There wasn’t. She moved carefully along the entire wall, but there was no opening at all. She started up the side wall, being careful not to trample any of the early flowers, sliding between the wall and shrubbery in case the door was hidden by an artful display, until she reached the back of the house. Nothing on that side—just the high brick wall.
Avoiding the house, she moved along the opposite wall. Who would design a garden with no egress or entrance? But there was nothing, nothing at all. She was trapped.
She wasn’t going to give up that easily. There were trees, young ones, since the house was new, but long ago she’d been adept at climbing. Nanny Gruen had moaned more than once about her torn skirts and scratched arms.
With more half-blind experimentation she found a tree she decided would do. The branches were low enough, and even if they weren’t terribly thick, the tree was young enough and sturdy. If she could just make it to the top of the wall she could drop down on the other side without much difficulty.
She hadn’t counted on her skirts. It had been many years since she’d climbed a tree, and she was only partway up when her petticoats caught on something and wouldn’t let go. She yanked as hard as she could—they could rip for all she cared, as long as she could continue her ascent. The walls were a good ten feet tall and very thick, and the tree was a foot or so away. She needed to get up high enough that she could swing over to the top of the wall, which had a wedged top rather than a nice flat surface, damn it. If she landed she might go tumbling over anyway, and falling without being prepared could lead to problems.
The tears had stopped—even though the fog had thickened to an almost-impenetrable layer, it seemed to have ceased bothering her eyes as she concentrated on the problem—and she wiped the last of the moisture from her face with the hem of her dress. A lady never went out without a handkerchief. Then again, a lady never crept out in the middle of the night wearing a maid’s shoes.
The petticoats were refusing to budge. She reached down with one tentative foot, trying to see what was holding her, and her shoe fell off, into the darkness below.
Sophie froze, wanting to weep. Then again, if she were honest with herself she’d already wept, hadn’t she? Why did she keep lying to herself? What good did it do? She was stuck up in a tree, with one shoe gone. She couldn’t free her petticoat, she couldn’t climb higher, and chances were she’d break her leg if she managed to jump down on the other side.
She couldn’t climb down either and regain the missing shoe—the petticoats were holding her prisoner. She tried to reach under her skirts, to untie the tapes that held them, but she started to lose her grip on the tree. She was standing on one weak branch, clinging to the slender trunk, and she leaned her head against the bark wearily.
She didn’t even hear him approach, but then, for all she knew he’d been in the garden the entire time. “Has Cinderella lost her slipper?” Alexander said softly from directly beneath her.
For the first time she was feeling entirely defeated. She had done everything she could, and nothing was working out. “Go away,” she said miserably. “You were supposed to be asleep.”
“You were supposed to think that,” he replied steadily. “You’d best come down. You’d never make it across to the wall, and I’m afraid the other side is a drainage ditch full of very unpleasant water.”
Blast. She was well and truly trapped. “I can’t get down,” she said, trying not to sound like a complete fool. “My petticoats are caught in the bushes.”
“Allow me.” She felt a tug on her skirts, a moment of freedom, and then another hard tug that had her falling directly into his arms.
He caught her, amazingly enough, not even staggering beneath her weight. “You may as well give up, Sophie. I’m going to do the right thing whether you like it or not.”
Those were the last words she wanted to hear. “What kind of idiot puts a walled garden in the back of his house and then doesn’t put a door in it?” she said, knowing she sounded peevish and not caring.
“One who’s careful about letting stray people in. Or out, in this case.” He was still holding her. She couldn’t see anything in the darkness but the gleam of his dark eyes, and she couldn’t read much from his voice. Was he angry? As weary as she was?
“You can put me down now,” she said in a small voice.
“I could,” he allowed. “But I don’t think I will. God, you feel even lighter than before. You barely ate enough to keep a bird alive today. Are you planning some kind of hunger strike to get out of marrying me?”
“I haven’t been hungry. Please put me down.”
“No.” He was moving through the foggy darkness with the surety of a man who knew exactly where everything was. She hoped he got smacked in the face by a branch, but he didn’t even brush against any of the foliage. She still had only the one shoe on, and she doubted he’d rescued the other. She was back where she’d started.
Or worse. She was in the arms of a man determined to do his duty, and she didn’t want his duty or his honor. She wanted love. His love. And she would never have it.
He kicked the door open, and she realized that despite his light words he was angry. Very angry. He moved through the darkened house at a reasonable pace, but she could feel the tension rippling through his body. He was wearing only a loose white shirt and trousers, and it was too thin a barrier between her face and his flesh. It didn’t matter. She was tired of fighting—she’d done her best to free him from his damned obligation, and tomorrow she would rise and fight some more. But for now all she wanted to do was put her head on his shoulder, her face in his neck, breathe in the scent of him for one last time.
She wanted to rub her cheek against the soft linen of the shirt, but at least she resisted that temptation. If he was surprised by her sudden acquiescence he didn’t show it, moving up the flights of stairs at a steady pace.
The cool, clean scent of his skin was so seductive, and she knew she was lost. She was going to let him make love to her. The damage had been done, and she deserved one last night of pleasure, one night with the man she longed for and wouldn’t have. In the darkness there was just the two of them, and she could feel his heart beat beneath her, feel her own rapid one. He was going to carry her to his bed and strip off her clothes and send her soaring. And then he would hold her, and kiss her, and she would tell him what she wouldn’t tell herself, tell him that she loved him. If he would only hold her. She needed to wake up in his arms, to know he would be there. But he wouldn’t.
They reached the third floor, and her heartbeat picked up, hammering against her rib cage. Her pulses were racing, and she held her breath as he reached the door to his bedroom.
And passed it. Moving on into her room, he kicked open the door and dropped her on the bed. “I presume you’re not going to be tiresome and try this again,” he said in that cool, ironic voice of his. “Otherwise I’ll take you to my room and tie you to the bedpost.”
Yes, please, she thought mournfully. “I won’t try to leave.” Her voice was lifeless. He didn’t want her. It was duty and nothing else.
He glanced at the adjoining door and saw the chair wedged under the handle. “That was a wise precaution on your part, my sweet. I have only a limited amount of self-restraint and you’re testing it.”
He left without another word, slamming the door behind him. It bounced open again—when he’d kicked it he’d managed to break the catch. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She threw herself back on the bed in misery and stared up at the ceiling.
She could hear him in the next room, cursing. Things were being slammed around, and she winced at each thud and crash. What had made him so angry? He’d brought her back, she’d promised not to leave, he’d gotten what he wanted. Hadn’t he?
She sat up and looked at the adjoining door and the chair wedged beneath it. One of those thuds had been against that door, and the chair had shuddered beneath it. What had he thrown? Or hit? What was he doing?
She cli
mbed down off the bed and carefully removed the chair, but the noise next door had subsided.
The dark lavender dress was miserable to get out of—it had been made for her when she still had her own maid, and if Doris was busy then Maddy would fasten her. It had taken her too long to get dressed earlier, and getting out of the blasted thing was torture. She yanked at it, and heard the buttons pop and roll across the room. The fabric was too new to rip, but the buttons were enough, and she shoved it down, unfastening her petticoats at the same time, stepping out of the annoying pile and kicking it.
She hadn’t bothered with her corset—the idea of escaping had been difficult enough. Stripping off her garters and stockings, she was left standing in her shift and bloomers and nothing else. She couldn’t quite bring herself to remove the bloomers, but she could practically see her breasts through the thin cambric.
She took her hair out of the bun, shaking it free, then looked at herself in the mirror. The room was almost dark, and the creature who looked back at her was a stranger, a beautiful, wild, and wanton stranger. Her mouth curved in a smile, a wicked smile. She was tired of thinking, tired of games, tired of pretending. One last night. If the worst happened and he managed to drag her to the altar she could simply say “I don’t,” and no cleric in the country would marry them.
But that was tomorrow, not tonight. Tonight she would break one more rule. She would go to him, because she loved him, the rat bastard. If he let her.
She half expected the door to be locked between their rooms. But it opened easily enough, with no betraying noise. The gaslight had been turned off, but there was a lamp in the room, sending out a small pool of light, and she wondered whether he was asleep. She pushed the door open all the way, until it hit something, and she stepped into the room.
There was a large book on the floor, which had clearly been thrown against the door. He was lying on the bed, in the thin drawers that he swam in, and there was a book on his lap, but his eyes were on her, dark and intense.
“I promised I wouldn’t run tonight,” she said, her voice shaking a bit. “And I always keep my promises. But I’m afraid I’m having a hard time keeping that promise. You’re going to have to tie me to the bedpost after all.”
Slowly Alexander closed his book.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SHE WAS THERE. SOPHIE was really there, standing in his bedroom wearing nothing but her shift and bloomers. Even in the shadows Alexander could tell that much. Her blond hair cascaded down her back; her dark blue eyes were huge, luminous. Nervous. She had actually come to him.
“Is this some kind of trick?” he said warily. “Are you planning to knock me over the head with something?”
She took a step closer, shaking her head. “You’re too tall for me to reach. I suppose, if you really want me to, you could always bend down and I could find something to hit you with.” There was just the tiniest tremor in her voice as she tried to sound nonchalant. His darling Sophie, dressed in almost nothing, coming to his bed of her own accord, and she wanted to sound casual. God, he loved her.
“I think not,” he said in a relatively normal voice, considering how relieved he was. “I’d rather have all my faculties when I’m with you.” He climbed off the bed, moving toward her. The room was littered with the things he’d thrown in a frustrated fury. He’d decided to let her go. If she hated the idea of being with him that much, if she was willing to risk the damage to her reputation, then holding on to her was wrong. No matter how much he wanted, needed her. Loved her.
But she was here. On her own. Watching him warily.
She cleared her throat. “What were you reading?”
He controlled his instinctive laugh. “So we’re going to discuss literature, are we? Is that why you came to my room?”
“We can do anything you want.”
His heart stopped, and then started again, a slow, hard pounding that he could feel through his body, his blood pumping through him, filling him. “You know, the idea of tying you up is absolutely irresistible, my love, but I think we need to wait till later for that kind of play. We still haven’t enjoyed all the basics.”
Her gorgeous forehead wrinkled in confusion and she didn’t understand what in the world he was talking about. It didn’t matter. If she wanted, he could teach her, but there was no need—just looking at her fulfilled his most erotic fantasies.
He stopped a few feet short of her. He was wearing his smalls and nothing else, and they left nothing to the imagination, including his fierce reaction to her presence. She glanced at him, her cheeks reddened, and she looked up, keeping her gaze focused on his shoulder.
“Come here, Sophie,” he said softly. He’d moved around to the other side of the bed. All she had to do was take two steps and he would lay her down amidst the sheets and coverlets and devour her.
There was only a second of hesitation. She came to him, willingly, lifting her face to his, and he bent and put his mouth on hers.
God, she tasted sweet, so sweet, as her arms went up around his neck and she moved against him, her body soft, her nipples hard. She opened her mouth for his tongue, and he tasted every part of her, coaxing her to kiss him back. The feel of her small tongue in his mouth was beyond pleasure.
But he wanted far more. He needed to take his time with her, and he would. He would make love to her, with her, he would tup her, shag her, fuck her. He would give her everything and take everything in return.
He broke the kiss, and she was out of breath, panting slightly. “You have to remember to breathe, love,” he whispered.
“I just need practice.”
Did she say that to make him happy? It didn’t matter. He caught her waist in his hands and turned her back toward the bed. “I think you need to lie down for this.”
She looked worried. “For what? Will it hurt?”
“Stage two in your realm of experience, my love. And it won’t hurt at all.” He pushed her down on the mattress, her legs hanging over the edge, and reached beneath her shift to the tapes that held her drawers together. They were loosely tied, and as he pulled them down she didn’t protest, but her body was tense, worried.
He knew just how to relax her. He parted her legs, and before she knew what he’d planned he’d put his mouth between them.
She gasped in shock. “Oh, no, you mustn’t . . . you shouldn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as he reached the spot that was the center of women’s passion, his tongue teasing it, and she gasped, her hands no longer pushing him away, her fingers on his shoulders, clinging to him. Slowly she loosened her tight grip, slipping her fingers up to run them through his hair, a shy caress, holding him to her, accepting him.
If her mouth was sweet then this was ambrosia. He loved the taste of women, the smell of them, the way they reacted. This was different—somehow it seemed as if all his experience had been leading to her. He’d learned how to pleasure women just so he could pleasure her, take her, give her everything she ever wanted and more.
His fingers parted her, another indignity that made her jerk against his mouth, and he slid a finger inside her tight sheath, so wet, so ready. He used his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, sucking at her, licking her, biting her with sharp little nibbles that made her gasp in delight. Her hands were no longer gentle on his scalp; she was pulling at his hair, making the most delicious sounds of need, like please and more and yes. He wanted more; he wanted to spend hours with his mouth on her, but when he slid two fingers inside her she climaxed, arching off the bed with a scream. She tried to cover her mouth, to still the sound, but he managed to catch her hands.
“Let it come,” he whispered. “Scream as loud as you can.” He slid his fingers through her wetness, up to the top, rubbing her, and watched her as everything left her and she did scream, a hoarse, sobbing sound of such wild pleasure that he could have come from watching her.
He pushed her up on the bed, following her and wrapping her in his arms as she shuddered and trembled, errant stray convulsions stil
l rippling through her. She hid her face against him now, suddenly shy, and he smiled when she couldn’t see it. Mine, he thought. He’d claimed her, and he would never let her go. Mine.
Sophie lay wrapped in his arms, her face tucked against his chest, her entire body shaken. It was too much; it was not enough, and she was too embarrassed to let him see her face. She’d lost control completely; she’d screamed. It didn’t matter that he’d told her to. She’d lost every bit of restraint she’d ever had, exploding with a frightening kind of ecstasy, and now she just wanted to hide her face against him.
He wasn’t going to let her. He’d wrapped his body around her, and she could feel his erection jutting against her, hard as iron. Why had he done such a strange and indecent thing to her? Why had it felt so overwhelmingly wonderful?
She was beginning to catch her breath, though her heart was still beating like mad, and she finally felt brave enough to turn her head and look up at him. He was leaning back against the pillows, stroking her hair, and there was a smile on his face. The one she loved, the one without mockery.
“Why did you do that?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized it, and she could have died of shame. It was bad enough that he’d done it, and she’d responded the way she had; talking about it made it even worse.
His smile widened, and she felt something clutch at her heart. “Because I knew you would like it. And because I like it.”
“You do?”
He kissed her forehead. “Oh, yes. It’s one of my favorite things to do. You’ll have to get used to it.”
The thought of him doing it again, and often, made her shiver. “It gives you pleasure?”
He kissed her mouth, and she could taste herself on it. It was strange, erotic, and she wanted to hide in the darkness again. “It gives me great pleasure,” he said, his voice rumbling in his chest.