Read Seven Years to Sin Online
Authors: Sylvia Day
Seven Years to Sin (18 page)
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.
”
“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
“
B
eg your pardon, Lord Tarley.”
B
eg 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.”
“Before a week is out,” she persisted, her green eyes narrowed in silent admonishment.
“Yes.” He accepted the kerchief with fierce possessiveness. A beautifully rendered “H” in the corner made the token even more personal. “Thank you.”
“Be careful. Please.”
With a curt nod, he exited the hackney. It pulled away before he’d set foot on the bottom step of Remington’s wide entrance staircase.
“Don’t be fooled by his size.”
Hopping from foot to foot to limber himself, Michael glanced in the direction of the voice speaking at him. He found the Earl of Westfield, an unmarried peer who suffered the same sort of matrimonial attentions he did. Lauded for his good looks and charm, the earl was liked by both men and women. “Nothing about the man fools me.”
“Interesting,” Westfield said thoughtfully. He stepped into the eight-foot-square boxing area, which was delineated by painted lines on the hardwood floor. “Makes me very glad I bet on you.”
“Did you?” Michael’s gaze drifted around the massive room, which was damn near packed with spectators.
“Yes, I am one of the few.” The earl flashed the grin that stole many women’s hearts. “Regmont’s shorter stature makes him quick and nimble. And he has stamina such as I’ve never seen, which is how he wins so often—he can outlast damn near everyone. That’s what the others are wagering on: that you will tire before he does.”
“I should think that would be dependent upon how hard he is hit, and how often.”
Westfield shook his dark head. “For some men, such as myself, losing is an inconvenience we’d rather avoid. For others, like Regmont, it unmans them. His pride will fuel him long after you’ve satisfied whatever grievance you may have against him.”
“This is simple sport, Westfield.”
“Not with the way you’re looking at him. Clearly you nurse a personal score to settle. I don’t care. I just want to win my wager.”
Michael might have smiled at another time, but he was too furious now. Regardless, he knew when to take the advice given to him. He also knew from the broad grin with which Regmont started the fight that the other man believed he would win. Although physical pain was the least of what the earl deserved, Michael decided humiliation would be the longer lasting punishment. He feinted around a few exploratory punches from Regmont, then channeled all his fruitless love for Hester and his hatred for her unworthy husband into a single solid blow.
Regmont crashed, unconscious, onto the hardwood less than a minute into the match.
“It’s very difficult to concentrate when you are staring at me.” Jess looked across the deck to where Alistair sat with his back to a crate. He’d removed his coat and now rested with one leg stretched out before him and the other pulled up to support the papers he worked with. It was a pose she’d seen him adopt in bed while reading or working, and it never failed to rouse her admiration.
“Pay me no mind,” he said.
An impossible request. Not with him looking so handsome and rakish in his shirtsleeves. Not with his long, powerful legs showcased so beautifully in expertly tailored breeches and polished Hessians. Not with the wind playing in his hair the way her fingers wished to.
It was a lovely day, slightly overcast. Cool enough that she needed a shawl, but warm enough to still be pleasurable. She’d come above deck for the fresh air and was joined an hour later by Alistair and one of his portfolios. He’d chosen to sit a few feet away from her, but he looked up at her often and with unexplained intensity.
Jess snorted, then returned her attention to her needlepoint.
“Did the exemplary Lady Tarley just snort at me?” he asked, glancing at her with a raised brow.
“Ladies do not snort.” She thought it was sweet how often he went out of his way to be near her, even while occupied with affairs far removed from her.
He’d become a friend. Someone she shared most everything with. It was a miracle that she’d found two men who wanted her just the way she was. Not because of the exterior crafted by her rigid upbringing, but for the woman hidden inside, the one they made it safe for her to reveal.
“Perhaps not other ladies,” he said in a voice pitched low enough to reach only her ears. “You, however, make all sorts of delightful noises.”
Jess became aroused by the simple provocative statement. She’d gone a week without sex with him, and the craving she felt now that her courses had passed was nigh intolerable.
“Now, you are the one staring,” he teased without glancing at her.
“Because you are too far away for me to do anything else.”
His head snapped up.
Smiling, she stood. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Mr. Caulfield. I think I’ll retreat to the comforts of my bed for a spell before supper.”
She returned to her cabin, where Beth was working industriously on freshening her gowns.
“Lord ’ave mercy on Mr. Caulfield,” Beth said, pausing. “You ’ave a wicked look in yer eye.”
“Do I?”
“You know you do.” Beth smiled. “I ’aven’t seen you this ’appy in years. I’m beginning to pity the man.”
“You said he was well insulated from heartache.”
“I am occasionally wrong, milady. Rarely, but it does ’appen at times.”
The thought widened Jess’s smile. It was a relief to hear Beth’s opinion. The only thing tempering Jess’s contentment was the fear that such happiness couldn’t last and that she was incapable of holding a man like Alistair Caulfield’s attention for long. Not because she was unworthy of him, but because there were women who were worthier. Women who could give him things she couldn’t—experience, an adventure-some spirit to match his own, children …
As she removed her shawl, her smile faded. They were both young. For all that he’d accomplished so far in his life, Alistair still had years yet before he would feel the urge to wed and breed. He couldn’t know now that such instinctual longings would assail him, but
she
knew. It was up to her to do the correct and responsible thing in regard to their relationship.
she
knew. It was up to her to do the correct and responsible thing in regard to their relationship.
Alistair’s easily identifiable brisk knock came at the door. Beth laughed softly and draped the gown she’d been working with over a trunk. She opened the door with a broad grin. “Good afternoon, Mr. Caulfield.”
Jess kept her back to the door, her eyes closing with anticipation and pleasure at the sound of his smooth, cultured reply.
“Will you be needing me for anything else, milady?” Beth asked.
“No, thank you. Enjoy your afternoon.”
The door had barely shut when she heard the thud of something hitting the sole. A heartbeat later she found herself pinned to the bulkhead by over six feet of wildly aroused male. Delighted by his unexpected fervency, she threw her arms around his lean waist and returned the passion of his kiss.
“Vixen,” he accused, his mouth moving across her jaw. “You are deliberately trying to incite me to madness.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He nipped her ear with his teeth, and she arched away, laughing. Her gaze fell to the portfolio he’d dropped on the floor, and she stilled.
“When you are no longer indisposed,” he growled softly, seething with sexual intent, “I intend to make you pay for teasing a man who’s gone without you for a sennight.”
“I am not indisposed,” she said absently, riveted by the drawings she saw peeking out from the edges of his carelessly discarded portfolio. “I haven’t been for two days now.”
Alistair pulled back. “Beg your pardon?”
“What are these?” She slid out of his arms and bent down beside the scattered parchment.
“Two days,” he repeated.
Lifting the black leather front cover, Jess’s breath caught. “My God, Alistair … These are astonishing.”
“What’s astonishing is your lack of desire for me.”
“Don’t be absurd. A woman would have to be dead to escape desire for you.” She stared at her image rendered in fine, precise pencil lines. The uppermost picture was of her on the deck mere moments ago, explaining his preoccupation with watching her. “Is this how you see me?”
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