Seven Years to Sin

He glanced up at her, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. His hair had grown slightly longer, and she loved how the black strands framed his face. Her hand lifted to her throat and massaged the tightness there.



“Jessica.” He exhaled harshly. “I’ve never given much thought to having children. Now, I won’t give the matter any thought at all.”



“Don’t say that. You cannot deny yourself the joy arbitrarily.”



“Procreation requires a partner, as you know. You are the first link in that chain. If you are also the last link, so be it. I cannot even begin to contemplate making the effort with anyone else.”



Her vision blurred. Blinking through an embarrassing sting of tears, she pushed back from the table in a rush and hurried over to the crate of claret waiting in the corner.



“Jess …”



She heard the scrape of chair legs atop the sole behind her; then firm hands gripped her shoulders the second before she bent down to grab the neck of a bottle.



“Hearing how I feel about you drives you to drink?” he asked with his lips to her ear.



“No. Being selfish enough to feel glad about it does.”



“I want you to feel selfish about me.”



Jess shook her head violently. “Love is selfless. Or it is supposed to be.”



“For some, perhaps. You and I have had so much taken from us. It is as it should be for us to take from each other.”



Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against his shoulder. His arms came around her, and she placed her hands over his. “You have many siblings. You must want a large family of your own?”



“If we are going to discuss my family, we’ll need that claret.”



He walked away. Jess grabbed a bottle and straightened. When she turned around he was pulling two goblets out of the small chest by the cabin door.



She put the wine on the table and sat. Alistair set the glasses down, then pulled the cork from the bottle. He left the claret to breathe and settled back in his chair, eyeing her in a manner that was both examining and contemplative.



She waited patiently.



“Have you never wondered why Masterson’s paternal traits exerted themselves so strongly in my brothers, yet I am the mirror of my mother?”



“One doesn’t question such blessings.”



The compliment earned a small smile from him.



“So,” she said. “I surmise Masterson isn’t your father.”



“And you do not care,” he noted softly.



“Why would I?”



“Jess …” He gave a perfunctory laugh. “I feared telling you, you know. You are so renowned for your adherence to propriety; I thought you might think less of me.”



“Impossible. But did your brothers think less of you? Do you not still feel close to Albert?”



“It was never an issue with my brothers, no. But Masterson … I cannot please him.” The lack of inflection in his voice betrayed deeper emotions. “Personally, I no longer care, but my mother frets over the distance between us. If I could ease her mind, I would, but it isn’t something I can change apparently.”



“That’s unfortunate for him.” Finally, she understood why Masterson had been so reluctant to assist Alistair in making his own way in the world. “He is denying himself a fine son.”



Alistair gave her a bemused shake of his head. “I’m still astonished at your nonchalance. I should warn you—every time you accept a dirty secret I share with you, I grow more and more determined to keep you. It seems nothing I say can turn you away from me.”



Warmth unfurled in her chest. “Someone has to keep you out of mischief.”



“Only you are up to the task.”



“I should hope so, for your sake.”



“Why, my lady, I could swear that was a warning of some sort.”



Jess adopted a stern expression. “I value steadfastness and loyalty, Mr. Caulfield.”



“As do I.” His fingertips drummed atop the table. “I once believed Masterson truly loved my mother deeply, and that she felt similarly toward him. He allowed her to keep me and claimed me as one of his own, despite the way it eats at him, because he knew she would never forgive him if he forced her to give me up. But now …”



When he faltered, she prompted, “Now … ?”



Exhaling harshly, he said, “I appreciate the not-inconsiderable difference in their ages. I understand how that impacts Masterson’s physical ability to maintain marital intimacy. But, by God, I could not turn a blind eye to your seeking the relief of your sexual needs elsewhere and call my disregard ‘love.’ I would see to you in other ways—my mouth, my hands, implements of pleasure … whatever was at my disposal. I keep what’s mine, and I do not share.”



“Perhaps neither of them know how to broach the subject. I wouldn’t judge them too harshly.”



“Promise me that you will feel free to discuss any topic with me.”



It was a remarkably painless promise to commit to. He made it so easy for her to unveil herself just by the way he looked at her. Benedict had regarded her in the same manner, but he had asked no questions. His affection had been quietly given, with no liens or expectations. Alistair’s demands were greater and far more comprehensive. But so, then, were the boundaries of his acceptance.



She nodded her acquiescence to his request.



He gestured at the parchment in front of her. “A letter?”



“To my sister. Telling her about my travels thus far.”



“Have you mentioned me?”



“I have.”



Pleasure brightened his eyes. “What did you say?”



“Oh, I’m not done yet.”



“You have so much to relay?”



“That, and I must exercise care in how I relay it. After all, I did warn her away from you.”



“Selfish girl.”



Jess stood and rounded the table. His gaze followed her as she approached, watching her with open, heated appreciation. Setting one hand on his shoulder, she brushed his dark hair back from his forehead and pressed a kiss there.



“It pleases me to lay claim to you,” she murmured, thinking of Masterson and how foolishly prideful the man was.



Alistair caught her by the waist. “I wonder if you’ll feel that way in London,” he murmured, “when surrounded by those who may judge you harshly for your choice.”



“Do you think I’m so malleable? So easily influenced?”



“I don’t know.” He looked up and into her eyes. “I don’t think you know either.”



He was correct, in a fashion. She’d always done exactly what was proper and expected. “My father would disagree with you. He would tell you that it takes a great deal of effort to convince me to conform.”



She was pulled and arranged gently on Alistair’s lap. His arms tightened around her. “Thinking of him and how he treated you incites me to violence.”



“He isn’t worth the effort. Besides, in some ways, I am grateful to him. What was once difficult for me became second nature and made life easier for me.” She pushed her fingers through his hair. “And look at how you’ve unraveled so much of that training in just a fortnight.”



“I want to unravel you.”



“You are succeeding.” With every hour that passed, she felt a little freer. Much as she did when shedding her corset at the end of a long day. She was beginning to doubt her ability to accept her former constraints if faced with them again. “Does that frighten you? Or cool your interest? As I fall so easily into your arms, does the lack of a worthy challenge bore you?”



“You challenge me every moment, Jess. You frighten me just as often.” He rested his head against her breast. “I don’t know how to be dependent upon someone else for anything, yet I find myself dependent upon you.”



Jess wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and set her chin atop his crown. She might have guessed that a man like Alistair, who never did anything in half-measure, would give his affection with similar abandon. But she hadn’t expected that he would want to commit himself to one woman when his choices were so vast. “I confess, I’m terrified. Everything has changed so swiftly.”



“Is that so terrible? Were you so happy before?”



“I was not unhappy.”



“And now?”



“I don’t recognize myself. Who is this woman who sits on rakes’ laps and offers sexual favors with the ease of offering a cup of tea?”



“She’s mine, and I like her quite well.”



“You would, naughty man.” She nuzzled her cheek against his hair. “Did your mother love you well, Alistair? Is that why you are so adept at caring for me?”



“She did, despite all the grief my conception and birth caused her. I would do anything to ensure her happiness.”



“Wouldn’t she love to have grandchildren?”



Pulling back, he looked at her. “That is Baybury’s responsibility as the heir. He will see to it.”



“And what is your responsibility?” she queried, stroking her thumb tenderly across his cheek.



“To be the scapegrace of the family, corrupting fine young widows and luring them to sin.”



She kissed him. With her lips against his, she said, “While I endeavor to see that you remain upon the straight and narrow path you’ve set for yourself these last years.”



His strong hands slid up either side of her spine. “What a pair we shall make. The wicked widow and the reformed rake.”



Jess quelled the quiver of unease in her stomach, telling herself there was time enough to address the brutal realities of their association. So much had happened in such a short time, and there was still a long road to travel before it could be said with certainty that they were meant to go on together. In the interim, she would follow his lead. If it was meant for their happiness to be temporary, so be it. It was too late for her to retreat now.



She pressed her lips to the tip of his nose. “Let’s have that glass of claret now.”



Chapter 16



“Beg your pardon, Lord Tarley.”



Michael paused with his foot on the first step of Remington’s Gentlemen’s Club and turned his head to find a coachman standing off to the side with his hat in his hands. “Yes?”



“My lady begs a moment of your time, if you would be so kind.”



Looking past the coachman’s shoulder, Michael noted the hackney waiting nearby with curtains drawn over the windows. His pulse quickened with hope and expectation. The occupant could be any overly bold debutante, he supposed, but he wanted it to be Hester.



With a nod, he acknowledged the summons and approached the equipage. He paused directly outside the door. “Can I be of service?”



“Michael. Get in, please.”



He almost smiled, but refrained. Opening the door, he climbed in and took the squab across from Hester. Her perfume filled the enclosed space. While the sunlight was strong enough to filter through the curtains and offer enough illumination to see, the sense of illicit intimacy was overpowering.



And surely contained entirely within his own mind.



At least he thought so, until he saw the handkerchief she smoothed over her lap. She had given him a kerchief once before, as a sign of her maidenly esteem when he’d played at being a knight in shining armor. Ages ago. Another lifetime.



“Have you come to give me a token to carry into battle?” he asked, forcing levity into his tone.



She stared at him for a long moment, looking fragile and beautiful in a pelisse of soft green trimmed in a darker color he couldn’t quite determine in the semidarkness. She sighed. “I cannot alter your mind about this, can I?”



Her sorrowful tone prompted him to lean forward. He was struck by the change in her; the weight of unhappiness suppressed the vibrant spirit she was best known for. “Why does a simple boxing match worry you so?”



Her gloved hands clenched and unclenched in her lap. “Regardless of who wins or loses, it will not end well.”



“Hester—”



“Regmont will likely begin the match playfully,” she said without inflection, “but as your skill becomes apparent, he will become more focused. If he cannot best you, he may succumb to his temper. Be careful should that happen. His technique will slip and he will fight to win, perhaps not cleanly.”



A pistol’s report could not have jolted him more violently.



“I would say none of this to anyone else.” Her chin lifted, reinforcing her quiet dignity. “But I suspect you’ll be more deliberate in the ring. Levelheaded. You will follow the rules of the sport, and that, I fear, will preclude you from anticipating the most injurious blows.”



“Succumb to his temper with whom?” He had no right to ask, but he couldn’t withhold the question any longer. “Are you mistreated, Hester?”



“Worry about you,” she admonished, managing a smile that did little to alleviate his suspicions. “You’re the one about to engage in fisticuffs.”



And he was ferociously eager for that engagement to begin, more so now than just a few moments ago when he’d simply been looking forward to it.



She held out the kerchief to him, but yanked it back when he moved to accept. “You have to promise to call on me, if you want this.”



“Extortion,” he said hoarsely, seeing the answer to his question in her evasion. His blood was boiling. She thought he would be deliberate and levelheaded? He was far from it.



“Coercion,” she corrected. “Just so that I may see for myself that you are not unduly damaged.”



Michael’s jaw clenched against undeniable helplessness. There was no way for him to intercede. What a man did with his wife was his own affair. The only recourse available to him was the one he’d set in motion a week ago—a few far-too-brief moments in a boxing ring, during which he could pummel Regmont to his heart’s content. “I promise to visit.”