Valentine (12 page)

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

Sylvester took the tray and strode past the stiff figure and up the stairs.

“For heaven’s sake, do you never do as you’re told?” he exclaimed as he entered Theo’s room. “I told you to get into bed. What are you doing?”

“Drinking port,” Theo said in a rather dreamy tone. “It’s supposed to be fortifying.”

“And is it proving to be so?” he asked with a quizzically raised eyebrow, setting the tray on the dresser. It was almost full dark now, and he lit the candles on either end of the dresser.

“I don’t know about fortifying, but it’s certainly making me feel a little woozy.”

Sylvester sighed. At this rate she was going to be in no fit state to hear him out, and he was mindful of Lady Belmont’s caution. In the morning she’d probably be as obdurate and uncivil as ever. “Get into bed,” he directed.

“It’s too early to go to bed.” Theo stood up, assessing her
balance with a frown. Then she gave a little satisfied nod. “I have a very strong head, you should understand.”

Strong head or no, she was not entirely sober. The sooner the contents of the tray went into her belly, the better. “You’ll find it easier to eat your supper in bed,” he stated, scooping her back onto the bed, pulling down the covers, and inserting her between them. The ease with which this maneuver was accomplished struck him as sufficient indication of Theo’s presently feeble state. He pulled the pillows up against the headboard and sat her firmly against them.

“Now, cousin, you will eat your supper.”

Theo blinked, wondered fleetingly if protest for its own sake was sensible, inhaled the rich aroma from the tray he set on her knees, and decided it wasn’t.

“I think you’d better forgo the claret, however,” Sylvester stated, flicking away the cloth.

“No!” Theo grabbed at his wrist as he reached to remove the glass. “I can’t eat without wine … besides, isn’t this the ninety-eight St. Estéphe?”

“I believe so.” Sylvester yielded the issue. He understood it too well for argument.

Theo examined the contents of the tray. A bowl of mushroom soup, a cold roast-chicken breast, a custard tart. “This wasn’t what you had for dinner,” she stated. “I could smell suckling pig.”

“But you chose not to appear at the dinner table,” he reminded her evenly. “I should be thankful for small mercies if I were you.” He swung the chair to face the bed and sat astride it again, folding his arms along the back.

Theo contemplated an acid retort and then decided that she didn’t really have one. She dipped her spoon into the soup.

Port clearly had a mellowing effect, Sylvester reflected, refilling his own glass that Theo had left empty on the floor. He decided to wait until she’d eaten something before beginning
the talk he had in mind, so he sipped his port and watched her.

The effects of that violent storm were fading fast and, under the influence of supper, disappeared almost completely. Her eyelids were back to normal again, and her nose was no longer red. In the soft glow from the candles, her hair shone with its usual luster and her complexion had lost its drawn pallor, returned now to rose-tinted gold.

The chemise left her arms and neck bare, and the creamy skin glowed in the candlelight. His eyes drifted to her bosom, to the lace edging that sculpted the soft rise of her breasts, accentuating the deep cleft between them. His own thighs remembered the feel of hers, the unconsciously sensuous wriggling of her buttocks beneath the paper-thin lawn of her drawers.

Such voluptuous reflections were not conducive to the rational attack he was preparing to mount. He put them aside and said briskly, “Would you explain as simply as you can, cousin, exactly what it is about me that you dislike?”

The question took Theo so much by surprise that she choked on a mouthful of chicken. He reached over and slapped her back vigorously before continuing. “Is it my appearance? There’s not much I can do about that. My manner … conduct toward you? That’s been dictated by you, cousin, so if you wish that to change, you’ll have to change your own conduct toward me…. What else could it be?”

Theo took a considering sip of her wine. Her earlier fuzziness had vanished with her supper, and she was clearheaded again, although still exhausted. The earl was regarding her with a raised eyebrow, waiting for his answer to a question that she found rationally unanswerable.

It wasn’t his appearance … far from it. If she allowed herself to admit it, he was far and away the most attractive man she’d ever had dealings with—not excluding Edward, whom she’d loved for years. And if she allowed herself to
remember the feel of his body, the taste of his tongue, the scent of his skin …

No! Best not to permit those memories. They muddled all cool thought.

His manner toward her was certainly objectionable—arrogant, controlling, uncivil But she stood charged on the same counts, and honesty obliged her to admit her guilt. He was very different with her mother and sisters, which seemed to indicate that she
was
singled out for special treatment.

“Having trouble with your answer, cousin?” Sylvester inquired with that familiar ironic tinge to his voice.

Her cheeks warmed slightly. “Not in the least,” she said, pushing the tray off her knees. “You are a Gilbraith.”

The earl sighed. “That old chestnut won’t do anymore, Theo. I was brought up to have no more love for Belmonts than you have for my branch of the family, but it’s childish and stupid.”

Theo’s lips tightened. “I don’t believe it is.”

Making a supreme effort at self-control, Sylvester began to count on his fingers: “I am not responsible for the old quarrel; neither can I be held responsible for being a Gilbraith, I didn’t choose my parents; I am not responsible for your father’s death; and finally, cousin, I am not responsible for the entail.”

All of which was perfectly true. But some stubborn demon in her soul wouldn’t yield so easily. “Maybe so, but I can’t like you,” she said with blunt dispassion, ignoring the little voice that asked how she could be so sure, when she hadn’t given him a chance.

“I see.” The earl’s face closed. “Then there’s nothing more to be said.” He rested his chin on his folded arms, and his eyes were as cold as she’d ever seen them. “Except this. You should understand from now on that you’re to have no say in matters of the estate.” He ignored her swift indrawn breath, continuing in the same flat, unemotional tone, “I shall instruct Beaumont
that he is no longer to consult you. If he has difficulties with this, then he will be replaced.”

He stood up, a towering figure in the fragile child’s room. “Neither will you continue to interfere in the affairs of my tenants, cousin. They serve one master—the Earl of Stone-ridge—and that will be made very clear to them. As of now you have no further influence. If you attempt to circumvent these instructions, I shall forbid you the freedom of the estate. Is that quite clear?”

Theo felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She hated him because he had the power to do this, but somehow she hadn’t imagined it happening. Even from the dower house she’d believed she would continue to wield the real influence, the earl merely titular head of the estate.

She shook her head, moistening her dry lips. “You can’t mean that…. You don’t know anything about the people, about the land.”

“I can learn, cousin. And since you’ve refused me your help, then I shall learn without it.” He walked to the door. “I bid you good night.”

She sat stunned in the silent room, hearing the click of the door latch, his footsteps receding down the corridor. The pursuit was over. He would leave her strictly alone now, which was what she wanted … what she’d been fighting to achieve.

They’d move to the dower house, and there’d be nothing but the most superficial contact between the two houses. There’d be no dowries, of course. He wasn’t obligated to provide them, not when there was no familial connection. But Emily was already settled, and Clarry would marry only the embodiment of her romantic fantasy—and such an embodiment would surely be prepared to dispense with such a mundane consideration. Rosie was too young for it to be a concern. As for herself …

She dashed an angry tear from her eyes. She didn’t want a husband, but she
did
want Stoneridge. If she agreed to help
him get to know the place and its people, would he rescind the ban?

No! She’d be damned if she’d succumb to blackmail.

She flung back the bedclothes and got wearily out of bed, setting the empty tray on the dresser, tidying the room in desultory fashion before changing her underclothes for her nightgown. She lay in bed wide-eyed in the darkness, listening to the familiar creaks and groans of the old house as it settled for the night. She’d known for twelve years that she had no claim on the house, but coming face-to-face with that reality was a different matter.

Despite her fatigue, sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned until the sheets twisted themselves around her hot limbs and the pillow felt like a burning stone. She kicked off the sheets and tried to lie still, hoping the cooler night breezes coming through the open window would help her to relax.

Downstairs in the library, the Earl of Stoneridge stood at the window, looking out at the moon-washed lawn. He’d lost. Defeated by a stubborn, self-willed, spoiled, rag-mannered young gypsy who refused to look beyond blind prejudice and see what was good for her … for all of them.

He’d lashed out in fury and disappointment at her flat rejection. He’d seen to it that she’d suffer until the true conditions of the will were made known. But for some reason the thought of her distress gave him less satisfaction than it should.

He’d had his chance and he’d failed. The bitterness rose in his throat. What a perfect revenge the old earl had devised. A wonderful three-part revenge—first the humiliation of a forced courtship to an insolently contemptuous wildcat who would never make a man a decent wife, then the hideous mortification of rejection, and then the wretched existence of an idle, impoverished nobleman with a grand house and no means to maintain it.

What other kind of a life was there for him, a disgraced soldier in the midst of war? Society might ignore the whispers
if they concerned a wealthy earl in full possession of a magnificent inheritance. But the spectacle he would now present would be pathetic.

He passed a weary hand over his face, then blinked rapidly and stared out of the window. A figure was flitting across the lawn to the rose arbor. An unmistakable figure in the moonlight, with that cascade of raven’s-wing hair falling down her back, and her lithe, swinging stride.

What the hell was she doing at this time of night? He glanced at the clock. It was two in the morning. Flinging the library window wider, he straddled the sill and jumped down into the soft earth of the flower bed beneath. He ran across the lawn, entering the fragrant arbor, his feet loud on the flagged pathway beneath the arch.

Theo heard the steps and spun round, her hair flying round her with the abrupt movement. She had one hand at her throat, her heart pounding with fright.

“What the devil are you doing out here?” Sylvester demanded, reaching her. The terror lingered in her eyes, purple in the darkness, and he put his hands on her shoulders in a gesture that combined both exasperation and reassurance.

“What are
you
doing?” she gasped, twitching out of his grasp. “You frightened me.”

“Well, so you should be frightened,” he declared. “Running around outside at this hour.”

“There’s nothing to scare me, except you,” she said crossly, her heart slowing. “Everyone knows me around here. No one would harm me.”

“Maybe so, but it’s still insane.” He took her shoulders again. “Where were you going?”

“Why should that matter to you?” she said. “You haven’t yet forbidden me to walk around the gardens … or did I miss something?”

“You know, I’ve never before had the slightest urge to offer a woman violence,” the earl said in a tone of mild curiosity. “But you, cousin, are in a category all of your own.”

Theo stepped backward away from his hands. It seemed a prudent move. She drew the folds of her thin cloak around her and regarded him as steadily as the renewed thumping of her heart permitted. She took a deep breath and said what she’d told herself she wouldn’t say.

“I will agree to help you in your work on the estate, sir, if you still wish it.”

“Such concession, cousin.” He stepped forward. Theo took another step backward. “But I’m not sure that I do still wish it.” There was an openness in her face, a vulnerability about her eyes … the result of explosive emotions and the shocks and surprises of the evening.
Take advantage of her disadvantage.
There was still, he thought, one last possible tactic.

With a swift movement he caught her arm and swung her into his body, twisting the folds of the cloak securely round her, imprisoning her limbs before she could employ them to devastating effect. “This is what I wish.”

Theo was engulfed in a kiss of savage force, a kiss that bore as little resemblance to lovemaking as a pistol shot, and yet, perversely, she was responding with the same passion, whether it be anger or desire, she neither knew nor cared. Her body was clamped so tightly to his that she could feel the buttons of his coat pressing through the flimsy cloak and nightgown into her flesh. Again she was aware of the hard shaft rising against her belly, and again she pressed herself into him, moving her body against his with a soft moan of need.

His hands moved down to her buttocks, clamping her against him, and she arched her back, her breasts aching for the touch she remembered from the beach, her head falling back as his mouth devoured hers.

Silver moonlight sliced through the night-closed rosebuds wreathed over the arch above them, throwing her face into relief as he raised his head, his breathing ragged, his loins heavy.

Her eyes opened, sensual currents racing in the dark
depths of her gaze as she met his own eyes and read the same message there.

“I don’t want your help, cousin,” he said slowly. “I want your partnership.” He bent to take her mouth again, and his hands moved now inside her cloak, lifting her nightgown, baring her legs, her thighs, his hands smoothing over her skin, sending shivers from her scalp to her toes. He stroked upward, over her bottom, and she jumped at the shocking intimacy of the touch, then lost all sense of shock as his flat palm slipped between her thighs, and the most secret parts of herself were invaded in a deep caress that opened gates of pleasure she could never have imagined.