Tempt Me at Twilight

“Not if you’ll give us the rights to the weapon design. And license it exclusively to Kinloch.”

  “Rutledge,” came Kinloch’s hard, eager voice, “how long would it take for you to develop these ideas and create a prototype?”

  “I have no idea.” Harry sounded amused by the other men’s fervor. “When I have spare time, I’ll work on it. But I can’t promise you—”

  “Spare time?” Now Kinloch was indignant. “A fortune rests on this, not to mention the future of the Empire. By God, if I had your abilities, I wouldn’t rest until I had brought this idea to fruition!”

  Poppy felt ill as she heard the naked greed in his voice. Kinloch wanted profits. Sir Gerald wanted power.

  And if Harry obliged them . . .

  She couldn’t bear to listen any longer. As the men continued to talk, she slipped away silently.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After bidding farewell to Sir Gerald and Edward Kinloch, Harry turned and set his back against the inside door of his apartments. The prospect of designing the new gun and integrated bullet casings would ordinarily have been an interesting challenge.

  At present, however, it was nothing but an annoying distraction. There was only one problem he was interested in solving, and it had nothing to do with mechanical wizardry.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry went to his bedroom in search of a nightshirt. Although he usually slept naked, it would hardly be comfortable to do so on the settee. The prospect of spending another night there caused him to question his own sanity. He was faced with the choice of sleeping in a comfortable bed with his enticing wife, or alone on a narrow piece of furniture . . . and he was going to opt for the latter?

  His wife regarded him from the bed, her gaze accusatory. “I can’t believe you’re even considering it,” she said without preamble.

  It took his distracted brain a moment to comprehend that she was not referring to their sleeping arrangements, but the meeting he’d just concluded. Had he not been so weary, Harry might have thought to advise his wife that now was not the night to pick an argument.

  “How much did you hear?” he asked calmly, turning to rummage in one of the dresser drawers.

  “Enough to understand that you may design a new kind of weapon for them. And if so, you would be responsible for so much carnage and suffering—”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Harry tugged off his necktie and coat, tossing them to the floor instead of laying them neatly on a chair. “The soldiers carrying the guns would be responsible for it. And the politicians and military men who sent them out there.”

  “Don’t be disingenuous, Harry. If you didn’t invent the weapons, no one would have them in the first place.”

  Giving up the search for the nightshirt, Harry untied his shoes and cast them on the heap of his discarded clothing. “Do you think people will ever stop developing new ways to kill each other? If I don’t do this, someone else will.”

  “Then let someone else. Don’t let it be your legacy.”

  Their gazes met, clashing. For God’s sake, he wanted to beg her, don’t push me tonight. The effort to carry on a coherent conversation was draining away what little self-restraint he had left.

  “You know that I’m right,” Poppy persisted, flinging back the covers and hopping out of bed to confront him. “You know how I feel about guns. Doesn’t that matter to you at all?”

  Harry could see the outline of her body in the thin white nightgown. He could even see the tips of her breasts, rosy and firm in the chill of the room. Right and wrong . . . no, he didn’t give a damn about useless moralizing. But if it would soften her toward him, if it would cause her to yield even a little of herself, he would tell Sir Gerald and the entire British government to go swive themselves. And somewhere in the depths of his soul, a fracture began as he experienced something entirely new . . . the desire to please another person.

  Yielding to the feeling before he even knew what it was, he opened his mouth to tell Poppy that she could have her way. He would send word to the War Office tomorrow that the deal was off.

  Before he could get out a word, however, Poppy said quietly. “If you keep your promise to Sir Gerald, I’m going to leave you.”

  Harry wasn’t aware of reaching out for her, only that she was in his grip, and that she was gasping. “That’s not a choice for you,” he managed to say.

  “You can’t make me stay if I don’t want to,” she said. “And I won’t compromise on this, Harry. You will do as I ask, or I will leave.”

  All hell broke loose inside him. Leave him, would she?

  Not in this life, or the next.

  She thought him a monster . . . well, he would prove her right. He would be everything she thought him and worse. He jerked her against him, hot blood teeming in his groin as he felt the cambric slide over her firm, smooth body. Grasping her braid in his hand, he pulled the ribbon loose. His mouth went to the curve of her neck and shoulder, and the scents of soap and perfume and female skin inundated his senses.

  “Before I make a decision,” he said in a guttural tone, “I think I’ll have a sample of what I might be forgoing.”

  Her hands came up to his shoulders as if to push him away.

  But she wasn’t struggling. She was holding onto him.

  Harry had never been so aroused, desperate beyond pride. He held her, absorbing the feel of her with his whole body. Her hair was loose, fiery silk sliding over his arms. He took handfuls of it, lifted the soft locks to his face. She smelled like roses, the intoxicating residue of perfumed soap or bath oil. He hunted for more of the scent, drawing it in with deep breaths.

  Tugging the front of her nightgown open, Harry sent tiny cloth-covered buttons pattering to the carpet. Poppy quivered but offered no resistance as he tugged the garment to her waist, letting the sleeves trap her arms. His hand went to one of her breasts, their shapes lush and beautiful in the muted light. He touched her with the backs of his fingers, drifting down until one of the pink buds was caught lightly between his knuckles. He pulled, just a little. At the feel of the gentle tug, Poppy gasped and bit her lip.

  Guiding Poppy backward, Harry stopped when her hips bumped against the edge of the mattress. “Lie down,” he said, his voice rougher than he had intended. He helped her to lie back, supporting her with his arms, easing her to the bed. Bending over her flushed body, he savored all that rose-scented skin, wooing her with kisses . . . slow traveling kisses, wet and artful and fiendishly patient kisses. He licked his way to the tip of one breast and captured the taut point, flicking with his tongue. Poppy moaned, her body drawing into a helpless arch as he suckled her for long minutes.

  Easing the muslin gown away from her, Harry dropped it to the floor. He stared at her with equal parts hunger and reverence. She was unspeakably beautiful, reclining in sweet abandon before him . . . lost, aroused, uncertain. Her gaze was distant, as if she were trying to encompass too many sensations at once.

  Harry tore off the rest of his clothing and lowered himself over her. “Touch me,” he was mortified to hear himself rasp . . . something he had never asked of anyone before.

  Slowly her arms lifted, one hand sliding around his neck. Her fingers laced through the shorter locks that curled slightly against his nape. The tentative caress drew a groan of pleasure from him. He lay beside her, easing a hand between her thighs.

  Accustomed as he was to fine, intricate things, to delicate mechanisms, Harry was sensitive to every subtle response of her body. He discovered where and how she most liked to be stroked, what aroused her. What made her wet. Following the moisture, he slipped a finger inside, and she accepted it easily. When he tried to add another, however, she flinched and instinctively reached down to push his hand away. Withdrawing, he caressed her with a gentle palm, coaxing her to relax.

  Pressing her back on the bed, Harry loomed over her. He heard her breathing quicken as he settled between her thighs. But he didn’t try to enter her, only let her feel the pressure of him, the length fitting
against the soft feminine rise. He knew how to tease, how to make her want him. He moved in the gentlest intimation of a thrust, sliding along dampness and sweetly vulnerable flesh, and then he rotated his hips slowly, every movement a syllable that added to a greater meaning.

  Her lashes half lowered, and there was a faint, intent pull between her fine brows . . . she wanted what he was giving her, she wanted the tension and torment and relief. Desire had brought a mist of perspiration over her skin, until the scent of roses deepened and acquired a hint of musk, so wildly arousing and heady that he could have let himself go right then. But he rolled to his side, away from the enticing cradle of her hips.

  He slid his hand over her mound and slipped his fingers inside her again, his touch coaxing and careful. This time her body relaxed and welcomed him. Kissing her throat, he caught the vibration of every moan against his lips. A faint, rhythmic clenching began around his knuckles as he thrust his fingers in her oh so gently. Every time she took them to the hilt, he let the heel of his hand brush her intimately. She panted and began to lift upward repeatedly.

  “Yes,” Harry whispered, letting his hot breath fill the shell of her ear. “Yes. When I’m inside you, this is how you move. Show me what you want, and I’ll give it to you, as much as you need, as long as you want . . .”

  She clamped on his fingers, tightening, convulsing, coming in erotic shivers. He teased out every last luscious ripple, relishing her climax, lost in the feel of her.

  Levering his body over hers, he pushed her thighs wide and lowered himself between them. Before her sated flesh had begun to close, he centered himself where she was wet and ready for him. He stopped thinking altogether. He pushed into the resisting ring, finding it even more difficult than he’d expected despite the abundant moisture.

  Poppy whimpered in pained surprise, her body stiffening.

  “Hold onto me,” Harry said hoarsely. She obeyed, her arms coming around his neck. He reached down and pulled her hips upward, trying to make it easier for her as he pressed deeper, harder, her flesh unbelievably tight and hot and sweet, and he gave her more, unable to help himself, until he was fully buried in the soft heat of her.

  “Oh, God,” he whispered, shaking with the effort to hold still, to let her adjust around him.

  Every nerve clamored for movement, for the sliding, teasing friction that would bring him release. He nudged gently. But Poppy grimaced, her legs straining on either side of his. He waited longer, caressing her with his hands.

  “Don’t stop,” she choked. “It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t. He pushed again, and a pained sound escaped her. Again, and she braced and clenched her teeth. Every time he moved, it caused her agony.

  Resisting her tight grip on his neck, Harry drew back far enough to look at her face. Poppy was white with distress, her lips bloodless. Holy hell, was it this painful for all virgins?

  “I’ll wait,” he said raggedly. “It will be easier in a moment.”

  She nodded, her mouth stiff, her eyes tightly shut.

  And they both held still and fast, while he tried to soothe her. But nothing changed. Despite Poppy’s compliance, this was sheer misery for her.

  Harry buried his face in her hair and cursed. And he withdrew, despite the vicious protest of his loins, when every impulse screamed for him to hammer into her.

  She couldn’t stifle a gasp of relief as the painful intrusion was removed. Hearing the sound, Harry nearly exploded with murderous frustration.

  He heard her murmur his name, her voice questioning.

  Ignoring her, Harry left the bed and staggered toward the bathing room. He braced his hands on the tiled wall and closed his eyes, struggling for self-control. After a few minutes, he drew water and washed himself. He found smears of blood . . . Poppy’s blood. That was only to be expected. But the sight of it made him want to howl.

  Because the last thing he wanted on earth was to cause his wife even a moment’s pain. He would die before hurting her, no matter what the consequences to himself.

  Dear God, what had happened to him? He had never wanted to feel this way about anyone, never even imagined it possible.

  He had to make it stop.

  Sore and bewildered, Poppy lay on her side and listened to the sounds of Harry washing. It burned where he had taken her. The residue of blood was sticky between her thighs. She wanted to leave the bed and wash as well, but the thought of performing such an intimate task in front of Harry . . . no, she wasn’t ready for that yet. And she was unsure, because even in her innocence, she knew that he had not finished making love to her.

  But why?

  Had there been something she should have done?

  Had she made some kind of mistake? Perhaps she should have been more stoic. She had tried her best, but it had hurt dreadfully, even though Harry had been gentle. Surely he knew that it was painful for a virgin the first time. Why, then, had he seemed angry with her?

  Feeling inadequate and defensive, Poppy crept from the bed and found her nightgown. She put it on and hastily retreated beneath the covers as Harry came back into the room. Without a word, he picked up his discarded clothes and began to dress.

  “You’re going out?” she heard herself ask.

  Harry didn’t look at her. “Yes.”

  “Stay with me,” she blurted out.

  Harry shook his head. “I can’t. We’ll talk later. But right now I—” He broke off as if words failed him.

  Poppy curled on her side, gripping the edges of the bedclothes. Something was terribly wrong—she couldn’t fathom what it was, and she was too afraid to ask.

  Pulling on his coat, Harry started for the doorway.

  “Where are you going?” Poppy asked unsteadily.

  He sounded distant. “I don’t know.”

  “When will you—”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  She waited until he had left before she let a few tears slip out, and she blotted them with the sheet. Was Harry going to another woman?

  Miserably, she reflected that her sister Win’s advice about marital relations had been insufficient. There should have been a bit less about roses and moonlight and a bit more practical information.

  She wanted to see her sisters, especially Amelia. She wanted her family, who would pet and praise and make much of her, and offer the reassurance she badly needed. It was more than a little disheartening to have failed at marriage after a mere three weeks.

  Most of all, she needed advice about husbands.

  Yes, it was time to retreat and consider what to do. She would go to Hampshire.

  A hot bath soothed her smarting flesh and eased the strained muscles on the insides of her thighs. After drying and powdering herself, she dressed in a wine-colored traveling gown. She packed a few belongings in a small valise, including undergarments and stockings, a silver-backed brush, a novel, and an automaton that Harry had made—a little woodpecker on a tree trunk—which she usually kept on her dressing table. However, she left the diamond necklace that Harry had given her, setting the velvet-lined case in a drawer.

  When she was ready to depart, she rang the bellpull and sent a maid to fetch Jake Valentine.

  The tall, brown-eyed young man appeared in an instant, making no effort to mask his concern. His gaze skimmed quickly over her traveling clothes. “May I be of service, Mrs. Rutledge?”

  “Mr. Valentine, has my husband left the hotel?”

  He nodded, a frown puckering his forehead.

  “Did he tell you when he would return?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Poppy wondered if she could trust him. His loyalty to Harry was well-known. However, she had no choice but to ask for his help. “I must ask a favor of you, Mr. Valentine. However, I fear it may put you in a difficult position.”

  His brown eyes warmed with rueful amusement. “Mrs. Rutledge, I’m nearly always in a difficult position. Please don’t hesitate to ask me for anything.”

  She squared h
er shoulders. “I need a carriage. I’m going to visit my brother at his terrace in Mayfair.”

  The smile vanished from his eyes. He glanced at the valise by her feet. “I see.”

  “I am very sorry to ask you to ignore your obligations to my husband but . . . I would prefer you didn’t let him know where I’ve gone until morning. I will be perfectly safe in my brother’s company. He is going to convey me to my family in Hampshire.”

  “I understand. Of course I will help you.” Valentine paused, appearing to choose his words carefully. “I hope you will be returning soon.”

  “So do I.”

  “Mrs. Rutledge . . .” he started, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t overstep my bounds. But I feel it necessary to say—” He hesitated.

  “Go on,” Poppy said gently.

  “I’ve worked for Mr. Rutledge for more than five years. I daresay I know him as well as anyone. He’s a complicated man . . . too smart for his own good, and he doesn’t have much in the way of scruples, and he forces everyone around him to live by his terms. But he has changed many lives for the better. Including mine. And I believe there’s good in him, if one looks deep enough.”

  “I think so, too,” Poppy said. “But that’s not enough to found a marriage on.”

  “You mean something to him,” Valentine insisted. “He’s formed an attachment to you, and I’ve never seen that before. Which is why I don’t think anyone in the world can manage him except for you.”

  “Even if that’s true,” Poppy managed to say, “I don’t know if I want to manage him.”

  “Ma’am . . .” Valentine said feelingly, “Someone has to.”

  Amusement broke through Poppy’s distress, and she ducked her head to hide a smile. “I’ll consider it,” she said. “But at the moment I need some time away. What do they call it in the rope ring . . . ?”

  “A breather,” he said, bending to pick up her valise.

  “Yes, a breather. Will you help me, Mr. Valentine?”

  “Of course.” Valentine bid her to wait but a few minutes, and went to summon the carriage. Comprehending the need for discretion, he had the vehicle brought to the back of the hotel, where Poppy could depart unobserved.