Lord of Temptation

by Lorraine Heath

  His body hinted at tales that she suspected he would never tell. He might say that the past didn’t matter, but if he truly believed it, why not talk about it? He revealed bits of himself like the flowing tides. He would give her an inkling of what his life had been like and then he would retreat.

  But here, in his bed, when they made love, he held nothing back. He touched her with reverence, worshipped her, taunted her, mollified her. Each time they came together, she became bolder—exploring every inch of him, marveling at the various textures. She ran her hands over him with abandon while relishing his doing the same to her.

  He flipped her onto her stomach, grabbed her wrists, and carried her arms above her head. Provocatively, he moved her hair aside.

  “Tristan.”

  “Shh.” He kissed his way along her spine while she emitted languid sighs. He nipped her backside. “You have dimples you know.”

  “When I smile? I think not.”

  He laughed. “No, here.” Releasing his hold on her wrists, he planted a kiss just below the small of her back, first on one side, then the other. “I like them.”

  “Is there anything about the female form that you don’t like?”

  “There’s nothing about you that I don’t like.” He flopped onto his back before gathering her close and easing her over him until she was straddling him, her hair forming a curtain that enclosed them until all they could see was each other. Plowing his hands through the thick strands, he brought her mouth down to his and kissed her thoroughly. Oranges and brandy. She could taste neither without thinking of him. Tart and rich. Seductive.

  But then everything about him was.

  He bracketed her hips, lifted her up, adjusted his position, and brought her down, stretching her, filling her. She scraped her nails over his chest, watched his eyes smolder, before leaning down and running her tongue around a nipple. She nipped at it.

  He groaned, low and long. “You are a witch.”

  One with power that she’d never considered she might possess. She began rocking, and now she was the one to moan as the center of their joining reawakened to pleasure. So good. So good. The reality of it was always so much better than the memory. Each coming together never seemed to be quite the same. The intensity caused her entire body to curl in on itself, to strain outward, to cavort inwardly. She always wondered how she would survive the sensations, and yet she did.

  From her position above him, she had a clear view of the tension radiating through him. It served to spur her to greater heights. Cupping her breasts, he kneaded the pliant flesh, scraping his thumbs over the sensitive pearls that had hardened with his touch.

  Snaking his arm around her, holding her in place, he sat up and captured her mouth, hungrily exploring as though he’d never kissed her before. She scraped her fingers into his hair, careful of his fresh wound. His chest brushed against her breasts, titillating, increasing her pleasure. The musky fragrance of their lovemaking rose up around them.

  Then they were both crying out, arching back, clinging to each other as sensations tore through them. Spots of color danced behind her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, it was to see his taut jaw, his fiery gaze. She kissed his forehead, his chin. He sank back onto the pillows and she collapsed on top of him.

  She thought it likely that she would never move a muscle again.

  Stretched out, one arm behind his head, Tristan watched as Anne wandered his quarters, picking up items, setting them back down, moving on. After nearly destroying him with their lovemaking, she’d donned his shirt. He enjoyed the way it left so much of her legs bared, legs that had squeezed his hips and thighs as she’d carried him to new heights. “Didn’t you have enough of examining my things when you were here before?”

  With slumberous eyes that caused his body to tighten, she glanced over at him. “I looked but I didn’t touch.”

  He arched a brow in disbelief. “You didn’t touch anything?”

  “It felt as though it would be invading your privacy.”

  “And it doesn’t seem so now?”

  “Now I don’t care. Now I want to know everything about you.”

  “Didn’t you get enough with your infernal questions last night?”

  “I suspect a lifetime of questioning you wouldn’t be enough,” she said distractedly, lifting the lopsided globe from his shelf and examining it.

  A lifetime. He could imagine all the questions he’d ask her. He still didn’t know who had given her that first kiss. He hadn’t asked because if it wasn’t her betrothed he might have to kill the fellow.

  “Did you make this?” she asked. “Was it to commemorate your travels?”

  “Yes. No.”

  She jerked her head toward him. “Pardon?”

  “You asked two questions. I answered them.”

  “You’re being difficult.”

  “Come back to bed.”

  “Not until you tell me about the globe, why you’re not more forthcoming with information about it.”

  He sighed. Had he ever met a more stubborn woman? “I made it for my brother. He seems to collect them for some reason.”

  “Keswick?”

  “No, Rafe. My younger brother.”

  “Was he at the ball?”

  “No, he prefers … the darker corners of London.”

  “Why?”

  He couldn’t stop the regret from seeping into his voice. “I don’t know.”

  Carefully, she set the globe back on the shelf before gliding quickly but quietly over to him and settling on the edge of the bed. She combed her fingers through his hair. “I can’t imagine how awful it was to be separated from your brothers. Mine often irritate the devil out of me, but I know they mean well and that they are always within easy reach if I need something. Even when I was in mourning and wouldn’t come to London, I had only to send a missive and they were quickly at my side.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the past. Or the future for that matter. I just want now.” He planted his hand behind her head and pulled her down for a kiss. When he was with her, the past barely mattered. He could forget about how awful it had been to be separated from his brothers, his family, from everything familiar. From the moment he’d galloped away from Pembrook, he’d sworn that he would never complain, whine, or cry about the unfairness of life. He’d buried deeply anything that could hurt him, because it had very nearly destroyed him to leave all that he loved. He’d built a wall so nothing could ever touch him again, nothing could ever harm him.

  He was his own man: independent, strong.

  Yet this mere slip of a woman was working to find a crack in his defenses. He couldn’t allow it to happen. Never again would he be vulnerable. Never again would he open himself up to hurt. She, of all people, should understand how easily the heart bruised.

  Together they could share passion, their bodies … but beyond that, he had nothing else to give.

  It was nearing dawn when Anne found herself again in the carriage, hurtling through the London streets. The curtains were drawn at the windows so no one could see her, but she picked up the sounds of morning activity, people beginning their day. If fortune were smiling on her, her father and brothers would already be home and abed in a liquor-induced haze.

  As for herself, her haze was pleasure induced. She was nestled against Tristan, his arm around her shoulders, his hand absently stroking the side of her breast while he nuzzled her ear.

  “We can’t continue on with these trysts,” she said quietly.

  “Mmm,” he murmured. “I’ll change your mind tonight.”

  “No, Tristan.” Moving away, she turned and faced him. She saw mostly shadows and yet she was familiar enough with him now to sense his gaze on her. “I am determined to find a husband this Season, to please my father, to see to my duty. It was the reason behind my trip to Scutari, so I could say good-bye to Walter and accept another man’s attentions with a clear conscience.”

  “I would say you accomplished your goal since you�
��re accepting my attentions easily enough.”

  She heard the fissure of irritation in his voice. Unfortunately, a spark of annoyance was riffling through her as well. She’d not have him toss into her face what they’d shared. “But we both know it comes with no permanence. It would be unfair to any gentleman who might be courting me if I were to continue with these … encounters—as lovely as they are.”

  “Lovely? Princess, you can no more keep your hands from me than I can keep mine from you. Hot, torrid, wild, yes. But lovely indicates a tameness that doesn’t exist between us.”

  Oh, yes, he was getting angry, addressing her as Princess rather than her name. But she knew it was his pride talking now, not any deep feelings that might be wounded with her departure. “Please, let’s not squabble. There can never be anything more between us than what we’ve shared.”

  “Oh, I think there could be much more between us. We’ve only had a few nights when we could have a thousand.”

  “But nothing permanent. You’ll grow bored and sail away—”

  “Then keep me from becoming bored.”

  She laughed at the ludicrousness of it. “Answer me truthfully. If you were not to lose interest in me, would you stay in England … forever?”

  “It’s not that simple. I’m the captain of a ship.”

  “So you’ll leave?”

  “Of course I’ll leave.”

  “So I can’t hold you here—even if I’m perpetually entertaining.”

  He cursed harshly. “I need the sea. I can only stand being landlocked for so long and then I’ll go mad. But you could come with me—”

  “No, I can’t. I’m not an adventurer. I want security, children, a home. Tristan, I want what you can’t give me.”

  “You want what I can give you in my bed. You’re mad for it.”

  “No. Yes, all right. I do want it, but we cannot always have what we want. Sometimes we must say no, no matter how difficult. It is what is proper. It is our duty. When a gentleman calls on me, I must be able to look him in the eye, face him squarely, and not suffer from guilt because when he leaves I’ll be sneaking off with someone else.”

  “Don’t feel guilty. Men don’t.”

  “Women are held to a higher standard. Doesn’t make it fair, but that’s the way of it. I can’t encourage a man to seek my affections when I’m giving them to someone else. Perhaps you have the ability to hold your heart separate when joined in intimacy with another, but I can’t.”

  It was as close as she dared come to admitting that she was beginning to have strong feelings for him. As her words seemed to have left him mute, she could only assume that what he shared with her never went beyond the physical. She had suspected it of course, but a part of her had held out hope that she might be wrong.

  On the other hand it made severing things between them so much easier. She settled back against the seat but not against him. He didn’t move to hold her or to take her hand. With each clop of horses’ hooves, she felt the chasm widening between them.

  She’d been a distraction, an evening’s entertainment.

  She’d not regret what they’d shared. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t find herself wishing she could have more.

  When the carriage came to a halt, he stepped out and handed her down. She drew the hood of her pelisse over her head, hoping no one would spot and recognize her. He walked beside her until they were almost to the house.

  “I can go on my own from here,” she said quietly.

  “Anne, I want to see you again.”

  Swallowing hard, she turned to face him. “Not in my bedchamber or on your ship. I’m quite determined that from this moment forward I shall behave properly. If you care for me at all, you’ll honor my wishes.”

  “I’ve never liked a woman as much as I like you,” he said.

  “Such poetic words. Careful, you’ll have me swooning.”

  A corner of his mouth hitched up, then settled back into a firm line. “Meet me in Hyde Park this afternoon. Ride with me, as we’d planned before Chetwyn interfered.”

  How she dearly wanted to. “He didn’t realize he was interfering. Besides, I can’t. Not today. I have a garden party to attend.” Then before she thought things through, she added, “You should come.”

  “I doubt an invitation has been extended to me.”

  “It’s being held by Lady Fayrehaven—whom you correctly identified as my dearest friend. She won’t mind that I invited you. Besides, I can’t see you as being a man waiting for something as paltry as an invitation if you want to be somewhere. Belgrave Square.” She gave him the address. “At two. Unless of course you’re afraid.”

  “Whatever would I have to fear—an attack by the roses?”

  “Then you’ll be there. Splendid.”

  Before he could correct her assumption, she turned, skipped up the steps, and entered the house through the servant’s quarters. She knew it unlikely that he would be there. Still she could hope.

  Chapter 20

  “You did what? Have you lost your mind?” Sarah asked.

  Anne wondered if perhaps she had. “I doubt he’ll come.”

  They were standing just off the terrace so Sarah could greet her guests as they arrived.

  “But if he does, Fayrehaven will have an absolute cow.”

  “Are there un-absolute cows, I wonder?” Anne asked. “Might he have one of those instead?”

  “Anne, honestly. You don’t understand what you’ve done.”

  “Relax, Sarah. He might not even be here any longer. He keeps saying that he’s going to sail away. Perhaps he has by now.” She wouldn’t put it past him in order to make a point that he wouldn’t be bullied into doing something that he didn’t want to do.

  “I heard he approached you and Chetwyn at the park.”

  “Are we all the gossip then?”

  “Apparently so, yes.”

  Anne sighed. “I’d arranged to meet Tristan at the park but then Father arranged for me to go with Chetwyn. One could hardly blame Tristan for approaching and voicing some disappointment.”

  “Tristan? Such informality. You’d best take care that others don’t hear you referring to him in that manner.”

  “Oh, Sarah, we seem to care about such trivial things.”

  “Yes, well, those trivial things lead to a good marriage, and speaking of, I see that Lord Chetwyn has just arrived. And look at how he smiles now that he’s spotted you. I daresay, I think he has set his cap for you. Come with me to welcome him. I’m fairly certain he can take your mind off this Lord Tristan.”

  Unfortunately, Anne very much doubted it.

  The very last thing that Lord Tristan Easton thought he would ever be doing was attending a garden party. Yet there he was, standing by the rhododendrons, feeling very much out of his element. Give him a ferocious storm on the high seas any day compared with this maze of etiquette and proper behavior.

  He’d been forced to ask Mary what to wear to such an event, which had resulted in her arching a brow in speculation. He’d been halfway tempted to tell her about Anne, to hear her advice on dealing with a troublesome woman, but what was Anne’s crime? Denying him her bed. If he was planning to marry her, he’d admire her for it. As it was, he was merely frustrated—or he would be by night’s end. So he’d held his tongue, left Mary none the wiser, and prodded her again for assistance on his attire. Having spent a good part of her youth in a convent, she’d been of little help and suggested only that he not be too formal. “What you might wear to the park.”

  At least he’d gotten that part right.

  He’d arrived late because he wasn’t certain he wanted to come. What he was certain of was that he wanted to see Anne again, and she’d issued her blasted challenge, one similar to the one he’d delivered when he wanted to entice her into climbing the mast. She’d implied he was a coward. Blast her to hell. The woman stood toe-to-toe with him, never backing down—something no other female of his acquaintance had ever done. His other
partners had been content to romp about in bed. Anne wanted to romp elsewhere.

  He’d spied her as soon as the butler had shown him into the garden. She was holding a mallet, attempting to strike a ball so it went through a metal archway. She wore a lilac dress with a high neck that was buttoned all the way to her chin. He understood why that shade was her favorite. It went well with her fair complexion. The dress had long sleeves that ballooned out from shoulder to elbow, then narrowed down into a snug fit against her skin. Gloves covered her hands. She wore a small hat, brim down on one side, up on the other.

  He wanted to march over and tell the three gents standing around her that he knew what she looked like with all those buttons undone. He knew the silkiness of her skin that all that clothing hid. He had peeled off her gloves, peeled off her dress, peeled off everything.

  Without even bothering to glance around, he knew she was the most beautiful lady here. It didn’t matter what anyone else looked like. To him, she was exquisite. The way the sun lightly danced over her face, trying to chase off the shadows provided by her hat. The way she moved with such lithesome grace. He’d experienced her elegance when they’d clambered to the crow’s nest and when he had her in his bed. But here with an audience, she was poised. She belonged here, and he wished to hell that she didn’t.

  She gave one of the gents—Chetwyn, he recalled—a playful slap before directing her attention to the blue ball at her feet. She lightly tapped it. It rolled along the green grass, hit the side of the arch, and came to a stop without going through. She craned back her head and laughed, the sweet trilling traveling across the garden to touch him as though she were right beside him. She was more comfortable today, here in the garden, than she’d been at the ball. Perhaps because that night had been her first public event since going into mourning. She was settling in now, and he could see that this was her world. She moved about it with the same ease that he swaggered over his ship.