Regency Temptation: The Greatest of Sins / The Fall of a Saint. Christine Merrill

of none of them and opened her mouth.

      She could hear the rustle of her own satin gown as he crushed her body to his and feel the rapid flutter of her tongue in his mouth. His circled to still it, filling her mouth with the taste of him.

      His hand was at the back of her neck and he hesitated, stroking once, carefully, so as not to disarrange the curls. Then he smoothed over her neck, her shoulders, her throat, and very carefully slipped inside the bodice of her gown.

      The man she loved was touching her breast. She caught her breath and held it, giving him more room to touch her as he kissed. His hand was gentle, even as his mouth was not, warm on her skin, his fingertips barely touching the puckering tip as his teeth grazed her lips and his tongue pushed deep, retreated and returned.

      If this was what he wanted from her, she would gladly give it. Her legs trembled and her centre was wet, as she knew it would be when the time was right to join with a man. If she had the nerve to touch him, as she had in his room, she was sure that he would be hard for her and just as eager as she felt.

      Her hands were beneath his coat, on his waist. It was improper, but wonderful. She slipped them under the bottom of his waistcoat and could almost feel his ribs through the linen of his shirt.

      In response, his fingers closed on her nipple and tugged. She gasped, biting at his lower lip, wanting more. He must give it to her. He simply must. She needed his tongue on her breast, and his body in hers, so that they might be one in flesh, as they had always been in spirit.

      Her hands dropped lower, clutching him firmly by the backside. And she pulled herself upwards, forwards, into his lap. And for just a moment, she felt the bulge of him pressing against her through her gown. The trembling seemed to come from inside her now, like the expectant rumbling at the beginning of a storm.

      He pulled himself away from the kiss and whispered into her ear. ‘Is this what you want from me?’ He thrust his hips against her.

      She nodded eagerly, digging her fingers into the muscles of his body and pressing herself against the hardness, praying that this was the answer he wanted, the one that would make him continue.

      ‘Because it is what I want from you,’ he said. The hand that caressed her breasts squeezed to the point of pain. ‘It is what I have wanted from you since my first desire. To taste your body with my mouth. To push myself into you. To spill my seed.’

      ‘Yes,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘Yes. Yes.’ She could imagine him there and the moment of helpless surrender when she became his.

      ‘This is what I want,’ he whispered, his breath in her ear even hotter than his kiss. ‘And it has nothing to do with a romantic declaration, or a marriage. I want to have you, right now, here in the garden, naked like Eve. I want to use you for my pleasure, without a thought to what is right or good.’

      He was making something that would be wonderful sound sordid. But she wanted it all the same.

      The hand that had been at her waist pressed her head to his mouth so that he might continue to whisper, ‘I want your body, Evie. That is all. I want to ruin you. I want what I want. I do not care if it destroys us both. That is why I left you six years ago. And that is why I must leave now.’

      And then he pushed her away, out of his lap and on to her side of the bench. The night air had grown cold. She could feel it against her exposed breasts and the constriction of the bodice pulled low under them.

      ‘Compose yourself. And then go back into the house and find your betrothed.’ His voice was as cold as the air, passionless. ‘As I have told you before, I am not the man for you. Marry St Aldric, Evie. Please. He will care for you. I cannot. But you must stop this pointless hoping that there will ever be another choice.’ He stood then and walked away. Deeper into the garden or back into the house? She was not sure.

      She tugged the bodice back into place and laid a hand against her cheek, waiting for the blush to subside. If she sat here a while longer, she would be as cold as he was, but not as emotionless. She was angry.

      Sam Hastings was all she had ever wanted. She had tricked him into coming here and followed him like a fool, only to be refused again. He had brought her to the brink of fulfilment. And then he’d delivered nothing more than threats and speeches, like some Drury Lane villain.

      Did he not realise that she might have taken some pleasure in the act that he found so base and unworthy? Her body still seethed with desire. It was as if she was waiting for some gift that only Sam could give her. He had shown it to her, held it close and then snatched it away at the last minute. Then he behaved as though she was the one who was cruel.

      Well, it would not happen again. Tonight, she would make her choice once and for all. She would go to another man and would never turn back. At least St Aldric would not reject her without even trying to love her.

      She would tell herself that what she felt for Sam had been a childish infatuation. And now, as he claimed, it was nothing more than lust. Neither of those things had a place in her future. She would leave the memories of the good Dr Hastings in the nursery where they belonged.

      And some day she would revisit the memory of this night and find it as brittle and faded as a dried flower. She would look at her children, hers and Michael’s. And she would wonder why she had ever been so silly as to want another man.

      But not today. Today it would be difficult. She thought of St Aldric and his many good qualities. And, slowly, she felt the ardour subside. Michael was handsome. He was kind. He had an excellent sense of humour. When he saw her, he would walk towards her, not away. And there would be a smile on his face that showed promise and a joyful anticipation of their future together.

      She stood and took a breath. The air was clean and cool, and if it smelled of a man’s cologne, it was probably just her imagination. Then she straightened her dress and went back to the house.

Chapter Nine

      ‘Lady Evelyn has made me the happiest man in London.’

      Sam had returned to the ballroom in time to see the announcement. St Aldric was grinning like an idiot, oblivious to the fact that the woman beside him was still flushed from the kisses Sam had given her.

      As he had for so much of his life, he stood by mute, struggling with his own base desires, and allowed it to happen. He had stood in the garden for a time, waiting to see that Evie got back to the house without help. There were no tears from her, no passionate cries that he return. A profound silence seemed to emanate from the spot they had been. A few minutes later, she had got up and walked away from him.

      It felt like the day he had first put out to sea and watched England retreating until it was a dot on the horizon. He had seen the water as nothing more than distance between him and the woman he could not help but love. It was the same now. The ballroom seemed to stretch before him as couples filled the dance floor for a waltz. And Sam was on the only solid spot, losing her all over again.

      He took a sip of his drink, wishing that it was something stronger. Another hour, perhaps, and he could make his excuses and depart. But he did not have to stand here, watching her be happy without him.

      It had been so easy in the garden, when all innocent, brotherly thoughts had fled like animals before an advancing fire. She wanted him. He must have her, or he would go mad. He felt the pressure building, the desperation to drag her to the ground, throw up her skirts and lose himself in the softness of her body.

      He imagined entering, in one quick thrust, the tightness of her, the rush. Her cry of shock at the loss of her maidenhead.

      And discovery. Thorne’s shout of outrage. The discovery of the truth.

      Disgusting. Obscene. Profane.

      He’d pushed her away, horrified at what he had done, but secretly, sinfully triumphant. She was his in all ways that mattered. She would marry the duke. But each time he touched her,