The Earl's Temptation

by Emma V. Leech

  Those ideas seemed to form before his eyes as the object of his torment appeared at the top of the stairs. He stared up at her, quite unable to tear his eyes away, knowing that he was lost. He couldn't allow her to go and marry a blasted duke, nor his handsome and charming cousin, nor any other man. He couldn't bring himself to care that she deserved better, or at least, not enough to allow it. He was finished with kidding himself that he could live with it. He couldn't. If she took another man he would kill whoever it was, it was inevitable. She would wed him and allow this intolerable torment to end or he would lose his mind. The idea that she might not want him anymore - perhaps preferring to be the duchess to a handsome young duke - slid into his mind and he quashed it in fury. He couldn't accept that, he wouldn't. He would make her want him again. He would find a way.

  He held her gaze as she made her way down the stairs, noting the provocative sway of her hips.

  "Good evening, Alex," she said as she reached the bottom and looked up at him, the blue eyes glittering and full of mischief that made his breath catch. "You look very 'andsome tonight."

  He reached out and took her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing the inside of her wrist, a soft and tender brush of his mouth that could not be misconstrued as anything but seductive. He looked up to see a slightly startled look in her eyes and that her cheeks were flushed. Smiling with satisfaction, he placed her hand on his arm as Aunt Dorothea began to make her way down the stairs to meet them.

  "And you ... look like you'd far rather go to bed than the theatre, mignonne," he said, keeping his voice low and for her ears only.

  She glanced up at him, her mouth open with shock and the colour on her cheeks flushing down her neck to her breasts.

  "Why, ma mie," he said, his voice heavy with amusement. "I only meant that you were perhaps still fatigued after your late night." He paused and focused his attention solely on her, his lips quirked slightly. "Whatever did you think I meant?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

  She recovered herself with some effort and gave him an arch look. "I suspect I thought exactly what you intended me to think," she said with a haughty sniff. Before removing her hand from his arm and allowing the footman to help her with her pelisse.

  The theatre, as expected, was a crush as familiar faces greeted each other before everyone took their seats for the performance. To Alex's dismay, there was one face he did not want to see in the slightest. But as his eyes met the seductive, dark eyes of one of his late paramours, he was left with a dilemma. The infamous widow, Mrs Lydia Morris, was very clearly on a determined path to come and speak with him and knowing the woman as he did, would risk a scandal before being thwarted. He wondered what on earth had possessed him to get involved with her in the first place, and then remembered with a wry grin exactly what the reason had been.

  Such decadent temptations seemed crass to him now, however, and he found he was quite at peace with knowing such entertainments were to be a thing of his past. The last thing he wanted now, though, was to give Céleste a reminder of just the kind of man she would be taking on. Both she and Dorothea were safely ensconced speaking to friends of his aunts and the small group of older women that were with them, and so he decided to head trouble off before it could reach him. With a murmured apology he made his excuses and left the ladies alone for a moment to head off impending disaster.

  ***

  Céleste sighed, waving the fan she held to try and create a stir of air in the stifling atmosphere. Looking around she searched for Alex, wondering why he'd disappeared so suddenly. Since the moment she had seen him this evening her hopes had risen exponentially. Something had changed. He had come to some sort of decision, she was sure of it, and it involved her. That he had flirted with her so openly, that he had returned to using the pet names for her that she loved so dearly, all of it bespoke a change in his demeanour. She remembered the charged atmosphere in the study last night, the moment he had held his glass to her lips. When she had deliberately licked her lips to savour the lingering taste of the brandy, the look in his eyes had been searing in intensity. So what did it mean? Had he finally overcome his objections to making her his own?

  She turned her head a little more and saw Alex's dark head above the crowd. Craning her neck she tried to catch a glimpse of whoever he was speaking to so intently. There was a fierce expression on his face, and when the crowd shifted slightly so that she could see clearly, she was hardly surprised. The woman standing before him was exquisite. Voluptuous of figure, with thick dark hair and sloe black eyes that promised all sorts of desperate pleasures, she was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the room.

  Céleste hauled in a breath, finding her lungs were unwilling to comply as her chest was too tight.

  "That's his mistress," a smug voice said from beside her. She whirled around in horror to see the beady, birdlike eyes of Lady Bradford looking on the dark beauty with a malicious smile. She’d met the hateful old gossip at the Vauxhall Gardens some weeks ago and Aunt Seymour had warned her to stay clear. Céleste hadn't needed to be told twice, she was obviously a malicious woman and would stop at nothing for a good story, least of all the truth. But somehow she didn't doubt the validity of her words now.

  She wasn't so foolish or naive to think that a man like Alex would be celibate for any amount of time. "He's got several of course, but Mrs Morris is his favourite. Apparently he fought with the Marquess of Rockingham for the rights to her." Céleste stared at the woman, but mistaking Céleste's appalled silence for an interest as salacious as her own, she carried on. "Yes, two years ago that was. I don't think he's ever kept a paramour as long as that one. Though you can see why I suppose. And it's not like he'll ever marry now is it? I mean he's apparently more virile than men half his age, they say his stamina is legendary, but even so. He's the wrong side of thirty five to mend his wicked ways now. No the earldom will go to his brother's offspring I imagine."

  "Would you excuse me please?" Céleste pushed away from the old crow, sickened by everything she'd heard. Blindly she fought her way through the crowd, not knowing where she was going, only knowing she couldn't stand beside that malicious bitch for a moment longer.

  "Well now, where are you off to in such a hurry, my lady?"

  She looked up and sucked in a breath of relief when her eyes took in the imposing figure of the Duke of Sindalton.

  "I-I," she stammered, trying to compose herself. "I got a little disorientated, your Grace, and it's so dreadfully 'ot in 'ere." She didn't care at that moment that her accent had slipped but from the look in the duke's eyes he didn't seem to mind in the least.

  "How perfectly charming you are," he said, his voice soft. "Come, we'll go up the stairs, it's quieter and you'll perhaps be able to see your companions."

  "Your Grace is very kind,” she murmured, more than relieved to get away from all the people. Her heart was aching as she turned Lady Bradford's word over in her mind. It wouldn't hurt her so much if it wasn't true. She had been foolish not to see it earlier. But she hadn't been wrong in the change in Alex. He wanted her, she knew he did, but ...perhaps he had fought his own desires for so long because he had no desire to ever marry. Perhaps the reason he had never made advances was because all he would offer her if he did was the position of his mistress.

  She tried to breathe, deep and even as it occurred to her just what that would mean. Even if she had enough appeal to hold his attention so that he only kept her and none of the others, she would not be welcomed in polite society any longer. She found this was of little consequence. The beautiful clothes and parties and dancing, all of it was lovely, but she would turn her back on it all in a heartbeat for a life with Alex. The idea that she would never have a family though, that she would never hold his child in her arms, that made her heart ache with misery.

  "Why now, whatever is it distressing you so?" She blinked back tears and looked up at the duke who reached out and caressed her cheek with a fingertip. "Tell me Falmouth is the cause of your distress
, my lady, and I swear I'll call him out."

  She gasped, astonished at the violence of his words and shook her head. Yes, it was Alex making her unhappy, but it wasn't his fault, only her own foolish naivety that had brought her to this moment.

  "Non," she shook her head and tried to smile at him. "His Lordship is not to blame I assure you."

  He looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. "I will call on you tomorrow afternoon," he said, but before he could say more or she could answer, she felt a large hand press against the small of her back in a possessive and intimate gesture. Looking round she found Alex behind her, staring at the duke with utter loathing and reached out a hand, grasping his arm.

  "Oh, Alex. I'm so sorry, I got lost in the crush and his Grace was so kind as to bring me here and see if I could see you." She turned back to the duke and hoped she managed to give him a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, your Grace."

  The duke tore his dark gaze away from Alex and raised her hand to his lips, giving her wrist a lingering kiss. "Until tomorrow, my Lady," he said, before turning and walking away.

  Alex glared at his retreating figure. "What did he mean, until tomorrow?" he demanded.

  "He means to call on me," she replied, watching his face as the words hit home.

  There was a second of silence in which in expression darkened further. "I thought I told you to stay away from him?" he said, and she almost took a step back at the fury in his eyes. For a moment she stared at him. Would she give herself to this man as his mistress, content to never truly belong to his life, to only ever be one of his pleasures, like a fine wine or a racehorse - a diversion from boredom? Or would she marry, the duke perhaps. She would be wealthy, powerful, and respected. A half life with the only man she ever loved, or more than she had ever dreamed of - with a man who didn't know her, a man she could never have anything more than affection for. With sorrow she knew the answer had been decided many months ago. Better half a heart, than none at all.

  "You think he's going to offer for you," he said, and it wasn't a question. She looked up at him, wondering if he was jealous of her as a possession, as a thing he desired for himself, or if there could be more to it than that.

  She shrugged, glad that Aunt Seymour wasn't there to see it and scold her. "Yes, I think perhaps he will."

  "Would you marry a man you don't love?" he asked and she couldn't have been more surprised if he'd slapped her. His face was a careful blank but she could feel the tension singing through his body as though it was calling to her, begging her to put her hands on his skin and smooth it all away.

  "No," she whispered. "I couldn't marry a man I didn't love."

  He seemed to release a breath, relieved, and she was suddenly furious with him. She was overwhelmed, jealous of his dark eyed-lover, furious with months spent alone, disappointed at a future she had begun to yearn for and had suddenly been snatched away from her.

  "Of course, Aubrey 'as offered too," she said, putting aside her guilt at the barefaced lie and gaining a small measure of satisfaction at the jolt of shock in his eyes. "And 'e is very dear to me. I think perhaps we could be 'appy together."

  He stilled, staring at her, and she felt her satisfaction shrivel and die, replaced by remorse as she saw something that looked very much like fear in his eyes.

  "Have you accepted him?" he asked, his voice hoarse and barely audible over the noise of the theatre as everyone started to take their seats.

  "Non," she whispered.

  "Will you?"

  She forced herself to hold his gaze, to make him see what she needed from him. "I don't know. I suppose it ... It depends on what other offers I receive, but ... I must make a decision, very soon."

  She saw his throat working, saw the need in his eyes to say something and the realisation that this was neither the time nor the place. He turned and guided her to his private box. Aunt Dorothea was chattering to an old friend some distance behind and totally oblivious to the charged atmosphere between them. As they walked they passed the Duke of Sindalton and Céleste shivered as his dark eyes lingered on her, despite a glacial look from Alex as they passed him.

  "I don't want to see you alone with that man again, Céleste," he repeated, sliding a possessive arm around her waist as they entered the gloom of his private box. She paused and glared up at him, daring to take a step closer so that for a moment her body brushed against his.

  "If you 'adn't left me alone, I wouldn't 'ave been in 'is company," she replied, unable to keep the thread of bitterness from her words.

  His expression softened and his arm tightened around her for a moment as he stared at her intently. "You are quite right, mignonne," he whispered. "Forgive me. I swear to you ... it will never happen again."

  Chapter 27

  "Wherein torments of various kinds are endured."

  The theatre was finally still and quiet as the first scene was revealed. The audience took in the gloomy aspect of a monastery at night with a large Gothic window and the atmosphere was one of anticipation as two monks, apparently running in terror, appeared on the stage. As one the audience jumped with shock as a crack of thunder rent the cavernous room and the eerie howling of the wind swept around them.

  Céleste was enraptured. Clutching at the deep red velvet seat beneath her, she revelled in the dramatic opulence of her surroundings. She had never before seen a theatre production, and that her first experience should be such a melodrama was more than she could have hoped for. For a moment she tried to put aside her own concerns and worries and focus her attention on the play. But no matter how enthralling the stage and its players, she was only too aware of Alex's proximity.

  He sat close beside her, the hard line of his thigh pressed against hers. It was intimate and distracting and she wondered if he knew he was doing it. He had been acting so strangely tonight, flirting with her, furious at her for speaking to Sindalton, and his reaction to Aubrey's offer had been a revelation. Perhaps it had been simply his foolish ideas about her youth and innocence that had held him back before as she'd first believed and he had finally put aside whatever objections he'd had.

  Still, she told herself she had no foolish notions about him offering for her now. Yes she had hoped and dreamed it was true, but she wasn't naive or fool enough to believe that dreams came true. She'd seen enough of life to be pragmatic about her choices and she must take what she could get and be grateful. After all, without Alex she'd be a whore by now, one way or another. Being mistress to a man she loved was really not a hardship when put against that perspective, but it didn't stop her heart aching.

  She smiled as she heard Aunt Dorothea's soft snores as the dramatic action on stage continued and had no impact whatsoever on her slumber.

  "Heaven for its mercy, what a night is!" cried the first monk.

  "Oh! Didst thou hear that peal?" added the second as Céleste nearly squealed in alarm as the very theatre seemed to shudder with the violence of the thunder so realistic was the effect.

  "The dead must hear it," wailed the first monk as more thunder jolted the audience. Turning to the first monk he grasped his arm. "Speak! Speak, and let me hear a human voice!"

  Céleste put her hand to her heart as the drama of the scene pulled her in and then jumped once more as the smooth slide of fingers glided over her other hand which rested demurely in her lap. In the darkness of the box she could just make out Alex's larger, rough hand over her smaller white-gloved fingers. He had removed his own gloves and the heat of his skin burned through the fine silk. She swallowed as his fingertips trailed up, over her wrist until they reached the bare skin at the top of her arm. He stroked her with the back of his fingers, a delicate, barely-there caress that made her heart beat wildly, sending her blood rushing through her veins.

  As though caught in a dream she kept her eyes on the stage, though she saw nothing of the dramatic events unfolding as he carefully peeled the glove from her, with slow, deliberate movements, drawing each finger free in turn, and taking her hand, drawing
it to him. He moved closer, in the darkness of the theatre, holding her hand between both of his. The heat of him, just from that contact, seemed to burn through her so that her skin blazed, prickling with awareness that only increased as his thumb moved in slow, seductive circles over her palm. Her breath caught as he moved closer, dipping his head to hers as though he meant to whisper something to her, except no words were heard. Instead she felt the warmth of his mouth on the junction between her neck and shoulder as his lips pressed against her skin. It was the softest of kisses, which was repeated, over and over, as he lit a trail of fire up her neck.

  Céleste was in turmoil, her breathing at once fast and shallow, desperate that she shouldn't draw attention to herself, appalled and intrigued that he would act in such a way in a public place. Surely someone would see? And yet it was dark and the rest of the audience quite intent on the stage as the drama progressed, and she wasn't entirely sure she cared in any case. Alex continued with his delicious torment, nuzzling the delicate skin just below her ear and nipping at her ear. She suppressed a moan of desire and tilted her head a little to allow him to continue.

  A low male chuckle of amusement rippled over her skin and Alex seemed more than happy to oblige her. The constant circling of his thumb over her palm was making it hard to keep her composure. She did her best to make it look as though she was watching the play but the only thing in her mind was crawling into Alex's lap and demanding he satisfy the throbbing ache he had created between her legs that was driving her to distraction. He placed the hand he was holding on his thigh and leaned closer still. One hand reached up to clasp the back of her neck, the warm, heavy weight making her shiver. He continued to kiss her neck as his other hand slid over her stomach and rose higher, until it cupped the generous swell of her breast. With a teasing, slow rub of his thumb he caressed her nipple through her gown and Céleste was forced to bite her lip to stop from crying out. She was gripped with a feeling of desperation, a need for release that teetered on the edge of madness as his lips caressed and his fingers tweaked her sensitive flesh.