A Measured Risk

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “On the face of it, yes, that is how it seems…but it is not the way it is.”

  Her shoulders relaxed under his touch even as her mouth twisted in a sceptical moue. “Explain that to me, then.”

  “It is something that cannot be explained in intellectual terms. It has to be experienced and felt at a deep level.”

  “And you say I shall never overcome my fear of horses until I experience and feel this myself?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I am saying. You will never overcome your fears and yourself unless you learn to surrender to the process of life.”

  * * * *

  Resentment burnt through Anne. Really, the man didn’t know when to stop. She drew herself up straight, squaring her shoulders. “I am not afraid of life—just horses.”

  “You’re not really in control of your life. Your fear of life controls you. It did even before the accident.”

  “What a preposterous thing to say. You don’t know me.”

  “Yes, that’s the point, isn’t it? You have kept yourself hidden away here in the country, else I should have met you, pursued you, come to know you. Perhaps we would have been lovers.”

  His arrogance made her mouth drop open. She quickly re-gathered her wits. “Where on earth do you get such a notion? I was a married woman.”

  “Married, yes—but not happily.”

  “Certainly not unhappily. I was Lady Cranfield and I managed this estate. People depended on me.”

  “But you didn’t respect Cranfield and he didn’t understand you. You resented him for not trying.”

  Her heart began to beat rapidly. It simply wasn’t true. Ruel did not know. She had to refute him. “Like most marriages of our class, we had our own lives. He preferred Mayfair and I preferred the country. But we understood this about each other and we respected each other. It was an amicable marriage.”

  “Some truths are harder to face than others.”

  Sympathy glinted in his eyes. If only he would not use such understanding tones, then she could hate him for saying such things. Because the things he was saying simply weren’t true. But how to make him understand?

  “William was a dear person. I—”

  He laughed softly. “As I said, your primary problem is that you are not honest with yourself. Nor do you trust yourself. In fact—”

  Anger burnt in her throat. She threw up a hand between them. “Do you know?”

  His eyes widened a fraction, then warmed with humour. Another, hotter wave of resentment smouldered through her.

  “Know what?” he asked.

  “I don’t think it’s possible for me to dislike you more than I already do. I don’t enjoy negative emotions, so would you please let me pass so I can leave before I begin to truly hate you?”

  Chapter Three

  Jon studied Anne’s sparkling, deep blue eyes. Her emotion seemed to spark between them, a seething mix of ire, frustrated sexuality and something he couldn’t quite place. He moved out of her way.

  She seemed frozen, standing there glaring at him. He motioned past his body and towards the door. “You were in a hurry to leave, Lady Cranfield.”

  She flushed. Her shoulders rose and fell. Then she swept by him in a rustle of silk skirts and crinkling, starched linen petticoats, leaving in her wake a scent of rose and lavender mingled with an under-note of something spicy and uniquely her.

  The sensual aroma wafted over him like a caress. It sent a stab of renewed desire straight to his balls.

  She walked towards the door, bearing herself with a calm dignity. He watched the subtle sway of her fetching arse moving beneath the dark purple silk. By damn, she was a prime article.

  A vision burnt into his mind. Of her beneath him, her soft thighs pinned between his. Her honeyed body bared to his view and sweetly submissive. His heart raced and his hands trembled with the desire to feel her delicate wrists locked in his grip while he bound her with silk rope.

  God.

  The slam of study door brought him out of his fantasy.

  He took a deep breath. Shaken, he walked over to the hearth and leant down to light a cheroot. Then he returned to sit at Richard’s massive mahogany desk, propped his boots on the polished desktop and willed the ritual of smoking to smooth his senses.

  When he’d first come in here, he’d been anticipating an easy conquest, the start of a short, uncomplicated affaire.

  How stupid and blind a man’s lust could make him. Well, he certainly saw things clearly now. What Lady Cranfield wanted from him—even if she was not entirely certain of it herself—wasn’t something he wanted to give. She didn’t simply want a brief affaire. She wanted his strength, his protection. She wanted not only someone to dominate her sexually but someone to hold her and cosset her when her fears and memories and dreams became too much.

  She didn’t just want these things—she needed them.

  He hooked a finger into his cravat and gave a sharp tug but he still couldn’t seem to get any breathing space.

  Soulless bastard that he was, he might have still seduced her. Had her a few times until the novelty began to pall. Except that the sad, sincere shadows in her eyes had filled him with an uncharacteristic sense of protectiveness—an innate demand that he stand between her and all sources of hurt and danger.

  Even himself.

  He really had no business entangling himself in such an emotional liaison. When he returned to Mayfair in the spring, he would be making public his engagement to Lady Maria Waterbury, a baronet’s widow.

  She was the most honest woman he knew. She had her own wealth and interests and he had no intention of interfering with that. She would never try to manipulate him or control their marriage. She wanted one thing from him and he from her. Legitimate children—and attractive ones at that. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen…at least until recently.

  But more than that, they were friends and sometime lovers, and though their sexual tastes did not mesh completely they understood and respected each other. Aside from the fidelity she would owe him in the years during which they filled the nursery with an heir and a spare, they both sought a marriage based on mutual liberty.

  But he would never love her, nor would she love him. They would never have any motivation to hurt each other.

  He couldn’t say the same with any confidence about himself and the lovely Lady Cranfield. The best thing would be to put some distance between them.

  * * * *

  In her chambers, soaking in her tub and relieved to be alone, Anne closed her eyes with a sigh. Nothing had gone as she had intended. Ruel had completely controlled the situation and used his obviously vast carnal experience to manipulate her—to get under her carefully constructed defences. That was something she could not allow. And those things he’d said about her and William just were not true. He was trying to undermine her confidence in herself, trying to convince himself that he would be successful in adding her to his doubtless long list of conquests.

  And, dear God, the man was far too sure of himself.

  “I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”

  His velvet smooth voice had rung with the total assurance that she would do his bidding. As if she would ever do such a shameless thing as to lie naked in broad daylight in the Whitecross study in front of a virtual stranger. With a houseful of people no less! She soaped her cloth, then vigorously scrubbed her arms.

  “…display yourself for me.”

  She couldn’t silence the echo of his words in her mind. What if she had obeyed him? Her hand on the cloth slowed. The silken slide over her flesh was like plush velvet rasping softly against her bare skin. Well…what if she had?

  She could see it. See it so clearly that her mouth went dry. Herself, lying back against the divan, the velvet gliding against her naked flesh. His fierce, azure gaze trailing over her at his leisure.

  She awaited his pleasure…

  Excitement rushed over her, so intense that the cham
ber seemed to spin. She slipped her hand down her stomach and over her mons. She delved her fingers between the outer folds to seek the nub between. It grew firm, rising up against her pressing fingertips.

  She recalled, vividly and viscerally, how he had grasped her hair and pulled her head back and forced her mouth as far open as it would go to accept the heated onslaught of his demanding tongue.

  She slid her fingers against the sides of her firm nub. The tingles increased rapidly and deep inside the tightening began. It had never built this quickly. But it was going to happen. Now. She couldn’t deny herself. She moved her fingers quicker and the power of the first contraction stunned her. She let her breath out in short, quivering hitches as her hips bucked against her hand through the next several spasms.

  With a small cry, she sank down against the porcelain tub, her core still thrumming. A moment later, she slapped her palms down repeatedly on the water’s surface while crying out in frustration. Such damned weakness! She had just handed Ruel a sort of victory. Yes, this was private and only she would ever know.

  But she would know.

  Forever.

  In fact, this was worse than his attempt to manipulate her into giving more of herself than she’d wanted to. Here, now, she’d let him into her private world of her own choosing.

  And that she could have done so was the most shocking thing of all. She had only ever been able to climax while thinking of the nameless, faceless man in her secret dreams. Her imaginary lover. A man who would never hurt her or betray her or ignore her. Now she couldn’t even conjure the faceless man without seeing Ruel take his place.

  Her mouth went dry at the impact of that.

  She pulled herself from the tub. Then she jerked the bell pull for Nellie to return and aid her to dress. She was determined to put clothes between herself and her desires.

  Passing by her writing desk, she saw the letter. Pressure constricted her throat, spreading to her chest. Dear God. Time was passing so quickly and soon she would need to travel and meet that precious package Mama was sending to England. Her half-sister Dorothea, travelling alone but for servants. Anne had to meet her. She couldn’t fail. She knew what it was like to be alone except for those who were paid to watch over, but never to love, and who dared not come too close. Anne couldn’t help how her mother had dealt with this unknown half-sister but she could make sure that the first face Dorothea saw when she disembarked the ship would be one of a blood relative who welcomed her with open arms.

  A memory of her own childhood swept over her.

  She was seated in a chair placed at the middle of the large table, back in Ireland. Christmas. One of the rare times she was allowed to eat in the formal dining hall. Dressed splendidly in a lavender frockcoat and silver and white waistcoat, the duke chewed methodically, his eyes glazed with boredom. He held his elegantly tall and slender body completely erect. His features were so perfect, so handsome—so aloof, so glacial. She hated that look. He didn’t seem human. She couldn’t believe someone as imperfect as herself—dark skinned, chubby and awkward—had sprung from his loins. Her stomach cramped, the little food she’d eaten threatening to come up and disgrace her. It would be such bad manners, proving how ill-suited she was to the formal dining hall. Yet she felt like this each time she was allowed to eat here. She missed her nurse.

  She glanced away from the duke and looked to Mama for reassurance.

  Mama didn’t notice her. She was gazing at herself in the reflection of her silver spoon and smiling. Anne swallowed, hard, and the nausea in her stomach turned into a cold lump too dense to be ejected. It was the best she could do to comfort herself. She pushed the food around on her plate…

  Anne pulled herself from the memory and shook her head with determination. No, she would not be like her parents. She would not relegate her half-sister to the sole care of servants, only to be dragged out at Christmas as a novelty.

  Yet she seemed to be powerless to overcome her own fears, which prevented her from travelling. What was she going to do?

  She paced the chamber.

  What was she going to do?

  At the evening meal, she picked at her food and dared occasional glances at Ruel. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to find her answers in a man like him. To think she might have made the most mistaken judgement of her life. She could only pray now that he wouldn’t share her secrets. She’d die if smug Francesca and her snickering, simpleton friends knew.

  She retreated into the only defence she knew—the dignified withdrawal behind an icy façade that had sustained her through her two Seasons in Mayfair.

  She refused to even so much as look directly at Ruel, pretending he did not exist for her.

  But avoiding him completely proved impossible. Over the next few days, fat raindrops steadily pelted the windows of Whitecross Hall while lightning flashed and thunder rumbled intermittently. Prevented from hunting, the gentlemen lazed about, filling the interminable hours with their pent-up petulance.

  Ruel seemed to be everywhere she went. On the afternoon of the third day, in the study, she came upon him with Lady Scott—or Cherry, if one preferred that vulgar nickname. Yet how apt an epithet it was for the inane woman.

  They were seated on the plush crimson divan where Anne liked to read. Cherry bore a very fetching rose-pink bow on the neckline of her bodice and his lordship was bent, in the act of untying it with his strong, white teeth.

  Anne dropped the book she was returning. It hit the wooden floor with a thump, so hard that she was sure the spine must have broken.

  The couple looked up at her. Cherry’s eyes were witless—and wide pools of watery blue, her insipid pink mouth formed in a silly O, her dark chestnut ringlets quivered. Not a very mature reaction, for Lady Scott had to be forty if she was a day—and not wearing those years all that gracefully if truth were told.

  Anne couldn’t be less than honest.

  She flashed her gaze to the lady’s erstwhile lover. Ruel’s large, long fingered hands still touched the lady’s half-bare, creamy shoulders. He returned Anne’s gaze calmly, his fierce visage closed and cold.

  The heat of raw anger unfroze Anne’s mind. Of course it was anger. It certainly wasn’t anything as unworthy as jealousy. She didn’t care how many silly women he took to his bed, just so long as he didn’t foul her favourite crimson divan in the process!

  She clamped her gaping mouth shut; shot him a glare. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly and something flared in his eyes. Vexation? Yes, it must be. Vexation at her, because she’d intruded on his afternoon tryst. Goodness, he looked so intimidating. Her insides quaked and she wanted to turn and run.

  But Whitecross Hall had been her home. She’d been its countess and cared for the needs of its people. Now she was made to feel like an interloper. And she had accepted it all as fate…up until now. This was intolerable.

  Ruel would not chase her out of her favourite haunt.

  She stiffened her spine and walked calmly to the bookshelves; took her time surveying the books, making a new selection. All the while she felt his gaze burning into her.

  Swiftly rustling muslin crackled in the chamber. Then the door closed, quite loudly. Lady Scott had left. Anne still sensed Ruel’s presence. She grasped the first book her hand fell on, pulled it from the shelf, then walked towards the wingchair by the window.

  Before she reached her destination, he came to her side, placed his hand on her arm. She jerked her head over her shoulder to face him. His eyes were open and warm, bluer than early evening.

  “Your ladybird has flown.” She forced the words past the constriction in her throat.

  He loosened his hold, caressing her arm below her small, puffed sleeve, his fingers tracing the bare flesh. Little shocks of fire licked up her arm.

  She wouldn’t weaken to him this time. She made her voice hard and cold. “Hadn’t you better go and catch her?”

  “Forget her.” His smooth voice lulled her as he cupped her cheek with one hand. His eyes
, burning with desire, ignited flames deep inside her. Her limbs went weak. A slow flow of wetness commenced between her legs.

  He bent close.

  Did he actually intend to kiss her? After that disgusting little scene?

  Indignation burned through her. Yet her body thrummed with awareness of him—his scent, his strength. Her body wanted to let him take whatever he willed. Her throat went dry and her legs shook from pure fear. Not fear of him but fear of herself and what she would allow—what she would do—if something didn’t happen to break this spell.

  Her heart hammered against her chest wall. God, she must do something. Anything—

  She drew back her hand and arced it forward and up with all her might. She made sharp, stinging, shocking contact with his cheek. It was with enough force that his head reeled a bit. Not much, though.

  The crack echoed around the chamber.

  She cried out in disbelief and dismay at her thoughtless action and took several steps back. Her hand stung as if pierced by a hundred nettles and she pressed it to her skirt, seeking the coolness of the dark plum silk.

  She felt very lost and confused with herself. She just didn’t go around acting on impulse and emotion. She’d never struck anyone in her whole life.

  This was what he did to her. He turned her into a stranger to herself—a passionate, violent stranger. He filled her with madness. But what price would she pay for such madness?

  Trembling in the wake of her emotions, she dared to look at him.

  A vicious red mark rose on his cheek. He touched it.

  She held her breath, waiting for what he would do now.

  Chapter Four

  A slow grin spread over Jon’s fierce, hand-printed face. “It has been at least fifteen years since I had my face thoroughly slapped.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, mortified to her very bones.

  “So the shy little kitten likes to play rough?” He moved towards her.