Catherine walked at a furious pace and was limping by the time she reached home. Her only pair of slippers were ruined.
She wished she had never heard of Gregory Mayfield.
Lighting the lamp on the hall table, she bent to pet Lord Romeo.
“At least you like me just as I am.” She scooped up the cat, who purred with contentment and marched up the stairs to her room. In no time she was back downstairs wearing her nightgown and robe.
She fired up the stove and heated milk, then rummaged in the pantry for a bottle of brandy left over from Mary’s wedding. Sarah didn’t like having liquor in the house, but allowing one bottle for medicinal purposes only could do no harm.
Catherine felt in need of a great deal of medicinal brandy.
After her second cup, she abandoned the milk. The cat gave up trying to stay in her lap, since she kept getting up to peer out the window at regular intervals. With each sip she imagined Greg’s smiling face as he fawned over Mrs. Pettigrew and danced his way into every woman’s heart.
Between the wines with dinner and the generous dollops of brandy, she lost track of the time. But nothing impaired her hearing. She heard a carriage on the drive, the murmur of male voices, the carriage wheels on the drive again, then the front door being slammed.
As his footsteps came closer, Catherine attempted to sit up straight. She abandoned the thought as easily as she had abandoned Greg earlier.
And if it was a fight he was looking for, he had come to the right place.
Chapter Fourteen
“In the name of all that is holy, tell me why you deserted me to that woman’s clutches?”
“And a very good evening to you, sir. Please, stop making noises like an irate husband.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you? Married to a shrew, a man must learn irritation fast.” He stopped short in the doorway, where he proceeded to strip off his neckcloth.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as he freed the first two studs from his shirt and tucked those, along with the neckcloth and his stickpin, into his pants’ pocket. Hands on hips he glared at Catherine.
“I’m making myself comfortable.”
“Well, see that you don’t go farther. I have no intention of entertaining a half-naked man in my kitchen. And I’ll have you know I rarely irritated my husband.”
“I wish I knew his secret,” he muttered. “I asked you a civil question and expect a civil answer.”
“I was suddenly indisposed,” she returned in a sugar-sweet, cheerful voice. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“Not until I had danced once with every female and asked where you were. And the only indisposition seems to come from that brandy bottle. Pour one for me, too.”
Catherine stared into his deep green eyes. His mellow tone of voice sent out an alarm. Or maybe it was the sarcastic edge cut into each word. If she had been capable of rising from her chair, she would have made a sweeping retreat the moment he stepped into the room. As it was, her legs had the consistency of succotash. She was determined to conceal it from him.
“You can’t drink hard liquor.” She spoke softly, for her headache had returned in force, and she spoke very carefully, as the swirling effect of the brandy hit her.
“How much have you had?” he asked.
She blinked several times in an attempt to glare at him. ‘‘Never mind what I had. I saw you drinking wine with your dinner. That is forbidden—I mean it was forbidden. Your stomach must be upset. Have a glass of milk.” She couldn’t hold his direct gaze and looked down into the amber contents of her cup. She had seen enough of his poet’s face and warrior’s eyes. In her dreams. Awake. Stop it!
“Why did you leave, Catherine?” he asked in a gentle voice. “I thought you agreed to protect me?”
Her head bowed and he thought she wouldn’t answer him. When she looked up he saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. She pushed at her hair, losing a few pins, which sent curls tumbling over her shoulders. Why hadn’t he noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes? He had the strangest urge to kiss the tip of her upturned nose and bring a smile to the generous curve of her lips.
Catherine rubbed her eyes. He was slouched against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. She had a feeling he wasn’t going to move. His most charming smile was firmly in place, the one that could sweeten every cake in town. The one that made her stomach think it attracted every butterfly in the territory, for the longer she stared at him, the more the fluttering sensation spread inside her.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching you, Catherine. A most pleasurable pastime, I recently discovered.”
“Yes. You do that a lot. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
He could say the same of her, but kept quiet about that. “Does it bother you?” he asked instead. “You’re a beautiful woman, Catherine. I’m not the first man to do it. I can’t be the first man to tell you so.”
“You are the only one who bothers me.”
“Ah.”
“Ah? That’s all you have to say?” Her bare toes curled over the rungs of the chair. She made the mistake of inhaling deeply from the contents of the cup. Her gaze became unfocused as she reared back. That was another mistake. The sudden move made her head explode with pain.
“That’s all I deem wise to say.” But he moved to her side and hunkered down near her chair. “Tell me what’s wrong? Where do you hurt?”
“All over,” she mumbled.
“Let me get you up to bed.”
“Bed?” she repeated, shivering as he took hold of her hand.
“Yes, to bed. To rest your weary little…well, whatever it is that hurts you so.”
“Oh,” she sniffed. “You were being kind.”
“Have I been cruel to you, Catherine? You sound almost surprised that I would show you kindness. I’m crushed. You do little for my male ego. I’ve never had so many complaints from a woman before.”
She snatched her hand away and tucked it into her lap. “The only kindness I want from you is to be left alone. As for other women, they wouldn’t dare tell you the truth. They’d be cut off, pariahs all to the society that judges women so harshly.”
“Ah.”
“Stop saying that.”
He eyed the cup and the bottle and thought of the way she kept avoiding looking directly at him.
“Catherine, I don’t think leaving you alone is a good idea. Something has upset you. I aim to find out what it is. Even if it takes what is left of the night.”
His threat—and she couldn’t call it anything else—set off a slight buzzing in her head. She ached from all this thinking his questions forced on her.
Any intelligent woman could handle a man like him. All her life she had believed the opposite, and with widowhood had come freedom to believe differently. She was logical, practical and rational. Most of the time. Why did he have the power to upset her thought process?
She should leave if he wouldn’t. But her body protested moving, especially the parts aroused by his nearness. And she didn’t have the strength to fight herself.
With his fingertips he gently brushed the hair back from her face. “Catherine,” he whispered, “just tell me why you left so abruptly? Did Mrs. Pettigrew upset you? Was it something someone else said to you?”
“You enjoyed yourself.”
“You make that an accusation. Wasn’t I supposed to?”
“Of course, you were.” She reached up to circle the rim of the cup with one finger. The hour was late. She couldn’t think clearly. And he, with his rich, masculine scent of some exotic blend, not only was far too close, but was sending silent messages of other ways they could be enjoying themselves.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Strangely enough, sweet lady, I find myself in total agreement with you.”
Greg stroked her flushed cheek. With a crooked finger beneath her chin he tilted her face toward his. She was such a warm, vibrant woman, but appea
red so vulnerable at this moment that he was unsure of himself. An odd position to find himself in. He never had trouble dealing with all the vagaries of female moods. But then, as he had been reminding himself from the first moment he had seen her, he had never met a woman like Catherine.
“Sometimes…” she began, then stopped.
“Yes?”
“I do impulsive things.” The words rushed out with the air of confession, a fact he didn’t miss.
“Be impulsive with me, Catherine.”
“Oh, no. You’re the one I must be most guarded with.”
“You can’t know how it pains me to hear you say that.”
“Don’t…please, don’t talk about pain.”
“That’s right,” he noted in a silky, soft voice as he traced the delicate shape of her ear, “you hurt all over. Since we’re having confession time, I’ll admit I ache all over, too. So you have, among other things, Catherine, my sympathy.”
“You couldn’t possibly know how I feel.”
“Won’t you open your eyes and look at me?”
“I can’t.”
Greg didn’t push her. “Why can’t I know how you ache?”
“You’re not a woman.”
“At the moment,” he murmured, choking back laughter, “I’m celebrating that fact.”
“With milk,” she reminded him in a prim little voice.
“No. There’s something far sweeter, and far more healing, within my reach.”
She didn’t have a second to ask what he meant. His lips brushed against hers. A sigh of yearning escaped. But the corners of her mouth seemed to require a great deal of attention due to his lavishing a great many tiny kisses there, and on her chin. The heated path continued along her jaw as she tilted her head to accommodate him. She felt like an egg when one of the hens was off its feed—fragile, brittle, easily broken and all scrambled emotions inside. His touch was so delicate that she wanted to demand more, and yet so exquisite that she would do nothing to break its spell.
His lips touched her temple. Catherine’s fingers curled on his shoulders, digging into the soft cashmere wool jacket. She blinked in surprise to find that she was not only holding him, but drawing him closer.
“We mustn’t…you should…oh, Greg, this is a terrible mistake.”
“Then tell me to stop. Now, while I can still summon the will to do so.”
But once more he gave her no time to answer. His lips covered her mouth. The kiss was wet. And hot. His tongue impolite. So were his teeth. She felt their seductive pull on her bottom lip. The heady effect of the brandy disappeared under this new assault. A more powerful stimulant and far more addictive.
And Catherine wanted more.
Greg, reading her soft moan, the subtle shift of her body, the tightening grip of her hands, obliged to the very best of his ability. He wanted to comfort her.
Catherine wasn’t aware of when he stood up, or when she followed. She didn’t know he had turned her until she felt the edge of the table pressing against her buttocks.
It was a momentary sensation, for his hands were there to cradle her against him. Unleashed hunger prowled in kisses that left her flushed and breathless.
And still she wanted more.
A languid heat curled inside her. The taste of him swept through her as she savored the hot glide of his tongue over hers. The delicate thrust and parry brought to mind a graceful duel, but Catherine realized she was no match for his skill.
Under her hand she felt the curving muscle of his chest and the steady beat of his heart, which matched his breathing. Her own breaths had the erratic pace of Lord Romeo escaping Miss Lily. His long, slender fingers played in the wisps of hair at the side of her head and rimmed her ear, toyed with the sensitive lobe before both his hands held her head as he turned it from side to side, dragging her mouth across his.
His hands slid down her back, pressing her against him. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her slightly to the fit of his body. The cloth that separated them offered no protection at all. She tugged at his jacket. It wasn’t fair that he was still dressed. Desire had her firmly in hand. Catherine heard a dim warning that this might be a mistake, but hushed that little voice. She was floating in a delicious cloud where only the senses ruled.
She softly moaned in frustration when his jacket wouldn’t come off.
“Gently, Catherine, gently,” he whispered. Lord, help. “There’s time enough. All the time you want or need.”
Time? What the devil was he mumbling about time? How could he speak of time when she was on fire with need? Her head was swimming, the room tilted and swirled. She opened her eyes to see the coal oil fixture above her. She was sprawled on the kitchen table. Time to show him she was a practical woman. She’d use whatever was at hand.
Greg didn’t stand a chance. She locked her hands around his head and tugged him down toward her. Her mouth fastened to his.
He reached for his honor as a gentleman and found it had cut and run. He had never knowingly taken advantage of a woman, and swore in this that Catherine would not be the first to make that claim.
He’d only meant to comfort her. And her soft, oh, so generous mouth promised him heaven. He was no saint. One more kiss. That was it, he swore. Just one more.
Several minutes later, his swearing wasn’t good-natured at all. He came up for breath and managed to get her to sit up. That’s when he made his second mistake.
Greg tried to reason with her.
A more difficult task he couldn’t imagine.
“I do want you,” he said. He had to dodge her seductive kisses being plastered all over his face. “I want you so much I can’t sleep. But you’ve had too much brandy, Catherine. You’re tipsy. You don’t know what you’re doing.” Even to his ears his words sounded foolish. If her skilled touches were any more knowing, he’d be Catherine’s midnight snack. But he was damned if he’d give up. She would be filled with recriminations fired at his head in the morning.
One of them had to retain sense.
Lord, why me?
Her clever hands stripped off his jacket while he tried to retie her robe. She immediately went to work on his shirt studs.
“Catherine, stop it.” Desperation thickened his voice. A little old-fashioned lust undercoated every word, too. His body was all for allowing complete freedom. The throw-up-your-arms-you-can’t-win kind. The let’s-enjoy-what’s-happening-because-we-want-this-too kind.
His mind, once thought to be stronger by far, sounded an alarm that it was losing the war. He almost gave in.
Almost.
The mere idea of facing her tears in the morning kept his resolve firm. The fact that he was rock hard with tension nearly unmanned him.
“Remember, you’re a lady. A respectable widow. Behave yourself.”
“I do. I have. Clever, clever, Gregory Michael Mayfield the third. You always make me smile. Tonight I throw off the shackles.”
“Try to keep them in place. For heaven’s sake. For my sake, Catherine, try harder,” he croaked.
She trailed a string of heated kisses down his throat and lavished a great deal of attention on the skin bared by the vee of his shirt. She busily fumbled with the next stud.
“Stubborn little stud.” She giggled. “That could be you, too, Greg. But this little pearl doesn’t know what’s waiting. Pleasure, that’s what. That’s what the man promised us.”
He couldn’t take any more. He swung her up into his arms and nearly tripped over the cat. He glared at Lord Romeo. Catherine draped her arms around his shoulders and played havoc with his pulse.
“One sound out of you and I won’t be responsible for what happens,” he warned the cat. Lord Romeo jumped on the chair Catherine had recently vacated and began washing his front paw.
Catherine, unaware of the cat’s presence, nodded eagerly. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse. But do let me kiss you again. I adore the way you kiss me. You make my head whirl.”
Greg was having trouble enough with hi
s own head. Too much so to worry about hers. His blood was humming a tune of anticipation. He prayed his buttons would hold as another overly eager member of his body strained for its share of attention.
His knees threatened to give as he approached the staircase. Nothing, but nothing—not even dire consequences—could keep his dream images of the widow’s welcome from forming. How could he prevent it when he felt the heated tip of her tongue licking his skin?
“Catherine, I’m warning you. You will be sorry for this in the morning.”
She dragged his head down and fused her mouth to his. She teased. She tormented. She promised.
He lost.
I am only a frail male being. I can’t fight her and myself. I shall be a tender lover. I will be most gentle. I will be shackled at the altar faster than I can say my name.
Where had that thought come from?
Greg didn’t know. But it was enough to give him the strength to release those warm, willing, loving lips.
“More,” she demanded.
“You are driving me to the brink of madness, woman. Stop. Behave. I’m not telling you again.”
“Good. I don’t want to hear it.” She tugged his shirt from his pants and found warm, damp skin. “Oh my.” Heaving a delicious sigh, she stroked him, utterly lost in the world of pleasure. “Can I confess?”
“Anything,” he grunted, starting up the steps.
“I love touching you. For a man, you are very responsive, Greg.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“Don’t you want to…well, touch me, too? Just a little?”
“Mercy!” His most sincere plea went unanswered. That didn’t stop him from repeating it as he staggered up the stairs and into her room.
Since his plea for mercy went unanswered, he had none for Catherine. He intended to drop her on her bed and, considering the state of his wildly aroused body and shattered mind, make a quick, less-than-dignified retreat.
Catherine Page 14
