My Reckless Surrender (7 page)

Hot slippery wetness flooded onto her bare skin.

S
he'd failed. She'd failed. She'd failed.

Lord Ashcroft rolled to lie against the back of the seat and slid his arms around Diana's waist, holding her secure. His breathing was unsteady, and the scents of sex and sweat filled the carriage. The bench was narrow, so she had no room to push him away without risking a tumble. Even if she could summon energy for such definite action.

A noxious combination of self-disgust and sexual repletion swirled in her belly. Her legs splayed awkwardly, and Ashcroft's seed dried on her exposed stomach.

Amidst her soul's bitter chaos, one thing was clear. She'd whored herself for nothing.

She was too heartsick to acknowledge the pleasure that contradicted her claim. She blinked back stinging tears. What point crying? Weeping like a woman betrayed would be the final humiliation. In the heat, Ashcroft's embrace should be an irritant. Yet she was so bereft and alone, his touch felt like a benediction.

Slowly, she drew her legs together, noting the pull and ache of well-used muscles. She should clean herself up, pull down her skirts, salvage something from this disaster.

Thank heaven Lord Ashcroft wasn't talkative after sex. She felt like she'd never speak again. She stared up at the richly brocaded ceiling with its twining blue-and-gold pattern and wondered what she should do now.

The landscape of her life extended ahead like a bleak, never-ending steppe. She was trapped between a past she couldn't revisit and a future she couldn't imagine.

She'd been so lonely since William died. But nothing cut as deeply as her loneliness in this moment after the greatest pleasure she'd ever known.

Lord Ashcroft was first to move. Briefly, his arms tightened, he placed a kiss on her nape and sat up.

She tried not to miss his embrace. Some remaining shred of pride had her grabbing her tumble of skirts and pushing them down to a decorous level.

“No. Wait,” he said softly, catching her trembling hand.

She stilled immediately and closed her eyes. In spite of her desolation, her wanton blood surged with the memory of other ways and other places he'd touched her.

He released her when it became apparent she offered no resistance. Over the carriage's steady creak, she heard his clothes rustle. Presumably, he ordered his appearance. She heard a faint clink.

Then a blessed coolness on her belly.

Her inertia vanished. She opened her eyes and struggled up on her elbows.

Ashcroft washed her with a damp, snowy white handkerchief. His eyes downcast, he stared at his hand moving upon her pale skin. Thick lashes shadowed his high cheekbones, and concentration marked his striking features. He looked like he considered this the most important task in the world.

She must have made some sound of protest because he glanced up. His green eyes were dark and soft like moss beside a woodland brook. She had a sudden memory of how
fierce and driven he'd looked when he plunged into her body. He seemed a different man now.

God help her, both men tugged at her senses like nobody else. Even her beloved husband William.

“Are you all right?” he asked, still in that same soft voice.

“What are you doing?” She didn't want him to be kind. She didn't deserve his kindness.

A faint smile lifted Ashcroft's lips as he uncapped a silver flask and poured some of its contents onto the handkerchief. “Making you more comfortable.”

“What's that?” she asked suspiciously, hardly heeding his answer.

“Water.”

Of course it was. If it had been anything else, perfume or a spirit, she'd smell it.

“I suppose you need supplies on hand for encounters like this.” Guilt and a sick awareness of her devastating failure prickled at her, prompted a sarcastic response. She felt tired and sticky and furious with herself. She wished she was anywhere but here. Odd, in all her planning for becoming Lord Ashcroft's lover, she'd never considered how she'd fill the awkward moments once the deed was done. “I'm surprised you don't travel with a hip bath.”

The smile deepened. “Are you always this bad-tempered after sex?”

“I can't remember,” she sniped back before she questioned if it was wise to reveal so much of her history. The last thing she wanted was to arouse his curiosity. She didn't want him tracing her to Lord Burnley and Marsham. More, she didn't want him developing a knowledge of the real woman and not just the falsely willing lover.

Except they were both aware that, at the end, there had been nothing false about her response.

Returning his gaze to her body, he wiped the handkerchief across her belly. He parted her thighs to continue his min
istrations. The coolness felt marvelous on her aching flesh, and she gave a muffled sigh of pleasure.

His lips turned down. “I should have taken more care. I'll do better next time.”

Next time? Heaven help her, could she go through this again? For no purpose?

Right now, she yearned to say good-bye to Lord Ashcroft and never see his handsome face again.

Already her soul quailed at what further contact with Ashcroft meant. She had trouble recognizing herself in the woman who had reached shuddering completion not once, but twice. Only moments in the earl's company, and she turned into a round-heeled trollop.

What would she be like in a week? A month?

She'd wanted to keep her essential self separate. That intention had burned to ashes in the conflagration of their lovemaking.

One stark fact was undeniable. Cranston Abbey threatened to cost her more than she'd ever thought to pay.

Abruptly, she registered the intimacy of his actions. Quickly she closed her legs and scrambled to sit against the side of the carriage. The movement shot a twinge of discomfort through her, sharply reminded her of his painful and ultimately rapturous possession.

“Thank you. I feel much better,” she said breathlessly, pushing his hand away, bundling her skirts down with more haste than grace.

Amusement lit his green eyes. She wished it didn't make him even more attractive. “I'll order you a bath when we reach our destination.”

Astonishment made her straighten. “Haven't we…?”

He laughed and slid the flask into a pocket on the coach door. He drew out another silver flask and unscrewed its top. “Haven't we what? Finished? I hope not. I haven't begun to plumb the delights you offer.”

“I don't feel very delightful,” she mumbled. She wasn't sure she had it in her to continue the seduction. What she wanted was to go home to Marsham and curl up in the dark safety of her bedroom.

Oh, poor-spirited, Diana.

Ashcroft frowned in concern and caressed her cheek. One touch conveying more tenderness than anything yet this afternoon. Fleetingly, something pure and joyous bloomed in her heart. Like the first snowdrop in February after a harsh winter.

Brutally, she crushed the feeling.

She didn't want tenderness. She wanted a baby. And unless she could entice Ashcroft to continue the liaison and lose himself inside her, a baby was beyond her reach.

When his eyes met hers, she read no trace of guile in the jade depths. Unlike her heart, which was black with deception.

Next time, she had to ensure he didn't waste his seed.

How on earth was she to manage that? Her path became more tangled and difficult the further she went.

“I know you won't believe me, but I didn't mean to tumble you in this carriage,” he said steadily.

Flaring cynicism tolled the death knell to what remained of that brief, fragile emotion. “You're right. I don't believe you. You seem remarkably prepared for…accidents.”

He didn't immediately understand, then comprehension dawned, and he laughed again. “Diana, a little water in a flask hardly constitutes a familiarity with endless sin.”

He reached up and knocked sharply on the roof. Diana felt the carriage change direction.

He poured wine into the top of the flask. She accepted the cup with a word of thanks. His gaze was opaque, unreadable, a stranger's. She found this urbane companion hard to reconcile with the shaking, desperate man who had spilled himself on her belly.

They'd known each other physically, but with every second, she became more aware she didn't know him any other way.

She tried to tell herself that was what she wanted. But as she sipped her wine—the highest quality, Lord Ashcroft seemed only to have the best of everything—she couldn't convince herself that was true.

Everything became so horrifically complicated. She was painfully aware she didn't belong here. Only the beckoning promise of guiding Cranston Abbey's destiny kept her in this carriage. Otherwise, she'd run like a scared rabbit.

“Where are we going?” She shifted on the seat. Her body still smarted from his ruthless lovemaking, even as unwelcome tides of satisfaction still ebbed and flowed in her blood.

“Lord Peregrine Montjoy's house.”

Ashcroft spoke as if she should know the name. She didn't keep track of London gossip. She only knew about Ashcroft because Lord Burnley had told her. Gradually, reluctantly, she came to the realization that prejudice had informed that description. The man with her now didn't equate to the clumsy brute featured in employer's tales.

“Is Lord Peregrine in residence?”

“No. He left for France this morning. He's visiting the Earl and Countess of Erith outside Rouen. While he's gone, he's turning his library into a music room, and I'm taking some of the books.”

“Does he know you use his house for assignations?”

He arched his black eyebrows in mockery. “Very elegantly put.”

She blushed but tilted her chin at a challenging angle. “Would you rather I use the name it justifies?”

He frowned, and his tone deepened into seriousness. “What happened was the result of mutual desire, Diana. There's no need to be ashamed of it—or yourself.”

She resented how easily he read her. “Spoken like a man at the mercy of his appetites.”

He laughed softly. She couldn't blame him. She was being absurd. He hadn't forced her to anything. This affair started at her invitation. If anyone had been cajoled against his better judgment, it was he. “You sound prim as a Methodist preacher.”

She sighed, loathing herself, loathing what she did, and brushed back the strands of hair clinging to her damp neck. After her recent exertions, the tight braids Laura had arranged it in threatened to tumble around her face. “I'm sorry. I'm not accustomed to this.”

He lifted her left hand. Immediate warmth flooded her, made her feel muddled, uncomfortable, awkward. She hated to be so susceptible to his most casual touch. But so far, she'd discovered no defenses.

She drifted into very deep waters with Ashcroft. Pray heaven they didn't close over her head and drown her.

“I know you're not.” He sounded thoughtful as he absently fiddled with her wedding ring. “What puzzles me is what drives you to these actions.”

Her voice dropped to a husky murmur. “I told you—I seek experience with a man whose discretion I can count on.”

Back in Marsham, that explanation had seemed perfectly credible. Here it sounded threadbare, unconvincing. Especially after what had happened when she'd taken his body into hers. She couldn't blame him for doubting her.

She wasn't a very good liar—an issue Lord Burnley had brushed aside as he'd brushed aside all her misgivings. He should have listened. With every minute, she felt less adequate to this task.

His hand tightened, and the absent, almost tender stroking ceased. “You're married, aren't you?” he said flatly.

She tried not to mind that he believed her an adulteress. After all, she was definitely a liar and a cheat and now, a whore.

But still chagrin edged her reply. “No.”

“Don't lie, Diana.”

She ripped her hand away. “I told you—I'm a widow.”

He went on as though she hadn't spoken. “If you're married, it explains a great deal. Your reluctance to let me take you home last night, your guilt over what we've done.”

She shook her head, while she wondered if inventing a mythical husband might be a smart tactic. “Ashcroft, I'm not married. Even if I were, what do you care? You've had married lovers.”

His lips flattened in displeasure. “Somewhere you've listened to a lot of nasty tattle, madam.”

“You're world-famous,” she said, although she couldn't help feeling shabby. In their short, event-filled acquaintance, she'd learned he was far from an indiscriminate debaucher.

“Apparently,” he responded sourly. “But my mistresses have all been a damn sight more worldly than you, Diana.”

Truly, she had no idea why he tolerated her questions. She had no right to demand an accounting of his life. “You needn't excuse yourself.”

That mocking eyebrow rose again. “I wasn't.”

“And I'm not married.” She took a gulp of her wine, hoping to bolster flagging courage. “My husband…”

She paused and fought for calmness. Talking about William always swept her back to those months of hollow misery after his death. How could a man who was perfectly healthy one day perish of fever the next? Any faith she'd held in a benevolent universe had died that day with her husband. He should still be alive. He should still be with her.

She'd wandered around in a gray miasma for months. Neither her father nor Laura had been able to reach her. All that had kept her going was her duty to Cranston Abbey. Eventually, running the estate had become the purpose that sustained her.

Was that when the seeds of her ambition were sown? The idea of becoming the Abbey's mistress was so outlandish, it would never have occurred to her until Burnley presented
his scheme. But when he did, she felt like she'd been preparing for the role all her life.

She forced herself to answer Ashcroft's question. “My husband died eight years ago.”