by Cheryl Holt
"I’d better get out of here."
"I don’t want you to go."
"You’re not allowed to have an opinion."
"You didn’t complain when I was carrying you in my arms."
"Spoken like a typical male who always thinks he’s in the right."
"I always think I’m in the right because I always am."
She was quiet then, smiling, lost in thought. She was so pretty, and though it sounded silly, he was so happy just from being around her. Before he could reconsider, before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned over and kissed her.
It was very chaste, very innocent, but it was a kiss nonetheless. He probably shouldn’t have proceeded, but he wasn’t sorry.
"What did you do that for?" she asked as he drew away.
"I couldn’t resist. I’ve been contemplating it all night."
"You couldn’t possibly have been."
"I’m a man. I hardly ponder anything else."
"I’m sure that’s true. Has your curiosity been assuaged?"
"No. How about yours?"
"I wasn’t curious, so there was naught to assuage."
"You are such a liar. You’re fascinated by me. You’re enthralled."
"I might admit to being fascinated, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been dying to be kissed by you."
"All women are dying to be kissed by me. I’ve never met a female who wasn’t a trembling wreck, waiting for my amorous advance."
His brash comment made her laugh and laugh, and he liked how her eyes crinkled with merriment, how two dimples creased her cheeks.
As her mirth waned, he rolled on top of her, and she warily evaluated him.
"This isn’t a good idea," she insisted.
"Yes, it is."
"You’re taking advantage of me when I’m tired and my defenses are down."
"It’s the best time to get my way."
"We don’t even like each other."
"Maybe if I kiss you again, we’ll change our minds."
"I doubt it. You’re too much of a—"
"Grace?"
"What?"
"Be silent."
She was prepared to launch into a tirade of his faults, but he was in no mood to listen. She generated the oddest feelings, and he didn’t like to suffer so much emotional upheaval. He was solely interested in sexual contact, and if he could just get close enough, if he could focus on the physical, perhaps he could chase away the irksome sentiments that kept bubbling to the surface.
She was studying him, appearing resigned, as if she finally accepted that they’d arrived precisely where they were supposed to be. There was no use fighting the inevitable.
He pressed his lips to hers again, and the embrace was so sweet and so touching that they both sighed with pleasure. He deepened the kiss, his hands roaming over her body, massaging her arms and back.
Her hair had been pulled into a tidy chignon, but during her nap, the pins and combs had fallen out. The sight of those auburn tresses rattled him. Blood surged to his phallus.
An old wives’ tale—about redheaded women being more passionate—flew into his mind, and oh, how he hoped it turned out to be true.
He shifted onto his back so he was on the bottom and she was on the top. She was on her knees, straddling his lap, their loins crushed together.
He drew her nearer, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers at her breasts. He stroked and molded them, making her hiss and squirm as he pinched the nipples through the fabric of her dress.
His ardor was increasing at an alarming rate, which was very peculiar. Lust never ruled him. He never lost control or rushed to the end but she titillated him as no other female ever had.
He was working her skirt up her legs, and they were at a dangerous point. Another inch or two, he would learn how tight and wet she was, but he had enough sense remaining that he remembered he shouldn’t go that far.
Reluctantly, he halted his exploration, lifting her so she could stretch out next to him on the mattress. He tugged down her hem, then laid on his side so they were facing each other.
She’d participated with such skill and composure that he wondered if she was a virgin. The fact that she might not be, that she could engage in an affair with no chastity to surrender, brought a new wave of arousal.
What if they could have a full-on affair? What if she was amenable?
"That wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be," she said, reverting to their typical sarcastic banter.
He reached over and swatted her bottom.
"You’re deadly for my poor male ego."
"Yes, but then, it’s much too inflated. It could stand a bit of puncturing."
"You’ve never been married, have you?"
"No, never."
"I can certainly see why. Your harsh critiques would slay an unsuspecting fellow."
"Good thing you’re not unsuspecting then."
"Yes, a very good thing."
They quieted and calmed, and he linked their fingers as if they were adolescent sweethearts.
"Do you ever feel that we’ve met before?" she inquired.
He felt that way constantly, but would never admit it.
"Why would you ask that?"
"You just seem so…" She chuckled and stopped. "Don’t mind me. It’s late, and I’m growing maudlin."
He was dying to know how she might have finished her sentence. He seemed so…what? But he didn’t delve into her remark. He yawned, the liquor and wee hour taking their toll.
"You’ve exhausted me," he told her.
"I have not. You’ve simply had too much to drink, and it’s past our bedtimes. I had a nap while you spent the interval misbehaving."
"I don’t consider brandy to be misbehavior."
"You wouldn’t."
He cradled her to his chest. She made a feeble attempt to pull away, but they’d proved that—in the physical realm—they were extremely compatible. Intimate contact was pleasing. There was no reason for her not to snuggle with him.
"You’re nicer than I imagined you were," she confessed.
"So are you."
"Are you thinking we’re about to embark on a torrid affair?"
"Yes."
"It’s not occurring, so get it out of your head."
"Why not indulge ourselves?"
"Just because you’re nicer than I thought doesn’t mean I’ve lost my mind. I would never involve myself with you."
"You already have."
"Temporary insanity."
"If I’m lucky, maybe it will afflict you again in the near future."
"I wouldn’t count on it." She sighed and nestled closer. "What will happen between us? How are we to carry on tomorrow?"
"I have no idea."
"I was afraid you’d say that."
He yawned again. "I’m about to doze off. Don’t you go anywhere."
"I can’t stay in here."
"If I wake up in the morning and you’ve left, we’ll quarrel. So let’s avoid it by your doing as you’re told for once."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Scott."
"Call me Jackson."
"Yes, Mr. Scott."
"Jackson," he coaxed, absurdly eager to hear his name on her lips.
"Yes, Jackson. Now sleep, would you?"
It was all the persuasion he needed. Instantly, he drifted off.
He couldn’t remember when he’d ever slumbered next to a woman. While he’d had many lovers, he always joined them in their beds rather than his own. He didn’t like the notion of being unconscious and at their mercy.
To his surprise, Grace was warm and soft and she fit by his side exactly right, as if she’d been created specifically to lie there and nowhere else.
He’d never rested so well, and when he roused many hours later, it was full morning, the sun beaming in the windows.
He frowned, trying to recollect where he was. He sat up, and his head pounded as if a blacksmith was thundering with a hammer.
Without glancing over, he
sensed that Grace had sneaked out—even though he’d ordered her not to leave.
The little vixen had the gall of a gladiator. Did she ever listen? Did she ever obey?
"Dammit," he cursed, wondering where she was.
If she’d taken the boy and slinked away, if he had to ride out after her, he’d kill her with his bare hands.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"You ride very well."
"Thank you. I made sure I knew how—in case I ever had a chance to experience a moment like this."
"I’m surprised by your proficiency."
Eleanor Bennett grinned at Duncan, and he fought off a wave of interest that was flaring too hotly.
"You’re surprised that I can ride a horse?" she asked.
"No, I’m surprised that you ride well. Someone taught you how to handle the reins, but I never imagined your family having money for frivolities."
"We didn’t. Grace and I are orphans."
"But you’ve had lessons."
"Yes, at Miss Peabody’s Academy for Young Ladies, paid for by my sister working her fingers to the bone."
"Miss Peabody’s?" He gave a mock shudder. "Gad, even the name sounds tedious."
"Oh, it was incredibly tedious," she agreed, "but I learned many important skills. I can embroider and paint watercolors and serve tea. I can also direct servants, manage a household, and host a supper party for up to twenty guests."
"Yes, I can see that you’ve acquired every vital talent," he facetiously said. "Where would we be if girls couldn’t arrange supper parties?"
"And I can ride!" She kicked her mare into a gallop, leaving him to eat her dust. She shifted in her saddle and called, "Catch me if you can!"
In an instant, she disappeared around the bend. Though he exuded a bored mien at all times, he was as competitive as the next man and he wasn’t about to let her beat him. He urged his own mount into a canter and raced after her.
He wasn’t certain what he was doing.
Since she’d thrown herself at him out on the verandah, he’d avoided her like the plague. With her lush brown hair, merry hazel eyes, and curvaceous figure, she was too pretty and much too young, and it would be the height of folly to involve himself with her in even the most innocent fashion.
But he hadn’t been able to maintain the distance he’d intended to impose.
Women propositioned him constantly, and he always accepted whatever they offered. Gambling provided an erratic income, and his debts were enormous. It simply cost a fortune to live in the style to which he was accustomed.
His father and Jackson’s had been school chums, but his dear old da’ had squandered the family’s assets and sent Duncan’s mother to an early grave. Then he’d perished himself from liquor and vice.
Jackson’s father had been named as Duncan’s guardian, so he’d been brought to Milton Abbey and raised as if he was a third brother to Edward and Jackson.
The easy life he’d enjoyed at the Abbey had given him a taste for the finer things. He’d never been rich, but he carried on as if he was. His antics created vicious fiscal tangles where he regularly spent more than he could afford.
A wealthy woman was a boon to cherish, and he courted them with relish, but none of them had ever been stupid enough to marry him. He was lazy, idle, and vain, and they always came to their senses before it was too late.
Eleanor Bennett wasn’t aware of his dreadful reputation, so she was more intrigued than she should be. She assumed—wrongly—that he was worth having, and he was despicably eager to exploit her misconception.
In his sordid world, he never crossed paths with girls like her. No sane mother would allow a daughter within a hundred yards of Duncan, but she had no shrewd mother to watch over and advise her to be wary.
Finally, he’d invited her to go riding. The request seemed innocuous, though he wasn’t sure what he planned. They were headed for an insolated lake out at the edge of the estate, and any other girl would have been denied the opportunity to traipse off with him.
Her sister should have counseled against it, but Grace had odd, modern opinions about women. She viewed Eleanor as an adult, and thus, fully capable of making her own decisions. Eleanor hadn’t asked permission. She’d simply marched to the stable and picked out the horse she wanted.
Now, Duncan was alone with her, and she was reckless and bold and ready to try any wicked conduct. He felt like the snake in the Garden of Eden, coaxing Eve to misbehave.
He didn’t expect he would do her any real harm, but anymore, he’d grown so callous and so jaded that he often engaged in bizarre stunts just because he could. A small voice was urging him to caution, but another voice—it was much louder—was encouraging him to seize the day.
Which voice would sway him? He had no idea.
His mount was bigger and faster than hers. Quickly, he passed her. She howled with outrage and accused him of cheating, but he didn’t glance back. He kept on to their destination.
By the time she arrived at the lake, he was casually seated on a boulder, acting as if he’d been waiting for hours.
"I didn’t think you’d ever get here," he said as she reined in.
"You’re too cruel, Mr. Dane," she pouted.
"You issued a challenge, and I beat you fair and square."
"You’re supposed to let the lady win."
"According to whom?"
"According to me. You have no notion of chivalry."
"No, I don’t. I’m a cad through and through, and you shouldn’t forget it."
"Are you a cad? Seriously? I was so hoping you were."
She batted her lashes, as if she was a playful coquette. He chuckled at her silliness, wondering again as to his plan.
A wise fellow would climb on his horse and enjoy a companionable trek back to the Abbey. But he’d never been particularly wise, and at the moment, his every depraved trait was leading him down the road to perdition.
"Am I a mess?" she asked.
Several lengthy brunette strands had fallen from her chignon, and he answered, "Yes."
"My hair is so heavy; I’ll never be able to pin it up. I might as well take it down."
She paused until she had his full attention, then she plucked out the remaining combs. The pose pushed out her pert bosom, her dress being a tad too small and the fabric pulling tightly across her chest. He was fixated on the sight, captivated by how the curly tresses dropped to her waist.
"That’s better," she said. She shook her head, tossing the silky locks over her shoulders, then she leaned toward him, arms extended.
"Help me down."
He hesitated, recognizing they were at a dangerous point. This was the spot where prudence had to prevail, and if it didn’t, he couldn’t guess how it would all end. Certainly not where she imagined in her virginal little mind.
No doubt she envisioned a torrid flirtation, followed by a marriage proposal. She’d be picturing a lovely flat in town, money for new gowns, servants, parties, and concerts in the summer at Vauxhall Gardens.
Even if he’d been inclined to provide any of those things—which he wasn’t—he hadn’t the financial resources to support a wife and he never would have the resources. Any permanent connection had to be with an heiress, yet she hadn’t been apprised of that fact. She looked at him and saw someone else.
Was it his job to disillusion her? He didn’t think so.
What did he owe her? After his disgraceful role in Edward’s charade with Georgina, what did he owe her sister?
Eleanor was a maiden, living in Jackson’s home. If Duncan ruined her, and Jackson learned of it, how might his old friend respond? Due to their long acquaintance, Duncan assumed he knew how Jackson would react in any situation, but the man had been away for a decade. Who could predict his conduct or opinion?
What was best?
"What’s wrong?" Eleanor snapped, noting his discomfort. "Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts."
"I’m not," he claimed, even though he was.
"I’m not a coward."
"Prove it. Help me down."
An angel and a devil had been warring inside him, and the devil won.
What the hell? he mused. What was the worst that could happen?
It wouldn’t kill him to kiss her a few times. Lust was plaguing her, and if they assuaged some of it, she’d be happier. Why, if he proceeded, he’d practically be doing her a favor!
Wouldn’t he?
He walked over to her, and there was such a sense of the inevitable that he felt as if an audience was behind him murmuring, Finally…ah, just so…exactly right.
"Let’s get you down," he said, his gaze locked on hers.
He grabbed for her, and slowly, seductively, she slid to the ground, her body touching his all the way down.
"This place is very secluded," she mentioned.
"That’s because it’s not near any tenant farms or the surrounding villages. There’s never anyone here."
"You seem sure of privacy."
"Jackson and I came here as boys. There’s a bower in the trees, where we could see the lake and the road, but no one could see us. We’d smoke and drink and pretend we were all grown up."
"The bower is completely hidden?"
"Yes."
She grinned. "If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re hoping to misbehave with me."
"I believe that’s precisely my plan. Isn’t it yours?"
"You could be right."
She flashed him a look so full of feminine promise that he was weak in the knees.
He tied their horses, then led her into the woods. The path was still visible and the spot—as they approached it—was as magical as he recalled. It was a sheltered circle of grass. There was a cliff at the back and a waterfall careened over the rocks to form a shallow pool. The pool became a stream that flowed out to the lake.
The water was cold and bracing, but on a hot summer day, it was just the ticket. On many occasions, he and Jackson—but never Edward—had stripped bare and swum for hours.
Edward had never possessed the wild tendencies that drove Jackson and Duncan. He’d watch, disapproving as a fishwife, from the bank. The memoires made Duncan smile, made him miss his deceased friend, made him mourn the decade of Jackson’s absence.
