In the Night (8 page)

The implication wasn’t lost on him. Rosy color blossomed high on his sculpted cheeks. Moira swallowed, waiting for his response. Never before had she allowed a man to know that she wanted their relationship to continue—that she wanted him in a physical manner.

His expression was unreadable. “I was going to say that there is none left.”

“Oh.” Was that a rejection, or merely a truth? She was too inexperienced to tell, and too embarrassed to do anything but stand there, wondering.

“Do you have mulled wine at your house, Moira?” He
took a step toward her as he spoke, bringing the distance between them down to an entirely improper intimacy.

She frowned, unsure why he was asking and strangely thrilled at the sound of her name on his lips. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. I always do at this time of year.”

“What time shall I come over?”

Moira’s heart stopped dead in her chest. Then, with a mighty thump, it started to pound so hard, she thought it might break free. “Come over?”

He caressed her with a gaze that burned. “To your house.”

“Tonight?” It was a ragged whisper at best.

He nodded.

“I—” Dear God, what did she do?

His lips twisted into that mocking smile, but there was a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “My apologies. I overstepped my bounds. Good evening, Lady Aubourn.”

No. He could not go back to “ladying” her after calling her by her Christian name. Nor could she allow him to simply walk away as he was now doing.

“Wynthrope.” Thank God he was still close enough that she didn’t have to raise her voice.

He halted, then turned his head to gaze at her over his shoulder—his wide, gently rounded shoulder.

“Three o’clock,” she told him, her mouth so dry she could scarcely speak. “Come through the garden.”

This time his smile wasn’t mocking at all. It wasn’t vulnerable either. It was a seductive smile, full of wicked promise—the promise of pleasure.

He simply nodded and then was gone, leaving Moira staring after him, a fearful tightness in her throat.

What had she done? Wynthrope Ryland was coming to her house later that night!

And Moira had a feeling she was going to want more than wine.

Moira Tyndale lived in an elegant house in a fashionable West End neighborhood. It was tall and narrow—much like the lady herself—fair of façade and simply ornamented. It wasn’t a pretentious house, and yet it didn’t seem to be quite comfortable with itself either—were it possible for a house to have such sentiments. Yes, this house suited its owner. It strove to appear a certain way, just as the viscountess did.

Street lamps lit the front of the house, as did the moon’s reflection on the light layer of snow blanketing the ground. Normally Wynthrope would curse such a moon when skulking about, and perhaps he should this night as well, but as soon as he saw Moira’s garden, he was nothing more than thankful.

There were no flowers, as to be expected at this time of year, but hearty shrubs and thistles glistened with ice. Pale, ghostly statues, embroidered with moss and ivy, kept silent vigil as he walked past. This was no ordinary lady’s garden. This garden was wild and untamed and somewhat sinister in the diminishing hours of night. No doubt in summer it was a variable thicket of bright blossoms and tangled vines. How amazing that such a house should conceal such a garden.

It made him wonder what delights Moira concealed.

That she had taken the bait and invited him to her home at such an hour had been a surprise in itself. Who would have thought that the prim and proper Lady Aubourn could be so bold? Everything he heard about her indicated just the opposite, and yet here he was, standing at the garden doors of her house, almost afraid to knock.

This attraction he felt toward her was not rational. It was wild and intoxicating and left him with the same feeling a successful heist used to award.

That very acute, shamefully piquant feeling should be reason enough to return to the relative safety of his apartments. It was also what kept him from doing just that. He
wanted to see Moira—
needed
to see her. Little over an hour had passed since he last saw her angular face, and he was already starving for another glimpse. He longed to see his own face reflected in the clear, noncritical depths of her fairy eyes. He wanted to talk to her, and in return listen to what she had to say—another danger.

And he also wanted to kiss her again. He desired that above all else.

Raising his fist, he lightly rapped on the glass. He should have brought something. Flowers perhaps, or chocolate. Ladies liked flowers and chocolate. He would enjoy watching Moira’s face as sweet, rich chocolate melted on her tongue. The very thought of it made him hard.

Yes, he really should have brought chocolate.

The door opened, and all chance of turning back evaporated. One look at the woman before him and all rational thought vanished as well.

She hadn’t changed out of her evening clothes, but she had removed her jewelry. Somehow she seemed all the more lovely without adornment. She stood in golden-hued warmth, in the cozy confines of her home. He stood in the silvered darkness, the barren night wide open and showering him with a light dusting of snow. The differences between them couldn’t be any more obvious even without such presentation.

“I did not think you would come,” she said.

Somehow he managed a smile. Thank God it was so cold; that embarrassing erection was almost completely gone. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

Her wide lips curved. “I have not.”

“Perhaps you should.”

She didn’t even pause to consider the wisdom of his suggestion before offering her own. “Perhaps you should come in before you catch cold.”

She stood aside, gesturing for him to enter. For one awful
moment it was as though he were trapped in a dream—one in which he was trying to run, only to discover his legs had turned as heavy as lead. He couldn’t seem to lift one foot in front of the other no matter how much he wanted to cross the threshold into that welcoming interior.

And then somehow—magically, it seemed—he was inside and she was closing the door behind, sealing them both inside and condemning them both to whatever fate or folly awaited.

The room was decorated in shades of olive, cream, and gold and softly lit, most of the light coming from the fire banking in the hearth. Shelves of books lined all sides, broken only by the paintings of angels. But Moira Tyndale’s angels weren’t serene and sweet, these were vengeful, wild, mournful angels with wings that ranged from pale ivory to rich indigo. Some were in flight, some in contemplation, and one gazed heavenward, her face ravaged by grief as she held a dying woman in her lap.

“Good Lord,” Wynthrope murmured, moving closer to the large, gold-framed canvas. “This is amazing.” Then he took a good look at the angel. It was Moira—a younger, rounder Moira, but undeniably her. She looked softer with a little extra weight, but she was just so heartbreakingly sad.

“The woman is my aunt Emily.” Moira’s voice drifted over his shoulder. “I was very attached to her.”

Hence the expression on the angel Moira’s face. He turned to face the original. “It is beautiful. Are you the artist?”

She chuckled as she offered him a heavy crystal goblet. He noticed that she avoided looking at the portrait. Perhaps she was embarrassed by having her grief so scrutinized. Or perhaps she feared he might catch a glimpse of vulnerability in her. “Heavens no. My late husband painted it. He painted all my angels.”

The way she said it—the very wistful quality of her voice—brought a rush of envy and jealousy over Wyn
thrope. The late viscount had obviously been very talented, but more than that, he was obviously very much missed by his widow. Wynthrope envied not only the talent, but the sentiment. Would anyone speak of
him
with such a nostalgic tone after his demise?

And yes, he was jealous of the viscount as well. Jealous that the man’s wife had thought so much of him—and had the nerve to intimate such devotion in
his
presence. It was enough to make him wish he hadn’t come—enough to make him feel like a libertine for knocking on her door, hoping she’d screw him right there in this room under the watchful eyes of her tortured angels.

He took the glass she offered; mulled wine as promised. The cut crystal was warm against his palm and fingers, the fragrance of the wine as potent and inviting as the woman who served it. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “Please, sit.”

Such cordiality. Either she had no idea that he had come there with every intention of seducing her, or she was toying with him.

He took a swallow of wine as he followed her to a nearby sofa. It tasted as good as it smelled. Cinnamon, cloves, and rich wine flooded the recesses of his mouth, tart yet sweet against his tongue. This was much, much better than the sugary stuff served at the party earlier.

Moira seated herself on one end of the sofa, turning herself ever so slightly inward to face him when he sat on the other end. Only he didn’t sit at the other end. He sat right beside her, bringing his knee up onto the cushion beside her so that the entire length of his shin rested against her thigh. His entire body faced her.

She jumped at the contact and regarded him with raised brows, but he wasn’t fooled by the hauteur in her expression. The pulse at the base of her throat was pounding so hard he
could see it. “There is more than enough room for the two of us on this sofa without you sitting quite so close, Mr. Ryland.”

“My name is Wynthrope.” He took her glass of wine from her and set it on the table along with his own. “And if I sat at the other end of the sofa, Moira, I would not be able to do this.”

Before she could ask what “this” was, he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her toward him. The moment his lips touched hers, Wynthrope knew he would be successful in his quest. Moira opened her mouth to his plunder, her tongue twining with his. She did not object to his advances, that was obvious. She wanted him almost as much as he wanted her—there was no way she could possibly want him as much. Once he was inside her, perhaps he would be better able to understand why it seemed as though she could see so easily inside him. Once he had emptied himself within her, perhaps he would no longer feel this rotten, hollow feeling that seemed all the more acute whenever she was near.

The taste of her was more potent than the wine that sweetened the recesses of her mouth. She was warm and wet, soft and pliant, and he held her tightly, ashamed of just how afraid he was that she might try to escape. One of her hands rested on his thigh, the fingers digging into his muscle. He did not know where the other was.

Slowly, Wynthrope slid his left hand up her leg. His right still held her by the neck, fingers aching to pull the pins from her hair. Her gown was soft beneath his hand, and he could feel the heat of her, feel the delicate curves, the fragile bones of her body beneath the fabric. Her hip was gentle, the valley of her waist a tiny dip leading to her ribs. Her breast was larger than he expected. His hand cupped the fullness there, pleasing and arousing him with the softness yielding to his fingers. His thumb brushed the hardened crown of her nipple. Moira gasped against his mouth, her body stiffening. Inwardly Wynthrope crowed.

Ah, there was her other hand. It covered his, stopping him from slipping inside her bodice. To make matters worse, she broke their kiss as well. Raising his head, Wynthrope stared at her in surprise. Had he done something wrong?

She regarded him with something that appeared very much like wariness. “I am not so easy to seduce, Mr. Ryland.”

Easy? No. She was practically virginal in her resolve. That did not mean he had given up hope, however. After all, she still held his hand—and it was pressed most pleasantly against her hip. “I am rarely denied what I want.”

She regarded him with an expression of mocking disbelief. “You poor man.”

He would have laughed at her sarcasm if not for the ache in his groin. “I persuaded you to invite me here, did I not?”

“You are here because I allowed it, and if our ‘relationship’ becomes more intimate, it will also be because I allowed it,
not
because you willed it.”

His smile was one of admiration, he couldn’t help it. “You are made of sturdier stuff than you appear, Lady Aubourn.” Her resolve didn’t stop him from rubbing his palm against her hip.

Now it was his turn to surprise her. “Do you find my appearance lacking, Mr. Ryland?”

“Nothing a few lazy mornings of breakfast in bed could not cure.”

His brazen innuendo was rewarded with a soft flush in her cheeks and a subtle widening of her eyes. “You reckon I am too thin?”

“Yes.”

She looked completely dumbfounded, but not insulted as most women would have been. “You are very bold sir.”

She didn’t chastise him for his sexual remarks, but did for commenting on her weight? Such strange creatures were women.

“I am. I believe that is what you like about me, my lady.”

“Only one thing? Surely you can do better than that? I imagine you have a whole list of things women find appealing about you.”

And now she was making fun. Charming. What a difference being in her own home made. What a difference mulled wine made. He liked this fun and flirtatious side of her. She didn’t play games or try to make it seem as though she was acting against her will. She simply didn’t want to go as fast as he did, and strangely he respected that. She made him feel young and carefree, and it had been a long time since he felt as though he hadn’t a care in the world, or the weight of it on his shoulders.

“I am concerned with no other woman but you, Moira. I warn you, I want you and I have every intention of having you.”

Her blush deepened, but she did not look away. “You will not find me an easy mark, Wynthrope.”

At least he had her calling him by his Christian name. “I cannot resist a contest of wills. I accept your challenge.”

She became thoughtful for a moment. He felt her withdraw from him even though her body didn’t move at all. “Are the pages of the betting books filled with wagers concerning the two of us?”