But, oh, it was too sweet, and so poignant that she wanted to weep. The warmth wrenched her heart. A part of her long denied, long buried and ignored, ached to break free and sing. She was a girl again within that embrace, and painfully alive.
You are nothing but a plaything to him
.
You of all women know that is true
. The thought finally found its voice in her mind, after trying too long. She saw what was happening as if looking in through the nearby glass panes of the greenhouse wall.
She had responded to that kiss, and it had become two kisses, then many, each more dominating and hot. She was now pliant and accepting in his embrace, and he held her tighter against his body. His hands moved, tempting her with scandalous caresses that smoothed firmly over her hips and side, her back, and now, dear heavens, her thighs.
She heard her own sighs and gasps as tantalizing sensations cascaded through her, each more powerful. She noted how his caresses rose higher now, close to her breasts, and how her nipples tingled, waiting for the touch that would obliterate the last of her reserve.
She saw herself falling fast, like the pathetic, lonely widow he thought her to be.
You must end this at once, or he will ignore your attempts to do so later
. The warning screamed in her head, an ugly truth and an unwelcome reminder of all the devastating vulnerabilities a woman faced in the world.
Stopping it was hard. As hard as he probably knew it would be once she allowed the first liberty. Harder than she believed possible, considering she hardly knew him and did not need the costs of such passion explained.
Somehow, she found the strength and forced her body to stiffen, then her mouth to as well.
He noticed at once. He stopped the kiss. She knew not all men would under the circumstances. She refused to meet his eyes in the long, searching gaze he gave her. Then his arms fell away. He stepped back.
In the taut silence that followed, she pieced together some composure. She could hardly upbraid him for insulting her. Considering how she had behaved, that would be comical. She would not give him the satisfaction of watching her run away like a frightened mouse, though.
She turned away and pointed airily to the far wall of the greenhouse. “Allow me to show you the grapevine we grow here, Lord Castleford. It always amazes visitors to find one flourishing inside. We are very proud of it.”
She spoke nonstop as they strolled toward the passage that connected the greenhouse to the back sitting room. She explained the grapevine and encouraged him to admire a huge pot of camellias. He paced silently, a tall, dark presence exuding sensual danger.
She trusted he would take his leave gracefully, and they would pretend the kisses had never happened. He did not. Instead he subjected her to a gaze that ignored all social niceties. It was the gaze of a man debating his options and the strength of her will.
Heaven help her, he managed to revive some of those sensations in her while he looked too deeply into her eyes.
“I may have to devote the next year to seeing you in high color again, Mrs. Joyes.”
What an outrageous thing to threaten. Vexed, she curtsied and turned to make good her escape. “Since drunkards are beyond my interest, I expect that my composure is safe for a year of Tuesdays, Your Grace.”
H
ell and Damnation
.
Castleford downed another good swallow of brandy from his flask. It warmed his blood but did not help his mood one bit.
He cursed again more colorfully. Out loud. If Daphne Joyes heard, he really would not care. Nor, he assumed, would she.
He cursed Becksbridge and his stupid testament and letter. And his cowardice in not seeing matters through with his prior mistresses and instead leaving it to another man.
I am depending on what little is left of the better side of your character
. There was almost nothing left, damn it. Becksbridge had often pointed out as much.
Maybe it had all been a final joke to the old man. Perhaps he chuckled while he wrote that damned letter. The self-righteous ass—no, the self-righteous
hypocrite
—would throw his hated relative in the path of Mrs. Joyes, and Mrs. Joyes would show him what for.
Castleford took another swallow and looked around his chamber. Flowers covered every surface, it seemed. Damned yellow ones and damned blue ones made up repetitive sprigs that showered the bed drapes, curtains, pillows—the whole damned place. He had seen enough flowers today to carpet the realm. He would probably never see another one without remembering tonight.
She had thoroughly yielded. He knew she had. She had been all softness and sighs and sensual pliability, and he had been debating whether to lure her to a bed or take her right there. Then, suddenly, nothing.
Nothing
. Where in hell had she found the presence of mind to turn to stone like that?
Women never did that with him.
Never.
He knew women, and he knew what he was about with them, damn it, and this was
not normal
. And not even a stammer afterwards. Nary a blush. She had simply turned, as if he had not been about to start stripping her naked in the prior minute. With utter composure, she had talked about some damned grapevine while he suffered the effects of a desire well encouraged then painfully thwarted.
He began to raise the flask again but thought better of it. Hell only knew what he might do if he got raving drunk while fuming over the unfinished business with Daphne Joyes. He had never had a woman yield then retreat before, but it would not do to create a scene about it. Dignity required that he retreat himself and prepare to battle another day.
He rose and stripped off his clothes, then tossed back the damned flowered coverlet. He washed, then dropped onto the bed. He forced his mind to think about something besides the infuriating, desirable woman sleeping somewhere else in this house, when she was supposed to be naked beside him.
There was only one consolation about the entire matter. Except for those two deadly hours at dinner, he had not been bored much at all today.
Chapter Four
P
leasantly lighthearted and comfortably light-headed, Castleford hopped out of his coach and entered Brooks’s. He surveyed the reading room until his gaze lit on a deep chair where a dark crown rose above an open newspaper. He strolled over.
“You are becoming predictable, Hawkeswell,” he said. “A man of routine. Not even domesticated a year, and look at you, haunting the clubs in the afternoon, but not having fun with the diversions they offer.”
The newspaper lowered. Sharp blue eyes speared with annoyance. A sigh of deep forbearance sounded.
“Castleford. How very good to see you, and so early in the day too. It is not even four o’clock. Did last night’s soiled dove lose interest before dawn?”
Castleford dragged another thickly upholstered chair over and sat down. Hawkeswell raised one eyebrow, indicating he had not invited company.
Castleford ignored that. The way he saw it, Hawkeswell was an old friend, and friends had responsibilities to each other. His own these days was to make sure that Hawkeswell did not follow his natural inclinations to allow sobriety and love to remove all of the fun in his life. It was becoming a hell of a chore, though.
“My women never lose interest before dawn, Hawkeswell. Even when we pay for pleasure, it is incumbent upon gentlemen to ensure their bed partners do not get bored. Lady Hawkeswell will be very grateful if you remember that our duty applies to the good women far more than the bad.”
Hawkeswell slapped the paper down on his knee, piqued. The man really did adore his little wife, and not only for her considerable fortune. Being the old-fashioned, chivalrous sort, he did not take well any references to her that sounded in the least inappropriate.
“If you are here, half-sober from the looks of it too, I assume there is a reason,” Hawkeswell said. “Our meetings are rarely accidental.”
“There might be a reason. I am still deciding.”
The paper rose again. “Inform me when you make up your mind.”
“I would prefer to learn what I want by seeking Summerhays’s counsel, you see, but he has gone to the coast. So I am left with you, even though I expect you to get tedious on me.”
“Counsel? The great, omnipotent Castleford, the man who assumes his judgment surpasses all others’, and who rises above ennui only to meddle in men’s affairs like Zeus on a holiday, would seek another’s counsel? I am delighted Summerhays is out of reach, if it means I am treated to this honor. I am all ears.”
“It would be counsel from Summerhays alone. With you, I would only need the answer to a question.”
“Ask away.”
Castleford called for some wine first. He made sure to get Hawkeswell’s favorite. He trusted the claret would inspire some gossip and also soothe Hawkeswell’s tendency to a quick temper. After it was brought and poured, he angled toward the other chair for a tête-à-tête.
“I have met her, finally, despite your attempts to deny me the pleasure.”
Hawkeswell frowned, perplexed the way he often was. The man at times had trouble understanding plain talk. Since it only happened with Castleford, it made no sense, but there it was. “Met her? Who is she?”
“Daphne Joyes, of course. I understand all your speeches now. About how it would distress your wife if I did anything untoward with anyone in that house, and how I was not allowed to enter it, et cetera, et cetera.”
“I meant every word. I trust you behaved when you met her?”
Castleford ignored the prompt. “She was not what I expected. Not an aging harpy, the way you made her sound.”
“No one ever said she was a harpy or old.” Hawkeswell shrugged. “Formidable, yes. Strong-willed too. But not a harpy.”
“No one ever said she was stunningly beautiful either.”
“There was no reason to.” Hawkeswell was all innocence while he drank his wine.
No, there was no reason to, but it had not been an accident. “It is a wonder you are so protective of her, after the role she played in your wife’s history. If I were you, I would find it hard to reconcile myself to the woman at all, let alone endeavor to keep her a secret from the likes of me.”
“I endeavored at nothing of the kind. Not every word uttered and every idea thought has you at its center, Castleford. I know that is a shocking notion, but you would be more bearable if you accepted its truth. As for Mrs. Joyes, I confess that I found her irritating at first meeting, especially after she threatened to shoot me. No doubt you found her somewhat annoying too.”
Annoying did not quite fit his reaction that night, but Castleford just smiled and let Hawkeswell take it for whatever response he might.
“And, if one wants to be frank about it, I initially found the woman a bit suspicious too,” Hawkeswell said, setting the newspaper aside and warming to the wine and the subject. “There is a vagueness to her. For example, that is a very nice property for the widow of an army captain. I mentioned it to Verity, and it only provoked an argument between us.”
“But no explanation?”
“They have that odd rule and know little of one another’s pasts as a result. Something else I suggested to Verity as perhaps self-serving on Mrs. Joyes’s part. That caused another argument. They are all very defensive of one another.”
“So, like a good, well-trained husband, you mentioned no more suspicions and had no more arguments.”
“I simply ceased thinking about it, being distracted by domestic bliss. Something you will never understand or even know.”
“Did that bliss make you like Mrs. Joyes more too?”
“Perhaps. It is true that I favor her much more now. I am grateful for the friendship she extended to Verity when—well, when my wife felt she needed a friend.”
Now they were down to it. “Do you favor her in an admired acquaintance sort of way, or favor her like she is the sister of your wife?”
Hawkeswell frowned deeply. “That is a deucedly odd question. What is this about?”
Castleford rearranged himself. Forearms on knees, he leaned close to his friend’s chair. “Here is the thing. I am going to seduce Mrs. Joyes.”
Hawkeswell jolted straight. “Are you indeed!”
“Most certainly.” Decidedly. Thoroughly.
Hawkeswell conquered his astonishment. He chewed over the revelation. “I am not really surprised, just taken aback by your announcement. She is a lovely woman. But—”
“What a worthless word that is—lovely. Daphne Joyes is
exquisite
.”
“She may be exquisite, but I find her a little . . . cold.” He shrugged.
“Perhaps she does not take to your manner. I, on the other hand, have seen her much the opposite of cold.”
“Really?”
Hawkeswell was the one to angle closer now, truly all ears.
“Anyway, it is my intention to have her. However, first I need to know if you are feeling so protective that you would do something inconvenient, like call me out over it. You seem to have taken efforts to warn me off.”