The Sins of Lord Easterbrook (13 page)

It was all darkness then, a sightless place of sensation. She rocked into his sure caresses and her thoughts fractured into senseless pleas. A terrible desire, so close to that wandering warmth, tortured her to the point of madness.

Careful touches. Wicked ones. Sweet insanity. Destiny, yes, destiny. A kiss pressed her crown and a hand cupped her mound, stunning her. Then a stroke, long and slow, created a pleasure so intense it frightened her. Out of control now, no longer with a will, she lifted her hips subtly and begged for more.

She turned her face to his chest so her groans would not sound through the night. The wonder just got better, worse, necessary. Her desperate desire grew more and more intense until the tension broke through her in a long, silent scream of release.

She turned at the end, trying to twist away from the edge of pleasure, as if she guessed she faced a passage that would change everything.

He held her limp body as the last of the climax flexed through her. Her hands still clutched his coats and her face pressed against his chest. His own relief left him motionless. He doubted she realized what she had done to him without a touch.

His hand splayed over her bottom so she would not fall off his lap in this odd pose. He would like to see the roundness beneath his hold. And the full breasts that he had finally caressed. All of that would come soon enough. Right now he just held her and waited for her to find herself, and enjoyed the contentment like a normal man.

She did not emerge slowly from her stupor. Instead she snapped alert, as if the world had smacked her back to sanity. She scrambled to right herself and her dress, but he managed to keep her on his lap. She sat upright and turned her head to the garden for a long, silent minute.

“Well,” she finally said. “Now I feel a fool for being so good all these years.”

“You are assuming another man could have done that. I am better at it than most.”

She laughed quietly and shook her head in amazement. “You really are insufferably conceited.”

“I am honest. You were smart to save yourself for me.”

She smacked his chest playfully, but not entirely so.
“I did not save myself for you, and I expect there are lots of men who are as skilled as you.”

“Perhaps. Not that you will find out now.”

Ignoring his assumption of possession, she scrambled off his lap. “I should thank you for your restraint. I am still officially a virgin.”

“Is that important to you?”

His question made her pause in whatever flight she intended. “In Macao I did not care, but then everyone there assumes I had an affair with you. If anything, I resented the unfairness of bearing the brand without knowing the sin.”

“And now?”

“Now you have given me a taste of what a woman experiences in passion, but also what she relinquishes. I understand why our mothers tell us not to yield too easily.” Her hands went to her head and she felt her hair. “I fear that I look totally ravished, in ways everyone at the ball will recognize.”

“There will be another way out of this garden.” He stood and took her hand. “Come with me.”

He led her through the paths and the plantings, enjoying the feel of her soft hand in his. Right now little could interfere with his peace, but their conversation indicated he had not claimed her as thoroughly as he intended.

He found the back garden gate, and guided her down the lane to where it met the street where the carriages waited. He spied Tong Wei standing sentry.

She touched her hair again.

“It is dark,” he said. “He will not notice.” He pulled her into an embrace and looked down at the tiny stars
visible in her eyes. “Send him away. Come back to Grosvenor Square with me.”

“I cannot.”

“You mean that you will not. Why?”

She caressed his face, then slid from his embrace. “Because by summer's end I will return to my real life and my true destiny. And because you are Easterbrook.”

L
eona passed Tong Wei as she walked through the drawing room. He gazed out the window blandly, as if counting the paving stones in the street.

“What are you watching?” she asked. “You have been there an hour.”

“Just now I watched nothing. When the mind thinks, the eyes often stop truly seeing.”

“What thoughts blinded you?”

“Those of your brother, and his charge to me.”

Leona wished she had not pried. Tong Wei had been more enigmatic than normal the last few days. It was as if he had seen what transpired in the garden at Lady Pennington's ball, even though he stood with the carriages. She had sensed criticism in his silence, and hesitation in his conversation.

Perhaps she only attributed her own emotions to Tong Wei. She had been thinking a lot since that night. When alone, in this house, she knew the intimacy had been a mistake. The questions that she had about
Easterbrook's actions and motives in Macao would not go away.

But when she saw him—the careful judgments did not sustain her. And she had seen him since then.

He had attended a dinner at his solicitor's home last night, one to which she also accepted an invitation. The presence of a marquess at the table had awed everyone so much that she had learned nothing at all about trade and finance, even though two men famous in those areas also were guests.

It had been a discomforting evening. Everyone knew that Easterbrook had come because of Miss Montgomery, but the honor of his presence demanded a liberal point of view. The hostess could not fawn enough, so delighted was she in her most unexpected catch. Her husband tried twice to arrange privacy for the lovers, as if he assumed that was his important guest's expectation.

Their own exchanges had been most proper, almost formal. But for the entire evening, whether in the drawing room or at dinner, whether sitting under his gaze or alone with the ladies, Leona had been aware of him. She was helpless against the stimulation he created.

If he only drew her with desire she would not be so confused. However, the attraction now contained all the memories. Those kisses in the garden had been too familiar. The soul behind them, within them, still had much of Edmund in it, hidden away. An ache of wistful yearning had lodged in her heart that night, and seeing him again made her painfully aware of its power over her.

“Before we left Macao, your brother spoke to me,”
Tong Wei said. “He commanded me to ensure that you came to no harm. He told me to protect you.”

“You have done so.”

“I protect you from thieves and criminals. I do not, and cannot, protect you from yourself.”

She felt her face getting hot. “If you refer to the marquess, you do not have to concern yourself. I—”

“I do not speak of him. Your brother may want me to fight him, but I do not kill men just for taking willing women.”

“You are assuming that much more has transpired between Easterbrook and me than you have good cause to.”

Tong Wei expressed impatience as he rarely ever did. “I assume nothing. It is of no interest to me. I am not a nursemaid. I speak of your time abroad in this city when you refuse my protection. If you go to meet
him,
I do not care. But until you meet him, I should be with you.”

His agitation surprised her. This matter had been discussed since their first week in London and her first refusal of his company. She thought that her explanations had swayed him. Apparently they had not.

His face fell into an impassive mask, as if its recent expressiveness was cause for shame. Nonetheless he faced her squarely, his posture upright and proud. “You do not accept my company because you are doing things that you do not want me to know about. I can imagine what they are. If I am correct, then I have cause to worry for your safety, and to consider what steps I must take to fulfill my duty.”

“You are worried over nothing. I am not in danger when I go in the carriage without you.”

“Are you not?” He turned back to the window. Immobile again. Watching. “A man on a brown horse followed the carriage yesterday for a long time. Another man watches this house from a window across the street. He stands there just as I stand here. He looks at me, and I look at him. Why does he not move?”

“Why don't
you
move?”

“I am watching him. I have cause to. He has no cause.”

“Perhaps he simply finds you.…interesting. He may have never seen people from China before. Come away from the window now, and you will see that he will leave too.”

“No. I will let him know that I watch. I will let him see me, so he knows that Tong Wei is aware that there are those who are too interested in you and your movements.”

“Sir?”

The interruption came quietly. Christian opened his eyes.

“What are you doing here, Miller?” He had not heard Miller enter. The young man was sly that way.

“I was sent by your aunt. Your valet was too timid and no footman would take the charge either. I apologize if I have intruded on.…”

The sentence hung there, since Miller had no idea what the intrusion might be. In fact he had intruded on nothing besides memories and calculations regarding
Leona. They had blocked out the world more thoroughly than any meditation, it appeared.

“What crisis has my aunt bothering me? Did a modiste add too much lace to a ball gown?”

“Rather more important than that, sir.” Miller nodded to the table beside Christian's chair. A salver rested there, bearing two cards. Christian shuffled through them.

“Lady Wallingford has been distraught ever since they arrived,” Miller said. “They said it was not a social call, and that you must see them. They would take no refreshment or accept her company, and have been waiting a half hour in the library while she sent for me.”

“All to no avail.” He let the cards fall to the floor and closed his eyes again.

Cocky young Miller was suddenly much less so. Christian opened his eyes again. His gaze settled on one of the cards on the carpet. In particular, on three of its words. East India Company.

He stood. “Hell. I will go to them.”

Miller looked at him. More specifically he looked at Christian's robe and bare feet. Annoyed that this nuisance had interfered with very pleasant memories of Leona's generous and soft breast, Christian strode to his dressing room, pulled on trousers and boots, and strode out again.

Someone had opened the library windows. Afternoon sun and a refreshing breeze flowed in. The two men sitting nearby did not appear aware of the glorious day.

Christian greeted them and took a chair at their head. He waited while Denningham smiled privately at the robe. Mr. Griffin Winterside of the East India Company blinked in surprise.

“My apologies, Lord Easterbrook,” Mr. Winterside rushed to say. “I had no idea that you were ill. Now I am appalled at myself for requesting this meeting, and for pressing the matter.”

Christian felt no need to explain himself. He allowed the apology to stand.

Denningham was more honest. “He is not ill, Winterside. My friend here does not dress unless he has an engagement. You and I do not qualify as one. He did put on boots for us, however, so we are almost important.”

“You brought Mr. Winterside here for a reason, I assume,” Christian said to Denningham. He did not care for Winterside. The man exuded worry and small-mindedness. He was the sort who endlessly pondered every greeting that he received, to determine if the greeter had revealed any special sympathy.

“I did indeed. Mr. Winterside is an acquaintance of mine, and well known in the House of Lords. If you ever attended sessions except for major votes, you would already know him. He represents the Company's interests and provides us with information that we need in order to make our decisions. He executes his duties with admirable skill and tact.”

Winterside bowed his head with humility at the praise.

Christian settled back in his chair. “I think that I understand. If Parliament is a bank of heavy snow, and the
East India Company is a sleigh, then Winterside here is the grease on the runners.”

Denningham chuckled. Mr. Winterside did not.

“What do you want with me?”