Nicole Jordan - The Seduction

His eyes captured hers and held them. “Carnal relations needn’t be unpleasant for a woman. Indeed, they should not be.”

“He thought me cold… unfeeling. Because I couldn’t bear his touch.”

A swift spark of anger flickered in the storm-silver eyes. “He was a damned fool.”

She stared at Damien, wanting to believe the firm conviction in his pronouncement.

He kept his voice soft and even when he continued. “Vanessa, your dislike of physical intimacy stems from a cruel experience. While you might be lacking in education and experience, I doubt you are cold or unfeeling. I would wager my entire fortune that inside you is a warm, passionate woman yearning to break free.”

Against her volition, her throat constricted with emotion. For so long she had lived with the shame and guilt of her inadequacies. If she had been a better wife to Roger, perhaps he would not have sought other women’s beds. He might even have moderated his wild and reckless lifestyle and never met an ignominious end with a bullet through his heart on the dueling field.

The possibility was like balm to a raw wound, and Vanessa was absurdly grateful to Damien for suggesting a reason that she had never responded physically to her husband.

“You… think me passionate?”

He was watching her, his eyes half-closed yet so sensual, so compelling, he made her heart ache. “I’m sure of it. I could show you, if you would put your pleasure in my hands.”

Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

With unhurried deliberation then, he set down his glass and rose from his chair. “Shall I show you what it is like to feel wanted, desired?”

Moving slowly, Damien reached down and drew her to her feet. Immobile, she stared up at him, seeing the flames warming the depths of his eyes. His closeness stirred a pleasurable spark that flickered along the ends of her nerves.

“I do desire you, angel. More than you could possibly imagine.”

“Damien…”

“Hush. Don’t fear me. I will allow you to take the lead.” He took her hand and pressed her palm to his cheek. “Just touch me.”

He guided her hand, letting her fingers trace slowly over his features. With a breath of a sigh, Vanessa closed her eyes, exploring the planes and angles of his beautiful face, learning the masculine shape, the unique contours, the subtle flex of flesh and bone.

The sensation was new to her, and yet somehow heart familiar. In her dreams she had touched him like this, savoring the warmth of his skin, the faint rasp of stubble that shadowed his jaw, the flow of his breath when her fingers sketched the pliant curve of his mouth.

“What do you feel?”

What she felt was a stirring of heat deep within her, a softening, a melting. What she felt was wonder at the breathless enchantment he wrapped around her so effortlessly. What she felt was longing.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she stared up at him, dazed.

The silver eyes were tender and knowing. But he made no further move.

He knew his power over her, knew how dangerously sensual he was. And yet he was not prepared to take advantage of her, it seemed.

“No,” he murmured, his voice dropping to the husk of a whisper. “You are not yet ready.”

Without taking his eyes off her, he brought her fingers to his lips to kiss their pale tips slowly, lingeringly.

Then just as gently, he released her.

“I won’t press you further tonight, sweeting. When you finally share my bed, it will seem as right to you as it does to me.”

The velvet promise in his voice echoed in her mind long after he was gone. Remembering, Vanessa shuddered. She was still quivering from the enchanting fire he had aroused deep within her. Still trembling with the sweet, intimate feelings his tenderness had stirred.

She looked down, staring at her fingers. Impossibly, she could still feel the imprint of his burning kiss and the brand of his soft lips. But it was the inexplicable yearnings in her heart that frightened her more.

She had never thought her role at Rosewood would be an easy one, but neither had she expected her emotions to be so conflicted. In only a short time, both Sinclairs had managed to affect her beyond reason-Damien captivating her senses and enmeshing her in his sensual spell, and young Olivia tugging powerfully at her heart.

Her response to Damien bewildered and disturbed Vanessa most. She didn’t at all like the tender feelings he aroused in her. It was foolish in the extreme to allow herself to become emotionally drawn to him. She had to remember that her seduction was a game to him, driven by revenge, and she was his prey.

She almost wished he would end the uncertainty. For whatever reason he had given her a stay of execution, holding off the fulfillment of their bargain. But Vanessa had nearly reached the point where the prospect of sharing his bed was not as distressing as the strain of waiting for the ax to fall. She could not contemplate the sexual act with anything but dread, nor could she, in the cold light of day, bring herself to believe Damien’s supposition that she might be a passionate woman.

The sooner they consummated their brazen bargain, Vanessa reasoned, the sooner he would discover the truth about her, and the sooner he would end his tormenting pursuit. Once he saw what poor sport she was, he would tire of his game and of her, perhaps even send her packing.

Except for the threat hanging over her head, however, her life here was far more pleasurable than she had a right to hope for. It seemed especially strange not to have to constantly worry about making ends meet. For the past two years she’d spent a significant part of each day determining how best to stretch a farthing, but cost was no object to Damien when it came to his sister’s recovery. He agreed readily when Vanessa suggested bringing in a dressmaker and milliner to raise Olivia’s spirits.

Olivia refused to leave the estate for any reason, even to shop, but Vanessa believed it would be beneficial if the girl could be persuaded to take an interest in her appearance.

“But I have no need for new gowns,” Olivia protested, showing renewed evidence of a stubborn streak. “I have nowhere to wear them, since I never plan on going out again.”

“Perhaps not,” Vanessa cajoled, “but my sister Fanny believes there is nothing like a new bonnet to make one feel pretty, and you could do with a shawl or two for our visits to the garden. Besides, you will need a bathing costume for the bath your brother is constructing for you in the conservatory.”

When the milliner arrived with her wares, proffering bonnets trimmed with ribbons and bows and lace and ostrich feathers, Olivia did find two she particularly admired.

“I suppose the bonnets sold in London are more elegant than those found here in the country,” she said to Vanessa rather wistfully when they were alone again.

“Not always, although prices are more exorbitant there.”

“It must be wonderful to live in London.”

“I don’t much care for town, actually.”

“No? But there is so much to do, so much to see. Lending libraries and bookshops and museums, plays and opera performances…”

“Those are advantages, indeed, but I was thinking of the social whirl.”

“You mean balls and routs and supper parties?”

Vanessa nodded as she folded tissue paper around the lemon-colored bonnet Olivia had chosen. During the height of the Season, it was not unusual to receive a half-dozen invitations for a single evening. When she was Olivia’s age, the prospect of a ball had held excitement. But as she grew older, she’d become less enthralled with the gilded cage of London society-the emptiness, the relentless pretense, the stinging, vengeful gossip. And once her husband had begun his downward spiral into decadence and scandal, the evenings had become almost unbearable. Vanessa recalled standing stiff-faced for hours, a smile pasted on her lips, enduring the stares and darkling glances of those people who once professed to be her friends. Yet she didn’t want to encourage Olivia’s solitary leanings.

“A ball can be highly pleasurable,” she said lightly, “but after years of such affairs, they all seem to run together. Still, every young lady of means should experience a Season at least once. You should go and make up your own mind.”

Olivia looked away. “I don’t know that I ever will now.” There was a long silence while her lower lip trembled. “My former companion, Mrs. Jenkins, said I deserved what happened to me. That I was fortunate to survive as a cripple.”

“You deserved nothing of the kind!” Vanessa responded, speaking sharply to Olivia for the first time.

“I am not so certain. The fault was mine for being so foolish and wicked.”

“It isn’t foolish to fall in love. Your only mistake was in choosing the wrong man.”

“A dreadful mistake,” Olivia agreed in a whisper.

Putting down the bonnet, Vanessa moved to sit on the edge of the bed and take the girl’s hand.

Olivia looked up, tears in her blue eyes. “What did Damien tell you about my folly?”

“He said that you were a victim of a cruel wager, that you were persuaded by a scoundrel to elope.” She saw Olivia’s chin quiver but felt it was better for her to talk about her traumatic experience, to try to deal with the painful feelings of loss and betrayal, rather than to bottle them inside.

“Olivia, you are not the first young woman to be deceived by a handsome stranger,” Vanessa said gently.

“I was indeed deceived. I thought he wished to marry me. I wanted so badly to believe him when he said I was beautiful, when he said he loved me.” Her shimmering gaze grew distant. “He was so charming, so gentle, with such laughing eyes. He made me feel… special. And he loved poetry. It was so romantic… or so I thought. Until that horrible night.”