The Bridal Season (25 page)

She hesitated. “Elliot, please—”

“I’m sure you’ll find everything in order,” he said, and
walked stiffly down the opposite hall. He did not look back.

Elliot limped across his bedroom floor, heading for a small
cabinet. From it he withdrew a squat brown glass bottle and measured out a good
ounce of liquid into a shot glass. With a grimace, he tipped his head back and
swallowed the draught. Morphine.

He disliked its effects. It clouded his thinking and tricked
his senses, but as a painkiller it was undeniably effective. And tonight,
tonight by God, he was in pain.

It occurred to him to try to use the deep throbbing ache in
his thigh as a distraction. But he doubted it could distract him from thoughts
of her. Instead, he’d opted for the narcotizing effect of the drug. If he were
very lucky, it would help him forget that she was in his house, sleeping in his
bed, so close to being where he wanted her, but under such completely different
circumstances.

For the first time since finding Angela and Letty at the witch
tree, he allowed himself to think back on the events that had driven him from
the Buntings’ party.

He’d told her he loved her. He’d never told another woman
that, and when he did, she turned as white as Dover sand. Clearly, she’d been
shocked. He’d been shocked himself. But as soon as he’d said the words, he’d
known they were true: deeply, incontestably true.

For a fleeting instant something that sent elation coursing
through him flickered across her expressive features, only to disintegrate into
horror. Then she’d run. She couldn’t have gotten far enough, fast enough. His
hands balled into fists at his side.

He’d tried to stay on at the party, but the thought of Letty
avoiding him, laughing nervously in his company, of his vibrant, audacious,
unguarded Letty becoming stiff and clumsy with him—he hadn’t been able to stand
the idea.

It had been no more palatable here at home where, after an
hour of relentless pacing, he’d come to understand a vital truth: He would
rather have some small part of Letty’s friendship than nothing of her at all.

He’d written her a letter, explaining that he would not ever
again infringe upon the friendship he most sincerely desired and felt them
already to enjoy. She must not worry he would ever again distress her with talk
of his feelings. That was his intent, anyway. He’d prayed to God that he was
strong enough to carry it out.

Then, loath to have a single day pass without doing everything
in his power to put things right between them, he’d ridden to The Hollies
intending to give the letter to Cabot, to be delivered as soon as she arrived
home. From there things had gone to hell.

Elliot poured a half tumbler of brandy and swallowed it in a
gulp, washing the bitter flavor of morphine from his mouth. Experience had
taught him how easily liquor compounded the drug’s effects. It couldn’t act
fast enough for his purposes.

He unbuttoned his vest and stripped it off, tossing it to a
chair. From there, he pulled off his collar and tie and began unbuttoning his
shirt as he limped to the window and stared out at the darkness.

Angela had told him about Kip and the letter as soon as they’d
discovered Letty wasn’t ‘just a few minutes’ behind them. He couldn’t believe
she’d broken into the Himplerumps’ house to get the damned thing. He smiled
unwillingly. Had he called her audacious? Reckless.

His smile faded as he recalled his eviscerating fear as he’d
watched Letty dangling from the ledge and knew there was nothing he could do to
help her. Nothing had ever scared him so profoundly. Nothing in war or peace,
no threat of injury, nor foreboding of defeat, nothing. Once she was on the
ground, it had taken all his self-restraint not to haul her into his arms.

But he didn’t have the right. She didn’t want that from him.
She’d made that clear enough. The letter promising he’d never importune her
again lay folded in his pocket, a bitter reminder of his pledge.

Being Letty’s friend was quite possibly going to kill him. But
what in God’s name was he to do? He couldn’t think clearly anymore. His
thoughts were distant, as was the pain in his leg, both dulled by the
encroaching effects of the morphine. He braced his hands on the sill.

She would be asleep by now, hair the color of mahogany
spilling across crisp white linen, warm skin delicately flushed. He pressed his
forehead against the cool window.

He’d spent a lifetime subjugating his emotions to his
intellect, trying so damned hard to keep control, to maintain balance, to act
judiciously, prudently. He smiled bitterly. Thirty-three years had brought him
to this place, to the point of awakening, to this sharp, bittersweet shattering
of his heart. How many more would it be before it no longer hurt?

“Elliot.”

Her voice.

“Elliot, please. Turn around.”

“Why? You’re not real,” he said practically, sensible even in
his drugged state. “You’re a combination of morphine and brandy. And want,” he
added as an afterthought. “Unbearable want.”

“I’m real. Please. This is difficult. Turn around.”

What difference would it make? He turned and inhaled sharply.
She stood inside his door, wrapped in his father’s old dressing gown. Her hair,
glorious and unbound, rippled down her back and spread like a veil over her
shoulders. Beneath the robe’s frayed hem, her feet were bare. Slender, narrow,
delicate as gulls’ wings, white and unspeakably vulnerable.

She shouldn’t be here. But then, she didn’t know about the
morphine and the brandy. She didn’t know that the restraint he’d always found
his most formidable challenge no longer seemed an issue. “Go back to your room.”

She didn’t move. A cherry-colored stain swept up her throat
and flamed in her cheeks. “I can’t,” she whispered.

His hands clenched on the sill behind him. He didn’t dare
move. “You’re an adventuress now?” He tried to make his voice light. It sounded
ragged.

“I guess so.” She didn’t sound like an adventuress. She
sounded lost, and as hungry for love as he was starved for her.

“God, Letty. You haven’t a cautious impulse in you, do you?”

“I guess not.”

She doesn’t
want love from you,
he reminded himself savagely,
hoping that the knowledge would somehow give him the strength to resist this.
Resist her. Because she was set on seduction. The rawest boy could see that.
There was nothing subtle about her. Apprehensive, anxious, skittish, yes, but
also expectant, breathless, and irresistible.

She moved toward him, her unbound breasts moving beneath the
ruby silk. By God, she was naked under the robe.

“I’m cold.”

He would not do this. He
would not
do this. It went
against everything upon which he’d based his life. He was stronger than this.
“I’ll get you an extra blanket.”

“I like
that
blanket.” She pointed to the blue duvet on
his bed.

“Here,” he clipped out, striding across the room and snagging
the corner of the blanket. He flung it at her. She made no effort to catch it.
It landed on the floor.

She swiveled slowly, deliberately bending at the waist. The
silk robe stretched across her derriere. She looked back at him, her hair
falling forward provocatively.

“Don’t.”

She flicked her hair behind her ear and smiled, wise and
knowing and merciless.

“You don’t understand, Letty.” He fought to hold to the ragged
edge of his control. He was a civilized man. No matter what the provocation, he
had always maintained self-control. It was a standard he not only lived by but
believed in. But he’d never been tested in such a manner or to such a degree.
He wanted her. He ached for her.

“I wouldn’t want to leave you wanting.” She piled the blanket
in her arms. He saw, too late, that he’d handed her the excuse she needed to
draw nearer. She moved toward the bed, coming within a few feet of him, still
smiling enigmatically, her perfume filling his nostrils ...

He didn’t even know what happened. One minute she was moving
past him, the next she was in his arms and he was lifting her up, walking her
backwards, his mouth open over hers, hunger pouring out of him, engulfing her,
overpowering her.

And she was clinging to him. And her mouth was open. And her
hands were on him, touching him, his shoulders, his arms, his chest, delving
beneath the open edges of his shirt and setting him on fire.

He yanked her belt from her waist and pulled the silk lapels
open, peeling the robe from her shoulders. She pulled back, looking up at him,
her gaze no longer knowing and worldly, but uncertain, a bit frightened.

“Perhaps ... I... I shouldn’t... we shouldn’t—”

“Too late.” Far too late. There were no codes here. No rules.
Just imperatives: Want. Desire. Love. “You know it as well as I.”

He released her in increments, letting her slide down his body
and feel the hard evidence of his desire. Her breasts dragged across his shirt,
her robe caught on his waistband and twisted up, rucking up around her thighs.

Letty shivered. Her toes touched the ground but her ankles
felt liquid and her knees weak. His hands dropped to his side. He didn’t step
back. Each breath he drew brought their bodies back into brief, tantalizing
contact.

She looked up into his face, her gaze dazed. She needed
something to hold on to. She wrapped her fingers in the edges of his open
shirt, twisting the cloth, her knuckles pressing into the hard muscle of his
chest.

“If you want to leave, go. Last chance, Letty. Last chance for
either of us.” He bent and traced a kiss across her mouth. “But I think you
should stay here.”

She stepped back a little. He followed, dipping his head so
that his lips teased her ear. “Stay.” His breath warmed her ear, sent
gooseflesh rippling down her throat and arms.

He didn’t touch her,
hadn’t
touched her since releasing
his grip, and yet he surrounded her, enveloped her in longing, kept her
anchored here, wanting...

His fingers touched the side of her breast and with gossamer
lightness he traced its curve, following the nether swell. His fingertips moved
up to her nipple, outlining the silken areola, round and round. His gaze never
left her face, lupine with intensity, unwavering and mesmerizing.

She didn’t recognize him. Reserved, genteel Sir Elliot had
vanished, leaving behind a stranger in his stead, a stranger who played with
her body with deliberate nonchalance while the hunger in his eyes dragged her
soul from her.

“Please,” she whispered. His white shirt was two thirds of the
way open, affording tantalizing glimpses of hard muscles and the dark hair that
covered his chest.

“Why did you come here, Letty?” he whispered, dropping a soft,
warm kiss on the corner of her mouth.

She couldn’t tell him the truth: that she had come to make
love with him. Because if she told him she loved him, he would expect, would
have every right to expect, that nothing barred an honest relationship or stood
in the way of their marrying. Because in Elliot’s world, people who loved one
another married.

She should leave, wrench herself away from here, but she
couldn’t. Because if she left here, she left behind the one chance she might
ever have to
make love.

And she wanted that. So much. Her skin danced with awareness.
Her limbs trembled with anticipation. Liquid desire pooled in her loins and the
tips of her breasts. What if he told her to go away? How could she live with
that? Without ever knowing what it would be like?

“I’ve come for a tumble.” She sounded desperate.

He went utterly still. A heartbeat passed. Another. Again. She
found herself holding her breath, trying to read his unreadable expression,
fighting the panic that threatened.

Why wouldn’t he touch her? Say something?
Do
something?

When his response finally came there was nothing vague about
it. “You want lust? Lust is easy.”

Without lifting his gaze from hers, he unfastened his trousers
in one short, efficient, sexually charged motion. Before she understood what he
intended, he flicked the edges of her robe open and bent, one large hand
closing on her thigh, his other forearm looping beneath her derriere. He lifted
her, hitching her leg over his hip, spreading her most vulnerable, sensitive
part against the opening of his trousers.

She gasped at the sudden intimacy and flung her arms around
his neck to keep from falling. The position was flagrant, the hard length of
him ground against her, his objective blunt, crude, and rousing.

His skin was hot, his body hard.

“Elliot—”

He ignored her, the look in his eyes killing her voice. This
was raw, focused desire. He walked with her dangling thus until her shoulders
hit the wall. His head dropped to the side of her face, his mouth fell open on
her throat. His hips pinned hers to the wall.

He moved, a slow, heavy tilting of his loins that sent
thought-destroying floods of pleasure careening through her body. Her fingers
sank into the white broadcloth covering his shoulders, trying to hold on,
caught in a primal wave of need she couldn’t escape, terrified, elated, wanting
to do to him what he so effortlessly did to her.

Even beneath the shirt she could feel his muscles shift and
bunch, sleek and hard. He rocked his erection against her. She gasped. He
trembled.

He moved again and again, little pulsing thrusts that exploded
bursts of ever-mounting pleasure within her. And now he added a new torture to
the game, lifting and settling her in counterpoint to his thrusts. It was
excruciating and tantalizing.

“Elliot. Elliot,” she panted.

He did not answer. His expression was set, strained, his
throat corded and veined with his exertions. He was one-minded, intent only on
sexual gratification.