The Seduction (28 page)

"And all this because your brother thought you had slept with his wife."

"Geoffrey's opinion of me was formed long before that, I assure you. He thought I was an impudent, rebellious libertine. And he was dead right about me. I can't really blame him for not believing my explanations. They sounded weak enough, in any case."

"And your opinion of him?"

"I thought he was a vain, strutting peacock who thought all the wrong things were important. And I was right, too. He was such a pompous little ass, even when we were boys. I just couldn't resist having a joke or two at his expense. Salt in his trifle and jam on his chair, that sort of thing. Not even when we were boys, now that I think of it. The Prince of Wales came to visit once, shortly before my father died, and I put pepper in Geoffrey's snuff box. He sneezed all over the Prince's coat."

"You are truly outrageous. Your poor brother. It's no wonder he was inclined to distrust you, tormenting him as you did."

"Only because he made himself such a tempting target. If he had only laughed, just once, and shrugged it off, I never would have done anything like that again. And he had a cruel streak a mile wide. When he realized the unmarried
parlormaid
was pregnant, he turned her out on the spot because of the impression she might give any guests who came to call. He didn't care that the fellow who'd done it refused to marry her, nor that she had no family to take her in. He even refused to pay her the wages she was owed. So don't go letting that soft, romantic heart of yours spare any compassion for Geoffrey. He wasn't worth it. In fact, the first night we met, Hymes reminded me of him. Hymes is another of the same type—one of those pretentious, stuffy, self-righteous blatherskites that Britain's upper crust manages to produce with such unerring consistency."

"And what did you think of me that night we met? You must have thought I was the greenest girl alive."

"Actually, I thought you were a sweet and tempting morsel, far too luscious for Roger's palate."

"You make me sound like a dessert!"

"So you are." He leaned toward her, then lifted her hand and kissed it. "Skin like cream," he murmured. "Lips like ripe berries. I've always had a sweet tooth."

"Don't," she said in desperation. She tried to pull her hand free, but he held it fast. "Don't say things like that to me."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a man who's sampled most of the desserts on the table. I'm just one more."

"Some desserts are more tempting than others."

"Some are also richer than others."

He stiffened and let go of her hand. "True enough," he agreed mildly and turned toward the fire. "A man would probably do better with roasted partridge. A steady diet of rich and resentful heiress might give a man indigestion."

*
    
*
    
*

Margaret turned over, the warmth of her body radiating toward his beneath the blanket. Patience, Trevor thought heroically. Patience, strategy, and a damned supply of fortitude.

He listened to the sound of her soft and steady breathing. He thought of burying his face in her hair, making her breathing quicken to gasps of desire. He didn't look at her, but he tortured himself with tantalizing images of her body, soft and lush. God, he wanted her.

He could do it. It would be easy.

She wanted him, too. He knew that well enough. He remembered her hand, trembling when he kissed it, and her eyes, wide and dark in the firelight when he'd caressed her palm. He'd never thought virgins to be all that desirable, but there was something fiercely seductive about Maggie's innocence, something erotic about the way she responded to his touch that inflamed his senses.

It wasn't too late. He could waken her now with his hands and his mouth, take what he wanted and give her what she wanted. What was he waiting for? But even as his body asked that question, his mind answered it. He curled his hands into fists and stared up at the dark ceiling of the cave.

He couldn't do it. He'd given his word of honor.

He'd promised both Henry and Edward that he would not compromise her that way in order to win her hand. It was laughable really, that he felt so compelled to keep his promise. But then, that wasn't the only thing stopping him.

He couldn't do it. It was too soon.

Margaret wasn't ready for that. She wanted him,
yes, but she had to want him badly enough that she'd go to the altar to have him. In order to make that happen, he had to build anticipation within her one kiss at a time, one touch at a time, until her desire for him was strong enough to overcome her fear.

Wait, he told himself, repeating it like a catechism. Wait.

He felt her move again in her sleep, drawing her leg upward, her knee brushing against his hip. He set his jaw and lay perfectly still, striving for logic when lust coursed through him.

He couldn't do it. It was too risky.

He began listing all the reasons why it made sense to hold back. If he took her now, she might—just might—feel compelled to marry him for honor's sake, or because of the possibility of a baby, or both. But she would always feel she'd been manipulated, and she'd come to resent him for it, even hate him. If he had to marry, he wanted no cold and dutiful wife in his bed.

Her leg slid sinuously along his body.
Oh, God.
He jerked away, her touch burning him, and sat up in desperation, thinking he might go for a walk. The air outside the cave was ice cold. It ought to do the trick.

"Trevor?"

Her voice startled him, and he glanced at her. Moonlight spilled through the cave entrance, gilding the long, dark hair that spilled across her shoulder with silver. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was," she said with a yawn. "I was dreaming." She stirred, rolling onto her back. She lifted her arms over her head and stretched, arching her back, her breasts thrusting upward against the wool blanket. Trevor's throat went dry, and he stared, envisioning the luscious shape of them beneath the blanket.

He tried to move away again and found that he could not. He felt his willpower fracturing into pieces, and he surrendered to the inevitable, laying back down beside her. "What were you dreaming about?"

"
Mmm
." She sighed, a sleepy, whispery sound so erotic it was nearly his undoing. "Have you ever wanted something so badly that it made you ache, something you know will someday be yours but that always seems to be just out of reach?"

Trevor gritted his teeth. "No," he lied. "Never."

"Well, I have."

He grasped for the thin threads of his control. "And what is that something?"

"True love."

Where did she get such ridiculous notions? "There's no such thing."

"Yes, there is, and someday I'll have it."

"Someday?" Flinging back the blanket, he sat up and turned toward her, bracing his weight on his hip and his forearm. "For God's sake, what does that mean?"

She turned her head to glance at him, her expression one of earnest sincerity. "When I meet the right man," she answered with such conviction she might have been a missionary quoting scripture. "A man who loves me just for myself, who wants me—just me—not my money. He'll be a true gentleman," she went on, "honorable and noble, who would go to the ends of the earth for me because I asked him to, a man who would die for me because he loves me."

That made him angry. The idea that while he was lying there making himself crazy with erotic images of her she was dreaming of some fictional white knight, some tragic, heroic figure that could never exist outside her imagination—in fact, some man that wasn't him. "That's the dream of a schoolgirl, not a grown woman," he said bluntly. "It's fantasy."

"No." She shook her head and looked away, gazing up at the roof of the cave. "It's real."

"No, it isn't. Do you want to know what's real?" He leaned over her, bracing his weight on his forearms, blocking out the moonlight streaming through the cave entrance, shutting out all the silly fantasies, forcing her to look only at him. He felt the curve of her hip against his and forgot all about strategy and patience and playing the game. "This," he said in a harsh whisper, bringing his mouth to within an inch of hers. "This is what's real."

He kissed her, not at all gently. He knew he was no noble gallant, and he wanted her to know it, too. She made a sound, a tiny squeak that might have been a protest, but he smothered it, opening his mouth wide over hers and tasting deeply. He tugged at the bulky wool blanket between them and pulled it away, then sank down against her, overwhelming her with his weight.

She was luscious, warm, and soft beneath him. He outlined her body with his hands, running his palms upward along the generous flare of her hips and the inward curve of her waist, then slid one arm behind her back. He opened his other hand over her breast, and made a low sound of appreciation at the full, round shape in his palm.

At the intimate touch, Margaret broke away from his kiss with a shocked gasp. She twisted beneath him, trying to evade his hand, but he would not let her. He cupped her breast in his palm, closing his thumb against his finger to tease her nipple through the fabric with a slow, coaxing motion.

She gave a sharp little cry and her back arched, an instinctive reaction that pressed het breast against his hand and unknowingly asked for more. He knew he ought to call a halt, but he felt her hips move against his, sending exquisite shudders of pleasure through his body, and he could not find the will to do it.

"What are you doing?" She pushed at his hand, but it was a feeble gesture, uncertain and not at all an effective deterrent. "You can't mean to do this."

I'll stop,
he promised her silently.
But not yet. God, not yet.

Arousal was raging through him like wildfire, but he could feel her trembling, hear her tiny sounds of agitation and virginal confusion. He took a deep breath, reaching for control, but he could not seem to find it. He buried his face in the curve of her neck. "Maggie," he whispered. "God, Maggie, you are so sweet."

He tasted the delicate skin of her throat in gentle nibbles and murmured words designed to both soothe and arouse. He kissed and caressed her, drawing out her desire until she began to writhe beneath him, her breath coming in shuddering whimpers against his shoulder, her fingers convulsively pressing into his back.

He reached for the flap of his trousers, wanting to free himself of the aching pressure, but the first button caught, stubbornly refusing his fumbling, one- handed attempt to loosen it. In that brief, suspended moment, a vestige of unwelcome reality returned. If he didn't stop now, he wouldn't be able to stop at all. His hand stilled. "Oh, Christ," he muttered, "what am I doing?"

With a groan of agony, he wrenched himself away from her, his breathing harsh, his heart thudding in his chest, his body screaming for release.

"Trevor?" she whispered.

He heard the bewilderment in her voice, sensed the tentative question. He clenched his hands into fists and held his body rigid, knowing he could not look at her. If he did, if he saw her lying there all tousled and inviting, he'd come apart.

"I'm trying," he said in a strangled voice, "to be an honorable gentleman. For once in my life. Don't ruin it."

"But—"

"Go back to sleep, Maggie." He turned away and slid to the edge of the blanket as far from her as possible, his body still throbbing with frustration. "Just go to sleep."