The School for Heiresses

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “We ought to return to the parlor, Christine,” said a deep, familiar voice. “What do you want?”

  “To talk to you,” Mrs. Ambrose said peevishly. “But you are in a vile mood.”

  “Am I?” asked St. Vrain quietly. “Tell me, my dear, did you enjoy rubbing your new conquest in my face tonight? It won’t work, you know.”

  “I can’t think what you mean.”

  “Lord Rothewell,” he said. “You were flirting with him all through dinner.”

  “Yes? And why shouldn’t I?”

  “Why, indeed,” murmured St. Vrain.

  “You have tired of me, Justin.” The words were sharp. “You are not the least bit jealous. Why can you not just admit it?”

  “Do not be ridiculous, my dear,” he said. “I have known you but six weeks.”

  “Yes, and already you are unfaithful!”

  A long silence held sway. “Unfaithful?” he echoed. “My dear girl, you mistake me. I am not interested in…anything of a permanent nature. I thought you understood.”

  “Indeed, I understand that I have been used,” she hissed. “Six weeks, and already you pay no attention to me.”

  “You mean I do not dance attendance on you,” he corrected. “And I do not bow to your every whim. But were I to do so, Christine,you should soon grow tired ofme. ”

  “So that is your paltry excuse for her? Burn in hell, Justin!”

  He paused for a heartbeat. “I thought you understood how the game was played, my dear,” he finally said. “But if you do not—if, in fact, you seek a husband—then yes, you’d best sink your claws into Rothewell. Perhaps you can bring him up to scratch.”

  “I don’t want Rothewell.” Her voice was lethally soft. “I wantedyou. Were you fool enough—or arrogant enough—to think I would not learn of your little doxy down in the village?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” St. Vrain made a sound of exasperation. “That tavern maid? What does she matter to you, Christine?”

  There was the rustle of silk, as if Mrs. Ambrose moved toward him in haste. “Stop bedding her, Justin.” The words were dark with warning. “You are making me a laughingstock. I shan’t have it, do you hear? Stop bedding that—thatwoman, and come to me tonight.”

  “Christine, my dear, that would be unwise.”

  The smacking sound of flesh on flesh rang out.She had slapped him!

  “Come to me tonight, Justin.” Her voice was taking on a shrill, desperate edge. “I demand it. And stop seeing that little whore, or I swear to God that I…I shall tell Reggie you forced your attentions on me.”

  “Christine, have you any notion how pathetic you sound?” he said coldly. “You are beautiful. Do not behave as if you are desperate.”

  A wracking sob echoed in the silence. “Oh, God!” she cried. “Oh, what is to become of me? You—you have just been using me, Justin. A poor, lonely widow, and you knew just how to manipulate me, didn’t you?” And then she was crying in earnest; a great gulping, gasping, guilt-inducing fit of the vapors.

  Mrs. Ambrose, Martinique decided, was frightfully talented.

  It took a half-dozen such sobs before he broke. “Oh, God, Christine!” St. Vrain sounded resigned. “Oh, Christine, come here. I cannot bear to see a woman cry!”

  There was the rustle and crush of silk, and the low rumble of St. Vrain’s voice, muffled against something; her hair, perhaps. Then the sobs receded, and the words turned to soft, conciliatory murmurs. Dear God, had the poor man fallen for it?

  The murmurs had turned affectionate now. Martinique wondered if he was going to kiss her. In her mind, she could imagine it. Not Mrs. Ambrose, but St. Vrain, and his sinfully beautiful mouth.

  Good Lord! She was pathetic, too. And she should have made her presence known long ago. Suddenly, their footsteps sounded, moving across the room. There was the sound of one last embrace, a few hushed words of agreement, then the door clicked softly shut.

  St. Vrain, it seemed, had just been bested.

  Two

  Room for Confusion

  St. Vrain’s evening should have ended at mid-night, when the last of Lord Sharpe’s houseguests gave in to their fatigue. The pretty virgin had long since followed her great-aunt Olivia up to bed, and after her little scene in the library, Christine had not bothered to return to the parlor. When the rest of the party surrendered amidst suppressed yawns and cheerful plans for the morrow, St. Vrain found himself eager to be gone.

  He bowed low over Miss Xanthia Neville’s hand, and bid her brother a polite good evening. Like St. Vrain himself, Lord Rothewell had spent the last of the evening drinking, perhaps a little too deeply. On parting, he shot St. Vrain a look of dark, barely veiled suspicion. St. Vrain wondered at the cause. Surely not Christine? No. No, it was his little tête-à-tête in the drawing room with the man’s niece, more likely. Already, St. Vrain regretted that little indiscretion. He wondered what had come over him. Boredom, he supposed.

  Sharpe saw him to the door, and offered to call for his mount, but St. Vrain refused the gesture. It had become his habit to fetch his horse from the stables himself—and in his own good time. Swallowed up by the gloom, he strolled the length of Sharpe’s front portico, then set a brisk pace along the west wing of the house. At the end, however, he hesitated.

  Damn Christine for getting under his skin. He did not welcome a quarrel with the woman, but he welcomed her machinations even less. He wished he had not allowed her tears to lead him into promises he’d no wish to keep. But hehad promised. And so St. Vrain plunged his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew the key she had pressed into his palm weeks ago.

  It was a simple matter to let himself in through the servants’ door which gave onto the west gardens, and slip up Highwood’s back stairs. With a sense of mild self-loathing, he hesitated at her door. He was not afraid of Christine’s threats. But her tears—ah, they had struck at his heart. A maiden in distress had always been his worst weakness, and the source of most of his life’s troubles, too.

  He opened the door, and stepped into the pitch-black room. Christine, it seemed, had drifted off while awaiting him. In the gloom, her breathing was deep and slow. So much for her burning ardor.

  His pride a little humbled, St. Vrain turned the lock, and began to undress, slowly folding his clothes across the armchair which sat near her bed as he’d done a dozen times before. Her body was warm and willing when he slipped beneath her bedcovers. She turned to him at once, enfolding her lithe form against his with a submissive sound. Whatever wrath she had possessed earlier seemed to have melted into a sweet, eager ardor which was irresistible, if a little unusual.

  His interest in Christine quite thoroughly rekindled, St. Vrain covered her mouth with his, and thrust his tongue deep on the first stroke. She opened to him, and lifted her hips just enough to brush the length of his rapidly hardening cock. It was a delightful, almost innocent gesture, and it left him inexplicably aroused. Over and over, he plumbed the depths of her mouth, which tasted not like the evening’s madeira he was accustomed to, but spicy-sweet, like tart spring apples. As if to entice him, she slid the smooth arch of her foot slowly up his ankle while one of her small, warm hands stroked the curve of his hip. It was hardly a carnal caress, but a bolt of raw lust suddenly shot through him, fierce and quivering. His ballocks drew taut with need, and for an instant, his breath came short and fast.Good God.

  St. Vrain had meant this to be just a sympathy fuck. Something quick and hot, but meant only to assuage Christine’s vanity. So why was he now tempted to linger? Unwilling to consider it too deeply, St. Vrain intensified the kiss, and plunged his fingers into her hair, which lay like a soft, silken curtain across the pillow. Beneath his hungry mouth, she gave a soft moan; a hint of a return to full consciousness. He almost wished she would not fully wake, but instead let him take her slowly and sweetly as she lingered on that perfect, magical edge where inhibition did not exist, and desire came fully and freely.

  Unable to resist the temptation, St
. Vrain eased one hand down the turn of her calf, and slithered her nightgown up inch by inch until the treasure he sought was unveiled. Throwing one leg almost possessively over her, he slid a forefinger into her warm thatch of curls, and eased it back and forth in the slick, silky heat. As he had hoped, a second soft moan escaped her mouth. The weight of his cock twitched insistently against her thigh. And suddenly, she went rigid as a board in his embrace.

  He pressed his mouth hotly to her ear. “Shush, love,” he murmured. “Don’t fight it. Just relax for me.”

  She did not relax. “Good Lord!” It was a horrified whisper.“St. Vrain?”

  There had been all too many of those dreadful, life-altering moments in St. Vrain’s misbegotten life; moments when a man realized that one little word, or one seemingly insignificant action, had just damned him to an unalterable path. This was definitely one of them.

  “Oh, holy God,”he whispered.“Miss…Miss Neville?”

  The lithe, slender woman in his arms drew back. “St. Vrain?” she repeated.

  He should have bolted from the bed, but instead, he let his brow fall forward to touch hers. “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “Miss Neville.”

  “Yes, it is I,” she said. “I believe we have established that.” Her brisk words were belied by her breathing, which was now rapid and quite shallow.

  “Miss Neville,” he said again. “I am afraid that I—well, I find myself just…quite…utterly…speechless.”

  “Try,” she whispered. “Search your mind, St. Vrain, and try to find the words which will explain to me just what it is you are doing in my bed, with your hand on my—”

  He jerked the hand away as if she’d burst into flame. “Dear God!” he said. “My apologies.”

  “Yourapologies ?” she said incredulously.

  “Mydeepest and mostprofound apologies,” he clarified. “And as to what I am doing here, as best I can make it out, I am destroying any possibility of your future happiness.”

  She shifted her weight uncertainly. “How on earth did you get in?”

  “A key,” he choked. “I—I have a key.”

  “Ah,” she answered dryly. “I wonder where you got it.”

  He did not catch the sarcasm. “Miss Neville,” he whispered. “I find myself in the quite awkward position of—of being honored—quitedeeply honored—to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  There was a long moment of silence. “Would you be so kind, my lord, as to light the lamp by the bed?”

  He rolled to the edge of the mattress, and set his feet on Christine’s carpet—or the carpet he wished quite ferventlywas Christine’s. What the devil had happened? He was notthat damned drunk.

  “St. Vrain, the lamp, if you please.”

  He reached for the lamp, then hesitated. “I am not decent.”

  “It is rather late for modesty, is it not?” said Miss Neville. “You have stripped yourself naked, crawled into my bed, and offered me, amongst other things, marriage. Perhaps I should like to have a better look at my bargain before I make you my answer?”

  “Miss Neville!”

  She laughed a little weakly. “Oh, for God’s sake, St. Vrain, just light the bloody lamp,” she said. “Then we must make out what the devil we are to do.”

  “Oh, I know what we are to do,” he muttered, fumbling awkwardly in the dark.

  When at last he managed to light the wick, the lamp bathed the room in muted, flickering light. Miss Neville rose onto one elbow, and set a warm hand in the center of his bare back. “No one knows you are with me, my lord,” she whispered over his shoulder. “And it is perfectly clear how you came to be here. Mrs. Ambrose forgot to tell you we had exchanged rooms, did she not?”

  “She was a little agitated this evening,” he admitted.

  He shifted so that he might face her, pulling the sheet strategically across his thighs as he turned. Her black hair cascaded over one shoulder, a luxurious mass of silken curls. She looked up at him, her eyes still warm, and a little dreamy. The tension in the room leapt, and the silence stretched into infinity as they held one another’s gaze.

  “My lord,” she finally whispered, “you no more wish to be saddled with me than I with you.”

  He could not help himself. With a hand which shook, St. Vrain reached out and cupped the turn of her cheek in his palm. “You are a beautiful woman, Miss Neville.” His voice had gone slightly raspy. “And a passionate one as well. There are far worse fates which might befall a man than having you in his bed every night.”

  Beneath his hand, he felt her shiver. Her lashes dropped shut, fanning darkly across her cheeks, and he wished quite suddenly to kiss her again.

  “And you are very beautiful,” she whispered. “That was the word which first sprang to my mind the moment I saw you.Beautiful. I do not wonder that women find you desirable. But I do not wish to marry you, my lord. I wish to wed for love and for passion.”

  “Then I must accept your answer,” he said, his voice uneasy. “But love and passion are not everything, Miss Neville. You would have found pleasure in my bed, if nothing else.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Oh, I do not doubtthat for a moment.” The words were throaty, and not at all innocent. “May I ask, my lord, what your intentions are regarding Mrs. Ambrose?”

  For an instant, he frowned. “My relationship with Mrs. Ambrose is at an end,” he said. “Tonight has taught me that, if nothing else.”

  Miss Neville surprised him then by stroking her warm hand down his arm. Then gradually, as if the world itself moved in slow motion, she leaned into him, and set her lips to the turn of his shoulder. “Then show me,” she murmured against his skin.

  “Showyou?”

  “Show me what it would be like to spend each night in your bed.”

  He let go of the sheet, and half-turned around. “What are you asking, my dear?”

  She lifted her mouth from his shoulder, and looked at him with a gaze which was open and honest, yet smoldering with feminine desire. “I want you to finish what you started,” she whispered. “The harm, whatever it is, is done.”

  He cut his gaze away. “I fear that is hardly the case.”

  Miss Neville brushed her lips over his. “You desire me, St. Vrain,” she whispered against his mouth. “And I am not that innocent.”

  The fire he’d been trying to bank burst to full flame again. “God yes, I desire you,” he rasped.

  Martinique looked down as the sheet went slithering from St. Vrain’s thighs, revealing the truth of his arousal. She felt mesmerized. Enchanted. She wanted to touch it. To touch…him.Everywhere. There was no fear, and very little caution, in her heart. And to have him on her, around her, inside her body—dear God, the clarity of such visions shocked her.

  She had awakened to a dream. A fantasy. And a simmering desire she had never fully known—a desire, perhaps, she had never allowed herself to feel. But St. Vrain’s skilled touch had inflamed her, and exposed to her a truth she had long suspected. A fire burned inside her; a passion like her mother’s. A passion which, mere moments ago, had been consuming her. And St. Vrain was the cause.

  He had closed his eyes. “You…are a virgin?”

  “Not really.”

  His eyes snapped open, and his hands went to her shoulders, grasping them harshly as if he might shake the truth from her. “There are but two answers to that question, my dear,” he gritted.“Give me one of them!”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I am a virgin, St. Vrain. But I am not a fool. I do not wish to marry like some silly English miss. I have other options for my life.”

  “Your innocence,” he whispered. “It is precious.”

  “Not to me,” she said. “It is a hindrance, like this…this awful yearning your touch engenders. Besides, one does not need to be a virgin to marry, unless one means to live a dull, conventional life.”

  For a moment, he hesitated. His hands, still gripping her shoulders, trembled so hard she felt it deep in her bones. And then so
mething inside him gave away. His fingers went to the tie of her nightdress, fumbling awkwardly. He pushed the fabric from her shoulders, and night air breezed across her skin.

  The gown slithered further, slipping down to drape off her elbows, baring her breasts. It should have felt embarrassing. Awkward. But St. Vrain’s eyes burned with desire as they drifted over her, and it was nothing but gratifying. And all she felt was that sweet, hot ribbon of desire, twisting through her body again, drawing her to him.

  “You are beautiful beyond words, Miss Neville,” he whispered. “Skin like warm honey—and the taste of your lips, the scent of your hair—it is maddening.”

  She held out her arms. “Taste me,” she pleaded. “Touch me again. Make me feel as I did when I awoke in your arms.”

  He clasped her face between hands which were broad and a little rough, then kissed her again with his lips and his tongue, bearing her back into the softness of the bed. He dragged his weight over her, pinning her beneath his body, gently nudging her legs apart. She let her hands roam over him; over his wide, solid shoulders, down the strong length of his back, and further still. In the madness and the heat, he somehow drew off her nightdress. His chest was broad, and dusted with dark hair which teased at her nipples.

  In minutes, she was burning; reaching out for him, and breathlessly pleading for something she knew only St. Vrain could give. Martinique sensed she was in the hands of a true master, and whatever the price, it would be worth it.

  He urged her legs wider with the strength of his thigh. His mouth was on her breast, suckling her a little roughly. Her nipples drew into hard, aching peaks. As his hands roamed over her, he nipped and nibbled with his teeth, his breath came in harsh rasps until she cried out, drowning in pleasure and something which felt like pain, but was not. Instead, it was an exquisite torment.

  “Good God, I must have you,” he whispered, his mouth moving over her face—not in delicate kisses, but open and hot. Almost worshipful.

  Acting on instinct, Martinique set one foot against the mattress, and curled her other leg about his waist. “Come to me,” she begged, drawing him to her. “Come inside me. Make me…make mefeel. ”