Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03]

by A Woman Entangled

  Inside one pocket Nick clenched his fingers, all apprehension. She’d come unchaperoned to see him, deceiving her parents as to her errand. She was distraught and doubtless wanting comfort, and filled with the recklessness that so often visited a person who’d been touched by death. He waited, not even knowing how he’d answer if his suspicions proved correct.

  “I want …” She fixed her eyes straight ahead on Number Two Brick Court. Her throat rippled with a swallow. “I want to go … to your rooms with you. I want you to take me upstairs.”

  His whole body thrilled to her words, and to the low, determined voice in which she said them. He would not, must not, give his body the reins. “Kate.” He made his voice as gentle as he could. “You’re upset, and not thinking clearly.”

  “Wait, please.” Now she directed her words to the bricks at her feet. “Let me make my case.” She sat silent, her posture as taut as harp strings, until he nodded. “I am upset. I don’t deny it. Not only about the dowager Lady Harringdon, and the loss of any chance for my father to know her again. Not only because I see how many mistakes I’ve made.” Her hands clasped and unclasped in her lap. “I’m upset because I begin to doubt so much of the course I’ve chosen, and still, I don’t see what else to do.”

  “I understand your distress. It’s entirely natural, in such times, to seek the consolation of another person, and to want to flee from one’s thoughts into pure sensation. It’s eminently human to want to forget oneself in times of grief.”

  “But that’s not what I mean.” Her voice went lower still. Her cheek had flushed pink. “We will never have one another in marriage, Nick. You know of my plans, and how they have no place for you. Besides, you’ve said we don’t suit. And that it’s too late. And only recently … only recently have I begun to feel that as a loss.”

  His heart was pounding so hard that she must have heard it; his blood racing to predictable, futile destinations.

  “Two nights ago at Lady Cathcart’s ball, you said it wasn’t so bad, what we did. You said it needn’t alter our friendship.” She brought her chin around until she was almost facing him. “Can we not do just that much again, and enjoy each other within the limits of what our respective plans allow, and … grieve, as much as it is appropriate for each of us to grieve … that our plans don’t allow for more?”

  God in heaven, she made it sound so reasonable. Like the act of two prudent, considering adults.

  It was anything but. “Kate, we’d be playing with fire. Not only as regards your virtue. Indulging the sentiments you speak of will likely only lead to pain.” Would. Would lead to pain, if they did it. Damn his transparent eagerness.

  “I’m not afraid of pain. There will be pain in any case.” Finally she raised her eyes, bright with unshed tears, to his. “I want to give you what I can of myself, and have what you will allow me of you.” Her face was nearly scarlet, but she pressed on. “I know it’s unwise. But it’s what I want. And I hope there’s a part of you that wants it, too.”

  There was. Not just the obvious fleshly part. He’d wanted her in his bed since nearly the first time he’d laid eyes on her. And he hated to send her away, fragile and thwarted, when he might have given her comfort, and bathed in the affection she bore him.

  What if it would work the way she said? What if they could be together for an hour or two, eyes wide open to their idyll’s necessary end, and go on afterward, their separate paths no more bitter than they already would have been?

  In his pockets he curled and flexed his fingers. “This would have to be the last time, absolutely the last time, any such thing happened between us. I wrong your parents by doing this and I don’t want to wrong them anymore.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I never meant to make you go against your conscience. I’ve wronged you, too.” Anything he said to her, in this mood, she’d find a way to twist into further fuel for her misery.

  He could cheer her, though, and not with words. It wouldn’t be a merry romp by any means, but he could take her mind from her cares for a little while, and find ways to coax a smile or two.

  That did him in, really. If it had only been a matter of lust, he could have gritted his teeth and walked away, his honor and her reputation both unscathed. But the need to see her smile raced through him like a wildfire, scorching out the last pockets of better judgment.

  “Very well.” Deep inside him he felt something fall away, probably what remained of his self-respect. “One last time, followed by appropriate grieving. Let’s go upstairs.” He stood and put out his elbow. If someone was watching out the window, this much contact could still pass for respectable. As for things going wrong when he touched her, well, that barn door was surely flapping in the horses’ wake.

  SHE’D GONE up these same stairs for the first time not four and twenty hours earlier. Her heart halfway up her throat with worry, Miss and Mrs. Smith trailing behind, Mr. Kersey leading them with brisk purpose.

  She hadn’t noticed the details then. The balustrade, its finish worn dull by years of trailing barrister hands. The wallpaper, a pattern of broad stripes in masculine red and dark brown. The sconce lamp at the landing, and the grime from smoke on the wallpaper above.

  The staircase could scarcely make a starker contrast to the William Kent masterpiece at Harringdon House, or remind her in blunter fashion that she did not belong in Nick Blackshear’s world.

  You could belong here if you wanted to. A rebellious voice inside her piped up. You could choose to be the kind of lady who belongs here instead of the kind who belongs in ballrooms. She let the thought slide through and away.

  At the door to his chambers he paused. “You’re sure?” He spoke just above a murmur, despite the fact that they’d passed nobody on the way up, and the door across the hall from his was closed. His eyes searched hers for signs of second thoughts.

  She was more sure than ever. How did any woman do this with a man who had not already been a friend? Imagine a wedding night in which one’s husband claimed his due despite having only the smallest, most formal acquaintance with his bride. Imagine giving yourself to a man who didn’t know how to read you; who wouldn’t even think to look for hesitation in your eyes, because he would not alter his actions in any case.

  “Quite sure.” She lowered her voice, too. “And you?” Friendship was no friendship at all if it went only one way. He’d had qualms over the advisability of this course, and if he’d come to regret his assent during the journey upstairs, she must honor his change of heart as he was prepared to honor hers.

  “I might have a reservation or two.” The curve of his lips invited her into a joke. “But I fear I’ve passed the point of being able to properly heed them.” He pushed the door open and tilted his head to usher her in.

  She might not have noticed the details of the stairway yesterday, but she’d had time enough in his office to weave all the furnishings, the rug and the draperies and the papers atop his desk, into her tapestry of distress. Her stomach went heavy as she stepped into the room and saw all those objects again.

  “Come.” He must have understood because he was quick to shut the door, quicker still to grasp her hand and draw her through a doorway to a small sitting room, and from there into the bedroom. He dropped his hat, topcoat, and gloves on the floor. Then he closed the door, put his back against it, and gathered her into his arms.

  He didn’t kiss her. He only held her there, spreading his fingers over the surface of her hat to tip her head gently onto his shoulder, and the next thing she knew she was crying.

  She hadn’t expected to cry. She’d wept already, last night, for everything she had to grieve. But something in the way he held her … his arms enveloping her and urging her to lean all her weight on him … his stillness and patience and solidity … made her feel, for the first time in a very long time, that she had nothing to calculate or strive for. Here, she needn’t do anything but be.

  She’d nearly forgotten what that felt like. The stinging sweetness of it we
lled up and out in tears.

  “This is the first time you’ve had a near relation die.” He spoke softly. He wasn’t asking a question, because he knew this fact about her.

  “Yes. Though she wasn’t truly very near. Not like a mother and father.” Mr. Blackshear—Nick, rather; surely in this room, on this occasion, she could think of him by his Christian name—had lost both his parents years before she’d ever met him. She couldn’t even remember the occasion of his saying so. It was just one of the many things she knew, as he knew so many things about her.

  “Near enough that you’re grieved by her loss. That’s all that matters.” He lifted her chin and looked down at her, his eyes shining dark as the dregs of that horrid strong tea she liked to tease him about. He kissed her, carefully and with great solemnity, where a tear made its haphazard way down her cheek. He found a tear on her other cheek and kissed that one, too. With one hand he captured the ribbons of her hat and drew them loose.

  He was going to take liberties. She’d asked him to. She’d come all alone to his rooms for that purpose, risking her reputation and possibly her heart. Playing with fire, he’d said. Yes. She needed to do that, for reasons she couldn’t altogether name.

  Her hat came off and her cloak followed. “Come with me to the hearth,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Let me build up the fire and make the room warm.”

  “You don’t have to.” She found her brazen courage and held it fast. “We can go to the bed.”

  “The bed can wait.” With his thumb he wiped another tear from her cheek. The look in his eyes told her there’d be no point in arguing. “Come to the hearth.”

  She followed and sat down on the bricks to watch him build the fire. He went about it with the quiet competence of a man who lacked for servants and had learned how to manage routine tasks on his own. From a metal box he took a handful of small sticks that he laid one by one in the glowing embers, and when they’d caught flame, he added a larger piece of wood and then a larger one yet, until at last he had a proper fire.

  When she married, she would never see her husband do this. Some maid or maids would be responsible for all the household’s fires, and she and the man she married would sit in tasteful chairs at a comfortable distance from the flames. Never side by side on the bricks.

  Nick set the screen back in place and looked at her over his shoulder. “What is it?” A smile hovered at his lips. He must notice how intently she watched him.

  “Nothing. You’re so kind to make this fire for me.”

  “It’s for me, too.” The smile settled in and stretched. “If the room is cold, I can’t in good conscience remove as much of your clothing as I’d like.”

  “Ah.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I didn’t … Last time we kept our clothes on.” They’d had to, of course, not having the leisure to do otherwise. But everything had worked perfectly well that way.

  “Kate. Sweetheart.” He ducked low, to catch her eye. He looked as grave as she’d ever seen him. “I want you to be comfortable in this. I’ll put you at ease in whatever way I can. But please don’t ask me to leave your clothing on.”

  He’d been so solicitous until this moment, succumbing to her proposition, offering her the chance to change her mind, wiping her tears. She’d almost believed him to have put away his own needs and wants entirely.

  “You mustn’t suppose that I’m selfless. I’m not.” His hand crept across the bricks between them and his fingers closed on a fold of her skirts. “I’ll see to your pleasure and consolation, but I mean to see to mine as well. And I’ve spent too much time imagining undressing you to pass up the opportunity now.”

  She shivered, in spite of the heat from the fire. This was what she wanted. This was why she’d come here. His desire would meet with and match hers, and she would lose herself, forget herself, be consumed in the resulting conflagration. This one time, she would defy every stricture of her existence, all those careful rules that had failed her. If doing so unnerved her, so much the better. She raised her chin to look at him directly, and set to tugging off one glove.

  “Not yet.” He caught her hands in his. “I can wait.” His smile told her he sensed every bit of her unease. “Let’s give the fire a little time to warm the room.” He pulled her to him and kissed her.

  He bent her to his will without even trying. The more proofs he showed of his restraint, of how willing he was to curb his own desire for the sake of her ease, the more room she found for her own appetites to run loose. Ten minutes of kissing, with the fire’s warmth stealing gradually out into the room, and she had all the nerve she needed. She broke off the kiss, and turned her attention to unfastening his cravat. This time she wouldn’t let him stop her.

  THANK GOD. It had begun to seem possible that he might die of balked lust. He’d wanted to do this as carefully as he could, with all the tenderness her fragile state—not to mention her inexperience—deserved. But he’d hoped, deep down, that a point would come when she’d hunger for something other than tenderness and care.

  His cravat brushed deliciously over his neck as she drew it loose. She stared for a moment at the triangle of bared skin, where the collar of his shirt fell open. One hand lifted and a forefinger ventured over his skin, tracing its way through the hairs on his chest. Her eyes rose to meet his. She took back her hand and turned away, wordlessly presenting the buttons that fastened her gown.

  The rest happened in something of a flurry. Buttons, hairpins, coat and waistcoat, petticoats, boots here and shoes there, shirt pulled over his head, and the infernal delay of the corset. But at last they faced each other, he in nothing but breeches, she in shift and stockings.

  The stockings, he intended to leave on.

  “One more time, Kate.” With effort he addressed this to her face. Her shift was cobweb thin and her nipples stood out against the fabric. “Are you quite sure you want to do this?”

  She nodded, looking slightly dazed and more than a little distracted, in her turn, by his naked torso. She wouldn’t have seen a shirtless man before.

  Well, she’d have ample opportunity to make an examination. He scooped her into his arms—God, she felt good against his bare skin—and bore her off to the bed.

  Laid atop the counterpane, bathed in pale midmorning sunlight, she looked like she’d materialized straight out of one of his wickedest dreams. When her shift came off, his brain might simply combust.

  So he’d make do without a brain. “Will you take off your shift?” He walked round to the other side of the bed, unbuttoning his breeches as he went, and shoving them off without ceremony before climbing onto the mattress. She’d sat up to remove the shift, twisting away out of modesty or perhaps to heighten the suspense. Her ribs expanded with a quick breath before she dropped the garment, turned, and lay down facing him.

  Hellfire and bloody damnation. Who was the fellow in the Greek myth who’d created the first woman? Prometheus? No, that wasn’t it; she’d been created as punishment for Prometheus, hadn’t she, but for some reason delivered to his brother instead. In a box—or no, that wasn’t right either; she’d opened a box and all sorts of plagues had flown out, and if she’d looked even one-tenth as enticing as Kate Westbrook did at this moment, her husband would have laughed at the gods and told them they could send this kind of punishment any time they liked.

  “Kate.” He brought his eyes to her face. She’d turned pink, watching the progress of his gaze. “Have I any sparks coming out of my ears? Smoke, perhaps?”

  Her brow creased and she shook her head.

  “I fear for my brain. I can’t seem to properly remember the story of how the first woman came to be.”

  “She was made out of a rib of the first man. She ate a fruit she shouldn’t have eaten, and it cost her everything good in her life.”

  “She must have been sorry to have eaten that fruit.” He reached out a hand and skimmed his first two knuckles over her arm, from shoulder to the bend of her elbow to her sensitive inner w
rist.

  “She was sorry for the consequences, I think.” She shivered as he stroked her wrist. “That’s not the same as being sorry for the fruit.”

  “She was lured into it, wasn’t she? Unscrupulously persuaded.”

  “She chose it.” Her fingers closed about his, where his knuckles had crept from her wrist to her palm. “The persuasion was all her own.”

  “I see.” He threaded his fingers with hers and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m not going to venture to your side of the bed, you know, or allow you onto mine, until you’ve looked at me.”

  “I’ve been looking at you all this time. At your face, as is polite when two people are speaking.”

  He brought the forefinger of his free hand to his lips and drew it across, sealing them. We’re not speaking now.

  Her cheeks went pinker, but she looked. She freed her hand from his and reached across to touch, again, the hair on his chest. From there her fingers worked their way down to the bare planes of his stomach, and then to the place where hair started up again. Her gaze followed her fingers, and her mouth pursed with what might be unease, or just thorough attention. She made a brief survey of his legs and feet before returning to the area of chief concern.

  “It’s … imposing.” Her brows edged together. “Is it large, as compared to others?”

  “Sweetheart, how would I know?” He would not laugh at her, though her question did tickle his sense of the absurd. “Men don’t go about measuring them against one another.”

  “It’s not something on which any of your lovers has ever remarked, then?” Her eyes flicked back to his face.

  He shrugged. “I presume women make those remarks to their lovers as a matter of course. They’re not to be seriously heeded.”

  She frowned at him, clearly unconvinced, and returned her apprehensive attention to the region below his waist.

  “Don’t worry. Large or not, it isn’t going to go in you, remember?” In fact he had certain hopes that might render this statement less than perfectly true, but no need to concern her with that matter quite yet. Not until he’d done a few things to put her in a less bashful, more amenable state. “Here.” He rose to a partial crouch and piled the pillows against the headboard. “Let’s get you sitting part of the way up so I can proceed.”