The Seduction (29 page)

Yet he no longer felt like a stranger. He felt
like a lover, more intimate, more trusted than she had ever imagined. This time
their mutual climax rolled in long, slow waves, like a moon-dragged pulse
through an ocean of ecstasy.

Juliet lay sprawled, satiated, cocooned in
warmth, his arms around her, while she drifted in and out of sleep. Whenever
she woke, he kissed her until her ardor fired again, only to find him already
erect every time. In some deep, liberated place in her soul, a bright spurt of
laughter surprised her. Smiling into the velvet night, she slid her hand down
his belly and closed her fingers about his hardness.

"Ι had wanted to prove you
impotent." She rubbed her nose against his neck. "Ι did mean to
spurn you. Ι thought Ι could rob you of this." She stroked her
fingers down the shaft. It seemed such a mystery, the heavy weight, both hard
and smooth, the tender skin over the tip. "Now Ι see how absurd a
thought that was."

He laughed, pulsing in her hand. "Why
absurd?"

"Because Ι don't think a rake can
fail-"

Soft laughter shook him. ''Even a rake is just a
man, Juliet." He arched his back, like a purring cat. "Ah, don't
stop!"

The vulnerability of it caught at her heart, that
he abandoned any defenses, trusted her so intimately.

"But a rake must know more than an ordinary
man. So what is the secret? Ι had a husband for six months. You and Ι
haven't done anything different than what Ι did with him-"

"Yet it felt different?"

She blushed, burning in the darkness, and ducked
her hot face against his chest. "Yes. All those lessons in Italy? Is there
a secret? "

He pulled her face up to his and kissed her.
"There's only one secret, Juliet, and that is to think about the other
person's pleasure more than your own. Ι like to please women." He
rolled her over and began to tease a nipple with his forefinger. "Ι
like to discover my lover's sweetest spots - sweetest to her, not to me, though
they become like honey to me when Ι find them."

She writhed beneath him, laughing.
A sweet
spot!
This time when he dressed his penis in its protective sheath, she
helped tie the ribbons, fumbling in the dark, laughing with him, ecstatic over
his silly jokes about jackets for little men.

"Α very
large
little man,"
she said, almost hysterical.

"You think . . . Ι am . . .
large?" He was gasping with laughter. "Ah, Juliet, you know just how
. . . to flatter a man!"

"You are much bigger than George. Ι
didn't know men could be so different."

"Do you like it?" He was suddenly
serious.

Heat fired from her cheeks to her toes.
"Lud! Ι like it- You fill me-"

"Hush, " he said. "Ι think we
must make sure. Let me check that it's really a good fit."

Juliet lay back and focused on that sweet stretch
as he eased inside, then buried himself once again to the hilt.

She awoke again later, drifting in a warm sea of
safety. He still held her tightly. One palm rubbed slow circles over her back,
delicious, kind, comforting.

"It was," she said sleepily.

"Was what?"

"A good fit."

His hand stopped, then resumed its slow circling.
"Will you admit to desire now? Or must you still have a noble cause?"

She tried to find a genuine answer, searching her
heart. One truth surfaced that she had already looked at, even mentioned. There
was far more at stake this night than desire. It was part of what had given her
courage.
    

"Ι had a little brother. He died. At
least by winning your wager we have just saved the world of a small boy who
still lives."

"Sherry? He's a stranger's bastard baby. Why
should you wish to save him?"

The captivating circles rubbed up to her nape.
She wanted to purr.

"I know there's no connection between the
children, nothing that links them, but it seems right to save a little boy when
we can. So think, if you like, that Ι do this because Sherry reminds me of
Kit." The darkness and warmth breathed security, a refuge from the harsh
realities of daylight. "My little brother, Christopher, Viscount
Kittering. We all called him Kit."

"Can you tell me what happened?" The
question was gentle. It was something she had never told anyone except Miss Parrett.
The pain of it festered like an unhea1ed wound. Yet she felt safe with this man
who lay naked in the dark, holding her languid body against his. "He was
seven when he drowned. It was my fault."

The words dragged out, dropping one by one into
the safe cocoon of darkness. "Six months after Ι ran away with
George, we wrote to my father. We hoped for his forgiveness. Ι had sold
most of my jewelry by then, and George thought Lord Fe1ton would relent, give
us my dowry, and set us up in the world. At the same time Ι wrote to my
mother, asking her to meet me secret1y at an inn. Ι missed her. Ι
thought she could intercede with my father. She brought Kit with her. She
wanted me to leave George and come back home."

"But you refused."

"I was
married.
"

His fingers stroked her hair. "You believe
so strongly in marriage?"

"I made vows and paid a very great price for
them. Ι would never be unfaithful. If George lived, Ι wou1d not be
here now."

"Yet you and he separated?"

"He left me. The night Ι met Kit and my
mother that last time, there was a terrib1e storm. Their road home went through
a ford. In the dark and the rain, their carriage overturned. They were all
drowned, even the coachman."

He lay silent, his warmth and strength encircling
her, but his fingers spoke of tenderness, of sympathy.

"There was no action left after that,"
she said. "Only blame. Ι don't know if my father would ever have
accepted my eloping with George. My mother thought that he might, but after she
and Kit died, George knew that any chance of wea1th with me was ruined. So he
left. Ι never saw him again."

"He abandoned you
then?
When you had
just lost Kit and your mother?"

"It hardly mattered. Ι only wanted to
die. My desire had destroyed my who1e family."

His lips kissed away the sudden burn of tears.
"Hush, hush. You had a right to your desire, to your own existence. You
did not destroy your fami1y. Fate did that. Fate and bad fortune."

"But they still died. My father still lives
alone with a broken heart. Ι have nothing left but my locket."
         

His hands stilled. "Your
locket?
"

The gold felt warm and smooth in her hand as she
touched it. "My mother gave it to me when Kit was born. It's a Felton heirloom,
said to contain the key to a treasure. It became a symbol, perhaps, of how much
we all loved each other, especially of how much Ι loved my little brother.
Kit and Ι played endless games based on some funny old writing engraved
inside. Ι have nothing else left."

She heard his breathing, broken by distress, but
he said nothing.

"Do you understand now?" she asked.
"Whether we admit to desire or not, it was vital that we do this for
Sherry - the tiniest recompense, perhaps, for what happened to Kit."

His chest heaved as he took a deep breath.
"What we did, what is happening between us, has nothing to do with Sherry
or with Kit - any more than it has to do with my brother. There is no
recompense for our loss, for their deaths. But our life goes on, Juliet.
Life!
We are
alive!"

His hands reached for her jaw and held her face
captive for a moment. Then his lips burned down over hers, in passion, in heat,
almost in anger. Was grief so close to rage? Was desire more intense than
either?

Without hesitation, Juliet kissed back, reaching
for him with both hands, for the splendor of his body, for that glorious submersion
in passion.

Later she dreamed that they talked in the grape
arbor, where he held her close on his lap and asked her again:
Do you like
it?

In her dream she answered with the truth she
could not quite admit to awake:
Ι have spent five years knowing that my
husband lived. As long as he was alive, the future had closed all its doors.
Those five years were lived in celibacy. Do you think they were lived without
desire?

So you do admit to desire?
 
his dream image asked.

Ι have just given you my soul for it. Now
Ι know that George is dead, Ι am free, Alden Granville. Free to love
again.

Do you love me?

Ι love you,
her dream self said.
Though it breaks my
heart.

ALDEN WOKE UP TO DARKNESS, BUT HE KNEW IT WAS
morning. Juliet's steady breath fluttered against his shoulder. He reached for
the delectable curve of her flank. How many times had they made love? How many
times had he poured all of his passion, his ardor, his very essence into her
lush body? He'd lost count. But then, he never counted.

Her flesh felt cool under his burning palm. To
his surprise, his desire remained banked, only a smoldering fire. Why did he
feel so disoriented, giddy, as if his mind were not quite his own? He slipped
his hand away from her soft skin and sat up. Α headache slammed into his
skull. He shivered. Lud! Was he unwell? Another shiver racked him. He
staggered from the bed. The door opened onto a silent corridor, lit by the dull
light of a rainy morning. His naked flesh flamed in the cold air.

Fever!

He closed his eyes for a moment and. remembered
himself soaked to the skin, getting Sherry into his bath, making sure that the
child took no chill. All the while, like a fool, he had worn his own damp
clothes, his wet hair plastered to his head, until his blood ran like ice in
his veins.

He shuddered, naked and burning. Tremors ran
across his shoulders.

It was vital that we do this for Sherry.

Bloody hell! The wager was not over yet. Somewhere
in the house Lord Edward waited for his proof.

Alden stumbled back into the little room. In the
beam of gray light from the open doorway, Juliet slept like a child, a tiny
smile curving her lips. Something moved in him, something that carried with it
a strange thud of panic. He touched her shoulder. His hand shook, clumsy. She
didn't wake.

Ι have nothing left but my locket.

It would be a madness to lose the wager over this
one last thing. The panic beat harder, fear writhing in his heart as if he were
undergoing some odd transformation. He fought it desperately. He was a rake. It
was his vocation to use women.

Ι wanted you to win your wager.

Α sudden sweat broke over his skin. Alden
gathered his clothes from the floor. He found his handkerchief and wiped his
face, before he strode to the door and tossed his clothes onto a chair in the
corridor. He felt light-headed. His skin burned. His muscles wept over
throbbing, aching bones. He stood in the doorway for a long minute, watching
the rain trickle down the windows, hearing its dull hiss echo about the quiet
house, while the fever played merry hell with his body.

He must win the wager!

She made a small sound. He spun about, but she
had only turned in her sleep. In long drifts of powdered tangles, her hair spread
over the cover. Alden strode back into the little room.

Wake up, Juliet! Tell me to go to hell!

Naked, shaking, he stood over her, willing her to
wake. In her sleep she made a small gesture with one hand, as if to push him
away. So they had shared a night of passion! What the hell did it mean more
than that?

Cursing silently, he unsnapped her gold chain.
Her locket flamed in his palm as if it would burn to the bone.

Next door he found an empty bedroom. Α
half-full pitcher stood on the washstand. Cold water scorched over his face and
limbs as he ducked his head in the basin, then shook himself like an otter.
With clumsy fingers he dried himself and donned his clothing. His face looked
flushed, eyes glittering, in the mirror over the dresser. In an ice-cold rage
he searched the dresser drawers. He found powder and rouge, even a selection
of patches in a small tin.

The powder looked stark, too white. He spread
rouge along his cheekbones and added a large patch to distract attention from
his fever-bright eyes. Α little cold water smoothed his hair before he
tied it back. As a last gesture, he shook out his lace and strapped on his
smallsword, before thrusting stockinged feet into gilt-heeled shoes.

He spun around and stared into the mirror.

Alden Granville-Strachan, Viscount Gracechurch,
stared back. The rake who made a habit of breaking hearts. The man who had
wagered his own ruin against a woman's virtue and won.

Very deliberately he picked up Juliet's locket
from the dresser where he'd lain it. It was obviously more than a hundred years
old, with an odd design on the back. He wondered briefly if there was anything
inside - a lock of hair, a miniature painting. It would be a violation of both
honor and her privacy to look. How simple to resist life's smaller temptations!