Standing in front of the gold-veined marble fireplace, the warmth of the small fire that burned there casting out the chill of the day, she faced him, hoping he did not guess the turmoil inside of her.
He stopped just a few feet from her and repeated his question. “So? What are you going to tell the vicar and the others?”
“The truth,” she said. A challenge in her gaze, she added, “I will tell them that Mrs. Darby put on the most amazing show of magic that we had ever seen. It was quite breathtaking and worthy of anything we had ever seen in London.”
“And is Mrs. Darby going to say the same?” Charles asked, suspicious about Daphne’s interest in the occult. What he had seen last night had been astounding, but he still had trouble convincing himself that he had seen a ghost. But while he wasn’t entirely easy about it, Charles knew that he had, indeed, seen some sort of ghostly manifestation…and he didn’t believe in bloody spirits! If he did, he thought grimly, he’d have been haunted these past few years by the ugly shade of his not-so-beloved stepmother and please don’t forget, dear half brother Raoul. No, if anyone had had to deal with vengeful spirits, he would have been the lucky fellow. Yet, he’d admit, that he’d seen the ghost of wicked Sir Wesley last night, or something doing a damn good imitation. What troubled him most about the whole peculiar affair, however, was Daphne’s involvement in it. She was the one who had contacted Mrs. Darby. Why?
Charles could not shake the feeling that Daphne knew more than she was telling anyone. She might claim listening to ancestral legends was more exciting than dry-as-dust family accounts, but he suspected that she had an express purpose for seeking out Mrs. Darby and for wanting to hear what most people would dismiss as bedtime stories to entertain children. Had she known what would happen? Had she been expecting such a spectacular occurrence? He didn’t think so. Unless he missed his guess, she had been surprised as anyone by the apparition, yet he had the feeling that she hadn’t been as surprised. Whatever his bride-to-be was up to, it was obvious that she wasn’t ready to show her hand right now, and he found himself irritated by her reticence. He was going to be her husband, for God’s sake! Didn’t he have a right to know?
When Daphne remained silent, Charles said with an edge to his voice, “It isn’t a difficult question, my dear. Is Mrs. Darby going to say the same thing?”
Daphne shrugged, wishing he’d leave the subject alone. “I don’t know. I suppose so. If you remember, it wasn’t something we discussed last night. And according to Mrs. Hutton, Mrs. Darby left at first light, so I didn’t have a chance to speak with her this morning.”
“What about Goodson or Mrs. Hutton? Did you find out how much they know about what happened?”
“Good heavens, no!”
Charles looked thoughtful. “I’m sure that Adrian and April were not as circumspect as we have been and that several members of the household have heard some version of what happened last night by now, including Goodson and Mrs. Hutton, even if they have not said anything to you.” He smiled faintly. “I’ll wager a pretty penny that Miss Ketty wasted no time in letting Goodson know about his sister’s reprehensible antics and commiserating with him on the cross he has to bear for having such a dis-reputable relative.”
“I fear you are right, and since she is spending the morning with Mrs. Hutton going over which rooms are in need of refurbishing before the guests for our wedding start arriving, I am sure she will talk of little else.” She hesitated, her breath catching at the idea that in a few weeks, he would be her husband with command over her body, her very life, in fact. It was terrifying and equally exciting, but she was anxious about every facet of their coming union. She thought she trusted his word not to separate her from April and Adrian or to treat them badly. Certainly, he had done nothing since their betrothal to make her think ill of him. He had been most agreeable, undeniably charming, but he was still an unknown quantity, and she knew that cruelty sometimes wore a handsome face…
She didn’t want to dwell on that fact, and forcing her mind onto the subject at hand, she said, “At least Ketty believes it was a magic show so that is what she will have told Goodson and the others. And Goodson is not likely to disabuse her of that notion. I feel the same is true of Mrs. Hutton, whatever they may think privately.”
Charles was only half listening. His attention on Daphne herself and not what she was saying, he thought that she looked very pretty as she stood by the fire. Her gleaming black hair was caught up in a pink and green plaid ribbon, her cheeks delicately flushed, and the high waist of her muslin gown, adorned with a matching plaid ribbon tied in a charming bow just beneath her breasts, drew the eye to her firm little bosom. At least, it drew Charles’s eye, and he could not look away. His gaze riveted on those gently curved mounds, and ghosts and other such mundane thoughts vanished from his mind. All he could think of was apples…tart, delicious apples. He could taste their sweetness in his mouth, feel their firmness on his tongue, and between his legs, a certain portion of his body sprang to attention.
He wanted, he realized, most desperately to kiss her and feel her slender body molded to his, and he was appalled at the calculated thoughts that shifted swiftly through his brain. Adrian and April were gone for most of the day. Miss Ketty was upstairs busy with Mrs. Hutton. Goodson would not intrude unless someone came to call, and no callers were expected. The likelihood of any interruption was so remote that it didn’t bother consideration. They were alone. The door was shut—he’d shut it himself…with seduction in mind?
Furious with himself, he tore his gaze away from those tempting little breasts, fighting his baser instincts, but instincts far stronger and a great deal more base and ruthless than he had ever thought possible controlled him. He swore under his breath even as he moved toward her. He knew he was acting like a randy satyr, but he could not stop himself from reaching for her and pulling her into his arms. She gave a startled squeak, and then his mouth closed over hers, and except for the crackle of the fire, there was no sound in the room for several seconds.
He kissed her long and hard, his tongue claiming her mouth, his lips warm and urgent against hers. Daphne didn’t fight him—she couldn’t, her entire body blooming with delight at the first touch of his mouth, the first demanding thrust of his tongue. She opened to him, resistance never crossing her mind, her slim body melting into his, feeling and reveling in his rigid member pressing so insistently, so intimately into her.
Liquid fire flowed through her body, igniting desires over which she had no command. Her head fell back against his arm, allowing him greater access, her fingers caressing his cheek, the thick black hair that grew near his temple. And when his hand closed round her breast, kneading the fullness, teasing the nipple with his fingers, her legs trembled, and at the junction of her thighs, she felt swollen and needy.
Kissing her as if he would die if he did not, Charles pushed down the front of her gown, almost shaking with pleasure when her breasts popped free and his hand and fingers touched bare, naked flesh. The urge to find out if she tasted as sweet as his imagination drove him to drop his mouth to her breasts.
The taste, texture, and scent of her was more intoxicating than anything he could ever remember in his life, and a groan of pure bliss escaped him as his teeth and tongue explored the soft, satiny expanse of her bosom. She smelled like a lavender heaven, the taste of her as sweet and potent as apple brandy. She was perfect. And she was his.
Drunk with desire, Charles swung Daphne up into his arms and carried her to the nearest sofa. He laid her on the sofa and knelt down on the floor next to her, struggling against the urge to rip her clothes from her body and have her laid bare before him like a feast before a starving man.
With huge, shimmering blue-green eyes, Daphne regarded him, trapped so tightly in the scarlet web of passion that she could not deny him anything. His fingers trailed across her naked breasts, and she arched up, feeling as if she had been stroked by fire. And when his mouth descended and he suckled her nipples, h
er lower body clenched with such a powerful yearning that she cried out, shocked by her body’s response.
Lifting his head from the rosy nipple that had mesmerized him, Charles breathed against her mouth. “Shush, my love. Did I hurt you? I did not mean to.”
“No! You didn’t hurt me,” gasped Daphne, alarmed that he might stop kissing and touching her. “I never…I never expected…”
But her cry resonated through him and staring down at her on the sofa, recognizing the wonder, the innocence in her face, unwelcome sanity trickled into his brain, awakening him to precisely what he was doing. Reluctantly, he lifted his mouth from hers, his body one long, sensuous ache of unfulfillment. He wanted as he never had wanted anything else before to free himself from his breeches and possess her. He still could. She was willing—he could see it in her eyes, feel it in her kisses. It would take but a moment to shift her, to position her to his liking and pull her down on his bulging shaft and seek relief from the demon of desire that rode him. He would only be anticipating what would be his by a few weeks. So why hesitate? God knew he wanted her so badly he was shaking with it, aching with it, and sweet relief was only seconds, inches away. So why not finish it?
There were those that thought him cold, hard, and calculating, and he would not deny it, but for all his vices, an innate sense of honor ran strongly within Charles. Deflowering her before their marriage in this manner would be the act of a hardened libertine, and while that charge could with truth be hurled at his head, it was not in him to deliberately dishonor Daphne. If she had not cried out, loosening the coil of desire that held them both, if he could have allowed blind, primitive passion to rule him, he would be buried deeply within her at this very moment. But a shred of sanity had entered his brain, had made him think about what he was doing. Daphne would be his bride, his wife, and to his astonishment and great disgust, he discovered within himself the need for her to come to him on their wedding night as honor demanded.
Regret like a dagger in his gut, he pulled the bodice of her pink muslin gown back into place and helped her to sit up. “I am sorry,” he said baldly, “but I cannot do this.”
It was a difficult moment for both of them, Charles doubtful of his control over the beast within him, Daphne mortified and embarrassed at the abrupt ending of their passionate interlude. His apology only added to her distress, but it angered her, too. He was sorry? Her hands clenched into fists. She’d like to make him sorry, so sorry he’d never forget it. But she had to know what she had done wrong.
Her face averted, not looking at him as he rose to his feet and took a seat beside her, she asked tightly, “Did I displease you? I think I deserve to know why you are rejecting me.”
Charles gave a hollow laugh, and she turned to glare at him, rage glittering in her eyes. He held up a hand as if to ward off a blow, shaking his head as he did so. “Rejecting you?” he asked dryly. “Good God! I am not rejecting you. I am merely stopping myself from acting dishonorably. And displeasing me has nothing to do with what nearly happened here.” He shook his head. “You’re a blind little fool if you don’t realize that I cannot keep my hands off of you, despite my best intentions. All it takes for me to throw honor to the winds is to be alone with you.”
She looked at him incredulously. “You stopped because of honor?”
“Hmmm, ridiculous, I know,” he said with a deprecating smile. “I have trouble believing it myself, and if any of my relatives or friends find out, my reputation will be utterly ruined, but there you have it.”
She stared at him, her brain busy considering his words. Part of her admired his stance, part of her wished that he wasn’t behaving quite so honorably, and part of her was so delighted and relieved by his reply that she could have flung her arms about his neck. She hadn’t displeased him. He wanted her. A private little smile crossed her lips. Wanted her so much he couldn’t keep his hands off of her.
From beneath her lashes, she sent him a considering glance, her pulse pounding when she realized that he was watching her.
Their eyes met, and he smiled and shook his head. Lifting up one of her hands, he pressed a kiss to the back of it. “No tricks, my sweet,” he warned, something in the depths of those jade green eyes sending a shiver of half excitement, half fright down her spine. “It would not be fair,” he added softly, “for you to put too much temptation before me. My hold on honor is thin at best, and I do not think you would be happy if you led me down the path to dishonor.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re making your honor my responsibility?”
“Only if you seek to tempt me.”
“But that’s not fair,” she protested, lusciously wicked thoughts of doing just that dancing through her mind, and she wondered if she dared to discover just precisely how thin his hold on honor really was. Talk about temptation! She struggled against the urge to test her own powers of seduction, to see if she could push him over the edge, but she finally decided that he was right about one thing: she would not be happy if she caused him to behave dishonorably. It was totally unfair, but by placing honor on the table, he had put her in the position of having to choose between acting honorably or dishonorably herself. Daphne took the concept of honor, especially her honor, every bit as seriously as did Charles, and so with regret, she pushed away any notion of trying to work her wiles on him. Not that she was entirely confident of her own wiles, but it would appear from this morning’s interlude, she thought with a small, satisfied smile, that whatever wiles she did possess worked just fine on Charles.
Charles watched the emotions play across her lively features, and he knew the moment she gave up any idea of tempting him further. He was almost sorry that she had chosen the high road, but inordinately pleased on another level. His bride-to-be, it seemed, played honest and fair, and a man couldn’t ask for better traits in a friend—or a wife.
Daphne stood up, retied the bow beneath her bosom, and shook out the folds of her gown. Briskly, she said, “Since you’re capable of minding your manners when we are in public, I suggest that we not linger here.” A teasing glint appeared in her eyes. “Temptation can be so fickle and strike without warning, you know, so the sooner we are in the midst of others, the safer you will be.”
Charles smiled wryly and rose from the sofa. “There is truth in what you say,” he said lightly.
They had almost reached the door when he said, “I think I shall call upon Mrs. Darby on my way to Lanyon Hall this afternoon.”
Daphne stopped and whirled around. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked, unease flickering in her eyes.
“Perhaps because we saw something damned unpleasant last night?” he said bluntly. “Or perhaps because I dislike the notion of Sir Wesley popping out of the fireplace whenever he bloody well pleases?”
Daphne looked startled, and Charles smiled grimly. “Hadn’t thought of that, had you, my secretive darling? Have you considered what would happen if Sir Wesley decided to come calling when you’re entertaining guests? Can you imagine the expression on the faces of the vicar and his wife? Or the good Squire and Mrs. Renwick? Or, God forbid, Sir Wesley inviting himself to join us when the house is full of guests for our wedding?”
Her face the picture of horror, Daphne swallowed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, I suggest you start thinking about it,” he said sharply, unaccountably angry that she would not tell him what was in her mind. How could he help her, he thought bitterly, if the little devil wouldn’t tell him what it was she was after. Whatever she was involved in, it was no laughing matter. If the manifestation they’d seen last night was anything to go by, it could be dangerous—she could be in danger. Fear for her clawed through his chest, and he was furious for being afraid and helpless to do anything about it. He took a deep breath, fighting his anger, his fear, and said more calmly, “If that thing appeared once, it can appear again, and we have no control over when it decides to make an appearance.”
“Perhaps we could call upon the local
priest and have him do an exorcism or something?” Daphne offered weakly, her eyes big and troubled.
“Ah, excellent plan—let the entire neighborhood know that we have spirits or ghosts or whatever you want to call them floating around Beaumont Place.”
Her temper rose, and hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Well, what do you expect me to do?”
“Why don’t you try telling me the truth,” he said in a silky tone, an unnerving air of watchfulness about him.
“The t-t-truth,” she stammered. “What are you talking about? I don’t tell lies.”
“Mayhap you don’t, mayhap you just leave out things…such as the real reason you sought out a witch. And invited her into your home to tell stories best related in the nursery to wide-eyed babes.”
Her expression stony, Daphne said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you have no right to question my reasons for doing anything.”
An expression crossed his face, something so dark and dangerous in it that Daphne took a step back. Those green eyes hard and remote, he snapped, “I have every right. I am to be your husband.”
“But you are not my husband yet,” Daphne declared roundly, “and you have no right to poke your arrogant nose into my business. How dare you! This isn’t your problem, Mr. Weston. It is mine, and I shall handle it. I don’t need you to meddle in my affairs.”
A scarlet mist exploded in front of Charles’s eyes. His hands caught her upper arms in an iron grip, and he gave her an ungentle shake. “You little fool! I’m not meddling. I’m trying to protect you.”
Daphne fought free of his hold, and just as furious as Charles, stunning both of them, she smacked him hard across his cheek. Appalled, they stared at each other, neither one moving.
It was a dicey moment, but as quickly as it had come, Charles’s anger fled. “I suppose,” he said wryly, rubbing his reddening cheek, “that I deserved that.”
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