Seducing the Beast (25 page)

He’d never spent all night with a woman in any bed.

What had she done? Perhaps it was the fault of those three girlish freckles, or that occasional dimple, or the mischievous glimmer in her smile, or those eyes betraying her every mood, amusement and hurt. Or her warm, welcoming body. Most likely it was the combination of these things. She was unique and uniquely his. She was his property now, he decided, and he would take care of her. She should be grateful for that, damn her.

Undoubtedly her presence in his life would cause endless headaches. She’d already tried to rearrange his furniture, according to poor Gregory. And this insistence in arguing her point would eventually give him an apoplexy.

But she was a woman with strongly held convictions and the courage to fight for them. That was admirable, no matter how he wished it might not be.

Looking at her, he felt desire tighten and then swell inside his chest, as if it might burst out of him.

He slid his hand under her breast, weighing it in his palm. Despite his wealth, he was not an extravagant man, never had much taste for excess, but she was sheer opulent luxury, from the abundant, velvet darkness of her hair, to the vivid changeable blue of her eyes, from those yielding, delectable lips, to those lush, lissome curves. Nestled in his bed, waiting to be roused, she called to him, even as she slept. Sliding toward her on his hip, he bent his head and lifted her full breast to his mouth. His tongue flicked over her nipple, circled the pink blush of areola, and then his lips closed over it. He heard her sigh, felt her stretch languidly as she woke. Still suckling her breast, he stroked down her side to her hip again, long fingers spread. Cupping her bottom, he drew her closer and she moved her leg over his thigh, her hands in his hair, fingers tangled there, stroking his scalp. Holding her nipple in his mouth, he looked up and found her eyes open, watching him.

Fingers entwined in his hair, she drew him closer, nursing him.

On this twilight occasion, he was gentle, unhurried. Both kept their eyes open, as if each feared the other might suddenly vanish.

* * * *

“Let me dress you today,” she whispered playfully. “Send Wickes away and let me tend you, my lord.”

He shouldn’t capitulate and allow her this many liberties, but she wasn’t easily refused anything, especially when she said, “my lord” without sarcasm, when she was naked in his arms, one of her incredibly flexible legs stretched casually between both of his. So he conceded a tentative distance. “Perhaps. We’ll see.”

She laid her cheek to his chest. “Why did you hire Wickes? He’s an odd man.”

“At least he won’t go off
in love
like that damned fool Matthew, who chose a wench over his duty to me.”

“Yes,” she purred, “I certainly can’t see Wickes in love.”

“Am I to understand you dislike him?”

“I think I’m a good judge of character. Most of the time.”

Low laughter rumbled through his chest and out of his mouth, but there was no inclination to stop it today. Instead, he squeezed her pretty little posterior. “You want me to dismiss him and rehire Matthew, you need a better reason than that.”

“He’s got shifty eyes,” she protested.

“You said the same of me, once.”

He was too relaxed this morning to give her worries much credence and when she warned somberly, “You should keep an eye on him”, he merely cupped the back of her head and drew her lips closer for a kiss. There was only one thing he wanted to keep an eye on.

“Let me worry about Wickes.”

She readjusted her head on his shoulder and he stroked her hair, his fingers combing through her tangled tresses. Sensing she had more on her mind, he waited, patient for once.

“You’ll need someone to watch out for you, because I can’t stay,” she said.

Ah, that. It ripped into him, shattering his contented mood. Grinding his jaw, head pressed back into the pillow, he turned his eyes up to the canopy. “By the bay, you pleaded with me to let you stay. Now you want to leave. What’s changed?”

“It was different.
You
were different then.”

His hand paused in her hair, velvet curls wrapped around his fingers.

“And I was different too,” she added. “I thought, back then, this was enough for me. Now I know I want more.” He felt her head raise and he looked down, his gaze meeting hers. “Something you can’t give me.”

“What do you need?” he demanded, vexed. “I knew you were here for more than Downing’s cause! Out with it, wench. How much do you need to stay with me?”

She groaned. “This is not an issue of money, you fool!”

“What then?” Fear and frustration mounted. He couldn’t let her leave. It was impossible to contemplate.

With one palm pressed to his heart, she replied, “This.”

* * * *

His brow arched, eyes seeking hers and quickly retreating. “I seem to remember it was an item lower down you wanted before. You vowed it was all you wanted from me.”

Exasperated, she rolled over, leaving the broad, firm strength of his thigh, astride which she’d lain, drifting in and out of sleep that morning. There, fallen sated across his powerful body, Madolyn felt wonderfully safe and secure--too safe. Time to be practical again. She couldn’t explain her needs to him. She could hardly explain them to herself.

“Why would you want that old thing,” he whispered to the nape of her neck, sweeping her hair aside with one long, lean hand. “It’s twisted and rotten. Never did grow properly.”

“It’s been ill-tended.”

There was a long pause, then, his tone less jovial, he muttered, “I can’t marry you.”

“No,” she said simply. “I know.” Even if he was not already married, it would be impossible. With a heart full of emotions requiring reciprocation, she could never fit in his world. With “Griff” she was on a certain level, with the Earl of Swafford she was too far beneath. This was not her own opinion, but it was how the world viewed them and Madolyn now understood no matter how she tried to fight the rules of propriety, however determinedly she ignored them, other folk did not. The world, as Grace would say, was a much bigger place than Sydney Dovedale and she couldn’t change it single-handedly. Maddie the Merciless couldn’t cure the world’s ills, nor save all the poor, sick and slandered. She was a flesh and blood woman. She hurt like any other.

After a still moment of sadness, she added petulantly, “And don’t kiss me there. You know what it does to me.”

But it was too late.

When Wickes tapped at the door shortly after, ready to help his master dress, he received the harsh, muffled command to go away. The servants would know she spent the night in his chamber, the first and only woman ever to do so.

He finished his business early to come in search of her, another unprecedented occurrence. For once she was more important than matters of the Swafford estate, but his earlier tenderness was no longer in evidence. Out of breath and patience, he shouted at her for a full ten minutes about the chase she led him on, how she never followed a solitary order and why he now had sympathy for Gregory, even going so far as to feel he might have to apologize to the steward for doubting him before.

“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed. “God forbid I ever cause you to apologize to poor Gregory. I shouldn’t want you to strain yourself!”

Snatching the little watering can out of her hands, he set it on the ground. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

There was, it seemed, only one place she should ever be. “Why not shackle me to the bedpost?” Flinging her head back, she held out her wrists. “Go ahead,
your lordship
! If that’s the only way you can trust me. Chain me to your bed!”

“It’s the only time I know you’re not lying to me,” was the gruff reply. She tried to pass, but he stood in her way. “I see you like at least one of the gowns I bought you.”

It was the lightest of the day gowns and yes, she admitted with easy candor, she liked it very much. The design was deceptively simple, but the material costly. “It’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever owned. Thank you.”

A shy pulse in his cheek suggested the beginnings of a nervous smile in response to hers. It hovered there, under the surface, giving her a sign of hope, at least.

Oh, just a little more. Just a little.

Each time he looked at her, she thought she saw a new light struggling to the surface, the soul of a boy forever imprisoned, longing to come out and breathe the glorious fresh air. But how could she help him? She was once a plain, silly girl who’d recently embarked on adventure only to find herself a woman with reckless desires, in over her head, out of her depth. Her heart ached, even when she tried to enclose it in a hard shell for protection. She felt stupid suddenly, and lost.

“It’s hot in here,” she said tightly.

“’Tis why they call it a hothouse.” Leaning toward her, he whispered, “I’m as hot inside, as this house of glass in the midday sun and you are the cause. Wickes claims you use sorcery. Is this true? You told me once before you used witchcraft.”

“That, my Lord Doubtful, was a jest.” She backed into the trellis and he followed. “Do you not have jests in Dorset?”

“Wickes believes you’re up to no good. He sees through your game. Is that why you tried turning me against him this morning?”

She gasped. Bright yellow sun beating down on her face, she squinted up at him. “And you believe him, over me?”

“You’re a woman,” he pointed out crisply. “Deceit is your middle name.”

She shook her head, too irritated to speak.

“Might I remind you,” he added, “I hired Wickes to work for me. He’s in my life because I put him there. You’re here because you forced your way in uninvited. Wickes follows orders. You don’t.”

“If I’m here to cause you harm, why haven’t I succeeded by now? I was alone with you several days in that cottage and you survived. Oh, but you believe whatever Wickes tells you. Far be it for me to spoil your illusions.”

He looked down at her, his expression frayed, like that of a frustrated parent, or a weary master. “You won’t even tell me your name. I know nothing about you. Every word you say could be a lie.”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“Speak, damn you!”

“Why should I?” she replied tartly. “Whether I say yes or no, you’re none the wiser. If I say ‘
yes, every word is a lie’
, wouldn’t that also be a lie? If I say ‘
no
’, I could be lying--as indeed I would, if I were a liar. It seems a hopeless case.”

He turned his face away, a bead of sweat running slowly down his temple. She took advantage of his inattention, slipping around him to retrieve the watering can. “You might suddenly have time on your hands, but we can’t all be bone idle.”

His long stride overtook hers, blocking her path. “Where are you going now?”

“Poor beast,” she sighed, “I’ve disrupted your peaceful existence. Once I’m gone your life can go back to what it was.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Head on one side, she watched the ideas simmering beneath his guarded expression. He held his lips tight, keeping more words stifled inside, where they cost him dearly. She saw the neediness in his eyes, the question he daren’t ask, the answer he refused to accept.

“Am I another of your exotic captives?” She gestured at the plants around them.

He said nothing, but gave her a meticulous, narrow-eyed appraisal.

“Or are you in love with me?” she asked politely.

Now he blanched. “Love doesn’t exist. I told you before…” A fly landed on his cheek, so she slapped it--quite hard, perhaps moreso than necessary. He flinched, rubbing his face with one hand. “Love is for fools.”

Laughing, she swung the watering can. “Hey ho!”

Still holding his cheek, he stared at her. “No one ever slapped me before. That’s the second time you’ve raised a hand to me.”

Astonished by that, she told him solemnly, “Mine has been slapped many times.”

“I can believe it.”

With one, overly-solicitous hand she straightened his collar. “What will you do? Send me to bed early with no supper?”

“Your poor family,” he groaned. “What you must put them through.” He added coyly, “Where is it they reside again?”

“The moon.”

“I can believe that too.”

Now he looked away, thoughtful, still rubbing his cheek. Never had she ached for him this much, with the memory of their previous, most tender coupling still fresh and warm. But he would never trust her. He said he trusted no one, yet he believed Wickes’s word over hers, largely because she was a woman.

She must remind him, and herself, why she was there.

“You will petition the queen for Nathaniel’s pardon? You promised last night. Remember?”

“I don’t remember promising anything to you. I do, however, remember a great deal of sticky peach juice in my bed. The mess…”

“Will you petition the queen on his behalf, or not?”

“…and now I remember why I never wanted to keep a woman.” He shook his head. “Must have suffered a blow to the brain when I met you.”

She reached up, pretending to examine his head for bumps and bruises, running her fingertips through his sun-warmed hair. He went still, almost ceased to breathe, and she thought he would tell her she took too many liberties in public, but he was silent.

“Mayhap you did receive a knock to this big head. Or else this is a dream,” she teased.

“Then I hope I never wake.”

It shocked her when he said it and from the subtle flinch in his eyes, it startled him too.

Sliding his arms around her waist, he held her tight. “You’re dark under the eyes this morning,” he observed, his cadence softened. “Did I tire you out last night?”

Sometimes he didn’t know his own strength. Her breasts ached suddenly, crushed up against his iron-hard chest, but she couldn’t complain. He’d never spoken with this much genuine affection before and it was like the first few drops of precious rain falling on parched soil. She didn’t want to speak, for fear of saying the wrong thing and being accused again of evil motives.

Slowly he dipped his head and she lifted hers. With the tip of his tongue he tentatively traced the pronounced bow of her upper lip and the shallower curve of the lower. When he teased them apart, his tongue sliding inside to meet hers, she closed her eyes. This kiss was different; it glowed, blooming with much that went unspoken.