propriety overwhelmed her. "Very well," she told him, head held
proudly high. "I accept your price."
The dance was over, but she and James Marbury still had their
hands on each other. Even with her glasses on, the ballroom was a
blur to Honoria. The only object that had any clarity was the man
who faced her, so close the heat of his flesh was indistinguishable
from her own. The orchestra struck up another tune. People
changed partners. Honoria and James stayed where they were,
unmoving as figures swirled around them.
James finally seemed to notice. "Shall we dance?"
The sound of his voice brought Honoria out of the past. They
were in London. Eight years had gone by not in a blink, but as
slow, inexorable torture. She felt the weight of every lonely
moment all of a sudden, and it crushed her spirit. Moving very
carefully, she stepped away from the man with whom she had
sinned.
"I cannot afford the price," she said, her voice tart and
astringent. She liked it when her sharp edges showed. It kept
people away from her.
It didn't seem to affect James Marbury any. He kept her hand
in his as they left the dance floor. She didn't think he intended to let
her go.
"Why are you doing this?" she finally questioned, just before
they reached the knot of people that consisted of both their fathers,
cousin Kate—and, inevitably, Derrick Russell.
"It's complicated," he answered as they stepped closer to the
waiting group.
"Ah, but I prefer a simple life," she said in a normal voice,
and with a smile that might have been coquettish had she not put so
many teeth into it. At least he hadn't tried to tell her he loved her. If
there was a part of her that ached for such a nonsensical
declaration, she pushed it down and ignored it.
Derrick, however, would not be ignored any longer. He
deliberately forced himself between her and James Marbury. "You
will dance with me now," he informed her, as firmly as if he were
ordering a sailor to swab down the deck of his ship. Though he
spoke to her, his furious glare was cast at the other man. She saw
the flash of dangerous anger in James's eyes, and the way that his
stance subtly tensed for a fight.
Did the two fancy themselves rivals? She was almost amused
at the thought—the sort of amusement that threatened to lead to
hysterical laughter. But that would cause a scene, as would
allowing herself to be squabbled over by two equally despicable
curs in fine clothing. So she gave in to the unpleasant inevitability
and let Derrick take her arm. "Very well, Captain Russell. Let us
dance."
She heard James murmur, "Are you sure you can afford it?"
as she turned to move back to the dance floor, but she refused to
acknowledge his bitter words.
James watched Honoria in the arms of her former fiancé with
fury. The two of them moved together with a certain familiarity
that set James's teeth on edge. They had been a couple once.
Russell wanted them to be a couple again—for all the wrong
reasons. Honoria knew that, but still she put up with Russell's
touching her, making demands of her. Why? What did the woman
think she was doing? Playing her suitors off against each other? Or
was she merely trying to torture him, and using Russell as the
means?
He was thinking like a jealous fool and he knew it. The
woman drove him mad. But, then, she always had. He smiled,
though memory and desire took his breath away.
Very well? What did the woman mean, very well? Diego was of two
minds as the enormity of her response slowly sank into his brain.
Well, not two minds; rather, his mind and his body reacted almost
as separate entities to Honoria's agreeing to become his lover. Part
of him, the part that was supposed to be such a cunning schemer,
was flummoxed and in shock, aware that he'd bluffed and she'd
called it. And now
—
he had to go through with it. And what was
wrong with that? He knew she was not a great beauty in any
conventional sense. He'd had great beauties, and been pleasured
but never impressed. Honoria was
impressive.
She was intriguing.
Proud. Purposeful. Emphatic. Impossible. She looked like an
amazon out of legend, tall and strong-limbed, and as wild as any
ancient warrior-woman beneath her prim British exterior, he was
certain. Something in her called to something in him. He'd wanted
to free that wildness from the moment they met. He'd been able to
think of no one else, had barely been able to accomplish his escape
scheme for wanting to be with her every moment. He didn't want to
need her, but the pull had been there from the first time he laid eyes
on her in the heat of battle
.
This is not honorable, the very soft voice of his conscience
told him as he stalked purposefully forward. She is a maiden. She is
under your protection. You will dishonor not just her, but yourself.
"Honoria," he said, as he put his hands on her shoulders.
"Oh, do be quiet," she snapped. Then she grabbed him by the
hair, and determinedly putted him into a kiss.
It took him some struggle to pull away from her lips. They
were both breathing heavily as they gazed for a long, burning
moment into each other's eyes. How desperately his body
demanded that he claim her. How vulnerable she looked, how
utterly desirable.
He was no gentleman. Honor was a luxury.
So was Honoria, he decided, as he took her spectacles off and
laid them on the table. Then he took her in his arms and taught her
how to kiss. Her mouth was rich and hot, and the ample bosom that
pressed against his chest was soft enticement to hands that began
to roam of their own will. He brushed a thumb against a swelling
nipple and a shiver went through her. She moaned against his
mouth, and her tongue ventured to dance shyly with his. This was a
real kiss, a promise of ecstasy.
When their lips parted, she looked stunned and dazed, but
there was a dreamy glow about her. Her arms clung around his
neck, and her breath came in sharp, excited gasps. He did not
detect regret or repulsion or any hint of dutiful submission. The one
thing he did not want to see was that she was thinking of another.
He didn't want her to bring "dear Derrick" into bed with them. He
put his hands on her thighs and drew them intimately closer, hip to
hip; made sure she felt his growing hardness. He watched with avid
greed as her eyes widened in surprise and the color deepened with
growing desire. She made a small whimpering sound that spoke
volumes about longing without any concept of what this desperate,
growing hunger inside her meant. It filled him with pleasure and
pride at being her first. There was a great deal he was going to
teach her. Most important, he was going to make her forget about
Derrick. He shifted his hold on
her and took her hands in his. "Come to my bed," he
whispered. "It isn't far."
He was looking at her—Honoria could feel it even though her back
was toward that side of the ballroom. The intensity of his stare gave
off a wavering haze like the heat given off by a blacksmith's forge.
It was as though the man was branding her with a look.
Perhaps she was coming down with a fever. A brain fever,
perhaps; one that caused hallucinations. Yes, that must be it. After
all she'd been put through in the last several days, was it no wonder
that all sorts of impossible, fanciful notions were intruding into her
normally quite unimaginative thought processes.
Unimaginative? She almost laughed, and couldn't help but
catch her breath as memory played a nasty trick on her, and a flood
of primal images and sensations broke through the carefully
constructed walls of years of denial and shame. Unimaginative?
This time she did laugh. Derrick said something, but she didn't
bother to answer. Derrick was as unimportant as a flea, and about
as repugnant.
She did take note of Derrick's frown as he guided her steps on
another turn of the dance. He was far from handsome when he
looked like that, all spoiled and petulant. She reveled in wearing
her spectacles, in noticing the faces in the crowd as they flashed
past her. Pale faces with carefully controlled expressions looked
back at her. She saw a row of dukes and dowagers, and debutantes
in diamonds and pale lace, dignitaries in bright sashes, and generals
and admirals in all their glittering medals. They danced past the
Queen sitting among her ladies and a host of solemn German
relatives. No one looked like they were having a very good time.
Of course, no one dared show too much emotion in this gathering
of the great and powerful. It could be remarked upon, talked about,
used against them; this was a Queen's court, after all.
They all had their secrets to hide: some simple, some grand,
some hideous. And they all wanted to suspect that she had done
something shocking and scandalous, simply because she had dared
to have an adventure, to step outside the small, narrow world of the
ton
. So she walked carefully among them when she must be in
society at all, showing a bland, unimaginative face.
She laughed again, unable to stop the mirth from bubbling
out. It was a small release for the tension that roiled through her.
She felt like a volcano about to come boiling violently to life,
especially as another turn brought her face to face with James
Marbury for a moment. She was right; he was staring—and how
well she knew that look in his honey gold eyes. They looked like
that when they made love, almost glowing with the intensity of his
desire. She'd been branded with that look years ago, and the mark
was as fresh as ever.
Wildness, recklessness, everything mad, forbidden and
damning in her flung against the prison bars of reason and begged
to run to him. Oh, the things she'd done, basking in the glow of that
look! And would do again, quite possibly in public, if James
Marbury kept looking at her like that.
Plain, proper, staid, dull, dreary, bluestocking, overgrown and
uninterested, unimaginative Honoria? Her gaze swept around the
crowd once more. If only they knew. No woman alive could come
away from four days in bed with James Marbury and be considered
anything but very, very imaginative.
"What's that?"
"It's a book."
She rolled over on her stomach and propped herself up on the
bed on her elbows. "I can see that."
He flashed her a smile, and ran his hand down the length of
her bare back. It sent a shiver through her, but it didn't take her
attention off the leather-bound book he held in his other hand.
She sat up all the way this time, and his hand-moved to cup a
breast and he bent his head to flick his tongue across her nipple. "I
like books."
"I know. You like this?" His mouth settled and suckled, but he
had to bend a bit awkwardly to do it and hold the book as well.
Desire rippled through her, and she made a sweetly satisfied
sound, but took the large volume from him. She wasn't wearing her
glasses; in fact, she neither remembered nor cared where they
were. It made it a bit inconvenient to look at the book as she
opened the pages. Fortunately, there wasn't much in the way of
text. "It's a picture book."
He made an agreeing noise as he pushed her gently onto her
back and his lips settled between the furrow of her legs. Honoria
kept the book pressed closely to her face. What Diego was doing
only made the beautifully detailed illustrations seem more graphic.
"
Oh, my…" she said, after she flipped a few pages, and then
turned one particularly
instructive
picture this way and that for a
while. "Oh, my, my
."
Diego left off the quite delectable things he'd been doing to