Seduced in September Read online

  She took up a schoolbook and poked at the thing. A corner of the cloth fell away when the book caught it. She narrowed her eyes, tried to parse what might be inside.

  It was golden brown and… crackling?

  She set the book aside and lifted the package with both hands, the weight of it surprisingly light, as if it were mostly filled with air. The rest of the cloth fell away as she did, revealing a perfectly baked round loaf of white bread.

  Her breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t the poor excuse for bread she’d had with her supper. She lifted the loaf to her nose, inhaling deeply.

  White bread. Pan ordinaire. An entire loaf half the size of her head. She pressed the crust with her thumb and the crust crackled sharply as it tore. Her mouth watered as the scent of yeast and flour and warmth hit her nose. Her stomach gurgled and clenched as if already reaching out for a bite.

  Where had this come from?

  She knew who had left it, who meant to tempt her with this. But where ever could he have gotten it? And what exactly did he expect in return?

  A kind girl, a thoughtful girl, a girl of good moral character would share this bounty. She would take it down to the kitchen and offer it to Cook to be shared among everyone. Adele wasn’t the only one in this house longing for a slice of proper bread again.

  A selfish, wanton girl would eat every last bite on her own, never sharing even a crumb with anyone else. Her belly would fill and fill with that bread, and she’d loll on the bed after, savoring the sensation, the lingering taste in her mouth.

  Adele tapped a fingernail against the bottom of the loaf, delighting in the hollow echo of it. This was excellent bread. It would be heaven, that first bite. And the second and the third, all the way to the very last one.

  She wanted every one.

  But she ought to take it down to Cook. If she did, she might even get a smear of butter across her slice. As would everyone else. It was positively sinful to think of eating the entire thing on her own. If she tore off even a small hunk, everyone would know her for the wicked creature she was.

  She held the loaf to her nose, breathed deep again. Yeast and flour and savoriness. It would be sweet on her tongue, so sweet.

  This was the temptation then. He thought she’d eat this entire loaf by herself, stuffing it into her mouth in an orgy of deliciousness. He would lure her with this, and then lure her into something deeper.

  Or would he? If his intentions were carnal, he could have done anything last night in the stables. Instead, he’d shown her his favorite horse.

  And frightened her with his radical sentiments.

  She pulled a struggling breath, her chest going as tight as it had last night, when she’d run from him. She was a good girl, a proper girl, a girl of upstanding reputation—Mrs. Fairfield had made her so. Mr. Coyne would not destroy all of that lady’s work so easily.

  With one last tap of the crust—ah, such a heavenly sound—she set it back on the handkerchief. Simply imagining devouring it all on her own would have to suffice. Time to take it down to the kitchens and share her bounty, as she’d been taught.

  Her fingers reached out for it, settled on that crisp, golden crust… and pinched off a large hunk.

  It came off easier than she’d expected, as if the bread had anticipated her tearing into it. A wide, white hole in the crust stared back at her. There was no hiding that.

  She’d done it. She’d ruined the entire thing, just to eat it all on her own.

  With wide eyes, she brought the piece to her mouth. As she closed her teeth on it, sweetness spread across her tongue, the crust digging sharply into her gums.

  She closed her eyes, released a little moan. She chewed slowly, savoring every moment. So good. Better than she’d even imagined. She swallowed.

  This time, she abandoned the lie that she wasn’t going to eat every last bite. This time, she tore a piece straight from the loaf with her teeth, sinking them deep to pull off a shamefully large bite, one almost too big for her mouth.

  She chewed a little faster, eager now for the taste of it. The bread had the perfect amount of give—not dry, but not chewy like the horrid bread at supper had been. This bread wouldn’t stick to the roof of her mouth. It stayed between her teeth as she wrung the flavor from it, warm and yeast and sweet filling her mouth. Then it slipped down her throat as easy as you please.

  Too easily—she wished she could savor this for hours.

  Another too large bite, torn off as if she were a ravenous beast. But the bread was too good—she could no longer hold back, no longer pretend she’d wasn’t ravenous, selfish. Her stomach grew warm and pleasantly full, and still she kept eating, well past the point of satiety.

  Too soon she reached the last bite.

  A moderate woman, one practiced at self-denial, would save this. Perhaps for tomorrow, perhaps for the day when she craved white bread again.

  But Adele had proved she was no moderate. Her veneer of respectability was only that—and she’d taken a hammer to it tonight, devouring the entire loaf like the intemperate, hot-blooded girl she’d always feared she was.

  She shoved the last piece in her mouth and chewed, her jaw working defiantly. It was as delicious, as satisfying as that first bite had been.

  And still she craved more.

  When she’d swallowed that last bit, she raised the kerchief to her face and breathed deeply of the scent of bread clinging to it. The sharp crumbs of crust pressed hard into her skin.

  She’d fallen harder than Eve, and all over a loaf of bread. There was no serpent whispering into her ear—only one wickedly handsome Irishman with hands she couldn’t stop thinking about.

  Carefully she folded the cloth and slipped it into her skirt pocket. She’d taken the bait—time to see what waited on the other end of the hook he’d set.

  Shrugging into her heavy cloak, she went out into the gathering night to find her mysterious gift giver.

  Adele found him in the stables, just as he had been last night. Only this time, she came across him in his office rather than calling him to her.

  The breezeway was dark and chilled, but there was the smallest sliver of light coming from his office door—she saw it right off, now that she knew what to look for. Slow and on tiptoe, she crept toward it, not wanting to startle whatever might be lurking in the deep shadows of the stables, anything that might be more frightening than a horse.

  When she came to his door, she saw that the lamp was turned as low as possible. It must strain his eyes terribly to work in such dim light, but his pen moved across the ledger without hesitation. He never looked up from his work—she could observe him at her leisure, this tempter of hers.

  He was partially undressed—coat gone, neckcloth off, shirtsleeves rolled up. His long, strong fingers gripped the pen gracefully and capably, just as he held a set of reins. Although it was cold enough for her ears to burn, his posture was as loose as if he were in a sun-drenched meadow.

  When she’d looked her fill, she asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

  Now it was her turn to surprise him—he jumped in his chair, his pen leaving a large, ugly blot on the ledger. Jock barked twice, furious and sharp, then halted in confusion.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Are you trying to kill a man, Miss Vere?” Mr. Coyne put a hand to his chest as if to massage his heart back to life.

  She smiled. Not very nicely. Startling him and his dog after all the disquiet he’d caused her was a delicious thrill. “Perhaps. But if this cold isn’t hurting you, my scaring you won’t either.”

  He snapped his fingers at Jock, who settled back at his master’s feet. Then Mr. Coyne stretched, his unbuttoned waistcoat falling away as he did, the linen of his shirt stretching tight across his chest. A display for her—she was learning his tricks.

  “There’s a chill, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “But I like to pull off some trappings at the end of the day. I’m sure you do the same.”

  She wouldn’t speak of being undressed with h
im. Bad enough that he’d made her eat that bread. She slipped her hand into her pocket, found his kerchief, a bit of crust a hard pebble in the folds of it. “I find the evenings to be quite frigid.”

  His eyes simply laughed at her, because he’d learned her tricks as well. “Have you come to return Tom’s dog again?”

  She shook her head. “Where did you get it?”

  He took a large inhale, his chest expanding as if he meant to give a gusty sigh. But he simply said, “If I told you, it would spoil the magic of it, now wouldn’t it?”

  She snorted. It was bread—there was no magic in it. No matter how delicious every bite had been. She held his kerchief out to him, ready to leave again. There was nothing to be gained here except more of his teasing.

  He didn’t reach for it. “Would you believe that the fairies left it?”

  “No. And please take your property.”

  His fingers curled round hers but he didn’t take the square of fabric. “Did you eat it all then? By yourself?”

  The heat rising in her cheeks was painful against the cold night air. How could he have known?

  His smile came on slow and wicked. “You did.” The triumph in his voice made the shame burn brighter. “Did you enjoy it?”

  Never would she admit such a thing to him. Bad enough he’d guessed at her shameful gluttony. She clenched her fist within his, but he didn’t release her. Instead, he tugged on her hand, pulling her closer to him.

  She held herself tight, her breath caught in her throat. He hadn’t been lying—she could feel the heat coming off him.

  “Tell me,” he said again, low, demanding. “Did you enjoy it?”

  She looked up at him from under her lashes. Infuriating man. “You know that I did.” Her anger was as cold as her breath in the night air.

  But it wasn’t only anger holding her limbs stiff—there was anticipation. Fear. Desire.

  He laughed, and it was as much of an enticement as the bread had been, tempting her to part her lips and taste. She pressed them tightly together instead.

  Of course he noticed. “I knew there was something more lurking beneath that governess’s reserve of yours.”

  He really had no idea. “Do I shock you?”

  “A touch.” There was triumph and amusement there, but not shock. “I imagined that you would share it with the kitchen, if you wanted to be pious. Or throw it back in my face, if you wanted to be vengeful.” He lifted an eyebrow. “But you ate every last bite. Then came to me.”

  She wriggled her hand free, pressed the kerchief into his hand. “Only to give you this.” But her voice wasn’t as cold, as steady as she might have liked. The heat coming off him seemed to be melting her resolve.

  And oh, after this cold, cold summer, how wonderful melting sounded.

  “It could have waited until morning.” He took another step toward her, close enough that her breasts were almost touching his chest. “I think you came for more.”

  An urge to be wicked, to shock him, to wipe that smile from his face with her brazenness took hold of her. Just as she had with the bread, she gave in to it utterly.

  She extended her index finger, raised it to the column of his throat, dewy in the lamplight from the heat he was giving off, and drew the tip of her finger along the white-hot skin there, collecting the dew. She raised her finger to her lips and licked it. Salt and scent—his salt and scent—ignited the tip of her tongue.

  “Perhaps I came for that as well,” she said, low and sultry. Not a tease, as he liked to do. Something deeper.

  “Jaysus,” he breathed, his chest working like a set of bellows.

  Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Coyne.

  “I’ll wish you good night then,” she said, the triumph and amusement all hers now.

  She spun on her heel, the better to make her grand exit, when his hand clamped down on her elbow.

  He spun her back to him, pressed her against him, and everything except heat and want left her mind.

  “Oh no,” he said. “It’s my turn.” He lowered his head, his breath coasting across the base of her neck, and then his tongue swiped across the pulse there.

  Lord in Heaven. Now it was her turn to suck in a deep inhale and hold it.

  When he raised his head, his eyes were twin spots of blue wickedness. “Did I shock you?”

  He had, but not the way she should have been shocked. She ought to have been repelled by his crudity. Instead, she wanted his tongue running over every inch of her.

  “I…” She found she couldn’t quite say that though. Perhaps she wasn’t nearly as wicked as she thought she was. Or he thought she was.

  He studied her for a moment, his expression sobering. “You don’t look as if you’re about to faint.” Her head was spinning though. “But you certainly don’t look happy.”

  She was supposed to be happy amidst all this heat and need? She had quite a bit to learn about wickedness then.

  “I—I’m not going to faint. I’m only a bit dizzy.”

  Something in her voice must have tickled him, because he smiled again. “Oh? Perhaps I should spin you a bit more then.”

  His lips met hers this time, less wicked than his tongue running across her throat, but just as intoxicating. He smelled of leather and straw and the sweet, earthy richness of horses. She could become as drunk off the scent of him as she was from the taste of his lips.

  His hands slipped to her waist, as bold as always. Inch by inch, he pulled her to him, his chest hard when it met hers. But his mouth remained soft, leisurely. If this was temptation, it was more languid than she’d expected. Yes, her heart was thumping, her skin was flushed, and her nipples were hardening, but it was more like slipping into a hot bath after a long day than a plunge into deep water.

  His thumbs began to make slow circles just above her hips, anchoring her to him and the sensations building in her.

  Oh, he was very good at this seduction business, make no mistake. He didn’t pin her down, didn’t demand. He lured her, with those soft, kind lips of his, moving enticingly against hers. And so she stepped forward and grabbed what he offered with both her hands, all of her own accord.

  She parted her lips, breathed against his, warmth flowing between them. He set his forehead to hers, his thumbs still drawing those circles of possession.

  “Did I offend you?” he asked.

  A short, amused inhale. “Do I seem offended?” She should have been, she knew, but here in his arms, she couldn’t summon her outrage. Perhaps this proved she was as wicked as she’d always feared. “Why did you leave the bread?”

  Somehow he knew what she meant, because he didn’t say, Because you might be hungry or Because I thought you’d enjoy it.

  He said, “Because I see something in your eyes. I have from your very first riding lesson. You looked at me like no one has ever looked at me before. Your eyes haunted me.”

  And his hands had haunted her, bits of the two of them caught in the other’s thoughts.

  She sighed and pulled away from him. Perhaps that was enough temptation for one night. Wouldn’t want to gorge herself on bread and kisses in one night. His thumbs stopped circling, but he didn’t release her. His gaze was serious, solemn. For once, he wasn’t teasing.

  “What now, Miss Vere?”

  What now indeed? They couldn’t do this again—being caught in the stable master’s arms would be fatal to the career of a governess. And yet…

  She raised her finger to the spot on his neck she’d touched before, slipped it lower this time, under the edge of his open collar. One last taste. One last bite of his deliciousness. And then she’d be done.

  His skin was smooth and warm, subtly yielding beneath her fingertips as if it had been waiting for her touch. She slid her fingers further along the bridge of his collarbone—and encountered something odd. Not smooth skin, but a raised and twisted hardness.

  A burn scar.

  She went on tiptoe, peered into the gap in his collar and caught a glimpse of
the shining, stretched pink skin there before his hand clamped down on hers.

  “I think you should wish me a good evening, Miss Vere.” There was a warning there, but regret as well. His other hand released her, his body going stiff.

  She didn’t sense that he was embarrassed about the scars, but rather he wasn’t prepared to share them with her. Since she’d shared nothing of her true self with him, it seemed only fair. But she’d proved that, for tonight at least, she didn’t much care for fair. She wanted to see those scars, know the story behind them. The need clutched at her belly, just behind the bread she’d eaten.

  She could push past his grip on her, find the rest of what he was hiding. But that would be wrong. She wasn’t so far gone in her wickedness as to do that.

  Instead, she pulled her hand free of his, stepped away from him. “I’ll wish you good night then.” She let her voice go low. “And I shall see you tomorrow.”

  He nodded in return, his hooded gaze weighty, intent. But he didn’t reach for her again as she turned to leave.

  Even so, his touch haunted her all the way back to the house and through the night.

  Chapter Four

  The morning brought shame with it.

  Or rather, Adele’s dreams brought shame when she awoke. In the dream, Adele had told Mrs. Fairfield what she’d done—they had been having tea, and while Adele was the same age, Mrs. Fairfield was younger in the dream, more like Adele remembered her as a girl—but Mrs. Fairfield hadn’t been angry. She’d only smiled and poured Adele another cup of tea. Adele had explained again, and still nothing. Almost as if Mrs. Fairfield didn’t want to admit the possibility that Adele had done anything wrong.

  Because she didn’t believe Adele could have done such a thing? Or because it was too terrible for her to even acknowledge?

  When Adele had woken up, the jittery shards of her dream stuck in her mind. Her stomach rolled as she nibbled at the toast and tea for breakfast. After that, her hands had trembled as she buttoned the coat of her riding habit.

  To have to face Mr. Coyne after what she’d done last night… he must think her the worst kind of wanton. It would serve her right if he tried to take liberties today. This was why she should have safeguarded her reputation, her reserve. It was the only defense she had against immorality. Her own and Mr. Coyne’s.