The English Witch (Trevelyan Family 2)

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I was only teasing, and had no business—oh, for heaven's sake, Alexandra." Another tear was trembling on her long, black lashes. "Please don't cry. Not about him." He quickened his pace to draw her still farther ahead of Will and Maria, then took out his handkerchief, which he surreptitiously gave her.

"I was not crying," she insisted, though she did wipe her eyes hurriedly before returning the linen square to him.

"No, of course you weren't," he agreed. Tearing the marquess limb from limb was too kind by half. If that clumsy brute had in any way abused her...but his voice was light enough as he went on. "And so, of course I needn't worry that the others might notice it and wonder what's been going on. Or if they do," he added, "they're bound to think it's my fault and naturally I'm quite used to being scolded. I daresay Edward will horsewhip me, but don't trouble yourself about it. Really, don't."

In this wise he got her to smile and compose herself, so that when the four wanderers rejoined the rest of the party, not a murmur was made regarding their wanderings.

Lord Hartleigh was a cultured man and had, in addition to an excellent art collection, a well-stocked library. It was to this place that Sir Charles would repair as soon as he'd discharged his little social duties. The earl had not only invited him to make himself at home there, but had considerately pointed out those parts of the collection in which his guest would have the greatest interest.

It was to this, his favourite refuge, that Alexandra accompanied her father after they returned from the picnic. He was so eager to get back to the old Stuart and Revett volume, The Antiquities of Athens, with its beautiful engravings, that he forgot to ask his daughter whether Lord Arden had shown any signs of coming to the point during their stroll.

Spared having to tell her Papa more lies, Alexandra breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped over the threshold. Closing the door behind her, she turned...and nearly collided with Mr. Trevelyan.

"Good heavens, I didn't know you were there. How quietly you come upon one." Like a cat, she thought. Backing away, she found herself flat up against the door.

He only stared at her in a considering sort of way that made her acutely uncomfortable. She took a step to the side to put a little distance between them. He copied her motion.

"Very funny," she muttered. "Now if you'd please get out of the way."

"And if I don't please?" His voice was soft and beckoning, and he was close, much too close. But with a grandfather clock a few inches away on one side, and a rather heavy table on the other, she couldn't continue to sidle against the wall. Besides, it wasn't dignified. She was about to push past him when his hands abruptly came to rest upon the wall on either side of her, blocking her escape. He was so very close that she could feel his breath on her face. Directly in her line of vision was his mouth. Feeling her cheeks grow exceedingly warm, she dropped her eyes to his neckcloth.

"Stop it!" she hissed.

He only bent closer, his mouth inches from hers. "Or what, my love? You'll scream for your Papa? I don't think so." His lips brushed hers softly, and her own parted helplessly. She found herself crushed between him and the wall—which was fortunate, for her knees immediately buckled, and it was most unlikely she could have stood up under her own power.

Even as he kissed her he knew it was exactly the wrong thing to do. He told himself, as he tasted her soft, sweet lips, that he must leave her—immediately. Then he felt her hands creep up to his chest, as though she'd push him away. Except that she didn't. Her hands rested there a moment—she must feel his heart hammering—before proceeding, hesitantly, up to his neck. The light touch upon his skin sent a tiny, delicious chill running down his spine to the very tips of his toes.

He shivered slightly and crushed her close to him, as he'd wanted to do all these long weeks. In a moment, he promised himself, he'd stop. At any rate, he hoped she'd make him stop, but she only gave a faint, surprised gasp, and melted against him. His mind grew very hazy, as though a thick fog was enveloping his brain. All that remained was sensation: her skin was like silk, and the curves of her lithe body molded naturally to his own, as though she were a part of him long missing.

His lips brushed her ear then moved to tickle the nape of her neck with soft kisses that made her tremble, but still she made no struggle. When his tongue invaded her mouth, her fingers only pressed his shoulders more tightly, as though she felt the same hunger he did. The fog thickened. It was such a warm, inviting sort of fog, and he was such a lazy, unreliable vessel that he gave himself up for lost, content to drown where he was because she was in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

The lost Trevelyan vessel might have drifted onto treacherous waters, but something awakened him to his peril. At the very edge of his consciousness, a warning bell seemed to go off. Not struggling. And where were they? In a hallway. A hallway!

He drew a ragged breath. "Alexandra, you must make me stop."

She pulled back from him a little to gaze into his eyes. In the next instant, she was smiling in the most provocative way, as her hands dropped to his coat, which she methodically began to unbutton.

"Alexandra," he gasped. "Stop it!"

She looked up at him innocently. "Or what? You'll scream for Papa? I don't think so."

Though he felt like screaming, he didn't. Instead, his hand closed firmly over hers. Damn! What on earth was wrong with him? He endeavoured to summon up some dignity. "What do you think you're doing, you wicked, wretched girl?"

She looked at his rumpled cravat and at his creased shirt and at his unbuttoned coat and answered, "Isn't that what I was supposed to do?"

"Good God, no—oh, damn it all—" He pulled her along, down the hallway and into the music room. When he'd shut the door, he burst out—though he kept his voice low—"Are you mad? In the hall? Where the servants—"

"Well, you seemed to think it all right—"

"It is not all right to undress me in public. Who ever taught you such things? Don't tell me that sneaking Farrington—"

"No," she answered indignantly. "Nobody taught me. I deduced it. From the general to the specific, you know."

"From the what?"

The words made him feel warm, dangerously warm, again. Her hand was still in his, and he wanted that slender, provocative body close again. Her curls, in great disorder now, fell about her face, and he wanted, so much, to disorder her a great deal more. That was insane. No, it wasn't. He was lost, quite lost, and there was no point pretending that anything else—his freedom, the pleasures he'd fantasised about for three years—mattered. There was no peace for him without her—but what could he say? What would she believe, knowing him as she did?

While he struggled to collect his scattered wits, she'd evidently gathered hers. She was replying, and quite composedly, too, "Well, there you were, you know, set on amusing yourself with me again. So I thought I'd use the opportunity."

"Use the opportunity?" he echoed stupidly, wondering at the icy chill that suddenly replaced all that cozy warmth.

"Why, yes. For practise." Smoothly she disengaged her hand from his. She smiled—the same pitying smile she'd given him a few days ago, when they'd put on that performance for her father. "For my husband," she explained. Then she laughed...and left him.

As he stared after her at the empty doorway, a great clattering started up in his brain. She could not mean, really— not another man tasting those kisses, touching her. No, it was impossible. It was wicked, and cruel. Practising for her husband—on him—he'd kill her. No, he'd teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget—but there was Randolph, and Arden, and a thousand other men. She couldn't be so stupid, to throw herself away—and yet she knew him too well—amusing himself. But he wasn't. He wasn't. Through it all, as his brain leapt from one half notion to the next, he could still feel her touch, still feel the aching need that had gripped him as her fingers tugged at the buttons of his coat.

He stood there, frozen, for what seemed like hours, his mind chu

rning. Then, drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he rebuttoned his coat and left the room.

Chapter Thirteen

Alexandra was crouched down outside library door when heard footsteps. Hastily she preparing a plausible explanation for crawling about on the carpet. Oh, Lord. It was him, again. Her pulse began to race. In answer to his quizzical look, she said, "I was looking for my hairpins."

He stared at her tousled curls, then down at the carpet and back at her hair. "I'll help you," he said quietly.

"No—"