Violet

Chapter Sixteen

“SO WHAT IS IT YOU WANT TO SAY ABOUT MY POSTURE?” Tamsyn strode into the library. Hitching her skirts up, she sat astride the arm of a leather sofa and regarded the colonel with an air of intelligent inquiry.

Julian looked up from the Gazette and stared at her.

“Don't sit like that! Quite apart from the fact that it's disgracefully inelegant, you'll split the seams of your gown.”

Tamsyn swung both legs to the same side of the arm and perched there, her head to one side, her eyes bright, reminding him yet again of a cheeky robin. “Is this better?”

“Only marginally.” He tossed the newspaper onto a side table. “Ladies sit on chairs, with their legs together, their hands in their laps. Go and sit on that chair by the window, the straight-backed one.”

Tamsyn marched over to the window and sat down in the required chair, looking at him expectantly.

“Sit up straight. You're always slouching.”

“But why should that be important?” She was genuinely puzzled, never having given a moment's thought to something as irrelevant as how she held herself

“Because it is.” Julian stood up and came over to her, going behind the chair. Taking her shoulders, he pulled them back sharply. “Feel the difference?”

“But it's ridiculous,” Tamsyn said. “I can't sit like this, I feel like a stuffed dummy.”

“You must sit like this, stand like this, walk like this, and ride like this,” he declared firmly, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “You ride like a sack of potatoes. It's all the fault of that Spanish saddle. It's more like an armchair than a proper saddle. It encourages you to hunch over.”

Tamsyn did not consider wholesale criticism of her riding to be part of the contract. What could it possibly have to do with learning to be ladylike? “You can't ride a hundred miles over rough terrain sitting up like a stuffed dummy,” she retorted. “And I can ride without tiring all day and all night, as you well know.”

“You won't be required to ride all day and all night as an English society lady,” he informed her. “The hardest riding you're likely to be doing is to hounds, and that won't start until October. You must learn to ride elegantly before then. But an English saddle should put that right.”

“You relieve my mind,” Tamsyn muttered, but Julian chose not to hear.

Releasing her, he walked round to the front of her chair and examined her. “Put your feet together, so your anklebones are touching, and let your hands rest lightly in your lap.”

Tamsyn followed these instructions with exaggerated care, then sat staring fixedly in front of her.

“Relax.”

“How can I possibly relax sitting like this?” she asked, barely opening her mouth so her expression remained as rigid as her posture.

Julian refused to be amused. “If you're going to insist on making a game of this, then I'm washing my hands of the whole ridiculous business. Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my life than playing governess and dancing master to an uncivilized brigand. Stand up.”

Tamsyn obeyed. The colonel was clearly not in the mood to be diverted. She stood with her hands hanging loosely at her sides, gazing straight ahead of her, awaiting further instruction, trying to keep her expression impassive.

“For heaven's sake, you're as round-shouldered as a hunchback.” Impatiently, he pulled her shoulders back again. “Tuck your bottom in.” His palm tapped emphatically against the curve in question.

“Anyone would think I was made of wire,” Tamsyn grumbled. “My body doesn't bend like this.”

“Oh, you forget, buttercup. I've seen you perform some amazing gymnastic feats,” Julian stated, stepping back and examining her critically. “Now smile.”

Tamsyn offered him a simpering smile, elongating her neck, pushing back her shoulders and clenching her backside. “Like this?”

“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, losing the battle with his laughter. He turned away abruptly, struggling to regain his critical demeanor. He swung back to her just in time to catch her satisfied grin before she wiped it off her face and tried to look once more suitably solemn.

“This is not a laughing matter!”

“No,” she agreed. “Of course not, sir.” But her lips twitched.

“If you can't do it on your own, then you'll have to have some help,” Julian stated. “A backboard should do the trick.”

“A what?” All desire to laugh vanished.

“A backboard,” he said, explaining with great gravity. “It's used in most schoolrooms. Girls wear it strapped to their backs to correct posture. Of course, they're usually a lot younger than you, but it might do some good, nevertheless.”

“That's barbaric!” Tamsyn exclaimed.

“Not at all. My sister wore one for several hours a day for a year or two,” he responded with a bland smile. “I'll go into town and procure one. We'll see how you improve by wearing it every morning. If that doesn't have the desired effect, then you must wear it all day.”

Tamsyn regarded him in fulminating silence, recognizing that he'd fired the opening shots in a war that she had hoped would become a game, even if for her it was a deadly serious one.

“But until I can procure a board, we'll try something else,” Julian continued with the same suave insouciance. Going over to the bookshelves, he selected two heavy leather-bound volumes. “Come over here.”

Tamsyn approached him warily.

“Stand very still.” Delicately, he balanced the books on top of her head. “Now, walk around the room without dislodging them. You'll have to keep your head up and absolutely immobile. It'll also ensure you have to take small steps instead of galloping along like some unruly puppy.”

Tamsyn drew in her breath sharply but closed her lips and refused to rise to the bait. Her neck wobbled under the weight of the books. Grimly, she fixed her gaze on a knot in the paneling and balanced herself If Colonel, Lord St. Simon was trying to drive her to give up her scheme, he'd discover she was a lot tougher than he bargained for. She took a hesitant step, and the books shivered but stayed put.

Julian grinned and flung himself down on the sofa, casually picking up his discarded newspaper. “An hour of that exercise should prove beneficial,” he said. “And when you've learned to keep your back straight, I'll teach you how to curtsy, as you'll have to if you're intending to be presented at court.”

That didn't figure in Tamsyn's plans, but she could hardly admit that. Julian returned to his reading as if he considered his morning's task accomplished.

Tamsyn swore silently, allowing her mental tongue free reign as she cursed him for a self-satisfied odious, vindictive, gloating cur. She walked up and down the room, trying to keep the books from falling. Several times they did so, crashing to the carpet with a loud thump. The colonel raised his head waited until she'd replaced them and begun her walk again, then returned to the Gazette.

Her neck was aching, her shoulders cramping, and her head began to feel as if the books were wearing a hole through her scalp. She glanced at the clock and saw a bare fifteen minutes had passed. It was a torture to beat anything, even riding through the broiling midday heat of a Spanish summer with an empty water flask, flies feeding on her sweaty face, every muscle in her body aching.

Don't be silly! Of course it isn't as bad as that. She'd endured much worse, although she didn't think she'd ever looked more ridiculous. But the damned English colonel wanted her to throw in the towel, and she couldn't afford to do that, even if she was prepared at this point to give him that satisfaction.

Julian could guess her thoughts; they were clearly written on the mobile countenance where disgust warred with determination. He leaned back, linking his hands behind his head, watching her through half-closed eyes, contemplating what other diabolical little training methods he could devise. She did have a very dainty figure in that dress, he thought dreamily; it somehow softened the athletic lines of her body without in any way diminishing her compact grace.

There was a knock at the door. Tamsyn immediately ceased her promenading, reaching up to lift the books from her head.

Hibbert, the butler, entered. “Visitors, my lord. Mrs. and Miss Marshall, Lord and Lady Pendragon, the Vicar and Mrs. Thornton.”

He cast a swift covert glance in the direction of his lordship's guest. The household was in a ferment of speculation about the young lady and her foreign maid and the giant Scotsman who was a law unto himself Lord St. Simon had offered only the information that the young lady was in his care and would be spending the summer at Tregarthan before making her debut in London the following October.

Julian grimaced. Presumably every kitchen in the vicinity had been buzzing since early morning with the interesting news from Tregarthan. And what was told in the kitchens was taken above stairs with the morning chocolate. The local gossips hadn't waited long before coming to see for themselves.

“You've shown them into the drawing room, Hibbert?”

“Yes, of course, my lord.”

“I'll join them directly. You'd best bring up a bottle of the ninety-eight burgundy for Lord Pendragon and the Reverend Thornton. Tea for the ladies, unless they'd prefer ratafia. Do we have any ratafia?” he asked in afterthought.

“Yes, my lord. Miss Lucy is partial to it, if you recall, so we always keep a few bottles in the cellar.”

“What's ratafia?” Tamsyn asked when the butler had departed.

Julian's expression of distaste grew more pronounced.

“A disgusting sweet cordial.”

“Who's Miss Lucy?”

“My sister.” He stood for a minute staring at her, frowning. “You're going to have to be introduced, since that's what they've come for… unless I say that you're unwell after the journey.” He shook his head. “That won't wash for more than a couple of days. We'd best get it over with.”

“I'm not a complete social pariah,” Tamsyn protested, rather hurt at his obvious dismay.

“My dear girl, you're impossible. In this society you'll stick out like a sore thumb,” he said shortly. “You can't even sit properly.” He glanced up at the clock, his frown deepening. “I'll go and greet them and explain who you're supposed to be, and you may join us in about ten minutes. When you're introduced, you must bow, just a slight bend from the waist, like this.” He demonstrated while Tamsyn nodded solemnly.

“Now show me,” he demanded, watching critically as she imitated his movement. “Not perfect, but it'll have to do,” he said. “From my description they'll expect you to be shy and retiring as befits the convent-reared daughter of a hidalgo grandee.”

He strode to the door, then stopped, remembering something that had somehow never come up, “You'll have to have a surname. Miss Tamsyn is fine for the staff, but not for the rest of the world. What is your last name?”

Tamsyn shrugged, still struggling with her chagrin.

She hadn't believed she was impossible. “I don't have one. My father was only ever known as El Baron.”

“Then you'll have to be the daughter of Senor Baron,” he said crisply. He came back to her, one hand catching her chin, his expression menacing in its gravity. “One indiscreet word or gesture in front of these people, muchacha, and that's the end of it. You'll be out of this house so fast you won't know what hit you. Is that clear?”

“Why would I be indiscreet?” she demanded. “It's hardly in my interests.”

“No, but just you remember that, because believe me, I have never been more serious. One slip of the tongue, however accidental, and you're on the road. I have my own reputation to consider in the county, and I'm not jeopardizing it for you.” His eyes held hers in a ferocious glare; then abruptly he released her chin and left the library.

Tamsyn dropped the books onto the desk. What did he think she was going to do, fling her arms around him and engage him in a lascivious embrace? Or was he simply afraid she would say something indiscreet, something overly familiar? Of course it was possible she might, since she didn't know what these strangers in this strange land might consider out of order. Her lessons hadn't reached that stage yet.

She stood on tiptoe to examine her reflection in the mirror above the mantel, combing her hair with her fingers, flicking at the wispy fringe. It really was getting too long. How would a convent-reared hidalgo maiden conduct herself? She tried a shy smile but somehow it didn't look convincing. Perhaps she should pretend she didn't speak English very well. That would ensure she made no accidental errors. She would sit in meek silence, smiling and nodding, willing to be agreeable but suffering from blank incomprehension.

It would have to do, for safety's sake. The colonel had meant every word he'd said, and she couldn't risk an accidental slip at this stage of the game. She marched out of the library and across the Great Hall to the drawingroom on the far side. Just in time she remembered to correct her stride. Shoulders back, bottom in, head up, neck straight… Por Dios! but how could one remember all these things?

She opened the drawing-room door softly and stood hesitantly on the threshold, waiting for someone to notice her. Her heart began to beat fast as she realized that this was the beginning, and for the first time, as she absorbed the group of people gathered in a circle at the far end of the room, she understood what a daunting task she'd set herself She'd never faced such a group of people before. Indeed, she'd never stood on the threshold of a drawing room before. What would they see when they finally noticed her? One thing she knew with absolute, instinctive certainty: despite her conventional gown, they wouldn't see a woman who looked like one of them. It was not so much her physical appearance that set her apart, as something indefinable she felt· in herself… something that grew from the way she'd lived her life and what she expected from that life. It marked her like a brand.

Three of the women were matrons in their middle years, clad in dark satins with severe lace caps. The younger one wore a driving dress of soft beige cambric and a chip-straw hat. For all her youth, it was clear in every line of her body, in the way she wore her clothes, that she would look exactly like the other women when she reached matronhood. Tamsyn knew she would never ever resemble any of the women in the room. She felt as alien as if she'd descended from the stars.

Lord Pendragon and the vicar stood in front of the empty hearth, sniffing appreciatively at the wine in their glasses. They were both corpulent gentlemen, with the self-satisfied air of those who knew their place in the world. The Reverend Thornton saw Tamsyn first.

“Ah,” he boomed genially. “Our little foreigner has come among us.”

The colonel rose from a spindle-legged chair that looked too fragile for his large frame. “Tamsyn, come and be introduced.” He came toward her, his expression grave. “I've been explaining to my guests your unfortunate circumstances.”

“Perdon?” Tamsyn said, smiling anxiously, “No comprendo, Senor St. Simon.”

Julian's expression was so astounded, she forgot her moment of apprehension and nearly gave herself away with a peal of laughter, but resolutely she maintained her composure, peeping around him to the visitors, offering them her nervous little smile.

Julian's hand closed over her bare elbow. “I think you will find that you do understand if you listen carefully,” he stated deliberately, his fingers hard on her flesh. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Senorita Tamsyn Baron?”

Tamsyn maintained her fatuous smile during the introductions, offering a series of creditable bows that nevertheless made her feel absurdly like a bird pecking in the dust. She was aware of the sharply assessing eyes of the elder women, who all offered noncommittal nods as she bowed and smiled. Lord Pendragon's scrutiny, however, was of a very different kind. She might be under the auspices of Lord St. Simon, but she was still a young woman, and he was appraising her as such. The vicar took her hand in both of his and said unctuously that although he assumed she practiced the Catholic faith, he hoped she would find his church not too strange. They were very High Church in the parish of Tregarthan, and he would be happy to hear her confession if that would comfort her.

Tamsyn took refuge in incomprehension, with lowered eyes and an inaudible murmur, before turning with relief to Miss Marshall, whose smile was warm and uncritical.

“You poor dear, it must be so strange for you, and so sad to have to leave your own country.”

“Perdon?” Tamsyn looked up inquiringly at Julian, who through gritted teeth translated.

“Ah, muy amable,” Tamsyn gushed, taking the offered hand and shaking it heartily. Too heartily, judging by the recipient's startled look as her fingers were gripped with unusual firmness by this diminutive creature.

“Tamsyn has made a remarkable recovery,” Julian said. “Sit down, nina.” He pushed her into a chair, hearing her swift indrawn breath with silent satisfaction. “She actually speaks and understands English perfectly well, but she's afraid to make mistakes.” He smiled at her with his mouth, but his eyes promised retribution.

Tamsyn looked suitably flustered. “The… the senor is… is… muyamable.”

“Oh, I believe you overstate the case,” Julian said smoothly. He turned to his visitors. “If you speak slowly, she has no difficulty following you.”

Hester Marshall nodded her comprehension and articulated slowly and loudly, “Do you ride, senorita?”

“Ride?” Tamsyn frowned. “A caballo? Oh, SI… I like it much… very much, but the Senor, St. Simon, he say I don't do it well.” She cast a doleful look at the colonel.

“Oh, I'm certain Lord St. Simon will be able to find you a quiet horse to practice on,” Hester said warmly. “We must ride together. I don't care to do more than trot gently around the lanes myself, so you needn't be afraid we'll do anything you're not ready for.”

Tamsyn gulped and Julian said, “That would be very nice for you, nina. I'm sure you'd enjoy that, now the weather has become so much pleasanter.”

“Yes, it has been so dreary,” Mrs. Marshall agreed.

“The farmers are at their wits' end about the harvest. How long is your leave from the Peninsula, Lord St. Simon?”

“I have some negotiations to conduct on Wellington’s behalf at Westminster,” Julian said. “And the duke is also anxious that Tamsyn is well settled in her new country before I return. He was also acquainted with her father. I'm hoping that when the Season begins, I can prevail upon Lucy to sponsor Tamsyn.”

This was news to Tamsyn. “Perdon?” she said.

“Please… nocomprendo.”

By the time I've finished with you, buttercup, you're not going to understand the time of day, Julian swore silently. “My sister,” he reminded her, without a trace of emotion.

“Ah, si.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, smiling sunnily.

Lady Pendragon stared in shocked disbelief, but Julian moved swiftly, crossing in front of Tamsyn to refill the vicar's glass. As he did so, he kicked her ankle sharply, and Tamsyn hastily sat up straight, clasping her hands in her lap.

“Where were you educated, Senorita Baron?” Lady Pendragon asked slowly.

Tamsyn blinked and frowned, as if trying to understand. Then she nodded and beamed as if finally comprehending the question. She rattled off a stream of Spanish, nodding and smiling, gesturing eloquently while her audience stared uncomprehendingly until she'd fallen silent, when six heads turned as one to the colonel, who was now leaning against the mantelshelf, arms folded, an expression of sardonic resignation in the bright-blue eyes.

“In a mountain convent, ma'am,” he said. “A very strict order in a convent perched on a mountain peak. It could only be reached by mule, so the pupils saw very few people other than the sisters. Tamsyn's mother died when she was ten, and she was sent there after her death. Then, when she was eighteen, her father sent for her to Madrid. She was to be presented at court.”

Tamsyn nodded, twisting her hands in her lap, her violet eyes· brimming with emotion throughout this translation.

“Unfortunately, Senor Baron died very suddenly and consigned his daughter to the care of his good friends the Duke of Wellington and myself”

“Si… Si,” Tamsyn said, now smiling radiantly at Julian before rattling off another stream of Spanish.

“It was thought best she should come to England, at least until the war in Spain is over,” Julian translated without a flicker of emotion. Despite his annoyance with this playacting, he had to admit that Tamsyn was providing an immaculate background cover.

“Quite so,” Lady Pendragon said faintly. “How very unfortunate for you, Miss Baron.”

“Forgive me, my dear, but have you been ill?” Mrs. Thornton asked, leaning forward to pat Tamsyn's knee with her mittened hand.

Tamsyn looked blank for a minute, then responded cheerfully; nodding at Julian to provide translation.

“She says she is never ill, ma' am,” he responded obediently.

“I just wondered… her hair… most unusual.”

Now, how was she going to explain that one? He threw her the question.

“Oh, that was the convent,” Tamsyn invented without missing a beat. “The sisters insisted we have our hair cut very short… to prevent the sin of vanity, you understand.”

“Very commendable,” Mrs. Thornton said with a nod at her husband as Lord St. Simon finished translating, his voice devoid of expression, his face a mask. “We have often commented at the vicarage how young girls these days think too much of their appearances. Not Hester, of course.” She smiled at Mrs. Marshall and her daughter. “Hester is a paragon… so helpful around the parish.”

“Lady Fortescue will sponsor Senorita Baron at court, Lord St. Simon?” Mrs. Marshall inquired, accepting the compliment for her daughter with a complacent nod.

“I trust so,” he said dryly, sipping his wine. “I'm anxious to return to the Peninsula, as you might imagine.”

“What's your feeling about the way it's going, St. Simon?” Lord Pendragon asked, and the men drew apart, becoming involved in war talk.

Tamsyn sat demurely in her chair while the, ladies chatted among themselves, nodding at her occasionally so she shouldn't feel completely excluded from a conversation that was as incomprehensible to her as if she really. didn't speak English. They talked about recipes for calfs-foot jelly, blonde lace for trimming a gown, and the intransigence of parlor maids, while Tamsyn strained to hear the men's conversation, constantly biting her tongue to keep from contributing to a discussion that touched her much more nearly.

“I trust your… your ward… will accompany you to church on Sunday.” Mrs. Thornton drew on her gloves as the visitors finally rose to leave.

“Tamsyn will worship in our church for want of her own,” Julian said coolly. “Won't you, nina?”

“Perdon?” Tamsyn said sweetly, fluttering her luxuriant eyelashes as she gazed up at him in innocent inquiry. His responding glare scorched a warning, and she fell back discreetly as he escorted his visitors to their various carriages.

“Does the child have a duenna?” Mrs. Marshall asked as Julian handed her into her barouche.

“Oh, yes, a most fearsome Spanish lady,” Julian assured her solemnly. “And if she isn't enough, Tamsyn's also accompanied by a bodyguard-a veritable giant of a Scotsman, whose task, it seems, is to keep all strangers at bay until they've been duly vetted. I'm sure the village will be talking about him soon enough. Gabriel's a hard man to miss.”

Mrs. Marshall considered this for a minute, then nodded as if satisfied. Her daughter stepped up and took her place beside her.

“Good-bye, senorita.” Hester leaned over, holding her hand out to Tamsyn. “We must have that ride soon.”

“Yes,” Tamsyn said bravely, taking her hand rather more gently this time. “And please… please call me Tamsyn. It is muy bien, more pleasant, si?”

“Tamsyn,” Hester said, smiling. “Such a pretty Cornish name. Lord St. Simon said your mother's family came from these parts many, many years ago. You must call me Hester. I know we shall be good friends.”

The carriages rolled down the driveway, with Tamsyn waving energetically at Lord St. Simon's side.

“All right, you, inside!” Julian turned on Tamsyn once the carriages were out of earshot. His arm went around her waist, and he swept her into the house. “Just what the devil was all that about?”

“It seemed the perfect solution,” Tamsyn protested in wide-eyed innocence as he propelled her back to the library and the door shivered on its hinges under his vigorous slam. “I was afraid I would say something accidentally indiscreet or perhaps offend them, because I don't know anything about English society, so I thought if I didn't say anything very much, then it would be safe, and you wouldn't have cause to be vexed.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. “You were so ferociously threatening, Colonel.”

“Don't give me that mock innocence,” he said.

“You were making game of them… and of me!”

“No, I wasn't,” Tamsyn declared. “If you think for a minute, you'll see what a perfect solution it is, so long as I can remember to keep it up. If I don't speak, I can't say the wrong thing, and everyone will expect me to be different, so no one will look askance at any strange behavior. While you're teaching me not to make mistakes, I can be pretending to learn English properly, so when I make my debut… or whatever you want to call it… when it's safe to let me loose, then I can speak English without its seeming peculiar.”

“Safe to let you loose?” Julian murmured. “Dear God!” He ran a distracted hand through the burnished lock of hair flopping on his forehead. “You're about as safe as a cobra in a mouse's nest.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Tamsyn. “What a horrible image! And what's wrong with my plan? It's a perfect cover.”

Julian shook his head in defeat. He was obliged to admit that she was right, but he couldn't bring himself to say so. He went over to the sideboard and poured himself another glass of wine, regarding her in fulminating silence for a minute.

“I'll tell you something else,” Tamsyn said with sudden trenchancy. “If you ever call me nina again, St. Simon, I'll cut your tongue out!”

“My dear girl, for the role you insist on playing, it's the most suitable form of address,” Julian said airily. “A mute little girl, struggling to accustom herself to the customs of a strange land, trying to adapt to the terrors of the wide world after all those years sequestered in a mountaintop convent, fighting the sin of vanity.”

“I thought it was a piece of very fast thinking,” Tamsyn said defensively.

“Oh, you are nothing if not inventive, nina,” he said.

Laughter trembled on his lips as, infuriated, she bared her little white teeth at him.

He caught her round the waist as she leaped toward him, and lifted her off her feet. “An inventive, fast thinking brigand who's now going to have to trot decorously along the lanes on a fat pony because she says that the Senor St. Simon says she doesn't ride very well.”

“Oh, no!” Tamsyn wailed, kicking her legs.

“Oh, yes,” he said with a grin. “Inventive little lies come home to roost, muchacha. You can't possibly show yourself atop Cesar.”

“Then I'll ride only at night,” she declared disgustedly. “Put me down.”

He let her slide slowly through his hands, his mocking smile fading as his fingers brushed the swell of her breast. The indignation died out of the violet eyes at the touch. Her feet reached the carpet, and he moved his hands to run his knuckles over her breasts beneath the delicate sprig muslin. The nipples rose instantly, supremely sensitive as always, and her lips parted on an eager, expectant breath.

“Here?” she whispered, a catch of excitement in her voice. “Now?”

It was the middle of the morning, in the middle of his house. Domestic sounds reached them through the closed door. Julian glanced through the window to where a gardener was weeding the parterres in direct line of sight.

He looked down into Tamsyn's upturned face, glowing with desire and reckless invitation. She moved against him, a lascivious wriggle of her hips sending a jolt through his loins that took his breath away.

“Against the door,” he directed, his voice clipped and stern in its urgency. “Quickly.” He pushed her backward until she was pressed up against the door, his body hard against hers. Roughly he pulled her skirt up to her waist.

“Is this what you want, Violette?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And this?” His hand slipped between her thighs, pressing the dampening material of her drawers into the moist furrow, his touch burning into the soft petaled flesh beneath.

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes luminous, her skin translucent as she stood still for him, for once making no moves of her own.

It was lunacy. He was swept up on the crazy tide of this foolhardy passion. Her drawers fell to her ankles, her legs parted under the pressure of his impatient palms. His fingers moved within her, on her, until she was lost in a swirling crimson fog, her head thrown back against the paneled door, her hips thrust forward for his probing, questing hand.

His mouth brushed against the soft curve where her neck met her shoulder, and his teeth nipped where his mouth had been. She cried out, a soft female sound in the back of her throat, and then his flesh was within hers and she braced herself against the door, gripping his hips as he drove deep within her and her blood roared in her ears and he stopped her mouth with his own, suffocating the wild cry of delight before it could leave her lips.

And then it was over, and she stood trembling, her knees week, her gown clinging to her sweat-slick skin. Julian smiled a long, slow smile of sensual satisfaction. Lightly he ran his fingers over her mouth so she could taste the scents of her own arousal.

“What would they say in that convent of yours?” he murmured. “That strict order in the mountains?”

Tamsyn merely shook her head. For once Colonel, Lord Julian St. Simon had defeated her, rendered her speechless.