An Invitation to Seduction (18 page)

Nicky couldn’t be gone. He simply could
not
be gone.

Who would keep her safe?

She needed him, wanted him.

“Nicky!”

She shrugged Freddie off when he tried to stop her, when he told her it was no use to continue, that no one else was to be found. She refused to believe, refused to give up.

“Nicky!” She screamed for him until her voice was hoarse and raw. She combed the shoreline until her arm trembled from fatigue and could no longer hold the lantern high, until she couldn’t take another step. Releasing a keening wail, she collapsed into a pitiful heap of despair.

Nicky! Nicky was gone.

It was never easy to lose someone. Richard knew that, and yet he’d been completely unprepared for the depth of Kitty’s anguish.

He’d refused to make his way back to the manor as Montague had recommended, had refused to do anything more than follow behind Kitty and try to dissuade her from continuing in the fruitless search.

Now he knelt beside her and draped Freddie’s coat over her quaking shoulders, wrapped it around her, and drew her up against him. “I’m sorry, Kitty. I’m so sorry.”

“Damn you!” she cried. With her balled fists, she began pummeling his chest.

He held her more tightly, lessening the intensity of the deserved blows. His back was an agony of knotted and spasming muscles. Awkwardly, he rocked her as much for himself as for her. “Shh, Kitty, shh,” he crooned near her ear. “He wouldn’t want you to mourn like this.”

Wretched, heartrending sobs erupted from deep within her as she collapsed against him. Holding her close, he
looked over her head at Montague, who was crouched near them. From the deep lines on his face and the worry in his eyes, it was obvious that Kitty’s despair was more than even Farthingham’s friend had anticipated.

“What should we do?” Montague asked.

“Take her home, strive to comfort her as much as possible.”

Montague bobbed his head like a ship on the sea. “We brought some of the servants. I didn’t think to let them know we’d found you. They’re bound still to be around. I’ll fetch one to carry her—”

“I’ll carry her.”

“You have to be exhausted—”

“I’ll carry her. I’ll need your assistance in getting to my feet.” He turned his attention to Kitty. The wind had died down, and the rain had dwindled into a light patter. He’d not believed his luck when the storm had come up as quickly and furiously as it had. He’d hoped for a bit of rough weather to erase the evidence of what he’d done, and instead he’d been blessed with a squall.

“Kitty? I need to take you home.”

She dropped her head back, and even with the dampness of the weather, he could still make out her tears, glistening in her eyes. “Tell me there’s a chance—”

“There’s none. He’s gone.”

“Why?”

He pulled her back into the nook of his shoulder. How could he explain that? How could he give her reasons that would only cause her to experience more pain?

“We need to get you both home,” Montague said. “It’s doing none of us any good to stay out here.”

Nodding, Richard wound his arms more closely around his precious bundle. With Montague’s help, he managed to get to his feet, holding Kitty near. Her sobs had subsided, but he could still feel the tremors traveling through her.

As he walked toward Drummond Manor, he’d not expected to feel so cruel, had not anticipated the guilt that would bombard him. He’d been convinced that his actions were best for her, that taking Farthingham out on the sailboat would result in a satisfactory resolution of his dilemma.

Now doubts spawned, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he might have acted hastily, if a closer inspection of the options might have revealed a way to accomplish his goals without causing her such profound grief.

K
itty’s maid wrapped her in blankets that had been warmed by the fireplace, while Lady Anne poured wine down her raw throat, and Lady Priscilla continually replaced damp linen handkerchiefs with dry ones. But none of their comfort served to make her feel any better, nothing served to make her feel less cold.

The ladies had sat on her bed, one on either side of her, weeping and bemoaning fate’s cruelty. Kitty had found some comfort in their shared grief, but not enough. When her eyelids had grown heavy from too much wine, the ladies had left her to sleep, but sleep eluded her.

Nicky’s absence was a sharp pain in her heart. She didn’t want to be alone, and instinctually, she knew neither Lady Anne nor Lady Priscilla could give her what she wanted, what she so desperately needed. Nor could Freddie.

Ironically, she didn’t want to receive deep, abiding comfort, but she had a strong need to provide it, to provide it to poor Weddington, whose own grief and misery
had given way to hers on the shore and inside the manor. Who’d comforted him? Who’d rubbed his back and held his hands and plied him full of numbing drink?

He’d carried her back here, seen to her comfort, made certain she was looked after before he’d given any thought to his own needs—and she was certain they were many. Her last memory of him was standing at the foot of her bed, concern clearly etched within the lines of his face, profound sadness reflected in his eyes, a tightening around his mouth from the strain of what he’d been forced to endure.

He’d survived.

And no doubt felt guilty for having done so, for having failed his friend and, in so doing, failed her. In a voice rough with emotion, he’d apologized numerous times on the trek back to the manor. Upon their arrival, he’d refused to relinquish her into anyone else’s keeping until he’d placed her gently on the bed—with a low moan.

She’d paid little attention to it then, lost in her own grief, her own emotional turmoil that was almost a physical agony. She’d not given any thought to what he was truly suffering. He’d been battered about on the sea, made his way to shore. Dear Lord, he’d probably had no business at all carting her about. She should have been the one to see after his needs.

Slipping out from beneath the covers, she snatched her wrapper from the foot of the bed and drew it around herself. She was surprised by how cold she felt, as though with Nicky’s death all warmth had seeped right out of her, and she feared it might never return. She wasn’t certain if it was all the wine she’d swallowed or all the tears she’d shed that now made her mind lethargic, barely able to form coherent thoughts or engage in deductive reasoning.

She felt as though she walked through a fog as she
went into the hallway and down the stairs. Somewhere in the hazy corners of her mind, she noticed that the flooring was cold beneath her feet and realized that she should return to her room for shoes, but the effort didn’t seem to justify the result. Strange how her mind could be sharp with her need to find Weddington and exceedingly dull about every other aspect surrounding her.

She caught sight of the butler, moving through the entryway, obviously on his way to complete some task. “Excuse me. Do you know where I might find the duke?”

“Yes, miss. He had us prepare the bathing house for him. I’m fairly certain that he’s still there.”

The bathing house. Of course. Its swirling warmth would be heavenly. She thanked the butler as he opened the front door for her. Again, she had a sense of knowing that what she was doing would be perceived as improper, but she also knew servants risked losing their positions if they didn’t keep to themselves all the comings and goings that they witnessed.

Besides, at that moment, her reputation was the very last thing she was worried over. As far as she was concerned, it could go to hell in a handbasket. Nicky was gone. She seemed unable to silence the resounding echo of his loss.

The ground and grass were damp beneath her bare soles. The air carried the scent of rain residue, a portion of it the fragrance of life. The water would nourish the plants, but even the thriving vegetation wouldn’t replace the life that the storm had stolen.

And she did feel as though Nicky had been stolen from her. Taken unawares, without a chance to say good-bye, without the opportunity to gaze on him one last time. Earlier yesterday evening, to have been going to bed and to have waved him off with a carelessly delivered “I’ll see you tomorrow,” as though tomorrow were guaranteed.

Dear Lord, she thought she might never again watch someone leave without questioning whether or not he would return. She’d never had anyone she cared so deeply about die. The sense of loss was overwhelming, as though a huge gaping hole that could never be filled had been dug into her heart. And even as she thought this, she realized that she would fill it with memories, and perhaps in time, as the pain lessened, the emptiness wouldn’t echo with such hollowness.

Reaching the bathhouse, she hesitated for only a heartbeat before ascending the steps, pressing on the latch, and pushing open the door. A mist of warmth enveloped her and drew her inside, the door banging shut behind her.

Only one gaslight flickered. Its light faded into shadows, as though its only purpose was to reveal the darkness, not what lay within it. She couldn’t help but feel as though she were in some sort of strange place where she was not truly herself, and her thoughts were warped by grief.

And then she saw him. On the far side of the pool, ensconced in shadows. Perfectly still. His gaze honed in on her, watchful, steady, dark. As dark as the storm that had rolled in from the sea.

Slowly she descended the stairs until her toes were near enough to the water that one more step would place her within the bath. She sat on a rough-hewn step, only then giving in to the true depth of her sorrow. To have done so before would have prevented her from reaching her destination, and she had so dearly wanted to be here, to ask of him one more time if all hope was lost.

“Is there any chance—”

“None whatsoever.” His voice echoing around her, he cut her off before she could complete her question, as though he had no wish even to consider the remotest possibility that Nicky had survived. Not to consider the pos
sibility had to mean that he’d witnessed his death. Why hadn’t he done for Nicky what he’d graciously done for his father—brought him to shore?

It was so difficult to mourn without absolute proof. With tears filling her eyes, she wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing tightly. She’d thought to comfort him, and instead, she again felt the overwhelming need for comfort.

“I keep thinking that he’s going to suddenly appear, looking like a drowned cat, but with that lovely smile he has that seems to say the whole world is to be enjoyed—and he’ll tell us it was all a prank.”

Weddington glided toward her, the water barely rippling with his movements. “I know it’s difficult to think that you’ll never see him again, but I truly believe that he’ll be rewarded with happiness.” He released a strangled groan as though whatever pain he’d been holding at bay needed a momentary respite from captivity, and suddenly he was near enough to take her hands. “My sentiment is incredibly trite, my words inadequate. I don’t possess the eloquence you so desperately need right now.” He trailed his fingers along the side of her face. “I do know that he wouldn’t want you to mourn.”

Tears rolled over onto her cheeks. “How can I not when I loved him?” She shook her head, the words spilling forth before she could stop them. “Why him and not you?”

“Because I’m a stronger swimmer.”

“Oh, God.” A sob tore from her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t want you to die. I didn’t want either of you to die.”

“I know,” he rasped, taking her in his arms.

She could feel such strength, such comfort, and she was also aware now of the tiny shivers running through him, shivers she was certain had nothing to do with cold,
and everything to do with what he’d endured before—at the sea’s mercy. They’d both lost: she her betrothed, he his friend. Her heart told her that hers was the greater loss—if loss of such magnitude could be measured at all. But she couldn’t begin to imagine—didn’t want to contemplate—how awful it had been for him to know he couldn’t rescue Nicky.

Once again her chest tightened, her stomach knotted, and tears flourished. Why, why, why did fate have to be so malicious? Why did these two men have to be so stubborn as to not return to shore at the first hint of foul weather?

She wanted to strike out at them both, but only one was here. Forever, only one remained, only one would be available to her. And while he might have been her last choice for comfort, he was suddenly her only choice. All the inner turmoil and struggles that she’d been battling deep within herself—to love one man, yet desire another—were inconsequential.

Unfaithfulness could no longer apply. The knowledge should have been liberating. Instead, it was devastating.

She wound her arms around Weddington’s neck, eased her body closer to his, felt the billowing of her nightclothes as the water eased over her bare calves, knees, thighs as she sank farther down. She wanted comfort, wanted to celebrate life, wanted to fill this damned overwhelming emptiness that threatened to consume her.

Wanted the hurt to cease, wanted everything she couldn’t have. She felt as though the storm hadn’t withdrawn, but had simply moved inside of her, turbulent, unyielding, threatening to destroy her.

She was vaguely aware of the water rising higher, over her hips, traveling up to her waist, caressing the underside of her breasts. She wrapped her legs around Weddington’s middle as he pressed his hot mouth against her throat.
Gratitude swamped her because she could feel, because the chill that had descended on her earlier in the afternoon was dissipating with his nearness, with his touch.

“Hold tight,” he ordered in a hoarse voice.

Then it was no longer the water skimming along her flesh, but his hands, beneath her nightclothes, along her legs, up over her bottom, carrying her nightclothes, up, up, up, until he’d lifted them over her head. Raising her arms, she felt the last of her clothing pulled away, heard the slap of damp cloth against dry stone as he tossed her garment aside.

And then she was swirling in the heart of the storm.

Richard wanted to devour every inch of her. Greedily, he ran his lips and his tongue over her throat, along her collarbone, relishing the sweet taste of her flesh, allowing it to replace the bitter saltiness that had filled his mouth only hours before, gagging him, threatening to take his life.

He’d been forced to shove the terror back into the farthest recesses of his mind, had been determined to ignore it, not to let it paralyze or conquer him. Only here, in the privacy of the bathhouse, surrounded by warm water, silence, and solitude, had he dared lower his defenses, had he been willing to acknowledge the fears that had ridden with him on the waves.

He’d yet to reconcile them, had not completely faced them, when she’d appeared suddenly like a wraith in his lonely world. He needed her as he’d never needed anyone, needed her sweetness, her innocence, her bravery, her determination, her competitiveness.

A thousand times during the late afternoon and early evening, he’d imagined her beside him, urging him on, demanding he not give in to defeat. He’d heard her voice, imagined her touch, but none of the imaginings were as satisfying as the reality.

She was within his arms, against his rock-hard body, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, her heated flesh melting against his. He was surprised the water surrounding them didn’t boil as ferociously as his blood.

Dear God, but he wanted to forget…wanted to forget this afternoon, this evening…his wrestling with his conscience, his struggles in the sea, his desperation to reach land. He wanted to forget all that had come before this moment, forget everything except for the woman in his arms, the woman rubbing her body against his with fierce abandon as though she, too, wished to forget the past, wished only to experience the intensity of the present and the glory of life that continued to flow through them.

He slid his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her higher, until he had easier access to the sweet mounds of her breasts. He ran his tongue over the lily-white skin, circled the pink nipple, until he closed his mouth over the taut pearl and suckled gently. With a low moan and a digging of her fingers into his shoulders, she pressed the apex between her legs against his stomach.

He trailed his mouth over the curve of one breast, dipped his tongue into the valley between, and gave the same careful attention to her other breast, kissing, tasting, sucking, relishing the fact that he was alive to do so.

A part of him realized that it was madness to be here with her like this, that a civilized gentleman would have sent her on her way—or at the very least would have never approached her, but would have stayed at the far side of the bath. But the sea had beaten civilization out of him, had sent the gentleman within him into hiding until all that remained was the crude, uncivilized part of him that refused to be defeated.

He wanted Kitty, had wanted her from the first moment he’d set eyes on her. He’d wanted her in London, he’d wanted her here. He wanted to possess her as none
ever had, touch her, hold her, carry her to the pinnacle of pleasure as he had once before—only this time he wanted to share the journey with her.

He didn’t recall making a conscious effort to reach the stairway. He only knew he was there, and that she was still wrapped around him. He climbed them effortlessly, water sluicing off their bodies.

Then he was laying her down on the bundle of blankets he’d brought from the manor that he’d intended to use to dry himself. They were not as thick, not as soft as a mattress, but they would serve him better than the bare stone floor.

Here within the tiny alcove that led to the changing room, shadows lurked and light fled. He couldn’t see her clearly, but it mattered not, for she was emblazoned on his mind: each detail, every curve, line, and tiny freckle. He wedged himself between her thighs as though he belonged there, and with one powerful thrust he drove himself into the heat of her sanctuary, into the blessed relief of affirmation that he still drew breath.