The Pretender (32 page)

There wasn't much time left. No one would believe a widow's child more than nine months after her husband's death. She wanted a baby, but not at the cost of her child being a known bastard.

She knew without asking that Simon would be very upset by her plan. His own childhood as an illegitimate had been so terrible. He would never forgive her for inflicting it on his child. She might lose him forever if he knew.

But then, she already had, hadn't she?

She leaned her head against her door for a moment, her hand on the knob. If she was to follow her new resolution not to lie to herself any longer, she must admit that her heart's longing to be with Simon again played a large part in her decision.

To see him all day, to speak with him, to sit across from him at meals was becoming more than she could bear. She was so unhappy that she thought she might throw back her head and scream from the pain of it.

Her bedchamber certainly had paid the price, for when she couldn't be sad anymore, she became angry.

Nellie hadn't said a word about the pillows ending the night across the room or the odd broken vase. Still, Agatha had noticed that the vase currently holding flowers on her night table was a cheap thing covered with irregular green glazing.

A veritable projectile waiting to happen.

But not tonight. No more helpless tears or childish rages. Tonight she would be in Simon's arms again.

Her hands had stilled their shaking and her breathing had evened. Agatha raised her head and opened her door.

She didn't knock on the door of the third bedchamber. Instead, she boldly walked in to find Simon lounging on his bed holding a book. This room was too small for a fireside sitting area, but it was all the warmer for it.

His eyes dark and unreadable, Simon slowly closed his book and sat up off the pillows.

"Agatha, you can't be here."

"Well, I am." Was that her voice, trembling and breathy?

"You must go."

She shook her head, not trusting her speech, and moved to untie her wrapper. If she could tempt him with her body, she might be able to make him forget his reservations.

In an instant, he was off the bed and standing before her. His hands closed over hers, stilling her in the act of undoing the knot. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. Cinnamon and warm, lovely man.

He stood close enough for her to feel the heat coming from his skin and she hungered to press herself close. He'd shed everything but his shirt and trousers. She could see his pulse pounding through his open collar and longed to press her lips against it.

"Don't send me away."

Blast. She sounded like a pleading child being sent to bed early. Then she damned her pride and tilted her head back to look into his beautiful eyes.

"Please, don't send me away. I miss you." She swallowed. All the way, now. "I want your touch."

A tremor went through him and his eyes darkened as he gazed down at her. Freeing one hand from his slackened grip, she raised her fingers to his face. Gently she traced the precious angles of his cheekbone and jaw.

She could only hope that her son would have those features, so that she might never go a day without seeing Simon in some small way.

Her heart hurt with her feelings for him. She couldn't hold the words in.

"I love you."

It was a mistake. She saw it as soon as the words left her lips. He had begun to lean toward her slightly, as if he couldn't help but kiss her. The words made him snap his head back as if she'd bitten him.

"You must go, damsel," he said grimly. "There's nothing for you here."

With one swift movement, he reached behind her to open the door, then he firmly thrust her out into the hall.

The door didn't slam—quite—but Agatha felt as though her heart had been trapped in the closing.

She'd obviously made a terrible error.

Next time she wouldn't stay so close to the door.

Simon leaned back against the door, one hand moving to rub away the tightness in his chest.

He'd been staring at the damn book for hours, seeing nothing but the memory of Agatha, naked on the rug, reaching for him with tenderness in her eyes.

And then as if he had conjured her from thin air she had appeared before him, offering herself and her love once more.

How much was a man to take? His hands still trembled from the sheer cost of tossing her from the room instead of onto his bed.

She had touched him, stroking his face with such tender longing that he had very nearly given in on the spot.

The thought crossed his mind that he could be with her again. She'd already been ruined and survived it, there was no worse he could do there. She knew and respected his duty, yet she chose to come to him herself.

Why shouldn't they snatch a moment of happiness from this unsolvable dilemma? She was an intelligent woman making a choice of her own free will, not some silly girl he had seduced.

Perhaps—

No.

He had sworn that he would never again endanger someone because of his position. If something happened to Agatha because of who he was, he would never be able to live with himself.

He rubbed his face and threw himself down on the bed, staring blindly up at the bed draperies. It was going to be a very long night.

Again. This time, she would use the advantage of surprise. The clock in the hall chimed two in the morning as Agatha silently opened Simon's door. She closed it behind her and crossed the room to the bed.

The fire still gave a glow, and she could see just well enough to make her heart speed up with the view.

Simon slept naked, with limbs outflung as if restless dreams kept him in motion all night. Even in relaxation, his chest and arms were roped in hard muscle that made delicious shadows and shapes by the dim firelight.

This time, her hands were sure as she untied her wrapper. The silk slid from her shoulders to puddle on the floor around her feet.

Now she was as naked as he. She reached to touch his shoulder. "Simon—"

He struck like a tiger, yanking her down so quickly her breath left her body in a gasp. Then she was pinned to the mattress by an arm across her throat and a knee in her stomach.

Oh, yes. He was definitely naked. The only thing between them was the tangled satin of the counterpane. She could feel his chest against hers and his breath on her face.

All of this would have been much more enjoyable had she herself been able to breathe.

Then the snarling predator above her focused on her face.

"Agatha!"

He was off her as quickly as he'd been on her. Gratefully she inhaled as his powerful hands lifted her to her feet.

"Did I hurt you? Can you talk?"

A cough cleared the tightness in her throat. "I'm fine."

With a sharp exhalation of relief, Simon pulled her tightly to him, wrapping his arms around her.

Agatha relaxed into his hardness and his heat, wishing she could sink into his very skin. This was where she wanted to be. This was where she belonged.

Which was why she was so very surprised to find herself thrust firmly into the hall once more.

Unfortunately, this time she was quite thoroughly naked. As she scrambled for her room, she had only one thought.

This meant war.

* * *

Must he barricade the bloody door?

Simon paced desperately before the fire. His feet tangled in something silken. Her wrapper. He knelt swiftly and picked it up, prepared to throw it out after her damnably determined, adorably shapely, barely resistible rear as she ran back to her room.

His fist clenched in the soft fabric and her scent rose to him. Instead of tossing it through the door—or, better yet, into the coals—he raised it to his cheek.

Better he should keep it. Perhaps it would deter her from wandering about where she didn't belong.

So he went back to his cold bed, where the sheets now smelled ever so faintly of citrus and flowers. If he was lucky, he would dream of her and not wake too soon.

The next morning, Agatha was dressed and downstairs before dawn. She leaned against the parlor wall, peeking into the front hall through the carefully narrow crack in the door.

She hadn't heard Simon come down yet, but he was leaving earlier every day for his mystery destination and she didn't want to miss him. He was going to hear her out this time, she swore it.

Her head tipped against the door frame quite on its own, and her eyelids trembled with the urge to close them. Behind her the sofa called her name. Its lure warred with the siren smell of bacon wafting from the breakfast room.

The conflict was almost the only thing that kept her awake.

The parlor door opened suddenly, and Agatha jerked upright. "I was only—!"

Pearson gazed inquiringly at her from his position just outside in the hall. "Will you be having breakfast now, madam?"

Agatha checked his eyebrows, but they were as level as could be. Apparently, skulking behind doors spying upon one's sham brother-in-law was perfectly acceptable.

"No breakfast for me yet, thank you. Has Mr. Applequist risen yet?"

"Yes, madam. Button went up not ten minutes ago."

"He rang for Button?"

"The master never rings for him in the morning, so Button has learned to anticipate him a bit."

This was apparently good form as well, for Pearson continued to keep his brows at sea level.

"Ah. Well, er, carry on, Pearson."

"Yes, madam." Pearson left, closing the door to the precise degree that it had stood before he had opened it.

Agatha returned to her vigil and was soon rewarded by the sound of Simon's familiar step on the stairs. He stopped just within her range of vision and gathered his hat and coat from Pearson.

He was wearing the blue coat that gave particular emphasis to his eyes. Agatha spared a moment to admire the picture of gentlemanly quality he made.

"Has Mrs. Applequist risen yet?"

"Mrs. Applequist has not yet sat down to breakfast."

One must admit, Pearson was good. It wasn't even a lie, strictly speaking.

Quickly Agatha slipped from the parlor. "Simon, I wish to speak to you."

He started and turned. "Agatha! Good lord, what are you doing about so early? I thought you'd—" He stopped and had the grace to flush a bit.

"You thought I'd have a nice lie-in after my little adventures last night?" She smiled sweetly at him.

He had grown to know her very well, for he backed away. "Now, damsel—"

"Simon Rain, you are a coward. A lily-livered, jelly-spined coward. You are not going to walk away from this conversation. You cannot thrust me naked from my own house."

Simon halted his backward sidle. "You are quite correct, damsel. It is time that we talked."

He gestured for her to precede him back into the parlor. She went, although she did watch from the corner of her eye to be sure he didn't make a break for his freedom.

She stopped and turned as he entered behind her. As he walked swiftly toward her, she opened her mouth to begin—

And he pulled her into his arms and swept his lips down upon hers. Astonishment melted into joy as she gave in to his kiss. His hands pressed her hard to him, and his lips were demanding and fierce. It was an invasion of a kiss, and she was willingly conquered.