Bound By Temptation

by Lavinia Kent

  “That’s beautiful.” She was looking at him with admiration.

  His chest puffed like a cock on the walk. He’d never known a woman to have this effect on him.

  She continued, “You didn’t choose it, did you?”

  “I gave the fabric to my tailor.”

  “But you didn’t choose the fabric.” She said it as a flat statement, expressing not the slightest doubt.

  He shrugged and began the slow walk toward her. He had been in bed for only three days, no matter how long it seemed. How could he be so weak?

  She waited until he was almost upon her before turning and beginning the walk down the hall toward the stair. He focused on the soft sway of her hips to distract from the effort of each step. He was glad she could not see his face and realize the effort this short walk cost him.

  She stopped at the head of the stairs and waited. She did not turn back to look at him, and he wondered if she was granting him this small privacy.

  The stairs seemed immense and long as they descended before her. He knew they could not be longer than the steps in his own home in Dover. The polished banister that ran down the side was the only blessing.

  He placed his hand firmly upon it as he drew near to her. She still had not moved. Again he inhaled the rich scent of cinnamon. Truly, in all his years he had never known so tantalizing a scent to linger about a woman. It combined the deep, musky, and womanly with the memory of a young boy’s joy. It was no wonder he wanted to bite her.

  She had never been so aware of a man. His physicality surrounded her in ways no other had, even at the most intimate of moments. Stepping away should have been easy, automatic, but instead, she lingered, trapped by the sensations that arose in her body.

  He was still pale from his illness. Lavender shadows lay heavy under his eyes and stubble darkened his chin. The threat he presented should have been lessened by his state, but it was not. She was as conscious as ever of the strength of his body as his arm slid past her to grasp the rail.

  She drew in a deep breath, her chest filling. She held it for a moment, feeling the pressure build within her. She was vulnerable to no man.

  She moved away from him, descending a couple of steps before pausing and waiting for him to move. He seemed as frozen as she had been. He hesitated, then took the first step down. And then the second. His legs wobbled slightly on the third, but she pretended not to notice.

  She moved farther down the flight, waiting for him to follow.

  She should call for a footman. It had been unwise to allow him to attempt this feat, but she had seen the boredom in his face as he stared blankly about the room and had wanted to grant this small mercy. And if she could get him alone in a room, perhaps she could further question him about that night. She still needed to find out why he was convinced she was a thief.

  If Robert had not warned her, she would have questioned Masters in his chamber, but she would not go against her stepson’s wishes in his own home. It was still important that Lord Darnell believed she was reformed.

  She smiled to herself. Wouldn’t they all be shocked if they knew that her reformation was real, that she never again intended to play wild games? All she wanted now was to find a peaceful, gracious life of her own—to find her own form of pleasure and joy. If she could just clear up this mess with Masters, that might even be possible.

  “Do you want to go back?” she asked softly, her mood mellowed by her thoughts. “I can have a book sent up to you if you but let me know your taste.”

  “No.” His voice was quite forceful despite the hesitation that was evident in his step. “It is getting out of the bedchamber that is the draw, not the thought of a book.”

  A flash of disappointment hit her, and she realized that she had hoped she was the draw. Fool. It served as a reminder that she had no business thinking such thoughts. She was a new woman, or would be as soon as Robert was wed and she got back to London. It was important that she not forget the risk Masters still posed to her.

  Somehow Robert had not heard of her adventures at The Dog and Ferret, and she wished to keep it that way. It was surprising that no one had mentioned her night of ale and cards. Mr. Johnson, at the very least, should have said something to him, but Robert had said not one word.

  She peered over her shoulder at Masters. Could she trust him, or was it only his illness that had stilled his tongue? If she explained the situation to him, would he hold her secrets tight? She tried to remember the things Violet had said about her brother. Many of them had not been kind, but Violet had said that he was a man of his word—too much so in some instances.

  Even as she wondered, she heard a slight gasp behind her and felt his arm brush by her as he grabbed for the railing again. His fingers caught hold and held it tight. He tilted forward, and she stepped back, using her body to brace him. She turned toward him as his other hand came down on her shoulder, her breasts pressing tight into his chest.

  His grasp was strong. The pads of his fingers bit into her flesh. She held back a whimper as she saw the strain upon his face. His mouth formed a curse she was well familiar with, but he released no sound.

  Then he caught himself. His body straightened and his face grew expressionless. No, there was a definite expression; it was just not one of pain or dismay. His eyes focused first on her lips and then moved down to where their bodies pressed tight together.

  He swallowed. She watched the Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and her mouth grew dry. She should step back. He was in control again, and there was no danger he would fall.

  “You’re hurting me.” She turned her glance away from him and looked down to where his fingers were still locked about her shoulder, tanned flesh against the forest green of her shawl.

  It took a moment longer than it should have for him to loosen his grasp, and even then he did not release her. His thumb swept up, pushing her shawl aside, stroking the bare flesh above her neckline.

  The thumb was calloused. She had not taken him for a man to ride without gloves, but the darkened skin of his hands and the rough calluses on his fingers betrayed him. He did not follow every social nicety.

  His thumb stroked again, running a line just above her collarbone.

  She shivered. And her eyes rose to meet his. They were so dark. She had thought them so dark a blue as to be nearly black, now they appeared the black of obsidian—deepest pitch with only an iridescence of blue reflecting off the surface. Those eyes devoured her.

  She didn’t think she had ever seen such want, such need.

  He hesitated and she thought he would pull back. A cool breath of air passed between where their bodies met.

  He swallowed again, the movement more felt than seen as she found herself lost in his desire. His hand moved from her shoulder, up and around the back of her neck, cupping the nape.

  He pulled her closer, drawing her toward him. He bent forward. It was an endless moment as his lips descended. She had a hundred heartbeats to pull away, a thousand flaps of a butterfly’s wing.

  She knew she should. She had acted unwisely in the past, but nothing compared to the foolishness of this kiss. He did not like her. She did not like him. They had nothing in common. Discord lay in their future.

  She rose on her toes, moving toward him, as caught in the impossibility of need as he.

  The first touch was soft. She had expected to be devoured by his hunger, but found the stroke of rose petals. His mouth brushed across hers, a caress as much of the imagination as of reality. It gave a hint of possibility, but nothing more.

  She pushed higher, wanting more, needing to feel the firm pressure of command.

  He drew back so that only his breath caressed her.

  A world of possibility existed in that breath.

  Just as she wondered if he would desert her, his lips descended. Again the kiss was soft and gentle, but now it grew deeper, the pressure greater.

  Their mouths were still closed, but there was knowing in the simple movement of skin against
skin. Her eyes drifted closed. It should have felt like the innocent kiss of a first love, but no bumbling boy’s kiss had ever made her long for so much more.

  There was more want and desire in the basic pressing of lips than in the deepest kiss she had ever shared.

  Together they were caught in a moment that could not last. She could step back or press forward.

  Retreating had never been an option.

  She opened her lips beneath his, issuing invitation. He stilled slightly at her movement and then his tongue swept across the gap. It did not seek entrance, but teased and played.

  He tasted of licorice. Cook must have placed something in his last draught. Her own tongue darted out, seeking more, wanting more.

  Her skin tingled as his hand slipped from her neck and trailed down her back, coming to rest at her waist. His other hand joined it, pulling her closer, their bodies resting fully together.

  His position above her on the stairs caused some awkwardness and Clara stepped up, coming to stand between his legs. She slipped her hands inside the soft velvet of his robe, only the thin linen of his nightshirt separating her from his flesh. His fever had faded, but still he gave off waves of heat, encasing her in warmth and comfort—safety.

  Could passion be safe?

  The thought flickered through her mind. Passion and safety. It was a strange combination. The two should have been unable to exist together, but now combined in perfect unity.

  Then his tongue flicked across her lips again and any semblance of thought was lost. This time the tip swept again and again against the space between her lips before seeking entrance.

  She prepared herself for the onslaught. Men’s passions were unchecked once released. Yet he surprised her. He explored rather than ravished. And each playful sweep of his tongue invited her to join him.

  For a woman who’d always strived for control, the invitation was irresistible. She found herself pressing toward him, her body, her mouth, each seeking closer, more intimate contact. It was her tongue that deepened the contact, delving into his mouth in an endless dance. It was her fingers that caressed his firm muscles and sought the openings in the fabric that would allow her to feel the silk of his skin. It was her body that pressed closer, pushing against his growing hardness.

  She moaned with the pleasure of it, of him.

  It had been far too long since she’d felt this way. She could not remember ever feeling this way.

  His hands squeezed tighter at her waist, attempting to lift her to an even better position, to nest his erection at the apex of her thighs.

  She felt him quiver.

  Power and desire mixed and grew until they were her whole world.

  She felt him shake—and curse.

  He folded backward on the stairs, pulling her with him until she lay sprawled across his lap.

  She hoped it had been a gesture of passion, a gesture of ardor uncontrolled and willing.

  He swore again.

  No, it had not been passion.

  She pulled herself back, staring down at his flushed face, his brow marked with sweat. Frustration lay clearly across his features, but whether from interrupted passion or his own powerlessness, she could not say.

  She slid off his lap and sat beside him on the stairs. His eyes were closed and she could sense his internal struggle. Watching him helped her to quiet her own demons; she was unused to unindulged desires. She could not remember a circumstance where completion had been so entirely denied. Her body burned with the need for his.

  Her voice dipped as she spoke. “Are you injured?”

  “No, I only need a moment.” He gasped slightly as he answered.

  She rose to her feet, straightening her skirts and checking her fastenings. Miraculously, they all seemed undisturbed. Her hair had escaped, however, and she quickly finger-combed it into place. “I’ll fetch help. We will soon get you back to your room.” The moment away would give her a chance to collect herself.

  “No,” he said, preventing her from leaving.

  “But—”

  “I said no. I am perfectly able on my own.” He did not look at her, and his voice was filled with ice. Pushing himself up, he stood with some effort. “Now do you wish to proceed or should I go on my own? I do not mean to allow some foolishness to prevent my escape from confinement.”

  She wasn’t sure whether he referred to his infirmity or to what had happened between them. He was a man who would regard his own physical weakness as foolish, but it seemed more likely that he referred to the kiss.

  It had been foolish—but still his words felt like a slap, reminding her of her resolve only moments before to become a new woman. The kiss had been a grave mistake.

  She tried again. “Please allow me to summon help. I do not wish you to injure yourself.”

  “No, I do not need your help—not of any kind.”

  “If you will not let me summon help, it would perhaps be best if you returned to your room. I was wrong to suggest that you might arise.” She knew displeasure was clear in her tone, and could only hope the hurt was not evident as well. She felt as if she had been slapped, hard.

  He stood still and then took a careful step down the steps. His knuckles were pale on the balustrade, but he moved with steady precision. As he approached, she was forced to step forward and lead him down the stairs. She could have held her ground, but his face was so remote, without hint of warmth, that she did not want to risk further contact.

  She walked ahead of him, step by careful step, until they reached the door to the library. She did not turn once but her every sense was aware of him behind him. With each step she waited for him to falter—he did not.

  The door was partially open and she pushed it further. The fire had been set and the room was more than temperate. After debating whether to help him to his chair, instead she stood aside and let him enter.

  He walked to the high leather wing chair near the fire and sat, lifting his feet to the footrest in front of him. Only once he was seated did the strain leave his body. His shoulders relaxed back against the soft leather and his eyes closed. He turned his head from her as if he did not wish her to see his weariness.

  “I’ll take tea. Lemon, no milk,” he commanded.

  First he sat in her chair, then he ordered her like a maid. They were petty things, but they felt of great importance. A distinct lack of respect was shown in his actions. After the kiss he was probably thinking her the harlot he’d always believed her.

  If he hadn’t lost what little color he’d had, she would have fought. Instead, she left the room to call for refreshment.

  Outside the door, away from his view, she let her own shoulders slump. The kiss had been unimaginable. Her lips still stung from the slight bristle of his beard, and her mouth was still filled with his flavor.

  She wanted to shout and scream. The truth was hard to face. In the years since her husband’s death, she’d had many lovers—far fewer than public opinion would believe, but in her own mind she qualified it as many. It was far easier than counting and being forced to remember each face, each man. Indeed, had there been only one she would have called it many for the sake of the anonymity that provided. She’d had many lovers, had done many things with them, and not one of them had ever made her feel as that kiss had.

  It had made her feel fresh and new and full of possibility. Each soft caress of his lips had made her feel valued, something to be cherished.

  Not even her husband had ever made her feel like that. Michael had awoken depths of passion in her, but it had always been earthy. They had known what was between them and enjoyed it to its fullest—with Michael the act had always been about enjoyment.

  With Masters there had been more.

  Damnation. She should not have given in. He was temptation sent to keep her from her plans of respectability.

  “My lady, did you want help with something?” The maid’s voice startled her.

  She was standing motionless in the front hall, staring int
o space; no wonder the maid stared at her as if she were possessed. Her thoughts were so scattered and erratic it was a miracle she could find an answer. “No—I mean yes, some tea please for the gentleman. Give him some of Lord Westington’s blend.”

  It was a petty revenge.

  “And for you, my lady?” the maid asked.

  Clara would have dearly loved a cup of her own blend, but could not think of a way to have two pots without causing him to question. She couldn’t picture a man who liked lemon in his tea choosing a smoky blend.

  Leaving the door open half a foot, she returned to the room and chose a chair a slight distance from Masters and sat, not saying a word as she picked up her much despised needlework. She did not have it in her to begin the discussion she knew they must have. If he wanted to talk he could choose the topic of conversation.

  The fire crackled and gave off small bursts of sparks. The wood must have been damp when set. At least it did not smoke.

  “Do you have any sonnets?” he asked at last.

  “Sonnets?”

  “Yes, sonnets—poetry, anything but Byron.”

  “You don’t seem a man for poetry. Are you sure you wouldn’t care for something more intellectual? Perhaps an economic or agricultural text?”

  He appraised her with those dark eyes. “Don’t you believe poetry to be an exercise of the intellect?”

  “Well, yes, I do. I would not have thought you would.”

  Leaning back in the chair, he stretched his legs closer to the fire. “There is much we don’t know of each other.”

  “That is true,” she answered cautiously.

  “Much of what my sister has told you is no doubt correct. However, I imagine the portrait she painted was a trifle one-dimensional.”

  Violet had described her brother as an ogre who had forced her into marriage with not one, but two old men—and there had been all those rumors when Isabella ran off and Lord Foxworthy was murdered. It was true that over the most recent months Violet’s tone had changed. She’d seemed more ready to look at Masters’s actions with understanding, but Clara had assumed that was because Violet was in love and looking at the whole world in a new light.