Читать книгу Regency Society Collection Part 2 - Хелен Диксон, Ann Lethbridge, Хелен Диксон - Страница 17

Eleanor thought she might expire from lack of air. The Smithwicks’s ballroom was far too small for the number of guests invited. She couldn’t see the dance floor for the crowds as she squeezed her way back to her aunt from the withdrawing room.

She sat down. ‘Where is Cecelia?’

‘She was here a moment ago. Beauworth asked her to dance.’

Her heart jolted. ‘Beauworth?’

‘Mmm. Asked very prettily, too. Made her laugh.’

Why would Beauworth ask Sissy to dance? She didn’t like the unpleasant little twinge in her stomach. She craned her neck to see around the group of friends clustered in front of her. ‘I don’t see her.’

I will find the truth without your help. That was what he had said. He had better not involve her sister in his plans. A chill breeze came out of nowhere, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck, a feeling of impending doom. ‘I’ll go and look for her.’

‘She’ll be back when the music stops,’ Aunt Marjory said. ‘I’ve never heard it said Beauworth had a taste for misses in their first Season.’

He’d had a taste for one young miss. Years ago.

‘I will be less than a moment,’ she said. The air reeked of attar of roses, bay rum and hot bodies. Eleanor plied her fan, hoping to stir up enough air to give some respite from the heat as she strolled around the dance floor, twice. No sign of them. Nor were they anywhere else in the room. She was sure of it. She’d know if Garrick was present.

She headed for the doors, squeezing between tight knots of people trying to make themselves heard over the din.

Finally, she made it into the hallway. It was like going from Bedlam into a sanctuary. She took a breath. Where would they have gone? She would certainly have a word with Cecelia about disappearing without a chaperon. And Garrick would also get a piece of her mind.

Halfway along the corridor, she met a blond fresh-faced lieutenant in a dark green uniform coming the other way. He hesitated as she approached.

‘Lady Eleanor?’

Eleanor frowned. He looked familiar, but she could not place him.

He smiled and bowed, his vivid blue eyes twinkling. ‘Dan Smith, my lady.’

‘Dan? Oh, my goodness, I would never have recognised you. A lieutenant, too. Congratulations.’ He had been a bright young lad four years ago and the war had obviously given him a golden opportunity for advancement.

‘My lord, the Marquess, put in a good word.’ Dan spoke with pride and affection.

His words brought Eleanor back to her quest. ‘Have you seen the Marquess and Lady Cecilia?’

‘I believe they went into the drawing room. They have cards set out there. May I escort you?’

She smiled her agreement and took his arm. They walked along the brightly lit corridor, their footfalls making no sound on the thick Aubusson rug. Her heart knocked a protest at the thought of facing Garrick. She’d hoped to avoid him entirely.

The card room proved to be vacant except for a couple of elderly men playing whist. Dan looked around nonplussed. Disappointed, she turned to leave. The curtains rippled in the draught of an open window. She glanced at Dan. His expression tightened.

Before Eleanor could say anything, the young man strode to the curtain and drew it back, revealing an open French door. He stepped through. Eleanor followed on to the torch-lit balcony.

Sitting on a stone seat with her skirts above her calf, Sissy’s stockinged foot rested on the bent knee of the gentleman kneeling before her. The Marquess, for that was who it was filling her pink satin slipper with champagne, glanced up with a wicked grin.

Eleanor’s ribs squeezed tight. She could not hold back her gasp. ‘Cecelia! What are you doing?’

Her face alight with laughter, the child looked up. ‘Len? Isn’t he the most ridiculous man alive?’ She giggled. ‘I think I’m going to lose my wager.’

She sounded foxed. They were on the brink of disaster. Scandal loomed a mere whisper away. Eleanor’s lips felt tight, her jaw felt tight, her skin felt tight—if she took a breath, she might fly apart. She kept her voice low. ‘And what did you wager, may I ask?’

‘A kiss.’

Dan stiffened.

Even a commoner found this kind of behaviour appalling. She snatched the slipper from the Marquess and emptied its contents over the railing. ‘Sissy, put this on, at once.’

As he rose to his feet, Garrick’s mouth curled in a cynical smile. ‘Good evening, Lady Eleanor.’

She ground her teeth, rather than throw the slipper at his head.

‘Lady Cecilia,’ Garrick said softly, ‘I’m afraid your sister doesn’t believe in the principle that one’s word is one’s bond, do you, my lady?’

A low blow, indeed, directed at her reneging on their bargain and far more painful than a slap to the face. Eleanor knew she must have gone red from the prickling heat in her cheeks and throat. Pretending not to hear, she pushed Cecilia’s foot into her damp footwear and pulled her upright. ‘Come back to the ballroom before anyone notices.’

‘My lady,’ Lieutenant Smith said, his voice low, full of concern. ‘Might I suggest that if I escort Lady Cecilia and my lord takes your arm, it will look as though the four of us took a stroll?’

Eleanor glanced at him with gratitude ‘You are very kind, Lieutenant Smith.’

‘An outflanking manoeuvre, Dan?’ The Marquess’s voice from the shadows sounded dangerous. Then he gave a short laugh. ‘I surrender. This time.’

Dan offered his hand to Cecilia and she looked up at him.

‘Cecilia, this is Lieutenant Dan Smith,’ Eleanor said.

‘Lady Cecilia,’ Lieutenant Smith murmured, his ears pink.

‘Lieutenant, a pleasure.’ Cecelia’s smile was a little lopsided, but very sweet.

A slightly bemused expression on his face, the young man placed her outstretched hand on the green sleeve of his uniform.

Eleanor closed her eyes briefly. Heaven help them all. Cecilia was positively dangerous.

She ignored Garrick’s glower and took his arm. ‘How dare you?’ she muttered.

He glanced down at her. ‘I dare anything to get what I want, Lady Eleanor. As do you.’

A rush of heat flared in her face. ‘You have no idea how much I regret what I did.’

His breathing changed, a slight hitch, and she had the sense she’d touched a nerve, yet when she glanced up, his expression was one of utter boredom.

‘Promise me you will stay away from Sissy,’ she said.

‘Would you believe my promise?’ he asked with a cynical smile.

She had no time to answer. They’d already entered the ballroom, where any chance word might be overheard. Whether he promised or not, she would make sure Sissy didn’t come within ten feet of the Marquess of Beauworth in future.

A few heads turned in their direction as they traversed the room, but no buzz of conversation or sly whispers. Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. Lieutenant Smith saw Sissy to her seat and bowed very properly. Eleanor took the chair on the other side of her aunt. ‘Thank you, both,’ she said, intending it for a dismissal.

‘Do you not dance, Lieutenant?’ Sissy asked.

Lieutenant Smith turned as red as a poppy. The Marquess, rot him, grinned wolfishly at his protégé’s obvious discomfort. Eleanor wanted to bash him over the head with her reticule. She pretended not to notice.

‘I do, my lady,’ Lieutenant Smith said. ‘I would be honoured if you would grant me a cotillion later this evening.’

The little minx grinned. ‘I have one free after supper.’

Serious and courteous, the young soldier bowed. ‘I will return then. Thank you.’ He took the Marquess by the arm and led him away.

A considering expression on her face, Cecelia watched the angelic soldier and the dark rake depart, an odd combination to be sure. And the poor young lieutenant was no more suitable for Sissy than the Marquess of Beauworth.

Eleanor sighed. ‘Really, Cecilia, what has got into you, going off alone with a well-known rake? You could be facing ruin right now. Not to mention it is shockingly rag-mannered to ask a man to dance.’

‘You are a jealous old maid.’

It was unforgivably rude and hurtful, but Eleanor swallowed her pride. It was Garrick’s fault Sissy had drunk too much champagne and there was no point in getting into an argument with her in a crowded ballroom. And besides, after playing mother to Sissy for so many years, she felt like an old spinster.

Her summer of madness with Garrick was the last time she’d felt truly young. It had been a wild and wonderful adventure and had led to nothing but pain. Not to mention the financial disaster she’d caused. No more adventures for her. She’d settled down. She was happy. Very happy. She sniffed into her handkerchief, blinked, then turned and entered a conversation between her aunt and the elderly widow beside her, just as she ought.

‘What are you about letting her make a fool of herself with a man who comes straight from the stews?’ William paced the floor in front of the table where she sat waiting to pour him a cup of tea.

It had been too much to hope that he would not hear the gossip and the guilt written on her face wasn’t helping. She loved her twin dearly, but since inheriting the title he’d become one of the world’s most intolerant men.

‘William, dear, Lieutenant Smith is a brave and honourable young man. Everyone likes him, despite his lack of birth. He is but one man among many in Cecilia’s court and I promise you she does not favour any one of them. You should be proud of her success.’

‘I am proud of her,’ he said. ‘But, Eleanor, the man hangs on Beauworth’s lips.’ And that was the real reason for his anger. Dare she speak to him about Garrick? Her heart picked up speed.

‘About Beauworth…’

His brow lowered.

She gulped a breath. ‘I met him the other day.’

‘I told him I would kill him if he came near you.’

‘William, he has proof he was not the person who injured you.’

‘Are you really so gullible? Stay away from that man. I don’t want him near this house.’

She was unable to control the pain in her expression.

He sat down beside her. ‘I’m sorry, Len. But if anything were to happen to Cecilia, I would never forgive myself.’

As he had never forgiven himself for what had happened to her. The reason she forgave him his ill humours.

He grimaced. ‘Beauworth was seen in France, you know, but no one will come right out and accuse him to his face, even though he is half-French.’ His lip curled. ‘He curries favour with the Prince.’

‘Rumour, William. Not fact.’ She kept her face calm and her voice steady. ‘William, there are other rumours about Beauworth, involving me. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’

‘What do you think I am?’

He sounded defensive and he hadn’t answered the question. Her heart sank. What had he done?

She handed him a white bone-china cup with a smile. ‘You know, I always wondered what was in that letter Le Clere asked you to bring that day. Did you read it?’

He shifted in his seat, the cup rattling in the saucer. ‘Of course not. Do you think I would have risked your life?’

Her heart softened at his obvious indignation and yet the way he sat sipping his tea, all stiff and uncomfortable, not meeting her gaze, stirred up a feeling that something wasn’t right. ‘And you didn’t pick it up afterwards?’

‘Eleanor, you are changing the subject. Make sure that young puppy Smith keeps within bounds and Beauworth does not enter this house and I’ll say no more.’

It was he who had changed the subject, and he’d given in far too easily on the issue of Captain Smith. He was hiding something. Something to do with the letter? Surely not. What would it benefit him to keep Garrick’s guilt a secret? Dash it all, now she would have to look for the letter. If only for her own peace of mind. She would send word to Martin. Ask him to look for it. As steward, he had access to all of William’s papers. He wouldn’t like it, but somehow she’d convince him to help her one last time.

She realised William was watching her, expecting some reaction to his generous surrender. She smiled. ‘Thank you. Besides, I think the question will soon be moot. Lieutenant Smith expects to be called back to his regiment any day now. He thinks we will go to war again.’

His brow furrowed. ‘No doubt about it.’

‘Thank heavens you are out of it.’

‘Damn it, Eleanor. I wish I could go. See the end of the little Corsican once and for all.’ His expression betrayed an unusually boyish eagerness. A look she hadn’t seen for years. Her stomach dipped.

‘William, no! Think of me. Of Sissy. How would we go on if something happened to you? Your duty is here.’

He huffed out a breath. ‘To be in at the end would be tremendous. If Michael hadn’t died, I would have been there.’

‘I wish he was still with us, too, but not if it meant you going to war again.’

He smiled at that, but still, frustration showed in the set of his shoulders and his pursed lips. He’d given up his military ambitions for the sake of the title, for his family, a sacrifice she knew he regretted deeply.

He set down his cup. ‘I must be off. I am meeting with the fellows from my old regiment at Whites’.’

He rose awkwardly to his feet and kissed her cheek. ‘Promise you will keep a close eye on Sissy?’

‘Yes, William, I promise.’ She walked with him to his carriage and waved him farewell. She sighed. He had his purpose, he would not shirk his duty, and she had hers, though what she would do when Sissy married, she couldn’t imagine.

A footman approached her as she turned to re-enter the house. She didn’t recognise the livery. ‘Do you live here, miss?’

Lord, did he take her for a servant? She knew her gown was plain, but really. ‘I do,’ she said.

‘Got a letter for one of the ladies of the house. Lady Sissy.’ He thrust it in her face and ran off. Affronted, she watched him go.

She glanced down at the note, turned it over to see from whence it came. It was fastened with a red seal she recognised. Beauworth.

Her stomach sank. Why was Beauworth writing to Sissy? What mischief was he up to now? I will find the truth without your help. Was he trying to involve Sissy in his quest?

Feeling guilty, she took the letter and made her way to her chamber. Seated at her dressing table, she turned the paper over and over. It was addressed to Cecilia. She should not open it. But William trusted her to keep Sissy safe. If it was harmless, she would explain her motives. Sissy would be angry, but she would have to understand Eleanor meant it for the best.

Hand shaking, she cracked the seal. Bold words slashed across the page.

Meet me tonight after Midnight

At the corner of the Square. We will finish

Our wager, on my Honour.

Do not Fail me.

B.

That was all. No words of love, just a command. He must be very sure of himself. A surge of anger made her hot, followed swiftly by a cold feeling around her heart. Did he plan to seduce Sissy into helping him? To ruin her sister for his own selfish purposes?

She stared at the letter. It was lucky that the footman had handed it to her instead of the butler, or she might never have discovered the plot. A careless mistake for a man like Garrick. She gazed down the street after the footman. A very careless mistake.

From inside his coach, Garrick watched the cloaked and hooded female figure pick her way along the footpath. The watch called midnight. Right on time. A streetlight on the corner revealed little but her height as she paused to glance around. He didn’t have to see her face to recognise Ellie. He breathed a sigh of relief. After his escapade on the balcony had failed to flush her from cover, this was all he could think of to force her hand.

Lord knew what he’d have done if Lady Sissy had shown up instead. Given her a lecture and sent her home.

Still, he’d wondered whether Ellie retained any of the courage he’d loved in her, the reckless wench. A carriage rumbled past, cutting her off from view and he waited with baited breath for her to reappear. He bared his teeth as she stepped into the road.

Walking right into his trap.

He flung the carriage door open and leapt down to kiss her hand. Under the hood of her cloak she wore a hat with a veil.

‘Chérie,’ he whispered huskily, leaning close to her ear. Vanilla. Memories stirred. Seductive. Full of languor and heated flesh. They always did when he smelled that particular scent. Her small gloved fingers trembled in his hand. Nervous, then, afraid of what he might do when he discovered her ruse. And rightly so. If he was her brother, he’d lock her up. God. He’d love to lock her up in a room with him. But it wouldn’t happen. Not when she learned of his treachery.

Without a word, she stepped into the carriage, settling into the corner.

He’d thought of every last detail, planned his strategy to an inch. The only wild card had been her. He leaned inside. ‘I will drive, chérie. It is more discreet that way.’ He didn’t dare give her a chance to demand they turn back. He closed the door and climbed on to the box.

Startled, Eleanor made a lunge for the door. The carriage lurched into motion. Dash it. Why hadn’t she noticed the lack of a driver? Too terrified by her own bravado to notice anything but his large form waiting in the dark. She hadn’t expected him to leave her in the carriage alone with no chance for conversation.

She peered out of the window. Where on earth was he going? To his house? No, they had left St James’s and were now heading out of town.

She stared at the trapdoor above her head. Should she knock to get his attention? Or wait until they arrived at their destination? Where was he taking her? Wherever it was, they’d be alone together. Despite her effort to remain calm, her heart picked up speed.

What if she was wrong about him? What if he lost the temper he feared? Things could go very ill.

After what felt like hours, but could not have been more than one, the carriage halted outside a small but elegant house, somewhere near Chelsea, she thought. She shrank into the shadows when he opened the door.

‘Where are we?’ She no longer felt quite so brave.

‘Still veiled, sweet?’ Garrick held out his hand. ‘How very discreet. A good friend loaned me his love nest for the evening. I promise we shall not be disturbed.’

The announcement sparked her anger. Eleanor had heard hints of such places from the ladies of her acquaintance. Houses tucked away on the outskirts of town, where married men took their pleasure once they had fulfilled their duty as husbands. To think he would consider bringing her sister to a place like this. If that had been his plan.

She dredged up the words she’d practised at home, but before she could open her mouth he reached in, grasped her hand and tugged. ‘Don’t be shy, little one.’

Missing her footing on the step, she tumbled into his arms. Strong arms she remembered so well. His hand encircled her waist and he let her slide down his length before he set her on her feet. She shivered at the hot sensation of remembered bliss. How long since he had held her thus? A lifetime. The yearning she had buried deep returned with sharp vengeance.

He laughed at her gasp, his white teeth gleaming wickedly in the torchlight over the door. She was barely able to stand on legs as soft as warm butter; her heart beat a wild rhythm. Surely he heard it?

As if sensing her weakness, he swept her off her feet, picking her up as though she weighed no more than a child. If only he knew how she had longed to feel his arms around her again.

For one blissful, heavenly moment, she leaned her head against his shoulder, revelling in the oft-thought-of warm strength while he rang the bell. Oh Lord, someone would see them. She struggled and he set her down with a warm chuckle. ‘Patience, woman.’

The door opened and, holding her elbow fast, he ushered her straight past a footman in dark green livery, into a small salon off the marbled and mirrored entrance hall.

From beneath her veil, she took stock of her surroundings. The dark green walls absorbed much of the light from the single candelabra. A brown velvet sofa guarded an intricately carved, white marble hearth. Beside it, a small round rosewood table held a bottle of champagne and two glasses. A thick white rug covered the floor in front of the fire. She could imagine him stretched out on that rug, caressing one of his women. Except the face of the wicked woman in her mind was hers. If her heart had raced before, now it galloped. Her skin warmed from head to toe.

Across the room, a door led to an adjoining chamber.

He stood behind her, his hands at the hollow of her waist as he nuzzled her nape.

Delicious shivers raced down her spine. The years rolled away and she ached to lean against him, to let him carry her away into bliss. ‘My lord,’ she said firmly.

His lips stilled. He drew back.

She turned and threw back her hood and the veil. ‘You and I need to talk.’

He smiled. All white teeth and little humour. A wolf inspecting his prey. His gaze travelled from her head to her feet in a slow appraising look that made her feel hot and cold by turn.

‘Well, well, here you are, just as I expected.’

‘Of course you did. You had your footman hand me the note. You didn’t think I’d see it and not open it, did you?’

He looked a little stunned, but she had to hand it to him, he recovered quickly. ‘Aah, chérie, I knew you’d do anything to protect your sister. Even this.’ He bent his head and pressed his lips against her mouth, hard, demanding, ravishing. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and rivers of fire raced along her veins to burst into flame at her core. Her heartbeat drummed. She stood stiffly, resisting him with every fibre of her being.

He lifted his head. ‘You resist me now, but you won’t. You never could.’

‘Any more than you could resist me?’ she said, only too aware of the breathiness of her voice. ‘Garrick, I don’t have your letter. I swear it on my honour.’

His face fell. He spun away, anger and disappointment writ large on his face along with belief.

‘I think William does,’ she said to his stiff back. ‘He went back across the field, while I was in the cart. He must have protected you all these years, for my sake.’

He turned back. ‘William?’ He lifted his hands from his sides, his shoulders rising. ‘It makes no sense. I’d swear he’d do anything to pay me back. Unless…’ His expression turned to horror. ‘Oh God. It could not be that.’

He strode for the window and stared into the dark.

‘What? Tell me. You are scaring me.’

He turned his head and met her eyes, his gaze clear, but his expression shuttered as if he was afraid she might see too much. ‘What if that letter exonerates me?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Why would he keep it hidden, if it proves my guilt? Think, Ellie. He hates me.’

William wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Garrick must have seen the denial in her face because his mouth twisted in a wry smile and his eyes held pain. ‘You always believe the worst of me and the best of him. Get me that letter and you will never hear from me again.’

He offered it like a bribe. Was that what he thought she wanted? ‘What if it proves your guilt? What then?’

Agony blazed in his eyes. ‘It is not your business,’ he said harshly. ‘I want that letter before I leave for France.’

She froze. ‘France?’

‘Where else would I go? The beloved emperor returns.’ Bitterness charged his voice, gave it a hard edge.

‘Are you telling me you are a traitor?’

‘I’m telling you nothing.’

Fear constricted her throat. ‘And once you have the letter, I will never see or hear from you again.’

He swallowed. ‘I swear it.’

Her heart ached as if it had been pounded by a hammer. He truly believed she didn’t care. And if he went to France, he would be lost to her forever. Even the little flicker of hope she carried deep in her heart would go out. ‘Garrick—’

‘Don’t say another word.’ He grabbed her cloak, tossed it to her, turning away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. ‘Just find the letter.’

She clutched the soft fabric in her arms, struggling to comprehend his anger. ‘You hate me.’

He turned slowly. Two strides took him to her side. He gripped her shoulders. ‘How could I hate you? You saved my life, remember?’

A mistake, Garrick thought. Touching her, feeling her skin beneath his fingers. Seeing the flare of longing in her eyes, knowing the depths of her passion. It made letting her go all the more difficult. He’d been wrong to think he could seduce her all over again and feel nothing.

She reached up with her other hand, smoothing his hair back from his forehead—a gentle, intimate caress.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she said. ‘Did you ever think of me?’

He bit back the words in his heart: I never stop thinking of you, wanting you, looking for you. He dared not admit it. She’d find a way to use it against him. And still he wanted her, body and soul. As if without her he was incomplete, insubstantial, a wraith, walking through life on the outside looking in.

Struggling for control, he breathed deep and stepped back. ‘Ready to go?’

‘Must we?’

Anger at her naïvety sparked a brush fire in his veins. ‘What did you want to do? Reminisce about old times? There is only one reason a man brings a woman to a place like this. If you don’t go now, I can’t promise nothing will happen.’

‘Oh. I see.’

Damnation, she looked hopeful and it was all the encouragement his raging desire needed.

He caught her wrist and pulled her close. He fastened his mouth to hers, ravaging, demanding. And she kissed him back, arching against him, her mouth fervent, insistent. Four long years of loneliness rolled away as if they’d never been. Her kisses, the feel of her against him, was as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror. Perhaps more so, for his face had changed as she had not.

In a wonder that felt almost reverent, he lifted his head to look into her face and found her eyes heavylidded with desire and with an expression of such abandon, it sent him beyond the edge of reason. Groaning with passion so intense his body shook, he swept her up into his arms.

‘Chérie,’ he whispered as he entered the bedroom lit only by a fire. He set her down gently on her feet next to the bed covered in snowy white linens.

She reached up to twine her arms around his neck, her fingers running through the waves of hair that fell over his collar.

He pulled her hairpins free, letting her hair fall in a golden river around her face and over her shoulders. He grasped a handful of it and held it to his face. He inhaled deeply. The unique scent of her. ‘Ma mie, je t’adore. It is the colour of spun gold and soft like silk.’ It was part of his memory.

Then his hands were behind her, expertly unfastening her gown, as he carefully placed tiny, fluttering kisses on her face. She whimpered, a sound so small, but so filled with longing, it stole his breath and any shred of reason he had left. Her hands shaped the curve of his shoulders, then grazed his chest, caressing, stroking, as if they remembered.

A moment later, she was pulling urgently at the buttons of his coat. He stopped unbuttoning her gown to allow her to push his jacket over his shoulders and shrugged it off. He tugged at his cravat till it, too, followed his coat to the floor. Feverish, on fire, he undid the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He heard the intake of her breath and drew in a hissing breath of his own as she pressed her lips to his chest.

He placed his hand beneath her chin, desperate to feel her mouth on his lips and as he crushed her close, her back arched, her hips hard against his thigh. His heart drummed so hard he thought his ribs would crack.

She wanted him. Always in this, he had her trust.

‘Turn around, mignonette,’ he whispered into her mouth. ‘I need you out of this gown.’

Eleanor did not want to let him go, to lose his heat, the feel of his skin under her fingers in case she lost her nerve. It was dreadfully wrong, but this would be their last time together. He seemed to sense her need for his touch, for even as he pulled at the tapes he kept one arm around her waist, pressing her buttocks against his thighs, his erection evident. An illicit thrill clenched between her legs. Rough and fast, he pulled her dress down over her arms and her hips to the floor. The brush of cool air sent shivers down her spine, and her knees trembled. The stays went next, tossed aside, and she turned to face him, smiling, clad only in a fine white-lawn chemise, silk stockings and slippers.

In the warm flicker of firelight, he loomed over her, tall, dark eyes licked with golden flame. Her gaze drifted down his lean body, fixed on a white indentation on his shoulder. Her gaze travelled over his chest, the dark curling patch of hair around his flat male nipples, a line running down his ridged hard belly. His muscles were taut as he held himself tense, a dangerous wild animal ready to spring, ready to devour and she longed to be tasted. Another scar zig-zagged across his side, ragged and badly puckered, a blasphemy in such masculine beauty. Her gaze flew to his face as she remembered. She touched it gently, for this was her fault.

He grasped her fingers and brought them to his lips, never taking his gaze from her face.

He smiled then, warm, open and wicked. The smile she loved. This was no ravening beast to be feared. This was her own wicked Marquess, his full mouth soft, his eyes gilded with longing. She slid her arms around his shoulders and he picked her up and deposited her upon the bed.

She was just as Garrick remembered, just as he had seen her every day in his mind. He always denied any thoughts of her at all. Now she was his for the taking and he exulted.

Nothing else mattered.

Not France, not England, and not his quest for truth.

He leaned over her, gently stroking her breasts, down the soft plane of her belly, measuring her slender waist, his hands remembering the silken feel of her skin on his palms, the sweet rounded curve of breast, the valley between ribs and flare of hip. Slender, yet luscious.

She reached for him, pulling him towards her. She’d always been a bold, sensual wanton beneath the prim-and-proper miss. His body tightened, urging him on. He smiled down at her.

She frowned as if uncertain and touched his lips. Would she change her mind? Dear God, he prayed not, yet he waited. She grasped his shoulders, pulled herself up to kiss his mouth.

He closed his eyes in brief thanks. ‘Give me a moment, chérie.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and dragged off his boots, hurrying, half-afraid she’d change her mind, stripping out of his pantaloons.

He turned to find her watching. His member pulsed at the touch of her gaze. His groin felt heavy and full. Placing one hand on each side of her head, he covered her body with his. Skin of satin, soft yielding flesh, welcoming warmth. His woman.

His breath left him in a long sigh and he plundered her mouth with his tongue, savoured the sweetness, triumphed in the way her tongue tangled with his, giving him pleasure, the way her body cradled him, her eyes glazed with desire. Then, with only the gentlest of pressure, he slid his knee between her thighs.

She opened to him, sweetly, honestly.

Desire writ strong in smoky eyes, she smiled and his heart cracked asunder at the sweet curve of her lips. This she wanted. His body. His pleasuring. Her hands wandered his arms, his shoulders, his torso, encouraging, urging. And this he would give.

He thrust into her, hard, deep. Tight and hot and wet, her body welcomed him home. Her moan of pleasure drove his own pleasure to heights he’d forgotten all these long years.

He groaned, and captured her mouth.

The feel of his body within her and the touch of his mouth on hers made Eleanor feel alive for the first time in years. Time returned to when she’d been happiest, if only she’d recognised it.

He was wrong about why she had come to him tonight, though she hardly dared admit it to herself. Taking Sissy’s place had been the fulfilment of a purely selfish need to spend one more night in his arms, taking joy for herself one last time.

Each movement of his body sent glorious sensations rippling beneath her skin. His tongue teased her lips, filled her mouth and she succumbed to the heat and the fire. Conscious thought became impossible as, hot and moist, his mouth licked and nibbled at her jaw, her throat and finally the rise of her breasts.

And she panted for more, as he lingered in the valley between her breasts, nuzzling and kissing the sensitised skin. With a whimper, she grasped his hair, brought his mouth to peaks tingling with anticipation.

He licked one, then the other. Circling his tongue around each hardened nub, nibbling, promising bliss, until she thought she might go mad. At last, his mouth, hot as fire, closed around her nipple. He suckled.

Sweet agony. Back arched, her hips rose off the bed. He slid deeper inside her, tormenting her, as she sought her release.

And he held her there, between bliss and torture, driving her higher, tightening the connection between them, yet never letting her reach the precipice, where bliss awaited in silken black depths.

‘Garrick,’ she moaned, ‘please.’

Supported by arms knotted with muscle and sinew, he lifted his head, eyes molten and heavy as he gazed into her face. She clenched her inner muscles around his flesh as he’d taught her so many years ago. A growl of hunger rumbled up from his chest, and then his hips drove him into her, hard and fast, almost furious, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl.

Yes. Hard and fast, and very good. She clung to his shoulders, feeling his heat, his skin slippery, rising up to meet each forward thrust.

He tilted his pelvis, the base of his shaft grinding against the sweet place between her legs.

Every nerve tightened, until she thought she must break. Agony twisted his features as he stared into his own abyss. ‘Now, Ellie.’ The plea in his rough voice tipped her over the edge. She shattered.

A tide of heat rushed outwards, turning her limbs to molten lead. She lay gasping for breath and he slipped out of her body and, shuddering, spilled his seed into the sheets, then stretched beside her and pulled her into the crook of his arm.

Even as she lay, blissful, warm, panting for breath, a faint tinge of bitterness twisted her heart. Even in the heat of passion he’d been in control, where she’d been completely abandoned, thoroughly wanton.

She turned her head to look at him and he brushed her lips with his mouth, a brief caress, as soft as a butterfly wing. ‘Rest, sweetheart,’ he murmured, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

Was it minutes or hours later when she opened her eyes? Held fast in the circle of his arm, her cheek on his warm chest, his breath tickling the lock of hair on her forehead, she watched fire weave patterns on his skin, gleam on the arc of his cheekbone, shadow the hollows of cheek and throat.

The scent of his musky cologne filled her nostrils. Tenderness seeped into her heart, the trickle building into a stream, then a river, perhaps even an ocean, it felt so vast. She raised her head and kissed his jaw, the stubble rough against her lips. He was lovely in sleep, relaxed, his deep, even breaths stretching the muscles of his chest, which might have been carved from marble if it weren’t for the dark sworls of hair.

She drank in his well-remembered features. The hard planes of his lean cheeks, the firm, sensual lips. The face she saw each night in her dreams was softer, more boyish. This hard new face had character, determination, and perhaps even shades of cruelty.

The thought shimmered through her body, frightening and exciting. Impulsively, she pressed her lips against his. If only she could tell him what she’d locked in her heart. Too late. Unless she went down on her knees.

He tensed, his eyelids snapping open, his gaze at once alert. His vision focused and he huffed out a breath. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes. Me.’ Her heart twisted. Had he hoped for someone else? No matter. Tonight he was hers alone. And because she could, she kissed him again. And his hand came up to catch her nape, to angle her head and he deepened the kiss. He rolled on his back, bringing her with him, drawing her up on to his body.

His strong muscled body. His burgeoning erection. A thrill shot though her core as she felt him harden. Perhaps she could show him how well she remembered, with her hands, her lips, her body.

She traced the seam of his mouth and when his lips parted, she swept his mouth, teasing his tongue with hers, tasting. He grunted, a low guttural sound of approval, and sucked. Ripples of pleasure rushed outward from low in her belly.

God help her, the man knew her too well.

Thoroughly aroused, she rocked her hips in small circles against his groin.

‘I want to be inside you,’ he said, raising his shoulders, reaching down, using his hand to press the head of his erection against her mons. ‘Now. Lift up.’

‘Not yet,’ she said, her voice huskier than she had ever heard it.

‘Heaven forefend, woman, do you want to kill me?’ He dropped his head back on the pillow.

Smiling, she claimed his lips in a swift kiss. ‘Only a little.’ She kissed his forehead, his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, the hard line of his jaw. He squirmed and hissed in a breath when she explored the depths of his ear with her tongue, salty and bitter, and very sensual.

His hands gripped her buttocks, large and firm, squeezing gently. He ground his hips against hers with a groan.

‘Let me inside you.’

‘Hush, let me play a while.’

Shifting to her side, she pressed her lips to his throat, wandered lower, across his shoulders, to his chest, the springy curls rough, the flesh beneath hot and salty and musky. She ran her palms over his flat male nipples and they puckered and hardened. Next she traced the plane of his belly; muscles beneath tanned skin rippled like waves on an ocean, as they tensed beneath her mouth. Too shy, too young, to do more than peek at him before, now the strength and the beauty of his body left her in awe.

‘God. Ellie. Don’t stop.’

She glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched, his expression one of agony.

She took pity on him and her hand found the hard, hot length of his erection. Watching his face, she wrapped her fingers around him, then squeezed.

His eyes opened wide. ‘Harder.’

‘Won’t it hurt?’

‘God, no.’

Taking him at his word, she squeezed and he moaned and took her hand in his, showing her how to stroke, from tip to base and back without releasing the pressure.

The tip darkened, while the shaft hardened and pulsed against her palm. ‘Oh, my.’

A small drop of moisture glistened in the tiny slit at the tip. She licked it away. Salty, warm, musky.

His hips shot off the bed. He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her over him. ‘Enough.’ It sounded more like a growl than a word.

A shudder of pleasure held her enthralled and instinctively she straddled his hips, somewhat like mounting a horse astride, except her naked female flesh pressed against his hard penis and the heartbeat beneath his skin matched her own little pulses. The rough hair on his leg grazed her inner thighs. Quite wicked and absolutely tantalising.

Lifting her with one hand under her bottom, he guided himself inside her body. Rigid and hot, he stretched her. She slid down the delicious intrusion. Hands about her hips, fingers digging into the swell of her buttocks, he helped her set a tantalising rhythm. Definitely like riding a horse, but far more enjoyable as the friction brought new and delightful sensations. If it were not for the tension in his face and the corded muscle and sinew in his large powerful body, she might have thought him submissive to her command of their lovemaking. Hers to do with as she willed.

Would that it were true. The wicked thought thrilled her to the core.

Wanting his touch, she brought his hand to her breasts. He curled his fingertips into her flesh, weighing, massaging, shaping to fit his palms. He caressed her nipples with his thumbs, strumming them, bringing them to life in aching little bursts of pleasure. At each downward stroke of her hips, his pelvis rose to meet her, pressing himself deeper into her heat, but leaving her to set the pace.

He lifted his head and suckled, hard. The thrill shot all the way to her centre. Little quivers, deep earth-quakes of passion drove her to find completion. Her body hummed with tension. ‘Garrick.’

‘Let go, darling.’

He touched where they joined, at the sensitive spot above where he entered her body, pressing and circling with his thumb. A sensation like nothing else, pleasure and sweet, sweet pain, unbearable.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. The tension inside her vibrated, the breaking point just out of reach.

‘Harder?’

‘Faster.’

By increasing the tempo, he brought her to new heights. The world narrowed to one arching stretch of pleasure.

She flew apart. Burst in glorious quivers of delicious pleasure. He groaned and withdrew, spilling his seed into the sheets while her own shudders went on and on.

He rolled on his side and kissed her forehead, the corner of her mouth, her throat, a delicate brush of his lips against her breast.

‘You were glorious,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

She lay in his arms with her skin cooling and tears a blink away. Loss of what might have been as real as the death of a loved one.

‘Your hunger was great,’ he said into her hair.

Before, he had always been the driving force in their lovemaking.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It…has been a long time. But not for you, I think.’ She couldn’t help the little knife of jealousy.

‘You have an itch. You scratch it.’

An itch. Well, she should have expected no more. ‘William always said you were an unprincipled wretch.’

‘William.’ He rolled away, flung the sheet back and stood up, his bare flanks lean and muscled. She repressed an urge to lean out and caress the lovely firm rounded flesh.

‘I did offer marriage,’ he said. ‘You chose otherwise.’ He shrugged, a lift of broad shoulders. ‘You would have had my name, my title. What more did you want?’

A declaration of love? Would it have made any difference? She’d made so many wrong decisions that summer, caused untold harm. Now was not the time to open old wounds. And yet he deserved an answer. She swallowed. ‘I could not abandon my sister.’

His back stiffened, then he picked his shirt up from the floor and pulled it over his head. ‘Admit it. You were afraid.’ He continued to dress, his focus entirely on his articles of clothing, as if her answer made no difference.

She slipped out of her side of the bed. She drew on her chemise and tied the bow at the neck. ‘Afraid?’

He turned to look over his shoulder. ‘Of me. Of what I might do.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ She struggled with the laces of her stays at her back. ‘I made a promise.’

‘And so you made your choice. And here you are once more, the sacrificial lamb.’ He strolled to the mirror over the mantel and in swift, sure movements tied his cravat. ‘What about you, Ellie? When will you choose you?’ He laughed, a short mirthless crack. ‘Please. Don’t answer. I don’t want to know. Just get the letter and you can forget me, and go back to your safe little life.’

He had changed. She really didn’t know him any longer. But he was right about her life. It was little. And it was all she had left. ‘Take me home.’

Garrick glanced at the clock. A flash of concern crossed his face. ‘Yes, you should leave now. My friend will be home soon.’

He hurried her into the sitting room, picking up her cloak, shoving her bonnet and veil into her hand, clearly wishing her gone. She’d lost him. So quickly. She could see it in his distant expression. Her heart sank.

What had she expected? That he would renew his offer of marriage after a brief encounter? He was using her to get what he wanted, the way she had used him. Mayhap, it served her right.

He opened the door and she followed him out of the chamber.

In the hallway, a footman was in the process of opening the front door.

Garrick cursed under his breath as a rather bosky young gentleman and a scantily dressed woman stepped over the threshold. He handed his cane to the waiting lackey.

Ellie gasped and pulled up her hood.

‘Morning, Beauworth,’ he said, grinning beneath his fair moustache. ‘Finished gambling a bit early. Pleasant night, I assume?’ His glance shifted to Ellie and he bowed unsteadily. ‘Lady Eleanor.’

Her stomach dropped away in a rush. Once more, impetuosity had led her to ruin and this time she’d well and truly stepped over the brink.

She lifted her chin. ‘Lord Goring.’