Ridley. She frowned. All those knives. Covered with jewels. One of them alone would buy her passage halfway around the world, if that’s what it took to find Wickham. One blade, out of all that array. Why not? Ridley would scarcely miss it.
She snuffed her candle and opened her door. It must be well past midnight. The Hall was quiet and dark. She would leave her bundle and the crock of meat in her room for now. If, heaven forfend, she were caught going toward Ridley’s rooms, no one could accuse her of trying to run away. She could tell a fanciful tale of sleepwalking, or some such.
There was enough moonlight filtering through the windows to bathe the passageways in a dim light. Allegra moved slowly and quietly, feeling her way with her hands whenever she turned a dark corner or descended a staircase. She found herself at last outside the door to Ridley’s dressing room. She had no fear of disturbing Jagat Ram; his room was on the other side of the passageway. Without any hesitation, she opened the door and tiptoed into the dressing room.
She looked up as she passed the portrait of Lady Banyard. Even in the gloom, that pale face glowed. “I have not forgotten,” she whispered, feeling as though she owed expiation to every Baniard going back in time. The last of her line.
She opened the door to Ridley’s closet, pausing for a moment as the heavy, familiar scent of incense assailed her nostrils. No doubt Grey had had an unhappy day, and had needed the comforting memories of his Calcutta past. She could only guess, of course. Since the night of the box room, she had been shunned and ignored by him and everyone else at the Hall, including Mr. Briggs. Like a leper. It had been an agony for her—to wonder if Grey were suffering, and to feel helpless to reach him. But there was no light shining beneath the door to his bedchamber tonight. At least he slept. She prayed it was a sleep of peace and tranquility.
She looked around the room. The carved sandalwood shutters at the windows caught the moonlight and cast lacy shadows across the carpet and the mounded cushions of the couch. The glow of the moon didn’t quite reach the collection of knives and swords above the mantelpiece, but Allegra could see the dim luster of metal and the dark shine of jewels even in the gloom. She scanned the weapons quickly. There was one, she remembered, that had several large stones in its hilt. If she was going to be a thief, she might as well be sensible, and take the one that she could most easily pawn. She stretched forth her hand to reach for the knife she wanted, a small, exotic dagger crusted with jewels.
A thief. The thought gave her pause. She lowered her hand and leaned her arm heavily on the mantel, overcome with sudden guilt. She was prepared to be a murderess if she must. That was for the family. But to sink to thievery…She sighed unhappily and rested her head against her arm, closing her eyes to ward off the pain. What had become of Anne Allegra Baniard, who could never gather eggs from the henhouse without feeling that she was robbing the poor chickens of their young? She sighed again. There was no going back, recapturing the innocence of her childhood. But sometimes the going forward was painful and tinged with regret.
She heard a sound behind her and opened her eyes. The room was bathed in bright light. She whirled to find Grey Ridley standing in his doorway, holding a large candleholder before him. He swore viciously and slammed the candles onto a nearby table. The flames from the tapers fluttered for a moment, casting frightening shadows on his angular face.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he growled.
Chapter Thirteen
Allegra stared in shock, her hand pressing to her bosom as though she could still her racing heart.
Grey Ridley was as terrifying as she had ever seen him. He stood scowling in his nightshirt, bare-legged and barefooted, a tall, powerful, hard-muscled man. His near-nakedness—the long legs uncovered from the thighs down and darkly dusted with hair—only added to his air of intimidation. He looked like a primitive savage, a barbarian emerging from the past, save for the very civilized pistol he clutched in one fist. He set it down next to the candles and took a menacing step toward Allegra. His eyes narrowed in cold fury. “I asked you what you were doing here.”
She found herself stammering, desperate to invent an excuse. “Forgive me, milord. I didn’t think…A moment of your time…That is to say…” she gestured vaguely toward his night clothes, “I didn’t realize you had retired for the night.” Think. Think! What reason could she give for wanting to speak to him at this hour?
His mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “I retired early tonight. Almost sober, you’ll be pleased to know. I sat up awhile with the poems of Andrew Marvell.” The smile deepened to a suggestive smirk. “You are familiar with his work?”
She understood his meaning at once, and blushed at the pointed sarcasm.
“Yes,” he said dryly, “I thought you would be. To His Coy Mistress is a favorite verse of mine. ’Tis amusing to see how other men play the fool.” His voice took on a sudden harsh edge. “But that’s quite beside the question. I asked what you are doing here. Must I repeat it again?”
“I…I came…” She twisted her fingers together and stared down at the carpet.
His next words caught her with the awful suddenness of a thunderbolt. “To barter your body for your freedom? Was that it?”
God help her. She suppressed a cry of dismay. But perhaps a false confession was the only way out of this dilemma. It would give her a few moments to delay while she racked her brains for a plan. “Y-yes,” she said, beginning to back toward the door. “But now I see that you…”
“Yes? And yet, when I came in, you were at the mantel. Deep in thought, it seemed to me. Were you plagued anew with uncertainty?” There was a dreadful stillness about him as he waited for her reply.
She shook her head violently. “No!” No matter what else happened tonight, she didn’t want to add to his doubts about his manhood. “Not one whit, milord. But when I saw that your rooms were dark, I hesitated to disturb you.” She curtsied and backed closer to the door. “I’ll trouble you no further tonight. If it please Your Lordship, you have but to name the hour and I’ll return here tomorrow evening.” God forgive the lie, by tomorrow evening she would be well on her way to London. She put her hand on the door latch behind her. A few more steps and she would be free.
“You’ll stay, damn it!” His eyes glowed with a dangerous light. “This is a business compact, is it not? I’m selling you your freedom. Under the circumstances, I think I have the right to choose the conditions of the sale. And since you’re here, and I’ve been wakened from a sound sleep, I choose here. And now.”
She was trapped. If she refused him, she had no doubt he would guess that she’d been trying to run away again. It would probably mean the humiliation of a thrashing at his hands. And imprisonment in her room, that was certain. Her hopes for London would be dashed—perhaps until her bondage year was over. But if she agreed…She sighed. Godamercy, what did it matter? Mama had endured far worse. She nodded in assent.
“Good. Shall we agree on terms? I had thought to take three months off your bondage as my part of the compact.”
It seemed absurd to negotiate like this. She would give him her body, he would take his pleasure of it, and then she’d be gone. She would leave his bed and his house long before dawn. So why bargain? But her pride goaded her. She thrust out a defiant chin. “Ten months. The remainder of my bond.”
“You have a high opinion of yourself. Six months, and not a day more. You’re a fine stillroom maid. I hate to lose you too soon. I’ll release you in January.”
She wondered if this was how a whore felt. She paused, half tempted to bolt for the door, then submitted and moved slowly toward him. What did he expect of her now? She stood before him and waited for him to make the first move.
He crossed his arms against his chest and glared at her. “Well?”
“Milord?”
“I told you I’ll not woo you.”
Her heart sank. He did expect her to play the whore. She screwed up her courage and put her arms tentatively about his n
eck. But when she reached up to set her lips on his, he jerked his head roughly aside.
“You can do better than that,” he growled.
She dropped her hands and stepped back, bewildered.
He raked her body with his lustful eyes. “I want to see if you’re worth six months. I’ve forgot since that day at the pond. Show me.”
She sighed in resignation. A whore was expected to accommodate her patron. Hands shaking, she began to undress. She remembered that he liked her hair loose; she pulled off her cap and unpinned her topknot, then tossed her head so the thick curls tumbled down over her shoulders. She took off her gown and stays and stepped out of her petticoat, shivering as though she had a chill.
She had fastened her gaze on a painting behind him before she had begun; she couldn’t bear to look in his eyes as she disrobed. It wasn’t that she feared to be naked before him; in some strange, perverse way, she wanted him to look at her. But the room was so bright, and his face so harsh and cold—filled with a hostile wariness that challenged her to please him. It shamed her that a moment which should have been tender, warm, and sympathetic was stark and impersonal. A business compact, he called it.
Though she moved as slowly as she dared, her heart pounding, it didn’t take her long to shed her garments. In a few minutes, her shift was all that remained to protect her modesty. She hesitated, then loosened the strings and allowed the soft muslin to slide over her hips to the floor.
Grey uttered a low cry, as though the sight of her naked body had torn the sound from him. It gave her heart. Whatever else he felt—anger, hatred, cold mockery—he clearly desired her. She found the strength to look him full in the face, then smiled shyly. “What now, milord?”
One shaggy eyebrow angled into his broad forehead. “Improvise,” he drawled.
She swallowed hard. If she was to save a shred of her pride, find some humanity in this night’s business so that she wouldn’t feel as though she’d been violated, she would have to crack that cynical mask. To return Grey’s coldness with concern and gentleness.
She moved to him again and lifted her hand to his face. Though he had refused her kiss, he allowed her touch. Such a beautiful face, she thought. Even when he scowled, as now he did, she found pleasure in that face. She caressed his cheek and felt the muscles of his jaw tense under her hand. She explored the cleft in his chin, enjoying the sensuous curves beneath her fingertips. She stroked his lips, and knew a thrill of triumph when he gasped and closed his eyes.
I want you, Grey Ridley, she thought suddenly. This was no longer a foolish contract—her body for her liberty. She was a woman in love, hungering for him to love her in return, if only for a brief moment. God forgive me, she thought. Would it be so wicked of her, to allow herself one night of pleasure? Only one? She would still be on the road to London in the morning.
She tried to kiss him again, longing to teach him with her lips the secrets of her heart. Again he turned his head aside. She refused to be discouraged by his obstinacy. The more he resisted, the more her need grew. Her eager mouth sought the curve of his chin, his Adam’s apple, his throat, and rained soft kisses on his flesh. He tasted and smelled wonderful; her body quivered with the nearness of him.
With unsteady fingers, she unfastened the neck of his nightshirt, pulling it open to expose his chest to her searching mouth. She sighed and nuzzled her face in the dark patch of curls. How silken sweet a man’s body could be.
She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, luxuriating in the strength of the muscles and sinews she could feel beneath the fabric of his garment. The thrilling sensation, the power she felt merely from touching him, made her pulse race madly. She teased herself, resisting the urge to put her hands beneath his nightshirt and touch his bare skin. It was more exciting, more tantalizing only to imagine the heat of his flesh on hers.
She looked up at his face. His eyes were open, watching her. His mouth was set in a stubborn line, still fighting her allure. But his eyes, his eyes…She read desire smoldering in their tawny depths. Desire, and something else. She saw it clearly now, though perhaps she had merely learned to peer beyond his eyes and see what was in his heart. And what she saw was fear.
She had refused him before, led him to think that she was willing, and then rebuffed him. Clearly he was not about to give in to his weakness again.
You foolish, dear man, she thought. What must I do to make you take the gift of my love?
She renewed her efforts to woo him. She put her arms around his neck and pressed her naked body close to his. She shivered, feeling the hard length of him against her, the shaft that was already rigid and waiting to claim her. It was almost too thrilling to be endured. Her flesh was on fire, her blood pounded in her ears.
And still he stood like a statue, cold and unyielding. She moaned softly, feeling a sudden flush burn her cheeks. What was she doing, humiliating herself like this? He would not melt, he would not bend. It was clear that he intended to take her, at the last, as Squire Pringle had taken Mama. Forcibly, brutally. An object to satisfy his lust, and nothing more.
It was too much to bear. She dropped her arms and turned away from him, weeping bitterly. She ached for the touch of his hands on her body, for the warm sweetness of his mouth, for the human contact that would drive away her shame. “In the name of pity,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands, “touch me or I shall die of longing.”
She felt his hand on her wrist, swinging her around to face him. He pulled her roughly toward the table, and turned her so that the candlelight fell full on her tear-washed face. He stared at her for a long time, his expression closed and filled with doubt. “Do you truly want me?” he growled at last, then looked away as though he feared her answer.
“More than honor itself.”
“Truly?”
She choked on a sob. “Can’t you see it in my eyes?”
His features relaxed into a smile of relief and gratitude. “Then come to my bed, fair Allegra,” he said hoarsely. He lifted her in his arms and carried her into the shadowy enchantment of his bedchamber.
It was dim here, the only light coming from the candle glow that spilled obliquely into the room from Grey’s closet. The sheets were cool as he laid her on the bed, and the damask bed curtains stirred and whispered a silken song. Allegra turned her head and rubbed her cheek against the pillows. The linen smelled of him, musky and masculine and captivating.
She watched him with hungry eyes as he pulled his nightshirt over his head and threw it to the floor. The thick patches of hair on his chest and groin were like dense, dark islands on the knotted expanse of muscle and flesh. And out of one island there grew something large and proudful and impatient. Something that made Allegra quiver with more than a little anticipation and fear.
He climbed onto the bed. But instead of lying beside her, he knelt at her feet like a humble servant. He took off her shoes and reached for the garters tied above her knees. His hands were warm, caressing her legs as he stripped the stockings from them. He bent and kissed her knees, his lips soft and tantalizing on her flesh. “Sweet,” he murmured.
He shifted on the bed and perched above her, his body a cage that kept her lovingly imprisoned. His hungry mouth found her breasts; his kisses roused her with strange and new sensations, a delight of feeling that left her breathless.
She writhed beneath him, eager to give as well as to receive, to learn every inch of his dear body. She stretched forth her arms, touching him wherever her searching hands led her. She discovered a tufted patch of hair at the nape of his neck, and stroked it gently, luxuriating in the softness against her fingers. His skin was smooth and hairless on the sides of his ribs; she curled her hands around him, feeling the bones and rippling muscles that responded to her touch.
But, after a while, she couldn’t think, let alone caress him. His mouth at her bosom had continued its hungry assault, nipping at her flesh, sucking at the tender, sensitive nipples until she wanted to cry out with the dizzy
ing joy of his lovemaking.
She moaned in greedy frustration. She wanted more. She burned for his mouth on hers. Trembling, she took his face between her two hands and raised it up to hers.
“I haven’t even kissed your sweet lips tonight,” he said. “What a fool.” He chuckled, but there was a tremor in his voice. He leaned toward her mouth.
“No,” she whispered. “I want to kiss you. As though it were the first time.”
“And so it is, my fair Allegra,” he said, his eyes dark with warm tenderness. “Take your kiss, then.”
She pulled his mouth down to hers and touched his lips, shyly at first, and then with all the yearning passion in her heart.
He sighed in pleasure, relaxed, and lowered his body to hers, stretching himself full length on top of her. She could feel every part of him, from the hairy legs that rubbed against hers to the weight and strength that took her breath away; from the warmth of his breast to the overbearing maleness that pressed impatiently against her closed thighs. She gloried in every sensation. She was conscious, as never before, of her own delicious nakedness. Alive to the feel of this man wherever their flesh touched, as though her body were possessed of a hundred tingling, sensory fingers.
Their mouths hadn’t separated since that first sweet joining, as though neither wished to break the thrilling contact. Grey’s lips were soft on hers, and parted slightly. Allegra hesitated, then thrust her tongue into his mouth in an excess of violent emotion that surprised her with its ferocity.
He started and groaned at her unexpected burst of passion, grinding his mouth against hers and meeting her tongue with his own. She clung to him. Nothing existed for her but their burning mouths, the pledge and promise of this first glorious kiss.
At length he lifted his head from hers and drew in a great gulp of air. “God help me,” he gasped. “I want you so much, I can’t wait.” He prodded her legs apart with his knee, and positioned himself so that his hard shaft pressed against her moist, throbbing portal.
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