by Cheryl Holt
The three of them had been so close, and while Edward had attempted to reconcile with Jackson, to lure him home, he hadn’t succeeded. At least Edward had tried. Duncan had never lifted a finger. He could have gone to Egypt and dragged Jackson back to England. Why hadn’t he?
"You have a strange expression on your face," Eleanor noticed. "Why?"
"There are lots of ghosts here for me."
"Good ghosts or bad?"
"Only good."
As adult men, Edward and Jackson had been productive and prosperous. What had happened to Duncan? He was such a laggard. Yes, Edward and Jackson had started out with every advantage, but why hadn’t Duncan latched on to some of their luck and positioning?
His pathetic ancestry had to account for it. Hadn’t his father been a spendthrift and wastrel? Nothing had ever been expected of Duncan, and he was living down to Beatrice’s low expectations. But still, why couldn’t he have endeavored to thrive?
The maudlin sentiment surprised him. He never rued or regretted, and he refused to reflect over his choices. He was just fine. Eleanor thought so anyway.
"What do you think?" he asked as they stepped into the leafy arbor.
"Oh my, isn’t it pretty?"
"Yes, it is."
"Have you ever dived into the pool or sat under the waterfall."
"We used to all the time."
"With your clothes on or off?"
"Off, of course."
"How very wicked. When was the last time? Were you a boy? Or have you romped here since then?"
"Never since then."
"You’ve invited no other ladies?"
"None but you."
"So I’m the first." She nodded with satisfaction. "I like that. Promise me something."
He blanched. He wasn’t adept at making promises or at keeping them.
"What?"
"Promise you’ll never bring a girl here after me. I want to always know that I was the only one."
It was an easy vow to tender. He’d never stumble on a female reckless enough to accompany him, and if one did, how would Eleanor ever learn of it?
He was an accomplished liar, so it wasn’t difficult to stare her in the eye as he said, "I’ll never bring another."
"Thank you." She glanced around, assessing the area. "What do people do in a place like this? I’m not sure what’s allowed."
He snorted, nearly with alarm. "You are too wild for your own good."
"Yes, I am. Tell me everything. Show me everything."
"Didn’t anyone ever explain that you could get yourself into trouble by being so forward?"
"It’s all we were ever told at school."
"Well, your teachers were correct."
"I’m sick of being lectured, though, so please don’t start."
"I’ve never lectured others in my life, and I’m not about to begin with you."
"I’m relieved to hear it. Besides, you wouldn’t ever hurt me."
"How do you know that?"
"You’re kind."
He had to turn away, so she wouldn’t note his incredulity. "I am kind?"
"Yes. You act like a lout, but you’re not. Not really."
"I might surprise you."
"I doubt it."
He removed his coat and laid it on the grass.
"Sit," he suggested, and he guided her down. He sat, too, his legs stretched out. They lounged for a few minutes, listening to the birds, observing the clouds float by.
"This is boring," she ultimately said.
"I agree."
"May I take off my shoes and wade in the pond?"
"You may do whatever you like. When you’re with me, there are no rules." He raised a brow. "You may shed more than your shoes if you wish."
"My clothes?"
"It is hot outside. You could swim naked while I watch."
"Adults behave that way?"
"All the time."
She pondered the notion, seriously considered it, then laughed. "I’m not ready for disrobing."
He grinned a naughty grin. "It was worth asking."
"Yes, it was. Perhaps I’ll grow more shameless in future meetings."
"I can certainly hope."
She lifted her skirt, just to her ankles, and he came up on his knees.
"Let me," he offered.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
He pushed up her hem, delighted to find that she had some very fine lace stockings, and they cloaked a pair of very shapely legs. He tugged off her shoes and skimmed his palms up her calves to her garters.
He untied them and tossed them in the grass, then he rolled down a stocking. Like a practiced courtesan, she was reclined on her elbows, studying him, unconcerned that his fingers were roaming freely.
Once he’d finished, he massaged her bare feet, earning several oohs and aahs as he dug his thumb into the arch.
"I learned about this at school," she said.
"About what?"
"About men and women and their antics when they’re alone."
"I thought it was only boys who discussed such drivel."
"No, we girls were fascinated. Amour was a favorite topic for late at night. One of my classmates had a mother who was quite…ah…vocal about her past."
"She regaled you with salacious stories?"
"Yes. I couldn’t wait to escape, so I could discover for myself what it was like."
She was still reclined on her elbows, her hair down, her hem up, and the reservations he’d possessed vanished in an instant.
He moved between her thighs, spreading them to where he could see she was wearing lacy, flimsy drawers. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed. The drawers might keep his worst impulses in check. Or maybe not. Maybe they’d serve as a challenge. How quickly could he get them off?
As he eased himself down, his loins connected with hers, and the sensation was stunning.
He’d reveled with every sort of female, in every sort of situation: gardens, carriages, alleys, brothels, even a wife’s bed on idiotic occasions when he was drunk and the cuckolded husband out of the house.
He’d presumed he was immune to pleasure, that he’d experienced so much of it that he’d grown incapable of intense arousal. Yet for some reason, he was so titillated that he could have once again been a randy adolescent.
Taking numerous deep breaths, he struggled for calm, for sanity.
"You mentioned what men and women do when they’re alone. This"—he flexed his cock against her—"is what they do."
"Don’t hold back."
"I won’t."
"I’m perfectly happy to have you continue to the end."
"Yes, I understand that."
"I won’t regret it later on."
"You might."
"I don’t think so."
Her gaze wandered down his torso. She looked ravenous, as if she might eat him alive, and the prospect was terrifying. What on earth was he getting himself into with her?
He kissed her, his lips capturing hers in a torrid embrace. He didn’t know if she’d ever been kissed, if he was her first, and he probably should have been gentle and gone slow. But she wanted to be treated like an adult. Shouldn’t he give her what she craved?
His tongue was in her mouth, his hands in her hair, his erection plainly discernable through the fabric of his trousers. She seemed to realize what it indicated, and she didn’t shy away or squirm with virginal alarm.
"Touch me." He drew away to bite at her nape. "Touch me all over."
"Are there any rules?"
"I told you no."
"I had to be sure."
She pulled him even closer, stroking his shoulders and back, even boldly dipping to caress his buttocks.
"Let me see your chest," she insisted, already unbuttoning his shirt.
He helped her along, yanking it off and tossing it with her garters, their pile of discarded clothing swiftly increasing.
Passion sizzled. She licked and nib
bled and tasted, displaying the curiosity of a maiden, but the brazenness of a whore. The dichotomy drove him wild.
Much too rapidly, the encounter spun out of control. He’d loosed her dress to reveal her breasts. They were pert and rounded, the tips a pretty pink color. As he bent down to suck on a taut nipple, she hissed with delight and hugged him nearer.
His hand was in her drawers, his questing fingers slipping into her tight sheath.
"Oh…" was all she said as she noted him there.
"You are just what I need," he oddly confessed. She made him feel manly and wonderful—when he hadn’t felt grand in ages.
"I’m thrilled to hear it."
"Are you a fairy? Are you a sorceress? Have you bewitched me?"
"I’ll never tell."
She scrutinized him, looking old and wise, as if she knew more than him, as if she had secrets he could never unravel.
He should have been fretting over her shrewd assessment. Clearly, he was racing to a destiny that she’d maneuvered. She sought things from him that he couldn’t supply, but he didn’t care about any absurd schemes she had for the future.
With his thumb, he flicked at the sensitive spot between her legs, as he fell to her nipples again. Her body tensed as she soared to the heavens, then tumbled down. She landed safely in his arms, and she was laughing, sputtering with joy.
He slid away from her and stretched out, and they lay side by side, staring up at the blue sky.
"I can’t believe I let you do that to me," she said when she could speak again.
"I can’t, either."
"It was so…amazing."
"And it gets more satisfying with repetition."
"Can we do it again?"
"As often as you want—so long as we’re not caught."
"We won’t be caught." She had the confidence of a person who was much too young to appreciate the danger.
"We’d better not."
"I love your chest," she said.
"You should. I’m told my physique is quite masculine."
"Who said that? Your other women?"
"Yes."
She wagged a finger under his nose. "No other women! It has to be me from now on. I’ll do whatever you ask; you don’t need anyone else."
"All right," he murmured, reminded of how easy it was to deceive her.
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"I knew you would."
He should have protested—just on principle. He was a rake of the highest order. He always lied, was never faithful, and couldn’t be trusted in even the most insignificant matter.
She was so gullible and had no experience with rogues. He didn’t want to hurt her, didn’t want to explain the sort of fellow he actually was, the sorts of females who tickled his fancy. It was simpler to humor her, to make her smile.
They were quiet, studying the sky, the trees, and to his surprise, he was a tad morose. He wished he was a better man, the one she thought him to be, rather than the one he was. For a brief moment, he tried to imagine what his life would be like if he was worthy of her but the vision wouldn’t gel.
He wasn’t a gentleman, wasn’t the type any woman should adore. More sophisticated women were wary, but she was like a happy puppy that was off its leash and finally able to explore the world. He couldn’t bear to dash her merriment with a dose of the truth.
She rose up on an elbow. "Isn’t there more to it?"
"Yes, there is."
"Show me."
She reached for his trousers, her hand on his waistband. To his great astonishment, he clasped her wrist to prevent her.
"Not today," he said.
"Why not?"
"I just don’t want to."
"Well, I do."
"You don’t always get your way. Not with me."
"Spoilsport."
"I guess I am."
She made him feel old and grumpy, like a grandfather who wouldn’t let her have a candy. But he couldn’t continue until he’d pondered a bit more.
He was being buffeted by feelings he never suffered, by guilt he never acknowledged. If he deflowered her, there’d be hell to pay later on, and he refused to be immersed in a messy scandal.
If she was ruined and others demanded atonement, he would never marry her. So any low behavior might ultimately cause him to flee the country. He’d have to hide where decent people—someone like Jackson for instance—couldn’t track him down and drag him to the altar with a pistol at his back.
He was a libertine and scapegrace, and she was a maiden. There were rules and laws and morals, and if he broke them and was found out, he’d be in big trouble. Was she worth it?
With his cock raging, he was in no position to decide. He sat up and put on his shirt as she glumly watched.
"Why are we stopping?"
"I need to think about this."
"Think about what?"
"About how far I should travel down this road."
"I’d like to walk all the way to the end."
"I realize that, but I might not wish to follow you there."
"Coward."
Earlier, she’d leveled the same accusation, and it didn’t goad him as it had previously.
"Yes, I’m a coward, and I’d like to survive this with my manly parts firmly attached."
"There’s no one to cut them off."
"Don’t be too sure."
"I don’t have an angry father or brother who would chase you down."
Yet you do have Jackson Scott, he mused.
He grabbed a stocking and rolled it up her leg. She pouted like a spoiled toddler.
"I don’t want to leave," she complained. "I didn’t even dip my toes in the water."
"It gives you something to look forward to for next time."
She brightened. "Does that mean we’ll come here again?"
"I believe it does."
She frowned. "You are the strangest man."
"Why?"
"If we’re going to come again, why not proceed now and get it over with?"
"Anticipation is half the fun."
"I’ve been anticipating for eighteen years."
"Then a few more days won’t matter, will they?"
"I bet I perish during the wait. I’m finding that—where you’re concerned—I have no patience, at all."
"Patience is supposed to be a virtue."
"Not for me. Not when you’re being an idiot."
"I’ll keep that in mind."
He put on her shoes and helped her to her feet. They went to the horses, mounted, and started off.
He was already chastising himself for his absurd denial.
Would it have killed him to deflower her? She’d been begging for it. Why not oblige her?
Next time, he told himself. Next time, I’ll do whatever I want, and she’ll be sorry.
A stern voice warned, No, she won’t. She’ll never be sorry.
He shuddered, alarmed by his need for her, by his reckless desire to have her without regard to the consequences. He’d never been in such a quandary, and he couldn’t abide the conflicted feelings she produced.
He spurred his horse into a trot and kicked himself all the way to the Abbey.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"What is my brother like?"
"Percival?"
"Yes."
Jackson stared at Michael, wondering how to respond.
Michael kept talking and acting as if he was Edward’s son, and no matter what Jackson thought about the situation, Michael truly believed the story about his paternity. There was no dissuading him.
"I’ve never met Percival," Jackson admitted, "so I can’t tell you much about him."
"Why haven’t you met him?"
"I spent years living in Egypt, and I’ve only just returned to England. I came straight to Milton Abbey, and Percival is in London with his mother and grandmother."
He paused, thinking that he had to go to London or write or something, but he couldn’t seem to tear himsel
f away from the estate.
"What is my grandmother like?"
"She’s a bit…stuffy."
"Will she like me, do you expect?"
No, she won’t like you, at all.
It was terribly distressing to ponder Beatrice’s opinion. She would never accept Michael as Edward’s son, would never allow any kinship to attach.
It was the actual reason Jackson hadn’t gone to town. In the best of circumstances, he had little desire to fraternize with his mother. The notion of popping in, of advising her that there was another boy besides Percival, another boy who had a better claim to the title, was too taxing to consider.
"She’s a difficult woman," Jackson carefully replied, "and she was never told about you. She’ll be shocked, so it might take her awhile to be kind."
"I’ll win her over."
"I’m sure you will."
Jackson glanced away and smiled. Michael’s mannerisms were too touching. He resembled Edward in every way, and Jackson kept having poignant flashes of memory from his childhood. He constantly felt as if he was looking at Edward, and the similarities were nearly unbearable.
"How are your lessons?" Jackson was eager to change the subject.
"I’m a grand rider," Michael boasted. "All of the stable lads say so."
"Then I’m certain they’re correct."
"They are. Ask anyone."
Jackson didn’t suppose he’d have to inquire. Edward had been an accomplished equestrian, too. No doubt Michael had inherited his skill.
Michael’s lesson had just concluded, and they were walking out of the barn and headed to the house. The stable master—an older gentleman named Albert—stepped in front of them.
"Master Jack?" He used the affectionate mode of address he always used.
"Hello, Albert."
"I wanted you to know how glad I am that Michael is here."
"Well…ah…yes, we’re all glad."
It was the first hint he’d received that there was speculation about Michael, and with Michael standing there, he wouldn’t get into an awkward discussion as to parentage or heirs.
"Edward couldn’t have sired a finer boy." The aged fellow had tears in his eyes.
"You’re jumping the gun on me, Albert. We’ve started an investigation and—"
"We don’t need an investigation," Albert insisted. "I’ve watched him in the saddle. He’s the spitting image of his father. The spitting image!"
"There is a resemblance," Jackson half-heartedly concurred.
