A Talent for Sin Read online

  She sat on the chaise, her legs curled beside her, but her spine still stiff. “How do I feel about you?” Again her voice was flat, and she looked anywhere but at him. “I do care about you Peter, perhaps I care too much, but surely you can see that does not matter. We are unsuited for matrimony. And truly I have no desire to enter the wedded state again. I value my freedom, as I am sure you value your own.”

  “Freedom is the ability to live the life you want, the life you need, and I wish to spend that life with you.” He walked until he stood above her; he made no concession to his nakedness.

  “I have not said that I will not spend my life with you.”

  “Then you will marry me?” he asked, hope sparking to fight the icicle forming in his chest.

  She sighed. “No, I did not say that. Marrying me would ruin you. I will not do that to you—to either of us.”

  He wanted to be angry. She was so stubborn. But then that was part of the attraction. She was her own woman. He merely wanted her to be his as well. They would have such perfect lives if she would consent.

  “Why would marriage ruin us? You are a lady, born and bred. We are well-suited.”

  She turned toward him then, and for the first he saw fire light her eyes.

  “Well-suited.” The word drawled from her lips. “At least you do not speak of love. You may be mistaken, but evidently you are not a fool.”

  She waited until his eyes settled on her and then stood, moving with slow deliberation that displayed each curve of her body. “We are well-suited—as lovers, perhaps even as friends or acquaintances. We are not that of which spouses are made. Let us leave things as they are and be content.”

  The sheet slithered over her hips as she walked, and he could feel the call of desire again. Despite the hardness of her words, her eyes had softened, and he could see care and concern in her voice.

  “Peter, accept this for what it is—a young man’s foolish moment. You will have forgotten it by morning, and if you have not, you will be glad that I have. What we have between us is a perfect moment—but it is a moment in a starry summer night. It is a dream from which we will both awaken and smile contentedly and then go on to meet the day. You cannot expect such dreams to last.”

  “Why?” It was such a simple question, but he felt his whole life caught up in it. “If what we have is perfect, what should ruin it?”

  She turned from him, from his questions, and walked back to the window. She seemed caught by her own reflection. She reached up and traced a finger along her mirrored cheek. “Daylight. Daylight shows the flaws that night conceals.”

  Her eyes looked huge in the window. Their vibrant color did not show, but they filled her face, endless pools holding all the darkness of the night beyond.

  He came up behind her and caught her in his embrace. He wrapped his arms tight about her, wishing he could hold her forever. His world was right when she was in his arms.

  “I believe I understand your meaning, but sometimes daylight shows beauty in the details it reveals.” He buried his face in her curls for a moment, then lifted one so the strand shone russet in the candlelight. “Right now this is a piece of beauty, a deep thread of hidden fire, but it takes the full light of the sun to become a thing of fantasy, true liquid flame and shining copper.”

  “For the moment, this magic moment, that may be true, but then the flame burns out and only ash is left.”

  They stared at each other in reflection. Peter wished with all his soul he could share with her all that he saw, all that he could imagine for them. Instead all he could do was feel the reflected stillness of her gaze. “I have never been a man for poetry and honeyed words. I grow lost in the illusion. It is a simple matter. Though you may call me a fool, Violet, I want to spend my life with you. With you, not some reflection. Why will you not have me?”

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against him, her body limp and tired. Would she give in?

  Then her eyes opened and he could see her strength. “I have told you why, Peter. It is not my fault if you do not choose to listen. I am half a dozen and more years older than you, and the experience between us is even greater than that. I know that we don’t get everything we want in life, and you still believe in this fantasy that all is possible.

  “I am free. I have a life, a good life. I have this home that I have designed, a place of warmth and succor. You are a wonderful part of it. You are, however, only a part. I have always belonged to some man—first my brother and then my husbands. Three marriages are more than enough. I do not want another. Why would I even think of it? Now, I am my own woman, and if I married again I would lose that and merely be some man’s property.”

  “Not some man. Mine.” Peter spoke firmly. He would not beg.

  “I admit that you are better than most, but you are still a man. You do not even begin to understand why it is so important that I belong to myself.”

  “We can have settlements drawn up that would protect your interests. This can only be an excuse.” He was beginning to feel anger. He had never expected such an argument. Did she not trust him? He would always put her first, do what made her happy. Didn’t she understand he would do anything for her?

  She pulled back from him, turned and walked to her dressing table. Lighting the lantern, she turned the flame high. She gathered her hair tight behind her head, coiling it into a knot.

  She turned back to him. She let the sheet drop.

  “Look at me, Peter,” she began. “Look at me not with desire and the soft glow of candlelight, but really look at me. I am not a girl heady with dreams of love and marriage and babies.” Her voice caught a little at the end, but she continued. “I am a woman, more than full-grown. When I dream, it is of properties I can acquire, of how my tenants are faring, of how long this peace with France will hold. These are the dreams and thoughts of a woman. Now, look at me and see me for what I am.”

  She raised her arms from her sides and held them out, daring him to examine her. He started at the bottom with her toes. They were pink and small. They could not be what kept her from him. Her legs were full and shapely—did she think he would prefer the slender sticks of a girl? Her hips were round and soft, the red glow of her curls hiding her secrets while allowing flirtatious glimpses. Her belly. He loved her belly. Its softness was his favorite pillow. Its velvet skin always ready to quiver at his touch. Even now he longed to blow a soft breath across her navel and watch her shiver in anticipation.

  Her breasts.

  He could not form a coherent thought about them. When his eyes traveled along their curves his mind simply stopped. Their red, pointed tips drew him, and even now his lips longed to taste them, to draw her nipples deep into his mouth, to suckle and lave until she began that soft moan deep in her throat that meant—

  He moved his gaze up to her face. He knew desire was not the answer she sought. Her lips were full and beckoning, but the slight crease at the corner spoke of how strong and firm she could be.

  Her nose was slightly uptilted, the most girlish thing about her. She tried to hide its sun-grown freckles with powder, but he knew each and every one.

  He skipped over her eyes, afraid to meet them before he had finished his appraisal. Her brow furrowed at the top of her nose, and her forehead held the single whisper of a line that he longed to smooth away with deep caresses. He hated that he was the cause of her tension.

  Even confined in its knot, her hair was the most beautiful he had ever seen. He doubted that it held the answer she felt that he was missing.

  He moved back to her eyes. The crinkle of a thousand laughs edged them, and the thick black lashes that should have required kohl surrounded them. Violet. He had often wondered if she’d been named for her eyes. Eyes that should not exist, save in the tales of some long-dead goddess. Eyes of pansy purple and ocean blue, ever changing with her mood and purpose. Now, they shone at him clear and brave.

  This was not easy for her. He could see the tension holding her shoulders tight
and the breath drawing her belly in. Her eyes reflected that strain in the stillness of her pupils and forced wideness of their glare.

  He knew she did not want him to see her difficulty, but he could read every clue to her distress. She was not as calm as she wished to be. He placed his hope on this. Why would she hide from him if it was as simple a picture as she painted?

  Violet watched as his eyes edged over her body. She had thought this would be easy. She was not shy of her body. She wore the most revealing of gowns, the sheerest of chemises, and it had been years since she could remember the heat of a blush. Still, she fought the urge to squirm under his examination. She had not expected that he would be so thorough and—no, not cold, there was nothing cold in his look—but so detached.

  She remembered how her first husband had examined her on their wedding night. She had stood before him, unhappy and unsure, but still strangely excited that she was finally going to know the secrets that were whispered of in corners. His watery eyes had trailed over her, taking in the voluminous white gown, proper for a virgin bride, and her wild mane of curls, unbraided for the first night since childhood. He grimaced. Pronounced, “You’ll do. Good hips.” Then he got into bed and settled back and looked over at her. “Come on then, girl. Get over here and pull that thing up. I don’t have time for coyness.”

  She didn’t even want to think of the remainder of the night.

  This, however, was Peter, not Sir Dratton of Two Hills. He was not some old man who needed to hurry before his pride-and-joy shrank into his withered-and-unused.

  She caught Peter’s glance and held it. She was the one in control. She saw the anger in his eyes. He was not any happier at this than she. She drew in a deep breath, then relaxed and wished for strength. She let her shoulders bend forward, not the most flattering of postures for a woman. He would see what she wanted. See that she was not a young girl pining for matrimony.

  And glad she was of it. Not for anything would she again stand before a man and seek his approval.

  It was not approval she wanted now.

  It was…acceptance. No, she did not need that either.

  All she wanted was for him to see her as she was, not as some fantasy he had built up in his mind. She would let him have no illusions about what she was and who she was.

  She truly was bare before him.

  She let her stomach sag and her breasts fall forward. She dropped her chin, unmindful of the fullness beneath.

  “You are so beautiful, so womanly.”

  “I am growing old, do you not see the lines? I am marked by the years of my experience.”

  “And…?” He let word trail off.

  “I could almost be your mother.”

  “Now that is an exaggeration.”

  She turned her face from him. “But only slight.”

  “If you gave birth when you were seven.”

  “You miss the point.”

  “No, I think you do. I know you are a woman. I know you have experience. I either do not care or love you the more for it. I do not want a young, marriage-minded chit. I want you. I want a family with you.” He walked before her until there was a hand’s space between them.

  “And I want you, but I am not wifely or motherly material.”

  He placed a hand on each of her shoulders so that she was forced to look up at him. “I will need to change your mind.”

  Why could he not see that it was impossible? How could he stand and stare at her faults and either not see them or pretend that they were attractions? And he did not even know the full truth, the truth that could not be seen. Perhaps she should tell him all. He spoke of starting a family with her, and that was impossible. He was too young to know his own mind. It would be her job to protect him from himself.

  She turned and walked away, scooping up the sheet as she went. Her vulnerability had been for naught; like all men he saw only what he wanted.

  Well, she’d had enough of it for one night. The discussion was too painful to continue. It was time to call him back to order. He would understand that some things were not up for discussion, and marriage topped the list.

  She climbed up on the high bed and arranged the pillows behind her. This time she pulled her stomach tight and lifted her breasts to their most magnificent.

  “Come back to bed. We can remove the flavor of this unpleasantness.” She sprawled across the bed, letting the sheet fall to highlight her most favorable attributes, long, elegant calves and breasts lifted to almost obscene limits. She smiled her most alluring smile and beckoned for him to join her. She let the sheet slide another inch—even among familiar lovers a little reveal could heighten the mood. “Oh, don’t be sullen, Peter. It will all be as it was before. Maybe we can sneak back into that perfect moment.”

  Peter stood. He let his eyes rove over her one more time. She watched the heat grow in them, the pupils grow large and deep. Tension built and spread. She let the sheet slip even lower. She was amazed that even after she’d stood naked before him moments before, cravings could grow from another bare inch of skin.

  She resisted the urge to purr with pleasure. They would wrap this night in tissue and put it away, forever. She might sneak it out in the predawn hours when sleep eluded her, and relish that a sweet young man had once adored her beyond reason, but by morn it would be rewrapped and put away with the rest of her girlhood dreams.

  “No.” His single word drew her from her reverie.

  She shook her head. “No?”

  Peter padded toward her and with a grand gesture knelt before the bed. He reached up and took one of her hands between his much larger ones. “Violet, I ask you one last time this night. Will you marry me?”

  She held in a sigh. “I thought we had been through this to its bitter end. No, I will not marry you, not now, not ever. Now, come back to bed—end this foolishness.”

  “No.”

  Peter stood, turned, and walked to his pile of clothing strewn over the bench of her vanity. He pulled on one leg of the trousers and then the other.

  Violet sat up upon the bed. “What are you doing? I thought you were above pouting.”

  “I am not pouting. I am leaving. I wish you well.”

  “I do not understand. Do you want me to beg?” She slid onto her knees. “I can beg very prettily.”

  “You clearly do not understand. I am leaving you, Violet. An hour ago I thought there was nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I always thought there was nothing you could ask that I would not do, but I was wrong. I cannot do this. I will not be your kept toy. If you cannot respect me enough to believe that I know my own mind and that I am no longer a feckless boy, then I cannot stay with you. You want an amusement, not a lover. That is not me. I will no longer play until you decide to be my wife.” He pulled his shirt over his head, then grabbed his boots and jacket. “I wish you well, Violet. I hope you do find what you want.”

  He turned and walked through the door, closing it quietly behind him. The soft tread of his feet descending the stairs barely made a sound.

  Chapter 3

  “If I ever let my husband within twenty feet of me again, please hit me with a vase.” Marguerite levered herself out of a hardback chair and stood with a slight wobble. “Someone should have warned me it would be like this.” She placed both hands on her distended stomach, pulling the delicate fabric of her summer dress tight.

  Violet knew her gaze was glued to the firm protuberance of flesh. She normally avoided women in the later stage of pregnancy, but her need to know what had happened to Peter had driven her here, to his brother the marquess’s home. If anybody could tell her about Peter it would be Marguerite, his sister-in-law.

  By God, it moved. A distinct bump had appeared in the side of Marguerite’s belly.

  “Definitely a boxer.” Marguerite pressed a hand against the bump, pushing back at it. “Tristan insists that he believes the baby will be a girl, but no girl could punch so hard.”

  If it moved again, Violet swore she would be l
eaving and would find out some other way why Peter had not visited her. She swallowed and kept her gaze fixed on Marguerite’s belly, words forgotten.

  “It is not going anywhere. I promised Tristan that I would not give birth while he was out of the house, so you are safe for now.” Marguerite’s words drew Violet’s attention, and she forced her glance to meet Marguerite’s.

  “I used to be irritated that men would look at my bosom while speaking to me,” Marguerite continued.

  “At least women used to look at my face. Now, everybody stares at my belly as if it were a bubble waiting to burst.”

  “I do apologize,” Violet answered, resisting the urge to glance down again.

  “Oh, I am teasing. You have not told me that I am glowing and have never looked better. And you are here. Everyone else seems to have fled Town for the summer. None of our dear friends remain. There seem to be a bounty of house parties and other frivolities at the end of the summer. Lady Westington was here for a while, but then her stepson asked her to return home to Aylsham. Clara never could refuse that boy. At least you remain and even visit. For that I will forgive you anything.”

  Violet turned and walked to the shelves. She stared at the titles without seeing. She did not wish to think of Marguerite and the small life within her. It was too painful. She tapped the spine of a book, it was blue, but her eyes would not focus on the words.

  “So why did you come?” Marguerite never backed away from confrontation. “I daresay it was not to see me.”

  “Why would you say such a thing? Of course I wanted to see you, to talk with you.”

  “Then why haven’t you visited these past months? You send the most delightful notes, but never a visit. I know when I am being avoided. And now, here you are with no explanation.”

  “Is it so strange that I would want to visit? And I haven’t been avoiding you.” Violet pulled the book from the shelf. A History of Foliage in the Americas. Why would anybody have such a book on his shelves? It fulfilled neither entertainment nor pretension. “I’ve been busy.”