by Isobel Carr
“It was still a magnificent place to hide from Nurse, who was convinced it was haunted,” Olivia said softly enough that it wouldn’t carry to their nearby family members.
“No whispering,” Margo yelled, slapping down her cards with a chagrined expression. Their father awoke with a snort, and Roland hid a grin. “Rolly?” Margo stared out at him from under the canopy. “It seems Lord Arlington’s phaeton is safe, for now,” she added darkly. “But you’ll have to escort me to Holinshed in a few weeks.”
Roland rolled his eyes. “What a trial you are, sister of mine.”
Margo scrunched up her nose at him, and Roland turned his back to her. “Frocester is waiting for us,” he said as they slipped past one of the immense willow trees and the stone jetty and steps came into view.
“Good, good,” Lord Moubray said, seemingly fully awake now. “Is your mother with him?”
“Not that I can see, Father.” Roland raised a hand in greeting, and Frocester thrust his chin up once in acknowledgment. He was dressed as he preferred, for comfort, in buckskins and a loose nankeen shooting coat. Roland could practically feel their father’s glare of disapproval.
The shallop scraped the small dock, and the coxswain jumped out to secure it. Roland leapt out after him, and Frocester greeted him with a wide smile, stepping toward him with the rolling gait his bad hip created.
“No Mamma?” Roland said, glancing up to see if she was waiting in the garden.
Frocester shook his head slightly. “Mrs. Verney and the vicar’s wife called just as we were setting out. Poor Mamma is undoubtedly trapped in a verbal fugue.”
“Well then, we shall have to go and rescue her,” Roland said as he helped Olivia out of the boat. “Frocester, I don’t think you know Lady Olivia Carlow? Olivia, my brother, Lord Frocester.”
“My lord,” Olivia said, extending her hand.
Frocester took it, looking as though he’d been struck dumb. After a brief pause in which he practically goggled, Frocester recollected himself and bowed over her hand. “Welcome to Croughton, Lady Olivia. I-I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
“Very,” Olivia said with a smile that seemed to leave his poor brother dazzled.
Roland chuckled to himself as he helped Margo onto the dock. Frocester had never been in the petticoat line, nor was he comfortable with strangers. He’d married a girl they’d known all their lives and settled into quiet domesticity here at the Abbey without a single romantic adventure to speak of. It was almost as if Frocester were a different species than he and Margo, whose peccadilloes were both numerous and notorious.
“Margaret,” Frocester said, giving their sister a swift, hard hug. “It’s good to have you home.” He remained with his arm about her for a moment before she drew him over to Lord Arlington for an introduction.
Their father followed Arlington out of the shallop with a spry leap that belied his sixty-three years and offered his arm to Olivia. “Come along, my dear,” Lord Moubray said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “It’s a lovely walk up to the house on a day like today.”
A huge swan came hissing out of the tall weeds as they made their way up toward the river gate. It shook its feathers, rattling them loudly, puffing itself up. Olivia shooed it off with a flap of her skirts and a laugh. It circled back, head snaking about, eyeing them darkly.
“The cygnets will be hatching out any day now,” his father said. “Can’t blame the poor thing for being demented.”
Olivia glanced back at Roland, eyes alight with amusement. He grinned back at her. Somehow he’d never expected his father to fall victim to her charms, but the old man had clearly done so.
Lord Arlington partnered Margo, the two of them carefully skirting past the still-disgruntled swan, leaving Roland and Frocester to bring up the rear. His brother’s slower pace meant that the two couples quickly outstripped them.
“You’re really going to marry that girl, Roland?” Frocester gave him a questioning stare, his brows puckered with what looked like disbelief or maybe concern.
Roland gave a bark of laughter. Trust Frocester to be even more incredulous than Margo when it came to his settling down. He saw Olivia glance back again as she and his father reached the gated archway that led to the gardens. Roland waved her on. No doubt his father would expound upon every detail of the garden as they went. The earl knew every plant, every stone, every vista. The garden, more than the house itself, was his beloved hobbyhorse.
“I’ve pledged to do so,” Roland said obscurely. His brother would be scandalized if he knew the truth.
Frocester’s gaze followed his. “Mamma is horrified,” his brother said as though betraying a confidence. Roland sighed. Of course his mother was horrified. Lady Moubray had a talent for turning a blind eye to her own family’s foibles, but she was unforgiving when it came to anyone else’s.
Their father stopped and cut several lilies with his pen knife, handing them to Olivia with a courtly flourish. She held them to her nose, flirting shamelessly. Roland breathed a sigh of relief. His mother’s opinion would give way to her husband’s in the end, and the earl was clearly more than ready to welcome Lady Olivia and her fifty thousand pounds into the family. Sham or not, having his family’s backing for the season would make everything smoother. As his father led Olivia on toward the house, he stopped frequently to add to her bouquet.
“Well,” Frocester said, his boots crunching loudly on the oyster-shell path, “she certainly seems to have captivated Father. Can you imagine what he’d say if you or I raided his garden to make a posy?”
CHAPTER 21
The latent scents of beeswax and lapsang greeted Margo as she led the way into the The Little Parlor. Sunlight filled the room, charging the golden damask walls and gilded furniture with warmth that actually seemed tangible. The room’s welcoming reception was entirely at odds with that of its occupants.
Margo forced a smile as the three women currently ensconced over tea all turned to stare at her as though she were the leader of some barbarian horde. “Hello, Mamma. Mrs. Verney. Lady George.” Margo nodded to the squire’s ancient widow and the vicar’s wife. Both women gazed back at her with silent disapproval.
Margo felt her lip begin to curl. They hadn’t approved of her when she’d been nothing but a headstrong girl, and now that she was a widow with a distinctly wild reputation, their dislike was palpable, and frankly, mutual.
Philip stiffened beside her. She could almost feel him donning his role as the earl, ready to defend her. Margo gave his arm a grateful squeeze and moved to kiss her mother’s cheek. The rest of the party flooded in behind her, loud and raucous. Her father was laughing, Lady Olivia still on his arm. Her small posy had grown into an enormous bouquet. She looked a bit startled as she too earned a frosty glare.
Lady Olivia’s chin went up, just as her father’s had. Disturbing, the little tics that ran in families. Philip went forward to bend over Lady Moubray’s hand, and the countess filled the growing breach with introductions. Her dour callers seemed to settle farther into their chairs like ticks burrowing their heads into a dog. Mrs. Verney reached for a ratafia biscuit while Lady George held out her cup to be refreshed.
“Why don’t I show our guests to their rooms, Mamma,” Margo said, filching a biscuit for herself. “That way you and the ladies can continue your coze.”
Her mother gave her a slightly indignant look, eyes flaring wide for the briefest of moments, but the countess was too good-mannered to say anything more than “Thank you, dearest.” Poor thing. She’d clearly been hoping their arrival would drive her visitors out.
“Lord Arlington, Lady Olivia, come with me if you please,” Margo said, already heading for the door. Her father took a seat beside her mother and motioned for a cup of tea. Rolly and Frocester both excused themselves and followed them out.
“I’ll see you all at dinner,” Frocester said with a nod before he turned and headed into the library.
“We’ve made good our escap
e,” Margo said with a laugh.
“Escape is right,” Lady Olivia said, blinking her eyes as though stunned. “I could feel my blood freezing in my veins. It was like facing down basilisks.”
“It’s not you, I assure you,” Rolly said.
“No,” Margo said. “It’s you. Mrs. Verney still has hopes for Rolly and her granddaughter. I’m sure news of your courtship has flooded the county. You’re an interloper and a thief. As for Lady George, as the vicar’s wife, she believes she has the right—”
“The responsibility,” Rolly interjected.
“—to censure anyone and everyone who fails to meet her exacting moral standards. And she does so with bludgeoning silences and sniffing disapproval. Don’t pay either of them any mind. Let’s get the both of you settled so you can rest and change before dinner. What do you think, Rolly? The Chinese Bedroom for Lady Olivia and The Argory for Lord Arlington?”
Her brother smiled, clearly having a different plan in mind. “You don’t think Lady Olivia might be more comfortable in The Palm Room?” he said, naming the bedchamber closest to his.
Margo glanced at him over her shoulder as they all ascended the main staircase. “I’m afraid I’ve been using The Palm Room. It’s a big house, but somewhat short of bedchambers,” she added, glancing at Philip. “Frocester’s wife claimed my old suite when she came to live here.”
“Holinshed is much the same,” Lady Olivia said as they reached the landing. “During last year’s stag hunt, we had gentlemen sleeping in the library as well as in several of the closets.”
“I like an overflowing house,” Philip said with a chuckle. “It’s more convivial than a quiet one.”
Margo smiled at him, and he grinned back. “The Chinese Bedroom is here,” Margo said, pushing open the first door. Lady Olivia stepped past her, turning about slowly as she took in the Oriental splendor of the Chinese-papered walls and the matching embroidered silk furnishings. She stepped over to the window and cocked her head.
“It overlooks the gardens,” Rolly said.
“And the river,” Lady Olivia said. “What a magnificent view.”
“Rolly, can you find Mrs. Patterson and have their servants and trunks sent up? Have them send up a vase as well.”
Her brother shot her a disdainful look, swept them all a profound leg, and left to do her bidding. “Don’t be afraid to open the windows,” Margo said. “Lord Arlington, shall we?”
“The Argory?” Philip said as he followed her down the corridor.
“It was originally built as a study,” Margo said as they circled back past the stairs and crossed through The Grand Saloon. “It’s in the other wing of the house.” The Saloon’s far doors opened to a corridor with a much smaller staircase in the middle. “It’s the first door, there.”
The room was dark, in a comforting, restful kind of way. The walls were lined with bookshelves and above them was a pale blue-and-white frieze depicting the adventures of Jason and the Argonauts.
“Are there books even behind the bed?” Philip asked, leaning in to better see what should have been the headboard.
“Yes,” Margo said. “These are the sixth earl’s personal collection. When his grandson, the seventh earl, decided to build a grand library, he left this room as it was.”
“Except of course for swapping the desk for a bed,” Philip said with a deceptively casual air.
“Except for that, yes,” Margo replied as the earl reached for her. She ducked his hand, moving backward toward the door. “Your valet will be here at any moment.”
“All the more reason for you to come here, now.” He took a step toward her.
Margo bit her lip and shook her head. Her hand closed on the doorknob. “As much as I’d like to tumble into bed with you, my lord, this isn’t Versailles, where the servants are used to turning a blind eye to whatever mischief their betters might be up to.”
Philip burst into laughter. “I never supposed it was. I wasn’t planning on anything more scandalous than stealing a kiss.”
The knob rattled in her hand, and she stepped aside as the earl’s valet arrived, followed closely by two footmen with his lordship’s trunk. Philip leaned against one of the posts of the bed, eyes hot with frustrated desire.
“That’s a shame,” Margo said from the doorway, “for I was.”
Dinner had been interminable. Margo had chafed and fidgeted through the entire meal. Up until now, being reduced to near childhood status in her parents’ home hadn’t seemed like such a burden. It was becoming rapidly clear, however, that she was going to need an establishment of her own.
Her means were more than sufficient to support a small house in Town, but her mother had been adamantly against it. It was enough to make returning to Paris, where she had a house, and friends, and a life of sorts, seem more appealing than it had been just after Etienne’s death.
When the meal was over, the gentlemen had remained at table with their port while she and the other women had retreated to The Little Parlor. She’d pleaded a headache after the first glass of sherry and excused herself.
It was several hours before Margo heard the telltale sounds of someone moving about in the room above hers. She’d hadn’t put Philip in The Argory merely because she thought he’d enjoy the room.
She curled up in the window seat and listened. She followed the earl’s clear tread as he crossed the room. The lighter patter of his valet’s steps sounded as the man moved into the small closet and then back into the bedchamber. The scrape of the bookcase that hid the entrance to the closet was followed by the low murmur of voices and then the muffled sound of the door closing.
Margo took a deep breath and slipped out of her room. The house was quiet and dark. Not even the distant sound of the servants moving about the kitchen was apparent. Just outside her door was the small, circular staircase that connected the two main floors of the house in this block.
Her slippers were silent on the stone staircase, but she stepped carefully when she reached the corridor and ducked into The Argory. The earl was in bed, reading by the light of a branch of candles. He shut his book with a snap and tossed it aside. The light licked over his naked chest, playing off of muscle and sinew.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“Really?” Margo said, flicking her eyes over him. She slipped off her dressing gown and tossed it onto the chair beside the bed.
“It never pays to be too certain of anything,” he said carefully.
“I suppose not,” Margo said, pulling her nightgown over her head. Philip sucked in a harsh breath as she dropped it atop her dressing gown.
He smiled, eyes roaming over every curve with hungry appreciation. Margo raised a challenging brow, and the earl’s smile widened into an outright grin. With sudden decision, Philip threw back the covers and reached out to yank her into the bed.
He rolled her beneath him and brought his mouth down over hers. There was nothing sweet or courtly about his kiss. It matched her own burning sense of urgency perfectly. His tongue tangled with hers, and their teeth clashed.
His hand slid between her thighs, and Margo gasped, arching up to meet the stroke of his fingers. The earl’s mouth found her breast. He caught her nipple between his teeth and bit down hard enough to make her gasp.
Margo tightened her thighs around his hand, on the verge of climax. A hollow, ravenous ache flooded through her. She slid her hand down the hard plane of his stomach to find his cock.
“Now, Philip.” Her voice came out in a breathy whine. “Please.”
The earl’s mouth left her breast. He blew across her wet skin, causing her nipple to bud tightly. His thumb continued to circle. Her thighs began to shake.
“I was thinking of lingering a bit.” Philip pushed her hand away from his cock and found the pulse point beneath her ear and sucked lightly. “Savoring the moment.”
Margo hooked one leg over his hip, skin sliding sensuously over skin. “Later, my lord.”
His answering c
huckle vibrated through her sternum. “We did this your way once, frantic, with no finesse, and I don’t think either of us found it particularly satisfying.”
Trapped beneath him, Margo huffed indignantly. Philip caught her wrists and pinned her hands above her head, holding her in place one-handed. If she wrapped her hand around his cock again, the game would be up, and he wasn’t ready to cede control to Margo. Not yet, anyway. He delved into her with the hand that was still between her thighs. Her body contracted around his fingers.
Margo stared up at him, plans for retaliation clearly flitting behind her dark eyes. Philip kissed her again, lingering over her mouth. He sucked on her lip, traced the edge with his tongue, and then plunged in and devoured her.
“I swear to God, Philip,” she said when he moved on to explore her neck. Her voice rose on his name as his teeth scraped over the skin where neck met shoulder.
“Swear to any gods you like,” he said, sliding a third finger into her and pushing down hard on her clitoris with his thumb. “Just do it quietly.”
Margo’s breathing hitched and she went suddenly rigid, trembling from head to toe. Philip kissed her hard, cutting off her keening cry of climax. Before the last ripple faded, he fitted his body to hers and thrust in.
Wet heat welcomed him. Margo’s body yielded to the invasion of his own and her thighs tightened around him, soft flesh cupping his hips. She arched, gasped, and ground against him as though searching for more. Philip let go of her wrists, and she braced herself against one of the rows of books that made up the headboard.
Each hard thrust was met with one of her own. Margo strained beneath him, knees rising to grasp his ribs. Every small sound he wrung from her spurred him on, narrowing his world: this room, this bed, this body. Damp skin and ragged breath, nothing else existed.
This was what he’d missed all these years as a widower. True physical communion. Something not to be found in fleeting trysts, the expensive serails of London, or within the circle of his own hand.
The satisfaction of giving pleasure was a delight of its own, and one he’d been denied at Ranelagh. Margo’s release crashed over him, and he spilled himself into her. The room flickered to black, and he came to lying atop her, while Margo’s hands moved lightly up and down his spine and her quim pulsed in time with the heartbeat that sounded loudly in his ear.
