Jennifer Haymore Page 3

  Sudden tears pricked her eyes. “I had to leave England,” she whispered, turning her face away so he wouldn’t see her expression, the hurt that was certainly clearly etched all over her face.

  “Oh, and why was that?”

  Because she’d been unable to face him. Because she’d been a coward. “I had to…to leave you. I couldn’t…I had no choice.”

  “Why?” he snapped.

  “You…you took my innocence—you took everything from me, and I would have given you even more. You used my body, but you gave nothing in return. You wanted only one thing from me.”

  He slapped his fingers one by one. “I offered you jewelry. Clothes. Trinkets. I told you I would look into obtaining a house so we could have—”

  A strangled sob erupted from her chest. And then the words, long bottled inside her, burst free. “I never wanted to be your mistress. I never wanted your money. I wanted you. Only you! And that was something I could never, ever have.”

  For a long moment, they stared mutely at each other.

  Confusion, distrust, anger, and other emotions she couldn’t name raged across his face. Finally he spoke, and his voice was so soft she could hardly hear. “You had me. You knew that.”

  She shook her head, regarding him sadly. “No, Dev. I had nothing.”

  “What do you mean? I would have given you everything, everything that was mine.”

  Except his name. Except a promise to stand by her side until death parted them. Except a vow of never-ending love. Pain rent her heart, sending fissures along its brittle surface, and she gasped from the pain of the newly opened wound. A mere push from him would shatter her into a thousand pieces.

  It was her own fault. She should have fought to the death before allowing him to touch her. Here he was again, trying to make her his mistress, and just as he had a year ago, he failed to see the depth of hurt it caused her.

  “Not everything that was yours,” she whispered. “I am too far beneath you.”

  “Beneath me?” he sputtered. “What are you talking about?”

  “You are a knight. I am the penniless daughter of an impoverished gentleman.” She stepped forward, swallowed, took a deep breath. All of a sudden, she wanted so badly to make him understand. “I loved you, Devlin. Don’t you see? I loved you. But you did not love me in return. You wanted my body. You used me. I gave you my innocence, and then you tried to pay me with trinkets. You molded me into your mistress. And…I”—her voice cracked as she spoke the words she’d thought so often but never said aloud—“I can’t…I can’t be anyone’s mistress. Even…yours.”

  He stared at her, complete bewilderment on his face.

  “What will happen when I grow old and you find another, prettier face? What will happen when you decide it’s time for you to marry and produce heirs? You will leave me. You will break my heart. You will kill me. I had to leave. I had to be strong for once in my life. I had to save myself from you.”

  “Julia—”

  She stared at him through blurring eyes. “I want to be better than that. I might not be an heiress or the daughter of a peer. I might not have a large dowry. But I wanted…so badly…to be more…”

  His features were still tense, but his voice lowered. He sounded almost bereft. “What are you saying? You went to the Continent to play the mistress to men more powerful than me. You wish to be a courtesan, auctioned off to the highest bidder?”

  She wrapped her arms around her aching chest. She knew Viscount Clayton had spread these horrible lies, but it still hurt so much that Dev could think such things of her after all they had shared. “I thought you knew me,” she whispered. “You’re the only one, Devlin. First and only.”

  He stared at her for a long, aching moment, mouth agape. Then he blinked and his face turned granite hard.

  “You’re a liar.” He spun around, grabbed the lantern and left her alone in the dark, slamming the door behind him.

  A key turned. He had locked her in.

  Chapter Three

  The stables were cold and dark, but as if he sensed his master’s mood, Midnight stood wide awake in his stall, stomping his feet and blowing harsh clouds of breath from his nose. Devlin saddled him in silence and led him out to the front gate. Patting Midnight’s black mane, he murmured, “I wish I could give you your head, but this is London, boy. We will have to make do.”

  He rode Midnight down the dark paths of Hyde Park, ignoring the nighttime vagrants who faded in and out of the shadows.

  You’re the only one, Devlin. First and only.

  Julia was lying. She had to be. Devlin might have been the first, but he certainly wasn’t the only. He knew what she’d done. Everyone in London had heard of her exploits in France.

  Still, his mind reeled.

  A year ago, he’d thought they were of the same mind about their relationship. They were happy together. They were in love. She had seemed content with their arrangement. Then she had left him without explanation, and his world had fallen apart.

  In that confused, wounded state, it was easy for him to believe everything Clayton had told him. She had left Devlin because he hadn’t given her enough. Clayton offered her a thousand pounds and a house in Paris, and it still wasn’t enough. She was greedy. She wanted more.

  But…perhaps not. He remembered her eyes tonight, shining with unshed tears. The furrows in her brow his fingers had ached to smooth.

  A blast of cold air penetrated his clothes, and Devlin cringed. When they were together, he’d never thought of her as a mistress. He’d thought of her as his precious jewel, his shining light. Learning her true nature was such a harsh blow it had nearly driven him mad. How could he have been so wrong about her?

  But the look of naked pain on her face tonight had sent chills down his spine. She’d told him he was her first, her only. That she’d loved him, that he had the power to break her heart.

  Ultimately, she claimed Devlin had been the one to turn her into a whore.

  Had he?

  Midnight’s hooves clopped on the hard-packed dirt path, and Devlin thought back on their weekly rendezvous—how he’d told her when and where to come to him, how he’d tumble her and then allow his busy, monotonous life to get in the way. He regretted always having to leave her, so he made sure to leave all those small tokens of his affection. The baubles were hardly adequate considering the magnitude of his feelings for her, but he’d wanted to make some gesture to apologize for their too-brief encounters. To show her that he cared for her; that he thought about her often when they were apart.

  He’d never spoken of the future, except when he’d mentioned buying a house so they could have a place where they could be together. He’d even thought of moving her into his own house, but he’d assumed she wouldn’t want that—that she’d prefer discretion.

  Ultimately, though, he’d never done anything to ensure her long-term happiness. He’d never asked her if she was satisfied with the arrangement, if he was giving her what she needed. He’d just assumed he was, assumed that she was experiencing the same simple contentment that he was from their liaisons.

  He’d failed to consider the fact that she possessed a woman’s mind: complex, confusing, and completely beyond his understanding.

  As Midnight rounded the path adjacent to the Serpentine, Devlin saw their liaison from Julia’s point of view for the first time. Before she’d known him, she’d been innocent. He had taken her, seduced her, and molded her into his mistress. He had ruined her, used her, and then expected her to want to remain with him.

  He’d treated her worse than most men of his class treated their mistresses. Whatever had happened between her and Clayton, he’d inadvertently driven her to it.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered to the cold sky. It returned his stare with utter blackness, not a star to be seen to light his way.

  Still, the revelations of this night didn’t take away what she’d done to him. How could he forgive her for leaving him for Clayton? How could he forgive her
for the scene at the opera, when she’d blatantly, brutally cut him in front of hundreds of people only to climb willingly into that bastard’s carriage?

  After that, how could he possibly believe he was the only one?

  And tonight he’d literally kidnapped her and locked her in his home. How the hell could he make her believe his intentions had once been honorable? That he’d loved her once…that a part of him still loved her, in spite of what she’d done?

  Honorable. He gave a small, self-deprecating snort. Had his intentions been honorable? He had never considered honorable intentions in regards to Julia before this moment.

  Still, there was nothing dishonorable about the way he’d felt about her.

  He turned Midnight toward home. And though it struck a deadly, sick fear into him, he realized there was only one thing he could do—tell her.

  In the dim first light of dawn, Devlin returned to the stables and brushed down his horse before going into the house, up the stairs and quietly unlocking her door and slipping inside.

  Through the gap in the bed curtains, he saw that she lay asleep, curled into a ball on her side. The sheer size of the pillows and blankets towering around her made her appear small and fragile. In the muted light, her eyelashes and brows were dark slashes against the pale skin of her face. Her lips were parted slightly in sleep. One bare arm showed above the blankets, her skin creamy and pure, marked only by the thin sleeve of her chemise. Devlin’s pulse quickened.

  Slowly, he removed his clothes and piled them on the floor. When he had stripped down to his shirt, he went to the bed and looked down at her again.

  Devlin was accustomed to getting what he wanted with a simple command. He had never understood the intricacies of women. But now, he wanted to decipher the inner workings of Julia’s mind—what had made her leave him then pursue the life she’d led for the past year. He wanted to know whether she had lied to him—and if so, why.

  He looked down upon her fair face, the face he’d once taken for granted. The face he’d depended on seeing once a week during their liaisons. He really hadn’t realized how much he needed her until she was gone.

  She deserved more than he had given. Now was the time to show her, to tell her. His throat was thick and dry, but he pushed it out anyhow.

  “I love you, Julia.”

  The words came out as a whisper, husky and low. She rolled away from him, still asleep. Sighing, he sat on the edge of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress and jostling her. She turned her head toward him, her eyes opening slowly, heavy with sleep, and then they widened as they focused on him.

  He slid under the covers, gathered her in his arms, and pulled her against him. She stiffened.

  “Julia, I’m sorry.”

  But he could not force out the words “I love you” again. Just saying he was sorry was damned difficult. And the suspicious narrowing of her eyes scared him, strengthened those shields he used to protect himself. What if he sounded foolish or insincere? What if she laughed at him or didn’t believe him? What if she said it was too late? What if she had been lying about Clayton and her exploits on the Continent?

  He groaned aloud, knowing that his cowardice and suspicious pride could ruin everything.

  But Julia’s warm, sleep-heavy body was pressed against him, her breasts soft mounds against his chest. To wake up every morning with her sweet body pressed against him like this—it would be heaven.

  Devlin rolled her to her back and kissed her. She didn’t resist—whether it was because she was still half asleep or more accepting of her fate, he didn’t know. But he took full advantage, tasting her soft, compliant mouth, exploring with his lips and tongue. He’d always loved her lips—they were bow-shaped and cherry pink, a pretty contrast to her pale skin. Taking her plump lower lip between his teeth, he tugged gently and then let her go.

  He looked at her face. Her expression was absolutely unreadable. Lust, love, anger, confusion? A combination of all of those things? He couldn’t be sure.

  This morning was for her pleasure, not his. This morning was for him to show her what she meant to him; how important she was to him. Despite the need thrumming through his body, the urge to take her hard and fast, to claim and mark her, he would focus on bringing her pleasure. For once, he would give instead of take.

  “Let me love you, Julia.”

  She didn’t answer, just gazed up at him with those lovely midnight blue eyes. But some part of him knew she wouldn’t stop it this time.

  He moved down her body, tugging up her chemise until her breasts were exposed. He licked one creamy slope until her nipple caught his tongue. Already taut, it hardened into a firm point as he drew it between his lips. Julia moaned. Her fingers twined in his hair, and he curled his hand around her other breast, squeezing gently.

  She had beautiful breasts, small but plump. He rubbed his thumb over the nipple, and her body jerked in response. She was always sensitive here. Gently, he flattened his tongue over the tight bud to soothe any ache he might have caused with his suction.

  Balancing himself on one forearm, he moved his hand down her body in a gentle, light stroke. She made a little squeak and her body convulsed as his fingers slid between her legs, but he pressed lower to tease her opening. He nearly smiled as she arched her body up against his hand, warm and hot and slick and ready for him.

  Yes. Another thing that made her so special. She was always ready for him. Always.

  He circled, brushed, and teased her, watching her beautiful body arch, squirm, become pliant under his touch. She gasped, her legs opened wider to give him better access, and she wiggled against him with every stroke of his fingers.

  “Beautiful Jewel,” he murmured, watching her face, her tightly closed eyes, her cheekbones splashed with streaks of crimson, her lips parted and releasing short gasps of air.

  The slick heat of her tight passage made him wild with the desire to thrust deep into her. To feel her channel contracting and pulsing around him…

  No! He nearly shouted it. Not now. Not until she asked for it, not until he knew for certain that she wanted him again.

  Instead he stroked her, watching her tight features relax as she transformed with arousal. The firm press of his hand, the slide of his fingers through her heat, her mewling sounds, her thrashing body. The base of his spine was on fire with need. He ground his teeth, tangled his fingers in her hair, and fought it.

  Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

  He stroked Julia until her teeth clenched, her muscles grew stiff, and her limbs straightened. He kissed her, licked the shell of her ear and finally pushed his head into the pillow, using all his willpower to prevent himself from letting go and taking her. He felt her body, from toes to face, grow rigid. Then, with a throaty cry, she came, her body undulating in slow, deep pulses beneath him.

  As soon as she began to flutter under his hand, he buried his face in her hair and held her tight against him as his own release surprised him. His body bowed with the force of it, and he came powerfully, his seed flowing onto her hip. His body shuddered with spasms, becoming open and vulnerable.

  I love you, Julia, he thought as he slumped down beside her.

  Damn it to hell. He still couldn’t say it.

  He loved this woman. He would make her his, all his, no matter what it took. But how could he control whether she loved him back? How could he risk his pride if she didn’t return his feelings?

  How could he risk her leaving again, like she’d left him at the opera?

  He took her into his arms and held her until her body relaxed and returned to slumber. Just as the morning glow began to edge past the boards nailed to the window, he went downstairs to wait for the inevitable.

  * * *

  Devlin sat stiffly in his breakfast room. Sunlight had somehow managed to pierce the fog and now cut through the opening in the curtains and glared across his chestnut table, blinding him. Whittle served him breakfast, but Devlin just moved the food around on the plate.

  T
his morning, when Julia had looked at him after he’d made her come, the wariness had not disappeared from her eyes. She didn’t trust him, would probably never trust him again. And he couldn’t blame her.

  His stomach compressed into a hard, tight ball. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, but it tasted bitter and scorched his throat. Stabbing a piece of ham, he rammed it into his mouth and moved his jaw. Chewing leather would be as satisfying.

  Someone rapped on his front door.

  He knew who it was—Julia’s male companions from the previous evening, come to search for her, to demand her release, to save her. It had certainly taken them long enough. Clenching his fists on the table, he raised his head and met Whittle’s questioning gaze.

  “Open it,” he growled. “And invite them in for coffee.”

  Whittle disappeared only to return moments later, leading the two men from the night before. Devlin looked at them more closely than he had last night. One was thin and of average height, the other stocky and short. Both were dressed quite well and, strangely enough, in matching fabrics.

  He rose to greet them politely. Last night he’d been furious and out of control, but today he had Julia under his roof and he was feeling far calmer. Today, they’d see the disciplined, polite side of Sir Devlin Vaughn. “Good morning, gentlemen. Please take a seat. I’m sorry to say my cook isn’t in residence at the moment, so all I can offer is coffee.”

  The men hovered at the door. Then the taller—a blond-haired chap—walked haltingly inside. “Where’s Julia?” he asked, clearly trying to sound authoritative, yet his gaze flicked nervously around the room.

  “She’s upstairs.” Devlin kept his voice mild, though the fact that this man called Julia by her first name rankled. “Sleeping.”

  The stocky man moved beside the blond-haired man, standing just a hair closer to him than would have been completely proper. “Bring her to us, sir, and we will be on our way.”

  Again, Devlin looked them over. They were well mannered and dressed like true London dandies, yet they didn’t possess the demeanor of men he’d expect to engage in a ménage a trois with a high-priced courtesan. Remembering that looks could deceive and knowing he had no reason in hell to trust either of these fops, Devlin shook his head. “I don’t think so.”