My Immortal (10 page)

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, because it hurt to see his hurt.

“Let me do the right thing now. Let me take some of that burden from you.”

It was so tempting to slump her shoulders and give in. To let him field some of her worry, her pain; to take their mutual burdens and share them together, or better yet, push them aside and just enjoy each other. Marley wanted something so desperately, and she didn’t even understand what it was.

His hand covered hers, and stroked her warm flesh. “Stop fighting me and let me focus on you.”

It was a gesture meant to comfort, she thought, but the touch was more sensual than comforting. Marley felt desire spark to life, felt the vibration between them yet again and recognized it for what it was: sexual tension. They both wanted to have sex with each other, that was blatantly obvious, had been from the minute he had touched his lips to her skin that morning. And it suddenly occurred to her what he was doing. This was all part of the chase. This was a very skilled and sensual man gaining her confidence, manipulating her.

The waitress sashayed over right then and plunked down their plates. Marley waited impatiently through the waitress’s ketchup/soft drink refill/napkin speech, grateful when the server moved on to another table with a final parting smile for Damien.

Marley leaned forward, ignoring her entrée. “Is this about sex? Some kind of game?” she said in a low voice, conscious of the table next to them with two older couples eating their dinners. “Last night I offered it and you didn’t want it. This morning you wanted it and I said no. If you think I’m going to give in and have sex with you because you proclaimed it should be all about me, forget it. Nice try, but if I want to have some Me Time, I’d rather have a spa day.”

She was lying. She was almost positive having sex with Damien would be better than a seaweed wrap, but she had a point to make.

“I’d be happy to give you a spa package, because you certainly deserve it. But I don’t know where you got the idea I was talking about sex. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to stay in the big house so you weren’t getting killed with hotel costs.”

Her jaw dropped. She was surprised she didn’t actually break it on the patio bricks. Oh, damn, he was good. And he was digging into his food like he didn’t have a care in the world, at the same time he dug around in her head, picking through her emotions like a fork through rice. Marley gritted her teeth. “That’s very generous of you.”

He shrugged. “You seem to like the house. It’s big and empty, so no one would bother you. You’re waiting for the party on Saturday and I feel guilty that you’re spending so much money. It makes sense.”

“So you’re just Mr. Nice Guy looking out for me?” Marley didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm.

“No. I’m a selfish bastard who likes to think he’s reformed, and who relies on other people to accept his easy gestures so he can ease his guilty conscience.”

Damien popped a shrimp into his mouth and winked at her.

Damn it. He had her. He’d chosen the right angle to play her. She couldn’t resist the idea that she would actually be helping him by letting him help her.

“Okay. I’ll stay in the house. Thank you.”

Both the house and the man lured her, more than she wanted to admit.

Damien hadn’t lied to himself in 150 years and he didn’t want to start now. He wasn’t inviting Marley Turner to stay in his house solely out of altruism, though he did legitimately feel bad that she was spending so much of her hard-earned money on a hotel. But he could admit he also wanted her near him, he wanted her to be in his house, in his space—he wanted her to come to him on her own terms, and he wanted to show her all the power of taking pleasure for herself.

When she had tried to leave his house that morning, defeat in her eyes, a tremor in her voice, looking rumpled and sexy and insecure, Damien had lost the will to resist. If he’d ever really had it. He had denied himself much in the last century, and despite knowing it was wrong to take advantage of the attraction she would inevitably feel for him because of the demon influence, he wanted to do just that. Wanted to enjoy the beauty of desire on her face, total capitulation to the pursuit of her own pleasure.

She was sitting across from him, eyeing her plate with suspicion. He had convinced her to order alligator and now she was poking at it, frowning. She moved it around and around, breaking the nugget of meat into three pieces, leaning closer and closer to it like she could ascertain its taste purely by her stare. She stabbed a tiny piece with her fork, lifted it, licked it. Her face cleared a little and she put it in her mouth. She chewed slowly, reflectively, then commented, “Not bad.”

A whole piece went in her mouth and she smiled. “Pretty good actually. It tastes like chicken.”

He had the sense that’s how she approached everything—with caution, then when she was ready, when something had earned her approval, she gave that approval wholly and without hesitation. He wanted that from her for himself, a confident, trusting approval, and it shocked him, scared him, aroused and intrigued him.

Here was a woman who could actually say no to him, who could resist the lure of the demon. She could shatter his resistance, disassemble the carefully constructed life he had created for himself, and show him that his compromise was merely that—a halfhearted, cowardly attempt to distance himself from his inescapable reality.

She had the compassion of Marie, the strength of Marissabelle, and together the combination was beautiful and potent.

He had already given in to it.

“Only chicken tastes like chicken,” he said.

And he could only be what he was.

He was Damien du Bourg, servant of the Grigori demon, and ultimately selfish. He had spent a hundred years giving to women, fighting against his own passions, certain he had been changing, evolving, growing as a human being.

Yet with one woman, in the space of three days, he had been shown he hadn’t changed one iota. He was still selfish, and all the rationalizations about exposing Marley to the pleasure of her own sensuality formed an honest layer covering the deeper truth—he wanted her, and he would chase, with all his powers of persuasion, until he got her. It was still about him, and he truly was a bastard.

She laughed at his comment and ate another piece.

He was going to catch her, of that he was certain. There was already acquiescence in her eyes, though she had possibly a few more days’ resistance in her.

When she came to him, she would think it was her idea. She would think she was in control.

And very possibly, she would be.

I wish that I could say that I held my head up with a demeanor and dignity befitting a woman of my rank and breeding. I wish that I could tell you that from that moment on I devoted myself to acts of charity and self-improvement, that I expended my energy in spreading the word of God to the slaves, or other such noteworthy efforts.

I did not.

Instead of using the moment as a lesson on the entrapment of sin, how the tendrils of lust can grasp you, entwine you, and pull you further into a dense jungle of sinful conduct, and walk steadfastly away, I did just the opposite. I felt the tug of sin and I went toward it. I found myself looking at my husband through new eyes, through the vanity of the coquette, through the interest of a woman who is curious to understand what makes men and women disregard all sense of morality for the privilege of sexual exploration.

Whereas before I had been content when my husband ignored me, I now coveted the very idea of his attention. There were secrets of seduction, and I wanted the answers.

So I turned to my maid.

“Gigi, my appearance has taken a turn for the worse,” I said the next morning as I stood in front of the full-length looking glass. “I need to correct that.”

“Oh! Very good, Madame.” She bobbed.

“How should we go about this?”

“Well…what exactly are you trying to achieve, Madame?”

I could have been subtle. I could have said that I wished for better health, to look less fatigued, for an edge of sophistication in dress and hair.

Instead I revealed exactly what I was thinking. “Monsieur du Bourg has lost interest in me. I need to seduce my husband, Gigi.”

Her dark eyes went wide, then she smiled broadly. “Oh, yes, Madame, I think that is an excellent plan. Monsieur du Bourg will be most pleased.”

“So I need your help. What should I do?” Staring at myself with critical eyes, I knew that at the moment I was not a woman who could seduce a man, nor was I a woman a man would desire. I looked small, pale, fragile, and as if mere breathing were an effort for me. The woman on the porch had not been voluptuous at all, but she had what I lacked—strength, confidence, passion.

Gigi was taking my question seriously. Her eyes narrowed and she tapped her finger to her lip. “Pudding. That is where we start.”

“Pudding?”

Gigi’s plan, it seemed, revolved around avoiding Damien for several weeks while she overfed me rich, creamy foods and took me for long walks along the river to increase my strength. Then, with my hair dressed, a revealing gown, and a flirtatious manner, I was to approach Damien, shocking him with my transformation.

He would be unable to resist, Gigi assured me.

I had my doubts, but I had no better plan, so I took to tromping about on long walks that put a flush to my face and fatigued me, and I forced myself to swallow significantly more than I was used to eating. Those first few days were a struggle, but after two weeks the walks had become easier, and the bodice of my gown didn’t gape so appallingly. I spent a great deal of time darting into doorways whenever I saw my husband approaching, so he wouldn’t see me.

It was pathetically easy to avoid him, and he never
sought me out, which fueled my jealousy, my determination. There were loud parties more nights than not, parties I was not invited to hostess, parties that lingered on long into the night. I had glimpses out the windows of games on the front lawn, laughter and clinging gowns on women who were clearly not ladies. It seemed we had male house-guests, friends of Damien’s from town, and he was entertaining. Gigi whispered to me that below-stairs they told her these were the sort of parties Damien’s father had thrown before his death, and that the master seemed to be following in his predecessor’s footsteps. The servants said that Damien had different female companionship every night, the latest being a rather well-known widow who had fallen into a dissolute lifestyle.

Perhaps I should have taken that as a sign that my husband was irrevocably lost to sin, and that by my present course of action, I was merely following his example and allowing my base emotions to guide me. Even as jealousy, vanity, and selfishness fueled my determination, growing and spiraling faster and deeper inside of me, I did not note the warnings. I did not look upon Damien’s behavior and judge it with the disgust and contempt it deserved. I thought nothing of his salvation, and therefore, not of mine.

I merely wanted attention, wanted to know the secrets of femininity that other women had perfected, and I wanted to understand the power of seduction.

It was with this poisonous, inappropriate attitude that I went to my husband, susceptible, eager, in fact, to be coaxed into pleasures of the flesh.

This is where I blush, where I feel the keen prickles of shame as fully as if it were yesterday, Angelique. The guests had left, according to my helpful eyes and ears, Gigi. I had been dressed for hours, waiting for such an opportunity. Damien was in the garden, taking a cigar alone, so Gigi hurriedly pinched my cheeks, fussed with the bustle on my
gown, and sent me on my way with an excited little wave of her hand.

For three weeks I had worried and wondered and anticipated Damien’s reaction to seeing me, and more importantly, my reaction to him. I knew nothing of the ways of the coquette, had no experience simpering and flirting. So when I slid out the back door into the garden, my heart was pounding, my breathing hard and fast, cheeks hot. I expected to feel embarrassment on seeing Damien.

I did not anticipate what stole over me when I paused on the path and took in his figure, legs spread, back partially to me, one boot up on the perimeter of the brick fountain, chest bent forward over his knee as he smoked and stared into the dark water. What I felt then was a warm anticipation, a physical attraction, a desire to move in nearer to him. I mistook this for tenderness, for a baffling realization that perhaps I’d grown fond of my husband during our self-imposed absence from one another. Perhaps I even cared for him, could grow to love this man who was to be my companion for life.

This was yet again the naïveté of the young innocent misreading her response. I know now that what I felt was lust, new and unexplored, and not identifiable to the inexperienced, but very much a sexual desire springing to life.

“Pardon,” I said, gathering my courage and inching forward. “Am I interrupting your solitude?”

“Indeed you are.” Damien turned his head, inspected me. “But I shall endeavor to forgive you.”

Everything in me screamed to return to the house, to slink back to my chamber and accept who I was and how little I mattered to my husband. But a heretofore unknown pride stiffened my spine, forced my chin up, led my slippers over the pavers toward the fountain.