by Lisa Kleypas
Lara was amazed by the strength of her feelings toward the little boy, as if a strong current of emotions that had been dammed up for years was suddenly allowed to flow free. In her resentment and shame at not having been able to give Hawksworth an heir, she had never acknowledged her own hunger for a child. Someone who could accept and return her love without limits or conditions—someone who needed her. She hoped that Hawksworth would not forbid her to keep Johnny. She was willing to defy him and anyone else who tried to separate her from the boy.
Sweating in her gray, high-necked muslin gown, Lara went upstairs to her suite and closed the door. What she needed was to change into a lighter, cooler gown, and strip off her itchy worsted stockings. She untied her apron, dropped it on the floor, and sat in a chair to unlace her serviceable leather shoes. A relieved sigh escaped her as she worked her toes free of the heavy encumbrances. Next she worked at the buttons of her wrists and the back of her neck. Unfortunately the gown fastened in the back, and she couldn't remove it without assistance. Fanning her perspiring face, she went to the tasseled bellpull near her bed, intending to ring for Naomi.
“Don't.” Hawksworth's quiet voice made her jerk in surprise. “I'll help you.”
Lara's heart thundered in her chest, and she whirled toward the corner. Hawksworth lounged in a Hepplewhite chair with a shield-shaped back. “Good Lord,” she gasped. “Why didn't you tell me you were here?”
“I just did.” He had shed his coat and waistcoat, the thin linen shirt clinging fluidly to his broad shoulders and lean torso. As he came nearer, she caught the smell of his skin, mingled with the salt of perspiration, the tang of bay rum, and the faint but pleasant scent of horses.
Trying to ignore her own stirring attraction to him, Lara folded her arms around herself and regarded him with extreme dignity. “I would appreciate your leaving, as I am about to change my gown.”
“I'm offering my services in lieu of your maid's.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I would prefer Naomi.”
“Are you afraid I'll ravish you if I see you undressed?” he mocked. “I'll try to control myself. Turn around.”
Lara stiffened as he turned her away from him. He began on the back of her gown, unfastening the miniature hooks with maddening slowness. The air touched her overheated skin, making her shiver. The heavy gown fell away by degrees, until she clutched at the bodice to keep it from slipping down her front. “Thank you,” she said. “That was very helpful. I can do the rest now.”
Hawksworth ignored the stilted command and reached inside the back of her dress, unhooking her lightly boned stays. Lara swayed and closed her eyes. “That's enough,” she said unsteadily, but he continued, pulling the gown from her grasp, pushing it down her hips until it dropped to the floor in a humid heap. The stays followed, and she was left only in her chemise and drawers and stockings. His palms hovered over her shoulders and upper arms, not quite touching, bringing goose bumps to her skin and making the fine downy hairs prickle. Her toes dug into the carpet.
She hadn't felt like this since she was a frightened young girl on her wedding night, not knowing what was expected of her, having no idea what he intended.
Still standing behind her, Hawksworth reached across her front to the mother-of-pearl buttons closing her chemise. For a man she had once considered rather ham-handed, he released the tiny buttons with surprising dexterity. The chemise sagged beneath his ministrations, cool air wafting over her exposed cleavage. The delicate cambric clung to the tips of her nipples, barely concealing them.
“Do you want me to stop now?” she heard him ask.
Yes, she wanted to say, but her unruly mouth wouldn't produce a sound. She was paralyzed with curiosity as he let down her hair, smoothing back the strands that clung to her moist, salty cheeks. His fingers slid under the dark silk and lightly rubbed her scalp, his touch so soothing and pleasurable that she felt a responsive moan welling up in her throat. Her back arched, and she fought the overwhelming temptation to lean against him and invite more.
He stroked the back of her neck, manipulating the taut muscles that ached from her labors of the morning, releasing pain and delight at the same time. He spoke close to her ear, making her shiver. “Do you trust me, Lara?”
She shook her head, still unable to speak.
He laughed softly. “I don't trust myself, either. You're too beautiful, and I want you too damn badly.”
He stood so close, but the only place he touched I her was her neck, his fingers compressing the sore nape with exquisite gentleness. She sensed rather than felt that he was aroused again. The thought should have made her bolt, but somehow she just stood quietly under his ministrations. She felt tipsy, off-balance, wild thoughts flitting through her mind. If only he would kiss her again the way he had before, his mouth so hard and delicious…
A sweet ache spread through her breasts, collecting at the tips. Lara bit her lip as she tried to keep from snatching at his warm fingers and pulling them to her body. Shamed, she kept still and prayed that he couldn't guess what she was thinking. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until it rushed between her lips in a quick gasp.
“Lara,” she heard him murmur, and her heart stopped as he lifted the knee-length hem of her chemise, gathering it in handfuls until he reached the waist of her drawers. She began to tremble, her legs weakening until she was forced to lean against him for support. His chest was like a stone wall. His sex was huge and hard as it nestled against the pliant curve of her buttocks.
He pulled at the tape of her drawers, and they slipped down to her ankles. She heard his breathing change, felt the tremor in his hand as he rested it for one dizzying moment on her bare hip. Then he dropped the hem of her chemise, letting it cover her once more.
He picked her up with ridiculous ease, and she was swallowed in his strength. She kept her neck tense, refusing to lay her head on his shoulder, remaining stubbornly silent as he carried her across the room. The panicked question shot through her—was he going to make love to her? Let him, she thought suddenly. Let him do exactly what he had done all those times before. Let him prove that it was as awful as she remembered…and then she would be free of him. She would regard him with her old steadfast indifference, and he would have no more power over her.
To her surprise, he didn't carry her to the bed, but to the chair at her dressing table. He lowered her into the chair and knelt at her feet, his powerful thighs spread for balance. Light-headed, Lara stared into the handsome face so near hers. Sounds from outside the room penetrated the quietness…the muffled clang of a servants' bell, the low of animals grazing on the vast lawn, the bark of a dog, the rustling of servants going about their daily tasks. It seemed impossible that there was a busy world around them. All that existed was this room, and the two of them in it.
Hawksworth's gaze remained on her face as he touched her, his finger sliding up her stockinged ankle in a luxuriously slow ascent. Lara began to quiver, her legs stiffening as her husband urged her chemise up to her thighs. He found her knitted garter and untied it, and she couldn't prevent a little sob of alarm. He peeled back the itchy stocking, his fingers brushing the inside of her thigh, knee, calf, giving her a small, sweet shock each time he touched the tender skin. He turned his attention to her other leg, stripping the stocking away and dropping it to the floor.
Lara sat half naked before him, her fingers curled around the edges of the chair seat. She thought of the way it used to be between them, the rank smell of his breath when he had come to her after a drinking spree, the way he had climbed on top of her with few preliminaries and shoved himself inside her. Painful, embarrassing…and worse, the feeling she'd always had afterward, as if she had been used and discarded. According to her mother's helpful advice, she had always remained on her back for several minutes after Hawksworth had left her, giving his seed every possible chance of taking root.
Secretly Lara had always been glad when it didn't. She hadn't liked the idea of his
child growing in her belly, overtaking her body, affording Hawksworth the opportunity of pointing to her as an example of his all-important virility.
Why had he never touched her then as he was doing now?
The tip of his forefinger brushed the top of one pale leg, where the garters had chafed her and made reddish marks. He reached past her for the blue Bristol glass jar on the dressing table, which contained a cream blended with extracts of cucumber and roses. “Is this what you use on your skin?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” she said faintly.
He opened the jar, releasing a fresh, flowery scent into the air. Scooping up a small amount of the cream, he spread it evenly between his palms, and smoothed his hands over her legs.
“Oh—” Lara's muscles twitched in reaction, her weight shifting in the chair.
He concentrated on his task, soothing the chafed areas of her skin. Her gaze followed his long brown hands as they moved gently over her. The hem of her chemise rode up her legs, and she pushed it back down, trying to retain the last shreds of modesty. The attempt was futile. His hands glided rhythmically back and forth, higher and higher, making her breath stop each time he reached her inner thighs. She didn't understand the reactions of her own body, the urge to open and push herself against him, the sudden swelling warmth in her private place. His fingertips reached far up her legs, just brushing the edge of the nest of dark hair beneath her chemise.
Lara gasped and caught at his wrists. There was a silken ache in her loins, a peculiar surge of moisture. “Stop,” she whispered shakily. “Stop.”
He didn't seem to hear her at first, his gaze riveted on the shadow of curls beneath the thin cambric. His hands tightened on her flesh.
Stop. She asked the impossible, but somehow Hunter made himself do it. He closed his eyes before the sight of her drove him insane…the soft, pale skin, the fluff of dark hair that lured his fingers to dive beneath her chemise. She couldn't possibly understand how desperately he wanted to touch her, taste her, bite, devour, suck, kiss every sweet inch of her body. His muscles were as stiff as iron, not to mention the battering ram that surged against the tight fabric of his pantaloons. He was close to exploding.
When he was able to move, he took his hands from her and stood. Not paying much attention to where he was going, he crossed the room until he nearly walked into a wall. He braced his hands against it and concentrated on restoring his shattered self-control. “Cover yourself,” he said brusquely, keeping his eyes fixed on the garishly papered wall before him. “Or I won't be responsible for what I do.”
He heard her move like a startled rabbit, fumbling in the armoire for clothing. While she dressed, he breathed in a controlled pattern. The fragrance of the skin cream lingered on his hands. He wanted to go back to her, rub his rose-scented fingers over her breasts and between her thighs.
“Thank you.” Her voice traveled to his ears.
“For what?” he asked, staring fixedly at the papered panel before him.
“You could have asserted your rights without regard to my wishes.”
Hunter turned and braced his back on the wall, crossing his arms over his taut chest. Lara had donned a prudish white robe with rows of intricate tucks. The garment was shapeless and all-enveloping, but it did little to cool his desire. She was so lovely, her cheeks tinted with a delicate pink flush. He gave her a devil-may-care smile. “When I make love to you,” he told her, “you'll be more than willing. You'll beg for it.”
She laughed unsteadily. “You're too arrogant for words!”
“You'll beg,” he repeated. “And you'll love every moment of it.”
Alarm flitted across her features, and then she managed a look of cool disdain. “If it pleases you to think so.”
Hunter watched as Lara went to the dressing table and sat before the mirror, brushing her long sable hair. She braided the dark locks and pinned them into a coil near the top of her head, her composure seeming to return. However, there was still a trace of chagrin that pulled at her forehead, making her look troubled. Any man would have given his fortune to have the chance of comforting her.
“Tell me about the boy,” Hunter said.
The nimble movements of her fingers faltered. “Johnny was sent to the orphanage from Holbeach Prison. His father was a convicted felon. I brought Johnny here because there was no room for him, not even one spare bed.”
“And you intend for him to live with us? As what? A servant? An adopted child?”
“There is no need for us to adopt him, if you don't wish it,” Lara responded, her tone carefully neutral. “But with all the means at our disposal, I thought it would be possible to raise him as…part of the family.”
Perplexed, annoyed, Hunter stared hard at her reflection in the mirror. “We're not talking about taking a relative's child into our home, Lara. It's likely he comes from a long-established line of thieves and murderers.”
“Johnny's pedigree, or lack thereof, isn't his fault,” she shot back, with a quickness that betrayed she had already considered this line of argument. “He's an innocent child. If he's brought up in a decent home, he won't be anything like his father.”
“That's one theory,” Hunter replied, unimpressed. “Tell me, then—are we to open our doors to every homeless child you encounter? There are too damn many orphans in England. I've no desire to be a replacement father to all of them. Or even to one, at this point.”
“You don't have to act as his father.” Lara's hands clenched in her lap. “I'll be enough for him. I'll take care of him and love him without letting it detract from my other responsibilities.”
“Such as your responsibility to me?” He indicated the bed with a jerk of his head. “Let me know when you're ready to assume your wifely duties, and then we'll take up the matter of your latest protégé.”
She gasped in outrage. “You can't possibly mean…Are you saying that you won't allow me to keep Johnny unless I agree to sleep with you?”
Hunter smiled mockingly, deciding that he would indulge her only up to a point. He would be damned if she would have everything her way and not have to pay some price. “As I said, I'm open to bargaining. But before we start setting terms, I want to point out something that you may not have considered. Raise the boy as one of the family, if you like. But he won't have the bloodlines to be accepted in good society, and he won't be a servant, and he'll be a damn sight too good for the lower classes he came from.”
Lara compressed her mouth, stubbornly refusing to see the truth in his words. “That won't matter. I'll help him to find his own place in the world.”
“Like hell it won't matter,” he said savagely. “You don't understand what it's like to live between two worlds, and not fit in anywhere.”
“How would you know what it's like to be a misfit? You've always been a Hawksworth, and had everyone bowing and scraping before you since the day you were born.”
Hunter clenched his jaw until it vibrated. A torrent of words jammed inside him. She dared to defy him. She imagined him as a coldhearted bastard, and styled herself as the patron saint of all helpless creatures. Well, he was more than ready to answer her challenge.
“Fine,” he said. “Keep him here. I won't stand in your way.”
“Thank you.” Her tone was wary, as if she sensed what was coming next.
“And in return,” he continued silkily, “you can do something for me.” He walked to the Hepplewhite chair and picked up a brown paper parcel beside it. Casually he tossed the featherlight package to her. She caught it in a reflex movement.
“What is this?” Lara asked. “A present?”
“Open it.”
She complied slowly, as if suspecting some sort of trick—and it was, in a way. The present was for his benefit, not hers. Setting the brown paper on the dressing table, Lara extracted a delicate, slippery length of black silk and lace. Hunter had bought the negligee from a London dressmaker, who had created the garment as part of a large order for a celebrated courte
san. The customer would never miss it, the dressmaker had assured Hunter, eager for his future patronage.
The negligee was little more than a film of transparent silk, the bodice made of a web of sheer lace. The flowing skirt was slit to the waist in two places.
“Only a prostitute would wear this,” Lara said in a stricken whisper, her green eyes huge.
“A very, very expensive prostitute, my sweet.” Hunter wanted to laugh at her obvious horror.
“I could never…” Her voice trailed into silence, as if the thought of wearing it was too terrible to mention aloud.
“But you will,” he said, enjoying himself. “You'll wear it for me tonight.”
“You must be mad! How could I possibly wear something like this? It's indecent. It's…” She turned pink, a bright blush seeping down her neckline. “I may as well be naked!” she exclaimed.
“There is always that option,” he said with a thoughtful expression.
“You…you devil! You degenerate, manipulative—”
“Do you want Johnny to stay?” he asked.
“And if I do wear it? What guarantee do I have that you won't…”
“Leap on you in a fit of lust?” he supplied help-fully. “Bull the cow, hoist the cock, play the hurdy-gurdy—”
“Oh, stop it!” She glared at him while her cheeks turned crimson.
“I won't touch you,” he promised, a grin tugging at his lips. “Just wear the damn gown for one evening. Will it be so difficult?”
“No.” She dropped the gown and covered her hot face with her hands, her small voice seeping out from between her fingers. “It will be impossible. Please, you must ask something else of me.”
“Oh, no.” There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to see her in the black negligee. “You've told me what you want—and I've reciprocated. You're getting off lightly, you know. The child will be here for years, whereas your part of the bar gain will be over in one evening.”
Lara lifted the frail wisp of a gown and regarded it with distaste. It was clear she would have preferred a hair shirt that would scrape off two or three layers of skin. Her snapping green eyes met his. “If you dare to touch me or make jest of me, I'll never forgive you. I'll find some way to make you sorry. I'll—”