Autumn Rain

by Anita Mills

  His hands were in her hair, tugging at the pins, hurting her, and she did not care. She raised her head, parting her lips for his kiss. And as his mouth crushed hers, possessing it, liquid fire coursed through her veins once more, and the wanting, the yearning was nearly unbearable. His hands were everywhere, twining in her half-undone hair, moving over her shoulders, holding her, pressing her, molding her against him, smoothing the skirt of her habit over her hips. Abruptly, he broke away, his dark eyes black with passion, his breath ragged, uneven.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  He caught her hand, pulling her toward the door, looking for servants. Seeing none, he hurried her up the back stairs and halfway down the carpeted hall.

  Although his bedchamber had an elegance to match Arthur's, she would be hard-pressed later to remember any of it. He stopped only long enough to turn the key in the lock, then he faced her, his chest heaving, and she felt suddenly shy.

  "Your—your wound," she managed through parched lips.

  "If I did not take consumption last week, nothing will hurt it." He moved closer, his eyes on hers, and his hands reached for the frogs that closed the front of her habit. "I'd see you, Nell—all of you." When she stood there woodenly, he smiled crookedly. "What did you think—that it would be groping in the dark again?"

  "No—no, but—"

  "It is how it is meant to be, Nell," he said softly, unhooking the braided frogs.

  As his hands moved down her chest, she thought she would shatter into pieces. He worked slowly, as though he did not know the urgency within her. As the jacket came open, he pulled the lawn waist up, baring the zona beneath. He bent his head deliberately to nuzzle pink-tipped breasts, and to her embarrassment, her nipples tautened.

  "Please—"

  But his fingers already worked the laces of the zona that pushed them up, and as his mouth returned to hers, the band slipped to the floor. This time when he kissed her, his urgency matched her own. He unfastened the skirt and untied the half-petticoat, pushing them down. She was standing there, her body bare except for her open jacket and her riding boots, and then he was holding her, his flesh warming hers through his clothes, his mouth moving hotly from her mouth to her ear.

  With one arm still around her, he began removing his clothes, unbuttoning his breeches, freeing himself, and she felt the heat of him against her skin, and it no longer mattered what he saw of her. She clung to him eagerly, demanding more of him as he rubbed against her.

  He'd meant to wait, to teach her how it could be, but the heat between them was consuming him. Abruptly, he lifted her and carried her to his bed, where she sank back into the deep feather mattress. His hands worked feverishly now, removing her boots and the rest of his clothes, then he followed her down, pressing her deeper with the weight of his body, and waited no longer.

  She felt him slide between the wetness, this time with ease, and her legs closed around him as he ministered to the ache deep within her, stroking, driving as she moaned and panted beneath him, scarce able to stand the intensity of what he did to her. She lost all rational thought as she writhed and bucked, her whole body hot, sweaty, and demanding, every fiber of feeling centered where he stroked.

  "Cannot wait," he panted, matching her rhythm. He groaned loudly, drove harder until he shuddered, and she felt the pulse of his seed, then it was over. He lay above her, his weight resting on his elbows, his head on the twisted lawn waist above her breasts. When she started to pull away, he drew one arm up to hold her there. "Don't," he murmured. "Not yet."

  She could feel him shrink within her, she could feel the warm, sticky liquid oozing between them, and still he did not move. When she opened her eyes, all she could see was the ruffled black hair, and she felt a measure of contentment. For the moment, for now, he was hers.

  Finally, as his breathing evened out, he eased off her and pulled the covers up over them. She swallowed hard and twisted her head away. "What you must think me," she whispered, stricken.

  "Shhhhhh." His fingers moved over her mouth, silencing her. "Let us take what we can without regret."

  "It's a sin."

  "God loves the sinner as much as anyone," he countered, drawing her into the crook of his arm. "And God knows there is little enough happiness in this world for either of us."

  "Do you think He cares?" she managed to ask, turning into his good shoulder.

  "No." His hand stroked her tangled hair where it spilled over the covers. "He is too consumed with Bonaparte to spare a thought for this."

  For a time, they were silent, and he lay there, savoring the feel of her against him. It was odd, for they all were possessed as Jack would have put it crudely, "of the same holes," but somehow he wanted this one to be different. He wanted this one to mean something. Maybe it was that he owed her his life, but he really believed he could care about her.

  She stirred slightly, and he looked down. "I ought to—that is—" Her face reddened and she mumbled something about cleaning herself up. But he didn't want her to leave him.

  "We're not done," he decided.

  She couldn't meet his eyes. "I cannot be gone forever."

  "What day is it?" he murmured.

  "The seventeenth—my birthday."

  "Your twentieth, as I recall."

  "Yes."

  He rolled over to brace himself on his good arm and faced her, grinning boyishly. "Then I'd say I owe it to you to make it worth remembering." His fingertip traced a circle around one bared nipple. "Though I take leave to warn you that the second time never goes quite as quickly as the first."

  She squirmed as it hardened. "Surely you do not mean to-?"

  He nodded. "By the time you are returned to Stoneleigh, madam, you will be quite sated." Before she could protest, he bent his head to hers, tasting again of her lips. "I don't mean to send you home until you have howled, Nell."

  Her eyes widened. "Surely not."

  "Howled," he repeated definitely, his hands moving to ease her jacket from her shoulders.

  "Your wounds—"

  "My wounds be damned. I'd rather be doing this than anything."

  CHAPTER 28

  Her hat covered the ineptness with which Longford had pinned her hair, and the veil hid her swollen lips. Nonetheless, when she dismounted at Stoneleigh and the groom led Mignon away, Elinor was afraid that any who saw her would know what she'd been doing. She slipped around to the back of the house, hoping to take the back stairs up, but Arthur was coming out of his bookroom and spied her.

  "Enjoy your ride, my dear?" he inquired mildly.

  She felt the blood rush to her face. "Yes."

  "It was a pleasant day for it."

  "Yes. Yes, it was." She had her hand on the stair post, ready to flee, hoping he'd ask no more.

  "You must be careful—there have been smugglers afoot again," was all he said.

  "I saw the royal revenuers," she lied, hoping that would satisfy him.

  "Then I daresay you were in no danger."

  "No." She started up the stairs. "I'd bathe before we sup, my lord."

  "I hope you do not mind it, but I have invited guests. Nothing improper as we are in mourning, but I thought perhaps you would wish to share your birthday with the vicar and his wife."

  She wanted to escape, to seek the solitude of her bedchamber, where she could relive every moment of lying in Longford's arms. "Yes," she said simply.

  "And I have asked Leighton."

  She stopped. "Leighton?"

  "You have perhaps taken him in dislike?"

  "No—of course not—not at all."

  "We passed his carriage near Wilmington's."

  She felt taut, as though somehow he knew, but that was absurd, she reassured herself. "Oh?"

  "Now that Townsend is gone, he's about more."

  "Yes."

  "By the by, Mrs. Peake has your ribbons and laces for you. In fact, I believe she has given them to Mary."

  "I thank you for getting them."

&n
bsp; "It was nothing—the merest inconvenience, I assure you. Well, you run along up—best make yourself presentable before they come."

  She climbed the stairs thankfully, glad to be away from him. She waited until she was safely in her bedchamber before untying her veil and removing the brimmed hat. One side of her hair came loose, falling over her shoulder, as she tossed the hat aside. Crossing the room, she peered anxiously into the mirror, trying to see if anyone could tell what she'd done, then she rang for Mary.

  "I'd have a bath," she said quickly, turning away. "And I can undress myself."

  Later, as she soaked in the scented water, she stared down at her breasts, feeling again the sensation of Longford's mouth, of his tongue and teeth teasing her nipples. She leaned back, remembering it all, thinking she did not believe there had been an inch of her body he'd not explored. And for the first time in her life, she felt utterly complete.

  Tomorrow, he'd said. Meet him again tomorrow just past noon. As though she could somehow stay away. His hot breath against her ear seemed to whisper again, "If it rains, I will take you up in my carriage. If not, I'd meet you where the road goes to Bude." And now she wondered what she could tell Arthur, what excuse she could give him to be gone again.

  Guilt washed over her. And yet she wanted what Longford did to her enough to lie, to dissemble, to do whatever she had to to be with him again. It was more than that she wanted it—it was that she needed it. The physical union, no matter how wrong, made her somehow whole.

  Slowly, lethargically, she soaped the cloth and began to wash, to destroy any trace of the earl she'd carried back. Her whole body felt languorous, as sated as he'd promised. She dipped lower with the cloth, washing between her legs, recalling the feel of him there, and the newly familiar weakness made her want to know that again... and again... and again.

  "His lordship will not like it that ye are lingering at yer bath," Mary reminded her, pulling her back to the present.

  "I was woolgathering."

  "Aye, but he said to remind ye of the company, that he'd have ye come down first."

  She dressed quickly, and the maid braided her hair, twisting the plait into a copper crown. And when she went down the wide staircase, the black taffeta of her mourning gown swishing against her petticoat, Arthur awaited her in the hall. Apparently he viewed this birthday somewhat different from the others, for he'd gone to the formality of donning knee breeches, dressing much as he'd done for Almack's. He bowed over his cane, nodding approvingly.

  "You are one of the few black becomes, my dear," he murmured.

  "Thank you."

  "A bit of madeira before dinner?" he offered, leading her into the formal front saloon.

  "Yes." She felt stiff, awkward before him, as though he must surely tell what had happened by looking at her.

  He handed her the glass. "To you, my dear."

  And once again, the stab of guilt was nearly unbearable. She averted her eyes as she sipped. "To you also, my lord," she murmured over the rim.

  He set his glass aside and reached into his coat pocket, drawing out a velvet pouch, from which he shook out a necklace of cut black beads. "Obsidian," he murmured. "It ought to be diamonds, but because of—"

  "Yes," she said quickly. "It's lovely—and I have enough of the other for ten females."

  "I'd put it on you."

  She leaned over obediently, feeling his long, thin fingers on her neck, and she did not think she could stand his touch. Not after Longford. He fastened the clasp and stood back to admire the effect.

  "Quite lovely, my dear—had I known it would show your skin to such advantage, I should have bought it sooner." The back of his hand brushed against her face.

  "But you ought to pinch your cheeks, Elinor, for in your grief, you've grown pale."

  He always seemed to hold her at a disadvantage, a sort of game he played. "In my haste, I forgot to have Mary apply the rouge pot," she explained. "If you would, I—"

  "No, no. Mrs. Thurstan will no doubt like you better without it."

  It was going to be a long evening, for the vicar's wife was a sad prattle, forever going on about people Elinor had never heard of. It was a wonder to her that Arthur had invited them, for she did not think he could abide Eliza either. She cast a quick sidewise glance at him, knowing he did nothing without a purpose.

  "You surprise me, my lord."

  "One never knows when one will need the service of a churchman," he observed obscurely.

  "As I recall it, you once told me the only purpose to the clergy was to preside at the 'hatching, matching, and dispatching.' " Her eyes met his once more over her glass. "At the moment, I should not say we are in need of any of those services."

  "One never knows."

  "A month ago, I would have given you up, Arthur," she admitted, "but you seem to have recovered."

  "As have you."

  Once again she felt the stab of guilt. But it was not that she did not still mourn Charles—what she felt for Longford was vastly different from what she'd shared with Charley.

  "I considered inviting Longford."

  She nearly choked.

  "But," he went on smoothly, "his health is such that I did not expect him to make the journey back so soon."

  "I did not know you liked him."

  His eyes seemed to pierce hers for a moment, sending a chill down her spine. "I like him quite well now that he is more received, Elinor. The point is—do you?"

  Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass, but she managed to answer casually, "One cannot struggle for a life and not care about it, I suppose. Yes, I like him well enough."

  "More than Bellamy Townsend?"

  "Definitely more than that," she answered.

  "Good. Townsend has led more than one female to grief, I am told." He turned to pour himself more madeira. "What think you of George?"

  "George?"

  "Maxwell—Leighton."

  "He seems quite kind."

  "Kind men are rather boring, don't you think?"

  Once again, she felt the chill and wondered where he led her. "Well, as I scarce know him, Arthur, I cannot tell."

  "I was just wondering if perhaps you could find him worth knowing," he murmured. "The bloodline is good, you know—although it is Scots," he added, betraying a hint of prejudice.

  "If you are asking if I could flirt with Leighton, my lord, you are wide of the mark," she declared. "He is the sort of man one ought to marry."

  "Oh?"

  "Kind, considerate, and mildly amusing."

  "And rich."

  "And rich. But I am scarce in the market for another husband—unless you are hiding some dread illness from me," she said lightly.

  "No. In fact, I have never felt better, my dear."

  "The Reverend and Mrs. Thurstan," Peake announced somberly.

  That lady hurried to Elinor, clasping her familiarly, brushing a chaste kiss against her cheek. "Oh, my dear-twenty today! Tell me, Edwin," she murmured, turning to her husband, "but does she not appear quite—"

  "Ravishing," he supplied for her, drawing her frown. "Under the circumstances," he added quickly.

  The woman wore a purple dress, but out of respect for their mourning, she'd added black ribbons at the sleeves and a pair of black lace gloves. "I still cannot get over— so very young—so—"

  "Harumph!" The vicar cleared his throat, cutting her off. "Twenty, eh? Cannot recall the age myself, but—"

  "George, Viscount Leighton!" Peake reported from the doorway.

  "Weil, had I known you meant to come, my lord, I should have brought Clarissa," Mrs. Thurstan tittered.

  "But then I should suppose not, for the girl is quite in awe of you."

  "Tongue-tied," her husband muttered.

  "Of me?" Leighton asked, lifting a brow. "Are you quite certain it's not Longford?"

  "Longford!" the woman sniffed. "Certainly not. He may be redeemed in some eyes, but not in mine."

  "Eliza—"

  "Oh, I k
now he was here for an age, but I count that quite different, for under the circumstances, dear Lady Kingsley could not turn him away. But I quite felt for you, my dear—truly I did. It was a Christian thing you did, nursing a man of his stamp," she told Elinor. "I am not at all sure I could have done it."

  "Dash it, the man was dying!" Reverend Thurstan protested. "Christian feeling—"

  "Well, dear Lady Kingsley does not have a daughter to protect, Edwin. I should not wish him in the same house with Clarissa or Phoebe—or Cassandra even."

  "Cassandra is but five," he reminded her. "I hardly think-"

  "One never knows what a man like that will do," she retorted. "And I cannot say but what I breathed more easily when he left Stoneleigh. Now if he would but take himself off to London where he belongs—"

  "Dash it, Eliza, but he nearly died for this country!"

  "I found him quite agreeable," Arthur murmured, taking Elinor's arm. "Did you not also, my dear?"

  "Charming," Elinor agreed. "Or I should say as charming as he could be under the circumstances."

  "Got as much a right to be in Cornwall as any of us," George declared. "Owns Langston Park."

  "But he was not born here," Mrs. Thurstan insisted, then recalling that Leighton was an exceptionally eligible bachelor who'd come from elsewhere also, she hastily tried to retrieve the situation. "Of course that is not to say that one must be—there are circumstances where one is welcomed—yourself, for instance."

  Elinor had had enough. "I collect the difference is that Lord Leighton is possessed of a considerable fortune?"

  "Dash it, I haven't any more than Longford!" he protested. "Less, more likely."

  "Ah, but you have not had the misfortune of a scandal not of your making, have you, sir?" she countered.

  "Got the truth of that. Fellow's paid for—"

  "One cannot pay for a divorce," Mrs. Thurstan said stiffly. "And I understand there is a child."

  "Eliza—"

  Thinking to turn the subject to safer ground, George addressed Elinor. "I trust there was nothing serious wrong with the horse?"

  "Uh—"

  "What horse?" Mrs. Thurstan demanded curiously. "Lady Kingsley's horse appeared to be going lame earlier today."