Addicted

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “Yes?”

  “Lord Broughton has proposed to my sister. I am not sure of her answer. I only know that she has not given it yet.”

  He will not be marrying her, Lindsay silently vowed as he watched Ann turn and leave. After Ann closed the door, he stood up and tossed the iron poker against the wall. He was lost, so damn perplexed, bewildered. He could barely think straight, could only think of Anais and escape. An escape that would allow him to dream and hope. An escape that was fast becoming his daily life.

  11

  It was late when Anais slipped into her wrapper and tiptoed out of her bedroom. It had been hours since the last of the noises from the party had quieted down and the guests had departed. Finally, silence had descended, blanketing the house.

  Clutching the soot-covered leather-bound book to her breasts, Anais made her way down the curving staircase. In her hand, a candlestick wobbled as she held it high to light the way.

  What she was doing, she didn’t care to think about. She was playing with fire, seeking out Lindsay. She should not be doing this. They had left off that afternoon in the salon precisely where they should have, with him believing she no longer wanted him in her life.

  She had told herself that she needed to remain aloof and indifferent, but had known the pretense would be so much more difficult after she had returned to her room from visiting her father. When she’d found Lindsay’s Christmas gift to her on the bed, wrapped in a pretty red velvet shawl, she’d known the struggle would be near to impossible.

  She had debated about whether or not to open the gift. After all, she did not want to encourage him. In the end, it called to her and she’d pulled the tail of the silk bow and allowed the wrapping to come free.

  Inside the folded shawl was an exquisite matching night rail and wrapper that was adorned with a lavish amount of fine lace. Anais had never owned anything as lovely as that. Where he had purchased it, she didn’t know. The blackened book beside the wrapper was entirely too familiar.

  She put on the wrapper and studied herself in the looking glass, noticing how the fine spun silk hugged her curves. The firelight shone through it, throwing the silhouette of her figure into relief. Something as seductive as this could not be found at the village modiste.

  Anais knew she couldn’t accept a gift like this, especially from Lindsay. But the child inside her hugged the gown to her chest, afraid to have it taken away. She had never been allowed to wear lovely things. Her mother made certain of that. It was something her mother enjoyed doing to punish her. She always ordered Anais’s dresses with no lace or other adornments. Her figure, which had always been full and womanly, always looked dowdy and dumpling like owing to the stripes and heavy fabric her mother insisted she wear.

  No, she could not possibly give this up. So instead of giving the gift back, she had donned it with the intention of thanking Lindsay. She did not particularly care to give voice to the other intentions that continually tried to creep into her mind.

  The sound of the ticking grandfather clock in the hall drew her out of her musings and told her she was nearing the study. When she arrived at the open door, she peered in, holding the candle higher. There was no one inside.

  Perhaps he was sleeping in one of the other chambers?

  “May I be of some service, miss?”

  Anais whirled around. When the candlelight revealed a square face and nose that appeared to have been broken several times, she covered her mouth, certain she was ready to scream at the top of her lungs.

  “None of that, now,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You’re safe enough with me.”

  She had been a part of Lindsay’s life long enough to know the servants of the house. It was Vallery, Lindsay’s valet. With a great exhalation, Anais blew out her held breath. “Forgive me, I didn’t recognize you right away.”

  He cocked his thick brow and looked her over. “Well, now, Lady Anais, what would you be doing up at this time of night and in the dark?”

  He watched her carefully, his eyes never leaving her face. She couldn’t very well tell him that she was searching for his master. Not this late at night, and dressed in her wrapper. As she fumbled for an excuse he reached for her elbow and steered her toward the staircase.

  “Lord Raeburn is indisposed, my lady. I shall tell him I saw you and he will seek you out tomorrow. Will that suffice?”

  Digging in her heels, Anais stopped before the servant could lead her to the stairs. “I wish to see him.”

  “But he doesn’t wish to see you.”

  Anais felt her mouth drop open and her eyes blink in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  The servant colored and cleared his throat. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to see you, Lady Anais. What is more accurate is that he doesn’t want you to see him—that is, not as he is now.” Vallery backed away and stepped into the shadows. “I will tell my gentleman you came by tonight. Take care going back up the stairs, Lady Anais.”

  Anais watched the valet disappear into the darkness. She wished she could pretend that she didn’t understand what he was trying to tell her. She knew what he meant. Lindsay was off somewhere smoking opium.

  Glancing at the stairs, Anais knew she had just been given a reprieve. She should take it. But the thought of Lindsay alone, smoking that horrid stuff pushed her into motion.

  Silently, she followed the steps of the valet, careful to keep to the shadows. She had blown out her candle so that he wouldn’t see her following him.

  Through the cavernous halls of the large country house, she followed the servant, down through the portrait gallery and the ballroom, then through a narrow hall that led to double wooden doors, which he opened wide and stepped through. Anais waited a moment, then opened them, stealing through the opening. What she entered was a pleasure den straight out of something from the Arabian Nights.

  The room, which she knew had once been Lindsay’s mother’s conservatory, was done in the Moorish style. Vibrant silk veils tented the ceilings in reds and oranges and pinks. Marble pillars stood from floor to ceiling in a square around a bath with steaming water. It was a mineral bath, like the hot springs in Bath and Tunbridge. Only Lindsay had made it into what the Arabs called a hammam.

  “I came across your lady,” came a disembodied voice.

  “Oh?”

  “She was looking for you.”

  “You had the good sense to put her off, didn’t you?”

  “Aye. I knew you wouldn’t want her here.”

  “No, I do want her here, that is the problem, Vallery. Sick bastard, aren’t I, for wanting her here in my little harem while I indulge in my opium and my lust.”

  The servant said nothing. Anais tiptoed farther into the room and peered around a tall potted palm tree that stood on the corner of the bath. Beyond it lay what she would call a tent room, an exotic creation of veils and scarves that acted like curtains. From the ceiling, Moroccan lanterns were suspended with chains, while on the floor a silk divan, fit for a sultan, was covered with tasseled pillows and silk scarves. In the middle of the divan, his back against the wall with one knee bent, was Lindsay. To his left was a table with a silver tray, a lacquered box and a pipe that had smoke curling from a raised brass burner.

  She should have been repulsed by the fact that Lindsay was in this room smoking opium. It was a vile thing that turned good men into sinners. But repulsion was the furthest thing from her mind. All she could think about was the mystique, the decadent languor that surrounded her.

  The visuals alone were a feast for her senses. She felt as though she really was half the world away in Constantinople or Morocco, wandering through the covered bazaars.

  Everything was so sensual, right down to Lindsay, who was sitting negligently on the divan, dressed only in black trousers and a white shirt that was fully opened. His head was tipped back and his lips parted as a cloud of smoke escaped them. He was the very picture of a dreamy smoker, and the image of him, so beautiful and seductive, posed like this,
beckoned her.

  “Why don’t you take to your bed,” Lindsay drawled. He kept his head back and his eyes closed as he spoke. “I’ll be up for a while yet.”

  The valet said nothing, but walked to the side of the room and slipped through another door. Lindsay lifted his head, shifted his position so that he was lying on his side and reached for the pipe. Through the dancing vapors, their gazes collided.

  “You’re here early,” he said, sitting back against the wall. “I usually need much more to see you so clearly.”

  Stepping closer, she walked along the cold tiles toward the tented dome where Lindsay sat. His eyes, now a different color of green, were more jade as they seemed to glow amongst the smoke. They appeared to dance, too, as his gaze roved over her body.

  Anais didn’t dare speak lest she break the spell that seemed to be weaving itself around them.

  “I’ve often tried to imagine you in that gown and wrapper. I bought it last year, you know. A modiste created it from my specifications. I had planned on giving it to you for a wedding gift. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never been able to see you in it. I couldn’t bring myself to think of never having a wedding night with you.”

  Her breath caught as the implications of his words settled in. He’d designed this for her and had it made, especially for her.

  “I see you’ve brought the book, too. You like it. I’m glad.”

  He reached for the pipe and brought it to his lips. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the fumes. Anais found herself walking slowly over to him, as though she were in a dream. His body called to hers. The sensuality in the room hung heavy, blanketing her in a desire she had tried to forget.

  Putting the pipe down, he winced and clutched his fingers. Anais saw then how red the tips were—blistered, filled with water.

  “You’ve burned yourself.” Standing over him, she reached for his hand and held it up to the dim light. The lanterns were not lit. Only one candle provided light, and that was the candle Lindsay used to heat his opium.

  “It’s not from the pipe, you needn’t worry about that.” Anais felt his hand go to her hair. Slowly he pulled her hair free of the ribbon she had used to tie it back. The thick mass cascaded over her shoulder, and he reached for it, running his fingers through her curls. “I burned them today, going through the rubble of your father’s estate. I tried to salvage the volume of Keats, but it was beyond hope. I didn’t realize how hot it would be when I saw it lying amongst the rubble.”

  Her heart leapt at his kindness. He had always been so caring and thoughtful toward her. It had been his sensitive nature that had drawn her in the first place. Sitting down beside him, Anais held his hand gently in hers. “You need to take care of this, Lindsay. It’ll grow infected if you don’t.”

  “I don’t need anything.” He cupped her face. “Just you here in the quiet with me.”

  She saw how sleepy he appeared. How much had he smoked? she wondered.

  “Angel,” he said as his hand reached for the tie of her wrapper, “come to me.”

  She wanted to. Oh, God, how much she wanted to.

  He sat up, leaning a little closer to her as he ran his hand down the curve of her breast, which pressed against the silk. “Rise up from this bed and walk to me amidst the smoke. Crawl atop me, just like the smoke does, Anais.”

  She didn’t move, only closed her eyes against the wonderful sensation of his gentle touch. “Are you real, angel, or are you just anther figment of my mind? I can hardly tell anymore. Yet you feel so very real. So warm and alive. I can feel your heart beating against my palm. I can hear your breaths. Yet I know I must be dreaming, seeing you like this.”

  She was weakening, feeling herself moving into him. What sort of creature was she? Some stranger in her own skin, a wanton who could not stop her gaze from roving along his sculpted chest and chiseled abdomen. A hussy who secretly hoped that he would tear the silk from her trembling fingers and finish what he had started? A fraud who wanted him to just take her, regardless of her ineffectual protests so that she would not have to admit that she truly wanted this—with him?

  It would be so much easier to deny her desire and absolve herself of her own willing involvement. She could do it now if he would only prove himself the beast she tried so hard to believe he was. If he would only push her back on the divan and cover her body and protesting mouth.

  But he denied her. He did not force his mouth on hers and ruthlessly plunge his tongue between her lips, but instead reached out with a finger that trembled, and stroked her flushed cheek, his eyes softening in the candlelight as he scoured her face.

  He pressed into her, inhaling her skin, the scent of her hair. She felt him nuzzle her riotous curls with his lips, and when he pulled away he took with him a handful of curls that he allowed to slip through his fingers, all the while studying the strands that glistened in the flickering light.

  Her breath was rapid, short pants and her mouth parted when he pressed his lips against her face and grazed them, featherlight, along her forehead only to skate down to her cheek and over the bridge of her nose and finally down to her lips. He said not a word, not a sound. She only felt the barest brush of his breath against her tingling lips, felt the heat of his gaze as he searched her face, willing her to raise her gaze and meet his burning eyes. But she stood firm, pretending she was not moved, that she was not affected by his mastery.

  His touch became more insistent and she refused to look at him and instead turned her face in an attempt to show abhorrence. But he was not persuaded to believe her disgust of him. Instead, he cupped her throat and ran his thumb along her bounding pulse, discovering for himself the extent of her deceit.

  “How sweetly you enslave me, Anais.” Her lips quivered as he stroked them with the pad of his thumb. “With one glance from your beautiful eyes, one shy smile from your lush, welcoming mouth, I have, and always will be, your slave.”

  He tilted her face upward so that she was looking into his eyes, eyes that were glazed with opium and passion, a heady, alluring mixture that called to the very depths of her soul. Never had she thought to have wanted him like this. Yet she could not deny the desire, the heavy pulse and throb in her blood. She wanted him, right here in his pleasure den. She wanted this Lindsay, the secret side of him she hadn’t known existed. There was nothing to guard against his feelings for her, no safety net of propriety. The opium had freed him, made him uninhibited, and she wanted that. The sharing of bodies and pleasure without anything between them.

  “‘I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion—I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more—I could be martyred for my religion—love is my religion. I could die for that. I could die for you.’”

  Keats. He had quoted the famous poet, recalled every word, even through the opium. After all this time, he still remembered that day by the river, when he had presented her with a volume of Keats’s poetry. He had read it to her as they lay on a blanket, surrounded by the remnants of their picnic lunch. He had kissed her, a tender, slow burning kiss that had promised so much as they had said their goodbyes. The next day, he had left for Cambridge, leaving her with the memories of that late summer day by the river. It seemed so long ago, yet her mind relived it as though it were yesterday.

  “I just want it like it was, before I hurt you,” he whispered as he ran his hand down her side and along her hip. “I am so very, very sorry, Anais. I would tell you a thousand—no, a million times—if I thought it would ease the pain.”

  “I know you are, Lindsay.” His heart was in his eyes. She could not deny him that or pretend that he didn’t mean it. It was there, shining down at her.

  “How can I make it up to you? What words can I say to make it better? What can I do? Can I show you with my body?”

  She weakened. There was no shame in desire. She was a woman who had experienced pleasure, then it was gone. She had not forgotten the passion or the way her body had felt. She longed to feel that again.

  It was
so very, very wicked to do this. She was, in fact, using him. He was under the influence of opium. He might very well not even recall what he had said, or what they were about to do. But then, if there was a chance she thought he would remember, would she be contemplating this?

  No, she would not. It was only knowing that the opium was inside him that made her bold enough to risk this.

  What a flawed, horrid woman she was. So weak. But she needed to feel the passion, the way her body seemed to light up beneath his hands. She wanted sexual fulfillment once more.

  “I have told you with words how sorry I am, now let me show you with my body, angel.”

  Anais opened her mouth to him, allowing him entrance. He pushed her back onto the cushions, crushing her with his weight, reassuring her with his heat. It was silent acceptance of what they both wanted.

  There would be no guilt or remorse. Tonight was just pleasure. A man and a woman sharing their bodies. In the morning she could remind herself how much of a fallen woman she was. How horrid she was. Because come the morning she would deny him—she must. But tonight, she would accept him just as he was.

  His hands undid the sash of her wrapper. His fingers, trembling, unbuttoned her night rail until it parted over her body. The single light from the candle that sat on the tray had dimmed, the wick had burned low, creating an atmospheric curtain around them. It was a perfect setting for this dark seduction.

  Unable to help herself, Anais raked her hands through his long hair as he bent over her, his tongue trailing a line from her navel to the valley of her breasts. Instead of licking her nipples as she expected and hoped he would, he nuzzled them with his lips, moistening them with his breath, then blew gently against them until they were so tight and erect she moved restlessly against him.

  Her hands continued to slide through his silky hair while he held himself above her, bracing his weight on his forearms. He was still teasing her and Anais opened her eyelids a fraction—just enough to watch his bottom lip toy with the very tip of her nipple. His eyes, still glazed from the opium, met hers, and with deliberate strokes he flicked her nipple with his tongue. He continued to hold her gaze while his tongue crept out again. This time though, he circled the erect flesh in a slow, delicious swirl.