Carole Mortimer - Season Of Secrets

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.