pluck the book away from her and have a look at what she'd found
so interesting. He had a devilish smile on his face when he put the
book down and bent close to kiss her. She tasted herself on his
tongue, and was delighted by sweet, salty, musky taste of sex.
After they'd kissed for a long, sultry time he asked, voice
teasing, eyes bright with desire, "You liked what you saw in the
picture?" She raised her head from the pile of bright pillows at the
head of the bed to nod enthusiastically. "Let's try it."
"Oh, yes, please!"
He was snatching pillows out from under her and
rearranging them elsewhere even as she spoke.
"What the devil are you smiling at, Honoria? Honoria? Are you
listening to me?"
Derrick's waspish tone brought her out of her reverie, but she
couldn't manage to wipe the wide smile completely away as she
focused on him. She supposed she should be blushing in shame, but
she couldn't manage that, either.
"What am I smiling at?" she inquired mockingly. "Why, you,
I suppose. If not for you…"
He did not take her meaning, of course, and preened with
vanity instead. "Ah. That's my Honoria." His grip tightened a little
on her waist. She could hardly wait for the music to stop. "When
shall we announce our engagement?"
She sighed. The man really believed he could make her
change her mind. Amazing. "We've already had this discussion.
Don't be repetitive."
"You're not very good at being coy, Honoria."
No, she didn't suppose she was, nor could she think of why
she should try to be. She looked around boldly, reveling in being a
red-blooded woman, or possibly a wolf set loose among a herd of
sheep. It was James Marbury she sought, the wolf mate who'd set
her emotions tumbling wildly free all those years ago. Her
Spaniard, who'd returned from the dead to claim her as his lover
once more.
Then reality hit. What nonsense—though for a brief moment
she let herself believe it. The Spaniard was no more interested in
her than Derrick was. Fortune hunters, that's all either of them
were. The only difference was, Marbury was dangerous. Marbury
knew her weaknesses. He
was
her weakness. No matter how strong
she tried to be, no matter the walls she'd built high and thick around
her emotions, she remained vulnerable to him. Malleable,
changeable, unable to stop her mind from flying off on fanciful
roads that always led back to the bedroom and the long, sensual
nights she'd left behind. How she hated the weakness he incited
inside her that threatened to destroy everything she was and stood
for. She liked her placid existence; she really did! She would not
shame her father in the eyes of society. She would
not
lose the
emotional control that kept her sane.
As soon as the music ended, she peeled away from Derrick's
clinging touch and marched purposefully up to the Honorable
James Marbury. He stood tall and proud beside his father, and his
eyes held a spark of anger deep in their core. Anger toward her, she
knew, though she had no idea what
he
had to be annoyed about.
She ignored his dangerous look and told him quietly, "This
has to stop. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," James answered, even more quietly, but his
voice was as edged as a dagger.
Jealousy roared almost uncontrollably through him. Watching
her dance and smile and laugh with the other man, while he stood
on the sidelines consumed with desire, galled him. He wanted to
take her and shake her and demand what it was about Derrick
Russell that attracted a woman as fine as her. He kept his gloved
hands clasped tightly behind his back as they glared hotly at each
other a moment longer. If he touched her, he wouldn't shake her; he
would make love to her to prove that she was his, then and there.
What would dear Derrick say to that?
"You say you see, but do you understand? These games must
stop."
He nodded. "They will stop. Very soon. I promise you that,
duchess
mine
."
The possessive emphasis he put on the last word sent a
melting shiver through her. Damn the man! How could he make her
react so with one small word? She didn't dare to look at him any
longer. "As long as we understand each other."
"We understand each other very well."
Honoria backed away from the man's intensity. Turning, she
found that her father had come up beside her. She thanked God for
his steadying presence, and put her hand on his arm.
"Are you well, my dear?" he asked worriedly. "It's been a
long night. Would you like me to take you home?"
All she could do was nod, and try not to drag the poor man
from the ballroom when he led her off.
Four days
. Honoria sighed; she couldn't keep the words from
running through her head. Possibly it had been longer, but she
could piece together enough erotically detailed memories to count
four days and nights for certain. Time had disappeared for her in
the Spaniard's bed. What had she been thinking? She
hadn't
been
thinking, of course; that was the obvious answer and shameful
truth. Some madness came over her and she became lost in a
sensual fantasy world. It had seemed quite real at the time. In fact,
nothing that had happened in her life since had been as real as those
four short, glorious, ecstasy-filled days when nothing existed but
him, her, and every pleasurable sensation that had ever been.
How she hated being reminded of those days.
Her dreams last night had been predictably vivid. His hands
had been on her in her dreams, and his exquisite mouth. She'd
smelled the musk of his skin, and the strength in his hard muscled
body. Worst and best of all, she had felt him inside her, possessing
her, his thrusts driving in a hard, fast rhythm that drove her…
Needless to say, she had awoken agitated and with the
restless ache of longing she'd fought to kill for years. Only this time
it was worse. They had touched and spoken and her body had been
pressed to his as they danced. The brush of his strong thighs against
her had not been imagination. His lips were very real, and the
impulse to kiss him had been almost too strong to bear last night.
She had fought her wild passions down in public, but they had run
rampant in her dreams. She'd woken up panting, aroused and
unsatisfied, and had to fight off the urge to find the man and have
her way with him.
She had these dreams often enough in the country, but there
she could deal with them with simple activity and hard work that
wore her rebellious body down to exhaustion that put her beyond
dreaming. She was in London now, where she could not take a ten-
mile walk across the countryside, or work beside stable hands or
housemaids, or go for a long swim in the deep, cold pool hidden in
the Lacey House woods.
She was in London now. And so was Diego, her Spanish
corsair, James Marbury. They were both in London, and all she
could do was think of him, and remember. As if she ever did
anything else when she was in the country, she admitted
reluctantly, even though she hid her thoughts from herself by
reading books and performing good works. She sighed at
acknowledging this obsession, and hated hearing herself make such
a weak sound.
"I am a weedy creature," she murmured. "An utter weed."
She could not bear to meet her own gaze in the dressing table
mirror as her maid finished arranging her hair. It was not a
withered weed she would see there, but a lustful wanton, no matter
how much she pretended to be a dried up stick of a spinster. Being
a red-blooded woman had distinct disadvantages, especially
considering the course she'd chosen to steer in life.
"Men," she muttered. "Who ever invented the masculine
gender, Maggie?"
"You've asked me that before."
"So I have. I believe we came to the conclusion that they are
useful for lifting heavy objects and caring for horses."
Maggie stepped back from the table, and the conversation.
"You are keeping your callers waiting, Honoria."
It was nearly two in the afternoon but the day was only
officially beginning here in the city, and it was going to be a busy
one. She was scheduled to be downstairs soon to meet her
"morning" callers.
"The devil with callers," Honoria decided. "And to the devil
with Mr. Marbury." She rose decisively from her seat. "Send my
regrets to whoever wants to see me today," she ordered Huseby.
"I'm going to spend the day with my real friends."
"You'll be in the library, you mean?"
"Precisely, Maggie. With lots of tea and a stack of books."
Honoria walked into the library with firm, brisk strides,
determined to read something uplifting and morally improving.
Which did not explain her marching straight to the shelf where a
copy of
Tom Jones
rested. She took out the leather-bound tome and
flipped it open. The first thing she noticed, as she always did, was
the personal note from Mr. Fielding to her great-grandmother. The
book about the amorous adventures of a wild orphan lad was
scandalous, and a family favorite since it was first published in the
middle of the last century.
Honoria shook her head. "Is it any wonder I've turned out the
way I have?" She was wanton by nature, lust ran in her blood at a
constant simmer, but that didn't mean she had to give in to base
impulses. She fought off the depraved urge that had sent her to pick
out this of all books, and placed
Tom Jones
back on the shelf.
As she walked toward another shelf she noticed that the room
was chilly, and dampness from the early afternoon rain permeated
the air even though a fire burned in the grate. She glanced toward
the windows behind the library table and noticed that one was
open. As she passed the table to close the window, she saw the
book lying open there.
The edge of one side was singed, as though the book had
been snatched from a fire. The ill-treated book was clearly out of
place resting on the alabaster tabletop. Honoria forgot about the
window and picked up the small, open book.
She got a good look at the illustrated pages, gasped, and
promptly dropped the book. "Oh, good Lord!"
She turned to flee, but it was too late. James Marbury blocked
her way—and the fiend was smiling. It was enough to make her
heart race and her bones melt.
"I brought you a present," he told her. "I remember how
much you like books. Especially that book."
"Oh, good Lord," she repeated.
James found her expression priceless. "It's a memento from
Algiers," he told her. She tried to step around him, but he moved to
prevent her, coming closer to her in the process. The color of her
gown was golden yellow. The color was as vivid as her personality,
but the dress itself was buttoned all the way to just beneath her
chin. What a pity to cover such a lovely long throat and the
magnificent swell of her bosom. Her hair was a braided crown on
the top of her head.
"I want you to go right now!" She pointed dramatically at the
window.
"I know you do," he answered with more bitterness than he
intended. "But you won't be rid of me this time. You belong to me,
remember?"
She tried to dodge around him again; he took a step closer to
her. They were eye to eye and very nearly nose to nose. "I will
make you remember. Say thank you for the present, Honoria."
"Thank you?" Her chin tilted up at an even prouder, more
stubborn angle. Her eyes flashed fire that sizzled along his nerve
endings.
"Remember?" He brushed the tips of his fingers across her
cheek and ear. Her head tilted sideways at his touch, her cheek
briefly resting in the wide palm of his hand, her eyes half-closing.
She straightened abruptly, turned and walked away from him.
"Remember what?"
He shrugged. "Page fourteen, perhaps?" He grinned. "That
was quite a favorite of yours. Let's clear off the tabletop and try it,"
he suggested. "Or would you prefer being closer to the fire? It's too