Betsy took the box from the girl and Ann bowed her head and left the chamber. Betsy opened the box, her eyes growing round. Inside was a delicate necklace of gold supporting an large oval pendant of deepest onyx. She opened the folded note and quickly scanned the contents. As she’d suspected, it was from Lord Templeton. He wished her to wear the necklace, he wrote, as a token of their betrothal.
Unable to think of a reason not to adhere to his wishes, she draped the necklace around her neck, letting the pendant settle against the swell of her breast. She stood and walked to the cheval mirror and admired the stone, dark against her skin. It was nearly the color of Michael’s eyes. A sharp pain settled around her heart at that thought.
Sighing, she went downstairs to join the others.
Chapter 7
Michael watched Betsy through hooded eyes as she picked at her meal. He wasn’t pleased to see her intended continually touch her, placing his hand possessively on her bare shoulders time and again. Michael’s eyes fell on the exquisite necklace encircling her slender neck. Something about it was very familiar to him, although he couldn’t begin to fathom the reason. Philip’s wife Maggie also took note of the necklace.
“Betsy,” she began, “that necklace is lovely.”
Betsy’s hand flew to the stone as if just remembering its presence. “Thank you, Maggie. Lord Templeton gave it to me.”
Michael watched in acute distaste as the earl preened, his chest fairly puffing with pride.
“It is merely a token of my affection, my dear,” Templeton said, causing Betsy to redden.
Michael took her blush as one of pleasure. He pulled his gaze from her and kept his eyes fixed on the plate of delicious food before him.
After dinner, the men separated from the ladies and adjourned to the study. Michael studied Templeton as the man conversed with Betsy’s father.
“Balsam,” Philip began, pouring a brandy for him. “I take it you’re not fond of the earl.”
Michael shrugged. “I don’t know him,” he said. “I don’t like the way he speaks to Betsy, however.”
“I agree,” Philip said in a low voice. “What do you propose to do about your feelings for her?”
“My feelings?” Michael repeated.
Philip chuckled. “You’re not a terribly convincing liar, Balsam.”
Templeton must have caught Michael watching him, for he soon crossed to where he stood. Michael nodded curtly at the man.
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing, Balsam,” he began. “I do admit I didn’t know of your connection to the man at the time of our meeting at Ascot.”
“Thank you for your sentiment,” Michael said evenly.
“Your father was a pleasant fellow.”
That surprised him. “You knew my father?”
“Many years ago, yes. You look a bit like him. When he was of your age.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Templeton narrowed his eyes then, his head cocked to one side. “You have a bit of your mother in you, as well.”
Before Michael could respond to that strange statement, the earl rejoined Betsy’s father. Precisely how did the man know of his mother? She’d died when Michael was very young. He watched Templeton closely until they joined the ladies in the parlor.
Betsy stood when the gentlemen returned, and Michael noticed she appeared anxious. Her sister eyed her closely, as close as Philip had done to Michael. As for Lady Bridgewater, she all but beamed in Lord Templeton’s direction whenever he instructed Betsy. Michael’s lips thinned. Templeton scolded her really, about everything. Her father wore a look of confusion for nearly the entire evening. Maybe he didn’t look as favorably on the match as his wife did.
“I believe I shall retire,” Betsy said, coming to her feet. “Good night, everyone.”
Michael stood instinctively, and then quickly checked his movement.
“Allow me to escort you, Elizabeth,” Lord Templeton said with a bow.
Michael fumed as the man grasped Betsy’s elbow and led her from the room.
***
Lord Templeton preceded Betsy up the staircase, as was proper. Betsy was glad for his adherence to propriety, as she knew without a doubt she wore her confusion on her face. How she wished it were Michael accompanying her to her room. No doubt her intended would want to kiss her good night, and how on earth would she permit it without comparing the caress to Michael’s?
Lord Templeton smiled down at her when they reached the door to her room. His eyes fell on her hair, on the tendrils curling about her face. He reached out and grasped one thick curl, twining it slowly around his finger.
“You look absolutely ravishing this evening, Elizabeth,” he said, bringing his face to hers. “Just as I wish you to be.”
Betsy’s eyes were open wide as he brushed his lips over hers. He lifted his head and frowned at her.
“I do not doubt your purity, my dear,” he said. “But surely you can manage a more enthusiastic welcome to my kisses?”
Before she knew what he was about, he crushed his mouth to hers. His tongue stabbed at her as he groaned softly. Betsy pulled back from him, hitting her head lightly against the wooden panel of her door. Her mouth remained open, her eyes round in shock.
Templeton smiled and touched a finger to her lips. “You do have a lovely mouth, Elizabeth,” he whispered.
Betsy lowered her lashes and made an attempt to turn her face from him. He chuckled at what he viewed as her maiden’s reticence.
“I will teach you how to please me,” he said indulgently, patting her cheek. “Sleep well, my dear.”
With that, he turned from her and made his way to the stairs. When he was out of her sight, Betsy wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, feeling utter disgust. She entered her room and turned her attention to readying for bed. Quickly donning her nightgown, she slipped between the covers and hugged her pillow tightly to herself. When Lord Templeton had kissed her, a right he surely possessed as she had agreed to become his wife, she’d felt nothing. And when he’d deepened the kiss? Revulsion had coursed through her. Lord, how she wished Michael had been the one holding her. Kissing her.
She recalled their passion in his office at the stables. The memory of his hands and mouth on her skin. She conveniently omitted from her memory his anger at what he called her mercenary behavior, choosing to focus instead on her memories of the sweet and passionate words he’d uttered before his anger surfaced.
Feeling flush at her recollections, she smiled as she drifted off to sleep.
Less than a week after his arrival to Bridgewater Park, Lord Templeton announced that he had need to go to London to see about some business. Just that morning he’d taken his leave, assuring Betsy that he would return on the morrow. She bade him farewell after taking breakfast with him, more relieved than she would admit that he was gone from her sight.
She’d spent much of the last few days plagued with a variety of discomforts. Her head ached from keeping Lord Templeton’s instructions in order. Her stomach ached from continually suppressing her emotions. Her heart ached from Michael’s continued avoidance. Whenever she caught Michael’s eye when at dinner or the like, a dark look crossed his features and he turned sharply from her. Lord Templeton was a constant companion, darn him. No longer could she imagine them married, for she could barely stand to be in the same room with him. Whenever he found her alone, he pressed his body close to hers, whispering all the things he would do to her after they wed.
“You will be a delightful bed partner, I’d wager,” he’d told just the previous night. “I believe I shall not have the need to take a mistress for a year at least.”
She’d closed her eyes and suffered his kisses, feeling nothing but revulsion. His pomposity was another plague on her mind. He had told her soon after his arrival at Bridgewater Park that he would not allow such insolence from her as he had witnessed from her sister.
Now that he was gone, she would approach her mother and tell her of
her true feelings for her betrothed. She left the breakfast room and located Lady Bridgewater in the parlor. Betsy stood in the doorway for a moment, her resolve strengthening. She cleared her throat to gain her mother’s attention. The woman turned at the sound, her eyes running over Betsy. Betsy held her hands in fists at her side.
“Yes, Betsy?” her mother asked, her brow slightly furrowed. “Is something troubling you?”
More than you can imagine, Mother. Betsy came to sit beside her. “I don’t believe I can marry Lord Templeton.” At her mother’s gasp of shock, she added, “So soon.”
“Soon?” Lady Bridgewater responded. “Why, the wedding will not take place until January. Do you wish to postpone it?”
Indefinitely. “Yes.”
“I promise you we shall accomplish all that’s required in time for the nuptials.”
Betsy huffed and tried again. “I don’t believe we suit, Mother.”
Lady Bridgewater laughed lightly and patted Betsy’s hand. “My dear girl, you are simply experiencing a touch of nerves regarding the thought of connecting yourself to such a powerful and commanding gentleman.”
Betsy stared at her mother in dismay. Did she truly see the earl is such a light? Lady Bridgewater took her silence as agreement and went on to enumerate the details to which they needed to attend regarding the wedding.
Betsy simply endured her mother’s total indifference to her plight until the woman ran out of things to say, her anger simmering.
“Well,” she said as her mother paused in her diction. “Thank you for your assistance, Mother.”
“Are you feeling better, then?”
Betsy nodded dutifully. “Yes,” she lied.
She rose off the settee and left the parlor, maintaining a tenuous rein on her anger until she was well out of her mother’s sight. Sputtering a few decidedly unladylike expletives, she hurried up the stairs to her chamber. Only one thing would calm her nerves at this particular moment: a good hard ride over some of the steepest trails on the grounds.
She rang for Ann and wasted no time in changing out of her day dress and into one of her favorite riding habits. The outfit consisted of a light blue skirt trimmed with black velvet cording, topped by a matching spencer. Ann pulled at Betsy’s hair with her brush and quickly plaited them into one thick braid. She finished the simple style with a wide ribbon of black velvet. Ann left her chamber then, and Betsy followed suit to hurry toward the stables.
Betsy reining in her horse after a very long ride. She managed a smile for the groom assisting her and dismounted with a sigh.
“I’d hoped our ride would take my mind off of my troubles,” she whispered to the horse. “I daresay I should have ridden straight on through to Cornwall.”
“Betsy,” Michael said softly.
Betsy spun around to face him. “Michael!”
He gave her a crooked grin and leaned against the wooden wall beside him. “I trust you had a pleasant ride, love?”
The tender endearment was all she heard. She rushed toward him and right into his arms. Michael wrapped those arms around her as she sobbed against his chest.
“Betsy, love,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Michael,” she sniffed. “I can’t marry him. I just can’t.”
Chapter 8
It was the declaration Michael had hoped for. Her obvious distress wasn’t.
“Shh,” he soothed, rubbing a hand over her back. “It will be all right.”
“No,” she sobbed, misunderstanding his meaning. “I can’t abide him. He’s hateful.”
Michael silently agreed with her. He dropped kisses on her hair as he held her closer. “You don’t have to marry him, Betsy.”
She lifted her head to stare at him, her face set. “I won’t,” she stated. “I don’t know why he wishes me to be his wife. He’s tried to change everything about me.”
Michael wiped away her tears and shook his head. “Templeton is a fool.”
Betsy smiled up at him. She ran her gaze over him and he was reminded of the passionate words he’d spoken the last time he held her this way.
“Tell me you want me, Michael,” she softly commanded. “Tell me you want me for myself.”
He felt a rush of lust shoot through him. He brushed her hair back from her face with a shaking hand. “How the devil could I not want you?”
Uncertainty clouded her eyes as she gazed up at him. “As I am?”
He held her closer still. “Precisely as you are.”
He brought his lips to hers and she opened her mouth to him. Michael moaned softly as his tongue stroked hers, tasting her sweetness. Betsy ran her fingers through his hair as she kissed him back fiercely. He placed his hands on her bottom and lifted her against him. Betsy smiled her surprise and delight. Desire ruled him as he carried her to an unoccupied stall and placed her on her feet in the soft sweet hay.
“Betsy.” He cupped her face with both hands and studied her for a long moment. “You’re perfect to me, Betsy.”
Michael freed her hair from its confinement in the thick braid, letting the velvet ribbon float to the floor. He kept his eyes on her face as his fingers deftly unfastened the black velvet buttons trailing down the front of her short jacket. He spread the material wide open, pushing the jacket off of her shoulders. He dropped his gaze then. Her breasts were nearly visible to him through her chemise.
She brought her hands to his chest and nimbly unbuttoned his shirt. He shrugged off the garment as she ran her hands over his chest.
“You’re beautiful, Michael,” she said softly.
He let out a strangled laugh. Shaking his head at her, he unfastened the hooks at the back of her skirt and let it drop to the floor. Betsy stepped out of it and stood before him, now clad in only her chemise and petticoat. She placed her hands on his chest again, trailing her fingers over his stomach. She reached the waistband of his breeches and began to unbutton them. But with only two buttons unfastened, Michael gently grasped her hands to still them. She looked up at him in confusion.
“Not yet, love,” he said in a rough whisper.
Michael picked up her crumpled skirt and spread it on the hay. He fell to his knees upon it, his hands on her slender waist. She slowly came to her knees in front of him as he ran his mouth over her. She closed her eyes as he caressed her through her thin chemise, arching toward him.
“Oh, Michael,” she breathed.
He untied the ribbon holding her chemise closed and set the gauzy material aside. He gazed at her full breasts, at their rosy nipples begging for his touch.
“Perfect,” he rasped.
He cupped her breasts in his hands, running his thumbs over her nipples. Betsy trembled at his touch. He lowered her to the floor, coming down on top of her.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he murmured, bringing his lips to her breast.
Betsy closed her eyes as he drew one nipple deep into his mouth. She cradled his head and writhed beneath him.
Michael thrilled at her response and reached under her petticoat to stroke her through her drawers. He could feel her growing dampness through the thin material and struggled to hold onto his control. He removed her drawers and stroked her deeply, finding the tiny nub of her desire.
“Oh, my!” she gasped, pressing herself against his hand.
“Easy, love,” he rasped, his pulse pounded in his ears.
When she began to chant his name in a soft pleading voice, he knew he could wait no longer. He unbuttoned his breeches, freeing himself. Never before had he felt such desire. Never before had he been so aroused as to nearly lose himself. He flipped her petticoat up and out of his way. Without waiting a moment longer, he entered her with one deep thrust. He realized his blunder a moment too late, cursing under his breath.
Betsy cried out as the pain assailed her. He held himself still, though the pressure to move was overwhelming. He whispered her name as he brushed the tears from her cheeks. She opened her eyes, pain in their violet depths.
&
nbsp; “Michael,” she whispered tearfully. “It hurts.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s your virgin’s pain, love,” he told her, kissing her cheek. “It will soon cease. Give me your mouth.”
She did as he instructed. As she returned his kisses, Michael began to move within her. She gasped, causing him to lift his head and look at her in alarm.
“Have I hurt you again?”
She shook her head, gazing at him through her lashes. “You’re inside me.”
Michael breathed in sharply. He could only nod, the strain of holding back his pleasure causing his jaw to clench. When he moved again, when she closed her eyes in obvious pleasure, he increased the strength of his thrusts. He was soon driving into her, his control threatening to desert him.
Betsy’s nails raked his bare back as she came closer and closer to her release. She tightened around him, moaning. Shouting out his name as her climax took her, she trembled beneath him. Michael gave in to his passion then, coming with a guttural shout. He held her close as his heartbeat slowly returned to its normal rate.
“Betsy,” he whispered at last, leaning up on his elbows. “Are you all right?”
Betsy sighed and opened her eyes. Her smile was all the answer he needed. He laughed softly and hugged her to him. He brushed her damp curls back from her face and kissed her tenderly.
“I’ll set this to rights, love,” he said. “You have my word.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “Know this,” he said firmly. “You won’t marry that old man. You’ll be mine.”
Her eyes sparkled up at him. “I’m already yours.”
He grinned and kissed her soundly. When he raised his head, it was with regret. He stood and helped her to her feet. As he buttoned his breeches he took in her appearance. Her chestnut waves were in a wild tumble, holding more than a few pieces of straw in their tangles. The straps of her chemise hung off of her creamy shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, and he was damned if he didn’t want her again.
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