The Sinner (7 page)

Astonishing sensations streaked and quavered, awakening yearning desires in the most womanly parts of her. Her awareness narrowed, focusing totally on those feelings and his command of them. Only the low song of the farmer intruded, reminding her that they were not alone.

He heard it too. He paused and glanced to the hedge.

His gaze returned and fell on her lips. With the gentlest strokes of his fingertips he cajoled them apart. He lowered his head and body and claimed her in a more intimate kiss and embrace.

The small invasion shocked her for an instant, and then a whirlwind swept her up. She embraced the man pressed against her chest, filling her arms with him.

Less restraint now. Deep kisses, skillfully seductive. On her mouth. Her ear. Her neck. Trailing to the skin exposed by the scoop of her bodice. Tantalizing her through the cloth of her gown until her breasts strained with a begging ache that left her whimpering.

Maybe he heard. Certainly he understood. His caress rose to cup her breast with an encompassing warmth that sent her spinning. Those fingers began exploring. Craving pleasure and hungry physicality pulsed down her body, building a shocking focus of need.

He rose above her. Her arms had to stretch to hold him and she pulled, wanting him back. She could see in his face and feel in his body that they were together in this passion.

He glanced once more to the hedge behind which the farmer invisibly worked and sang. He listened for a while before turning his inflaming gaze back to her.

His hand slid under her back. “Do not be afraid. I will make sure that you are not embarrassed. But I want to see you. I have been thinking of little else all day.”

The bodice of her gown loosened. He slid it down her shoulders, then pushed down her chemise too.

The breeze shocked her naked breasts. The contrasting warmth of his hand comforted and aroused. He watched his caress follow her curves. She had never imagined she could want anything as badly as she hungered for that touch to continue.

It did, in wicked, devastating ways. The low sounds of her crazed desire filled her ears like a staccato rhythm against the deeper pulse of his breath.

He eased onto her, until his length covered half of her and his leg buried in her skirt between her thighs.

His head turned and lowered. Soft brown hair brushed her face. He kissed the fullness of her breast, and then the tip. Excruciating pleasure shot through her. He licked and nipped and drew, making it wonderfully worse. She grasped him tightly, clinging as utter abandon took over. Not thinking or caring about anything but her body’s astonishing reactions, she pressed up against his leg, instinctively trying to ease the itching vacancy that was driving her to delirium.

A new tension stretched through him. He moved completely on top of her. “Part your legs, darling.” The low instruction penetrated and she obeyed. “More.”

He settled between her spread thighs. The many layers of their clothing could not obscure the intimate connection of their bodies. Like a wanton she leveraged to accept the pressure that afforded some relief.

In her daze she felt him stroke low on her leg. Her essence thrilled to it, welcomed it. If he did not cover her she would have torn the interfering petticoats off, so mindless had she grown. He did not need her help. His hand lined up her hose to her bare thigh, raising her skirt and petticoats as it ascended.

Even as her body welcomed that touch and moved into it, something of her essence retreated. A single drop of the old fear plunked into her euphoria, creating ripples of uncomfortable rationality. She cringed against the dreaded intrusion.

He sensed it. He stopped, and again that tension strung through him.

The farmer shouted to someone across the field just then. Dante looked to the sound and briefly closed his eyes, as if he focused his will on something.

He rolled off her and smoothed down her skirt. “You are right. Forgive me for going too far. This is not the place.”

Relief drenched her. Then dismayed her. She realized with a jolt that she had counted on this. Even while she lost herself in the wonderful passion, she had assumed that it would never go too far on the grass behind a hedge while a farmer sang and worked nearby.

In seconds he had the gown fastened again. Stretching out on his back, he pulled her to him in an embrace.

The drop of fear had evaporated as quickly as it had come. She rested happily in the circle of his arm while they both once again looked up at the sky. She gazed at the clouds against the vivid blue, thinking it almost a vision of the heaven she was feeling.

Maybe. Maybe . . .

She knew that he intended to make love to her when night fell. All through the afternoon it was in his eyes and attention. During their casual strolls and light discussions that special something in him shimmered relentlessly, leaving her giddy and clumsy and excited.

She had never guessed that mutual attraction could create such a palpable, physical pull. She reveled in it, enjoying every moment of anticipation as much as she had relished the startling pleasure by the hedge.

But then, while they ate dinner on the garden terrace, another drop of the fear splashed onto her euphoria. Then another and another, until a faint drizzle of misgiving began to ruin her happiness.

She stared helplessly at some white flowers turning into ghosts in the dimming light. With all of her will she tried to control the horrible vise wanting to grip her stomach. A tremble of revulsion shook her.

Please, no. Not now.

Dante reached across the small table and took her hand in his. “Is the evening breeze chilling you?”

“No.” Nor, for a blessed respite, was the fear. The warmth in his expression reduced the terror to something small and weak. And, maybe, manageable.

He rose and took her hand. “Let us go into the library anyway, so the servants can finish their duties.”

She walked within his embracing arm to the library. A dance was beginning in which he would lead and she could only hope that she had the courage to follow.

They sat side by side on a divan, perusing a volume of archaeological engravings. Acute awareness of his closeness obscured any real study of the images. Did he feel it too? Could he also sense the ugly other thing in her, planted like a choking vine in the pit of her being, casting out a tendril now and then to remind her of its power?

It will not overcome me. I will not let it.

The door to the library stood open and they could hear the servants completing their work. She took comfort in the domestic sounds. They were not alone yet. But they would be soon.

I can do this. I want to.

Silence slowly descended on the house. Skirts swished by the door as the women headed to their chambers in the attic. One of them would wait for her upstairs, to help her undress.

Dante took the large volume from her lap and set it aside. He shifted to face her, embracing her shoulders with his arm.

A kiss. A lovely, sweet kiss. The fear withered under the light of affection, but did not disappear.

Another kiss. Deeper. The stirring of her body almost made the fear insignificant. Almost.

Please, please . . .

He caressed her face. He looked so beautiful in the candle glow. Beautiful and riveting and dangerous.

“I want to sleep with you again tonight, Fleur. Not as friends this time, but as husband and wife. It is not what we agreed to, but I think that we might make a real marriage out of this alliance. I would like to try.”

His shimmering force flowed into her, and suddenly nothing mattered except feeling it forever. His luminous eyes captivated her, as if he saw into her soul. Had any woman ever refused him? Something in the depths of his eyes said that no woman had, but that he thought she might. She flattered herself that she saw something else too. Concern, as if her answer mattered.

I can do this.

“I would like to try too.”

“That makes me very happy, darling.” He stood and offered his hand. “Go up now. Your woman is waiting. I will follow soon.”

Legs wobbling and heart pounding, she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber.

With every step, the choking vine cast out another killing tendril.

The woman helped her out of her clothes. She slipped on a pink nightgown and nervously fingered its thin silk. She’d had it made years ago, before she went on the shelf. Why had she brought this silly, lacy thing on this journey? To play a child’s game of bride? Or because she had secretly hoped this night would happen? She pulled on its matching robe so she would not feel too foolish.

Please, please . . .

The woman brushed out her hair and then left her alone in the chamber. Alone, and defenseless against herself.

Like the monstrous enemy it was, the fear grew abruptly with cruel vengeance, wrapping her heart and panicking her soul.

Brutal images flew through her frantic mind. Filmy pictures of agony and blood and despair. No sounds accompanied them. The screams were silent, formed by mouths twisting inaudibly.

She ran to the window and threw it open to get some air. With more resolve than she had ever mustered before, she forced some control over her disquiet. The tiny corner of calm that she claimed instantly filled with anguished disappointment.

He would come soon. He would enter through that door, and all that she could give him was her rejection or her madness.

Better if she had kept more distance. Better to have not tasted a passion that she could never fully share. Better to have never seen what her deficient nature prevented her from experiencing.

Tears streamed down her face. The chill shaking her had nothing to do with the night breeze. The panic had retreated, leaving only the sickening dread that enslaved her body.

The door opened and she glanced over her shoulder. He had removed his coats and collar. His white shirt gleamed as luminously as his eyes. Her heart split into pieces. This fear knew no mercy at all. It permitted her to desire. It just forbade her having what the desire wanted.

She tried to speak but the words would not emerge. He came over to her and she turned back to the open window so he would not see her tears. He caressed her shoulders and arms and bent a kiss to her neck.

The panic surged. Her whole body involuntarily stiffened.

He stopped.

Neither of them moved for what seemed an eternity. She had never known such humiliation before.

She had to say something.

“I cannot do this,” she whispered. “I thought that I could. I had hoped . . .”

“You do not have to be afraid. If you were told stories as a girl, they were probably much exaggerated. I am not going to hurt you.”

“It is not that.”

He stood behind her silently. She did not have to see him to know that the dark edge had emerged. She could not blame him. It had been heartless of her to do this to him.

“I do not understand,” he said.

“Nor do I. I wish I were different. Normal. I have never wished it more than at this moment. After this afternoon, I thought maybe I could be. But I realize that behind that hedge I could be free of this because I knew that you would not make love to me there.”

He stepped back with a deep sigh.

She found the courage to turn and face him. “Please do not hate me, Dante. I hate myself enough already.”

“I do not hate you. If it is how it must be, then I accept it, as I promised I would. You were honest with me.”

“Not entirely. This afternoon I lied, without intending to. To both of us. I am very sorry.”

He smiled ruefully. “This is probably just as well for your sake, Fleur. I doubt that I would be a good husband in the normal sense. I would only make you unhappy eventually.”

Maybe so, but she would have traded that risk for the chance to learn where this friendship might have led.

He walked to the door. It went without saying that they would not share a bed tonight. Or ever again.

He began to leave, but paused. “It would be best to return to London soon. I would like to leave in the morning.”

“Of course, Dante.”

The door closed behind him. The cursed, triumphant fear released its hold, leaving her empty and spent.

She sank to her knees beside the window and cried out her disappointment in herself.

chapter
7

G
regory Farthingstone walked through the streets of a city just wakening to a day without sun. Barely able to see in the fog, he aimed toward his destination with long strides.

He hated rising before the dawn for these appointments, not to mention having to walk so no one would know where he went.

Actually, he hated this whole business. Hated the worry and the subterfuge. He detested the vague foreboding and the sense that he inched along a precipice. Mostly, however, he resented playing a game in which someone else held all the best cards.

He turned down a little lane, then hurried along the alley between two rows of handsome houses. Entering the garden of one, he strode to the stairs leading down to the back kitchen door.

Like a damn servant. That was how he visited this house.

There was no choice. He hardly wanted to be seen. All the same, it raised his irritation. He did not need it to be so obviously demeaning.

The cook was up as she always was when he came. She paid him no mind as he hurried through her fief. A scullery maid sat by the hearth, building up the fire. Presumably they had been ordered to ignore him, but anyone with a few shillings could probably loosen their tongues.

Up above, the butler waited for him. As he followed the butler up the stairs, he noted once again the very fine appointments in the home. Its owner had a taste for luxury that far surpassed Farthingstone’s own. He preferred a more sober environment himself, as befitted a bank trustee and man of serious disposition. He would not choose to live among all this color and texture even if he could afford them.

A hot resentment beat in his head all the same. He knew very well how these carpets and chairs and paintings were purchased. He knew all about the legacy that had paid for them.

He found his host in his bedchamber, sipping coffee while perusing a newspaper. The man still wore his robe and had not even bothered to don a morning coat yet. Farthingstone did not miss the reminder of who held the good cards.

The valet poured another cup from the silver server, offered it to Farthingstone, then left.

“Well, this is one hell of a mess, Farthingstone,” Hugh Siddel said, smacking the newspaper down on the table that held the coffee service.

Farthingstone did not need to examine the paper to understand the reference. He recognized the notice of Fleur’s marriage to Dante Duclairc from ten feet away.

“You said it was dealt with,” Siddel added.

“It
was
. Brougham clearly instructed them to wait. I never thought they would be so bold—”

“If you had not hesitated that night, not allowed sentiment to interfere—”

“What you proposed was
illegal
.”

“And what you intended was not? At least with my plan she would have been permanently controlled.”

Farthingstone paced away. His heart fluttered uncomfortably. The last few months had taken a toll he did not care to assess. An agitation of the spirit caused palpitations in his body that were not healthy.

He forced some calm on both and faced Siddel. “Brougham will be angry that they took this step. He will now be amenable to expediting my petition. Once the court declares her unfit, the Church will put the marriage aside.”

Siddel snorted in derision. “Duclairc is certain to fight you. By the time it is all settled, he will have let her sell all the property she owns. He is the kind who prefers money to land. Easier to squander.” He scowled and combed his dark hair back with his fingers. “Those damn Duclaircs. Her entanglement with Laclere at least made some sense, but this marriage to Dante truly is madness.”

Farthingstone did not have a high opinion of Duclairc, but he had less confidence than Siddel that Dante was a fool. Also, Duclairc might have some affection for Fleur. Siddel’s own interest in her had always seemed a little unhealthy.

“You will have to be indiscreet if you want things settled quickly,” Siddel said. “Let it be known that she has gone strange. You probably should claim that you saw it in her mother too. You will have to get society’s opinion behind you. That will make it easier in Chancery.”

Farthingstone’s heart thudded again. Fleur was one thing, but Hyacinth was another. While he had hardly married for love, he still had some loyalty there.

He glanced over to the newspaper. He did not welcome doing what Siddel suggested, but there was probably no choice now.

It was Fleur’s own fault. If she had just listened to reason . . . but, no, she never would, and now she had gone and married that man.

“If I succeed in having the marriage annulled due to her inability to make sound judgments, she will be unable to marry anyone else, of course.” He mentioned it offhandedly, but he wanted to be sure the implications had not been missed.

“Of course. Since you hesitated that night, that plan is now out of the question.”

“Then we are agreed. I will try and rectify this unfortunate development. I will find a solution to overcome the complication that this marriage creates.”

“I certainly hope so, my friend.” Siddel rose and headed for his dressing room. “After all, this problem is yours alone, and always has been. I am merely an interested observer who has been trying to help you out of your dilemma.”

A week after his marriage was announced in the London papers, Dante entered Gordon’s gaming hall. Sidelong glances and a low buzz followed his progress through the smoky, cavernous room.

He aimed toward a group of young men at tables in the northwest corner. Someone had years ago dubbed the fluid group that congregated there the Younger Sons Company. The name referred to the diminished expectations in fortune and marriage caused by most of their birth orders.

This was the first time that he had seen most of them since his aborted run to France. Some heralded his approach with alerting jabs at their comrades. Each step closer brought more eyes on him.

He took a chair at a
vingt-et-un
table where McLean sat with Colin Burchard, the amiable, blond-haired, second son of the Earl of Dincaster.

Three tables away a young man rose to his feet. With exaggerated ceremony he bowed to Dante. Then he brought his fist down on the table in a slow series of thumps.

Another rose and joined him. Then a dozen more. They all pounded their tables in time. Even Colin and McLean got to their feet. Soon Dante found himself the center of a thundering ovation.

The man who had started it raised his glass. “A toast, gentlemen, to honor greatness in our midst. May we all be punished for our debauchery and sin in the manner he has been.”

“As you can see, they are as impressed as I was,” McLean said after everyone returned to their drink and gambling. “We exult in admiration that you not only escaped ruin but did so by marrying the wealthy and beautiful Fleur Monley. Only the marriage of Burchard’s brother, Adrian, to the Duchess of Everdon surpasses this triumph.”

“My brother’s marriage is a love match,” Colin said defensively.

“Of course it is,” McLean said. “As is that of Miss Monley to our friend here, I am sure. More reason to celebrate his good fortune. I am delighted to see you back among us, Duclairc, and so soon after your nuptials.”

“My wife is not only beautiful but of sweet temperament. She does not expect me to sit in attendance on her for several weeks, as if we have entered a period of mourning.”

He did not add that their one week of togetherness had been an exercise in strained, careful politeness, relieved only by the distraction of settling him into Fleur’s house. His wife had not appeared surprised or disappointed to see him leave this evening.

“Very open-minded,” Colin said.

“Isn’t it,” McLean drawled. “Although her mother’s husband may not see it that way. I daresay he will fill everyone’s ears with a different interpretation.”

“Farthingstone? Has he been spreading tales?”

“McLean is just being indiscreet, as usual,” Colin said.

“What is my wife’s stepfather saying?”

“That you have taken advantage of an addled woman, in whom you have no interest beyond her fortune,” McLean said. “Don’t give me that severe stare, Burchard. If the whole town is hearing it, he should too, so he can deal with the man.”

“Farthingstone has shown a tenacious interest in my wife’s affairs. However, I expected cynical gossip from him and others.”

“He has been telling ‘the true story,’ as he calls it. Everyone knows that he went to Lord Chancellor Brougham about her condition and that you were told to wait on Chancery before marrying. Everyone knows that Brougham is angry about the elopement. Everyone knows that she bought your way out of a sponging house with fifteen thousand.”

“I’m sure that Duclairc is delighted to learn that his marriage is the tattle of every club and drawing room,” Colin said. “You have outdone yourself in tactlessness, McLean.”

“That is what friends are for.”

Dante gestured to the tables surrounding them. “If everyone has heard Farthingstone’s claims, this welcome surprises me.”

“The decent men assume that you conveniently found happiness with a rich woman. The scoundrels are reassured to know that, faced with an incredible opportunity, you grabbed it just as they would have done.”

“Whatever anyone believes, I want to make it very plain that my wife is not addled.”

“Of course not. Anyone who knows you has no trouble understanding why a completely sane Miss Monley would marry you. Women are drawn to you like iron to a magnet, and it seems that even angels are not immune. I wish that I knew your secret. The good ones always run away from me.”

“You would not know what to do with one of the good ones,” Colin said.

Nor do I
, Dante thought.

He tried to force his mind away from thoughts about the good woman to whom he found himself abruptly and permanently tied. She had been all grace and sweetness the last week while she rearranged her home to accommodate his intrusion.

She had turned the study over to him. She had given up the large bedchamber adjoining hers that she had used as a private sitting room, and had refurnished it for the new master of the house. Masculine dark furniture and textures now filled that space. During the days workmen still repainted its wood.

One door had not been refinished. The narrow white door that stood between Fleur’s dressing room and his.

She did not lock it. He had discovered that two nights ago, after a quiet evening of reading together in the library. They had barely spoken through those hours, but it had been surprisingly pleasant all the same. Maybe that was because looking at those pages permitted them to be together without looking at each other.

Embarrassment still glimmered in her expression whenever their eyes met. He suspected that everything he tried to hide behind a forced good humor was reflected in his own. Reading those books had let them drop their guard a little. Something of the old, relaxed friendship had returned in the companionable silence.

However, a dropped guard could be dangerous. It had stripped him of the indifference that his frustration and anger had constructed that night in Durham after he left her chamber.

Late at night, raw with desire, he had found himself facing that provocative adjoining door.

The easy turn of the handle implied a level of trust that was hardly warranted, considering his intentions. It had been enough to send him back to his bed alone, however, where he had spent the next few hours making love to her in his head in every way imaginable.

McLean broke into his thoughts with a nudge and a point. “It appears that your arrival has piqued the interest of someone outside our notorious circle.”

Dante’s gaze followed the gesture to where Hugh Siddel stood by the roulette table in the center of the room. He kept glaring in Dante’s direction with dark eyes glazed from too much drink.

“It is probably your recent wedding that has provoked him,” Colin said.

“Another man with a peculiar interest in my wife’s welfare.”

“Peculiar only in the persistence of the interest,” Colin said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“He was besotted when she came out as a girl. He and I were friends back then, and I have rarely seen a man so enamored. He even stopped drinking while he courted her. He did not take it well when she settled her affection on your brother.”

Dante resisted looking Siddel’s way again, but he could feel those bright, liquid eyes on him. Colin’s memories explained Siddel’s anger at finding Fleur in that cottage, at least.

“Hell, here he comes,” McLean muttered.

Siddel’s shadow edged over their table like a storm cloud. “Duclairc, good to see you again. My congratulations on your marriage. Fleur Monley, no less. Word was that she had decided never to marry.”

“It appears word was wrong.”

“Our last meeting at Laclere Park revealed that much more was misunderstood about her than that.”

He smiled like a man amused with his own clever wit. Colin leveled a warning gaze at him that he blithely ignored.