“Did you read it all?”
Hart’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
“The book,” Eden said impatiently. “The Education of a Young Lady,” she said, her voice dripping acid.
“I’m not talking about the missing book, but the picture that was inside a book. Of you. Touching yourself like a wanton.”
Eden swallowed. So he had not found it either. She must have overlooked one of Ivor’s loose drawings. If just one sketch had driven him to this measure of disgust, imagine what would happen if he found an entire book filled with them.
“What is it you want me to do, my lord?”
“I see no way around it. You’ll go back to London with my aunt and my men. You may indulge her for a day or two with jaunts around town, but then I want you gone. Understood?”
“Perfectly.” Eden’s lips thinned. How self-righteous he was. He probably believed Eve was responsible for the fall of mankind. “Will you not be returning with us?”
“No.”
Her own imp whispered in her ear. “Why not? Do you find me too tempting?”
Before she knew it, she was in Hart’s iron grip. His blue eyes stormed above her. “Have you no shame?”
“Why should I?” Eden asked, trembling. His closeness was overwhelming. The clean scent, the heat of him disordered her senses. She looked up into his furious face, mesmerized by the twitching muscle in his cheek. “I am what God and your uncle made me,” she whispered. “You may argue with them, but I fear it is too late.”
Hart watched her mouth move. A mouth made for sin. Too wide for fashion. Too red against the pallor of her face. She was right; she tempted him beyond bearing. And she was no innocent. “Made for sin,” he muttered aloud. Knowing he would regret this until his dying day, he captured her lips with his own, drowning her in his anger and desire.
She was trapped in his arms. Trapped again. She knew how it would end, and forced herself from her willing surrender, clawing at and tearing the veils off a hidden memory to break Hart’s spell. She had read Ivor’s version in the book, every word, knew now what had really transpired that night four years ago when her stepfather had taken her maidenhead. The beginning of her end.
He told her he’d be quick, “To get the pain over with.” And in truth he could not have held back. He’d written he was as randy as a schoolboy. He rutted inside her, careless of her comfort, gratified to feel how wet she had become waiting for him all that time. Months, really. He’d taken a risk, but it paid off. The sooner she knew that his pleasure was paramount, the better. Begin as you mean to go on.
“Now, Puss,” he’d said, as she had swallowed her sobs so as not to wake the household, “we’ve accomplished the rudimentary. There’s no point in spilling tears for your useless virginity—you’re mine now and always will be. And if I know anything, you were made for this. Made for me. Made for sin. A man can only stand so much temptation. You made me kiss you, didn’t you, always finding a way for us to be together. You’ve let me fondle you without one word to stop me. You loved it and made me love it, too. You know you’re a wicked little whore.” He kissed her nose, as though he had complimented her. “Why, I believe you’ve wanted to fuck me ever since I married your poor mother.”
She had wondered then if his words were true.
“You were desperate to find out . . . something.” He held her chin and looked into her eyes. “And now you have. Puss, remember it was by your express invitation that I came to your room tonight. You bared your breasts for me like a common harlot. You didn’t cry out when I entered your room, now, did you?”
She shook her head. She had risen from her chair and flown into his arms.
His thumb traced her swollen lips as a tear streaked down her cheek. “I’ve caught you in my library where you had no business being. They say curiosity killed the cat. Well, now you know, Puss, and you’re still very much alive. Look at yourself. Wild and wanton. You’re no longer my little girl, but my woman. I shall teach you tricks, and soon you shall be begging me for more lessons.”
“Never,” she whispered.
“Liar.” He chuckled and rose from the bed. She lay curled up into herself, shaking. He went to her dresser, pulling a tangle of stockings from a drawer. Within minutes her arms and legs were lashed to the bedposts.
“Do you ever touch yourself there?” he asked, inserting a finger within her curls. “I’ve wondered. I’ve imagined you in here in your room, all alone. Waiting for me to come. Wondering what’s taking me so long.”
He was very sure of himself. He had every right to be. Her face reddened; she bucked but couldn’t escape his probing. He took a corner of the sheet and wiped the smear of blood from her center. “I see I was right. You’ve wanted a proper fucking. Needed it. You’ve been after me like a bitch in heat. You think what we just did was the end of it? I promise you, it will improve. Whatever you’ve tried to do with your own hand, it’s even better with a real man, Puss. A man who can do this.” He settled between her open legs and began to lick, suckle, kiss. She closed her eyes and he took her to the place she’d almost been, the place he had always known was within her. She shook, this time not with fear but with an orgasm so intense she thought she would die of it.
He mounted her again. This time the penetration was eased by his semen and her own honey, and he took his time, sliding in and out with deliberate control.
When his hand slipped between them, she felt the tingle of pure desire. Lust. He rubbed and tugged as he pumped within her, and she unfurled again in an unconscionably short period of time. She would never forget his triumphant look as he spilled within her again, or her cry of ecstasy. He was the devil, and she his handmaiden.
With all her might she broke Hart’s kiss. Were it not for the dismal reminder of her undoing, she would never have wanted it to end. The kiss was hot and dark, wholly without equal. In a way, she felt as though it was the first time she had ever been kissed properly. But there was nothing proper about it.
And it was bound to end in heartbreak for her.
She had at first thought to struggle. Felt she should, but it would have been for show. Hart’s hands had banded her arms tightly as he drew her to him. Her helplessness spoke to her innermost need. Eden felt an incandescent flare of passion, far different than what she had felt with his uncle. Then she had been young, confused and so very hasty to lose her innocence. But for Ivor Hartford, she had been nothing but a controlled experiment, born of his boredom. Convenient. Concupiscent.
Hart’s fingertips seared her through the fiber of her sleeves. She felt sure each pad had left its mark, not as a bruise but a blessing. To be held by a man who didn’t intend harm to her—
How foolish she was. Naïve. Still. Hart was like all men. He might not intend to hurt her, but nor did he wish to help her, save to pension her off like an old retainer. He thought her the basest sort of woman. And yet she remained uncomplaining in his arms. Like a love-starved child.
“Let me go, my lord.” It had taken all her will to say the words. To be safe in Hart’s arms was a near miracle. And she’d not regret a single second of it. She felt alive for the first time in years. She had walled herself off for so long, but perhaps her heart was not dormant after all.
That was dangerous.
Although her lips now brushed his cravat, Hart wouldn’t let her go. Couldn’t. What had come over him? He realized ruefully that his manhood was thrusting into the folds of Eden’s mourning gown. No matter how very far she had strayed from respectability in the past, her sister had been buried in the churchyard today. He was a complete cad to take such advantage. But he continued to hold her in his embrace, feeling the racing of her heart through the layers of fabric between them.
Her hair had fallen from its clips, a slippery curtain of mahogany. Her dress gaped in the back, where his fingers had unconsciously sought the sweet relief of her naked skin. He knew if she stepped away, her gown would reveal the ivory swell of her breasts beneath her cot
ton shift. He refastened her hooks with reluctance.
“I apologize.” He set her away from him and swiftly sat behind the desk, but she wouldn’t need much imagination to figure out what he was attempting to conceal. “That was unforgivable.”
“Surely not,” said Eden, with a wobbly smile. “It was just a kiss, after all. And my entire fault. I provoked you.”
Hart could not think of a civil thing to say. Yes, she was provoking. She was a strumpet, pure and simple. And she had felt perfect in his arms, as though a piece of him had been missing and was found. She stood before him, disheveled, her lips twitching in amusement as he absently rubbed a small bronze statue.
He looked down at the statue and quickly pushed it away. No doubt she was wishing he was rubbing her in the very same spot . She was wicked. And he was ridiculous. This entire situation was wicked and ridiculous.
There was not a doubt in his mind that he wanted her. Wanted her beneath him and above him. Wanted her to pulse around his cock and cry his name, over and over. He was bespelled and bedeviled and as hard as a rock. The girl who had seemed so unappealing just a few days ago now made his blood thrum. But she was not for him. Could never be for him.
“If that is all, my lord, I wish to retire.”
“Yes, yes,” Hart agreed. How soon could she and her aunt be made ready to leave? Tomorrow was probably too soon. Juliet would never make a good soldier; she had imported half of London’s finery with her and it was strewn all over her bedroom. But he had to give her credit. She had even packed several mourning gowns, telling him she never traveled anywhere without them.
“For you never know, Hart, when life will take an unfortunate turn,” she had said.
He was very much afraid his just had.
Chapter 6
It was raining in earnest by the time Eden walked the four miles and reached the village, a stinging assault to her senses. It was too soon for snow, but not, apparently, for the needle-sharp sleet mixed in with the driving rain. The weather had reflected her own mood perfectly as she clutched her woolen cape closer as it billowed in the wind. She’das given up trying to keep the hood on her head, so the lovely curls that given up trying to keep the hood on her head, so the lovely curls that Juliet’s maid had coaxed into being had long washed away.
She was on a fool’s errand. A sentimental fool. Tomorrow she would leave Hartford Hall for good, if Juliet and the servants were ever able to pack all the woman’s belongings back into her trunks in time. Juliet’s possessions seemed to have grown exponentially through the duration of the visit. Hart’s fashionable aunt had changed her clothing several times a day, despite the fact there had been no one to impress. Hart had given his aunt the departure ultimatum yesterday at breakfast, some twelve hours after The Kiss, and had disappeared for the remainder of the day.
Eden touched her lips. Her mouth felt no different today than it ever had. She knew better.
The vicarage gate creaked as it had done the past twenty or more years. Eden could remember it heralding visitors when she was just a tiny girl. And sure enough, before she had a chance to knock, Mrs. Christopher, the vicar’s wife, opened the door and embraced her.
“Come out of this rain at once, child! Whatever were you thinking, to go out walking on a foul day like this?”
When she had left the hall, it had just been misting. Eden supposed she could have ordered a carriage, but she had not wanted to find Hart, who so obviously wanted to remain hidden from her, to ask him. He’d been assiduous in avoiding her company. But before she could say a word, she was swept away by Mrs. Christopher’s chatter.
“Mr. Christopher is out in all this nastiness himself. Old Molly Robshaw has taken a turn for the worse. Frances! Brew some tea please. Eden, dear, let me take your cloak and you go sit by the fire in the kitchen. It’s much warmer in there if you don’t mind. Frances and I have been baking.”
The kitchen was just where she wanted to be. She followed the vicar’s wife through the narrow hall and smiled at the maid-of-all-work, Frances, who was wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. Once done, she hugged Eden quickly and then hefted the kettle from the hearth and poured the boiling water into a simple blue china teapot. Frances belonged to the vicarage as much as the furniture did. She’d served there all her adult life.
Eden sat back on the plain wooden chair. Fresh loaves of bread cooled on racks on the worktable, delicious evidence of the women’s labor. The warmth and smell of the whitewashed room brought her right back to her childhood, although her poor mother would have burned whatever was in the oven. But Frances had been there then to save supper.
“My nose tells me the ginger biscuits are done, too, Frances. How lucky for us!”
“How are you, Frances?” Eden asked.
“Just the same as ever. You’re looking much better, dearie, if I can be so bold to say it. Plumper. Healthier, and I want you to eat all the biscuits you want. No more of this slimming nonsense.”
“Indeed not. You are fine just as God made you,” agreed Mrs. Christopher. “How are things up at the Hall? If you need any help with Jannah’s room, you need but to ask, you know.” Mrs. Christopher opened a tin of fruitcake and began to cut thin slices from the dense, dark loaf. She set three plates upon the scrubbed pine table for the impromptu feast as Frances lifted the cookies from the tin to cool.
“Charlotte and Mattie will take care of it, thank you. I have already told them to bundle up the clothes and bring them to you. I am sure you know who could best use them.” For a moment Eden thought of Jannah’s favorite blue dress. She should have let the child wear it that last day when she was so eager to impress Hart. Instead, Jannah had been buried in it. “I’ve come with some news, though. Mrs. Cheverly has invited me to stay with her in London before I begin my employment, and we leave tomorrow.”
Mrs. Christopher poured Eden a cup of strong tea and brought it to her before the fire, joining her on the chair opposite. “Frances, butter some bread for us, too, please.”
“Oh, really, no,” said Eden. “I’m not even hungry.” She had been refusing kindly Mrs. Christopher’s treats for so long now, her response was automatic.
“Nonsense. We all need to stop and eat something. You’ll be doing us a kindness if you join us. So you really are leaving.”
“I must. But I stopped to say good-bye, and see this house one more time.”
“It’s not much compared to the Hall.”
Eden looked around the homely kitchen. “No, it’s much better! It’s the first home I remember. And Frances was right there, teaching me to roll out dough.”
Frances grinned. “You was always in the way. Had to make use of you. Don’t suppose Mrs. Burrell even let you in her kitchen.” She cut into a fresh loaf and spread butter on each slice.
“No, she didn’t. She really isn’t very patient with children. Her own grandchildren live in terror of her and she drives the poor kitchen maids into fits.” When I got to an age when Mrs. Burrell might have tolerated me, I didn’t have time, Eden thought. No free time to learn anything but her stepfather’s lessons.
“Luncheon’s ready.” Frances had added a bread-and-butter sandwich and a ginger cookie to the fruitcake on each of the plates. The women joined her at the gateleg kitchen table.
“Lord, bless this food to our bodies and us to Thy service. In Jesus’s name we ask it. Amen,” Mrs. Christopher said softly. “Now, tell us, where will you be working?”
“Jannah’s godmother, Mrs. Stryker, has need of a companion. She wrote of a trip to Italy.” Of course that had been months ago. Perhaps she’d already gone and come back.
“Italy! How very exciting!”
Eden spent the next hour in comfortable conversation. And she did eat her fill and more. Despite the fact that Mrs. Christopher urged her to stay until her husband came back with the gig, Eden took her leave amidst a tear or two and set off down the muddy road. The temperature had warmed and the rain had lessened, but it was still an unpleasant journey.
When she heard the rumble of hoofbeats behind her, she hopped over the ditch so she wouldn’t be run down, then stood still.
Blast. It was Hart, greatcoat flapping and face scowling. He reined in his horse, looking down at her, his blue eyes as icy as his uncle’s. “What the devil are you doing here?”
To hell with him. She was done being judged. She held her spine stiff and lifted her chin. “Good afternoon to you, too, sir. I wanted to say good-bye to the vicar and his wife. He was not at home, but Mrs. Christopher had me to lunch. Go on to the Hall. I’ll be along shortly.”
She heard him mutter an oath, quite a wicked one. “You may ride up with me. You’re a drowned rat.”
“You have such a pretty way with words, my lord. I am perfectly fine.” Unfortunately, her chattering teeth belied her assurance.
“Don’t be a stubborn fool.” He dismounted and walked toward her. “Come. I’ll catch you as you jump over.”
Tempting Eden Page 10
