On a Long Ago Night (25 page)

propriety overwhelmed her. "Very well," she told him, head held

proudly high. "I accept your price."

The dance was over, but she and James Marbury still had their

hands on each other. Even with her glasses on, the ballroom was a

blur to Honoria. The only object that had any clarity was the man

who faced her, so close the heat of his flesh was indistinguishable

from her own. The orchestra struck up another tune. People

changed partners. Honoria and James stayed where they were,

unmoving as figures swirled around them.

James finally seemed to notice. "Shall we dance?"

The sound of his voice brought Honoria out of the past. They

were in London. Eight years had gone by not in a blink, but as

slow, inexorable torture. She felt the weight of every lonely

moment all of a sudden, and it crushed her spirit. Moving very

carefully, she stepped away from the man with whom she had

sinned.

"I cannot afford the price," she said, her voice tart and

astringent. She liked it when her sharp edges showed. It kept

people away from her.

It didn't seem to affect James Marbury any. He kept her hand

in his as they left the dance floor. She didn't think he intended to let

her go.

"Why are you doing this?" she finally questioned, just before

they reached the knot of people that consisted of both their fathers,

cousin Kate—and, inevitably, Derrick Russell.

"It's complicated," he answered as they stepped closer to the

waiting group.

"Ah, but I prefer a simple life," she said in a normal voice,

and with a smile that might have been coquettish had she not put so

many teeth into it. At least he hadn't tried to tell her he loved her. If

there was a part of her that ached for such a nonsensical

declaration, she pushed it down and ignored it.

Derrick, however, would not be ignored any longer. He

deliberately forced himself between her and James Marbury. "You

will dance with me now," he informed her, as firmly as if he were

ordering a sailor to swab down the deck of his ship. Though he

spoke to her, his furious glare was cast at the other man. She saw

the flash of dangerous anger in James's eyes, and the way that his

stance subtly tensed for a fight.

Did the two fancy themselves rivals? She was almost amused

at the thought—the sort of amusement that threatened to lead to

hysterical laughter. But that would cause a scene, as would

allowing herself to be squabbled over by two equally despicable

curs in fine clothing. So she gave in to the unpleasant inevitability

and let Derrick take her arm. "Very well, Captain Russell. Let us

dance."

She heard James murmur, "Are you sure you can afford it?"

as she turned to move back to the dance floor, but she refused to

acknowledge his bitter words.

James watched Honoria in the arms of her former fiancé with

fury. The two of them moved together with a certain familiarity

that set James's teeth on edge. They had been a couple once.

Russell wanted them to be a couple again—for all the wrong

reasons. Honoria knew that, but still she put up with Russell's

touching her, making demands of her. Why? What did the woman

think she was doing? Playing her suitors off against each other? Or

was she merely trying to torture him, and using Russell as the

means?

He was thinking like a jealous fool and he knew it. The

woman drove him mad. But, then, she always had. He smiled,

though memory and desire took his breath away.

Very well? What did the woman mean, very well? Diego was of two

minds as the enormity of her response slowly sank into his brain.

Well, not two minds; rather, his mind and his body reacted almost

as separate entities to Honoria's agreeing to become his lover. Part

of him, the part that was supposed to be such a cunning schemer,

was flummoxed and in shock, aware that he'd bluffed and she'd

called it. And now
—
he had to go through with it. And what was

wrong with that? He knew she was not a great beauty in any

conventional sense. He'd had great beauties, and been pleasured

but never impressed. Honoria was
impressive.
She was intriguing.

Proud. Purposeful. Emphatic. Impossible. She looked like an

amazon out of legend, tall and strong-limbed, and as wild as any

ancient warrior-woman beneath her prim British exterior, he was

certain. Something in her called to something in him. He'd wanted

to free that wildness from the moment they met. He'd been able to

think of no one else, had barely been able to accomplish his escape

scheme for wanting to be with her every moment. He didn't want to

need her, but the pull had been there from the first time he laid eyes

on her in the heat of battle
.

This is not honorable, the very soft voice of his conscience

told him as he stalked purposefully forward. She is a maiden. She is

under your protection. You will dishonor not just her, but yourself.

"Honoria," he said, as he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Oh, do be quiet," she snapped. Then she grabbed him by the

hair, and determinedly putted him into a kiss.

It took him some struggle to pull away from her lips. They

were both breathing heavily as they gazed for a long, burning

moment into each other's eyes. How desperately his body

demanded that he claim her. How vulnerable she looked, how

utterly desirable.

He was no gentleman. Honor was a luxury.

So was Honoria, he decided, as he took her spectacles off and

laid them on the table. Then he took her in his arms and taught her

how to kiss. Her mouth was rich and hot, and the ample bosom that

pressed against his chest was soft enticement to hands that began

to roam of their own will. He brushed a thumb against a swelling

nipple and a shiver went through her. She moaned against his

mouth, and her tongue ventured to dance shyly with his. This was a

real kiss, a promise of ecstasy.

When their lips parted, she looked stunned and dazed, but

there was a dreamy glow about her. Her arms clung around his

neck, and her breath came in sharp, excited gasps. He did not

detect regret or repulsion or any hint of dutiful submission. The one

thing he did not want to see was that she was thinking of another.

He didn't want her to bring "dear Derrick" into bed with them. He

put his hands on her thighs and drew them intimately closer, hip to

hip; made sure she felt his growing hardness. He watched with avid

greed as her eyes widened in surprise and the color deepened with

growing desire. She made a small whimpering sound that spoke

volumes about longing without any concept of what this desperate,

growing hunger inside her meant. It filled him with pleasure and

pride at being her first. There was a great deal he was going to

teach her. Most important, he was going to make her forget about

Derrick. He shifted his hold on

her and took her hands in his. "Come to my bed," he

whispered. "It isn't far."

He was looking at her—Honoria could feel it even though her back

was toward that side of the ballroom. The intensity of his stare gave

off a wavering haze like the heat given off by a blacksmith's forge.

It was as though the man was branding her with a look.

Perhaps she was coming down with a fever. A brain fever,

perhaps; one that caused hallucinations. Yes, that must be it. After

all she'd been put through in the last several days, was it no wonder

that all sorts of impossible, fanciful notions were intruding into her

normally quite unimaginative thought processes.

Unimaginative? She almost laughed, and couldn't help but

catch her breath as memory played a nasty trick on her, and a flood

of primal images and sensations broke through the carefully

constructed walls of years of denial and shame. Unimaginative?

This time she did laugh. Derrick said something, but she didn't

bother to answer. Derrick was as unimportant as a flea, and about

as repugnant.

She did take note of Derrick's frown as he guided her steps on

another turn of the dance. He was far from handsome when he

looked like that, all spoiled and petulant. She reveled in wearing

her spectacles, in noticing the faces in the crowd as they flashed

past her. Pale faces with carefully controlled expressions looked

back at her. She saw a row of dukes and dowagers, and debutantes

in diamonds and pale lace, dignitaries in bright sashes, and generals

and admirals in all their glittering medals. They danced past the

Queen sitting among her ladies and a host of solemn German

relatives. No one looked like they were having a very good time.

Of course, no one dared show too much emotion in this gathering

of the great and powerful. It could be remarked upon, talked about,

used against them; this was a Queen's court, after all.

They all had their secrets to hide: some simple, some grand,

some hideous. And they all wanted to suspect that she had done

something shocking and scandalous, simply because she had dared

to have an adventure, to step outside the small, narrow world of the

ton
. So she walked carefully among them when she must be in

society at all, showing a bland, unimaginative face.

She laughed again, unable to stop the mirth from bubbling

out. It was a small release for the tension that roiled through her.

She felt like a volcano about to come boiling violently to life,

especially as another turn brought her face to face with James

Marbury for a moment. She was right; he was staring—and how

well she knew that look in his honey gold eyes. They looked like

that when they made love, almost glowing with the intensity of his

desire. She'd been branded with that look years ago, and the mark

was as fresh as ever.

Wildness, recklessness, everything mad, forbidden and

damning in her flung against the prison bars of reason and begged

to run to him. Oh, the things she'd done, basking in the glow of that

look! And would do again, quite possibly in public, if James

Marbury kept looking at her like that.

Plain, proper, staid, dull, dreary, bluestocking, overgrown and

uninterested, unimaginative Honoria? Her gaze swept around the

crowd once more. If only they knew. No woman alive could come

away from four days in bed with James Marbury and be considered

anything but very, very imaginative.

"What's that?"

"It's a book."

She rolled over on her stomach and propped herself up on the

bed on her elbows. "I can see that."

He flashed her a smile, and ran his hand down the length of

her bare back. It sent a shiver through her, but it didn't take her

attention off the leather-bound book he held in his other hand.

She sat up all the way this time, and his hand-moved to cup a

breast and he bent his head to flick his tongue across her nipple. "I

like books."

"I know. You like this?" His mouth settled and suckled, but he

had to bend a bit awkwardly to do it and hold the book as well.

Desire rippled through her, and she made a sweetly satisfied

sound, but took the large volume from him. She wasn't wearing her

glasses; in fact, she neither remembered nor cared where they

were. It made it a bit inconvenient to look at the book as she

opened the pages. Fortunately, there wasn't much in the way of

text. "It's a picture book."

He made an agreeing noise as he pushed her gently onto her

back and his lips settled between the furrow of her legs. Honoria

kept the book pressed closely to her face. What Diego was doing

only made the beautifully detailed illustrations seem more graphic.

"
Oh, my…" she said, after she flipped a few pages, and then

turned one particularly
instructive
picture this way and that for a

while. "Oh, my, my
."

Diego left off the quite delectable things he'd been doing to