“Scoot over.” Samantha climbed in, too. “Only the women, and they’ll welcome you into the sisterhood. It’s not so bad, you know. Someday, because of this, you’ll be able to hold a babe in your arms.”
“Then it should wait until I’m married, thank you,” Agnes said with a return of her previous tart tone.
Samantha restrained a smile. “Anyway, it’s time to talk about the best way to put your hair up.”
Agnes sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and sounded quite a bit more chipper. “And let my skirts down?”
“Not until you’re fifteen. And I’ll tell you the truth—long skirts look good, but they get in the way. Think how much trouble it would be to climb a tree in long skirts.”
“I can climb up to this room holding a snake in a box.”
Samantha caught her breath in horror, then turned a killing look on Agnes. “Don’t . . . you . . . dare. I promise I would get my revenge.”
“I know you would.” A wicked smile curved Agnes’s lips. “But I can get into Lady Marchant’s room, too.”
Samantha’s heart made a quick, joyful jump. Then she frowned in the proper governess manner. “That would not be the proper thing to do.”
“She wants to marry Father.”
“You don’t know that.”
Agnes flayed Samantha with her scorn. “Didn’t you see her tonight at dinner? She watches him like a spider watches a fly.”
Samantha should have wanted to laugh. She didn’t, and that was bad. “I think your papa can protect himself.”
“And she sat in your place at the table.”
Funny. Samantha had resented that, too—being reduced to sitting among the children. Being cut out of the discussion, which, she noted, no longer included an educational topic, but now could be rightfully deemed a conversation—led by Lady Marchant, while Colonel Gregory looked on with a bemused smile. “It’s not my place at the table. Lady Marchant is acting as your father’s hostess, and the hostess sits at the foot of the table.”
Agnes crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her chin. “She wants to be more than my papa’s hostess.”
No matter how much Samantha would like to grumble with Agnes, she had to remember her position. She had be the voice of reason. “Lady Marchant can’t force your father to marry her.”
“I think he wants to. I think he likes her.”
“Then you should be happy for him. He can’t mourn your mama forever.”
“I know that. I don’t even want him to.” Agnes bit her lip. “I remember Mama really well. So does Vivian. We don’t need another mother. But the others . . . a mother would be good for them.”
Agnes sounded so mature, Samantha wanted to cry.
“But not Lady Marchant,” Agnes added. “She doesn’t like us. Me and my sisters. You know it, too.”
Without thinking, Samantha answered, “It would be better if you weren’t girls. She sees her rivals growing up under her nose—” She stopped in horror. She had to remember that Agnes was not a friend, and certainly not her own age.
“She doesn’t think we’re rivals. She’s old.” Agnes wrapped her arms around her head. “Where’s your mother?”
“She’s in heaven.”
“With my mama. Do you think they’re friends?”
A lady and a street sweeper? Somehow, Samantha didn’t think so. “Perhaps.”
“I woke up one morning and they told me my mama was dead.” Agnes wiped a tear on the pillowcase. “How did your mama die?”
“She got sick, and she didn’t have enough food, so she died.” In the cold on some rags on the floor, with her seven-year-old daughter huddled by her side.
“That sounds awful.”
“Yes. She was really a nice woman. She wanted me to be . . . like her. Honest and hard-working. But—” Samantha caught herself. She couldn’t confess her past to poor, unhappy Agnes.
“I like you, Miss Prendregast.” Agnes gave her a timid hug.
Samantha hugged her back. “Thank you, dear. I like you, too.”
Agnes yawned. “I’m so tired. My head hurts. My stomach hurts.”
“I know, honey.” And Samantha didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Roll over.” Agnes flopped onto her stomach, hugged her pillow, and allowed Samantha to rub her back. In only a few minutes, Agnes was snoring heavily. “Poor little girl,” Samantha murmured. She remembered the day she’d started her monthlies. Her father had dumped her in an orphanage while he went off with a lady friend. In a bored monotone, one of the other girls had told her what was happening and what to do. She’d cried herself to sleep, missing her mother as never before. No girl should face this day alone and scared.
A sharp rap on the door brought her head around. Who now?
She knew, of course. She could tell by that imperative knock that Colonel Gregory stood outside her doorway.
But she had to calm herself. She’d learned her lesson. She had to harness her temper, not allow it to rage out of control, or all the problems that had driven her from London and into this godforsaken countryside would visit her again.
Sliding out of her bed, she caught up her pale blue flannel robe. She slid it on, knotted the tie at her waist, and pulled open the door.
He was dressed in black riding clothes with knee-length black boots. Leather gauntlets hung at his belt. He looked as he had that first night she’d met him on the road, stern, upright, and angry, his straight-winged eyebrows giving him a devilish appearance.
So he thought to frighten her? Her fury leaped to meet him.
Grasping her arm, he pulled her into the candlelit corridor and quietly shut the door behind her. “Where is my daughter Agnes?”
He knew the answer. He’d seen the child, but if he wanted to play games, she could play with the best of them. “In my bed, sleeping, and do you know why?”
“Because my governess can’t follow a simple command.”
“Because her father isn’t competent.”
His blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “What in Hades are you talking about?”
“That child”—Samantha waved toward her door—“your child didn’t know what was happening to her.”
To his credit, he looked alarmed. “What was happening to her?”
She didn’t give a damn about reassuring him. “She became a woman tonight.”
He stared uncomprehendingly.
In a falsely patient tone, Samantha said, “She started her monthly bleeding.”
He jerked backward. “Miss Prendregast! This is not a subject for me to discuss with you!”
How dared he? “Who should I discuss it with? Or perhaps, more to the point, who should you discuss it with? You’re her father. You claim you take responsibility for everything concerning your daughters, but you ignore this basic function which each one of them is going to suffer?”
His mouth opened, then shut. For the first time since she’d met him, he didn’t seem to know what to say. At last he managed, “I have not ignored anything about my daughters, but that is a natural function about which I’m sure one of their teachers has told them.”
“It wasn’t on the schedule.” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms to keep from shaking him. “Women are no different than men. No woman wants to tell a child that her happy, carefree life is about to change, that her body is progressing into womanhood, and that sometimes that progression is painful and messy. How dare you assume someone else is going to take care of something so important?”
“Miss Prendregast, you will not talk to me that way.”
Her resolve to remain calm melted in a blistering rage. “Oh, yes, I will. Someone needs to talk to you that way. You go on your merry way, staying out all night, not knowing your children worry about you, not knowing your nursemaids are plotting against the governesses, unaware of Kyla’s croup and Mara’s fears, of Vivian’s nightmares and Agnes’s period. You think it’s so democratic that you have dinner with your children, but you make sure the conv
ersation isn’t a conversation, but a guided tour through some subject of your choosing.”
He stepped away. “The children are making good use of their time.”
“You don’t know your children, and you make sure they can’t talk to you. You don’t allow them to tell you their fears and their hopes, to ask you how to grow up. You never admit you were ever wrong and you certainly can’t admit you might not know everything. You’ve proven you know a lot about the fish of the Lake District, and not a thing about your children. You’re out every night chasing bandits.” She pointed toward the front door. “It’s time to stay home with your children.”
“Miss Prendregast!” He reached for her with both hands, and stopped an inch away from her shoulders. Instead he pressed his palms against the wall on either side of her head, glared in her eyes, his chest heaving with fury. “You can pack your bags. You’re leaving in the morning.”
She pointed toward her bedroom, and her finger was shaking. Her voice was shaking. “Agnes thought she was dying.”
He took a breath. The color rose in his cheeks, then drained away.
“She thought she was bleeding to death. If you feel I’ve said too much and you must send me away, I can’t stop you, but Colonel Gregory, every one of your daughters is going to come to this moment, and I suspect Vivian will come to it before very many months have passed. You need someone to prepare them for the trials of womanhood. In not too many years, Agnes will find a man who wishes to marry her, and someone has to prepare her for the wedding night, and childbirth, and the realities that lurk beneath the fairy tale. Can you do that, Colonel Gregory?” She leaned toward him, close enough so he could feel the heat of her fury. “Can you really do that?”
His eyes sparked. His arms shook. “You don’t know when to shut up.” Leaning his head down, he pressed his lips to hers.
For a moment, she was too caught up in her plea to comprehend what he was doing. Then—he’s kissing me. Colonel Gregory is kissing me.
Anger. Confusion. Astonishment. She pulled her face away, pressed her hand against his throat where his cravat met his skin. “Are you insane?”
“What do you think?” He kissed her again.
She thought . . . she must be insane, too, for she liked it.
But they were fighting.
But she liked it.
But the children . . . and Agnes . . .
They were all asleep. There was no one to see. No one to care.
And she liked it.
That was bad. Very bad.
She pulled away again. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“No.” But he didn’t move away.
“You’re who you are, and I’m who I am, and this is wrong.”
“Yes.” His face was close. So close. His breath smelled of port, sharp and rich, like the first opulent sniff she took from the glass. She could see the stubble on his chin, see the rich, smooth, sensual curve of his lips.
I’ve done a lot of daring things in my life, but this is the worst.
Grasping the ends of his cravat, she pulled him back to her.
His hands rested on either side of her head. His body leaned toward hers. He touched her with nothing but his lips. If she passively stood here, perhaps he’d tire of kissing soon. Yet she would have sworn he blanketed her in his warmth. The scent of him was rich with leather from his boots and gauntlets. His lips smoothed hers, seeking the contours, the edges.
Her eyelids fluttered closed. Jewel colors swirled: ruby, sapphire, emerald. Beneath her fingertips, the pulse at his throat throbbed, and her own heart raced to beat with his.
So this was why men and women kissed. To see, to feel, to know each other in impossible, wonderful ways. She could stand here like this all night, and never tire of his tenderness.
Then his tongue brushed her lips.
Her eyes sprang open. His tongue. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged. His wrist . . . thick and gloriously rough with hair.
His mouth moved against hers, soft and intimate. “Open your lips.”
She didn’t quite understand him. She lifted her lids. “What? Why?”
His lids lifted, too, and he gazed at her, his face so close she could see each individual, dark, curling lash around his marvelous blue eyes. “Like this,” he whispered, then his lids slid closed again and his tongue glided between her lips.
Her eyes shut. Her mouth opened.
The first kiss was only a preview, an exploration. Now his tongue moved in her mouth, exploring as if he found treasure within her, and he made her feel . . . different. Not so much the confident, independent woman life had forced her to become, but cherished, glorious, dear. Her blood thrummed in her veins. Her breath caught and staggered. The wall held her up, hard against her back, and she wanted to kiss him back.
She’d never learned, never wanted to. But with him . . . the strength of him appealed to her. Her mind cast up scenes. Scenes that involved him and her, bodies close together, his hands touching her in places no man had ever touched. She imagined what he would look like without clothing, muscled, hairy, strong. Imagined how he would gaze on her. Imagined he would . . . do those things she’d always disdained. For those things caused a woman nothing but grief, and sounded awkward and revolting. Except when she thought of doing them with him, they sounded too wonderful, like fur stroking her skin or water after a long drought.
He was gentle, but insistent. His head tilted first to one side, then the other, tasting her, encouraging her to answer him.
Her breasts tingled and she pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the sense of swelling, of discomfort. It helped . . . and it made matters worse. She wanted to stop, and she wanted to go on. She wanted to snuggle against him, but some errant bit of wisdom kept her back tight against the wall. His wrists began to shake in her grip. His tongue thrust at hers, and she answered him, awkward, eager, amazed. His kissing progressed toward desperation, insisting on more passion, pushing her toward experience and teaching her a deeper desire.
She wanted him to say something. She strained to hear—
She jumped and gasped, pulling her face away from his.
Colonel Gregory straightened. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I thought I heard . . . something.” Something like the snap of a door shutting.
He looked up and down the corridor. “It’s your imagination.”
Grasping her shoulders, he smoothed them, but the moments of passionate madness had been vanquished. In a deep and ardent voice, he said, “Your eyes . . . such an unusual color.”
“Just brown. Dirt brown.” She scarcely knew what she was saying.
“No, tonight they’re like honey, golden brown, wide and bemused.” He cupped her chin and tilted her face up. “You have the most expressive eyes, did you know that?”
She shook her head.
“I can read your thoughts in your eyes.”
“Oh. No,” she choked. Her thoughts were far too often of him, and far too often illicit and wanton. She looked away.
He chuckled, a sound too content for reassurance. “You could seduce me with your eyes alone.”
Troubled, she looked back at him. “I don’t mean to.”
“I know. That kiss . . . it was a mistake.”
“Yes. Of course. It was.”
Yet once more, he was rubbing her shoulders. “We shouldn’t do it again.”
“No. Never.” Samantha looked down at her toes, bare on the cool, hard floor. She had never felt so self-conscious. She’d been kissing Colonel Gregory. Yes, she had wanted to. Secretly. In the darkest corners of her mind.
But to do it. And for so long, and with such detail. Moreover, she’d liked it. And he knew it.
How was she supposed to face him tomorrow in the daylight? Right now, she couldn’t even look up at him.
“What were we talking about . . . before?” He still didn’t sound normal. A wealth of affection lingered in his voice.
Her toes curled at t
he sound. But she had to be normal. “Earlier. You told me to leave.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed her bare feet. Lady Bucknell had never told her any rules about bare feet, but if a woman couldn’t in all propriety bare her hand to a man, the rules against feet must be ferocious. “Did you want me to pack my bags?”
“No! No. That is . . . no, I was angry.” He coughed. “I said things I shouldn’t have.”
She glanced up to see him observing her toes with a slight smile.
She inched them further beneath her robe and realized . . . she wore nothing beneath the nightgown. She was worried about her toes, and he must know . . . well, not that he could see anything. Her robe was tied, and the gown was of thick sturdy material, impossible to see through. But the thought of being out here, with him, when he could simply lift her hem and touch her bare skin, all the way up to . . . she pressed her knees together. And if he did, he would find that she was melting inside. She must be; she was damp and swollen.
“I would rather you stay. If you would.” When she didn’t speak right away, he straightened his shoulders. He eased his hands away and stepped back. “You don’t have to worry that I will repeat tonight’s indiscretion. I don’t kiss . . . that is, I do kiss, but not my governesses. To force my attentions on a young woman who works for me is the act of a cad, and I realize that fully. I can’t imagine what came over me.”
Her face warmed. She could, only too well, and imagining gave her more than a little discomfort. “You didn’t exactly force your attentions. I could have yelled, or . . . some such.”
“Nevertheless, it is obvious you’re a young lady of little or no experience in the bedroom arts—”
Dismayed, she blurted, “Was that kiss wrong?”
“No!” He smoothed his fingers over her lips.
She fought the urge to follow, to kiss them.
“No, not at all,” he said. “I enjoyed it. It was everything I had dreamed.”
He has dreamed about my kiss?
“But you didn’t put your arms around me, and when at first I kissed you, you didn’t kiss back.” As though he relished the touch of her skin, he smoothed her lips again. “It wasn’t resistance, it was more bewilderment.”
My Favorite Bride Page 11
