by Anna Bennett
He grunted. “Trust me, this is hardly the sort of place for a ball—or any celebration.” He stalked to a rug near the fireplace and arranged the pillows on the floor. “Will this suffice? I could bring a chair over if you’d prefer.”
“This is perfect.” She laid aside her sketchbook and settled herself on a plump silk pillow.
“Are you chilled? I could light a fire.”
Fiona was about to decline, but she wanted to properly see his face as they talked—and as she drew him. “That would be wonderful.”
He crouched in front of the grate and added some kindling before striking the flint. Still staring at the fledgling flame, he said, “I shouldn’t admit this, but I hated seeing you with Pentham today.”
Fiona’s chest squeezed, but she would not make this too easy for him. “You have only yourself to blame.”
“I know. I thought you would be better off with someone like him.”
“You mean you thought that you could rid yourself of me.”
“I suppose there’s a little truth in that.” He shot her a rueful smile as he lay on his side, propped on one elbow, with his long, muscular legs stretched across the carpet. His cravat was loose, his hair ruffled, and the stubble on his chin darker than normal.
This was who he truly was, beneath the brooding, somber mask. And this was how she would draw him.
“I made a mistake,” he continued. “I shouldn’t have left you alone in the garden. And I shouldn’t have encouraged Pentham to pursue you.”
“That’s two mistakes,” she said with a smile.
Gray inclined his head as if conceding the point.
“But I accept your apology.”
“Thank you.” His voice, deep and sincere, had her belly performing flips. But he made no move to touch her, showed no indication of wanting to kiss her. Finally, they were alone, and he’d apparently decided to play the part of a gentleman.
She gazed up at the towering bookcases with awe. “Tell me about this room.”
A shadow crossed his face. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Nonsense. What does it mean to you? What are your plans for it?”
“It means nothing to me,” he said curtly. “The plan is to strip away everything but the walls and convert it to a music room.”
“Oh,” she said. It seemed a terrible waste to her, but sensing it was a sore subject, she refrained from voicing her thoughts. Instead, she asked the question she’d been wondering about since she arrived. “Forgive me for being blunt, but how did the Fortress come to be in such a state?”
He didn’t respond right away, and Fiona feared she’d overstepped. But after the space of several heartbeats, he said, “My father inherited the earldom when he was younger than I. He did not take his duties to the estate or his tenants seriously. Since he and my mother preferred to live in town, they closed up this house. Over the course of three decades, it fell into disrepair. Thieves broke in and stole some of the furnishings. Gypsies and other vagrants took shelter here for extended periods. Storm-force winds battered the roof and walls; nature had its way in the garden and fields.”
“Thirty years of neglect,” she mused. “And now you intend to fix it all.”
“Yes,” he said simply. Determinedly.
Fiona suspected there was more to the story but didn’t press him further. She’d found a chink in his armor—that was enough for tonight. “You invited me and my family here, hoping to scare me away.”
He arched a brow. “Is it working?”
“Not in the least.” She reclined on her side and stretched out her legs, mirroring his pose.
“Then I shall have to think of another method to scare you off,” he said gruffly.
“Do your worst.”
He leaned forward as though he intended to kiss her—then froze. “I didn’t ask you to meet me here so I could take advantage of you.”
“I know.”
Reluctantly, he sat up. “I promised you could sketch me, but if you’ve changed your mind—”
“I have not,” she assured him. “I confess I didn’t expect you’d be so eager to begin.”
“Keeping ourselves occupied would be the prudent thing to do,” he said, as though trying to convince himself.
True. But for once, Fiona didn’t feel like being prudent or proper. She wanted to do something scandalous and impulsive. Something that would make Miss Haywinkle clutch her pearls in abject horror.
The problem was that Fiona was a novice at the game of seduction. Anything she knew about passion she’d learned during her knee-melting kiss with Gray in the garden … and from a few risqué paintings she’d spied in houses she’d visited. Some of the images had been so shocking that they’d made her blush with embarrassment—and arousal. She would simply attempt to mimic the sultry, barely dressed creatures depicted in those paintings, and hope that Gray would be overcome by desire.
“Very well. You lie right there, just as you are,” Fiona said smoothly, “and I shall prepare to draw you.”
With deliberate slowness, she pulled the end of her braid in front of her shoulder and plucked at the ribbon securing it.
“What are you doing?” Gray asked.
“I should think it would be obvious.” She tossed the ribbon behind her and, beginning at the bottom of the braid, separated the thick strands of hair. All the while, Gray stared at her fingers—as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
“You’re letting your hair down,” he said tightly.
“Hmm?” She blinked up at him innocently. “Oh yes. I find it helps.”
“Really?”
She ran her fingers through her long tresses, erasing the remnants of the braid and easing the tightness at her crown. “I do my best work when I’m comfortable, and I’m determined to sketch you accurately,” she improvised.
“Naturally,” he said, skeptical. “But I don’t think we should waste any more time. The longer we are here together, the greater the risk of discovery.”
“Never fear. I’m almost ready.” Drat. What would a seductress do? Suddenly inspired, she sat up, gave a luxurious stretch, and reached for the satin sash of her robe.
“Fiona.” He spoke her name like it was both a plea and a warning.
A warning that she did not intend to heed. She toyed with the end of the silky sash, running it through her fingers as she gazed into Gray’s dark eyes. “You did say I could sketch you.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you must try to relax.” Summoning courage, she took a deep breath, slowly loosened the knot at her waist, and let her robe fall open.
“Jesus,” he whispered. He closed his eyes for three seconds, then opened them. “I trust you’re comfortable now?”
“Not quite.”
Chapter 14
Gray had sworn to himself that he’d restrict tonight’s activities to two areas: apologizing and sketching—or rather, sitting patiently while Fiona did the sketching. But his relationship with her grew more complicated by the day.
He’d thought that spending a few days together at the Fortress would prove how wrong they were for each other. Instead, she’d shown him the beauty of this place and persuaded him to share a bit of its history. She’d let him kiss her and kissed him back. She’d driven him half-mad with jealousy and charmed her way into his grandmother’s heart.
And those were just a few of the reasons why he couldn’t be with her.
She claimed to want a simple marriage—a union that would be convenient and advantageous to them both. But Gray now knew better.
Fiona was not the type of woman who would be content with a distant, if pleasant, relationship. She demanded more than mere affection. She needed a man who would be her partner in the truest sense. A man who was willing to share with her his deepest secrets and dreams.
And Gray couldn’t be that man. He’d tried once to give himself completely, and it had ended disastrously. He’d naïvely thought he could have a marriage different from his parent
s’—one free from bitterness, jealousy, and middle-of-the-night shouting matches. But he and Helena hadn’t even made it to the altar. Thank God.
Fiona was different from Helena, but if Gray allowed himself to fall in love with her he’d be setting himself on the same path as his father had. He’d become distracted and weak and vulnerable. And one day, in the grips of despair, he might do something that would jeopardize … everything.
That was the reason he was doing his damnedest to resist her. Even now, as she sat across from him in a body-skimming robe, her eyes gleaming in the firelight and her hair tumbling around her shoulders.
The problem was, he would have had to be a bloody saint to resist her—and God knew he was no saint.
A tremulous smile played about her lips as she slipped the silky ivory robe off her shoulders and let it pool on the floor around her knees.
Shit. The nightgown she wore dipped low in the front, revealing the tantalizing swells of her breasts. The sleeves of the garment were nothing more than frills, for God’s sake. The flounce at the hem grazed her smooth, slender calves. Best of all, the fine lawn fabric left precious little to the imagination.
Gray sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. Tried not to look at her skin glowing in the firelight or the curve of her hips or the pert tips of her breasts.
She clucked her tongue in mock dismay. “I believe I asked you not to move, my lord.”
“You can’t expect me to lie there while you—”
“While I what? Sketch you? I rather thought that was the point.” She picked up her pad, flipped to a clean sheet, and made a great show of examining the tip of her pencil. “I confess I’d hoped you’d be a better subject.”
“What do you really want, Fiona?” His heart was pounding, and he was aroused as hell.
“You know what I want,” she said softly. “I’ve made no secret of it.”
“I desire you. But I can’t marry you.”
Her lower lip trembled slightly, but she quickly composed herself. “Fine. Then let me sketch you—as you promised.”
Damn it all. Lying there and watching her work while she was barely dressed was going to be pure torture for him—which, he supposed, was the point.
Scowling, he stretched out again, not even attempting to hide his erection. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman—and he didn’t care if she knew it. It didn’t change the way of things.
For a full minute or so, she stared at him, her expression thoughtful and serene. Her pencil hovered over the paper, never touching it. When at last she began to draw, her strokes were bold and graceful, her hand steady and sure. The ruffle of her sleeve slid off a satin smooth shoulder, but she was too absorbed in her sketchbook to notice. The fine muscles in her arms alternately flexed and relaxed as she worked, and her brow furrowed in concentration.
She sat a full yard away, and yet Gray could feel the energy flowing between them as though it were a real, physical thing. While he lay there on his side, propped up on one elbow, she seemed to draw him from the inside out, exploring corners of his soul that he’d boarded up years ago. Of course, she couldn’t really know what dark secrets lurked there, but her mere presence warmed him. Maybe even healed him a little.
He’d already learned the power of her sketches and knew that in posing for her he’d be revealing more than he wished.
What he hadn’t expected was to gain a glimpse behind her façade. Emotions played across her face as she drew—triumph, curiosity, sympathy, and doubt—all plainly there for him to see. No one who watched her draw would believe she was the shy, awkward debutante who’d stumbled into an orchestra. She was passionate, fearless, kind … and nigh irresistible.
For nearly an hour, Gray sat watching her, enraptured. Though she never spoke, he read every tilt of her head, felt every shift in her expression. She rocked slightly as she worked, as though swaying to a subtle melody only she could hear. Soft curls framed her heart-shaped face, and when an errant auburn lock fell in front of her eyes she pursed her lips and blew it away. The sleeves of her nightgown inched their way down her arms, exposing more and more of that glorious, luminous skin.
Every so often, her gaze shifted to his face and their eyes met; the connection was electric. Intense. Palpable.
At the moment, her attention seemed focused on his chest and the folds of his neckcloth. When she frowned, he broke the silence. “Are you all right?”
“Your jacket is bunched.” She set aside the sketchbook and crawled toward him, reaching for his lapel—oblivious to the fact that she afforded him an excellent view of her breasts. The loose, lacey neckline of her nightgown gaped and grazed the dark pink tips, bringing him to the very brink of his self-control. While her nimble fingers smoothed the wool of his jacket and rearranged the folds of his cravat, her breasts were precisely level with his mouth.
He groaned.
Concerned, she ran her fingers along the edge of his jaw and lifted his chin. “You’ve been still for an hour. Would you like to take a break?”
Holy hell. The sight of her, so near, wearing so little, was too much to bear.
He grasped her hand and pressed his mouth to her open palm. “I thought I could resist you,” he murmured. “But I can’t.”
With her free hand, she pushed the hair back from his face and cradled his cheek. “As I understand it,” she said softly, “the whole point of this house party was to determine if we are compatible.”
“No, damn it.” He laced his fingers through hers. “The point was to discourage you.”
“And yet I’m not discouraged in the least.” She swallowed and fingered the silk drawstring at the front of her nightgown. “So why don’t we see if we are compatible?”
“Fiona, no matter how much I might wish to, I cannot bed you.” And sweet Jesus, he wanted to. But he couldn’t risk getting her with child. Not if he wasn’t going to marry her.
“Then do not bed me.” She pulled on one end of the drawstring, exposing the deep valley between her breasts. “I assume there are other activities we may engage in?”
“Yes.” He was going to hate himself in the morning, but, by God, if Fiona wanted an introduction to passion, he was the man for the job. He would savor every moment and see to her pleasure if it killed him—which it well might.
He tugged down the front of her flimsy nightgown, leaned forward, and captured a taut nipple in his mouth, alternately sucking and nibbling until she moaned. He backed away, sober and breathless. “You must tell me if you want me to stop. I would not hurt you.”
Fiona sat back on her heels. “I know that. It’s one of the reasons I chose you.” Gazing into his eyes, she eased one arm out of her sleeve, then the other. A nervous smile played about her lips as the fabric slid down her body and pooled around the curve of her hips. She scooted closer and touched her forehead to his. “You told me that you don’t believe in flowers or poetry. Do you believe in this?”
Heaven help him, he did. With a growl, he pulled her down beside him and laid her back on the carpet. Cradling her face in his hand, he said, “Yes, siren, I do. This is real.” And complicated and messy as hell. But he wouldn’t think about that now—not while her eyes glowed with unbridled desire. Not while she arched her gloriously naked body toward him.
All the passion they’d kept pent up for the last hour exploded in a flurry of hot kisses, wicked caresses, and blissful sighs. He kissed her like she was the last woman he’d ever know, exploring her mouth with his roving tongue. She did not shy away but met him thrust for thrust and pulled his head closer, as though she’d never have enough of him.
“Gray.” The sound of his name on her lips had an intensely intoxicating effect.
He traced a spiral around the tip of one perfect breast. “Hmm?”
“May I … make a request?” she asked shyly.
“Anything. Don’t hesitate to ask for what you desire.”
“Even if it’s poetry?” she teased.
He scowled. “I ca
n do better than poetry.”
“I was just thinking that I am wearing very little, while you are wearing an awful lot. Would you take off your jacket? And perhaps your waistcoat … and shirt?”
Gray had thought it impossible to be more aroused than he already was. Wrong. So, so wrong.
He shot her a grin as he yanked off his cravat, wrestled off his jacket, and stripped off his waistcoat and shirt. He wanted to cover her body and feel her skin next to his, with no space between them.
But he lay down next to her, giving her time to acclimate. Tentatively, she reached for him. Her fingertips drifted over his chest, and down … across his abdomen near the waistband of his trousers. His skin tingled in the wake of her touch, and he closed his eyes from the sheer bliss of it.
Next thing he knew, she was kissing his neck and tasting him—as he’d tasted her. She nipped at his shoulder as she slipped a hand behind him, lazily tracing a path down his spine.
“In all my life, I’ve never done anything half so daring as this,” she said softly. “And though I’m sure it’s wanton of me to admit, I regret nothing. Being with you this way … well, I’m sure I’ve broken at least half a dozen of Miss Haywinkle’s rules. But it doesn’t feel wrong. Does that even make sense?”
“Yes.” But in truth, very little about the situation made sense to Gray. He shouldn’t be hosting a party in a house that looked like it had barely survived the Middle Ages. He shouldn’t be absurdly jealous over a curricle ride. And he most certainly shouldn’t risk being alone with Fiona like this. If they were discovered together, they’d be in a coach headed for Gretna Green before dawn. “Sometimes,” he continued, “it’s enough to feel. To live completely in the moment.”
“I doubt Miss Haywinkle would agree,” she said, wriggling closer. “But I was not the most apt of students. As you have already deduced, no doubt, based on my horrid archery skills.”
“I don’t know,” he mused, sliding a hand up the inside of her leg. “You seem like a quick learner to me.” With her heavy-lidded eyes and kiss-swollen lips, she was the most sensual woman he’d ever seen. He had to remind himself that all of this was new to her.