“What now?” He could not be ashamed that his voice was unstable.
“I don’t know,” she said against his lips. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Never?”
“Not even close.”
“At the risk of offending you unpardonably—”
“You like that phrase.” She nipped at his jaw.
“What is your age, Angela?”
“Twenty-seven. That is, seven-and-twenty.”
Seven-and-twenty. A widow, perhaps, claiming to be a maiden? She usually showed none of the confident brass of a Bird of Paradise. But this temptress in his arms was no shy spinster.
She twined her fingers into his hair. “And, yes, I’m a virgin.”
He couldn’t breathe. “You are telling me this only now, after you have rubbed your naked body against mine?”
“I didn’t plan this. I’m not a tease.”
“I am not entirely believing you.” He was going to die.
“I understand. And I agree; sex isn’t a good idea, for several reasons. But maybe I can make up for it in another way.” Her warm hand wrapped around his erection. She pressed her mouth to his ear and flicked her tongue inside it. “But first you’ll have to get this—” She squeezed gently. “—out of the water.” Another tongue caress, this time slow. “So I can breathe.”
He grabbed her shoulders, dragged her off him and looked into her eyes in disbelief. She smiled and gave a quick nod.
He leaped out of the water like it was on fire.
His buttocks were barely on the ledge when she moved between his knees, took his cock in her hand and, looking up at him through lashes glittering with starlight, closed her lips around the head.
She took him in deep.
Her mouth was soft and wet and hot and capable. She used her tongue and her full lips, then her hands too, and Trent dropped his head back and stared blearily at the stars as she worked him.
“I’ve never done this to such a handsome man.” She licked the length of him from base to tip, then the head, and he shuddered. “Or to a man with such a big—”
“Don’t tell me,” he groaned. “I don’t want to hear about anyone else.”
“Regency-era double standards.” She stroked. “You’re happy for me to do this, but you don’t want me to have ever learned how.”
“No.”
“As a man in this world, you can be as sexually adventuresome as you wish.” Her lips caressed confidently, then her tongue. “But I’m supposed to be a virgin till the day I die unless I marry.”
“No.” He didn’t care about that. Not anymore.
“You want to be the ones who set the rules.”
“No.” He wanted to be the only one. Her only one.
The surging rush came swiftly, suddenly. She was sucking on him when he came. A cry of pleasure broke from her in unison with his moan. He swung his head up and saw her hand under the water between her legs.
In a fluid movement of satisfaction, she released him and sank back in the water, her eyes closed, lips parted, her lovely face lifted to the night. Trent stared and couldn’t stare enough. He wanted her. Even now he wanted her. More and more.
He fell back and covered his face with his hands.
“That,” she said languorously, “I enjoyed.”
He could speak no rational words. No man could be this fortunate.
But he wasn’t fortunate, in fact. She would leave, inevitably. Unless he could make her stay.
No. He could not wish that. Brazen, scandalously sexual, and unwisely adventuresome she might be, but he would never ask her to be his mistress. He would not be that sort of husband. Concerning some matters, at least, his father had taught him well.
She glided through the water to the bank two yards away and rested her arms on the stone and her chin on her hands.
Now, at this moment, he could slip into the water with her, take her into his arms, and make her his. Then he would be honor-bound to wed her. Then there would be no saving his father and his family.
Madness. He closed his eyes.
“Trent?”
“Angel?”
She was silent. He turned his head to see her smiling softly.
“Yes?” he prodded.
Her smile slipped away. “I need you to know, I’m not a prostitute. I haven’t even had that many physical encounters with men. I know that in this era a woman who does what I just did—even a lot less than that—is considered whorish. But in my era it’s pretty common.”
“I think I want to live in your era.”
She laughed. Then her smile turned wistful, which was insane and adorable and breathtaking. He looked up at the heavens and laid his palm over his face again.
“Please don’t regret this,” she said.
“I am far from regretting this,” he said.
A gentle splash mingled with cricket song. The nightingale with insomnia had finally gone to bed. He would return tomorrow evening and look for it. He didn’t yet have a nightingale for his catalogue.
The Flora and Fauna of Great Britain, he would title it. He would take it to the publisher he’d long since researched and see it reproduced for naturalists everywhere. In his dreams.
He drew a deep breath and sat up. Halfway across the lake already, she was headed toward the opposite shore.
He climbed to his feet. “Where are you going?”
“To find Sir Richard and talk with him,” she called over her shoulder.
What? “At this time of night?”
“He’s probably in the stables. All the men are. I’m surprised you weren’t tonight.”
He wasn’t because he’d been busy being interviewed by his future bride about his wardrobe. His gut was sick.
“You mustn’t speak with him.”
“I have to.” She was nearly to the far bank. “It’s the only way.”
“The only way for—Blast.” He dove into the water and cut it with quick strokes. By the time he reached the other side, she had already donned her undergarment and was fastening the stays about her ribs. He grabbed up his clothing. “The only way for what?”
“The only way to find out why I’m here.” She avoided looking at him. “I told you, back home I was researching him. I’m sure I’m here because of him.” She’d used her petticoat as a drying cloth and now donned the gown without it, fastening it swiftly.
Trent tugged his drawers on. Blast it, everything was wet and sticking. “You cannot speak with him.” He struggled with the linen.
“Why not?”
Because Sir Richard was reprehensible and Trent was going to marry his daughter. He didn’t know which information he wanted to protect her from the most. “You expect he will have answers for you? That he will believe your story?”
“I won’t tell him.” She grabbed her slippers and stockings from the ground and started up the path barefoot. “I’ll just ask a few questions and see where that gets me.”
His shirt clung to his damp skin impossibly; he couldn’t tuck it into his trousers. Damn it. “Angela!”
She halted and finally looked at him. “Trent, I need to know.”
He could tell her nothing. “Don’t. I pray you.”
She screwed up her brow. Then she shook her head and continued up the path.
Blasted obstinate, brazen, strong-willed female.
Lovely, forthright, honest, tempting female. Tempting beyond endurance. Her gown caressed her soft behind as she walked with a graceful confidence like no lady he’d ever seen. Oh, God. He wanted her.
Half-dressed, his skin drying in the warm night air, he watched her disappear up the rise into darkness. When she was gone, a patch of white drew his attention to the ground. Her petticoat.
She left garments behind without concern, like cotton grass that released its white seed down to be carried away on the breeze. Like she’d just left him behind to go find Sir Richard Howell. With her face flushed and eyes hazy. Dressed like she’d just been roll
ed in the hay.
Trousers, shirt, waistcoat, and coat barely on, boots in hand, Trent bolted toward the house.
Chapter Seven
She hadn’t been to the stables. The handful of gentlemen that greeted Trent when he burst through the door were so far gone they didn’t even notice his state of undress. But at the house anyone still awake would notice. He slipped in through the servants’ entrance and went to his father’s chamber.
The earl’s face was drawn. “What in God’s name happened to you?”
“I had a bathe in the lake. Did you speak with Sir Richard tonight?”
“In the lake? Good God, Trenton—”
“Did you, Father?”
“I did.” He removed a cigar from a case.
“And? Is it finished? Is the contract signed?”
“Not yet.”
Trent’s lungs began to function again.
His father took up a candle from the table, lit the cheroot, and took a pull. “Sir Richard requires that you offer for the girl formally. He wants it all done in the usual fashion so that it cannot be undone for any reason.” He gestured dismissively with the cigar. “Tradesmen know nothing of honor, of course.”
Trent bit down on his retort. “When you finished speaking, did he retire for the night?”
“How should I know that? I didn’t follow the weasel to his lair,” he snapped. Then his brow loosened. “Son—”
Trent closed the door behind him with every ounce of self-control he possessed.
He had rarely ventured belowstairs in any house since he was a boy. Wessex’s servants snapped to attention.
“My lord!” the housekeeper said in surprise. “May I be of service?”
They located Sir Richard’s valet. The fellow said his master had retired to bed two hours earlier. Trent made a thin excuse then and, chewing his anxiety, went to his bedchamber. He didn’t put it entirely past Angela to visit Sir Richard in his private quarters. If she had, and Howell misused her, he’d kill the villain without a second thought.
o0o
After a brief, fitful sleep he arose early and lingered in the breakfast parlor overlong. Every guest in the house came through, it seemed, except Miss Angela Cowdrey. By mid-morning he was frantic. He could not go to Lady Sophronia’s suite in search of her; he would not cast dishonor on her like that.
He could not dishonor the woman he’d bathed naked with in a lake. The woman who claimed she was from the future.
Oh, God. He’d actually gone insane.
But a few mornings earlier, when he’d been sitting against the base of an old willow sketching a pair of red-legged partridges in the grass nearby, he’d seen his old schoolmate Gareth Cavendish and Cleopatra Barrows strolling at a distance. With his attention supposedly on the birds but his thoughts entirely on Angela, he hadn’t marked it then. But they’d been walking close and Wessex had bent his head to Mrs. Barrows for a moment that became a minute ...
No. It couldn’t be. Wessex was far too responsible and honorable a fellow to dally with his betrothed’s sister the very week of his wedding. Or ever.
And Trent was far too responsible and honorable a fellow to bathe naked with a maiden in a lake at midnight within sight of the altar himself.
He needed clarity, sanity—if only for a moment. Crossing the lawn in search of Angela and coming upon his friends engaged in yet another interminable cricket match, he did the unthinkable: he threw himself into the sport.
An hour later, wretchedly hot and even more out of sorts than before, he sought out the coolest, quietest place in the house, and true sanity.
o0o
High as a hang glider from her midnight escapade with Trent, Angela couldn’t sleep. Instead, she paced the little bedchamber she occupied in Lady Sophronia’s suite and bit her nails.
Trent wasn’t telling her everything. She couldn’t believe he was in league with the bad guy. But she’d been wrong about men before—tragically wrong—just like her mother, over and over again.
Finally leaving her room, she spent the morning tracking Sir Richard but never catching up with him. The house and estate were huge, and being a woman in early nineteenth-century England was incredibly inconvenient. She couldn’t ask outright where he was or people would wonder why. Even though she didn’t know anybody, she kept getting trapped by ladies who wanted to chat, including the duchess. Her Grace thanked her for her help with the girls after the mud incident the other day without once broaching the delicate subject of her uninvited presence in her house. Maybe Sophronia had made some kind of excuse for her.
After that nerve-wrecking interview, Charlotte and her friends dragged Angela to a bedchamber where kittens romped about.
Finally leaving the girls and kittens behind, Angela paused in a deserted corridor, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes. She had to be honest with herself: she didn’t really have the heart to find Sir Richard. An awful certainty was crawling around her head that as soon as she talked with Sir Richard, her purpose for being in the past would be fulfilled and she’d have to leave.
She wasn’t ready to leave yet. She wasn’t ready to leave Trenton Ascot yet.
All morning she’d figured she’d bump into him. It was like he’d vanished. Not surprising, given her previous day-after experiences. She’d thought he was different, though. Decent. Honorable. The kind of guy who wouldn’t ditch her after a one-night stand.
Every time her mother had promised they’d settle down and stay in one place for a whole year—that this boyfriend was different—Angela hadn’t believed it. Why was she kidding herself now? If anything, men of the European historical past were even less likely to treat a woman well than modern men.
But grumpy pessimism wasn’t going to get her any further in 1813 than it did in 2013. She pushed away from the wall, started up the hallway, and ran smack into Viscount Everett coming around a corner.
He stepped back instantly. Her face went flaming hot.
“Hi!” she chirped like a bird, then made it worse by adding, “I mean ... hiii.” Oh yeah. No wonder guys flocked to her in droves. She would bang her head against the wall now if he weren’t standing in front of her looking unbelievably sexy. Concealing the gorgeous body she’d seen and felt close up last night were trousers, a shirt, and a waistcoat. He held his coat in his hand and his hair looked damp and dark around his neck and brow.
He bowed. “Good day, Miss Cowdrey.”
“I’m pretty sure we’re on a first-name basis now,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
The corner of his mouth tilted up in that delicious half-smile that made her want to jump him. “I daresay.”
“Um ...” She refused to let this be awkward. This wasn’t just some guy she’d met in a café. “What’ve you been doing today?” Oh, lame.
“Playing cricket.” He gestured with his coat over his arm. “But I have retreated inside in search of—” Just above his cravat, his Adam’s apple did an awkward bob. “—shade,” he finished.
Angela’s own throat was thick. He hadn’t been about to say in search of her. He didn’t look hopeful, or even horny. He looked ... guilty.
“Oh,” she mumbled.
A really awful moment passed during which neither of them said anything and Angela’s heart did a medieval Dance of Death in her chest cavity.
Then they spoke at the same moment.
“I am on my way to—”
“I was looking for—”
“—the library.”
“—Sir Richard.”
He frowned.
“But I’d rather see the library,” she said with total honesty.
He offered her a tentative smile. “I suppose you must be familiar with libraries, given your studies.”
She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or sincere. “I am,” she said. “I’d love to see the library here. I visited Kingstag last summer as a tourist and ... I mean ...” How much could she say?
“Go on.”
At moments, lik
e now, he was so calm, so composed, so lordly, despite everything. Undoubtedly that’s what made the moments when he was not composed or lordly especially exciting, like twelve hours ago, just about the time he’d told her she was beautiful.
She took a wobbly breath. Her heart was beating way too fast and she was way too hot for midday standing in a hallway.
“I’d like to see it,” she said. “Do you know where it is?”
He gestured to the door right behind her.
She went in before him. The room was empty of people and completely spectacular. Double tiers of wall-to-wall bookcases framed a huge fireplace of white Italian marble and broad windows. A balustrade ran along a narrow gallery, giving access to the second tier of shelves by an elaborately carved wooden staircase that wound upward like a corkscrew. The floors were carpeted in thick Persian wool of rich, dark patterns, and a table with straight-backed chairs plus a few overstuffed easy chairs were arranged for perfect reading contentment. A pair of globes graced a corner of the room—one of the earth, the other of the heavens.
“Oh, wow,” she sighed.
“That’s what you said about skinny-dipping,” he said at her shoulder in his chocolate voice.
She turned her head to look up at him. “I am a woman of many pleasures.”
She’d really said it! Aloud! And he was giving her that one-sided smile.
With more confidence than she’d felt all day, she moved toward a shelf. “What brings you to this particular shady spot, my lord?” Then she saw it and knew. On a side table rested two oversized, leather-bound books she recognized immediately. They’d been on display in the British Library for months during her junior year abroad in London. She went to them and touched the gilt titles embossed into the cover reverently. “Oh, seriously, wow,” she whispered, and opened the cover with great care to reveal the hand-inked title page. This was no printer’s copy. This was one of only ten original editions.
“Such reverence, Miss Cowdrey?” he said from where he remained at the doorway.
“Indeedy-o, Lord Everett.” She turned to the first gloriously hand-colored plate: an American cardinal perched on the branch of a white pine. “And you’re not going to fool me that you weren’t coming here for these.” She fingered the binding of the second volume sitting beside the first. “Père Jean-Pierre Fableau’s Les Merveilleuses des Amériques was unrivaled among the works of French naturalists in the eighteenth century. Those French Jesuits knew the New World’s wilderness like nobody else, including Spanish and English explorers.” She cast him a quick grin. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so.”
At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 36
