Chapter Four

As George lay with Caroline's head on his heart, he listened to the sound of her breathing, the flow of it soft against his skin. It struck him as a particular kind of privilege to see her in these rare, unguarded moments. When she was in his arms in this way, she was nothing more than Caroline Spenser, and he was nothing more than George Comerford, and they were nothing more than the sum of their time together.

"In passion's embrace, all boundaries fade," he said against the silk of her hair. "As souls entwine beneath the starry glade, No earthly tether can restrain its flight, For passion knows no bounds, no end in sight."

She stirred sleepily, and he felt her cheek curve against him. "Where did you read that?"

"Now that would be telling." He ran his fingers down her plump arm, tossed carelessly over his chest. The week had progressed from clandestine, frantic, desperate couplings to this—something frighteningly close to intimacy. "Do you like to read?"

"The only poetry I read is the kind ladies should never consume," she said, and he laughed.

"Is that where you learnt all your tricks?"

"No," she said, and twisted like a cat, her breasts pressing against his chest as she shifted to look up at him, the beginnings of a wicked, knowing smile on her mouth. "I learnt my tricks from a gentleman who frequented brothels a great deal before frequenting me. That was early in my career as a mistress."

"I should thank him."

"Oh, I have no idea where he is now," she said carelessly. "I never keep track of my former lovers."

"Am I to take it you won't keep track of me once we part?"

The smile slipped from her lips, and he regretted the question almost immediately. "When we part," she said, walking her fingers up his chest, "it shall be as though we never met."

#

Well, she was certainly behaving as though they'd never met.

He had never ascertained why she had refused to continue their relationship after Worthington Hall, but he had told himself he accepted her decision—until he saw her on the arm of another gentleman. Heat flooded him at the way Sir Percy Somerville put his hand on hers, commanding her attention with the ease of someone who knew her well. She had often been seen with him—gossip spread in London like wildfire—but he'd thought their time together had ended with Somerville's marriage.

Evidently not.

Why had she decided that Somerville was a better fit for her purpose than him? Yes, he was to be married soon, but he had thought she didn't consort with married men, and Sir Percy was certainly married.

Jealousy prickled across his skin. If their time in Worthington Hall had been any less to both their liking, he would have assumed he did not match up to her expectations. But she had shown every sign of enjoying herself. And the fact she had tossed him aside and taken up with another gentleman instead rankled.

She was not his, but by God he wanted her to be.

The thing that consumed him was not the pleasure, although he still dreamt about her curves. It was the time after, in those quiet moments between sleep. Intimacy that had him writing verse in her name and spending days wondering about the precise shade of her eyes. He still didn't think he had a word for it, and wasn't that a travesty, that nothing in the human language could adequately capture their knowing sparkle?

Yet she was now entertaining other gentlemen as she had entertained him. Falling asleep with Sir Percy in her bed and waking to his slow, ardent kisses.

The feeling inside him rose until it burned.

The first half of the opera was indeterminable. A dragging of time that seemed to last forever and yet went by in a flash of longing.

When at last the curtains closed for the intermission, Miss Browning glanced over her shoulder. As the youngest daughter of a viscount and one of the most highly sought-after ladies of the Season, she knew precisely what she was about. The only reason she had accompanied him tonight was to make her other beaus—an earl and a disastrously rich gentleman with land in Derbyshire—jealous.

From what George knew of her, she would choose the Earl.

"Lord Darlington is on his way," she said, proving him right. "Make a show of having enjoyed your time with me, then relinquish me to him." Her gaze slid meaningfully to Caroline's box.

He could hardly argue with that, just as he could hardly argue with not being the prize she wished to hook. Better they were both upfront and honest with one another.

"I wish you luck," he said, before the Earl was upon them.

After a moment of feigning interest in Miss Browning, he bowed to her request for refreshment, and left. From there, he walked the gilded corridors until finally he saw Lady Caroline on her escort's arm. As though compelled, her gaze slid to his, and hunger flashed across her eyes before she looked away. For all she had cultivated city polish—as he had, after leaving Cambridge—there was no doubting that she knew what it was to want.

"Excuse me," he heard her say to Somerville, and then she was approaching him, steps light and her brow raised. "Did you truly come to seek me out?"

"Is that what you think?"

"I think yes."

"I came for ratafia." He reached past her to take a glass. "For Miss Browning."

That was worth it to see the irritation spark in her eyes. "Is that so?" she asked. "Then forgive me for intruding."

He took the glass and held it loosely in one hand, keeping his gaze fixed rigidly on her. "Does he please you more than me?"

"Somerville?" Her laugh scraped lower, and his need for her ballooned. "Why do you ask?"

He would have her. He was a man consumed.

"Make your excuses," he said, and handed her the glass. "When the curtains rise, I'll be waiting for you."

"What makes you think I will come?" Her voice was throaty; her eyes were bright.

"Because I have bid it." He withdrew, the glass in his hand. "And because you enjoy it when I make demands of you."

"Is that so?" she murmured. Her irises were azure, no longer grey but utterly blue. Jewels, precious beyond measure. "What of the lovely Miss Browning?"

"She has as much interest in me as I do in her."

"Oh, so she is not to be your next wife?"

"No."

"A shame your outing here was for nothing."

He could not help his smile as he raised the glass to her in a toast. "It was not for nothing."

#

"I don't think I have ever seen you look so pleased with yourself," Sir Percy said as she returned to his side.

Caroline clucked her tongue, though there was an unfamiliar pit of excitement in her stomach. "Nonsense."

"Is that so." His voice was dry. "Let us both leave after the interval, if you are intending to abandon me in my box. I had rather not have my wife see another lady leave me."

"Darling," she said as they entered the box. "I would never be so cruel."

"Are you about to do something foolish?"

Yes .

Her affairs were, on occasion, fun. Even if the gentlemen in question were bores, she often could coax them into pleasing her in bed.

But George was not a bore, and although he was eager to learn, he needed very little coaxing. In an alarming turn of events, she found she enjoyed conversation with him.

Horrifying. Distressing.

Oddly addictive.

"I always do foolish things," she said. "But would you rather I stayed?"

Sir Percy shook his head. "No. Enjoy your time with your young lover; I will retire to bed. Will you have a means of getting home?"

George would likely take her home himself. Or she would find another method of leaving. "I expect so."

"Try not to be too foolish, my dear," he said, patting her hand with a fondness that verged on exasperation.

Understandable.

Usually, she had a mode of conduct that she adhered to. Although she was known for her many affairs, she did not behave like a bawdy whore in public places.

After all, part of her reputation—and the reason most hostesses still invited her, although Almack's was beyond her reach—was that she knew how to be discreet. And yet here she was, considering an assignation in the opera house of all places. How positively . . .

Delicious.

As the curtain rose, Caroline looked at Cecily, who was flirting extravagantly with her nervous escort. Then she glanced back at Sir Percy's tight expression.

What a pair of peacocks.

"I shall offer you this advice just once," she said, rising to her feet and commanding, with a slight touch to his arm, that he do the same. "And I say it with love in my heart, because I wish you happy."

"This doesn't bode well," he said wryly, finally looking away from the lady who had unwittingly stolen his heart.

"Stop playing games. She may never have understood your affection, and she certainly made it clear she did not want it when you offered. That was your folly—the best thing you can do for her now is to treat her with respect. Flaunting your supposed mistress in front of her will likely make her jealous, and it is certainly apt revenge for the crimes she has committed against you, but marriage is not war, and if it is, then you should not play your battle from a position of weakness."

"Love is not weakness," he said, brackets forming on either side of his mouth.

She raised a shoulder. "As you say. But you are handing her the bullets and letting her fire the pistol, and wondering why it is that you are the only one to bleed."

"Tonight, I fired the pistol."

"And does this feel like a victory?"

At the flicker of pain in his eyes, she relented, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Try seducing her, my darling. You never know—you may find that yields better results than actions designed to increase her resentment. And you have the benefit of experience behind you. I'll wager you know more about pleasing a woman than that boy she's currently entertaining. Use that advantage."

He looked at her with an expression caught between respect and fear. "You are a holy terror."

"Thank you."

"It was not entirely a compliment," he murmured, but his lips twitched as they left the box. "Be careful with that boy of yours."

"He's not a boy."

"Passion like that can destroy a man. Believe me when I say I know."

She removed her hand from his arm. "Go home, Percy. Talk to your wife and leave me to my affairs." The bracelet slid down her arm as she raised her hand in farewell. "Good luck."

He nodded and strode in the opposite direction. Caroline watched him go for a few moments before turning and making her way along the deserted hallways that encircled the pit. The lamps cast a flickering, golden light across the opulence, and the carpet was thick underfoot, muffling her steps.

She had not gone far before a man emerged from the gloom of a box entry, his silhouette splitting from the shadows. George, fair hair brushed back, eyes sparking at the sight of her. She already knew she was making a mistake, but he was a light to her fuse, and she had handed him the matches.

There was nothing else for her to do tonight but let them burn.

"Come," was all he said as, a hand on her back, he led her to an empty antechamber. She was not an unmarried maiden; she knew precisely what would happen when the door closed behind her, and yet when George spun her around so her back was against the wood, his face a mask of shadows, she had to bite back a gasp.

"You must be quiet," he murmured. "Lest we are discovered."

"I know how to avoid discovery."

"Ah yes. I remember." His mouth descended on hers now for a blazing kiss, and she returned in kind, sliding a hand underneath his coat to his waistcoat then undoing his buttons.

Somewhere, distantly, a soprano hit an eye-watering note, and it resonated through her like a tolled bell.

"I don't like seeing you with other gentlemen," he said in a low, possessive voice. His teeth caught her lobe, not gently, and she bit her lip. "I especially don't like watching them touch you."

"You do not own me," she said, tipping her chin back.

"No? But I want to." He palmed her breast and made a pleased noise at the back of his throat. "I want to be the only man permitted to touch you here." There was a savage, primal light in his eyes, and all the words she had been meaning to say—about how he had no right to claim on her—died on her lips.

This, she liked.

This she liked very much indeed.

He ran both hands around her waist and down to her backside, squeezing her and pressing her against his erection. "It drove me half mad to watch you up there with him."

"If this is half mad, then I would gladly do it again."

"No." With one hand, he pushed up her skirts; with his other, he slid two fingers between her thighs. Her eyes closed in relief. How long had it been since someone had touched her there? Weeks—since she had returned to London from Worthington Hall at the end of April. Five weeks at least. Maybe longer. "I don't want you to see him again. Do you understand me?"

"This was not the plan," she managed.

"The plan? Do you think I planned this?" He caught the nape of her neck in his hand and dragged her in for another rough kiss. His other hand worked between her legs, plunging inside her with a roughness that only added to her pleasure. "When you ended things between us, I hadn't intended to think about you again after we parted."

"But you do?"

"I wanted to take you on the balcony at Lady Peterborough's ball," he told her, and she squirmed, breathless and wanting. "I wanted to push you against the wall and hold a hand over your mouth to stop you whimpering as I made a mess of you in front of all the other guests."

She clenched helplessly around him. "I would have let you."

"I know."

"I didn't deny you because I had no desire to—" She could not think with his finger crooking inside her, finding the place that brought about her peak the fastest. "You are to be married."

"I am not yet."

There was also the matter of payment; she had given him her favours for free, because she had wanted to, because she had liked him. But if he was insisting on being her only lover, and if she accepted, then she would need more from him.

It galled her to admit it.

"Did he expect to go home with you tonight?" he demanded.

"No."

"Good." That single word was vicious, and he pressed the head of his cock against her slickness. "I am not even close to being done with you."

The audacity of the statement thrilled her, although she did her best not to show it. "And if I am done with you?"

He took the crook of her knee, lifting it to one side as he pushed himself inside her. She made a muted sound of satisfaction. That was always how it had been between them.

"Quiet, love," he said, one hand across her mouth. Then he leant in closer. "Liar. If that were true, you would not be here."

True, she could not deny it. Just a few walls away, the ton were gathered to listen to an opera, and if she made too much noise, they would inevitably risk discovery and ruin. Many things could be forgiven behind closed doors, but this was sordid, even for her.

He was right: she did delight in it.

When they both found completion, he would be gentle again, tender, but until then, he gave her this, and it was what she needed. The streak of cruelty that always heated her blood and made her hate him, just a little.

Everything was so much heightened when there was an edge of pain to the pleasure.

"Look at me, Caro."

She turned her gaze to his face, watching the hazy movement of pleasure across it.

"That's right," he crooned, his palm still over her mouth, her gasps and cries stifled. His breath was short, choppy. "Keep your eyes on me."

They were still fully clothed, her skirts bunching between them. The door behind her rattled, and he rested his elbow against it. His breath was hot on her cheek. They were bathed in darkness.

"I want to be the only man you take as a lover," he said as he thrust into her again. "No one else."

The proprietorial nature of his demand added to the heat inside her. Time and time again, she had reminded herself that it was dangerous to grow attached, especially to a man on the hunt for a wife, but it was as though she had spent the last five weeks underwater and now she could at least breathe again.

There was just one last thing to settle.

"I am expensive to keep," she said.

Surprise flashed in his eyes, there and gone again, and she wondered if this was an insult he would not bear. But his teeth closed around her ear, and the flash of pain shuddered through her like a climax. "Name your price," he said against her neck, and moved to sink his teeth into her shoulder. She thought distantly she would have to cover the marks until they faded. "I'm a rich man."

Oh she was playing with fire. But she did so like the way it crisped her skin.

His hands sank into the softness of her waist, and he made another gruff noise of appreciation. "Tell me you accept. Be mine, Caroline. Only mine."

She was too practical a woman to be taken in merely by the hoarse note in a man's voice as he neared release. Or even the feel of him inside her, guiding her closer to her own peak. But then his thumb found the sensitive nub between her slick folds, and she exhaled sharply. This was cheating, playing her body like a harp, as though he were a master plucking her every string and compelling her every pleasure. Drugged, dazed, lost to the feel of his hands and his mouth and his body, she struggled to hold on to her last modicum of reason.

"Tell me." His other hand closed around her throat, just hard enough that she could feel the blood pound and the scrape of air. Her climax loomed, alarmingly close. "Tell me you will not take another man to be your lover so long as I am."

"Yes," she said as she tipped over the edge. Pleasure bloomed through her and her legs trembled. "Yes."

He groaned, as though the words alone had brought him close, and he removed himself from her, turning away and spending himself in a handkerchief he had produced for the purpose.

Caroline closed her eyes and listened to the last strains of the aria, wondering how she, a woman of sense, could be about to make the same mistake for the second time in her life.