Tempted by His Touch: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Dukes, Rogues, & Alpha Heroes Historical Romance Novels

by Darcy Burke

  Lillian stared at her father as if he’d offered her a kingdom. “Y-you think it’s ... wonderful?”

  He stared back at her in surprise. “I can see that it’s wonderful. If you didn’t want it for your bedchamber, I was set to beg it from you for my own.”

  “You were?” Lillian blinked at the painting, then raised shocked brows at Violet. When Violet simply raised her own eyebrows in response, Lillian squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to her father. “All right, then.”

  His forehead creased. “All right what?”

  “All right, you can have it.” Lillian gave her father a censorious stare. “But not until it dries. And I get to visit it anytime I want.”

  Mr. Waldegrave lowered his eyes, as if he believed he could somehow hide the vulnerability therein. But the only person blind to the all-encompassing love he had for his daughter was his daughter herself. And he was just as blind to hers. If Violet had managed to lift their suffering for just a moment, for just long enough for them to truly see each other, if only for a second—then the wet scrap of canvas lying between them was the greatest bit of art she’d ever created in her life.

  “Deal,” he said at last. “I will cherish it always. Thank you, daughter.”

  Lillian shot Violet a smug look and stage-whispered, “Papa never thanks me.”

  Violet returned an arch look of her own. “Have you ever tried to deserve his thanks?”

  Lillian frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Violet lifted a shoulder. “People get to hear ‘thank you’ when they do something nice. Perhaps hearing ‘thank you’ more often is within your control after all. What about your father? Do you say ‘thank you’ to him when he is nice to you?”

  Lillian’s lips puckered. She seemed to realize there was not much to be said. Not when all three of them knew very well that she’d spent years doing her best to appear ungrateful. For the first time, however, she seemed to consider how her father might have felt. Cheeks tinged with pink, she gestured awkwardly at his side and mumbled, “You bring flowers.”

  “So I do,” he agreed slowly, staring at the roses in his hand as if he’d forgotten their existence. Perhaps he had. “Although it seems I have been bringing the wrong kind all along.” He shook his head as if to clear it from unwanted thoughts, and then offered his daughter a hopeful smile. “Starting tomorrow, I will order lilies instead.”

  Lillian angled her head as if thinking the proposition over carefully before coming to a decision. “Lilies are my favorite,” she said slowly, “but ... I like yours, too.”

  This time, it was Mr. Waldegrave’s turn to be nonplussed. He gazed at his daughter as if her words held the power to turn dirt into gold.

  “You do?” His voice was so soft as to be almost shy. “These are roses. Lilies are your favorite, but roses ... Roses were your mother’s favorite.”

  Lillian sucked in a breath as if the flowers before her had been imbued with magical powers. “They were?”

  He nodded as if he could no longer trust himself to speak.

  Lillian looked at the profusion of painted lilies surrounding her name, then back to the three roses dangling from her father’s hand. The blooms were full, the petals perfect. Bright red and fragrant. She stepped forward to take them from him. “They’re my favorite, too. I have two favorites. Lilies and roses both.” She cut a sudden worried glance toward Violet. “I can have two favorites?”

  “You can have as many favorites as you wish,” Violet assured her. She’d been trying so hard to melt into the background that it was startling to be suddenly included, as if her opinions were as important as those of father and daughter. “Favorites are like art—there’s no rules at all.”

  Lillian nodded gravely. She brought the roses to her nose, her eyes closing as she inhaled deeply. When she opened them again, she had eyes only for her father. “Thank you, Papa. Your flowers are beautiful.”

  He flinched, as if her words cut just as much as they healed. Or as if right up until she spoke, he had still expected his gift to be thrown back into his face. He hesitated, then reached one thorn-scarred hand out to his daughter. “Would you like to help me arrange them in the vase?”

  Violet’s breath caught and held while they both awaited Lillian’s reply. She doubted he realized that it would take just as much courage for his daughter to accept the offer as it did for him to extend it.

  Finally, when Violet was nearly dizzy with worry, Lillian nodded. She kept the roses pressed to her chest with one hand and reached the other one out to her father. His large, strong fingers closed gently around her tiny watercolor-stained hand. They left the room hand-in-hand.

  Before the door had even latched behind them, Violet turned sharply away to busy herself cleaning paintbrushes as if she got paid by the bristle. They had touched each other. They had touched her. Perhaps Lillian could begin to heal. Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave would, too.

  Violet was gathering the last of the supplies when the schoolroom door reopened and he stepped back inside.

  He stood for a long moment in silence. And then he simply whispered, “Thank you.”

  She shook her head without meeting his gaze.

  “I don’t know how you managed to convince her I—” The words cut off abruptly. He cleared his throat, then began again. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to feel my daughter’s hand in mine?”

  Her hands stilled atop the paintbrushes as she met his gaze. “Years, I imagine.”

  “You did this.” His voice was violent. Joyful. Terrified. He stepped forward to grab her hands, then just as quickly dropped them. He ran his fingers through his hair. Laughed. Then stared at her with panicked eyes. “This miracle you wrought, it’s ... How can I ... There are no words for ... Oh, did you see her? She actually—”

  Violet rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his. She had ached for his touch ever since their last kiss. She had yearned for the sensations of intimacy, of passion, of being cherished. She had tried to push the encounter from her mind, but she hadn’t succeeded in driving it from her heart.

  Hesitantly, she held his face in her hands, silencing his words with the sweetness of her kiss. She lacked the words to express her understanding, but wished him to know, to feel, that the miracle had affected them all. Years of longing for closeness had hollowed her soul, but here, now, she had hope once more. She had him. They had each other. She slid her hands into his hair, tugging, pulling, until his lips parted and the kiss was no longer sweet, but carnal.

  He tasted like hope, like abandon, like desire. And he did not close his eyes. He let her see the tumult within. The vulnerability. The passion. His awareness of her, of them, of their kisses and their bodies and the fire building deep inside that threatened to consume them both.

  She locked her arms about his neck, pressing her breasts against the warmth of his chest. Seeing him interact with his daughter, the thousand-and-one ways he showed his unconditional love ... She could not help but admire such a big heart, just as she could not help but crave a taste of emotional as well as physical closeness. His hands were unlike any that had touched her before. His were gentle, seeking to give rather than take. They broke through her walls and tempted her to open, to trust. To risk her very heart.

  Her every muscle was tense, but with excitement rather than fear. The realization heightened the sensation of every touch, every kiss. Her back was to the wall—had she tugged him there, or had he pinned her?—allowing her to wrap her legs about him as he lifted her higher and leaned his body into hers. She could bask in his arms forever. He, too, desired emotional and physical closeness. She could feel it. She could offer it.

  The more she pulled him to her, the deeper his kisses. She clung to him. The tighter her legs clutched him, the harder his hands dug into her rear, grinding his hard length of his shaft against the heat at her core. Confusion nipped at the edges of her desire. She had never felt this ... pleasurable. This was far more intense than mere kisses. This was her body qu
ickening to his. And she loved it. He swallowed her gasps, drugging her with his kisses and teasing her with the promise of his pleasure until she could no longer withstand the aching need so tantalizingly out of reach.

  Although she well knew the mechanics of lovemaking, she had never dreamed she would one day yearn for it. Now it made sense. She ached to feel that closeness with someone who actually cared about her. Someone exactly like the man in her arms, who even now dipped his head to nuzzle her neck. She arched her back, presenting him instead with the swell of her breast. Begging him with actions because she didn’t have the words. Wasn’t certain what to do, how to feel. His mouth latched onto the proffered curve and her nipple immediately responded, straining for his tongue through the now-damp fabric. She shivered, amazed. Every inch of her wanted him, inside and out. She did trust him. And she wanted more.

  Her fingers clenched in his hair, forcing him closer, reveling in the desperate groan escaping his throat as his shaft strained against the skin-tight buckskin of his breeches. She wanted to share the pleasure, to give as well as get. She wanted the moment to mean as much to him as it did to her. She slid one hand from his hair, down the angles of his face, the heat of his neck, the hard muscle of his arm, the slim taper of his waist, to the shadowy heat where their bodies touched. She needed him as desperate for her touch as she was for his.

  The back of her hand eased deliciously, agonizingly, against her own core even as her palm slid across his shaft, cupping, squeezing, each movement teasing them both until she could no longer tell which gasps renting the air were hers or his. This was the moment when she would finally experience true intimacy. A closeness she had lacked her entire life. He would fill her body with his shaft, and fill the emptiness inside with a sense of belonging. They would share each other. Here. Now. Her entire body trembled, on the verge of explosion.

  And then, just as she was about to slide the tips of her fingers behind the folds of his fall to touch the heat of his naked flesh, he leaped away as if scalded.

  Her shoulders thumped against the wall. She regained her footing but not her equilibrium. Her shuddering limbs struggled to understand the unexpected loss of his body. Had he not felt the magic between them? How could he not want more?

  She reached for him.

  He turned from her.

  She let her hand, suddenly cold, fall back to her side, limp. There was no togetherness after all. There would never be. No matter how hard she tried to connect, it would always be goodbye.

  “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice a strangled whisper. “I did not mean—I had not intended—I only wished to thank you.” His head lowered, as if in shame. “No matter how much I—You did not deserve—Oh, damn my hide. I knew you were trying to comfort me. I don’t deserve it. I had just meant to thank you.” He pulled his coin purse from his pocket, upended its contents on the table. Pennies, sovereigns, half-crowns spilled onto its surface. “No amount of money can equal the gift you have given me today. I meant to thank you as an employer, and I could not. I meant to give thanks as a father, and I could not. I could only show you as a man.” He spun to face her, his dark gaze turbulent. “A flawed man, who succumbed to his passion rather than use his brain. I apologize for my behavior, Miss Smythe. It shall not be repeated.”

  He shoved his empty coin purse back into his pocket and strode from the room before she could begin to formulate a reply.

  It was she who could offer no words. After all, the fault was not his, but hers. She had been the one to reach for him, to pull him close, to touch her tongue to his. She couldn’t help it. He was wonderful, and she wanted him to feel the same of her.

  But those were not the actions of a governess. Of a respectable young lady. Of a respectful employee. Those were the actions of a girl who had spent both her childhood and her adulthood starved for affection. She had finally met someone deeply capable of love, and had thought him as desperate to make a connection as she.

  She rolled her shoulders and tried to put herself together. The moment had been far too powerful to resist, and she could not—would not—be sorry. The opportunity to experience such closeness might never present itself again.

  ***

  Violet didn’t lay eyes on Mr. Waldegrave even once over the following two days.

  She was beginning to believe he very well might avoid her company forever. If so, then she was fiercely pleased to have lived fully in the moment the last time they were together. It had certainly not ended how she might have hoped, but she still had the memory of his caress, of closeness, of connecting with him, if only for a short window.

  And then, one afternoon after lessons, he appeared at her door without warning. Bearing a stack of large parcels in his arms.

  “What is this?” She creaked open her door to stare at him in confusion. “I didn’t order anything.”

  “I did,” he said without meeting her eyes.

  She frowned. “If this is because of the other night—”

  “It’s not,” he said quickly. “These were ordered weeks ago. Please take them. They’re for you.”

  Still confused, she moved aside to give him room to bring in the parcels. When he did not budge, her cheeks flamed.

  Of course he would not enter her bedchamber. The realization that she felt comfortable enough to allow him to do so undoubtedly shocked him as much as it shocked her, albeit for different reasons. Until the school for girls, she’d never been offered privacy, much less been foolish enough to take gentlemanly manners for granted. And she’d never once trusted a man enough to have willingly allowed him across her threshold under any circumstances.

  Until now.

  Heart thudding, she reached out to accept the parcels from him. Twin lightning bolts of desire and sorrow streaked through her when their fingers touched. For the first time in her life, she wished a man to make himself comfortable, if only to talk. And for the first time in her life, this man not only showed no interest in doing so, he showed no interest in her company at all. The moment the parcels settled in her arms, he had already turned to go.

  “Wait,” she choked out.

  He paused. When he looked back at her, his chagrined expression indicated he felt the suffocating awkwardness between them as keenly as she.

  “Wait,” she repeated softly. “At least allow me to see what it is you have brought.”

  She glanced about for the closest available surface upon which to settle the parcels and settled for atop the escritoire. The wooden surface was easily large enough, and not much more than arm’s length from the threshold.

  He returned to just outside the open doorway, careful to hang back a fair distance for propriety’s sake. Or perhaps because he, like her, was certain to combust if their shadows intertwined once again.

  She unlaced the twine knotting the top bundle and slowly unwrapped the parcel. Her first thought was blue. No, not blue ... blue-violet. Yards of rich fabric the very color of her eyes. She lifted the material from the paper, allowing the impossibly soft muslin to unfurl. Gasping, she clutched it to her chest and spun to face him, tears pricking at her eyes.

  A gown. He’d bought her a gown!

  Not just one, but several, and if the sumptuous cut of this one was any indication of the others, she would look every inch the fairytale princess her childhood self had always dreamed of being. Although there were no jewels adorning the neckline, this gown was even finer than the one she—

  Violet’s breath caught, her throat suddenly scratchy. Even nicer than the one she’d ruined. Unlike the decade-old dresses she’d inadvertently stumbled across, these were cut in the first stare of today’s fashion. They were expensive. They were beautiful. She wouldn’t remotely resemble a governess anymore. She’d look like someone who belonged.

  “Thank you,” she whispered through the tightness in her throat. “This means more to me than you can ever know.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, the tips of his ears turning pink. “But I’m glad you like
it.”

  Like it? She breathed in the scent of new, clean fabric and nearly swooned. The second he walked away, she planned to lock the door and try on every single one of them.

  “A-are you dining with Lillian tonight?” she asked hesitantly. “If you’d like to dine together, I would love to join you wearing one of the new—”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.” He took a step backward, as if she had suddenly become contagious. “The other night ... I did not behave as I should. Until I can trust my brain and my body to comport themselves appropriately, I think it is best for us to spend less time together.”

  Less time together? Her joy evaporated. She hadn’t seen him in two full days and they lived in the same abbey. If they spent any less time together, she might as well be invisible. They would never again have an opportunity to share that magical closeness.

  Misreading her distress—or perhaps not—he murmured, “I’m truly sorry.”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  She stumbled toward her escritoire and slumped onto the hard chair.

  In a moment of extreme confusion, she had kissed him. And he was sorry. He felt badly. As if he—the master of the manor, the one who offered shelter when he had no obligation to do so, the one who provided her with more than she’d ever dared to wish for—as if he had committed an unpardonable sin by briefly accepting advances that she herself had pressed upon him.

  It hadn’t felt like sin at all. It had been strangely, gloriously, nice. For her. Twice she had sought to comfort him—to comfort herself—with kisses. And twice he had been the one to stop. To walk away.

  Violet stared at the gown in her arms. He wished to thank her. She got the message loud and clear. She might belong at Waldegrave Abbey, but she certainly did not belong with him.

  She just wished it didn’t make her feel like crying.