The Pleasure Garden: Sacred Vows\Perfumed Pleasures\Rites of Passions (15 page)

She had been so beautiful, so elegant. So full of ladylike charm.

So bloody out of his reach—and still was, even to this day. But that hadn’t stopped him from wanting her, despite what he was—a commoner. A soldier.

Balling his fists, he tried to forget the first time he had touched her. The feel of her beneath his hands had made all the anguish he had ever experienced melt away in a moment that was hallowed and beautiful. The splendor of
that first stroke stole his breath, made his fingers tremble as they carefully, reverently, skated along her pale skin, which felt like satin beneath his roughened fingertips. The heat of her still burned. So, too, did the memory of her moist breath against his skin as he traced the contours of her mouth. A mouth that had been designed for carnal pleasures of every kind.

Even now, three years later, his body still ached, still felt hot as he remembered the image of her. In his mind, he had touched her lips, the length of her throat, the curve of her breast.

She had trembled as their gazes met and held, shivered the same way she had when she had been beneath him, and he had been buried deep inside her. In those silent seconds, he had absorbed her into every corner of his being, just as he had that night he’d taken her innocence.

She was still there, in every facet of his existence, in the darkest corner of his soul. She was still his lover in the secrecy of darkness and dreams.

But she belonged to another now.

Turning from the mirror, he studied the guests gathered at the table. He would not sit with them. Would not endure the stares and silent horror. He would not ruin this moment of watching her, undetected.

No, he could not sit at the table, and see her with
him.

She was his cousin’s betrothed. The
titled
cousin, the rightful heir—yet it had been so long since Joscelyn thought of her as Edward’s.

Even now, he wanted to brand her, to make her remember what it was like to lie in
his
arms, to feel
his
hands on her body, to remind her of the pleasures they had found in each other.

He could still taste the sweetness of her lips, her breasts
and silken navel, her woman’s musk as it covered his mouth. The sound of her coming, the cries of release still filled his ears, and the feel of her body opening, accepting him and molding around him gave him a rush so primal he shook from it.

The memory lingered, and just as he managed to tear his gaze away from her lovely profile, she glanced up to where he stood, concealed in shadows. He moved. She caught the play of his silhouette against the curtain, followed it until the candlelight revealed him. His back was to her, but he allowed himself the illicit pleasure of glancing over his shoulder and looking at her—careful to show her the side of him that had been left untouched by the war.

He knew his uncle had told Catherine and her parents that he had been wounded in war. Edward, ever the callous bastard, had rejoiced in correcting his father. He was not just ruined. He was a monster. He had heard her gasp then. Studied her now, as she watched him.

Was it worry he saw in those crystal blue eyes, or was it desire?

Months ago, he had prayed for death. He hadn’t wanted her to see him like this. But now that she was here, male possession began to rule him, to the exclusion of all rational thought. She was his, not Edward’s. Joscelyn was still living, albeit a shell of his former self. He existed in darkness and shadow, but he was still breathing. And now that death seemed impossible, he needed her to bring him back to life. She belonged to him, and he would do anything to get her back. And what was more, she wanted him, too. She did not want the heir, she wanted the bastard cousin, and the pleasure she had tasted in his arms.

And he would begin tonight, by luring her to the
garden, where he would touch her, and bring his lips to the expanse of her creamy breasts, which taunted him even now.

“Come into the garden,” he murmured, as he took his leave from the shadows, “where our love and passion may be reborn.”

It had been years since she had allowed herself to think of
him.
Almost a lifetime since she had permitted herself to recall his face, his voice, his hands traversing her body, awakening her to carnal desires she never could have guessed lurked within her.

After he had left for the Crimea, Catherine was forced to reconcile herself to the fact that there could be nothing between her and Joscelyn. Her parents’ precarious financial situation depended upon her marrying Edward, not his cousin. Joscelyn was a soldier, not a titled gentleman. While his income might be enough to keep her, he could not afford to pay her parents’ debts. She knew her duty, and was resigned to it.

Yet here she was, recalling him in her mind, naked and godlike; with sculpted muscles and tawny skin that glistened in the sun and moonlight, and felt smooth and enticing beneath her fingertips and lips.

It had been a day much like this very afternoon that had just past, when she saw him for the first time. His black hair had shone in the sunlight, the gentle breeze ruffling through the locks he wore long to his shoulders. The heat of the midsummer’s day had been scorching, and having just come from the pond, he had been shirtless. The muscles in his back and shoulders rolled with his gait, capturing her careful scrutiny. The butterflies in her stomach
had circled madly as her gaze lowered, settling on his taut buttocks in riding britches.

He hadn’t known she was there. But she had hidden behind the curtain in the conservatory more times than she dared admit, just watching him, feeling her body stir to life. She had been innocent, full of curiosity and wonder. The feelings within her when she looked upon him were so strong, a force she could neither endure nor escape.

“I want to kiss you all over. I want to feel you shudder and come….”
Joscelyn’s whispered words burned in Catherine’s belly, filling her with a warmth that curled low in her womb, making it ache until she dropped her arm and pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to stave off the blossoming hunger that began to gnaw at her.

Everyone, including Edward, was busy eating, and thankfully paying her no attention as she stared off at the place where Joscelyn had been. In these stolen moments, Catherine recalled the first tentative touches of Joscelyn’s fingers against her skin. Soft and fluttering, like the wings of a butterfly, he had smoothed his fingertips down her throat. She had prayed for more of his hands, for the glimpse of pleasure he had slowly taught her.

He had known what she desired. And he had given it to her.

The heat of his unhurried caresses had wrapped her up in a cloud of sensuality. From her ankles to her calves he had grazed his lips along her skin, whispering endearments as his hand sought her core.

She was warm now, as if he were actually here. Her womb was heavy with anticipation; her breasts felt painfully confined behind her corset and tight bodice, aching to be set free into his waiting palms. Struggling for air, she began to breathe faster, felt her breasts rising and falling as
the sensation all but engulfed her. She was breathing too fast. She must stop these memories, but they would not be held back. Suppressed as long as they had been, they now ran unbridled through her thoughts.

His breath against her neck, his lips gliding between the valley of her breasts… She felt her nipples bead beneath her corset.
“Let me take you into my mouth….”
Her womb actually clenched as she remembered the first draw of his mouth on her nipple.

The rhythm of her blood sang in her ears until it was all she could hear. His touch had been dizzying, his allure addicting. She had fallen so hard for his gentle, yet persuasive seduction. Three years later, she could still feel his hands on her body as if she had just risen from his bed.

“Well, then,” Fairfax grumbled as he pushed his empty plate aside. “Shall the gentlemen retire to the smoking room?”

Catherine began to rise. “I believe I shall take a turn outside. It’s a lovely spring evening, and I’m rather warm.”

“Going to the garden then, eh?” Fairfax laughed. “I suppose I shall have to finally see to restoring it. I haven’t done so because it seemed a hopeless business. Until you started coming for your visits no one even went beyond the gate. I’ve always chosen to entertain in the formal gardens, by the orangery. I guess I never saw it as something worthy of investing my money in.” Fairfax turned in his chair and gazed once more out the window. “Seemed like such a melancholy place. But if you wish it, my dear, then it is yours. A wedding gift from your father-in-law, and a sizable draft to begin the repairs.”

Regardless of her thoughts about Edward, she really did hold some affection for the earl. Fairfax was a generous, kind man, and she smiled—a truly genuine one—and said,
“Thank you, my lord. I will treasure this gift, and the memories of this garden.”

Edward scoured her with his eyes from head to toe, but said nothing. Did he know of her memories, or did he assume that the memories she spoke of were of the frenzied pawings he forced upon her? In his arrogant mind, did he believe that she actually enjoyed his attentions? Or did he suspect that she was heading for the garden in search of Joscelyn?

It was dark now, the moon obscured by clouds. She was thankful for that bit of kindness, for neither Edward nor her parents would be able to see her stealing across the grass to the wooden door of the garden. She would be alone there, able to meet with her lover in relative secrecy.

Lifting the gate latch, she let herself slip into the garden, which was dormant and brown. She did not need light to recall its dismal plants and neglected shrubs. Not even the fountain worked anymore. It was filled with moss, and the stone around it was cracked, choked with a twining weed that was the only green present in the garden.

Sitting on the edge of the fountain, Catherine sighed deeply. She had no idea if he would come to her. Would he respect the fact that she was to marry Edward, and keep his distance? He hadn’t before, when he had slipped into her room and made love to her. He hadn’t cared that she was betrothed to someone else, and neither had she. She had wanted Joscelyn. Still did. In her heart, she belonged to him.

Looking up at the black velvet sky, she indulged in something she hadn’t in years—she prayed to God to make it possible for her to have Joscelyn. She pleaded, bargained with her maker. She would never ask for anything else, if he would but grant her this one wish. And then, as if he
were listening, she felt something solid and warm press next to her.

The familiar scent of Joscelyn rushed through her body. Spice, and man. The memory of that scent clinging to her skin and bed linen the morning after their lovemaking was still ingrained in her memory. She had smelled her sheets, touched her body, her fingers taking the same path over her curves that his had, as she relived the magic of the night before.

“Cathy.” His pet name for her was a cross between a plea and a benediction.

Turning to gaze up at him she could make nothing out in the pitch darkness, just the shape of his shoulders, and the heat of his body so close to hers. “You’re alive,” she whispered, reaching out to touch him. “I prayed for you every day.” She was overcome, her eyes welling with tears. She had never allowed herself to think of him at war. The danger. The possibility he might never return. All her repressed anxieties and fears came rushing through, and she choked on a sob and turned her face away. He was alive, and he was here—with her.

“Alive,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand. “Very much alive, and returned to you.”

How she wished it could be so. He was alive, and returned, yes. But to her? No, never to her. She was Edward’s.

“How lovely you are,” Joscelyn murmured. “I watched you at the supper table, marveling at the fact that you have only grown more beautiful.” His voice was deeper now, perhaps a bit gruffer, but the sound of it dampened her petticoats, made the petals of her sex throb. “I’ve wondered what you would look like, all grown into womanhood, and what a delight it is.”

Catherine gasped as his hand, warm, rough, pressed
against the exposed flesh of her breasts. “So beautiful, so lush and womanly. Beyond anything I dreamed of those long, lonely nights I spent making love to you in my mind.”

“Joscelyn,” she cried, and she heard him inhale, felt his body press into hers.

“Cathy.” Then he lowered his head to her chest and kissed her breasts. His thumb hooked beneath her bodice and, with a firm tug, her breasts popped free. “I wanted to do that from the moment I saw you leave your room in this gown. I wished it was for me that you had bought this. I wished you had worn it tonight for my pleasure.”

“I did,” she moaned, raking her fingers through his hair as his mouth, hot and wet, descended between her breasts. Impatient, she cupped one of her breasts, which was heavy with desire, and lifted it to Joscelyn’s mouth. The nipple was beaded, aching, and when the tip of his tongue flicked it, she tossed back her head. When his hand replaced hers, and his mouth drew her in deeply, she pulled at his hair, and closed her eyes, allowing herself just to feel. To indulge.

“I have missed the taste of you on my tongue. The sight of you—of these,” he groaned as he buried his face in the valley of her breasts. His cheek was rough, arousing, against her soft skin. It reminded her of how masculine he was, and how womanly she was. Where she was soft, he was hard, unyielding, and she took comfort in it, the strength of him.

“I missed this body.” His hands were traversing her waist, down to her hips and thighs. “The way it clung to mine, taking my cock in so deep.”

Edward said that word, and it always disgusted her. But the way Joscelyn murmured it was heady, evocative. She
wanted more of his illicit words in the dark, whispered seductively in her ear, for they were stimulating to her, nearly as much so as his touch.

“Have you thought of it, Cathy, the way my cock and body pleasured you?”

“Every day,” she whispered, “Every night as I lay awake in bed and touch myself, wishing it was you.”