No sooner had she closed her eyes, however, did she hear hushed conversation. She would swear it was Seton and there were two other voices…Monsieur Auvray and Herr Müller. She’d thought everyone long since retired, but it appeared not.
Going to the window, she peered through the voile curtains. The men appeared to have come from the library and were crossing the courtyard, approaching the Auvrays’ room which was next to her own.
They stopped beneath the pergola, out of sight but close enough that snatches of conversation were audible.
“There is nothing to stop us.” There was excitement in Herr Müller’s voice.
Seton appeared to be in a similarly heightened state. “All these centuries! Wanting to be found, to be worshipped again, waiting until the perfect moment to command the winds and the sand, to reveal herself.”
“Until tomorrow,mes amis! Sleep well, and may your dreams be…satisfying.”
Onora craned her neck. MonsieurAuvray embraced the others, then she heard a door open and close again.
She let the voile drop.
They were clearly referring to the temple, and it was natural that Seton should discuss his plans for the site with his guests. Both were experienced; Seton would value their opinions.
And yet…
Something about the exchange was perplexing; fevered, almost.
Awe mixed with elation, as if what he’s been waiting for all his life is now within his grasp.
The discovery was momentous, and clearly a gateway to much more. It was to Seton’s credit that he’d kept things quiet, seeking neither accolades nor renown—as would surely come once the newspapers were informed. His dedication to the scientific recording of the temple’s interior these past years was commendable.
When three raps were sounded upon the door, herfirst thought was that Mr. Balfour had come. He was looking out for her as he had before, checking on her, knowing that her aunt was gone. No matter that it was late, and to come to her room alone and unbidden would be inappropriate in the extreme.
She rushed forward…and found herself facing Seton. He was leaning against the frame, impeccable in his evening wear but with a louche look that spoke of him having imbibed a great deal of alcohol.
“Not abed, my love?” His gaze roamed the chamber behind. “How promptly you answered my knock; almost as if you were expecting me.”
“I assure you, I wasn’t. I know we shall soon be married, Seton, but?—”
He took no notice, sliding his hand round to cradle her nape. “I always did like to see a woman in her night attire.” His gaze fell to her lips then to the lace-edged bodice of her nightgown. “All that frippery, and so very little holding it together. Such flimsy fabrics you women do wear; the sort that tear so easily.”
“You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on you, Seton. I hardly think?—”
Without warning, his fist grasped the plait into which she’d secured her hair. “Much as I enjoy games, my dear, I’m eager for something more direct this evening.”
The smell of whiskey on his breath made her recoil.
“Conventions are so dull, and I do hope you’re not going to bore me.” His grip around her hair tightened.
“Seton! Please! You’re hurting!” She tried twisting away but his hold was too firm.
“Look into my eyes.” He tugged her plait, making her head jerk back. He was so close she felt certain he was going to force his mouth upon hers. “That’s it.” Something gleeful entered his expression. “Look at me and nothing else. Part of you wants to fight but the impulse to surrender is winning.”
His gaze was overwhelming. The protest in her mind emerged as barely a whimper.
“I know all the things you’re hungry for.” He brushed light fingers over the front of her nightdress.
To her dismay, her anguish was laced with something far more powerful. A primal pulse radiated through her limbs and, as Seton eased the flimsy nightgown from her shoulder, she moaned. The air was cool on her skin, but his touch was hot and his caress gentle, working the bare flesh of her breast.
He bent to her ear, whispering. “Forget what you’ve been told. There is no good or bad. Only want. Only desire.”
She could hear nothing but his voice and the dark hum of her blood.
His fist no longer held her captive. Instead, he stroked down the length of her back, resting his palm to the hollow place above her buttocks. His other hand gathered up the fabric of her gown, skimming her thigh, finding the curve of her bottom. Possessively he pulled her to him, bringing her soft, yearning place to meet the hardness in his trousers.
