A Matter of Temptation (13 page)

If his own father hadn’t believed him, how could he expect the rest of England to see the truth?

Of course, Robert had been equally mischievous when pretending to be John. Torie was correct in her assessment. It had been quite fun to fool people—but John had taken their games too far. They were men now, and it was time for them to behave as such and to put away their childish pranks.

“Bad memories?”

He twisted his head to look at her. The depth with which she studied him astounded him. He’d expected his brother to marry a woman with little sense and a voluptuous body…not that he found fault with Victoria’s body. She was trim, but not overly so. He could well imagine that a man would find great satisfaction in gliding his hands over her—

She stopped walking and whispered, “Robert, you’re going away again.”

Going away? Drifting into thoughts that he couldn’t invite her to share. He stopped as well. “My apologies. You asked about the memories.”

“Yes, you were scowling.”

“I was simply remembering all the times that John pretended to be me and got me into trouble.”

“As you did him.”

“Yes.”

“I always thought it was the role of brothers and sisters to get the other into trouble.”

“Yes, but John would take it to the extreme. And I bore the brunt of his pranks—which I think was the real purpose behind the pranks.
Not pretending to be me to see if he could get away with it, but pretending to be me so he could get me into trouble.”

“And if he got you into trouble, then he succeeded at the pretense, which must have been a victory as well.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Why do you think—” she began, but he heard a slight brushing noise nearby and placed a finger against her lips, trying to ignore the warmth of her breath traveling over his glove, more than ready to turn the direction of the conversation away from his memories of John. “Come,” he whispered.

Taking her hand, he carefully threaded his way through the brush until the clearing and the small pond he remembered became visible. Just as he suspected…

He pulled her in front of him, taking delight at her soft intake of breath as she looked at the doe and the fawn sipping from the pond.

She twisted around to look at him, and the beauty of her smile, the dimple in her cheek, the joy in her eyes was his undoing. He removed his glove and touched the strands of her hair that had escaped the pins holding them in place. So soft. Then he touched her cheek. Silk beneath his fingertips.

“You are so lovely.” In spite of his best intentions, he lowered his mouth to hers, drawing the taste of her into his own, relishing the heat
therein, the moistness of her lips, the rasp of her tongue over his.

He didn’t remember reaching for her, pulling her against him, but suddenly she was there, her curves flattened against his chest, her hands resting on his shoulders. Like a man drowning, searching for salvation, he deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue through her mouth, wanting more, so much more, his body aching with needs unfulfilled, needs that were not hers to satisfy…

In spite of papers that stated otherwise, she belonged to John.

In spite of the fact that John had strived to take everything from him, Robert would not take from his brother that to which he had no right.

He broke off the kiss, stumbled back, breathing heavily. She was staring at him, her own breathing labored, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed, the dimple gone as though it had never been.

“My apologies,” he stammered. “I had no right.”

“You’re my husband. You have every right.”

“Not in the forest.”

She laid her hand on his chest, just above his heart, and he wondered if she could feel the steady, hard pounding that he thought might be in danger of cracking his ribs.

Her dimple appeared. “And not in a coach.”

He shook his head, swallowed hard. “No, not in a coach.”

“And not when you’re weary.”

“Not when I’m weary.”

She angled her head thoughtfully. “If you didn’t look at me as though you might devour me on the spot, like you are some primal beast that might reside in these very woods, I might think that you have no interest in me whatsoever.”

He lifted his gaze to the canopy of branches above him. Perhaps if he counted the number of leaves, the evidence of his desire for her would dwindle. “Trust me, Torie, I have a good deal of interest in you.”

“Then why do you work so hard not to express that interest?”

He looked down to find the dimple gone and concern mirrored in her eyes. How to adequately explain his behavior without revealing the truth or increasing suspicion?

“As you’ve said, we’ve had little time alone. I thought it would be best to ease into the intimacy.”

She slid her hand up his chest, his neck, until she cradled his jaw. “I’m not frightened. I know you won’t hurt me, so don’t take too long…easing into…anything.”

Before he could react, she spun around, leaving him to wonder if there were double meanings to her words, if she were aware of them, embarrassed by them.

Dear God, but she tempted him to lay her down now, here, on the forest floor. Take her, so there would be no returning her to John. Hold her, because he had no desire to let her go.

He cleared his throat. “I think we should return to the manor.”
Before I do something we’ll both regret
..

She glanced over her shoulder at him, giving him a teasing smile, something in her eyes telling him that she knew the battles he waged and that she would see to it that he gained no victory, and in losing he would win.

But would she feel that she had lost?

Abruptly she averted her attention and began trudging along the path they’d taken to arrive at this spot, and he fell into step behind her.

It was imperative that he set himself to the task of proving himself as soon as possible, more important than undoing the damage to the estates that his brother had managed. He could take care of everything later, set it all to rights.

For now, he must rid himself of this woman before she brought him to the edge of insanity that he’d managed to avoid while in Pentonville.

H
e didn’t say another word until they arrived at Hawthorne House. And even then, it was merely “I’ll see you at dinner” after he’d walked her back to the manor and seen her safely inside.

Then he went back outside. She crossed over to a window and looked out. He was strolling up the wide cobbled path that led to the manor, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent. Dejected. He appeared to be utterly dejected and so incredibly alone.

Why was he not seeking her company to ease his loneliness? It made no sense. He drew her near only to push her away.

During the late afternoon, she spent an inordi
nate amount of time preparing for dinner. She chose a lilac gown trimmed in Brussels lace. A string of pearls adorned her throat. Simple yet elegant. She wore her hair pinned into a stylish coiffure.

Based on her husband’s reaction when she joined him in the library, she’d met with success at presenting herself in an alluring fashion. He stood by the fireplace, a white-knuckled hand gripping the mantel as though it was the only thing preventing him from rushing forward to take her in his arms. It was an incredible thrill to see such blatant desire smoldering in his eyes.

While he’d always provided her with attention, in the past two days the intensity of it was sharpening. She understood it completely, because she was feeling the same way. A tightening in her midsection that caused her breasts to tingle and her lower regions to shimmer. A need to touch him and to be stroked by him.

The heat was building, and she considered that when they did finally come together, they might ignite a conflagration that would set the bed afire.

“Would you like some wine before dinner?” he asked, his voice raw, the words sounding as though they’d been pushed up from the soles of his feet.

“Yes, please.”

He released his death grip on the mantel and walked over to a small table where several decanters rested. Although his back was to her, she
could hear the clatter of glasses hitting each other, like someone unable to control trembling hands. She watched as he grew momentarily still, the clattering absent when he continued with his task.

He turned back to her, and she discovered, much to her disappointment, that he’d successfully banked his desires. She took the glass he offered.

He tapped his glass against hers. “To your happiness.”

“To yours,” she replied, studying him over the rim as she sipped the dark red wine.

He took a gulp, then backed away, moving closer to the fire. Normally in summer a fire wasn’t necessary, but this manor was ancient and drafty, and a chill lingered. She was tempted to step nearer to him to see if he’d take another step away. She thought she might be able to march him around the room with such a ploy. Instead she ran a finger around the edge of the glass.

“You look particularly handsome this evening,” she offered. “But then, like most ladies, I’ve always found you incredibly attractive.”

He looked down at the floor, leaving her to wonder if he was seeking his reflection in the polished wood. “Sometimes, when I glance in the mirror, I’m surprised to discover how…old I appear.”

“Oh, yes, you’re quite the ancient one.”

He lifted his gaze to her. “I do feel that way at times.”

She eased closer to the warmth of the fire, standing nearer to him, grateful when he didn’t dart away. “I believe men grow more handsome with age. I’m not certain women grow more beautiful.”

“I can’t imagine you being anything except beautiful.”

“But when I am wrinkled and withered—”

“Your eyes and your smile are where your beauty lie.”

“Here you are being poetic again.”

“Truth is its own type of poetry.”

She felt the heat rise up from her chest to her cheeks. “I never realized before how seldom you and I truly talked. We always played word games or gossiped about Lady Sylvia’s atrocious attire or Lord Eastland’s attempt to cover his balding pate by combing all his hair forward. I prefer our present conversation.”

“As do I.” Taking her glass from her, he stepped over to the table and set them down. “We should go to dinner now.”

“I thought perhaps we should consider entertaining soon,” Torie said when they were very nearly finished eating, dinner enjoyed in near-perfect silence, with only the occasional scraping of silver across china to serve as evidence that anyone inhabited the room. He’d always been such an entertaining conversationalist at dinner parties that she was surprised to discover that in
the privacy of his home, he preferred not to be bothered with small talk.

He stilled his wineglass halfway to his lips. “Perhaps in a few months—after we’ve settled into marriage.”

“I know you are good friends with the Marquess of Lynmore. Who else would you care to invite?”

He took a sip of wine, seemed to enjoy it, before saying, “The Duke of Weddington was always a close friend.”

“That revelation surprises me. You gave him a cut direct when our paths crossed in the machinery gallery at the Great Exhibition.”

He looked at her as though she’d suddenly announced that the sun had fallen from the sky. He downed the remainder of his wine and stood. “We’ll discuss the particulars of whom to invite at another time. If you’ll excuse me, I have some other matters to which I must attend, and I don’t wish to be disturbed. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

He strode from the room, leaving her to feel as though she’d done something terribly wrong—once again.

What the deuce was the Great Exhibition? How great was it? What was being exhibited? Machines obviously, but what else? Where was it? Why was it?

What else had happened while he was imprisoned?

He’d thought his greatest fear had come from not knowing how to talk to his wife, but he could slip up with the tiniest assumption—that the monarchy still existed…who the deuce was the prime minister? What colonies did England still possess?

Pacing in the library, he wondered where he’d find all the answers. He couldn’t just blurt out, “Oh, by the by, could you share the particulars of all that has transpired during the past eight years?”

Wouldn’t that raise his wife’s suspicions? Although he stood a good chance of having already done so.

She was gorgeous beyond measure, and he’d not taken advantage of his wedding night. Only a madman would be avoiding her. Wouldn’t that be an incredible irony—to survive Pentonville without going insane only to end up in an insane asylum?

His behavior was erratic. He knew it, and he could see her reacting to it. He could see her testing him, weighing his reactions. She was no doubt struggling to understand the reasons behind his strange behavior.

He dropped into a chair, placed his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. He’d set himself an impossible task. Perhaps he should simply go to the Lord High Chancellor and lay out his case.

Sweet Lord, but he felt as though he were liv
ing in the Alexandre Dumas novel he’d begun reading last night in an effort to distract himself from thoughts of his wife when sleep wouldn’t come. Only he had no musketeers to save him. He had no one except himself.

And what a dreadful, ineffectual righter of wrongs he was turning out to be.

Torie told herself that she should retire for the evening. Return to her bedchamber and…sulk. Only she’d never been much for sulking. It seemed to be a behavior that turned on itself. The more one sulked, the more one felt like sulking. As last night had proven when she’d taken her fateful walk.

Although her husband had indicated that he had no wish to be disturbed, she found herself walking to the library anyway. To find a book to comfort her as she lay in bed awaiting her husband’s arrival. For surely tonight, after the near lovely day they’d had, he would come to her. She knew he desired her, so why did talk of Weddington send him from the dining room?

The footman dressed in burgundy livery bowed slightly and opened the door.

She walked into the library. The room seemed to stretch forever from the doorway to the far side where the large stone fireplace dominated the wall. Even as she sidestepped the various tables and chairs, her attention was drawn to the portrait. The duchess before her had been a lovely
woman, her sons, even in youth, foreshadowing the charm that would draw Torie to one of them.

Her husband, who had been sitting behind the desk, came to his feet. “I told you that I didn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“I thought to find a book to read,” she told him. “And this seemed to be the room for doing that.”

“I would appreciate it if you’d be quick about it so I might return to my affairs.”

“And what affairs would those be?”

He looked as though she’d tossed cold water on him. “They are not your concern.”

Perhaps not, but still she was curious, more about his behavior than what he was busy with.

She ambled over to the side of the room where the shelves ran from the floor to the ceiling, “Are the books in any particular order?”

“The books were my father’s collection. I never paid any attention to how he arranged them.”

She peered over at him. “You once told me that you had a passion for books.”

“A passion for books, yes. Arranging them, no.”

She ran her fingers over the spines. “What is your favorite story?”

“I don’t have a favorite.”

“Everyone has a favorite.”

He sighed. “Very well.
The Last of the Mohicans
.”

“How interesting. I suppose it’s the adventure of it.”

“I suppose. What’s your favorite?”

His voice contained less tartness as though he’d accepted that she wouldn’t be put off so easily.

“
Jane Eyre
”

He shook his head. “I’m not familiar with that author.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “Honestly, Robert, you’re such a tease. Charlotte Bronte is the author. Her sister wrote
Wuthering Heights
. Heathcliff is the terribly tortured hero in that one. He’s the reason the story is one of Diana’s favorites. She loves men who are tormented.”

“And yet your sister struck me as having such a sweet disposition.”

“Oh, she does! Besides, she doesn’t torture the men”—she furrowed her brow—“although I daresay she may try, if any want to seriously court her.”

She returned to searching the shelves for something to catch her interest. “Oh, look, your father has a copy of
David Copperfield
.” Furrowing her brow, she touched the spine. “Only Dickens didn’t publish this story until after your father died.” She looked over her shoulder at Robert.

He took a step back from his desk, suddenly appearing uncertain, trapped like an animal that realizes too late that it had stepped where it shouldn’t have. “Of course I’ve purchased books since his death, but I leave the arrangement of the books up to the servants.”

“Perhaps I should try to catalogue all the
books,” she offered. “Organize them in a manner that would make it easier for us to locate what we were searching for.”

“I rather like being surprised by what I find,” he said, leaving her with the impression that he might not be talking only of books.

“I enjoy reading aloud,” she told him. “May I read to you this evening?”

“Torie, I really do have things which require my attention.”

“Can you not do them while I read?”

He appeared to be on the verge of allowing her in…

“I’m lonely, Robert,” she added.

He swept his hand toward a chair near the fire. “Please, it would bring me immense pleasure, if you have the time.”

“I have nothing but time presently.”

Because it was handy, she selected
David Copperfield
. She sat in the chair, and Robert joined her, sitting in the one opposite hers.

“I thought you were going to try to tend to matters while I read,” she said.

“I changed my mind.”

“What were you doing before I disturbed you?”

He looked into the fire. “Contemplating the merits of writing a letter to Weddington to ask for permission to call on him.”

“So we’ll return to London?”

“I suspect he is at Drummond Manor, near the
coast. It’s only a couple of hours from here. But if he’s not there, then no, I’m not quite ready to return to London.”

“Do you remember when—”

“I thought you were going to read aloud.”

She was slightly embarrassed by his tone, not truly chastisement, but it was laced with a bit of impatience. She opened the book and began to read.

Robert didn’t know why he’d attempted to dissuade her from reading. Perhaps because the more time he spent with her, the more difficult it would be to let her go when the day came that he had no choice.

He loved the gentle lilt of her voice. He tried to listen to the story but he found himself becoming lost in her. He was becoming hopelessly besotted.

She wasn’t flirting with him or playing coy or teasing him. She was simply reading from the book, her head bent. Yet he thought he would be content if the remainder of his years were spent doing nothing except this: sitting in the shadows of her presence.

Torie lay beneath her covers, her breathing shallow as she listened to the creaking floorboards, signaling once again that her husband was pacing.

It had been nearly ten when she’d given in to weariness and set the book aside. Robert had barely moved a muscle from the moment she be
gan reading, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his chin propped on his hand, his head titled slightly, his gaze unwavering. Or so it seemed when she would periodically look up to find him intently listening as though enthralled by the story.

So she’d continued on, longer than she might have otherwise. She’d never known anyone to take such a keen interest in her reading aloud.

He’d escorted her to her bedchamber, bid her good night, and she’d heard the door to his room open and close. She’d been so certain that after the day and evening they’d shared, he would come to her. Once Charity had prepared her for bed and left the room, Torie had done her own pacing for a few minutes before finally taking a deep breath and clambering into bed. She’d fanned her hair out across the pillows, then brought the covers up to her chin, lowered them to her chest, then to her waist.