by Lavinia Kent
Desire.
That was what it was and she was not afraid to face it squarely as she lay in her solitary bed. She desired Wulf, wanted him, from the depth of her womanly core. Despite his taunting words and icy stare, he made her feel small, delicate. She remembered well how dainty she felt draped across that hard chest, his sparse hairs tickling her nose, how cared for she’d felt when his arms surrounded her, drawing her tight.
She rolled on her side, staring at the dressing room door, the key still pressed tight to her lips. It was really not surprising. Only with him had she ever loosed herself to passion, therefore, only with him did passion spring unwelcome. He had been her fantasy. It should not be surprising that the reality was so . . . unsettling.
If she’d had more experience, had a more normal marriage with John – not that she objected to the one she’d had – then these unexpected tingles would not be running from the tips of her toes to the budded peaks of her breasts.
Swallowing one deep breath after another she considered the facts. She had been intimate with Major Beowulf Huntington. She had betrayed her marriage vows and she refused to regret it. She had accepted the consequences of her actions and managed to live with them. Only that next day, when she’d known Wulf’s fierce anger at her betrayal, had she felt the singe of remorse. And then she felt the child quicken in her belly – the child that could not be her husband’s – and all regret was buried in the wonder of a miracle.
She refused to feel guilt now over what could not be changed.
It was only the knowledge of the coming child that had drawn John back from darkness in those remaining years. From the moment he’d known of her pregnancy, a new vigor had taken him. He had lived years longer than expected. And, John had never questioned her, had expressed only delight in her pregnancy and then her daughter, a daughter sprung of her willingness to accept and follow her desires. She would do anything to keep her daughter safe.
She sat up in bed and drew her knees forward, wrapping her arms around them. She hugged herself tight, as for the first time in years, she deliberately sought out the memories, let herself indulge in her secret dreams.
The sun had been so hot that day, lighting fires under her skin. When she first saw him standing at the crest, felt his eyes stroke her body before rising to meet her own, saw the slow easy smile light his face as their glances caught and held, her fate had been set.
She should have fled in that instant, that moment, that second. She had sensed the danger and embraced it, caught it to her and held it tight, a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
Caring for John had worn her out. She did not begrudge him an iota of her care, her love, but didn’t know how much longer she could manage. She sat beside him most nights, watching his frail limbs writhe and stretch. She bathed him with cool water, and whispered words of comfort, but she no longer knew how many words he comprehended as he turned from her, turned from the pain of life.
She loved him so much, he had given her herself, and now he was leaving her, not suddenly but by slow degrees, as of sands being plucked and weighed in small pinches, a few grains leaking at a time. The doctors said it could be weeks or years. They did not understand why he had suddenly grown so much worse. Could there be anything more painful than watching a loved one fade, become less than himself, until only whispers of the original man remained?
That exhaustion, the inability to face the future without her beloved husband, led her to seek the inexplicable escape offered by those depthless green eyes.
Yes, she should have run the moment those eyes met hers and she smiled, before his low voice rumbled about her. She should have escaped before their fingers brushed, before his arms closed around her. Once she’d felt that hard, masculine torso pressed tight against her, it had been far too late.
In retrospect she’d justified her actions, remembered how John had always encouraged her, told her that his own increasing failings should not inhibit her further growth as a woman. She’d always demurred, laughed at the thought of even considering another man. In truth, she’d never felt temptation, or been overcome by desire for any other man. Swearing endless fidelity to her husband presented no difficulty to a woman who never even dreamt of passion.
And then, emerald lightening flashed, and she burned to the core.
They lay entwined on the ground, the bramble roses finally uprooted before them. His eyes locked with hers and one heavy, masculine hand lifted to brush a smudge from her cheek. The heat from that single, innocent touch flushed her face and sped her breath. Moisture spread against her cheek, and catching his hand between her own, she brought it before her eyes. A thin gash tore across one finger, blood welling from it. Without thought, unmindful of the dirt, she brought it to her lips and kissed it. The salty tang of his blood and the musk of his sweat filled her senses. Her eyes lifted to his again and she watched as his pupils grew large.
His finger traced her lips, leaving burning trails behind. He caressed her mouth, her cheek, the tender spot at the base of her neck, before his fingers tangled in her hair drawing her face towards his own, his hot breath whispering across her fevered flesh. At the first touch of his firm lips against hers, something melted deep within her. The inhibitions and qualms dissipated as if they had never been.
His lips trailed over hers again and again, building up a rhythm that sang in her blood. She found herself meeting him pressure for pressure, warmth for warmth, breath for breath. When his tongue first darted out to caress her mouth she drew back, startled, but in the next instant she parted her lips to his, instinct moving where knowledge could not.
The kiss was hard and fierce, beyond anything she’d known. Lips ground against teeth and tongue as fire grew and burned.
She felt his hands move down her chest, each brush of flesh on warm flesh sending further flaming arrows deep into the blaze that danced in her belly. His fingers brushed along the top of her gown, slipping beneath the sweat-dampened edge to tickle at burning flesh. Her breast swelled and tightened and ached with a fullness that took her breath away. The buttons of her gown loosened under his expert touch and a cool breeze that only fanned the flames, swept over her heated flesh, sending shivers sweeping down her body.
His lips freed from hers then, and began to trail further hot, burning kisses along her jaw line, igniting a pleasure she had never known, before whispering down her neck and across her flushed and heaving chest.
He paused, still for a moment, and her lashes lifted to look at him. He raised his eyes up to hers and they shone black with desire. His gaze lowered and she watched as he caressed her fevered skin with his eyes, his stare as deeply felt as his physical touch. Her body was alive with sensation and she knew nothing, wanted nothing but his continued touch.
He tore his gaze from her body and met her eyes again. Then, eyes locked, he slowly lowered his mouth and flicked her swollen nipple with the tip of his tongue. Her body jerked at the magnitude of the feelings that rippled through her. He licked and laved again, and again, as her eyes sank closed and her head fell back, the headiness of the sensations sending her reeling.
By the time he finally lowered his head and suckled deeply she was lost, all sense, all propriety, all decency consumed. There was nothing but him, his hot, moist mouth devouring her, the strong, masculine feel of his hands as he gathered her skirts and cupped her bottom. She could imagine no past, no future. This moment was all that existed.
“Someone’s coming.”
She missed his words the first time, only catching their meaning as those expert fingers smoothed her skirts and fixed her bodice. She lay beneath him, still quivering, as he straightened his own clothing and rose to standing.
His hands caught her own hands tight and pulled her up beside him. Her legs held, much to her surprise, and she stood there, dazed as the approaching whistle finally caught her attention.
“It’s Will.” She didn’t know where she found the voice to speak.
“Your husband?”
; It took a moment for his words to penetrate and then she turned towards him, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at his question. Her senses returned. She would have like to protest her virtue, to ask how he could think such a thing of her? But, he was correct in thought if not actuality. She did have a husband.
“No, just the lad who was giving me a hand with the bushes. He went home to take his meal.”
“Ummm, it’s not a problem, then, that your dress is muddied and your lips look unmistakably kissed. Perhaps a lad will mistake that deep flush of passion that still glows upon your skin.”
Her hand rose to her lips and paused. She could not be seen like this. She could not do that to John. No matter that he had encouraged her, urged her not to let his own incapacities hamper her own desires, this was not what he had meant. She could not bring to him the disgrace that would come from having his wife found rolling with a soldier in the mud.
She knelt beside the forgotten bramble and pulled it forward into her lap, spreading further dirt across her skirts.
“You must go. If he doesn’t see you, it will never occur to him.”
“If he’s like most lads it will definitely occur to him. Besides, isn’t it too late? Surely it will be more suspicious if he sees me fleeing.”
“No, go back up the ridge, once you’re in the woods he’ll not notice. You can even turn and come back this way. He’ll think you just arrived.”
“Does it matter so much?” His voice was harder than before.
“Yes, please, just go.”
“On one condition.”
New tremors started in her belly, where so lately passion had sprung. This could not happen. She could not have risked her whole existence for one kiss, no matter how overpowering, how unimaginable.
“Yes, anything.”
“I am staying at the inn in the village, The Two-Headed Hog. Meet me there tonight, my sweet.”
“No, I can’t.”
Without moving, his feet became more planted, more unmoving, the whistling grew closer.
“I am known. I can’t be seen there.”
“Then . . . ”
Rose filled her lungs to capacity. How had she come to this?
“There’s a hay barn, about half a mile further down the road and just past a clump of willows. I’ll meet you there at full dark.”
“As you say, my damsel.” He moved with a speed surprising in such a large man. Before she could fully turn towards him, his stride had taken him back up the rise. He mounted as one born to the saddle, and turned his horse back to the woods.
Chapter Three
Evil, deceitful women. He should have known better than to trust a single one of them. Wulf poured most of another full brandy down his throat, welcoming the deep burn. The fire in the grate glowed dimly. He knew what she was, what she was capable of doing. Why did a single meeting have him burning, swelling with desire?
Since Waterloo he’d held his emotions in check – harnessing the demons that still ravaged his soul. Tonight those reins had loosed. The long afternoon with the broken wheel had left him little reserve to fight her lure. He could not help but desire her. Unwanted fires burned when she was near. Still, he would not let her draw him into her verbal battles, again. Power was in silence and courtesy, not squabbles.
Still, she was not different than any lady, willing to twist a man to her needs and wants. He would not take all the blame. She had cast her lures well. He took the last gulp from the glass. She was fully as evil as that other, the one he only named in his nightmares, the one who’d cast him out from everything he’d known.
He refilled the glass. The heavy, sweet smell of the brandy wafted upward. His stomach lurched, but he downed the glass. He’d not been in his cups since before the blood and blackness of Waterloo, but if ever there was a night for it, this was it.
He should have refused to come. The solicitor’s secretary, Mitter, could have managed on his own. He’d just returned from the Dardenelles, or some such place. He should be ready to tackle a pile of ancient histories. Wulf had put aside scholarly interest when he’d left Oxford to take up his commission. What he’d once known could be of no help here.
But his stepfather had wanted him to do this. Lord William would never have understood a decision not to spend days pouring through musty old tomes. No, his stepfather probably thought he’d done Wulf a favor in sending him to sift through Burberry’s library. Lord William would only have thought of the pleasures of properly surveying his late friend’s collection; he would never have considered the other factors that might make such a task unpleasant.
Wulf knew he shouldn’t be here. If he’d followed his instincts, he’d be safe in London, with a good book beside him and a solitary bed to lie in. He’d be debating whether to accept the bloody bequest his uncle, the Earl of Falmouth, had left him.
Damn, he hadn’t wanted to think about that. He forced his blurred eyes to focus on the far wall.
He’d kept the legacy from his mind the whole way here.
Holly House had been his childhood home, before his father’s death. Wulf knew he didn’t deserve such a legacy – certainly not from his uncle. But the thought of its promise and memories pulled at him. It offered peace and safety, the quiet and security to rebuild his soul, a home. He’d not called a place home in decades. Still, it was not right that it should be his. He did not merit it after what he’d done. But, how could he refuse?
Bollocks. Maybe that was why he had come – exposed himself to her one more time – to put off facing the decision.
Damn her. The room spun.
He slumped on the bed and pulled at his own boots. One good thing about being a soldier, you learned to do for yourself. He’d known officers who’d always needed a hand, but no matter his own rank, he’d always managed on his own. Made life simpler.
A simple life, that was all he wanted, all he’d ever wanted. If he accepted Holly House he might even have a chance of finding it.
He tossed the boot beside the bed and yanked at the other.
Damn woman. How was he supposed to sleep, knowing she was in the same house, lying soft and warm with slumber, her eyes heavy with sleep? The memories of their passion surrounded him, pulled at him. How could he ever forget the wonder of that night?
Bloody hell. The words only reminded him of her.
Bloody, bloody hell.
He lay back upon the pillows and closed his eyes, forced his mind to focus. He must remember the truth about her, remember what she’d done to him five years before.
He remembered the way his heart had lifted when he’d gone to the hay barn and found her. She stood in a beacon of moonlight, her hair flowing loose about her. His brain had swum with poetry and the far-off memories of pagan goddesses. She had been his goddess, her white hands beckoning him to paradise – and then Hades.
But then his memory turned to Burberry’s pain-filled eyes. The admiral’s glance had darted between Wulf and Rose. Those eyes had seemed to discover secrets, to delve into every corner of Wulf’s broken soul.
Even, now the memory cut him. Rose had no right to do that to her husband, to do that to him. God, he hated ladies and their deceitful wiles.
He was tempted to walk to the door and shove it open. He’d march right up those stairs, stomp through the halls and tell her a thing or two. He’d let her know just whom she’d trifled with, show her what she’d done to him, teach her that being born a lady wasn’t an excuse to play with people like chessmen.
He sank back in the bed, his head swimming with brandy and emotion. First, his uncle’s legacy and now her . . .
And the child. Did she look like her mother? Was there anything of him in her? He barely knew her name. Lady Burberry had said . . . Anna.
The child, his child.
This time he’d see her. He’d not be denied as he had when they met at her husband’s funeral. He’d been wrong to think that leaving was the way to win. He’d actually considered finding an excuse to meet the girl in
the past, and now fate had opened the door. Damn, regardless of why he’d come, he’d stay as long as he damned well pleased. Blasted witch. He’d not dance to her tune again.
He’d get up and crash through her door, show her what a real man was, that he wasn’t to be trifled with.
Yes, just as soon as the room held still, he’d go.
###
Turning away from the morning sun, Rose straightened her spine and pasted a smile on her face as she waited for her invited guests. The wheels of an approaching carriage rattled in the distance. Her first guest was about to arrive. She ignored the pounding pain in her head, and strode toward the front door.
She felt a presence over her shoulder and, turning her head, saw Marguerite slip like a shadow to her side.
“Oh, who is it?” Marguerite said.
“I am not sure yet.”
“I am so nervous I feel like I put my skin on backwards.” Marguerite swayed from foot to foot. “I can hardly believe the number of guests who are coming. I still do not understand how you managed to put together such a list. Did you know that Lord Jason Knightly is the second son of a duke? Do you think it is his carriage? And you have two earls and a countess. That is not even mentioning the baronet. Mama would faint dead away if she imagined me in such company.”
Rose rubbed a hand down her sister’s back. Marguerite was fairly jumping with excitement. “Actually, yes, I am aware who is invited and who’s accepted. It’s lucky Tristan St. Johns, the Marquess of Wimberley, refused, or I fear you’d faint dead away.”
“Oh, you should not laugh at me so. I have never even been in the company of a nobleman, and now I am going to be meeting so many.”
Rose turned to fully face her sister, portraying a calm she did not feel. “They are just like anybody else, dearest. I fear you will be greatly disappointed – to be honest, the most imposing and attractive man I ever met was a mere mister.” Oh, how had that slipped out? “And besides, you met Burberry many times, or do you discount him?”