Mechanically, Esmée turned her cheek for his kiss, then stepped out into the corridor and followed the remaining guests up to bed. But she wondered even as she did so if Lord Wynwood was secretly glad to be rid of her for the evening.
At the top of the stairs, she bade her aunt good night.
“Shall I send Pickens to you, my dear?” asked Lady Tatton. “You look all in.”
Esmée shook her head. “I will manage,” she said. “Good night, ma’am. And thank you.”
She retired to her room, and began to undress. It had not been a pleasant evening. She released the clasp at the nape of her neck and let Alasdair’s pearls slither into her hand. They puddled in her palm, warm as the tears she had shed for him. As heavy the heart in her breast.
But her heart was safely hidden, and her tears she had always shed in private. She let the pearls pour through her fingers and onto the dressing table. She could not bear to see the green velvet box again. Pickens could put them away tomorrow.
Slowly, methodically, she stripped away the rest of her clothes and tossed them onto the divan. She could not escape the feeling that tonight had been a disaster for Wynwood, too. She had made a mistake, she feared, in accepting him. What he had said was quite true. He had
not
been attentive—and the worst part of it was, she had not cared. It would have made no difference. She could not have told from one moment to the next when he was in the room or out of it—though she could have said to the very inch just where Sir Alasdair MacLachlan had stood at every instant.
No, she did not yearn for Wynwood’s companionship. Her stomach did not turn flip-flops at the merest sight of him. And it never would. Well. She had wanted a marriage of the head, not the heart. Perhaps yearning and flip-flopping were too much to hope for.
Esmée took down her hair, then crawled into bed with a novel she had brought from London, but tonight, it seemed banal. She read the third chapter for the second time and finally comprehended that it was not holding her interest. Her mind kept returning to Alasdair. To the sardonic look on his face. The way he had lifted his glass as if wishing her well, even as his eyes had mocked her.
She closed her book with an angry snap. He was
not
indifferent to her. She sensed—no, she
knew
—he was not. But he was also “not the marrying kind.” He had used that as an excuse when he’d sent her away—and she believed him. He was six-and-thirty, and if rumor could be trusted, had never so much as considered marriage. So what did he want? Lord, what did
she
want? To be the next Mrs. Crosby?
Esmée hurled the book across the room with unrestrained violence. It flew open, smacked against the opposite wall, and slithered into the floor. She realized with a start that it had felt
good
to do something violent. Perhaps it was time she began giving in to her impulses more often. She wished she could toss Alasdair out of her head so easily.
She looked again at the ormolu clock by the bed. She knew she would not sleep another wink in her present state of agitation. Silently, she slid from the bed and drew on her wrapper. Surely there was something worth reading in that vast library of Wynwood’s? Preferably one of those fat mythological tomes about Amazons who pitched uncooperative men into vats of boiling oil. Or was she mixing up her mythology and her history? No matter. She liked the notion of boiling oil.
Carrying an extra candlestick, Esmée made her way back down the grand staircase, which was lit by the occasional sconce. She turned into the corridor which led past the withdrawing room, the morning parlor, and on to the library, carefully counting off the doors. Yes, this one.
She pushed the door open on silent hinges, and was surprised to find that a fire still burned in the grate. Intending to light her candle, she started toward it. Too late, she realized that the room was occupied.
“Looking for Wynwood, m’dear?” asked a dry, laconic voice from the hearth.
Alasdair sat in a large high-backed chair, his feet propped up on a table, and a glass of something golden dangling from his fingertips. Esmée looked down at him pointedly. “No, astounding as it may seem, I was looking for a book.”
Alasdair unfolded himself from the chair and stood. “Then by all means, choose one,” he said, waving his hand about the room. “I believe there are some eight thousand volumes here.”
Esmée peered about at the shadows. “Are you alone?”
Alasdair came toward her with a bitter smile. “Merrick and Quin found my company disagreeable,” he said. “They wished me to the devil and went up to bed.”
Esmée refused to budge. “Well, you have been disagreeable,” she said. “You’ve looked daggers at everyone all evening. I don’t know why you came if all you mean to do is quarrel.”
Alasdair rocked back on his heels and studied her. “Are we quarreling, Esmée?”
She cut him a quick, sidelong glance. “What would we have to quarrel over?”
“Ah, what a question that is,” he said, setting his glass aside. “Sorcha? The weather? Your choice of husbands?”
Esmée held his gaze quite steadily. “Have you some sort of quarrel with my choice?”
For a moment, his expression shifted. There was something…something different in his eyes tonight. Sorrow? Regret? He was not drunk, she thought. Indeed, she had the strangest impression he’d been nursing the same glass of brandy since dinner.
She gentled her own expression and approached him, setting a hand on his arm. “Alasdair, perhaps I have made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I do not know. I know only that it is something Quin and I must work out for ourselves. But I won’t hurt him, Alasdair. And I shan’t disappoint my aunt, either.”
“So you mean to go through with this foolishness?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps it has gone too far to stop,” she answered. “And frankly, no one has given me reason to do so.”
The emotion in his eyes darkened. “Tell me something, Esmée,” he rasped. “Does Quin know about us?”
“Us?” Her voice was arch. “There is no
us,
Alasdair. You could not have made that more plain.”
“Damn it, you know what I meant,” he said. “Does he know we were lovers?”
Esmée felt the blood drain from her face. “You—why, you said there was nothing between us!” she choked. “You told me I was a virgin and free to marry where I pleased.”
His jaw tightened. “Not to marry someone like Quin!” he returned, seizing her by the shoulders. “Esmée, he is little better than I! Besides, you do not love him.”
“Love!”
she said disdainfully, jerking her gaze from his. “I begin to think you know nothing of the word, Alasdair.”
His hand, cold as ice, cupped her chin, forcing her face to his. “Look me in the eyes Esmée,” he growled. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me that you love him, and I swear I’ll never touch you again.”
“I don’t want to love him!” she cried. “Oh, Alasdair, can’t you see? All I can hope for now is to marry with my head, not my heart! I don’t want to be a fool like my mother, falling imprudently in love and wedding one pretty scoundrel after the next.”
His eyes searched her face. “But Esmée, that’s just what you are doing,” he whispered. “That’s just what Quin is.”
She looked at him boldly, her words angry and impetuous. “Do you desire me, Alasdair?” she demanded. “Is that what this is about? If it is, why not just have me? What would it matter? Lord Wynwood made it plain he did not require a virgin in his bed.”
His fingers slid round her cheek, then into her hair. “I ought to, by God,” he growled. “I ought to drag you down onto the floor this very minute, Esmée, and have my way with you. If you mean to throw yourself away on a worthless scoundrel, it might as well be me.”
If it was meant as a threat, it didn’t work. Instead, his words sent a shiver of raw lust down her spine. And like a fool, she couldn’t keep her temper and her frustration from flaring. “Go on,” she challenged. “Do it. I
dare
you.”
His hand fisted angrily in her hair. “You silly little fool!” he choked. “And you are ten times a fool to remain alone here with me.”
She felt her whole body begin to tremble with rage and thwarted desire. “Stop pretending I don’t know what I want,” she hissed. “And stop pretending I don’t know
you.
I know the scent of lust on your skin. The heat in your eyes. I know you want me. God knows I want you, fool that I am.”
Alasdair heard the passion and anger in her words, and knew he should walk away. This was dangerous ground. Esmée belonged to another. To a
friend.
But in the end, desire overcame honor. Bracketing her perfect face between his hands, Alasdair slanted his mouth over hers, and kissed her hungrily. Esmée goaded him, kissing him back with equal abandon, no longer his little innocent.
She allowed him every liberty, opening her mouth to his tongue and tasting him deeply in return. Fleetingly, he tried to think. Tried to stop. But Esmée had come fully against him, tempting and tormenting him with her lithe, round body. When he hesitated, she coaxed him, sliding her tongue provocatively along his. When he tried to pull away, she slid her hands round his waist and up his back, her touch warm and sure beneath his coat.
“Alasdair.” With lips like honeyed satin, she tempted him, wrapping her body round his, binding them together, heart to heart. At last, she tore her mouth from his. “Oh, Alasdair, make me forget you,” she begged. “Take me. Take this terrible craving and sate it. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
“Esmée, love,” he whispered into her hair, “it doesn’t work that way. It only gets worse.”
“Try.” Her lips moved lightly across his throat. “Oh, just try. Just once.”
His mouth sought hers, and she kissed him again, exultantly and openly. All the impossibilities fell away. His good intentions crumbled. He bent her back, reminding himself of how small she was. He felt tall and a little awkward, like a boy again. But he was no boy. He’d bedded more women than he could count. But tonight, he was going to bed Esmée—and she would be the last. No matter what happened.
“Nothing is certain,”
his brother’s voice echoed.
“Not until the vows are spoken.”
She gave a little moan of pleasure, and she slipped one finger beneath the bearer of his trousers. Just one teasing, tormenting finger. She wanted him. He had always wanted her. And they had this moment, if nothing else.
“God, Esmée.” It was a whisper. A plea. He needed her, and he was so bloody tired of fighting it. He let his lips slide down the tender flesh of her throat, drawing in her heathery scent as if it might be the last breath he drew. She smelled of warmth. Of comfort and joy. Of home.
“Alasdair,” she pleaded. “Please.”
Somehow, he found a shred of self-control and lifted his head without quite looking at her. “Esmée, are you sure?” he whispered. “I would sooner die than hurt you.”
“’Tis the not having you, Alasdair, that hurts me,” she answered, sliding her hands higher still. “I’ve tried not to want you, but the ache never leaves me. I think it might, if…if you just…”
“Oh, Lord.” He closed his eyes and bent his forehead to her shoulder. “I’ll burn in hell for this.”
She turned her head and brushed her lips along the shell of his ear. “I’ll make it worth the trip.”
He lifted his head, and looked at her. The warmth kindling in her eyes was no reflection of the fire. It was a woman’s knowledge. A woman’s power. It was real, and it was dangerous, and it was for him. She was no girl; he wondered he’d ever thought so. He stroked his thumb along her cheek, but it was not enough. She turned her face into his open hand, her mouth still open and seeking. Lightly, she touched his palm with her tongue and muttered something soft and needy.
He pulled her roughly to him again and pressed his body to hers in a way which made plain his intentions. With his fingers sliding into the hair at her temples, he cradled her face in his hands, still kissing her, still drowning in her. He could feel her skin heating. Her heart beating. Faster and faster.
She delved deep into his mouth with her delicate tongue, and he began to tremble in her arms. Desperately, his hands went to the tie of her wrapper, loosening it with unsteady fingers. Her hands did not shake. They slid boldly up his chest and over his shoulders, pushing his coat to the floor.
His waistcoat followed. His cravat yielded to her small, clever hands, a stitch ripping as she pulled it from his collar. Behind them, the fire snapped, exploding into a hundred tiny sparks. Alasdair felt alive. Exhilarated. Like a man given a second chance at life. There was a throbbing—a mystical, driving drumbeat—pounding in his blood and his brain. He pushed her wrapper away and followed suit with her nightgown.
Oh, sweet heaven! She was as naked beneath as the day God had made her. He let his hands slide over her, down her, shaping her every hollow and curve, worshiping the thing of beauty that she was. But Esmée was impatient, as if fearing sanity might reclaim her. With urgent motions, she pulled at his shirt hems, still kissing him, hot and openmouthed.
He loosened the fall of his trousers and pushed everything—drawers, shoes, everything—off in an awkward jumble, leaving him in nothing but his shirt.
She returned her mouth to his at once. When he slowed fleetingly, she made a sound of desperation. “Don’t slow down, Alasdair,” she begged. “Don’t think. Don’t let me think.”
He was so easily convinced. Pressing the weight of his arousal against her, he slid his hands to her buttocks and lifted her against him. She pulled at him, urging him down. Somehow, he guided her down onto the Persian carpet, setting her back to the fire’s warmth. Esmée was all softness and beauty. Sweetness and heat. Her bare skin glowed in the firelight. His pulse pounded in his head and throbbed in his groin. She rolled onto her back and shoved his shirt over his head.
Awkwardly, he helped her strip it off. She slid one hand round the curve of his buttocks and pulled him onto her body. He went willingly now, pinning her to the carpet with his weight and pushing her legs apart with his knee. Forcing himself to slow, Alasdair slid one hand down her belly and eased a finger into her womanly heat.