The Secret to Seduction (34 page)

She gave him a mildly incredulous look.

He smiled a wicked little smile, pleased with himself. And shrugged a little shrug with one of those beautiful, muscled shoulders.

She surprised him with a kiss, a soft one, openmouthed, because she loved the way he tasted. Warm and tart and dark, reassuring and arousing all at once. And when she did, she saw something in his eyes then that made her want to protect him, somehow. He didn’t disguise as much as he thought.

He took her face in his hands, swept back her sweat-dampened hair, and kissed her his way. And for a long while it was only this, the tender play of tongues and lips over each other, a leisurely feast that nevertheless fueled the need that seemed to hover always just below the surface for them, the ravenous beast in the cellar, demanding satisfaction. Their bodies inevitably began to strain together again, and their hands reached for each other in deliberate caresses.

And boldly, she found the warm hard length of him and dragged her hands over him until he buried his face against her throat, and his breath became ragged against her.

“
Sabrina,
” he whispered.

It was wondrous, this power she had.

Oh, so slow now. As though they merely wanted to be joined.

Sabrina floated, and thought.

“Happiness” was such a vibrant word when you said it and thought about it, Sabrina reflected; it had always seemed like such an
active
word. She’d never suspected happiness was in truth a simple thing comprising quiet and warmth: the warmth of the sun upon her bare skin, the warmth of a man’s long body pressed against hers as he slept, the sound of his breathing, deep and steady and sated, his ribs rising and falling against her back. Comprising all of that…and hope.

She was in love with her husband.

She suspected that her husband—The Libertine—was falling in love with her.

She supposed it was possible she was just a novelty for him. This was a man who sought out and had experienced an extraordinary array of diversions, after all, and no doubt was running out of new things to distract him. The man who wrote so beautifully about passion, and never about love.

But love wasn’t an experience that could be sought. Love finds you, Sabrina thought. Love really gives you no choice in the matter.

She suspected that when Rhys came to her today, he was responding to some impulse within himself he didn’t fully understand. But she thought he’d found whatever it was he sought, and it wasn’t just solace in a woman’s body. And it was why he slept so peacefully now. Was, in fact, snoring just a little against the back of her neck.

She was fairly certain he didn’t know how he felt. It didn’t matter, for she knew how she felt. They had forever, now, for him to decide how he felt.

And for her to discover precisely how
often
he snored.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

R
HYS STAYED. She slept in his arms at night, she woke entangled with him in the morning. Sabrina learned every bit of his body by touching and tasting it, marveling at it, the muscles and scars, his eyelashes, his moles (two on his arm, one on his thigh, one at the nape of his neck), that one strange little hair springing from his biceps. She learned all the male smells of him, the musk and sweetness and all the less-pleasant ones, too. Memorized the faint lines beneath his eyes. Learned all his moods, the mischievous, the impatient, the irritable, the quiet, and perhaps, most particularly, the passionate.

They argued. He was occasionally pompous and proud and dictatorial.

So was she.

She forced him to tell her the stories of all his scars (war, and hunting, a riding accident, a dog bite), and he wanted to know about the one on her knee (a little reckless sledding with her brother and a collision with a beech tree). Had he killed a man in a duel? (No.) Had he ever lived with his mistress? (God, no.) Did he spend profligately on his reprobate friends? (Of course.)

They rode out to Buckstead Heath to see to the roofs, and the drainage ditches, and simply for the pleasure of riding in the open air together.

And at last Sabrina saw Santoro’s stained-glass windows, the pensive moon and vivid stars, reflected on the floor of the Star Room. For of course Rhys knew precisely what time of day it would shine there. They shared a moment of quiet and awe.

They made love in nearly every room at La Montagne. It was appalling, really. Shameless.

Glorious.

For now. And little by little, Sabrina allowed herself to believe it would be glorious, or at least very close to it, for always.

The week stretched into two weeks, and into three, and still Rhys felt disinclined to return to London. He also felt disinclined to think about the reasons why. He didn’t want to
think
at all about why he wanted to be here. He only wanted to be. He wanted to enjoy his wife, this astonishing gift of a woman, and his land, and this newness that seemed infinite in its variety. Part of him was braced for the return of the restlessness that drove him to always seek something to feed it. Part of him suspected it was only a matter of time. And yet, at least for now, there was something about the fullness of their days that was poetry and wine and music all in one.

He couldn’t write. He’d ceased to miss it, somehow.

He slid into bed next to Sabrina. The fire had been built up high, because neither of them troubled with night rails or dressing gowns anymore, as they rapidly came off anyway. He pressed himself against her soft warmth.

“Isn’t it about time for Lady Mary Capstraw to come for a visit again, Sabrina? She migrates rather like birds, doesn’t she?”

Sabrina laughed. “She
was
here, Rhys, and you missed her, more’s the pity. Because if you’d been here, you would have learned about Paul’s delicate digestion, and other such fascinating things.”

“My own digestion is of tempered steel,” he said solemnly.

“That’s not the only thing of yours made of tempered steel,” Sabrina purred, her hands wandering south of his torso.

“
Sa
brina!” Rhys’s mouth dropped open in mock scandal. She was a revelation every moment. He shifted his legs to aid her exploration just a bit.

She giggled again, rolled over onto her back so that her breasts rose tantalizingly just above the bedclothes.

“And Mary told me the most remarkable thing, Rhys. Of a trial in London. A politician named Morley is accused of murder and treason, and it has something to do with Viscount and Lady Grantham. But it came out that Lady Grantham had two sisters—one is named Sylvie, and the other is Sabrina! And they cannot find Sabrina anywhere. The funniest part is that their mother’s name was Anna Holt! Anna, like my mother. Isn’t that funny?”

It was remarkable how smoothly he was able to react to the moment. Even as his stomach turned to ice.

“Funny,” he managed to say convincingly. “Perhaps it’s a coincidence.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sabrina said. “But still, it seemed funny.” Her voice was so wistful. “I’ve longed for sisters all my life.”

Rhys didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Have you heard of the trial?” she asked him when he said nothing else.

“I have,” he said. And didn’t expound. He waited a moment, and said the words idly. “Sabrina, would you show me the image of your mother?”

She slithered out of bed and dashed, a vision in curving white nudeness, to her wardrobe, and retrieved it, then wriggled back into bed next to him.

“Here,” she said softly.

He took it in his hands. He stared.

He turned it over, saw the script:
“To Sabrina Charity, her mother Anna.”

“How did you get this?” He heard his own voice almost distantly. He was pushing it out through the weight of memories, of disbelief. Of the struggle to disguise astonishment, and guilt. For something in him had suspected for some time now.

“It was left with me when I was a very little girl. I don’t really remember her. Isn’t she pretty?”

“Beautiful,” Rhys agreed faintly, after a moment. “She looks just like you.”

She smiled up at him. He couldn’t quite smile back.

He’d once said to Sabrina:
Pretending something didn’t happen doesn’t quite mean it didn’t happen.

But at the moment, he didn’t know what else to do. And here at La Montagne, in the country, in this shocking moment, he pretended that it was possible for the past not to ever touch them.

When a certain trial concluded in London, this might even prove true.

“What’s the matter, Rhys? Is it your digestion?” she teased. “Your face has gone awfully funny.”

He was quiet for a moment longer.

“It’s just that I want you so very much, Sabrina,” he finally said.

He pulled her over him, and slowly, thoroughly, proceeded to show her the truth of this, as if this were the last opportunity he’d ever have to touch her.

“We’ve a message from the Capstraw home!” Susannah told Kit as he crawled into bed for the evening next to her. She was propped up with the message on her knees, savoring it.

“What does it say?” Kit dragged a finger up her arm, and let it wander in the soft curls spilling from her nightcap.

Susannah was focused on the message. “Lady Mary has gone to a house party at La Montagne, it says. And she has taken along a Miss Sabrina Fairleigh.”

“
La Montagne?
” Kit was incredulous. “The Earl of Rawden’s home?”

“Is that the Earl of Rawden’s home? Isn’t he . . .” Susannah paused, and said the words delicately. “The Libertine?”

“Oh, yes,” Kit confirmed, sounding impressed. “He certainly is. Perhaps Lady Mary has hidden depths. Perhaps we should invite her to visit. Then again, I’ve heard he’s acquired a wife he can’t get enough of, and the
ton
hasn’t seen him in ages, or so the rumor goes. Really very embarrassing for the man, if it is indeed true. Still, let’s have Lady Mary in for dinner.”

Susannah gave her husband a playful swat. “I want to go there, Kit. Sylvie and I should go straight to La Montagne. No one mentioned how long Sabrina Fairleigh and Lady Mary intended to stay at La Montagne, and she may not remain for long. And we may never catch up to her again!”

“Can you wait for her to return to Tinbury and Vicar Fairleigh? She’s bound to, you know, as she’ll eventually run out of places to visit.”

“What if she doesn’t? What if she’s beset by…
highwaymen,
or Lady Mary Capstraw drags her about on an endless round of social calls, and we follow her in circles forever, but we never,
never
catch up—”

“Susannah,” Kit said softly, stemming the tide of her anxiety. He pressed a kiss against her shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

Susannah sighed. “But Sylvie and I should go,” she insisted. “As soon as possible.”

“It’s nearly a two-day journey from London to there, Susannah, and the weather—”

He saw the bald entreaty on her face. He knew he would have to let her go.

“I need to remain in London for Morley’s trial. And I know Tom can’t afford to leave The Family Emporium yet again. But you and Sylvie will take a full complement of armed footmen.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You’re the very best husband.”

“I know,” Kit sighed. “It’s such a burden.”

He moved his kiss up from her shoulder to her throat.

“Kit?” she said softly.

“Mmm?”

“Have you read The Libertine’s poetry?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Will you read it to me someday?”

“I have a better idea,” he murmured. “Why don’t I show you what it says?”

As days went by, and the business of La Montagne continued to be consuming, Rhys allowed himself to ease into believing everything would continue on as it was.

A week had passed when Mrs. Bailey came to Rhys in the morning. She found him in his study poring over ideas for the land three miles south of Buckstead Heath. It was decent grazing land; then again, they might plant it, and take advantage of the two windmills that would soon spin in the village. He’d spoken to Mr. Pike about it.

“I’ve been informed by the footman that two young ladies are in the drawing room, Lord Rawden.”

His first reflexive response, the response of the Rhys of old, was faint, pleased surprise:
Funny, but I don’t
recall
sending for young ladies this morning.
Sending for “young ladies” hadn’t been out of the realm of the possible for him only a few months ago.

Given how he felt today, it might as well have been a lifetime ago. He’d been another person entirely.

“They are inquiring after a Miss Sabrina Fairleigh,” she expounded.

He frowned a little. “Are they from the . . .” He was about to say, “village.” But suspicion faded his words.

“Did they present cards, Mrs. Bailey?” he finally managed to ask calmly enough.

“Yes. They are Lady Grantham and a Mrs. Shaughnessy, Lord Rawden.”

He hadn’t expected to need to address it so soon; perhaps, somewhere deep inside, he hadn’t expected to need to address it at all. A desperate, futile hope, he recognized now.