Season Of Secrets

Did he want Sylvie’s liking and respect?

Before this evening his answer would have been a resounding no. Before he had kissed her again, caressed her, suckled the fullness of her breast and felt the heat of her response to him, he would have said no. But now? How did Christian feel now that he had done all of those things?

Four years ago Sylvie had been the only daughter of the family living on the small estate neighboring his own in Berkshire. A young girl he had seen about the village for most of his life, even if his years away at school, university and latterly the army had meant he had never known her well.

But he had come home on leave from his regiment the summer of 1813, battle-worn and inwardly scarred and sickened from seeing too much blood and the death of many of his friends. And the young and beautiful Sylvie Buchanan, with her ready smile and innocently eager body, had been exactly the distraction Christian had needed to help him forget, if only for a few weeks, that he must soon return to that bloodbath.

Their first meeting had been completely accidental. Christian, strolling about the countryside several days after his arrival, had come upon Sylvie swimming in a curve of the local river.

Even now Christian could remember the warmth of that day and how the sun had turned Sylvie’s long hair to rippling gold as it flowed out to float loosely in the water behind her after she had given a surprised shriek at espying him on the grassy riverbank and dipped below the water to just below her chin.

Far from leaving, as she had begged him to do, Christian had instead made himself comfortable on that grassy riverbank and laughingly dared her to come out of the water. A dare Sylvie had protested, her beautiful face burning hotly with embarrassment. Christian had persisted in his request at the same time as he informed her he was in no hurry to leave, his breath catching in his throat when, almost an hour later, she finally stood up in the water to reveal she wore only a wet and clinging chemise.

The water had rendered that chemise almost completely see-through, revealing all of her charms as she stepped fully from the water—pale and satiny skin, those high and tilting breasts tipped by rosy nipples, the slightly darker-blond curls nestled between her thighs, her legs long and slender—and all causing Christian’s manhood to harden in a way it had not done in the last months of bloody battle, and which he had secretly feared it might never do again.

The relief of knowing that his lack of desire had only been a temporary aberration had allowed Christian to rein in his own needs and only kiss Sylvie lightly that first day, not wanting to frighten her with the depth of the desire he felt for her.

He had so enjoyed her company, her innocence of passion, that he had arranged to meet her at the same place the following day. And the day following that one. And the one after that. And as each day passed, their kisses deepened, became more passionate, needy, quickly advancing to caresses, and then finally the two of them had made love on that grassy knoll beside the river, the sunshine continuing to shine down on them as Christian made love to Sylvie a second time, and then a third, his hunger to possess her, to claim her, seeming never ending.

A hunger that Christian’s response to kissing Sylvie again this evening had now shown him, no matter how he might wish it otherwise, had never completely gone away...

Chapter Four

His mouth twisted disdainfully. “I believe I would far rather lick the honey from between your silken thighs than I would your husband’s boots,” he drawled suggestively. “Something, if my memory serves me correctly, that you would also enjoy?” He quirked one mocking brow.

Her breath caught in her throat. “You are disgusting!”

“Have a care, Sylvie.” His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“And if I choose not to do so?” she dared.

Christian gave an unconcerned shrug. “Then you will suffer the consequences of deliberately challenging me.”

Sylvie gave an involuntary shiver as she heard the steely edge beneath Christian’s tone, knowing she should not have attended the Dowager Countess of Chambourne’s ball this evening.

Recently returned to Society, and having only seen Christian Ambrose occasionally from a great distance, Sylvie had known that it was only a matter of time before the two of them were introduced by a hostesses at one function or another. That being so, Sylvie had decided that she would prefer to be in control of when and how that meeting took place, her years of being married to the gentlemanly Gerald having led her to believe she was now immune to Christian Ambrose’s dangerous brand of sensuality.

Instead she had found herself in his arms within minutes of their having met again, telling her that if anything, her response to Christian’s lovemaking was even more intense, more immediate, than it had been four years ago.

Because she was also four years older? And as such her physical desires had become that much more mature too?

Whatever the reason, Sylvie knew she should not have come here this evening. Should never have risked drawing Christian’s attention to her. And she most certainly should never have allowed herself to respond to him on even a physical level! He—

“Why did you not wait for me, as I asked you to?”

Sylvie blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Christian’s jaw tightened. “Four years ago. I told you I loved you and asked you to wait for me.” And only thoughts of this woman waiting for him in England had kept him alive.

Her chin rose defensively as she recalled how his own household in the country, unaware of Sylvie’s previous involvement with Christian, had been indulgently abuzz with the rumors of his return to his rakish behavior during his week’s stay in London prior to returning to his regiment. Rumors that had put Sylvie’s own importance in his life in its proper context.

She lifted her chin. “And when, after two months, you had not so much as written me a single letter, I had no choice but to accept that our affair was over.”

He scowled. “There was a reason I did not write to you—”

“None that are acceptable to me, I assure you.” Sylvie gave him a contemptuous smile.

Christian’s jaw tightened as he remembered those weeks he lay suffering, when only thoughts of Sylvie, waiting for him at home, had prevented him from succumbing to the fatality of his infected wound. “And how long after I left did you wait before accepting Ampthill’s offer of marriage?” His top lip curled back in disgust. “A week? Two? On the basis, no doubt, that an earl ‘in the hand’ was better than the uncertainty of the return of the one who had so recently gone back to the war!”

Sylvie gave a rueful shake of her head. “How dare you stand there and accuse me of inconstancy when you were the one who left without so much as a single glance back at the girl you had used to fill your hours of boredom whilst in the country!”

“I told you I loved you and asked you to wait for me, damn it!” His eyes glittered.

Sylvie forced herself not to wilt under the barrage of Christian’s accusing tone, distrustful of that anger as she had good reason to be distrustful of the man himself. “I was eighteen years old, Christian, with all of the impatience of youth.”

“So impatient you could not even have waited a few months?” Christian frowned as he recalled finally returning to England three months after he and Sylvie had last seen each other, only to be informed by her proud parents, when he rode over to their estate to pay his respects, that Sylviana no longer lived on their estate with them, but was now residing in Bedfordshire with her husband, Colonel Lord Gerald Moorland, Earl of Ampthill.

Christian had no recollection of the rest of his conversation that day with Henry and Jessica Buchanan, or of taking his leave some half an hour or so later. He had felt as if someone had punched him in the chest, rendering him both speechless and numb. He’d had no choice but to accept that Sylvie was now another man’s wife, and as such, was far beyond his reach.

That numbness had lasted for several days, only to be replaced by anger and disillusionment. He had believed Sylvie was different from all those other marriage-minded chits he so frequently met in Society, that she actually cared about him, Christian the man, rather than his title. The fact that she had married an ancient earl in the few months of his absence showed Christian that had not been the case, that the title was everything to her.

And so had begun the months and years of debauchery he had embarked upon following his disillusionment. Those same years that had quickly earned him the reputation for being a rake and a dissolute, a man who cared naught for the softer emotions and everything for the pleasure of the moment.

“Obviously you could not,” Christian answered his own question contemptuously. “And as luck would have it, you only had to suffer an old man’s pawing for a year or two before you were conveniently left his widow and in possession of all his fortune.”

Sylvie felt the color leech from her cheeks at Christian’s deliberately insulting tone. An insult she did not deserve from this particular man. Not now, and certainly not four years ago.

She had been deeply in love with Christian. Even when she had been told of his behavior in London after he left her, she had tried to dismiss it as just rumors, malicious gossip that could not possibly be true. The months of silence that had followed those rumors had left her with no choice but to accept she had merely been a diversion for him during the weeks he spent in the country attending to estate matters.

“You know absolutely nothing of my marriage to Gerald—”

“I know enough to realize that an old man of sixty could not possibly have hoped to satisfy the physical demands of a young girl of eighteen!” His top lip curled back with distaste. “I know you, Sylvie,” he added softly. “How to touch and arouse every silken inch of your body.” He reached out to run his fingers lightly across the firm swell of her breasts revealed by the low neckline of her gown. “I have watched you, enjoyed you, time and time again, as you experienced climax after shattering climax. Did Moorland do that for you, Sylvie? Did he touch you in all the intimate places that I know give you such pleasure—”

“Stop it!” she protested, knowing and regretting that the heated flush to her cheeks and breasts revealed how much Christian’s words had aroused her. Aroused her, but never again would she allow her heart to be broken by this man. “All this talk of the past achieves nothing—”

“And if it does not have to be the past?” Those long and caressing fingers dipped beneath the bodice of her gown to pluck unerringly at one roused nipple. “It so happens I am currently without a mistress—”

“And I am not so desperate for a man’s intimate touch that I would ever consider accepting such an offer from you!” Sylvie glared up at him. Not on his terms, at least. Not on any terms that would endanger her heart or the independent life she now lived.

Those sculpted lips curved into a humorless smile. “All evidence to the contrary, my dear.” He squeezed that roused nipple between thumb and finger, looking down at her dispassionately as she drew her breath in sharply. “Are you damp and ready for me between your thighs, Sylvie? Perhaps I should touch you there too and see for myself—”

“Leave me be!” Sylvie could stand it no more, slapping his hand away before stepping back.

“You are,” Christian murmured with quiet satisfaction as he continued to regard her flushed cheeks dispassionately. “You will give me the name of the gentleman—or gentlemen?—currently sharing the pleasure of your body and your bed,” he said.

“And why would I wish to do that...?” She eyed him contemptuously.

“So that I may dispense with his, or their, services, of course.” He shrugged those broad shoulders. “I may be considered an out-and-out rake by all of Society, but I draw the line at sharing my woman with another man!”

Sylvie gave an indignant gasp. “I have no intention of ever

becoming your woman!”

“Oh, but you will, Sylvie,” Christian assured her confidently. “In fact, I intend calling upon you tomorrow so that we might...discuss the terms of that agreement.”

Sylvie stared up at him for several long moments, knowing by the cold implacability of Christian’s pale-green gaze that he meant exactly what he said. “I do believe that your arrogance has now become as large as your overinflated ego!” she finally snapped dismissively. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a headache, and wish to go and make my excuses to your grandmother before taking my leave.” She turned briskly on one satin slipper before marching away.

Christian watched between narrowed lids as Sylvie walked the length of the terrace before stepping lightly back into the ballroom, knowing he needed to delay his own return several more minutes if he was not to appear before his grandmother with an indecent erection tenting the front of his silk breeches.

And despite her protests to the contrary, he had every intention of having Sylvie satisfied on the morrow...

* * *

Once safely returned to her home in Berkeley Square, Sylvie went straight up the stairs, moving quietly into the candlelit bedchamber before nodding dismissal of the nurse and taking that lady’s place in the chair beside the small bed, the tension leaving her expression as she gazed down at her sleeping daughter.

Sylvie felt a deep outpouring of love as she reached out to gently touch the abundance of dark curls framing those baby cheeks and small rosebud of a mouth, and knowing that if Christianna’s eyes were open, they would be a beautiful, warm, moss green.

The exact same shade as her father’s...

Chapter Five

“What are you doing here?” Christian scowled darkly at Sylvie when he entered the drawing room of his London home the morning following his grandmother’s ball, accepting that he owed his butler an apology for disbelieving him when that gentleman had entered Christian’s darkened bedchamber a few minutes ago and informed him that Lady Sylviana Moorland, Countess of Ampthill, was waiting downstairs to speak with him.

Christian’s mood was taciturn at best this morning, after the hours he had necessarily spent at his grandmother’s ball following Sylvie’s early departure, most of that time spent in fending off his grandmother’s less-than-subtle determination to see him in the company of Lady Vanessa Styles, a young lady of one and twenty whom his grandmother had obviously decided would make him a suitable countess.

Having finally managed to escape those machinations shortly after midnight, Christian had spent the hours until daybreak at one of the more disreputable clubs, rebuffing the obvious attentions of the willing ladies there in favor of drinking copious amounts of brandy and winning at the gaming tables.

As a consequence he had not been best pleased to be awakened, only hours after falling fully clothed into his bed, and informed by his butler of Sylvie’s presence downstairs in his drawing room. So certain had Christian been of the butler’s error that he had not even bothered to tidy his appearance before coming downstairs, let alone change his clothes.

An oversight he deeply regretted as he saw the way Sylvie’s tiny nose wrinkled with distaste as she took in his disreputable appearance—the crumpled clothes he had been wearing the evening before, the darkness of his curls in disarray, a growth of beard darkening his jaw. That jaw now tightened. “I asked—”

“I heard you,” Sylvie spoke quietly, her own appearance immaculate as she perched, ladylike, upon the edge of her chair, several loose gold curls peeking out from beneath the yellow silk bonnet that was an exact match in color for her gown, her hands and arms covered by cream lace gloves.

Christian gave a wince as the brightness of those colors hurt his eyes. “And yet you did not answer,” he bit out.

In truth, Sylvie regretted the need for her having to come here at all, let alone finding herself faced with Christian’s disreputable appearance. His evening clothes were crumpled, as if he had slept in them. At the same time, the dark shadows below his eyes and the stubble on his arrogant chin gave the impression he had not been to bed at all. To sleep, at least...

She stiffened her spine. “Perhaps you would like to return upstairs and...see to your appearance before we commence our conversation...?”

He raised mocking brows as he threw himself down in the chair facing her own. “I am perfectly comfortable as I am, thank you,” he drawled dismissively as he leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. “And I believe we are already in conversation...?”

Sylvie drew her breath in sharply, having known the moment she saw Christian’s rumpled appearance that she should not have come here today without first making an appointment. She had thought to put Christian at a disadvantage by doing so, and instead she once again found herself the one who was wrong-footed. “You put forward a suggestion to me yesterday evening—”

“If you are referring to becoming my mistress, that was not a suggestion but a statement of intent,” he cut in, eyes gleaming through narrowed lids as he looked at her above those long, steepled fingers.

Sylvie was well aware of that. Just as she knew she had no intention of allowing this man to call at her home. The home where Christianna also resided...

“Perhaps your...other activities last night have now rendered that conversation obsolete?”

Those chiseled lips tilted in a humorless smile. “If you wish to know if I bedded another woman last night then just ask, Sylvie,” he mocked. “I promise I will not lie to you.”

“That will certainly be a novelty!”

Christian’s eyes narrowed in warning. “To my knowledge I have never lied to you. Nor will I lie to you now.”

Sylvie’s cheeks warmed even as she berated herself for caring one way or the other whether or not Christian had gone to another woman’s bed last night. In truth, it would be preferable if he had done so, would give her the perfect excuse to turn down his scandalous offer to her the previous evening. “Very well. Did you bed another woman last night?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Do not look so disappointed, Sylvie.” He gave a hard laugh. “Why would I even consider the idea of bedding another woman after making love to you earlier in the evening?”

Her mouth firmed at his mockery. “You must know that you are not known for your constancy in regard to any particular woman.”

He raised dark brows. “And is that to be a condition of our own arrangement? That, for the time of our...affair, I will occupy only your bed?”

“We do not have an arrangement—”

“As yet,” Christian bit out decisively. “But that is your reason for being here today, is it not? So that we might thrash out the terms and conditions of such a relationship between the two of us?” The alcoholic fog and lack of sleep had now cleared enough from Christian’s head for him to have considered all of the reasons Sylvie had chosen to call on him this morning.

She wished to reiterate that there would be no affair between them, now, or in the future? Something she could far more easily have told him in a note, or when he called upon her later in the day.

That she had decided to take another man as her lover? He was sure Sylvie knew him well enough to know that he would never accept such a decision.

Which only left the more obvious reason: that Sylvie had decided to accept his offer after all, but on her own terms.

And Christian was very interested in knowing what those terms might be.

“Well?” he prompted at her continued silence. “Is that not the reason you are here, Sylvie?”

Chapter Six

Damn him!

Damn, damn, damn Lord Christian Matthew Faulkner Ambrose, the Earl of Chambourne, to the hell he deserved!

Because, having considered all of the options during the long and sleepless night, and out of a need to protect Christianna, that was precisely the reason Sylvie had called upon him this morning.

Christian had made it abundantly clear the evening before that, the two of them now having met again, he had no intention of quietly absenting himself from her life a second time. Not, at least, until he had taken what he wanted from her. As clear as he had made it that what he wanted was her, in his bed, for as long as it took him to tire of her again. None of which would have—should have—mattered in the least to Sylvie after Christian’s despicable treatment of her four years ago.

And it would not have done.

If not for Christianna.

The man Sylvie had met yesterday evening was even less the man she had thought him to be four years ago, the Christian from the past having at least given the appearance of warmth and caring. Last night he had been every inch the cold and arrogant Lord Christian Ambrose, the Earl of Chambourne, a known rake and a man who cared for no one—except a possible affection for his grandmother?—and neither expected nor wanted anyone to care for him. Even so, Sylvie had no doubts that he would care about his daughter if he ever learned of her existence. As he must surely do, if he were ever to actually see Christianna.

Which was precisely the reason Sylvie had decided to accept, and put her own limitations—some control—on the...relationship, Christian stated, no, demanded, there now be between the two of them.

That, and the fact that—despite everything that had once passed between them—Sylvie still responded physically to this man. Her heart, she was sure, was in no further danger from this man; how could it be when he had used her so shamefully in the past?

She rose briskly to her feet. “Being a young and wealthy widow, I have received several such offers as yours these past few months—”

“A young, wealthy and beautiful widow,” Christian corrected softly.

Sylvie refused to allow herself to be moved by his compliment; Christian Ambrose was a silver-tongued devil bent on seduction, nothing more. A seduction that would take place under Sylvie’s rules or not at all. “I obviously cannot vouch as to that—”

“I can,” he bit out tersely. “If anything, Sylvie, you are more beautiful now than you were four years ago.” And it was true, Christian acknowledged with a frown. There was a confidence to Sylvie now that had not been present four years earlier, an elegance in her carriage and demeanor that implied a coolness to her nature that Christian knew to be only skin deep; her responses to him yesterday evening had been every bit as fiery as he remembered from the past.

“Yes. Well.” She gave him a scathing glance. “Several of these gentleman have been...pressing, in their attentions—”

Christian’s eyes were narrowed. “Tell me the names of these other gentlemen and I will consign them to the devil.”

She gave a shake of her head. “I only mentioned them at all in order to explain why I have decided to accept an offer of...protection, from one gentleman, a gentleman of my own choice, rather than continue to be plagued by many.”

“And I am to be that gentleman...?”

Sylvie looked at him coolly. “Only if you are willing to accept the relationship under my terms.”

His eyes narrowed. “And those terms are...?”

She drew in a deep breath. “One—there will be no other lovers in your life for as long as this...arrangement between us lasts, the arrangement becoming null and void if that should ever be the case.”

“I believe I have already stated there will be no other women.”

“No, you stated I should not be allowed other lovers but you,” she recalled dryly.

He frowned grimly. “I give you my word there will be no other women for me, either, for the time of our own affair.”

Her mouth thinned. “Two—we will meet a maximum of two nights a week—”