In the Garden of Seduction

by Cynthia Wicklund

  The marquess stiffened. For a moment he did not move, his posture rigid with shock. Suddenly, he gathered her into his embrace, pulling her roughly against him. He took her mouth with a fierceness that was triumphant, and a primal growl emanated from his throat.

  Cassandra didn’t resist. She pressed closely to him, running her hands up his chest and over his broad shoulders. She met his ardent kisses with an eagerness of her own, while slipping her fingers into the crisp black hair that curled on his neck.

  Lord Sutherfield’s lips moved to her jaw and down her throat. Sliding his thumbs inside the neck of her gown, he tugged the diaphanous material from her shoulders, his fiery mouth following the retreating fabric. And then he appeared to hesitate as he raised fevered eyes to hers.

  Now was the time to end this madness, she thought, to dash back to the comfort of Mr. Stiles’ parlor, to pretend this had never happened. She knew he would let her go if that were her wish. But somehow she could not find the strength—or the desire—to do what she should. Whatever inferno had been ignited in him blazed in her as well. She stared at the marquess, unable to leave.

  His eyes narrowed for a moment as though assessing her response and, apparently satisfied with what he saw, an easy, sensual grin glided over his features. Again, he began the assault on the top of her dress.

  He hooked his fingers in the neckline and slowly drew the sleeves down, exposing her breasts. Not once while he lowered the garment did his gaze leave her face. His hypnotic eyes bored into hers as though he would understand her thoughts, would know her soul.

  Cassandra felt the cool of the night air as it touched her skin. Why did she feel no embarrassment? Instead, she was overcome with a rush of exhilaration, and she boldly met his look without shame. His eyes, black pools of turbulence, deepened with understanding, then dropped slowly. With excruciating deliberation, his gaze traveled from her face to the pale flesh now revealed by the silvery moonlight.

  “Sweet Cassandra,” he rasped, the words thick with passion, “do you realize how beautiful you are?”

  She could not move, could not speak. Lord Sutherfield’s meandering gaze was like a caress, stroking her, filling her with longing. The fire he had kindled in her was raging out of control, and she was helpless to douse the flames.

  Cassandra held her breath as she watched his hand move unhurriedly to the pink tip of one firm breast, his fingers splayed open. He set his palm to the soft nipple, rolling it gently, the contact making the sensitive peak stiffen. Her pent-up air came out in a shaky gasp.

  Closing his hand around the breast, the marquess once more brought his rapt attention to her face. His ebony gaze glittered with lust, and there was a frightening savagery about his expression. Her heart thudded with such force, she was positive he could feel the agitated organ beating beneath his touch.

  He dragged her to him with his free arm, wrapping it around her. She could feel his long, sinewy fingers as he grazed them along her spine up to the base of her neck. Her skin tingled deliciously. And then he brought his heated mouth down on hers. Cassandra met him willingly, almost aggressively. His tongue slipped between her parted lips, and her limbs grew weak at the intimacy of the gesture. He groaned aloud when she returned the favor.

  She was not certain exactly when the tenor of their lovemaking began to shift, but step by urgent step the mood intensified. Erotic kisses, warm and languorous, came to a steamy head. The marquess’ breathing grew harsh and his movements more forceful.

  Cassandra’s arms were twined around his neck, and he thrust his leg between her knees so she straddled him, forcing the hem of her skirt above her ankles. She did not understand the importance of the deed until he grabbed hold of her hips and began to drag her along the length of his hard thigh. Carnal pleasure raced through her body, a heightened awareness in a secret place that already burned wantonly.

  She did not fight the feeling, but moved with it, helping him—helping herself. Over and over the motion was repeated, back and forth, till rational thought dissipated, leaving gratification as her only goal.

  Cassandra threw her head back, exposing her throat. Lord Sutherfield found the tiny pulse that throbbed there and covered it with his greedy mouth, then left a damp trail as he traced his tongue over creamy skin to a her breast. This time he tasted the swollen nipple.

  “Simon…” his name fell from her lips on a frantic moan. “Simon…”

  “Yes, love,” he beckoned her, his voice hoarse in his aroused state. “I’m here. Come with me.”

  She heard his entreaty as if from a long distance. Where did he want her to go with him? The mesmerizing rhythm continued unabated, and with it her escalating excitement. From deep in her brain, now clouded with passion, she wondered what it would be like if there were no clothing between them where his thigh rubbed her so intimately.

  Without warning, Cassandra cried out as a great coiling spring burst free within her, drenching her stimulated body in rich, voluptuous sensation. Spasm after glorious spasm shook her, before they gradually died away, leaving behind a tingling warmth. Spent, she sobbed breathlessly, shuddered uncontrollably.

  Her knees buckled. She clutched at Simon’s coat with trembling fingers but did not have the strength to hold herself erect. He straightened and grabbed hold of her arms.

  “My love,” he whispered thickly, holding her close, “you don’t know how you please me. You exceed my wildest expectations.”

  Cassandra gazed up at him through misty eyes. How had she pleased him? Did he understand the shocking thing that had just happened to her?

  “Please, take me back,” she said in a broken voice, utterly humiliated.

  “Can you stand?” Simon asked, his manner turning brusque.

  That dark, hungry look still masked his features, and though his words were pinched with frustration, Cassandra sensed his concern. When she nodded, he helped her into the top of her gown with capable hands. That complete, the marquess took a red curl which had come loose from her hair, and with visible tenderness, placed it behind her ear. He drew in a heavy breath that shook slightly and released it through his mouth. He conveyed the impression that he was in control. Perhaps he was not.

  Cassandra, too exhausted to do anything but follow, allowed him to take her elbow, leading her back in the direction they had come from. Her legs were still unsteady, and she leaned on his arm for support. Moments later they reached the French doors of the morning room.

  She turned to enter the house, her eyes downcast, hoping to avoid speaking to him again.

  He grabbed her wrist. “Cassandra, look at me.”

  Cassandra could not ignore the urgency in his voice. She scanned his features, desperate to understand.

  “What do you want from me?” she begged, now close to weeping.

  “I wish I could tell you, love. I’ve never met a woman who so completely deprives me of my gentlemanly instincts. All I know is that I don’t want you to go away from me angry.”

  His smile was gentle with understanding. He raised his hand to her face, drawing his thumb across her eyebrow, over her cheekbone, down her jaw. Simon’s gaze glowed with things remembered.

  “It was intense back there,” he said, “and if I’ve distressed you, I pray you forgive me. I was sincere when I said I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Too late for that, she thought. Cassandra nodded at him in agreement, though, because to tell him how she really felt would have been too painful.

  “I look a sight,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Hardly,” Simon countered, an ironical gleam in his eye. “But we will probably have to explain why you’ve been missing. Go back inside and lie down on the sofa. That will account for your rumpled appearance. I’ll reenter the house from the front door to insure no one sees me coming from here. Complain of a headache. That’s a plausible excuse for leaving the party.”

  It was a scheme as good as any, she thought. Cassandra doubted seriously whether or not they could pull it off,
but she was so distraught, she’d stopped caring. She moved into the morning room.

  Simon stopped her again. “Cassandra.”

  “Yes?” She sent him an indifferent stare.

  “This is not the end.”

  She had the oddest impression that he was informing himself as well as her. Since she could think of nothing to say, she closed the door without responding.

  Cassandra moved to the sofa and sat down, taking her weight off weary legs. Lord Sutherfield didn’t know what he wanted from her, but this was not the end. Wonderful. Exactly what did that mean?

  Did it matter, really? Her grandfather expected her to marry cousin Roger—Roger who was infatuated with Penelope. The only thing she wanted was to run swiftly back to London and her father. Life had become too complicated, too overwhelming. She placed her face in her hands.

  What had happened out there in Mr. Stiles’ garden? How could she have acted so wantonly? And what, oh, what beguiling sensations had overcome her treacherous body to make her forget herself?

  The door to the morning room burst open and Roger, followed by her grandfather, shot into the room.

  “Cousin, we’ve looked everywhere for you. Where have you been?”

  Cassandra ignored Roger, directing her answer to earl. “I have a headache. I thought it might help if I rested for a little while. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

  Her grandfather studied her through suspicious eyes. “I was in here not long ago, Cassandra. You were not on that sofa.”

  “You don’t say!” Roger looked shocked.

  She sent him an irritated glance, before bringing her attention back to her grandfather. That took a precious moment, which was a good thing because she needed time to think.

  “I was ill,” she lied.

  “Ill?”

  “Yes. The pain in my head upset my stomach. I’m afraid I lost my dinner in the retiring room down the hall. Perhaps when you came in here, that’s where I was…i-in the retiring room, that is,” she stammered.

  Cassandra was very glad the lighting was dim, for telling lies always made her face red. At the moment, her cheeks burned. However, it seemed she had picked the one reason that would require no further explanation. Both men stared at her, each wearing the same appalled expression.

  “My dear…” The earl cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you’ve been unwell. I think we need to take you home and to your bed.”

  “Have I caused an uproar?” she asked cautiously, dreading the answer.

  Her grandfather looked embarrassed. “We did not raise the alarm because, quite frankly, I didn’t know where you had gone. With Lord Sutherfield here and all, well…you understand. He hasn’t exactly made a secret of his interest, and you were talking with him earlier.”

  Cassandra wanted to challenge his distrust but he was so close to the mark, she could not bring herself to deny his suspicions. Now was not the time to be outraged, especially after her little episode in the garden with the marquess. The earl had a right to be concerned. She was truly concerned herself.

  She moved into the hall flanked on either side by her male relatives. Penelope met them in the entry.

  “Cassie, where have you been?” she demanded in a shrill voice, loud enough to attract the attention of several people in the vicinity.

  “Penelope, I would rather you not publicize your cousin’s disappearance,” the earl said severely. “She’s been ill and resting in the morning room. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  “That’s what Lord Sutherfield thought might have happened.”

  Cassandra sent the tiny blonde a look meant to kill. “How clever he is,” she said through clenched teeth, refusing to acknowledge the piercing glance her grandfather sent her way.

  A disturbance outside created a welcome diversion. Shouting could be heard coming from the front lawn. Mr. Stiles pushed his way to the hall entrance and yanked open the door with a number of his guests following closely behind him.

  Cassandra was one of the first people to step outside, and she searched for the source of the trouble. Mr. Bailey! Oh, no, she thought in despair. What else could go wrong tonight?

  The man was reeling, drunk as always it seemed. A groom tried to subdue him, though clearly Bailey was having none of it.

  “What is this?” Mr. Stiles barked.

  “You’re the gent what’s got my son, and I want ‘im.” Timothy’s father pulled free of the groom and lurched up to the step. “You may be quality, but there’s still a law against kidnappin’.”

  “This would be better discussed in the morning when we all have clearer heads,” Harry said.

  “You think to put ol’ George Bailey off, do you?” Bailey belched, revealing his contempt. “I don’t think so. For me this is as good as it gets.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that for a moment. Still, I consider tomorrow a more appropriate time for the rest of us. I’m afraid you are going to have to go along with my decision.”

  “To bleedin’ hell with your decision,” Bailey exploded. “I want Tim and I want ‘im now.”

  “Excuse me, maybe I could be of help.”

  Cassandra recognized Lord Sutherfield’s voice as he separated himself from the other guests and approached the intruder.

  “Oh, yeah? And what’s a prime blood like you gonna do for the likes o’ me?”

  “Let’s not fool ourselves, Bailey,” the marquess said in a cool voice. “I have no desire to help you. My concern is for your son. He was in poor health when he came into our hands. He had been beaten severely and his arm was broken. I admit I’m very reluctant to send Tim back into the same conditions from which he was rescued.”

  “See ‘ere, now. I don’t know nothin’ about no beating.” For the first time, Bailey seemed aware of the people who had spilled from the house, and his glance shifted uneasily about the gathering.

  “Let’s not bandy words. I have a proposition for you and I would appreciate if you would give me a listen.”

  Simon’s voice sounded neutral, almost indifferent, but Cassandra knew he was angry. Something about the way his hand curled into a slow fist warned her. If Tim’s father were wise, it would warn him, too.

  “I’ll listen.” Bailey’s posture was still hostile, but he also watched Lord Sutherfield’s clenched hand.

  “I would like you to give up your parental rights to Timothy. Now wait a minute.” The marquess raised a hand when Mr. Bailey began to splutter incoherently. “There’s more. In exchange for your promise to give over the care of your son, I will pay the sum of one hundred pounds.”

  “Wh-what? Do you mean it? A hundred quid?” Bailey looked dumbfounded.

  “Yes, I do. There will be papers to sign. I want it legal.”

  “That’s no problem, no problem at all.” Bailey’s attitude took a complete reversal with the promise of unexpected wealth.

  Thus Cassandra and the rest of the company watched in silence as Lord Sutherfield negotiated the purchase of Mr. Bailey’s son. One hundred pounds was an astonishing fortune to a man of George Bailey’s background, she thought sadly. Yet she felt dismayed by his willingness to barter away his child even though she assumed extreme poverty could bring out the worst in a person. These were the harsh realities of life, she knew, but somehow it was easier to ignore them when glimpsed from afar. Tonight she had gotten a close and very personal view.

  With the promise to return the next day to finalize the arrangements, Mr. Bailey turned to leave. As an apparent afterthought he looked back at Simon.

  “Hey, you’re not one of those blokes what likes young boys, are you?” He shook his head. “Don’t matter. I s’pose he could have a worse life than that. Starvin’s worse, that’s for sure.” He laughed raucously as he stumbled into the gloomy night.

  “Filthy bastard!”

  Lord Sutherfield had said aloud what Cassandra could only think. From the expressions on the faces of those around them, she and the marquess were not alone in their assessment.

&nb
sp; Simon looked as though he wanted to rush after the drunkard and throttle him. In fact, he took a step in that direction before Mr. Stiles placed a cautionary hand on his friend’s arm.

  “He’s not worth it, Simon. You’ve done a fine thing here tonight. Let it go at that.”

  Simon nodded. Squaring his shoulders, he came back to the gathering. He searched the crowd, and Cassandra knew instinctively that he was trying to find her. When he did, his gaze lit with recognition, and he sent her a silent message that she interpreted as regret.

  She wanted to be distant with him but sensed his distress over what had happened. Cassandra was overwhelmed by his generosity, and she couldn’t bring herself to reject him. The marquess wished to share the painful moment with her, and it caused a constriction around her heart that was painfully gratifying.

  She gave him a look filled with sympathy. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, tell him how proud she was. Unhappily, their situation did not allow them to be more than casual acquaintances. Even now, she was aware of her grandfather’s watchful gaze.

  “Was that me da?”

  Every eye in the company turned in the direction of the fair-haired child who had appeared in the doorway. His arm, still encased in plaster, hung heavily from his shoulder.

  “Timothy, what are you doing out here?” Simon strode toward the boy. “You should be in bed.”

  “Couldn’t sleep, milord. It’s very noisy, and I coulda swore I heard me da.”

  “He’s gone now,” Lord Sutherfield said, clearly ill at ease. “What say we get you upstairs?”

  “He’s not comin’ back for me, is he?” There was no self-pity on the lad’s young face, only a quiet fatalism.

  Cassandra shared another wrenching look with the marquess before he came down on his haunches next to the boy.

  “No, Timothy, I’m afraid he’s not.”

  “Don’t worry, milord.” Timothy patted Simon on the shoulder. “He didn’t much care for me, anyhow. It’s better this way.”

  *****

  A somber mood permeated the Whittingham carriage a short while later as Cassandra and her family headed for home. Even Penelope gave the impression of being touched by recent events.