Taste of Temptation

by Cheryl Holt

  He slapped his hands down on the arms of the chair, trapping her.

  “What do you want?” she raged.

  “Are you drinking love potions again, Miss Hamilton?”

  “Not since that first time, and we see what a disaster that turned out to be.”

  “How was it a disaster?”

  “You’re awfully taken with me. I wish you wouldn’t be.”

  “We enjoy a physical attraction, Miss Hamilton. Men are powerless against this sort of desire. It’s pointless to fight it.”

  “Try.”

  “You wouldn’t—by any chance—be hoping to ensnare me with magic, would you?”

  “As if I could! You’re too stubborn for magic to have any effect.”

  “Now that is the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

  He dipped down and kissed her, easing her back with slight pressure. Their lips were softly joined, and she sighed with pleasure. Though she liked to protest and nag, she wasn’t immune to him. She rested her palm on his cheek, the sweet gesture thrilling and rattling him.

  Kissing her was heaven, and he couldn’t fathom why, but once he began, he didn’t want to ever stop, which was extremely peculiar.

  He’d never been much of a one for kissing. Since his sexual escapades usually involved paid whores, there was no need for wooing. The women with whom he fornicated were reimbursed handsomely to satisfy him, and there was no pretense of affection.

  The two parties in the bed—himself and whatever harlot he’d selected—knew what was required and how to get it accomplished in a hurry.

  With Helen Hamilton, though, he could have kissed her all day, into the evening, and far into the night, without growing bored.

  He bent in, eager to feel his body melded to hers. There was a sofa next to them, and he clasped her waist, intent on swooping her up and laying her down on it, but to his consternation, she managed to wiggle away.

  She had him so befuddled with lust that, before he could catch her, she was behind the heavy piece of furniture and using it as a barrier.

  Still, he took a menacing step toward it, bizarrely calculating how he might leap over it and grab her—what was wrong with him?—but she extended a hand to ward him off.

  “Hold it right there, Captain.”

  “Helen, you exasperate me beyond my limits.”

  “Not nearly as much as you exasperate me, I’m sure.”

  “We’re simply kissing.”

  “In the library, in the middle of the afternoon, where anyone could walk in and see.”

  “The door is locked,” he tersely reminded her. “No one can walk in.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “Your point? What point is that?”

  “I don’t suppose you envision marriage as your end goal.”

  “Marriage?” He spit out the word as if it were a tough chunk of meat stuck in his throat. “Don’t be absurd. I would never marry you.”

  “Precisely—which is why I’m leaving, and we are not doing this again.”

  His remark had sounded like an insult, as if he felt she was beneath him or unsuitable, when in fact, he thought she was very fine, too fine for the likes of him.

  He’d made a horrid gaffe, and he couldn’t fix it. He wasn’t the type to gush with flattery or apologies. Nor would he clarify the comment, for he didn’t care to have her discover how incredible he found her to be. If she had a clue as to his high opinion, there’d be no living with her.

  She was overly bold, and even the smallest advantage would be wielded to his detriment. Where she was concerned, he’d lost the ability to gain and keep the upper hand. He couldn’t be stern, couldn’t lay down the law and follow through. In her presence, he’d become a complete and utter milksop, but he was determined that she never know.

  “I don’t ever plan to wed,” he stated, overcome by the need to explain.

  “Bully for you.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with you personally.”

  “That certainly makes me feel better.”

  “I’m a bachelor, and I always will be.”

  “Just you and your ship, out on all that empty ocean?”

  “Well ... yes.”

  When she said it like that, it seemed as if she assumed he was lonely, as if she believed his choices had all been bad ones—but they hadn’t been.

  He was content with his lot, and a bachelor because he enjoyed his independence. He sailed because it was in his blood, because he relished the waves and the water and the sense of freedom it provided.

  “Guess what, Captain?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I do plan to wed someday. I want a home of my own, children to mother, and a husband who loves me, and I won’t apologize for it.”

  “I haven’t asked you to apologize.”

  “No you haven’t, but I often have the impression that you think I’m desperate, so I’ll engage in any loose behavior merely to curry your favor.”

  “I don’t think that about you,” he quietly replied.

  “I’m a fighter, and I’m going to reclaim the life I used to have. For me, and for my sisters. It was taken from us, but I’ll see to it that we get it back.”

  “I’m betting you will.”

  “In the meantime, you have these ridiculous ideas about consorting with me in secluded parlors, and you need to rid yourself of them. You’re not the marrying kind, and I am.”

  She skirted the sofa and approached till they were toe-to-toe. Brazenly, she reached into his coat, located the key, and drew it out.

  She was so close, her tantalizing scent sweeping over him, making him anxious to pull her to him, to bury his face at her nape so he could inhale her essence, but he restrained himself, refusing to succumb like the bewitched imbecile he was.

  “It’s only kissing, Helen,” he tried to insist.

  “You know that’s not true, Tristan.”

  “We can do it for sport.”

  “I don’t want to do it for sport. I want to do it for love.”

  “We’re grown-ups. Love is for fools. This is about pleasure.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “We’ll be in the country for several weeks. Won’t you be bored?”

  “No. I have Rose to look after, as well as my sisters to tend.”

  She had plenty to keep her busy, chores to accomplish for people she cherished, while he had little to occupy him that was interesting or worthwhile.

  The coming days stretched ahead like the road to Hades. He had no one with whom to chat and fraternize, and there was scant satisfaction to be garnered from conferring with tenants or reviewing the estate books with Michael’s land agent.

  To his horror, he yearned to laugh and play with Helen, and why shouldn’t he crave some frivolity? His life was all routine and responsibility, his habits inflexible and ingrained, developed from three decades of fending for himself.

  It dawned on him that he’d been anticipating the visit simply because—with the leisurely pace and rural surroundings—he’d expected to have expanded opportunities to sneak off with her. The fact that he wouldn’t be able to, that she was ready to sever the tie that bound them, was the most wretched conclusion imaginable.

  He might have succumbed to melancholia, but he forced himself to remember that he wasn’t hoping for a grand passion. He intended a brief dalliance. Was that too much to ask?

  If she declined to proceed with a liaison, what would he do with himself? Mope after her like a whipped dog?

  “Stop pestering me,” she murmured.

  “I’ve requested an innocent meeting,” he grouched. “How is that pestering you?”

  “Leave me to my duties. Let me carry on with my assigned tasks.”

  “I’d rather you spent your time kissing me.”

  “And I’d rather you turned your attention to someone else.”

  “Really? That’s really what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  He stu
died her, wondering if she was serious, wondering why it mattered so much. If she didn’t care to dally, he could find a woman in the neighborhood to oblige him. Gad, Maud would jump at the chance. He need merely drop a few hints, and she’d welcome him with open arms.

  Why put himself through so much misery over Helen?

  He was behaving like a buffoon, yet he couldn’t get past the notion that if he gave up on her, he’d be relinquishing something fine and rare. There was an ember that sparked when they were together. If he fanned it, if it burned out of control, where would it lead?

  How could she not be the least bit curious to learn the answer?

  “You’re an awful liar,” he said, calling her bluff. “You don’t want me to seek out another woman. You can’t want that.”

  “I’m not lying, Tristan. You’re just not listening.”

  She rose on tiptoe and surprised him by brushing a kiss across his mouth.

  Why was it that she could kiss him, but he couldn’t kiss her? How was it different?

  He grabbed for her, eager to pull her to him, but—as if she were a phantom—she slipped away and went to the door. She stuck the key in the lock and, in a thrice, she was gone, and he was all by himself in the dreary room.

  “WILL we see them kissing again?”

  “Of course. Helen drank the potion, so they had must be desperately in love.”

  Rose and Amelia were sitting on the landing again, spying, waiting on Helen and Tristan. They had been inside the library forever. What were they doing?

  “It’s so romantic, isn’t it?” Amelia asked.

  “Like a story in a book.”

  “Let’s pretend they’re a prince and princess.”

  “They were secretly betrothed as children.”

  “But Helen’s wicked stepfather hid her to punish Captain Odell.”

  “Yes, and Tristan has been searching for her ever since.”

  “He finally found her.”

  They both sighed, when suddenly, Helen emerged. They leaned forward, anxious to see without being seen, but the sight that greeted them wasn’t what they’d expected.

  Helen came out alone, and very quietly, she shut the door. She rested her palm on the center of the wood, her head bowed as if in prayer. She seemed to be reaching out to Captain Odell, or perhaps sending him a visual message.

  After a while, she drew away and walked down the hall, but she collapsed against the wall, her legs too wobbly to support her. Her eyes were closed, as if she was in pain, as if she might cry. She hovered, regrouping, gaining strength, then she shook off her unhappiness and kept on.

  As Amelia and Rose watched her go, they were stunned.

  “What could have happened?” Rose whispered.

  “They must have fought.”

  “Then the potion can’t be working.”

  “I wish Mr. Dubois were here. I’d buy another dose.”

  “So would I.”

  “We could put it in his soup.”

  “We could make him love her. I just know we could.”

  Disturbed and disheartened, they stood and crept away.

  Chapter 11

  “WE’RE different from them, aren’t we?” Jane glumly inquired.

  “Of course we are,” Helen replied. “Why would you even ask such a foolish question?”

  “Sometimes, it seems as if we belong here, as if it was meant to be. I don’t understand why Father’s past troubles have to matter so much.”

  “You can’t have imagined we were of the same station as the Seymours. You know better. Our antecedents are much lower, and we can’t change that fact.”

  “It’s not fair. We ought to belong.”

  “We don’t.”

  “What’s wrong with wishing, though?”

  “It can only lead to heartbreak and frustration. That’s what’s wrong with it.”

  Helen frowned at Jane, and Jane—not wanting her sister to note any dolor—forced a cheerful expression.

  “I know who and what we are,” Jane said. “I just thought...”

  “Thought what?”

  “With Captain Odell bringing us into the house as he did, it skewed my vision of our place in relation to them.”

  “Well, you need to alter your thinking, and fast. I’m merely the governess—despite how it occasionally seems otherwise.”

  “We dine at their table, and we wear the pretty clothes he bought. Our bedchambers are in the family wing of the mansion.”

  “We’re the captain’s charity case, Jane.”

  “It doesn’t feel like we are.”

  “Trust me: We are. He was concerned over our plight, and he rectified it by hiring me. I work for the man. Don’t forget it.”

  Helen moved off, looking glum herself. She was pale and drawn, her smile having been shoved aside by constant worry, which was odd. Even during their worst period in London, she’d been the eternal optimist, certain that everything would turn out for the best.

  And it had—except for the one way that truly counted.

  Jane watched in agony as Michael held court in a corner of the crowded parlor. Miriam hung on his arm as he chatted with various neighbors who’d come for supper and cards.

  For some reason, after they’d left the city, a barrier had been erected between her and Michael. Miriam had easily assumed the spot at his side, which Jane believed she’d wrangled for her own, and it was pure hell, having to pretend she wasn’t devastated.

  If she ever saw Miss Dubois again, she’d have a few choice words to share regarding her stupid potion.

  Since the night Jane had lain with Michael, they’d had no opportunity for a subsequent assignation. There’d been hectic days of packing, then the trip itself. After they’d arrived, Michael had been swept into the public whirl brought on by his having been installed as the new earl.

  Everyone in the area, from beggar to aristocrat, wanted something from him, so he was busy with parties, social calls, and guests.

  Through it all, Miriam had been his acknowledged partner. She accompanied him to events at which no one would have considered inviting Jane, the governess’s poverty-stricken sister.

  Jane was smart and educated. Mentally, she grasped why Michael could never be hers, but emotionally, she was focused on other issues entirely.

  She’d been totally convinced of his affection, so positive that she’d surrendered her chastity, but it had all been for naught.

  Even though the carnal episode had been distasteful and utterly devoid of romance, she’d do it again in a trice if he but asked it of her.

  If only he’d glance in her direction! If only he’d give the tiniest sign that he wanted to be with her! But he didn’t notice she existed.

  Feeling hurt and betrayed, she seethed with dismay. She was dying to confide in someone, but who could she tell?

  Helen was the sole person to whom she could unburden herself, but if Helen had the slightest clue how Jane had been misbehaving with Michael, Helen would take drastic measures. Why, she might even quit her job and relinquish their room and board. Jane would never see Michael again!

  She couldn’t bear to imagine it, so she suffered in silence.

  Her dejected reflections had her so overwhelmed that, before she realized it, Michael was leaving. The vicar and his wife—the evening’s honored guests—were departing, and Miriam and Michael were escorting them out.

  As they passed, Miriam flashed such a smug look of triumph that Jane yearned to slap it off her plain face. Instead, Jane calmly stood, grinning vapidly, as if her heart wasn’t broken into a thousand pieces.

  At the last moment, as the rest of the group exited, Michael stepped away from Miriam to set his champagne glass on a waiter’s tray. As he did, he was very near to Jane. He winked and mouthed, May I come to your room?

  Jane nodded, her pulse racing with delirious excitement, as he walked on.

  He cared for her! He cared!

  She lingered in the parlor as long as she could stand it, then
she slipped away without a good-bye to anyone.

  She strolled to the grand staircase and climbed gracefully, but once she was out of sight, she ran the remaining distance to her bedchamber. As she hurried in and shut the door, she was laughing, whirling in circles, her arms flung out in celebration, but motion in the inner room had her stumbling to a halt.

  Her maid, Lydia, was there, finishing up her chores. She stared at Jane in a blatant fashion that a servant would normally never dare.

  Jane reined in her exuberance and studied Lydia in return.

  Lydia cleaned Jane’s boudoir and assisted her when necessary, but she carried out her duties with minimal competence. She was surly and rude, and could barely conceal how she begrudged Jane her place in the household.

  Jane might have spoken to Mrs. Seymour about Lydia’s insolence, but Jane was in no position to complain, being lucky to have had a maid assigned to her at all.

  “Lydia”—Jane was panicked and wanted the girl gone—“you’re up late.”

  “I can’t take to my bed till the party’s over.”

  “It’s just ending.”

  “Will you need help with your dress?” Lydia assessed Jane’s torso, as if offended by her pretty gown. “Should I send for a bath?”

  She pronounced the word bath as if it were an epithet.

  “I’m fine. You’re excused.”

  “Are you sure, miss?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  Jane opened the door and gestured to the dark hall, praying that Michael wasn’t about to arrive.

  Lydia ambled over, slow as molasses, and strutted out. Her gait was so impertinently snotty that Jane was glad she no longer owned any valuables. If she had, she might have searched her jewelry box to see if anything had been stolen.

  She waited, hovering, until Lydia’s strides faded, then she rushed to the dressing room and scurried about, letting down her hair and yanking off her clothes.

  As he quietly entered, she was tugging on her nightgown, pinching her cheeks, then she took a deep breath and went out to the sitting room. Though her stomach felt as if wild horses were galloping through it, she exuded composure, as if his clandestine visit was a common occurrence.