Love in the Afternoon (26 page)

Their conversation paused as they saw Christopher riding from the

stables, his form straight as a blade as he spurred his horse into a swift graceful canter.

Beatrix sighed. "I was trying to score points rather than consider how he was feeling," she admitted. "He was probably frightened for me, seeing the horse topple over like that."

"Probably?" Leo repeated. "He looked like he had just seen Death. I believe it may have touched off one of his bad spells, or whatever it is you call them."

"I must go to him."

"Not dressed like that."

"For heaven's sake, Leo, just this one time--"

"No exceptions, darling. I know my sisters. Give any one of you an inch, and you'll take a mile." He reached out and pushed back her tumbling hair. "Also . . . don't go without a chaperone."

"I don't want a chaperone. That's never any fun."

"Yes, Beatrix, that's the purpose of a chaperone."

"Well, in our family, anyone who chaperoned me would probably

need a chaperone more than I do."

Leo opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

Rare was the occasion when her brother was unable to argue a point.

Repressing a grin, Beatrix strode toward the house.

Christopher had forgiven Beatrix before he had even reached Phelan

House. He was well aware that Beatrix was accustomed to nearly

unqualified freedom, and she had no wish to be reined in any more than that devil of a horse had. It would take time for her to adjust to restrictions. He had already known that.

But he had been too rattled to think clearly. She meant too much to

him--she was his life. The thought of her being hurt was more than his soul could bear. The shock of seeing Beatrix nearly killed, the overwhelming mixture of terror and fury, had exploded through him and left him in chaos.

No, not chaos, something far worse. Gloom. A gray, heavy fog had enclosed 167

him, suffocating all sound and feeling. He felt as if his soul were barely anchored in his body.

This same numb detachment had happened from time to time during

the war, and in the hospital. There was no cure for it, except to wait it out.

Telling the housekeeper that he didn't want to be disturbed,

Christopher headed to the dark, quiet sanctuary of the library. After searching through the sideboard, he found a bottle of Armagnac, and poured a glass.

The liquor was harsh and peppery, searing the inside of his throat.

Exactly what he wanted. Hoping it would burn through the chill in his soul, he tossed it back and poured a second.

Hearing a scratch at the door, he went to open it. Albert crossed the threshold, wagging and snorting happily. "Useless mongrel," Christopher said, bending to pet him. "You smell like the floor of an East End tavern."

The dog pushed back against his palm demandingly. Christopher lowered to his haunches and regarded him ruefully. "What would you say if you could talk?" he asked. "I suppose it's better that you don't. That's the point of having a dog. No conversation. Just admiring gazes and endless panting."

Someone spoke from the threshold behind him, startling him. "I hope that's not what you'll expect . . ."

Reacting with explosive instinct, Christopher turned and fastened his hand around a soft throat.

". . . from a wife," Beatrix finished unsteadily.

Christopher froze. Trying to think above the frenzy, he took a

shivering breath, and blinked hard.

What in God's name was he doing?

He had shoved Beatrix against the doorjamb, pinning her by the

throat, his other hand drawn back in a lethal fist. He was a hairsbreadth away from delivering a blow that would shatter delicate bones in her face.

It terrified him, how much effort it took to unclench his fist and relax his arm. With the hand that was still at her throat, he felt the fragile throb of her pulse beneath his thumb, and the delicate ripple of a swallow.

Staring into her rich blue eyes, he felt the welter of violence washed away in a flood of despair.

With a muffled curse, he snatched his hand from her and went to get

his drink.

"Mrs. Clocker said you'd asked not to be disturbed," Beatrix said.

"And of course the first thing I did was disturb you."

"Don't come up behind me," Christopher said roughly. "Ever."

"I of all people should have known that. I won't do it again."

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Christopher took a fiery swallow of the liquor. "What do you mean, you of all people?"

"I'm used to wild creatures who don't like to be approached from behind."

He shot her a baleful glance. "How fortunate that your experience with animals has turned out to be such good preparation for marriage to me."

"I didn't mean . . . well, my point was that I should have been more considerate of your nerves."

"I don't have nerves," he snapped.

"I'm sorry. We'll call them something else." Her voice was so soothing and gentle that it would have caused an assortment of cobras, tigers, wolverines, and badgers to all snuggle together and take a group nap.

Christopher gritted his teeth and maintained a stony silence.

Pulling what looked like a biscuit from the pocket of her dress,

Beatrix offered it to Albert, who bounded over to her and took the treat eagerly. Leading the dog to the door, she gestured for him to cross the threshold. "Go on to the kitchen," she said in an encouraging tone. "Mrs.

Clocker is going to feed you." Albert was gone in a flash.

Closing and locking the door, Beatrix approached Christopher. She

looked fresh and feminine in a lavender dress, her hair neatly swept up with combs. One could not fathom a different picture from the outlandish girl in breeches.

"I could have killed you," he said savagely.

"You didn't."

"I could have hurt you."

"You didn't do that, either."

"God, Beatrix." Christopher went to sit heavily at a hearthside chair, glass in hand.

She followed him in a rustle of lavender silk. "I'm not Beatrix, actually. I'm her much nicer twin. She said you could have me from now on." Her gaze flickered to the Armagnac. "You promised not to drink spirits."

"We're not married yet." Christopher knew he should have been ashamed of the sneering echo of her own earlier words, but the temptation was too much to resist.

Beatrix didn't flinch. "I'm sorry about that. It's no fun, caring about my welfare. I'm reckless. I overestimate my abilities." She lowered to the floor at his feet, resting her arms on his knees. Her earnest blue eyes, starred with heavy dark lashes, stared contritely into his. "I shouldn't have spoken to you as I did earlier. For my family, arguing is a sport--we forget that some 169

people tend to take it personally." One of her fingertips drew an intricate little pattern on his thigh. "But I have redeeming qualities," she continued. "I never mind dog hair, for example. And I can pick up small objects with my toes, which is a surprisingly useful talent."

Christopher's numbness started melting like spring ice. And it had

nothing to do with the Armagnac. It was all Beatrix.

God, he adored her.

But the more he thawed, the more volatile he felt. Need surged

beneath the thin veneer of self-control. Too much need.

Setting the unfinished liquor on the carpeted floor, Christopher drew Beatrix between his knees. He bent forward to press his lips to her forehead.

He could smell the tantalizing sweetness of her skin. Settling back in the chair, he studied her. She looked angelic and guileless, as if sugar wouldn't melt in her mouth. Little rogue, he thought with tender amusement. He stroked one of her slender hands, which was resting on his thigh. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly.

"So your middle name is Heloise," he said.

"Yes, after the medieval French nun. My father loved her writings. In fact, it occurs to me . . . Heloise was renowned for the love letters she exchanged with Abelard." Beatrix's expression brightened. "I've rather lived up to my namesake, haven't I?"

"Since Abelard was eventually castrated by Heloise's family, I'm not especially fond of the comparison."

Beatrix grinned. "You have nothing to worry about." As she stared at him, her smile faded. "Am I forgiven?" she asked.

"For endangering yourself? . . . Never. You're too precious to me."

Christopher took up her hand and kissed it. "Beatrix, you are beautiful in that dress, and I love your company more than anything in the world. But I have to take you home."

Beatrix didn't move. "Not until this is resolved."

"It is."

"No, there's still a wall between us. I can feel it."

Christopher shook his head. "I'm just . . . distracted." He reached for her elbows. "Let me help you up."

She resisted. "Something's not right. You're so far away."

"I'm right here."

There were no words to describe this infernal sense of detachment. He didn't know why it appeared or what would make it go away. He only knew that if he waited long enough, it would disappear of its own accord. At least, it had before. Perhaps one day it would appear and never leave him. Christ.

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Staring at him, Beatrix clamped her hands lightly on his thighs.

Instead of standing, she hitched her body higher against him.

Her mouth came to his, gently inquiring. He felt a little shock, a

sudden pitch of his heart as if it had remembered to start beating again.

Beatrix's lips were soft and hot, teasing in the way he had taught her. He felt lust come raging up, dangerously fast. Her weight was on him, her breasts, the mass of her skirts compressed between his thighs. He surrendered for a moment, fusing his mouth to hers and kissing her the way he wanted to take her, deep and hard. Beatrix immediately went pliant, submissive, in a way that drove him mad, and she knew it.

He wanted everything of her, wanted to subject her to every craving

and impulse, and she was too innocent for any of it. Tearing his mouth from hers, Christopher held her at arms' length.

Her eyes were wide and wondering.

To his relief, she levered away from him and stood.

And then she began to unfasten her bodice.

"What are you doing?" he asked hoarsely.

"Don't worry, the door is locked."

"That isn't what I--Beatrix--" By the time he had lurched to his feet, her bodice had listed open. A thick, primitive drumbeat started in his ears.

"Beatrix, I'm not in the mood for virginal experimentation."

She gave him a purely ingenuous look. "Neither am I."

"You're not safe with me." He reached for the neckline of her bodice and yanked it together. While he fumbled to fasten it, Beatrix hiked up the side of her dress. A tug and a wriggle, and her petticoat dropped to the floor.

"I can undress faster than you can dress me," she informed him.

Christopher clenched his teeth as he saw her push her dress below her hips. "Damn you, I can't do this. Not now." He was perspiring, every muscle hard. His voice shook with the force of suppressed need. "I'm going to lose control." He wouldn't be able to stop himself from hurting her. For their first time, he would have to approach her with absolute restraint, give himself release beforehand to take the edge from his lust . . . but at the moment, he would fall on her like a ravening animal.

"I understand." Beatrix pulled the combs from her hair, tossed them into the pile of discarded lavender silk, and shook out the gleaming sable locks. And she gave him a look that caused every hair on his body to lift. "I know you think that I don't understand, but I do. And I need this as much as you do." Slowly she unhooked her corset and dropped it to the floor.

Dear God. How long it had been since a woman had undressed for

him. Christopher couldn't move or speak, just stood there aroused and 171

starving and mindless, his eyes eating up the sight of her.

As she saw the way he watched her, she disrobed even more

deliberately, drawing the chemise over her head. Her breasts were high and gently curved, the tips rose colored. They bounced delicately as she bent to remove her drawers.

She stood to face him.

Despite her audacity, Beatrix was nervous, an uneven blush covering

her from head to toe. But she watched him closely, taking in his reactions.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, slim and lithe, her legs sheathed in pale pink stockings and white garters. She devastated him.

The sable locks of her hair draped over her body, hanging down to her waist.

The little triangle between her thighs looked like rich fur, an erotic contrast to her porcelain skin.

He felt weak and brutal at the same time, desire pumping through him.

Nothing mattered except getting inside her . . . he had to have her or die. He didn't understand why she had deliberately pushed him over the edge, why she wasn't frightened. A rough sound was torn from his throat. Although he made no conscious decision to move, somehow he had crossed the space between them and seized her. He let his splayed fingers travel over her back, down to the curve of her bottom. Pulling her high and tight against him, he found her mouth, kissing her, almost savaging her.

She yielded completely, offering her body, her mouth, in any way he

chose. As his mouth possessed hers, he reached farther between her thighs, forcing them to part. He found the tender pleats of her sex. Parting the softness, he massaged until he found wetness, and slid two fingers into the supple heat of her. Gasping against his mouth, she strained higher on her toes. He held her like that, tightly impaled on his fingers as he kissed her.

"Let me feel you," she said breathlessly, her hands working at his clothes. "Please . . . yes . . ."

Christopher fought with his waistcoat and shirt, sending buttons

scattering in his haste. When his upper half was bared, he enfolded her in his arms. They both groaned and went still, absorbing the feel of it, their skin pressed together, her breasts softly abraded by the hair on his chest.