A Sense of Sin (11 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Essex

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: A Sense of Sin
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“If you were to move your hand and stroke lower, could you feel the soft press of your smooth white belly beneath? If it were my hand spanning your waist, instead of yours, would I feel the slight flexing of your soft flesh?”
Her hand seemed to flex of its own accord where it lay against the soft muslin of her gown. Heat and something more, something conversely hard and needy budded to life within her, flooding her belly. Between her thighs, a tightness gathered into a pleasurable ache.
“Yes. Please, Celia. Move your hand for me. Stroke along your hips. Follow the edge of your stays for me. Show me how far they go. How close they would take me to your sweet heat.”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t move so much as a finger. She didn’t think she could even breathe. She felt her body clench of its own accord, deep inside, a pulsing shaft of pleasure so strong and sweet, she heard herself gasp.
“Yes. I can’t help it. I want my hands to be where yours are. I want to stroke down to discover the soft petals of your flesh. I want to feel you open and blossom in my hands. And more than my hands. I want to taste you, lick you, and tongue you there.”
She made a sound she had never heard, half cry, half plea.
“I shock you with my wants, with my needs. But it is true, Celia. I want to touch you. I want to taste you. I want all of you. Under your skirts, on top of your stays, gloriously naked. I want you in every way I can imagine.”
She was nearly panting and bit down hard on her lip to still the sound, echoing in her ears beneath the enveloping brim of the hat.
Viscount Darling bit off a sudden oath. “I must stop. We must stop. The boat draws near. But promise me, in another moment, when you rise, promise me that later tonight when you undress yourself, and one by one take off all your clothes, and lie down in your bed, that you will think of me. And that you will stroke your hands along the topography of your body, beneath your covers, on your bare skin, and you will think of me. That you will think of my hand in place of yours and think of how I want to trace the swell of your breasts, and find the sweet buds of your nipples. And how I would stroke them so softly and so carefully they would pucker sweetly beneath my fingers, ready for my touch, and for my mouth.
She swallowed, and tried to calm her breathing. One hand crept up to cover her mouth, to silence the sounds of her gasps, and the other came up to clutch the brim of the hat to make sure she stayed hidden.
My God, she ached. Ached, lying prostrate before him, fully clothed but naked to the soul beneath his regard. Aching for everything he spoke of, every word he said.
“You will, won’t you? You’ll promise me, after you’ve cupped your breasts, you’ll abandon them and slide your hands down your ribs, across your belly, lower, lower until you can reach there, between your thighs to your sex. And you’ll cup yourself, cover your sweet mound, and know that is where I want my hand to be. Know I want to feel the whisper of your skin as I part your soft, delicate flesh myself, and find your pearl and slide myself into the blissful heat of your slick sheath. Oh, God yes. Promise me, Celia. Promise me.”
And then she knew he was gone. She felt the loss of his presence, his warmth, his comfort, before she registered the crunch of his boots against the sand.
“Miss Burke? She is asleep, I think.” His voice came from far away.
Then the ground pounded with smaller feet, and she was half up as her brothers flung themselves upon her.
“Did you see us, Celia, did you see us? We went ever so far.”
“And so fast. Commander McAlden let
me
take the tiller.
“And he let me hold the sheet—that’s the rope, Celia. Did you know that?”
They were in her arms, on top of her like puppies, thank God, and she could hold them to her and squeeze them, and ruffle their hair and let her feelings and her need exhaust itself on their behalf.
Another moment or two, another exciting revelation about the boat ride, and Commander McAlden, scowling heavily, and the Viscount, his face an inscrutable blank, were there to escort them all back up the path winding through the shrubbery up the cliff.
Viscount Darling carried Julia, who was hot and tired from too long in the sun, while the Commander kept pace with the two boys. Once they had reached the top, and Viscount Darling had released Julia into her nurse’s care, he turned to Celia. “Your promise, Miss Burke?”
She glanced at him for a brief moment, to find the intensity of his clear blue eyes piercing hers. “Yes, Viscount Darling, I promise.”
And he was gone.
“I saw you talking to him again!” Mama did not even wait until the coach was under way and rolling away from the door.
As Commander McAlden had not spoken one word to her, Celia could not pretend she did not understand to whom her mother was referring. “Everyone saw, Mama.”
“
That
is my point.”
“And also mine. Viscount Darling was our host. You spoke to him. Cousin Harriet spoke to him, and I spoke to him. Hardly food for scandal. Everyone, and any one of our relations could see our conversation was a brief chat. Nothing clandestine and hardly more than a few minutes long.”
Celia’s mother’s keen instinct for trouble would not allow her to be satisfied by such a reasonable answer. It did not fit in with her plans for being right. “You were lying down on the sand.”
“It was a picnic, Mama. I didn’t even speak to him then. I had my bergère hat over my face and I was well away from him.”
“He sat near you.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. And watched Julia play.”
“Oh. I imagine he was thinking of his sister.”
“Hmm. And what, pray tell, did you talk about?”
“The usual things: the weather, the scenery, the luncheon. His sister.” It was the first reasonable explanation that came to mind, since she couldn’t very well say, “We talked about not touching.” Because that wasn’t exactly right either. He had talked. He had told her about what it might be like to touch and be touched. But they hadn’t touched, or done anything but speak.
So why did her flesh tingle on the inside of her arm? And why was her stomach all knotted up with tension and guilt, as if she had?
Her mama was saying something. “Still? But the family is out of mourning. He could not be out in society otherwise.”
“Yes, but I think his sister’s death has been a heavy loss to bear.”
Mama raised her eyebrows in consideration of such a strange idea, that a young handsome rake could have any emotional depth beyond that of a teacup. “I think it shows an emotionalism unbecoming in a gentleman.”
“Oh, please! For heaven’s sake, Mama.” The idea that Viscount Darling was behaving in an emotional way, was giving vent to his personal feelings was contrary to every fiber of his character, his being. Contrary to his perfectly controlled, perfectly calibrated intent.
“Celia!” Though it was full summer, her mother’s tone had frost on it. “What has come over you? I pray you will control your language and yourself.”
Viscount Darling had come over her. Metaphorically speaking.
Celia had never spoken to her mother so frankly, without thinking, but she must be firm. She must be resolute, if she could not always be daring. “I apologize, Mama. What I meant was, it was not as if he was weeping and gnashing his teeth in hysterics. He just wanted to speak of her with someone who had known her for the period he was away. He last saw her when she was, I suppose, something around eight years old. About Julia’s age.”
Her mama was taking this change in Celia, the newfound daring to speak out, rather well, all things considered. She actually seemed to be listening. She made a little moue of her mouth as she considered Celia’s words.
“I forgot that. He ran off so long ago. I understand even, that for a long time his family did not know if he was alive or dead. Then the fever took Lady Emily before he could see her again, I suppose. I thank God every day, it wasn’t a putrid fever and that you never contracted it. Though perhaps that was because Miss Hadley acted so wisely and so quickly in closing the school and sending all the girls home.”
“Yes, Mama.” How easily everyone had swallowed the necessary lies.
What of Viscount Darling? What had his father, the Earl of Cleeve told him? It was all so terribly confusing, the tangled crossing of present and past. But Celia couldn’t think of the Viscount. Not in front of her mama, who could usually see what Celia was thinking just as clearly as if it had been written across her face—unless Celia said and acted as she expected.
“It was a lovely afternoon, was it not? But if you don’t mind, Mama, I’m rather tired and when we get home I’d like to rest before dinner.”
“Of course, my dear. You need to get your rest. We’ve got the Bancroft soiree on Tuesday next, followed by . . .”
But Celia wasn’t listening. She wanted to lie down upon her bed. And think of other things.
C
HAPTER
11
I
t was a beautiful day. The bright morning air was growing warm and a light breeze was playing across her face. It was an easy day to destroy herself.
She was going to meet him.
She had dressed with greater care than an early morning ride had ever before warranted, donning a severely cut redingote riding habit of deep, saturated blue to give herself a greater air of authority and intelligence. An illusion of control. Oh, she pretended it was nothing to be up and dressed in her best habit well before eight o’clock in the morning, but Bains wasn’t fooled.
“Well, you’re a sight. Here, let me pin that hat—you’ve got the angle wrong. And let me set in a peacock feather. A dash of color against the stiff white of the straw will balance beautifully with the white blaze of the waistcoat peeping out below the cut-away of the jacket. There. Your Viscount Darling will find you quite irresistibly fetching.”
“He is not my Viscount Darling.”
“And I’m the Queen’s cat.”
“Bains.”
“Don’t you Bains me, miss. I’ve eyes in my head same as anyone else, and I can see you’re going out to meet someone, and I can see that Viscount’s been talking you into being charmed. Dead sister, my fanny, if you don’t mind my saying. He’s doing you up right proper, he is.”
“Bains!”
“You mind me well, miss. For all he looks like sunshine, that man is chock-full of dark trouble and wants nothing more than to lead you right into it. And nothing good,
nothing
e’er came of a girl walking out without her mother, especially
your
lady mother, knowing about it. No good a’tall.”
Oh, but the lure of that dark was irresistible. “And that, my dear Bains, is why I am to go
riding
.”
Despite her sassy words to Bains, Celia had never before approached her morning ride with so much trepidation. Not even in the days when she had most often ridden out with Lizzie, and never known what they might be getting into. But with Lizzie, she had always felt safe, because Lizzie was always up for whatever situation she might come across.
But Celia would have only herself to rely upon. Whatever confidence she had in her abilities to meet Viscount Darling with openness and honesty was undermined by her willingness to give in to his darkness, and the pleasures that awaited her. The low, familiar spiral of need coiled tight in her belly waiting for him to wind it tighter and at the same time give it ease.
About a mile past Jawbone Hill she saw him mounted on his huge hunter, but seated as comfortably as if he were in a library armchair. He appeared completely relaxed and at ease on his animal, a deep-chested Hanoverian. He was dressed in a dark forest green coat and fawn-colored breeches, which served to set off his golden complexion to perfection. His eyes looked bluer and clearer in the flat, gray light of the early morning. And he must have been bamming her about his schedule. He looked as fresh and cheerful as
Leucanthemum vulgare
, an oxeye daisy, as if he got up at the crack of dawn every day. No wonder he was considered a menace.
Her mouth had gone all cottony damp just looking at him. And yet, she was wearing her best blue redingote, sneaking out of the stables without an attendant groom, and placing herself in his trust.
“Well, good morning Miss Burke.” He tipped his round-brimmed beaver hat to her. “What a delightful surprise to see you.”
“Good morning, Viscount Darling. No need for subterfuge, I am quite alone.”
“Are you really, Miss Burke? Do you think it wise? I assumed you would have ridden out with a groom, or I would not have suggested the outing. You ought to have a greater care for your personal safety.” His words may have been cautionary, but his eyes were lit with mischievous delight.
“I thank you for your concern, Viscount Darling, but I have been riding alone over these lanes for well over ten years and not once has my personal safety ever been in jeopardy from anything but the occasional rainstorm. I am quite at home here.”
He smiled, an enigmatic quirk of his lips that gave her little clue to what he was thinking but left her with the impression he was secretly amused. “Shall we? I thought we might ride out towards Dittisham, towards the ruins of the old Cistercian Abbey there. But I know you had spoken of Stoke Fleming.”
“Oh, a ride to the ruins would be lovely. I’ve never been out to the site.”
“Have you never been there before? It is only ten miles from Fair Prospect. I begin to understand the scope of your lack of experience of the world. We must remedy that.”
“Viscount Darling. I thought we were in agreement that that is exactly what we are attempting to do.” Her eyes skated across to him. “Within reason, of course.”
“So straightforward.” He shook his head at her. “Then I must be as well. I gave you my word, Miss Burke. I will not lay a hand on your person. You are quite safe with me.”
Was she? She might be temporarily safe, but she was not safe from her own susceptibilities. She needed to remember herself with this man. What did Lizzie used to say?
Dear Celia—the wolf doesn’t come to the door unless he is very, very hungry.
The wolf turned his mount alongside her dappled gray mare. Celia thought they must look a picturesque pair: she on the gray, and so dark in coloring, and he, so light and bright on the black. They walked their horses sedately down the lane bordered by fieldstone walls for about a quarter mile before he spoke again.
“You were going along at a canter when I came upon you.”
Did he think she had been anxious to see him? He would have been right. But she could not say so, of course.
“It was a good stretch of road for my mare. Mira prefers to run on the uphills.”
“Miss Burke?” He frowned, shook his head, and smiled all at the same time. It was perfectly calibrated to charm. “Did you just roll your
R
when saying your horse’s name?”
Celia felt a swath of heat scald its way across her cheeks and down her neck. “I’m sorry. She has got a more elegant name—Mirabula—it’s from the Latin,
mirabula dictu
, which means . . . but I forgot. You don’t care for Latin.”
The Viscount smiled again and half closed his eyes.
It became, in a moment, difficult for her to swallow. Or breathe.
“I spoke from vanity. You must remember, I’m the sort of bounder who ran off from school before I could manage to achieve any competence in Latin.”
Celia regarded him, with his leonine, sleepy-eyed gaze, for a long moment before she spoke. “You’re not a bounder, Viscount Darling. I think you try very hard to let no one see behind the rather impressive fence of dissipation you’ve erected. Normally, people build a fence around their characters to keep people from being able to peer in, from seeing the nasty faults in their characters that actually exist. But you, Viscount Darling—I have the distinct impression you’ve erected your fence more as a stage upon which to advertise your dissipation, so no one might see over the fence and wonder at the steadfast character on the other side. But Emily never doubted that yours was a character of intelligence and loyalty, but above all, of truth.”
It was the Viscount Darling’s turn to be silent. He turned away towards the view so she could not read his expression. “Are you always so willfully kind, Miss Burke? You are making out my character to be rather better than it actually is, and I believe you do it as a kindness. You needn’t.”
“Yes I do need to remind you of who you are, for you seem to have forgotten. You have tried hard to forget. But as for myself, I do that, don’t I? I want everything to be peaceful, everything to be at its best, everyone to be at their best and most good. It is a moral failing, this glossing, I know. I don’t like to lie, but I give way to what you’ve called willful kindness, especially if the truth will cause unpleasantness.” She looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers out palm up, as if she could still see the stains, the physical manifestation of her sins tattooed across her skin. “My only saving grace, if you can call it such, is that I am aware of my failing. I have not yet acquired the far deadlier habit of lying to myself. I know my faults well enough. I am only human.”
Viscount Darling could only stare at her. At last, she had truly shocked him. Celia was glad. She had spoken too seriously, too truthfully, but she had nothing else with which to combat this man, except the truth. Her honesty, her openness must be her only defense to him.
“Is that enough, Miss Burke?” he finally asked, all traces of the devil-may-care bounder falling away. “Enough to know our faults to let ourselves forgive them?”
“I don’t know. I do know other people are far more apt to forgive me than I deserve. I find it far harder to forgive myself than others seem to.”
She saw it then, the sharpness in his eye that told her he was not going to be one of those people. Viscount Darling was a man who held people to account.
“Do you need forgiveness? Are there such faults in your character for which you must atone?”
“Yes.” It frightened her to admit it to him, though she could not understand why. “But there are some faults for which no amount of atonement will ever suffice. For some wounds there is simply no balm.”
He looked again off into the distance, either thinking about, or ignoring her words. She could not tell which. Then he turned to her, with the obvious design of making himself agreeable and charming. She had the impression a cloud had passed over the sun and the sky was clear again.
“You didn’t say what it means—your mare’s name.”
“Oh. It means ‘wonderful to say,’ or something like that, but she also has some Spanish blood in her—Andalusian. The way she arches her neck up and seems to say, ‘Look at me, look at me,’ I rather thought the Spanish,
Mira, mira
, was more appropriate for her.”
“Ingenious.” He studied the mare for a moment. “Yes, I can see the Spanish influences in her confirmation. The strongly arched neck, and something almost delicate in the face. And I see what you mean. She seems to seek praise and attention as assiduously as you try to avoid them.”
Compliments—they were his stock-in-trade. She felt heat prickle across her face. “Shall we let them run a bit?”
At his nod she eased her mare into an easy canter, and he did the same, adjusting the huge black’s pace to match her mount’s. They spent a companionably silent mile before they drew the horses in to breeze and then to walk.
“Now tell me how is it a young lady of good family came to have such an extensive knowledge of Latin. It could not have been solely Miss Hadley’s doing. I doubt my father would have approved of a course of study for young ladies that included Latin. As I recall from Emily’s letters he was hesitant to let her go to school at all.”
“Perhaps he felt he had already lost one child by sending him off to school. You left from school directly to enlist in the Marine Forces, did you not? But your father did not know you had done so. To him you were simply gone. Perhaps he did not want to endure the possibility of losing another.”
He looked at her then—drew rein and halted, so he could peer at her—as if he could see through her, inside her head and read her thoughts. She wanted to throw up a hand to stop him, the way Bains did to avoid the evil eye. Only his eye wasn’t evil, just too powerful for her comfort.
“How do you see things that way? How do you see me so clearly when I cannot divine my own thoughts with any accuracy? But you are very kind, willfully kind to consider my father in such a light.”
“I am sorry if I intrude, but I was privileged to more of Emily’s correspondence than just yours. You could not know it, but your father was very much interested, very much concerned, with you—and all his children, but you especially. Emily felt so anyway. She said he never stopped looking for you, even when he had told society he had given you up for lost. He never stopped looking, and in the end he found you, did he not?”
“He did. But it was too late for Emily by then. He did lose one of his children to school after all.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, I had not considered that.”
“But I did not bring you out riding on a beautiful summer day to talk of sad things, Miss Burke.”
“You did not
bring
me out riding, Viscount Darling.”
“Did I not? Did I not arrange to spend the morning riding with the most beautiful girl in Dartmouth?” The easy, effortless charm was back, as was the merry glint in his eye.
“You did not, because the most beautiful girl in Dartmouth is, if she has any sense, asleep in her bed at Number Four on the Undercliff Road at this time of day.”
“You refer to your friend, Melissa Wainwright?”
“I do. Have you become acquainted with Miss Wainwright? Enough to know her direction?”
“Is that jealousy I hear, Miss Burke?”
“Is it? No, I don’t intend . . . That is to say . . . I don’t know.” Her reaction to Viscount Darling’s words had been purely instinctive. “I am not jealous of Miss Wainwright. Quite the opposite. I have been working to introduce her to Dartmouth society’s notice.”

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