Fallen

v1.0

September 2007

AFTER THE FALL

"Oh, my," she whispered. As the meaning of his words began to come clear, the burden of her fear began to lighten. Notorious? Mysterious? A sensation akin to floating seeped over her. After a moment, she identified it.

Freedom. She was free. Free to do anything she wished. Free to shed years of Hildegard's dour oppression and endless lectures on propriety. She had no need to impress Society. Fed on speculation and the endless search for relief of its own boredom, Society was already impressed.

A small smile slowly stretched across her face. It widened into a full glowing expression of her relief. Leaping up, she threw her arms around his waist, laughing joyfully up at him.

He stiffened at the contact, as if suddenly aware of her in a different way, as if he had buried all recollection of that one scandalous night, the small sensuous creature responding to his touch.

She caught the change in his expression and her smile faded, to be replaced by a half-fearful, half-longing tremor of her lips.

Julian was not a man to pass up such an opportunity. He lowered his mouth to hers.

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Epilogue

To my husband and my father.

My heroes.

I would like to acknowledge all the help I received from Joanne Markis (who read it over and over and over, and then one more time!), my children (who agreed that if cereal was good enough for breakfast, it was good enough for dinner!) and editor Chris Keeslar (who sweetly but firmly forced me to learn more in one week than I'd learned in two years!). I couldn't have done it without them.

^
»

England, 1831

Izzy was having one of those dreams. The sort no one spoke of, that no one confessed to. The sort that made her face burn in recollection the next day. Yet this dream was unlike any other. It was more explicit.

The hand on her knee was warm. On her thigh it felt like fire. Heat shimmered through her, reaching deep to where her darkest fantasies had only begun to take her. Willingly, she followed. The touch teased, coaxed, seared. She melted into it.

When fingers curled under her hem and slid her nightgown to her hips, the faint scrape of nails left a tingling trail on her flesh. A pleasant shiver, a quiver of expectation, a teasing stroke.

The touch became more urgent, more deliberate, coaxing her own urgency to the surface. It bubbled forth, running hot through her veins. The dream darkened, until there was nothing but that fire and her pulse beat.

Aching, she stretched. The hand stroked down the outer contour of her thigh and up the inside. Her body arched into the caress, compelled by it. When the touch almost withdrew, she followed. Rolling toward it, she let her head fall back, aware only of that handspan of burning skin.

More…

She sighed as another hand joined the first and began stroking up her torso, tunneling under her gown. Her own fingers slid up and through her hair as she surrendered limply on her pillow. The hard, hot hands grasped her waist and pulled her down. She slid, down the shimmering slope, down the piled pillows, down into a sure grasp.

She purred.

Hot fingertips traced a circle around her navel. Her belly contracted in response, then relaxed as the touch softened, stroking downward. Her thighs parted as her head arched back, rolling in a negative motion that was anything but. The circle widened, and Izzy twisted restlessly. A trembling began in her parted knees and her breath hitched. Closer.

She wanted…

She didn't know what she wanted. She
was
want. She ached, hungered. Shuddered.

There came a moan of pleasure, a soft sound of feminine need. The noise pierced her slumber, pulling her from the depth of her fantasy. The voice was familiar, the sound not. Who
was
that?

A sudden breath in her ear startled her awake.

'Tis no dream!

She lurched away from the hands, only to find a body flung hard over hers. She inhaled to scream, only to feel lips settle over her mouth. Hands grasped her own, pressing them to the mattress. Her body sank into the feather tick as she wriggled under the weight.

The rasp of stubble scraped her face as her intruder slanted his lips over hers again and again. Fear swept her, stealing away her strength.

She couldn't move, couldn't cry out! Her eyes opened wide in the darkness as the man's tongue slipped between her lips and his knee slipped between her bare thighs.

His mouth was hot with the taste of brandy and tobacco. The very foreignness of the flavor startled her into action. Arching beneath him, she tried to throw his weight from her. The only result was a chuckle from deep in his throat.

His tongue probed her mouth, entering and withdrawing in a rhythm even a spinster could recognize as wicked. Releasing one of her hands, he stroked his palm down her arm. Izzy pushed at his shoulder, to no effect. She couldn't pit her strength against his.

Flinging her free hand out into the darkness, she reached for something, anything…

The candlestick
! Large and ornate, it held an extravagant three candles and was heavy enough to carry with two hands. She had left it on the night table. Oh please, let it be close!

She stretched, grateful to feel her fingertips graze the candelabra's slick base, but could not find a grip on the metal. Her hand scrabbled at it again, only to freeze as her assailant slipped her nightgown down off one shoulder. When the neckline failed to give far enough, he simply pulled until the worn fabric parted at one tired seam.

No
. She recoiled at the tearing sound, her throat closing in a spasm as he encircled one breast with his hand. The heat of his palm seared her flesh, sparking a fresh wave of alarm. She renewed her frenzied quest for the candlestick.

He massaged her breast briefly, then paused. Once more. Warm fingers slid over her in investigation, tracing the contours of her bosom. He raised his head, finally allowing her to draw a breath.

"Celie?" he whispered.

Seizing her chance, she threw herself to one side. She grasped the candlestick and swung it down where his head should be, all the while screaming to wake the dead.

He slumped over her, his weight almost suffocating. She pushed at him, trying to pull herself from beneath him. Only by violently twisting her pelvis against his could she shift him off her.

Just as she clawed her way to the edge of the bed and wrenched the tail of her gown from beneath the intruder, her door burst open. A blaze of candlelight forced her to turn her eyes from the glare. Clutching her torn gown closed over her breasts, she stood trembling as chaos erupted in the small room.

"Miss Temple!"

"What?—My God!"

"That scream!—"

The jumble of voices battered at Izzy and she reached for the carved bedpost. Blinded, she clenched her eyes shut and her knees together to steady them. She ignored the babble of her would-be rescuers, concentrating instead on remaining upright.

As her breathing steadied, she became aware of the clamor in her chamber, the smell of beeswax candles, and the fact that she was, after all, unharmed.

She opened her eyes, blinking against the light of many candles in the hands of those surrounding her bed. Crumpled on the floor before her feet lay the blurred outline of a man's shirt and neck-cloth. She blinked a few times more, trying to make out the faces around her.

Her sight cleared just in time to see a breathless vision fly into the room through the open door. A beauty. An angel. The exquisite woman halted in shock when she spied the figure sprawled on the counterpane.

"Eppie? But we—" The lady stopped with a gasp and stared, her perfect lips parted in surprise and her blue eyes opened wide. Seeing her arrival noted by an audience, the glorious creature squeaked with alarm, clapped a hand over her mouth, and backed out of the center of the uproar.

Izzy Temple frowned, then turned to gaze down at the bed and her assailant. Her remaining fear dissipated as she acknowledged that the fellow was quite unconscious. The man was half-dressed in evening clothes, his arms outflung upon her coverlet, his face hidden in the folds.

He had a great deal of dark hair and wide, bare shoulders. Very wide. Very bare. Who did he remind her of? What had the lady said? Eppie?

Oh, my.

Eppingham Rowley, Baron Blackworth. The son of the marquess of Rotham, grandson of the duke of Dearingham.

Izzy was stunned. He was the one who had touched her? Kissed her? Frightened her near to death? Lord Blackworth was a handsome, wealthy man who was the eventual heir to a dukedom. Why would he be assaulting an old maid in her room?

"Miss Temple! Oh, you poor thing! Oh, my dear…" The rest was lost as Izzy was enfolded to the bosom of her hostess, Lady Cherrymore.

With the lower half of her face muffled by the taller woman's bountiful charms, Izzy could only peer over the lady's shoulder. Two of the several men now crowding her room turned over the limp body on her bed and backed away, exclaiming in surprise.

"Good God!"

"Blackworth!"

"I had heard he was a libertine, but this—"

Appalled murmurs swept the crowd, interspersed with delighted gasps.

"
What
?" An enraged man pushed to the fore. "Dear God!" He halted, gaping like a fish, with bulging eyes and mouth opening and closing rapidly.

Really, how diverting. Her shattered nerves were beginning to color the scene in a most ludicrous perspective.

This new fellow was tall and well-made, even at an age when many men have gone soft with fine living. His hard face was given distinction by the twin wings of silver hair at each temple.

Nonetheless, he lost all trace of dignity at the sight of the younger man on the bed. When the irate gentleman's color began to change from the red of rage to the dark purple of perfect wrath, Izzy felt a wild giggle escape her.