would be so careful with his shoulder. The sweet richness of his blood, the feel of his rising sex against her belly . . .
Fear washed over her. Such thoughts were not for her! Where had that impulse come from after all these years?Blood must never be mixed with sex. That way, she lost control.
But probably he would not come up. He had walked away from her twice. She looked at his shoulders and remembered the feel of them under her hands as they danced. She could make him come to her, of course . . . A shudder of Asharti shivered through her. No! She definitely did not want him to come to her under compulsion. What was she thinking? She didn’t want him to come up at all. Not now. Not when she was vulnerable to . . . to what? The carriage stopped.
“I’ll send a boy for your coat and hat,” she said, to buy time. She actually did not know what he would do next. What an unusual feeling! “Number Six Albany House, I believe.”
“Not necessary,” he said lightly, as he opened the door. “I’ll be going back tonight.”
He was just going to walk away. Maddening man! She should be relieved. He was saving her from herself. Lord knows what would have happened if she had gotten him into her boudoir. He reached to hand her out. Again through the glove she felt his warmth. As she stepped down, she glanced up and caught the liquid heat in his eyes. Ha! He felt it, too. He might be walking away, but he wanted her. Perhaps that was the best of both worlds. Winning, but not claiming the prize. “James,” she called. “Take Lord Langley back to Bessborough House.”
“Very good, my lady,” James returned stoically from the box.
The door opened behind her. “Consider use of my carriage a partial payment of my debt.”
She half expected him to promise he would claim the whole payment shortly. But he simply nodded, and stepped back into the carriage. It clattered away into the brisk March night.
How vexing! What a relief! How . . . interesting.
Four
John sat back into the squabs of Lady Lente’s well-sprung carriage as it rolled through the streets of London, pulled by her crack team of matched bays. His pulse was racing. He had barely escaped with his sanity tonight. How she looked right through him! She guessed about his wound . . . Not a safe companion for a man with as many secrets as he had. He flushed as he recalled how she passed off the affair with Angela as a child’s infatuation. That she guessed he didn’t know Angela was his sister was uncanny. His naïveté then made him flush again now.
Everyone in the ton had known at the time except him, of course, including Angela. He was only tortured by the fact that she was married. He urged her to seek a divorce from Parliament. What a moon-calf! Angela wanted no divorce. He looked out on Hyde Park, wet and gleaming in the night. And she knew all along his sins were far worse than adultery.
Ah, but he had loved Angela! Even more than Cecily Warburton. Cecily had betrayed him, too. She and John were seventeen and engaged, not only by family arrangement, but, John thought, by more tender emotions. Cecilywas an excellent dissembler. After she cried off in favor of a dashing officer in the Horse Guards, John’s father was furious. Cecily’s portion had been destined to pay down the family debt. He had failed to do the one thing that could have redeemed him in his father’s eyes.
John lost himself in London and avoided his father. He was flattered when the sophisticated Angela Dougherty, Lady Spenton, took an interest in him. Their affair had been torrid: all-night sessions in the gazebo, illicit afternoons in her boudoir—all the intensity of which an eighteen-year-old is capable. When he realized his relationship to Angela from a remark made at some pointless rout, his world dropped from under him. It took all his courage to tell Angela. Angela pouted and said it was a shame he was boring, because he was a very pretty, ardent lover and Spenton didn’t care
Fear washed over her. Such thoughts were not for her! Where had that impulse come from after all these years?Blood must never be mixed with sex. That way, she lost control.
But probably he would not come up. He had walked away from her twice. She looked at his shoulders and remembered the feel of them under her hands as they danced. She could make him come to her, of course . . . A shudder of Asharti shivered through her. No! She definitely did not want him to come to her under compulsion. What was she thinking? She didn’t want him to come up at all. Not now. Not when she was vulnerable to . . . to what? The carriage stopped.
“I’ll send a boy for your coat and hat,” she said, to buy time. She actually did not know what he would do next. What an unusual feeling! “Number Six Albany House, I believe.”
“Not necessary,” he said lightly, as he opened the door. “I’ll be going back tonight.”
He was just going to walk away. Maddening man! She should be relieved. He was saving her from herself. Lord knows what would have happened if she had gotten him into her boudoir. He reached to hand her out. Again through the glove she felt his warmth. As she stepped down, she glanced up and caught the liquid heat in his eyes. Ha! He felt it, too. He might be walking away, but he wanted her. Perhaps that was the best of both worlds. Winning, but not claiming the prize. “James,” she called. “Take Lord Langley back to Bessborough House.”
“Very good, my lady,” James returned stoically from the box.
The door opened behind her. “Consider use of my carriage a partial payment of my debt.”
She half expected him to promise he would claim the whole payment shortly. But he simply nodded, and stepped back into the carriage. It clattered away into the brisk March night.
How vexing! What a relief! How . . . interesting.
Four
John sat back into the squabs of Lady Lente’s well-sprung carriage as it rolled through the streets of London, pulled by her crack team of matched bays. His pulse was racing. He had barely escaped with his sanity tonight. How she looked right through him! She guessed about his wound . . . Not a safe companion for a man with as many secrets as he had. He flushed as he recalled how she passed off the affair with Angela as a child’s infatuation. That she guessed he didn’t know Angela was his sister was uncanny. His naïveté then made him flush again now.
Everyone in the ton had known at the time except him, of course, including Angela. He was only tortured by the fact that she was married. He urged her to seek a divorce from Parliament. What a moon-calf! Angela wanted no divorce. He looked out on Hyde Park, wet and gleaming in the night. And she knew all along his sins were far worse than adultery.
Ah, but he had loved Angela! Even more than Cecily Warburton. Cecily had betrayed him, too. She and John were seventeen and engaged, not only by family arrangement, but, John thought, by more tender emotions. Cecilywas an excellent dissembler. After she cried off in favor of a dashing officer in the Horse Guards, John’s father was furious. Cecily’s portion had been destined to pay down the family debt. He had failed to do the one thing that could have redeemed him in his father’s eyes.
John lost himself in London and avoided his father. He was flattered when the sophisticated Angela Dougherty, Lady Spenton, took an interest in him. Their affair had been torrid: all-night sessions in the gazebo, illicit afternoons in her boudoir—all the intensity of which an eighteen-year-old is capable. When he realized his relationship to Angela from a remark made at some pointless rout, his world dropped from under him. It took all his courage to tell Angela. Angela pouted and said it was a shame he was boring, because he was a very pretty, ardent lover and Spenton didn’t care
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