Lorraine Heath - [Lost Lords of Pembrook 03] (11 page)

Chapter 8

H
e’d wanted to dine on the terrace with candles flickering because it provided more shadows than light, and he’d already given away far too much. He didn’t want her studying him, trying to decipher him. He also didn’t want the formal attire that was required in the dining room—although it being his home he could wear, or not wear, whatever he wanted.

He was in a loose white linen shirt. His frock coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth were on the floor of his bedchamber. She was still in the hideous black, but she’d removed all the pins from her hair and secured it with a black ribbon. The golden tresses reached the small of her back. It was a vision that would haunt him tonight when he returned to the club. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent so few hours in a day at his establishment. Odd that he’d not given it any thought until that moment. She had been his focus for much of the day.

He studied her over the rim of his wineglass, imagining her in the clothing that the dressmaker was no doubt already busily sewing. The black would be gone. He could scarcely wait.

She had been inordinately quiet while enjoying the soup, and then the pheasant. Now he caught her fingers shaking when she reached for her wine.

“It won’t be tonight,” he said quietly.

She peered up at him.

“The bedding,” he continued. “I told you it wouldn’t happen until you were comfortable with me.”

He didn’t much like the gratitude that swept over her features. He should just take her and be done with it. Then she wouldn’t be nervous, although she might be a good deal more uncomfortable with him.

“Do you like chocolate?” he asked.

She smiled softly, sweetly. He wondered how long he could keep her without her losing that particular smile.

“Who doesn’t love chocolate?”

He regretted now that he’d given it away. He hoped the old woman had savored it, rather than gobbling it down.

“When did you begin living with the earl?” he asked.

She picked up her wineglass, and he was grateful to see that she held it steady.

“When I was six, after my mother died of the scarlet fever. His wife passed away four years after that. Then it was just he, Geoffrey, and I. For the longest I didn’t understand his having a wife. He was my papa. I thought he was married to my mother. Do you know how to ensure that we don’t have children?”

He nearly choked on his wine. When would he learn not to drink when she was about?

“I shouldn’t like to have children out of wedlock,” she continued. “No matter how much they might be loved, it’s not an easy path for them.”

He almost told her that if they had children, he’d not leave them unprotected as Wortham had, but had he not thought that very afternoon that children were not for him? “I know methods that increase the unlikelihood of children.”

“I thought you might. How long does a mistress generally stay with a gent?”

“Depends on the gent. Depends on the mistress.”

“My father loved my mother. I don’t think he would have ever turned her out.”

“But she left him.”

She jerked her head back. “Not by choice. Death took her.”

“But it must have hurt.”

“Of course it hurt, but that is part of life, is it not?”

Not his life, not if he could help it.

“You may redo the rooms if you like,” he said.

She blinked at him. He knew it was an abrupt change of subject, but he didn’t want to follow the conversation she was leading.

“May I? Some of the rooms seem rather dark. Did you decorate them?”

“The house is as it was when I acquired it. But I like the dark rooms. If you don’t”—he shrugged—“change them. I don’t spend much time here. I have rooms at my club.”

She set down her wine, studied him. Thank goodness for the shadows. He didn’t want her to guess that even for tonight, he didn’t want to leave. He wanted her to play the pianoforte for him. He wanted her to read to him. He wanted her to just sit in the garden with him. He wanted her to spread out on the bed and welcome him. He would hold her hands to keep her from reaching for him, but then he would kiss her slow and deep, just before he pounded into her. He wouldn’t be able to hold back. He knew that. Already his body was aching for her.

He thought about going to a prostitute tonight, but she wouldn’t satisfy him. From the moment he had seen Eve, he had known no one would satisfy him save her. He could blame Ekroth for having pudgy fingers all he wanted, but the truth was that he had desired her from the moment he’d gazed on her profile.

“Then I won’t see much of you,” she said, her voice sounding more raspy.

“Only late evenings usually. Once things begin between us.”

“Haven’t they already begun? Surely there will be more between us than just the rutting in bed.”

No, no there won’t be
hung on the tip of his tongue. But he’d already hurt her enough by not being the man she desired—a man who would marry her. So he held back the words that would upset her. He’d never considered himself deliberately cruel. What he liked most about her was that she wasn’t cynical. She would be in time, the longer she was with him. He would let her go shortly before then.

As though realizing that no answer would be forthcoming, she asked, “May we take a walk about the garden?”

He finished off his wine, got up, and pulled out her chair. She rose so gracefully, and it was all he could do not to plow his hands into her hair, cup the back of her head, and kiss her with every ounce of passion he possessed.

As they walked side by side, the lit gaslights guided their path past the rhododendrons, pansies, and roses.

“I don’t understand why you would want to bed me when you don’t even want to touch me.”

Not want to touch her? He wanted to touch her more than he wanted to breathe, but that would invite her to do the same, and therein resided the problem. In spite of his loose shirt, if she wound her arms around him, he would feel as though he were suffocating, he would shove her aside, possibly hurt her.

“I understand your rule about not embracing you, but we could at least hold hands, don’t you think?”

Before he could respond, she’d slipped hers into his, her palm pressed flat against his, her small fingers threaded through his larger ones, curling around to rest against his knuckles—knuckles that had battered faces for money owed, not to him, but to the man he’d worked for when he was younger. He’d done what he needed to do in order to survive. He didn’t make excuses for it, but it seemed wrong for her to be clasping his hand as though it were worthy of her touch.

But he couldn’t bring himself to pull free. Nor could he bring himself to talk. His throat had clogged with an emotion he didn’t recognize, couldn’t name.

“When I was a child, my father would give me dolls,” she said softly, as though the journey through reminiscences required a reverence. “When I was sad, when I was happy. When I was ill, when I was well. It didn’t seem to matter. They were so beautiful. I would have tea parties for them. They were my friends. They kept me from being lonely.

“Then one day, I found a path through the hedgerows, to a wooden fence. There was a small hole, and I could peer through and see the neighbor’s garden. I saw a girl, not much older than I was at the time, and she was playing with another girl. They were talking and laughing and frolicking about. Dolls can do nothing except sit. I threw a tantrum and broke all my dolls. It wasn’t the least like me. Father was terribly disappointed. That’s when I began to suspect that I was a secret.”

“I’ve told you that you won’t be a secret with me.”

“Yes, but I’m left to wonder if it will be better or worse. I still shan’t have friends. I won’t be respectable.”

He would not feel guilty for his role in shaping her life. If not for him, she’d already be bedded, of that he was certain. She’d have no choice at all. “Respectability will not keep you fed, warm, clothed, or sheltered.”

“Have you friends?”

“No. I need no one save myself.”

“But you have your brothers.”

“And you have yours.”

Within his, her hand jerked. “Are yours horrid as well then?”

“No, they are good men.”

“I don’t suppose they’d approve of me.”

He stopped walking and faced her. He was grateful for the shadows that cloaked her features, hid the blue of her expressive eyes. “It makes little difference what they approve. All that matters is what I think.”

And what he thought, by God, was that he couldn’t go another second without tasting those succulent lips again. She was still holding his hand, so he very smoothly moved her arm behind her back while he snagged the other hand and brought it round to meet its mate. He could feel her steady gaze on him, even if he couldn’t see it.

“You don’t have to hold me captive. I’m quite capable of following your silly rule.”

Silly, was it? It was a rule that would save her. He released his grip, brought up his hands and cradled her face as he’d longed to, with both hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks, slipping down to caress the corners of her mouth. He wanted her to smile for him. He plowed one hand into her hair before lowering his mouth to hers. He tasted the wine, a rich bouquet that only became richer on her tongue. She wasn’t quite as timid tonight. She parried, danced, challenged. He liked when she didn’t fear him.

He didn’t relish knowing that she had grown up alone and that with him, she would continue to be so. He would hire a companion, someone to visit with her during the day. He would hire a dozen if it would make her smile.

She kept her promise, bless her. She didn’t touch him. She didn’t run her hands up his torso, she didn’t tangle her fingers in his hair. But she didn’t need to do either of those things in order to bring him to his knees. She sighed huskily. She circled her tongue around his mouth. She explored as he did—hungrily and deeply. He had no doubt that she would be all he required in bed. She would learn quickly, she would—

Lie there and take what he gave her. Keep her hands fisted at her side as they were now. He felt the tension radiating through her as she fought for her own enjoyment while not breaking his blasted rule. What would it hurt if she settled her hands lightly on his shoulders?

He dare not risk it. He couldn’t give her power over him. He couldn’t relinquish control. He couldn’t take a chance of her discovering the truth about him.

He marched forward, forcing her to step back—once, twice, half a dozen times—until she was pressed against the brick wall. He could take her here, lift her skirts, bury himself to the hilt. But if he did that, she might as well have stayed in the rookeries. He could take her down to the grass, let the verdant green serve as their bed. But she deserved better than that sort of barbarism.

He had promised her that he would wait until she was comfortable with him. While her lips played wildly with his, he knew she wasn’t yet ready for more. Or perhaps it was that he feared how he might hurt her the first time. The taking of a virgin came with responsibility. He couldn’t simply plow into her as he did with other women. He had to take more care.

It would be different if he weren’t going to see her again, but she was living in his blasted residence. He would see her. Unless he took her once, then walked away and left her with everything, as he’d promised. He wouldn’t have to see her disappointment or sorrow or regret. Perhaps that was the best way to handle this situation: take her, be done with her, let her move on with her life.

But already he knew that at the very least he would desire another kiss.

He drew back, not surprised to see that he was correct. Her fists were clenched. He stroked his thumb over her damp and swollen lips, felt her tongue dart out and touch his skin.

“I must get to the club.” His voice sounded rough and raw, as though he’d not spoken in a century.

She merely nodded.

“I don’t know when I’ll return.” Nor did he know why he felt compelled to say that. His schedule was his. She would conform, would wait for him.

Turning on his heel, fighting everything within him that demanded he make her well and truly his mistress, he left her there in the shadows of the garden.

S
he waited several heartbeats, taking in shallow breaths, working to regain her composure. She unfurled her hands. Her nails had dug into her palms. She’d come close to drawing blood. When she thought she no longer needed the wall for support, she walked on trembling legs to the table, lifted the wine bottle, and began pouring what remained into her glass. She was quite glad he was gone. Or so she told herself. The alternative was to wish he’d stayed, and had he stayed, she had little doubt that things between them would not have ended with the kiss.

If not for his silly rule, she would have melted against him, entwined her arms around him, might even—to her immense shame—have begged him to carry her to his bedchamber. He was so skilled at stirring heat and passion, such torrid heat and passion. Considering his stiffness, his distance, his aloofness, she had not expected him to send her senses ablaze.

Perhaps in the bedchamber was where he unleashed everything. If so, he might reduce her to a heap of cinders. She didn’t know whether to anticipate it, or be terrified.