Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “If you include a flask of brandy for me, I’m content,” George Bonham pleasantly replied. “And those white puffy things sound intriguing,” he added, smiling at Lucie. “Are they really good?”

  Adam’s bronzed hand dwarfed the silver knife he held to spread jam on his daughter’s scone, Flora noticed, drawn to the powerful image, to the subtle flex of his muscles and the rhythm of his movements. Heedless of her father’s voice, she remembered instead the delicacy of Adam’s touch the night before.

  “They melt in your mouth, Georgie,” Lucie replied, addressing the earl familiarly after the last two days of easy friendship. “They taste like candy and cookies mixed together. You’ll like them immensely,” she went on, “but make sure you take some before Cloudy reaches them, because she likes them the very best and she can eat hundreds and hundreds.”

  “I’ll race her for the basket.” The earl leaned back in his chair, his coffee cup in his hand, his smile for the little girl across the table from him. She reminded him of Flora as a child; she had the same captivating charm and lucid assessment of the world. Pure and genuine and guileless.

  “You’ll win, Georgie, because Cloudy can’t run at all. And I’ll run with you if Cloudy doesn’t holler at me for being unladylike. Papa, do I have to be ladylike on a picnic?”

  Adam didn’t hear the question, occupied as he was with wondering if he could spirit Flora away during the day somehow, somewhere.

  Flora could feel her nipples grow taut against the fine linen of her chemise and an insistent ache throb between her legs. All because Adam Serre was too perilously close. She squirmed on the padded blue-and-white upholstery of her chair. How was she possibly going to wait until nightfall to feel him inside her again? As confident as he, she didn’t question her tempting allure.

  “Papa! Listen!”

  “Whatever you want, poppet,” Adam vaguely replied, absorbed by carnal thoughts, hoping he wasn’t agreeing to anything outrageous.

  “Yahoo! Thanks, Papa. Now I’m going to go and tell Cloudy she can’t scold me because you said it’s all right.” She slid from her chair. “You have to come up to the schoolroom, Papa, and tell Cloudy about Charlie. She won’t believe me.”

  “I will, when I come to fetch you.”

  “Our picnic’s going to be fun! Flora and Georgie, you’ll just love it!”

  The grown-ups smiled at one another as Lucie raced from the room.

  “I can’t guarantee an expedition to match that fervor,” Adam said with a grin.

  “She has enormous vitality,” Flora said. Like her father, she thought, recalling the pleasures of the previous night. “And a real appreciation for the outdoors.”

  “Luckily,” Adam declared with feeling. “If she took after her mother, she wouldn’t be very content here.”

  “This wilderness would be too distant and remote for many of my friends too,” Flora noted, feeling as if she owed Isolde a certain indulgence after having so profligately made love to her husband all night.

  Adam shook his head briefly, his expression shuttered. “Isolde never stayed here long. She spent the season in Paris and generally visited friends in London for the English season. We saw her only for short periods during the year.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, as if memories of his wife had quelled his appetite.

  “I think I may have met her at a country-house party at the Darcys’,” the earl interjected, blasé about society marriages, and much else, after fifty-some years of viewing the foibles of mankind. “Is she a Deauville Haubigon?”

  Adam nodded. “And her mother’s family prides themselves on their ducal blood and Leoville vineyards.”

  “Yes, I remember. She spoke of the vineyards. I don’t think you were there, Flora. It was when you were in Italy visiting Adele.”

  Flora suddenly wished she’d been at the Darcys’ to meet the woman Adam had married. As if she could know him better or differently or more completely if she knew his wife. She was curious, too, about the beautiful blond pictured over the mantel in the pink silk boudoir. How did she speak and laugh and move? Was she seductive like her husband? Was she cool? Did she wear diamonds often? And then, on a less charitable level, a more primitive impulse drove her, enigmatic but powerful—perhaps she wished to experience a perverse triumph over the woman whose husband had kept her awake all night.

  “I may meet her some other time,” she said, opting for the safety of bland politesse.

  “Not likely,” Adam bluntly retorted, “unless Baron Lacretelle tires of her. You wouldn’t get along anyway,” he added with gruff displeasure.

  Thin-skinned at the tangled state of her emotions, Flora responded more forcefully to his brusque rebuff than she should have. “I can get along with anyone.”

  “So can I,” he coolly replied, a masculine arrogance to his pronouncement. “But I know Isolde.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong. Perhaps we could be friends,” Flora sweetly retorted, absurdly irritated by his certainty and—considering their short acquaintance—at his husbandly tone.

  “You’re not the right gender to be a friend of Isolde’s.”

  His abrupt, dismissive delivery rankled. Flora didn’t tolerate authoritarian men. After years of serious research she’d established herself as a recognized scholar in her field. She’d cut her eyeteeth on the Aegean explorations of Ludwig Ross and had first been recognized at the precocious age of seventeen when her paper on The Lampstand from Phylakopi, defining the distinctive design elements of an early Aegean civilization not yet discovered, had been read before the Royal Society. So Adam Serre could run his large valley like a local god, but he didn’t control her. “Under the circumstances,” she replied with a small testiness, “forgive me if I question your complete understanding of your wife.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He glared at her from under his dark brows.

  “Must everyone agree with you?” An arch retort, female and heated.

  “This is stupid,” Adam snapped.

  The conversation had turned disastrously personal.

  “Could I suggest a truce?” Flora’s father cordially interjected. “You two sound like squabbling siblings.”

  Adam smiled instantly, his scowl erased. “Forgive me,” he apologized, his manner conciliatory. “And excuse my temper.” His mouth quirked into a grin. “Isolde always has a predictable affect on me.”

  How smooth he is, Flora thought. How hatefully smooth.

  “Now, then,” he graciously went on, “why don’t we go out to the stables and see if you can decide on some horses?” His offer was pleasantly put, his voice undemonstrative again, unruffled.

  She wanted to hit him and wipe that well-bred smile from his face. And mar that unruffled calm. With inexplicable, hot-tempered resentment, she also wished him to pay for Isolde’s presence in his life.

  Chapter Four

  The stables were built of the same cream sandstone as the house, the style reminiscent of lavish royal studs in size and amenities. Each stall had running water piped in from a reservoir in the foothills, the half walls were of imported mahogany, the large stalls so immaculate Flora wondered what ratio of grooms to horses was necessary to maintain such cleanliness. This was the third day she’d visited the stables, and each time it appeared as though fresh hay had been newly spread in the stalls, the horses had been recently brushed, the stone floors between the rows of polished wooden compartments had been freshly washed. And if she had been less peeved with the owner of the pristine establishment, she might have posed her questions and assuaged her curiosity.

  As it was, she followed the lengthy tour of available horses principally as an observer, speaking only when necessary, keeping her answers brief but courteous, smiling at her host with politeness but not sincerity, wishing on more than one occasion that it were possible to land a solid kick where it would do the charming Comte de Chastellux the most good.

  In this temperate fashion she helped her father decide on several hors
es—hunters, racers, riding stock. George Bonham’s impassioned enthusiasm more than made up for his daughter’s less effusive response; in fact, in the grip of his delight in Adam’s stellar bloodstock, the earl appeared unaware of Flora’s muted feelings.

  “By God, you’ve prime mounts, Adam,” he declared as they stood before one of the larger stalls, admiring a three-year-old thoroughbred stallion. “No wonder your colors are taking so many prize purses of late. What’s the price on this beauty? Harry Aston would fall to defeat with a goer of this quality running for me.”

  “Sorry, George, but this youngster’s a special favorite of mine. He’s not for sale.”

  “For the right price everything’s for sale,” the earl said with a smile for his host. “Come, now, name it.”

  Adam shook his head. “I can’t. Magnus is going to win the Grand Prix for me next summer at Longchamps.”

  He raced in France too, then, not only in America, Flora thought, wondering how he dealt with his wife when he met her at the races. Did they nod at each other when they passed, or did he snap at her too? Or was he simply a consummate liar and they enjoyed a marriage of convenience—convenient to both their licentious libidos?

  “You’ll be up against Devonshire’s Whirlwind at Longchamps,” the earl pointed out. “Freddie’s bound to run him again after taking a first there last season.”

  “I’d suggest putting a large bet on Devonshire’s horse to place next year, then, and you’ll profit. Because Magnus is going to win.”

  “From the sound of it,” George Bonham said with regret, “there’s no room for negotiation. I don’t suppose you have a brother to this horse hidden away somewhere,” he added.

  “I’ve his half brother,” Adam offered, “who has definite promise, though he’s still fairly young. Would you like to see him? He’s across the stable yard in the other wing.”

  “Is he for sale?” And at Adam’s nod the earl said, “Lead the way.”

  The dark bay was a beauty: powerful, long-legged, sleek—and within minutes the men had agreed on a price. At Adam’s suggestion a groom readied the horse for a trial run so the earl could see the thoroughbred’s speed.

  Lord Haldane helped with the tack, his excitement obvious as he kept up a running commentary on the bay’s glorious attributes and the possibility of future revenge on the Earl of Huntley.

  It was an old rivalry, sportive rather than serious, but it pleased Flora to see her father’s exhilaration.

  “Are you coming, dear?” the earl queried as the groom set the last buckle in place. He patted the bay’s glossy neck. “Let’s see what this splendid creature can do.”

  “I’ve a lady’s mount perfect for Hyde Park,” Adam interjected. “I thought I’d show her to Lady Flora. We’ll meet you at the track later.”

  “Come on, then, Tom,” the earl promptly declared, hardly listening to the complete explanation, eager to see the horse run. “Does he really do a mile in one forty-six?” And without a backward glance George Bonham and the groom led the thoroughbred away, both men deeply engrossed in a discussion of timed runs.

  Adam and Flora watched the two men disappear through the distant doorway into the bright morning sunlight. It was cool in the shadowed stable … and quiet. So the sound of their breathing seemed magnified.

  “I don’t have a horse to show you,” Adam softly said, sliding a gentle brushing fingertip over a tendril that had loosened from Flora’s chignon. “Although maybe you knew that.”

  “Of course I didn’t,” she retorted, not sure in the chaos of her mind whether she was perjuring herself or not. “And don’t!” she added, slapping his hand away, still ruffled from their scene at breakfast. She glared at him. “I think I’m angry with you.”

  “I know I’m angry with you,” he bluntly said.

  “Really,” she said in soft rebuke. “It’s hard to tell.” She cast a significant glance at the fingers he was rubbing.

  He slowly exhaled, deeply frustrated by his unsatisfied libido, by Flora’s tempting lure, by his stinging fingers. “I don’t appreciate senseless challenges about my wife,” he said, ill-tempered and querulous. “Especially,” he added, his voice taking on a cool clarity, “after a sleepless night.”

  “Did I keep you awake?” Flora queried, gibing and overgracious, “or was it you who wouldn’t let me sleep?” she sweetly asked.

  “Don’t start,” Adam growled.

  “My, we’re touchy. But regardless of the reasons for your fatigue,” she retorted, sarcasm rich in her voice, “I don’t appreciate snappish orders from you. Just because we spent the night together doesn’t give you authority over my life. Before, during, and after sex,” she precisely enunciated, “I make my own decisions, and if I wish to meet your wife someday, I will.”

  “Whether I like it or not.” A suppressed fury vibrated beneath the curt words.

  “Yes.”

  Utter silence surrounded them, a kind of palpable anger strumming in the air.

  The distant wing was less busy, the few horses housed in the facility resting after their morning workouts, the light from the low windows diffused by the immense space and high arched ceiling.

  “You may rule your household and small empire here with an iron fist,” Flora enunciated into the crisp silence, half turning to leave, “but you don’t rule me.”

  Moving with blurring speed, Adam’s hand clamped hard on her wrist. “Maybe I can,” he murmured, drawing her back.

  She wasn’t sure if the gleam in his eyes was mischief or anger or some innocuous reflection of light from the windows. Was he entertaining himself, or was he truly provoked? But she answered without amusement, for she’d lived too long an independent woman. “Some people,” she pronounced with regal imperiousness, her body taut with affront, “won’t allow you to have carte blanche with their life, Mr. Serre.”

  “Meaning you,” he said.

  “Yes. Now kindly release me.”

  “We seem to be at an impasse.” He still retained his hold on her wrist, though his grip had loosened.

  “I don’t think so, Monsieur le Comte, because I’m going to walk away.”

  “We’re not in a London drawing room, darling,” he softly drawled. “It’s a different world out here. Maybe you can’t walk away.” But he released her wrist as if to say: “Try.”

  She stood very straight in her mannish blouse and plain skirt, her spine stiffly erect, her eyes lifted to his direct with challenge. “I’m not so easily intimidated, Adam, by your reputation for violence and your royal prerogatives in this valley. For God’s sake, do you think me just out of the schoolroom?”

  “On the contrary, darling,” Adam said, smiling faintly, amusement suddenly vivid in his eyes, “what I like about you is your frank and unconstrained worldliness. Which makes everything so much more interesting—”

  “And less predictable,” she returned with a small, heated vehemence. “Keep that in mind.”

  “That too.” He said it pleasantly, as though they were discussing dance cards instead of imperious principles. Then his gaze drifted away, surveyed the great length of the stable wing, the open doorway, and when his eyes met hers again, he said, as if oblivious to their prior conversation, “It seems we’re quite alone.”

  “Not for long, I’m sure,” she briskly said, a sureness to her voice. “Father should return soon.”

  Adam shook his head. “The track’s across the river.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not some timid ingenue, Adam, who’s uncertain how to deal with you.” But her attention had been drawn to the fluid dark silk of his hair as it swung over the starched collar of his shirt. Imprudent memory recalled its sleek texture and fragrance.

  “Lucie should be in the schoolroom for another hour or so.”

  “I fail to understand,” Flora declared, an uncharacteristic primness infusing her voice—when she perfectly well understood, when she could already feel the rising heat flowing through her body, when such salacious intent
sent a shiver of longing down her spine.

  “I should be more direct, then,” Adam murmured, taking a step toward her.

  “I won’t allow this.” She moved a step backward, determined to resist his casual arrogance.

  “Revelation has overcome you?”

  “Damn you, Adam. As if your lust can be concealed.”

  “Or yours,” he softly whispered, looking down at her trembling hands. “Even if you won’t admit it,” he added in a husky undertone, advancing another step, gently forcing her back against the polished mahogany wall. “I felt your desire across the breakfast table,” he whispered, lowering his head so their eyes were almost level, “and I saw it in your eyes. I can smell lust in the scent of your body, and I can’t wait until tonight.” His hands came up to rest palm down on either side of her head.

  “And if I say no, now and tonight …” Her voice was hushed.

  “You can’t.” His smile was wicked.

  “Maybe I can …”

  “Maybe you’re wrong.” Leaning into her, he pinned her to the wall with the hard length of his body, his arousal rigid against her belly.

  He didn’t kiss her—deliberately—wanting to force her to acknowledge the utter truth of her need. Of their need. Without his customary effortless seduction or charming words. Needing her to acknowledge her desire as a sop to his chafing frustration.

  “Please!” She attempted to move against the solid weight of his body.

  “Are you asking me?” Adam whispered, his breath warm on her mouth.

  “Oh, God … Adam, please …” But her voice had dropped to a breathy sigh, and her taut posture had altered, yielded.

  “We’ll try it standing up the first time …,” he murmured, moving one of his hands, beginning to lift the heavy twill of her skirt. “And then … after that … you might like to see the hayloft …” His words were promises of pleasure, low, heated, intense with suppressed urgency. “Or do you want me to stop?” His hand paused, the crush of her skirt and petticoat at midthigh. “Look at me,” he softly ordered.

  Her dark lashes slowly lifted. Driven by burning desire, she could no more control their ascent than she could arrest the sweet aching heat coiling deep inside her.