Unlaced by Candlelight. Кэрол Мортимер
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himself. “I was eighteen years old, Christian, with all of the impatience of youth.”
“So impatient you could not even have waited a few months?” Christian frowned as he recalled finally returning to England three months after he and Sylvie had last seen each other, only to be informed by her proud parents, when he rode over to their estate to pay his respects, that Sylviana no longer lived on their estate with them, but was now residing in Bedfordshire with her husband, Colonel Lord Gerald Moorland, Earl of Ampthill.
Christian had no recollection of the rest of his conversation that day with Henry and Jessica Buchanan, or of taking his leave some half an hour or so later. He had felt as if someone had punched him in the chest, rendering him both speechless and numb. He’d had no choice but to accept that Sylvie was now another man’s wife, and as such, was far beyond his reach.
That numbness had lasted for several days, only to be replaced by anger and disillusionment. He had believed Sylvie was different from all those other marriage-minded chits he so frequently met in Society, that she actually cared about him, Christian the man, rather than his title. The fact that she had married an ancient earl in the few months of his absence showed Christian that had not been the case, that the title was everything to her.
And so had begun the months and years of debauchery he had embarked upon following his disillusionment. Those same years that had quickly earned him the reputation for being a rake and a dissolute, a man who cared naught for the softer emotions and everything for the pleasure of the moment.
“Obviously you could not,” Christian answered his own question contemptuously. “And as luck would have it, you only had to suffer an old man’s pawing for a year or two before you were conveniently left his widow and in possession of all his fortune.”
Sylvie felt the color leech from her cheeks at Christian’s deliberately insulting tone. An insult she did not deserve from this particular man. Not now, and certainly not four years ago.
She had been deeply in love with Christian. Even when she had been told of his behavior in London after he left her, she had tried to dismiss it as just rumors, malicious gossip that could not possibly be true. The months of silence that had followed those rumors had left her with no choice but to accept she had merely been a diversion for him during the weeks he spent in the country attending to estate matters.
“You know absolutely nothing of my marriage to Gerald—”
“I know enough to realize that an old man of sixty could not possibly have hoped to satisfy the physical demands of a young girl of eighteen!” His top lip curled back with distaste. “I know you, Sylvie,” he added softly. “How to touch and arouse every silken inch of your body.” He reached out to run his fingers lightly across the firm swell of her breasts revealed by the low neckline of her gown. “I have watched you, enjoyed you, time and time again, as you experienced climax after shattering climax. Did Moorland do that for you, Sylvie? Did he touch you in all the intimate places that I know give you such pleasure—”
“Stop it!” she protested, knowing and regretting that the heated flush to her cheeks and breasts revealed how much Christian’s words had aroused her. Aroused her, but never again would she allow her heart to be broken by this man. “All this talk of the past achieves nothing—”
“And if it does not have to be the past?” Those long and caressing fingers dipped beneath the bodice of her gown to pluck unerringly at one roused nipple. “It so happens I am currently without a mistress—”
“And I am not so desperate for a man’s intimate touch that I would ever consider accepting such an offer from you!” Sylvie glared up at him. Not on his terms, at least. Not on any terms that would endanger her heart or the independent life she now lived.
Those sculpted lips curved into a humorless smile. “All evidence to the contrary, my dear.” He squeezed that roused nipple between thumb and finger, looking down at her dispassionately as she drew her breath in sharply. “Are you damp and ready for me between your thighs, Sylvie? Perhaps I should touch you there too and see for myself—”
“Leave me be!” Sylvie could stand it no more, slapping his hand away before stepping back.
“You are,” Christian murmured with quiet satisfaction as he continued to regard her flushed cheeks dispassionately. “You will give me the name of the gentleman—or gentlemen?—currently sharing the pleasure of your body and your bed,” he said.
“And why would I wish to do that...?” She eyed him contemptuously.
“So that I may dispense with his, or their, services, of course.” He shrugged those broad shoulders. “I may be considered an out-and-out rake by all of Society, but I draw the line at sharing my woman with another man!”
Sylvie gave an indignant gasp. “I have no intention of ever
becoming your woman!”
“Oh, but you will, Sylvie,” Christian assured her confidently. “In fact, I intend calling upon you tomorrow so that we might...discuss the terms of that agreement.”
Sylvie stared up at him for several long moments, knowing by the cold implacability of Christian’s pale-green gaze that he meant exactly what he said. “I do believe that your arrogance has now become as large as your overinflated ego!” she finally snapped dismissively. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a headache, and wish to go and make my excuses to your grandmother before taking my leave.” She turned briskly on one satin slipper before marching away.
Christian watched between narrowed lids as Sylvie walked the length of the terrace before stepping lightly back into the ballroom, knowing he needed to delay his own return several more minutes if he was not to appear before his grandmother with an indecent erection tenting the front of his silk breeches.
And despite her protests to the contrary, he had every intention of having Sylvie satisfied on the morrow...
* * *
Once safely returned to her home in Berkeley Square, Sylvie went straight up the stairs, moving quietly into the candlelit bedchamber before nodding dismissal of the nurse and taking that lady’s place in the chair beside the small bed, the tension leaving her expression as she gazed down at her sleeping daughter.
Sylvie felt a deep outpouring of love as she reached out to gently touch the abundance of dark curls framing those baby cheeks and small rosebud of a mouth, and knowing that if Christianna’s eyes were open, they would be a beautiful, warm, moss green.
The exact same shade as her father’s...
“What are you doing here?” Christian scowled darkly at Sylvie when he entered the drawing room of his London home the morning following his grandmother’s ball, accepting that he owed his butler an apology for disbelieving him when that gentleman had entered Christian’s darkened bedchamber a few minutes ago and informed him that Lady Sylviana Moorland, Countess of Ampthill, was waiting downstairs to speak with him.
Christian’s mood was taciturn at best this morning, after the hours he had necessarily spent at his grandmother’s ball following Sylvie’s early departure, most of that time spent in fending off his grandmother’s less-than-subtle determination to see him in the company of Lady Vanessa Styles, a young lady of one and twenty whom his grandmother had obviously decided would make him a suitable countess.
Having finally managed to escape those machinations shortly after midnight, Christian had spent the hours until daybreak at one of the more disreputable clubs, rebuffing the obvious attentions of the willing ladies there in favor of drinking copious amounts of brandy and winning at the gaming tables.
As a consequence he had not been best pleased to be awakened, only hours after falling fully clothed into his bed, and informed by his butler of Sylvie’s presence downstairs in his drawing room. So certain had Christian been of the butler’s error that he had not even bothered to tidy