Cheryl Holt (28 page)

John’s library was on her left, and she walked to the door and went inside. Someone had been there earlier. The last embers of a fire glowed in the grate and warmed the salon to a bearable temperature. Through the dim glimmer of her candle, she strolled about, investigating the paintings, the books on the shelves. The estate ledgers were open on the desk, and she ran her fingers over the lengthy columns of debits and credits, saddened that they represented a position that wouldn’t be hers.

How was it that she’d invested so much effort, so
many years, in John Clayton with nothing to show for it?

He’d persistently told her that he wouldn’t marry her, but she hadn’t wanted to listen, so she hadn’t heeded his denials, but the idiocy wasn’t all her fault. Others were guilty, too. His father. Her parents and grandparents. Her friends. Everyone had been so certain that he’d come up to snuff.

She couldn’t calculate the number of occasions when she’d heard people affirm that he was merely sowing his wild oats. That he’d inevitably buckle down and do his duty. That she had to be patient, accepting. Especially after his father had died, her mother had been ecstatic, assured that she’d soon be overwhelmed by wedding plans.

They’d all been so optimistic; they’d all been so stupid. John would someday carry out his responsibilities. He would marry and sire a son as was required. Only he wouldn’t do any of it with her.

She didn’t know what he was searching for in a wife, but she obviously possessed none of the traits, and the notion was so discouraging that she couldn’t contemplate it. Her entire identity was wrapped up in the assumption that she would one day marry the Clayton heir, so she felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her.

If she wasn’t going to be the Viscountess Wakefield, then who was she?

The concept of going to London, of having to advise her parents, of suffering through people’s sarcasm and ridicule, was excruciating! As she had no idea how to withstand such a storm, the vultures would devour her! Unceasingly, she’d been the perfect daughter, then the perfect fiancée, and she’d spent every waking minute demonstrating flawless comportment, not ruffling a
feather, making a wave, or causing a brow to raise.

With his repudiation, what horrors would rain down on her? And how would she survive them?

She had no inkling how to persevere through a scandal, how to live with censure and disparagement. Was it possible to die from mortification?

If she somehow managed to brave the catastrophe, she was quite sure her mother wouldn’t. The reserved older woman would expire from an apoplexy the first instance that a rumor was bandied about on the lips of another.

Sinking down into the chair behind the massive desk, she buried her head in her hands. How had she traveled to this pitiful juncture? What was she to do next? What would become of her?

Footsteps shuffled down the corridor, approaching the library, and she panicked. For two hours, she’d been roving about. No one else was awake! If she’d deemed otherwise, she wouldn’t have come downstairs.

Who could it be? What if it was John? If he waltzed in, she’d absolutely perish!

She couldn’t be observed when she was so disheveled! Jerking upright, she took several fortifying breaths, relaxing her facial muscles into an imperturbable, serene smile. Her hair was down, and she couldn’t repair it, nor could she reverse the fact that she was attired solely in a thin summer nightdress and robe, so she decided not to focus on what she couldn’t correct.

Rising, she forced herself to look as composed as she was able, just as Ian Clayton sauntered in. Her panic turned to dread, then alarm, then fury. How dare he interrupt her anguished reverie! He was a master at ruining everything!

In one hand, he carried a candle, in the other, a plate of food, and it dawned on her that the room hadn’t been
vacant after all. Apparently, he’d been working on the estate ledgers and had skipped out to the kitchen for a snack.

What ill luck had drawn her in as he’d stridden out? She had to escape!

He was fully dressed, a detail that irked her to no end, though he’d shed his coat and cravat. His shirt was unbuttoned, the sleeves unbound and the cuffs rolled back. She could view part of his chest and forearms, and they were covered with an intriguing blanket of dark hair, as black as the hair on his head. The amplitude of masculine flesh was distracting, and she refused to pay any attention to it, rigidly keeping her eyes affixed to his.

“Excuse me,” she disdainfully stated, “but I didn’t realize this room was occupied.”

“Well, well . . . if it isn’t the ice queen,” he chided. “What brings you out so late? Are you hoping to scare someone to death with your exemplary manners?”

She was tired of him; she was tired of every male person she’d ever known. Her whole life, she’d endeavored to mollify and placate them, and where had it gotten her? Nowhere, that’s where! She was dying to lash out. To say what she felt like saying. To perform whatever impolite, discourteous exploit tickled her fancy.

“Shut up, Ian!” she snapped. “I’m so sick of your mouth! And your attitude!”

“My, my! The lady actually has a temper.” Curiously, he assessed her. “And it’s showing.”

“Go to hell!” There! She’d let him have it! And no one had passed away! How astonishing! How refreshing! How liberating! “You . . . you . . . bastard!”

“Now, now, don’t insult my mother.”

Wary, he advanced on her, as if he were afraid she might bite. Considering her elevated level of pique, he
was wise to fret about what she might do. Suddenly, she felt capable of any coarse conduct.

As she glared at him across the expanse of oak, he deposited plate and candle, and she was furious to note that the blackguard was laughing at her. Didn’t anyone take her seriously?

“I’m not about to stay here and be abused by the likes of you.”

She stormed toward the door, but he reached out and caught her wrist before she could slip by. His grip wasn’t strong or tight, and he wasn’t threatening, but the intimate gesture yanked her to a halt. In her world, corporeal contact was so forbidden that she frequently felt as if she were living in a bubble. The heat of his hand, burning through her nightclothes, was shocking and wonderful.

He shifted closer, so that they were shoulder to shoulder, their sides melded all the way down. She’d intended to glower at him, but as their gazes locked, she was mesmerized instead by how acutely blue were his eyes.

The peculiar, inexplicable strength he generated was radiating out, enveloping her. The air around them leapt with invisible activity, as if their proximity were producing sparks.

He frowned and evaluated her, a thousand sentiments playing across his handsome face.

Finally, he inquired, “What’s wrong?”

There was such tenderness and concern in his voice, that she was completely undone. Tears surged to the fore, and she tamped them down.

Out of habit, she contended, “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie, Caro.” He used her pet name, but she didn’t scold him.

“What makes you think I’m lying?”

“You are an open book to me.” His hand slithered down so that he could link his fingers with hers. “Tell me what’s happened.”

He leaned against the desk, his hips on the edge, and he didn’t release her. She didn’t sever their connection, either. The attachment was fascinating, enthralling. With bare skin to bare skin, what marvelous sensations were provoked!

A familiarity was burgeoning, the type that spurred the confessing of secrets, the sharing of woes, though she didn’t comprehend the reason it would. Perhaps it was because they were alone, or the quiet of the room, or the odd isolation with this man to whom she’d been acquainted for years but didn’t know at all.

By giving a tug, he lured her in so that she was cradled between his thighs, and the resulting intimacy was breathtaking.

“Tell me,” he repeated. “Is it John? Has he hurt you?”

The vehemence with which he posed the question startled her, and she was left with the distinct impression that if she but asked it of him, Ian would act as her champion. How splendid to have such a virile fellow outraged on her behalf. Too bad there was naught to defend!

“He’s not going to marry me, is he?” She’d surmised the answer by herself, but she needed to speak the forbidden aloud.

Studying her, he struggled to be frank without distressing her further. In the end, the truth won out, and there was no easy way to say it.

“No, he isn’t.”

“Thank you for your honesty.” Graciously, she nodded, cherishing his candor as a gift. “I’d allowed others to persuade me that he simply wasn’t ready to settle
down, but he wouldn’t have, would he? No matter how long I waited?”

“No.”

The veracity was exhilarating, but oh, how it wounded her! “So you’ve talked with him about me?”

“A few times,” he gently remarked.

“Do you know—” She paused, hating to debase herself by probing but she
had
to understand. She tried again. “Did he mention why he felt I was so unsuitable?”

“Oh, Caro, is that what you suppose? That there was something inappropriate about
you
?”

“What else would I suppose?”

He rested his hands on her waist, his fingers digging into her lower back, and he urged her forward so that her front collided with his torso. Her breasts were flattened to his chest, and strangely, her nipples beaded into taut buds that poked her nightgown—and him!—making her agonizingly aware of herself as a woman. Whenever he moved, she was rubbed across him, creating tingles of agitation that shot through her bosom and downward, making her stomach clench and her loins ache.

Her crotch was merged to his. She was touching him—there!—and her body wept with an impulse to be nearer, inducing myriad anatomical confusions that had her fidgeting and worrying about morals and principles. Though she knew it was indecent to be situated so wickedly, she couldn’t fathom why she would want to remove herself.

His mouth was mere inches from her own, and her pulse pounded frantically. She was positive he was going to kiss her, and she was enthusiastically prepared to let him. She’d never been kissed, though she’d incessantly fantasized about what it would be like.

On this horrid night, when her life was crashing
down around her, if Ian Clayton was inclined to kiss her, she wasn’t about to dissuade him.

Yet, he vastly disappointed her—being a gentleman just when she didn’t want him to be! No kiss was forthcoming!

“Don’t blame yourself for John’s decision,” he kindly asserted. “It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“But it must have!”

“Caro, you shouldn’t regret this. John couldn’t see the fire burning within you. You’d have been so miserable.”

He recognized the passion smoldering deep within! How thrilling that he could perceive it! She’d had to douse the flames so often that it was scarcely a flicker. “I’m so ashamed, and I feel so foolish. How will I return to London?”

“You’re tough. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I can imagine the snide comments. It will be so terrible. How shall I abide the humiliation?”

Tears fell, and she didn’t try to hide them. He seemed so sympathetic, a true confidant to whom she could acknowledge her worst fears, and she couldn’t see any valid purpose for disguising the extent of her wretchedness.

She never bemoaned her fate, having existed in such a sterile, barren environment for so long that she was totally insulated from any event that would effect an upset. Manifestations of emotion were the height of indecorum. Weeping might cause her nose to redden, her cheeks to mottle, so lamentation had to be immediately quashed.

“Have a good cry, darling,” he murmured, snuggling her to his broad chest. “You’ll feel better when you’re done.”

His giving her permission to grieve opened a floodgate, and she let the tears flow. She mourned everything. For losing John’s older brother, for losing John. For being twenty-four years old and a spinster. For never being in love or having had the chance to be loved by the man of her dreams.

Through the whole episode, he held her, his large hands running up and down her back, while he whispered endearments in his native Scottish language. She let them permeate her broken heart and troubled soul, and they were a soothing balm.

Gradually, her melancholy ebbed, and as it did, the embrace transformed, becoming something more, something ardent and impetuous. It started slowly, a kiss to her ear, her hair, but he continued on until he reached her mouth, and she did nothing to delay or impede his quest.

Her first kiss was a sweet brush of his lips to her own, and it was so delightful, and so precious, that she could only ponder why she hadn’t previously indulged.

Quickly, it escalated as he increased the urgency, gripping her neck and angling them. His tongue toyed with her, dipping in the tiniest amount, and she profusely grasped what he was seeking and welcomed him inside.

Surprisingly, she had an uncanny knack for kissing. She effortlessly deduced what was expected of her, how to participate and garner maximum enjoyment.

She sneaked her arms around his waist, hugging him as fiercely as he was hugging her. Her fingers explored, tracing bone and muscle, learning shape and size. Her breasts and privates were in an even more suggestive situation, and she could feel the ridge between his legs that she’d heard tittered about by married friends.

She’d excited him in a masculine fashion! How
magnificent! How rewarding! At least one man in this despicable house found her beguiling.

He groaned as his mouth took hers again, and he seemed to be in pain. “God, I’ve been wanting to do this with you forever.”

“Forever?” she gulped, flabbergasted.

The embrace intensified. He clasped her backside and cupped her bottom. The move was wanton, amazing, and it aroused her baser instincts. He pulled her to his loins, flexing them together in a novel rhythm that she readily adopted. The bodily conjunction made her strain and stretch, needing more stimulation and never having enough.

He was encouraged by her enhanced involvement, grumbling a moan of pleasure that rumbled through her nerve endings and ignited her feminine instincts. Abruptly, she wanted things from him that she couldn’t begin to name. She was ablaze with longing, and bizarrely, she wished he would kiss her all over.