“There must be a way.” She licked her dry lips, the innocent gesture sending a flood of awareness straight to his groin.
Good God, she was the most unassumingly sensual woman he’d ever known and he was burning to taste her. “You are asking me to do something that is quite out of my power. Your brother challenged me, not the other way around. If this duel is to be stopped, he has to be the one to do so.”
“I’ve already asked him,” she said despondently, staring into her glass.
“He doesn’t take his honor lightly.”
“Neither do you.”
He smiled without humor. “I have no honor. Which is why I have allowed you to join me here, in my house, alone. And why I placed you at such risk with Lord Keltenton in the first place.”
Her brow creased. “You have honor.”
“No. I have pride, which is a vastly different thing.” He could tell she was going to disagree. “Sara, you know nothing about me. I’ve done things that—” He stared at the tassel dangling from his fingers. “You don’t know me at all.”
Sara bit her lip, her fingers curling into her palm so tightly that her nails cut the skin. Nick was different this evening. Intense, quiet. And lonely, somehow. Perhaps it was the strain of the duel.
She’d never seen him without his usual polished veneer. He’d shed his jacket and waistcoat and his shirt was open at the neck to reveal his strong throat. His eyes had a bright, hard quality to them, the result of the brandy, no doubt. But it was more than that: It was the way he watched her, his expression intent as if he were trying to memorize her every feature. “Nick, what do you want?”
“What?”
She ran a finger over the edge of her brandy glass. “What is the one thing you yearn for above all?”
“Freedom.”
“From what?”
He didn’t answer for a long while, but stood staring out the window. Finally, he sighed. “From pain. I have hurt for so long…”
“Are you injured? Or ill?”
“I have headaches. It’s an inherited tendency. My mother—”
“Mother? I thought it was your father who suffered from headaches.”
“No. Where did you get that idea?”
“Lady Birlington. She knows everything about everybody.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing; that was all.”
His face shuttered. “She told you that I would end up the same way as my mother, didn’t she?”
After a moment, Sara nodded.
Nick’s jaw tensed, and he looked back out the window.
What could she say now, how could she bridge the gulf that seemed to be growing between them as the silence stretched? But no stroke of brilliance came to her. Unable to bear the silence, she had just convinced herself to leave when he began to speak.
“My mother’s name was Violette.” Low and intense, his voice was filled with pain.
“That…that is a lovely name.”
“She was a lovely woman. Quite beautiful, in fact. She was the only daughter of a French aristocrat, and she was a woman of extreme passions. When she was happy, you could not ask for a more exciting companion. But when she was sad…” His face darkened. “For her, love was a temporary state. And since she was as selfish as she was beautiful, she floated from man to man, on a never-ending search for something she couldn’t have.”
“What about you?”
“I was part of the baggage. Where she went, I went. Sometimes I was wanted. Other times—” He shrugged.
Her heart ached. “Where was your father?”
“He was a brief passage in Violette’s life, the marriage over before it had truly begun. I have no memory of him, but I do have a letter from my grandfather announcing his death.”
“Then your grandfather cared about you.”
“Why would he? He left me his title and a house, but nothing else. I don’t suppose I blame him, really. By the time we met, I was already beyond saving.”
He’d been so alone, his entire life. She could imagine him as a child, watching his mother, yearning for affection, but never receiving it. In that instant, Sara decided she hated the beautiful Violette. No decent woman would ever abandon her child in such a way.
Something fell on the back of Sara’s hand, and she looked down at it. A single drop of water glistened on her skin. Yet another drop fell beside the first, and she realized that she was crying. Crying for the love Nick had never known. Crying for the fact that he might never know it now.
She thought of his life, of his behavior, and she realized that he kept a barrier about his heart—one so tall and so thick that no one would ever be able to climb over it. He had closed himself off, and even Henri, his closest friend, did not know him. She cleared her throat. “I heard a rumor about you.”
“Which one?”
“That you wanted your cousin’s fortune and that you abducted his wife to get it.”
Nick turned to look out the window, his face hidden in darkness as he gently swung the tassel to and fro. The silence grew.
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
He turned back to her, his face devoid of expression. “Every word.”
“Did you love her?” Sara clenched her jaw as she waited for him to answer. She didn’t know why the question was so important, but it was.
“Love is an illusion, Sara. There is no such thing.”
“Not everyone is like your mother, Nick.”
“Thank God for that.”
Sara swallowed, but a lump of emotion remained in her throat. Somehow, she had to make things right for this man, to show him that not all women were like his mother, that all of life wasn’t as devoid of hope and cheer as his childhood. She stood. “I suppose there is nothing I can do to talk you out of the duel.”
“No.”
“Then I suppose the time has come for me to pay my debt.”
He stilled, his gaze locked on her. “What debt?”
“The kiss.”
“I would hardly call Lord Keltenton a success.”
“No, but our agreement ended when you found him for me. The rest was up to me. Remember?”
His gaze locked with hers. “Do you know what you are saying?”
Her voice deserted her, and all she could do was nod. She wanted the kiss and more. She wanted him to hold her, to touch her, to ease the pain she felt for him. For one brief hour, she wanted to forget about the duel and her need to marry and every other thing that loomed over them.
“I want more than a kiss,” she heard herself say. She held her breath, unable to look at him, unable to face his rejection.
There was a quiet step on the carpet, and then he was beside her. His fingers closed over her chin and he lifted her face, his expression harsh. “What do you want from me?”
The tears spilled free, falling silently down her cheeks. “I am not a lady, Nick. I never have been.”
He gently ran the back of his hand over her cheek, his expression softening. “That’s no sin, Sara. In many ways, it’s a blessing.”
“Not always.” She turned her face into his hand and closed her eyes at the warmth of his touch. “I long for this,” she whispered. “Surely that will see me in hell.”
His hands slid to her arms. “You are wrong, Sara; you are indeed a lady. But alas, I am no gentleman.” He pulled her against him, his voice lowering to an intoxicating whisper. “A gentleman would have sent you home in a carriage, safe and warm. He wouldn’t be standing close enough to you to see your heart beat in the delicate line of your throat.”
“No?” she managed to whisper.
“And a gentleman certainly would never have discovered that you smell like fresh summer linen, the scent as sensual as the delicious curve of your lower lip.” He trailed his finger over her mouth. “No, Sara. I am not a gentleman, and I am damned glad of it.”
Her fingers twined in the folds of his linen shirt. “Nick, I want to be with you.”
He held h
er to him tightly. He was so wonderful, so masculine, and she longed for him in a way she’d never known. He pushed aside the wide collar of her gown and dropped a kiss on her shoulder, his voice low, caressing. “I have dreamed of this. Dreamed it so often, it is almost a memory.” He followed the contours of her shoulders with his mouth, placing light, sensual kisses on her throat, her neck, beneath her ear.
Sara closed her eyes and let the passion engulf her. She yearned for him so much, needed him so badly, that she pressed her thighs together to still the ache that was growing with each touch, each caress.
“I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you.” He rubbed his arousal against her hips, his actions bold and daring as the man himself.
Slowly, surely, she lifted her fingers and placed them on his bottom lip. He was magnificent standing in the firelight, telling her he wanted her. She could barely think, her mind galloping with a thousand thoughts as he lowered his mouth to her cheek and traced a line to her ear. A deep tremor shook her. He was a man of such contradictions, both harsh and gentle at the same time.
“I want you, Sara,” he whispered, the words tingling through her.
Simple words, yet they sent a longing through her that made her breasts ache as if he’d touched her. Kissed her. Loved her.
Slowly, fearful of even breathing, she sank onto the edge of the settee and looked up at him. He answered her immediately, his body lowering over hers until they pressed together intimately.
His hands slipped beneath her skirt, sliding up to her thigh. He cupped her intimately, boldly, daring her to stop him. She gasped, a violent tremble racing through her, but she did nothing to halt him. Instead, she clung to him, her cheek pressed against his shirt, enveloped by his masculine scent. Their relationship might not be based on love, but it was based on a mutual need—on the desire for forgetfulness, for the release from pain, even for the space of an hour.
Nick’s mouth covered hers as he undid the lacing of her gown. Cool air touched her skin as he pushed her chemise aside and exposed her breasts. Sara felt uncovered, vulnerable. She was doing this to help Nick, she told herself, even as she knew it was a lie. She wanted him for herself, for her salvation, her pleasure, and for no other reason.
He stared down at her bared breasts. She forced herself to sit still, her nipples tightening at his silent regard.
His broad shoulders were outlined by the reddish gleam of the fire, his hair lit to burnished gold. She knew what his expression would be—fierce and protective, the way he looked every time they had kissed. This time it would be all for her.
He bent and closed his mouth over one of her nipples, his tongue teasing it mercilessly. Sara gasped and arched against him, closing her eyes at the torrent of pleasure. Within moments, their clothes lay in the floor about them.
It had been too long. Much too long. And this was different. Nick didn’t take—he gave. And he gave with a single-minded determination to make her long for him even more. She writhed with need, with desire.
“Sara,” he whispered, the name a plea.
She opened to him, and they came together in a fierce, desperate motion that sent a wave of fire through Sara until she could no longer think. All she knew was the passion and the pleasure and the fact that Nick was here, with her, and that for the moment, he was all hers.
Sara savored the feel of him, losing herself in the exquisite torture of his touch. He was everything she’d dreamed, and more. And she was lost, just as she’d been lost the first moment she’d seen him in the Kirkwoods’ ballroom.
Their passion mounted and grew, each movement an agony and an ecstasy. Nick murmured her name over and over as the heat built within. Just as Sara thought she could stand no more, release flooded through her, washing through her veins and sending her senses reeling. Nick followed a moment later, collapsing on top of her, his breath harsh in her ear.
Neither spoke, their panting breaths the only sound in the room. Then from outside, a commotion sounded in the outer foyer. Nick raised his head, meeting Sara’s gaze. Over Wiggs’s protests came the sound of another voice, masculine and raised in anger.
“Heaven help us,” Sara said. “It’s Anthony.”
Nick and Sara moved as one, grabbing clothes and yanking them on as fast as they could, but they were still not quick enough. Nick had only one arm in his shirt and Sara was still trying to reach behind her to pull the laces on her dress closed when the door flew open and not one, but two hulking figures stalked in.
Sara’s face paled, but she kept her chin high. “Nick, I believe you know my brother, Anthony. With him is my brother Marcus St. John, the Marquis of Treymount.”
Chapter 14
Wiggs appeared behind them, his thin face tight with frustration. “My lord, I could not keep them out. I—”
“That’s quite all right,” Nick said, dropping his cravat back onto a side table. “You did what you could.”
The butler’s startled gaze drifted from his disheveled master to Sara, who was attempting to right her twisted dress. Red-faced, he all but bolted out the door.
Nick raked a hand through his hair. He had the strangest sense that this moment was not real. But it was. He was standing barefoot on the thick, library carpet, dressed in nothing but his breeches and a hastily donned shirt. Sara had finally managed to refasten her gown, though it was horribly crushed. And looming behind the settee, breathing fire and brimstone, stood Sara’s brothers. God, what a coil.
“To hell with the duel,” Anthony snarled. “I’m going to kill you here and now.”
He started forward, but the marquis grabbed his arm. “Leave them be.” He spoke quietly, but every word was clear and deadly, his gaze never leaving Nick.
Marcus St. John had his sister’s eyes and the same black hair, but there the similarities ended. Where Sara was small-boned and delicate, Treymount was as tall as Anthony, if not quite as broad. Nick nodded coolly. “I wondered when I’d have the felicity of meeting you.”
The marquess neither smiled nor offered a greeting. “I think it would be best if Sara left.”
“I’m sure you do,” she replied tartly, dropping back onto the settee. She turned to glare over her shoulder at her brothers. “If we are going to have a conversation, then I suggest you all take a seat.”
“Perhaps you would care for some brandy?” Nick asked, stepping into the role of host purely to irritate his company.
Anthony’s face darkened. “It’s probably too coarse.”
“Have some brandy, Anthony,” Treymount said. “Bridgeton just returned from France, and I daresay his stock is superior to ours.”
“I don’t care. I won’t stand here and—”
“Then leave. Your temper has caused enough problems as it is.”
Anthony hesitated, his hands clenching and unclenching. Finally, he managed to say in a surly voice, “Very well. One glass won’t hurt.”
Nick noted how pale Sara’s face was. Frowning, he poured three glasses and handed them out. Sara took hers with a grateful smile.
“It isn’t proper for a woman to drink brandy,” Anthony said.
Sara resolutely tilted the glass, taking a huge gulp. She immediately went into a paroxysm of coughing.
Nick shot a hard stare at her brother. “Don’t punish her for my sins, Greyley. You and I will be settling this at dawn.”
“No,” the marquis said, savoring the brandy. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?” Anthony demanded.
“Lord Bridgeton is about to become a member of our family. It would be improper of you to shoot him before the ceremony.”
“What?” Anthony roared. “Marcus, you cannot mean to tell me that you expect this—this—”
“Braggart,” Nick supplied helpfully.
“Bastard,” Anthony returned without pause.
Sara set her glass down with a thump and stood, her chin tilted to a pugnacious angle. “I am not getting married, and neither is Bridgeton.”
/>
“You have no choice,” Treymount replied evenly.
“Oh? What are you going to do? Tie me to the altar and place a knife at my throat?”
“If I have to.”
“I still wouldn’t marry him.” She turned to Nick.
“Thank you for your hospitality. Feel free to toss these two fools out any time you wish.” So saying, she swooped up her pelisse and jammed her arms into it, then stomped to the door. She yanked it open, slamming it behind her with so much force that a picture dropped from the wall and thunked to the floor.
A long silence followed her departure.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her that angry,” Anthony said.
“Except the time Chase threw her in the pond on her sixteenth birthday,” Treymount replied. “She had just fixed her hair in some sort of curled…thing.” He glanced at Anthony. “You had better see her home. I will take care of things here.”
Anthony shot a dark glance at Nick. “Be forewarned, Bridgeton. I’ll be watching you.”
“How tedious for you,” Nick murmured.
Treymount’s lips twitched, but Anthony merely stalked out of the room, much in the same manner as his sister.
The marquis leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs before him. “I fear that Sara has a very romantic idea of you.”
Nick turned away. Disappointment was inevitable. Sara didn’t understand the circumstances of his birth, of his hereditary weakness. How could she? “She is an innocent, Treymount.”
“Yes, and you are the only man she’s shown a genuine interest in since Carrington’s death. Whether you like it or not, you will marry her. And then…”
“Then?”
“You will make her happy.”
That was the one thing he could not do. How could he, a man plagued with headaches that would one day draw him into a haze of opium addiction? “What if I refuse to marry your sister, Treymount? What then?”
“Anthony will have the chance to fight his duel.”
“And Sara?”
The marquess looked down at his boots. “She can go abroad. No one will know of her errors in Italy. She can start anew there, and—”