by Liz Carlyle
Bentley, it seemed, cared not one whit for her sentiments. With heated fingers, he slipped loose another ribbon, then ran his tongue deftly down the curve of her ear. “Ah, come, Helene,” he breathed against the damp trail of his tongue. “Revenge can be so sweet. I shan’t do anything you don’t want. And I’m not without experience, you know.”
“I do not want you to touch me like this, Bentley,” she said, her voice choking on a sob. She tried without success to throw an elbow backward into his ribs. “I thought you were a gentleman. Damn you! I thought you were my friend—!”
That did it.
Bentley’s grip relaxed, then spasmed against her skin. His hands slid down to span her waist as she felt a bone-deep shudder run through him. At once, he collapsed against her, his brow dropping to rest on the top of her head.
“Oh, God.” He rasped the words into her hair. “Helene. Oh, Helene—! What am I doing? Christ, I am sorry. So damned sorry ...”
With Bentley’s embrace now slackened, Helene managed to turn around in his arms and face him. In the dimly lit room, she could barely make out the tears which pooled in his eyes. Their gazes met, and his eyes searched hers with a pained expression, as if asking for forgiveness.
She slid her hands up between them and pushed firmly against his chest. At once, he stepped back a pace. “Oh, Bentley!” she whispered. “Do you love her so very much?”
Mutely, the young man nodded, his eyes still shimmering in the firelight. “I ... yes, I’m sure of it. I have loved Joan all my life. I realize that now. Now that it’s too late.”
Spontaneously, Helene gave his shoulders a gentle shake. “Bentley, I am so sorry. But there can be no good end to this. You cannot behave rashly, which I know is just what you are considering. Too many people will be hurt. You must be strong. Joan will be your sister and—”
“No!” he growled, cutting her off. “That I cannot bear!”
Helene leaned closer and held his painful gaze. Gently, she brushed one thumb across his cheek to wipe away the last trace of his tears. “But you can, Bentley,” she gently whispered. “One has no notion of just what the heart can bear until you are faced with—”
Her words were cut short as the door that connected to the study came hurtling inward. Abruptly, Helene jerked her hand from Bentley’s cheek.
Cam stood framed in the open doorway, a candelabrum held aloft in one hand. Backlit by the flickering glow from his study, the man looked like Satan stepping from the gates of hell. If Bentley had looked dissolute, then Cam looked ... malevolent.
Helene watched Cam’s eyes take in the scene before him. Mute shock, then obvious rage, swept over the harsh lines of his face. “What the devil is going on in here?” he whispered, his voice slicing through the silence like a knife.
“I ... I forgot my book,” stammered Helene, trying to will her voice to be steady as she pushed Bentley away from her. Cam trod slowly into the room, his footsteps sounding impossibly loud on the thickly carpeted floor.
“A book ...?” he echoed, his eyes flat and black in the candlelight as he came inexorably toward them.
“I ... yes. A b-book,” Helene stammered, acutely aware of her disordered nightclothes. “I was reading a book earlier, and I came downstairs to retrieve it. I am afraid I disturbed Bentley. He ... he was still awake.”
Cam drew to a halt before them, the candelabrum still held high. His eyes slid down Helene, taking in her hair, her nightgown, her robe. The look he turned on his brother was grim and emotionless. His words, however, were not.
“This time,” Cam whispered lethally, “you go too far. Get out. Get out of this room. Get out of my house. Before I fucking kill you.”
“Now just you see here, Cam!” said Bentley, lifting an unsteady hand. “This is not what you think! I was ... was just ... Helene was trying to—”
“Get out. And God damn you.” Cam’s voice was chilling.
As she clawed her disheveled clothing closer, Helene felt a trembling begin deep in the pit of her belly. Against the skin of her throat, her own fingers felt like ice. “Go, Bentley,” she whispered uncertainly, laying her free hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine. Go to up bed now. We’ll sort this out tomorrow.”
Bentley exhaled sharply as if he meant to argue, and then quickly thought better of it. Abruptly, he spun on one heel and crossed toward the door that led into the hall.
15
Though this be madness, there’s method in’t
Cam did not bother to observe his brother’s withdrawal. Bentley’s inebriation was no longer of concern to him. He, too, had imbibed more than was wise, but he was beyond that, as well. Instead, he stared down at Helene’s shoulder, still half-bared.
Good Lord—did they take him for a fool? But even the worst sort of fool—the besotted sort, the sort he was—could see what must have been about to happen here. Here. In his own home. His own blood. With the woman he needed above all things.
But surely, Helene would not ...
Yet she had been caressing Bentley’s face. His aunt’s words of warning came back to torment him. Words which he would have sworn were half exaggerations, half outright lies. No, damn it—mostly lies. Still, wild, irrational thoughts began to scatter and whirl through his mind like dried leaves in a windstorm. His hand shook as he watched the light of the candles play across her flawless ivory skin. So beautiful, so tempting. Always.
In confusion, he clutched the metal awkwardly, and a drop of wax spilled onto his wrist. The molten weight of it reminded him yet again that Helene’s blood, too, ran hot and tempestuous. That it could burn a man, and burn him badly. Yet she had spurned him. And for what? For a milksop like Lowe, who had nonetheless found the courage to do what Cam had not?
Surely she did not want Bentley, who had the body of a man, the morals of a libertine, and the restraint of a child? Surely she had no need for the mindless devotion of another young suitor? Someone she could precipitously lead down the path to emotional ruin, as she had very nearly done with him? And perhaps could still do, did she but know the truth of it.
The horrible truth stuck in his throat like a shard of glass. Yes, Helene had just that kind of influence over him. Briefly, he closed his eyes and shook his head. But the vision of Helene remained, still clutching her disheveled nightclothes to her throat. Rage boiled up again, cutting through the pain. Helene could not possibly have been a willing participant to this farce. But why had she not screamed?
Slowly, inexorably, Cam watched his hand reach out to draw the fabric away from her collarbone. His fingers seemed to belong to a different man now. Surprisingly, Helene just stared at him as he jerked back her robe, her lovely eyes now wide and dark. Utterly uncomprehending. Cam let his eyes rake over her, enjoying the way she swallowed in response to the heat of his stare.
“Cam, this was not what it seemed,” she whispered hollowly.
“Did he mean to force you, Helene?” The cold, distant voice was not his own, yet he willed her to say yes.
When she did not speak, Cam fisted his hand in the fabric of her wrapper and jerked her close. “Damn it, tell me the truth!” He bit out the words. “Do not protect him!”
She licked her lips uncertainly, obviously measuring her response. “Not force,” she finally answered, jerking her gaze from his. “And whatever it was, it is my concern. Now let me go.”
Her concern?
Oh, no. It was a great deal more than that.
Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, Cam took in the mocking symbolism of her attire. White, white lawn. The fabric of purity. The color of innocence. In his wanton dreams of their heated matings, Helene came to him sheathed in jewel-toned silks of red and green and gold; seductive fabrics that slid sinuously up her thighs as she mounted him, then impaled herself onto his shaft.
In those dreams, Helene was forever compelling him toward a blind precipice; pushing him beyond what he understood, and over an emotional edge he found terrifying. But now, he seemed to hold her in his t
hrall. Deep in the pools of her eyes, he could see some foreign emotion flickering. She licked her lips again, the tip of her tongue darting out to lightly touch one corner of her mouth.
In response, Cam slid the robe from her opposite shoulder, and watched it puddle onto the rug, feeling strangely detached as he did so. One plump breast swelled forth, the pouting nipple almost revealed by the open ribbons of her gown. Quite deliberately, he reached out and twined one ribbon about his index finger, then jerked it down to fully expose her to his gaze.
Roughly, he drew the length of his callused hand over her nipple, watching as Helene’s eyes dropped shut. Strangely, he had expected—no, had wanted—to be slapped senseless for his effrontery. But Helene was doing nothing. Her delicate nostrils flared wide. Was she afraid? Or was it something else?
Ummm ... The low, hungry growl came from deep in his own throat.
Suddenly, something inside him snapped. Good God, he was no better than his brother. He jerked his hand away. It hovered, for one brief moment, at the beautiful turn of her jaw. No! He would not do it. Still clutching the candlestick, he bent carelessly to the rug and snatched up her wrapper.
“Go to your room, Helene,” he rasped, shoving it at her. “Please. Just get out. Before I simply take what Bentley apparently wanted.”
And then, Helene was gone.
The door gaped open in her wake, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. Muttering one last guttural oath, Cam slammed down the candelabrum with a violence that sent one of the flickering candles rolling across the sideboard. As the drowning wick sputtered its last, Cam snatched up another bottle of brandy from the table, pitching its cork into the hearth.
By three in the morning, it had become all too apparent to Cam that liquor would subdue neither his lust nor his self-loathing. His aunt’s ugly words kept echoing in his head, tormenting him. Yet the vision of Helene all but caught in his brother’s embrace was torture beyond even that.
By the time the mantel clock struck half past, Cam made up his mind. Nothing had changed. She was going to be his, one way or another. And by God, he meant to have answers from her! Helene was going to explain her intentions toward ... toward whom? Himself? His brother? Lowe? He hardly knew.
Jerking from his chair, Cam strode down the hall and up the two flights of stairs. Dimly aware of what he meant to do, Cam turned into the corridor, and within three strides, reached Helene’s room and wrenched open the door. Surprisingly, no force was necessary. The door swung inward on silent hinges, and shut just as quietly.
Cam padded across the carpet in his stocking feet and stared down at the bed. Despite a fire that had burned to a heap of flickering coals, Helene lay uncovered in the coolness of the room, her bed linen in tortured disarray. Her long, dark tresses fanned loosely across the pillow, making Cam shudder with need. His angry questions receded into lust.
Ah, God—! How long had it been since he had run his hands through Helene’s thick hair? Too long. Too bloody long. And the infernal woman was more seductive in sleep than by the light of day. He placed his tumbler of brandy upon her night table and dropped into a crouch bedside the bed, careful not to wake her.
Cam let his gaze slide over her. Helene lay partially upon her back, her arms open, her breasts high and nearly bared by the ribbons she had not bothered to refasten. In her flowing white nightgown, she looked like a painting of an angel—a dark, bewitching angel—descending from the heavens into the midst of some cloud-filled medieval altarpiece. But dear God, her swollen eyes. The evidence of her crying still stained their corners.
The throat of her nightgown looked damp, as if tears had flowed unchecked. Anger flashed anew as Cam thought of his brother’s vile fingers touching her, exposing her flesh to his view. Damn him! How dare he?
The fact that it was more likely his unchecked anger, and not Bentley’s lustful hands, that had caused her to cry escaped him in that moment. Helene’s right knee was pulled high and bent inward, rucking up the thin white lawn of her gown to mid-thigh. Greedily, Cam let his eyes trail up her leg.
In the hearth, a coal snapped and flared to life, bathing Helene’s exposed flesh in a peach-gold light. She murmured restlessly, and rolled a little farther toward him, the neckline of her gown dragging lower still, to coyly unveil the tip of one full breast. It was an elegantly indecent pose.
Cam’s fingers yearned to skim up her inner leg, to drag the fabric higher. Uncertainly, he reached forward, then yanked his hand back as if stung. No! He would not seduce her while she slept, only to have her wake, tousled and aching, yet uncertain whose touch had inflamed her. When he aroused Helene—and took her, swift and hard—she would know that it was he who did so. He was tired of the wanting and wanting, the ceaseless yearning for something he could not have.
Only a few short weeks ago, Helene had writhed in his arms with an uninhibited passion few women possessed. Somehow, he would unleash that emotion again. Yes, he would please himself, and he would please her. And this time, when he was done, he would leave her so sated, Helene would never again think of another.
It mattered not one whit that he had been so long apart from her that he could not know her preferences, what made her sigh with pleasure, how she liked to be taken. He knew the things that did matter: the taste of her skin, the sound of her need, the scent of her arousal. His own sensory hell.
Yes, he would have her. He would convince her. His hands shook with the lust and the shame of it. Still on his knees, Cam dipped his fingers into his glass, still half-filled with brandy. Touching his fingertips to her nipple, he watched it swell and harden as he laved it with the golden moisture. In her sleep, Helene answered by turning into his touch, her mouth parting, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
Smoothly, he rose and pulled the gown lower, fully exposing her to his view. Dipping into the sweet liquid again, he massaged the fluid into her other nipple, watching as it crested with need. Then bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders, he bent down to suckle, licking away the moisture, rasping her delicate skin with his beard, then drawing her deep into the warmth of his mouth.
To his shock, Helene rolled fully onto her back, and her warm hands came up to cradle his head. Beyond his line of sight, he could hear her foot begin to slide restlessly down the covers and back up again, like a cat seeking the pleasure of a stroke. “Ahh ... mmm, Cam, mon amant,” she murmured drowsily.
He was stunned by her words. And then, she jerked awake, bolting up in bed.
Cam jerked upright. With a soft cry, Helene scrambled backward, pulling into a near crouch against the head-board, dragging her nightclothes together to hide her nakedness. In the firelight’s glow, her eyes were wide and angry.
“Take off your clothes, Helene,” he said, trying to suppress the tremor in his voice. “I swear, I just can’t take it any longer.” In the dark, he heard her gasp as he stripped off his already loosened neckcloth and let it slither onto the floor.
“Non!” she said softly, extending her hand, palm out, as if she might hope to hold him off. “No! Who do you think you are? Get out!”
“Oh, Helene,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I have grown so weary of this game we play. You were meant for me. Now take off your clothes.”
He wanted to watch, he realized, his fingers abruptly ripping loose his shirttail. He wanted to see Helene, shaking with uncertainty, as she stripped just for him. Power. Yes, he wanted power over Helene Middleton. The power to make her tremble beneath him. And the power to make her beg.
It was not his way, he knew. That such a desire was wrong—possibly even demented—he knew that, too. But somehow, he just did not care. It was as if something within him had finally snapped under the pressure of wanting her. A lifetime of aching. Years of furiously spending himself inside other women, only to rise apathetically from a cold, unfamiliar bed, appeased yet unsatisfied, time and again.
It was time to make Helene ache as he did. This time, it would be he who dragged her into his scheme; an intrigue
infinitely more dangerous than anything the young and reckless Helene had ever devised. He would take her with his fingers, his tongue, and with his shaft, until she had been driven mad with pleasure.
“I cannot believe you would dare to come into my room,” she whispered. “I’ve had quite enough of your insults.”
“Not so very long ago, you did not find my touch insulting,” he answered bitterly. “Tell me, Helene, have I grown too old and obdurate to take to your bed? Have you come to prefer a more lighthearted sort of lover?”
Angrily, she shook her head. “What I find insulting is a man who offers carte blanche while betrothed to another!” Helene came to her knees, the white nightgown pooling eerily about her on the bed. Unlike her words, she seemed small and delicate in the firelight. “As to what sort of lover I prefer, it is none of your business. What you saw was not what it seemed.”
“Was it not?” he asked hollowly, running one hand down to bare her shoulder.
“No! Bentley is ... is ...” She shook her head, and slapped away his hand. “He is distraught, and not thinking clearly. He is disturbed by the news of your marriage.”
“Oh, is that what he told you?” returned Cam, his voice soft with disdain. “When I remarry, it might indeed prove inconvenient to him. But his worry is precipitous. I have spoken to my aunt. I shan’t wed to please her, nor to please anyone but myself. I’m bloody tired of martyring myself for this damned family.”
Helene was clearly struggling to understand his words. “But we saw ... Bentley thought ...”
Cam threw back his head and laughed richly. “Oh, indeed! Was he thinking, my dear? With his cock, perhaps. As I daresay I am now.”
“You disgust me, Cam,” she hissed.
“I think you lie,” he said softly, brushing the back of his hand across her nipple and watching it grow taut with need.
Ruthlessly, she yanked up the neck of her gown. “Get out now, before you do something that cannot be undone. You are as pathetically drunk as your brother.”