Every Scandalous Secret (19 page)

He drew the line at traipsing up the hill to see the crumbling Clifford’s Tower, part of the original York Castle. She was hoping to find a dungeon, and he made the mistake of declining too quickly.

She frowned at him, standing in the middle of the pavement. “Leo?”

“After my strange dreams, I hardly want to be below ground. I know of a fencing academy. You go on and enjoy your freedom.”

He walked away from his wife, knowing he’d left her far too curious.

W
hen they departed York the next day, new gowns stowed in her trunks, Susanna passed the time by sketching Leo as he slept. It was easier to think about the relaxed posture of his body than about their strange marriage. But when it came time to draw his face, it now felt too . . . intimate, too revealing that she might know the lines of his face, experience them flowing out her fingertips. She closed the book with a snap and looked out the window.

They stopped for the night at an estate in Nottinghamshire, and this time there were children for Leo to amuse. The parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham, had once been neighbors of Leo’s family estate, childhood sweethearts. But the romance must have fled, for there was a chilly distance between them that caught even Leo’s attention, for she saw him look between them with a frown more than once.

But it became an interesting evening, at least for her, and when they returned to their single room, she questioned him about it.

“Mrs. Wyndham has fond memories of playing with you as a child,” Susanna said, sitting down on the chaise at the end of the bed.

Leo was washing his face at the washstand and only grunted.

“She said you destroyed every clock in the house, taking them apart.”

“Hardly destroyed,” he said over his shoulder.

“That’s right—you put them back together again.” She hadn’t even been surprised, having guessed early in their relationship that he had intelligence he didn’t use. “How old had you been?”

“I don’t remember.”

But she suspected he did and was deliberating trying to avoid the subject. Why had he allowed his natural curiosity to disappear? No, that was wrong, the focus of his curiosity had changed, to things like cards and women. But once he’d cared about other things.

She sensed she would get no more out of him, that perhaps his carefree façade was his way of protecting a part of himself. That was understandable; she’d spent much of her life protecting herself from getting hurt. But his motive seemed . . . different.

He turned to face her, even as he pulled off his shirt. “I liked your new bluestocking conversation.”

She blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I was so excited when I found the book on the study of lepidoptera. I’ve always wanted to examine butterflies. They would make an excellent painting subject, even if I had to pin them to a wall to get them to hold still.”

“And moths,” he added, grinning. “Don’t forget about them. I thought Wyndham’s eyes would cross in boredom.”

“But not you?” she challenged. He acted as if he’d forgotten his wish to have a normal wife.

“Oh, you never bore me, Susanna.”

Her relief at his response still had a flicker of worry about the edges. Could she continue to intrigue him? Or would he someday roll his eyes in boredom?

“Did you win again at cards?” she asked, to change the subject.

“I always win,” he said with a grin.

Because he was smart, she thought in triumph. “Even when you’re drunk?”

“I’m not drunk. And did I tell you how lovely you looked at dinner in your new gown?”

“Thank you.” She looked away, blushing at the compliment. He had turned her into a woman who cared about his opinion, who laughed at his jokes. The more he drew her closer, the more difficult it would be if he grew bored with her. She shouldn’t let herself become too attached.

“I’ll need to post those paintings to Mr. Tyler,” she said. Her eyes wandered down his body. She’d seen many different male specimens, and Leo was one of the best. Of course, she usually saw only the corpses of old men . . .

She felt a little shiver of exhilaration, a perfectly natural response when one person admired the . . . physicality of another.

“We’ll see if we can find the time—or Tyler can wait,” Leo said, tossing his shirt across a bench.

She slowly smiled. Was he actually jealous of Mr. Tyler? How had she managed such a feat? The ripple of excitement in her belly almost came out as a chuckle, but she held it in. She would hold her small victory close and savor it.

“Painting for Tyler is such a solitary pursuit,” Leo continued, searching the washstand for his toothbrush and powder.

“Why, Leo, are you trying to find something we have in common? Something we could do together? How very marital of you.”

“I like cards. Surely you have been raised to play them, like every other proper young lady. Perhaps tomorrow night you can play with the Wyndhams and me.”

“So if I’m to play cards, what will you do for me?” Oh, she was being very daring.

His smile was slow and wicked. “I could do so much for you, Susanna.”

“And how do you know you’d be showing me anything I haven’t already seen?” she countered.

He laughed, then leaned back against the wardrobe. “What else could we share, Mrs. Wade? I certainly don’t have any interest in bugs—”

“Lepidoptera.”

“—or the studios of famous artists. But art . . . yes, I did say it’s what brought us together. Let’s discuss your art—your modeling career, to be exact.”

It took all her control not to remain unruffled. “I did not have a career. Just that one project.”

“What about the jewel?”

“Excuse me?”

“The one in the painting. I’ve never seen it before, and you are hardly the type to display your family wealth in such a way.”

“Very crass.”

“Is it a family heirloom?”

“Would I wear a family heirloom in a public painting?”

“You never thought it would be on display.”

She forced a smile. “Must you remind me of Roger’s deceit? He was false on all fronts, for the jewel was paste. He tossed it back in a drawer with others when we were done.”

He continued to study her. “I was very tempted to search your trunk.”

“You would not be so vulgar.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “True, I’ve never needed such subterfuge.”

“You’ve had to resort to outright questions.” Instead of touching her. Words emerged from her mouth that were more daring than she could have planned. “I guess seduction isn’t working out for you. Have you at last realized your charm has its limits?”

“Since you haven’t offered yourself to me, you must be afraid to find out.”

It must be the night, or the rising feeling of wildness that practically made her blood sing. She felt she was winning their little battle over the wager, and it made her say, “Go ahead and try. I dare you.”

Chapter 16

S
usanna never dared people—never accepted dares. She was too sensible for that.

But she wanted to change.

Leo straightened, eyes glittering with intrigue in the low light. “What are you saying?”

“I won’t take off my clothing—that would be too easy. And when I stop you, out of boredom, I’m certain, you
have
to stop.”

He came toward her swiftly. “You won’t be able to stop.”

She shrugged and leaned back on the bench. “Overestimating yourself again, Leo? The last time that happened, we were caught and sentenced to a lifetime of . . .” She let her words fade.

“Of what, Mrs. Wade?”

He was leaning over her, his bare arms on either side of her shoulders as she fell back. She was on the wrong end of the chaise, and her head tilted off, exposing her throat. She felt vulnerable and excited all at the same time, so very aware of his warmth above her. She could feel intimidated, dominated, but he’d never inspired that in her.

“Sentenced to what, Mrs. Wade?” he repeated.

She lifted her head to meet his intense green eyes. In that frozen moment, their game seemed distant, and real emotion trapped within her, bursting to be free.

She actually
liked
this—this crazy marriage, this battlefield. Was she becoming one of those women Leo seduced with his eyes and his charm, then left drifting behind him as he looked for a new challenge in a swift current?

Misery, sentenced to a lifetime of misery.
She’d once thought that, but now couldn’t say the words. She didn’t want that kind of marriage. Would they ever trust each other enough to be content?

Right here, right now, he desired her—the challenge of her, anyway. She would use it for as long as she could.

At last he seemed to forget his questions, and she dropped her head back, waiting, daring him to test himself against her control.

“Not like this,” he said. Gripping her waist, he slid her down the chaise until her head rested on the cushioned seat, and their eyes met. He lowered his head, their mouths but a breath apart. “I want to see your response when I touch you.”

And then he kissed her, soft kisses, top lip, then bottom, suckling her flesh, touching her briefly with the tip of his tongue, until she could barely hold back a moan. His chin was rough with whiskers, his breath a hint of brandy. It was exotic and erotic, everything a spinster’s fantasy should be.

Only she wasn’t a spinster anymore.

He was her husband, and he said he’d stop when she told him to.

“Touch me,” he whispered.

She let her hands slide up the bent columns of his arms. His skin was so very hot and hard, tight over muscle. She felt like she was memorizing every line of him for a future project, as she let her hands linger over the muscles of his chest.

And then he groaned and deepened the kiss when her fingertips brushed his nipples. Did he like that, too? His tongue swept her mouth, over and over again, and she met it with her own, tasting him. Then she clutched him, and he came down on top of her. The pressure of his body made her squirm and rub herself against him, but all the sensations were muted behind corset and petticoats and voluminous fabric.

And then his mouth swept over her jaw and down her throat, suckling, tasting, licking a path to her chest and to the neckline he’d approved. She’d made a rule that he couldn’t remove her clothing—why had she made that rule, she wondered wildly, as her body seemed afire from his kisses and his touch.

She caught hold of her restraint just in time, even as his body sank between her parting thighs. Layers of fabric still separated them, but the wickedness of his position called to her.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

With a yank, her corset slid down an inch, and her breasts seemed to pop free, overflowing as if she were far more endowed than she really was.

“This new one is a much better corset,” he said with deep satisfaction.

And then he pressed his mouth between her breasts, and she hugged his head to her. She’d stop him soon, she told herself, but her panting was loud in her ears, and her body couldn’t seem to remain still, arching and squirming, a soundless form of begging she should be embarrassed about—

But his mouth was so close to the peak of her very naked breast. He waited so long, looking at her nudity, that she almost shoved herself into his face.

And then he licked her, and her back seemed to come off the chaise, bucking him hard.

“You’re strong. I like it.”

The words were whispered against her erect nipple, and even that movement felt incredible. His tongue played with her, little touches, long licks. Then at last he gathered her into his mouth and suckled, and she clutched him as if she’d never let him stop.

The pleasure seemed to intensify, spreading through her body, sinking hard into that warm wetness between her thighs. His hip was there, pushing against her, but the sensation was lost in all her clothing.

Until she felt the hotness of his bare hand on lower leg.

“Yes,” she heard herself cry, and somewhere distant inside her, the first pitiful warning flag was raised. She needed to stop him, to draw out his intrigue with her.
But not yet, no, not yet.

His mouth teased her other breast, his hand learned the feel of her skin behind her knee, then the tender flesh of her inner thigh through her drawers.

She didn’t even remember the rules until he whispered against her flesh, “No removing clothing.”

She almost moaned her disappointment. But he was watching her now, splitting his attention between one breast and the other, his fingers sliding over her drawers, his body lifting just a bit so his hand could cup her.

“Ohhh,” she breathed, closing her eyes.

“Open those eyes, sweetheart, look at me.”

She obeyed him as if vows made her do so. She stared at him, lips parted, taking in the sight of him at her breasts, feeling the gentle exploration of his fingers. And when he found the slit in her drawers, faint triumph lit his eyes.

His fingers slid along her cleft—oh God, she was so wet—and then delved within. She whimpered at the sharpened focus of pleasure, at the desperation that rose even higher, like a swollen stream needing to overflow its banks.

“Don’t stop me,” he said urgently, “you need to know all the pleasure we can give each other.”

His fingers increased their tempo, his mouth found hers, even as his other hand cupped her breast.

And then something inside her simply came apart, blasting away her last innocence, shuddering through her with sublime waves of bliss.

She came to herself in his arms. He’d watched her through all of it, as he’d given her pleasure, as she’d been unable to control the low sounds she made that now echoed in her ears.

How many women had he watched that way? Did he calculate the differences, keep track of who pleased him more or less? And she, with so little experience, could only be a novelty to someone like him.

“Stop, stop,” she whispered, trying to get out from beneath, now feeling so pinned by the heaviness of his body.

He slid to the side, and she sat up. Her thighs touching made her wince at the memory of passion.

“It’s just like before, on the floor of the Bramfield drawing room,” she murmured, too dazed to pretend any longer. “I could have stopped you—I should have. But I didn’t. I was far too willing. And you wanted it, too,” she said, turning to look down at him.

“I did. I do,” he answered, his smile a curl of pleasure as he bent his arm to rest behind his head.

No, he wanted the wager, the release, the excitement, the daring. It didn’t matter the woman. And he was looking at her like a cat who’d cornered a mouse, anticipating the final battle. And she realized her breasts were still bare, and his hunger was for that sight. She wasn’t a fool, knew he’d not had the same pleasure she had. But he wasn’t demanding more.

And then he sat up, and she wished he would continue, make her his wife in truth, and maybe that would somehow stop her from being afraid. But he turned her about by the waist and put his hands on the hooks of her gown.

“Don’t worry; you told me to stop, and I shall. But you can’t come to bed like this.”

Dazed, still aching with desire and disappointment, she spoke without thinking. “This gown is very difficult to remove. Did you plan it?”

“Mrs. Wade, men wish gowns were
easier
to remove.”

His hands worked quickly, expertly, on the hooks. When the gown dropped away from the front of her body, she allowed it to pool at her feet, then leaned over to pick it up as she rose.

And he lay there and watched her, no pretty words of seduction, no insistence that he had to have her. She placed her gown across the back of a chair and began to unlace her corset. She met his gaze, lifted her chin, and pushed the corset down her body, along with several untied petticoats.

Leo crossed his arms and arched a brow, as if waiting to see how much she dared.

And she suddenly felt daring, a resurgence of confidence and trust in herself. She knew what she was doing even though he’d surprised her. Turned away from him at the wardrobe, she took off her chemise and let him see her naked back above her drawers. She gave him a look over her shoulder before pulling on her nightgown. His smile had disappeared, she noticed with approval, and he’d risen up to brace himself on his hands.

She leaned back against the wardrobe and studied him. “Did you notice how the Wyndhams didn’t even talk to each other?”

“Only you would think deep conversations necessary, Susanna,” he said shortly, “especially at a time like this.”

Before this moment, she and Leo had been doing nothing but talk, and he’d hardly resisted. But not about things held dearly to themselves, and she was resisting as much as he was. She’d learned something about his childhood today, and he seemed bothered by it.

Perhaps she didn’t want him to see deeper than her cleavage. After all, their competitiveness would have to fade eventually, along with this lust that could take over her very will if she let it. But the longer she was with him, the more he was a mystery to her.

I
n the middle of the night, Leo came awake, gasping, unmanned at how he trembled over a dream. He looked toward Susanna’s pillow, and by dim moonlight he could see she slept undisturbed.

There’d been a corpse in his dream again, and this time he’d seen blood, so much blood. Was he going insane? Or was the dream so vivid because it was really a memory? If that was true, why couldn’t he remember it?

To distract himself from the violent emotions that ebbed within him, he looked once more upon his wife. He experienced a moment of gradual peace so profound that it shook him. He was being a fool about his dreams.

What was it about her that drew him more than any other woman had? Why was she so able to reach beneath his surface, to pluck at thoughts he’d never needed to share? He wanted to know more about her, to understand why she’d let herself get to this age unmarried. Her crazy hobbies couldn’t be the reason—some man would have put up with them. He was.

But wanting to know about her made him understand she’d want more of the same in reverse. And that unsettled him. Men didn’t need to discuss emotions best left in childhood. Why did she insist on probing into things that would only hurt her in the end?

He didn’t want to hurt her; but, of course, he hadn’t wanted to hurt any woman. And it just seemed to happen. He
had
harmed her, changed her life profoundly. His life didn’t need to change at all once they returned to London. But he felt different with Susanna, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. Why couldn’t he simply concentrate on their competition over the wager? There was no need to dwell on anything else. They were married, and it would be a typical marriage. He would make her see they could be content with each other.

S
usanna felt the rumble of the carriage beneath her as they rode toward Newark Upon Trent, and then caught the flash of Leo’s amused gaze. They sat on opposite benches, and she had two children beside her, and he had one. It had been Susanna’s idea to take the Wyndham children into town, ostensibly to give the tense couple time alone.

But it also enabled her to see Leo surrounded by children, and she couldn’t decide if she was surprised or not by how easily he related to them. Eight-year-old Marcus sat beside Leo, a toy soldier in each hand, as he discussed warfare in an adorably serious manner. Leo answered without one hint of boredom.

The two little girls on either side of Susanna were six-year-old twins but dressed differently so that she could tell them apart. They took turns discussing the dolls they’d brought, talking louder and louder as if to drown out the nasty boy talk of battles.

Susanna felt a flush of maternal happiness she hadn’t imagined ever feeling, couldn’t even meet Leo’s eyes in case he guessed her foolish weakness. Wasn’t
she
the one who’d vowed to remain a spinster, to be the best aunt possible? Now she was married, and would soon sleep with her husband, she thought with a delicious thrill. Then there might be babies.