by Ashley March
But he continued kissing her, and his fingers began stroking the side of her throat, and oh God it felt good, but now she was suffocating in his embrace, unable to escape.
Leah shoved him away and lurched to her feet, knocking the lamp over in her panic. The light extinguished, leaving them alone with only the night and the shadows created by the moon and stars overhead.
She whirled toward him, her arms and legs trembling. “Don’t touch me again.”
She could see him lean forward, his hands upon his knees. “Leah . . .”
Swallowing, she stooped to retrieve the lamp, her fingers fumbling over the ground for the iron handle. It took a moment, quite a few agonizing silent moments as her fingernails scraped over the soil and rock, but soon she grasped it and straightened, hugging it close to her side.
Her feet urged her to turn and flee, but she couldn’t. She stared at him through the darkness, unable to see his expression. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. Don’t tell me that you want me; don’t tell me that you desire me. Please don’t lie to me.
She waited for a very long time. He didn’t speak.
“Was it for revenge?”
“I’m not certain what you mean.” Now his voice was cold and distant. Once again, they were nothing more than passing acquaintances, their only common ground the affair of their spouses.
“You’re angry with Ian and Angela,” she said quietly. “Did you hope to take your vengeance by using me? By betraying them just as they betrayed—”
“That’s enough, Mrs. George.”
“Tell me,” she insisted, feeling rather foolish for staying when it was clear he wanted her to go. When she wanted so much to leave. “You asked why I held the house party, why I was lonely. And I told you. Do I not deserve to know why you kissed me?” She hesitated, then repeated, “Was it for revenge, my lord?”
He leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee—shadows merging, shaping, separating. “Yes,” he said finally, his voice low and careless. “I did it because I was angry. I kissed you for revenge.”
Leah nodded and edged toward the telescope, scooping it beneath her other arm. “Don’t touch me again.”
“You already said that.”
“But you understand—”
“Yes, I heard you perfectly. Don’t fear, Mrs. George, I won’t make the mistake again.”
“Thank you.” Leah moved onto the garden path. “Good night, Lord Wriothesly,” she said, then quickly made her way to the house, the telescope swinging awkwardly against her leg and tangling in her skirt with each step.
Chapter 11
Don’t ask it of me again. I cannot leave him. I am his mother.
Apparently it had been too much to hope that Leah would enter the drawing room the next morning to find Sebastian gone, to hear that he’d departed from Linley Park at dawn. Instead he stood speaking to Mr. Meyer and the other gentlemen at the windows, his back to the door, his legs impossibly longer and his shoulders broader than she remembered. She’d spent all night trying to diminish him in her mind, to no avail. Not only was his physical presence overwhelming, but the memory of his kiss was still vivid, the pleasure he’d induced still tangled with the fear of letting go, of losing herself to him as she had with Ian.
Summoning a smile from her reserves, Leah walked toward the ladies sitting in the middle of the room. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Miss Pettigrew returned. “Are you feeling well? We didn’t see you at breakfast.”
No, she hadn’t attended breakfast for the past few days, ever since Sebastian arrived. He tied her stomach in knots and kept her mind too busy to sleep until the first rays of sunlight. If she saw her mother again and Adelaide said anything about Leah’s weight, it would be Sebastian she would blame.
“Oh, I’m fine, but thank you for your concern. There were some details regarding the dinner party on Friday that needed my attention.” Encompassing Lady Elliot, Mrs. Thompson, and Mrs. Meyer with her smile, she asked, “Are we ready for today’s activities?”
Lady Elliot stood, an orange russet gown highlighting the faint rouge she’d swept across her cheekbones. Rather than a youthful glow, the color revealed the skeletal structure of her face and the papered texture of her skin. “Indeed we are, Mrs. George. Here, let me walk with you to gather the gentlemen. I’ve been meaning to tell you about my cousin Anne’s first husband. He reminded me a lot of your Ian.”
Allowing Lady Elliot to link arms with her, Leah pretended to pay attention as they approached the gentlemen. She pretended, because in all actuality she couldn’t draw her gaze away from Sebastian. He stood in profile to her now, at least a head above the other men. His posture was more confident compared to theirs, his waist leaner, his nose straight and his mouth too thin at the top and too full at the bottom to be defined as anything other than sulky.
A mouth to be kissed. A mouth she had kissed.
Sebastian answered a question from Baron Cooper-Giles, his head turning toward her. Leah recalled once likening him to a mountain, but she’d been mistaken; he resembled a jaguar, his dark hair and green eyes entrancing when they should have elicited nothing more than a passive glance from her.
“My dear.”
Leah’s gaze darted back to Lady Elliot. The older woman’s eyes held a warning. “Do try not to be so obvious in your attraction.”
Leah’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach and beat there, a dull, heavy thing. “I beg your pardon, Lady Elliot. I misunderstood what you—”
“I agree that Lord Wriothesly presents a fine appearance, but it’s unbecoming of you to eye him as if he were a pheasant laid out on your best china.”
Leah swallowed. “Lord Wriothesly was my husband’s best friend. I assure you, my lady, although I have the highest regard for the earl, I do not esteem him in the manner you suggest.”
They were about to reach the gentlemen’s end of the room, but Lady Elliot tugged her arm and they continued walking the perimeter, passing the other ladies again. “I know we do not know each other well,” Lady Elliot said after a moment, her voice low. “And you seem to have courage in spades to think to risk the censure of polite society to host this house party. But if you will indulge me, Mrs. George, I would advise you not to entertain further scandal by meeting with Wriothesly at night in the garden anymore.”
Leah went deathly pale; she could feel it, the blood draining from her face, the light-headedness that came at the peak of an illness. It was a reaction of shame, of embarrassment, immediate and instinctive. “You saw.” The words scratched her throat as she spoke, low and hoarse.
Lady Elliot tightened her arm around Leah’s, as if she feared Leah would fall in a faint. “Yes, and I saw you run away, as you should have. If it weren’t for Howard’s snoring, I probably wouldn’t have witnessed anything. I enjoy gossip, Mrs. George, and there’s nothing I would like more than to be the bearer of your little tête-à-tête to all my friends. But I also like you. Take this as a warning, my dear, for although I admire your fearlessness, I can’t say that I’ll be able to restrain myself next time.”
Her tone was friendly, not in the least malicious, but Leah understood her perfectly. Lady Elliot did as she pleased, the sort who used her influence to turn debutantes into spinsters if they offended her, who transformed wallflowers into belles for amusement’s sake. She reminded Leah of her mother, though Lady Elliot was more direct in her threats and kinder with her words. Leah had no desire to influence others but, like Lady Elliot, she would do as she pleased. No longer did she have any reason to care about being ashamed or embarrassed over her actions.
“I appreciate your concern, my lady. Please allow me to assure you once again that I have no interest in the earl. But if I did, and if indeed I wanted to meet with him in dark corners, I would have no regrets. I am a widow—a reputation is of no use to me now.”
Lady Elliot laughed, the sound both amused and disbelieving. “A woman must alwa
ys guard her reputation. It’s the only thing we have.”
“Forgive me, my lady, but I disagree. I would give up my reputation at once if it were ever an obstacle to my independence or happiness.”
Lady Elliot raised her brows as they neared the gentlemen again. “Then give it up, my dear. But please—tell me before you do so I may be the first to inform everyone else.”
The problem with telling yourself you didn’t want something, Sebastian discovered, was that soon you desired it even more. After spending the night trying to convince himself to stay away from Leah, he found that every promise and affirmation that she meant nothing to him were quickly revealed as fanciful lies when he saw her the next day.
Perhaps if Leah had made an effort to avoid him, she might have roused his sympathies enough that he would have left her alone . . . Perhaps, but she never gave him the chance to do so. For she didn’t avoid him; to the contrary, she treated him with the same politeness and courtesy as she did all of her guests. She talked with him, laughed with him, even challenged him and his horse to a jumping competition as the group rode across the Linley Park estate that afternoon. In short, she pretended as if the previous evening, the kiss they’d shared, and her subsequent retreat had never happened.
And perhaps it was for this reason, because she seemed so intent in forgetting everything, that Sebastian couldn’t.
That evening, at the sound of the dinner gong, Sebastian offered Leah his arm. As the highest-ranking peer at the house party, he had the pleasure of escorting her to meals. If he hadn’t been studying her so closely he might have missed it, but it was there, flashing across her face for an instant before her expression of eternal cheer and politeness fell into place again: alarm.
Not fear, exactly. And not awareness. But something in between.
“Good evening,” he said. It was the first he’d spoken to her in relative solitude that day, the others behind them drowning out his words to any ears but hers.
She glanced at him and gave a smile that was more of an impression on her lips than anything else, quick to rise and quick to fade. “Good evening, my lord.” A blush rose on her cheeks, the first he’d seen from her. The splash of color on her pale skin made her appear younger, more innocent—too young to be wearing widow’s weeds.
Before he could say anything else, she began walking, her pace urging him toward the staircase and the descent to the dining room. Sebastian kept his steps slow, drawing out their time together . . . enjoying the realization that despite her pretense, it was indeed difficult for her to act as if she hadn’t been affected by his kiss the night before.
“I’m looking forward to the tableaux vivants tonight,” he said, then paused. “Actually, perhaps I should require that the scene from Julius Caesar only include paper knives. I’ve seen Mr. Dunlop with a rifle before, and if his aim with a knife is equally as bad, I might have cause to fear for my life.”
Even though he gave her an opportunity to say something, to nod her head or even add a noncommittal hum, Leah made no reply. The pressure of her gloved hand over his arm was light, almost like a whisper. She’d asked him not to touch her again. How it must aggravate her, to be expected to touch him in front of the others as social customs mandated.
Sebastian angled his chin and turned his head slightly, his height putting him at the advantage where his mouth could hover near the top of her ear. “I begin to think you’re ignoring me, Leah,” he murmured.
She recoiled; a stiffening of her shoulders, a reflexive jerking of her arm where it lay on top of his. Oh, if only she knew how that little response encouraged him. How interesting, that she didn’t respond to the man he played in public, the gentleman earl who appeased all, who had won London’s prized beauty with his gallant manners and considerate nature.
No, Leah George preferred his darker side. The man who teased and provoked, the low voice that hinted at passion and pleasure and broken rules.
“Does it bother you for me to call you by your Christian name?” he asked, watching her profile for any sign of reaction. Other than the rapid rise and fall of her chest, nothing seemed to change.
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Ah, she speaks.”
“I have full faculties. That includes the use of my tongue.”
“Yes, I remember well the use of your tongue last night. But how wicked of you to remind me, Mrs. George.”
He heard her swift intake of breath, and she darted a glance at him, a frown appearing on her lips. Her mouth, of which he’d had only a taste before she denied him.
“If you hadn’t run away so quickly last night, I would have enjoyed learning more of your tongue and its uses.”
This time she gave him her full attention, the ribbons of her widow’s cap slapping against her cheeks and her shoulders squaring indignantly. “I am a widow, my lord. May I remind you that my husband died only four months ago?”
Behind them, other conservations quieted at Sebastian’s laughter. Oh, but he could not help himself. She looked so self-righteous, her cheeks burning, her eyes sparking fire. It was almost as if she believed the conviction in her own words. Soon the others began speaking again and Sebastian, unable to keep the sly curve from his mouth, raised a brow as he guided her down the last step of the staircase. “I do apologize, madam. It is obvious that your clothes and aspect present a careful reminder of your status. I can only plead your forgiveness, and argue my case by pointing out how pretty a widow you do make.”
“Stop teasing me.” The words were quiet, her blush higher. “Stop acting as if this is all nothing but a source of amusement to you.”
“If it’s not meant to be amusing, this farce created in tribute to Ian’s memory, your flirtation with the edge of scandal, then tell me—what is it?”
She turned her eyes on him again—those great amber eyes. Intelligent, compelling. Mesmerizing. “It’s a choice.”
“A choice?”
“A test for myself.”
They reached the dining room, and Sebastian again slowed his steps, trying to prolong their quiet conversation. For as soon as they reached the table, no private words would be allowed in the presence of Lord and Lady Elliot and Baron Cooper-Giles.
“And what sort of test do you seek?” he asked, his lips coming close to her ear. Not touching, though he was tempted to brush his mouth against the soft shell. To gain another reaction, whether it meant she flinched away like last night or—more doubtful—leaned in toward him.
But also to test himself. This attraction to her, this pull between them that presented a physical temptation and something more as well. A meeting of the minds, a close affinity that they both seemed reluctant to admit.
However, she continued along until he was forced to escort her to her chair. “I do hope you enjoy tonight’s menu, my lord,” she said brightly, her voice risen for the others to hear.
This was the Leah she wanted him to know, the Leah she pretended to be for the others present. But he’d seen something more, and he was no longer content to settle for this token offering. It still amazed him that, along with everyone else, she’d fooled him into believing she was nothing more than a wallflower, peeled away and brought to life only through Ian’s doing.
They sat down for the meal, Leah at the side of the empty head of the table—another tribute to Ian—and Sebastian across from her. He watched as she conversed with Lord Elliot and Lady Elliot.
During the house party she’d begun to show a little of herself to the others, but not everything. They’d glimpsed her kindness and her quick wit, but he alone had measured her strength, her vulnerability. It was an interesting feeling, to contain someone else’s secrets and to know that they kept yours. Not just the knowledge they shared of Ian and Angela’s affair, but an understanding of the layered depths hidden from the rest of the world. It was likely that he knew more of Leah than he’d ever sought to discover in his own wife. And whether he liked it or not, she knew more of him than he’d ever wished to rev
eal to anyone else. His every emotional state: his anger, his sadness, his offenses and curses brought on by despair. And now she knew, though he would have chosen otherwise, how he hungered for her.
A footman moved forward to pour more claret into Leah’s glass, and she sat back, her hands folded in her lap. She made the mistake of looking across the table and meeting Sebastian’s gaze. Lifting his own glass, he gave her a silent toast before bringing the wine to his lips. He stared at her over the rim as the footman stepped away. And he was glad he studied her so closely, for it was in that moment that everything changed.
He saw it in her eyes. Not hidden, not buried, not rejected by fear. It was there, plain when she should have kept it secret from him, a truth acknowledged by the stark craving in her gaze.
Leah George desired him as well.
After dinner, Leah rose from her chair and spoke to her guests. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll follow you back to the drawing room shortly.”
“Is something wrong?” Lady Elliot asked, her gaze sliding from Leah to Sebastian.
“No, just a small household matter,” Leah assured her. She smiled as everyone left—including Sebastian.
A moment. She just needed one minute of reprieve before she had to return to the drawing room and endure being stripped bare by Sebastian’s eyes again. Any enjoyment she’d received from the house party was gone; all she looked forward to now was seeing him depart. She couldn’t bear being near him any longer. The unspoken questions between them, the inclination her body seemed to have in leaning toward him whenever he stood beside her, the way her pulse rebelled against her attempts to act calm and unmoved.
Leah asked Herrod to summon Mrs. Kemble. At the sound of her footsteps approaching from the hall, Leah left the dining room to meet her.
Sebastian was there, against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Waiting for her.
With her heartbeat thrumming in her ears, Leah gestured to Mrs. Kemble. “I remembered an item that needs to be changed on the menu for the dinner party,” she said. “Instead of the quail, ask Chef to cook a duck in a raisin compote.”