“Husband indeed,” she harrumphed.
He recognized her near constant trembling for what it was. More than excess weight put on over the years, more than moral superiority. No, it was fear. Fear that if she lost her grip on the tiller of her standards, she might lose her heading, her purpose, her position altogether.
But he could never remark on such a thing. In the history of their interactions as siblings it was not the done thing, any more than it would have behooved him to propose marriage to the scullery maid. So he settled on the expected response—the kind that had ever characterized their relationship since their childhood when he discovered her fear of spiders and delighted in answering her screams by crushing the offending arachnid and tormenting her with the remains.
“You need a man to reform,” he needled. “I hear Lord Chuddleigh is in dire need of it.”
Her bosom expanded with an impending explosion.
“If you refuse to undertake such a daunting task, there’s a novel in the study. Pride and Prejudice, I believe the title is. You might find it edifying. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late.”
He left her spluttering on the threshold and leapt into his waiting barouche. The horses’ hooves clopped loudly on wet cobblestones as he set off for Boulton Row. Bone-chilling wind accompanied another rainy evening.
As much as he hated to give Mariah credit, she was right about one thing. He couldn’t attend the theater tonight, with or without a chaperone. While the outing might prove a welcome distraction for Sophia, he preferred not to expose her to the ton’s speculative glances.
His carriage rumbled to a halt outside the St. Claires’ town house. The moment the stairs were lowered, he bounded from the vehicle into a misty drizzle and up the front steps. In response to his knock, Billings whipped the door open almost immediately.
“I believe Miss St. Claire is expecting me,” he said when the butler remained in the doorway, blocking his entrance.
“I shall have to inquire to make sure her plans haven’t changed.”
“I see.” He didn’t, but he had no choice but to wait in the foyer while the butler made his inquiry.
After a few moments, a white-faced Sophia, still clad in a muslin day dress, drifted down the staircase. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my lord. I cannot possibly attend the theater tonight. Not after what’s happened.”
He tugged off a glove, finger by finger. “I’d drawn the same conclusion myself.”
“But you do not know the whole of it. Once Julia comes home, there’s going to be a horrible scandal.”
“Hadn’t we already worked that out?”
“I’m sure it will be far worse than expected. Julia will never be able to show her face in society again. Not after the kinds of rumors Eleanor is certain to spread.”
He stared for a beat. “Eleanor?”
“Yes, from the shop yesterday. Lady Whitby’s niece. I’m afraid that under the circumstances …”
The hair on the back of his neck rose as she trailed off and cast her eyes to the floor. “Under the circumstances what?”
With shaking fingers, she reached out and plucked at his sleeve. “You must see that our alliance is impossible now. Surely you do not wish to connect your title to … Well, the likes of the St. Claires.”
He hoisted a brow. “You’re crying off now? With no witness about to make it stick?”
“Please.”
To his astonishment, he noted a tremor in her lower lip. This was no act, no fit of pique carried out before others for form’s sake. She was serious and, if he didn’t miss his guess, unhappy at the prospect of carrying out her duty.
He took her chin in his hand, raising her gaze to his. Her wide blue eyes swam with tears. “What’s this now?”
“Isn’t it what you wanted? It was our agreement that I would cry off. It’s only happened sooner than expected, but under the circumstances—”
“Hang the circumstances. Get your wrap.”
She cast a despondent glance at her limp dress. “I cannot possibly go out in society. Not now and not like this. Not unaccompanied.”
“Where I’m taking you, there will be no one to see.”
She stepped away from him, breaking their physical contact. His hand dropped to his side. She turned her head to the left, watching him from the corner of one eye, wary. “Where are you taking me?”
“For a ride in my carriage. I’d like to discuss our agreement if you’re amenable.”
SOPHIA hunched in her cloak as they rattled off. She could barely believe she’d left with him, and without so much as informing anyone of her whereabouts. Why, she was as bold and as brazen as Julia.
Guilt over her sister settled uncomfortably in her stomach. Julia, whom she’d consigned to silence in her jealousy.
Across from her, Highgate cleared his throat. “Let me make one thing clear from the outset. Do not concern yourself for my sake about attaching scandal to my name. For one thing, I have already weathered worse than this. For another, you have done nothing scandalous.”
She glanced at their surroundings, acutely aware they were alone. The memory of what had happened the last time they rode alone together in this carriage lingered in her mind. Her lips tingled with the recalled sensation of his mouth moving over hers.
“Not unless you count the circumstances of our first meeting.”
He waved a hand, a shadow flitting through the darkness. “Society’s rules are ridiculous, are they not, when a man can be said to have compromised a lady in coming to her aid?”
“You and I both know nothing untoward happened, but—”
“Vicious tongues with nothing better to do than invent lies about decent young ladies for their own amusement have always existed and will continue to do so. You and I cannot stop them, but we can ignore them.”
She studied him from beneath her lashes. “Are you planning on ignoring your own sister?”
His mouth stretched into a wicked grin that dropped the weight of years from his face. It didn’t make him look young, exactly—only young enough, and yet experienced, wise to the ways of the world. A finger of flame burrowed deep into her belly. Just in time, she stopped herself from pressing a hand to the spot.
“For years, I’ve made a habit of ignoring my sister whenever possible. I see no reason to stop now.”
Laughter bubbled up inside her, and she gave it free rein. As she subsided, his dark eyes captured hers. He still wore that wicked grin. “You’re quite beautiful when you laugh. I’m sorry I haven’t had occasion to see that expression on your face more often.”
Heat crept up her cheeks, even as her smile faded. She ducked her head. “Thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t had much reason to smile lately.”
“Have you ever?”
She looked him full in the face, trying to gauge his expression. He watched her with a raw intensity she’d only ever seen on the faces of her suitors. Her breath hitched at the thought, while her heart raced ahead. “Yes, of course I have.”
“Tell me about one of them.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand. “Wait. I have a condition. None of them can concern Clivesden.”
She pressed her lips together. “You’ve no worries there. He’s never given me occasion to smile. Not really, and not for long. It’s easy enough to smile at a man if you want to capture his attention, but once you realize he’s not really looking at you, that perhaps he never really saw you, smiling becomes much more difficult.”
To her horror, she found herself forcing the last of her words out through a thickening throat. “I’m sorry. Here you’re trying to distract me with happy thoughts, and I’m going all maudlin on you. Why can’t I get over this?”
“It will take time. It’s like mourning a loved one.” He shifted his glance to the window, and she knew he was thinking of his dead wife. “Some days you cannot get past the overwhelming anger. Others, all you feel is a pervasive sadness that tinges everything with a hint of gray
. Still others, you catch yourself thinking about that person and all you ask yourself is why it happened to them.”
He turned his head to face her. “I am a patient man. I am willing to give you all the time you need.”
Her heart gave an odd sort of leap, something akin to shock intermingled with another emotion. But it couldn’t be hope. She’d nothing left to hope for. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve already told you. I’d like for you to reconsider our agreement.”
“Which part of our agreement?” Although, even as she asked the question, suspicion grew within her—suspicion of his intentions. He was on the verge of proposing again, only this time he was in earnest. Her pulse throbbed in her neck.
“I think you must know, but if you prefer, I shall be plain. I should like you to seriously consider becoming my wife.”
“Why? You must know I do not love you. Why should you put yourself through another unhappy marriage?”
“Because, my dear, I do not believe our union would turn into a mismatch. On the contrary, you and I get on quite well together. We can talk to each other. We share an affection for books and gardening. You would enjoy my estate in Dorset.”
“Your talk is all of sense. What of sensibility?”
“With cultivation, with nurturing, that will come. I’m already aware of the means of arousing your passions.”
She drew her cloak more tightly about her—a shield. “The other night was an aberration. I was upset.”
“Ah.” He shifted his gaze to the street. “But then I suppose you prefer a man’s looks over everything else.”
She sat up straighter. “I never said anything of the sort.”
He leaned toward her until his face hovered a few inches from hers. “And you expect me to believe I could not draw the same reaction from you again?”
She raised her chin, fully aware of the gauntlet he’d just cast at her feet. “Yes.”
“Perhaps then, we should put it to the test.”
He gave her no chance to reply, no chance to protest. Like a hawk, he swooped, closing the distance between them and sweeping her into an embrace. His lips covered hers with an urgency that brooked no denial.
His tongue pressed at the seam of her lips, demanding entry, and all thought of denial fled. He sucked her into a whirlwind of sensation where desire and need reigned supreme.
She melted into the circle of his arms, her fingers creeping along the breadth of his shoulders to enlace at the back of his neck, while deep within, an insistent pulse thrummed its own demands—shocking demands that conjured visions in her mind of the pair of them with nothing between them, not even clothes.
At the thought, she tore her mouth from his, gasping for air. He pressed his point home, his lips seeking her jaw, the lobe of her ear, her throat.
Her breasts.
She pushed the back of her head into the seat as his warm breath caressed their upper curves exposed above her bodice. An airy moan escaped her throat. His hand skated along her ribs to capture her breast. It swelled to fill his palm, and her nipple hardened to a tight peak beneath his seeking thumb.
His touch made her fidget on the seat, made her thighs rub against each other, the pressure bringing no relief from the relentless ache inside her.
He brushed kisses back up the column of her throat before claiming her mouth once more in a searing possession. Boneless, she slumped against velvet squabs until he half lay over her. Exactly where she wanted him.
Exactly where he should be.
“So tell me, my dear,” he whispered, easing back to rest his forehead against hers, “are you upset tonight?”
“Yes.”
Laughter, low and sensual, rumbled from his chest. Its tremor passed through her like a flaming arrow. “Liar.”
“No, I am upset.”
“Only because I have the right of it, and you do not wish to admit it. I shall concede one point to you, though.” He kneaded her breast, and her eyes drifted closed. He could have her so easily, and she didn’t care at all.
“What?” The word floated from her lips on a sigh.
“I have not drawn the same response from you as the other night.”
“You haven’t?”
“No.” He lowered his head and nibbled a path from her earlobe to the base of her throat. “Your passion is so much deeper tonight. So much richer. What have I awakened in you?”
What indeed? Hunger of a sort she’d never before experienced, hunger that lay deeper in her belly, hunger for him.
With a whimper, she speared her fingers through his hair, holding him to the spot. A growl erupted from him, deep and feral. His teeth rasped delicate skin followed by the soothing brand of his tongue.
Oh, she was lost entirely in a world of Highgate’s making, a world that encompassed no more than this carriage, this seat.
Him.
He was sensuality, pure and white-hot. She tilted her head back and gave over to him. Deft fingers skimmed across the bare skin above her bodice. They played along her collarbones, before sliding to her neck and onward to her nape—to the clasps of her gown.
In a few swift movements, he made short work of them. His fingers curled beneath soft muslin to peel it away from her shoulders, bringing her chemise and stays along with it. Cool air rushed over her bare breasts, raising gooseflesh, tightening her nipples to aching buds.
He drew in a sharp breath. Sophia’s eyelids fluttered open to find him staring at her body, his eyes black with need, his expression hungry like that of a starving man faced with a sumptuous feast.
He slipped his hands over her flesh until he captured a breast in each palm, testing their weight, squeezing gently. Sophia watched in fascination. His tanned hands stood in stark contrast to pale skin that had never once been exposed to any eyes but hers.
His gaze flicked to hers, caught her watching, and held, as a sinful smile stretched his lips. “Such a sensuous creature you are, my Sophia. And to think I am the fortunate man to make that discovery.”
And then he lowered his head to draw a nipple into his mouth. Desire vibrated through her, and her lips parted on a sigh. He responded with firmer pressure, suckling her, while his hand occupied her other breast. The fire in her belly roared higher, melting her until she sagged against the seat, limp and languid and willing.
Waiting for the next wanton pleasure, the next sensation.
Gathering her in his arms, he drew her into his lap, where he pressed urgent kisses to her heated skin, tweaked a nipple here, nuzzled a sensitive spot there, until she could barely imagine his next move.
Her fingers dug into his shoulder for purchase, and she simply held on and let him lead where he would. Some small spark of rationality in her brain warned that if she was not completely ruined yet, she soon would be if she did not call a halt.
Indeed, she should have stopped him long before this. But the sensations he aroused were too delicious, too overwhelming. They were utterly wicked but her body craved every kiss, every touch, and she was more than inclined to give herself over to wantonness.
More cool air rushed over bared skin—her thighs this time. If he’d managed to push up her skirts, she really ought to make him stop. His hand smoothed a path along her inner thigh, and of their own accord, her legs fell wide to accommodate his searching fingers.
She drew in a breath to protest, but it released on an airy note as he probed her most intimate flesh. “Highgate?”
He studied her face with an odd intensity—as if he expected something of her.
“You cannot convince me you do not desire my touch. The reaction of your body tells me otherwise.” Shallow breaths clipped his words.
His fingers slipped into her, oh God, so easily. They parted slick folds of flesh and examined, searched until she let out a cry.
He groaned in triumph, and then his fingers became relentless in their circling of that one spot. She trembled beneath him. Oh how she ached, just there, where his knowing fingers
touched, over and over in an unforgiving rhythm.
She panted and gasped to its tempo, her hips straining against him, the jostling of the carriage adding counterpoint to each movement. In the midst of all this sensual assault, he was leading her somewhere—along a path to sin without doubt, but somewhere more immediate.
Her body recognized it if her mind and experience did not. Internal muscles gathered and clenched. She writhed and arched and shook. Her breath tore from her in ragged spurts. And in the midst of it all, pleasure mounted toward a peak high above her. She spiraled upward with it.
And then, without warning, it crashed in on her. Her body convulsed about his fingers. His lips descended to swallow her moans.
She returned his kiss obliviously until he eased back. She opened her eyes to find him staring down at her.
Gradually, her senses returned until she was trundling through the streets of Mayfair in a barouche, sprawled across the seat with her gown undone and her hair in wanton disarray. A blush crept up her cheeks, and she crossed her arms to hide herself.
Gently, Highgate took her wrists in his hands. “A pity to hide such perfection, but I’m afraid we must.”
She shook her head in confusion, as he helped her up and set her gown to rights.
“But—” She couldn’t go on. She had no experience on which to base this encounter, but a vague feeling grew inside her that they’d left things rather unfinished. Powerful as it was, the pleasure belonged to her alone.
She watched Highgate closely, in search of some indication of what she ought to do next. His expression was unreadable, guarded somehow, as if he were holding himself back. She raised a hand to brush her fingertips along his cheek, but he wrapped his fingers about hers before the touch landed.
“I should take you home now.”
“But—Is that it? Am I ruined now?”
He gave a strangled laugh. “I am trying very hard not to ruin you—” A tremor racked him, tangible through the fingers laced with hers. “At the moment, the prospect is chancy at best. I beg you not to make it worse by touching me.”
A Most Scandalous Proposal Page 24
