by Candace Camp
Dure turned and left the dance floor, dragging Charity along with him. Charity went with him, too astounded to do anything else, but by the time they reached the edge of the dance floor, she had recovered enough to stop and jerk her arm away.
“What do you think you are doing?” she gasped, a flush spreading up her face. Everyone in the ballroom was looking at them, either openly or covertly.
Dure turned and faced her. “You will not dance with that man again. Nor speak to him, either. From now on, avoid him.”
Charity’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”
“He is not someone you should know,” Dure replied shortly, and he reached out to take her arm again. “Come, I will take you to your mother.”
Charity’s chin jutted out ominously, and she dug in her heels. “I think not. Let go of me this instant. I may be betrothed to you, but that does not make me one of your servants. You cannot order me about.”
She whirled and strode off through the interested crowd of people. Behind her, Dure flushed darkly and started after her. At the doorway of the ballroom, he caught up with her. Wrapping his hand around her in a grip she could not break, he pulled her down the gallery, away from the other guests. Charity went with him, unwilling to make a further scene by trying to break away from his iron grip, but her indignation built.
Finally he turned the corner and found the library, quiet and unoccupied, dimly lit by the fire in the fireplace. He pulled her inside and closed the door after them, reaching over to turn up the low-burning light in the wall sconce. Charity jerked away from him, and he let her go easily now. She strode to the center of the room and whirled to face him.
“How dare you!” she said, seething.
“I dare a great deal more than that. I am your husband.”
“Not yet!” she snapped. “And not likely to be, if this is any indication of the way you act. You neglected to inform me that you are a madman.”
He looked at her, his face set like stone. “Hardly that. I have good and ample reason for warning you away from Faraday Reed.”
“And for humiliating me in front of that entire group of people?” Charity retorted, her hands on her hips.
“You humiliated yourself, letting him hold you so tightly, laughing and gazing up into his face like a moonstruck calf!”
“What?” Charity’s voice rose in a shriek.
“You heard me. And hear this, too—you will not see Faraday Reed in the future.”
Charity’s jaw set mutinously. “I will if I choose to.”
“No.” His voice was implacable, his face hard. “I will brook no disobedience in my wife.”
“It is no surprise to me that you are not married, then!” Charity whirled and began to pace furiously about the room, her hands balled up into fists, making her wide skirts swing wildly. She wanted to scream, to hit him, all the liking that had built up in her toward Dure turning into indignation and painful disillusionment. “I am not your slave, nor will I be, if I marry you.”
If… The word pierced him like an arrow, cutting hotly through the jealousy and rage that had sprung up the instant Simon saw Charity in Reed’s arms. At that moment, he had wanted to knock the blackguard to the floor, and it had taken all his self-control to do no more than pull Charity away from him. Her defiance had fed the hot anger within him. But now her beauty stirred him in a different way. His emotions churned, confusing him.
“There is no if about it,” he growled. “You pledged yourself to me.”
“Engagements can be broken.” Charity whirled and walked rapidly back toward him. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, her eyes bright and glittering, and she spoke in a fast, high voice, fairly quavering with emotion. “I’ll not be treated like your dog, ordered to go here, stay there. No, not your dog, for doubtless you would treat a dumb animal better than you would your wife.”
“I would treat my wife with every courtesy.” His words were ground out between his teeth.
Charity, almost breathless from her angry spate of words, stopped. There was something odd in his face, a look no longer just of anger, but of something heavier, hotter. His mouth softened, and his eyes slid down from her face to the tops of her breasts, which were quivering and threatening to escape their confines at every heavy step she took. Charity felt suddenly, strangely dizzy.
Simon crossed the last few strides to her and pulled her against him. His arms wrapped around her like iron, and he bent his head and kissed her.
His kiss was hard and demanding, his lips plundering her mouth. Charity made a noise—whether of protest or pleasure, she wasn’t sure. His arms tightened around her, pressing her into his hard chest, as his mouth devoured hers. Desire surged through Charity; she felt dizzy and weak. She tried to draw in a breath, but she was hampered by Simon’s arms around her and his mouth on hers.
Panicked, she tried to twist and pull away, but he only tightened his hold on her. She began to struggle in earnest, but just as her struggles pierced the haze of his desire and Simon slackened his grip, lifting his head from hers, blackness washed over Charity.
With a little sigh, she fainted in his arms.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOR A MOMENT, Simon simply stared down at Charity in shock, his arms tightening automatically to hold up her suddenly limp weight. Fear, like an icy knife, pierced his bowels.
“Oh, God,” he breathed. “Charity…Sweet Lord, what have I done?”
He lifted her up and laid her on the sofa, carefully propping up her head with one of the small sofa pillows. He knelt beside her, chafing her wrists gently, his eyes fixed on her pale face.
“Charity, please…” He kissed the back of her hand, then continued to rub her wrist. Guilt burned in him. “Wake up. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, believe me, I would never try to harm you. You were so beautiful, standing there spitting out fire at me—but I was a blackguard to force myself on you. I didn’t think.”
Charity’s eyelids fluttered open, and she gazed at him blankly. Simon let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I was furious when I saw you dancing with him. You are so young and innocent—you have no idea what someone like that can do to you. But I should not have dragged you from the dance floor. I apologize. Then, to attack you myself—”
His jaw tightened, and he turned his head away. Through clenched teeth, he muttered, “Usually I have better control of myself. I promise you, it will not happen again.
Charity let out a chuckle. “Not ever, my lord?” she asked teasingly.
His head snapped back, and he stared at her smiling face. “You—you aren’t angry at me?”
“Of course I am,” Charity replied, but the smile didn’t leave her eyes. “You were impossible—rude and overbearing, a thorough tyrant. I don’t think I should like that in a husband.”
He looked at her uncertainly. “I don’t think I should like to be that sort of husband, either. I acted hastily, without thinking.”
He smoothed a hand across her forehead. Charity’s skin was as soft as rose petals beneath his fingers, and it made him tremble. “I am sorry for hurting you. I was rough and clumsy. Normally I am not such an inept lover.”
Charity grinned impishly, her dimple lurking in her cheek. “I should probably hold it over your head,” she said consideringly, then shrugged and sighed. “But I don’t have it in me, I’m afraid. I didn’t faint because you were too rough. I mean, well, not exactly.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I fainted because I couldn’t breathe. Partly it was because you were holding me so tightly, but it was also because I’d been dancing and was out of breath. Then I was mad, and scolding you so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath. So I fainted.”
Simon cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “You fainted because you were angry and talking too fast?”
“Not exactly.” Charity sighed. “Mama would murder me for saying it, for it’s most indelicate, but the truth is, I couldn’t breathe because my stays are too tight.”
<
br /> He stared at her blankly. “What?”
“This corset—it’s cinched too tightly. You see, I didn’t have a gown good enough for a ball, so I had to wear one of Serena’s. But Serena is slimmer than I, so I had to tighten my corset to fit into her dress.”
Simon’s eyes drifted down over the bodice of her dress, lingering on her breasts, which were pushing against the material and swelling out over the top. “I see.”
His mouth was suddenly dry as dust. His gaze went to her waist, infinitesimally small, and he spread his hand over her stomach. He could feel the stiff corset beneath the satin.
“I do not like to think of your flesh so cruelly pinched,” he told her in a low voice. He raised his eyes to her, and the dark fire in them sent a quiver through Charity. “You are beautiful enough, without squeezing the breath out of you in order to reduce your waist to that of a child. Do not wear a corset again.”
He smoothed his hand gently over her stomach; the satin was cool and slick beneath his skin. Charity let out an odd, breathless chuckle. His touch sent strange sensations shooting through her. She knew that Simon should not be touching her like this, but it felt far too wonderful for her to make him stop. She scarcely even noticed that he had issued another command.
She said only, her voice a trifle unsteady, “’Tis easy enough for you to say, but I would split the dress wide open if I did not wear stays.”
Simon’s hand strayed upward, grazing the underside of her breast. “It would seem to me,” he said meditatively, “that you are already in some danger of bursting out of this dress.”
The prospect did not appear to displease him. Simon’s voice was like brandy, warming and seductive, and Charity closed her eyes against a wave of hot pleasure.
“My lord,” she breathed.
Simon looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her face was faintly flushed, her mouth was soft and moist. He recognized the stirrings of passion in her expression, and it heated his own blood. Experimentally he curved his hand around her breast, and he was rewarded by the way desire rippled over Charity’s features and her mouth opened in a soft O of surprised arousal.
“I think,” he said softly, “that we are close enough that you could call me by my name, rather than ‘my lord.’”
“Simon.”
The soft flutter of sound made his abdomen tighten and prickle. Simon could not keep from bending over her and placing his mouth upon hers. Charity did not resist or pull away; instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, her lips pressing back against his. Simon groaned and sank his mouth hungrily into hers. His tongue filled her mouth, greedy and demanding. She tasted as sweet as honey to him, and desire spiraled through Simon. He waited, dread warring with passion, for Charity to tighten and pull away in disgust at his hot, earthy kiss. When she did not, instead curling her own tongue tentatively around his, he shuddered with delight. His hand caressed her breast. Her nipple tightened and strained against the dress.
Charity’s untutored response shattered Simon’s uncertain control. He kissed her again and again, changing the slant of his mouth on hers or pulling back slightly, only to have the pleasure of meeting her lips once more. Charity clung to him, emitting little whimpers of desire every time his mouth and hands sent a new wave of pleasure through her. She had never imagined anything like the sensations he was arousing in her, and the pleasure was almost overwhelming. She squeezed her legs together, aware of a growing, insistent ache there. She stirred on the couch, moving her hips unconsciously. She wanted to feel his hand there, where the yearning blossomed between her legs, and the thought was so licentious that it shocked her even as it sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She wondered if Simon would think her lewd and shocking if he knew what she wanted. Then all thought flew out of her head as his lips left hers and trailed a burning path down her neck, to her chest.
“Simon…” Charity twined her fingers into his thick hair. Her breath was fast, hard panting, and she moved her legs restlessly. She was aching and raw with passion, yet it was all so new to her that she could not even identify what she felt.
Simon, more experienced, blazed at her innocent desire. His body was suddenly a furnace, and he trembled under the force of his need. He mumbled her name against her skin, his lips trailing down onto the soft, quivering tops of her breasts. That exquisite softness was almost too much for him, and he buried his face between her breasts, breathing in her scent.
“Charity, oh Charity…” he groaned, and abruptly pulled away from her.
Charity reached out for him instinctively, appalled at the loss. “No, wait! Simon!” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her eyes dark blue in the dim light, startled, regretful, and glowing with unspent passion.
Simon groaned and clenched his hands in his hair, using the pain to pull his hungry senses back from the precipice of desire. He knew he was about to slide down into that dark, hot spiral of hunger and need from which there was no returning.
“Oh, God—” he grated the words out “—what am I doing?”
He surged to his feet and began to pace the room, struggling to contain the primitive hungers raging within him. Charity swung her feet off the couch and sat up. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and confused emotions churned within her. She had been wrong to act this way, she knew, yet she could not say that she regretted it. Every part of her had thrilled to Simon’s kiss, to the sweet caress of his hand.
But he had turned away from her—no, more than that, flung himself away. Had he, perhaps, been displeased by her boldness? Had she acted like a loose woman? Her mother had always told her that a man wanted a proper lady for a wife. And he had already been upset with her for acting in a way he didn’t think was proper. Charity smoothed her hands down her dress and cast a troubled glance over at Simon’s ungiving back.
He turned back to face her, his face a cold, blank mask. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back. “That never should have happened.”
Charity’s heart sank. He looked like a stranger—a disapproving stranger. “I—I am sorry, my lord.” Her gaze dropped; she could not bear to look at his cold face. “Did I displease you? If I was overbold, I—”
Simon’s nostrils flared, and a light sprang into his eyes. “No,” he said huskily.
He sat down beside her on the sofa and took her hand. Charity could feel the heat radiating from his body. She looked up into his face and saw in his eyes the same heat that had been in them earlier. Relief flooded her; she had not repelled him. She smiled, and his eyes dropped to her mouth. The flame in his eyes burned even more brightly.
“You have done nothing wrong. I promise, nothing you did here displeases me. It is I who was wrong. I have acted like a cad. I took advantage of your innocence. I should never have brought you to this private room, and once here, I should not have given way to…” His eyes fell to her breasts, and his voice faltered. He jumped to his feet and cleared his throat. “Ah, that is, I, uh, should not have given way to my desires.”
“But you are to be my husband,” Charity said reasonably.
“Even that does not give me allowance to—My God, Charity, a few more minutes and I would not have been able to stop!” he exploded. “I must have taken leave of my senses. That door was unlocked. Anyone could have come in here at any moment. Your reputation would have been ruined.”
“Oh. And then you would have been unable to marry me.”
He stared at her, shocked. “Good Lord, no! How could you think that? I am not such a blackguard.”
“But if my reputation was ruined, I would not be suitable for the Countess of Dure.” She gazed back at him blandly.
“Of course I would have married you!” he said through clenched teeth. “But it would not have been pleasant for you to have such a thing hanging over your head—the gossip and the whispers.”
Charity immediately softened. “I know. You have had to endure that already. You are right. It was wrong of us.” Then she
beamed at him, her smile breaking across her face like sunshine. “But there was no harm done. No one came in, so we are safe. In the future, we shall simply have to be more careful.”
“There will be no future,” he replied grimly. “I mean, there will be no repetition of this. I lost control of myself. It shall not happen again.”
“Yes, my lord.” Charity sighed. She had rather liked Dure’s losing his control. She had especially liked the idea that she had the ability to make him “take leave of his senses.”
“So, we are back to ‘my lord’?” he asked. Charity glanced up to see a faint smile on his lips. His eyes were warm and caressing. “We had progressed to ‘Simon.’”
“I thought perhaps it would sound too intimate.”
“I like the sound of it.” He crossed the few steps to her and reached down, pulling her to her feet. He cupped her face with his hand and gazed down at her intently. “I look forward, my dear, to being intimate with you. When you are my wife, I plan to repeat what happened tonight—and much more.”
Charity’s eyes darkened sensually. “I am glad.”
Simon drew in a sharp breath. “Sweet Jesus, but you tempt me.” His hand slid caressingly down her throat, then fell to his side. “But I have promised I will not. Go back to the ballroom. I am leaving.”
He turned and strode to the door. He opened it and paused, looking back at Charity. “But when our wedding night comes, sweet Charity, I promise you it will be long and full.”
He walked out the door. Charity sank back down onto the couch, suddenly weak in the knees.
Simon had intended to have a brief and forceful conversation with Faraday Reed before he left the ball. The passion seething inside him yearned for an outlet in fury. But as he started down the gallery, he saw Reed standing outside the door to the ballroom, chatting with Theodora Graves. Theodora was smiling up at Reed, her fan wafting languidly, while Reed was ogling the deep bosom of her dress. Simon had seen Theodora almost as soon as he arrived at the ball, and her presence had alarmed him. He had been afraid that she had come there to accost Charity. Theodora was a great lover of scenes, and he had had little hope that she would hold back from one tonight, just because it was so public. Simon did not particularly care whether Theodora managed to blacken his name further; he had long ago given up caring what others thought of him. However, he was filled with a quiet, icy rage at the idea that she might subject Charity to public humiliation, and he had waited tensely, ready to stride over and sweep Theodora away if she approached Charity.