“I am a victim of circumstance,” I pointed out, in what I was pleased to note was a controlled voice, since I was as angry as I had ever been. “And making decisions based on incomplete information is not an indicator of maturity.”
“You might want to consider the fact,” he replied coolly, “that the alternative to the situation you are in would be for Milburn to have simply not arrived for the wedding. You would at this very moment be living in your parents’ house waiting for him, likely with no more understanding of what had become of him than you possess right now. One hardly thinks that would be preferable.”
I raised a brow. “Milburn would not have shown up even if you had not stepped in?”
He gave me a level look. “No,” he said, finally, as though deciding that he could part with that much. “I think it is safe to say that he would not have.”
“I see.” I added that fact to my scant information.
“You are angry that I was with Mathilde tonight?” he said in tones that almost sounded conciliatory.
“No,” I said, casting about for something that made me sound like a person who was not a complete stranger to logic. “Surprised, perhaps, that you are incapable of going even a short time without”—I forced myself not to blush—“female companionship.”
“Do let me understand then,” he said, evenly. “You are asking me to forgo female companionship?”
“No,” I said, attempting to find a way out that at the same time made me sound rational, spared me the sight of Cambourne romancing Mathilde, and allowed me to do it without needing to blurt out that I wanted to kill him for even thinking about another woman.
He looked interested. “Then what do you want, Gwen?”
“Discretion,” I lied. “At the very least, I expect you to be discreet.”
For the merest instant, I thought I might have seen a flicker of some strong emotion in his eyes, but when he replied, his tones were equable. “Of course. We are to spare your maidenly sensibilities! So, am I correct in assuming that were I to very discreetly bed anyone who took my fancy, that would be acceptable?”
Now what was I supposed to say? “No,” I said. “Yes.”
Then, “I do not know.”
He raised a brow. “How conclusive,” he said. “Perhaps you would explain your reasoning to me, since it seems that I am having difficulty in deciphering it on my own.”
“Well—” I began, feeling rather boxed into a corner. “I suppose we must both be sensible about this.”
“Sensible,” he said, “I see. I suppose it is fortunate that you feel this way, because I might as well tell you: Something has come up and I will need to appear to be myself some of the time. And if I am to be myself, then I must behave as people are accustomed to seeing me.”
I stared at him. “Something has come up?” I said. “And by that, may I assume you do not refer to your manipulation of me into a sham of a marriage, but to something important?”
“In fact,” he replied, crossing his arms, “you are right. I do refer to something important.”
I raised a brow. “So people, am I to take it, then, must be accustomed to seeing you pant over Mathilde like an animal in heat? And what’s come up is that you have to trot around town whoring so no one will think that the almighty Earl of Cambourne has fallen?”
“I had not realized that I was conducting myself with such unusual restraint,” he said tightly. “I shall take pains to remedy that immediately, but then, that is of no great interest to you.”
“You lied to me, telling me that you had business out of town,” I accused, sounding very much the shrewish wife, compiling a litany of wrongs, but too angry to care.
“I did have business out of town,” he said, evenly. “And then I learned that someone I needed to see was expected at the Arbuthnots’, so I returned.”
“And how nice of her to ensure that you could see so very much of her! I was momentarily alarmed that her dressmaker had forgot the bodice entirely! But, then, your reverting to playing Cambourne will likely afford you numerous such felicitous opportunities,” I said.
“Oh, thousands,” he said, airily. “If not hundreds of thousands.”
“I see,” I said.
“I’m not entirely certain that you do,” he replied.
“Oh, but I do,” I returned, sweetly.
“I think,” he said, slowly, “that I shall avail myself of them all. Each and every one.”
“How very fatiguing for you,” I said, looking right up into his face.
“And how very nice of you to care,” he replied, looking down into mine.
“I am concerned about your health, naturally,” I told him.
“As a dutiful sister-in-law should be. But do let me understand: While concerned for my well-being in a completely dutiful way, you do not care personally if I bed those other women?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I replied, striving for an air of careless insouciance. “Why on earth would I care about that?”
“You damned well do, and you know it,” he said, his face very close. “And you can damned well tell me why.”
“You swore,” I said. “You swore at me twice, Cambourne.”
“Yes,” he said, taking a step nearer. His eyes glittered. “I did.”
I backed up a corresponding step. It was not that I was afraid of him, precisely, but I was suddenly aware of something simmering beneath that cool surface, of the way his eyes were narrowed.
“In fact, I have never,” he said, his tones still equable, “in all my life, met a female so readily capable of rendering me completely furious.”
The funny thing was that although everything on the surface was calm, there was an almost palpable blaze of something strong in the air. He moved again, and I thought for a moment that he was going to back me against the wall. And then what would I do? What would he do? I wondered in a heady swirl of anticipation and terror. But, instead, he dropped his gaze and picked up his glass from the table and took a drink. His knuckles were white.
I had never before this moment, in all our years of knowing one another, seen him display even a hint of temper. “You lost your temper at me,” I almost whispered.
“No,” he said, over the rim of the glass. “Most people lose their tempers. I don’t.”
“But,” I said, with a sudden flash of insight (of which I was quite proud). “Underneath that very heavy mantle of your titles, you are just a person. Not so different from most people.”
He ran his hand through his hair and took a step back and the atmosphere lightened. “Tell me, Gwen,” he said. “Are most people completely exasperated by you?”
“More than a few,” I admitted. “You only need ask my brothers.”
“Somehow,” he said, “I suspect this is different. On the optimistic side, since it seems you are partial to a display of rage, there does seem to be every possibility that the more time I spend with you, the likelier you are to get one.” He handed me the glass, then, wordlessly.
I wondered, as I drank, if my lips were touching the same place that his had.
“Just because I am not choleric, Gwen, do not mistake me for a man of lukewarm emotion,” he said, very softly.
I swallowed, and nodded, my gaze still locked with his.
“And do not throw my faults in my face without acknowledging your own.”
“Mine?” I looked at him. It was not that I did not recognize that I possess them, many and varied, but I had not realized them to be currently under discussion. I placed the glass down.
“Yes, Gwen,” he said, still softly. “If you are honest, the reason you care about the possibility of my bedding others has nothing to do with discretion.” He put his hand out and hooked a finger in the knot he had made in the sash of the robe. “Does it?”
He pulled me closer, so I had no choice but either to look up at him or straight ahead at his chest. I looked up, but found that view no less disturbing. “Our wedding night,” he said from very close.
“Do you know what I remember most?”
I shook my head.
“The way you seemed to burn, Gwen. The heat of you, against me, beneath my hands.”
My stomach seemed to turn molten. All the reasons not to go where he was leading churned around in my head: He has not been honest with me. He is using me for his own ends. Likely he was saying similarly heated words to Mathilde Claussen a few short hours ago. And I belong to Milburn, I reminded myself, not to this man. Although, were I to be honest with myself, I knew that the last was not what was holding me back.
He stroked a finger down my cheek. He had moved a step nearer so that he was not precisely pressed against me, but there was not a good deal of space between our bodies. “And you never would have burned like that had there been nothing between us.”
Speak up again now, I told my brain, which had suddenly fallen into silence. When it didn’t, I licked my lips, and to my surprise, noticed that he seemed fascinated by that action. I did it again. And again, he seemed unable to pull his gaze away. I may not have been diminutive, and gazing adoringly up at him over a fan, but nonetheless I was aware of something in the air between us, making my body grow heavier. I put my hand in his.
His robe was still wrapped around me, and I was pleasurably aware of it, lying heavy and warm over my body. He pulled me close, and bent his head to mine, and said, his words warming me, “You tempt me to go places I’ve never been, Gwen.”
Then his hands skimmed up my arms, seemingly touching places on my body that they were nowhere near.
My hands clenched in his shirtfront as he lowered his head, and then, very slowly, as though we had all the time in the world, he ran his tongue across my lip, following the same path mine had taken.
I sighed against the heat of his mouth. And then he did it again. “Gwen,” he said, sounding unlike himself. His eyes were dark and heavy.
I pressed against him, made shockingly wanton by the need he was summoning in me. The silk of his robe seemed to slide between us. I could feel that my breasts had grown tight and were pressing into his chest. I moved again, boldly wanting to make certain he knew it. His hands came up my back, stilling me and yet pressing me closer still. I could not fathom that any sensation could feel so wicked, and yet so sweet, as his mouth on mine and the hard length of him against me. He was muscles and angles and planes, and we seemed to fit perfectly. I groaned.
“What?” he asked, roughly. “Tell me what.” He looked hungry. Predatory.
“More,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said in a rough voice, as his hand came up to close over my breast. “Everything you want.”
My head fell back, as the sensation rippled through me. He bent and lowered his head to where the pulse beat in my throat. He kissed me there, and then ran the tip of his tongue up my neck. I shivered. His hand left my breast, and I would have protested had he not immediately begun to untie the sash of his robe. I let my arms fall to my side, and looked up at him, offering myself. Our eyes stayed locked, as the robe fell open, and then his hot gaze swept down over me.
I could hear his breathing quicken. I felt a surge of power that this was me having this effect on him. And despite the effect he was having on me, I forced myself to think, which wasn’t easy, with his gaze burning into mine. Perhaps, just perhaps, I thought, I could try doing what Cecy had suggested, after all, and allow him to seduce me—not entirely, of course, since I would only be allowing him to think he was seducing me—in order to get information from him.
If I were going to, it was now or never. I took a deep breath, and dropping his robe to the floor, stood before him in just my thin wrapper.
I forced myself to be still under his gaze, until he lifted his darkened eyes to mine once again. Without letting my gaze move away from him, I slowly reached up and took down the wet hair that I had coiled on top of my head. It fell, warm and damp and heavy to my shoulders. He was still watching as if he could not bring himself to tear his eyes away. Encouraged, I very deliberately licked my lips again, and untied the ribbons that closed my wrapper at the neck, relishing the slip of the silk as they slid free. He swallowed.
“Have you been thinking about this, Cambourne?” I asked, surprised by how husky my voice sounded to my own ears.
Instead of answering, he stepped even nearer, and pulled me to him.
“Wanting this?” I whispered.
“Constantly,” he said against my ear, as he slid the palms of his hands down my silk-covered arms. “Without cease.”
This was going much better than I had expected! I took a step back from him. “And this?” I asked, as I parted the very top of my wrapper. He was watching me now, with narrow-eyed intensity. Every inch of his body was taut, but I could still think, I realized with some satisfaction.
Now. I had to start the questioning innocuously, I knew. “Were you thinking about this before we were married?” I whispered, licking my lips. “When you decided to step in for Milburn?”
Then I almost gasped as the air hit my hardened nipples. And my firm grip on rationality seemed to tilt, when he made a sort of strangled noise and pulled me to him. His hands slid to my hips, where they seemed to melt a path. Still gripping my hips, he lowered his head, and his lips sought mine. This time, his mouth seemed to whisper across mine for only a moment, before he turned the kiss deeper, his tongue swept across my lips. Our thighs were pressed together and his hands left my hips, one to trace the lightest caresses over my breasts, the other to stroke my bottom, pushing me harder against him. His strangled sound was mine now.
“Cambourne,” I gasped as he rocked against me.
“Easy,” he whispered, against the side of my neck. “Easy, Gwen,” as his nimble fingers parted the wrapper further. His hands were almost touching bare skin!
And I confess, I realized then and there that I didn’t have the stuff of which empire breakers are made. I no longer remembered what I wanted to know or why. I only wanted his hands on more of me.
“Come to my bed, Gwen,” he whispered, as he moved his hand so that my breast filled his palm, his skin causing the most delightful friction against mine.
I gasped, and nodded, as I made the discovery that pushing myself back up against him made things all that much better.
He groaned. “Do you want this?” he whispered against my lips, as the flat of his hand pushed against the burning point that was my nipple.
“Oh God help me, but yes,” I said, arching into his wicked hand.
“You’ll be my wife,” he said, keeping me tight to his body. “Come what may. No questions.”
And that did it. I tore myself out of his hands and snatched frantically at both what remained of my wits and my wrapper, trying to reassemble both to the best of my ability. He was seducing me for his own reasons just as I had started out seducing him for mine.
I stood clutching my wrapper, panting and looking up at him. “You just want to bed me so I have no recourse to end this marriage,” I accused.
He smiled, that look of absolute certainty back in his eye. “Not just because of that,” he said, coolly. He certainly had managed to get himself under control quickly. “Do not try to beat me at my own game, Gwen. You don’t stand a chance.”
And then arrogant as ever, he turned and left. When he had gone (and my breathing had returned to something resembling normal) I had once again retrieved his robe. And I had sat, wrapped in the warmth of it, holding the glass we had shared, and stared into the dying fire for what seemed like hours—reliving that wild heat we had shared, fuming at his very unaffectedness, and planning many satisfactory ways to take revenge on Harry Cambourne.
By the end of my recitation of events, Cecy was looking thoughtful. “I can tell you a few tricks that will wipe Mathilde out of his mind. And,” she continued, “it sounds like the situation has potential. You really should let him bed you, Gwen, and see if he does it differently as—”
Well, I have to admit it, my interest was piqued. But only by the larg
er intellectual ramifications of her point, mind. “Do you think it would be different?” I asked. “I mean, he’s the same person regardless of which he’s being.”
Cecy looked at Myrtia. “This should be your forte,” she said. “A nice, edifying theoretical debate!”
“No theory to debate,” said Myrtia, promptly. “I posit that as Milburn it would be all flash and no substance.
Cambourne knows how to get a thing done.”
“This,” I said, as repressively as I was able, still being rather preoccupied with Cecy’s supposition, “is not aiding my case, Myrtia. I expect lewd suggestions from our friend here”—I inclined my head toward Cecy—“but you! You shock me!”
“Oh well. Console yourself with the thought that at least you aren’t having to put up with my darling mama,” Cecy said, sipping her tea. She sounded breezy enough, but there was no getting around the dark circles under her eyes.
“Cec?” Myrtia said, with some hesitation. “Is there anything—would you like to talk?”
“No,” Cecy said, decisively, and then, “Well, perhaps.”
We waited.
Finally, she said, “It is her new, ah, amour. Oh God—” she stopped and put her head in her hands—"I don’t know what to do.”
I touched her shoulder hesitantly, and when she lifted her head, I thought the tilt of her chin was almost defiant. “She’s … expecting a child,” she said quietly. “My father has thrown her out. She says she wants him to sue her for a divorce. Wants him to.”
We were quiet. Myrtia, I suspect, was, like me, trying to imagine the enormity of the scandal that was sure to result.
Cecy, by this point, had regained her customary control. “She wants to go live with him, the father of this child. She says that she has, finally, after all these years, ‘discovered real, abiding, and true love.’ ‘If you have found real and abiding love,’ I said, ‘why were you trying to bed my footman?’ And she said, ‘Real and abiding love only opens one’s eyes to the amount of love in the world and makes one want to experience more of it.’ Oh, and it gets worse!”
The Accidental Duchess Page 16
