He cupped her bottom as he slid into her, ran his hand up the thigh that clamped his hip. The satin ridge of her garter beneath his fingers made him gasp and hold still, jaw clenched, a pulse throbbing in his temple as he battled the threatened rush of ecstasy.
Breathing so hard he thought his lungs might explode, he opened his eyes to look at her, at the parted lips swollen with kisses, at her soft, dark hair fanned beneath her head and spilling over milk white shoulders, at the high, firm breasts with their delicious pink nipples. He stroked into her more powerfully still and she thrashed her head and cried out, her eyes closed in a look of agonized delight.
The sight of the icy Lady Sarah writhing in pleasure beneath him, the feel of her hot, wet sheath gripping him, drawing him in, filled Vane with pure, masculine triumph. Finally, he’d breached her defenses, conquered her resistance.
With an effort at control that made his teeth clench and his whole body tremble, he slid out of her with excruciating slowness, inch by inch. With a sobbing gasp, she threw her head back, exposing her lovely neck. He bent to her and nipped the skin there with his teeth and felt her shiver and quake around him.
“Oh, yes.”
The hot whisper in his ear shredded his thin veil of control. He pumped his hips fast and hard, barely registered her climax before his own ripped through his body and burst into hers. He collapsed, shuddering, and rolled to the side.
His heart still thundered in the distance.
“SARAH. Sarah, speak to me.”
Fighting craven, useless tears, she shrugged his hand from her shoulder. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
With her back to him and the sheet pulled over her, she glared at the window opposite, at the crack in the heavy damask curtains, thinking of what lay beyond. Brinsley. Their shabby rooms. Her family. Society.
How could she face them? How could she live with what she’d done?
Because it hadn’t been just once, a few moments of madness in which real life faded to nothing. She’d repeated her offense, this time fully aware of her infidelity, that she’d sold herself like a common slut in the stews.
His deep voice sounded too close. “I want you to say you’ll leave him. I want you to come to me.”
“Be your mistress, you mean.” Her own voice was pleasingly cold and hard.
“It wouldn’t be like that.”
“I am married. Brinsley is my husband. How else could it be?”
His fingers traced a curl behind her ear, feathered a path down her nape. Sarah stiffened, fighting the thrills that shivered down her spine. She couldn’t let him see how he moved her.
She strangled a bitter laugh. How could he not see it? She hadn’t exactly lain like an effigy beneath him when they’d made love, had she?
It would be so easy for him to persuade her to stay. Even now, with those gentle, clever fingers stroking her skin, she felt her resolution melting, slipping away.
He kissed her nape and a spear of longing shot through her. She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see the naked desire in those dark eyes, the raw need that ravaged his face.
And know it was mirrored in her own.
Desperately, she clung to the thought of that ten thousand pounds, held herself stiff and unyielding as his lips brushed her shoulder, their heat branding her skin.
She must go. She must not stay here and suffer this delicate assault. It seemed wildly improbable that a man so tender and careful could have bought her, bargained for her with her own husband without sparing a thought for how he degraded her by doing it.
But he had. He’d told her so, and that should give her the strength for what she needed to do.
As if in answer to her prayers, suddenly she saw thin, watery light filter through the sliver between the curtains.
Morning.
HE watched her rise from the bed, walk to the window, and peer out, one hand raised to draw the curtain a little aside.
Her silky dark hair rippled halfway down her back—no modern crop for Lady Sarah. His gaze lowered to her slender waist, slim hips, and those amazing legs still sheathed in sheer white stockings tied with delectable, pink-ribboned garters. Her bottom was rounded, pert perfection. His mind slid to other positions they might try.
God, he was an animal. He needed to think, persuade her to stay, or there’d be no time left for them at all. Even now, dawn caressed the soft curve of her breast as she stood framed by gold damask and brocade.
He would not let her go.
Before he could speak, she left the window, rounded the bed, and bent to pick up something from the floor. It was her shift. She shook it out and threw it over her head. With an expert flick of her hips that made him swallow hard against desire, she let it fall. Without glancing at him, she tied the ribbon at her bosom.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed. I am going home.”
He launched out of bed as she gathered up her gown. He gripped her wrist before she could put it on.
“Stay.” Reaching out with his other hand, he tilted her chin so she had to look him in the eye. “Stay with me.”
She flinched, though she couldn’t escape his grip on her wrist. In a clenched, gritty voice, she said, “One night is all you get for your money, I’m afraid.”
For an instant, her words confused him. “All I—?”
She returned his stare with an insolent flex of her brows. “One night,” she repeated. “For your ten thousand pounds.”
He barely stopped himself from gaping. He’d told her the truth about that, hadn’t he? Didn’t she know he’d refused Brinsley’s offer? He frowned, trying to remember all the words that had tumbled from his lips in the course of the night. He’d taken her with no thought of that filthy commerce in his head.
But she . . .
A cruel little smile curled her lips, and only then did the real truth dawn on him like the pale, crisp light of day. His first surmise those few hours ago had been correct. She did know he’d refused Brinsley. Seduction had always been her aim.
He stood there, naked to the skin, chilled to the marrow, freezing from the inside out, and knew a faint inkling of gratitude that the bitter chill holding him immobile lent him the appearance of composure. Still, his mind floundered. He had no voice, no words, no defense just then. At that moment, the world was black and the dawn far away.
She slipped free of his slackened grasp and turned to put on her gown. That venom green gown. Poison, like her eyes. Like everything she was.
Through the ice seeped anger and disgust and self-recrimination. How shaming, how unutterably sordid, that his life had come to this. Abasing himself before a ruthless, heartless baggage, a woman no better than a bit of muslin selling her wares at Covent Garden, for all her airs and graces.
No, she was worse than that. At least those doxies didn’t pretend to give their favors freely. At least they didn’t hoodwink their clients into thinking it was love.
Well, she might have betrayed and deceived him, but she would not best him in this fight. “I’m afraid you’ve chosen your mark unwisely, madam,” he drawled. “I made no agreement.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Brinsley—”
“Your pimp, d’you mean?” He flashed a dangerous smile, noting the angry flush that rose to her cheeks. “Or perhaps you prefer the term procurer? Far more elegant, I agree. But I’m sure you already know what transpired between Brinsley and me. And I don’t recall you insisting on payment when I had you against that bedpost.”
Small, white teeth bit into her plump lower lip. The green eyes grew bright.
“Ah, now come the tears,” he mocked. “The only element lacking from your earlier performance. But you were so clever, weren’t you, Lady Sarah, letting my fevered imagination do your work for you? To think I actually pictured you the injured party in all this.”
She threw back her head and glared down her nose at him. He’d never seen a woman more magnificent, couldn’t help but admire her,
even as her venom pumped through his veins, constricted his heart.
Her voice dripped disdain as she buttoned her pelisse. “If you wish to haggle like a merchant, I suggest you address yourself to Brinsley. You and I have nothing more to discuss.”
He frowned. Was it his imagination, or had her voice trembled on the last words?
Gathering up the rest of her undergarments, Sarah wrapped them in a bundle. She made as if to sweep past him, but he caught her elbow. “How did you get here tonight? Is your carriage waiting?”
“I hired a hackney. I’ll take one home.” She stared at his hand as if it were a slug, as if it hadn’t stroked every soft inch of her a short while ago, as if she hadn’t reveled in that touch. Her pleasure, at least, had been real. He couldn’t be mistaken about that.
Could he?
He cleared his throat. “Permit me to convey you home.”
“What? Arrive at this hour in a carriage with your crest on the panel? I don’t think so, my lord.”
He returned her haughty glare with interest. “I don’t flaunt my crest on my carriages. You’ll be anonymous, and safe.” When she still looked skeptical, he added gruffly, “I don’t like the thought of you out alone at this hour. Indulge me in this . . . if nothing else.”
She seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. Quietly, she said, “Very well. Thank you, my lord.”
The impulse to go with her, to use the short drive to Bloomsbury to try once more to persuade her, was one he swiftly quelled. Begging would only rate her scorn. They were finished.
They had never begun.
He rang for Rivers to show her out and watched the door close behind a flash of green.
Then he turned to his empty room, where the scent of her still lingered, and a kid glove lay on the bedside table like an unfinished prayer.
Five
SEVERAL excruciating minutes passed before the carriage was brought around from the mews. Sarah spent them pacing the empty drawing room downstairs. She couldn’t have lasted a second longer in that bedchamber with Vane, but the drawing room afforded slender relief. Had she chosen the wiser course and awaited Vane there instead of following him upstairs, her life might be quite different now.
Had she wanted this all along? Had she gone to his bedchamber knowing in her heart what the outcome would be? What a fool not to predict the result of such an intimate encounter. How willfully, wantonly stupid!
But she’d been so secure in her pride, so smug and self-righteous in her determination to honor her marriage vows, she’d thought herself immune from Vane. If only he’d set out to seduce her from the start, she would have been prepared, capable of rejecting him.
But he’d waited, with a patience that showed a true master of seduction. He’d displayed himself to her like a male peacock, strutting in all his naked glory, but he hadn’t allowed her to touch him, pretended disinterest to fuel her desire. The tension had mounted to an unbearable pitch, but instead of trying to force the issue, he’d held back. Killed her with compassion and silent understanding. Offered her comfort, not humiliation. Or so she’d thought.
But now, she realized it was not only her body that he had violated, with her as a willing participant. He had touched her heart, reached into her soul, struck a massive blow to her pride. Then asked her to stay for more.
She’d been tempted—unbearably, wrenchingly tempted. She could never forgive him for that. She could never forgive herself.
Once in the carriage, Sarah closed her eyes and leaned back against the blue velvet squabs, the luxury a powerful reminder of what she left behind, what she’d refused when she rejected Vane’s offer.
The smell of sex on her body nauseated her, filled her with shame. She wished she’d had the chance to wash before she left.
How would Brinsley react to her betrayal? Would he rub his hands together and await the banker’s draft that must follow, despite Vane’s harsh denial of an agreement? Or would his conscience finally prick him? Would he be jealous, angry even? He had loved her once, she knew. As deeply as a man like Brinsley could love anyone.
She’d often wondered whether a child might have made a difference to them, but it seemed she was barren, for she’d never conceived. Sarah spread her hand over her flat stomach. She knew the fault lay with her. Tom’s existence was proof of that.
Sarah shivered. Useless to dwell on their past. She must try to carve out some reasonable future, or why go on? Somehow, she must work for peace between her and Brinsley, or a truce at least. Her former scheme to leave him seemed irrelevant now she’d become as great a sinner as him. If she’d found the strength to resist Vane, it would be another matter entirely.
But she’d be foolish to hope Brinsley would ever change. There was little for her now except to tread her lonely path, selling her perfume to make ends meet. Perhaps one day, one of Brinsley’s fund-raising schemes might succeed. She hoped he didn’t think her body would make his fortune. She would rather die than pursue that course.
Her lips twisted. No. She would rather grovel to Mama.
The countess had criticized Brinsley almost from the beginning of Sarah’s marriage. As a new bride still floating on dreams of love, Sarah had taken violent exception to her mother’s jibes. She’d said things, hurled accusations she wished now she’d never voiced, even if they were true.
Later, when the state of Sarah’s marriage had become too threadbare to mend, the countess had refused to step in unless Sarah apologized to her on bended knee. Sarah had preferred to starve rather than go cap in hand to her mother, begging for charity. The years had fled; the reasons for their estrangement no longer mattered. They were locked in a stalemate, borne of stubborn pride.
And while all this had happened, her father had stood apart, remote and untouched by it all. His indifference had hurt Sarah the most.
The carriage halted. Sarah assumed she was home, but she dared not draw the curtains in case she attracted attention. When the door opened, she darted across the pavement and up the steps like a mouse to its hole, fumbling in her reticule for the latchkey.
But she didn’t need it. The street door stood slightly ajar.
Thankful for that small boon, Sarah slipped inside and trod lightly up the stairs to the second floor.
VANE galloped his horse through the watercolor dawn as if the Devil were at his heels. He shook his head. A man less inclined to excessive passions and impulsiveness might have taken his luxurious barge to his Richmond estate—a far more convenient and comfortable mode of transport. But the need for physical activity had never been stronger. Nor had the need for escape.
He slowed to a trot through awakening city streets, the clatter of hooves on cobbles echoing the throb in his brain. He wove among orange sellers, hawkers and drays, street sweepers and urchins. He rode hard at a group of young bloods staggering an erratic path home from a night of revelry, scattering them like skittles as they leaped free of trampling hooves. Anything to distract him from the pain.
When they met open fields, he let Tiros fly and they thundered away from London, away from her. The mud churned under the gelding’s hooves and the countryside passed in a rush of damp wind and a blur of lush green.
But no matter how fast they went, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t rid himself of the image of those wicked, merciless eyes the same green as the hedgerows, of her scent that still clung to him no matter how vigorously he’d scrubbed in that ice-cold bath, of the husky voice telling him he’d got what he paid for. No more.
Each new sense of her was like brandy on an open wound. He wished it had never happened, wished he’d thrown her out when he’d had the chance. It had been so much safer, that hopeless, almost idle longing, a dull kind of pain he’d learned to live with, one that flared from time to time when he saw her, or when someone mentioned her name, but one he’d never allowed to control him.
Last night, he’d thrown off his armor, shed his skin, laid himself open, raw and vulnerable. And she’d ripped his vitals
out, plunged a dagger in his heart.
Did she know what she’d done? He prayed she had no idea how much, how greatly he cared for her. If he hadn’t cared, he would never have allowed her to stay in his house. Strong though the temptation might have been, if lust had been all that drew him to her, he would have sent her away without a second thought. He would never have considered accepting Brinsley Cole’s foul proposal only to slake his carnal appetites. He valued his honor far more than a tumble between the sheets with a beautiful woman, no matter how desirable she might be.
But he had cared. Far too much. Now, he was well served for losing his grip on himself, for trying to banish the desolation he’d glimpsed in her eyes.
He must have imagined that look, or perhaps she was that good an actress, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was over. That brief, soaring exaltation, the conviction that he and she were connected, that she belonged to him, no matter what promises she had made in St George’s, Hanover Square, evaporated like the morning mist. She had betrayed him, humiliated him, shredded his soul to pieces. Left him to doubt he would ever find happiness or even contentment again.
Damn those pitiless green eyes to hell. Damn the rest of her, too.
Most of all, damn him for being the worst kind of besotted fool.
PAUSING on the landing before the final flight of steps, Sarah heard voices. One, a deep rumble. Not Brinsley’s. One, a piping shrill she recognized. Mrs. Higgins, her landlady. An excitable woman at the best of times, but now, her strident voice held an edge of hysteria.
The rent wasn’t due for another week, and even then, Brinsley could usually charm their susceptible landlady to wait until he could pay. Good Lord, what was going on?
She hurried upstairs and opened the door.
“Brinsley!” The cry ripped from her throat, tore through the landlady’s wails.
Wicked Little Game Page 6