“I don’t see how I could forget.” Her voice wavered.
“Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. “Trust me.”
She closed her eyes. “Where are you?”
“Getting nearer.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I can hear your breathing. Put out your hands.”
Reluctantly Abigail reached out in front of her, keeping her eyes tightly closed. She felt dizzy and off-balance, and when something hit her elbow, she would have staggered and fallen if he hadn’t seized her arm and yanked her to him. Gasping in relief, she clutched at his coat and burrowed into his side, desperately happy not to be alone, even if they were still entombed in the pitch-black grotto.
Sebastian wrapped his arms around her and tried not to think how perfectly she fit against him. She was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, and for a minute he just held her, letting his own pulse calm down. When the light had gone out, he’d cursed—and then he heard the panic in her voice, and cursed himself. What an idiot, bringing a young lady down into a cave without any forethought at all, not even a lantern that would remain lit. If he’d had an ounce of sense, they would be strolling along as before, the air between them humming with awareness but still separating them.
Now, though . . . nothing separated them. The hum had become a crackle of desire, at least in his head. He raised one hand to touch her hair and inhaled deeply of roses, the same scent of roses that drifted in his windows all summer from the overgrown flowers his mother had planted decades ago. Abigail Weston smelled dangerously of home.
Gradually her trembling lessened and then stopped. Sebastian made no effort to release her, and she didn’t move. Against his will, the images from 50 Ways to Sin drifted across his mind. Lady Constance had called the darkness very freeing, and she was right—it freed his imagination from all restraint and sense. He imagined kissing Abigail Weston until she forgot all about the darkness. He imagined letting his hands roam over every soft, silky inch of her skin until she begged for more. He imagined laying her down and making love to her, driving her wild with passion so that he wouldn’t be the only one dying of desire . . .
“Mr. Vane,” she whispered against his chest.
A tremor went through him; his whole body was taut and hard. “Sebastian,” he said before he could think better of it. “No one calls me by name,” he said in lame explanation. He couldn’t possibly say that he just wanted to hear her say it.
He felt her indrawn breath. It pressed her bosom against his ribs. “Sebastian,” she breathed, and he ground his teeth together. Not only bewitching eyes and perfect legs, but a soft, seductive voice. He wasn’t going to hell for lusting after her; he was already in hell. “What should we do now?”
Almost unconsciously, his arm tightened around her. She didn’t protest—in fact, she leaned a little more of her weight on him. He held her in his right arm, which was putting more burden on his wounded knee, but he didn’t give a damn. He turned his head so his lips brushed her temple. “What do you want to do, Abigail?”
If she said she wanted to find the way out as quickly as possible, he would do it. He would let her go and get them out of this benighted grotto, and then go home and burn that wicked pamphlet that was making him think of so many other things they could do in the dark. In fact, he hoped she would say it, and save him from the temptation before him.
“The other day,” she whispered. “In the woods. When you held me and told me to read that story again . . . I wondered . . . I thought for a moment that you might have been about to . . .”
“To kiss you?” he finished when she didn’t. He felt the slight tremor that went through her. “Were you relieved or sorry that I didn’t?”
For a long moment she was utterly still and silent. He let out his breath, slowly, telling himself he was glad she was relieved, even though his body didn’t agree.
“Sorry,” she said, the word barely audible.
That did it. He lifted her chin, brushing his thumb over her lips to assure his aim was true. “So was I,” he murmured, and kissed her.
Despite being an outcast in Richmond, he hadn’t quite been a monk, and before the war he’d been considered eligible. Still, it had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman in a meaningful way. And Abigail . . . suddenly it seemed as though he’d been waiting his entire life to kiss her.
She made a startled sound when he tipped her head, but she parted her lips and let him taste her, so sweet and hot he told himself he should stop at once. But it was as though his restraint and command of himself, once breached, began to crumble like dust. His cane clattered to the floor as he wrapped his other arm around her. She stretched up on her toes, holding tight to his coat, and slid her tongue over his. He shuddered at the invitation, innocent but bold. His hands drifted down her back, molding her to him, and instead of starting in shock, she sighed and arched her back. She was still kissing him, making the most arousing little moans a woman could make. Her fingers tugged at his hair. Rapidly losing his grip on conscious thought, Sebastian finally gave in to the screaming urges of his body. He cupped his hands around her hips and pulled her, hard, against his erection.
She gasped, clinging to his neck. His brain felt fevered; some devil was whispering in his ear of all the ways he could please both of them without actually taking her virginity. His hands burned to touch her skin. He flexed his spine, thrusting his hips against hers.
“Oh my,” she gasped, her voice raspy against his throat. “This—this is what Lady Constance wrote of, isn’t it?”
It shattered the spell. He jerked backward, keeping his hold on her elbows but now at arm’s length. Every inch of him throbbed in frustration. Sebastian closed his eyes and struggled to regain his control.
“Sebastian?”
He flinched at his name, spoken so invitingly. He was probably leaving bruises on her arm, but he could barely move. “Partly,” he said through clenched teeth.
“No,” she whispered. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Sebastian didn’t say anything. The answer seemed obvious to him.
“Is it the same?” she asked in the same hushed, hesitant voice. “In the light?”
Christ above. He imagined making love to her in full daylight, her dark auburn hair streaming over her bare breasts. He imagined kissing his way up her legs, able to admire every bit of her. He imagined her eyes dark and smoky with passion as he brought her to climax, holding himself deep inside her the way Lady Constance described her lover’s actions. How could a man blindfold her and miss that sight? “No,” he managed to reply. “It’s better when a man can see his lover, and feel her gaze upon him.” His body spasmed at the thought. “I expect it is the same for a woman.”
The silence seemed to echo more loudly than his words. “Oh,” she said at last, her voice husky with desire. “Better than that . . . ?”
One hundred times better, he silently answered her. And one thousand times worse for him, if he couldn’t rein in this craving. With one boot he felt around for his cane, stooping to collect it when it rattled on the stone floor. “Let’s find our way out,” he said, taking a firm grip on her hand and beginning a slow, steady search for the passage that would lead them out of this cursed cave.
“Are you angry?” she asked, a thread of bewilderment in her question.
“Only at myself.”
“Why?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed his hand. “I—I wanted you to kiss me,” she murmured, as if he hadn’t known that.
“That was more than a mere kiss.”
“I know.” This time he could hear the little smile, the subtle satisfaction of a woman who recognized a man’s hunger for her. Instead of dashing cold water on his desire, it only made him want her more.
“Perhaps I ought not to say that, but I’ve read Lady Constance’s stories, and I always wondered if
they could possibly be true . . .” She fell silent for a moment. “Do you think I’m wicked for reading them?”
Good God in heaven, no. “Why would I think that?”
“Because . . . Well, because they’re shameless and wicked.”
“Passion? Pleasure?” He stopped and faced her, even though the darkness around them was still absolute. “I assure you, those are neither shameless nor wicked, so long as both parties are willing.”
Her breath was quick and shallow. “Even if the lovers are not married?”
He closed his eyes. Of course he couldn’t tell her marriage made no difference, that it was possible to have both passion and pleasure without ever coming in sight of a vicar. She was an heiress, destined to marry some fortunate fellow, and he hoped she was very happy in that marriage. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been married.”
“Neither have I,” she said—unnecessarily. “But perhaps the shameless, wicked aspect makes it even more pleasurable.”
He missed a step and almost fell over his own cane. “I’m sure it can be just as pleasurable in marriage.”
“How can one assure that?”
He could hardly think. They were probably walking in circles in this glass-covered chamber, trapped by his inability to stop thinking about pleasure and wickedness and the fact that she was far more willing than she ought to be. Probably not as willing as Lady Constance, who really did seem to be shameless in her amours, but too willing for his weakened restraint. He told himself that if he ever did make love to Abigail Weston, he wanted it to be in a better spot than a cold, dark cave, because he wanted to see every little flicker of ecstasy cross her face. If only he hadn’t read that damned story . . .
Of course, he would never make love to Abigail Weston.
“I take it that was but one of Lady Constance’s adventures,” he said to divert her. “Fifty Ways to Sin implies there are fifty stories.”
“Oh—I suppose. I never thought of that. It first appeared this spring. You—you won’t tell anyone I bought it, will you?”
He almost smiled. “Never.”
“I was very surprised you bought it. I didn’t think gentlemen much cared for the stories.”
“I didn’t know what it was when I bought it.”
“Right,” she said quickly, and cleared her throat. “Gentlemen in London think it’s horrible. Constance’s lovers all bear striking resemblances to men of town. Any man whose name is connected with them usually gets up in arms and issues a public denial.”
The story he’d read had been lavishly complimentary of the man’s ability and physical attributes. Sebastian thought most men would fancy being thought such masterful lovers. “What a brilliant bit of publicity that must be.”
Her laugh sounded surprised. “I suppose it must be!”
His heart leapt. He’d made her laugh, and it filled him with unexpected exuberance. He almost turned and kissed her again, not strictly from desire this time but simply to share his delight in her happiness. In the nick of time he stopped himself; the effects of the first kiss still sizzled through his veins. If he kissed her again, he couldn’t guarantee it would be brief or chaste. He tightened his grip on her hand and swept his cane in a wider arc, searching for the doorway. For both their sakes, he needed to get them out of here.
The cane caught. He prodded around, and realized they had reached the wall. Another few steps, and the wall turned a corner. He heaved a great sigh of relief. “Good news, Miss Weston: I have found the way out.” He tugged on her hand and began walking with more purpose. “Mind the doorway.”
Abigail’s smile faded. As much as she wanted to get out of the pitch-black grotto, she also felt a perverse longing to stay. Now she knew what Constance had described in her last story. There was an intimacy and freedom in the darkness that one never had in the light. She doubted Sebastian would have kissed her if the candle hadn’t gone out, and she knew she wouldn’t have been able to ask him about passion and pleasure if she’d been able to see his face, and he hers. She’d admitted to her fondness for 50 Ways to Sin, her craving for passion, her desperate curiosity about taking a lover, even outside of marriage, and he had been neither shocked nor horrified. What’s more, as long as he held her, she wasn’t afraid of the dark. Her fear had gone away almost as soon as he pulled her into his arms, comforting and protective.
And then there was the way he’d kissed her. That, Abigail sensed, was passion—not the flowery, extravagant sort that Lady Constance described, but real, raw passion.
Even though it felt they had walked an eternity to get to the glass chamber, now the passage seemed short and direct, and before long the blackness ahead of them lightened to gray. As the light grew stronger, so did Abigail’s worry about what would happen aboveground. He hadn’t said a word since telling her he’d discovered the way out of the grotto, and she didn’t know how to prolong the intimacy of the darkness in the bright light of day—although she really wanted to.
He released her hand when the steps came into sight. He didn’t look at her as he held the vines out of the way for her to climb out of the grotto. Boris raised his head as they emerged, and scrambled up from his nap to come lick Abigail’s hand. She petted the big dog and covertly watched his master scrape the moss and cobwebs from his cane.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He stabbed the cane into the dirt and reached up to retrieve his hat from the bush where he’d left it. “Don’t visit the grotto alone, Miss Weston. I hope you see it’s not entirely safe.” The softer side of him was gone, it seemed. His voice was once more flat and cool, and the hat hid his face from view.
“I think it might be safer for my peace of mind, alone,” she murmured. She picked up her bonnet and slipped Boris the last bite of cheese from her pocket. He wagged his tail and gave a playful woof before bounding away down a path. “Will you tell me the truth about something?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to leave you in peace?”
He turned, watching his dog run away. “I don’t see how you can.”
“I won’t walk in the woods anymore, if you don’t want to see me again.”
She could just see the corner of his mouth turn upward, but when he spoke, his voice was even and controlled. “That would hardly leave me any peace. You know I want to see you again.”
“Then why—” she began, but he had not finished.
“I’ve already admitted I want you. I’ve already told you I want to show you every manner of sin Lady Constance writes of, and then some.” He finally faced her, and the dark hunger in his eyes made her skin heat. “But I’m trying to exercise some honor where you are concerned. Try not to make it more difficult than it already is.”
All she could think about was his lips on hers, the way he held her, the feel of his body, thrumming with tightly-leashed strength, hard and taut against hers. She was as wicked as Constance. “Then why won’t you call on me?”
“And say what?” He arched one brow. “Shall we sit in your mother’s drawing room and discuss the latest escapades of the notorious Constance?”
She flushed. “Obviously not . . .”
“Would we pick up where we left off in the grotto?” His eyes drifted down, and Abigail felt it like a physical caress on her bosom. It made her want to fling herself at him, and it made her angry.
She shook her head, yanking on her bonnet and tying the ribbons with jerky motions. “I see. You don’t mind kissing me in the grotto, but you can’t be bothered to call on me like a gentleman. You don’t want to marry me, just to have a little fun.”
“Your father would never consent.”
“Did you ask him already?” she asked in exaggerated surprise. “He didn’t say a word to me!”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why is it ridiculous?�
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For a moment she thought he would reply with just as much anger and feeling. His eyes flashed, and his fingers flexed around the head of his cane. But then, like a lamp being turned down, the heat and hunger drained from his face. “Because you’re not for me,” he said gently. “No matter how much I want you, I know I can’t have you—just like a sound knee or a restored estate. You deserve better. And so I ought not to have kissed you, or even said anything.”
“So you regret kissing me?” She could barely form the words, choking on dismay.
He hesitated. “No.”
She nodded, mortified and furious at once. Part of her wanted to beg him to kiss her again, the future be damned, but the rest of her wanted more—not just a brief, forbidden taste of passion, but love, true and lasting. “Thank you, Mr. Vane. I understand now. You wanted those other things, and tried to get them even though you knew you might fail. I suppose that tells me something.”
“It’s not the same,” he retorted.
“No, not at all.” She glared at him. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve. I would like you to show me passion—and I know you could. But I want more than that.”
She turned on her heel and stormed away, waiting—hoping—for him to call after her, to stop her, to apologize, to snatch her into his arms for another scorching kiss. And she heard . . . nothing.
When she finally whirled around, seething with frustration and ready to ring a peal over his head, he was gone.
Chapter 10
It rained the next day, which perfectly suited Sebastian’s mood. He would have snarled at the sun if it had risen as usual, tempting him to take his usual walk into the woods. As the rain beat down upon the roof and streaked the windows, he could at least comfort himself that she wouldn’t be in the woods, either. But then, after her last furious words to him at the grotto, perhaps she would never walk there again.
He glared at the crackling fire and brooded over it. On one hand, he knew he was right to scare Abigail Weston away. There were numerous reasons, and he knew each and every one was sound. She was an heiress; he was deep in debt. She had loving and attentive parents who would want to see her well matched in marriage; he was rumored to be as mad as his lunatic father had been, a murderer and a thief. She was a beauty; he was a cripple. She had a tender heart and a warm spirit that would make her attractive to any man; he was too far gone in his lonely ways to make any woman happy. He told himself that even if he tried to get her, he would fail, and yet . . .
It Takes a Scandal Page 12
