The Price of Temptation

by Lecia Cornwall

  Her coachman saw them coming and immediately scrambled up to his perch and picked up the reins, jerking his chin at Sinjon in silent inquiry.

  Sinjon ignored him and helped Evelyn into the coach. She sat on the edge of her seat and stared at him, her green eyes wet pools of misery.

  He hovered in the open doorway. A footman would have shut the door and taken his place on the back of the vehicle, given her privacy, pretended he hadn’t seen her tears, didn’t care.

  But he did care.

  He glanced up at the coachman. “Home,” he ordered.

  Then he climbed into the coach.

  She didn’t object as he settled himself next to her, pulling her back into his arms.

  The vehicle jolted forward, and he heard her sniffle in the dark. He pressed his handkerchief into her gloved palm and closed her fingers over it, as if she were a child.

  He glanced out the window, scanning the sidewalk as the coach pulled away. No one watched them go.

  The attack in the park hadn’t brought tears, but a London ball was a far more dangerous venue. Ladies were the cruelest creatures on earth, and the higher the pedigree, the more vicious the cat. He’d seen other ladies leave balls in tears, the attacker smirking in triumph at the lethal sharpness of her tongue.

  Who would make a better target for insults than Philip Renshaw’s wife? Despite her strong, quiet confidence, Evelyn was as likely to be hurt by a harsh word as any other woman. More so, perhaps, given all that she’d endured since her husband’s treason.

  “Tell me what happened,” he murmured against the softness of her hair. He could smell the subtle violet drift of her perfume. He breathed her in.

  She didn’t answer for a long moment, and Sinjon wondered if she’d decided to bear her injuries in brave silence.

  “My husband sent me a note. Or someone did, signed with his name,” she said at last.

  Sinjon’s brows shot up.

  “It wasn’t his hand, but the message was personal, a comment about my gown. What if he was there, in my sister’s ballroom, watching me?” He heard her struggle to keep her voice even.

  “Or perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke, to see how you’d react,” Sinjon replied, wondering who could be that cruel.

  For some reason, Westlake sprang to mind. Perhaps the earl was trying to draw Evelyn out, make her panic, reveal what she knew, give up her husband’s hiding place by running to him at the drop of a note. He felt a sharp prod of guilt. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d been sent to Renshaw House to do?

  “Did you see him?” he asked.

  “No. But the Frenchman, that day in the park—” She shifted on the seat, and the silk of her dress gave a hiss of . . . what? Warning, fear? Sinjon doubted the French agent’s face had healed enough for him to appear unnoticed at a society ball. Still, there were any number of suspicious characters watching Evelyn.

  Including him.

  Doubt lodged in his throat, niggled there, and he coughed.

  “Your attacker wanted a flag, I seem to remember,” he prompted, hoping her emotional state would make her less cautious.

  “I remember,” she said tightly. “If you hadn’t come along, hadn’t—” He heard renewed tears in her voice, though she fought them. “I am tired, so very tired, of being afraid all the time!”

  She was shivering, and Sinjon pulled her closer to the heat of his body. Marielle d’Agramant had stood at attention during her ordeal, her eyes grim, her jaw tight, refusing to show Creighton any fear. She’d worn her dignity like a cloak, the way Evelyn had for weeks. She had not broken under the terrifying odds against her. But unlike Madame d’Agramant, there was no one to comfort Evelyn.

  Except him.

  He tightened his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. She sank into him with a sigh, burying her face in his shoulder, letting her tears flow.

  She felt good in his arms, right. He felt desire stir, and he swore silently. He was offering a kind shoulder, as a brother or a father might, he told himself, but the mental warning had no effect at all on the part of his body that wanted her. Evelyn wasn’t his sister. She was an extremely desirable woman. He willed his erection away, but it refused to obey.

  It didn’t help that they fit together perfectly, as if this was an old and familiar habit between them. Evelyn had stopped crying and simply rested in his arms, completely unaware of what she was doing to him. She began drawing absent circles on his chest with the tip of her fingernail. It tickled, and it was damned arousing. He gritted his teeth, tried to shift away, open some space between them, but she wriggled nearer, fitting herself closer still.

  He gave in to temptation. How could he not? It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her face and lower his mouth to hers. He kissed her gently, carefully, giving her time to object, a chance to pull away. Her lips were silken, salty with tears, and shaped themselves to his, her response sweet. He held back lust that raged like a battle charge.

  Her hands crept up to touch his face, to curl around his neck and draw him closer. With a sigh she kissed him back, laying gentle, butterfly kisses on his mouth.

  Hungrily, he licked the seam of her lips, angling to kiss her more deeply. She gasped, her lips parting, and he plunged in, seeking her tongue with his own. She drew back in shock, and he frowned. It was an oddly virginal response for a married woman.

  But he wasn’t ready to stop kissing her. He trailed his mouth along the delicate bones of her jaw, nibbled at the frantic pulse point at her throat, and lapped at the delicate jut of her collarbones.

  “Oh,” she sighed, seeming almost surprised. “Oh, my.” She let her head fall back, giving him access to the delicate spot under her ear, baring the upper slopes of her breasts to his eyes and his hands. He could hear her little pants of desire, and it drove his own need higher. He captured her mouth again, nipping at her lips until she opened, let him in, let his tongue meet hers and tangle. She tasted of champagne. How long had it been since he’d had either wine or woman?

  He could have her, he thought. She was willing, certainly, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a woman in a moving coach. He pressed his erection against her hip, slid his hands up the sweet curves of her waist.

  He paused, his hand stopping an inch beneath the swell of her breast. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin silk of her gown. She was looking up at him, the faint light of the city shining on her face. She opened her mouth in anticipation of another kiss. When he hesitated, she clutched his shoulders, tugging, urging him on.

  He gazed at her. She was beautiful, desirable, and he wondered at his hesitation. He’d never refused an invitation like this before. He was a master of seduction, and he was hard, ready for her, and she wanted him too. But it was wrong.

  He shut his eyes, swore silently. She was feeling shock, or fear, or both. Her desire was merely the turmoil of her wounded emotions. He could not take advantage of her in this state. She needed a warm bath, a glass of sherry, and a good night’s sleep.

  She moaned and moved restively against him, a sinuous undulating swirl of her hips that almost undid his resolve. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, desperately trying to think of a good excuse, a reason to stop that wouldn’t drive her into another flood of tears.

  The coach jolted, driving her against his erection. He groaned and kissed her again, but the coach had stopped. He lifted his head and looked out the window.

  They’d arrived at Renshaw House, and Starling was coming down the front steps.

  Evelyn was still nuzzling his cheek, kissing his neck, driving him wild, but he shook her gently.

  “We’re home, Evelyn.”

  He pointed at Starling, and she gasped and stiffened at once, pulling away from him. He moved to the other seat, across from her, and she fussed with her dress, her hair, touched trembling fingers to her lips.

  Starling opened the door.

  The butler looked stunned to see Sinjon inside, and his white brows
rose skyward like twin moths in silent question. Sinjon smiled wryly, keeping his legs crossed, the evidence of his arousal hidden. If the coach had taken a few more minutes to arrive, or Starling had opened the door a few seconds faster, the poor man would have found Lady Evelyn Renshaw kissing her footman. Or worse.

  “Lady Evelyn felt ill, and wished to return home earlier than expected,” Sinjon explained.

  “Just a headache,” Evelyn said, her voice still smoky with desire. She swallowed, the white length of her throat working, and strove for a brighter tone for Starling’s sake. “Too much champagne, perhaps.”

  The butler relaxed and smiled fondly, obviously glad to see that her ladyship had enjoyed the dreaded party after all, Sinjon thought.

  “Shall I have Mary prepare you a headache powder?” he asked, handing her out of the coach.

  Sinjon watched her climb the steps. She did not look back at him. He peered out at the coachman, who regarded him curiously.

  “Well?” the man said. “I’ve never ridden inside this rig. What’s it like?”

  Sinjon almost laughed. Was that all he wanted to know?

  “Lovely, my friend. Warm and soft and comfortable. Ride me ’round to the stables, if you will. I want to enjoy the pleasure a little longer.”

  He glanced up, saw light flare in Evelyn’s bedroom as the candles were lit. He shut his eyes, still smelling her perfume in the dark coach, still feeling the imprint of her lips on his, still tasting her. Desire stirred again, and he clenched his fists, willing it away, but it would not go.

  He growled out the darkest soldier’s curse he knew.

  He was on dangerous ground.

  Chapter 19

  Evelyn paced her bedroom until noon the next day, afraid to leave for fear of seeing Sam at breakfast, or in the hallway. What would she say?

  She’d kissed her footman.

  She’d fallen into his arms like a strumpet, pressed her body to his, and she hadn’t wanted to stop.

  How far would it have gone? She pressed a hand to her lips to still the telltale tingle, and felt a blush heat her body from her toes to her hairline.

  Yet again, he’d been there to make her feel safe. In his arms, kissing him, she’d forgotten the note and the debt she owed Lord Creighton. She didn’t want to think about them even now. She couldn’t get her thoughts off Sam, and how different she’d felt with him.

  Kissing him made her feel wild and out-of-control, burning with desire. It hadn’t been like that with Philip. Her husband was not a man of passion, at least not with her. She supposed it had been different with his mistresses, and the scores of actresses and whores he took to his bed.

  Philip had handled bedding his wife like he dealt with his business affairs—quickly, decisively, and completely to his own advantage. He gave her no pleasure and barely seemed to derive any from their brief, infrequent matings. His unwelcome attentions were visited upon her as punishment, discipline.

  She had never kissed anyone the way she’d kissed Sam, with open mouths, tongues touching. The only kiss Philip had ever bestowed upon her was a dry brush of his lips on hers to seal their marriage vows.

  She relived the taste of Sam’s tongue, the intimate sensation of having a part of his body inside hers. She recognized the similarity to the sex act, of course, but it had been the most exquisite sensation she’d ever known.

  And it must never happen again.

  She crossed the room and rang for Mary. She couldn’t hide in her room all day. It was only a kiss, and he’d probably forgotten it by now. He wasn’t hiding, she was certain of that. He had work to do, and was getting on with his day.

  She chose a simple morning gown, and when Mary finished pulling her hair into a sensible bun, went downstairs to the library, her sanctuary, and closed the door behind her and leaned on it. Her heart was still pounding out her fear of meeting Sam in the hall, and in disappointment at not seeing him.

  Sitting down on the settee, she remembered the day he’d brought her the tarts, watched her eat them. She’d wanted to kiss him then, and he resisted.

  She frowned, running her fingertip over her mouth again. Had he been the one to initiate the kiss last night, or was it her? Had it been the same desire that overwhelmed her that afternoon in this room, or it was born of the spark of awareness she felt when she first saw him in the park?

  Whatever it was, she had never meant to act upon her feelings.

  She had been grateful when he climbed into the coach. It had also been shocking, of course. He was a servant, separated from her by the unbridgeable gulf of class and the strict rules of proper behavior. Servants did not ride inside a coach with their mistress, and even a gentleman would not be so bold as to sit beside a lady. Those trifling rules of etiquette hardly mattered when she’d broken the strictest rule of all.

  Ladies did not kiss their servants.

  She shut her eyes. What devil’s spell was she under? She had always prided herself on being immune to the temptations of a handsome face, a rogue’s grin, a clever wit.

  Perhaps she was indeed as silly as her sisters, every bit as wanton, vain, and gluttonous. She wanted more of Sam’s kisses, more of him. There was no other way to describe it. Even in the cold light of day, when good sense should have taken over, her mouth watered, her body craved him. She pressed her fist against the sharp ache of longing in her belly. Was this what lust felt like? She knew what it looked like.

  She crossed to the bookshelf at the back of the library and climbed the ladder to the top shelf. Philip kept a collection of books for his private delight, believing that she knew nothing about them. She’d found them while looking for a book of poetry her father had given her. She’d been shocked, of course, but curious as well. The erotic drawings were intriguing and forbidden, especially to a well-bred lady. She suspected Philip’s books were valuable, if only to someone with similarly debauched tastes to his own, but it would be impossible for her, a lady, to sell them.

  She took one of the heavy volumes from the shelf now. The leather cover warmed instantly at her touch.

  She propped it against the top rung of the ladder and opened it, holding her breath.

  The drawings inside were of a man and a woman, naked, entwined. She had looked at the woman’s face before, thought her a lewd and unnatural creature. Now she recognized her arched back, closed eyes, her slack mouth, as desire, and pleasure.

  She’d felt it in Sam’s arms.

  She shivered, feeling it now.

  In the drawing, the man’s face was buried in his lover’s neck, his hair dark, like Sam’s, his naked back lean and strong. One of his hands cupped a lush breast, and the other was buried between her thighs.

  How would it feel to be touched like this by Sam? She pictured his hands, long-fingered and tanned, imagined them touching, caressing, squeezing. A small, needy little noise escaped from her, half gasp, half sigh. Her body felt liquid, feverish.

  “My lady?”

  She almost fell off the ladder. She looked down to find Starling staring up at her. She snapped the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I did knock, but when you didn’t answer I became concerned.”

  “Just looking for a book,” she murmured.

  He held the ladder as she descended. “If you wish to have books brought down from the high shelves, I can ask Sam to do it for you. It’s a long way up, and dangerous. Is there a particular volume you’d like him to fetch?”

  She felt her cheeks heat at the mention of Sam’s name. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, smoothing a hand over her skirt. “What did you wish to see me about?”

  He looked contrite as he delivered the news. “Your sisters have arrived, my lady.”

  “Sisters?” she parroted. “More than one?”

  “Yes, my lady, all three, and all in yellow. I asked Sam to show them into the salon.”

  She felt herself turn a sickly shade of the same color. She was in for a long, blist
ering lecture.

  She should have worn yellow last night, she told herself again, and she should not have left without a word of good-night. Actually, she should have stayed home, out of harm’s way. There would have been no note, no upsetting encounter with Lord Creighton, and no forbidden, stolen kisses in the velvety darkness of her coach.

  She took a bracing breath. “Thank you, Starling. Please have cook send up tea, and plenty of cakes. Charlotte prefers cream cakes, and Eloisa eats only plain biscuits. Lucy will want strawberries, and probably champagne, if there is any.”

  He bowed and withdrew, and Evelyn crossed to the mirror. Did she look wanton? She brushed her hand over her hot cheeks, tried to suck the color out of her lips, still pink from Sam’s rough skin. Her eyes looked different, she thought. Glowing, as if there was a banked fire inside her, ready to rage out of control at the slightest breeze. Would her sisters notice?

  She checked her gown. It was a sprigged muslin, but even if some of the tiny flowers that adorned it were yellow, the ribbon trim was green, and sure to remind Eloisa of last night’s fashion faux pas. It couldn’t be helped. She didn’t have time to go upstairs and change. Her sisters would not wait patiently for her. They’d follow her up and confront her in her room, and that was to be avoided at all costs, since it would take Eloisa straight to the wardrobe, where she’d spend the rest of the afternoon explaining why each and every garment she owned was wrong.

  She pictured her sisters kidnapping her and dragging her off to the nearest modiste to be refitted from head to toe in cheddar, or porridge, or roast goose.

  Before she even reached the closed door of the salon, she could hear the squawk of conversation. It sounded like birds fighting over a particularly tasty morsel. Probably her. The only variable was whether they were discussing her fortune, her clothing, or who would move in and play chaperone next.

  Evelyn paused outside the door, her hand on the latch, her stomach knotted, gathering the courage to enter the fray.

  The latch moved under her hand, and the door opened. Sam almost ran into her. He put a hand under her elbow to steady her, and she felt heat race up her arm.