Chapter 5
Ian sucked in a deep breath. He was not quite certain why the thought of some selfish old vicar crushing the life from this sweet, vulnerable woman made him long to track down the sod and wrap his fingers around his neck. Or why he wanted to grasp Mercy by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.
He only knew that the mere thought of this maiden being hurt stirred a dark, primitive need to protect her.
It was a new and decidedly disturbing sensation. One that, when combined with the pure lust that had flooded through him the moment he turned to see her regarding him with those midnight eyes, left him feeling . . . combustible.
“Forgive me.” Even to his ears the words sounded stiff. “I did not mean to upset you.”
Her brows drew together. “And how did you think that I would react to having you speak of my father in such a manner?”
Ah, direct and utter honesty. It was no wonder the innocent country miss managed to keep a hardened sophisticate off his guard.
He shrugged, deciding that she deserved honesty in return.
“I allowed my dislike for having love used as a weapon to overcome my discretion.”
Her annoyance faded as she regarded him with a searching gaze. “You believe love can be used as a weapon?”
Christ, but she was an innocent if she did not yet realize the utter devastation that love could produce.
“You read of history, Mercy. Surely you of all people must appreciate that it is the most powerful weapon known to mankind,” he drawled. “Can any saber or pistol ball equal the pain of unrequited love? Can any torture be as painful as a love that smothers a person until they lose themselves?” His lips twisted. “Or love that is withheld as punishment?”
“You are very cynical.”
“Yes.”
With a slow, deliberate step she moved forward, the fading light slanting through the glass ceiling to bathe her in a soft rosy glow.
He hissed as a savage need twisted his gut. He had never seen anything so exquisite. Surely not even a wood sprite could possess such magical beauty.
“That does not trouble you?” she demanded, that low voice spreading through his body and tightening his muscles along the way.
He should have left the moment she had interrupted his search of his father’s desk. Had he not spent the entire day avoiding the temptation of her company? He might not comprehend why he reacted to the chit as if he were still a randy school lad, but he was intelligent enough to know it was imperative that he not test his dubious control by being alone with her.
Besides, he could hardly search for his father’s secret if the damnable woman kept trailing behind him and popping up without warning, he acknowledged sourly.
Perhaps it would be best if he gave her a taste of just how dangerous this game she was playing could be.
Bypassing the opportunity to ponder the sheer stupidity of his plan, Ian reached out to grasp her upper arms, his gaze deliberately skimming down to study the soft swell of her breasts.
“It is who I am, and why tender young maidens should do their best to avoid me.”
Rather than struggling, Mercy tilted back her head to regard him with her sweet, dewy innocence.
“And if they choose not to?”
With a growl, Ian had her pushed back against the nearby workbench. Damn the wench. Why would she not flee from him as every other proper maiden had the sense to do?
His hands shifted to lightly encircle her neck, his thumb absently testing the satin softness of her chin. His head lowered, his lips finding the small hollow behind her ear.
“Then they should not be surprised if they find themselves pinned against the wall with their skirts lifted,” he muttered, his words deliberately crude.
Her hands lifted, but not to push him away. Instead, the aggravating minx actually arched her body closer, brushing against his throbbing erection and nearly sending him to his knees.
“Ian.”
He gave her earlobe a punishing nip, but he could not keep his arms from wrapping about her, or his lips trailing down the enticing curve of her neck.
He had spent the entire damn night dreaming of having this woman tight against his body. Of spreading her legs and thrusting so deep inside her that she could feel him in her womb. Of filling her with his seed over and over and over. . . .
“Damn, you smell so sweet.” He breathed in her light, vanilla scent, thankfully drowning the nauseating cloud of flowery perfume. During his childhood he had come to hate the heavy aromas that filled this room and drifted through the icy corridors of Rosehill. It was a constant reminder that his father preferred the companionship of these plants to his own son. “You should not have followed me.”
Her head tilted back in invitation. “I wanted . . .”
“What? What did you want?” he prompted, his tongue tracing the line of her collarbone. “This?” His hands skimmed up the curve of her back as his hips compulsively rocked against the soft curve of her stomach. “Or this?” he demanded, nuzzling the frantic beat of her pulse at the base of her throat.
“Yes.”
He nibbled his way back to her ear, swirling his tongue along the outer shell before following the path of her stubborn jaw. He knew where he was headed. Those damnable rosebud lips of hers had been haunting him from the moment he had caught sight of her in that meadow.
Still, he kept his pace excruciatingly slow, savoring each creamy inch of her cheek. There was something rather unnerving about being the only man to have kissed a particular maiden. He wanted to be . . . hell, he wanted to be unforgettable.
How embarrassing was that for a jaded man of the world?
At last reaching her lips, Ian nibbled at the corner of her mouth, fiercely pleased when she gave a low moan and her fingers clutched at his shoulders. He forgot that he was teaching her a lesson, that this was all to frighten her into avoiding him like the plague. He forgot that he had sworn not to debauch the virginal chit.
His every thought was consumed with the pleasure of drowning in the vanilla heat that she offered so sweetly.
Allowing his fingers to dance aimlessly over her shoulder blades, Ian outlined her trembling mouth with his tongue, patiently waiting for the sigh that parted her lips. Only then did he shift his head to capture her mouth in a soft, tender kiss.
For a breathless moment she stiffened, as if considering the wisdom of traveling this dangerous path. Ian was careful not to rush, his touch so light she would know that she could pull away at any moment.
She didn’t.
Indeed, her arms abruptly encircled his neck, the movement arching her body against his clenched muscles and scalding him with her heat.
Holy hell. His body jerked as a biting urgency slammed into him, his hands splaying across her back as he deepened the kiss. The taste and scent of her was clouding his mind, making him think of meadows and fresh honey. It was a startlingly erotic image that made his previous seductions seem somehow cloying and unsavory.
Intoxicated far more than a rake should be, Ian urged her lips wider, dipping his tongue into the moist heat of her mouth. Her nails dug into his nape at the unexpected caress, but Ian was indifferent to the tiny prick of pain. Christ, it was nothing in comparison to the savage throb of his erection.
He swallowed her soft moan of pleasure, his hands shifting to slowly outline her slender waist before rising up and cupping the soft thrust of her breasts.
Against all reason he forced himself to pause and await her lead. If she had never been kissed, then it sure the hell reasoned that she had never enjoyed a man’s hands on her breasts.
An aching beat passed, and then another. When it was obvious she was not on the point of slapping his face, he growled low in his throat and tugged at the buttons that held her bodice together. The thin muslin material readily gaped, revealing the sensible corset and shift beneath. A considerable barrier for most gentlemen. Thankfully, Ian was not most gentlemen, and with the skill only a true connoisseur of women could conjure, he had the corset loosened and the shift pulled down to reveal the bounty he was seeking.
Unable to resist temptation, Ian pulled back to gaze down at the snowy white mounds, his heart halting as the pale pink nipples hardened beneath his survey.
His hands actually trembled as he reverently palmed the soft weights, his thumb brushing over the tender peaks. They were more beautiful than in his dreams.
Ian was barely aware he was moving until his head had dipped downward and he had his lips wrapped around the bud of her nipple. He wanted to taste her in this exact manner when he spread her legs and penetrated her. There were few things he enjoyed more than suckling a woman as she screamed out her climax.
Well . . . perhaps having her suckle his . . .
The delicious image of Mercy’s sunlight curls bouncing as she took him deep in her mouth was abruptly disturbed as her soft whimper echoed through the hushed air.
It was not a whimper of pain. Quite the opposite, in fact.
It was the sound a woman made when her passions were being stirred to the point of no return.
The devil take it.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since he had promised himself that he would not be the man to relieve this woman of her innocence. And yet, here he was, holding her half naked in his arms, a breath away from yanking up her skirts and doing precisely what he warned her he would do.
He was a fool.
Whether for presuming he could dare temptation without getting burned, or for denying himself what was so blatantly offered, was impossible to decide.
Lifting his head, he glared in frustration at her flushed features and dark, siren eyes.
“Do you have no sense of self-preservation?” he rasped.
“Why?” She blinked, her breath still coming in soft pants. “Do you intend to hurt me?”
His brows snapped together at the ludicrous question. “What I intend to do is to steal your virtue, which many women would consider worse than death.”
She touched her tongue to her lips that were still swollen from his kisses. “You can hardly steal what I was freely giving.”
A heat that could have rivaled the fires of hell seared through him, nearly undoing his brief moment of sanity.
“Damn you,” he gritted, forcing himself to drop his hands and step back from her exquisite temptation. “I will not have the sin of despoiling the daughter of a vicar on my soul.”
With hands that were not quite steady she righted her rumpled shift and tugged at the stays of her corset. Ian felt a raw pang of disappointment to accept that the momentary encounter was at an end. He wanted to thump his head against the workbench, cursing his stupidity in allowing this chit to walk away unscathed. He would be suffering for days.
“So it is only the knowledge that my father is a vicar that halts you?” she demanded.
“Not entirely.” With a muttered curse he brushed aside her fumbling attempts to button the tight bodice and efficiently slid the buttons through their matching eyes. “It may surprise you, but I have never made a habit of bedding virgins.”
“Have you known any virgins?”
Dropping his hands as if they had been scalded, he regarded her with a dark frown.
“A few. All of them wise enough to slap my face when I became overly bold.”
Despite the heat staining her cheeks, she met his frown with a challenging tilt of her chin.
“Why is it my duty to slap your face?” she demanded. “Why is it not your duty to avoid becoming overbold?”
“Because the penalty for my sins would be nothing more than a hotter place in hell, why you . . . you, sweet Mercy, would be the one to suffer for a brief moment of madness.”
She appeared unimpressed by his argument. “That hardly seems fair.”
“I did not make the rules, Miss Mercy Simpson, I merely play by them.”
“I very much doubt you have ever played by the rules in your entire life, Mr. Ian Breckford.”
Well, that was true enough. He had devoted a lifetime to flaunting authority and scandalizing the humorless prigs who sought to strangle him with their notions of right and wrong.
It was only Dunnington who had managed to reach deep beneath his defensive demeanor.
The wily old tutor had suspected Ian’s talent for numbers at an early age and had used Ian’s brash love for cards to teach him more than just gambling. Before Ian had ever realized what had happened, he was not only happily settled with Raoul and Fredrick beneath Dunnington’s roof, but he was actually enjoying his lessons.
“There must be a first occasion for everything,” he muttered.
Her smile was wry, clearly thinking of his refusal to be her first lover.
“Not for everything, it would seem.”
With her dignity wrapped about her, Mercy turned and glided down the path to the house. Left on his own, Ian moved to slam his fist against the workbench.
Damn the aggravating wood sprite.
She was surely destined to lead him straight to hell.
Leaving her chambers well before dinner was to be announced, Ella Breckford headed down the marble corridor to the master bedroom.
She knew at this hour her brother would be seated by the fire in his private sitting room, sipping his favorite brandy and reading the evening papers. In some ways Norry was as predictable as the rising sun or changing seasons.
In other ways he could be an aloof stranger that not even his beloved sister could fathom.
With a light tap on the door, Ella pushed it open and peeked into the pretty lilac and ivory room that held her brother’s framed etchings of his beloved flowers. Along one wall were shelves that held his private collection of first-edition books as well as several marble busts that immortalized the long line of Norrington men.
Her heart clenched at the familiar aquiline nose and high brow that had been passed down through the ages. The same nose and brow that marked both her brother and Ian as true Norringtons.
“Norry?” she said softly. “May I join you?”
Folding his paper and setting it aside, her brother readily rose to his feet.
“But of course.” He touched his intricately tied cravat and smoothed his hands down his dark blue jacket as she crossed to stand before him. He was always exquisitely attired, regardless of whether he was attending a royal ball or dining alone in the country. “Is there something troubling you?”
“I . . .” She bit her words as her nerves tightened her throat. This had all seemed so much simpler when she had been alone in her chambers.
“My dear, you appear in need of a sherry.” Moving toward the fireplace where a cheery blaze battled the spring chill, Norry poured her a generous portion of the delicate spirit and returned to press the glass into her hand. “Now tell me what is upon your mind.”
Ella took a sip of the sherry, attempting to gather her fading courage.
“It is Ian,” she at last said.
Norry’s lips thinned, his expression guarded as he toyed with the signet ring on his little finger.
“I have already promised you that I would do my best to make peace with the boy, Ella. What more would you have from me?”
She swallowed a sigh. It was a pity that the two men were both so opposite. Unless one counted their stubborn belief that they were always right.
To make matters even worse, Ian had been naturally blessed with all the traits that had been admired by Norry’s own father. He was an envied sportsman, a charming rake, a hardened gamester, and a favorite among society. All the things that Norry had lacked.
Perhaps it was inevitable that the older man would nurture a deep resentment.
“Yes, I recall your promise, and I believe you, Norry.”
“Then what?”
Ella drained her glass and set it aside, her fingers absently toying with the ribbon at the waist of her green crepe de chine gown.
“He has begun to ask rather difficult questions.”
Norry’s wariness deepened. “What sort of questions?”
“Questions about his past.” She arched her brow in a significant motion. “About you and his mother.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I merely repeated the story we have told for years.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“I do not believe he was satisfied.”
The dark eyes hardened. “A pity, of course, but there is nothing to be done. He will simply have to accept what you have offered.”
She gently cleared her throat, as her fingers nearly ripped the ribbon to shreds. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we reveal the truth.”
There was a thunderous silence as Norry regarded her as if she had grown a second head. She was not surprised. She had known before she approached her brother that he would be far from happy with her desire to answer Ian’s questions.
“Good God, Ella, have you taken leave of your senses?” he at last managed to rasp. “If the truth were to be known, I would be ruined, and you—”
“Ian could be trusted to keep our secrets,” she interrupted, her tone urgent.
Rather than the anger that she had been expecting, Norry’s thin features softened, and without warning he stepped forward to stroke her cheek with a gentle, sympathetic hand.
“No, Ella,” he said, genuine regret in his voice. “You know as well as I that any confession would merely hurt Ian. He would naturally feel betrayed by the both of us, and his first thought would be to strike back at those who had lied to him. We cannot take such a risk.”
The brief flare of hope that had burned in her heart began to fade, replaced by the familiar ache of regret she had carried for so long.
She had been foolish to believe that fate could be changed at this late date. And even more of a fool to believe that she could somehow make amends for the past.
Norry was right. To confess the truth now would only hurt Ian further. That was the last thing she desired.
She heaved a sorrowful sigh. “I hate to see him so hard and cynical.”
With care not to muss her attire, Norry pulled her into his arms. “I promise I will do my best to heal the wounds that I unwittingly caused, Ella. But Ian can never, ever know the truth of his past.”