PortraitofPassion (22 page)

Quietly he made his way down the dark corridor, listening
for Beatrice’s throaty laugh, for Moorehead’s booming voice. He paused at the
foot of the stairs as he recognized Moorehead’s role in her greedy scheme. He
had known her all her life, had provided her shelter both here and in Paris. He
must have known what she was up to. Of course he did.

“Kindly refrain from kissing Bea in the kitchen. There
are any number of rarely used rooms in this mausoleum where you are unlikely to
be found out.”

He sucked in a harsh breath at the evidence of the man’s
complicity. He had knowingly abetted her in attempting to swindle a piece of
Henry’s inheritance, his friend’s own son, his friend whom he had known since
boyhood. He had helped her plot out every last detail of her plan to lure Henry
into generosity, to seduce Simon into complacency, to blackmail Lady Hastings
with the threat to reveal all to her son.

A fresh wave of fury rushed over him, making him
lightheaded, making him break out in a sweat. Goddamn him, he seethed as he
slowly walked up the stairs. Goddamn him and goddamn her.

He reached Beatrice’s bedroom door and paused to lay his ear
against the heavy wood. He heard only silence. Slowly, quietly he turned the
knob and eased the door open. He peeked his head into the room, quickly
assuring himself that her maid was not propped up in the chair. He stepped in
and closed the door behind him, softly turned the key in the lock.

He approached the bed to see she was sleeping peacefully on
her side, her pale face glowing in the moonlight that streamed through the open
window. She had one small hand tucked under her cheek. Her hair was pulled back
and braided down her back. She had kicked one long, slender leg outside the
covers to stretch it across the bed, her bare toes dangled over the edge.

Simon was struck anew by how delicate she looked. Lies, he
thought savagely. It was all lies. Her delicacy, the vulnerability he had seen
in her warm, brown eyes, the honesty he had read in her smile, heard in her
soft words, in her husky laughter. It had all been lies. Lies designed to
entice him, to seduce him, to enslave his body and capture his heart.

“Goddamn you,” he whispered, standing over her.

Beatrice murmured in her sleep, rolled slowly onto her back.
Simon watched in suspended fascination as she stretched one long, sinuous arm
up over her head. Her lashes fluttered and slowly, ever so slowly she opened
her eyes.

“Simon,” she whispered sleepily. She stretched her arm out
to him, her heavy-lidded eyes locked on his face, a soft smile upon her lips.
She turned her palm up to him in invitation.

He could take her, he thought, the familiar rush of desire
racing through his blood. He could take her right now, use her body however he
chose. She had bartered that body for a house and a piece of land. She had used
that body to drive him mad with desire. In his drunken fury, it seemed fitting
that he use that body to punish her, to exact revenge for her deceit.

“Simon?” Beatrice blinked up at him in confusion when he
only continued to stand beside the bed, looking down at her. He thought his
face must be in shadow. If she was able to see his eyes, see the hard set of
his mouth, see the muscles of his jaw clamped tight, she would not be smiling
up at him.

He reached out and dragged the coverlet to the end of the
bed, tossing it over and onto the floor. Beatrice wore a thin, white cotton
nightgown unadorned by lace or embroidery or ribbons—a simple summer nightgown that
an innocent young girl would wear. The sight of it, the pristine white, the
loose neckline slipping down over one shoulder, the way it had ridden up around
her thighs in her sleep, caused his rage and desire to burn through his body,
settling heavily in his groin.

Simon forced his eyes from her white thighs slightly parted,
to up over her flat stomach, over the swell of her breasts, her nipples a dark
shadow through the cotton, up to her face. He expected to find confusion there,
perhaps even fear. He should have known better. When had she ever reacted as he
expected?

She was looking back at him with drowsy, warm eyes, her
lashes inky in the dim light, her irises nearly black. As he watched, her mouth
tilted up just a touch at the corners, just enough to showcase the lush
ripeness, just enough for him to see the tip of her tongue as it came out to
lick her lips. She smiled in that soft, gentle way he had seen a hundred times.

Simon shrugged out of his coat and loosened his cravat. He
had yet to say a word to her. His mind was a seething riot of rage and
revulsion and anguish. His aunt’s words churned about in his brain, driving his
fury.

“Seduce Henry…you had to have her, just like your
uncle…just like your father…between your father’s legs…Idyllwild…blackmail…darkest
recesses of their hearts…”

Beatrice did not move as he dragged his shirt up over his
head. She lay quietly watching as he unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them
down to his knees. He saw her look down at his boots before returning her eyes
to his. He saw the question, refused to answer.

Simon reached out and grabbed her legs above her knees and
pulled her across the bed. She let out a soft huff of surprise, a small, husky
laugh. He dragged her toward him until her knees bent over the edge of the high
bed, dangling down to one side of him where he stood.

“Simon,” she said on a soft, shaky breath, looking up at
him. He could not read the expression in her dark eyes but thought that she
might suspect that perhaps she should be wary of him. “What…”

Simon reached down and grabbed her by shoulder and hip and
flipped her onto her stomach. She started to push up to one elbow, started to
turn her head to look back at him. Simon stopped her when he took hold of her
hips and pulled her down to the edge of the bed, wedging her thighs apart with
his hips. He pulled her one more time until her thighs slid right over the side
of the tall bed and her toes hit the floor.

Again she attempted to rise. He placed one hard hand between
her shoulder blades and forced her down until she was flat on the bed once
more.

“Simon!”

He ignored her cry, ignored the shock in her voice. He
thought she was not yet afraid, only surprised and dismayed.

With one hand holding her down, he reached the other between
her legs, found her tight little cunny and pushed two thick fingers into the
wet heat he discovered there.

He laughed and felt her tremble at the raw sound.

“You’re wet for me,” he rasped, withdrawing and thrusting
his fingers back into her.

She turned her head to the side, her braid swinging across
her back to land on his hand. He saw her profile, watched as she opened her
mouth to suck in a shallow breath.

“Simon,” she moaned. “Please…”

Again he laughed, the sound harsh and mean.

“Simon,” she whimpered.

“You want me,” he growled, pushing his fingers deep into her
body. “You wanted me to take you roughly last night, to fuck you like a whore,”
he panted above her. Simon knew he had lost all control. He was mindless with
rage, with lust. The two emotions roiled around in his head, in his heart, in
his blood. He wanted to ravage her, to punish her for the lies and the smashed
hopes. He removed his fingers from her core, grasped her hips tightly in both
hands. “You bartered your body for a house and a piece of land. Your body belongs
to me to do with as I will.”

Beatrice gasped as he lifted her hips off the bed and
positioned his hard cock at her soft opening. He pushed forward, retreated,
pushed forward again until the head of his engorged shaft was enveloped in her
moist heat.

He took a deep breath, held it. He waited for her to speak,
to deny his words, to offer some sort of explanation that would stop him, end
the madness that raged in him. She said nothing, had gone completely still upon
the bed.

Simon looked down at Beatrice, at her soft, round ass, at
her slender hips held in his hands, at her narrow back with her golden braid
resting along her delicate spine, at the virginal white nightgown that was
twisted and bunched up around her shoulders, at her long, swanlike neck. He
dragged his eyes up to her profile. Her eyes were open wide, staring
sightlessly at the tall headboard. Upon her mouth was a soft, trembling smile.

“Yes,” Beatrice finally whispered, her voice so quiet, so
soft, that Simon barely heard her. “My body belongs to you.”

Simon flexed his hands on her hips and with one hard thrust
seated himself inside her tight passage.

He felt Beatrice jerk once in reaction to his invasion, then
settle heavily into his hands gripping her hips. Her eyes slowly closed. And
still she smiled that soft, sad smile.

Simon looked down at his hips between her thighs, at his
dark hands upon her pale, slender body and let the hunger and rage and pain
take over. He drew back and thrust into her again and again. The only sound in
the room was his rasping breath and the slap of his hard flesh against her soft
bottom. He bent his knees and widened his legs, forcing her dangling limbs
farther apart.

Over and over he slammed his cock into her. He felt his body
begin to shiver, felt the first sparks of release, felt his groin tighten. He
threw his head back and slammed his eyes shut as his orgasm rushed over him,
through him.

“Aaarrrggghhh,” he roared as he pumped heavily into her
tight heat, exploding deep inside her. His hands gripped her hips harder,
pulling her back as he forced his flesh as far inside her as he could, grinding
his pelvis, his hips against her. Dimly he was aware of her body shuddering
beneath his hands, her inner walls clenching around him, squeezing every last
drop of dark pleasure from him.

Simon dropped his head forward to rest his chin against his
heaving chest as he sucked air into his starving lungs. He felt a tremor run
from his groin straight up his spine to his neck, his head. He flexed his hands
upon her body once and then pried his fingers loose to allow her hips to settle
into the soft mattress. He withdrew his cock from her warm, wet sheath and took
one wobbly step back. His legs shook, nearly buckled. He stumbled, looked down
to see he still wore his boots and his pants around his knees. He teetered
backward until the backs of his legs bumped one of the chairs on either side of
the small table in front of the window. He fell into the seat with a low moan
and lowered his head to his hands.

“Oh Beatrice,” he whispered, so quietly he barely heard his
own words. “What have I done? Oh Christ.”

He stayed there, his hands gripping his head, his eyes
tightly closed, his lips silently moving as he prayed, to God, to the silent
woman on the bed, to his father who would have shot him for his behavior.

Finally he forced himself to straighten up, to look across
the dark room. Beatrice lay exactly where he had left her, her bottom at the
very edge of the high bed, her long legs hanging over the side, still parted,
her toes gripping the cold floor. To keep from sliding right off the bed and
onto the floor, he realized. He watched as her right calf trembled, the muscle
bunching and jumping.

He drew in a jagged breath, felt it hitch in his chest, felt
the sting of tears rushing to his eyes.

“Beatrice!” he cried hoarsely as he jumped from his chair.
He quickly jerked his pants up and strode across the room. He reached out one
hand to her hip, to help her up onto the bed, to ease the pain of her cramped
muscles, her gripping toes. His fingers barely brushed over her cold flesh.

“Do not touch me!” she cried. Simon jumped back in shock. He
looked at her profile, saw her eyes open, staring straight ahead. Watched as
she pulled her lips back and opened her mouth.

“Get out,” she snarled, her voice harsh, so low it seemed to
come from somewhere deep within her. It seemed not to belong to her at all.

“Beatrice, let me help you,” he begged quietly.

“Help me?” she asked in the same low, raspy voice. She
laughed and the sound was raw and uneven. Slowly she closed her eyes. Simon
heard her softly indrawn breath, watched her back rise as she pulled the air
deep into her lungs.

“Get out.” Simon barely heard her command, her breathy voice
was little more than a whisper. He let his gaze slide over her still form, from
the top of her golden hair, over her back and her long, thin arms, over her
narrow waist and hips, across her round bottom and down her long legs to her
feet, her toes fighting for purchase on the wood floor.

He turned and scooped up his clothes from the floor, dug
through his coat pockets until he found the deed and the necklace he’d bought
for her that long-ago day, the bauble he’d intended to gift her before he’d
decided to make her his wife. He dropped the diamond and ruby choker onto the vanity,
propped the deed beside it, saw his note from this morning sitting there. Had
it only been this morning? He turned and walked silently from the room, softly
closing the door behind him. He made it as far as the top of the stairs before
his legs crumpled. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down until he
was sitting on the hard floor. He drew up his knees and buried his head upon
them.

His body shook as he gulped air into his lungs. He couldn’t
seem to get any air into his lungs. His heart was beating so hard he thought it
might explode in his chest. Nausea rolled over him in waves. He felt a cold
sweat break out all over his body. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut in an
effort to wipe away the image of Beatrice hanging on to the edge of the tall
bed, determined not to fall at his feet. He wondered if he would ever get the
image out of his mind, if he would ever stop hearing her raw voice telling him
to get out, out of her bed, out of her room, out of her life.

He wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself for
taking her the way he had, for using her and punishing her.