Tempting Sin

by Ann Lethbridge

  “You’re bleeding,” she said, staring at his chest accusingly. “I better change the bandage. You shouldn’t have...”

  The quilt slid to her waist, revealing small breasts, rose-tipped, translucent mounds of delicate beauty kissed by the morning sun. “Oh,” she gasped as she saw the direction of his glance and pulled the quilt up.

  “Spoilsport,” he teased. “Really, I’m fine.”

  She frowned. “I think I’d better call for the doctor.”

  “And will you tell him how it happened?”

  “What? Oh.” Her blush almost sent him past the point where he could hold his body in check. He pulled her close and began a slow, heavenly kiss.

  “Simon. Stop it. You’ll only make the wound worse.”

  He blew out a breath. She was right. “Very well. Off you go and fetch the sawbones. Then, I beg you, get me something to eat, before I starve to death.”

  “Whatever is the time?” she muttered. She wrapped the quilt around her and shuffled around the bed to find her clothing.

  “I really don’t know,” he replied. And he really didn’t care. He’d found a little bit of heaven and he intended to make it last as long as possible.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A few days later, the aroma of roast duck filled the low-beamed, private parlor set aside for their use. In the center of a table covered with an embroidered white cloth and surrounded by side dishes of oysters, pudding and asparagus, the duck held pride of place on a cream-colored, oval platter. Soft light from the candles on the sideboard and set in sconces on the paneled walls gave the room an intimate feel. A sense there was no one else in the world but the two of them. Something warm unfurled deep in Victoria’s chest. Something hopeful.

  Simon, seated opposite her, his chin freshly shaved and wearing an open-necked shirt borrowed from the publican, laughed ruefully and glanced at his arm resting across his chest in a sling. “Would you carve? I think I might have a little trouble with only one hand.”

  “Of course.” Victoria hadn’t actually ever carved a bird before, but how difficult could it be? She picked up the large knife and fork and attacked the golden-brown bird. The knife skidded off the crispy skin and hit the plate with a ringing sound.

  “Damn.” Simon lurched across the table and grabbed the knife. “Here, you hold the fork and I’ll cut.”

  He looked so terrified, she giggled.

  He grinned. “What are you laughing at?”

  “The fear in your face.”

  “Not funny. You could have cut off your hand.”

  Victoria stabbed the fork into the roast and he hacked at the duck’s brown, juicy flesh. When he finished, she served the chunks of meat and the rest of Mrs. Davis’s delicious fare. “Would you like me to cut up your meat?” she offered.

  “Thank you, but I think it will be safer if I deal with it my way.”

  He picked up a morsel of the duck and tore at it with strong, white teeth.

  She raised her eyebrows. “How ungentlemanly of you, Mr. Yelverton.”

  “Better than losing my fingers,” he retorted, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He poured himself another glass of wine.

  The noise of the taproom, chinking glasses and lilting Welsh voices, filtered into the quietness of their secluded haven, accompanied by the smell of old ale and pipe smoke.

  Today’s earlier dreamlike quality lingered like a fragile fragrance waiting for the wind of reality to blow it away. They had laughed at foolish things. He insisted on seeing Diablo and she accompanied him to the barn. She loved the way the fierce stallion responded to his gentle petting. From there, they wandered into the garden for an hour or two, lounging in the warm sun. He lay on the bench, while Victoria, on a stool near his head, read to him. He’d fallen asleep and snored. She almost imagined this could last. She smiled at him.

  Red wine caught the light as he lifted his glass in a toast. “To Mrs. Yelverton.” His wicked smile melted her bones.

  She raised her glass in return. “To you, Mr. Yelverton.”

  They drank, his gaze intent on her face.

  “Do you think Deveril will come tomorrow?” Victoria asked trying not to let disappointment creep into her voice.

  Just before dinner, Mr. Davis had brought one of the local tradesmen who had agreed to take a message to the marquess whom Simon had arranged to meet in Shrewsbury before he left Town. He had promised to wait there with a post-chaise to take Victoria back to London. Once she was safe, Simon and Deveril would seek out Quigley then Ogden. Simon had refused to listen to her suggestion that Ogden might know nothing about his gamekeeper’s activities.

  Simon finished his wine in one swallow and refilled it. “Deveril will be waiting where he said he would be, so yes, he will be here tomorrow.”

  She sighed. While she had said nothing to Simon, she had decided she would not go to London. It would be better if they separated now, before she became totally dependent on him. Better to say goodbye now than be devastated when he moved on later. After all, while this interlude had been wonderful, he had said nothing about love or marriage.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, watching her from beneath his lashes.

  Ever since he had spoken to the tradesman in the garden, she had sensed his growing tension. A building recklessness had invaded his normally cool expression. His eyes glittered ominously as he observed her intently over his wineglass.

  She smiled, desperate to hold onto the lighthearted mood of today, to retain the easy warmth between them. Tomorrow they would go their separate ways. She pushed the thought aside. “Nothing,” she lied.

  “Tell me.”

  Somehow she could not prevaricate with him, not even to save herself. “Your toast reminded me that this is our last night as Mr. and Mrs. Yelverton.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  He raised one dark eyebrow, a wry smile curving his lips. “You’re right. Soon we will be the Earl and Countess of Travis.”

  For a moment, her heart leaped in joy, then the bottom fell out of her stomach at his cynical expression. She set her knife down carefully. “I beg your pardon?”

  His face darkened. “Did you think I would ruin you and abandon you?”

  Victoria swallowed. “Is this a proposal of marriage?”

  A slight shrug lifted one shoulder. “Something of the sort, I suppose.” His voice sounded gritty as if the words word forced. He sighed. “Yes, damn it.”

  He had been quite explicit, that day at his country estate, about not wanting to marry. And he certainly hadn’t said anything about love. “Why?”

  “Why? I just told you why.”

  Guilt. He’d ruined her and now he thought it his duty to rectify the situation. A rake plagued by an overactive sense of duty. If she wasn’t so close to crying because she yearned to say yes, she might have laughed.

  He had no reason to feel guilty. She had made her own decision. She shook her head. “I am much obliged to you for yet another generous offer, but just as before, I must decline.”

  With a short laugh, his gaze dropped to his wineglass. “I’m more than you could possibly stomach, I suppose. But I won’t take no for an answer, I’m afraid.” He twisted the stem of the glass and the ruby liquid glimmered. He tossed it off and set the glass down with a snap. “You must marry me, even if we never see each other again.”

  Victoria rose to her feet and he stood up with her, ducking his head to avoid the low, blackened beam. Devilishly handsome in the flickering light, his expression turned dangerous. The charming, easy man of the past few hours disappeared. Sin St. John, stone-faced, eyes like frozen glaciers, flashed her an insolent smile. “I know it is not what you want. But...” he shrugged. “Honor requires it.”

  Victoria steeled herself against the longing pushing behind her breastbone. The fragile hope that he might actually feel something. He didn’t. “I don’t care about your honor and you cannot force me to marry you.”

  “Really?” He prowled around the table, lithe and
lean. “Are you sure I cannot?” His murmur terrifyingly soft, he fixed his gaze on her mouth.

  She licked her lips, unable to move in the intensity of his eyes.

  Fast as a whip and stronger than steel, he pulled her close. He lowered his head and captured her mouth in a slow, torturous kiss. Her senses reeled and waves of desire tightened her core. Instantly, she wanted him. Any way he would have her, despite her shame in her inability to stand against him.

  When at length he raised his head and raised an eyebrow in question, her body was trembling with yearning.

  His breath grazed her lips. “Tell me I can’t, Victoria.”

  Every nerve craved his touch. Why not have this for all time, her body tempted. Say yes, it begged. She knew better. Trap him and, like a feral beast, he’d tear them both apart.

  “Simon,” she pleaded, “you don’t want to marry me, you know you do not.”

  His lips twisted. “Do not speak for me. What do you want? If you could have whatever you wanted, what would it be?”

  Your love, her heart cried in tune with her body’s aching demand. But it was duty that drove his precious honor, not love. What could she say that his honor would accept?

  “When my father was alive, before we came to London, I worked on a parish project to raise funds for a school for farm laborers’ children. Too many people are leaving the land and not always of their own volition. Our aim was to provide them with a better future than merely slaving in factories in the north. I would like to teach in that school.” She liked children, but what she really wanted to do was educate the girls, expand their horizons.

  Simon stepped back a little, his gaze searching her face for the truth. “A school? No broken-hearted squire left in your wake?”

  Heat rose in her face. Until this moment, she’d forgotten her crush on one of the neighbors’ son, a boy much older, and her bitter tears when she heard he was to marry.

  “I see,” Simon said, before she could answer.

  “You see nothing,” Victoria stormed. “You charge ahead deciding what is best for me without considering my opinion.”

  “I thought I just did.”

  “Yes. And then you scorned it. Damn you, Travis. I don’t want—”

  “I can make you want me,” he said. His hot gaze raked her body and she gasped at the answering flare deep in her veins.

  She’d never seen him so wild. His mood scared her. “You are bosky. You’ll feel differently in the morning.”

  Blue eyes narrowed, he placed a hand on the ancient beam above and leaned towards her. “And how will you feel in the morning, Victoria?”

  “I’m not going to change my mind.” She couldn’t. If she let him do this, she would be just like Cassandra, snaring him into a marriage he didn’t want.

  The expression in his eyes was unreadable as he stared at her for what felt like minutes, but was likely only seconds. She raised her chin and held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. To show weakness would be to let him win.

  He clenched his fist and struck the beam. “Very well, we will discuss this further in the morning. Right now, we’re going upstairs.”

  His piercing glance dared her to fight him. His shoulders tensed, as if he expected her to deny him.

  She didn’t want to. She wanted this last night together and a memory she could keep in her heart. She smiled. “Yes.”

  “Damn you, Victoria Yelverton,” he muttered. “You tie me in knots and you know it.”

  Before she could respond, he swept his arm around her and pressed his lips against hers, hard and harshly demanding. She leaned into him, putting her arms around his neck, running her hands through his hair, across the broad shoulders which, after tonight, she would never feel again. He smelled of soap and fresh air and smoke. He tasted of wine.

  He groaned deep in his throat and picked her up, his one good arm around her waist.

  “Simon,” she exclaimed. “Your shoulder.”

  “Hold on. I’m not letting you go, until we are upstairs and in bed.”

  Afraid he would reopen his wound, she clung to his neck and he climbed the narrow, winding stairs.

  “You should not do this,” she said.

  “Oh, but I should. Indeed, I think I must.” The torment in his deep voice shocked her to silence.

  He stopped when he reached the landing outside their room. “Open the door.”

  She leaned down and lifted the latch. When they were inside, he lowered her, letting her slide down his body, keeping her close while he gazed down into her face. Her desire pitched higher. He stood blocking her escape path to the stairs. Foolish man. As if she would try to escape. She reached up and placed her palm on his hard jaw and felt a muscle jump.

  He bowed with a flourish. “Your chamber awaits, my lady.”

  My lady. She would never be his lady. She would have the memories of these few days and nothing else. The candle flame on the night table, the only light in the room apart from the fire, wavered and blurred.

  She blinked hot moisture away. She would not let him see tears on their last night together.

  He kicked the door shut with his heel and pulled her close, kissing her with a savagery she could barely comprehend, trying dominate her with his will.

  She resisted.

  “Damn you,” he said against her mouth, then softened his lips, skillfully teasing and enticing until her body melded with his. With a groan of satisfaction, his hand went to the buttons down the back of her gown. Nimble fingers released the fastenings. A required skill for a rake.

  He must have felt her stiffen. “Stop it,” he growled.

  She ran her hands over his chest and encountered the rough fabric of the sling. “We mustn’t do this. You might reopen your wound”

  He stepped back and roughly pulled the cloth over his head and dropped it on the floor. “I’m fine.” He pulled his shirt out of the waistband of his breeches and, one-handed, fumbled with the shirt buttons.

  “Let me,” she said with a smile.

  Surprise on his face, he let her undo them. She eased the loose garment over his head. The candle cast the hard planes of his face into sharp relief, the light glistening on the sculpted contours of his arms and chest. She skimmed her hands over his bare, warm skin. He sucked in a hiss of breath.

  Heat blossomed deep between her thighs.

  He plucked the pins from her hair, raking urgent fingers through the strands until they fell around her shoulders. “I love your hair, so glossy, like a raven’s wing. Don’t fly away, Victoria.”

  His words tugged at her aching heart.

  Working with one hand, he pushed her gown first over one shoulder, then the other. He worked it down her arms one side at a time until she pulled her hands free.

  Sensuous awe glazed his expression as he gazed at her breasts.

  “Simon, I—”

  “Shh,” he whispered, pressing his finger to her lips, devouring her with his eyes, as if starving and hungry only for her. Her heart clenched. It was a lie. He didn’t love her when she knew she loved him. It hurt.

  But she would take what he did have to offer tonight. The memories would stay with her for the rest of her life, for she knew instinctively she would never find anyone else she loved the way she loved him. If she told him of her feelings, he would use the knowledge against her, to make her stay. And she didn’t dare. Because eventually he would tire of her, and that would hurt worse than if they parted now.

  Her heart picked up speed, her pulse raced as the darkness in his handsome face grew increasingly seductive. With half-closed eyes, he watched his hand roam over her breasts covered only by her shift. His fingers brought her nipple to a tight, hard peak. Her knees weakened and she clutched at his shoulder.

  He winced.

  “We cannot.” She dropped her hands.

  “I won’t let you do this to me, Victoria.”

  The pain in his expression stilled her. Did he think she had deliberately hurt him? “I don’t want you to be hur
t,” she whispered.

  He laughed, a hard-edged sound that cut. “Now where have I heard that before?”

  She ignored his irony. One of them needed have some sense. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, a warm, motherly kiss. “Remember what happened last time? You can’t risk opening your wound again. Not if you want to leave here tomorrow.”

  He grasped her face in one lean, strong hand, forcing her to look into his eyes. “We are leaving here tomorrow. Together.”

  Unable to lie, she shrugged.

  “Damn it, Victoria. You will marry me.” His mouth captured hers in a kiss that punished even as it rewarded.

  Immersing herself in his urgent desire, she reached unsuspected heights of longing. She forgot everything except the need to feel his hard body inside her. She pressed her hips against his thigh, desire streaking to her core.

  In one sure movement, he stripped her gown over her hips. She stepped out of it and he pressed her onto the bed.

  “Now,” he breathed.

  She lay back and watched as he fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. His chest rose and fell, his dark hair falling forward. He pulled the tight fabric over his hips and down his long, beautifully muscled thighs.

  She gasped as his erection stood bold and free and he shot her a wicked glance. “I’m ready for you,” he said. “Are you ready for me?”

  Ready? She burned. Her core, tight and demanding, longed for him to take her, to bury his hard, male member inside her, to claim her and take her to completion. Only with him did she truly feel complete.

  He swept her legs onto the bed then lay next to her, one leg across hers, his lips finding her mouth, her throat, and through her shift, her nipples.

  Shivering and gasping, she reached for the hem of her chemise. She wanted to feel him next to her skin. All of him, his heat, his hard, male strength and form. She wanted nothing between them.

  Simon groaned as he gazed on this woman who drove him to madness.

  Naked, she was perfect. Small, pointed breasts, flat stomach, black curls at the apex of her thighs hiding the wonderful heat and passion he desired waking and sleeping. She would marry him. He would make her want him as much as he needed her.