Bound By Temptation (18 page)

She smiled, a wide, womanly smile that invited him, promised him, told him it was her turn now.

Her feet slid toward her buttocks, raising her knees, opening her fully to him. What a moment before he had only felt, now he saw—the sleek, dark, womanly secrets of her.

He stood, a marionette at the call of her strings.

The light of the fire danced along her body, highlighting and hiding.

She raised her arms to him and waited.

He was beautiful. She had never thought of him as such before. She had seen plenty of beautiful men in her life, but she had never considered
him among them. He was too strong-featured and harsh for such a word.

But now, as he stood there proud and naked, every clean line of his body revealed,
beautiful
was the word that came to mind.

She held out her arms, waiting.

He took a step toward her, and her eyes devoured the fire’s play of light and shadow across his skin. He came to stand between her feet. She should have felt vulnerable lying spread before him, but instead, she felt incredibly strong. Desire was plain in his gaze, and she could see how his eyes followed her every move.

She opened her hands, gesturing him down. He sank to his knees and then came into her arms, lifting himself on his elbows to look down at her. She didn’t think she had ever spent so much time looking into another’s eyes.

Even with Michael it had always been fast and full of fun and play. This slow emotional sharing was something new.

She ran her hands down his muscled back. He was not heavily built, but every inch of him was hard and smooth. She reveled in the feel of his satin skin as she rasped her nails along his spine.

He did not move other than to shake slightly as she hit more sensitive spots. She started to move her fingers lower, bringing them forward around his hips to that other area that was so hard and smooth. She could feel him heavy against her thighs and longed to measure his girth with her hands.

He shook his head, stilling her fingers. “Not yet.”

“Why? I want to.”

“I’ll embarrass myself like a schoolboy if you do. Give me a moment to be sure of myself.”

She laughed, unafraid that he would take it the wrong way. “I want you now.”

“And you shall have me, but you must wait.”

“Must I?” She lifted her hips slightly, bringing herself into fuller contact with him. She inched lower until he was right where she wanted him. She could feel his penis moving of its own accord, seeking entrance.

His lips grew tight and he glared at her, but it was not an angry glare.

She laughed again. “Do you really want to wait? Do you really think you can?” She raised and lowered her hips, running her slick folds along his length.

“Damn you,” he whispered as he brought his lips down upon hers in a fiery kiss and thrust into her at the same moment.

He filled her so completely—and then he started to move, each jerk of his hips causing the pressure to build within her again. She clenched herself about him tight, fighting both for her own pleasure and his.

He fought back, withdrawing and then surging forward.

It was war between them.

She bit down on her lip, almost tasting blood, as she sought for control—and victory.

Opening her eyes wide, she stared up at him,
seeing the strain that marked his brow, the small beads of sweat appearing there.

“Twelve, eleven, ten, nine—”

She heard the soft whisper and almost cursed him. He was counting backward, seeking to hold on. She tightened every inner muscle she could control about him. Then released. Then tightened again.

His whisper stopped. And then his breath. She watched as his face drew tight, and then with a massive cry he gave in.

But it was too late for her as well—his final thrust forward sent her spinning, her every muscle clenching without her control. Her head fell back and she gave in to her body, finding mindless pleasure.

She screamed his name.

Screamed again.

And then fell back, every muscle limp save for the occasional belated pulse of desire.

He too lay limp, his heavy weight atop her. She could still feel him within her, still moving slowly near the edge of her womb.

She almost told him then.

Told him of the baby, of her own needs, her own wants.

But she bit her lip again, holding back the words.

Nothing had changed.

He was still not the husband for her.

H
e shifted his body off hers, knowing he must be too heavy. He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling. Only the curve of their shoulders touched.

It was over.

He wanted to take her in his arms again, to begin again. But he did not.

It was over.

There should be words to say. They almost rose to his lips, but he held them back. This had been a wonderful moment, a moment he had never expected but long desired.

If only life could be filled with such moments—but it was not. There was still duty and propriety. There could be no future between them.

She was everything he did not want.

If he married her—it was the first time he had even allowed the sentiment words—if he married her, there would be talk and scandal. He might have come to know that she was not as worldly as society painted her, but still there would be talk—talk that could not be dismissed.

And she was no longer young—could she even have a child? She had not had one in her first marriage.

And comfort and obedience—his life would have neither of these things if he married her.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

It was over. It was best that way.

He turned on his side and stared at her. She too stared at the ceiling. She did not turn to look at him, although surely she must have felt his move. Her face was placid, impossible to read. A few minutes before, he had thought he could see her soul, now all he saw was a mask, a polite society mask.

He lay back again, letting his gaze rise upward. There was the beginning of a crack that ran from the corner. He would have to get the plasterers in.

He was silent. In some deep corner of her heart, she had hoped for words, words that would let her know that what she thought was wrong, words that would tell her that he could be the man she needed.

He was silent.

She stared up at the ceiling and planned. Her fingers came to rest across her belly, sheltering the fragile life within.

She could not go back to Norfolk, not now, but perhaps later. She would go somewhere for her confinement, somewhere that she was not known. It would not be hard to find such a spot. She could weave some story for the time that she was there—
a new name, a newly dead husband or a husband who was away at sea.

And when the baby was born?

That was the real question. Did she wish to keep it and raise it? She could never claim it for her own—stories would only hold up while she was away, those who knew her would never believe she had wed again so fast—not with no husband to be seen. And she did not believe she could give up her world—not even for the child.

No, she could not claim the babe, but she could raise it. She could find a new maid who could pose as the mother or she could return to Town alone and have the child arrive later—an old friend or cousin dying and naming her as guardian. It would be an unusual arrangement, but not unheard of. There might be those who would suspect, but she doubted any would pose a direct question.

And Masters?

She turned on her side, staring over at him.

What of his rights? Could she never let him know of the baby? Could she risk running into him at the park and having him see the child and never know? What if he had his own children—undoubtedly he would, and soon, if he followed his current plan—could she imagine having their children playing side by side and never knowing?

He felt her turn and turned also, staring deep into her eyes.

But it was different. The connection that had flowed through them only moments before was gone. Now she saw only deep dark eyes watching
her with seeming indifference. She schooled her own features to match his.

“We were not quiet,” she said. “Will your servants not suspect?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “I have never been in this situation before. I may have a bachelor household, but I have never been one to bring my indulgences home.”

An indulgence. That was what she was, an indulgence.

She sat up, not letting him see that his words had hurt her—and confirmed her own thoughts.

There was a moment’s temptation to turn to him again and lose another hour in seduction before returning to her life, but that was a dream of fancy.

Instead, she reached over and grabbed her chemise, pulling it over her head and shimmying into it. The silk was cold and slippery as it grazed her warmed skin. She kept her eyes averted from him as she pulled on her corset as well. Several of the side seams were pulled and perhaps even ripped, but she thought it would hold until she arrived home.

She turned her back to him. This time there was no play as his fingers mechanically laced her corset and pulled the laces tight. She did not wish to think about how much practice he must have had to do it with such ease.

He lifted the butter-colored gown and held it out to her. It was badly wrinkled, and she feared no amount of brushing would make it decent. She could only hope her cloak would cover enough of it
to hide her until she was home. His servants would surely gossip no more over a few wrinkles than they would over the strange cries that had come from the library.

She yanked the dress over her head and turned sharply to present her back to him this last time. He could at least have shared some words of warmth and comfort with her, expressed some regret that this was the end—and more of an ending than he realized.

He had also dressed, she discovered when she finally turned to face him. His cravat still hung loosely about his neck, but otherwise he looked much as he had when she’d arrived. If anything, he looked even more troubled now.

First an indulgence, then clearly trouble—she needed to leave with haste if she was to have any pride left at the end of this encounter.

Not that she had come here for pride. She had expected to grovel before him and beg that he marry her. She was glad that had not happened. How much better to lose a little face in a meaningless sexual encounter than to have risked the truth and been bound to him forever.

Only it had not been meaningless.

That was what made this so difficult now. A meaningless affair would not have left her wounded, wondering that she could have shared so much and he so little. She had been sure she had seen real emotion in his eyes and in his gestures, but it must have been a trick of the firelight, or perhaps he was a better actor than she gave him
credit for—a man who knew what he must do to get what he wanted.

She schooled her face to meet his indifference. “I will be going then. I will trust you to manage your staff so that this afternoon does not become a source of gossip. I have been through much the same before and it would matter little, but I imagine Miss Thompson would be most distressed to learn of the events here this afternoon.”

“Is that a threat?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

She forced a light laugh. “Of course not. I wish you all the best with Miss Thompson.” She walked to the door. “I can assure you that if I had wanted you—and I mean for more than this”—she gestured toward the rug—“I would have had you and you would never have known it was not your idea.”

She sailed through the door, shutting it with the lightest of clicks. She was reminded of that first morning when she had left him at The Dog and Ferret. Only now she was forced to wait, standing at the door as they retrieved her cloak. She could only hope that he did not come out until she had left. She was not sure how long she could hold on to her calm.

Finally, the porter arrived, cloak in hand. His face was absolutely placid, and she could only wonder at what he had heard.

She grabbed her cloak, gave him the briefest nod, and was out the main door as soon as it was open.

Only as she stood in the fresh cold air did she begin to feel her heart slow.

Masters waited two days before calling on Miss Thompson. It had seemed ill-fitting to call on her right after Clara had left, and even the next day it had still not felt appropriate. He had seen Miss Thompson at a soiree and spoken with her with some gaiety. He trusted she did not know how much effort he had put into it. He had promised to call upon her the following afternoon to take her for a drive if the weather was fair, so here he was.

He stopped his high phaeton in front of the Thompson residence. It was a fine house, solid brick with white painted trim. It was easy to imagine the dependable girl who would have grown up in this house, and Miss Thompson personified that girl.

She would be a perfect, amicable wife.

So why did he hesitate?

Perhaps he should speak to the girl’s father first? It was the correct thing, the proper thing. But the thought of sitting across a desk from Mr. Thompson was even worse than addressing Miss Thompson. It was undoubtedly because he wanted to be surer of the young lady’s feelings before committing himself.

He swung his legs down to the ground and handed the reins to his tiger. He stood looking up at the house and then slowly progressed up the walk.

He knocked once and waited for the porter to open the door.

There was the expected delay as he waited for Miss Thompson to be ready. He spent the time with her sisters, assuring each one that she looked lovely and that the color of her gown particularly suited her. Then there were the similar comments that must be made to Mrs. Thompson. It was a ritual he had completed many times before and would many times again.

Normally it seemed pleasant. Today it was completely lacking in joy. Then Miss Thompson was there and an appropriate round of new compliments must be made.

“Your eyes are shining bright today,” he said. “The knowledge that summer has firmly taken hold must be cheering you.”

“If that is what you wish to credit it to,” Miss Thompson answered. “I might find another source for my pleasure if pressed.”

If Clara had spoken that line, it would have been full of play and left him imagining all the possible things she could have meant. From Miss Thompson it merely sounded like the expected flattery.

Maybe that was Clara’s secret. She said all the right phrases, but made them sound like so much more. The light in her eyes and that magic laugh imbued her every word with her deep sense of fun.

He would not have to worry about that with Miss Thompson. Her words were always just as she said them, no secret meanings. It would make
for simple life. He would never need to guess at what he was missing.

“I am glad that the weather is holding. Are you ready for our drive?” he asked, pushing all other thoughts from his mind. He would think only of how pleasant it would be to take a turn about the park with such a lovely companion.

She was wearing yellow, not the buttercream yellow that Clara had worn, but a deep vibrant yellow, the color of daffodils. It heightened the highlights of her hair, making it much brighter.

It was not normally his way to notice such things, but perhaps Clara’s views had influenced his own. He almost snorted. Clara would have lectured him on how little you could tell from a woman’s appearance—you needed to understand her personality. He was starting to actually look at his companion as a person in her own right and not just a possible wife.

It was a horrid thought.

He chuckled at himself.

Miss Thompson sent him a questioning look. He could only shrug.

Her expression when they reached his phaeton was almost enough to set him laughing again, but he suppressed the urge.

Her eyes grew large and her skin lost a definite shade or two. “This is yours,” she squeaked. “It’s not quite what I expected.”

“I know. It’s really quite something, isn’t it? I only recently took possession of it.” He could not keep the pride from his voice.

“Perhaps we could just walk.”

“What nonsense. It is the perfect day for a drive. Come, my tiger will bring the step and help you up.”

She nodded at him, but he could see the tension in her jaw. She’d love it once they were on their way. The light breeze, the potential for speed even if one held back. The vehicle was a true delight.

Miss Thompson placed her foot on the step and with only some slight trembling was helped up to the seat. Her fingers clutched the side so tightly her knuckles whitened.

He had a moment’s hesitation, but then walked over to swing up beside her with a calming smile. “Just give it a moment. I am sure you’ll find it delightful.”

“Of course you are right,” she answered through only slightly gritted teeth. “I am sure I will enjoy it immensely.”

He picked up the reins and with a flick was off. The streets were crowded and he looked forward to the chance to maneuver through them.

“Is this wonderful? I told you you’d like it.” He turned to Miss Thompson, who was staring determinedly ahead, a faint green tinge coloring her skin. Even as he watched, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Deciding to manage on one’s own and actually doing it were not the same, or so Clara was discovering. In the few days since she’d said her hurried good-byes to Masters she had accomplished not one thing.

Well, she’d cried a lot, but she put that down to the baby. She’d heard that expectant women were prone to such fits.

That was actually one of the problems. She’d heard limited bits and pieces over the years, but now that she was in need of the knowledge, there was not one person she could talk to. Nobody here could know the truth of her condition. Once she was away she could employ some older woman who would know all the details of such matters, but for now she was on her own.

In the past she might have dared to share the truth with Violet. Her friend had knowledge of many things that Clara did not and had lived a life even more full of potential transgressions than Clara’s own. That was, of course, before Violet had met Lord Peter St. Johns and changed her ways. Clara grinned to herself—or at least Violet had changed her ways in public. Clara was very aware that what went on between the unmarried Lady Carrington and Lord Peter could never be described as proper.

But Violet was Masters’s sister and there was no way around that.

Clara would have to hold to her own counsel for the moment.