Guilty Series Read online

“Have you?”

  “Besides, I think two minutes was…gen…generous of me. I believe you should find kissing me to be its own reward.”

  Reward? He was rock-hard against the base of her spine, and he was shaking with the effort of holding back. This was torture, not a reward. Nonetheless, at this moment, if she were to demand a month back in exchange for letting him stand here and hold her like this, he would agree. God, yes. In a heartbeat.

  He moved his hand, cupping her breast in the V of his thumb and forefinger. That startled her, and she turned around in his embrace, her hands coming up between them in a defensive move, flattening against his chest as if to push him away.

  He could not let her. Not yet. “Is it my reward?” he asked, sliding his arms around her waist. He lowered his head. “Show me.”

  His lips grazed hers, parted over hers. As he kissed her, he moved his fingers up and down her spine in lazy, circular caresses, but Daphne did not move. She did not kiss him back. Instead, she remained rigid and still, her lips pressed tight together.

  Now that he had given in to this temptation, the last thing Anthony wanted was resistence, and he knew he needed to entice her if he were to savor this delight a little longer. He brought his hands to her face and caressed her cheeks with the tips of his fingers as he ran his tongue lightly over her lips, back and forth, again and again, coaxing her to yield.

  Her lips trembled, softened, the first response to the feather-light caress of his tongue against her mouth, but she was not ready to give in. He opened his mouth against her closed one. “Daphne, Daphne, kiss me back. I will even say please.”

  “I—” She broke off, but just the sound parted her lips against his, and he took advantage of it, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth as he felt her rigid pose softening. He lowered his hands to her waist and leaned his body into hers, stepping forward, pushing her back, one step and then another, until she was against the wall. Her fingers curled into his shirt, grasping folds of fabric, pulling him. Her mouth opened wider against his, her tongue meeting his. Silent permission. He grasped her wrists and laced his fingers with hers, pulling their joined hands downward, breathing in the essence of her, as bit by bit, she relaxed in his hold and her body yielded to his.

  He let go of her hands, wrapping one arm around her waist and sliding his free hand up along her ribs. Thank God she had not taken his advice about the stays; the last thing he wanted right now was that sort of impediment. His hand moved higher to embrace the full, round shape of her breast, her nipple hard against his palm. Only two layers of fabric between sanity and madness.

  I will stop, he promised her silently. I will.

  He tore his lips from hers and trailed kisses along her jaw as his hand shaped and caressed her breast. Her soft curves burned him wherever her body was pressed against his. Her hips moved, arching against his weight, and shudders of pleasure fissured through his body.

  All he wanted was to pull her down onto this hard, dusty floor and feel her hips move like that beneath him, feel those long legs wrap around his body. He wanted her to say his name, over and over while he made love to her. He would not let it go that far, he could not, but he wanted just a few more tastes of her before he let her go.

  He tore his lips from hers and buried his face against the warm skin of her throat, kissing her skin, savoring the tiny gasps of pleasure she made as he shaped her breast against his palm. When he closed his thumb and finger over her nipple, teasing with a slow, coaxing motion, her gasps became tiny moans, the sweetest, softest sounds he had ever heard. Each one shattered a piece of his resolve, reminding him that he was going to stop. But not yet.

  He trailed kisses up her throat, along her jaw and over her chin to her mouth. He recaptured her lips, and this time they parted at once, all her token resistence gone now. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Before he could even think of stopping, she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him. Her tongue entered his mouth and drove any stupid notions of honor from his mind.

  He felt his wits slipping as he slid his hands down her ribs and around behind her to cup her buttocks. He lifted her off the ground, pulling her up until her hips met his. Her legs parted within the confines of her skirt, and the insides of her thighs squeezed his hips. She rocked against him, each instinctive move bringing exquisite pleasure, to her as well; all his senses knew that. He could hear her soft sounds against his mouth, taste her tongue against his own, feel each exquisite lash of her hips. He allowed himself only a few more seconds of heavenly torture, then he tore his lips from hers with a groan. It was time to stop.

  Anthony smothered an oath against her neck. Hard and aching, he let her go, and took a step back from her, then another, tearing himself away as he tried to extinguish the unslaked lust that was raging through him like a house fire. Neither of them spoke. He stopped half a dozen feet away from her, where she was out of his reach.

  She had no experience with what it all meant, but he did. He knew he could not stand here one moment longer, or he would act on it. Ruin for her, dishonor for him.

  While he still had some vestige of sanity, Anthony turned away and left her, putting as much space between them as he could. But even with the entire length and two floors of the house between them, he could not escape her. The fragrance of gardenia still clung to his clothes, and much to his valet’s bewilderment, he insisted on sleeping in his shirt. Even he did not know quite why, for the scent of her tortured him with erotic dreams all night long. When he woke in the morning, she still filled his senses, and he knew it would take miles to put a safe distance between them.

  The following morning at breakfast, she learned he was gone. London, Mr. Bennington told her, with four cartloads of antiquities, every piece they had that was ready for the museum. No, he had not said when he would return. There was a letter beside Daphne’s plate, but it was not a farewell note, for the seal did not bear Anthony’s coronet. It was a letter from Viola.

  Daphne stared down at the unopened letter in her hands without seeing it. Anthony had left because of what had happened last night, or rather, what had almost happened. He had not even said good-bye to her.

  Kissing can be far more tempting than you realize.

  Tempting, indeed. For both of them.

  Daphne told herself it would not do to torture herself with thoughts about last night, and she opened the letter from Viola. Another letter was enclosed with it. She read the one from the viscountess first.

  Daphne,

  I am delighted to hear that Anthony is teaching you to dance. That skill will be so vital to your enjoyment of London, and I am glad to hear you find my brother very charming. I have always found him so, but since I am his sister, I am perhaps slightly biased in his favor, for he has always been fiercely protective of me.

  My dear Daphne, I am afraid I have a confession to make to you. I have been a horribly meddlesome friend. Without your permission, I did a bit of investigating, and I have discovered information regarding the marriage of your mother and father. I have enclosed the letter I received from the vicar of a small parish church at Gretna Green in Scotland. That gentleman confirms that a marriage was recorded between Sir Henry Wade, G.C.B., and a Miss Jane Durand, daughter of Lord Durand, on February 24, 1805. Since you are twenty-four years of age, this date is a logical one.

  If indeed your mother’s name prior to her marriage was Jane Durand, it is my opinion that there is sufficient evidence in this matter to claim your connection. I pray you will forgive me for my interference, but please believe it was done with the kindest of intentions. You deserve the support and security of your family, and I hope you will find this to be good news.

  In the interim, I shall expect your arrival just after Boxing Day. My felicitations to Mr. and Mrs. Bennington.

  Your friend,

  Viola

  “Does the viscountess have any news of happenings at Chiswick and London?” asked Mrs. Bennington.

  Daphne stared down
at the letter in her hands without replying. The baron did not want her, and she had no intention of pressing a claim on him for money or support. She knew she had a great deal of pride, and that pride was perhaps foolish, but she would not go begging to relations who did not want her, not unless she had no other options. First, she would go to London, enjoy her season there, then find a post as a governess as she had planned.

  Putting on her mask of cool serenity, she folded the pair of letters and looked up. “No news, I am afraid,” she answered Mrs. Bennington and folded the letter. “Her ladyship gives her felicitations to you both.” She put the letter in her pocket and turned to Mr. Bennington. “Did his grace say what he wanted done while he was away?”

  “He mentioned those four mosaic pavements I brought you yesterday, and there are one or two wall paintings still to do. Of course, there is always plenty of broken pottery and the catalog as well. Enough to keep you busy until you leave, I daresay.”

  Daphne heard the truculence in his voice, and that cheered her a bit. “More than enough,” she agreed. “You excavated far too efficiently before the frost.”

  “You do an excellent job, Miss Wade. As much respect as I had for your father’s work, when his grace first introduced you to me, I was skeptical that you could be an adequate replacement. But now I know you are irreplaceable. The duke will not be able to find anyone as good as you. I shall miss you, my dear.”

  “Do not speak of it,” his wife declared, “for it is too distressing.” She turned to Daphne. “I do keep hoping you will change your mind and stay here.”

  Daphne felt the sting of tears. She smiled at them with affection. “You have both been very kind to me. I shall miss you as well. But do not talk as if I am leaving today. I am here six weeks yet.”

  “I know,” Mr. Bennington said, pushing back his chair. “But come spring, it won’t be the same without you. I must go. His grace wanted all that tessellated flooring put in place before he returns. There’s much to do.”

  The architect departed. His wife turned to Daphne and said, “I had another letter from my friend, Mrs. Treves, and she said speculations on the identity of the future duchess are being bandied about London by everyone. A man of his position could not consider marrying any young lady lower than an earl’s daughter, of course, and I doubt anyone higher than a viscount is in Town at present. Too early. So if his grace has gone to London again so soon, I doubt it could be to see Lady Sarah. It must be purely business. Or perhaps he has gone to see his sister?”

  Mrs. Bennington looked at her as if expecting confirmation, but Daphne shoved back her chair and rose. “Lady Hammond did not mention the matter. If you will excuse me.”

  She walked away, leaving Mrs. Bennington staring after her. “My dear Daphne, are you ill?”

  “No,” she called back over shoulder as she left the breakfast room. “It is just that I have so much work to do.”

  She did not care who Anthony married, she told herself as she walked out of the house down to the antika. She would forget about what happened last night.

  A mosaic of Europa lay waiting on her worktable. She stared at it, but the image of Europa blurred, and Daphne saw a different image—a fresco of a naked woman and a naked man. She saw Anthony tracing the woman’s hip with his fingertips.

  Last night, he had touched her like that. Tongues of heat curled inside her body at the memory of his touch. She remembered every moment—the solid heaviness of his body behind hers as he had held her in an embrace, his low voice murmuring in her ear, his kiss, the hardness of him pressed against her.

  Seeing erotic wall paintings was one thing, but it was a whole different thing to feel his hands on her, his mouth on hers, that indescribable pleasure and aching anticipation for more.

  He was marrying someone else. How could he have touched her that way if he was marrying someone else?

  Men have no character when it comes to women.

  Anthony’s words came back to mock her, and she realized that just because a man desired a woman, it could mean nothing more than that. He had been flirting with her for weeks, and she had flirted back. Both of them had enjoyed it. He had kissed her, and she had kissed him back. Both of them had wanted more of it. They had gotten it.

  Love and desire were not the same thing. He might desire her, but he was not in love with her. She desired him as well, for even now, she longed for his touch, but she was not in love with him any longer. Last night, it had been desire, not love, that had taken her closer to bliss than she had ever been. Love had broken her heart. She would do well to remember the difference.

  Chapter 18

  Anthony immersed himself in work. The usual duties and matters of business, meetings with other members of the Antiquarian Society who happened to be in Town at the moment, and the museum project itself kept him busy from early morning until late at night. All in an attempt to keep his mind occupied, away from thoughts of lavender-blue eyes and lust.

  But as he stood in the domed center room of the building that would house the finest collections of Romano-British artifacts in the world, every fresco, every mosaic pavement, every wine amphora reminded him of what he was trying to escape.

  What was it about the woman that made him unable to get her out of his mind? There had been a time when he had barely noticed her. There had been a time when he had never even thought about her unless she was standing right in front of him, stammering her way through explanations of a Latin translation he questioned or describing the nuances of meaning in a particular mosaic. She had obeyed every order he had given her without a word of protest. No matter how demanding or even unreasonable his expectations, she had always exceeded them. She had behaved, in fact, like any other person in his employ: subservient, unquestioning, and excellent at the work for which she was paid.

  Then she had up and resigned her post, bursting out with the ridiculous reason that she did not like him and did not want to work for him any longer. At that moment, after five months in his household, she had transformed right before his eyes into someone he had never met before, someone who made short shrift of his position, his title, and himself, someone who had always been there, he imagined, hidden behind an impersonal, efficient mask for the sake of her wage. When the first opportunity to leave had come her way, she had taken it. He had been forced to use all his ingenuity to keep her in his employ as long as he had.

  And why? Because she did not like him. But she had liked him well enough when he’d held her in his arms. She had liked him well enough to kiss him and enjoy it as much as he had.

  Anthony knew he was liking her. Far too much. He desired her more than he had ever desired a woman before, a feeling so unexpected, given his initial impression of her. He had been wrong about her, and now she invaded his mind every time he let his guard down. Honor be damned. Why hadn’t he bedded her when he’d had the opportunity? At least then his fantasies of making love to her would cease to be an obsession that continually took his mind from his work. He stared at the fresco that lay on the display table before him, his gaze fixed on a bowl of grapes, the faded color of the fruit more like lavender than purple. He slammed his fist down on the table. “Devil take it!”

  “You called my name?” a male voice drawled from the doorway.

  Anthony recognized that voice even before he looked up. “Dylan Moore,” he said, drawing a deep breath, grateful for the distraction, as he tore his gaze from the wall painting on the table to the man entering the room.

  “You call this a museum, Tremore?” Dylan said, glancing around. “It looks more like a mausoleum to me. All these stone walls and statues. Ye gods, it even has a sarcophagus.”

  “I see that you have still not cut your hair,” Anthony commented, straightening away from the table. “How long is this latest rebellion against the fashionable world going to last?”

  His friend grinned. “I’ve not quite decided. My valet is in histrionics about it daily. I fear he shall drug me senseless one night and take
a scissors to it. But I am determined to bring back the fashion of longer hair for men. Deuce take it, Tremore, the London beaux need someone to hold them in check.”

  Dylan was no beau. When first introduced to England’s most famous composer, most people could not manage anything beyond a mumbled how-do-you-do, for his appearance was always a bit shocking. It was designed to be.

  He was almost as tall as Anthony. His thick black hair hung in waves to his shoulders and was always disheveled, as if he had scarcely risen from his bed. His eyes were black as well, so black the pupils were invisible, so black that Lady Jersey had once declared him a modern Mephistopheles. It was a comparison that suited him perfectly. His brows had a mocking curve, and his mouth a sulky one. He had the charm of angels and the luck of the demon after whom Lady Jersey had named him.

  His fancy tickled by her comparison, he heightened his Mephistophelean image by always dressing in black, no matter the occasion, an affectation that amused him endlessly. His ankle-length black cloak with its gold silk lining was familiar to everyone in society, and so was his behavior, which grew more outrageous with each passing year. Dylan was wild, disreputable, and invited to every fashionable party. He also composed some of the most exquisite music Anthony had ever heard. They had been friends since Cambridge.

  “So what has you invoking the devil, Tremore? Work, I would guess, since that is all you ever seem to do.” Dylan, never able to stand still for long, began to wander around the room, looking at the exhibits. “Or perhaps it is the idea of putting the ducal emeralds around some young lovely’s neck that has you cursing?”

  “Can nothing in my life be private?” Anthony asked with an exasperated sigh. “How far have the speculations gone?”

  “A fresh list of likely future duchesses was presented in one of the society papers only a week ago. What did you expect, dear fellow? That you would take your emeralds to Bond Street and no one would notice?”