Worth Any Price

by Lisa Kleypas

  He could not simply fall on her the moment he entered the house, as if he had no modicum of self-control. But oh, how he wanted to, he thought with a wry smile, fumbling with the fastenings of his clothes. The wet garments came off with difficulty. Despite his inner heat, he realized that he was indeed chilled. He heard the rattle of pipes as Lottie started the shower-bath, and then her hesitant tap at the door.

  “I’ve brought your dressing robe,” came her muffled voice. Her hand appeared around the door-frame with the burgundy velvet clutched between her fingers.

  Nick looked at her small hand, the tender inside of her wrist with the little tracing of veins. Last night it had been easy to find every throb of her pulse, every vulnerable place of her body. He found himself reaching out, ignoring the robe in favor of wrapping his fingers around her delicate wrist. He pushed the door fully open and pulled her in front of him, looking down into her flushed face. It was not difficult for her to see what he wanted.

  “I don’t need a robe,” he said gruffly, pulling the garment from her hand and dropping it to the floor.

  “The shower-bath…” Lottie murmured, falling silent as he reached for the front placket of buttons on her gown. His fingers became swift and self-assured, peeling the bodice apart to reveal the construction of linen and stays that molded her flesh. He pushed down her sleeves, taking the straps of the chemise with them, and set his mouth to the bare curve of her shoulder. Miraculously she relaxed in his hold with a willingness he had not expected. Inflamed, he tasted the fine skin of her shoulder, kissed and licked his way to her throat, while he coaxed her hands free of the gown and pushed it over her hips.

  The shower-bath began to heat, saturating the air with steam. Nick unhooked the front of the corset, briefly compressing the hard edges of the garment, then releasing them completely. Lottie held onto his shoulders as she moved to help him strip away the rest of her undergarments. Her eyes were closed, her translucent lids trembling slightly as she began to breathe in long sighs.

  Hungrily, Nick pulled her with him into the hot rain of the shower-bath. Turning her face out of the stream of water, Lottie rested her head on his shoulder, standing passively as his hands slid over her body. Her breasts were small but plump in his hands, the nipples turning hard in the clasp of his fingers. He shaped his hands over her unrestricted waist, the swell of her hips, her round backside…caressing her everywhere, moving her against the engorged length of his sex. Moaning, she parted her thighs in compliance with his exploring hand, pushing her delicate flesh against his stroking thumb. As he entered her with his fingers, she gasped and instinctively relaxed at the gentle penetration. He caressed her, stroking in deep, secret places that brought her to the brink of climax. When she was ready to come, he lifted her against the tiled wall, one arm beneath her hips, the other behind her back. She made a sound of surprise and clung to him, her eyes widening as he pushed his cock inside her. Her flesh closed tightly around him, swallowing every inch of his shaft as he let her settle against him.

  “I’ve got you,” he murmured, her slippery body locked securely in his arms. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Breathing fast, she rested her head back against his arm. With the hot water falling against his back, and the lush female body impaled on his, every lucid thought promptly evaporated. He filled her in heavy upward surges, again and again, until she cried out and clamped around him in luxurious contractions. Nick held still, feeling her quiver around him, the depths of her body becoming almost unbearably snug. Her spasms seemed to pull him deeper, drawing waves of pleasure from his groin, and he shuddered as he spent inside her.

  Releasing her slowly, he let her drift down his body until her feet touched the tiled floor. He cupped a hand around her wet head and rubbed his mouth over her sodden hair, her saturated lashes, the round tip of her nose. Just as he reached her lips, she turned her face away, and he growled in frustration, dying for the taste of her. He had never wanted anything so badly. For a split second he was tempted to hold her head in his hands and crush his mouth on hers. But that wouldn’t satisfy him…he could not get what he wanted from her with force.

  Carrying Lottie from the shower-bath, he dried them both before the hearth in the bedroom and combed Lottie’s long hair. The fine strands were dark amber when wet, turning to a pale shade of champagne when they were dry. Admiring the contrast of the shining locks against his velvet robe, he smoothed them with his fingers.

  “What was said between you and Sir Grant?” Lottie asked, leaning back against his chest as they sat on the thick Aubusson rug. She was wearing another of his robes, which was at least three times her size.

  “He supported Sir Ross’s decision, naturally,” Nick said, inwardly surprised to realize that his bitter desperation of the morning had faded considerably. It seemed that his mind was reconciling itself to the prospect of what lay ahead, however unwillingly. He told her what Morgan had said about the runners being disbanded soon, and Lottie twisted to look at him with a thoughtful frown.

  “London without the Bow Street runners?”

  “Things change,” he said flatly. “So I’m learning.”

  Lottie sat to face him, unthinkingly curving her arm around his propped-up knee for support. “Nick,” she said cautiously, “as Sophia and I were talking today, she mentioned something that I believe you will wish to know, even though it is supposed to be a surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of them lately.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

  Her eyes were clear, dark brown, like cups of shimmering caravan tea. Nick stared into her sweetly curved face, the chin too pointed, the nose too short. The little imperfections made her beauty unique and endlessly interesting, whereas more classically shaped features would have bored him quickly. His body reacted with pleasure to the pressure of the slim arm hooked around his leg and the side of her breast brushing his knee.

  “What did my sister tell you?” he asked.

  Lottie smoothed the loose folds of the silk robe. “It concerns your family estate in Worcestershire. Sophia and Sir Ross are having it restored, as a gift to you. They are repairing the manor and landscaping the grounds. Sophia has taken great pains to select fabrics and paints and furnishings that closely resemble the ones she remembered. She says it is rather like taking a journey back in time…that when she walks through the front entrance, she half-expects to hear your mother’s voice calling her, and to find your father smoking in the library—”

  “My God,” Nick said through his teeth, rising to his feet.

  Lottie remained before the fire, extending her hands toward its warmth. “They want to take us there after the writ of summons arrives. I thought it best to give you advance warning, to allow you time to prepare yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Nick managed to say tautly. “Although no amount of time would be sufficient for that.” The family manor…Worcestershire…he had not been back there since he and Sophia had been orphaned. Was there no damned escape from this? He felt as if he were being hauled inexorably toward a bottomless pit. The Sydney name, the title, the estate, the memories…he wanted none of it, and it was being shoved upon him regardless.

  A sudden suspicion spread through him. “What else did my sister tell you?”

  “Nothing of significance.”

  Nick would have been able to see if his sister had confided in her. But it seemed that Sophia had not betrayed him in that way. And if she had not told Lottie by now, she would probably continue to hold her silence. Relaxing marginally, he scrubbed his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Damn everyone and everything,” he said in a low voice. But as he saw the indignant expression on Lottie’s face, he added, “Except for you.”

  “I should hope so,” she retorted. “I am on your side, you know.”

  “Are you?” he asked, drawn to the idea in spite of himself.

  “Your life isn’t the only one that’s been turned topsy-turvy,” she in
formed him. “And to think that I was worried about the problems that my family would cause!”

  Nick was tempted to smile in the midst of his aggravation. He went to where she sat and lowered a hand to her. “If the rain stops,” he said, pulling her up, “we’ll visit your parents tomorrow.”

  Lottie’s expressive face betrayed both consternation and eagerness. “If it isn’t convenient…that is, if you have other plans…I am willing to wait.”

  “I have no plans,” Nick said, thinking briefly of his dismissal. “Tomorrow will be as convenient as any other day.”

  “Thank you. I do want to see them. I only hope—” Lottie fell silent, her brows knitting together. The hem of the robe dragged in a long train as Lottie went to the fire. Nick followed immediately, wanting very much to cuddle and reassure her, to kiss her lips until they softened beneath his.

  “Try not to think about it,” he advised. “Distressing yourself won’t change anything.”

  “It won’t be a pleasant visit. I can’t think of a situation in which two parties could feel more mutually betrayed. Although I am certain that most people would hold me at fault.”

  Nick stroked the sides of her arms over the silk sleeves. “If you had it to do over again, would you have stayed to marry Radnor?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Turning Lottie to face him, he smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Then I forbid you to feel guilty about it.”

  “Forbid?” she repeated, arching her brows.

  Nick grinned. “You promised to obey me, didn’t you? Well, do as I say, or face the consequences.”

  “Which are?”

  He unfastened her robe, dropped it to the floor, and proceeded to demonstrate exactly what he meant.

  The Howard family lived in a hamlet two miles west of fashionable London, a residential outgrowth surrounded by farming land. Nick remembered the well-structured but shabby house from his much earlier visit, at the beginning of his search for Lottie. The irony of returning to them as their new, very much unwanted son-in-law would have made him smile, as the situation contained strong elements of farce. However, his private amusement was tamped down by Lottie’s impenetrable silence. He wished he could spare her the difficulty of seeing her family. On the other hand, it was necessary for Lottie to face them and at least try to make peace.

  The small Tudor-style home was one in a row of architecturally similar houses. It was fronted with small, overgrown garden plots, its red brick exterior sadly dilapidated. The front door was raised four steps from the ground, the narrow entrance leading to two downstairs rooms that served as parlors. Beside the entrance, another set of stone steps led to the cellar below, which contained a kitchen and a water-storage tank filled from the main in the road.

  Three children played in the garden plots, brandishing sticks and running in circles. Like Lottie, they were flaxen blond, fair skinned, and slim of build. Having seen the children before, Nick had been told their names, but he could not recall them. The carriage stopped on the paved coachway, and the small faces appeared at the front gate, staring through the peeling slats as Nick helped Lottie descend from the carriage.

  Lottie’s face was outwardly calm, but Nick saw how tightly clenched her gloved fingers were, and he experienced something he had never known before—concern for someone else’s feelings. He didn’t like it.

  Lottie stopped at the gate, her face pale. “Hullo,” she murmured. “Is that you, Charles? Oh, you’ve grown so, I can scarcely recognize you. And Eliza, and—good gracious, is that baby Albert?”

  “I’m not a baby!” piped the toddler indignantly.

  Lottie flushed, poised on the verge between tears and laughter. “Why, no indeed. You must be three years old by now.”

  “You’re our sister Charlotte,” Eliza said. Her serious little face was sided by two long braids. “The one who ran away.”

  “Yes.” Lottie’s mouth was touched with sudden melancholy. “I don’t wish to stay away any longer, Eliza. I have missed all of you so very much.”

  “You were supposed to marry Lord Radnor,” Charles said, regarding her with round blue eyes. “He was very angry that you wouldn’t, and now he’s going to—”

  “Charles!” A woman’s agitated voice came from the doorway. “Hush and come away from the gate at once.”

  “But it’s Charlotte,” the boy protested.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. Come now, children, all of you. Tell the cookmaid to make you some toast with jam.”

  The speaker was Lottie’s mother, a breakably slender woman in her early forties, with an unusually narrow face and light blond hair. Nick recalled that her husband was of stocky build with full cheeks. Neither of the pair was particularly handsome, but by some trick of nature Lottie had inherited the best features of each.

  “Mama,” Lottie said softly, gripping the top of the gate. The children promptly fled, eager for the promised treat.

  Mrs. Howard regarded her daughter with a dull gaze, harsh lines scored between her nose and mouth, and across her forehead. “Lord Radnor came not two days ago,” she said. The simple sentence contained both an accusation and indictment.

  Bereft of words, Lottie looked back over her shoulder at Nick. He went into action immediately, joining her at the gate and unlatching it himself. “May we come in, Mrs. Howard?” he asked. He ushered Lottie toward the house without waiting for permission. Some devil prompted him to add, “Or shall I call you Mama?” He put a mocking emphasis on the last syllable of the word, as Lottie had.

  For his effrontery, Lottie surreptitiously knocked an elbow into his ribs as they entered the house, and he grinned.

  The interior of the house smelled musty. The drapes at the windows had been turned many times, until both sides were unevenly sun-bleached, while the aged carpets had been worn so thin that no regular pattern was discernable. Everything from the chipped porcelain figures on the mantel to the grimy paper on the walls contributed to the picture of decayed gentility. Mrs. Howard herself gave the same impression, moving with the weary grace and self-consciousness of someone who had once been accustomed to a far better life.

  “Where is Father?” Lottie asked, standing in the center of the parlor, which was hardly bigger than a closet.

  “Visiting your uncle, in town.”

  The three of them stood in the center of the room, while awkward silence thickened the air. “Why have you come, Charlotte?” her mother finally asked.

  “I’ve missed you, I—” Lottie paused at the resolute blankness she saw on her mother’s face. Nick sensed his wife’s struggle between stubborn pride and remorse as she continued carefully. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for what I did.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” Mrs. Howard replied crisply. “However, I do not. You do not regret abandoning your responsibilities, nor are you sorry for placing your own needs above everyone else’s.”

  Nick made the discovery that it was not easy for him to listen to someone criticizing his wife—even if that person happened to be her own mother. For Lottie’s sake, however, he concentrated on keeping his mouth shut. Clasping his hands behind his back, he focused on the indistinct design of the ancient carpet.

  “I regret causing you so much pain and worry, Mama,” Lottie said. “I am also sorry for the two years of silence that have passed between us.”

  Finally Mrs. Howard displayed some sign of emotion, her voice edged with anger. “That was your fault—not ours.”

  “Of course,” her daughter acknowledged humbly. “I would not presume to ask you to forgive me, but—”

  “What’s done is done,” Nick interrupted, unable to tolerate Lottie’s chastened tone. He would be damned if he stood by while she was brought to her knees in contrition. He placed a hand at Lottie’s neatly corseted waist in a possessive gesture. His cool, steady gaze caught Mrs. Howard’s. “There is nothing to be gained by talking about the past. We’ve come to discuss the future.”

  “You have no
involvement in our future, Mr. Gentry.” The woman’s blue eyes were icy with contempt. “I blame you for our situation fully as much as my daughter. I never would have talked with you, answered your questions, if I had known that your ultimate design was to take her for yourself.”

  “It was not my plan.” Nick let his fingers nestle in the curve of Lottie’s waist, remembering the delicious softness beneath the confining stays. “I had no idea that I would want to marry Lottie until I met her. But it was obvious then—as it is now—that Lottie will be better served by a marriage to me than to Radnor.”

  “You are very much mistaken,” Mrs. Howard snapped. “Arrogant scoundrel! How dare you compare yourself to a peer of the realm?”

  Feeling Lottie stiffen at his side, Nick squeezed her subtly in a silent message not to correct her mother on that point. He was damned if he would use his own title to compare himself in any way with Radnor.

  “Lord Radnor is a man of great wealth and refinement,” Mrs. Howard continued. “He is highly educated and honorable in every regard. And if it weren’t for my daughter’s selfishness and your interference, Charlotte would now be his wife.”

  “You’ve omitted a few points,” Nick said. “Including the fact that Radnor is thirty years older than Lottie and happens to be as mad as cobbler’s punch.”

  The color on Mrs. Howard’s face condensed into two bright patches high on her cheeks. “He is not mad!”

  For Lottie’s sake, Nick struggled to control his sudden fury. He imagined her as a small, defenseless child, being closed alone in a room with a predator like Radnor. And this woman had allowed it. He vowed silently that Lottie would never again go unprotected. He gave Mrs. Howard a hard stare. “You saw nothing wrong in Radnor’s obsessive attentions to an eight-year-old girl?” he asked softly.