Temptation's Kiss

by Lisa Bingham

  Gregory kept his features bland. He waited for any sign of recognition—then relaxed when he found none. Evidently, he resembled his mother enough in coloring that Lord Sutherland did not suspect his true heritage. “I’ve never been fond of such events.” An arch of his brow indicated the huddled groups sniping at one another under the guise of sophisticated conversation.

  Just as he had hoped, Nigel took the bait. “Then perhaps we can discuss our business elsewhere. Reginald told me you were a man of sporting tendencies. Shall we abandon this group for a game or two?”

  “Your assistant wearied me of backgammon, I’m afraid.”

  “Cards, then?”

  “If you wish.” Lord Sutherland had snapped at the hook offered. Now Gregory would see it was secure before reeling the Earl of Lindon in for the catch. “Are you a betting man, Lord Sutherland?”

  “Provided the stakes are right.”

  “Meaning—provided the stakes are lucrative.”

  “It does make the game more interesting, don’t you think?”

  Gregory smiled. And as his lips moved in an upward slant, he admitted that it had been a long time, a very long time, since he’d done such a thing. But as he followed his adversary into the den, he knew there was an immense satisfaction to be found in challenging an enemy, knowing ahead of time that even though the odds weren’t entirely in your favor and an element of danger remained …

  You could win.

  Even if you had to cheat to do so.

  Sullivan strolled into the kitchen, more at peace with himself than he had been for days. He had finally come to terms with his foe, and plans had been set in motion that would force a confrontation between him and Nigel before the close of the week.

  Although his father had never spoken about his true background while Sullivan was a boy, Richard Albert had given his sons more than enough information during his fatal illness. As if sensing his own mortality, he strove to impart as much knowledge of their heritage as possible. He had spoken of names and people and places that Sullivan had never forgotten—and in some cases never forgiven. All that remained for Sullivan to do was to organize that information into a trap that would close over Nigel Sutherland with the swiftness of an executioner’s ax. A trap entirely of the present earl’s own making.

  The gears of their machinations were set. Each step had been arranged with the care of a master mason, stone by stone by stone. One level would drop irretrievably onto another.

  Sullivan didn’t doubt the arrangements would work. He merely strained at the time remaining before he could act. He wished he could storm to Lindon Manor and take what rightfully belonged to his family. But that would be displaying actions little more honorable than Nigel’s own methods to obtain his title. No, Nigel must defeat himself. He must confess his sins and seek recompense.

  Sullivan had done all he could until after midnight. Smee and Greyson had helped to set things up; Gregory was currently embroiled in the first phase of their plans. Sullivan needed an army of men to finish his work. Until Greyson summoned his former colleagues to help with the campaign, Sullivan’s present task was to wait … and to repair the rift with Chelsea.

  True, she had hurt him. But after his talk with Biddy—and the tormenting images his own mind had conjured after learning Chelsea had been Nigel’s ward—he was beginning to understand her motives a little better. Her life had been far from easy. If she had lived with Lord Sutherland, she would have been subjected to a person who knew little about love and caring and a great deal about …

  Cruelty.

  That was the word she had used. She had alluded to her past in a hundred different ways, and Sullivan had ignored the clues. Moreover, he had unintentionally belittled her pain. He had shamed her. He had wounded her.

  The thought settled on his chest like a ship’s anchor, heavy, damning. That was why, tonight, he must find a way to show her that the past was of no import. He loved her for all she had become, the sensual siren as well as the innocent maid. She was a composite. An amalgam of all she’d learned and experienced. Chelsea was a beautiful woman, a devoted friend, and a challenging educator.

  But tonight …

  Tonight, there were things he intended to teach her.

  The umbrous interior of the scullery closed about him with a subtle sense of comfort as Sullivan crossed to the sideboard where two bottles of wine had been left for his use. By his grandmother. His sweet, caring, doting grandmother.

  Sullivan’s lips tipped in an honest smile. In the space of a few days, his relationship with that woman had changed dramatically. So much so that he was even considering bringing her with him to Sutherland’s Roost.

  He hoped she would come. He delighted in her quick wit and soothing gentility. And if she would journey home with him to the warmth of the tropics, Chelsea would not lack for feminine companionship during the voyage.

  Chelsea.

  How would he tell her that he was not all he appeared? How could he tempt her to join him when she discovered that he was not Richard Sutherland? That he had no lands, no titles—

  Enough. This evening, he wouldn’t torture himself with what the future might bring. Just as he wouldn’t torture himself with the past. Chelsea and he had these few precious hours, probably the last they would have before time and circumstance came crashing down over their heads. And he intended to make the most of the opportunity.

  After all that had occurred between them, Richard still refused to go.

  Chelsea gripped the brush she held and sighed. Less than an hour ago, Beatrice had brought a tray to Chelsea’s room and had told her the news. Upon hearing the foreboding tidings, Chelsea had curled into the chair next to the window and pondered the darkness of the garden. As if he’d heard the worried tumble of thought clamoring in her brain, Richard had appeared below.

  He’d looked no more happy than she, and she’d suffered a twinge of remorse. What she’d done to him, the way she’d acted …

  How could she ever face him again? She wanted to run, hide, but the seriousness of her predicament prevented such an action. If she didn’t do something soon, Nigel would have his way.

  And so she had decided that she would have to take matters into her own account. She would give Richard all she had so carefully guarded, her heart, her devotion, her desires, her passion. Then she would pose her question again: Will you leave? If he agreed, she would escape with him to the ends of the earth if necessary. They would be together for all time.

  If he demurred …

  At least she would have had one more night as his heart-mate. Without regrets.

  But first, she had to bridge the gap and wipe away the memory of their previous encounter. She had to find the courage to display her true feelings. Openly. Honestly.

  Chelsea drew the brush through the waves and studied the stranger who stood in the mirror before her. Her hair spilled around her in a riot of color, the gilded ringlets emphasizing the flushed quality of her cheeks, the bright sparkle of her eyes. The dark maroon faille of her dressing gown played peek-a-boo with the raw silk night rail beneath. The shift’s color was such a delicate peach, the fabric so fine and fragile, that the garment was a mere wisp of color over naked flesh. If she were to drop the robe and stand in front of the flame …

  A heat flooded her cheeks as she removed a precious vial of scent from her dressing table. Only a scant number of drops remained in the crystal bottle. The perfume had been a gift years ago from an ardent employer. Upon learning of the man’s intentions, Chelsea had immediately sought another means of livelihood, but she had found herself incapable of returning the offering. Even then, the scent had struck her as being overtly feminine. And wicked.

  Slowly, sensually, she trailed the glass stopper over her breasts, her neck, the insides of her elbows. The cool silk of her gown lapped against her skin with a tantalizing friction as she lifted her hems to touch her knees, the inside of her thighs, her abdomen. Allowing the
fabric to fall into place, she replaced the bottle of parfum français and surveyed the results of her ministrations.

  She was inundated in a fragrant cloud, clothed in the sheerest of fabrics. A wanton color tinged her cheeks. How could he not know that she meant to seduce him? How could he not know that, despite all that had occurred, she longed to feel him next to her, over her, in her?

  Stepping to the window, she unhooked the heavy brocade portieres from their artful swags. Tonight she would allow no one to witness what was about to occur. Below her, the garden was empty, quiet, redolent with summer. If only life itself were as peaceful as nature. What she wouldn’t do for a chance to leave the hustle and grind of the everyday world and live in a garden such as this, far from the pressures of earning a living and protecting her precious professional name. Neither activity had ever given her a tenth of the happiness she’d found these last few weeks. With Richard.

  “My lover’s eyes are nothing like the sun …” She sang, the words and tune the only fragments of memories she had of a mother who had once loved her and laughed with her. “If lips be red—”

  “The entire sonnet is incredibly unflattering if properly quoted.”

  Chelsea whirled at the deep voice, discovering that Richard had somehow entered unannounced. He leaned against the closed door. A bottle of wine and two delicate goblets hung suspended from fine-boned fingers.

  “As I recall, the piece begins with ‘My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun’ and continues on from there, comparing her hair to wires and the skin of her breasts to dun. Hardly an appropriate song for one so young. Or so lovely.”

  He appraised the color of her hair in the candlelight, her pinkening cheeks, her gossamer gown.

  Momentarily daunted by the intensity of his gaze and the task she had set for herself, Chelsea clutched her robe tightly to her breasts.

  “Of course, the last couplet of the poem could hold true,” Richard continued, padding forward. “ ‘And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare / As any she belied with false compare.’ ” When he stood but a hair’s breadth away, he murmured, “Good evening, Chelsea.”

  “My lord.”

  He tsked at her choice of words. “Until you can officially attach such a title to my name, I would prefer you didn’t call me that.”

  “It is a title that is rightfully yours.”

  “Perhaps.” He shrugged and set his burdens upon the dresser. “And perhaps such a title will never be mine.” His eyes became dark, searching, mixing with golden shards of brown. “Would you think me less without the name, the titles?”

  Chelsea could answer him in a heartbeat. She could honestly insist that she wished the role of heir could never be assigned to him. Then he would be safe. And he could be hers. But dangerous times demanded strict measures in diplomacy. And since her evening’s ambition was to seduce him, she must not offend him quite so quickly. Not knowing how best to respond, she merely answered, “I could never care for you less.”

  Unwittingly, her words took on more meaning than she had ever intended. They hung suspended, achingly honest, undeniably real.

  “You do care for me, then?”

  He seemed so much bigger, so much more dangerous, than he had mere days before. It was not merely the addition of his clothes or the outward facade of civility. No, it was more, so much more. The jut of his jaw, the fierce determination that molded his brow—all bespoke a man of purpose. Never could his visage be construed as vulnerable. There was too much strength, too much overt honor.

  How could she possibly appeal to such a man? A complete and overwhelmingly masculine man. She could seduce the pagan she’d come to recognize. She understood the physical needs and drives of such a man. But this gentleman with his neatly tied cravat, snug-fitting breeches, and vest, was difficult to reconcile to her objectives.

  Rather than releasing the death grip she claimed on her robe, she held it even tighter.

  When she didn’t answer him, he stepped closer, so near that she could feel the heat of his body seeping through the faille into her chilled flesh.

  “Do you care for me?” he asked again, more forcibly this time.

  He was too close, too powerful. Whirling away, she sought some measure of control. “Care for you?” she answered in what she thought was a teasing tone. “I don’t know you. I know … I know a gentle savage. A vulnerable heathen.” What she had intended as playful repartee quickly melted into bare fact. Her need for reassurance, her confusion, hung naked between them.

  Richard held her shoulders, softly, caressingly. “I am that man, Chelsea.”

  She abandoned all pretense, responding to him with the fears she harbored in her heart. “No. You’re not. The man I thought I knew doesn’t exist. You … you’re …”

  He slid his arms around her waist, drawing her against his thighs, his hips, his waist. The fabrics she wore could have been air between them, so clearly did she feel each plane of his body, each button, each fold, each ridge.

  “I’m what, Chelsea? A gentleman? A titled lord?” His hands swept over her ribs and skirted the swell of one breast before resting on her shoulder. “Is that what has your heart pounding so erratically? That I have become the very man you wanted me to become? My, aren’t we the little hypocrite. Wanting a prim and proper Englishman for appearance’s sake, but longing for a barbarian between the sheets where it counts.”

  “Don’t be—”

  “Honest? Admit it, Chelsea. What disturbs you most about my sudden transformation is that you were never completely certain that it could happen. That I could be everything you longed to teach me to be. You wonder if the savage can ever reappear.” He turned her to him and framed her face with his palms. “Can’t you see it, Chelsea? Why we’re so perfect together? We both know the correct time and place to wear the facade. And the precise moment to drop it.”

  He saw a flicker of acknowledgment and knew she had admitted the truth to herself.

  “So which are you to be tonight?” she challenged. “The primitive or the gentleman?”

  His smile was slow and filled with untold promise. “Does it matter?”

  She opened her mouth but didn’t speak, couldn’t think of what she wanted to say, really wanted to say.

  “I love you, Chelsea.”

  A soft gasp escaped her lips at his unexpected confession. After what had happened in the mews, she had been sure he would never say such a thing again.

  “I love the woman you are, the woman you will become. And I want to make love with you tonight,” he continued, stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs. “Will you let me do that? Will you let me stay with you tonight? Not as the savage, but as the gentleman?”

  “Biddy—”

  “Sends her blessings and her very best wine.”

  Chelsea closed her lashes, savoring the strength, the safety, to be found in Richard’s arms. She absorbed his scent, his form, his manner.

  She had grown to love this man so much. She would do anything to protect him. Anything. Even if to do so would mean sacrificing her honor in such a way that he could never bear to be near her again.

  But she would have this night. And tomorrow. And the next night. She would stretch out as many hours as she could in his company. Then, when the time had come for her to be alone again, she would have the comfort of knowing she had given him all that was in her power to give.

  She released Richard, smoothed the crumpled cloth of his shirt, caressed him. She peered at him from beneath the heavy fringe of her lashes. Their glances met, clung, simmered.

  “Will you believe in me enough to realize I’m wise enough to take care of myself?”

  She didn’t answer, merely pressed her lips to the plane of his jaw. The slight stubble abraded her sensitive skin deliriously.

  “I’ll take care of you, too, Chelsea.”

  She smiled against him, continuing her foray. “See to it that you do. Care for me, that is.”

&n
bsp; “I have never felt for any woman what I feel for you.”

  His words blazed within her, offering her the most brilliant hope tempered by an agonizing despair. Had she been so scorned by the Fates that she could never lay claim to a lasting love? One that would be hers, through the end of time? Was she always doomed to love, then lose?

  But she had this moment. And Chelsea was not so stupid that she did not know when to take greedily whatever the gods were willing to offer her.

  “Will you make love with me tonight, Richard?”

  His eyes blazed. “If you’ll allow it.”

  “What if I demand it?”

  “Then I cannot refuse the earnest appeals of one so beautiful. It would not be—”

  “The act of a gentleman? What if I do not wish to spend my time with such a man of means? In my experience, they have little to recommend them. They seem quite cold, quite uncaring, quite self-absorbed.”

  “Then you have obviously not experienced a true gentleman.”

  Chapter 20

  Sullivan kissed Chelsea, softly, tenderly, sweetly. With each response, she silently begged him to continue. But there was no need. It soon became obvious that he did not intend to leave her. He intended to love her.

  He touched her hair, her shoulders, bent to press his mouth to her throat, the hollow behind her ear.

  “Tell me what you want me to do, Chelsea.”

  “I …”

  He smiled against her. “You were not so shy yestereve.”

  When she ducked her head in shame, he lifted her chin. “There’s no need to hide from me, love. There is nothing you cannot say to me, nothing you cannot do, as long as you share the honest regard I feel for you.” There was a submerged warning to his words, one that spoke of their time in the mews. Then the glitter was gone, ignited beneath a searing heat.

  “Come.” He led her to the bed. The covers had been folded away from the headboard, exposing sweetly scented linens.