Virgin Unwrapped (3 page)

Her tears fell faster, and she shook his hand from her shoulder. Then she stared at him, angry and resolute. “I am stronger than you know, Robert Breton. And that is why I will not alter what is about to occur. It is best for all of us. Do not think that you can change my mind with your sly words and your temptations, and your…pleasure.” The last word brought a fresh sob and she stifled it with a balled fist. Then she turned and fled the room.

“This party would be an excellent time to finalize the arrangement between you.” Her mother’s tendency to state the obvious made Anne flinch back in her carriage seat and rub her cheeks, wishing she could hide the embarrassed flush on her face.

“I cannot very well demand that Joseph make the announcement.” It was bad enough when her mother made casual pronouncements about her future when only family was present. But on tonight’s journey to Mr. Stratford’s house, they were not alone.

“His inviting other young ladies to your engagement ball does not bode well.” Mama glared across the carriage at Barbara Lampett, who was looking as uncomfortable as Anne felt. Mama loathed Barbara, probably because she had been a special friend of Mary’s, and was thus a perpetual reminder of that time just a few years past, when everything had been right and good and hopeful. Mr. Stratford was new to the community, and had blundered into the old family feud between the Lampetts and the Clairemonts by insisting that Barbara be included in the evening’s plans.

“I think there was someone he wished me to meet,” Barbara said hurriedly, trying to diffuse the tension in the small space they shared. “He was quite clear about there being eligible gentlemen in attendance.”

“Probably that Breton bloke.” Anne’s father grunted. “He’s a bit high in the instep for you, my dear.” He smiled condescendingly at Barbara. “But a bit low…second son…”

“You have not even met him, Father. He is really very nice. And neither too high nor too low.” And none of her business, either way. She should not be showing a partiality to Robert. She should not be thinking of him at all, especially on a night that might end in her engagement to someone else.

Thankfully the talk turned to the weather, which was turning foul, and the likelihood that they would have to stay the night in their old home. Only a few weeks ago, the thought of sleeping in her old bed would have thrilled her. But now, Anne was thinking not of a return to lost comforts but the possibility that Robert Breton would be scant feet down the hall from her. She might wait until the rest of the house was asleep. Then she could go to him, and beg him to do what he had done, with his mouth moving on the most intimate part of her body as though he was speaking directly to her soul, while his fingers were probing and stretching, plunging and withdrawing, making her imagine a tangling of bodies and bedsheets, bare skin and firelight.
Oh, Robert…

The carriage hit a bump and she bit her lip, relieved that the sudden shock had kept her from crying his name aloud. Had he known what he was doing to her? She’d thought that the first time was an aberration. But then it had happened again. If there was a third such event she was likely to dissolve until there was nothing left of her but that feeling.

No wonder they cautioned young women on the wickedness of being alone with a man. If they realized that this was what awaited them, there would not be another minute wasted on watercolors and embroidery. How would she look at him tonight without remembering that moment, and feeling what he had done to her?

More importantly, how would she look at Joseph? Robert was right. When the offer came, she could not accept it. Joseph might understand, but her parents would be furious. She would be lucky to have a house to return to, if she spoiled the plans that had been so carefully arranged.

She must pray that Robert had meant what he said about caring for her. If he offered, then even if she lost her family, she would have no fear of the future. But there must be no more dallying in dark corners with him until she’d settled things with Joseph Stratford.

And that proved harder than she expected. They arrived at the house. Joseph greeted them just as any good host should. But then, he was off again, into a crowd of people. Whenever she saw him he was surrounded. He even danced with Barbara Lampett, much to Mama’s disgust.

Try as she might, Anne could not seem to get a moment alone with him. She could not blurt the truth out for all to hear. The breaking of an unannounced promise might be easier than if he’d made a public declaration. But she must allow the man some pride and do this with discretion.

Finally after fruitless hours waiting for the right moment, she saw him standing alone in the doorway of the refreshment room. She excused herself from the conversation she had joined and hurried down the hall in his direction.

But by the time she arrived, he was gone, and she was not alone.

Robert Breton stood with his arms around Barbara Lampett, his lips on hers, bodies close together. He was kissing another woman in the very same room where he had first kissed her, under that same mistletoe as though there were nothing special about it.

She had been a fool to think it was more. Had not her mother warned her of the lying ways of men, and the need for caution? She had given her heart to a faithless stranger.

She turned and ran in the other direction, though she heard Robert calling her name. Did he think he could explain away the truth that was right before her eyes? To avoid the scene she darted through the first door she could find, and practically into the arms of her fiancé.

Mr. Stratford looked up, nervous, and surprised. It was quite unlike him. She had thought that nothing could unsettle Joseph, who was cool, confident and in control, even when facing the armed men that had come to break his frames and destroy his mill.

But he had not looked easy these last few days. She had blamed it on the stress of the holidays and the presence of guests when so much was still at stake. Many of the men here were possible investors. He had much on his mind.

She put on an amiable face, closed the door and stepped toward him. After a halting few moments he spoke, as she’d always known he would, making the offer that the whole of the Clairemont family expected. “Miss Anne Clairemont, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

All she had to do was say no. Or beg for a postponement. Her father had insisted that the success of this house party was rested on settling the matter of her engagement at precisely the right moment. The only reason Mr. Stratford meant to have her was to impress his guests. It was her job, when the proposal came, to accept with all the grace she’d been bred to.

She had been ready to throw it all away, and ruin the evening on a romantic whim. It was all Robert Breton’s fault for confusing her, making her think that the wild, dramatic, swooping and diving ecstasy he brought her was anything more than a game to him.

Now he wished to play with someone else.

Anne looked at Joseph Stratford, who was a fine and upstanding man in his own right. If he had a fault, it was that he was not emotional enough when it came to courting her.

But that was probably for the best. She gave him her best smile and replied, “Thank you. I would be honored in return.”

There. The deed was done and she had committed herself to him. If the kiss they shared after was wooden, at least she could tell herself that it was not shared with another. Joseph was too wrapped up in his business dealings to care for one woman, much less two.

And if Barbara Lampett looked guilty when she found her in the retiring room a few moments later, the poor girl had no reason to be. There was no harm in sharing a kiss with an eligible young man when one was similarly unattached. She had done just such a thing herself. It had been nothing more than that. Anne moved to the opposite side of the room and seated herself in front of a mirror.

Barbara caught her eye in the multiple reflections of her own mirror and came to her side, taking the powder puff from her numb fingers and working to fix the damage Anne was doing to her own toilette trying to hide tears that she could not remember shedding.

Anne wished she could slap away the other girl’s meddling hands. But that would be impolite. And though her mother might not care who she offended, Anne had no intention of following in her footsteps.

Barbara shifted uneasily at her side, and then said, “What you saw in the refreshment room was nothing. Mr. Breton was attempting to be kind to me, I think. I am grateful, of course. But that was all.”

“It does not matter,” Anne said quickly. Even if Barbara was speaking truth, it was too late now.

“I think it might,” Barbara said. “Perhaps we could call the carriage, and return home rather than going back to the party. If it would help, I could pretend an indisposition and you could pretend to help me.”

“No,” Anne said hurriedly, ignoring the way her pulse raced and stuttered at the thought of running away from both of the men who occupied her thoughts. “The snow has come, and we will be staying the night. You as well. Do not worry. Arrangements are being made.” And they would put her just down the hall from Robert. “I will be quite all right, really,” she said firmly. She would be all right because she had to be. “I must return to the ballroom. Father will be expecting me. And Joseph.” Everyone was expecting her. They were making the announcement at midnight.

“But what do you wish, Anne?”

What did she wish? She wished that everyone would stop asking her to change her mind. “I wish for everyone to be happy this Christmas,” she said firmly. “And it does not matter what I do, that cannot be possible. We can only hope to limit the harm done, I think.” She lifted her chin, inspecting herself in the mirror. “That is much better. Thank you, Barbara. Now, if you would be so kind, I would like to return to the ballroom, and I do not wish to walk alone.”

Barbara took her arm and they went together, and Anne pretended for a moment that they were friends. That it had been her and not Mary that was Barbara’s favorite.

Of course, Mary had been everyone’s favorite.

It did not matter. She would be the favorite daughter tonight. She was the one who could restore the family fortunes, and return a Clairemont to the manor house. That was what mattered, really. Romance, love and unbridled passion were transient things, and she would viciously quash the longing she felt when she thought of them.

As they entered the ballroom she released Barbara with a grateful nod and went to stand at Joseph’s side. She forced herself to smile as he announced their engagement to the crowd. And she looked through a white-faced Robert Breton as though he was not even there.

She was lost to him.

The brandy he was drinking simmered and burned in Robert’s stomach as he watched the happy couple standing at the head of the room and receiving the polite applause and congratulations of the guests. But their happiness was a misnomer, a lie, a sham put on for the investors. Anne was deliberately avoiding his gaze, the triumphant smile she wore faltering whenever she forgot to force it.

If possible, Stratford looked even more trapped than Anne. When Robert went to shake his hand, his friend smelled of spirits and had a manic glint in his eye that had nothing to do with the success of winning his fair lady and embarking on a new life.

Only Mr. and Mrs. Clairemont looked truly pleased.

Robert excused himself as soon as he could and went to his room, doubting that anyone would miss him, one way or the other. After all they had done together in the last few days, Anne had made her choice.

And Joseph was welcome to her. It was not a bad match, for all that. Stratford was rich, intelligent and an amiable companion, when he remembered to be. Anne would be a gracious hostess and a beautiful mother to his children.

The thought of the two of them, together in that way, twisted like a knife in his side. He had been a fool to give even the briefest of kisses to the Lampett girl. If she had not looked so pitiable, standing alone at the refreshment table, he would not have bothered. He had thought that a Christmas kiss might put a smile upon her face, and remove any suspicion that he might be lurking in empty rooms hoping to catch and kiss another woman that he had no right to.

Kissing Barbara Lampett was just one more in a series of stupid acts. He was an even bigger fool to feel as he did for Anne, and to have acted upon those feelings in a way that might have disgraced them both. After weeks of his gradual advances being politely rebuffed, he had steeled himself to let her go.

Then she’d weakened, and he’d begun to hope. He remembered her, warm against his mouth, gasping as she came for him. She was his, no matter what she might pretend. She might think she could cast him off as easily as removing a glove. But he would not allow it to pass without some explanation. If she meant to marry a man she did not love, then perhaps he could not stop her. But he must know why. She could not be as shallow and mercenary as she seemed. She must know that there was no other woman in his heart but her.

Robert removed his shoes so that he might move in silence down the hall to the room he knew had been hers when she’d lived here. He had been desperate enough to visit it on those occasions when he was alone in the house, overcome with his feelings for her and sure that she cared nothing for him. Then, he had gone to brood in a way that now seemed more pathetic than poetic.

He stood before the same door tonight, wondering if she would even open for him, now that she had accepted Stratford. His hand was already on the knob when he heard another door open onto the hall behind him. Whatever might happen, he could not be caught here. Without another thought he was inside, not bothering to knock or to be sure that there was no maid in the room. But it seemed, with the influx of extra guests, the Clairemonts were being forced to manage for themselves. Anne was alone and barely dressed. As he watched she dropped her nightgown into place and hid the tantalizing glimpse of bare flesh.

“What are you doing in my room?” she whispered. Her hand came up as though to cover her body, but hovered in front of it, a graceful pink accent against the white of the gown, which was open almost to the waist. He could see the soft white skin beneath it, smooth over belly and between breasts, lifting to points where the gown covered nipples that were a faint rosy glow through the thin fabric.

“I came to congratulate you on your announcement,” he said, not bothering to conceal his bitterness.

He expected some hurried denial, or a shriek of outrage. Instead she remained still and tossed her head. “Perhaps you would do better to search out Barbara Lampett’s room. It was her you were kissing in the same place you kissed me.”

“But not the same way,” he replied, refusing to be baited into an apology. “And it was not some harmless peck that led you to accept Stratford’s proposal. You meant to do it all along.”
As though what happened between us meant nothing.
He did not say it, for he was tired of her denials.

Then he closed the distance between them and pushed her hand out of the way so he could stare at the open gown, then trailed his fingers from belly to sternum before pushing the fabric aside and taking one of her breasts with his hand.

Her eyes fluttered up to show white like some startled mare, and for a moment he feared she might faint from the shock. But then they settled again, half closed. Her lips formed the faintest of smiles as though she struggled not to show the pleasure she was feeling. He pinched the tip between two of his fingertips and tugged lightly upon it. “You like that?”

“I cannot,” she said. “Not anymore.”

That was quite different from no. It was as if she could not give him a real answer, for the truth was too damning even to think, much less to say out loud. She could not want him to be here. If she did, it would ruin the plans that had been set in motion tonight.

“Then tell me to stop,” he said. “Push me away.” She said nothing, leaning against his hand. “Perhaps you truly are as mercenary as I fear. And utterly heartless as well.” He slid another hand beneath the gown, opened it wide and pushed it from her body until she stood naked in front of him. “Does it amuse you to tease me? Or is this some scheme to make Joseph care for you? He will not, you know. I sometimes think the man is incapable of love for anything other than his machines.”

“He is not unkind,” she said, softly.

“I never said he was. A marriage to him will be full of the gentlest possible indifference.” Robert raised a hand to touch her cheek, running a single finger from temple to chin. “Not enough for such a passionate woman, I am sure.”

She hung her head, showing none of the vivacity he knew she possessed. “I will do my best to be a good wife to him.”

“The sort of wife he deserves?” Breton said with a bitter smile. “Will you continue to take advantage of his carelessness?”

“As you do?” she responded.

“I will do what is necessary to get what I want,” he replied, suddenly sure that it was true. Then he cupped the back of her neck and jerked her forward into a rough kiss that crushed her lips. She reveled in it, stretching out to him as though basking in front of a fire. He felt her heart thawing, and joy, coursing like springtime in her blood. It made him want to rip the clothing from his body and push his own aching hardness into her. He pulled away before the madness overtook him. “After tonight, you belong to Stratford. If you mean to marry him, then call out for him.”

“He will not hear me,” she whispered.

“That is no answer,” he responded and pushed her back toward her bed.

“Do not make me summon him. The scandal would hurt us all.” She put a gentling hand on his arm as though pleading for understanding. “It is too late for us, Robert,” she said. “You must realize that.”

“I know nothing of the kind,” he said. “How can you tell me that there is no future, and then let me touch you, strip you bare and kiss you?” How could she not know how beautiful, how precious she was with her pink tipped breasts and the down of golden blond hair curling between her legs?

“I cannot help myself,” she said.

“You cannot deny me. You cannot cry off from Joseph.” He laughed in frustration. “Let me show you what it means to be truly helpless.”

By the time he was aware of what he’d intended, the job was practically done. He’d pushed her down upon the bed and snatched her stockings from the place she’d dropped them at its foot. Then he’d tied a pair of hurried loops in their ends and bound one wrist to each bedpost at the head.

And she’d allowed him to do it, eyes wide with surprise.

She was beautiful displayed thus, the pull of her muscles causing her breasts to lift proudly. He leaned forward, careful to touch no other part of her as his lips found a nipple, closed upon it for a moment and then released it. “And now, my darling Anne, you truly cannot help yourself.

She gave one nervous tug on her bonds, before subsiding again. “Let me go.”

“Do not ask for mercy, for you shall have none. Tonight, I will take what I want from you. And there is only one thing that will make me stop. Tell me not to do this because you love Joseph Stratford.” He draped one hand negligently across her ribs and leaned forward to take the other breast in his mouth, drawing upon it until she moaned.

As he pulled away her back arched as though she would follow him for another kiss. Then she settled back onto the mattress, watching, waiting.

“You have nothing to say to me?” he asked, and twisted his mouth into what he hoped was a heartless and frightening smile. “Tell me that you would rather be kissed by your precious Joseph and I will untie you immediately.”

Her silence continued. He glanced past her to a writing desk in the corner and its selection of quills. He went to it and snatched one, then returned to bring the tip of the feather in contact with her lower lip. “Speak, Anne.”

“I would not give you the satisfaction,” she said.

“You will give me that and more.” He brought the feather down her body in a straight line, pausing to circle her navel before returning to touch the tip of each breast settling into a metronomic swing between them, touching each in turn, over and over. “By the time I leave this room there will be no secrets left between us. And do not tell me this hurts you,” he added, “for I will not believe you.”

“Of course, it does not hurt.” He paused and watched as she willed herself to relax against her bonds and let her body sink into the pillows beneath her. Then he brought the feather to the underside of her breasts, following the crease where they met her body and dragging his tongue along the rib outlined beneath.

“Robert. Please.”

“What, my love?” he asked, only half interested in the answer.

“Stop this game. I do not think I can stand it much longer.” Her voice was a mixture of anguish and desire and she’d drawn her knees up tight to her body as though she meant to climb away.

He stroked the quill down her legs to brush the tops of her feet, the bottoms and the toes. “Tell me you would rather have Stratford, and I will be gone. Say you wish him to do this.” He brushed the backs of her knees. “Or this.” He cut horizontally across her thighs. “Or this.” He pushed her legs apart and teased the places he’d kissed on their last time together and watched as she turned her body this way and that, tossed her head and fought and lost to the climax that shook her to the core.

She slumped back onto the mattress, spent. Then she gazed up at him. Her blue eyes heavy lidded and passion drugged. But her lips did not smile. “You are a cruel man, Robert.”

“Because I force you to do what you want instead of what is expected?”

“Because you make me selfish.”

“Why do you think this is selfish?” The idea brought him a step closer to the truth.

She sighed. “How can it be otherwise? It benefits only me.”

It was doing him good as well. The need he felt for her was like a slow-growing fire. And if he could persuade her that her destiny lay with him, he would be rewarded with the longest, sweetest relief of his life. “Who told you that it is wrong for you to see to your own needs?” If it was Stratford, he would make the man pay for his cruelty. But Robert was sure that the fault lay elsewhere. The trick would be to get Anne to see it.

She had turned her head and closed her eyes to blot out the sight of him. And he could see tears squeezing out from beneath her lashes. “No one told me. But I know that I am selfish. I cannot seem to do the one simple thing that will fix everything.” She opened her eyes, and glared at him, tugging at the stockings that held her. “Because of you. Why must you make this so difficult?”

He smiled. It was a challenge to give credence to her argument when her frown looked more like a kissable pout and each struggle looked like an invitation to mount her. “It is not difficult at all. You have but to say, ‘I wish it was Joseph, here with me now.’ I will untie you and be gone.”

She stared at him in silence.

“No? Then you will at least explain to me why the marriage is so important, so I might understand why I am losing you to him.”

“Joseph Stratford has my father’s house,” she said in a toneless voice. “I mean to get it back. Is that plain enough for you?”

“If the house was so very important, your father was a fool to lose it. You will make him no less of a fool by marrying Stratford.”

“How dare you!” She was struggling again, her blond hair falling in waves around her face. If possible she looked even more beddable when angry.

He bit the inside of his lip and fought for control. Then he answered her. “I dare quite a bit when my own happiness is threatened by a reason as silly as that. What do you think to accomplish by regaining the manor? Do not lay there frowning at me. I will get the whole truth out of you eventually. It will save us both bother if you speak.”

Although the bother was more than a little pleasant, he was sure. When she did not speak, he reached into his pocket for his penknife.

Her eyes went wide. “What do you mean to do with that?”

He opened it, and took up the quill again, slicing the nib to a point that would write the finest imaginable line, should he choose to use it for its intended purpose. Then he knelt on the bed beside her. “I mean to write to you,” he said. “If there was time to woo you with my words, I would write endless letters to you, telling you the contents of my heart.” He wrote his name along her collarbone with the dry tip of the pen.

She arched her back in response.

He thought for a moment, and added the words
dearest, and love,
just below them.

In response, she moaned.

“If you do not wish me to continue,” he reminded her, “you have but to say the words that will send me from your life forever. Call out for your betrothed. One utterance of his name, and I am gone.”