Cheryl Holt (14 page)

Michael walked into the master’s suite, kicked the door shut with his heel, then marched to the bed and dropped Emily on the wide, plush mattress. She emitted a squeal of surprise, and tried to jump up, but he lay down and covered her with his body so that she couldn’t escape.

He was so aroused that he was frightened. He’d reveled in decadent pursuits, had practiced seduction with a reckless abandon, but he couldn’t recall ever having suffered such an unstoppable wave of lust.

He’d never desired a woman as he desired Emily Barnett, which, considering his position, was disgusting. How could he trifle with his wards’ governess? It was so wrong, so unscrupulous, yet he couldn’t desist.

“This isn’t my room,” she pointed out.

“No, it isn’t,” he replied.

“What are you thinking?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Have you any notion of the uproar that will ensue if we’re caught?”

“Yes.”

“The other staff members will crucify me,” she said.

“I’m sure they will.”

“Mr. Fitch will volunteer to act as executioner.”

“Very likely.”

“I could never show my face in public,” she complained.

“Correct.”

“The rumors would spread. I’d have to quit my job.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would. Do you care, even the slightest bit, about what might happen?”

“No.”

He didn’t care about anything. Not his servants. Not his neighbors. Not the possibility of scandal. The only relevant factor was that he remove her clothes as rapidly as he was able. What he planned from there on was anyone’s guess.

Since the last occasion they’d philandered, naught had changed. She was still an innocent maiden, and he was still her employer. He wasn’t about to marry her, so their dallying was inappropriate, but he was determined to forge ahead.

For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, she goaded him beyond any sane limit, and he spent every waking moment avoiding her. In his concerted effort to behave, he’d absented himself from the house, invented false engagements, kept fictitious appointments, and drank himself silly at his club, but to no avail.

He was obsessed with her. She was like a dangerous drug, and he couldn’t figure out how to break his addiction.

“If I don’t have you naked in the next minute,” he told her, “I can’t predict what I might do.”

“Naked!”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll show you what you’ve been dying to learn.”

She was about to lambaste him with another lecture, but he couldn’t bear it. He grasped the enormity of his reprehensible conduct, so what was to be gained by hashing out his misdeeds?

He kissed her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers in her hair. Previously, if he’d been asked to state a preference, he’d have sworn he liked blondes, but after he met her, his tastes had altered. He’d never seen hair like hers before, and he delighted in how soft it was, in what a contrast it made when layered across the white of his pillows.

His hands were busy with her dress. It was a functional garment, with simple buttons and laces, so it loosened quickly. For once, she didn’t fight him, and he was so glad. He was beyond discussion or debate.

He tugged off her gown, then her corset, and her chemise was all that stood between himself and paradise. Prolonging the excitement, he slowly drew the straps off her shoulders.

Finally—finally!—her breasts were bared, and he blazed a trail to her chest, sucking at a taut bud, and her reaction was instantaneous. She arched up, offering more of herself, and he feasted, traveling from one nipple to the other, as he caressed the pliant mounds.

Her passion swiftly escalated, and he couldn’t get over what a licentious nature she had. She was a magnificently
amorous creature, and he was so lucky to have stumbled upon her. He was anxious to spur the encounter to the next level, but when he glanced up, he was stunned to note that she had tears in her eyes.

His heart lurched. Had he been mistaken? Had she been resistant, with himself too enamored to realize it?

“What is it?” He couldn’t abide her being unhappy, or imagining that he’d hurt her. A pretty tear dribbled down her cheek, and he swiped it away.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this with you,” she wailed miserably.

“But I thought . . . thought . . .” What precisely? She lived and worked in his mansion, which left her no choice but to obey his commands.

He was such a thick oaf! Of course she wouldn’t wish to ruin herself. Especially for the likes of him. He was a fool to have presumed otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“What for?” she inquired. “I’m the one who can’t behave.”

“I assumed you were enjoying this. We’ll stop.”

He tried to cover her breasts, but she wouldn’t let him.

“You think I want you to stop?”

He was so confused. “Don’t you?”

“If you
stop,
I’ll wring your neck.”

“You want to keep going?”

“Yes!”

Women! He’d never understand them! “Then why are you crying?”

“Because I’m so weak!”

“You’re not weak,” he declared, and he grinned. “Easy to seduce, maybe. But definitely not weak.”

“Shut up.” She punched him on the shoulder, and she sighed. “I always pictured such a different life for myself.”

“What had you envisioned?”

“I expect what all women do: my own home, a husband, and many children.”

“But you don’t see that happening?”

“No.” She studied him, an unsettling quiet filling the room. “You’d never marry me, would you?” He must have flashed an expression of horror, because she hurried on. “Don’t look so panicked. I haven’t an angry father or brother hiding behind the drapes. I just need to hear your answer.”

“Why?”

“I must be very clear that if we proceed, you’ll never propose afterward.”

He was amazed that she was brave enough to raise the issue. She was the sort who would give herself with marriage in mind, while he intended to evade the matrimonial noose till the last possible moment; then he’d pick someone from his class who was boring, plain, and unremarkable.

His bride would be in love with his title and fortune, rather than himself. She would comprehend the ways of his world, would never demand that he be a real husband, would anticipate deplorable treatment from him, and would constantly receive it.

Emily deserved a spouse she could trust and cherish. He was so far removed from the man she ought to have that he couldn’t calculate how he’d fail her if he pondered such an idiotic path.

“No, I would never marry you,” he bluntly announced. “Were you hoping that I might?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure of what you’re planning for us to do, but I’m positive it will mean much more to me than it ever could to you.”

He hated that she had such a low opinion of his character, but she was correct, and he wasn’t about to lie. Sex was only sex to him. Ages ago, he’d resolved never to have his philandering be anything more than a physical and pleasurable act.

Still, he asked, “Why would you say that?”

“I’m not stupid. This is a normal peccadillo for you, while for me, it’s new and thrilling—very likely a once in a lifetime occurrence. But I’m not anyone special to you, and I never could be.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to contradict her, to inform her of how unique she was, but he wasn’t accustomed to expounding on his most private sentiments, and he couldn’t decide what good it would do anyway. If he confided as to her exceptional qualities, she’d embrace his comments, would attach much more significance to them than she should.

“Why must we talk about it at all?” he inquired.

“Because I have this annoying habit of ascribing more importance to events than I should, and I need a hefty dose of reality before we start. That way, I won’t have any illusions.”

To his surprise, he felt terrible, crushed that he couldn’t tell her what she was anxious to hear. With another female, he might have been tempted to allow his unreliable, deceitful male self to disgorge whatever falsehoods were necessary to have her compliant, but he liked her too much to mislead her.

“I won’t ever marry you, Emily.”

For a lengthy interval, she stared at him, and he was deluged by the notion that she’d actually assumed his reply would be the opposite. Evidently, she had an elevated view of his integrity that didn’t match his situation. Hadn’t she listened to the rumors?

One part of him was tickled by her high esteem, but the other—the sordid, corrupt part—was irked. He didn’t want her admiration, for then, he’d be worrying incessantly about his behavior toward her. He was in deep enough, and he didn’t require any more reasons to obsess over his conduct.

He was simply keen to dally, and he couldn’t have her imagining their association to be more than it was.

“Thank you for being honest,” she said. “I appreciate it.” Calmly, and with no further discussion, she began unbuttoning his shirt.

He wasn’t certain what he’d expected. Anger? Accusation? Hysterical weeping? As usual, he’d misjudged her and, with her bland acceptance of his rejection, his irritation increased.

What did she want from him? What was he supposed to say? How could she blithely carry on? Were they to pretend the awkward subject had never been raised?

He was desperate to explain, but apparently, she didn’t need clarification. Wasn’t that just like a woman! He was ready to hash it out, to beat it to death like a jockey on a losing horse, but she’d rather keep on as if the tedious topic hadn’t been broached.

He’d insulted her, had denied her the respectability that marriage could bring, had relegated her to the ranks of the whores with whom he consorted. How could she be so indifferent?

He took her hand and kissed it.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Don’t be. I asked for the truth, and you gave it to me.”

“But I shouldn’t have been so harsh.”

“You weren’t.” She shrugged, tossing off his disavowal. “I’m not a child, and I’m capable of making my own decisions. But as I appear to have arrived at a difficult junction, I merely wish to know the condition of the road I’ve chosen to travel.”

He felt even worse. She sounded as if he was turning her into a harlot. What next? Would she be walking the streets at night, soliciting customers?

As if she’d dumped cold water on him, his desire fled, yet she commenced with removing his clothes. She couldn’t presume they’d continue, could she? Not after he’d rebuffed her!

It occurred to him that he’d never entirely grasped the benefit of purchasing prurient services. When his paramours were paid, he wasn’t required to read their minds. He could cavort without all the strife.

He was abysmal at having relationships with women. He had no female friends, no adoring fiancées, no doting aunties or younger sisters. His bond with Emily was the first time he could recall engaging in anything vaguely resembling a connection, and it was obvious that his thirty years of living hadn’t gifted him with a greater understanding of feminine wants or needs. He hadn’t a clue.

He rolled off her and shifted to the side, and he rebuttoned his shirt.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, and she grabbed the fabric.

“We should probably stop. Until we think this through.”

“Are you mad?”

“We can’t keep going,” he said. “Why not?”

“Well . . .”

They were grappling over his shirt, and the moment was so absurd that he flopped onto his back and howled with laughter. It was a full-on belly laugh, the likes of which he hadn’t enjoyed in ages.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“For once in my miserable life, I’m trying to do the right thing, but you won’t let me.”

“I don’t want you to do the
right
thing. I thought we were clear on that.”

“We’re not clear at all!” He laughed harder. “You’re determined to be ravished, and I’m fighting to prevent it.”

“Have I asked you to be my moral compass?”

“No, and I don’t know what’s come over me. I must be hallucinating, or maybe I’m asleep, and this is the strangest dream I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t go all honorable on me. I’m in a pitiful state, and you’ll drive me to commit mayhem.”

He smiled and rotated them so that she was trapped beneath him.

“You are so good for me,” he admitted.

“Am I?”

“You make me happy.”

“I do?”

“In the very best way.”

“But why and how?”

“You’re just . . . you . . . and I’m delighted to have you here.”

“What a divine sentiment.” She sighed with contentment, gazing at him with such affection that he rippled with unease.

He’d never been one for spewing flowery comments or ridiculous flatteries, so he wasn’t positive what was transpiring, but he was changing, and he couldn’t guess what his next move might be.

Would he be picking bouquets? Delivering boxes of candy? Writing bad poetry?

There was simply no telling.

For an eternity, he had merely existed, not letting anyone or anything matter, but gradually, he was awakening, his weary spirit thawing after a lengthy winter of loneliness and isolation.

She’d been in his house a few weeks. If she stayed six months, what would remain of his old self? He’d be so altered that no one would recognize him.

If there was a chance that his randy, depraved character might disappear, he ought to revel before he was an empty shell of the man he’d been.

He sat up, jerked his shirt over his head, and pitched it on the floor. “Miss Barnett, I’m all yours. Explore at your leisure.”

“Are you serious?”

“Leave no stone unturned.”

She chuckled and reached out, her palms on his chest. “Ooh . . . your skin is so warm.”

She looked nervous, as if she wasn’t certain how to proceed, so he gripped her wrists and guided her in slow circles. She worked over his shoulders, his arms, his
back, but she never dipped lower, never caressed him where he urgently needed her.

He pulled off her chemise, so that she was naked. Down below, he saw the dusting of auburn hair between her legs, the sweet puss shielded within. He was in perilous shape, and he untied the drawstring on his pants, slackening it so that the front was loose. “Touch me,” he ordered. “Touch me all over.”