Beverley Kendall

by Sinful Surrender (lit)

  Awash in emotions she could not control, Missy used those solitary minutes to come to terms with everything she had just learned. Images of James hung with agonizing and heartbreaking clarity in her mind. James, who now for all intents and purposes, belonged to Victoria Spencer. He would never be hers. The finality of it left her sick to her heart. She stared at the pale, hollow-eyed woman in the mirror, willing her not to cry.

  After attaining some semblance of composure, Missy was making her way back down the gilded hallway passing gold framed portraits picturing several generations of Brighams, when Victoria Spencer appeared like an apparition in her pale gown and blond locks.

  Missy would have loved to cut her where she stood. But the blasted woman approached her wearing a genuine smile of greeting. Missy forced one of her own. Artificiality did have a purpose, after all.

  “Good evening, Miss Armstrong,” Lady Victoria said pleasantly.

  “Good evening, Lady Victoria.” Missy prayed the other woman couldn’t hear the underlying strain in her greeting.

  The blond beauty halted, forcing Missy to do likewise. Clearly, she intended they speak, which was surprising as they had never spoken before, other than polite words exchanged in the few times they had crossed paths.

  “Are you enjoying the musicale?” she inquired.

  “Yes, quite.” Gazing into the eyes of the woman she’d grown to so thoroughly dislike, Missy disliked her all the more for being so thoroughly amiable.

  An awkward silence followed, Lady Victoria making no move to go about whatever business had brought her out into the hall. Missy delicately cleared her throat. “Well then, I really must be getting back inside.”

  For a moment, it looked as if the woman would say something else to prolong the already torturous exchange, but thankfully, she gave a tentative nod before continuing on her way. Breathing a sigh of relief, Missy started toward the music room, the strains of Beethoven’s Gassenhauer wafting into the hallway, compelling her to quicken her strides.

  When she was mere seconds shy of her goal, out strode James. He came to an abrupt stop upon spotting her. His regard became hooded and his features tensed.

  Missy had only a split second to decide whether she would completely ignore him but her pride would not allow her to scuttle away like a coward or play the role of the lady scorned.

  “Good evening, Lord Rutherford,” she said cool and formal.

  “Missy.” The utterance of her name was dark and husky. She hated that it elicited a sharp thrill that wound its way up her spine and had her nipples peaking in response. God, she was weak. And too many kinds of stupid to count.

  Lady Victoria is expecting his child. The sharp admonishment carried the equivalent of a dousing of ice-cold water on a fire ready to rage out of control. Her senses cooled instantly.

  “I believe another round of felicitations is in order. I have just heard your first child is on the way.” Missy fought to keep her tone neutral and her expression closed.

  Something flashed in his eyes but it was gone before she could discern the emotion. “Perhaps I should have posted banners and then saved the gossipmongers one less breath.” Disdain was evident in his voice.

  Apparently, with all she had told herself of the hopelessness of her feelings for him, there must have been some minute part of her that had retained a sliver of hope. His lack of a denial dashed them clean and proper. Her heart gave a sickening thud clear down to her belly, and then tumbled to the floor, shattered and broken.

  “Yes, perhaps you should have done so two weeks past and saved us both.”

  “Yes,” he snapped, after a tension-fraught moment of silence. “I imagine you would have benefited from such an act more than I. I pray the next time you will think again before you go throwing yourself at a man by showing up alone at his door.”

  Bastard! He would have to remind her of her folly. “As I have nothing further to lose, I believe that point is rather moot.”

  With two quick strides, he stood looming above her, his jaw working violently. If she could have done so, she would have closed her senses off from the scent of him, a scent citrusy and wholly masculine. She took a step back. He might not be concerned that his soon-to-be fiancée could return in a moment, but she refused to become fodder for every nattering tongue in Society.

  “If I were ever to discover that you are—”

  “If you were to discover what?” she interrupted sharply, while trying to keep her voice low. “That I have visited a man at his residence? What will you do, James? Tell my mother? Tell Thomas? What would you tell them, dare I ask? That you of all people have first-hand experience in what will happen to me if I do?” Missy did not care that she was goading him and fueling his temper. His hypocrisy provoked her to no end.

  Ice blue fire blazed in his eyes. He looked like a man ready to do violence, his hands fisted at his side. “Do not push me,” came his growled warning.

  “Then do not think you can tell me how to conduct my life.” With that said, Missy swept around him, angled her chin high, and returned to the music room.

  Missy, weary in body as well as spirit, climbed into the warmth of her bed in the early hours of the morning following the musicale. Except for the exchange with James out in the hall, they had not spoken again. She and Claire had waited by the front entrance while he and Thomas had spoken before they took their leave.

  One thing had become quite apparent as she’d sat through the last half of the event; her feelings for James made it nearly impossible for her to remain in London. Not only would she have to endure his coming nuptials, but a baby soon after. It would be the equivalent of emotional suicide. But what was she to do? He was one of her brother’s best friends. She would inevitably have to see him, whether by design or happenstance.

  If only she could completely disappear or go someplace far away. Far from James. Then an idea struck her. It came in ripples teasing the corners of her mind, until the practicality as well as logistics made it the perfect solution. She could go to America and stay with her mother’s younger sister, Mrs. Camille Rockford.

  Ten years ago, her aunt met John Rockford, an American. He had come to England on business and, in two short months, they had fallen in love, married, and returned to New York.

  Her aunt had written her mother earlier in the spring extending an invitation for the family to visit, but the viscountess had declined, saying due to Emily and Sarah’s studies, this year would not be appropriate for such a trip. But her sisters’ studies should not preclude her from going, should it? The real issue would be to get her mother to allow her to take the journey alone.

  The only way she could envision her mother permitting her this trip was if Thomas also gave his full support, and if she managed to secure a proper chaperone. And by proper she meant beyond reproach and utterly dependable and responsible. If she could come up with someone who had her mother’s complete trust, that would work further in her favor. This would require much thought and serious consideration. In the meanwhile, she would speak to Thomas. If anyone could sway her mother, he could.

  Her brother lived not far from James. The coach actually passed his street on the circuitous route it took there the following morning. Stevens, who at this point must have thought one of his primary duties was to escort her to and from gentlemen’s residences, accompanied her.

  Like James, Thomas lived in a narrow, tall townhouse, the front, stone and brick. She climbed the few steps to the oak door and sounded the knocker.

  The door flew open so quickly Missy was convinced Arthur must have seen her approaching from the street.

  “Good morning, Arthur, is my brother in?” She didn’t wait for his permission but simply waltzed past the butler, her eyes darting around the tan-and-green foyer.

  Arthur gave a brief, if somewhat belated, bow given she’d not given him an opportunity to do so until then. She heard the door click behind her but kept her ears attuned to the footfall of her brother’s arrival.


  “Good morning, Miss Armstrong. Regretfully, Lord Armstrong is not at home.” He spoke with such impeccable diction, at times she’d wondered if he was in fact truly a servant. Sometimes she sensed in him a hauteur reserved only for the haute ton. But here she stood musing about such inane matters when she had much bigger issues to tend to.

  Turning back to him, she asked, “Do you know when he is expected back?”

  Arthur regarded her for a moment and then said, in his usual stilted tone, “I expect he should arrive home relatively soon as he does have an engagement scheduled for ten.”

  Missy glanced at the intricately carved rosewood long-case clock in the hall. Only fifteen minutes until ten. She began tugging at her gloves. “Then I shall await him in the drawing room.” After her gloves, she removed her bonnet, handed them to Arthur, before making her way down the narrow hall to the cozy drawing room.

  Little had changed since she’d been there last year, although she did note her brother had hung several more oils in the entrance and replaced the dark red Oriental rug in the room with a dark tan Aubusson. She slipped onto the sofa, adorned with dark green embroidered pillows.

  Missy wondered how much longer her brother would be. It was surprising he was up and out so early. Calling hours were hours away, not that her brother did much calling for that matter, but nonetheless, if he were so inclined, it was frightfully early.

  A minute later, Arthur appeared to ask her if she required anything while she waited. As she had just had a breakfast of scones and tea, her appetite was sated for the while. She declined politely and her wait continued.

  Earlier that morning, when she was feeling strong and brave, she’d promised herself she would permanently cast James from her thoughts. Two hours later, she’d broken that promise at least two dozen times. Memories of the evening that had irrevocably changed her life played over again in her mind. Sometimes she cringed at her brazenness, ashamed how some could say she’d orchestrated what had happened. Certainly that was how James saw it, she the seductress, he merely a victim of his own physical needs.

  And now he was to be married and welcome a child within a year. Like a vise squeezing her heart, the thought as always, brought pain. Would there ever come a day when it would not?

  Missy heard the front door just as she rose to inspect a small woodcarving of a horse resting on a bookshelf near the rear of the room.

  Her first thought was that Thomas had finally arrived home but when she heard the low rumble of voices, she thought again. There would be no need for Thomas to ring the bell at his own home. Placing the exquisitely detailed sculpture back on the shelf, she strolled toward the door and poked her head out. She immediately snapped it back and scampered to the sofa. James was advancing down the hall.

  Seconds later, his tall frame filled the doorway as he came to a halt. They eyed each other warily. Missy forced even breaths from her lungs and prayed her expression didn’t betray her agitation.

  “Good morning, Missy.”

  How cool and reserved he sounded. She surely had it in her to be the same.

  “James,” she said, tilting her chin. “I’m sure Arthur has already told you Thomas is not in.”

  An odd smile stretched his mouth. “Indeed he did. But I’m sure he’ll be arriving shortly as we have an appointment at ten.”

  She supposed this is what their encounters would be like—stiff, polite formality. If only she’d listened to her brother and Claire. He was everything he was reputed to be, a cold-hearted rake. Not a glimmer of emotion did he show for the woman he had taken to his bed weeks before. He acted as if it never happened. She must have been a fool all those years, pining and hoping for a man who clearly did not exist. She could scarcely love a man she didn’t truly know. And it was apparent she didn’t know James Rutherford at all.

  Missy stiffened her spine. “Oh, I was not aware Thomas had a prior engagement.” She stood and circled the low mahogany table. “It is probably best if Thomas comes by the townhouse when he has time.” She made a move to pass him but he made it difficult because he had not budged from his post at the door. To squeeze past him would require too much brushing and subjecting herself to that didn’t seem wise. So instead she stood and waited for him to at least play the gentleman and step aside so she could pass.

  But the blasted man just stood there as she burned under the heat of his gaze.

  Tipping back her head, she gave him an arched look, hoping she appeared at her most supercilious. But looking directly into his smoldering blue eyes was a mistake. She lowered her regard instantly, maddened that with so little effort he could reduce her to this. She felt her cheeks warming, but with the heat came anger. She remembered Lady Victoria—and then she remembered the coming child, and at that moment she hated him.

  “Do you intend to move so I may leave?” she said in a brittle voice.

  “Do you plan to tell your brother, is that why you’re here?”

  Her head snapped back up, her eyes wide and her jaw unhinged. Cheeks recently fiery hot, went cold. Her hands fairly trembled in fury. She snapped her mouth closed. “So that is what worries you? Do you actually believe I would be so stupid as to go to my brother with this and have him know what an utter fool I’ve been?” She derived some satisfaction when his jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed at her last remark.

  “Or do you think so highly of yourself as to believe I am so desperate to have you that I would tell Thomas in an effort to force you to end your courtship of Lady Victoria? Let me assure you, James, I would not have you now if you begged me, and neither Thomas nor my mother could force me to marry you.” She resented the thickness that had crept into her voice. She had to show him she was over him. Firming her mouth, she made a move to push past him.

  What she didn’t expect was for his hand to whip out like a rattler striking to capture her forearm. His grip was not tight enough to bruise but was certainly firm enough to restrain her.

  Missy willed away angry, helpless tears pricking at her eyes. “Let go of my arm.” She gave two quick decisive tugs, but he didn’t relent, continuing to hold her there, much too close.

  “Calm down. There is no reason for dramatics. My entire life has been turned upside down in the course of just a few weeks. Do you blame me for wondering?” He kept his voice low as he continued to watch her intently between hooded lids.

  “Do you truly believe I want anyone else to know just how big a fool I have been? I would soon marry Lord Crawley and give him the dowry to do with as he pleased than have anyone know my shame.”

  For a brief moment, something flickered in his eyes, something almost violent. His hand tightened on her arm causing her to wince. He immediately loosened his hold.

  “So that is what you plan, to marry the fortune hunter?” His lips pealed back from his teeth in something resembling a snarl.

  “Better that than to marry a blackguard like you,” she said, tugging to free her arm again.

  “Which you wanted desperately enough not so long ago,” he muttered before he released her arm only to pull her against him with both hands, locking her tightly to his chest.

  The descent of his head seemed to occur in slow motion. She felt helpless to stop what was coming. The silken bond of his possession. Heaven and hell. At the last second, she pulled her head back, a move that only served in aiding his efforts, tilting her head at a steeper angle. His arms, roped with sinewy muscle, remained unyielding around her. His lips caught hers parted and vulnerable, to what masqueraded as a kiss but was really a full assault of her senses.

  He made no attempt to be gentle. His lips ate at hers, hungry and demanding. For the first several seconds, she twisted her head in a valiant attempt to dislodge him, his mouth, and the hand anchored to the back of her head, but he retained a steadfast hold. Then an insidious warmth snaked through her body, weakening her, leaving her hot, her nerve endings ultra-sensitive to the stoking passion. As much as she wanted to push him away, knew she should push him away, her arms
crept up to his shoulders, the flesh ridged with muscle, firm beneath her fingertips. She slid her hands around his neck urging his head closer, and then closer still.

  Her mouth became avaricious, her tongue sliding and stroking his in a desperate bid for surcease to the pressure that had built so swiftly in her loins. Her movements pressed her breasts flush against his chest, tightening her already stiffened peaks. The evidence of his arousal throbbed hard and strong against her belly. A groan rumbled from his throat as one hand slid to cup her bottom and anchor her hips to settle his considerable erection between her thighs—or at least as much as the blasted petticoats would allow—while another hand tracked up to flick over a straining nipple through the layers of silk and muslin. His touch pierced. Her knees buckled, her sagging weight now supported by the hand squeezing her bottom in a purposeful, languid rhythm that caused a rush of moisture to her center.

  His mouth left hers to trail down the long curve of her neck, peppering it with tender biting nips and soothing them with the swipe of his tongue. Missy could not think beyond the havoc he wreaked on her body, her senses, leaving her a throbbing, mindless supplicant in his arms.

  Suddenly, he was gone; all of his warmth withdrawn in an instant. If not for his steadying hand, her fall would have been a certainty. But even that support was withdrawn too quickly. Her mind could not grasp what had happened until she heard the distinct roll of the tea trolley on the runner coming down the hall. With her back to the door, Missy scrambled desperately to compose herself. She plucked at the ruffled skirt of her dress and ran a shaky hand to smooth any dishevelment of her hair.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see James adjusting his trousers over the still burgeoning swell beneath, and then tugging at his waistcoat.

  With composure she did not feel, Missy turned just in time to see the maid crest the doorframe with the silver tea trolley.