To Taste Temptation (28 page)

“Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked.

She heard him chuckle raspily but couldn’t take her eyes from the sight of what he did to look at his face. “Far from it.”

And then she did something truly beyond the pale. She leaned forward and licked around the head of his penis.

He paused in his movement, and she heard his inhale before he breathed, “Do that again.”

She braced herself on her hands and hovered over him, licking and kissing the head of his cock while he continued to move his fist up and down. It wasn’t a sophisticated act; her tongue sometimes hit his hand as well as his penis, her breasts swung free inelegantly under her shift, but she didn’t care. She loved the taste of him, salt and spice; she adored the faint gasping sounds he made, and she was aware that she was becoming increasingly wet just from ministering to him. Why such an act should be so erotic, she had no idea, but there it was. His hand moved faster, and she attempted to engulf the entire tip of his cock in her mouth. His hips arched involuntarily off the bed.

“Emeline,” he gasped, and the extremity in his voice sent a thrill of sexual triumph through her. “Emeline...”

She looked up just as she sucked strongly on him, flattening her tongue against the underside of his penis. His eyes narrowed, his head arced back, his teeth gritted, and she tasted sweet salt in her mouth.

“Emeline.”

She closed her eyes, feeling tears behind her lids and sucked again, and again tasted a gush of salt. Finally, his hips fell, pulling his manhood from her mouth. She wiped her lips on the bed linens. Stupid, stupid tears were running from her eyes, and one splashed on his leg. Helping him do this made her want to sob, and she wasn’t even sure why.

She felt more than saw him lift his head. “What—?”

“Shhh,” she said again, choking this time.

There was no way to explain her emotions. How could she tell him that she already mourned his loss? That she wished she were a different, more adaptable person? She couldn’t, so she didn’t. She crawled up his body instead, until she settled herself, straddling his groin.

His hands grasped her hips, comforting and steadying her. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she whispered, although the tears she could not control gave lie to her reply.

She closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the worry and love in his gaze and lifted her shift over her head. She was nude now, just as he was. She didn’t wear so much as a hairpin. They were as God had made them, man and woman, without the clothes and trappings that designated rank, relative wealth, and means. They could’ve been Adam and his wife, Eve—the first humans, unaware of the many gradations that would come to divide their children.

She opened her eyes and leaned forward to place her palm on the center of his chest. “You are mine right now.”

“As you are mine,” he replied.

It was almost like a vow.

But he didn’t demand more. A little part of her died then, even as she reveled in the moment. Samuel had given up on having her in his future, she knew. It’d always been inevitable that they couldn’t be together, but for him to have accepted that fact...

She pushed away the thought and bowed over him, smiling as she kissed the spot where her hand had lain. It was wet because her tears had dropped there as well. She kissed across his chest, small wet kisses, until she reached a nipple. Here, she opened her mouth and licked around the tiny point, tasting man, tasting Samuel.

He sighed beneath her and reached up to stroke her hair. She could feel his manhood, still half-erect, under her stomach. She shifted a little, rolling against him, and moved to the other nipple, licking at it with a pointed tongue. Tears were pricking at her eyes again, but she no longer paid attention to them. They were a physical manifestation of her internal turmoil—something completely beyond her control. Tears fell to his chest, and their salt mingled with the salt of his skin, so she couldn’t tell them apart as she licked.

She straightened and looked down. His cock was thick, not entirely erect, and lying on his stomach. She wanted to feel that part of him against herself, wanted this last connection. She slid forward until the tip of him lay under the tip of her. She was wet, open and sensitized, and the feeling was so right, so perfect, that she groaned softly. Just a little pressure, just a little shift of her hips. Warmth blossomed at her core. She bit her lip and ground down some more.

Her eyes were closed, so she started a little when large hands palmed her breasts, both at once. She gasped and slid against him. He brought his thumbs together with his fingers and squeezed her nipples. Oh, Lord! He was growing under her, burrowing into her folds. She leaned into his hands, pressing down harder, caught up in the sensation, trying to ignore the tears that still coursed down her cheeks. His cock slid to the side. She whimpered in frustration and grasped him, holding him against her body as she rubbed her clitoris over his cock. So close, so close...

“Put me in you,” she heard him say.

She shook her head, wanting to feel him here always. To stay in this moment for eternity as if in a dream. To never wake up. She moved faster over him, frantically, twisting her hips, sobbing, her cheeks wet.

Almost there, almost there...

He squeezed her nipples and still it wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t complete. She was gasping now, weeping openly, and suddenly she knew that she needed him inside her to reach that point. Quickly, she lifted her hips and placed him at her entrance and bore down. And then...

He was inside her, full and heavy, the feeling exquisite as he stretched her. She paused, savoring the sensation, wanting it to last forever, him filling her. She leaned over him, and in that moment felt his mouth close over one breast, pulling strongly. Her muscles contracted around him, and she came in long, lovely, warm waves. She sobbed aloud in gratitude, in wonderful release. She rubbed herself over and over against his hard body, her head hanging down in surrender, her hair draping over his chest.

He muttered something and released her nipple, catching her hips. He pumped into her in quick, powerful thrusts, grunting with each plunge, his cock hard and hot and long within her. His movements, his obvious desperation, prolonged her pleasure, and when she felt his warmth flood her, she was still in bliss. She fell against his heaving chest, his hand tangling in her hair, his breath rasping against her damp temple. She heard his whisper in her ear.

“I love you.”

T
HE FIRE IN
Emeline’s hearth had died down long ago, probably some time in the middle of the night when he’d still held her. Sam considered relighting it; her bedroom was chilly in the not-quite-dawn darkness. But she lay under piles of thick blankets in the bed, and he wouldn’t be staying long. Besides, he wasn’t sure a fire could warm him anymore.

He sat in a chair by the dead fire, fully dressed. There really wasn’t anything keeping him from leaving. The servants would be up soon, and he knew that she would be embarrassed and cross if he was discovered in her room. Yet, he still lingered.

He could watch her from the chair. Try to memorize the way two fingers clutched the blanket under her chin. She lay on her side facing him, her mouth relaxed in sleep, her lips half parted. With her sharp eyes closed, she looked much younger, almost sweet.

He nearly smiled at the thought. She wouldn’t thank him for the observation. They’d never had time to discuss it, but he thought she might be a little sensitive at her years. He’d like to argue the point, make her confess that a lady of thirty was as beautiful—more beautiful, in his opinion—than a lady of twenty. Then when she continued to argue—for she would, she was so stubborn—he would kiss her into submission and maybe another round of lovemaking. But they were past that now. They would have no more arguments, no more kisses or lovemaking. No time to settle any little problems.

Their time was over.

She sighed and snuggled the blanket over her mouth. He watched the small movement greedily, drinking it in, committing it to memory. Soon. Soon now he would get up and walk to the door, leaving this room and making his way through the silent house. Let himself out into the dawn. Go back to the town house that wasn’t truly his. In two days, he would board a ship and spend over a month watching the waves as he sailed back home. And once there? Why, he’d continue his life as if he’d never met a woman named Emeline.

Except, while his life might look the same from the outside, it would be entirely different on the inside. He wouldn’t forget her, his warm lady, even if he lived for six decades more. He knew that now, sitting by her cold fire. She would be with him all the days of his life. As he walked the streets of Boston, as he conducted his business or chatted with acquaintances, she would be the ghost beside him. She would sit with him as he ate, she would lie beside him as he slept. And he knew that when his time on this earth was at an end, his last thought as he entered the void would be of her.

The scent of lemon balm would haunt him forever.

So he sat a little longer, watching her sleep. All the days of the rest of his life stretched before him, and he needed to store up these few seconds with her.

They would have to last him a lifetime.

The guards tied Iron Heart to a great stake and then piled thorny branches about his feet and legs. He looked around and saw his sweet wife standing by her father the king, weeping. Iron Heart closed his own eyes at the sight, and then the thorns were set alight. They quickly caught fire, and the flames leapt into the dark sky. Sparks fled upward as if seeking to join the stars, and the wicked wizard screamed with glee. But an odd thing happened. Although Iron Heart’s clothes burned, and indeed were soon reduced to ashes, his body did not. Instead, as he writhed in the flames, his iron heart could be seen beating on his strong, bare chest. An iron heart white-hot from the heat...

—from
Iron Heart

Samuel was gone when she woke the next morning. A maid was clattering by the hearth, trying to light the fire. It must’ve been banked badly and gone out during the night.

Emeline closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting to face the day. Perhaps not wanting to face her life without him. And as she did so, she felt liquid seep from inside herself. She thought it was his seed, but when she looked, it proved to be a more familiar stain. Her monthly visitor had come. And this was the truly horrible part: Instead of feeling relief that nothing now stood between her and her marriage to Jasper, she was flooded with wild disappointment. How foolish! How utterly stupid, to
want
to be filled with Samuel’s child. To have no choice but to marry him.

Emeline caught her breath then. Her mind—her
sanity
—might know that a marriage to Samuel would be disastrous, but her heart was unconvinced.

“Can I get you something, my lady?” The maid was staring at Emeline, her hand raised over the still-cold fire.

She must’ve made a sound, done something to reveal her distress, for a servant girl to have noticed. Emeline sat up. “No, nothing. Thank you.”

The girl nodded and turned back to the hearth. “I’m sorry I’m taking so long today, ma’am. I can’t think why the fire should be so hard to light.”

Emeline looked over the side of the bed and found her wrap. She struggled into it while the maid’s back was still turned. “It’s probably the chill in the air. Here, let me try.”

But however many times Emeline stuck a flaming straw into the coals, they refused to light.

“Well, never mind,” she finally exclaimed crossly. “Have a hot bath brought into my sitting room. The fire’s lit there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lady,” the maid said.

“Then I’ll just dress in my sitting room.”

An hour later, Emeline’s bath had grown cold. Dismally, she stirred the water near her knee. Like it or not, it was past time for her to get out of the bath and face the rest of her life and the choices she’d made.

“Towel,” she said, and stood as a maid held out an enormous drying cloth.

Probably they didn’t make drying cloths so large in the Colonies. It was lucky she had rejected Samuel and wouldn’t have to put up with inferior bath accessories. Emeline stood morosely as her maids dressed her, not even interested when the new wine-red silk was presented. She’d ordered the gown several weeks ago when she’d helped prepare Rebecca’s wardrobe. Now she might have been wearing burlap and ashes.

She finally grew restive as Harris fiddled with her coiffure. “That’s fine. I won’t be receiving visitors today, anyway. I think I’ll just go walk in the garden.”

Harris glanced doubtfully at the window. “Looks like rain, my lady, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Oh, does it?” Emeline asked in despair.

This seemed the final straw, that the elements should conspire against her as well. She went to the window to peer out. Her sitting room overlooked the street, and as she watched, Samuel descended the steps next door and strode to a waiting horse. She caught her breath involuntarily. The unexpected sight of him sent a jab of pain into her middle, as if she’d been stabbed. Her hand trembled against the cold glass pane. He ought to have looked up then. He ought to have seen her watching him from her window above him. But rather mundanely, he did not. He mounted the horse and rode away.

Emeline let her hand drop from the window.

Behind her, Harris was still talking as if nothing had happened. “I’ll just put the new dresses away, then, my lady, unless you need me for anything else?”

“No, that’s all.” Emeline tore her gaze from the window. “No, wait.”

“My lady?”

“Fetch my cloak please. I wish to visit Miss Hartley next door.” This might be the only time she’d have to say good-bye to Rebecca. It didn’t seem right to let her sail to the American colonies without bidding the girl farewell.

Emeline swung the cloak on and hurried down the stairs, fastening the neck. She didn’t know how long Samuel would be gone, but it seemed imperative that she not meet him again. Outside, the sky was heavy and dark with impending rain. If Rebecca was in, she must remember not to stay too long or risk being trapped by a thunderstorm. Inhaling, she rapped on Samuel’s door.

The butler’s face was ever so faintly shocked when he opened the door. It was too early to be calling, but she was the daughter of an earl, after all. He bowed as she swept past him into the entry hall and then showed her to the small sitting room to wait while he fetched Rebecca. Emeline only had time to nervously glance out the windows before Rebecca came in.

“My lady!” The younger woman seemed startled at her visit.

Emeline held out her hands. “I could not let you go without saying good-bye.”

Rebecca burst into tears.

Oh, dear. She’d never quite known what to do with the tears of others. Secretly, Emeline had often thought that ladies who wept in public were desirous of attention. She hardly ever wept, and never in front of others—that is, she realized, until last night with Samuel.

Propelled by that uncomfortable thought, Emeline started forward. “There, there,” she muttered as she patted Rebecca’s shoulder awkwardly.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Rebecca gasped.

“That’s all right,” Emeline said gruffly, and handed her a handkerchief. What else could she say? She was almost certain that she herself was the cause of Rebecca’s grief. “Shall I ring for tea?”

The girl nodded, and Emeline led her to a chair while she gave orders to the maid.

“I just wish things could be different,” Rebecca said when the maid left again. She sat twisting the handkerchief in her hands.

“As do I.” Emeline sat on a settee and arranged her skirts with far too much care. Perhaps if she didn’t look at the girl, she could get through this. “Have you set a date when you will leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Emeline looked up. “That soon?”

The younger woman shrugged. “Samuel found a berth on a ship just yesterday. He says we will sail tomorrow and leave the bulk of our belongings to be packed and sent on a later vessel.”

Emeline winced. Samuel must want to be quit of England—of her—very badly.

“Is it because you don’t love him?” Rebecca burst out.

The question was so sudden, so startling, that Emeline answered without thinking. “No.” She caught her breath at the near-admission and shook her head. “There are so many things.”

“Can you tell me?”

Emeline stood and paced to the fireplace. “There’s rank and position, of course.”

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Emeline couldn’t bear to look at the younger woman, so she stared into the glowing fire instead. “You come from a different country, one so far away. I don’t think that Samuel would want to make his home here in England.”

Rebecca was silent, but her very stillness demanded explanation.

“I have my family to think about.” Emeline inhaled. “There’s only Daniel and Tante Cristelle now, but they depend on me.”

“And you believe that Daniel and your aunt would refuse to sail to America?”

Put like that, her objection was an obvious fabrication. Yes, Tante Cristelle would grumble at a sea voyage, but the old lady need not even leave England if she did not wish to do so. And Daniel would probably be ecstatic at the mere thought of seeing America.

Emeline twisted her fingers into the gathers at her waist. “I don’t know...” She looked up and met Rebecca’s eyes. “They all left me, you see. Reynaud and my husband and Father. I don’t think I can do that again—trust in another to keep me safe.”

Rebecca frowned. “I don’t understand. Samuel would never allow anyone to harm you.”

Emeline laughed, although the sound was rusty. “Yes, that’s what I grew up thinking. Even though the matter was never articulated aloud, it was understood that the gentlemen of my family would cherish me and keep me safe. That I would never have to fear for my situation. They would manage the affairs, and I would be a lovely companion and care for their home. But it didn’t work out that way, did it? First Reynaud was lost to the war in the Colonies; then Danny died when we were both very young, and then Father”—she caught her breath because she had never said this last to anyone—“then Father died and I was abandoned, don’t you see? With Reynaud gone, the title, the estates, everything went to a cousin.”

“They left you without money?”

“No.” Emeline’s hand jerked, and she heard stitches tearing on her gown. “Obviously I have enough money. The Gordon income is quite sufficient. I only chaperone for pin money. But I no longer had anyone to lean on, don’t you see? They all left me. Now I make the decisions in my life and the lives of Tante Cristelle and my son. I worry over the investments and whether Daniel should go to Eton soon. I must watch the land stewards to make sure they do not embezzle my monies. There is no one else I trust, no one else I depend upon save myself.”

She shook her head, knowing what she was trying to say was intangible. “I can’t relax, you see. I can’t just...
be.
”

How odd that she would confess this to Rebecca now when she’d been entirely unable to talk to Samuel about this.

The younger woman knit her brows. “I think I understand. You can never lay down your burdens. There’s no one you trust to carry them for you.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s it,” Emeline exclaimed in relief.

“But...” Rebecca gazed up at her, puzzled. “You plan to marry Lord Vale soon.”

“It won’t matter. I love Jasper as a brother, but marriage to him won’t change a whit the way I live and conduct my life. If he leaves me or dies as the others have, I will be just the same.”

Rebecca stared at her silently. Outside the sitting room, voices murmured in the hall.

“You’re afraid Samuel will die,” Rebecca murmured. “You love him and you’re too afraid to commit yourself to him.”

Emeline blinked. Fear seemed such a childish,
cowardly
reason to reject Samuel. That couldn’t be right. She tried to explain. “No, I—”

The door to the sitting room opened. Emeline turned, frowning, at the interruption. A maid entered, bearing a tray of tea. Immediately behind her was Mr. Thornton.

Dear Lord, what was the man doing here?

The little man advanced into the room, his face wreathed in a smile. He had smiled each time she’d seen him previously, but now the expression seemed twisted, not quite right. It was as if he sought to conceal the terrible thoughts in his brain by hiding behind a cheerful facade. Why had she never noticed it before? Was his self-control slipping, or had her new knowledge colored her perceptions of the man?

“I hope you don’t mind my entering unannounced,” Mr. Thornton said. “I’ve come to call upon Mr. Hartley.”

“I’m afraid my brother isn’t here,” Rebecca said. “In fact, I believe that he’s gone to see your shop, Mr. Thornton, on Starling Lane. No, I’m sorry.” The girl shook her head in irritation. “That’s where he went yesterday. Today he’s looking for you on Dover Street.”

Emeline glanced at the girl sharply. Her face was relaxed and open, the only mar a trace of irritation at being interrupted. Either she was a very good actress or Samuel hadn’t confided his suspicions about Mr. Thornton to his sister.

But Mr. Thornton had stilled. “Starling Lane, you say? How interesting. I wonder why Mr. Hartley went there yesterday? I haven’t had a shop there since I returned from the war six years ago.”

“Really?” Rebecca frowned. “Perhaps Samuel thought you had two shops.”

“That may be. In any case, I’m sorry to have missed him.” Mr. Thornton looked longingly at the tea being set up by the maid.

“As are we,” Emeline said tightly. “Perhaps if you hurry, you will find him at your establishment.”

“But then again, we might pass each other as we travel,” Mr. Thornton said smoothly. “And wouldn’t that be a shame?”

“You can stay here and join us for tea while you wait for my brother’s return,” Rebecca said.

“Lovely, just lovely.” Mr. Thornton bowed and sat. “You are graciousness itself, Miss Hartley.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Rebecca said as she poured. “It’s only tea.”

“Yes, but many wouldn’t be so gracious”—he shot a sly look at Emeline—“to a working man and all. Why, I’m a simple cobbler at heart.”

“But you own your establishment,” Rebecca objected.

“Oh, indeed, indeed. I have a grand workshop. But it’s all built up by the sweat of my own brow. My father’s business was quite small.”