They love indeed who quake to say they love.
—Sidney
Over the next few days, the gentlemen began their shooting in earnest, while Ophelia busied the ladies with plans for the Hunt Ball, an event which was to mark the twins’ birthday, and their first appearance in society. Elise, who rose far earlier than Ophelia, usually spent the breakfast hours in the family parlor, feeling just a little neglected by Henriette, who was having the time of her life with so many children about. And each morning, something inevitably drew Elise to the window which overlooked the carriageway. There she would stand, still and silent by the cold panes of glass, as the dogs and horses were brought round to the gentlemen who were assembling for the morning’s hunt.
And as she stood there, with each passing day, she became more and more confused about her feelings for Lord Grayston. In truth, she could not take her eyes off the man, and it was no longer just his sinfully good looks which drew her gaze. Ophelia, too, noticed her wandering eye, and sharply pointed out what a goose Elise was making of herself.
Perhaps Ophelia was right. Since their moonlit walk, the marquis had continued his flirtation with her, but no longer did he whisper inappropriate things into her ear, nor contrive to sit with her at dinner. No, he treated Elise much as he treated all of the ladies, behaving like an arrant but charming scoundrel.
So, thought Elise, she had gotten her wish in spades. Grayston was no longer trying to seduce her into his bed. Then why was she not happy? Why, on this morning and every other, did she stand at the window watching him as he laughed and joked with the other gentlemen? And why was she glad when, with each passing day, he seemed more and more a welcome part of the group?
Oh, Maynard seemed a little preoccupied, and Denys was coolly civil, but the others were warm, and it seemed that the marquis had kindled something of a real friendship with Mr. Amherst, despite the fact that he flirted outrageously with the gentleman’s wife, Lady Kildermore. What a contrast in character they seemed; the understanding vicar and the unrepentant rake. But were they really that different? Certainly there was a strong visual contrast. The vicar’s golden good looks and Lord Grayston’s dark, satanic beauty could not have been more disparate.
This morning they stood on the graveled carriageway along with Mr. Amherst’s grown stepsons. Their four heads were bent together in companionable conversation as a pack of speckled pointers milled and wove between their legs. Grayston—Christian—was attired much as he had been on the evening she’d first met him; in dusty brown boots which reached to his knee and a soft-brimmed hat which had seen better days. And in the crook of one arm, he balanced a fowling gun with a grace which seemed second nature.
Beside him, Mr. Amherst made a remark—some witticism about the weather, perhaps—then threw back his head and roared with laughter. In response, the marquis looked up and spun about, almost losing his hat as he pointed to the clouding horizon. His long, canvas coat billowed about his boots, and Elise could not miss his expression of almost childlike exuberance. Yes, he did look younger. Happier, somehow. And oddly, for the first time, Elise found herself wondering at his age. Those wintry, all-seeing eyes seemed ageless, as if they had beheld a lifetime’s experience. And yet his body was strong and lithe, his hair as black as well-polished onyx.
Six years, he had said, was the difference between him and his sister. Lady Lenora had stunned society by coming out when she was well past twenty. Elise counted on her fingers and gasped. Why, Grayston was probably not yet thirty! Better than half his life lay before him, and yet a certain despair, a kind of world-weariness, seemed already to hold him in its grasp. He was a rake, yes. And he had done some wicked things, she did not doubt. But it was hard to believe that three decades formed the whole of a man’s character, and left him irredeemable. Or was she simply trying to fool herself?
On that thought, Elise caught sight of Lady Kildermore dashing down the steps to kiss her husband good-bye. In her arms she carried an infant, and about her heels a tide of little girls surged like lacy foam. Mr. Amherst bent down and swept up the smallest, a golden-haired toddler of perhaps three years, leaving the other three to dart about petting the dogs and pestering their elder brothers.
Three—? Elise swiftly recounted. One of the girls now stood alongside the Marquis of Grayston, pointing at his gun. In response, Grayston went down on one knee in the gravel, and began to demonstrate the mechanical workings of his weapon. Oh, yes! That was Henriette. Something as hazardous as a loaded weapon was just the sort of thing to incite her curiosity. But Grayston, she was strangely confident, would keep the child safe.
Suddenly, something caught her attention. Elise shifted her gaze to see that Lady Kildermore’s sons had hefted their sisters onto their backs, and were riding them piggyback. Together, Lord Mercer and Lord Robert darted around the crowd in some sort of silly game which was apparently intended to drive the dogs wild. In a frenzy of flopping ears and flying feet, the pointers dashed madly about, chasing trailing sashes and barking at dangling petticoats until the entire pack was caught up in a wild, canine tumult. But Henriette, as so often happened, was left out. Then, with a casual motion, Grayston flung his weapon onto the seat of a nearby curricle, and tossed Henriette onto his back like a sack of potatoes.
Even three stories above the fray, Elise could hear her shrieks of joy. Of course, Henriette seized her good fortune with exuberance. Apparently dissatisfied with his speed, she snatched the marquis’s hat from his head and began to flail him across the backside with it. The shrieks grew louder, and the dogs more frenzied, until at last Lady Kildermore clapped her hands over her ears and ordered the children back into the house. At once, the gentlemen packed up and set off. Elise watched them go with a strange sort of sadness weighing down her heart.
“Sunday!” muttered Grayston to himself as he stood warming his hands by the fire which roared in the breakfast parlor. Of all the bloody days, this one would have to be the Sabbath. For the fifth night in as many, he had slept fitfully, his mind tormented by indecision. He had come to Gotherington, he kept reminding himself, to wreak havoc on the man who had seduced his sister, not to ruin his sleep over a woman who’d rather not give him the time of day. And certainly not to attend an endless string of tea-parties, the latest of which was holding forth behind his back this very minute.
This one had been brought about, in part, by a sudden and unseasonable cold snap—weather which had not, mind you, dissuaded Ophelia Onslow from marching them all off to the parish church like a line of Prussian infantry. Nowadays, sharing a bottle of well-aged cognac with the Reverend Mr. Amherst was about as close to God as Grayston wished to get. But he’d seen early on there was to be no escaping Mrs. Onslow’s sense of Christian duty. And so Grayston had put on his plainest waistcoat and ordered Stallings to tie his cravat in the simplest style imaginable, and had desultorily brought up the rear on the trek to the nearby village.
The hike back had been worse, for on the return trip, he’d been weighed down by a whole chapter of Deuteronomy and a couple of very grim warnings about just who it was that vengeance belonged to. Oh, he’d rather enjoyed that passage about the teeth of beasts and the poison of serpents being set upon one’s enemies—that sounded like just the sort of retribution he was after. But he had not liked one whit the suggestion that his hand should be stayed in favor of God’s. Now, two hours later, the Onslows and all their guests were milling about the tea table, gratefully clutching their scalding cups between their bloodless hands, whilst he stood by the hearth feeling just a little bit like a chastised child.
In disgust, he turned around to roast his other side and caught sight of Elise, who smiled, lifted her teapot, and tilted her head in obvious invitation. And there, heaven help him, was another problem. Moses and Deuteronomy notwithstanding, Grayston still meant to dispatch Denys Roth from the face of the earth, and the look on the bastard’s too-pretty face when he found out would be well worth spending an eternity in hell, which was where Grayston was headed anyway. But he no longer knew precisely how he was going to seek his revenge. He couldn’t very well slap a glove in Roth’s face and announce his intention of avenging his sister’s death. That would be tantamount to proclaiming Lenora’s suicide. Two heartbeats later, the assumptions about her character would begin, and on the heels of that would come the rumors of her pregnancy. No, he couldn’t do it.
Nor could he use Elise as a means of his revenge. He knew that now; had probably known it from the first. It was one thing to strategize about the means and opportunity of one’s retribution, and quite another to hurt someone who was very real and very innocent in the process. It had seemed easy enough when Lady Elise Middleton was no more than a name to him. When he’d not known how soft her hair felt between his fingers, or how furiously she stabbed at her needlework when she was in a temper. When he had not known how faithfully she could love another woman’s child.
Oh, yes, Elise had become frighteningly real to him. Indeed, he was almost grateful that his hunger for vengeance had all but consumed him, else he was very much afraid he might have been consumed by an altogether different emotion. He watched as Elise passed by Roth, pausing just long enough to refill his cup. She certainly did not look as though she was in love with the fellow, and that brought Grayston some small comfort. He did not think she would suffer when Roth was gone.
Sometimes when he looked at the gentle lines of her face, as he did now, Grayston found himself wishing he was a different sort of man altogether, or that he could go back and undo this last decade of his life. But there was no changing the truth of what he was. Oh, he had toyed with the notion of flinging himself at her feet and saying something wildly foolish as soon as his work here was done. But what did he think would happen then? Did he imagine for one moment that Elise would not be horror-stricken by the blood on his hands? Did he somehow harbor the insane hope that she would simply give up her home, turn her back on her friends, and drag a nine-year-old child off to a life of exile on the Continent? Oh, that would never happen. And he would never ask it; neither of her, nor of the child.
No, all he could hope for was just the chance to make love to Elise before he bolted for France. He doubted it would happen, but a man could dream. Though honestly, he did not know what it was about her that so captivated him. She was lovely, yes. But he’d known dozens of women who were just as beautiful, not to mention more willing and better skilled. But the attraction was growing undeniable. And it was complicating his life.
Elise picked up a platter of seeded cakes and began dropping them onto the children’s plates. When she moved to set it down again, she caught his eye and smiled, then swished her skirts around the tea table and sat down near Henriette and her playmate, Lady Ariane Rutledge. He was tired, so damnably tired, of keeping his distance from her. Now that he had decided what to do—or rather, what he could not do—perhaps he could at least enjoy her company. He could even pretend, just for a while, that he was that different man he sometimes wished to be. So this time, Grayston accepted the invitation in her smile and headed across the room for a cup of tea.
And so it was that, quite by accident, he overheard Henriette pleading with her stepmother to allow her to explore Gotherington’s maze. And quite by accident that he heard Elise promise that they might do so during their botany walk on Tuesday, when the warm weather was expected to return. But it was no accident at all that, a full quarter-hour before their appointed stroll, the marquis himself was comfortably ensconced inside the summerhouse which sat at the maze’s center.
The summerhouse was just an old wooden folly with double doors which could be thrown open on two sides. Though it looked little used now, it had been furnished for summer entertaining, and still contained a well-padded chaise and several chairs. After sweeping away a few cobwebs, Grayston stretched out upon the former, his hands folded behind his head, his freshly polished hessians crossed quite lazily at the ankles. Sheltered thus from the autumn breeze, he had very nearly fallen asleep before he heard their approach.
“Chamomile,” he suddenly heard a small voice say through the greenery. “Chamaemelum nobile—? And this … I think this is potentilla reptans, cinquefoil.”
“Very good, my dear!” He recognized Elise’s encouraging tone, but they were still far away. “And this?”
“Goldenrod.” The small voice carried on the breeze. “It is … solidago virgaurea?”
Elise laughed. “Splendid, Henriette! We’ll make a botanist of you yet.”
“But Lucy says I must be careful,” said the worried little voice as they circled nearer the entrance to the maze. “She says someday I’m to have a come-out, and that I mustn’t be a bluestocking if I want a husband and children.”
Hidden deep inside the evergreens, Grayston listened to the pregnant pause which ensued. “Of course you’ll have a come-out, and someday a family, too,” said Elise consolingly. “But you will also be intelligent, Henriette. That way you’ll choose wisely.”
“Oh,” said the child. “Did you choose wisely?”
Again, a long silence. Grayston got up and began to follow their voices along the inner circle of the maze. He would have given last month’s card winnings to see Elise’s face. Had she chosen wisely? How deeply had she come to love her husband? And why the hell did he care? A gentleman, he knew, would not eavesdrop so deliberately. He was very glad he was not a gentleman.
“I did indeed, Henriette,” Elise finally said. “Your Papa was the most wonderful man on earth. He was good and honorable. And very kind.”
He heard the child kick a stone down the path which circled toward the maze’s entrance. “Bee says you’re to marry Mr. Roth next.” She sounded less than enthusiastic. “Is it true?”
“Oh, Henriette!” Here, Grayston heard the crush of her petticoats as she knelt in the grass. He could all but see Elise holding the child’s face in her small, fine-boned fingers. “Perhaps I shan’t marry anyone at all. But do you not like Mr. Roth, my dear? Has he been unkind to you?”
Henriette avoided the question rather neatly. “Well, perhaps you might find someone taller and handsomer?” she returned. “Maybe Lord Grayston would marry you? He plays the pianoforte. And I think that if you married him, he might let me shoot his gun.”
“Henriette!” Elise jerked to her feet in a rustle of silk. “His lordship is very charming, but he is not the sort of man one marries.”
“Why not?” she asked simply. “Lucy says he’s a wicked rake, whatever that is. But Ariane’s mama just laughed, and told her that leopards can change their spots. I think Lord Grayston looks kind of like a leopard. But a black one. What do you think?”
Finally, Elise laughed. “Oh, never you mind what I think, Henriette! And stop listening to Lucy’s tittle-tattle.”
Again, a long, companionable silence. Soft footfalls crunched on gravel as they circled closer, like little rabbits toward a snare. “Oh, Mama!” Henriette suddenly cried. “Here is the entrance! Hurry, hurry! Race you to the summerhouse!”
And then the child was off and running, her light steps pelting along the gravel and into the tunnel of evergreen. “Not so fast!” he heard Elise cry in exasperation. “I don’t know the way!”
Lazily, Grayston withdrew a cheroot from his case and strolled back toward the folly at the heart of the maze, now some twenty feet distant. They would be a while, he predicted. It had taken him six wrong turns and ten minutes to wander through the twisting, overgrown verdure. He went up the creaky steps, then reconsidering his cheroot, tucked it away and stretched out across the cushioned chaise so that he might pretend to be asleep. That would at least save Elise a little embarrassment.
He could hear the shrieks of laughter and muttered complaints as the pair meandered down blind passageways and dead ends. Closer. And closer. Henriette was just a bit slower than he expected. Or perhaps he was more impatient than he wished to believe. Still, he’d not lied when he’d called the child bright. There was a look of keen intelligence in her eyes; eyes which were a dusky brown, and far too big for her face.
Over the past week, he had passed several pleasant hours in the music room with Henriette and Lady Ariane, playing the piano and singing silly songs as if he were some cheerful, slightly dotty uncle. He had begun it, or so he’d told himself, in order to win Elise’s confidence and to aggravate Denys Roth. But Denys paid the child little mind, and to Grayston’s surprise, he had enjoyed the girls’ company. There was something refreshing, almost purifying, in the innocence of children. Not that his sins could be so easily wiped away. Still, he always left the music room feeling oddly buoyed by the experience.
When at last they burst into the clearing, Henriette was still giggling. Elise’s arm was circled lightly about her waist. “I told you!” cried the child, beaming up at her stepmother. “I told you I could find it!”
“And so you did, my dear.” Just then, Elise caught sight of him, snoozing in the shadows of the folly. “Oh!” she exclaimed softly. “We have interrupted your nap, my lord.”
Grayston looked about himself in feigned confusion. “What? Oh, yes,” he murmured. “It seems I am the Sleeping Beauty today, doesn’t it? Perhaps one of you ladies will awaken me with a kiss?”
Henriette laughed and darted up the steps. “But you are awake now!” she said, gurgling with laughter. “You oughtn’t have a kiss.” Still, she held back her braids with one hand, and bent to press her lips lightly to his forehead.
“Ah, Henriette, you are both wise and generous,” declared Grayston, sitting up and rising to his feet. “The young gentlemen will never pull the wool over your eyes.”
Elise stood at the foot of the steps. Her lips were pursed, but her eyes were laughing. Grayston stepped lightly down to greet her, and the child followed. “Is this not a fantastical maze, Miss Henriette?” he said, after bidding Elise good afternoon.
“But I came almost straight to the center,” bragged the child, her eyes shining. “Mama was slow, so I had to go back for her.”
Grayston stood up and winked at Elise. “Oh, ladies should be very, very slow,” he answered. Elise turned faintly pink and opened her mouth to give him one of those veiled set-downs which she seemed to forever have ready, but in that instant, a feminine voice rang out, yoo-hooing through the shrubbery for Henriette.
The child’s eyes flew wide. “That’s Bee!” she cried. “Mama, Bee is going to the stables! She promised to show me the new colt! May I go? May I?”
Grayston could not believe his good fortune when Elise nodded. “But go straight to the schoolroom after, mind! And within the hour, too, for Lady Ariane and the Amherst girls will want their cakes and chocolate.”
Grayston watched the child’s yellow muslin skirts as they vanished down the corridor of greenery. Then he turned to face Elise. And suddenly, he could not help himself. Could not wait. He caught Elise by the hand, and turned her back toward him. “Elise.” He did not know what else to say. It had been so long. Her hand felt so right in his. Another gentle tug brought her almost against him.
Her eyes flared wide, and she made a sound of protest. But he slid one hand behind her neck and kissed her anyway. The heels of her hands dug into his shoulders, but her mouth softened at once beneath his. She tasted of tea and cinnamon. Sweet. Spicy. He kissed her long and hard, until her cashmere shawl slithered from her shoulders into the grass. And then, on a faint shudder, Christian bent his head to the turn of her neck and let his forehead rest on her shoulder. “I have tried, Elise,” he whispered. “I have tried, and it is no use. I cannot stay away.”
They were, quite probably, the truest words he’d ever spoken to her. Words meant neither to flatter nor seduce, but simply to state an awful truth. Her hands slid up his back, skimming lightly over the wool of his coat, and it felt as though she shook her head. “Oh, Christian!” Her whisper was rich with disbelief, and yet, there was surrender in it, too. “Just kiss me again. Please just kiss me.”
He did better than that. He swept one arm beneath her knees, and with her skirts spilling over his arm, Christian carried her up the steps of the folly. He sat down on the chaise and settled her across his lap. Elise turned her face into his, and then his mouth touched hers, a sweet, delicate kiss at first, his lips just teasing at the corner of her mouth. Elise’s hands went around his neck and she pressed her chest to his. In answer, Christian let his mouth drift lazily over her bottom lip, lightly sucking it between his own. “So good, Elise,” he whispered against her mouth. “Such fine, forbidden fruit.”
Elise shivered and opened beneath him. As his hand lightly massaged her back, Christian tasted her upper lip, then let his tongue glide into her mouth ever so slightly. With sweet, delicate forays, he tasted and teased, allowing Elise to set the tone. But on his lap, she squirmed impatiently closer. Christian groaned, the pressure of her hips an agonizing temptation.
At once, Elise drew back with a look of faint alarm. Christian flashed her a crooked smile, and returned his mouth to hers in a proper kiss, his mouth covering her lips and his hand covering her breast. Slowly, he stroked the generous swell through the silk of her gown, feeling her nipple harden to his touch.
“Do you want me, Elise?” he murmured, feathering kisses over her collarbone. “Oh, God, please say yes.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t.” Her voice was husky. “If I had any sense at all …”
But she did. Christian knew the signs as surely as he knew the taste of her mouth. He plucked lightly at her nipple and she whimpered, arching against his hand. Too fast, his mind cried. But he had denied himself for too long. He had to have her. The swell of her hips, the taste of her mouth, the sweet, soft noises in the back of her throat—it was just too much for a man to bear. Already he burned to shove himself inside her; the hunger like nothing he’d ever known. She slid her tongue sinuously around his, then very tentatively into his mouth, and Christian realized he was going to do it. Right here. Right now.
“Elise,” he whispered. “Please. Let me.”
He did not wait for her answer. Instead, with one arm curled about her waist, he shifted their weight around, lowering her onto the chaise and following her down, easing her against the cushioned back, and returning his hand to tug at the fabric which guarded her breast from his ravenous eyes. But she broke the kiss, jerking her face away. Her eyes were nearly closed, the long, brown lashes fanning over her cheeks. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Oh, please don’t!”
Grayston brushed his lips over her brow. “Ah, Elise, must I stop? I don’t wish to, you know.”
She laughed, a small, pathetic sound. “But I’ve never … I don’t … do this.”
Not I won’t. Not I don’t want to. Relief surged through him. To hide it, Grayston let one fingertip trail gently over her face, stroking the arch of her brow, the turn of her cheek. “You are a passionate woman, Elise,” he whispered. “Let it go. Set it free. Please, please, let me teach you.”
Above her head, one fist curled against the cushion. She shook her head, her gold tresses scrubbing against the fabric. “Not here,” she softly pleaded. “Please, oh, Christian—you stop. I can’t”.
But he could not, and her lithe, young body thrummed with desire. Eager. Passionate. He’d never known the like. Despite her sweet plea, he knew he could have her, here and now, with no force at all. He could tease up her skirts, release himself between her warm thighs, and rut with her like the beast he probably was. And she would enjoy it, too. For about as long as it took for the world to stop splintering about them.
And then she might hate him. Hell, he might hate himself for taking her so carnally. But all Christian might have was the here and now. He looked down to see her wide, blue eyes holding his, confused but not angry. “Let me, Elise,” he whispered. “Don’t lie to yourself about what you need.”
She squeezed her eyes tight. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
“Elise,” he murmured, sliding his hand up her stocking until his fingers stroked her bare inner thigh. “Just let me have you, love. No one can come upon us. Let me show you how the breeze will feel on your bare flesh. Let me show you what a sensual creature you are.”
Without opening her eyes, she sighed and opened her legs to him. Grayston slid his hand higher, dragging up her skirts until he found the opening in her drawers. He cupped her mound, savoring the heat, and then eased one finger into her welcoming wetness. Elise arched, and made a small, sweet sound in the back of her throat, and then something inside her seemed to awaken, rip free, and come to him on a shudder.
Christian felt it, thrilled to it. “Aaah,” she moaned, unabashedly urging herself against him. Kissing her more deeply, he cupped her face with one hand, and with the other, he stroked slowly into the folds of her flesh. She was hot and shivering, already easing slowly toward the edge. It was a good thing, Christian grimly decided. After watching this, he might not last long enough to thrust himself inside her.
Beneath him, she moaned and arched again, drawing the fabric of her gown low across her breasts. She was the very picture of feminine decadence, with her skirts hiked up and her knees spread. Elise had one arm behind her head now, her face turned away, her mouth slightly open. Christian’s cock throbbed insistently as he eased a second finger inside her, stroking her inner wall as his thumb found the delicate treasure buried in her wetness.
Elise sucked in a gasp through her teeth, and pressed herself against him. Gently Christian leaned forward to plumb the recesses of her mouth with his tongue. For long, sweet moments, he touched her, using the same slow, stroking rhythm with his tongue and his fingers, until she was writhing beneath him. He felt her need, sensed her urgency.
But suddenly, Elise jerked her mouth away. “Oh, God, what—” she panted. “What are you doing to me?”
Christian did not slow the motions of his thumb. “I am going to watch you orgasm, my love,” he whispered. “Just let it happen, Elise. Just let it happen. Then let me put myself inside you and make it happen all over again.”
“I—I can’t,” she panted, her eyes still closed. “I can’t!”
“Shh, love,” he whispered. “You can. Just let me touch you.” He delved inside to taste her mouth again, this time more demanding, more insistent. And suddenly, Elise exploded, her entire body shuddering and trembling on the chaise. Her eyes flew open and her head strained backward. Her breath came in sharp little gasps as she rode down on his hand, whimpering his name.
For a long moment afterward, Christian just held her, drawing in her essence. Innocence and lust. A cloud of lavender water. Her sun-warmed hair. All of it blended together in a heady fusion which played havoc with his judgment. And then he could wait no longer. He shifted his weight again until he was on his knees between her legs. With rough, impatient motions, he tore at the buttons of his trousers, and shoved down the linen of his drawers until his cock sprang free, throbbing hot and hard to the touch.
Elise watched, her eyes wide on his erection as Christian eased one hand along his length, then back again. It felt as if his very breath seized at the thought of what he was about to do. Had to do. Unable to wait, unable to choke out any words, he set one hand on her mound and spread her flesh wide to take him, shoving her legs apart with his knee as he bent nearer.
But her wary eyes were fixed on his erection, the long white column of her throat working a little desperately. “Oh, Christian … !” she choked. “That s-seems … the wrong size—” Almost frantically, she turned her head away again, and tried to scramble up.
Christian knew he was generously made, but hers was hardly the expression of gratitude he’d come to expect. Instead, Elise looked terrified. Good God, he was forgetting her inexperience! He was accustomed to bedding ravenous, well-tutored women. Suddenly, his newfound scruples were wrestling with his raging desire. But Elise’s expression of doubt did not lessen. Good Lord, he could not do it. Not with her eyes so wide and her expression so skittish. No, not even if his body imploded from unslaked lust.
He looked at her again, and suddenly, Christian felt just a little ashamed. In response, he eased one hand beneath her elbow and felt a bitter smile curve his lips. “I am a cad, Elise,” he quietly admitted. “I am pushing you to do something you are not ready for.”
At last, she lifted her gaze from his cock. “I am n-not a virgin.” She was so obviously trying to sound brave. “And I do want you.”
Grayston bent forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. Oh, this would not do. Despite the awful, heavy ache in his loins, it simply would not do. He might be a libertine. A jaded and dissolute scoundrel who’d had more women than he could count. But Elise was not ready for … for him. Her dead husband had probably visited her bed once a fortnight, snuffing the candles as he went. And this place—! With reality dawning, Christian looked about him. They were in the middle of the outdoors, sprawled on a chaise in broad daylight with her skirts rucked up and his trousers half down. That was not right, either. He had never meant things to go this far. Good God, he was not even prepared! If he took her here, he might inadvertently leave her with child. And by the time she knew, he’d be an ocean away, unable to return.
Stoically, Christian drew down her skirts and restored his clothing to order, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. And when he was done, he lifted one of her legs over his lap, wrapped his arms tightly about her, then gently settled his head against her breast. She was full of questions, he knew. But he was not sure he had answers. And so for a long, quiet moment, they simply stayed as they were, breathing in the same rhythm, their bodies warming one another, as the shadows of the summerhouse angled across the maze and the sun began to soften into a puddle of pink and gold along the westerly sky.
“Ah, Elise,” he finally whispered into her hair. “You are not quite ready for a man like me, are you? But please do not tell me it is Roth. Please tell me you will never give yourself to that fortune hunter.”
Her fingers, which a moment earlier had been trailing through his hair, froze. “A f-fortune hunter?”
Grayston bit back his frustration, only to find it tinged with fear. “You cannot care for him, can you, Elise? Please promise me you don’t.”
Her tone was cooling. “What are you talking about—?”
Grayston tried to keep his fingers from digging into her back as his mind began to race. Good God, he had best be careful. He had to think this through. Not just his words, but his actions. In his arrogance, the possibility of losing a duel with Roth had never occurred to him. Now a specter more frightening than death loomed. If he lost, who would protect Elise from Roth?
“No matter what happens, Elise,” he rasped, “for God’s sake don’t marry that man.”
She pushed Christian away and looked squarely into his eyes. The desire and confusion which had clouded her eyes was melting. “Should I be touched by your concern, Christian?” she asked a little too lightly. “Can it be you are coming up to scratch?”
Coming up to scratch? What the devil? And then he remembered Henriette’s words, and felt a blinding moment of panic. He must have jerked backward. “I—I beg your pardon?”
Elise’s gaze did not falter. “You mean to offer for me, do you not?” she teased, but her tone was a little bitter. “Of course, I realize we’ve known one another a scant ten days. But since you presume to make love to me in public, and tell me how to live my life, then might I not gather you mean to make some sort of commitment to me?”
The panic slowly subsided. Good God, she was jesting. She was merely angry not serious. Besides, he needn’t have worried. He was not the sort of man one married. But still, he’d best make plain his position before the woman started wishing for something she definitely did not want. “Elise, you wouldn’t be fool enough to have me,” he murmured, lightly cupping her cheek. “I’m the sort of rogue a woman takes a night’s pleasure from, not the sort she leans on for a lifetime. Besides, I shall soon return to France. And this time, I won’t be coming back.”
The evening breeze was picking up, lightly whipping a tendril of golden hair about her throat. “I see,” she said quietly. “So if I wanted you to warm my bed—just for tonight—you’d gladly oblige?”
A vision of Elise spread across a tangle of bedcovers danced through his mind. “Oh, not just gladly, Elise, but gratefully,” he answered, and he meant it. Lightly, he brushed his lips over her cheek. “You are a little frightened, Elise, I know But if ever a woman’s body cried out for pleasure, it is yours. You should make use of me, my dear. Take me—but only to your bed, not to the altar.”
Elise looked at him uncertainly, and he dropped his voice an octave. “Shall I come to you tonight after dinner?” he murmured. “I swear I will be discreet.”
For a long, uncertain moment, she held his gaze. “Oh, God, I don’t know—!” she finally answered, cutting her eyes away. Her hands toyed almost nervously with the buttons of his waistcoat. Setting his hands wide on either side of her face, Christian leaned forward to kiss her just soundly enough to persuade her. But their lips never touched. Suddenly, a heart-stopping scream tore through the air.
“Oh, my God!” Elise jerked upright, almost bumping their heads. “Belinda—! Christian, that’s Belinda!” But Christian had already torn himself away, and was running out of the summerhouse.
“Henriette!” came the scream again. Belinda’s voice was desperate now. “Oh, my God! Help! Help—!”