by Kay Hooper
He heard neither resentment nor dislike in her voice, only curiosity. “Yes.”
She sighed. “I was too young to understand why the war ever happened. I only wonder how long it will take for those wounds to heal.”
“A century or two.” He smiled faintly. “We’re still a country divided in many ways. And will be, I think, for a long time.”
It was something Morgan had said more than once, and Victoria believed it. She shivered, and felt his warmth as he leaned nearer.
“You’re cold, Miss Fontaine.” He started to remove his coat, but she stopped him with a light touch on his arm.
“No, I’m fine. It was just…ghosts out of the past. And my name is Victoria. As you said, it is an improper situation.”
He nodded, wondering if she had any idea at all just how bewitching her smile was. Abruptly conscious that his time in the city was limited, and no longer deceiving himself about his interest in this woman, he said slowly, “If we had met at a ball, I might have been stealing a kiss about now.”
Her eyes widened, not shocked so much as aware, and she felt the same hot tingle of that first glance upstairs; his eyes were sleepy, darkly green, and something intensely hungry lurked in their depths. In a voice that was breathless, she murmured, “Behind a marble column or in a dark garden?” And she felt shock then, because she had not instantly rebuked him for the familiarity. They were too alone here, too intimate to allow a light flirtation. Yet somehow…
“In a dark garden, I think,” he said, his voice low and husky, eyes intent. “With the scent of flowers all around us. Do you use lavender soap, Victoria? I smelled the lavender before I saw you, and thought of flowers.”
Victoria had never felt so aware, so—trapped. She was caught in his eyes, spellbound, and couldn’t breathe. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and this man was a stranger. All the assurance gained through her years as the wife of a wealthy and cultured man deserted her in a rush, and she felt achingly raw and vulnerable. “I…that is, you shouldn’t—“
“I know I shouldn’t. It doesn’t help, knowing I shouldn’t. Have men told you how green your eyes are, Victoria? How lovely you are? Of course they have. You’ve heard all the pretty words since you put up your hair and let down your skirts.”
She swallowed hard, and when his gaze dropped slowly, she realized that her torn bodice was gaping again over breasts that felt strangely tender. Instinctively, she reached up a hand to draw the edges together, and when his hand stopped the gesture, they both caught their breath. Holding her gloved hand, his knuckles were pressed against the inner curve of her breast, and his thumb moved slowly to stroke the smooth skin of her breastbone.
“Don’t,” she whispered, unable to draw away. Aware that his hand trembled. That hers trembled.
He leaned toward her very slowly, bracing himself on the hand lying on the cot just behind her buttocks. The warmth and soft, womanly scent of her was going to his head like old wine, and he felt the swollen throb of his loins even as his lips touched hers. Her fingers tightened almost convulsively around the hand at her breast, and he felt her heart pounding.
Her lips were cool, trembling. His tongue parted them gently, and he felt her start of surprise as he went deeper to explore the wet warmth of her mouth. Not wine, he thought dimly, but a raw, sweet brandy, its taste so sharp and clean that nothing else could ever compare. He felt the tremor that shook her, knowing his own body had answered with a shudder of hot desire, and he fought to remember that she was a lady, that he couldn’t take her with the careless need of lust. But was it that? Only that?
Victoria had never felt so confused in her life. One moment they had sat calmly talking about the war, and the next moment he was kissing her with intense desire. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong—and yet she couldn’t stop it. Waves of heat, each more potent than the last, swept through her body, and she was drowning in the searing pleasure. His knuckles were pressed to her breast, she was holding them there, and the sinuous caress of his tongue had ignited a curl of fire deep in her belly.
Her entire body tautened until her breasts hurt and her stomach muscles knotted, and there was an aching heat between her thighs that she had never felt before. And she almost cried out in disappointment when his mouth lifted slowly from hers.
Gazing into her dazed, heavy-lidded eyes, he said hoarsely, “I’m a blunt man, Victoria. I want you.”
“No.” But the word was only a wisp of sound, no anger or sharp denial pushing it.
“Yes.” He kissed her again, lightly this time, and his smile was slow. He had learned patience over the years, and intended to use that patience now in getting her into his bed. He didn’t think beyond that. “I’ll bow to the dictates of convention—as far as I’m able. I’ll try my damnedest to court you like a gentleman. But I can’t promise that, Victoria. I want you too much to be very patient for long.”
Victoria bit her bottom lip, feeling another wave of heat when his gaze followed the little gesture. She wanted to tell him about herself, to explain Morgan. She had to explain about her marriage to Morgan. But the words wouldn’t come. For the first time, she realized that explanations could hardly be as blithely offered as she had supposed.
Would he believe that hers was a marriage of convenience, that Morgan had promised to set her free when another man entered her life? How could she explain? She couldn’t, not now. She had to think….
And then she forgot to think, because his hand released hers and slid inside her bodice to surround her breast. She gasped, staring at him, feeling her entire body react feverishly to that bold caress as her nipple rose tautly into his palm.
Falcon’s eyes were half-closed, his breathing rough and uneven as he watched her face and felt her breast come alive beneath his touch. His long fingers squeezed gently, just once, and then he slowly withdrew his hand, feeling the tightness of her nipple as his fingers glided over it. He wasn’t at all sure he could keep his hands off her for the remainder of the night, but, though her response to him had been immediate, he was all too aware of the innocence in her.
She was no saloon girl who would hike her skirts at the first gleam of a coin, nor was she one of the “ladies” he had encountered from time to time who behaved decorously in public but who were known to bed any man in private.
No, Victoria was different. Young and a lady born, she was confused by her own awakening senses, and unless he handled her carefully, she would shy away from him in fear. He meant to handle her carefully. He hadn’t wanted a woman so much in his life.
“I don’t know you,” she whispered.
“You will,” he promised. He rose from the cot, looking down at her. “You should lie down and try to sleep. I’ll sit on the steps.” He wanted to lie on the cot close to her, to sweep away the material of her bodice and feast on the tempting mounds revealed to his hungry eyes. He wanted to strip her naked and pleasure her until she was writhing in passion, until she eagerly accepted his swollen shaft with her wet heat. And what he wanted gleamed in the vivid depths of his eyes.
Victoria had once watched a rabbit frozen, mesmerized, by the hawk swooping toward it. Was it like that, then? she wondered dimly, staring up at him. Staring up at a man so intensely overpowering that she knew she would find no defense against him and the desire he evoked.
“Lie down,” he repeated softly, and went over to sit on the steps.
After a moment she did lie down, still trembling and confused by the heat in her body. It had been a long time since there had been a woman in her life to advise her, and she had to wonder if what she was feeling now was something every woman felt. Closing her eyes and feigning sleep, she thought about that, trying to find some answer to the bewildering array of questions that her powerful reactions to this man evoked.
There had been occasions in the past when people had gathered at one of the ranches and socialized, and she remembered now that the wives had talked freely around her, with no suspicion that she and Morgan had never been lov
ers. As curious as any virginal young woman, Victoria had listened, only smiling shyly when her own opinions had been sought.
Some of the wives, she remembered, had talked darkly of their men’s appetites, and of “a woman’s duty.” But there had also been some who seemed perfectly content with their marital relations. There had been no mention, however, of feelings so violent they left a woman breathless and hot, no mention of the sheer pleasure of an intimate kiss or a warm, rough hand surrounding an aching breast….
Eyes closed, starkly aware that he was only a few feet away and that they were utterly alone, Victoria tried to make sense of it all. He wanted her. He had said that he would court her—but what did he mean by that? Not, she thought, marriage. He didn’t have the look of a man who would plan on settling down contentedly with a wife and children. No. He had the look of a lusty man of strong appetites, a wanderer whose relationships with women were quite deliberately brief. He wanted her—in his bed.
And she? What did she want?
Morgan had taught her so much since he had taken her away from Regret, her family’s plantation near Charleston. He had been father, friend, and brother, but never lover. That was a part of her life into which he had never ventured, not even to warn her how it would feel. And she realized now that he had deliberately sent her to New York, primarily because every man who met her in New Mexico as Morgan’s wife quite logically assumed she was unavailable, and in New York, she could choose whom to meet as an available woman.
Had he realized, she wondered now, that it was time for her to acknowledge her own womanhood? Had he sent her away from the ranch in the hope that she would find a man who made her feel this incredible sense of wonder and excitement? She thought that perhaps he had, for Morgan had always been amazingly perceptive where she was concerned.
But you didn’t warn me, Morgan. You didn’t warn me that I could feel this with a man who wants my body but not my heart.
She knew what she should do, of course. In the morning, when they were released from their prison, she should very briskly and firmly part company with Falcon Delaney and refuse to see him again. That was what she should do, what any lady would do. Any decent lady.
—
Victoria woke with a start, conscious that hours had passed. She felt stiff and sore from her tumble into the cellar, and the damp chill of the small room was making itself felt as well. She sat up slowly, swinging her feet to the floor, and started in surprise when he was almost instantly beside her on the cot; she hadn’t even heard him move.
“I’m glad you were able to rest.”
Victoria started to respond, but a sudden scurrying noise and the brush of something furry over her ankle made her turn toward him quickly with a gasp. “I don’t like rats,” she said breathlessly, only then realizing that her hand had reached out to him, and that she was grasping his upper thigh. His hand came down over hers before she could move, holding it strongly against him, and she forgot all about rats in the stark awareness of hard muscles. Her gaze lifted quickly to his face, finding it taut suddenly, his eyes blazing.
“That’s one rat I should thank,” he said in a thickened voice.
Victoria tried to pull her hand away, but he held it easily, and she went still when she realized how aroused he was. “What—what time is it?” she asked unsteadily.
“Morning. The shopkeeper should arrive soon.” He pulled her hand slightly toward his inner thigh. “Touch me, Victoria. I promise I won’t forget you’re a lady. The gloves remind me.”
“No, I—“
“I watched you sleep.” His voice was low, husky. “I sat on those damned steps for hours, watching you. Wanting you. A dozen times I almost woke you.”
“Falcon, don’t—“
Something flared in his eyes. “I’ve been wondering how my name would sound on your lips.” He didn’t attempt to move her hand any farther, but refused to release it, and his thigh was taut and hard beneath her touch. “I like the sound of it, Victoria.” In the heat of his own response, it was difficult to gauge her reaction, but Falcon concentrated on that. He would push her as far as he dared, because he knew only too well that, unless he made her fully aware of the desire between them, she would send him firmly on his way once they were freed from the cellar.
She licked her lips nervously. “Please release my hand.”
“Why? So you can fold them primly in your lap again? So you can hide the fire in you with stillness and a ladylike serenity? That’s only a mask, Victoria, and we both know it now. Did they teach you that a lady never feels passion? They were wrong. You have a body made for a man. My body knows. Do you want to feel how much my body wants you?”
She pulled her hand away, folding both in her lap.
Falcon wasn’t disturbed by the retreat. She was confused, he saw, but not angry or offended by his bluntness. He chuckled softly. “Not proper? No, but I did say I’d try to court you like a gentleman. And to reassure your mind on that point, I have a nice, gentlemanly invitation for you. A friend of mine is having a party tonight. A ball, really. The cream of New York society will be there. I want you to come with me.”
Victoria was carefully not looking at him. “My friends expect me for a theater party,” she said softly.
He reached out to touch her face, forcing her gently to look at him. Without a word, he leaned toward her and covered her startled lips with his. He didn’t give her a chance to protest or resist; his mouth was hot, demanding. Unlike the earlier sensuous exploration of her mouth, this time he possessed her with a stark, irresistible power. And this time she did not start in surprise when his tongue delved deeply; this time she swayed toward him, her cool lips heating in a burst of fire.
Falcon stroked the side of her graceful neck slowly while the kiss grew hotter, deeper. He could feel the tiny heartbeat in her throat fluttering wildly like a caged bird, and when his hand dropped to brush lightly across her full breast, he felt her jerk, felt the instant response of that straining flesh.
He lifted his head reluctantly and gazed down into clouded green eyes. And it was an effort to say anything at all, an effort that told him his control was stretched to its limits. “Tell your friends something came up,” he murmured hoarsely. “Come with me tonight.”
Victoria found herself nodding helplessly, and far back in her mind was the painful, bewildering knowledge that there would be little she could deny this man. Perhaps…perhaps nothing at all. And though that knowledge was frightening, it was also undeniably exciting.
Falcon smiled in triumph, but whatever he would have said was stayed by the sound of footsteps in the shop above them. He kissed her again lightly, and then got up and went to climb the stairs and alert a bewildered shopkeeper to their presence.
Victoria sat where she was for a few moments, deciding to let him deal with puzzled shopkeepers. Automatically, her hands went to her hair and the torn dress, and she acknowledged dimly that no one looking at her would have any doubt she was well on her way to being a fallen woman.
—
To call Victoria’s return to the safe bosom of her “respectable” hotel an anticlimax would have been stating the matter rather accurately. They had found her purse and hat in the shop, and the very respectful shopkeeper had lent the aid of a few dress pins with which to repair the ravages to her clothing. Falcon escorted her back to her hotel with the smooth manners of a gentleman born; so precisely proper were his attentions that Victoria stole an incredulous glance at him while they were in the cab—and discovered a devilish twinkle in his lazy green eyes.
He left her in the lobby at her firm request, but reminded her cheerfully that he’d be back, and when, and politely requested that she “wear something pink” for the ball.
Moments later in her room, she sat rather limply in a chair and wondered what on earth had happened to her. She sat there for a long time, her thoughts vague and confused, and then slowly drew off her gloves to stare at the thin gold band adorning her left hand.
&nbs
p; She removed her wedding ring finally and placed it in her jewelry case. Out of sight. But not out of mind. She tried not to feel guilty over the action, knowing full well that Morgan would have applauded it. The knowledge did not help her. She felt she was betraying her husband. Even more, she felt she was somehow betraying the man she would meet within a matter of hours. He thought she was free.
She scolded herself sharply later over breakfast, reminding herself that Falcon Delaney was clearly uninterested in a permanent relationship. He wanted her, but she strongly doubted marriage had crossed his mind. Men like Falcon Delaney didn’t marry, she thought, startled at the strength of her dismay. No, they didn’t marry. They sampled every flower that enticed them with its scent or color and then went on, alone.
And what, she wondered in shame, did that make her? What kind of woman would let such a man kiss her, touch her? Her marriage to Morgan was one in name only—but that fact made her willingness to see Falcon again all the more damning. In the old South of her childhood, just being seen alone with him in a closed carriage would have been enough to ruin her, and spending the night locked in a cellar with him would have resulted in a marriage swiftly arranged—at gunpoint if necessary—by her family.
But she had no family except Morgan, and this was hardly the old South. Morgan would have been the first to remind her of that, and the first, she thought, to remind her she was free to do as she liked.
She could not help wondering, however, if Morgan had realized the problems their marriage could entail. It had been a solution, then—but now? How could a married woman ever explain to another man that, in reality, she was free? How could she explain a husband who was both more and less than a husband?
And what did it matter, really? Believing she was innocent, Falcon Delaney would hardly be surprised to find a virgin in his bed. In his bed…
Victoria paced her room far into the afternoon, struggling to come to terms with her confusion. It was a new world, she reminded herself, with less stringent social rules. The carefully structured life of her childhood had been destroyed by the war, and there was less now that was absolute. And she had spent the last eight years in a raw new land, with its blunt men and practical women, a land where prosaic ranch life had rendered the niceties of behavior something less than vitally important.