Lavinia Kent - Bound by Temptation

Norfolk, March 1819

I t was not the first time Lady Westington had awakened tied to a bed.

It was not even the second.

Clara gave her arm a firm pull, yanking hard at the tie. The room was frigid and she wished to bring her arm into the warm cocoon of covers.

Drat.

Her wrist was very firmly bound, the fabric soft but with little give. She tugged her other arm. It was caught alsothe fabric was silkier, more elastic. She tried to twist her wrist, slipping it sideways. The tie moved with it.

Double drat.

Clara did not want to open her eyes. The thick down of the pillow curled against her cheek, and she rubbed her face into it, hiding from the cold. The rough nub of the fabric abraded her skin. This was no China silk or soft linen. She shoved her face deeper.

Triple drat.

It was not her pillow.

She closed her eyes tighter. Dawn was not yet welcome. Waking up felt more painful than usual, her eyes positively blurred with sleep, her mouth dry, her brains still fogged with dreams and possibilitythat magical world of possibility that surrounded her just before waking. The bed was cozy. The covers, thick and heavy, were wrapped tightly about her legs. The first rays of sunlight weres beaming across the pillow. Clara could feel their heat and glow beating down upon her hair. Turning away, she refused to welcome the morning radiance.

Strange pillows, bound arms, and all that they meant, could be suppressed for another few moments. Clara had thought these times were far in her past. It had been years since shed indulged in such game playing, and then it had been only briefly.

At least there was no heavy, warm weight curled against her.

Hopefully, her judgment had not led her too far astray. Her lovers had always been men whom she liked and respected, and she could only pray that this had not changed, that her lapse had not been too great.

She sighed, fighting reality for one last breath.

There was bacon cooking. The smoky, salty smell nipped at the edge of her consciousness. Bacon was almost reason enough to start the dayeven a day such as this promised to be. Her nose twitched. She moved to scratch it.

Or, at least, would have moved, if her hand had been free. Unwillingly, she opened one eye.

A white linen neck cloth bound her left wrist tightly to the rough wooden headboard. The frame of the bed rose heavy and dark, not at all like her own delicate mahogany furnishings.

She opened the other eye. The blue wool sleeve of her gown met her eye. She followed the fabric from the fitted shoulder to the small froth of lace at her bound wrist. She wiggled her legs, feeling the warm weight of her skirts wrap around them beneath the covers. The toes of one foot wiggled free, while the toes of her other foot remained snug inside her thin silk stocking.

The villain had tied her with her own stocking! She forced her eyes to focus as she stared about the unfamiliar room.

Bloody hell. Understanding began to descend.

It was not the first time Lady Westington had awakened tied to a bed. It was, however, the first time she had awakened fully dressed, without recollection of how she had gotten there.

An edge of fear fought to hold her, but she pushed it back. There was no time for that now. Lying back, she closed her eyes and took slow, measured breaths. This was not good.

At thirty, she was no foolish girl. There had to be an explanationshed been prepared to waken tied to an unknown mans bed, worn from a night of pleasure. She had not looked forward to it, but shed been prepared to face that consequence.

Why should this be worse? Another slow breath, and it seemed almost possible that this would not be as bad as she feared. Maybe theyd merely fallen asleep before anything had a chance to happen.

Opening her eyes again, Clara considered. Where was she? She tried to sit, but the ties held her tight, limiting her view. The ceiling had once been white plaster, but was now marked with the brownish stain of water and the soft gray markings of candle smoke and soot.

There was a window to her right. An unfinished wooden frame surrounded unwashed glass. The sun shone through it, unblocked by shutter or drape. But constrained as she was, she could see no other furniture or ornamentation. There was the impression of a door beyond the foot of the bed, but she could not be sure.

A horse whinnied. Another knocked its hooves against cobblestones. A boys high, unchanged voice called out. Hed need another moment to fetch the mash. A maid whistled as a door slammed shut.

If Clara screamed, shed be heard. She took reassurance in that small fact. Whoever had done this to her had not bothered with a gag.

She drew in a deep breath. She needed to pause and think, to be reasonable. If she screamed, she would be rescued. One layer of worry vanished. Her imminent danger was not of a physical nature. She could be found whenever she wished.

But did she want to be found, lying here, bound to the bed? The scenes that filled her imagination were not pleasant. The promises she had made to Robert and to herself preoccupied her. Her stepson was engaged to the daughter of the greatest prig in the county, and any hint of impropriety on her part would ruin everything.

Given her history, she could not think of a single explanation that would excuse her circumstances. Countesses, particularly soon-to-be dowager ones, were not supposed to be tied to beds, much less discovered in such circumstances.

Screaming could only be a last resort.

Damnation. Powerlessness was an unaccustomed position for her. She let her head fall back against the pillow and closed her eyes against the bright light of the window.

What had happened last night? Worry worked at her again, and this time it was harder to suppress. Trouble was not unfamiliar, but this blur of memory and thought allowed an edge of panic to creep in.

Shed had Mr. Green to the Abbey for dinner. Upon that point, she was clear. Robert had been out. Thered been roast duck. Cook had surpassed herself, the skin so crisp it crackled like parchment.

And Mr. Green. She shut her eyes tight at the thought. Hed been so young, so hopeful, so completely inappropriate. If she ever chose another lover, it would not be one whom she needed to train.

Clara yanked hard at her bindings again. She did not think Mr. Green could ever have conceived of strapping a woman to a bed. She doubted hed even heard of such a thing.

She had let him down gentlyshe hoped. How hed ever gotten the idea that she might welcome him to her bed she didnt know, but shed done her best to let him know it wasnt going to happen. And certainly not in Norfolk. She had never indulged herself here. She had too much respect for Robert.

Robert mustnt find her like this, or even hear of it. Lord Darnell would force Jennie to cry off the moment even a whisper of scandal graced her name again. She had to get free before that happened. She pulled hard again. Leaving your partner trapped had never been part of her play. Equal control was essential in all games.

She pushed with her feet against the mattress, trying to inch her way up the bed. If she couldnt pull free, maybe she could work enough give into the bindings to loosen them. The fine knit of the stocking moved with her, but the cravat might be gaping some.

She worked toward it. Maybe she could get it with her teeth. A good tug and shed be free.

Damn, she couldnt reach. The other arm held her fast. She twisted and turned, straining hard

And collapsed backward on the pillows. Whoever had tied her knew what he was doing. She assumed it was a he. This didnt seem like a womans work.

Stay calm . She repeated it over and over again. At worst this would be a pranknot a kind one, but surely one without real evil intent.