“I know, Amy.”
He smothered her with kisses as his hands cupped her hip bones and his penetrations deepened, quickened. She gasped with new awareness. Yes, it was what she wanted. It was…
The electric light flickered, a bright flash that blinded her for a second. She witnessed the colorful spots swirling in her line of vision as the thunder boomed, the crescendos overhead.
An urgency gripped her. A primitive instinct took over her senses and guided her body. She lifted her hips as he bored down on her, the contact more intimate, the friction more intense. She wanted him with such abandon, she neglected all other thoughts, all other feelings in light of the brilliant moment.
“Oh, Edmund!”
She chewed on his ear nestled near her lips with wicked delight. The strain between her legs snapped. She cried out. The muscles shuddered, pulsed with release. The scoundrel drummed her core with piercing strokes before he poured himself into her, as well. He groaned with pleasure, his dark growls snatched away by the howling winds.
Amy was breathless. She trembled in Edmund’s arms, bemused. He still smothered her with his figure, protected her from the elements. Yet she was weak. She wondered if she possessed the strength to stand. She didn’t care. Not really. She was more mindful of her heated tussle with the scoundrel. She wanted to remain in his arms, right there in the sheltered wood. The trees concealed their intertwined bodies. The tempest guarded their sensual shouts. The storm surrounded them: two wet butterflies fresh from cocoons. She didn’t want to leave the haven. She didn’t want to leave him.
Edmund stroked her brow with his fingertips, brushed away the moist lines of hair. “I didn’t think I’d meet with you when I ventured into the park today.”
“I thought you believed in spontaneity?” She smiled. “I thought you wanted me to have more fun?”
He snorted with laughter. “I like your idea of fun, Amy.”
She chuckled and sighed as he nuzzled her cheek. “You’ll have to walk home, Edmund.”
He nipped her ear. “Why?”
She shuddered. “Your horse is missing.”
“Bloody hell.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that,” he said roughly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I distracted you.”
Slowly he smiled again, the handsome scoundrel. “Aye, you did. But I didn’t mind the distraction.”
He kissed her once more with both passion and tenderness.
Sated, Amy thumbed his backside. “I have to go.”
He sighed. “I suppose you do.”
He shifted his weight. The rain was still pouring, but the lightning, the thunder had ebbed away. He circled her arms and lifted her to her feet, wobbly after the vigorous bedding.
She smoothed her rumpled skirts, soaked and stained with soil. She grimaced and rubbed her fingers over the dark blotches, smudging them even more. No, the dress was ruined.
She shrugged. “My cap?”
Edmund fastened his trousers and retrieved her riding hat, her crop. As he handed the articles to her, their fingers linked, and she shivered at the sweet touches.
“Will you be all right, Amy?”
“Hmm? Oh, I’ll be fine. I’ll tell Mama I fell from my horse in the storm. She’ll believe me. I’m a terrible equestrienne.”
He stroked her wet cheek. She peered into his smoky eyes; the raindrops lined his lashes like tiny diamonds.
“I can’t go with you, Amy.”
“I know.” She bussed his thumb as it swept across her lips. “I understand.”
She would be ruined if she was spotted in his company, emerging from the sheltered woods.
“But I’ll come and see you again soon,” he promised.
Amy smiled, her lips trembled. She quickly skirted away as a coldness entered her heart. The man’s words seeped into her bones. She imagined the restless delight, the thrilling anticipation of their next rendezvous. But it was a hopeless dream, for she would never see Edmund again. Soon she would wed the Marquis of Gravenhurst. Soon she would surrender to her husband’s icy touch.
Amy struggled with her tears as she scurried through the park. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she had tasted pure passion at least once in her life…but perhaps it would have been better if she had never known it. In the dark days to come, their intimacy in the park would be a bittersweet memory: a reminder of how things might have been if she hadn’t been betrothed.
Chapter 19
Edmund walked the horse toward the rear of the town house and secured the beast within the private stables. He had eventually spotted the animal wandering through Hyde Park, nibbling on the wildflowers. After smoothing the gelding’s coat with a brush and pitching fresh hay into the stall, he entered the main dwelling.
The storm had passed, yet Edmund’s clothes were still damp with rainwater, sticking to his flesh. He didn’t notice his disorderly apparel, though. He was much too engrossed with thoughts of Amy.
His body still ached for the lass. In an instant, he conjured her fingernails digging fiercely into his arms, imagined her undulating hips, listened to her sultry cries of passion.
He shuddered. He needed to see her again. He needed to be with her again. And not just one more time. All the time. Every day of his life. He had to protect the lass, too, for she might be enceinte. But how to go about it? What would it take to prove to her father he wasn’t just “playing” gentleman? That he had honorable intentions toward the duke’s daughter? That he wanted to marry Amy?
He mounted the steps, needing advice. As he reached the middle of the staircase, he stilled, sensing a presence. He glanced toward the towering figure on the second level, his spine straightening.
James regarded him with a staid expression before he sauntered down the steps, his footfalls strong and steady. Edmund stepped aside, allowing his brother passage. As soon as the captain had reached the lower level, he headed for the door without offering his kinsman a farewell.
At the deliberate disregard, Edmund glared after the surly brigand. Was James ignoring him now? He shrugged. If the despot desired an even greater estrangement, so be it, but one day he’d learn the truth; that he’d pushed away more than just Edmund, that he’d driven off all the subjects in his kingdom with his ruthless ways.
Edmund ascended the rest of the steps.
“The physician was here to see Will,” remarked James in an offhanded manner. “The wound is healing well. There are willow leaves beside the bed.”
Edmund stilled and followed the captain’s movements with his eyes.
As James opened the door, he looked pointedly at his brother. “Mix the leaves in tea and make sure he drinks the tonic every four hours for the discomfort.”
“You’re leaving?”
He bobbed his head. “I am.”
The door closed.
Edmund stared into the empty passageway for a moment, wondering what sort of calamity had appropriated the captain’s attention, for James would never willingly set off from the town house, not with a wounded brother in residence.
Still bemused, he scratched his head. On the second level, he knocked at William’s bedchamber door.
A faint “enter” welcomed him; he stepped inside the warm, dim room.
He eyed his convalescing sibling, resting under the layers of bedding. The drapery in the room masked the two windows, allowing the captain to recover in relative darkness. There was a fire in the hearth; it drew out the dampness in the air and permitted some soft illumination.
“You’re wet,” said William.
“I was trapped in the storm.” He closed the door. “How are you feeling?”
“Smothered,” he returned succinctly, his features sallow. “First Belle served as nursemaid, then James.” He rasped, “Do you know what that does to a man who’s been shot in the chest?”
“Takes your breath away?”
“What little I have of it.”
Edmund sett
led into a chair at the foot of the bed and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I saw James a moment ago. He left the house.”
“He’s going home to be with his wife.”
“He’s leaving you?”
“In your care, aye.”
The serpent stirred in the aquarium positioned on the table beside the chair.
Edmund knocked on the glass with his knuckle, a light rap. “Is Sophia all right? His wife, I mean.”
William chuckled. “Aye, she’s fine, but I think James realizes he doesn’t need to be here all the time. I think he trusts you to take care of things.”
“Why?”
It didn’t sound like James, the tyrant. He needed to be in control of every situation. He needed to be in control of all their lives. And yet he had walked away?
“I told him what happened aboard the Nemesis, that you had served as lieutenant to the acting captain in my stead…that you had saved my life.”
As the unsettling ordeal stirred in his mind, Edmund glanced at his hands.
He quickly pressed his palms over the gash in the captain’s chest. He watched the dark blood ooze between his fingers, sensed its warmth as it bathed his hands.
Edmund rubbed his brow, his head smarting. “I didn’t save you. You stepped in front of me, remember? The bullet was meant for me.”
“You stopped the bleeding,” he said in a low voice. “You did your part…and I did mine.”
The gloomy reflection had smothered Edmund’s otherwise buoyant spirit, and he concluded it was not the right time to beseech his brother’s counsel about Amy.
“I’ll let you rest, Will.” He lifted from the chair. “I’ll return in a few hours to serve you the willow-leaf tea.”
“Eddie.”
He paused beside the door. “What is it?”
“I’ve had to write to the Admiralty. I don’t know when I’ll be returning to duty.”
“I understand.”
William eyed him thoughtfully. “What will you do with yourself in the meantime?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You could sail with James again.”
Edmund placed his hands on his hips and looked at the shadows on the floor. “I was thinking about staying on land for a while.”
“Because of Amy?”
He looked at his brother. “Aye.”
“Is that wise?”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Quincy was here looking for you. He wanted to know if you were all right. He told me about Amy and the Marquis of Gravenhurst.”
Who the devil was the Marquis of Gravenhurst?
Edmund’s heart tightened. “What are you talking about, Will?”
“I’m talking about the couple’s engagement.”
Edmund stared at his brother, confounded. He assumed William confused, suffering from some sort of dementia…but he hadn’t a head injury. The bullet had pierced his chest. He had a sound mind, which meant…
“Engagement?”
“The couple will wed in a fortnight, I understand. Quincy had just learned the news.”
Edmund’s head throbbed with vivid images as he remembered the heated tussle in the park, her sweet words and urgent touches. A darkness filled his head, his blood. A cold and cutting pain sliced through his muscles. He gnashed his teeth at the rising pressure in his skull. He wanted to smash something, pound it with his fists.
“Perhaps it’s a good idea if you sail with James for a time,” suggested William.
Edmund raked his fingers through his ruffled hair. That conniving little—He firmed his fists. Why had she come to him if she was going to marry another man? A bloody marquis?
He soon imagined her heavy with child—his child! If she was enceinte, the marquis would likely claim the babe as his heir. He’d have no reason to think it wasn’t his offspring, for the couple would wed in two weeks time.
Edmund’s fist went into the door. A marquis. She was going to wed a fucking lord! He sneered at his own stupidity. What lady of consequence would marry a lowly seaman? He was such an idiot!
“Are you all right, Eddie?”
He took in a deep, seething breath through his nose. Was he all right? He wasn’t so sure about that. One damnable question hounded him. Why? Why had she come to him, the deceiver? Why had she rolled in the mud with him like a common harlot if she was going to marry the Marquis of Gravenhurst?
Amy gazed at her reflection in the tall mirror. As it was late, the candlelight glistened in the room, the illumination playing softly across the fluffy, pale blue wedding dress.
The garment swallowed her in a neat ensemble of pleated linen. It was the last fitting before the wedding. She stood on a small stool in her private room, listening to the seamstress, who prattled in French. Fortunately, the Duchess of Estabrooke was also in the chamber and was well versed in the foreign tongue. The two ladies conversed around the bride-to-be, and, as Madame Léger didn’t speak a word of English, Amy relied on her mother’s translation to communicate with the finest seamstress in Town.
“How does the garment fit, my dear?”
Helen smoothed her fingers across the wide skirt in a fond manner, raising Madame Léger’s hackles as the woman’s features burned red. The short, prim seamstress looked as if she wanted to blast the duchess for running her fingers over the pleats and ruffling the carefully stitched garment; however, she refrained from the outburst, pinched her lips in displeasure instead.
“It’s still a little loose in the hips,” returned Amy.
The duchess communicated the alterations to the seamstress, who bobbed her head in understanding and proceeded to pin the garment at the appropriate spots.
“Is something the matter, my dear? You look pale.”
It was the wedding dress, thought Amy. It reminded her of her approaching nuptials. The attire seemed so heavy on her thin frame. It wasn’t really too cumbersome, but as soon as she imagined her soon-to-be-husband waiting for her at the end of the church aisle, the dress weighed on her even more.
“I’m fine, Mama.”
The duchess smiled. “I’ve missed hearing you call me Mama.”
Amy looked at her mother, her heart pulsing with longing. “I remember seeing you at the orphanage in Town a few months ago. Well, I saw your gloved hand. But I remembered the sound of your voice, your laughter.”
“I’ve been involved with such charities for years. After I had lost you, I had always hoped I might find you at such a place: a place for lost children.”
The duchess wiped at her eyes.
“What’s the matter, Mama?”
The older woman sniffed and retrieved a white kerchief from the nearest table. Madame Léger tsked and brandished her fingers, and although Amy wasn’t sentient of her odd-sounding words, she comprehended the seamstress’s meaning, that she wanted the duchess and her briny tears to keep away from the sensitive fabric.
Helen dabbed at her eyes with the kerchief. “I’ve only just welcomed you home and now I have to give you up again.”
Amy simpered. She longed to stay with her parents for a greater time, too. She longed to postpone her marriage to the marquis indefinitely. But…
“But the marquis will make you a fine husband.” Helen’s soft green eyes smiled. “It’s a good match, my dear. Your father negotiated the betrothal with such zest all those years ago. He wanted our two families to be united for many years.”
“Why?”
“It’s a respectable match between two wealthy, distinguished dynasties. As our only child, you were your father’s greatest hope for such a prestigious alliance; it’d been his fondest wish that you wed the marquis.”
Amy said quietly, “And produce a noble legacy?”
The duchess nodded. “It almost didn’t come to pass. The betrothal, I mean.”
Do not think I’ve forgotten your past indiscretions, Gravenhurst. I hope you’ve learned from your former mistakes, that you will do what is right.
The chilling words still hounded her. She wondered, “What happened, Mama?”
“I don’t know the particulars.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t part of the talks that detailed the arrangement, but it all worked out in the end.” She smiled again. “You look so lovely, my dear.”
The seamstress twittered some words in brisk succession.
“Madame Léger wants you to remove the dress now.”
Amy wriggled out of the flowing garment with the aid of the seamstress and her mother before she donned her white frock again. After bussing her mother’s cheek, she parted from the ladies, who remained inside the bedchamber, discussing the bridal dress’s final, finishing details.
Amy headed for the garden. She entered the private oasis with high stone walls. There was no moonlight, but glass lanterns flickered with candlelight. She followed the soft aura through a narrow, winding trail and settled on a curved stone bench, backless, keeping her spine straight as she lifted her eyes to the dark heavens. Without the moon, that faraway land, the sky looked so bleak. The stars didn’t shine through the murky clouds of soot, and Amy looked away from the unfriendly black canvas.
The blossoms and trees and shrubs offered her some companionship, their fragrances pleasing after the brisk rainstorm, their lilting movements in the breeze comforting. But soon her thoughts darkened her spirit as she reflected upon her future husband and his secrets.
What “past indiscretions” had almost prevented their union? Her father was clearly willing to overlook any impropriety to ensure her marriage and subsequent good standing in polite society; however, she wondered if such an indiscretion—made public—might prevent her union now?
It was a wicked desire to go against her father’s dearest wish in such an ungrateful manner, but she wasn’t so sure she could carry the yoke of her duty. She hadn’t the strength to leave the marquis of her own volition and shame her parents; however, if she unearthed her fiancé’s tainted past, and made it public, perhaps the scandal would force her father to break the betrothal contract?
It was worth some investigating.
“Good evening, Amy.”
The Notorious Scoundrel Page 20
