On a Long Ago Night (17 page)

will be my wife." He took a strand of her long, curling hair beneath

his fingers. He looped it around his forefinger almost without

thinking, and the action drew her head closer as she followed the

tug. He cupped her cheek with his other hand. Her lips were

pressed tightly in a prim line. "I should kiss you now," he told her.

"No."

"No, I shouldn't kiss you?" He smiled dangerously as he tilted

her face up, bending to brush his lips across hers. The kiss was the

lightest of touches. She showed no reaction at all.

"No, I will not be your wife."

"Of course you will," he said confidently. Would she strike

him for such highhanded arrogance? Would she order him out of

her house? She would rage and shout and he would silence her with

kisses, enflame her fury into passion. He would carry her to her

big, soft bed and bring her pleasure beyond anything they had once

had. She would remember. She would marry him. "It will make our

fathers happy," he added.

He held her hands in his, to keep her from hitting him,

perhaps. He twined his fingers with hers, then drew her hands up to

his lips. He kissed one palm and then the other, and a faint shudder

went through her. Not dead, he thought hopefully, just sleeping.

"Shall I wake the beauty?" he asked. "Do you know that story?"

"I know many stories. Pirate stories, mostly."

"I know a few of those." He kissed the insides of her wrists.

"And tales of Arabian nights."

"Tales of treasure hunting."

He pressed his lips against the inside of her elbow. "I know

one of a beautiful harem girl and her passionate lover."

"I am not familiar with such a tale." His gaze flashed up to

hers. He expected to find her expression soft, her eyes growing

dark with desire. Her eyes could be like sapphires, he remembered,

or indigo midnight, after making love, like the sea after a storm.

Her gaze on his right now was as cold as ice. "You would not look

at Diego like that."

"I am."

"How would you look at James Marbury?"

"With the contempt he deserves." James hooked an arm

around her waist and drew her closer.

"I do not know if it is Diego Moresco or James Marbury who

is insane," she said, infuriatingly calm. "But I would like you both

to leave now."

"We can't," he answered. He kissed her throat and this time a

sharp gasp escaped her. "We have only just begun." She felt good

filling his arms, like a soft, warm peach. He leaned close to whisper

in her ear, and breathed in her scent. "I could ravish you now, if

you like."

She put her hands on his shoulders, and for a moment her

touch was an embrace, her body molded tantalizingly and

arousingly against his. More than memory stirred at being so close

to her. He ran a hand down the long length of her spine, laying his

palm against the spot where her back curved into the roundness of

her buttocks, and felt the soft weight of her unrestrained breasts

pressed against his chest. His breath quickened, and his blood

heated. Memory was not enough. A small sound escaped him, one

of need and anticipation.

Then she stiffened and pushed against him. "Stop this!"

He thought she was admonishing herself as much as she was

him. She did not want to be soft and yielding, to remember what it

was like to feel like a woman. Why? He fought down the urge to

teach her what it was to be a woman, and made himself take a long

step backward. "Perhaps you'd rather wait until after the wedding?"

She did not instantly miss being in his arms, Honoria told

herself sternly as James stepped away. It was cool in her bedroom;

all she was missing was the warmth of body heat that chased away

the chill in her blood. Her blood was
not
chilled, she corrected, and

the very thought of sharing body heat was distasteful. Everything to

do with men, especially this man, was distasteful. How could she

ever have been interested in coupling like the basest of strumpets

with this, this—?

Animal. Dark and wild and overwhelming. Eyes of honey

gold, of amber fire. No, light brown, she corrected herself. Hardly

anything to dream about for years. Yet she wanted to see those eyes

looking at her the way they had once… her palms sweated at the

effort to keep from touching him, and there was an ache deep, deep

inside her. She would conquer it; she would! The sight of him

would not drive her wild! She tucked her hands firmly into the

wide sleeves of her robe.

He gestured toward the bed, with his amazing smile lighting

his face once more. "I will wait until after the wedding if I must,

but—"

"Wedding? Don't be ridiculous. Or do you have some

document you would like translated, Mr. Marbury? If that is the

case, I can provide you with references to any number of scholars

who will require no more than a nominal fee for their trouble.

Though if you wish to offer marriage as compensation, there is at

least one don at Cambridge who I suspect might be interested in

your proposal."

He waggled a finger at her. "Ladies should not know about

such things."

"Most women do not have my education. I have traveled

extensively, you know." Why was it she could always exchange

banter with this man? "We have nothing to say to each other, you

and I. I do not know what you want with me, but—"

"The same thing Derrick wants."

"My fortune? My place in society?"

"Your love."

"What nonsense."

"Do you love him still?"

"I have lost the habit of affection. You helped me with that.

Perhaps I should thank you."

His eyes narrowed a bit. "I'll make a better husband than your

dear Derrick." His tone was edgy, but he did not respond to her

baiting. He was, in fact, quite single-minded.

Her hands squeezed into fists inside her sleeves. She said

calmly, "I am not marrying him, either."

He beamed again. "Because you want me."

Infuriating creature! "Neither of you wants me." She hated

the petulance she heard in her voice. Why was it so difficult to hide

her emotions from this man?

"Your father wants you to marry." He crossed his arms over

his broad chest. He wore a dark gold brocade vest and crisp white

shirt beneath his black evening coat; long stovepipe trousers

molded his muscled thighs. It surprised her that he looked as good

in Western clothing as he had in Eastern robes, and far more

confident somehow, if that were possible. He did not sound the

least bit unsure when he added, "It will be me you marry."

"What my father wishes is of no—" A loud knock on her

bedroom door interrupted her words.

Chapter 9

Honoria exchanged a swift, guilty look with her intruder and

pointed to the bed without thinking. James was already on his way,

and pulled the bed curtains tightly shut as she reached the door. It

was only as she was saying, "Who is it?" that Honoria realized that

she should be delighted at this intrusion. She sounded irritated

rather than relieved as she demanded, "What do you want?" from

whoever was outside her door.

Her father walked in and gave her a brisk hug. "You're tired,"

he said, when he had her enfolded in his arms. "So I won't keep

you."

She pushed away from him, half-afraid, half-ashamed that he

would somehow be able to detect that she had been in James's

embrace only moments before. "Father!" She backed up quickly,

stumbled into a chair, and sat down abruptly. "Father," she

repeated, staring up at him. He was beaming proudly at her.

"I haven't seen you so rosy-cheeked and full of life in ages,"

he proclaimed. "I do believe that young man is good for you."

"What? What do you mean?" She was only able to keep from

looking around wildly by force of will.

She would not look at the bed. She would not. "What young

man? Captain Russell? I daresay not!" Her father's brows rose, but

his smile only widened. She was shouting, wasn't she? Blast and

curse her wretched temper. She noticed that her fingers were

digging fiercely into the tapestry covered arms of the chair. She

made her hands relax, then she rose to stand with a show of

dignified calm. Her father's hands were clasped behind his back

and he was rocking back and forth on his heels, looking extremely

satisfied about something. She was tempted to ask him if he was in

his cups, but her father did not overindulge in drink. "Pray, sir," she

asked him instead, "to what do I owe the honor of this late night

visit?"

"It's not that late." He took out his pocket watch and glanced

at it. There was a portrait of her mother on the inside of the case.

His glance lingered on the picture for a wistful moment before he

said, "It's barely eleven. Some of our guests are still playing cards

downstairs, your cousin Kate among them."

Honoria took his words as a reproof. "You're quite correct.

My obligation is to be with our guests, even if I loathe gaming. I

will call Huseby and dress again. I should not have left so soon—"

"Nonsense," he waved her apology away. "There's no shame

in keeping country hours. Let Kate deal with the card players. We

both know asking you to be my hostess was a flimsy excuse to get

you into society."

And find me a husband
. She couldn't help but glance at the

bed. The curtains were sedately drawn. Her father wasn't likely to

yank them open and demand what a man was doing in her bed. He

might, in fact, be delighted to find a man in her bed. Nonsense.

What a wicked, un-daughterly thought.

"James Marbury will do, I think. His father and I have

already discussed the matter."

Honoria literally jumped in shock. "What?"

Her father simply smiled wider. "I never did like Russell. Too

bad it was too late to rescind the invitation for tonight, but it

worked out well, I hear. Your cousin told me how you marched

him out to the garden and read him the Riot Act." He patted her on

the shoulder. "Kate is quite certain you were sincere in your

loathing of the fellow."

"Quite," she responded faintly. And James was privy to every

word she and her father exchanged. How typical of him to

humiliate her while he remained safely in hiding.

"Good for you, my girl."

She was hardly a girl, but she knew he looked upon her as his

innocent child, and always would. His love for her shone in his

eyes and his beaming smile, causing an almost physical ache at

knowing she was not worthy of the regard he felt so strongly for

her.

"I—" She felt tears sting behind her eyes. When had her

emotions become so close to the surface, so hard to control? Since

when did she allow pirates to hide in her bed? "I'm very tired," she

finished lamely. She plucked at her father's sleeve, trying to turn

him toward the door. She tried to put a teasing smile on her face,

and some emotion in her voice. "If you wish me to find a husband,

I'd better get some beauty sleep, don't you think?"

The Duke of Pyneham patted her on the shoulder. "No need

for that, my girl. No need to look further for a husband, I mean.

The Marbury boy will do quite nicely."

This was insane. Honoria's sudden smile was quite genuine as

she gazed at her father. She knew that none of the events of the last

few hours could really have occurred. She had not had dinner at the

same table as the two men who had blighted her existence. She had

not threatened one of them in the garden. The second one was not

hiding behind her bed curtains after asking her on bended knee to

be his bride. It was all a dream.

"Of course," she said. "I should have thought of it sooner." At

any moment her father would leave—or perhaps turn into a parrot

and fly out the window. Whatever happened next did not matter so

much, now that she knew it was all a dream from which she would

presently wake.

"How could you have thought of it? You just met the

Marbury lad a few days ago." Her father laughed. "I should have

known you'd find a unique way to begin a courtship."

A few days? She almost forgot her vow and spat out the truth.

In a dream it would be all right to finally unburden herself of

everything she'd kept from her father all these years. But what if

this was no dream? She said, "There is no courtship with Mr.