Addicted

by Charlotte Featherstone

  His breath, coming in rapid fire, clouded the glass and with a violent oath Lindsay swirled the edge of his fist once more against the window, enlarging the circle so that he could see more of the cottage.

  Broughton was leading Anais by the hand to the bed. Lindsay could not move, could not blink, nor could he breathe. He could only watch in perverse horror as she willingly followed Broughton and sat down beside him, allowing him to remove her bonnet and skim his fingertips along her alabaster cheek. He saw their lips move and would have paid anything to hear what they said to one another. Was Broughton confessing his love? Was she accepting it?

  He saw a tear trickle from Anais’s eye and streak down her cheek. He imagined himself chasing away the wetness with his thumb, kissing away her tears until they were ones of utter satiation. Like the tears she shed when he brought her to climax. Happy tears. Beautiful tears. He could not stop from asking himself what sort of tears these were that she was giving Broughton.

  Broughton’s dark head tilted to the side and Lindsay watched, jealousy jabbing him, as the man who had once been his close friend closed his eyes and gently kissed her chin. This was a man in love, Lindsay realized, and it took every ounce of his control not to go bursting into the cottage and pummel Broughton until he was nothing but a bloody, broken heap.

  Anais’s head tipped back and he watched her lips part—a sob? A cry of pleasure? Of need? Of pain? And then suddenly her shoulders were shaking and her face was pressed tightly against Broughton’s neck. She had wound herself so tightly against him that Broughton was compelled to lift his face from her hair, struggling to draw breath. Drowning in her.

  They sat, meshed tightly, their arms wrapped around the other as Broughton held tight, rocking her, allowing Anais to give vent to whatever feelings were coursing so violently through her.

  There was something profoundly intimate in their embrace. Lindsay could not help but wonder at it. Had she ever come to him so willingly? Had she ever offered so much of herself to him, or had it merely been him taking her succor? Him needing her?

  He tried to think of the times he had held her. He could not recall an occasion in which she had wept this unbridled before him. No, she had never been this vulnerable with him. She had never needed him as much as she now needed Broughton.

  For the first time since returning home, Lindsay allowed himself to fully believe that perhaps it was true, she had forgiven him and moved on with her life while he had done neither. He could not forgive himself for what he had done, nor could he go on with his life. Life was not worth living if it did not contain Anais’s smiles, or her warm body against his.

  A gentle sound reached his ears, part sob, part sad laughter. He looked up from his hands and saw that Anais and Broughton were now standing, her beautiful face clutched in his palms. Tenderly Broughton dried her cheeks before taking her hand in his. The cottage door opened and the rusty hinges creaked in the quiet as the sound of their boots upon the wooden porch echoed off the leafless trees. Lindsay waited, breath held, heart immobile in his chest for the sound of their retreating footsteps.

  “I will see you at The Lodge tonight, then?” Broughton asked. “A quiet dinner will set you to rights.”

  “I will be there,” she murmured through delicate sniffs.

  “All will be well, Anais. He will not discover our secret—I promise you that.”

  “I’m sorry I dragged you away from your work, I know how busy you are. It was just…” She sniffled.

  “Leave Raeburn to me. Do not worry so much. You need to take care of yourself. You need your strength.”

  The hair on Lindsay’s nape bristled. His insides clenched and twisted as the page in Dr. Stuart’s medical text flashed before him. Good God, he could go no longer denying his instincts.

  Closing his eyes, he willed the image of Anais to come forward. He saw her with her rounded belly, which was slightly bigger than it had been the first time he saw her naked in the stable. And her breasts, which were always large, were firmer—fuller. The nausea at the breakfast table? The paleness of her skin?

  How could he continue to remain blind?

  “Thank you, Garrett—for everything.”

  “Shh. We are beyond this now, you and I. We have a tie that binds, do we not?”

  He did not hear her reply, nor the sound of them walking to their mounts. He did not even feel the earth shake beneath him as the horses pounded along the path. The only sound that registered in his brain was the sound of his blood rushing violently through his ears. Damn him, his father was right. They were keeping secrets from him.

  The cottage door swung open. Lindsay took one step forward, his boot pressing into the uneven floorboard that creaked beneath his weight. The cottage smelled of her—of country flowers and Anais. He wondered if Broughton was aware of it, the way her scent clung to her hair and clothes. The way it cloaked the air when she was in the room, the way it lingered, caressing his flesh when she left.

  He had expected the cottage to smell musty. After all, Broughton hadn’t kept a gatekeeper for nearly three years. It should have been dusty and full of cobwebs, but the sight that greeted him was not ramshackle neglect, but one of recent improvements.

  No gatekeeper would ever have slept in such a magnificent bed. Broughton was generous with his servants, but not to this extent. The bed was constructed of expensive mahogany and the posters were heavily carved—the style was the height of fashion. The coverings were of brocade velvet and silks.

  Hell, his own bed at home was not covered in something as costly as this. No, the bed was not that of a gatekeeper, but it was certainly in the keeping of female taste.

  Lindsay’s mouth curved in distaste as he stalked to the bed and ran his gloved hand along the sage-green brocade, watching as the black kid leather disappeared amongst the crème bullion fringe. This was the bed of a woman—a kept woman. A bed designed to tease and titillate. This was a bed designed for fucking.

  With a vicious growl, he fisted the bullion in his glove. Is that what the cottage was, a place to tryst? A place where Broughton brought Anais to fuck her?

  Rage, seething and impetuous, flared to life and he flung the coverlet to the ground, searching the expensive silk sheets, for what, he wondered, his gaze searching blindly. For signs of lovemaking? What did he expect to see?

  Had she been entertaining Broughton here while she was living at Eden Park? Had she been entertaining his friend in bed in the manner she had entertained him?

  Unable to look at the bed any longer he stalked to the hearth and rested his arm on the mantel, trying to rein in his wild thoughts and raging blood. What purpose was this serving? He already had his answers. She’d been meeting Broughton in secret here—God only knew how long she’d been spreading her thighs for him—God only knew how far along with child she was—for he realized that now, could admit the god-awful truth. Anais was carrying Broughton’s child.

  Your courses should be coming soon, miss. The servant’s words rang in his head. He recalled the day he stood in the hall, outside her bedchamber and listened to Anais with her maid. He had not intended to eavesdrop, but he had been unable to move after he heard Louisa’s next words. Although, I thought they should have been here a few weeks ago, but of course, you haven’t been well. It’s not uncommon to miss a few months altogether after going through a bad patch such as you’ve gone through.

  Lindsay pounded the thick walnut mantel with his fist and pressed his head to his forearm, cursing himself for failing to see the signs. He laughed at the absurdity of his predicament. Damn her, last night she had pleasured him as he had never been pleasured in his life, and all the time she had been carrying Broughton’s child within her.

  He gagged, disgusted—sickened— at the image of his hands caressing her belly—his lips grazing that gently mounded flesh. Squeezing his eyes shut he fought the image of her atop him, struggled not to hear her breath against him or the feel of her breasts pressed to his chest. Breath for breath, mout
h to mouth, breast to breast…

  Pushing himself away from the hearth, he blindly swept the room with his gaze. A table sat beside the bed and he strolled over to it. A book lay atop the table and he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. A book of Lord Byron’s poems. No doubt Broughton had read to her while they reclined in this bed, spent from exuberant bouts of sexual congress.

  Swearing a vicious litany, Lindsay pulled the drawer open to fling the book inside, but he spotted another book, half-hidden beneath a sheaf of papers. He did not bother to listen to his conscience. He didn’t give a damn that he was invading her privacy. He deserved the truth. He had given her nothing but the truth—every painful bit of it. And she had given him nothing but lies.

  Pulling the ribbon that secured the front and back covers, he flipped through the pages and realized that it was Anais’s diary. He turned to the last page and looked down at her confession.

  Why did you have to betray me with Broughton? Why did you give him what I wanted so desperately from you?

  20

  Seated at her dressing table wearing nothing but her corset and petticoats, Anais waited for her maid to finish pinning up her hair. As she sat before the mirror, the oil lamp casting shadows along her neck and décolletage, Anais noticed that for the first time in more than a month her cheeks had color.

  Physically she felt better than she had; mentally however, she was distraught. Her meeting with Garrett that afternoon had done little to rid her of her fears and nagging doubts.

  “Shall you wear pearls in your hair this evening, Lady Anais?” Louisa asked as she twirled and pinned up a segment of her hair. “It is New Year’s Eve, perhaps a bit of a splash is in order to ring in the new year the right way.”

  “I don’t think so, Louisa. It is only supper after all.”

  “If you say so, miss.”

  “Perhaps, though, I will wear the blue ribbon tonight.”

  “Shall I add feathers, miss? A braided bun looks quite lovely worn with feathers.”

  “Feathers would be nice.”

  “Are you planning on wearing the blue silk, then?” Anais let her gaze slide to the bed, where the turquoise gown lay spread out on the counterpane. “Lady Ann has some peacock feathers that would look lovely with that shade of blue. Very Oriental if you don’t mind my saying so, miss.”

  “Yes,” Anais murmured. His Eastern houri, Lindsay had once called her. And how she had wanted to be that woman for him. It seemed ages ago that he’d said those things to her, and yet, it was not even a year. So much had happened in that short time—so much was different now.

  She closed her eyes as Louisa wound another wedge of hair up into a knot. Garrett’s face flashed before her—handsome, loyal, trusting. Then Lindsay’s face appeared and she opened her eyes to drive away the image, but she still saw him, the picture of him naked in her bed, pleasuring her.

  She had allowed herself too many nights of pleasure with Lindsay. Even though she loved him—would always love him—they could have no future, not when the past was fraught with lies. She could not do that to him, betray him a second time. It was best to believe that sometimes love just wasn’t enough to carry two people through life. A marriage needed to be founded on more than love and mutual passion. It needed honesty, trust, openness—all things Anais knew she was too cowardly to give him.

  “Well, then, miss, before I finish your hair shall I ask Lady Ann if she would mind sharing her feathers?”

  Drawing her gaze away from the gown, Anais looked into the mirror and saw Louisa watching her intently. “That would be fine, Louisa.”

  “I shan’t be a minute, miss,” the maid said before curtsying. Anais followed the maid’s retreat in the mirror before her gaze strayed to her breasts that rose above the ruffled corset. The image of Lindsay tracing the blue vein that arose from her breast as it climbed to her neck appeared before her eyes. Shivering, she felt his touch all over again. Remembered his glittering gaze in the muted candlelight. He had devoured her with that gaze, especially when she had offered him her breast for his pleasure.

  With a shudder, she smoothed her hands down her arms as the flames in the hearth flickered and licked their way up the flue. Heat radiated from the blaze, yet still she trembled. She knew it was not from cold, but from the sensation—the remembered feel of Lindsay’s lips drawing her nipple into his mouth and suckling her till her womb clenched.

  She looked away from the mirror, no longer able to see her breasts in the reflection without thinking of Lindsay with his dark head bent to them. Her chamber door opened as she fought to stem the illicit images running wild in her mind—she sought composure, fearing Louisa would see and understand her state. The door closed then, with an abruptness that made her breath catch and her eyes dart to the mirror.

  She gasped at the image that greeted her in the glass. Lindsay—beautiful, virile Lindsay standing against the door, his black jacket slung over his sleeve, his white linen shirt, devoid of waistcoat and cravat, lay open at the throat, revealing a tanned patch of skin and a hint of the silky dark hair that covered his chest and belly. His trousers, formfitting and tucked into black glossy boots, revealed the muscled contours of his highs.

  His curling hair was windswept, wild and untamed—utterly masculine—as it molded along his forehead only to hang in loose waves around his neck. She could almost see him lounging on his silk cushions in his Turkish tent room, reclining in Eastern indolence as he inhaled the perfumed vapors of opium.

  He looked every inch the libertine standing before her the way he was, and she saw for the first time the curious shimmer in his eyes. They were glittering, but in a way she had never seen before.

  Had he been dabbling in opium? Was that the reason behind the queer gleam she saw?

  “Good evening, madam. I am thrilled to have found you alone. It has saved me a considerable deal of trouble.” A soft but interminable click echoed off the walls. He had locked the door.

  His voice was different—distant somehow, and she felt a tremor of unease slither down her spine. He stalked lazily into her room, his eyes slowly perusing the walls, jumping from lamp to lamp that were lit on the tables. She followed their trail, wondering what thoughts were running through his mind—wondering why the oil lamps were of such interest to him. Then she saw how his eyes rested on her, how they slid down to her décolletage and belly, and she knew then that he was seeing her—seeing things she had made every attempt to hide from him.

  When his gaze slid up to meet hers, his eyes were darker, more green—more glittering, but with what emotion, she did not know.

  “You have lit the lamps, how very kind of you. However, I thought you preferred the subtlety of candlelight?”

  “One cannot dress by the light of one candle.”

  “No, but one can dally by the light of it—quite effectively, in fact.”

  Anais swallowed hard, knowing that the moment she had feared was upon her.

  “Beautiful, beautiful, angel,” he whispered as he slowly shook his head.

  “I am not an angel.”

  “No, you are not. You are a fallen angel.”

  “What is your purpose here, Lindsay?” she asked quietly as she studied her shaking fingers that rested on her lap.

  “What do you think it is?”

  She looked up from her hands and met his gaze that was boring into her. She glanced away, unable to hold his unwavering, hard expression. “I do not know, but I pray that you will not torment me much longer.”

  “Torment you?” he mocked with a hollow laugh. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You have never felt the claws of torture ripping into your soul. You have never been to hell.”

  “And you have?”

  “Yes.” He kept his eyes trained on her while he tossed his coat onto the bed. “Stand up, please.”

  “This isn’t the time, Lindsay.”

  “I said—” He stopped, pressed his eyes as he appeared to gather his control. “Please indulge me
, Anais. Stand up.”

  “My chamber is the last place you should be found. I am only half-dressed,” she replied. She had never dealt with Lindsay in a rage. In fact she did not know to what extent his temper ranged.

  “Get up!”

  Anais found herself jumping to do his bidding when she saw the veins in his neck distend with blood and anger. “Lindsay, you are not yourself. Have you taken opium and come up here to fight with me?”

  “Don’t you dare speak to me of my failings,” he growled, taking one predatory step closer. “Don’t you dare!”

  “You said you wouldn’t—”

  “You impugn what honor I have left when you accuse me of coming to you after taking opium.” He smiled, but there was no mirth, no warmth to it, but rather what she imagined a panther might look like after cornering an innocent doe that was to be its next meal.

  “All this time, you sermonizing. You finding fault in me. I cannot live with the type of man you are, Lindsay,” he said in a falsetto voice that mocked hers. “I cannot be a party to vice—I cannot watch you turn into your father. Well, do you know what I see standing before me? I see your mother.”

  She gasped, cut to the quick. He knew where to aim his arrows.

  “Hypocrite, that is what you are, Anais. You tell me that I am flawed? You have the audacity to act as though your family is above such failings—that you and your father are above succumbing to weakness and vice? Of course we cannot include your mother in your exalted company. We both know what she is.”

  “Stop that talk!”

  “You whored yourself last night, didn’t you? I should have left you some banknotes on the bedside table for your remarkable performance. Did you mean any of it, Anais? Because I believed you did, or was it just an act? Was it just fucking to you?”

  “Stop it,” she cried, feeling tears spring to her eyes at his cruelty. “Say what you have come here to say and leave. Whatever issue it is that is making you this cruel can only stem from me—my actions. You mentioned my father, well, leave him out of this. He is a good man. His only crime is that he had the misfortune to be taken in by my duplicitous mother.”