In the Garden of Seduction (19 page)

That accounted for everyone.

She walked to the main hall and headed to
the rear of the house. Logic told her the morning room was the last
door on the left at the end of the corridor. What if someone was in
there? Nervous, her teeth began to chatter as she turned the
knob.

The door swung inward and Cassandra tiptoed
into the darkened room. A quick inspection told her this was the
right place and it was empty.

Moonlight shone through the panes of glass
in the French doors, bringing the shapes in the morning room out of
shadow. Now was the moment to turn back, she thought, to forget
this folly. Too bad she was determined to make a fool of
herself.

Cool air rushed over her heated skin as she
opened one of the French doors and moved into the night. She came
to stand on a small side porch. Two steps brought her down to the
main walk.

Cassandra smelled the roses before she saw
them. The soft breeze hung heavy with the scent of scores of
flowers and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the
sweetness. The rustling of leaves on nearby trees blended with the
cheerful songs of crickets as they sang to one another. It was a
magical moment with the earth doing its part to create the perfect
setting. What a wonderful place for a rendezvous, she mused
dreamily.

She found the stone bench with little
difficulty. Cassandra glanced around, but saw no one. The earl
hadn’t arrived yet, but perhaps her earlier decision was a bit
rigid—she would give him five minutes.

She sat down, carefully arranging her
skirts.

*****

The last thing Cassandra had promised
herself was to keep her distance from the marquess. Away from him
she had resolve, but in his presence she lost sight of why she
should avoid him. He wooed her with ardent words and hungry looks,
and she responded like clay in his experienced hands. He must be
gratified, Cassandra thought, by how easily he could manipulate
her.

“Have you been waiting long?”

He came up behind her and a thrill of fear
seized her before she realized who it was. Her hand flew to her
throat.

“You frightened me.”

“I apologize,” Lord Sutherfield said as he
moved around the bench and sat next to her, shoulder to shoulder.
“I was caught in a conversation and it took a moment to extricate
myself. I was afraid you would not wait for me.”

“I should not be here at all,” she fretted,
examining her hands where they lay in her lap.

He leaned forward, and from the corner of
her eye she could see him studying her profile.

“I see. I was delayed just long enough for
you to regret having come. I wish you wouldn’t feel that way.”

Cassandra looked him at him directly. “An
unmarried female of good character does not have a secret meeting
with a gentleman, especially a gentleman whose reputation with the
ladies is suspect. Why I always forget that when I’m in your
company, I’ll never know.”

“I would not deliberately hurt you, Miss
James.” He snorted then as if he did not believe his own words. “I
want to do the right thing, I really do, but your company affects
me as well.”

“It does?”

“Yes, indeed. Why does that surprise
you?”

Cassandra stared at his handsome face, the
shadows emphasizing his brow, the high cheekbones. He watched her
with eyes that burned earnestly, and all at once she was consumed
with the need to touch him.

“Do it!” he growled in a hoarse whisper.

He knew—oh, he knew!
Was her desire
that obvious? Could he see her confusion, her fear, the attraction
she fought?

“Do it,” he urged her again.

Although she shook her head, Cassandra did
not have the strength to resist his impassioned plea. Her hand
moved to his lean jaw. Caressing the hollow of his cheek, she felt
the hint of a stubble. His teeth clenched as he sucked in a harsh
breath through flaring nostrils.

He grabbed her wrist and pressed his mouth
into her palm, raising heated eyes to hers.

Cassandra could feel herself melting. She
had no power in the face of such irresistible persuasion. The
age-old barriers of self-protection were slipping away, leaving her
exposed and vulnerable. If the marquess continued to pursue her
before long repercussions would have no meaning—until it was too
late.

He was aware of the effect his lovemaking
had on her, and she wanted to be indifferent to him. In desperation
she tried to remember why she was here in the first place.

“Timothy,” Cassandra said, slipping her hand
from his grasp and drawing away from him.

“What? Oh, yes…” The marquess sat, blinking
as though clearing his vision. “I forgot,” he said in a sheepish
voice. An odd expression on his face indicated that he, also, had
been moved by their exchange.

“You were going to tell me how our patient
is doing.” She sounded normal even though her insides continued to
tremble.

“Timothy is healing quite nicely,” Lord
Sutherfield said in a businesslike fashion. “I’m worried about what
we are to do with him once he is well. I know Mr. Bailey has been
searching for his son.”

“We can’t return that child to his
father.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” His attitude
did not encourage optimism that Timothy’s problem could be solved
easily.

“No. I hoped you had something in mind.”

“Can’t say I do, but I’ll see what can be
done.”

“Would you?” Cassandra gazed at him
imploringly. It was her turn to use wiles to gain what she wanted.
She had to refrain from batting her lashes at him.

He chortled softly. “When you look at me
like that, dear heart, I feel pushed to make the effort. But then
you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Unable to help herself, she laughed with
him. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Is that a good thing?” the marquess asked
tenderly.

Cassandra glanced at him, before quickly
looking away. “I haven’t a clue, my lord. I’ll have to let you know
when I discover the answer.”

Lord Sutherfield rose to his feet and took
her by the hand. “Walk with me.”

“Shouldn’t I go back to the party? I’m sure
to be missed,” she said, allowing him to help her stand.

“What would you do if you were back in
London and still living with Quintin James? Would a stroll in the
garden be such a wicked thing?”

The question was a shrewd one. She didn’t
intend to let him know it, though.

“Perhaps not, but my father doesn’t know
you. I think if he were to meet you he’d be as cautious as my
grandfather.”

The marquess drew her arm through his and
leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “I’d like to think the
caution is yours.”

“That makes no sense at all,” she said
impatiently.

“It does if it is you rather than me you do
not trust.”

Lord Sutherfield’s warm breath drifted down
her neck, causing her skin to prickle with excitement. Just when
she had herself in check, he began the onslaught anew. Her body
responded as it always did when his tone turned suggestive.

Ambling down the winding path, they moved
away from the safety of the house. The doors to the parlor had been
thrown open to the main garden, and the voices of those guests
still partying could be heard drifting from inside. If she were
taking her little walk with the marquess right outside those doors,
it would probably be considered completely respectable.

They came upon a majestic oak looming out of
the darkness at the end of the path, its branches spanning nearly
thirty feet. Moonlight seeped through the aged limbs, splintered
patches of illumination creating a fey realm beneath the sprawling
canopy of the tree. The gauze of Cassandra’s dress sparkled like
dozens of tiny, glowing night beetles in the dimness. Just like a
sprite, she reflected whimsically, touched by the enchantment of
the balmy evening.

All at once, she wanted to make the most of
the magical moment. Did she want the marquess to kiss her? Yes, she
thought, perhaps she did. She liked it when he kissed her—although
she had spent a lot of time denying that fact—and maybe now she
would kiss him back.

Several steps in front of Lord Sutherfield,
she whisked around to face him. With her hands clasped behind her
back, she leaned coquettishly against the massive trunk of the
tree. His expression was drawn tight with desire as he moved
closer, and an intoxicating power welled within her. How the next
few minutes went were hers alone to decide—unless he were a cad.
Her instincts denied that possibility. She tilted her head, smiling
faintly at him.

His gaze sharpened. “This is a dangerous
game, Miss James. Are you certain you wish to play so deep?”
Placing his hand on the tree over her shoulder, he drew nearer.

Cassandra could feel the heat from his body,
could smell the intoxicating, masculine scent of him. He was close
enough for her to see every keen-edged angle of his handsome face
despite the insubstantial light. A quivering warmth low in her
belly sent her pulse leaping out of control.

She came up on her toes and set her lips to
his. Was that the answer he wanted? Cassandra was willing to wager
it was not the answer he had expected.

The marquess stiffened. For a moment he did
not move, his posture rigid with shock. Suddenly, he gathered her
into his embrace, pulling her roughly against him. He took her
mouth with a fierceness that was triumphant, and a primal growl
emanated from his throat.

Cassandra didn’t resist. She pressed closely
to him, running her hands up his chest and over his broad
shoulders. She met his ardent kisses with an eagerness of her own,
while slipping her fingers into the crisp black hair that curled on
his neck.

Lord Sutherfield’s lips moved to her jaw and
down her throat. Sliding his thumbs inside the neck of her gown, he
tugged the diaphanous material from her shoulders, his fiery mouth
following the retreating fabric. And then he appeared to hesitate
as he raised fevered eyes to hers.

Now was the time to end this madness, she
thought, to dash back to the comfort of Mr. Stiles’ parlor, to
pretend this had never happened. She knew he would let her go if
that were her wish. But somehow she could not find the strength—or
the desire—to do what she should. Whatever inferno had been ignited
in him blazed in her as well. She stared at the marquess, unable to
leave.

His eyes narrowed for a moment as though
assessing her response and, apparently satisfied with what he saw,
an easy, sensual grin glided over his features. Again, he began the
assault on the top of her dress.

He hooked his fingers in the neckline and
slowly drew the sleeves down, exposing her breasts. Not once while
he lowered the garment did his gaze leave her face. His hypnotic
eyes bored into hers as though he would understand her thoughts,
would know her soul.

Cassandra felt the cool of the night air as
it touched her skin. Why did she feel no embarrassment? Instead,
she was overcome with a rush of exhilaration, and she boldly met
his look without shame. His eyes, black pools of turbulence,
deepened with understanding, then dropped slowly. With excruciating
deliberation, his gaze traveled from her face to the pale flesh now
revealed by the silvery moonlight.

“Sweet Cassandra,” he rasped, the words
thick with passion, “do you realize how beautiful you are?”

She could not move, could not speak. Lord
Sutherfield’s meandering gaze was like a caress, stroking her,
filling her with longing. The fire he had kindled in her was raging
out of control, and she was helpless to douse the flames.

Cassandra held her breath as she watched his
hand move unhurriedly to the pink tip of one firm breast, his
fingers splayed open. He set his palm to the soft nipple, rolling
it gently, the contact making the sensitive peak stiffen. Her
pent-up air came out in a shaky gasp.

Closing his hand around the breast, the
marquess once more brought his rapt attention to her face. His
ebony gaze glittered with lust, and there was a frightening
savagery about his expression. Her heart thudded with such force,
she was positive he could feel the agitated organ beating beneath
his touch.

He dragged her to him with his free arm,
wrapping it around her. She could feel his long, sinewy fingers as
he grazed them along her spine up to the base of her neck. Her skin
tingled deliciously. And then he brought his heated mouth down on
hers. Cassandra met him willingly, almost aggressively. His tongue
slipped between her parted lips, and her limbs grew weak at the
intimacy of the gesture. He groaned aloud when she returned the
favor.

She was not certain exactly when the tenor
of their lovemaking began to shift, but step by urgent step the
mood intensified. Erotic kisses, warm and languorous, came to a
steamy head. The marquess’ breathing grew harsh and his movements
more forceful.

Cassandra’s arms were twined around his
neck, and he thrust his leg between her knees so she straddled him,
forcing the hem of her skirt above her ankles. She did not
understand the importance of the deed until he grabbed hold of her
hips and began to drag her along the length of his hard thigh.
Carnal pleasure raced through her body, a heightened awareness in a
secret place that already burned wantonly.

She did not fight the feeling, but moved
with it, helping him—helping herself. Over and over the motion was
repeated, back and forth, till rational thought dissipated, leaving
gratification as her only goal.

Cassandra threw her head back, exposing her
throat. Lord Sutherfield found the tiny pulse that throbbed there
and covered it with his greedy mouth, then left a damp trail as he
traced his tongue over creamy skin to a her breast. This time he
tasted the swollen nipple.