Ashlyn Macnamara (28 page)

“Mr. Upperton”—this time he heard the smile in her voice—“why don’t you tell me about it?”

He shook his head, pointlessly, because she probably couldn’t see it. “Tell you about what?”

“What’s this thing inside you that your father so disapproved of?”

“I’ve shown you that. It’s the music. People don’t generally know—or they haven’t. They will now.”

“Who do you suppose I’ll tell?”

“Not you. I slipped yesterday. I came in here in broad daylight to play and got lost. It does that to me. It makes me forget where I am. The next thing I knew, I had a passel of admirers.”

“So far, you aren’t making much of a case for needing comfort.” Was that pattering rhythm her foot tapping?

“But all those young ladies know now. My
mother
knows, and if you don’t think she’ll nag me to perform in public, think again.”

“You’re not strengthening your case by any means.” The woman could have been a barrister.

“What about the gentlemen at my club? What will they say?”

“I daresay you’ll live it down.” He could picture her crossed arms, her expression of mock severity, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. A comely barrister indeed.

“As I said, I’m an ass.”

“Why does it
really
bother you?”

The question was far too incisive. He shouldn’t answer
her, not honestly, but part of him wanted to. She’d heard him play, which was more than his oldest friend could say. Of anybody, she’d heard him first. What harm to tell her part of the story? He could offer her that much, as long as he didn’t reveal too much.

“I was never meant to have lessons. The music master was brought in for my sisters.”

“But you wanted to learn.”

“More than anything.” He’d never be able to adequately express that need. “I listened to their attempts, and I knew I could do better.”

A memory of himself as a boy flashed through his mind. How many afternoons had he spent lurking at the door while his sisters fumbled through their scales, his fingers itching to show them how it was done?

“Their teacher would demonstrate a new piece,” he went on. “I only had to hear it once. I’d sneak out of my bed at night and play until I learned it.”

“You must not have slept much.”

“It took less time than you might think.” He laughed, an oddly hollow sound. “Mama always claimed my sisters were prodigies, only they seized up with nerves in front of an audience. I wonder now if she heard me at night and thought it was Henny.”

“Why did you hide?”

“I begged my father for lessons at first. He let me know in no uncertain terms that such pursuits were for girls and no son of his would undertake anything so unmanly as music.” He stopped there. He need say no more.

“And then?”

Damn her and her perception. “My father came home from his club one night and caught me at it.”

He still recalled the piece. Bach. Toccata and fugue in D minor. Learning it by ear had proven his greatest challenge yet. He’d practiced and practiced the complicated
intertwining themes, slowly at first, until his fingers adjusted to the movement, and then faster to bring it to its proper tempo. He’d been close to playing it through flawlessly.

Of course, he’d become lost again. The music had taken him in like an enchantress’s spell until he’d lost all notion of time. And then his father came staggering in the door, deep in his cups.

No son of mine will grow up a sodomite
.

He wouldn’t repeat such words to her. At the time, he’d only had a vague notion of what they meant. As Jack had repeated,
bugger
.

He nearly said it aloud. The glance of her fingers across his forearm stayed the vulgarity. Her touch fluttered to his shoulder, not yet an embrace, but threatening to become one. “What did he do when he caught you?”

“What he did best—a load of bluster.” Easy enough to shrug off, but for what happened the next day. “Only he wasn’t foxed enough to forget. The next morning, he swore he’d make a man out of me yet. He took me to his boxing club.”

George scrubbed a hand across his face. “I rather suspect he hoped I’d break my knuckles.”

Isabelle leaned closer—enough that he caught a hint of her lavender fragrance, enough for her warmth to seep beneath his skin. “But you didn’t.”

“No.” He’d learned to dodge. He’d learned to wear an opponent down through endurance, learned to distract through chatter. Anything to preserve his hands. And when he had to strike a blow, he’d learned to make it devastating. “But I wouldn’t take the chance of him succeeding eventually. He made me into what you see. A simple man who plays too deep, drinks too much, and enjoys too many ladies outside the bonds of marriage.”

How empty that sounded. And now he knew firsthand
the consequences of such a life, but he couldn’t tell her that.

“You are more than that,” she declared. “More man than all that. I know you to be.”

She gave him no chance to reply. She sealed any protest with her lips.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

H
ER LIPS
on his were tentative at first. Unsure, despite all that had passed between them. George would not demand more than she was willing to give freely. Let her discover her own brand of power, her own means of persuasion. Let her make the demands once she was ready. Once she knew her own need.

She sipped, rather than drank of him, although a full-throated draught would come as her insecurities fell away. He curled his hands about her waist, held her easily. Her fingers traced featherlight paths that somehow burned along his shoulders, his nape, his neck, his throat, seeking the skin beneath his collar.

Soon. God, let it be soon. Her innocent kisses tortured with their sweetness.

He tightened his grip and lifted her against him. Her small breasts flattened against his chest. Lord but he wanted them in his hands, he wanted to taste them, wanted the taut peaks of her nipples beneath his tongue.

Yet again, he pressed with his hands, this time holding her rigidly, not allowing her to melt. Not yet. Not yet, but soon.

She pulled away and opened her eyes. Her breath rushed between parted lips to fan across his cheek.

“Not here,” he rasped. “The servants will be up to light the fires, and if we dally too long, they’ll catch us. Come to my room.”

She blinked, hesitant in spite of everything they’d done. His room, yes. It was a step into his territory to couple on the linens where he’d slept, perhaps to drift off together and awaken in each other’s arms. Lord, she ought to hesitate.

And why in hell was he allowing it? He never brought his women back to his personal domain. But she was nothing like his other women, or indeed any woman. He could make the exception this once.

His body demanded it.

“It’ll be more comfortable in bed.” He bent and feathered a kiss beneath her ear. Her pulse fluttered just beneath the surface. “More pleasant.” He touched his tongue to the spot. At her gasp, he smiled into her neck. “We can take our time.”

He let her feel his teeth—just a nip. She clutched at his shoulders and sagged against him, her slender body fitting against his as if she was made for him.

Damn, if that wasn’t a sobering thought, one that ought to scare the devil out of him, ought to send him running. But part of him wanted to stay and contemplate the notion. Like a powerful storm at sea, the idea combined both fear and wonder, enough to compel him to watch and yet raise the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Someone might still come upon us.”

He let himself grin. “That’s part of the fun, but if the thought bothers you, you’ll have to promise to be very, very quiet.”

He planned to enjoy coaxing as many cries of pleasure from her as he could.

He released her from his embrace and took her hand. “We’ll steal up the servants’ stairs.”

By God, her fingers tightened about his, and she followed. The trust she placed in him. Granted, he’d asked it of her, but her words from just before their kiss rose to his mind.

More man than all that
.

He wasn’t so certain, when he was falling back into the rake’s role to lead her astray.

And if you promised her more, you wouldn’t be leading her astray
.

Now that thought was truly frightening. Besides, he could not act on it. What might he offer her? A better home, a better position in society, perhaps, but polite society would never accept her.

And then there was the matter of his heart. He might offer her that, but what did he know of sentiment? His father’s laughter echoed through his mind. Romantic attachment, yet another domain of females, along with silk and lace, along with watercolor, along with poetry and novels. Along with music.

The best he could do was restore her son to her—and he’d already made that vow.

I
SABELLE
’
S
heart pattered a frantic beat against her ribs. The outside world looked on her as a fallen woman, but for the first time, she was acting the part. Bold and brazen as she pleased, she’d thrown herself into George’s arms, and now she let him lead her toward the temptation of his body.

Gladly.

He’d given her pleasure, and now she’d give back. She wanted to share herself with him and erase the ghost of the sad little boy she’d seen flit through the room as George recounted his childhood frustrations. She knew all too well what it meant to be forced into a mold of familial expectations—the rules that required her to present a façade of perfection. How they’d rankled. How they, in the end, had pushed her to rebel.

The servants’ stairs ran through the back of the house, spare and rickety. Each creak of a loose board echoed in
the night. When they emerged into the upper corridor, she half expected to find the other houseguests waiting to pounce.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” she whispered as loudly as she dared.

“I think it’s an excellent idea.” George pitched his voice low, and its warmth washed over her in a sensual wave. “See? We’re already at my door.”

He turned a handle and swung aside a panel to reveal his cavernous bedchamber. The light from his branch of candles chased the shadows to the corners. An arched casement broke the line of the far wall. A wide canopied bed dominated the left side, its hangings a steely blue that matched the stripes of the wallpaper.

“Nearly as big as my cottage,” she murmured. She’d paid it little heed earlier, when he replaced his wet clothes for dry. “All this stone. It must be impossible to heat in winter.”

He set a hand against her nape. “I can think of a few ways to keep warm.” His fingers curled around her neck, pulling her closer. “What do you think? Two bodies beneath a coverlet ought to manage nicely.”

He swept her into a full embrace, and his lips descended. He pressed feverish kisses to her mouth, cheeks, and forehead. Not enough. She hadn’t followed him here for a few simple pecks like children hiding in a hedgerow.

With a moan, she grasped his shirt front and pulled him to her. Her lips met his in an urgent kiss. She held nothing back. He’d awakened these feelings in her, this craving, this sensuality, and for once, she was going to obey their demands. She might never again have such a chance. Her fingers entangled in his hair, her breasts crushed to his chest, and her hips cradled a fast growing hardness.

Oh, yes, she wanted that in her hands, between her thighs, slipping into her body and driving her to madness.
With breasts and hips and thighs, she pressed closer.

He tore his lips from hers, his breath ragged. “Slow down, love. We’ve hours yet before dawn.”

“I don’t believe I want slow. Not just now. Perhaps later.”

He bent until his forehead rested against hers. “Do you mean to test my limits?”

The smile that stretched her cheeks felt very wicked indeed. “That sounds like it might be quite diverting.”

“Diverting.” He gave a short laugh. “I’ll show you diverting. Come here.”

He hauled her up against the breadth of his chest, and his lips grazed a spot just beneath her ear. The tip of his tongue darted out to trail warm dampness over her skin. The flats of his palms smoothed along her spine from her shoulder blades to the dip of her waist and lower.

She gave herself over, let herself feel. How different this experience was from furtive groping in an abandoned corridor. How much richer, how much deeper, how much less fraught with fear. How much more alive.

George had demanded her trust days ago, and she’d given it to him. He’d reached out to her—an essential stranger—and helped. He’d shown her caring when no one else would. He’d refused to let her remain an outcast. And when she was with him, she no longer felt like one.

He awakened in her a sense of belonging that she’d never experienced, ever. Even before her family had repudiated her, they held their members at a distance. The Marshalls existed for gain—power, money, it didn’t matter. What they wanted, they took, and no one dared protest. The reckless fool who possessed the audacity to break free of the rigid mold of their expectations was no longer acceptable.

And if she’d ever stopped to consider the situation, she might have realized sooner that she’d never been one of them. Not really. As she was now discovering, she craved closeness to another. She
needed
it.