Seven Years to Sin

Clinging to those phantom feelings, she pushed to her feet so quickly, she upended the chair. She caught him by the lapels and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was swift and chaste, a show of gratitude for reminding her of the bold and vivacious girl she used to be.



She pulled away, blushing. “I’m sorry.”



Michael stood rooted, his dark eyes hot and avid. “I’m not.”



Smoothing her hair back with shaking fingers, Hester moved to the tea service. She focused on breathing deep and evenly, attempting to regulate her racing heart. She heard him right the chair behind her just as she caught sight of Regmont filling the doorway.



Her heart stopped beating altogether.



“My lord,” Hester breathed.



Michael froze, hearing the fear in her voice as if she’d screamed in terror. Pivoting, he faced whatever threatened her and found himself staring into the face of a man who festered with fury and ill will. Michael sized up his opponent, noting the earl’s fisted hands and clenched jaw. Though he’d never known Regmont well, he was certain the man had changed over the past few years. Michael remembered a cocky fellow, whose saving grace had been the warmth and affection in his eyes when he looked upon his wife. There was none of that tenderness now. Only cold calculation and sharp suspicion.



“Regmont.” Michael was amazed his tone was so nonchalant when he felt like lunging across the room and pummeling the man responsible for Hester’s unhappiness.



“Tarley. What are you doing here?”



Michael gave a deliberately casual shrug, uncertain of what Regmont had seen and knowing he would have to tread carefully if he was to spare Hester any further undue suffering. “My mother sent me. It was either come here and assist with her matchmaking efforts or find myself paired with a spouse I can’t tolerate.”



Regmont looked to his wife. “Oh? I’ve been told Lady Pennington has begun visiting often.”



Hester looked pale, her eyes haunted. She swallowed and said, “She would turn to Jessica, if my sister were here. Since she is not, I’ve been helping the countess become acquainted with the debutantes this Season.”



“That’s very kind of you, darling.”



“Dear God,” Michael said, returning to his former seat. “Please don’t encourage them.”



The earl joined them, taking the seat beside Hester. She took a deep breath and began serving tea.



Regmont received his cup and saucer first, then took a sip. He set the china down on the table. “This is barely warm.”



Hester winced.



“My apologies,” Michael said. “I burned the tip of my tongue with coffee this morning and it still stings. Lady Regmont was kind enough to oblige me.”



Regmont pivoted on the seat, angling his knees toward his wife. “And what occupied you while you waited for the tea to cool?”



Straightening her shoulders, Hester looked at her husband with a smile as cool as the beverage he complained about. “I was transcribing Tarley’s spousal wish list.”



The earl’s gaze shot over to the escritoire. He stood in a fluid rush and crossed the room with short, swift strides. He lifted the length of foolscap, his icy gaze raking over the few notations. Then he glanced up at Michael with a smoothed brow. “Brunettes and redheads only?”



In answer, Michael waved one hand carelessly.



Regmont laughed, his tension broken and agitation eased. “Redheads are handfuls, you know, Tarley. Ask Grayson, or Merrick.”



“I like spirited women.” The way your wife used to be before you bullied her …



“Lady Regmont will steer you in the right direction.”



Michael turned his back to the earl, hiding the hatred, disgust, and sick helplessness he was certain he couldn’t disguise on his face. If Benedict had still been with them, Michael could have stolen Hester away from this misery. They could have fled to the West Indies or the Continent or America. Anywhere in the world she wanted to go. But he was chained to England now.



They were both trapped in lives they did not want.



And there was no way out for either of them.



Chapter 19



“Lady Tarley!”



Jessica altered the angle of her parasol and caught sight of the short, portly gentleman waving madly at her from the end of the gangplank.



“Your steward,” Alistair explained as he steadied her with a hand at her elbow. “Mr. Reginald Smythe.”



“What is your impression of him?” She lifted one gloved hand in a slight wave that acknowledged the man’s vigorous efforts to attract her attention amid the noise and activity of the quayside. The smells of tar and coffee blended, teasing her nostrils, and raucous cries of seagulls competed with the calls and shouts of able-bodied sailors loading crates and barrels onto fat-bellied ships.



“A decent fellow. Certainly competent. Calypso has nearly two hundred slaves and they are content enough to be highly productive. However, he could stand to be less antiquated in his views of women in trade.”



“You are more progressive than most gentlemen, I suspect.”



“In my experience, women can be shrewd and ruthless in financial matters. It pays to do business with them.”



“And I would wager they make concessions to you that they would for few other men.”



He looked at her, his blue eyes brilliant even when shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Perhaps.”



She smiled. Alistair’s presence only added to her swelling happiness at returning to the lush, verdant island she remembered so fondly. Her memories had painted the landscape in jeweled tones, and she was delighted to see she hadn’t embroidered her recollections. Behind her, the ocean was the pale blue of an aquamarine. In front of her, the emerald hills and mountains rolled across the landscape. Benedict had once told her that at no point on the island was the ocean more than a score of miles away.



Paradise, she’d called it. A lucrative one, he’d agreed.



“Mr. Caulfield.” Mr. Smythe touched the brim of his brown hat in greeting.



“Mr. Smythe.”



The steward looked at Jess. “I trust you had a safe and enjoyable journey, my lady.”



“It could not have been more pleasurable,” she said, thinking of Alistair and how different she felt now from when she’d boarded his ship. She’d started the journey as a widow, certain she would be alone for the rest of her life. She ended with a lover, a man to whom she’d bared her body and soul, revealing memories of a past she had previously shared only with Hester.



Alistair’s fingers stoked the bend of her elbow.



Mr. Smythe nodded, then turned to gesture at the landau waiting nearby. “We’ll have your trunks brought along after you, Lady Tarley. Good day, Mr. Caulfield. I shall be making an appointment to meet with you later this week.”



She looked at Alistair. After six weeks at sea, during which their relationship had sprouted and blossomed, they were finally faced with separation. This was the point where they parted ways, she to her residence and he to his.



He met her gaze; his own sharply focused as he waited.



Jess could see the question in his eyes—how would she react now that they were once again faced with the rules of Society?



Her reaction was fiercer than she could reasonably share. She wanted him beside her, always. In public and in private. Across their personal dining table for the morning meal and next to one another in a box at the theater. She wanted that, and she would have it if he agreed.



She spoke with feeling. “I know you must have a great deal to attend to, Mr. Caulfield, but would you be able to join us for supper? It would save you from making an appointment, Mr. Smythe, and having to report to me after the fact.”



Smythe blinked, clearly startled.



Alistair grinned at her first salvo in the battle for control of the plantation. He tilted his head in a regal acknowledgment. “It would be my pleasure, my lady.”



Raising her skirts, Jess climbed up the side of the hill. Her boots slipped occasionally in the rain-soaked soil, but Alistair was behind her and she knew he would grab hold of her if she fell. He was always catching her, always urging her to take great leaps with the security of knowing he waited with arms outstretched.



“There,” he said, drawing her attention to a gazebo set in a clearing to the left of where they ascended. The structure was immediately recognizable—it was a miniature replica of the one on the Pennington estate, with the addition of netting around the back and sides. In the center, a low dais supported a wealth of blankets and pillows.



She turned, facing Alistair as he joined her. From this vantage, they had impressive views of the sugarcane fields below and the ocean in the distance.



He drew abreast of her. “Have you seen the cane fields burning?”



“No.”



“We’ll remedy that when the time comes. I will take you to a vantage downwind of the smoke and stench. For all the danger and destruction, it is a sight not to be missed.”



“I can’t wait to see it with you.” She looked at him, admiring his proud profile. “I want to see everything with you.”



His returning look was fierce and heated.



She moved toward the gazebo. “This is what has been occupying you during the day?”



He’d started coming to her at night with small cuts on his hands and the occasional darkening of a faint bruise on his forearms. No matter how she tried to wheedle the cause out of him, he resisted—although he did encourage her to use every means at her disposal to convince him to be forthcoming …



“Do you like it?” he asked, studying her reaction.



“I’m flattered to have such effort expended to seduce me.” Her mouth curved on one side. “I also see that whenever my courses run, you burn with restless energy. I do believe you require sex more than food and water.”



“Only with you.” He moved under the roof and set down the basket he’d carried up with them. “And you know why. When I’m inside you I know you won’t be getting away. I know you don’t want to.”



She turned her back to the view and faced him, the most wonderful view of all. “What if you could claim the outside of me as well? With your name as my own and your ring on my finger. Would that calm you?”



Alistair grew painfully still. He did not even blink. “Beg your pardon?”



“Are you frightened now?” she asked softly.



“Afraid I’m dreaming.” He broke his stillness to move toward her.



“I’ve already told you I love you. Many, many times. Every day, actually.” She exhaled in a rush, fighting for courage. She couldn’t restrain her affection; it was too big to contain, swelling her chest and making it hard to catch her breath. “I love you enough to walk away if there is any possibility you might desire to be a father someday.”



His throat worked on a hard swallow. “There are a great many foundlings, if we want children to spoil.”



Her heartbeat quickened with hope.



He held out his hand. She placed hers within his and allowed him to lead her to the dais. He urged her to sit and she did. Then, he sank to one knee in front of her.



Understanding dawned. “Alistair.”



“You weren’t supposed to beat me to it, Jess,” he said with tender gruffness, reaching into the tiny pocket of his waistcoat. He wore no coat, no cravat. Scandalous and completely unacceptable, but who would see them up here? That had been the most difficult part of the past week—acting as if they were no more than acquaintances in public when they were searingly intimate in private.



It was the worst sort of torture watching the local debutantes, widows, and even some of the married women paying him elaborate, fawning attention. She’d had to suffer through watching those who claimed him as a dance partner or an escort into dining rooms. She had watched pretty young girls flirt with him, girls capable of giving him the family he’d never truly had and that she could never give him.



Alistair encouraged none of them, his gaze finding her in quiet moments and revealing his ferocious hunger. She tried not to seek him out, knowing her face would betray how smitten and besotted she was. How desperately in love she’d fallen. How bleak and lifeless her existence would be without him.



The truth of it was that he managed the public side of their relationship much better than she did. As proprietary as he felt about her private self, he wasn’t possessive of her public face. Instead, he seemed to relish watching her swim the social waters, admiring the ease with which she managed the necessary interactions—the discourse, the dancing, and all the rest. He was proud of her, content to watch her shine in her element, which made all the pain and sorrow she’d experienced to become so consummate seem worthwhile.



He withdrew a ring. A thick gold circlet topped with an ostentatious ruby as big as her knuckle. The brilliant blood-red stone was a pillowed square surrounded by diamonds, boldly proclaiming the worth of the man who’d purchased it. The gem was almost vulgar in its size and purity of clarity, which made her smile. If her marriage to Alistair wasn’t enough to show the world she’d changed, the ring would certainly manage the task.



“Yes,” he murmured, sliding the ruby onto her finger. “I will marry you. As soon as possible. By the end of the week if we can manage it.”



“No.” She cupped his face in her hands, her fingers brushing his inky hair back from his forehead. “We’ll do this properly. In England. With the banns read and endless celebrations and our families in attendance. I want the world—and most especially you—to know that I do this after a great deal of thought and careful consideration. I know what I do, Alistair. I know what I want.”



“I would prefer to be wed before we return.”



“I won’t leave you,” she vowed, knowing his concern.



“You can’t. I won’t let you.” He caught her wrists with a gentle, yet unyielding grip. “But there will be women who … at routs and luncheons … they’ll know—”