Clothes were so complicated; they might have been awkward, and yet, when his lips left hers, he turned her deftly, fingers amazingly nimble on tiny hooks and eyes, on draws, strings, and stays. Perhaps it was the champagne, the brandy, both, but it seemed that she simply stepped from a sea of clothing, like an old skin left behind, and turned back into his arms. Then memory was awakened in a surge of sensation as she felt the touch of his hands against her naked flesh, and it seemed that each finger branded a new wave of heat against her skin, and each around a tiny streak of lightning to rip through the length of her, grounding in the center, the apex of her thighs. His mouth ravaged and pillaged her once again, met the heady fever that had taken hold of her, a complete abandonment of right and wrong, and what was to come tomorrow.
She was not so adept. Her fingers trembled. Subtly, rather than be choked, he slipped the knot from his cravat, shed waistcoat and shirt, and enveloped her in his embrace once again. Her breasts crushed against the wall of his chest, muscle that was taut and honed, sleek and hot and welcoming. His palm cradled her cheek, and she looked in his eyes, her own captured there as his fingers teased down her throat, brushed her collarbone, and curled around her breast. Her breath caught, and she nearly cast back her head to shriek, for so simple a touch seemed to rouse so much, and again, the streaks of fire and light, radiant as the sun, seemed to tear through the length of her. Then she discovered that all that occurred so far had been a tease, for his lips fell upon her shoulder, then trailed down the valley between her breasts. His tongue created strokes of lava across her chest, teased the peak of her nipple before the caress of his mouth fastened around it. She had shivered, now she quaked. And as he moved lower, she realized that there had been times tonight that she had not been able to draw her eyes from the stage because this was what she had been imagining. She had watched the players and thought, yes, that is where I want his hand to stray, where his touch should probe. God, yes, that is where I would have his kiss fall upon me . . .
He far exceeded all visions. Fingers drew a trail, followed the liquid paintbrush of his tongue, tending to ribs, brushing against her navel, laving a hip. And then . . . lower. A touch of fire, stroke of silk, searing damp wetness, giving, demanding. She thought, then, that she would surely fall, knew she could not. His hands drew a pattern over her hips, gripped and held her buttocks, pulled her ever more tightly against the wanton erotism of raw seduction and carnal pleasure, and in the end, she cried out, falling despite herself, yet falling only into his embrace, dazed, in a state of intoxication no sweet amber liquor could bring. She looked up into his face as he carried her to the bed, the awe she felt at that moment staving off embarrassment, and her hand moved to caress his jaw, and she felt wonder again, just at the proportions of it, and then the feel, slightly rough, of his shaven chin, and again at the strength of it, and the sleek bronze of it, the tautness of the skin . . .
He came down beside her, every movement supple and controlled, and shed shoes and hose and trousers, and she lay and watched him, mesmerized by each movement, ripple of muscle, stretch of flesh. She had been like someone stunned, silent and unmoving, but when he turned back to her then, she found a strange new life. A small sound escaped her lips and she rose, eager to meet him again, almost throwing herself against him, and burying her face against the wall of his chest, savoring the richness of him before pressing him back, fevered to respond to every touch, caress. To know him, breathe him, feel him, seemed imperative, an urgent drowning in a swell of sensation. There was a second in which she thought that she was insane, this was insane, against every grain of moral fiber that she had once thought that she possessed. And yet, to be with him seemed the most ethical tenet in the world—it was right, it was incredible, it was everything she desired in life.
And would never have again.
And so she teased and savored, admiring the curve of his calf, the line of his thigh, tautness of buttocks, length of back. His spinal column was fascinating, and she explored it with her fingers and kisses, and she adored his shoulders, abdomen, and below with the same preoccupation, until she was caught against him with the unyielding strength of his arms, brought beneath him, captured in the gray mist of his eyes. In seconds he had thrust within her, sunk into her being, and she felt as if she were a delicate shell, cracked and shattered by that intrusion, crystalized then, and made into something new. His body arched and moved, so subtly at first that the rub against the most intimate of her flesh was like the sweetest taunting, and then it was as if the whole of the earth shook with the fervor and passion of his rhythm. She heard the clamor of the wind, and it was her breath, the thunder of a summer storm, and it was the cadence of her heart. Sleek, damp with perspiration, earthy and real, she felt the scratch of his ebony chest hair against her breasts, and it, too, was arousing, and she felt the pounding reality of desire and instinct, and the wonder of something that, to her, seemed so much more. Anchored to the bed, in the most natural of human needs, she felt, too, as if she were still encapsulated in silver, something shimmering, something better, and panting, still seeking the utmost oblivion.
It burst upon her with such a wave of force that she clawed at his shoulders, crying out despite herself, heedless of who might or might not hear. Raw pleasure gripped her like a vise, allowing her to come down only slowly, creating tremors in her like aftershocks. She was excruciatingly aware of the moment when he climaxed for it seemed that a flood of liquid fire washed throughout the length of her, as if it spread to her every limb, indeed, her mind and soul. And then, again, she heard her breath, felt the slightly rough embroidered pattern of damask spread beneath her nakedness, never torn from the bed in their sudden state of urgency. Her cheek was slightly chafed, she knew, her lips swollen, thighs sore, and yet . . .
The drumbeat of her heart was low, very low, and he slipped to her side, not turning away from her, but staring up at the ceiling in the gas-lit room. She realized somewhere at that point that she should be feeling an agonizing shame, that she should be sorry, that she needed confession in the worst way, and that she was a horrible human being. By right, she knew these things, and still, all that she could think was that he was magnificent; she had thought that she could never want anyone again, really never care about anyone again.
If she cared about him, she wasn’t just horrible, she was stupid to the extreme.
She closed her eyes, realizing that he had turned to her. And she felt the coolness of the air strike the damp nudity of her skin, and she suddenly wanted to draw a cover around herself, but there was none, for their weight and bodies kept it firmly affixed to the bed. She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes, yet when he touched her again, her lashes flew open, and she fixed her eyes upon his face. He was not staring at her face however, but watching his hand as it trailed softly over her breasts and abdomen, belly, mound, and thighs. He studied her, gazed at her with a dark fascination that seemed to bring a rush of crimson to every limb and particle of her flesh. She was flushed to feel that so slight a contact could rouse sensation once again, that she could have turned into his arms, eagerly known it all again.
“Now, it’s getting late,” he murmured.
“Yes.” She could think of nothing to say.
“Hell,” he murmured and drew her against him again. “There should be time. But then, there isn’t any, is there?”
And so it began again. And it shouldn’t have been so staggeringly cataclysmic, so volatile, so base, and so beautiful. She’d always heard that if you wanted something desperately, simply having it would take the urgency away. Like a hunger for a particular fruit, or food. And yet, she had wanted him desperately.
The hunger was not eased.
Only increased.
And so it was that the time slipped away, and the things that should have been said were not. There was room for nothing but savoring each taste of the fruit, relishing feel and taste and sight and touch . . . dying a little, as written by poets she had not believed befor
e this night, not even when she had loved before.
And somewhere, the wonder turned into exhaustion and dreams, for the next thing she knew, he was urgently waking her.
“My God, it’s nearly dawn. I’ve got to get you home.”
He was up, and it was over. Naked, supple, sleek, he drew his fingers through the darkness of his hair as he headed for his bath.
She didn’t want him coming back to find her still upon the bed. She rose, gathered the pieces of her clothing strewn about, and ran desperately for the door. As she threw it open, she prayed suddenly that she would not come so, stark naked, upon a member of his household.
God was with her. She did not.
She burst into the guest room, washed and dressed quickly. Her fingers shook as she tried to make neat work of a head of hair more tangled now than ever. Everything, she did with the most tremendous haste.
She burst back out into the hallway. His door remained as she had left it; closed. She stared at it a moment, tension and indecision ripping through her.
Then she turned and fled down the stairs, praying she would find Randolph in the kitchen.
She did.
He glanced up, and if he saw the tempest in her eyes or form, he gave no indication.
“Would you mind . . . I need to go home now.”
“As you wish, my lady. Certainly, as you wish.”
* * *
“You don’t have to go through with it. You do not have to marry Charles. He will be terribly sad, but he’s a fine man all the way through, and he will understand.”
Jamie returned to the bedroom saying the words.
But she was no longer on the bed.
She had gone to the other room, he thought. Swearing, he reached for his readily available clothing, but there seemed to be pieces everywhere.
He dug his smoking jacket from the wardrobe, threw it around himself, and headed into the hall. Mrs. Angsley, his housekeeper, was up and moving down the hall.
“Morning, sir!” she told him cheerfully.
“Morning. I had a lady in the guest room, Mrs. Angsley. Could you check on her for me, please?”
She was a broad, kindly woman with cherry red cheeks and stone gray hair. “Why, sir, I’d be happy to do so—but she’s gone, I’m afraid.”
“Gone?” he said, startled.
“Yes, Sir James; I believe so, for I heard Randolph pulling the carriage out, just as I came up the stairs.”
“I see. Thank you.”
He stepped back into his room, shut his door, and leaned against it.
So that it was it. Lies and pretense. Not all lies. She had wanted him as badly as he had wanted her.
But that hadn’t been enough.
For the woman who had once married a commoner, he wasn’t enough. She’d been offered nobility, and real riches, and she meant to have them.
At whatever cost.
She had betrayed Charles. Yes, she had not wed the man yet. He had betrayed his own uncle, a man he admired and loved. And yet, it had been with the same justification. Charles was not married to the lady as yet.
Well, fine. He’d dance at her wedding, then.
He glanced at the bed, where it seemed that he’d finally found just what he’d looked for, all of his life.
A mirage.
His mouth tightened, and with it, his heart hardened.
Indeed, he would dance at her wedding. Somehow, he would step back. He would forget the night. He had known from the beginning that she was dangerous. Very dangerous to his uncle. He had known that she could twist men around her fingers, just with the strength of those blue eyes. He would have never thought that he might have found a strange vulnerability in her. Never imagined that he could be so taken himself. So entrapped. Halfway in love . . .
Never in love, he told himself harshly.
She was a lie, and that was it.
And if he ever saw her look at him again, as she had that night, endless blue eyes naked with sheer honesty and need, he’d call her a liar, a harlot, the worst kind of whore, right to her face.
To hell with her.
And still . . .
Images haunted him.
No.
Pain seemed to tear at his muscles, his limbs . . . his heart.
No.
He’d been a fool. He’d betrayed a man he loved.
Never again.
Never.
Chapter 8
Between Darby and Clayton, they had organized everything Maggie might need and it had been brought to Moorhaven the day before. Justin’s clothing, too, for the ceremony, had been brought to the house. All they had to do was ride out to the estate.
Maggie had had no sleep and suffered with a pounding headache. She felt as if she moved about in fog, but when Justin knocked on her door, she smoothed her hair, and opened it with a pretense of well-being.
“Good morning.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
She sighed softly. “Justin, we’ve gone through this so many times. Charles is a really good man. He’s embraced the projects that mean so very much to me. He doesn’t spend his life moving from his club to the nearest cigar bar. I’m going to be a countess; not a bad lot in life. I’m resigned, now you must be resigned as well.”
He looked away. “Well, you would break his heart if you were to back out now, but, still, Maggie, Lord knows you don’t deserve to pay for the things I’ve done. You know, I’ve been talking to some American businessmen at my club, and do you know what we could do? Emigrate! Start all over in a new country. Get jobs!” He gave her a pretend shudder. “Seriously, it’s a possibility, don’t you think?”
She smiled. “And forfeit the title and what little land we have left to Angus?”
“We can go there and get rich, and I’ll still be Lord Graham. Then we can come back.”
“Or I can just marry Charles, and make a good man very happy. Go away—let me get ready.”
With a sigh, he turned and left her.
She was quiet most of the trip to Moorhaven. And when she arrived, she asked Darby if he would get Lord Charles so that she could speak with him.
Darby returned. Charles was distressed. It was bad luck to see his bride before the wedding. Maggie sent back the message that she didn’t believe in luck; she wanted to talk to him in the chapel where they would be married, and it was important.
Charles came, his concern apparent in the frown that wrinkled his forehead.
She was standing in the aisle, feet from the altar, when he came to her. She turned and he took her hands. “My dear, have you decided that you cannot marry such an old buzzard? If so, I will understand.”
She shook her head. “I want to make sure that you want me, that you know the woman you’re marrying.”
“From the first time I saw you, years ago, you were a dream. And when it came to me that such a dream might be realized, I knew all that I needed to know,” he told her.
She shook her head. “But you don’t really know me. Not even after this time we’ve spent together.”
He arched a white brow. “I know, Maggie, that after your husband’s death, you spent months in the deepest grief. I know that you heard of a medium who could speak with the dead, and that you attended a séance, and found out that the man was a charlatan, who looked into the history of those he would entertain, and found out little facts and the like to make himself look credible. I know that your brother was worried, and managed to feed the man false information, and that you were hurt and horrified when you discovered the treachery. I knew a year ago when you debunked a Madam Sara; please, dear, it was in the papers, and I believe that you realized then that you’d been foolish to allow your name into the news, because it would hinder your efforts if you tried again to find the truth. I know, and I understand. I know about your forays into Whitechapel, of course—I knew that financial charity was not enough for you, that you had to see how the money was being spent. I know these things, and I admire them. I was not looki
ng for a meek little maid to do as I said, my dear.”
She smiled, touching his face. His very dear face.
“And I know how you have fought for social reform, and that you have always believed that privilege comes with responsibility. I know that you did service in India, that you have lived your years in the most incredibly admirable fashion.”
“Then what is it?”
“Charles, I loved my husband with all my heart.”
“I know.”
“But . . . what if I weren’t exactly a pillar of virtue? What if . . . what if there had been someone else . . . since my marriage.”
He lowered his head, then he looked at her, a very small smile on his lips. “Is it over?”
“It never really began.”
“We’re not married until we come into this chapel today, and say our vows. Your life before that moment means nothing to me. Naturally, what comes after . . . and there is nothing that you have done that could keep me from wanting to bind my life to yours. Unless you feel that you cannot bear to live with me. I do freely give you the opportunity to escape.”
She shook her head. “I’m trying to give you the opportunity to escape.”
“I am hopelessly wrapped in the chains of my own heart, my dear. I could only turn away if you were to say that you couldn’t bear the sight of me.” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly. Something inside her heart shuddered, but there was another place within her where she knew just how truly fine a human being she would wed. She knew, too, from his eyes, from the passion in his voice, that he truly loved her.
And she could not hurt him. Nor, by any sense of right and wrong, could she renege when such arrangements for the welfare of her family had already been made.
She stroked back his rich white hair. “Charles, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a little peace with God.”
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