Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2) (12 page)

And together, they danced.

Somewhere in the shadows, Lady Agatha began to snore.

He had no right to kiss Sophia. It was a liberty no honorable man would take until they were wed. Yet he had no will to resist. He stole a kiss, taking it from her lips as he had so often dreamed of doing. He tucked her against him so tightly, she had nowhere to run and no choice but to let him taste the glory of her mouth.

She did not object. She melted against him, letting her hands trail through his hair, drawing him down to her though he meant to resist.

They kissed again.

It was like tasting innocence. Her mouth was pure, simple, and untrained. But she learned quickly, and soon they were dancing in a whole new way. There was no space between them. Every part of her was pressed intimately against him. Her heat invaded his blood, making him mad with hunger. Better yet, he felt an answering desire from her. Her hands were no longer exploring but pulling, demanding, pressing him closer and harder against her.

"Sophia," he rasped, twisting his mouth away as he tried to regain some sense of reason. "I cannot resist you much longer. Say you will marry me."

She paused. He felt her body tense ever so slightly. Then the word escaped her lips: "No."

She gave her denial, but she did not release him. Instead, she began kissing his face, his eyes, his brow. His head dipped down against her neck, and he nuzzled the pulse point at the base of her throat.

"Sophia. Marry me." He was begging her.

"No."

She was driving him insane. He could not believe that after everything he had done, after the way she felt in his arms, she could still deny him. Suddenly a fierce anger mixed with the heat in his blood. In one swift move, he leaned down and lifted her into his arms. She did not cry out, but clutched him even tighter, her body pliant and willing.

He did not pause to consider his actions. He strode away, carrying her out of the parlor and straight to her bedroom door. She did not seem to notice. She had wrapped her arms around him, her desire apparent in her short, sweet panting which stroked his neck as she kissed his face, his neck, all of him that her greedy lips could reach.

He paused, claiming her lips with all the force of his desire, feasting on her mouth, demanding she respond to him as feverishly as he wanted her. She did. Taking his mouth as never before, she dueled with him. Their tongues meshed and fought as furiously as any battle he'd ever known.

In a haze of desire, he kicked open her bedroom door, the solid wood slamming backward against the frame, but she did not flinch. She did not seem to care if he woke all the servants with his lovemaking.

He cared, though.

He dropped her unceremoniously onto her bed. The movement was abrupt, and she was unable to keep hold of him. Still, he felt tied to her, mesmerized by the dark mystery of her eyes. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her dress in disarray. How could he resist?

"Marry me, Sophia," he said again, his words soft and gentle. Even as he spoke, he leaned over her, feathering kisses across her skin, already anticipating her sweet surrender.

"No." Then she drew his lips to hers for another kiss. He took it, claiming her mouth again as he braced his arms on either side of her head.

"I want you, Sophia," he whispered into her lips, even as he lowered his body on top of hers, pressing intimately against her. She arched against him, her soft moan of hunger driving him wild. "Marry me."

He did not think she could understand him, as he was nearly gone himself. His hand had found the sweet contours of her breast, kneading it as she writhed beneath him. But somehow, somewhere, she found the breath to refuse him.

"No," she said one last time. He stilled.

Frowning down at her, he pulled his hand away. She was not denying him access to her. Already, she was reaching up for another kiss, her breast arched into his hand, her body pressed against his length.

He did not move. "Sophia, you must marry me."

"No."

Anger grew like sour fruit within him. Why would she do this? Why would she offer herself for a night, but not for a marriage? He did not understand. But he would not take her like this. He would not take
just
this.

Though it took every bit of willpower he possessed, he forced himself to move away. He pulled backward, off the bed, while his hands clenched into fists before he drew them down to his sides.

"I will bed you as my wife and not before," he ground out between clenched teeth.

She stared at him, her eyes going wide, her gaze darting over her room, skittering over her bed and her disheveled clothes. It was as if she had just noticed where they were and what they had been about.

"Oh!" It was a tiny gasp of shock and surprise, but Anthony still saw the desire swirling in her blue eyes. He could still have her if he wanted. But he did not need a wanton for one night. He wanted a wife.

"If your aim was to give me a disgust of you, you have succeeded," he snarled. He watched her beautiful blue eyes widen in horror and guilt. She had not truly thought she was in danger, had not understood what he'd intended. What any man would intend...

The knowledge sickened him. She was an innocent. And yet, seeing her now, lush and seductive, he had to fight the blood that pounded in his ears.

His mind reeled. This was not his Sophia, he told himself. The woman had always been composed, sophisticated in every way. She would never lie drunk and disheveled on a bed. He would not want her if she did. That was not what he needed as a wife for a diplomatic career. What he wanted.

But he
did
want her. Now and in every way.

He took a step forward, toward her and the sweet heaven her body promised. Then he stopped himself, groaning out loud in his confusion. This was not Sophia, he repeated to himself. And yet it was.

He could not make sense of it. And his confusion infuriated him.

Spinning on his heel, he stormed out. His feet pounded down the hallway, delivering agony to his leg with every step. He welcomed the pain. It cleared his mind.

And then he saw Kirby waiting at the foot of the stairs, hat in hand, face pale, and his demeanor anxious.

Anthony slowed his steps, his eyes narrowing at his batman as the knowledge hit him. "You put her up to this." It was not a question. He'd known the truth from the moment he'd seen the orderly standing there.

Kirby shifted awkwardly. "I—"

He did not have the chance to finish as Anthony shoved the man out of his way. Then, without a backward glance, Major Wyclyff quit the Rathburn home.

* * *

"D'ye want anything else?" the barmaid asked, her dark eyes pulled wide in false innocence as she thrust her ample figure forward.

Anthony frowned up at the woman. In his experience, most barmaids were grateful for quiet customers, ones who paid their bills and made few demands. But not this woman. This one, apparently, was offering more than a serving of ale.

Anthony leaned back and perused the woman's delights. Short, bouncy, and with more than a handful of charms, she would make a soft pillow indeed for the night. Especially after Sophia had raised his hunger to a fever pitch.

But the mere thought of Sophia's cool blue eyes and her regal body had him shaking his head at the barmaid. He didn't want obvious charms. He wanted a statuesque refinement, able to both grace the king's court by day and heat a man's bed at night.

The barmaid flounced away, turning her attention to the more customary clientele of this quiet Staffordshire inn. After storming out of the Rathburn house, Anthony had headed straight for the nearest drink. His horse had brought him here, but three ales and hours sitting among Staffordshire's locals had not brought him relief. Indeed, his mind and body were as tormented as ever.

Sophia had surprised him tonight. Up until this evening, she had reigned supreme in his thoughts simply as a perfect complement for a man intent on political advancement. Like his mother, Sophia seemed a composed hostess, expertly designed to navigate social waters with the surety of Nelson. His mother had changed his father from a crass, nobody earl to a powerful political figure, well respected by all.

Sophia, he knew, could do such things for him as well.

In fact, at first he'd had no hopes that he could ever win her. A sick man on a hospital pallet could never dare to expect such a woman's hand. But then they had conversed, discussed, even confided in one another. Sophia had whispered about her dreams, and Anthony knew at last God had answered his prayers. God had handed him the perfect companion to his ambitions.

Sophia wished to see foreign parts. Anthony's ambassadorial career would certainly provide that. Sophia wished to be released from all the restrictions of a young debutante in England. A marriage to him would free her to act as a matron. In addition, Anthony was a relaxed commander. He would overlook many small infractions, counting on Sophia's excellent social skills to see her through.

But more than that, he recognized the underlying boredom in Sophia. She longed for a challenge. Something to interest her beyond who was whispering what nonsense to whom, the silly gossip of the
ton
. He knew that Sophia would launch herself into whatever he did, providing him with keen insights and invaluable assistance along England's diplomatic path to civilized world leadership.

In short, he could give Sophia everything she longed for, and she in turn could provide him with the exact support he required. When she had accepted his proposal in London, he had believed she understood all that.

Instead, she had been told he was dead; then, sick with grief, she had run to Staffordshire. Or perhaps, he thought morosely as he stared into his ale, she had simply given empty words to ease a dying man into Heaven.

His mind rebelled at such a thought. It wasn't possible, he told himself. Except, more and more, it appeared to be true. Her promise to him had meant nothing. Her future had been planned without him.

Still, he would not allow himself to be discouraged. After all, the reasons for them to wed were ample, and they remained as true now as they had two months ago. Moreso, since his mind and body were at last whole.

Yet everything had changed.

He had spent many long hours in the hospital dreaming of what it would be like to kiss Sophia. He had imagined warming her with slow strokes, teaching her carefully about passion. Never had he expected the fiery response he'd gotten tonight. Not even in fantasy had he thought Sophia capable of such untutored hunger, such open responsiveness. It was as though a single kiss had sparked a hot, wet, carnal enthusiasm that would rob any man of his reason.

Sweet heaven, his body was still pulsing with lust. He still could not credit that the two women—the cool, refined Sophia he knew and tonight's passionate wanton—were one and the same. But they were. And oddly, that only made him more determined to marry her.

Earlier today, he might have released Sophia from her promise. There were many logical reasons he would have accepted for her refusal to wed: That she did not wish to leave her family for years on end. That she had a hobby completely unacceptable to the Crown—a desire for sculpting the naked male form, for example, or worse yet, a reforming zeal unchecked by common sense. But she claimed none of those things.

Instead, she had kissed him, and he had realized that God had provided him with not only a mate for his ambition, but a match for his passion. No power on Earth would keep him from her now. She was too perfect a woman to be released. He had never expected ardor in his marriage bed, merely an acceptable camaraderie. To know now that she had such fire within her was to know she was a pearl beyond compare.

Unfortunately, Sophia remained stubbornly immovable on this issue. It made no sense. There had to be a reason beyond what she said. Yet, after hours of thinking, he was still no closer to an explanation for her illogical behavior. He finished off his drink and waved for another, wondering at the puzzle.

After another hour of drinking, he had an answer. It was simple, really. Her illogic was simply part of the package; Sophia made no sense. Yet that did not deter him. He had fought in wars that made less. What he needed now was a plan. A campaign, as it were, that would bring sweet, illogical Sophia to his side.

He allowed a slow smile to creep over his face. Things were different. He now knew the battle they were waging. Whereas before, his only weapon had been logic, now he had a much more potent club to hand. What had Lady Agatha said? Passion. At the time, he had not believed it. Now he knew the older woman was exceptionally clear-sighted.

Sophia had passion in spades. She was obviously untutored, inexperienced in matters of the flesh. He must use her feelings against her, turn her newfound hunger toward him. That was the only way to succeed. Simple pleas had not worked. He would have to bring out the big guns.

It would be a difficult thing, though, he knew. He had to seduce her without bedding her; it was dishonorable to do otherwise. And he would not dishonor her. No matter what, he would not satisfy their mutual hunger until she said, "I do."

He had little doubt that he could accomplish the task. He was a man of great discipline who had never broken before. Not when the outcome was so important. All that remained was to draw up a battle plan. He needed to find a way to push Sophia out of her customary calm. The more disquiet she felt, the more she was likely to yield to her natural inclinations. The more she ached for satisfaction, the more she would turn to him. From there, it was one small step to the altar. Then India. Then a lifetime of glory by day and passion by night.