Two meetings with the Motrums had shaken that notion to its foundations. Where had his reasoning been in error?
Was it that outside the extraordinary circumstances of an army on the march, men and ladies from different classes did not normally associate closely enough to become comfortable? And could it be those same circumstances, rather than their middle-class origins, that had perfected in Mistresses Trapper and Fitzwilliams the virtues he so admired?
Or was it that the daughter of a rich middle-class magnate was raised, not to master the skills her less advantaged sisters possessed, but to be in every way but birth identical to a lady of the aristocracy?
Sinjin prided himself on analyzing the evidence and prudently choosing a course of action. As a soldier who’d built a reputation for getting the maximum number of his men through a battle safely, he’d learned that if one discovered flaws in one’s original tactics, one must alter them on the spot to meet the changing threat.
Though he hung on grimly to the hope he’d not made such a tactical error when determining his choice of a bride, a prudent officer always maintained a reserve. Which meant he’d best begin considering alternatives to Miss Motrum before the courtship reached the point where he could not, in honor, withdraw.
Valiant had begun his second circuit of the park when Sinjin spied a distinctive black stallion, its rider just kicking her mount from a canter to a gallop. His pulses leapt, and without further thought he urged Valiant in pursuit.
At first he thought she was not aware of him riding behind her, but as Valiant narrowed the gap between them, she glanced back, then gave the black the whip. He grinned, set his spurs to Valiant, and the race was on.
Boney’s hatband, but she could ride! With a recklessness he had to admire as much as he deplored it, she leaned low over the black’s neck, counterbalancing her weight in the sidesaddle until she seemed almost to become one with the stallion.
Trees and benches flashed by as galloping hooves ate up the greensward. Caught up in the sheer exhilaration of the ride, he felt a sharp pang of disappointment when all too soon the park gates hove into view, and then a rush of satisfaction as Valiant reached and overtook the black.
He pulled his stallion up just before the gate posts, patting his mount’s neck as he rounded back to Miss Beaumont.
He couldn’t accuse her of enticement today, garbed as she was in a severely-cut habit of charcoal gray, her flame-red hair hidden beneath a simple black shako and matching veil. The plainness of the gown, however, seemed to set off the excellence of the figure it outlined and drew attention to the classic purity of her face, just as its somber hue set off the brilliant green of her eyes.
Which were now regarding him warily.
He felt again that automatic, unbidden sense of connection. Given his previous discourtesy, she’d probably be anxious to escape at the earliest polite moment. Suddenly, he wanted more than anything to have her linger. Could he but provoke that fiery temper, he might delay her departure.
“Caught you,” he announced. “A capital race, however. For a lady on a sidesaddle.”
To his delight, she immediately stiffened. “You think so? As it happens, I was pulling up when you passed me.”
“Doubtless,” he agreed with a blandness he hoped would further ruffle that temper. “Would you walk with me a moment while the horses cool?”
At first he feared she’d decline, but with her groom now following at a respectful distance, she apparently couldn’t find a polite reason to refuse. “I’m returning to breakfast, but I suppose I could spare a few moments.”
Sinjin dismounted quickly, and before she could call to her servant, reached her side. “Allow me.”
With a groom nearby to perform the office and given that the willing widow he so desperately needed to assuage his lust was no closer in view, he must be a masochist to have sought out this opportunity to hand her down.
Even knowing that, nothing save trampling by a runaway stallion could have kept him from the ill-advised delight of clasping her slender waist and savoring the feel of her as he lifted her down from the saddle.
She was no lightweight, but even after her booted feet gained their balance he couldn’t seem to pull his hands away. She glanced up, startled. Some words, a protest probably, parted but did not exit her lips.
As it had once before in her phaeton, a powerful desire swept through him to pull her closer, to feel the warmth of her down the whole length of his body as he tasted the berry brightness of that mouth. His muscles clenching with the urgency of his need, for some timeless moments they both stood motionless, staring blue eyes to green as his nostrils drew in the soft rose scent of her.
Then she stumbled back from him and grabbed her trailing rein with one shaky hand. “Y-you wanted to talk?”
That’s the least of all I want. Trying to beat back his baser instincts, he struggled to remember just what it was he’d meant to tell her.
Alex, the thought finally issued from his muzzy brain. He stilled his trembling lips and cleared his throat. “I wanted to thank you for taking Alex up with you at the park—and apologize for my unhandsome accusations.”
He was both pleased and shamed at the astonishment that lit her fine eyes. “Apologize? To me? Indeed, Colonel, you confound me!”
“Nonetheless, keeping Alex at your side brought him a great deal of favorable notice. He’s since gotten some flattering invitations he’d not otherwise have received.”
She shook her head. “You underrate Lieutenant Standish’s charm. He’s a handsome, intelligent, witty man and a hero besides. I’m sure any advantage he’s obtained was based on his own considerable appeal alone.”
Sinjin felt a brief surge of—gad, it couldn’t be jealousy! Damping down the uncomfortable feeling, he continued, “With no disparagement to Alex, I must disagree. More important, however, since the afternoon of your drive he’s been less…haunted than I’ve seen him at any time since Waterloo. For that, I cannot thank you enough. He’s had a rough go of it, as I imagine you can guess.”
Her face softened. “I can well imagine. He went down during Uxbridge’s charge?”
“Yes, he was riding with Ridgeby’s guard and—” Sinjin caught himself. “You are acquainted with the battle?” he asked, astonished that so beautiful and socially prominent a lady would have any interest in military affairs.
“Me and the half of England that read the daily accounts in the Tribune. I can read, you know.”
He flushed. “I seem to be continually underrating your talents, Miss Beaumont.”
“You have no idea how much.” She smiled then, and he felt the warmth of it seep into him, as when, after a night of bitter cold spent huddled under a threadbare blanket on rocky ground, the fierce Peninsular sun had at last risen to warm his weary bones.
A man could lose himself in that smile, as Alex had observed…“If I could beg a favor, Miss Beaumont,” Sinjin said, regathering the threads of his argument, “Please try not to…dazzle Alex too much. Flesh and blood can resist just so much of your charm. He’s already suffered a great deal. I wouldn’t want to see him hurt.”
“Would you believe me if I swore I intend him no harm?”
He studied her solemn face. “I believe you,” he said, and to his surprise, meant it. Once again her eyes captured his and he felt the flash of attraction crackle between them. Miss Beaumont capricious was enticing, but Miss Beaumont noble was nearly irresistible.
Get hold, man, he admonished himself. Captivating though she be, Miss Beaumont, the flower of London society, was not the kind of woman to live happily in a half-ruined manor house far from the diversions of the city, trading her expensive gowns for a dusty housedress as she helped restore a dilapidated estate.
“If I can be of any help to Lieutenant Standish, I should be very pleased. Those of us who benefit from our gallant soldiers’ efforts can never do enough to repay you.” She sighed. “I only wish I had been a man, that I might have served. As long as there
is an England, men will tell tales of Waterloo.”
He stared at her, incredulous. Aside from the ludicrous vision of such a ravishing female turned into a man, something in her tone pricked at all the ugliest of his memories of that carnage.
“Thank a merciful God you were not there.”
“How can you say so, you who were one of the valiant ones who prevailed, besting Boney for good and all?”
“Is that how you imagine the battle—a glorious charge of cavalry, the flash of guns, the thrill of bringing home victory? Merciful Heavens, woman, did you not read the death rolls? Can you imagine what the stump of a man’s shoulder looks like when his arm’s been blown off, or how a horse shrieks as it’s dying? What it’s like to ride an endless field of bodies frozen in death’s contortions, uniforms too covered with mud to be able to identify the army, much less the unit for which the man fought? Thousands upon thousands of bodies…”
His voice died away as he suddenly perceived her emerald eyes fixed on him, wide with shock, her lips parted in dismay as she listened to an account no gently-bred female should ever hear. “F-forgive me, ma’am, that was unconscionable! I should never have spoken thus.”
She took a trembling breath. “I suppose you must speak of it to someone, or go mad. No, I’m not foolish or naive enough to believe it was all glory. Battle must be terrifying, so awful I wonder that any man can bring himself to it. And yet—to pledge oneself to so desperate an enterprise and pass the test, to stand fast with one’s fellows in a cause one believes worth more than his life—that is glorious.”
Her soft comments left him speechless. Though she’d never experienced it, she did understand. Taken unawares, he felt a deeper bond weaving itself between his spirit and hers.
And then she placed her hand on his arm. “I admire you so much, Colonel.”
The tightness in his chest seemed to crack, releasing a melting sensation that turned his blood to fire. It took every iota of his willpower to resist seizing that gloved hand and pulling her into his arms.
Get away, the voice of self-preservation rose from somewhere deep within him. This unusual woman cannot be yours. Leave before your fraying control disintegrates entirely. “Again, my apologies, Miss Beaumont. For my careless words, and for doubting you. Now, I should allow you to return to your breakfast.”
So strongly felt was that urge for self-protection that his next actions made no sense. For when Miss Beaumont, with a hesitation that seemed almost shy, stuttered out an invitation for him to break his fast with her in Grosvenor Square, instead of returning a sane and rational refusal—he said “yes.”
Chapter Seventeen
They spoke little on the transit back to Grosvenor Square, occupied with guiding their tired but still spirited horses through the swirl of carts, tradesmen and carriages congesting the streets.
Thank heaven for the respite. Clarissa rode with every nerve on edge, intensely aware of the horseman beside her. She’d pushed Diablo to the limit in an attempt to outrun her despair, then looked back to find the colonel, pursuing her.
Like the proverbial moth, she simply couldn’t make herself withdraw from the flame, even though she, unlike the moth, was fully aware of the fire’s destructive power.
And so, stuttering like a half-wit, she proved her idiocy by inviting him for breakfast.
She still felt at her shoulders, her sides, the imprint of his fingers where he’d helped her from her horse. The kiss he’d almost taken—nay, that she’d almost stolen—hung between them, both threat and prize. Knowing she could never be more to him than a temporary diversion, to be discarded when he went on with his life, it was madness to toy with an attraction that, on her part at least, was powerful enough to consume her.
But a demon rode her now, and it wanted that kiss.
Botheration, she was half-charred already. He’d likely either avoid or despise her for it after, but she’d have one searing memory from the wreckage to warm her the rest of her empty life.
Seeing to the horses, ushering him in, calling for fresh coffee occupied some moments, and then they were in the small parlor where breakfast had been set out. She scarcely knew what commonplace trivia she prattled, so strongly was desire thrumming in her blood. Today she would feel those lips, those hands on her. Today. Soon.
Though her wits were too scattered to discern whether his conversation was as stilted and unnatural as hers, surely he felt it too, that irresistible pull smoldering between them. She wondered the footmen bringing and removing dishes were not singed.
She must have eaten something, for James removed her plate as well. She knew to a crumb what the colonel had consumed, having watched each move of his tanned hands as he placed toast, eggs, sausage on his plate, each twist of lip as he spoke to her while disposing of his meal, each movement of his throat as he swallowed his coffee.
It struck her to wonder if her intense scrutiny made him uncomfortable, and she grinned wolfishly at the thought. Good. Hunter or hunted, they would end this thing that had hung between them for days. Today. Now.
“Would you like to see the garden? It’s particularly lovely now with the bulbs just out.” Beckoning, she walked to the French doors leading to the terrace.
Mercifully he followed, sparing her the necessity of deciding whether, had he refused, she would have actually attempted to haul him out bodily.
At the door he took her arm with a touch that simmered on her skin and any lingering doubts evaporated. Ah yes, he felt it too. And this time, today, he would not resist.
She blessed some ancestor who must have designed the small townhouse garden with dalliance in mind. After traversing the small back terrace, they passed a curtain wall of wisteria fronted by a multicolored array of tulips which blocked the view of the garden beyond. And down a short path flanked by awakening roses, sheltered by another hedge of yew, sat a conveniently placed garden bench.
Silently he walked her down the garden path. Every sense acutely alert, she heard each chatter of birdsong, each sharp clip of riding boot against stone. The sweet violet scent of woodland iris filled her head.
After rounding the yew hedge, the colonel stopped abruptly. “Miss Beaumont,” he said, his voice thick.
“’Tis r-rather warm here in the s-sun,” she stuttered, though more likely it was the heat within that prompted her to shed her wool spencer and toss it on the bench.
She looked back up into blue eyes smoky with desire, and the demon exulted. He would kiss her. Now.
“Miss Beaumont—” he began again.
“Clare,” she whispered. For a fierce moment she held his gaze with eyes that begged him to resist no more, then tilted her head up, letting her eyelashes drift shut, offering.
Still he hesitated. If he didn’t kiss her soon, she would scream. She opened her eyes again, desperate with wanting, furious at the delay.
His entire body stood tensed, hands now clenched at his sides, even the muscles at his throat corded with effort, as if he were about to fight—or flee.
Trying to deny temptation still, she realized. Damn him and his dedication to his dull, virtuous virgin. Before she could think what she did, Clarissa reached up and jerked that golden head toward her.
His lips made rough, uncertain contact. But after an instant’s touch, growling deep in his throat, the colonel wrapped her in his arms and hauled her where she craved to be, hard up against the lean muscled length of him.
The kiss she’d wanted, shamelessly begged for, was an assault, a take-no-prisoners charge meant to overwhelm resistance and breach any defenses. She reveled in it, matching him thrust for tongue-thrust, on fire to ravish every scorching surface of his mouth.
Like iron against iron, the friction of their clothed bodies struck sparks that flamed and sizzled against her skin at every point of contact, heating her blood and sending it coursing, molten, to every vein. When he brought one hand up to caress the aching tip of her breast, she cried out as sensation spread in dizzying circles from the peak
ed nipple to the burning, melting center of her.
She wanted the thin, teasing barrier of fabric removed, craved the feel of his hand against her bare skin. Before she could utter an impassioned plea, he brought his teeth, hot and wet from the efforts of her tongue, to nibble at her ear.
Then he began a slow, agonizing march from the soft skin at the curve of her jaw to the pulse at her throat, lower still across her bared collarbone, sizzling the skin at the edge of her bodice, using tongue, lips and teeth in a rapturous torture.
One hand inched down the fabric of her gown and his lips followed, his teeth nipping the material to pull it against her skin, then his tongue sliding under to push the fabric back, allowing air to shiver on the skin’s wet surface.
She clawed at fistfuls of golden hair to hold him there against her. With an inarticulate mutter that might have been approval, he pushed his tongue deeper, playing in the moisture that bedewed the hollow between her breasts, then gliding over her skin, closer, closer by infinite degrees to the pulsing nipples.
“Please,” she gasped, “oh, please.”
At last he plied one hardened nipple with soft, liquid pressure. Pleasure exploded like a rifle shot and rippled outward, deadening her muscles, paralyzing breath. She would surely have fallen if he had not supported her, his tongue still tracing around and over the tip in unimaginably torturous caress.
She wanted…oh, she wanted! To be freed, her skin bared and open to his hands, his mouth. Her fingers flailed, then caught the top of her bodice and jerked it down.
The gown, still fastened in back, strained at the pull, but she managed to free the breast he’d kissed, the taut material under it lifting the rounded globe up to him like an offering.
He’d halted in his pleasuring, but before she could whimper a plea, he murmured something that sounded like “yes,” slid his hands up to support her back, and took the whole of the nipple into his mouth.
The Proper Wife Page 19