What a Lady Craves (7 page)

Right. The last place she’d discuss anything with him was a spot where Lady Epperley was certain to listen at the door.

Henrietta stood. “Very well.” But when she crossed to him, she added, low, “Not the library.”

He offered his arm, as if he was escorting her to supper. Ever the gentleman. Ever a stickler for the rules, despite his damning of society’s opinion. She stared just above the elbow where a swath of black cloth encircled his upper arm, but he did not withdraw. Fine, then. She tucked her hand into the crook.

“Do you know a place where we’re not likely to be overheard?”

“Anywhere your aunt does not expect us to hold a conversation.” She could take him to
her room under the eaves, but that was hardly a fitting spot. With his aunt seemingly out to pair him off, she’d likely insist on him making an offer. The corridor outside her bedchamber would have to do. “This way.”

Moving quickly, she led him up three flights, from the sweeping staircase at the center of the house to the ever-narrowing corridors on the top floor. The servants’ wing was quiet this time of morning, with all its denizens hard at work, or nearly so.

The heavy solitude left nothing but his presence to fill the space.

She curled her fingers over her palm where the texture of his borrowed morning coat remained imprinted on her skin. “What can you possibly have to say to me that’s so urgent?”

She made an attempt to soften her demeanor. Although he naturally set her on guard, she had no reason to antagonize him. He would leave soon enough and be gone from her life, and she would pick up where she’d left off a week ago, as if he’d never passed through.

And what of the future? What happens when he remarries and brings his family for a visit, and you’re still here?

The question came to her mind unbidden, but she would face that eventuality when it happened. If he were at all conscientious, he’d avoid prolonged holidays, as long as she remained in his aunt’s employ.

He rubbed his chin and eyed her, considering. “This will seem like an odd question, I suppose.”

She raised her brows. “I don’t understand.”

The briefest of smiles eased his features into gentler planes. “You will the moment I ask you. You must know I’m not one for gossip, but there it is. What do you know of my sister?”

Sister? He wanted to speak to her urgently to discuss his sister? “Which one?”

“Cecelia.”

“Oh.” She searched her brain and came up with little. “Last I heard, she was engaged. Was it to Lord …? No, I cannot recall.”

“Apparently she no longer is.” He rubbed the back of his neck, dislodging several spikes of sandy blond hair in the process. “I was hoping you could tell me why that was.”

Wonderful, just wonderful. The heat she’d experienced in the breakfast room came flooding back. Now she’d have to stand here and explain to him why she’d all but withdrawn from society and was thus in a poor position to keep up with the latest
on-dits.
“Why haven’t you asked your aunt for the news? She keeps up with this sort of thing far better than I do.”

He swept at his fringe. So distracting those locks of hair. An urge rose in her to push
them back from his forehead, but that would involve touching him. Physical contact with him was dangerous.

“Then you’ve heard nothing?” he asked.

She racked her brain. Cecelia. Cecelia Sanford. Henrietta recalled her well enough, a vivacious, dark-haired beauty, bubbling where her brother was all rigid seriousness. She was his exact opposite. Engaged to Lord Anstruther—that was the name—but if Henrietta had heard whispers of Cecelia crying off, she’d quite forgotten why. “I’m afraid I don’t remember anything.”

“Then perhaps the matter is not too serious, though that’s not what my aunt claimed.”

Henrietta blew out a breath. She was simply going to have to tell him. “Beyond my closest friends, I’ve paid very little attention to society for the past few years. Granted, my mother pushed me to attend all manner of balls and what have you, but I’ve far preferred to keep to myself.”

There. That explained things subtly enough that she need not feel embarrassment—even if she did. She never wanted to tell him how the manner in which he’d broken things off had humiliated her, how utterly mortifying it had been to hear the whispers at her back.

Yes, that’s Henrietta Upperton. Poor thing. She was all set to marry Alexander Sanford. A brilliant match for her, since she has little dowry to speak of. Or the beauty to turn a man’s head. That is, until he threw her over and married another. In India, no less. One has to wonder if he left to get away from her.

She’d heard all that and worse. What girl wouldn’t prefer to stick to a small circle of loyal friends than listen to that sort of talk night after night? And even those close friends had made matches of their own. She’d wished them all well with a smile and a heavy heart.

Alexander cleared his throat. No apology, just a simple rasp from deep in his chest. Likely all she’d ever hear from him. Not that she needed it. Or him.

“If you’ll excuse me.” She refused to allow her hurt to show in front of him. What good would it do to let him see? It was past time she got over what he’d done to her.

How can a rational being be ennobled by any thing that is not obtained by its own exertions?

She must remember Mary Wollstonecraft’s words. Her engagement to Alexander was not something she’d achieved on her own merit, certainly. He’d worked the matter out with her father. Her independence, on the other hand … All she needed was to maintain her employment, either here or elsewhere, and she might enjoy relative freedom. At least she might determine her future to the extent any woman was allowed, decide whether she stayed with one employer or
left to find another.

She made to push past him, but he reached for her elbow, his grip warm and insistent. Firm as the rest of him.

“Where are you going?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” she repeated, “I should like to get away from you.” She stared pointedly at his armband. “Seems after all this time, you ought to be perfectly willing to let me go.”

He stepped back but still maintained the hold on her. How his fingers burned through her sleeve. “What’s this now?”

She yanked away from his grip. “Nothing.” She would not let him see the pain he’d caused her. Would
not.
It served no purpose.

He stepped in front of her, blocking the corridor. “This is not nothing. What is the matter?”

Tears pricked at her eyes. Oh, dear Lord. He’d said that so softly, so caringly—just like the man she remembered. The man he’d been before he left. She studied the breadth of his shoulders, his feet, the wall beyond, the ceiling. Anything to keep from looking into his eyes.

“Can you not guess?” The words came out small and wavering, unsure of themselves, unsure of what they could express to him without letting him in too far. The closer she let him get, the more open, the more vulnerable she’d be to renewed pain. And she’d vowed long ago not to let any man hurt her again.

He set both hands on her arms, his fingers wrapping around them, drawing her close enough for her to scent the exotic spice that surrounded him. “Is this about what I’ve done?”

“No.” She lied, because if he cared at all how badly he’d hurt her, he wouldn’t have done so in the first place. If he’d truly loved her, he would have found a way back to her. He would not have permitted another woman to turn his head.

He placed a hand under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. She lowered her eyelids. Damn him. If he insisted, she would show him just how stubborn she could be. In the past, she hadn’t allowed him to see this side of her. It wasn’t ladylike. It wasn’t demure. It wasn’t the way to attract a suitor, according to her mother. No, she must be soft and pleasant and cheerful at all times. She must be accomplished. She must make the most of her looks.

She was none of those things now. She refused to behave that way simply for the sake of pleasing a man. She’d learned her lesson.

“I don’t believe that.” His whisper might have been a shout for all it reverberated through
her being.

She opened her eyes to turn the full force of her glare on him. So much for the demure little miss. “Believe what you will. I do not particularly give a fig.”

Lord, the way he was looking at her. She recalled that barely contained passion in his gaze, and it awakened an answering spark in her belly. Like the wick of a candle catching, a burning uncoiled within. But she would ignore the growing flames that threatened to lick at the walls of her resolve. She had to. That or let her annoyance take hold before desire blazed out of control.

“I’d apologize, if I thought it would do any good.”

Oh, this was rich. “You’re assuming it matters to me. As I’ve already informed you, it does not.”

“I think that it does.” His lips hovered close enough that she could nearly taste each honeyed word that rolled off his tongue.

With a toss of her head, she made him back up. Childish of her, perhaps, but there it was. A tendril of hair came loose from her coiffure and hung in front of her eye. With one hand, she swiped at it, while she continued to glare at him. Eyes not leaving hers for so much as a second, he stepped closer, crowded her, his presence a tangible force that pushed her against the wall.

The corridor in this forgotten corner occasionally frequented by servants was too far from the inhabited spaces to bother with candles. The windows up here were small, and the sun was not high enough to allow more than the faintest radiance. He stood so close to her, his body blotted out daylight.

“Stand aside.” Damn that lock of hair. How it must make her look youthful and wayward; it must rob her of any kind of authority.

“Not yet.”

She stuck out her lower lip and blew upward. The lock swayed tauntingly before settling back in the middle of her nose. “I shall scream.”

He ignored this in favor of reaching for the tress. He took it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing, concentrating on what he was doing as if it were of the utmost importance that he learn the exact texture of her hair. Dumbfounded, she allowed him.

Somehow, he inched closer until his breath blew across her face, warm and sweet. “Do you remember this?”

“Remember what?” She had to force the words through her lips. Drawing in air had suddenly become a difficult prospect.

“This. How it was between us.”

“No.” A blatant lie. That particular hint of gravel in his voice pulled her straight into the past.

“I don’t believe you. I recall that expression.”

“What expression?” She had to work to get that much out, and blast it, the words emerged on a breathy note.

“Your eyes dark, cheeks pink, lips parted. Like you’re ready for a kiss.” Somehow he edged even nearer. The wall was solid at her back, possibly the only reason she was still upright. “Like you expect one. Demand it, even.”

Hang it all. She shouldn’t stand for this. From where did he derive this power over her, a power that overwhelmed will and rational thought? She must stand firm in the face of this onslaught.

She lowered her lids, as if that thin layer of skin might suffice to ward him off. “It was never like this.”

Not even a lie, that. A connection had existed between them before, certainly, strong enough for her to believe herself in love. Strong enough that she’d accepted his proposal. Strong enough that, once he’d thrown her over, she never found its like with another man. Now that he’d come back into her life, the pull between them had increased many times over. No, it wasn’t the same.

Now it was far, far worse.

“No, you’re right.” A mere whisper, those words, low and seductive, felt more than heard. They struck her in the gut; they immobilized her.

They left her wholly vulnerable to what came next. He tucked the tendril of hair behind her ear and slipped his hand to her nape. His lips followed and pressed against hers, warm, supple. Utterly demanding.

And with his kiss, she remembered. She remembered other stolen kisses taken in deserted corridors like this one or deep in gardens whenever she could escape her mother’s watchful eye. The way he’d slowly and patiently taught her how to respond. She remembered both the lessons and her enthusiasm for the learning. She remembered them, and they paled in comparison, mere child’s play next to what he was doing to her now.

For he commanded her, made her go limp with the wall at her back her only support, made her clutch at his lapels and share his breath. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she allowed him to savor. Lord, yes, she remembered this, too—his taste, his scent, his presence.
Three elements combined to a formula more potent than she recalled. He was the same man, yet different, stronger, more intriguing.

Infinitely more dangerous.

And if she didn’t stop him now, he’d have her panting up against this wall in no time, while she let him teach her all the mysteries of what passed between men and women. She could not allow that to happen. Was she really so weak?

Summoning her will, she uncurled her fingers from the wool of his topcoat, flattened her palm against him, and shoved. She drew the back of her hand across her lips, as if that could stop them from tingling.

“Do not take liberties with me.” That was all this was—a liberty. Other men had tried something similar in the past. The moment they suspected she was on the shelf, they reckoned she might be interested in indulging their baser needs. She would not, and most certainly not with Alexander.

“That was no liberty.” His cheeks took on a familiar ruddy tone. She’d seen it before, after they’d kissed—and more—and when he was overset. “It was remembering. God. Do you not feel what we’ve left unfinished between us?”

Oh, this was too much when he still wore an armband to commemorate his first wife. When at breakfast, he’d insisted on respecting her memory. “Do you still think me the naïve little miss you left behind? I am no longer eighteen and wet behind the ears.”

He shook his head. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to tell me … Has some man ruined—”