Lord of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  Ladies Hermione and Victoria brought their horses to a halt near Tristan’s.

  “My Lord Tristan, I was so dearly hoping that I should cross paths with you here today,” Lady Hermione said breathlessly, leaving Anne to wonder what Jameson might have seen in such a flighty girl. “I trust you remember my dearest friend, Lady Victoria. She is now married to the Earl of Whitby’s second son. She is serving as my chaperone. We were so hoping that you would join us in a turn about the park.”

  “It would be my pleasure to accompany two such lovely ladies.”

  Anne didn’t know why his words stung. She was here with another man. Why shouldn’t Tristan prance about with another lady or two?

  He tipped his hat at Anne. “I look forward to our meeting again.”

  Dear God, help her. She knew exactly when that meeting was going to take place and where. Tonight. Her bedchamber. She was not so much scandalized by the notion of it as she was by her anticipation of it.

  As the carriage bolted away, Tristan wondered if Anne knew how grateful she should be for Lady Hermione’s appearance. He’d been close to leaning down and snagging her out of that contraption, settling her on the saddle between his thighs, and whisking her away to someplace private so he could claim her. She was holding the blasted marquess’s hand with fingers that had stroked him in the early hours of the morning. Tristan’s only consolation was that she was wearing gloves.

  He didn’t know what to make of this fury that was rampaging through him. He’d never been a possessive sort, perhaps because he’d never had to be. When he was with a woman, she was his sole focus and he was hers. There was none of this flitting about from man to man nonsense. When he wearied of a woman, she moved on and he thought nothing of it. The trouble here was that he had yet to lose interest. Far from it, truth be told.

  Well, he thought sarcastically, one should specify. He was not bored with Anne. He was bored silly with Lady Hermione.

  “—made her look like a ripe strawberry. Honestly, she shouldn’t wear that shade of red.”

  He had no idea which lady she was referring to or why he should care one whit that she had the appearance of fruit. Lady Victoria was trailing along at a discreet distance. It seemed Hermione wanted to follow in her friend’s footsteps and marry the second son of a lord. He wondered how she would take the news that she could marry the first son. Anne’s brother would no doubt still take her if she were to make herself presentable to him, instead of latching onto Tristan as though she were a trailing vine.

  “You don’t fancy her, do you?” Lady Hermione asked.

  “Women who favor fruit have never appealed to me.”

  She tsked. “I was referring to Lady Anne Hayworth. It seems whenever my path crosses with yours that you are speaking with her.”

  “Mere coincidence.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  With a sigh, he brought his horse to a halt, and she quickly followed suit. She had such large expressive green eyes. One never had to wonder what she was thinking. Tristan preferred a woman with a bit of mystery to her. Anne had that in abundance.

  “Hermione …”

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  He hated the anticipation shimmering off her. He didn’t want to hurt her, but neither could he abide with her following him around like a faithful pup. “You’re a beautiful woman. But not for me.”

  Her face had started to beam with his first sentence, before it fell flat with the second.

  “I don’t understand,” she said quietly.

  “I enjoy dancing with you, but you will never have more than an occasional waltz with me.”

  “Are you tossing me over? It’s Lady Anne, isn’t it? You do feel something for her. But she is not worthy of you. She loved someone else. It was a grand love. Everyone spoke of it. It was legendary. You cannot compete with that. While I have always loved only you.”

  He barked out his laughter, then bit off the harsh sound at her crestfallen expression. “Hermione, you can’t love me.”

  “But I do and it wounds my heart terribly—”

  “You don’t know me and if you did you wouldn’t love me at all. I daresay, you’d probably not even like me very much.” Did those same words apply to Anne? She certainly gave the impression that she liked him.

  “You can’t sway my feelings toward you. I know all I need to know.”

  He wanted to tell her to play a bit harder at getting caught. Every man enjoyed a challenge. Tristan also wanted to confess that he had killed, stolen, beaten, seduced. He was not one to settle down. He went where the winds blew him. At the moment they were blowing him toward Anne.

  “—dinner tonight?”

  Inwardly he groaned. Lady Hermione was prattling on again. He glanced over at her. She sat a horse well. She was beautiful. She would fall easily into his bed. Yet he had no interest in her whatsoever.

  “My family would be so pleased if you would join us.” She looked so hopeful. He didn’t want to crush her spirit, but she was such a child that he couldn’t in all good conscience lead her on. Taking advantage of the innocent had never been one of his sins.

  “I already have plans for the evening, sweetheart.”

  “Tomorrow evening then.”

  “Have you considered that it will upset your father’s digestion to share his table with me?”

  “But I want you there and my father never denies me what I want.”

  Which explained some of her dogged determination. He wanted to be impressed by it. Instead, he was merely annoyed. “Lord Jameson would be a better choice.”

  “Lord Jameson? He is so terribly droll.”

  “But titled. More impressive than a second son.”

  With eyes twinkling, she laughed. “No one is more impressive than you, my lord.”

  He couldn’t help but return her smile. Two years ago she had been a frustrating delight and, to his shame, he’d not minded using a bit of harmless flirtation to irritate the nobles who looked down on him and his brothers. It seemed that the devil that had sat on his shoulder then wanted his due.

  Chapter 19

  The only thing worse than watching a ticking clock was watching a window.

  Sitting in a chair near said window, Anne knew it was ridiculous to waste her time wondering if Tristan would show. She hadn’t liked watching him trot off with Lady Hermione—especially as he would have been trotting with her if her family hadn’t approved Chetwyn escorting her to the park. For all she knew, perhaps he would be slipping into Lady Hermione’s bedchamber tonight. She didn’t want to acknowledge the queasiness that thought caused, but there it was—taunting her.

  She wanted to shout out that he was hers, but he wasn’t of course. She was little more than a passing fancy. Convenient on the ship. Convenient now with the dratted tree growing outside her window. She should have had the gardener chop it down when she returned home late this afternoon. That would certainly send a message to Tristan that his attentions weren’t wanted.

  But when she heard a faint scraping and saw a booted foot appearing over the window ledge, her gladness mocked her. Blast it! Why did she have to be so thrilled that he’d come to her?

  He grinned right before he pulled her from the chair and covered her mouth with his, plowing his hands into her hair. She was vaguely aware of pins pinging as they hit the floor. Mostly she was lost in the sensations that his kiss invoked. Why did he have to be so skilled at causing her body to hum with so little effort?

  But she wanted more than the physical. She wanted to mean something special to him. He was beginning to touch her heart and that terrified her. She broke free of the kiss and stepped away from him. “I suppose you’ll be climbing into Lady Hermione’s window next.”

  “Doubtful. She doesn’t have a tree growing outside her window.”

  With a fury she’d not expected ripping through her, she pounded her balled fist into his shoulder. He snatched her wrist and jerked her to him, holding her near, their bodies pressed toge
ther. “Jealous, Princess?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Tenderness touched his eyes and he skimmed his fingers along her cheek. “She could have stairs leading to her window, and I’d still not go through it.”

  She despised the relief that swamped her. There was no hope for her to have anything with him beyond this—a few nights of secreted lovemaking. He was not a man to be tied to shore. And she was not a woman who could go long unanchored.

  She’d learned that lesson well enough after Walter’s passing. She’d been too lost with no mooring.

  Suddenly Tristan was kissing her once again, scattering her thoughts before they refocused on the sensations he elicited with such ease. She could almost imagine that she would have this for the remainder of her life. He dragged his heated mouth along her throat.

  “I hated seeing you with him.”

  She knew of whom he spoke: Chetwyn. She dropped back her head, giving him easier access to the tender flesh. “He arranged the outing with Father. I couldn’t very well say no.”

  “Say no next time,” he demanded.

  She heard herself murmuring her agreement to do just that. She thought he could have asked for her soul, and at that precise moment she’d have not argued before handing it over. When he was nibbling at the sensitive spot below her ear, he robbed her of strength, of will, of purpose. She felt buttons loosening, air cooling her dampened skin, and somehow it was enough to bring her round. Wrenching free of his hold, she stepped away.

  “We can’t do this. My father is still in residence, in his bedchamber, just down the hall. He wasn’t feeling well this evening.”

  Mischief in his eyes, he took a step toward her. “We can be very quiet.”

  Oh, he was alluring. Temptation in human form. She forced herself to skitter over to the sofa. “No, I can’t. I could never relax. I could never stop thinking that he might burst through the door at any moment. That somehow he would know.” She shook her head briskly and crossed her arms over her chest. “You should probably go.”

  He glanced around, before bringing his gaze back to her. “I was disappointed this afternoon. I was very much looking forward to enjoying the park with you.”

  She sank on the arm of a chair. “I was disappointed as well. Since we’ve met nothing we’ve done seems to lean toward the normal. I suppose you could stay and we could visit for a bit, as long as we didn’t laugh or speak in loud tones.”

  “We can kiss quietly.”

  She released a bitter laugh. “But that will lead to other things, you know it will. I am beginning to feel very much like a trollop.”

  Stepping nearer, he skimmed his rough knuckles over her cheek. “I don’t treat you as I would a trollop. You must know that.”

  “But neither do you treat me as someone you were courting.”

  He swung away, toward the window, and it took every bit of pride she could muster not to call him back. She knew the words would strike at the heart of the differences between them. He wanted only now. She wanted forever.

  He came to an abrupt halt. “I don’t want to go, dammit. All day, I’ve thought of nothing save being here with you tonight. Even when Hermione was rhapsodizing on about bows on a bonnet”—he faced her—“all my thoughts were on you. I’m not ready to leave.”

  It was obvious he hated admitting that. She wondered if it was so terribly wrong of her to be so glad. “I noticed you had chess pieces in your quarters, so I assume you play. It’s a rather quiet game that wouldn’t get us noticed.”

  “Chess?”

  “With a slight change to the rules.”

  “That I allow you to win? Play with only half my pieces?”

  “I have enough confidence in my skill not to require that of you, but I thought it might prove interesting if when we capture a piece we are granted the privilege of asking something of the other, and then the other would be obliged to comply with the request.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Such as?”

  “Well, I might ask you to describe your favorite island.”

  “Seems innocent enough.”

  “Yes, quite, it will be. It’ll provide an opportunity for us to get to know each other better.”

  His gaze leisurely traveled the length of her. “I know you quite well, Princess.”

  “My favorite color? My dearest friend?”

  “Lilac. Lady Fayrehaven.”

  She stared at him open-mouthed. “How—”

  “I’m quite observant.”

  She desperately wanted to be able to ask questions of him, which meant she needed to entice him into wanting to play by her rules. “Who gave me my first kiss?”

  He grinned. “I accept your rule, but I’ll add one of my own—whoever wins may demand a boon of the other.”

  The wicked glint in his eyes might have given her pause if she had ever lost to her brothers. She suspected he was going to be quite surprised to discover that she knew her way very well around a chessboard.

  “I accept your rule. Wait here. I shall fetch my father’s board and pieces.” She hurried to the door, stopped, and looked back over her shoulder. “I’m so very glad you’re staying.”

  “We’ll see if you feel the same once I’ve beaten you”—his gaze slid to her bed—“and claimed my boon, with or without your father down the hall.”

  After two seconds of misgivings, she almost tossed a taunt back at him, but decided it would be much more fun to have him learn the hard way that beating her would not come easy, if it came at all.

  She set up the chessboard on the carpet in front of the fireplace. While she’d been gone, Tristan had started a small fire to create a cozier atmosphere. Now the flames danced and crackled. She’d doused all the lamps. He suspected their game of chess might turn into a game of seduction, especially if he had his way. He thought she knew him, but if she did she’d have not asked him to stay. He wanted her again; he intended to have her before dawn.

  They were three moves in before she took his pawn and rolled it saucily between her fingers. “How did you acquire your ship?”

  Not at all what he was expecting. It was a fairly innocent question, and yet he hesitated. He never spoke of his life on the sea, had already revealed far more of it to her than he ever had to anyone else. He studied her for a moment before answering, “I stole it from pirates.”

  “Truly?” Her eyes were wide, and for a moment innocent. He wished he’d known her before her life had been touched by sadness. He wished he could play with the earnestness that she desired, but he had little patience for it—perhaps because much of his life had been simply a game. Hide where no one can find you. Be someone that no one will recognize. Bury everything deep, reveal nothing. Be as a phantom.

  Through the years, he had created tales about himself. Not that he ever spread them, but he thought if anyone should ever ask … and here she was asking. But he couldn’t give her the fictional world of Captain Crimson Jack. So he told her the truth.

  “No. I won it playing cards.”

  “A man would actually bet his ship on the chance of a random draw being in his favor?”

  He shrugged. “He wanted the money that was sitting in the center of the table.”

  “Did you cheat?”

  “You’ll have to take another piece before I’ll answer that.” He watched the way she scrutinized him, saw the disappointment flicker in her eyes, and knew it had nothing to do with his not answering, but with her accurately deducing the truth. He had cheated, dammit. But then so had the men with whom he’d been playing. The encounter hadn’t been so much about the cards but about how well a man could manipulate them without being caught. As with all things, he was very skilled with manipulation. Hadn’t he gotten her aboard his ship when she had decided she didn’t want to be there?

  “You renamed it Revenge.”

  She hadn’t asked it as a question, and he was feeling magnanimous so he replied, “Yes.”

  Two moves later he captured one of her pawns. “Remove
your bodice.”

  She narrowed those lovely eyes, pursed those succulent lips that he was aching to kiss. “The rules are that you ask a question—”

  “Those are not the terms you laid out. You said I could ask of you what I would and you would comply.”

  She scoffed. “Yes, but—” Then huffed. “Anyone of any intelligence would know what I meant.”

  “I have no interest in playing a game of questions.”

  “Have you no interest in me beyond my body?”

  He merely arched a brow and quirked up a corner of his mouth in answer.

  “I know. You’re a man. Of course, you’re interested in only my body.”

  She was upset with him, but she held up to her end of the bargain, even if she nearly ripped off a button doing it. He did want to know the particulars about her but that was so dangerous, more dangerous than having her in his bed. It would create a bond, a deeper intimacy—

  Who in the bloody hell did he think he was fooling? The intimacy had been forged in tears when he’d knelt beside her at the British cemetery, and what remained of his heart had nearly shattered alongside hers.

  She made her move, garnered no captives, and while it was not very wise strategically, he snatched up another one of her pawns.

  “I suppose a corset,” she said sharply.

  He’d been considering a shoe, saving the best for last. Instead he heard himself ask, “What became of your mother?”

  She might have looked less surprised if he’d said, “By the by, I normally wear women’s clothing when I prance about the ship.”

  “She passed,” she finally said. “Three years ago. Influenza. Father had a fondness for her. I don’t know if he loved her. He barely adjusted his stride.”

  Tristan didn’t like the thought that popped into his head: if he discovered tomorrow that she had died, he’d have no stride to adjust because the devastation of learning she was no longer in the world would drop him to his knees. These were odd feelings, only for now, only while he was in her presence. Once he was back on the sea, they would leave him. He needed them to leave him. How could he concentrate on his charts, the stars, the storms if he was constantly thinking of her?