The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  His lips conveyed an urgent, compelling persuasion. The hand at her waist guided her into him. Against him. She was instantly aware of the hard, unmistakable press of male desire between his hips, thrust up against her belly.

  “I want to see you again,” he said. “Somewhere we won’t be interrupted. Somewhere we can be alone.” His mouth was on the side of her neck. “Meet me at midnight. Here.”

  Claire’s throat locked. Words were impossible. A stray hand slid her blouse from one shoulder.

  Deliberately, he touched her, his hand clamped boldly over the whole of her breast, his eyes delving deep into hers.

  With his palm, he circled her nipple. Again. And yet again. It was as if he touched her everywhere.

  Claire’s mind froze. Her mind was screaming. A hundred emotions swirled through her. Shock. Panic. The hope and prayer that despite his disreputable character he would remain a gentleman.

  And pleasure. Dear God, so much pleasure. In some distant part of her being, she was stunned that she could feel such a thing with this man.

  Her hand fluttered up to rest atop his. She tore her mouth away. “Please,” she said shakily. “Please don’t.”

  Slowly, he released her. But he stared down at her face, his eyes fever-bright. Claire dragged her blouse back over her bare shoulder. She lowered her gaze, trying to recapture her breath. She felt the weight of those crystal-bright eyes gazing down at her bent head. Her cheeks were flaming. Her scarf had come off; her hair spilled down her back. She was shaken, but she couldn’t let him see.

  Their eyes locked. A palpable tension hung between them. He picked up her ribbon—it was he who finally broke the silence.

  There was a faint and oh-so-maddening smile on his lips.

  “A pity, Gypsy lady. I was so looking forward to a midnight assignation.” He paused. “Another night, perhaps?”

  Claire’s jaw snapped shut. He dared to mock her! A fury unlike any she’d ever known seized hold of her.

  If it was a battle of wits he wanted, by heaven, she would oblige him.

  Gray hadn’t lied. He’d meant it when he said he was fascinated by her.

  Most assuredly entranced.

  There was something about her, something he couldn’t put a name to—a vague restlessness that there was more to Claire than a pretty face. Something wasn’t quite right. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Ah, but who did he fool? he thought with sudden, scathing self-derision.

  He wanted the lovely widow in his bed.

  And by heaven, he would have her. When Grayson Sutherland wanted something, he usually got it. When he set his mind to it, there was usually no escaping it.

  He didn’t see Claire until after luncheon the next day.

  Some of the other men had walked down to the rolling lawn to engage in various so-called manly games. Some of the women gathered there to watch beneath the shade of a large tent where tea had been set up.

  Gray was bored. Affairs such as these usually had that effect on him. It was why he usually avoided them like the plague. Indeed, he wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been hosted by someone other than Clive.

  It wasn’t always so. No, it wasn’t always so at all. He’d met Lily at just such an affair. Met her, courted her, and won her.

  Indeed, he reflected with a black-hearted smile, who did he fool? He was here because of the lovely Claire Westfield.

  So it was that he stood at the top of the hill, searching the rosy-cheeked faces of the women beneath the brim of their bonnets.

  She wasn’t there. He stayed a few minutes longer, then walked the length of the terrace, stopping where he’d kissed Claire the night before. The scent of hyacinth filled the air. Sunlight played hide-and-seek beneath the clouds.

  He turned—and there she was.

  “Mrs. Westfield, lovely to see you. Were you looking for me?”

  “Do not flatter yourself, my lord.”

  “You wound me to the depths of my heart.”

  “Have you a heart?” Her tone was light. “I’ve heard various accounts to the contrary.”

  “You mustn’t believe everything you hear, Claire. Frankly, you surprised me.”

  “How so?”

  “When Clive sent the invitation, I thought you might not attend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The night of the play, I thought I’d frightened you off.”

  “Because you kissed me?”

  “Yes.” A cool smile touched the hardness of his lips.

  “I’m not so easily frightened, sir.”

  No, he thought slowly. She wasn’t. And he was more certain than ever that the lovely Mrs. Westfield was hiding something.

  It only intrigued him all the more. “When I said you wounded me, Claire, it was true.”

  Piquant dark brows rose aslant.

  “I cannot help but remember,” he said smoothly, “the other night at my mother’s. You didn’t give me a birthday kiss.”

  For a moment she appeared startled. Then, almost primly, she spoke. “Very well, then. Here is your birthday kiss.”

  Raising herself on tiptoe, she brushed a kiss on his cheek and drew back. “Now you have it.” A smile on her lips, she lowered herself to the ground.

  “And this”—she slapped him hard across the cheek—“is for kissing me the way you did last night.”

  In the instant between one breath and the next, Gray was too stunned to say a word. Then his eyes glinted.

  “It wasn’t the kiss, my lovely Claire. I submit it was when I touched your—”

  She would have slapped him again if he hadn’t caught her wrist. Gray was flooded with fury. Flooded with pride. So she thought to toy with him, did she? Her slap on his cheek left him bitingly angry. He wanted to crush her mouth beneath his. Ride her and ride her hard. It was time she discovered he was not a man who played games.

  “I have offended your sensibilities,” he said smoothly. “I can only offer my most sincere apologies. I am truly contrite.”

  She eyed him warily.

  “Allow me to kidnap you for the afternoon, my dear Mrs. Westfield. I believe some of the men are riding off to shoot. The women are off to a day of bird-watching. Accompany me instead. We can take a gig down to the stream. I will be a perfect gentleman.”

  “You, sir? Aren’t you the man who calls himself anything but a gentleman?”

  “Indeed.”

  For an instant he thought she would refuse. Finally, she gazed straight into his eyes. “Very well, then. But I will hold you to it.”

  Gray inclined his head, still full of angry fierceness. Within a fortnight, he vowed, he’d have her on her back, thighs splayed wide, her legs locked tight around his waist while he plunged hard and deep and fast inside her.

  Oh, yes, he wanted more than just a kiss. More than a hand in command of her breast. Much more. And yet there was a part of him that despised himself for his weakness. She aroused feelings he’d thought were long buried. He was coming to realize his fiery craving for the lovely Claire was too intense.

  He didn’t want to be drawn to her. He felt . . . almost reckless. It threatened his control. And Gray was a man who didn’t like to be out of control. He wanted to get her out of his system.

  The sooner he bedded her, the better.

  Chapter Eight

  As it happened, Claire wouldn’t have been able to join the other guests on their ride anyway. She hadn’t thought to bring a riding habit. She dressed in a gown of mauve that brought out the green in her eyes. At luncheon, Gray explained to Clive that the two of them wouldn’t be joining the afternoon riding party. Claire watched as they spoke. There was an easy affability between the viscount and the duke. She couldn’t help the direction her mind took. Bitterly she wondered if the duke had known Oliver. Bitterly she wondered if the duke knew his friend had killed Oliver.

  Once they were on their way, Claire asked Gray about his friendship with the duke.

  “Neither of us having a br
other of our own, I daresay we are rather like brothers,” said Gray. “Even down to our rivalries. We met at a boxing match at Cambridge. I broke his nose, though if you ask Clive, he’ll tell you he broke mine.”

  Claire’s gaze traced his profile, stopping on the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. “Brawling, were you?”

  “Quite raucously.”

  “Who won the match?”

  “Well, if you ask Clive,” he said again, “he will report that he did. And if you ask me, well, you have only to look at his nose for the truth.”

  So the viscount could be charming, could he? Impossible, she decreed. But now she wanted to know—

  “Have you siblings, my lord?”

  “One. My older sister Rosalind lives in Scotland with her husband and three children.” He glanced over at her. “And you, Claire? Brothers? Sisters?”

  She wanted so very much to lash out at him, to cry out that he had robbed her of her brother. That she had lost everyone she cared for.

  Claire looked away. “All my family are gone.”

  Her mood grew pensive. At least he had family, she thought bitterly. A mother. A sister. But she didn’t want to see him in a family role. To her, family meant happiness. Love. Contentment. The knowledge that no matter what, that bond was irrevocable. But now there was an empty void in her breast.

  She willed her mind elsewhere, but there was little else to command her attention. Claire was taller than most women, and many men as well. Yet the man beside her seemed a giant. Occasionally one long leg brushed hers. The same was true of her shoulder. If she raised an arm, it would have fit cozily into the hollow of his arm.

  Her gaze shifted. She couldn’t help but notice Gray’s hands. She watched the play of his fingers on the reins. He hadn’t bothered with gloves. His hands were lean, long-fingered, and strong-looking. A dark netting of hair that covered the back of his hands merely added to that unmistakable aura of masculinity.

  He guided the horse down a pathway that wove through the trees. Overhead was a leafy bower. The fragrance of May blossoms scented the air. It was lovely. Yet she couldn’t distance her awareness of the man beside her.

  The gig rolled to a stop beneath a huge tree. Beyond dashed the silver sheen of a stream.

  Gray leaped lightly to the ground. Claire stood quickly. She didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t want him to touch her, but there was no avoiding it.

  The thought had no more than spun through her mind than those long, powerful fingers settled on the nip of her waist to swing her down. Something that might have been panic raced through her. He withdrew his hands once she was on the ground, yet it felt as if he touched her still.

  “What is it? You’re not the sort who will cry if a bit of grass dirties your hem, are you?”

  It was almost a dare. “Certainly not, sir. You forget I’m a country girl.”

  “Ah, yes, I recall you told Riggs that.”

  Claire wrinkled her nose. “Must we speak of him? That is a subject I would rather not remember.”

  “My sentiment exactly.”

  A devilish half smile dallied at his lips. To her horror, Claire knew he was remembering what had come after—his mouth warm and drugging upon hers. The bold way he’d touched her breast.

  “We can eat luncheon in the shade beneath that tree,” he said. He lifted a basket and blanket from the gig and carried it to the tree. When he returned, another half smile had spread across his lips. This one was different, however. An odd feeling knotted in her chest. When he smiled in the engaging way he did now, he looked younger. And so very handsome she nearly caught her breath.

  He had returned to the gig.

  Claire watched as he reached inside and took out two long poles. He quirked a lazy dark brow. “Does this country girl know how to fish?”

  Ha! She smiled sweetly. “Are you going to show me?”

  “Certainly. I will be an excellent tutor.” His expression rather smug, he stepped behind her.

  The cad. Did he think so much of himself, then?

  His hand over hers, he showed her how to bring back the pole and throw it into the stream. He wound the line neatly back. His hand still over hers, he showed her twice more.

  “Let me try,” she said. “Do you think I can throw it as far as that boulder there?”

  “Not with one lesson. It takes quite some time to master casting, but if you want, you may of course try.”

  His superior condescension made her all the more determined. Claire brought the pole back over her shoulder—and threw the line into the stream.

  It landed with a plop! next to the boulder. Twice more she reached the very same spot.

  Gray’s dumbfounded amazement was precious.

  “So you’re a woman of secrets, eh?”

  If he only knew, she thought.

  They spent the next hour or so at the stream. When Gray finally stowed the poles back in the gig, Claire had landed four fish.

  Gray landed none.

  He poured each of them a glass of wine while they ate—a hearty, well . . . country meal. There was cheese and bread slathered with butter, and fresh fruit. Claire drank deeply.

  Gray cocked a brow. “You find the wine pleasing? The food?”

  “Quite so. Once again I applaud your choice of wine.”

  “Clive’s cook is acquainted with my tastes. It’s one I favor.”

  Her glass was empty. He set it aside.

  “Claire . . .” he said quietly.

  Her senses were suddenly screaming. He was seated in a pose that was almost indolent, his back against the tree trunk, his wrist upon an upraised knee.

  “Yes?”

  His gaze moved over the oval of her face. Very softly, he spoke. “Do you know what I want, Claire?”

  I want to see you again. Somewhere we won’t be interrupted. Somewhere we can be alone.

  Dammit, why couldn’t she look at him? She despaired her foolishness even as the words he’d spoken last night raced through her. And now they were alone. Far distant from anyone.

  She saw as he reached out a hand. It curled around the side of her neck, a gesture both provocative and possessive. His thumb beneath her chin, he brought her gaze to his. Claire caught her breath. A fierce light shone in his eyes. The glow of passion. The flame of promise.

  And then his lips trapped hers. He claimed her mouth completely. Heat streaked through her. She made a sound low in her throat. The touch of his mouth on hers melted her insides.

  “Open your mouth.” His voice was strangely thick. “Part your lips beneath mine. Oh, yes, Claire, that’s the way.”

  His tongue slid into her mouth, circling hers, running along the edge of her teeth.

  Oh, Lord, what was he doing? Her heart was beating far too fast. With a finger, he nudged her gown from her shoulder, baring her breast. Baring her breast completely. The next thing she knew, his hand completely encompassed soft, rising flesh. And now his mouth was sliding down from her collarbone, that traitorous hand gently pushing warm, swollen flesh toward his mouth.

  What!? She gasped. Did he mean to—to kiss the pink tip of her breast, which she was stunned to feel his hand on.

  Slowly he raised his head. Claire opened her eyes.

  Gray was staring down at her.

  “How long since your husband died?”

  The question took her aback. “What?”

  “How long since poor, dear—” He looked at her. “I don’t recall his name.”

  “Jeffery. His name was Jeffery.” She spoke the first name that crossed her mind.

  “How long did you say you and Jeffery were wed?”

  “I didn’t.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How long, Claire?”

  She drew a long, ragged breath. “He’s been dead for two years.”

  His gaze had yet to leave hers. “How long were you wed?”

  “That’s none of your affair.”

  He shook his head. “How odd that you are so reluctant to answer such a si
mple question. Was he the last man you kissed?”

  “You were the last man I kissed!”

  He gave her a long, considering look. “I think you take my meaning, Claire. And either you are incredibly naive, or your husband was a fool.” He shook his head. “Next you’ll be telling me your marriage was chaste. Or that he left for the war before you were able to share the marriage bed.”

  Had she not lowered her regard so quickly, Gray would have caught her stricken expression. “You have no right to ask about what is private between husband and wife.” The words came out low and choked. She could hardly breathe.

  “Perhaps. But it’s puzzling, Claire. Puzzling indeed.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Certainly a widow would know how a man is aroused. You were shocked that I meant to kiss your breast. You were shocked by what you felt between my hips—”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “You were. Shall I show you?” His hold tightened. “I told you I was a man who knew women. Did you doubt me?” He gave her no time to respond.

  Shocked? She was shocked that he dared to contemplate such a thing—that he dared to speak of such things!

  “You kiss like a virgin, Claire. I’m not mistaken.”

  “I thought you were a man who disliked virgins.”

  “Claire, it’s quite obvious when a woman lacks . . . experience.”

  Her cheeks burned painfully. She wanted to slap him again. “Must you insult me? Must you criticize?”

  “I do not insult you, nor do I criticize.”

  “You do,” she charged. She surged to her feet. “What would a man like you know of loyalty? Of love? You, the biggest blackguard in London! If you had any idea of the feelings of a woman for her husband, or a husband for his wife—”

  “I am well acquainted with the feelings between husband and wife.”

  Bitterness choked her. “That’s a lie. And you dare to call me naive? I am not so naive as all that to believe that you—”

  His lips twisted. “Believe it, Claire. I am many things, but not a liar.”

  Claire sucked in a breath. No, she thought, that was impossible. Surely he didn’t mean that he . . . surely not—

  She pushed away from his chest. He didn’t release her. The air between them had turned suddenly intense. He had turned suddenly intense. He had turned chillingly cold in but a heartbeat. His gaze was unrelenting.