Читать книгу Addicted - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 8

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“You’re keeping secrets!”

Anais looked up from the purple-and-gold silk that lay in her lap. Rebecca, her closest friend in Bewdley, sauntered into the room, looking more radiant than what was fair. Rebecca was so exotic-looking, with sable-colored curls and amber eyes that were almond-shaped and fringed with lush, sooty lashes.

Anais watched as Rebecca flopped down on the bed and propped her chin in her delicate doll’s hand. Her friend was everything she was not. The only virtue Rebecca lacked was fortune and family connections. But that fact hadn’t seemed to deter the numerous swains that had attempted to court Rebecca over the years. There had been many times as Anais stood on the peripheries, alone and unnoticed, watching her friend smile charmingly at the latest rogue pursuing her, that she wished she possessed a fraction of Rebecca’s beauty. Anais would have handed over her dowry for only a pittance of her friend’s charms and smoldering looks.

“Well,” Rebecca challenged, raising a perfectly shaped brow. “You were gone riding for a very long time. What in the world did Lord Raeburn do with you after he all but stole you from the salon?”

A small smile lifted her lips upwards. She had almost completely forgotten that Rebecca had been in attendance at dinner.

“Come, now, Anais, spill your secrets! I know you must have had an impassioned tryst in the stable.”

“And what makes you think that?” Anais thought back to the moment when she had heard a crash outside the stable, and had seen a figure fleeing through the window. Had Rebecca been spying on her? But why?

“Anais, we have been friends much too long. All the signs of a torrid embrace were there on your person when you arrived back in the salon. Your color was high, and your lips,” Rebecca teased, “were as pink and swollen as anything. Either you were stung by a bee in February, or you were utterly and pleasurably ravished! Now do not keep me in suspense any longer. I am positively dying to learn what happened between the two of you!”

Anais flushed and stabbed her needle through the purple silk, trying to prevent her hand from shaking and making the hem uneven. She wanted this costume to be perfect.

“Anais,” Rebecca said teasingly, “we’ve been friends too long, you know. You cannot hide the truth from me. He kissed you, didn’t he?”

“Perhaps,” Anais said, unable to hide the huge smile that parted her lips.

“You fiend!” Rebecca cried, coming off the bed and tearing the fabric from her hands. “Two days you’ve kept this from me! Tell me all of it. Was it divine? Does he have strong lips?”

“Rebecca, I’m quite certain you already know that it was heaven. After all, you’ve been kissed many times before.”

“But never by anyone as deliciously wicked as Lord Raeburn.”

For some reason Anais did not want to discuss Lindsay with Rebecca. It was not that she didn’t trust her friend to be discreet and keep her secret. She trusted Rebecca implicitly. But she realized that what had happened between her and Lindsay was meant to be kept just between them.

“Well?” Rebecca prodded.

“I’m quite certain Lord Broughton is just as deliciously wicked, Rebecca. A fact I’m certain you shall discover when he proposes marriage to you.”

“Oh, I’m afraid Lord Broughton is the most pious of gentlemen. Deliciously wicked are two words I would not use to describe him.”

Anais frowned and thought of the man who had been courting Rebecca. Garrett, Lord Broughton, was a gentleman. Handsome and rich, Garrett was much sought after by the marriage-minded girls and their mamas. He was a gentleman and given to quiet introspection, true, but there was no disputing that Rebecca had captured his attention.

“What are you making?” Rebecca asked suddenly, running her finger along the gold cording that Anais was busy sewing to the purple silk.

“My costume for the masquerade tonight.”

“You told me you were going as a shepherdess. I thought your mother already had your costume made up for you.”

“I’m not wearing that hideous monstrosity.” Anais glanced at the costume that hung on the door of her wardrobe. “I’ll look as wide as a frigate in that hooped skirt.”

Rebecca’s gaze roamed over the costume. “It is revolting, isn’t it?”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“So then, what are you wearing?”

“I’m going as an odalisque.”

Rebecca’s mouth hung open before she snapped it closed again. “You do know what an odalisque is, do you not? You’re aware that you’re going to be baring a great deal of…” Rebecca swallowed and looked pointedly at her. “You’ll be baring a great deal of your person, Anais.”

“Oh, I will incorporate the appropriate modifications that will allow me to be presentable in society—never fear that. But I have it on good authority that I would look rather fetching dressed as an odalisque. Lindsay suggested the idea and I want to please him.”

Her friend’s eyes went round with disbelief. “Icannot believe that of Raeburn. Well, not that he shouldn’t find you attractive,” Rebecca said in a rush. “It’s just that after all these years…after years of being…well, seemingly uninterested in that sort of relationship…” Rebecca murmured before trailing off altogether.

“I can hardly believe it myself. Oh, Rebecca, I do believe he loves me. He says we’re going to be married.”

“Are you certain, Anais? I would so hate for you to be disappointed.”

Something in Rebecca’s words made Anais’s blood freeze. The sinister coils of doubt began to unfurl, slowly choking out her new self-confidence, but she shoved it aside. Lindsay did want her. She had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his touch.

“Come, now. Let us not dwell on gloomy thoughts. Of course he loves you, Anais. How could he not? You’ve been traipsing in his boot tracks for years. It was only a matter of time before Lord Raeburn tripped over you and took notice of your presence.”

Is that what had happened? Had Lindsay merely relented? Was he tired of always having her near? Had he just resigned himself to the inevitable and finally given in to his mother’s fondest wish—a desire his mother had taken no pains to disguise?

“Anais,” her sister Ann’s voice rang out. “You have a letter.”

“Quick.” Anais jumped up from her chair and scooped the purple-and-gold skirt from the bed. “Help me hide this.”

Rebecca helped her tuck the costume into a coarse muslin sack seconds before the door was flung open and her fourteen-year-old sister came rushing into the room, her ringlets bouncing and her cheeks flushed pink with excitement.

She looked like an excited little pixie, with her gently upturned nose and sparkling, pale blue eyes. Ann was slight and petite, her hair was paler, more silvery than gold and straighter than Anais’s curls. Her skin was like porcelain and her features, while aristocratic, held a certain fragility that made her seem almost ethereal. But her bubbly personality stopped her from being untouchable.

One day, Ann Darnby was going to be stunningly beautiful and the most sought-after woman in England, and Anais suddenly couldn’t wait for her sister to find the man of her dreams.

“A valentine,” Ann announced, her voice breathless with her exertion.

Anais reached for the red wrapping and tore it out of her sister’s hand. Turning her back, she stripped away the wrapping to find a heart-shaped piece of vellum tucked neatly inside.

Your pasha awaits, you. At midnight, on the terrace.

“Well?” Rebecca asked, excitedly. “Who is it from?”

“An admirer?” Ann said coyly. “Do you have a secret admirer, Anais?”

“Ann, do stop being a pest,” their mother said from the door. Her mother’s expression suddenly sobered as her gaze fixed on Anais. “Of course your sister does not have an admirer, don’t be a goose, Ann.” Her mother’s lovely eyes raked over her and Anais saw the familiar emotion of displeasure shining in them.

Anais was well aware she was a disappointment to her mother. Such a lovely, passionate name, quite wasted on that plain creature. She had heard that remark many times, most of which had been uttered in her mother’s bitter voice.

How many times had Anais overheard someone say at a ball that there had to be at least one plain one amongst all the beautiful Darnby women? However, the truth of that statement wouldn’t hurt so much had she not had the misfortune to be the plain one.

Her older sister, Abigail, who had been the belle of the ball and was now the Countess of Weston, had been the raving beauty of the family, not to mention her mother’s favorite child. Her mother never failed to remind Anais of Abigail’s beauty or cachet in snaring a most sought-after husband. Now Ann, her youngest sister, was poised to be a great beauty—even more beautiful than Abigail, and much less conceited about it, too—thank heavens.

“Now then, girls, it is time to get ready for the Torrington masquerade. You will require much time, my dear, if we’re to get you presentable. Marriage, Anais,” her mother lectured while she waved her perfectly manicured finger before Anais’s nose. “You must remember that an advantageous marriage is a well-bred young lady’s primary goal in life. You’re already at a disadvantage. Now with your age—well, it’s going to be impossible to find someone suitable, what with the debs coming out this Season.”

“Mother…” Lord, she hated when her mother talked so in front of Rebecca.

“Well, it is true. You’ll be eight and twenty next week and you’ve little to recommend you beside your dowry. In my day a woman was firmly upon the shelf at your age. Why, I had already bore my husband two children by five and twenty.”

“Mother…”

“Look at Rebecca, here. Poor as a church mouse and with little in the way of family connections. Had it not been for your father and I, as well as her uncle, she would have amounted to nothing more than a governess. Despite all that, she has made a splash in society, even capturing the attentions of someone who is notorious for being most discerning. Rebecca’s charm and beauty have made Lord Broughton forget that she hasn’t any money or family connections. You will forgive me for speaking so frankly, dear,” her mother whispered remorsefully to Rebecca. “I’m just trying to make Anais understand, you see, that it is not enough to be rich, one must be beautiful, as well.”

“One cannot help if they are beautiful or not,” Anais muttered, twisting her fingers in her apron.

“True enough,” her mother said, patting her flaxen curls. “But one can at least make an attempt to work with what attributes one has.”

“I think Anais is pretty,” Ann said, coming to her defense.

“Come, Anais,” her mother said with a superior tilt of her chin. “Rebecca, dear, your uncle has sent his carriage to fetch you. It’s waiting in the lane. Do not keep me waiting, Anais,” her mother warned with a pointed look as she reached for the door latch.

“I think you’re lovely, Anais,” Ann said proudly. “Furthermore, I overheard Lindsay remark to Lord Wallingford that he thought you were a perfect blend of beauty and brains. He called you his angel. I think he’s going to propose. I truly believe—”

“Enough, Ann,” her mother said with a glare. “Good Lord, I’d love nothing more than for him to marry her and take her off my hands, but we haven’t a chance now for that. If he hasn’t proposed after all these years, nothing will induce him to now.”

“Mama, I heard—”

“Enough of this nonsense. There will be no custard for you after dinner.”

“Mama!” Ann cried.

“You’re getting a bit thick in the middle, Ann. One night without bread pudding will serve you well. You must be conscious now of maintaining your figure. A man will go a long way before seeing a figure like yours. You must guard it most carefully,” her mother lectured as she promptly left with Ann, who was protesting loudly over the loss of her pudding.

“Well?”

“He wants to meet me!” Anais said excitedly, forgetting about her mother’s nagging, she showed Rebecca the valentine Lindsay had designed for her.

Rebecca read it and when she looked up at her, she had a strange intensity to her amber eyes. “How lovely.”

“What are you wearing tonight?” Anais asked excitedly as her gaze strayed to a sack by the door. “How will I know you in the crowd?”

“Never fear, you will find me,” Rebecca groaned, reaching for the muslin sack she had dropped on the floor when she came in. “Mrs. Button informed Uncle that she had the perfect costume for me. Of course, as you know, my uncle bows to every one of Mrs. Button’s wishes.” Rebecca pulled out an old brown cloth and held it out to Anais.

“A nun?” Anais croaked, laughing at the image of Rebecca wearing the brown sack.

“Hmm. I’m certain that this costume will not inspire Lord Broughton to dare enter the realm of wickedness.”

“You never know,” Anais teased. “The night could bring anything.”

“How right you are, Anais,” Rebecca said quietly, gathering her sack that lay atop the bed. She shoved the brown tunic inside before smiling brightly. “One must work with what fate hands them.”

Lowering himself onto the red velvet settee, Lindsay spread his arms wide on the back of the wooden frame as he surveyed the small room that had become a means of escape from the theatrics of the ballroom one floor below.

The air in the salon was thick with curling smoke, heavy with the perfume of spilled claret and Turkish tobacco. Numerous pillows had been strewn about, while braziers were lit with incense, emitting a heavy, almost sensual aroma he was all too familiar with. The heady perfume of fine Turkish opium clouded the room, blanketing him in an intoxicating aroma.

In the center of the room, dressed as a pasha, sat the Earl of Wallingford. The eldest child of the Duke of Torrington. Wallingford was an indolent wastrel of the highest order—he was also a very good friend.

“I wondered when you would escape the clutches of those marriage-minded debutantes my father insisted on inviting to his masquerade,” Wallingford said with a grin. “Virgins are so damn insipid and tiresome. Give me a courtesan with the knowledge and talent to rouse me over a simpering, blushing virgin.”

“It was a trial avoiding their snares, but I managed,” Lindsay said, laughing as he thought of the numerous young ladies that had tried to corner him in one of the many dark alcoves of the ballroom. Virgins might be inexperienced in the bedroom, but they were master manipulators when it came to seeking an advantageous marriage.

“Well, then, what do you think, old boy?” Wallingford asked, making a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the decor of the salon that had recently been redecorated in the Eastern style. A style that was currently all the rage amongst artists and poets who thought themselves Romantics in the manner of Byron and Shelley.

“You’ve managed to convert me at last, Raeburn—I’ve turned Turk,” Wallingford said with a sharp satirical laugh. “Oh, I know it doesn’t quite scratch up to that room of yours, but it is a start, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It is indeed,” Lindsay said, inhaling the heady fragrance from the incense stick that was suddenly lit beside him. He leaned over and inhaled the smoke, sighing appreciatively as he sank farther into the plump cushions of the settee, feeling the gnawing hunger in his belly slowly uncurl and subside.

“I was quite pleased with the results. It will no doubt serve adequately as we pursue our pleasures. Of course, when I saw how it enraged my father, I became even more enamored of it,” Wallingford drawled, his smile wolfish. “Makes him wonder what I will do with this gothic monstrosity once he goes to his just reward. I confess, I do enjoy torturing him with glimpses of what may be. Perhaps I’ll turn the place into a bordello, or better yet, an opium den where the wicked and idle may sprawl out and smoke themselves to sleep. Of course we shall have ladies lying about, makes the scene that much more debauched, don’t you think? That ought to make the old goat twist in his grave. But enough of my father, the duke. Come and have a drink, old boy,” Wallingford slurred drunkenly. “We’ll only have so much longer before we shall have to return to my father’s insipid ball. We’ll need fortification.”

“I’ll pass.” Lindsay watched as Wallingford reached for the hand of a young serving girl dressed in silks and veils. He pulled her atop his lap, his claret sloshing over the rim of his goblet, landing on the young lady’s exposed cleavage.

“Oh, look,” Wallingford drawled, his eyes glistening wickedly. “A new way to sip your evening tipple.”

Male laughter erupted in the room as Wallingford bent his head to the girl’s bosom and licked the trickling red liquor as it dribbled between her breasts. Instead of acting shocked, the girl, obviously a professional courtesan, giggled and clutched his face to her décolletage.

“Come, let us see what else we can have dribbling between these,” Wallingford purred as he raised himself onto unsteady feet, his gaze never leaving the large ivory mounds of the courtesan’s breasts.

Lindsay looked away from the departing couple. He had witnessed more drunken debauchery at his father’s hands than he cared to recount. He had no wish to see Wallingford make an ass of himself—nor had he a wish to follow him down the drunken path of nothingness.

Searching the room and seeing that several other men had sequestered themselves with other willing women, Lindsay sighed and plucked the incense stick from the wood-and-brass holder. Waving it under his nose, he let the curling tendrils caress his skin before inhaling the scent, dissecting the pungent fragrance like a connoisseur. The aroma was rich, earthy with a touch of moss and sandalwood. Definitely Turkish. Nothing smelled quite as potent as Turkish opium.

Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the settee, glancing at the clock. It was not quite midnight. He had a bit longer yet before he would meet Anais on the terrace. He thought about her and how she had looked standing naked before him in the stable. What a beauty she had been with her honey-blond hair lying loose around her shoulders and her wide blue eyes, eyes that were always full of life and mischief. Mentally he conjured up the memory of her full, rose-tipped breasts and the delightfully rounded mound of her belly. He had not spent enough time worshiping her belly, nor had he allowed himself to linger over the soft space between her thighs.

He had stared at the soft triangle of space where her lush thighs grazed together and the downy curls of her mons connected. It was a mysterious space, a place where he was drawn, a place for his mouth, his fingers, his cock. Lord, but he was hungry for her. He’d had her twice two nights ago. Instead of abating his desire, it had only fuelled his need for her.

How long it had been since he’d desired to have her in his bed? He’d been sixteen. That was how long he’d been fantasizing about Anais. Fourteen long, agonizing years—seeing her, hearing her, being next to her. So many years of yearning, of imagining her face on the women he’d bedded.

He’d waited too long, he sighed, tossing the used stick atop the table. He’d wasted too many years. But he’d been uncertain— of her and himself.

Up until two nights ago, he hadn’t known what she truly thought of him. Her letters to him while he was away at Cambridge had always been warm and personal while staying just on the side of propriety. He hadn’t been able to glean what truly lay inside her heart, although he had spent many a night rereading every letter she had sent him, searching for the slightest sign that she returned his affection.

He in turn had started countless letters, declaring his love for her, his physical need for her. But he’d only balled them up and flung them into the fire, afraid of alienating her from his life with his lustful thoughts and actions. So he had bided his time, trying to make certain that she returned something of his regard.

But it hadn’t only been her he’d been unsure of. He’d been worried about his own worthiness.

Anais might be a shy, and somewhat self-conscious woman, but she was also a gently bred lady who knew what she was about. She wasn’t like the other women of his acquaintance— overblown and concerned only with money and fashion. That was the beauty of Anais. She didn’t have any idea how damn desirable she was or how to use her voluptuous body to get what she wanted. Anais was not that sort of woman. She was strong in her convictions with unwavering loyalty. Anais thought only in black and white, good and evil.

For Anais, there weren’t any shades of gray in her life—and so much of his life was nothing but a gray veil of mist. And yet, as unbending in her views of right and wrong were, she was kind, thoughtful and sweetly innocent. Simply put, Anais was the angel to his demon.

Her friendship had meant the world to him. He treasured it as if it were the rarest of gems. He had told her things that he’d never told another soul. She knew him more intimately than anyone did, or, he thought, anyone ever would. There was something about Anais that allowed openness and honesty. She had a way of making him feel calm and peaceful and loved.

Whether she realized it or not, she had carved out a place in his heart, settling herself so deeply inside him that she would be forever entrenched in his soul. She had stood by him through thick and thin, despite her obvious distaste for his father and his libertine ways.

How many times had he spoken of his father? How he feared for the way he might grow up? How often had she reassured him that he was not his father? That his father’s weaknesses and excesses would not be his?

She had such faith in the man he was, in the man she knew he could be. He would never do anything to harm that trust, because Lindsay knew that if he lost Anais’s faith in him, he had nothing. Without Anais, he would be his father’s son in more than just blood.

“Evening, Raeburn.”

Lindsay opened his eyes in time to see Garrett, Lord Broughton, flick his dress tails out behind him and sit on the cushion beside him.

“Evening, Broughton.”

“An interesting little scene of debauchery, isn’t it?”

“Hmm,” Lindsay murmured, before lighting another incense stick and passing it to his friend who shook his head. Lindsay shrugged and waved the opium beneath his nose, inhaling the curling smoke.

“I don’t know how you abide that stuff.” Broughton coughed. “I damn near suffocated the instant I walked into the room. It makes my head feel damned strange and I nearly always purge my guts into the nearest potted palm.”

Lindsay shut his eyes once again, allowing his senses to slow. “Nothing like a little quality Turkish Delight to facilitate the mind, Broughton. It is supposed to elevate the senses and carry you to another place and time. It’s like living out a dream,” he murmured, remembering all the wicked dreams he had of Anais over the years. Passionate, carnal dreams of making love to her in every conceivable way. Dreams of passionate lovemaking and heated, carnal fucking.

“I’m afraid the only Turkish Delight I indulge in is covered in powdered sugar.”

“Stop being such a stick in the mud and light up. Blowing a cloud would do you wonders, you know. The Magic Mist hinders melancholy, begets confidence, converts fear into boldness and makes the silent eloquent. You’d be amazed at the things you can imagine when the smoke is caressing your face. Hell, you may even discover a hidden poet inside that dutiful breast of yours.”

“I haven’t the imagination, I’m afraid,” Broughton grumbled.

Lindsay was no poet, but he certainly had a healthy imagination. Even now, with his blood slowing and thickening in his veins, Lindsay could imagine Anais on her knees, loving his cock with her mouth. He wanted to see that lovely pink mouth taking in his thick shaft. He wanted to see it glistening from her wet mouth and pulsating with the urge to spend freely along her full, high breasts.

“I don’t need anything to facilitate my mind, thank you. Furthermore, neither do you,” Broughton lectured. “Have you seen enough?” he asked, suddenly sounding perturbed. “You look as though you’re about to fall asleep.”

“Mmm,” Lindsay smiled, feeling languid and relaxed. He could fall asleep, right in Anais’s arms—and he would, tonight, as a matter of fact, right after he had thoroughly made love to her. Tonight he was going to take her home—to the divan that was filled with pillows. He would carry her, his odalisque, off to his harem. He was going to disrobe her, licking, devouring her for hours.

He had planned it all, right down to the valentine he had waiting for her and the way he was going to propose to her. He thought about holding her in his arms as she lay spent from her release. He imagined himself leaning down and kissing her softly as he asked her to marry him. But then the image of plunging into her open, waiting body took hold. He could see himself thrusting deep inside, claiming her and watching her lips part in pleasure. He would sink into her again and whisper his proposal. Yes, definitely that, he thought, feeling his cock thicken. He would propose as he was filling her with his body and as she shuddered in release. As he spent his seed inside her, she would agree on a husky pant that she would be his wife.

“My lords?” a soft and feminine voice demurred.

“No, no thank you,” Broughton grunted, stiffening beside him.

Lindsay opened one eye, peering down at a pair of ivory breasts that were spilling from the bodice of an exquisite beaded top—a houri’s bodice he thought, taking in the gold shimmer of the silk cording that edged her overflowing bodice.

“Try it, Raeburn, old boy. A Turkish delicacy,” Wallingford taunted from across the room as his evening’s entertainment slipped her hand down the front of Wallingford’s trousers.

Lindsay opened his other eye and saw that the houri held a silver tray before him. He looked up into her eyes and saw them gleaming. He had seen those eyes before, but where, he couldn’t quite remember.

“Come, Raeburn,” Wallingford jeered. “Have a taste. The Greeks have their grape leaves, the Turks their Passion Lips.”

With a shrug, he reached for the pale yellow circle that resembled a poppy seed cake.

“I think you would find the red more to your liking,” the houri purred seductively.

“Very well,” he said, taking a red cake from her tray. He popped it in his mouth and chewed the tough texture. “Bloody awful,” he mumbled to Broughton. “The Turks may keep their Passion Lips. I’d take a grape leaf any day.”

“That girl looks very familiar,” Broughton said thoughtfully as his gaze followed the houri’s progress through the room.

“Perhaps she will look even more familiar as the night progresses?” Lindsay asked with a grin.

Broughton shot him a disgruntled look. “May I remind you that I’ve been courting Miss Thomas?”

Lindsay shrugged and looked away. As far as he was concerned, Rebecca Thomas was no damned good for his friend. There was something about the girl he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but that unsavoury feeling was there nonetheless. He had never cared for Rebecca. She was manipulative and uncaring. Calculating coldness was always blatant in her eyes. Furthermore, he did not care for the way the conniving Rebecca had wormed her way into his gentle Anais’s friendship.

Anais, he thought, searching through the thickening smoke for the clock. “Well, then, I’m off,” he said when he saw it was nearing midnight.

“And where are you going?” Broughton asked as he stood, straightening his already immaculate waistcoat.

“I’m off to meet a charming young lady on the terrace.”

“Take care of her.” Broughton’s voice held a hint of warning that Lindsay did not particularly care for.

“I love her, Broughton.”

“I know, but sometimes…” Lindsay knew what his friend was going to say. Sometimes you’re not worthy of someone as good as Anais Darnby.

“My Cambridge days are behind me, Broughton. I am no longer the neck or nothing youngblood you knew in university. Then I was searching for what I wanted in life and I know I was reckless. I no longer need to do that. I know what, and who, I want.”

Broughton reached for his arm and stayed him. “Do not make the mistake of thinking you’re the only one who cares for her. Anais has been my friend as long as she has been yours. I would not want her feelings trifled with.”

“What are you implying?” Lindsay asked with a glare.

“I think you know what I mean, Raeburn. If your intentions are not honorable toward her, then do not pursue her.”

Lindsay brushed Broughton’s hand off his arm. “I would never dishonor her.”

“I would hope not. I would hope that you would strive— always—to be the sort of man she needs and deserves.”

With a brisk tilt of his head and the clenching of his teeth, Lindsay turned and made his way to the door, slightly disoriented from the heavy vapor of smoke hanging in the air. Opening the door, he let himself out, waiting for the fresh air to clear the cobwebs that were suddenly taking root in his brain.

Anais, he thought, reaching to the wall to steady himself. I’m not like my father. I’m worthy of you. I can be the sort of man you need. I swear it.

“Good evening, Lindsay.”

He whirled around. The corridor narrowed sharply, making him experience a nauseating bout of syncope. The candle flames flickered madly, almost as if they were leaping from their wax stands and he reeled back as he watched the flames jump out at him, threatening to land on his clothes. The vision was gone as soon as it appeared, replaced by a kaleidoscope of bright swirling colors that clouded his vision.

Blinking, Lindsay looked up from the black-and-white floor that seemed to ripple like a ribbon in a breeze beneath his feet. And then he saw her, Anais, standing at the end of the hall dressed in a wonderfully seductive purple-and-gold gown.

“Anais?” he asked in a disbelieving voice. He tried to step forward but couldn’t. He could barely see straight or focus his gaze on her.

Bloody hell, what was the matter with him? The Passion Lips, he suddenly remembered. What had the houri fed him? Certainly nothing he recalled ever dabbling in before. He had never imbibed anything quite so potent.

“Lindsay,” Anais cried, calling his name and running toward him.

He caught her in his arms and pressed her against the wall. He ran his hands along her curves, delighting in her soft skin, in the flare of her hip above the low-slung skirt. His fingers became tangled in the filmy purple chiffon and he growled appreciatively, suddenly as randy as he had ever been in his life.

“Kiss me,” she purred in a low, hypnotic voice that made his already hard cock rear in his trousers. “Kiss me, Lindsay,” she said, over and over again, as if she were chanting a Siren’s seductive call.

He searched for her mouth and kissed her, slow at first, then more carnally as she slipped her tongue between his lips. He groaned as she rubbed her mound against his throbbing arousal. He couldn’t make himself stop. His blood was humming. His body felt languorous, as if he had all the time in the world, as if they were already back in his bedchamber and not standing in a hall where anyone may happen upon them.

She moaned and reached for his bulging trousers, stroking him boldly. Bloody hell, where had she learned that? “Touch me, Lindsay. Take me into your mouth as you did in the stables.”

“Mmm, yes,” he said, feeling the floor shift again. He lowered her bodice and cupped her. Opening his eyes, he struggled to focus on the pale breasts in his hands. But instead of two full, round breasts, he held four blurred globes, with nipples that danced and swayed before him. He blinked, trying to still the image so he could fasten his lips onto her and suckle her, but the more he blinked, the more his vision seemed to swim.

“Taste me, Lindsay,” she encouraged, filling his hands with her breasts—breasts that he had thought felt much bigger two nights ago. But then, he wasn’t in his right mind now. Something was ruling him. He was certain it wasn’t just the power of lust he felt rushing through his veins.

He tried to push the doubting thoughts aside. It wasn’t right to take her like this. He had taken her virginity in a stable, for heaven’s sake, she did not need to be taken against a wall. But he could not tell his prick that. He needed her, to be buried deep inside her. He needed to hear his name on her lips as she cried out in her pleasure. He needed to hear that she loved him.

Old fears crept into his mind. He shoved them away, but they came back, more demanding, clearer and more persuasive. No, he was not like his father. He would not destroy her in the manner that his father destroyed his mother. He loved her. He would love her forever.

Needing to show her, he lowered his head to her breasts and took her nipple into his mouth, suckling her greedily till she raked her hands through his hair and panted his name wantonly against his temple.

“I need you, Anais,” he murmured in a harsh voice. “I need you so much.”

Something was wrong. He could not keep that thought from snaking in and out of his head, despite the magic in Anais’s touch. There was definitely something about Anais that was not right. She didn’t feel right beneath his fingers—she was too thin. He wanted her to feel the way she had the night in the stable— all soft and curvy and voluptuous.

“Give me the words,” she coaxed, gripping his cock so that he groaned in pleasure and pain. “Tell me how much better this is than the first time.”

He couldn’t deny her, not with the way she was stroking his shaft through his breeches. He was ready to explode; yet his mind kept resisting. But he wanted to please her. He wanted so damn much to be the sort of man she desired. And he needed release. God, he needed that. To spill himself in her hand and press his face into her sweetly scented throat.

She unfastened his trousers and slipped her hand into the front of them, finding his cock and swirling her finger around the wet tip. “How aroused you are. You’re wet already and leaking your seed.”

His cock stiffened further and he shoved his hips forward encouraging her to stroke him. He was unable to believe that his shy little Anais was being so bold. But it excited him. The more she stroked him, the more aroused and reckless he became. “You’re a little cock tease,” he murmured as she cupped his cods in her palm.

“And do you like how I tease your cock?”

“I should think you know the answer to that, especially after the other night.”

“And am I better than the other night?” she demurred, inflaming him further. “Am I a better cock tease?”

He raised her skirt and stroked her bare backside. A backside that felt much different from the delightful heart-shaped derriere he recalled. But this was Anais. He sensed her as he always did. It was this damn thing that had poisoned his brain, making him think such crazed thoughts.

“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked boldly, cradling his shaft in her hand.

“Suck it,” he groaned, the words spilling out in a long rush of breath as he gave voice to his deepest fantasy. And then almost violently he captured her lips with his and kissed her, needing her in a desperation he had never felt before. “I have to tell you. I can’t wait. I love you,” he said passionately between long, hard, drugging kisses. “I always have. I can’t hide it anymore. I don’t want to hide it. It’s only ever been you—it will forever only be you.”

A heartrending gasp shattered the sound of their breaths. He looked up at the woman in his arms and blinked, his vision still swimming before him. And then, the image slowly danced into focus and he felt the contents of his stomach threaten to come up and spill onto the floor. He looked from the woman who was pressed against him to the sound of the frantic breathing he heard coming from beside him. His mind whirled with the impossibility.

Anais stood frozen, shocked, horrified. The implications of what she was witnessing spun with dizzying speed in her head. Her chest began to rise and fall too rapidly and she felt as though she were being choked by the blue ribbon around her throat. With shaking hands she tore the bonnet from her head. How could Lindsay have done this to her? How, after what they had shared with each other in the stable, could he so easily fall into the arms of another?

“Jesus, how long?” She wasn’t certain if Lindsay knew he said the words aloud.

“Long enough to see you with her and hear that you love her,” she whispered, choking back a sob. She looked away, sickened by the sight of him and saw, for the first time, the woman who was pressed against him.

“Why?” she asked in what was little more than a half-strangled whisper. But she could not finish the sentence. She could not look at Rebecca pressed against Lindsay, her breasts glistening from Lindsay’s mouth. She could not stand to see the woman who had been her trusted friend wearing her costume—the only thing she had ever owned that had not been designed or ordered by her mother. The only thing she had ever wanted Lindsay to see her wearing. Oh, God, what a stupid trusting fool she had been to think that Rebecca had picked up her muslin sack by mistake. It had not been by mistake, but by design—a cruel, ugly design.

“It was you I said those words to. I thought she was you, Anais,” he stammered. “Let me explain—”

“I don’t think the words are necessary, darling,” Rebecca purred, reminding Anais of the snake her friend truly was. “I think what Anais saw speaks for itself. We needn’t hide it anymore.”

“Don’t touch me,” Lindsay snapped, shaking off Rebecca’s hold on his arm. “Goddamn you, what have you done?”

“It’s what you have done, Lindsay,” Anais replied. “You have done this.”

“Let me explain,” he muttered, staggering closer. “I was with Wallingford. I was…slipped something…that is, I took something that made me confused. I thought Rebecca was you. I believed, Anais, that it was truly you.”

“How could you think such a thing? We look nothing alike.”

“Nor are we the same size.” Rebecca’s voice dripped with venom.

Lindsay shot Rebecca a murderous glare as he held on to the wall, supporting his wavering frame. “Anais, listen to me. It was a drug. I’m not drunk. I swear it. It was a mistake. I thought it was you. Believed it was you…believe me, Anais.”

“Lies,” Anais whispered brokenly as she fixed her blurry gaze on Lindsay. “Everything you said, everything you told me…it was nothing but lies. What we did, that was a lie, too. You were just amusing yourself with me—God, how you must have laughed at me, falling for your seductions so easily.”

“Don’t say that, Anais.”

“What, that you were bored silly that night so you thought you’d take me—plain, undesirable spinster that I am—out to the stables for a little amusement? You probably thought you were doing me a favor by sleeping with me. You must have really felt sorry for me that night to put up with such an inexperienced wallflower like me—especially when you could have had…” Anais glanced at Rebecca and felt her throat squeeze shut. “When you could have had someone beautiful, someone as desirable as her.”

“I wanted you—I want you,” he corrected with a frown. “You know that. Just remember how it was, Anais.”

“I remember all too well. I remember a woman who is not beautiful, a woman with a round body that is too full in the belly and the hips, a woman who thought she was beautiful enough for someone like you. Obviously I was an evening of sport until you could move on to better and prettier things.” God, to think of the way she had blindly believed him. Never questioning his sincerity, actually believing that he had not proposed after making love to her because he wanted it to be special like he claimed. And she had fallen for it.

“No, this is a mistake. It’s not what it seems,” he began, taking a staggering step toward her while using his hand against the wall for support.

Anais felt her lips twist with disgust. He looked so very much like his father, stumbling toward her, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers, his curling hair in disarray, his shirttails hanging outside his trousers. She could hardly look at him without wanting to vomit. This was not the Lindsay of her childhood. This was not the man she had lain with two nights ago. This was a stranger—a dissipated wastrel she had never seen before.

“No, please. Don’t look at me like that, Anais. Don’t look at me like you do him. I’m not like him,” he roared, staggering toward her. “Listen to me and let me explain. I don’t want Rebecca. I don’t want anyone but you.”

Anais was suddenly aware of a strong presence beside her. Without looking, she knew that it was Lord Broughton. His arm around her waist was strong and comforting and she sagged against his side.

“Broughton! Thank God…tell her—tell her about the drug…” Lindsay pleaded, lurching toward them. “Broughton knows…he was with me—”

“For as long as I live I shall remember you this way,” Anais gasped through trembling lips as she tried to stem her sob of pain. “Never have you resembled him more than you do now. You’ve broken my heart.” She covered her mouth once more, praying she would be able to leave before she completely broke down. “I wish I had never let you touch me.”

“No, Anais,” he said, his voice pleading. “Christ, no, don’t say that!”

But she turned from him, and Garrett, who was just as shocked by Rebecca’s betrayal, reached for her and took her into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Lindsay cried. “Christ, don’t leave!”

Anais closed her eyes, blocking out the sound, hating the words she had heard him say so many times before. Such meaningless, empty words. Such a meaningless act. What a fool she had been. A hopeless, romantic fool.

“I will not lose you!” Lindsay roared as she turned and walked away, still holding fiercely onto Garrett’s arm. “You cannot run from me, Anais. I will find you. Anais!” Her name, ripped from the depths of Lindsay’s tortured soul, echoed throughout the hall and Anais shivered, still hearing him calling her name even after the carriage wheels had set into motion.