Secrets of a Perfect Night

by Stephanie Laurens

  They returned to the stairs, then climbed the short flight to the long gallery that ran across the back of the main block. Its many-paned windows looked down over the gardens, presently a white wilderness. Adrian paused and glanced around. During his childhood, the gallery had been a favorite place, the deep window embrasures with their padded seats wonderful places to curl up and hide. The eighty-seven landscapes hanging along the inner wall had become old friends. They were still there, as if waiting behind their shrouds of dust for him to return.

  Abby, of course, was instantly diverted.

  Suppressing a smile, Adrian left her staring at a large painting and walked to the far end to begin a quick inventory. Beyond needing a thorough cleaning and a polishing of their frames, the pictures were in good repair. As he’d expected. As he strolled, he glanced time and again at Abby, wishing he could understand her as easily as he could the landscapes.

  Quite how he’d expected her to react to him, he couldn’t have said, but given she was unmarried, given he was here, given their past, he hadn’t expected to find her so…detached. Her behavior, the way she responded to him, gave him little clue as to what she thought. How she felt. Knowing how Abby felt, especially about him, was suddenly of paramount importance.

  She turned from the landscape, glanced briefly about to place him, then moved to a window.

  Lips tightening, Adrian pretended to study a small painting. He’d been spoiled, he supposed. For the past four years, the ladies of the ton had gone out of their way to let him know how they saw him—he hadn’t had to exercise any of the talents that had earned him the title of master seducer.

  He hadn’t, of course, lost those talents—they were merely dormant. Perhaps a trifle rusty. Glancing again at Abby, now staring out at the snow, he felt the predator in him rise, savoring the challenge. Given his plans, and the part he wanted her to play in them, it was perfectly justifiable to turn those talents on her.

  He deserted the painting and strolled toward her. His gaze skated over her profile, pure in the clear light, over her hair, soft waves of silky brown, over her figure, curvaceously alluring. When he’d decided to return to Bellevere, he’d had a picture in his mind, but it had had a blank space at its heart. That internal picture—his vision of his future life—was now complete. He knew who he needed at its center.

  Abby.

  The realization hadn’t come in a blinding flash; instead, it had rolled over and through him in the past days with the undeniable force of a natural tide. She had never been anything but Abby to him—not on the same plane with any other woman; no other could reach the place inside him that she had occupied for so long.

  Whether she knew that was another matter, but surely his talents were sufficient to explain. Or at least make plain his intentions.

  He reached her side, deliberately stepping close, ostensibly to look out at the vista. “There’s a rose garden down there.”

  Abby looked to where he pointed. “You’ll have to have a team of gardeners in as soon as the snow is past—they’ll need to do a late pruning.”

  She turned on the words. The sudden flaring of her eyes attested to her surprise at finding herself in his arms.

  Adrian smiled, just a little, and lowered his head. “Remind me to hire the gardeners.” He lowered his gaze to her lips. “Meanwhile…I have my own landscape to tend.”

  Abby made no demur when he set his lips to hers; she was too surprised, too stunned—too busy wondering what he thought he was about. Then the firm, cool pressure as his lips moved on hers captured her awareness and sent her wits tumbling. A shiver rippled through her, apprehension overwhelmed by desire, and she softened. Felt the telltale give in her spine as she sank into his arms, just as she had all those years ago. But that time, their interaction had been at her insistence. This time…

  He angled his head and her wits whirled. There was suddenly no time, no space, to think. There was heat and male hardness, taunting, promising; she parted her lips and welcomed him in, incapable of pretending. She wanted him—she always had. Even at sixteen she had known, at some deep level, that he was her soul mate, the other half of her life’s coin. She felt his arms tighten, locking her to him. She thrilled to the slow, hot invasion as he claimed her.

  Lips melded, tongues caressed; time stood still. Her breath was his, and his, hers; the kiss spun out and on, the tension set by a knowing hand. Eight years had gone by since last he’d kissed her, high on the moor with the sun warm upon them. He’d learned a lot since then; there was real expertise and a wealth of experience behind each artful caress, each seductive moment. The temptation to taste his wildness again, to match it against hers, grew with every heartbeat.

  He’d grown skilled with the years; she eventually realized his hand was on her breast—and had been for some time. The sensations his touch evoked had felt so pleasurable, so intensely right, her beleaguered wits hadn’t warned her. Instead of pulling back, she twined her arms about his neck and leaned into him—into their kiss, into his caress. If he’d lost his mind, then she could lose hers, too—there seemed no reason to fight this madness.

  So neither drew back. As the moments passed, the kiss shifted, evolved, from welcome and homecoming, from revisiting to exploring, from simple needs to deeper desires. The last shook Abby to her core; her response shook her even more.

  When Adrian finally lifted his head, they both gasped as if they’d been drowning. Staring into his darkened eyes, Abby wasn’t sure they hadn’t—hadn’t half drowned in desire. She knew what desire felt like—he’d shown her all those years ago. But it had never felt so deep, so turbulent, so powerful.

  So irresistible.

  Desire surrounded them now, palpable, like waves surging about them, pushing them to let go and let the current sweep them away. The tug of his eyes, of his body pressed to hers, in the sculpted, hard planes of his face, in the heady pounding in her blood, was well nigh impossible to resist.

  Abby felt herself slipping, sliding…In an effort to catch her footing, to think, she focused on his shoulder, then beyond—on the snow whirling heavily on the other side of the pane. “Oh, no!”

  Her eyes had widened; Adrian turned to follow her gaze. The storm had rushed in; the gallery faced south, so they hadn’t seen it coming. Eyeing the soft, heavy flakes drifting steadily down, Adrian wondered if, after all these years, some angel had decided to lend a returning prodigal a helping hand. “We won’t be able to drive back.”

  “No.” Abby drew away, lips setting as she peered down. The ground was already solid white. “We’ll have to stay.”

  “At least the night.” Adrian let his arms fall from her easily. In truth, the interruption was a very good idea. If matters had continued unchecked…Abby would have once again had him doing something he didn’t intend to do. He was firmly of the opinion that he should propose first, before they again indulged their mutual desire. Besides…“Come.” He took Abby’s hand. “We’d better find Mrs. Crochet. She’ll need to make up some beds.”

  They dined by candelight at a Pembroke table set before the fire in the family parlor. The dining room was simply too cavernous to heat, not just for two. Mrs Crochet attended them; when all the dishes were set forth, Adrian smiled, complimented her, then waved her away. “We can help ourselves. No need to leave Crochet all alone.”

  Mrs. Crochet beamed, bobbed a curtsy, and left.

  Abby was watching him. Adrian smiled at her, too, and passed a dish of beans. Throughout the meal, he did nothing, said nothing, to remind her of what lay, simmering, between them.

  He didn’t have to. Her awareness showed in her eyes, in the way her lids veiled them. Beautiful brown eyes he could drown in, and shortly would. If not tonight, then soon. Very soon.

  For now, he waited, watched, and bided his time. When the meal was over, Mrs. Crochet reappeared and cleared the dishes, then returned to inform them that she’d left candles in the hall and the beds were made up in the master suite and the bedchamber farther d
own the hall. Then she bade them good night and left them.

  “I meant to ask,” Abby declared, smoothing her skirts, “ whether you had heard anything of the Hunts’ latest venture.”

  His gaze on her, Adrian obliged, describing the latest literary undertaking to catch the fickle attention of the ton. She had more questions; he answered readily, hiding his wolfish grin. Abby was trying to distract him and not succeeding in the least. He’d already formulated his plan—all he had to do now was put it into action.

  His disinclination to pounce did nothing to soothe Abby’s nerves. He sat there, large and elegant and devastatingly handsome, watching her from a wing chair, while the light in his eyes was nothing short of mesmerizing, and she knew very well what thoughts put it there.

  When he languidly stifled a yawn, then suggested they retire, she couldn’t believe that he was going to let her escape. The fact she wasn’t certain she wanted to escape shook her, yet she was very sure she could not bear to become his mistress.

  The front hall was a mass of shadows cast by the flickering light of the candle left on the table in the middle of the tiled floor. A second candlestick stood beside it; Abby lit it, then turned to the stairs. She forced herself to wait while Adrian collected the other candlestick and joined her. Her instinct was to pick up her skirts and flee, but she wasn’t about to tempt him to chase her.

  In silence they climbed the stairs side by side. The quiet should have been companionable; instead, her nerves were stretched, her stomach clenched tight. They reached the upper gallery and walked along it. The master suite was closer than the chamber prepared for her.

  Adrian halted at his door. “Abby?”

  She’d been expecting it; she was keyed up for the tussle—with him and her own inclinations. She swung to face him, determinedly lifting her chin, stiffening her spine—

  Only to discover he was much nearer than she’d supposed, and had bent his head the better to see her face.

  Her defiant stance brought their lips very close—they both froze. Their eyes met, their gazes locked, and she was lost.

  He leaned closer and her lids fell. Their lips touched, then melded—she couldn’t pull away, trapped in the sweetness of an inexpressibly gentle kiss. A kiss so delicate it reached and stirred her longings, the wild hopes and dreams buried long ago.

  “Abby.”

  He breathed her name against her hungry lips, then took them again, but still the aching sweetness held sway. He held desire back, ruthlessly shackling that part of his nature and letting another show.

  He was an expert seducer. Abby clung to the thought as her heart turned over, aching, wanting…

  He drew back enough to whisper against her lips. “Abby darling, I want—”

  She put her fingers to his lips and didn’t let him finish; she knew what he wanted. But she wouldn’t be, couldn’t be, his mistress. “No.”

  She’d had to fight to get the word out; even then it was weak. “No,” she repeated, trying to make it more definite.

  She’d surprised him. He drew back so he could study her face. “Why?”

  She shook her head and refused to meet his eyes, refused to give in to their power. “It…can’t be.” Pressing her free hand to his chest, she pushed out of his embrace.

  “Can’t?” He sounded truly confused. “But, Abby—”

  She turned away. He caught her in one arm; with the other balancing the candlestick, he couldn’t trap her. Eyes closed, Abby let him draw her back against him, hug her to him. She felt his lips at her temple, at her ear. “Oh, Abby—you don’t understand.”

  For one instant, she let herself sink against him, savoring his warmth and hardness, the evidence of his arousal.

  His breath caressed her cheek. “I want you, sweetheart, but—”

  “Adrian—no!”

  With the last of her resolution, Abby pulled from his hold. Without looking back, she walked quickly along the corridor to the door at its end, and let herself into her room.

  Adrian stood in the hallway and watched her door shut—he didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. In the end, left holding a candle dripping wax on the floor, he shook his head, opened the door, and went into his room. His late father’s room—he’d never slept there before. He looked around and swore. Damn! He really wanted Abby with him tonight. Even better, he could share her bed.

  Unfortunately…

  His sense of humor threatened to get the better of him; he ought, he felt, to be incensed. This was what came of having a reputation such as his. When you turned over a new leaf, no one, not even your dearest friend, believed you.

  He hadn’t expected her mind to take that tack—not Abby. At some level, he felt a touch hurt. Then again, he hadn’t been all that specific—not to begin with. And when he’d realized her mistake, he hadn’t been quick enough, or forceful enough, in stating the true case.

  Following her to her room and trying to explain through the door—or even face-to-face if he simply ignored the door—wasn’t, to his mind, a particularly good way to start a marriage. His proposal might end resembling a farce more than any impassioned declaration.

  Setting the candlestick atop the tallboy, he shrugged out of his coat and laid it on a chair. Sliding the buttons of his waistcoat free, he shrugged that off, too, then started unwinding his cravat.

  He could, he decided, survive one more night without Abby in his bed. Why, after eight long years, having her there was now so important, he didn’t like to ponder, but tomorrow night would do. Tomorrow, when they returned in the gig, he’d have her, a captive audience, all the way back to Mallard Cottage. That was the time to set the record straight—he would ignore the confusion of tonight and speak simply and directly, in phrases impossible to misconstrue.

  “Such as: I want to marry you, Abby.”

  Adrian listened to the words and decided they had the right ring. Smiling, he let his mind slide—to the subject that most drew it, to that moment in the corridor when Abby had leaned back against him, the lush swells of her derriere firm against his thighs, his hand splayed across her midriff, holding her to him…

  His lips curved. His eyes started to close—then abruptly snapped open.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Four

  HE FLUNG OPEN the door of Abby’s room so violently it bounced back off the wall. Adrian stepped around it, then shoved on it so it slammed shut behind him. Abby stood in the middle of the room, staring at him. She held her gown in her hands, but was clad in nothing more than a fine chemise. Eyes narrowing, lips compressed, Adrian advanced on her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He didn’t yell, yet the words still rocked the rafters. Clutching her gown to her chest, Abby backed. Her eyes had flown wide—she could feel them growing even wider as Adrian neared. “T-tell you what?”

  After that first crazed moment, her stalled brain had lurched back to life—she knew very well what he meant. But he couldn’t know, not for certain; she forced herself to stop inching back and lifted her chin.

  He didn’t stop until they stood toe to toe, all but nose to nose. The sheer strength of him wrapped about her even though his arms remained at his sides. His eyes locked on hers. “The night of the storm—my first night at Mallard Cottage. You slept with me. Sometime during the night, I made love to you.” He paused, his eyes searching hers, then his lips tightened further. “No—I made love with you, if I recall aright.”

  Her spine was jelly; Abby tilted her chin further. “You don’t recall aright. I did sleep with you—I had to. You were chilled to the bone and nothing we’d done had warmed you. As for the rest”—she lifted her chin even higher—“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It must have been a dream.”

  She longed to turn away, haughtily dismissing his notion as ridiculous, but she didn’t dare. His eyes held hers trapped; he considered her lie for all of one instant, then his lips twisted and he shook his head.

  “Try again.” One hard hand slid around
her waist, burning her through the thin chemise.

  Abby’s mouth dried. “T-try what again?”

  She backed—Adrian followed.

  “Try convincing me I’m wrong.” He looked down at the gown she held between them like a shield—one yank and it disappeared; he let it fall. “I remember thinking the next morning that the woman was no one I knew—she’d been too lushly sweet, too uncomplicated, and too damn tight.”

  Abby sucked in a breath and edged back—he moved with her, even closer, so her chemise caught on his shirt and shifted against her suddenly sensitized skin.

  “And I was right,” he continued, “because when I first had you, you were much less”—he glanced down at her breasts, then briefly tilted his head to look lower—“lush. I still remember—amazing in itself. Of all the countless women I’ve had, the only one I truly recall is you. At sixteen. All eager and demanding—coltish. Long legs, slender limbs, small breasts…small wonder I didn’t immediately recognize you in the dark.”

  He stepped into her and Abby backed, and backed again; his eyes had returned to hers, mesmeric amber glowing intently. Then his lips curved, lifting just a little at the ends.

  Abby immediately tried to stop, but he backed her one more step—and she felt the bed against her thighs. “Adrian…”

  She tried to infuse his name with warning—it sounded more like a plea.

  He lowered his head; she fought to suppress a reactive shiver as his lips touched her ear, then slid to caress the hollow beneath.

  “Lush, sweet, uncomplicated, tight—add intoxicating.”

  She felt his breath on her skin, felt him breathe in her scent.

  “No one but you, Abby—only you.”

  Abby closed her eyes and felt her wits start to slide—grimly she hung on to them; she couldn’t—wouldn’t—be his again. With one hand at her back and his lips on her skin, they both swayed; she felt him grasp the bedpost for support, and gave mute thanks. Head instinctively tilting back, she clutched his upper arms, fingers sinking through the fine linen of his shirt to grip the warm steel beneath. “Adrian—this is wrong.”