To Love a Dark Lord

  At least he could be assured that Emma was safe with Lady Seldane.

  If there was one person on this earth he trusted, it was Letty Seldane. She was a tart-tongued old woman, his only connection with his gentle mother, and he allowed himself an errant fondness for her. She would keep Emma safe enough.

  Had Emma managed to forget about him? Did she hate him? Long for him? Pity him?

  She was entirely capable of that last, horrifying alternative. Emma saw things too clearly. She wouldn’t waste too much time on his worthless soul. She would know that the blame rested nowhere but on his wicked shoulders, and she would move on. Lady Seldane would find her a good man, a decent man, make certain she was settled safely. So far from London, and from Killoran, that he might forget about her.

  And if, by any perverse twist of fate, her memory intruded, he would simply consider her a momentary aberration. A fit of madness, brought about by the devil knew what.

  He wouldn’t think about her. He’d concentrate on Darnley. The blood of his worst enemy would go a great way toward cleansing his soul. Or muddying it sufficiently.

  The night was still and dark, with scarcely a sliver of moon overhead. Nathaniel pulled his cloak tightly around him and walked blindly, neither knowing nor caring where he was going.

  He’d betrayed his honor. He still couldn’t believe what he had done. He’d succumbed to temptation and glanced at Killoran’s hand. It went against everything he’d ever been taught. Better to have murdered, better to have stolen or committed adultery, than to cheat at. cards.

  And God had punished him. Even cheating, he’d still lost, and been glad of it. Until the final hand had wickedly, perversely, turned his way.

  He’d almost cheated a second time. Almost told Killoran his hand was worthless and tossed it in the pile before his host could check. Not that Killoran would doubt him. He considered Nathaniel a perfect little saint, above lying, above falsehood. Above cheating at cards.

  He couldn’t stay in that room, in that house, a moment longer without confessing what he had done. And that was the one thing he wouldn’t do.

  He’d betrayed his principles for a reason. For more than just a reason. He’d betrayed them for love. Barbara would go with Killoran to Paris, Killoran would take her, and neither of them had the sense to realize they didn’t want it. If the price for saving Barbara was his honor, then that price was cheap enough. He’d do it, and more, a thousand times.

  And live with the consequences.

  It wasn’t until he was standing outside Barbara’s small, elegant town house that he realized where his feet had taken him. Most of the windows were dark, and he stared up at them in blind frustration.

  She hadn’t allowed him anywhere near her in the past week. When he’d awakened in Killoran’s hunting lodge, he’d been alone in that narrow bed, only the faint scent of her perfume reminding him that she’d slept peacefully, trustingly in his arms. He hadn’t seen her since. She’d refused him when he’d called, and she’d kept her distance from Killoran, and from society as well.

  Was she there now, alone? Or had she taken another of her myriad lovers and was even now disporting with him, laughing about Killoran and his lovesick cousin?

  No, she wouldn’t laugh at him. He knew that, deep in his heart. Killoran had said he must tell her the truth, and he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He climbed the front steps and pounded on the door, no longer caring whom he disturbed.

  It took a long while for his summons to be answered. The old woman who served as Barbara’s housekeeper peered at him in the darkness. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, waking a decent household at this hour—” she began. And then her gaze narrowed. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you,”

  “Is Lady Barbara at home?”

  “If she weren’t, it would hardly be your business, now, would it, Mr. Hepburn?” she countered crossly. “The middle of the night is no time for social calls.”

  He waited for her to slam the door in his face, but instead she opened it wide, ushering him in. Lady Barbara stood behind her, watching him, her eyes troubled.

  “What’s happened?” she asked. “Why are you here?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “At this hour?”

  “It couldn’t wait.”

  The old lady snorted. “I’ll take my old bones to bed, my lady. Unless you have need of me.”

  Barbara waved a dismissing hand in her direction. She waited until the woman had shuffled off into the shadows, then turned to look at Nathaniel.

  “Why have you refused to see me?” he asked.

  For a moment Barbara said not a word. Then she sighed wearily. She was holding a candelabrum in one slender hand, and he expected her to lead him into the salon. Instead she sank down on the wide, curving stairs and drew her night rail around her more securely.

  For the first time he noticed how unlike her the garment was. He would have thought she’d sleep in some diaphanous creation, or in nothing at all. But she was wrapped in plain white flannel, warm and high-necked and virginal.

  “It seemed the wisest course,” she replied at last. “There’s no future for us; you should know that as well as I do. I’m going to Paris with Killoran, you’re going to find a nice, decent girl to marry—”

  “You’re not going to Paris with Killoran” he said abruptly.

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “I have already. I won you.”

  He could feel her sudden stillness. “You did what?”

  “I played cards with Killoran, with you as the wager. I won.”

  “I see,” she said after a long moment. “Killoran never loses. He must have cheated. How very lowering.”

  “He didn’t cheat,” Nathaniel said, staring down at her. “I did.”

  Barbara wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry. Her stalwart hero, brought to this level. Wagering her favors on a game of cards, betraying his honor to win her. And there was no one to blame but her own worthless self, again.

  “I see,” she said with deceptive calm. “Then if you’ve gone to such lengths, I suppose I’d best make good on the wager.” She reached up and began to unfasten the high-necked gown. “Would you have me here on the stairs, or would you prefer a bed? It’s your choice, of course, but—”

  His hand covered hers hard, stopping her. “You don’t understand,” he said.

  “Oh, I understand very well. You wanted me. You won me. Rather silly, when you could have had me at any time, and you know it. I have no idea why you’ve shown such forbearance. I’m quite experienced, and adept at any number of variations, but I still think you’ll find I’m hardly worth the trouble. My skills are highly overrated. You could have received the same services from any number of society trulls.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” she said brightly, her beautiful blue eyes daring his contempt. “My dear boy. And you are a boy, aren’t you? I’ve bedded so many men I’ve lost count. Everything you’ve heard about me is true. And worse. I’m glad you’ve decided to stop all this tedious delay. I’m not certain you’ll find I’m worth the anticipation.” She waited with detached patience for his face to turn cold.

  He hadn’t moved. He stared at her for a long, breathless moment. And then he spoke.

  “Barbara,” he said very gently, his hand sliding up to touch her face, “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

  She’d steeled herself for condemnation. She’d sought rage and fury. Instead, his soft words were the crudest blow of all.

  She felt unbidden tears well up in her eyes as she fought the insidious effect of his words, and she flinched away from his sweet touch, unable to bear it. “I hate you,” she whispered hoarsely.

  He stared at her for another long moment, and his cool, strong fingers slid against her throat. “No, you don’t,” he said, his voice suddenly sure. And he no longer sounded like a boy at all. “You love me. And I’m going to prove it to you.” And he leaned down and pu
t his mouth against hers, feather-light. And so unbearably beautiful that she began to cry.

  Chapter 19

  Barbara closed her eyes, holding herself very still. She was accounted an expert at kissing, yet she didn’t want to kiss Nathaniel. She wanted him to kiss her as he was kissing her, his lips brushing hers, back and forth, softly, then traveling across her cheekbones to press against each eyelid.

  She was trembling, she who never trembled. This time he wouldn’t pull back. This time she would bed the man she loved, and nothing but disaster would come of it.

  A faint, whimpering sound bubbled forth from her throat, and she tried to catch it back, but he stopped. His hands were on hers, clutched tightly in her lap, and he drew back. She didn’t want to open her eyes, but his hands were strong and warm on hers, and slowly she looked up at him.

  Somewhere she found her faltering bravery. “Don’t you want to do this, after all?” she asked him.

  God, his smile! It should be a crime for a man to have a smile as lovely as his. “Not if you don’t. What are you afraid of, love? I won’t hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Her mouth curved in a bitter smile, and she managed what she thought was a credible yawn. “I’m merely afraid I’ll be bored,” she replied. “That’s always a danger if you put it off for too long. It probably would have been better if we’d given in to it days ago. Then we’d be well past it.”

  “Would we?” he murmured. She’d wanted him to pull away from her, hurt, with childish, outraged pride. His hands still held hers. “What are you really afraid of, love?”

  “Don’t call me love! I’m not your love, I’m not anyone’s love—” His mouth stopped hers, gently and she sighed, the anger evaporating.

  He kissed her with slow, deliberate care, seducing her so skillfully that she found she was clutching his shoulders, tightly, and the quiet little sound that came from the back of her throat sounded like a mewl of pleasure. One that was real, unrehearsed, unbidden.

  He drew back, and his mouth was damp from hers. Her breasts were hard, sensitive against the soft cotton of her night rail, and she felt a strange, unaccustomed ache deep inside. She wanted him to put his arms around her, but she was afraid, so afraid.

  He knew it. He knew what no man had ever guessed, and her fear grew, so that she wanted to push him away, to lash and belittle him with her vicious tongue.

  “Well,” she said tartly, staring up at him as she crouched on the stairs. “Shall I lift my skirts?”

  “You can’t drive me away, Barbara. Not this time.” And he scooped her effortlessly up in his arms.

  She wanted to mock him for the romantic gesture, but she couldn’t. She was unaccountably close to tears; she put her head against his strong shoulder and closed her eyes.

  He found her bedroom easily enough—she’d left the door open when she’d heard him in the street, and a fire was burning brightly in the hearth.

  It was a whore’s bedroom, and she knew it. She’d decorated it with an eye toward sin, and when he laid her down amid the red velvet hangings and the indecent carvings, she felt like weeping.

  He stretched out next to her, and there was an unexpected hint of laughter in his deep voice. “I’ve never seen a room quite like this. I must say the night wear doesn’t really match the decor.”

  “I can take it off,” she said breathlessly. His strong hand skimmed across her stomach.

  “There’s no hurry, love.”

  His touch, firm yet gentle through the soft cotton, made her want to scream. Yes, there was a hurry. She wanted him to strip off his clothes and climb on top of her, to pound away and spend his passion in her body, then roll over and fall into a loud, snoring sleep. Only to awake and creep away in the cold light of morning, ashamed and relieved that she wasn’t going to make a fuss about it.’

  Ah, but he was paying no attention to what she wanted. Or rather, too much attention. When his hands touched her breasts through the fabric, she moaned, not in artifice but in a shock of desire. When his hand slid beneath the full skirt of her night rail, caressing her legs, she moved restlessly. When he pulled the cloth over her head, she let it go clumsily, forgetting the coquettish tricks she had perfected.

  Men liked her breasts. She was used to enduring their lavish attention. Nathaniel was no different, and yet he was. When his mouth touched her bare breast, the tip beaded up in a tight little nub of pain and pleasure, and the burning in her belly grew and centered between her legs.

  She was no fool. She guessed at what she was feeling. For the first time in her life, this country boy, this man, was making her feel things she’d never thought she could.

  She fought it. His mouth moved to her other breast, and she put her hands to his head, to push him away.

  But she couldn’t do it. She found she was cradling him against her, and when his hand moved between her legs, she first tightened against the invasion, then arched her hips.

  She should have stripped his clothes from him. She should have climbed over him and used her mouth, on his flat male nipples, on his cock. She should have stopped him, turned the tables, controlled him. But she couldn’t.

  She could only lie there against the pristine whiteness of her sheets, surrounded by the whore’s bed hangings, and watch as he tore his clothes off with awkward, passionate good humor.

  He was beautiful in the firelight, his body strong and taut and finely chiseled. She wanted to tell him so, wanted to tell him she loved him, more than she deserved to love, but he kissed her again, and the time was past, the fires were burning hotter still, and when he knelt between her legs, powerful in the flickering light, she couldn’t even bring herself to tell him where to find the jar of French unguent that would ease his entry. He was very large, and much smaller men had had difficulty without its aid.

  But she was hot, and damp, and he braced himself above her, resting against her, and she knew she wanted him. Wanted him to complete it, finish it, now.

  He pushed against her, sliding in deep, smoothly, and she let out a small cry of wonder, clutching his shoulders, waiting for the tremors to stop and the coldness to settle back down around her.

  But the ice that encased her had melted. And when he moved, she moved with him, automatically at first, and then with heat, and passion, and a desperate need that she couldn’t even begin to voice. It frightened her, this need. This man, who knew her better than she knew herself. He knew how to touch her, how to move within her, how to reach down and stroke her, ways other men had touched her but had never moved her.

  He understood her choked, breathy little cry, so different from the studied sounds she usually made. He knew her restlessness, her heat, and her need. He knew how to love her. And when the first explosion hit her, it was so powerful, so unexpected, that she screamed, clutching at him, and his formidable control vanished, and he pushed deep, holding her, filling her, giving to her instead of taking.

  He sank down over her, covering her body completely with his larger one, and through the stray tremors that still danced within her body she waited for him to sleep. But his hand threaded through her hair, his labored breathing slowed, and his teeth caught her earlobe.

  It was then that she cried. Loud, noisy sobs, filling the room, which she made no attempt at quieting. He rolled off her, and she expected him to leave, and she didn’t care, she hated him, and she told him, noisily, as he simply pulled her into his arms, wrapping his body around her, wrapping the red covers around them, and held her during the storm of tears. He kissed her swollen eyelids, he kissed her mouth, he held her so firmly that she couldn’t run from him, couldn’t escape.

  “It’s not fair,” she wept against his strong, warm chest, the golden-brown hairs tickling her nose. “I don’t want to love you.”

  “I know you don’t, angel.”

  “I’m not an angel,” she howled. “I’m a whore, a slut, a worthless—” He put his hand over her mouth, hard, and for the first time she saw real anger.

  ??
?No one can call my wife a whore,” he said tersely. “Not even you.”

  “It won’t work. I can’t marry you, Nathaniel.”

  “I’m not giving you any choice in the matter. You’ve compromised me,” he said, kissing the side of her neck. “You’ll have to marry me.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve tried to tell you. I’ve been a whore all my life.”

  “All your life is a long time.”

  “Since I was five years old.” The words were out before she could stop them, and she waited, in silence, for his disgust, his withdrawal.

  His arms were still strong around her, his voice measured, calm. “A child is not a whore. A child is a victim.”

  “Even when she’s been delivered by willing parents? And told to please the old gentleman, and do anything he asks of her, and not to cry, no matter what?”

  The arms around her were like iron. Unbreakable. “Delivered to whom?”

  “The Duke of Castor.”

  She felt the breath leave his body, the tension dissipate. “A royal duke,” he said. “It’s a shame he’s already dead. I would have killed him for you.”

  The words were so prosaic, she felt dizzy. “Nathaniel,” she said weakly. “Ever since…”

  “Ever since then, you’ve been punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault,” he said, oddly, tenderly, stern. “But you’ve done it for long enough, my love. You’ll marry me. You’ll live a faithful, devout life from now on and even manage to make me seem like a wastrel.”

  “I can’t...”

  “You have no choice in the matter,” he told her once more. “You’ll marry me. Because, though you’ve been very foolish for a great many years, you’re far from stupid. And even if you wanted to keep punishing yourself, you’re too softhearted to punish me as well. Marry me, love.”

  She stared up at him. He was mad, he was beautiful, and he was hers. As she lay there in the waning firelight, wrapped in his arms, anything seemed possible. “If you still want me in the morning,” she said, suddenly shy, she who had never been shy in her life.