by Liz Carlyle
“Damn it, he does not know the definition of the word responsible,” her husband fumed. “He is about as constant as a will-o’-the-wisp.”
Helene propped her chin on one hand. “Yes, I daresay that was once true.”
But Cam did not hear her. “Good God, he is the worst sort of womanizer! And now look! She is but a child, Helene.”
“Is she? How odd! She told me she was eighteen.”
“An innocent!” he continued, oblivious to her gentle sarcasm. “A sweet girl from a fine family! We are bloody lucky Rannoch did not kill him where he stood.”
“I believe you exaggerate, my dear,” Helene soothed. “Young love run a little wild is hardly a killing offense.”
Cam turned his head to look up at her, and his persistent cowlick flopped to one side, tempting one of the kittens to swat at it. “Young love?” he said archly. “Is that what you think it was, Helene? Bentley has been bedding women on a daily basis since he was sixteen—probably a damned sight younger—and, trust me, love never had anything to do with it. I have every notion he has worn calluses on his pri—”
Helene threw up a hand. “Don’t say it, Cam!”
The tips of Cam’s ears turned red. “Father encouraged this, you know,” he said grimly. “Toward the end, not a week went by that Bentley wasn’t caught diddling one of the dairy maids or shoving himself under the skirts of some tavern wench. Father thought it a great joke.”
“Given Bentley’s charm, I rather doubt he had to coerce anyone, my love,” murmured Helene.
“Charm?” Cam looked at her incredulously. “Good God, Helene! He even tried to seduce you! I wonder you’ve forgotten it!”
Lightly, she laughed. “He did no such thing, Cam. He wanted to hurt himself and to strike out at you. He never meant me any harm. Nor does he mean Frederica any harm. She is a lovely girl. For my part, I think him very lucky.”
“Yes, well, and what of her? What is to become of her, Helene?”
Helene sat back on her heels and considered it. “Bentley will love her and take care of her,” she finally answered. “I have every confidence.”
Cam struggled to sit up on the hearth rug. “Then you have far more confidence than I, my dear. When will you admit that Bentley brings his troubles on himself?”
Helene lost her temper. “And when will you admit that Bentley has a—a problem?”
“Beyond his tendency toward irresponsibility, do you mean?”
“I mean something seriously wrong, Cam,” she insisted. “Perhaps I have not explained this clearly enough to you these last few years.”
“What?” he challenged. “What could possibly be wrong?”
“Damn it, I don’t know!” she exploded.
Cam patted her gently on the cheek. “Now, don’t curse, Helene!” he said, standing up and offering her his hand. “Just give in gracefully, and admit that you’ve been looking in those big black books of yours again so that you might put some multisyllabic Latin word to a young man who was simply spoilt by his father.”
She glowered up at her husband’s proffered hand. “Spoilt?” she retorted, spurning his assistance and rising unaided. “And in what way was he spoilt? Your father scarce had two shillings to rub together.”
“Spoilt by bad habits,” he said gently. “Exposed to things which were not appropriate. Told things, encouraged in things, you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I begin to see,” said Helene. “And all this was Bentley’s fault, was it?”
Cam had begun to shove in his shirttails. “I—no, it wasn’t,” he admitted. “But they are very like, Helene. Yet no matter what he seems to think, I could never hate him.”
“Oh, he hates himself enough for the both of you,” she said quietly. “No one with any sense of self-worth would run such risks or throw away his life so cavalierly. But that is what Bentley thinks he deserves.”
Her husband looked at her, his gaze softening with worry. “Helene, your heart is in the right place. But that is all I will accede to just now.”
Helene managed a smile and picked up his waistcoat. “Then let us quarrel no more, Cam,” she said, holding it open for him. “Instead, let’s plan what we can do to help Frederica. A new marriage can be hard slogging under the best of circumstances.”
“Yes, of course,” he agreed, shrugging into his clothes. “What shall we do, Helene, to signal our approval?”
“I shall take her to call on all our neighbors,” she mused. “Perhaps she can even help me in the village school. Joan, I am sure, will welcome her at Bellevue. And Catherine can have us all to dinner.”
Cam was doing up his buttons. “Oh, dash it!” he interjected. “Forgot to tell you. Cat sent round some chicken-scratch note about Max’s grandmother. Old Mrs. Castelli has been flogging her business manager again. The poor devil has threatened to quit unless Max gets her out of his hair. They set off for London this morning.”
“Well!” said Helene on a laugh. “Cat will just die when she learns of all the excitement she’s missed. Now, come along, my love. You need a long soak in a tub of hot water to loosen those muscles. And then, perhaps, some other sort of therapeutic treatment might be in order, hmm?”
Chapter Eleven
In which Lady Madeline explains Everything.
When Frederica pushed open the door to Bentley’s bedchamber, the sun was sinking fast, the low shaft of light casting a golden glow over the room. In the massive hearth, someone had built up the evening’s fire, and her dressing case sat by the bed. She heard the door latch behind her, heard Bentley snap the key in the lock. And suddenly, she felt just a little nervous.
But why? He was…just Bentley, wasn’t he? That flash of darkness by the staircase had meant nothing. She was tired, her imagination overwrought. And yet she sensed in him a need, something only hinted at in his eyes and in his touch. She wanted him, too. She’d taken the risk of wedding him. So, nervous or not, why shouldn’t she enjoy the advantages? And her husband definitely offered some advantages. Winnie had been right about that.
Bentley strode around the foot of the bed toward the hearth, still attired in his heavy riding boots and snug breeches. He paused and turned to face her, lifting his arms. “Mrs. Rutledge?” he murmured, lightly arching one brow. “Would you do me a wife’s service and help me from my coat?”
Frederica went to him at once, and, reaching up—far up—she slid her hands beneath the superfine fabric and over his shoulders. It had been a long day, much of it spent in the saddle, and he smelled of horse and sweat and of something uniquely his. The warmth of it enveloped her as he turned, his arms coming out of the coat. Frederica had seen many men in their shirtsleeves. But never one quite so fine. His shoulders were wide and solid, and his dark, overlong hair curled gently about his shirt collar, in stark contrast to the pristine white cambric.
She must have been gawking. “My dear?” he said quietly. “The waistcoat?”
Frederica returned her eyes to his. He really wished her to undress him! It seemed a deeply intimate thing to do. And rather exciting, too. Still, her unpracticed fingers made an awkward job of the buttons. When the last fell free, Bentley’s long, dark lashes swept down. “Thank you,” he murmured, and let the waistcoat slide to the floor.
She could smell a trace of soap in the heat which rose from his shirt. “I’m afraid I do not know how to take loose your cravat,” she said.
Those melting brown eyes flared open, catching hers as he slid one finger beneath her chin. “I will teach you, Mrs. Rutledge,” he said with his wicked smile. “I will teach you all that you need to know.”
Oh, he was good at this, her husband. His touch was soft as silk, his voice dark as sin. A sudden, misplaced memory flashed through Frederica’s mind—a vision of him lying atop her in the grass at Chatham, his head thrown back in ecstasy. In response, a melting heat began to unfurl in her belly. He smiled at her now, a slight, knowing tilt at one side of his mouth, as if he’d guessed her deepest thoughts.
> His hands closed over her fingers, and she felt the raw sensuality coursing through him. He gazed into her eyes, then pressed her hands, palms open, to his body. Swiftly, his eyes never leaving hers, he loosened the knot in his neckcloth and unfurled it from his collar.
From the corner of one eye, she saw it fall to the floor. Frederica wet her lips. Whatever he was, whatever else she felt for him, she desired him physically, and with a white-hot need that went coursing through her blood and chasing up her spine. Suddenly, he stepped back, yanked his shirttail free, and drew it over his head.
At once, her eyes went wide. Heat sprang to her cheeks. His chest was perfectly smooth and layered with muscle which looked as if it had been sculpted from stone, then warmed with God’s own breath. In the firelight, every muscle took on a shape defined by shadow and flame.
Bentley touched her face again. “You approve, sweet?” The finger traced down her throat, along the curve of her collarbone, leaving a melting trail of fire. “I’m glad, Frederica, for I should like to please you. That is one thing, at the very least, I can do for you. And it is one thing I do well.”
She remembered Winnie’s whispered gossip and blushed hotly. He smiled and bent his head to kiss her throat. The finger slid around the neck of her dress again, plunging deeper. Her breath was hard to catch. Her breasts seemed to swell, to grow heavy with heat. Her nipples went hard, and with a little sound in the back of his throat, Bentley’s hand slid down to cup her breast.
“You like this?” he rasped, touching his tongue to the tender spot behind her earlobe. “Tell me.”
Frederica tried, but only a strangled sound came out. He thumbed her taut nipple through the fabric, and she exhaled on a shiver. “We have this, Frederica,” he said in some satisfaction. “Remember that. If we have nothing else, we have this.”
She wanted to cry out that this was not all, that there had to be more. But was it true? At the moment, she was not sure she cared. She just wanted Bentley to take her to bed again. And she began to see quite clearly just how she’d got herself into this mess. It hadn’t had anything to do with feeling spurned or hurt, had it? She had used Johnny as a bad excuse. She had felt an irrational desire for this man—a man who had always intrigued her. A man who was beautiful, tempting, and more than a little dangerous. She had wanted his hot brown eyes on her. Had wanted his incredible body with a lust which should have felt sinful but did not.
Then, as now, her whole body ached from the sweetness of his torture, yet he’d scarcely touched her. He set one hand on her waist and bent his head to brush his lips along the turn of her jaw. His sharp teeth scored her flesh as he moved down her throat, the pain a slow, sweet agony. Her mouth opened on a sigh, and she pressed her lips to his neck, willing herself not to beg him.
“Ah, Frederica,” he groaned.
And then his hands skimmed up her back, making short, expert work of the pins in her hair. The buttons went next. The dress suddenly relaxed and sagged off her breasts. He knelt and, for an instant, bowed his head until it brushed her thigh. Reaching beneath her skirts, he rolled down her stockings, his rough fingers catching in the silk and teasing at her flesh. Then, with an unhurried touch, he stripped her, garment by garment, until nothing remained but her lawn shift.
“Take it off,” he rasped.
Frederica’s eyes shot to the heavy draperies which framed the window.
His hands went to her shoulders. “No,” he whispered, as if reading her thoughts. “You are mine. I want to see you in the daylight.”
He had paid the ultimate price for her. Was that what he meant? She almost turned away, but he caught her and pulled her into his embrace. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not.” But she was, a little. Her breath ratcheted sharply upward.
He pressed himself fully against her, and she could feel the thick, jutting bulge of his arousal. She shifted, but he mistook her movement and set one hand low on her spine, trapping them thigh to thigh. He bent his head to brush his lips over her temple. And then he whispered those three little words she was half afraid to believe in. “Just trust me,” he said. “Trust me to take care of you, Freddie.”
She felt her knees nearly buckle. He drew her deeper into his embrace and kissed her, crushing the breath from her lungs, and she was lost. His hands moved on her restlessly, down her spine and over her hips, rubbing her through the thin shift and driving her need sharply upward. Frederica pulled away, fisted her hands in the sheer fabric, and drew it up and over her head.
His eyes moved down her throat, her breasts, and lower. “Beautiful,” he choked. And then he drew her into his embrace on another groan, pulling her close as he wrapped one hand in her hair. His heat and scent were stronger now. She could almost feel the pulse of life pounding through his body. He pulled her between his hard, muscled thighs, crushing her against him with a force she had not expected.
“Tell me, Frederica.” His fist in her hair, he dragged her head back until their eyes met and the flesh of her throat was exposed. “Tell me you burn for this as I do. Have I corrupted you already? Or are you yet too innocent?”
Her arms had gone instinctively around him. Frederica looked up to see that Bentley’s eyes were hot and wild. Unable to bear it, she let her lashes drop shut. It was futile; she had no resistance to him. “I burn for you,” she whispered. And it was true. She could keep no distance between them.
He smiled, but it was a smile tinged with that odd, world-weary sadness she’d already come to recognize. Pushing her down onto the bed, he stood over her, jerking off his boots and stripping away what was left of his clothing. She gasped when his breeches and drawers slid down his thighs, allowing his erection to spring free, fierce and thickly veined.
Good heavens. Surely not?
“Oh, it fits, Freddie love,” he whispered. The unabashed grin was back. He was naked now, and glorious beyond words. One could not grow up in a household of men and not catch the occasional glimpse of masculine flesh. Yet she was unaccountably sure she’d known no man who would look like this with his clothes off. Wild, that was the word for Bentley Rutledge. Sleek, beautiful, and uncivilized. He made her think of temptation in the Garden of Eden. He caught her wrist and drew her almost to the edge of the bed. Frederica gulped air, and he set his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down beneath him, his weight following her onto the bed.
Under them, the mattress groaned. She lay on her back, he on his left side, facing the fire as he curled around her. Bentley watched not her face but his hand, as it weighed her breasts and stroked her nipples until they peaked harder still. And then he bent his head and drew one areola between his teeth, gently biting. On a sharp cry, her whole body arched upward, and, in response, he threw one thigh over her body, forcing her back down again.
Sweet. Exquisite. He drew heat and fire from her with his mouth, sucking and tugging, urging her toward madness. His broad palm slid lower, caressing her lightly along her ribs, lingering tenderly over the swell of her belly, then, finally, easing between her thighs. He parted her legs and drew his fingers up through her flesh, causing her to gasp and writhe. He controlled her every sound and shiver. He drew them, coaxed them, like a master.
“Oh, please…” she heard herself whisper.
And then he rose up over her, dark and powerful. His upper arms were sinewy with muscle layered over heavy bones. His thighs were thick and taut, lightly dusted with black hair which grew thick and dark at their joining. His erection throbbed and twitched, and he touched himself, sliding his hand down his shaft as if restraining his impatience. “Open your legs,” he commanded.
She did, and eagerly, too, drawing up her knees to cradle him. But he did not mount her and thrust himself inside her as she had yearned for. Instead, he knelt between her thighs, smoothed both hands over her belly in a soft, slow circle, then bent his head to gently brush his lips there. Twilight was near, the golden glow heating the room with color. He looked up, his gaze softening as he stroked her abdomen
. He was thinking, she sensed, of the child. Frederica felt a new sort of joy burst into her heart. Her husband closed his eyes.
Bentley felt the sun warm his shoulders as he struggled to steady his breathing. To slow down his thoughts. He wanted—no, needed—some sort of distance from this. It was too much. Too real. This wasn’t just a need for sexual satisfaction. Bentley wanted her. Wanted her so much that something inside him throbbed—and it was not, God help him, the organ between his legs. The sensation alarmed him now, as it should have done all those weeks ago. This intensity of need, this desire for someone—not just carnally but almost metaphysically—was not meant for him.
Was it because of the seed he had planted in her womb? He kissed her there over and over and thought of the child they had made. Was that why she felt so different? Was that why he couldn’t detach his mind and simply focus on the physical satisfaction his body craved? Without opening his eyes, he skimmed his hands over her firm, flat belly. No, he thought not. Feared not. He had never wanted Mary this way, couldn’t imagine it, even knowing that she’d borne him a child.
God Almighty, how he wanted to just fuck his wife. How he wanted to pound himself inside her, to thrust and grunt and mate with her until his breath came hot and fast, until all his thoughts went black, and until the sweat ran off his face and down his throat. Until he’d had his fill, and she—a woman who should have been one of his usual, nearly nameless lovers—was left panting and screaming beneath him.
But it wasn’t going to be quite like that, was it? No, not that easy. In the falling darkness, he shook his head and softly swore. Frederica called out his name, a faint, tremulous question. Plaintively, her fingers brushed his thigh. Still, he did not answer.
No, he could not do it. Not like that, with distance and dispassion. Instead, he was going to make love to her, with all his presence of mind, with every shred of his awareness. It would not be just the scratching of a physical itch, with all the impassivity that the phrase implied. But instead, a holy act. The marriage act. A joining of his body to hers, in a way which he already knew would feel worshipful.
