Rules of Refinement (The Marriage Maker)

by Tarah Scott

  Carrick chuckled. Whatever money they spent would be well worth their absence. He jogged up the remaining stairs and continued up another floor to Juliet’s room. Finally, they could be alone. He could hardly wait. He took the hall in long strides, his cock hardening with each step.

  He reached her room and hesitated. No light shone under the door. Surely, she wasn’t asleep already. He rapped softly on the door. No answer. He grasped the knob and turned. The door was unlocked. Slowly, he opened the door a crack and peeked inside.

  In the dim moonlight streaming through the window, he discerned Juliet beneath the blankets on the bed. She didn’t stir. Disappointment threaded through him. His cock was so hard it hurt. He stepped inside and padded to the foot of the bed, but when he caught sight of the frown etched on her face, his primal thoughts fled.

  Aye, this issue of a wife had and would only worsen matters between them. He’d have to think of an arrangement that would satisfy them both. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—lose Juliet. Not over something as trifling as a wife.

  With a rueful sigh, Carrick unbuttoned his shirt. He should go to his own bed… He pushed his breeches down over his hips, then stepped out of them and slipped under the covers beside Juliet. It felt so right to have her by his side. He couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

  He didn’t expect to find sleep so easily, but her rhythmic breathing soothed like a lullaby, and his eyes drifted shut.

  * * *

  Carrick awoke when Juliet stirred, and opened his eyes to the sun cresting the tree line beyond the bedroom window. Juliet’s hair fanned across the pillow and the slight frown from the night before still marred her brow. He propped onto an elbow and brushed his lips against that worry crease.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Good morning, sweeting,” he murmured.

  Her face relaxed.

  Carrick brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. “Shall we spend the day in bed, love?”

  She laughed and the warmth in her tone made the blood surge straight to his cock. She abruptly tensed and the frown lines returned.

  “There’s too much sewing to be done.” She sat up. The movement caused her shift to slip over her shoulder and expose her white skin.

  “Forget the sewing.” He settled back amongst the pillows. “Take off your shift and sit on me, lass.” She glanced at the sheet, tented by his cock, and his shaft further thickened.

  She sent him a sidelong glance and for a long moment he thought she meant to refuse. Then she got to her knees and ever so slowly pulled the hem of her shift up and over her shoulders.

  Eyes locked with his, she tossed the garment on the floor. “I’m already late. Why not a few minutes more?”

  “Minutes?” Carrick snorted, recalling her taunt that he’d last only minutes in her bed. Ah, he still had so much to teach her. He tracked his gaze over her breasts. Her nipples protruded in a way that begged to be suckled.

  She shook her hair. The mass of silky strands tumbled over her shoulders as she twisted her fingers in the sheets and slowly tugged it off his body. He drew a long, ragged breath as the soft material slid over his flesh.

  She didn’t immediately mount him, like he wanted. Instead, she traced a finger up his thigh and chest, then back down again. Her feather-light touch along with the wait threatened to drive him mad.

  “Sit on me,” he demanded again.

  A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth as she swung a slim leg over his hips and straddled him. He cupped her breasts and gently squeezed. She closed her eyes and moaned. Gently, Carrick tweaked her nipples. Still, she didn’t slide down onto him. Instead, she leaned into him. The curls between her legs tickled his shaft, then her mons bumped him. Pleasure streaked through him.

  “I need you, lass, please,” he begged.

  She wiggled her hips. “How much?”

  “Desperately.” He fought the temptation to grab her hips and slam her down onto him.

  “I see,” she murmured, lowering her body with excruciating slowness until the tip of his shaft nudged her wet entrance. “Perhaps I should take pity on you and —”

  Carrick seized her hips and shoved her down as he thrust.

  She drew a sharp breath. He began to buck beneath her. He drove deeper. She braced her hands on his chest and ground down on his hard length.

  Her breath quickened. Worry followed satisfaction. The way her channel closed around his cock, he wouldn’t last long. He clenched his jaw and willed his desire to orgasm into submission. He slid his thumb between her wet folds and swirled it over her swollen nub. She rocked against him and he exerted herculean effort to delay his pleasure.

  Her muscles abruptly went rigid and her channel tightened around him. Carrick lost control. A moan ripped from his lungs. Blinding pleasure spasmed his body and he emptied his seed deep inside her.

  When the last ripple of pleasure faded, she collapsed against his chest and he cradled her close as he ran his fingers through her hair. She was so beautiful. He wanted the moment to last forever.

  A sudden knock on the door caused them both to start.

  “Miss Thatcher?” a maid called. “Are you awake?”

  Carrick smothered a grin as Juliet slid off his body and hopped from the bed.

  “Just a moment, please,” she called.

  He lay back on the pillows, folded his arms behind his head and watched her scramble into her shift.

  Juliet hurried to the door and opened it a crack. “It’s the dowager,” the maid informed. “She wishes to see you in the breakfast parlor, at once.”

  Carrick tensed.

  “She says to hurry.”

  Juliet promised to come immediately and closed the door. She faced Carrick, her face white. “The dowager,” she whispered, and darted to the armoire to select a light green muslin day dress.

  Carrick rose and scooped his breeches from the floor, then pulled them on over his hips, one eye on Juliet. She looked terrified. He scowled. Could his mother be tormenting the lass? He retrieved his shirt from the floor and tossed it on the bed before crossing to where Juliet wriggled into her gown.

  “Allow me.” He tied the ribbons on the back as he studied her face in the armoire’s mirror. The frown lines had returned. “Don’t fret so, lass. What’s between us is not my mother’s concern.”

  She lifted her eyes to his in the mirror. “I know the rules, Carrick—and I know better than to break them.”

  She pulled free and grabbed the brush from the vanity to give her hair a few quick strokes before turning in the mirror for a final inspection. Satisfied, she hurried back to him, rose on tiptoes, and gave him a quick peck on the check before she dashed out the door.

  Carrick drew a thoughtful breath.

  She knew better than to break the rules, eh?

  He had to do something about that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cravats and Cards

  THE DOWAGER LOOKED UP from her breakfast of eggs and toast as Juliet entered.

  “Your Grace,” Juliet croaked through dry lips and curtsied.

  “Juliet, dear, please have a seat.” The dowager nodded, indicating a chair at the table to her right. “It’s time we talk.”

  Juliet drew a deep, shaking breath. Time we talk. There could be nothing good about those words. “Certainly, Your Grace,” she murmured as she obediently seated herself in the indicated chair.

  “You’re from London, aren’t you?” the dowager asked as she set her hardboiled egg in its porcelain holder and expertly cracked the shell with a spoon.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Thatcher,” the woman said thoughtfully. “The Sussex Thatchers?”

  Juliet blinked. Sussex Thatchers? Puzzled, she shook her head.

  “Oh? Then where does your father live?” the dowager asked.

  Juliet smiled a little sadly—she’d practiced this response in the mirror a hundred times—and said, “My father…has passed away, Your Grace.” It could have been the t
ruth. Who knew?

  The woman appeared surprised. “My condolences, child. And your mother?”

  Juliet bit her lip, then caught the nervous action. “My mother—”

  “Good morning, Mother,” Carrick’s deep voice interrupted.

  Juliet sent him a smile of relief.

  The dowager nodded at her son. “Catherine mentioned you’re sending us to London.” She gave her egg another whack.

  “Aye. From the number of trunks I see littering the halls, you plan on taking the entire estate with you.” Carrick took his seat opposite the woman.

  The dowager pursed her lips, then turned to Juliet and patted her hand. “Run along, dear. We’ll chat later.”

  Juliet blinked, surprised at the friendliness of the gesture, but she didn’t have to be asked twice to leave. Studiously ignoring Carrick, she rose and hurried toward the door.

  Before she reached the hallway, she caught Carrick words, “I have had enough of you interfering in my affairs,” before the door closed.

  Fear knotted Juliet’s stomach. The dowager knew of her son’s affair. She rounded a corner and ran straight into Catherine. The young girl grabbed her arms and swung her around in a dance.

  “We’re off tomorrow,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, please say my new gown is ready. I simply must wear it on holiday.”

  “You’re leaving?” Juliet asked, surprised.

  “Carrick’s sending us to London,” she bubbled, falling into step as Juliet resumed her walk down the hallway. “And Brighton. Mother loves the sea. But I need my gown. Do say you can finish it before we leave tomorrow, please?”

  Juliet smiled as they neared the stairs. “I’ll try my best.”

  “Thank you, thank you a thousand times,” Catherine cried. “Now, I must pack.” She blew Juliet a kiss and raced up the stairs ahead of her.

  Juliet watched her go with a smile and began climbing the stairs. Truth be told, she was relieved to be escaping the dowager’s censorious eye—along with the promised awkward chat concerning her parents. Hopefully, the woman would be too busy readying for the trip to continue the chat. Spending the day tucked away in the sewing room hemming Catherine’s gown would help ensure that happened.

  The day proved busier than expected, not only with finishing Catherine’s gown but with mending various day and morning dresses the dowager sent up for repair. Juliet felt sure that both the dowager and her daughter had packed every article of clothing they possessed.

  Twice, Carrick dropped by. But the hustle and bustle drove him off with no more than a look—a sultry, seductive one—passing between them. Finally, the clock struck midnight, and Juliet rose stiffly from her chair. Her fingers ached, but she released a sigh of satisfaction from a job well done.

  It didn’t take long to tidy the room. She tossed the last spool of thread into her sewing basket and reached to shut the lid. A glimpse of silk caught her eye and she smiled as she slipped a finger over Carrick’s cravat, still safely tucked away. Hopefully, he’d be waiting in her bed. As tired as she was, she would wake the moment his lips caressed her skin.

  To her disappointment, she arrived to find her bed empty.

  Perhaps he thought her too tired. Juliet considered seeking him in his room, but with her luck of late, she would run straight into the dowager.

  With a sigh, she undressed, pulled her night rail over her shoulders and dropped into bed.

  She was nearly asleep before her head touched the pillow.

  * * *

  Juliet awoke to the noon sun warming her face. She sat bolt upright, heart pounding. She’d overslept. The dowager and her daughter had left for London hours ago. She dressed in a hurry and rushed downstairs on the off chance they hadn’t yet departed. The last thing she needed was for the dowager to find a reason to dislike her.

  At the bottom step, she encountered one of the maids.

  “The duchess? Catherine?” Juliet asked, pausing to catch her breath.

  “Lordy, miss, they left at dawn,” the maid replied and shuffled off.

  Juliet blew out a long breath and bit her lip. Oh well. No doubt, the dowager had noticed her missing from the line of staff biding them a safe journey. She could only hope the woman would forget the matter before she saw her next.

  She glanced around, noting how quiet the place seemed, then started back up the stairs. She stopped in the library, hoping to see Carrick, but the room stood empty. With a sigh, she closed the door and headed for the sewing room. The dowager and her daughter might be gone, but she still had plenty of dresses left to sew.

  Juliet slowed at sight of the open sewing room door. Had she forgotten to close it last night? She entered the room and frowned. The partially sewn dresses and her sewing basket were missing. She glanced around, noting the chests of fabric missing, as well. As she slowly pivoted, her gaze snagged on her sewing basket sitting on the floor near the inner door that led to an adjoining room.

  She hurried to the basket, but to her surprise, discovered it empty. Her gaze caught on a pair of scissors peeking out from the bottom of the door. As she touched the door it swung open slightly. A pincushion sat on the rug in the center of the adjoining room. Six feet farther away lay a spool of thread.

  “This is exceedingly odd,” she murmured and retrieved her tools, then noticed a second spool of thread near the far door.

  She paused, then smiled. This was a breadcrumb trail. Carrick’s doing. It had to be. With a heart growing lighter by the step, she followed the trail of pincushions, thimbles and thread spools down the servants’ stairs and out a side door leading to the castle’s side lawn.

  The trail led across the grass. Near where the garden path vanished behind a copse of trees, a length of muslin was artfully draped over a bush. She frowned and hurried to rescue the fabric before it stained.

  What was the man thinking? Still, she found herself smiling as she folded the fabric and placed it atop her sewing basket. She saw the playing cards, a line leading down the center of the path and disappearing behind the trees.

  She’d missed him the night before. Her smile widened as she followed the trail, collecting the cards along the way until the path gave way to a private garden. A gazebo nestled under an ancient oak, and Carrick practiced archery nearby, wearing only a white shirt and a pair of form-fitting, dark gray breeches.

  She paused to admire his muscular buttocks and powerful thighs. Her fingers itched to slide over those firm, warm muscles. She’d never thought of a man’s buttocks and thighs as particularly fascinating before.

  He bent to remove an arrow from a quiver lying on a table and she watched the shift and flex of his thigh muscle before wrenching her eyes away. A throb pulsed between her thighs.

  He lowered his bow and she lifted her gaze to his face. His eyebrow raised in amusement. Heavens, she could only be glad he wasn’t privy to her thoughts. He’d be prancing around the estate in smug satisfaction for a week—maybe longer.

  A mischievous grin crossed his face as he crooked a finger and motioned for her to join him. When she arrived, he took the sewing basket and set it on the ground as she eyed the target, taking note of the half-dozen arrows clustered around the bullseye.

  “You have astonishing marksmanship,” she said.

  A humorous glint entered his eye. “Aye, my shaft is hard and its aim true.”

  She jerked her eyes back to his, forcing herself not to look at his crotch. The man was shameless. She couldn’t prevent a smile. then recalled that she’d overslept. “I fear I failed in bidding the duchess and Catherine farewell,” she confessed.

  He chuckled. “Mother insisted you catch up on your rest. She wasn’t offended, if that’s what concerns you.”

  That was difficult to believe, but she smiled anyway. “Well, I’m well rested now.”

  His eyebrow lifted as he reached past her to prop his bow against the gazebo’s nearest wall. He murmured, “For now, aye?”

  She lowered her lashes.

  �
�I found a most curious item in your sewing basket.” He bent and retrieved something from his quiver.

  His cravat. She took the fabric, suddenly tongue-tied.

  “You kept it,” he said.

  She lifted her eyes to his. Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. He smelled of fresh air and the sandalwood spice of his cravat. She closed her eyes and melted into his embrace, a thrilling kiss soft, tender, and sweet.

  A kiss that ended far too soon.

  He pulled away and she opened her mouth to object, but he surprised her by swinging her up into his arms.

  “I’m of a mind to taste your charms, lass.” He peered down at her through hooded eyes. “Here. Now.”

  She shivered. “Here?”

  He carried her into the gazebo and lay her on a plaid spread across the weathered wooden floor.

  “Carrick,” she said with mock sternness.

  He shrugged and dropped down by her side. Objections died on her lips as he covered her lips and sucked her tongue into his mouth. A sizzle of heat shot through her inner core and clenched her sex.

  He loosened her chignon and threaded his fingers through her curls as he kissed a path from her lips to her neck before pausing to suck the tender flesh beneath her ear. She slid her hands over his arms. Muscle shifted beneath her fingers as his palm skimmed her waist. He covered a breast and kneaded the soft flesh. Heat pooled in her belly. She arched her hips.

  “You’re more than ready, aren’t you?” He chuckled.

  “Take me,” she whispered.

  He rose to his knees, rucked up her dress, then slipped her under drawers down and off.

  “Open your legs for me, lass,” he murmured as he leaned over and kissed her eyes closed.

  She obliged, enjoying the heightened sensations of his lips as he planted another line of kisses along her jawline and down her throat.

  She tensed in anticipation of him levering himself over her. A warm hand clasped her thigh. A quiver radiated through her stomach. He clasped her other thigh and Juliet shivered. The man was a magician. She discerned the shift of his weight on her legs, then gasped when warm lips closed over her sex.