Stirring Up the Viscount

by Marin McGinnis

  “I am sorry, Matilda. It is very bad form to discuss another woman while in such a sweet and restful place with another. Especially one as desirable as you are.”

  Theodora tried to pull her hand back, but he would not let go. “Lord Caxton, please.”

  “I am not one of those aristocrats who seduces the servants. I hope you know that.” Lord Caxton looked into her eyes, as if willing her to understand.

  She averted her gaze, staring at the tree behind him. “I don’t seem to know much of anything anymore, my lord.”

  “You cannot deny there is something between us, can you?”

  “I can deny it all I like.” She risked a quick glance at his face. He was in earnest, but it was almost painful to see, so she looked away again.

  He moved closer to her, his lips now only an inch from her ear. “That doesn’t mean you don’t feel it, too.” He brought his lips to her neck and covered it with feather light kisses from her ear to her nape. Theodora shuddered. She should not allow this, yet felt glued to the spot. If he continued, she would not be able to walk anyway. Her body leaned toward him, almost disconnected from her brain.

  “Matilda,” he murmured.

  She opened her mouth to protest before she remembered it was supposed to be her name.

  He took advantage of her open mouth and captured her lips in a kiss. She couldn’t stop herself; she kissed him back, touched his tongue with hers in the graceful, age-old dance. She moaned softly, and draped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Lord, but the man could kiss. She moved to clamber onto his lap, only to be stopped by the cold, hard metal of the bench. She gasped, and he drew away, gently stroking her face. “This is perhaps not the best piece of furniture for this. Shall we go inside?” he murmured.

  Theodora took a deep breath. He was so close; he was going to kiss her again. Instead of giving in to her desires, she gathered her few remaining faculties, rose, and walked a few steps away. He must have thought she was agreeing with his suggestion, because he rose and followed her, and grabbed her hand from behind her.

  She shook her head. “No, my lord. I cannot do this.” She turned to plead with him. His lips were still wet from her kiss, and he parted them slightly as he moved toward her.

  She would give in if she stayed. So she ran.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Instead of leaving as he had planned, Lucien spent the next fortnight calling upon Theodora’s silly friends. It was possible, he supposed, that Theodora had only bought a ticket to Durham to throw him off the track. At least, he thought, that’s what he would have done.

  All of them expressed what seemed to be genuine sorrow at her demise, but none had seen or corresponded with her in several years. From the way they looked at him, it was clear they blamed him for her lack of contact, but he did not care. Theodora was his wife; it was none of their business how she had spent her time.

  Lucien finally had to admit Theodora was not in London, so he made plans for a protracted stay in the north. He told his fellow lawyers in chambers that he was required to visit Theodora’s family in Northumberland. Although none of them seemed particularly pleased to have extra work, they were also not sorry to see him leave. Lucien would not miss them.

  He terminated his servants and ended the lease on his rented house. He had not replaced any of his belongings after the fire, other than clothing, so there was nothing he could not take with him. As he packed his valise, it occurred to him that, for the first time in his life, he could go anywhere, anywhere at all. He thought fleetingly of forgetting about Theodora and traveling instead, perhaps to America or Africa. But then he picked up the red cravat Theodora had left behind and held it to his face. He could almost smell her scent.

  His resolve deepened. He carefully folded the cravat and placed it gently on top of the pile of clothing in the bag. He snapped it closed, checked his appearance in the glass. He nodded to himself, satisfied. He was almost giddy, were he capable of such a feeling, with the expectation of seeing Theodora again. He refused to accept the possibility he might not find her or that she really did die in the blaze that had consumed their house. He wanted her back, and he always got what he wanted.

  ****

  Theodora was disgusted with herself. Instead of taking what pleasure she could find in her miserable life, she ran away. Again.

  She had run from Lord Caxton until she could no longer hear him calling after her. She got to her room and locked the door, although he could not follow her into the female servants’ hall. Then she had cursed Lucien once again for treating her as he had, for making her afraid, cursed herself for allowing him to do it. Then she had lain there in the dark, thinking about Jonathan.

  She marveled at the notion that any woman would have turned down a viscount, especially when the viscount was Jonathan. But she had to admit the heart does tend to follow its desire, even if doing so flies in the face of common sense. She had only to look in the mirror for evidence of that. She had very nearly given in to his advances, very nearly let him give her the attention her body, and her heart, were beginning to crave.

  She must have dozed off eventually, for now she was only dimly aware of early morning light filtering through the curtains in her bedchamber, and sleepily stretched her long, thin frame under the blankets. Although her eyes remained closed, she was also conscious of a form beside her. A hard, smooth form with moist lips working their way from her neck to her shoulder. Jonathan. She moaned softly, and stretched again to draw him closer to her.

  The lips moved further down, lingering on her breasts. She felt the damp heat of his breath on her nipples as they stood almost painfully erect beneath his ministrations. His hand kneaded her hip beneath the sheet, then moved across her pelvis.

  She shuddered as his long fingers massaged her center, tension building. His hands transferred to each breast, as he trailed his tongue down her abdomen to her core. As he suckled, she writhed on the bed, her back arching as she approached her climax. Finally, she could stand it no longer, and weeks of tension exploded within her as she came.

  At her peak, a knock sounded at the door, and her eyes flew open. Her breath came hard and fast, her hands fisted the sheets at her sides, her body still in the throes of release.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Milsom? I heard a funny noise,” Millie called through the door.

  Theodora looked down toward her feet, expecting to see Jonathan, but she was alone. Confused, she looked around. It was full daylight now, the morning sun streaming through the window.

  “Mrs. Milsom?” Millie called again, a sense of urgency in her voice.

  “Um, yes,” Theodora croaked, her voice somehow unaccustomed to speech. “I’m fine. I’ll uh, be down in just a moment.”

  “Very good, mum.” Millie’s footsteps retreated.

  Theodora looked around again and tried to calm her ragged breathing. Jonathan was not there. He never had been. A dream had just given her one of the most erotic experiences of her life.

  “Damn.”

  ****

  As she hurried down the back stairs, she hoped the telltale flush on her cheeks had dissipated. She was late enough as it was; she didn’t want anyone to know what her sex-starved brain was capable of.

  When she entered the kitchen, Jonathan was sitting at the table, entertaining her maids with stories. She stopped short in the doorway and watched them for a moment. Millie was rapt, her pretty eyes twinkling with delight at the attention from the handsome heir. Bess, who had known Jonathan all her life, was less enthralled, but she smiled happily as she listened. Jonathan was a wonderful storyteller, and despite her embarrassment over last evening and this morning, Theodora reluctantly found herself captivated as well. He was recounting some of the adventures he had in university, several of which appeared to involve dunkings in the River Wear.

  She could not stifle a snort at one particularly outrageous tale involving a horse in the castle, and Jonathan’s head snapped up at the sound. As his gaze pierced hers,
her cheeks heated. His eyes twinkled mischievously, and she had the oddest sense that somehow he knew about her dream. It was so real; she could almost believe he had truly been there.

  She bustled into the room, pretending she had not been standing there like a doe-eyed miss for the last ten minutes. She gave instructions to the maids, who even at this hour had thus far managed nothing more than to make coffee for his lordship. The dough for the rolls that Millie was making for luncheon was resting on the table. It had obviously been there for some time, as each roll was now about four times the appropriate size. Theodora went to the cupboard and found the remains of a loaf of bread she had baked the day before, and some strawberry jam.

  “Have you dined yet, my lord?” she asked, somewhat more brusquely than she intended.

  “No, I haven’t yet broken my fast,” Jonathan said, the words “I was waiting for you” clearly implied. Or at least she thought so.

  She blinked to clear her head.

  “Would you like some bread and jam, my lord, while you wait for eggs and bacon? If you’ll just give me a moment, I will have it sent upstairs.” She gave him a hard look, daring him to stay downstairs.

  “I would love some bread and jam, especially if it is Bess’ strawberry. She is the queen of jam.”

  Theodora looked at Bess and saw the back of the girl’s neck turning pink with praise. She rolled her eyes and started to cut the bread. “Very good, my lord. I will send it up directly.”

  “I would prefer to eat here, if you don’t mind.” He accepted her challenge, damn the man. She looked over and noticed he had sprawled in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Millie stood behind him, her eyes wide. At Theodora’s pointed look, he simply shrugged. “It is too quiet upstairs, eating by myself.” He tilted his head back and grinned at Millie, whose rosy hued cheeks now matched Bess’ neck. “And besides, it is quite late. If I had been waiting alone in the dining room all this time, I should be quite cross by now, don’t you think?”

  Theodora looked away; she could think of nothing to say in response. She couldn’t exactly say she was late because she was dreaming about him in her bed. He was teasing her, and she wanted either to kiss him or slap him silly; she wasn’t sure which.

  So instead of doing either, she snapped at Millie to fetch his lordship a plate and slathered jam on the bread. She snatched the plate out of Millie’s hand, knowing she was being peevish, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “It is your prerogative, my lord. You being a lord, and all.” She placed the plate in front of him. She was, perhaps, a trifle too energetic when she put it on the table, as the bread nearly slid off the plate.

  He just grinned again, clearly enjoying her discomfiture. He bit into the bread and then ran his tongue around his lips to lick off a stray bit of jam. He watched her watch him, and smiled slyly. She swallowed, not a little tempted to do the licking herself, and he obviously knew it.

  “Will you join me, Mrs. Milsom?” he said, with an arrogant smirk.

  She narrowed her eyes and glared. “No, thank you, my lord. There is work to be done.” She applied herself to placing the rolls on a baking sheet.

  “You have to break your fast, don’t you?” he drawled. Dear Lord, the man could even make breakfast sound seductive.

  “I am not hungry.” Theodora betrayed her nervousness by dropping a roll on the floor. She sighed and reached down to pick it up only to have her fingers meet his. When had he gotten out of his chair? She almost swooned as the contact sent a charge up her arm.

  “I want to talk to you,” he whispered, as he handed her the dough.

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No!” she whispered, more urgently, and stood to find both her maids staring at them with very curious expressions. “Get back to work!” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had given away too much. The girls smirked at each other, turned their backs to her, and resumed their tasks.

  She restrained herself from sighing again, even as he took advantage of the maids’ inattention to stand behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer to his chest.

  “What do you want from me?” she whimpered.

  “I want you. All of you.” His words curled around her ears like wisps of smoke, and she could not help remembering the feel of his lips on her body, imaginary though it had been.

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room, not caring whether Bess and Millie might be watching.

  In the hall she dropped his arm and whirled to face him. “My lord, I...”

  “Jonathan.”

  She glared at him. “You must stop this! You are acting like a schoolboy with his first crush.”

  “I am definitely not a schoolboy, as you will see if you just let me…” His words broke off as he pulled her closer and kissed her neck. She dropped her head back to give him easier access and closed her eyes. She had imagined it perfectly. She leaned closer to him until a sound from the next room brought her back to her senses. Her eyes flew open, and she pushed him away.

  “Please!” She could not keep the anguish from creeping into her voice, and that seemed to get his attention. He stopped and stared at her for a moment, a whole host of emotions crossing his face.

  “What did he do to you?” he asked quietly.

  She started. “Who?”

  “Whoever made you so afraid.” He put his hands on her arms and stroked downward. His touch was warm, and she shuddered in silent response.

  After a long look at her face, he said, “Very well, I will stop. For now.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then caressed the spot gently with a long, graceful finger. He turned and disappeared up the stairs. For once, she was tempted to run after him instead of away.

  ****

  The next several days passed quietly. Jonathan maintained a respectable distance from the servants, including the mysterious Matilda. Although he ate breakfast in the small dining room every morning, he gave the cook the space she seemed to need and ate the rest of his meals at the public house or with the estate’s steward, Martin Wilkerson. The estate was so well run that there was very little for Jonathan to do, but he nevertheless took an interest in the tenants who farmed the land and the villagers who were supported by the estate. It would, after all, be his responsibility one day. A fact which weighed on him more heavily with each passing year.

  His father was still in robust health, but if his aborted wedding had taught him anything, it was he never knew what would happen next. He hated to think of life without his father, but Jonathan was a pragmatist. It would happen someday, and he was determined to care for this estate and its people as carefully as had his father and his ancestors before him.

  In this rather pensive frame of mind, he headed home from the pub very late one evening. He had had a lovely cottage pie made by the innkeeper’s wife, but he was missing Matilda’s cooking. Even the simplest, most familiar dish took on a different, more enticing flavor when she made it. Then there was Matilda herself. Mysterious, ethereal, deceptively strong under her pale, timid exterior. And so very enticing.

  He had stayed away long enough, never mind it was one in the morning and she was probably asleep. After he returned his horse to the sleepy groom, he entered the house through the kitchen. She was awake, sitting alone at the table, her slate at her fingertips. A single candle flickered next to her arm. She didn’t notice him at first, so he took the opportunity to study her. Her sleek, black hair was piled in an untidy bun atop her head. A few wisps curled around her ears. She had removed the fichu she usually wore, and the candlelight cast shadows that deepened her cleavage. His fingers itched to touch her breasts, to pull them out of her gown and...

  He shook his head to clear the image which was making him uncomfortably hard. He had to stop this. She was afraid, although of what he still wasn’t sure. A man, clearly, but was it her husband? A lover? His mother had mentioned she was a widow. She was a passionate woman; he had seen that much for
himself. She had to have known a man, and he suspected she had indeed been married. But what had brought her here? It was a mystery, and Jonathan hated mysteries, especially since his fiancée had been engaged in her own until their aborted wedding day.

  “My lord? May I assist you with something?” Her soft, slightly tremulous voice broke into his thoughts.

  He gazed at her. He wanted to kiss her again so badly he could not remember why he had come into the kitchen.

  Her lower lip was red, a bit puffy. She must have been chewing on it while she worked. Kissable.

  “My lord, are you well?” She regarded him now with obvious concern. Apparently he was staring at her like an idiot. He blinked again, if only to give his brain a break from the overwhelmingly desirable sight of her.

  “Um, yes. I am fine, thank you. How are you, Mrs. Milsom?”

  The semblance of an amused smile graced her face, and although he was very glad to see it, he was beginning to feel like an ass.

  “I am quite well, thank you, my lord.” She appeared to be on the verge of giggling, but he could not tell, as he had never seen her do such a thing before. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “Eat?”

  Now she did laugh. It was a sparkling sound, like water—no, champagne—bubbling over a weir. He had never heard anything quite like it before. He smiled goofily, idly wondering if perhaps he had had too much to drink at the pub.

  “Yes, eat. If all you did at the pub was drink, my lord, it might explain your present demeanor.” She smirked and then rose and moved away from him, so he had a lovely view of her splendid backside. She bent at the waist—oh Lord—and grabbed a pan from beneath the table. She looked over her shoulder at him as she moved to the stove. “How do eggs sound, my lord?”

  He thought they sounded heavenly, if he could just sit and watch her make them. He sat heavily in the chair she had vacated and agreed eggs sounded simply wonderful, thank you. He squinted at the slate she had left behind. On it was a menu, he thought. Or at least it looked like one.