Seduction Becomes Her (17 page)

He kissed her long and hard, his tongue claiming her mouth, his lips warm and urgent against hers. Daphne didn’t fight him—she couldn’t, her entire body blooming with delight at the first touch of his mouth, the first demanding thrust of his tongue. She opened to him, resistance never crossing her mind, her slim body melting into his, feeling and reveling in his rigid member pressing so insistently, so intimately into her.

Liquid fire flowed through her body, igniting desires over which she had no command. Her head fell back against his arm, allowing him greater access, her fingers caressing his cheek, the thick black hair that grew near his temple. And when his hand closed round her breast, kneading the fullness, teasing the nipple with his fingers, her legs trembled, and at the junction of her thighs, she felt swollen and needy.

Kissing her as if he would die if he did not, Charles pushed down the front of her gown, almost shaking with pleasure when her breasts popped free and his hand and fingers touched bare, naked flesh. The urge to find out if she tasted as sweet as his imagination drove him to drop his mouth to her breasts.

The taste, texture, and scent of her was more intoxicating than anything he could ever remember in his life, and a groan of pure bliss escaped him as his teeth and tongue explored the soft, satiny expanse of her bosom. She smelled like a lavender heaven, the taste of her as sweet and potent as apple brandy. She was perfect. And she was his.

Drunk with desire, Charles swung Daphne up into his arms and carried her to the nearest sofa. He laid her on the sofa and knelt down on the floor next to her, struggling against the urge to rip her clothes from her body and have her laid bare before him like a feast before a starving man.

With huge, shimmering blue-green eyes, Daphne regarded him, trapped so tightly in the scarlet web of passion that she could not deny him anything. His fingers trailed across her naked breasts, and she arched up, feeling as if she had been stroked by fire. And when his mouth descended and he suckled her nipples, her lower body clenched with such a powerful yearning that she cried out, shocked by her body’s response.

Lifting his head from the rosy nipple that had mesmerized him, Charles breathed against her mouth. “Shush, my love. Did I hurt you? I did not mean to.”

“No! You didn’t hurt me,” gasped Daphne, alarmed that he might stop kissing and touching her. “I never…I never expected…”

But her cry resonated through him and staring down at her on the sofa, recognizing the wonder, the innocence in her face, unwelcome sanity trickled into his brain, awakening him to precisely what he was doing. Reluctantly, he lifted his mouth from hers, his body one long, sensuous ache of unfulfillment. He wanted as he never had wanted anything else before to free himself from his breeches and possess her. He still could. She was willing—he could see it in her eyes, feel it in her kisses. It would take but a moment to shift her, to position her to his liking and pull her down on his bulging shaft and seek relief from the demon of desire that rode him. He would only be anticipating what would be his by a few weeks. So why hesitate? God knew he wanted her so badly he was shaking with it, aching with it, and sweet relief was only seconds, inches away. So why not finish it?

There were those that thought him cold, hard, and calculating, and he would not deny it, but for all his vices, an innate sense of honor ran strongly within Charles. Deflowering her before their marriage in this manner would be the act of a hardened libertine, and while that charge could with truth be hurled at his head, it was not in him to deliberately dishonor Daphne. If she had not cried out, loosening the coil of desire that held them both, if he could have allowed blind, primitive passion to rule him, he would be buried deeply within her at this very moment. But a shred of sanity
had
entered his brain, had made him think about what he was doing. Daphne would be his bride, his wife, and to his astonishment and great disgust, he discovered within himself the need for her to come to him on their wedding night as honor demanded.

Regret like a dagger in his gut, he pulled the bodice of her pink muslin gown back into place and helped her to sit up. “I am sorry,” he said baldly, “but I cannot do this.”

It was a difficult moment for both of them, Charles doubtful of his control over the beast within him, Daphne mortified and embarrassed at the abrupt ending of their passionate interlude. His apology only added to her distress, but it angered her, too. He was
sorry?
Her hands clenched into fists. She’d like to make him sorry, so sorry he’d never forget it. But she had to know what she had done wrong.

Her face averted, not looking at him as he rose to his feet and took a seat beside her, she asked tightly, “Did I displease you? I think I deserve to know why you are rejecting me.”

Charles gave a hollow laugh, and she turned to glare at him, rage glittering in her eyes. He held up a hand as if to ward off a blow, shaking his head as he did so. “Rejecting you?” he asked dryly. “Good God! I am not rejecting you. I am merely stopping myself from acting dishonorably. And displeasing me has nothing to do with what nearly happened here.” He shook his head. “You’re a blind little fool if you don’t realize that I cannot keep my hands off of you, despite my best intentions. All it takes for me to throw honor to the winds is to be alone with you.”

She looked at him incredulously. “You stopped because of
honor?”

“Hmmm, ridiculous, I know,” he said with a deprecating smile. “I have trouble believing it myself, and if any of my relatives or friends find out, my reputation will be utterly ruined, but there you have it.”

She stared at him, her brain busy considering his words. Part of her admired his stance, part of her wished that he wasn’t behaving
quite
so honorably, and part of her was so delighted and relieved by his reply that she could have flung her arms about his neck. She hadn’t displeased him. He wanted her. A private little smile crossed her lips. Wanted her so much he couldn’t keep his hands off of her.

From beneath her lashes, she sent him a considering glance, her pulse pounding when she realized that he was watching her.

Their eyes met, and he smiled and shook his head. Lifting up one of her hands, he pressed a kiss to the back of it. “No tricks, my sweet,” he warned, something in the depths of those jade green eyes sending a shiver of half excitement, half fright down her spine. “It would not be fair,” he added softly, “for you to put too much temptation before me. My hold on honor is thin at best, and I do not think you would be happy if you led me down the path to dishonor.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re making your honor
my
responsibility?”

“Only if you seek to tempt me.”

“But that’s not fair,” she protested, lusciously wicked thoughts of doing just that dancing through her mind, and she wondered if she dared to discover just precisely how thin his hold on honor really was. Talk about temptation! She struggled against the urge to test her own powers of seduction, to see if she could push him over the edge, but she finally decided that he was right about one thing: she would not be happy if she caused him to behave dishonorably. It was totally unfair, but by placing honor on the table, he had put her in the position of having to choose between acting honorably or dishonorably herself. Daphne took the concept of honor, especially
her
honor, every bit as seriously as did Charles, and so with regret, she pushed away any notion of trying to work her wiles on him. Not that she was entirely confident of her own wiles, but it would appear from this morning’s interlude, she thought with a small, satisfied smile, that whatever wiles she did possess worked just fine on Charles.

Charles watched the emotions play across her lively features, and he knew the moment she gave up any idea of tempting him further. He was almost sorry that she had chosen the high road, but inordinately pleased on another level. His bride-to-be, it seemed, played honest and fair, and a man couldn’t ask for better traits in a friend—or a wife.

Daphne stood up, retied the bow beneath her bosom, and shook out the folds of her gown. Briskly, she said, “Since you’re capable of minding your manners when we are in public, I suggest that we not linger here.” A teasing glint appeared in her eyes. “Temptation can be so fickle and strike without warning, you know, so the sooner we are in the midst of others, the safer you will be.”

Charles smiled wryly and rose from the sofa. “There is truth in what you say,” he said lightly.

They had almost reached the door when he said, “I think I shall call upon Mrs. Darby on my way to Lanyon Hall this afternoon.”

Daphne stopped and whirled around. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked, unease flickering in her eyes.

“Perhaps because we saw something damned unpleasant last night?” he said bluntly. “Or perhaps because I dislike the notion of Sir Wesley popping out of the fireplace whenever he bloody well pleases?”

Daphne looked startled, and Charles smiled grimly. “Hadn’t thought of that, had you, my secretive darling? Have you considered what would happen if Sir Wesley decided to come calling when you’re entertaining guests? Can you imagine the expression on the faces of the vicar and his wife? Or the good Squire and Mrs. Renwick? Or, God forbid, Sir Wesley inviting himself to join us when the house is full of guests for our wedding?”

Her face the picture of horror, Daphne swallowed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, I suggest you start thinking about it,” he said sharply, unaccountably angry that she would not tell him what was in her mind. How could he help her, he thought bitterly, if the little devil wouldn’t tell him what it was she was after. Whatever she was involved in, it was no laughing matter. If the manifestation they’d seen last night was anything to go by, it could be dangerous—she could be in danger. Fear for her clawed through his chest, and he was furious for being afraid and helpless to do anything about it. He took a deep breath, fighting his anger, his fear, and said more calmly, “If that thing appeared once, it can appear again, and we have no control over when it decides to make an appearance.”

“Perhaps we could call upon the local priest and have him do an exorcism or something?” Daphne offered weakly, her eyes big and troubled.

“Ah, excellent plan—let the entire neighborhood know that we have spirits or ghosts or whatever you want to call them floating around Beaumont Place.”

Her temper rose, and hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Well, what do you expect me to do?”

“Why don’t you try telling me the truth,” he said in a silky tone, an unnerving air of watchfulness about him.

“The t-t-truth,” she stammered. “What are you talking about? I don’t tell lies.”

“Mayhap you don’t, mayhap you just leave out things…such as the real reason you sought out a witch. And invited her into your home to tell stories best related in the nursery to wide-eyed babes.”

Her expression stony, Daphne said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you have no right to question my reasons for doing anything.”

An expression crossed his face, something so dark and dangerous in it that Daphne took a step back. Those green eyes hard and remote, he snapped, “I have every right. I am to be your husband.”

“But you are not my husband yet,” Daphne declared roundly, “and you have no right to poke your arrogant nose into my business. How dare you! This isn’t your problem, Mr. Weston. It is mine, and I shall handle it. I don’t need you to meddle in my affairs.”

A scarlet mist exploded in front of Charles’s eyes. His hands caught her upper arms in an iron grip, and he gave her an ungentle shake. “You little fool! I’m not meddling. I’m trying to protect you.”

Daphne fought free of his hold, and just as furious as Charles, stunning both of them, she smacked him hard across his cheek. Appalled, they stared at each other, neither one moving.

It was a dicey moment, but as quickly as it had come, Charles’s anger fled. “I suppose,” he said wryly, rubbing his reddening cheek, “that I deserved that.”

Her own rage vanishing as if it had never been, Daphne felt sick. She was not a violent person, and yet, in a twinkling, she had struck a man for no other reason than he wanted to help her. Ashamed, she turned her head aside and said miserably, “I apologize. And you’re wrong—you didn’t deserve it. You have been nothing but kind since the moment you joined me in that terrible cave, and I have treated you badly.”

He loathed seeing her so abject and muttered, “There is no blame. I should not have grabbed you. I started it. You were only defending yourself.”

“You’re very kind.”

“You’re wrong there. I am
not
a kind person, at least,” he amended, “not usually.” Wearily, he added, “Damn it, sweetheart, you’re involved in something nasty, something beyond my understanding, and I want to help you.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair, his eyes meeting hers. “I don’t know what is going on, but something is, and I can’t help you if you keep me at a distance.”

It might have been because she felt guilty for having slapped him, but she suspected it was because deep down inside, she trusted him and because she was tired of carrying the burden alone that his words unsealed her tongue. Quietly, she asked, “What would you say if I told you that Sir Wesley isn’t the only spirit that I’ve seen within the halls of Beaumont Place?”

Charles stared at her for a long moment. “Bloody hell,” he finally growled, walking to the velvet bell rope in the corner and giving it a sharp yank, “I definitely need a brandy before you say another word.” He thought a moment, gave another pull, and announced, “No, not just a brandy, the whole damn bottle!”

N
either one of them spoke until Goodson had returned with Charles’s brandy. His face expressionless, Goodson delivered a tray with a snifter and a Baccarat crystal decanter full of brandy on it. There had been added, at Daphne’s request, a pot of tea and some delicate lemon pastries.

Thanking the butler, Charles closed the door firmly behind Goodson and approached the brandy like a man approaching an oasis after being lost for weeks in the desert. He waited until Daphne fixed her tea to her liking and took a seat on the sofa before pouring himself a large amount of brandy in the snifter. He didn’t wait to smell the bouquet before taking a large swallow.

The brandy warming his stomach, and feeling somewhat fortified, he looked at Daphne as she daintily sipped her tea and took a nibble of the pastry and said, “Tell me. Everything.”

She did, surprised to find that it wasn’t as difficult as she had thought it would be. When she finished speaking, Charles’s expression was unreadable, but at least he didn’t ridicule her and tell her that she had imagined things. Or that she was a candidate for Bedlam.

“This event occurred your first night here?” Charles questioned.

Daphne shook her head. “Not the very first night—I believe it was the second night.” She frowned, thinking back. “Yes. The second night. We’d met with Mr. Vinton for the first time that afternoon, and it was that night that she appeared.”

“And you’re positive it was female?”

Daphne made a face. “I believe it to be, but since it didn’t fully materialize or speak, I was left with the impression that it was female. But the crying, or crooning, definitely sounded female.”

Looking thoughtful, Charles took a turn around the room, imbibing freely from his snifter of brandy. “I know that most old places like Beaumont Place have superstitions, stories, legends of ghosts and hauntings and the like connected with them,” he said eventually, coming to stop in front of the fireplace. His back to the fire, he faced her and said, “Even Stonegate has a macabre legend about a murdered woman seeking vengeance or some such nonsense attached to it. Wyndham Hall, my cousin’s home, is rumored to have the spirit of a knight beheaded by Henry the Seventh…” He stopped, considered, and then clarified, “Or at any rate, one of the damn Henrys. He supposedly sulks about, searching for his head.” He took a deep swallow of his brandy. “But those,” he said, “are just the sort of stories you’d expect about any house of note in the district, especially one that has been inhabited for centuries. I know that my cousin and I, when we were children, always hoped that the headless knight would appear for us, but he never did, and truth to tell, I can’t think of one credible person who ever actually claimed to have seen either ghost—the woman or the knight. They’re just stories. Legends.” He stared down into his empty snifter and deciding that he needed more, er, fortification, poured himself another generous brandy before saying, “But Sir Wesley is something else entirely. We
saw
that thing last night. I am convinced, and no one will change my mind, that it was not just any ghost, but
his
ghost.” He took another swallow of brandy. His face somber, he added, “And if I am convinced that I saw the ghost of Sir Wesley, then I have no hesitation in believing that you saw something supernatural in your room.”

Daphne sagged with relief. In light of what they’d both seen in the blue salon, she’d been
mostly
confident that he would not laugh at her or think her mad, but there had been that tiny shadow of doubt at the back of her mind. It was incredible enough that Beaumont Place harbored one ghost, but two?

“And, ah, she has never shown herself to you again?” he asked.

Daphne shook her head. “No, never again…so far. But don’t forget that April and Adrian both have said that they have heard the wind sounding like someone, or something, sobbing. I feel that it must be her because I cannot credit a third such manifestation.” Gloomily, she added, “Two is bad enough. But three…” She looked at him, her eyes big and anxious. “I fear three would make me not believe my own senses.”

He nodded. “I know precisely what you mean, but we should not close our minds to that possibility.” He paused, frowning. “I do think,” he began slowly, “that however many spiritual beings are at work here, there must be some connection between them. Otherwise, it seems to me unlikely that they both would have chosen recently to make their presence felt. The same would apply to the noises heard by Adrian and April, whether that is the work of a third being or not. I find it hard to conceive that there is not a link between them.”

He stared hard at Daphne. “Until you and your brother and sister moved in to Beaumont Place, Sir Wesley and the female apparition, whoever or whatever is crying in the night, appeared to have been content to remain unnoticed.”

“Don’t forget the lady from London who swore she had seen a ghost when Sir Huxley was a young man.”

“Yes, but I suspect we’re talking about your little ghost, not Sir Wesley, and the young lady did not live here as do you and your siblings. Don’t forget Sir Huxley’s lady left almost immediately after she’d claimed to have seen a ghost, or whatever.” He looked pensive. “It’s notable that except for that one time during Sir Huxley’s tenure, there is no gossip or whispers about any peculiar happenings in the house. With all the visitors, servants, and guests who have passed through this house since then, there has been no hint of anything supernatural.”

Daphne shook her head. “We can’t know that. What about Mrs. Darby’s great grandmother and grandmother? They were aware of something odd in the house in certain rooms. As for anybody else…” Daphne smiled slightly. “Most people wouldn’t dare mention any strangeness they’d observed for fear of looking foolish or worse. I don’t believe that having a ghost wandering the halls of his home is something that Sir Huxley would have broadcast throughout the neighborhood.” Her expression rueful, she added, “No one would.”

“I agree. But you can’t keep something like this quiet, either,” Charles replied. “Even as we speak, your brother and sister are spreading the word about what occurred last night. Miss Ketty has probably already filled the ears of Goodson and Mrs. Hutton with her version of what she saw. Believe me, the news will spread, and I think that would be true in Sir Huxley’s lifetime and even before him. If what we saw was something that occurred even once every decade or so, there would be a reference to it. Just as we know about the young lady from London, if there were other sightings, there would be some mention of them, even if they were dismissed or discreetly discredited. Yet there has been nothing.”

Daphne couldn’t argue with his logic, though she would have liked to. It made her uneasy to think that for some reason, she and her siblings had provoked or awakened whatever lurked within the walls of Beaumont Place. She shuddered. Was this her fault? Had she inadvertently placed her brother and sister in danger?

Almost as if he read her mind, Charles said slowly, “Something caused these spectral beings to make their presence known.” His eyes locked on her face, he muttered, “And I’m very much afraid, my dear, based on what I know so far, that it has to do with
you.
Until you appeared on the scene, all was serene and peaceful. Yet within forty-eight hours of your arrival, your little female apparition appeared.”

Her face white, Daphne cried, “Never say so! I have done nothing. And I would never do anything that would put Adrian and April in danger.”

His features softened. “I know that, and I don’t believe that it is anything that you have done. I think it is your very presence here that has created this situation.” Attempting to lighten the atmosphere, he grinned at her and murmured, “Yes, I can understand how the presence of a young, beautiful woman would certainly rouse wicked old Sir Wesley from his ghostly slumber.”

Daphne did not think his comment amusing, and jumping up from the sofa, she took an agitated step forward. “Do not jest! Oh, this is a ridiculous conversation. Not one ghost, but two! Possibly three. Listen to us! Discussing ghosts and spirits as if they were real. We both must be mad.”

Charles winced. “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, but we cannot pretend that we did not see something extraordinary last night. I am not given to spiritualism or the like—most of it is pure balderdash—and if I had not seen Sir Wesley’s spirit, ghost, whatever you wish to call it, not twenty-four hours previously, I would think anyone who claimed to have observed what we did half mad.” He frowned. “Or the victim of an outrageous prank.”

Her eyes fixed hopefully on his, she said, “Perhaps that is, indeed, what it was. Adrian and April think it was a grand trick. Mayhap it was. Isn’t it possible that we have allowed ourselves to be taken in by a trickster?”

“And your little apparition?” Charles asked quietly. “Did Mrs. Darby arrange that, too?”

“No, of course not! I didn’t even know about Mrs. Darby then.” Searching for an explanation as she had so many times in the past, Daphne said, “I was tired. It was a strange bedroom. I imagined the whole thing. I must have!”

“Do you want me to agree with you? Shall I tell you that what you saw in your bedroom was merely the product of your imagination?” he inquired with a sardonic tilt to his brow. “Shall we pretend, even to ourselves, that we were hoodwinked by a clever witch last night? That Mrs. Darby bedazzled us with a sleight of hand that would rival the most famous charlatan in London? That we were duped? Is that what you want?”

Daphne shook her head, her features woeful. “No. If I pretended otherwise,
that
would drive me mad.”

Putting down his snifter, he crossed to stand before her. Lifting up her chin with one long finger and staring gravely into her eyes, he said softly, “Whether we like it or not, we are in this together, my sweet, and there is no use either one of us pretending that last night did not happen.
Something
is at work within this house. And unfortunately, it would appear that it is up to us to find out precisely what, and without everyone thinking that we have gone mad as hatters.”

Daphne took a deep breath. Smiling tremulously at him, she said, “Thank you for believing me about…about…her. I have been afraid ever since that night that I was, indeed, going mad, and I feared what would happen to Adrian and April if anyone learned that I thought I was seeing ghosts in my bedroom.” Her hand touched his cheek, a butterfly’s caress. “You have been so good to us. First, staying with me in the cave, willing to risk death, then offering for me, and now believing that I really do see ghosts. You’re a kind man, Charles Weston, and I owe you a debt that I can never repay. You have my utmost gratitude.”

Charles swore under his breath and jerking her into his arms, kissed her fiercely. His loins tightened at the taste of her, and feeling the beast within him stir again, he tore his mouth from hers and snapped, “There shall be no talk of debt between us. And the last thing I want from you is
gratitude.”

Daphne stared at him, puzzled. He was angry, she realized, and he had made gratitude sound like something to be violently detested.

“I d-d-don’t understand,” she stammered, wondering what she had done to make him so angry.

“No, you don’t,” he agreed, “and I’m damn well not going to tell you either.” He ran a hand through his hair and growled, “And now before I fall into temptation once more, I want to see your bedroom.”

Daphne jumped as if stabbed. “My bedroom?” she repeated astonished. “Absolutely not!”

He smiled wryly. “I don’t have seduction in mind—I want to see that area where you thought that you saw the outline of a door.”

She didn’t move, just stared at him as if he had grown two heads.

“What?” he demanded impatiently.

“You can’t just go marching into my bedroom,” she gasped. “Everyone will think…we will never be able to escape the gossip.”

Charles muttered something vulgar. Raising his hands in surrender, he said, “Very well, I can’t just go marching into your bedroom, but I need to see that wall. And if I can’t do it now, what do you suggest? That I sneak into your room after everyone has gone to bed?”

“Good God, no!”

“Then think of a reason for me to examine your bedroom. Now.”

For a moment, she couldn’t imagine any scenario that wasn’t fraught with social peril, then she realized that a perfect excuse lay right before them. Hesitantly, she said, “I do not think that I can show you my room, but I can tell you exactly which wall to look at, and Goodson can accompany you.”

Charles looked blank, and she smiled. “Since we are to be married, my current rooms may not be suitable for us to use once we are married. You are merely looking,” she explained, “to see if my present room would satisfy you while we are in residence here. It is not the best excuse, but I think it will serve.”

“What a clever wench you are,” Charles said admiringly. “Tell me quickly precisely where I am to look, and then ring for Goodson.”

All went as planned, and while Daphne remained sedately in the front salon, sipping her cooling tea, Charles, accompanied by Goodson, was shown to Miss Daphne’s room. Opening the door to Daphne’s bedchamber, Goodson said, “Mrs. Hutton and I were discussing just the other day the change in arrangements that will be necessary once you and Miss Daphne are married.” Following behind Charles as he entered the big, gloomy room, Goodson added, “This is a fine room for Miss Daphne, but we think that as a married couple, you would both prefer something larger. We wondered if you’d like a bedroom for yourself and a sitting room to share between you?”

Charles made a noncommittal answer, slightly put off by all the purple damask that draped the huge, old-fashioned bed. But then when he imagined Daphne’s smooth white silky nakedness against the deepness of the color, he found himself enchanted by it.

Goodson’s delicate cough made him jerk his gaze away from the bed, and pretending to examine the room, he wandered about. It was large enough and pleasant enough for them to use whenever they would be in residence at Beaumont Place, but Charles thought that Daphne might prefer more privacy. He smiled. Even if they had separate bedrooms, he doubted she’d sleep many nights alone…or clothed, for that matter.