Defiant Angel (38 page)

When the amenities were over, they strolled into the salon to await dinner. Rory and Brent went about their own devices.

Clinton handed Tiffany a glass of sparkling champagne. Tiffany, from lowered lashes, watched her husband, noting, as usual, his impeccable dress, which, as always, was simple yet elegant. This evening he dressed in black save for his white shirt and cravat. She noticed the heads of many women turn to regard Clinton; a twinge of jealousy touched her, as did a feeling of pride.

Chad Devonshire walked over to them, conversing about Kent and Alysse awaiting the birth of their first child, and then began to talk about business with Clinton.

Tiffany lost track of their conversation and sipped her champagne as she watched a group of newly arrived guests. Her eyes widened and she spilled her champagne. There, standing in the foyer, was Alan!

Clinton paused in his conversation when the glass fell to the carpet. He looked at Tiffany, seeing her stunned expression, and followed the direction of her gaze, coming to rest on Alan. The butler's timely announcement, "Dinner is being served," and the pressure of Clinton's hand on her back brought Tiffany out of her state. Taking the arm he offered, she allowed Clinton to lead her from the salon to the dining room.

Clinton seated Tiffany across from him and took his seat.

Alan could not believe the transformation of Tiffany, and if he thought her lovely before, he now found her elegantly exquisite. He was unable to take his eyes off her and had to suppress an urge to reach out and touch her.

Discreetly, while arranging her napkin, from under lowered lashes she found Alan among the hundreds of guests.

Dinner was a never-ending affair, typical of French formal dinners. Tiffany found the meal tedious and wanted nothing more than to leave.
Le terrines d' alouetts truffes
was the appetizer, which she hardly touched, not favoring meat paste, instead consuming a glassful of the claret. She nibbled on the lobster. Taking a mouthful, she pushed it down with another gulp of wine. Her stomach knotted with fear, or was it the course of pheasant with fresh vegetables that turned it topsy-turvy? Her wineglass was again refilled by the waiting footman.

She toyed with the stem of the crystal goblet and casually stole a glance toward Alan. Alan happened to be looking her way, smiled, and then caught Clinton's gaze, which chilled him to the bone. There was no threat, no challenge, just a look that staked a claim and drew the line.

Glancing back at Tiffany, Alan saw a pleading look in her eyes.

Alan knew he had no rights to her. He had turned those rights over to this very man whose intentions he now questioned. Alan vowed he would not interfere, but he would, for old times' sake, offer Tiffany any refuge from any ill treatment the duke rendered to her. It was the least he could do.

Clinton regarded both Alan's behavior and Tiffany's. He missed not a detail nor stolen glance. For the first time in his life, he felt threatened. He had faced many over the barrel of a gun, and crossed many with a sword. But this was different, for the solution was not who possessed the strength or sharper wit or skill, but rather who possessed the heart. By the time the cheese and fruit trays were replaced with ice cream and kirsch, Clinton had his solution worked out.

On the other hand, Tiffany was more confused and frightened than ever. One part of her cried out to hold on while another cried out to let go. She knew not her heart nor its dictates anymore. She felt as if her foundation was like a sand castle, slowly crumbling with each wave.

As she walked with Clinton, his hand riding possessively on her back, she felt fear, not of him but of herself. As they entered the ballroom, Clinton put his hand under her chin, turning her toward him.

"Remember, Princess, your promise of long ago?" he asked softly as if aware of her quandary.

She looked quizzically at him, and he explained patiently, "The first and the last dance are mine."

As the music began, he extended his hand, and as soon as she touched the warmth of it, she felt safe.

Seated at the dressing table, combing her hair, lost in thought so deep, Tiffany neither heard nor saw Clinton enter and close the door.

He quietly leaned against the wall to gaze at Tiffany. He thought about the decision he had made at dinner this evening. After observing the stolen glances, obvious perusal, and reactions between Tiffany and the marquess, he knew what he intended to be the best course. He felt her battle her fear, and knew the time had come.

He watched her pull the brush through her locks, absorbed in her dreams, holding on to them; she was totally unaware of his presence. His eyes moved slowly over her form, resting on her dark mane which shone with rich luster, then moved over to her creamy shoulders exposed by the silk chemise she still wore. His eyes traveled to the pink-hued nipples which strained against the sheer cloth reflected in the mirror, down to her slim waist he could span with his hands. His eyes rested at her waist, thinking if he went through with his plan, her now slender waist in three months time would thicken, and her breasts, which were full, would grow heavier as her slender belly swelled with his child. There was no going back, he thought. It was a chance he must take, for he wouldn't allow her to rebuild any portion of the wall he had taken down. He would not allow her to hide from him and immerse herself in her dream.

He shook his head. No, he could see through her; just one look in her eyes told him the dream had become flesh and blood again. His threat now had a face he needed to erase from her heart. He smiled as he appreciated his uninterrupted view of her. It was time she realized that now was what mattered. She must forget the past. Ready or not, now was the time for her to give him her love. Tonight she would yield her heart. Tonight she would give him the chance to show her he could make all her love dreams come true if she'd let her true feelings come through. It was time for her to give him her love, open her heart and let him in, let him touch her inside.

Clinton startled Tiffany when he stood over to lean against the bedpost behind her. He caught her gaze in the mirror, holding it. Her cheeks pinkened and she felt as if he knew her thoughts and where they wandered to. Lowering her eyes, for she could not meet his knowing gaze, she whispered, "You startled me, my lord." When hearing no response, she raised her eyes to find him regarding her through the mirror.

Casually he withdrew a cigar, lighting it, continuing his perusal as a curl of smoke drifted upward.

Tiffany became nervous under his close scrutiny and worried at her lower lip. Seeking to break the unbearable silence, she chattered while her hands wreaked havoc with her hair. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, laying down her brush, she said, "I think I shall retire. I am tired."

In the span it took to say those words, she found Clinton smiling leisurely over her shoulder. He leaned over her, putting his cigar in the ashtray on the dressing table. Tiffany felt his warm breath, tinged with the smell of brandy and tobacco, caress her shoulder. She shivered, closing her eyes, trying to hide the effect he had on her. She opened them to find his gaze in the mirror. She watched him while he held her eyes, lowering his head and kissing her shoulder and nibbling at the slim column of her neck.

His breath was warm and moist against her skin, and she felt her skin tingle where his mouth touched. No matter how highhanded or ruthless he was, nor how angry and frustrated he made her, he only had to touch her and nothing mattered anymore. He so easily made her long for him and the unbearable pleasure he could give her. But not tonight, she vowed. She closed her eyes to deliberately shut out any awareness of him.

"No!" she whispered brokenly, causing him to stop, hut remain poised watching her.

"No?" he whispered a breath away from her sensitive ear, causing Tiffany to lean her head against his mouth.

"Please, not tonight. . . Just leave me be, my lord, for tonight . . . please?"

He spoke softly to her reflection, "Princess, any night, save our first and this night, would I grant your request."

"Please, I am tired and wish to sleep," she implored, her eyes pleading with his.

"And perhaps dream, Princess? Dream of a love of yesterday, of days gone by?"

Clinton shook his dark head; his hand rested on her shoulders, his fingers played downward, just touching the swell of her breasts. "Nay, tonight above all nights, Princess, for tonight I leave my mark permanently."

Why wouldn't he let her be? Was she not a purchased wife? And a wife she had been; he had seen to that. All she had left was her dreams, and those he could not buy. She cried to him in the mirror, "What more do you want of me? Is what you have never enough? Will you not be satisfied until you have drained me and left me dry as dust to be blown in the wind? I have fulfilled your contract. You have the merchandise, my lord. What is it you want that I have left to give?"

Tears pricked her eyes, threatening to spill. She could no longer go on for fear of crying. She held his gaze, her bottom lip trembling in fear, fear she would be traitor to her dream.

"Something money can't buy, Princess." His hand slid down over her breasts, his fingers slowly circled her nipples. "I want you to love me."

She watched her nipples rise and strain against the sheer cloth, then raised her eyes, meeting his gaze. The sound of his voice, low and seductive, affected her deeply. "I want you, Princess, to take me deep inside you." His fingers moved, caressing her breasts, causing them to rise and fall rapidly. Her breathing became ragged.

Clinton continued, "Let me touch you deeper than ever," as his hands played homage to her body. She closed her eyes against him, but his voice, lulling and filled with promise, continued, "To leave my mark, Princess."

Clinton created a quickening inside her. She could not speak, for her words would sound hollow. Instead she shook her head in refusal. She felt him move and come to kneel before her. He gently parted her thighs, lifting the edges of her chemise, and leaned forward. She felt his breath warm against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh before he lowered his mouth, covering her woman's flesh.

She bit her lip to suppress a groan and failed when she felt his fingers part her nether lips and his tongue stroke her most sensitive spot. Her belly quivered, its muscles leaping across the flat surface. Passion pounded the blood through her heart as she soared higher, reaching the peak of delight, forgetting all else. His stroking tongue sent pleasant jolts through her, and her hands, involuntarily, grasped his dark head, holding him, pressing him on. She opened her eyes, catching her reflection in the mirror. The woman in the mirror looked back through eyes dark with passion, lips parted, hair wildly streaming about her shoulders. She dropped her head back, moaning.

Clinton felt her tension, her fingers wrapped in his hair, the spasms of her muscles, and knew he would soon taste her release. He lifted his mouth and gazed up, hearing her cry of disappointment when he left her. He rose and stood above her, seeing her eyes glazed and dark with unfilled passion.

"Come, make love to me, Princess," he whispered hoarsely as he removed his cravat and began working at the buttons of his vest.

"Come, let me touch you," he taunted as he unfastened his shirt, "deep inside you." He pulled his shirttail from his breeches and let his shirt fall open.

She was overwhelmingly aware of his hard, furred chest and stared at him with longing, aching for the fulfillment of his lovemaking. She felt the ache between her thighs, throbbing incessantly, and felt her blood race hot through her veins. She was taut as a bowstring; his words were promises she knew he would keep.

"Oh, please," she pleaded between breaths, begging him for release.

"Love me, Tiffany," he whispered, shrugging out of his shirt, dropping it to the floor.

She stared at the wide, firmly muscled chest. Her eyes followed the crisp black mat of hair that narrowed down over his taut belly, disappearing at the line of his breeches. She felt her own warm and thick moistness, aching to flow. Impulsively her hand moved, an instinctive gesture, to release herself.

"It will not be as good without me, you know." He rubbed his hand down the hair on his chest, watching her eyes follow its path down to the fastener at his waist.

Tiffany raised her eyes. He captured them with his. There was no denying the promise she read in those gray orbs. She didn't know if he spoke the truth, but trusted him. She wet her parted lips and again pleaded with him, her need reflected in her eyes. "Please," she whispered brokenly.

Clinton was not immune to her need nor her pleading and wanted nothing more than to sweep her up and make love to her, but he held fast. Their whole life depended on the few short steps she had to take. "I'll give you what you crave." He opened his arms to her. "Just love me, come Jove a man, not a dream."

She leaned her head against her shoulder, slowly rubbing it back and forth, and closed her eyes, imagining a hand moving over her, a tongue releasing her, yet still she felt no release, only raw hunger no dream could satisfy. Her hands moved slowly up and down her arms, teasing her raw nerve endings. She opened her eyes to find him bootless, his breeches undone and opened at his waist, revealing a wedge of black hair where she knew his manhood rested inches below. Love him? But how, she knew not.