“Wouldn’t she?” He asked, one brow raised daringly.
“I think not,” Nicole offered, wishing that her voice had emerged with much less wavering.
“That, my dear, remains to be seen.”
“Quite ungenerous of you,” she said, once again to his back as he moved further along the path, tugging her along behind him. “I know you cannot help but to think ill of—”
“Shh,” he said, cutting her off, stopping so suddenly as to bring Nicole crashing into his back with a rather breathless, “oomph.”
“Someone comes,” he whispered over his shoulder at her, pulling Nicole off the trail, behind a wide oak. He pressed her back against the trunk of the tree and himself against her, apparently using his large form and dark evening wear to cover what he might of her white gown.
Voices, soft and whispering, reached them, coming up the trail, but still far enough away that it was unlikely their presence was realized.
Nicole could not hear what was being said, nor could she immediately define if the interlopers be male or female, but she did notice when they stopped moving. Being so still against the tree, not instantly aware of their own precarious position in the darkened garden, she listened attentively to the pair, guessing that they had parked themselves somewhere not too far from where she and Trevor hid now. She might have balked against his manhandling, and their present circumstance, but Nicole was not so naïve to not understand the possible ramifications if they were to be caught alone and in the darkness themselves.
A breathless cry of “No, not here” reached her, followed immediately by an answering, “If my father were to know of this....”
Nicole stood calmly against the tree, with Trevor’s cheek very near her ear, while only inches separated his solid chest from her bosom and his thighs from her skirts. She tried to breathe, slowly, normally, listening to the pair on the opposite side of the tree in what now sounded like—even to her uneducated ears—heavy petting and kissing. Fisting her hands at her side, she raised her head to Trevor, but his face was turned away, his forehead resting in the crook of his elbow as his forearms braced his upper body weight against the tree on either side of her head.
Breathing slowly and deeply had brought Trevor’s scent to her, as if his mere closeness could not. He smelled of spice and soap and brandy, all these flavors mingling around her. Closing her eyes, she inhaled him, her nose mere inches from his neck, a lock of his short hair tickling her forehead. Managing to tune out the sounds of the lovers on the lane, Nicole thought only of Trevor. He was big and powerful and so very handsome—all very tempting to a mere girl such as she. At that exact moment, with his body covering hers, with her eyes closed though she could see him perfectly, Nicole knew she was in trouble.
“We must return, my dove,” said the lover on the path, his voice carrying easily to Trevor and Nicole now. “As much as I’d like to bury myself inside you, we have your father and my own spouse to consider.”
At this, Nicole’s eyes flew open, finding with a quickly indrawn breath that Trevor had turned his head, his face only inches from hers, his eyes shiny and intent.
“You are right,” said the dove. “I imagine I shall have to wait to feel you inside me again.”
Eye to eye, Trevor and Nicole regarded each other, her eyes widening yet more at the dove’s response. She blinked rapidly, in disbelief or in shock, but never took her gaze from Trevor. All at once, staring into eyes she knew to be a perfect shade of sapphire, her limbs became tremulous, craving movement. Her stomach fluttered as she was now very much aware of Trevor’s breath on her face, and likewise imagined he must feel her rapid little rushes of air on him. When his gaze shifted to her lips, she unconsciously sent her tongue out to moisten them.
Without warning or pretext, Trevor’s mouth covered hers, hard. No other part of their bodies touched save their lips. Truly, only his moved, firmly molding his mouth to hers, side to side, soft then firm, but with a sense of heretofore denied urgency. Nicole could only receive him, shocked as she was by his very action, and more so by her immediate excitement.
When Trevor’s lips parted, unyielding yet almost gentle still, tasting her fully, Nicole finally responded, moving her lips to match his own apparent need to devour. She opened her mouth as he had done, as seemed natural, and heard the muted groan deep in his chest moments before his tongue entered, slick and knowledgeable, tasting and probing, rendering Nicole’s limbs utterly useless, her mind dysfunctional. Still, she found herself responding in equal measure, pushing her tongue into him. Suddenly then, he was all hands, cupping the sides of her head, turning her face one way and then the other to better slant his mouth against her. Long fingers of velvet steel slid across her neck and over her shoulders, drawing their bodies nearer.
Nicki withstood the near painful grasp of his hands on her shoulders, reacting in kind, feeling this same urgency as she raised her hands to hold him close, gripping the slight lapels of his evening jacket. This kiss, her first, lasted an eternity, it seemed, never tender but neither frightening, only leaving her with a want of more.
At last, Trevor pulled his lips from her, breathing heavily against her mouth, resting his forehead against hers for a spare moment before lifting his gaze to scan the path in both directions.
“They’ve gone.”
And Nicole expelled a breath, lowering her face against his chest. My Lord, she thought, she’d given no thought to the lovers who might have spied upon them, no thought at all once Trevor’s lips had touched hers.
He dug his hands into her hair, bringing her eyes back to his now very searching gaze. She guessed that all he might see presently was great confusion attempting to squelch her even greater joy. But when she could look no more into those probing eyes of his, she removed her own, studying instead his lips. “I have never been kissed before,” this, breathlessly.
“Ah, Nicki,” he breathed and again took her lips, his movements less urgent now, but unyielding all the same. He traced the seam of her lips with his deft tongue, causing shivers of delight to flutter across her insides.
Guilt, however, was a hard emotion to squash, she learned, pushing against him to be free, her hands pressed against his rock hard chest. “What are we doing?” She whispered in an aching voice. “Against my own sister, I have sinned,” she cried, looking up at him for reason.
Trevor opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut and grabbed her hand off his chest. After an interminable moment, he said gruffly, “Come, I’ll take you back.” His present gait as he led her once again along the garden path made his earlier stride appear a Sunday stroll.
Panicked, Nicole whispered breathlessly, guiltily behind him, “My lord, it was wrong... right? We just—well, the...with the dove and...the situation, it was wrong. Right?”
He did not answer her.
Once returned to the ballroom, he deposited her near the ladies retiring room, suggesting thickly that she attend to her person, while Nicole wondered hopefully if it were only his own guilt, manifested as anger, that had him staring at her with eyes shot so liberally with fury.
And with one last penetrating, probing glare, his jaw clenched tight, he turned on his heel and left her. Nicole took immediately to the retiring room, thankful it was empty save for its attendant maid, and cried quietly into a handkerchief plucked from her reticule. She could not show her face, now tear stained and reddened, in the ballroom again and so, from there, went directly to the Kent carriage, waiting what seemed like hours for Sabrina to appear.
Luckily, Sabrina had never had much cause or penchant for making conversation with Nicole, and after a brief inquiry as to how long she’d waited—to which Nicole lied and said only a few minutes—they’d driven home in complete silence. Nicole felt especially unable to chastise her sister now for her ill-treatment of Trevor, knowing her own sins were by far greater.
It was wrong. Right? She’d asked him after that fateful venture into the gardens at Kenefick House. Trevor c
ould not remove those words from his brain even three days later. He could not stop hearing them again, in that torn little voice of hers. He could not erase the picture of her, her lips swollen and reddened from his kiss, her gaze seeking assurances from him. He’d been unable to answer her then, unwilling to examine his own reasons for that kiss, and what his reaction to her meant to him now.
Wrong? No, it had not been wrong. Nothing, he’d determined, not anything in all his twenty-nine years had ever felt so right. But what to do now?
He’d called yesterday at the Kent townhouse—on Sabrina, ostensibly—but had also asked Bennett, the Kent butler, to fetch Nicole as well, if he pleased, as Trevor had pretended to have some business with her. He’d been informed straight away that Miss Nicole was not at home. “Driving with friends, I am to understand,” Bennett had told him in his staid and low voice, leaving Trevor left with nothing to do but await Sabrina’s incalculable presence.
He might have expressed surprise over Sabrina’s actual appearance and unaccountable willingness to visit with him if his mind were not so detracted by thoughts of her sister. As it was, Sabrina had invited him into the visitor’s parlor and served him tea, even going so far as to make banal conversation with him. But all of this—her questionable attempts at congeniality —was lost on Trevor until much later in the day. Then, he surmised it was her own guilt, having all but openly cuckholded him at the Clarendon ball, which allowed her to put on sweet airs for his benefit. Or perhaps—and more probably—her father had gotten wind of her recent headstrong and inappropriate behavior and had threatened her very existence. Either way, Trevor found that he didn’t care. Sabrina could do as she pleased. He would eventually let her know this. Their union was to be a business arrangement only, he would inform her. As long as she was discreet—he would insist upon this—and as long as she put out the requisite heir and a spare, she could damn well do as she pleased. He cared not. He would stop pretending that he did.
And on each of the next three occasions in which Trevor called at the Kent house, hoping only for a word with Nicole, he’d been greeted by his own fiancé instead, Nicole being unavailable in all instances. After one week of this, having today left the Kent house after being hosted to tea by both Sabrina and her nearly always absent father, in which time Sabrina had nearly bored him to tears with the apparently inexhaustible topic of bonnets, Trevor went in direct search of Nicole. Vaguely, Baron Kent had let it be known that Nicole had taken up with “that Cattermole chit” and they were even now driving in the park with Miss Cattermole’s mama and brother.
Leaving Kent House, Trevor headed straight for Hyde Park, but despaired at finding his quarry, because a glance at his timepiece told him that the fashionable hour for driving was coming to an end and Nicole was likely, even now, on her way home.
But find her he did—walking, not driving indeed—unaccompanied along her very own street. Trevor jerked hard on the reins, pulling his phaeton alongside her, acutely aware of her shocked and distressed expression.
“Get in,” he commanded, to which she frowned and continued moving. “Nicki, get in the damn carriage.”
Her bonneted head swiveled sharply at his tone and language, her eyes lighting on his with dismay. But she did as he’d demanded, slipping her hand into his to be pulled up into the open rig.
“Really, my lord—”
“We will talk about this, Nicki,” he stated with only marginally less harshness. She seemed to sigh audibly next to him, Trevor not unaware of their thighs and elbows touching as the vehicle moved steadily around the block.
“Truly, there isn’t anything to discuss,” she said, her voice sounding falsely bright and guiltless to him. “We made a mistake. We forgot ourselves, that is all.”
Forgot ourselves? He mulled these words. This statement insinuated that there had been a longstanding attraction growing, one they’d been forced to deny for some time. Was that the case? he wondered. Their acquaintance in itself was too short for this desire to have been sprung so long ago. But there was desire, he knew, misplaced and dastardly though it was. Trevor glanced sideways at Nicole, taking note of her prim and purposeful position, her eyes staring straight ahead, which afforded him, around the edges of her ruffled rimmed bonnet, only a slight view of her stalwart profile. His gaze settled longingly upon her lips, recalling their softness, already well met but never to be tasted again, he acknowledged with a hammering of his heart that was nearly painful.
Jesus! He cursed inwardly, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into—betrothed to a beautiful witch who stirred his blood not at all, and desirous of her very own sister, whose presence alone seemed to rouse many things inside of him, least of all being the urge to touch her again, to feel her respond to him with so tantalizing an innocence once more.
Rather out of the blue, as he’d not replied to her last statement, Nicki said, “It won’t ever happen again, that lapse of sanity.” She did not move her head to look at him as she delivered this vexing news.
Was that what he wanted? Instinctively, Trevor knew the answer was no. But his choices were so very...non-existent. Sabrina, from her mother, had the huge inheritance, which his family and estate needed so desperately. And Nicki, according to her father—even if she possessed the dowry and moneys that Sabrina would bring to a union—was not allowed to even consider a betrothal, as the baron thought eighteen too young yet to wed. It was often the practice in aristocratic families that the oldest daughter should marry first, lest she be considered less attractive to prospective takers, having been shelved while the younger took her place.
“Nicki, I don’t want you to think—”
She finally turned to him, laying her gloved hand upon his arm while he managed the ribbons, effectively silencing him. His skin under her small palm and fingers flexed and heated even at this slight touch. “Trevor, please do not concern yourself on my account. I may be young, but I think I am not so naïve as to think that what happened between us was anything other than a complete and absurd lack of judgment, instigated solely because of those strange circumstances.” With a quirky little smile, which he was beginning to favor greatly, she added, “Having listened to the Dove and her paramour upon the garden path, I am sure—”
Sternly, irrationally, he said, “You should not have listened to that.”
Nicki gave him a funny look, one brow raised over her vivid green eyes. “You were there, my lord. There wasn’t much I could’ve done to not listen. But please, set your mind to rest. It happened, but it won’t again. Why, I’ve barely given it a thought.”
His gaze turned sharp at this dismissive statement. He studied her pretty face, looking for signs to refute her words, but she faced the street before them again, allowing him no glimpses into her mind. He’d driven them fully around the block by now, and back to her house, drawing the bays to a stop at the curb.
“Why did I find you walking along the street alone just now?”
She seemed surprised by the question, obviously hadn’t any knowledge of how desperate he was to not see her leave him just yet.
“I was with Lucy Cattermole,” she answered, and pointed up the street, “she lives just there.”
“You have plans for this evening?” God, he was pathetic.
“Um, I do not.” She pushed aside the curls that had escaped her bonnet and which the wind tried to sweep across her face. “No engagements at all until your betrothal ball this weekend.”
He didn’t think it was her intent to so boldly lay that out as a reminder of their circumstance, but it hung between them, nevertheless. He nodded tightly, his eyes on the ribbons in his hands.
“My lord, are... you worried I might say something to Sabrina or...?”
Trevor tipped his eyes toward her and shook his head. He stared at her lips, so temptingly full, so damnably delicious he now knew, and confessed, “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Nicki patted his arm one last time and clambered down from the high phaeton,
without awaiting his assistance. “Think no more upon it, my lord. I couldn’t bear to lose you as my friend over something so absurd, so... unfortunate.”
He nodded tightly, his teeth clamped painfully, guessing as he watched her disappear within the house that had he unlocked his jaw and opened his mouth, something irrevocably stupid, something completely dangerous might have spewed forth.
“Think no more upon it?” Trevor considered her words, shaking his head at the improbability of that as an option. “I can think of little else,” he grumbled as he moved the team away from her stoop and back out onto the road.
Chapter Four
Trevor Wentworth and his mother, Lady Leven, welcomed Baron Kent and his two daughters in the foyer of the Earl of Leven’s townhouse. The house itself was not large enough to house an extravagant ball for tonight’s betrothal celebration, but as the Wentworth/Kent wedding was to be a smaller—hurried—affair to quickly set Trevor’s finances to right, the numbers tallied on the guest list totaled not many more than fifty. The wedding itself would take place only seven weeks from now, whether the bride was ready or not.
Given that this past week Sabrina had been more accommodating than previously, Trevor was somewhat surprised to find, upon her entrance, that the blonde beauty had quite obviously taken to tears sometime recently. Her eyes shone just a bit red still, and her nose too was colored yet with evidence of a crying snit. Aside from that, Sabrina was lovely as usual, gowned in a silk, high-waisted confection of shimmering ivory, her hair dressed regally atop her head, small manipulated ringlets artfully posed to frame her face. Trevor bent low over her hand, noting without amusement that she seemed to become quite rigid when he touched her.
Lady Elinor conversed with Baron Kent, that man dressed formally as Trevor had never seen him, in black evening wear complete with knee breeches and low boy boots and clinging still to the declining custom of wearing wigs upon such ceremonial occasions. His artificial piece, atop his round and red-faced head appeared entirely comical to Trevor, the piece being perhaps a size too small that it seemed to only have been slapped upon him rather than fitted properly.
When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1) Page 5