[Samuel Barbara] The Black Angel(Book4You) (19 page)

A soft, strange mood overtook him. Gently, he moved his cheek against her hair, found one of her hands and slid his fingers through hers, taking pleasure in the slim coolness, in the slow way she let her fingers fall against his, not protesting, perhaps even joining. She was not small or light, but his legs were strong and he did not mind the weight, the fullness of her, an armful of woman.

And in time she, too, seemed to shed her tense reserve. Almost absently, she turned her face slightly against his neck, and he thought he heard her breathe in and sigh, felt her breath fan over his ear. Her thumb moved lightly on his hand, the most reserved response, and in reply he stretched open that hand, and their index fingers touched, met, pressed, then each finger in turn. Fingertips to fingertips, then whole fingers, and at last, palm to palm. He thought of Shakespeare, "Palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss," but did not speak the words aloud, content instead to let their hands speak what words could not say. Their fingers slid together, making a clasp, then slid apart in exploration, and back together.

One hand, dancing, and his cheek on her hair, and her nose turned to his neck. So little, but his breath felt shallow over it.

He didn't know how long they were so lightly joined before he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. He did not hurry, for he liked the ghostly brush of her fingers against his face, liked the tautness of her body as arousal moved in her, loved the taste of her flesh. He lingered, touched the tip of his tongue to the skin—

She bolted. Scrambled off his lap, out of his arms, shoving at him like a wild animal coaxed out of the darkness to eat from his hand, only to skitter away in terror over some unrelated noise. "Cad!" she cried, backing away from him. "I keep thinking you're different, and then I see you're just the same."

And this time his anger—that red beast he'd never controlled as well as he wished—rose in him. "As if I act alone!" he cried, leaping to his feet. "You gaze at me, you respond to me, you want me—and then push me away. D'you think a man has no pride?" He stepped close, backing her into a table. "D'you think I don't go away and wonder where I've gone wrong every time? I'm no lover ready to scorn you—I'm your bloody husband, and the law tells me I can have you if I wish. Now, if I wanted it."

"I would never forgive you."

"Aye," he said tightly. "Which is why I'm giving you this time. But you made a deal, and you need to be thinking of that when you're off feeling sorry for yourself all the time."

There was fire in her eyes now, sparks and fury, and in some part of his mind, that not devoured by thwarted need and anger, he was glad of it. The part consumed by desire noted the way her breasts moved over the bodice of her gown—magnificent flesh!—and the part consumed by anger made him reach up and touch that flesh boldly. He put an open palm over the lushness, touching fabric and flesh at once as he stared down at her, his jaw hard. She did not flinch or make some move away from him, but only stared at him, daring him to make her hate him. Cross that line.

"Today in that shop, I thought of this breast and what it will taste like," he said, his voice low. He scraped his fingers over the place where the nipple rose. "I thought of the color and of putting it my mouth, and making you cry out."

Still she remained utterly still, her eyes dark with fury, but there was desire, too, and the flesh he stroked and coaxed so boldly was rigid in response, as rigid as his own flesh. He leaned close, his mouth inches from her own, and he scraped his nail lightly over her gown, over that sensitively erect nipple that so wanted his touch. She quivered a little, lowering her eyes. "You want me, Adriana. You ache for my lips on this place, the soothing heat and the depth of my mouth—" Slowly he stroked, brushed his fingers over the bare flesh above her bodice, then back down, and to his dark satisfaction, she made a soft noise of protest. "—here."

Her mouth was a breath below his, so close he could have blinked and taken it. But he did not. "I'm willing to wait till you're ready to tell me that."

Abruptly, she tossed back her head, a blaze burning in her eyes, and she covered the hand that covered her breasts, holding him there. "As you've already seen, my lord," she said in a low, fierce whisper, "I am well named the Slut St. Ives. It is no large task to kindle the wanton heat that burns in this body." Her breath came quickly, lifting her flesh more tightly into his hands, winding tighter that coil of need in him. "But while I was young then, and foolish, and let my passions hold the day, time has taught me wisdom, too. You may well find me in your bed, and find me wild, but you will never claim anything more than that." She shoved his hand away. "Leave me now, my lord."

For a long moment Tynan only stared at her, seeing just how deep the wound went for her. A pulse in his sex insisted he take her, and his blood pushed so quickly through his body that he was nearly dizzy with longing, but he willed himself to step back. "You will, one day, come to me, Adriana." He lifted his chin. "Mark me."

Before he could make any move he might regret—more than those he would already rue by morning—he strode away, buttoning his coat as he went to hide himself from the servants. At the door he thought better of his retreat and turned.

"My lady," he said deliberately, "in the morning we will ride. In Hyde Park. And on Friday next, we will attend a ball hosted by the Duchess of Sherbourne."

She could not hide the stunned amazement that announcement brought. "How on earth did you manage that?"

Stung pride made his tongue sharp. "Some women enjoy my attentions."

That haughty chin rose and a cynical smile curled her mouth. "Oh, I'm quite sure of that."

He left her. Left the conservatory and called for the carriage to take him to the coffeehouse Gabriel liked. At least one member of this infernal family was agreeable.

Adriana had not the strength to move after Tynan stalked away. Her hips were weak and her hands shook, and she simply slid down and sat on the floor, staring with a kind of stunned horror at the candles which flickered in a draft and caused reflections on the panes of glass around them, echoing over and over. In this pane the flames were thin and long, in that one, short and blurred, in another, perfectly reproduced. Like her past, echoing in the present, sometimes skewed, sometimes clear, always flickering.

And in spite of those flickers of the past, she could not keep the moments with Tynan at bay. They replayed themselves in her imagination without her leave, illuminating one moment and another: his head on her hair and his hands on her back; the feel of his fingers lacing through hers, slow and sweet and arousing; the smell of his neck, which had tempted her too much.

And more: his mouth, hovering so deliberately close to hers as his hand touched her breast; his fingers on her breast, on the bare skin; his thumbnail so erotically scraping over her nipple. With a cry she covered the place with her own hand, wanting to rub the sensation away.

Today, in the shop, when his eyes had been so full and deep and frankly admiring, had she not wanted to stand before him without the cloak of fabric, stand naked and see that approval turn to deepest need?

She clenched her fists and pressed them to her eyes. Last night Cassandra had worried about her penchant for falling in love. What she had not told Cassandra was that she'd burned for those boys of her youth. Burned, night after night, imagining Antoine's kiss. He'd had a mouth that was shaped like a bow, full beneath, slimmer above, and the flesh was dark red, his teeth so white against it that she could not sleep at night for thinking of the contrast.

She had imagined kissing him so clearly that she was sure the truth could not be as lovely as her imagination. But when she had at last tasted that sensual mouth, taken her first taste of the forbidden, her girlish imaginings had evaporated in a sudden puff. His mouth had been a thousand times more. He'd been afraid at first, afraid to kiss a noble girl, afraid of being punished. But once he began, once she responded with such enthusiasm, he'd lost his fear. They kissed and kissed and kissed, at every opportunity, for months, until they were unhappily discovered and the boy was sent to a neighboring plantation. She'd missed him for a long time.

No, not him. His kiss. The feel of him.

Then there had been Harold, the boy on the ship, who had not ever managed to kiss her, but held her hand and expressed himself that way, touching and touching and touching her fingers, her palm, her wrist. In its way, it had been as erotic as Antoine's kiss.

Adriana pressed her fists more tightly to her forehead, resisting the last. Malvern.
Everett
. It had been his want of her that had been so inflaming. A handsome courtier with powerful relatives and elegant manners and bearing who had chosen her from all the women in the London. The power had gone to her head.

And now her first test, and she was failing again. It did not matter if he was her husband—in fact it was somehow worse. What woman lusted after her husband? It was the very height of foolishness, especially when that husband was such a rake he had earned a nickname of his own. A name no doubt given him by women like the Duchess, who would honor him in spite of the scandals. Had they been lovers?

Was she going to meet his lovers everywhere? How many women did a rake enjoy? How many would have known the sight of his flat, supple belly by the light of a candle? How many would have known the skilled touch?

God, was she jealous?

With a moan, Adriana pushed her hands through her hair. Love or lust? Which had she felt with those boys and Malvern? Which was stirring in her now?

And which was more dangerous? Lust, by its very nature, burned through to cinders in time. Love would not. If it was lust kindled in her now, then the fates had sent her a test she was bound—for her own self-respect—to resist.

If it was love… She closed her eyes. If it was love, her doom was sealed forever, for not only would love lead her to fall to her passions, but she would also be left with her empty arms when his lust burned through. It was impossible to imagine a greater humiliation. For what would they say then, the wags and gossips? She could hear them all too clearly: "Poor Countess Glencove, so quick to love, so quickly left behind."

She winced, her eyes closing tight. No, that she could not bear.

She wanted a child, and would give that much of herself at the end of his foolish time of kisses. She would get herself a baby or two and play good wife to him when he required it, but for the rest, she must remain aloof, safeguard her heart and her passions.

But now, hiding still in the conservatory, she saw she'd been playing a foolish game, pretending, like a maiden, to resist out of shyness. She was no blushing virgin, and Tynan was right about one thing: she had to stop thinking like one. She had to go about with her chin upraised, with her haughtiest expression. She was a countess, the daughter of an earl, the wife of a man who was going to go far if his energy were any measure. She was also, she knew, beautiful.

Women would cut her. The men would not.

And for Tynan, the reverse was true. In women he'd find his allies. In men, resistance. In that, the match was brilliantly made.

She stood, brushing off her skirts. Yes, she would ride in Hyde Park in the morning. And she would go to the Duchess's ball in the gown he'd chosen.

As she gathered her paints, she considered that perhaps she ought to simply invite her husband to her bed, as well. It was the mystery that appealed to a rake, wasn't it?

But the very thought made her hands shake. No, she was not ready for that just yet. Not until she was stronger, until she had learned to rein her emotions more firmly. Not until she could sleep with him and reveal nothing at all of her own feelings would she cross that line.