Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(71)

“My lady?” A hint of bewilderment touched his voice.

“No,” Kate repeated, her tone subdued, “we won’t be needing your services any longer tonight.”

Ned didn’t contradict her. Instead, he leaned against the drawing room door and watched as the footmen departed. After they were alone, he pushed off the wall and wandered into the parlor. A low fire flickered in the grate, but gave off barely a glow. Ned made no move to take a candelabra with him, or to light the oil lamps.

It would be a mistake to think he was pushing her away. No; he was holding her as close as he dared. But she wanted him to dare more. Kate held her breath and waited.

He seemed nothing but a silhouette to her, his back lit by the gleaming lamp in the hall beyond. She almost couldn’t fit his features to the shape of his profile; the sharp line of his nose, the stubborn jut of his chin. The silence seemed smoky with possibility.

“Well?” he finally said. “I thought you wanted to pose some questions. Is there anything you should like to know?”

“I thought you didn’t want to answer me.”

“I don’t.” His breath hissed out, a faint approximation of a chuckle. “So I’ll do it. Lovely how that works, isn’t it?”

There were a thousand things she might have asked him. When did this “thing” come? How had it started? Was there anything to be done about it, besides accept his suffering? But in the darkness and the silence, nothing mattered except one small detail.

“Will you not let me help because you think I’m not capable of it? Because you think I’ll break if you lean on me?”

He shook his head. “Kate,” he said quietly, “you are the most indomitable woman I know.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Really. If you were tossed in a den of lions, you would order them to sweep the bones of the lambs they’d devoured for breakfast out into the refuse pile—and they would not dare disobey. If you were abandoned in a wilderness, you’d rebuild ancient Rome, from the humblest fountain to all its marble halls. And you’d do it using your bare hands, and perhaps a pocketknife for assistance.”

“I have no interest in being left in the wilderness, Ned. If I’m as capable as you keep saying, why don’t you trust me to help?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. And now the silence preyed upon her, resurrecting old doubts, older hurts.

He’d been lying. All those fine words about lions and Rome and indomitability—they’d been tales, spun to comfort her.

Kate didn’t want comfort, and she didn’t particularly care for lies. Not now.

“Ah,” he finally said in tones of amusement. “I suppose…I suppose that some of it is what jealousy looks like.”

“Jealousy?”

“I told you men were beasts. Do you want to know how unworthy I really am?” He turned to her quietly; she took a step back. Her backside hit a sharp edge—her hands splayed out behind her onto polished wood. She’d bumped a table, just above her hips in height.

“Jealousy? But—”

He straightened and moved toward her. She could not see his features, but his shoulders were held rigidly as he walked. He seemed a tall blaze of smoldering emotion. And he was coming closer. She swallowed.

“Calm and control come so easily to you. Even when you’re most upset, you’re always in control.” Those words, from another man, might have sounded harsh and embittered. From Ned, they felt like a caress.

Kate leaned back against the table. It wiggled lightly, and she heard some ceramic object—a vase set upon it, perhaps—rock, but there was no escape from his intensity. She folded her arms about herself, but the gesture offered scant protection.

“I’m jealous,” he continued, “of the way that you let nothing stop you—not fear, not even marauding, brutish husbands. If you’d found yourself bebothered by some odd thing, you’d never stay in bed. You would face it calmly and matter-of-factly, and then simply vanquish it with a shake of your head. If you wanted to prove yourself, you’d never have run off to China to do it.” His fingers brushed her cheek.

He was towering over her now, the heat of his thighs radiating into her legs.

“I’m jealous,” he whispered, “of every breath that enters your lungs through your lips.” He was so close, she could almost taste his words, wafting to her on the wind. “It’s utterly unfair that you should be so self-possessed, when I am desperate to possess you for my own.”

Kate’s breath sucked in. “That… Actually, that can be arranged.”

He set his hands on her hips. “How many petticoats are you wearing tonight?”

“Five.”

He leaned down to her. “I hate them all.” He held her, his hands clamped about her waist, his body canting over hers.

“Take them off,” she suggested.

His fingers cut into her flesh through all five of her hated, useless petticoats. Then he lifted her a few inches into the air and deposited her atop the polished table behind her. It creaked as she settled onto it, but subsided into silence. “No,” he said. “It would take too long. I’ll get used to the jealousy.”

He pressed against her, his body hard and demanding. He parted her legs, his hands sliding up to her knees. She felt a momentary breeze against her thighs—and then he stepped into that space. His fingers slipped upward. She couldn’t see his hands to anticipate where they would fall. The touch on her thigh came as a tickling surprise. He leaned down and nuzzled her ear. Oh, yes, the ear; sensation blossomed and she let him possess her.