Mac laid his hand over hers. Though it was intended as a friendly gesture, he looked down with pleased surprise. “The baby just kicked. Lively little devil, ain’t he?”
His expression changed. “My ma was a housemaid like you. My father was a fine London gentleman she told me, a lord, no less. Some gentleman!” His laughter was bitter. “After he got her in the family way, he turned her out of the house with ten quid. It ... it would have been nice if there had been a man around willing to take care of her and me. A child needs a father.” He was silent for half a dozen heartbeats. “She did her best to raise me right, but she died, worn out working the streets, when I was six years old.”
Gillie’s heart ached for that desperate girl, and for the lonely, abandoned boy Mac had been. Her fears that he might resent her baby dissolved. She might be just a country girl, but she could see how much he wanted a family of his own to love and cherish. And how much he needed to be loved in return. Marrying her would be a way of mending the past.
Trusting him now, she laid one hand on his cheek. “If you really want to marry me, Mac,” she said softly, “I’ll be proud, and honored, and happy to accept.”
He leaned over and kissed her very gently, but the embrace rapidly developed into something far more exciting. Gillie was delighted to learn that a London man of the world knew a lot more about kissing than country Billy ever had.
As events progressed toward their natural conclusion, Mac suddenly pulled away, his breath coming hard. “I’m sorry, Gillie girl, I don’t want you to think that I’m one of those men who tells lies to get a tumble. I’m willing to wait until we’re properly wed.”
“I’m not!” she exclaimed, her face flushed and hay in her hair. Her lips curved in a smile. “We might as well, since there’s no danger I’ll catch a babe out of doing it.”
Mac laughed, looking like the young man he was rather than the toughened cockney who had escaped one of London’s worst stews. Then, very carefully, he proceeded to pleasure his lady in the sweet green warmth of the hay.
The Earl of Wargrave left, and life returned to normal. Julian and Merry also left for the Markham family seat for a fortnight’s visit. His lordship had swiftly succumbed to the girl’s charm, and was well on his way to forgetting that he had ever opposed the match. An autumn wedding was planned so that Alys would be finished with the harvest and free to play the role of mother of the bride.
The news spread through the household that the master’s fine London valet was going to marry the maid Gillie. Tight-lipped, Alys told herself that it was absurd to think the business so distasteful. Such arrangements were the way of the world. Reggie was freed of a nuisance, and Mac Cooper doubtless was being compensated handsomely for taking a pregnant mistress off his master’s hands.
The day after Julian and Merry left, Alys and Reggie were enjoying one of their lazy late evening visits after the boys had gone to bed. She wore her comfortable golden robe, and her hair was tied back with a matching ribbon. For Alys, it was the best time of the day. Her reservations about her employer’s scandalous conduct always melted in his presence.
They were in the library, the only place in the house where Reggie smoked. He puffed on one of his vile cheroots as Nemesis and Attila snoozed near their respective masters. Even the pets had declared a truce, largely because the cat found the dog too easily intimidated to be a challenge.
“Why not have some brandy?” Reggie suggested after exhaling a wisp of smoke. “I restocked the liquor cabinet while Richard was visiting.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Alys went to the cabinet and poured herself a small drink. “It doesn’t bother you to have spirits here?”
“Believe it or not, no. I missed the drinking for the first three or four weeks, but not now.” He shrugged. “Looking back, I realized that I hadn’t really enjoyed alcohol in years. I drank because I didn’t know how not to. Now that I’m sober, I haven’t the least desire to go back to having my life ruled by a damned bottle.”
His gaze went to Alys. “Life is infinitely more enjoyable now.”
The warmth in his eyes very nearly made Alys blush as she curled up in the wing chair again, her legs tucked under her. At times like this it was hard to recognize Reggie as the abrupt, sarcastic rake who had first come to Strickland. Even then he’d had humor, intelligence, and deep integrity, but such positive traits were not the most visible part of him. Now, as his cousin had noted, Reggie was a different man—relaxed, mentally and physically healthy, and irresistibly attractive.
Diverting her thoughts, Alys asked, “I was amazed that Lord Markham didn’t realize how you were manipulating him. Do you have some kind of history with him?”
Reggie grinned, his intensity vanishing. “Some years back we had a little contretemps over a woman, the lady in question preferred me, and Markham has neither forgiven nor forgotten. It was a good bet that his loathing was so profound that he would do the exact opposite of anything I suggested.”
“It’s always a woman, isn’t it?” Alys’s voice was sharper than she had intended.
Reggie’s expression closed. “Unfortunately, yes.” Half to himself, he said, “If I’d had the sense to stay clear of Blakeford’s mistress, the man would be alive now.”
“A simple squabble over a female doesn’t turn most men into murderers.” Alys toyed with the stem of her goblet, uncomfortable with her private knowledge. “You can’t blame yourself for how Blakeford reacted.”
“No?” Reggie raised his dark brows sardonically. “Blakeford always had an odd kick to his gallop, but the fact remains that it was my actions that pushed him over the edge.”
“Maybe his mistress wasn’t the reason he arranged that ambush,” she said, hoping she could relieve Reggie’s mind without having to reveal the truth.
“Can you think of another reason?” His long face twisted with self-disgust. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill you or Richard, but there are any number of people who would be happy to dance on my grave. Blakeford was certainly one of them.”
Alys hated to see his guilt, especially now when he had reformed his way of life. Especially since he was wrong. Deciding to tell him part of the truth, she said, “Blakeford may have looked on killing you as a pleasant bonus, but I guarantee that I was the prime target. He and I have a ... a history.”
She was about to spin a tale she’d invented to support her remark when Reggie exclaimed, “You were involved with Blakeford?”
The harshness of his tone was an insult that struck Alys with numbing force. She had wanted to make Reggie feel better. Instead she had provoked a reaction that shattered her defenses.
For months she had lived in the closest proximity with a man whom she desired and had come to love, bleeding inside every time he casually referred to an old mistress, or got into trouble over a woman, or impregnated a maid. And Reggie, damn him, sat there looking astounded at the mere suggestion that a man could want her.
A physical chill spread through her as the old, unhealed grief about Randolph erupted and fed the anguish of her hopeless passion for her employer. Trembling violently, Alys set down her glass and stood, overwhelmed by the agonizing knowledge of her undesirability. “Of course you’re surprised. How could I have forgotten that no man will touch me unless he’s foxed or going to receive a fortune in return for the sacrifice of taking me to wife?” Her voice broke. “Considerate of you to remind me what a pathetic excuse for a woman I am. Even you, who have bedded half the women in England, could only bear to kiss me when you were drunk.”
She was horror-struck by her own words. Exposing herself so thoroughly to Reggie was the ultimate humiliation. Eyes blind with tears, Alys fled for the door, knowing that his pity would be more than she could bear.
She was halfway to the door when Nemesis, true to her name, padded amiably in front of her. Unable to dodge in time, Alys tripped over the collie and fell clumsily, her palms and knees bruising on the Oriental carpet. “Damn this dog!” she cried, nea
rly weeping.
Reggie stared at her, aghast. Her statement implying that she had once been Blakeford’s mistress had produced a blast of jealousy as intense as it was irrational. Obviously she had interpreted his reaction as contempt. Her emotional disintegration made it shockingly clear that he had opened a wound that ran to the very roots of her being.
Allie had always been so strong, so balanced, even when Reggie was teetering on the edge of self-destruction. It had been easy to forget that she must have vulnerabilities of her own. From her agonized expression, Alys’s Achilles’ heel was a belief that no man could want her as a woman. For someone of her passionate nature to feel utterly undesirable was tragic.
And the fact that he, who was usually so acute at understanding others, should be so criminally insensitive was unforgivable. He leaped from his chair and knelt beside her. She was struggling to get up, but her legs were tangled in the voluminous folds of her robe. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he said, “Allie, it wasn’t surprise I felt at the idea that Blakeford could want you. It was jealousy.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “You thought I’d had an affair with Blakeford? You’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”
He felt a rush of relief at her unmistakable revulsion. Catching her gaze, he said intensely, “And you’re a fool for thinking yourself unattractive. God knows that I’ve desired you from the first moment we met.”
“Don’t lie to me!” She jerked from his grasp and tried to roll away, but he caught her shoulders and turned her to face him.
Her hair had come loose, cascading around her face in a chestnut mass that shone with gold and auburn lights. She was all fire and fury, as irresistible as a goddess. A muscle in his jaw jerked as he clamped down on his response. “I’m not lying. You’re a lovely, desirable woman, and it has been the devil of a strain keeping my hands off you.”
She turned her head and closed her eyes against him, but could not conceal the tremor in her voice. “What a remarkably fine gentleman you are—I never saw a hint of strain.” She twisted sideways in another attempt to pull away.
He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “You seem to think I didn’t want to kiss you unless I’d been drinking. In fact, the opposite was true. I wanted to all the time, but only when I was foxed did I forget decent behavior enough to act on my desires.”
“‘In vino veritas?’” Her laughter was bitter. “Rather than ‘in wine is truth,’ the correct phrase is ‘in liquor is lust.’ To a man who is jugbitten, any available female will do.” She struck at him wildly, frantic to break his grip. “Though even drunken rakes must have some standards, since you never went beyond a kiss. Now, let me go!”
Reggie saw that she was too distraught to believe him. This emotional storm had been a long time building, and now a lifetime of pain had broken loose, splintering the calm face she usually showed to the world. His well-intentioned attempts to behave honorably had kindled her deepest self-doubts. He spared a furious curse for how trying to do the right thing had gone so far awry.
So much for honorable intentions. Words would not be enough—he must prove by his actions how utterly desirable she was.
He took her face between both hands to stop her thrashing. Then he kissed the corner of one closed eye, tasting the salt of her tears.
She gasped and became still, her dark lashes lifting. Pupils that were wide and black with the intensity of her emotions made her mismatched eyes almost identical.
Having gotten her attention, he captured her parted lips with the urgency that had been building for months. Her response was instant and fierce. As her arms circled and clung, he bore her down until they lay full-length together on the floor. The feel of her long, lithe body intoxicated him more than brandy ever had.
He loosened her robe. Her lushly curving figure was tantalizingly visible through the fine muslin of her shift. He bent and kissed her breast through the fabric. Her nipple stiffened against his probing tongue and she gasped, her body arching upward.
The sound reminded him of where they were. Reluctantly he lifted himself away and got to his feet. Alys opened her eyes. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Not this time.”
“I don’t intend to.” His breath was as ragged as hers as he scooped her up and set her on her feet. “But you deserve better than the library floor.” Then he pulled her to him for another kiss, his mouth demanding, his body hard against hers.
He could have taken her anywhere, and she would not have minded. She had wanted to be swept off her feet and now she was, blind to all consequence, deaf to all reason. Her eyes closed as she opened herself to sensation, to taste and moisture and silky heat, the fevered pulse of his body against hers.
After he had reduced her to the consistency of wax, he lit a night candle in his left hand and looped his right arm around her waist. Then he guided her from the library and up the stairs. Their bodies rubbed with every step, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, with an intimacy that was scorching.
He brought them to her room, closing the door firmly behind. She murmured an involuntary protest when he dropped his arm from her waist and stepped away.
“I’m not going far.” His voice came from the darkness, husky with unconcealed desire as he turned the door latch with a metallic snap. “But I intend to see every beautiful inch of you. You and I have waited a long time for this. There will be no hurrying or hiding in the dark.”
He ignited more candles until warm light spilled across the bed and threw the harsh, world-worn planes of his face into bold relief. Then he turned to her. “All of you.”
He pushed the robe from her shoulders, leaving her covered only by the pale translucent fabric of her shift. She might have been embarrassed that her too tall, too extravagant body was so visible, except for the searing intensity in his eyes.
He undid the drawstring that secured the shift around her shoulders. Then he slowly drew the garment down her body, his callused hands leaving trails of fire in their wake. The tightness of his mouth and the roughness of his breathing told her how much she affected him, how much female power she wielded.
There was a moment of utter stillness when her shift fell about her ankles, leaving her naked to his gaze. Then wordlessly she began unbuttoning his shirt, as hungry for the sight of him as he was for her.
Ah, God, how beautiful he was, from broad shoulders to narrow waist to powerful thighs. He was a sculptor’s dream, his rugged athlete’s body refined by months of unrelenting physical labor. Hesitantly she stroked the dark hair on his chest, skimming her hand downward, feeling the taut ripple of muscle beneath her palm.
He caught his breath when her hand brushed lightly, ever so lightly, against the hard jut of his erection. Then he bore her backward onto the bed, coming down beside her.
But true to his word, he did not hurry. Under his expert lips and hands, she felt like a flower unfurling into bloom as he learned every secret of her body. Her long-buried fears and doubts melted away as her haunting dreams of passion came to life.
After he had kissed and caressed her into intoxicated life, he guided her in exploring his body. His response to her touch was incontrovertible proof that his desire was as fierce and hungry as her own, and knowing that heightened and deepened her own desire.
When she could bear no more and was on the verge of shattering with urgency, he covered her with his body, kissing deeply as his long, clever fingers prepared her for the final intimacy. Yet he was slow, too slow.
Distantly she realized that he must think she was a virgin, so he was moving with the care such a state deserved. Impatient of waiting and beyond explanation, she thrust her hips against his, whispering, “Now, please.”
She felt the hot throb of male flesh with scalding intimacy. Then, with a groan, he yielded to her impatience, possessing her fully with one long shuddering thrust.
She cried out as they came together into an ecstasy of closeness beyond her most fevered dreams. There was an instant of stillness after he buried himse
lf in her, and she sensed his surprise at how easily they had joined.
Then he was in command of himself, and her, once again. With passion and patience and fierce tenderness, he used a lifetime’s trove of erotic skill to deepen and prolong the pleasure for both of them.
Until, at the end, he was no more in control than she, and they found boundless joy in each other.
Chapter 23
Shared passion had more than fulfilled her expectations. What Alys had not expected was the sweet languor of lying woven together afterward. Reggie shifted, and for a moment she feared that he intended to leave. Instead he settled on his side, his arm drawing her close so that she was tucked comfortably against him. In this, as in every other aspect of making love, she thought rather sadly, he was an expert.
He slid his hand into her tangled hair, his warm palm cradling her nape. “I want to dismiss once and for all your belief that you’re undesirable,” he murmured.
She could feel herself stiffening, and so could he. Gently he thumbed the rim of her ear. “I could spend a lifetime making demonstrations of this nature, Allie, but my guess is that some particular incident first gave you the absurd idea that men wouldn’t want you. What happened?”
She shifted restlessly, uncomfortable with how well he could read her. “Isn’t it enough that I’m too tall, too masculine, too bossy, and odd-eyed?” She tried to make her tone light, but it came out brittle and defensive.
“Yes, you’re tall, but Mary, Queen of Scots was a couple of inches taller than you, and she was a great beauty.” He stroked the length of her back, lingeringly. “If you were shorter, your legs would not be as gloriously, maddeningly beautiful. You are perfectly and exquisitely proportioned, exactly the best height for kissing, and even an inch less would be regrettable.”
He gave her derrière an appreciative squeeze. “Sometimes I thought the sight of you in those pantaloons was more than I could bear.”
“Really?” She met his gaze, not at all displeased at his words. “I dress that way merely because it is practical.”
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