Surrender The Night (12 page)

“I, too, love poetry, Kat. What do you think of Pope’s ‘Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul’?”

She rejoined dryly, “If you admired my mind and my morals, you’d take me to church instead of bed.” When he shrugged carelessly, as if the point were both moot and picayune, an edge sharpened her tone. ‘ ‘Myself, I agree with Milton: ‘Most men admire virtue who follow not her lore.’ ” He feigned grabbing at a stab to his heart, but pure mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Again, I refer to a master more eloquent than I, albeit rather cynical about women. As Pope said, ‘Men, some to business, some to pleasure, take; but every woman is at heart a rake.’” When she smiled reluctantly at his neat leveler, he brushed her chin with a gentle fist. “Come, little moralizer, as Spenser said, ‘Be bold, be bold, and everywhere be bold.’ ”

“He also said, ‘Be not too bold.’ Advice we’d both do well to follow.” She tried to rise, but he, laughing, plopped her into his lap.

“ ‘All for love, and nothing for reward.’ Spenser must have had you in mind when he wrote it, my faerie queene.” His merry light grew dim and solemn as he crushed her in his arms. “But reward me you yet will, in these three days, and, God willing, for many more.”

She wondered despairingly how he could inyoke the name of God in such a lawless quest, but, as usual, he had the last word, for he consumed her protest with his lips. And, as usual, her clearheadedness didn’t stand before the tidal wave of his passion. By the time he carried her up the stairs, she was beyond a witty rejoinder; beyond wit, forsooth.

He was patient, he was gentle, he was man embodied. And what he did to her body was as scandalous as it was pleasurable. However, even in the midst of the greatest intimacy women can know, she held some of herself apart. Pride and self-respect dwelt in a lonely aerie, perhaps, but their fastness kept conscience and virtue safe—as long as she did not give him those ruinous passwords of desire.

Though he wooed her in bed and out during those last days.

she triumphed. On the last evening of April she awaited him in her chamber. He’d been grini all day and had not taken her yet, but she knew he’d soon avail himself of a convenience he’d shortly be without. She stood staring out the window at the sickle moon, ruminating on what had preceded its passing. In a few hours the clock would strike on a new day. She’d all but won, yet she felt only sadness. She’d never been able to forget Devon Alexander Tyrone Cavanaugh when he was only a man who’d pursued her. Now he was her first lover, aye, likely her last lover. He could be even more. ...

Her hands crept to her stomach. Her eyes closed. She fell to her knees and prayed yet again, though intuition warned it was too late. Faith, even one as strong as hers, could not uproot the seed that had been firmly planted, probably within a few days of her arrival. She was overdue now by over three weeks. In the last few days she’d awakened nauseated. But when Martha brought the tray of tea and rolls, her stomach had settled before she’d embarrassed herself—or aroused Devon’s suspicions.

If she did carry a babe, then escape was all the more imperative. She’d asked him once, during one of their arguments, if he’d sired any children.

He’d stiffened. “No! I’ve always taken . . . precautions. I want no by-blows with my face. The only children I intend to sire will bear my name.” When she’d looked at him in mute disgust, he’d tapped her cheek with a finger. “You needn’t worry about bearing my bastards, my dear. It’s unlikely you’ve taken my seed in this brief time.
...”
His voice faltered, then grew firm again as if he’d reassured himself, too. “And if you stay with me. I’ll take the same precautions. I’m certain you don’t want a child any more than I.”

Those words echoed tormentingly now in the bleak empti
ness of her heart. Bastard. By-blow. The only issue he could get on her because her blood was not blue enough. If only . . . Tears bedewed her eyes, but she swiped them away. Self-pity served no purpose. Leaving was the only alternative, aye, the best one. She’d seen in her father’s village how isolated the illegitimate children were. She’d not wish that fate, and an unloving father, upon an innocent babe. Far better to get away from London and concoct a story of widowhood. She’d have to remember to buy a ring. Though she’d earned every penny, she hated to accept his tainted money. However, now she couldn’t afford the luxury of flinging every shilling in his arrogant face. She had more than herself to think of.

While she stood in anguished thought above, below Devon stared unseeingly into the salon’s cold grate. It was getting late. He’d best hie upstairs and take advantage of this last night, for it would be all he’d have of her. Damn her. Damn her willful, stupid pride. For pride alone stood between them. Hers. And his. He was honest enough to admit that.

The price of her submission was a few words muttered in a hushed sanctum, but it was dear indeed. Pride in his heritage had sustained him through too many lonely years for him to forsake it now. He wanted the best for his heirs. While Katrina herself was both lovely and intelligent, who knew what tainted blood she unknowingly carried from her distaff side? He’d be sickened to see the longevity of his name furthered by a crude lout. He’d seen exactly that fate happen to a friend of his who’d let passion sway him into wedding a tailor’s daughter. The poor fellow kept his sons hidden at his country seat, but all the ton knew of their common manners and dull intellects. No, wed her he could not. He owed too much to the memory of his parents and the legacy they’d left him. And stay with him any other way she apparently would not. Impasse.

He’d used every wile he knew on Katrina, yet though she responded to him reluctantly, she never gladly reciprocated. He poured himself another brandy, then stared in disgust as his hand jittered decanter against crystal. He set the bottle down with a bang and threw the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying clatter, but his frustration only grew. He bent from the waist to clasp his head in his hands.

Why did this one woman keep him enthralled? His affairs usually lasted only a few weeks; he’d never been obsessed with any woman as he was with Katrina. Fusing with that beautiful body had not satisfied him. If anything, he was hungrier for her now that he knew how very different the act was with her.

From the beginning she’d been special to him, but the real change in his feelings had come when he found her caught in the armoire. For the first—and only—time since coming here, she’d needed him. And seeing her vulnerable, afraid, had pained him so that he could no longer deny that he wanted more than her favors. From that time on he’d been as curious about her mind as he was about her body. And he’d discovered, dismayingly, that Katrina would have attracted him had she been as plain as a post.

What a coil she’d put him in. Finally he’d met a woman he wanted for more than a few days, and she was the first woman he’d been unable to tempt. Still, she had two more surprises awaiting her in reward for this night. A night he still longed to be special for them, whether it would be a new beginning or a sad end. And if he could at last defeat that stubborn will, what then? Would he tire of her, too? He stared at his feet, searching his own feelings as never before. “No,” he said softly to himself.

He might be confused about much, but one thing he knew; It would be many a moon before he tired of her. Only
she
made him forget everything. He’d not once, in all their couplings, had presence of mind enough to withdraw before he spent himself, shied away from exploring the ramifications of that. He knew, as none better, that she had not begun her menses since coming here. Still, she was probably one of those women who were inconsistent. Perhaps being a virgin had something to do with it. Nevertheless, if by some miracle he was able to win the words he sought tonight, then he’d have to discipline himself

He’d not missed the intimacy of blending his essence with his other mistresses. But, with Katrina, he wanted to brand her, fill her with himself until her very identify melded with his. Dread the answer though he did, he asked himself the logical question: Why were his feeUngs for her so powerful? Could it be that he truly loved her?

He swallowed convulsively. His nails dug into his hair. Why had he selected that particular sonnet to read? He’d intended to choose at random, yet some instinct had led him to one of the sweetest love poems ever written.

He forced his aching back upright and rested his elbows on his knees. This . . . roundaboutation only clouded his already muzzy brain. It didn’t matter whether he’d tested her, or his own confused feelings; they’d both failed miserably, in any case. She believed his obsession was sexual. She was probably right. It was better that way, he told himself Agitated, he leaped up and turned to the door. His eye lit on the brandy decanter.

He grabbed the exquisite crystal vessel. One last night he had to keep her. If he could break that stubborn pride, then he’d have time to solve the mysteries she posed him. He had a final sensual trick to try. An aging whore had used it on him once, and he still remembered her fondly despite her sagging breasts and wrinkled face. That had been the most sexually enjoyable night of his life. Until Katrina. Maybe she’d be affected similarly. Even if she didn’t reciprocate, he’d wager she’d never forget this night. Or him.

His movements brisk, his mind clear with resolve, he strode upstairs. He banged the door open. She started and turned from the window to face him. She was attired in her petticoats and chemise. Not once had he been able to coax her into wearing die expensive garments he’d purchased for her.

He kicked the door shut with his boot. “Good evening, my lovely.”

She eyed him warily, looking from the decanter to his flushed face.

“I’m not drunk. But you soon will be. On the wine of passion.” He approached her, the brandy decanter in one hand.

She backed off, her eyes wide, unbelieving. “No, Devon, please. I hate the vile stuff.”

His lips quirked in a semblance of a smile. “You don’t understand, my dear.’Tis not your interior it will warm.
...”

She cocked her head in confusion.

Her innocence despite the many times he’d taken her both pleased and angered him. Her charms were boundless, ageless. Doubtless she’d wear just that look when a doddering old man of eighty made advances to her spry seventy-three. The vision of that old man bore a strong resemblance to himself, and he banished the disturbing picture in the only way he knew. With action. Action he should have taken long ere now.

He set the decanter down on the table next to the settee, then bent to kindle a fire in the grate. Sensing her movement, he said casually over his shoulder, “Don’t. You’ll only put me to the trouble of fetching you.” When he had a goodly flaine going, he dusted his hands against his breeches and stood, turning to face her.

She stood rooted in place, like a small but hardy tree determined to resist the wind’s wiles. That obstinate look was on her face. Rather than deterring him, however, her determination set a like expression about his own mouth. Holding her eyes, he pushed the settee away from the fire, leaving a clear space on the thick Aubusson rug. He held out his hand.

She eyed it, then him, distrustfully. “It’s over, Devon. Why don’t you let me go now? And leave us some good memories—”

“This night will bum brightly in your mind until you’re very, very old. Come, wench, to bed. I’ve one night left with you, arid by the saints I’m going to enjoy every moment of it.” When she stayed planted, he advanced on her. “Hold that disdainful expression till you might, my girl. It shan’t last long.”

She turned to run then, but too late. He caught her, quelling her struggles, and carried her to the rug. He followed her down with his long body. When she still writhed, he pulled her arms above her head. He dusted feather-light kisses on every feature of her face except her mouth. She turned her head from side to side, baring the vulnerable hollows of ears and neck. He explored them with lips and tongue. She shivered, but stub
bornly kept up her resistance. Her will lasted only until he trailed those gentle kisses to her mouth. He brushed her lips from side to side, then pulled away to buss the tip of her nose.

So passed the long, patient minutes. He lavished attention on every inch of flesh from neck to hairline, but he only touched her mouth in passing. When her struggles waned, then ceased, he let her hands go. She brought them up as if to push him away, but with a garbled sound that might have been anger or gladness, she buried her fingers in his loosened hair and pulled his head down to hers.

The full, flaming warmth of their kiss owed nothing to the fire. They luxuriated in one another, mouth latched to mouth, lips slanting upon lips, as the heat slowly grew. The fire crackled and hissed, but they heard it not. Prometheus’ gift was niggardly compared to Aphrodite’s rich offering.

Devon was light-headed with the roaring blaze she incited in him, but he tamped it down, thus stoking her own slower fu-e. When she muttered impatiently against his lips and stroked him with her tongue, he teasingly refused to open. To his delight she caught his jaw in her hands and tilted his head sideways. He opened his mouth to the insistent thrust of her tongue. She delved into him, kissing him more deeply when he didn’t answer her caress.

His hands clenched about her waist with the strain, but he stayed still. He was rewarded with her frustrated moan. She pulled away to glare at him, her eyes aglitter with passion. “For a man who wishes a woman to remember him, you’re behaving deuced strange.”