And knew she’d found the right chamber when a voice drawled, “What are you doing here?”
The sun shone through multipaned doors that led to a small garden. Books lined the room, as well as paintings and cleverly placed sculptures.
Jane could see only Blackburn.
The most impeccable of God’s creations, he lounged in a high-backed chair placed before the fire. His exquisite lips were turned down in a frown. His blue eyes pierced her like the hottest flame, only now the flame held contempt. His crisp shirt was open, his collar and cravat crumpled and tossed aside. A steaming cup rested on the table by his elbow. He held a book in his broad hand. One blunt finger held his place in the volume, as if he planned to dismiss her and go back to his reading.
And so he could, after she had had her say.
But to be here with him, alone, to feast her eyes on him without interference—this was greater than she had dared to dream.
He leaned forward. “McMenemy, why did you let her in here?”
“She insisted, my lord, and I could not hinder her.”
Lord Blackburn said softly, “Then I will have to hire a butler who can stop unwanted visitors. You may go.”
“Yes, my lord.” McMenemy sounded subdued, and the heels of his glossy shoes clattered on the wooden floor as he left, shutting the door behind him.
“An idiot.” In a long, sinewy movement, Blackburn came to his feet and stalked toward the improperly closed portal. “I am surrounded by idiots.”
Jane grabbed his arm as he walked past. “It doesn’t matter.”
He looked down at her hand with such scorn, she hastily removed it and rushed into speech. “I won’t be here long.”
“You’re right about that.”
“I just came to say…to try and tell you…”
“Hasn’t there been enough said about you and me in the last week?” he asked cuttingly. “Where is your sister?”
“At the town house.”
“Is she still too ill to attend you?”
“She’s better, thank you for inquiring.”
“ ‘Thank you for inquiring,’ ” he mimicked savagely. “You’re here alone. Without a chaperone.”
She had held her handkerchief in one palm. Now like a sculptress gripping a stone mallet in search of balance, she used both hands.
“You’re trying to trap me into a compromising position.”
She lurched in horror, and her pocketbook slapped against her arm. “Oh, no!”
“Why not? I’ll wager Athowe has not called to offer you the protection of his name.”
“We have not seen Lord Athowe since the night of Lady Goodridge’s party,” she said. Not that it mattered. She had not wished to marry him. But she recognized disloyalty when she saw it; Athowe dared not stain his precious name by even writing a letter inquiring of Melba’s health.
“Such a surprise! The ever-inconstant Athowe has abandoned you.” His mockery was not directed at her, but at Athowe. Until he focused on her once more. “So I am your only hope. A marriage to me would retrieve your reputation.”
Straightening her shoulders, she glared at him for so misinterpreting her actions. “Such a thought never crossed my mind. I am not so guileful, my lord, and you may be sure I’ve brought no one to burst in upon us.”
Pinching her chin between his fingers, he brought her face up and scrutinized each feature. What he saw there apparently satisfied him, for he said, “Excellent, for it would do you no good. I will not wed for any reasons but my own, and if that ruins us both, so be it. Your sister doesn’t know you’re here.”
A niggle of conscience made her turn her head away.
“Or else she taught you nothing of propriety.”
This injustice made Jane cry out. “Yes, she did! A proper lady never visits a single man in his home. She told me so often.”
“But you don’t heed her.”
“My reputation is already destroyed. What worse can possibly happen to me?”
He laughed, a short, bitter chortle. “She didn’t teach you enough, you foolish girl, if that’s what you think.”
Jane digested his comment. He wasn’t referring only to decorum, she realized, but to the real reason women avoided being alone with men. Except for that brief, uncomfortable moment with Athowe, she had never been burdened by such concerns—her height protected her—so she answered Blackburn honestly. “She of course told me of men’s baser natures, that I should avoid being alone with them, but you’re angry and you’ve never cared for me, and you are so perfect—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” His hands reached for her, but he pulled them back at the last moment and paced away.
“—I know you command your passions in a way lesser men cannot.”
He circled his chair and looked at his fingers. With unnatural tension, they gripped the curlicues carved into the wood. “I would not depend on that.”
She didn’t believe him, for if what he said was true, then he was not a god, but only a man.
Yet she was an artist. She studied people for their expressions, their stances, their nuances, and Blackburn seemed to be laboring under a great strain.
Chin down, he looked at her with the menace of a bull about to charge, and rend, and destroy. “You don’t understand. I would do anything to cause you as much humiliation as you’ve caused me.” His guttural voice rang with conviction. “Run away, little girl, before I forget I am a gentleman.”
A chill prickled along her spine, but she reminded herself of her mission, and that she had not yet explained herself. “I resolved to come here. I must make clear why I dared to try to depict you in clay.”
He shuddered as if he were in pain, and Jane took an alarmed step toward him.
Then she noticed how his mouth curled, like the smile of a cat who sees its prey within reach, and she took that step back.
“It was obvious to all why you dared.” Circling the chair, he stalked toward her. “It was the how that was inexcusable.”
She watched him cautiously as she admitted, “I did a poor job.” How it wrenched at her to admit it! “I know that now.”
“If it was a poor job, no one would have recognized me.” Her patent lack of comprehension drove him to clarify. “It was the…lack of clothing which caused the flurry.”
Her heart sank. She had suspected that was the truth, yet he was so grand, so imposing, she could comprehend no other manner to sculpt him. “It is a classic format used by the Greeks and Romans, and in my own defense, I would like to say I had no reason to believe anyone would ever see that statue except me.”
“You were inaccurate!”
She couldn’t help it. Her gaze skimmed his form, seeking the error that so infuriated him. She knew she was not untalented. The proportions looked right, yet still he paced toward her. “I have studied the human form as much as possible in my limited circumstances, but I was hampered by not having a model.”
Standing so that his toes met the points of her shoes, he snapped, “You’re here to ask that I model for you?”
She tried to step back, away from his deliberate intrusion. “No. I would not dare such disrespect! I’m only trying to justify any…miscalculations I may have made which caused you anguish.”
“Miscalculations.” He enunciated each syllable separately. “Miscalculations.” His hands shot out, and he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “Your miscalculations are now legion, Miss Higgenbothem, and the worst of them was coming here today.”
They had touched before—in the dance, today when she grasped his arm, and when he pinched her chin. She treasured each contact, each moment.
But this…this was different. He didn’t plan to kill her. He could have done that, ordered his servants to dispose of the body, and been back to his reading by now. Instead, his fingers kneaded her collarbones almost painfully. His throat worked, and the scent of him was close and sharp: last night’s brandy, today’s lemon soap, and masculine flesh both warm and eager.
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But eager for what? She wanted to look into his face, to demand his plans, but she found herself staring at the place where his shirt gaped. The edge of pure white cotton drew her gaze, then the amber sheen of his skin brought a sigh of satisfaction to her lips.
She had never seen the place where his collarbone dipped and formed a hollow, but she knew it. She had never seen the faint curls of blond hair at the loftiest part of his chest, or the glide of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, or even his throat, muscled and strong. But she had guessed the shapes, the colors, the textures, with uncanny accuracy. She had drawn them, then formed them from cold clay with as much devotion and pleasure as Blackburn’s Creator had at his conception.
Yet she was wary.
Wary. Of Blackburn. And why? She had never been a cautious girl. That had been part of the problem, an exasperated Melba had said. She looked every man in the eye as if she were his equal, and men retreated before such a novel concept.
But before, the armor of Blackburn’s concentrated indifference had stood between them. Now it was absent, and his attention swept her, as marked as cool breeze on naked skin.
What should she do with her hands? They still clutched the handkerchief close against her waist, and they seemed extraneous, in the way, not hers at all.
She was in his arms—a locale so exotic she had scarcely dared dream of it—and she was worried about her hands! But she didn’t understand what revenge he was seeking. “My lord, why are you holding me?” With an almost physical effort, she tore her gaze away from the gaping edge of his shirt and forced herself to look up.
Into eyes so dark they had swallowed the midnight sky. He fought demons with those eyes, demons she didn’t recognize, but could only acknowledge.
“My lord?”
“Damn you for coming. Damn you for placing yourself into my dominion.”
He squeezed with bruising intensity, and she cried out, jerking her hands up. Her fists struck his forearms, breaking his hold, and he sucked in a quick, startled breath.
Then he laughed. “You’re strong.” He grabbed her wrists and turned her hands over. Taking the fingertip of each glove, he jerked, freeing her hands from their concealment. He dropped the gloves to the floor, and she found her fingers uncurling to show him her naked palm.
Vulnerability.
She was strong. She lifted heavy clay, molded it for hours, found the satisfaction of creating with her hands. Yet she wanted him to see the other side of her, to know how the strength had grown from her unguarded heart.
And he did see it. Her god was so sensitive, he knew her mind.
“You love me, don’t you?” His voice was vibrant, vehement.
Her gaze worshiped the flare of his nostrils, the heavy-lidded satisfaction of his gaze.
“Good. That makes it so much better.” Still grasping her wrists, he lowered his face to hers.
And kissed her.
A kiss. Rough, faintly bruising, heatedly angry. She trembled at being the recipient of such an honor.
They were almost touching along the length of their bodies, so she tucked herself into him, into a submissive position, trying to tell him in every way possible that she was his. His to do with as he liked.
Lifting his head, he stared at her, his eyebrows forming a vee of derision. “Stupid.” He looked less like Apollo now, and more like Hades. “Stupid little virgin. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
He gave it to her anyway. His next kiss was harder, pushing her head back. Her hat tilted crazily, and he scowled at the unoffending headgear. “Take it off.”
He released one hand so she could obey him, and she did. Her fingers shook as she untied the bow, but when she would have taken it and placed it gently on a rack, he lost patience. Casually he knocked her best bonnet to the floor.
“Don’t dare protest,” he told her.
She had to answer him, but her lips felt odd: swollen, tender, even wanting. She didn’t know if she could perform such a routine task as speech. Not when she’d just been kissed. Slowly, with great care, she enunciated, “I’m not protesting.”
His mouth cocked up in a half smile. Delicately he stroked the planes of her lips with the ball of his thumb. “You’re almost sweet.” Then, as if he didn’t wish to think about that, once again he kissed her.
This time he required something from her.
She tried to ask what, but he snapped, “Give over, gel!” Depositing her wrists over his shoulders, he wrapped one arm around her waist and slid his fingers into her hair at the back of her head.
The demand was clear. Bewildered, she opened her lips, and he tasted her. Tasted her.
Inevitably she tasted him, too. He’d had coffee in that cup he’d been drinking. Not tea, coffee. How extraordinary. She knew a detail of his life because he kissed her. Was kissing her.
What had he found out about her? She began to quiver, brief little tremors of astonishment. Melba had warned her clearly enough about what happens between a man and a woman. Yet she had said nothing of this excruciating intimacy, where scent and taste mixed to form a brew of sensation. Jane shut her eyes to quiet the commotion in her veins, but the lack of sight only accentuated her tumult.
Alarmed, she opened her eyes and tried to move back, but he still held her, and his grip tightened. He growled, like a dog whose tasty meal was threatened, and he nipped at her.
The nibble of his teeth against her lip shocked her, and she wanted to fight him or demur. But how? He seemed so sure, and she had resolved to let him take what punishment he would. Certainly she could not complain when he chastised her with that which she longed for. Yet when his hand slipped from her head to her throat, and he caressed the skin beneath her ear, she squirmed against him.
“Be still,” he murmured. His mouth moved from hers to the place where his fingers touched, and she could hear his breath, light and uneven. “I’m not hurting you.”
“No.” She breathed. He wasn’t hurting her.
But he took her word as refusal and lifted his head. “Yes.”
Was he still angry? She couldn’t tell. She only knew he looked different; less like a devil, and more like a lover. He turned her, walking her backward until the length of a table pressed at the rear of her thighs.
He gave her no choice; she was strong, but not as strong as he was. He treated her as if she were clay and he were the artist, and perhaps it was true. In this arena, he had mastered the art. He crowded her, his hips firm against hers, his chest flattened against hers, his legs restless and moving beside, along, between. His constraint should have blocked her breathing, but he held her just lightly enough that she did not feel imprisoned. Rather, he embraced her, and of all the stimulation he forced on her, that feeling was the best.
In her wildest imaginings, she had not imagined this. But she resolved to follow wherever he led.
So he did as he wished, touching first her hips, cupping them, stroking them to memorize their shape. He spanned her waist, smiling as if the contrast of womanly hips and slender waist pleased him. He grazed each rib, his blunt fingers counting upward over the top of her clothing.
She let him. She had decided she would. If such familiarity gave him pleasure, then she was privileged to accommodate him.
Yet still he watched her intently, waiting for, almost anticipating, escape.
And to her surprise, as his hands caressed the underside of her breast, she experienced a jump of panic, a need to bolt.
“You’re frightened.” He wasn’t asking. He knew.
She swallowed, and her voice was hoarse. “I don’t like that.”
“Why not?” His whole hand cupped her.
She grabbed his thick wrist, her fingers rippling across the knob of bone at one corner. “You are touching a place where only a husband should touch.”
Still he held his hand there, and in a warm tone, said, “Or a lover.”
She gripped the joint so hard she felt the pulse in his veins. Her voice, usually strong
and coherent, wavered abominably. “Surely it is understandable that I should be shocked and wary and”—she took a breath—“uncomfortable.”
His other hand cupped her other breast. “How uncomfortable?”
She closed her eyes to escape from his scrutiny. From his amusement. Because he knew she was lying. It wasn’t discomfort that made her want to move her hips, to seek after this adventure with all the zest that was in her. It was something different, stronger, something greater than she was herself. It was an impulse almost primeval in its strength; a directive.
Like sculpting.
His thumb moved over her nipple, and it contracted. So did every feminine part of her. Totally involved, impervious to sight and sound, she found herself digging her nails into his shoulders.
He laughed, soft and uneven, each stroke becoming more brazen until she whimpered. As if that were a signal, his hands grasped her hands. He moved them to his groin, and he held them to the tight cloth of his trousers.
Her eyes sprang open, and she stared at him. His eyes glistened with some great emotion, and he asked, “Note the difference.”
“Yes.” She agreed because he seemed to expect it of her, but she didn’t understand why he laughed softly.
Like a greedy boy, he clutched a handful of her skirt, then another, and raised it. He stared at her garters tied just above the knee, and she let go of him to clasp the edge of the table. His breathing was fast and shallow, like hers, and he kept tugging at her skirt until she thought he would have it over her head.
But no. Still clutching the material, he clasped her bottom and boosted her onto the table. She sprawled on the cold, hard surface, tousled with incredulity, confusion, and with his demands.
Voices sounded outside the door—the servants, perhaps, or worse, visitors. Sanity blasted through her. She grabbed for her hem.
“Give it to me, darling.” The midnight blue of his eyes sparkled with stars as he tried to tug her hand away.
She hung on. “This isn’t right. There are others—”
“No one else matters.”
That Scandalous Evening Page 9