Provocative in Pearls (16 page)

She opened her eyes. Something odd blocked her view. She rose up on one arm and examined it.

A pretty wooden box, perfectly crafted and lined in velvet, rested on the bed. It was open, and strands of little creamy orbs lay within, contrasting in texture and color with their home.

The pearls.

A servant had delivered them while she dressed for the wedding two years ago. Nancy had been enraptured by their beauty and value, and insisted that Verity wear them for the ceremony. And she had worn them, just as she had done everything else demanded of her that day. But their beauty and rarity had done nothing to alter her mood, or make her any happier.

They had also been the first thing she removed after the wedding breakfast, because she feared breaking a strand. A clear memory came to her, one of the clearest of that day, of Nancy approaching her while she dropped those pearls onto the dressing table in the next chamber.

There are some things I must tell you now.
That was how Nancy began that conversation that had provoked her rage and flight.

She lifted the pearls. No servant would leave them like this, on her pillow. Hawkeswell had been here.

He had returned her wedding gift to her, so she would have them as if she never left this house and this property that day. He expected her to wear them tonight, she was very sure. He would be insulted if she did not.

The strands fell over her hand and down her arm. Pearls felt like nothing else in the world, in their weight and surface and discreet luxury. These were probably worth a fortune.

She would indulge herself in their beauty for one dinner. They were not hers to keep, however.

 

 

V
erity came down to dinner, as a vision transformed. Hawkeswell could not take his eyes off her when she entered the drawing room.

He had never seen her in anything except those simple dresses these last days. Even the memory of her wedding dress had been obliterated by unembellished, serviceable muslin.

Now the most interesting rosy brown silk encased her in a long, narrow, liquid shaft of elegance. The lace decorating its sleeves and hem and low neckline contrasted nicely with the unusual color and made the ensemble appear crisply fresh.

A sumptuous shawl in a paler version of the same color draped her arms and dipped low in the back. Multiple strands of pearls circled her neck and emphasized the elegance of her appearance, and of that particular way she had of tilting her head in silent query.

It tilted now, when she joined him. She noticed his glance at the pearls, and her hand rose and touched them for an instant. Her gaze carried an acknowledgment of what they were and how they had reappeared.

“The evening is fair. We are going to dine informally, on the terrace,” he said.

“That would please me.”

And him as well. There would be time enough for the crushing formalities of her new station. They did not have to spend this meal in a chamber that could seat forty.

They went out to the terrace where a table had been set. Candles flickered in the faint breeze, reflecting off silver and china still visible in the gathering dusk. The meal began arriving, more elaborate in courses and flavors than normally served here. Mrs. Bradley and the cook must have decided that the return of their countess required a bit of celebration and that frugality could be set aside tonight.

She peered through the dusk at the garden. “I remember it being bigger. Deeper.”

“Wilderness has reclaimed the back half. It was the gardener’s solution when most of his staff were let go. The grasses and saplings took over with astonishing speed. It is somewhat unsightly.”

“The maintenance of such an estate must be costly.”

“I have learned how little is essential. When necessary, one can sacrifice pretty vistas.”

“That back garden could still be reclaimed. Or you could allow the wilderness free rein. In a few years it would be complete, and no longer unsightly.”

She had drunk all her wine, and a servant poured her more. Hawkeswell watched the crystal rise to her lips. Last light had passed, and her mouth appeared very dark in the candlelight. Dark and erotic.

“There are not any trees of size in this garden,” he said. “The light is good year-round. Perhaps, instead of rebuilding flower beds or leaving nature to do its work, a greenhouse would be in order back there.”

“Their maintenance requires a great deal of work. If you have let the staff go—”

“The lack of servants on this property will be a problem soon solved.”

“Then a greenhouse would be an enhancement. It would provide fresh flowers to the house year-round. If you reside here much of the year, a hothouse would be good too. Then the more exotic fruits could be grown for your table.”

“How big do you think they should be?”

They debated the size, and she described the types available. She knew a good deal about greenhouses, and warmed to the conversation. She even laughed, which he thought unlikely tonight. She did not notice the servants drift away when the meal was done, so that the master and mistress might talk alone into the night.

“I do not think our old gardener is an expert at growing in greenhouses,” he said. “You would have to instruct him if we do this. It would be your domain, if you choose.”

The light made her blue eyes almost black, and caught the most subtle expression dramatically. Now he saw hesitation, and surprise at how they suddenly did not discuss his home alone, but both of theirs.

“There is room for one at the London house as well,” he said. “You can continue your experiments, no matter where you reside.”

She met his gaze for a long spell. Then she looked anywhere but at him. Her gaze roamed to the candle flames, the garden, the wall, as if in ignoring him, she could ignore the inevitable.

Finally she looked at the table’s top. “I would prefer to continue them at The Rarest Blooms, until all is settled between you and me.”

“No.”

“Then allow me to stay with Audrianna. Lord Sebastian’s coach will return to Essex tomorrow, you said. I implore you to allow me to go with it.”

“No.”

She did not ask why. It was in her eyes that she knew. She was not immune to the intimacy of this night, and the tightening, stimulating mood surrounding them now, full of compelling anticipation.

She finally looked at him. “And if I go anyway, without your agreement?”

“Since I am your husband, it is not my agreement that you need, but my permission.”

“You know that I do not accept that.”

He reached across the table for her hand. “You keep daring me to be harsher with you than I want to be, or need to be.” He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

“This marriage has taken place, and it is time for it to begin in truth.”

She gently freed her hand, and stood. He did as well, not only due to etiquette, but also out of respect. She was not a big woman, and one would not think her to be strong. Yet she had proven more determined and tenacious in her odd quest than he ever knew a woman could be.

She faced him in the night. Her head tilted in that memorable way. “When do you intend for this marriage to begin in truth?”

“Soon.”

“I assume that you will at least give me fair warning first?”

He reached out and touched the pearls. “I have already done so.” He skimmed the surface of the pearls, then let his fingertips slowly do the same to the skin right below the strand.

She closed her eyes to that stroking touch. She was too ignorant to know how much she revealed in that reaction, or in the way her body flexed with a tremble.

“And if . . .” She licked her lips. She had no idea how suggestive that looked. “And if I refuse?”

He had not decided how soon, but he’d be damned if he would give her time to open
that
front in her little war.

In a matter of seconds, soon became very soon, and very soon became now.

H
e did not answer her question. He just stood there, too close, too tall, too dark. One might think that all his concentration rested on the slow, soft way he caressed her skin below the necklace.

She braced against the sensations. It was insidious how such a small touch could create rivulets of pleasure that diverted her attention from anything else.

Except him. His mere presence created a shocking intimacy. Her own essence responded as if she had no choice. A thrilling shiver of heat flowed through her.

Her body betrayed her horribly. The sensations from the hilltop returned even though he barely touched her. Indulging them became a compelling desire that obscured all the solid reasons why she should not allow this at all.

Outright denial proved impossible, but she managed to move back, away from him and that touch. There was enough fear within the thrill to allow that.

He followed, pace for pace. He did not menace her. He merely stayed close, and prevented her from escaping his silent power.

Her rump hit the terrace wall, and she could back up no farther.

She placed her hand against his chest. Her palm pressed the silk of his waistcoat and her fingers the fine linen of his cravat. She did not do it to touch him, but to hold him at bay. Surely her gesture intended nothing besides that.

She thought she saw him smile in the dark. His hand came to rest atop hers and he pressed it down even more, so it turned into something of a caress. His heart beat under her palm and she felt his very life thrumming into her through her hand, and felt his body’s warmth and the muscles of his chest.

He lifted her hand and kissed it. First the back, then the palm. Seductive, soft kisses stunned her arm. Sweet kisses, full of ardor and danger, so confident in their ability to mesmerize. On her pulse now, kisses of dark warmth that forced her blood to sing.

Closer now. Too close. His body not connecting to hers, but creating thrills as if it did. His palms now, warm and dry and too appealing in their masculine firmness, cupping her head and holding her, and tilting it so he could look at her.

She knew then, as she looked at him and the moonlight revealed his severe passion. She knew this would not be like the kisses of the past, and that all hope of freedom would end tonight.

She tried to conjure up memories of Michael, so she might use guilt as a shield. His face came as a mere phantom, and the kisses as childish, giggling things. She scrambled to find other sanctuaries, to stop him with words or actions. But he kissed her while her mind ran, and he ensured no plan emerged.

A kiss designed to dazzle, to ensnare, to overwhelm. A kiss that she could not escape. She had no choice except to submit to the ravishment of her mouth, first sweet, then profound, then deep and so possessive she could not breathe.

“The servants,” she said on a gasp when he ended it, finally, leaving her limp. Her first words and rebellion and she barely managed either.

“They are long gone. Far away, above or below. They know better than to linger in view or in hearing.” He kissed her again, softly, so softly that she wondered if she had misunderstood his intentions. Then he embraced her, and she knew she had not.

So hard to think, when your mind was forgetting everything except pleasure. Her consciousness savored the titillations to her body, to the exclusion of more rational ideas.

“I do not want . . .” The protest barely made it out, and died as a caress skimmed her breast and her body cried with delight.

“You do not want this?” he asked, while his mouth pressed warmth and lures to her neck and ears and shoulder. His hand cupped her breast, and caressed again. “Are you sure? Or are you lying to yourself again? There has been too much of that today, don’t you think?”

His hand did wicked things. Delicious things. She could barely stand because of the way her strength dissolved. Pleasure astonished again and again, robbing her of will and thought and protest. She did not want this, but her body did, and he ensured it spoke louder in this debate.

She could not deny it. She did not know how to. Desire shouted down her small protest. He made sure it did. But he had heard it anyway, she knew. He had heard and understood but was making sure she would not protest again.

She tried once more to form the words, to escape the act that would bind her forever. Only instead her mind capitulated and acknowledged that there was no winning, no matter what the words, not now and not later. Her plan had been hopeless and she would never break this bond. She should allow the pleasure to have its way and revel in being so alive it seemed unearthly.

He claimed her mouth in a determined, dominating kiss and bound her closer in an encompassing embrace. She lost her weak grip on the lifeline to her intentions. She floated away on the sea of sensations, into a seductive mist.

No longer lying. No longer pretending. Hungry now, wanting more, not less. The touch on her breast no longer satisfied, but maddened her. The closeness no longer felt close enough. She melted into him, sharing breaths and scents and merging senses. He was in the mist too now; then he was the mist itself, surrounding her, entering her.

He sat her on the terrace’s low wall and showered fevered kisses while his hands plucked at her back. She thrilled as the dress loosened. Low and deep, a cry pulsed and teased when he lowered the bodice and chemise and exposed her. She gazed down at herself, at her breasts rising full in the moonlight below the lustrous pearls, their dark tips so hard and sensitive.

Begging now, waiting, wanting. Watching his fingertips approach, breathless with anticipation. Then torture, sweet torture, and a building, excruciating need filling her, allowing no other thought except a crazed physical insistence for more and more and more.

His dark head dipped and his tongue laved and she held his head to her so he would never stop, so the sensations would consume her. His caress moved to her legs, smoothing over hose and garter and higher to flesh. She parted her legs so he could, so the moist warmth there would be relieved, so the discomfort might abate. That caress, so firm and sure, so claiming and determined, rose higher yet, until it touched the discomfort itself and sent shocks of pleasure through her until she was spinning, spinning beyond hope in the madness.