Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  Flora’s eyes had drifted shut, her body so receptive to Adam, his lightest touch triggered a flooding sensuality. And when his head lowered, when his hair drifted over her breasts, she moaned deep in her throat even before his mouth closed over her nipple. After the last hours her body was too primed, too heated, to sustain prolonged foreplay, and moments later she clutched great handfuls of his hair, pulled harshly to lift his head, and, looking directly into his genial, amused eyes, said, heated and low, “I don’t want to wait another second, Adam Serre. Is that clear?”

  His smile was dulcet understanding. “Would mademoiselle have a preference in—er—” His fine teeth flashed white in his bronzed face. “A particular position?”

  “Why don’t I leave that to your imagination?”

  “Good choice,” he teasingly said. “Now, don’t move.”

  His vault over the sofa back was an effortless synthesis of muscle, power, and perfect balance, and it was perhaps four seconds before he was buried deep inside her, but Lady Flora seemed not to notice the discrepancy in timing, for her eyes were shut as she leaned forward over the couch back, her breathing already unquiet, agitated. Clasping her large breasts solidly in his hands, his muscled chest pressed hard against her back, Adam’s lower body glided in and out with long, firm strokes, deliberate, measured, penetrating to the extreme limits of Flora’s yielding flesh.

  And in leisured due course, Lady Flora’s third climax that morning was, in the words of their unorthodox chambermaid—divine.

  A short time later as Flora and Adam were feeding each other tidbits of their breakfast between sweet smiles and teasing banter, Henrietta was feeding her anger in her aunt’s bedroom. Molly Fisk, a middle-aged, slightly plump matron, who generally slept until noon to preserve what looks remained to her, was propped up on her pillows doing her best to absorb the suddenness of Henrietta’s appearance.

  “You should have seen her,” Henrietta fumed, pacing the Aubusson carpet like an infantry soldier on the march. “All sleepy eyed and half-undressed. The slut.”

  “Henrietta, dear, please take care for my French carpet. You’ll wear a path. And, darling, ladies never walk with that long a stride. It’s not comme il faut. Now, come, sit by me,” she went on, waving the hand peaking from beneath the lacy cuff of her nightgown at a small chair near her bed, “and we’ll talk about this.”

  “I want to scratch her eyes out,” Henrietta sullenly declared, approaching her aunt’s large tester bed, hung with white satin looped in azure silk, in a slightly modified stride. “She’s old,” the young girl blurted out, plopping down onto the chair with such gawky solidness her aunt shuddered for fear her delicate Louis Quinze would crumble. “She has to be twenty-three if she’s a day, and everyone knows when you’re not married at twenty-three, you’re nothing but an old maid. I don’t know what he sees in her.”

  “Who exactly are you speaking of, dear?”

  “Lady Flora!” Henrietta bemoaned. “She was in Adam’s room this morning with no clothes on—well, almost no clothes on. And Adam had on only a silk robe. But he looked so-o-o gorgeous, Auntie,” she added, adoration in her voice.

  “Adam’s room at the hotel?” her aunt repeated with suppressed horror.

  “Of course his room at the hotel. Where else would he be?”

  Molly Fisk could name a score of other places Adam could have been and had been in the past, from brothels to fine ladies’ boudoirs, but such information wasn’t allowed eighteen-year-old virgins. “Did anyone see you?” she inquired, sensible of her role as protector of Henrietta’s reputation.

  Henrietta looked at her blankly, and for a moment Molly Fisk’s heart shuddered to a stop. The fool. “Recollect now,” she earnestly prompted. “Did you meet anyone in the lobby who recognized you? On the stairs? In the hallways?”

  “I don’t think so.…”

  Molly’s mind was already racing with possible excuses. It was Sunday, after all. She quickly glanced at her niece’s ensemble. Henrietta at least had had the good sense to dress appropriately. Her blue morning gown and small hat would be suitable for church or Sunday school. She could have been on her way to teach Sunday school. Thank God, Molly silently reflected, she had enough influence in the community to make such an unlikely story pass inspection. “Well, I hope you’re right,” she briskly replied. “And anyone of consequence would naturally still be abed. Only the working class are up that early. As for Lady Flora being in Adam’s room, she’s a most unusual woman, and men find that sort of spirited female interesting,” she finished with a thoughtful moue. She’d heard nothing but glowing praise for Flora from her own husband. “As for what Adam Serre sees in Lady Flora, it’s quite plain. She’s beautiful, wealthy, and unconventional. Clara tells me Lady Flora’s refused most of the eligible bachelors in England as well as several on the Continent.”

  “How does she know?” Henrietta pettishly queried, displeased with evidence of Flora’s allure. “I don’t believe you.” Her scowl did nothing to enhance her unprepossessing face.

  “Clara Lockwood has a cousin married to a baronet from Surrey. Her cousin’s husband is a distant connection of Lord Haldane. While Lady Flora may be a spinster at age twenty-six, not twenty-three, my dear, it’s quite by choice. As is her strange interest in Indian life. But one never questions the eccentricities of wealthy aristocrats, darling, as you would be wise to understand. And those nobles of great wealth like the Earl of Haldane, Lady Flora, and your own fond interest, the Comte de Chastellux, must be considered very much above the rules governing lesser mortals, much as we may deplore their unorthodox ways. Do you understand me, Henrietta?”

  “No! Papa makes ever so much money too, and so does Uncle Harold, and we aren’t above the rules.”

  How exactly to explain that her father and uncle were in many ways a law unto themselves without revealing too much of the sordid world to an innocent girl? “Do you remember when your papa had the President to dinner?”

  “Of course. Mama had the entire house redecorated.”

  “Well, you see, your papa is friends with the President because he’s a very powerful and rich businessman. Now, you didn’t see President Johnson having dinner with your milliner, did you?”

  “Aunt Molly! Why ever would he want to?”

  “Exactly. And in the same way, aristocrats are very special like the President, and like your father in the business world. But aristocrats are influential not only because of their wealth, but because of their bloodlines. You can’t buy that, you see, and it sets them apart. Laws set them apart, as well, in their native countries. They do what they want to do, and if Adam Serre and Flora Bonham have a fancy to spend a month in his hotel room, I for one wish them well. And when they emerge from that hotel room, then we’ll see what we can do to interest Adam in you.”

  A smile erased Henrietta’s frown. “She won’t be staying long, will she?”

  “I understand Lady Flora leaves for the Yucatán at the end of the summer. And there are a great many terrible fevers and diseases in those tropical climates.”

  “She may die!” Henrietta exclaimed with elation.

  “It’s a possibility,” her aunt agreed with a lesser degree of enthusiasm but an equal interest. Since Adam’s wife had left with what appeared to be more finality than usual several months ago, Molly Fisk had viewed Adam Serre as the perfect candidate for her nephew-in-law. Unlike most of the younger sons of nobility sent out to the American West to rusticate until their scandals had abated in Europe, Adam Serre had enormous wealth. He wasn’t just a younger son living on an allowance who could eventually look forward to a comfortable life on a modest country estate in England or France—he was a younger son of a very rich duke, or more accurately now, the younger brother of a very rich duke. “So, you see,” Molly went on in her reasonable tone, “we need only wait until Flora Bonham leaves. You’re a lovely eighteen-year-old girl. What man wouldn’t find you attractive?”

  “How perfect! It’s July already.
In another month or so, I’ll have Adam all to myself. Do you think he’s angry with me for bursting in on him?” An unusual discretion entered her voice. As the spoiled daughter of doting parents, she rarely questioned her motive.

  “Why don’t I apologize for you? I’m sure Adam will understand your youthful enthusiasm.”

  “Would you, Auntie? That would be divine! Oh”—Henrietta clapped her hands together—“I can hardly wait for the summer to end!”

  Molly Fisk wasn’t a fool. She understood Adam Serre could have any woman he wanted here and abroad, but she also understood he’d chosen Montana for his home. Only a certain kind of woman would be willing to live her life on the frontier. Of those women, why not young Henrietta, with the advantage of her father’s millions? Why not, indeed. Her matchmaking plans were back on track. “Now we won’t say anything about this to your uncle, and should someone have seen you this morning, I want you to simply deny it. I will as well,” she added, saving her Sunday-school story for reinforcement if necessary. But there was no point in confusing Henrietta with added options. She was a simple young girl. “You were here with me having an early breakfast in my room. I’ll talk to the servants. There. How nice. Everything is settled.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  With the extremely warm July weather, the windows in the suite were opened wide, the lace curtains stirring occasionally as a breeze flowed through them, the sounds from the street below also drifting through the gossamer fabric.

  It was just before midnight Monday night, the sky vaporous gray through the veiled windows, the sounds of carousal lessened but never completely extinguished in the thoroughfare outside. The bed curtains hung limp in the sultry heat, the ticking of the clock the only sound in the shadowed bedroom. Adam sat with Flora on a chair he’d pulled close to the open windows, her nude body resting on his lap, her head on his chest, her breathing the regular cadence of peaceful slumber.

  He found sleep elusive. It was the heat, he told himself, avoiding the more complex reasons having to do with his powerful response to Flora Bonham. Their time together was almost gone. Gazing down at her, he reflected how pleasant it would have been to have met her years ago, before Isolde and all the complications she had presented to his life.

  But in the next pulse beat he cautioned himself to a more cool-headed reason. Persistent sex with Flora Bonham could have something to do with his warm feelings toward her, he reminded himself. The emotions assailing him were difficult to separate from the intensity of their carnal bond. If past experience was any indication, he’d find it difficult to remember her name by winter. But even as he rationally considered the possibility that this was another transient liaison, a niggling doubt questioned such cool logic.

  Flora stirred in his arms, snuggling closer like a sleepy kitten, and a smile touched Adam’s mouth. She made him happy; her simple presence could make him smile.

  He was lowering his head to gently kiss her when a barrage of gunshots exploded outside. And a second later the cry followed, “Meagher’s dead! Meagher’s dead!” the clamorous yell louder as the messenger galloped down the street toward the Planters House. Another volley of gunfire punctuated the screams, calling the town to attention.

  The second round of shots at close range woke Flora.

  Lacing her arms around his neck, her eyes drowsy with sleep, she murmured, “Another gunfight?”

  “A messenger with news of Meagher’s death.” Adam’s deep voice was without inflection. But he gathered her firmly in his arms and suddenly rose from the chair. “I’m going downstairs for a minute,” he softly said, carrying her over to the bed. “And find out the details.”

  “He won’t be after your clan now.…” She wasn’t fully awake yet, and her words were only a murmur of sound.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Adam quietly said, placing Flora in the center of the bed, lingering a moment to kiss her.

  She clung to him. “Ummm … don’t go.” Obsessed, greedy for the feel of him, she pulled his head back down. “Stay …,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He relented temporarily, tasting her sweet mouth in a lingering kiss that elicited a delicious purring sound from the lady beneath him. “My unquenchable darling,” he whispered with a smile, extricating himself from her clinging arms, “give me five minutes and I’ll be back.”

  “You won’t forget me, now,” she said, her voice low-pitched and sultry, her lithe body stretching in an unforgettably sensual way.

  “I’ll definitely remember that,” Adam murmured, grinning. “Don’t go away.”

  He dressed with masculine swiftness and exited the bedroom with a wave and a blown kiss while Flora felt that first faint quiver of dread.

  This was how she was going to feel when he was gone from her life in another few hours—empty, abandoned, bereft of his energy and spirit. She shivered in the sultry summer heat. Shaking away her melancholy, she resolutely took herself to task. She wouldn’t dissolve away from the loss of one man, no matter how beautiful and accomplished he was. Her life was too full for her to wallow in self-pity and despair over the termination of a love affair.

  Abruptly rising from the bed, she walked into the sitting room as if escaping the site of so much of their passion. She’d better control her sensibilities, she warned herself. But they’d made love everywhere in the sitting room, too, she realized as her gaze swept the room. Snatching up a shirt Adam had dropped onto a chair, she slipped it over her nakedness, feeling a sudden need to cover her body as though she could shield herself from passion with a linen shirt. She began pacing, agitated by her desolation, her emotions in turmoil. The men in her past had never affected her like this. Never. They were charming diversions to her life, but they didn’t impinge on her emotions. Or they never had. Until now. Threading her way around the bulky furniture, she crossed and recrossed the room, restless under the charged tumult in her brain.

  To her horror, when Adam walked back into the suite short minutes later, she stopped, looked at him, and burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry …” She hiccuped, mortified, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “What happened?” Adam softly exclaimed, striding swiftly toward her.

  “Nothing … I’m fine …,” she gasped, weeping in great gulping sobs, looking like a small child in his overlarge shirt, her legs bare, her toes curled into the flowered carpet.

  Sweeping her into his arms when he reached her, he hugged her close. “I shouldn’t have gone,” he whispered in self-reproach. “Tell me what happened.”

  His compassion, the particular aptness of his words, only brought on fresh tears, and perplexed, he searched her face. But she only uttered a muffled, “Nothing happened,” when clearly something had. Debating how to comfort her, he moved to the couch, sat down, and, holding her in his lap, sympathetically said, “Just tell me.” He lifted her chin gently so their eyes met. “I can make it better.”

  “I’m … being … silly,” she stammered, gulping hard to control her weeping. “I must be … tired.”

  “Did someone come in while I was gone?” He gently brushed the wetness from her cheeks.

  She shook her head, forcing back the tears flooding her throat.

  “You didn’t hurt yourself?”

  She waggled her head no again, her curls a wispy caress on his chin.

  “Would you like to sleep? I should have let you sleep more.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she quietly said, her tears nearly stanched. “And I really don’t want to sleep.”

  “What do you want to do?” he asked in an attempt to cheer her. “Tell me and we’ll do it.”

  “Go to Paris,” she replied, her teasing smile trembling for only a second.

  “I’ll pack,” he softly replied, touching the susceptible corner of her mouth with a light brushing fingertip. “We’ll have dinner with the emperor.”

  “And you’ll take me to the races.”

  “I’ll definitely take you to the races.”
His voice went very quiet. “Every man will envy me.”

  “I’ll stay at your house.”

  “I won’t let you out of my sight,” he affirmed, holding her tight.

  “We’ll dance at the Tuileries.”

  “Or at St. Cloud.”

  “And every woman will envy me,” she whispered. “Our holiday will last forever.”

  “Forever,” she said very, very softly. “Now kiss me before I cry again.”

  And he did with a special tenderness as though she were fragile. He kissed away the damp trails her tears had left on her rosy cheeks, he kissed her delicate earlobes and silky lashes, he kissed the sighing warmth of her mouth.

  She found his kisses fortifying, her distress melting away in his arms. “You’re an extraordinary man,” she murmured, her fingers laced through his hair, her spirits recovered, her smile restored to its former glory. “Tell me how you do it.”

  “To begin with,” he teasingly said, “I always have a good breakfast and see that I get plenty of sleep and—”

  “You never sleep.”

  “Sometimes I do. This isn’t one of those times, for obvious reasons.”

  “Because of our limited time.”

  He looked at her closely before he answered, gauging the stability of her mood. “Yes,” he said. His sigh ruffled her hair. “With Meagher dead, I should ride north,” he quietly added.

  “How soon will you be leaving?” Pride kept her voice level.

  “Right after you do. The camp probably has the news by now, but the militia will have to be monitored for a short time at least. And then if all goes well, if the volunteers disband soon, I’m hoping to take my horses to Saratoga for the August races.”

  “Lucie tells me she’s going along this time,” Flora said, politesse serving as barricade to her feelings.

  “I’m hearing the same thing. She wants to see Magnus run.”