Beyond A Wicked Kiss (29 page)

West unhitched the blanket at his hips and threw it over a nearby bench. He washed himself, removing the scents of lavender and musk from his skin. The icy water made him draw in a quick breath, but it had the desired numbing effect on that part of him that was still stirring.

Water splashed his chest when he dropped the sponge back into the basin. He wiped it away with a negligent flick of his fingers, then turned to take a towel from a brass hook beside the door. His line of sight into the bedchamber did not include the head of the bed where Ria sat. The candlestick cast sufficient light for him to see that most of the blankets had been pushed from the middle of the bed to the foot of it, and the warming pan was set where it could finally do some good. Ria's slippers were still on the floor, but the pillow that had fallen there earlier was gone. He also did not see the book.

For a moment West braced his arms on the marble edge of the washstand and hung his head, not so much in the manner of a man avoiding his reflection, but in the manner of one reflecting. After a long moment in this position, West pushed himself away and straightened. He raked his thick hair with his fingertips, leaving it furrowed at the temple and crown, then grabbed the towel and dried himself. When he was done, he tossed the towel aside and went to the highboy dresser to root out a pair of drawers.

His tread was almost soundless as he padded back to the bed. Ria was indeed sitting comfortably at the head of it, surrounded by a throne of pillows and still modestly attired in her nightdress and flannel robe. Her knees were drawn up and propped on them was the erotic treasure he had stolen from Beckwith's private library. She was studying the illustration of the pair engaged in more traditional coupling, though even that description of their activity was suspect, given certain aspects of the drawing that Ria seemed to have failed to notice.

West grasped the book by its backboard and spine and removed it from her hands. She did not resist his interference. Closing it, he set it on the table. "I think you've had enough book learning today." He was gratified to see that she was still capable of blushing. He did not like to think that her experience had already hardened her against it. It pained him that she might become so changed by it that she would be indifferent to all sensibilities. "I want you to go now."

Ria had been expecting this. She nodded faintly, but it was only an indication that she heard him. She made no attempt to leave the bed. Instead she moved one of the pillows from her side and pressed it against the headboard, inviting him to sit beside her. "I have questions I am learning a book cannot properly answer."

"And I have already suggested you apply to Lady Tenley."

"I think broaching this subject with her would be a mistake. How would I explain my interest?"

"Don't women discuss these things among themselves?"

She lifted one eyebrow in an incredulous arc. "I have never been privy to conversations of that nature, and you can be certain no governess ever thought to educate me. It is not a subject broached at the school, even among the teachers who have been married." Ria folded her hands and rested them atop her bent knees. "Therefore, it fells to you."

It was precisely this sort of responsibility that he had been trying to avoid. His sour, impatient look reminded her of that. He took the blanket he was carrying over his arm and rolled it lengthwise. Before he sat down, he placed it beside Ria so that it would be between them. It was an inadequate physical barrier, but as a reminder of the need for distance between them, it was more than sufficient.

"I am not ashamed" she said. This was offered somewhat defiantly as he crawled in beside her. "You can't expect that I should be."

West yanked on the blankets still mounded at his feet. He snapped them out and pulled them up over his legs, offering Ria a portion of them to tuck around her. She accepted them so gratefully that he realized she had been waiting for this invitation. Apparently she would not be moved from his bed until she was ready, but neither would she nest there without his permission.

He did not comment on whether he thought she should be ashamed or not, but let it lie with her. "What is it you want to know?"

"You are angry with me."

It was no question, but a statement of fact. "Yes," he said, "but you seem to be impervious to it." No part of his response was completely true. That she mentioned his anger at all showed she was not immune to it, and it was more to the point that he was angry with himself, not her. "You mentioned a question, I believe?"

"Why did you take the book from Mr. Beckwith?"

It was not at all what he'd expected her to ask. He could not decide if this line of questioning was preferable to the other. "I took it because I know someone who publishes books—not of this type, to be sure—and I thought he would be able to tell me about the origin of this particular one. I was curious what I might learn from it."

"You told me it is not uncommon."

"It is not uncommon for gentlemen to own books with an erotic content, but the breadth of Beckwith's collection sets it apart from what one might consider ordinary. This particular type of book is relatively rare. The fact that the illustrations were printed on both sides of the page makes it rarer still, yet I had no trouble finding two others like it on Beckwith's shelves in a very short period of time. Finally, there is Beckwith's taste for such fare that is a curiosity. There are certain peculiarities of content that make his collection so unique."

"Peculiarities?" She frowned. "I thought what I saw on those pages was naught but what was in the nature of men and women."

"If you allow that violence is sometimes in the nature of both, then it is just as you thought."

"I don't understand."

No, she didn't, he thought. Her inexperience had caused her to focus her attention on the illustrations' more striking features. She had not regarded them as a whole nor comprehended precisely what she was viewing. "Both women were shackled," he said. "One to the iron bedrail, the other to the column that supported the man's back."

Ria's head snapped up. "That cannot be right."

West sighed. "I wish you would find another manner of expressing your astonishment that was not a challenge to my every word." He held up his hand, stopping her from reaching across him for the book at his side. "I will show you." He retrieved the book, opened it to a random page featuring the couple on the bed, then used his hand to cover every part of the drawing except the woman's hands curled around the iron rail. He held it up for Ria to see and watched her face for comprehension.

She stared at it, blinking once, then accepted what she was seeing. West turned the book, covering the other drawing in the same fashion, and showed her the woman's wrists were indeed manacled to the column. These were not heavy irons that held the woman in place, but delicate bands that might have been gold or silver. The links from the wrist cuffs to the rings that secured them were almost invisible, so lightly were they drawn, but Ria saw them once she knew where to look.

West closed the book and put it aside again. Ria's face held a little less color than it had a few moments earlier. "You must have some opinion," he said. "I should like to hear it."

"No, you're wrong. I don't know what to think... about the illustrations or the fact that the book belongs to Mr. Beckwith."

He allowed that it would require considerable effort on her part to take it all in. "There are men who find pleasure in the subjugation of others. In this case, it is women who are made their slaves. To further complicate your mind, I must tell you that not every woman would object to being used in such a manner, though it is not the artist's intent to show this. His drawings have a particular purpose and that is to create excitement in the person viewing them. The appeal may be to the act itself or it may be to the themes of domination and helplessness. There is restraint in the illustrations, literal and figurative."

When Ria spoke this time, her voice was almost inaudible. She continued to stare at her folded hands. "I thought the women were wearing bracelets. Bangles. I thought they were Gypsies." She shook her head slowly, feeling weak and vaguely ill of a sudden. "But I think some part of me understood there was something more that I was seeing, something I was responding to without being fully sentient of it. When I was... when I was touching... that is, when you and I were forni—" Ria bit off this last word, no longer certain it was the most appropriate one.

"When you were pleasuring me," West said. "Let us call it that and dispense with more graphic descriptors—unless it offends you to do so."

On the contrary, Ria was grateful for his suggestion. She cleared her throat, but her speech was still impaired by a tightness there, and she had to force out a shaky breath to give the words sound. "When I was pleasuring you, I was struck by... by this odd notion of being both in command and subservient. I never... I never experienced anything like it before and I... and I think I rather enjoyed the conflict of it. I am very much afraid that it excites my blood."

West might have found this confession piquant if she had not been so earnest. Clearly she was troubled, and he could only imagine what it cost her to make the admission. In the course of a single evening, she had been roused by a fierceness of passion unknown to her before, and now she was discovering the complicated truth of its birth. He turned slightly so he might see her better. It was not her usual way to avert her eyes, but she was doing so now. He reached across the barrier separating them and touched her chin with his fingertips.

"Look at me, Ria." He nudged the point of her chin until her head swiveled slowly in his direction. "What you experienced is not something to fear. It was you who put forward the idea that a woman should know what she must embrace or endure. What occurred between us is meant to be embraced, and if it seems otherwise to you now, then you are denying your own nature. Do you think I did not share in the same thorny emotions? Was there perhaps some other proof you required to know that my blood was also excited?"

The shake of Ria's head was almost imperceptible. She drew in her lower lip and worried it between her teeth, concentrating on the pain she inflicted in order to keep her eyes steady on his. It troubled her that she felt so young and so thoroughly vulnerable, yet this was Evan Marchman come to save her from the consequences of her own recklessness, and the knowledge that there was safety here righted the world.

The pad of West's thumb passed across Ria's lower lip, drawing it out so the fullness of its line was visible to him again. "I cannot say, as you can, that I did not understand the whole of those drawings. I knew what they were when I took them from Beckwith—indeed I selected the book for precisely that reason. I did not mean for you to see it, but having seen it, I should not have teased you with the contents. I bear a measure of responsibility for what happened, whether I want to own it or not, whether you want to give it to me or not. I understood it is the very nature of fire to burn and blister, even if you had not the same experience."

"You are speaking again of protecting me."

"I suppose I am, and I cannot say that it will ever be different." She surprised him by not insisting that it should be. He brushed back a wayward strand of hair at her temple. "Nor can I say that I will never fail. That I should be your guardian has a certain fox-guarding-the-henhouse bent to it." West saw that this raised her slight smile, and he was glad for it. "I am certain Tenley has thought so from the beginning, and Margaret is coming to that conclusion. My valet wonders what I am about, bringing you here. My friends would be exchanging significant looks between them, each thinking they knew the answer."

"What is the answer?" she asked softly. "I do not know myself."

"Don't you? You quite accurately have pointed out that I am a coward. I did not want to face down my brother and sister-in-law alone."

"Oh."

"You are disappointed?"

"No... yes... a little, I think."

West caught her eyes shifting from his again. He tilted his head a fraction to hold her glance. "You have not truly developed a tendre for me, have you?"

"No."

"That is good. I like you enormously, Ria, but certain finer feelings can make things between us hopelessly complicated."

She nodded. "I understand. You needn't concern yourself. I like you well enough—I don't suppose I should have been able to pleasure you if I did not."

West was glad to have positioned himself toward the middle of the bed, else he might have fallen out of it. While he was generally appreciative of frankness, Ria had a way of practicing it that invariably disarmed him. His throat felt unaccountably strangled. "Yes," he said hoarsely, "there is that."

"Are you all right?"

Because she looked as if she meant to pound his back, West stopped her by catching her wrist. "I'm fine." He eased his grip but did not release her completely. "You comprehend, don't you, that there will be no repetition of tonight?"

"I did not, but I can see that you are set on it."

"I am. As to that second illustration, there will be none of that either."

"With you, you mean."

"What?"

"With you," she repeated. "You cannot dictate that I should never engage in sexual intercourse with another man."