Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,8

quite something else: a manuscript that Hastings had sent her not long ago.

An erotic manuscript titled The Bride of Larkspear, in which the titular bride existed in a state of literal bondage, trussed to her husband’s bed.

The raspberries have been picked only hours earlier. They are tiny yet plump, a lovely deep red. I rub one against her lips.

“What is this?”

“Something delicious and succulent.” I speak easier when I do not need to look into her eyes, when the blindfold replaces the scorn in them with a strip of black silk. “Like you.”

She opens her mouth and takes the raspberry. I watch her as she chews, then swallows. A tiny smear of raspberry juice remains on her lower lip. I lick it, tasting the tart sweetness.

“Would you like another?”

“Why such tenderness?” she demands archly. “I am already naked, fettered, and blindfolded. Go ahead. Have your way with me.”

How I would love to descend upon her like a pack of wolves. My body is certainly primed, my cock hot and hard, my muscles straining against my own urges.

“No,” I reply. “I am going to play with you a little longer.”

There was an illustration of the naked bride at the bottom of the page. The view was from the side. Her face was obscured by one of the thick bedposts, but her breasts were taut, her legs endless. Helena’s gaze, however, was drawn to her feet, one arched and flexed, the toes of the other pressing hard into the sheets, as if in silent arousal.

Her own toes were digging into the soles of her boots. The moment she realized it, she picked up the manuscript, jammed it back into the drawer, and turned the key in the lock.

She really ought to burn it. Or, failing that, read the whole thing and send him a politely snide letter of rejection. But she could no more consign the pages to the fireplace than she could read more than a few paragraphs at a time.

That, perhaps, was the true reason she was angry at him: He’d broken through a formerly invisible barrier and forced this awareness upon her—this awareness of him as a man.

And she did not want it. She wanted him relegated back to the periphery of her existence, there to stay for the remainder of his natural life. To never again be a cause of irregular heartbeats and agitated breathing.

It was a while before she could resume working.

Hastings did not head home directly, but stopped by his club. The Season was drawing to a close, and the club was sparsely attended. Soon Society would repair to the seashore or to the country. He might see some more of Helena when Fitz and his wife held their annual shooting party in August. But after that, there was a long stretch until Christmas during which there would be no doors of hers for him to stare at.

“My lord, a telegram for you,” said one of the club’s footmen. “Your staff thought you’d like to have it.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the cable.

It was from Millie, Fitz’s wife, informing him that she and her husband would be taking a short holiday in the Lake District. The news pleased Hastings: Fitz and Millie had had such a long road to happiness and deserved to wallow in their newfound joy.

He almost missed the postscript at the very bottom of the cable.

Upon reflection, dear Hastings, I realize I should have disclosed my true sentiments years ago. And, if I may be so forward, so should have you.

He should have, of course. A more rational, less proud man would consider the prize at the end, swallow his humiliation, and proceed apace to woo his beloved. Hastings was not that man. In every other regard he was quite reasonable, but when it came to Helena Fitzhugh, so futile was his approach he might as well have built a temple to the rain god in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

He certainly prayed a good deal for her to miraculously change her mind, to wake up one day, look at him with completely different eyes, and see him as he wished to be seen.

“Something the matter?”

He looked up. The speaker was Bernard Monteth, a thin man with prematurely grey hair. They’d belonged to the same clubs for years, but it was only in the past six months that Hastings had cultivated a greater acquaintance with Monteth: Monteth’s wife was Mrs. Andrew Martin’s sister.

Hastings raised a brow. “Speaking to me, good sir?”

“You seem