Temptation Has Green Eyes

by Lynne Connolly

  Was the man who broke into her thoughts now, giving her a smooth smile and a short bow. “Would you care to dance, my love?”

  What had he called her? In public? She blinked at him, taken aback, and then got to her feet, almost in a dream. He held out his hand, smiling in a way she hadn’t seen before. As if he meant it. What could she do but smile back and place her hand on the back of his?

  Had he really said that? “My love”?

  That was something she’d never expected to hear, but, she told herself, men called their wives that all the time and they didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. But something inside her thawed when he came to her. He’d danced with her before, of course he had, but usually at the start of a ball. Then he’d disappeared to the card room or strolled around chatting to people.

  He led her on to the floor, and they joined the others in the next set. Max was a competent dancer and so was she. They could hold their own, but when she went left instead of right and he had to guide her, she met his gaze and they laughed. Sharing a joke.

  “That could have been me,” he murmured for her ears alone when they passed on to their next partners.

  They met at the end of the measure and instead of taking her to Poppy or Helena and leaving her, he took her to the supper-room. He found her a glass of wine and some morsels of food. Not that she was hungry, but she ate some anyway, to please him.

  “Do you plan to go anywhere else tonight?” he asked her. Sometimes she did, but more often than not she went home to her lonely bed, leaving him to she didn’t know what. And increasingly recently, she didn’t want to ask.

  “No,” she said simply. “I thought I’d go to bed.”

  “Then we’ll go home together.”

  Surprised, she raised her brows but said nothing. She took a sip of wine and stared at him over the rim of the glass. His mouth twitched as he took the glass from her and placed it on the nearest table. “Are you ready?”

  She rarely went home with her husband. “Won’t they think you provincial?” she said, citing an insult she’d heard muttered behind the fans.

  “They already consider me vulgar. I don’t care what they think.” He paused, and when she set her hand on his arm, drew her closer and added, “But I care for you.”

  Shock arced through her again. He led her through the main room, pausing to speak to people, and after the second she realized what he was doing. Selecting the people who had avoided her earlier. On her own, she couldn’t hope to persuade them to exchange more than a few courteous words. But Max forced them to pay attention.

  Sophia received more kindness in that one stroll through a crowded ballroom than she had all month on her own. She tried not to be bitter about that. Even Lady Devereaux smiled when they bade her farewell.

  “They love you,” she said to him when they’d finally managed to descend the staircase and get to the front door. Guests were still arriving. This was one of the squeezes of the season, and they were leaving. She couldn’t feel sorry.

  Tomorrow she’d call and leave her card in thanks for the evening’s entertainment. She was punctilious in that regard. Never forgot a courtesy.

  “They don’t love me,” he replied. “They tolerate me. I’m a marquess, and it’s that they want, not me. They’d have preferred for me to behave myself, not engage so blatantly in business, marry—” He stopped abruptly.

  “Marry an earl’s daughter?” she suggested softly.

  In the carriage, they didn’t light the interior lamps. They didn’t have far to go, in any case. They sat together in silence, jewels glittering as they breathed. Sophia stared out of the window, watching the carriages coming and going as if it were mid-day and not nearly midnight. Link boys ran from one carriage to another, lighting people’s way so they didn’t lose their footing. Night-watchmen sat in their boxes, huddled in nondescript clothes to ward off the chill of this spring evening. Sophia had hardly bothered to shrug her cloak around her, safe in the knowledge that she had a fire lit in her bedroom. She’d never known privation, never shared hardship with anyone, and that made her feel uncomfortable sometimes, but what good would it do for her to join them?

  Now she wondered if the watchmen had wives who loved them, waiting with comfort, a hot meal, and a warm bed. Her bed was warm all right, but because of the warming pan French’s assistant ran under the sheets before Sophia got between them. No other reason.

  Her husband’s brief moment of chivalry seemed to have passed, because once in the privacy of their carriage, he didn’t attempt to speak to her. He’d probably see her home and then go out again. To his mistress, maybe, or to a club or gaming house.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. The thawing of their relationship, however small, had led to a melting of her heart. For the last four weeks, she’d desperately tried to harden herself to the life she could expect, of struggle but independence, and now he behaved as if they were together. Properly together. Why? A belated attack of chivalry? And she had nothing, not even respectability. She’d been trying to pluck up the courage to tell him about John’s revelations, but she hadn’t found the words.

  It was too much. Plunged into a life she didn’t understand and finding herself at sea, she’d determined to weather the storm. Nobody should get close to her.

  Except he had.

  A sole tear trickled down her cheek, and Sophia fought to keep the others unshed, stiffening her muscles to fight the impulse. Again. She would overcome this, too, and she’d be proud of herself for doing it.

  A pair of masculine hands stole over her shoulders, impelling her to turn around. “Sophia,” he said, very softly. “Sophia, don’t.”

  “I’m trying not to,” she said, her voice clogged with tears.

  With a twist, he turned her into his arms and nothing, nothing had felt as good as when he closed them around her, enclosing her with his warmth.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t deserve you. I’ve neglected you dreadfully. I’m so sorry.”

  Enough to make her dissolve into floods. The tears she’d held back for weeks wouldn’t be denied. They cascaded down her face, and she sobbed into his fine velvet coat. Cut velvet, frighteningly fragile, but she couldn’t help it now. He held her tight and crooned words she couldn’t make out into her hair and against her forehead, rocking her with the motion of the carriage.

  Nobody had held her like that. He drew away just far enough to dig into his pocket and produce a serviceable handkerchief. But instead of pressing it into her hand, he mopped up her tears himself until the coach came to a standstill.

  “I think we should go indoors,” he murmured, “but…wait there. Give me a moment.”

  He nodded to the footman to open the door and let down the steps of the carriage. Max was closest, so he climbed down and held out his arms.

  Beyond pride by now, she went into them, but instead of helping her down he simply picked her up, voluminous skirts and all. She looped her arms around his neck and clung, terrified he’d drop her.

  She buried her face in the snowy folds of his stock. He carried her as if she weighed nothing.

  “Her ladyship has been taken ill,” he said calmly, his voice vibrating against her face.

  Yes, that would work. It would explain why they left early and why they came home together. Nobody would gossip about that.

  Expecting him to put her down once they were in the house, she braced herself in readiness. But he crossed the hall and took the stairs, her body bouncing with each step. She stayed still, hardly bearing to breathe in case somehow he’d abandon her somewhere along the way but he did not.

  Someone murmured “My lord.” One of the servants, she didn’t know who. Then the familiar aromas of her bedroom filtered through to her senses; her perfume, overlaid with the orange-scented cream she liked to use on her face. A touch of lavender from the sheets. Comforting, pleasant smells that went a little way toward soothing her agitation.

  She dared to lift her head only to meet h
is compassionate gaze. His eyes reflected her and contributed kindness, something she’d not even imagined him capable of. Not that he wasn’t always equitable and fair in all his dealings. Just that she’d never associated him with the gentler emotions. She gazed up at him in wonder as he took her to the bed and sat her on the edge. Only then did he release her.

  “Better?”

  Ah, now he would leave. She cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you.” Her voice came out, to her surprise, but it was still hoarse from her bout of crying.

  Sadness overwhelmed her and although she’d thought she had no tears left, one trickled from each eye, welling up to obscure her vision and then overflowing. “I want to stop,” she said.

  “It’s been coming a long time,” he murmured. “Let it happen.” He straightened and faced her maid who stood, hands folded neatly before her. “Her ladyship isn’t feeling well. I’ll take care of her. You may go.”

  French barely masked her surprise before she dropped a curtsey and left the room, her skirt swishing.

  Sophia smiled through her tears, warmed by his assertion. “You’ll take care of me?”

  “And so I will. I should have handled this situation weeks ago.” Impatiently he shrugged off his gorgeous coat and threw it over a nearby chair. “Let’s get this done.”

  Now he sounded determined, as if dealing with a practical matter like a leaking roof. That made her smile more, for some reason. Probably because the approach was typical of him, to handle problems straight on. Except he hadn’t, had he? He’d let her cope on her own for weeks.

  “It took someone else to point out my neglect. I’ll never forgive myself for that,” he said.

  He strode to the basin and wrung out a cloth. “Unlike last time, the water is warm.”

  He snatched up a clean towel, came back, and settled himself on the bed next to her, both of them sitting on the edge. When he slid his arms around her she snuggled close.

  The gold thread on his heavily embroidered waistcoat scratched her cheek, but she ignored it and cuddled closer. Her tears still fell, but not with the same vehemence as before. He murmured her name and eased her away from his shoulder so he could clean her face.

  “I must look a mess.” She wasn’t a pretty crier. Tears made her complexion blotchy and her eyes red-rimmed.

  He gazed down at her. “You look lovely.”

  “Only a blind man could say that.” She’d allowed French to apply a little rice powder, rouge, and lip stain before the ball, and they must all be smudged.

  “I’m not blind. You’re lovely.”

  He made her smile while he worked at clearing up the mess she’d made of herself. After, he patted her face dry.

  “You always seem to be cleaning me up,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t because the last time hadn’t gone so well.

  He put down the cloth and towel, just dropped them on the floor and reached for her hands. They stared at each other in silence. Sophia bit her lip. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “I behaved badly.”

  Whatever she’d expected him to say it wasn’t that. “When?”

  “Our wedding night.” As always, straightforward. “I shouldn’t have gone about it that way.”

  She didn’t know what to think. “I assumed you needed to do it to make the marriage legal.”

  “No. It didn’t matter if we consummated it or not. It was legal.” He gripped her hands firmly. “I didn’t have to come to you that night. But I wanted to.”

  “You did?” That thought brightened her mood. “I—I’m not—I didn’t think I was attractive to you.” No other way of putting it. She’d repulsed him. “Or were you involved with someone else? Are you? I promise, I won’t mind—” Although she did. Far more than she should.

  “No.” He stopped her before she could go into a complete babbling mess. “I think you’re lovely. Beautiful, in fact. You’re intelligent and poised.” He smiled so warmly she caught her breath. “But I didn’t want to get too close to you. I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” She frowned, not understanding. “Is there something wrong with me?”

  “No.” He hesitated. “Nothing is wrong with you. It was my fault that our wedding night went so badly.” Leaning forward, he touched his lips to her forehead. “And then I compounded my mistake. I let you be to find your own way through the morass of society. I thought you were capable of handling it. Fool that I am, I didn’t know you were struggling. It took someone else to point it out to me, and that’s hard to take. But he was right.”

  She wet her lips. “Julius.”

  “Yes. He noticed.” With a melancholy smile, he began to undress her. Careful and controlled, he unhooked her bodice, pushed the garment aside, and removed her stomacher. “You had a difficult time tonight. I promise I’ll never put you in that position again.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I was so bound up with my own concerns, I didn’t see yours. That’s unforgiveable, so I won’t ask your forgiveness. Just let me help you now.”

  “I forgive you.” She said it so softly, but she meant it. “What good does it do to hold on to grudges?”

  He glanced down, his fingers busy on her clothing, his gaze catching hers for a brief moment before sliding away. “You’re more generous than I deserve. I won’t doubt you again.”

  “You won’t?” That sounded so sweet to her, but from a man who questioned every business deal he made in minute detail, it also sounded unbelievable.

  “I swear.”

  When he looked at her with eyes wide, no guile, she believed him.

  He eased her gown off her shoulders. It slid down her arms. She stared at him, wondering what he was trying to do. Make love to her? But she was so tired now, and she couldn’t be at all attractive.

  So gently she hardly felt it, he traced a line with his finger from her shoulder to her inner elbow. She shuddered. Weak and empty after her bout of crying, she felt entirely in his hands, as if he could do anything to her and she wouldn’t resist.

  With a flash of insight, she wondered if men really wanted that, or if they wanted something else? She studied the light in his eyes and the way his attention followed the movement of his fingers, concentrating on his actions.

  He undid the cords at her waist, and then slid off the bed, holding out his arms to her.

  When she jumped to join him, her petticoats and hoops slid off her in one cataclysmic move, like earth in a mudslide. All the way down. She stepped out of them. After one long look into her eyes, he gave a small smile and dropped to one knee.

  She found the movement attractive, far too much. But that had been her trouble. Over this last month, his appeal had increased. The more he treated her with cool civility, the more she wanted him. She’d even take him as he was before. That contact of their bare bodies had been thrilling, and she didn’t know how to cope with it. Or its lack.

  After unfastening her garters he slid her silk stockings down her legs so sensuously she flung out a hand for support. And found his head. He had worn a formal wig for tonight’s ball, but sometime between the front door and the bedroom he’d lost it. She touched his hair, dark and smooth, the long tail fastened up. “Why do you wear your hair long?”

  He tipped back his head, forcing her to move her hand. “Because it’s easier this way. Some men prefer their hair shaved, some wear it short, but this way I don’t have to bother with wigs most of the time. They itch. I can go bareheaded in the summer, which is infinitely preferable to sweating away under horsehair.” He grinned as if sharing a secret.

  She grinned back, feeling younger, more carefree.

  Gently he lifted one foot and removed her satin shoe and her stocking before placing her bare foot on the floor and repeating the action with the other. She was only wearing her shift now. His hand cupping her foot felt deliciously forbidden, and when he moved slightly, the sensation filled her all the way to the top of her head.

  When she shuddered, he rose t
o his feet in one smooth movement and took her hands.

  “Come. Let’s get you into bed. You’ve had a rough evening and you need your rest.”

  Rest? That wasn’t what she was thinking of now. But she was weak and aching, and once he pointed it out, weariness seeped down to her bones. She’d gone one month fighting this way for the rest of her life exhausted her.

  But she liked his hand in hers. Wanted to feel more of it.

  He drew back the covers of the bed and helped her to climb in. She lay back against the pillows, watching him. To her consternation he covered her up.

  Before she could think over what she was saying she risked rejection one more time. “Are you not joining me?”

  His eyes widened and darkened, or was that because he’d turned to reach for the candle snuffers? No, because when he looked back at her he appeared the same. A richer expression impressed his features.

  “Why would you want that?”

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  If he offered to call French to attend to her she’d kill him. When she felt better.

  Thankfully, he did not. Watching her, he began to unfasten the buttons on his waistcoat.

  His clothes followed his coat on to the chair in quick succession. Waistcoat, breeches, stockings, shoes, and finally underwear. He tore off his stock and tossed it on the chair, then turned to her, clad only in his shirt.

  He could have been wearing a nightshirt, like their first evening, as the folds of his shirt came down to mid-thigh. “I’ll stay until you sleep. But you’re tired. It drags at you, I can see it, so don’t deny it.”

  If all she could have was his presence, she’d take it. She enjoyed watching him approach the bed, his muscles flexing easily, clearly discernible under the fine linen. Before joining her, he took the snuffers and extinguished the candles in the room, all but the ones set on the bed head.