Page 43 of A Symphony for the Earl

“Tell me to stop…I need to stop,” he rasped, sliding her down his body so her feet touched the ground.

She was glad his hands were around her waist, for she didn’t think she could stand. Reaching up, Fiona traced his lips with trembling fingertips. “A mhuirnín, ní féidir liom…I don’t think I can…”

He turned his cheek into her hand, kissing her palm, his breathing ragged and uneven against her skin.

Shyly, she traced the contours of his face, encouraged by his sharp intake of breath. She smoothed back the tousled mahogany hair from his brow, and her fingers traveled through the thick waves down to the nape of his neck. He gave a throaty growl of pleasure, tipping his head back, but his clothing impeded further exploration.

Richard’s hand dropped to the frogged closure of the dressing gown, but he hesitated after unfastening the loop.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Le do thoil…let me see you…”

His eyes were heavy-lidded, lambent with banked fire as he slipped the heavy silk from his shoulders, then the lawn shirt. Her heart pounded like a drum.

Fiona caught her breath at the sight of his bare torso. “Mochuisle…chomh ládir, chomh dathúil…”

“You’re driving me mad,” he said thickly. “What are you saying?”

“I called you strong…and handsome.” Reverently, her hands slid over the muscled curves of his shoulders and slipped down his formidable biceps. Her fingertips skimmed his dusky aureola, so different from hers. The caress elicited a groan, and his hand dropped to the front of his breeches.

With a frisson of excitement, Fiona realized the balance of power had shifted. He was as aroused as she and subject to her touch in the same way despite all his strength. Her hand traced the line of dark hair leading to the thick outline of his masculinity beneath the satin breeches. She paused at the waistband, her courage failing.

With a fractured groan, he lifted her in his arms and strode over to the brocade sofa. He lowered her to the cushions, his jagged breathing audible in the still room. Her heart was in her throat as he found the fall of his breeches and went to the first button, ripping it from the fabric impatiently.

Without warning, a log collapsed in the fireplace and rolled onto the oriental rug. Richard started and turned, snatching up a throw and dampening the smoldering wood. The smell of burning fabric drifted across the room.

He looked down at her, his eyes focused and clear for the first time, and she saw the dawning horror on his face.

“Christ in heaven, Fiona…what am I doing?” Loathing filled his knotted voice as he took stock of his half-open breeches and her disheveled gown.

It was as though a shock of cold water poured over her. The heavy mist of pleasure dissipated, and reason crept into its place. She fought a wave of shame—how must it look, alone in a room with the Earl of Seldon, her hair loose in its pins, her breasts exposed, and her skirts crumpled. What was she thinking? Only a woman with a complete lack of morals would put herself in this situation.

Mortified, Fiona scrambled from the sofa and fled the room.

Chapter Fifteen

The Aftermath of Recklessness

Richard sank into the nearest armchair, his head in his hands. How had he lost control? He had nearly seduced his ward, a mere girl—nineteen years old. Only a moment more and he would have pushed up her skirts, seeking release despite any scruples he should have had.

It must be the opium. It had to be. He was not this kind of man. His defenses were down, he was in pain, out of his mind—but there was no suitable excuse for his behavior. How in God’s name was he to fix this?

All he could think of was how perfectly her body had fit him. Devil take it, he was still aroused. Was he some schoolboy to be so overcome with lust? His head reeled. There would be consequences to such recklessness. He sat up and stared grimly into the fire, well aware that there was but one way to make up for this debacle.

The next morning, his ward failed to appear at a late brunch arranged by his mother. When he asked about her absence, she had sent word that she was exhausted from the night before and would take chocolate in her room.

It was not surprising that Fiona had avoided a meeting he had hoped to have for a private conversation.

“Are you better this morning, dear?” his mother inquired.

“Much improved, thank you. I plan to have a brisk ride to clear the cobwebs. Do you expect callers today?” He sat and unfolded the newspaper beside his plate.

“We have already received countless cards for later this morning. I do hope Fiona will have recovered by then,” she fretted. “Perhaps you should find out, Valentina.”

“Who has requested to call?” Richard asked.

“Lady Jersey and Countess Lieven, Arthur Fitzcombe, Viscount Redmond, William Denton, the Barrett brothers—oh, a dozen others at least. We can’t possibly accept them all.” She made a face. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it, Mother?”