A Rogue's Downfall, page 7
She tipped her head back to look up into his face. He was looking back at her, his dark eyes steady and intent. She felt the seductive rhythm of the music and of their dancing bodies, far too close for propriety—as they had been last year.
“Hugh.” She heard his name, spoken with her voice. She had never even thought of him by name. But she had spoken it now. “Please,” she said, and did not know for what she pleaded. She did not know if he would know for what she asked. “Please.”
His eyes smiled at her. Not just his lips, she thought, gazing up at him. His eyes smiled. He stopped dancing and signaled to the musicians. The music drew to a close. “Perhaps,” he said, “Miss Williams and Mr. Carstairs will join us for cake and punch.”
The spell was broken. Amy chatted gratefully with their guests for the following half hour or so. Perhaps by the time they left, she thought, she would have the strength to bid her husband good night and to put an end to a day that could only lead to another year of misery if she tried to prolong it or allowed him to do so.
Perhaps she would have the strength. He set an arm loosely about her waist as he talked. It was a gesture of careless—or carefully calculated—possessiveness.
Miss Williams and Mr. Carstairs had left the drawing room together after effusive thanks on both sides. The earl looked down at the half-empty bowl of punch and at the cake with the base of the heart missing. Nothing ever tasted quite as sinfully delicious as Cook’s icing. He must remember to tell her so in the morning—before he kissed her cheek.
“Thank you for the roses and for the surprise guests and the dancing,” his wife said quietly. “Good night, my lord.”
But he set his hands on either side of her waist before she could escape. “It was Hugh a short while ago,” he said.
She appeared to be finding the folds of his neck cloth fascinating. And so she should. His valet had expended enough care and energy over them.
“Has it been better than last year?” he asked.
She raised her eyes to his. “I want to go to bed,” she said. And blushed.
“So do I.” He smiled at her discomfiture. “But not just yet. I want us to go there together if you will freely and gladly agree to do so. There is something I must tell you first.”
“You wanted it to be better than last year,” she said. “Let it be better then. Let it end here. It has been a—pleasant day. I will remember it with some pleasure when you have gone. Let it end here, my lord. Let me say good night and leave you.”
“I love you,” he said.
She looked up at him with helpless misery. “No, you don’t,” she said. “You don’t have to say so. Perhaps you say it to all your other women. Perhaps it is what makes them compliant. You said it to me last year. But you need not say it this year. We both know that if you wish to come to my bed you may do so. I am not so lost to all good conduct that I would refuse you your conjugal rights. You do not need to seduce me with flattery and untruths.”
“There was a sparkle of something in you,” he said, “that set you apart from all the other girls who made their come-out two years ago. Something that made me notice you. Something that made me fall in love with you, though I was horrified by the feeling and very unwilling to act on it. Being in love with a virtuous young girl and courting her and marrying her were not in my plans for the foreseeable future. And so I loved you secretly and unwillingly until I saw you at the opera house a year ago tonight.”
“You are lying.” There were tears of anger—and perhaps something else—in her eyes. “Don’t lie. You were unaware of my very existence until that evening.”
“How did I know who you were then?” he asked. “How did I know whose father to call upon with my offer the next morning?”
She stared up at him. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Why did you abandon me if you loved me?”
“Because I had ruined you,” he said, “and destroyed that sparkle. Because I was forced to offer you a rake for a husband and could see in your eyes how much you hated me. I have hated myself for what I have done to your life.”
“It was not hatred for you,” she said. “I hated trapping you into marrying me when everyone knew that you had no intention of marrying anyone—especially someone like me. It was the situation I hated. My own helplessness. And then I hated you for abandoning me. You cannot imagine what my wedding night was like. You cannot possibly imagine.”
“I can.” He swallowed and touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “I lived through it, too, Amy. If that is what hell is like, I believe I am going to have to reform my ways so that I can go to the other place when I die.”
“I always loved you,” she whispered. “From the first moment I saw you. I suppose it was not love. It was hero worship or worship of the forbidden, more like.” She looked down suddenly. “I always loved you.”
“Well, my valentine,” he said, lifting her chin with one finger so that she had no choice but to look into his eyes again. “Well.”
“Please,” she said, catching at his wrist. “Please, Hugh. If this is seduction, have pity on me. Please.”
He touched his lips to hers and found them cool and trembling. He warmed them and stilled them with his own, wrapping his arms about her and drawing her against him. Ah, Amy. Ah, my love.
It was too late. A day too late. A year too late. Perhaps two years too late. If she had never seen him, perhaps she would have been safe. Having once seen him, she was forever lost. She sagged against him, pressed her lips back against his, opened her mouth to the seeking of his tongue, twined her arms about his neck.
It was too late. And she did not care any longer. If there was to be only the night, then so be it.
He drew his head back a few inches after a while and looked down at her.
“If I would freely and gladly agree,” she said. “I do. You may take me to bed.”
He first smiled and then chuckled. “You look rather as if you were inviting me to escort you to the scaffold,” he said. “It is not for tonight only, Amy. I am hungry for a regular bed partner, you see, and I have discovered over the past year that only my wife will do. There has been no one else since our marriage, you may be surprised to hear. That means there has been no one at all since our marriage. I want you tonight and every night. I want to live with you every day and sleep with you every night. I want to be a father to my son—to our son—and to any future sons or daughters we may be blessed with. I want a marriage with you, Amy. I will settle for nothing less. If you can offer only tonight—with the martyred expression you just assumed—then no, thank you. I shall return to London tomorrow at first light.”
The sense of peace was so overwhelming that she had to close her eyes and rest her face against his neck cloth. Sin was not irredeemable? Punishment was not eternal? There was to be a reprieve after only one year?
“You love me?” Her voice was muffled by the folds of his neck cloth.
“I love you.”
“Not just because it is Valentine’s Day and there have been the roses and the primroses and the music and candlelight and the heart-shaped cake?”
“Amy.” She felt his cheek come to rest against the top of her head. There was soft reproach in his voice. She sighed with contentment.
He rocked her against him, feeling her body relax against his. He kissed the top of her head after a while and chuckled. “Nothing has developed quite the way I imagined it today,” he said. “I do believe you are on the verge of falling asleep, Amy, when I pictured this moment as one of blazing passion.”
She raised her head and smiled at him slowly and sweetly, the smile extending all the way back into her eyes. “All in good time,” she said. “James—”
“—is going to have to be taught that his father has needs at least as urgent as his own,” he said. “I suppose I am going to have to let him be satisfied first, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” she said. She was still smiling. “Come with me? Don’t leave me. Come, too.”
He wrapped one arm about her waist and led her toward the door. “And then afterward,” he said, “my turn.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh of utter contentment. “I am going to enjoy having two men in my life, not just one.”
But he paused suddenly when he already had a hand on the doorknob. “Goodness,” he said. “I almost forgot. The most important question is still to be asked. Will you marry me?”
She stared up at him blankly.
“You will observe that your finger is bare,” he said. “Will you marry me, my love? Because you love me and for no other reason?”
“Oh,” she said, looking down at her hand. “Oh, yes. Yes, Hugh. For that reason. And for no other.”
“Well, then.” He released his hold on her and reached into a pocket. “Let us cut this to the bare essentials, shall we?” He fitted her wedding ring over her finger and slid it on. “With this ring I thee wed, my dearest love. Because I love you. For all time.”
He kissed her and smiled at her and drew her against his side with an arm about her waist again. She nestled her head against his shoulder as he opened the door. They climbed the stairs together slowly, murmuring nothing of any great importance to each other.
Morse, who had been waiting in the hall for a chance to get into the drawing room to clear up—that had been his excuse for loitering there, anyway— smiled with smug satisfaction and turned back toward the kitchen rather than proceeding with his intended task. He had something of importance to share with the other servants.
The Wrong Door
by
Mary Balogh
Without a doubt it was the most stupid thing he had ever done. He had spent the last ten years of his life being daring, rash, even unwise. But this was plain stupid. And the outcome was that he was in grave danger of having acquired a leg-shackle for himself.
He had always intended never to take on a leg-shackle despite the fact that he already had a viscount’s title and would one day acquire that of a marquess, if he outlived an elderly and infirm uncle, and it was expected of him to marry and produce an heir. Now he would no longer have to worry about disappointing those expectations. He was in more than danger. He was on his way to the altar as surely as if the offer had been made and accepted already.
Alistair Scott, Viscount Lyndon, had been invited to the seaside home of his friend, Colin Willett, for the occasion of the eightieth birthday of Colin’s grandmother. Elmdon Hall was within a day’s ride of Brighton and the viscount had pictured himself and Colin riding there frequently, it being summer and the fashionable time to be in Brighton. He had not fully realized until it was too late that it was a full-fledged house party to which he had been invited and that he would be obliged to stay at Elmdon to participate in the celebrations. The house was filled to the rafters with family members and family friends.
It was not at all the viscount’s type of entertainment. There were altogether too many sweet young things obviously on the lookout for a husband, some of them with a certain air of desperation since the Season in London was over and they were still unattached. Viscount Lyndon was not interested in sweet young things since he could not bed them and had discovered no other pleasurable use for women in his thirty years.
It was to avoid one persistent miss, who distinctly reminded the viscount of a horse, that he attached himself to Lady Plumtree, a widow, during an afternoon ride on the first full day at Elmdon. And then led her in to dinner. And took her as a partner at cards during the evening. And made an assignation with her for that night. It was a very stupid thing to do. Although he had a passing acquaintance with the lady from town and although it was clear that she understood the rules of the game of dalliance and would provide a delightful diversion during what promised to be a rather dull week in the country, nevertheless it was not the sort of party at which one indulged in affaires de coeur.
If everything had proceeded smoothly, of course, the chances were that he would never have felt a pang of guilt over the tastelessness of his behavior. Or over its stupidity. But things did not proceed smoothly. The third door on the left of the inner corridor of the east wing, Lady Plumtree had told him, dark eyes peering up at him through long lashes as she issued the invitation. He would be there, he told her, hooded blue eyes gazing back into hers.
But later that night, walking unfamiliar corridors without a candle or the help of moonlight through windows, it was not quite clear which was the inner corridor and which was the outer. And did the doors on the left include the small door, clearly belonging to some sort of cupboard, that was a mere few inches from the beginning of the corridor? He did not feel these doubts at the time, of course, or perhaps he would have been saved from disaster. It was only later that he realized how carelessly stupid he had been.
How disastrously stupid.
Lady Plumtree was small and slender, quiet and elegant. She was, in fact, the picture of respectability to anyone who did not know that she liked to collect lovers as other ladies collected fans or jewels. One would not expect her to behave like any vulgar courtesan. The viscount merely smiled, then, when he stepped inside her room and closed the door soundlessly behind him to find that she was lying quietly in bed, pretending to sleep. Novelty was always welcome to someone with appetites as jaded as his.
“Laura?” he said, his voice low.
No answer. He smiled again as he drew his shirt clear of his pantaloons and off over his head. He pulled off his pantaloons and stockings and stood naked close to the bed, looking down at her slight form, curled invitingly beneath the covers. Her blond hair was spread about her on the pillow. Not that he could see either her form or the color of her hair with any clarity. Although the curtains at the window were drawn back, it was a very dark night.
He drew back the covers slowly and almost chuckled. She was wearing a nightgown, a very virginal one, covering her from neck to ankles by the look of it. And she still pretended to sleep. She was not a particularly good actress, though. Her breathing was too quiet to be convincing. But there was something very alluring about the appearance of innocence she had chosen to portray and about the stillness of her body. The woman knew how to entice. He lay down beside her carefully and drew the covers back up over them.
He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her. She was lying on her side facing him, her hair covering the part of her face that was not buried in the pillow. He wished he could see her more clearly. With one finger he lifted aside a heavy lock of hair, lowered his head, and touched his lips to her cheek. Warm and soft. He breathed in the smell of soap. Clever. It was more enticing than perfume.
“Mmm,” she said with studied drowsiness, bringing back his smile, and she turned her head sufficiently that he could move his mouth to hers.
He touched it first with his tongue, running it lightly along her upper lip before letting his parted lips rest against hers. Warm and soft again, betraying her wakefulness by parting very slightly to mold themselves to his.
“Lyndon,” she said, a mere breath of sound against his mouth.
Firm breasts, small waist, nicely rounded buttocks— there was something surprisingly erotic about letting his hand roam over them, a layer of soft, warm cotton between his hand and them. More erotic than nakedness at this stage of the game. The woman was an expert.
Perhaps too expert. He was almost painfully aroused. He liked a great deal of foreplay. He liked lengthy play inside his women’s bodies too, but he always felt cheated of some pleasure if circumstances forced him to an early mount. He liked his women hot and panting and pleading before penetration. This woman was trying to cheat him, even if she did not realize it.
He began to undo the buttons at the front of her nightgown, waiting for her to raise her arms. She did not do so. Perhaps she intended to carry through the charade to the end. Perhaps she would feign sleep even after he had entered her and while he worked in her. He smiled down at her darkened form and felt his breath quicken. There was something almost unbearably alluring about the thought. He hoped that was her plan.
He slid his hand beneath the nightgown along her shoulder and down over one breast to cup it in his palm. He felt her stiffen slightly as his thumb rubbed against her nipple. He took it between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing lightly, willing her to relax and feign sleep again. He set his mouth to hers once more, opening it with the pressure of his lips, and slid his tongue slowly into her mouth, as deeply as he was able. She swallowed and he moaned.
And then all hell broke loose. He found himself fighting a hellcat, who was twisting and punching and scratching and kicking and biting and panting beneath him on the bed. For one moment—and one moment only—he thought that she had suddenly and quite deliberately changed tactics. And then he realized the truth. Too late. Far too late. She had not screamed and there was perhaps the glimmering of a chance that he would be able to get himself and his garments from the room without her seeing the identity of her attacker. But then even the glimmer was snuffed.
There was a light suddenly before he could break free of the unknown woman who was so fiercely defending her honor. And a loud, shocked, scolding voice. A maid, he realized when rationality began to return and he turned his head sharply. A large, very angry maid, who must have been sleeping in the adjoining dressing room. She was carrying a candle in one hand.
“Oh, the devil!” he said with a groan, turning his head back to look down at the woman in the bed, who had stopped struggling. She stared back at him from huge eyes, her face flushed, her auburn hair in wild disarray about her shoulders and over the one exposed breast. She was the prettiest of the sweet young things, he saw. He could not remember her name.
