The Secret to Seduction (33 page)

She waited. The wind plucked at her muffler and yanked an end from her pelisse, batting it about. She retrieved it, settled it back into place.

Rhys didn’t seem to feel the cold, oddly enough, though he was bundled against it, a thick, woolen scarf beneath his chin.

And then she noticed: it was the one she’d made for him.

She felt as though he were wearing her favor into battle.

“Damien died. A letter reached me yesterday about it.” He said it almost conversationally.

Sabrina’s breath caught. She felt his loss in the pit of her stomach. And she was silent.

But through the silence, and the weight of the loss, came a quiet, dawning elation:

He’d come to her. Rhys had come to her.

“Very recently?” she said gently.

He still didn’t turn around, but she could see his half smile in profile. He tipped his head back a bit. “Oh, the letter reached me only yesterday, but it seems he’s been in the ground for some time. He was ill. Left me his poetry manuscripts and ten pounds in his will, with instructions to wager it on a black horse.”

“Ah, then you must of course do so at the first available opportunity.” She said it lightly, as she suspected the lightness would be easier for him to bear right now.

He grunted a short laugh. “I’ll lose. He had terrible instincts.”

“But he took joy in employing them. And he always remembered you. Perhaps you can pay your respects in Little Orrick.”

Rhys turned slowly then, looked down at her, his brows close together, his perusal very nearly scholarly in its seriousness. As though if he studied her long enough he could find the answer to some question he was having difficulty forming.

She wanted to touch him; but she tentatively reached up and fussed with the coils of the muffler around his neck instead, though it didn’t need arranging.

He caught her wrists in his hands, gently, and she thought for an instant he might kiss her. She saw the flare of intent, then indecision flicker in his eyes. He held her gaze a moment, then gave her hands a quick squeeze and released them, turning from her.

“Will you ride back to the house with me on Gallegos? Or would you prefer to walk?”

“He can carry the two of us?”

“You’re not precisely a sylph, but he’ll manage.”

Sabrina laughed. “Ah, my silver-tongued husband.”

He smiled, too. And what a beautiful smile the man had, a smile precisely designed to break hearts.

He lifted her up so that she sat astride, and then his warm body was in the saddle behind her, his arms tucked around her, and he took the reins up in his fist. His now-familiar scent had become somehow less sensually disturbing but more comforting, more deeply arousing. The two of them fit a bit snugly together on the saddle. She tilted her head back against his shoulder, against the pillow of his scarf and cold smooth cheek, because she sensed he needed the contact.

And as they rode back to La Montagne, they passed the mill.

“Looks to be in good working order now,” Rhys commented. “I’ll call on Mr. Pike this week.”

It was his way of saying he intended to stay.

When they returned to La Montagne, Rhys asked Mrs. Bailey to send chocolate into the library for himself and the countess. Sabrina gave him a questioning look. She seemed a bit wary, and he could hardly blame her.

He turned to her. “Will you join me?”

“But of course,” she told him politely.

Out of duty, or because you want to?
He didn’t say it aloud. But he’d seen her face when he’d appeared in the doorway of the vicarage, and he’d seen her face when she’d come to him down the aisle. This was a woman who could hide nothing. And when he had seen her face the question that had clouded his mind when he’d headed to the vicarage had vanished as surely as a clean wind had swept it away.

The chocolate arrived with Mrs. Bailey, who left them again.

“Sabrina…may I ask you a question?”

His wife regarded him somewhat warily, as though he’d replaced her husband with a polite stranger. It was distantly amusing to him.

“Yes, of course.”

“Were you in love with Geoffrey?”

“Oh.” The sound escaped her, a puff of shocked breath.

Clearly not the question she was expecting. She watched his face for a long time, and he watched the passage of thought over hers. Saw the color leaving her cheeks.

“Rhys…you don’t think I…that Geoffrey and I…at the vicarage…I swear I . . .”

“No,” he said quickly, adamantly. Because her face had told him. He’d known at once. “No,” he repeated softly.

She closed her eyes briefly in relief, opened them again.

“I wanted to know, Sabrina . . .” This was a difficult question for a very proud man to ask. “I wanted to know…if you’re . . .” Good God. What was the proper word here? “Disappointed.”

That she now had a different life, a different man, a different way of being, than what she’d always wanted.

Either she was thinking about it, or she was deliberately making him wait for it. Watching him with those clear eyes.

“No, Rhys,” she said, finally. “I’m not disappointed.”

Oh, and that smile of hers. A dangerous, soft smile that wrapped all around him, warm as her skin after lovemaking, warmer than spring sun.

He gave a short nod, exhaled.

When he seemed disinclined to speak again, Sabrina turned toward the bookcase, pretended to be perusing the books.

“Sabrina?”

She turned away from the bookcase, a query in her face.

“I should like to make love to you.”

Her eyes flew open wide. And he watched, with interest, as that lovely shade of rose made slow progress from her collar to her hairline. He heard belatedly how formal he’d sounded. How like a pronouncement it had been.

Sabrina gave a little laugh. “You sound as though you are ordering up lamb for dinner.”

“Do I? My apologies. Nevertheless, I should like—
very
much—to make love to you.”

A certain firm vehemence in his delivery. He was very much enjoying making her blush.

She looked at him a moment, utterly, beautifully disconcerted. And then her eyes dropped swiftly as if her composure could be found somewhere on the floor. She looked up again.

“I should like that, too.” She said it gravely. Then added: “Very much.” In a tone that rivaled his own for sultriness. Mischief sparking in her green eyes.

And he was suddenly weightless. And for some reason, for nearly a minute, he could only smile at her foolishly. And she smiled back at him.

He realized, at last, he ought to say something. “Good,” he finally managed. And continued to smile foolishly.

But then her face grew serious once again, and he felt a twinge of trepidation.

“I should like some clarification, my lord.”

“Clar—”

“Yes. When would you like to make love to me?”

“Oh. Now.” Quite adamantly said. He was doing a remarkable job, if he said so himself, of restraining his rampant passions. “In your chambers. If you’re amenable to that.”

He smiled crookedly as he watched her hands fidget in her skirt for a moment. He could see she was already breathless, her shoulders moving more quickly.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “we cannot very well bolt the room together straight up the stairs for your chamber, or the servants will know what we’re about.”

Ah, his practical wife. He was teetering on the brink of hilarity now. Imagine, The Libertine negotiating the logistics of lovemaking as though planning a dinner party. “Do you truly think there’s ever a time when they don’t know what we’re about, Sabrina?”

She tilted her head in thought, and didn’t answer the question, as it was obviously rhetorical. “I shall go up to our rooms first; you shall wait ten minutes, and then you shall follow me.” As decisive as a general.

He blinked. “Very well,” he agreed equably.

And then she was across the room and at the door with a speed that gratified everything male in him.

She paused there and turned. “Rhys?”

He looked up, heartbeat arrested.

“It will be a long ten minutes.”

She threw a tiny crooked smile over her shoulder and slipped out of the room.

And his blood turned to lava.

He arrived to find the room brilliant with sunlight, the heavy curtains pushed aside all around; a fire leaping high in the grate.

Sabrina was standing in the center of the room, and smiled shyly when she saw him. She glanced toward the curtains.

“Leave them open,” he said suddenly. He could not recall making love to anyone in brilliant daylight. And suddenly it seemed the best way of all to make love to Sabrina.

He came and stood before her, looking down into those clear green eyes for a long moment, as though seeing her for the first time, and she met his gaze, shy but bold at the same time.

It was she who raised her arms toward him, hesitantly at first, and then her hands landed on the knot of his cravat. He stood still while she loosened it slowly, pulled it gently from his throat, folded it in her hands, set it aside. She turned so he could loosen the laces on her gown.

With tender solicitousness, in silence, they undressed each other, buttons and laces and boots. Slowly, as though they had all the time in the world. And this unhurried prelude to lovemaking contained a passion as pure and brilliant as the light pouring in the window.

And when they were undressed, he stood back to admire his wife. All this lovely, vulnerable softness just for him. Her skin glowed lustrous, pale and blue-veined, all sweet curves: those full upthrust breasts tipped in palest pink, those round hips. His hands finally decided to rest on her narrow waist, because the place seemed simply made for his hands. When he did, Sabrina’s eyes closed and she drew in a swift uneven breath. And then she gave a short laugh, as though she was half amazed, half embarrassed, that his simple touch could so easily undo her.

And this undid him.

He pulled her closer, until no space remained between their bodies, until they were skin to skin. She melted so easily into his arms he almost wanted to tell her such total trust of
any
human being, let alone him, was unwise. But even as it made him feel ferociously protective, it aroused him so fiercely it was a physical pain, and his breath snagged in his throat.

And then he kissed her, finding her soft mouth with his own, sinking into a kiss so sweet it was barbed, and echoed everywhere in him.

He tipped her gently to the bed, and the sunlight was almost a third partner in the room, enveloping the two of them as they set out to make love with quiet, joyful ferocity. Rhys’s hands moved over every texture of her, the silky density of her hair, the taut smoothness of her skin, the crisper, curling hair between her legs, and there his fingers delved lightly. To his profound satisfaction, he found her satiny and wet.

And when he did, she gasped and took his earlobe lightly between her teeth. The sensation sent such a shock of pleasure through him that he laughed, startled, and turned his head to find her smiling, pleased with herself.

He covered her smile with a kiss, then caught her wrists in one hand and levered them slowly back, pinned them above her head. “Minx,” he murmured against her mouth. His fingers dipped again, lightly, and her legs dropped apart to allow him better access. He caressed, expertly, precisely, long enough to drag a moan of pleasure from her. And then stopped long enough to elicit a protest:

“Rhys—
please
—”

Far be it from him to make the vicar’s daughter beg.

He was a poet: he understood rhythm and pattern, he understood beauty and crescendo. He watched her, and listened to her breathing, and his fingers played her like a conductor until she was writhing, arching into his touch.

And then coming apart with a soundless scream, bowing up toward him.

Beautiful.

He propped himself up on his elbow to admire her for a moment, glowing and flushed, lips rosy and swollen from kisses, eyes still dazed and warm. The fire popped and spit sparks behind them. Sabrina touched his face lightly with the backs of her fingers. A gesture so tender his heart kicked.

“Come here,” she whispered. She captured his waist with her thighs, pulling him closely against her. Her hands smoothed down the long muscles of his back, cupped his buttocks, pressed his erection hard against her. “Now, Rhys. Please, now.”

He braced himself above her, took her with swift even thrusts, no finesse, just primal intent. And as he moved over her he gazed down at his wife, her hair tangled over the counterpane, head thrown back, her eyes fixed with his. He watched her reveling in his pleasure until he could see her no longer, and his own release rushed upon him, all but seized him from his own body, and he cried out the wonder of it.

“Again?” he whispered hopefully.

They were lying twined, spent, and Sabrina hardly knew her limbs from his. Sabrina trailed a hand down his damp chest, down the dark line of hair that bisected his ribs, to investigate. Sure enough: he was enormously, flatteringly hard.