Rexanne Becnel (21 page)

“What of the girls?”

“They’re your girls, remember? Not mine.” She clamped her lips together. There was too much hurt in her voice. Too much pain.

Unfortunately he heard it, for his tone turned from challenging to tender. “They’ll always be yours, Phoebe. Especially Helen.” He crossed to her. “You’re her aunt. You’re her family.”

Something began to quiver inside her, something that made her next words come out strangled. “And what will I be to you?”

He lifted his hand to her and though she flinched, he slid the pad of his thumb across her lower lip, the lightest caress across the most sensitive part of her. “You are to me what I am to you, Phoebe. Nothing has to change between us.”

She smiled, the most insincere smile of her life. “Your lover. I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine?”

The fire flared with renewed vigor. Pop, hiss. She felt the first wave of heat from the fledgling flame. But no fire of any size could thaw the icy dread that encased her heart. “I’ll be your mistress and you’ll be my protector?”

The firelight cast one side of his face in shadows, but still she saw his frown. “You make it sound tawdry.”

“Isn’t it?”

He caught her by the arms before she could back away. “No. Nothing about what I feel for you is tawdry.” Then his eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. “You’re the only one who sees it that way.”

“Only me?” She gave him an incredulous look. “Me and anyone from Swansford who might suspect something between us. Oh, and then there’s your staff.” She was really working herself into a fine fit of pique. “Mr. Benson shall be so pleased to know your mistress is in residence on the third floor. So much easier than having to call for a carriage or a horse, and to dress his master to go off to meet his mistress. And then there’s the small matter of your wife.”

She jerked away from him, no longer pretending that this could be a civil conversation. “I’m sure the new viscountess won’t see anything tawdry about her husband creeping about the house at night to carry on with the governess.”

His brows lowered in a scowl. “Damn it, Phoebe! That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it, James?” She threw her hands up in frustration. “What? Isn’t it enough that you’ve taken Helen from me? Is it your plan to get a baby on me too? Another child to wield like a weapon against me?” Her voice broke, but when he tried to enfold her in his arms she shook her head and held him off.

“I’m sorry, Phoebe. Sorry about Helen. Sorry that Catherine ever came here. Sorry that your life has been torn apart because of me. But I can’t be sorry about the time we’ve spent together.”

Like the old oaks along the cliffs that quaked when the sea winds roared through, Phoebe shook from the force of his words. But they weren’t enough. “You may not be sorry,” she said—she lied—“but I am.”

Their gazes clashed and held, until the intensity of it became unbearable. He was peeling away all the layers of her lie, and soon he would reveal every secret hope and foolish dream she harbored: She didn’t want him to leave her alone; she wanted him to marry her, to be with her forever—only her—and need her above all others.

But he would never feel that way and she refused to let him see that pathetic need in her eyes. “It doesn’t really matter,” she said. “The truth is, now that I’m no longer burdened by aging parents and an orphaned niece, I’ve suddenly become more attractive to the local bachelors. Imagine that. I’ve been invited to dine in Swansford tomorrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if by May Day I had a beau of my own.”

It was an out-and-out lie, but Phoebe forced conviction into every single word, and it paid off. For the first time that night he looked flummoxed, as if the idea of someone else desiring her company was beyond the realm of belief. The very fact of his silence goaded her further.

“I plan to marry, you see. A woman who holds title to her own land is a rare commodity around here. Now that I’m not bound by family obligations, I expect to have men fighting for the opportunity to marry me. After all, as we both know, smart men always plot how to marry well.” She gave him a curt nod. “I think you better leave now.”

She was bluffing. It was patently false, everything she said. The last thing Phoebe wanted was to marry some sly fellow who wanted a farm more than he wanted a wife to go with it. But that was the sort of negotiations the Viscount Farley understood. You married the woman whose situation most improved your own. The others you simply slept with.

But bluffing or not, he must have believed her, for his jaw clenched and his eyes turned black with emotion. “Don’t do it, Phoebe. Don’t marry just to spite me.”

“Spite has nothing to do with it. Like you, I’m making a practical decision.”

“Practical, my ass. It’s not the same thing. Catherine and I…You know we were betrothed before all this business about my daughters. But you, you’re not being practical; you’re trying to punish me.” He stalked toward her, and to her shame, she retreated until the wall prevented her retreating any further. He trapped her there with a hand braced on either side of her. “The fact is, you said you’d take care of my girls. Were you lying? We agreed on a salary. Wasn’t it enough?”

Phoebe was too furious to be cautious. How like him to behave as if she were at fault. “The salary of a governess and the salary of a mistress are two entirely different matters.” With every word she poked him in the chest. “I cannot be
their
governess, the object of
your
lust, and
another
man’s wife. I refuse to be!”

His face lowered to mere inches from hers. “Then just be the object of my lust.”

“How dare you!”

She tried to slap him, but he caught her by the wrist. “Bloody hell, Phoebe. I don’t mean that as an insult. I’ve never desired a woman like I desire you. I’ve never wanted someone so much.”

A sob caught in her throat. He desired her. He wanted her. All well and good. But he didn’t want her enough to marry her. It was past time that she accept the fact that he never would. So she collected herself, willing away every tear and every emotion except for a comforting anger. She lifted her chin and met him eye to eye.

“I’m flattered, Lord Farley. To be the object of lust to a man of your rank is quite a compliment for a mere farmer’s daughter.” Despite her every effort at control, sarcasm crept into her voice.

“You’re more than a farmer’s daughter,” he growled. Around her wrist his grip tightened. “There’s no reason we cannot continue as we have begun.”

“I don’t want to continue like that. Haven’t you heard anything I said?”

He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was serious. “Why the hell not?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to be your mistress.”

A muscle in his jaw ticced. “That’s not the right word for what we have.”

“We have nothing.”

“We’re lovers. We have that.”

“No. That’s…that’s not enough.”

“Not enough?” He shifted just enough so that every breath she took caused her breasts to graze his chest.

She tried not to breathe.

Then he shifted again, easing one of his knees between her legs. She sucked in a hard breath, her breasts flattened against his chest, and she felt the shock arrow straight from her nipples to her womb. Like a spell, he cast his magic over her, melting her resolve and everything else. He moved his hand from her wrist, tangling their fingers, cupping her hand, then bringing her palm to his lips to kiss.

Oh, but she was a hopeless creature, a slave to lust, for the parts of her that had begun to melt, turned now to steamy lava.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered, knowing she didn’t have it in her to resist that which she so dearly desired.

“I must,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her trembling lips. “I must.”

They kissed forever. His mouth possessed hers fully, delving deep with his tongue, then sucking her tongue into his mouth. He tasted and probed and bit her lips almost to the point of pain. With his body he pressed her against the wall, meanwhile trapping her arms above her head. Hand in hand, mouths seeking and slanting, their bodies heaved in a desperate search for closer contact.

They were hampered, though, by wool and leather and muslin and twill. At some point Phoebe curled her calf around his. But too many layers of cloth hobbled her and all she could do was thrust her yearning hips against his thighs and loins.

She felt his erection, the hard ridge of male flesh that she feared and desired and seemed to have become addicted to. Since meeting him, she’d turned into a reckless wanton. Yet only in her lonely moments did she fret over it. In moments like this, with her flesh on fire and her mind consumed with him, wantonness became a galvanizing, essential thing. Her lifelong aim.

“Tell me what you want.” He followed his words with the astonishing thrill of his tongue circling her ear.

No words would come. It took every bit of her concentration just to breathe.

“We’re lovers, Phoebe. You and I.” He slid his hips sideways, back and forth, so that she could feel every inch of his surging arousal. His breathing grew as labored as hers. “Nothing changes what we have. Nothing.”

He was making her helpless with need. A dim part of Phoebe’s brain recognized that. When he had her in his sexual thrall, she couldn’t think beyond the moment, beyond the pleasure and promise of that mind-shattering culmination he’d introduced her to.

But he was in sexual thrall to her too. He caught her mouth in a wicked kiss, thrusting his tongue in and out along her sensitive lips, mimicking the action of his hips. He’d chased her across the moonlit hills, the hound on the trail of the evasive fox. In this case, a vixen. Oh, yes. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

So why couldn’t she make him helpless with need? Why must she be the only one ever to give ground? Why couldn’t she for once be the one to control him?

She broke the kiss, twisting her head to the side as she gasped for air. “I want…I want…”

“Yes?” His lips fastened upon her earlobe, tugging it in the most erotic manner. “What do you want me to do to you, Phoebe? Tell me. Anything.”

“I want you…to take off your clothes.”

She felt his smile as he kissed down the side of her neck. “I think I can manage that.” But as he pulled away, it was her bodice he started to unfasten.

His hands were as quick and clever as a pickpocket’s, but she slapped them away. “No. You first.” She took a deep breath, holding his heavy-lidded gaze with hers. “I want to watch.”

A predatory grin lifted one side of his face, the side gilded by the strengthening fire. Already her little parlor seemed much warmer than before. “That sounds interesting,” he said in that tempting, taunting voice that made her want to squirm. Then with slow, controlled movements, he began to disrobe. His coat he flung on a chair. His waistcoat followed, and then his shirt.

Phoebe watched every move with hungry eyes. His chest was beautiful. The erratic firelight painted him with moving shadows: planes, hollows, sinuous shiftings. With every flex she saw the smooth workings of his body, the body that he would use to give her every physical pleasure before this night was done.

Good heavens, did she really believe she could ever seek out some other fellow to marry when this man promised her such a cornucopia of carnal delights?

His eyes ran over her, as fiercely intent as if she, too, were naked before him. “I want to lick down the crevice between your breasts, Phoebe. To taste the sweet buds of your breasts, and to—”

“Don’t talk!” She held up one shaking hand. “Don’t…Don’t say another word.”
Otherwise I will suffocate from lust.
“Just…take off your clothes.”

His eyes were alive with passion. He knew exactly what she was feeling. But he did as she ordered. His boots came off easily. Then he began the task of unloosening his breeches.

She watched with unabashed fascination. His arousal was huge, straining the twill fabric, trapped like a wild creature ready to pounce. Phoebe wanted to see it this time, not just feel it—though she wanted that too. But she also wanted to understand its power over her.

Finally the front of his breeches gaped open, revealing his linen undergarment stretched beyond its limits. For a moment he simply stood there, man at his most virile. Slick, golden skin stretched over taut, trembling muscle, with the tautest of those muscles rearing for release in the open vee of his breeches.

She could hardly breathe. This was all for her, the desire, the arousal. He’d chased her across a cold, midnight landscape so that he could have this moment with her.

Was she as willing to chase him? To make demands of him? To find a way to keep him for herself?

She was. To Phoebe’s utter amazement, she was. Perhaps lust had made her bold—or more likely love and the thought of losing him. Whatever the source of her resolve, Phoebe knew she must fight to make him hers. She must become the hunter and him her quarry to chase down and capture for her own. It was the only choice she had.

“Take them off,” she whispered into the supercharged air of her sedate little parlor.

He obliged, yanking off breeches and undergarment in one motion. Then he was naked. Magnificently naked. Like a virile god of old he stood, his erection huge and jutting toward her. No embarrassment colored him, no fear. If anything, he seemed emboldened by this most elemental revelation of himself. He was a man come to claim his woman.

“Your turn,” he said, his voice a rough caress in the silent cottage. His chest rose and fell. He was breathing hard, as aroused as she. Phoebe decided to test his control.

She unbuttoned her bodice and, with a shrug of her shoulders and a wriggle of her arms, let it fall. She felt the fabric slither down her back, an unexpected stroke that might have come from one of his hands, it affected her so.

Unbidden, her hands went to her breasts. His eyes followed, and his erection jerked nearly upright.

Relying on instinct, Phoebe circled both of her nipples with the sides of her thumbs. Oh, yes. A faint moan slid past her lips, a vibration on her heated lips that aroused her further.

One of his hands went to his engorged penis.

“Show me what you like,” she said, swallowing hard.

“I like you.” He circled his shaft and slid his hand along it. Down, and then up.

She untied her skirt and let it fall. She’d not worn a corset, so only her chemise and stockings covered her burning skin. A single bead of moisture trickled down her side; another traced a path along the inside of her left thigh. Oh my, but the room had become unbearably hot.

When she bent to remove her stockings, James let out a guttural groan. She looked up. It was working. She might be fainting with desire, but so was he. His hand clenched convulsively around his erection. Then abruptly he released it.

“If you don’t hurry,” he said in a voice thick with desire. “I may waste this on the floor.”

In answer she propped her foot on a chair and slowly rolled her stockings down. First one leg, then the other.

With a curse he was across the room.

“No!” She held him off with both hands against his damp, overheated chest.

He grabbed her by the arms. “I can’t wait.”

“You have to. You said you’d do anything I said.”

“I didn’t know you had torture on your mind.”

“That’s not my intention,” she lied.

She felt him shudder. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. She saw him swallow. Once, then again. She wanted to bite his throat and feel the workings of his Adam’s apple on her lips. Instead she reached for his erection.

His eyes popped open.

“Do you like that?” she asked, stroking him as he’d stroked himself.
When had she become so bold?

He didn’t answer, not with words. But Phoebe felt his pleasure, she felt it in the smooth skin that burned against her palms. It was more than friction, more than fever. Whether she called it desire or lust didn’t matter. She made him want her beyond every limit of his control. This time she wouldn’t be the only one swept up in it.

So she stroked him and felt his whole being focus on the simple pleasure of her hand on his cock. His breathing sounded harsh and ragged. With his arms braced on the wall, he leaned heavily over her, looming like some fierce, predatory creature. So threatening; so overwhelming; so arousing.

She loved succumbing to him. Every single time, though she’d resisted, she’d also loved the sensation of being vulnerable to him, of being taken by him. But she loved this too, having him in her control and knowing he was swamped by feelings she’d aroused in him.

She switched hands, stroking down the fiery length of him, squeezing tighter than before.

He groaned. “Wait—”

She moved faster still.

“No, Phoebe.” He caught her wrist. “If you don’t stop now I’m going to come.”

“Good.” She pulled nearly to the ridged tip of his raging erection, then pushed back tighter still.

With a tortured curse he tore away from her, then let out another curse, and a third. She saw only his broad back and the rapid pumping action of his arm.

Then he expelled a huge breath and sagged. “Son of a bitch.” He gasped for air. “Son of a bitch!” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Why did you do that?”

Phoebe’s breathing was none too steady either. “I did it to prove that I could. Did you enjoy it?”

His eyes narrowed. His voice was a guttural growl. “What do you think?”

She smiled. Despite the exquisite frustration that had her in its grip, Phoebe felt an undeniable thrill of something else. Victory over him? Or perhaps this first proof of her control? She was so excited she could feel every place that her chemise touched her skin. Her nipples ached. Deep in her belly she was a boiling witch’s brew of female need.

She’d just ruined the very erection that she’d so wanted thrusting furiously inside her. But it was worth it.

Mustering her shaky resolve, she forced herself to cross the room and collect his discarded clothing. “Here. You can get dressed now.”

He stared at her as if she were a lunatic.

“You have to go now,” she insisted, holding his breeches out to him. “We’re done here.”

“The hell you say. I’ll be damned if we’ve even begun. We’ve got the whole night ahead of us. And I plan on doing to you exactly what you just did to me.”

Despite the leap in her belly at that sensual threat, Phoebe managed to shake her head. There was much more at stake here than one night of passion. No matter how badly she wanted him, the fact was that James Lindford had been manipulating women all his life. Lots of them. Certainly he’d manipulated her with every meeting they’d had. But she’d just discovered that she could turn the tables on him. If he wanted her, he’d have to give her a lot more than merely one night of passion.

For whatever reason, she’d fallen in love with the arrogant oaf. He might have a few good qualities, but he had one huge flaw: he took women for granted. He made love to them, but he didn’t
love
them.

But she’d decided to make him hers. And the only way to do that was to make him love her—or at least want her more than he wanted anybody else.

So she clamped down on the physical needs unmet inside her, and grabbed his cloak from the peg on the door. “Hurry up. I’m cold and tired. You have to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He tossed his breeches at her and crossed his arms. “Give it up, Phoebe. We both know you don’t really want me to leave.”

No, she didn’t. Not when he stood there naked with his legs apart and the fire behind him outlining his flagrantly masculine form with licks of red and gold. But she wasn’t letting him win this time. She snatched up his breeches once more. “Go home, Lord Farley. Go home with these on, or go home later with your legs naked for all the world to see what you’ve been up to.”

“The hell you say. Throw them outside. I don’t care. I don’t need them right now. All I need is for you to finish undressing.”

Phoebe glared at him. He was calling her bluff? Very well, time to change tactics. She marched past him and threw his breeches into the leaping fire.

“Bloody hell!” He yanked them out before they fully caught, and flung them onto the brick hearth. Then he turned on her, a large, angry man who happened to be naked and whose spent erection seemed to be coming back to life.

The thrill of battling him must have come at the cost of all her good sense, for instead of being afraid, Phoebe felt a surge of excitement. “Go home, I say. I don’t want you here.”

He began to advance on her. “We’ll see about that.”

Oh, dear! He was between her and the front door. So she dashed toward the kitchen and the back door. She was nearly out of the room when he caught the scooped back of her chemise. He just hooked it with one finger in the neckline. But it was enough to slow her down. She struggled away—he would not control her anymore! Then the fine lawn ripped and she hurtled forward, nearly stumbling into the table.

She whirled around. “You ruined my chemise. My very best chemise!”

“I’ll buy you another,” he growled, pouncing on her. He caught her around the waist, as if she were no heavier than the kitten he’d given her. Then he lifted her up and sat her on the table. “I’ll buy you a dozen of them, and any other frou-frous your heart desires.”

Phoebe tried to pry his hands off her. “You can’t buy everything you want. You can’t buy me.”

“Even with sex?” He pushed her flat on the table, then loomed over her, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders. “I know you don’t want my money, Phoebe. It’s one of the many things I admire about you. But you do like some other things that I’m able to do for you.”

She glared at him. “Not tonight,” she swore, knowing it was a lie. “Let me up.”

“No.”

She could feel the heat of him as he leaned lower. Though they didn’t touch, fire leaped between them, and it was almost more than she could resist. But she knew that giving in was not an option. Not tonight. He held all the cards all the time. His desire for her was the only power she held over him, and tonight she wanted to see just how mighty it was.