“If you do not like it, do not let the door strike you in the arse.”
Standing at the footboard, she planted hands on hips and inclined her head. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“Damn willful woman.” Lance snorted. “Why do you not get yourself a husband and leave me alone?”
She gasped at the rapier retort but recovered just as fast. “Why do you not get yourself a wife? Then I would not have to take care of you.”
“I am not the old maid in this room,” he replied acerbically. “I can marry whenever it suits me.”
Had he not been injured, Cara might have been hurt by his insult. She may have even walked out on him, given his callous exchange. But she reminded herself of his condition and, as a knight of the Brethren, he would naturally be frustrated by his affliction. Still, she could not resist rising to the occasion and spiking his guns.
“Do not fret, my dear friend.” She paused for effect. “I have a prime prospect for a husband.”
“What?” Lance snapped to attention, which gave her food for thought. “Who is he? Am I acquainted with him? Is he solvent? Is he a military man? You know he must pass inspection, else I do not consent to the match—not by a long chalk.”
His excited reaction and avid interest served as a balm to her injured pride, both restoring her flagging confidence and encouraging her to stay the course. Cara managed a coy smile and trailed her hand along the foot of the bed. Drawing out the suspense, she moved to the chair she often occupied.
“I would say you know him very well, and the rest is none of your concern.”
“And your father approves?” Lance grimaced. “He has blessed the match?”
“More or less.” She studied her fingernails. “Papa will be overjoyed.”
“Wait a minute. The Admiral will be overjoyed?” Unadulterated confusion invested his expression. “The mystery bounder has not asked for your hand?”
Was that relief she detected in his voice?
“Not yet.” Cara shrugged. “But I am confident of his regard.”
“You are lying.” He cast her a narrow stare. “Now why would you weave such falsehood for me, dear friend? Given our longstanding relationship, I had thought us above the usual games men and women play.”
“Which is why I share my secret with you, alone.” Ignoring the implication of his affirmation, and the nagging doubts once again plaguing her spirit, she smoothed the blankets and chuckled. “And I can assure you, I shall no longer be on the shelf by the end of the Little Season.”
“You are certain?”
“Positive.”
“And you fancy him?”
She pondered the square kerchief tucked inside her bodice, close to her heart, and wondered at his response were she to reveal its presence and the fact that she’d kept it so long.
“More than he knows.”
The room was as silent as a tomb.
“Then he is truly fortunate.” Lance resituated his pillows and reclined. Downcast, he cleared his throat. “I wish you merry.”
With a countenance of inexpressible melancholy, he sighed, and his shoulders slumped, and Cara’s heart sang with unutterable joy, because his lament was not what one would expect of a childhood chum deprived of a favored toy. Oh, no.
He loved her as she loved him.
And although she had yet to secure his formal declaration, his dour demeanor was the next best thing. So she would bide her time and win her groom.
“And what of you?” she inquired. “Has any particular debutante turned your head? You know, you must fulfill your duties and get yourself an heir.”
“And I suppose I shall, some day.” His tone of pure acid, his answering smile was all wolf. “But what care I for marriage when there are so many young fields to plow?”
“Well, were you married, you would have no use for me.” Cara ignored his crude connotation. “You would have a wife in attendance.”
“I do not need anyone to take care of me.” Lance lowered his chin and pouted. “I get along quite well on my own.”
“Of course you do.”
“I do.”
“Now there is no reason to be difficult.” She bit back a snort at his sound of disgust. “I agreed with you.”
“That may be.” He compressed his lips. “But it is how you agreed with me to which I take exception.”
“I beg your pardon?” Brows arched in surprise, Cara placed a hand to her throat. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
“By word alone you wish me to think you agreeable.” Lance pointed for emphasis. “However, as we are such good friends, I can tell by your manner that you disagree with me.”
Whistling in monotone, Cara gazed at the ceiling. “And they say women are illogical.”
ONE-KNIGHT STAND
CHAPTER FIVE
“I want out of this bed!”
“Lance, you know what Dr. Handley said.” Cara pressed her palms to his shoulders and stayed him. “Only a week or two more, and we can get you up and about—slowly.” Though he resisted, she managed to push him into the pillows. “If you try to do too much, too soon, you risk re-injuring yourself and prolonging your convalescence. Is that what you want?”
No.” With a grimace, he speared his fingers through his hair. “But I will go insane if I am locked in here, another week. You do not know what this is like. You get to go outside”
“I am sorry you are so unhappy.” She sat on the edge of the bed and clasped his hand in hers. “What can I do to make it better?”
Lance carefully considered the question innocently posed by the girl of his dreams. With his right leg firmly set in a splint, his lap remained in fine form, and a soft female rider would do quite nicely. In truth, there was much Cara could provide to alleviate his misery, given that he craved release, so there was nothing he preferred more than to offer her a salacious proposal, or two. Yet he could not proposition the gently reared object of his fantasies, because she merited more than a broken wreck of a man.
Still, he wondered why so many hours spent in her company, alone, left him more randy than a lad who had just discovered a new use for four fingers and a thumb. No giddy virgin, he’d honed his skills in the arms of some of London’s most notorious courtesans. His experiences involved superficial attachments, base desire of the flesh, and professional paramours. Cara was in another class, all by herself. Perhaps that was why he could not resist her—not that he ever could.
“Lance?” The raven-haired beauty nudged him. “Where are you, my hero?”
He cocked his head to the side and cast a lopsided grin that never failed to bend her to his will. “Read to me?” He patted the spot beside him on the mattress. “Like you used to when we were young.”
As children, whenever their families gathered, Cara had always sought his attention, but, where she was concerned, he was an easy mark. Snuggled to his side with the current novel she favored, and she was always reading something, they passed many lazy afternoons. And though he would deny it to his grave, as she focused on the pages, he availed himself of the opportunity to revel in her lilac-scented hair. Such were his fondest memories, as were his fanciful illusions of marrying her.
But those illusions died with his cousin.
While some might think him foolish, he believed himself undeserving of happiness, because he had not saved the gadling. The estate, fortune, and title once destined for Thomas now belonged to Lance. Were they not enough? Yet he would surrender the lot in exchange for Cara.
As he could not rewrite history, he had spent his life endeavoring to atone for the mistake of his past. Guilt, he learned, was a powerful inducement. In memory of his brash relation, he had dedicated his life, volunteering for the most dangerous missions and assuming the most unimaginable risks as a Nautionnier Knight of the Brethren of the Coast. A warrior’s death would do his cousin proud.
“I do not know.” Cara bit her lip and hesitated. “What if someone should find us?”
He blinked. �
��Well, you could tell me more of your mystery suitor. And no one enters my chambers without first knocking—except you.”
“Stuff and nonsense.” She giggled.
“Please.” He did his best to pout. “Pretty please?”
“Oh, all right.” She cast him a shy smile. “But you are shameless.”
“And what is new about that?” Lance fluffed a pillow and situated the covers.
“Nothing, now that you mention it.” After kicking off her slippers, Cara inched alongside him, book in hand, and settled the skirts of her pale blue dress.
Without thought, he snaked his arm about her shoulders and brushed his fingertips to her velvety skin bared by her short sleeves. As was her custom, she scooted close, affording him a view of the pages from over her shoulder.
As well as a healthy glimpse of her ample bosom.
“Are you comfortable?” She peered at him.
“Fine.” Lance averted his gaze, shifted, and swallowed hard. Perhaps his grand idea was not so grand. “Never better.”
“You must tell me if you grow tired.” With a cherubic smile she gave her attention to the old tome, flipping the crisp parchment until she located a folded corner. “Ah, here we are.”
Reading in the lilting voice that seemed to melt over him like honey on a hot scone, she commanded his senses, and he leaned to the side and inhaled. The subtle lilac fragrance, uniquely hers, wafted through his nostrils. Some things never changed, and he sighed in inexpressible content.
The gentle crest of her ear snared his interest, and he imagined her reaction as he suckled her fleshy lobe. In an erotic flash, he envisioned her lying beneath him as he claimed her lips, certain in the belief that she tasted as sweet as marzipan. He studied the swanlike curve of her neck and contemplated a trail of feathery nips leading to the sumptuous valley of her breasts, and beyond.
Despite his heretofore-vaunted self-control, he fought in vain to suppress a fast rising erection. Clearing his throat, Lance forced himself to focus on the printed words as Cara continued to read.
However, her mere presence seduced him. Immersed in her task, she remained oblivious to his tremulous state and the threat he presented. Incapable of rational thought, Lance closed his eyes and yielded to her unintended but nonetheless potent summons. Tracing feathery circles on her skin, he shuddered, and a surge of triumph mixed with lust roared through his veins as gooseflesh signaled her undeniable response.
It was then he noted the deafening silence.
Lifting his lids, Lance discovered Cara perched perilously near, their noses scarce inches apart. He met her gaze, trapping it with his own. After a few tense seconds, she ran her pink tongue along her lower lip and inhaled a shivery breath. Thousands of pulse points blazed to life, and his heart beat a rapid volley in his chest. Clutching her waist, he pulled her close.
Before things got out of hand, and with Cara that was a definite possibility, he grasped the reins. She was his friend, nothing more. Convinced his momentary lapse of control was born of a brush with death, an injury, an unscheduled and unappreciated period of celibacy, and an over-reliance on laudanum, Lance comforted himself in the knowledge that he could cease their harmless play—right up until she kissed him.
#
Cara had only meant to offer comfort with what she deemed a small, seemingly inconsequential gesture. But when her future groom came at her with a force she could never have anticipated or imagined, licking her flesh and engaging her tongue in a frisky little contest, she sang a chorus of triumph in her head. How she managed to hold a firm grip on reality beneath her hero’s amorous assault she neither knew nor cared. But she scored a victory in her heart, because, at long last, she had broken a very real, albeit invisible, barrier between them.
Now if only she could secure his declaration.
On the thought, she turned her attention to the man currently devouring her with his lips and sank into him. In the minuscule part of her brain still clinging to coherent reflection, she hardly registered the subtle but enticing shift of her bodice or the illicit caress of her chemise as he swept it aside. But when his palm made contact with her bare breast, she prayed he did not discover the kerchief, and then she cried with pleasure.
Taunting and teasing, he explored her with naughty fingers in long, questing strokes. Fire and desire burned in her veins, and a powerful hunger blossomed in her belly. Arching her back, Cara invited the love of her life to take—to claim. Aching to intensify their intimate connection, she skimmed his muscled chest with her hand and then moved lower, to playfully prod his naval before blazing a mischievous trail to his Jolly Roger, which she found hot, hard, and breathtakingly jolly.
In that instant Lance broke their kiss. For a few frustrating seconds, he ceased all action and stared at her, jaw agape, eyes wide, and stunned but obviously delighted, given his healthy erection.
“Cara—”
“Shh,” she whispered. “Do not think. Just feel.”
With renewed vigor, Cara worked his length, eliciting guttural grunts in concert with her movements, and a husky groan further betrayed his appreciation. When Lance rested his forehead to hers and gritted his teeth, she feared she had hurt him and halted her play. In a flash, he grabbed her wrist, pumped once, and then twice. With his mouth open in a silent scream, and his brow a mass of furrows, he climaxed in powerful staccato bursts, which left her senses reeling.
Cara shivered with passion.
Because she enjoyed no such release. Recalling her sister’s tutelage, she knew with certainty that she had not reached completion, and she craved it. Bending her leg at the knee, she bumped the splint. Lance flinched, drew a sharp breath, and pulled from her embrace.
“Oh, dearest, I am so sorry.” Still shaken from the effects of their tryst, she carefully eased from his side and righted her clothes. “How clumsy of me. Do you think I did any damage?”
To her dismay, he remained eerily silent.
“Lance, are you all right?”
“Leave me.” To her dismay, he recoiled. “Go home.”
“I am not abandoning you in pain.” She slipped from the edge of the bed. “Let me administer a dose of laudanum.”
“I do not want it, and I do not want you,” he spat. He hunkered and pressed his fists to his forehead. “Go away. Leave me—now.”
“I do not understand.” Confused by his unmasked hostility, Cara halted in her tracks, with the bottle of medicine in one hand and a spoon in the other. “Are you angry with me? Is this about—”
“Say no more. I do not wish to discuss it.” He scowled. “Just get out.”
“Lance, please.” She ascended the platform. “Do not turn from me. There was nothing wrong with what we did. If you would only—”
“Cara, so help me, if you do not depart, this instant, I am going to get out of this bed, hop to the bellpull, and have you forcibly removed from my sight,” he said through gritted teeth.
With a gasp of shock, she jerked as if she had been slapped. In truth, her hero could not have hurt her more had he physically struck her, and she would die before she told him. However late, Cara realized she had celebrated a premature victory over her intended. And as the situation now stood, her objective seemed impossible to attain.
Despite attempts to portray herself otherwise, it appeared Lance viewed her as nothing more than a friend. Rejection nipped at her heels, and anger rode in its wake. How could she have been so foolish? Humiliated, she set the bottle and spoon on the bedside table and walked to the door. Clothed in her trusty armor of feminine deportment, without a word, without so much as a backward glance, she exited the bedchamber.
But her broken heart remained in pieces, scattered at the foot of his bed as a casualty of her ill-fated campaign.
#
Cara sat in the morning room of her parent’s town home desperately trying to concentrate on her embroidery. Needlework was a skill in which she had always excelled, and such endeavor had never failed to soothe frazzled nerv
es. However, that morning she could not seem to sew a straight stitch.
Gowned in pale yellow muslin, her raven hair artfully arranged in curls atop her head, her legs crossed and discreetly tucked to the side, she cut the perfect picture of a gently bred English lady partaking of an activity that was expected of her. It was no surprise she had earned high marks in deportment at finishing school. Her calm façade betrayed no hint of the conflict waging war within her.
It had been two days since Cara had seen Lance.
Two days since they had shared a kiss and subsequent heated exchange.
Two days, and still she had no intention of visiting her somewhat battle worn hero, until she reassessed her strategy. And although he remained atop his white charger, her knight in shining armor no longer sat so tall in the saddle.
How dare he ruthlessly seduce her and then toss her aside?
Then again, had she not seduced him? They were supposed to be friends, lifelong companions. Their tryst had turned her world on its end, and yet Lance remained unaffected. Worse, he seemed rather put out, had threatened to have her removed from his presence. She clung to her anger at the unfairness of it all, because if she did not, the heartbreak would surely devastate her.
Cara had pinned all her hopes on that kiss.
And what she had thought would happen shortly thereafter, a proposal and pledge of eternal love, had not occurred. Instead, she had been banished—exiled from his life. And while she remained entrenched in her belief that he was destined to be hers, she was no longer certain of her tack. Disappointment was a bitter pill, as was pride. She pondered his kerchief, tucked inside her chemise, near her heart, and sighed. Staring at her work, she spied a wayward stitch, frowned, and reached for the scissors.
A knock on the oak panel gave her pause. “Come.”
“I beg your pardon.” The butler cleared his throat. “Lady Seymour to see you, Miss Cara.”
“Thank you, Milton.” She smiled and nodded. “Please, show her in, at once.” Setting aside her silks, she composed herself, stood, and smoothed her skirts.
When next the door opened, Alex entered with what Cara recognized as a strained expression. In an instant, she feared the worst. Her chest constricted, as though an invisible band stretched taut across her torso, and she almost choked on a lump in her throat. “What is it? What is wrong?”
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