Let Me Be The One Page 16

  Northam's head tilted to one side as he considered her response. "Perhaps I was wrong about that. Forgive me." He bent, closed the panel, and straightened again. "Do you know, I'm not certain if I could have found my way here without tonight's entertainment? I stumbled upon a connecting passage while hunting clues with Lady Powell."

  Elizabeth did not think for a moment that he had stumbled upon anything. If he had come to this part of the house during the treasure hunt, it had been by design, not because he misread the clues. Elizabeth glanced toward her dressing room. She had a fleeting thought of retreating there, barring the door with her armoire, and staying put until Northam had the good sense to leave her.

  "I thought you had no liking for cramped spaces."

  North glanced back at the close passageway. "Perhaps I overstated my discomfort. It is armoires I fear."

  Gritting her teeth, she said, "You must go." With some part of her mind she recognized the very steadiness of her voice was a complete contradiction of her rising hysteria. When was the last time she had actually surrendered to her feelings?

  The answer came quickly and was accompanied by a rush of searing humiliation. She stood only a few feet from the wall where Northam had pinned her back with his hands and mouth and made her think of nothing but her own selfish pleasure. Yes, she had been all of a piece that morning, the same on the inside as out, and it had brought her no enduring calm. She was paying for it again now, was she not?

  Northam nudged the vanity backward with his hip until it partially blocked the panel. He did not require Elizabeth to tell him if her door was locked; he crossed the room and did the thing himself. He pointed to the open window. "I will not be leaving by that route tonight," he said. "If the consequences of being here include a hasty marriage, I am prepared to repent at leisure."

  Elizabeth's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. She snapped it shut because even in the red haze that colored her consciousness, she understood that gaping would only serve to amuse him.

  Northam pulled the padded stool away from her dresser and sat on it. He crossed his arms in front of him and extended his long legs. "Will you sit, Elizabeth?" he asked politely. "I mean you no harm."

  She remained exactly where she was.

  "Shall I get you a shawl?"

  He was not so different from Louise, she thought. He extended a kindness to balance the cruelty. She refused his offer.

  "Very well. I'm afraid I have started off rather badly." He did not expect an argument from her for the truth of those words, only one that pointed to their obvious understatement. She said nothing, however, but stood quietly, framed by the dark window behind her, candlelight from the bedside limning her features so he could detect the fine tremor of her figure. "I could be your friend, Lady Elizabeth, if you would but let me. I cannot dismiss the notion that you may be in need of some help. I am offering mine. It is meant most sincerely and is extended without strings. You need have no fear I desire anything in return."

  Elizabeth drew a deep breath. Her delicate nostrils flared slightly and her breasts rose. She let the breath leave her lungs slowly. Her lashes fluttered closed, then opened, and when her eyes settled on Northam they were devoid of all emotion. Passion and pain, fear and resignation, were all suppressed by a perfect blankness of expression. "Leave," she said. "It is all I require of you."

  Northam considered his choices before he finally stood, sighed, and began walking toward her. Her very stillness made him want to shake her. Perversely, he also only wanted to place his arms about her so that he might hold her. He stopped a short distance in front of her. His hands remained at his sides. In deference to the possibility of discovery, his voice was low. There was no simple explanation for its huskiness. "What did you say this evening to South that made him laugh so?"

  It was in that moment that Elizabeth understood physical contact was not required to set her off balance. Northam could make it happen on the strength of his words alone. She reminded herself that he had been a soldier, quite possibly a strategist, and that he was skilled in tactics as she was not.

  She blinked, the absurdity of the question drawing an immediate response from her. It never occurred to her to dissemble. "I believe I disparaged his brilliance."

  North considered that. "Really? And he laughed?"

  "I think, perhaps, it was the way I said it."

  He smiled faintly. "Ah, that I can understand. You do adopt a tone from time to time..." His eyes were thoughtful as they slid over her face. He took no great pleasure in exposing her vulnerability, but he could not let her pretend that she was indifferent. "Southerton proved himself to be very clever this evening, did he not?"

  "Yes," she said quietly, wondering at North's direction. "He did. He unraveled the meaning of each clue we found."

  "I'm certain it seemed that way." The slight curve of his mouth was enigmatic now. "I was referring, though, to his placing us together at the end."

  "I don't—" She stopped herself from making a rote denial and thought back to the evening past. Her brows lifted fractionally as the truth was borne home. She and North had been moved about the gallery like pieces on a chess board. "My, he is clever," she said softly.

  "He would say that was damning him with faint praise. He likes to think of himself as cunning."

  She could believe that. "What piece were you?" she asked. "A bishop? The king?"

  "Oh, nothing like that. South knows I'm a soldier."

  "A knight, then."

  "More likely a pawn."

  Elizabeth nodded, her own smile weak. She could identify with the piece herself. "What was his purpose?"

  "You would have to ask him. Perhaps his efforts were in aid of making Lady Powell his companion." He saw skepticism flash in her amber eyes. "I know; it doesn't pass muster with me either. I spent most of the evening with her and cannot imagine South purposely seeking to do the same."

  "Lady Powell is a most congenial—" Elizabeth stopped because Northam was shaking his head, not having any of it. "No, she's not, is she?"

  "Not in the least," he agreed. "And that leads me to conclude that South suspects there is some attraction between us. I do not think the wager alone would move him to interfere."

  "There is a wager?"

  "Yes."

  She swallowed. "Concerning us?"

  "I collect so. I do not know the details. You observed Eastlyn on the day of the hunt. They will wager on most anything."

  "You also?"

  "I am not participating in this one."

  It was not precisely an answer to her question, but Elizabeth let it pass. "Tell me, are we worth more than a shilling?"

  "I believe I heard them indicate a sovereign was at stake."

  "My. An entire sovereign."

  "I know. It's rather humbling."

  There was a tremor in her legs and Elizabeth realized her knees could not support her much longer. "I think I will sit down now." She did not resist the lift of his hand on her elbow. It was just the lightest touch and, against all good sense to the contrary, profoundly welcome. When she was seated in the wing chair Northam left her side, returning a very short time later with her flannel shawl. "Thank you." She let him put it around her shoulders. His knuckles brushed her skin just above the open neckline of her chemise. She shivered. They did not look at each other and nothing was said, agreeing by their silence to pretend it had not happened.

  North carried the stool from the vanity and set it a few feet away, but directly in front of her chair. He disabused her of the notion he meant it for her own comfort by sitting on it. "Does your leg ache?" he asked.

  "It is nothing." In truth, she hadn't given it any thought. She was actually grateful for his reminder. It served to help her keep her focus. "Is it because of the colonel?" she asked. "You know I wrote to him. You saw me composing the letter yourself. I communicated your greeting and assured him all was well with me. What more must be said to convince him?"

  "Nothing at all. You must convince me.
"

  The answer was not unexpected. "I don't see how I can do that. You do not believe me."

  "I will when I hear the truth." He paused a beat before he struck. "Whom did you think you were talking to before you saw it was me?"

  She said nothing.

  "Did the baroness tell you the treasure was behind the Vermeer?"

  Elizabeth continued to stare at him.

  "Why is it so important that I stay away from you?"

  An eyebrow lifted in an ironic arch.

  North drew up his legs and hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands forming a steeple under his chin. "How many lovers have there been?"

  She could not quite swallow the moan that rose in her throat. Elizabeth's voice was only a thread of sound. "Do not do this, my lord."

  "My name is Brendan," he said. "North, if you prefer. We have been intimates; we may behave intimately." He sat up and extended his legs again. The toe of one of his shoes brushed her bare foot and the touch sent a shiver through her. Fear? he wondered. Repulsion? Desire? Did she even know? He kept his eyes on hers, holding her in place with his quiet intensity. "I was jealous, you know. Last night. When I heard South laugh. And before that, days before, when you gave attention to so many others and only pretended to give me yours. It was a new experience for me. At first I thought you were right, and that the choice I'd made was to despise you, but upon reflection, I fear it is something else entirely."

  "No," she said. "It is not. It is only that you want to fuck me."

  Chapter 7

  North remembered how he had proved to her that she was still vulnerable. Now, with stunning accuracy, she had done the same to him. He had never heard any but the coarsest of women use that word. Even then it had seemed out of place to him, for he held the opinion that females were the gentler sex, and such rawness of language was unacceptable. He had, perhaps, adopted more of his grandfather's dinner table platitudes than was strictly helpful to him now.

  He drew a deep breath, let it out carefully. "If you knew the length and breadth of the lecture I am sparing you, you would thank me."

  "You are a prig, my lord, whether you lecture me or not. You may as well lecture me."

  North realized he was faced with another choice. He could allow himself to be offended, mayhap raise his hand against her, or he could give himself leave to be amused. He chose the latter because it was the least expected and more in the way of what he felt. A genuine smile flitted across his mouth and found its way into his eyes. "I am a prig," he said. "Though I do not believe taking exception to your use of that word is what qualifies me as one. There are other conventions I care more deeply about than whether one speaks in vulgarities. It shocked me, nonetheless. You may derive some satisfaction from that."

  He shrugged, his palms turning outward in a gesture that was at once sheepish and helpless. "It was also true," he admitted. He saw Elizabeth's eyes widen the merest fraction. "You were right, I do want to—"

  She waited, watching him pause, almost choking on the word. "Say it."

  Northam stared at her for a long moment, watched the rise and fall of her breasts, the catch when he let her read the intent in his eyes. He came to his feet in a fluid motion, and in two steps he had closed the distance separating them. He leaned over her, placing his palms on the curved arms of the chair. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. There was defiance in the lift of her chin and her unwavering glance, but it was excitement that was darkening her eyes, and Northam could not mistake it for anything else.

  She dared him again. "Say it."

  He bent his head and touched his lips to her ear. He whispered exactly what he intended to do to her, in exactly the words she wanted to hear. Her arms came up and enfolded his neck and she bit back a soft moan when his mouth covered hers. He pulled her roughly out of the chair. Her body draped itself against his. One arm slipped behind her back, the other under her knees. He lifted her and carried her to the bed. She did not release him when he put her down, but kept her arms locked around his shoulders, her hungry mouth fast to his, and brought him down on top of her.

  She released him only so she could cup his face. She pressed kisses to his cheeks, his brow, the line of his jaw. Her teeth caught his earlobe and her warm, damp breath seared his skin. She opened her mouth for him, accepted the hot suck of his. When he rolled to one side she turned with him and lay partially on her side, her nightgown rucked nearly to her thighs, one leg raised and thrown across both of his.

  She breathed shallowly. Where his hand cupped her breast he could feel the wild racing of her heart. He lowered his head, first to her neck, her chest, and finally to where he held her in his palm. His tongue laved her dusky rose aureole through a film of batiste. The fabric dampened and lay flat against her skin, perfectly outlining the puckered nipple. He rolled it gently in his teeth, tugged, dragged his tongue across it again so that she arched into him hard and he could feel every hollow and curve of her body and the place where there was nothing but the opening of parted thighs.

  His hand slid under her nightgown from her knee to her hip. He palmed the back of her thigh, then higher, pressing his fingers into her buttock. She rode against him, rubbing his hip. Through his trousers she could feel the heat and hardness of his erection.

  "Let me," she whispered.

  He raised his head. A lock of bright hair fell forward. She reached up and pushed it back, raking her fingers through it as she had seen him do. She did not remove her hand completely. Candlelight flickered across his face and her eyes followed the movement, watching a golden glow chase the shadow. A smile, infinitely tender and somehow sad, changed the shape of her mouth. He saw it and started to speak. She stopped him with just the slightest shake of her head. "Let me," she said again. Her fingertips smoothed his brow, touched the corner of his eye, slipped lightly across his beautiful mouth.

  "You are astonishingly handsome," she told him, her voice husky. She saw his eyes dart away. "You are." She nudged his jaw with her nose, snuggling, teasing. "Has no one ever told you?"

  Someone had, but he was wise enough not to invoke the name of the Dowager Countess of Northam now. More to the point, he did not mind being teased by Elizabeth. Her knee rose, brushing his erection. She placed her hands flat on his chest and pushed with light but insistent pressure. He lay on his back and she sat up. One sleeve of her nightgown slid over her shoulder. When she started to push it back, he stopped her with a single shake of his head. His eyes slowly traced the smooth, bare line of her body from the hollow of her cheek to the soft underside of her elbow. She left it there.

  She undid the double-breasted front of his coat and lifted his shirt. He was not wearing a corset beneath it. He had a lithe frame; an athlete's tone ran through his muscles. His abdomen was firm and trim, the skin taut across his chest. She used her teeth to tug on his stock and undo the intricate fold. He murmured a name. Brill, she thought, and then heard him suggest murder might be done for those teeth marks. She found it odd that he could make her laugh. Odd, and dangerous. Frightening.

  "What is it?" he asked her. He held the side of her face. His thumb made a trace across her trembling lips.

  She only shook her head, glad when he let it pass. There was no answer she could give when she had so little understanding herself. She pressed her lips to the rough pad of his thumb instead, then his other fingers, and was reminded through each kiss what he had done for her. She drew his hand down and held it over her breast. A knot of tears lodged in her throat and still more made her eyes ache with the effort to hold them back. Leaning toward the bedside table, she blew out the candle, then returned to him and unerringly found his mouth with her own.

  He sat up long enough to be helped out of his coat and shirt. She ran her fingertips across the breadth of his naked shoulders and settled her mouth in the curve of his neck. Later, she played handmaiden, removing his shoes and stockings and finally unfastening his trousers. Her hand slid under his drawers. He groaned softly,
jerking his hips as her hand cupped his sac. His head was thrown back, his strong throat exposed. He reached for her wrist, but she stayed his hand and squeezed him gently. Her fingers lifted and wrapped themselves around his penis. He did not think he could be thicker or harder, but the touch of her hand, the scrape of her nails on the underside of his sensitive skin, seemed to make him swell and stiffen again.

  She drew off his trousers, then his drawers, and he lay perfectly naked on the bed. She had worn one article of clothing, her chemise, while he had had his coat, linen, collar, cravat, trousers, drawers, shoes, and stockings. She was still wearing her chemise, while he... he was wearing her.

  "You're laughing," she whispered. Her mouth nudged his. She kissed the corner of it. It was as if she could taste his smile. "Tell me."

  He twisted, rolling to the center of the bed until their positions were reversed. He heard her breath catch and raised himself on his elbows so she was not bearing all his weight. Only the thin film of batiste separated his skin from hers. "I was thinking you are still very modestly attired, while I..." He settled his groin more solidly in the cradle of her thighs and belly. His voice was like honey over sand. "While I... am not."

  She stroked him from buttocks to shoulders. His flesh was smooth and warm and taut and when he shifted he seemed to imprint himself on her. "No, you're not." There was some part of her that wished she had not extinguished the candle. She would have liked to see his features more clearly, to know the exact tilt of his mouth, to watch the muscle that leaped in his jaw. She knew he was watching her in turn, his cobalt eyes so dark that even in the light of day they would appear to be black. Darkness made her feel safe, protected from his stare.

  This way she only had to shield herself from his laughter.

  She stretched. There was something powerfully erotic about being clothed when he was not. Or perhaps, she thought vaguely, it was only something powerful. The chemise inched up at the hem while he lowered it across her breasts. When it was bunched up around her waist, they both forgot about it.