Romancing the Rogue (132 page)

The red and
yellow flames danced merrily between the logs, relaxing, hypnotizing. Jon smiled. His new bride was just as deceiving. Beautiful to behold, her touch warm on his skin. But she could just as quickly set one ablaze like an inferno, leaving a trail of stinging blisters. What was it Grandfather had always said?
“Don’t play in the fire, Jon, they tend to burn.”

Indeed.

Jon rubbed his eyes and chuckled. Well, Annabella often accused him of being from hell. Mayhap she was right. He did tend to be drawn to the flames like a moth, had always been immune to the damaging heat of the blaze, no matter how close he got.

But he’d always stopped short of touching the flames before. He took a drink of brandy. This particular fire, though, became harder to resist each day, and he was very much in danger of his heart being reduced to ashes.

And therein lies the problem.
The only way to keep from getting singed by a fire was to douse the flames with water, reducing the beautiful glowing embers to a charred, blackened pile of wood.

Jon turned from the fire. The folded blue fan she’d left behind upon her hasty withdrawal from dinner lay before him on the desk.

Remembering the disastrous meal, he shook his head and downed the rest of his brandy. He was too much of a glutton for punishment to try to tamp down the wildfire he’d married. Not to mention he hadn’t been quite as entertained in a long time. She was as spirited as Gran, and he wanted her to remain that way.

Oh, the look on Annabella’s face when Gran had called for her pistol had been invaluable. Served her right. She’d goaded his grandmother at every turn. Thank the stars he knew how to handle Gran, or she very well would have shot Annabella for what she would have seen as admitting to treason.

He picked up the fan and spread it open. So, she’d brought it with her from the cottage. Had she carried it in the bag she’d been so afraid to let go? It must hold some meaning for her. He traced one delicate fold with the tip of his finger. She had brought it with her… taken it to dinner even. And yet before this evening, he had never seen her use it.

She hadn’t seemed to be one to hide behind such devices; she was no coy female tittering into an open fan — when she had done so, the act had seemed unnatural for her. Done in mockery? Perhaps. Because what she thought, what she felt… she… expressed. Openly and with more honesty than he’d afforded her. He refolded the fan and dropped it onto the desk, where it landed with a soft clatter.

If his wife only realized how like his gran she was. Not that he was in a hurry to point it out to her.

A vile curse slipped past his lips, and Jon raked both hands through his hair. One more thing to conceal from Annabella for his own sake. No, not conceal. He’d misled with deliberate intent on more than one occasion since his arrival at Wyndham Green. And he knew, were he to ask, that Gran would consider concealing the truth and uttering misleading statements to be just as false as out-and-out lies. Everything in him screamed that he’d lied. And he couldn’t even claim them to be harmless lies. He’d let her believe they’d—

Jon lurched from the chair, letting out a string of curses. He paced the room, berating himself for his callous dishonesty. True, she hadn’t been much better with her own pretense at being a maid, but that didn’t excuse his actions. The girl believed they had been married to preserve her honor, when the dishonor fell squarely on him. Married they might be, but he’d essentially kidnapped her! Surely that would sentence him to burn in Lucifer’s fiery pit.

It should, anyway.

Without doubt, Annabella never would have agreed to marry him, let alone leave with him, had he not deceived her, let her think she’d truly been compromised. So was it fair to force her to stay against her will?

Grey was his friend, his mate since Eton. He’d trusted Jon to see to his stepsister’s safety. And instead, Jon had run off with Annabella for his own selfish reasons. Grey might never forgive him… and Annabella certainly would not if he couldn’t find a way to make it right.

He had to tell Annabella the truth, give her a choice about what to do next. He owed her that. Jon strode toward the door, but halfway there, he halted, whirled about, and grabbed the fan from the writing dais. He took the main staircase two steps at a time. At the door to their suite, he paused and took a deep breath before entering.

The private withdrawing room was warm but not so much as to suffocate. The fire had been banked for the night. A tender flame tickled the logs along the top, spilling golden light from the hearth to play upon the wall, warming the white silk to a creamy gold.

A log snapped and broke on the grate, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. A soft sigh rose from the shadows to the right of the fireplace, startling Jon. Annabella’s pink and white gown seemed to glow against the dark brocade chair, giving her a wraithlike appearance. She was so quiet he might have thought her asleep, except for the fire reflected in her eyes as she watched him.

He wanted to rush to her side, to draw her into a protective embrace, and promise to keep her safe forever. But a lie stood between them. Jon searched for the words to explain himself and found his vocabulary sadly lacking.

The handle of her fan pressed into his palm, and he realized he was clenching his fists. He took a hesitant step forward then another, but he stopped when he sensed her shrinking into the chair.

“I brought your fan,” he said softly, holding it out. “You left it behind in the dining room.”

She reached up with a trembling hand and accepted his offering in silence. Then she cradled the fan against her chest with all the gentle affection she might rain upon a babe. Jon reminded himself to breathe as he waited for her thanks. None came.

Right. She wouldn’t make things easier.

On the verge of backing away, he decided to give it another try. “I dare say you’ll find a more satisfying comfort in the bed.”

She shifted and lifted her face to him. Firelight painted her cheeks golden and brightened her flashing eyes. She raised a delicate eyebrow. “In…
your
bed, my lord?”

He sighed. “It… is my bed, ’tis true.”

A wry smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Then I think I shall find adequate comfort where I am. The fire…” She gestured with her free hand. “It offers a pleasing warmth that I fear might be lacking elsewhere.”

Jon’s muscles tensed, and he bit back a caustic response. “Annie, you can’t—”

“Can’t
what?
” Her voice never rose in volume, but the chill she injected threatened to push back the fire’s warmth. “And my
name
… is Annabella.”

“I don’t want us to start off this way,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I came to offer an apology. For the way things went at dinner. I…” He shrugged. “I cannot apologize for my grandmother, but I should have alerted you as to her… eccentricities.”

“Eccentricities!” she said through gritted teeth. “She was
going
to
kill
me.”

“Annie, no…” Jon shook his head. “At least I don’t think she’d have
killed
you. Shot you in the—”

Annabella sentenced him to an angry glare.

Jon capitulated with a sigh. “Yes, she’s an excellent markswoman. She likely would have killed you had she wanted you dead. But I’d never have let that happen, Annie.
Didn’t
— let that happen.”

~~~~

Yet again, Annabella
found herself at the disadvantage of being seated while Seabrook loomed over her. Why did he insist on using that name? Because he still thought of her as the unkempt maid at Rose Cottage? Or to remind her of her foolishness?

“Annabella,” she said with a sigh of resignation as she rose to her feet. “Annie was a maid who never existed.”

Some unnamable emotion flickered across his face, and for just a moment, she was certain he would argue with her. When he didn’t, she stepped around him, unsure where she was going but needing some distance between them. It was her close proximity to the fire that sent those flaming darts of awareness raging through her veins. It was her lingering anger that heated her face.

It couldn’t possibly be the way he looked at her that made her feverish.

“Annabella…” Seabrook closed his hand over her arm as she paused.

Her skin tingled with exquisite awareness. She met his gaze, not daring to speak, knowing her voice would betray her if she tried.

“I need— Please, may I speak with you for a moment?” he asked.

And give him leave to repeat his torment from earlier, speaking of indelicate matters? Annabella shook her head. “I’m very tired. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” She frowned. “Unless you’re about to warn me that your grandmother plans to murder me in my sleep. I should very much prefer to know if I need to—”

Seabrook tightened his grip on her arm and tugged. Startled, Annabella fell against him, only to find herself trapped against his muscular frame when his other arm encircled her waist.

With a gasp, she stiffened. “Kindly remooo—”

She had a vague impression of his eyes, his warm breath fanning her cheek, the aroma of spirits blending with the clean earthy scent that was Seabrook’s alone. Then his lips fell upon hers in gentle but masterful conquest, and she was lost.

The heat from the fire dwindled in comparison to the heat that burgeoned in her middle and radiated with explosive force in all directions. Her mind offered weak reasons to retreat, but her body responded quite without her permission, and she found herself trembling, leaning into his embrace with alarming abandon. Her lips parted under the pressure of his kiss, and he drew back a bit but didn’t release her.

“Annie,” he breathed, sliding one hand along her arm, upward to cup her cheek. He dragged his thumb over her lips as his eyes held hers prisoner. “Please forgive me.”

“No,” she whispered in protest of his distance as she pushed closer against him until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. The buttons on his coat scraped through the thin fabric of her gown, setting fire to her sensitive skin. Annabella moaned as desire twined through every fiber of her being, banked by his touch and fueled by their earlier conversation.

Unable to reach his lips, she nuzzled the edge of his cravat until she located the warm skin of his throat. There, she pressed tiny kisses until he trembled. Then she trailed her tongue upward. Seabrook’s hand tightened on her waist. The heavy thud of his heart echoed in his neck, pulsing against her lips.

Groaning, he combed his hand through her hair. The pins must have flown everywhere, but all Annabella knew was the sensation of her tresses tumbling over her shoulders. Seabrook leaned forward and captured her mouth with his, all gentleness abandoned. She softened in his arms, felt the world tilt as he bent her over the arm he had locked about her waist.

Then the floor vanished from beneath her as he lifted her into the air and slid his hand under her knees. Annabella had no choice but to slide her arms around his neck as he carried her away from the dying fire, across the room… toward the bedchamber. She buried her face against his shoulder and clung. If her heart raced any faster it would leap from her chest.

Softness enfolded Annabella, offering comfort as he laid her across the bed, still pressing kisses to her neck, her cheeks, her lips, trailing more along the sensitive skin above the neckline of her gown.

Cool air chilled slightly as he left her and shrugged out of his coat. He dropped it without a care on the floor and followed it with his waistcoat. In the golden glow of the candlelight, his eyes sparkled with ardent awareness as they raked over her. She trembled. Only a wanton harlot would allow him to touch her so, to gaze upon her with such iniquitous intent. Only a wicked woman would watch as he loosened his cravat and slid it from his neck.

Yet she couldn’t force herself to turn away as his fingers worked the buttons on his shirt until a bit of bronze skin peeked from beneath when the fabric fell apart to form a shallow V.

The mattress tilted sharply when Seabrook positioned one knee on the bed and reached for the ribbon on Annabella’s gown. He was murmuring something. Words she didn’t understand, couldn’t quite hear. She strained to listen, drowning in an ocean of sensations and emotions.

“…first times can be…” He bent and kissed her neck just below her left ear. “That is… you might feel a bit…” Moaning, he buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply.

The bed dipped further as he lowered himself next to her with careful movements. Then, resting on his side, he bent his elbow and propped his head on his hand. His other hand stilled where it lay across her middle, its weight and warmth ensuring her awareness of the intimate touch even through her dress. His expression gentled, his eyes changed from molten heat to tender warmth, and somehow, though she remained fully clothed, she felt naked to her soul.

“Annie,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’ll be careful. It might be uncomfortable this first time, but I’ll be careful. I don’t want to hurt you. I will always cherish you.”

With that, he bent and brushed his lips over hers with such tenderness, she believed him. Annabella wound her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers through his soft black hair. He would care for her, make her first time with him—

The blaze roaring through her veins weakened.

“Wha-a-at…?”As passion dimmed, reason began to filter in. First time? Had he said “
this
first time”? Annabella shook her head, fighting to make sense of his words. “I need… wait a moment. Please…” She pushed against his chest.

“Shh. Relax,” he murmured into her neck. “I’ll take care with you.” He bunched his fingers around the soft fabric of her gown and began to inch it upward.

“No. Please.” Annabella wriggled.

Seabrook ceased his movements. “Annie?” His face was stained with the flush of excitement, his breathing came in ragged gasps. He pushed up on his elbow again and searched her eyes. “What is it?”

She rolled away from his hand, ending up on the far edge of the bed. Her own breathing was anything but steady as she scrambled to stand. The soft rug closed around her stockinged feet. When had she lost her slippers?

An icy-cold wave rolled over her as she backed away from the bed. Moving slowly, Seabrook sat and leveled his attention on her.

Striving for calm she was far from feeling, Annabella took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The last vestiges of ardor drained away. “What did you mean
‘this first time’
?”

His gaze never wavered. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Oh, but you do. I can see it on your face.” In truth all she could see on his face was diminishing passion, but his eyes widened slightly at her accusation, and she knew. “You lied,” she whispered. Her blood began to heat all over again, this time with fury. “You lied about that night at the cottage.”

Seabrook’s enigmatic mask lowered into place. “Did I?” He stood, stepped over his garments where they lay on the floor, and rounded the foot of the bed, heading in her direction with clear purpose in his eyes.

“I believe that was
my
question.” She sidestepped away from the bed. “Did we? Or, rather, did
you?
”

He looked away from her, staring across the room for several long seconds. “We did not,” he said with a sigh as he turned back. “Not for want of your rather colorful invitation, but because I was raised to respect women too much to accept such an offer when the
lady
in question is not in a state to be making it.”

“Yet you had no trouble allowing,
encouraging
me to believe such a thing? Get out,” she ordered softly, praying he would leave before she gave in to the insane urge to whisk back the shock of hair that fell across his forehead.

“Annie,” he said in that infuriatingly indulgent tone he’d used to placate his grandmother.

“Annabella!” she snapped. At the twin pricking sensations in her palms, she realized she’d curled her hands and dug her fingernails into flesh, so she concentrated on relaxing, and then she folded her arms over her chest. “Now remove yourself from my presence.”

One side of his mouth twisted upward. “Or you’ll do… what exactly? I am, after all, your husband.”

Annabella scowled at his unwelcome reasoning. She could hardly scream. Even if anyone heard her, the fool servants would likely think she was having some sort of hysterical fit or that she screamed in the throes of passion.

She moved to the right, and he blocked her path. She dodged left, and he again stepped in front of her. The odd dance continued until she found herself on the opposite side of the bed and standing over his coat.

“We shan’t be married for long,” she informed him. Then, stooping, she grabbed his coat and waistcoat in one motion, rolled the garments into a fat ball, and hurled them through the open bedchamber door.

He made no move to follow his clothing so Annabella shrugged and grabbed a vase of lilies from the dressing table. Taking careful aim, she flung it. He dodged the projectile, and the vase struck the wall behind him, shattering into hundreds of tiny pieces. The lilies fluttered to the floor like giant red and pink snowflakes, and water flowed over the silk wall covering, turning the brilliant red to a deep burgundy.

Seabrook flicked his gaze over the damage and sighed. “Well, that’s ruined.”

“Oh!” she shrieked.

A miniature marble statue of a young woman swathed in a flowing gown stood on a matching pedestal near the armoire. On weighing it in her hand, she discovered it was heavy. Perfect for use it as a weapon.

“Get. Out!” She sent it sailing in a spectacular arc heading directly for her intolerable husband’s head. It was heavier than she’d planned on, however, so it fell short of its mark and landed with a dull thud at his feet.

The candle on the dressing table flickered, revealing murderous intent in Seabrook’s eyes. Annabella made it to the door just before he did, and when he reached for her, she ducked beneath his grasp and whirled. He was still looking away from her, so she planted her hands firmly against his upper back and shoved with all her might.

The move obviously surprised him. He stumbled forward but caught himself and turned. Annabella glimpsed shock in his eyes just before she slammed the door in his face and set the lock.

“Open this door, Annabella!” Seabrook’s roar was followed by thunderous pounding on the door and jiggling of the handle.

“No, you scurrilous, objectionable, insufferable, black-hearted man! I will
not
open this door!”

The pounding grew even louder. “Annabella, we must talk. Let me in.”

“Ha!” She slapped at the door. “It wasn’t talking on your mind only a moment ago.”

A muffled curse filtered through the door. Then the hammering abruptly ceased.

The sudden silence brought Annabella’s head up sharply. He was up to something. Heavens, maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth it and had gone to fetch his grandmother’s pistol! Frantic, she glanced around the room for another weapon in case he broke through. Her gaze landed on a narrow door on the other side of the bedchamber. Where did that lead? Maybe she could use it to escape.

Or he can use it to get in!

She raced to the door. The bolt was old and rusted, apparently no longer used. After some effort, she managed to slide it into place just as the door handle rattled.

She backed away from the door, unable to tear her gaze from it. Tears of frustration and anger ran down her cheeks and splattered onto her hands.
I can leave now. We don’t need to maintain this ridiculous farce. We needn’t have married in the first place.

Why didn’t the realization thrill her? In truth, she wasn’t even terribly angry. Not over that, at any rate. Of course, nothing could force her to allow that fool into her bed after his disclosure.

Even if his touch had brought her alive.

Even if just being near him made her body buzz and tingle with awareness and her heart thump like a hammer.

He’d had no right to force her into a marriage that—

“No one forced you,”
he’d pointed out — quite truthfully.

Had she simply refused both his offer and that of Vicar Hamilton, the scandal would have passed in due course. Had she…
wanted
to run off with Seabrook all along? “No…” she whispered, her knees buckling. She grabbed onto the bedpost to keep from dropping to the floor and gulped in several breaths. “No!” she repeated more firmly, irritated that she had even entertained the thought. Of course not. The notion was ludicrous. He just… intrigued her, was all.