Season Of Secrets. Кэрол Мортимер

arms, his glittering gaze easily holding her own captive.

      She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I have already told you—”

      “That you respected and admired Gerald Moorland.” A nerve pulsed in Christian’s clenched jaw as he continued to glare down at her. “They are the emotions one feels for a favorite uncle, not a husband!”

      Possibly because that was how Sylvie had always regarded Gerald, who had been a friend of her father’s. That affection had grown exponentially when Gerald, finding her alone and sobbing in the garden during one of his visits, had demanded she tell him what ailed her, only to then offer her the respectability of marriage to him and legitimacy for her unborn babe rather than scandal for her whole family.

      Sylvie had initially refused Gerald’s offer, of course, claiming that a marriage between the two of them would be unfair to him, when she was still in love with the father of her baby, when a part of her had still hoped—prayed—that the rumors she had heard about Christian were untrue, and that he would either write to her or appear in person and that the two of them would then marry.

      But Gerald had been tenacious, repeating his offer several more times during the next few weeks until, tired and heartsick at Christian’s continued silence, Sylvie knew she had no choice but to acknowledge she had merely been a passing fancy for him, someone for him to make love to and with during the weeks of his leave from the army.

      She looked up to meet Christian’s gaze unflinchingly. “Any discussion of my feelings for my husband will not be a part of our arrangement.”

      Christian frowned down at her in frustration for several minutes, annoyed with Sylvie’s stubbornness, but even more annoyed with himself for still desiring her so much he was willing to allow her to dictate the terms of their future relationship. Up to a point!

      “I believe it is usual for gentlemen to shake hands at the successful conclusion of a deal,” he murmured gruffly. “And for men and women to kiss,” he added before his head swooped down and he claimed her lips with his own.

      She tasted of honey, and smelt of violets, the fullness of her curves fitting perfectly against Christian as his arms tightened about her and he deepened the kiss, his erection rising to press against her as his tongue swept between the parted softness of her lips—

      Sylvie wrenched her mouth from his, her cheeks flushed as she pushed away from him, her eyes bright as she looked up at him, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “You smell of cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume!”

      Christian scowled his frustration. At eighteen Sylvie had seemed like an open book to him, her brightness and enthusiasm for life attracting him as nothing else could have done after so many months of battle and death. A brightness and innocence that had been deliberately designed to entice, Christian had realized after he returned to England and learned that she had married another man, another earl, in the three short months of his absence.

      He found the confident woman who now stood before him, her every thought a mystery to him, totally frustrating and yet no less intriguing.

      His mouth firmed. “What time will you come to me tonight?”

      Her throat moved as she swallowed before answering. “Does eleven o’clock suit?”

      Christian’s brows rose. “You do not intend to join me for dinner first?”

      She eyed him coolly. “For what purpose?”

      He scowled. “So that we might engage in conversation before the bedding.”

      “Again, for what purpose?” She eyed him disdainfully. “The rakish life you have led these past four years holds no more interest for me than I am sure my own more sedate one does for you.”

      “Very well.” Christian breathed his irritation with her coolness. “I will expect you here at eleven o’clock this evening. And I will endeavor to ensure there is no lingering odor of ‘cheap liquor or even cheaper perfume’!” he taunted as she straightened her appearance in preparation for leaving.

      Christian remained where he was for several more minutes after Sylvie’s departure, knowing there was something about her acquiescence to becoming his mistress that was...not quite right. Oh, there was no denying her physical response to him the previous evening, or his own determination that Sylvie would become his mistress. But she had fought her own attraction to him last night, been determined that she would not give in to him, that she had no intention of ever becoming ‘his woman’. Even under her own terms.

      Something had happened to change her mind in those intervening hours, and despite what Sylvie said to the contrary, Christian did not believe for one moment that it had anything to do with those other gentlemen ‘pressing’ for her attention.

Chapter Seven

      “Would you care to join me in a glass of port?” Christian indicated the decanter on the table beside him as he remained seated in an armchair beside the unlit fireplace, looking across the room to where Sylvie stood hesitantly beside the door Smith had recently closed behind her, and looking ethereally beautiful in a gown of deep gold. “Or perhaps you would prefer a glass of wine?”

      Sylvie was more than a little disconcerted to find herself in a room that was so obviously Christian Ambrose’s private domain, serving as both a library and his study, if the book-lined walls and the cluttered desk in front of the window were any indication.

      She was even more disturbed by Christian, his appearance impeccable and stylish this evening, in a dark-green superfine worn over a paler-green waistcoat and snowy-white linen, buff pantaloons outlining the muscled strength of his legs above shiny black Hessians. His dark curls looked slightly damp, as if he had recently bathed, the squareness of his jaw showing no evidence of this morning’s stubble.

      A pity his manners did not match that gentlemanly appearance. But no doubt his neglecting to stand up when she had entered the room was an indication of their arrangement.

      “Sylvie?” he prompted softly at her continued silence.

      Her spine stiffened. “Thank you, but no, I do not require any refreshment. I would much prefer that we just retire to your bedchamber and get this business over and done with.”

      Christian’s eyes widened before narrowing. “You earlier refused conversation, and now you are also refusing to share a glass of wine with me?”

      She nodded. “Because I do not believe either of those things to be a requirement of our arrangement.”

      Christian frowned. “You would prefer, perhaps, that I dispense with the niceties altogether and simply toss your skirts up now and take you where you stand?”

      She gasped. “There is no need for crudeness!”

      Christian sighed as he placed his glass of port down on the table beside him. “I freely admit I do not quite know what to make of the woman you are now, Sylvie...”

      He had been angry with Sylvie four years ago for not waiting for him as he had asked her to do, but he’d had every intention of her enjoying their lovemaking tonight. Of perhaps realizing all she had given up in her youthful eagerness to become Gerald Moorland’s countess...But he found her continued coolness, despite having agreed to become his mistress, completely baffling.

      “There is nothing to know,” she dismissed flatly. “We have an arrangement, I am simply making it clear that I am...willing to begin that arrangement.”

      Christian looked at her through narrowed lids for several moments before giving a rueful shake of his head. “I am used to receiving a little more enthusiasm from my lovers.”

      “No doubt. But I should perhaps tell you—warn you—that there have only been two men in my life, Christian.” Her cheeks were flushed. “You. And my husband. I am not—I ask that you not expect me to have the physical expertise of your previous mistresses.”

      Christian