Trial by Desire (Carhart 2)

“I think,” Kate said, “you are the most obtuse man in all of Christendom.”

“Possible, but unlikely.” He gave her an apologetic shrug. “There are a great many Christians, and a good number of them are idiots. If there were not, Britain would never have gotten into a war with China over the importation of opium.”

She kicked at his boot—not hard, but enough to vent her frustration in physical form. “If I want to speak in hyperbole, I am going to do it. And don’t believe you can stop me with irrelevant political analysis. It’s neither sporting nor gentlemanly.”

“Trust me,” he said wryly, “right now, all I can think about is being a gentleman. It taxes my brain to think of anything except my gentlemanly duties.”

He swallowed and glanced down her neck. It was almost as if he’d never left, as if they were three months into their marriage. As if she were the one yearning forward, while he held himself back in polite denial.

“I retract my statement.” Her voice shook. “You are not the most obtuse man in all of Christendom.”

“No, no. You were perfectly right. The lady of the pasture always retains the right to hyperbole. Use it with my blessing.”

“There’s no need,” Kate said. “I’ve realized that I am the most obtuse woman.”

That finally brought his gaze flying from her bodice to her eyes.

She’d come out here to see if there was any substance to this marriage of theirs, to ascertain if he could accept a wife who took on unladylike pursuits. But she was still susceptible to him after all these years. And despite his informal attire, he still treated her as if he were the consummate gentleman.

“Here I am,” she continued, her voice still shaking, “practically begging you to kiss me. That you haven’t done so…well. I’m not so innocent that I miss the import of that. Men are creatures of lust, and if you haven’t given in to yours, you probably haven’t got any. At least not for me.”

His mouth dropped open.

“Just say so.” She looked up into his eyes. “Make this simple for both of us, if you will. Tell me you have no interest in me. Tell me, so I can stop standing in the middle of a field, believing you might kiss me. It’s been three years, Ned, and I am sick to death of waiting for you.”

He turned to her; his eyebrows drew down. He stared at her for a few seconds, and then he shook his head.

“Speak already.” She felt on the edge of desperation. “Tell me. What have you to fear? I can’t hurt you. And you can’t possibly hurt me more than you already have.”

“Women are the most curious creatures.” He reached out and caught a strand of her hair against her cheek.

That bare contact froze her. “Oh?”

“That’s what you think, is it? That I haven’t kissed you for lack of interest?”

“If you really wanted me, you wouldn’t be able to hold back. I understand how these things work.”

“Someone has been telling you lies. You must think all men are beasts by nature. That we see a thing, and like Champion, we charge unthinking across the field.”

He leaned toward her, and Kate moved back. The wood of the fence post pressed against her.

“You must think we have no semblance of control, that we can do nothing except obey our baser urges.”

That had rather been the import of the furtive discussions she’d conducted with her married friends. It was, after all, why men took mistresses—because they could not control their urges. So she’d been told.

“You’re half right,” he continued. “We are all beasts. And we do have base urges—deep, dark thoughts that you would shrink from, Kate, if you heard what they whispered. We have wants, and trust me, I want.”

She swallowed and looked up at him. He looked no different than before. He had that carefree, casual smile on his face, and for all that he loomed over her, his stance was easy. But she saw something in his expression—a tightening of his brow, the unbidden press of his lips—some quiet, unexplainable thing that suggested gray clouds lurked behind the casual sunrise of his smile.

“Right now,” Ned said, lifting a hand toward her, “I am thinking about taking you against that post.”

Her lungs contracted.

“Trust me when I say I am a beast.”

His fingers brushed down the rough lace at her neck. He found the line of her collarbone through the fabric. The gentleness of his touch belied the harshness of his tone; his hands were warm against her skin. He ran his finger down the seam of her bodice, down her ribs. The trail burned a line down her body. And then his palm cupped her waist and he pulled her closer. She tilted her head up to look in his face. His eyes were hot and unforgiving, and she could almost see the beast that he claimed he was reflected in them. And then his head dipped down—oh so slowly, so gently.

She might have escaped if she had simply turned her head. But she tasted the heat of his breath; she could still feel his words searing into her lips. I am thinking about taking you against that post.

In the back of her mind a voice called out in warning. He would kiss her and be done; he might even have her against that post. It was his prerogative as her husband. And when he was done, he would walk away. As always, she would be the one left wanting upon his departure. She had to protect herself. She had to turn—

But she was already wanting, and it would serve nobody to send him away. And the truth was, women were beasts, too. She could feel the desire in her, crouched like some dark panther, ready to strike if he backed away.

He didn’t. Instead, his lips touched hers. They were gentle for only that first blessed second of searing contact. Then his hands came behind her and he lifted her up, pressing her against the post. His body imprinted itself against hers. His mouth opened, and he took the kiss she had so desperately wanted. His lips were not kind or polite or gentlemanly; his kiss was dark and deep and desperate, and Kate could have drowned in it. He tasted incongruously of peppermint. She gave back, because she wanted, and she had not stopped wanting.

She was not sure how long they kissed. It might have been a minute; it could have been an hour. But when he pulled his head away, she felt the sunshine on the back of her neck, heard a lark calling in some sad minor key from the faraway forest. Every nerve in her body had come to life; every sense was heightened.

“You see,” Ned said, “men are beasts. But the difference is, I control my beast. It doesn’t control me. Don’t think my control means anything other than…my control. Because right now the beast wants. It wants to ravage you, out here in the open where anyone can see. It wants to take you, and it will be damned if you’re not ready.”

“I’ve always been ready.” She heard the confession slip from her mouth, so clear and crystalline.

“Really?” His tone was dry. “‘I think our marriage might dry up and blow away,’” he paraphrased at her, “‘with one good gust of wind.’ Kate, you don’t even trust me. I would be a monster if I came back after a three-year absence and expected everything to resume, just like that.”

“You don’t need trust to consummate a marriage, Ned.” She shook her head. “I am nothing if not practical.” But her heart was beating in impractical little thumps.

“Would you tell me why Harcroft made you so uneasy today? I know he can sometimes be a bit exacting, a bit too perfect. But I’ve known him since the two of us were in short pa

nts. He means well. He was—is a friend of mine, you know.”

Everyone thought Harcroft meant well. It was the hell of the situation, that anyone she told would run to Harcroft, seeking confirmation of her tale. The man seemed reasonable. Nobody would give credence to a week-old collection of bruises, not when Harcroft explained them away so capably. And besides, she’d promised Louisa to keep silent.

As for Kate’s own wants and desires—the substance of her marriage, the yearning of her flesh for his—set on the scale opposite Louisa’s life, they balanced to nothing.

Ned thought Harcroft meant well. They had been not only friends, but best friends. When Ned had asked, Harcroft had welcomed Lady Blakely into society despite her lack of provenance. His support had made the difference between a grudging acceptance and a complete denial. He had smoothed over a situation that might otherwise have proven difficult. They all owed Harcroft. Nobody even asked whether Louisa might have been prudent to run away.

She backed away, but the post prevented her retreat. “No. You’re right. I don’t trust you, yet. If you had left your new wife to the depredations of the ton, exposed her to jokes and uncouth wagers, would you trust yourself?”

“Kate, I—”

She set her hands against his chest and shoved. She had hoped he would stagger away; instead, he moved back, gracefully, as if her push had been nothing more than a gentle reminder.

He scrubbed one hand through his drying hair, which had fallen into his eyes again. “I left England to prove something to myself. I suppose…I suppose I still have a great deal to prove to you.” He said it in a tone of surprise, as if he were somehow just discovering he had a wife and responsibilities.

Hardly reassuring. He hadn’t needed a reminder of what he owed Harcroft.

CHAPTER SIX

NED’S DAY HAD NOT improved. Supper conversation had been blighted; nobody had wanted to act as if this were a typical house party, where the men would consume a quantity of port before meeting the women for a companionable game of charades. Bare civility, it seemed, was charade enough.