What a Lady Craves

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  She lowered her lids, as if that thin layer of skin might suffice to ward him off. “It was never like this.”

  Not even a lie, that. A connection had existed between them before, certainly, strong enough for her to believe herself in love. Strong enough that she’d accepted his proposal. Strong enough that, once he’d thrown her over, she never found its like with another man. Now that he’d come back into her life, the pull between them had increased many times over. No, it wasn’t the same.

  Now it was far, far worse.

  “No, you’re right.” A mere whisper, those words, low and seductive, felt more than heard. They struck her in the gut; they immobilized her.

  They left her wholly vulnerable to what came next. He tucked the tendril of hair behind her ear and slipped his hand to her nape. His lips followed and pressed against hers, warm, supple. Utterly demanding.

  And with his kiss, she remembered. She remembered other stolen kisses taken in deserted corridors like this one or deep in gardens whenever she could escape her mother’s watchful eye. The way he’d slowly and patiently taught her how to respond. She remembered both the lessons and her enthusiasm for the learning. She remembered them, and they paled in comparison, mere child’s play next to what he was doing to her now.

  For he commanded her, made her go limp with the wall at her back her only support, made her clutch at his lapels and share his breath. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she allowed him to savor. Lord, yes, she remembered this, too—his taste, his scent, his presence. Three elements combined to a formula more potent than she recalled. He was the same man, yet different, stronger, more intriguing.

  Infinitely more dangerous.

  And if she didn’t stop him now, he’d have her panting up against this wall in no time, while she let him teach her all the mysteries of what passed between men and women. She could not allow that to happen. Was she really so weak?

  Summoning her will, she uncurled her fingers from the wool of his topcoat, flattened her palm against him, and shoved. She drew the back of her hand across her lips, as if that could stop them from tingling.

  “Do not take liberties with me.” That was all this was—a liberty. Other men had tried something similar in the past. The moment they suspected she was on the shelf, they reckoned she might be interested in indulging their baser needs. She would not, and most certainly not with Alexander.

  “That was no liberty.” His cheeks took on a familiar ruddy tone. She’d seen it before, after they’d kissed—and more—and when he was overset. “It was remembering. God. Do you not feel what we’ve left unfinished between us?”

  Oh, this was too much when he still wore an armband to commemorate his first wife. When at breakfast, he’d insisted on respecting her memory. “Do you still think me the naïve little miss you left behind? I am no longer eighteen and wet behind the ears.”

  He shook his head. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to tell me … Has some man ruined—”

  “Nothing of the kind, and how dare you make such an assumption? Neither can you assume that I’d let you come back after eight years and pick up where you left off. I will not have it, do you understand?” Heart thumping, she paused for breath. Allowing anger to overcome her was hardly any better than letting passion take her.

  “But we could pick up where we left off. Do you not see?”

  She would not let him protest. “Might I remind you we were betrothed? You made a promise to me, and you broke it.”

  “I would still honor it if I could.” That statement emerged ragged, tattered like the sails of his sunken ship. “I cannot put into words what it’s done to me … What I’ve done to you … What I was forced into.”

  “It is done now, and it’s for the best if we leave things buried.” She waved a hand vaguely as if that would push away the kiss they’d just shared, one that left her lips tingling and her knees shaky. As if that would push away the feelings he’d unearthed in her. “We cannot make up for it.”

  “But we can. Don’t you see? If you were to marry me, as we’d planned.”

  “Marry you?” What on God’s green earth? He could not be serious. Not after everything he’d said to his aunt. Not after everything that had come between them. “You want to marry me now?”

  A smile ghosted across his features. “It is what we planned.”

  “Clearly plans can change.” She resisted the urge to tap her foot. How could the man be so thick? “Or had you forgotten that when you married in India? The answer is no. You cannot make up for your mistakes by going on as if nothing has happened. In the meantime, I think it best if you stay away from me for the time I remain here. Are we in agreement?”

  “What if I cannot?” He placed his fingers at the top of her breastbone, and the intimacy of the gesture froze any objection in her throat. “I would not have us constantly at odds. If we cannot be friendly, can we at least treat each other cordially?”

  The sheer nerve. He was beyond bold, speaking of proper politeness when he was touching her in such an indecent, utterly delectable fashion. Even if the location of his hand was more or less respectable, the feelings it aroused were most definitely improper. His smallest touch should not possess the ability to weaken her knees and fill her belly with liquid heat.

  “No, I’m not certain we can.” She put as much force as she could summon behind her reply—which at the moment did not seem quite sufficient to deter him. “I will allow no man to treat me as a piece of property he can lay aside to take up once again when the fancy strikes him. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, quite.” And with that, he dropped his hand, performed an about-face, as if he’d been born into the military, and stalked off.

  Henrietta slumped against the wall and tried to make sense of the confusion of emotion roiling through her. She plucked at a thread of annoyance and held on to it as the only sensible reaction. That filament helped her hold back a flood of regret over what might have been. Her imagination took hold and erased the past. For a moment, she was eighteen again, and he’d never left England. She saw him as her husband, who had cornered her in a forgotten corridor to tease her. To awaken her body. To remind her he awaited her in his bed that night. Her younger self had yearned to reach out with both hands and grasp a happy future with Alexander.

  Good Lord, what had possessed him to propose to her now of all times? But then, his aunt had been pushing for the same thing down at breakfast. She had to have talked him into it. No other explanation made sense.

  Henrietta pressed her fingertips to her lips to hold back a sob waiting to erupt. They were still raw. His kisses were far too tempting for her own good. They threatened to wipe her mind clean of the pain he’d put her through. They opened her to him, made her vulnerable. Surely they’d lead her down the very path she refused to tread for any man.

  Most especially not Alexander Sanford.

  Chapter Six

  Alexander’s footfalls thumped down the corridor. Of all the deuced, idiotic things he could have done, he had to propose to her. Henrietta. Good God, why? Why had he gone about it in such a ham-fisted manner?

  And after that kiss? An impulse, nothing more, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Not when they were standing so close in that darkened passageway.

  But who was he fooling? He’d never done an impulsive thing in his life. Well, no, that wasn’t true, either. Miss Upperton called to that thread of spontaneity buried deep inside him. He’d first asked her to dance on a whim. First coaxed her away from her mama’s prying eyes because her wit charmed him. First kissed her because her lips enticed—and because he knew she would let him.

  From all appearances, she would still permit it—to a point.

  He paused and ran both hands through his hair. That was the problem. She’d be wary from now on—as she should. She wouldn’t let him get close for fear he’d demand more. And he would, given the chance. As before, he couldn’t get enough of her. One dance wasn’t sufficient, no
r was one kiss or one touch. In that, he hadn’t changed a whit.

  Except he no longer had the right to ask anything of her. Not kisses, not marriage. A perfect gentleman—a man of honor would respect her wishes.

  But once more, he felt the sweetness of her response to him, the taste of her, the litheness of her form pressed against his. Soft breasts, the flare of hips, narrow waist. Do you remember?

  Lord only knew he did, and that brief embrace in the upstairs corridor had torn back the veil of years that separated them. Ripped it right in half. The whole time he was kissing her, he might as well have believed he’d never left England. He’d never hurt her. He’d never met Marianne.

  He found himself in front of the door to his bedchamber. As long as he remained holed up here, he might as well get on with his correspondence. He still had to notify his old school friends, who had invested privately in his venture, of the disaster. He still had to figure out how to recoup some of his personal losses. All of that ought to occupy his mind before Henrietta Upperton even entered his imagination.

  Yet his lips were still warm from her kiss. His body still hummed from it. His pride still stung from her set-down.

  Damn it all. But really, what other outcome could he have expected so soon?

  He grabbed the handle and yanked open the door. A familiar odor of heady spice brought him to a dead halt. Subtle vapor reached his nostrils, filled them, actually, with a scent at once unexpected and calming. With every intake of breath, his pulse seemed to pound a little less until it settled into its usual steady rhythm.

  In the far corner, Satya sat cross-legged, his heels resting on his thighs. His hands rested against either knee, thumbs and middle fingers forming circles. At Alexander’s entrance, his eyes remained closed. He inhaled slowly, his belly expanding gradually as he filled his lungs.

  Alexander was accustomed enough to the man’s rituals that he knew to wait. Presently, Satya opened his eyes.

  “And where did you come by incense?” Alexander asked.

  “In the village.” Satya maintained his position—his pose as likely to break a man’s hip joints as to relax him.

  “They’ve incense in the village now?”

  “That man you sent me to—Tilly.” As much as the spicy scent that filled the room soothed Alexander, so, too, did Satya’s warmly accented English. “He had some. Gave it to me, saying you had left a deposit.”

  Alexander studied a crack in the plaster. The devil take it. Of all the things he might have retrieved from his cargo. “I don’t suppose he came by anything more valuable.”

  “No, indeed. He said you may as well have this, for he has come across nothing else.”

  Alexander inhaled to a slow count of ten. There was still a chance. He had to keep believing. “And what of the other news? Did you go to the pub and ask after the crew?”

  A shadow flitted across Satya’s face, so fleeting Alexander wasn’t certain what he’d seen. In the next instant, Satya’s features settled into a mask of stoicism.

  “I was not welcome in the pub, sahib.” His tone was carefully neutral, measured.

  “No.” Alexander drummed his fingers against his thigh. He ought to have guessed, but he’d lived in India for so long, he hadn’t stopped to consider how his more rustic countrymen would react to the sudden appearance of a dark-skinned foreigner. For that matter, a more sophisticated Englishman wouldn’t have been any more accepting—he’d only protest in politer terms. Even Alexander’s fellows back in Calcutta freely displayed their superior attitude toward the locals.

  “No apology is necessary,” Satya said in that even tone that betrayed nothing, before Alexander could even formulate the words.

  He suppressed the urge to object. Experience had taught him argument led nowhere. When he took it into his head, Satya could be implacably stubborn. Never insubordinate, but the man had a talent for holding firm, like a boulder standing in the midst of a river. The water flowed on either side of him but never over, and he never budged. And if, with the passing of the years, the water might eat away at him, the effects never showed.

  He was nothing so soft as limestone or sandstone. Satya was granite, hard and immovable.

  “And the letter to the Company?” Alexander asked instead.

  “That I posted.”

  “I’ll have another for you today. You’ll take it directly to Viscount Lindenhurst. He lives …” Alexander closed his eyes for a moment, searching his memory. He’d been away too long if he had to stop to recall the location of an old friend’s estate.

  If indeed Lind lived in his manor house these days. In the past eight years, their contact had dwindled to an occasional report, one Alexander sent Lind to keep the man informed of his investment, one that of late went unanswered. But Lind, too, had left England—to fight Napoleon, in his case.

  No matter. If Lind was not in residence, his servants would know where to find him. But he couldn’t very well send a man whose knowledge of the local terrain was as detailed as Alexander’s familiarity with the streets of Calcutta when he’d first disembarked.

  “He lives half a day’s ride from here,” Alexander said. “I’d best send one of my aunt’s servants with the message.”

  A pity his ribs still plagued him, or he’d have gone himself—all the better to escape a certain Miss Upperton and that damnable kiss he’d been unable to resist bestowing on her. He shook the thought away for a much less pleasant prospect, that of informing an old friend he was out a sizeable investment. Not just one friend, either. Rowan Battencliffe must also learn the news. Better, perhaps, not to explain it all in a letter. No, better to summon them and deliver the tale in person after a few drinks to make it go down all the more easily.

  But for the news, it might almost seem like old times. And the three of them had always watched one another’s backs.

  Once he’d dispatched the summons, he’d make his way back to the village, and this weakness be damned. He could stand the walk, if not half a day’s jouncing on horseback. Surely the steep path would pose little problem now that he’d rested. He’d go to the pub and see what he might learn about the fate of his crew.

  “My lady, you have guests.” Hirsch held himself rigid in the doorway of the sitting room, his posture and expression giving away nothing, as usual.

  Henrietta concentrated on keeping her French knots evenly spaced rather than dwelling on the uneasy feeling in her stomach. Last time Hirsch had announced unexpected callers, the surprise had hardly been pleasant.

  Lady Epperley peered at him through her lorgnette. “Nonsense. Who in heaven’s name would call at this time of day?”

  Indeed, it was early yet, callers or no. The midday meal was about to be served. With any luck, Alexander would take a tray in his room. Henrietta wasn’t up to facing another uncomfortable hour punctuated with Lady Epperley’s teasing. Not after that kiss. Not after his proposal.

  No, don’t think about it. But it was hard to obey her own orders when Alexander’s lips on hers had called up a spate of memories. Happy memories, those. Full of hope in the future. Full of anticipation of a wedding that was never to be.

  “Not a caller,” the butler clarified. “Guests.”

  “Well, speak up. Who is it?” Lady Epperley held her hand out expectantly for a card.

  “They’ve no card, my lady.”

  “They?” Just beyond the butler, Alexander hovered in the corridor. He’d donned a topcoat, as if he were planning on an outing.

  Hirsch turned to look directly at Alexander. “And they’re asking for their papa.”

  Bugger! Henrietta stabbed her needle through the linen straight into her finger. Biting back another curse, she popped the digit into her mouth before a drop of blood might mar her work. Through the veil of her lashes, she eyed Alexander closely. Nothing in his expression revealed the least bit of surprise. Not the slightest tinge of red on his cheeks or the back of his neck. Nothing to hint at shame. If anything, his face mirrored joy and relief.<
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  The backs of her eyes burned, and her throat tightened until it ached. Not only had he married, but he’d produced a child. More than one. They could have been yours. She pushed the thought aside, but her mind replaced it with something worse. Small wonder he’d proposed. The notion hadn’t sprung from nowhere. The man must be desperate for a wife—to take charge of his children.

  Alexander strode toward the foyer, a smile broadening across his face. “Why didn’t you say so? Where are they, then?”

  A squeal echoed through the corridor, followed by a pattering of feet across the parquet. Another voice, this one far more subdued but just as girlish, joined the first.

  The wrinkles about Lady Epperley’s lips deepened into a frown. “Children,” she muttered, as she stood. “The last thing Albemarle needs around here is children touching everything with their grubby hands, making noise, and tripping everyone up with their running about. Humph.”

  She shuffled through the door, leaving Henrietta to trudge in the old lady’s wake. She didn’t particularly want to see the laughing evidence of Alexander’s marriage. Not one child, but two, both of an age to run and ask for their papa. She tamped down a mental image of the older one, born, to Henrietta’s mind, alarmingly soon after the wedding. True, everyone said it was normal for the firstborn to come quickly, while the second nearly always took nine months, but Henrietta wasn’t sure she believed that.

  She held back in the passage, hardly daring to look. Part of her, though, burned with curiosity. Would they both resemble their father, or would one of them look like her mother? And that was truly the question plaguing Henrietta’s mind—had Alexander’s wife been so overwhelmingly beautiful that he just couldn’t help himself? Had he felt compelled to seduce the woman and seal his fate? Henrietta had to know, the same way that as a child she could never resist probing the sore gum with her tongue whenever she lost a tooth.

  Alexander knelt on the floor hugging two giggling moppets close. Sturdy arms and legs poked from beneath skirts and out of sleeves as one of the girls attempted to scale her papa like a mountain. He winced. The child must have prodded his injured ribs.