An Invitation to Seduction

by Lorraine Heath

  “Sorry,” Henry said, looking truly contrite.

  “Why don’t you let the dog sleep with you tonight?” Richard suggested.

  “You gonna keep ’er, sir?”

  “Of course. I like dogs. We’ll dispense with the ribbon, though, I think.”

  Henry grinned at that. “She’ll be right glad, sir.”

  “I’m sure she will. Off with you now.”

  Cradling the dog as though she were a baby, the boy walked out of the room.

  “I really am sorry,” she told Richard.

  “As am I. Your mother mentioned your fondness for cats. Unfortunately, I failed to take into account that you might not like dogs. And I should have taken it into account considering that I’m not overly fond of cats. But I shall see about getting you some.”

  “No, Richard, I don’t need cats. I haven’t played with them in a long while, and in a few months I’ll be too busy to be lonely.”

  “Yes, of course you will. Would you like me to pour you some wine? I have a good vintage.”

  “No, I’m really too tired.”

  “It has been a long day.” He looked past her. “Yes, Watkins?”

  “The duchess’s lady’s maid has arrived, Your Grace. I sent her on up to Her Grace’s bedchamber.”

  “Thank you, Watkins.”

  Watkins quickly retreated, and Richard extended his arm toward her. “I shall escort you to your chambers.”

  “There’s really no need.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Good night then.” Grateful for his acquiescence, looking forward to some time alone, she rushed toward the door and suddenly stopped.

  “Discovered there was a need, did you?” he asked, and she could have sworn she heard humor laced through his voice.

  Without turning around, feeling like a complete idiot, she merely nodded. He came up beside her and extended his arm. She peered up at him and found him smiling kindly. “I’m accustomed to independence,” she stated.

  “I’ve no wish to deprive you of it.”

  “But all the legalities of marriage do deprive a woman of her freedom.”

  “They shan’t within our marriage.”

  He walked out of the library and along a hallway until they reached the hallway entrance. He turned toward the stairs that curved up toward the next floor and led her up them. “If you have such an unfavorable view of marriage, why did you consent to marry Farthingham?”

  “I liked him.”

  He raised a brow. “Liked. I thought you loved him.”

  “I did. But I also liked him.”

  “You did? So you no longer love him?”

  She suddenly felt trapped. “I still do. Yes. I always will.”

  “I don’t wish for him to be between us tonight.” It was a softly purred command issued as he stopped beside a door.

  “I can’t simply exorcise him from my heart as though he never existed.”

  “Then you leave me no choice except to exorcise him for you.”

  His mouth came down on hers with fierce determination. All the civilized rituals and traditions of the day were flung to perdition, as though they were merely window dressing designed to disguise the true nature of what lay within. Some corner of her mind urged her to resist the invasion of his tongue, his taste, his moist heat. Not to welcome the desire that curled through her as she met his tongue and wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself against him.

  With his hands still gloved, he plowed his fingers through her neatly coiffed hair, bracketing her head, angling her mouth, settling his more solidly into place. She was vaguely aware of pins escaping her hair and clinking on to the floor, more aware of his harsh breathing, the intensifying of his kiss as though he sought to consume her.

  Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, along her back, as his guttural groan of triumph echoed along the hallway. He was winning this match so easily, conquering, and achieving exactly what he’d claimed he would.

  He tore his mouth from hers. Opening her eyes, she saw the barely leashed desire in his. “I shall join you shortly to say good night.”

  Still striving to regain her wits, she merely nodded. He spun on his heel and headed back down the stairs.

  She opened the door and strolled into the bedchamber. Nancy came up out of the chair in which she’d been sitting.

  “Ah, Your Grace. Are you ready for me to help prepare you for your wedding night?”

  Perhaps it was her unfamiliar surroundings, the sight of Nancy—a warm smile on her familiar face, the realization that it would take little for Richard to carry through on his promise to exorcise Nicky from her heart, or the fact that she understood he intended to return and do a great deal more than say good night. Or perhaps it was simply the little puppy with the big almond eyes that she’d been unable to welcome into her arms. Or the long day, the longer night to come.

  Whatever the reason, she burst into tears.

  Within the library, Richard poured himself a generous amount of bourbon and finished half of it before he took his chair in front of the fireplace where no fire burned, no heat emanated. He should have taken her to Drummond Manor, where they would have had access to the bathing house and the sea. He shouldn’t have given her a dog. He should have found her a cat, even though he held no affection for the furry little beasts.

  Dogs were loyal to their master or mistress. As far as he could determine, cats were only loyal to themselves.

  He took another long swallow, released a deep sigh, dropped his head back against the chair, and closed his eyes. The problem wasn’t the dog. It was Farthingham. The manner in which she held on to his memory. Blast it all. The man had been with them at the church, while they were exchanging vows.

  By God, he’d not have the man in his bed.

  He released another sigh.

  Loyalty and love.

  He feared he might one day have to choose one over the over. And what then? Could he live with betrayal on his conscience?

  Opening his eyes, he downed the remainder of his bourbon. Betraying either loyalty or love would be a form of cheating. He was not a man who cheated.

  He would exorcise Farthingham from her heart. He would do so with his skills and his devotion, not by being disloyal to Farthingham. She need never know the truth about Farthingham or his death. The truth would accomplish nothing, except to bruise her heart.

  And he loved her too much to risk that outcome, would do anything to ensure her happiness. He could only hope that in time, she would come to love him. And to that end, he would apply himself diligently.

  He rose from the chair. She was preparing herself for him. It was time he went about preparing himself. He would sway her heart, and he would do it without revealing Farthingham’s secrets.

  Chapter 23

  Kitty awoke to a featherlike touch along her chin that trailed up to circle her ear, followed by a gentle nibbling of her lobe and warm breath wafting over her neck. She opened her eyes. It was still night. The room was dimly lit by the gaslight she’d left on so she wouldn’t fall asleep while waiting for her husband. Seemingly she had done so anyway.

  Raised up on an elbow, he was stretched out alongside her, enticing her out of lethargy with slow, light caresses. He smiled down on her, a smile of amusement and contentment. Although she was certain he wouldn’t appreciate her description, she thought it was a very sweet smile.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For falling asleep while I was waiting for you.”

  “Kitty, you must learn to stop apologizing to me. There is very little you would do that would require an apology to me.” With his finger, he outlined her face. “You cannot imagine how often I’ve thought about having you in my bed.”

  She swallowed hard, her breath backing up in her lungs, as his finger journeyed along her throat and down to the first button of her nightgown. With little more than a quick flick, the button was free of its constraint, and he moved on to the
next one, the next one, the next one…his gaze never straying from the slight parting of the material.

  And with each button’s release, it seemed her inhibitions escaped the restraints she’d placed on them. Although the blankets were bunched at his waist, and she had no memory of his slipping in beside her, she knew he wore no clothing. Her mouth grew dry with the thought of where all this was leading and how desperately she sought the journey.

  With the last button freed, he slid his heated gaze up to hers for a mere heartbeat before turning his attention back to the task at hand. He snagged the corner of the opening and slowly peeled back the cloth, one side, then the other, his breathing growing harsher. She thought perhaps she should have felt a need to cover herself, yet she’d been revealed to him before, and she was mesmerized by the reverence with which he gazed on her, as though he’d never seen anything quite as humbling.

  He cradled one breast, his eyes fluttered closed, long lashes resting on his cheeks, and he lowered his head.

  The first gentle tug almost had her coming off the bed for the sensations he sent surging through her, as though they’d been previously corralled and suddenly unleashed. A tiny whimper escaped as she rolled toward him and threaded her fingers through his hair. Now that she was married, she’d expected the fire to abate, had thought marriage would somehow calm the storm that always seemed to swirl around her whenever he touched her, whenever he kissed her.

  But there was no abatement. Instead it seemed as though with the exchange of vows, her body welcomed the pleasures that marriage would bring. And she could not deny that the pleasures were many, already mounting, spiraling, climbing to new heights as his breathing grew harsher and he greedily kissed her breasts, nipples, the valley between, her collarbone, her throat, her neck…her.

  The kiss was deep, powerful, hungry. Lips locked as though forever joined, body to soul, soul to heart. As though this night, their bodies would exchange vows as permanent as those they’d spoken earlier.

  Without unlatching his mouth, he shifted and slid his arms beneath her, around her, pulling them both up into a sitting position. His mouth sojourned along her throat while his hands pulled her gown off her shoulders until it pooled around her hips. He kissed the top of her shoulder, the back of her shoulder, the curve at the side of her neck, a breast, a rib, her stomach, her hip. Working the gown past her hips, thighs, calves, feet. He tossed it aside and skimmed his hands up the length of her legs and back down. Then his mouth was following the paths his hands had forged, first one side, then the other.

  She watched in amazement as the muscles in his back bunched and tightened with his movements. She skimmed her hands over the firmness of his back, desperate to give, afraid to give, not certain what was acceptable and what was wanton.

  How did a lady not behave as a whore when she desired all that he was offering?

  He returned his mouth to hers, and in the process eased her back down on the bed until her head touched the pillow. She could hardly think from the sensations building within her. Flesh to flesh, hip to hip, chest to breasts. His hands and lips roamed over her entire body, from forehead to toes, from heel to nape, turning her for easier access for each spot he wished to torment.

  And it was torment. Sweet, sweet torment. Hot and blissful. Decadent and pure. How could it be the best and worst of all things? How did he manage to make her yearn for his every touch?

  Then he was nestled between her thighs, easing himself inside her, withdrawing only to return with a more forceful push, again and again until her body drew him all in and closed tightly around him.

  Raising himself over her, he began to rock against her, each movement increasing the pleasure, increasing the pressure and the tension until she was writhing beneath him and screaming out for release.

  Glorious release that arrived with a myriad of colorful stars behind her lowered eyelids, and the arching of her back, and a final cry that was almost drowned out by his deep groan of satisfaction as he drove into her one last time.

  Panting and with weary limbs that she thought she might never again move, she lay beneath him, staring at his bent head, the dampness on his shoulders, aware of the trembling in his arms as he fought to keep his weight off her, and his short gasps that slowly began to lengthen.

  He eased off her, barely distancing himself enough so that he didn’t squash her before he dropped onto his stomach beside her, his heavy arm angled across her stomach, his fingers curled possessively over her hip.

  He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and there his mouth remained. Only after she recognized that his breathing had evened out, did she realize that he’d fallen asleep.

  She stared at the length of him sprawled beside her, the manner in which the dew, caught by the lamplight, glistened over his back and buttocks, much as the sea and sun had that first morning she’d spotted him. She didn’t like admitting that she still considered him magnificent. That experiencing the full measure of his power satisfied her even as it left her clamoring for more.

  He looked near to death. If his warm breath wasn’t skimming along her arm, she might have thought he was indeed dead. She wondered if she could lure him out of his lethargy as he’d lured her. And even as the thought took hold, she shoved it away.

  A lady shouldn’t be wanton, screaming like a savage. Here she was contemplating waking him when she had no idea how she’d face him once he was awake.

  Richard awoke to the musky scent of sex filling his nostrils, Kitty’s screams still echoing in his ears, and his body so sated that he thought he might never again move. And he might have followed his first inclination had he not gradually come to realize that no other warmth existed beyond his. He was alone in the bed.

  His heart thundering, he bolted upright and twisted around. His heart quieted as he caught sight of Kitty’s profile. She sat curled, her feet tucked beneath her, in one of two chairs positioned before the fireplace. She was again wearing her nightgown. A pity that. Although in retrospect, he’d enjoyed removing it the first time. He’d enjoy removing it the second, although he thought he might move with a bit more speed the next go-round.

  He snatched up his silken robe from the foot of the bed where he’d discarded it earlier, before he’d slipped beneath the covers to be with her. He’d watched her for long moments before he’d finally undertaken the joyous task of waking her.

  As he belted his robe, he walked toward her, his bare feet making no sound over the thick carpets. If she’d heard him get out of bed or was aware of his approach, she gave no indication. As he neared, he saw the last thing he’d expected, the very last thing he’d wanted to see: tears dampening her cheeks. Based on her heartbreakingly sad expression, he knew they weren’t tears of joy or jubilation, but rather disappointment, perhaps regret.

  With a despairing heart and the realization that perhaps he’d been arrogant to believe he could bring her happiness, he knelt before her. “Kitty?”

  Without looking at him, she shook her head. “You can’t fathom how much I didn’t want this.”

  He thought his heart might shrivel into nothing. “So you’ve said before.”

  With imploring eyes flooding with fresh tears, she looked at him and rasped, “I’m exactly like my mother, and I tried so hard not to be.”

  She pressed a hand to her mouth, muffling her sob. Richard was having another of those moments where he felt densely slow. “Why ever would you not want to be like her? Your mother is the most gracious, elegant—”

  “No.” She shook her head sadly. “Madeline Robertson is the mother of my heart. Jessye Bainbridge is the mother of my body, and my body”—she swallowed hard and wiped the sleeve of her nightgown beneath her nose—“my body cries out to be like hers: common and coarse. A saloonkeeper’s daughter, she relished a man’s touch, gave birth to me out of wedlock, and passed me off to the first couple who came within sight of her. And here I am no different. When this child is born, all of England will know we fornicated without benefit of marriage.”<
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  “You’re adopted?” It was a silly thing to take note of, to respond to, considering all she’d revealed.

  She nodded. “A bastard. Illegitimate. People of that ilk aren’t well thought of over here, are they?”

  “They can’t inherit,” he said inanely as though that were important when he was really striving to wrap his mind around the implications that he’d taken as his wife a woman of tainted bloodlines. He could trace his heritage back generations, recorded by births, deaths, and yes, marriage licenses. “Did Farthingham know?”

  She laughed almost hysterically and shook her head. “Of course not. Why would I reveal my shame to him, to anyone? I’m only telling you because the evidence of my common roots is apparent every time you touch me. I writhe and scream as though I’m an uncivilized barbarian. My behavior is disgusting. I don’t know how you tolerate me.”

  He sat back on his heels, so stunned by her comment that he was speechless. If he opened his mouth at all, he feared he might laugh. She was sitting, curled in the chair, her arms held tightly against her, tears on her face because she thought he found her reaction to his touch disgusting? When in fact he relished every aspect of it.

  “Kitty—” A burst of laughter escaped, and he clamped his mouth shut.

  “It’s not funny.”

  He cleared his throat, swallowed, and cleared his throat again. “I realize that.” Another sound clearing of his throat. “Kitty, I tolerate it because I love you, and besides—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No one should have to tolerate dealing with that sort of behavior. Regardless of any affection they might hold for that person. I’ve been thinking that if you were to gag me and tie me to the bedposts, then I wouldn’t thrash about, and I’d be unable to scream.”

  He fought a valiant fight, but in the end the laughter won, a resounding rumble that echoed around them.

  She slapped his shoulder. “Stop laughing!”

  But he only laughed harder. “Oh, dear Lord, you’re deadly serious.”

  “Yes!” She launched out of the chair and began hitting his shoulders. “Stop it! Stop it!”