“Pru . . . I can’t.”
She was breathing hard, every exhalation almost a whimper of need in his ear. “I . . . I need . . .”
God, she was sweet. So passionate, so intense, and yet so innocent. She had not even the words to ask for what she wanted.
He knew, however. He knew what her body was doing to her. He knew how to save her from it.
Honor forbade him from going further. Basic good manners decreed that he not leave her like this.
Perhaps . . . perhaps there was a way . . .
He moved, standing then straddling the bench facing her. She turned toward him, moonlit eyes confused. “Shh,” he said. Then he kissed her, wrapping one arm about her and pulling her sideways into him. She crooked one arm over his neck and kissed him back, eager and heated and lost.
Oh, my sweet Pru.
Reaching down with his other hand, he slid it beneath her hem and up her calf and over her knee. Her thighs parted easily as she gasped into his mouth. She was damp and hot and tender, for she jumped at his slightest touch.
Easy. Slow and easy.
Pru nearly cried with gratitude as she felt his fingers flick softly over her. He deepened his kiss, parting her lips with his tongue even as his fingertip entered her. He penetrated deeply, leaning her back in his hold. His thumb found the nerve-filled button of her clitoris and stroked it gently, round and round.
The combined sensation of his exploring tongue, his thrusting finger, and his clever, clever thumb made her tense with aching pleasure. Yes. Yes, finally—
Then a second long finger joined the first inside her, slipping into her tightness, pressing deep, thrusting slowly in, then pulling slowly out. She recognized the rhythm from her own oral adventures even as her hips rocked in instinctive response.
Knowing him, trusting him, she released all thought and fell into the pleasure. She hooked one arm around his neck and let the rest of her body go, melting wax in his hands. She moaned into his mouth, she quivered and she rocked and her body burned like hot ice. Fingers rubbing, thrusting, teasing, tormenting, driving her up, toward something new. She followed mindlessly, entirely his creature, submitting to every stroke, every thrust.
Yes . . . yes . . . closer . . .
She whimpered in her need. He responded by increasing the speed of his penetration, of his slippery thumb. He pulled her tight to his body as he impaled her again and again, a sweet invasion, a tender violation, a hot, wet, mad, plunging race to somewhere—
She ached, she throbbed, she rocked into every thrust, reaching, reaching. Oh, yes. Please!
She spasmed tight around his fingers. Shock resounded through her, echoing shocks undulating outward like shimmering ripples in a fiery pond!
She clutched at him, she cried out and gasped and didn’t bloody care—
Oh, sweet heaven!
Flying, flinging, floating, spinning—it was like nothing she’d ever known and yet she knew it was right, oh, yes, so very right—
When her heart had slowed its desperate pounding and her breath was actually filling her lungs adequately, she became dimly aware that he’d smoothed her skirts down and now held her quite sedately in his arms.
I just did something scandalous in Lady Beverley’s garden! She turned her face into Colin’s chest and began to gasp.
His arms tightened about her. “Don’t weep, sweet Pru.”
Helpless giggles bubbled up from within her, spilling into the night air. She buried her face in his weskit and laughed and laughed, every embarrassing, titillating detail coming back to her.
“Somehow, you never do quite the expected, do you?” he commented dryly. “I can’t decide whether to be flattered or insulted.”
“Hmm . . . flattered,” she managed. “Very flattered . . . not that I’ve anything to compare it to.”
“Again with the faint praise,” he mused. “Pru, you do know how to keep a man humble.”
At that moment they heard voices approaching. A man and a woman. Quickly they straightened and composed themselves and sat completely nonchalantly. Around the corner of the path came a couple. The woman was elegant and black-haired and beautiful.
Colin jumped to his feet. “Chantal!”
Chantal halted with a gasp of horror, then stepped backward, stumbling slightly. Then she turned and picked up her skirts and ran back down the path. Her companion followed her with a cry of protest. Colin ran as well, leaving Pru sitting wide-eyed and stunned on the bench.
“Chantal. Of bloody course.”
Taking a deep breath, she stood, forcing her rubbery knees to behave. More sedately than anyone else, thank you, she walked down the path, following the others back toward the great house.
CHAPTER 36
When Pru reached the ballroom, it was just in time to see Chantal, still pursued by the two men, stagger to a halt in the middle of the dance floor and then swoon elegantly and very publicly into Colin’s arms. Pru couldn’t hold back a bitter little laugh. Of course, because if Chantal had swooned a moment earlier in the garden, she wouldn’t have had an audience.
The entire ballroom was enraptured with the dramatics. When Chantal swooned, there was a great united gasp of alarm. When Colin swept Chantal up into his arms like a rescuing hero, a sigh of romantic satisfaction swept the circling crowd. It was one of Chantal’s finest performances. Too bad she’d missed it.
Pru now had to push through the gathered elite to reach the others. Chantal’s companion, a stocky fellow of middle years, gestured urgently and guided Colin, who bore Chantal as lightly as a feather, off to a side chamber.
Don’t follow. He has found her at last. You know what is about to happen. Really, really, don’t.
I might as well see this through to the end.
Then you’re a fool!
Oh, yes. That I know.
Pru followed the three of them into the retiring room, pausing in the doorway to observe the two men bending over the elegant figure draped becomingly over a chaise longue. It truly couldn’t have been better staged. The small antechamber was luxurious in cream and gold. Chantal wore a vibrant purple, the one that matched her famous “twilight eyes.” The contrast was striking and attractive, so that the woman in the center of the room captured one’s eye entirely.
Pru wondered sourly if the scheming creature had investigated the very colors decorating the great house and had dressed accordingly.
Taking a deep breath, she entered the room, circling the two men until she stood at Chantal’s head. Chantal lay on her back on the chaise, exquisitely posed, one slender wrist upturned above her head, her long neck arched back and her perfect face perfectly turned to capture the perfect light.
Pru bit back a snarl.
Still so beautiful, even wasted by addiction. Nonetheless, as Pru looked closer, it was clear that however elegantly coiffed and superbly dressed, Chantal was not the woman she had been. Always pale, the actress’s skin was now very nearly transparent. She was thinner than Pru had ever seen her, her once bounteous figure now wasted away. The most alarming development was the bluish tint to her faultless lips.
Pru looked at Colin. “Is this because of her addiction?”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t know. We need a physician.”
The other man shot them both a scathing glare. “I am Miss Marchant’s physician! I am Dr. Bennett.” He knelt next to the chaise and took Chantal’s wrist in his fingers, checking her pulse. “Fools! Making her run from you, in her condition! I think you should leave—you’ve done more than enough damage this evening!”
Colin ignored the demand. “We were told that Chantal is addicted to opium. Is she suffering from that now?”
The doctor grimaced disdainfully and looked as though he’d like to disregard Colin entirely, but he answered. “It is true that Miss Marchant has developed a dependence on opium, but only because of the great pain that she suffers every moment of every day.”
Colin frowned. “Pain?” he asked urgently. “What is this
pain?”
Even as she watched, Pru could see the sympathy and regret grow in Colin’s beautiful eyes. He was slipping farther away from her with every moment.
How can you lose what was never truly yours?
Dr. Bennett finished his examination and stood, turning to face Colin with fury on his face. “Miss Marchant suffers from damage to her heart, you idiot! She is constantly weary and unable to handle great excitement.” He glared at them both. “Something that the two of you seem determined to cause!”
Her heart? I didn’t know she had one.
Pru was instantly ashamed. Chantal was obviously ill. Thinking back, Pru realized that she had been for some time. I am terrible. She’d been so busy resenting Chantal that she’d never realized the woman wasn’t well.
Yet how could she know? Chantal, however indolent, was never without the energy to snipe or backstab. Chantal always had the strength to be unfailingly vain and shallow and unkind. Now Pru’s mind’s eye showed her a clearer memory of Chantal, growing gradually more pale and listless.
However, she’d not complained of any ailment—and since when did Chantal not complain?
Since she thought her career would end when people discovered she was ill.
On the chaise, Chantal stirred. When her eyes opened, she gasped. “Gaffin!”
Colin turned toward her immediately, bending over her. “No, Chantal. Gaffin is not here.”
Chantal’s panicked eyes searched the room. “I saw him! In the garden! He found me!”
Colin took her hand gently. “Chantal, you saw me in the garden. Gaffin is on his way to Blackpool—where he thinks you have fled to avoid him.”
Chantal blinked up at Colin. For a moment, it seemed to Pru that she didn’t recognize him—a notion that went a long way to cheering Pru up—but then Chantal reached a pale, languid hand to touch Colin’s face. “Is it you? Are you my darling Colin Lambert?”
Colin laid his hand over hers, pressing it to his cheek. “It is I, Chantal. I found you. You are safe from Gaffin now.”
Limpid blue-violet eyes, ringed in thick lashes, glazed in just the right amount of tears, gazed up at him. “You saved me! My darling clever man! I owe you my eternal gratitude!”
“Actually, it was I who was clever,” Pru pointed out under her breath. “Sir Colin was playing with the pigs just then.”
Chantal noticed Pru then, but simply scoffed prettily and looked away again. Colin shot Pru a quelling glance, making her feel instantly ashamed of herself. Why did she allow Chantal to bring out the worst in her?
“Sir Colin?” Chantal clutched at Colin. “My love, it is all such a terrible misunderstanding! I had to flee Brighton to avoid him! This . . . little problem . . . of mine has made me quite desperate, I’m afraid. Gaffin has somehow acquired the notion that I took something from him. You don’t believe I’m a thief, do you, my darling?”
Colin patted her hands and eased her back on the chaise. “You have nothing to worry about, Chantal. Don’t upset yourself. You’ve been very ill.”
“Ill.” Chantal sighed, a sweet, long-suffering exhalation. “Yes. I am dying.”
Colin lifted his head in surprise, shooting a questioning glance at the doctor.
Dr. Bennett nodded shortly. “I must fetch my bag,” he said. “See that she remains quiet.” He left the room.
Dying? Stricken, Pru knelt next to Chantal’s chaise longue. “You ought to have said something. I could have helped you.”
Chantal fixed her with a look of irritated scorn. “You? You couldn’t sew a flea onto a dog.”
Pru backed away, fighting back the urge to retort. What did it matter now?
Limpid eyes turned back to Colin. “I can’t believe you came for me, my darling. Of all my many—of the few gentlemen I’ve become acquainted with, you are clearly the most worthy.”
“Chantal.” Colin’s voice was husky. His intimate tone struck Pru deep in her belly like a knife. If she’d been alone she would have doubled over from the pain of it.
Colin knelt next to the chaise where Pru had just been, but Chantal did not push him away. When he leaned close, her pose softened invitingly and her face rose to meet his.
“Chantal, I must ask you a very important question. When you turned me away three years ago, did I leave you with my child?”
Colin felt Chantal’s body stiffen and his cheek warmed from the long sigh she gave. “Your . . . child.”
“It’s all right, Chantal,” he said gently. “I have her in my care. I only want to legitimize her and bring her mother home to my estate.”
“Oh.” It was a long soft sound. A sigh of relief at truth finally told? He saw her beautiful eyes were filled with tears of happiness and she was nodding. “Yes. Yes, my dearest. Bring me home.”
Yes.
That was that, then. Somewhere inside him, a hope he hadn’t realized he nurtured died with a faint and futile gasp. He sent the pain someplace deep and cleared his throat. When he spoke the words, they came out louder than he’d intended. “Chantal, will you be my wife?”
Behind him he heard a faint noise of protest. A noise that Pru quickly stifled.
I’m sorry, my love.
“Oh, my darling!” Chantal’s pale cheeks flushed in eager patches of pink. “I cannot believe it! I am the most fortunate of women! I have dreamed of this moment for so very long!”
Then she cast a triumphant look over his shoulder. “Filby, must you gawk? Isn’t there something useful you could be doing someplace else? Someone must want a crooked bodice or a bunchy hem!”
There was a sudden rustle of skirts and Colin turned just in time to see the aforementioned skirts disappearing through the chamber door. He started to rise.
Chantal pulled him back by the hand. The desperation of her grip was surprising in its strength.
She smiled up at him enticingly. “My love, my darling, we must talk. There is so much to do—to plan!”
CHAPTER 37
Late that night, Colin finally entered his room at the hotel. It had taken hours to convince Chantal that the best thing for everyone was a quiet ceremony, as soon as possible. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised that she carried fantasies of a full-blown, theatrical production of a wedding. Chantal never did anything by halves.
Moving quietly, he took a candle from the fireplace mantel and lighted it from a glowing coal. He glanced at the sofa by the fire, expecting to find Bailiwick awkwardly cramped upon it and possibly Evan as well, long asleep.
Instead, he saw a woman poised just outside the circle of light cast by the candle. Frowning, he peered toward the shadowy figure. “Pru?”
A familiar voice came from the dimness, beautiful and familiar yet new. “I have something to say to you, Sir Colin.” Gone was any attempt to sound like a simple servant girl.
Colin tossed his hat and gloves down onto the table by the door. “I have much to say to you, as well. We did not finish our conversation in the garden.”
A low laugh came. “We might have, but you do tend to forget what you’re about sometimes.”
Colin felt himself blush as he remembered the pleasure she’d given him. He thrust his hands behind his back, for he truly didn’t know what else to do with them. Reaching for her would be a very bad idea. Unfortunately, it was an idea that would not leave him be.
Then she stepped forward into the light. His Pru . . . except not his Pru at all. Not the devastating coquette of the ball, either. This Pru wore a simple sprigged muslin gown instead of her gabardine servant’s dress. A gentlewoman’s gown. It was a little out of date and a tad small in the bodice, but he was never one to object to a little emphasis on the bosom. He’d never before seen her in anything like it.
“You look like . . .”
“A lady?” She smiled and stepped a little closer. He could see that she wore her beautiful hair loose and long, bound back only by a single ribbon, a river of dark fire down her back.
“Yes.”
“I am a lady,
Sir Colin.”
When he gazed at her without comprehension, she went on. “I am Miss Prudence Filby, daughter of Mr. Atticus Filby, a gentleman and a philanthropist, and Adele Spencer Filby. Very old families both.” A flash of the old irreverent Pru appeared in a quick grin. “I’m a toff!”
A lady. It shouldn’t be possible . . . and yet, he’d known. Her mimicry was too good, the manners too deeply bred, even the way she danced, whirling with the ease that only thorough tutoring gave.
He rubbed a hand over his face. A lady. “Pru, how can this be? You were living out in the world, working at the theater—you were starving!”
Smoothing her gown a little self-consciously, she nodded. “Our parents died five years ago. Evan and I had to make our own way. I was too young and without friends—I could not find respectable employment. Folk are more willing to hire a common girl.”
“Which you are not.” Abruptly, he found he was offended. “You lied. You lied to me.”
“Yes.” She gazed at him gravely. “I am sorry about that. At first it was simply because I didn’t know you. There was too much at stake to trust a stranger. Later, well . . . I almost told you so many times.”
“And yet you didn’t.”
“Neither did you,” she retorted with some asperity. “Melody is your child and Chantal is her mother. Facts you neglected to mention when we first met!”
“I . . . I almost told you, so many times.” He rubbed his neck. Then another thought struck him with horror. “You’re a lady! I—oh, my God, the things I’ve done to you!”
Honor dictated that he wed a young lady he had compromised so. Honor also dictated that he wed the mother of his child. He gazed at Pru, making no effort to hide his pain. “Chantal and I are now engaged.” Shame swept him. He felt as though he’d been unfaithful, as if it were Pru who was his bride and Chantal who was his mistress.
Pru’s eyes were luminous. “Yes, I know. I heard you propose.”
“It isn’t . . .” What could he say? “I only want . . .”
Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides Page 25
