To Have and to Hold (16 page)

He'd stared at her while he rose to his feet, slowly, gracefully, unembarrassed by his nakedness. He'd smiled at her. "By no means." And while she watched, he'd begun to dress.

"How do you feel, Mrs. Wade?" he asked her now.

She had to force herself to look at him. His boyish hair, tousled from his recent exertions, looked incongruous with his big, dangerous body. He hadn't bothered to button his shirt; she could see his chest and the flat ridges of muscle across his belly. Before she could shut out the thought, she remembered exactly how the hair on his thighs had felt, that rough-soft brush against her legs when he'd pressed them apart. Her stomach fluttered—but she wasn't sure what she was feeling. Randolph's cruelties were hopelessly mixed up in her memory with the things this man had done to her. Need and revulsion, pleasure and pain, desire and disgust—neither her mind nor her body could be relied on tonight to sort them out accurately.

He was holding out a glass to her. She thought of refusing it. It looked like brandy, though; maybe it would steady her nerves. She took it and answered his question. "What difference does it make to you?"

His eyes narrowed; his tips thinned. Once that look would have daunted her, but she didn't care about bis anger anymore. The worst was over, and this false concern came too late. She wouldn't salve his conscience by giving his spurious question a second's thought.

And yet, here she was, intact, not hurt, sipping brandy and conversing with him with only a little more stiffness than was usual between them. It was probably too soon to say that her fear of him was over—and besides, she wasn't naive enough to believe he was through with her—but her physical terror of him, of what his body could do to hers, seemed to be gone. At least for now. In a way it was a relief that the thing she'd been dreading for weeks had finally happened, was now finished. And she had lived through it. She had one odd regret: that she could never be Anne Morrell's friend. Because now she truly was Lord D'Aubrey's whore.

He came closer. "I asked you a question. I expect you to answer me."

They had a brief staring contest while she noticed something new about him: his eyes were blue at the tops of his irises and green at the bottom, below the dark pupils. "How do I feel?" She pretended to think labout it. "I feel used."

He frowned. "Did I hurt you? Answer me."

He had the lapel of her robe pinched between his fingers to keep her from moving away. "You want to know if you hurt me," she said in a disbelieving whisper.

"Your body," he specified, and for a moment she saw doubt in his eyes. Self-doubt, guilt's unsavory neighbor.

"My body survived, my lord, and seems to be functioning normally. If you were worried, you can set your mind at rest on that score."

When he smiled unpleasantly, she felt a prickle of the fear she'd just told herself she'd conquered. "I'm much relieved," he said softly. "Take off your clothes, Mrs. Wade, and get in my bed."

Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. "I don't want to," she said, aghast.

"Yes, I know. It adds a certain piquancy to the situation that I find I can't resist."

"Monster."

"I think we can dispense with name-calling." He turned away to light two more candles from the single low taper he'd brought up from the library. He folded his arms. "I'm waiting."

"Damn you. You can't hurt me."

"I sincerely hope not."

"Why do you want me?" she burst out in desperation.

He seemed to ponder. "I've been asking myself that question since the day we met. I'm still not sure of the answer. Come, undress for me, Mrs. Wade. I want to look at you. Surely you and I are beyond coyness now."

How she hated the sound of "Mrs. Wade" on his lips. It made the things he did to her crueler, colder. She stood still, in an agony of indecision. Everything in her rebelled against doing what he wanted, but the consequences of refusing would probably be just as unpleasant.

"Tell me this—did your husband make you strip for him?"

She stared back, unable to answer.

"Tell me. If he did, I won't ask it of you. Did he?"

She couldn't even nod, and it took all her willpower not to look away in shame.

Instead he was the one who looked away. He ran a hand through his hair, taking a sudden breath. His savoir faire slipped for an instant; she caught a glimpse of the man beneath the veneer of coolness and sophistication. But only for a second. He swung back to her with a determined air and said, "Turn around." When she hesitated, he turned her himself, by the shoulders.

Reaching around her, he untied the belt of her wrapper with quick, efficient movements, pulled the robe off and threw it across a chair. Immediately he returned to her and began to unfasten the buttons of her nightgown. This was meant to be a kindness, she supposed, him doing the undressing for her, with her back turned to him. And it was, after a fashion. But if he expected gratitude for it, she couldn't oblige him. She bowed her head to watch his long, nimble fingers, remembering the way they had touched her before. A feeling in the pit of her stomach couldn't be explained. It was like dizziness, like anticipation.

The slow slide of the gown over her shoulders and down her back made her tremble in spite of herself. She covered her breasts with her crossed arms, but for once no memories from the past surged up and tried to drown her. She stood still, feeling Sebastian's eyes on her back, and now his fingers, tracing down the bones of her spine. He caressed her buttocks, and she could feel her skin quiver under his hand, feel goose bumps erupt everywhere he touched her.

Then the lightness disappeared; he tightened his grip, holding her by her hips. She tried to turn, but he prevented it by force. She looked at him over her shoulder. His face was strange. "Don't move," he commanded, and reached behind him for one of the candles. She felt its heat on her back, then her thighs. When he swore in a violent undertone, she knew what he'd seen.

It surprised her; she thought he'd noticed the scars before, in the library. It must have been too dark there, and somehow he'd missed the faint ridge of flesh at the top of her left thigh, the only one that could still be felt with the fingers.

"Who did this to you?"

She almost laughed. How could he not know who?

"The prison guards," he guessed grimly. He turned her to face him. He'd gone pale; he looked dangerous.

"Men are flogged in prison, not women. It's against the rules. They found other ways to discipline us."

"My God." Now he knew. He searched her face, looking for something. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry this happened to you."

"I'm not. My scars saved my life. No one would have believed me without them. The things he did, the—things you want to hear me say—they were too beastly for the judges to credit. Not without proof."

He couldn't seem to speak. There was a new expression in his eyes, and if she didn't know better she'd have called it compassion. What a nerve-wracking thought: pity from the Viscount D'Aubrey. It confounded her so thoroughly, she turned her baek on him again.

She heard him blow out the candles he'd just lit. Carrying only one, he took her arm with his other hand, his clasp unwontedly gentle, and led her to the bed. He even pulled back the counterpane, the blanket, and the sheet for her. She was cynically amused. All the solicitousness in the world couldn't mitigate the baseness of his motives, and the gentlest manner couldn't transform ravishment into something more palatable.

But she didn't resist him this time. She was weary, and she wanted it over with.

The sheets were silk—of course. She pulled the top one up to her collarbone, resting her shoulders against a soft mound of pillows. He sat beside her, and watched her in silence for a minute or two before he began taking off his shirt. There was no cruelty or teasing in his thoughtful face while he did it; in fact, he didn't look at her at all. So she looked at him. Because his physical manner was nearly always languid and effortless, it was a surprise to find that his body was muscular and fit. Powerful-looking, the opposite of decadent. She could find no fault with his form; with all the objectivity she could muster, she had to admit that he was handsome. Very handsome. Odd; Randolph had been comely, had had an attractive physique for a man his age. And yet the sight of his body after their first night together had made her sick. Literally, ill.

Sebastian stood up to remove his trousers, and then she did look away. A second later the mattress dipped as he got in bed beside her. He hadn't spoken in a long time; she found she was curious about what he was thinking. Why did he still interest her at all? Why didn't she loathe him more for what he'd done, what he was going to do again?

No answer to that question. She understood why her fear of him had diminished, though. It was because she'd discovered from the most intimate experience that, unlike her husband, he was not thoroughly corrupt. He spoke of the "piquancy" of her unwillingness, and she didn't doubt that he found it so, but he had never hurt her, not really, and she knew with a bone-deep certainty that he never would. His methods of coercion were subtler, and maybe it was sophistry to say that therefore they were kinder. But she had been used by men in both ways now, brutally and gently, and she could say without equivocation that she much preferred Sebastian's.

He was watching her again, lying on his side, the sheet bunched around his lean hips. He took her hand and examined it by the light of the candle on the table, stroking her calloused palm, frowning. His hair fell straight down on either side of his long, fine-boned face. He raised his gaze and looked at her specula-tively. "Have you ever once experienced pleasure with a man?" His voice was low, mild; he might have been asking if she'd ever been to Wales in the summertime. But the question was hardly idle, and the quick gleam in his hooded eyes gave away the full extent of his avidity.

"Why do you think you can ask me such a question?" Her own voice, too high and too loud, gave away her agitation. But how silly she was being, how pathetically demure. They were lying naked beside each other in his bed, and she was worrying about the propriety of the conversation.

His hard mouth pulled into a slight smile. "It's rude of me," he acknowledged dryly. "Answer it anyway. I want to know if you've ever enjoyed yourself in bed with a man."

"Why?"

"Ah, you're under a misapprehension. The rules of this game say that you have to answer my questions but I don't have to answer yours."

"The rules—"

"Aren't fair. Very true. That's because I invented them."

She turned her face to the wall. "I don't have to tell you anything."

When he didn't speak, she began to hear the echo of what she'd said in a new light: it began to sound like famous last words.

At last she heard the rustle of the sheet, soft and decadent-sounding, but she kept her gaze resolutely turned away. He had a grouping of miniatures on the wall, tasteful oils by an artist whose signature was too small for her to read. Landscapes. Not quite what she'd have expected on the walls of a rake's bedroom. But perhaps satyrs and naked bawds were passe"; she wouldn't really know. She focused on a pastoral scene and tried to ignore the sounds of movement behind her.

Impossible. A drawer opened, and suddenly dread began to creep across her skin like a viper.
Oh, no.
What was he doing, what was he—getting? A sharp sound, and then the drawer closed. The sour taste in her mouth became nausea; she bit down on her lips, feeling sweat break out on her body.

The mattress shifted. Sebastian sat beside her, facing her, one of his thighs pressed lightly against her hip. He said her name in a question, but she couldn't move. When he touched her, she jumped.

"What is it?" he asked, sounding puzzled. "You've gone pale as the sheet."

His fingers on her cheek made her shudder. "For pity's sake . . ."It came out a faint, horrified whisper.

He looked down at something in his hand. She couldn't look at it; her stomach lurched. "This?" he said.

Before her fluttering eyelashes, she saw a little jar. That was all. Just a little jar. Her heart slowed its staccato pounding. "What"—she had to clear her throat—"What is it?"

He had the wickedest smile, slow and one-sided, infinitely suggestive. He opened the jar and brought it to his nose, breathing in with closed eyes. "Try it," he murmured, holding it out to her.

She sniffed warily. The clear contents of the jar, some kind of ointment, smelled like . . . she couldn't identify the scent. Flowery, but not really sweet; musky, heavy, disturbing somehow. "What is it?" she said again.

Instead of answering, he smiled the wicked smile and pulled the sheet away from her bare breasts. She gave a little squeal. When she tried to cover herself, he pulled her hands away and forced them down to her sides. "Don't move. Not a muscle."

As soon as he let go, she disobeyed, crossing her forearms over her chest and staring up at him, glassy-eyed, trying not to look as scared as she felt.

He observed her for a few seconds, seeming more bemused than angry. "Something I'd enjoy very much," he said thoughtfully, "is tying your hands to the bedposts, Mrs. Wade. One day I expect I'll do it. In the meantime, since you won't speak of your late husband's atrocities, I'm left to conclude that bondage was one of the items on his varied plate. And that, being the son of a bitch that by all accounts he was, he didn't take the time or the trouble to make that particular delicacy palatable to his young bride. Blink your eyes if I'm on the right track here."