The Price of Temptation (17 page)
E
velyn went down the hall eagerly that night to meet her lover. Sam was waiting for her in bed, his body half covered with the sheet. The shadow of his erection leapt against the linen as she entered the room, and she felt an answering need surge in her own body.
She untied the satin belt of her robe, pushed it off her shoulders and let it fall. She was naked beneath, and his sharp intake of breath was gratifying, titillating.
“Come here,” he said, but she hardly needed encouragement. She was already falling into his arms, her mouth on his, pulling aside the sheet so she could touch him.
She had waited for this all day. She’d been tempted to summon her footman to the nearest broom closet, but Miss Trask, Charlotte’s sharp-eyed companion, had decided to spend the afternoon sitting with her in the library. Evelyn pretended to read, almost swooning with lust. Miss Trask feared she was fevered and suggested a tisane of feverfew and willow bark. Evelyn tossed it into a plant when Miss Trask wasn’t looking.
She had a number of reasons to want her wits about her—Lucy’s troubling words for one thing.
What could Philip have given to her sister, and why? The answer was ugly, and she forced it out of her mind.
She couldn’t wait to get to her lover, to find pleasure and forgetfulness in his arms. Feverfew and willow bark be damned—this was the cure for what ailed her, at least for a little while.
She lay in the warm circle of Sam’s arms in the afterglow of their lovemaking, breathing in the scent of his skin, feeling safe for the first time that day. She was drowsy, wanted to fall asleep with him and wake up and make love again before dawn separated them.
She wasn’t afraid of the dark, not with Sam. It was day that terrified her, brought forth her worst fears—Philip, Lord Creighton, Lucy. . .
She swallowed a sob of desperation that this moment could not last forever, and curled her fingers against the heat of his chest. He caught her hand in his, stroked it. “Is something wrong?” His voice rumbled through her breast.
The words hovered on her lips, but she shook her head.
He pushed a pillow behind his head and met her eyes.
“Is it about Lu—Countess Frayne’s visit?” he asked. She shut her eyes.
Not now, not here. Not him too.
“Can’t my sister pay a perfectly congenial visit without questions being asked?”
“It hardly seemed congenial.”
She shifted away from him. “Lucy is a passionate woman,” she said, as if it excused her. The slight twitch of his eyebrows told her he already knew all about Lucy’s reputation. Sam wasn’t stupid. Perhaps he suspected the same thing she did, that Lucy and Philip had been—
Her stomach churned, and she got up from the bed, reaching for her robe, suddenly cold.
He leaned up on his elbow, watching her, his eyes in shadow. “Evelyn,
do
you know where Philip is?” he asked.
She sent a haughty glare over her shoulder, but his eyes narrowed, glittered.
“Don’t give me that look, my lady. In this room, we are equals, remember?”
She raised her chin as she tied to sash on her robe. “Not so equal that you may ask impertinent questions.”
He rose and began to pull on his breeches. “I see I’ve found the boundary line.”
“Am I not entitled to privacy?” she demanded.
He crossed to touch her cheek, his eyes soft, sympathetic, and she let him, trying not to swoon against his palm, wanting to fight the rest of the world, but not him.
He lowered his mouth to hers, began to undo her robe again, following the descent of the silk with his lips.
He had no right to ask, she thought. He was her lover, and that was all. Or was it? She trusted this man as she had never trusted another. He kept her safe, made her forget her worries. Still, her husband was alive, and this was adultery.
Just like Lucy.
She pulled away, suddenly feeling ill.
“Evelyn?” He set his hands on his hips and frowned.
“My husband is still alive, Sam. I am a married woman. I have no right to be here with you. I am no better than—”
He laid a finger against her lips. “
Do
you know where Philip is?” he asked again, softly.
“He could be outside this door for all I know. He might walk in here and kill us both. Aren’t you afraid?”
He didn’t look afraid in the least. In fact, he looked amused. “Who could blame him? You’re beautiful,” he quipped, insouciant in the face of danger.
“Not to Philip. I am a possession, property, nothing more.” She let him pull her back against his chest. “There was no love, no pleasure between us. If he comes back for me, it will be because he has no one and nothing else. He’ll want someone to punish for that. Lucy’s message was proof of that.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” he asked, his voice husky, his mouth trailing over her shoulder.
Was he daft? She shoved away from him. “What does it ‘mean’?” she demanded angrily. “He contacted Lucy as a warning to me. He knew she’d come to me. She’s afraid, and I cannot let him hurt her.”
His expression was almost stricken, and her fury soared higher. She didn’t want his pity. She held his eyes ferociously, refusing to give in to tears, or fear.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “So what did Philip leave with Lucy?” he asked.
She paced the small room. “I don’t know. The Frenchman thought I had some kind of French treasure. Perhaps he left it with Lucy instead.” Philip had not even left
her
a note of farewell.
“A treasure?” Sam prompted.
“There isn’t any treasure,” she said bitterly.
“But Philip Renshaw was—is—one of the richest men in England.”
“He took it with him, then,” she snapped. “He left nothing worth coming back for.”
He got off the bed and came toward her. “There’s you,” he said gallantly, and pulled her into his arms.
Her heart swelled and began to beat again. In the brief years of their marriage, Philip had never offered her a compliment of any kind. Nor had her father been a man of effusive praise. There were, of course, men who offered insincere platitudes to ladies like her at balls and parties. They didn’t mean a word of it. Sam did. She could see that in his eyes, feel it in the way he touched her.
Like a treasure.
“Do you want to end this?” he asked. “Would it be easier?”
She shut her eyes against the wave of desire that forced the air from her lungs. “No,” she whispered. “I want everything else to be over, but not this.”
“Then come back to bed.”
He stepped behind her, lifted her hair and kissed her neck, stripping away her robe entirely, letting it fall. He ran his tongue along her spine, leaving a wet tingle on her skin. Rage and fear melted like liquid honey.
“In the morning . . .” He dropped to his knee and kissed the smooth skin of her buttocks. “ . . . we will think of what to do.”
She turned in his arms. Still kneeling, he laid his head on her belly, and she stroked his hair. “You want to help me? A knight in shining armor?”
He looked up at her, his brow furrowing. “My armor is a little tarnished, I’m afraid, but I will do anything I can to help you.”
He had marvelous eyes. She felt like she could read him, detect truth or lies just by looking into their gray depths. Something in her chest softened, opened, and she sobbed. He got to his feet and picked her up, carrying her back to the bed. Their bed, their sanctuary.
He made love to her with slow, exquisite care. Fear ebbed, hope surged.
For the first time in her life she was not alone.
She had Sam.
“N
ot that one,” Evelyn directed the next morning. “The one to the left. The blue book with the silver lettering.”
Sam was up on the library ladder, searching the top shelves, and she watched the flex and play of his muscles as he reached for the book she indicated. He was made to perfection, she decided, enjoying the view. She let her gaze roam over his firm buttocks—was it just last night that she’d caressed the naked flesh?
Her mouth watered as he pulled the book off the shelf, tucked it under his arm, and climbed down the ladder with lithe grace.
She didn’t take the book from him, but pointed to the table, and he set it down there. She stood across the polished surface from him, biting her lip. Could she really dare to do this? It meant trusting Sam, and hoping that her husband would not return and want this particular book. Judging by the richness of the painted illustrations, and the lavish embossing on the cover, it was probably the most costly book in Philip’s naughty little collection.
“What is it?” Sam asked, and she held her breath as he opened the cover, and waited for his reaction. Shock? Titillation? She watched as he turned a few pages, saw his fingers still when he reached the first illustration. He glanced up at her.
On the page, the lovers were entwined, and the man was about to enter his partner, rudely erect, ready to impale her. The lady’s eyes were closed, her expression languid with anticipation. Her hips were tilted to meet her lover’s first thrust, her sex on display. For the first time, Evelyn understood the passion the illustrations showed, knew the sense of expectation. Her body throbbed as she met Sinjon eyes.
He was regarding her curiously, waiting for an explanation. “It’s Philip’s,” she said, her voice husky. “Part of a private collection. Treason was just one of his wicked predilections.”
“Why are you showing me this?” he asked, his voice low, his tone suggesting he already had an idea why she’d asked him to fetch it from its hiding place.
Unfortunately, it was the wrong idea entirely. She swallowed. This was business, not play. “I need to sell it. I need a large sum of money, and I can hardly take such a thing to a dealer myself.”
His eyes widened. “You want me to do it?”
“Y-Yes. There are more as well. I thought someone with similar tastes to Philip’s might pay dearly for it.”
Sam looked around the library, scanning the shelves as if she’d told him there were bats hiding among the books, waiting to attack. He regarded her shrewdly. “How dearly?”
She raised her chin. “I need five hundred pounds.”
His eyebrows shot up at the enormity of the sum. “Why?”
It was an impertinent question from a servant, and she considered not replying, but this was no ordinary request, and Sam was no ordinary servant. She looked away, feeling her cheeks heat. “I owe a gentleman a sum of money. I asked him to deliver a letter for me. It appears the funds I enclosed with my note disappeared. Not knowing the amount, he overpaid on my behalf. I must now reimburse him for his troubles.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look surprised or amused. He looked angry. He leaned forward, his fists on either side of the book, as if he were fighting to control his rage. She gasped and stepped toward him. Did he imagine she meant to give him the book, or the money? Perhaps he thought it was payment for—now her whole body heated in mortification.
“I need to sell it, Sam,” she said sharply. “I hoped I could trust you with this. You said last night you would do anything to help. Will you help me with this? You could go today, to Ackerman’s perhaps, or one of the gentlemen’s clubs.”
He looked up at her, his expression dubious, and she felt her stomach tense in desperation.
“I cannot do this myself. Nor is there anyone else I can ask, for obvious reasons.”
He studied her face, and the anger in his face and body eased, like a tight rope suddenly released, though he was still frowning. “It will have to be wrapped.”
Relief flooded over her. “Best do it yourself. If Starling saw it—”
He looked down at the drawing again, and touched the painted face on the page. “She looks like you, just before you—”
She laid her hand over his, covering the lovers. “Stop. The time passes slowly enough without the torment of wanting you all day long.”
His gaze turned playful. He caressed her hand, lifted it, kissed her fingertips until she sighed. Then his grip tightened and he grinned. “Come behind the bookshelf,” he said, tugging her toward the back corner of the room where tall shelves made a secluded nook.
Evelyn didn’t need a second invitation. She knew exactly what he meant to do, what he wanted. She wanted it as well, was breathless in anticipation. She crossed the library at an undignified run.
He pulled her against him as soon as they were behind the shelf, his mouth on hers, his hands everywhere at once, driving her mad. He tugged up her skirts and entered her in one smooth stroke as she leaned back against the shelf.
She tried to be silent as he thrust into her, but his name and unstoppable cries of delight burst from her.
Sin, and more sin, never enough. She wrapped her legs around his hips and urged him on, harder, faster, wanting instant pleasure, yet never wanting it to end.
Books shook themselves loose and fell around them like rain in the few delicious minutes it took to find their release. Her final cry echoed off the high ceiling as he drove into her one last time.
For a long moment neither of them moved, too overcome, too tangled in the disarray of their clothing.
Had she ever felt this good, this happy? “Oh,” she breathed, her body tingling, feeling as if the meaning of the universe had been revealed to her. He chuckled, withdrawing from her as he gently set her feet on the floor.
“Perhaps we should meet here tonight,” he muttered, kissing her neck.
“Anywhere,” she breathed.
She stepped away to straighten her skirts and run a shaking hand over her hair. He buttoned his flies and grinned at her. “Midnight?” he asked, and she kissed him by way of reply.
“My lady, are you in here?” They froze as Miss Trask’s reedy voice echoed over the shelves.
Evelyn shut her eyes. She had sent Charlotte’s watchdog to consult with Mrs. Cooper on the meals for the day so she could speak to Sam about the book. Miss Trask was obviously quick and efficient. Or suspicious.
Evelyn walked out from behind the shelf just as the woman was reaching for the book on the table, her eyes sharp. Evelyn quickly picked it up.
“Ah, Miss Trask. There you are at last,” she said, surprised her voice sounded almost normal, as if she hadn’t just been—
Miss Trask’s forehead wrinkled in confusion as Evelyn gave her a brilliant smile.
“Sam was helping me collect up some books,” she said. Surely Sam must be right behind her, since the woman was staring at something over Evelyn’s shoulder, her frown deepening.
Evelyn turned, holding her breath, but his wig was straight, his flies correctly fastened, and he was holding two other books in his hands, as if he had indeed been assisting her with nothing more exciting than selecting a few dusty books.
She felt another blush race up from her toes as she added the blue book to the top of the pile, her eyes meeting his.
Her co-conspirator. Her lover.
She suppressed the sigh that threatened to bubble out of her.
“Be sure to wrap them properly and deliver them right away,” she ordered. “That will be all.”
He bowed, his expression flat, bored, and perfectly correct. She watched him walk away, and felt a warm trickle caress the inside of her thigh. She glanced at the clock.
How many hours until midnight?