The Sweetest Sin

by Kelly Boyce

  And then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

  Because in the end, that is what love did. It left. His mother had left, the love he thought he had felt for Ruth left, and then, worst of all, Edward left. And soon after, his wife had set in motion a confluence of events that left her dead and Alex with an unwanted sense of guilt and the burden of dark secrets that if uncovered would ruin an innocent child.

  And somehow…somehow, without ever knowing the details of what had occurred between him and Ruth, Lady Henrietta had sensed the crux of the matter and put voice to it.

  “Lord Rothbury?”

  Lady Henrietta’s voice reached out from the darkness as if his thoughts had conjured her out of the ether like magic and taking him by surprise. He turned and his breath caught in his throat. The moonlight kissed her hair, sending silver threads shooting through the gold in a mesmerizing pattern. When he gazed upon her, she offered him a smile, sweet and open as if they had not exchanged cross words a scant two hours earlier.

  “Lady Henrietta.” The need to kiss her gripped him with alarming potency. He took a step back and looked around. They were alone. This wouldn’t do. He felt too close to the edge. To close to stepping over it and not caring about the consequences. A part of him that had been long dead suddenly resurrected from the ashes and took a deep breath. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  “I wished to apologize.”

  He shook his head to clear it of the brandy turning the edges of his reasoning fuzzy and unreliable. “There is no need. You must return inside.”

  She ignored him and stepped closer, her silk gown swaying against her legs. His groin tightened in response. “Don’t fuss so. It is fine. Auntie believes I have gone—”

  “It matters not what Lady Dalridge believes. If anyone were to come out here to discover us—” His words shot out of him then stopped short when her smile continued to grow. His thoughts drifted off and he focused on her lips, so ripe with promise.

  Had Pengrin kissed her? The thought sickened him. Had the man not perished, Alex would have gladly throttled the bastard for attempting such. And Walkerton? Did he wait for his chance, hoping to steal what was not his to take? Except that it was, wasn’t it? Or would be, at least, should this farce of a courtship continue unchallenged.

  The thoughts raced through Alex’s head, nonsensical and unexpected. It was the brandy talking. He did not often imbibe these days, but this night he’d done so and now paid the price. The liquor had lowered his inhibitions, freed the needs and wants and thoughts he kept in check until they ran roughshod over him.

  She was speaking again, and while he could see those ruby red lips moving, he heard not a word she spoke. All of his attention had diverted, imagining other things he wished to do with those lips. Or have those lips do to him. Shock tore him from his thoughts like a dash of cold water.

  “I forgive you,” he said, rushing the words out of him in an effort to stop her approach. To stop her talking with that sweet mouth that begged to be kissed.

  “I have not even finished my apology,” she said, giving him a look that clearly stated his behavior bordered on odd or impolite. Or both. It mattered not.

  “No need.” What was she apologizing for? Did he care? No, not particularly.

  “You are acting rather strange.” She took a step closer. “Are you drunk, Lord Rothbury? I thought earlier that you might be, but I couldn’t be sure.” The idea seemed to amuse her more than frighten her.

  “Indeed I am not.”

  “I think that you are.” Another step.

  Did the girl not realize the danger she was in? But no, she was not a girl any longer, was she? In fact she had stopped being so years before, which was part of the issue. If he could still look upon her as a girl, he would not be suffering this lack of control, this ridiculous need to pull her into his arms and discover if her body was truly as intoxicating as his imagination told him it would be. He would stop wondering what it would feel like to let go, to feel whole again.

  “If I am, all the more reason that you should leave.” Even to his own ears, he lacked conviction.

  “Nonsense.” She shrugged with a confidence that frightened him. She was so sure of who he was. So certain she was safe with him. So wrong in that assumption. “You would never hurt me.”

  Except that he would. That is what he did—hurt people. History would hold up that charge with enough evidence to bury him deep beneath it. Had Ruth not claimed such before she died? Were those not the last words she’d hurled at him before he left her yet again, unable to be near her, to be around the evidence of her betrayal? She accused him of being unable to love, a claim he had no defense against. Because she was right. He did not love. He had shut that part of himself off when Edward died and did not care to reopen it now.

  And yet…

  He swallowed and stared at Lady Henrietta as she continued her slow approach toward him as if they had all the time in the world.

  He wanted her. Such a rude awakening to come to when one came at it so unprepared. Her pointed observations from earlier had cut him to the quick with their startling precision. He should want to turn away from her, to retreat. Such self-reflection never ended well for him and therefore should be avoided at all costs.

  Instead, he stood there, the only thought in his fool head centered on what it would be like to kiss her. To taste her mouth that spoke such unspeakable truths. To linger on her tongue that held the ability to savage without even knowing its power. To be held captive by lips that smiled sweetly and awakened a heart that had slept too long.

  Fear slammed into him. No!

  “Leave me be.” He barked the words, unnecessarily harsh. They lashed out, stopping her in her tracks. And there it was. The expression he was familiar with. The penalty he paid for pushing people away. He had thought himself immune to it by now, but as the pain of rejection streaked across Lady Henrietta’s expression, regret and censure rushed in to fill the empty spaces inside him. He bit down and cursed under his breath. He should not have behaved so, but it was too late. He could see it in the sudden change of her posture, the stiffening, as if he’d reached out and struck her. The unexpected disappointment brightened by the sudden sheen of tears in her guileless blue eyes.

  That was the worst—her disappointment. The dawning comprehension that he was not the man she had thought him to be. That the manners and politeness he wore around others was nothing more than a façade that covered the remnants of a man broken and beyond repair.

  She pursed her lips, but not before he noticed the way the lush bottom one trembled. Yet, when she spoke her voice was clear, startling in its strength.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. I did not mean to insert myself where I was not wanted. I only meant to apologize, but as you do not wish for me to do so, I shall leave you in peace. Forgive my intrusion.”

  She turned away from him and started toward the French doors that led back to the ballroom beyond. A smart man would let her go. He intended to let her go. But his feet were in motion before his brain could relay the message. He reached for her hand and pulled her back into the shadows, too close, but the realization of that came too late as her body fell against his in agonizing ecstasy. He closed his eyes and cursed his weakness. God help him survive this night.

  “You are not an intrusion,” he whispered, lifting his hand to touch her cheek, his thumb caressing the soft skin beneath. It was a lie, of course. She was an intrusion. She was the worst kind of intrusion. The kind that pushed against his heart, nudging it awake, whispering words he strained to hear as much as he fought to turn away from them.

  Her hands rested against his chest, one covered his heart. Could she feel the way it thumped against his breastbone? He bent his head until their foreheads touched. His breath had grown erratic, as if he had run a great distance. He should. He should release her and run as far away from this moment as possible. This was madness, what he was doing. She was James’s little sister. She was practically pro
mised to Lord Walkerton. She was young and sweet and innocent and he was older and damaged and burdened with secrets. She did not deserve to be sullied by such. She deserved a man who could love her freely, who could bring happiness and light into her world. She deserved more than him. Better.

  “Lord Rothbury?”

  “Alexander. We have known each other long enough, have we not?”

  She hesitated, then, “Alexander.”

  His given name sounded like liquid gold pouring off the tip of her tongue. He took a deep breath in an attempt to regain his scattered senses but it did no good. Her scent filled him, reminding him of the violets that grew wild in the fields around Breckenridge. The same violets he had picked for her and placed in a vase near her bed as she had healed from her burns. He’d wanted her to have something pretty to look at other than the four walls and furniture that filled the room.

  “If I were to kiss you, here and now, what would you do?”

  Silence. “Is that your intent, my lord?”

  “Only with your permission.” He may be a cad but he wasn’t a beast. No matter how much he wanted her in this moment, he would not force himself upon her. He would not take what was not freely given.

  She lifted her head away from his and looked at him, her gaze traveling over every inch of his face. What did she see? Did she hold witness to the broken pieces held together by sheer will and necessity? Did she see beyond that to something deeper, to the part that taunted him even as he denied its existence? Did she see the need that whispered to him in the dark of night? The whisper that had grown louder and more frequent the moment he’d walked into the front hall of Harrow House and saw her standing there with Margaret?

  He closed his eyes in the hopes of keeping her from delving too deep, seeing things he had not found a place to hide as yet. Then her lips touched his. A light brush. A soft breath. And that was all it took. All it took to break his thin hold on what little control he had left.

  He fell into the kiss, sunk into her slowly, letting her body meld against his at her own volition. Her kiss, innocent as it was, intoxicated. With no artifice or pretense, she explored and nibbled, pressed and tasted. He returned in kind, taking no more than she was willing to give, holding his passion in check, which only stoked it further. His groin hardened, the very blood in his veins ached to pull her more fully against him, to take more, go deeper, but he resisted. This was too precious, too lovely. Too perfect, in a world that was nothing but imperfection. He would not ruin it. He would not leave her with regret.

  When she pulled away he had no sense of time or place. They could have been anywhere. The night could have passed into day and into night once more. Something shifted deep within him; something he knew instinctively would never be put back into place. How was it that a simple, innocent kiss could do such? How had he gone thirty-two years without knowing such a thing was possible?

  He opened his eyes with regret, wishing the moment to go on forever for it was a far better thing than every other moment. He found Henrietta staring up at him, her expression a mixture of emotions. So many he could not see them all, but nowhere in the miasma was regret and for that he would be eternally grateful. It would have killed him to cause such.

  “This was highly improper,” she whispered, but a small smile tugged at the corners of her glorious mouth, making him want to kiss her all over again.

  “Indeed.” He swallowed. He was in it now. Recompense was due. He should be upset that he’d allowed it to come to this, but he was not. There was an odd sense of rightness to what he must now do. “I will speak to your brother—”

  “Heaven forbid, you will not! Can you imagine?” She laughed lightly at his suggestion, amusement dancing in her eyes, mesmerizing him. “It was just a kiss, my lord.”

  “Alexander,” he corrected, her my lord, sounding oddly distant after what she had referred to as just a kiss. Because it was not. What they had just shared was far more than just a kiss. He pulled his brow downward. At least it had been to him.

  “Alexander,” she repeated, her smile growing as if she enjoyed the sound of his name on her tongue almost as much as he enjoyed hearing it. “Then you must call me Hen. All my closest friends do.”

  Friends. He straightened, an attempt to distance himself from the moniker. He did not wish to be her friend. He wished…what did he wish? The question slid in without notice or fanfare and took him aback. He shook his head. He had no answer. Or he did, but he refused to give it voice, to set it free. That kind of freedom came with a price.

  “And you do not need to mention this to James,” she continued.

  “I have taken advantage—”

  “You have done no such thing and I will not have you ruin a lifelong friendship over this. Truly, it is not necessary. We kissed. And it was lovely, but you need not tie yourself into knots over it.” Her hand slid away from where it rested over his heart. “I must return before Auntie begins to question my absence. I only wished to apologize for our earlier conversation.”

  “Do you hand out kisses with all your apologizes?” He regretted the sternness in his voice the moment he spoke the words. Regretted even more the hurt that lingered beneath them at her easy dismissal of what they had shared.

  She raised one eyebrow and gave him a censuring look. How well she did that for one so young. “Do not be unkind, Alexander. I do not wish to end this moment in such a way, do you?”

  Her words left him chastised. “No. Of course not. Forgive me.”

  She lifted her hand to touch his heart once more and gifted him with one last smile. “Good night, Alexander.”

  He nodded, unable to form words. At least the words she wished to hear. The only ones resting on his tongue were the ones that would beg her to come back, to kiss him again, to be as moved by what they had shared as he was.

  Instead, he stood there a mute fool, watching her lithe figure slip through the French doors to be swallowed up by the ballroom on the other side.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered and stepped farther back into the shadow.

  Chapter Ten

  “Have you heard a word I’ve said, Hen?”

  Hen glanced up from her needlepoint, startled from her thoughts and attempted to grasp anything she might have heard Patience Elmsley say in the last—how long had it been? Two minutes? Five? More? Heavens, she was the worst kind of hostess, inviting Patience over for an afternoon then completely ignoring her to allow her mind to wander where it should not be going.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sliding the needle into the swath of linen and letting it rest there. “I did not.”

  “Then I think the most pressing question should be to inquire upon what could possibly have captivated your attention more than my immensely entertaining retelling of the encounter between Lord Walkerton and Lady Susan last evening?”

  Hen sat up straight. “Lord Walkerton and Lady Susan? Did something happen?”

  “Indeed,” Patience said, leaning forward, her own needlepoint quickly being set aside. Just as well. Hen wasn’t certain what Patience was attempting to create, but it looked rather like a mottled mess of knots. “It is hardly a secret that there is no love loss between the two since his lordship’s preliminary interest in Lady Susan barely lasted longer than the blink of an eye.”

  Lord Walkerton had courted Lady Susan only briefly, quickly coming to his senses and withdrawing his interest in favor of Lady Rebecca. Though that relationship, too, was thwarted when Lady Rebecca fell head over in heels in love with a man of no rank whatsoever. Many thought the match quite scandalous, though Hen held a different view. Mr. Marcus Bowen was a good man, after all, not to mention very handsome. But with the defection of Lady Rebecca’s affection, Lord Walkerton was left, once more, in need of a wife. A situation that had turned out to be to Hen’s benefit.

  Or so she had thought. But that was before she’d kissed Lord Rothbury. Alexander. She sighed. Such a lovely name the way it rolled off her tongue like a whisper.

 
; “Henrietta!”

  Oh, the Devil! Hen’s cheeks flamed and she pulled attention back to Patience. “Forgive me. All these late nights. I suppose I am simply overtired.” Not entirely untrue. She did not sleep a wink last night as she relived the touch of Alexander’s lips upon her own, the way his body fit perfectly against her. The beat of his heart beneath her hand. The way his touch filled her then left her empty when she’d turned and walked away.

  She swallowed and blinked. This would not do. “Tell me what happened.” She required a diversion.

  “Well,” Patience scooted to the edge of her seat and lowered her voice to what she likely believed was a whisper but was nothing of the sort. “It turns out that Lady Susan still harbors the hope that Lord Walkerton may reconsider their courtship now that Lady Rebecca has married Mr. Bowen.”

  “Did she say so?” Oh, dear. This was not good news at all. If Lady Susan wanted Lord Walkerton for herself, her incentive in casting any kind of scandal Hen’s way would be increased once it became clear she and he were courting.

  “She not only said so, but she said so directly to him in such a bold fashion that it took everyone present by surprise, myself included—which is saying something, I must admit.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She suggested to him that his ability to successfully choose a bride was lacking and that he should come to his senses and determine that she was the best possible choice he could make.”

  Hen covered her mouth with her hand. At least she’d had the wherewithal to send her proposal in a letter so that the matter would be private and the evidence destroyed. But to make such a claim to a gentleman in full view of others? What an awkward moment that must have produced! Lord Walkerton must have been mortified by such a public display!