Seven Years to Sin (Historical #1)

Seven Years to Sin (Historical #1) Page 12

The blood rushed to his cock so swiftly, it altered the way he stood. Her honesty aroused him, as did the image of her seizing her own gratification through use of his body. “Jessica.”

She moved suddenly, skirting him and moving to the gunwale where one hand curled around the polished wood with white-knuckled force.

Alistair followed, crowding behind her and setting one hand on either side of her. Her spine was painfully straight, her body gripped by high tension. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to her right temple. Somehow, he had to make her see how her upset revealed deeper feelings for him. “Is my subjugation what you want? Does the thought of coercing me to service you stir your blood?”

“No!” He felt her swallow hard. “I want you willing, but you overwhelm me. I need control—”

“You think I have any? What there is between you and me has never been safe, nor will it ever be. You have to accept our attraction for what it is, with all its faults and detriments, trusting that it will be worth whatever the costs may be.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Try.”

Turning in his arms, she looked up at him. “Forgive me for my thoughtlessness. I just wanted you to stay. So much so that I spoke without consideration.”

He caught one glossy golden curl and rubbed it between his fingers. “Never apologize for your desire for me. But let me be clear—I come to you without affectation. You cannot have Lucius, not ever. That man no longer exists, and he never existed for you.”

At the time, he’d told himself he used his second name to protect his identity. In truth, it was self-preservation and a way to distance himself from the degradation of accepting money to fuck women who wanted things from him they couldn’t get elsewhere without risk of scandal and scorn. Though some had wanted him for his face and body, a great many had wanted something else entirely. They’d wanted a lover known to take any bet … any risk … a man willing to do anything for coin. They felt less depraved knowing they’d bought the right to be as debauched as they pleased.

She nodded. “I understand.”

Alistair pressed his forehead to hers, miserable at the thought of her wanting a side of him he couldn’t bear to share with her. “You’ve never had him, you know. That night, the moment I saw you, it was just you and me. Lucius serviced Lady Trent. I was with you.”

She exhaled in a rush. “Good. I don’t want him. I realize now that in offering to pay you, I was asking for him. After you had been the one to … touch me. I’m sorry.”

Jessica’s eyes were clear and open, filled with sadness and regret. Perhaps a tinge of pity, which was the last damned thing he wanted her to feel for him.

“I will give you whatever you want. Freely. You have only to ask.” Slipping his hand beneath the lapels of his coat, he cupped her hip. “Tell me the details of your imaginings.”

“No!” The horror in her prim voice made him smile. “It’s indecent.”

He bent farther and licked the shell of her ear. “Trust,” he reminded as she shivered. “I trusted you with a truth that could only reflect negatively upon me—”

“I don’t fault you.”

“Which means a great deal to me. Let me repay you. Tell me what you desire.”

“You shouldn’t be so familiar.” She glanced around him at someone visible on the deck. “There is no privacy here.”

“Can I come to you tonight?”

Alistair waited forever for her reply, which didn’t come. Instead she grew more and more restless, fidgeting with his coat and shifting on her slippered feet. Afraid to push her too far too soon yet again, he backed away from her.

“My cabin is two doors down from yours on the opposite side of the passageway,” he offered instead. “You can come to me.”

She faced him with widened eyes. “I could never.”

He smiled. Perhaps not, but the anticipation would be its own reward.

Chapter 9

As she had every morning for the past fortnight, Hester awoke with the overwhelming need to cast up her accounts.

Rolling from her bed, she stumbled to the chamber pot and proceeded to do precisely that. The next hour until dawn was marred by more of the same.

“Milady,” her abigail murmured. “I’ve set out some weak tea and toast.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe if you tell his lordship you’re with child,” Sarah ventured softly, “he’ll mend his ways.”

Hester looked at the maid with tear-blurred eyes, her chest heaving from her exertions. “Tell no one.”

“Until you give me leave, milady, I won’t tell a soul.”

Pressing a damp cloth to her forehead, Hester allowed her tears to flow unchecked. During the early years of her marriage, there was nothing she’d desired more than a child to complete the joy she’d found with Edward. But God was kinder than she knew by withholding His blessings. When the darker aspects of Edward’s character became apparent, she’d begun to use sponges soaked in brandy to prevent conception. She couldn’t bring an innocent into her household the way it was now. After all that she and Jessica had endured as children, how could she possibly subject her own child to such a life?

But Regmont was not one to postpone his lusts until expected evening hours, and fate had its own designs.

“If only you were here, Jess,” she whispered, selfishly longing for a sympathetic and knowing ear to listen to and advise her. She’d suspected she was enceinte before her sister departed, but could find no way to share the news. Jessica was deeply pained by her barrenness. It was impossible for Hester to lament a pregnancy that would have brought her sister endless joy.

When Hester struggled to her feet, Sarah assisted her back to bed. Regmont slept on in his room, blessedly oblivious.

“I pray you tell his lordship soon,” the abigail whispered, arranging the pillows for Hester’s comfort.

Closing her eyes, Hester heaved a sigh. “I believe part of his affliction is me, and I don’t know how to address that. Why else would the men in my life battle such demons?”

But when she saw Edward at the dining table a few hours later, her husband looked far from afflicted. Indeed, he looked extremely fit. His smile was bright and his spirits high. He kissed her cheek when she moved to pass him en route to her chair.

“Kippers and eggs?” he queried before walking over to the row of covered platters on the buffet.

Her stomach roiled. “No, thank you.”

“You don’t eat enough, darling,” he admonished.

“I took toast in my room.”

“But you join me for breakfast anyway.” His smile was glorious. “You are too wonderful. How was your evening?”

“Unexceptional, but enjoyable all the same.”

She almost dreaded these moments of normalcy. The pretense that all was right in their world, that no malevolence lurked in the darkness, that he was a wonderful husband and she a contented wife. It was like staring at a box one knew would burst open at some point and not knowing if the surprise would be terrifying or not. There was agony in the waiting.

Her gaze strayed and moved around the room. Their home was lauded by friends for its bright cheery colors, such as the soft cream and bright blue vertical stripes she’d used on the walls of the dining room. They’d purchased the town house just before their wedding; it was to have been a fresh beginning for both of them, a place free of any taint of the past. But now she knew how futile that hope had been. The taint was on them … in them, and they carried it with them wherever they went.

“I shared a drink with Tarley last night,” Regmont said between bites. “He was seeking refuge from the debutantes. The strain of being hunted is beginning to take its toll, I suspect.”

Hester looked at him. The tempo of her heartbeat changed, increasing inexplicably. “Oh?”

“I remember those days well. You saved me in more ways than you know, my love. I’m providing assistance to Tarley via a release of tension. He learned of my interest in pugilism, and we’ve agreed to a match.”

Dear God. She knew well how swiftly Regmont could move and how relentless he could become. He couldn’t tolerate losing; it exacerbated his already overwhelming feelings of insecurity. Her stomach knotted further. “A match? Between the two of you?”

“Would you happen to know how skilled he is in the sport?”

She shook her head. “He sparred with Alistair Caulfield in our youth. That’s all I know of his interest. He and I were close once, but I’ve seen little of him since you and I wed.”

“A wager easily won, then.”

“Perhaps you might suggest he consider a less learned opponent?”

He grinned. “You fear for him, do you?”

“Jessica thinks very highly of him,” she prevaricated.

“Everyone does, so I gather. No need for concern, love. It’s all in good fun, I assure you.” Glancing at one of the two footmen standing at the ready, he said, “Lady Regmont will take buttered toast and jam.”

She sighed, resigning herself to eating whether she wanted to or not.

“You look pale this morn,” he noted. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Well enough.” Hester reached for one of the day’s papers that lay on the table by her elbow. She was thrown unaccountably out of sorts by the thought of Michael fighting Regmont, especially when his motivation might be aggravation over choosing a proper wife. In that respect, she could be of more assistance than her husband. There was very little she didn’t know about the women of the ton, from the most established matrons to the newest debutantes. Perhaps he would accept her help.

It would do her heart much good to see him content with his lot. He certainly deserved happiness.

Regmont set his silverware atop his empty plate. “I should very much enjoy squiring you about the Park this afternoon. Tell me you don’t have other plans.”

If she had, she knew to cancel them. When Edward wanted her time, he expected to have it. She was his wife, after all. His. Irrevocably owned until death parted them.

Looking up from her paper, she managed a smile. “A lovely thought, my lord. Thank you.”

There might come a moment this day when she could share the news that she was breeding. Outside in the sunshine, surrounded by the peers he so wished to impress, might be the perfect time and place to present the opportunity of a new beginning for them both.

She hoped so. Maybe there was a miracle in that as well—sometimes, she still had hope. She couldn’t afford not to have it. There was no other way out.

Miller knocked on Jess’s cabin door shortly after one o’clock with a request for her to join Alistair on the deck.

Trying to pay no mind to the nervousness brought on by uncertainty, she followed Miller up the companionway stairs and into the open air. Her last discussion with Alistair under moonlight had been fraught with tension. His invitation to visit his cabin had lingered in her mind for hours after they parted. It was not an offer she could act upon, and she believed he knew that, but it hung between them now like a gauntlet thrown at her feet. There was a part of her—the part he incited into mischief—urging her to indulge, but her greater nature overrode such abandon.

What did he wish to say to her? In a relatively short acquaintance, a multitude of searing intimacies had passed between them. She was now completely preoccupied by thoughts of him, in a way she’d never been with anything or anyone else. Jess had difficulty understanding how he could so thoroughly engage her physically and then capture her mental faculties as well, but he had. Alistair had left it to her to decide what to do about it, while making it clear he would not desist. She doubted there was anything Alistair Caulfield wanted that he didn’t eventually attain.

As they turned toward the stern, the salt air hit her back in a rush, awakening all her senses. Invigorated and anticipatory, she slowed at the sight of a large blanket spread across the deck, anchored at each corner by crates of cannonballs. It was covered with several pillows and a shallow basket brimming with food.

A picnic. At sea.

Alistair stood on the other side of the counterpane, waiting. He was perfectly dressed in buff slacks tucked into polished Hessians, tan-striped waistcoat, and brown tailcoat. His hair had been styled by the wind in a fashion resembling the way he looked after she ran her fingers through it.

As many women did, Jess thought him the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Exotically so. Blatantly seductive. More than slightly dangerous.

Delicious. She wanted to strip him to the skin, to appreciate the full impact of his powerful form without the impediment of clothing. She couldn’t resist such thoughts now, with their desire for one another bared so openly between them.

It was impressive to see him on the deck of such a fine ship, surrounded by men who worked for him. She could scarcely recall the scapegrace who’d accepted every wager and lived on the fine edge of a hazardous margin. But she knew he was there beneath the flawless surface. Tempting her with wicked promises she knew he’d keep.

“My lady,” he greeted her, bowing.

“Mr. Caulfield.” She looked around the deck, noting how the dozen or more men about them kept their gazes carefully averted.

He gestured for her to sit, and she sank to her knees. He joined her, then dug into the basket, withdrawing a loaf of bread he tore in half. That was followed by a hunk of dry cheese and a quartered pear. He collected her portion in a large napkin and passed it over.

She accepted with a smile. “An impressive offering for ship’s fare.”

“Soon enough, you will pine for variety.”

“Some might consider a picnic on a ship’s deck to be a form of courtship,” she pointed out, deliberately using a teasing tone. “It could certainly be considered romantic.”