“Quite right.” His laughter blended with hers.
Looking beyond Alex, Christa saw a model ship standing on a walnut table next to a globe and a vase of flowers. Curious, she rose to investigate and found a model of a frigate, over three feet long and perfect in every detail. “This is exquisite, Alex. I had not seen it before.”
He rose also and stood behind her as she bent over and read the name painted on the bow. “TheAntagonist.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Christa said, “She is your ship, then? How lovely!”
He nodded. “Yes, this is the original shipyard model. I contacted the man who designed her ten years ago and bought it from him. It arrived two days ago. I am having a stand built.”
Alex ran one hand lovingly along the hull. “Designing a ship of war is an art, not a science. The designer spends months working on a model like this, balancing the requirements of speed, stability, and maneuverability to create a ship that can best carry the men and supplies and cannon the Admiralty wants. Then the lines are taken from the hull, and drawings of the cross-sections are made. TheAntagonistwas the fastest, most weatherly ship I ever sailed in. Several more like her have been built since then.”
Christa duplicated his motion, her hand sliding the length of the hull, feeling the subtle changes in the form.
Alex said, “You can see why ships are always called ‘she.’ With both ships and women, a man seeks the fairest curve.”
Christa laughed. “I think most men are not so discriminating—any curves will do. Otherwise, I should not have had to defend myself so often over the years. There are many women more beautiful than I, so one can only assume that most men do not care whether they bed a sloop or a light frigate.”
“You do yourself a disservice, Christa. There may be some women more beautiful, but few are more alluring.”
She said curiously, “I have always wondered why I am singled out, but when one has just kicked a man in the ankles, it’s not a good time to ask why he tried his luck. I would swear I do nothing to provoke attack—what is it that men find desirable in a woman?”
Alex looked down at her, his face becoming very still. Thoughtfully he said, “It is not one feature alone, but rather a quality of... perhaps ‘womanliness’ is the best word, or perhaps ‘sensuality’ is better.”
The left side of Christa’s body was limned by firelight, emphasizing the richness of form. He continued, “For example, you have one of the smallest waists I have ever seen, almost as if you wore a corset. But you don’t.”
Alex reached out with his left hand and placed it on her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. “And though you are slim, there is a roundness, a fullness to your figure, that cries out to be touched and explored.”
Christa gazed up into his amber eyes, golden in the firelight. His words came slowly, as if Alex was as mesmerized as she. His hand glided up until it cupped her breast and she gave a sharp, startled inhalation as sparks seemed to race from his touch. His hand pulsated on her breast; then he gently plucked the nipple that budded under the fabric. The sensation was exquisite, touching off a reaction throughout her body as the world narrowed to the circle of firelight.
Alex moved his hand down again, seeming to feel every rib as he followed the curve to her hip. He set his glass down, and with his other hand lifted her chin. Christa’s silver eyes were fearless and open to him, mirroring the same mixture of desire and doubt that he felt himself. When he claimed her lips, it was with an aching passion that drew them both into a storm of desire. Their bodies pressed together, seeking unconsciously to share one space, and his hands explored far beyond the limits he had observed when they had kissed before.
Christa felt her judgment shredding away as her body responded with mindless urgency. Using her last trace of reason, she groped one hand across the table behind her until it encountered a shape her fingers remembered as the vase of flowers. Lifting it, she poured the contents over Alex’s head, drenching them both in a shower of water and chrysanthemums.
Alex released her abruptly and backed away as he sputtered with a blend of frustration and unwilling amusement. Wiping wet gold hair from his forehead, he said with admirable mildness, “A simple ‘Stop’ would have sufficed.”
Christa ruefully shook her head, dislodging a blossom from her shoulder. “It was impossible for me to say it. That is why strong measures were needed.” Though her body ached with the loss of his closeness, she managed a wry smile. The alternative would have been to weep.
Alex turned abruptly away from her, leaning his forearms on the back of a wing chair and looking down at his laced fingers as he struggled to regain control. When he finally spoke, the words came haltingly, chosen with great care. “Christa, I have never wanted a woman as I want you.”
He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I would like you to be my mistress. You would have a house, and an income that will keep you comfortable for life.
“But I do not want to buy you. If you would accept them, I would be happy to give you the same things even if you would not accept me. I want you to have the freedom and the security you deserve.” She saw his fingers tightening as he continued, his voice ragged, “And I want you to want me.”
Christa felt a sudden sharp sting of tears behind her eyelids, and she turned quickly away so he couldn’t see her face.Damn the man! Why did he have to make it so difficult for her, by caring how she felt?
If he had merely offered money in return for her body, this proposition would have been essentially the same as that offered by Lady Pomfret’s husband—the oldest bargain on earth, and one she could turn down without doubts or questioning. Alex’s terms would be better than Sir Horace’s, but the transaction no different. Instead, he cared enough for her to want her desire. If only he wanted her love as much as she wanted his....
She moved aimlessly across the room. Stopping at a table that held a porcelain bowl of potpourri, Christa sifted it with her fingers, feeling the light crispness of dried rose petals, smelling the mixed scents of flowers and spices. Why should she not accept? She loved him, and for a while at least, she would have him. The house of d’Estelle was no more; there were none left to point a finger at how she had fallen. Most of her countrymen in England would applaud her enterprise in finding such a comfortable situation. Who would know or care?
A faintly amusing thought passed through Christa’s mind: her mother would know. It was exactly the sort of thing her motherwouldknow, wherever her spirit was now. She would not necessarily condemn; Marie-Claire had always followed her heart. But would she approve if her daughter gave her love to someone who didn’t love in return? That was the crux of the question.
Christa’s voice was very low when she answered. “And how long would it be for, my lord? Till you tired of me? Until you took a wife? Or would you keep me on then, passing from her bed to mine?”
His face was open and vulnerable as he replied, “I cannot imagine any of those things happening. It is more likely that you would tire of me.”
Her throat tightened until she could not have spoken to save her life. Tire of Alex, with his humor and mischievous intelligence, his warmth, his beautiful tawny body? She had once heard of an elderly duke who kept the same mistress for over fifty years. They had walked together daily in St. James’s Park, elderly lovers, objects of amusement and derision. Was that what would happen to them—Lord Kingsley and his servant-girl mistress?
Or should she say: “I will not be kept by you, but I was born a countess and you may marry me if you wish”? Her resolve stiffened at the thought. Alex had spoken from lust, not love. He was honest, and she admired that, but she was a d’Estelle—her pride was as much a part of her as her blood and marrow.
