Barbara Pierce - Sinful Between the Sheets Page 15

  "You would do anything for me, would you not?" he murmured, caressing her face.

  "Anything you desire, Your Grace," she vowed.

  "I could bend you over this sofa, toss up your skirts, and fill you—"

  "Yes, my darling—"

  "Without tender words, no teasing touch—nothing gen­tle, just me inside you, pounding—"

  "Yes. Please!" she begged.

  Fayne cocked his head inquiringly to one side. "And if I use your body and think of another?"

  He knew Kilby had seen him with Velouette. Feeling goaded by Darknell's presence in her theater box, he had deliberately flaunted Velouette in front of her. Despite the distance, Fayne swore he felt her bewilderment and an­guish. Kilby was too young, too innocent for sophisticated pretenses.

  The countess pouted at his question, and then shrugged elegantly. "I can be whoever you desire, Carlisle." Her nimble fingers reached for the buttons on his breeches. "Let me show you."

  CHAPTER 11

  "Fitchwolf!" Darknell seized Kilby by the arm, halting her abrupt departure from the private box. "Wait! Where are you going?"

  He knew what had upset her. They had both watched Fayne and his new mistress leave the box. The duke had placed his hand on the Lady Spryng's backside as they dis­appeared behind the curtain.

  "I have seen enough theater for one evening, my lord," Kilby said, clenching her fists against her abdomen. They were standing alone in the dim passageway. Lyssa had wisely given them their privacy. "All I want to do is go home."

  She refused to cry in front of Darknell. Alone in her bedchamber she would put a pillow over her head to muffle the pain and fury she was feeling. First, she had to get around her friend. "Release me. Please!"

  "No." He jerked her closer when Kilby tried to pull away. "Not until you tell me what sent you scrambling out of your seat... why you are shaking as if cold ... what has put tears that refuse to fall in your beautiful violet eyes."

  Kilby shook her head. "You already know. Do not deny that you wanted me to see him. I suppose you took great pleasure in pointing him out as he cavorted with his mistress."

  "Solitea?" Darknell sneered, his dark brown eyes glit­tering even in the shadows. "I warned you once that the man was like his father.. Did you naively believe that he would behave honorably toward you? Especially since he consid­ered you his dead father's mistress?"

  She closed her eyes, blocking out his cruelty. "No more," she said, her voice cracking with suppressed emotion. "You have proven him a villain. I hope this pleases you. Now let me go."

  "Never!" he said fiercely. "If I do, you will never for­give me for showing you Solitea's true nature."

  Before she could disagree, Darknell lowered his head and kissed her. Over the years, he had politely kissed her hand, and on her birthday last year, he had kissed her cheek. Warm and coaxing, his mouth moved against hers, seeking a response. Kilby was too stunned by the viscount's unex­pected boldness to do anything more than just stand there rigidly in his embrace. This was one of her closest friends, Teague Pethum, Viscount Darknell. He was an extremely handsome gentleman, and yet she had never contemplated exploring beyond the restraints of their friendship.

  Darknell pulled back and studied her dazed expression. With the tip of her tongue, Kilby licked her lower lip, tast­ing the exotic flavor of the forbidden. How could she tell him that she had felt nothing?

  "So Fitchwolf, now you know the truth," he said, lightly caressing her shoulder.

  "My lord, I was not aware..." she trailed off, and shrugged helplessly.

  "It was better that way. You were too young when we first met." He gave her a faint grin, reminding her of the carefree Darknell she had known at Ealkin. "I thought we had plenty of time for you to get to know me. To love me."

  Her heart clenched at his unspoken question. "Darknell, of course I love you. We have been friends too long for an attachment not to develop."

  The viscount rewarded her with a swift kiss. “Then it is agreed. We will marry straightaway. Tomorrow I will call on Lady Quennell and tell her that her quest to find you a husband is at an end." Darknell kissed her again, silencing her reply. He lingered, savoring her mouth. "When you first told me of the viscountess's plans, the jealousy I felt almost drove me to madness. I wanted to challenge every gentleman who dared gaze upon you."

  This time when he tried to kiss her, Kilby blocked him by placing her fingers against his lips. "Darknell, I cannot marry you. It would not be fair."

  "What is this nonsense? Stubbornness? Be sensible, Fitchwolf. If you do not marry while you are in town, your bastard brother will handpick your husband and you will spend the rest of your life regretting your grim fate." His brown eyes were eloquent and bright with hurt. "You spoke of love."

  "I did." She glanced away. "I do. A love of a friend. De­spite my great need for a husband, I would dishonor our friendship by accepting your proposal. The love you feel for me." Her throat tightened with regret because she could not freely return the love he offered. "In time, you would despise me for the lack."

  She winced as his hands flexed and constricted on her shoulders. "You fell in love with him, didn't you? You love that bounder, Solitea?"

  Kilby gently removed Darknell's hands from her shoul­der and moved away, using the wall to guide her. "I pray that one day you will forgive me. I never meant to hurt you." She gave him her back and shoved her fist against her mouth. Rejecting him had been the hardest thing she had ever done. He deserved a lady who would love him uncon­ditionally, one who was not simply satisfied with a luke­warm sentiment such as friendship.

  "He won't marry you, you know?" the viscount shouted at her retreating figure. "Solitea might bed you out of curios­ity, but you are too mundane, too practical to be a Carlisle."

  His words cut her to the quick. Although Kilby deserved them, she could not resist confronting him. Whirling around, she held his pain-filled stare for the count of a dozen heart­beats. "The Duke of Solitea asked me to marry him two days ago. I kindly rejected his offer, too."

  Satisfied that she had had the final word, Kilby turned on her heel and left Darknell alone in the passageway.

  Within the small confines of her coach, Kilby sobbed in-consolably into the crook of her arm. It had been an awful evening! After she had witnessed Fayne smugly strolling off with Lady Spryng at his side, she had stared blindly at the stage, not conceiving that she could feel any worse than she had felt in that instant. It had been her fault, really. Her rejection of Fayne's offer of marriage had sent him straight into the arms of another woman.

  Now she had devastated one of her dearest friends. His only crime was that he loved her in a manner she could not return. Darknell had looked so hurt. She had almost taken back her rejection because she could not bear the agony etched on his handsome face.

  What stopped her from easing his pain was that he spoke the truth. He had glimpsed it in her eyes before she had.

  She could not love Darknell because another had claimed her heart.

  Only now did she understand the depths of her feelings for Fayne. Her forehead bounced against her forearm as one of the wheels dipped into a deep rut. Kilby raised her head and peeked through the curtains. It had started rain­ing when she had dashed into the coach. Raindrops clung to the glass, making it impossible to discern anything.

  Kilby retrieved another handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. When she left the theater box, she had not bothered explaining to Lyssa what she had found so upsetting. Darknell had known. It was Lady Spryng's empty seat. Involuntarily, her gaze kept drifting back to the box. As the minutes passed, there was no doubt in her feverish imagination as to what Fayne and the countess were doing alone behind the curtain. Fayne had never re­sisted touching her whenever he had cornered her alone.

  Kilby felt guilty for abandoning Lyssa without a word. She should have said something, but her tears had been too close to the surface. Despite Darknell's anger, she knew he would see to it th
at Lyssa was escorted home.

  That was where she wanted to be.

  Home.

  However, she could not return to Ealkin. Not yet. Archer had taken her sanctuary away from her.

  Her bedchamber at Lady Quennell's house was a poor substitute, but it would suffice. Kilby planned to cry until she had purged the cold-blooded rogue out of her heart. It was not until she had seen the countess gazing adoringly up at him that she realized how much she had grown accus­tomed to his hovering around her. Kilby was now honest enough with herself to admit that Fayne had not seduced her on that sofa as she had claimed. She had been there be­cause she had wanted to be there.

  More's the pity, she had foolishly fallen in love with the charming lothario.

  The coach lurched to an abrupt halt. Kilby scrubbed her face and blew her nose. She did not want the coachman reporting back to the viscountess that she had been crying. The rain was ruthlessly battering the coach. Drawing her cloak around her, she pitied the coachman. The poor man had to be soaked to the skin on such a miserable night.

  Kilby braced herself as the door swung open. The coach­man opened an umbrella. Her gaze briefly swept over his shadowed figure. She was relieved to see he was dressed ap­propriately for the weather. He wore a long greatcoat and a cocked hat pulled down over his eyes to keep the rain off his face.

  "A miserable night to be out, is it not?" she said, raising her voice so she could be heard above the relentless rain.

  "Aye, miss," the man replied, his low, raspy voice muf­fled by his heavy greatcoat. As she descended the coach, he grabbed her elbow and prevented her from slipping on the steps.

  The coachman took a lantern off the side of the coach and used it to light their path to the door. The interior of the house was dark. Priddy had issued orders to the servants that they were not required to wait for her return. Kilby had not bothered changing the order, although now she was be­ginning to regret it. In the rain and gloom, the dark house was a bit frightening.

  Behind her, Kilby heard a man shout out and the crack of a whip. She turned in time to see the coach rattle off down the street. "What?" She pointed helplessly at the de­parting coach and then at the man standing beside her. "Well, that was rude of your companion. How are you sup­posed to get home?"

  The coachman sighed. He pushed up his cocked hat, and she gasped as she recognized the green eyes gleaming at her from beneath the upturned brim.

  "No kiss for me, little wolf?"

  ************************************

  Kilby screamed.

  This wasn't a ladylike shriek. Kilby hit a high note guaranteed to make a man's ears bleed. Whirling away, she dashed off into the night.

  The woman was truly daft.

  Tossing aside the umbrella, Fayne charged after her. He lost his cocked hat after a few yards. Perhaps it had been too much to expect that she might have actually been pleased to see him. Actually, it probably was. She had seen him in the company of another woman, a former mistress no less.

  "Damn it, Kilby, will you wait!" he yelled at her retreat­ing figure. "You will drown in this rain."

  He had not counted on her diving facefirst into the near­est puddle on the street. With a faint exclamation, Kilby had slipped in the mud and plopped facedown into the small lake forming on the street. Fayne reached her just as she was sitting up on her knees.

  Kilby was crying and shaking off the water sluicing down her arms. The bottom of her cloak, bloated with wa­ter, sank like ballast. Squinting up at him with rain beading on her face, she said, "Well, this is unquestionably the zenith to an already dreadful evening."

  She staggered to her feet.

  "Here, let me help you," Fayne offered, taking her arm.

  Kilby pushed him away. "Hands off." She swayed, almost losing her balance. The additional weight of her drenched cloak and skirts made her ungainly. "You have certainly done enough. Now skulk back to your mistress and leave me alone."

  Fayne could not bear the misery and defeat he heard in her voice. He thought about offering her his greatcoat, but figured Kilby would topple over if he added more weight to her slender frame. "Who told you Velouette was my mis­tress?" he asked, keeping pace with her uncoordinated stride.

  Kilby bared her teeth at his familiar use of the count­ess's Christian name. "Darknell mentioned that she was a very good friend of yours."

  The sneaky villain. He should have guessed the vis­count was the one who had gleefully imparted the details of his relationship with Lady Spryng to Kilby. "The count­ess is old news. What we shared was brief and a very long time ago."

  She abruptly halted. Blinking furiously against the rain, she said, "Liar. Everyone in the theater observed you leaving the box with your very old news clinging to your arm." Kilby stomped off, heading for Lady Quennell's house.

  Fayne shut his eyes and wiped his face with the sleeve of his greatcoat. Jealousy had prodded him to hurt Kilby. Seeing the hurt and betrayal in her violet eyes, he wished he had chosen a different course. For instance, confronting Darknell and breaking his jaw would have been immensely satisfying.

  "Appearances are deceiving."

  "No, Your Grace, you are deceiving," she called out over her shoulder. "As for appearances, I no longer care."

  "Now who is the liar, Kilby?" he asked, catching up to her as she reached the door. Tired of arguing, Fayne scooped her up in his arms.

  Kilby immediately began flailing. "Put me down!"

  Fayne almost dropped the lantern as he held on to a struggling wet bundle of womanly outrage. "Stop kicking. I don't want to douse us both with hot oil," he roughly or­dered, and to his amazement she stilled.

  "I can walk, you know," she said tartly.

  "Impressive. You can demonstrate your skills later." Fayne opened the door. "Since you were without your chaperone this evening, I assume she is still out?" He carried her through the door.

  "Yes," she hissed. When he did not put her down, she began to fidget in his arms.

  Fayne absently nodded. "And the servants? They had orders to retire early." Using the lantern to light his way, he headed for the stairs.

  "Yes. Now will you please put me down?" Terrified he was about to drop her, Kilby buried her face in his shoulder.

  Fayne smiled into her wet hair. There was something oddly comforting about her strangling embrace. Climbing unfamiliar stairs with a panicked lady in his arms was tricky business; however, Fayne was up to the challenge. He did not speak again until he had reached the second landing. "Is your room down this passageway?"

  Kilby nodded, her face not lifting from his shoulder. She was shivering uncontrollably.

  Fayne proceeded down the hall, passing several doors until he heard her soft plea to stop. "Open the door."

  She pulled away and reached out to open the door for him. Fayne stepped into her boudoir. A wave of sorrow buf­feted him. His father had died here. Fayne released Kilby, allowing her to stand. He closed the door. There was not much to see in the dim light of the lantern. He set the lantern on her dressing table.

  "You must be freezing," he said, shrugging out of his greatcoat. He laid it across the closest chair. The frock coat underneath was damp, especially near the neck. Fayne removed it, also.

  Kilby had moved to the other side of the room. Warily watching him disrobe, she made no attempt to remove her wet cloak. The hem of the garment was so drenched he could hear water droplets striking the floorboards.

  "I will see to myself," she said, her teeth chattering. "There is no reason for you to stay."

  Fayne shook his head. "I beg to disagree." He closed the distance between them. Kilby backed up against the wall, holding her hands out in front to halt his approach. He brushed aside her hands and unclasped the cloak. "Keep still, woman, I only want to get you warm."

  Her dress was ruined.

  Peeling off the sodden cloak, he finally understood Kilby's hesitation about removing it in his presence. The rain had turned the muslin transparent. Streaked wit
h mud, the dress clung to her provocatively.

  Fayne swallowed thickly with desire. "Turn around," he said, the curt order coming out husky.

  Kilby slowly presented her back to him. The number of tiny buttons was daunting. Without asking for permission, he ripped open the back. "There is no help for it. Besides, the dress is ruined," he told her, fingering the knots bind­ing her corset. "The laces are also wet." He retrieved the small sheathed knife he had concealed in the small of his back under his waistcoat. "I seem to be making a habit out of this," he teased, wanting to put her at ease as he sliced through the bindings.

  She shivered and crossed her arms. "Fine. Play lady's maid. I doubt I could stop you anyway."

  "At least we understand each other." Fayne decided swift­ness was kinder. He peeled layer after layer of wet clothing off her until she was standing in her chemise. Fayne put away his knife, resisting the urge to nip her bare nape. Stepping back, he said, "There. You can manage the rest on your own. I'll see to building a fire."

  Wondering what she would do, Fayne walked into her bedchamber. The lantern emitted enough light for him to make out the fireplace. Crouching down, he concentrated on bringing light and warmth to the room.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  Fayne hoped she was stripping off her slippers and stock­ings. He blew lightly on the smoldering kindling. "We need to talk."

  He listened to her movements in the dressing room. "I should warn you, Your Grace. The liberties I granted you were out of necessity. What occurred between us the night you challenged Tulley will not happen again."

  He mentally counted off the faint steps she took to reach the door.

  Bracing his hands on his thighs, Fayne devilishly grinned into the mounting fire. "I heartily concur, little wolf."

  He retrieved a small key from his waistcoat pocket. Ex­amining it in the firelight, Fayne patiently waited for Kilby to discover the door was locked.

  Kilby gave the latch on the door another useless tug. Fayne had locked the door and secreted the key. She leaned her head against the door and marveled that the duke had al­ways been one step ahead of her.