His sudden, ragged breath told her that she’d caught his full attention. So did the heavy weight of him thickening beneath her fingers.
“I’m not going to let you use your body to buy off my conscience,” he ground out. He grabbed her hand as if to pull it away, paused, then entwined his fingers with hers.
When he continued, his voice was a tortured rasp. “But since I can’t reasonably start asking questions in town for a couple of hours . . .” He pressed her hand back against his groin. “And since you’re hell-bent on exploring what well-bred virgins aren’t supposed to explore, I’d be willing to agree to a different trade.”
He had that look in his eyes again, the one that tempted her to strip off her clothes and throw herself at him. “Wh-what?” she whispered.
“Pleasure for pleasure.” He curved her fingers about his thick arousal. “You pleasure me.” Taking her by surprise, he slid aside the front of her makeshift gown, then slipped his other hand beneath to brush the curls between her legs. “And I pleasure you. That, sweeting, is the only trade I would accept.”
Pure shock, then alarm held her still. What he was suggesting was unthinkable. Dangerous! She’d touched herself down there furtively, in the dark of the night, never daring to dream of a man doing it. It was one thing for her to do things to him, but if he did things to her, too, who knew what might happen?
Even now, the teasing caresses of his fingers were affecting her, making desire pool and swirl in her belly. As his eyes turned a smoky black, her mouth went dry. Oh yes, this was dangerous indeed.
But it could be another way to persuade him to help her. Another form of flirtation, of tempting him and teasing him into not betraying her to her uncle. She should do it for that reason.
Surely she could control her own desires. Yes, she did have a shameless urge to feel him touch her down there, to fondle her like in those naughty pictures, but she would keep it in its place. She would.
“All right,” she said, before she could regret the words.
He looked surprised, then his eyes narrowed. “Don’t think it will change anything.” With their hands still resting where hands should never rest, he stared into her face, his gaze searing her. “Because it won’t.”
“I know,” she lied.
His feverish gaze dropped to her lips, then lower. “I must be mad. I have no right to—But I swear, if I don’t at least get to taste you, feel you . . .”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please . . .”
With a groan, he pressed her back against the wall and kissed her, so fiercely, so deeply, she could hardly breathe. A shiver of need pulsed down low in her belly that grew more insistent when he drew his hand from between her legs to unbutton his drawers.
He guided her hand inside them, folding her fingers around the incredibly warm, rigid length of him. He stopped kissing her to murmur, “Grip it, sweeting, yes. Now tug on it, like you’re tugging off a boot.” When she clasped it tentatively, he commanded, “Harder. Up and down.”
She did as he bade, and he gasped. Laying his forehead against hers, he said, “You are so sweet . . . oh God . . . such a sweet little temptress . . .” Releasing her hand to continue its motion, he brought his own hand up to where the silk was knotted at her breasts. “And speaking of tugging things off . . .”
One sharp pull and the silk was loose, baring her body entirely to his darkly covetous gaze. “You have a body made for pleasuring,” he said raggedly as his gaze drifted down to her breasts, then lower to the chain that hung low on her belly. “A body made for jewels.”
Tucking his thumb in the chain, he held her fast so he could bend his head and seize her bare nipple in his mouth. Her naked breast. With his hot mouth. She thought she’d die right there.
“Good Lord, Colin . . .” It was an amazing feeling, having his mouth suck her and his tongue flick her and his teeth tug her nipple as if it were his to devour, his to tease and fondle.
Except that it wasn’t his, nor did he ever want it to be. That humiliating truth nearly made her end their fondling. Until his hand dropped back to between her legs so he could stroke her, delicately, then more firmly, making her moan and thrust herself shamelessly against him.
“That’s it, my beauty,” he murmured. “Your yoni is wet and eager for me. Part your legs more. Let me give it what it wants.” She followed his instructions in a daze of need, aching for the touching never to end.
Then he slid a finger inside her and she started. Murmuring soothing words, he brushed kisses over her face, one of his hands caressing her breast while the other delved between her legs.
“You’re so tight.” He nuzzled her forehead, her tangled hair, the pulse beating madly at her temple. “So lovely and soft and welcoming . . .”
Now a pulse began to beat somewhere lower as his fingers, first one, then two, worked and rubbed and drove her absolutely mad. Like the beating of a drum, her blood thrummed down there, the insistent rhythm rising with his every caress.
“Faster,” he choked out. “Stroke me faster, sweeting.”
She did, and he did, too, their hands moving in a frenzy until they were both panting, straining, seeking . . . until the pleasure built and the need built and it all exploded in a fever of delicious excess that tore a cry from her throat.
He muffled it with his mouth as he pumped against her hand one last time before groaning against her lips. Seconds later, she felt something wet and sticky spill over her hand.
For a few seconds they stood there rapt, their breaths frantic and their muscles taut. The pulsing in her veins died away as if to hide from the inexorable approach of dawn. Gray light now brightened the intimate darkness of his dressing room, shaming the feeble candles that still burned.
He drew back, the soft yearning in his face momentarily giving her hope that he might feel the same connection to her that she couldn’t help feeling to him. Then a shutter came down over his features, chilling her soul.
“You should sleep now,” he murmured. Dropping his gaze, he pulled her hand from his drawers and wiped it clean with the fabric of his banyan robe.
“Colin—”
“I have to go, Eliza. It’s as I told you—this changes nothing.”
Curse him for his stubbornness! How could he be so cold after what they’d shared? She caught his chin, forcing his head up until his gaze met hers. “Liar. You want me. I know you do. And not just in your bed, either.”
His gaze pierced her, hot and intense and angry. “I wanted Rashmi, too. And all that got me was pain and trouble.”
“Rashmi was your wife?” she asked, wanting but fearing to know the rest.
“Yes. She was much like you: stubborn, tart-tongued . . . beautiful. Ours was an arranged marriage, but when our families paraded her before me, I thought I’d die if I couldn’t possess her.”
Dragging Eliza’s hand from his face, he stepped away. “I paid for my foolish desire every day of our marriage. It was a constant quarrel, in bed and out, with her always determined to get her way. She hated that I worked for the English government, she hated my cousin, she hated socializing with the snobbish English in Calcutta. I knew why she hated it—unlike my English father, hers had refused to marry her Indian mother, so she was very bitter about her bastardy. But I got tired of listening to it. I never had a moment’s peace.”
He concentrated on buttoning his drawers. “After our last quarrel, she flounced off alone to visit her mother in Poona.” His hands stilled on the buttons. “I let her go, tired of fighting with her, tired of her sharp words, tired of trying to protect her from herself. And when I did go after her, I arrived just in time to watch her die.”
“Oh, Colin . . .” Eliza whispered.
His head shot up to reveal an expression so full of impotent rage that it made her heart ache. “So I am not going to choose a wife as heedlessly as I did last time. No more fractious females for me, no matter how sweet and tempting their attractions. I’ve learned my lesson. This time I want a steady,
responsible wife.”
“I see,” she choked out. Now painfully conscious of her nakedness, she bent to pick up the silk and hold it to her breasts to shield her body. “You want a docile wife, who will never gainsay you or have opinions of her own or—”
“I want peace. And I’d never find it with you.”
She clutched the silk to her chest, fighting back tears. “You’re right,” she whispered. “Because I’d never accept such a tepid marriage. I want the passion, the drama, the thrill of knowing a man intimately enough to quarrel with him over the important things. I want love. And from what I hear, love is never peaceful.”
“No.” He stared at her a long moment. “But now you understand why—”
“Yes,” she said, not wanting to hear any more of his half-insults.
She understood, all right. He wanted to ease the guilt he felt over his wife’s passing, and he thought to do it by never feeling anything again. By handing her over to her uncle without a care for what happened to her.
Tears stung her eyes. Fine. Then she did not want him. Because she could never settle for that kind of careful marriage.
Abruptly, he turned and strode for the door. “I’m going to lock you in and order the servants not to enter my room. I suggest that you don your old clothes again. Because when I return I’ll have your guardian with me, and I’ll dump you in his arms, naked or no, and wash my hands of you, no matter what the consequences.”
And with those horrible words still ringing in her ears, he left.
Six
Liar. Colin ground his teeth as he drove the cabriolet toward Brookmoor two hours later. She’d called him a liar, and she’d been right.
He’d tried so hard to hide how badly he wanted her. The whole time she’d been flashing his erotic prints at him and tempting him with talk of the jeweled chain beneath her seductive costume, he’d been torn between laughter and the urge to throttle her. And that was before her sweetly innocent offer to pleasure him had sent his desire for her soaring into a frenzy.
He should never have suggested that stupid trade—pleasure for pleasure. But like some green cadet, he’d thought that touching her and kissing her and bringing her to ecstasy would somehow quell his need for her.
Idiot. All it had done was whet his appetite.
And banish hers.
No, the words he’d spoken afterward had done that. She’d clearly taken them to heart—when he’d gone to bring her breakfast and take his leave, she’d been wearing her male attire again and sitting pensively, reading his “dull” books. She’d spoken to him curtly, barely sparing him a glance.
It had struck him harder than he’d expected. He rather liked her fierce determination, her teasing remarks . . . her attempts to seduce him. The possibility that he might actually have crushed her spirit gnawed at him.
Damn her, he did not want this! He did not want her. After four years of torturing himself over his wife’s death, he’d finally reached the point where guilt didn’t plague him night and day. And then Eliza had come along to torment him.
Well, he’d be damned if he’d let her draw him into her gothic play. He would find her guardian and tell him to come take her home. And even if the man tried to shame him into marrying her, he would stand firm. He would not be manipulated by some English hoyden.
Who kissed like an angel and didn’t back down even when he attempted to frighten her. Who thought he was a gentleman despite his parentage and his glowering. Who made him yearn for long-forgotten intimacies and the warmth of a wife’s embrace—
Swearing under his breath, he urged the horses on.
His next few hours were spent introducing himself to the townspeople: at a linen draper’s shop, at the apothecary’s, even at the rectory. To his shock, although his appearance startled some, his title smoothed his way toward acceptance, especially since he was careful to place an order for Chaunceston Hall at every shop where he stopped.
Unfortunately, his title didn’t gain him answers. He wasn’t entirely surprised no one mentioned a runaway. Eliza’s guardian would have hushed that up to save her reputation. What did surprise him was that no one seemed to know an Eliza at all.
And he’d had the perfect pretense for asking questions about her, too. He’d said that he’d met a young woman from Brookmoor at his cousin’s house in London and now wanted to pay a call on her, but could only remember her Christian name. It probably sounded suspicious, but it was the best he could do.
Still, no one knew her. As a last resort, he decided to try the livery, in case she’d attempted to steal a horse from there, too. As he approached, he caught the end of an argument.
The livery owner stood in the yard, venting his temper on a maid. “Tell Mr. High-and-Mighty Whitcomb that I can’t keep the horses in their traces all day just because he might be going on a trip to Cornwall.”
“He’ll be leaving momentarily,” the maid said with a haughty air. “As soon as his niece feels up to traveling.”
“He said that an hour ago. And an hour before that, when he came here all in a dither to rent a horse so he could fetch the girl. Said she’d up and gone off for a walk and he had to find her.”
Colin perked up his ears. Could it be?
“He still has that horse, too. And now you say the girl is feeling poorly from her walk? Well, he might let some chit from a girl’s school lead him about by the nose, but I don’t see why I should have to do it.”
The maid sniffed. “Because he’s the magistrate. And if you don’t want him having you rousted from the tavern for drinking every Sunday, sir, then you’d best keep that rig ready to go.”
Colin’s heart began to pound. If the maid was talking about Eliza and her guardian was the magistrate, it explained a great deal.
The livery owner cursed under his breath. “Fine. It’ll be here when he needs it.” As she walked off, head held high, he grumbled, “If anybody should be rousted, it’s Silas Whitcomb. Ought to stop shoving his head in a bottle and start paying his bills, that’s what I say.”
So the part about the drunken guardian had been true. God help him.
The maid had already set off briskly down the road, so Colin hurried to catch up to her. “Excuse me, miss,” he said as he pulled his rig up beside her, “but I’m headed to the magistrate’s myself. Might I offer you a ride?”
The servant eyed him with suspicion.
“The name’s Monteith. I’m the new owner of Chaunceston Hall.”
One furtive glance at the crest emblazoned on his rig, and she was suddenly all smiles. “I’d be most obliged, milord,” she said with a quick curtsy.
After he helped her in, he set the horses off at a fast trot. “You’ll have to direct me. I’ve only just arrived and don’t know my way around.”
“The road to Mr. Whitcomb’s manor is just on the other end of the bridge that you passed coming into town, sir.”
The bridge? That had been a good four miles from Chaunceston Hall. And Eliza had walked all that way? At night? Alone, in the dead of winter?
He shuddered. “I take it that your master is planning a trip.”
“Aye, milord. Him and his niece. Soon as she . . . is feeling up to it.”
He took a stab in the dark. “Actually, I’m glad she’s unwell, or I might have missed her. That’s why I’m headed to Mr. Whitcomb’s: to pay a call on Eliza. I know her from London.”
The servant’s gaze swung sharply to him. “Eliza, is it? You must know Miss Crenshawe well then.”
He let out a breath. Eliza Crenshawe. He had her name at last. “Well enough to want to see her again,” he said absently, his mind awhirl.
He had the magistrate’s niece locked up in his dressing room. And instead of cursing her for getting him into this mess, all he could think was how panicked she must have felt when he’d threatened to carry her to the magistrate.
Yet she’d stood up to him and threatened him right back, even knowing how it would infuriate him. For a young miss from a girl�
�s school, she was damned brave. He could see now why she’d thought she had no choice.
His arrival at her uncle’s house only hammered his conscience more. What had once probably been a thriving estate had fallen into utter disarray: the fields lay fallow, the tenants’ cottages needed repair, and the stables were deserted. No wonder she’d had to steal a horse.
Servants seemed scarce, too. The maid he’d met was the one to usher him into her master’s untidy study. She was the one to go call her master, leaving Colin in a setting that Eliza would surely call “perfectly gothic.”
Colin called it tragic. His blood chilled to think of Eliza arriving here fresh from Hampstead Heath and still mourning her father, only to be set down in this gin-soaked room with its discarded bottles and stench of an overflowing chamber pot. And if she’d told the truth about being struck by her guardian—
“You’ve come about Eliza?” said a voice from the doorway.
Colin whirled to face Silas Whitcomb, already prepared to loathe the man.
Yet Whitcomb didn’t look like a slovenly brute of a drunk. Dressed in riding breeches and bearing a crop, he looked like any man would after riding the roads in search of his missing niece: pale, harried, and hollow-eyed. The idea of this spindly fellow striking anyone seemed ludicrous. Colin could probably crush the man’s skeletal frame with one sharp blow.
“I am the girl’s uncle.” Whitcomb entered with measured steps, his eyes wary. “The servant tells me you are my new neighbor, the earl. So what business could you possibly have with my niece?”
Colin hesitated. Now was his chance to tell the man that he’d found Eliza in his stables. That if the magistrate wanted to preserve her reputation, he would come at once and whisk her home.
Yet something held him back. He couldn’t give her over until he was sure she’d be safe.
Colin repeated his tale about meeting her in London. “I wanted to call on her, since she mentioned she’d be here for the holidays.” As he approached Whitcomb he could smell the gin on him, which gave him pause. “But the servant said she’s been taken ill. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
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