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Heart's Delight

Page 16

by Cheryl Holt


  “Why would I waste any energy trying to charm you? I realize how stubborn you are, and there’s no way I could manipulate you into better conduct.”

  “You have the most expressive face, and I’m a gambler who reads faces for a living. You assume you can seduce me into forgiving your family’s debt, but without you having to furnish what I was promised.”

  “I never thought that,” she huffed with feigned offense.

  He laughed again. “You should never lie to me, because you can’t.”

  He pushed away from her and sat on his haunches so he could draw off his shirt, and he tossed it on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded with outright alarm.

  “I’m getting more comfortable.”

  “Would you put your shirt back on?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “I love it when a woman begs, but the answer is still no.”

  He grabbed her hands and slid them around his waist, then he stretched out atop her again.

  He didn’t intend to deflower her. At least he didn’t think so. If he proceeded, he’d have to show Gaylord Farrow some mercy, but she inspired a raging amount of lust, and he’d spent several very chaste days keeping his passions in check.

  It wasn’t healthy to be so titillated. He was determined to assuage some of his ardor, being absolutely convinced that if he dallied with her his fascination would wane.

  No woman ever held his interest for long, and he dabbled with trollops so he wouldn’t have to flirt and woo. He placed hard cash on the table and bought what was necessary from them. He was very generous, and they were happy to provide whatever he requested. That was as far as his interest ever extended.

  Yet Magdalena was stirring another sort of fascination entirely.

  “Some words of advice, Magdalena? Don’t gamble with a man like me unless you can afford to pay the price after you lose.”

  “I haven’t lost.”

  He cocked a brow. “Haven’t you? You’re away from the city and all that’s familiar. You’re tucked away in my country cottage and lying beneath me—barely dressed—in one of my many beds. I wouldn’t exactly claim you’ve won. Would you?”

  “Let me up.”

  “No.”

  “Ooh, I hate it when you give me simplistic replies.”

  “Hush.”

  “Michael, I can’t do this with you. I know in London I said I would but—”

  “Hush!”

  She gazed up at him, her blue eyes searching his own for a hint of kindness, of compassion, but she wouldn’t find it.

  She’d built up absurd views of him that weren’t accurate or true. She had such ridiculous faith in him being different than he really was, and her misconceptions would only damage her in the end.

  He couldn’t bear to have her studying him so keenly. Nor would his pride allow him to stomp out without making a pertinent point. The fact that he wasn’t sure what that point should be was aggravating. He merely wanted her to comprehend that he was in control of her situation, and he would be in control until he’d had enough of playing games with her.

  He kissed her. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t. He enjoyed it, and she enjoyed it too, once she got past remembering that she was typically British and supposed to be virtuous and opposed to pleasure.

  Initially she tensed, being certain she was about to be ravished, but when he simply kissed her, then kissed her some more, she relaxed and joined in. Kissing she understood. Kissing she liked very much. It set them on a firmer footing and pushed them onto roads they’d walked before.

  Without her noticing, he untied the bow on her nightgown and opened the front, slipping his palm under the fabric until he found her nipple. He pinched and teased it until she reached for his wrist and pulled him away.

  He rolled onto his back and rolled her with him so she straddled his lap. Her glorious auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders and arms, her lips rosy and swollen from their potent embrace.

  She looked rumpled and magnificent, like a trained seductress in a harem, like a mermaid perched on the rocks, singing her siren song to unsuspecting sailors. If he wasn’t careful, she’d lure him to his doom.

  “I like kissing you,” she said.

  “I like kissing you too.”

  “But that’s it. I can’t do more than that.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

  He rolled them again so she was beneath him, and she scowled, but the expression wasn’t nearly as scolding as it had been previously.

  “I won’t bother asking you to let me up,” she said. “You wouldn’t listen anyway.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “What is it you want from me?”

  Everything! Nothing at all!

  He had no idea what he sought, but apparently she possessed something he desperately needed, and he had to figure out what it was. Then he could be shed of her.

  “You know what I want.” He gestured down her body. “I want what I bargained for. I want you.”

  “I don’t want you in return.”

  “You’re a virgin and a spinster, so your opinion is irrelevant.”

  “I’ve sworn off men,” she claimed.

  “If that’s your defense as to why we shouldn’t proceed, I’m duty-bound to declare that it’s a little late to protest on those grounds.”

  She was about to argue the issue—did the woman ever stop talking?—so he kissed her again. There seemed no other way to silence her.

  He grew more bold, his hands roaming everywhere, caressing her breasts, her hips and thighs. He dipped down and sucked a nipple into his mouth. It was still concealed by the thin fabric of her nightgown, the material adding extra friction as he tormented her.

  “What’s happening to me?” she managed as she gasped and moaned.

  “I’m pleasuring you.”

  “It doesn’t feel pleasurable.”

  He chuckled. “Liar.”

  He’d kept her so busy that she hadn’t noted him drawing up the hem of her nightgown. He bared her calves, her thighs, his torso dropping in between.

  She was splayed wide, at his mercy, his trousers the only barrier to ravishment, and he was a hairsbreadth away from going farther than he’d ever intended. He was hovering on a dangerous ledge, anxious to take her, to have her in the sole manner that counted, and he couldn’t imagine relenting.

  Why was he such a proud, vain ass? Why couldn’t he have left her alone?

  Where she was concerned, he had no control at all. Shouldn’t he receive some sort of boon for his trouble?

  He went to work on her nipples again, pulled on the fabric to move it away, and he bit and licked, while down below his fingers found the woman’s hair at the vee of her legs. He slid one finger into her sheath, then another, and he stroked back and forth, once, twice, and she exploded into a powerful orgasm. He’d aroused her that thoroughly.

  He’d suspected that—deep down—she was a very carnal creature. With all that sass and temper bottled up inside, she had to be a bubbling cauldron of unfulfilled lust. How delightful that he’d been the man to discover it.

  She cried out—quite loudly—and arched against him as she soared to the heavens, the ecstasy spiraling until he wondered if she’d ever get to the end.

  Finally she reached the peak and floated down. She landed in his arms, safe and sated and astonished, and he grinned, preening, thrilled with what he’d accomplished.

  “What was that?” she asked when she could speak again.

  “That was sexual pleasure.”

  “Can it occur more than once?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Am I still a…a…” She was such an innocent that she didn’t have the salacious vocabulary to complete her sentence.

  “Yes, my little maiden, you’re chaste as the day is long.”

  She’d had her ardor assuaged, but he hadn’t remedied
his own, and as he eased away from her, his titillation was so extreme that he decided to ride into the village and visit the local tavern. They employed a serviceable trollop who knew her way around a mattress. If he didn’t allay his stimulation, he might injure himself!

  But he wouldn’t press the issue with Magdalena. If he did, Gaylord Farrow would be able to continue plaguing him.

  He slipped to the floor but dawdled like an imbecile, desperate to lie down and snuggle with her all night, which was ludicrous.

  If he climbed under the blankets with a female, it was for one reason and one reason only. He never slept with women. When he was in a bedchamber, he was busy with other matters.

  “Are we finished?” she asked.

  “For now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I’ve proved my point.”

  “What point is that?”

  “I wanted to learn if I could coax you into a physical dalliance, and I’m happy to report that I succeeded.”

  “You did not,” she staunchly declared.

  “Magdalena, you’re halfway ruined. Give over and admit your defeat. I can do whatever I like to you. But”—he leaned down and stole a quick kiss—“I’m not interested in what you’re offering, so stop being charming. You can’t protect your brother-in-law from me.”

  He grabbed his shirt and strutted out.

  Behind him, she said, “Mr. Scott, get back here.” He kept on and she called more sternly, “Michael! Don’t you dare walk out. I want to talk to you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, thinking she was stunning, and he struggled to maintain a severe scowl.

  “Magdalena, you’ve talked me to death, and I can’t bear to hear another word.”

  “Michael!”

  “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll make plans to return to the city.”

  “Already? Why come all this way if we’re simply going to leave?”

  “We came because you annoyed me, because you thought you were smarter or tougher or cleverer than me. But you’re not, and you can’t save Gaylord Farrow—and I can’t figure out why you’d wish to save him.”

  He strolled out, and she hurled a pillow, but he was much too far away and her throw was weak and pathetic, so there was no chance she’d have hit him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Maggie gazed out the front window of Michael Scott’s country house. She could see him out on the road, galloping on a stallion.

  He’d been riding for hours, having departed before she’d staggered down to breakfast, and it had been almost a disappointment to have him gone. After what had happened between them in her bedchamber the prior night, she’d had no idea how they would interact. Apparently he’d been so unmoved by their foray into passion that he’d jumped up at dawn and trotted off.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised by his indifference. The very first time she’d ever laid eyes on him, he’d had a trollop on his lap. He was accustomed to salacious misbehavior, but she certainly wasn’t. She felt lost and confused about what to do with herself.

  Though she hated to admit it, she was extremely curious about him. She’d like to snoop and pry for clues in the various rooms and salons, but she hadn’t dared. When they’d arrived the previous day, he’d given her a quick tour, and they’d dined together in the dining room, but she hadn’t had the opportunity to uncover any details that would reveal more about him.

  How could he have started from such a low spot, but risen so high? How had he overcome his early poverty and achieved such amazing success?

  He was an orphan, and as far as she was aware had no information about his parents or lineage. But it was an accepted fact that bloodlines determined a person’s status and abilities, which was why kings and queens ruled the world. The common people understood that ancestry set the nobility apart from the masses.

  Was he from an exalted family? Was it possible? How else could one explain his extraordinary intellect and talents?

  As they’d left London, she’d been unnerved about their destination. What sort of residence would be owned by such a dissolute gambler and criminal? Yet she needn’t have worried as to what it would be like.

  The place was remarkable. Tastefully decorated. Quietly understated. His wealth was evident in every nook and cranny, but not in a garish or vain way. The rooms were bright and airy, the colors pleasing, the furniture posh and obviously chosen for maximum comfort.

  It wasn’t an overly large abode—she’d counted just five bedchambers. There were no acres and acres of parkland, no rivers for fishing, or woods for hunting, and he employed only a handful of competent, courteous servants.

  In the rear of the house, there was a small library with shelves of books on a wide range of subjects such as trade, finance, and farming, and she wondered if he could read and comprehend the contents. She supposed he could, but who had taught him? How had he become educated?

  The parlor where she was sitting boasted a pianoforte and a cabinet full of music. Did he play? Could he read music? He didn’t seem the type, but then again, nothing about him had turned out to be what she expected.

  To her disgust, she found herself being jealous of him. He had so much and hardly noticed his affluence. She had hardly anything, and with Cliffside frittered away she now had even less. Where would they all be on Rebecca’s next birthday?

  He left the road and started up the drive, and she couldn’t stop staring. He was so handsome and dashing, as if he was a great lord surveying his domain. His cheeks were rosy, his dark hair freed from its ponytail and flowing around his shoulders.

  Who could have sired such a magnificent male specimen? If he had kin somewhere, what would they think of his current condition?

  As he went by the window on his way to the stables, he saw her gawking, her attention riveted as if she was an adolescent girl in the throes of her first amour. He smirked and arrogantly waved as if her heightened scrutiny was exactly what he deserved. Embarrassed, she scowled and whipped away, and he kept on.

  She dawdled, uneasy and exasperated with him—and herself. She had naught to do and felt she should write some letters or play the pianoforte or…something. Since she’d moved to London with Vicar Sterns and his wife, she’d forgotten how to loaf. She was used to being busy, to having her time filled with tasks that needed accomplishing.

  Eventually she heard him enter out in the foyer. A footman met him at the door, and they had a quiet chat. She tried to eavesdrop, but was frustrated that she couldn’t decipher a single word. Were they talking about her?

  For a moment she fretted over what the servants thought. When she’d been introduced as Miss Wells, none of them had batted an eye over the impropriety. Of course there was no telling what they whispered about her when they were in the kitchen.

  She was dreadfully concerned that they weren’t bothered by her presence because Mr. Scott made a habit of bringing unmarried ladies when he visited. If so, how many had there been before her? Under what circumstances had they traveled with him? Had he ruined other men besides Gaylord and been given their virtuous sisters or daughters in exchange for cancelled debts?

  There were always wild stories circulating in the city about lost fortunes, but she’d assumed the tales to be preposterous and untrue. Who could have guessed she’d find herself in the middle of just such a sordid saga?

  Suddenly he appeared in the doorway, having come down the hall without her being aware. She stood and faced him, not certain what would happen, what they would say. But he was grinning, happy and relaxed as she hadn’t seen him previously.

  “Good morning, Miss Wells.”

  There was a flirtatious tone in his voice for which she hadn’t been prepared, and her cheeks flushed, as if with excitement.

  “Mr. Scott.”

  “I’ve been riding. Did the servants apprise you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you didn’t think I’d abandoned you?”

  “No. I knew you were out.” />
  “Were you fed and looked after?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s been very gracious and accommodating.”

  “And how was breakfast? Was the food to your liking?”

  “It was marvelous.”

  “Are you sure? Because if it wasn’t, I can—”

  “No, no, it was fine. Everything is fine.” It occurred to her that he was worried about her opinion of his home, his cook, his staff, so she added, “This is an enormous treat for me. Don’t forget that I live at the mission and eat the food there.”

  “What is usually served? Bread and beans?”

  “With bits of ham in it occasionally, if I have the funds to buy some meat.”

  “I never gave you a donation, did I?”

  “No, and I definitely deserve a carriage full of money.”

  “Payment for your troubles?”

  “Yes.”

  He strolled in and crossed the floor, stopping directly in front of her. She could smell the out-of-doors—fresh air, sunshine, horses—emanating from his clothes and person. The heady, masculine aromas set fire to her feminine sensibilities, and she could barely keep from leaning in and rubbing herself against him. What was wrong with her?

  She didn’t like him, loathed his highhanded conduct, and had intended to remain aloof and unaffected—especially since he was completely impervious to their amorous encounter. She’d tossed and turned over it until dawn, then had tiptoed down to breakfast, being terrified as to how they’d get on, but the rat wasn’t even on the premises and hadn’t been for hours.

  Mentally she grasped the reasons she detested him, but evidently her anatomy had a different view of the situation. His intimate caresses had altered her, had left her feeling raw and disoriented.

  She wanted to ask him about what had happened to her body, but she wasn’t sure how to have that discussion. There were probably adults in the world who could parlay over such an indiscreet topic, but she was not one of them.

  “I’ve decided we’re not returning to London this morning,” he announced.

  “We’re not?”

  “No. We’ll stay on for a few days.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “It’s silly for us to have come all this way, merely to leave.”

 

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