All I Ever Needed Page 11

  Sophie paled as all the blood in her body seemed to pool in her feet, rooting her where she stood. "You would not..." But her features showed the full measure of her uncertainty. "Pray, do not..." Her voice trailed away when she saw he was unmoved by her distress.

  "It begs the question of why you allowed me to come here in the first place."

  She frowned, not comprehending his point. "I could not have kept you out, it seems to me. You all but walk through walls."

  In other circumstances, Eastlyn would have smiled at this ghostlike description of his skills. Diplomatic missions being what they sometimes were, he had indeed acquired a happy talent for unconventional entry that had served him well. "I asked permission to come inside," he reminded her, "and you gave it."

  "You were standing below my window, conducting yourself in a manner that was certain to draw attention to the both of us." Her tone was pitched with exasperation now. "You cannot put me between Scylla and Charybdis and pretend I could have made a better choice."

  The sound that came from Eastlyn's throat was something between strangled laughter and a suppressed cough. Between Scylla and Charybdis was precisely how Northam and South had described his predicament when they first learned of the engagement. The allusion still held, East thought, because his former mistress was much in the way Southerton saw her: a seething whirlpool, the kind of female monster that could suck a man into her vortex and—"

  "Are you all right?" Sophie asked. "Shall I fetch you a glass of water?"

  East raised his hand, indicating that such was not necessary, though he could not quite gather words. He was recalling how Southerton had expanded his point, as he often did, in spite of East's protests that he was familiar with Homer. "And Scylla... Wasn't she a nymph or something equally naughty before her appearance was changed?" North, naturally enough, had been moved to offer his opinion: "It does seem more fitting that Lady Sophia should be Scylla." They had stopped their ribbing only when he removed the pistol from behind his back and threatened to shoot them both.

  A pity he could not make the same threat now. "I will take that glass of water, if you please," he said instead.

  Sophie removed herself to her dressing room where she poured fresh water from the porcelain pitcher on the washstand. Thinking the marquess did not know his own mind, Sophie nevertheless did not give him a piece of hers. She handed over the glass and watched him carefully as he drank, afraid he might come to choke again. When he had downed the last of it, she removed the glass from his hand and set it on her writing desk. "Better?" she asked.

  "Infinitely. Thank you." He could not explain where his thoughts had taken flight. Lady Sophia did not strike him as one who would appreciate South's depiction of her as a nymph turned monster. In point of fact, he knew of no woman who would. It was the sort of observation best kept between men, he decided. There were so few secrets left to safeguard from women, it seemed prudent that this should be one of them.

  "You will say nothing to Harold?" Sophie asked. "It shall be our secret?"

  For a moment Eastlyn believed Sophie had plumbed his mind and plucked his last thought. "Secret?" he repeated in want of a moment to tidy his thinking. "Oh, yes. Yes, of course, I will say nothing to Dunsmore now, though you cannot depend upon my discretion always."

  Afraid he would renege immediately, Sophie did not press for a more thorough promise than the one he gave her. She nodded faintly in acceptance.

  Eastlyn knew she was in expectation of him leaving, but he was not done. "I would have the truth, Sophie, from your own lips. You are being confined here, are you not? A punishment, perhaps, for refusing my proposal?"

  She hesitated, uncertain what she wanted to tell him that he had not already concluded on his own. "It is a confinement," she said, "but not precisely a punishment. More an attempt at coercion. My cousins think that you will still be amenable to marriage if I can be made to change my opinion of it."

  "I see. And your opinion now is...?"

  Sophie knew she could not afford to show the slightest indecision. No matter that this last month spent almost entirely alone had weakened her resolve, if she communicated this to Eastlyn, he would bring his own pressure to bear. Her defenses were not impregnable against so many assaults. "I am unchanged," she said. "A marriage between us would not suit. Any pretense of an engagement to satisfy the wags is unnecessary. I hope you will not concern yourself with my confinement. It is soon to be at an end. The earl is returning to Tremont Park, and I am to go with him. It will be a good change for me to rusticate in the country. If I am confined there, at least it will be on hundreds of acres."

  Eastlyn had heard nothing about Tremont's plans to return to his country home and wondered if he could believe Sophie's assertion. Because of North's wedding and the necessity of returning to Battenburn, East had not yet taken Colonel Blackwood's assignment fully in hand. While he had studied the East India Company's proposal of a Singapore settlement, and spoken to several representatives from the Company, he had not arranged to meet with either Helmsley or Barlough. He had put off speaking to Tremont because of the man's desire to see Sophia married for financial gain; it was certain to be a factor in negotiations. The meeting, however, with the prime minister had proceeded well enough, with Liverpool reiterating to Eastlyn what the colonel had said: the settlement was a most desired outcome for the Crown.

  But Sophie in the country? East thought. He was not as reassured by this turn of events as he considered he should be. It had been rather foolish of him, he supposed, but his imagination had been wandering in Sophie's direction upon seeing North and Elizabeth exchange vows. He had not been made so feeble-minded by the ceremony that he shared his thinking with anyone. There would have been wagers made immediately, and Eastlyn decided he should spare Sophie becoming the subject of one. Although the amounts the Compass Club risked were always absurdly small, they took the ventures if not quite seriously, then with humor that had a competitive edge.

  "You will be gone long?" East asked for want of something better to say.

  "I don't know. I expect Tremont will cast his net for other suitors."

  "A landed gentleman, mayhap," East said, careful to keep sarcasm out of his tone. "No title, but income from rents to spare."

  Sophie's eyes darted away. She nodded briefly and found that she was suddenly hugging herself as though cold. "You have always known, then, that it was about finances."

  "It came to my attention, yes."

  Sophie imagined the queue to inform Eastlyn had organized itself quickly. She wondered who had been at the forefront. Tremont had done a credible job of keeping the state of the family finances a private matter, but there were always people who knew the truth, and people who took particular relish in repeating what they thought they knew. "You can comprehend that from Tremont's perspective it is a desirable match."

  "You have said as much before," East reminded her. "And you offer it as if it excuses his behavior. It does not. Your confinement here is every bit his doing. Dunsmore is nothing if not a dutiful son."

  Sophie had no reply to that. She was not in disagreement with his assertion.

  "Will you be safe there?"

  "I am safe here," Sophie said softly.

  Eastlyn looked pointedly at her left arm, which was once again covered by the silken sleeve of her robe. "Your definition of what is safe is in want of revision."

  Sophie glanced at the mantel clock. "Even by the most generous interpretation of taking but a few minutes of my time, you have overstayed your welcome."

  East acknowledged her point with a slim smile. "Touche."

  "Will you leave by the usual route or do you prefer a window exit?"

  "The door will do."

  She nodded, stepping aside, her arms still crossed in front of her.

  East studied her for a long moment. Resolve set nicely on her face, defining the slim line of her jaw and the unwavering brightness of her wild honey eyes. Her lower lip protruded slightly, not in a way th
at gave her a soft pouty look, but in a manner that lifted her chin and firmed her position. The faint lift of a single arching eyebrow and the fractional tilt of her head completed the picture that was at once as determined as it was provocative.

  East supposed there were an infinite number of choices available to him, but only one that would not leave him with regrets. It was probably true that her sweet mouth would always tempt him now that he knew the taste of it, and equally likely that another kiss would never be enough, but Eastlyn decided for better or worse, he wanted another bite of the apple.

  "Sophie?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I am going to kiss you." If she was startled by this intelligence, she did not show it, and Eastlyn did not give her further opportunity. One arm caught her at the small of the back and the other at her nape. He drew her close so that her head was angled toward his and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Like the fruit first offered by Eve, the taste of Sophie's mouth was a feast for the senses. Sweet. Tart. A hint of tang. Warm and honeyed. The suggestion of something like mint. Her lips parted and fashioned their movement in a way that mirrored his, and there was something extraordinarily powerful in teaching her to kiss, for that was precisely what Eastlyn knew he was about.

  It was not that Lady Sophia Colley had never been kissed before, but that on so many occasions it had been done inexpertly. Timothy Darrow had been the first when he ran her to ground behind the stable at Tremont Park. She could have raised a hue and cry because he was only a young groom, not yet in his fourteenth year, and she was the daughter of the earl and three years his junior. She had never told a soul how he had pinned her to the rough stone wall and dared her to call for help. He had been angry, of course, and more than a little frightened or he would not have attempted such a transgression. Sophie blamed herself for her predicament because moments before she had been spying on him from the loft. He and Katie Masters had been covered with hay, but not so much of it that she hadn't been able to get her fill of his bare arse pumping up and down between the scullery maid's open thighs. It had not seemed to Sophie that there was an abundance of fun to be had in this sport; but the kissing looked nice enough, and so when Timothy had trapped her, she had permitted him to put his mouth to hers.

  She decided then and there she had been wrong about the kissing. It had nothing to recommend it.

  Sophie hadn't been kissed again until Harold had done it on the occasion of her thirteenth birthday. They had both heard rumors that there might someday be a match between them, thus uniting the fortunes of the family. That had been when her father still possessed a substantial amount of his wealth and Harold's father had considered the title lost to his descendants if not secured through marriage.

  The kiss had been mercifully brief. Harold's tongue had been thick and sour, and Sophie was quite certain she did not want to have it in her mouth again, no matter that he seemed to like the taste of her well enough. When she grew weary of him trailing after her skirts in anticipation of another opportunity, Sophie gave it to him—and drew blood when he tried to thrust his tongue past her bared teeth.

  Harold's father had taken her in hand then, but her punishment had not been so terrible as that kiss.

  Lord Edymon had taken the liberty of placing his mouth upon hers immediately after his proposal. If Sophie had had any doubts as to their unsuitability, they were put to rest when he ground his lips so hard against her that she winced. Humphrey Bell, her second suitor to come up to snuff, kissed so wetly he created sucking sounds that echoed in Sophie's ears long after she had pushed him away.

  Too hard. Too wet. Too loud. Too thick. All of it too silly. The poets were wrong, Sophie had decided. There was no rapture in the ritual, no matter that there were hundreds of sonnets dedicated to the practice.

  It was odd, then, that she was reexamining that premise.

  If only this kiss had been as brief as the first teasing brush of his lips. Although it had seemed complete enough to her at the time, that kiss had been but a promise. What he was doing to her now was all about fulfilling it.

  His mouth worked over hers slowly, as though her lips were a thing to be savored. She felt herself ripening under his gentle assault and never questioned the peculiarity of this being true. There was a heaviness, a swelling in her breasts and a succulence to her open mouth, and the change was alarming; and yet she could not deny that she felt safe.

  Eastlyn's embrace kept her steady, but not secure. She sensed the space between them was deliberate, an act of consciousness exercising restraint. It made her aware of him in a way she had not been before, of his strength held in check, of his broad shoulders curved forward to shelter her. He was taller than she, significantly so, and yet it was no strain to reach his mouth, such was his ability to accommodate the disparity in their heights. She did not realize then that he had moved to lean back against her writing desk or that she had come to stand between his slightly splayed thighs. What Sophie knew was that this kiss was effortless, as natural and as thoughtless a response to life as breathing.

  She held the front of his open frock coat in her fists, bunching the brushed wool so that creasing was inevitable. He was not so fierce with her. The hand that cradled the back of her head was gentle in its hold. His fingers were threaded through her hair, the pad of each one a separate point of light pressure on her skull. Just below her belted sash, at the curve of hip and bottom, rested his other hand, unmoving, steadying, there to support her when she lost her balance, as she was certain she would.

  The heat was unexpected. And the damp. She felt them both in the suck of his mouth and the matching, steady pulse between her thighs. His lips nudged hers softly, taming her response when her breathing grew rough and her heart surged. He feasted on her mouth, tugging on her lower lip, running the tip of his tongue along the sensitive underside, flicking her skin as though capturing sun-drenched droplets of dew.

  In the first moments of contact, Sophie's eyes were opened wide and searching, but what followed was an intoxication of the senses, and the soporific effects of East's drugging kiss weighted her lashes and darkened the centers of her eyes. It was sleep, and yet not sleep, the clarity of wakefulness in the unreality of a dream.

  She kissed him back, measure for full measure, matching the tension of his mouth, the insistence. There was hunger here, and Sophie had not known she was starving. She sensed urgency for something when she had not realized there was a need. She was unfamiliar with the ache between her thighs or the heaviness that seemed to define the empty space.

  Restless, uncertain, she leaned into him. There was the slightest increase in pressure at her back, a suggestion only that she could move closer still. She did, and it was this small movement, and East's deepening kiss, that unwound the tightly coiled spring inside her.

  It seemed to her that she became liquid in his arms. The shudder was like a concentric ring of ripples across the surface of a pond, only this tremor had its source somewhere deep inside her. He held her upright because she could not have managed it herself. It was not so easy a thing to remain standing when muscle tone had been replaced by a flood of sensation.

  She might have gasped, she thought, but he swallowed the sound. He stole her air, leaving her light-headed and heavy-lidded, and helpless in a way for which she could not thank him. Sophie had no name for what had happened to her, but it never entered her thinking that it was outside Eastlyn's experience.

  It was, though. To not put too fine a point on it, she had come in his arms, not while they were joined in intimate coupling—which he might have expected—but from naught but kissing. Perhaps it was a very good thing, he decided, that Sophie was confined to her room at No. 14.

  East drew back a fraction, kissed her lightly on the lips, rested his forehead against hers, and took a steadying breath. His smile came slowly to the forefront as he straightened completely; his eyes remained watchful. Holding Sophie at a point just below her elbows, he noticed her silk sleeves were no longer cool to
the touch, but imbued with her warmth and her scent.

  Sophie stared at him. Her lips were damp and remained parted. She sucked in a short, shaky breath and said quietly, "We will not do that again."

  Eastlyn heard no demand there, and while her words did not have the inflection of a question, there was the nuance of an appeal. "No," he said. "We will not."

  As one slightly dazed, Sophie nodded slowly. "You should leave now."

  "I suspect you're right." He made no move to do so, though. How could he? he wondered, when her eyes looked as if they might swallow him whole. "Sophie?"

  "Hmm?" The murmur tickled her lips, and she found the sensation almost unbearable. The line of her mouth flattened as she suppressed this last vestige of unexpected pleasure.

  East's eyes darted to her mouth. The temptation was to linger there, perhaps kiss her again, but he did not reveal any part of that thought. "You never told me why you permitted me to see you tonight."

  Sophie had not anticipated the question would be put to her again. He would not let a thing go, she realized, until he was satisfied on all counts. She suspected he hadn't the capacity for forgetting what was of importance to him and was very likely to bedevil her until he had his answer. "Am I mistaken?" she asked. "Did you not ask to see me?"

  "I did."

  "Then you wanted me to turn you down?"

  "Not at all. I wanted you to see me. I expected you to say no."

  She nodded. "Well, there you have it, for I am truly weary of doing the expected thing. I have lately come to the lowering realization that I am faint of heart, my lord. No one likes to believe cowardice is a substantial feature of one's character, yet I have had to accept that it is at the very core of my nature. I am now determined to act contrarily. My life cannot help but be changed because of it."

  Eastlyn knew himself to be frankly fascinated. He could not have taken his leave just now if Sophie had put his own pistol to his head. "So you have chosen to test your mettle with me?"