Passion Over Time

by Natasha Blackthorne

  With a small shrug, she complied and he began removing her hairpins. “You think of words like dexterity when you’re on the verge of coming?” he asked.

  “When it applies. So how did you become so dexterous?”

  “The sextant requires it.”

  She laughed breathily, leaning towards him. Her hair fell over her face, a heavy mass of spun palest gold and silver blonde threads. He regarded her plain wire pins with disdain. Hair so beautiful should be dressed with pearls and gems.

  No, wait—a silver tiara of diamonds and aquamarines.

  Could such an item be found in the United States or would it have to come from Europe? Factor in the blockade-runner—Christ, she was going to cost him a small fortune.

  She traced along the fall of his pantaloons.

  He clasped her wrist and detained it.

  She looked down at his hand and raised her brows. “We’re not going to—”

  “Not yet. I want to discuss some matters.”

  She glanced up, an incredulous grin on her lovely mouth. “You want to talk?”

  His balls were heavy, aching. Yet he managed to return her smile with a placid expression. “Yes.”

  “My time is very limited.”

  “I sent a note for my valet to fetch us some strawberries and champagne. He shall be here soon.”

  She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I hate southern berries.”

  “These are local.” He let go her wrist, then smoothed the hair off her face, delighting in its thistledown texture.

  “Impossible, the spring has been too cold.”

  “They grow them in a hothouse or something, I don’t know. They’re very sweet. ”

  “I wouldn’t know. It all sounds terribly expensive.”

  The reference to her poverty reminded him of something that had been nagging at him since he’d met her. And God knew he needed something to concentrate on besides the throbbing in his cock. He suppressed a wince and shifted his body to relieve the pressure of his erection against his pantaloons. “Beth, why aren’t you married? A beauty like you should have done well on the marriage mart.”

  She studied her nails. “I enjoy my freedom.”

  That seemed a very odd response. The only young women who could afford “freedom” were heiresses. And Beth could command a fortune if only she’d bargain for it. But she didn’t seem to know that. Apparently, she’d rather work her hands to the point of calluses than profit from the exquisite beauty that she’d been gifted with. He suddenly wanted to know more about her. What drove such a girl to be the way she was?

  “Beth, if you could do anything you wanted to, what would you do?”

  Her expression grew serious. “I would teach piano.” Enthusiasm electrified her eyes to the palest blue pearlescence. It gave him a sensation like having the wind knocked out of him. As though he’d been slammed in the chest.

  “Really? You can play it that well?”

  “Yes, so I have been told. I play for wages at Mrs. Bickle’s Inn on Maple Street in the afternoons. But it doesn’t pay much.” She sighed. “I do it mostly for the privilege of having access to a piano.”

  Passion resonated in her voice. He’d never witnessed a woman become passionate about something unrelated to jewels, ribbons and bonnets, or getting a husband or babies. But then again, he’d never spoken intimately with a woman from the lower sort. This other side of her fascinated him. The aching in his groin began to ease to a low hum.

  “Where did you learn?”

  “My mother worked for a kindly lady who lost her own daughter to a fever and she allowed me many liberties in her home. She taught me how to play.”

  “You should take on as many students as you can manage and earn as much as you can while youth and health are on your side.”

  She looked very sad. So sad that the last of his arousal faded.

  “I don’t have my own piano yet,” she said.

  “You could teach the children of the wealthy in their own homes, on their own pianos.”

  What the devil was he saying to her? His objective, when he entered this chamber, had been to convince her to become his latest mistress. Now he was advising her how to earn her own way teaching piano. But her earnestness had been compelling. It reminded him of his own secret passion when he’d been a young man. He’d wanted to become a naturalist and travel the world, cataloging all sorts of wondrous new species of animals and plants.

  But he couldn’t pursue a life like that. He’d been the Sexton heir and bore a responsibility to each and every person the business employed.

  When he’d become a supercargo on his father’s ships, he’d sublimated that desire and channeled it into sampling the various foods, cultures, and lovely women available in the different ports. When he’d inherited the business and his father’s personal wealth, all other possibilities had closed for him. He’d pushed all those personal ambitions down and forgotten the feeling of wanting a different life.

  Beth was making him remember it now.

  “I can’t,” she sighed. “My brother needs my help in his cobbler shop. He doesn’t like for me to spend too much time away. He’s not happy about my working for Mrs. Bickle as it is.”

  What the devil? Why would she sacrifice herself? And why did she pretend to be so naïve, so trusting? It didn’t fit with the Beth he’d come to know so far. So what kind of game was she playing at? Freedom? The girl didn’t seem to have one speck of freedom. Inhaling deeply, he struggled to keep his voice patient. “You’re into your majority. Why would you allow your brother to dictate your chosen employment?”

  “I have an obligation to my family.”

  “Your brother can hire more help.”

  “He can’t afford it.”

  “You can help pay for it out of the wages you earn teaching, instead of ruining your eyesight and”—he took her hand and kissed the palm—“your beautiful hands, slaving away making shoes, which, I’d wager all the sealskin in the Pacific, you loathe with every fiber of your being.”

  “Charlie tried to hire some apprentices but he says no one stitches as evenly as I do.”

  Damn, it wasn’t in his best interest to convince her. He wanted her as a happy and spoilt mistress, not an independent spinster. Yet her enthusiasm made him want to help her reach her dreams. Not trusting what he might say next, he released her hand, got up from the bed, went straight for the sideboard and poured a healthy dose of brandy into a glass.

  “Grey?”

  He looked up and saw her dressed in his banyan, rolling up the too long sleeves, her silver-gilt hair shining against the dark blue fabric. Her eyes caught his, full of longing and abject sadness.

  She was trapped in a snare. Trapped by some sense of obligation to a situation that was draining her, killing her, little by little. Something caught in his chest, a peculiar pinching sensation. Just like that first day he’d met her.

  He ought to say nothing. But he couldn’t stop himself. He put the glass down. “All I hear are excuses.”

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

  Was he angry with her? Perhaps. Yet it was wholly irrational of him to feel that way. That was what she did to him. She stole his ability to be rational. He gave an inward sigh and tried to make his voice even. “I am trying to help you and you are fighting me.”

  “I am not fighting you; I am simply explaining my life.”

  “You are making excuses. Excuses won’t get you anywhere in this world.”

  “You don’t understand.” Her sad little voice cut a new wedge of anger and frustration through his skull. Anger at any brother who would allow his sister to sacrifice herself. Frustration at her for allowing it. She was clearly meant for better things.

  Yes, he did notice that he was no longer questioning the rationality of his anger. But perhaps he was justified now. He fixed her with a censuring look. “No, I don’t understand. You aren’t lazy. I have seen and felt your hands. They are not the hands of an idl
e woman. You certainly don’t seem to be shy about pursuing what you want. You say you have the talent. However, you can’t pursue your heart’s desire because your brother wants you to waste yourself sewing shoes because no one else can stitch as neatly. It sounds like complete nonsense.”

  “I have a duty to my family. I had advantages they never had.”

  “But you could be earning good money doing something you really—” He raised his hands in mock defeat. “No, as you say, I don’t understand.”

  “In any case, I don’t want to teach ungrateful children who are uninterested because they’ve been handed everything in life. I want to teach girls who have talent but no prospects to learn.”

  He gaped at her, stunned. He knew society ladies who did charity work to enhance their reputations. But he couldn’t imagine them lowering themselves to personally teach impoverished little girls. He’d never met a woman who appeared to have a truly altruistic goal. Yet the sincere idealism shining in Beth’s eyes was unmistakable.

  She wasn’t the same girl as a few moments ago.

  The realization hit him and he had a sense of things spinning away from him. In contrast, she appeared serene, focused on her lofty vision. He couldn’t stop staring at her, trying to find the hoyden who had so boldly approached him and propositioned him in such an overt, inelegant manner.

  And studying her so intently for the first time, through eyes unclouded by lust, he saw more. He saw the woman she could be. She possessed audacity, energy, and drive. She would pour her heart and soul into her work. But she needed something where she could be in control of the reins. However, for some reason, she didn’t believe she deserved to be.

  He’d entered this chamber seeking to bed a woman. Now he had an increased feeling that the situation was changing fast. Precariously so. Much like when a storm blew in at sea. He was the ship being rocked to and fro, being thrown off course against his will.

  Mentally, he shook himself. “Well, however illogical your logic, I admit that is a worthy goal.”

  “But as far away as China right now.” She looked so sad. He felt that peculiar tweak in his chest. It made him want to fix her world. But he knew better. He didn’t champion causes or sad-eyed damsels. Not anymore. His interest in her was purely carnal.

  He should be convincing her to become his mistress. And after that, he should be focused on bedding her and sating some of this intolerable craving for her.

  He wasn’t responsible for her family problems nor for the little disappointments life had dealt her. Life disappointed everyone.

  A knock at the door sent her running back to the bed. Grey answered the door and met his valet’s serious brown eyes. Will held a bucket covered with a towel. The champagne and strawberries. Grey took it from him. “Get yourself over to the offices and assist Daniel with his audits.”

  The younger man nodded.

  “I am not to be disturbed, Will.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Grey went to the sidebar and removed the contents of the bucket, then poured them two glasses of champagne. He turned and nearly collided with Beth. She was gloriously naked, without a trace of modesty, false or otherwise. Damnably distracting. His cock twitched. With difficulty, he pulled his gaze from her firm, high breasts. “We need to talk, Beth.”

  Chapter Four

  “Talk about what?” Beth asked.

  Trying to keep his eyes north of her gorgeous nakedness, Grey handed her a glass of champagne. “About us. How we shall proceed.”

  “Come again?” An amused smile curved her soft pink mouth as she caressed the glass stem with suggestive motions.

  Despite his best efforts, his blood stayed on a low simmer. “Our expectations of each other.”

  “Oh dear, this sounds too serious.” She placed the glass to her lips and took a sip. Then she stopped and grimaced.

  He froze with his glass at his lips. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s too sweet.” She went to the sideboard, her breasts bobbing with her every move, and filled her glass to overflowing with claret.

  “Oops.” She licked her wet fingers.

  His erection swelled and lengthened, pressing painfully against his pantaloons. He wanted to escort her to the bed and put that little pink tongue to better use. However, the refined gentleman in him regained control and he blinked in disbelief. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “Improving it.”

  “That’s first-rate champagne.”

  “I like the taste of claret with the bubbles.”

  He couldn’t stop staring at her glass—at the abuse of the fine champagne. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “But no one drinks it that way.”

  She shrugged. “I do. In fact, I have great preference for it.”

  Wait. Her family was poor. So they couldn’t afford things like imported champagne, given all the embargoes in the past few years. Something twisted through his guts, something burning and yellow-green. “Who gave you champagne before? A lover?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let’s not bore each other with our pasts.”

  Her airy tone grated in his ears like sand in gears. He set his glass down, untouched.

  “Why are you scowling at me?” she asked.

  “I am not scowling.”

  She came close and tugged on his waistcoat. “It’s hot today. You’d be in a better temper if you shed some clothes.”

  She laughed up at him, her blue eyes wide and her rosebud mouth soft. So innocent-looking yet so bold.

  Then she glanced down, focusing on his erection straining against his fall. The shift of her attention to his arousal made his rod strain all the more desperately against the confines of his drawers and pantaloons.

  Definitely it was too hot today. The temperature seemed to be increasing by the moment. And her point about the desirability of shedding his clothes was certainly valid. But not quite yet. They still had too many things to discuss and settle between them.

  He opened his mouth, prepared to change the topic back to his expectations of her and what he planned to provide in return for her meeting them.

  She trailed her fingers over his pale-gray silk waistcoat, moving lower until they flirted down over his pantaloons.

  He found himself fascinated by the sight of her pale little hand over the dark wool. His mind suddenly went blank. His vocal cords refused to respond.

  Her touch singed his flesh, each brush of her fingers like sparks of fire penetrating the cloth. The muscles in his abdomen went rigid. He caught his breath and held it as she continued to tease him with a barely-there touch. It required all the self-discipline he could muster to resist taking her hand and pressing it harder. He released his breath in a slow exhalation.

  A quick flash of those blue eyes through her silver-gilt lashes hit him with a renewed bolt of lust.

  She returned her attention to his groin and let her tongue slide over her upper lip.

  “Does it please you?” he asked.

  She gave a breathy laugh and glanced up again. “It does.”

  Another breathy, wickedly womanish laugh. Her gaze smoldered with desire. Or was it simply mirroring his own?

  “Oh, it pleases me quite well,” she said. The rapid drop of her gaze gave him little warning before she grasped his erection, quite firmly despite the tight cloth.

  He forced back a groan, watching the opening and closing her hand as she worked him with well-timed skill. Someone had taught her very well. His cock was leaking and leaking. It took all of his control to remain calm as he traced a fingertip over her collarbone. “Who kept you, Beth?”

  “No one has ever kept me.”

  “What about your lover who gave you champagne?”

  Of course he didn’t make a jackass of himself by reaching for her hand so he could jerk it back and press it to himself.

  No, he stood there, trying to control his ragged breathing as she glared up at him, her face flushing a delicate rose tint.

  “Who?” he asked.
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  Her eyes widened. Well, he supposed his tone had been rather sharp. The word had forced itself out. He was as stunned at his demanding tenor as she. But who was this man? A gentleman? Someone of importance in Philadelphia? Certainly she would have been noticed. Her beauty would bring all traffic on Main Street to a stop on market day. Certainly any gentleman possessed of any fire at all would have pursued her. Offered her anything.

  So why wasn’t she ensconced in a cozy little house somewhere, cocooned in luxury?

  Why was she here with him now?

  The memory flashed into his mind. The memory of her sad, sad eyes those first moments in the bookseller’s shop, when she had touched him. Touched him deep, deep inside and he had felt, for the first time in years, how empty he was, how cold.

  A sudden tightening of his chest forced him to slow his breathing. The flare of his arousal ebbed as one clear thought penetrated the earlier haze of lust.

  Someone had taken this audacious, wild girl and warmed themselves with the fire of her passion. And then they had thrown her away.

  Carelessly.

  Callously.

  Without even a congé to lift her out of her poverty, to free her from obligation to family and a dreary, duty-bound life of drudgery that her fiery nature would never, ever be able to bear without that bleak sadness in her eyes.

  “Who?” he repeated, more gently this time, for he did wish to know the man’s identity. Because if a gentleman were to blame, the brigand ought to be called to account.

  The rose color drained from her face. She went completely ashen, her eyes widening. It was as though the softness of his tone had stricken her. She shook her head slowly.

  What the devil? He had entered this chamber, intent on first coming to a mutually agreeable contract between them. And then he had intended to have her. To sate himself on her. To find some peace from the maddening fire of lust she had aroused in him.

  Now she was staring at him with that bleak, sad look.

  It was wrenching his guts. Flaying him.

  Good God, would he really call her former lover out?

  Well, it was a certainty now.