Despite his obvious arousal, she could sense his hesitation. “I will hurt you,” he rasped. “I—I don’t know how much.”
“I want it,” she pleaded. “Let me feel it—the pleasure and pain—I want it all. Can you understand?”
Again, he hesitated, his gaze roaming over her face as if to be sure. “God, what a damned fool I am!” he said. But already, the hard, weight of his erection brushed her flesh, grazing that hot, sweet spot he had tormented with his hand.
She cried out on a gasp. “Please. Yes. Oh,please. ”
A fraction of an inch. Then another. Martinique felt her body stretch unbearably. And then St. Vrain closed his eyes, and thrust. Her flesh tore, the discomfort acute but quick. Martinique cried out, and St. Vrain froze, his face a mask of agony.
She held him to her, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his buttocks. “Do not dare,” she warned. “Just…move a little. Yes. Oh, God, yes. Like…that.”
But to her undying frustration, he went perfectly still. “Easy, my love,” he crooned, his breath warm against the turn of her neck. “Let me go slowly. Let me do a proper job of this.”
She lifted her hips a fraction, and felt her flesh pull exquisitely against his hardness, making her shudder. “I cannot wait,” she begged.
His mouth found hers, and his kiss was long and sweet. “You will have to wait, love,” he teased. “You are quite firmly in my clutches.”
Martinique thrashed almost feverishly. “Please, St. Vrain,” she begged. “I want…I want—”
This time the kiss was rough and demanding. “I know what you want,” he rasped when he drew his tongue from her mouth. “Be still, you maddening wench.”
Trembling, she did as he ordered. For a long moment, he held perfectly still, his strong arms braced above her shoulders, his head thrown slightly back so that the dark hair fell away from his face, and the beads of perspiration slid down the sinews of his throat.
When at last he began to move, it was with a slow, exquisite rhythm. A rhythm of complete control, every stroke a perfect torment. His motions were skilled, his touch exquisite. He covered her mouth with his, and plunged inside with his tongue, over and over. She felt her body sheen with perspiration, felt her hips strain and strain for something she craved yet could not quite comprehend.
St. Vrain understood. He shifted his strokes, higher and a little harder. “Yes, yes, my love,” he cooed. “Just let yourself come to me. Yes, like that. Like…that. Oh, God. You are—you are—perfection.”
Beneath him, she arched hard, lifting her hips to his. For long moments they moved together in a timeless, instinctive rhythm, their sighs and moans soft in the night. Martinique ached for him, wanted to be joined to him, in every possible way, not just the physical but the metaphysical, too. She heard a voice chanting—pleading—in the darkness, and realized that it was hers. Stroke upon stroke, she strained for that ephemeral ribbon of pleasure, rising to him, begging him with her body and her breathless words.
And then something inside her shattered like glass. A thousand silvery splinters shot pleasure through her being, and the white-hot flame of desire consumed her. Dimly, she saw St. Vrain, his face taut with agony and joy. He thrust once more into her body, joining his soul to hers, and then he cried out and was lost with her in the splintering light.
Martinique drowsed for a time, hovering in that gossamer netherworld which only sated lovers inhabit. St. Vrain’s arms were about her, rough and strong, his face buried in her hair. She was suddenly, fiercely, glad she had given herself to him. And when she shifted her weight, he rolled onto his side, drawing her firmly against him, her back to the wide, warm wall of his chest. Then he circled one arm about her waist, called her his love, and slipped into a deep, steady sleep. And for a few, fleeting moments, Martinique’s life was at last perfection.
Martinique could not be perfectly certain how long she drowsed in St. Vrain’s embrace. A quarter-hour, perhaps. The door, when it opened, swung quickly on well-oiled hinges, casting a breeze which made her shiver. Martinique woke to the glare of a lifted candle, and a sharp, horrified gasp.
Behind her, St. Vrain rolled up onto his elbow, and softly cursed.
Aunt Xanthia stood framed in the connecting doorway, her fingertips pressed to her mouth. Her lifted, trembling candle was quite unnecessary. They had forgotten to put out the lamp.
“Oh, Martinique!” Her aunt’s voice quivered with rage. “St. Vrain,what is the meaning of this? Sir, howdare you?”
St. Vrain had turned to drag the cover to better cover Martinique’s nakedness, and was murmuring soothingly. It was only then that Martinique noticed the figure in the shadows behind her aunt. Mrs. Ambrose stepped into the room, her hair down, her wrapper tucked primly about her.
“My dear Miss Neville, I fear I was not mistaken after all,” she said, clutching at Aunt Xanthia’s arm. “Would to God that I had been!”
“No, ma’am. You were not mistaken.” Xanthia really was shaking now. “St. Vrain, get out. Get out, you bastard, and await my brother’s displeasure. I pray God he sends you on a short trip to hell.”
“Aunt Xanthia, please!” Martinique moved as if to leap from the bed, but St. Vrain set a strong, restraining hand on her arm.
“It is all right, my dear,” he murmured. “It will be all right.”
But Martinique was barely listening. “You—you are quite mistaken,” she cried. “St. Vrain is just—he was just…oh, please, Xanthia! Oh, God,please do not mention this to Rothewell.”
Mrs. Ambrose swished around Xanthia, her expression one of grim satisfaction. “Poor, poor child,” she said quietly. “As I said, I heard her cry out quite plaintively as I passed by.”
“I have not hurt her,” said St. Vrain quietly. “I have not, and I shall not. Now, if the two of you will kindly get out, I shall dress and say a few words to Miss…to Martinique.”
Mrs. Ambrose cut one last glance down at St. Vrain, then set a hand on Xanthia’s shoulder. “I shall leave you now,” she said. “The ruin of an innocent is always such a tragedy. Please let me know, my dear, if I can be of further assistance.”
“Oh, I think you’ve given quite enough assistance already, Christine,” snapped St. Vrain. “Now, Miss Neville, I am about to climb out of this bed. And since I am indeed stark naked, I strongly suggest you avert your eyes.”
Aunt Xanthia’s cheeks flamed, and she spun about. Mrs. Ambrose and her satisfied smile slipped out the door. St. Vrain paused long enough to give Martinique a swift, strong hug. “Buck up, my girl,” he whispered in rapid, flawless French. “It won’t be so bad as all that, I swear it.”
But the full horror of what she had just done to him was settling over Martinique, and tears had begun to swim in her eyes. “Rothewell shall kill you, St. Vrain,” she replied in French, her voice cracking on his name. “He shall kill you, and I shan’t be able to bear it.”
He kissed her cheek, not once but twice. “He cannot kill me, my dear,” said St. Vrain. “Not until we are wed, at the very least.”
“Get out of my niece’s room, St. Vrain!”Aunt Xanthia’s voice was grim. “Get out, or by God, I shall throw you out, and your clothes after—ifyou are lucky.”
She sounded as if she might well try. With one last, swift kiss, St. Vrain slipped from the bed, and dressed in haste. Had Martinique not been terrified for his life, the sight would have been worthy of applause. His expression might have been strained, but his trim, lithe body was magnificent, especially his slender waist, and the taut turn of his buttocks, with their sculpted dips where muscle and tendon met. She wanted desperately to reach out, and stroke her fingertips along his—
Good God, what was she thinking?Her life was in tatters.
When he was more or less decent, and his magnificent backside had vanished beneath the layers of drawers and breeches, St. Vrain threw his neckcloth over one shoulder, and headed for the door. “I shall wait upon your brother at two o’clock, Miss Neville,” he said, his
hand on the knob. “If that will suit?”
“Rothewell shall receive you,” said Xanthia, her voice stiff and cold. “And I strongly suggest, my lord, that you put your affairs in order before coming.”
“Do you indeed, Miss Neville?” St. Vrain murmured. “Shall I bring a brace of pistols then, and simply save myself the suspense?”
Aunt Xanthia spun around, her face a mask of rage. “Don’t trouble yourself!” she snapped. “My brother is barely a gentleman at all. He will likely throttle you with his bare hands. Now good night to you, St. Vrain. I hope you are at least a little bit ashamed of the ruin you have wrought.”
He hesitated at the open door. “More than you will ever know, Miss Neville,” he said quietly. “More than you will ever know.”
Three
The Betrothal Kiss
Lady Sharpe’s tidy breakfast parlor was heavy with an awful silence. The three occupants had long since given up any pretense of eating, or of even drinking so much as a cup of coffee. Indeed, Lord Rothewell had already smashed one of Lady Sharpe’s delicate Sèvres teacups to bits, crushing it like an eggshell in his massive fist.
He now roamed around the room like a caged lion, alternately dragging one hand through his hair and pounding his fist on whatever piece of furniture he happened to be passing by.
“Stop it, Kieran,” his sister ordered. “Stop, and show me your palm. Have you cut it?”
“To hell with my palm,” he growled. “To hell with everything.”
“Oh, Kieran!” Lady Sharpe quite literally wrung her hands. “Oh, I never dreamt! I am so sorry! And to think—beneath my very roof!”
“This is not your fault, Pamela.” Xanthia caught Lady Sharpe by the arm. “It is Martinique’s fault, at least in part, for she says so. I cannot imagine…dear God, I reallycannot think what made her do such a thing!”
Rothewell stopped pacing, and pinned the ladies with his harsh, golden glower. “Her mother made her do it,” he gritted. “Good God, Zee, how many times must we have this discussion? Can you not see it? The girl is the very image of Annemarie.”
“Annemarie was hardly the femme fatale you wish to think her,” said Xanthia angrily. “But no matter. What’s to be done about it now, Kieran? Would you marry the girl off to a scoundrel? And is he to have no punishment whatsoever?”
“Oh, I shall deal with St. Vrain,” Rothewell snapped. “Damn it all, I wish Luke yet lived. Then he would have to deal with this bloody mess he has got us into.”
“We all wish Luke were alive,” snapped his sister. “But he is not, therefore—”
The slam of the door cut her off. “No, he is not,” said Martinique, her voice decidedly bitter. “And no one rues that fact more than I. But a dead man can hardly be blamed for my ill judgment. And if my step-father has so burdened you with me, Rothewell, by all means, unburden yourself forthwith. Indeed, I wish you would.”
Xanthia flew across the room to her. “Martinique, for God’s sake, be still!”
But tears were streaming down Martinique’s face now. “You hate me, do you not, Rothewell?” she whispered. “And you hated my mother, too. You were ashamed of her. Ashamed of her skin, ashamed of what she had been—and you are ashamed that I am asangmêlé. ”
“Be still, damn you!” Rothewell’s voice was grim. “You know nothing of my feelings.Nothing, damn it, do you hear me?”
“Well, rid yourself of me! But do not do it by forcing me on some poor devil who has done nothing more than warm my bed—and at my insistence, too.”
“I’ve had quite enough of this.” Rothewell stalked across the room toward her. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your mouth, miss.”
Xanthia slipped strategically between them. “She has not been uncivil,” she said curtly. “Martinique, what is this nonsense about your insistence?”
“I keep telling you, Xanthia!” she cried. “It is not St. Vrain’s fault.”
“He looked a willing participant to me,” said Xanthia grimly.
“But he only came into my room by accident,” Martinique pleaded. “You see, he—he thought it was…well, someone else’s room. More than that, I cannot say.”
Another awful hush fell across the parlor. “Oh, dear God!” said Lady Sharpe, falling into a chair. “Christine! Oh, how stupid she is!”
Rothewell’s face went white. Xanthia lifted an unsteady hand and set her palm to her forehead.
“Too late, he realized who I was,” Martinique went on, her voice calming. “I—I shan’t tell you the rest of it! It is no one’s business but mine. I am nineteen years of age, Rothewell. I do not wish a come-out. I do not wish your patronage or your advice or your protection. And I certainly do not wish a husband. Indeed, I shan’t have one. If you want to be rid of me, give me a reasonable allowance, and let me go.”
“Go?” he roared. “Go where, for God’s sake?”
“To…well, to Paris!” she declared, seizing upon the notion. “After all, I am mostly French. I shall find myself a little house, and live a quiet life, and leave you to yours, where you will not have to stand the sight of me. That should suit us both very well indeed.”
Lord Rothewell lifted his arm, and pointed squarely at Xanthia. “Get…her…out,” he said.“Now.”
The notion of Paris faded. Martinique looked upon her uncle’s trembling visage, and suddenly, she was deeply afraid. His arm was drawn taut, as if he really might backhand her. When Aunt Xanthia put an arm around her and urged her from the room, Martinique did not hesitate.
“Oh, dear God!” she heard Lady Sharpe say again. “Oh, that careless, careless Christine! This time, I really think I shall strangle her!”
By two o’clock that afternoon, the Earl of St. Vrain was holding a significantly less charitable a view of Mrs. Ambrose and her carelessness, which, he had concluded, was nonexistent. His encounter with Miss Neville had been planned, he was increasingly certain. In the mortification of the moment, he had been unable to spare Christine a thought. Now, however, he was beginning to grasp the method of her revenge. But what the hell he was to do about it now thoroughly escaped him.
He certainly need not wed Miss Neville, he acknowledged as he dismounted at Highwood’s stables. Lord Rothewell, for all his bluster, could not force his hand. Besides, St. Vrain had weathered worse scandals. Christine had chosen her victim poorly in that regard.
Or had she? There was, St. Vrain supposed, some slight streak of honor yet left in him; some small part of his heart which still wrenched at a lady’s distress. He did not look lightly upon the ruination of a young girl who had done no more than make for a handy pawn in Christine’s spite. And all this over a tavern maid! A tavern maid who, by God, he had never so much as touched, despite her many blatant invitations. Perhaps her wounded pride had started the rumors? St. Vrain did not know, and scarcely cared. He had not been about to defend himself to Christine.
Since Georgina’s death all those years ago, St. Vrain had drowned himself in a life of hedonistic pleasure—sensual pleasure, for the most part. As a young man in the boudoirs of Paris, he had learnt his lessons well, with women far more skilled, and far more predatory, than Christine could ever hope to be. They had numbed him, even as they had tormented and then pleasured him, honing his skills to a razor’s edge. He had pledged fidelity to none; and indeed, none had expected it.
When he neared the west portico of Highwood, St. Vrain looked up to see Lord Sharpe standing at one of the windows, observing his approach. The gentleman moved as if to lift his hand in greeting, but so lamely it might have been made of lead. Nowthat was a meeting he surely dreaded. He had owed Sharpe better than this, by God.
But strangely, St. Vrain did not dread the altercation with Miss Neville’s uncle. Unease never reared its head, even as the footman took his hat and coat, or as they strode down the long central hall of Highwood. Baron Rothewell, the servant informed him, awaited Lord St. Vrain in the library.
He stood behind a wide walnut desk with his back to St. Vrain,
his hands clutched tightly behind his back as if restraining himself from violence. He was a hulking giant of a man, blocking out much of the wintry sunlight with his wide, rigid shoulders. He did not turn from the window until the footman had pulled the door shut again.
Rothewell did not mince words. “I gather, sir, that my niece is no longer a virgin,” he said. “And that I have you to thank for it.”
“She is not,” said St. Vrain quietly. “I regret it, Rothewell, but I shan’t lie about it.”
The baron’s visage blazed. “I ought to horsewhip you until you puke, you lascivious, self-absorbed bastard,” he said.
St. Vrain took a step toward him. “You are more than welcome to try,” he calmly returned. “But better men than you have failed at it. And I cannot see how it will help your niece.”
“It won’t do a damned thing for her,” Rothewell conceded. “But I’ll feel vastly better satisfied to draw your blood.”
St. Vrain smiled. “I begin to think I should like to see you try,” he said quietly. “But at present, I am more concerned with Miss Neville’s welfare, as I suggest you might be.”
Rothewell’s fist came crashing down on the desk. “Damn you, don’t you dare tell me how to manage my family!”
“You act as if sheisn’t your family,” said St. Vrain quietly. “Indeed, you act as if she is tainted merchandise with which you must now be saddled. The truth is quite different. And the truth is, I made a mistake entering the poor girl’s room. But it was only that. A mistake.”
“And yet you stayed when the truth became known.”
St. Vrain hesitated.
“Why?” demanded Lord Rothewell.
Because she begged me? Because she is the most inherently sensual creature I have ever known? Because I desired her so much it made my heart clench?
No, those were not the answers the baron sought—true though they might have been. “I am not at liberty to answer that question, Rothewell,” he finally said. “I am not sure I fully understand what happened.”
The School for Heiresses Page 13
