by Cheryl Holt
As she tensed, as her body climbed the spiral of passion, he worked himself inside, filling her completely. He began to flex, pushing in all the way, retreating to the tip. He thrust in and out, his lust increasing.
His seed rushed to his loins, and he was overcome by the most extreme wave of arousal. He’d never felt anything like it, and before he could draw away, he lost control and spilled himself in her womb.
They both froze, understanding that he’d been reckless and stupid and selfish, but he wasn’t sorry. On the morrow, when heads were clearer and better sense prevailed, he’d fret and stew. But not now. Not when he was still hard and pulsing inside her.
Gradually, he slowed and stopped. He eased away and spooned himself to her.
For a long while, they were quiet, and finally, she said, "I can’t believe I let you do that to me again."
"I can. You’re a very sexual person, Grace. It’s your natural inclination."
"You have only to look at me, and I make a fool of myself in any fashion you demand. I’m such an idiot."
"Yes, you are."
She sighed, sounding terribly glum. "You didn’t pull out."
"I couldn’t. I was too…titillated."
"What if I’m—"
"You’re not," he hastily interrupted. "Don’t worry about it."
"I can’t be—"
"Grace, don’t worry! We’ll talk about it in the morning."
"Would you marry me, Jackson? Would you—if I was pregnant?"
How was a man to answer such a question? He never intended to wed, and he wasn’t about to list all his reasons. In light of what he’d just done with her, he couldn’t justify his opinions.
Fatigue was sweeping him away, and he was too exhausted for rational thinking. He gave the quickest, simplest reply.
"Yes, I’d marry you, but that’s a topic for another day."
"Swear that you would. Swear you’d marry me, that you wouldn’t abandon me where I’d be disgraced and alone."
"Yes, I swear."
He relaxed, his eyes closing, and she elbowed him in the ribs.
"Don’t fall asleep in here."
"I won’t."
"I’m serious."
He nestled her nearer. "Cease your fussing and let me rest a minute. Then we’ll do it again."
He dozed, and as he faded away, he thought she might have been crying, but he was too tired to know for sure.
DC
"You’re in such a surly mood."
"Am I?"
Eleanor grabbed Duncan by his coat and kissed him on the mouth. But it was like kissing a log. He didn’t participate, and she shoved him away.
"Stop sulking," she said.
"Just because I’m not a frivolous chatterbox like you doesn’t mean I’m in a foul temper."
"You’re an absolute grouch." She grumbled with aggravation. "I don’t know why I put up with you."
"Neither do I."
"I should pick someone else to seduce me." It was a threat that usually worked quite well, and she constantly used it to her advantage. "Any sane man would have deflowered me days ago."
"I’ve never been renowned for being especially sane."
"You’re mad to restrain yourself. I thought every man relished the chance to have a virgin."
"Not me. I can’t stand all the weeping and drama."
"If you would show me what you like, I could gain the experience you insist you enjoy."
His lazy gaze dropped to her lips. "I’ve taught you a few tricks. Why can’t that be enough?"
Because I want you to love me, she yearned to say. Because I want you to keep me with you forever.
Yet she didn’t dare voice aloud the naïve sentiment. He’d simply scoff and tell her she was silly and annoying.
She’d assumed she was making progress with him, but he never mentioned London or what might happen if Grace and Mr. Scott continued to fight.
With Mr. Scott’s mother in residence, any abrupt ending could occur. She and Grace could be called interlopers and tossed out with barely a minute’s notice. If Grace trudged off with Michael, and Eleanor hadn’t secured her spot with Duncan, she’d have to go, too.
She’d never see him again, and she couldn’t abide the prospect.
She was beginning to fear that he didn’t share her burgeoning feelings, that he was toying with her out of boredom or curiosity. She was certain if she pressed the issue, if they proceeded to full fornication, she would push him into realizing how much he cherished her.
Surely copulation would spur him to a higher level of regard! She had no idea how else to garner the conclusion she craved.
They were out in the garden, and it was very late. He’d been sitting on the verandah, drinking and smoking with Jackson Scott as she’d spied on them from the shadows.
They’d quarreled, which had benefited her. Duncan had stomped off, had studied the various garden paths, then selected the one that had led him directly to her.
"There’s no reason for you to keep refusing," she said.
"There’s every reason."
"Name one."
"How about Jackson Scott? If I deflowered you, and he found out, he’d kill me."
"He would not. He doesn’t even know who I am. Why would he care?"
"He’d care all right"—Duncan grimly nodded—"and I don’t relish crossing swords with him."
"Ooh, you are so ridiculous."
"He warned me away from you."
"He did not."
"He did. That’s what we were arguing about on the verandah."
"You were arguing about whether or not you should ruin me?"
"Yes, and trust me, I won’t trifle with you when he’s specifically told me I shouldn’t."
"You were fighting about me." She grinned. "How fabulous!"
"Don’t get a big head."
"You’re crazy about me," she beamed. "Don’t deny it."
"You’re a vain little monster, aren’t you? You always suppose everything is about you."
"Why shouldn’t it be? I’m just out of the schoolroom—as you never cease to remind me—and I have the whole world at my feet. What will I do next? What will I choose? For the time being, yes, everything is about me."
He snorted at that. "In your dreams."
"Let’s sneak up to my bedchamber."
"Your bedchamber!" He appeared horrified.
"Why shouldn’t we? We keep romping in the woods, and it’s amusing, but I want a dash of romance. I want candles and wine and wooing."
"Then you should find yourself a smitten swain your own age. Any besotted boy would gladly woo you. I—on the other hand—have no interest in amour."
She leaned in so the front of her body was touching his.
"What are you interested in?"
"Sex—with grown women."
"I’m a grown woman."
"You have breasts and the other vital parts, but I wouldn’t necessarily describe you as grown."
She reached between his legs and started to stroke him. Instantly, he hardened, and she smirked.
She rose on her tiptoes and whispered, "Should I go down on my knees? I will—if you ask it of me. But wouldn’t you be more comfortable up in my room? You could stretch out and take off your shoes and your coat." He didn’t move, so she added, "I’ll undress while you watch. Wouldn’t that be…thrilling?"
To her dismay, he clasped her wrist and yanked her away. He looked so aggravated that her heart raced with dread. She was afraid he’d decided to heed Jackson Scott, that he would break off with her, and they would never be together again.
"Eleanor, listen to me," he murmured. "We have to stop this."
"No, we don’t."
"I’m not the man you think I am."
"Yes, you are," she confidently insisted. "You’re precisely the man I think you are."
"You’re begging to be ruined, but you need to save yourself for your husband."
"What?"
"You should pick a hands
ome fellow and marry him. You should give him what you’re offering to me. Otherwise, there are too many consequences for you."
"I could be married—to you, you dolt."
"Jackson and your sister would never allow it."
"Why would we ask their permission? We’ll just elope."
"Elope? To where? Scotland?"
"Yes, why not? What’s preventing us?"
"How about the fact that I don’t wish to marry you?"
"You paltry liar. Why must you pretend you don’t care about me?"
She worried she might have gone too far, but men were dense creatures. She’d be so good for him, but he wouldn’t admit it.
"I might care about you—a little—but that doesn’t mean I’m eager to wed."
"Why not? You could fornicate with me everyday for the rest of your life. You wouldn’t have to fuss and stew about it. You could have me whenever you felt the urge."
"That’s definitely an incentive."
"And I’d be a great wife for you. I understand you, and I recognize your awful faults but I like you anyway." She gripped his lapels and shook him. "We could have fun, Duncan. We could be so happy."
He peered up at the sky and studied the stars. For an eternity, he was silent, then he said, "I always hated Jackson."
"You did?"
"He always bossed me and thought he was better than me."
"Then why let him command you now? Why let him warn you off? Your relationship with me is none of his business."
"He and Edward both had it so easy. They were rich and everything fell into their laps. They treated me like a changeling who’d been dropped into their midst by accident, and I was. I was poor and orphaned, so I never had the chances they had."
"Of course, you didn’t. Doesn’t it gall you?"
"Yes, and he’s still treating me like a child in need of his wise guidance. I haven’t seen the man in ten years, and he still presumes to lecture me."
"Isn’t it time you told him to stuff it?"
"Probably, but it will cause another rift between us, when he hasn’t gotten over the last one. Are you worth it?"
"Am I worth it? Are you joking?"
"No, I’m not joking." He yanked his anguished gaze from the sky and focused it on her. "Are you worth it?"
"Really, Duncan, you insult me by asking. Let’s pack some bags and head for Scotland."
"And then what?"
"We’ll find a preacher to marry us. Afterward, we’ll rent a cheap hotel room, and you can deflower me with impunity." She gave a saucy shake of her hips. "Wouldn’t you be willing to ride for a few days in order to arrange such a delicious event?"
"Perhaps."
"Could you evince a bit more enthusiasm?"
"What will happen after the wedding?"
"We’ll go to London and start our life together. We’ll settle in your home, and you’ll introduce me to all your friends. We’ll have fancy suppers and grand soirees and everyone will love us. What would you suppose?"
"You’re such a…girl, Eleanor."
"I’m not a girl anymore. Not since I met you."
She grabbed his hand and walked toward the verandah, but he didn’t move. She whipped around and scowled.
"What now?" she snapped.
"I’m not sure about this."
"Well, I am."
"Jackson will be furious."
"So? You’ll put his nose out of joint for awhile, but then, he’ll bump into us someday and see how happy we are. He’ll be glad for you." She tugged on his hand again. "Come on. Stop being such a baby. Get married—as most men your age did years ago."
As if he was evaluating her offer, he thought and thought. Finally, he nodded.
"All right. Let’s do it."
"We’ll meet in the barn in half an hour."
"All right," he said again.
"You’d better be there."
"I will be."
She hesitated, assessing him, but not able to read his mood. She leaned in for a quick kiss, but he shoved her away.
"You go in first," he advised, and he urged her to the house.
"Swear that you mean it. Swear you’ll be in the barn in half an hour."
"I swear."
She whirled away, raced in the rear entrance, and crept up to her room. She didn’t have many clothes, and swiftly, she threw her meager belongings into her satchel. Frantically, she stumbled around, wanting to hurry, but not wanting to forget anything, either. She was terrified that—should he get to the barn before her—he might chicken out and change his mind.
He was nervous now, but in the end, he’d be pleased. She refused to consider any other conclusion.
She hastened to the door, but at the last second, she paused.
Once Grace realized Eleanor was missing, she’d worry, and Eleanor would hate to have her fretting. Nor could she have Grace chasing after them. Eleanor was eighteen and madly in love. Grace couldn’t be allowed to interfere or prevent Eleanor from engaging in an act that would bring her an incredible amount of joy.
She went to the writing desk in the corner and penned a note. She meticulously scanned her words, anxious to be precise as to her conduct but vague as to her whereabouts. By the time Grace read it, Eleanor would be too far down the road and intervention impossible.
Satisfied, she slipped the note under her pillow and left it there for the maids to discover the next day. Then she tiptoed away without glancing back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"What is it you want from us, Miss Bennett?"
Grace stared at Beatrice Scott.
She was imposing. Older. Dour. Obese. Her clothes were made of the finest material, her jewelry understated and expensive.
She looked haughty and disdainful, like a queen forced to fraternize with her lowly subjects. If Grace had been a less confident person, she’d have been terrified.
They were in the main receiving parlor, with Grace finally being received by Beatrice. Jackson was in attendance but Susan Scott was not.
Beatrice was seated on a small sofa, and Jackson stood behind her. Grace was standing, too. Jackson had suggested she sit, but she’d stayed on her feet.
She was suffering from the strongest impression that—if she antagonized Beatrice—she might have to run for her life. She had a straight shot to the door.
Though Jackson had furtively winked at her when she’d entered the room, she couldn’t help but remember Duncan Dane’s warning that Jackson would ultimately side with his mother. Duncan insisted the Scott family—Jackson included—would do what was in their best interest, with Michael’s interests lost in the shuffle.
Whose side was Jackson on? Was there a side?
"I’d simply like some financial support for Michael," Grace said.
Beatrice smirked. "But nothing for yourself? How magnanimous of you."
"I didn’t come for myself. We were struggling, and I’d heard Michael had kin at Milton Abbey. I thought we could obtain assistance."
"You’re not demanding that title vest in this boy? You’re not about to dash to London and spread your lies to the newspapers?"
Grace scowled. "Why would I do that?"
"How about to stir a scandal?" Beatrice mused. "How about to muddy our good name so you can extort money from us?"
"I have no intention of extorting money."
"Don’t you?"
"My motive remains the same as it was when I first arrived: Your grandson requires fiscal support, and I’m asking you to give it."
Beatrice jerked as if she’d been poked with a pin. "You presume too much, Miss Bennett, and you forget yourself. I have no grandson save Percival Scott, and I won’t have you spewing falsehoods to my face."
"You can deny any relationship, but it won’t change the facts."
"We know the facts, Miss Bennett, and we know your type, as well."
"My type?" Grace threw up her hands in exasperation. She glared at Jackson. "This is pointless."
"I agree," Jackson s
urprised her by saying. "My mother and I will discuss the situation privately, and I will apprise you of our decision."
Grace studied him, wondering what he actually meant.
He was aloof and unapproachable, as if they were strangers.
Hours earlier, they’d been rolling around in her bed. How could he be so detached? How could he act as if he didn’t know her, as if they’d never been intimate?
Grace comprehended that men viewed carnal conduct very differently from women. She was still reeling, her mood shifting from total elation to miserable despondency. How could he so neatly divide his life into various parts?
"You have copies of the marriage and birth certificates," she reminded him, feeling as if it might be her last chance to make a case for Michael, her last chance to ever speak with Jackson.
"Yes, I do."
"And your clerk is in Cornwall, checking the details."
"He’s already sent a report."
Jackson’s expression gave nothing away, and Grace frowned. What had the clerk learned? What information had been conveyed? Why hadn’t Jackson mentioned it?
She was out of her element and at a loss. When he’d invited her down to the parlor, Grace had assumed they’d have a courteous, rational conversation as to how they should proceed.
Instead, he was loitering like a halfwit while his mother postured and threatened and insulted. Grace’s character had been besmirched, her motives questioned, and her honesty maligned. That didn’t begin to describe the slurs Beatrice had leveled against Michael.
Grace could have defended herself and Michael, but Beatrice’s dislike was palpable, so it would be a waste of breath.
"Michael is waiting up in his room," she told Beatrice. "Will you meet him?"
"No, I will not. Good day, Miss Bennett."
"You’re being silly. He looks and acts just like Edward. If you would see him, you would be—"
Beatrice bristled with offense. "Good day, Miss Bennett!"
"Fine," Grace muttered, "be that way."
She whipped away and stormed out. She headed for the stairs and climbed to her bedchamber, all the while trying to figure out why Jackson had arranged the futile appointment.
