Something Sinful (26 page)

Breathing hard, he guided himself inside her, pushing forward slowly and carefully, ready for the moment he would meet resistance and have to stop and explain to her that he was about to hurt her for the first and last time. He pressed in further and further, until he was tightly and fully engulfed.

Despite the exquisite sensation, he went rigid with surprise. His body wanted to buck and thrust until he’d emptied himself into her, but he clenched his jaw and held frozen, looking down into her deep green eyes.

“You’re not a virgin,” he grunted, his self-control poised on a knife blade.

Her mouth parted with her deep, fast breathing, she drew his face down to her again. “Neither are you,” she moaned, lifting her hips against his.

“But this—”

“I told you that I couldn’t marry you,” she said, deep sadness mingling with the desire in her eyes. “But don’t leave me yet. Not like this.”

“Bloody, bloody hell,” he snarled.

She lifted her face to his, kissing him again and again, running her hands down his back to his buttocks and digging in her fingers. “Please,” she whispered.

Strong as his will was, the needs of his body were stronger. With a groan, still angry and shocked beyond words, he began moving his hips forward and back, making her his in this moment as deeply and thoroughly as he could. Sarala wrapped her ankles around his thighs, mewling deliciously as his thrusts quickened. Her eyes closed.

“Look at me,” he ordered. “I want you to remember who you’re with.”

Moss green eyes met his again. “I’m with the one I want,” she moaned back at him.

She tightened, muffling her mouth against his shoulder as she cried out his name and shattered. His need for delicacy gone, and half swamped by anger, Charlemagne allowed his mind to shut down. He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d set eyes on her, and now in the tight slide of her body around his, he had her. He might not have been her first, but he was damned well going to be her last. Groaning, he pumped his hips harder and faster, again and again, burying his face against her cinnamon-scented neck as with a deep rush he came.

“Was this all just a ploy so you could marry into the Griffin family?” he finally asked, his voice flat. “Because Melbourne thought it might be, and I told him that he was being ridiculous.”

“What do
you
think?” she asked in return.

He pulled backward, out of her and away from her. The distance physically hurt. “I think I don’t like being played for a fool,” he said, standing and going after his breeches.

She sat up. “What if I said the same thing? You’ve obviously been with at least one other woman. More than that, I’d wager. Did you love any of them?
Do
you love any of them? Do you have children?”

“What?” He slammed his clothes back onto the floor, then bent down to pick them up again. “What damned kind of questions are those? I’m a man. I’m supposed to—”

“According to whom?” she returned. Shay liked a good argument. This would simply have to be the best one she’d ever fought. Of course as a Griffin he couldn’t—wouldn’t—marry her. But being lovers—perhaps for a while they could have that. “And did I not say that I couldn’t marry you?”

“Yes, you did say that. And then you practically dragged me in here. Forgive me if I’m somewhat confused.”

“I thought this would make matters perfectly clear. Now you can ask Melbourne to extricate both of us from this betrothal.”

“So this was a lesson? A demonstration about how ill we suit one another?” He picked up her
kadeez
and threw it at her. “I thought I fit rather well.”

Tears stung at the back of her eyes, but she didn’t want him to see her cry. “You are only demonstrating that what I said is true. I’ve been with another man, and therefore I cannot marry a Griffin. I’ll find myself a lowly baron or some viscount’s nephew who would value my business acumen over my impurity and my sad bloodline.”

“That’s ridiculous.
You’re
ridiculous.”

“There is no need to insult me, Shay. I understand the situation quite clearly.”

“Be quiet. I’m thinking.” He sat on the floor, apparently unwilling to join her on the bed again, and yanked on his breeches.

“Well, we both know I barely have my toe on the line where Society is concerned,” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“You don’t toe the line, you mean.”

“What?”

“The expression is ‘toe the line.’ It’s from boxing.”

“I don’t care where it’s from.” She stood to pull on her
kadeez,
noting that he paused his own dressing for a moment to sweep his eyes along her body. “Just be gentleman enough to help me dress, and then go away.”

“No.”

Her heart, already bruised, thudded hard. “You won’t help me dress?”

“I won’t go away.”

A tear overflowed her eye and ran down one cheek. “Now you’re confusing me.”

“I’m still confused, myself,” he grumbled. “Who was he?”

“That is none of your business, unless you first care to tell me the names of the women with whom you’ve been intimate.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Then neither will I.”

“You,” Charlemagne muttered, jabbing a finger at her, “are very vexing, and I would appreciate if you would stop talking for a damned minute so I can think!”

“Why am I vexing to you?” she shot back, putting her hands on her hips and praying no on else could overhear their argument and break the door down. “You’ve been intimate with other women, so apparently you’re now immune to seduction. Why does any of this trouble or confuse you at all?”

“I am not immune to seduction, obviously,” he growled, shoving his arms through his waistcoat and buttoning it. He did it wrong, and had to unbutton and begin over again.

“Well, neither am I, idiot. And that’s why I led you in h—”

He stopped, facing her again. “What did you call me?”

She flung her arms up, very aware that his gaze had focused on her bare legs. At the moment she wasn’t above using anything and everything she had to keep him from leaving the room without at least helping her dress first. “Yes, I’ve been with a man besides you.
A
man. Once. When I was much younger. I’m not with him now, and I have no wish to be so. I am here, with you, and in case you haven’t noticed, I am trying to…” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat, angry. “I am trying to let you know just how much I wanted to be with you, even if I couldn’t be so as your wife. If you can’t see that I actually did you a favor, then you are an idiot. I - D - I - O -T.”

Charlemagne strode up and grabbed her by the arms before she could even gasp. “Who was he?” he demanded again, shaking her.

“That doesn’t matter. I thought I loved him, and he was very persuasive. As for tonight, I thought that you would understand…wanting to be close to someone. If I was wrong, then I’ve made another very bad mis—”

He captured her mouth with his. Heat swept down her spine. The kissing, the heat, the desire—this was the easy part. It was the rest of Charlemagne Griffin that aggravated, infuriated, exhilarated, and troubled her. For a moment she gave in, kissing him back hungrily, then pushed away from him.

“You are a confounding woman,” he said, running a finger down her bare arm. “And perhaps I am an idiot. I’m not wrong very often, you know.”

“I know.”

“In the past days, however, you’ve already caused me to rethink some of my preconceptions about business, and about females. About you, in particular.”

She drew a shaky breath. “And?”

“And I would like our betrothal to continue.”

“But I’m not…pure.”

He tilted his head at her. “As you pointed out, neither am I.”

Not exactly a definitive declaration of love everlasting, but he’d never used that word with her, anyway. Nor had she said it to him. So it seemed they were back in their previous positions—with one exception. They’d made love, and she’d realized a few things now that she had something to compare her previous experience with. Some things that spoke very favorably about Charlemagne. Tonight, though, didn’t seem the time to have that particular discussion.

“What about your family?” she asked slowly.

“This is about us; not them,” he countered, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward him again. “But I need a day or two to think. And then we should talk.”

“Very well.”

As they gazed at each other, she wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to be in his arms, and hear the passion in his voice. If her stupidity of years past hadn’t ruined his opinion of her, did he still want to—could they—actually marry?

Finally Shay cleared his throat. “Let’s get you dressed again,” he said, “unless you still wish to remain naked.”

Relief made her want to sag back onto the bed. “I suppose not,” she forced. “The evening’s a bit chill.”

He snorted, a smile touching his mouth for the first time since he’d peeled her clothes off. “I feel warm enough in your presence, Sarala.”

With his somewhat clumsy assistance she managed to get her hair back up, and the
salwar kadeez
on. The sari wrapping was something of a wreck, but she supposed unless an expert in traditional Indian clothing was in attendance, no one else would realize.

His cravat looked little better, but after a few attempts they fluffed it into a tolerable shape. When Shay draped the headpiece and veil over her head, she drew the ends of the fabric across her face and over the hook that held it in place.

“Wait a moment,” he said, pulling it loose again. Slowly and gently he kissed her mouth, warm and seductive and full of even more promises she hoped he would keep.

“Is this how you think?” she asked.

“Apparently.” He took a step backward, turning to blow out the candles in the wall sconces. “If I still want to marry you, would you still want to marry me?”

He’d asked. He hadn’t made a declaration, told her what they needed to do to keep up appearances or avoid a scandal. Warmth flowed into her fingers again. “I don’t know,” she answered slowly.

Shay nodded. “Then we both have some thinking to do.”

He turned another ledger page, looking for a secure location where he could move the silks and hold them until Emperor Jiaqing’s representatives were ready to load them on a ship and return them to China. After all this, he wasn’t about to risk the shipment going somewhere else it wasn’t supposed to be.

“It’s generally the groom’s family that holds an engagement ball,” the duke continued, moving around the table, cue in hand.

Charlemagne raised his hand. “We talked about this already. And I know how you feel about this business, Seb. I don’t expect you to host a party. I thought I would approach Aunt Tremaine.”

“You are not holding your engagement ball at Aunt Tremaine’s house. However I feel about the circumstances, you are my brother, and I will do what’s proper.”

“That’s an astonishingly enthusiastic endorsement.” With a slight grin he didn’t particularly feel, Charlemagne returned to the ledger. Melbourne had a small warehouse just to the south of them. It was a little more than a mile from the Thames and the nearest dock, but it was easily secured and protected.

“We’ll need to hold it soon, or it’ll look as though we were taken by surprise.”

As
he’d
been taken by surprise last night. Charlemagne blew out his breath. He’d encountered the unexpected before, though rarely, but nothing had affected his…his heart the way this had. He’d asked for time to think; since then, though, he’d spent most of his time trying to decipher how he’d felt when he’d realized that another man had been with Sarala. And wondering whether he could stand ever feeling that way again. “May I have the use of the warehouse on Half Moon Street for the next fortnight or so?”

The duke faced him. “For the silks? That’s a good location.”

“Then I’ll have Farlow and a half dozen of his people keep a rotating watch. Roberts can coordinate it.”

“So now you’re all business again? If you’ve purged yourself of the wish to be married, you need to let me know. Preferably before I host a ball announcing your engagement.”

“The
Times
has already run the announcement, thanks to your obsession with propriety.”

“Then let’s make the soiree a week from Thursday,” Melbourne said, otherwise ignoring the sarcasm.

“You might want to consult with Lady Hanover about that.”

Melbourne’s expression hardened. “I will do no such thing. You’re doing that negotiating, as I recall.”

“I know for a fact that she has her own ideas about the details of the festivities—and the wedding.”

“Mm-hm. And where is that to take place?”

Charlemagne hesitated. It had been an amusing conversation up to this point, but he didn’t want to hurt Sebastian. “She mentioned Westminster. I thought St. Paul’s would be more appropriate.”

“Eleanor married in Gretna Green after an elopement, and Zachary wed in Shropshire to accommodate Caroline’s absurdly large family. You should wed at Westminster Abbey.”

“I’m a second son.”

“You’re also my heir presumptive. Westminster Abbey.”

“You don’t mind, Seb?”

His brother took a breath. “I have nothing but fond memories of my wedding day. I certainly don’t wish to tear the church down because Charlotte died four years later.”

He was actually talking about it. As far as Charlemagne knew, Sebastian never spoke of Charlotte to anyone but Peep.

“Then Westminster Abbey it is. Thank you.”

The duke nodded. “I’ll send a letter to that…woman and tell her when and where the betrothal ball will be held.” He set the cue across the table and walked to the door. “Give me a date sometime before that night, so I can announce it at the party.”

Charlemagne frowned. “A date?”

“For the wedding. Unless you intend to get yourself beheaded by foreign swordsmen before then.”

“No, I’ll try to avoid that.” He rose, following his brother into the hallway. “I’m going to inspect the silks and move them from Hanover’s warehouse to ours. I thought making certain they’re in good condition and protected before I hand them over might be wise.”

“Take someone with you. Or I’ll go.”

“Not necessary. I’ll take Timmons and Farlow with his crew and the wagons. And Sarala and her accountant, to make certain I have all the paperwork.”

Melbourne hesitated before he vanished into his office. “Is that wise?”

Charlemagne smiled grimly. “You know I’m fairly efficient at taking care of myself. And I’m certainly not going to let anything happen to her.” He went to send a note over to Carlisle House, asking if she wished to join him.

“Shay?”

He stopped at the head of the stairs. “Yes?”

“Do you love her? Sarala?”

Heat ran through his chest. “I’m very fond of Sarala. When I come to that moment, you’ll be the third person to know.”

“Fair enough. Invite her family for luncheon on Wednesday. We’ll talk about…invitations for the ball.” A grimace crossed his face. “And decorations.”

Charlemagne chuckled. “Shall I ask Nell over as well?”

“Good God, yes.”

A year ago, even a few months ago, he doubted Sebastian would have showed any kind of humor over this at all. Interesting, that. Was Sebastian becoming more human? Or had the onslaught of recent events simply worn him down? Whatever the reason, the change was a welcome one.

“Uncle Shay, I need to talk to you.”

He turned around as he sealed the note to Sarala. “I am at your service, Peep.”

She strolled into the morning room, brushing at her green muslin skirt as he’d seen Eleanor do on numerous occasions. “I overheard you and Papa upstairs.”

Swiftly he ran through the conversation. None of it had been of a particularly intimate or violent nature, thank God. “Yes?”

“I have a disagreement with you.”

“Really?” He summoned Stanton to have his note delivered. “About what?” he continued as a servant left the house.

“You can’t just decide to be in love, you know.”

He frowned, quickly wiping the expression from his face. “I didn’t—”

“You told Papa that when you came to the moment when you were in love, you would tell him. That’s silly.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. You have to
do
some things before you can be in love. It’s a proven fact.”

“Hm.” He moved to the sofa, motioning for her to join him. “Please explain further.”

“Very well.” She plunked herself down beside him. “When Nell lived here, she and Lady Barbara would sometimes read to one another, and I would go into the room upstairs and listen through the fireplace.”

Thank God he’d never brought women to Griffin House.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Peep.”

“How else am I supposed to find out what’s going on? Half the time no one tells me anything.” She patted his knee. “So you should listen. To be in love, you have to fight a villain, usually with a sword. Sometimes a pistol is acceptable. And then the lady cries, and you beat on your chest or tear your shirt before you sweep her up in your arms.” She leaned closer, cupping her hand to his ear. “And then you kiss,” she whispered, and straightened again.

“And that’s how you fall in love?”

Peep nodded, folding her hands on her lap. “That is how it’s done. So you see, you can’t just say it. You don’t always beat your chest, but since you’re the man, you do have to accomplish something heroic. Sometimes, for example, you have to fight a dragon, but I think that might just be a mistake and it’s actually a large wolf or a lion or something, because I’m almost positive that dragons are imaginary.”

He nodded, clenching his jaw hard to keep from laughing. “Thank you very much. I had no idea.”

“I could tell, from what you told Papa. That’s why I had to help you.”

“So you want me to marry Sarala, then?” he asked, though approval from a seven-year-old seemed a rather pathetic excuse for anything.

“That’s why I told you how to be in love.” She climbed off the sofa and cobra-charmed her way out of the room.

In a sense, he wished that Peep’s litany of requirements for love had been correct. It would certainly be much easier to beat his chest or slay a dragon than to make an intelligent decision—after weighing all the consequences and alternatives—that he was actually in love.