A Scandalous Lady

by Rachelle Morgan

  Her lips parted under his caress and Troyce lost all sense of reason. He dipped his head, paused, then settled his mouth on hers. There was hesitance and then a strange resignation as her mouth softened beneath his. Ah, God, she tasted good. Like the heat of sunshine. Like the mystery of moonbeams. And simply like Faith. He slid his tongue across her bottom lip, once, twice, gently so as not to frighten her. He had no idea how much experience she had with men, but from her awkward and timid response, he guessed little or none at all. The thought pleased him immensely.

  His patience coaxed a response. She tasted him back, the feel of her tongue meeting his so sweet, so tentative that his chest swelled to the point of bursting.

  He’d never known that simply kissing a woman could be so arousing. It took every ounce of willpower he could summon not to thrust his tongue into her mouth, shove her skirts up to her waist, and bury himself inside her. His manhood strained against the front of his breeches, his blood crashed through his veins likes waves in a tempest.

  Instead, he held himself tightly in check, his hands remaining around her delicate jaw, his tongue stroking her mouth until his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back.

  A whimper penetrated the haze of desire. She brought her hands up between them and pushed at his chest.

  He drew back, his brows furrowing. “What is it?”

  “I can’t . . .” She shook her head.

  “You can’t what?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You can’t kiss me?”

  “I fear it would not stop with kissing.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Aye. I will be no man’s whore, Baron, not even yours.”

  “I don’t want you to be any man’s whore, Faith. Most especially mine.” His dropped to a husky pitch. “Intimacy between a man and a woman who desire each other need not be vulgar or distasteful. Quite the opposite is true—it can be immensely pleasurable.”

  “In your world perhaps, not in mine.”

  “Has no man ever made love to you, Faith?” He brushed the pad of his fingers across her kiss-slicked mouth. “Has no man ever feasted upon those succulent lips, buried himself in the glory of your softness? Has no man ever brought you to the highest of heights?”

  Every word he spoke, every touch he bestowed, surrounded her in dreams she’d long forgotten to dream. Of being loved. Of being wanted. “You wish to make me your lady, then?”

  His shock might have been comical to Faith if it weren’t so heartbreaking.

  “I wish to be with you,” he said carefully. “Why tarnish something so rare and special with something as confining as marriage? We shall simply enjoy each other. If the time comes when one of us is no longer pleased with the other, we would be free to seek our pleasures elsewhere.”

  What if she didn’t want other options? What if she just wanted him?

  Faith stepped back from his dizzying nearness and folded her arms about her waist. “So you want me to be your mistress.”

  “No, I want you to be my lover.”

  “I see no difference.”

  “A woman becomes a man’s mistress for reasons of security, both personal and financial. With us, there would be no compensation, nor gifts in exchange for services. And our relationship would be completely unrelated to our other arrangement.”

  “And what would you call me?”

  “I’d call you my grandest hope, my deepest desire, my dream come true. What say you, Faith? Will you be my lover?”

  For a long time, Faith couldn’t say a thing. Was that all she was to him? A body in which to seek his pleasure until someone better came along? She was torn between feeling flattered that he wanted her and hurt that that was all he wanted from her. He will amuse himself with you, nothing more.

  Well, just because she was in danger of losing her heart to him did not mean she must submit her body to him as well.

  “It’s a tempting offer, Baron, but it’s not enough. I can’t deny that I am attracted to you, but I want more out of life than to be some handsome lord’s lover.”

  Bloody fool that she was, she wanted to be his lady.

  Chapter 12

  By the end of the week, Faith wished someone would just dig her grave and be done with it. The baron had stuck to his word and returned to the village each day with her. Together, they worked side by side, each unconsciously watching the other’s back. The villagers had been both amazed and fearful when he’d walked boldly into their unofficial territory the next day, and rather than singling out any of the instigators for punishment, simply unbuckled the roll of canvass from the back of his saddle.

  His tone brooked no protest when he tossed the canvass to the ground and ordered a young woman standing nearby to begin cutting squares for the broken windows. The next day, he hitched an old plow to his horse and gave the reins over to the bear of a man, silently commanding him to begin tilling his field. The man, whose name Faith discovered was Bear of all things, glared daggers at the baron but he did not disobey.

  On the third day, a team of children were sent throughout the village to gather every nail they could find, and a team of middle-aged adults were instructed to salvage boards and brick to repair the holes weather had created in the walls of buildings. The old crone was given the task of stripping branches Faith and Troyce hauled in from the forests so that thatching could begin the following day.

  In all that time, not a word was spoken between Lord Westborough and his tenants—not of the stoning, not of the four years of unpaid rent, not of his eight-year absence. A fragile truce seemed to have been made, almost as if that day had never happened, and Faith could not have been more relieved.

  Or more exhausted.

  She dragged her weary body up the back steps to the kitchen, thankful that the day had finally ended, yet dreading the chores still ahead. She couldn’t find the strength to raise her head much less scrub floors; even breathing seemed too much a chore. Between taking over so many of Millie’s tasks, and her work in the village, she recognized that she was reaching her breaking point. But short of quitting there was nothing else she could do. There wasn’t a quitting bone in her body. And she wanted that cottage.

  Some good did seem to come from keeping busy to the point of exhaustion, though; it left very little time to dwell on the baron’s proposal. Not once had he either mentioned it or made another untoward move on her. But hard as she tried, she could not forget those few moments in his chambers. The feel of his mouth, the heat of his body, the touch of his hands. Never in her life had she felt so beautiful, so wanted. Like the princess of her mother’s long-ago stories. And the temptation to take him up on his offer would nearly consume her.

  Then she would remember Lucy’s remark of being an amusement, and her mind would conjure an image of the lamplight women in front of Jorge’s, and reason would return.

  Reaching the top step, Faith would have missed the basket if she hadn’t stumbled over it on her way through the door. When she bent to move it out of her way, heavenly aromas poured forth from beneath the wicker lid. Honey and clove ham. Fried apples. Baked bread that smelled fresh from the oven. Faith dropped to her knees, her mouth watering, her hand paused over the lid. A gluttonous haze clouded her vision and she was certain that if she opened the lid, she’d find chunks of coal put in there as a joke. A very wicked, very cruel joke.

  But she couldn’t walk away without knowing.

  She flipped the lid.

  And nearly died.

  Inside, the aromas took form in very real lumps wrapped in white cloth and the smells were so powerful she nearly wept. How could someone leave something as beautiful, as wonderful as this on the back porch, all by itself? Treasures like this shouldn’t be left alone; they should be cherished. Savored. Treasured. Faith touched one warm lump, caressed it like she would a cloud, fearing it would disappear. Hunger pinched her stomach, temptation mottled her brain. The urge to hook and snatch and pad the hoof with her bounty knotted
itself through every aching muscle in her body.

  Do not steal from me.

  I’ve not had a problem with thievery until she arrived.

  And then, suddenly she knew why the basket had been left here.

  He was testing her.

  The basket—it was Eve’s apple. Temptation calling. Sin incarnate.

  Gritting her teeth, she rose, let herself in through the back door, and let it slam behind her. She’d not take something that did not belong to her. No matter how hard it was to resist.

  He didn’t know if he wanted to strangle her for her stubbornness or applaud her for her willpower, misplaced as it was. Never in a million years would Troyce have imagined that she would have rejected his gift, or that doing so would cause her such anguish. The longing on her face when she’d opened the basket would have made a grown man cry.

  He let the drape fall and left his chambers. He was growing increasingly concerned for her health. Each day she seemed to get thinner, dropping weight she could ill afford to lose. According to Millie, she didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive and now, even when faced with fare she’d obviously wanted, she refused it.

  Was she punishing him?

  Bloody hell, why had he ever made such an indecent proposition to her? If she’d been a lady of society, he wouldn’t have dared offend her with such an offer. To possess her body, he would have had to give her his name. And he wasn’t prepared to give that to anyone. Not yet.

  Still, that was no reason for Faith to starve herself.

  It was time to take matters into his own hands.

  He entered the dining room, and when Lucy arrived to serve the evening meal, he instructed her to send Faith to him.

  She appeared in the doorway a few moments later. “You sent for me, milord?”

  “Aye.” Troyce waved to a chair at his right. “Join me this evening, will you?”

  “I don’t think Lady Brayton would approve of a servant dining at the master’s table.”

  “Lady Brayton is not feeling well this evening and has decided to dine in her rooms.”

  “It’s nothing serious I hope.”

  “Nothing that will not pass in a few days.” Even the vague reference to a woman’s monthly courses had Faith blushing to the roots of her hair. “Sit. What Lady Brayton does not know will not hurt her.”

  When Faith continued to hover in the doorway, he said, “It was not a request Faith.”

  Finally, she lowered herself into the chair adjacent to him and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Her eyes darted about the room in obvious discomfort. But that she didn’t put up more of a protest bespoke of her weariness. The shadows under her eyes looked like bruises.

  From one of the dishes Lucy had set before him, Troyce dished up heaping portions of roasted quail, boiled potatoes, and a slice of apple pie and set it before her. “You will not leave this seat until you have eaten every bite off this plate. The larders are beginning to run low, so I will not have it wasted.”

  He felt like a bloody heel when her eyes went damp. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you are too thin.”

  “You are too gallant.”

  “I meant no offense. But I’ll not have everyone believing that I starve my servants.” He took a sip of his brandy-laced coffee, a pleasure he’d picked up in America that would have horrified his mother if she were alive to know of it. “Since you have rejected my gift, I have no recourse but to insist you eat with me.”

  “Gift?”

  “The basket.”

  She looked puzzled. “That was a gift?”

  “What did you think it was?”

  Faith did not dare tell him that she suspected it a test of her trustworthiness.

  Or a bribe to get her into his bed.

  Jack had always known her greatest fear, of winding up on a street corner. And the baron knew how petrified she was of going to prison. Could he have somehow discovered her greatest weakness—that of food? Was he using it to lure her? To punish her?

  “Eat before it gets cold,” he said, gesturing toward her plate with a fork.

  Ever conscious of the first time she’d been caught eating in front of him, Faith forced herself to pick up the utensils. To place a bite of food in her mouth. To chew slowly.

  “You’ve been working too hard on my behalf, Faith.”

  “It’s been on my own behalf as well, milord.” Surely he hadn’t forgotten his promise of the cottage. It was even more important now than before that she put some distance between them.

  “Be that as it may, I only wanted to express my gratitude with the basket. You will take tomorrow for yourself, as well.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I insist. You need to rest, and it’s time Lucy and Millie share some of the workload.”

  Faith’s promise to Millie burned on her tongue. Though the woman was much improved, it had been barely a fortnight since her attack, and she had not yet regained all of her strength. But rather than concede to his orders, she changed the subject. “Is it true that you fired a cook for serving bad fish?”

  “Millie has been filling your ears, has she?”

  She couldn’t lie, so she remained silent.

  “Suffice it to say, Cook’s demands exceeded his talents, so I released him. It was a mutual agreement. He is happily employed with another, much more prosperous household.”

  She picked at her food and watched him from beneath her lashes as he ate along with her. His expression gave not a hint of his thoughts, and the guessing was worse than not knowing his motives.

  “Are you adjusting well to your life here in the—castle?” His eyes twinkled.

  Faith almost choked on a potato. She sucked down a drink of water from the goblet set before her, and once she’d caught her breath said, “Aye, I’m adjusting well enough.”

  “Good. I feel better knowing that you’re settled in before I leave.”

  She glanced up, startled.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “In the morning. For London.” His eyes darkened with what might have been anxiousness before he masked the emotion. “I have a business engagement that I must keep.”

  Take me with you! She wanted to cry. Don’t leave without me!

  “I want you to stay away from the village while I’m gone.”

  “I cannot!”

  “You can, and you will. It’s too dangerous. The tribes may have quieted, but I still do not trust them, not to the extent of allowing you to continue working without me beside you.”

  “But there’s still so much more work to be done.”

  “Be that as it may, I forbid you to go to the village during my absence. No motley lot of rioters is worth risking your safety.”

  She would have reminded him that it hadn’t been her safety at risk, but his high-handed manner made the point insignificant. “How dare—”

  “I dare.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, dropped it beside his plate, and got to his feet. “Do not defy me on this, Faith.”

  Why you arrogant . . . She swallowed roughly, and asked, “When will you be back?”

  “A day. Two at the most.” He brushed the side of her cheek with his finger and smiled. “I trust you will still be here when I return?”

  It was only later that Troyce realized she hadn’t answered.

  Troyce was beyond being disappointed.

  He wanted to hit something.

  The minute he’d set eyes on the overdressed, overslicked, overpompous jackanapes, he’d known his last chance for salvation had gone straight down the cesspit.

  Gentleman Jack Swift.

  What a damned waste.

  He had oily opportunist written all over him. Flashing wads of money. Boasting of connections he could not possibly have. What’s more, the ass didn’t know a bow from a mast. Why he’d claimed interest in the galleon, Troyce couldn’t begin to guess, but it became perfectly clear that even the last-ditch effort of discreet inquiries he and Miles ha
d been sending out were not paying off as he’d hoped. Was his dream so unworthy, so ridiculous that it would attract only the lowest of life-forms?

  Troyce bellowed at a passing hack, wanting only to get out of the rotting cracker box of a city; he longed for the open country, the salty air and drafty stones of Westborough with a fierceness that surprised him.

  The hack clattered on by, churning wheels spraying London muck all over his breeches.

  Oh, bloody hell . . . !

  He brushed ineffectively at the spatters on his thigh and with a disgusted curse, stormed across the rain-soaked cobblestones toward the river.

  Forget hiring a hack, he thought in disgust. The way his luck was running, the coach would wind up cracking an axle and he wouldn’t get home at all. He veered toward a livery located in the better part of the city, known to rent decent horseflesh. En route, he passed dockside hawkers huddling beneath misshapen umbrellas, waiting for hardy souls braving the rain to take interest in their stands. Laborers screamed profanities at one another as they struggled to load cargo into a waiting ship.

  Finally, he reached the livery. While he waited for a horse, his mind turned once again to home. The term struck an odd nerve. Never before had he called Westborough home; never before had he felt so anxious to go back. He’d spent half his life trying to escape the shackles it represented.

  Now he couldn’t wait to return.

  To Faith.

  A restless hunger churned inside him every time he thought of her. He felt as if he’d been away from her for months instead of mere days, as if half of him was missing by leaving her behind. She’d brought life into his heart and into his home. Chased away the gloom and dreariness. He looked forward to each day, wondering what antics she might get up to and what secrets she might reveal about herself. What delights he might discover if he could ever convince her to share his bed.

  Troyce frowned. He tried not to think about her rejection, tried to understand why she would not consent to being with him.

  She wanted him, just as he wanted her. He saw it every time their eyes met, every time they came near one another. He would catch her looking at his hands, his mouth, and he knew she remembered that kiss in his chambers with every bit of clarity that he did. Even now, the mere memory had the power to drive the temperature around him up a few degrees. And yet, for reasons he didn’t comprehend, she thought that being with him made her a trollop.