His Sinful Secret (11 page)

Was it even possible to drink enough to ease this unremitting ache?

“I saw them leave the ballroom to go upstairs,” she explained, suddenly very tired. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to have this discussion. “I shouldn’t have stayed that long, but I couldn’t help myself, like tonguing a sore tooth. She is probably in his bed as we speak.”

“Probably,” her companion agreed in that irritating sensible tone. “That is directly where I’d take my new wife.”

The windows of her bedroom were open, the air humid from the recent rains, though the night was crystal clear and a smattering of stars shone as she turned her head to stare outside. The lamp flickered as the wash of a welcome breeze ruffled the curtains.

The elegant furnishings usually embraced her and reminded her of what she’d regained after all she had lost, but this current devastation might just be more than she could bear. Tonight she didn’t see velvet draperies and Louis Quatorze furniture.

Tonight she saw nothing but emptiness.

It was unfortunate, but she knew just what the Marchioness of Longhaven was experiencing in her new husband’s arms. A skillful tenderness, just the right touch, maybe the ghost of a compelling and all-too-rare smile, and, of course, incomparable, calculated pleasure. Even wounded, Michael would approach his wedding night like he did anything else—with a deliberate strategy designed to disarm, beguile, and conquer.

It was always planned, and usually oh so effective.

He rarely failed if he set his mind to something. Perhaps one could say he
never
failed. Women found Michael fascinating not just because of his refined good looks and fortune, but because he had an indescribable air of understated confidence.

There was something about him. She couldn’t capture it with words, but she
recognized
it.

He was a hero, and in her life she had met so very, very few. . . .

“She doesn’t love him. Michael barely knows the girl.” She snapped out the words, shrewish even to her own ears. “When the ceremony was over, do you think either of them looked happy?” Antonia rested her head back against the chair. “To marry not by choice—what kind of a life is that?”

“Had it not been for the French,
you
would have been wed to a Spanish nobleman of your father’s choice. In dynastic families like yours—and even more so that of your precious marquess—it is how it is done.” Lawrence, looking tough, unreachable, and critical, wore a sardonic smile. He lounged across from her in a wing chair by the fireplace, all powerful male grace, his long legs extended, his booted feet crossed at the ankles, a full-sleeved white shirt open at the throat to show a V of bronzed skin. “How much easier to be a peasant like myself. No one cares if my bloodlines are carried on. I am not required to breed so my family can continue to grasp with both hands the position and fortune their name provides.”

“How coarse it sounds when put that way.”

“Yet how very accurate.”

That was true enough about how her marriage would have been just as arranged as Michael’s, but she was in no mood to admit it. Damn Lawrence for being correct, and damn him even more for his infuriating understanding. There were times when she wasn’t sure about his motives, but she always knew he was there in the background, waiting.

He went on evenly. “You shouldn’t have gone to his wedding. You shouldn’t have stayed, have danced, have pretended to make merry when in truth you’d like to garrote Longhaven’s little bride—which I can attest you could do with practiced ease—and take the groom for yourself.” Lawrence lifted his own beverage to his mouth and looked reflective before he drank, the flickering light playing over his scarred face. “However, he did what he said he was going to do and married the chit. It’s done, Antonia.”

It’s done.
The finality of that truth hung between them in the air.

Morosely she lowered her empty glass and studied it. “I know. I was there, remember?”

“A self-inflicted wound if there ever was one, my sweet.”

She stirred a little, though she was both lethargic and defeated. He was right. Inside, she bled. Hopelessly, she said, “He looked more handsome than ever.”

“Is that so?” Lawrence’s tone was dry as dust. “I suppose to a man, it is hard to see, but I’ll take your word for it. God knows something about him obsesses you. I have wondered all along if it is just because you cannot have him.”

She ignored the sarcastic observation. “His bride too—damn her to a burning hell full of cackling demons—was very pretty, if you favor bland brunettes with vapid faces and wide eyes. It would not surprise me if the protected little darling hadn’t been kissed before that moment at the altar after their false vows of eternal love and fidelity.”

“Why did you watch, you bloody fool?”

Antonia stared at the man across from her, trying to ignore the tightness in her throat and the stinging in her eyes. It amazed her that she was about to cry. She
never
cried. Not since the French had come, destroyed her home, killed her family, and she’d been left behind, traumatized, destitute, and alone in a war-ridden country that no longer had a king, a government, a . . . soul.

“I’ve watched worse,” she said, but her voice broke and she hated the sign of weakness. “We both have.”

Lawrence’s expression softened. He knew—who better—of what she spoke. “Yes, we have. And survived and moved on. You’ll forget Longhaven in time. You know it, my sweet. You are just doing what you do so well and fighting it.”

She rose in a flurry of scarlet satin and loose dark hair to pace across the soft rug. She should be embarrassed about how she’d dressed to attend the wedding, and actually how she was dressed
now
. It was a harlot’s costume and she was no harlot. What had possessed her? No wonder Julianne Hepburn had seemed startled. Now, in retrospect, with the bitterness of loss a reality, she was at least slightly ashamed of herself. “Forget him? I hope so. Or I’ll die trying, at least.”

“Don’t say that.” Lawrence was also on his feet in a moment, catching her arm to jerk her around so there was no choice but for her to look him in the eye. It wasn’t a gentlemanly action, but then again, neither was he a gentleman. He didn’t even try to be one, and as far as she could tell, he didn’t believe in giving apologies, nor did he expect them. In some ways they were kindred souls. “The two attempts on his life now worry me. Not for his sake, but for yours. I want you away from the marquess. Away from the intrigue he has brought on his head. If he wants to play his games for England, let him, but there is no need for you to be involved.”

“
You
are involved.”

“We work for the same people. It’s different. You have money and the security of being the widow of an important Englishman. I want you—”

She twisted free. “You
want
? Well, as one who can testify at this very moment we do not always get what we want, there’s little you can do about it.”

Sometimes, she wondered if she would one day push him too far and he would leave. It was there in the twitch of his mouth, the slight flare of his nostrils, the set of his jaw. In those burning midnight eyes. He loomed over her, dark and dangerous, his voice a rasp. “You condemn me for being jealous of him. I could throw that in your face as well. If his new wife is as uninteresting and innocent as you perceive, Longhaven may well seek your bed in the future. I wish joy of it. Unfortunately, a tumble is all you’ll get from his exalted lordship because he cannot give more. In the meantime, I am more than happy to see to your needs.”

Antonia had to admit she was tempted. Michael had been a skilled, considerate lover during their brief affair. Lawrence was something else altogether. Raw, uninhibited, wild, ravenous even.

He didn’t just want her—he
needed
her. Michael did not. She often wondered if Michael needed anyone.

The answer, she suspected, was no. Especially not her.

But I
love
him,
she thought in despair.

And tonight he lay with another woman. They were together; he held his bride in his arms at this very moment. . . . He’d given her his name, his protection, and since his virility wasn’t in question, there would no doubt be children. . . .

Perhaps they were making love right
now.

It hurt—terribly—and Antonia wasn’t at all sure she could bear it.

“Fine,” she bit out. “Take me.”

Maybe it was the fierceness in her tone; maybe it was her expression. But for once, Lawrence stepped back, releasing her suddenly as if she were on fire. His disfigured face settled into a mask she could not read—and she was good at reading men. After a moment, he said, “I will take you, trust me, but not tonight. I won’t be a party to it.”

Was he serious? After all the posturing over her hopeless romantic longings, he was going to deny her?

“What?” she demanded, outraged. Her clenched fist hit her thigh.

He stepped back another few paces, as if putting distance between them would help. “You’ll be thinking about him. I have no interest in the comparison. I’m myself, not a surrogate.”

Antonia wanted to shriek, and she’d felt the urge to strike out at something—someone—all day. “You are more than willing to climb between my legs at any other time,” she taunted, being deliberately crude.

It got through, for his face tightened. “But not tonight, Lady Taylor. It should tell you something.”

It did, but there was no question she was not in the mood to listen.

“No casual fuck? How disappointing.” She essayed a shrug. Maybe she was a little inebriated after all, for the room spun.

She must have swayed, for suddenly Lawrence swept her up in his arms. It wasn’t an impetuous lover’s embrace, but rather a rescue.

I don’t need to be rescued,
she insisted to herself even as she rested her head against his chest.
Damn him.

He whispered roughly, “Come on, love. I’ll undress you. The only thing you need your bed for tonight is sleeping. Tomorrow will be brighter. I vow it.”

Would it? She wasn’t sure. But his words were oddly comforting. Dismally, she mumbled against his shirt, “I hope you are right.”

“It happens now and again that I am.” He deposited her on the bed and began to unfasten her gown. Not with his usual impatient, needy hands, but with gentle care, his long fingers slipping each fastening free until he could ease the garment from her shoulders. His gaze was concerned, not lustful. “Did you eat anything at the reception?”

How could she eat when she felt not only sick physically, but sick at heart? “Nothing,” she confessed.

“I’ll bring up a cold supper. You can’t possibly go to sleep with a stomach full of brandy and nothing else.” He deftly removed her slippers, garters, and stockings.

It’s not like I’m a little girl,
she thought, and a part of her resented his presumption.

But a part of her was glad he cared at all. That
someone
cared. She’d lost so very much. . . .

Michael cared too. She knew he did, but it wasn’t in the way she wanted. Oh, yes, he would die for her—he’d proven that—but she’d never reached him in the way she craved. She’d never, ever touched his guarded soul.

The woman who could do
that
might not even exist.

T
he dawn was as he liked it best: soft and gentle as a mother’s embrace.

Michael nudged his horse with his heel, urging a canter from the sleek bay. The early-morning ride was part of his routine, but he took a different route than usual, mindful of recent events. His side hurt at the faster pace, but he’d discovered in the most difficult way possible by being wounded so often in Spain that he was a fast healer, and this injury seemed consistent with the ones he’d experienced on the field in that regard.

After all, he’d done fine the night before bedding his bride.

There was just the slightest fog hanging low, obscuring the riding paths in the park as it drifted in spectral wisps. He slowed Hector with a tug on the rein and walked him between the wooded areas, his mind preoccupied with this new and unanticipated side of a marriage he’d viewed with both dispassion and studied indifference.

It was all very . . .
interesting
. Julianne was beautiful, so he hadn’t doubted he could become aroused and acquit himself adequately in bed, but her reaction hadn’t been exactly what he’d anticipated.

Unrestrained enjoyment from a virginal, untried young woman was not at all how he’d pictured the evening’s events. Yes, he’d done his best to pleasure her, but the sensual response to his lovemaking showed a side of her he hadn’t anticipated. Despite obvious misgivings, she’d embraced physical passion. Because she’d always appeared so demure and ladylike in his presence, he had expected the same response in bed.

What else didn’t he know about her?

He guided his horse through dew-laden grass, his thoughts abstracted. In retrospect, maybe he should have done more to get to know her before the wedding. Would it have tempered his decision to marry her?

No. Had she been plain and stout instead of beguilingly lovely, he still would have agreed. Michael remembered the grave look on his father’s face when he’d petitioned for him to consider going ahead with the marriage agreement. The Duke of Southbrook would never plead, but there had been unspoken desperation in his eyes, a need to move forward rather than dwell on the death of his beloved son. He and Julianne’s father were close friends, and when they’d both married months apart as young men, they had vowed to pledge their children to each other if fate allowed it. Harry had been born, and a good decade later Julianne had come into the world. The betrothal was done when Julianne was still in the cradle. She’d grown into womanhood knowing she would one day be the Marchioness of Longhaven and eventually Duchess of Southbrook, but no doubt she’d barely given Michael a thought except as her future brother-in-law.