“You duffer!” His confession earned him yet another swat. “How could you?”
“Boredom?” He shrugged.
She made a noise of suffering.
“Was that a growl, my love? How naughty of you.”
“Stand up,” she commanded, losing her patience with each passing moment. Cleo had been on the brink of giving herself to this man and he’d merely been on the brink of finishing their host’s whiskey collection. “We’ve got to get you to bed. I’m afraid it’s the only answer to your particular circumstance.”
“Excellent idea.” He stood and swayed against her. “Good Christ. Why is that wall moving about so? It’s making me feel ill.”
“Oh no.” She wrapped her arms around his waist to steady him. “You aren’t going to be sick, are you?”
“I’ll have you know I can hold my whiskey. Better than Ravenscroft, I’d wager.” His mouth found its way to her ear. “I love your ears.”
“My ears?” How unromantic of him. She’d never heard the like. Then he kissed the object of his affections and she hurriedly forgot she’d been unimpressed. His tongue caught the whorl, his teeth tugged on the sensitive lobe. Oh my.
“They’re perfect.” He kissed a path down her neck, sucking on her skin. “And your neck. I love your neck.” He tongued the hollow of her throat. “This spot where your pulse beats, I love it too.” His mouth found its way to the tops of her breasts, exposed by her décolletage. “And these are absolutely brilliant. I love your breasts.” He buried his face between them and inhaled deeply. “Why do you always smell so damn delicious?”
She smiled, feeling wicked. “To torment you.”
“You’re succeeding.” He swayed again.
“Thornton?”
“Yes, my love?” As his face had yet to move away from her bosom, his voice was quite muffled.
“You’re stepping on my foot.”
He muttered a curse and removed the offending appendage. “Sorry.”
She took his hands in hers. “Come, you must try to return to your chamber and get a good night’s rest.”
“Not my chamber, surely. Can’t I remain here in yours?”
“I do not think it a good idea.”
“I realize I’m a miserable sot for everything I’ve done today.” Thornton’s fingers tightened on hers, his eyes intense. “But I confess I don’t think it in me to stagger back to my chamber just now.”
How utterly unromantic. It wasn’t the wooing she’d expected this evening and it took the wind out of her a bit.
“You may stay for a time,” she conceded, for there was really no other option.
Chapter Eight
Dawn arrived too soon. She slept little, savoring the protection of Thornton’s arms around her, the warmth of his big, strong body at her back. He’d fallen asleep almost immediately, but she hadn’t minded. She’d been too ensnared in the new, strange emotions assaulting her. Goodness, she had not shared a bed with a man in years. Scarbrough paid her as much attention as the drapery. Even in the first year of their marriage when he had been far more attentive, he had done his business and returned to his own chamber. Never had he wanted to touch her as if she were a person from whom he took comfort. As if she were a person for whom he possessed tender feelings.
With Thornton, everything seemed different.
Until reality, with all its vulgar implications, stole into her chamber as if it were the morning sun. What would they ever have together beyond these fleeting, stolen moments? She wouldn’t contemplate it just now.
“Thornton, you must wake.”
He rolled over.
“Thornton, ’tis nearly morning. The servants will be about soon and you must not be seen leaving my chamber.” Cleo shook him with—she had to admit—unkind force.
He groaned and sat up. Through the meager light of the lone gas light she’d lit, she discerned the hard muscles of his back, each clearly delineated. When she placed a cool hand against his hot skin, he jerked.
“I think the damned devil is dancing a jig inside my skull,” he muttered with unprecedented bluntness.
“I will send Bridget to you—”
“I don’t want a goddamn poultice.” He threw back the bedclothes.
“Very well.” She drew herself up with as much dignity as she could manage while abed. “You shan’t get a goddamn poultice if you don’t want a goddamn poultice.”
“Shrew.”
“Lout.”
“Virago.”
“Noddy.”
“Noddy? Is that the best insult you can find?”
He fumbled about for his shirt on the chaise. Had she just been thinking of tender feelings? Had she mistaken his hold for something more? Uncertainty swirled about her like cold bathwater. And what was wrong with noddy, anyway? She thought it quite effective.
“Thornton?”
He sighed, the sound ragged. “I’m sorry.” He kept his back to her as he shrugged on his shirt first, then his black jacket. “I’m a bit of a bear in the mornings.”
“You don’t say.” She wanted to keep the hurt from her voice, but wasn’t certain if she’d succeeded.
“I’ve the devil of a hangover,” he explained, casting her a bleary-eyed look.
“The devil surely seems to be on your thoughts this morning.”
“I’m sure you know why,” he returned.
Of course she did and suddenly the morning seemed bleaker for it. Yes, the sun was steadily on the rise, casting a few golden strands of light into the room to battle the gas lamp. Mere heartbeats before her world had bloomed bright with meaning. Now it appeared like the autumn day it would be after all, ashen gray and cool. An awful sensation of portent crept over her.
“Perhaps we should no longer see one another in private,” she whispered, hating herself even for suggesting it. Cleo didn’t think she could endure not being able to speak freely with him, to touch him as she liked.
“Impossible,” he said, clipped and final. He stalked to the door and swept out. It closed with a snap that was louder than propriety would have preferred.
She flinched. Impossible. In so many senses of the word, he was right.
“Ridiculous,” the dowager marchioness boomed to her daughter later that morning from her private chamber. “Your brother has been behaving abominably ever since our arrival and I tell you daughter, I have begun wondering whether he has finally fallen into drink as everyone on your father’s side of the family is prone to do. Bless the de Vere women before me for their fortitude. How they must have suffered! And your own dear brother, so young to succumb. Oh! It hurts my mother’s heart to think he has become depraved, but I fear that is the case. Next he shall die of delirium tremens in a hospital for the poor. Do you think him in a very bad way, Bella?”
She sniffled and raised a black lace handkerchief to her nose. This morning, of all mornings, she had chosen to wear her most depressing gown. It was severe and muted with horizontal stripes of dove and jet. Still, she thought it turned her out to advantage. At least if Alexander left the family in disgrace, no one could say it happened while she looked a fright.
“Maman, I do realize his fight with the earl was ill-advised,” Bella began.
“Ill-advised? My child, it was infamous!” She reached for her fan and began madly waving it about before her face. She needed air. When had she ever supposed her lovely, well-bred daughter would be the death of her? Surely it would be her son, who was following in his father’s dubious path with that horrid woman whose name she would not even think. No, she couldn’t. Like a man looking Medusa head-on, thinking the woman’s name would surely turn her to stone. Or at the very least her heart. Yes, it would turn her poor, aging heart to stone and lead her to an early grave.
“It was not so bad as all that,” Bella continued calmly. Even the dowager had to admit her daughter did not seem as bookish today. Her hair was dressed in soft feminine waves around her face and she—as few misses could—wore a pastel pink gown with
the natural elegance of an English rose. “Many of the people to whom I spoke yesterday speculated that the earl had insulted Alex. No one spoke of anything untoward between my brother and Lady Scarbrough.”
Oh, the wretched name! That wretched woman. The dowager feared she may swoon. “Don’t say that name, Bella. My heart is going into palpitations. I shall die of the stress of a broken heart. Why have you not spoken to that woman as I asked you?”
“Maman, you are putting Mr. Shakespeare’s characters to shame,” Bella chided.
The dowager’s spine stiffened. “Do not scold me. I am your mother.”
“I merely wish you to calm yourself.”
“I cannot calm myself.” She dismissed her daughter’s suggestion with a wave of her handkerchief. “There is no hope for it. We must put ourselves to good use. The countess must be stopped at all costs before she ruins my poor Thornton.”
Bella rose from her chair and crossed the room to kneel at the dowager’s side. She dabbed gently at her cheeks with a handkerchief, a gesture that nearly brought more tears to the marchioness’s eyes.
“Maman, you must collect yourself. Mr. Whitney will arrive at any moment to escort us down to breakfast.”
“Not that no-account American.” She was aghast, truly aghast, that her daughter would ever deem such a lowly person a suitable escort for women of their elevated rank. “It’s horrid enough that your brother dabbles in trade with him. I will not tolerate his uncouth presence for one moment longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Mother, Mr. Whitney is a perfect gentleman.” Her daughter’s tone was stern and unless she missed her mark, there was a lingering gleam of admiration in her eyes. Heaven have mercy. Perhaps she had cause to watch closely over Bella after all, lest she take lessons from Thornton’s heedless ways.
“He cannot even pronounce the King’s English,” she felt compelled to protest.
“He is from Virginia.”
“Where I have heard there is an inordinate number of rabid kangaroos and wild apes,” the dowager informed the hopelessly innocent girl before her. “Really, you must not ever think him your equal, for then he will attempt to win you. That is the way of it with Americans. They are not to be trusted. Think, Bella. Should you like to spend the remainder of your life warding off insects the size of a small child? Do not look so surprised. I have it on good authority that such monstrosities exist in the Americas. Along with poisonous snakes and not to mention the appalling brash characters they all possess, voices so loud, hands as broad as any laborer’s and their ears. Did you not take note of the extraordinary size of that Mr. Whittleby fellow’s ears, my darling girl? Your children would be equipped to take flight.”
Bella stood. “I have it on good authority that Mr. Whitney is a true gentleman. You will be kind to him, mother. Furthermore, you will not ever mention rabid kangaroos or child-sized insects in his presence.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.” The dowager raised her lorgnette and peered at Bella with as disparaging a glance as she could muster. “To do so would be unpardonably rude.”
Lady Scarbrough,
Please forgive me.
Yours,
Thornton
Lord Thornton,
While I do not require a complete soliloquy, a listing of your faults may do a great deal to heal my wounded heart.
Yours,
Cleopatra
Cleopatra,
I am a bear. An Utter bear. I beg you a hundredfold. Forgive me.
Thornton
My lord,
True, your conduct was appalling. Indeed, I should think that if both you and a bear were entered into a comportment and manners competition, the easy winner would be the bear. However, one bear does not a listing of faults make. Do try harder.
Cleopatra, Countess of Scarbrough
Darling Cleopatra,
I have not pages long enough. Though I do think it fortunate that no such competition between man and bear exists.
T.
Most frustrating Marquis,
Nor have you the desire to admit your shortcomings.
C.
Darling Cleo,
Why should I have shortcomings when I possess the great de Vere height? No, I dare say I am rather tall.
T.
Most vexing man,
Your deliberate and unabashed obfuscation leaves me thinking perhaps I should not exchange notes with you at all.
C.
Darling,
I shan’t believe a word of your obligatory protestations, so you needn’t worry. Meet me as soon as you can near the copse of trees south of here.
Your servant,
Alex
The last missive, carried to her discreetly by Bridget on a silver salver, nearly undid Cleo. Truly, he had not been Alex to her for seven long years, though he demanded she call him by his Christian name their first day here. It quite took her back. He was not the young man he had been then. Neither was she the easily cowed young lady eager to bend to the silver tongue of Scarbrough. Still, how she wished in that moment that she could return to those simpler times when she had been free.
Bridget waited quietly for Cleo’s response. She was good at feigning ignorance of her mistress’s comings and goings, but this was a new task for her. Never before had Cleo engaged in the intrigues of society men and women. Now it would seem she was hopelessly entangled. Cleo scratched her response, hastily—it needed few words. She would meet him. There was no other choice.
She handed the missive to Bridget. “There will be no answer.”
“Yes, mum.” Bridget curtseyed and disappeared.
In less than an hour’s time, Cleo rode to the edge of the tree copse, Thornton already waiting. He wore high riding boots, fitted brown trousers and a crisp white shirt beneath a tweed overcoat. He had yet to shave, she noted, the shadow of his beard affording him a darker appeal. He appeared more rugged and dangerous.
Without speaking, he helped her to dismount. They tethered her horse to a great oak. Then he crushed her against him, lifting her feet from the ground and spinning her in circles until he dizzied them both. Their mouths fused for a long and lingering kiss. It had only been hours since he left her at dawn, but she had missed him.
She laughed when he set her back on the ground. Their arms remained around one another. “I take it your head has improved, my lord?”
He dropped a chaste kiss on her smiling mouth. “Much improved, thank you.”
She rose on her toes to touch her lips to his again. “We should not be meeting here like this.”
His strong hands anchored on her waist, drawing her more firmly against him. “You are forever worrying about what we should not do. Look around you, my dear. There is no one to be seen or to see us.”
Thornton was correct. A glance in any direction revealed only gently sweeping pastures, a distant stream and the odd grouping of trees. Their meeting location had been carefully chosen for its distance from Wilton House, she well knew.
He stepped back and took her hand. “Come. Let us walk.”
Cleo entwined her fingers with his, savoring the simple contact. It was an intimacy they would always be denied in public. Here, in the sylvan privacy of Lord Cosgrove’s estate, they could touch one another as they pleased. “I feel very much like a young girl being courted again,” she said.
“I seem to recall many country walks during our brief courtship,” he returned with studied nonchalance. “Particularly that first country day when I walked upon you whilst you sketched.”
Ah, so this was a topic they would broach after all. She didn’t want to ask the question that had begun burning within her and yet she could not avoid the asking. “Did you truly care for me then?”
They walked deeper into the woods, his fingers tightening on hers. “I should think it obvious both then and now.”
She swallowed. “It was obvious to me then, before I became confused.”
“Before Scarbrough’s interference, you mean.”
His voice was hard. He stopped in the shade of a tree and caught her in an intense gaze. “Cleo, what passed between us those seven years ago…I must know. I vowed I would never lower myself to ask it of you, but did you have any tender feelings for me at all?”
“I…” She searched his unfathomable gray eyes. Not so very long ago, she had been convinced that her feelings for him had been a mere infatuation and his for her a sham. But her reaction to him now gave that away for a lie and his reaction to her did the same.
Thornton pressed a finger to her lips before she could reply. “Hush. Spare my pride your answer.”
“No.” She shook her head and pulled his finger away. “I want to answer you. I must answer you. I was confused then, Thornton. I was but a child, after all, so young and so full of my own importance. What I felt for you then—what I feel for you in this moment—is far stronger than any emotion I have ever experienced toward another and that is the truth of it.”
“God.” He leaned into her, burying his face in her neck. “Cleo, I’m mad for you. I have been mad for you these seven years and hadn’t an inkling of just how lost I was until I saw you in Lady Cosgrove’s gardens. It all came back to me as if time had never come between us.”
“I feel the same,” she whispered, clutching his lapels and breathing deeply of his rich masculine scent, so familiar and dear to her. “I am hopeless.”
His hot mouth trailed kisses up the side of her neck, across her jaw, stopping at her mouth. He kissed her then, a swift and claiming possession that took her by force, branding her as his. He knocked her smart hat to the ground, tunneled his fingers through her hair.
Their lips melded, his tongue plunging into her mouth. He pressed her back against the wide trunk of the tree and she felt its abrasion on her back. It mattered naught, for his body trumped all, hard to her soft, tempting and oh so delicious. His word again.
Thornton broke their kiss and caught her wrists, raising them above her head, pinning them to the bark with one strong hand. Her breasts rose full against the bodice of her gown, her hard nipples sensitive to every slight movement of the stiff fabric. She was instantly gratified she had chosen not to wear her dress improver. The decision had been a wise one. Very likely, she would have fainted had she been wearing stays.
Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3 Page 10
