The Taste of Temptation

by Julia Kelly

  His chest squeezed even as his hand shook open the cab door. Their entanglement was precisely why, for the first time in his life, he’d let his guard down. He’d trusted someone with his secrets and, if he was being completely honest, with his heart. That was what made this so much more painful than anything else Caroline could’ve done.

  His boots pounded hard on the stone steps leading up to the Burketts’ door. He put his fist to the wood, not bothering with the brass lion’s-head knocker. The sting of pain that came from bashing his hand felt good, grounding him in the midst of all his anger.

  The door opened, and Moray found himself staring at a maid with a pleasant smile that fell from her face almost immediately.

  “Is the family at home?” he asked.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Burkett are out, sir,” said the maid cautiously.

  “And Miss Burkett?” he asked.

  The maid’s hesitation told him everything he needed to know.

  “She’ll be in the drawing room then?” he asked, pushing his way past the slip of a girl.

  “Sir!” the maid cried, but he was already in the entryway and walking with purpose. “Sir!”

  A door opened, and Caroline stuck her head out into the hall.

  Even now, when he knew what she’d done, she took his breath away. He couldn’t help it. Not now that he knew how her neat hair looked spilling over her shoulders. Not when he’d seen her lips, kiss-bruised and lush, open in a delicious gasp every single time he slid into her anew. He could taste her on his lips and feel her in his arms and, awash in his anger, he wanted her with a power that terrified him. There had never been anything in his life he’d wanted with the pulsing, vital urgency with which he wanted her.

  And she’d ruined it all.

  “We need to talk,” he ground out.

  Her brows shot up. “Apparently, if you’re barging into my brother’s home.”

  “I’m sorry, miss. I tried to stop him, but—”

  Caroline gave the maid a tight smile. “It’s no matter, Eilidh. You can go now. I suspect Mr. Moray and I need to speak alone.”

  They damn well did.

  He followed her into the drawing room, where a merry fire crackled away in the grate. A book turned upside down to keep the place lay on a sofa, and a pair of slippers was abandoned next to it. Caroline was barefoot in her stockings. He’d seen her in such states of undress, and yet the merest hint that she was undone, unbound, had his blood firing.

  He buried his desire under the weight of his fury and, when she closed the door and they were undeniably alone, rounded on her.

  “What were you thinking?”

  She stared at him, squinting a little as though trying to figure out just what he was on about. “I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”

  He snorted and thrust the Standard at her. Without a word, she took it and unfolded the newspaper. He watched as she read, her eyes widening.

  “This is about you?” she asked.

  “Of course it’s about me.”

  “There’s no one named. Not even with an initial,” she said. “It could be anyone.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  Her expression darkened. “I don’t particularly enjoy my intelligence being questioned by anyone, but especially not by you, who should know better.”

  She was right. Even in this state he could see that. “I apologize, but the details of this article match up precisely with what I told you just a few days ago. Did you wash off the scent of me first, or did you go straight to Ross after our assignation was over?”

  She jerked back as though he’d slapped her. “You think I did this?”

  “I told you the details of my childhood in confidence. I told you . . .” In the most intimate details of his life when he’d felt so sure of her, he’d thought she was a woman who understood. She’d been made notorious as much by the lawsuit her mother had forced her to stand for as by the papers that had dogged her. He’d actually begun to feel sorry for what he’d done, driving her back into the jaws of the press when she’d arrived. Making her desperate to escape. So desperate that she’d concocted her insane plan to find a husband with the help of Mrs. Sullivan.

  He could see now what he’d been to her. A bit of fun before she had to settle into a thoroughly safe marriage with some stuffy, pompous, utterly proper man like Trevlan. Moray had never been an option, and he could only now admit to himself that he wanted to be her only option.

  “How much did Howard Ross pay you?” he said.

  She stilled. “Think very carefully of what you’re saying, Jonathan.”

  “How much?”

  She tossed the newspaper down on the sofa and planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve never even met a Mr. Howard Ross.”

  “What of his reporters?” he asked.

  She laughed—actually laughed—at that. “What on earth, after everything I’ve told you, would make you imagine that I could be induced to speak with a reporter?”

  His anger, so solid and sure at home and in the cab, was beginning to falter.

  “What you told me was said in confidence,” she continued. “I would never do anything to jeopardize your trust in me.”

  “Who else knew?” he bit out even as doubt began to creep in.

  “Who else knew?” she asked with a bitter laugh. “Your mother. Your father. The man who fathered you. His wife. Every single person who worked in the house where your parents were servants, or the people in the neighborhood where you lived afterward. You act as though this is some great shameful secret that no one must know about, but even at your most blockheaded you must see that there is no possible scenario where people would not have talked among themselves. You know how pervasive gossip is, Jonathan. You deal in it—you’ve built your business on it, only you seem to be incapable of taking what you dole out three days a week.”

  Her fierce words penetrated the fog of his rage. He sank into a chair and looked up at her. “You didn’t speak to Ross or his reporters?”

  The intensity of emotion that had propelled him unthinking to her drawing room had shifted from him to her, and now she was the one glowering. “I didn’t speak to anyone.”

  He might’ve pushed anyone else, but with her, he knew. She was telling the truth and he, with his flash-point temper, had made a right mess of everything, even as relief flooded him. It hadn’t been Caroline. She wouldn’t have done that to him.

  “Caroline . . .” He shoved a hand into his hair. “Caroline, I’m sorry. I—”

  “No. You’re going to sit there and you’re going to listen to me. I cannot believe that you would think I would betray your confidence.”

  “I know that I—”

  “Stop talking, Jonathan Moray, or I swear by everything good in this world I will take that fire poker and use it on that thick skull of yours.”

  She would too, a realization that nearly made him smile except that to do so would probably induce her to skewer him with the poker instead.

  “I know what it’s like to have one’s life ripped open for all to see,” she said. “I had to stand in a courtroom every day suffering the humiliation of proving the veracity of my engagement.

  “I would never want anyone to endure the humiliation of having the most private parts of their life exposed. I would never tell anyone what you told me, not even Elsie, who is my friend.”

  “If you wrote it down in a diary, or maybe a letter you never sent, perhaps someone intercepted it,” he said lamely.

  “Do you really think that a woman who’s had reporters dig through her household rubbish would ever commit anything sensitive to paper? I don’t have the luxury of keeping a diary, because I can never shake the threat that one day someone might pick it up and read it purely because it’s mine.”

  He tried to swallow away the dryness of his throat. “I apologize for assuming that it was you, but you must understand. I never speak of these things. Not even Eva and Gavin, my closest friends, know about my parentage. You must see wh
y I might have assumed the worst.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “I don’t see why when the Tattler writes about the mundane details of my life, from who called on me to whom I danced with, I have to tolerate it because it’s your work, and yet when an anonymous article that you don’t like because you think it’s about you appears in the Standard, you can accuse me of breaking your trust and then assume I’ll absolve you when you realize your error. You are not forgiven.”

  “Caroline.” But he, a man who’d built an empire on words, couldn’t think of what to say to bring her back to him.

  A shadow passed over her face, and all at once she looked hollow and haunted. “I had such hope for you,” she whispered, dropping into a chair.

  He’d thought it had hurt when he’d suspected she’d shopped his story, but that was nothing compared to this. She was withdrawing from him and taking with her light and joy and purpose and everything.

  “Caroline.” He dropped to his knees and picked up her hands. “Caroline, I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, muttering to herself with a shake of her head. “It was silly to think . . .”

  “I’m a brute of the worst kind. I’m untrusting. A blaggard. I don’t deserve your forgiveness for doubting you, but I’m asking for it nonetheless.”

  And then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he kissed her. It was one of the soft opening kisses that he knew she’d respond to, sinking into his arms as though he was sanctuary from the world. Except this time, nothing. She didn’t move, didn’t part her lips. She just sat, frozen in place.

  He pulled away and searched her eyes, frantic to find any spark of the lust and affection they’d shared there. Her expression was blank. Then she blinked, and disgust flooded her eyes.

  “Never kiss me again,” she said, rising so abruptly that his body blocked her, and she stumbled back.

  He caught her by the waist as the drawing room door swung open and Michael Burkett bit out, “Do as she says, and take your hands off her.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  CAROLINE’S WORLD HAD flipped in an instant. The joy that had suffused her when she’d seen Moray in the entryway hadn’t dimmed when she’d seen his stormy expression. She’d simply assumed that something was bothering him and he’d come to her for counsel. Naif that she was, she’d thought how fortunate it was that she was at home alone. She wanted to be the woman he turned to, the one he knew he could trust to lay down all of his problems before, in whose presence he could seek comfort.

  He’s right. I have been a fool.

  The thought had struck her when he spat out his accusations, but it had bloomed into a full rage when he accused her of stooping so low as to sell his story to the Standard. Yet it had hurt too, had engulfed her in a visceral, all-blinding pain that wracked her entire body. That he believed she could betray him and expose him to the same sort of embarrassment that had ruled her life for years stunned her.

  She’d been an idiot to think that he might feel anything close to what she did for him, and now he’d given her every reason to harden her heart against him.

  She hadn’t, however, counted on Michael.

  Her brother stood in the doorway, seething at the sight of Moray with his arm around her waist.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Eilidh fetched me from the office when Mr. Moray barged in. She feared for your virtue,” said her brother.

  Caroline just snorted. If only he knew that she’d given her virtue up long ago.

  “This is not as it appears,” said Moray carefully.

  She put her palms flat against the firm wall of his chest and shoved. “You’re bloody right it isn’t.”

  “Caroline,” Michael gasped at her language. All he needed was a set of pearls to clutch and he’d be a perfect imitation of their mother.

  “I’m an intelligent woman of twenty-seven with an expansive vocabulary, Michael. And at the moment, I think you’ll agree that bloody is precisely the word to use in this situation. And I can think of a few others to add to it.”

  Her brother’s eyes hardened. “Mr. Moray is in our home without a chaperone accompanying you, and now I’ve caught him with his arm around you. What were you thinking, Caroline?”

  I wasn’t thinking! she wanted to shout. If she had been, she wouldn’t have given so much of herself over to any man, let alone Moray, who had knocked her feet right out from underneath her. He’d disarmed her, persisting in his quest to publish more articles about her, but then something had shifted. The kiss in the park had unleashed all of the raw, roiling attraction she felt for him, yes, but it had been the night of the ball that had truly undone her. He’d climbed the wall of her home, idiot that he was, like some hero out of a book just to tell her what he’d learned about Trevlan. His drive to warn her had won her over, and she’d convinced herself that perhaps, despite her hatred of his business, there might be something there.

  He’d been the man with all of the qualities Mrs. Sullivan had pressed her on and whom she’d refused to name because a little part of her knew that if she placed her hope in a man ever again he’d only hurt her like Julian had. Just as she’d feared, Moray was what she wanted, and now he’d gone and ruined all that.

  She drew herself up to her full height and looked her brother square in the eye even as she could hear the dull fall of footsteps on the stairs, signaling more witnesses to her humiliation. “I wasn’t thinking. I was, for once in my life, doing exactly what I wanted, with no one else in mind.”

  The light touch of Moray’s fingers skimming down her arm made her jump, and she jerked away. “I never claimed that it was the smart thing to do,” she said.

  “Michael?” Elsie asked.

  Caroline craned her neck, and her stomach sank, for it wasn’t just her sister-in-law stepping through the doorway. Trevlan was standing there, a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand. Of all the times for an impromptu call, the man had to choose this one.

  “What is he doing here?” Moray asked, taking a step forward.

  “Don’t.” Caroline’s hand shot out to block him. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  Not that the situation could get much worse, for she’d caught Trevlan glancing between the overcoat Michael still wore; Moray’s hatless head, which announced he’d been in the house for some time; and her forgotten slippers. The moment the man put it all together, his face lit up like breaking dawn.

  “You cad,” said Trevlan, advancing into the room and tossing the flowers down.

  “Stop this at once!” Elsie ordered, her voice sharp and authoritative in a way that Caroline had never heard before. “There will be no fighting inside my house.” She cast Caroline a look of sympathy. “Are you unharmed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us what happened here?”

  “I should think it’s quite plain,” said Trevlan. “Moray’s trying to assault your sister.”

  “Is that true?” Michael asked, genuine concern in his tone.

  “No,” she said. “Mr. Moray has done nothing ungentlemanly.”

  “Then why is he alone in a room with an unmarried lady?” asked Trevlan.

  “That is an excellent question. I should like to hear the answer myself, especially since by Eilidh’s account, Moray forced his way into the house,” said Michael.

  “I can explain,” said Moray. But then he fell silent. It was going to fall to Caroline to clean up this mess just as it had fallen to her to pick up the pieces after the lawsuit. Her mother had died, her brother had been in Scotland, and she had been in so many ways utterly alone.

  She was always alone.

  “Mr. Moray was under the mistaken impression that I had told someone something he’d said to me in confidence,” she said.

  “What?” Michael demanded.

  She scowled. “I’m not likely to say it in front of all of you if I promised to keep it a secret. We had an argument, and that’s when you came in.”

/>   “Does it have anything to do with the Standard?” Trevlan asked, bending down to pick up the newspaper from where it had fallen.

  The muscles of Moray’s jaw were working so violently that she could see them twitch from where she stood.

  “It is nothing,” she said, not knowing why she was lying for Moray when he’d just shown her how little regard he had for her honesty. It was just that, if she had been in the same situation and her parentage was being called into question by someone who clearly thought so little of her, she’d hope that Moray would jump to her aid too.

  You know he would. Except she didn’t, did she? Not when she’d been so sure that he trusted her. Not when she’d thought he cared for her as more than a plaything.

  “Nothing? It intimates right here that he’s the illegitimate son of a housemaid and some Highland laird who was no doubt taking his feudal rights,” said Trevlan.

  The humiliation rolled off Moray in such thick waves it almost choked her.

  “Why would Mr. Moray tell you anything in confidence, and when? Elsie’s been your chaperone ever since you arrived,” Michael said.

  “Perhaps this isn’t the best time to discuss this,” Elsie said, nodding slightly to Trevlan.

  “No, I think this is the very best time. Caroline?” Michael prompted.

  She drew in a breath, but Moray spoke before she could say a word.

  “It’s my fault. I kept pushing her to give her story to the Tattler,” said Moray.

  No. She didn’t need this man who’d accused her of betraying him to stand up for her, shoulder the blame, and do the noble thing.

  “I went to meet him a few days ago,” she said. “And we had met privately once before that.”

  Trevlan’s face contorted. “In the park?”

  The first time Moray had kissed her. The memory of it lanced her, and she twined her fingers in her turquoise skirts to keep her hands from shaking.