by Lisa Bingham
Then, to her infinite dismay, his nose slid across her jaw. A rash of sensation began in her cheek and raced down her body to settle low in her stomach.
Instinctively, she pressed her palms against his ribcage, silently ordering a retreat, but he refused to budge. “No, Master Richard,” she commanded again as he explored her spine from her waist to the small of her back, then splayed his hand wide to pull her inexorably closer. “No.”
She fought to remain rigid and unaffected. But the feverish quality of his skin burned through the layers of her clothing. His fingers walked down the length of her thigh as far as he could reach, curling, bunching, seeking. Her lashes flickered closed momentarily as the hem of her traveling skirt responded to his quest, the heavy fabric shuddering, lifting, skimming over the flounces of her petticoat, and leaving a wake of need-awakened flesh.
“No,” she whispered again.
The single denial was ineffectual when uttered in such a mixture of longing, uncertainty, and dread. A part of her brain recoiled in horror at her flagrant breach of propriety. But another part of her soul, one kept hidden and secret, struggled for rebirth.
It had been so long, so very, very long since she’d allowed herself to yearn for the strength of a man’s embrace. His kiss. The rush of heat and light. The thrum of feminine power settling into her veins.
Fantasy battled with reality. Old emotions and customs fought to escape the chains she’d bound them in years ago. She couldn’t explain how, but a string of inconsequential overtures made by a drugged man had resurrected the ghost of the girl she’d once been. One who had run barefoot over the moors. One who had devoured life and its adventures. One who had never been afraid to feel.
Before she knew what he meant to do, Richard bent to touch his mouth to her own. Soft as a dove’s wing, the caress was little more than an innocent meeting of lips, but Chelsea wrenched free as if scalded. Standing out of his reach, she dragged huge gulps of air into her lungs, aghast at what had just happened. Not the kiss itself, but her own inability to stop it before it occurred. Deep down, she had wanted it to happen. She had wanted to know what it would be like.
And she’d liked it.
Immediately upon the heels of that thought, Chelsea hardened her heart, denying that she’d experienced anything but a momentary twinge of lust. Lust, as she’d discovered long ago, was a transitory emotion that soon faded into heartache.
She bent to pull back the covers. “Bed, please.”
He didn’t move. He seemed to dare her to come and fetch him.
“Master Richard, I will not tolerate any more of these shenanigans. You must sleep. Now.”
How easily the role of governess settled over her shoulders, cloaking her in its familiar warmth. Regardless of the wanton tumble of her hair and the rumpled condition of her traveling suit, the role she played dropped into place.
A part of her mourned the fleeting taste of excitement she’d enjoyed, but she ignored that impulse. She was a grown woman. A respected member of the community. She couldn’t possibly long for those days when, as a young girl, she’d been wild and uncontained, filled with passion and whimsy. The years had changed her from the unfettered imp who’d swum naked in Paddy’s pond … indiscriminately kissed the hostlers at Lindon Manor …
Posed nude for the man she’d adored.
“Bed, Master Richard.” Her voice was unaccountably brittle. “Come to bed. You’ll feel better if you do.”
He swayed on his feet, reached for her, stumbled, and all but fell onto the mattress.
Before he could continue his seduction, Chelsea dragged the linens over his chest and tucked him in with practiced efficiency. But when she would have left him, he caught her.
His eyes were eloquent Betraying his confusion, his incoherence, his vulnerability.
“No, Master Richard. I have my own room. It wouldn’t be proper.” Proper. There had been a time when that word had held no sway in relationship to her behavior. Now it bound her in links of iron.
Richard didn’t relent. He seemed to beg her to be kind. Even as large as he was, as wild, as masculine, he seemed overtly vulnerable. She couldn’t refuse.
He tugged.
She obeyed.
Sinking onto the side of the featherbed, she rested against the splintered frame. He sighed and rooted at the pillow with his head, grunted unhappily. He seemed so sad, so confused. But the expression soon faded beneath a heated spark.
Shifting closer, he reached to explore her face with his fingertips, much like a blind man would. He strayed to chart her neck, her shoulder, the tiny jet buttons beading the closure of her bodice. Each exhalation of air he made seeped through the cloth at her waist, warm, moist, undeniably arousing. A sigh melted from his lips. A masculine groan of thwarted ambition. Irritation. And then …
He slept.
When Smee burst into the room sometime later, Chelsea quieted him with a gesture. But long after the portly man had left, she couldn’t deny that she longed to trace Richard’s profile, his hair, seek out the hills and valleys of his torso, and explore his body in much the same way as he’d explored her face.
She resisted the forbidden temptation. Just as she had so many times that day. She sat for hours, until her back grew stiff and her hands clenched together in a tight knot.
If only her mind were so easy to control.
Chapter 4
Lindon Manor huddled in the onslaught of a summer storm. Its pink marble walls shimmered with slick runnels of water dammed here and there with the plastering of petals and leaves wind-tossed from the garden.
Inside, rain spattered against the window panes as if seeking entrance, hissing in a strange, unintelligible language. To Nigel, Lord Sutherland, seventh Earl of Lindon, the sound seemed to taunt him, tease him, urge him on. Desire warred with caution, tenderness with an inexplicable rage.
Lord Sutherland automatically tamped down the roiling emotions. Control. Over the years, he had learned the importance of control. Self-discipline had become his mantra, obscuring beneath the stoic mask he wore that he was constantly weighing and judging, sentencing and meting out punishment. No one was free from his censor, not his family, his business associates, his employees. To maintain this appearance of calm implacability, he had become a creature of daily habit. He hid his true thoughts and urges beneath a thin veneer of civility.
But there were days when the facade grew wearisome. Days when the pressures of life escalated and the threat of his own mortality knocked at the gate of his consciousness. At such times, he found himself fighting for his usual mien, ultimately recognizing his greatest fear. Death. Not because of what he’d done but because of what he hadn’t done. Nigel wanted more. More. Of late, his greed had become all-consuming.
Nigel’s pulse thudded in a deliberate, sluggish beat as he waited outside the doorway that led from his own private chambers into his wife’s bedroom. The minutes ticked by, doled out in a miserly fashion by the old repeater clock situated on the mantel, until finally he heard the lulling cadence of Estella’s even inhalations. Soft, shallow, sweet. At long last, she had fallen asleep.
The hinges made no noise, but that did not surprise him. Each morning, long before his wife awoke, Nigel dipped the tip of a feather into a bottle of oil he kept hidden in the false bottom of his dresser drawer. Then he eased inside, the fluid silence of the well-tended hardware keeping his ritualistic visits private.
Stepping farther into the room, he lingered in the shadows, savoring the secret stolen moments. Thirty years ago, Nigel had made Estella his bride. She had not been an easy prize. Many men had sought her hand—including his arch rival, Richard Albert Sutherland III. But Nigel had wooed her with the calculated devotion of an avid swain. He had showered her with flattery and plied her with gifts. Later, when she had agreed to become his own, he’d known that Estella had married him for one reason. That uncommon, unheard-of commodity: love.
Silly, vain, fooli
sh creature.
Walking silently forward, Nigel stood at the foot of the bed, his figure impressive, hard, lean—even at two-and-fifty years. If Estella were to awaken, his rugged form would be a darker patch in a sea of blackness, framed between the heavy velvet bed curtains. But her sleep continued undisturbed.
Lightning flickered briefly, illuminating the delicate shape swathed in the linen sheets and down comforters. How like an angel she was. Perfect in every way. Her skin was as pale as fresh cream, her hair as delicate as spun silk.
She was his most valued possession. Other men had openly confessed their envy of Nigel’s good fortune in obtaining such a woman. She came from a sterling family—solid aristocracy. Her dowry had been ample, her devotion unwavering. For thirty years, this female had cared for him. She had seen that his house was a home. She had kept herself beautiful, doting upon his whims of fashion. She had nursed him through ague and calmed his fits of rage. She had teased him and pampered him and hung upon his every word.
So why had it never been enough?
The air became cloying, thick, trapping in his throat until Nigel thought he would choke. A rage swelled deep in his soul, burning him like a hot tide of bile. Damn it all, she loved him, she adored him. Every breath she took was for his benefit. Every decision she made was for his comfort—and it wasn’t as if he were completely immune. His own feelings for her were all-consuming. He would kill a man for staring too long at her. He would destroy anyone who might harm her. She was his, bound to his side by emotional shackles that even he couldn’t begin to explain. He would never allow her to leave him. He would never satisfy the cravings he had to possess her body again and again.
But it wasn’t enough.
It had never been enough.
Slowly, just as he always did, Nigel turned away from the bed. Not touching her. Not disturbing her. Closing the door behind him, he disappeared into his own room. Looping the heavy folds of his dressing gown over his arm, he clasped a branch of candles from his bedside table and eased into the hall. Pulling aside the heavy grandfather clock, he slipped into the secret passageway built a hundred years ago by the designer of Lindon Manor, another Sutherland heir.
He found his way with ease. He could have traversed the path blindfolded, but the candles provided a much-needed pool of amber light as he entered his study through the door behind the bookcase and crossed to the far side of the room. Setting the candelabra on a nearby table, he delved into his pocket and withdrew a key which he inserted into the hidden panels over the mantel. The sharp relief of his shadow danced, shivered, then stretched up the dark walls. Leisurely, he reached over his head and opened the mahogany doors.
Just as his possessiveness for Estella would never wane, he knew he would never tire of this familiar sight. As long as the stars hovered in the heavens, he would feel the same keen pang of hunger each time he performed this familiar ceremony. It had become his religion, his shrine. His obsession.
A subtle dancing heat settled low in his loins as he surrendered to the moment With a thirst akin to that of a desert wanderer, he absorbed the stroke of candle glow as it slipped between the crack of space he’d created and caressed the ever-widening sliver of canvas being exposed to view. Although he had seen the painting a thousand times and had studied it for countless hours, he would never overcome the rush of adrenalin, the surge of power, the shudder of anticipation.
She was so beautiful. Everything his wife was not. Strong, willful, hot-blooded. Instead of delicate blond waves combed away from a wide forehead, her tresses were wild and uncontrolled, gleaming with the wanton shade of sunset. Instead of skin the color and texture of milk, a smattering of freckles dappled the smooth contours of her shoulders. Where Estella was shy and reserved, roses and sunshine, this woman was passion and fury, fire and ice. Where Estella had always approached him with open adoration, this woman had countered his advances with barely concealed distrust. She had foiled him at every turn. She had managed to escape and remained free through the tacit threat of all the knowledge she’d gathered. His standing in society could be completely ruined if the peerage were to discover all she knew.
Even so … he still wanted to own her. Heart and soul, mind and body.
There was no noise behind him, but Nigel stiffened, immediately sensing a presence. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled until a familiar dark voice asked, “Brooding?”
He swiveled to find Reginald Wilde, his personal secretary, lounging against the wall. He had entered the room so stealthily that even the click of the lock had not interrupted Nigel’s meditation.
Nigel didn’t immediately speak. He waited, counting the beats of silence that would emphasize his superiority, then said, “Your people. What do they say?”
Reginald grinned knowingly. He purposefully took time to wipe the rain from his face, the mud from his hands. Always challenging. Not in a rebellious manner, but more in the way of an indulgent spouse who failed to be impressed with such posturing.
“Beatrice Sutherland is staying with friends near Hyde Park,” he said at last. “The Seeker was in a London port last fall but left again as soon as it took on supplies. The captain, as you well know, received the ship due to a condition mentioned in the previous earl’s will. It is thought that his loyalties to the Dowager Lady Sutherland are still quite strong. Before leaving on his voyage, he was seen with a young, respectable woman. A Miss C. Wickersham.” He paused for effect. “Chelsea Wickersham resigned from her post with the Barrinshrops a few months ago. No one has seen her since.”
“Damn it! How could this have happened? We sent our own men to investigate the rumors. They told us the Sutherland brat was dead. Dead.”
Reggie rubbed the side of his nose and stared at Nigel pityingly.
“What?” he demanded impatiently.
“If you will remember, they reported a fire which supposedly resulted in his death as well as the deaths of the natives who cared for him. There is a difference. Since they had no positive description of Richard Sutherland, they could not prove such a claim. They merely had a body. One burned beyond recognition.”
Nigel pounded his fist against the desk. “I want you to hire someone to find her!”
An impatient scowl creased Reggie’s features. His clothes were wet, his boots filthy from his cross-country ride. Stepping to the breakfront, he poured a healthy draft of brandy into a snifter. “Don’t you mean him? If Richard Sutherland IV has eluded his hunters, perhaps he should warrant our first consideration.”
“If he exists, he’ll be with Chelsea.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Nigel’s attention returned to the portrait, displaying the intensity of a man possessed. “I’m sure.” His expression grew hard. Bitter. “They all mean to ruin me—Biddy, that impostor, Chelsea—and she’ll be more than happy to show them the way.”
“What can the little governess do?” Reginald shrugged in disinterest and sipped at the brandy in his glass. “Even if Dowager Lady Sutherland has managed the impossible and has found another Sutherland heir, nothing will come of it. The little brat was raised in a remote corner of the world—no doubt without any kind of formal education. In order to replace you, Beatrice must prove his lineage and his ability to perform the duties of a titled gentleman. That Wickersham woman might have time to teach him to speak and dance and converse with the ladies, but she’ll give him nothing more, nothing of consequence that will demonstrate his noble blood.”
“Don’t be so sure. Chelsea was always a very good teacher. She has … ways to make a man respond.” Sutherland’s voice grew thick as he studied the painting once again. “There was something about her …”
Wilde glared in disgust at the canvas. “You seem to have an unhealthy attachment to that thing.”
Lord Sutherland tried to look at it as Wilde must see it, dissecting each line, each brush stroke. The portrait had been expertly drafted, so expertly, in fact, that at times Nigel hone
stly thought he could reach out and touch warm, willing flesh.
But Reginald must consider it little more than the clever representation of a woman en deshabille upon a bed of tangled linens. She was turned away from her unseen audience. Barely a shred of profile could be discerned, underscoring her vulnerability. Rich, luxurious hair the color of glowing embers tumbled down her naked back, while the covers she clutched to her breast dipped low about her spine, exposing the swell of her hips and the perfect shape of her buttocks.
She’d been so beautiful then.
She was beautiful now.
“I want to know where she went after leaving the Barrinshrops. Find her,” Lord Sutherland ordered again. “She knows things that could endanger my standing in society,” he muttered, at once drawn and repelled by the woman’s visage and the turmoil of emotions it inspired.
Wilde snorted in derision and took another healthy swallow of the liquid swirling in the bottom of his glass. “What can she possibly say or do to harm you? To expose you, she must first expose herself.” He offered his employer a crooked smile. “It appears to me that she has already exposed quite enough in that painting. Certainly more than she would ever want on public display.”
Sutherland’s hands knotted into tight fists. A brittle cast sharpened his countenance, revealing a streak of cruelty he was accustomed to concealing beneath a reserved expression.
“Find her.” Rising, he strode forward to stab his finger against his secretary’s chest. “Then bring … her … to … me!”
Chapter 5
The ticking of a distant clock deafened him, rebounding in his skull with a strength to wake the dead.
Half-roused, half-drugged, Sullivan knew that something had changed. His head ached with the effort, but he was able to determine that the splintered wood of the cargo hold had given way to an angel’s cloud. Mercifully, the rocking and swaying he’d endured for weeks had stilled. Sullivan could almost believe he’d been cast ashore on solid ground.
