by Candace Camp
But in the next instant she came to her senses and stepped back. “No.”
Her hand came up to cover her mouth. Her lips were soft and moist, still tingling from the pressure of his mouth. She could not look at him as she struggled to pull her unruly senses back into order.
“Eve . . .” He took a step toward her.
“No.” Eve raised her head. “However I may have appeared to you yesterday, I am not ‘easy.’”
He smiled faintly. “I do not think you are easy at all. Indeed, I think you will be quite difficult.” He paused, then added, “But well worth the effort.”
Eve was appalled at how much she wanted him. Surely after all these years she should be well past feeling this way. She was no longer an impressionable girl to be swept away by a handsome face and form.
Well, at least she had learned enough not to let her feelings show. She lifted her chin, ruthlessly keeping her voice cold and stern. “I am surprised, Mr. Talbot. I would not have taken you for the sort of man who would take advantage of a woman under your brother’s care.”
He gave a short, sharp shake of his head. “I have no intention of taking advantage of you. I have never bedded a woman who did not want me.”
Eve felt sure that was true. Fitz Talbot would not have to force a woman; no doubt they fell into his hands like so much ripe fruit.
“I would never press you to do anything you do not want to do.”
He reached out to take her hand. Eve knew that she should pull her hand away, but she did not. She simply watched, her eyes caught and held by his as he raised her hand and pressed a soft kiss upon the tip of her finger. Her mouth went dry, and her breath caught in her throat as he worked his way down the line of her fingers, gently, slowly kissing each fingertip.
“Are you truly repelled by my touch?” His voice was low and seductive.
Eve’s tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. She trembled, and she knew that he must feel it in her fingers. With a great effort of will, she pulled her hand from his and walked away.
“Perhaps you think widows are fair game.” Eve swung back to face him, her head high. “That they are loose and immoral. But I assure you, sir, I am not.”
“What I think about widows . . .” Fitz came to her, his steps slow and steady, his eyes boring into hers. “. . . is that they are infinitely more desirable than other women.” He stopped, his eyes still locked to hers. “And you, my dear Eve, are the most desirable of them all.”
He was only inches away. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell his scent. Hunger blossomed deep in her abdomen, warm and insistent. Everything within her seemed to soften, yearning toward him. Unconsciously she leaned forward.
His arms went around her, crushing her to him, and his mouth came down on hers. He kissed her long and hard, his arms like iron around her, imprinting her soft flesh with his body. Eve held back for an instant, then her arms went around him, clinging to him with all her strength. She kissed him back, her mouth pliant and hungry, luxuriating in the taste, the scent, the feel of him. He filled her senses, and she could feel her body opening to him, her breasts swelling gently.
Fitz broke their kiss, his breath rasping harshly in his throat, and stared for a moment into her eyes, his own eyes only inches away, deep, fathomless pools of blue. Then he tilted his head the other way, changing the angle of their kiss, and took her mouth again. Their lips clung and separated and clung again. She could feel the ridge of his hardened maleness pushing against her, and her core tightened in response. She wanted to feel . . . she wanted to know . . .
With a soft cry, Eve broke away from him. His arms opened, freeing her, then fell to his sides. He stood, his face stamped with passion, and his look of hunger almost sent Eve flying back into his embrace.
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as though to keep from doing just that, and took another step backward. Drawing a deep breath, she rattled out, “Please . . . please do not do this. I cannot, I will not, come to your bed. If you have the slightest regard for me, please . . . stay away from me.”
Eve whirled and hurried from the room. He did not follow.
She dreaded facing Fitz the following morning at breakfast. However, he was as polite and charming as ever, and no word was spoken about the evening before or the way it had ended. When it came time to leave, Fitz handed Eve into the carriage, then mounted his horse to ride outside. Eve could not help but feel a pang of disappointment.
Of course, that was what she had asked him to do—to stay away from her. Her life would be much easier if he was annoyed and kept his distance. It was his closeness that was tempting, his friendship that was all too likely to trip her up.
Even sitting alone in the carriage, Eve could feel a blush rise in her cheeks at the memory of her response to Fitz the night before. No doubt she had confirmed all the rumors about widows—ripe for the plucking, they would fall easily into one’s arms. Unlike a maiden, a widow would know the pleasures of the marital bed and be eager to experience them again.
She let out a little snort, crossing her arms. The pleasures of the marital bed had never been part of her life. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. It was all too easy to remember the details of her wedding night—the nerves, the anticipation mingling with fear, the first few moments of kisses and caresses, followed finally by frustrated curses and Bruce rolling away from her.
She had not understood it at the time. She had been too innocent, too inexperienced. When they had entered their bridal chamber, Bruce had gone into the dressing room to change clothes, courteously leaving her the bedchamber in which to undress. Eve had changed into her virginal white nightgown, with its rows of carefully embroidered ruffles, brushed out her hair so that it hung long and loose about her shoulders like a golden cloud. Then she had climbed into bed and waited for him. It had seemed odd that it had taken him even longer to undress and come to bed than it had her, but she supposed he was simply giving her plenty of time to get ready. It had been even more peculiar that Bruce seemed as nervous as she when he had gotten into bed beside her. But then he had put his arm around her, and she had snuggled against him, and they had talked. Gradually she had begun to relax. He had begun to kiss her, and something had stirred deep inside her, a tingling, teasing, intriguing feeling. He had caressed her, too, his hand roaming over her, and she had been aware of a desire to feel his hand beneath her nightgown, against her bare skin. Nerves had subsided, chased away by her eagerness to follow those tantalizing new sensations.
But they had led to nothing else. His kisses had become harder, almost frantic, and he had balled up her nightgown in his fists, clutching it almost desperately. She had sensed something was wrong even before he began to fumble at his own body beneath his nightclothes. Red-faced, sweating, he had pulled back. Letting out a string of curses, he had jumped out of their bed and picked up the nearest thing handy, some little knickknack on the bedside table, and sent it sailing across the room to crash into the fireplace.
Eve had begun to cry, certain that she had somehow spoiled everything. But Bruce, for all his faults, had not been the sort of man to blame others. He had turned to her, his face rigid with self-disgust, and said, “No, it’s not you. It’s me. It’s always me.”
Then tears had started in his eyes, and he had sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, struggling not to break down. Eve, not knowing what to do or even what was really wrong, had wrapped her arms around him from behind and whispered endearments to him, assuring him that things would be all right, that they would try again, that everything would be different.
“No,” her husband had said, his voice raw. “I hoped it would be. I thought because you were a lady, a good woman, that it wouldn’t happen the same way. I thought because I loved you, it would change. I would change. That I would be able to—” He broke off, then ended in a whisper, “I fear I have done you a grave disservice, Evie. I’m sorry.”
/> A sigh escaped Eve at the memory, and she raised her head, blinking and turning to look out the window. Poor Bruce. His inability to perform had haunted him all his life. Oh, he had not given up completely that night. He had tried again and again, but always with the same results—Bruce frustrated and angry at himself and Eve warm, tingling, and unsatisfied. Or, at least, at first she had been. After a time she had grown to dread the increasingly rare occasions when Bruce would take her in his arms. Later she had come to feel nothing but disinterest, or even a vague resentment, knowing that it would come to nothing, as always.
Eventually he had stopped trying altogether, and in the last few years of their marriage they had lived together like a brother and sister, fond, even loving, but with no physical bond. She saw that all the things Bruce did—his extravagance, his evenings of drinking and gambling with his fellow officers, his neck-or-nothing riding—were expressions of his anger at his own sexual failure. He embraced any activity that proved his manhood, fearlessly throwing himself into things a more prudent man would avoid. He had always regretted being too young to fight in the Peninsular campaign, buying his first commission barely in time to defeat Napoleon. He had chafed at a military life without war. And when he died, thrown from his horse as he took a fence in his soaring style, Eve had grieved for him, but she had felt some hope, too, that at last he had found peace.
As for herself, Eve had found that there lived within her more sensuality than she would ever have guessed. She had known the stirrings of desire and been surprised; she had felt the teasing touch of pleasure and wished for more. It would have been easy enough to find satisfaction if she wished. But Eve would never have betrayed her husband that way. Even if she had been the sort to take on a lover, it would spell ruin for her hopes of making her own way in the world by becoming a chaperone or companion. No one would accept her for such a position with less than a perfect reputation.
Eve glanced out the window, her eyes going to Fitz. She leaned her head against the frame of the window, admiring the way he sat on his horse, the breadth of his shoulders, his profile as he turned to look at something. It was easy to watch him. Easy to like him. Eve was going to have to make an effort not to be ensnared by his charm.
She hoped he would not stay long at Willowmere after the wedding. He would grow bored and return to London. Likeable though Fitz was, Eve had no illusions about the life he lived—he was part of that set of aristocratic young bachelors who idled away their time in London, always seeking some new pleasure, whether an opera dancer, a boxing match, or a new gaming club. Fitz might be interested in pursuing her right now, but that would fade when she did not give in to his advances, and then he would go back to London, seeking something more interesting.
The thought did not lighten her spirits.
The inn had packed a luncheon for them, and they stopped at midday to eat it, looking out over one of the magnificent vistas of the Lake District. Hills rolled away in the distance, and below them glittered a dark tarn. But their stay was brief, for both were eager to press on. Willowmere, Fitz explained, was not too far now, only another hour.
Both tension and anticipation rose in Eve as they drew nearer. She could feel the horses picking up speed as the road grew more familiar to them. They passed through a small village, and before long the vehicle turned onto a lane. Eve sat up straighter, leaning close to the window. They emerged from a line of yew trees onto a wide, grassy area. To the right lay a view of a small dark tarn with a summerhouse and a quaint little bridge crossing the pond.
But Eve spared only a glance for the picturesque scene. Her attention was fixed on the house that lay in front of her. It was large and rambling, with no particular architectural style. It seemed rather to have simply grown up over the years, wings added on as the need or whim arose, so that it sprawled out, sometimes three stories, sometimes only two or even one. Though most of the house was stone of a honeyed hue, the shade varied somewhat, the stones darkened here and there by time and wear, and a small part was built of brick. One wall was almost entirely covered with a blanket of ivy. The overall effect was, oddly enough, not discordant but homey and warm, like a cottage that had somehow grown enormous, an atmosphere enhanced by the shrubs softening the foundation and the gardens that stretched out on either side of the house. Willowmere managed to be both imposing and charming, and she liked it immediately.
When the carriage rolled to a stop, Fitz dismounted, tossing the reins of his horse to a groom, and came over to open the carriage door. Affection and pride were evident on his face as he said, “Welcome to Willowmere. How do you like it?”
Eve took his hand and stepped down, then took a long, encompassing look at the house. “It’s lovely,” she replied honestly, smiling at Fitz. “Just beautiful. Is this where you grew up?”
He nodded. “Yes. Lived here for seventeen years, except for occasional trips to London.” He pivoted to look at the house again. “I have to confess, I always love to see the place. Come inside. I want to introduce you to Stewkesbury and my cousins.”
Eve took the arm he offered, and they walked from the drive through the small and tidy front lawn to the door. It opened a moment before they reached it, and a smiling footman bowed to them.
“Welcome home, Mr. Talbot.”
“Thank you, Paul. Is my brother about?”
“They are both here, sir. His lordship is in his study, and I believe that Sir Royce is with him. I sent word to his lordship as soon as we saw the carriage approaching.”
“This is Mrs. Hawthorne,” Fitz told the footman as he handed him his hat and gloves. “She will be staying with us for some time.”
“Ma’am.” The footman bowed and took Eve’s bonnet and gloves as well.
She turned as two men strode into view. One of them was clearly Fitz’s brother, for his coloring and build were much the same. Slightly shorter than Fitz and a trifle broader through the chest and shoulders, he had very dark brown hair and gray eyes, and his features were similar to Fitz’s, though not blessed with the same perfection. The other man was also tall, but his hair was a dark blond, his eyes green, and his face, though handsome, was different from Fitz’s and the other man’s.
Both men, however, were smiling as they strode forward. “Fitz!”
“Stewkesbury. Royce.” Fitz stepped forward to shake hands with the men, then turned toward Eve. “Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Hawthorne. Mrs. Hawthorne, these are my brothers, Lord Stewkesbury and Sir Royce Winslow.”
The earl was staring at her in some surprise, but he recovered quickly and stepped forward to bow to Eve. “Mrs. Hawthorne, welcome to Willowmere. I trust you had a good journey?”
“Yes, it was very nice, thank you.” Eve smiled, though her nerves tightened. Obviously the earl was as surprised as Fitz had been about her appearance. She wondered exactly what Vivian had told them.
“Mrs. Hawthorne.” Sir Royce bowed to her. If he was surprised, he covered it more quickly or more efficiently than his stepbrother, for there was nothing on his face but pleasant interest.
“My cousins will be so pleased to meet you,” the earl began. “I will send for—”
At that moment there was an ear-piercing shriek from upstairs.
Chapter 4
The scream was followed by a shout of “Pirate!”
In the next instant a dog came flying down the steps, followed by several young women. The dog was small and seemed equipped with springs, for he bounded down the stairs then across the entryway in great leaps. His hair was short and white, with black splotches scattered here and there and one black spot around one eye. The black patch, Eve presumed, had given him the name Pirate—that and the way a scar curved from his lip across his muzzle, lifting his lip in a permanent sneer.
He carried in his mouth a circlet of white silk flowers, and from it flowed a swath of white lace and ribbons. It was this prize that apparently engendered the shouts and frantic pursuit of the women behind him. Spotting visitors, the dog ch
arged at them, jumping up at Fitz, then merrily whirling and darting around Sir Royce’s legs. Sir Royce grabbed at the animal but missed, and Pirate headed toward Eve. Eve clapped her hands and leaned forward, curving her arms, and the dog jumped straight into them. She tightened one arm around him, reaching up with that hand to grasp the circlet, and with the other hand she reached down and began to scratch his stomach.
Pirate’s eyes closed, and his mouth opened, tongue lolling out in an expression of pure ecstasy. In doing so, he released the veil into Eve’s grasp, and she quickly pulled it away.
“Oh, thank you!” One of the girls sprang forward to take the veil, smiling with relief.
“Well.” The earl raised one eyebrow. “All doubts are resolved. Clearly, Mrs. Hawthorne, you are the woman for the job.”
“True,” Sir Royce added, grinning. “If you are able to control Pirate, the Bascombe sisters should be an easy task.”
“Thank you,” the girl who had spoken earlier repeated. She was pretty, with lively gray-green eyes and a strawberries-and-cream complexion. Her hair was light brown, with a few sun-kissed golden streaks running through it.
She bore enough resemblance to the dark-haired woman behind her for Eve to deduce that they were sisters, and since Fitz had said that there were three of the Bascombes still in residence, Eve presumed that the slender girl with the dark golden blond hair and gray eyes must be one of the remaining sisters.
“Mrs. Hawthorne, allow me to introduce you to my cousins.” The earl ended her inner musings by stepping forward. “Miss Bascombe.”
He indicated the woman with chocolate brown hair and eyes a mixture of blue and green. This must be the eldest of the sisters, Mary, who was getting married in a week. She had strong, though handsome, features in a heart-shaped face.