Chapter Thirteen: In his thrall.
Gloucester House, London, England
June 1816
It is late and she has wandered aimlessly into the library in search of a distraction from all the contrary thoughts that she cannot close off in her mind. Her emotions are swinging every which way and if she had just been allowed to remain back at Berkley she concludes everything would have been much easier. As it is though, Therese is not happy to be in London, even though her twin charges are thrilled to have been included in the family's relocation to the capital. London is full of unhappy memories for her, the loss of her parents being chief amongst them, and she already misses the open fields of Gloucestershire, riding dear Nero and Berkley itself most of all.
It seems however that Bastian is finally concentrating on making a decision about a suitable bride, something that she knows he must do, but that causes her a sharp pain in the vicinity of her stomach whenever she thinks on it too long. It is at his insistence that his sister's have been brought to London along with their mother, and of course Therese, as he wishes his prospective bride to be acquainted with the girls and to get along with them. This is she believes, a very good thing as the twins' adoration of their older brother, their genuine desire to be around him as much as they can, will be much easier if Bastian's new wife is someone who will be fond of them too.
That Bastian would wish this of his wife, to care for his siblings as he does, only makes her love him even more; even as being here depresses her more every day. It's not that Gloucester House, Bastian's London home lacks in any comfort. The house is in Mayfair, the best part of town, and though no where near the scale of his principal seat at Berkley, the townhome is very large and even comes with stables in the rear. There is a large ballroom for entertaining, a very extensive library, the main dining parlor has a huge mahogany table seating thirty people comfortably, there is a breakfast parlor, main drawing room, second drawing room, smoking room, gaming room, servants quarters, it's truly impressive, but it doesn't feel like a home to her, more like a show piece of the Earldom's large coffers. It's a stage for very wealthy family's social triumphs.
And the latest of these triumphs is set to be the marriage of a man she has no business loving, but loves anyway. She can be, must be nothing to the Earl of Gloucester, and yet Sebastian Berkley will always be the man who holds her heart.
And though Bastian was insistent that Therese accompany the twins to London, stating clearly that he values their education and does not wish to disrupt it, she had feared he would use her presence in London to further put pressure on her to accept his offer. They have been resident in the Capital for ten days now and as she has barely seen him she must acquit him on this score. He has been very busy socially, such an eligible bachelor is invited to every soiree, every luncheon, her maid has told her off all the invitations that have flooded in since their arrival. She tries not to care that he is so diligently selecting a bride, and yet it cuts her deeply to know he will soon wed another, how can it not?
So she is caught firmly between what she knows is right, moral, and a wrong path her foolish heart longs to take. She would wish she'd never met him, and yet she cannot bring herself to want to return to world without the knowledge of his existence. He is too precious, too special a memory, this man who she knows somehow always sees the 'real' Therese, and who said he needed her.
Frustrated that her mind is yet again dwelling on this senseless subject, she stamps her foot in a rare display of temper and tries to concentrate instead on the reason for her late night visit to the library; a book, a good one, a novel, or maybe some poetry, but nothing of a romantic nature. It's supposed to distract her not send her thoughts along that road again tonight.
She is up a ladder and browsing the top shelf when Bastian enters the room, and seeing the object of his desire, dainty ankles peeking out from beneath her skirts, his gut twists hotly and he closes the door behind him very quietly indeed, no sense in warning her of his approach. He's barely seen anything of her since he got to London, trying to fulfill his duty to his title and keep his stepmother off his back has kept him from the house nearly every minute.
His planned campaign of seduction for Therese has been firmly forced to the background and now to find her here, so late and alone, a more perfect opportunity to try to convince her to accept his offer he could not have engineered.
He flips the lock on the door silently, and advances on her until he can stand at the bottom of the ladder holding her and gaze up her back at the rich silkiness of her dark hair confined primly by an army of hairpins, at the long creamy expanse of her neck, and the few tendril of hair that caress it. Every muscle in his body hardens, and when he speaks he barely recognizes his own voice, raw with passion.
"Therese."
Her name, spoken by his deep warm voice, caressed even, as something precious. It startles her and turning quickly to find him she slips, losing her footing on the ladder she falls. Bastian moves like lighting, his strong arms catch her, haul her against a hard male chest, steely strength cages her and he breathes her name again, a whisper against her hair.
She should struggle to be released, but she's felt so lost the last ten days, has missed his face, his voice, so much, that instead of struggling to be free she finds herself nestling closer, relaxing trustingly against him and listening to the frantic thudding of his heart beneath her cheek. She steals a moment to be the woman in arms, allows herself to notice how at home she feels here. It is not her place, she knows this, but for this one moment she pretends, enjoys the fantasy of having him as hers.
Bastian relishes the feel of her against him, she fits there, in his arms, next to his heart, in a way no other woman ever has. She feels so right there, as if this is her place, hers and no others. Tenderly he holds her, gathers her close, until he cannot stand to have her be this close, and not kiss her another minute. His hand creeps up and tips her face up, her eyes are huge in a pale face and he lowers his head slowly, he gives her time to see his intent and stop him, he waits a moment further and she does not pull back.
He lowers his head all the way.
Their lips touch and hold, then he teases her bottom lip with his tongue and on a sigh she opens her mouth to him, allows his tongue to surge deep. For long moments he contents himself with only this, to hold her in his arms and kiss her so sweetly, but lust is flowing in his veins and one hand finally moves, almost of it's own will, to caress the gentle swell of her breast, to tease her through her dress, to enflame her, and he feels her body react. His other hand slides up into her hair, pulling the pins loose, fingers tangling in the heavy mass as he frees it, lets it cascade down her back. His hand returns to her cradle his jaw, molding her to him.
She presses against his hand, and moans her appreciation into his mouth when he increases the pressure. Her response, her innocent passion, the way she simply reacts to him without artifice or guile, never did he imagine that his own body, one so familiar with physical pleasure could be so stirred by anyone. He's on fire, his muscles hardened to steel, he wants nothing more than to rip every piece of clothing from both their bodies and take her right here on the library floor. It's madness. It's too fast, and though he doesn't want to stop, he wants to seduce her, to make her burn for him slowly; she needs to want him so much she can no longer think clearly. And she must come to him, must give herself knowingly, consenting to be his mistress.
He breaks the kiss, gasping for air; he forces himself to release her, to step away.
Therese stares up at him, breathing heavily, shocked at her body's response, at the liquid heat between her legs, the tightness in her chest, an aching emptiness within her crying out for him. For his possession.
"I . . . my lord?" Her voice shakes; she does not know what to say.
Bastian can read the confusion in her eyes, the contradictory impulses. This is what he wanted, for her to start questioning her refusal of him. For tonight that must be enough, she must want him, but not fear him.
He steps close again, she tenses, minutely, but he notices. Slowly he brings a hand up, tenderly he tucks her now loose hair behind her ears, his fingers stroking along her jaw quickly.
"I apologize Therese, but I must ask, have you reconsidered my offer, it remains open."
He isn't surprised when she shakes her head; he knows this will take more time.
Taking a deep calming breath he nods slowly at her. "Very well." A change of subject is required, clearly. He thinks quickly.
"You were looking for a book then; may I assist you in finding a suitable volume?" He smiles charmingly, trying to banish the awkwardness.
Stunned at his rapid change of topic Therese feels her urgent need to run away dissipate, replaced by a desire to spend a few more stolen moments in his company. She finds herself smiling back, the frantic beating of her heart returning to a more normal rhythm.
"I was looking for a novel my lord, something modern." Books, this is safe subject, they can talk about books surely? She glances around the room, there are as many books here as in the library at Berkley, this could take a while – hopefully she thinks.
Bastian begins to explain his definitely eclectic organization of the contents of this room, happy for now simply to be with her at all.