A Regency Christmas Carol (13 page)

And she allowed him to do it. Her legs fell open to his touch. Her raised knee pressed encouragingly into his side as he stepped between them. His hand hovered at the fastenings of his trousers for only a moment before rejecting his own pleasure. There was not time, and this was not the place. She deserved more than a selfish coupling against a wall in a common passageway.

He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, ‘Relax for me. Trust me. Let me touch you.’

His hand went to her ankle, then slid up the silk of her stocking and higher, to the silk of her skin. He was teasing her gently, with playful strokes, between her legs, and he felt her surprised intake of breath cut short in an effort to keep quiet. Then he kissed her, and delved his fingers into the wonderfully warm, wet softness at their apex, circling and then pressing, pushing against
the opening and then into it, gently, and then with more force. He deepened into a slow slide and thrust that matched the rhythm of his mouth.

She stifled her cry of surprise inside their kiss. There were people passing in the hall, barely feet from where they were. Discovery was inevitable if she could not keep silent, and she knew it.

He did not care. It would mean ruin for both of them. Anne and her family would leave in shame. The schemes he had built, largely from air, would collapse around him, leaving him with nothing but the woman in his arms.

But that would be more than enough. More than he deserved. He withdrew his hand and dropped to his knees before her, pleasuring her body with his mouth, first coaxing and then demanding a response from her. The harder she fought to keep silent, the more he teased, sucking the petals of her into his mouth and nursing upon them as he had at her breast. She bucked her hips against his tongue until he trapped them with his hands, held them still and had his way with her as her fingers twined in his hair, holding him close. Her trembling increased and he reached up again and gave a single hard thrust of his fingers. Her world unravelled, leaving her body throbbing and shaking, totally in his control.

He relaxed, letting his head loll against her thigh, planting gentle kisses on the skin above her garter as he fought for mastery of his own body.

Above him, his lover turned her head and laid her
cheek against the stone wall, as though trying to cool the heat in her blood. But her hands still played in his hair and stroked his temples, and her legs were still spread wide in welcome. She breathed slowly, deeply, in and out, waiting for him to accept the final gift she could offer.

In the silence he felt reality pressing against him, as it had when he’d come here to hide. He had thought only yesterday that he knew what he wanted. Wealth, power, respect, success. A moment ago he had been willing to risk it all—playing games with a woman who had been a stranger to him a week ago.

He reached with one hand to disentangle himself from her arms, and rose to his feet. But for a moment his other hand remained just where it was, fingers buried deep within her clenching body, to remind her who was controlling and who controlled, who was possessed and who possessed.

As though to confirm the truth, her body tightened on his fingers.

His gave an answering lurch of pleasure, even while he tried to regret what had happened. Then he withdrew his hand and stared silently into her eyes, which glittered in the darkness. He could not trust himself to speak. He dared not offer words of comfort or love. But neither could he dismiss her.

She read what she wished to into that silence and pulled away from him, as far into the corner of the little space as she could. She gave a snap of her skirt, to let
it drop back into place, and straightened her bodice—which was in sore disarray and barely covering her luscious body.

‘You are despicable. You know that, don’t you?’ she whispered, making sure that her voice was cold and controlled, even if it was the only part of her that was. ‘You were trying to make me cry out just when the risk would have been greatest. You wanted discovery.’

‘And you love me for it,’ he said. ‘The risk excited you. You climaxed. No harm was done. If I was as bad as you claim, I’d have taken the same pleasure. I could, even now, take the step that you could not retreat from, and you would go to whatever cold marriage bed fate has planned for you thinking not of your husband but of me.’ It was an idle threat. For he would be damned before he’d let another man touch her from this night on.

‘You flatter yourself, Mr Stratford.’ She raised her chin, arrogant even in confusion.

‘Frequently,’ he admitted. ‘But I am honest about it. I was born low, and not graced with connections or education. I would never call myself a handsome man. But I am the cleverest man in the room, and rich as Croesus. And I know that you want me.’

‘That is quite different from loving you,’ she said.

‘Perhaps. But not for you. It is all of a thing to you. For you could not love a man without wanting him, and you would never want a man that you did not love. At least a little,’ he qualified, allowing her some pride.

‘We have barely met, and yet you think you know me well.’

‘I think I do,’ he said. ‘And I like what I know. I wish to know more of you. Come to my room tonight.’ There would be no more ghosts with her at his side, and no fears of a cold and passionless future.

She shook her head and turned her face from his. ‘After this shameful incident there is little left for you to learn of me. You must allow me to keep some secrets for myself, Mr Stratford. Now, if you will ascertain that we are alone so that I may exit, I will go to the retiring room. And you, sir, should return to your fiancée. While she will be too polite to notice your absence, I suspect that you will find others in the community less forgiving of it.’ She pushed past him, not bothering to check the emptiness of the hall, and ran.

He sank to the bench behind him, frustrated and confused. What the devil was he doing? Her set-down stung, but he had no right to complain of it. Even if there was a secret in her past that tainted her virtue, it gave him no right to treat her like an experienced London widow. He had been planning, just now, to set her up and keep her for his pleasure, forgetting who she was and who her father was. To take a mistress while taking a wife was not unheard of. But he could not have picked a worse one than Barbara Lampett.

He was lucky that she had not raised a cry that would end his hopes with Anne. Or burst into tears and aroused some guilt in him for the way he had treated
her, forcing him to cry off and offer properly. Even if he had sought, in a careless moment, to ruin himself, he had no right to do it at her expense. To finish by demanding entrance to her bed proved he was as uncouth and deserving of scorn as she seemed to think him. He was a base, simple creature, who answered with an enthusiastic affirmative to any temptation that called to him, and he had demanded that she be the same.

But even then she had not rejected him. She had merely refused to confirm the truth. While he suspected that Anne would be just as content to be a widow as a bride, Barbara could not keep her body from responding to his—though she clearly wished to.

She deserved better. And he deserved exactly what he was getting: a big house, a successful business and a wife who neither loved nor wanted him. It should have been enough. More than enough. It was certainly more than he had expected out of life. He had no right to complain.

He felt the desire in him dying, and realised that Barbara had been wrong on that first day. It could not be coal in his veins, for coal was never this cold. He stood, straightened his coat and brushed the dust from the knees of his breeches. Then he drew back the curtain enough to let in a ray of light by which he could check his watch. There was still a quarter of an hour left before midnight. If he applied himself in that time, he suspected he could get quite drunk and still be in the ballroom before the clock chimed twelve.

F
or the third time tonight Barbara was hiding. At least this time she had chosen the ladies’ retiring room, which seemed a bit more dignified than returning to her childhood haunts in a stranger’s home.

The alcove had seemed like a clever idea when she’d wanted to think undisturbed about what she was sure she’d discovered. That had been Anne in the doorway, gasping and crying over an innocent Christmas kiss. The reaction might have been appropriate had she come upon Barbara a few days earlier, in the arms of Joseph Stratford. But she had seemed unusually distraught that Robert Breton might kiss another.

It was interesting. And it had given her a flutter of hope. Despite what everyone might say was the future, there were other forces at work tonight. If Joseph asked, and Anne refused… Or if Breton asked first, as his reaction to Anne’s tears said he might…

She had sat alone behind the curtain, thinking the most delicious thoughts, smiling to herself and imagining Joseph, either stunned or relieved, turning to her for comfort. Despite her father’s feelings on the subject, she would give that comfort gladly. Not tonight, of course. They were still almost strangers. But in the coming months they might grow closer, while her father grew used to the idea.

Then the man she’d been imagining had burst in upon her and everything had changed.

She looked at herself in the mirror, watching the blood rushing to her cheeks and wondering what to think of what had occurred. Maybe it was not as significant as she made it out to be. She’d kept her maidenhead, after all. But it would be a lie to think of herself as innocent. Another shudder went through her body at the memory, and she gripped the edge of the little table before her until her knuckles went white, trying to regain control.

His words after had been harsh and hurtful—but exciting as well. She had tried to respond in kind, aloof and yet passionate, not wanting to reveal her heart lest this all be a game to him. But she hoped it was not. She could not help but love Joseph. His passion and enthusiasm for his work drew her, and they were tempered with a kindness and generosity that few had seen but her. Given time, he could be made to see the errors he was making. Or perhaps it was he who was right, and her father in the wrong. There had to be a compromise
of some kind to avert disaster. And she might be the only one who could bring it about.

The door opened behind her. When she glanced into the mirror she saw Anne Clairemont enter. Just for a moment the other girl shot a look of unvarnished loathing at the back of her head. Then she seemed to realise that it had been observed. Her features softened and her expression reformed into the placid mask that she so often wore. She went to a little bench on the opposite side of the room and began straightening hairpins, dabbing lightly at her eyes in an effort to disguise the tears she’d shed earlier, powdering her cheeks until the face in her own mirror was a deathly white.

‘Here, let me help you.’ Barbara turned and went to her, smoothing the loose curls at the back of her head and rubbing gently at the other girl’s cheeks to get some colour back into them.

‘Thank you,’ Anne said, a little coldly. ‘I fear this evening you are not seeing me at my best.’

‘What you saw in the refreshment room was nothing,’ Barbara said, wondering even now if she was apologising for the correct offence. ‘Mr Breton was attempting to be kind to me, I think. I am grateful, of course. But that is all.’

‘It does not matter,’ Anne said quickly, but there was a flash of spirit in her eyes that quickly died again.

‘I think it might,’ Barbara said. ‘Perhaps we could call the carriage and return home rather than going
back to the party. If it would help, I could pretend an indisposition and you could pretend to help me.’

‘No,’ Anne said hurriedly. ‘The snow has come, and I will be staying the night. You as well. Do not worry. Arrangements are being made. I will be quite all right—really. I must return to the ballroom. Father will be expecting me. And Joseph.’

‘But what do
you
wish, Anne?’ It was maddening to watch the girl, so obviously miserable, headed in lockstep towards the altar, unwilling to consider another option.

‘I wish for everyone to be happy this Christmas,’ the other girl said firmly. ‘It does not matter what I want. That will not be possible. I think we can only hope to do as little harm as possible.’ She lifted her chin, inspecting herself in the mirror. ‘That is much better. Thank you, Barbara. Now, if you would be so kind, I would like to return to the ballroom, and I do not wish to walk alone.’

They linked arms and proceeded down the corridor towards the ballroom, chatting amiably of nothing in particular. And if Barbara felt Anne’s arm tensing as they passed the kissing bough in the doorway of the refreshment room, then she ignored it—just as Anne needed to ignore Barbara’s flinch as they passed the alcove.

Then they were back in the ballroom, and little knots of people glanced in their direction, Anne’s father giving an approving look. There was Joseph, standing near the musicians, holding out a welcoming hand.

For a single, foolish instant Barbara thought that he was looking to
her
, offering that friendly gesture to coax her near. Then the moment passed and she realised that it was intended for the woman at her side.

Anne stiffened in a way that was imperceptible to any but Barbara. Then she fixed the serene smile more firmly in her lips and stepped forwards to take the offered hand and her proper place at Joseph Stratford’s side.

He gave a nod of approval and cleared his throat. Although the noise was not particularly loud, it caught the attention of everyone in the room. They turned to look at him expectantly, and Barbara watched in admiration at his easy mastery of the crowd.

But in horror as well. For, despite all his vague words, and his actions towards her, and Anne’s obvious penchant for another, Barbara could see what was about to happen—just as everyone else could.

‘My pleasure to announce…done me…honour…hand in marriage.’

The words seemed to fade in and out of her hearing. It was clear that the others had no problem, for they smiled and clapped politely. Champagne was pressed into her hand by a ready servant. Barbara accepted it with a numb nod. All around her glasses were raised and toasts made to the happy couple—for that was what they appeared to be.

Just before her knees gave way she took a half-step back to the little chair against the wall, so that it would
seem she sat rather than collapsed. As the music began again she shrank back, pulling it behind a pot of ivy, and sipped wine that seemed like vinegar on her tongue.