She smiled. “No, it definitely is not.”
His patience—not to mention his resistance—was at an end. He took her arm and hitched her firmly against him. “We are going inside now,” he managed. “And we are going straight into the library, where you are going to tell Rothewell that we are to be married.”
“Oh, if we are to so much as pretend a betrothal,mon cher, then you must learn not to bully, but to persuade.” Her voice had gone husky again. “Now, do you still have that key?”
Good God. He had not a prayer. “Yes. I have the key.”
She laid her hand on his arm, and drew it slowly down. “Then may I see you? Soon?” She was so close, her whisper brushed his cheek. “Already, I long to be with you again. I ache for the pleasure which only you,mon cher, can give me. I crave the warmth and strength of your taut, virile body, and the chance to touch and to stroke your—”
“Good God almighty!” St. Vrain swallowed hard.
Her look of longing broke suddenly into a grin. “And that, St. Vrain, is the difference between bullying and persuading,” she said. “Now,are you persuaded.”
“Yes, blast you,” he managed. “Now, are we betrothed?”
“Mais oui,my beloved,” she said demurely. They had gone but another five paces, however, when she slowed. “But you are forgetting something, are you not, St. Vrain?”
“Justin,” he said a little grimly. “You will call me Justin. And what, pray, have I forgotten?”
She stuck out her lip, humor dancing in her eyes. “We have just become betrothed,” she said. “I believe you are now allowed to kiss me.”
“Wench!” he said.
But kiss her he did. He kissed until she was senseless, with his arms wrapped almost desperately around her, tipping her head back until the hood of her cloak fell away. Until her lithe, warm body was pressed head-to-toe against him, and her mouth was open and urgent beneath his. Over and over he delved into the maddening temptation of her mouth, one hand urgently roaming beneath the shelter of her cloak, stroking the fullness of her breast, the elegant turn of her waist, and lower still, to the fine swell of her hip. And then somehow, the reality of just where they were returned to him, and he managed to set her away.
They came apart frustrated, unsatiated, and gasping.
“Mon Dieu!”she said, a strange mix of lust and laughter in her eyes. “I believe,mon cher, this betrothal is going to prove interesting indeed.”
Four
A Word of Warning
Dinner at Highwood that evening was a tense, nearly silent affair. Justin was noticeably absent, and Mrs. Ambrose’s pale beauty had frozen into an expression which could only be described as embittered satisfaction. Rothewell said nothing, other than to gravely announce Martinique’s betrothal and toast her happiness. The glasses were obligingly raised, but the sharpchink of crystal rang hollow in the stillness of the room.
In the days which followed, Justin resumed his visits, but only for dinner. He fell into the role of devoted suitor with disconcerting ease, but to Martinique’s frustration, they were never alone. She could share nothing of substance with him; certainly she could not remind him of their bargain. Worse, his proximity served only to drive her physical yearning to a near fever pitch. When they strolled about the drawing room together, his long-fingered, elegant hand would clasp hers protectively, and his eyes would heat almost adoringly.
She was not alone in noticing it. Over the course of a few days, Mrs. Ambrose’s embittered satisfaction slowly faded to something less benign. One evening after dinner, they retired as usual to the parlor, but no one suggested cards. Instead, Lady Sharpe went to the pianoforte, and began to hammer out a series of lively tunes, as if doing so might dispel the pall which hung over her family. Great-Aunt Olivia withdrew a bag of darning, and thrust a fistful of stockings at Xanthia. Eventually, Lord Sharpe invited the gentlemen onto the terrace for a cheroot.
Too anxious to sit, Martinique rose and began to examine the walls. This room was hung with landscapes, but again, they could not hold her interest. She was becoming quite obsessed with Justin. And not just because his touch inflamed her, though it certainly did. No, there was something more to the man, something hidden and almost unknowable behind the subtle mockery of his heavy-lidded eyes.
Suddenly, she felt a warmth hovering at her elbow. Martinique turned to see Christine Ambrose by her side. For an instant, her earlier mortification returned, but she stiffened her spine, and fought it off. “Bonsoir,Mrs. Ambrose.”
“Congratulations, Miss Neville,” she murmured. “You really have brought one of Lincolnshire’s wealthiest bachelors to the point. I confess, I did not believe he would wear the parson’s noose so willingly.” Her eyes were dark with something akin to malice.
“Merci, madame,”said Martinique stiffly. “I am sure it will all turn out for the best.”
Mrs. Ambrose flashed a thin smile. “Yes, well, you are hardly the first to hope so.”
“Pardon?The first to hope what?”
“The first woman to hope that being seduced by St. Vrain might turn out for the best,” she murmured.
“Indeed?” said Martinique coolly. “But he is, after all, a man. And men are always a gamble, are they not? I think one must take one’s chances.”
Mrs. Ambrose’s eyes glittered dangerously. “How very French of you,” she purred. “I do not think the last young lady he seduced came away feeling quite so sanguine about theaffaire. ”
“He has left a veritable trail of them, I collect?” Martinique forced herself to smile. “Well, if the passion falters, at least there will always be his great fortune to console me.”
Mrs. Ambrose lips curled in disdain. “You are so very young and inexperienced, my dear,” she said, her voice unmistakably catty. “I hope you can satisfy such a man. If not—well, he will always have his little whore down in the village.”
“Ça alors!”Martinique pressed her fingertips to her chest. “Has he yet another?”
The sarcasm sailed over Mrs. Ambrose. “And then, of course, there is his stepmother.”
“Mon Dieu!”Martinique gave an exaggerated lift of her eyebrows. “His stepmother, too?”
“Ah, did no one warn you?” Mrs. Ambrose’s eyes darkened malevolently. “He seduced her under his father’s nose. He is still desperately in love with her, I daresay.”
“Mrs. Ambrose, I fear I learnt love’s hard lessons at my mother’s knee,” she returned. “A woman cannot let a little competition ruin her life, or she is nothing.”
“That is all very well, Miss Neville, but it is rather hard to compete with a dead woman.”
A dead woman?“I shall manage well enough,” she said, feigning confidence. “After all,toujours de l’audace !”
“I’m sorry?” Mrs. Ambrose stared at her.“Toujours de l’audace?”
“Audacity always pays.” Martinique paused to wink.
Mrs. Ambrose was looking a tad unwell now.
Martinique patted her consolingly on the shoulder. “I believe Cousin Pamela has finished with the pianoforte,” she said. “Why do you not have a go? I shall turn the pages for you.”
Mrs. Ambrose seemed incapable of answering. She made her way from the room, looking a good deal less like a cat on the hunt, and more like a woman scorned. Martinique watched her go in grim satisfaction, but the emotion was short-lived. She had hidden it well enough, but Mrs. Ambrose’s remarks had stung her. They should not have. She herself had said that St. Vrain looked like a man with a past. She could hardly blame him if it were thrown in her face.
Worse still, she had allowed her pride to back her into a damnable corner.She had no intention of marrying St. Vrain! Why, then, had she thrown down the gaunt-let so thoroughly? The last laugh—and the last look of feigned pity—would be Mrs. Ambrose’s when Martinique announced that she meant to cry off.Toujours de l’audace, indeed!
Unthinkingly, Martinique had wandered to the window, and now stood watching her reflection in the glas
s. Before her, the evening’s chill radiated from the panes; as cold as her heart would be when the day came to release St. Vrain from his promise. For the truth was, she suddenly realized, she really did not wish to release him. Her bold words meant nothing next to his touch.
Perhaps she should just give in to her weak knees and flip-flopping stomach. Perhaps she should simply admit that she’d let herself fall in love. Yes, it was much too late, she feared, for Mrs. Ambrose’s warnings. But could Justin ever love her back? Or would his part of the bargain end up like Rothewell’s? Would she be nothing to him but a duty, as she had always been to her father, her uncle, and perhaps even her stepfather? Dear God, that she could not bear.
There was something wrong with her. Something which made her unlovable. An inadequacy she could not quite grasp. During those first awful months following her parents’ deaths, she had felt it most keenly. The shortcomings. The inferiority. Her utter failure to make Rothewell love her, or to even make him wish to spend an hour in her company. It had been the same with her birth father, too. She had been an inconvenience.
Martinique dropped her gaze from the cold glass, but at that instant, a gentle touch brushed her elbow. “Martinique, are you well?” murmured Aunt Xanthia.
“Well enough.” She flashed a somewhat watery smile. “Just…sorry, that is all. So very sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
“I think you take too much of this responsibility upon yourself.”
“No,” she said firmly. “No, Xanthia. I do not. That is the very worst of it.”
Aunt Xanthia colored faintly. “Martinique, will it—” She cleared her throat, and began again. “Will it be quite dreadful for you? Do you think you will be unable to bear…the, er, duties of a marriage?”
Martinique tried not to smile. “It could never be dreadful, Zee,” she answered. “Not with the right man.” But she was wrong. Itcould be dreadful—if the right man did not really want her.
“I am sorry your mother is gone,” said Xanthia quietly. “I fear I am not the best person to advise you in matters of the heart.”
“But this is not a matter of the heart.” Martinique tried not to look bitter. “It is a matter of expediency. Rothewell was looking for a way to be rid of me, and I have foolishly given it to him.”
Xanthia’s hand grasped her upper arm. “It isnot like that, Martinique,” she whispered. “You do not know what you are saying. Kieran takes his responsibilities quite seriously—you more so than any.”
This time, Martinique’s smile was bitter. “But that is the very point, Xanthia,” she said quietly. “That is all I am to him. Just a responsibility.”
“Martinique, I wish I could explain…”
Again, she shook her head. “It little matters.” Swiftly, she changed the subject. “They say St. Vrain had anaffaire with his stepmother. Is it true? Did he?”
Her aunt’s blush deepened. “Amongst others, I collect,” she admitted. “They ran away together. It seems there was a dreadful scandal. We learnt the whole of it but recently.”
“Was no one going to tell me?”
Xanthia nodded. “Kieran was considering it,” she admitted.
Martinique pushed her shoulders back. “I wish that he had done,” she said quietly. “Mrs. Ambrose enjoyed catching me unawares.”
“Oh!” said Xanthia quietly. “Oh, how monstrous!”
Martinique turned to go, but almost bumped into Justin as he returned from the terrace. He caught her lightly by the elbows, his steady blue gaze searching her face. “Martinique, my dear, what is it? Has someone upset you?”
Martinique pursed her lips, and shook her head. “Come to me tonight, Justin,” she whispered. “I cannot bear this…this awful distance. I—I need you. Please.”
And without waiting for his answer, she slipped from his grasp, and made her way upstairs to bed.
He came in darkness, long after the house lay still. He slipped into her room like a whispered sigh, and drew near the bed at once. She sensed his presence with a lover’s certainty, and came awake, though she had long since stopped expecting him.
“Justin?” she murmured, sitting up to push the hair from her face. “Oh, Justin, I amso glad to see you.”
Tonight she had deliberately left the draperies wide to the moonlight. She watched in the gloom as he settled himself onto the bed. He gathered her into his arms, pressing his cheek to hers. “Good God, I must be mad!” he said. “What of your aunt? Is she sleeping?”
“Quite soundly, as always,” Martinique replied. “She would have known nothing last time, were it not for Mrs. Ambrose’s meddling.”
Justin’s head was on her shoulder now, his breath warm against the turn of her neck. “I needed to see you, Martinique,” he whispered. “I—I meant to stay away. But I confess, I could not.”
“And you did promise,” she reminded him. “You do not strike me as the sort of man who goes back on his word.”
“Never,” he said quietly. “Not even, perhaps, when I ought.”
Despite the gloom, her lashes fell shut, and she turned her face to his. He kissed her as she had known he would, long and languorously, with one hand cupping the turn of her face.
“Take off your clothes,” she said breathlessly when they broke the kiss. “Please, Justin.”
He hesitated. “You are sure?” he whispered. “We can just talk. I…I would not mind that, Martinique. To just lie with you and talk to you.”
Her hand slipped beneath the lapel of his coat, and eased it gently off his shoulder. “I would mind,” she answered. “Make love to me, Justin. And then, yes, we will talk. We need to talk.”
In minutes, he was sliding beneath the bedcovers, dragging his naked body over hers. His weight bore her down into the softness of the feather mattress, and sent that warm, sweet twist of need through her body.
Eyes open wide, he kissed her again, lingering more tenderly this time. “You once spoke of lessons, my love,” he whispered, brushing his lips over her left eyebrow. “What is it you wish to learn?”
Martinique hesitated. “I wish to learn to please you—and to please myself.”
He gave a little laugh. “Ah, sweet, they are one in the same.”
“Then teach me…teach me the most erotic thing you know.”
“A woman who knows what she wants is the very definition of erotic, my love,” he answered. “And there are many ways to find pleasure.”
“Besides…besides what we did before?”
In the gloom, she felt his eyes hold hers. “Besides that, yes. Did you not know?”
She felt heat flood her face. “I was not sure,” she confessed. “Show me.”
He kissed her again, thrusting deep inside her mouth with a new intensity. When his mouth at last left hers, he rolled a little to one side, and stroked his hand up the smoothness of her thigh. “Open your legs for me, love.”
She did it willingly, exhaling sharply when he stroked his fingers through her thatch of dark curls. He stroked again, deeper, until his fingertip found her secret place and left her trembling.
“Ohhh.”Martinique let her left leg fall wantonly to one side, and let her head tip back into the pillow.
“Beautiful,” he said on a groan. “Have you never touched yourself like this?”
She felt a moment of embarrassment. “Not…not like this,” she whispered.
“You are a sensual woman, Martinique,” he said, gently teasing her with his fingertips. “There is no shame in desire.”
“Well, it did not—” She paused to swallow hard. “It did not feel quite like this.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Here, let me show you.” To her shock, he gently lifted her hand, and guided it between her legs. She felt the hard nub of her arousal, and gasped at the pleasure. “Yes, back and forth, love. Just like that.”
Martinique did as he commanded, closing her eyes as she felt her own slickness grow beneath her fingertips. Justin made a deep, guttural sound of appreciation. “Good L
ord, you are beautiful,” he choked.
His words served only to exhilarate her, and she became quickly lost in her own arousal. She was already gasping for breath when his hand reached out, stilling hers. Wordlessly, he pushed her thighs wide, and shifted himself between her legs. She gasped again when he set his lips to her belly, then spread her flesh wide with his long, elegant fingers. But when he set his mouth where her fingers had been, she cried out softly.
Instead of cautioning her to silence, Justin plunged his tongue deep into the folds of her flesh, lightly licking at the core of her arousal. The trembling turned to a bone-deep quake which forced her to grasp his shoulders.
Justin made a sound of satisfaction in the back of his throat. “You like that, love?”
“I—I—I do not know,” she lied. “I think…that it could be quite dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” he murmured, just before stroking her again.
Martinique could not get her breath. “I fear a woman could die of pleasure from it.”
“Then may you die a thousand deaths, my love,” he said. “Le petit mort.And may tonight be but the first.”
Oh, she was going to die of it!He lapped at her with delicate, teasing strokes until she was helpless. Justin watched her every move as he tormented her, his eyes burning into her despite the gloom. Martinique felt her own wetness slicking her body, and felt the edge of pleasure draw nigh. Within moments, her hips arched high and her entire body began to shake.
“Ohh, ohh,”she chanted. And then her world shook, splintered and came apart.
She returned to herself to find Justin cradling her to him. “Oh, Martinique,” he whispered into her hair. “So perfect. So lovely.”
He slid his body up her length, and she felt the heat of his erection sear her. Uncertainly, she licked her lips. “I want you,” she managed. “I still want you. Justin, please?”
He rolled himself fully atop her, urging her deep into the mattress. “Is this what you crave, love?” he murmured. One hand settled at her waist, the other slid lower to cradle the swell of her buttocks. “Do you want me inside you?”
The School for Heiresses Page 15
