“Ben…Please…”
Her eyes were closed, her breathing quick and her damp hair spread across the white of the sheets in a lustrous cloud. He tangled one hand into her hair and brought his lips down so that they barely touched hers.
“Open your eyes.”
She looked at him. Her gaze was dark and unfocused.
“Once before I disappointed you,” Ben said. His voice was rough. “I hope you are not disappointed in me so far.”
A smile lit her eyes. “Will it add to your conceit if I admit I am not?” she whispered.
He did not answer, except to smile, and then he could resist no longer and slid inside her with one sleek thrust. He heard her quick intake of breath and knew that this time it was not from pain. She was tight and slick and his body ached unbearably, the need building within him. He had concentrated so hard on her pleasure that he had tried to ignore his own body’s demands for release. Now, as she ran her hands down over his buttocks and gripped him hard, he almost lost all control. He withdrew a little, resisting the demands of his senses and the pressure of her hands, then slid back in long, slow strokes. Braced on his forearms, he watched her, watched the blush that stung her skin, the changing expressions that chased across her face, the way her breasts rocked so exquisitely with each thrust. She whimpered and squirmed. He watched the slide of his penis inside her, felt the quiver of her belly, and tried not to think about what he wanted and only to give her pleasure.
Within a minute she was begging. “Quicker…Aah…” Her body contracted as he maintained that slow, steady pressure. “Ah, Ben, quicker please…”
“Slower,” he said, schooling the increasingly desperate clamor of his own desires. “Slower is better.”
He saw what looked like a flash of temper in her face. Innocent Kate, temptress Kate, did not like being told what to do. He smiled with the satisfaction of possession.
She rolled him over so suddenly that he was utterly unprepared, and slid down hard and deep on top of him. He knew at once that he was going to come. He could not control it. His mind shattered and he gave a shout, holding her hips hard as he forced himself upward, his entire body shuddering with the strength of his release. He heard her scream, felt her body close even more tightly about him and then they were tumbling over and over, down into the dark and the flame. Ben savored it, waited, then let the pleasure ebb slowly, so slowly, and felt the peace take its place as he held her close to him.
WHEN CATHERINE CAME ROUND she was lying in the curve of Ben’s arm, her head on his shoulder and his other arm lying across her stomach in careless possession. The sheets were tossed to the four corners of the bed, her hair had knots in it and she was cold. She wriggled her way beneath the covers and propped herself on one elbow to look at Ben. He was not asleep. He turned to meet her eyes and in his was an expression of stunned surprise. It made her want to laugh. Along with disbelief and exultation, and a rather wicked sense of enjoyment, stunned surprise just about summed up how she felt.
“I liked it,” she said, and felt even more wicked to admit it.
His hazel gaze was hot and sleepy at the same time. “I’m so glad that you were not disappointed.”
“How could you disappoint me?”
There was a moment of stillness and once again, as at the Frost Fair the previous night, Catherine wished she had not spoken. He had disappointed her. He had not said that he loved her.
Then he moved. His legs shifted, sliding over hers, pinning her down.
“You owe me something for that trick you played at the end,” he said. His mouth came down on her breast.
Catherine gasped. “Did you not like it?”
His hands started to roam over her skin, urgently claiming every curve.
“Oh yes, I liked it, sweetheart. I liked it very much.”
Catherine lay wantonly still, allowing him to touch her wherever and however he wanted. The hot shivers coursed through her veins. She parted her thighs to his questing fingers and felt him stroke her intimately. He kissed the base of her throat and the underside of her breast, and Catherine gave a little moan. There was an ache low in her belly. She recognized it now, recognized the need that made her reach out to him in turn. His penis, long and thick, felt smooth against her thigh, but when she tried to turn to him, he brushed her hands aside and pushed her gently back so that he could continue the relentless caresses that were invading her mind and igniting her body. The urgency built within her as he stroked and caressed, until his knowing hands caused her body to arch and shatter, but even in the moment of release she felt an ache for him to be inside her.
She opened dazed eyes and whispered, “Are we equal now?”
His smile was full of masculine satisfaction. “Not yet.”
He lowered his body over hers, nudging her parted thighs wider and settling between them. She tilted her hips up and then he was within her, taut and tense. She could feel the tightly controlled strength of him, the heat, the hardness, and when her lips parted on a groan of sheer pleasure, he bent his head and trapped her in an endless kiss.
His possession of her was complete. His body held hers still beneath him. She was his alone.
At last he started to move, pushing deep then withdrawing, gradually more forceful until she was clinging to him and wrapping her legs about him, her little cries smothered by his mouth. She knew she was going to come at once and she wanted to rebel, to show him that he did not have that power over her, but it was too late. The wave broke over her, tumbling her helplessly in a storm of sensation, her body clenching about him.
It was only as her hazy mind drifted over what had happened to her that she realized that he had not stopped. He was still moving gently, maintaining a rhythm that once again threatened to draw a response from her still-shuddering body. Catherine’s eyes opened wide in shock.
“Again?”
He nodded. His face was tense and dark, set hard with desire. She could see the iron control he was exerting. Then he shifted his weight a little and reached down to rub his thumb gently over the sensitive core of her. Catherine’s body jumped to his touch. She drew in a sharp breath. It seemed impossible, unimaginable, that he could demand another response from her, and yet even as she thought it, she could feel the heat start to build. This time, she swore to herself, she would take him with her. If she surrendered, he would, too.
He lowered his head to her nipples, devouring her, setting her on fire. Her body strove to match the rhythm of his, reaching out to capture him and match the demands he made with those of her own. She could feel the heat ripple beneath her skin, the sensations building toward a climax. And then, suddenly, he withdrew from her, lifted her, turned her over so that she was on her side amid the twisted sheets. Confused, utterly aroused, she turned her head to look at him and saw he was as aroused as she.
But before she could question, he moved. Spreading her thighs he penetrated her again, lying behind her, sliding into her, his arms clasped about her. One of his hands cupped her breast, toying with it in his palm. Catherine pushed back instinctively against his hips and her entire body shivered with ecstasy as the deep rocking sensation claimed her, this time deeper, harder and more deliberate still. She felt his lips on the nape of her neck. He nuzzled her hair aside so that he could run his tongue down the slope of her shoulder and the damp heat of it hardened her nipples still further against the stroke of his palms.
He raised her onto her knees and his hands moved to hold her hips still as he thrust now without restraint. Her mind whirling, her body shaking and heated, Catherine reached out to grab the end of the bed to steady herself. She felt even more wantonly exposed and open to him now. Her breasts trembled with each thrust. Her hair was tumbled about her shoulders, her thighs spread, her body shuddering at his invasion. She braced herself against the end of the bed and let the sensations take her, drawing him in, meeting his passion with her own.
One of his hands came up to knead her breast and she thought she would melt wi
th the wanting. A moment later he had slid his hand across her belly, down to the point where his body joined hers. His fingers delved. Catherine tried to squirm away from his touch but his other hand was on her hip, holding her still. She wriggled, trapped, tormented as his body impaled her and the caress of his fingers drove her to madness.
Captured by the inevitable spiral of desire, Catherine knew she could resist no longer. She surrendered with a wild cry as her mind fractured and her body was finally released from its exquisite torment. She felt Ben’s body spasm as he ground into her even more fiercely and then he, too, gave a shout and they both fell down among the sheets and the peacock-blue coverlet, abandoned, exalted and still entwined.
BEN LAY AND WATCHED Catherine sleep. He was falling in love with her more with each passing moment and at last he luxuriated in the feeling. He felt excited and happy but more than anything he felt warm and safe—and rich. His fears had receded beyond the edge of his mind. For once, he was sure, he could sleep peacefully. He wrapped his arms around Catherine and lay against her back, feeling the way that her body curved itself against his and how soft and tender she was in sleep. He kissed her hair and felt his heart swell with thankfulness. And then he, too, slept.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Not all affairs of the heart may have a happy outcome and if a lady is unfortunate enough to be disappointed in love then as a woman of good manners and education she must simply put the matter behind her.
—Mrs. Eliza Squire, Good Conduct for Ladies
IT WAS DARK THIS TIME when Catherine awoke, and for a moment she lay on the edges of sleep, warm, cocooned in happiness, safe and at peace. Then the sounds that had woken her penetrated her mind again and she sat bolt upright in bed. The space beside her was empty. Ben had gone, and from downstairs came the sounds of voices raised in urgent distress. Catherine grabbed a robe, tied it about her with unsteady hands, flung open the bedroom door and ran down the stairs.
She had expected to find her father there full of outrage and anger with the news of her elopement, but it was Lady Russell who was in the hall, wringing her hands and talking at agitated speed. Ben was there, and Price the butler looking less than his usual impassive self.
“I cannot think how to tell her,” Lady Russell was saying. “They were friends—so close! Catherine was the only one who did not desert her when she was disgraced.” She saw Catherine and stopped abruptly, and for a long, dreadful moment there was silence.
“Catherine,” Ben said. He was looking dazed. “I am so sorry—”
“What is it?” Catherine’s gaze went from his face to that of her chaperone. All the warm, happy, peaceful feelings within her started to drain away. She grabbed Lady Russell’s hands and could feel her trembling.
“Aunt Agatha? Tell me! What has happened?”
She had never expected to see Lady Russell cry. She simply was not the sort of woman to do so. Yet there were tears in her eyes now. “Oh, Kate,” she said brokenly. “I am so sorry. It is Lily. She is dead. They think it was Withers who murdered her.”
THEY BURIED LILY A WEEK LATER in a sad little ceremony in a cemetery at Saint Day’s Church. The fog had lifted for good now and it had been a beautiful, clear, cold winter’s day. Lily’s family had not attended and Catherine had hated them for it. They had cast Lily out in life and in death it was as though she had not existed at all. There had been so few of them in attendance—herself and Lady Russell, Sarah Desmond and Connor, sniffing into a large gentleman’s handkerchief. It seemed that he had loved Lily, too. Ben had escorted her. The press, excited with the scandal of Lily’s death and smelling a wonderful news story, had tried to interview him afterward but he had put his arm about Catherine to shield her from their stares and had refused to talk to them at all. Catherine had been surprised and deeply relieved.
The following days had passed in something of a blur. She was aware that Ben was working with someone called Bradshaw to investigate all the loose ends of Withers’s criminal dealings. One of the other clients in the brothel had identified Withers as the man he had seen going into Lily’s chamber that night and he must have gone straight from there to follow Catherine to the Frost Fair. She was so angry that Withers had drowned before she had learned of Lily’s death. She wanted to rail at him with all the pent-up fury and loss inside her. She wanted to be the one to kill him.
Lady Russell had asked her lawyer, Mr. Churchward, to look into the financial side of Catherine’s affairs. With Sir Alfred Fenton still sick, or pretending to be, and both her other trustees dead, Catherine knew this was all they could do. Ben did not speak to her of it but she sensed the tension in him, though he was constantly by her side during the day and held her close to comfort her at night when her grief threatened to break her heart. But even though he was there for her, Catherine felt that he was slipping away in some sense she found difficult to define. Sometimes she would feel his gaze on her, dark, unreadable, and she would know he was thinking of the money and panic would threaten her.
And then, one afternoon in February, Ben came to seek her out as she sat in the drawing room with Lady Russell, her embroidery idle on her lap. She looked at his face and saw immediately that something was wrong.
“Is it my father?” she started to ask. “Or Maggie?”
But Ben shook his head. He looked at Lady Russell and then back at Catherine. He looked grim and gray.
“Mr. Churchward has sent a message,” he said. “He asks to see us straight away.”
They took their leave of Lady Russell, who made Catherine promise to send to her at Grillons Hotel as soon as she could, and took the carriage to Churchward’s chambers in Holborn. The streets were clear now and the ice was melting. Each day another great chunk of it broke away in the Thames, creaking, straining, crushing boats and bridges before it. The snow was melting to a dirty gray.
Ben held Catherine’s hand, but she sensed that he was far away.
“Everything will be all right,” she said, although she was not sure whether she was trying to reassure him or comfort herself. “Withers may have borrowed some money from my trust fund, I suppose, but Papa will not have let him do anything too dreadful. I am sure of it.”
Ben did not answer, and looking at him Catherine thought he was fighting a battle with himself. She thought she understood. She had had money all her life and so had never had to face the desperate struggle for survival that had shaped his entire existence. Yet she hoped, prayed, that the love she was sure she had seen in him would be strong enough to keep him by her side. But she was terribly afraid that it would not.
Mr. Churchward did not keep them waiting. He ushered them into his dusty office and saw Catherine to a chair, all the while offering his sincere condolences on Lily’s death and the disarray of Catherine’s own business affairs.
Ben did not sit, but strode across to the window as though he could not bear to be entrapped in the room. Catherine wanted to draw him to her side but he did not come close. He did not even look at her as he paced back and forth across the floor. A hard, hot, miserable weight settled in Catherine’s stomach as she waited for Churchward to speak.
“I have been talking to the bank on your behalf, Lady Hawksmoor,” the lawyer said. “With your father sick and your other trustees dead—” he cleared his throat “—well, it seemed for the best that someone should take control.” He shook his head, as though he was overcome for a moment by the sheer untidiness of the situation. “I am sorry…. really very sorry indeed, that matters have come to this.”
Ben made an abrupt movement as though he had no patience for chatter, and Churchward hastily moved on. He cleared his throat again and shuffled the papers on the desk.
“Please, Mr. Churchward,” Catherine said, unable to bear the tension a moment longer, “I know…I suspect…that there has been some irregularity with the funds. Lady Russell has warned me to prepare myself for the fact but I would prefer it if you were to tell me the precise details.”
“Of course,�
� Churchward said. “Of course.” He looked quite hopeless. “I am sorry to have to tell you,” he said, “that we now have the evidence that Lord Withers and, I believe, your father, have robbed your trust funds of all but a few hundred pounds.”
Catherine closed her eyes briefly. She could feel all the blood draining from her face, leaving her light-headed with shock. She had been prepared to hear of Withers’s criminality, but her own father? Instead of protecting her interests, he had cheated her. He and Withers together had stolen everything that her grandfather had left for her.
“My father…” she said faintly.
“I am sorry,” Churchward said again. “There is very little left.”
Catherine looked across at Ben. He was standing by the window as though carved from stone, unmoving, unspeaking. It was almost as though he had not heard a word. The silence was unbearable and Churchward hurried to fill it.
“We believe,” he continued, gabbling a little now, “that Sir James Mather uncovered the deceit and Withers killed him to keep the matter quiet. We cannot be certain of your father’s part in the affair until he has recovered his health and is able to answer questions.”
Catherine put her hands up to her white cheeks. “But you think that he knew?”
Churchward steepled his fingers. “Of the fraud, very probably,” he allowed. “Of the murder—” he shifted uncomfortably “—well, we shall have to bide our time and see.”
“He must have known,” Catherine said again. “He must have been in league with Withers all along. Clarencieux was framed because Withers hated him. But Clarencieux was also having an affair with Maggie and my father knew of that. It was their joint revenge.” She felt stricken.
Once again she looked across at Ben. There was an odd blindness in his face, some sort of disintegration, as though a part of him had been torn away. And then, just as Catherine could bear his silence no longer, he set his jaw and sketched a bow.
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