Paying the Virgin's Price (16 page)

          And the sudden knowledge that he could begin it all again, on naked skin, with no chemise as obstacle.

          In response to her grip on his shoulders, his fingers dug into the flesh at the side of her waist, pushing her petticoat down and pulling her hips tight to his. And she remembered that what they were doing was nothing compared to what they would do.

          Then the sensation broke over her, and she was gasping for control, her body shuddering, her muscles clenching as though they wished to hang on to the feeling, to take it inside and keep it forever. Nathan gave another pull upon her breast, as though he knew how to prolong her reaction, until she had experienced the last drop of the pleasure, before letting it slowly fade, leaving her weak and in his power. When she could manage to speak, she whispered, 'What is happening to me?'

          He lifted his head and smiled up at her. 'Nothing that should not happen. And nothing that will not happen again. It is the reason that I did not think it necessary to retain the coachman. I had no wish for a few minutes alone with you, while I took without giving.' He dropped to his knees in front of her, letting his hands trail down her body until they touched her ankles. And then they progressed slowly back up her leg, touching her stockings until they reached the top. 'I recognize the sacrifice you make by doing this, and I mean to be worthy of it.'

          His fingers were undoing her garters, and occasionally, some part of his hand would brush the bare flesh of her leg. Each time, she felt a fresh shudder go through her, as though her body remembered the release she had experienced as he'd kissed her breasts. But now, his face was settled between her legs, and she could feel the heat of his breath, pooling there, stroking her as gently as his hands were touching her legs. He drew each stocking down to her ankle, with long smooth caresses. And then he lifted each foot to remove slipper and stocking, and as she off-balanced, her body pressed close to his face for a fleeting kiss through the lawn of her shift.

          The trembling within her was almost continual now, a strange fluttering that was a precursor to her body's surrender. Before he could kiss her again, she reached for the linen of his shirt and pulled it over his head, distracting him and leaving his chest bare for her admiration. He was still kneeling before her. And for a moment, she imagined him helpless before her, as though she were in the seraglio he had described and he existed only for her pleasure. Experimentally, she lifted her bare foot and ran it up the inner seam of his trousers, feeling the muscle of his thigh jump at her touch. He cupped her ankle and drew her leg higher, until her knee rested against his chest and her foot at the apex of his legs.

          He stroked her instep, making her laugh, letting her foot struggle to escape the tickling. She nuzzled it against his body, stroking it against his member. Feeling him grow as she touched him, and watching his face contort with the strain of control. He positioned her against him, holding her there, showering her knee with kisses, his breath coming as a moan of desire against her skin.

          Suddenly, he pushed her leg down and rose. He bent and caught her easily behind the knees, scooping her up into his arms and striding across the room to the bed, tossing her in a heap onto the pillows piled there. The skirt of her chemise rode high on her legs, and he stared down at her--thighs sprawled open, breasts straining against the damp fabric. In a scant hour with the man, she had become a wanton.

          And she enjoyed it. He was staring at her body. She reached for the hem of her shift to pull it higher in invitation.

          He held out a hand to stop her, then leaned against the bedpost, pulling off boots and stockings, and reaching for the buttons on his trousers. 'Do you understand what you are doing to me, Miss Price? A little more play, and I will spill my seed without ever touching you. And we shall have to begin, all over again.'

          Her body gave an answering shudder, welcoming an idea that would have been abhorrent to her this morning.

          He was naked before her now, fully aroused. He knelt upon the bed, between her legs as she pulled the last garment over her head, casting it aside and settling back into the pillows to await what she knew must come.

          But instead, he covered her with his body, kissing her mouth, her eyes, her chin, and then slowly down, lingering over her breasts until she was nearly mad with desire, and then moving lower, to kiss between her legs, massaging her thighs with his palms, opening her with his tongue until she had no defences left and her body was wracked with wave upon wave of ecstasy, desperate to be filled.

          And after he had claimed her with his mouth, he took her, when she was too lost with need to feel the pain, plunging over and over, while she shook with joy, tightening against him, welcoming him in. He shook as well and moaned her name. And then his body went still against hers.

          He pulled her close, and rolled to the side, never leaving her, caressing her back and kissing her face as they lay nestled in the pillows on his bed. He reached to draw a counterpane over them, and whispered, 'My love.'

          And from there, it was too easy, just to fall asleep in his arms.

Chapter Sixteen

         
W
here were her gloves?

          On the floor, where he had dropped them? She fumbled over the carpet of the darkened sitting room. The candles had burned away and the fire as well, leaving her cold in the predawn light.

          'Are you all right, Miss Diana?'

          She started, instinctively reaching to straighten her hair, her dress, anything...her hands fluttering over her body as uncontrolled as birds, desperate to assure herself that nothing on the exterior had changed and that the letter of debt was still secure in her pocket, where she had tucked it before creeping from the bedroom to find her cloak.

          The voice had come from behind her, in the hall. The butler, again. If he did not guess the purpose of her visit when she arrived, he could have no doubt now.

          She turned to him, trying to smile, pretending a composure that was not possible. 'All right? Of course, Benton. I am fine.'

          He continued to stare at her, without judgment or disapproval, but with an unusual amount of concern. 'Are you sure, Miss Diana?' A cloud passed over the old man's face. 'He did not hurt you?'

          And suddenly, she was sure that she had but to raise her voice in alarm and Nathan would be dragged from his bed and beaten bloody by his own servants.

          She gave the man another false smile. 'Hurt me? Of course not, Benton. You have nothing to fear on my account. But if you wish, you may help me find a carriage. I would like to return to Lord Narborough's town house. Discreetly, if possible.'

          'Very good, miss. Mr Wardale's carriage is at your disposal. I will see to it at once. And the other glove is under the side table. Allow me.'

          He retrieved the thing for her, escorted her to the front door and stepped outside to arrange for her transport.

          Once inside the carriage, she collapsed on the seat, her legs weak with relief. She was glad that her father had not lived to see this day: his only daughter turned whore to the man who ruined him. But there was some comfort in the remaining loyalty and discretion of the servants. She could see by the look in Benton's eye that he liked this no better than she did, and his sympathy did not lie with his new master.

          Nathan Wardale was still asleep in his bed, with no idea that one of his sisters was alive and well. She had told him nothing, not even the evil hint meant to torment him. Just a few hours ago, she was taking great satisfaction in the fact that she controlled the degree of his suffering. But now, she had become equally to blame for anything that had happened between them. She could pretend that it had been forced upon her by a wicked man who deserved whatever misery she could provide. The first time, perhaps.

          But what had happened, after...

          She felt her legs go weak again. Without parting, they had dozed together for a short time. And she had awakened, restless, all thoughts of vengeance gone. She had pushed at his shoulder, playfully, and then rolled so that he was beneath her. She had kissed his lips, wrapped her legs around his body, and thrust her hips into his.

          He'd returned her kiss. But he made no effort to hold her, although she could feel him growing hard inside her, again. So she'd sat up, straddling him. She'd rocked against him, and he'd bent his knees behind her, supporting her back, then lain back in the pillows and watched her give in to the needs of her own body. He'd guided her fingers, encouraging her to touch herself until she was a slave to the sensation. And then she had ridden him wildly, for her own pleasure. After wave upon wave of ecstasy, she'd clenched her thighs on his body until he'd responded with short, hard thrusts, smiling as he drove himself to exhaustion.

          It had made her feel powerful, to watch him fall asleep beneath her, strong in a way that had nothing to do with vengeance. If this had been a battle, she had emerged victorious. He was conquered. And if she wished, she could celebrate the victory by having him again.

          And then the doubts had begun to creep back in. When she was sure that he would not awaken, she had climbed carefully out of the bed, dressed as though nothing had changed, and taken the IOU. It was at the bedside, just as he had promised. She had closed the door as quietly as she could and started down the stairs.

          And begun to fall apart. Benton was helpful. The carriage driver was polite and the trip short. She had crept back in the Carlow town house, successfully avoiding both servants and family. And now, she was on her way to her room. It was so late as to be almost dawn. She could lie down for a few moments. At least she would stay long enough to muss the bedclothes, so there would be no question of where she had spent the night. And then she would rise, wash, and go about her life as though nothing had happened.

          But first, she would throw the accursed, life-changing piece of paper into the fireplace and watch it burn. She would poke it until there was nothing left but ashes, and then she would poke the ashes until they were dust.

          And finally, she would be free.

          She closed the door behind her, then took the paper out of her pocket, staring at the shaky writing of her desperate father. And she knew that she could no more throw it away than Nathan had. It held no power over her. Perhaps it never had. It was a nothing, a jot, a scrap. It was not a true debt of honour; there had been no honour in the giving of it, or the taking.

          It was a strange, sad reminder of the night when everything had changed. That was why Nathan had kept it, she was sure. Not as a threat, nor a punishment. And never meaning to find her and call it in. He had kept it because he did not wish to forget what had happened, for he did not wish to repeat his mistake.

          It was her own imagination that had turned the paper into a nightmare and turned the man that held it into a monster.

          She turned it over in her hands, folding it along the old creases. Now, it was she who did not wish to forget. This paper had brought her to Nathan Wardale. To his life--and his bed. It would be eminently foolish to go back, now that she had left him, to devote herself to an unrepentant gambler who was no better than her father. But she did not wish to forget her time with him, nor to repeat the mistake of falling in love with a man so utterly inappropriate.

          She took a deep breath, remembering the rush of panic followed by desire, and the deep satisfaction of the previous hours. And the cherished way she had felt when he'd held her afterwards, staring into her eyes. While it had been terrifying, it had been sweet as well. How nice it would be, to have a life full of moments like that.

          But more likely, if she returned to Nathan Wardale, her life would be full of lonely nights, squalling children and an angry and distant husband who cared more for cards than he did for her. She remembered what it had been like for her mother when her father would not leave the tables, and how she had cried when she thought no one would hear. Nathan's luck was bound to change eventually. And then there would be debts, the men who collected them and eventual ruin. Unless she was prepared to see another paper such as this, to be sold when her husband treated her as chattel or to see a daughter similarly treated, she could not go back to him. She need only look at the paper to know why she could never return.

          She would put it away somewhere. In the wardrobe with the bank notes. Or perhaps she could tuck it between the pages of a book and it could lie forgotten.

          There, on the bedside table, was the little book of poetry. And she did not need to open it again to realize where it had come from or to know that the ribbon that marked it was her own. He had taken it from her old bedroom and given it back to her. Without thinking, she had taken the thing up and begun reading where she had left off, all those years ago.

          He had been trying to tell her the truth. Before the note, before she had sought the journal for him. Even before the first kiss. He had been seeking a way to tell her, as gently as possible, who he was and that she need have no fear. And she had been so set on who she wished him to be that she did not see what was before her very eyes.

          God help her, even if she could not forgive him for what had happened before, he deserved some small credit for trying to find a way to be kind. He had earned a measure of kindness from her in return. It was in her power to end some portion of his suffering, and Nell's as well. But she had kept it from him.

          It made her ashamed. Whatever might happen in the future, no good could come of keeping grudges or offering punishments for ancient mistakes. When Marc brought Nell home from Northumberland, she would find a way to tell her enough of the truth so that she could find her brother again. Diana need never see the man again, of course. That would be too painful for so many reasons. But whatever he had become, he and his sister had suffered in ignorance of each other for long enough. She would not be the one to keep them apart. It was the very least she could do, if she wished to clear her slate with Nathan Wardale.

          So she tucked the note into the book, along with what was left of the money, and tied the whole thing shut with the ribbon, as though it were possible to close off this chapter of her life, perhaps to open it again on a day when the whole story was not so fresh and painful.

          Nate started awake, as though the awareness of a lack was sufficient to disturb him. He had meant to close his eyes for no more than a minute. But he had slept soundly, and now she was gone from his bed. He felt the sheets next to him, trying to decide if they were still warm from the body that had lain beside him. The letter was gone from the dressing table. Damn the thing to hell for all the trouble it had caused him.

          There was a noise in the hall, and he jumped out of bed and threw open the door, eager to catch her before she got to the front door. 'Diana, wait...'

          The startled maid screamed at the sight of him standing naked in the hallway.

          He stepped back and slammed the door again, muttering an apology to the girl through the oak panel. Then he requested, as calmly as possible, that Benton be sent to his rooms immediately. Embarrassed by his own behaviour, Nate returned to the bed, wrapped himself in a sheet and rang for his valet as well.

          Did she not see, after what they had done together, that this was about more than a few words scrawled by her father years before they met? He had done everything in his power to show her, to love her with his body and prove that his words were not lies.

          Yet, she had ignored it and left him. And he felt more desolate than he did after a night at the tables, as though there was nothing and no one in the world to erase the loneliness.

          As the valet dressed him, Benton explained that Miss Price had left before dawn and in rather a hurry. She had requested that he bring the carriage around for her. She had insisted that she was fine and that there was nothing to be concerned about.

          Of course she would. She was always insisting that she was fine, needed nothing, and was perfectly happy. She needed no one. And she did it so convincingly, so placidly, and with not a drop of excess emotion that it took a professional gambler to see she was bluffing.

          The old butler said it all with a distinct air of disapproval. As though it were not clear enough that he found his master's actions towards the young lady near to reprehensible.

          As did Nathan. Damn his own pride for thinking that his skill as a lover would have been enough to hold her. She had made it plain that she detested him and would never forgive what he had done. He must be as base as she thought, if he assumed that she would throw over her deeply held beliefs after a few hours in bed with him.

          And damn again to his promise that he would not seek her out once she left. If he had the honour he claimed, he could not go back on his word. Better to have begged forgiveness at the start. He should have gotten down on his knees before her and pled for another chance. It would have been easy enough. For when he had seen her, resplendent in a pool of green silk, her mouth the same Cupid's bow, and her eyes wide and innocent, he had been a willing supplicant. And then, she had toyed with him...

          Was she an angel or a tormenter? It did not matter. She was perfection. He never should have let her escape.

          As if to reinforce the opinion, his valet tugged so tightly upon his cravat that he was near to choking before the tying was through. It was hardly fair, for the man had not even been a servant of the Price household. He had arrived here along with Nate. But it was clear that he'd chosen to add to the silent chorus of contempt that had been building in this house since the day he'd met Diana Price.

          All the more galling that he deserved what he got from them. Every arch look, every small shake of the head. Every indictment of his character. Every sniff of disapproval. They took his money easily enough, when it was time to collect their salaries. And he continued to play, telling himself that they depended on his gambling to pay their keep. It was his responsibility to continue.

          But how much did he need, really? It had been almost honourable, when he'd had a mother and sisters to protect, however best he could. But once they were lost? He'd gathered enough winnings to support himself in luxury for the rest of his life. Gaming had become nothing more than a way to pass the time until the moment when some loser at the table decided to put a ball through him.

          No more. Perhaps he could not stop going to the tables. For without Diana, what more was there left in his life? But he could stop keeping score. He glanced at the box on the dresser, full of signets, fobs, and bits and pieces of the lives of others. Each one a memory of a life he had changed.