Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (8 page)

Turning slightly, he pressed his back to the corner of the window casing. The sharp edge could not have provided comfort, but he seemed not to notice. Or perhaps he needed the discomfort to keep him focused on the present so he didn’t slip into the past horrors. Sometimes she would awaken disoriented and think she was back in Scutari. For all the good she’d done there, it was not a place to which she wished to return, not even in dreams.

She grew uncomfortable under his increasing scrutiny. What was he searching for? Did he suspect her duplicity?

“Why did you keep him?” he asked. “The babe. Why not find a good family for him?”

“Because he is yours.”

“You say that as though you care deeply for me. Do you not think whatever feelings you may have,
I
may have, were brought on by the circumstances of where we were? That none of it was real.”

“It was all real. My God in heaven, I wish it wasn’t. The blood, the filth, the men weeping for their mothers, their wives. None of the horrors of that ghastly place discounts what I felt—feel—for you. If anything it only made me realize how very fragile life is, that we have no guarantee of tomorrow, that we must make our decisions based upon what we know at this moment.”

He set the glass aside, then reached out and cradled her face, his thumb sweeping along the curve of her cheek to capture a tear she’d not even realized had formed. His action was heartbreakingly familiar. He’d done the same in Scutari, just before he’d drawn her into the circle of his arms and provided her with a safe haven. “What do you know at this moment?”

“That you’re the most remarkable man I’ve ever known.”

His thumb stilled. “Do you know that my brothers bought me a commission because they thought me lacking in character? That I preferred women above all things.”

“And women prefer you above all men.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“I do not think there was a nurse in all of Scutari who didn’t fancy herself in love with you. You have the ability to smile at a woman and make her believe that you have never smiled in quite the same way at any other.”

“Was it my smile that charmed you into my bed, then?”

Once again, all hope that she’d been more than simply one of the nurses shattered into sharp shards with the affirmation that she’d been merely one of a dozen. When he touched her, when she was near enough to look into the blue depths of his eyes and absorb the beauty of them, when his attention was focused on her, she could easily forget that she’d meant nothing to him. While she had worshipped him for his strength, his unselfishness, and his willingness to tend to her heart, she’d obviously misread his affections for her, had thought herself more than she was. But what did her place in his heart truly matter when he had so courageously secured a place in hers?

Slowly she shook her head, unable to usher forth the teasing smile that he was no doubt expecting. How could she when her heart was cracking? “No, not your smile.”

His other hand came up, as large and strong as the first. His gaze wandered over her face, stopped at her lips. They tingled, parted. In his eyes, she saw interest, curiosity . . . desire. “My kiss then.”

Before she could inform him that he’d not enticed her with a kiss, he was doing exactly that, his mouth plying provocatively over hers. She stiffened when he pushed his tongue between her lips and swirled velvet over silk, then relaxed as his skill seduced her. He did not force, but he invited. She accepted the invitation. His flavor was rich and powerful, wine and whiskey combined into a darkness that was as intoxicating as the caress of his tongue. He ravished without brutality. He caused every nerve to tingle, every inch of her body to respond as though he slowly stroked her from toe to chin.

She’d dreamed of him sweeping her off her feet a thousand times as she’d walked the narrow path between the beds at the Barrack Hospital tending to the needs of other men, as she’d prepared to leave Scutari because of John’s impending birth, as she’d traveled the rough seas on a ship, as she’d journeyed via railway to Paris. Major Stephen Lyons had never been far from her thoughts.

But in spite of her various imaginings, she’d not been prepared for the compelling nature of his kiss, delivered with such urgency. She returned it in full measure. Life was short, opportunities few, and she’d yearned for this nearness for too long to be demure now. She stepped into his embrace and felt as though she’d finally returned home, to the spot where one night with him had shown her she could be. As his arms came around her, drew her even closer, she knew she was where she was meant to be. She had looked into his eyes that long-ago night and she’d seen his compassion and kindness. She knew of his bravery, had seen his unselfish devotion to his men.

A man lacking in character?
If he’d ever truly been such, she had no doubt he’d left that part of himself on England’s shores when he’d boarded the ship that carried him east.

She’d feared that he’d left his memories of her in Scutari, but he kissed her now as though he were intimately familiar with the contours of her mouth. He left no part wanting for attention. His feral groan echoed around them, and he deepened a kiss that she’d thought could go no further. Intense heat swarmed through her. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought she’d suddenly taken ill. Her stomach clenched, and between her legs, warmth pooled with the promise of more pleasure and eventual surcease.

He dragged his mouth from hers, his breathing harsh and heavy. She drew in great draughts of air, as his hot, moist lips trailed to the sensitive spot below her ear and nibbled there. She wanted to tell him that his kiss had not enticed her before, but he’d left her without the strength to speak. It was a wonder she still stood. If not for the sturdiness of his arm at her back, she suspected she’d be on the floor now, a silken puddle of heated desire.

Then he returned his mouth to hers with an urgency that matched hers. She wanted this, wanted whatever he would grant. A kiss, a touch, a caress, yes, even more. She’d come too far, taken too many chances, ruined her reputation. She had nothing else to lose and all to gain. She could tell him that she loved him, because she did. The man she’d met on distant shores was worthy of her devotion.

She might not have stood out in his mind as memorable, but he’d never become diminished in hers.

She heard the clatter of pins hitting the parquet floor, felt the strands of her hair falling free to brush along her shoulders. He tunneled his fingers through her hair—

His mouth left hers with an abruptness that startled her. His brow was furrowed with confusion. His breathing was labored as though he’d just run up a hill. Hers was no better. Her pulse thrummed an unsteady beat. She wanted his mouth back on hers. She wanted to be locked in his embrace, the key tossed away.

“Your hair. It’s . . . short.”

It was considerably longer than it had been, but not nearly as long as it once was. What did that have to do with anything? The words made no sense, lifted her from the sensual well into which she’d fallen. “Vermin. Difficult to keep it free of vermin. With all the wounded . . . so little time. Cropping it was—”

He released her with a suddenness that had her staggering. Why had she gone on and on about her dratted hair? Why hadn’t she simply moved forward before the spell was completely broken?

“My God. I forgot myself,” he said, his voice rough with needs unfulfilled. “Forgive me.”

Before she could assure him there was nothing to forgive, he snatched up his walking stick from where it had been resting against the wall. Without another word, he began trudging toward the door, his limp incredibly pronounced.

Had she caused him pain by forcing him to hold her aloft, by pressing against him? Could he better place her now? Was he toying with her? Surely, he had to know that he’d never before kissed her. Had he finally desired her as she’d always desired him?

She was confused, mortified. Why did he act as though he didn’t know her at all? “Stephen?”

“I need to ride.”

And then he was gone.

She stood there for the longest, trying to regain her bearings, clutching the short strands of her hair, trying to determine why he would be so bothered by them. They’d been even shorter when she’d tended to him. He acted as though he had absolutely no memory of her at all. Wretched tears burned her eyes. How could she have meant nothing
at all
to him?

She heard a distant door slam. She hurried in the direction of the sound.

“Have you seen Major Lyons?” she asked the first servant with whom she crossed paths.

“Yes, ma’am. He retrieved his greatcoat and left.”

By the time she was standing outside the front door, he was already galloping away, his greatcoat billowing behind him. She wanted to be on the horse with him. She wanted him, pitiful creature that she was, content to receive the smallest bit of his attention. He gave it so easily and so completely to other women.

Why not to her?

Chapter 3

A
ll he wanted was to bury himself, bury himself in woman after woman, bury himself and forget . . . that he couldn’t remember.

So why the bloody hell didn’t he turn his horse in the direction of the nearest village where he’d find a tavern and a willing wench? Why was he riding hell-bent-for-leather into the countryside where he’d find no solace? Because he couldn’t bed another woman when the mother of his child smelled so enticing and smiled so sweetly and laughed so softly.

It was the laugh that had done him in. He desperately wanted to remember hearing it before. Had they laughed in bed? Had she been comfortable with the intimacy?

Only one night. He should ask her why.

Had he left her feeling abandoned while he flitted to another flower, or had the roar of cannons torn him from her bed?

He’d sat at that blasted table and studied her features—every movement, every expression, every nuance—searching for the smallest glimmer of familiarity. He wasn’t greedy. He’d take crumbs.

He’d watched her fingers dancing over the table, signaling for bread, lifting a fork, holding a knife, carrying red wine to her lips, and he’d wondered if they’d danced over him, eliciting pleasure. He’d wanted them to skim over him again, to caress and stroke. He wanted to know if he’d had a pet name for her. Red, perhaps, in honor of her hair. Had he teased her about its brightness, or had her eyes always held the majority of his attention?

Had he looked into them before war had torn away her innocence? Or had he always known them as they were now, with the haunted shadows weaving in and out? He’d seen her stiffen at his mother’s intrusive questions, and even though he desperately wanted to know the answers as well, he’d put a stop to the inquisition. He might have known her reasons at one time. He might have known her dreams and her hopes.

Why was she not more comfortable with him? Had they parted in anger? Or had he broken her heart?

She certainly hadn’t kissed him as though he had. She’d been eager, but there had also been a hint of shyness. Perhaps it was because of the length of time they’d been separated. He’d hoped that the kiss would spark his memory, but more than that, he’d simply wanted to kiss her, to know how it might affect him.

It had very nearly dropped him to his knees. No other woman had ever affected him so, no other had ever made him not want to waltz into lovemaking, but to rush headlong toward pleasure. He’d not wanted to hold back. He’d wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her up the stairs to his bedchamber. He’d wanted to take her someplace where he knew that they’d not be disturbed. He’d almost forgotten what had brought her to Grantwood Manor.

They’d been intimate before. Would she detect the uncertainty in him? Did they share little jokes? Did she have a preference for a particular position? Was there one she abhorred? Would she deduce by his actions that he was not familiar with her?

What did he know of her? What did she know of him?

The not knowing, after only a few hours, was driving him to madness. He should confront her, tell her everything. She wouldn’t be quite so enamored of him then, not when she learned the truth. What did he owe her? Marriage? His name?

The tension shimmering through the dining room had been almost unbearable, everyone waiting for confirmation that he’d been restored to normalcy. His family had struggled to engage both Miss Dawson and himself in conversation. His family, who was so very skilled at walking through social situations unscathed, seemed to stumble tonight. Ainsley had the devil’s own tongue. His mother was herself an artist, an artist at deflecting conversation from her faults and scandals when it suited her, luring others into revealing their darkest secrets when she longed to know what they were. During dinner she’d stammered around like a schoolgirl at her first tea party.

All the while, Miss Dawson had squirmed in her chair, obviously wishing to be elsewhere. She’d avoided his direct gaze, studied her place setting as though she’d never encountered china or cutlery and was striving to unravel the mystery of each.

He made her uncomfortable with his intrusive staring, but he’d been unable to direct his eyes away from her.

It didn’t help matters that his leg ached unmercifully, to such an extent that he could barely tolerate his trousers touching it. Riding was excruciating, but he desperately needed to escape. His mother thought he should marry the girl who served as a constant reminder of all he’d lost.

But he couldn’t marry her without revealing the truth regarding his affliction—it wouldn’t be fair to her not to tell her he was but a partial man—and then she’d look upon him with the same pitying expression that he abhorred. And other doubts would surface. What if his memory loss was not related to the battle but to some deficiency in him, some madness?

Rain began falling, pattering his greatcoat, beating out a steady staccato that added a haunting element to the thud of the horse’s hooves as they made light work of rapidly distancing him from Grantwood Manor. He couldn’t get far enough away, quickly enough. He knew he’d have to return and face the dilemma before him. Even if they didn’t marry, he’d make arrangements to see after the boy’s welfare as well as hers. What sort of life would she have then? Men would see her as nothing more than a trollop. No man would ever want her as his wife. Stephen would be condemning her to spinsterhood. She deserved better.

Didn’t she? His conclusions were drawn after only a few hours of visiting with her. What did he truly know about her? What if Ainsley read her better? What if he could see her more clearly? Stephen’s thoughts had been in a fog ever since he awoke in that damned military hospital.

He urged his horse up the rise. At the top, he drew the gelding to a stop and dismounted. His right leg buckled and his knee hit the ground hard and torturously, shooting pain straight to his hip, before he could catch his balance. He roared out his frustrations, competing in volume with the thunder rumbling across the sky, as the anguish spiked. He tried to rub out the agony, but it only increased with his touch, as though he dug the blade of a knife into it.

He wouldn’t mind the scars or the discomfort so much if he knew that he’d given as good as he got.

He’d been making some progress toward letting the mystery of the past two years go. He couldn’t reclaim them. Maybe he didn’t want to. He wanted nothing more than to heal and then get on with his life. But Miss Dawson—Mercy,
Mercy
—had arrived and suddenly the past two years had become unbearably important. What other mysteries resided within the murky depths? Were there other children, other women he should have remembered? Or had she been the only one?

Only one night with one woman. Unlikely. Not in the span of two years. Not with his sexual appetites. Before he’d awakened on that damned filthy mattress, he’d barely been able to go a night without playing a game of seduction. Would she expect him to give up his nightly carousing?

A forced marriage had certainly never been his goal in life. He doubted it had been hers either. She’d probably dreamed of heartfelt declarations and a bended knee. He’d intended to die a bachelor. He had no title, no property, nothing to leave to a son.

But suddenly he had one. And a woman whose reputation was in shambles because of his actions.

The rain pouring around him couldn’t wash away his doubts or his burdens. He had to face them. On the morrow, he’d offer to marry Miss Dawson. It would certainly be no hardship. The kiss in the library had proven there was a spark between them that could be ignited into a roaring blaze with only a bit of kindling. Perhaps once she knew his intentions to do right by her, they would regain whatever comfortableness they’d once shared. Perhaps if he pretended all was well, it would be.

Wearily he battled the pain and shoved himself to his feet. Without his cane, he was fairly crippled when the agony was as great as this. Staggering forward, he fought to keep his balance as he made his way to the horse. It shied away. He cursed. He cooed. He sought to gentle it as he limped toward it. Thunder boomed and it skittered away.

He dropped his head back and allowed the rain to beat unmercifully on his face. With the increasing torment of his leg, he couldn’t walk all the way back to Grantwood Manor. He needed the damned horse. Why the bloody hell had he ever dismounted? The throbbing ache he’d experienced in the saddle was nothing compared with what was coursing through him now.

With renewed determination, he took a deep breath, struggled to ignore the shards of pain, and hobbled after his beastly horse.

“W
hat do you think of the girl?” Tessa Seymour, Duchess of Ainsley, asked.

“She’d look lovely on canvas.”

Sitting at her vanity, she twisted around and glared at the young blond Adonis with the golden eyes lounging on her bed waiting for her to finish her nightly rituals. All the various creams she applied to her face, throat, and arms were all that kept her from looking all of her forty-seven years. “Leo.”

She did not bother to hide her displeasure with his answer. He demanded complete honesty between them. It had terrified her at first, but now she saw the wisdom in it. It was liberating, and she had come to realize that no matter her faults, he would always forgive her.

He shrugged. “You think she could be his salvation.”

“I hope she could be, yes. He seems so lost. While they don’t say anything, I know Westcliffe and Ainsley harbor much guilt over Stephen’s circumstance. After all, they purchased his commission.”

“And the queen sent him where she would. They couldn’t have known that this bloody situation with Russia was going to erupt into a godforsaken war that would not be over quickly.”

True enough. The newspapers had been filled with reports. And the casualties. So many casualties. The telegraph had shrunk the world, given the war an immediacy unlike any before it.

It had nearly killed her when she’d received word that he’d died. A mother was not supposed to have a favorite. But she did. She always had. Stephen. She had adored his father with every fiber of her being. The Earl of Lynnford. He’d been her lover when she was married to the Earl of Westcliffe. She’d never told Stephen the truth of his parentage.

Shame, when she was younger, had stopped her. Fear, as she grew older, trapped the truth within her.

Lynnford had not even known. But since Westcliffe had stopped visiting her bed as soon as she announced she was carrying their first child and never returned, even after his heir was born, she had no doubts regarding Stephen’s true father.

She’d gone to Lynnford with the news of Stephen’s death. “You must go to the Crimea and fetch his body. I’ll not leave him so far from home.”

“Tessa, he would want to be buried beside those who fought next to him.”

“I don’t care what he wants. Call me selfish, but at this moment, I only care what I want.”

“This is a fool’s errand.”

And so she’d told him that which she’d sworn to never reveal. “He’s your son.”

She’d held him while he cried. She’d given him a son and taken him away in the space of a solitary heartbeat.

He’d admitted that he’d sometimes suspected Stephen was his son. But he had his own family and had been too cowardly to pursue the matter.

But she didn’t view him as cowardly. She saw him as a man who wished to bring as little hurt as possible to those he loved. What was to be gained with knowledge?

It was when he’d sent word to the army, alerting them that he would be arriving to bring back the body of Major Stephen Lyons, that they’d learned Stephen was not dead.

It was when he’d returned home that they’d learned he was not the young man who had left.

Her heart had broken all over again. How many times could a mother’s heart break? An infinite number. Each time her children were hurt. She’d long ago accepted the pain of it, as well as the stoicism to never let it show. It was a mother’s lot in life.

“Are you going to insist that he marry Miss Dawson?” Leo asked her now, drawing her back to the present moment and her current lover.

“You grant me more power than I possess. When it comes to my sons, they will do as they will. Still, I don’t see that he has much of a choice. The one thing he does not relish is disappointing me, so I might have a bit of leverage. I have no doubt that John is his son. I can already see the shape of his smile on his mouth. It would be unconscionable for him not to marry the girl.”

“Stephen’s father didn’t marry you.”

Leo, with his artist’s eye, had seen what she’d tried so valiantly not to reveal—that Lynnford was Stephen’s father. “Because I was married at the time and well you know it. I never should have confessed to you about my indiscretions.”