Don't Tempt Me (14 page)

Lady Tarling rode ahead. When she reached him, he resisted the urge to shout at her for endangering Zoe. His mind knew—if his gut didn't—that Zoe endangered herself.

He schooled his features and his voice and greeted
the lady politely. She was flushed with the exercise, and her dark eyes were dancing.

“Ah, Duke, you have your hands full, I've heard—and now seen,” she said. She looked as though she would say more, but she only shook her head and laughed. Then she rode away.

Zoe dawdled, pretending to be enraptured by the view. She was probably catching her breath. Not on a horse in twelve years! She must be numb as well as exhausted.

He waited.

At last she trotted sedately to him. He would not be surprised if she pretended not to see him and trotted right past him, but she slowed and stopped.

“How beautiful it is,” she said. “Everywhere I look, there's greenery. I cannot remember when last I saw so much green. In Egypt, you know—”

“Are you insane?” he broke in impatiently. “You haven't ridden in twelve years. That gelding is too wide for you, and the saddle is too short. Yet you raced with a complete stranger on terrain you don't know. I saw you gallop headlong down a hill. You could have been killed.”

She looked at him in the way most people looked at his aunt Sophronia when she made one of her dafter pronouncements.

“But of course I've ridden in recent years,” she said. “Many times. Sometimes we traveled up the Nile on holiday or to abuse the peasants. Then the men would let me ride in the desert. Sometimes a camel, sometimes a donkey, and sometimes a horse. They knew I couldn't run away then. I tried, but it was no
use. All the desert looks the same, and in no time I'd be lost. They had no trouble catching me, and it amused them. It was a game to them.”

She spoke of the Egyptian experience with less emotion than she'd employ to describe a pair of gloves or slippers. But he could see the scene too clearly and Zoe in it. The vision upset him, adding to the stew of fear and anger inside.

While he struggled to beat down emotion, she looked calmly about her.

“I like this place,” she said. “I did not realize it was so large.” Her gaze came back to him. “I must like her, too, though I find I'm very jealous.”

“I don't care whether…” He paused, trying to think past the fear and rage he couldn't quite command. “Jealous?”

“She's so elegant,” Zoe said. “She knew who I was, I believe, but she did not snub me. That was generous. If I were your concubine, I would be very suspicious of protégées.”

“She is not my con—”

“Her seat is excellent. Better than mine.”

He would like to get his hands on the person who'd turned her mind to Lady Tarling. He ordered himself to be
calm
.

“Her saddle fits her,” he said. “Her mount fits her. She did not steal her mother's—”

“No.” She held up her hand. “You will
not
scold me. This was fun. I want fun. I want a
life.
In Egypt I was a toy, a game. I was a pet in a cage. I vowed never to endure such an existence again.”

He stared at her in outraged disbelief.

He told himself her English sounded well enough
but her grasp of meaning was less than perfect. He told himself a great many sensible things, but his gut reacted to the accusation, the patently unfair accusation. She was equating him with the swine who'd caged her and treated her like a pet and a game.

“I drove you all about London yesterday,” he said. “I took you to buy dresses and underthings and shoes and stockings. And I told you I would take you for a drive today.”

“I needed to ride.”

“You might have said so.”

“I didn't know it then. And even if I had known it, you would not give me a chance to say what I wanted. We'll do this, you say. We'll do that. I will collect you at two o'clock, Zoe. I will make you respectable, Zoe, whether I like it or not, for your father's sake, and because I said I would, and I always keep my word.”

“I know the words are English,” he said, “but the thinking must be Arabic, because I cannot make heads or tails of it.”

She signaled her horse to walk on.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You will not utter cryptic remarks and dismiss me. I will not be dismissed.”

She ignored him.

He dismounted and stalked to her. He brought her horse to a halt.

“Get down,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“Coward,” he said.

Her blue eyes flashed.

“Go ahead, then,” he taunted. “Run away.”

Her eyes were blue murder but she let him help her
dismount. Her bottom must be sore, and her legs would soon be aching painfully.

“You need to walk,” he said.

“No, I don't!” She stamped her foot and winced. “I'm only a little stiff. I do not wish to walk with you.”

“I don't care.”

“You care about nothing,” she said. “What about the horses? You cannot leave the horses in the middle of the bridle path.”

“Your groom will deal with the horses.”

“I am not going to walk with you,” she said. She tried to mount her horse.

He could have amused himself watching her try to climb into the sidesaddle unaided, but he wasn't in the mood to be amused. He grasped her hand and dragged her away from the horse and started toward the Serpentine. “I think I'll drown you,” he said.

She kicked him in the shins and ran.

 

The attack being the last thing Marchmont expected—though it should have been the first, he later realized—he was slow to react. Stiff-legged and tired though Zoe must be, she made surprising progress during that moment's delay, and disappeared into a stand of trees.

It was sheer stubbornness propelling her, he told himself, and that wouldn't take her far. She'd had almost no exercise in recent weeks, her muscles were tired—though she might not realize it yet—and she was dragging a train of heavy cloth.

The trouble was, she didn't need to go far to get lost—or to trip over that accursed train and stumble
and crack her skull against a tree trunk or fall into the Serpentine and drown.

“I shall drown her, I vow,” he muttered, and ran after her.

He watched for a flash of blue and soon found her. She was near the Serpentine but not on the footpath. He easily closed the distance between them, but she kept at her shambling run.

When he came within a pace of her, he reached out to grab her arm. He stepped on her train and his boot tangled in the hem, jerking her off balance. Down she went, and so did he, on top of her.

As they struck the ground, his hat fell off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw hers roll away. Nearer to hand, her bosom rose and fell with her labored breathing. He raised his head and chest to take his weight off her, but he didn't roll off her completely.

Damp curls clung to her temples and near her ears. Her skin was pink with exertion. She was scowling up at him, blue eyes glittering.

“What the devil is wrong with you?” he said.

Her hands came up. Instinctively he drew back. But she didn't scratch his eyes out or punch him as he expected. She slid her fingers into his hair and grasped his head. She pulled, bringing his face to hers, and kissed him full on the lips.

At the first touch, he felt the skittering shock he'd experienced the day before, but deeper and stronger this time, as though he'd touched an electrifying machine. This time, though, he didn't draw away. Her mouth was soft and warm and her scent and taste spilled into him, sweet and fresh and warm, like a summer garden.

Inside him a riot seemed to be going on, of feelings. He didn't know what they were and didn't care. About them was springtime, cool and damp, but she tasted like summer and he craved the heat. Her hands slid down to his jaw and her mouth was searching for more from him. She was by turns insistent and coaxing, and he was all too willing to be led.

His brain slowed and he forgot everything else but the warmth and scent and taste of her. She brushed her tongue over his lips, and the shock he felt this time was a familiar one: the rush of pleasure at an invitation.

All of his senses responded to her, all shouting
yes
. In the warmth and rightness of their deepening kiss, all the turmoil—the anger and fear and frustration and confusion—melted into simple, inescapable need.

He sank onto her and wrapped his arms about her. He rolled onto his back and she went with him. No hesitation, no thought. Only
yes
.

The world went away. Nothing remained and nothing mattered but the teasing and tantalizing discovery of a kiss, slowly deepening. Nothing remained and nothing mattered but the ripely curved body melting against his.

He dragged his hands down her back and up again to trace the line of her spine and the angle of her shoulder blades and the slope of her shoulders and the curve of her neck.

Her hands moved over him, too, in the same unhesitating way her mouth had claimed his. He felt that touch in every cell of his body. The barrier of his clothing was nothing. He was acutely aware of his own skin, its nerve endings quivering.

His heart pumped harder and his breath came faster and heat raced downward. He slid his hand up over her waist and belly and higher still, to cup her breast. She made a sound against his mouth like a purr and a moan mingled. Her mouth and her hands roamed as boldly and possessively as his—over his shoulders and back and under his coat, then settling on his buttocks to press him against her, to rub herself against his hardened cock.

He broke the kiss only long enough to roll her onto her back again. She laughed deep in her throat, and his answering laugh was thick. He was drunk with the heat of tasting and touching her, and he drunkenly wanted all and he wanted it
now
.

He reached down to drag up her skirts.

He was aware of something else, something far away, but it vanished from his consciousness when her hand slid down below his waist to where his erection pushed against the flap of his breeches. That touch emptied what was left of his mind. He grasped a handful of her thick skirt and pulled it up. He slid his hand under the cloth and along her stockinged leg.

He heard noise, somewhere, but it was not important. What was important was his hand moving up over her stocking. What was important was the warmth of her skin underneath and the beautiful curve of her leg.

“Good grief, are you completely lost to reason?”

A part of his consciousness took in the words, but they meant nothing. It was noise to him, a crow cawing. His hand slid further upward.

“Stop it!”

Thwack.

“Stop it! Heaven help me, it is like trying to separate dogs!”

Thwack.
“Get off!”

Something was hitting his back.

Thwack.
“Now! Do you hear me?”
Thwack.
“Get off her this instant!”
Thwack.
“Get off!”

Bloody hell. Not the idiot maid. Not now. Where in blazes had she come from?

He closed his eyes, took a long breath, and summoned his mind back into his skull.

He would kill the maid and throw her corpse into the Serpentine.

He rolled off Zoe, opened his eyes, and looked up.

The maid was there, yes, but well out of reach. She wasn't the one who'd attacked him. Jarvis stood, shoulders hunched and fists pressed to her mouth, a few feet behind and to the right of Priscilla, mountainous belly heaving as she brandished the tightly furled umbrella.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Priscilla cried. “Good God, Marchmont, what is wrong with you? Rutting with my sister in Hyde Park! Like dogs! What will people say?”

Marchmont didn't answer. He stayed where he was, regarding Priscilla through half-closed eyes while he waited for his erection to subside and his breathing to return to normal.

Zoe raised herself up on her elbows and glared at her sister. “I am going to kill you,” she said. “Are you a crazy woman, to interrupt at such a time? I do not care how pregnant you are. There is no excuse—”

“Excuse?” Priscilla cried. “You cannot—cannot—” She waved the umbrella. “You cannot do what you were doing. You cannot do that—here—
in Hyde Park!
”

Marchmont took his time sitting up. After another moment, he swung up onto his feet. He held out his hand, and Zoe took it. She rose awkwardly. Passion having cooled—and far too abruptly—she must be paying the price for her gallop.

“The exceedingly round lady is right,” Marchmont said. “We ought not to do this in Hyde Park.”

“But what is she doing in Hyde Park, I want to know,” Zoe said. “She should not even be awake at this hour.”

“It's a good thing I was,” Priscilla said. “And why should I not be here at this hour? It's not as though I have entertainments to keep me up late. Augusta said we must not show our faces at Almack's until you've made your curtsey to the Queen—whenever that is,
if
it ever is, which, given today's escapade, I think highly unlikely.”

If the Queen refused to meet Zoe, it would be his fault. He'd promised to make her respectable.

“You know no one does anything else of any importance on Wednesday nights,” Priscilla raged on. “It is the most vexing thing, to be trapped in the house with a husband who is determined to be contrary in
everything
. I could not abide Parker's sarcasm and went to bed early. Then, when I went to visit Mama this morning, I saw Jarvis returning to the house—
without you
—and knew instantly something was wrong.”

“Did Jarvis not tell you that I was dealing with the matter?” Marchmont said.

“Indeed, you are dealing with it splendidly, I see,” said Priscilla.

“Of course Jarvis told her,” Zoe said. “But my sisters will not leave me in peace.” She reverted to Priscilla. “None of you will let me out of the house. Marchmont is too busy with his concubines to take me out.”

“I don't have any concu—”

“I cannot meet the Queen for a fortnight. Today, all I want is to enjoy his body—but no, you must interfere, even though nobody is here to see what we do.”

“You're not allowed to enjoy his body!”

“It was only kissing and fondling,” Zoe said.

Only
, he thought.

“Only?” said Priscilla. “He's a man. Did you imagine he'd be content with preliminaries?”

“I know what to do to content him,” Zoe said.

“Heaven help us,” said Priscilla.

Amen
, he thought. He looked at Zoe. He could still taste her, and her scent seemed to have entered his skin. Remembering the press of her hand on his swollen cock, he stifled a groan.

She didn't know how to say no. Neither did he—even when his honor depended on it.

Priscilla's fit continued. “You are most fortunate I did come,” she said. “The world is more than ready to view Zoe as damaged goods. If anybody else had witnessed this, she would be
ruined
, and you're the last man on earth who'd be able to restore her reputation then.” She turned toward the maid. “If you utter one syllable of this, you will be turned off without a character.”

“Leave Jarvis alone,” Zoe said. “She is not your maid and she would never do anything to make trouble for me. Give her back her umbrella, in case somebody tries to kill me and she must beat them off.”

“You're as ridiculous as he is,” said Priscilla. But she returned the umbrella to the maid, who said, “I'll be on the footpath, miss, if you need me,” and moved out of hearing range.

Priscilla wasn't done with them yet. “If anyone gets an inkling of what happened here today—”

“Enough,” said Marchmont. “I'll marry her.”

 

Zoe stared at him.

“You weren't taught how to say no,” he said. “I've never had to.”

She remembered the taste of his mouth and the wicked game his tongue had played with hers and the fire his hands had made on her body. She remembered the possessive way he'd squeezed her breast. She remembered her hand upon the front of his breeches and the heat and size of his arousal.

That was wonderful.

But she remembered, too, the way he'd ordered her about and showed no regard for her feelings. She remembered Lady Tarling.

He would never be a faithful husband, not even a loving one. He would never give his heart fully. He would engage his wife's heart, then he'd grow bored and abandon her. That wasn't the kind of marriage Zoe wanted. She wasn't that desperate. If she had to, she'd run away to Venice or Paris. If she did wed, she must have a marriage like her parents'. After twelve years in the harem, she would settle for nothing less.

Her problem was simple enough: She had no perspective. She needed to meet other men.

“I can say no to this,” she said. “You're not thinking clearly, and no wonder. You've been aroused and all the blood has gone out of your brain to fill your
membrum virile
. Even I am confused, and I'm
a woman and women are not so much ruled by our lust. The trouble is only that Priscilla is making us feel ashamed.”

“You
ought
to feel ashamed,” said Priscilla.

“I don't,” said Zoe. She shrugged. “He is very beautiful and desirable, and his
membrum virile
grows hard so easily. I scarcely have to touch him. And what other men do I see?”

“Thank you,” he said. “I think.”

“Marchmont, you said you would see this through,” Zoe said. “You said it wasn't necessary for us to wed. I believe you. I
trust
you.”

“That is one of the most frightening sentences I've ever heard,” said Priscilla.

Zoe lifted her chin. “All of my sisters said no invitation would ever come, but you have arranged it.”

That got Priscilla's attention. “Invitation?” she said. “What invitation? You can't mean…” She trailed off, looking from Zoe to Marchmont.

“The Duke of York has promised to see that Zoe is invited to the Prince Regent's Birthday Drawing Room on the twenty-third,” he said.

“The Birthday Drawing Room?”

“It is preferable, in the circumstances, to a Drawing Room reserved for presentations,” said Marchmont. “Zoe won't be mixed in with a lot of girls barely out of leading strings.”

“The Birthday Drawing Room,” said Priscilla. “Good grief, Zoe, why didn't you say so?”

“I forgot,” Zoe said. “He told me yesterday, but I was so angry with him that it went out of my brain.”

“Oh, my goodness! The twenty-third. That's only
a fortnight away!” Priscilla grabbed Zoe's arm and started to drag her away.

“What are you doing?” Zoe said. “I cannot go with you. Mama's horse is on the bridle path.”

“Let him deal with it,” Priscilla said. “You're coming in my carriage. The sooner you get away from Marchmont the better. Come along, you absurd creature. Forget? How could you forget such a thing? Stop dawdling. We've not a minute to lose.”

Lexham House
Friday afternoon

Zoe stood in the corridor outside the open door of the large drawing room, preparing to enter. The two younger of her sisters were in the corridor with her, to provide guidance. The two older ones were inside. Augusta was playing the queen. Gertrude was playing Mama.

For one who'd navigated the deadly shoals of Yusri Pasha's court, the rules governing court presentations were laughably simple.

Not so simple were the hoop petticoats. Her mother, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers had worn these interesting undergarments beneath the elaborate gowns Zoe had seen in family portraits. In olden times, though, a dress's waistline had been at a woman's natural waist or lower, and this made for some balance between top and bottom. Nowadays, the waists came up under one's breasts, and the gown spread out from there, forming a dome, somewhat flattened fore and aft.

“You could not wear this in the desert,” Zoe told her sisters. “If a sandstorm came, it would lift you up and carry you to Constantinople.”

“What nonsense,” said Augusta. “There are no sandstorms in London.”

“You needn't worry about winds,” said Dorothea. “You need only step down from the carriage. Then it's merely a few steps into the palace.”

“The train is heavy enough to act as an anchor,” said Priscilla with a giggle. “Oh, Zoe, how droll you look.”

Zoe wore one of Priscilla's gowns. A pearl grey silk confection adorned with ruffles and lace, it was the size of a tent sufficient to house a family of Bedouins. The dress was a few inches too short, but there was plenty of train to make up for the hemline.

Moving forward in a relatively empty space like the corridor of Lexham House had felt strange, but it had not proved very difficult. That, however, was only the beginning, her sisters assured her.

“The palace doorways are wide enough to pass through, but you must be prepared to contend with a tremendous crush of people on the stairs and in the corridor,” Dorothea said. “You must practice and practice if you wish to move gracefully, particularly when you're presented to the Queen.”

“You must make your way up a crowded staircase,” said Gertrude. “You must gracefully maneuver your hoops and train among not only other ladies in hoops but men wearing swords. You must make a very deep curtsey to Her Majesty, and be careful not to get the plumes in her face.”

“Take care they don't fall off, either,” Dorothea said.

“You must contrive to rise again without stumbling or dropping your fan and gloves,” said Gertrude. “Then you will back out of the royal presence, curtseying as you go.”

“Without getting tangled in your train,” said Dorothea.

“Yes, yes,” Zoe said impatiently. “But one thing at a time. Let me get through the door first.”

Augusta walked away to the far end of the drawing room and took her place upon her “throne.” This was a chair the servants had raised up on bricks, to bring her to approximately the level at which the Queen would sit.

Gertrude positioned herself nearby.

Dorothea and Priscilla remained in the corridor, to offer instruction as needed. “Are you ready, Augusta?” Dorothea called.

“Of course I'm ready,” said Augusta. “The question is whether Zoe is.”

They had closed one side of the double doors leading into the large drawing room so that Zoe could practice maneuvering through a more confined space.

She brought her elbows down to compress the hoops, as Priscilla had shown her. Then she concentrated on the route she meant to take to Augusta, took a deep breath, and sailed over the threshold at the same instant Dorothea cried, “Zoe, wait! The train!”

Too late.

Zoe's foot tangled in the forgotten train, and down she went. She let go of the hoops and put her hands out to break her fall. The hoops sprang out as she
went down face foremost onto the carpet, and the gown billowed up around her.

She heard the snort behind her, but she was preoccupied with determining the simplest and quickest method of getting upright unaided. The corset required her to bend from the hips. After a quick mental survey of the options, she pressed her hands into the carpet and pushed herself up onto all fours. Then, hands still braced on the carpet, she lifted her bottom into the air while she straightened her legs. She carefully walked her hands back as close to her feet as she could, then angled her spine upright.

Another, louder snort came from behind her, then a bark of laughter. Deep, masculine laughter.

She turned toward the doorway, where Marchmont stood, one hand braced against the door frame while he laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

Tears streamed down his face.

He shook his head and composed himself. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. Having erased all signs of mirth from his face, he walked into the room and sat in a chair. Her two younger sisters broke into giggles. He made a strangled sound, then exploded into laughter. Then they were all laughing, even Augusta.

“Do you know,” Zoe said to the room at large, “that is much more difficult than it looks?”

“Falling on your face?” said Marchmont. “But you make it look s-so easy.” And off he went into whoops.

 

During this one unguarded moment, Zoe could watch him, and she did, utterly bemused. Something had happened, and she wasn't sure what. The world had changed somehow. Or perhaps something in her mind had changed or a key had turned in a keyhole, unlocking something hidden away and forgotten.

Then, as his laughter began to subside, she saw what it was.

This is he
, she thought.
This is the boy I used to know. This is Lucien.

The moment passed and the green eyes shuttered, but she could still discern the amusement glinting there.

“The Birthday Drawing Room will prove more entertaining, I suspect, than some might wish,” he said.

“I shall not embarrass you,” Zoe said.

“Oh, nothing embarrasses him,” said Gertrude. “Never fear for that. It's the rest of us who'll be mortified. It's Mama who'll be there, humiliated.”

“She will not be humiliated,” Zoe said. “I won't fall. I'll learn everything. If I can learn to dance in veils without killing myself, I can learn to get through a door wearing hoops.”

She became acutely conscious of his slitted green gaze. She knew he was either picturing what was under the hooped petticoat or imagining her dancing in veils. She glanced down at his hands and remembered yesterday. Her skin had memorized every place where those hands had touched her. Every one of those places tingled. In the airy space under the hooped petticoat, her Palace of Delight tingled, too.