Yes, numerous times, in fact. Her husband’s fascination with the earl was one of those areas Catherine never comprehended. Lord Somerton had always been cordial and pleasant to her at gatherings, but no one she knew besides Jeffrey had ever penetrated the thick, immovable barrier that surrounded him.
“My husband held great admiration for you.”
His gaze became even more piercing. “Try to hold on to that knowledge as we maneuver through the next several days.”
Catherine was torn. She wanted to bring about a resolution to this whole intolerable affair. Yet the earl’s request carried a note of calming sincerity she couldn’t ignore. “You know more about my husband’s death than you’re willing to share, don’t you, my lord?”
His gaze did not flicker, nor did he answer her question.
“How much longer do you need to sort out whatever it is that needs sorting?”
“A few days.”
A few days. They would be the most interminable of her life.
“Perhaps your daughter might like a tour of my stables.”
Shock made her stare at him like an addled resident of Bedlam. “You are inviting Sophie into your stables?”
“Consider it a birthday gift.”
Her eyes narrowed. “A rather generous one, given your aversion to children.”
“I do not dislike children. I simply prefer them not to be underfoot.” He tossed his serviette onto the table. “I’ll make an exception for Sophie’s birthday.”
Catherine was not convinced. “This feels like a rather masterful bit of redirection, my lord.”
“Not so masterful if you saw through my ploy.”
“For my daughter’s happiness,” she said, “I’m inclined to allow it. But only for a few days.”
He nodded, accepting her challenge.
She recalled the request Sophie had made on the way home from church. “This might be a good time to extend my daughter’s invitation.”
He straightened. “To what?”
“To her birthday celebration,” she said. “Your daring rescue the other day has secured you an introduction to Castle Dragonthorpe.”
His eyebrow rose in inquiry. “Castle Dragonthorpe?”
“A project she started with her father,” she said around a lump in her throat. “All you have to do is dutifully place any new pieces—warriors, farm animals, torture devices—where she points. The furniture, I’m told, is my responsibility.”
His features softened, and Catherine wondered about his insistence to keep Sophie away from his estate.
“I thank you and Sophie for the kind invitation.” He indicated the schedule. “Shall we?”
Not exactly a refusal or acceptance. He was rather adept at avoidance and redirection. “Of course.” She spent the next ten minutes detailing her recommendations and offering possible solutions. Every once in a while, she would send the earl a sideways glance to gauge his reaction. He remained as impassive as ever, but attentive.
“Well done, Mrs. Ashcroft.” He folded the sheet of paper and slid it into his coat pocket.
“Once you meet with the craftsmen and discuss time frames and repair costs, I can fill in those columns,” she said.
“Then all that would be left is the Date Completed column.”
“Thus ending our partnership.”
His eyelids lowered. “Would you accompany me to meet with the men?”
There was no dearth of surprises when she was around this man. “I’m not opposed to doing so, but may I ask why?”
“A good question.” His lips tilted into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Two reasons come to mind. The first—the denizens of Showbury respect and trust you. If I arrive on their doorstep with you in tow, my reception will be much more pleasant than my last attempt to mend relations.”
His cutthroat logic made the situation feel mechanical, rather than a genuine wish to win over the craftsmen. And then there was her role in the matter. He had relegated her to an adornment, there to bring respectability to his visit. “It is good to be useful, I suppose.”
“I have offended you.”
“No.” She searched for the appropriate words. “Your logic is sound, as always.”
“But?”
“Showbury’s residents are a hard-working, somewhat suspicious, and always prideful bunch,” she said. “If you approach them as Lord of the Manor, my presence will have no effect.”
“What do you suggest I do, Mrs. Ashcroft?”
“Act as though you care, my lord.”
“You think I don’t?”
His swift dealings with Mr. Blake indicated, if not a care for his tenants, a belief in doing his duty by them. He had also saved Sophie from a great embarrassment. However, this issue of keeping vital information about her husband from her pointed to a more calculating side of his character. “I really couldn’t say. You have a way of muddling one’s perception of you.”
“Do I?”
Fire trailed up the back of her neck as she cleared her throat. “And your second reason?”
“One I should probably not share with you, given our previous discussion.” His elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers idly rubbed along his lower lip. “But I will. It is best if you understand.”
A tremor started way down deep in the center of her body and slowly worked its way to the very tips of her extremities. She curled her fingers and waited. “Understand what?”
“The danger you’re in.”
Ten
Sebastian took a certain amount of pleasure in watching Catherine’s shock transform into wariness. The woman was twisting his insides into an inconvenient mass of wanting. And her daughter’s invitation sparked a powerful yearning that nearly suffocated all his good intentions.
The widow squared her shoulders. “What sort of danger?”
He rose from his seat and moved to stand behind her chair. For a brief second, he considered sparing her. But the man inside him, the one who had given up moments like this to ensure England’s safety, bent forward until his lips were but a hairsbreadth from her ear and whispered, “Me.”
Her lips parted on a quivering breath. “I’ve never shared a bed with any man but my husband.”
He brushed his fingers along the line of her hair, where it lifted away from her nape. “Are you amenable now?”
“You would not think me uncaring?”
Sebastian knelt at her side, one hand gripping the back of her chair, the other resting on the table before her. “I suspect you finished mourning your husband long ago.”
She bit her full bottom lip and averted her gaze, blinking in quick succession. Empathy twisted his heart. He covered her clenched hands with his. “Was I wrong?”
Her attention remained fixed upon the floor. “No.”
Placing his finger on her chin, he urged her gaze around to his. “Why the sorrow?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a broken whisper. “So many years wasted.”
A sentiment he knew well. He could have spent the last score of years cherishing a wife and producing a bevy of children who would comfort him in his old age. Instead, his elder days would be spent haunting the corridors of Bellamere Park alone… and reliving a fortnight of stimulating interludes with his beautiful neighbor.
He splayed his fingers, cradling her cheek. “Then we shall waste no more.” Until the moment their lips met, he’d had their affaire carefully planned from beginning to end. But he hadn’t counted on her degree of passion, her skillful mouth.
She trembled beneath his touch. Pulsed with a pent-up need that fed his barely controlled desire. His hand shook.
In one fluid movement, he drew her up and deposited her on the dining room table. The fine china clattered, the crystal tinkled.
The widow squeaked.
“My lor
d.” She glanced about the room. “What of the servants?”
“They have been instructed to make themselves useful elsewhere.” He discarded his coat and leaned one hip against the edge of the table. Unable to resist, he caressed the delicate curve of her jaw and the smooth skin along her throat. Her pulse pounded, his need grew. He nuzzled the sensitive hollow hidden behind her earlobe. “Brace yourself.”
Eyes wide with wariness stared up at him while she planted her palms on the white table cover. Her vulnerable expression sent a surge of liquid power through his veins.
He pushed away from the table and slid his hand over the soft leather of her boot-covered ankle, beneath the folds of her riding habit, along the soft profile of her slender leg. Leaning closer, he captured her earlobe between his lips and gently suckled. A seductive rasp of pleasure erupted from her arched throat, compelling Sebastian to linger, to kiss his way down her slender neck until he felt the gentle swell of her breast.
“Oh, dear Lord.”
Lifting his head, he watched the play of emotions streak across her face. Desire suited her far more than worry or wariness. Desire transformed her into unadulterated temptation. And Sebastian was tempted. His conquering instincts clamored for control. Screamed for release. Ached for surcease. All of which made his next action nearly unbearable.
He waited for her to acknowledge his lack of attention. When she finally opened her lids, he said, “Second thoughts?”
She blinked hard twice, as if to cast off a deep fog. “God, yes.”
Sebastian’s muscles hardened, instantly regretting his decision. Of all the cork-brained things to do—
“But not enough to stop,” she whispered.
He stilled. Flames licked through his veins, his chest grew taut. “Be very sure, Catherine.”
From the way her eyes widened, he knew he’d been unsuccessful in keeping the rough edge from his voice. He also knew the moment he slid into her welcoming body that the devil himself would not be able to rip him from the warmth of her embrace until he’d had his fill.
She trailed her fingers along his cheek and eased back onto the table. The leg he’d bared with his roaming hand rose to an inviting angle, and she hooked her dainty black boot around his backside.
Her acceptance nearly unmanned him. Unable to ignore her encouragement, Sebastian shifted his attention to her breasts, desperate to swirl his tongue around the hard nubs hiding beneath layers of cloth and corset. But he hadn’t the patience to unfasten the contraption.
Instead, he slid hungry kisses up her throat and along the delicate ridge of her jaw. The faint scent of a lavender-filled meadow reached his nose. He wanted to pause for a deeper inhalation, wanted to draw her essence into his very center. But the craving to taste her lips one more time won out.
She must have sensed his need, for in the next instant she turned her head until their mouths touched. The dam broke, and Sebastian felt himself sinking into a watery abyss for which there were no handholds.
Catherine could not breathe, and she didn’t care. The earl’s demanding mouth angled first one way and then the other, stealing her breath and rattling her wits. Never before had she been overwhelmed by her lover. Jeffrey had always taken his time and ensured her comfort. She did not even know one could make love on a table.
She loved this mindless seeking of pleasure, this chaotic grasping for gratification. This demonstration of their mutual desire. How long had it been since she’d experienced the simple joy of being wanted by a man? She clasped his head tighter and arched her back, needing to feel the weight of him along every inch of her body.
Cool air swirled around her other calf, her knee, and then her naked thigh. With her voluminous skirts now bunched around her waist, the lower half of her body was exposed for the household’s delectation. She prayed his staff followed his instructions and stayed away. Knowing what they were doing was one thing; catching them doing it was quite another.
Ending their kiss, he straightened away, curving his palms over her breasts and stomach, up her raised legs, and down her inner thighs. He didn’t stop until both thumbs reached her aching cleft. She groaned and thrust her hips, sending sharp needles of pleasure-pain up her spine.
His thumbs never moved from the crest of her opening, tantalizingly close, frustratingly far away.
She lifted her head. “My lord, please.”
“I can feel your heat,” he said in a low, rough voice. “See your need.”
Her inner muscles clenched, and he moaned like a man on the brink of salvation.
In that moment, she would be whatever he wanted her to be. If only—she lifted her hips—he would—she grasped the tablecloth—relieve her—she tilted her head back and squeezed her eyes shut—agony. “Pleeease.”
Instead of touching her, he attacked the fall of his trousers. Unfastening the placard with inhuman speed.
As he took his member into his hand and pressed the thick head against her silky cleft, he said, “Need to feel you. Now.”
“Yes. Now.”
He entered her slick passage. The heated friction more delicious than anything she had ever experienced. Even with her shoulder blades digging into the table, she was swimming in decadence and thrilling at her boldness. But at the halfway point, Catherine’s muscles tensed and the exquisite contact transformed into a dull, intrusive pain.
She grimaced, and he stopped. When she opened her eyes, she found his luminescent gaze—now filled with concern—raking her features.
“Did I hurt you with my impatience?”
Catherine’s heart slammed into her chest. If she confirmed their lovemaking had caused her some discomfort, he would become considerate and gentle. Boring.
She wanted to live his every emotion, thought, and hunger in full, vivid detail. Now that she had tasted the Bordeaux, she would never settle for the ratafia again.
Cradling his face, she gave him a reassuring kiss. “No, you did not hurt me.” A different kind of heat spread across her cheeks. “It’s been a long time, is all.”
He covered one of her hands, lifting it enough to kiss her palm. “You needn’t be brave. Allow me to share your burden, so that we may both enjoy the moment.”
The ache in her throat returned. But not for long. He transferred those decadent lips to hers while he eased his shaft back a few inches. Then he pushed forward until her muscles tautened around him again.
Lifting his head, he locked his gaze with hers, repeating the action of his lower body over and over until finally he settled fully between her hips. “Ready?” he whispered.
She nodded, wrapping her arms around him. The first three long strokes were more exploratory than passionate. By the sixth stroke, Catherine couldn’t breathe. The twelfth stroke started an avalanche of sensations that had them both burying their faces in the other’s shoulder to muffle their cries of pleasure.
For several heart-pounding seconds, they stayed locked in each other’s embrace, enjoying the aftershocks of their lovemaking. And then he lifted his head, kissed her with a reverence that surprised her, and drew away, protecting her modesty with an expert flick of her skirts and pressing a clean handkerchief into her palm.
Giving her some privacy, he swiveled away to refasten his trousers.
“Thank you,” she said.
Without a word, he held out his hand to assist her off the table and waited until her legs regained their strength. The process took much longer than it should have. “Perhaps I should sit for a minute.”
He did not leave her side, and she found it impossible to meet his eyes as she settled into a nearby chair. She stared down at the wrinkles in her black skirts, at what both represented—the wrinkles and the color—and experienced a moment of conscience. What was she doing having intimate relations with the man who might have ordered her husband’s death? What wickedness had invaded her soul to make her crave the
ecstasy of his caress?
If word got out about their indiscretion, she would be ruined and her daughter would be mocked. The home they’d made for themselves at Winter’s Hollow would be destroyed by a single act of idiocy.
He traced a finger down her cheek. “How do you fare?”
She made to cover his hand and lean into his caress, but stopped herself. Even now, her body hungered for his touch again. But she could not allow herself to fall under this man’s spell. Not now. Maybe not ever. From this point forward, she had to consider how her actions would affect her daughter. No more mindless pleasure.
Smiling up at him, she said, “I’m very well.”
He kissed her again, and Catherine closed her eyes. She would be strong next time.
When he finally pulled away, he tapped her nose. “I did warn you.”
His arrogant comment penetrated the mist of pleasure he’d cast around her. She eyed him with displeasure a moment before she raked her chair back and clipped his toe. He grunted, his leather Hessians providing little protection against a stout oak leg. Rising, she glanced at his injured foot. “Pardon, my lord. I should have warned you.”
His grimace turned to an appreciative grin. “Touché, madam.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Shall we go meet with your army of craftsmen? I vow to act like I care.”
“See that you do, my lord.” As she rounded the chair, she ground the heel of her walking boot into his injured toe. In a flash, he grabbed her waist, twirled her around, and kissed her hard before setting her away.
Indicating the door again, he said, “After you, my dear.”
She stared, surprised by his playfulness. Then her eyes narrowed.
“Your retribution shall have to wait,” he said. “We have repairs to see to. You don’t want Mr. Hayton’s cottage to flood again, do you?”
The tenants. She had to focus on the tenants, but not before imparting her own warning. “I have a long memory, my lord. You would do well to remember that fact.”
Checkmate, My Lord Page 13
