Captive Embraces

by Fern Michaels

  It was only a minute before he heard her enter the outer office. He smiled to himself as he opened the door and saw his clerk, Whipple, stammering and gawking at Camilla, trying to speak intelligently. Whenever Camilla came to the office, Whipple acted like an ass.

  “Hello, darling,” she breathed when she noticed Tyler. “Have I come at a bad time for you? Now, you haven’t been overworking sweet Mr. Whipple, have you? The poor dear seems overwrought.” She smiled in Whipple’s direction and the young man’s pimples glowed fiercely beneath his blushes. Camilla knew full well the effect she had on the skinny clerk and she reveled in it.

  “Not at all, sweetheart,” Tyler said, motioning her into his office. As he closed the door behind him, he laughed, “Tell me, Camilla, do you come in here to practice your charms on unwitting Whipple? It’s a blasted sin what you do to his nerves. The youth’s complexion will never clear if you keep at it.”

  Camilla laughed, the sound light and girlish and tinkling with gaiety. “Don’t be silly, darling, how could little me have such a devastating effect?” she pouted, her eyes sparkling.

  “You little pagan, you know you love it when I accuse you of being a femme fatale,” Tyler smiled affectionately.

  Sighing, Camilla kissed Tyler lightly on the cheek. “You know me so well, dearest, it’s a wonder you still like me.”

  Roughly, Tyler pulled her into his arms, kissing her sweet mouth with savage earnestness. Then, holding her away from him, he teased, “Now that you’ve gotten what you came for, get away with you and let me be on with my accounts.”

  Undaunted, Camilla patted her hair back into place and adjusted the brim of her flowered hat. “Tyler, you know why I’m here. Don’t make a muddle of it. Father’s been having a turn of ill luck at the tables and I’m near to starving! Can you spare me enough to buy a good meal!”

  Tyler laughed aloud. “Really, Camilla, from the bloom on your cheeks I wouldn’t say you were starving!”

  “That’s only because I’ve not taken to eating my red Spanish paper. The bloom you see, dear, is artificial, applied with a deft hand. Believe me, Tyler, I’m starving!”

  “Don’t burden me with your affairs; go tell your Dutchman. He’s more able to fatten you up than I am.”

  “Darling,” Camilla pleaded, “you’re not going to be tiresome and have me beg, are you?”

  “No, sweetheart, I’m not. Will ten pounds see you over? It’s all I can spare right now. It’s near the end of the month and Whipple tells me he’s taken up the nasty habit of eating right along with the rest of us. It would be a shame to stint the chap of his earnings.”

  “Ten pounds?” Camilla asked, obviously not caring whether Whipple received his salary or not. “Can’t you do better than that? I’m telling you, Tyler, the larder is empty!”

  “Twelve pounds, then.”

  “Fifteen, not a penny less!”

  As Tyler pulled the extra five-pound note out of his pocket, he said seriously, “Camilla, sweet, do you always get what you want?”

  “Whenever I set my mind to it,” she replied, snatching the fiver out of his fingers and looking with interest at his half-opened billfold.

  “I think that’s what I admire most about you. You set your sights on something and you go after it.”

  “Father’s training,” Camilla murmured as she poked the notes into her reticule. “You’re certain you can’t spare any more, Tyler. My seamstress is badgering me for payment.”

  “I’ll feed you, Camilla, but I won’t clothe you. In a matter of weeks van der Rhys will see to both,” he scowled.

  “Darling, you’re jealous!”

  “Bloody well right I’m jealous! If your dear father hadn’t such an influence over you, things might be different between us. Mother never objected to the fact that you were penniless, Camilla, only to the fact that you’re a little schemer and you’d do anything for your father. Even to the point of selling every one of us Sinclairs down on pauper’s row.”

  “Not all the Sinclairs, darling, even a white slaver wouldn’t have the Baroness and I doubt the wisest Jew could profit a penny from your doddering old father. Only you, sweet, would bring a handsome profit. I can see you being set loose in the streets of Verona and making your fortune as a gigolo to an Italian Countess.” She tossed her yellow curls and giggled, “Remember, I can speak for your talents, darling.” She stepped closer to him and trailed her hand down his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly beneath her touch. His hand came up and imprisoned hers and they looked into each other’s eyes with a world of longing between them.

  Suddenly, a low rumble sounded outside the window and a flash of lightning streaked the sky. Camilla stiffened and buried her face in Tyler’s chest, clinging tightly. His arms went around her, feeling the trembling slimness of her, the childlike framework beneath her budding womanhood. At last, she raised her head, tears glistening in her eyes and Tyler was drowning in the droplets skimming down her cheeks. They kissed, tongues touching, breaths mingling, urgent needs blending. And they were lost in one another as they had been when they were little more than children.

  Masterfully, Tyler led Camilla to the wide, leather couch in a dim corner of the room. He had not lit the lamps before the start of the storm and the gray halo of light penetrating the windows gave a feeling of intimacy and solitude to the spacious office.

  Somewhere between hungry kisses, Tyler had removed his vest along with Camilla’s light jacket. And she, impatient with her cumbersome skirts, had slipped them to the floor, leaving on only her chemise and petticoat.

  Claiming his lips with her own, she pushed him down on the couch and settled herself in his lap. Under the warm pressure of her thighs, desire was renewed in Tyler. Her tongue slowly followed the outline of his mouth, moistening it, penetrating it. A tremor passed through her to Tyler and she seized his hand, which was resting on her knees, and brought it against her breast.

  He could feel the perfect symmetry beneath his fingers. His left arm made a support for her back and Camilla arched herself toward him. The purity of her breasts when he pulled her chemise to her waist astonished him. It had been so long since they were together like this. Not since immediately before Regan came to London. Her skin was a glowing white that seemed almost luminous in the dimness of the room. Slowly, very slowly, despite his lusty impatience, which he was having difficulty restraining, his fingers grazed her satin skin. Her petticoats rocked up and Tyler was excited by a glimpse of a creamy thigh above her stocking.

  Fiercely, Tyler cupped her face and kissed her with breathtaking swiftness. Beneath her legs Camilla was aware of his passion for her and of the building need within herself for Tyler. He felt the change in her, felt her rosy crest stiffen beneath his palm, felt the heat from her loins and knew a sense of power over her. He could never get enough of her. The freshness of her skin, the delicate paleness of her hair, the sweet spareness of her breasts and torso; all of her was created to entice him, fever his desires, quell his want for any other woman. And when she was beneath him and her legs clung fiercely to his hips, he knew a sense of coming home. Of a familiar welcome, of a path much traveled and greatly loved. His brown eyes burned with exaltation when he entered her and she trembled beneath him, opening herself to him. Camilla moaned softly, relishing the weight of him. Loving it when he talked to her, whispered to her, told her how he enjoyed her, loved her body, the feel of her. And Tyler knew her almost better than she did herself. Others could be confounded by her unpredictability, but her moods were like phrases in an often read book to Tyler. He loved her in spite of herself.

  He crushed her mouth beneath his, savoring the fullness of her lips, tasting the nectar of her passions. And when he leaned near her ear, he whispered in throaty tones intimate things, bawdy phrases, sultry words.

  He withdrew from her, and entered again so forcefully, she cried out and raked his back with her nails, knowing what his next move would be. Tyler rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him, bot
h still firmly joined.

  Camilla’s heart pounded violently, her tumultuous breathing heaving her breast. “Oh, Tyler, we are made for each other; we are like hand in glove.” She looked down at him, at the adoration there in his face. She was aware of his hands, possessing her, driving her to the brink of ecstasy. She felt his muscular torso between her knees and the heat where their flesh joined. And when they both approached the apex of desire, Tyler gently laid her under him once again. He covered her mouth with his as she began to cry out for fulfillment. and together they soared and spun out beyond the stars, seeing the moon with rapture in their eyes.

  The rain was pelting against the windows as Camilla fussed with her hair and completed the buttons on her jacket. Another sudden clap of thunder unnerved her. If the sky had opened up and lightning had rained down upon London when she and Tyler were locked in each other’s arms, she had not been aware of it. She didn’t care for the thought of traveling across town in a hired hack while the elements still crashed, but there was no help for it. If she was to get home in time to pay Cook and lay in ample provisions, she would have to leave immediately. Her innards were already growling in protest over the scanty breakfast she had had.

  “Are you certain you want to leave right away, Camilla?” Tyler asked. “I know how much you detest storms.”

  “Yes, but I detest starvation even more. Really, I must depart. Before I do, though, have I thanked you for your little loan?”

  “More than adequately, sweetheart,” Tyler kept his voice light and even. Yet Camilla perceived a hint of contempt edging his words and looked at him inquisitively.

  “You’re quite a girl, Camilla. One can always say you never take without giving. You always pay somehow or other for what you get, don’t you?”

  Fury fired Camilla’s eyes. “I’d like to think this afternoon was worth more than fifteen pounds to you, Tyler,” she said caustically.

  “I could have gotten the same and more down on Rotten Row for a shilling,” he lied, wanting to hurt her.

  “Then it’s to there you should go, Tyler. And a pox be on you!” her temper flared. “How would you like it if I dropped it in the Baroness’ ear that her son frequents the whorehouses in the slums?”

  Tyler laughed. “I wouldn’t do that, Camilla. My mother is apt to ask you where on Rotten Row your father has opened a house for you.”

  “You pig!” Camilla screamed, slapping Tyler soundly across the face. “Perhaps I should let all be damned and confess to your beloved parents that we’ve been married for nearly three years now and you’re simply waiting for them to pass on to their reward to claim me as your bride!”

  “What, and have me disinherited? Camilla, you shock me,” Tyler remarked scornfully. “When I wanted to tell my parents, you and your father talked me out of it. ‘Don’t do it,’ he said, and like a fool I listened to him! I tought it was my skin he was saving, but we both know that’s not true. I would be ostracized, disinherited and, along with me, your father would find himself resting in the dung heap! It was his own skin he was watching out for. He knew my parents would banish him from their society and the only reason he is acceptable at all among his peers is that he has my father’s endorsement. Without that he’d be cast out of those fashionable drawing rooms like a leper!

  “Besides, I’m interested to see to what lengths you’d go to please your Papa. I’ll reach my majority of twenty-five in two years’ time and that is when I intend to lay my claim to you. Whether you’re married to van der Rhys or not! I’ll come forward and demand you, Camilla. I have warned you before and you don’t seem to believe me.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! You agreed to pretend our marriage never happened. My father paid thousands to have the records obliterated! You couldn’t prove a thing!”

  “Ah, sweetheart, but I could. You forget the mariage paper both you and I signed, and I’m happy to say your father’s signature giving his consent is also present. I have that document, Camilla, and I’ll use it. You know how little I care for society. I much prefer my parents’ country estate. And a little scandal never harmed a man’s acceptability. It’s you and your father who will suffer. I’ve begged you not to go through with this farce, but you insist. You refuse to stand up to Stephan Langdon. Then pay, Camilla, pay by never knowing when I will strike.”

  “You’ll never have the chance! My father would kill you first!” Her eyes blazed, her skin flushed, yet her voice was smoothly controlled. “Only this morning father told me he’d make a widow of me. Beware, Tyler, you know as well as I what he is capable of doing when crossed.” Swiftly turning on her heel, she stamped from his office, slamming the door behind her.

  Tyler smiled, chuckled, then broke into a raucous laugh. The Langdons both thought Regan was far wealthier than he was in reality. Everything he had been able to secure from Sirena’s holdings he had poured into his business. It also occurred to Tyler that Regan thought the Langdons well endowed with property and stocks. He laughed again, the sound bounding hollowly off the walls. They deserved each other, he thought, and he intended to be somewhere about when they learned the truth concerning each other’s state of affairs.

  Tyler stepped over to the window and looked out. Camilla was just stepping into the hackney carriage. He experienced a knot of jealousy deep in his gut. There was no sense to it, but he knew he loved her. He probably always would. Why couldn’t he pull himself up by his bootstraps and go to his parents and tell them the truth? What difference if they did disinherit him?

  Sadly, he knew the truth. The difference lay in the fact that if he were penniless Camilla wouldn’t have him. The only small satisfaction he could reap from the whole stinking situation was that Camilla was marrying Regan for the money, not for the man.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The trees in Saint James’ Park burst into bud and then into bloom. King Street, which passed in front of Sirena’s house, became a well-traveled thoroughfare as spring spun greenly toward summer. The ladies of London dug through their wardrobes for lighter gowns of pastel colors. Seamstresses experienced the usual rush for their handiwork. Coaches were polished to gleaming, their matched equine beasts curried to perfection. London was wearing the mantle of sunlight and flora like a new bonnet, and a sense of celebration freshened the air.

  Sirena was becoming well known in aristocratic circles. When Stephan Langdon wasn’t on her arm, it was Tyler Sinclair. Many other prospective suitors sought her company and she often obliged; but when they would promise her their undying love, she would gently and thoroughly put them aside. She had no wish to enter a relationship with any of them. Tyler was a friend and she enjoyed his company; it was strictly a platonic relationship and Tyler never pressed it further. For this, she was grateful. Stephan, on the other hand, was a perfect gallant, but he never insisted on her kisses or to strengthen their companionship. He sometimes seemed intimidated by her, almost cautious, as though a false move on his part would find him cast from her society.

  Stephan enjoyed being Sirena’s almost constant escort. His status in the social whirl climbed, and he did not fool himself for a moment that it was his charming self who was welcome at the balls and intimate soirées. It was Sirena and her endorsement by the Baron and Baroness and, of course, her money.

  Sirena found herself in demand as every hostess requested her presence whenever they entertained. In return, Sirena repaid their hospitality with lavish balls and elegant dinners that were the envy of the entire city. She spared no expense on food and music. Her gowns were the most stylish and beautiful, and her entertainments gracious without ever being gauche.

  Tyler watched her budding romance with Langdon with a cautious eye. He wanted to tell her what he knew about Stephan, but decided against it. Sirena was capable of taking care of herself, and would probably resent his interference.

  “Nine more days till Camilla’s wedding,” Tyler moaned through clenched teeth. How was he to attend that bogus affair and behave as though there were never anythi
ng between himself and Camilla. For a moment he felt pity for van der Rhys. The poor man was getting it from all ends. Then he experienced a bitter bite of hatred for Regan because he was taking Camilla for his own; would share her bed and know her intimately; would learn to know how satiny those girlishly round arms would feel around his neck; would be offered those smooth, white charms and alluring lips. Tyler still loved her; there was no point in denying it. He was helpless. If his parents ever discovered his youthful marriage, they would disinherit him without a second thought. They loved him; they indulged him in all but this. He knew, without doubt, they meant what they said. Until he reached his majority, there was nothing he could do.

  How often he had dreamed of proclaiming to the world that Camilla was his wife and inheritance be damned. Yet, while it would free him from this paralyzing agony of loving her and being unable to claim her, it would also be his total undoing.

  The lights on the Thames reflected in the inky water like thousands of fireflies. It was the middle of May and the Royal Flotilla was a highlight of the season. Each year, according to tradition, the King, his Court and invited guests, would gather at the Whitehall Privy Stairs, where hundreds of barges and small craft took on their passengers for a leisurely cruise on the river accompanied to minstrels’ rhymes and music. All along the route torches blazed, guiding the way. On the banks the citizenry gathered en masse for a glimpse of their sovereign and his party. Finally, when the flotilla passed beneath London Bridge, the passengers would disembark for food and drink on the bridge itself and dance to the minstrels’ jaunty tunes.