“Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “I’m so ashamed.”
He reached out and brushed away her tears, cupping her cheek with his hand.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Betsy,” he assured her. “I take full responsibility for what happened in the stables.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s my wild nature. I’m wicked.”
“No,” he cut in firmly. “You’re not wicked. You’re a healthy young woman. Passionate.”
“My passion is wicked,” she whispered. “I’m betrothed to another and I can’t stop thinking of you.”
“Sometimes what our mind wants and what our body wants are two different things.”
She shook her head. “But what my mind wants and what my body wants is the very same thing.”
He froze at her words.
“What is it you want?”
She gazed up at him then, her heart pounding. “You.”
Michael cupped her face with both hands now, his touch gentle.
“Betsy, love,” he murmured, bringing his lips to hers.
Betsy wrapped her arms around him as he kissed her breathless. Her tongue boldly touched his and she moaned as he ran his hands over her, reveling in his caress.
“Ah, Betsy,” he rasped, running his lips over her cheek, her neck. “Do you have any notion of how good you smell? How sweet you taste?”
She moaned in answer, letting her head fall back. Michael brought his mouth to the swell of her breast, and her skin tingled. The faraway sound of footsteps on the grand staircase brought him swiftly away from her. He let out a loud sigh.
“Betsy, love,” he said, resting his forehead on hers. “I’ll put this to rights.”
“Michael,” she asked softly, “what are you saying?”
He wasn’t making an offer, was he? Before she had a sliver of a moment to consider that astounding possibility, he smiled and kissed her lightly.
“Good night, love,” he said softly.
Betsy silently agreed to say no more of it, to simply relish the feel of his arms around her as he gently stroked her hair. But she’d heard it in his voice, a promise she didn’t dare to think possible.
“Good night, Michael.”
He left her then, no doubt bound once more for the parlor. She leaned against her door, watching him as he walked from her. He called her ‘love!’ She entered her room and readied herself for bed.
She rang for Ann and removed her gown and set it aside, settling herself at her vanity. The maid took her leave and as Betsy ran her brush through her locks, she thought once more of their embrace in the hallway. She set her brush aside and stared hard at her reflection. How could she feel such passion for one man, when she belonged to another? Was Michael truly the man for her?
She lifted her fingers to her face, lightly touching her lips. Closing her eyes, she relished the memory of Michael’s mouth on hers. His lips were beautifully made, firm yet sensuously curved. When he kissed her, his lips were soft and warm, his tongue teasing. Betsy ran her fingers over her cheek, her neck. She sighed, wishing in that moment he had not left her, that he was at this very moment with her in her chamber.
Believing herself most wanton, she stood and finished dressing for bed. When she slipped between the linens, clad in her nightgown of lawn, she hugged her pillow tightly. Praying to somehow reconcile her intense feelings for Michael with her betrothal to Lord Templeton, Betsy squeezed her eyes shut and waited for sleep to take her.
***
Michael rejoined the others downstairs. It was best to avoid any suspicion of involvement with Betsy. He’d passed Maggie on the stairs as she went to check on her children in the nursery and had swiftly dropped his eyes, certain she could read the guilt on his face. He’d very nearly taken her sister. If he hadn’t remembered himself, he would have opened the door to her chamber and put aside forever any chance she had of marrying the earl. That wasn’t the way to manage this mess, however. He’d have to take another course of action to win her from the man.
Philip smiled when Michael entered the parlor, coming to stand beside him. Lord and Lady Bridgewater soon retired for the evening, leaving the two younger gentlemen to speak freely. Michael took the opportunity to glean some information regarding the esteemed Earl of Templeton.
“How well do you know this Templeton fellow, Wilton?” he asked.
Philip shrugged. “Not terribly,” he said. “The earl is well-acquainted with him, however.”
“Small wonder,” Michael grumbled. “He’s as old as the earl.”
“What?” Philip asked.
“Nothing. How long has he known Betsy?”
“I believe he made her acquaintance this Season.”
Michael nodded and crossed the room to stare out at the darkened gardens beyond.
“And so soon he asked her to marry him?”
“It does seem hasty,” Philip allowed. “But Betsy is not without her charms.”
Michael nodded. “She is perfection.”
“There is also her dowry, Balsam,” he told Michael, causing him to turn.
“She has a large dowry?”
“Quite substantial, yes.”
Michael gave a firm nod. “So that’s the old man’s motive.”
“I don’t think so,” Philip countered. “Templeton’s extremely well-off.”
Michael closed his eyes at his friend’s words, feeling his heart sink. If money wasn’t the man’s motive, could Templeton truly care for her? And how could he possibly compete with Templeton? No matter. Betsy would be his and no other’s.
He opened his eyes, startled to find Philip smiling crookedly at him.
“Was there more you wished to say, Balsam?”
“No.”
“Good night, then.”
Michael nodded absently as Philip took his leave, his mind working. He paced the parlor, trying in vain to think of a way to take Betsy from Templeton. The man was wealthy. He could give Betsy all that Michael could not. But, what of passion? It was obvious Betsy wanted him, Michael. She’d very sweetly admitted so, to his great surprise and delight. And Michael had never felt such desire for a woman in his life. Frustrated, he left the study.
The guest chambers were well away from Betsy’s room, much to Michael’s relief. The thought of her snuggled up in her bed, her lovely chestnut curls spread out around her, caused him to groan. He entered his room and stripped down to his breeches. When he stretched out on the bed, his head fairly ached with his contemplation. He tried to tell himself what he felt for Betsy was simple lust, but before that thought could fully form he knew it was untrue. He admired her spirit. She brought him out of the darkness that had nearly eclipsed him since his father’s death and all he had discovered in the months following it. She was like a breath of fresh air, and she didn’t belong with a stuffy old man like Templeton.
“Ah, Betsy,” he sighed, closing his eyes.
He soon fell asleep, dreaming of his beautiful, spirited enchantress.
Chapter 5
Betsy was disappointed to find Michael absent from the breakfast room the next morning. Maggie was there however, and wearing a cheeky grin.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Maggie greeted Betsy.
“Good morning,” Betsy returned with a small smile. Just what was her sister about?
Betsy crossed to the sideboard and served herself a small portion of eggs and bacon. Settling herself across the table from Maggie, Betsy inquired after her parents.
“They’ve already eaten,” Maggie informed her.
Relief washed over her.
“What are you about this day?” Maggie asked her.
“When I awoke, I had thought to go riding,” Betsy answered, downhearted. “But I’ve since changed my mind.”
Maggie nodded. “Why don’t we retire to the parlor after breakfast to see to our needlework?”
Betsy agreed, happy for the diversion. Her appetite returning, she ate her meal and followed her sister into t
he parlor.
Mary joined them there, ready to try her hand at some new stitches Betsy had shown her. She was nearly thirteen years old and greatly resembled both her sisters, possessing both Maggie’s golden hair and Betsy’s big blue eyes. She affected a ladylike pose and settled herself on a settee by the window, her needlework in her lap.
“Mother says Lord Templeton will be here tomorrow,” Mary said offhandedly.
Her sisters exchanged a worried glance. Betsy flushed at the suspicion in Maggie’s eyes and lowered her own.
“That will be most pleasant, won’t it Betsy?” Maggie asked.
“Yes,” Betsy said, her eyes still on the square of linen in her lap.
“He’s too old,” Mary stated.
Betsy raised her head and stared at her little sister. “Why do you say that, Mary?”
“He’s nearly Father’s age, Betsy,” Mary said as if she were simple. “I wouldn’t want a husband so old.”
Betsy swallowed her own opinion. Her thoughts weren’t on Lord Templeton for very long, however. She recalled all that had transpired the previous evening, of Michael’s passion that was evident in both his embrace and his words. A warm flush spread through her as her lips curved into a small smile. She finally looked up, her eyes widening as she recognized Maggie’s renewed interest in her.
“Betsy,” Maggie whispered, her eyes sparkling. “What’s going on?”
Betsy quickly shook her head, most relieved as Maggie took her cue and changed the subject. Betsy was grateful for Mary’s presence. No doubt Maggie would have pressed her until she admitted she had strong feelings for Michael.
Thankfully the morning passed in a pleasant fashion, the three sisters chatting amiably about the weather and the like. Mary demanded they tell her all about the races, as she was too young to accompany them. She complained for what must have been the hundredth time about spending all her time upstairs in the nursery.
“But I’m vastly relieved to know you are abovestairs with Cecilia and Alexander,” Maggie put in, referring to her adorable children.
Mary and Betsy shared a smile then. Cecilia, at age eight, was every bit as obstinate and willful as the other Bridgewater women. Philip indulged her, of course, and she was a handful. Alexander was three years old and the very picture of his father. He was already showing Philip’s penchant for getting into mischief as well.
Mary shrugged “I do feel very grown up with those two to look after.”
Betsy laughed, dropping a complicated stitch on which she was working. As she pulled on the threads, her head down, Mary stared out the window.
“Ooh, there is Lord Balsam!” the girl cried. “My, he’s handsome.”
Betsy started, pricking her finger with the needle. She yelped in surprise, putting the finger in her mouth to soothe the injury.
“He’s the man Betsy should marry,” Mary said.
Betsy shifted nervously in her seat. Maggie must have seen her distress.
“Now, Mary,” Maggie said, clicking her tongue. “You’re far from knowledgeable of such things.”
Mary squared her shoulders. “Maggie, I’ve seen Betsy with him when they go riding. He likes her very much.”
Betsy’s heart gave a tiny flutter. “Mary,” Betsy began, struggling to keep her voice even. “What makes you think so?”
“He stares at you, Betsy,” Mary said. “His eyes get all sparkly like Philip’s do when he looks at Maggie.”
Maggie laughed gaily and Betsy’s flush deepened, but she couldn’t keep a smile from curving her lips. She shook her head at Mary, who had already returned her attention to the needlework in her lap. Maggie smiled widely at her sister, biting back her laughter at last.
Soon it was time for Mary’s lessons with her tutor, and she left Maggie and Betsy to their own company. Betsy took their seclusion as an opportunity to learn more of Michael.
“Maggie,” Betsy began in what she believed was an offhanded manner. “What do you know of Lord Balsam?”
“I know he’s very gifted with horses,” Maggie said. “Philip was most pleased he agreed to work with him. Their partnership promises to be most advantageous.”
“But, why would one titled gentleman work for another?”
Maggie set her work aside and folded her hands in her lap.
“I believe Lord Balsam has had a bit of difficulty since his father passed away last year. There was something of a missing fortune, perhaps? Philip isn’t sure of the particulars himself.”
“But, his title, his estate. What of those?”
“They remain intact,” Maggie answered.
“How confounding.” Betsy clicked her tongue. “Poor Michael.”
Maggie arched a brow at her familiar use of his given name.
“Betsy, are you in love with him?”
Betsy gasped. “I’m betrothed to another.”
“I don’t believe that matters,” Maggie said simply. “It’s obvious you have feelings for Lord Balsam.”
Betsy shook her head, but found she couldn’t keep up the pretense in front of her sister. She gave a tiny nod.
“I do, Maggie” she admitted in a whisper, wringing her hands. “Oh, what am I going to do?”
Maggie looked quickly to the doorway to ascertain that Betsy’s mother wasn’t about. Apparently satisfied, she leaned toward Betsy.
“Tell him how you feel,” she said softly. “I believe he cares for you.”
Betsy shook her head. “I can’t,” she stated. “I mustn’t permit myself to feel such things.”
“What things?”
“Passion,” Betsy whispered.
Maggie blinked. “Why not?”
“It’s wrong.”
“Betsy.” Maggie took her hand in hers. “What you feel, what your body and your mind is telling you.”
“I know, I know,” Betsy cut in. “What my body wants and what my mind wants can be two different things.”
“Who told you that?”
“Michael,” Betsy said. “He was simply trying to make me feel better, but I know I’m wicked.”
“You’re not,” Maggie said firmly. “Don’t say such things.”
Betsy sniffled and wiped away her tears.
Betsy held up a hand. She couldn’t talk about this any longer. “I will put aside my feelings for Michael and concentrate on readying for Lord Templeton’s arrival.”
Maggie studied her, her brow knit. Then she seemed to bow to Betsy’s wishes. They continued on their tasks in uncomfortable silence.
***
Michael sat in his office behind the tack room that afternoon, brooding. He’d thought long and hard that morning about Betsy and his growing feelings for her. He knew she was merely fond of that old man to whom she was engaged, but that did little to change the fact she belonged to him, not Michael.
He raked his fingers through his hair, once more puzzling over his financial situation. He’d been satisfied when Gusty had placed at the Derby, and doubly pleased when she won at Ascot. His share of the combined purses allowed him to send quite a lot of money to his solicitors. The repairs to Balsam Manor were still a concern, but he pushed the thought of them from his mind. He had but one concern at present: winning Betsy from the Right Honorable Earl of Templeton. His finances were far from adequate to make an offer for her himself.
A flash of blue drew his attention to the office doorway. There stood Betsy, her hands wrapped around the handle of a basket. He couldn’t help but smile at the pretty picture she made in her light blue day dress. Her hair was upswept but loose curls framed her beautiful face.
“Betsy.” He came to his feet. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”
Betsy blushed prettily, lifting the basket. “You missed the nooning meal, Michael,” she said. “I thought you might be hungry, so I had Cook prepare a basket.”
“I could eat something,” he said with a nod.
Betsy crossed to the desk and rested the basket there. At her insistence, he sat behind the
desk once more. She withdrew from the basket an assortment of cold meats, cheeses, and summer fruits. A loaf of crusty bread rounded out the meal. Although he hadn’t realized he missed luncheon, he was suddenly ravenous. He set upon the bounty with relish, consuming a fair amount before returning his attention to the lovely girl perched daintily on the small chair opposite.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled, patting his stomach. “That was a wonderful repast, love.”
She’d obviously caught the endearment, but he wouldn’t take it back. She was a love. Tempting but sweet. She offered him some grapes from the basket. He popped a few into his mouth and chewed.
“Aren’t you eating?” he asked.
“I’ve eaten.”
“You must try these grapes.” He stood and leaned across the desk to bring one to her lips. “They’re very sweet.”
She opened her mouth to him. He rubbed the fruit over the curve of her lower lip before popping it into her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment and chewed.
“Sweet,” she agreed softly.
He stared at her lips for a long moment. He couldn’t resist. He skirted the desk and brought his mouth to hers, tracing his tongue over her lips. Betsy parted her lips to him. At her soft welcome, he pulled back quickly, letting out a sigh. She blinked up at him, apparently startled.
“Sorry,” he said.
Betsy averted her eyes and busied herself in packing up his leavings. When she was finished with her fidgeting, she set the basket aside and leaned against the desk. “Where do you live, Michael? When you’re not here at Bridgewater?”
It wasn’t an unusual question, but he did wonder what she might be about.
“My estate is situated in Cornwall.”
“Cornwall!” Betsy clasped her hands. “Cornwall is just lovely. So wild and beautiful.”
He smiled at that. “Yes. I daresay you would fit in quite well there.”
“Oh, I would so love to ride along the cliffs.”
“Balsam Manor is quite close to them,” he told her. “And nearly as ancient.”
“Truly?”
He nodded. “The manor was built more than three centuries ago,” he went on. “It has stone parapets and battlements, a large courtyard and an even larger great room. It’s quite the medieval castle.”
The Viscount's Vixen Page 4
