Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  Anthony pulled his hand away and stood up to walk over to the fireplace. He stared at the flames dancing around the logs in the big hearth.

  “I’ve made a fool of myself,” he said bluntly. “I’ve been trying to ruin Candover by winning his fortune from him at cards. And I’ve done a couple of things I’m deeply ashamed of.”

  He told her about the two occasions that Jacobin had been used as a stake.

  “And she forgave you?” Kitty asked. “I’m not sure I’d be speaking to you under the circumstances, let alone agreeing to marry you.”

  “She was devilish angry. The second time she only forgave me because I threw in a losing hand and called off the bet rather than risk her.”

  His worldly sister knew exactly what that meant. “You’d be destroyed if word got out. Let us pray on bended knees that Candover didn’t have a chance to tell anyone about it.”

  “I am concerned about his valet. When I arrived I was told the man was prostrated with grief over Candover’s death. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him.”

  “His valet.” Kitty thought about it. “There might be gossip, but you could likely carry off a denial against the word of a servant.”

  “With the ton, yes. But I’m not so sure a Bow Street runner will dismiss the tale so quickly. Nor should he, though it’s inconvenient for me.”

  “This is dreadful! Both of you under suspicion. They’ll think you planned it together.”

  “I know. That’s why I have to find out who really killed Candover. I have some ideas I must discuss with Jacobin.”

  He wondered if Jacobin had finished her bath. He longed for her presence, for her company, for her to make him laugh in the face of disaster. And he had to make sure she wasn’t serious about refusing to marry him. Although she’d stopped arguing about it while Kitty planned the wedding, she hadn’t ever said yes. He knew her infuriating, adorable stubbornness too well to believe her fairly won yet. But he could be just as obstinate, and he wasn’t giving in until he had his ring on her finger.

  He glanced over at his sister and realized it was with affection. His resentful irritation with her seemed to have dissolved. She was so like his father in appearance, and suddenly he missed that kindly, reserved man. Too reserved, as he himself had been. It was good to talk about one’s troubles. Had his father confided in him sooner, he wouldn’t have made his confused deathbed confession.

  Joining Kitty on the sofa again, he threw an arm around her.

  “Enough about me. What’s this about you leaving Walter. What about the children?”

  She refrained from weeping, for which he was exceedingly grateful, but rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I know I can’t leave him for good. But having Marabel in the house for days was too much. Then yesterday I particularly asked him to accompany me to call on Sally Jersey. But when the time came he’d taken Marabel off to the City to meet her banker. He didn’t even let me know. I only found out from the footman. So I sent down a message that I was unwell and didn’t come down for dinner, and he never came to my room to see how I was. This morning I rose and he’d already gone out with her again. I called for the carriage and here I am.”

  There was no point suggesting that her erring spouse might be guilty of little more than thoughtlessness. He sensed that it wouldn’t be well received.

  “Poor Kitty,” he said instead. “It sounds like Walter is behaving disgracefully. As soon as I can, I’ll have a word with him and make sure he knows he can’t treat my sister so shabbily.”

  “I wish to thank you for your graciousness toward me, my lady,” Jacobin began when she joined Kitty before dinner. “I cannot seem a welcome addition to your family.”

  “Nonsense, my dear, and call me Kitty. We are to be sisters, and I’d do anything for Anthony.”

  Jacobin waved a hand expressively. There was something unmistakably French in her gestures and intonation, despite her impeccable English accent and grammar. It was deliciously ironic, thought Kitty, that her brother, with his dislike of the French, should have fallen so hard for her.

  “As for that,” Jacobin said, “I don’t think so. Anthony believes he should marry me because he feels a duty, an obligation to take care of me, but it isn’t necessary. He’ll help me escape this murder business and then there’ll be no need.”

  “Have you told him this? I think you’ll get an argument from him.”

  “Your brother is very stubborn, but I’ll make him see sense. He doesn’t really want to marry me. He needs a nice respectable English debutante who will make a good countess.” She didn’t look at all pleased at the notion.

  Interesting, Kitty thought. He hasn’t told her he’s in love with her. Probably doesn’t know it himself. If it wasn’t for unfortunate legal entanglements, she’d find the situation thoroughly entertaining.

  Since those entanglements must be avoided in the presence of the servants, Kitty led the dinner conversation to the subject of Jacobin’s family. Simpson was patently agog with curiosity at seeing a pastry cook transformed into the future mistress of the house. It wouldn’t do any harm for him to spread the word that the future countess’s birth was irreproachable.

  “Tell me how you got your name,” Kitty said. “I understand that your father had revolutionary tendencies, but surely the Jacobin party was the most bloodthirsty of the political groups in France at that time.”

  “Papa used to joke that it saved him from the guillotine, since he preferred the Girondistes. He said he fooled the Jacobins by naming his daughter for them. But in fact the name had nothing to do with them. It was my mother’s choice, a family name. The first notable Candover was created a baronet by James I.”

  Kitty gave the superior smile of one whose family earldom was an Elizabethan creation. She didn’t need to mention that James I was notorious for awarding baronetcies in exchange for infusions of cash into the treasury.

  “And then his grandson,” Jacobin continued, “was made Baron Candover by Charles II.”

  “Loyal supporters of the Stuarts, apparently.” A distressing idea occurred to Kitty. “You’re not a Catholic, are you?”

  “Oh no. My mother refused to convert and my father cared nothing for religion. I was brought up in the Church of England. We attended the English embassy chapel in Paris, when it was possible.”

  Thank God! She might persuade the stuffier Storrs relations to accept a cook, even a Frenchwoman. A Catholic would be beyond the pale.

  All in all Kitty was well pleased with her brother’s bride. There was nothing wrong with her manners, and with her striking looks and witty, confident bearing, she might very well take the ton by storm, once she was properly dressed. What she was wearing was impossible. Kitty would see about lending her some clothes after dinner. Luckily they were the same size.

  But the best thing was the way Anthony gazed at Jacobin throughout the meal, as though she were a delectable sweet he yearned to devour. He’d made quite a fuss when Kitty had insisted on delaying the wedding for another three days. Anxious to bed her, if he hadn’t already done so. Kitty supposed she ought to leave the pair alone and let him work his powers of persuasion on his reluctant fiancée, but she couldn’t resist torturing her brother by acting the very enthusiastic chaperone.

  Once Simpson and the footman had withdrawn, Jacobin brought up the subject that must be her greatest concern.

  “It has to be Edgar!” she said, “He must have killed my uncle. We have no one else.”

  “It would help if we could place him in the vicinity of either attempt on Candover’s life.” Anthony said.

  “But he was,” Jacobin cried, her eyes so wide they dwarfed her face. “How could I have been so stupid? He was in Brighton the night before. That’s why I was on the dark side of the square when you saved me from those drunkards. He was standing near the back entrance to the Pavilion and I had to avoid him. I was wearing his clothes.”

  She hadn’t, Kitty realized, heard the whole story of her future
sister-in-law’s adventures. Jacobin was going to lead Anthony a merry dance. It would do him good.

  “And naturally,” Anthony chimed in, “he’d be able to introduce aconite into the pudding easily enough. How lucky for him that you were there to take the blame. If it was luck. Are you sure he didn’t see you?”

  “I don’t think he did. Besides, he asked me to marry him. He wouldn’t have done that if he wanted me blamed.”

  Anthony bristled. “You never told me that. When? Before you left Hurst?”

  “No, at the Argyll Rooms.”

  “That puny little man I saw you with. That was Edgar Candover?”

  Kitty suppressed a smile. Her brother sounded jealous.

  Jacobin was looking at him through her eyelashes. “Edgar is short, yes. That’s why I can wear his clothes. But he’s not so ill-looking. I was a little sorry I couldn’t accept, but I knew he’d be in trouble with my uncle and he was quite dependent on him. But now, why not? He’s Lord Candover and has the whole estate.”

  “You’re already going to marry someone who’s suspected of murder. Me.”

  Anthony’s eyes were laughing, and Kitty realized how rare his smiles once had been. It wasn’t that he’d ever lacked humor, but his wit had been acerbic. Jacobin had plumbed undeveloped depths of joy in her somber brother.

  “Hurst Park is a very fine estate. I was happy there when my uncle was away. Perhaps I’d like to live there again.”

  “You’re not to go near the man. In fact, I’ll ride over tomorrow and choke the truth out of him.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Jacobin said.

  “No you’re not. You will stay here with Kitty.”

  “No! I want to choke Edgar too.”

  “Choking is man’s work. I’m bigger and stronger.”

  “I’m very strong. I could choke him just as well as you.”

  “But I’m bigger. Size matters,” Anthony said, with a shake of his head. “When it comes to choking, I mean.”

  It was, Kitty decided, time for the ladies to withdraw before the pair of them started to make love on the table.

  Kitty was a damnably officious chaperone. She hadn’t given Anthony a moment alone with Jacobin before dragging her off to bed. And he hadn’t even had the wit to discover which chamber Jacobin was in. He was contemplating the most efficient way to search Storrington Hall’s eighteen guest rooms when the door to his own bedchamber opened and a vision appeared. A vision in a nightdress.

  “Where the devil did you get that thing?” he asked.

  “Kitty lent it to me,” Jacobin replied with a giggle. “Do you not find it seductive?”

  “If that’s what she usually wears to bed I’m not surprised she’s having trouble with Walter. He’d never be able to find her.”

  Jacobin was swathed from neck to toes in ells of white flannel that gave not so much of a hint at the body beneath. True, with her piquant face and gold-tinged curls she looked like a Botticelli angel. But Anthony wasn’t particularly interested in angels. A Botticelli Venus perhaps. Now, that was another matter.

  “Kitty takes it with her when she travels in case she has to sleep in a damp inn. I thought you’d like it.” She examined his face. “No? Never mind. I’ll take it off.”

  She began to raise the skirts, revealing slim ankles and well-formed calf muscles.

  “Stop right there,” he said, suppressing the urge to dash over and assist her. “We’re not yet married and it wouldn’t be proper.”

  “We’re not going to be married.” Her smile would have melted the resistance of an Essene monk.

  “Yes we are, and I’m not going to touch you until you’re my wife.”

  “We’ll see about that.” With one efficient movement the flannel monstrosity was on the floor and her shapely curves revealed in the candlelight to his delighted gaze. His body reacted predictably, but he forced himself not to move as she sidled to where he stood next to the bed and inserted her hands thorough the opening of his shirt. He clenched his teeth and summoned every scrap of restraint as she stroked his chest in sensuous sweeps.

  “Stop,” he said, hoping his voice communicated a confidence he was far from feeling. The scent of her hair tickled his nose, and though he tried not to look down, he couldn’t avoid a glimpse of rounded breasts that were begging for his caress. “Stop.”

  She obeyed. For a second. Then nimble fingers dropped to the fastenings of his breeches. When the siren had most of the buttons undone he could take no more. Seizing her around the waist he swung her onto the bed and laid her on the velvet counterpane, using his hands to pin her wrists above her head.

  “You’re touching me,” she crooned triumphantly.

  “I’m changing my tactics. I’ll show you touching. I’ll touch you until you agree to marry me.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise? Go ahead. I shall enjoy this.”

  He let go of her wrists and stood up. “Stay there,” he said, and walked over to a large double chest of drawers.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He returned and sat beside her on the bed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, eyeing the two long neck cloths.

  “Guess.”

  Her body twisted from side to side but not with any great vigor as he tied the white linen around each of her wrists, then to the bedposts.

  “This is an outrage,” she said, but she was laughing and made no effort to escape.

  She looked so magnificent spread-eagled on the dark burgundy velvet that it was all he could do not to simply take possession there and then. But he had a plan. As a precaution he kept his own garments on. A couple of layers of cloth might be feeble restraints on his loss of control, but they were better than nothing.

  “Now,” he said, “I shall persuade you to change your mind.” He picked up a quill pen from his bedside table and held it by the nib.

  Jacobin was enjoying their battle of wills. Lying naked and bound made her feel more thrilled than helpless; in fact the sense of vulnerability added to her excitement. She squirmed with anticipatory curiosity at what was coming next.

  The feather brushed her neck and crossed her shoulders, soft as a whisper, then descended the valley between her breasts before rising again to play with her hardening nipples. His attention followed the progress of the quill, his expression assuring her that his desires matched her own. Then he mirrored the movements of the feather with the firmer but still gentle touch of his fingers.

  “You’re so strong,” he said, as the slight roughness of his hands smoothed her shoulders. “Cooking seems too mild an activity to develop such muscles.”

  “You wouldn’t think that if you’d ever broken up a loaf of sugar or rolled out puff pastry.”

  He grinned and looked so devilishly lovable she would have kissed him had she been able to move. “I can see I’ll have to be careful with you. It would be too humiliating to be dealt a leveler by my wife.”

  “You forget,” she said, “that I’m not going to be your wife.”

  He merely smiled at her again and continued his ministrations, teasing her with hands and feather over every inch of her body save the one that most ached for them. She raised her hips suggestively. Ignoring the hint, he concentrated on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

  “Touch me there, damn you!”

  “Here?” He placed his hand over her mound, but without penetrating her curls with so much as a finger. She shook with yearning.

  “Yes! More!”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “No.”

  He removed his hand. She clung to her resolve to win their contest but her will was waning. She feared she wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

  He feared he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. She was writhing on the bed, exhorting him to go where he most wanted to be, and began to cry out in French. That was a good sign. She tended to break into that language when her emotions were engaged. He also noted that she wasn’t making
any effort to escape her bonds.

  “Marry me,” he demanded again, his hand on the baby skin of her inner thigh, close enough to feel the heat emanating from her core. He bent over and kissed her on the lips, swallowing the torrent of French curses and plunging his tongue into her warm sweetness in imitation of another act. “Marry me,” he managed to mumble for the last time, knowing his control was on the verge of incineration.

  “Yes,” she uttered in a strangled voice. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Now for God’s sake untie me. I want you inside me now.”

  Thank God. He tore off his clothes.

  “Just pull hard,” he said. “The cloths are only loosely tied. You could have escaped at any time.”

  She jerked her hands loose and grabbed his shoulders, then pushed him over onto his back. She straddled him, then impaled herself on his straining cock, inducing a shudder of relief.

  “I was going to agree anyway,” she whispered, bending forward so that her lips brushed his ear without stopping the motion of her hips for an instant. “I came to your room to tell you.”

  He could see that she’d never let him have the last word. Not that he cared a tinker’s cuss. He gave himself up to the joy of their union, urged her on as she rained kisses and caresses on his face and chest, sucked on his small tight nipples, and rode him like a wild thing. A natural she was, using instinct to grip his eager cock so he could happily relinquish himself to her charge. And when he felt her inner muscles convulse he released control altogether and joined her in her climax, spilling his seed inside her with a glad shout of triumph.

  She slumped on top of him, drained and boneless but not too spent to appreciate the hard body beneath her, a much better resting place even than velvet brocade. His eyes were closed and he looked relaxed and happy. She realized that a core of tension, a kind of suppressed anger that he’d carried since she first encountered him, had vanished. In fact it had been absent all evening. Something had changed him, something between him and Kitty. He was at peace with himself. She didn’t want to ask him about it now. There’d be time enough later.

  She rolled off and felt her stomach. It was dry.