His Sinful Secret (22 page)

In his profession, he couldn’t afford to let his personal feelings affect his actions. It was unwise to let the knife blade of vulnerability slide under his skin.

Except maybe that was all changing. It was still unwise—that wasn’t different, but his resistance to it wasn’t quite as effective as usual.

“I would love to.” Julianne rose, her smile brilliant as the sunset. He extended his arm as a measure of courtesy and found the clasp of her fingers on his sleeve did something interesting to his respiration.

Moreover, he was all too aware of his mother watching them exit the room with a certain misty smile on her face.

If his wife hadn’t been so tempting and distracting, he would have been more likely to resent his role as surrogate husband, but it vindicated his actions, it gave his parents that joy they’d lost, and . . . Julianne was so temptingly close.

“I am surprised,” she murmured as he escorted her down the hallway toward where the main hall opened to the conservatory.

“How so?” he asked, though he knew quite well what she meant.

“What made you decide to have tea with us?”

He didn’t say it.

“I enjoy tea.” He shrugged and lifted the latch on one of the glass doors and stood back so she could precede him. “Why drink it by myself when I could join you?”

“You never have before.” She walked past in a whisper of sweet perfume, the fleeting glance at his face both questioning and tentative.

The nape of her neck fascinated him. He wished it didn’t, but as she went through the doorway he followed as if that certain spot on her body was a beacon.

He wanted to press his lips there. To hear the resulting sigh and feel her shiver in response. To have all of the rest that would follow when she was beneath him and he made love to her with slow, wicked persuasion. . . .

And it wasn’t even dark yet.
Damnation.

The air was warm and mellow for autumn, and the sun had begun its inevitable descent, lending the formal gardens a burnished glow. Michael walked with his hands clasped behind him, choosing at random a path to his right.

He needed to ask her about the subterfuge he’d learned of, even though he wasn’t positive it was the approach he should take. Why the devil would she pretend to visit a friend or fake a trip to the seamstress?

Where did she go?

Will she lie to me?
He would guess her too ingenuous to fool him in any way, because he’d been lied to in almost every way possible and by some truly amoral and convincing adversaries. It was a questionable talent to have, but his skill at detecting untruths was honed to a fine point. “I understand you were out earlier with your mother. Tell me, did you have a pleasant time?”

“Pleasant?” She frowned. “I’m not sure it qualified to be described in that way. Let’s say it wasn’t a particularly eventful outing, but necessary.”

“And the dressmaker? Shall I brace my steward for a bill for a bevy of new gowns?” His smile was deliberately charming to take any edge off the question.

Something flickered in her eyes.

Regret?

Guilt?

“No, my lord. My pin money is more than generous, I assure you.”

He had to give her credit for a truthful evasion. He was rather good at those himself, but only when necessary. The question was—why was it necessary? Fitzhugh had reported that Julianne had gone only briefly into the shop after alighting from her mother’s carriage, but almost immediately had flagged a passing hack. Unfortunately, due to some sort of accident between an overzealous man driving a phaeton and a hay cart blocking the street, Fitzhugh had lost the vehicle in the melee. When Julianne returned, it had been hours later, and she came on foot, obviously dropped off somewhere nearby.

Michael wasn’t necessarily suspicious, just intensely curious.

Well, perhaps he was
a little
suspicious. Surely most nineteen-year-old newly married ladies did not have nefarious secrets, but she was taking pains to make sure Fitzhugh did not accompany her on these little excursions.

Why?

The slanting sun lit her rich hair and lent a golden tone to her creamy skin. Michael weighed his response, wondering if it was just simpler to ask her outright what she was hiding. But even though he was her husband, he wasn’t entirely sure he had the right. Legally, yes, she answered to him, but in an ethical sense, it seemed wrong. After all, she had never questioned him about his frequent absences and distance.

It was more sensible—and fair—to let it go, he decided, especially since it was merely through chance that Fitzhugh had lost her earlier. Michael would know soon enough where she was going, and while he was puzzled at her deception, at the moment he was more enchanted with her presence at his side.

How odd to think an activity as simple as walking along a garden path with a woman could be so . . . diverting. He changed the subject. “As a child I loved this garden. When we were in London, I spent hours out here, among the paths.”

When Julianne glanced over in unconcealed surprise at such a personal revelation, he added dryly, “Yes, I was once a child.”

“Though I am younger, I remember,” she said after a moment. “You were . . . quiet. Harry was the laughing one. You kept to yourself.”

“You are thinking I still do.”

“Now you read minds, my lord?”

He slanted a glance toward her. “Since it is true and you are an intelligent woman, it is not such a clever deduction, my dear.”

“I suppose not.” In turn her smile held a slight mischievous quality. “May I say I am glad you chose to join us, or will it remind you of those endless duties that keep you away and send you directly back into seclusion?”

He wouldn’t mind a little seclusion at the moment, but not alone. As he’d just said, he knew every inch of these gardens. His secret spot would be private enough.

“T
his way.”

Julianne hadn’t explored the gardens to any great extent, but then again, she hadn’t been a resident at the mansion for a month yet. The English autumn, too, had been wet this year, though this afternoon was gloriously warm and comfortable.

Or was the warmth an inner glow of hope, foolish perhaps, over the fact that Michael had bestirred himself to join them?

And then he’d invited her to walk with him. Surely progress of a sort, wasn’t it?

Bemused and compliant, she simply allowed herself to be escorted to what she discovered was a secluded corner, with thick shrubberies around the perimeter. It appeared to be a dead end, but when Michael swept back some low-hanging branches and motioned her through, she stepped into a small walled garden, the square of grass literally cut off from the rest of the path and flower beds by the verdant foliage.

It was lovely, if somewhat overgrown, and on one wall a spray of cascading white flowers covered the mossy stones, the delicate petals turning pink from the reflection of the sunset. In the middle of the tiny space a tarnished sundial was half covered in moss, and there was a stone bench. “What is this?” Julianne turned, delighted but also astonished.

“Forgotten.” Michael seemed taller than ever in the confined space as he straightened. “Poor planning, I believe, on the part of Gerald, my grandfather’s master gardener, years ago when the gardens were redone. The shrubberies cut it off from the rest of the path and beds. I found it one day. It was like my . . . secret. I kept it carefully to myself and dubbed it my own kingdom.”

Was there really a whimsical side to him? Julianne would have never thought so, but his eyes held a glimmer of amusement . . . and maybe even nostalgia. It was like getting a fascinating glimpse at the boy he’d once been.

“So you hid here?”

Her husband’s mouth quirked wryly. “I rather imagined I was being very mysterious, disappearing for hours, but I am going to guess our governess eventually must have followed me, for she stopped scolding and let me be. Harry, though, never did find this spot, and he was forever badgering me to tell him where I went.”

Even as a child, then, he could keep his secrets.

“I wouldn’t have had a notion this was here.” Julianne walked toward the beautiful white flowers and touched a velvety petal. “I don’t recognize these. What are they?”

“I haven’t the slightest inclination toward botany, I’m afraid. The way everything has gone wild, I am going to guess it is a weed of some kind.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” he agreed.

But his voice had definitely changed. Grown deeper, with a hint of huskiness, and when she turned, he was definitely not looking at the flower but gazing at her.

He took a slow step forward. “No one ever comes here. We are quite alone, and, yes, I find you very beautiful, Julianne.”

Long fingers touched her chin, tipping her face upward, and he brought his mouth down on hers, effectively stifling her small gasp. The sudden contact of their bodies stirred a treacherous fire inside her even as the rational part of her brain stated emphatically they were
outside
, and the sun might be lowering in the sky, but it was still
light
.

The delicate play of tongue on tongue, the softness of his hair against the back of her hand as she clasped his neck, the strength of his arm as he slid it around her waist and brought her more firmly against him: all of it was made somehow more magical by the gentle whisper of the fluttering leaves above and around them, the silent, peaceful little garden, and the intoxicating scent of blooming flowers. Michael’s breath was warm across her cheek as he broke the kiss and whispered in her ear, “I want you.”

Held so closely in his embrace, she could tell he was being truthful, but his scandalous suggestion was shocking. “Here?”

“Now.” He kissed her again, slow and long, and his fingers were already deftly unfastening her gown. When the garment slid from her shoulders, he stepped back, his smile a wicked gleam, and shed his jacket with impressive speed, spreading it on the overgrown grass as a makeshift blanket before going to work on his shirt. “Take off your shift. I want to watch while I undress.”

He really meant it. He wanted to make love to her in this secluded, forgotten little garden.

Though the idea took some getting used to, she found she wasn’t adverse to a little adventure, and it was gratifying to know he wanted her. From the bulge in the front of his fitted breeches, he wanted her with a great deal of enthusiasm.

Very well. It fired a wanton side of her she didn’t know existed.

First Julianne pulled the pins from her simple chignon. Not only did it let her hair cascade downward in a deliberately seductive movement, but as she raised her arms, it also lifted her breasts under the thin cloth and border of lace of her chemise.

Michael most definitely noticed, his gaze riveted as she delicately tugged at the ribbon on her bodice.

Yes, it appeared she really was. It took some fortitude, but she let the material of her shift drift down her arms, leaving her almost naked.

Her husband also shed his shirt, tossing it aside. He sat down on the small bench to yank off his boots. “Leave your stockings on,” he instructed, even as she bent to unfasten her garters. “Do not ask me why, but I like the idea of the stockings and nothing else.”

“I’d never ask you why,” she said with more candor than usual, because she was empowered by the desire in his remarkable eyes. “It’s futile. You keep to yourself quite well, my lord.”

“Michael,” he said with quiet intensity, and when he stood and caught her in his arms, his kiss betrayed an urgency his words never did. His hands roamed over her body and ignited not just passion, but her soul. Julianne melted into every caress, every touch, and when he lowered her to the blanket of his coat, she watched through half-closed eyes as he peeled off his fitted breeches. In the soft light of day, his arousal seemed somehow more primal, rigid, the erect length swollen and slick, a pearly bead of his discharge already visible.

He lay down beside her and took her hand, and to her surprise, lifted it to his lips in a courtly gesture that was somehow also erotic, his mouth feathering over her fingers in a languorous caress. The sun lent golden highlights to his thick chestnut hair and gilded the muscled contours of his lean body.

“I don’t think my schoolboy imagination conjured delectable ladies wearing only these when I hid away in this spot all those years ago.” He touched the top of one silk stocking, his finger sliding to her inner thigh. “May I?”

She had no defense for the power of his suggestive smile. Julianne nodded and watched him untie her garter and very slowly, as if he relished the task, slip the silk of her stocking down her leg. He did the same with the other stocking, and after he was done, his hand journeyed back upward in a lazy voyage of exploration and tantalizing discovery. When he stroked between her legs, she closed her eyes and arched at the deft manipulation, a flush tingling her skin. Then he shifted in a fluid movement, settling between her parted thighs, and entered her in one gliding, deep movement.

The breath left her lungs at the possessive penetration, pleasure obliterating the sunlit garden, the softness of his jacket beneath her bare back, the deepening blue of the sky . . .

The response was so powerful, so moving, she wondered at her complete submission even when she sensed it was unwise. It wasn’t that he only took—he gave in full measure—but like the young boy years ago, he still hid, keeping some of himself sheltered and separate, and he wasn’t going to relinquish it easily.

But he will,
she decided, dying in rapture in his arms as he took her body until she shuddered in exquisite pleasure. There amid the fragrance of the crushed grass and blooming flowers and autumn sunset, when they lay panting together, she
knew
he would eventually.