by Christine Merrill/Marguerite Kaye/Annie Burrows/Barbara Monajem/Linda Skye
Besides, one other reason overshadowed them all. Damn him, he was entirely correct. She didn’t know how he could tell, but she was terribly afraid.
A faint smile curled his lips. He led her into a paneled room with family portraits on the walls. ‘Why not indulge your natural passion?’
Fury, sharp as lemons, roiled up inside her. ‘Why should I? I have the right to avoid carnal passion if I so choose!’
‘As long as you truly do choose.’
What if she tried and failed once again? She’d wanted to please Timothy—of course she had—but this was different. She knew too much about herself now. Not only that, the more she saw of the marquis, the more she liked him. The thought of being shamed and shunned once again… She didn’t think she could bear it.
He closed the door, shutting them together into the gallery. ‘Plenty of those old Puritans made a practice of pretense, too.’
‘I’m not pretending!’ She was protecting herself. Shielding herself from pain.
His warm voice teased her. ‘What they professed was one thing, and what they thought and did behind closed doors, another entirely.’
A hot blush flooded her entire being. She’d had plenty of carnal feelings before marrying Timothy, the sort one enjoyed but kept to oneself. Timothy had snuffed out those feelings like a candle, pinched her flame cold and dead in a few short weeks. She’d felt almost nothing for a whole year. Hadn’t thought about love, hadn’t touched herself… and now, with his caressing voice and his casual kisses, Lord Warbury had lit that candle again, only it was more like a torch this time.
He winked. ‘I’ll wager you’re the same.’
She swallowed, eyes on the floor, embarrassed beyond words.
He put two fingers beneath her chin and tipped it upwards. ‘You’re not uninterested in pleasure. I see the fire within you.’
‘You can’t possibly see what’s—’
His eyes, half-lidded, burned into her. ‘Of course I can.’ He put his arms around her and touched her lips with his. ‘It may be a small flame now, but it will grow.’
She quivered at his touch, at the light in his eyes. At their closeness, at her breasts brushing his chest and his hands resting on her back just above her derriere. That fire was already growing; desire licked and flickered, flickered and licked through her breasts and belly and thighs.
It would come to nothing. Imagination and reality were horrid worlds apart. She thrust her hands between them, pressing them to his chest. ‘How do you know? It could just as easily go out. I don’t want—’
He kissed the words away. ‘It won’t go out if we encourage it.’ He blew softly, and in spite of her fear she laughed—uncertainly, to be sure. ‘Burn, little flame.’ He kissed her again. ‘In case you’re wondering how much encouragement, there are many, many berries on the mistletoe above us.’
She glanced up. A kissing ring swung gently from a hook in the ceiling. There must be a draft up there.
He licked the tip of her chin. ‘I put it there just for us. We’re going to kiss and kiss and kiss.’
She groaned and gave in, and his lips captured hers with soft, warm kisses, tempting kisses, making her want to open to the gentle probing of his lips and tongue. Making her want to taste him.
‘Feel free to invade me any time you like,’ he whispered. She grasped his shoulders and kissed him back, dabbing tentatively with her tongue. His tongue fenced lightly with hers. He licked her lips, and she licked his. She made a small noise of pleasure, shivering again, wanting, wanting.
Now his tongue became bolder, but instead of revolting her, the warm insistence of its caresses made her want to open more. To take him into her mouth, to taste and savour him. She couldn’t have kept her lips together if she’d wanted to, not when she could run them over the raspy skin of his upper lip and chin. Not when she could nip at his lips and lose herself as he sucked on hers. She heard her own tiny laugh of pleasure and twined her arms about his neck, pulling him closer, crushing herself to his chest. His hands roamed her back, rested briefly on her hips and squeezed, moved down to cup her derriere. He pulled her hard against him.
Oh, no, what had she done? She squirmed out of his embrace, panting. ‘We shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, so sorry. Thank you very much for kissing me. It was wonderful, but I didn’t mean to tempt you and then, and then… I’m sorry, but I just can’t.’
Cam thought she might burst into tears. What the devil? They’d been kissing and embracing, and things had being proceeding nicely, thank you very much, and he’d pulled her closer…
Ah. She’d noticed his arousal.
‘We were only kissing,’ he said. ‘And enjoying the feel of each other. Nothing more.’
Her worried eyes rested on the bulge in his breeches. ‘But—you’re erect. It’ll hurt if I don’t give you the relief you need.’ She stared at him. ‘Won’t it?’
‘No, of course not. Did Timothy tell you that?’ He didn’t need an answer. ‘It subsides on its own if one thinks about something else. Or, if you weren’t in the mood and it mattered that much to him, he could have taken care of it himself.’ She knit her brows. ‘Pleasured himself, you know. Like you pleasure yourself in bed.’
‘No, I—’ Her hands flew to her mouth. She was so transparent; she couldn’t admit it, but neither could she deny it.
He couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Like this.’ He squeezed his cock through the fabric of his breeches, pulling on it, half closing his eyes. ‘It feels good, as I’m sure you know from playing with yourself.’
‘I—’
‘Did he ever play with you? Like this?’ Before she could stop him, he brushed the back of his hand up the apex of her thighs. She sucked in a sharp breath, and he pulled her close, cupping her mound, kneading gently through her skirts, watching her head fall back and her breathing quicken. She moaned.
He kissed her again. His hand slipped away, and she moaned again, this time with dismay. Don’t stop… But now he dropped kisses from her ear to her throat, while that wandering hand slowly, tantalizingly raised her skirts.
‘Do you want me to play with you?’ His voice and hands sent tremors of need shimmering through her.
‘Please,’ she whispered, and his other hand trailed up her thigh, slowly, unbearably. She whimpered, wanting his touch, wanting it now…
His fingers delved into the wetness at her core, slipped and slid over her most sensitive spot, then settled into a rhythm. She pulsed wildly around his caresses. This was nothing like she’d done to herself alone in her chamber. She’d controlled it then; now she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only writhe against his fingers and moan for more. His fingers drove her higher, helplessly higher and faster, on and on until she exploded and convulsed, over and over again.
She slumped against him, heart pummeling against her chest. Throb. Oh, God. Throb. Oh, God.
Laughing voices broke the spell. She gasped and wrenched away, staggering.
‘Damn it, why are they headed here?’ He put out a hand to steady her. ‘What a damned nuisance.’
Frantically, she smoothed her gown and patted her hair. ‘My God, what am I to do?’
‘Act as if that didn’t just happen,’ he said imperturbably.
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she snapped.
‘Not really. I’m imagining being ducked in the fishpond, but it’s not working quickly enough.’ He glanced at the bulge in his breeches. ‘Fortunately, I really do have something else to show you.’
‘I must have been out of my mind to let you bring me up here.’ What would people think when they found her alone with the marquis? ‘This will affect not only my reputation, but Almeria’s, as well.’
He picked up the lamp and strode to a set of three portraits—a gentlemen to each side and a lady in the centre. ‘Stop worrying about Almeria. She will marry well, I assure you.’
Because he planned to wed her? That seemed so wrong after what they’d just done. The very thought made Frances ill.
; Beneath the portraits was a massive oaken chest with a table next to it. He set the lamp on the table, lifted the lid of the chest and rummaged through it.
Perhaps he merely meant that beautiful heiresses always married well. Or perhaps the sick feeling was because her heart kept thudding and thudding as the voices approached—Lady Warbury’s friendly tones, the Druid’s cheerful ones and Almeria’s laugh.
The marquis brought out a folded strip of linen. He shook out the herbs placed inside to deter insects, handed it to her and shut the chest. ‘Sit.’
She obeyed, he sat next to her, and the door opened. A troop of people armed with bedroom candles entered, followed by the Druid with a lamp. Good grief, everyone was here. Alan Folk raised odious brows at the sight of Frances and Cam, while Mrs. Cutlow’s expression was positively green.
‘Strangely enough,’ Lady Warbury was saying, ‘the orchard, which is celebrated each year with pagan rites, was first planted by a Puritan. He would certainly have disapproved of such goings-on.’ She stopped. ‘Oh, there you are, Cam. And Mrs. Burdett. I wondered where you’d gone.’
‘We’re looking at Margery’s embroidery.’ Cam didn’t sound the least bit discomposed. Which wasn’t surprising, supposed Frances, since rakes must often find themselves in compromising situations.
Frances, on the other hand, had never done anything so improper in her life. Horrified that her mortification would show, she kept her eyes on the strip of linen as if she were examining it minutely. On it was embroidered a series of scenes from house and farmyard.
‘Oh, yes, the hobgoblin piece,’ Lady Warbury said. ‘How apropos, since I thought our visitors might like to hear the legend. Isn’t the hob a darling?’
In her flustered state, Frances hadn’t even noticed him—a dark, knobby little fellow with sparse hair jutting from beneath a brown cap, plucking an egg from under a bored-looking hen. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she managed. ‘Almeria, come sit with me and take a look.’
Obligingly, Cam stood to give Almeria his chair. The bulge in his breeches was gone. He had spoken the truth—his erection had subsided on its own.
She dragged her mind back to more proper subjects. ‘See, he’s stealing an egg.’
‘And there he is amongst the raspberries,’ Almeria said. ‘What a charming little man.’ She pointed. ‘And eating cake upon a shelf.’
‘And in the boughs of that apple tree,’ Frances said. Something chased through her mind, a thought or a memory she couldn’t quite catch.
‘It’s thanks to the hobgoblin that we perform the rites of wassail,’ Lady Warbury said.
‘Making the orchard flourish,’ the Druid added.
Both Alan and Mrs. Cutlow rolled their eyes. Lady Warbury ignored them. She motioned to the Druid to hold the lantern higher, illuminating one of the three portraits above the chest—a grumpy-looking Puritan in a wig and square white collar. ‘This is Edward Pale. We lost the estate under Cromwell’s rule, and this man bought it. He seems to have been a good master and landlord, but fiercely against any sort of festivities. He died childless, bequeathing the estate to his wife, Margery, who in turn married Camden’s great-great-grandfather.’
The Druid moved the lantern to show the other two portraits in the group, a richly dressed courtier and his wife.
‘According to the stories, it was because of Duff, our hobgoblin, that she married him,’ Lady Warbury said. ‘Margery did plenty of other stitchery, but legend says she kept this one a secret, working on it only when no one else could see her. She’d heard the tales that hobs and such were survivors from pagan times, and knew she would suffer if her husband learned she’d seen one.’
‘She would have been considered a witch,’ the Druid said. ‘And they might have tried to catch and kill the hob.’
Mrs. Cutlow yawned, and Alan said, ‘Superstitious idiots. There’s no such thing.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ the Druid retorted. ‘There’s no proof either way.’
‘In any event,’ Cam interposed smoothly, ‘when my great-great-grandfather came a-courting her—courting his estate, to be accurate—she agreed to marry him only when she was certain Duff approved.’
‘What a lot of gammon,’ Alan said. ‘How could she possibly know? That’s a fairy tale if ever I heard one.’
‘Fairy tales are fun,’ Frances said indignantly. ‘Believing in them does no harm.’
‘That makes a good first part for the motto,’ the marquis said with a grin. Firstly, Believe in Fairy Tales, and Secondly, Do No Harm.’
‘What a lovely motto.’ Almeria giggled. ‘I adore fairy tales.’
Alan snorted, glancing from the marquis to Almeria and back. ‘It’s a good thing Cam’s father isn’t alive to hear that. It would have sent him into fits.’
Because Cam was about to propose marriage to a girl who loved fairy tales? Something inside Frances twisted unhappily. He would make her a good husband—would make any woman a good husband… Please, not Almeria.
‘His motto was, First, Tell Everyone What to Think, Say, and Do, and Second, Beat It into Them,’ Edwin said. ‘He used to cane Cam for insisting the hob was real.’
‘Oh, how horrid!’ Almeria cried, all big blue eyes and fluttering lashes. Frances gritted her teeth and pretended to examine Margery’s needlework again. When had she become such a jealous cat?
‘Which meant Cam stubbornly insisted all the more,’ Alan said, ‘even when he was well past the age of believing such nonsense.’
‘And I have the scars to prove it,’ Cam said ruefully.
‘You always were a brave boy,’ his mother said.
This time it was Cam who rolled his eyes. ‘Stubborn, you mean.’
‘And so dedicated to the second half of our motto,’ she went on. ‘Always kind-hearted, always determined to do no harm.’
Something crossed his face so quickly Frances wondered if she’d seen it at all in the dim light. ‘Mother, you’re putting me to the blush,’ he said, but whatever that emotion had been, it wasn’t embarrassment.
‘That’s a mother’s privilege,’ Lady Warbury said. ‘I was overjoyed when you reinstituted the wassail and giving the hob Christmas treats. These sorts of traditions are worth perpetuating whether one believes in them or not.’ She took the strip of linen from Frances. ‘Good night, everyone. Cam, please stay and help me for a minute or two.’
Frances went to bed thinking about Cam withstanding his father on principle to the point of being beaten until he bled, and about Margery’s courage in embroidering scenes that might have cost her her life. It was long before she slept, but she fell asleep knowing what she had to do.
‘No!’ Cam said to his mother. ‘How can you even suggest it?’ Whilst she’d calmly sprinkled herbs and refolded the embroidered linen, she’d also told him he must seduce Frances, of all things!
‘But she’s a widow, dearest, and a very pretty one. It would be no sacrifice on your part.’
She was right about that. He’d never been so aroused in his life as while watching Frances come. The rise and fall of her bosom, the flutter of her lashes, the flush on her lips and cheeks… He’d brought many women to orgasm, but it had never affected him like this.
His mother talked on. ‘She must be lonely, as it’s well over a year since Timothy died. As long as you’re careful not to get her with child, what better opportunity for a dalliance?’
This was precisely what he’d planned, but when his mother put it like that, he wanted to give her a tongue-lashing such as she’d never had in her life. Instead, he managed to say with commendable calm, ‘Frances is a respectable widow, Mama, not a bored wife on the prowl.’
His mother tsked. ‘Frances is a woman, Cam, with desires like any other. Poor dear, she can’t be more than twenty-three or-four, and she scarcely had a taste of marriage before it was over.’ Her eyes gleamed, a sign she was warming to her topic. ‘In fact, since you were so close to Timothy, I believe it’s your duty to bring Frances back into the world of the l
iving.’
‘Not with a tawdry house-party tryst.’ Suddenly doubting himself and his well-laid scheme, he strode to the window and parted the curtains to gaze at the white night. He shut them again, turning. ‘Mother, I don’t do that anymore.’
Where had that come from? He had every intention of going right back to his old ways, once he’d taken care of Frances. Now that he thought of it, though, the prospect didn’t hold much appeal.
She gaped at him. ‘You don’t bed pretty women?’ She faltered, looking at nothing but clearly recognizing his recent lack of interest in dalliance. ‘Gracious me, I just thought you’d been more discreet lately. Dear boy, has something happened to you?Are youincapable?’
Good God. ‘No, Mama, of course not.’ He floundered for something to say. ‘I expect… I’ve matured, that’s all.’
That had a daunting ring of truth.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’ve sown all your wild oats.’ That gleam in her eye deepened. Next she would take up matchmaking again, certain the time had come for him to marry.
‘If you want to be useful, try discouraging Mrs. Cutlow from pursuing me. She makes the corridors hazardous at night.’ He left before she could say anything more.
Damn it all, how could he have not seen it before? Frances wasn’t the sort of woman one dallied with. She was the kind of woman one married. But she’d refused to wed again, so what choice did he have but to dally with her, if he was to make amends?
Firstly, Bed Frances Burdett, and Secondly, Do No Harm.
It had seemed good enough as a temporary motto when he’d first considered it. Now all he could think about was what might happen to her after she left his home, newly awakened, newly vulnerable to any idiot in the Polite World.
Not that everyone out there was an idiot. He knew plenty of good fellows. He tried to think of someone who might be perfect for her, but there was no one.
Except him.
Christmas dawned bright and cold, with Jack Frost’s etchings on the windowpanes. Frances scraped at her window to peek at the white gardens below. They travelled the half mile to and from the village church in two horse-drawn sledges. In the afternoon, clouds gathered and it began to snow again.
