Bound By Temptation (8 page)

“Ah, yes, her marriage. When you forced her to marry a man in his seventies.”

He started to defend himself, and stopped. He was telling her far more than he had ever in
tended. This whole matter was none of her business. The thought shook him and almost had him pushing her hand away. He was not about to share the closest-held details of his life with a near stranger, no matter how she drew him in. She hadn’t even given him permission to use her Christian name despite the increased intimacy between them.

He brushed her hand off, then he swung his feet off the ottoman. He rose hurriedly and turned from her, afraid that his face said too much.

“I cannot do this.”

“I didn’t suppose you could.” Clara held her disappointment to herself. For a moment she had doubted all her thoughts about this man, had thought that he could open up, could treat her as his equal, as a person.

Licentious
.

The word stood between them.

He had kissed her every bit as much as she had kissed him. Perhaps if she had not felt so judged she would have taken his withdrawal with more grace.

She placed her teacup and saucer back on the tray with deliberate precision. She brushed imagined crumbs off her skirts before standing with easy grace. “I will leave you to the books. If you do not care for the Wordsworth, I am sure that you can find something else to your liking on those lower shelves.” She pointed to a long shelf of slim embossed volumes.

“My thanks, Lady Westington. I shall choose a few volumes and then retire. I do find that I am weary, and I must regain my energy before I can begin my journey again.”

She stopped in the process of summoning the maid to clear the tray. “You seek Isabella?”

“I believe that we have already discussed the purpose of my travels. It is my responsibility to find her.” He was so crisp and proper. He did not betray how he felt about his search for his sister.

“Yes, we have. I merely wondered that you still search after all this time,” she said. She longed to ask about the gossip that had followed Isabella’s disappearance. “Do you believe her to be in Norfolk?”

He was quiet, and she wondered if he could see her real questions reflected in her face. Had even thinking about the rumors breached some invisible wall?

He walked to the fire and stood warming his hands as if fighting the cold of his long journey. “While I was in Coventry I heard rumors that she might be employed with Lord Connortan.”

She debated, but then answered fairly. “I may be able to help you then. I can certainly make inquiries. The earl’s wife was a close acquaintance in my schoolroom days. I will pen a note and have it sent over.”

“That would be most helpful, Lady Westington.”

He sounded so stuffy—so unlike the man on the stairs. But perhaps that was for the best. She was still determined to begin fresh when she returned to London, and a man who drew her to kissing him on the stairs where anyone could see them was far from what she needed.

She needed to think reasonably.

At least he had not refused her help. She still did not fully understand what had prompted his sudden ending of their earlier conversation. She could see that it was painful for him, but then he should never have begun. She had been surprised that he had been willing to broach the subject—even with her pushing—but even more startled by his sudden stop.

It should not have been important to her, but it had become so—for reasons she could not understand, he had become important. Damnation. Her shaky emotions were playing her for a fool.

She needed to regain her sense of power.

“I will leave you to your selection then.” She took a step toward the door and then turned, dropping her voice to a low husky purr. “And you really must call me Clara. I only kiss men I am familiar with.”

She looked at him from under her lashes for the briefest of moments, letting him see she was not just speaking of their past kiss.

The expression on his face caused her to chuckle, a deep laugh that filled the room. It was a small victory to keep him off guard, but still it
helped to restore her sense of balance. She’d have to make it a point to poke at him whenever he grew prim.

It had been five days since she had spoken to him. Masters dropped the book to his lap and watched the flickering flames of the fire. At least he was allowed down the stairs on his own now—and the Wordsworth had actually proved engrossing.

He turned from the fire and glanced at the window. Spatters of rain still marked it. It seemed never to stop raining for more than an hour at a time, making the continuation of his journey impossible.

Now if only Clara would deign to grace him with her presence. He should not have missed her. Aggravating, dominating, spoiled, vexing did not begin to describe her. Clara, Lady Westington was not the type of woman that a man needed in his life. She was everything he should avoid.

But still he missed her.

Robert had provided good company, visiting him on several occasions and sharing rich tales of country life. Masters had to confess that he’d listened to every description of Clara that had sneaked into those stories. When Robert spoke of her she did not sound like the woman that gossip had described.

He rubbed his temple.

If it had not been for the kiss, he might have wondered if society had made a mistake—that kiss
had told its own story, however. She was a woman of heady passion, just as had been described.

His mother’s face flashed into his mind. She was a prime example of how a woman’s unchecked passion could lead only to ruin.

How did the warm, caring woman that Robert described—that he himself had seen—reconcile with the wanton tendencies he had also experienced?

“Do you have everything you need? Should I have a blanket fetched? It is quite cold today.” As if in answer to his thoughts, Clara entered the room, the soft, gentle Clara.

“I am fine,” he replied, picking up his book again. He would not betray his eagerness for her company.

“I have decided I cannot avoid you longer.” She spoke with complete honesty.

“I did not think you would admit to avoiding me.”

“I have never seen reason to misstate the obvious. I have avoided you since the awkwardness of our kiss and the following conversation.” Her eyes dipped and then rose again to meet his. “I do not like being unsure of my actions, and you left me feeling both most unsure and impolite.”

“And yet you are here now.”

“Yes.” She moved and sat across from him, leaning forward as if to share a secret. The scent of cinnamon was mixed with something else. Vanilla. The woman was a veritable bakeshop, complete temptation.

“Why?”

“I have questions, and only you can answer them.”

“I cannot think of what I would know that others would not—unless you mean to discuss my sisters again.” His tone clearly stated that his sisters were one subject he would not discuss.

“No, I have realized you have said all you will say. I need to know about that night.”

“That night?”

“You know exactly which night to which I refer, the night at The Dog and Ferret. I need to know what happened.” She paused. “And I also need to thank you for your discretion. It would have been a nightmare for me—and for Robert—if the story had gotten out.”

“Of course. I am a gentleman. I would never have dreamed of spreading such tales. I do not understand what you need to know. You were there. Why should I know any differently than you?”

She paled slightly at his words, and her teeth worried at her lower lip. He saw her lungs fill with a deep breath before she spoke. “I don’t remember anything of that night from just after I arrived at the tavern. I don’t remember meeting you at all until I awoke the next morning.”

“You don’t remember anything?” It seemed preposterous, but why should she lie now? If she had lied that morning at The Dog, it would have made sense that she was trying to excuse her crime. Now, when she knew he was not going to pursue the theft, it was senseless.

“Nothing. There is not even a hint of memory. It is as if nothing exists from the time that I arrived until the next morning.” Her voice shook as she spoke, and he could see that even speaking of the experience unnerved her.

It made him feel incredibly protective. Whatever she had done in the past, it was not right that anything had made her so vulnerable. “Tell me what you do remember.”

She dropped her eyes to her hands as she began to recount her tale. She began by talking of her dinner with Mr. Green. She blushed as she honestly revealed how she had refused his suit, explaining that she had not been looking for a new lover and that Mr. Green would not have fit the bill even if she had.

Masters did not know what prompted her complete candor, but he did not halt her words until she described Mr. Green and explained why his slight build and light hair would never have drawn her.

“Was he wearing a green coat with brass buttons?” he asked.

Her eyes clouded as she tried to recall. “Yes, he was. Why do you ask?”

“He was there later, at The Dog and Ferret. He sat beside you and brought you ale. You did not seem so indifferent to him then.”

She paled. “I do not remember.”

“Tell me what you do recall.”

She recounted the rest of her tale, scant though it was, and then sat quietly.

“It is not much,” he said after a while.

“No, and it does not explain why you think I stole your watch. I have never been given to thievery and do not see why I should have chosen to begin that night, no matter my state.”

He leaned back, away from her. “I don’t know what to say. I came and joined the card game after about an hour of sitting in the bar watching. You did not win a single hand. Mr. Green was getting closer and closer to you. He refilled your mug several times. I won two hands before you stood with some difficulty and said you were ready to leave—you claimed to be extremely weary. You swept your cloak about you in a grand, if slightly inebriated, manner, and in doing so my watch fell from its folds. You must have stolen it from my pocket.”

“I cannot believe I would have done such a thing.”

“It was most gracefully done and I almost did not believe it myself. I thought you were faking your drunkenness. I debated for a moment whether to confront you, and during that time it became quite clear that you truly were not in a good state. Mr. Green was trying to help you out to his carriage to take you home. You said you needed to take a brief stop before leaving. When you went into the back hall I stopped you, wanting a confrontation. When you could not answer coherently I became set on my plan to give you a good fright when you awoke. I paid one of the stable boys to report back to Mr. Green that you were walking home.”

“And you bundled me upstairs and I know the rest of the story.”

“Yes, and I saw my watch fall from your cloak, so there can be no doubt that you had taken it.” As he spoke he pulled the weighty gold watch from his pocket and laid it on the table. He had always liked the simplicity of the design, heavy and plain. It was designed to last. He had purchased it from a prestigious jeweler after his first successful harvest on his estates. It had been the solitary indulgence he had allowed himself. He rubbed his thumb across its smooth cover.

He glanced up and saw her staring at the watch. The remaining pink leached from her cheeks as he stared. Even her lips lost their color, looking almost gray in the firelight. She reached out and he withdrew his hand, allowing her to stroke the watch.

“This is the watch I am supposed to have stolen?” she asked.

“Yes.” He did not understand the purpose of her question.

“Have you opened the back?”

“Not in days. I don’t understand what—”

“Open it. Open it, now.”

Still not understanding, he pried open the backing and stared. It was his turn to pale.

“
To Michael, with all the love in the world. May all your days have rainbows. Clara
,” she recited the words even as he read them. Her eyes closed as if a great weight held them down. “I gave it to him on our wedding. I had not even noticed it was gone. I’ve carried it always since his death and I did not even know it was gone.”

All Masters could do was swallow again and again, trying to wet his mouth enough to speak. She had not stolen his watch. Indeed, he had stolen hers.

He had called her a thief and she had been blameless. He had caused this whole mess. “I am so sorry,” was all he could find to say.

As if sensing his distress for the first time, she opened her eyes. “I know you only did what you thought was right. I imagine you have the same watch.”

“Yes. I must not have had it with me. My valet was absent, and I was unused to dressing myself. When I saw you drop it—”

“You assumed it was yours. It was a natural mistake.”

“I am not sure why the mistake was not discovered when my valet returned. There is no excuse.” He stood hurriedly. If she was not a thief, what else could he have been wrong about? He needed time to think. “Please forgive me. I fear my illness has left me weakened. I must rest.”

He left the room, not waiting for her reply.

M
asters was leaving. Robert had said so. Clara considered that as she scooped the warm center out of the soft-boiled egg. She should have been pleased. He had accused her wrongly of theft and nearly caused her great embarrassment.

If anyone had found out about that night, her plans would all have been ruined. She would have faced disgrace, and none of it would have been her fault. She should be furious with him.

Instead, all she could remember was his face when he’d realized his mistake. He’d been more devastated than she. It had hurt her to see his pain.

Still, it had been almost a fortnight since his arrival, and she should be ready for him to leave. He had brought nothing but discontent into her life. She had felt prickly ever since he had arrived, and she did not like it.

How was she ever going to find peace and comfort when she was always jumpy and unsure? She never knew when she would enter a room and find him there.

Only he was never there. In two days since she’d found out the truth of that night, he had avoided her completely. He had taken to his bed again, or at least pretended to, and she’d not seen him without at least two servants and Robert in attendance.

She tapped her spoon against the shell of the egg, not hard enough to break it, but just enough to make a slight noise. It was a pointless gesture, but somehow it brought her satisfaction.

A solitary breakfast was a thing to be desired. It allowed one time to plan for the day, but today she found no pleasure. She tapped the spoon again.

He was leaving.

Masters was leaving.

Jonathan was leaving.

She smiled as she thought the last. He still addressed her as Lady Westington. Sometimes she gave him that special smile and hoped he might slip and call her Clara, but he had not. She had yet to call him Jonathan outside her mind. It was something she was saving for that perfect moment.

Only would that moment come? He was leaving.

And what was she doing even thinking of a perfect moment? He was insufferable, everything she did not need in a man. He had no place in the life she planned for herself.

The attraction she felt for him must be put aside, a thing to be taken out only late at night and mooned upon.

She was no longer the woman who acted on her desires without thought.

She tapped the shell one last time, then scooped the last bite of creamy egg into her mouth. She closed her eyes and savored the rich flavor, flicking the last crumb from her lower lip.

She opened her eyes and—he was there. Masters’s gaze was firmly glued to her lower lip. For good measure she ran her tongue across it a second time, puckering her lips slightly at the end.

He froze.

It was difficult for her not to smile. Should she lick again? No, that would be too much. Instead, she leaned forward and plucked a piece of toast from the holder, her eyes never leaving his. It was a pity her morning gown was not lower cut, but the strand of garnet beads she’d chosen to wear did slip below the neckline, drawing attention to…oh yes, he’d noticed.

His eyes dropped and stayed.

She waited a minute and then shifted, leaning back in her chair and nibbling at the toast.

“Are you going to sit?” she asked. “Or did you have a tray in your room? I was not aware you were well enough to leave your chamber.” She said the last with definite sarcasm.

Masters pulled back a chair and sat stiffly. She softened the line of her back even more in response until she slouched against the chair.

She took another nibble. “Have you given up speaking to me altogether?”

“No. I merely assumed your question was rhetorical. I am sure you know everything that happens in this house.”

That drew a smile from her. “I am not sure if that is a compliment or not. Am I a good hostess or incurably nosy? I’ll have to ponder that for a while.”

“I assure you I meant only the best.” His eyes were focused on her mouth again.

He made it so hard to be good. She wanted him to see her for what she was, to see her as his equal, to know that she could hold control. She wanted him to understand the power of her actions, to understand that a little fun was not an evil thing. It was tempting to honey her toast just so that she could lick the drips off her fingers. She hadn’t tried that one, and she could only imagine his response.

She could allow a little honey to drip on the skin above her bodice. If she slowly drew a finger over her chest, letting him wonder at the feel, the texture, and then brought the honey to her lips, letting it spread across them, daring him to taste, to savor, what would he do? Would he finally be drawn beyond that icy control that had not once slipped since the kiss on the stairs? Finding out she was not a thief seemed to have left him colder, if anything. Or would he stand and leave? She sensed he’d come close to it on occasion when she pushed too far.

He did not want her to push beyond his boundaries.

She worried at her lip as she considered. And discovered that was more than enough. His focus was so complete he had not even noticed the footman who stood to his side waiting to fill his plate.

“I understand you wish to leave?” she asked, not even bothering to bend toward him.

“Yes. It is time that I did. If not for the weather I would not have stayed after I found out my mistake. I can only say again that I am sorry.”

A few moments ago she had been thinking of the great troubles his mistake could have caused her. She only said, “It’s nothing.”

“That is not true. I could have caused you great harm. It is time that I leave anyway.”

She asked, “Is it because of the post I received from Lady Connortan?”

“It does sound like the woman that she described might be Isabella.”

“I still have a hard time picturing any sister of yours and Violet’s serving as a governess.” She put her half-finished slice of toast down on the plate. “I have never seen Isabella, but young, slim, and redheaded does sound like rather a general description. I do hope you have not traveled the country following every female with red hair you have heard of. Oh dear, you have.”

“I have limited myself to those who entered service in the half year.” He looked away from her and gestured for the footman, who was still standing patiently, to fill his plate. “I know that each lead I follow is unlikely, but this one sounds pos
sible. Lady Connortan is an acquaintance of Lady Smythe-Burke, who wrote Isabella her references. And said lady directed me away from Norfolk. I realize now it should have been the first place that I looked.”

Clara imagined Lady Smythe-Burke standing perfectly straight in her twenty-year-old corset and had to agree. The older doyenne undoubtedly had a penchant for deceit. It would be more surprising if in fact the lady had directed him correctly. “So you will go to London following them.”

“It is most inconvenient that they left for Town on the very day that Lady Connortan received your letter.”

She loved the way he pouted. It was endearing to see that proud brow furrow and his lips draw tight. He looked like a small boy deprived of a sweet. “Yes, most inconvenient. I am sure you will be greatly troubled to return to Town instead of continuing to travel about the country on muddy roads.”

“I must find my sister.” He spoke with some vehemence.

“Of course you must.” She did not understand why he felt the need to defend himself. Isabella could be little more than twenty, perhaps less. While Clara would defend to her last breath any woman’s right to make her own decisions, she would certainly not have wanted to be on her own at twenty. The world did not tend to be kind to such women.

The footman stepped forward to refill her cup, and she waved him from the room. There were some moments one did not want the servants around.

Masters picked up a piece of bacon and bit into it with some gusto. She could not resist eyeing it and then glancing up at him with a smile, her lips forming a full curve.

He almost dropped the bacon as he caught her look. “Must you always attempt seduction over breakfast?”

That brought her laugh—it rose within her, filling her chest before spilling past her lips. “I would never have believed you would actually say it.” She paused to fill her lungs. “It will spoil my fun if you admit to it. It is ever so much more delightful when you merely throw me sour looks. And…” She paused to consider. “I can’t say I’ve ever attempted seduction over breakfast before you. Seduction before breakfast, or even in lieu of breakfast, but never during.”

She leaned forward and snagged a piece of bacon from his plate with her fork. She held it up and examined it with some consideration. “It is hard to see the innate attraction of such a food. Although”—she brought it to her lips—“the flavor does make up for the appearance—and the smell.” She took a small bite off the edge and watched as his eyes darkened.

“You are doing it again.”

“Am I?” She took another nibble and closed her
eyes, savoring the rich flavor. The whole thing was irresistible. Why should she not have one last bit of joy before turning over her new leaf? “If I were really trying to seduce you, I reckon we’d be sharing our breakfast in bed.”

“Do you think me so easy?” He sounded offended.

She couldn’t help laughing again. “Oh, don’t look so glum. No, I don’t think you are easy—not by any measure.” She put down the fork and turned serious. “What I do think is that you are attracted, as am I. The sensation is most uncomfortable and undesired, but it cannot be denied. I want you and you have great desire for me,” she finished.

He stared at her. Some other response would have been more effective, more advantageous, but all he could do was stare. He only hoped his mouth did not gape.

If she had been surprised by his blatant talk of her attempted seduction, he was even more shocked by the frankness of her discussion. It was not exactly taboo, but he had never known a lady to talk in such a fashion.

He dropped his eyes and stared at his rapidly cooling breakfast. Even the food spread across his plate reminded him of her. He swallowed and looked up again.

He could see the laugh hiding in her eyes. A part of him wanted her to let it out—when its joyous sound filled the room, it was impossible to resist. But resist he must.

“You presume much.” He toiled to keep his tone flat.

“Do I? I wish that it were so.” Her words were forlorn, but her eyes still danced.

“How do you presume to know what I desire?” It was increasingly hard not to give in to her.

She sighed softly. “Do you really want me to tell you how I know?” She leaned toward him again. He could not help his gaze dropping to the tantalizing hint of bosom the gesture again revealed. “Do you really want me to describe how your eyes darken when I am near, how much more pronounced your swallow becomes, how muscles go tense as if awaiting my softening touch?” She placed her hand upon his wrist. “Do you want me to describe how I feel your pulse begin to race, how even without touching I know your heart beats fast within your chest when I approach?”

He wanted to look away, but it was impossible. She was a witch, with each word she drew him further under her spell.

“Or should I talk of myself?” she continued. “Should I talk of that kiss upon the stairs we have so often ignored? Should I tell you how my lips longed for yours for days afterward, how my breasts still swell at the very thought of your touch? You accuse me of seduction over breakfast, but I still see the look of passion in your eyes whenever my maid brings the morning tray. I cannot even drink tea without thinking of you, of your lips. Is this what you want to hear?”

With each word the desire to touch her grew. Her soft fingers wrapped about his wrist and he could feel her blood speeding within them. That was the trap of her words, that she admitted her own entrapment. She offered no defense.

He turned his hand so that hers lay within his palm. He closed his fingers about it, forming a cage. Her fingers fluttered like a small bird, but did not attempt escape.

He drew her hand up to his lips, blowing between his fingers. She fluttered more.

She had spoken of his eyes darkening; her pupils had grown so large and deep they reflected the whole room within them. He could see himself within her, feel the traps that drew them both. He should release her. He should stand and go.

He blew again.

A quiver wafted through her. The lace edging on her bodice shook and then drew still, as if she no longer breathed.

Almost of its own accord, his other hand rose and drew a line along that edge of lace. She gasped in one large gulp of air.

He slipped his finger under the edge of lace, feeling the velvet of her skin. Her heart was pounding in her chest. He flattened his hand, the fingers slipping deeper. Her open desire was more alluring than anything he had ever known.

His fingers slipped around her breast, beneath it until they lay flat atop that beating heart. He wanted to still it, to soothe it, to comfort her, to take her. That last thought filled him.

To take her.

He could take her here, in her breakfast room, and she would not resist. He knew that as surely as he knew from the strong pulse of her heart that she lived.

His fingers slipped higher. He teased the delicate nipple, pinching lightly and drawing a nail across the top.

She inhaled suddenly, her whole body drawing toward him. The hand he still held within his own clenched, the nails drawing across his skin.

He teased again. She swallowed, her tongue dampening her lower lip.

His own desires were almost out of control. His pants were tight, and it was only with supreme will that he kept from pulling her into his arms and tossing up her skirts.

She could see his wants within his eyes. She watched as the hand that held hers clenched and relaxed. He was a man of restraint.

The fingers that stroked her breast moved again, and her whole body responded. She heard the gasp that passed her lips as if it were from somebody else. The hand he did not hold caught the edge of the table and squeezed it tight.

His actions were so small and her response so great.