Seven Nights In A Rogue's Bed

Chapter Six

Another lobster patty?”

Warily Sidonie eyed the long, lean man slouched beside her on the brocade sofa, his legs stretched across a priceless oriental carpet in crimson and cobalt. Merrick hadn’t done anything overtly seductive since he’d kissed her, unless one counted the lazy, heavy-lidded attention he devoted to her. Still, she didn’t trust him an inch.

What she’d give for a nice straight chair, the more uncomfortable, the better. If she hadn’t known Merrick would mock her mercilessly, she’d fetch an oak chair from the hall. Her back ached from the rigid posture she maintained against the temptation to sprawl. She suspected if she started lolling against the cushions, she’d end up lolling against Merrick. She knew her starchy attitude amused him. But last time she’d lowered her guard, she’d succumbed to his wiles with terrifying swiftness.

After their ride, he’d brought her to this sultan’s bower of rich silks and velvets. Outside rain pounded against the mullioned windows but inside Castle Craven, everything was warmth and sybaritic comfort. Stained glass lent the light a sensuous dimness. Heated braziers scented the air with subtle perfume. This seraglio seemed incongruous inside the grim medieval fortress. Until Sidonie remembered idiosyncratic décor was the rule here. Think of the mirror-lined room upstairs.

Foreboding made her shiver. No, she didn’t want to think of the bedroom. It reminded her of what Merrick meant to do to her there.

She straightened her back another degree, even as Merrick’s eyelids sank lower. He looked half asleep but he remained alert to everything around him, including her increasingly frail resistance. Good heavens, he didn’t have to watch her to confirm her vulnerability. Hadn’t she just let him kiss her into a stupor?

He hadn’t mentioned the kisses. Nor had she. But every time she met his glinting silver eyes, she remembered the shocking intimacy of his tongue in her mouth.

“You needn’t keep pushing food at me,” she said, even as she lifted the patty from the gilded porcelain plate. Everything delighted the senses. For a girl who had lived upon her brother-in-law’s sufferance for years, and a not-too-prosperous brother-in-law at that, the luxury was overpowering.

“But it’s marvelously entertaining.” He smiled in a manner that made her want to upend her untouched glass of champagne over his tousled head. “You’re so deliciously afraid that each morsel lures you a step nearer to ruin.”

“It takes more than a few scraps to suborn me,” she said stoutly. Before he could deride her unconvincing defiance, she bit into the concoction. “I see why you tolerate Mrs. Bevan’s eccentric manners. What a pity she’s forgotten cutlery.”

Merrick sipped his golden wine. The pleasure on his face reminded her of his expression after kissing her. Devil take him, everything reminded her of his kisses. “What a pity,” he said with spurious regret. “Eating with one’s fingers is so…primitive.”

She blushed. He turned the most innocent words into an invitation to wickedness.

“Speaking of eccentric manners,” he said lightly, raising his glass to Sidonie in a brief toast, “you’re not in a pew listening to the Sunday sermon.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you,” she lied.

He sank his strong white teeth into a patty. “At least take the jacket off.”

She primmed her lips and wished his taste didn’t linger even after the delicacies. Curse him, she’d remember kissing him until her dying day. “As a prelude to taking everything else off?”

Amusement brightened his eyes. “Should the urge strike, don’t mind me.”

In truth, she was overly warm. Her heavy riding jacket prickled over the muslin gown. It might be nonsensical to hide her body when he’d already seen every inch, but after those soul-awakening kisses, she desperately needed defenses. To cool the heat of the air and his gaze, she swallowed some champagne. He rose to fill a plate from the sideboard and top up his wine.

“I’ve had enough,” she said quickly, but Merrick ignored her and filled her glass.

“Try this.” He fell to his knees before her and between thumb and forefinger lifted a small square of nuts and pastry shiny with syrup.

The couch was so low, when he kneeled in front of her they were eye to eye. She retreated against the sofa. “Move away.”

“So nervous, tesoro.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “And me on my best behavior. If I promise not to kiss you, will you stop worrying?”

“I—”

He smiled and pressed the pastry between her lips. She struggled to articulate a protest, then shut her eyes on a low moan of approval. “Goodness, what is that?”

“Something I discovered in Greece. I insisted Mrs. Bevan learn how to make it.” Gently he tipped Sidonie’s glass against her lips until she drank.

She opened her eyes. He leaned near, too near.

“Something that good must be sinful.”

“Sidonie, Sidonie, such a little puritan.”

Shakily she took another pastry between her fingers. Eating from his hand made her feel like his lapdog.

“You were in Greece?” She nibbled at the pastry. The spicy sweetness no longer astonished, but it was just as delicious.

“You think polite conversation will keep me in line?”

To her regret, learning about him was more tempting than any bonbon. “One lives in hope.”

Slowly he drew away. “My motto.”

She inhaled, filling lungs starved of air. Her relief evaporated when he lifted one of her feet across his bent knees. “What are you doing?”

His hold turned ruthless before she could jerk free. “Making you comfortable, cara.” A few flicks of skillful fingers and he’d removed her scuffed half-boot.

“That’s not a good idea,” she said, even as he slid the second boot away and set it down on the carpet beside its mate.

From his kneeling position, he regarded her darned cotton stockings with unmistakable disapproval. Stupid to mind, but shame at this evidence of poverty rose like bile. With shaking hands she tugged her skirts down to cover her feet. “I suppose you’re used to painted harlots flaunting themselves in silk and lace.”

His lips twitched. “Painted harlots? Your imagination runs amok.” He inched her skirts up past her ankles.

Lurching forward, she slammed her hand down upon his. She realized her mistake when the heat of his palm radiated over her shin. “Mr. Merrick! You have no right to undress me.”

“Only your stockings, cara. ”

“Permitting the removal of my undergarments exceeds our bargain.” She wriggled free and struggled to stand. The squashy sofa proved appallingly difficult to escape. When finally she rose as clumsily as a drunken bear, it did her no good. Merrick caught her hand and tugged sharply. With an undignified bounce, she collapsed back onto the cushions.

“Do you play the lawyer again, dolcissima?” he asked over her gasp.

“Pretty Italian blandishments don’t disguise ugly intentions.” She hated how priggish she sounded.

She expected more mockery but he merely leaned back on his heels and caught her foot again. He stroked her leg up to the knee and back. “Not ugly, surely.”

The heat of his touch penetrated her threadbare stockings and made her toes curl. She’d never considered her feet and ankles particularly sensitive until Merrick launched his gentle exploration. Her skin burned. Her heart raced with a dizzying mixture of fear and excitement. Her hand lifted to unbutton her jacket before she recalled that he’d misinterpret any removal of clothing.

He might be on his knees on the floor, but his assessing gaze held no hint of the supplicant. Instead he challenged her to throw caution to the winds and discover what he knew and what she didn’t. “Take it off.”

“You move too fast, Mr. Merrick.”

His fingers drew another elaborate pattern from ankle to knee. “We have a mere week, Miss Forsythe. Time’s wingéd chariot and all that.”

Suddenly the relentless push and pull he practiced upon her was unendurable. Merrick lured her to deny everything she believed in return for the sheer pleasure of his touch. And for the sake of that half-smile tilting his mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please stop.” She hardly recognized the choked voice. “For pity’s sake, please stop.”

He frowned and lifted his hand. “Sidonie, I won’t take it further.”

“You say that but you don’t mean it.” Hurriedly she shoved her skirt down. “And I fall for your tricks like the veriest moonling.”

In helpless frustration, Jonas stared up at Sidonie from where he kneeled. Every second in her company stoked his arousal. He wasn’t fool enough to imagine the fascination one-sided. She might say no, but her cheeks flushed with excitement and he couldn’t forget how only hours ago she’d kissed him. Now that her backbone lost its forbidding rigidity, she reclined against the sofa like an odalisque. An odalisque in a superfine hacking jacket.

She should look ludicrous. What she looked was irresistible.

He gritted his teeth and struggled for self-control. The urge to trail his fingers up those slender legs to the treasure at their apex beat like a tattoo. But with every step she took toward surrender, her uncertainty grew. If he pushed her too far, she’d run. Roberta or no Roberta.

The promise of the greater prize made him set her foot down. Immediately she lifted her legs and curled them under her, out of reach.

“You know I mean to seduce you.”

“I know,” she said in a raw voice, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. He tried to tell himself he was too old and cynical to find the childish gesture touching. “I’ve always rather despised people who allowed passion to lead them astray.”

He shifted to lean against the sofa, his shoulders resting near her bent knees. “Now you find passion is a ruthless master.”

Her delicate scent wafted out to torment him. He couldn’t sit this close without touching her. He twisted, leaning an elbow on the couch, and caught her hand. To his surprise, she didn’t jerk away.

“Fit punishment for assuming myself immune.” Her voice lowered. “Every man I’ve known has been contemptible. My father was weak and greedy and unable to countenance a contrary opinion. He was incapable of kindness or affection. While he didn’t hit my mother, his tyranny turned her into a cypher until she just faded away and died when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry.” He was. The Forsythe women had appalling luck with the men in their lives. And it wasn’t as if Sidonie’s entanglement with Jonas Merrick would do her any good.

“My father never ceased to blame my mother for only producing two useless girl children.”

The picture of an unhappy family life that she painted was vivid, if heartbreaking. “Hardly your fault.”

Sidonie shrugged with a carelessness Jonas didn’t believe. “The only time he ever expressed an instant of satisfaction with either of his children was when William offered for Roberta. A lord for mere Miss Forsythe? Even a shabby, slightly questionable lord counted as a triumph. Our family wasn’t influential and while Roberta’s portion was respectable, she was hardly an heiress.”

“The uncertainty about my birth blighted William’s marital prospects.” Jonas didn’t hide his satisfaction. After all, William had blighted most of his prospects.

“William courted Roberta as a last resort. His original ambitions were much higher. But no magnate would waste a daughter upon a man who might be disinherited any time.”

“Not that he has been disinherited.”

“No.”

He waited for her to continue, but she remained quiet. Curious, Jonas glanced up. She stared down into her lap and her lush mouth twisted with unhappiness. He wondered why. Last night she’d been ready enough to call him a bastard to his face. This namby-pamby reaction to his scandalous origins seemed uncharacteristic. “No need to step carefully. I’m accustomed to being socially unacceptable. I’ve had years to come to terms with illegitimacy.”

Did she guess he lied? Because of course he did. His bastardy was a wound that never healed. When she finally looked up, Sidonie’s brown eyes didn’t betray derision. Instead they were veiled as he’d never seen them.

“It…it can’t have been easy when you were raised as the heir,” she said hesitantly, and to his surprise her grip on his hand tightened as if she extended comfort.

“Ancient history, tesoro. What use raking up old ashes?” His gaze fastened on her lips, soft, so soft. “Are you sure you won’t let me kiss you?”

“I must be wise.”

“Wisdom is an overrated virtue, amore mio.”

She cast him an unimpressed look. “You’re no expert on virtue.”

“Virtue is my foe. I’ve devoted great study to it.”

He watched her struggle to summon some crushing remark and decided to rescue her. “How did you sneak away from Barstowe Hall?”

“Roberta’s help.”

“Even so, surely some guardian must barricade the garden gate against swains vying to glimpse the fair Sidonie.”

“William has been my guardian since my father died six years ago,” she said flatly.

All desire to smile left Jonas. Instead, a sickening suspicion set his gut heaving. “Good God, don’t tell me the blackguard hits you, too?”

“Jonas, you’re hurting my hand.”

“I’m a clumsy dog,” he muttered, loosening his grip. “If he hit you, I’ll vivisect the worm.”

“William has never hit me.” She stroked his cheek, the first time she’d willingly touched him. In her eyes, he saw a softness he couldn’t remember before, even when he’d kissed her.

“Why should you be safe?” Yet as he stared into the beautiful face that conveyed strength as well as allure, he guessed why. Jonas was long past crediting his foul cousin with anything like shame. But under Sidonie’s clear gaze, perhaps even William retrieved some vestige of honor.

“We mostly live apart.” She paused and her earlier inexplicable discomfort returned. “I run Barstowe Hall with the pittance he sends. And there’s always written work for a bluestocking like me. Lately, I’ve catalogued William’s library.” She spoke reluctantly, although Jonas couldn’t imagine why. The subject was hardly controversial. She was as jumpy talking about her life with William and Roberta as she was when Jonas touched her. Almost.

“Anything interesting?”

She avoided his eyes. “Your father took all the valuable books before his death, as you well know.”

Her existence sounded like drudgery. And lonely. But he made himself smile. “So what prompted my cousin’s sudden bibliophilia?”

“He’s selling what’s left, of course. Surely you know how close to the wind he’s sailing. The last of Roberta’s dowry went earlier this year in some scheme for South Seas emerald mining.”

“My cousin never had the touch in business.”

She cast him a disapproving look. “No need to sound so smug. You know he’s reckless to compete with you.”

“If he’d cut his coat to fit his cloth when he inherited, he could have lived perfectly comfortably at Barstowe Hall.” Jonas was deliberately disingenuous. William was a heaving mass of jealousy, conceit, and bluster. He’d never accept life as a quiet country squire while his bastard cousin turned the world on its ear. “The man’s his own worst enemy.”

“I’d feel no compunction gloating over William’s disasters if my sister and nephews weren’t plunged into penury with him.”

“What about your penury? You’re damned quick to care about the fate of Roberta and her brats.”

She raised her chin. “In two months, I turn twenty-five. William’s guardianship ends and I’ll receive an allowance from my father’s will. It’s not much—a plutocrat like you would scoff—but it will establish me away from my brother-in-law’s tantrums. I have plans for a useful future. I intend to set up a house of my own and teach indigent girls to read so they can make their way in the world.”

The idea of Sidonie slaving her life away as a spinster schoolmistress struck him as a tragic waste, but he knew better than to say so. He’d caught the militant light in her eye when she mentioned the unappealing scheme. “I’m surprised William hasn’t married you off. Especially if you already have a dowry.”

“I meant it when I said I’d never wed.” Whatever she saw in his smile, it discomfited her enough to make her try to shift away. He didn’t let her go. He began to suffer the alarming fantasy that he’d never let her go.

“Not all husbands are like William. Or like your father.”

Her expression turned bleak. “It’s pure luck, though, isn’t it? The law gives a husband ownership of his wife. I value my judgment too dearly to sacrifice it to another’s. And there’s no escape—the contract binds until death. A married woman is little better than a slave.”

“Not an opinion popular at Almack’s.”

She shrugged. “For six years, I’ve lived as William’s pensioner and watched him brag and bully. Even though my sister’s dowry was all that kept clothes on his back. Unmarried, I’m at the mercy of nobody’s mistakes but my own.”

“Don’t you want children?”

“Not at the cost of freedom.”

He frowned. “Such a solitary path you map. What about love?”

“Love?” She spat the word as though it tasted sour. “You surprise me, Merrick. I doubted you’d acknowledge the concept.”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?”

He waited for some derisive comment, but she remained silent. Perhaps because of that silence, he lifted the veil on the bitter truth he never mentioned. Ever. “I’m not a fool. I’ve seen devotion. My father loved my mother till the day he died. His heart broke when he lost her. And his heart broke anew every time the world called her ‘whore’.”

Damn it, he’d said too much. Revealed too much. He knew it the moment he saw Sidonie’s face whiten with distress. All his life he’d survived by standing alone, relying on nobody but himself. Yet these uncharacteristic confidences placed him even further under Sidonie’s spell.

He needed to remember that isolation offered safety, whatever the appeal of pansy eyes and soft female compassion.

Chapter Seven

When Sidonie entered the dining room that evening, Merrick rose from the throne-like chair at the end of the table. He sported coat and neckcloth and looked fit to grace a London drawing room, if one ignored the uncivilized marks on his face. No wonder he regarded life as his adversary. He’d paid dearly for everything he had—and still the deepest injury remained. He’d been proclaimed bastard. Nothing could change that. Nothing except the knowledge she concealed and couldn’t reveal without jeopardizing the people she loved.

His bitterness when he spoke of his parents still echoed in Sidonie’s mind, although he’d immediately realized he’d spoken too frankly. He’d retreated to playing the pleasant, if acerbic companion she’d occasionally glimpsed since arriving at the castle. The weather had kept them inside all afternoon and she’d enjoyed exploring his library. But one look at his face now warned her he was again the predatory man who had terrified and infuriated her last night.

She was sick to her stomach of being frightened. Tensing, she glared at him. “Don’t you like my dress?” she asked sharply, lifting her chin.

“Don’t you?”

“I’ve never had clothes like this in my life.” At some point since her arrival, he’d ordered some gowns from Sidmouth. She wore a dark green dress Mrs. Bevan had altered to fit.

“You could thank me.”

She surveyed him without favor. “I assume a verbal expression of gratitude will suffice.”

He winced theatrically. “Why, Miss Forsythe, you suspect ulterior motives?”

“Hardly ulterior.”

She stood in quivering stillness while he prowled toward her. “Turn round.”

“I’m not a toy in your playbox.”

His smile held a hint of wickedness. “Oh, yes, you are, carissima.”

“This toy has spikes,” she growled, not shifting.

“I’ll handle you with care.” He wandered around her in a leisurely inspection that seemed to endure an hour. Devil take him, he set the very air vibrating.

“Very nice.” He stepped forward to straighten the blond lace trimming the disgracefully low bodice. With mortifying swiftness her nipples hardened. She hoped to heaven he didn’t notice.

“The dresses are indecent,” she said stiffly, the rich silk flowing against her body like water.

“But pretty.”

She shot him another fulminating glance. His eyes lit with that unholy glint she’d learned to mistrust. “Admit it. It’s a gorgeous dress and you look gorgeous in it.”

“It’s made for a courtesan.”