by Liz Carlyle
But apparently not.
He was to wed his cousin in May. On his father’s orders, he had said. He loved Frederica madly, had always loved her, but he could not risk being cut off. There would be no estate, no lovely manor house.
Frederica had reminded him of her generous dowry, but it had done no good. Perhaps his cousin had one larger? The lump in her throat had kept her from asking. So, with a sad smile, Johnny had lifted her hand to his lips and had taken his leave of her forever.
And yet Frederica had heard too well what had gone unsaid. Her blood was not blue enough—or English enough—for the virtuous Squire Ellows. And her cousins’ titles, money, and influence notwithstanding, Frederica had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and so she was a bastard—an orphaned foreign bastard —the worst thing you could be in England, or so it seemed tonight.
She had almost reached the upper terrace which was rimmed with a low stone wall and flanked with a row of boxwoods. The lantern still swung from its hook by the back door, the pale yellow light spilling across the flagstones. Drawing back her whip, she gave the nearest boxwood one last thrashing.
“Jesus Christ Almighty!” exclaimed a raspy masculine voice.
Frederica leapt back, her hand flying to her mouth.
A broad, dark shape emerged from behind the boxwood, his hands working furiously at the close of his trousers. “Bloody hell, Freddie!” barked the man around the stub of a glowing cheroot. “Give a chap an apoplexy, why don’t you?”
Heart in her throat, Frederica leaned forward to peer into the shadows. And then, as he buttoned his trousers, she saw a familiar gold signet ring winking at her in the moonlight. “Oh, good Lord!” she groaned. “Bentley Rutledge, is that you? What, pray, are you about?”
Rutledge gave a bark of laughter and hitched up his last trouser button. “What’s it look like, Freddie love?” He unclamped the cheroot between his teeth and cocked one hip against the stone wall. “Try to give a little warning next time.”
“For pity’s sake, Rutledge! Didn’t Tess put a slop pot under your bed?”
But her initial shock having faded, Frederica was not especially embarrassed. She had known Rutledge forever, it seemed. He was her cousin Gus’s best friend and a favorite at Chatham Lodge, a house which was usually filled cheek-by-jowl with visitors. And although Aunt Winnie could often be overheard exclaiming that Rutledge was an unconscionable rake, her eyes were always twinkling when she said it. Frederica looked Rutledge up and down. Winnie had said some other things, too. Things unmarried young ladies probably weren’t supposed to overhear.
But Frederica had overheard them, and she did not doubt for one moment that they were true. Rutledge was a tall, handsome devil with melting brown eyes, a wicked grin, and thick, dark hair which was always too long. In fact, now that she thought on it, he seemed to get handsomer with every passing year. And bigger. And broader. He was strong, too. On Boxing Day, he had caught her beneath the mistletoe. She remembered how he had set his big hands about her waist so that his thumbs almost touched. And then he had lifted her effortlessly into the air, twirling her round as he kissed her—full on the mouth, too.
But it meant absolutely nothing. Every year around Christmastime, Rutledge would catch and kiss all the ladies—Aunt Winnie, Cousin Evie, and even Zoë, whom no one else dared to kiss, because even though she was illegitimate, her father was the great Lord Rannoch. But this year, Rutledge had snatched Frederica up when no one else was about. He had given her the usual swift, smacking kiss. And then, strangely, he had seemed to falter. He almost forgot the twirling part, then the kiss softened somehow, as if their mouths had parted slightly. Then he had lowered her very slowly, their bodies brushing, his eyes never leaving hers. When her toes again touched the floor, Frederica had felt all hot and strange. But Rutledge had turned away at once. And that had been the last time he’d kissed her—or anyone—beneath the mistletoe.
How strange that she should remember that tonight. Good Lord, she had a tragedy on her hands. Her grief over Johnny flooded back. “I’m sorry to have startled you, Rutledge,” she said, fumbling awkwardly with her riding crop. “But it is a bit past midnight. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“Oh, I should?” In the moonlight, she could see his very large, very white teeth as he grinned. Rutledge was always grinning at her. “And what of yourself, sweet? Slipping back from the stables so late? Who’s the lucky fellow?”
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. “None of your business,” she finally snapped.
At that, Rutledge slid away from the stone wall and stood a bit unsteadily. “Why, Freddie!” he whispered, grinding his cheroot beneath his boot heel. “It’s young Ellows, isn’t it? Ah, those Cambridge men have all the luck!”
The jest was like a knife in her heart, stabbing swift and deep. Frederica placed a steadying hand on the stone newel post. “Why must you always tease me, Rutledge?” she demanded, fighting her tears with scorn. “And why is it that you never turn up here unless you’re avoiding some scandal? Or her husband? And speaking of scandal, why are you wandering the gardens alone? Can you find no better company than me?”
In the lamplight, Rutledge crooked one eyebrow and moved toward her with his easy, loose-limbed grace. “I was just finishing a smoke, Freddie,” he said more gently. “Your cousins and I got back late from the Wrotham Arms, that’s all. Gus thought we’d best walk Trent up and down the terrace for a bit. He and Theo just hauled him up to bed. The poor lad will pay for his sins on the morrow, I’ll wager.”
Frederica swished her skirts past Rutledge and started up the last three steps. “His sins?” she echoed, her back already turned to him. “And the rest of you are pure as the driven snow, I’m sure.”
“Pax, Freddie!” Rutledge laughed, seizing her lightly by the shoulder and turning her face back toward his. “What the devil’s got into you?”
And then he saw. Frederica realized it when the sparkle slowly melted from his eyes. “Aw, Freddie, what’s all this?” he murmured, his hand heavy through the wool of her habit. He lifted the other hand to cup her jaw and slid the ball of his thumb beneath her eye. “Crying? Why? Who? Give me a name, love. I swear to God, he’ll be dead by dawn.”
At that, Frederica erupted into something which was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. Killing Johnny—or at least maiming him—was just the sort of thing Rutledge might do, too, if she asked. But her tears were flooding forth now.
On a sharp sigh, Rutledge caught her hand and hauled her hard against him, sending her hat tumbling into the grass. “Oh, shush, Freddie, shush,” he crooned, wrapping a strong arm about her waist. “Don’t cry, love. Oh, don’t cry. I’m sorry I teased you. I oughtn’t have. Just don’t cry.”
His sympathy made it worse. Or better. She wasn’t sure. But on the next awful sob, she threw her arms around his neck. Rutledge settled one big hand on her spine and began to ease it up and down. It was a strong, heavy hand, and Frederica needed someone’s touch. It didn’t much matter that it was Bentley Rutledge, the worst rogue in all of Christendom. One couldn’t help but like him, and, for all his wicked ways, he always made her feel comfortable. He was never arrogant or formal or cold. He was just…Bentley.
He was patting her back now. “Shush, shush,” he crooned.
“Oh, Bentley, I’m just so miserable!” she whimpered. And then Frederica allowed herself the rare luxury of burying her face against his lapel and sniveling pathetically. He smelled of horse, tobacco, and far too much brandy, yet his strength and his touch were inescapably masculine.
But she should be hugging Johnny.
The notion came out of nowhere, blindsiding her. Frederica drew breath again, and another sob shuddered through her. In response, Rutledge tucked her head firmly beneath his chin and drew her tight against his length. “What happened, Freddie?” he whispered, brushing his lips against her hair. “Did someone hurt you? Who? You can always tell old Bentley.”
And in that instant, she knew
that he was right. Bentley Rutledge was just the sort of gentleman one could confide in, because he’d doubtless seen every sort of wickedness life could offer up—and he knew how to keep his mouth shut, too. “It-it-it’s Johnny Ellows,” she sobbed. “He doesn’t want to m-marry me after all.”
She felt his hand stop, felt his fingers dig into her spine. “The deuce!” he softly cursed. “That two-faced dog! He’s been hanging out after you since you put your braids up.”
“I know!” wailed Frederica into Rutledge’s coat. “But now his father says he has to m-m-marry his cousin!”
“Oh, his father says!” The derision rumbled in Rutledge’s broad chest. “Well, his father is a pompous prig! Ellows doesn’t deserve you. Not by half. Gus and I have always said so. And now we know he’s gutless in the bargain.”
Frederica sniffed again. “What do you mean?”
Rutledge tucked her a little closer. “Ah, Freddie, a man would be a fool not to put up a fight for you,” he murmured, patting her lightly on the head now. “I would, were I in his shoes. But—well, I’m not. Wouldn’t do at all, of course! All I’m trying to say is that if Johnny Ellows doesn’t have the ballocks to—damn! Your pardon, Freddie, but if he doesn’t have ’em, then you can do better. Much better.”
But Frederica could only shake her head against the rough wool of Rutledge’s coat. “But no one else has ever wanted me,” she managed to whisper. “And no one ever will. I know! I spent a whole season in London, and not one gentleman proposed. It’s because they think I’m not good enough. Not legitimate enough. So it just seemed easier to come home and m-marry Johnny after all. But even Johnny doesn’t want me! And now I’m destined to just shrivel up and die an old maid.”
She felt Rutledge’s body go rigid. “Hush, Freddie.” It was an unmistakable reprimand. “Your cousin Gus said you were the prettiest girl in London last season. Those town fops just heard you were already spoken for. Or maybe they were intimidated by your guardian, Lord Rannoch.”
“Oh, it’s not Elliot!” Frederica sobbed. “It’s because of m-my mother. And—and, well, no one can be pretty enough to overcome that.”
“Balderdash!” His voice was oddly choked. “You’re beautiful enough to overcome any obstacle. Trust me on this, love, because I’m about as jaded as a man can get.”
At that, Frederica lifted her face to his, and almost wished she hadn’t. Rutledge was staring at her with a gaze that made her breath catch. His mouth was no longer smiling, and his deep brown eyes had gone curiously soft, just as they’d done on Boxing Day.
A long, strange moment held sway. Later, Frederica wasn’t perfectly sure why she did it, but she lifted herself onto her tiptoes, pushing her breasts flat against Rutledge’s chest. And, oddly, while she was doing it, Frederica was thinking of Johnny—or, rather, thinking of how she had wasted herself on him. She was almost nineteen years old, and she was ready to experience life—real life. Perhaps Rutledge was right. Perhaps Johnny did not deserve her. A mean-spirited little part of her wanted to make him sorry for what he had done and was wondering if she should just ask Bentley to break his legs after all. But most of her brain had already forgotten about Johnny and was thinking only of how Bentley’s hands and mouth had felt on hers all those weeks ago.
“Bentley?” Her voice had gone all croaky somehow. “Do you remember last Christmas?”
He was very quiet for a moment. “Might do, Freddie. Why?”
“I mean, when you…you kissed me? On Boxing Day?”
He drew in a slow, deep breath. “Er, vaguely.”
“Well, it felt nice,” she confessed. “And I was wondering if you—if you might do it like that again?”
There was a long, heavy silence. “Not a good idea, Freddie,” he finally answered.
His resistance was intriguing. “Why not? I thought…well, I thought you liked it just a little.”
“Oh, I did.”
“Then do it again. Please, Bentley?”
His resistance was short-lived. “Oh, hell, Freddie!” he choked. And then, with a soft sound deep in his throat, he bent his head and lowered his mouth to hers.
In the future, Bentley noted, be very, very careful where you take a piss.
It must have been his last clear thought before his lips brushed Freddie’s. And somehow, despite a brain slightly clouded by brandy, he had the presence of mind to kiss her tenderly. Sensing her hurt and confusion, he settled his mouth over hers, spread his palm wide against the back of her head, and slid his lips gently over hers until they parted on a breathless gasp. Freddie kissed like an eager virgin, uncertain at every motion, but sweet. So sweet. And all he had to do, or so he told himself, was to make her feel desirable.
Which was precisely the bloody trouble. She was desirable. And wildly beautiful with her honey-warm skin and heavy black hair. He’d first noticed three or four years ago, and the thoughts which had begun to run wild through his head had made him feel like a lecherous dog. Which was why he’d found it prudent to treat her—and tease her—like a sister. Well, he bloody well wasn’t kissing his sister now, was he?
Bentley knew he should stop, but, as with most of his sins, he simply didn’t. Once begun, it just felt too good to quit. So he settled his other hand low against her back and urged her gently against him as he eased his tongue into her mouth. Freddie gasped, drawing cool air into his mouth and bringing home the reality that all of this really was new to her. But she was twining her arms about his neck now and pushing herself against him with an unmistakable feminine hunger—an invitation he had never in his life refused.
Then, to make matters worse, she began to return his strokes, slowly and sinuously sliding her tongue along his, pushing it into his mouth, and making incredibly seductive sounds in the back of her throat. He really wished she hadn’t. He might have had a prayer, might by some miracle have dredged up the fortitude to tear his mouth from hers and go the hell upstairs. To his bed. Alone.
But self-discipline had never been Bentley’s strong suit, and when she deepened the kiss, he tightened his grip in her hair and savagely tilted her face fully into his, exposing the curve of her throat. He kissed her there and across her high, beautiful brows, then down her cheek. Frederica gasped again, and, in return, Bentley explored her body with his hands, plundering her innocence with his mouth while stroking her waist, the length of her spine, and the generous swell of her bottom.
He kissed her and kissed her until his head swam with some sort of dark, seductive haze. Somehow, Freddie always had a way of making him ache for something. She made him crave—an emotion he’d damn near deadened with life’s excesses. It had to be her innocence. The wanting of a woman whom no man had yet touched. But when he slid one hand beneath her perfect derrière and pressed her more fully against him, Frederica’s breath ratcheted instantly upward, her delicate nostrils flared, and he realized, ever so fleetingly, that it just might be something worse. It had been a long time since he’d been able to keep his eyes off the chit.
God. Oh, God. He could not do this. Not to her. And not to Gus. Whatever Bentley’s sins, he was a good and faithful friend.
Suddenly, to his great surprise, Frederica tore her mouth from his. “Bentley,” she whispered. “Do you really think I’m beautiful? Desirable? Do you desire me?”
In the darkness, Bentley stared down at her. “Ah, Jesus, Freddie! If you were any more desirable, Rannoch might be meeting me at dawn.”
Frederica licked her lips uncertainly. “Come with me,” she whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We cannot linger here. Someone might see.”
Like a lamb to the slaughter—a bizarre simile if ever there was one—Bentley caught her hand and allowed himself to be dragged back down the steps and into the shadows of the next terrace. He was already hating himself when Freddie turned to face him, allowing a shaft of moonlight to slant across her perfect, slightly exotic features. It was her eyebrows, he suddenly decided. God, he’d always loved her eyebrows. Bentley felt h
is control slip another notch.
She was doing this, he tried to remind himself, because she’d been hurt. Young women were like that. He’d seen it—and steered clear of it—often enough. Older women, the kind he always sought out, were wise enough to know that there was always another lover just around the corner who could soothe the sting of wounded pride. Freddie, heaven help her, did not know that. And it was up to him to explain it.
She pressed her body against his again. Though his hands were trembling, he set them firmly on her shoulders and gave her a good, hard shake. “Sweetheart, don’t,” he warned. “Don’t do this. Don’t ever slip off into the dark with a man like me.”
She looked at him, half innocent, half seductress. “Don’t you want me?”
“Desperately.” Somehow he managed to give her a brotherly peck on the tip of her nose. “Madly. In the worst possible way. Now disappoint me, Freddie. Leave. Go up to bed. Alone.”
Wordlessly, she reached up and curled her fingers about his. With an impish smile, she tugged him down onto a wrought-iron bench, then turned her face to his for a kiss. Bloody hell, the chit was a beauty. When he had been away from Chatham for a while, he could make himself forget how beautiful she was. And now she wanted him to kiss her.
“No,” he whispered.
“Yes,” she answered. “Now. Please.”
So he obliged her. Damn him for a rogue and a scoundrel, but he did, crushing her mouth hard beneath his, as if the harshness of it might shock some sense into her. He did it roughly, crudely, forcing her head back even as he dragged her body against his. He shifted his weight, trapping her between the bench and his body, so there was no way she could miss the jutting weight of his cock. He kissed her and kissed her until the tenderness left, and only the visceral need remained. It ceased to be a game. The breath sawed in and out of his chest. He drove his tongue inside her mouth in what should have been an alarming parody. A clear sign of what he really wanted. What he ached for. And still, she did not falter.
