Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  But instead of joining her on her side of the squat table by means of walking, as any sedate gentleman would do, he leapt across it. He vaulted over the clutter of their shared meal, across the array of glasses, porcelain dishes, plates and cutlery, and managed to miss scattering it, all but for a tumbler which he knocked with his knee. The silver tumbler spun on its side and shot into midair to land on the marble flooring with a loud clatter.

  Rory let out an involuntary shriek at the sudden noise, startled because her whole concentration was on Dair’s wild leap, hoping he would not hurt himself, or her, or break something by his impetuousness. She squealed with laughter when he landed beside her, only for the momentum to cause his feet to skid out from under him, and he land on his side, on a cushion, legs sprawled out sideways. She half rose up on her knees, and her hand shot out and grabbed the billowy sleeve of his white linen shirt, as if this would bring about inertia. It did not. It sent her after him, and she landed against his chest, in amongst the pile of cushions now scattered around them. He threw an arm about her waist to hold her close, and there they lay sprawled on the cushions on the marble floor, both of them laughing without restraint. And when he held up a gold and pink silk tassel, come free from one of the many cushions, and dangled it before her eyes with a big silly grin, as if it was some prize he had captured on his mad venture across the table, they both laughed harder.

  When they were still and quiet, Rory found herself nestled against his chest. Dair had one hand under his head that lay on a cushion, and was staring up at the painted ceiling of the pavilion, while the fingers of his right hand played with her damp hair.

  “Not as elegant or as dramatic as my entrance to Romney’s studio,” he commented, “but I have achieved the desired result. You are back in my arms, where you belong.”

  Rory smiled contentedly and rested her chin on his chest.

  “But where are the dancing girls to offer your lordship applause and praise?”

  He lifted his head slightly to look down his long nose at her upturned face. Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth, her lovely mouth had curved into a cheeky smile, and there was a delicate flush to her cheeks that heightened the flawlessness of her porcelain skin. She looked radiant. At that moment and forever more she was the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on.

  “I don’t want their applause, just yours…”

  She sat up on an elbow.

  “You have that, Alisdair. Always…”

  He shifted onto his side.

  “Then why are we wasting precious time? We are alone and I came all this way into Hampshire just to kiss you. But first you must promise me—”

  She put a finger to his lips to stop him talking. Then caressed his bearded cheek.

  “I know, and I will,” she said gravely, but the sparkle was still there.

  “You have no idea what I was going to ask you, minx!”

  She nodded and pressed her lips together to stifle a smile before saying flatly,

  “You were going to ask me to refrain from kissing any gentleman but you.”

  “Well, yes, that was what I was going to ask you, but—”

  “—such a request, you will agree, is grossly unfair.”

  He scowled. “It is?”

  “Of course. Particularly after you just argued that inexperience before marriage is not an ideal state for husband and wife.”

  “I said no such thing. What I meant is that you and I—”

  “—should kiss as many persons of the opposite sex as possible so that when we kiss each other, we know exactly what we are doing. And as you are vastly more experienced, I have a lot of catching up to do if you expect—”

  She got no further.

  “What rot!” he growled and crushed her mouth under his, the rest of her ridiculous argument forgotten as her mouth melted into his in one long luxurious kiss. “Catching up to do, indeed,” he murmured as they came up for air. “Your kisses are perfectly wonderful without the need for experience…”

  “Oh, but I shall be a much better kisser it I were to kiss as many—”

  “No! No, you don’t. You don’t need to kiss another man, ever. Just me, you wicked creature. And don’t pretend you thought I meant otherwise! And don’t twist my words,” he sulked, gently running a large hand down the middle of her narrow back. “You’re much better with words than I, but I’ve always thought it best to show rather than tell,” he added, leaning in to kiss and nuzzle her neck, hand coming to rest on the gathered petticoats at her waist. “What is that scent you are wearing? It could send a man—me—mad…”

  She giggled, and shuddered, tickled by the soft bristles of his beard brushing against her throat. She turned in his arms so that she was now the one lying on the cushions, he above her. “Silly! Soap. But more likely pond water since I’ve just been for a swim.”

  “No soap on God’s earth smells that good,” he murmured, continuing to drink in the scent of her, soft kisses progressing to the swell of her breasts all but exposed by a low square neckline. “And if the lake water smells this intoxicating, then I am willing to sacrifice myself to whatever perils await me out there in the deep…”

  His fingers deftly set about finding and tugging undone the tabs that held the bodice to the skirts. He then gently slid the light cotton material with its little lace edge down off her breasts giving his mouth access to her nipple. He smiled to himself, rediscovering she was not wearing stays. He had forgotten that. And when he gently suckled, then teasingly scraped the very edge of his teeth against the delicate pink tip, Rory gasped, back arching in pleasurable response. Her hips began to undulate under him, and she held fast to the sleeves of his shirt, signal enough she liked very much what he was doing and did not want him to stop.

  Caught in the moment, he allowed his hand to stray further. Slowly, he gathered up the many light layers of her cotton skirts, exposing her feet, then her ankles, and then on up her long slim stockinged legs. Her petticoats were bunched over her knees, where her white silk stockings were held up by pretty pink silk garters, and he let his fingers stray over one of those garters, before gliding up the silken flesh of her inner thigh. She had such shapely long legs… That’s when she baulked. His delightful exploration was over within a blink of an eye, leaving him alone, propped on his elbows, bewildered and wondering.

  TWENTY-TWO

  R ORY SCRAMBLED AWAY from him, to the table, hastily brushing down her petticoats. She needed to cover her legs, most importantly to hide her feet. She also did her best to close her gaping bodice across her breasts; only now realizing all the tabs had been deftly undone. How was she to tie them up again without Edith’s help? She felt foolish for her behavior, and more so when tears of frustration pricked her lids. She was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions: Of wanting him to continue pleasuring her, yet not ready for him to touch her foot. Not that he had, and that made her wonder if he had deliberately shied away from doing so. His caresses were so gentle, his kisses so passionate, that she craved more and yet, having shunned him, she was left with an aching loss, and wholly dissatisfied.

  Dair stayed where he was, on the marble floor, one long booted leg drawn up, until his ardency had cooled sufficiently that he was no longer an embarrassment to himself. And then he sat up and watched until he could no longer bear her failed attempts to tie the tabs of the bodice without assistance. He silently joined her at the table and took matters in hand. At first she did not want him and pushed his hands away. When he persisted, when he caught up her fingers before she could slap his away again and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, her shoulders slumped with acceptance. She offered no further resistance.

  After her bodice was secure, he set about tidying the cushions, picked up the errant tumbler and put it back on the table, then returned to sit opposite her. All the while he was moving about the pavilion he was aware she was limp, head bowed with her hands in her lap, and no doubt with her pretty head full of all sorts of emotional castigation.
He reminded himself that she was still young. Her experience of the world was limited to her grandfather’s house and a handful of society functions amongst relatives, however distant. She was always chaperoned, always surrounded by others when not in the familiar surroundings of her home. Even in her own home he was sure she was never left alone with a man save her grandfather or her brother.

  And here he was lifting her petticoats the moment her maid’s back was turned! What must she think of him? He knew precisely what her grandfather would think, and that’s why he was determined to speak with him that same night. And yet there remained a kernel of doubt to his determination, a small, niggling worry he should dismiss as nerves usual for a man about to embark on a life altering path. The worry persisted because it had been with him since he could remember; at least since he had discovered the root of the problem with his parents’ marriage. He had resisted marriage, particularly a marriage of convenience for the sole purpose of producing an heir. The notion made him recoil. He wanted no loveless match, and yet for a man in his position marrying for love was surely a foolhardy venture?

  Looking across at Rory, he did not now think so. He had known almost from their first meeting, though he had tried to ignore the notion of fate and falling in love at first kiss. Oh, but that second kiss at the stone wall at Banks House, that had undone him! He knew then there was no turning back, that what he felt for her was much more than just lust. But what surprised him most of all, what sealed his determination, was that she saw beneath the façade and yet was comfortable with him in whatever role he cared to present to the world. She doubted him less than he doubted himself. With her there was no artifice, no second-guessing, no wondering if she were interested more in his earldom than in him. And when all was said and done, her values, what she wanted from a life’s companion, matched his own.

  Yet, that kernel of doubt lingered, brought to the fore by her reaction to his caresses just now. He realized he had taken matters too quickly. But if she was as ardent, if she had been in the moment just as much as he, surely she would not have pulled away? He dreaded the thought they might not be well-suited. What if the physical expression of love repulsed her? His mother had been young and innocent and thought herself in love, and yet she had so abhorred the sex act it was only duty to produce an heir that had made her endure the marriage bed.

  And so his father had told him, not to his face, man-to-man, but in a letter, sent some years ago, while Dair was fighting for his country and his life on the other side of the Atlantic. What a revelation! It would have provided some light relief from the bloody business of war had it been any other couple but his parents’ marriage laid bare in black ink. His father had not blamed the Countess for the breakdown of their marriage, but his own failure as a husband. And why, after all these years had his father taken it upon himself to confess his sins? Dair had wondered, and then been told in the next paragraph. His father had fallen in love and was living openly with his mistress, and this mistress, this Monica Drax, was his wife in everything but name, and had been for a number of years.

  And because his father was in love, and, so it seemed, for the first time in his life, he now felt a great burden of guilt and shame at how he had treated his legal wife and legitimate heirs. He had been a terrible husband and a worse father. He explained that because Dair and his brother were conceived out of duty, and in the most despicable of ways (he stopped short of using the word rape, but Dair could read between the lines), he had not loved them. They reminded him that his marriage was loveless and a prison from which there was no escape, and that he was a monster. He now asked for his sons’ forgiveness. A similar confessional had been sent to Charles.

  In the very next line his father went on to mention that the love of his life, this Monica Drax, had borne him two dear sweet children, twins. No two children could be dearer to him or as perfect as Barnaby and Bernadette. And because he loved them dearly, he had changed his will so that fifty percent of the wealth derived from his sugar plantations would now go to his natural children by Monica Drax, the other fifty percent to be his. He hoped he would do his duty by his sister and brother, and provide for them out of this inheritance, too. He was sure Dair would see the fairness in this arrangement. After all, the income from his estates in England, the Jacobean mansion in Buckinghamshire, the townhouse and the various rents from properties in London, all were to be Dair’s when he succeeded to the earldom of Strathsay. And, his father added, with an illegitimate son of his own, Dair could hardly object, now could he?

  Dair did not object. But he wanted none of the income derived from the ill-gotten gains of slavery. As far as he was concerned, the Drax twins could have it all.

  His father concluded his revelatory epistle with the proclamation he would not be returning to England; life suited him exceedingly in Barbados. He had written to his attorneys in London, instructing them that the moment Dair married, all rights and responsibilities to his English estates, and the management of the considerable income held in trust by his Grace of Roxton, would revert to him. He wished he could hand over his earl’s coronet and ermine to him, too.

  So did Dair. He learned later that both Mary and Charles had replied to their father. He did not ask either one what they had said or if they had offered the forgiveness their father sought. He did not reply. He set the letter alight with the burning tip of his cheroot and watched it until it had turned in on itself and to ash in the camp fire.

  He shook his thoughts free of his contemptible father and his last letter, poured out the final drops of pear cider and put the tumbler before Rory, saying as conversationally as he could manage,

  “Should we have tea, too? It would be a shame not to use Cousin Duchess’s teapot…”

  Rory looked across at him then, and such was her despair it took all Dair’s will power to remain inert and not rush to her side to take her in his arms.

  “I-I apologize,” she said glumly, a catch to her voice. “You must think me woefully childish.”

  “What I think is that you have never before been in a situation such as this, and you were momentarily frightened by the unexpected. That is perfectly natural.”

  “Is it? How many other whey-brained virgins have you had to reassure—No! I should not have asked—”

  “Only one. Lil. And she, like you, is not whey-brained. Though I possibly was, and am. We were both virgins when we embarked on our springtime romance. Since? None.” When she frowned he smiled to himself, adding gently, “You did say it was important to be truthful.”

  “Yes. I did. Thank you for telling me.”

  “But of course, being truthful doesn’t make it less hurtful…”

  “I am not hurt by that knowledge. I would have been surprised had you confessed to bedding virgins. And, to be perfectly frank, disgusted. I never took you for a man who preyed on the innocent for sport. I had always assumed you conducted your affairs with females who knew what they wanted and could give you the same pleasure in return.”

  He inclined his head with a smile, but volunteered nothing further.

  Rory clasped her hands tightly in her lap and forced herself to look into his brown eyes.

  “I apologize, but none of that is reassuring to me—here.”

  “Rory, we are in this together. You have nothing to apologize for. I am the one at fault. I should have realized—”

  “No! Don’t! Don’t you apologize for my behavior. I wanted you to kiss me. I wanted to kiss you. I want us to make love. It’s just that I-I don’t want—I don’t think I am ready for you to-to—”

  “Rory, if you are not ready for me to touch you everywhere, then you are not ready to make love.”

  The calm even tone of his mellow voice should have reassured her. All it did was make her feel even more awkward and unsure of herself. He was right. Perhaps she was not ready… Oh, but the way he made her feel. The way her body reacted to his touch… When he kissed her; when his hands were on her skin; when he suckled her breasts… T
he throbbing between her legs had been almost unbearable, and now, just thinking about making love with him made that sensation return. Her face flamed with embarrassment, and she drank down the pear cider in one gulp, unaware of its taste or that she had drained the tumbler and set it down without thinking.

  Perhaps he was right. She needed a cup of tea. It would settle her nerves. It would be best to talk about something—anything—else until she could find the words to explain herself… And then she sat up tall, as if struck forcefully by an idea, and she looked at him with narrowed eyes and a mutinous puckering of her mouth. How had it come to this? They had been discussing his fear of still water, and now, by some trickery, he had managed to turn the subject, and before she had satisfactorily concluded their discussion on how best to help him overcome his vexatious childhood memory.

  She was confident she could help him, even if it was merely to enable him to row a boat without being anxious by such an innocuous activity. She smiled to herself. She was certain she knew the place where she wished him to row. It was only a short distance from the jetty. A man of his strength could row there in fifteen minutes. It was the most magical place, a place where she could forget her own shortcomings, and where she always imagined she would make love for the very first time: The temple grotto on Swan Island.

  Her mutinous expression was replaced with a dazzling smile as she formulated her plan.

  “I can help you overcome your dread of still water, if you will let me.”

  Dair’s smiled doubtfully.

  He was enchanted by her confidence, and not insensible to her adeptness at returning their conversation to an episode in his childhood that he still found difficult to discuss. His embarrassment at having confided his weakness to her—after all, soldiers did not admit to having any fears—made him sound supercilious.

  “Let me hazard a guess,” he drawled. “You intend to lure me to the jetty and when I am not looking, push me in, hoping I will be instantly cured?”