HUNCHING his shoulders against an icy wind, Rufus alighted from his carriage in Boulton Row. A grim-faced Billings greeted him at the door.
“I should like to call on Miss St. Claire.”
“I shall enquire if she is at home.”
Beneath his greatcoat, Rufus shivered as Billings made a precise about-face and left him on the doorstep. “What the devil?”
The hour was past eleven in the morning. Billings had no reason to play this sort of social cat and mouse with him, now that he was officially Sophia’s intended. She couldn’t be aiming to cry off at this juncture, could she?
Not after the carriage ride and heated embrace they’d shared. She’d left him hungering for the promise of their marriage bed with those guileless kisses and her unschooled response. If she broke things off at this point—
The door whipped open to reveal Billings, ever implacable. “She will see you in the morning room, my lord.”
Letting out a breath, Rufus stepped over the threshold and handed his wet hat and coat to the butler. Sophia met him halfway down the corridor.
“Thank goodness you’ve come.” Her face was paler than usual, a near chalk-white. Purplish rings beneath her eyes stood in contrast to her complexion.
“What’s happened?”
“Julia’s gone missing, and it’s my fault.” A tear escaped to course down her cheek.
His arm froze in midair, halfway to brushing it away. Instead, he placed his hand on the small of her back and gently guided her to the morning room. “Your fault? How can it be your fault?”
“I’ve been awful to her ever since her engagement was announced. I …” She sank onto a settee and twisted her hands in her skirts. “I could not bring myself to talk to her, to ask her how she could just stand there and accept her betrothal when she assured me she would turn that man down flat. How can I do it? How can I live the rest of my days with him as my brother-in-law?”
Rufus settled himself beside her. His thigh brushed against her skirts. “How do you know that isn’t the real reason she’s gone? To get out of her betrothal?”
“Surely she would have left word, if only so we would not worry.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Since last night. Mama insisted on taking me to her modiste for my trousseau, and when we returned, Julia was gone. Papa said they had words. We’ve made inquiries but no one has seen her.”
Rufus rubbed his chin. “Since last night, you say? Has no one thought to check the roads heading north?”
“In that awful rainstorm? No one in their right mind would have set out then.”
“Or they might have, if they did not want to be caught.”
“But north. Why—” She gaped for a moment. “Do you think she’s eloped?”
“If I were the gambling sort, I’d lay money on her running off to Scotland with her Lord Benedict.” Imagine, that bastard Clivesden a cuckold, or near enough. About time he learned how it felt—not that he would ever know more than the burn of humiliation. He didn’t possess enough feeling to understand the depth of grief his peccadilloes had caused others.
A line formed between Sophia’s brows. He resisted the urge to flatten it with his forefinger. “Oh, she’d never run off with Lord Benedict. He’s in love with her, you see.”
“Then it seems perfectly reasonable for them to run off together.”
“Not my sister. She doesn’t want to marry for love.”
Rufus sat back, his shoulder brushing Sophia’s, and drummed his fingers on the settee’s wooden arm. “Perhaps he’s convinced her otherwise.”
She leaned into him, prolonging the contact and sending a pleasant rush through his gut. “At any rate, Papa’s already made inquiries at his town house.”
“And?”
“According to his butler, he was not at home, but … Oh, he could not have run off with Julia. If anyone knows of Revelstoke’s doings, it’s his friend Mr. Upperton, and Mr. Upperton gave his word he saw Revelstoke at their club last night.”
Rufus frowned. “And what of Clivesden in all this?”
“What of him?”
“Has he been apprised of his betrothed’s sudden disappearance?”
“Papa sent him a message, of course.” She curled her fingers about Rufus’s forearm, making it difficult for him to attend her next words. “Better he hear it from us than have some gossip tell him at the opera.”
BENEDICT swept the curtain aside for a glance at the landscape, now swathed in twilight. All day, low gray clouds had scudded across the sky, driven by an icy wind, but at least the rain had held off. As it was, yesterday’s downpour had turned the roads to mire, slowing their progress to a crawl.
After several hours’ travel, they were nearing the coast, nearing the cottage. At least the condition of the roads would delay any pursuit—doubly so if Clivesden and St. Claire checked the northerly routes before concluding he’d returned to his lands in Kent.
The warm weight of Julia’s head lolled against his shoulder, swaying in time with the movement of the carriage. The constant shiver and rumble had lulled her, childlike, into a doze. If she passed half the day napping, she might well find sleep elusive this evening.
The thought sent a flood of heat to his groin, but he tamped the reaction down. He’d left her untouched last night, and he’d resolved to do so tonight, even if they must occupy the same bed. Once they wed, he’d have years ahead of him to unlock all her secrets. Surely, he could last a few more nights until Upperton arrived with their special license.
Or until she was amenable—whichever came first.
He would wait, even if certain parts of his anatomy were in disagreement with his plans. And until then, nothing prevented him from arranging things so she became amenable more quickly.
Careful not to disturb her, he leaned his head fully out the window, craning his neck for a glimpse of the rutted track behind them. No sign of pursuit. No sign of anything much on the roads this far out. Only Arthur, trotting along behind the carriage on a tether. The gelding tossed his head. Eager for a faster pace, the beast.
Soon they’d arrive at the cottage, where Arthur would have room to stretch his legs. And Benedict, as well, if he were going to keep his hands off Julia during the time it took her to settle in.
The carriage slowed; the team turned. Without looking, he knew they’d just entered the long drive to Shoreford House. They would not follow it to its end where his neglected Tudor pile sat overlooking the Strait of Dover.
No, he’d given his driver instructions to stop at the gamesman’s cottage—a bit of added insurance should Clivesden pick up their trail too soon. He’d expect them to stay at the manor itself rather than the whitewashed cottage with its thatched roof and diamond-paned windows.
In years past, in the summer, the gardener would have filled the window boxes with a riot of colorful flowers—when the estate still retained a gardener. Beneath the leafless, dripping branches, it appeared rather mournful.
Already, the carriage was slowing. He tipped a finger beneath Julia’s bonnet to trail it along her cheek. “Wake up. We’ve arrived.”
She blinked, and he watched her gaze clear as she shook off the confusion of sleep. Pushing herself into a ladylike sitting position, she broke all physical contact, and cool air rushed into the space between them. “My apologies. I haven’t been a very interesting traveling companion.”
“If you’ve rested, it’s for the best after the chill you took yesterday.”
She pulled her cloak protectively around her—his valet had managed to dry it by the fire overnight and brush it until it looked new. Benedict recognized the gesture for what it was. Now that they’d arrived, she was having an attack of nerves or perhaps even second thoughts about their plans.
He would have to tread lightly.
The coachman opened the door with a rattle and let down the stairs. Benedict alighted and held out his hand. “Come, let me show you our new domain.”
Her hand grasped his, overly tight, to cover a tremor, he thought. On reaching the ground, her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“A bit rustic, I’m afraid, but better than the main house.”
“No, it’s charming.”
He smiled to himself. She’d meant that. “Will you still say that once you realize you will not have any servants to attend to you here? Not that,” he added quickly, “we’ll have to cook for ourselves. I’ll send the coachman along to the main house with instructions to bring us meals at regular intervals, but beyond that—”
He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. Here he’d meant to distract her from her nerves, and he was rattling on like some schoolboy. “What I mean to say is if you require the assistance of a lady’s maid, I suspect I’ll have to fulfill the role.”
Capital. Now he’d gone and made her blush. That comment hadn’t done much for his own predicament, either, as his mind filled with images of him helping her out of her clothes, his fingers brushing against soft, white skin.
“In that case, I suppose I shall have to make do.” At least she responded, even if she did keep her eyes firmly trained on the ground.
JULIA hunched her shoulders against the wind’s bite. On its back, it carried a raw salt tang that told her this estate lay near the coast. That hint of bitterness unsettled her in its unfamiliarity. The district she’d known in her childhood had lain farther inland, and its scents consisted of the earthier odors of grass and trees and bog.
After yesterday’s dousing, she didn’t think she’d ever be warm again. Right now, all she wanted was a fire and a hot cup of tea, but the cottage’s lone chimney, with its lack of a smoky plume, appeared unpromising on both counts.
She followed Benedict inside. The cottage’s interior consisted mainly of a single room with a large, open-hearth fireplace at one end. Before it stood a rustic table that served as both workspace and dining. Crockery and pewterware sat on shelves; bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters lent a hint of lavender to scent the air.
At the opposite end of the space, a lone door led to what must be the single bedchamber. A bedchamber she would have to share with Benedict soon. A shiver of another sort coursed through her.
Benedict raised an eyebrow at her. “Still think it’s charming?”
She cast another glance about. They were most definitely far from the genteel trappings of the ton and all its social confinement. With a sharp nod, she decided. “Yes, I do. We shall look after ourselves and make an adventure of it.”
He crouched before the stone hearth and peered up the flue. “Well, then the first order of business seems to be getting a fire started.”
“The place does feel a bit drafty, and I could do with a cup of tea.” She shivered again. The cavernous room would take ages to heat. How long before the warmth reached the opposite end where the bedroom lay? If, indeed, it ever reached so far.
“Why don’t you change out of your traveling clothes while I see to the fire?”
“You know how?”
Half his mouth jerked upward. “I’m not completely useless, you know. I learned my first year at school, and I often had to make do in the cavalry.”
She pressed her lips together.
“Don’t look so skeptical. Go change, and by the time you’re through, I shall have a roaring blaze started.”
“Did they teach you how to build a fire without wood at school,” she teased, “or did you learn that trick in the cavalry?”
His expression went grim. “You’d be surprised.” He waved in the direction of the bedchamber. “Now off with you.”
She crossed to the door, opened it, and bit back a gasp. Whatever she’d been expecting, this was not it. The thick feather tick with its neat coverlet, a glimmer of white in the deepening twilight, and plump pillows looked inviting enough, but it was so—narrow.
She’d been hoping for something broad, where she could lie on one side and he on the other with a good foot of mattress between them. Then she might pretend she was sharing a bed with her sister.
In this bed, she couldn’t pretend. In this bed, they couldn’t help but brush up against each other. She shivered in the drafty room. In this bed, they would have to cling together to create any semblance of warmth.
Their baggage stood in the far corner next to the clothespress, where the coachman had set it. She busied herself with unpacking her few items of clothing and storing them next to Benedict’s coats and breeches. Yes, he had mentioned the manor house being mainly uninhabitable.
She selected a gown to replace her traveling clothes. Made of pale blue muslin, it was at least two seasons out of fashion. She hadn’t stopped to think about where Benedict might have procured her a few changes of clothes on such short notice, but at least she could rest assured he hadn’t broken into her house for them. Neither she nor her sister had ever owned such a fussy gown with so many flounces and ruffles.
Come to think of it, this sort of style suited the Upperton sisters’ taste to a tee.
Her fingers clumsy and numb from the chill, she made as quick work as she could with the buttons and shimmied out of her traveling clothes and into the mountain of ruffles. At least the excess fabric stood a chance of keeping her warm. When she tried to fasten it, she realized the intention behind all the flounces—to mask a bosom that was less well endowed than hers.
Henrietta Upperton, definitely.
The muslin strained across her breasts and pulled tight at the shoulders. As she struggled with the final button, a stitch gave an ominous pop.
Taking a deep breath—but not too deep, lest she actually tear something—she turned the door handle. By now, at any rate, there ought to be a blaze on the hearth.
She found Benedict down on all fours, puffing into a pile of kindling.
“Is that your secret trick?” She bit down on a smile. “Making fire out of air?”
He glared at her. “Deuced wood is wet. I cannot get it to catch.”
She crouched beside him as he sat back on his heels.
“How do you like your adventure so far?” he asked. “We’re likely to freeze if we stay here.”
“You could always send word to the main house for someone to come and lay a proper fire.”
“I have laid a proper fire.” He jabbed a finger at his haphazard pile of sticks. “It’s not my fault it’s been raining so much the entire wood pile is soaked.”
“Then whoever you sent for would not do any better a job of it than you.” She seated herself on the planks beside him. “Unless you want me to try.”
“Have you ever, in your entire life, had to light a fire?”
“No, but I reckon I can strike a flint.” She reached for the flint, intending to take it out of his hands. Instead, he tangled her fingers in his. He ran his thumb across the back of her knuckles.
“So cold,” he murmured. “We cannot stay here. I do not know what I was thinking.”
She thought of that narrow bed they’d have to share, and her heart thumped. She ought to be glad of the reprieve. If removal to the main house were feasible, they’d each have their own room, as it should be, as it was even between married couples.
She’d still be compromised, but she would not be compromised.
But here was a chance to experience the relationship between a man and a woman. As much as his purported feelings for her frightened her, she trusted Benedict above all other men.
While she trusted no man with her heart, she could trust him with her body. Only him.
“Are you going to give up our adventure so quickly then? Come. Pretend things are as they used to be—when we were children,” she said.
He considered her, his blue eyes darkening until they took on an intensity that was anything but childlike. Spirals of heat uncurled in her midsection. Deeper within, something felt like it was melting.
Not her heart. Whatever it was, it was located deeper in her belly, closer to her feminine core.
He adjusted his grip until his fingers
wrapped about her hand. “When we were children, I do not recall wanting to do this.”
Holding her gaze captive, he raised her hand to his lips. She inhaled as he grazed the back of her hand, the touch like velvet.
“Or this.” He turned her hand over to press a kiss into the center of her palm.
“Or this.” He trailed his lips along her wrist.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she listened to the blood rushing in her ears and let herself experience. Let herself open. Let herself go.
Over the pounding of her heart, a whisper of movement told her he’d shifted, inched closer, his presence bright and compelling.
She gravitated toward it as a flower turns its face to the sun. His breath floated over her lips, and she parted them. His lips brushed against hers softly, easily, as light as their first kiss was hard. He pressed, and she pressed back, such a simple give and take.
She sighed into his mouth, and he slipped a hand to the nape of her neck, exerting a gentle pressure, angling her head for a deeper probing of his tongue. She responded to his every move as if they were once again waltzing. He led, and she followed until her head spun like yet another whirl through a ballroom, only this time, instead of dodging other couples, they were completely alone.
He pulled back for an instant, and her heart fluttered with fear he’d stop. Leaning forward, she reached for him. Her fingers dug into the rough wool of his lapels, as she tugged him back to her.
He feathered eager lips to her cheek and temples, swift, joyous little kisses that drew forth a bittersweet burst of emotion. At last, he rested his forehead against hers. For several moments, the only sound was their ragged breathing.
“So sweet a response,” he whispered. “How you tempt me to do more.”
She raised her hands, and placed them on both sides of his face. His breath hissed through his lips, and she waited for his eyes to flicker open. “I think … I know I want more.”
He closed his eyes. A tremor seemed to pass through him. She felt the flutter of movement beneath her fingertips, as fleeting as the shiver of a horse’s skin as it shakes off a fly. “You are making my resolve to behave like a gentleman extremely difficult to maintain.”
A Most Scandalous Proposal Page 18
