“If you want to die so much,” Montford had told Sebastian, “at least be of use to England and get your head blown off by Napoleon.” It was advice Sebastian had tried to follow.
He didn’t know what advice Montford had given Marlowe. He’d never asked his friend. He’d been too ashamed at the time and riddled with guilt for dragging Marlowe along with him when he’d begun down that dark path of self-destruction after the revelations about his mother. But he knew one thing for certain. He didn’t deserve Marlowe’s loyalty. He never had, but ever since that fateful duel with his uncle, Marlowe had been his fiercest guard dog.
“He almost killed you, Sherry,” Marlowe gritted out.
Sebastian shrugged casually. “Ah, well, it’s not like that hasn’t happened before.”
Marlowe’s brow rippled with irritation. His fists clenched at his side. “I see you are the same as ever. Don’t give a damn about anything, even yourself.”
That wasn’t true, but Sebastian didn’t bother correcting Marlowe. Let the ogre believe what he would.
“I’m damned bloody sick of you, Sherry,” Marlowe muttered. “You exhaust a man.”
“I do try.”
“I’m tempted to leave you here, at her ladyship’s mercy,” Marlowe threatened.
“Please do,” Sebastian murmured.
This brought Marlowe up short. “What was that?”
“I am quite comfortable where I am. And should I feel like a change of scenery, I shall impose myself upon Montford. I’m sure he has a room to spare.” Or twenty.
Marlowe growled low in the back of his throat. He stood and made a valiant effort to smooth out the wrinkles in his pantaloons, to no effect.
“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here. With her.”
“I think I am perfectly capable of fending off any untoward advances she might make upon my person,” he responded wryly. Not that he would.
Marlowe surveyed him for a long, fraught moment, then seemed to wilt into his rumpled attire. “You are, as usual, impenetrable. If you want to stay here, by all means do so.” He crossed to the door. “Try not to get yourself killed in the meanwhile.”
“I shall think about it.”
Marlowe grunted and departed, slamming the door shut.
At least he had left the whiskey. Drink was a rare commodity in this abstemious, saintly establishment. Lady Katherine seemed to be under the mistaken impression that laudanum would be better for him than good old-fashioned liquor, and she usually managed to have such contraband confiscated from Marlowe before he could make it to Sebastian’s room.
Sebastian didn’t want to know what part of his anatomy Marlowe had stashed the most recent bottle next to in order to get it past the front foyer and Bentley the butler’s eagle eye this time.
Now that he was alone, he stretched out on his stomach, his head poised over the side, where he could take surreptitious sips of the whiskey while keeping it half-hidden under the bed.
Just in case he was interrupted.
But he doubted he would be. Katherine rarely came to his room anymore, damn it. Now that he was awake and coherent, she stayed away for most of the day. He should probably have been grateful for this. The less exposure they had to each other before he could work out a strategy for wooing her, the better.
He did not listen for her footsteps in the hall, or her voice on the stairs.
He was not disappointed when said footsteps or voice passed by his room without stopping.
She was merely doing what was proper. He’d put her in a deuced awkward situation as it was, remaining under her roof. Circumstances were mitigated because of his illness and their nominal kinship, but people would still talk.
Not that he gave a damn. Painted blackguard one minute, then sainted the next—he was bloody tired of the vagaries of society.
So when she did stop in his room for a visit (usually awkward and of short duration), he might suddenly feel worse than he did—oh, say, seconds before she walked in. He might slump a little lower against his pillows and grimace a little more often every time he moved. He might have a hoarse voice, whereas moments before it had been perfectly fine. And he might let his hands shake so hard that she was forced to help him drink his tea or eat his food. With his head hovering near or pressed against her bosom.
He was shameless.
But it was her fault if she believed his mummery. And if she didn’t have any clue that he was now capable of walking about his room (before the rest of the household was up, of course), that was just her own lapse in attention. Until such a time as she discovered he was better than he let on and cast him back to Soho, Sebastian planned on enjoying every moment of their truce. She had surprised him by her level of compassion for him. She had nursed him like he was the last man left on earth since he’d regained consciousness. And even though she didn’t come as often now, when she did, she still treated him so . . .
Tenderly.
No one in his entire life had ever treated him tenderly.
How could he possibly want to leave this bed, boring though it was when she was not there, if he would have to forsake those precious moments? He’d finally let himself believe that he actually stood a chance with her, and he’d be damned if he bollixed things up now. He planned on having her keep him forever, for he planned on keeping her forever. How to execute such a scheme, however, was going to be a delicate business indeed.
Strains of Beethoven drifted up from the floor below. Sebastian smiled to himself and took another drink. His lady aunt was doggedly practicing her latest sonata, the new and entirely impenetrable Opus 106, as she did every morning. It had gotten steadily better since he’d first heard it a week ago, but it was still rather charmingly rough.
He’d never enjoyed listening to someone else play as much as he did Katherine. He suspected that part of the reason he was getting better so fast (damn it) was because of these musical interludes. He closed his eyes and imagined the day when he would walk out of this room and down the stairs, into the room where she played. He would come up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, lean down so his mouth was nearly touching the delicate curve of her ear.
His breath against her nape would make her fingers falter on the keys.
His words, whispered and very naughty, would cause her to turn on the stool, German augmented sixths forgotten, open her arms and . . .
He opened his eyes. He never let himself go farther than that in his imaginings, at least when he was conscious. It was much too far as it was, judging from the state of his body below the waist.
Cursing, he shifted to his side to relieve his discomfort, taking another swig of whiskey before settling in for a nice little nap.
He was supposed to be too sick to manage that.
Lady Katherine better not find out that he wasn’t. At least not yet.
SEBASTIAN’S SCHEMING, HOWEVER, was thwarted nearly as soon as it had begun. When he woke up from his nap that same day, head aching and muscles sore, he reached for the whiskey he’d left underneath his pillow. It was, alas, no longer there.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” Katherine stood at his bedside, whiskey bottle in hand, glaring at him.
Damn, damn, and triple damn. He was rumbled. He was going to be tossed out on his ear.
“Katherine . . . er, Katie, dear, lovely Katie, if you would just hand that over to me now . . .”
She blushed at the nickname but tucked the bottle behind her. “I have just had a fascinating discussion of your health with Marlowe as he was leaving this morning,” she said archly.
No telling what Marlowe had let slip, the damned traitor.
“You have been playing me for a fool. Letting me believe you were still at death’s door,” she continued, her fury growing.
He felt a bit at death’s door at the moment, especially now that his plans to i
ngratiate himself into her life were in dire peril.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said weakly.
Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re well enough to drink half a bottle of whiskey, you’re well enough to leave this bed.”
“Laudanum doesn’t agree with me,” he replied with a pout.
She was unmoved. “You let me feed you!” She was all aquiver with her outrage, and he would have admired the way it made her green eyes light up under normal circumstances, but he was rather all aquiver with pain and in dire need of that bottle.
“Give me the whiskey, if you please.”
“I don’t think I shall.”
“I am in considerable pain.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Prove it.”
Well, if she was going to play that game.
He sat up and began to unbutton the waistcoat he’d insisted Crick help him into that morning. He flicked it off and continued to his cravat.
Her eyes grew wide. “What are you doing?”
He gave her his most ingenuous look. “Proving it. I believe you wanted to see my body, just to make sure it is still injured.”
She stepped away from the bed and spun around in a show of modesty. Her cheeks were scarlet. He smirked at her back.
“I don’t need to see it.”
“I think you do.” Please do, he wanted to beg.
She gave a strained, scoffing laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
His fingers fumbled to a halt. He stared at her taut shoulders and bowed head in wonder. Her protest was made in a weak, breathless manner that called out to all of his male parts. He’d heard that tone often enough from women who wanted him, though his body had never felt inclined to reciprocate.
Ridiculous.
She couldn’t possibly.
He was here on sufferance.
Wasn’t he?
Doubt warred with hope. Hope—or was it male lust?—won the day. He yanked at his shirt without bothering further with the buttons, and it caught on his waistband. He yanked again, and something tore at the stitches Dr. Lucas had sewn into his left shoulder. Warm blood trickled down his arm. Not a good sign.
His hope deflated instantly. So did other parts.
“I believe I am bleeding again.”
She peeked over her shoulder and went pale. “You must have popped a stitch.”
She turned and reached out to him, and he instinctively flinched away, the old anxiety returning at the worst possible moment. Her hand dropped to her side, and her brow furrowed. She was confused by his abrupt withdrawal. Hurt.
Damn it all. He wanted to explain that it had nothing to do with her. That he wanted to let her touch him more than anything else in this world.
That he didn’t know how to let her.
He stared at her, willing her to understand. Perhaps she did after a while, for she got that look on her face he had seen when he had first come out of his fever. The I’m-not-going-to-hurt-you-I-am-a-ministering-angel look. It was a good look on her. It made something warm and terrifying unfurl in his heart.
She held out the whiskey bottle to him a bit guiltily. “Lie down. Let me see if we should fetch Dr. Lucas.”
He restrained a hysterical laugh. At last she told him to lie down, but she had to ruin his salacious fantasy by mentioning the damn sawbones!
“No doctor,” he said, snatching the bottle and stowing it back under his pillow. “I am sick of doctors.” Especially bewhiskered doctors who pant after you like adolescent boys.
From the bewildered look on her face, he was not sure whether he’d said that last bit out loud or not. He finished removing his shirt, taking his time, watching her cheeks heat and her eyes wander the room, settling on nothing.
He’d not misread her earlier. It was the sweetest torture to know she was not so physically unaffected by him as she pretended to be. He peeled the shirt from his shoulders, then threw it to the side. Despite his aches and pains, he stretched out his body slowly, languorously, in a way he hoped spoke of seduction, until he lay flat on his back.
She watched every movement he made, though she pretended she didn’t.
“I’m ready,” he said when she made no move toward him.
He closed his eyes and felt her close the distance between them, felt the brush of her skirt—dove-gray bombazine, as usual—against his bare shoulder She leaned over him, close enough for him to be immediately intoxicated by her scent. Verbena and mint.
Her cool fingers brushed down his shoulder, and desire ricocheted through his body. He clenched his jaw and tried to banish his dangerous reaction, though he couldn’t control his fracturing breath. She reached over him, her heat seeping into his skin. She grabbed a cloth from the night table and brushed it across the cut.
The only pain he felt now was decidedly south of his shoulder.
“A small tear. You shall be fine, I think,” came her voice above him.
She began to straighten and step away.
His hand shot out, tangling in her skirts. Suddenly he couldn’t bear it if she left him.
He heard her breath catch. Another chink in her armor.
He tugged on her skirt. She stepped closer. Then closer still without any prompting.
He told himself he was doing neither of them any harm. He told himself he deserved this one stolen moment, if nothing else. He told himself she wanted the same thing too, since she hadn’t pulled away. All lies, of course. But he was an excellent liar, and she smelled so good and felt so good that he was more than willing to stop listening to his brain in favor of another part of his anatomy for once in his life.
His hand was on her stomach now. He would not wonder how it had arrived there. Her skin was warm beneath the fabric, and he noted with satisfaction she wore no corset. And why would she? She was lithe. She was willowy, like some wood nymph in a fairy tale. She was perfection. His other hand came up, grasping the curve of her narrow waist. He traced both hands downward, over the swell of her hips.
Perfect.
He paused when his hands encountered the delicate bones jutting at the top of her hips. He glanced down. Miles and miles of leg were hidden beneath the yardage of those puritan skirts.
His body thrummed with the beat of his blood through his veins.
He tensed when he felt something touch his head. Then he realized it was her hand, combing lightly through his hair. It felt unconscionably good. So good that the last of his inhibitions, which had held him so long in their thrall, fell away entirely.
Never letting go of her, he shifted his position, lowering his stockinged feet to the floor and sitting on the edge of the bed. He moved her between his legs, skirts and all, and when he raised his head his eyes were inches from her chest. She was breathing heavily, making interesting things happen to her bosom. If he moved forward ever so slightly, his mouth would touch the lovely, gentle swell of her breast.
He could make Lady Ice melt, and he would melt with her. Into her.
God, how he wished it were into her.
“Katie,” he whispered, running his trembling hand down the side of her flushed face.
She stared down at him with something like wonder in her green eyes at the sound of her name, suddenly breathing as hard as he was.
He tugged her closer, down, down, until she was leaning against his naked chest and her lips hovered inches away, her panting little breaths hitting his mouth. She tried to speak, but the words seemed to strangle in her throat as he caressed the long line of her body once more.
“I don’t like to be touched,” he whispered. “Unless it’s by you. Of course I lied about my condition. How else was I to stay near you?”
Her breath shuddered against his lips. “Sebastian . . .” she murmured, bringing her hands up to cradle his face. So very tenderly.
He sucked in a breath of
surprise and closed his eyes in an attempt to contain himself. His erection pulsed against his breeches, full-blown and outrageous.
He could do this, he realized. She was trembling now, and all he had to do was reach under her skirts, find that hot, damp, secret place between her legs, somehow manage to rid himself of the rest of his clothes, and finally make her his. But though the theory of it was all very well and good, actually executing such a seduction seemed nigh impossible. He’d never hold out long enough, for starters.
But damned if he wasn’t willing to try. He’d never have another opportunity, given that she’d been ready to throw him out not moments ago. He closed the short distance between them and met moist, trembling lips with his own.
God.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed a girl. He’d probably still been in short pants, mooning after the vicar’s daughter at Briar Hill. He certainly didn’t recall it being this glorious. Katherine was all sweet, flushed heat as he pulled her body into his arms, sealing their lips even tighter against each other. She seemed to know as little about the art of kissing as he did, judging from the awkward angle with which they both approached each other. But that was hardly surprising, given what he knew about his uncle’s virility. Or lack thereof.
It was the one outcome of that horrid duel for which Sebastian gave thanks. It was perhaps selfish of him to take such great satisfaction in Katherine’s sterile marriage, yet he could not help himself. She was his, and only his.
She tensed a bit in his arms and pulled away from their kiss. “What did you say?”
Damn. He must have spoken that last bit aloud. “Nothing,” he murmured, pulling her back.
She resisted, looking a bit troubled. “Sebastian . . .” she began.
No, no, no. He could not have her thinking. Sensing that his fragile plans were in jeopardy, he nuzzled against her throat, as all of the heroes did to their women in the more lurid Christopher Essex verses. He hoped it had a similar effect in reality.
Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2) Page 13
