A savory dish. Smooth, warm, sensual, alive with the flavor of coffee and grapes…and Wynter. Her eyes slid closed again as she sampled his breath in her mouth. She wanted to moan with delight. Then she wanted to moan because his tongue skimmed along her teeth. Shocking.
She was shocked. She really was.
"Charlotte." He spoke without moving his head away, as if he couldn't bear to part from her, and his lips moved beneath hers. "Kiss me."
"I am." Maybe, maybe if she didn't lift her head, didn't allow herself a moment of sanity, she could remain on top of him, her hands kneading the muscles and sinews of his bare shoulders.
"More." His voice was guttural, demanding, but his caresses in her hair, along her spine remained gentle and tender.
More? Ah, she knew, or rather, she could guess what he wanted. Ignoring the flutter of good sense within her enfeebled brain, she leaned into him yet further, and slowly slid her tongue into his mouth.
He groaned as if pierced through the heart. His arms tightened on her, and the pleasure of being in his embrace opened her like a rose to the spring sun's caress. Her arms went around his neck, her fingers slid into his hair…and her legs opened around his thighs.
Later, she blushed at her impetuosity, but now it felt right. Her heart pumped in a smooth, strong rhythm, her blood sang with sybaritism and her tongue slid against his like a maiden dancing her first waltz. If this was temptation, then no wonder so many women fell beneath its allure. She liked kissing. She adored having a man beneath her, not seducing but seduced. She loved his hands, one petting the side of her face, one firmly stroking her back and shoulder.
His knee rose, pressing between her legs. The material of her skirt and starched petticoats crinkled, and the pressure made her breath catch. Head swimming, she lifted herself above him and stared down into his face—and realized he had deceived her. Each touch, each caress, had been strong and controlled, but his brown eyes kindled with fire and a flush colored his tanned cheeks a ruddy crimson.
He wanted her. He wanted her badly.
Imagine that. A man, and he wanted her enough to give her a tumble.
Sanity returned in a rush. This was nothing special. There was no magic at work here. Men were always seducing governesses. She jerked herself free and rolled from the cushions, landing with an audible thump and a vague thought of bruising on the morrow.
"Charlotte." He grabbed for her.
She rose and backed away. "No! No, my lord." Her hair tumbled half out of its chignon. "This is what I feared. This proves I was right."
"Right?" He crouched among the cushions and stared at her through narrowed eyes. "What do you fear?"
"We must not allow ourselves to become familiar. You insisted on telling me about your life, and you insisted I tell you about mine."
He half rose. "I somehow think there is more to your life than the inkling you allowed me, Lady Miss Charlotte."
"No!" She backed away again, rubbing her forehead with her palm. "There's nothing more that you need to know, and we must never permit ourselves to be alone again for fear of repeating our folly."
"I can almost promise we will repeat our folly, as you call it."
"Never. I will tell Lady Ruskin"—Charlotte's voice trembled alarmingly—"that I can no longer be your governess."
He didn't say anything for the longest time. For so long, she forced her hand away from her eyes and steeled herself to look at him.
He wasn't watching her. He had relaxed back on his cushions and was staring into the fire as if the flames could give him answers. "You needn't bother my mother with this. I agree—maybe it would be best if we no longer played the role of student and governess."
Did he mean…oh, heavens, did he mean she was discharged? She stared at him and tried to form the inquiry into words, but all her courage had evaporated. If she was dismissed, tomorrow would be soon enough to know. With one last glance at his serious expression, she fled.
Wynter finally rose from his cushions, stretched and wished the Bedouins hadn't been so moral a people. Five years without a woman was a very long time, and such abstinence was putting a strain on his normal good nature…especially now that he'd determined who his next wife would be.
Charlotte. Lady Miss Charlotte. A virgin of good breeding with an impeccable reputation. A woman with no family to tear her apart with conflicting loyalties. She would be his wife and the mother of his children, and she would dedicate herself to his happiness. Just as it should be.
He smiled as he gathered her leavings—the book, and the shoes which she so self-consciously removed every evening. He would return them—when she returned to teach him again.
Unfortunate that women in England had the right to refuse a man. A vile arrangement, in his opinion, especially now when his hunting instinct had been subdued by his mating instinct.
Striding into his bedroom, he stomped his feet into his riding boots and headed downstairs.
His first wife had not required a courtship such as Englishwomen demanded; indeed, his first wife had made her needs clear when she sneaked into his tent and slept at his feet. It had been a bold move, for he could have rejected her. She would have been branded a whore and cast out of the tribe. Yet Dara had chosen her mark wisely. He had wed her. He had taken in her dying mother. He had had children with her.
As Wynter descended the stairway, the footman straightened from his station in the corridor and moved toward the outer door to open it.
On the terrace, Wynter took a breath of the fresh, dark, cool air. Barakah had always told him he had the eyes of a hawk, and it was true. As Wynter strode to the stables, he sensed and saw all that moved in the air and on the ground, and each footstep fell firmly. A good night for riding—and remembering.
He'd never loved his wife, but, Barakah had told him, love was a Western delusion. A real man did not love his woman. A man lived with his woman, he allowed his woman to pleasure him and in turn pleasured his woman, he ate what his woman cooked and listened when his woman scolded. But a real man found his fellowship among dogs, horses and other men.
Wynter had discovered all that to be true, but when Dara had died, he mourned her sincerely. He had lost a wife who was not only a good cook and an accomplished scold, but a shrewd helpmate and a good mother. More, he had lost the anchor which tied him to the tribe.
The night sky glimmered with stars. The stables were lit by a single lamp, and as Wynter entered he waved at the hostler who worked by its light.
"Back again, m'lord?" Fletcher called.
"Yes." Wynter went to his mount and allowed the stallion to sniff him, then entered the stall and stroked the mighty animal. He'd had to leave his favorite horse in El Bahar, and although this creature was in its way as mighty and spirited, still Wynter mourned the loss of Jabir, just as he mourned the loss of his friends and a way of life so free and vigorous it had made a man of him.
On her deathbed, his wife had told him that when Barakah died he would have to leave. She had been right. In the next four years, Barakah had become infirm, and one night he had escaped into the desert and nobly welcomed his death. The new leader, young, intolerant and a native man of the tribe, had considered Wynter a threat. Yet knowing the trials his children would face in England, Wynter had tried to stay.
Leading Mead out of the stall, Wynter accepted the bridle from Fletcher and worked it into Mead's mouth. Gathering the reins, he leaped onto the animal's back.
"Ye've got a way wi' th' beasties, m'lord." As always, Fletcher held an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. "Hardly ever seen the like."
Wynter was not so foolish as to dismiss Fletcher's praise as flattery. The gnarled hostler had been in charge of the stables for as long as Wynter could remember, and Wynter valued his opinion.
Moreover, Wynter knew it was true. He did have a way with horses—and camels, although he doubted he'd ever find a use for that skill again—and he thanked God for the affinity he had for the noble creatures. "My children hav
e the way, also."
"Aye. That I know." Fletcher nodded, then turned to his work. " 'Tis a good night for a gallop, m'lord."
Wynter urged Mead outside and walked him through the paddocks, taking care to avoid those enclosures where the mares were gathered. Mead was a lusty stallion. Wynter noted the kinship between them.
Stewart's letter had arrived in El Bahar, and it told Wynter of his mother's business problems. Wynter had had to recover from his astonishment, for he still couldn't comprehend how his mother, as shrewd as any person he had ever known, had come to such a pass. But he had begun his plans to leave.
None too soon. The new leader made demands Wynter could never fulfill. When the caravan had ended in the port of El Wajh, the little family had slipped away.
The return to England encompassed all the difficulties Wynter had foreseen, and more. All except in relation to this woman, this Charlotte. What man could have imagined a woman like her, filled with virtue, stuffed with learning, and blessed with a dimpled chin, an upturned nose and a body that brought tears to his eyes if he contemplated it for too long? He had seen better bodies beneath the swirling veils of the dancing girls, but Charlotte's body looked right. It looked as if it would fit.
This woman would not sleep at his feet. This woman understood almost nothing of the skills Eastern girls imbibed with their mothers' milk. So she was surprised at his passion, horrified at her own and did not accept the fire between them with any amount of grace.
In short, Wynter would have to court her. He grimaced. It could be done, of course. Like mares, women were easily led if offered the right enticement. But how much better when a woman accepted a man's wishes without such an arduous process!
Before he gave Mead his head, he turned and looked at the house, trying to find the window lit by Charlotte's candle and hoping she was finding the discomfort in her body as acute as he found the discomfort in his.
The drapes were drawn on most of the upstairs windows. He could catch no glimpse of the red-haired and difficult lady, although he longed to see her, even from a distance. But he did see lamps flickering on the third floor where the servants were housed, and above that…His eyes widened.
A light moved slowly across the attic.
Very dangerous to have a lit flame up there, and there was no reason. If they had so many servants they could no longer find them chambers on the third floor, then they needed less servants, and so he would tell the housekeeper tomorrow morning.
Tonight he had desire to abate, and so he would ride.
CHAPTER 14
Arm in arm with his mother, Wynter strolled into Lady Howard's crowded soiree.
"Strictly speaking, you shouldn't be here, since you haven't received an invitation." Adorna wiggled her fingertips at an acquaintance.
"Lady Miss Charlotte would not approve." After more than a week of nightly lessons, he knew that much, and more. Much, much more. He knew Charlotte's breath was sweet, her body firm and lush. He knew she wanted him, and knew she didn't comprehend how dangerous that wanting could be or how far it could lead her. He knew that when he took her—
"Charlotte is a good girl, but she's a governess. A governess without a reputation is a governess unemployed." Adorna smiled into the milling crowd in the Howard drawing room. The long, large chamber buzzed with conversation, the scent of candles mixed with a hundred colognes, and many appreciative glances followed in Adorna's wake—and in Wynter's also. "In truth, I hadn't planned to reintroduce you to society until the Sereminian reception, but if that wretched Lady Howard thinks to dine out on the tales of your barbarity all season, she will have me to contend with. We shall give her this occasion to face you, and a chance to feed on her own putrid gossip."
He noted that while his mother seethed like a tigress defending her cub, she didn't deny his barbarity. "If this does not work?"
"Then I've lost my touch."
"And have you?"
She turned her amused gaze to his. "No, but I had toyed with the thought of calling in Aunt Jane and Uncle Ransom. Unfortunately, Uncle Ransom took Aunt Jane to Italy to view the artwork."
Wynter dredged a bit of gossip out of his memory. "I believe last time Uncle Ransom took Aunt Jane to Italy to view the artwork, she came back increasing."
"That was a long time ago, and Aunt Jane said it was the direct result of viewing Michaelangelo's David." Adorna's blue eyes rounded. "It must be a very impressive statue."
"I have heard that it is."
Adorna pondered the powers of such a statue, then shrugged a dimity-covered shoulder. "They would be annoyed at having to come back, but they'll do it for you."
Wynter recalled his alternately fond and fearsome memories of his uncle Ransom. And Aunt Jane, for all her distracted artist's air, could call down the wrath of hell when she chose. "I would hate to be Lady Howard facing them when they're annoyed."
"It's almost worth calling them in just to watch." Adorna burbled with pleasure.
Wynter realized she loved this: the social whirl, the games, the constant challenges to her supremacy. Adorna skated atop the scandal broth as lightly as a fairy.
He—he was more like Uncle Ransom. He could go to Austinpark Manor and be satisfied to raise his children, ride his horses and take lessons from Charlotte. Lessons that had nothing to do with her beloved etiquette.
Every day he came into London, visiting the clubs, the prizefighting parlors, the theater. Anywhere his board of directors might be, there Wynter went and put on an act of indolence and stupidity unmatched in thespian circles. He smiled foolishly at Shilbottle, slapped Hodges on the shoulder, wagered with Sir Drakely and downed a bottle with Read. And when he had asked enough foolish questions that he had them convinced of his idiocy, he went to the office and checked their work.
Still he couldn't yet pinpoint the bastard who, in Wynter's absence, had been draining money from the firm. Now it was worse than that. Now the books showed an occasional, unexplainable increase. He understood embezzling, but why would someone put money into the business? Was it being done to confuse any auditor? Or did it signal the fear his return had caused?
His mother urged him to take Cousin Stewart into his confidence. Stewart knew more about the business than anyone, she said, and wasn't it Stewart who had sent the letter that had reached him at last? The one that told him about the confusion of finances and begged him to come home?
But to Wynter's way of thinking, Cousin Stewart had reason to resent Wynter's intrusion, perhaps even more than the others. Wynter trusted no one. He had abandoned Adorna at his father's death and left her to deal with the business, so this he must do—set a trap and catch the culprit.
As he had already set the trap to catch Charlotte. He had spent hours working on it so far, and all for one small kiss.
Ah, but those hours were time well spent, for in that one kiss he had tasted the desire, doubt and dreaminess of an untouched maiden. He doubted that Lady Miss Charlotte fully comprehended how her life was about to change, and so much to the better.
"Wynter, I want you to meet Lady Smithwick," Adorna said. "You remember playing with her children at Fairchild Manor, don't you?"
He did, and a more raucous bunch he'd never met. "Lady Smithwick." Taking her hand, he bowed low and raised her fingers to his lips, taking care to give her his best smile.
Lady Smithwick was about his mother's age, but she hadn't aged well. Fat smoothed the lines from her face, and she jiggled when she giggled. She giggled now, and blushed up to her hairline and down to her bosom. "Adorna, you didn't tell me little Wynter had grown up to be such a handsome devil."
Adorna tapped her cohort on the arm with her fan. "But surely you heard the rumors."
Lady Smithwick's blue eyes bulged. "Well…yes. Do you mean to say they're true?"
"That he's become a barbarian?" Adorna laughed softly. "The sort of barbarian who breaks a lady's heart without even trying."
He knew without being told he should play to his mother's coachi
ng. Ducking his head with simulated boyish allure, he cast upon Lady Smithwick a smoldering look which admired and seduced.
Lady Smithwick clapped her hand over her heart. "Yes. I see. Would you wait here?" Her gaze clung to his. "My daughter is quite lovely. Young. A maiden. I'll bring her to meet you." Pointing toward his feet, she commanded, "Stay here. Don't leave."
Adorna watched her scurry through the crowd and, ignoring her instruction, led him farther into the chamber. "Martha, how good to see you. Your cap is divine. Lady Declan, I can tell by your air of savoir faire that you have just returned from the continent. Why, Lord Andrew, you've gone and grown up!" She fluttered her lashes at the young man. "How handsome you are. Come, dears, and meet my son. It's so thrilling to have him home at last. He has been quite the world traveler, you know. He…" Her voice faltered, then returned. "He has so many tales to tell. Wynter, why don't you tell them?"
Wynter sought the cause of her disquiet and saw Bucknell on the fringes of the gathering crowd, watching Adorna and frowning.
What was the matter with the man? If he loved Adorna, why didn't he take her? His mother had certainly indicated her willingness.
"Tell them about…" Adorna tugged him down to her level, then said, "You've got to keep them enthralled until Lady Howard arrives. We need her to scotch the rumors that are destroying your reputation." She drew away as if she'd imparted a suggestion for a story.
Wynter smiled and nodded. He wanted Lady Howard here, too, but for a different reason.
Looking around at his audience of wide-eyed ladies and jaded men, Wynter knew he could keep them entertained. With every intention of fabricating a whopping lie, he said, "My adventures are so slight as to be almost negligible. Saving an English ship by fighting off a shipload of pirates is not so great an accomplishment."
"Lord Ruskin, this is my daughter, Miss Fairchild." Lady Smithwick had returned with the most gorgeous blond girl Wynter had ever seen. She was exquisite, she was smiling at him—and she left him cold.
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