Why do you insist on fighting the inevitability of this marriage? A marriage I assure you will take place." His words, though calmly said, were stated as if etched in stone.

"Because I don't love you. Nothing will ever change that!"

"Princess, let me assure you. I will do many things that will change the way you feel."

Slow boiling rage churned at his conceit. His words held innuendos that she'd rather not think about! He shook her foundations, and it was frightening to her. Frustrated, she blatantly replied, "You cannot change my feelings. I love another. Nothing you do or say will change it."

Tossing his cigar down, he explained matter-of-factly, "You will discover, Princess, there are few things that are not changeable. Your professed love of another is not one of them." He crossed his arms negligently against his chest, seeing her anger gleam in her eyes.

Seethingly she retorted, "As are my feelings for you!"

Shaking his head in disagreement, he smiled confidently. "Now, that is precisely one of the few things which is changeable. You will come to love me above all else, Princess."

"It's a shame, Your Grace, that the few remaining years you have will be wasted on wishful thinking." She smiled unpleasantly at him.

A gleam of amusement lit his eyes. "In my dotage, am I? I imagine someone your age would think so." He closed the distance between them, a devilish gleam appearing in his eyes.

Suppressing the urge to step back, not pleased with the look in his eyes, Tiffany stood her ground. "Well, you are quite old."

"Do you fear, Princess, I'll not be able to perform my husbandly duties and leave you wanting?" He smiled at the blush that crept up on her face as he stood a breath away. "My age will in no way hinder my performance. Actually, my experience will compensate for your lack thereof."

Tiffany's face burned at what his words implied. Straightening her back, which caused her breasts to press against her muslin shirt, revealing to Clinton's eyes their rosy tips, she taunted, "Experience or not, Your Grace--" she raised a finely arched brow "--an unwilling wife makes for a cold one."

A leisurely smile broke over his face at her challenging words. Cocking his head slightly, an eyebrow raised inquiringly, he asked "Is that a threat?"

Giving him a cool stare, belying the spark of fear she felt, she retorted, "Nay. A promise."

"We'll have to see about that, won't we?" He pulled her up against him, cupping her buttocks, molding their lower bodies together. At the challenging glint that lit his eyes, Tiffany flung her head away from him, struggling. In a husky voice filled with promise, he stated, "You will be anything but cold." His hands slowly caressed her firm, round cheeks, pressing them intimately against his arousal, moving down so his fingers touched between her legs.

Tiffany struggled, then stiffened, feeling his fingers touching her from behind. "Stop touching me!"

Ignoring her, he whispered, "You will learn the pleasure my touch can bring you. You will find your woman's pleasure by my hand." He bent his head, capturing her mouth with his. Moving his mouth over her, his tongue caressed her lips, coaxing them to part beneath his. Tiffany felt his lips, warm, dry, and insistent. When his tongue lightly traced her lips, she felt an uncoiling in her belly. His hands caressed her buttocks, pressing her closer to his desire. She struggled to get away, knowing she didn't really want him to be touching her like this. But when he moved her hips to rub against him, an ache began between her legs so sweet, she parted her lips, feeling his tongue enter her mouth.

Clinton deepened his kiss; his tongue darted into the soft recesses of her mouth and then out and in again, an imitation of the act he yearned for. Moving his hands up her back to clasp her head firmly, he deepened his kiss, touching her tongue, drawing into his mouth, sucking on it gently.

Tiffany was intoxicated by his heated passion, feeling the tension flow from her as fiery sensations coursed through her.

Clinton moved his hands, sliding them to her sides and up, catching the soft underside of her breast, caressing its fullness, then splaying his fingers, stroking the sensitive nipples to a taut peak. He heard her groan as he moved his mouth, trailing kisses down the soft column of her neck.

Tiffany arched her back. Her nipples ached from his relentless touch, a burning sensation began between her legs, and she groaned.

Her groan was nearly his undoing; he was aflame but held his passion in check. His tongue trailed down to the base of her throat, where a pulse beat rapidly; his hands glided into her shirt, separating the material so he touched the bare skin of her breasts. He unbuttoned her shirt, laying open her charms. And lowering, claimed the impudent tip with his mouth.

Tiffany gasped at his touch. Shivers of delight centered at her nipple, which he laved with his tongue and tugged at with his mouth. She moaned in delight when his other hand cupped her one breast while his mouth and tongue paid homage to the other. He was seducing her into insensibility, causing her to moan and arch to accommodate his onslaught.

Clinton smiled at her near surrender and continued to seduce her erotically, moving his hand down her exposed belly and over her britches, between her legs. He could feel the heat emanate from her center and moved his finger, stroking her woman's flesh through her britches.

The movement of his finger and the material of her britches caused molten waves of sensation to begin. A sweet ache began between her legs. Her nipple ached from his mouth, her center burned from his finger, and the promise of unbearable pleasure burst through her being.

Clinton lifted his mouth from her breast; his finger still moved, wringing a moan from her. There was no mistaking the fierce hunger reflected in his gray eyes. His hands slid sensually over her breasts, up the soft column of her throat, and buried themselves in the thickness of her hair, holding her head, capturing her passion-dazed eyes. She was still in the throes of passion, her lips parted, her breathing heavy, her face flushed. He knew he must stop before he could no longer control himself; as it was, he wanted nothing more than to finish what he had started. Giving in to the need to taste her lips again, he covered them, forcing them to open wider, capturing her tongue, drawing it into his mouth.

Tiffany matched his movement, mindless, lost in raw, hungry desire. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she could not stand and felt him support her, bringing them down to the ground. She clung to him as he lay her in his lap, feeling his hardness press against her buttocks. Stilling a disappointed cry, she curled against him. Her body ached and throbbed. Currents of desire ran through her body crying for fulfillment.

She felt the light, feathery kisses he rained on her and the soft, gentle caress of his hands, wanting them to be as ardent and persuasive as before.

Clinton soothingly began to bring her down from the pinnacle of desire, gently smoothing her tumbled tresses, lightly kissing her temples as she gained a measure of control. He noted her lips, still parted and swollen, drawing air in short breaths, her eyes half-closed and dazed, and her face flushed with waning passion. He held her against him, watching her nipples, still taut, begin to slacken, and slowly, with deft fingers, buttoned her shirt. He smiled in consummate pleasure at her reaction to his touch. He lightly traced her parted lips, suppressing the urge to begin again. He knew she rivaled him in passion, and that pleased him so. She belonged to him, and he ached for the day when he would mark her physically as his own. He was a step closer in the course he had charted to win her heart--he had awakened her passion and was sure none other had before. His physical possession would bind her to him, and she would seek him for it. His smile widened at the thought of telling her so, but he knew her pride would force her to deny it.

The strong, steady beat of Clinton's heart was the lifeline Tiffany clung to as the hot tide of passion ebbed and flowed. With the ebbing tide, panic hit her as fragmented thoughts began to replace the mindless sensations. The ache in her groin had subsided to a twinge, the fire on her lips cooled, her throbbing nipples no longer sent shooting currents to her belly. The hand whose touch she found scalding was now soothing and comforting.

Her mind screamed of her body's betrayal to her heart. She pressed her hands over her face, feeling wretched as the stab of guilt pierced her, causing the agony of defeat to come clearly to light. She tore away from the protective circle she had clung to with a choking cry, "I hate you!" She glared at Clinton with burning, reproachful eyes which filled with tears.

Clinton had expected her reaction and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to face him. "You might hate me, but your body does not. You resist not me, but yourself." He gently brushed a tear that fell on her cheek.

Tiffany slapped his hand away, shoving hard against his chest. She stood on shaking limbs. "If I were but a man, I'd call you out!"

Clinton effortlessly stood, a trace of laughter edging his voice. "I told you, Princess, there are many sins you could accuse me of, but that is not one of them."

Tiffany was furious at his cavalier attitude and could not utter a word. She could not believe he was so unaffected by what was so devastating to her. How could he make light of what had happened?

Clinton noticed how high the sun had risen, guessing the hour to be noon. "Come, Princess, it grows late and we have a party to attend." Seeing her readiness to reply, he cut her short, gently placing his hand to her back. "It is time to go. We must depart soon." Stopping because Tiffany did, he looked into her eyes, seeing her anger, and replied lightly, "You'll have the entire carriage ride as well as a whole lifetime to upbraid me, Princess."

She snarled at him as he moved her toward their mounts; the import of his words "a whole lifetime" caused her to slap Touche into a gallop, leaving him in her wake. She heard his mocking laughter behind her.