In the Garden of Deceit (Book 4) (8 page)

“Well,
I…y-yes, of course,” she managed after a moment. “As
long as you are satisfied with, uh…”

“Your
lack of participation? Certainly. It is understood.”

“Good,”
she stated nervously. The situation was getting out of control—her
control—although she would be a fool to believe she’d
ever had any.

“Just
so we understand the rules.” Casually he glanced at his hand,
studying his nails, as if they were discussing nothing more profound
than tomorrow night’s supper. “
My
participation is
not to be—shall we say—impeded in any way?”

For
the life of her, Amanda did not know how to respond. It was one thing
to talk intimacies while doing intimate things, but sitting across
from one another in a moving carriage, impersonally negotiating the
terms of their lovemaking, had taken on a bizarre quality.

“I’m
not certain what you mean.” Her speech was breathless now and
high-pitched.

James
settled back more deeply against the cushions, still watching her.
His lazy attitude continued unabated.

“Lovemaking
entails more than…the basic act,” he said. “There
is the need to enhance the mood. For a man this is particularly
important.”

“I-It
is?”

“Most
definitely. That requires kissing and touching—not for your
sake, you understand—but for mine.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,
indeed, I don’t want to feel that I must hold back. Are we in
agreement on this?”

“I
see no reason why not,” she blustered. “I won’t be
the one affected.”

A
strange smile played around his mouth. “No, you won’t be
the one affected.”

“You
say that as if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh,
I believe you, but it occurs to me that we perhaps should take this
by degrees.”

Truly
appalled, she said, “Now, what are you talking about?”

“Just
a kiss here, a touch there, nothing that requires a finish, if you
understand my meaning. We can work up to it. That should reduce the
pressure on you.”

Certainly,
as if she were not feeling the pressure at this very moment, his
husky words like an aphrodisiac working on her senses. Amanda was
warm under her jacket, sweating she would admit, if ladies admitted
that they sweated. She wished she could take the jacket off, but
taking anything off right now seemed ill-advised.

“You
think you are very clever, don’t you?” she said. “By
degrees—are you certain you can live with that?”

James
waved a nonchalant hand. “Gives me the opportunity to decide if
I really want to pursue…well, you know, given the conditions
you’ve stipulated.”

“You
think me unfair?”

“I
think you unwise, Amanda.”

A
crash of thunder overhead saved her from having to answer. The rain
that had been threatening for most of the day burst from the sky in
an angry deluge. Wind buffeted the carriage, rocking the vehicle
violently. A steak of lightening lit up the landscape, and another
loud crash filled the air around them.

James
pounded on the roof. Moments later the driver pulled over and
stopped, the carriage lurching when he jump to the ground. James
opened the door, hanging tightly to the handle as the wind tried to
wrench it from his grasp.

The
driver was soaked, and demoralized by the looks of him. “M’lord?”
he shouted, rain flowing off his lips and down the front of his
slicker.

“We
can’t travel in this weather, Benton. We’ll be stuck in
mud in no time if we do. First inn you see, we have to stop.”

“Yes,
m’lord.”

Once
again James and she were alone in the carriage, but it was dark due
to the storm, and all she could see was the fuzzy outline of his
body, the glint of an eye, the flash of his teeth. The temperature
had dropped dramatically, and Amanda was now glad for the warmth of
her jacket.

“Are
you frightened?” he asked.

“Not
by a little rain, I’m not.”

“I
see.” And perhaps he did.

They
rode in silence after that, just as they had begun their trip.
Shortly thereafter they pulled into the yard of an inn and, to their
relief, the feel of cobbled stones beneath the wheels of the carriage
instead of dirt quickly turning to mud. James negotiated the
downpour, making the arrangements then he came for her.

Her
husband, now soaked himself, helped her into the inn and up a rickety
flight of stairs. Her skirt was wet several inches above the hem,
making it heavy and dangerously clumsy. He escorted her into a small
chamber—a bed, a rocking chair, and a night table—just as
Benton arrived with their luggage. Only then did the import of those
bags strike her. As the door closed behind the servant, she turned on
James.

“We’re
not sharing this room!” she hissed.

“Do
you prefer to sleep in the stables?” he asked in an awful
voice. “I can tell you, I do not.”

“Of
course not. Just obtain another room.”

“There
are no other rooms, Amanda. In case you hadn’t noticed, we are
in the middle of a storm, and we are not the only travelers seeking
shelter. We’re fortunate this room was still available. It was
the last one.”

She
stared at him, flustered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We’re
married. I suppose I didn’t regard it as an issue.” James
took off his wet coat. “Think of it as adhering to the
contract,” he said, tossing it to the floor.

“The
contract?”

“You
will be warming my bed. Naturally, you don’t have to like it.”

“Absolutely
not.”

He
stopped in the middle of removing his shirt, his expression
disdainful. “Amanda, do not assume. Turn down my advances
when
I’ve given you reason.”

“But
you’re taking off your shirt.”

“I’m
sorry if I embarrass you, but I am drenched. I’ll be damned if
I will stay in these clothes simply because it makes you
uncomfortable. I suggest you change as well. You are going to fall in
that skirt.”

“I-I’ll
wait until you leave.”

He
made a sound of disgust and, despite her protests, peeled down to his
skin.

Amanda
turned away, but her awareness of him only a few feet away was
intense. Despite her discomfort, she gave in to curiosity and peeked
over her shoulder.

He
was as naked as the day he was born, tall and broad-shouldered,
muscles working in his back as he rummaged in his bag. His skin was
browned from years in the tropical sun. He must have spent a lot of
time outdoors undressed, because the rich golden color covered him
from head to foot. She was shocked by a sudden throbbing in her
throat, desire washing over her in a seductive wave.

If
James was aware of her furtive inspection, he chose to ignore her,
going about the business of getting dressed, no wasted movement—or
modesty, for that matter—as he stepped into trousers and
buttoned a clean shirt. He slipped into another coat, combed his
hair, and moved to the door. Only then did he look at her as she
quickly looked away.

“I
leave you to your privacy,” he said, the words clipped and
ironic, considering he’d had none. The door snapped shut behind
him.

Amanda
stood in the middle of the room, feeling lost and very much alone.
She had antagonized James, which she regretted now that it was too
late. She was drawn to him in an almost compulsive way, attraction so
strong at times, she wondered if she were going mad. She was ready to
damn her pride and take what he offered, ultimately unsatisfactory
though it might be.

She
wasn’t comfortable with the passion. What she was feeling
seemed excessive, more the territory of randy young men than ladies
of refined sensibilities. She thought of her husband sating his needs
on her while she remained aloof. Possible? Not bloody likely if her
past responses were any indication. What a fool she was to have
challenged him.

She
removed her gown. Unable to reach the laces at the back of her
corset, Amanda fought the hooks in front, frustrated when she heard
the ripping of stitches. At least the ruined seams allowed her to
loosen the thing enough to remove it. On the verge of a temper
tantrum, she threw the damp garment next to her husband’s
clothes, wishing Betty were here to help her dress. But James had
done well on his own, and she could do no less.

Amanda
donned a simple frock, one with buttons down the front, eschewing
another corset and the perennial hoop, which was a fashion blunder of
major proportions. She did not care, for who was here to see? She did
what she could to restore her hair and drew a shawl over her
shoulders.

She
assumed her husband was expecting her downstairs. They had not eaten
since early morning, and she was starved, her stomach protesting
audibly. She could request a meal in her room but knew that would be
the final insult where James was concerned. Maybe they could have a
pleasant meal together and repair some of the damage. Not that she
intended to thaw in her initial attitude, but she did hate the open
warfare.

Amanda
refused to acknowledge that she might be inspired to ease the
friction by the memory of splendid man, his naked body sun-kissed and
virile, an invitation on his lips that was hard to resist.

In
a torment of indecision, her heart warring with more earthy needs,
she left her room and descended to the dining room.

***

CHAPTER
6

James
sat at an old scarred table in the dining room of the inn, nursing an
ale and feeling mightily sorry for himself. If ever a man had had
high expectations, only to have them dashed, surely he was that man.
His new bride despised him, a woman so beautiful most men would give
their right arm to possess her.

He
was at the moment trying to calm himself, to control an anger that
was not entirely fair. Amanda had reason to be unhappy with him. He
had
deceived her. But despite his desire to be just, he also
felt her response was extreme. Arranged marriages were not unheard
of, and financial considerations played a part in most of them. Any
aristocrat understood that.

Amanda
was right—he should have told her about his arrangement with
her father. But why must she assume that affection and common sense
were mutually exclusive? that he could not care for her because her
money was useful to him. Rubbish, but how was he to convince her of
that?

She
was, however, not indifferent to him, he thought with a smile, the
one bright spot in an otherwise dreadful situation. He thought back
to the last hour when he had stood in the room above, naked as
Michelangelo’s David, aware all the while his lovely wife was
ogling him. He could only hope it was with a lustful eye because, if
she at least desired him, he might have a chance of bringing her
around.

He
suspected that was her one weakness despite her outrage. She was a
woman of passion. But it made the situation all the more frustrating,
since she was keeping him at arm’s length, and all he wanted
was to make love to her until they were both too worn to stand.

He
had no intention of honoring that ridiculous little bargain of hers.
He thought this without guilt, because the idea of bedding an
indifferent partner left him cold and disinterested. She could hardly
benefit from such a sterile coupling, either. But she had handed him
a challenge and, if it were the last thing he did, he would bring her
around. Before it was over her “participation” would
rival his own. Anything else was unacceptable.

He
took another swig of his ale, dissatisfied with the meager
intoxication it produced compared to the sexual intoxication he was
craving. He glanced up as his wife entered the dining room.

Every
male head in the vicinity swung in her direction. Amanda stood on the
threshold, searching for him. She was dressed simply in sea mist
green, no hoops, her black hair slightly mussed, giving her a softer,
sweeter—more accessible?—look that tugged at his heart.
In that moment, emotion expanding in his chest, James was more proud
of her than he thought possible.

When
she saw him her face lit with recognition, and she sent him a
tentative smile. She hesitated, however, until he waved her over.
James grinned inwardly as the sea of heads turned in unison, watching
her progress across the room. Who could blame them? How often did a
goddess step down from her throne to astonish the patrons of a
tavern?

Amanda
sat in the seat opposite him, bringing with her the soft scent of
lavender and an aura of femininity uniquely Amanda. He was shocked by
a wave of sexual hunger, a need so intense it confused him. He drew
in a deep breath to clear his head.

“You
look lovely,” he said.

“Oh.
I do?” She looked surprised. “I was thinking that I
should have made more effort. But I couldn’t face putting on my
hoops.”

“Or
your corset?” he asked thickly.

Her
eyes widened but, before she could answer, a serving girl approached
their table.

They
ordered supper and James pressed on her a glass of ale.

“Ale
is a man’s drink, James, and not a very sophisticated one at
that,” she protested.

“It
will relax you.”

A
flicker of distrust entered her eyes. “I am relaxed.”

James
sighed, unwilling to take offense. “Come, Amanda, I’m
trying to put this uncomfortable day behind us. Join me in a drink.
We can take up the battle again tomorrow.”

Her
gaze traveled across his features, back and forth, as if assessing
his honesty. Seemingly satisfied, she nodded curtly. And when the ale
arrived, she picked up the mug gingerly. Her first sip brought a
grimace of distaste.

“Disgusting.”
She shuddered, but he detected humor in her attitude. “How do
you drink such a foul beverage?”

“It
is an acquired taste,” James admitted, delighted with her
effort to play along.