The Heart Breaker (9 page)

“That may be so. But I have no intention of letting that debt hang over my head forever—or having you think I mean to live off your charity.”

Fortunately for the sake of peace, two porters arrived just then bearing silver trays with their dinner. Heather would have preferred to eat in the dining car to avoid being alone with her disagreeable husband, but short of creating a scene, she would have to endure his company.

Sloan inspected the dishes the porters uncovered. Then, with a gallantry she was certain mocked her, he held out her chair for her. “Will you join me, darlin’?”

Forcing a smile for the benefit of the railroad employees, she rose and went to the small table, dismayingly set for an elegant and intimate dinner for two. Heather tensed as Sloan seated her. The weight of his hand on her shoulder was heavy for a moment, like an explicit demonstration of ownership. Then he dismissed the porters and took the chair opposite her.

The fare was ample and delicious—venison cutlets in mushroom sauce, pheasant casserole, sautéed root vegetables, potatoes au gratin, green peas, and for dessert, chilled custard pudding with stewed apples and French coffee.

She should have been hungry after having eaten so little at her wedding breakfast, yet Heather merely toyed with her food, filled with nerves and tension and concern about the night to come—as well as worry about the current disastrous state of her relationship with Sloan McCord.

Their marriage had started badly from their first meeting, and didn’t seem to be improving upon
further acquaintance, she reflected somberly. She found it difficult to maintain even a semblance of civility when Sloan seemed determined to keep them at dagger’s point. It rankled to have him throw her debts in her face, especially when she was already smarting from the necessity of accepting his sacrifice. A woman of fierce pride, she had vowed not to be a burden to him.

Sweet heaven, this was not the bargain she’d anticipated when she’d agreed to the marriage arrangement. Nor was Sloan McCord the kind of man she had hoped to wed.

But then … it was too much to ask for a husband who cherished her with all his soul. She had relinquished that dream long ago. And she had made her bed, so to speak. It was now time to lie in it.

Her glance went to the huge bed draped in crimson hangings. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of trepidation.

Sloan saw the direction of her gaze. Clenching his jaw, he took a final swallow of coffee, then tossed aside his napkin and rose. “If you’ll excuse me…”

She gave him a startled glance as he crossed to the door. “Where are you going?”

“The smoking car,” he threw over his shoulder. “There’s a poker game in progress.”

Her look of dismay made Sloan recall her father’s disastrous gambling habits. “I thought I might win back some of the money I paid Randolf,” he added defensively. “You can read your treatise. I doubt you’ll miss me.”

“Will you be coming back?”

His blue gaze sharpened. “You’re not worried that I might try to skip out on you?”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“I’m a man of my word, duchess. I’m not planning to abandon you.”

Dropping her gaze, Heather shifted the food on her plate with her fork. “Actually, I was … wondering about… appearances. How will it look if we … if you …”

“If I leave my bride alone on our wedding night? Who’s to know that we’re newly wedded?”

“I would know. I thought… you … we …”

“You thought we would consummate our union, is that it?”

Her cheeks flushed at his plain speaking. “It
is
customary for a married couple, I understand.”

Sloan muttered a curse under his breath. With such unsettling feelings of guilt and disloyalty churning inside him, he’d hoped to avoid the consummation tonight—maybe give them both time to come to terms with the strangeness of this situation, this unwanted union. But in fact, there was no real reason not to go through with it. Randolf’s car had ample space, where an ordinary sleeping berth would have been crowded. And the large bed was as inviting as any he’d seen, well-suited to the purpose of lovemaking.

Perhaps it
was
best to get it over with now. If only to put it behind them and help the duchess get over her obvious apprehension. She kept glancing at him like a nervous filly, like she expected him to tie her to the bed and rape her.

Hell, he was just as uneasy with her, Sloan reflected, though he doubted she would believe it. He’d never felt so uncomfortable with a woman; this proper lady with her elegant airs and treatises written in French was so different from his late wife. He didn’t like the memories of the past the duchess dredged up, or his unwanted attraction for
her. Didn’t like what she made him feel, how raw she made his emotions.

And yet walking out on her now might be considered a bit cruel. She would doubtless find it humiliating to be left alone on her wedding night.

Could he stay? Could he take her body and bind her to him in marriage? Could he make the fact of their union irrevocable?

Truth to tell, it wouldn’t really be a hardship to make love to her… except for the danger to his own defenses. He didn’t
want
to be tempted by that white, silken skin, that lush, cool beauty of hers. He was scared as hell he would enjoy the experience too much, when all he wanted was to remain true to the memory of his late wife. Desiring the duchess the way he did seemed somehow traitorous.

He couldn’t ignore the powerful need she aroused in him. Couldn’t stop remembering their kiss yesterday, the way her mouth had softened and shaped itself to his … how they’d almost lit a brushfire between them. At the thought, his manhood began to stir.

Angry at his body’s reaction, Sloan leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest, determined to keep his hands to himself for as long as possible. “I suppose we
should
get it over with.”

“If you don’t wish to go through with the marriage—”

“What I wish is beside the point at this late date.” Sloan cocked his head, considering her. “Do you know how a consummation is conducted?”

He intended to make this difficult for her, Heather suspected. “Not… precisely.”

He seemed unsurprised by her inexperience, she noted. Yet thanks to Winnie, she was not totally
unaware of what was expected of her. Still, she’d never before felt so vulnerable. She had no experience dealing with this situation, with this kind of man. A ruthless stranger who was too tough, too remote, to show much in the way of understanding or compassion or sympathy for her nervousness.

“However,” Heather added stubbornly, “I am not entirely ignorant about… about the mating act.”

One dark-gold eyebrow shot up. “How’d you learn? You read about it in a book?”

“No. Winnie advised me.”

“Did she now? And just what did she tell you?”

“She said … to trust you. That you would know what to do. She said tonight … might hurt the first time, but if you were a … considerate lover, the act would be pleasurable.”

“Is that all she said?”

Her flush deepened. “Well… she also said I should try to … give you pleasure in return.”

Heather thought she caught the faint ghost of a grin. “I fail to understand why that should amuse you,” she retorted tersely.

His expression sobered. “Believe me, duchess, nothing about this situation amuses me. I just find it hard to think of Winnie as an expert on carnal relations.”

“Well, she seemed to know what she was talking about.”

“And just how are you supposed to accomplish giving me pleasure?”

“She said … that you would show me.”

Heather heard Sloan take a deep, slow breath. Then he exhaled in a sigh. “Okay, duchess. Come here.”

She eyed him warily. “Why?”

“So we can get on with it. Unless you want this to take all night?”

Rising from the table, Heather forced herself to cross the car and stand before him. She could feel the train’s vibration coming up from the floor, running through her limbs and heightening the sensation in all her nerve endings.

“I think maybe you should have the honors.”

“What do you mean?”

“You kiss me this time—unless you’re not woman enough after all.”

He was taunting her, challenging her … intentionally, she suspected. He knew she would rise to the challenge. But at least it made her less afraid and gave her the courage to lift her mouth and press it to his.

He tasted of whiskey and his own highly arousing, masculine flavor. When he made no move to help her, Heather drew back to eye him with annoyance.

“I cannot manage it alone,” she said stiffly. “Perhaps you might condescend to instruct me.”

“You’re doing all right.” His hard, sensual mouth curved in a half-smile. “Give it a chance.”

This time she increased the pressure of her kiss and felt a feminine flood of heat shiver through her in response.

Dazed at the pleasure she felt, Heather shut her eyes and savored the taste of him. How a man as cold as he could have such warm, enticing lips was beyond imagination. As the gentle kiss went on, she felt herself tremble. Her hands rose to his shoulders of their own accord, but then she hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

When she faltered, he whispered against her lips, “Open your mouth this time. Use your tongue.”

“I… don’t know how.”

“Like this…”

He proceeded to show her, the warm stroke of his tongue inside her mouth nearly making her melt.

“This,” Sloan murmured, “is like what I’ll do to you when I have you in bed.”

His demonstration was explicit enough that she couldn’t mistake his meaning. She could feel the hard bulge at his loins through their layers of clothing, could feel his hard belly and slim hips pressing against her. The rocking motion of the train only made it worse, for it rubbed their bodies together.

Sloan was keenly aware of his physical condition as well. He drew back to stare reluctantly down at her. “Sure you don’t want to back out, duchess? If you mean to, now’s the time.”

In response, she unconsciously moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

Desire hit him in the gut. Damn, he didn’t want this, Sloan thought defiantly. He wanted to remember Doe. Doe was the wife of his heart.
This
stranger could never take her place.

Yet it had gone too far to stop. His late wife was merely a fading memory now. Painful, poignant, yet distant all the same. As insubstantial as a dream. This woman was flesh and blood, lush, warm, and very, very real. The fever in his blood needed appeasement
now.

“No…” she said softly, echoing his thoughts. “I don’t want to back out.”

His sigh was long and slow as desire warred with regret and won. “We’d best take off our clothes then.”

She froze, staring at him.

“Do you need help undressing?”

“No. It’s just … the light …”

He looked at her with something like tenderness
softening his hard features. “You don’t have any charms I haven’t seen before on a woman, duchess, but if it’ll make you feel better…”

Quietly he moved about the car snuffing the lamp wicks, banishing the harsh, revealing light, leaving only the one beside the bed burning with a low flame. “That better?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need to look so worried. I’m not about to murder you.”

With a skeptical smile at his intended reassurance, Heather turned slowly and moved away from him. Keeping her back to Sloan, she carefully removed her bodice jacket and skirt and laid them on the chaise longue. Her shirtwaist followed, then petticoat and corset, half-boots and stockings. Finally her linen shift. She shivered as the cool air touched her bare skin.

Gathering her nerve, she turned back to face Sloan. The remaining lamplight was still too bright to be merciful, and so were his eyes. They ruthlessly surveyed her as she stood naked before him. Every ounce of modesty she possessed was outraged, and yet she felt a strange excitement as well. The mere feel of his eyes on her naked breasts made her quiver with sensation, made her heart beat far too rapidly.

This man was her husband, she had to remember that. He had a right to look at her if he wanted. To touch her. To have her body.

He looked his fill, taking his time, while the silence stretched thickly between them, accentuated by the steady grinding throb of the train wheels.

He seemed entirely dispassionate. Yet despite outward appearances, it was all Sloan could do to conceal his physical response to her beauty. She
had a perfect body, he thought resentfully. More perfect than his dream.

She was nothing like his late wife. With her ripe, white curves, her proud thrusting breasts, the pale curls at the vee of her silken thighs, his new bride was every inch a duchess, elegant and proper, ladylike and shy.

But she had courage, he’d give her that. She was returning his gaze defiantly, her chin raised at an angle he was beginning to recognize. He reached for his belt buckle.

He proceeded to undress slowly, first his frock coat, then his tie and starched linen shirt, and finally his trousers and long johns.

Heather watched with bated breath. His potent masculinity was even more apparent as Sloan shed the last of his clothing. For all his leanness, he was unexpectedly muscular, his naked torso roped with long, smooth cords that rippled when he moved. His arms and back particularly were bronzed from the sun, while the center of his chest was covered with a triangle of silky dark-gold hair.

She could not deny there was a wild, primitive beauty to his body. He had long, lean legs and a horseman’s powerful thighs and calves, his belly ridged with muscle....

Heather drew a sharp breath. Her gaze locked on his loins, heavy and aroused. Rising there from the swirls of hair was that pulsing awesome maleness she’d felt burning through their clothing.

A fine shaking seized her legs. Winnie had said a considerate lover would make the act enjoyable for a woman. But would Sloan McCord believe she deserved consideration?

His expression was shuttered, no emotion showing in those bright, compelling eyes, the hard planes of his face. When he took a step toward her,
a wild sensation fluttered in her middle, a deep primal fear.