Hart opened his arms to her. Arms that had held her so close two days before. How could she possibly survive, pressed up against him all the way to Hartford Hall?
She shook her head. “I think not. I do not wish to inconvenience you.”
“It’ll be a damned inconvenience having to bury you next to your sister when you catch your death.”
She felt the color drain from her face. The starkness of his words reminded her of just how alone she was.
His voice softened. “I’m sorry. That was crude. Forgive me.”
He looked perfectly sincere, a golden angel of mercy. At least she thought so through the haze of tears. She took a blind step forward, then slid down into the ditch, where her bottom landed with an ignominious squelch in the mucky mess.
“Bloody hell! Can you stand up?”
Eden shifted, trying to get her boots untangled from her skirts. She reached up to Hart’s gloved hand.
“You’re not going to pull me in there with you?” he asked, a half-smile forming on his handsome face.
“I should. It would serve you right.”
“I am sorry, you know. For everything.”
So he regretted The Kiss. She could not. She placed her hand in his, feeling the comforting warmth of his palm. He tried to pull her free with one strong yank, but one of her feet was sunk to her ankle.
Eden wiggled it in vain, allowing more cold mud to seep between her toes. “I believe my boot is stuck.”
“Can you remove it?”
Eden bent over, trying to unfasten the mud-covered buttons with numb fingers. The hems of her dress and cloak were so soaked and heavy with slime she fell again.
“Oh, dear.” Not really the words she wanted to say. She had never felt so clumsy in her life.
“I believe you’ll have more success if you take off your cape.”
Eden knew he was right. It was not as though it were keeping her warm anyway, just weighing her down and holding in the chill that was permeating her core. Once she was free of the cape, she remained seated on it and played with her boot buttons. She opened enough of them so she could slide her foot out.
“There. Stand up and lean over the bank with your arms outstretched.”
After several ungainly attempts, she did as asked. Eden felt his hands under her armpits, pinching. She certainly wasn’t heavy, but the position was awkward. He gave a great tug and dragged her over the hump, then helped her to her feet.
Her cape and one foot-friendly old boot were lost to her forever. Eden looked down. The front of her dress was crusted in slime and debris.
“Oh, dear,” she repeated.
Hart was removing his greatcoat, which was splattered with mud but nowhere near as disreputable as her dress. He held it between them like a curtain, closing his eyes.
“Take off your dress and put this on. Hurry. The sooner we get back to the Hall, the sooner you can set yourself to rights.”
He must be joking. He expected her to remove her dress in the middle of all outdoors? She examined the sodden material that enveloped her, clinging to every curve. The stench of the ditch water assaulted her nostrils. Perhaps he was right. She could barely stand to breathe the noxious aroma herself, and he surely didn’t want to. She hastily untied her dress and dropped it on the ground. Even her shift and petticoats were damp in places. She shivered and wrapped the greatcoat around her in gratitude.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re quite blue.”
“I am cold,” she acknowledged. Suddenly she was in his arms again as he rubbed her roughly to warm her up. It was not at all sexual. She was reminded of the first time she saw him, patting the old dogs that had come out to greet him the day he arrived. She began to understand why they now followed him everywhere.
She thought if a stranger had chanced upon them in the road, he would have remarked that he had seen two lovers in a shocking state of undress, their wet hair plastered to their heads, their bodies melting into each other in the mist-shrouded lane. The girl’s eyes were half-closed, a look of pure contentment on her face. The tall gentleman was a little more difficult to read. His face showed a combination of pain and pleasure. But when he bent to kiss her, his intentions were so clear any decent man of Christian piety would have been forced to avert his gaze and continue his journey.
He needed to get her out of the rain. He needed to stop kissing her. He needed her.
Hart had allowed his lust to overtake his judgment once again. He was quite helpless to resist. Her lips beneath his were at first tentative, shy. His urgent tongue sought the sweet haven of her mouth and soon was layered and parrying with her own. A sigh of surrender escaped her, encouraging his hands to sweep beneath her borrowed cape to the rim of her wet bodice. Her marbled nipples met his gloved fingers. He had to feel her, skin to skin. He wondered what she would do as he released his hold and stripped himself of his gloves, dropping them to the mud. But his lips still claimed her, and she pulled on his jacket to bring him closer. An arc of searing heat jolted from his chest to his groin. His hands returned to her breasts, freeing them from muslin and linen. She was cold as ice, yet brought his fingertips to flame.
He lowered his mouth to suckle at one pale breast. To bring her warmth. To bring the fire of his body to hers. She cried out as he scorched her with his kiss. He felt her stumble beneath his hands as she shivered from cold and desire, and he realized that in one more minute they’d be rutting in the road, oblivious to the weather.
Or his conscience.
He pushed his practical, sensible thoughts away and drew her nipple farther into his mouth, the pebbled tip trapped between his teeth and tongue. Her fingers threaded through his hair as her breathing became ragged. Glancing up at her, he saw her eyes closed, her lips parted in the smallest of smiles. Suddenly he wanted to widen that smile, make her lose herself utterly under his touch.
He dropped his hand to her belly.
“Oh, no. Don’t.”
She said it with so little conviction. And apparently he had lost his as well somewhere back along the road. In moments she was bunching her petticoats between them. She wore no drawers, and his fingers buried themselves in her folds. She was hot and wet and felt like heaven itself. What would he give to replace his fingers with his cock? He was afraid the price would be too high. He tilted her toward him as he licked and suckled at her swollen lips, held her close against him, skimmed her bud with his thumb until her honey burst forth on his hands. Her responsiveness shattered him. It had taken so little effort or time to bring her to completion. She had come so quickly, almost too quickly, as though she’d been Sleeping Beauty waiting to awaken just for him. He knew that wasn’t true. A woman like that—
A woman like that was not for him. Could never be for him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she shook.
“We’ve got to get back,” he ground out as he finally broke away. His arms felt unbearably empty when he let her go.
Eden nodded. Of course they did. She was drenched and half-frozen and hysterically happy. She allowed him to place her on his horse, a monstrously tall beast that had waited patiently while his master ravished her.
And she was ravished. Totally enraptured. Her lips and breasts were swollen with kisses, her center weeping. She had barely remained on her feet as he swept into her, surprised her, shocked her with his skill. He had sheltered her womanhood with his hand, making her feel safe. Cared for. She’d had no time for thoughts or regrets as his fingers and lips performed their magic. When she left tomorrow, she would not regret today.
Hart threw himself up behind her, clutching her so close she could feel the evidence of his arousal at her back. He spoke not a word for the ride ahead, but held her as though he suspected she might turn to mist herself.
When they arrived at the Hall to the dismay and exclamation of Juliet and the servants, she was surprised to see his shuttered face and hear his expurgated version of the events. She limped away on one boot, feeling like a fool.
; But had she expected him to declare his intentions? Court her? Marry her? She was unfit for marriage, unfit to be anything but a casual dalliance on the road. His uncle had seen to that.
After building an enormous fire in Eden’s room, Mattie and Charlotte raced up and down the stairs with hot water, towels, Juliet’s special French milled soap, tea with brandy and everything else they could think of to save their mistress from an ague. Eden was then ensconced in the steamy tub, more than a little tipsy. Her hair was still wet, but now it smelled of roses. She casually wrapped it in a loose turban, then leaned back.
Somewhere else in this house, Hart was being seen to. She wondered if he was in his own bath, stroking away his frustration. Her fingers slipped beneath the water and into her curls. She was still slick with need of him.
Perhaps if she could tell him the truth, the whole of it, he wouldn’t hate her so.
She closed her eyes, allowing her own hand to substitute for Hart’s. Imagining his tongue again, the grazing of his teeth, the hard length of him finding her wet for him. Of course she was wet, submersed in the porcelain tub, her nipples ruched, her pale skin marbled in the flicker of the fire. Light and shadow. Unexpected. Unequaled.
She pressed harder and felt the edge rise up to meet her. To be with a man she could respect, give herself to with no reservations or aversions. No coercion. She spiraled forward, catching her cry, pushed herself once again over the edge until she could bear no more pleasure for today.
When she opened her eyes, Hart stood before her, his hair still damp. He was wearing a clean shirt and breeches and an expression of severity. Behind him the panel to the hidden staircase stood open.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” Eden asked, sitting up abruptly and slopping water onto the rug. Realizing she was exposed to him, she slipped back down, covering her breasts.
“There’s no point in hiding yourself. I have been standing here these past five minutes.” His face was flushed, angry. “It wasn’t enough before, was it? It will never be enough for a woman like you.”
She’d heard nothing but her own mewls of pleasure. Her closed eyes had only seen an imaginary Hart, not the furious warrior who now looked at her with contempt. But with desire as well. He was fighting with himself, but Eden knew which side of him would win. “Why are you spying on me?”
“I wasn’t quite sure where I’d end up when I found the passage,” he drawled. “Believe me, I never expected to find myself in your room, watching you frig yourself.”
It was Eden’s turn for fury and embarrassment. “Go away!”
“Not until I’ve had my say. How convenient that there was a connecting stair from your room to my uncle’s library. Odd to think no one bothered to tell me about it. That must have spared your family and the servants from finding out what you’d been up to.”
Eden remembered when Ivor Hartford had told her to move from her old bedroom to this one. No longer would she be right next door to her sister. She could visit him without being detected. At first it had seemed like wicked fun, a kind of house party game. But the end result had been sleepless nights and tortured days.
“You don’t understand,” she began.
His face was all hard angles in the play of the flames. “I believe I do. Did you think to trap me, too? I won’t marry you, any more than my uncle could have. You know the laws of consanguinity do you not? No man can marry his stepdaughter. The Church forbids it. So your plot was as pointless with him as it is with me. No matter how desolate and pathetic you appear. No matter how many times you kiss me.”
“You have kissed me, you horrible man!” Eden reached for a towel to cover herself. But no. Let him see her. Let him see every inch of her. She climbed out of the tub and stood before the fire, dripping on the hearth, unwinding the towel from her hair.
“Do you like what you see, Lord Hartford? So did your uncle. From the age of eighteen I was his mistress. Or perhaps I should say he was my master.” She gave a broken laugh. “You know of the Indian sexual arts, do you not? If you somehow have missed them in your world travels conquering England’s enemies, there is a most informative book in your library devoted to obtaining power over women. Your uncle was very inventive and wished to replicate as many of its positions as possible.” She dropped on all fours, her voice shaking, and exposed her buttocks to him. “If a man mounts a woman like a dog, holding her waist, and she twists around to make eye contact in submission, it is called the position of the dog. The names alone are very amusing. And if you cannot read, there are helpful illustrations.”
“Stop this at once.” His voice was sharp enough to quarry rock.
“Why? You believe you already know the truth. How can it hurt to hear it?” She combed her Medusa-like tangles with her fingers, ruffling up her thick, dark hair. “Your uncle loved my hair. He’d wrap it around his fist as I took his member in my mouth. If I didn’t perform to his satisfaction, he’d pull it, sometimes slap my face. He could be quite cruel.”
“For God’s sake,” Hart whispered. She was tormenting him, her words, her body such temptation that he could not understand. She was shameless and reckless and made him feel the same.
She dropped to her knees in front of him, tears streaming down her face. “Shall I show you what I did?” When Hart was silent, she reached for the placket of his breeches.
Hart felt frozen. Stricken with horror, and unwelcome desire. Her fury and her beauty blended into an intoxicating cocktail of sin. How simple it would be to let her do to him what she had done to his uncle before he sent her away. But Hart came to his senses before her hand touched his flesh.
“Get up. Get out,” he barked. “When you get to London, go see Mrs. Brown. She employs whores like you. You should do very well.”
Her eyes glittered, her mouth twisting in a ghastly smile. “But this is my room, Lord Hartford, at least until tomorrow. I earned it on my back and on my knees and bore the beatings. At least my sister died a virgin.”
He couldn’t listen to her ravings one second longer. He turned, slamming the door behind him.
She would hear the panicked thudding of his footsteps as he fled down the secret stairs. She would think she had driven him away in disgust, when in truth he really wanted to stay. Coward.
But if he gave in again, he would be no better than his uncle. Shivering with cold, he returned to the library and poured himself a brandy, then locked himself in the room. It would be a long night.
Hart did not know what had come over him this afternoon. He had felt impelled to taste her, touch her, put his mark upon her and drive the memory of his uncle from her body. Even as the freezing rain sliced down his collar, he had been alight with heat for her. He had nearly convinced himself he had been struck by a temporary madness. She was leaving tomorrow and good riddance. But watching her come apart again in her bath had made him want to cover her fingers with his own. To kiss her fluttering eyelids and lick the pearls of water from her breasts. To haul her out of the tub and sink into her. He’d been stiff with need all afternoon, and was harder now. What was happening to him? He had never behaved in such depraved fashion in the whole of his boring, virtuous life. To make love to her with his hands and mouth in the middle of the road—it was insanity. But the truth was, he’d simply had no choice. None.
Fate. It was his greatest fear—to follow the path of his uncle and father because there was no other available to him. He’d fought against it with all the fervor of a character in a Greek tragedy, but in the last act, the predictions always came true. How ironic if after a life of virtue he was brought to his knees by a woman whose name promised Paradise but who would lead him to Hell. He was as torn as if a French bayonet had ripped his soul. Somehow he had to piece himself back together. Put the past few days out of his mind. Find what was left of it.
Hart drank deep from his glass. He would challenge the gods and rewrite his ending. There was a first time for everything.
Chapter 7
CUMBRIA, NOVEMBER 1818<
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Juliet had whisked Eden and her maid away at first light three days ago. Hart felt enormous relief. What he and Eden had begun was so wrong on so many levels, it didn’t bear thinking about. Despite his futile vow to push the unwelcome memories from his mind, he revisited each moment.
He had kissed her, not just once, but several times. Had done much more and yet not enough. Wanted what she had offered on her knees, tears coursing down her cheeks and tangling in her dark lashes, her intentions sinfully tempting before he had the sense to push her away. He had put a stop to a fate that would destroy them both.
She had come to him the morning that she left, covered from chin to boot in black. He had sat at his desk, stony-faced, while she stuttered out an apology and tried to explain whatever Byzantine relationship she’d shared with his uncle. He’d raised a dismissive hand almost at once to save them both from further embarrassment, then gone back to his account books. He would not soon forget the hopeless look in her dark eyes as she stood shifting from foot to foot. But he was right to send her away, if only for his own sanity.
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