A Matter of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  “My thoughts have been running along a similar path. As John was being dragged away, he had the audacity to remind me that you loved him first.”

  “No.” She twisted around and gazed up at him. “No, I told you that night in the coach, I had doubts…”

  He cradled her cheek, “I remember. But when you look at me, do you see the man who asked you to marry him?”

  She slowly shook her head. “No, I see the man I came to love.”

  He fell to his knees and bracketed her face between his large, powerful hands. “You see Robert Hawthorne, the Duke of Killingsworth.”

  “No. I don’t see a name or a title. I see only a man. A man who held me through the night while sitting in an uncomfortable position in a coach. A man who tried to hide the fact that he wept over the loss of his parents. A man who took a child on a shadow journey through the jungles of Africa and the sands of Egypt. A man who risked his life to save others in a storm. A man who was treated unbearably badly by his brother, yet still seeks to help him. A man whose wife betrayed him, and yet still he reads to her in the garden. I’m so sorry for doubting your name, but please believe me when I tell you that I never doubted my feelings for you. I love you more than anything.”

  “Oh, Torie.” He crushed her to him, bringing her down from her chair, positioning her on his lap. “You can’t imagine how unbearable it is to not feel love, to be isolated and alone with only your thoughts for company.”

  “And shadow creatures.”

  He drew back, holding her head, his hands tangled in her hair, his gaze riveted on her. “I thought I would go mad there. I had all these plans for revenge, how I would make John suffer, then you walked into my life and all I wanted was you.”

  She watched as his throat muscles worked, felt him tighten his hold.

  “I love you beyond all reason. I fought against the temptation of kissing you, of making love to you, of being with you. Victoria Alexandria Lambert Hawthorne, will you honor me by remaining my wife, by becoming the mother of my children, the lady of my heart?”

  She felt her tears resurface and spill over onto her cheeks. The look he bestowed on her was as heartfelt as the words, love pure and true. Beyond all reason.

  “Yes,” she rasped, her word choked, her throat clogged. “Yes.”

  He blanketed her mouth with his own as though he wanted to seal the word for all eternity. He kissed her as though he thought he might never have the opportunity to do so again. Kissed her as though his life depended on it. Kissed her as though he would never have enough of her. Kissed her as though he loved her with all his heart, all his soul. As though she was the reason he existed.

  And she returned the kiss with equal measure. She loved him.

  Within her arms, she held her heart’s desire. Everything she’d ever wanted. To be loved, to be cherished, to be seen as worthy. He was everything to her because she was everything to him.

  “How is your wound?” he asked, nipping at the tender flesh along her neck below her ear, before allowing his tongue to circle the shell of her ear.

  “It’s completely healed.”

  “Perhaps I should inspect the scar.”

  She leaned back slightly, smiling at him as she wiped away the tears that had begun to dry. “Do you think?”

  He nodded solemnly, and she thought perhaps he wasn’t teasing her, but was serious about his need to see it.

  Easing off him, she sat back on her heels and undid the first button—

  “I’ll do that,” he said, moving her hands away before he took over the task.

  She could feel the tiniest of tremors in his fingers and she remembered the first time—

  “You were locked away for eight years.”

  He lifted his gaze to hers. “Yes.”

  “You’d been a long time without a woman.”

  “I’d been forever without one.”

  She stared at him, in stunned disbelief. “Was I your first?”

  “And you shall be my last.”

  She again felt those irritable tears. “I can’t believe that you…showed such restraint. Legally—”

  “I had the right, Torie. I know. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you. I wouldn’t use you as a means to slake my lust. When I finally came to you, it wasn’t lust that drove me there.” He angled his head slightly. “Well, I suppose it was a bit. I’m not sure men are ever completely devoid of lust.”

  “You were so skilled that I would have never guessed that you’d never before—”

  “I had eight years to ponder the possibilities. I shall have to share with you sometime some rather unconventional shadow images.”

  “Are they wicked?”

  “Decidedly so.”

  Now she was the one left to ponder the possibilities as he turned his attention back to her buttons and released them one by one. He slid his hands inside the parted material and slowly peeled her gown back off her shoulders until it pooled around her hips. His eyes closed, his brow pleated, as though he were in great pain. When he opened his eyes, she saw that the pain ran deeper than she could have imagined.

  “You should have let the bullet strike me,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the nearly healed scar at her side that marked the entry of the bullet, which had miraculously not struck anything of significance.

  She wove her fingers into his hair, kissed the top of his head. “How could I? Losing you would have been far worse than any physical pain I might have suffered.”

  “If one of us must suffer, I prefer it be me.”

  “Which is my point. If you’d died, I would have been the one suffering.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I believe your reasoning is convoluted.”

  “Let’s see to it that neither of us ever suffers again.”

  “All right. I promise. You’ll never suffer again.”

  He rose to his feet, reached down, and drew her up, her gown slithering down her legs to the floor. Bending down, he slid an arm behind her knees and lifted her into his arms.

  “I can walk, Robert,” she murmured even as she wound her arms around his neck and nestled more closely against him.

  “I need you to conserve your strength.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to need it for what I have in mind.”

  What he had in mind was absolute pleasure that began the second he placed her on the bed and divested himself of his robe. He was magnificent as he came to her, ready and eager.

  They became a tangle of limbs, his mouth on hers, his hands caressing, stilling each time they passed over her healing wound.

  “It no longer hurts,” she said, when he again stopped as though waiting for her to cry out with pain.

  “I never want you to hurt again.”

  “Then kiss me.”

  An inquiry seemed to pass over his face, as though he was wondering what one statement had to do with the other, then it was as though it no longer mattered. He latched his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, thoroughly, a man hungry, a woman starving for what had too long been denied.

  She stroked his shoulders and back. She kissed his throat, his chin, his jaw, relishing the echo of groans, as he rose above her.

  He was nestled between her thighs, looking down on her with an expression of complete adoration. She hoped that he could see that she felt the same as she rubbed the soles of her feet up and down his calves.

  Threading his fingers through her hair, he held her head in place while he kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips, her chin. “You were an unexpected gift, and now that I have unwrapped you, I think I should enjoy playing with you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He winked at her before scooting down, his mouth paying homage to one breast with a circle of kisses, before he blew a cool breath over her nipple. She felt it pucker and harden, drawing up tightly, even as the sensitive area between her thighs coiled tightly as well. She arched slightly, pressing
herself against the flat plane of his stomach, searching for release while he continued to torture her by denying it.

  He ran his tongue over the peak before closing his mouth around it entirely, suckling, stroking, suckling again.

  “Robert,” she rasped.

  “Mmm?”

  “You’ve enjoyed your gift enough. Come to me, so I might enjoy you.”

  “Not yet.”

  He journeyed to her other breast, leaving a path of dew-kissed flesh in his wake. He gave the same attention here as he had there, so his hands skimmed along her sides, her hips, her thighs. Marvelous hands, large hands.

  And she returned the favor, stroking where she could reach: shoulders, back, chest, sides. She loved the feel of him, the tension building, the urgency she sensed in him even as he tried to tamp it down, to go leisurely.

  “You’re driving me mad,” she murmured.

  “It’s only fair,” he said, his voice low and throaty. “You do the same to me every hour of every day. God, how I love you, Torie. I would be content to spend the remainder of my life here with you in bed.”

  He eased farther down, kissing her stomach. Farther still, brushing his lips over the inside of her thighs, sending delicious tremors racing through her. How could a touch at one point create sensations at another? And yet they did. Over and over.

  Then he became decidedly wicked, looking up at her, his eyes blazing with desire just before he lowered his mouth to her most intimate place. With his tongue, he stroked and swirled. He slipped his hands beneath her hips, lifting her slightly, an offering to him that resulted in exquisite pleasure for her.

  She dug her fingers into the sheets, holding them tightly, fighting to keep herself tethered even as he was urging her to soar above the mundane, to take flight. She squeezed her thighs against his shoulders, ran her feet over him, heard her tiny cries escalating, quickening…

  Then she was calling his name, begging him to stop, begging him to continue. Her body convulsed with the force of release, lethargy spreading throughout her like molten lava flowing down a hillside. As her breathing slowed, she was vaguely aware of his resting his cheek against her stomach, as though he thought she needed a moment to recover from the cataclysm that had overtaken her.

  She threaded her fingers through his hair.

  “Come to me,” she whispered, surprised to find that she seemed to have no energy. But it was a wonderful lethargy.

  And when he rose up above her, she discovered her energy renewed. And when he entered her with the surety born of love and acceptance, she thought nothing on earth could give her greater satisfaction.

  He began to move like a man obsessed, a man with a purpose, his movements not solely for him, but for her as well, rocking, stroking, pressing home his point that he’d not take this journey without her. Groaning low, he kissed her as she felt the tension building within him, felt it building within her.

  She’d not expected this second rising, thought the first had done her in, but it was there, rushing over her. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, seeking some sort of purchase from the storm that was about to overtake her, overtake them—

  And when it washed over them, it lifted them both, took them under, lifted them back up. She felt him pumping his seed into her, felt her body closing around him. When the spasms stopped, she thought she might never move again. Still raised up on his arms, he buried his face against the curve of her neck and shoulder.

  She could feel the slight tremors still passing through him. She rubbed his dew-coated back.

  “Relax.”

  “I’ll crush you.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Give me a moment.”

  “I’ll give you a lifetime.”

  His chuckle sounded as though it came from the depths of a weary soul as he rolled off her and brought her up against his side.

  “I’ll gladly take a lifetime.”

  Epilogue

  He’d promised her that she’d never again suffer, but he could hear her cries of anguish, despite the fact that he knew she was fighting desperately not to be heard. Would her agony never end?

  “Will you stop pacing, for God’s sake? You’re making me dizzy.”

  Robert glared at Weddington sitting on a bench in the hallway outside the duke’s bedchamber door. Every heir to Killingsworth had been born in the duke’s own bed. It had been near midnight when Torie had awakened Robert and informed him that she needed to be moved to his bed. He’d gotten into the habit of sleeping in her bedchamber. He preferred it over his own. After all, it was where he could always find her, hold her near, and hear her gentle breathing during the night. It was where they made love, whispered secrets, shared dreams. It was where he drifted off to sleep, loving her more each day.

  “It’s been over eighteen hours.”

  “Relax, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “Easy enough for you to say. Eleanor’s only done this once. Torie has done it twice already today and it’s not getting any easier!”

  Robert regretted his words as soon as he caught a good look at Weddington’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Weddington.”

  “It seems you are to have an embarrassment of riches, my friend, all delivered within the span of a single day. Enjoy them. Eleanor desperately wants another child. Perhaps you can give us one of yours.”

  “I don’t think so, and I apologize for my harsh words. It’s just that—”

  Torie went silent, but there were other sounds.

  Then the door opened and Eleanor looked out. “It’s over.”

  Robert released a great sigh of relief. “So there were just two then?”

  “No, there were three.”

  “Three?”

  She nodded, an impish smile on her face. “We’ll have them all ready in a bit to meet their father.”

  “What about Torie? When can I see her?”

  “In a bit. She needs to be readied as well.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s doing remarkably well, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  She laughed. “Considering that she just delivered three babies. Weddy, tell him to relax and not worry.”

  “I’ve tried, princess, he won’t listen to me.”

  Eleanor shut the door in Robert’s face. Robert leaned against the wall, his legs barely able to support him any longer. “Three,” he repeated.

  It seemed to take forever before the physician made his exit and Eleanor motioned for Robert to come into the bedchamber.

  Torie was lying on the bed, three small bundles nestled against her side, her arm somehow around all of them. Robert knelt beside the bed.

  “Oh, Robert, look how tiny they are.”

  “There’s three of them,” he said, awed by their presence and their remarkable beauty. Even with their tiny pinched faces and their pink skin, they were beautiful. He’d long ago stopped counting all the things his brother’s deception had denied him. Rather he’d begun to be thankful for all the things it had brought him: Torie and now three daughters.

  “Yes.”

  “All I can say is, thank God they’re daughters. Not a single heir among them.”

  He had no desire for his firstborn son to have a twin. He never wanted his heir to endure what he had. He never wanted a second son to lose his way as John had. Robert continued to visit with him once a week, but it was always difficult and disappointing, because John was still convinced that he was the rightful heir, that Torie belonged to him. Robert hadn’t a clue how to reach him, how to help him.

  Strangely, Torie’s sister had taken to visiting with John as well. “He fascinates me,” Diana had said on one occasion. “He’s never quite the same man.”

  She had patience with him that others didn’t, and Robert couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she would be the key to his salvation, because his dearest wish was that the brother he’d known as a boy would return.

  “I’ll right that m
ishap next time around,” Torie assured him.

  He leaned up and kissed her briefly. “Thank you for having daughters this go round.”

  “I didn’t think dukes were supposed to be happy with daughters unless they already had sons.”

  “I’m happy with anything that you give me.”

  “I will give you a son next time.”

  “If not, we’ll keep trying until we get it right.”

  She laughed. “Even when we get it right, you’d best keep trying.”

  “I will do that, I promise.”

  And he knew it was one promise he would definitely be able to keep.

  In the years that followed…

  It was said of Robert Hawthorne, the Duke of Killingsworth, that no man fought more diligently and with more purpose for the rights of prisoners and prison reform than he.

  It was also said of the duke that no man loved his wife or his children more.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader:

  From the moment I saw an engraving depicting the inmates of Pentonville Prison walking about the exercise yard, peaked hoods covering their faces, I knew this prison was destined to play a role in one of my stories. The Man in the Iron Mask Meets Victorian London was how I though of it.

  Built in 1842, Pentonville was considered the first “model” prison. Substantial planning went into its design and management. It was built during a time when convicts were transported to Australia. But they were first sentenced to serve eighteen months at a “model” prison before deportation, so they would have time in isolation and silence to reflect on their crimes. For Robert to have been placed in the prison without first being sentenced in the courts, and not to have been transported after eighteen months, required considerable manipulation on John’s part.

  While there are no indications that any of the warders at Pentonville were as unscrupulous as Mr. Matthews, I hope you’ll grant me a bit of literacy leniency in depicting him and the situation in which Robert found himself. But with faces never seen, it seemed to me that the possibility could exist for a man to be imprisoned unjustly and indefinitely, which is the beauty of writing fiction, after all. One has the liberty to explore the possibilities and is limited only by imagination.