Sinful Confessions (Cynfell Brothers Book 1)

by Holt, Samantha

  “But that’s just silly!”

  The look he gave her told her he wasn’t so sure it was. Did he truly believe he was responsible for his wives dying? She rose and held out her hand to him. He took it but didn’t seem to know why he had. Confusion echoed in his expression.

  Viola didn’t suppose she could convince him otherwise and she didn’t believe she could help him conquer any anxiety he felt around people. She knew what it was like to be talked of. Even recently, those English women had made comments about her clothing. But she could at least comfort him.

  She lifted his hand, came around him and perched herself on his lap. Then she placed his arm around her and burrowed her head into his neck. He stiffened.

  “Viola?”

  His bristle tickled her nose and the scent of his cologne teased her. Under her bottom, his thighs were strong and hard. But he was warm and comforting. She latched an arm around his neck and held him tight. His breathing began to slow and gradually his hand softened on her waist. His other one found her thigh and began stroking it.

  “I’m sorry, Julian,” she whispered. “Sorry for making you angry.”

  He shook his head, nudging her face with his. “I am sorry for my temper.”

  She smiled against his neck. “It’s not so bad. I grew up with my brothers, if you recall. They had fairly terrible tempers too.”

  “I recall.” He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against her. “I recall everything,” he said softly. “I am sorry I cannot take you to London. It’s something I simply cannot do.”

  “Forget London.” She clasped his neck tightly. “I’d far rather be here.”

  Chapter Nine

  What had he been thinking? He didn’t even like balls. Julian glanced at Mrs Whittleworth who was waiting by the door with him. Tugging his necktie, he glanced up at the stairs and waited. Why was he always waiting for her?

  He was tempted to scold Mrs Whittleworth for mentioning the ball but it had seemed a good idea. The thought of braving London sent chills down his spine but a small gathering... he could do that for Viola, surely? If only the thought of being around all those people didn’t make his palms clammy. Of course, when he’d suggested the idea—secretly praying she tell him she wasn’t interested—she had been thrilled at the idea of a proper English ball.

  He really did hate balls. He hated people. And dancing. And... well he liked to drink but not in the manner that people would expect at balls. He’d rather throw back a few whiskies than sip some wine and port.

  A purring Patches chose that moment to be sociable and nuzzle his leg. Julian shook his head and nudged the cat aside. He really didn’t need cat hair on his trousers. However, the cat shot him a pitiful look so he bent to give him a quick scratch behind the ears.

  Footsteps on the stairs announced Viola’s entrance and he snapped up so quickly, he thought he heard a crack of bones. As she finally made her entrance down the stairs, he conceded that she was worth waiting for. The pale blue silk set off her auburn hair beautifully, which was curled up in some intricate hairstyle and threaded with tiny matching blue flowers. Jewels gleamed at her neck and on her wrist. Long gloves drew attention to the slender length of her arms.

  He wanted to pick her up and take her to bed this very instant.

  She beamed at him when she approached. “You look very handsome.”

  “You look...” Blast it all, why could he not say it? Ravishing, delectable, like every man’s fantasy... “lovely.”

  Inwardly, he grimaced. Give him a pen and paper and he was a veritable maestro of words. Put a beautiful woman in front of him and he was a bumbling fool.

  “Thank you,” she replied with a knowing smile, as if understanding his struggle.

  Viola Thompson already knew far too much of him. He couldn’t quite believe he had told her all a few days ago, but it had come as somewhat of a relief to spill it all out. Everyone knew of his wives’ deaths but none knew the toll it had taken on him or the intimate details—particularly those of his last wife’s death.

  “Patches approves,” he said inanely when the cat tried to rub against her skirts and nearly got lost in the fabric.

  “And thank you, Patches.” She glanced up at him. “I would give him a fuss but I fear I can’t bend in this corset.”

  A bark of laughter escaped him. Trust Viola to break any tension by talking of her undergarments. He only hoped she didn’t speak of such matters at the ball. Or perhaps he did. It would certainly make the evening more interesting although he’d rather poke both his eyeballs out than ruin her evening. There were certain people who wouldn’t take well to an American woman in their midst—particularly on the arm of a marquess. All the mamas loathed these rich Americans coming over and stealing all their men. He’d have to ensure he steered her clear of any of those sorts of ladies.

  Julian aided her into the carriage and they began their journey. Dusk had been and gone and the night proved to be relatively clear, thank goodness. He never relished journeying in the dark along the country roads. Viola couldn’t seem to sit still so he rested a gloved hand over hers. She offered him a grateful smile, but he could not help think she offered him comfort rather than the other way around. Just like the other day. For the first time in a long time, he’d felt content, at peace. Even thoughts of stripping her clothes off and taking her to bed hadn’t played through his mind. Well, maybe just a little...

  Most of the people in attendance at Grovesbury hadn’t seen him since Mabel’s death. A few had visited and he ran into one or two when he was visiting the tenants and dealing with the farmers. However, for the most part, he had kept himself firmly locked behind closed doors. There would be a great deal of gossip surrounding him. His stomach churned at the thought.

  “I hope Lady—what was her name?—won’t mind a last-minute attendant?”

  “Lady Foxbury,” he reminded her. “And she doesn’t know you’re attending. She doesn’t even know I am. But I’m a marquess and marquesses are welcome everywhere.”

  Viola giggled. “But of course. Even marquesses like you?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Grumpy ones mostly.”

  He had to concede defeat at her honesty there. He wasn’t the happiest of chaps. At least he hadn’t been. Not until Viola entered his life. He frowned. How many times had he laughed or smiled during her stay? Many, many times. Her love of life seemed to work into his soul and banish just a tiny bit of the darkness.

  “Even grumpy marquesses are welcome everywhere,” he confirmed.

  She leaned her elbow against the door frame and peered out of the window. “I love balls. The dancing, the music...”

  “I hate them.”

  Viola whipped her head around, a tilted smile on her lips. “I knew you did. Why ever did you offer to take me then?”

  He lifted a shoulder. What could he say? I’d do anything to make you happy. I’d dance naked around Westminster for you. I’d do anything to be free of this damned curse and make you mine.

  “Well I do appreciate it.” She gave his fingers a squeeze and he half-wondered if she’d also wrapped them around his heart as that felt a little tight.

  When they arrived outside of Grovesbury, she disengaged her fingers from his and the temptation to drag her back, order the coach to depart and take her away to his bed burned strong in his gut. Julian wasn’t prepared for this night for several reasons. He did not want to face all these people but mostly he didn’t want to share her with them. He knew full well she would be much admired by the men in attendance.

  Lit torches lined the entrance to the old house. It wasn’t as big or as grand as Lockwood but Grovesbury dated back to before the Tudor era and the front entrance remained very much in that style. He suspected Viola would appreciate the history of the building.

  They waited behind the long receiving line of late-comers. Strains of music drifted out into the night air. While the sound should have been soothing, it only made his pul
se pound faster. The last time he’d been to a ball had been just before Mabel’s death. It had been then he’d noticed his wife’s interest in another man.

  Julian drew in a deep breath and kept his posture rigid. He glanced at Viola and allowed himself a smile. She gazed up at the building with such wonder that he almost forgot his apprehension. The golden light played over her features and brought out lighter strands in her hair. He shouldn’t complain. Most men would give away all of their fortune for the opportunity to attend a ball with such a woman on his arm.

  Lady Foxbury and her daughters were gracious and showed only a little interest in Viola. He seemed to be the most fascinating to them. He recalled that the three girls were likely only just out in society and had yet to hear of his fearsome reputation as a wife-killer.

  Once that was over, he led Viola into the ballroom. The scent of too much perfume and pomade made him wince. Bodies clustered together on the dance floor whilst the occasional shriek of laughter split the softer strains of the orchestra. Overhead chandeliers lit the room. The medieval theme continued in this room, from shields to swords and tapestries. Wood panelling covered almost every inch of it. Viola was impressed, if her open mouth was anything to go by.

  “You like Grovesbury, I take it?” He handed her a glass of wine from a nearby tray.

  “Oh yes.” She drank the wine far too quickly, forcing him to retrieve another glass from a passing servant. “I mean your house is beautiful. Much more elegant for certain.”

  “I imagine this appeals to the lover of history within you.”

  She gave him a sheepish smile. “Yes, it really does.”

  “Do not get overly excited. This house does not have indoor plumbing either and I hear tell that the bedrooms are even colder than mine.”

  A hint of pink sat in her cheeks and he couldn’t help but grin.

  “How did you know I was complaining about that?”

  He lifted his brows. “I know everything.”

  As she laughed, he scanned the room. There, this wasn’t so bad. He could spend some time talking to her then hopefully skulk off to a quiet room somewhere once she received some requests. He tightened his grip on the wine glass and tried to ignore the idea that he would hate to see someone else dancing with her. It was not fair to want to prevent her from dancing.

  Julian’s heart near sank down to his feet when he noticed the Alderton sisters approaching. The two girls had been fast friends with Mabel and had known of her affair. It made his stomach bunch to imagine them talking of him behind his back. The women weren’t the nicest of creatures and had probably taken great delight in the knowledge his wife had not remained faithful.

  He drew up his chin and perfected his most impervious look. Silly women should not bother him at all.

  “Miss Alderton and Miss Prudence Alderton, how do you do?” He dipped his head low.

  The girls, only just over a year apart in age, dropped into a curtsey. They were mildly attractive and might have drawn his attention in his younger years. With dark blonde hair and petite features, they didn’t look nearly so vile as they really were.

  “Will you not introduce us?” Penelope asked.

  “This is Miss Viola Thompson. Viola, this is Miss Alderton and Miss Prudence Alderton.”

  “A pleasure,” Viola gave them a bold smile.

  “Oh, you’re American,” Prudence exclaimed.

  “I am.”

  “What brings you to our little part of the world? And however did you persuade Julian to leave his draughty old house?”

  Julian bit back his annoyance at being addressed in such a familiar manner. It implied friendship—something he had never felt between them.

  “I am here on holiday. Julian knew of my love of balls so he offered to bring me.”

  Was it his imagination or did she lean slightly possessively into him? He was half-tempted to grab her hand and stroke her shoulder just to watch the sisters’ reaction.

  “And where are you staying? At the Bell Inn?”

  He grimaced. They were leading her down a merry path and he was powerless to stop it. No matter what she said, she could expect a snide response. He gave into temptation and took her hand. She darted a look at him before she responded.

  “No, I’m staying at Lockwood, actually.”

  The sisters shared a look. Penelope let her brows rise. “Goodness... how very... bold of you. Is your family with you?”

  “No, I’m alone.”

  Damn it, trust her to be so honest. Did she not know how it looked? Likely everyone thought she was his mistress or some such. Now they would spend the whole night gossiping about them.

  Prudence offered a tight smile, one tinged with bitterness. “I suppose Americans do not worry about appearances much. You are all so very free with your manners. That is what happens when new money is introduced to society, do you not think, Julian?”

  He’d had it. He couldn’t stand these women any longer and he would not let the ‘spiteful sisters’ have another moment with Viola.

  “I would not know,” he replied. “Viola, will you do me the honour of this dance?”

  She stared at him for what felt like a full minute before dipping her head in acquiescence. He took her arm and led her onto the dance floor for a waltz but not before muttering ‘bitches’ loud enough for the two women to hear. He felt Viola shake with laughter.

  When he took her into his arms, her eyes twinkled with mirth. “You are terrible.”

  “They are terrible.”

  “It seems like just about everyone hates American women. And here I thought the English were meant to be such good hosts.”

  She put her hand to his shoulder and he felt the flex of her ribs beneath his palms. The boning of her corset felt somewhat scandalous, probably because he was imagining peeling it away and touching the pale flesh beneath.

  “I have been an excellent host, have I not?”

  Viola didn’t respond. As soon as he began whirling her around the dance floor, she was lost. As was he. He’d forgotten what it was like to dance with a beautiful woman in his arms. Mabel hadn’t enjoyed dancing with him. The crowds vanished and only the strains of the waltz carried them. Her scent enveloped him, and the feel of her body close to him consumed him.

  “Dead wives,” someone murmured.

  Reality near slapped a glove to his face. Again, someone else murmured something. All around him, people gossiped and glanced his way. He clenched his jaw and tried to concentrate on the sensation of having Viola in his arms but his breaths grew harsh and his skin hot.

  “I need some air,” she declared suddenly.

  He nodded and took her out onto the balcony. Steps led down into the square gardens and a cool breeze washed over him. Taking in several deep breaths, he didn’t stop until they had descended the steps and entered the relative protection of the box trees.

  “Are you well?” Julian looked her over from head to toe and noted she appeared perfectly composed.

  “I am well.” She put a hand to his arm. “And you?”

  “I’m fine,” he said tightly.

  “You didn’t need to dance with me.”

  “I wanted to.” To his surprise that statement was true. “Except perhaps next time we do not do it with so many people around.”

  Viola offered him her hand and positioned herself in his arms. Apparently he no longer knew how to use his arms as she had to take them and place them around her.

  “Whatever are you—?”

  “Shhh.” She cocked her head and over the sound of talk and laughter, the music surrounded them once more. She began to move, urging him into a dance and he, the man who had apparently killed his three wives, found himself dancing in the garden.

  And enjoying it, for Christ’s sakes.

  When the music ended, she gave a sigh that he assumed was one of contentment and they retreated to a nearby bench. The stone was cold to touch and he unbuttoned his jacket with the intention of giving it to her but she mot
ioned it away.

  “I’m still warm, especially with all these layers.” She plucked at her skirts.

  He watched as she began to roll down her gloves and draw them off. Never had the image of a woman pulling off gloves—mere gloves—seemed so erotic. She flexed her fingers and he watched goose bumps appear on her skin.

  The scent of honeysuckle broke through his imaginings and he plucked a flower from the tree behind them to offer it to her to smell. She inhaled and went to take it from him but he couldn’t resist. He ran it down her arm and then back up.

  “Are you sure you’re not cold?”

  Viola shook her head mutely.

  He skimmed the flower up and down her arm once more before placing the bloom behind her ear. He toyed with it until it was just so and studied the picture she made. American or not, she fit in perfectly in this English country garden with her wide blue eyes and long lashes. With her straight nose and stubborn chin.

  “Your skin is pimpled,” he murmured, forgetting himself.

  Who was he kidding? He’d been forgetting himself all night.

  “I’m not cold,” she whispered, tilting her head up to him.

  Julian drew off a glove and laid it over the top of hers where they rested on the stone between them. It seemed significant somehow, these two rather pointless accessories resting atop one another. He used his finger to skim her arm again, feeling how her body responded to his touch.

  “Are you sure?” He let his finger trail up to her shoulder and rest ever so lightly on her chin.

  She nodded. “It’s not the cold causing it...”

  She didn’t need to finish the sentence. It was him. He affected her just as much as she affected him. He wanted to punch the air in triumph. Even when his mind reminded him that he did not want to let her get involved with him, he found himself leaning toward her. He used a hand to cup the back of her neck and she eased forward, closing the gap and knocking their gloves to the ground.

  Her lips parted. She invited him in. He had no choice. Julian kissed her. He kissed her like a man giving worship at church. Here was a woman so beautiful, so wonderful that she deserved to spend the rest of her days being worshipped.