Kathryn Smith (12 page)

His smile was smug, victory awakening his blood with a thrill. “I believe, Lady Aubourn, that the game is mine. And therefore, so are you.”

He had won.

Moira stared at the board, at her king and queen, so neatly pinned by his rook. How could he have beaten her? She’d been so certain of her victory. He hadn’t been about to let her win at all. He had only wanted her to
believe
she stood a chance against him.

She had played right into his hands. In fact, part of her had almost hoped it would happen this way.

Slowly, she raised her gaze to meet Wynthrope’s. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and smirked.

“You are not going to renege on our agreement are you, my lady?”

His
lady. Yes, he was going to make certain of that, wasn’t
he? If only she weren’t a virgin, this situation wouldn’t cause her so much anxiety. It was a totally improper thought, but she couldn’t help thinking it.

“No,” she murmured, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth. “What do you want?”

He made a tsking sound as he rose. “You sound as though you are going to your execution.” He paused beside her. “Come sit with me on the sofa.”

Moira stared at his proffered hand. Long and slender, it was graceful and nonthreatening. Why was she so afraid to take it? So afraid of where it might lead her?

Tentatively, she slid her fingers into his and stood. His hand was warm, strong, and sure. Her knees were shaking.

He led her to the sofa—the same one they had shared that night they drank mulled wine. He sat and gently pulled her down beside him. Moira couldn’t even breathe as she waited for him to make his move—to kiss her, or touch her, anything.

They sat in silence for several heartbeats as he made himself comfortable. He held her hand, stroking her palm with his thumb. “How old were you when you met the viscount?”

All the breath came rushing out of her in one astonished burst. “Excuse me?”

Wynthrope’s head tilted, his lashes fluttering guilelessly. “Are you quite all right, Moira? You are flushed.”

He knew perfectly well she wasn’t “all right!” “You put me through that awful game, all that anxiety, and all you want to do is talk?”

His expression was all innocence. “What else would I want?”

She could hit him! Was this relief or annoyance burning in her chest? “You said you had whims for me to cater to!”

He nodded. “I do. I want you to tell me about yourself.” Again that innocent blink. “Were you expecting something else?”

Moira glared at him, more embarrassed than angry. “You know very well I thought you referred to seduction.”

He had the nerve to appear affronted. “I do not recall saying anything about seduction, but if that is what you would prefer—”

She raised a hand as he leaned toward her, stopping him before he could kiss her and feel the wild pounding of her heart. She was such a coward. “Nineteen. I was nineteen when Anthony and I met.”

He settled back against the sofa with a smile that was both satisfied and mocking. He was toying with her, of that she was certain. Like a cat with a mouse, he was simply mauling her until he felt like taking a bite. “Was it love at first sight?”

She could lie and tell him yes, but she didn’t want to lie to him. If they ever did make love, he would find out her marriage had been a sham, and that was going to be difficult enough for her to explain.

“No. It was never like that.” She swallowed and gave in to the urge to reveal more, “Tony and I adored each other, but not like that. Ours was a marriage of convenience. He needed a bride and I needed to escape my family.”

Fortunately he didn’t press the issue of her marriage. Unfortunately he found a different topic to seize upon.

“To escape your family? How fortunate that you could. Did it work?”

Was he making fun or genuinely astounded? Moira smiled. “For a time. You have met Minerva, so you know I still have some contact with them.”

His gaze was shrewd. “More than you would like.”

“Yes.” How easy it was to admit these things to him. “I am somewhat close to two of my sisters, and I believe Minnie and I might form some kind of bond, but I do not wish to have contact with any of the others.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. Did he not want to know
why she disliked her family? Or did it simply not matter why, only that she did?

“What were you like as a young girl?”

She replied without thought, grateful that he had changed the subject, “Bookish. Fat.”

“Fat?” His expression was laughable. “No.”

“It is true.” Her cheeks warmed at his continued disbelief. “My mother constantly belittled me for my weight.”

His gaze raked over her in a clinical fashion. There was nothing the least bit brazen about his appraisal. “But you are so thin now.”

Moira’s brow puckered. This was not the first time he had mentioned her size with a hint of concern. “You think I am too thin, don’t you?”

He met her gaze evenly. “I think you could stand to gain a stone or two, yes.”

She laughed. It came out more harshly than she intended, but she wasn’t sure what these emotions raging through her were. “No one ever thought I was pretty when I was heavy. They do now.”

His gaze never wavered, his expression was resolute. “You’re beautiful, but whether you are thin or fat, that will never change.”

Moira turned her head, her throat constricting as she fought the tears burning the back of her eyes. All those years when she was plump she had wanted someone—anyone—to tell her she was pretty, and all she ever heard was how attractive she would be if she were thin. Now this wonderful, intriguing man was telling her he didn’t care what size she was. Dare she believe he meant it?

He was silent for only a moment. It was as though he knew she didn’t want to continue this particular conversation. “What would be the worst fate in the world, do you think?”

God love him for being able to read her so easily, no mat
ter how much it frightened her. “To end up living out the rest of my days with my mother.”

He laughed, and his sheer delight brought a smile to her own lips. “Honestly?”

She shrugged and changed the subject. “I would like to know real love before I die.”

The fingers entwined with hers squeezed gently. How right it felt to sit here holding hands with him. “Wouldn’t we all.”

The wistful quality of his voice gave her pause. She leaned her elbow against the back of the sofa and rested her temple on her fist as she studied his face. “I wouldn’t have thought you the kind of man who believes in love.”

Was he insulted? He jerked a little bit, as though she had struck a nerve. “I believe love exists. I don’t think everyone is lucky enough to have it find them.”

Spoken like a man afraid love might come looking. “Perhaps we have to find it on our own.”

“Perhaps.” Now he shrugged, as though tossing off her idea. “Regardless, I do not think it and I are bound to ever cross paths.”

“Why not?” When had the balance of power between them changed? When had she become the inquisitor? And why it did hurt to hear him say he expected to never know love? “Surely you do not believe you are unlucky?”

He folded his arms across his chest. Yes, he was definitely withdrawing. “Undeserving.”

“That’s absurd.” It was time to bring him back out of his shell, even if she had to browbeat him out. “You are as deserving of love as anyone.”

He cocked a brow. Oh, but he had perfected the sarcasm in every expression. “As deserving as you?”

It was tempting to slap him. Was he trying to trap her with words? “Of course.”

“I think you are more deserving than I.”

Oh for heaven’s sake! “I will not allow you to be so self-pitying.”

“It is not self-pity.” Then why did he sound so defensive? she wondered. “It is simple honesty,” he said.

She scowled at him as she lifted her head. What a pile of malarkey. “Honesty? You are not honest with yourself, how can you be honest with anyone else?”

His jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

This conversation had gone way beyond light and frivolous since shortly after it started. He would not hesitate to tell her exactly what he thought—she was still smarting over his telling her she should gain weight—why should she hesitate with him?

“You tell yourself you are undeserving of love—for some long-ago sin, no doubt. You needn’t share it with me, it is of no consequence. All that matters is who you are today. And that man deserves to be loved.”

He stared at her, his face pale. Obviously she was close to the truth. “How can you possibly know that?”

“Because I have seen glimpses of him when you forget to pretend to be someone else. Regardless of the mistakes you’ve made, or will make, I believe that you are a good man.”

For one brief, awful second, Moira thought he might jump up and run away. He looked so stricken, so confused, and she realized that he really did think he was an awful person.

And it broke her heart.

But he didn’t run away. Instead he turned to her, reached for her. She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Any hesitation on her part and he might withdraw from her forever, and she would rather be fat again than lose him now.

His head neared hers. She held her breath, her heart
pounding as she saw the darkness in his gaze. Then her eyes closed, and she saw nothing at all.

Wynthrope’s lips were firm and warm yet undeniably soft as they moved against hers. Moira followed his lead, breathless as his mouth teased her lips apart. Opening her mouth to his exploration, Moira sank deeper and deeper into the darkness of his kiss. He tasted warm and faintly of the wine he’d drunk during their chess game. Odd, but she had drunk the same wine, and it hadn’t tasted as good then as it did now.

Tentatively, she slid her palms up the soft wool of his coat to clutch at his lapels. She probably should push him away, but her hands refused to act. They couldn’t even pull him closer as her body demanded, they just clutched and held him near.

His hands were in her hair, deftly removing pins one by one. There was a soft smattering sound as he tossed the entire handful on the carpet. Then he unwound her elaborate hairstyle, soothing the ache in her scalp with gentle fingers, combing through the waves until her hair fell down her back. No one had seen her with her hair down since she was a girl. Not even Anthony had seen her hair like this. Anytime she had worn it down in front of him, it had been braided, or tied back. Now this man, for all intents and purposes a stranger, was going to see her as no one else ever had.

It seemed appropriate, really.

But he didn’t break their kiss to look. His lips still clinging to hers, still demanding and insistent, he pushed her backward, down onto her back on the sofa. Moira went willingly, still clutching his coat in her hands.

Wynthrope wasn’t a huge man, but he was strong and solid, his shoulders broad and his limbs long. She expected him to be heavier than he was, but he supported most of his weight on the forearm by her head as he pulled her skirts up above her knees. He settled between her thighs, resting most
of his weight there, against a spot that instantly came to life at the sweet hardness of his body.

One of his hands hooked behind her knee, drawing her leg up so that it cupped his hips. The pressure between her thighs intensified. Instinctively, Moira’s hips lifted, pushing against him. The fingers on her leg flexed against her calf as Wynthrope’s hips pushed back.

Moira gasped against his mouth. So this was what it was all about. This was why women had affairs and got themselves ruined. Now she was beginning to understand. A hard ridge threatened to bruise the tender flesh between her legs, was almost painful in its force, but still she ground herself against it, and wanted more.

She shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t proper, and she had always been most proper. Still, a part of her argued, what could possibly be wrong about something that felt so right? She was a widow, and not bound by the same rules that kept unmarried women in their place.

Her tongue moved against his. Their hips rose and fell in time with the rhythm set by their kiss. The throbbing deep inside Moira grew, until it was a steady, humming ache.

A virgin she might be, but green she wasn’t. She knew what happened between a man and a woman—she had her imagination, and had seen drawings in a book. She knew how their bodies fit together. She knew what arousal was and how it felt, and she knew how to relieve the ache. But none of those things had prepared her for the urgency that having Wynthrope’s body pressed to hers wrought. She wanted this man to touch her in places no one but she had ever touched. She wanted him inside her, even if it hurt.

And yet she was afraid to have it happen. If he took her now, would he turn his back on her tomorrow? Was she to lose him so soon?

His weight shifted and eased. Moira felt the loss of him
keenly. Without the pressure of his body, her own cried out in something very much like pain, so acute was the longing within.

Hands braced on either side of her head, Wynthrope stared down at her. The planes of his cheeks were flushed in the soft light. His hair was mussed and his jacket was a wrinkled mess. His lips were slightly parted, and dark from their kisses, and his eyes glowed with a fire that made Moira want to be burned alive.

“You look like one of the angels in your paintings,” he told her, his voice strangely husky.

Moira’s throat constricted. She’d always thought Tony’s angels to be among the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen. “Thank you.”

“Shall we continue, Moira? Or do you wish me to stop?”

So he was going to make her decide, was he? She supposed it was very gentlemanly of him, even though she knew what he wanted her to say.
She
knew what she wanted to say, and yet the words wouldn’t come. She could give him her virginity now, on this sofa, and let the secret out, trusting him not to reveal it, or she could hang on to it, and hope that he didn’t tire of waiting, and of her in the meantime.

He rose from the sofa. “Your silence is answer enough.”