Sinful Confessions (Cynfell Brothers Book 1) Read online

Drag him to hell and roast him on a spit. He didn’t care. She tasted better than ice cream. Her lips parted and her fingers curled around his arms, digging into his jacket. A hand on the back of her head, another to the base of her spine, Julian let his tongue slip in and he tasted the warmth there. Taking another sample, savouring it, he withdrew and dropped his hands from her. She released him at the same time.

  He braced himself, gaze on the floor. The sting of a palm across his face perhaps or some bitter words flung at him. When he lifted his head, she merely beamed at him.

  “I was hoping you’d do that.”

  Julian nearly choked on a breath. “You were?”

  She nodded and pressed her lips together, a smile still haunting them. “Oh yes. Ever since I arrived.”

  “I should not have done that.”

  He wrapped his fingers around the railing behind him as though it might give him the support not to try to kiss her again. Or worse. Making love in a library was one of his fantasies. And he had to admit to wondering what the enigmatic lady on the other side of the ocean looked like, then implanting her into his fantasies. But there was a distinct difference between that and reality. Julian Cynfell did not do women and he did not take innocent ladies in libraries.

  “It was only a kiss, Julian.”

  She shouldn’t be speaking to him in such a way, either. If only he didn’t like it so much.

  Viola retrieved the book that had been abandoned on the shelf and tucked it back in place before facing him once more. He felt a fool. Intimidated by this slender woman. She ran her gaze up and down him and her lips tilted.

  “I’m sorry if I shocked you. You should know from our letters that I am not the best at holding my tongue or watching my actions. I shall try better I promise, particularly if we are to be ma—” She clamped her mouth shut and threaded her hands in front of her.

  Bells rang in his head. Those carefully honed senses he’d been mastering since he had turned sixteen and had inherited his father’s title went on alert. Ambitious mamas and simpering misses had all whispered that word behind his back. She didn’t need to finish the sentence to make him realise what she had hoped.

  “Married,” he finished for her, numb shock working through his body and making the word toneless.

  “Well...” She lifted her shoulders.

  “Viola...” He shook his head. “We are not to be married.”

  He felt foolish saying the words. He hadn’t asked for her hand, hadn’t even implied he was looking for a wife. Which he wasn’t. He would rather die old and lonely than be responsible for the death of another woman. Julian did not know how or why, but he was bad for women.

  Her mouth opened and closed for some time. “You mean... did you want it to be a surprise perhaps? Or... or...”

  “No,” he snapped and regretted it when she jolted back against the bookcase. “You misunderstand me. I have no want of a wife. Forgive me, Viola, but I have no want of you.”

  “But... your letter...” Her lashes fluttered several times then she fished into her shirt before drawing out a crumpled piece of parchment. He recognised the quick flash of handwriting. It was his own.

  “Viola...” he warned, his voice growing deep with horror.

  This woman had come here with the expectation of marrying him. For whatever reason, she had travelled across the ocean for him. He didn’t want to know why. All he wanted was her gone. It was too much. He wished she’d never come here, wished he’d never been faced with the reality of what was behind those letters. The reality was too tempting by far.

  With shaking hands, she held out the paper and read from it. “I...I have fervent hopes that when my business is completed with your father, you shall not forget me...” A sob broke her words and she thrust the paper at him.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and read the rest of it.

  I have come to appreciate your letters and find myself looking forward to reading of your news and ambitions. I have great hope that you shall come to England soon and enjoy what it has to offer. May I recommend the National Gallery in London and, of course, the splendid Kenilworth Castle in my own home county—of which we have discussed. Your passion for English history will make this visit a delight. I hope your passion will be enough to persuade you to make such an arduous journey.

  Whilst our families will marry in business this April, I hear tell of another such happy event from your father. I confess I fear the end of our correspondence. Will you assure me of your devotion to our letters?

  Yours humbly,

  Julian

  He couldn’t quite believe those were his words. Had he truly spoken like that? Julian supposed so. He always expressed himself much better on paper. Yet he’d never mentioned their marriage. And the news of the happy event—he’d been told there was a likelihood she would be marrying the son of another shipping merchant. A merger as it was. He recalled the deep ache that had struck him and how he’d been deliberately charming in his tone, determined not to show his anguish.

  “Damnation,” he muttered. His words were misleading. He could only blame gut-clenching jealousy and the idea of marrying another man for his ridiculous turn of phrase.

  He lifted his head and heaved a sigh. But what woman would come halfway across the world in the hopes of marrying a man she didn’t know?

  “I never intended...”

  Her chin wobbled but she lifted her head high. “To mislead me? Well, you did, Julian. You played me cruelly.”

  “Now, wait a moment. I never meant to play you. How was I to know you’d get it into your head that intended for us to be anything other than friends?” He waved the letter. “Hell, we were barely that. Why would I marry a woman I’d never laid eyes on? We wrote to each other, nothing more.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes. Viola’s throat worked. She drew in one long audible breath. “Nothing more,” she murmured, dropping her gaze. “Of course, nothing more.” She surprised him by dropping into a quick curtsey, muttering a farewell and dashing away from him.

  Julian watched her go. His lungs seemed to deflate while she hastened down the spiral steps and out of the library door. All the heat that had built up under his skin vanished, leaving him cold and empty. He glanced at the creased letter in his hand and imagined he could feel the warmth from where it had been pressed to her breast.

  Nothing more.

  He shook his head. He knew better than that but it was dangerous to admit more. Dangerous to suggest that he could possibly have fallen in love with her simply through her letters. Perhaps she had felt the same, but he’d never know now. If this was indeed love, he had to protect her from him. For God’s sake, he’d just ranted at her for a misunderstanding. He’d watched her hopes crumble before his eyes and still managed to tear her down further. Even if he wanted to marry her and didn’t fear for her safety around him, how could he subject her to a man like himself?

  Folding the paper once more, he tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket. He couldn’t. Viola Thompson had to leave and forget he even existed.

  Chapter Six

  Where was her dratted handkerchief? Viola sniffed noisily and stuffed her slippers into her travel bag along with her nightgown and the evening gown Jenny had so carefully hung. Who cared if it got creased? She’d bought it especially for this trip and what a waste that had been. Heat singed her cheeks and she paused to cover her face with her hands.

  What a fool she must have seemed. This starry-eyed American hoping for a love-match with an eloquent English lord.

  “Foolish, foolish, foolish,” she muttered to herself. “Oh stop it.” The tears were coming again. She drew in a noisy breath and scanned the room for her handkerchief again.

  Her gaze landed on the one on the table at the bedside. Jenny must have had it washed and pressed as it was folded neatly. She picked it up and ran her fingers over the embroidered monogram. To think she had imagined their initials together on their own linen. Oh God, could she get any sillier.
/>   What would her friends say? They expected her to return with at least a proposal, if not a husband in tow. Her brothers would take great delight in her failure. And society would have yet another thing for which to look down upon her. Her broken engagement had given the gossips and society columnists a great deal of delight. What would they say about her now?

  New York Heiress Scares Away Yet Another Man.

  She had so wanted not to be a failure for once. She had one job as a daughter—first it had been to be useful on the farm and once her father had gained wealth, it was to marry a rich man. Her share of the inheritance would do her nicely but of course, her father wanted more for her. She’d already lost one rich man, and now all her dreams had come to nought. The worst of it was, she had really, truly come to care for Julian. Or at least the Julian she knew on paper.

  She dabbed her nose with the handkerchief. He didn’t seem at all like that man in real life.

  The door creaked open. Viola waved a hand. “I don’t need any help, thank you.”

  A clunk sounded and she released a breath. She really didn’t want to be seen in such a state, even by Jenny. She’d been crying for the past two hours before deciding to pack her belongings. Her eyes felt sore and swollen, and she hadn’t dared to look in a mirror to see the damage yet.

  “I am sorry.”

  She swivelled at the sound of the three low, soft words. A hand to her mouth, she staggered back and her legs struck the bed. To prevent herself from falling onto the mattress, she put her hand to the bedpost. Humiliation struck her anew at the sight of this handsome marquess. She couldn’t decide if she preferred him with a necktie, without or with it tugged loose as it was now. He had clearly been running his hand through his hair as it was mussed.

  Good. The man had the most foul of tempers. She hoped he felt awful for what he’d said. If his lowered gaze and shifting feet were anything to go by, he did. Or perhaps he was simply concerned about her doing something foolish, like trying to force him into marrying her. Well, she had no intention of marrying a man like him.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Viola turned and snatched her perfume and cold cream from the dressing table and flung it into her bag. She eyed the white tub for a moment and decided she would pack it more carefully later. Knowing her luck, it would spill onto her clothes and it would be nearly an eleven-day journey home if the weather was fine. She certainly didn’t need any more disasters.

  “I never intended—”

  “To mislead me, yes, you said.”

  She kept her back to him. Julian was entirely too handsome and dashing. She could only guess at what he would look like when she’d been writing to him and of course, she hoped he would be handsome, but she had been prepared to accept him no matter what. A man who wrote letters as he did was more beautiful than the handsomest of men, regardless of how he looked.

  But Julian didn’t need inner beauty. He embodied her every idea of how an English lord should look. And, blast him, he drew her in. Even now she’d seen the ugliness inside, her hopeful heart wished fervently to see that man from the letters, to believe that he even existed beneath that foul temper and awful manners.

  For want of anything else to do, she closed her bag and began to buckle it. She still needed to pack a few last bits but that meant turning and viewing him.

  A set of warm fingers curled around her wrist. “Don’t.”

  Viola snapped her head around to view him. He’d stepped closer and swallowed up the small gap between them. Her breath stilted. Her skin under his finger tips felt warm and goose bumps pricked along her arm.

  “Don’t,” he repeated. “Don’t go.”

  Darting her tongue out along her lower lip, she tried to summon a response. Her indignation vanished at his touch. How frustrating. She so wanted to shout at him for how horribly he had dealt with their misunderstanding, but her body seemed to melt into a puddle of candle wax once he touched her. It was the same sensation she’d felt when he’d kissed her.

  He’d kissed her. Oh dear, that had been the most romantic, exciting moment of her life. After months of dreaming and imagining what it would be like, it had happened. And it had been so much better than she expected.

  But then he had to ruin everything. And, of course, she had to be a fool to have assumed he ever meant to do anything more than kiss her. No doubt he deeply regretted that kiss once he’d realised it had given her the wrong impression. Perhaps he often kissed girls but they were smart enough to know he did not mean anything by it.

  “I should return home,” she said softly, keeping her gaze on the brass buckle of her bag.

  “But...” He drew in an audible breath and released her hand. She saw him take a step back out of the corner of her eye. “You have only been in England a matter of days. You should stay and... and see the sights.”

  Viola rotated slowly. She glanced at him from under her lashes and tried to forget the utter humiliation she’d just experienced. Her main aim of this trip had been to secure herself a husband. But she couldn’t deny she’d been dreaming of visiting England ever since she was old enough to read about it. The history simply fascinated her.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll show you around,” he offered. “You can stay here.”

  She let her brow rise. Was this simply him trying to apologise or something more? Why had he gone from wanting her gone to asking her to stay? No, she wouldn’t read more into it. She had already made a fool of herself enough as it was. The likelihood was he did not want her running home and telling Papa what an awful man he was and how they shouldn’t do business.

  “In your house,” she clarified.

  The thought of being able to explore the beautiful house appealed greatly. She tried not to smile at his stiff nod. Having been sick for all of her stay here, she hadn’t managed to see even a quarter of the house and from his letters, she knew there was much to explore. The gardens, the woods, the secret passageways. Then, of course, there were the castles of which he had talked and the abbey, and even his home by the sea. Perhaps she could talk him into taking her to the seaside.

  “Will you take me to the castle?”

  “I will.”

  He didn’t look pleased about it. Was it simply because it was her or was there something more to it? Jenny had implied the marquess had only been like this since the death of his last wife. Was this grief taking its toll on him? Maybe, if she tried hard, she might be able to find that man who had written such beautiful letters. Even help him out of his grief perhaps.

  Well, there she went again with her fanciful thoughts, but either way, she would at least have some wonderful memories and experiences to carry her through her embarrassment when she returned home empty-handed.

  “Very well, I shall stay.”

  A hint of a smile tilted his lips and he nodded. “Excellent. I shall let Mrs Whittleworth know.” He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet a little. “I hope you will join me for dinner tonight so we can plan your outings.”

  “I would like that, thank you.”

  He gave her a formal dip of his head. It surprised her as Julian had been so far removed from the rich, powerful marquess she’d expected him to be. But the movement didn’t seem like that of a man constrained by rules and society. Instead it was a simple movement of respect, and one that sent her heart skittering up into her throat.

  “Until this evening.” He retreated from her room and shut the door.

  Viola twisted to unbuckle her bag. Poor Jenny would have to press her clothes again. Still, even with the thought of all her crumpled clothes and having nothing to wear for the evening, she couldn’t resist a smile. She might not get her husband but she would get the experience of a lifetime, all on the arm of a handsome Englishman. It was not what fairy tales were made of but it would do.

  Chapter Seven

  Julian debated the decanter of wine on the bureau and shook his head. Now was not the time to get foxed, no matter how tempted
he was. He paused when he heard a creak outside. But, no, it wasn’t her. Would he be forever waiting on Viola during her stay? Did she have any idea how simply being around made his heart hitch?

  What had he been thinking? He should have let her go. He’d only intended to try to make some kind of bumbling apology. The idea of her crying over him made him feel bitter inside. He was not worth crying over. But when he’d realised she intended to leave, something odd had come over him. A wild kind of desperation. He hadn’t even realised what he’d done until he felt the flex of the delicate bones of her wrist beneath his fingertips.

  So his mind had latched onto the only convenient reason for him begging her to stay. For her to truly experience England. Today they would take the carriage to Kenilworth Castle. He’d only been there himself once, in spite of it only being an hour’s carriage ride away. He supposed it was easy to take these things for granted when one had these things on one’s doorstep.

  Julian drew out his pocket watch and snapped it shut. No one would be angry with them for being late—this was not a ball or an important social event. However, he could swear she was deliberately late, just to make him feel like he was standing upon hot coals. Every minute she made him wait had him imagining what she was doing. Was she slipping on her stockings or dabbing some stain on her lips? Spritzing perfume on her neck or tucking a curl behind her ear?

  All these little feminine moments had been something he’d greatly appreciated about Sybil. Women could have no idea how entrancing it was to watch a woman skim her fingers over her own skin.

  Footsteps finally sounded on the steps and he watched her ascend the stairs much as he had the night she had fallen sick. Instead of seeming shaky and wan, she beamed at him. Vibrancy fairly shimmered from her and he couldn’t resist the smile curving his lips.

  He skimmed his gaze down her and paused at the sight of stockinged legs peeking out of the dark green bloomers she wore. Good God, she was wearing trousers. He’d heard of some women in London kicking up a stink because they wanted to wear trousers whilst cycling but he’d never seen it himself. After all, this was the country. He tried to drag his gaze away from where the tight cuffs latched around slender calves but he couldn’t seem to.