On a Long Ago Night (19 page)

supporting, soft with swans down. Her eyes were too heavy to

open; her hands could not seem to stop clinging to him. He was the

one solid thing in the soft, soft world. She felt as if her limbs were

made of half-melted candlewax, heated, pliable, and languid. His

mouth did not seem to have any trouble finding hers.

It was as if she had never been kissed before, and as though

he had never stopped kissing her. It was new and familiar,

wonderful and completely wrong. When his mouth left hers and

moved down to her throat she murmured, "I despise you," into the

soft fall of his hair.
Don't stop
.

"I know," was the response whispered gently against her

pulse. "But you missed me."

It was the smugness in his voice that shattered Honoria's

delicious, dreamy languor. Her eyes snapped open, meeting his

gaze just as he lifted his head to kiss her again. She shoved against

his shoulders. There was mocking laughter in those light gold eyes

when he sat up. But for being clean shaven, he looked as

disreputable as he ever had in Algiers, with his neck cloth askew

and his hair mussed. That she was responsible for his disheveled

state was of no moment. Her hair was unbound and curled wildly

around her face. Her hand went to her throat and found that the first

of the long row of pearl buttons that fastened her nightgown was

undone.

"Only one little button, duchess mine," James said with the

softest, most wicked of laughs. He reached out, his big hand

covering hers, his fingers resting on the line of her jaw. "Only a

little flesh showing." He exerted gentle pressure against her throat.

She had not realized she was sitting bolt upright until he pushed her

back against the thick stack of pillows. He followed her, leaning

close. "But you felt it when I touched you there." She shivered as

he ran his thumb down the side of her throat. That the shiver was

one of need infuriated her.

"I was not made for passion," she heard herself say.

"Once you were."

"That was an aberration."

Amusement danced across his lips and in his eyes. "You use

such big words."

She lifted her head haughtily, but could not escape his touch.

"I am a large woman. Large words suit me."

He nodded. "Everything about you is large. I like that." He

would have kissed her again if her free hand had not shot out and

delivered a resounding slap across his cheek. "I was thinking of

your large soul," he said as he jumped back to avoid the second

swing of her arm. He grasped both her wrists and held them tightly

out before her.

"You were thinking of my large dowry, more likely."

"I'm sure it is quite huge. That isn't why I'm going to marry

you."

"You are not marrying me."

"Your father thinks so. You have slapped me twice in the last

few days," he told her. His hands were quite tight around her

trapped wrists, and there was a dangerous warning in his eyes. His

cheek was red with the mark of her hand. "I think you owe me

perhaps one more. After that I will become very angry with you."

She remembered suddenly, and with great vividness, the long

pale scars on his heavily muscled back, and was ashamed of herself

for having struck him. Those scars had ached even though years

old. She remembered brown skin shiny with fragrant oil, and how

he had blessed her and sighed and relaxed beneath her kneading

fingers. He would grow boneless and blissful, like some large

hunting cat. Then he would turn over, with fire in his eyes and

grasp her around her naked waist and—

He had suffered enough physical pain in his life without her

adding to it. Besides, wit had always been her weapon of choice. If

she
could
keep her wits about her without succumbing to the lure of

foolish, best forgotten memories. She said stiffly, "I wouldn't think

of laying a hand on you, Mr. Marbury."

He flashed her a wicked smile. "But I want your hands on

me, sweetheart."

Perhaps she
would
hit him, just once more, for old times'

sake. She drew herself up indignantly to say something taunting,

cutting, vicious, but her mind drew a complete blank. All she could

think of was hands. His. On her. It had all happened years ago, yet

the yearning, the craving, was as fresh and frenzied as it had been

in that moonlit room in Algiers. How it could be, she did not know,

after all these years of being dead to feeling—but it was so. She

wanted
.

And rejected wanting with all her soul. She had made her

choice. She would never again let herself be controlled by desire.

Men might control her life, but her emotions and intellect were hers

alone to command. She had chosen intellect over emotion and

found it offered as much freedom as she was likely to achieve in a

man's world. That this man could manipulate her emotions even

after all these years infuriated her, but she was more angry with

herself than she was with him. It was in man's nature to use

women. It was a woman's own fault for allowing it.

But she still
wanted
him.

"You are either about to damn me to hell or draw me down

on your bed," he said. Her wrists ached when he let them go, but

not because he had held them too tightly. She was frozen with

indecision yet burning with longing as he took a step away from the

bed. He grasped one of the curtains he'd pulled back, bunching the

heavy material in his fist. "If I don't go soon, I won't go at all."

And he'd vowed that he would wait until she was his wife.

Honor required it. He would not break his promise, though the

sight of her lying so invitingly on the big bed sorely tempted him.

Her kisses were like no other woman's, her embrace was sweeter,

infinitely arousing, endlessly satisfying. Now he knew why he had

kissed and embraced so many others, losing himself in debauchery:

he had been trying to recapture what it was like to make love to

Honoria. He might never be able to recapture it, not with all the

years and the lies and the hidden truths between them. Yet the heat

rushed through him as strongly as ever, he was hard with need, and

his senses screamed to his mind that vows were for fools—to take

the woman now!

He was a weak man, not a paragon of virtue like his father.

The woman was before him, ripe and lovely and lush. His Honoria

looked as desirable with one button undone and her spectacles

askew as any other woman would completely naked and moaning

with lust.

He'd given in to the impulse once, but he had not been a man

of honor then. Now he must prove that he was.

He reached down and straightened her glasses, though he

wanted to caress her cheek and his fingers itched to slowly undo

the small pearl buttons and lay her full breasts bare. "I came here to

seduce you," he said, and forced himself to move away. "Or at least

to remind you of what it is to be a woman." She stared after him as

he backed stiffly into the shadows beyond lamplight and firelight

and the warmth of her reluctant embrace. He forced a smile, hoping

she would not see the strain from a distance. "We'll discuss our

betrothal further at the Queen's ball tomorrow night."

"We'll—" She sputtered angrily and started to rise from the

bed.

He blew her a kiss and moved toward the window he'd found

unlatched earlier. "I'll go out the way I came. Sleep well, my
houri
,

and dream of being Mrs. Marbury."

"She can't be Mrs. Marbury, James," his father told him.

James paused with his cup of coffee halfway to his lips, then

slowly set the delicate china cup back on its saucer. The morning

was bright and sunny, the coffee smelted delicious, and birdsong

from the garden filled the air. The day had seemed to be getting off

to a promising start. He stared in frustrated confusion at the slender

man across from him. "But you said you wanted me to marry her."

His father had been reading a letter bearing the crest of the

Duke of Pyneham when James came into the room, and he smiled

as he said, "I do want you to marry her." He tapped the heavy sheet

of vellum. "So does her father. But Lady Alexandra Pyne cannot

become Mrs. James Marbury."

James had not slept well, or much. He hoped that his lack of

rest was affecting his concentration. "Perhaps I am not hearing you

correctly, sir. Why—?"

"Charles II will not allow it," his father said. "An English

king," he added, after James stared at him without comprehension.

"Your Honoria's ancestor. He was King of England in the late

seventeenth century," the viscount went on as James continued to

stare blankly, his breakfast forgotten. "It was Charles who created

the first duchess, and the law that allows the eldest child rather than

the eldest son to inherit the title."

Intense tutoring had left James with a solid working

knowledge of the rules of the English and Spanish nobility. "I've

never heard of such a thing." He ran a thumb along the freshly

shaved line of his jaw, and shrugged. "I had wondered how it was

that the duke's daughter followed him in succession. But

Englishwomen take their husband's name. She will be—"

"You will take her name," his father broke in, patient but

persistent. "That is another part of the special law. The family name

remains Pyne, no matter whom they marry or who inherits. There

have been only two duchesses, and both husbands took their name.

It is a small enough thing, James, to achieve the goal you have set

out to accomplish."

James could not explain the sense of loss and betrayal that

washed over him at his father's mild gaze and tone. "My name is

Marbury." His throat tightened with so much pain that he found it

difficult to speak. "I have only just gotten it back." His fist

clenched around the fragile china cup, crushing it. Hot coffee

splattered his hand, shards of china bit into his flesh, but he barely

noticed any pain. "It is not such a small thing for me to give it up."

The viscount's pale skin went even paler, and his large eyes

filled with compassion. Not pity; James would have walked out if

the other man had shown him any trace of pity. "You are my true

born son. My heir. The child I love. Nothing can take that from

you."

"Someone already did," James reminded him.

Diego watched Honoria's face while he told her his story. He didn't

know why he was telling her his history, or why he couldn't take his

gaze off her. He enjoyed looking at her. She was so uniquely

attractive. He had thought so from the first moment he saw her. She

was certainly the tallest woman he had ever met, but he was no

small man. He liked that they were practically eye to eye when they

stood together. He had seen many beautiful women, and had not a

few of them as lovers. Beauty was easy to come by in the
souks
and

bagnios
of the Barbary ports, but lively intelligence and quick wit

were less readily available
.

"My mother is very learned, like you," he told her as she sat

on the edge of her chair. "But she had no chance to teach me more

than to read Spanish." He waved toward the wrinkled paper on the

table. "If she were here, she could perhaps read some of Ibrahim

Rais's code. Fortunately, she is safe in Malaga. I pray she is safe,"

he added with a sigh. After all these years he still missed her

desperately. "She is the daughter of an ancient and noble house,"

he went on bitterly, "but she works in a tavern, or did when last I

saw her. Her brother sends her a little money sometimes. I went out

in the fishing boats to help when I was eleven."

There was unwavering concentration in her blue eyes. She

had the loveliest blue eyes he had ever seen, even if she had to

wear spectacles to see. Diego smiled at her, delighted in her

company, guarded though it was. They were truly alone together

for the first time since they had met. He wanted to kiss her, though

he had not bought her to be his concubine. He needed her sharp

wits and quick, beautiful eyes for another reason entirely. But he