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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

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BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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“And by society, you mean the young men? Who cluster around
you
like moonstruck calves, I notice.”
Was it his turn to be jealous? She did not think so.
“No. By society, I mean those young men’s
mamas
, who will always have the greatest influence upon their sons, whether those sons care to admit it or not. It is their notice and approval Miss Wainwright must win before she will find herself an eligible parti.”
“And you want her to be an eligible parti?”
“Yes, yes I do. Because that is what she wants. She longs to make a brilliant match.”
“And what do you long for, Miss Burke?”
She kept her own counsel for a very long moment. “Anonymous notice. And a greater experience of the world.”
“I begin to glimpse a secret bluestocking. That explains the Latin.” His eyes told her he was teasing her.
“I admit I have made some study of Latin, but not a great deal. And my horse’s name is just a quote from Virgil—the
Aeneid
is typical schoolboy study. And I might add, schoolgirl study as well, for despite your father’s preferences, Miss Hadley’s did have a course of classics study for girls who chose to take it. Emily was actually quite proficient—much more so than I—and she helped me quite a great deal. That was how we became friends—over
Robinia pseudoacacia umbraculifera
—that’s the Latin name for false
Acacia.
”
At the next turning of the lane, Viscount Darling directed them through the gap in the hedgerow. The low, stonewalled remnants of the abbey buildings came into view across the fields.
“You ride very well for a man who has spent his career on the water. But I recall in your letters, you said one of the things you missed about your life at sea was the horses and the riding. Emily commiserated with you quite keenly about that. I don’t know if she told you in any of her letters, but we were not allowed to have horses at school. She always said she regretted not being able to explore the country around Bath properly, the way we could have if we had our horses. Of course, I did not have Mira then. But we walked a great deal. We enjoyed that.”
“You are right. When I was aboard ship there was nary a horse to be found. I do remember Emily writing of her frustration at being without a mount as well. Though she did not say she longed to ride the country near Bath, I can easily imagine how she would have felt so. We grew up in Gloucestershire, north of Bath in the Cotswolds. It was beautiful countryside. Thank you for telling me that. It is nice to know she did not spend her entire time at school in misery.”
Celia grew rather quiet at that. She hated, absolutely hated that she had not seen any sign of Emily’s misery. Perhaps that is what he needed to hear?
“No, Viscount Darling. You should know Emily did not spend her days in misery. In fact, I cannot think of more than one other person in the whole world who had Emily’s talent for being happy, for embracing life in all it’s complicated, messy forms. I thought her happy. I know my friendship with her made
me
happy. If she was unhappy, she hid it well. It is a regret I shall carry with me always. I did not see her unhappiness, her despair, until it was far too late.”
Darling looked for a moment as if she had struck a fist to his gut. “Then you know—do you?—how she died.” His question held more the force of a statement.
“Yes.” It was the barest whisper. Celia was astonished to find the hot clutch of pain welling in the back of her throat. No matter the passage of more than a year, sometimes the pain of Emily’s death ached anew, like a deep wound that would not heal.
“And do you know why she threw herself off that bridge and smashed herself into the rocks below before she fell into the water?”
Celia could hear the rage bleeding into his voice. His horse jibed under him, shifting wide-eyed at the sudden tension emanating from the Viscount. He was fighting for control, both of the animal and of himself. She could feel his jagged emotions lash at her.
But she could not tell him. She could not bring herself to admit what she knew. It would change his view of Emily. It would change his view of
her
. Irrevocably.
She could
not
tell him.
“It pains me to say I don’t know why, Viscount Darling. Emily was deeply troubled by something, but she had ceased to confide in me.”
“Can you not imagine why that was, Miss Burke?” Viscount Darling pulled to a halt, his eyes focusing on her with startling intensity.
“I have asked myself that question a thousand and one times since that April. I am sorry I cannot tell you more.”
Del struggled to keep his equilibrium. He could feel black fury smoldering in his chest, threatening to erupt into violent rage. He reined his mount sharply away from her, and pitched himself from the saddle, lest he give in to the unholy urge to haul her up against him, crushing the pristine lace of her jabot in his fist, and shake the truth out of her. Before he wrapped his hand around her delicate neck, pressed down upon the fragile bones, and squeezed until she told him everything. Until she told him
why
.
“God damn your eyes.” His jaw was clamped down so hard he gritted the words out through his teeth. “Tell me. Tell me the truth
now
, or so help me God, I’ll—” He staggered down to a crouch, the monstrous rage growing into a ravenous pain in his gut.
She didn’t—couldn’t—speak. She stared at him, appalled at his language and the barely suppressed savagery in his voice, her eyes wide and all but rolling in fright.
But he would not, he could not relent. “Tell me, damn it,” he ground at her. “Tell me why my sister, who was young and beautiful and good, should feel such a depth of misery and loneliness and devastation she would pitch herself off a bridge.”
“I don’t know,” Celia cried. “Please. Don’t you think I feel the same pain? I loved her, too. I loved her.” She shouted, her words raw with anguish. “But she wouldn’t confide in me. She told me nothing of her pain, or her misery. And I didn’t see it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She was crying, tears streaming down her face, her eyes burned red from the salt.
But he wouldn’t soften, though pain clawed at his throat, raw and savage. It had to be said. “Were you her lover?”
Everything on her face spoke of shock—her eyes wide, her face pale, and her mouth open in a gasp. “Who told you that?” Her voice was the barest whisper. “No. No. I loved her like a sister.”
“Emily did. Her letter to me, her last letter, said rumors had been put about concerning the two of you. That you were lovers. She was told you were the author of those rumors.”
“Me! Emily thought
I
—? Oh my God.” Her chest, which had been sobbing for breath, deflated as if the air had gone out of her sails. “No. No, Viscount Darling. I was not the author of such vile rumors. Who would make up such a lie about oneself?” Her voice was hollow and defeated, her innocence at a bitter end.
Del was not proud of himself for having accomplished the feat. He was torn between conflicting impulses—to press her for answers while she was so vulnerable—or to comfort her, and therefore himself, for their loss.
“Who would say something like that? Someone for whom it wasn’t a lie.”
“But it was—it is! Who would have told her that?”
“I don’t know, Miss Burke. I simply don’t know.” He took a deep breath and picked up his hat, which had fallen, or he had inadvertently thrown, into the tall grass.
“Oh, my God. Poor, poor Emily.”
Yes, poor Emily. And poor Miss Burke. She was still seated atop her mare, her face streaming wet with tears. She swiped the sleeve of her redingote across her nose. The gesture made her seem small and childish. Innocent. But she could not be. Not entirely.
“Did you know about the rumors?”
“Yes. Afterwards. When we read her note. It said—” She shook her head, unable, or unwilling to say what she must.
“You must tell me, Miss Burke. The time for willful kindness is past. The note?”
She looked at him with her red-rimmed eyes, as solemn and despairing as an angel. “Her suicide note.”
It was remarkable how freshly he could feel anguish about something that had happened over a year ago. “I did not know she left one.”
“She did. Otherwise we would not have known. I would have thought she had slipped and hit her head upon the rocks while she was out collecting plant specimens.”
The image of Celia jumping across the rocks of the mill creek flashed through his mind. He remembered his surge of fright, his inexplicable mixture of rage and concern. He knew without a doubt it was because of Emily.
But Emily did not slip and fall. She had cast herself upon those rocks on purpose. “What did the note say?”
“That she killed herself because she was in love”—she firmed her wavering voice—“she was in love with me and could not live with me spurning her affections.”
It came to him slowly, with the inexorable steadiness of a rising tide. Emily had wanted them to be lovers. They had more in common, he and Emily, than he could have ever thought. It was a painful truth, a physical ache so deep and so strong it spread throughout his body. He could not tell if it came from his head or his heart. He only knew it was so vast and so all consuming he could not think. It was like losing Emily all over again.
He had his answer, at last, but it brought him no peace. And Miss Burke looked anything but peaceful. She turned to stare back across the fields, the way they had come, as if unsure as to whether it was either safe, or preferable, to remain.
“Miss Burke, I owe you an apology.”
She looked at him exactly the same way she had the first time he had apologized to her, solemn and still. “Did Emily truly believe I had started those rumors? Did you?”
“Emily’s letters said she had been told by someone reliable, I assumed Miss Hadley, that you had been the source of the rumors. And I did. I did think you put them about, out of jealousy or . . . I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter why. I no longer believe it.”
“It does matter. Is that the reason you decided to try and seduce me? So you could see if I was”—she searched for a word—“susceptible to you—to a man’s words? A man’s touch?”
He absolutely hated how stunningly perceptive she was. How she kept revealing truths about himself he had never recognized. He had never actively thought about the reason he had chosen to seduce Miss Burke as his revenge, but there it was.
She saw it on his face. “I’m going home.” Her voice was ragged and weary. “I think our . . . association, for lack of a better term, is at an end. All bets are off. Isn’t that what they say, Viscount Darling?”
“I am sorry. For my own sake, as well as Emily’s. She would not like for us to part like this.”
“Don’t you
dare
use Emily’s name again in that fashion. It’s heartless. If what you say is true, if she truly thought so ill of me, she would
never
want us to even
speak
to each other.” She reined her mare around. “Tell me one thing, Viscount Darling. Was any of it, was any part of what you said to me true?”
She wasn’t referring to the current conversation, he knew. “We have both lied to each other.”
“No. Every word
I
have spoken to you has been the truth. You just didn’t believe it as such. While I took everything you said as the truth. And all of it has been lies.”
“No. I wasn’t lying when I said I was attracted to you. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to touch you and kiss you and lie with you. I meant all of those things.”
“Of course you did.
Every
man who says such things means it in that moment, Viscount Darling. But without—” She stopped herself. Then shook her head emphatically. “They mean nothing.”
Del understood exactly what she was not saying. Something within him, a flicker of a flame, burst to life. But he had no time to consider it. If he did not stop her, she would go. And it was imperative, somehow, she not go.
“You didn’t say you wanted
love
, Miss Burke. You said you wanted experience.”
He stepped towards her to catch her rein, to keep her from flying from his side. “I can still give you that experience. I’d like to, if you will let me.”
C
HAPTER
12
“I
may be provincial, Viscount Darling. But I am not stupid.” Even through the pain she could feel anger brewing within her, dark and bitter. But perhaps not all of it should be directed at the Viscount. She had taken this ride, this journey with him, of her own accord.
You take a great chance I will remember I am a gentleman
. She had been foolish, stupid even, to take such a chance. Yet even in the heat of the moment when she thought his boiling rage would spill over and scald them both, he had remembered he was a gentleman. He had acted as such. He had done nothing worse than scare the hairpins off her, and himself as well, with the uncomfortable truth.
It made such horrible sense. No wonder Emily would not speak to her of it. But even with such knowledge, the pain dulled not one whit. The guilt still ate at her, eroding her soul like acid.
But the Viscount Darling had behaved—in all but the swearing—as his better self. He had wrestled with his demons and mastered them. Perhaps she was not so foolish to trust her heart to make the right decision.
He looked up at her from her horse’s head. “No, you’re not stupid at all. I also think you’ve liked the little experience we have shared thus far.”
“Little?” Did he think it nothing, what they had shared? The feelings she had experienced?
“Oh, yes, my dear Miss Burke, very
little
. We have only scratched the surface of what lies between us, of the passions that lie dormant, waiting for us to awaken them.”
Oh, he was good. Smooth. Impossibly handsome. Dangerous. Mostly that last, dangerous. Especially when she was emotionally exhausted, as limp as if she had been run through a mangle and hung out to dry.
“Please,” he coaxed, “come walk with me. Nothing more. We’ll tour the ruins, just as we ought.”
“You’re not going to . . . lose your temper again?”
“No. Not if you don’t lose yours.” His smile was gentle and reassuring.
“Perhaps.” He
had
scared her earlier, even if he had controlled his rather impressive temper. “If you promise to remain a gentleman.”
“Ah, but I’m not a gentleman, am I? That’s what your mother has told you. And she’s right, because if I were a gentleman I would never have noticed how perfectly your riding habit fits you. Nor would I let my gaze linger on the curve of your hip, or on the manifest curves of the rest of your body. If I were a gentleman, I would keep my eyes on your beautiful face and your beautiful, fathomless, dark eyes and I wouldn’t let them linger on the delightfully full swell of your . . . habit.”
His eyes flicked up to hers and then slowly slid down her body. She felt as if he had poured warm honey all over her. Celia pursed her lips together to keep her mouth from gaping open, but she could do nothing to calm the rapid tempo of her breath.
Oh, and he noticed that. He lowered his chin and looked at her with half-closed eyes, all drowsy, satisfied lion. She didn’t know what to say, but she knew she wouldn’t say anything to stop him. She had come to like it, this rush of sensation, this rush of heat pooling between her thighs. This heady feeling of wanting. It was exactly what she had come in search of. His words. His lovely words.
The heat in his eyes began to kindle a fire low inside her, deep in the place where sensation and emotion merged.
“Come, we can walk over there, between the walls to get out of the wind.”
Celia dismounted and followed him at a slightly slower pace, walking the mare carefully over the uneven, wild grass.
“Perhaps,” the Viscount asked over his shoulder, “before I open my mouth to reveal my inattentiveness in history as well as Latin, I should ask what you know about the Cistercians?”
Celia could not help the pleased smile curving her lips. It was the sort of offhand compliment perfectly calibrated to appeal to her. “I am no historian, either. I only remember the Dissolution of the Monasteries was sometime in the early sixteenth century. I assume that’s what happened to this one. The monks driven out, the wealth and land confiscated and left empty. And the buildings falling little by little to the ravages of time, weather, and neglect.”
“Well done.” He took Mira’s reins without touching Celia’s hand and led the horses down the short bank. “I wonder, do you have any idea how perfectly your answer illustrates your character?”
“Please don’t. I’m sure we’ve both had more than enough examination of characters for the day.”
“A simple fact, a truth, told with imagination and empathy. More of your willful kindness.”
“You did not seem to think it pleasing earlier.”
“It grows on me.” He gave her his tawny smile, all golden skin and flashing white teeth. He was doing his best to amuse and charm her. Silly that it was working so well.
He led the horses to the top of the slight rise, where the great buildings once stood, the low, stone-rubble walls marking the outline of the foundations. The wind, now that they were closer to the moorland, had picked up, tugging at her hat and whipping her skirts around her. Lest they be blown up over her head, Celia faced into the wind.
“How perfectly you appear thus.”
“Buffeted?” Her laugh was nervous.
“Come then, down here,” he directed, “out of the wind.”
He found them a sunny spot between two buildings where enough of the walls remained to protect them from the wind.
“Oh, that’s better.” Celia put a hand up to reorient her tall round-brimmed hat.
“Yes.” He tossed his own hat aside and leaned back against the wall.
She found a spot opposite him, careful to keep some distance between them. In the shelter of the walls, the sound of the wind gave way to quiet. The stones at her back were warm with the heat of the sun, and she leaned into them, as he had done. And as he had done, she removed her hat so she could tip her face up to the sun for a moment.
“I thought I liked you better up on the hill, with your skirts all pressed against you. But I like this better. You look all warm and tousled. Relaxed, as if you’d just come from bed. From my bed. Or perhaps,” he smiled that wicked little grin that tipped up one corner of his mouth, “it’s yours. Your virginal bed in your parents’ home and I’ve snuck in, or climbed up through the window, to watch you and lay with you.”
Celia put one hand out flat against the stone to anchor herself, to keep from floating away on such a romantic fantasy. She felt breathless and light, suspended almost, as if the earth had ceased to exert its pull upon her and had ceded all its gravity to Viscount Darling.
“May I, Miss Burke? May I speak to you like this?”
It was hard, even a little strange, to want to abandon herself to his pleasure, after all that had gone before. But he asked her with such polite, careful gravity, his attention, the promise of his focused regard, was like a balm.
“Yes.” She swallowed and made her voice stronger. “Yes. Please.”
He seemed to relax a little, the outline of his body softening, the lines of tension within him blurring a little. He filled his lungs with the fresh air and closed his own eyes for a moment. “I did like it when your skirts were pressed tight against your body. I could see you had legs.” He smiled and opened his eyes to look at her again. “Will you? Will you gather your skirts up tight for me so I might see?” He swallowed and she was drawn by the strange vulnerability of his Adam’s apple struggling in his neck.
She let her hat drop to the grass and began to gather up the fabric of the full skirts. Though his eyes appeared half closed, she saw in them an avid spark as she slowly fisted up the voluminous skirts. She was not the only one enthralled. She had the power to arouse him, just as thoroughly as he was arousing her, if she would but try. She wound her skirts around her wrist and tightened the fabric against the outline of her legs, slowly pulling the fabric taut.
“Yes.” He didn’t move, but pinned her against the wall with his lazy, intent stare as effectively as if he held her. “All I can think at the moment is how perfectly your body could be shaped by my hand.”
He looked down to his open palm, as if amazed to still see it by his side, still empty. “How I’d like to put my hand at your waist and slowly move it upwards until I could shape the curve of your”—he hesitated and flicked his eyes away from her bodice and up to her eyes for only a moment before he swallowed hard—“breasts. Even through layers of fabric, through muslin and cotton and tanned leather gloves, I would be able to discern your shape. And imagine how you might look with that breast bared to my eyes and cupped by my hand.”
Her hand came up to press against the hollow of her throat, as if her body already knew her pulse had begun to throb and pound under her skin. Her skin felt singed and prickly, exposed even under layers of covering fabric.
“My mind has gone further. It’s racing ahead to count the number of buttons on the bodice of your riding jacket, and trying to figure out how best to undo each and every one of them.”
Her gloved fingers clutched and tangled at the lace at her throat, to hold herself back, to keep from giving in to the yearning need to give herself wholly and unreservedly to him.
His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Would you? Would you do it for me? Would you undo just one? Then I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore how transparent the fabric of your chemisette underneath might be. If I could see the sliver of skin at your neckline? You always wear such demure gowns. Perhaps I might hope that a sporting costume might afford me a greater chance to see the beautiful curve of the hollow of your throat and the long delicate line of your collarbone, and the pearlescent gleam of your soft, white skin.”
His words pierced her, body and soul, and she knew there was nothing she would not do if he asked her this way. Her breasts were already rising and falling with the shallow rapidity of her breath, her nipples pebbled hard against the inside of her stays. She looked down, away from his hungry lion’s eyes, to her hands and began to pull off her tight leather riding gloves, until one after the other, she dropped them to the grass at her feet.
She closed her eyes and put her hand to the single closing button of the redingote jacket. It fell open easily, the large lapels catching and lifting in the breeze. Underneath was a silk waistcoat, with its line of double-breasted buttons. She undid only two, at the top, conscious of moving slowly so that her nervousness wouldn’t show. But when her hand crept up to steady the lace of her jabot, tied in a demure bow at her throat, she could no longer pretend composure. Her hands—her entire body—trembled, pounding with excitement, yearning, and fear, as her fingers worked awkwardly to pull the lace away.
There was one small mother-of-pearl button at the close of the throat. With it finally undone, the soft, sheer batiste fell away from her collar, exposing only the hollow of her throat, though it felt as if it exposed much, much more. That small slide of flesh felt overly sensitive, scorched by the merest touch of the sunshine and whipped by the gentle breeze.
“More,” he begged, his breath harsh in his throat.
Without taking her eyes from his face, from the intense, clear blue of his eyes as he watched her, she moved her shaking hands down to the next buttons. First one and then two were loose and undone, and the top of her stays was visible. Beneath, her breasts peaked, swollen and aching with need.
His eyes followed her hand, then looked her in the eyes to show her he wished there was a great deal more skin showing, before he tipped his head back against the wall.
“Show me, my Miss Burke. Show me the sweet flesh I can never have. Show me what I can only
dream
about at night. Every night.”
“Please.” Celia wasn’t sure what she needed, except to make this neediness welling inside her go away. “I—”
“Put your small hand there—yes, there,” his voice encouraged, “under your stays, feel the soft shape. Let your fingers find the tip, and put it between your finger and your thumb, squeeze it, just a little, just the barest bit, like I would. Oh, my God. Can you feel it? Does it feel good?”
“Yes.” Her answer was a gasp.
“Celia.” His breath was harsh and strained. “Pull the chemisette away. Let me see. Please.”
She was as powerless to refuse his plea as he was to ask. She turned her head to the side and yanked the fabric wide. Her body felt on fire, hot and yearning for more. Every nerve, every feeling in her body was arching, reaching towards him.
“Yes, so pale and beautiful. Your breast fills your hand. Show me. Show me the sweet tip.”
With one hand still holding the bunched linen tautly to the side, she arched her head back and offered her breast to his gaze.
“Celia. Oh, God, Celia. Look at me.”
When she did, she was astonished at the gravity, the harsh sternness of his face. But he was not cold. His eyes blazed fire at her, a warmth she felt everywhere at once, until it coalesced in the sensitive, exposed flesh of her breast. She was astonished to find a tear sliding down her face.
“God, Celia. I’m sorry. Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.”
BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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