Jacquie D'Alessandro (26 page)

Comfortable? She nearly laughed. There was nothing comfortable about the heat and tremors, excitement and pulse-racing this man inspired. Yet, even as that thought entered her mind, she could not deny that in a completely different, difficult-to-define way, she did indeed feel comfortable with him. She enjoyed his company. The sound of his voice. His laugh and quick wit. She could not help but feel that if their situations were different, they might perhaps be…friends.

Friends? With the heir to an earldom? Dear God, she was a candidate for Bedlam.

“You’ve a most interesting expression,” he said. “Would you care to share your thoughts?”

She briefly considered not doing so, but then decided perhaps she should, if for no other reason than to remind him of their divergent stations. “I was thinking how very different we are.”

“Indeed? That is interesting, as I was just thinking how much alike we are.”

“I cannot imagine how you arrived at the conclusion that two people who hail from such different social upbringings are alike.”

“Perhaps our upbringings are not as opposite as you imagine. Why don’t you tell me about yours?”

Panic fluttered in her stomach, and her gaze flew to his. Nothing in his expression or tone indicated anything other than mild interest…or did it?
Relax. It is not unusual he would ask. He is merely making conversation.
Forcing a light laugh, she said, “You grew up in splendor, as an esteemed member of Society. The heir to an earldom. I’m afraid that is quite difficult to top.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But wealth and social standing do not guarantee happiness.” Something in his voice indicated he spoke from experience, and although it pulled at her curiosity, caution kept her from pursuing this conversation that was leading toward questions she couldn’t answer truthfully. And for the first time in years, the thought of lying did not sit right with her.

Looking down, she noticed that a small section of the flounced hem of her gown rested upon his knee, the pale yellow muslin a splash of color against his dark trousers. The sight of her gown touching those fascinating, loose-fitting trousers was inexplicably intimate. Arousing. And stirred her in a way that arrowed heat straight to her core.

“What were you like, Meredith?”

She snapped her gaze back to his. He was looking at her through eyes that appeared far too watchful and full of speculation. “I beg your pardon?”

“As a child. What were you like? What did you enjoy doing? What was your family like?” One corner of his mouth lifted in a sheepish gesture, yet the expression did not quite reach those watchful eyes. “I find myself insatiably curious.”

Images she’d fought years to erase flashed through her mind, and she batted them away. She hated lying to this man. Yet, she had no choice.

Forcing aside the guilt, she uttered the same falsehood she’d told more times than she cared to admit. “My childhood was normal and happy,” she said, the fantasy she’d woven tripping off her tongue. “We were not wealthy, but
comfortably off. Over the years, we lived in several places, resettling as my father’s livelihood as a tutor demanded. After my father died, my mother secured a position as a governess with a prominent family in Newcastle. I lived there with Mother until her death, at which time I came to London, and established myself as a matchmaker. I’d already had a number of successes which helped toward that end.”

“You have no brothers or sisters?”

“Sadly, no.” Anxious to swing the conversation away from herself, she offered him a smile. “Unlike you. You are most fortunate to have Lady Bickley. I always wanted a sister.”

“I am indeed blessed. My childhood would have been unbearably bleak without Catherine.”

Clearly her surprise showed, for he added, “Just because I was surrounded by material comforts does not mean I was happy, Meredith.”

Confusion and undeniable curiosity assailed her, along with sympathy, for there was no mistaking the pain in his eyes. What could have made him unhappy? She’d spent countless hours longing for what he’d had—a normal family, a respectable life, a decent home. Why had it not been enough for him?

“I…I’m sorry you were not happy, Philip.”

“And you’re very surprised that I was not. You’re wondering how I could grow up in surroundings like this”—his gestured to encompass the opulent room—“yet be sad.”

“I cannot deny I find it difficult to fathom.”

Setting aside his plate and wineglass, he leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees. “Have you ever been lonely, Meredith? So lonely that you just…ached with it? Felt alone, even though you were surrounded by people?”

Memories, feelings she’d buried long ago rushed to the
surface. Dear God, she’d spent most of her life feeling exactly that way. Unwilling to respond, yet unable to tear her gaze from the distress simmering in his eyes, she simply looked at him, praying he wouldn’t see the answer in her own eyes.

“As a child,” he said softly, “I always felt as if I were standing outside, looking through the window with my nose pressed to the glass. I was clumsy and awkward, shy and pudgy, forced to wear thick spectacles—all traits made even more glaring when I was in the company of my contemporaries, whom I viewed as everything I was not. I saw little of my father, as he spent much of his time traveling to his estates. My mother was very beautiful, but she suffered from fragile health. After her death, when I was twelve, my relationship with my father grew increasingly strained….” His voice trailed off, and his eyes took on a faraway expression filled with anguish.

Without thinking, she reached out and squeezed his hand. As if coming out of a trance, he looked down at her hand resting upon his. Then he raised his gaze, and her breath stalled at the utter, bleak despair in his eyes. “It was my fault,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion, in stunning contrast to the torment burning in his gaze. “I’d promised Father I’d stay with her, keep her occupied until he returned from an appointment with his solicitor. She was feeling better, as she sometimes did, and as always, when she had strength, she wanted to be outdoors. Father told me not to let her go out until he returned. I gave my word….”

He swallowed, then continued. “I gave my word, but then I…fell asleep.” He shook his head, a bitter sound escaping his throat. “Fell asleep while she read to me. She left the house to walk in the park. Got caught in the rain, and caught a chill. She died three days later.”

“Oh, Philip…” Sympathy crushed her heart as she
imagined a young boy, blaming himself, and his father, doing the same. “You were a child—”

“Who did not keep his word.” He looked up from their joined hands and met her gaze. “If I’d kept my word, she wouldn’t have gone outdoors.”

“She was a grown woman who was the victim of an unwise decision—a choice
she
made.”

“A choice she would not have made if I’d kept my word.” His eyes seemed to burn into hers. “When my father learned that I’d failed, that she’d left the house, he told me that a man is only as good as his word. That a man who does not honor his word is nothing. I’ve never failed to keep my word ever since that day. I’ve failed in other ways, but not in that way. Nor do I intend to, ever again.”

And suddenly she understood his single-minded determination to solve the curse so he could marry before his father succumbed to his illness. It wasn’t simply a matter that he’d struck an agreement with his father—Philip had given
his word
to do so.

“Mother’s death drove a deep wedge between Father and me. He blamed himself and he blamed me. I blamed myself, and we couldn’t seem to breach the ever-widening chasm separating us. Catherine tried to help, reminding us that even before that fateful day, Mother’s illness had advanced beyond hope. Father and I both knew that, but we were both with her when she died, we both saw her suffering and struggling for each breath. She hadn’t had many more months to live, but she died sooner than she had to.”

He blew out a long breath. “With Father spending most of his time seeing to his estates, I spent mine with an array of disinterested private tutors. The situation grew worse when I was sent away to Eton, where I learned that boys, no matter how supposedly well-bred, can inflict great pain, not only with their fists, but with cruel words as
well. The fact that I was a failure at school in every way—except academically—did not help the situation with my father. Seeing Catherine during my school holidays was the lone ray of sunshine during those dark years. Her, and the comfort I found in my studies, when I lost myself in the wonders of the past, in the lives of people I did not know.”

He paused for several seconds, then he appeared to shake off the remnants of the past and his gaze focused back on hers. “With both my father and I needing to escape the tension festering between us, he offered me the chance to further my studies abroad, and I grabbed the opportunity. We struck our bargain—that I would return to England and marry in exchange for his financial backing. As much as I desperately wanted to go, I was terrified to leave my home. I was painfully shy, still awkward and clumsy.”

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But once I departed England, no one knew me, or had knowledge of my past failures, and I reveled in the freedom this afforded me. The strenuous physical activity my travels required, along with the fresh air, all strengthened me, and for the first time in my life, I felt as if I belonged. I met Bakari, then Andrew, who is not only a keen pugilist, but an accomplished fencer. He taught me the finer nuances of pugilism and swordplay, and I taught him how to read ancient scripts. He was no more anxious to discuss his past than I was, and we became fast friends. Indeed, except for Catherine, Bakari and Andrew were the first real friends I’d ever had.”

His words faded, and silence surrounded them. She wanted to say something, but what could she say to a man who had just bared his soul to her? A man she’d fed nothing but a pack of lies to?
Don’t be naïve—honesty only works if you have nothing to hide.

Feelings bombarded her so quickly, and with such force, she couldn’t separate them, couldn’t bring one into
sharp focus before it was shoved aside by another. Sympathy. Guilt. Compassion. Commiseration.

Deep, abiding affection.

The need to touch him, comfort him, overwhelmed her, and it took all her strength not to draw him into her arms. Instead, she merely squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Philip,” the inadequate words and gesture in no way expressing the depth of her jumbled feelings.

“Thank you.” A bit of the tension left his features. “Over the years, I corresponded regularly with Father. Our letters were stilted at first, but after a while some of the tension dissipated, as clearly we both found it easier to communicate through letters than face-to-face. But all the tension returned three years ago when he wrote, demanding my return to England, as he’d arranged a marriage for me. I refused. Partly because I was not yet ready to come home, but also because I’d become quite stubborn in my own right and I did not take kindly to such an autocratic order. As you can guess, our relationship suffered anew because of it. We still corresponded, but it was strained. And then I received his letter telling me he was dying. That, of course, made me realize it was time to come home. I’d hoped that my return to England and my marriage would heal the rift between us. But then I stumbled upon the Stone of Tears.”

Another wave of sympathy washed over her. “Yes. An extremely unfortunate bit of luck.”

“In some ways, yes, with Mary Binsmore’s death being the most tragic. But the curse has not brought only bad luck.”

Her brows shot upward. “How can you say that? The curse lost you Lady Sarah.”

Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, shooting a tingle up her arm. “Yes. But the curse led me to you.”

Meredith’s heart stuttered
to a halt, then slammed against her rib cage.
The curse led me to you….

Before she could think of an appropriate reply—no doubt because there wasn’t one—he smiled. “Forgive me, please. I did not mean to inject our evening with ghosts from the past. There are still several more courses to enjoy, and Bakari will treat me to his most fearsome scowl if I do not serve his masterpieces in a timely manner.”

Clearly he wished to change the subject, and she was more than willing to comply. Surely the simple routine, the ordinary nature of sharing the remainder of their meal would dispel the air of intimacy that had closed in on them during their conversation. Although how she would ever erase the unsettling feelings his story had wrought upon her, she did not know.

The next two courses consisted of thinly sliced duck, then a savory lamb stew, after which she felt warm and sated and relaxed. Surrounded by the fluffy pillows, it was as if she were encased in a velvety cocoon.

“I cannot decide which dish was more delicious,” she said, watching him lift the lid off yet another platter. “Bakari is a gifted chef. If I were you, I’d station him in the kitchen rather than the foyer.”

He laughed. “Wait until you taste this.” He held a small china bowl containing what appeared to be a combination
of custard and thin layers of cake, decorated with a drizzle of chopped nuts and a golden syrup. Obviously a dessert, but one unfamiliar to her. Scooping up a spoonful of the concoction, he held the spoon to her lips. The delicate scents of honey and cinnamon teased her, urging her to eat the offering, but she hesitated, her earlier tension rushing back at the intimacy of his gesture. It was one thing to share a meal with him. It was quite another for him to feed her.

“Try it, Meredith,” he said softly. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

She parted her lips, and he fed her the morsel, then slowly slipped the spoon from between her lips. A heady combination of tastes and textures delighted her mouth—silky-smooth custard, spongy cake, crunchy nuts, sweet honey, the tang of cinnamon. Her gaze locked to his, she slowly chewed, then swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden racing of her heart. The heated awareness of him that she’d managed to push aside roared back to life, inching tingling warmth up her spine.

To her dismay—and utter fascination—he leaned back, reclining onto his side on the pile of pillows, his upper body propped up on his left elbow and forearm. Her gaze involuntarily wandered down his length, taking in his tanned throat, the enticing expanse of his broad chest, his long, outstretched muscular legs.

“Do you like it?” he asked in a husky voice.

She jerked her gaze back to his and found him studying her with deep concentration. Like it?
More than anything I’ve ever seen before.
She glanced down at the china bowl cradled in his left hand and fire raced into her cheeks. Heavens, he’d meant the dessert.

“It’s, um, delicious.” When he dipped the spoon into the bowl again, she asked, “Are you going to have some?”

“I’d love some.” Sitting up, he handed her the bowl and
spoon, then scooted around to face her, moving closer until their knees bumped.

A tingle shot up her leg, and she stared at the bowl and spoon she now held. His meaning was unmistakable. Everything cautious in her warned her to set the food back on the table and leave. Everything feminine and curious in her wanted to know what it was like to feed a man.
This
man.

Heart beating hard, she scooped up a bit of the creamy dessert and brought the spoon to his lips. Fascinated, she fed him the bite, withdrawing the spoon slowly from his mouth as he’d done to her. She watched him chew. Dear God, the man had a beautiful mouth. She instantly recalled the thrilling sensation of that firm, sensual mouth brushing against her lips and skin.

Reaching out, he brushed a single fingertip against her lower lip. “A drop of custard,” he murmured. He then brought his finger to his own mouth and licked off the creamy dollop.

She felt as if he’d tossed her into the fire. Before she could think of what to say or do, he gently took the bowl and spoon from her, setting them back on the table. He then picked up an oval ceramic platter filled with an assortment of cut fruits, olives, and shelled nuts.

Setting the platter next to him, he picked up a small piece of fruit. “This is a fig, very popular with the Greeks since ancient times. Taste.” He reached out with the offering, but when she held out her hand, he shook his head and brought the fruit closer to her lips. “It is customary for a guest to eat a handheld offering from the host—if the guest enjoyed the meal. It symbolizes a harmonious end to the dinner.”

“I see.” She tried to tell herself that she would eat from his fingers solely so as not to flout ancient custom and offend him, but it was such a blatant lie she banished the excuse as quickly as it formed. Ancient custom had nothing
to do with it as she leaned forward and ate the bit of fig from his fingers. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that the fruit was sweet and luscious, but all she could concentrate on was the sensation of his fingers touching her lips.

“The guest may return the favor to the host, if she wishes,” he said, “to indicate that she found the company pleasing.”

Dear God, she found him so much more than merely pleasing. Tempting. Tantalizing. Exciting. Unable to refuse, she reached out and picked up a small section of peeled orange, which she then held out. His gaze steady on hers, he lightly grasped her wrist and pulled her hand closer to his mouth. He drew the sweet citrus and her two fingers between his lips. She gasped as the warmth of his mouth surrounded her fingertips, his tongue brushing over them. Her own lips involuntarily parted in response, and her breath caught. He withdrew her fingers, then dropped a kiss on them.

He chewed, swallowed, then said, “Delicious.” He then picked up a plump, dark olive, the pit clearly removed. “After the sweet fruit, the host offers something salty—to show that he holds his guest in the highest regard.”

As if in a trance, Meredith watched him bring the olive to her mouth, her heart skipping a beat when he slowly ran the offering around the perimeter of her parted lips before allowing her to eat it. The salty tang slid over her tongue, a sharp contrast to the sweet fig.

“The guest may offer the same to the host. If she wishes,” he said, his brown gaze searching hers.

Just as she couldn’t deny she found his company pleasing, nor could she deny she held him in the highest regard. Of course, to do something that admitted that—openly, and to him—was more than a bit frightening. And most certainly unwise.

Yet she could not stop herself from picking up an olive
and offering it to him. His eyes darkened behind his lenses, and a tremor shook her hand. Again he lightly clasped her wrist and drew her hand closer to him, gently sucking the olive and her fingers into the heat of his mouth.

The desire she’d attempted to bludgeon back gushed through her, bubbling in her veins, quickening her pulse. She wanted his mouth on hers. So badly her lips tingled.

“And last,” he said, “to finish the meal, is this.” From the center of the platter he picked up an object about the size of an orange, but it was a deep purplish red in color.

“What is that?”

“A pomegranate.”

She looked at it with interest. “I’ve never seen one, although I’ve heard of it.”

“It is called the Fruit of Paradise, and throughout history it has been cited in the myths and legends of many different cultures and civilizations, as well as in art and literature.”

“Actually, I first heard mention of one in
Romeo and Juliet,
” she said. “A lark’s song tells Romeo that morning has come and he must leave his love. But Juliet tells him, ‘Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree; believe me, love, it was the nightingale.’”

“Yes, I recall that passage. She assured him it was the nightingale rather than the lark…because she did not want him to leave. You enjoy Shakespeare?”

Speak. Talk. Say something,
anything
to dispel this unbearable tension.
“Yes. And
Romeo and Juliet
is my favorite. I’ve always loved losing myself in a book, shutting out everything else and being immersed in a story that transported me to another time and place….” Her voice trailed off as an image of herself at age twelve flashed in her mind. Someone had left a book at the house, and she’d found it.
Romeo and Juliet
. She’d immediately added it to her precious hoard of reading material. That
night, as she had so many other nights, she’d hidden in the cupboard under the stairs and read by candlelight, this time whisked back in time to Verona and the heartbreaking love that would never be. The beautiful words drown out the noises she did not want to hear, allowing her to escape, for a few hours, all that from which she so desperately longed to escape.

“Meredith…are you all right?”

His softly spoken question yanked her back to the present. She blinked to dispel the lingering cobwebs of the past. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You looked very sad.”

She forced a smile. “
Romeo and Juliet
is a sad story.” Not wishing to dwell on stories of impossible love, she asked, “How do you eat a pomegranate? Like an apple?”

“No. You cut it open and eat the seeds.” Still holding the fruit, he handed her a small china bowl filled with tiny, red, pearllike seeds. “The inside is filled with such an abundance of these seeds, the pomegranate has long been a symbol of fertility, bounty, and eternal life. Ancient Egyptians were buried with pomegranates in the hope of rebirth.” Reaching into the bowl, he withdrew one seed. It looked like a miniature red teardrop resting on his fingertip. He brought it to her lips. “There’s a tiny seed within this kernel that is edible. Taste.”

After a brief hesitation, she accepted the offering, her lips brushing against his fingertip like a kiss. His eyes darkened, and he dragged his finger over her bottom lip as he moved his hand away. Lips tingling, Meredith gently bit down on the seed. A tiny burst of flavorful juice touched her tongue, and her eyes widened.

“Deceptive, is it not?” he asked with a smile.

“Indeed. I didn’t expect something so small to contain so much flavor. It’s tart and sweet at the same time.”

He held out another seed for her on his fingertip. “Do you like it, Meredith?”

Her name, said in that husky, deep voice, touched her like a caress. The question in itself was simple enough, but by the heat simmering in his gaze, there was no mistaking that he was asking if she liked more than the taste of the fruit. He wanted to know if she liked being with him like this, being fed by him, feeding him. Touching her fingers to his lips, tasting his fingers against her mouth. As much as she wished it otherwise, there was only one answer—to all those questions.

But should she admit it? She could pretend to misunderstand the deeper meaning behind his question. She
should
pretend. Yet the air of intimacy surrounding them, the opulent décor, the delicious food and wine, the personal, vulnerable details of his life he’d shared with her, the desire all but emanating from him, all served to cast a hypnotic spell upon her that blurred the lines of what she should and should not do…of what was wise and unwise. Yes, she should pretend. But she could not.

“Yes, Philip. I like it.”

His eyes darkened further at her whispered reply.

Without a word, he took the china bowl from her, setting it and the pomegranate back on the platter. He then rose.

Before she could shove aside her disappointment and search for the relief she should have felt at this obvious signal that their meal was over, he stepped around her, then lowered himself to sit on her pillow, directly behind her.

“Straighten out your legs, Meredith.” His soft request brushed by her ear, shooting a shiver of pleasure down her spine.

She did as he bade, then sat ramrod-stiff, afraid to further move lest she encourage—or discourage—him. Behind her, he adjusted his position, shifting closer, and stretching out his long legs on either side of hers. The inner part of his legs touched the outer part of hers, from her
hips downward, while his chest brushed her back. A shiver raced down her spine, raising goose bumps on her flesh, inexplicable, as she was not in the least bit cold. Indeed, she’d never felt
less
chilled in her entire life. She felt surrounded by him, the heat of his body enveloping her as if he’d wrapped her in a warm, velvety quilt.

“After the meal,” he said, the words tickling over the back of her neck, “relaxation is essential.” He began rubbing her shoulders with a gentle yet firm kneading motion that shot delight through her. “You’re very tense, Meredith. Relax.”

Relax? With him touching her? Yet even as she thought it impossible to do so, she suddenly found she could not maintain her stiff posture against the muscle-weakening magic his strong hands wrought upon her.

“Much better,” he said. “This is how a silk-clad princess was pampered…fed upon pillows, then stroked until her body released all its tension.” His fingers slowly worked their way up her neck, then started to gently slip the pins from her hair. She lifted her head, her mind trying to summon a protest, but her lips refused to voice the words. Released from the confines of the pins, her hair fell about her shoulders and down her back.

“Seeing you like this, surrounded by silks and satins, your hair falling down, you could be Queen Nefertiti herself.” The words whispered against her nape, his lips and warm breath caressing the vulnerable skin there. A desire filled shudder vibrated down her spine.

“Do you know what ‘Nefertiti’ means, Meredith?”

Incapable of speech, she shook her head.

“It means ‘the beautiful woman has come.’ Ancient Egyptians celebrated such feminine charms in lyrics they composed to the objects of their affections. I translated several such lyrics I discovered during my travels. One was particularly lovely. Would you like to hear it?”

Again, she merely nodded. She felt him lean closer, his chest pressing against her back. Her eyes slid closed, absorbing the sensation. Soaking in the pleasure. With his lips hovering a hairbreadth from her ear, he whispered: