Trial by Desire

by Courtney Milan

  But she did not. She was more vulnerable than ever—but for the first time, with his eyes on her, she realized that in this, for all of his jokes and casual airs, they were evenly matched. He wanted her. He wanted her so desperately that he feared his own response, so powerfully that he’d fled to China and stayed there for three years.

  When he came, she felt it clear to her toes. He met her gaze afterward. They didn’t touch. He stood and walked away to a basin of water that stood on the other side of the room. Slowly, the heat dissipated again, and she was left with nothing but a thin layer of silk and the frigid temperature of the room.

  IT HAD BEEN A FEAT of impossible proportions, what Ned had accomplished, knowing that Kate was holding a secret back from him. He had yet to earn her complete trust and so he’d kept himself from the final consummation, no matter what his body had desired. But he had been in charge. He had been in control—not his body, nor his own foolish wants. It had been proof of the sort he’d longed for.

  See? I’m not some boy, to be led about by my desires any longer.

  He set the towel down and turned back to Kate. As he did so, all his fine self-congratulations faded. She was laid out on his bed, the thin film of her gown displaying rather than hiding the lines of her body—sweet, enticing curves, all the more appealing because he could still feel the echo of her skin against his hands.

  She lay on his bed, the embodiment of everything warm and comforting.

  There was a reason he hadn’t lit a fire. Some men might relax their guard, might simply forget about their troubles. Ned, however, had learned that there was always danger. He heard a siren song of home and heart, of comfort and no further need for strife. What she didn’t understand was that he could dash himself on the rocks of complacency as easily as on darker shoals.

  He knew. He’d done it before.

  She smiled at him. “Ned. Are you going to have someone lay a fire?”

  He wasn’t quite sure what he’d hoped to accomplish these last few moments, but he suddenly realized what he’d managed to give her. Satiety without satisfaction; the illusion of closeness, without any actual penetration.

  And now, when it was over, she was beginning to realize there was nothing left but the cold. It had won out again. In the mirror above the basin, he saw a little shiver go through her.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t sleep with a fire.”

  She sat up in bed and stared at him. “Some people go without comforts. Usually it is because they cannot afford them.”

  True. He couldn’t afford himself too much comfort—any more than he could give up the regimen of physical exercise he engaged in. Comfort was the enemy. Comfort was complacency. Comfort lulled him into believing that he did not need to worry about the future.

  She huffed. “You don’t sleep with a fire? Well, I do.”

  Her import was obvious. She wanted to stay the night, wanted to lie down next to him in bed and tempt him all night with the brush of her limbs against his, the scent of lilac on her skin. It would be so easy to succumb to her, to wallow in the warmth of her. It would be easy, right up until the moment when it was not.

  But it would be weakness to light a fire just because the air was a little cold. Just as it was weakness to indulge in one’s desire for intercourse, merely because a woman was willing.

  She looked at him levelly. “You’re not saying anything. Does that mean you want me to go?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She gathered the shreds of her gown about her. “Well. That hurts.”

  She had confessed her hurt to him so easily, without worrying what he might think of her. Ned felt a twinge of oh-so-unworthy jealousy.

  Just before he’d left for China, he had once sat in on a set of meetings that his solicitor had arranged, so that he might hire an estate manager. He had not known what sort of questions to put to the candidates, beyond requesting letters attesting to their character and competence.

  His solicitor, however, had filled the time. The man hadn’t interrogated the potential workers on their views about agriculture or animal husbandry—questions that Ned might have found relevant. Instead, he’d concentrated on questions that seemed irredeemably useless.

  “What,” the man had asked each fellow earnestly, “is your greatest weakness?”

  It was a stupid question because it was nothing but an invitation to spout falsehoods. No man had ever answered with, “I drink to excess and beat my children.” Instead, the vast majority of them had come up with answers that were carefully crafted to avoid any appearance of weakness at all.

  “I am so eager to serve my masters,” one fellow had said, “that I must sometimes take extra precautions so as not to work on the Sabbath day, in violation of God’s commandments.”

  Another man’s greatest weakness had ostensibly been a proclivity for boiled sweets.

  It hardly seemed a surprise. Only an idiot or a very brave man would confess his true feelings. Ned kept his greatest weakness lodged deep inside him, hidden from common view. It was a deep, frightening chasm of inadequacy, which he had learned to hide behind a veneer of humor. He’d papered over that chasm these past years, but he kept it in check with what Lady Harcroft had called black magic tricks. Cold at night. Exercise in the morning. Tricks designed to keep him firmly in control of himself.

  Everyone lied about weakness. Everyone, that was, except Kate. She admitted fear and hurt without pausing at all.

  It was not just that she owned up to her weakness. She owned her weakness; it did not own her.

  She did not need to tiptoe around it. She did not need to grab control and hold on, unwilling to let go. She just said it aloud.

  She stared at him, and he realized he’d been silent all along.

  He wanted her to stay. He wanted to own not just her body, but her easy self-possession. To feel the strength of her seep into him as she slept beside him at night. All he would have to do was light a spill from the oil lamp and start the kindling going with a little bit of fire.

  She wouldn’t understand what that bit of warmth would mean to him. She would see it as light and heat, not another aspect of his control, ceded to someone else. She had no way to know what he feared, had no need to fight the encroaching darkness.

  “Right.” She stood and gathered her night rail about her. Even cloaked in that filmy material, she seemed as regal as a queen. “Well, then. I suppose I should go.”

  She started to walk away from him.

  He stood, took three strides across the room and grabbed her arm.

  She looked up at him, her eyes implacable in the reflected lamplight. “What is it?”

  He couldn’t say what he meant, so instead he simply hugged her to him. She was soft and lovely, and she smelled like lilac in summer. “It’s not you,” he muttered into her hair. “It’s the fire.”

  She pulled away and raised one eyebrow. “That’s comforting,” she said in a tone that suggested she was anything but comforted. And before he could damn himself with faint explanations, she left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE MORNING WAS STILL GRAY and misty, the sun not yet over the horizon when Ned arose to say his farewells to Harcroft. The man had dressed and breakfasted by the time Ned’s boots crunched the gravel on the drive. Harcroft’s carriage waited, the boot loaded with the trunks the man had brought.

  Ned put out his hand. “Best of luck to you,” he said. “And Godspeed.” The latter he meant; he couldn’t wait until Harcroft had put miles between him and Kate. The former sentiment was about as insincere as he could manage.

  The earl clasped his arm briefly and then looked around. “Think on what I told you the other night. Think on it carefully. Because if you do find Louisa here, you’ll have to act in my stead.”

  God forbid. Ned shook his head. “I thank you for your concern. You’d best be off. You’ve a long journey ahead of you, and you’ll need every hour of daylight.” He glanced behind him.

  “Lo
oking for your wife?” Harcroft asked dryly. “Still nervous about her, eh? Still asking for her permission for every touch, and cringing like a child if she says no?”

  “Not quite.” Ned saw no reason to share the complicated details of his life with a man who believed that intimacy ought to be conducted with fists and blows. He looked away in exasperation.

  But Harcroft must have read agreement into his averted gaze because the man clapped him on the shoulders. “There. If that doesn’t motivate you, nothing will. Trust me. True men don’t ask. They take.”

  In Ned’s estimation, real men didn’t throw tantrums if their whim was thwarted.

  “Quite right,” he said. “And, oh, do look at the time! You really should be on your way.”

  “Come, Carhart. Tell me you’ll rein your wife in.”

  “She’s my wife.” He glanced over at the man. And it really is none of your concern. “Why does it matter so much?”

  Harcroft chewed his lip before leaning in close to impart his secret. “Because I think she may have instigated whatever happened with Louisa. I’ve been thinking it over, and Louisa didn’t start truly questioning my authority until she and Kate became friends. In fact, I’m sure of it. Your wife set her against me in some female fashion. I’m certain of it, although I can’t prove how—although with women, one has to just trust one’s instincts.”

  “My instincts differ,” Ned said carefully.

  Harcroft straightened, brushing his coat down. “If you won’t rein your wife in, I’ll do it for you.”

  Ned’s hands cramped with the effort of not clenching into fists. He stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. “What, precisely, are you threatening my wife with?” he asked.

  Harcroft glanced at Ned’s shoulders once, and then smiled uneasily. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. When I find Louisa again, I’ll need to make sure she’s not exposed to unsavory influences. I’d hate for you to be considered one of those.”

  Harcroft had fenced as long as Ned had known him. He was good with a rapier and quick on his feet. In all those years that Ned had known him, that confidence had made Ned believe the man was taller than he was. But standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the earl, Ned realized for the first time that he was actually taller. And after months aboard ship, where he’d labored alongside common seamen, Ned was stronger, too.

  No amount of expertise with a rapier could save Harcroft from someone who had two stone on him. It helped alleviate some of Ned’s wariness.

  “Don’t worry,” Ned replied, as carefully airy as Harcroft. “I’m not about to engage in anything untoward, and you can rely on my promise to free my wife from all unsavory influences.” Such as you.

  “Good man.” Harcroft smiled. “I knew I could depend upon you.” And then he paused, as if waiting for Ned to return the compliment.

  Ned ought to have done so. One little lie would put distance between Harcroft and his wife. But the words choked in his throat, as bitter and cutting as cinder. “I’ll take care of matters here,” he finally managed.

  Harcroft smiled again. Even though Ned had washed just ten minutes before, and brushed with tooth powder, that smile made Ned’s mouth taste foul. He should have protested. He should have told the man to take himself off for good. But if he had, Harcroft’s suspicions would have been roused. They were already on point, and while it would have been satisfying to smash the man’s face in, it wouldn’t have been particularly wise. His own wants gave way to cold clarity.

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” Harcroft said with a smirk. “You’ll see it with your wife—soon enough, mark my words. Perhaps I shall even be the one to show you.”

  That self-satisfied expression was too much to bear. Clarity abandoned Ned, and he leaned in. “I’ll conduct your search for you. I will tell you what I unearth. As soon as you leave, I’ll canvass the county on your behalf. But, Harcroft—there’s one thing you need to know.”

  Harcroft screwed up his mouth quizzically.

  “You are never to threaten my wife again.” As Ned said this, he brought himself up to his full height. Harcroft looked up at him, as if realizing for the first time just how much larger Ned was than he. “She’s mine to contend with.”

  She’s mine. It was not the most settling thought, but after last night it had begun to be true. She’d done precisely as she’d said; she’d gotten inside the hard confines of his control. Perhaps she was his, but he was ceding a portion of himself to her. And that scared him more than any smirk that passed over Harcroft’s face.

  Harcroft met his eyes. And then, slowly, he jerked his chin in a nod. Just as slowly, he got into the carriage. Ned contented himself with the thought that the earl was going away. The footman shut the door and clambered up onto the seat behind the carriage. The reins shuffled, and Harcroft’s horses pulled in their traces.

  Ned listened to the rattle of wheels over gravel as the carriage pulled away.

  For now, they’d earned a respite from all outside cares. And Ned intended to use it very, very well.

  Now it was time to talk to his wife. After what had happened last night, he had no idea what she thought of him. The possibilities ranged everywhere from very excellent to very bad. He looked around him at the dreary autumn morning.

  How terrible could matters be, with Harcroft gone?

  For the first time since he’d woken that morning, a true smile curled his lips.

  KATE WOKE when her door creaked open.

  The person who entered wasn’t her maid. Kate could tell, because the air against her face was warm. Someone had already laid the morning fire. But the curtains were still drawn shut, and the light that seeped around their edges was pale and insubstantial.

  In other words, it was not yet time to rise. Waking would mean thinking. It would mean greeting her husband—and how she was to do that after the confusion of last night, Kate couldn’t say. She was too sleepy to even contemplate humiliation, and so she closed her eyes again.

  Sadly, footsteps had the temerity to approach her bed. She glanced up through slitted eyes.

  Of course it was Ned. And of course he was carefully groomed, his hair curling about his ears in entrancing little waves. Kate didn’t even want to think about what her own hair looked like. After last night, she didn’t want to see him until she was clad in her favorite dress. Perhaps the aquamarine silk—the one everyone always said made her eyes look blue.

  “Oh, good,” he said in a tone far too cheerful for a morning that had not even properly started. “You’re awake.”

  No. She wasn’t. This was a bad dream. “Mmm,” she croaked in protest, and pulled the covers to her chin.

  He clicked his tongue at her. “Aren’t you going to rise? There’s something I want to show you.”

  She blinked up at him in bleary-eyed horror. “You want me to get out of bed? Isn’t it enough that you sleep in the cold? Why in heaven’s name would you want to arise? It’s barely dawn.”

  But she could see at least one benefit—it was too early for her to work herself into embarrassment about what they had done together last night.

  “You could join me,” she added, before her sense of shame woke properly.

  Ned’s grin broadened and he held out one hand. “Right now I think I would lose my head entirely if I tried anything beyond holding your hand. I want to savor you.”

  The way he said that word—savor—made Kate think of all the word’s meanings. To dwell on; to enjoy; to taste…

  “You,” she said shaking a finger at him from the warm cocoon she’d made of the covers, “are an evil, evil man. Particularly if you expect me to get out of bed.”

  He shrugged. “My natural modesty requires me to disclaim the description of evil until you’ve seen what I can do. I’ve done nothing truly wicked yet. Right now I must insist on labeling my behavior up until this point as merely tormenting.”

  He walked to the bed and leaned over her. He set his hands on either side of her head, gripping the covers around
her. “Kissing you,” he murmured, “now, that would be mischievous.”

  “Yes.” She inhaled his breath. Her lips tingled.

  “Touching you all over—that would be rather sinful.”

  “Indeed,” she breathed as she felt her body react sinfully to his words.

  “Bringing you to release, I suppose, might count as truly wicked.”

  “It would be almost as good on a morning as a cup of tea.”

  He leaned down, his eyes meeting hers. They had that sinful sparkle in them, as if he were planning something truly diabolical; his voice was low, and she shivered in expectation. Maybe he’d held back last night because he planned to touch her this morning. Given the pleasure she’d experienced last night, whatever he had planned was sure to be decadent. She could anticipate the languorous slide of his hands down her sides. He would touch her, soon. He had to, or she would lose her sanity.

  “Do you want to know what might be classified as truly, darkly, unforgivably evil?”

  “Yes.” Her assent was quick and breathy. “Oh, yes.”

  He smiled broadly. “This.”

  His hands fisted in the covers and then he yanked them away from her—everything from the muslin sheets to the warm wool coverlet.

  Cold morning air hit Kate’s skin and she yelped in protest, curling up involuntarily. “Ned, you beast! You led me to expect—”

  He laughed. “You wanted me to be evil, didn’t you? Well. This is all the evil you are going to get for now. I’ve rung for your maid. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes? You expect me to be ready in ten minutes? You’ve truly lost your mind.”

  Something flitted across his expression at those words—a hint of wariness, perhaps, in the tweak of his mouth—but he shook his head at her. “Ten minutes,” he warned her. “Trust me. It will be worth it.”

  She managed to ready herself in half an hour by for-going the usual four layers of petticoats, and settling for a tidy pink walking dress—the kind she might wear for a visit to a tenant farm. Not quite in fashion, but easy to travel in. Her maid twisted her hair up into a simple knot and handed her a wool shawl, and Kate dashed downstairs. It was a measure of how evil he truly was that she didn’t even consider taking longer.