AN Unexpected Gentleman

by Alissa Johnson

  Dark images filled her mind. There were an infinite number of ways the injury may have occurred. Connor had been little more than a boy when he’d been impressed. And while her knowledge of maritime life was limited in the extreme, she’d heard a tale or two of the awful things that could occur aboard a warship.

  The scar might be from a captain’s whip or a shipmate’s knife. Connor might have been wounded in battle, or—

  “Guarding my sleep, love?”

  Connor’s voice, gruff from sleep, banished the disturbing thoughts. Her gaze snapped to his face, and she found his hooded green eyes studying her as closely as she’d been studying him.

  Suddenly embarrassed, she cleared her throat and picked a spot on the wall behind him to stare at. “Certainly not.”

  “Relieved to hear it, as that’s my duty.” He rolled over and absently dragged a hand through his hair before crossing his arms behind his head. “What were you thinking just now? I could hear the wheels and cogs turning in your head.”

  “I was wondering how you’d been hurt,” she replied, seeing no need to lie. How was she to learn more about him if she never asked? She shrugged when his eyebrows winged up. “You’ve a scar on your back.”

  “Ah. A fall from a horse in my youth. I took a tumble down a rocky slope.”

  “Oh.” That . . . was not what she had envisioned.

  Connor laughed, reached up, and pulled her down on top of him. “You were expecting a different story.”

  “I thought . . .” She twisted to keep from elbowing him in the ribs. “You were impressed.”

  “I was.” He settled her against his side, his arms wrapped loosely around her shoulders. “There’s more than one sort of injury, sweet.”

  And more than one kind of scar, Adelaide thought. She squirmed a little, trying to find a position that would allow her to see his face, but it wasn’t possible to do without either throwing his arms off or acquiring a kink in her neck. Giving up, she rested her cheek against his hard chest.

  She wanted to ask him about the sort of scars he had but thought it might be a topic better suited for another time. Perhaps when they were more accustomed to one another.

  “How did you go from being impressed to having all this?” she asked instead.

  His arms tightened around her. “Well, I saw it, decided I should have it, compromised it in a garden, and that was—”

  “That is not what I meant.” She laughed. She lifted a hand and gestured at the room. “I mean, all this.”

  “Yes, I know.” She felt him shrug. “I’ve a head for the shipping business.”

  “But how did you go from impressed to shipping?”

  “Luck, hard work, determination. Mostly luck.”

  She stifled a sigh at his evasiveness. Connor was not the sort of man one could press. Which was unfortunate, because she was the sort of woman who couldn’t refrain from pressing.

  “Might you be a bit more specific?”

  “Another time.” In a quick, sure move, he rolled her onto her back and ranged himself over her. Sharp green eyes searched her face. “How do you feel this morning?”

  “Oh, quite well.” She liked the feel of him pressing her into the mattress, his legs tangled with hers, and his strong arms bracketed on either side of her like a protective cage. Suddenly, she felt better than well. She felt . . . interested. With a shy smile, she put her arms around him and let her fingers drift over the warm skin and taut muscles of his back.

  Connor made a low hum of appreciation, and she watched, fascinated, as his eyes darkened with desire. Lowering his head, he took her mouth in a long, languid kiss.

  Pleasure settled over her, seeping into her blood, but just as it began to grow, Connor pulled away. “Enough,” he said thickly. “That’s enough, sweet.”

  Her hands stilled. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” Hooded eyes fastened on her mouth. His chest rose and fell raggedly. “Because . . . Damn it, one more.”

  He took her mouth again, deeper and harder this time, as if he were trying to draw something out of her. Wanting to help, she shifted and felt the heavy heat of his arousal brush against her stomach.

  Connor pulled away with a groan. “Holy hell, that’s enough. It’s too soon.”

  “Too soon?” she echoed in a daze and glanced at the window. “Because it’s morning, do you mean? Is . . . Is it not the done thing?”

  He blinked once, then quickly turned his face away . . . But not before she saw the smile.

  “Are you laughing at me?” she demanded with mock outrage.

  His shoulders shook.

  “You are!”

  “God, yes, I’m sorry.” He faced her, his handsome features lit with a combination of laughter, arousal, and affection. “It’s too soon after your first time, sweetheart. That’s what I meant.”

  “Oh.” She blushed a little and tried to hide her disappointment. “Are you . . . quite sure?”

  “As I’ve never been a maiden, myself . . . No, I’m not sure.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips and with a small, rueful groan left the circle of her arms. “But we’ll not risk it.”

  He rolled from the bed and padded, with a remarkable lack of self-consciousness, across the room to a wardrobe. Adelaide couldn’t help but stare—at the powerful legs, the tawny skin, and the firm muscle of his buttocks. Mostly she stared at his buttocks. For reasons that eluded her, she found his backside absolutely riveting. And she was more than a little sorry when Connor slipped his arms through the sleeves of a robe, depriving her of the view.

  “Shouldn’t I have a say in what can be risked?” she asked, gathering the counterpane around her.

  “Certainly,” Connor agreed easily. “And though I’ll not change my mind, I’ve no objection to hearing a beautiful woman beg for—”

  “Never mind,” she drawled and rolled her eyes when he laughed.

  Keeping a firm hold on the counterpane, she slipped her feet off the bed and retrieved her chemise from where it had been left on the floor the night before. She felt silly dragging the blanket along like a queen with a train, but there was deliciously wicked, and then there was parading about the room without a stitch of clothing. In her mind, the line between the two was quite distinct.

  It took some doing, but she eventually succeeded in pulling the chemise over her head without letting go of the counterpane. When she emerged from the material, she found Connor regarding her with baffled amusement.

  “Was that really necessary?”

  “Yes.” Refusing to feel foolish over something as perfectly natural as modesty, she dropped the counterpane and worked her arms through the sleeves of her chemise.

  “You might have asked me to turn my back,” he pointed out. “Or for a robe.”

  “Well, if you’re seeking to help, you may assist me into my gown.”

  He obliged, helping her into the dress and working the buttons up her back with the deft efficiency of a lady’s maid. Adelaide thought it might be best not to dwell on how he came by such a skill.

  She rubbed her palm along the muslin at her waist. It was the same gown she’d been married in, and the same gown she’d been wearing the first time she’d seen Connor in the light of day. It felt strange to be wearing it now.

  “Connor?”

  He brushed her hair over her shoulder and pressed his lips to the base of her neck. Her skin prickled and warmed.

  “Hmm?”

  “Why did you marry me?”

  His mouth stilled against her neck. “You know why.”

  “You told me it was for revenge. And you’ve told me you wanted me.”

  “So I did.” His breath was warm and moist against her skin. “So I do.”

  “Either one of those . . .” She licked her lips and wondered if it was the sensations he was stirring in her or her own nerves that had caused them to go dry. “Both of those could have—”

  “Been had another way,” he finished for her. The heat of his mouth disappeared from
her neck, leaving the spot he’d kissed damp and chilled.

  “Yes. It would have been just as devastating to Sir Robert if you’d made me your mistress.”

  Taking gentle hold of her arm, he turned her about to face him. His eyes searched her face but betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “Would you have agreed to become my mistress?”

  Not initially, she thought. But once she’d learned of Sir Robert’s true nature . . . If it had been the only way to save her family . . . She didn’t know.

  “No,” she said, simply because she thought it was expected.

  He nodded once, his expression inscrutable. “There you are.”

  She wasn’t sure what answer she’d been hoping for, but clearly “there you are” wasn’t it. A large, uncomfortable knot formed in her chest. The cold at her neck spread, seeping under the skin.

  Forcing a smile and brisk tone, she stepped away from him, needing distance. “Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Adelaide—”

  “Do you know, I think perhaps I’ll take a stroll in the garden this morning. We’ll not have such fine weather for much longer, and it seems a pity not to take advantage of every—”

  He caught her arm before she could reach the door. “Are we having an argument?”

  She closed her eyes on a sigh. She didn’t want to argue anymore. She’d had enough anger and ill will to fill a lifetime. He’d not lied about his reasons for wanting marriage, and there was nothing to be gained from condemning him for those reasons now.

  “No.” She turned on her own and met his eyes. “There’s nothing to argue about. I want a walk, that’s all.”

  A crease formed between his brows, but he nodded and let his hand fall away.

  Adelaide made herself smile once more before taking her leave.

  For nearly an hour, she wandered about the grounds of Ashbury Hall, taking in what progress had been made in taming the lawn and gardens and allowing the easy exercise and soft morning air to settle her worries, or at least brush them away for a time.

  A gardener was already in residence, and she knew an architect had been hired and plans were being drawn up for the gardens. They were large plans, elaborate plans. Ashbury Hall was a grand manor, and it would have the grounds to match.

  She walked along the south side of the house and found that a small section of the garden had already been cleared of weeds and turned over. There was enough room for a small fountain. A few stone benches would be lovely there as well, she mused. The light was perfect for dahlias. She’d never tried to grow them before, but—

  Connor’s voice pulled her from her musings. “Do you like the spot?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and smiled, pleased to discover her walk had been effective in relieving her of her odd mood. “I’m sure it will be a fine garden.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “Yes.” She looked around her, studying the grounds. She was mistress of Ashbury Hall now, though that fact seemed distant and surreal to her. “There’s quite a bit for the architect and gardener to see done, but—”

  “No, I mean . . .” He gestured at the tilled earth. “That. On this side of the house. It’s yours.”

  “The dirt?”

  Connor lifted a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. Then he tugged a bit on his cravat. Then he caught his hands behind his back as if suddenly aware that he was fidgeting.

  She stared at him with wonder. My goodness, she thought, was he embarrassed?

  “I had work begin on it yesterday,” he explained. “When I returned to retrieve the carriage. I thought you might like to have a part of the garden all your own. To do with as you liked.”

  The last of the chill that had come upon her in their chambers melted away. She wasn’t sure if Connor was trying to spoil her, bribe her, make amends, or all three. But she was quite certain she liked it. Whatever his past misdeeds, and whatever his motivations now, he was trying to make things comfortable between them. She rather thought that ought to count for something.

  She stretched up and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He slipped a hand around her neck and pulled her mouth to his for a long, searing kiss that left her breathless and overheated. “Thought it might be wise to take advantage of our privacy, while we still had it,” he said when at last he released her. “I’ve sent a carriage to fetch your family.”

  “Oh.” She blinked, trying to see past the haze of passion. It didn’t work.

  But then she heard Connor say, “Wolfgang means to come.”

  Which was quite effective in dousing her ardor.

  “Oh.” She managed a half smile when Connor chuckled. “How can you be certain?”

  “I spoke with him about it at the prison.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That a move to Ashbury came with an allowance.”

  “Bribery again?” That didn’t surprise her as much as why the bribe had been made. She’d have thought Connor would pay good money to keep Wolfgang out of his home.

  “A compromise,” Connor countered. “He needs funds. I want to keep a close eye on him until we can be sure he’s spending those funds wisely.”

  “You didn’t tell him that, did you?” She could only imagine her brother’s reaction to such a slight.

  “Give me some credit, love. I told him his family needed him.” He kissed the top of her head and toyed with a lock of her hair. “And that he’d find his childhood home a mite inhospitable once repairs began on the roof.”

  “Repairs?”

  “They begin next week. The parlor doors are to be replaced immediately.” He gave her a pointed look. “And that cherrywood chair is going into the fire.”

  She broke into laughter and thought, oh, yes, he was trying. “I should have guessed you’d known what I was about. We can’t burn it. It’s an heirloom.”

  “The attic then,” he agreed easily and bent to give her another quick kiss. “I’ll leave you to your walk.”

  She almost asked him to stay but bit back the request at the last second. She no longer wanted a walk or needed to clear her thoughts, but she did want just a moment more of solitude.

  After he disappeared into the house, Adelaide made a slow survey of her surroundings, seeing it all in a different light. This was hers. The house, the grounds, the plot of dirt, and the fifteen thousand pounds in the bank—they were all hers.

  For years she had been weighed with the worries of what would become of her family. For weeks she had faced an unknown and unexpected future. Now that future had arrived . . . and it was wonderful. She was safe. They were all safe. There would never be a poorhouse, never be another creditor at her door. Isobel would have new gowns, new books, a world of opportunities opened to her. George would have a proper nanny, the finest tutors when the time came, and all the biscuits he could eat. And Wolfgang . . . Wolfgang would come around. She was sure of it.

  For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt free—well and truly free. A giddiness washed over her. She heard her own laughter echo back from the woods across the lawn. And like a small child at play, she threw her arms wide and spun in circles.

  Connor watched Adelaide spin in the garden. From his position in front of the window in his second-floor study, he could make out the twirling folds of her skirt and the strands of auburn that sunlight wove into her hair. The soft lilt of her laughter filtered through the glass and soothed the tightness in his chest.

  The night before had been his every fantasy come to life, but the morning had not gone quite as he’d hoped.

  There you go.

  In retrospect, that had not been his finest display of charm. But holy hell, the woman liked to press.

  How had he been injured? How had he gone from impressment to shipping? Why had he married her? Why had he not made her his mistress? The questions, and the patient way she had pressed for answers, had unnerved him.

  She wanted hi
m to share.

  Unfortunately for the both of them, sharing was not something he did well. Connor made it a point to avoid contemplation of his shortcomings, but of his myriad forms of selfishness, he was perfectly aware. He was generous with money and goods because he could afford to give them away without risk or inconvenience to himself.

  But Adelaide, he was afraid, wanted him to give a piece of himself. It was an expectation he wasn’t sure he could fill, or fake.

  He didn’t know how to be generous in that way. It had never been required of him. He’d not been raised with siblings. His parents, though he knew they loved him, had been reserved in their affections. The mistresses he’d had over the years had been content with his time and expensive trinkets. And his men . . . Well, they were his men. Mostly they spoke of women, drink, and their desire to stick Sir Robert’s head on pike.

  No one had ever asked more of him than he’d been comfortable giving.

  For now, Adelaide seemed appeased by his gift of the garden. And perhaps that would be the key to keeping her happy, keeping them both happy—bribery, distraction, and careful distance.

  He hoped it would be enough. He hoped she’d not ask so many questions.

  Because, God’s truth, he wasn’t sure she’d like the answers.

  Chapter 22

  If Adelaide’s wedding night had been a whirlwind of discovery, the first week of marriage was an education.

  The day after the Wards’ arrival, Connor took all but Wolfgang—who chose to remain in his chambers—into town so Adelaide could fulfill her wish of spoiling her nephew and sister with sweets and art supplies. As Adelaide had predicted, George fell asleep before he could make himself ill. Isobel took her paint and easel outside and, for the next six days, spent every hour of sunlight in the garden, hunting for blooms to paint.

  Adelaide found pleasure in her own hobbies. She began the delightful task of planning her own garden, and in a moment of rare spontaneity, she asked the stable master to teach her how to ride. But with so many other duties requiring her attention, it wasn’t often she found time for herself.