Rescued from Ruin

by Georgie Lee

  He brought his face down next to hers as he moved her arm ever so slightly to the right. She struggled against the rapid beat of her heart to hold the gun steady, then closed one eye and looked down the barrel until the bright red circle came into view.

  ‘Exactly,’ he whispered, his breath spreading over her neck. ‘Keep your fingers light but firm and your arm tight. When you’re ready, pull the trigger.’

  She slid one finger out from beneath his and curled it around the metal trigger. She pulled it back and the gun fired, Randall’s strong hand keeping it from recoiling hard against her palm. They waited a breath for the smoke to clear before the hole, so close to Randall’s in the centre, came into view.

  Cecelia turned, snuggling into his neck. ‘You’re right, I have so much more to learn.’

  He lowered their arms, his hand tightening over hers. ‘It will be my pleasure to complete your education.’

  ‘You’ll find me a most willing student,’ she purred.

  His lips covered hers and she opened her mouth to accept his teasing tongue, oblivious to the footman or how visible they were to anyone who might pass by.

  ‘Shall we go inside, or would you like me to continue your education here?’ Randall’s teeth nipped her earlobe and she shivered.

  She glanced at the footman, who wiped black powder from the spent pistol, his back politely to them. ‘What about your aunt?’

  ‘She took your cousin to the village to purchase a new parasol for tomorrow’s garden party,’ he whispered, the heat of his breath catching hold deep inside her. ‘They will not be back for some time.’

  ‘It sounds so sinful.’

  ‘It is.’

  She offered no resistance when he took her hand and led her up the lawn toward Uncle Edmund’s garden. At the entrance, Randall jogged through the arch, pulling her behind the boxwoods. They were not two steps in when he pressed her against a slender beech tree near the start of the path. The bark scratched through the thin wool of her dress, but she barely noticed as Randall leaned against her, kneading her breast until the tip pressed firm against her stays.

  She buried her fingers in his hair, revelling in his kiss as his hand slipped along the length of her side to rest against one thigh. He raised the hem of her skirt until the cool breeze brushed against her legs, the soft sweep of the air intensified by the heat of Randall’s caress. Her hands moved down his chest, eager to free him from his breeches, to feel again the fullness of him within her when the memory of Lady Ellington at the upstairs windows made her freeze.

  She broke from his kiss, pushing down his hand and the dress. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Why not?’ His hand slipped back beneath the wool, tracing a line up to her buttocks and making her shiver.

  ‘I’m not so adventurous.’ She struggled to speak as he drew circles on her inner thigh, each one bringing him closer and closer to the curls between them.

  ‘Yes, you are.’ One finger slid into her and she rose up on her toes, biting her lip as his thumb teased the tender bud. She tilted her face to the sun, lost to everything but the steady motion of his touch. His tongue traced the line of her throat, sliding between the V of her dress to taste the space between her breasts.

  She held tight to Randall’s neck as the rising wave of her release began to build, threatening to break her beneath the pressure when he pulled back.

  ‘You’re too wicked,’ she panted, grasping his upper arms to steady herself.

  ‘Not wicked enough,’ he growled, undoing the buttons on his breeches.

  He grasped her raised leg, his mouth muffling her cry as his member filled her, his demanding strokes claiming her. They rocked together, each move matched by the other as if they’d spent every night of the last ten years together, not separated by an ocean.

  She opened wider, clinging to him, willingly embracing each powerful thrust. They pushed her higher and higher until she cried out as the spasms of pleasure tore through them both.

  He withdrew from her, his face moist against hers as their racing hearts slowed and the birds in the tree above them resumed their songs.

  ‘How easily you make me forget everything.’ She sighed, lowering her leg and leaning against the tree, wishing she could lie down in the grass with him and watch the clouds pass overhead.

  He buttoned his breeches, then propped one arm against the trunk near her ear, a devilish smile playing on his lips. ‘The day is not over yet.’

  He trailed his fingers along the length of her arm, clasping her hand tightly as he drew her from the garden, along the path and up the stone stairs into the house.

  Passing through the sitting room, they hurried down the hallway and up the stairs. At the top, Randall jerked to a stop before colliding with the butler.

  ‘A letter arrived for Mrs Thompson,’ the butler announced, holding out a tray to Cecelia.

  The looped handwriting on the letter cooled some of her former heat as she picked it up. ‘Thank you.’

  The butler nodded, then descended the stairs.

  Randall studied her as she opened the letter. ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘Madame de Badeau.’ She read the short note to herself, aware of Randall watching her.

  As your friend, I must warn you that your absence and Randall’s has been noted among society. Lord Strathmore is particularly troubled to hear you are at Falconbridge Manor. I’ve told him it is only to forward the interests of your cousin, but I do not think he believes me. I suggest you write to him at once and confirm your cousin’s situation and put his mind at ease. I should hate for you to lose the esteem of such a worthy gentleman, especially for one who is quite determined to avoid springing the parson’s mousetrap. I also suggest you not stay away from London for too long. I should hate to see people draw the wrong conclusion about your friendship with Lord Falconbridge.

  Your Dearest Friend,

  Madame de Badeau

  Despite the friendly tone, Cecelia heard the warning and her briefly forgotten worries began to rise up around her again.

  Randall’s eyes narrowed. ‘What does she say?’

  She handed it to him. ‘It seems our presence in London is missed.’

  ‘Ignore it.’ Without reading it, he tore it into pieces and dropped them on the floor. ‘She means nothing to us.’

  The paper rustled beneath their feet as he cupped her face and met her worry with a lingering kiss. This was the Randall she’d waited so long for, the one who loved and wanted her. Let Madame de Badeau and Lord Strathmore wonder at their absence. Her fate would no longer be decided by necessity or lecherous men.

  Pulling her down the hallway, Randall led her into his room and the semi-darkness of the half-drawn curtains. The door clicked shut behind them and they tore at each other’s clothes, cursing all the buttons and knots until the garments lay tossed over silk-covered chairs and strewn across the fine woven carpets. They toppled naked into his massive carved bed, legs intertwined, the heat of his hardness searing Cecelia’s stomach and making her centre burn.

  ‘Tell me what you want, how I can please you,’ Randall demanded, caressing one breast until the nipple grew taught.

  ‘Keep your fingers light but firm,’ she breathed, mimicking his words.

  With a wicked grin, he slid his hand down the line of her stomach and cupped her mound. His fingertips found the nub of her pleasure and began to work the sensitive flesh. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Yes,’ she moaned, the unyielding play of his thumb against her pearl making her hips writhe. He took one nipple in his mouth and she arched her back, balling the sheets in her hands, eager for him to enter her again.

  His steady caress eased as his lips swept the side of her breast, pressing against the space between them before finding her other nipple. His fingers moved lower, sliding into her, their motion as cons
tant as the firm circles made by his tongue.

  Then he raised his head and kissed her neck, tracing the line of her jaw until his heavy breath brushed her ear. ‘To fire correctly, you must know your weapon.’

  He withdrew from her and, easing her hand from the sheet, guided it to his member.

  It throbbed when her fingers tightened around it, the firmness making her insides quiver. He closed his eyes as she stroked the length of him, her pace matching the quick rise and fall of his chest. Resting on one elbow, she slid her tongue over the hard muscle of his stomach, following the firm length of his torso up to the base of his neck, tasting the salt and sweat of him until his eyes snapped open and he pulled her hand away.

  ‘Enough play.’ He smirked, settling between her thighs, his staff hot against her skin. ‘Now we must hit the target.’

  He plunged into her and she dug her fingernails into his back, the fullness of him threatening to shatter her. The worries of the letter and London faded beneath the groans of his arousal and she wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper, meeting each thrust until they shuddered together, panting in their release.

  ‘You are a quick study,’ he whispered, grazing her earlobe with his teeth.

  ‘I told you I’m a most willing student.’ She nestled into the curve of his body and he settled on his side next to her, his arm over her stomach, caressing her hip. She held his bicep, trailing her fingernails down the line of it, revelling in the warmth of him beside her. Outside, a footman’s sharp whistle followed by Reverend’s bark carried into the room. She looked towards the window, catching a small slip of paper on the floor next to a discarded shoe.

  The letter.

  Her fingers stopped.

  On the pillow beside her, Randall opened his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She rolled to face him, tracing the line of his jaw with one finger, the woman who’d spent weeks carefully guarding herself from hurt briefly returning. She wanted to ask him about their future and what would happen when they returned to London, but she held her tongue. He loved her and it was foolish to doubt him or think he might retreat again in the face of society’s judgement.

  ‘Nothing.’ She laid her head on his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothe her concerns.

  Outside, the faint grinding of carriage wheels over gravel and the driver calling the horses to stop joined Reverend’s barks.

  ‘They’ve returned,’ Randall murmured as the entreaties of Lady Ellington for Reverend to stop barking drifted up to them.

  ‘Yes, they have.’ She sighed, not wanting to leave the sanctuary of this room and Randall’s embrace.

  ‘Shall we go down?’

  She propped herself up on his chest, her breasts flattening against the hardness of it. ‘No, instruct the footman to tell your aunt we’re both indisposed. No doubt she’ll understand and keep Theresa occupied.’

  ‘And you told me you weren’t adventurous.’

  He rolled over, pressing her into the sheets, and she opened to him, ready to enjoy him as many times as this day would allow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The day bloomed bright and warm for Lady Menton’s garden party. Cecelia sat with a small circle of country matrons under the large white canopy, tired but happy after a night spent in Randall’s arms. His throaty laugh carried over the party from where he stood with Sir Walter on the far side of the patio and she watched him, his manner free of the arrogance and conceit she’d seen at the assembly. She wanted to go to him, to stand beside his lithe body and savour the sound of his deep voice, but decorum demanded they maintain their distance.

  The matrons laughed and Cecelia realised once again she’d lost the thread of the conversation. Tired of pretending to possess an interest in the discussion of flower beds, she rose, taking up her empty glass. ‘I think I’m in need of more lemonade.’

  Walking out of the shade of the canopy, she moved to the table of refreshments on the patio, trying not to stare at Randall, but unable to keep from throwing looks in his direction. More than once he met her gaze with a wink, just as he had this morning over breakfast and again in the carriage. She struggled to hide her bright smile as she looked over the selection of food and he returned to his conversation.

  ‘They’re making excellent progress,’ Lady Ellington remarked, coming to stand next to Cecelia, the lace edge of her parasol swaying.

  The clatter of bowling pins drew her attention across the grass to where Mr Menton and a group of other young people applauded Theresa’s efforts. Like a dutiful suitor, Mr Menton hurried across the lawn to retrieve the ball, his eyes never leaving hers as he strolled back and held it out to her. Theresa took it, their hands lingering a minute before she moved to try again.

  Across the patio, Lady Menton watched them with pinched eyes.

  ‘I don’t think Lady Menton shares our enthusiasm,’ Cecelia observed.

  ‘Come, then, we’ll have a chat with her. I know something of what makes the woman tick and can mention enough titled friends and connections to have her grovelling at our feet.’ Lady Ellington led the way across the portico to Lady Menton, something of Randall’s confidence in her comment and her walk.

  The baronet’s wife watched their approach with a mixture of forced gaiety and stern disapproval, her eyes travelling up and down Cecelia, inspecting her deep-red dress as if assessing whether a horse were fit to purchase.

  ‘Good day, Lady Menton,’ Lady Ellington greeted. ‘You’ve been blessed with beautiful weather for the party.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lady Menton struggled to smile as she stood, looking torn between acknowledging an inferior connection and impressing her better.

  ‘And doesn’t your son look happy.’ Across the lawn, Mr Menton and Theresa laughed as his ball rolled wide of the pins. ‘Oh, did you hear about Lady Tollcroft and Lord Vernon? I received a letter from the Duchess of Cliffstone about it just the other day.’

  Cecelia covered a smile with her hand, noticing how many titled people Lady Ellington had managed to squeeze into the one sentence, but it achieved the desired effect. Lady Menton perked up, looking a little too eager to know the stories.

  Cecelia barely heard the gossip as Lady Ellington related it with her usual flourish. She could only focus on Randall as he laughed with the baronet, more at ease today than she’d ever seen him in London. As if feeling her watching him, he tossed her a wide smile. Touching the pendant lying outside her dress, she knew, despite all her previous denials and refusals, and all the tiny fears still pestering her late at night, that she loved him as much today as she had ten years ago.

  Then Randall scowled, focusing on something behind her. She turned to see a gentleman and his tall wife step out from the house, accompanied by another young man Cecelia didn’t recognise.

  ‘Ah, there is Lord and Lady Hartley and Lord Malvern,’ Lady Menton announced. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must welcome them.’

  Lady Menton swept past them to greet the new guests.

  ‘No wonder she enjoys such little success in town.’ Lady Ellington shook her head. ‘She has the conversational skills of a parrot.’

  ‘Shall we see what the gentlemen are discussing?’ Cecelia suggested, eager to be by Randall’s side and to know what about the Hartleys and Lord Malvern bothered him.

  ‘You go ahead. I don’t wish to interfere in your and Randall’s enjoyment.’ With a conspiratorial wink, Lady Ellington made for the bowlers.

  Smiling in spite of her concern, Cecelia walked to where the gentlemen stood listening to Sir Walter describe his new horse.

  ‘She’s a fine mare and I expect a long line of winners from her,’ Sir Walter bragged. ‘Are you a horsewoman, Mrs Thompson?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then you must have Lord Falconbridge bring you to see her once she arrives.’


  A footman stepped up next to Sir Walter. ‘Lady Menton requests your presence inside.’

  Sir Walter patted his generous stomach. ‘If I must, I must. If you’ll excuse me.’ He walked off with the footman just as Lord Hartley came to join them.

  ‘Lord Falconbridge, I’m glad to see you here today. Good to know I’m not the only exile from London.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it an exile.’ Randall moved a touch closer to Cecelia, his arm brushing hers. ‘Why aren’t you in London?’

  ‘I wish I was, but as you predicted, Morton’s tongue forced him back to the country.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have accompanied him.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice. Seems all my wife’s relations are determined to trouble me this Season. Morton’s cousin decided to elope with a veteran from Waterloo, some captain covered with medals. Created something of a scandal. Thankfully, she sneaked off before I had to pay for the dresses she ordered from the local modiste. Now, if only Morton would decamp to Gretna Green and save me the pain of his company.’

  Randall and Cecelia exchanged a knowing look, the full scandal behind Theresa’s new wardrobe revealed.

  ‘Where is your illustrious nephew now?’ Randall asked.

  He looked around, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know, probably into the port in the dining room. Don’t worry, I expect to be thoroughly embarrassed by him before the day is through.’

  ‘In that case, it’s time for me and Mrs Thompson to explore Lady Menton’s excellent grounds. I don’t think I can tolerate Malvern’s wit.’

  ‘You aren’t the only one.’ With a roll of his eyes, Lord Hartley took his leave.

  ‘Mrs Thompson, there’s an excellent Greek temple by the lake full of pagan gods waiting for worshippers.’ Randall held out his arm, his eyes hot and inviting. ‘Shall we become heathens?’

  ‘I’d love nothing better.’ She laid her hand on his coat, eager to worship with him.