by London Casey
“What a preposterous thing to say. You don’t know me.”
“Yes, that’s the point, isn’t it? You have kept yourself hidden away here in the country, else I should have met you, pursued you, come to know you. Perhaps we would have been lovers.”
His arrogance made her mouth drop open. She quickly re-gathered her wits. “Where on earth do you get such a notion? I was a married woman.”
“Married, yes—but not happily.”
“Certainly not unhappily. I was Lady Cranfield and I managed this estate. People depended on me.”
“But you didn’t respect Cranfield and he didn’t understand you. You resented him for not trying.”
Her heart began to beat rapidly. It simply wasn’t true. She had to refute him. “Like most marriages of our class, we had our own lives. He preferred Mayfair and I preferred the country. But we understood this about each other and we respected each other. It was an amicable marriage.”
“Some truths are harder to face than others.”
Sympathy glinted in his eyes. If only he would not use such an understanding tone, then she could hate him for saying such things. Because the things he was saying simply weren’t true. But how to make him understand?
“William was a dear person. I—”
He laughed softly. “As I said, your primary problem is that you are not honest with yourself. Nor do you trust yourself. In fact—”
Anger burnt in her throat. She threw up a hand between them. “Do you know?”
His eyes widened a fraction, then warmed with humour. Another, hotter wave of resentment smouldered through her.
“Know what?” he asked.
“I don’t think it’s possible for me to dislike you more than I already do. I don’t enjoy negative emotions, so would you please let me pass so I can leave before I begin to truly hate you?”
Chapter Three
Jon studied Anne’s glittering eyes. Her emotion seemed to spark between them, a seething mix of ire, frustrated sexuality and something he couldn’t quite place. He moved out of her way.
She seemed frozen, standing there glaring at him. He motioned past his body and towards the door. “You were in a hurry to leave, Lady Cranfield.”
She flushed. Her shoulders rose and fell quickly and she compressed those magnificent lips. Then she swept by him in a rustle of silk skirts and crinkling, starched linen petticoats, leaving in her wake a scent of rose and lavender mingled with an under-note of something spicy and uniquely her.
The sensual aroma wafted over him like a caress. It sent a stab of renewed desire straight to his balls.
She walked towards the door, bearing herself with a calm dignity. He watched the subtle sway of her fetching arse moving beneath the dark purple silk.
By damn, she was a prime article.
A vision burnt into his mind. Of her beneath him, her soft thighs pinned between his. Her honeyed body bared to his view and sweetly submissive. His heart raced and his hands trembled with the desire to feel her delicate wrists locked in his grip while he bound her with silk rope.
God.
The slam of study door brought him out of his fantasy.
He took a deep breath. Shaken, he walked over to the hearth and leant down to light a cheroot. Then he returned to sit at Richard’s massive mahogany desk, propped his boots on the polished desktop and willed the ritual of smoking to smooth his senses.
When he’d first come in here, he’d been anticipating an easy conquest, the start of a short, uncomplicated affaire.
How stupid and blind a man’s lust could make him. Well, he certainly saw things clearly now. What Lady Cranfield wanted from him—even if she was not entirely certain of it herself—wasn’t something he wanted to give. She didn’t simply want a brief affaire. She wanted his strength, his protection. She wanted not only someone to dominate her sexually but someone to hold her and cosset her when her fears and memories and dreams became too much.
No, she didn’t just want these things—she needed them.
He hooked a finger into his cravat and gave a sharp tug but he still couldn’t seem to get any breathing space.
Soulless bastard that he was, he still might have seduced her. Had her a few times until the novelty began to pall. Except that the sad, sincere shadows in her eyes had filled him with an uncharacteristic sense of protectiveness—an innate demand that he stand between her and all sources of hurt and danger.
Even himself.
He really had no business entangling himself in such an emotional liaison. When he returned to Mayfair in the spring, he would be making public his engagement to Lady Maria Waterbury, a baronet’s widow.
She was the most honest woman he knew. She had her own wealth and interests and he had no intention of interfering with that. She would never try to manipulate him or control their marriage. Maria wanted one thing from him, his title. And he wanted one thing from her. Legitimate children—and attractive ones at that. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen…at least until recently.
But more than that, they were friends and sometime lovers, and though their sexual tastes did not match completely they understood and respected each other. Aside from the fidelity she would owe him in the years during which they filled the nursery with an heir and a spare, they both sought a marriage based on mutual liberty.
But he would never love her, nor would she love him. They would never have any motivation to hurt each other.
He couldn’t say the same about himself and the lovely Lady Cranfield. Not with any confidence. The best thing would be to put some distance between them.
In her chambers, soaking in her tub and relieved to be alone, Anne closed her eyes with a sigh. Nothing had gone as she had intended. Ruel had completely controlled the situation and used his obviously vast carnal experience to manipulate her—to get under her carefully constructed defences. That was something she could not allow. And those things he’d said about her and William just were not true. He was trying to undermine her confidence in herself, trying to convince himself that he would be successful in adding her to his doubtless long list of conquests.
And, dear God, the man was far too sure of himself.
“I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”
His velvet smooth voice had rung with the total assurance that she would do his bidding. As if she would ever do such a shameless thing as to lie naked in broad daylight in the Whitecross study in front of a virtual stranger. With a houseful of people no less! She soaped her cloth, then vigorously scrubbed her arms.
“…display yourself for me.”
She couldn’t silence the echo of his words in her mind. What if she had obeyed him? Her hand on the cloth slowed. The silken slide over her flesh was like plush velvet rasping softly against her bare skin. Well…what if she had?
She could see it. See it so clearly that her mouth went dry. Herself, lying back against the divan, the velvet gliding against her naked flesh. His fierce, azure gaze trailing over her at his leisure.
She awaited his pleasure…
Excitement rushed over her, so intense that the chamber seemed to spin. She slipped her hand down her stomach and over her mons. She delved her fingers between the outer folds to seek the nub between. It grew firm, eagerly rising up against her pressing fingertips. Desperate for stimulation.
She recalled every moment of this afternoon, vividly and viscerally. She could feel the prickling burn on her scalp, when he had grasped her hair and pulled her head back. Could taste his breath as she opened her mouth to accept his kiss. Could feel the power and strength of his hands. The exquisite yet gentle pressure on her jaw as he had forced her mouth as far open as it would go to accept the heated onslaught of his demanding tongue.
A bolt of desire, a whole series of them, pulsed through her belly and struck into her loins, so strong that she moaned aloud. Her hips writhed in the water, making sloshing noises.
She slid her fingers around her stiff nu
b. She couldn’t stop touching herself, circling faster and faster. The tingles increased rapidly and deep inside the tightening began. Her breathing forced itself out in short pants.
Her arousal had never built this quickly. But it was going to happen. She was going to come–and come hard. Now. She couldn’t deny herself. She moved her fingers quicker. The first contraction tore through her with stunning force. She let her breath out in short, quivering hitches as her hips bucked against her hand through the next several spasms.
With a small cry, she sank down against the porcelain tub, her core still thrumming. Release and satisfaction flooded her, sinking deep into her core, melting her bones. Elation consumed her and all she could see in her mind was his startlingly blue eyes…
A moment later, awareness returned. A rude fall to earth. A shock.
Look at her. Just look her. Pining for the touch of a man like Jonathon Lloyd. The arrogant arse!
Oh damn him!
Damn him!
She slapped her palms down repeatedly on the water’s surface while crying out in frustration. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub and splashed onto the floor. She struck the water harder and harder and screamed. The sound, feral and full of rage, stunned her.
Sweat trickled into her eyes with stinging effect and she panted harshly. The now-shallow water seemed to have cooled rapidly, and with the sudden sense of chill came a return of her rational thought processes. She caught her breath and held it, then attempted to regain control.
Gradually, her breathing and heart rate began to slow. She sighed.
Dear God. She had just handed the insufferable Earl of Ruel a sort of victory. Yes, this was private and only she would ever know.
But she would know.
Forever.
In fact, this was worse than his attempt to manipulate her into giving him more of herself than she’d wanted to. Here, now, of her own choosing, she’d let him into her private world.
And that she could have done so was the most shocking thing of all. She had only ever been able to climax while thinking of the nameless, faceless man in her secret dreams. Her imaginary lover. A man who would never hurt her or betray her or ignore her. Now she couldn’t even conjure the faceless man without seeing Ruel take his place.
At the thought, her mouth went dry.
She pulled herself up and got out of the tub. Then she jerked the rang the bell for Nellie to return and aid her to dress. She was determined to put clothes between herself and her desires.
Passing by her writing desk, she saw the letter. Pressure constricted her throat, spreading to her chest. Dear God. Time was passing so quickly and soon she would need to travel and meet that precious package Mama was sending to England. Her half-sister Dorothea, travelling alone but for servants.
She was so ashamed of Mama’s carelessness. Mama had caused a scandal after Anne’s marriage. But what did all of Mama’s lovers truly matter, so long as no one was hurt? However, Dorothea had been hurt very deeply. She’d never be an aristocrat, never even be completely respectable. Anne would do what she could to protect her half-sister against the outrage of Society. She hadn’t even yet been able to confide the matter to her own trusted Nellie.
Anne couldn’t fail. She had to meet the ship when it arrived. She knew what it was like to be alone except for those who were paid to watch over but never to love, and who dared not come too close. Anne couldn’t help how her mother had dealt with this unknown half-sister, but she could make sure that the first face Dorothea saw when she disembarked the ship would be one of a blood relative who welcomed her with open arms.
A memory of her own childhood swept over Anne.
She was seated in a chair placed at the middle of the large table, back in Ireland. Christmas. One of the rare times she was allowed to eat in the formal dining hall. Dressed splendidly in a lavender frock coat and silver-and-white waistcoat, the duke chewed methodically, his eyes glazed with boredom. He held his elegantly tall, slender body completely erect. His features were so perfect, so handsome—so aloof, so glacial. She hated that look. He didn’t seem human. How could someone as imperfect as herself—dark skinned, chubby and awkward—have sprung from his loins?
Her stomach cramped, the little food she’d eaten threatening to come up and disgrace her. It would be such bad manners, proving how ill-suited she was to the formal dining hall. Yet she felt like this each time she was allowed to eat here. She missed her nurse.
She glanced away from the duke and looked to Mama for reassurance.
Mama didn’t notice her. She was gazing at herself in the reflection of her silver spoon and smiling. Anne swallowed, hard, and the nausea in her stomach turned into a cold lump too dense to be ejected. It was the best she could do to comfort herself. She pushed the food around on her plate…
Anne pulled herself from the memory and shook her head with determination. No, she would not be like her parents. She would not relegate her half-sister to the sole care of servants, only to be dragged out at Christmas as a novelty.
Yet she seemed to be powerless to overcome her own fears, which prevented her from travelling. What was she going to do?
She paced the chamber.
What was she going to do?
At the evening meal, she picked at her food and dared occasional glances at Ruel. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to find her answers in a man like him. To think she might have made the most mistaken judgement of her life. She could only pray now that he wouldn’t share her secrets. If smug Francesca and her snickering, simpleton friends knew of her humiliating fears, Anne would simply die.
Dignified withdrawal behind an icy façade had sustained her through her two Seasons in Mayfair. Now she retreated into that defence again. She refused to look directly at Ruel, pretending he did not exist for her.
But avoiding him completely proved impossible. Over the next few days, fat raindrops steadily pelted the windows of Whitecross Hall while lightning flashed and thunder rumbled intermittently. Prevented from hunting, the gentlemen lazed about, filling the interminable hours with their pent-up petulance.
Ruel seemed to be everywhere she went. On the afternoon of the third day, in the study, she came upon him with Lady Scott—or Cherry, if one preferred that vulgar nickname. Yet how apt an epithet it was for the inane woman.
They were seated on the plush crimson divan where Anne liked to read. Cherry wore a fetching rose-pink bow on the neckline of her bodice, and his lordship was bent over her in the act of untying it with his strong, white teeth.
Anne dropped the book she was returning. It hit the wood floor with a thump, so hard that she was sure the spine must have broken.
The couple looked up at her. Cherry’s eyes were witless, wide pools of watery blue. Her insipid pink mouth formed in a silly O, her dark chestnut ringlets quivered. Not a very mature reaction, for Lady Scott had to be forty if she was a day—and she did not wear those years all that gracefully, if truth were told.
Anne couldn’t be less than honest.
She flashed her gaze to the lady’s erstwhile lover. Ruel’s large, long-fingered hands still touched the lady’s half-bare, creamy shoulders. He returned Anne’s gaze calmly, his fierce visage closed and cold.
The heat of raw anger unfroze Anne’s mind. Of course it was anger. It certainly wasn’t anything as unworthy as jealousy. She didn’t care how many silly women he took to his bed, just so long as he didn’t foul her favourite crimson divan in the process!
She clamped her gaping mouth shut and shot him a glare. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly and something flashed in his eyes. Vexation? Yes, it must be. Vexation at her, because she’d intruded on his afternoon tryst. Goodness, he looked so intimidating. Her insides quaked and she wanted to turn and run.
But Whitecross Hall had been her home. She had been its countess and cared for the needs of its people. Now she was made to feel like an interloper. And she had accepted it all as fate…up until now. This was intolerable.
Ruel would not chase her out of her favourite haunt.
She stiffened her spine and walked calmly to the bookshelves; took her time surveying the books, making a new selection. All the while she felt his gaze burning into her.
Swiftly rustling muslin crackled in the chamber. Then the door closed, quite loudly. Lady Scott had left. An instant later, a click sounded. The sound of the bolt sliding home softly.
Her heart began to pound and her knees went rubbery. Oh God, he’d locked the door…
Well, she wouldn’t show her apprehension of him. She grasped the first book her hand fell on, pulled it from the shelf, then walked towards the wingchair by the window.
Before she reached her destination, he came to her side, placed his hand on her arm. She jerked her head over her shoulder to face him. His eyes were open and warm, bluer than early evening.
“Your ladybird has flown.” She forced the words past the constriction in her throat.
He loosened his hold, caressing her arm below her small, puffed sleeve, his fingers tracing the bare flesh. Little shocks of fire licked up her arm.
No need for worry. She wouldn’t weaken to him this time. She made her voice hard and cold. “Hadn’t you better go and catch her?”
“Forget her.” His smooth voice lulled her as he cupped her cheek with one hand. His eyes, burning with desire, ignited flames deep inside her. Her limbs went weak. A slow flow of wetness commenced between her legs.
He bent close.
Did he actually intend to kiss her? After that disgusting little scene?
Indignation burned through her. Yet her body thrummed with awareness of him—his scent, his strength. Her body wanted to let him take whatever he willed. Her throat went dry and her legs shook from pure fear. Not so much in fear of him, but fear of herself and what she would allow—what she would do—if something didn’t happen to break this spell.
Her heart hammered against her chest wall. God, she must do something. Anything—
She drew back her hand and arced it forward and up with all her might. She made sharp, stinging, shocking contact with his cheek. It was with enough force that his head reeled a bit. Not much, though.