The School for Heiresses

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Martinique let her head tip back into the softness of the feather bolster.“Yes,” she moaned. Her hands went to his broad shoulders, and involuntarily, her body arched to his. “Yes, Justin. Now.”

  With a little grunt, Justin lifted her hips and let the warm weight of his cock slide into the heated flesh between her legs. She was already slick with need. Carefully spreading her hips, he pushed himself into her body, parting the eager folds of her flesh, then easing deeper and deeper on slow but insistent strokes.

  Too slow. Not enough.Insistently, she reached out to him, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh, Justin! Please!”

  In response, Justin braced his weight and thrust in another inch. She could feel himself trying to gentle his motions. But she did not want gentle. She wanted him. All of him. Instinctively, she curled one leg about his waist, and drew him down until they lay belly to belly, chest to chest. Her head swam with his familiar scent, and her hips strained for that last sweet inch. “Justin,please, ” she said again.

  “Shush, love,” he whispered gently. “Let your body grow accustomed to me. I’ve no wish to hurt you.”

  “You aren’t,” she choked. “You could never hurt me, Justin.”

  In the gloom, she felt his mouth moving over her cheek, down the length of her neck, teasing lightly at her skin as he drew in her scent through nostrils flared wide. Until he found her breast again. His lips drew the taut peak into the heat of his mouth, slowly suckling her as he began to move inside her.

  In his arms, she still shuddered with anticipation, her hands coming up to slide through the glorious mass of his hair. “Oh, Justin,” she pleaded. “Yes. Yes. Don’t stop.”

  He kissed her again, deeply and passionately, and she could taste the sheen of salt on his skin. “I won’t stop,” he said softly. “I want to make you tremble beneath me, Martinique. Always. Forever. Just give yourself over to me.”

  She very much feared she already had. Her head moved restlessly on the pillow as she rose to take his strokes, which were harder and more intense now.

  In the soft moonlight, they thrust and moved together, nothing breaking the stillness of the room save for the sounds of their sighs and the soft creak of the bed beneath them. Martinique felt her body quicken as she hungrily drew in the scent of sweat and arousal. She needed more. Yearned for…something. That trembling that began in her bones and sent her over the edge of madness.

  Her nails dug deeper into his flesh as Justin thrust and thrust in that sweet, timeless rhythm. She urged herself higher. Urged him deeper. “My greedy girl,” he rasped. “Go slowly and drive me to madness again.”

  “It’s too late, Justin,” she choked. “I—I feel…”

  “What do you feel, love?” he crooned. “Tell me.”

  “Us, Justin,” she panted. “I…I feel us. Together. And it’s perfect.”

  She hung on the edge of desperation now, his strokes a torment of pleasure. That beautiful moment was just beyond her grasp as the fire built and spiraled, consuming them as one. And then the silvery edge slid nearer. She met one more hard, perfect thrust, and threw herself into the fire, toward that almost unattainable pleasure, and was lost in it, sobbing.

  Justin awoke to a nightmare; one of the old, familiar ones which generally sent him bolting for a brandy bottle. He rolled up on one elbow, his eyes adjusting to the slant of moonlight which cut across the bed.It was Paris again. The bleak little house in rue de Birague. But when he fought his way from the fog, he found himself entwined in a pair of warm, slender arms, and fell back onto the bed again.

  Martinique.Thank God. Sweet, new memories returned to him on a breathless rush, washing away the old. He sensed rather than saw that her eyes were open. Her hand came up to settle reassuringly on his cheek. “What is her name,mon cher ?”

  He looked away. “Obvious, is it?”

  “Oui,to me,” she said.

  For a long moment, he hesitated. “Georgina,” he finally answered. “Her name was Georgina.”

  Martinique set her lips to the turn of his shoulder. “Was?”

  “She died.”

  “Ah.” There was a wealth of meaning in the word. “The stepmother. I comprehend.”

  He turned again to look at her. “Do you?” he answered. “I wish to God I did.”

  Martinique had begun to toy with a strand of his hair, which had grown too long. “Was she your reason for staying in France for so long?”

  “I took her there, yes,” he admitted. “We had a little house inle Marais where we lived for two years.”

  “Only two years,mon cher ? And then she died. How very sad. Why did you not come home?”

  He shook his head, and felt his hair scrub against Martinique’s pillow. “I was too ashamed,” he confessed. “She died in childbed, you know. It was a just punishment for us both, I sometimes think. But I already knew that I could never come home. Not so long as my father lived.”

  “Justin, how did it happen?” she asked, as if she struggled to understand.

  He smiled without humor. “Oh, as those sorts of things usually happen,” he said. “A misplaced sense of the romantic. I mistook my father for a dragon, and my stepmother for a maiden in distress. Unfortunately, the truth—as with most of life—was not so cleanly cut.”

  “Did…did she love you?”

  He propped one arm behind his head, and swallowed hard. “She was in love with the notion, certainly,” he answered. “She was a romantic. Father wed her when she was but seventeen. I was sixteen, and still at Oxford. We…we became friends, I suppose, for we were of an age, and I was often at home. But when I left school two years later, I realized how truly unhappy she was.”

  “Ah,” said Martinique. “It was an arranged marriage?”

  He nodded. “Georgina was a beauty, but she hadn’t a sou to her name,” he said. “Father was lonely, and so he went to London for the Season to find a wife. But I do not think that a middle-aged recluse was quite what she had in mind.”

  Martinique looked at him knowingly. “Ah, but your father had plump pockets!”

  “Just so,” he agreed. “And he spoke with her family, who were poor as church mice, and it was settled. Georgina consoled herself that she would be a countess. But she did not realize, I think, that Father did not really care for London, and loathed entertaining. Or that he lived only for his hay, his horses and his hounds. And she certainly did not understand what a pinch-penny he was.”

  “So she developed a sense of the dramatic?” Martinique suggested. “He became an ogre, I daresay. He did not understand her needs. He became cruel and abusive until she was driven to madness? To suicide, even,n’est-ce pas ? And only you, Justin, could save her.”

  He looked at her in wonderment. “How did you know?”

  Martinique lifted one shoulder. “I am French,” she reminded him. “No one understandsla production dramatique better than us. And I am a woman,mon cher. Even in death, we rarely fool one another.”

  He felt some of the tension flood out of him. “I was the only fool,” he whispered. “My father was a hard man. I knew that. Perhaps…yes, perhaps he was cruel. But it was not my place to interfere.”

  “No, it was Georgina’s father’s place,” said Martinique. “If the worst of her allegations were true.”

  “And yet I never once thought of that,” he admitted. “I was a young blade full of impatience and fury, besotted by her frail beauty and persuaded that my father was a monstrous beast. She cried herself sick every night. She begged me to save her, to take her away. And so I did.”

  “Yes. You slew her dragon.”

  He flashed a bitter smile. “Pathetic, was it not?” he murmured. “I betrayed my father, without even giving him the chance to defend himself. To this day I do not know if I hurt him deeply, or if he simply hated me. I did not even touch Georgina until many weeks had passed, and it became clear that we had been thoroughly disowned; that it was just the two of us, alone against the world.”

  “
Mon dieu,had you any money?” asked Martinique. “How did you live?”

  He snorted. “By my wits, at first,” he said. “But I soon became quite thejoueur invétéré in the gaming salons of Paris—a predator, really. And I had a little jewelry left me by my mother, which was to go to my wife. I sold all but one piece to buy the house inle Marais. As I told you once, I have it still, though the place seems bleak to me now.”

  “Is it?”

  “No, it is very old and quite beautiful,” he admitted. “Exquisite, really. But I do not wish to live in it, and yet I cannot bear to sell it.”

  Martinique seemed to consider it for a long moment. “I think,mon cher, that I understand.”

  His face fell forward into his hands. “Good God, how could you possibly?” he rasped. “What I did was a sin against God’s law, Martinique. It is…unforgivable.”

  She stroked one hand down his hair. “No, not to me,” she answered. “I know too well that blurry line between right and wrong; between moral and immoral. Sometimes we do what we think we must do in order to survive—or to help someone else survive.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes stark with pain and with hope. “If you understand that awful truth, Martinique, then I am the most fortunate of men,” he said. “I daresay you have been warned away from me—and in great detail, too. The old gossip always precedes me. I cannot escape it.”

  “I heard some of it,oui, ” she answered. “But much of it, I did not need to hear. You are a good and honorable man, Justin. Nothing you have said changes that.”

  The hope in his eyes warmed. “Martinique,” he whispered. “Oh, Martinique, I know I have an unworthy past. But I have paid for my sins, I pray. And now, this understanding between us—it troubles me. I want—no, Ineed to make our betrothal real.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems so wrong now,” he answered. “There has already been too much deception in my life. And yes, I have known you but a fortnight, but I already know, Martinique, that…that I love you. You have given my blighted future a ray of hope. Will you do it? Will you be terribly imprudent, and marry me, despite who I am?”

  She shook her head. “I cannot, Justin, and it has nothing to do with you,” she whispered. “Do you think I give a snap for the women in your past? It has to do with me. What if you wake up one day, Justin, to find that I am a millstone about your neck just as your stepmother was?”

  “Martinique!” he said, embracing her tightly. “It will never be like that for us. You are not Georgina. You are strong and sensible. You are true to yourself. And I am no longer a foolish boy. I know, Martinique, what love is—because I have learnt quite thoroughly what it is not.”

  “But you do not know me,” she whispered hollowly. “People change, I think. Or…circumstances change. Something does. You will grow tired of me.”

  “No, I shan’t,” he argued. “I love you. And I knew it so swiftly and certainly it left my head spinning. Do you believe, Martinique, in love at first sight?”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he covered her mouth with his, and kissed her senseless again. Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock tolled four. Reluctantly, he drew himself back an inch.

  “I had best leave you now,” he said quietly. “But I mean to return, and to bring you a gift. Slip away, love, and meet me in the orchard later. Make me no firm answer until then. Please?”

  Somehow, she managed to nod. “Yes, all right,” she finally agreed. “In the orchard. I—I shall be there.”

  Five

  The Beginning

  Martinique lay sleepless through what was left of the morning, then sent her breakfast tray away without lifting the cover. Instead, she wriggled back in the depths of the bed, and pulled the woolen coverlet to her chin. She fancied she could still smell Justin’s scent on the linen sheets, and it comforted her in a moment of dreadful indecision.

  Justin loved her.He had loved her almost at first sight. And she loved him; not just in that breathless, heart-fluttering way, but with a quiet confidence. He was a strong, broad-shouldered man, literally and figuratively. He would be the sort of husband one could laugh with, and yet rely upon throughout life’s inevitable joys and hardships. She was fortunate indeed to have found him so soon. And now she was willing to refuse him? Truly, she must be mad. Martinique threw back the coverlet, and began to pace the room.

  Be certain of your worth, and everyone else will follow,Mrs. Harris had said.

  Wise words, to be sure. But how did one apply them to one’s own life? Perhaps by insisting upon having what one deserved? She was agood person. Did she not deserve love, and to be loved in return? But perhaps more important than that, didn’t she deserve to be dealt with honestly, and with respect?

  She knew then what she must do. And in knowing it, something in her heart seemed to fall into place. The dread was quashed, and in its place came a firm resolve. Martinique rang the bell for her maid, then went to the wardrobe and drew out her best walking dress.

  She found him in alone in the library, a copy of theTimes spread out on the desk, along with the ever-present stacks of files and ledgers piled neatly to his left, a cup of coffee at his elbow. She rapped lightly on the door frame, but did not await his permission, and shut the door behind her.

  Rothewell noticed, glancing up at once, his swift, dark gaze taking in her face and the hands clasped somewhat apprehensively before her. Remembering Mrs. Harris’s advice, she dropped her arms to her sides, and pushed her shoulders firmly back.

  “Martinique,” he murmured. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, my lord.” She held his gaze firmly. “I wish a moment of your time.”

  He gave her another assessing glance, and motioned languidly at one of the chairs before the desk. “By all means,” he said. “But if you are here to protest your betro—”

  “I am here to protest nothing,” she interjected, taking the proffered chair. “With all respect, sir, my days of arguing with you are done.”

  There was a flicker of some nameless emotion in his eyes. “I am pleased indeed to hear it.”

  “I have decided that I am going to take charge of my own decisions,” she said gently. “And that I shall decide about this betrothal, amongst other things.”

  “Martinique, I am your guardian,” he said, his voice cool. “I am responsible for your decisions.”

  “Yes, my lord, but I am nineteen years old,” she said. “In less than six years, I will come into my inheritance. I will be a part-owner in Neville Shipping, with all the attendant rights and responsibilities. But I am old enough now to be my own person, and to make my own choices, for good or ill.”

  “And speaking of ill choices, Martinique, you made a most regrettable one a fortnight past,” he said tightly. “But setting even that misjudgment aside, the fact remains that youare a female. You require a husband.”

  “Xanthia has no husband,” Martinique countered. “She makes her own decisions—and many of the business decisions, too.”

  “That is hardly the same thing,” he said. “Xanthia’s situation is…unusual.”

  Martinique lifted one shoulder. “I shan’t debate that,” she answered. “I did not come here to quibble over Xanthia.”

  “Then what, pray, did you come to quibble over?” asked Rothewell coolly.

  She watched him carefully; she did not for one instant underestimate his resolve or his ruthlessness. “I wish to know, my lord, why you sent me away,” she said in a clear, quiet voice. “Moreover, I wish to know why I may not now return home. And kindly do not pretty up your answer with hollow words likeduty andresponsibility. I have long since given up any hope of pleasing you, or of being loved by you. Now I wish only to have the truth from you.”

  To his credit, he neither flinched nor hesitated. “It little matters whether you please me or whether I love you, Martinique.” His voice was dangerously calm. “Just as it little matters what you think of me. Love has nothing to do with life. I was giv
en the task of ensuring your safety, and that I have done to the best of my ability.”

  Her safety?It was an odd choice of words. “But why was I sent away, my lord?” she said again. “Did you hate me so much you could not bear the sight of me? Pray speak plainly, sir, for I am beyond being hurt by it. If I am to go forward in life, I would first seek to understand the past.”

  At that, his face seemed to soften, not to gentleness, or even to affection, but to an almost inestimable weariness. And for the first time, she wondered just what this guardianship had cost him.

  “No one wishes to understand the past more than I, Martinique,” he said quietly. “After your stepfather’s death, it was left to me to sort out the pieces, and to do what I thought best. And that is what I did. I found you a place at one of the world’s most preeminent schools. I have followed closely your academic progress and your welfare. I have paid every penny of your expenses, and provided you with life’s every luxury. What more would you have had me do?”

  “But why force me from the only home I had known, my lord?” she pressed. “Why send me thousands of miles away when I could have stayed with you and Xanthia? And why to England? Can you not understand that this was a foreign country to me? This was not my home, Rothewell. It was yours. But it was notmine. ”

  “Your remaining in Barbados was out of the question.” The words were firm and cold. “And that situation is unchanged.”

  Martinique was resolute. “Why, sir? I demand to know.”

  She watched his knuckles go white, and realized that the pen in his fingers was about to splinter. “Youdemand ?” His lip curled into a sneer. “For God’s sake, Martinique, have you no notion what Barbados is like now? It is no longer safe for any white slave owner—and it certainly is not safe for someone like you.”

  “Someone…likeme, ” she echoed. “Of mixed race, do you mean?”

  “That is precisely what I mean,” he snapped. “There has been a seething resentment in the air since the rebellion, and it only grows worse. The planters mistrust their slaves, and with good reason. The slaves mistrust their masters—with even better reason. And people like you are caught in the middle. Martinique, you are a beautiful young woman—a very, very rich and beautiful young woman of mixed blood and uncertain ancestry. Do you think the high sticklers amongst white aristocracy welcome that? And do you think the slaves are any happier? Your mother never made a secret of her lineage, though I now think that perhaps she should have done, for all our sakes.”