Blood Fire (9 page)

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Authors: Sharon Page

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Blood Fire
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“What about love?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Octavia, but I am not in love. I doubt very much I will ever be. I don’t believe I am capable of falling in love with you.”
“I—I don’t understand.” This was awful. Humiliating and embarrassing and dreadful. He was telling her he would never love her. Telling her he was not capable of falling in love meant he was not even willing to try, didn’t it?
“As you know, I am leaving England on a voyage. My ship sails in a few days, and I cannot take you with me—it’s too dangerous for you, where I am going. There will be enough time for me to acquire a special license and for us to be wed. I have to warn you though . . . I might not come back.”
“I am driving you away from England?”
“No, no, not that. I am going to the Carpathian Mountains on a hunt, and the beast I am hunting might kill me before I can destroy it. You may be a widow very soon. If so, you will have my name, and if you turn out to be with child, the baby will be legitimate. Every detail will have been satisfactorily taken care of. No loose ends.”
Her jaw dropped. She actually felt the muscles ache because she was gaping at him with a wide open mouth. If she didn’t agree to this, she would die. But what would happen to her if he didn’t come back? She would grow ill again anyway. He didn’t seem to even be concerned about that. Perhaps, since he was insisting he wouldn’t love her, he didn’t even care.
“I won’t do this,” she spat, in humiliation. “Go and leave England and forget about me. I would never marry you—you are utterly heartless.”
She gathered up her clothes.
Tears burned her eyes. Her heart felt as if it were on fire. It seemed to be burning in her chest. Was this heartbreak—that feeling that her heart would be reduced to ashes?
A loud roar sounded behind her. It was a huge sound, sort of like an explosion. She felt a burst of sudden heat at her back.
Clutching her clothes to her, Octavia swiftly turned around.
Giant flames leapt in the fireplace. The small fire had exploded into an enormous blaze. Sutcliffe wasn’t even looking at her. He had grabbed the fireplace poker and was trying to approach the blazing fire.
She didn’t know what had happened, and she didn’t care. Sutcliffe was busy jabbing into the heart of the fire, tugging at the logs, trying to gain control of the flames. It gave her time—she couldn’t go out into the corridor naked. She stopped long enough to fling on her dress and stuff her feet into her shoes. She didn’t bother to fasten the gown. Instead, she pulled her cloak over it, held the bodice to her chest, and ran from the room.
Maybe she would die if she never saw Sutcliffe again. But her heart hurt so much she no longer cared.
6
Sex on a Desk
I
t was one of the most tempting sights Matthew had ever beheld. Dressed in sprigged muslin, with a bonnet perched on her golden curls and a parasol held in her gloved hands, Lady O looked the picture of maidenly innocence. While she studied the voluptuous form of a naked Greek statue.
At the sight of her, his cock bucked up like an unbroken horse, wild and refusing to obey commands. He had to duck behind a glass case while he studied ancient Egyptian pottery—something that should quell his ardor in an instant. Lady O was not alone—her friend Miss Eliza Compton was with her. That meant he could not whisk Lady O into a quiet corner and seduce her into marriage.
Or just seduce her.
For two days, since she had run out of his house, he had been plagued with desire for her. Raw, irritating, unstoppable sexual yearning.
He had no idea what was wrong with him. He had made her an offer of marriage. She had refused it. Hadn’t he done his duty?
But he felt he hadn’t. He wanted to behave like a gentleman, which meant he had to marry the lady he had ruined, even if he had to tie her hand and foot and carry her to the altar over his shoulder.
His brother, Gregory, would have never ruined a woman. Gregory had been the perfect gentleman, noble and good. So bloody good he had trusted his wild, arrogant, selfish, thoughtless older brother, and it had cost him his life.
Matthew had never acted like a gentleman—and when he had sealed the crypt on his brother’s mutilated body, he’d sworn he would change.
Gregory had always urged him to act like a gentleman and do what was right.
Marrying annoying Lady Octavia was what was right. So Matthew adjusted his trousers, stepped out from behind the glass case, and strolled over to her.
Her friend spotted him first.
Miss Compton plucked Octavia’s sleeve. She whispered something, and he caught a bit of it as he approached. It sounded like, “It’s him” and “erotic picture.”
Lady O turned, pursed her mouth, and then stalked to him. She met him in front of a large stone sarcophagus. “What are you doing here, Sutcliffe?”
He’d come to take her to a private place, ravish her, make her come until she agreed to marry him between her cries of pleasure. But she glared at him, and for some reason it brought out the devil in him, the ungentlemanly part of him. “I brought some of the items that adorn this exhibit,” he said coolly. “I came to see how they were doing.”
“I expect, since the pieces you brought back with you were several thousand years old, they haven’t changed much.”
Damn, he did not want to stand here in public, sparring with her. She walked past him, but he caught her wrist, stopping her. Giving quick glances to the other visitors, he murmured by her ear. “I came in pursuit of you. You are to be my bride. And since you left me unsatisfied in my bedchamber, I came searching for you to finish what we started.”
“No,”
she whispered, her voice low but fierce. “I won’t marry you out of duty. I will not.”
“Do you still believe sex with me keeps you well?”
She caught her breath. Her expression changed. All the anger seemed to drain out of her. “What difference does it make? You do not care. You plan to marry me and leave, whether I am sick or well. You were very clear. You want to marry me so you can ease your conscience, but you said you would never love me—you would never even
try
to have love between us.”
“You drive me mad,” he growled in a low voice. He saw Miss Compton watching them intently, as she pretended to study a display. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t love you, it’s true, but I lust for you like an addict needs opium. I’m half-insane with desire for you.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll recover, once you have left England.”
“Damnation,” he swore, which was not something he was supposed to do in front of a lady. Even one he’d fucked. “I have to go.”
“Are your voyages so very important to you? I’ve wanted to travel my whole life, and I’ve never been allowed to. I am supposed to accept all the limitations a woman has and be happy. You men refuse to give even an inch for anyone else, even someone you love.”
Matthew had to be insane. He was throbbing with desire for her, hard as a brick. His heart thundered like native drums. “Would you believe me if I said I had to go back because it was my arrogance and stupidity that unleashed a powerful vampire? I have to go back to the Carpathians to kill her.”
“I—A
vampire?
”
“What?” Miss Compton breathed. She had crept up behind them.
Holding Octavia’s wrist, he dragged her against his body. He had to marry her. Had to. And, God, this close to him, her scent was drugging him like opium. He had to have her.
In the middle of the Egyptian exhibit, in front of numerous members of Society, he yanked her into his arms and hungrily French kissed her.
 
It was the scandal of the Season. Drat Lord Sutcliffe.
But that shocking and scandalous kiss in the middle of the British Museum was not the only reason Octavia had not left the house for a week.
Sutcliffe was determined. He had delayed his voyage to the Carpathians. He had sent her a long letter that detailed everything that had happened to him on his last journey there: his trip to a forbidden cave, his foolish exploration that had unlocked the prison of a vampire, the attack on his brother, the fact he had been forced to kill his own brother.
He had explained that his heart had broken with his brother’s death and that he believed he could never love anyone again.
She knew how painful grief could be. She had never lost the grief she’d felt after her mother had died. Sutcliffe felt responsible for his brother’s death, which must make the pain a hundred times worse.
She understood how he felt, but that did not mean she was willing to enter into a loveless marriage.
Unless he could be healed . . .
No. It was ridiculous. He’d told her he refused to even try to open his heart to her. Anyway, she suspected he would be so determined to avenge his brother he would probably get himself killed in the Carpathians.
In his letter, he’d written that he feared she would think he was crazy for saying that vampires really did exist.
She believed him because Father had told her such things existed. . . and because she had discovered there was something wrong with her. Slowly, Octavia faced her fireplace. The fire was laid, but not burning. But she knew what would happen if she looked long enough—
With a
whoosh,
flames burst from the logs. Heat flooded into the room from the fire. The blaze consumed the logs, turning them to ash at an impossible rate.
She stepped back, shaking. She was certain she had started the fire. These things kept happening. When she grew angry . . . glass shattered, or wood splintered, or liquid suddenly frothed out of pitchers. Or fires suddenly started.
She was so scared Father or a servant would notice. She’d avoided the dining room, the parlors. Again she was hiding in her bedchamber, just as she’d done when she was sick. Hiding the fact she appeared to be a witch. And brushes flew.
 
She had read everything in her father’s journals about witchlike women. The words he had written were now burned into her mind, as if they had been imprinted on her with a searing brand.
The things she could do were definitely like witchcraft. His sketches had belied the truth of her vision of witches as wizened women surrounding a cauldron, chanting spells. In his pictures, many witches were young and beautiful. And they did not need spells to change the weather, make crops die, or cause people to grow sick and weak.
She didn’t consciously do things like starting fires. But the only logical explanation was that she was a witch.
How could she marry Lord Sutcliffe? She knew he had told Father he intended to offer for her hand. Her father had been stunned. But Sutcliffe had told Father he loved her. And that had convinced her father to agree and let the wretch court her.
The liar.
And she had one more damning secret. Every morning for the last few days, she had been sick. She had missed her menstrual courses.
That had nothing to do with magical powers or with her illness.
She was pregnant.
Octavia stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart felt as though an efficient maid was wringing it dry. “Since you are carrying his
child,
” she whispered, “you have to say yes.”
With a sharp
crack,
the glass of the mirror split in half.
 
Swans paddled on the water, and one honked and hissed as she and Eliza hurried through St. James Park. In the nighttime, the park was notorious for liaisons between gentlemen—something ladies were not supposed to know about. But this was a sunny afternoon and, Octavia reflected, the park was quiet.
“You are going to hunt Lord Sutcliffe down in the park?” Eliza asked.
“Not in the park, ninny. Across the street, on Birdcage Walk. The Royal Society has its offices there.”
“It does?” Eliza puffed behind her as Octavia strode swiftly to the elegant building. She had no idea why she was almost running. She was about to accept an offer of marriage from a man and lie to him while doing it. Yet she wanted to get it over with, while she had the courage.
Eliza stared up at the soaring marble columns. A servant stood by the double doors, which were glossy black and festooned with brass. A plaque that read T
HE
R
OYAL
S
OCIETY
FOR
THE
I
NVESTIGATION
OF
M
YSTERIOUS
P
HENOMENA
was fastened to the wall beside the doors.
It took only minutes before a servant returned and brought her and Eliza into an office. Sutcliffe was there, and the servant announced them, to him and Mr. Sebastien De Wynter. Before the men had finished their bows, Octavia blurted, “I came to say ‘yes.’ ”
“Excellent.” Sutcliffe jerked his head toward the door, then looked pointedly at De Wynter.
“Ah,” murmured handsome, blond Mr. De Wynter. His brows rose, then a spine-melting smile curved his lips. He turned that smile on Eliza. Her friend gaped, dumbstruck. “Miss Compton, would you care to join me in one of the parlors? Lady and Lord Brookshire are here today, and always take their tea now. I thought you might enjoy a refreshment.”
He offered his elbow. Dazzled, Eliza slipped her hand in the crook.
The moment she was alone with Sutcliffe, he let out a sharp breath. “Thank God,” he muttered. “Those last few moments were agony. Ever since you breezed into the room, smelling of gardens and sunshine, I’ve wanted Lady O.”
His voice was raw, like that of a man truly in severe pain. She blinked, and in that heartbeat, he came to her, took hold of her around the waist, and hoisted her on the desk. In an instant, he bunched muslin and petticoats at her waist. She wasn’t wearing drawers, which were considered fast.
He was fighting to undo his trousers. “I have never wanted a woman like I want you. It is like you have a magical power over me—”
“Surely not,” she said quickly, but his attention was on the falls of his dark trousers. He pushed them down, shoved his linens down his hips. She gasped at the sight of his erection—it was thick and more rigid than she’d ever seen it, rising along his flat, hard stomach. It seemed so scandalous to see his bare bottom and his naked erection in an office of the Royal Society. He cupped her bottom and dragged her to him. Her legs were open, and she moaned as her bare quim nestled against his shaft.
Oh yes.
She had ached for this, too. But first, she must tell him she was going to have his child. And she could not let him guess she was a witch. “I have decided to marry you—”
“Don’t talk. Wrap your arms around my neck. Make love to me.”
She hooked her arms around his strong neck, resting them on his broad shoulders. Bending his head, he kissed her. Then he pushed his erection inside her.
He filled her; the stroke of his shaft touched sensitive places inside that made her sob and tremble. So many intense sensation rushed through her, she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming in delight as he thrust slowly in and out.
She pressed her lips to his stubbly jaw, kissing and licking as he moved his hips gracefully and fluidly, teasing her deep inside.
It was so good. So
very
good.
She had to stay quiet. If she cried out or moaned, someone could hear. What a scandal that would be.
But the risk . . . the danger . . . made this hot and thrilling.
“I can’t last, Lady O,” he whispered throatily by her ear. His hips moved faster, arching forward, pressing his groin to her to drive deep inside. His shaft rubbed along her tingling, aching clit. Each stroke made her whimper against his skin.

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