Temptation Has Green Eyes

by Lynne Connolly

  She could tell nothing from his closed-off expression. Now she’d started, she had to plough on. “This part of the house and the other wing are new. There’s no history associated with them. And what people need this many rooms? I thought the house my father bought in the country spacious enough, and it had scarcely a tenth of the rooms this place has. It seems wrong, Max. That was why I was uneasy when I saw Devereaux Place first, although I didn’t realize it was the reason.”

  He nodded, but still said nothing. Obviously he understood the value of silence. Already she was getting cold feet, fighting against fidgeting.

  But she would not give in. Would not stay silent, because this marriage was meant to last. In these early days, they had a chance to set the terms and conditions, find a path they could walk together. They had so nearly taken separate paths. Only her determination to make the best of what she had and his re-evaluation of her had changed that.

  She took a deep breath for courage. “I say move the things worth moving into the main house. Use that bureau to embellish one of the staterooms, for instance. Then demolish the wings.”

  She bit her lip, waiting for the explosion, but none came. He watched her in silence.

  She ploughed on. “This is our children’s inheritance. I don’t want my son forced to maintain this house when he has no wish to.”

  “It’s under entail,” he pointed out.

  He sounded reasonable, not a note of anger she could detect, but in Max that was dangerous. He was doing his best to conceal his thoughts, as he did when brokering a big business deal. She could be in danger of watching him walk away again. If he invited her opinion only to spurn her, she would take that as a sign of his lack of interest in her thoughts.

  If he discussed the issue, tried to persuade her, that was something else again. She could accept that state of affairs. At least he’d have listened to her.

  “Surely the wings aren’t part of an ancient inheritance. Aren’t you allowed to alter the place the way you wish?”

  He gazed at her in silence for a few moments. Then the light returned to his eyes. He turned his head, glanced out of the window again. “I used to play in the tree that stood here once, until my mother caught me and scolded me for it. She told me I had to be more responsible, that the fate of a whole dynasty lay on my shoulders. My father was an only son too. There are no close relatives on his side of the family, none left. All my life, I had to remember who I was and what I represented. When I went into the City, my mother refused to speak to me for a year, until the results of my investments began to come in. Then she relented. Oh, it wasn’t trade, she said, as if that made a difference. If I could have earned the money working as a stable boy, I would have done so. Anything to regain what my father had thrown away. I was sixteen, Sophia. I never was a feckless youth as my cousins were, never wasted time in gaming houses with expensive mistresses. Because of this.”

  He glanced around the room, disdain in his gaze.

  “You say I should throw away everything I worked for, to give my mother the legacy she wanted. I should destroy what she and my father tried so hard to build. That’s what you’re saying?”

  Chapter 13

  “It’s not your dream, though, is it?”

  All the time they’d toured the house she’d watched him as much as her surroundings. Not once had she seen the fanatical spark of ambition light his countenance. He’d shown no pride, only weary acceptance. “I’ve learned to calculate, to assess, not to put sentiment on belongings. I have my mother’s jewelry, poor trinkets compared to some of the pieces I’ve inherited as the marchioness or those that my father bought me when our fortunes rose. That’s all, though. I don’t have her handkerchiefs or her clothes because we got rid of those or had them made over. They were just things. They weren’t her.”

  “So what’s your business assessment of this place?” Still he regarded her with calm coolness.

  She hated it, half-wished she’d never started this, but she had, and she must continue. Couldn’t back down unless he gave her a considered opinion. None of that “I forbid it” nonsense he’d used when she’d said she would see John. As if he didn’t trust her.

  The spark of remembered anger gave Sophia the impetus to go on. “I don’t want my son made unhappy by a thing. A possession. So that, for me, is on one side of the ledger. In favor of keeping the status quo, there are few points. Your mother’s happiness is an important one.”

  So was his happiness, and she knew the one she cared about the most. “And the house is undoubtedly beautiful. You might destroy a future treasure.

  “On the other side, for the demolition there’s the financial aspect. It won’t be as much of a burden. Most of the beauty will be retained. The treasures will go to new places. The building materials can be placed into storage for when the main house needs repair or sold. We can get a good sum for accoutrements like paneling, fireplaces, doors, and so on, and any furniture we decide to sell. Floorboards are selling particularly well at the moment, especially good oak ones like these.”

  She knew that because her father had been forced to replace some of the boards in the back parlor recently after an attack of woodworm. Fortunately the worm hadn’t spread very far before they discovered it, but the price of the replacements had shocked them both. Details like those made business far more profitable.

  “Are you suggesting we go into the building trade?”

  She considered denying the possibility vehemently, but changed her mind. “Why not, if it’s profitable? The demolition should pay for itself, if we’re careful. Then there will be gardens to plan, or we could put grass over the area and continue the Home Park over it.”

  “You,” he said, taking a step toward her, “are an iconoclast. You see monuments, and you ask yourself why and what purpose. Your practicality overwhelms me.”

  Sophia lifted her chin. “Better practical than poor.”

  “Indeed, my mercenary little wife.”

  He cupped his hands over her shoulders and as always her insides quivered at his touch.

  “Come here.”

  Roughly, he pulled her close and set his lips to hers.

  That was the last thing she’d expected. A long discussion, perhaps rejection, especially considering she’d broached a topic he seemed to hold dear. Not this passionate embrace. He spread his big hands over her back, stroked her into submission. Maybe that was the idea. Ah well, at least she’d tried.

  After a long, thorough kiss, he drew away, but kept her in his arms. “What I suggest is that we go to bed. Now, with those little Chinese men rioting over your bed curtains. Let them watch. I don’t care, but they’d better get used to the sight.”

  “What?”

  “You are perfect for me. You articulated what I’ve been thinking for a while but dared not do.” He kissed her again. “I’d worked all my life to restore this place, and for what? A few sticks of furniture? I like your plan. No, I love it. And it’s something we can do together. Let’s set our minds to it and get it done. We can get the main part of the work completed in a year.”

  Dazed, she stared at him. His eyes had regained that passionate expression she loved. He was holding nothing back.

  “You mean it? It was only an idea.”

  “One I’m wholly in accord with. I can afford this house now. I can afford ten of them, but you’re right. I don’t want to saddle our children with a millstone around their necks. And then it will be ‘Oh, it’s old, and it’s valuable, part of our history. We can’t get rid of it even if it is bankrupting us.’” He laughed. “Instead, we’ll give them a great house instead of a palace. An exquisite gem instead of a rambling mansion. We’ll make it beautiful, you and I, ensure the work is done well. Do you like gardening?”

  She shrugged. “Apart from growing a few herbs in pots when I was little, I don’t know. I’ve never tried it. I’m told it’s very relaxing.” But she needed nothing more than this for relaxation. She
melted in his arms. Every time. She laughed up at him, her relief at his acceptance of her idea warming her bones. “I see it more as employing a good landscape artist and working with him to ensure it’s done well.” She paused. “One thing. I’d like an orangery. I’ve always wanted one of those, ever since I read it in a newspaper somewhere. I’m not even sure what one is.”

  “A summer house, lots of glass and filled with orange trees and orchids,” he said promptly. “We shall have it done. Sophia’s orangery. We’ll consult with our gardener to decide where it will be.” He hugged her close. “Do you need to see the other wing today?”

  Not at all, she thought, but kept it to herself. “No. It will be there tomorrow.”

  “Although not this time next year,” he said, with a joyous laugh. “When we return to London, we’ll find someone to oversee the work. I don’t want to lay the burden solely on the shoulders of my estate manager, although I’ll give him the oversight of the project.”

  “How will he feel about it?” A man whose job was to care for the estate might not like her plans. Their plans. “And what about your mother?”

  He grimaced. “Lansbury won’t mind. He’s often complained about shoring up the unfinished parts of the house. Since they’re all in the wings, he won’t need to worry about those any longer. My mother though, that’s different. If you don’t object to it, we’ll go back to London in the near future and tell her before she finds out by other means.”

  She nodded, her hair catching in the threads of the embroidery on his waistcoat. Forget-me-nots today, on cream. Max never concerned himself much about his wardrobe. He just employed the finest valet he could find. Typical of him to delegate in that way. Concentrating on what he did best and taking time to find the best people possible to do the jobs he couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Like her. For a man in his situation, she was certainly the practical choice.

  When she looked up into his face, that was the last thing in her mind. Her own passion was reflected in his eyes. “Yes,” she murmured against his lips. “Let’s go to bed.”

  They accomplished the journey back to the main house much faster than the one out here. “We could keep pavilions,” she said.

  “No,” he replied. “If we’re doing it, let’s do it properly.”

  He kept her hand firmly tucked in his, heedless of anyone who might watch and perhaps condemn. She must learn to disregard that impulse. It would lead to a very uncomfortable existence, if she cared what everyone who saw her thought.

  Half way along the Long Gallery, he spun her around and dragged her close for another kiss. Deep, hot, and wild, taking away all her concerns. Nothing mattered but this, but him.

  Chuckling, he pulled away and grabbed her hand. “If we do much more of that, we won’t get to the bedroom. I don’t mind. Do you?”

  She’d never seen him so open, laughing, and happy, and the sight dazzled her. She laughed back. How could she do anything else? And the thought of him pushing her into one of the window-bays and throwing up her skirts sent a fresh surge of heat to her groin. But she wasn’t so desirous that she would initiate the encounter. Their new relationship was too fresh and she too inexperienced to know the etiquette, if it could be called such, in this situation.

  “Show me everything,” she demanded greedily. “I want to know it all.”

  He turned back to her, his face alight with laughter. “Everything I know, you will know. But not all at once.”

  But she had so much time to make up for, so many years of not knowing this. Still laughing, he ran with her, their feet thundering on the wooden floorboards of the Elizabethan gallery. At the end, they turned into another hallway, down a set of stairs, another hallway, and at last the bedroom he’d said was hers.

  He slammed the door, spun around to press her against it, and took her in a deep kiss.

  A movement and an exclamation of shock startled her into opening her eyes, but Max didn’t stop kissing her. This close she saw the stubble on his jaw and the strands of hair that had escaped the neat queue. He touched her lips with his tongue, his request for her to open, and she did, cupping her hand around his head and threading her fingers through his hair. He tasted her, sweeping his tongue into her, licking the roof of her mouth and sending her higher.

  While he kissed her, he fumbled at her neckline, dragging away her fichu to expose the upper slopes of her breasts. His touch, so soft, stirred her into action. Moaning, she slid her free hand under his coat, seeking the buttons on his waistcoat. Naked, she wanted him naked, needed to feel his hot hair-roughened skin against her own.

  She no longer cared who was in the room. But whoever it was still stood there. The person was against the door. Unless someone was very good as getting through doors silently.

  Shock ricocheted through her. The thought of someone in here with them, watching them, sent shivers of arousal through her. Forbidden, wicked, and unexpectedly stimulating.

  He must have sensed her change because he drew away. “Sweetheart?” But he smiled. He knew.

  She gasped. Nobody understood her like that. She barely understood herself, that impulse that drove her to carry on, no matter who was watching. Her body heated.

  She wanted to show other people how much her husband wanted her. How shaming was that?

  Someone moved then, a rustle of silk. Max pulled away, standing before her at first, and then he moved aside. A hectic flush heated her cheeks.

  French stood in the middle of the room, a gown draped over her arm. “I-I beg your pardon, my lord, my lady.”

  According to the first law of domestic servants, she’d transgressed. Servants should be silent and invisible. In some households, they were trained to turn their backs when their employers passed by, to give some privacy. Sophia would never dream of requesting that, but in this case she might make an exception.

  Her attention went to the gown. “Not that one, French.” Why she’d said that she had no idea. Just the first thought that came into her head. Her mind whirling with new knowledge, she wanted time to think, not to expose her new discovery in front of anyone. The gown would do as a distraction.

  “Ma’am?”

  “It’s an unusual color,” Max said.

  It was. Aquamarine with sprays of white embroidered flowers cascading down to the hem. “It doesn’t work well on me. The color is wrong and the pattern too vivid. But I liked the fabric.” She gave Max a placatory shrug. “A mistake.”

  He raised a brow, gave the gown a cursory glance, and reached out his hand to her. “My room, I think.”

  His room was decorated in warm colors, dark reds with mahogany furniture and landscapes on the walls. Nothing feminine about this chamber. And it looked used, not brand new.

  “Has this always been your room?”

  “Since I came down from the nursery wing. I resisted the efforts to move into the marquess’s quarters. The other end of the corridor from the marchioness’s. I didn’t want that then, and I want it even less now. But if you want to change, say the word.”

  “No.” She glanced around the room. “The other room is beautiful, and in time I’ll like it more. But I love this one.” Because you’re in it. “It’s a real room.” It had an atmosphere. Someone lived here and imbued it with his presence.

  Smiling, he gestured to the bed. “And my bed isn’t piled high with clothes.” As hers was.

  She curved a hand around the back of his neck. “I might have to stay here all night if French doesn’t clear my bed. Really, I hate to impose on you—”

  With a low chuckle he stopped her mock protests with a kiss. “Where were we? Ah yes.” He glanced down and unfastened her bodice. “I felt you tense when you realized someone else was in the room. I knew as soon as we went in.” Another hook worked loose. “I assumed she’d leave discreetly, but she had that gown hampering her. I didn’t care. I’d have had you anyway.” He glanced up at her face. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

  “What?
” Her startled gaze went to his face. He knew. Those eyes—they revealed everything, but when had they started to do that? Before, when she hadn’t known him so well, she’d thought him inscrutable. One of his gifts that enabled him to make deals greatly to his advantage. But she saw it now. The heat and the amusement. “I don’t know. Just that—”

  He had her bodice undone. Gently but with determination, he pushed the silk off her shoulders and sighed. “Such lovely skin you have. I know, my sweet, and I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. Perhaps I’ll have ancestral portraits brought in here. They can watch us.”

  “I didn’t know it was possible.”

  “All things are possible where the body’s concerned. The brain is only one part of it. Your stomach lets you know when it’s hungry, so why not the quim?”

  She started in shock. She’d never heard it spoken before. She’d only read it, in the more wicked caricatures and commentaries. “That—”

  “Let’s be frank. We’ll try everything and see what we like. Being watched never bothered me, but it’s never excited me, either. It seems to excite you.” Walking around her, he helped her off with her gown. “Imagine the servants peeking through the jib door. Every room in this house has a hidden servant’s door. Did you know that? Perhaps they watch.” Her stays began to loosen as he deftly set to unfastening her laces. “I’ve heard rumors that they do.”

  “Watch?” Again, that warmth between her legs. Heat and wetness. Recalling what had happened before, that time they’d spent in bed in London, Sophia should have expected it. But the sensitivity seemed more, as if she couldn’t bear not to rub her legs together to relieve some of the tenderness gathering there.

  He had her stays off and, with a few swift movements, unfastened the drawstrings that held her pocket, petticoats, and hoop in place. He didn’t stop there, but bent to undo her garters and roll her stockings down her legs.

  “My valet and your maid. Especially French. Would you like them to see you naked?”