The Seduction of Sara (18 page)

“What about you?”

“I was part of the baggage. Where she went, I went. Sometimes I was wanted. Other times—” He shrugged.

Her heart ached. “Where was your father?”

“He was a brief passage in Violette's life, the marriage over before it had truly begun. I have no memory of him, but I do have a letter from my grandfather announcing his death.”

“Then your grandfather cared about you.”

“Why would he? He left me his title and a house, but nothing else. I don't suppose I blame him, really. By the time we met, I was already beyond saving.”

He'd been so alone, his entire life. She could imagine him as a child, watching his mother, yearning for affection, but never receiving it. In that instant, Sara decided she hated the beautiful Violette. No decent woman would ever abandon her child in such a way.

Something fell on the back of Sara's hand, and she looked down at it. A single drop of water glistened on her skin. Yet another drop fell beside the first, and she realized that she was crying. Crying for the love Nick had never known. Crying for the fact that he might never know it now.

She thought of his life, of his behavior, and she realized that he kept a barrier about his heart—one so tall and so thick that no one would ever be able to climb over it. He had closed himself off, and even Henri, his closest friend, did not know him. She cleared her throat. “I heard a rumor about you.”

“Which one?”

“That you wanted your cousin's fortune and that you abducted his wife to get it.”

Nick turned to look out the window, his face hidden in darkness as he gently swung the tassel to and fro. The silence grew.

“It's true, isn't it?”

He turned back to her, his face devoid of expression. “Every word.”

“Did you love her?” Sara clenched her jaw as she waited for him to answer. She didn't know why the question was so important, but it was.

“Love is an illusion, Sara. There is no such thing.”

“Not everyone is like your mother, Nick.”

“Thank God for that.”

Sara swallowed, but a lump of emotion remained in her throat. Somehow, she had to make things right for this man, to show him that not all women were like his mother, that all of life wasn't as devoid of hope and cheer as his childhood. She stood. “I suppose there is nothing I can do to talk you out of the duel.”

“No.”

“Then I suppose the time has come for me to pay my debt.”

He stilled, his gaze locked on her. “What debt?”

“The kiss.”

“I would hardly call Lord Keltenton a success.”

“No, but our agreement ended when you found him for me. The rest was up to me. Remember?”

His gaze locked with hers. “Do you know what you are saying?”

Her voice deserted her, and all she could do was nod. She wanted the kiss and more. She wanted him to hold her, to touch her, to ease the pain she felt for him. For one brief hour, she wanted to forget about the duel and her need to marry and every other thing that loomed over them.

“I want more than a kiss,” she heard herself say. She held her breath, unable to look at him, unable to face his rejection.

There was a quiet step on the carpet, and then he was beside her. His fingers closed over her chin and he lifted her face, his expression harsh. “What do you want from me?”

The tears spilled free, falling silently down her cheeks. “I am not a lady, Nick. I never have been.”

He gently ran the back of his hand over her cheek, his expression softening. “That's no sin, Sara. In many ways, it's a blessing.”

“Not always.” She turned her face into his hand and closed her eyes at the warmth of his touch. “I long for this,” she whispered. “Surely that will see me in hell.”

His hands slid to her arms. “You are wrong, Sara; you are indeed a lady. But alas, I am no gentleman.” He pulled her against him, his voice lowering to an intoxicating whisper. “A gentleman would have sent you home in a carriage, safe and warm. He wouldn't be standing close enough to you to see your heart beat in the delicate line of your throat.”

“No?” she managed to whisper.

“And a gentleman certainly would never have discovered that you smell like fresh summer linen, the scent as sensual as the delicious curve of your lower lip.” He trailed his finger over her mouth. “No, Sara. I am not a gentleman, and I am damned glad of it.”

Her fingers twined in the folds of his linen shirt. “Nick, I want to be with you.”

He held her to him tightly. He was so wonderful, so masculine, and she longed for him in a way she'd
never known. He pushed aside the wide collar of her gown and dropped a kiss on her shoulder, his voice low, caressing. “I have dreamed of this. Dreamed it so often, it is almost a memory.” He followed the contours of her shoulders with his mouth, placing light, sensual kisses on her throat, her neck, beneath her ear.

Sara closed her eyes and let the passion engulf her. She yearned for him so much, needed him so badly, that she pressed her thighs together to still the ache that was growing with each touch, each caress.

“I've wanted you since the moment I first saw you.” He rubbed his arousal against her hips, his actions bold and daring as the man himself.

Slowly, surely, she lifted her fingers and placed them on his bottom lip. He was magnificent standing in the firelight, telling her he wanted her. She could barely think, her mind galloping with a thousand thoughts as he lowered his mouth to her cheek and traced a line to her ear. A deep tremor shook her. He was a man of such contradictions, both harsh and gentle at the same time.

“I want you, Sara,” he whispered, the words tingling through her.

Simple words, yet they sent a longing through her that made her breasts ache as if he'd touched her. Kissed her. Loved her.

Slowly, fearful of even breathing, she sank onto the edge of the settee and looked up at him. He answered her immediately, his body lowering over hers until they pressed together intimately.

His hands slipped beneath her skirt, sliding up to her thigh. He cupped her intimately, boldly, daring her to stop him. She gasped, a violent tremble racing through her, but she did nothing to halt him. Instead, she clung to him, her cheek pressed against his shirt, enveloped by his masculine scent. Their relationship might not be based on love, but it was based on a mutual need—on the desire for forgetfulness, for the release from pain, even for the space of an hour.

Nick's mouth covered hers as he undid the lacing of her gown. Cool air touched her skin as he pushed her chemise aside and exposed her breasts. Sara felt uncovered, vulnerable. She was doing this to help Nick, she told herself, even as she knew it was a lie. She wanted him for herself, for her salvation, her pleasure, and for no other reason.

He stared down at her bared breasts. She forced herself to sit still, her nipples tightening at his silent regard.

His broad shoulders were outlined by the reddish gleam of the fire, his hair lit to burnished gold. She knew what his expression would be—fierce and protective, the way he looked every time they had kissed. This time it would be all for her.

He bent and closed his mouth over one of her nipples, his tongue teasing it mercilessly. Sara gasped and arched against him, closing her eyes at the torrent of pleasure. Within moments, their clothes lay in the floor about them.

It had been too long. Much too long. And this
was different. Nick didn't take—he gave. And he gave with a single-minded determination to make her long for him even more. She writhed with need, with desire.

“Sara,” he whispered, the name a plea.

She opened to him, and they came together in a fierce, desperate motion that sent a wave of fire through Sara until she could no longer think. All she knew was the passion and the pleasure and the fact that Nick was here, with her, and that for the moment, he was all hers.

Sara savored the feel of him, losing herself in the exquisite torture of his touch. He was everything she'd dreamed, and more. And she was lost, just as she'd been lost the first moment she'd seen him in the Kirkwoods' ballroom.

Their passion mounted and grew, each movement an agony and an ecstasy. Nick murmured her name over and over as the heat built within. Just as Sara thought she could stand no more, release flooded through her, washing through her veins and sending her senses reeling. Nick followed a moment later, collapsing on top of her, his breath harsh in her ear.

Neither spoke, their panting breaths the only sound in the room. Then from outside, a commotion sounded in the outer foyer. Nick raised his head, meeting Sara's gaze. Over Wiggs's protests came the sound of another voice, masculine and raised in anger.

“Heaven help us,” Sara said. “It's Anthony.”

Nick and Sara moved as one, grabbing clothes and yanking them on as fast as they could, but they
were still not quick enough. Nick had only one arm in his shirt and Sara was still trying to reach behind her to pull the laces on her dress closed when the door flew open and not one, but two hulking figures stalked in.

Sara's face paled, but she kept her chin high. “Nick, I believe you know my brother, Anthony. With him is my brother Marcus St. John, the Marquis of Treymount.”

W
iggs appeared behind them, his thin face tight with frustration. “My lord, I could not keep them out. I—”

“That's quite all right,” Nick said, dropping his cravat back onto a side table. “You did what you could.”

The butler's startled gaze drifted from his disheveled master to Sara, who was attempting to right her twisted dress. Red-faced, he all but bolted out the door.

Nick raked a hand through his hair. He had the strangest sense that this moment was not real. But it was. He was standing barefoot on the thick, library carpet, dressed in nothing but his breeches and a hastily donned shirt. Sara had finally managed to
refasten her gown, though it was horribly crushed. And looming behind the settee, breathing fire and brimstone, stood Sara's brothers. God, what a coil.

“To hell with the duel,” Anthony snarled. “I'm going to kill you here and now.”

He started forward, but the marquis grabbed his arm. “Leave them be.” He spoke quietly, but every word was clear and deadly, his gaze never leaving Nick.

Marcus St. John had his sister's eyes and the same black hair, but there the similarities ended. Where Sara was small-boned and delicate, Treymount was as tall as Anthony, if not quite as broad. Nick nodded coolly. “I wondered when I'd have the felicity of meeting you.”

The marquess neither smiled nor offered a greeting. “I think it would be best if Sara left.”

“I'm sure you do,” she replied tartly, dropping back onto the settee. She turned to glare over her shoulder at her brothers. “If we are going to have a conversation, then I suggest you all take a seat.”

“Perhaps you would care for some brandy?” Nick asked, stepping into the role of host purely to irritate his company.

Anthony's face darkened. “It's probably too coarse.”

“Have some brandy, Anthony,” Treymount said. “Bridgeton just returned from France, and I daresay his stock is superior to ours.”

“I don't care. I won't stand here and—”

“Then leave. Your temper has caused enough problems as it is.”

Anthony hesitated, his hands clenching and unclenching. Finally, he managed to say in a surly voice, “Very well. One glass won't hurt.”

Nick noted how pale Sara's face was. Frowning, he poured three glasses and handed them out. Sara took hers with a grateful smile.

“It isn't proper for a woman to drink brandy,” Anthony said.

Sara resolutely tilted the glass, taking a huge gulp. She immediately went into a paroxysm of coughing.

Nick shot a hard stare at her brother. “Don't punish her for my sins, Greyley. You and I will be settling this at dawn.”

“No,” the marquis said, savoring the brandy. “I'm afraid that won't be possible.”

“Why not?” Anthony demanded.

“Lord Bridgeton is about to become a member of our family. It would be improper of you to shoot him before the ceremony.”

“What?”
Anthony roared. “Marcus, you cannot mean to tell me that you expect this—this—”

“Braggart,” Nick supplied helpfully.

“Bastard,” Anthony returned without pause.

Sara set her glass down with a thump and stood, her chin tilted to a pugnacious angle. “I am not getting married, and neither is Bridgeton.”

“You have no choice,” Treymount replied evenly.

“Oh? What are you going to do? Tie me to the altar and place a knife at my throat?”

“If I have to.”

“I
still
wouldn't marry him.” She turned to Nick.

“Thank you for your hospitality. Feel free to toss these two fools out any time you wish.” So saying, she swooped up her pelisse and jammed her arms into it, then stomped to the door. She yanked it open, slamming it behind her with so much force that a picture dropped from the wall and thunked to the floor.

A long silence followed her departure.

“I don't believe I've ever seen her that angry,” Anthony said.

“Except the time Chase threw her in the pond on her sixteenth birthday,” Treymount replied. “She had just fixed her hair in some sort of curled…thing.” He glanced at Anthony. “You had better see her home. I will take care of things here.”

Anthony shot a dark glance at Nick. “Be forewarned, Bridgeton. I'll be watching you.”

“How tedious for you,” Nick murmured.

Treymount's lips twitched, but Anthony merely stalked out of the room, much in the same manner as his sister.

The marquis leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs before him. “I fear that Sara has a very romantic idea of you.”

Nick turned away. Disappointment was inevitable. Sara didn't understand the circumstances of his birth, of his hereditary weakness. How could she? “She is an innocent, Treymount.”

“Yes, and you are the only man she's shown a genuine interest in since Carrington's death. Whether you like it or not, you will marry her. And then…”

“Then?”

“You will make her happy.”

That was the one thing he could not do. How could he, a man plagued with headaches that would one day draw him into a haze of opium addiction? “What if I refuse to marry your sister, Treymount? What then?”

“Anthony will have the chance to fight his duel.”

“And Sara?”

The marquess looked down at his boots. “She can go abroad. No one will know of her errors in Italy. She can start anew there, and—”

“You would banish your own sister?” All the years he'd spent, wandering the Continent, waiting for his chance to return home, flooded him. “You cannot care for her if you would do such a thing.”

“And what of you? You attempted to seduce her. You took advantage of her desire to taste life and sullied her name with yours. Now you wish to walk away and leave her to bear the consequences.” Treymount's dark brows snapped together. “Tell me, Bridgeton. Which of us has her interests more at heart?”

Nick could not argue. He clenched and unclenched his hands, his mind racing over the possibilities. No matter what the outcome of this conversation, Nick was doomed. He'd been a fool to think he could reestablish himself. But the thought of Sara bearing the ignominy of banishment was more than he could stand. It would kill her in a way that had not killed him. He was used to deprivation, used to the hardness of life, but she was young and
tender, still filled with hope. He could not let it happen. And looking into Treymount's cold, icy gaze, he knew with a sudden wave of certainty that the marquis would deal as harshly with Sara as he deemed necessary.

Had Treymount attempted to fight him, Nick would have fought with his last breath. Had Treymount threatened to ruin him, Nick would have laughed. But the fact that the marquis had coldly placed his own sister on the altar as a sacrifice to the gods of propriety, made Nick furious.

There was little he could do. “Sara doesn't like being ordered about.”

“Then you'll have to convince her that a wedding is in her best interest,” Treymount said, his gaze fixed on Nick.

“I will convince her to marry me. Shall we discuss settlements?”

Treymount's gaze narrowed. But after a moment, he said, “Ten thousand pounds and not a penny more.”

“Twenty thousand, and I want it set up in her name alone,” Nick said. “Two accounts; one for investing. My solicitor will see to it that it is properly handled.”

“And the other account?”

Nick managed a cold smile. “Pin money.” When he inevitably followed in his mother's path, he would not leave his wife without recourse. Sara wanted her freedom, and he would see to it that she received it.

Treymount took a thoughtful sip of his brandy. “That is very generous.”

“I can afford to be. After all, it isn't my money.”

The marquis sighed. “Bridgeton, I'm afraid I don't understand. Just what did you hope to gain by dallying with my sister? From what I've heard, she is not your usual fare.”

The question caught Nick by surprise, and it was several minutes before he answered. “I have no apologies for what I've done.” Regrets were another matter altogether. Lately, it seemed he could not awaken without wishing he had the opportunity to change some aspect of his life. “I would like to marry her as quickly as possible.”

“You will leave the arrangements to me.”

A slow burn heated his eyes, as if one of his headaches ached to be released. “I have already said I would marry your sister, Treymount. But I will do so in my own time and fashion.”

The marquis smiled, and for the first time, Nick was allowed to glimpse the fury behind the icy blue eyes. “You will marry her when and where
I
say. You have lost your rights in this game.” He placed his empty glass on a table and stood. “I'll send you a note. In the meantime, stay away from her.”

With that, he strode from the room, leaving Nick staring at the closed door.

Damn the St. Johns to hell. What made an entire family so arrogant, so certain, so incredibly overbearing? For the first time, Nick had a glimmering of why Sara had been so willing to marry just to escape the clutches of her brothers. He'd been with them for under a half hour, and already they were attempting to run his life.

But Nick was made of sterner stuff. He would marry Sara Lawrence, but because
he
wanted to, and in order to free her from her noxious siblings. But that was where it would end. He'd made love to Sara tonight as if it were his last night on earth. He'd lost himself in her without regard for anything—including whether or not she became pregnant.

The thought clutched his heart with icy fingers. He could only pray he hadn't pushed his luck too far already. Once they were married, he'd put an end to their physical relationship—there would be no children from this union. Violette's illness would die with him.

Lost in his thoughts, he sat in the library until the slow fingers of dawn climbed over the garden and warmed the cold room. Then, stiff from sitting, he rose and left, calling for his bath as he went.