He took her arm again and walked toward the stairs with her. “We didn’t explore the garden earlier. It is rather nice.”
“I hate plants.” She took another swallow of her champagne. “I like champagne. The bubbles m-make me happy.” She stumbled and fell against him. “Do they m-make you happy?”
“Not as happy as they appear to make you.”
“Let’s f-find the b-bottle.”
“Let’s not.” They should now be out of view of the drawing room, so he could put his arm around her to steady her. He did not want her pitching headlong down the steps.
“But I want to. I need more ch-cham—” She grinned and held up her glass.
Thank God it was almost empty. He plucked it out of her fingers.
“Hey!” She reached for it—and stumbled against him again. “I want more.”
“Perhaps after we take a turn about the garden.”
Anne frowned. “But I want more now.”
“But I’m not going to give you more now. You’ve had quite enough.”
“You aren’t my keeper.” Her frown deepened. “You’re not my f-father or b-brother.”
“Thank God for that.” He started down the stairs. “Trust me, you will be happier for a little fresh air.”
Her bottom lip pushed out in a pout—and then she heaved a loud, gusty, alcoholic sigh. “Oh, v-very well.”
She allowed him to lead her down the stairs and along the path, farther into the garden. At least the sun was finally going down. The lengthening shadows would make it harder for anyone to see them, but it would be better to find a place where Miss Davenport could sober up in privacy. Where . . . ?
Ah, now he remembered. There was a secluded bower, a little nook of trellises and vines, just ahead. He steered her in that direction.
“Where are we g-going?”
“Somewhere you can sit and, er, catch your breath.”
“All right.” She leaned heavily into him, making it a little difficult to walk. Fortunately they didn’t have much farther to go. “Are you going to”—she hiccupped (at least he hoped it was only a hiccup)—“sit with me?”
“Of course.” He certainly wasn’t about to abandon a drunken woman in the vegetation, not that he was afraid someone would accost her. No, he was worried she might fall into a fountain and drown.
“Oh, good.” Her arm snaked round his waist. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a lovely ch-chest, Lord H-Haywood?”
This time, he was the one who stumbled. “Ah, er, no, I don’t believe anyone ever has.”
“Well, you do.” She put her free hand on that part of his body. “Not that I’m an expert, m-mind you.” She giggled.
“Er . . .” What was the proper response to such a statement from a drunken spinster? “Thank you.”
“You have a l-lovely stomach, too, and shoulders and arms and neck.” She sighed with apparent admiration. “I’m sure you are l-lovely all over.”
His brainless cock stirred, eager to be examined and complimented, as well.
No! Remember, the woman is drunk. She has no idea what she is saying.
Where the hell is that bower?
“Ah”—thank God!—“here we are then.” The place was so overgrown he’d almost missed it. The vines not only covered the trellised top and both sides, they spilled down the front. Banningly might wish to have a word with his gardener about his pruning schedule.
He pushed away one of the dangling vines and guided Anne inside. It really was private. Anne could definitely recover her wits here unobserved.
“Ohh.” Anne looked around. “It’s a green cave. I like it.”
“Yes, it is nice. Now do have a seat on this bench.”
“If you’ll sit with me. You d-did promise.”
He had no choice. She pulled him down as she half sat, half fell onto the stone slab.
She wrinkled her nose as soon as she righted herself. “It hurts my bottom.”
Zeus! Now all he could think of was her round, soft arse. “It is stone, Miss Da—what are you doing? Stop that.”
The woman was trying to crawl into his lap.
“I’m sure you’re softer than this bench.”
He wasn’t so certain about that. “Be that as it may, you will sit on the stone.” Hell, he didn’t want to hurt her, but he was not about to have her plant her feminine hindquarters on his hard and getting harder . . . lap.
He put her firmly back on the bench.
She pouted and then pressed against him, her hands moving everywhere. It was like sitting next to an octopus—not that he had ever done that, of course. Her fingers dove under his coat and tried to unbutton his waistcoat. He captured them and put them in her lap, snatching his own fingers back before they could venture into dangerous territory.
“Behave yourself, Miss Davenport.”
His admonition fell on deaf ears. Her other hand had sneaked behind him to land on his arse.
Why hadn’t Banningly put a back on this bench?
He reached round to pluck her roving hand away, but he made a serious tactical error by turning toward her to accomplish this goal. The moment his body twisted to face hers, she tried to wriggle onto his lap again—this time successfully—her fingers diving into his hair, combing from his temples to the back of his head.
Mmm. He felt the stroke of each finger all the way to his cock.
Is this how a cat feels when it’s being petted?
He definitely felt like purring and rubbing up against—
I must get Anne—Miss Davenport—off my lap.
His hands grasped her waist, but couldn’t complete the lift-and-remove portion of the required action. Instead, they insisted on holding her right where she was.
He resorted to words. “Miss Davenport, please. Restrain yourself.”
“I don’t want to.”
God save him from tipsy virgins. Her fingers had moved from his hair to his jaw and chin, her thumbs brushing over his lips, sending jolts of pleasure through him.
“Madam, you are foxed.”
“Your skin is so scratchy here”—she traced the line of his jaw—“but so soft here.” She ran the tip of her finger back and forth over his lower lip.
Don’t open your mouth—
She pulled his lip down, dipping her finger in, moistening it so it slid more smoothly.
Oh, God. All he could think of was exploring her nether lips, slick with—
No! He had to get her off his lap.
Still, his hands refused to obey him. Instead, the wicked things pushed her down to meet his swelling, welcoming—
“Kiss me.” She pressed her mouth against his jaw—and then licked her way up to his ear.
Perhaps she isn’t a virgin, his cock whispered.
Shut up, Cock!
Miss Davenport’s actions were tentative and awkward enough to proclaim her inexperience, unless she was a very, very talented actress.
“Please? Kiss me like you did in the Spinster House garden.”
She’d managed to get his cravat loose and was now pressing her lips against his neck.
“No. It’s not proper.” I sound like a bloody old spinster myself.
She leaned back, and he blinked away his lust. There was still enough light to see desire and anxiety swirling in her eyes.
And something else, something fundamental, a need that hadn’t come from a champagne glass, that went deeper than sexual craving. It pulled at him—
“Please?” Her jaw hardened. “You have to.”
He didn’t have to do anything. He was a man. He was in control. A woman’s place was to subjugate herself, to yield, to welcome a man’s body into hers. Not to give orders.
Anne shifted in his lap, and his cock begged him to subjugate himself to her wishes. To worship her with his hands and mouth and finally—
No, there could be no finally. If he took her virginity, he would have to give her his name.
And what would be the matter with that?
> That was his cock talking again. He couldn’t marry, not yet.
Why not?
The desire pounding in his veins made it difficult to think. The reason had something to do with Marcus—
Marcus, who is sick to death of what he sees as your officiousness.
It’s the curse. That’s what’s controlling him. I have to—
Miss Davenport grabbed his face in both hands and awkwardly planted her lips on his.
To hell with Marcus.
* * *
Part of Anne was appalled by her boldness, but the alcohol quickly drowned her scruples, leaving a mishmash of emotion churning in her gut. She felt angry and sad, abandoned, embarrassed, frustrated, disgusted.
And something else. Something hot and needy.
She needed Lord Hellwood to help her forget what her father had said back in the drawing room. She needed to lose herself in the physical wonder of his touch.
She pressed her lips harder against his.
He could be a statue for all the reaction he showed.
This was hopeless. She might be pot-valiant, but she wasn’t completely soused. Lord Hellwood wasn’t going to kiss her. In a moment, he’d shove her off his lap and stand, disgusted at her behavior. She should—
The marquess moved, but not to push her away. One of his hands cupped her face, while the other stroked down her back, pulling her closer.
Oh, yes. This was what she needed.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she welcomed him in. He slid deep, filling her with heat—and an odd feeling of contentment.
This was exactly what she needed—whom she needed.
Her fingers threaded through his thick, silky hair, but it wasn’t enough. The image of him, naked to his waist, was burned into her memory. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin against hers.
She dropped her hands, burrowing under his coat and waistcoat to find his shirt and tug it free.
The marquess made a small sound—perhaps a growl or a moan or a sigh of disappointment—and grasped her hands, stopping their explorations. He drew away from her, and she suddenly felt chilled, even though the night was warm.
“Neither of us can travel that route, Miss Davenport,” he said firmly.
And regretfully? Did she hear that note in his voice, too? She tried to find it in his eyes, but the shadows were now too deep for her to see his expression clearly.
“You called me Anne before. I think we are now well enough acquainted that you can dispense with Miss Davenport.”
He laughed. “But think how shocked the other guests will be if I make free with your Christian name, Anne.”
She liked the sound of her name when he said it. She wished he’d give her leave to use his name, too.
“Then don’t call me it in company.” She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and was encouraged to note that his eyes followed the motion. “Just when we are private”—she smiled at him—“like this.”
He frowned, all playfulness gone. “We cannot be private again, Miss Davenport.”
Drat. They were back to that.
He must have sensed her hurt because his lips turned up in a slight, perhaps regretful smile. “You are a woman of marriageable age, and I have no intentions of marrying for many more years.” He shrugged, and then said in a softer tone, “But if it happens that we are ever alone again, you may call me Nate.”
“Nate.” She was far too thrilled at that intimacy. She traced one of his eyebrows with the tip of her finger. “Nate.”
He caught her hand, turned it to press a kiss on her palm, and then stood, pulling her up with him. “And now we must—oh, blast.”
The precipitous change in position was not a good thing. The garden started spinning.
“You are going to be sick,” she heard Nate say as if from a distance, and then he held her as she bent over a hapless bush. Wave after wave of nausea racked her.
“Ohh.” Her stomach finally stopped heaving, but she was afraid to straighten in case she’d start it off again. She braced herself with her hands on her knees. She knew she should be mortified that the marquess had witnessed such an undignified and, well, disgusting sight, but she was too ill to feel anything but awful. She ran her tongue around her mouth. Ugh. The taste was going to make her sick again.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to croak.
“Well, it was to be expected.” The unfeeling man’s voice was brisk. “If you’ll remember, I did warn you to stop drinking.”
She squinted up at him. “Are you always this annoying?”
He grinned at her. “Perhaps next time you’ll take my advice.”
“Humph.” Gaah. She made the mistake of observing the mess she’d deposited in the vegetation, and her stomach threatened to revolt again. She quickly averted her gaze. Hopefully no one else would come this way before a cleansing rainfall washed the evidence away.
“Come on, let’s get you up to your room.”
She had embarrassed herself in front of him quite enough this evening. “You go along. I’ll come up when I feel a bit more the thing.”
“Oh, no, I’m not leaving you here.” He grasped her elbow and eased her upright, more slowly this time.
She braced herself on his chest. It would serve him right if his coat paid the price of his interference. The trees spun round a bit, but settled down without costing her any more of her stomach’s contents.
Well, her stomach did feel quite empty. It likely had no more to spend.
“It’s actually a good thing you shot the cat,” Lord Hellwood—no, Lord Haywood—Nate—said in an annoyingly cheerful manner as he started to drag her along the walk. “You got some of the alcohol out of your system, so your head won’t ache quite so much in the morning.”
“You mean there’s more suffering to come?” She hung on to his arm and staggered along beside him.
“Well, it’s hard to say for certain. And I hope to give you something to reduce any ill effects.”
“Ohh, I am never going to drink again.”
He laughed. “I don’t think you have to go that far.” They stopped by a door, and he leaned her up against the side of the building. “Wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
Nate merely held his finger to his lips and slipped inside.
He wasn’t deserting her, was he? She wrapped her arms around her waist and looked about. If she had to guess, she’d say she was near the kitchen—this looked like a kitchen garden. But it was quite shadowy. The sun had set while they were busy in the bower, leaving only the moon, the stars, and the glow from a few windows to illuminate her surroundings,
Nate had better come back. I have no idea how to find my room.
She shifted from foot to foot. How long had he been gone? It could have been five minutes or fifteen. Her stomach was beginning to churn again.
An owl hooted. Some small animal rustled through the nearby bushes, and she jumped.
She would count to one hundred. If he had not come back by then, she’d take her chances and follow him inside. If someone discovered her—she hoped someone discovered her—she’d claim she was lost. Well, that would be the truth, wouldn’t it? Surely a footman or maid would take pity on her and show her the way to her room, where she could curl into a ball and die.
She wrapped her arms more tightly around her unhappy stomach and started counting. Unfortunately, every odd noise—and the night was full of odd noises—distracted her. She’d reached thirty-two, perhaps for the second or third time, when the door finally opened and Nate came out.
“Oh, thank God! I was afraid you’d forgotten me.”
“Sorry. It took me longer than I expected to find the ingredients.”
“The ingredients for what?” She saw he had a cup in his hand. She eyed it suspiciously.
“A cure for your affliction.” He offered it to her. “Drink up.”
She backed up a step and wrinkled her nose. “It smells evil. What’s in it?”
&nbs
p; He grinned. “You don’t want to know, but I promise you it works.”
She covered her mouth, her stomach already protesting. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I won’t lie to you—it tastes as bad as it smells, so it’s best to gulp it down as quickly as possible.” He held the cup out again. “Come on. Be brave. I assure you you’ll thank me later.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer. Gingerly, reluctantly, she took the cup. The concoction not only stank, it looked foul as well—brown and thick. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“Of course not. You really will thank me in the morning.”
“I’ll be dead in the morning.”
“No, you won’t. Now stop fussing and drink it.”
Oh, what did it matter? It was hard to imagine she could feel any worse than she did already. She took a deep breath—through her mouth to avoid the smell—and tried to pour the disgusting liquid down her throat without having it touch the inside of her mouth. She was not successful.
“Gah.” She thrust the cup back at him and tried not to gag. Now that she’d managed to get the revolting stuff down, she wanted it to stay down.
“Well done! And here, I have this piece of candied ginger for you. It will help get rid of the taste and settle your stomach.”
She sucked on the sweetmeat while Lord Haywood put the cup on a ledge by the door so the servants would find it in the morning. She was starting to feel almost human again. “I think I can make it to my room now without being sick.”
He took her arm and started walking. “See? It does work, doesn’t it?”
“For the moment.” She wasn’t ready to applaud his doctoring skills quite yet. “Why are you taking me farther into the shrubbery?”
“It’s the way to the back door. We could go in through the kitchen, but I think that unwise. We would look very out of place together there. The cook remembers when I ran tame at the Manor, so she didn’t think much of my showing up in her domain. And gentlemen are always mixing potions to deal with the aftereffects of over-imbibing. But I don’t believe you wish to advertise the fact that you were the one who needed that concoction or that you’ve been out here with me quite so long. You know how servants talk.”
“Y-yes.” She waited to feel horror at the notion of people gossiping about her.
How to Manage a Marquess Page 13
