Sinful in Satin

by Madeline Hunter

  She felt good in his arms. Warm and soft and ever so feminine. A better man would be content with that alone and hope it brought her distraction from today’s visit. When she raised her lips toward him, however, inviting another kiss, he knew he was not such a man.

  Passion’s fever broke in him again. And in her. She joined him, parting her lips so he could explore, encouraging more heat and aggression. Her hands tightened on his shoulders, then his arms, grasping him closer while she pressed her body to his. Time disappeared, then their surroundings, as they soared higher on kisses and bites and hot breaths.

  He had to feel her, know her. He bound her close with one arm while his other hand moved to her waist and hip, following sinuous curves. Eventually he caressed the perfect roundness of her breast and she quietly whimpered with pleasure.

  Hot now, burning for her, he sought to make her as lost as he. He ached more intensely than he had since his youth. He gave her pleasure and took his own and balanced on the brink of ruthlessness.

  He smoothed his hand over her breast again, so she would feel it more. He rubbed the hard tip. She luxuriated in the sensation with closed eyes and parted lips.

  “If he made me feel like this, I could probably lie to myself about the rest,” she murmured.

  Her mention of Dargent brought him back to his senses a little. Enough.

  “And if there are no lies, but only this?”

  “People always build some story around pleasure. The story of marriage or the story of love, or at least a brief tale of commerce.”

  “Not always . . . Sometimes it just is.”

  “Like now, you mean.”

  Like now. Only there was a story here, and he could not pretend there was not anymore. This was about Dargent’s visit.

  He stopped the caresses and embraced her closely. She tried to kiss him but he did not allow it.

  “Forgive me, Celia. I have taken advantage of a kind of grief in you.”

  He released her and stepped away. The sight of her smiling, flushed and radiant, almost had him grab her again.

  “If on a better day you conclude that virtue is not a virtue, I hope that I am the first to know.” He walked away before her sparkling eyes changed his mind. “And if that scoundrel returns, or in any way insults you again, you must tell me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Celia gazed around her plant room. The few remaining plants appeared forlorn on the shelves. More would arrive soon, but for now she had completed most of her task.

  After three days of being very active, she suddenly found herself with little to occupy her. She went to the library to write to Daphne with news of how these first deliveries had gone. She would reassure Daphne that Mr. Drummond, whom she had chosen to help her, was proving to be a most agreeable and dependable employee.

  The silence of the house pressed on her as she pondered the words to pen. Mr. Drummond had indicated that Jonathan had come down while she was out in the wagon arranging the plants’ safest placements for their brief journeys. He had left the house, then. She was rather glad for that. At least she would not have to find ways to avoid him today.

  Perhaps she would write him a letter too.

  Dear Mr. Albrighton,

  Thank you for your help the other day. I am sure you understand that I was not myself after the shock of Mr. Dargent’s visit. I know that a worldly man like yourself would never put significance, one way or another, on a few kisses bestowed in a moment of extreme distress. All the same, what transpired makes the current situation in my home difficult. Surely you can no longer be comfortable here. I will not mind at all if you conclude you must leave and seek other chambers. Indeed, I have even taken steps to help you do so. Please note the advertisements in the paper that accompanies this letter, and the ones that I circled that speak of gentlemen’s apartments.

  She took some satisfaction in composing the letter, even if she would never write it. She liked how it sounded sophisticated, and so different from how she had acted and felt when last she saw him.

  Once the shock of Anthony’s visit passed, her humiliation over what Mr. Albrighton had overheard and seen, and how in her distress she then behaved with him, settled on her hard. Now it would not go away.

  Nor would the memory of how devastated she had been when he returned to the house after throwing Anthony out. She had been dying inside. She had been mortified and afraid. She had called on all of Alessandra’s training to regain some poise and composure.

  Had he seen that? Was that why he had made love to her? Had he intended to comfort, or just allowed his inclinations to take advantage of her grief, the way he said?

  What must he think of her, to have permitted him such liberties—to have frankly encouraged them—after expressing shock at Anthony’s overtures?

  Sometimes it just is. That was how he had spoken of that passion. One more ambiguity from a man full of them.

  For men perhaps it could just be. For women, however, the world imposes a story on sensuality if she is not brave enough to write her own. And with Jonathan Albrighton, there could be no story at all, she was very sure. She would not do for a man in his situation, and he would never do for her, no matter which life she chose to embrace.

  She stood abruptly and walked to the back chamber. She removed her gray pelisse from its peg and donned it. She fastened it with quick, determined fingers.

  She was done with the plants for now. She would no longer hide from Jonathan, no matter what he thought, or from anyone else. She would not allow herself to feel humiliated about Anthony’s visit anymore either.

  She would take advantage of what had turned into a fair day, and walk in the park. If anyone noticed her and pointed and whispered that she was the daughter of that Northrope woman, she would ignore them and hold her head high the way she always had.

  Hyde Park was not crowded, but a good number of souls had come out midday to enjoy the sun and calm breeze. Celia found a post to tie the horse and carriage, and began to climb down to tend to it.

  Gloved hands reached for her horse’s bridle as she did. “Allow me, if you will.”

  The gentleman who owned those hands made quick work with the tether, then came over to hand her down.

  He was being polite, and kind to a woman without a footman or chaperone. Yet Celia knew it had not been only a good heart that moved him to assist her. As she stepped down she saw the interest in his eyes.

  Had he recognized her? Perhaps not. He might just be hopeful that she was the sort of woman who discarded proprieties in such a situation. If a conversation ensued, who knew where it might lead?

  She had seen that speculative spark often before. Even while living with Daphne, even with men who had no idea who her mother was, she had garnered attention of this kind. Daphne always said it was merely because she was pretty, but she felt today that perhaps she had indeed been born with a brand on her forehead as she had insisted to Anthony she had not.

  She did not want company, least of all of his hopeful kind. She thanked him and walked away, to enjoy the park on her own.

  Soon the sun worked its wonders on her. She felt her spirits lifting under its warmth. She followed the path past the reservoir, watching for evidence of spring flowers beginning to poke green shoots from the ground. She examined the carriages rolling by, and the new fashions on the women of society who were taking turns together.

  More at peace than she had been in days, she allowed her mind to turn to Anthony’s visit. Not to the insults and the way it ended, but to what he had told her and what it all meant for the future. She was mulling that when a shadow blocked the sun. It moved with her for several paces before she looked up to see what had caused it.

  A tall dark man on a large pale horse looked down at her while he paced his steed step for step with her own gait.

  “Mr. Albrighton. What a coincidence to find you here too.”

  “It is an uncommonly fair day for the season,” he said. “I decided it should not be wasted. It appe
ars we think alike.”

  “Either we do, or you followed me here.”

  “Why would I do that?” He swung off his horse and came over to her, wearing a charming smile and leading his mount by the reins.

  “Not a denial, I see, but one of your dodges.”

  She walked away. He fell into step. She let him know with a sharp glance and deep sigh that she did not want his company. He ignored her.

  “I did follow you,” he said. “I knew you could less easily avoid me in this public place than in your own home. That is what you have been doing, isn’t it? Avoiding me?”

  “You are more conceited than I thought if you believe that.”

  “Which is not to say it is not true. I am not the only one who dodges.”

  She stopped walking and faced him. “Yes, I have been avoiding you. I was not myself that day. I find your presence awkward now. Furthermore, I have come here to think over some matters of great concern to me, and not to entertain your company.”

  “Are you saying you regret that passion, Celia? If so, I will respect that, and apologize again for taking advantage of you.”

  She sighed at his persistence. He looked on her too kindly, and too seriously, for a clever retort to be fair. A handsome man, she thought, as she always did. Exciting. The sensual euphoria she had experienced with him had not been far from her thoughts these last three days, for all her confusion and embarrassment. Now it was in the air between them, subdued but present still.

  “I was taught that regret is for fools, so it cannot be that, can it? But I know that there can never be any story between us.”

  He did not argue that last point. Of course not. She walked on. She did not have to spell it out for such a man. He would go away now. Maybe he would leave the house for good. That would be best.

  That thought made her hollow inside, and a little sad. She scolded herself for that reaction. What a stupid girl she could still be sometimes.

  She had progressed several hundred feet when his boots again found a pace beside her. His horse snorted behind them while they strolled in the sunlight.

  “What matter of concern do you contemplate, if it is not me?” he asked.

  “I am pondering my future, and how careless I have been with the lives of others for whom I have taken responsibility. I have discovered that there is a debt outstanding that may undo all that I have tried to accomplish. As a result, my independence may prove to be very short-lived.”

  “Have you been sneaking off to gamble, Celia? If not, I cannot believe this debt can be very big.”

  “I am sure it is bigger than I can repay. I learned that my mother owed Anthony Dargent a great deal of money, and if that debt is not settled, I am sure to lose the house.”

  Celia strode along and retreated into her consideration of this newly discovered debt. She displayed no ill ease being with him, for all her claims of awkwardness. Jonathan was glad for that.

  There can be no story between us. He was fairly sure he knew what she meant by that. Her mother’s training had taught her to view the world without mercy in this regard. He could be excused for wishing she were less sensible.

  The path split up ahead. She encouraged their steps to take the direction less trod by others. He waited to see if, having sought some privacy, she would confide the rest about that debt.

  “When my year in London with my mother was ending, she sought to arrange for my first protector. Perhaps you know about this,” she said, as if answering his query when in fact he had asked nothing.

  He knew. All the younger men of society knew, and more than a few like himself who collected at its edges. Edward had been accurate in saying Alessandra had teased the ton for months with Celia’s imminent launch.

  Alessandra had guessed he did not approve, and had in turn teased him about his scruples. It had seemed a sin to him to send a girl into that life when she was so fresh and innocent. Her mother had explained—patiently, considering she spoke to a young man about nothing of his concern—that it was the freshness and innocence that would ensure Celia’s triumph.

  “I knew about her intentions regarding you, yes.”

  “Well, Anthony was the one chosen. That was how that horrible conversation with him started. The one right before I left my mother’s house. He was telling me with great glee that she had given her nod. That was how I found out that he did not intend marriage at all.”

  He had not known Dargent had been chosen. Celia’s comments after Dargent left the other day made more sense now, and took on more meaning. However—

  “He has wealth enough, but I would have expected her to choose a peer for you, or an heir to a title.”

  “She would have preferred that, but she firmly believed that I should have a voice in it. She knew I loved him, so she accepted his proposition, which was a very generous one.”

  “It was convenient that you loved one of the appropriate candidates. I assume that she would have never accommodated your voice if you had fallen in love with a man lacking great expectations.”

  “Alessandra had many months to explain why, whether it be a lover or a patron, it could never be someone with no fortune.”

  Which, of course, was one reason there could be no story between the two of them.

  “When Anthony visited me the other day, he said those negotiations had progressed much further than I imagined. He claimed to have given Alessandra my first two years’ allowance, in advance.”

  “Did she return it when you left?”

  “He says not.”

  “So this is the debt that troubles you, I gather.”

  She nodded. “I should have waited, I suppose, to begin with the plants. I should have definitely waited before giving Marian and Bella a home. Now I either lose the house when he makes a claim against Alessandra’s estate, or I involve them in a life other than I promised. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Are you convincing yourself that you have no choice except to work off that debt?”

  He regretted his sharp tone as soon as it was out, but her little debate infuriated him. He resented the way she had made him a party to it, as if he had no right to mind. Which he didn’t, but that did not mean he liked this. He could almost hear her mind weighing, judging, and all the while coming to very practical conclusions indeed.

  She stopped walking, stung. “I am trying to determine what my choices are, both the good and the bad.”

  He’d be damned before he allowed her to talk herself into going to that fool. “I wonder if you truly comprehend the good and bad of what he is offering. Security, yes. Luxury even. A better house and more servants and even a type of status in his world. I am sure your mother explained all of that.”

  “She did little else.”

  “Did she also explain what happens when the silks are removed and you are a man’s sexual slave?”

  She glared at him. “I am hardly ignorant. Alessandra did not fail that part of my education. She taught me how to keep matters dignified.”

  He almost laughed. Of course Alessandra had not been too specific about what happened when things went very wrong. “You asked for my advice. Well, hear me now, as you debate your choices. There will be men who will encourage your illusion that you are in control of matters, because they anticipate the pleasure they will have in breaking you. Not all gentlemen are gentlemen in this area. Just so you know.”

  “Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Albrighton.” She turned and walked away, retracing their route.

  He easily caught up with her. He bore her brittle silence and told himself he had not been so blunt for his own purposes, but only to warn her.

  Except it had been in part for his own purposes. The thought of her going to Dargent—willingly, no less—made him want to kill the man.

  He marshaled his next argument to dissuade her from feeling any obligation for this debt. Before he could speak, a little drama began unfolding in front of them. A woman he recognized was walking toward them on the path. Tall and dar
k-haired, she wore a green promenade ensemble with a fur-trimmed mantlet over its velvet pelisse. A more humbly dressed woman accompanied her; a maid, from the looks of it.

  The dark-haired woman stopped in her tracks at the sight of Celia and him. She immediately looked down at the muddy grass on either side of the path as if seeking a quick escape. Realizing that leaving the promenade was unwise, she straightened her back and continued on, wearing a face of stone.

  Jonathan took unseemly pleasure in closing the space between them. He caught the eye of the woman despite her best efforts to avoid it. In response she looked right at him and Celia, then tossed her head dramatically as she walked past, her nose pointing to the clouds.

  Celia flushed deeply, but a steely glint entered her eyes. She did not speak again until he had returned her to her cabriolet.

  “Your advice on my problem is well-taken, Mr. Albrighton, even if I thought it an unnecessary lesson, such as one might give a child.”

  “It was not my intention to speak to you as a child, but as a woman adding up future gains and costs.”

  “Then that lady’s direct cut was not fortuitous to your purposes, reminding me as it did that I am paying costs while receiving no gains.”

  He handed her up, then swung onto his mount. “That cut was not aimed at you. She probably does not have any idea who you are.”

  “Are you saying she was being deliberately rude—to you? Do you know her?”

  “I know her well enough. That was my cousin.”

  “I am curious about something, Uncle,” Jonathan said. “It may bear on my search.”

  They sat in Edward’s library, in front of a fire that toasted their boots. Edward’s wife had retired after dinner, as she always did when Jonathan visited. She could not refuse her husband his demand that she entertain Jonathan, but she did not extend herself beyond the formalities, which, while she was present, remained very formal indeed. Long ago she must have decided that staying in Thornridge’s good graces was more important than staying in her husband’s.