A Sinful Deception

by Isabella Bradford

  The clerk’s smile widened. “Oh, yes, sir. We have all the freshest novels and romances for ladies, as well as collections of sermons and lectures. If your aunt is a subscriber, sir, then I can consult our records, and see her favorite authors and interests so I might better advise you as to—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Geoffrey said quickly, with no interest of his own in an invented aunt. “I’ve a fair notion of her tastes.”

  He turned away and headed through the main room and up the staircase to the upper floor. He was half-aware of how ladies turned to look at him as he passed by, of little sighs and smiles that this time held no interest for him. He was determined to find Serena; no, after that single glimpse of her stepping down from the carriage, he was almost desperate to find her.

  Upstairs there were far more books than patrons, with shelves that rose nearly to the ceiling arranged in close-set rows. Before the windows overlooking the street were several chairs for the convenience of readers. Sitting there with two other ladies was Lady Morley, their conversation animated and, fortunately, their backs turned toward Geoffrey. He ducked into the first aisle of shelves, looking for Serena, and found only a woman with a small dog peeking from her oversized muff. The next row had a clerical gentleman in a flat parson’s hat, advising an older lady.

  She had to be here somewhere, Geoffrey thought with a muttered oath of frustration. He’d seen her enter, and there was no other way from the building. He moved into the third aisle, and there, at last, stood Serena.

  She was turned slightly away from him, engrossed in the large, open book in her hands. Strange how he’d met her in his father’s library last night, and now in another library.

  She had flipped back the front edges of her pelisse over her shoulders to free her arms, and he’d now a clear view of the curves of her breasts beneath her sheer white kerchief, and the narrowness of her waist in her plum-colored silk gown. Her head was bowed over the book and her wide-brimmed hat pinned to slope forward over her face, leaving the pale nape of her neck temptingly exposed. A single wisp of dark hair had slipped free to curl like a comma to one side of her throat, and as he watched, she absently raised her gloved hand to tuck it back into place. The late afternoon sunlight through the window played over the curve of her cheek, and made the rich silks and embroidery of her clothing glow against the worn leather spines of the books.

  She had never looked more beautiful, and with a little lurch somewhere in his chest, he realized that this was how he’d have to remember her.

  “Miss Carew,” he said softly. “Jēsamina.”

  Startled from her reading, she caught her breath, and spun toward him, closing the book in her hands with a snap.

  “Lord Geoffrey,” she said, her surprise melting into a shy smile. “You said you’d find me, and you did.”

  “I did.” He knew he shouldn’t waste this time alone with her, should tell her at once what he needed to say, yet he couldn’t quite do it, not yet. “What are you reading?”

  She glanced down at the book and blushed, self-consciously tucking it to her side, into the folds of her silk skirts so he couldn’t see it.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “A whim, a fancy to pass the time while I wait for my aunt, that is all.”

  He grinned. Most likely it was the kind of rubbish most young ladies devoured, a novel filled with ruined castles and thwarted love. “Might I see the title?”

  She shook her head, lowering her chin to look up at him from beneath the curving brim of her hat, and he wondered if she’d any notion how devastating a small gesture such as that could be.

  “I’d rather not,” she said in a breathy whisper. “It’s—it’s not what you think, anyway.”

  “I doubt that,” he said easily. “Does it feature a princely lover and a steadfast heroine, their lives snared in a web of lies and deceit?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, not at all.”

  “Then where is the shame in showing it to me?” he coaxed, holding his hand out for the book. “Come, let me see it and judge its merit for myself.”

  She hesitated a moment longer before, with a deep breath, she thrust the book out for him to read the elaborate gold lettering on the cover.

  “A Narrative of an Englishman’s Journey through the Mughal Orient,” he read aloud, surprised. “You have my apology. No idle frivolity between those covers, I’ll wager.”

  “I know that India is my past and that there’s no use in remembering it now,” she said quickly, her words rushing with what he could only think was misplaced guilt. “That’s what my grandfather and Aunt Morley say, and they are right. I know I’ll never return and that there’s nothing to be gained by regretting what is lost forever, and yet I cannot help myself when I am here. It’s the pictures that draw me back, you see.”

  She’d kept her thumb inside the pages to mark her place, and now she held the book open for Geoffrey to see as well.

  “This shows a prosperous gentleman’s estate not far from Hyderabad,” she said. “The author was a guest there, but it could have been Sundara Manōra, my father’s house. There were more trees about our gate, and the arches over the windows were different, but otherwise it could be my home before … before it was gone.”

  He gazed down at the hand-colored plate, trying to imagine what her life had been as a child. Sundara Manōra would translate roughly to Lovely Mansion, and it must have been exactly that. The house, outbuildings, and grounds in the print were spacious and grand, clearly the estate of a wealthy man who wanted to live like a prince—which, of course, her father must have done. The son of an English marquis who dealt in precious stones, weapons, and favors would have expected nothing less.

  Yet Geoffrey noted how she’d put everything decisively in the past tense. He knew that she’d been the only survivor of an illness that had claimed the rest of her family and that she’d been brought to England soon afterward. That much was common knowledge in London society, although she’d never spoken of it to him.

  What else had happened to her to make her so reluctant to speak of it now? Why did she consider it wrong to remember that past, to so much as look at this book? His brother might not have much use for him any longer, but he’d the distinct feeling that Serena needed him for—

  Steady now, steady, he warned himself. You’re not here to be drawn back into her mysteries. You’re here to bid her farewell.

  “Serena,” he said gently, beginning. “Miss Carew.”

  Still she studied the picture, too lost in the image and the memories it raised to hear him.

  “I could look at this by the hour,” she said longingly, running her fingers around the raised edge of the print. “Behind this tall wall, here, would have been the garden for the women. Ours was so beautiful—a slice of Heaven, Father had called it. We’d trees for shade and so many flowers and a pond with golden fish, and silk pillows strewn everywhere for us to take our ease. But what I loved best was our swing, with red cords of silk and gold thread, and tassels that fluttered in the breeze when I pushed it back and forth. The swing made me feel free, as if I were a bird flying through the air, and I’d pretend if I could swing just a little higher, I might fly over the garden walls themselves. I know it must sound foolish, but that is what I wanted.”

  “Not at all, Miss Carew.” He was enchanted by the image she was painting of herself, of the silken skirts of her sari fluttering around her bare legs and slippered feet as she pushed higher and higher in the red swing. “Not at all.”

  She smiled sadly. “Seven years have passed since I left, and no matter how hard I try to keep it all in my head, little things are slipping away. That’s why I like this picture, you see. It helps me to remember. I never tire of it.”

  “Then why don’t you borrow the book and take it home with you?” he asked, unable not to. “I doubt it’s in much demand.”

  “I told you,” she said, closing the book and shoving it back onto the shelf. “There’s nothing to be gained from
thinking of the past.”

  “But the pictures give you pleasure, Serena,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Perhaps,” she said wistfully, yet in a polite way that still made it clear she didn’t think it was enough at all. She kept her hand on the book’s spine, not quite breaking free of the image inside. “Perhaps.”

  “I wish I could have seen your father’s house for myself,” he said. “It must have been quite beautiful.”

  She looked at him sharply, her eyes bright in the slanting sunlight. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s true,” he said. “The estates in the hills near Hyderabad have a rare beauty unlike anything to be seen here in England. To have seen it with you as my guide would have made my journey incomparably better.”

  She gave a quick shake to her head. “It’s impossible for you to know,” she said, incredulous. “I’ve never told anyone. Yet you understand, exactly as you have over and over again. You understand this, and you understand me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand now,” he said, smiling. “What miraculous knowledge do I unwittingly possess?”

  The group of ladies that included her aunt laughed loudly over some remark or another on the other side of the shelf, and Serena stepped closer, so close that her skirts brushed against Geoffrey’s legs like a whispering caress.

  “We haven’t much time alone,” she said, her voice rushed and taut with urgency. “I dreamed of you last night, Geoffrey. That’s what I meant, and it’s why I was so certain you would keep your word and find me.”

  “Ah,” he said, disconcerted yet intrigued by the intimacy she was implying. To invade a woman’s dreams was only one step away from sharing her bed. He had to end this now, now, yet he couldn’t, not while she looked at him like this. “Most likely that’s because you saw me earlier in the evening.”

  “No.” She lifted her chin with unquestioning certainty. “I see many people here in England every day, and none of them appears in my dreams. You are the first.”

  He drew in his breath, trying to remember his brother and Gus and their little daughter, and ignore how full and tempting Serena’s lips were with her chin raised toward him.

  Trying, and failing miserably.

  “Miss Carew,” he began again. “We must, ah, talk.”

  “We are talking,” she said, her words coming more swiftly. “I was telling you of my dream, how you were in it and so was I. We were together in the west garden at Sundara Manōra, near the silver pond and beneath the old banyans, and I’d a jasmine flower pinned in my hair, just as you’d wished it.”

  “I would like that,” he said, unable to resist the lure of her dream as she painted it. “We were in India together, then?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Last night when I left you, I was agitated beyond measure, and my thoughts were so jumbled that I couldn’t tell what to do next. But my dream made everything clear. You were right. We are meant to be together, no matter what anyone else may say or do or think or—or—”

  She broke off suddenly, and to his surprise she arched up against his chest and kissed him. Her inexperience showed in her awkwardness, but that same innocence was like a spark to his own desires, and at once all his well-intended restraint shattered. The moment her lips touched his, he began kissing her back, kissing her hard. He slid his tongue into her mouth to taste her and to mark her as his own. She moaned softly, widening her lips for more of him, and he curled his arm around her waist to pull her close. Her hands fluttered over his chest before they instinctively settled on his shoulders, trusting him.

  She shouldn’t, not now. He shoved his hands inside her pelisse to find her waist and urged her backward until she bumped against the wall of bookcases. Her hat fell forward, and impatiently he swept it from her head, letting it fall to the floor. One carefully curled lock of her hair came unpinned with it, falling over her shoulder, yet still he did not stop kissing her. She made him forget Harry and Gus entirely, made him forget what he’d promised them, made him forget everything except her own bewitching, intoxicating self.

  He trapped her against the books and wooden shelves and pressed his body to hers so she’d be sure to understand his desire as he deepened the kiss, ravishing her mouth as in return she instinctively moved against him. That was what drove him, knowing that she wanted this as much as he did, and he could not get enough of her. Surrounded as they were by others in the Library, he realized they could be discovered at any moment, yet that only gave an extra urgency to how he kissed her, demanding and hot and full of the need they shared.

  She whimpered with pleasure, an enticing sound that vibrated between them, but too loud for this place. Reluctantly he dragged his mouth away from hers, pressing his finger across her lips to quiet her.

  “Shhh,” he whispered. “We don’t want company.”

  Her face was flushed, feverish, and her eyes were heavy-lidded as they searched his face. “When can I see you again?”

  “You tell me,” he said.

  Her hands slid up and down over his chest, unwilling to part with him. “Sunday.”

  “Sunday?” he repeated. He hadn’t expected her to have such a ready answer. Usually he was the one who planned the details of an assignation, but the fact that she had only showed her eagerness. “Where?”

  Her breath was coming so quickly that she was nearly panting, the tops of her breasts rising and falling beneath the sheer linen of her kerchief.

  “My grandfather’s house,” she whispered, her voice husky with excitement. “He and my aunt and most of the servants will be away at church in the morning until past noon. Come to the back garden gate, and I shall let you in.”

  Damnation, but that was an invitation with a double meaning. “When?”

  She swallowed, and ran her tongue lightly across her lower lip, a simple gesture that nearly undid him.

  “Half-past nine,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for you at the gate.”

  He bent down to retrieve her fallen hat and handed it to her. He had to ask; he’d be a despicable cad if he didn’t. “You are certain you wish to do this?”

  She smiled, the daring in her eyes proof that she knew exactly what she doing. With her hair disheveled and her mouth swollen from his kisses, she looked more like some wild mountain bandit-queen than a noble-born virgin from St. James’s Square, and he’d never found her more fascinating.

  “If it is meant to happen,” she said slowly, fiercely, “then it will.”

  He smiled in return. How, really, could he not?

  “You’d toss my own words back at me, Miss Carew?”

  Never breaking her gaze from his, she twisted the loose lock of hair back into place and set her hat back onto her head, deftly tying the silk ribbon that held it in place.

  “Not so many words, Lord Geoffrey,” she said, smoothing her clothes. “There’s only one that matters.”

  “Kismet,” he said softly.

  She nodded, her smile full of longing and promise and secrets shared, even as she once again transformed herself back into a proper English lady. He’d seen her do it before, but the change still startled him.

  “Until Sunday,” she said, adding the most gracefully sweeping curtsey he’d ever seen. “Good day, Lord Geoffrey.”

  She didn’t run away from him as she had last night, but walked with her back straight and her head high and the black bows on her hat fluttering gently with each step of her red-heeled shoes. She did not turn to look back at him at the end of the aisle of tall bookshelves—to do so would risk having her aunt take notice—but she did pause and hesitate, just enough to show she wished she could.

  He hated to see her go, even with the promise of seeing her again Sunday. It wasn’t just how much he desired her, which of course he did. But that desire ran much deeper than simply wanting her in his bed. He wanted to be in her thoughts as much as she was in his. He wanted to know her secrets, and do whatever was necessary to take away the melancholy and sadness that so clear
ly haunted her. She needed him, and if that was the definition of kismet, then he’d take it.

  His family worried that he’d be responsible for the ruin of Miss Carew. That was still a possibility, even a likelihood, considering they’d be alone on Sunday. But infinitely more astonishing to Geoffrey was the realization that Miss Carew was going to ruin him.

  And he could not wait for it to happen.

  CHAPTER

  7

  “I’m sorry you found nothing new to read, Serena,” Aunt Morley said as the footman latched the carriage door shut. “Reading is a great comfort to a lady. You must not forget that.”

  “I haven’t, Aunt,” Serena said, pulling the brim of her hat lower over her eyes. She was sure that having kissed Geoffrey must show on her face, that there must be some difference to her eyes, her expression, her lips. How could such a monumental change within her not be clear to the rest of the world as well? “I still have several books at home that I’ve yet to finish.”

  “I suppose we can return to Widdicomb’s if you complete them before next week,” Aunt Morley said, placated for now. “You should, you know. Reading keeps the mind nimble.”

  “Yes, Aunt,” Serena said, her thoughts a thousand miles away from the little stack of unfinished books on the table beside her bed.

  Her dream last night had shocked her. Most nights if she dreamed of India, it was the old nightmare, the terror of it never fading, but the one last night had been the sweetest dream imaginable. Everything at Sundara Manōra was exactly as it had been, the beautiful, shimmering paradise on earth that Father had built it to be. He had been in her dream, too, as handsome and dashing as she remembered, as well as her sister, Asha. They had not changed, but in the odd way of dreams, Serena herself had been her present age, yet dressed in a flowing silk sari, her bare arms covered with gold bangles and her hair plaited in a single braid that fell heavily between her shoulder blades in the old familiar way.