Lady of Sin (19 page)

He had to smile at the scold. It was so like her challenges in the past.

He was not inclined to stop the way the air and warmth enlivened her, so he walked to the bed and dragged its coverlet back to the fireplace.

He began undressing. She watched as she had the first night in this room, only this time it was very obvious she did so. She sat there like a queen while he shed his clothes.

“I do not want to speak about what we heard today. There is time enough for that later, you said.”

He pulled off his shirt, and his body joined hers in being titillated by cool air and tongues of heat. “We do not have to speak of anything at all, if you want.”

He needed to sit to remove his boots. He approached her chair. She looked up at him, her gaze slowly ambling up his chest with a frankness that made fires blaze in his head.

“Lie there.” He pointed to the coverlet on the carpet, not thinking of boots at all.

She slid off the chair, onto her knees. Her naked body crawled the few feet to the coverlet, her hair dangling, her curves moving. He blinked hard to control the ferocity of his reaction.

She laid on her side, facing him. The fire glow emphasized the elegant line curving from shoulder to waist, then up the gentle hill of her hip. That line undulated down the subtle curve of her leg.

He sat and dealt with the boots and the rest. She watched as she had the first night here, as if she found the various fastenings of a man’s wardrobe intriguing.

“I do not know if I will want silence. That might be too sad.”

He shed his remaining clothes. “What do you want, Charlotte?”

“Everything. I want to be bold and daring. I want one more scandalous night.” She rose and sat back on her legs, facing him in his chair. Her hair drifted down her body, looking like black silk in the flickering light. “There can be no masks anymore, not really. But you were right, and the future can wait.”

Wait, but not disappear. One more night might be one last one, depending on whether they could ignore the day’s events. He had come here tonight half hoping she would demand that. Seeing her like this, hearing her offer of everything, he doubted he could have refused.

It moved him that she had not tried that, even if he wished she had.

She stretched forward and swept his garments away from the floor between them. The view down her naked back and bottom as she leaned toward the chair made his mouth dry.

She began to sit back on her folded legs again, but paused. Instead she leaned farther, until she was on hands and knees, and gently kissed his leg.

He grit his teeth at his body’s cataclysmic response. She crawled closer, her body moving as elegantly as a cat’s. She kissed his knee.

Blood pounded in his head. He lost awareness of everything except the insinuations of that kiss and the scathing arousal that threatened to burn him up.

She moved closer and rose until she knelt right in front of him. Her gaze meandered like a caress over his body. “You look like a god sitting there. So perfect and beautiful.” She reached out and skimmed her fingertips over his chest, carefully watching her hands move.

“I am feeling very human.” It amazed him he could talk. “Gods are immortal, and I want you so much it is killing me.”

She smiled, and a girlish delight in her effect entered the way she watched her caresses. “Do not die too soon. We have all night.”

He parted his knees and pulled her closer, into an embrace and kiss.

The feel of her, the scent, the looking and the mood already had him on the edge. His mind darkened under the assault of savage impulses. She was with him, her hands all over him, her cries and kisses and passion only making him hotter.

He began to lift her to his lap. She ignored the command. Her hand closed around his erection firmly.

She stopped the devouring kisses and looked at him. Into him. Deep comprehension burned in her gaze as she understood the begging hunger that maddened him.

She glanced down. His body howled. He really would die now if she lost her nerve.

She didn’t. Her head lowered. Her hair feathered his thighs. With the first moist touch of her lips his whole essence groaned and ascended to an erotic cloud of indescribable pleasure.

Charlotte studied the man stretched out naked in front of the fire. He had not moved in a while. He had fallen asleep.

She eased out of his loose embrace so she could sit and really see him. She felt quite possessive about his hewn beauty right now. She was entitled to look as much as she wanted. Nor did she feel any need to be restrained and modest. Her daring and boldness had crossed a line, she knew. Ladies were not supposed to do what she did tonight.

She did not care about that. Nor did he. She had seen in his eyes before and after some surprise, but no disrespect. It had not been as unpleasant as she expected. The control of his pleasure had stirred her in new ways.

The fire needed more fuel. She pushed to her feet to walk around him and deal with it. She made it only one step before a hold on her ankle stopped her.

“Where are you going?”

She gestured to the fireplace. “And if you intend to sleep here, I was going to get another coverlet.”

“I intend to sleep in bed, when I sleep.” He pulled her back down, then swung his body around and laid fuel on the fire.

“You were already sleeping,” she said.

“I was finding a second life. I said you were killing me, and you did.” He braced his weight on his arm and looked down at her. “I was also trying to decide just how bold you were willing to be, and how much of everything you even know about.”

A long caress down her body reminded her that he might have died but she was alive and well and tortured by desire unquenched.

She glanced down. “It does not appear that you have been reborn just yet.”

He looked down at his lax penis. His mouth gaped in mock surprise. “I’ll be damned, you are right. How good of you to let me know, Lady M. I can always count on you to point out my failings.” He laughed gently, shaking his head while he turned his attention to caressing her breast.

His hand was awakening her dozing arousal far too well. “I merely thought that we could wait until—”

“If you think about anything, let it be this.” He dipped down to flick his tongue on her nipple. “And this.” His caress slid down between her legs and tantalized her with another devastating flick. “And what I am going to do to you before dawn comes.”

He told her what, very clearly. He described the ways he intended to possess her body in the hours ahead. She felt her face blushing.

“Unless you refuse, of course.”

She swallowed hard. The way he titillated her tight nipples had her halfway to delirium, and his intentions did not sound
too
astounding.

“I did say I wanted another scandalous night. Since I have already astonished myself with my own boldness, it would be cowardly to deny you yours.”

He watched his hand stroke lower. She parted her legs anxiously, and noticed that his resurrection was well under way.

“Actually, you said that you wanted
one more
scandalous night, Charlotte. So I will command this passion while I can, and be as bold as you will allow.”

He was bold and commanding; she could not deny that. Less polite than in the past. Less careful. Every touch and kiss spoke demands, not requests. His aura, so exciting in its hints of danger and power, spread over her.

She did not mind. She submitted physically, even if she reserved internal corners to herself. She thrilled to the way he handled her, to the subtle domination. Her own daring had opened the gate in another wall, to an inner sanctum where sensuality became erotic. She sensed no disrespect in him, however. Tonight their passion had no link to the normal rules, just as their very first night had not.

Knowing his intentions piqued her responses. A new wildness claimed them both. She joined him in hungry kisses and impatient holds. She arched her breasts to his mouth, greedy for more pleasure. His hand rested on her inner thigh. Her body wept for the small movement that would bring his touch to the unbearably aroused flesh just inches from his hand.

He did not cooperate. Frustration made her whimper. She came close to scolding him, or begging. Then his body moved, not his hand. He kissed down her body, leaving her embrace as he descended. She realized which scandalous part of this scandalous night would come first.

The idea provoked sensations so intense, so full of crying impatience, that her vulva trembled and throbbed. Her mind did not accept the reality so quickly. A little shocked and embarrassed, she watched his kisses lower until he nestled between her thighs. Despite her dazed senses, she thought this much more wicked, far more intimate, than what she had done to him.

His touch obliterated that thought, and all others. He kissed her thighs and mound while his fingers made her scream. When she thought she would die, he used his mouth to create a new caress with new friction. That devastated her. She cried out, again and again, into a long darkness shot with pleasure of unbearable intensity.

She woke in the bed, alone. Dawn had broken, and the light streaming in the window turned the long night into a dream. A startling dream, in which she had given her body freely to this man. A dangerous night, in which she had almost lost herself and her will completely.

She sat up. The nest by the fire was gone. Her nightdress waited beside her, so she could don it before Nancy arrived. Nothing in the chamber hinted at what had occurred. Only the images unfolding in her head spoke of it. And the echoes of the pleasure that rippled through her body.

She turned to sleep again, and saw the note. It lay on the pillow beside hers.
I have decided to ride back to London, because the day is so fair.

Another woman might be insulted or feel abandoned, but she understood. It had been kindness, not callousness, that sent him from this bed in the dark. The journey would be awkward together. The carriage would have been full of unspoken matters that required private deliberation, not conversation.

They both knew that this chapter of their affair was over. She did not know whether they should turn the page, or if it would be wiser to simply close the book.

Nor did he, it appeared.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

C
harlotte gave her wrap to the servant and sent word to James that she had arrived. While she waited for him to come down, she entered the dining room and consulted with the butler on the seating arrangements that would be used at the dinner.

She had helped James plan this party some weeks ago, but her absence from London meant she had not been available to manage its preparations. The household had been required to execute the plans without her.

Her negligence had surprised James. She had arrived in London to find a letter from him, sent to Laclere Park and then on, back to town. In it he reminded her of her promise to serve as hostess.

He entered the dining room as she finished with the butler. He had already dressed for dinner, as if in anticipation of her early arrival.

She had not seen him for almost two weeks and much had happened in those days. She gazed at the friend and brother she knew, but also saw the youth mesmerized by that fire dance.

“You have been gone a long time,” he said after she greeted him. “I would not have thought attending the birth of a nephew to take so long. I began to wonder if you had forgotten this dinner party.”

“I promised to be here, and I am.” She understood his annoyance. However, it reminded her how his dependence on her as his hostess was not such a good thing. He sounded as if the duty were his to demand tonight.

“Your sister returned two days before you did.”

His pointed observation intruded on her examination of the dining room table, as she checked that all was in order.

“Pen had a friend leaving for the Continent and wanted to see her off. I, on the other hand, had affairs out of town and was seeing to them.”

“You were not at Laclere Park?”

“Not the entire time, no.” A month ago she would have explained, but rebellion and caution stopped her now. She had been investigating him, if truth be told, so it would be better that truth remain quiet.

She and Nathaniel had not spoken of what would happen now. Not that last night, and not since. Since her return to town she had received a letter from him, one of appreciation and praise that hinted at the astonishments of their passion. There had been no allusion at all to Jenny and Harry and the rest. No veiled reassurances either.

She guessed that she had not bought him off, and was glad she had not tried. She had bought a brief reprieve, however. If his memories of that night were at all like hers, it might take him a few days to emerge from the effects.

She still fought to keep her mind from dwelling on him all the time. Even now, as James quizzed her, she floated in a pleasant fog. Blissful memories beckoned.

She noticed James watching her. The smallest fires of suspicion brightened his eyes. It was almost as if he had read her mind during her contemplation of Nathaniel, and guessed not only about those nights but what had occupied the days.

She was imagining that, of course. Her guilt over deceiving him, her simmering worry over Jenny’s tale, had her seeing much more than was there.

He remained expectant. He waited for her to tell him of those affairs that had delayed her return.

“There is an hour before the guests arrive,” she said, walking past him. “I will go above and visit Ambrose. I have missed him badly.”

“You cannot have missed him too much,” he muttered at her back. “The nurse says he has been crying at night because you disappeared. He thought you abandoned him.”

She did not break her stride, but guilt sickened her heart. She resented how easily James had shot that bolt and used her love of the child to express his own resentments.

His tone indicated he would not hesitate to do it again too.

Charlotte led the ladies from the dining room. It was a large party, and they broke into groups upon reaching the drawing room.

Her absence during the preparations for this night had taken a toll in the details. The household had become as dependent on her as James had. There were a few missteps as a result, and she could tell that James was not pleased.

She did her gracious best to make up for it with the ladies. Moving from group to group, she initiated spirited conversation among them.

Unfortunately, her mobility allowed one lady to corner her alone for a few private words.

“I hope you will not find me too bold, Lady Mardenford,” Mrs. Powell said. “I thought that you could advise me on a distressing development.”

Charlotte already knew what distressed Agnes Powell, and wished she had remained anchored to one sofa and unavailable for this tête-à-tête. Instead she guided her away from the others and slowed her steps so it might look like they merely chatted about the arrival of spring’s rain.

“I fear that I have offended Sophia, and I do not know how or why,” Mrs. Powell confided. “She did not invite me to her salon last week, and when I called on her yesterday I was told she was not receiving.”

Charlotte rather wished the Duchess of Everdon had received Mrs. Powell, and been honest about the loss of favor. She was in no mood herself to dissemble with this young woman whose quick mind had gained her entry into Everdon’s circle, but whose lack of discretion had now earned her ejection.

They approached the end of the chamber and turned so they would follow its northern wall.

“It is your misfortune that Sophia overheard your conversation with Lady Fulton several weeks ago. The one at Bianca’s party, when you spoke with great freedom and wit near the garden doors. The duchess, you see, was taking some air right outside those doors.”

Mrs. Powell’s face flushed. Charlotte kept her voice level and calm.

“Sophia is not very tolerant of gossip, especially that which hurts her friends. Her lack of generosity on this point may be a failing, but her friends, I assure you, are grateful for the protection she wields with her station.”

She sensed Mrs. Powell’s growing dismay and did not mind in the least. That conversation near the garden doors had been about her sister Penelope, and had veered toward dangerous speculations of the cruelest kind.

She stopped and faced Mrs. Powell and forced a smile so that anyone watching would think they spoke of simple things. Mrs. Powell’s own smile trembled, and her blue eyes reflected her horror that Charlotte knew what had been said that day.

“Do not be too distraught at losing Everdon’s favor. There are ladies enough in society who will welcome you as a friend. They will be happy to whisper with you about my family and others, and about you when you are not present.”

She gestured Mrs. Powell forward and they finished their turn of the room in silence.

The conversation unsettled her, and not only because of the anger that had spiked on Pen’s behalf. It reminded her of how those whispers spread and grew wings, and took on a life removed from fact and truth. She knew their danger too well, and imagined them buzzing about this house, ruining the people who lived in it.

She pictured drawing rooms down through the years, where smiles would turn a little cruel as she walked by. Worse, she imagined Ambrose forever shadowed by either rumors or scandal. Each time he met a new person, that person would soon be treated to the whole story.

Hell of a thing, to be heir and then learn there was another son before you. Spanish no less. Mardenford must have lost his head.

Even if no such displacement occurred, the question would follow Ambrose forever. The inquiry itself would be public and humiliating.

Nathaniel knew that, but she doubted he really understood the cost. He was the sort of man who lived life as he chose. He did not bow to society. She suspected Ambrose would be more like his father and uncle. Like all the Mardenfords, he would want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the best of the best, secure in his place and free of scandal.

Right now at Albany a man was deciding whether to permit that, or whether truth had a bigger claim on his conscience.

After the last guests departed, James silently headed for the library. It was customary for Charlotte to join him there for a short while after such dinners, to assess the event’s success.

She did not want to do so this time. She felt too much as she had as a girl when she anticipated a scolding from Laclere for her behavior. Only she was not a girl anymore and James had no right to scold. She was not in the mood to suffer it with grace. If he criticized, she might just put him in his place.

She did not follow. Instead she took a small lamp and walked up the stairs to the high chambers that housed the nursery.

Ambrose was whimpering when she entered. He made a low, careening drone that wrenched her heart. He had not woken the nurse, so he cried alone.

She hurried to his bedroom and picked him up. His little arms hugged her tightly. After a few deep sobs he began calming.

“Ancharl,” he said contentedly, rubbing his tear-stroked face on her
gros de Naples
bodice. “Ancharl” had been one of his first words last winter, and his way of saying “Aunt Charl.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

He shook his head. “Wanna play,” he said accusingly, sounding much like James in his tone.

When she had visited earlier, he had wanted her to get on the floor as she often did and join in games. Dressed as she was, the result would have been a disaster. She wished she had been less particular about her appearance now, if the child on waking in the night had still been hurt by her rebuff.

“I had to be hostess at your father’s dinner, Ambrose. We cannot always play when we want. I love you even when I cannot play.”

He angled his weight back so he could look at her. Her arms strained to balance him. Soon he would be too big for her to pick up and embrace.

He considered her with a skeptical inspection, as if judging whether she had meant it when she said she loved him. She wondered what James had said the last two weeks when he explained to Ambrose that they could not make their visits to Ancharl’s house.

He suddenly embraced her neck and kissed her. “Wuv too.”

The light shifted. They both looked over. James stood at the bedroom door.

Ambrose reached out a pudgy hand to his father. James joined them. “You should be asleep, son.”

“He was awake when I came up. I think he will sleep now. Won’t you, Ambrose?”

He rubbed his eyes with his fists and nodded.

He let her put him down and tuck him in. He curled on his side at once and stilled.

She enjoyed the sweetness of watching his innocence in the dark. Then James moved away and she reluctantly followed him.

“He is getting big. In a blink he will be too old for me to hug,” she said as they left the nursery. “I will turn around and he will be at university, turn again and he will be on his grand tour—”

James walked beside her. She knew he wanted to say something or he would not have followed her upstairs. His bad humor was palpable, but that was not what made her speech falter.

His body had tightened, visibly flinched, when she mentioned the grand tour.

She looked at him in the lamp’s glow as they descended the stairs. His face had gotten very long indeed. His eyes appeared dark in the yellow gloss, very dark. Dark and cautious. A cramp gripped her stomach and an eerie sensation overtook her.

He appeared much like Harry right now. The resemblance had emerged vaguely, like a form pressed against the back of thin silk.

The effect unsettled her enough that she had to use the banister for security. Her feet sought the last stairs awkwardly.

He peered at her as if he noticed her unrest and found it suspicious. She was imagining that, certainly. She was imagining all of it. He had not flinched, and he was not worried, and he did not find her reference to a grand tour odd at all.

“After that, I will be the old aunt whom he is obligated to visit when he is in town,” she finished. “Such is the way of life, however.”

“He will never think of it as an obligation. I will not allow him to grow so callous.”

“All young men are somewhat callous, James. They must be, to find their paths away from those childish embraces of mothers and aunts.”

They were in the reception hall now and more lamps lit the space. The fleeting resemblance to Harry was gone. It had been nothing more than the dim light and the peculiar mood between them tonight.

Her shock bled away and her stomach unclenched, but a newly born instinct in her would not completely retreat.

She asked a footman to call her carriage and send for her wrap.

“You are leaving already?” James asked.

“I am tired.”

“From your journey?”

She had hoped to avoid further talk of that, but he had found a way back to the subject anyway. “Partly.”

He appeared quite normal now. Normal and typical and the friend she knew, not the stranger on the stairs.

“You seemed unhappy when I mentioned a grand tour,” she heard herself saying. The impulse to prod, to know, surged and spilled without enough thought.

A subtle tightness flexed his face. Undeniable this time. One of the soul as much as the countenance. She felt it as much as saw it. Hollowness spread through her chest.