Double Deception (28 page)

Athena moved restlessly and suddenly raised her eyes. "I should not have waited so long, my lord," she said softly, her voice unsteady, "but I want to thank you for inviting my father to the Castle. He is delighted and flattered that you chose to consult him about his collection. But you mentioned me in your letter, and he confessed that was what brought him down to Cornwall so quickly. For that I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"I wanted to make sure that Sir Henry would accept my invitation," he said quickly, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. Almost before the words left his mouth, he cringed at his foolishness, because that was a lie. He had originally written to Sir Henry to induce Perry's widow to leave the Castle. How many little deceptions would he be forced to practice on this unsuspecting woman before he could clear the air between them? he wondered.

"Oh, I see," she murmured, and Sylvester could have sworn she sounded disappointed. "I thought that perhaps..." She paused, her eyes dark and mysterious in the failing light. "But never mind. I shall always be deeply grateful that you did tell Father we were here. You have helped to heal a breach that might have dragged on forever. Our letters were never delivered, you see—and Father says he wrote often. He seems to be convinced that my stepmother had something to do with it. I hope not, for his sake, for Father is very fond of her. Lady Ridgeway says ..." Her voice trailed off into silence, and she turned to stare out into the gathering darkness.

"What does Lady Ridgeway say?" he prodded gently.

She sighed audibly. "Jane says I must learn to forgive. I shall certainly try to do so. If Gracie and I are at odds, Father will be unhappy. And I do so want to go home again," she said huskily, her voice full of longing that tore at his heart. "Father has begged me to make Rothingham my home, and naturally I have accepted. Rothingham has always been home to me, even while I was in Spain. John and I never had a home of our own, you see. The earl, his father, cut him off without anything when he married me."

"But he had the good sense to marry you anyway, Athena."

Sylvester felt a surge of irrational jealousy for this unknown soldier who had enjoyed the youth and innocence, the love and loyalty of this woman who seemed determined to ignore his own growing need to make her a permanent part of his life.

She laughed lightly. "John was young and foolish, as was I. We did not believe that the earl would actually carry out his threat." She stopped and glanced up at him. "You were right, my lord. I must confess it."

"Right?" He was momentarily confused. How could he be right, when he felt that everything he had done to this woman was so wrong? Rather than bridging the chasm between them, everything he said seemed to make that chasm deeper. "Right about what, my dear?"

"About my betrothal to your son, my lord." She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. "I am glad you made me see how disastrous it would have been for him."

"And for you, too, Athena," he said softly, wishing she would give him some sign that she no longer blamed him for the part he had played in breaking her betrothal. "May I hope that you can one day forgive me for the role I played, deliberately I must confess, in ending that betrothal? Miss Rathbone's letter was partially true. I did pay her to come here and flirt with Perry. As for the other accusation, I promise you it was never my intention to—"

"Oh, I can well believe
that"
Athena interrupted quite sharply, causing Sylvester to wish he had phrased his denial somewhat differently. "After I had time to consider it more carefully," she continued in a cool voice, "I realized that Miss Rathbone sounded very put out with you, my lord, and that her words quite possibly lacked veracity." 

"Then I am forgiven?"

Athena had turned to gaze at the pale white moon that was rising over the poplars in the distance. "How can I blame you for something you did not intend, my lord?" The question seemed to reverberate with ambiguous echoes, and Sylvester felt as though he had heard only a fraction of what Athena had said.

"Actually it is
I
who should beg
you
to forgive me, my lord." Sylvester leaned one hip against the stone balustrade and regarded her profile with considerable pleasure. She was a delight to look at, and if only they could get over this verbal fencing, he might find the courage to do what he should have done this morning on the lake. He would kiss her. The thought of it warmed his blood.

"I will not have you begging me for anything, my dear," he murmured huskily. Although that was another lie, was it not? He would give half his income to hear Athena begging him to take her in his arms, to kiss her as feverishly as they had kissed in the dungeon, to lie with her and show her how much he needed her.

"Oh, but I do beg your forgiveness, my lord," she insisted. 

Sylvester drew a deep breath to steady his thoughts and smiled down at her. "Whatever it is, you may be sure you are forgiven, Athena. Only tell me what you have done that is so terrible."

"I believed Miss Rathbone's letter, my lord. I actually believed you guilty of such baseness. I am ashamed to admit it," she added, turning her head away again. "But I wished you to hear me confess it before I leave."

At the mention of leaving, his heart constricted. Was she so eager and willing to be rid of him? he wondered.

Bemused at the direction the conversation was taking, Sylvester reached out to place a hand over hers on the balustrade. He felt her flinch, but she did not draw away. Deriving courage from this small victory, he raised her fingers to his lips and held them there. He felt an overwhelming desire to tell her everything he had thought, and said, and done to cause her pain since her arrival at the Castle as Perry's affianced bride. But most urgently he needed to confess that—contrary to what she imagined—he was indeed guilty of wishing to seduce her. He wanted to seduce her this very instant, here on the open terrace in the warmth of the summer darkness. He most urgently wished to crush her in his arms and feel the softness of her breasts against his chest. He felt himself harden at the thought of it.

Martin would have already done so by now, he thought, impatient with his own lack of resolve. More than likely, being the irredeemable rake he was, Martin might well have progressed beyond this point to those other delicious intimacies that Sylvester had not yet allowed himself to visualize between Athena and himself. For a brief, erotic moment, he let his fantasy dwell upon them now, and was stunned by the swell of raw desire that rippled through him.

But he was not Martin, he reminded himself firmly, quelling the wild impulses that assaulted his senses as he gazed upon Athena's soft profile in the moonlight. He had never wished to possess any of his friend's dangerous charm and disarming rak-ishness before. That is, before Athena had come into his life to make him feel like a gauche, inexperienced lad again. He chafed at his own inadequacies, but being who he was, Sylvester instinctively chose the safety of confession over the intangibles of seduction.

"I am not nearly as innocent as you seem to imagine, my dear girl," he said, before he lost his nerve. "Perhaps I really am every bit as guilty as Miss Rathbone painted me. Have you so soon forgotten that kiss I stole from you in the dungeon, Athena? A rather improper kiss if I recall correctly. As if any kiss between a man and his son's fiancee could be anything but improper," he added with a trace of cynicism.

Athena had turned to face him during this blunt speech, and now she gazed up at him, her eyes filled with consternation. "Oh, no, my lord," she replied hastily in a hushed voice. "That was all
my
fault. I was guilty of the utmost impropriety, I confess. The rats had driven me into such a blind panic that I became quite irrational."

He still held her fingers in his, but now she pulled loose and turned away. "I blame myself entirely for that disgraceful episode," she murmured coolly. "I am forever in your debt, my lord, for not telling Perry how I betrayed him."

Sylvester felt her slipping away from him again, retreating behind that barricade of aloofness he found so difficult to penetrate. He reacted with the fury of desperation.

"Did it never occur to you, my sweet innocent, that I betrayed Perry, too?" he demanded harshly. "At least you had your fear as an excuse. I did what I did deliberately, so the guilt is mine. Or are you going to claim that the kisses I stole during the storm were your fault, too?" He grinned wryly as she turned startled eyes towards him.

He heard her draw a deep breath. "I do not recall..." she began tremulously, but he cut her short.

"You do not recall us lying together in the wet grass, Athena?" he demanded, exasperated beyond endurance by his own clumsiness. "You do not recall my kisses, my touch? I checked you for broken bones, my dear. All over. Then I checked you again because I could not resist touching you. I am more guilty than you imagine, Athena. But I swear that I never meant to deceive you, sweetheart."

Sylvester saw, by the shock in her eyes that he was going about this all wrong. He groaned aloud. At the sound, Athena turned as if to flee. Instinctively, Sylvester grasped her by the shoulders and drew her roughly against him. What was it that Martin had told him? If a woman was worth fighting for, he should do so. Fight like the devil, Martin had said, for a man might not get a second chance.

This woman in his arms was decidedly worth fighting for, Sylvester told himself through a haze of desire, as he gazed down into her startled eyes. And if he meant to win her, he had better stop dithering around and start fighting. He could not bear to consider the alternative.

Slowly and deliberately, Sylvester lowered his head. He could feel her heart fluttering wildly against his chest, but she made no move to escape. She shuddered as his lips brushed hers. They were warm and moist and infinitely inviting. Was he dreaming or had Athena tilted her face up to his?

"Athena," he whispered against her mouth. An enormous sense of joy washed over him as he pulled her closer and opened his mouth to kiss her. Finally he was bridging that gap between them.

Suddenly Athena went rigid in his arms, and Sylvester distinctly heard his son's voice calling from the terrace door. Slowing he released her and stepped back, letting out an audible sigh of frustration.

"Athena?" Peregrine called, staring out into the darkness on the terrace. "Athena, are you there?"

"Yes," Sylvester rasped, in a voice that sounded alarmingly like a snarl. "She is here, Perry. What on earth is the matter?"

Peregrine came striding along the terrace. He stopped beside Athena, who had turned to stare out into the night. He looked curiously from his father to his former betrothed, then he took Athena by the elbow.

"It is Penny, Athena," he said urgently. "Nurse came down to report that she is running a fever. Nothing serious, she says. Your aunt has gone up to her, but I thought you should know..." His voice trailed off uncertainly, and he glanced again at his father.

Sylvester said nothing.

Long after Athena had gone upstairs to the nursery, he stood looking out at the moonlit garden wondering if perhaps he had been born under an unlucky star.

The clock in the hall downstairs sent three sonorous chimes ringing throughout the still house.

Athena moved restlessly in her chair and opened her eyes, glancing anxiously at her daughter. Penelope seemed to be sleeping soundly, but when Athena touched her face, the child's skin was still hot and dry. She dipped the wet cloth in the lavender water by the bedside and gently wiped her daughter's heated forehead.

The doctor—summoned hastily at that late hour by the earl—had assured her that there was nothing to be alarmed about. Athena could have told him that, indeed, she had attempted to do so but was overridden by an anxious Lady Sarah, who had seconded her nephew's decision to send a carriage for the doctor. Later, she was glad she had kept her counsel and not explained that Penny often reacted to overexcitement by running a slight fever. She would not have wished to have deprived her hostess of the evident pleasure she derived from setting the whole staff on its ears to cater to the little patient up in the nursery.

Yesterday had been a day replete with excitement, Athena mused, resuming her seat and covering her knees with the rug provided by the solicitous Lady Sarah. Excitement for both mother and daughter. Not only had Sir Henry arrived to reclaim daughter and granddaughter into the family again, but Lord St. Aubyn had kissed Athena on the terrace last night. If indeed one might count that briefly tantalizing touch of his lips on hers as a kiss. Athena decided that she definitely wished to count it as a kiss. She could still feel the steady hammering of his heart against her breasts as he had held her pressed against the lean, hard length of him.

Athena closed her eyes and let her head relax into the cushions. Yes, it had very definitely been a kiss, she concluded, although as far as kisses went, that one might be termed unsatisfactory, for it had left her wildly eager for more. It had been a far cry, for example, from the kisses the earl had lavished upon her in the dungeon. Those had been kisses to make her toes curl. In fact, they curled now at the very memory. After those kisses, Athena had felt thoroughly and delightfully kissed. But last night's kiss had promised more than it delivered.

Perhaps that had not been the earl's fault, she mused, letting her mind recapture the events leading up to that kiss on the terrace. Perhaps he would have kissed her more thoroughly,
much
more thoroughly, she thought with a shiver of delight, had Perry not arrived on the scene.

But why had his lordship waited so long before he took action? she wondered. That thought had plagued Athena all the time she had been out there on the terrace with him. She had stood about expectantly for what seemed like hours, blathering on and on to cover her nervousness. And he had talked excessively as well. They had argued about guilt, she remembered vaguely. He had claimed first to be innocent of Miss Rathbone's accusations, and then, in an astonishing about-face, suggested that he was indeed guilty as charged.