A smile seemed to loiter at his tempting mouth as he shook his head again. “Do you have any notion how unique you are? How many females have tried to orchestrate just that sort of compromising situation in a bid to ensnare me in matrimony?”
Brynn could well guess. The legendary Lord Wycliff would be pursued because of his startling physical beauty alone. And with his wealth and title, he was a prize women would do anything to win. According to her friend Meredith, more than one lady had been known to sneak into his bed in an effort to force his hand.
“Well,” Brynn said firmly, “you may put your mind at ease on that score. I am certainly no threat to your bachelorhood. On the contrary, you are the one who is a threat. By singling me out this way, you will only cause me embarrassment, or worse. If we are seen intimately together, I won’t have a shred of reputation left.”
He lifted his arm, resting it on the couch back behind her. “And your reputation concerns you?”
“Very much.”
His hand rose to touch the nape of her neck. “Your hair is the vibrant color of flame. I wondered. It looked darker-almost auburn-when it was wet.”
Feeling unsettled, Brynn held herself rigidly. She didn’t care for what his featherlight touch on her skin was doing to her senses.
“I liked it better down, though.” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “I would like even more to see it flowing over my pillow.”
Vexed by the seductive note in his voice and what she saw as a deliberate attempt to taunt her, Brynn shot up from the settee and turned to face him. “I will not allow you to trifle with me, Lord Wycliff.”
His eyes had darkened slumberously. “I assure you I am not trifling, siren. I am merely being honest. I want you in my bed, I fully admit it. I would hardly be a man if I didn’t.”
Brynn pursed her lips impatiently while she hugged her book to her chest. “I don’t doubt you want me. It is a very common sentiment. But there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for your lustful urges.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I am cursed.”
“Indeed?” The word held a wealth of skepticism.
“It is quite true. Ask anyone in these parts and they will confirm it. One of my ancestors was a legendary beauty who stole a Gypsy woman’s lover. In revenge the Gypsy put a curse on her. Her female descendants are doomed to have remarkable allure and the power to enchant men, but if they dare give their hearts, their love is fated to end tragically with the death of their beloved.”
“And you believe in this… curse?”
“Completely,” she replied with all seriousness. “There have been too many inexplicable incidents to believe otherwise. Nearly every generation of women in my family has experienced a tragedy in love.”
“ Including you?”
An arrow of pain lashed through Brynn at the memory. “My first suitor died when I was sixteen, drowned at sea. I am surprised no one warned you about me,” she added, unable to quell a hint of bitterness.
His doubtful expression never wavered, and Brynn felt a surge of frustration. “You needn’t take my word for it. Everyone here knows of the danger we present. It is indisputable that we cast spells over men. We attract them in droves.”
“Droves?” Wycliff’s amusement was edged with cynicism, or perhaps his disdain was merely the result of a natural sense of arrogance bred into him. “Let me see if I comprehend you correctly. Because of a Gypsy curse, I am likely to first lose my head over you, and then my life?”
“Not your life. Not unless I came to love you. But it is certain you wouldn’t be able to resist me.”
A warm, intimate smile touched his chiseled mouth. “You realize, of course, that you are disparaging my powers of control.”
Brynn’s fingers clenched around her book. “I can understand why you would be skeptical, but I assure you, it would be foolish of you not to take the curse seriously.”
“I think you will have to prove it.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Prove it?”
“Yes. We should put this claim of yours to the test.”
“And just how do you propose we do that?”
“Kiss me.”
Brynn stared at him. “You are jesting, of course.”
“Not at all.”
“I should think the last time we kissed would have been proof enough. You must remember how it ended when you-”
“I remember quite well,” he said dryly. “You tried to unman me.”
“Only,” Brynn returned, flushing, “because I was forced to save myself from your overamorous attentions. Admit it, my lord, you refused to release me because you became carried away.”
“I think I can manage to curb myself this time. Put your book down and come here, love.”
When she remained immobile, Wycliff lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Would you care for your acquaintances to hear how I found you at the cove, Miss Caldwell? Your brothers, perhaps? I doubt they would countenance your parading around in a state of near undress.”
Her eyes narrowed in disbelief, then in anger. “That is extortion.”
“I consider it merely leverage.”
“Why? For revenge?” Her expression turned scornful. “Because I dared to resist you? Because I failed to fall at your feet in a swoon?”
A half smile claimed the corner of his mouth. “I admit you bestowed an incalculable blow to my male esteem, but no, I am not seeking revenge. I am merely interested in conducting an experiment. You’ve aroused my curiosity with this talk of curses.”
She stood there defiantly, regarding him in frustration. Wycliff merely waited patiently with the sort of supreme confidence that set her teeth on edge.
Finally, however, when she refused to do his bidding, his expression changed; his mouth curved in a smile that was slow and tender and all enveloping.
Brynn could well understand why so many women had been seduced by him. His smile held a wickedly irresistible appeal. That, along with his raw magnetism and devastating charm, was a potent force indeed.
Against her will, she felt herself being drawn to him. And she had little doubt that he was ruthless enough to make trouble for her if she failed to do his bidding.
Capitulating with a silent oath, Brynn returned to sit beside him on the settee, yet she kept her spine rigid and refused to look at him. “I should think a rake of your legendary skill would be able to find more willing females,” she grumbled, “instead of trying to ravish me at every turn.”
His soft laugh was a velvet rasp. “I hate to disappoint you, darling, but this is not ravishment. Only a kiss.”
Only a kiss, Brynn thought wildly. Then why was her pulse so erratic?
Her senses assailed by his nearness, she focused all her effort on resistance, summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed. The earl had leaned toward her, his lips nuzzling her neck… her earlobe.
“So sweet,” he murmured. “As delicate as spun sugar.”
“Will you please simply be done with it?” Brynn said through clenched teeth.
His long fingers came to cradle her cheek as he turned her face toward his. “You will have to unlock your jaw first,” he murmured softly, a sensual undertone of laughter in his voice. “How can we test your claim if you won’t participate?”
“I have no need to test my claim. I don’t consider it in dispute. And I don’t wish to kiss you.”
“Then simply humor me. Part your lips, treasure, and let me taste you.”
“I really do not want-” Her protest was cut off by the soft, erotic pressure of his mouth. It touched hers lightly, brushing across her flesh like silken warmth.
She murmured another protest, yet the feelings that rose in her put the lie to her words as his kiss deepened. His fingers drifted over her face and throat, making her quiver, making her breasts feel heated and full. At the glide of his tongue within her mouth, a sigh of surrender whispered from her throat.
He thrust deeper and sent a shocking surge of fire curling hotl
y inside her. Brynn felt herself weakening, yielding to him. Helplessly she lifted her arms to slide her fingers in his hair. It was soft and satiny and as sensually arousing as his kiss.
She gave him no resistance when he drew her to him. Her senses burned. She was melting against him. He sucked at her tongue until she whimpered a breathy sound of capitulation. Then he eased back on the couch, pulling her with him.
Desire, wild and irrational, lanced through her trembling body as she found herself draped over him. She could feel him beneath her, the warmth of lithe muscles, the supple play of hard masculine flesh. An intense yearning flooded her, as if she were the one caught in the Gypsy’s spell…
She gave a strangled moan against his tender mouth. This was wrong. Her hand came up between them, pressing against his chest. She should not, could not let this happen. Yet it was all she could do to push him away.
Summoning all her strength, Brynn sat up with a jerky motion. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her head swimming, yet Wycliff didn’t appear to be nearly as affected as she was.
He straightened, watching her intently. Then he reached up with one finger and brushed her lips, still damp and tender from his mouth.
“Whether or not the curse is real,” he said, his voice low, husky, “I would still very much like to have you in my bed.”
Dazed, Brynn stared at him. When she remained mute, his mouth curled in that slow half smile that had the power to capture female hearts.
She blinked, trying to shake off the force of his spell. Regaining her senses finally, Brynn leapt up from the couch, her book tumbling from her lap.
For a span of several heartbeats, she remained there, staring at him. Then, wordlessly, she turned and fled.
As Lucian watched her bolt for the second time in their brief acquaintance, he felt a strange mix of emotions-puzzlement, desire, exhilaration…
Desire was perhaps the strongest. It would be a consummate lie to say he was unaffected by their heated embrace, as he’d pretended. His carnal urgency was every bit as fierce as the last time he’d kissed her. More so now, since this time he knew what exquisite delights lay beneath her modest gown.
Lucian frowned. He put no stock in Miss Caldwell’s claim of being cursed, yet something had caused his intense attraction to her. Despite his pretense of control, it had taken all his willpower to restrain his raging lusts. Even now his body was reverberating with the craving he’d felt. His erection was stiff within his satin breeches, pulsing with his still rapid heartbeat.
Yet what he felt for her went deeper than mere lust or physical arousal. Enchantment was the word that came to mind. He was utterly spellbound. She was a flame-haired, emerald-eyed enchantress, the kind of woman to haunt a man’s dreams…
His lip curling wryly, Lucian shook his head at his poetic flights of fancy. He was indisputably fond of women in general, yet it was unlike him to become enraptured of any one female, even such a beauty as Miss Brynn Caldwell. He’d been intrigued and challenged by her elusiveness, true, but that didn’t explain his violent feelings of possessiveness.
He wanted her-badly. And he intended to have her, Lucian reflected with exhilaration.
He had misjudged her the first time, obviously. He’d tasted the innocence in her kiss just now- enough to convince him that she was as inexperienced as she claimed to be.
That was the real reason he’d insisted on kissing her tonight. To test her virtue. If he was to make her his wife, he needed some reassurance that she wasn’t playing him for a fool. He owed it to his name and title to demand at least some measure of purity from his countess.
His mouth curved in satisfaction. He had found his bride, he was certain of it. Miss Brynn Caldwell had beauty, birth, breeding, and a family history of fertility-five brothers, no less. And a lively spirit as well, one which he found refreshing after all the toadying, marriage-minded debutantes who had relentlessly pursued him for his title and fortune over the years. Tart tongue or no, she would certainly never bore him.
His bride. The image had a powerful charm to it. And the thought of having that exquisite body beneath him, her lush nakedness warm against him, her slumberous eyes heated with desire, was enough to make his loins ache.
Perhaps he was mad, making such a critical decision so soon after meeting her. Choosing a lifelong mate required careful consideration, logic. And taking a wife just now would play havoc with his duty. He hadn’t planned even to think about wedding until after the war had ended and Boney was driven back into his lair.
Yet his deepest instincts were urging him on, telling him to act. He wanted a son, and his enchanting temptress seemed his best chance both to beget an heir and to have a desirable woman in his marriage bed. And arguably, he knew his prospective bride more intimately than most noblemen did theirs.
It was possible Miss Caldwell might object to his plan. She might not want to bear him a son, or even become his wife. She professed to be set on remaining a spinster, which truly would be a crime, Lucian reflected with amusement.
Well then, he would simply have to overcome her resistance. A keen feeling of anticipation rose up in him at the thought of winning her surrender. He had already made a measure of progress. She wasn’t nearly as immune to his caresses as she pretended.
He could have taken her right there on the couch, perhaps. In truth, he’d actually considered it for a fleeting moment. If he had summarily seduced her, it would have removed any chance that she would refuse his offer of matrimony. But he didn’t want to begin their marriage mired in scandal.
Lucian’s elation swelled. He’d thought his stay in Cornwall would be devoted strictly to business, but he intended to return home with a bride.
A fiery, green-eyed beauty who could stir his blood and give him the son he so fervently wanted.
Chapter Three
The dream was different this time. He lay wounded, dying, as usual, but he was no longer alone. A woman stood over him-an enchanting beauty with flaming hair and flashing eyes, her hands dark with his blood. His killer?
Lucian woke in a cold sweat, not knowing where he was at first. Searching the gray shadows, he felt the tension ease from his body.
He was lying in bed, the sole occupant of the prime guest chamber in the duke’s sprawling castle. It was early morning, if the faint light stealing beneath the gold brocade curtains was any indication. There was no sign of his prospective bride, even though in his dream she had seemed so vivid…
“It wasn’t real,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp. She hadn’t tried to kill him.
Sitting up, Lucian rubbed a hand down his face. All her talk of curses had evidently affected his intellect. His sea siren had somehow become entwined with his visions of death. His own death.
With an oath, he threw off the covers and rang for his valet before striding naked over to the wash-stand and splashing cool water on his face.
There was a simple explanation for his recurring nightmare, Lucian knew. During his last foray into France, on a mission to search for a missing Englishman, he’d had a near brush with death. He’d been forced to kill a man he considered a friend-a stark choice of kill or be killed. Guilt had eaten at him ever since. Guilt and a bleak premonition of his future. He’d been haunted by the same nightmare. He saw himself dying alone, desolate, unlamented, and unmourned.
He was not afraid of dying, precisely, Lucian acknowledged. Better men than he had given their lives in the decades-long struggle to rid the world of the Corsican tyrant. But the experience had undeniably shaken him.
For the first time he’d had to face his own mortality. He was not invincible, as he had somehow believed. The charmed existence he’d always taken for granted would not last forever. Life was, he’d suddenly realized, fragile and precious.
The incident had also made him aware of how little he had to show for his thirty-two years of living. True, he’d played a small role in trying to make the civilized world safe from French domination, working for the Foreign Office
, advancing intelligence gathering for Britain. But if he died tomorrow, he would have no real legacy to leave behind.
That was what he wanted most now: a legacy. An heir. A son to carry on his name. The feeling had taken on increasing urgency in recent weeks. It was now a yearning, a hunger deep in his soul.
To sire an heir, however, he must first have a wife.
Lucian’s mouth curled wryly as he drew on a robe and pulled the sash taut. This was a novel experience for him, searching for a bride. He’d always fervently resisted the chains of matrimony, preferring instead the dalliances and seductions and brief affaires that had titillated society and earned him notoriety as something of a libertine.
He took great pleasure in his lovers, but the pleasure was mutual, he made certain of that. And the game at which he was so expert was understood by his partners, with no expectations of matrimony. He’d become quite deft at eluding the pursuit of those eager ladies who coveted his title and fortune.
Suddenly changing course-pursuing a marriage partner instead of being the pursued-had felt strange. Moreover, finding the ideal bride was not at all as easy as he expected. Regrettably, the women he most admired and respected were already wed or in a profession that society deemed unfit for nobility. Until he had happened upon Miss Brynn Caldwell…
A quiet rap sounded on his bedchamber door. When Lucian bid entrance, his valet stepped into the room.
“You require assistance, my lord?”
“Yes, Pendry. I have an important call to make this morning, and I wish to look my best. The green coat, I think.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Pendry responded, lifting an eyebrow at his master’s unusual concern with his appearance.
Flashing a grin, Lucian settled in a chair so the valet could shave him. His dark mood had shifted rapidly-from disquiet at his nightmare’s strange permutation to agreeable anticipation.
This morning’s call would be duty as well as pleasure, hopefully dispatching two birds with one proposal. For some time now he’d wanted a pretext to further his acquaintance with Sir Grayson Caldwell. This stretch of Cornish coast was a smuggler’s paradise, and Sir Grayson reportedly was the leader of the local ring.
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