What You Desire (Anything for Love, Book 1) (8 page)

Sebastian ignored the last remark as he knew Haines was provoking him. He had wasted time returning to Westlands but was more than capable of making up lost ground. He took out his pocket watch and noted the time. “Give me a twenty-minute start and then I’ll meet you at Rockingham Pool. It’s just a few miles to the Inn on the Green, which is quieter and more secluded. I’m sure after twelve miles in the saddle and with no padding other than a thin pair of breeches, Miss Beaufort will be only too pleased to ride in the comfort of a carriage.”

Every single muscle and every single bone in her body ached.

Sophie was not used to riding without layers of fabric acting as a cushion and she rubbed her hand down her thigh to try to alleviate the stiffness. How on earth did a gentleman ride all day with such flimsy material for protection? Although she had pushed herself a little too hard as she didn’t want to make it too easy for Dane to catch up.

Oh, what she would give for a nice cup of tea and a hot bath.

She slowed Argo to a walking pace and glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she’d made a terrible miscalculation.

What if Dane had no intention of following?

She had never actually referred to him as Dane, not aloud. The ladies, particularly those simpering misses who batted their lashes and craved an alliance, called him Lord Danesfield. To the gentlemen, he would simply be Danesfield, in deference to his title. Sophie refused to be cast in the role of a desperate debutante for it implied weakness, it implied inferiority, it implied a desire for an emotional connection.

Her peaceful deliberations were disturbed by the sound of horse’s hooves pounding the dirt at a considerable speed. She did not give him the satisfaction of turning around, but she knew it was Dane when the horse slowed to walking pace at her side.

“It was good of you to wait,” he teased, patting his horse and commending him for his efforts.

She glanced at him. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on his cheeks and his hair looked wavy and damp where it met his collar. His eyes were warm with a vitality that stole her breath and she wondered if this was the sight his mistress saw amidst the throes of passion.

She looked away sharply, her lips forming a scowl. “Had I known it was you, I would have bolted for the hills. What does a lady have to do to be rid of you?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never found myself in such a predicament,” he said with amusement. “Besides, I think we both now you wanted me to follow you. To save you from the dangers of stumbling upon a reckless rogue intent on kissing you.”

“You’re the only reckless rogue I know.”

“Well, then there’s no need to worry. As I recall, your little sighs and gasps suggest a fondness for rogues and for kissing.”

All the blood rushed to her cheeks and her tongue felt too thick to form a reply.

They covered the next mile in silence and she wished she could think of something witty to say, something to divert her attention away from the strange sensations fluttering in her stomach. The air between them crackled, the vibration stirring the soft hairs at her nape, leaving her skin tingling, leaving her breathless.

She did not look at him but became intensely aware of his gaze, on her face, on her legs, gliding over her body. It was as though it held a magical ability to scorch her skin, leaving a hot, burning trail in its wake.

She closed her eyes in a bid to banish the feeling, to eradicate the power he had over her. Once, a long time ago, she had thought herself in love with him. But she was no longer a naive girl. He would never be Lord Danesfield to her. He would always be Dane.

“Considering our current situation, I suppose I should call you Dane,” she said with feigned confidence.

“In private, you may call me Sebastian,” he replied abruptly.

“But do not all gentlemen of your acquaintance defer to your title?”

He sighed. “Loathe me to point out the obvious, but donning a pair of breeches does not make you a gentleman. Besides, only my closest friends call me Dane. My female relatives always call me Sebastian and since I’ve been forced to act as your guardian, you fall into that category.”

“I see,” she replied indignantly, for she did not want to be regarded as family.

Besides, she had not forced him to do anything and certainly did not need coddling. Not from a man who always placed his own needs above all others, a man who now had the affront to take the moral high ground.

“But what of your mistress,” she said attempting to demean his high principles. “What does she call you?” There was a bitter edge to her tone that she could not disguise.

“You are not my mistress.”

“Obviously,” she snorted, shrugging off a feeling of inadequacy. “I heard country girls bore you to tears.”

“Who told you that?”

“You did.” She turned and met his gaze and he looked puzzled. “Have you ever heard the tale of the prince and the country mouse?” she continued.

“I can’t say that I have,” he said somewhat amused.

“Well, although some thought the prince handsome, he was an extremely poor judge of character. Annoyed with the mouse, he kissed her in an attempt to frighten her away.”

“Which evidently proved to be a futile exercise,” he interjected.

“Of course. The country mouse simply transformed into a tiger and gobbled the prince right up,” she mocked.

Dane laughed. “So, it’s not enough to tease me with your wandering hands. Now, you tempt me with your lascivious analogy. I must say I shall look forward to the event with eager anticipation.”

“Sophie,” she corrected, a little confused by his reply.

“Excuse me.”

“In private, you may call me Sophie.”

He was silent for a moment, then said rather abruptly, “I think not, Miss Beaufort. I believe that pleasure is reserved for your brother and your future husband.”

“I told you, I have no intention of marrying. I believe marriage would be a somewhat tedious affair.”

Particularly if it was to you, she added silently.

He glanced across at her. “I would have thought it all depends on the person one marries. If one finds a partner capable of keeping alight the inner flame, then I do not doubt there are many pleasures to be found in marriage.”

Sophie snorted. “Do not tell me you believe in such nonsense, that you of all people desire marriage.”

“Miss Beaufort, I am a peer of the realm. It is my duty to marry and produce an heir. It should not surprise you that I hope it will be a pleasurable experience.”

The mere thought of him married, of him entertaining a wife, made her feel lightheaded.

She imagined seeing them at social gatherings, imagined him smiling at a beautiful golden-haired temptress who pushed the rebellious lock of hair from his brow.

“Besides,” he continued, “what will you do when your brother marries? When you are no longer mistress of the house?”

“I shall move to the cottage,” she said. Or perhaps far enough away never to have to set eyes on Dane again. “I would much rather be mistress of my own heart than be mistress of a stranger’s dinner menu.”

He laughed and said in a languorous tone, “But what of the physical aspects of marriage. How do you propose to compensate for that?”

He was teasing her, but she refused to let him have the upper hand. “For an unmarried man who has spent years enjoying such pleasures, you sound very naive,” she said staring at him with a confidence that made her feel all worldly and wanton.

Dane looked appalled. “If you mean you would take a lover, then I believe you are the one being naive,” he snapped. “You would be ruined. Such a stain on your character would affect every female member of your family, including any future daughters born to your brother.”

Why did he relate everything back to duty and obligation?

“I would be discreet,” she replied with a shrug, but her words seemed to anger him all the more.

“And what of children,” he scolded. “Do you have any idea what it is like to be born on the wrong side of the blanket? Or are you going to tell me you intend to deny yourself the pleasure of motherhood.”

“I do not want children.” Even as the lie left her lips, she could not hide the tremor in her voice or stop the single tear from forming. She wanted children more than anything. Such a loss was a heavy price to pay for independence. “I believe children should be a precious gift from a blissful union, not a commodity to barter,” she spat. “Not some possession simply to continue the bloodline.”

“Or something begotten out of duty,” he added.

They fell silent and in an attempt to find a distraction she began rubbing her aching thigh — an action that received close scrutiny from her companion.

“Beyond the copse,” Dane said, pointing out into the distance, “there’s a large pool where we can rest and take a drink. We’ll stop there and —”

“I am perfectly fine,” Sophie interrupted. She did not want to be treated like a child. “There’s no need to stop on my account.”

“You’ve been in the saddle for the best part of three hours,” he sighed. “If you have no consideration for your own wellbeing, at least have some for your horse.”

Since when had he become the voice of reason?

Sophie could think of no witty retort as one could not argue against common sense. Besides she needed to find some diversion from these turbulent emotions.

They rounded the bend and she nudged Argo onto the verge and across the grass towards the pool. As she approached, she could not help but smile, struck by the wondrous vision before her, a vision of perfect beauty.

Like an oasis in the desert, the water was as clear as glass, reflecting the rich, green hues of the surrounding hills. It was a sanctuary, an idyllic refuge, a shrine to new life and new beginnings.

Ignoring her aching muscles, Sophie climbed down and threw her hat to the ground. After shrugging out of her coat, she stood with her hands on her hips and admired the view. “Oh, Dane, it’s spectacular,” she exclaimed with delight, glancing back over her shoulder. “I have never seen anything so beautiful.”

“Neither have I,” he said softly as his gaze locked with hers.

She wandered down to the edge of the pool and knelt beneath the willow tree. Dipping her hands into the cool water, she pressed her damp fingers over her brow and down her neck. The warmth of the sun seemed to relax her muscles and she repeated her ablutions, relishing the feel of the water as it trickled over her skin. She stood, wiped her hands on her breeches and bent down to pick up a stone, sending it skimming across the pool, watching it bounce four times before it sank with a loud
plop.

“Did you see that?” she said clapping her hands and she swung around to find him still sitting astride his horse, his gaze dark, intense. Those sinful eyes stared at her breeches, which were no longer concealed by her coat. They followed the curve of her thigh up over the swell of her hip.

She swallowed deeply.

He dismounted in one graceful movement. Throwing his hat and greatcoat to the ground, he covered the distance between them in a few strides, his gaze never leaving her. “Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured, his voice deep and rich as he focused on her mouth. “When it comes to you, I am a reckless rogue.”

This time, there was no gentle coaxing, no soft teasing. His mouth, hot and demanding, devoured hers in a frenzy that left her panting and clutching at his shoulders. This was not simply a kiss; it was possession and he drank hungrily and selfishly from her.

She should have pushed him away, slapped him, called him all the things she knew him to be. But her traitorous body ached for him, for his smell, his taste, his touch. She was a Judas to her own cause and in that moment she didn’t care.

She was lost, falling fast and if felt divine.

While his mouth moved wickedly over hers, his tongue plunged deeper into her mouth. His hand slid seductively around her back, up under her waistcoat, balling the thin linen shirt into his fist. His other hand gripped her hip and both worked together to urge her closer into his hard body.

He broke contact and sucked in a breath. “
Good God
,” he growled against her ear.

In a daze, she opened her eyes to look at him — and screamed.

The unmarked carriage had stopped on the road directly behind them. The occupant, a woman, was hanging out of the window watching their amorous display. Thankfully, the coachman did not look their way but sat like a solid lump of stone staring out at the road ahead.

“It’s just my coachman,” Dane said looking back over his shoulder. He released her and straightened her clothing. “Wait here.”

She watched him storm across the grass, raking his hand through his hair and pulling at the sleeves of his coat. The woman threw herself back into the carriage, closed the window and yanked down the blind.

The coachman did not move.

A brief conversation ensued between the two men, the coachman’s gaze following his master as he paced back and forth. Then Dane climbed inside the carriage and promptly closed the door.

Sophie hated herself.

She hated the way she felt when Dane kissed her. She hated the way her body betrayed her so easily, succumbing to his touch. She hated that she’d stood there dumbstruck, while he climbed into the carriage to offer an explanation to his mistress. Most of all, she hated the jealousy that writhed in her chest.