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could it change any of what had occurred.
The door opened, and Nathan Wardale entered, un-announced. He
smiled at her, as though nothing had changed between them. 'Welcome,
Diana.' He held out a hand. 'Benton did not help you with your cloak? Here,
allow me. And then perhaps, a glass of wine?'
Rage simmered fresh within her. How dare he pretend that this was a
normal visit, or that she wished his hospitality? 'Wine will not be necessary.
Let us complete our business,' she said through gritted teeth. 'My cab is
waiting, and I wish to return home before ten.'
'You told the driver to remain?' He gave her an odd look and then a
pitying smile. 'I will go and send him away again. I would send a servant,
but I have dismissed most of them for the evening. I assumed that you would
prefer it.'
'The evening?' The insolence of the man was astounding. 'You
misunderstand the amount of time I will devote to this enterprise.'
'And you misunderstand the amount of time it will take.' There was
the smile, again. 'It is obvious that you have managed to retain the loan's
collateral, for you are quite naive. You must allow that I am more
experienced in the events that will transpire tonight, and permit me to set the
timetable.'
Before she could speak, he stepped out of the room, closing the door
behind him. She drew back the curtain and glanced out of the front window
to see him offering a bank note to the driver before waving the man off. The
view of the street was just as she remembered. But the red silk that framed it
was nothing like the green she had been expecting. She closed her eyes
against the dissonance, and tried to decide whether his high-handed
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behaviour made her angrier or just nervous. It definitely added to the sense
of disquiet she felt, as she waited for him to return to the sitting room.
It had been easy to plot against him, when not staring into those deep
green eyes. And so easy to forget that the man was a master gamesman,
adept at disguising his true feelings while parting others from their
valuables. She needed to be on her guard. For if she began to think of him as
legitimate master of this house, what right had she to be angry?
When he returned, he was smiling again, as though he found her
impending downfall to be faintly amusing. 'On this night, of all nights, you
wanted to hold the cab, as though you were running an errand. I am curious.
Just how long do you expect this to take?'
She wondered if the question was an attempt to draw out the action, or
did it have some logical purpose? But then, she'd wondered the same about
all his other questions, since the day they'd met. 'The minimum amount of
time necessary. It has taken ten years of my life already. I do not wish to
spend a moment longer than I must.'
She had meant the words to sting, but if they did, it did not show on
his face. Instead, he shrugged. 'It will take as long as it takes. Not so fast as
you might like. Nor as long as I would wish. If I were ham-fisted, selfish or
cruel, I could have had you back in your waiting cab before now. We could
conclude our business here, on the rug or against a wall, without even
bothering to undress.'
He looked at her again and his gaze grew as soft and warm as it had
been on their walks together in the park. And for a moment she weakened,
wishing the man in front of her could ever again be Nathan Dale. Then he
said, 'I have heard tales of Sultans in seraglios, taking days, even weeks over
this process. The slow baring of the flesh, the destruction of inhibition, the
readying of the minds and bodies of both participants, the evoking and
sharpening of each sense to appreciate the final consummation. It is not a
thing to be rushed.'
The timbre of his voice dropped, and his pace slowed to linger on
each word, each image forming in his mind. Was it her imagination, or could
she smell incense, hear the exotic music and taste dates on her tongue? She
could see herself lying back in silk cushions, the height of decadence as he
bent over her, caressing and perfuming her skin.
She caught her breath, trying to find her anger again, for the image
had been strangely pleasant.
She saw his half smile change again, as though he knew what she had
imagined and it pleased him. 'I will have you home by dawn. Not too late to
save your reputation, if you have managed to conceal your absence.' He
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paused again. And then said, 'If you still wish to go through with this, that is.
I have no intention of forcing you to do something you find abhorrent.' He
paused once more time. 'It is not too late to change your mind.'
'No. I am resolute.' But her voice did not sound that way in her own
ears. He had given her the chance to get away. Why did she not take it and
run? Or take it as her moment of victory. She had but to say the words,
'Touch me and you will never see Helena,' and the evening would be at an
end.
But when she should have spoken, her traitorous mind had been
wondering how the impending process could possibly take weeks. She had
missed her opportunity.
Perhaps time was an illusion. Because he was progressing so
methodically that each thought, each smile, each word from his mouth,
seemed to take hours to reach her. Several more heartbeats passed before he
said, 'Very well. Then let us begin.' He touched her shoulders with his hands,
brushing the cloak out of the way, and draping it gently over a chair. When
he turned and caught sight of her dress, he froze in place for a moment, and
she could feel his eyes travelling over her body, lingering on the exposed
flesh.
She waited for the pounce. The rough grasp and the shock of his
ravenous mouth against her breast.
'So beautiful. But too much, too soon,' he whispered. 'You are like a
feast, and I am a starving man. You come to me like this, knowing that,
other than by accident, on the very first day, I have not felt the touch of your
ungloved hand?' He reached for her again with tenderness, beginning at the
shoulders and letting his fingers trail down until they barely touched her
own, and then he took both her hands, and brought them to his lips in a
gesture that was more reverence than kiss. Then, one at a time, he tugged
gently at her fingers until he had pulled her long white gloves down, baring
the flesh of her arms inch by sensitive inch. The gloves dropped to the floor
and he brought her hands to his face again, rubbing them with his closed
lips, binding them together with his fingers about her wrists as he kissed the
palms, turning them so that they were cupped before him and he could taste
each fingertip in turn before settling over her pulse point, his tongue flicking
against the skin in time to the ebb and flow of her blood.
From somewhere deep within her, there came an unexpected shudder
of delight.
He smiled. 'This is why it must not be too quick. We must not
squander this night. Do you understand?' He held her by the fingertips,
walking backward, leading her through the door and toward the stairs. 'I
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have so much to learn.' He never took his eyes from hers as he went,
drawing her after him, up the stairs and down the hall, to the master suite.
She went with him, powerless to resist, as though the kisses on her
hands had bound her to him more tightly than any shackles. She glanced
about her as they walked, and saw that, in ten years, the decoration of the
corridor had changed. Colours, furnishings, the hangings on the walls, all
different or rearranged. It was a different house than the one she had left,
just as she was a different person.
And Nathan Wardale was a different man from the one she expected
to find here.
No. The same. He was the same man that had ruined her father, and
she must not forget it. Nathan Dale's stories of hardship and loss meant
nothing to her. They were not justification for what he had done to her.
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