Seven Years to Sin (Historical #1)

Seven Years to Sin (Historical #1) Page 7

His eyes glittered in the dim light of the flashlamps. “I am duly chastened, my lady. I was under the impression that you meant to sell Calypso, in which case your questions pertained to the past and not the future.”

“Hmm …” She remained skeptical.

“I once underestimated you,” he admitted, clasping his hands behind his back. “But that was long ago.”

Jess could not check the impulse to ask, “What altered your opinion?”

“You did.” He flashed his infamously wicked smile. “When faced with the choice of fleeing or staying, you stay.”

The sharp pang in her chest caused her shaky courage to flee. She turned to open her door, but paused to look over her shoulder before she entered her cabin. “I have never underestimated you.”

Alistair bowed smartly. “I suggest you don’t start now. Good night, Lady Tarley.”

Once inside her cabin, Jess leaned into the closed door and willed her heart to stop racing.

Ever prepared, Beth had a damp cloth waiting. As Jess pressed the coolness against her cheeks, she saw the knowing look in the abigail’s eyes. She turned and presented the row of buttons fastening her gown.

One person who could see right through her was enough for the night.

Hester had just arranged the last white plume in her upswept hair when her husband entered her boudoir in a state of partial undress. His cravat hung undone around his neck, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. Regmont was freshly bathed and shaved, if his damp hair and shadow-free jaw-line were any indication. He was undeniably handsome with his honey-hued hair and robin’s egg blue eyes. Together they formed a striking golden couple—he with his boundless exuberance and silken charm, and she with her mantle of reservation and faultless deportment.

Regmont jerked his head toward her abigail, Sarah, who was smoothing out minute wrinkles in the new blue gown Hester intended to wear. “I was hoping to see you in the pink with lace. It’s ravishing on you, especially with my mother’s pearls.”

She met the maid’s gaze in the mirror and nodded, ceding to her husband’s wishes. The alternative was an argument best avoided.

The abigail quietly and efficiently exchanged the dresses. After the pink gown had been laid out on the bed, Regmont dismissed the servant. Sarah paled and looked miserable as she left the room in haste, no doubt fearing the worst. Although there was a pattern to the escalation of Regmont’s moods, violence defied reason.

When they were alone, he cupped Hester’s shoulders and nuzzled the tender spot beneath her ear. As his fingers kneaded, she flinched and he noticed. Stiffening, he looked at the spot he touched.

Hester watched him in the mirror, waiting for the remorse to cross his expressive features. In that respect, he differed from her father. Hadley never regretted his actions.

“Did you receive my gift?” he whispered, gentling his touch over the darkening bruise marring her right shoulder blade.

“Yes.” She gestured to where it sat on the vanity in front of her. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“But pales in comparison to you.” The movement of his lips tickled the shell of her ear. “I don’t deserve you.”

She often thought they deserved each other. For all the times Jess had interceded on her behalf and taken the brunt of their father’s fury, it had been her due to take it while Jess had found at least temporary peace during her happy marriage. It was the saddest sort of irony that Hester had once thought she and Regmont had a precious affinity because both of their childhood homes had been marred by paternal abuse. They understood the scars left behind and the particular traits a child acquired to survive, but she’d learned other traits seeped into the characters of those who suffered while too young. An imprint was left on the soul, manifesting itself in ways not readily evident. As was said, an apple does not fall far from the tree.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Long. I spent the whole of it thinking of you.” He urged her to turn and she did, sliding carefully around on the small vanity stool so that the mirror was to her back.

Regmont knelt before her, his hands moving to clasp the back of her calves. Laying his head in her lap, he said, “Forgive me, my darling.”

“Edward.” She sighed.

“You are everything to me. No one understands me the way you do. I would be lost without you.”

She touched his damp hair, running her fingers through it. “You’re not yourself when you drink spirits.”

“I’m not,” he agreed, rubbing his cheek against her bruised thigh. “I can’t seem to control myself. You know I would never deliberately do anything to hurt you.”

They kept no liquor in any of their homes, but he easily found it elsewhere. By all accounts he was a jovial drunk, a most entertaining and amusing fellow. Until he returned home to her, where the demons plaguing him resided.

She felt the wet of his tears soak through her chemise and pantalettes.

He lifted his head and looked at her with reddened eyes. “Can you forgive me?”

Every time he asked her the question, it became harder to answer. He was most often the perfect husband. Kind and thoughtful. He spoiled her with gifts and tokens of affection, love letters and favorite treats. He listened when she spoke and remembered anything she admired. She’d learned swiftly to be very careful with what she voiced a liking for, because he would attain it for her by whatever means necessary. But there were times when he was a monster.

There was still a part of her that was madly in love with the sweet memories they’d created in the infancy of their marriage. Yet she hated him, too.

“My dearest Hester,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to the ties at her waist. “Allow me to make restitution. Let me worship you, as you deserve.”

“My lord, please.” She circled his wrists with her fingers. “We are expected at the Grayson ball. My hair has already been arranged.”

“I will not disturb it,” he promised in the low seductive tone that had once been capable of luring her into carnal depravity in carriages and alcoves and anywhere else they could find a modicum of privacy. “Let me.”

Regmont looked at her with slumberous eyes. He was passion flushed and determined. When it came to his amorous inclinations, “no” was not an answer he accepted. The few times she’d attempted it, unable to bear the thought of his hands on her again even in tenderness, he had drunk himself into furies that made her regret denying him. Then he’d take her anyway, excusing himself with the orgasms he wrung from her. After all, he reasoned, she must have been willing if she’d enjoyed it so much. She almost preferred the pain of his fists to the humiliation of her own traitorous body.

Her pantalettes were wriggled out from under her, then slid over her stocking-clad calves and removed completely. His large hands cupped her knees and urged them apart. His breath caressed the flesh of her inner thigh.

“So pretty,” he praised, parting her with questing fingers. “So soft and sweet and as pink as a seashell.”

The Earl of Regmont had been a gazetted rake before offering for her. He’d acquired more sexual skill with his hands, mouth, and cock than any man should have a right to. When he unleashed those talents on her body, it always betrayed her. No matter how determined she was to be angry for the sake of her own survival and mental well-being, he was more stubborn than she. Minutes or hours, it didn’t matter.

He proved his mastery over her again now, fluttering the pointed tip of his tongue over her clitoris. She vainly fought against the pleasure with closed eyes, gritted teeth, and hands clenching the edge of the upholstered stool. When the inevitable climax shuddered through her, tears sprang to her eyes.

“I love you,” he said fiercely.

What did it say about her, that she could experience pleasure from the touch of a man who brought her such pain? Perhaps her father’s legacy was more clearly revealed by her private life than her public one.

Regmont began his sensual assault again, urging her to lean back and open herself more fully. As he pushed his tongue inside her, her mind retreated into a darkened space separate from her body. A small blessing, that. But a welcome one.

Chapter 5

“Sail O!”

Beth looked up at the deckhead as if she could see through it to the sudden burst of activity thundering above. “Lord, what’s the meaning of that?”

Jess set her book aside with a frown. It was midafternoon, and she had remained in her cabin to contemplate her growing fascination with Alistair Caulfield. It was rather frightening, this slow careful exploration of a man she was undeniably attracted to. A man so far removed from the life she had been raised to lead that she couldn’t see how he would ever fit into it beyond transient pleasure. This fascination could prove dangerous, considering her most valuable asset was her reputation.

Not that she could ever be any man’s mistress, even if she possessed the reckless nature required. Her experience with flirtation and seduction was limited to nonexistent. She’d been promised to Tarley before her presentation. She had no notion of how one managed clandestine sexual liaisons. How many were conducted while standing in gazebos? How many forbidden lovers passed one another at public events without a look or smile or modicum of affection? How could such an interaction be anything but tawdry? She couldn’t imagine not feeling cheapened by such careless experiences.

In the passageway, the stomping of feet and barked orders gave weight to the sense that something was amiss. The sound of a heavy object being rolled across a deck further raised her concerns.

“Cannons?” Beth asked, with eyes wide.

Jess stood. “Stay here.”

Opening the door, she discovered a ship in chaos. The passageway was clogged with sailors pushing past each other as some went above deck and others came below.

She shouted in an attempt to be heard. “What’s happening?”

“Pirates, milady.”

“Dear God,” Beth muttered while peering over Jess’s shoulder.

“The captain assured me he has never commanded a ship that has been boarded by pirates.”

“Then why the panic?”

“Being prepared is not a sign of defeat or fear,” she pointed out. “Would you not rather have the pirates see us willing and able to fight?”

“I’d rather they not see us at all.”

Jess gestured at the crate of claret. “Have a drink. I will return shortly.”

Thrusting herself into the swarm of seamen in the passageway, Jess moved with the upward tide of bodies until she reached the open deck. She spun about, looking for another ship, but saw nothing but sea. However, at the helm of the Acheron, she discovered a sight that took her breath away—Alistair steered the vessel, looking very much like a pirate himself. Sans coat and waistcoat, he stood on the quarterdeck with legs planted wide and a cutlass strapped around his lean hips.

She was riveted by the sight of him. The wind whipped through his dark hair and billowed through the voluminous linen of his shirtsleeves. The dangerous, reckless air about him caused her heart to race.

He saw her. Something fierce passed over his features. He shook his head, but he might as well have beckoned her to him.

Maneuvering through the roiling crush on the deck, Jess was breathless by the time she reached him. He caught her by the wrist when she came close enough, yanking her to him.

“It’s too dangerous up here.” Somehow, his voice carried over all the noise without his seeming to yell. “Go below and stay away from the portholes.”

Looking out across the ocean again, she shouted, “I do not see any pirates. Where are they?”

Before she knew what he was about, he had pulled her in front of him. She stood between the wheel and his body. “Too close,” he answered.

Yes, he was. “What are you doing?”

He spoke with his lips to her right ear. “Since you intend to converse with me under hazardous circumstances, I must shield you.”

“That isn’t necessary. I’ll go—”

A boom caused her to jump. A moment later, a cannonball hit the water behind them, sending water splashing high into the air.

“Too late.” His frame was rigid against her back, hard as stone but sun warmed. “I can’t risk you.”

Every breath he took gusted across her ear and sent tingles coursing down her spine. It seemed impossible that she should become aroused while on display for so many strangers, but there was no denying the tautness of her nipples, now aching from what seemed to be a sudden chill in the breeze sweeping over her muslin bodice.

Alistair’s arm hitched, pressing her more tightly against him. Her breasts spilled over his forearm. Behind her, she felt the undeniable evidence of his physical response to her.

All that stood between her and Alistair Caulfield—noted scapegrace and careless disregarder of Society’s esteem—were a few layers of material. She wished there was nothing between them at all. She missed the feel of a man’s larger, more powerful body over her, in her …

A year alone and a flirtatious, handsome man had made her a wanton.

Dear God … a year. The date. As the significance of the month and day struck her, her body stiffened. Only a year tomorrow since Tarley had passed. Yet here she was, pressing her derriere against a man who could have no honorable intentions toward her, and all the while she was thinking it had been seven years since she’d felt so … vibrant. Her desire felt like such a betrayal. She was the widow of a fine man who had given her the kind of peace and security she’d never dared to dream about. A man who had truly loved her. Why, then, did she feel so connected to the rakehell behind her? And fascinated in a way she’d never been with her darling husband.

Sensing the change in her bearing, Alistair queried, “Jessica?”

A sailor shouted directly to her right, jolting her. His coarse voice echoed through her one good ear, making her intensely aware of the chaos around them. Every yell and cry, every thud and crash reverberated through her.