by Lisa Bingham
The door closed behind her with the care and gentleness of a new mother leaving her babe to nap. Quiet settled over the nursery. A nursery that should have been filled with children—a dozen grandchildren for the old woman who had expected a little boy.
Sullivan’s eyes lifted from the dog to the dark panels of the door. Everything had changed. He didn’t know when exactly. Sometime between the realization that his governess was not all she appeared to be and his grandmother’s arrival.
Grandmother. A stranger, yet not a stranger. Blood of his blood.
Squeezing his eyes closed, Sullivan massaged the ache at his temples. This latest development complicated things tenfold. He’d meant to protect his family through whatever means he found necessary. But Sullivan found himself yearning for other things. He wanted to avenge his father’s betrayal. He wanted to hurt those who had hurt him. He even toyed with the idea of finding a way to help a lonely old woman who thought he should recognize her and kiss her cheek.
And tangled somewhere in the middle of it all was Chelsea Wickersham.
As much as he might wish to return to those few idyllic hours in the garden, things weren’t so simple anymore. Without really knowing how, he found himself yoked with responsibilities and commitments that he had never even imagined existed.
So what was he going to do?
The first silver beams of moonlight trickled from behind the tattered portieres and cast whiskers of stardust over the carpet. The tiny yellow bird in the nursery clock finished a round of sleepy cuckoos, and midnight crept into the house like a velvet tide.
The sigh of the nursery door being opened was so slow, so silent that the sound melted easily into the shadows. For several long minutes, a stoop-shouldered woman stood motionless in the threshold. One gnarled hand gripped the molding, not with a white-knuckled tension but softly, gently, merely providing support to limbs weakened with age and rheumatism.
Clutching the worn dressing gown more tightly against her throat, she shifted, as if to turn away and leave as quietly as she had come. But she had taken only one step when she stopped and glanced over her shoulder, staring with such love, such reverence, at the figure upon the bed that her eyes sparkled and her chin trembled.
Leaning upon the walking stick she was too vain to use by day, Biddy crept into the room. When her presence didn’t seem to disturb the man who slept, she grew bolder still, until she stood so close to the bed that the lace of her robe rasped against the linen bedcovers.
The ticking of the clock served as the only measure to the passing of time as she greedily absorbed the sight of her grandson’s frame. Then, holding the gilded head of the walking stick more firmly, she bent forward. Fingers that were withered and crippled tenderly pushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
He didn’t stir. The pattern of his breathing didn’t alter. The delicate skin stretched thinly over her joints was so soft, her caress could have been that of a moth or some fairy queen.
She gripped the covers bundled about his waist, drawing them up around his chest and tucking them beneath the featherbed. Then, on a note of whimsy, she reached for the stuffed dog which had tumbled from the nearby rocker to the floor.
After petting its balding fur, she slid the toy beneath the blankets, “Take care of my grandson, MacDuff,” she whispered. “See that the beasties of the night don’t visit his dreams—for he is special to me. More precious than gold.”
With one last pat, she turned and shuffled from the room, closing the door behind her. She had come and gone so silently that except for the faint scent of carnations that lingered in the air, she could have been a dream.
Sullivan’s head rolled against the pillow and his eyes opened, focusing upon the mahogany portal. Though he steeled himself against the sensation, he felt a tug of guilt, pity, in addition to something more.
Somehow, in all the planning and plotting and scheming, he and his brothers hadn’t really considered Beatrice Sutherland. She had been some nebulous idea, not a person. She had been an outsider, not …
Not an old woman desperately clutching at wisps of hope. She had so many dreams for the future and such fond memories of the past.
But Richard must be protected at all costs. What else could Sullivan do?
He stroked the fur of the toy, feeling the spots that had been worn away years ago by another small child. Another Sutherland heir.
His father.
What could he do?
Frustrated, Sullivan whipped the covers back and strode to the window, parting the curtains and glaring out into the blackness. Deep within the house, he heard a whisper of skirts, the soft fall of leather shoes. The frustration he felt over the predicament with his grandmother eased into another, entirely tormenting emotion.
Chelsea.
It amazed him how quickly he’d come to recognize the sound of her tread. He thought he even caught the tantalizing scent of lilacs and jasmine that clung to her skin, her hair. She must have been keeping the old girl company and was about to retire for the night.
He savored the awareness, the burst of anticipation he felt as she moved toward his room. Paused. Then passed.
Damn. She hadn’t come in. She was still avoiding him, as surely as night followed day.
Since confronting him earlier, she had barely spent a minute’s time in his company. She hadn’t spoken to him all evening, hadn’t seen him at all except in passing. He’d spent dinner with his grandmother, alone, while Chelsea had chosen to eat with Greyson and Smee.
He’d seen through her ploy with little trouble at all. She hadn’t been thinking solely of the old woman. He knew that by the way she refused to look at him squarely, or avoided so much as a brushing of hands. She’d eaten with the servants, then disappeared after dinner, as if to silently remind him of her position as a mere employee in this household.
But her intent had backfired. She removed herself from his presence, so he began to search for her. She refused to touch him, so he wanted to campaign a seduction. She underscored her position as his governess, so he yearned to find the real woman beneath.
He knew she was struggling against her innate reserve, her sense of duty, and her private vows of respectability. The angst she felt was clear. But he also knew her defenses were crumbling beneath the strength of her need. He’d seen evidence in the unguarded glances she’d given him as she’d accompanied his grandmother and him out of the dining hall and back to the nursery. Once he’d passed through the threshold into his chamber, she’d reached to close the door. He’d seen the blatant desire.
Sullivan willed her to return yet damned his own obsession. Bloody hell. How, in so short a space of time, could he progress from being infuriated to intrigued to bewitched by such a woman? He couldn’t seem to push her from his mind. Despite all of the emotional upheaval he’d suffered, his attention wasn’t on his family or his father’s honor or his stranger-grandmother. It was on a woman. A slim, mysterious woman with hair the color of spun sunlight and eyes as deep as a cool crystal spring. A woman with secrets in her gaze and fire in her soul. A woman of innocence one minute and experience the next.
Pursued by urges he couldn’t ignore, Sullivan donned his shirt and trousers and prowled the close confines of his room. The rest of the house wallowed in somnolent silence, but he couldn’t bear to go back to bed. Not yet. He felt as restless as a caged animal. Sleep wasn’t something he even wanted to think about.
Over the next hour, Sullivan tried to settle the chaotic jumble of his nerves with reading and pacing, but nothing seemed to help. Nothing at all. So he thought about Chelsea—and suffered the consequences.
Midnight bled into one o’clock, then two. Then, to his infinite surprise, hinges squeaked far down the corridor. Sullivan waited, his heart pounding, knowing who it would be by the steady, stealthy creak of the floorboards. Chelsea.
He waited, barely breathing as she walked toward him. But when there was no pausing in her stride as s
he continued to the staircase, Sullivan fully intended to follow her.
Moving as soundlessly as he could, he tiptoed down to the lower level, stopping on the final tread. The narrow windows to the side of the front door had been left open, allowing the redolent scent of flowers to waft into the foyer, but he didn’t think she’d stepped outside.
His eyes roamed the foyer, falling upon the entry to the studio. When Biddy, Chelsea, and he had left the room earlier, the doors had been closed behind them. They now stood ajar.
Sullivan saw a brief flare of light against the far wall. The honeyed flicker eased into a steady glow, and he knew that she had lighted one of the candles on the desk.
Sullivan stepped from the staircase. An urgency surged in him, a nameless drive. For hours he had agonized over Richard, his grandmother, his own decisions, and Chelsea—this tormentingly complex woman. But he didn’t want to think anymore. He wanted to feel. He wanted to drown himself in sensation rather than in thought. He wanted to experience all Chelsea had to offer and more. He needed her kindness, her sweetness, but he also craved her fire with an intensity that threatened to consume him completely.
The yearnings that had simmered in his belly all day intensified. From this moment forward, there would be no slaps, no servants, and no arriving coaches to interrupt them. Moving decisively, he clasped the doorknob and entered, prepared to force Chelsea to admit she needed him, whether he had to reach his goal through seduction or trickery.
But he wasn’t prepared for the sight of his governess.
She was clad in nothing but her night rail. An embroidered shawl had been slung loosely over her shoulders, and her hair spilled wildly down her back. The candle on the desk painted the strands with a tender brilliance. The wavering flame shed a halo of light that pierced the fine weave of her garment, throwing her body into shadow.
Reaction rushed through Sullivan when she whirled to find him watching her. Her body, sharply revealed, was lithe and slim, her breasts high and firm, her waist narrow, her hips gently contoured.
She didn’t move, didn’t speak. But in the space of a heartbeat, she changed, and Sullivan saw a near-stranger.
Gone completely was the reserved, didactic educator. In her place was a soft, yielding woman, passionately longing for him.
No words were spoken. No words were needed. A shivering, violent need pulsed in the room, unbidden but there nevertheless. Sullivan tasted her hunger as strongly as his own. An almost tangible force, it hung over them, electrifying the air.
“Richard?” she murmured, the call more of a caress than an audible query.
Sullivan barely noted the cool parquet floor beneath his feet as he walked forward. He saw the way she clutched the folds of her shawl, bunching the delicate fabric against her neck. But she didn’t back away. Of that he was glad. For hours, he had been tormented by their afternoon together. He wanted to experience each sight and smell and texture anew.
Driven by the need to prove to himself that he wasn’t imagining this woman and her unproclaimed feelings for him, he was far from gentle. Tipping her head, he bent and crushed her lips beneath his own.
Desire burst upon him instantaneously. Abandoning all thought of wooing her into participating in his embrace, he opened his mouth and silently demanded that she do the same.
To his overwhelming surprise, there was no hesitation on her part. Her lips parted. Her body swayed. When his tongue slid into the moist haven, hers challenged, parried, advanced.
Moaning deep in his throat, he parted his legs. He scooped her hips forward and up until they rubbed intimately against his, then more forcefully, grinding, pressing, seeking satisfaction and torment, agony and bliss.
The shawl dropped to the ground. She clung to him, writhing beneath his touch, seemingly trying to crawl inside him. So furious, so passionate, was her response, that she stunned him into hesitating.
At once, she became the aggressor. She yanked at the fabric of his shirt, tugging it from his waistband and tearing at the placket so that buttons snapped from their foundations and scattered across the floor. Running her fingertips down the bare expanse of his chest, she pressed her thumb into his navel, withdrew, then repeated the action.
Gasping, he reared back. She watched him with avid interest, like a spider watched a fly caught in her silken trap. Her eyes assumed the luster of the clearest of aquamarines. Her lips were moist; her chest heaved.
Sullivan peered at her in astonishment. How could she seem an innocent one moment and a woman of experience the next? How could she act the virgin and the courtesan? At times, he thought a simple embrace would cause her to swoon. Then, in a heartbeat, she became a seductress.
Sensing his confusion, she drew his head down and kissed him again. Slowly, sweetly, like a maiden testing sensual waters. The contrast to their previous embrace had his head spinning, his heart thumping uncontrollably. Then, before he could completely adjust, she tipped her head to bite his ear, his chin. She returned to tease the dip of his navel, taunt him, torment him, circling the silken indentation with her nail.
Sullivan was incapable of logic. He only knew that he had to bring her closer. Tucking his hands beneath her arms, he lifted her high against him so that her hips pressed against his stomach. To his infinite delight and pleasure, she wrapped her legs around his waist and looped her arms around his shoulders. He supported her, bending forward to take her mouth, and she returned his kiss, measure for measure.
Never before had a woman affected him so completely. Her sweetness filled his senses, ruining him for any other female. What had begun as an intriguing flirtation mere days ago now bloomed into something more. He had to have her. Arching beneath him. Tonight.
He angled her head back and broke away from the delicious torment of her lips. He struggled to fill his starving lungs with air, while at the same time he beaded kisses down her neck to the demure neckline of her gown. Frustrated by the barrier of cloth, his teeth tugged at the lacy edging, his tongue dipped below the delicate border. Still unsatisfied, longing to see what lay beneath, he struggled to support her with one hand while the other reached for her buttons.
She allowed him to unfasten a few of the pearlescent discs. Before he could do much more, she was bending forward to press moist kisses over his neck and across his shoulder.
“No,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
No longer patient, Sullivan took the batiste at her shoulder and jerked it down over her arm. The sharp rend of tearing cloth punctuated his haste. The awkward angle of their twined position allowed little more than the baring of her shoulder and most of one full breast.
Although the nipple was coyly shielded by a wisp of fabric, Sullivan felt a reverence steal over him. She was so beautiful. So passionate. So honest.
Seeing his expression, she rubbed his cheek, nuzzled the hollow at the base of his neck. The tip of her tongue darted out to lave that spot. Then one foot dropped. The second.
He clung to her for several seconds, keeping her suspended in his embrace and forcing her hips to press intimately against his arousal. A soft sound, half groan, half sigh, melted from her throat, and she pushed away until she firmly touched the ground.
One finger strayed to explore the washboard-like indentations of his stomach. She seemed to be wrestling with some inner dilemma, but within a moment she smiled.
“Come with me.”
Chapter 15
Sullivan was struck to the core. He knew when a woman’s invitation involved something more than sipping tea in the drawing room. Yet, he had never seen any other female look at him with such blatant desire.
She led him from the studio up the stairs. Without the benefit of a candle, they were left in warm, murky shadows. Moonlight streamed through the curtains at the end of the hall, throwing lacy patterns on the floor and clouding their fevered expressions.
Climbing each step was an exercise in torture. He saw clearly the sway of her br
easts and the lulling swing of her hips. Her hair streamed down her back in a mass of tiny ringlets which beckoned for his touch. Her lips begged for his kiss. If not for the presence of his grandmother and two servants, Sullivan would have considered ravishing her on the staircase—taking her like the savage she thought he was.
Chelsea paused by the door to the nursery. To his infinite astonishment, she twisted the doorknob and led him inside. He wondered if she were going to refuse him again. But as soon as he joined her, she closed the door and leaned back, offering him a tempting smile as she twisted the key she had removed from the other side.
“Biddy’s room adjoins my own, so I think we’ll spend the night here if you don’t mind. Besides … this is still the only room in the house with a lock.”
He didn’t respond.
She didn’t appear to have expected him to.
Straightening, she toyed with one of the buttons of her night rail, watched his reaction, then slipped the disc free in blatant invitation. Another creamy inch of flesh was exposed to his view, this time allowing a glimpse of the shadowed valley between her breasts.
Sullivan’s patience for wooing and teasing vanished, but when he stepped forward to haul her into his arms, she stopped him. Her head shook from side to side. “Shh. Not yet. Not yet. We have all night.” Her lips curved, her smile was filled with latent promise. “If I’m to do this, if I’m to suffer the consequences that will surely follow, I mean to make this a night worth remembering.”
Her words summoned a pang of conscience in Sullivan. He was not naive enough to think that there would be no repercussions for their actions. Even if no one were to discover what had happened, bonds would be formed, emotionally and physically. But too many ties already joined them, Sullivan realized. What was occurring was very real. To his infinite astonishment, he found himself wishing to ensure they became permanent.
Niggling doubts rose, churned, but they were quickly doused when she circled him, studying him as if he were a slave upon the block. Her fingers trailed his stomach, marking her path, feathered over his back, then returned to rest upon his waist as she faced him again.