On a Long Ago Night (36 page)

words spilled out of her without any control. "I was eighteen,

innocent. I was grieving for my mother and lost in a foreign land.

The man I thought I loved was wounded and feverish, and there

was nothing I could do to help my best friend. Then I was left alone

in that awful place!"

"Better than in a dark, filthy cell with a hundred stinking,

ragged prisoners."

His words painted a harsh picture for her. For the first time

she realized that what she, spoiled aristocrat that she was, had

considered inhumane and hideous, had indeed been the best

treatment he could provide for her in a bad situation.

A situation he got you into
, she reminded herself sternly.
He

was trying to escape his own hell
. She sighed, understanding all too

well about personal hells.
How can I blame him for that
? She

wasn't sure, but she wanted to. Holding onto the anger would help

her regain the control that shattered from being near him.

"Why?" he asked again.

She remembered his original question, despite the change of

subject, and this time she gave him the answer. "Because I was a

fool. Derrick pleaded with me not to let our captors know who he

was—the scourge of the corsairs."

James's eyes narrowed. "The what?"

She laughed bitterly. "Indeed. I discovered later that his

vaunted reputation was of his own making. Just one more lie he

told me." Once that truth was out she couldn't stop the words. "I

haven't a clue to how the man managed to deceive me so. I was

eighteen and in my second Season, for heaven's sake, when we

met. I'd been courted by every manner of fortune hunter from the

moment I first had my come out, and not been fooled by any of

them. But I thought Derrick was different—thought he shared my

interests and concerns. Thought he cared for me, and not my

inheritance. Maybe it was simply because he was taller than me. I

am a terrible judge of men," she concluded.

James sat up and put his arm around her shoulders. "So," he

said, companionably. "Is that why you haven't married until now?

Because you trusted no man?"

"Precisely," she snapped. "Between you and Derrick, I have

quite learned my lesson about romance."

"Oh, no," he said, voice low and sultry. "You haven't begun

to learn anything about romance, Mrs. Marbury."

Honoria's spine stiffened, and she lifted her chin proudly. "I

am not Mrs. Marbury."

"Perhaps not in name," was his smugly satisfied answer. He

squeezed her shoulder as he helped her to her feet. "I'll tell you

what," he offered. "If it will make you more comfortable, you can

call me Huseby. I'll just be another one of them around the house.

You'll hardly notice with so many of us Husebys about."

Despite herself, Honoria laughed. It felt so good to laugh.

The carpet beneath her bare feet was somehow deeper and softer

than she remembered it, the sun streaming through the high

windows more golden. Impossible, of course, but her senses, so

long kept in check, were sitting up and taking more notice of the

world than she liked. "That is quite all right. A generous offer, but

not necessary." She tossed hair back off her shoulders. "There

really are quite a few of them, aren't there?"

"Quite," he mimicked her usual clipped tone. And made her

giggle again. The fiend.

"I am going to get dressed now," she said, and he let her slip

out of his hold. They were both aware that he was physically in

control of the situation. She decided that she could cope with that;

it was the emotional and mental control that she must strive for and

win, of herself if not of him.

You will not feel
, she told herself with every step she took

away from him.
You do not feel his gaze on you. And it doesn't

matter if it is
. But that didn't change the fact that she knew her walk

was somehow different, that there was a provocative sway to her

hips, that every step sent little tingling aftershocks of passion

through her.

She found her spectacles, then found clothing in the dressing

room that was simple enough for even the heir of dukedom to

struggle into without a lady's maid. She knew that Maggie would

arrive shortly in the second carriage that carried James's valet and

both their wardrobes. Maggie would soon put her to rights: tighten

her corsets and button her up from chin to toes with all the armor of

propriety and habit.

Until then, she could make do with a loose-fitting morning

dress and her hair in a long braid, for she had no intention of

calling in another maid who would see the subtle marks of love-

making on her as she helped Honoria dress.

She didn't want to leave the dressing room, especially not

after she got a good look at the woman in the mirror as she braided

her hair. Honoria knew that heavy-lidded, voluptuous woman.

She'd left her behind in Algiers. She turned her back on the mirror

and attempted to be prim and proper when she marched out to face

James again. Fortunately, he had also taken the opportunity to don

his clothing. He had moved the table away from the door, as well.

She frowned at his presumption at touching what was hers;

then the frown melted into something that wasn't quite a smile as

she recalled that he'd been touching more than just her belongings

this morning. Morning? She glanced at the mantel clock. Yes, it

was still morning, but just barely, being only a few minutes before

noon.

"A Huseby came to the door. I sent for something to eat," he

told her. "And tea."

"I prefer coffee." She recalled with a blush that it was James

who taught her how to make proper coffee during the idyll in his

house. She had painstakingly taught Lacey House's cook the

procedure.

"So do I. I asked for that, too."

"You won't be disappointed."

He smiled. "You remember." He looked flattered, pleased, as

though a cup of coffee was some sort of precious gift from her to

him.

She allowed herself a shrug. "A liking for Turkish coffee is

one of several bad habits I learned from you."

"You remember how to make love, too," he said with an

irrepressible smirk. "You have a natural talent for lovemaking. But

you need more practice, Honoria. There are a great many things in

the book we haven't tried yet."

She stood in the middle of the luxurious bedroom and crossed

her arms beneath her bosom. "You are insufferable."

He nodded. "I know."

His gaze shifted below her face, and his expression became

very intent. A surge of heat rose in Honoria. She found herself

fascinated by watching him watch her, until she finally said, "You

are staring at my breasts, Mr. Marbury." Several layers of clothing

covered her bosom, yet she could
feel
him as strongly as though he

was touching her, and the tips of her breasts responded, straining

hard and sensitive against the material of her dress.

"Men look at women," he told her. "Women look back. It's

wonderful." He was standing by the unlit fireplace, his hands

behind his back. He took a step toward her.

She retreated toward the door. "Oh, no. We are not repeating

that."

"We will," he assured her. "But not until we've had

breakfast."

As if in response to his words, a knock sounded on the door.

A moment later Charles Huseby entered, followed by two

housemaids and a footman. They all carried food-laden silver trays.

"A selection of delicacies, as you requested, my lord,"

Charles told James.

Honoria stood in the center of the room, determined to ignore

everything and everyone. Then the rich aroma of coffee tickled her

nose, and she couldn't resist the temptation to move closer to the

table James had shoved back into its accustomed spot. The servants

set out dishes of strawberries with cream, meat pies, custards,

poached salmon, gold-crusted bread still warm from the oven,

popovers, dishes of butter, and dark berry jams. There was tea and

coffee. Scones and a heavy dark cake dotted with dried fruit. It all

looked and smelled seductively delicious. Seduction was what this

was all about, of course, and it worked very well indeed. She could

not recall when she had eaten last, or even when she had wanted to

eat. There had been food at her wedding reception the evening

before, and a cake, but she had tasted none of it.

The dishes were set up, linens spread, chairs held out for

them. She and James took seats on opposite sides of what was not a

very large table and let their plates be filled and drinks be poured

before the servants were dismissed. It was James who sent them

away, just as he had ordered the meal. She was not happy about

this presumption of place, but legally it was his right, so she

couldn't complain about it in front of the servants.

When she and James were alone, she said, "Do you mind?"

"Eat," he responded. His honey-colored eyes twinkled as he

added, "You need the energy."

"Don't you twinkle at me, James Marbury." She tapped a

finger on the tabletop. "And I will not put up with any innuendo,

either. Do you understand?" She knew she sounded ridiculous, and

he had only to tilt an eyebrow at her before she broke out laughing

at the foolishness of what she'd just said. "You infuriate me," she

told him. She took a bite of custard, then a taste of scone, while he

chewed on a slice of thick, warmly toasted bread slathered with

butter and jam.

She found the silence frighteningly compatible while they ate

their way through a good sampling of all the dishes the butler had

brought them.

Finally, after he'd cleaned off his plate and pushed the chair

back from the table, he said, "You like it when I infuriate you.

Admit it."

Honoria drew herself up stiffly. "Nonsense. There is nothing

pleasant about what you do to me." He glanced significantly toward

the bed, and to her chagrin, she couldn't keep from smiling and

going warm all over once more. "Point conceded, Mr. Marbury—

Pyne—Huseby—Moresco, or whatever you wish to call yourself at

the moment."

"Husband will do."

His voice was soft but edged as he stood slowly and came

toward her, demanding an acknowledgment she was not prepared

to give. She was at a loss as to how to combat her visceral reactions

to James when he gave her no time to find calm and gather her

defenses. He was purposefully keeping her off balance, and doing a

very good job of it. The question was, why? He had what he

wanted, which apparently was to make himself her husband. Why

couldn't he simply leave her alone now that he'd accomplished his

goal?

They stood silently face to face for a few moments. He

waited for her to speak, to give in and call him husband. She knew

exactly what words he wanted from her. She could not bring herself

to give them. His muscles were taut and tense, his eyes practically

glowing with anger by the time he put his hands on her shoulders.

She knew he wanted to shake her, but all he did was draw her

closer.

"Is it because of my past? Is that it? Because my mother

worked in a tavern? Because I've been a fisherman, and a galley

slave, and owned a tavern? Aren't I good enough for a duke's

daughter because I've gotten my hands dirty?" he asked with hurt

bitterness. "Oh, and because I've been a pirate," he added

sarcastically.

Honoria listened with shock that he would think her so

shallow. But then, what did he truly know of her and hers? She

shook him off with a sharp, "Oh, for God's sake!" Grabbing his

hand, she ordered, "Come with me," and paraded him out the door.

She refused to answer his questions as she marched him swiftly

along, but at least he let himself be led for once. In fact, at one

point he said he liked having her hold his hand, but she ignored this

provocation.

She took him to the Long Gallery, which took up a large part

of the second story of Lacey House, and which was designed to

impress. The floors were marble; the ceilings were decorated in

frescoes of heroic figures and ancient naked gods painted by the