The Mad Lord's Daughter

by Jane Goodger

  Chapter 20

  Melissa lay in her bed and turned her head to look at the empty space beside her, glowing softly in the light of her bedside lamp. She’d been reading, and now the book lay by her side forgotten, for she’d been unable to keep her thoughts from John. How strange, wonderfully strange, it would be to turn and see John there, sleeping beside her. She wondered what he looked like when he was asleep. Did he snore? Her father had, great rumbling sounds that traveled even to her rooms down the hall from his.

  Five days. In five days she would become Viscountess Willington, and eventually a countess. But for now she suspected her chaperone would make a very fine countess indeed. At least she hoped they would marry. She prayed her uncle would finally realize what a wonderful woman Diane was. As a woman madly in love, Melissa wanted the world to be madly in love and could not imagine two people kissing with such abandon if their hearts weren’t completely engaged.

  She hugged herself, remembering that day in the rain, the way John had made her feel, that wondrous flood of ecstasy that had left her feeling so pleased and John so horrified. She giggled, stopping abruptly at a sound at her door, a light tapping. Cocking her head, she listened intently until she heard it again. Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, she padded over to her door, grabbing her wrap on the way. As she tied the silk belt, she whispered, “Who is there?”

  “John.”

  That single word made her heart pick up a beat, and she immediately opened the door. His expression was grave, his hair damp as if he’d been outside walking in the fine mist that fell. Without a word, she stepped back, allowing him to enter.

  “I thought you’d gone home.”

  “No. I went to see Waltham. He’s dead.”

  Shock nearly made her knees buckle. She took a step back, as if she could run from those horrid words. “Oh, no, John, what happened? What did you do?”

  Incongruously, he smiled and stifled a laugh, which only confused Melissa more. “Good God, Melissa, I didn’t kill him.” He hesitated. “It was his heart. But he’s dead, and I wanted you to know.”

  Melissa laid a hand on her heart, which still beat crazily in her chest. “You frightened me half to death, John Atwell.” She searched his eyes to be certain he told the truth. Something was there, a flicker of something hidden. “When did he die?” she asked, trying to keep any suspicion from her voice.

  “Shortly before I arrived,” he said, seeing the doubt in her troubled gaze. He looked at her with affectionate exasperation. “Did you truly think I could have killed the man?”

  “Actually, yes. You had a murderous glint in your eyes.”

  John grimaced. “Truth be told, I don’t know what I planned. I suppose I did feel a bit murderous.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I would kill for you, if need be, to protect you. I would die for you.”

  Melissa’s eyes flooded with tears. “Don’t say such things, John.”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, as if he were asking for understanding and forgiveness. It felt so good to be in his arms, to feel his strength, to breathe in the scent of him. When he deepened the kiss, she instinctively followed suit, opening her mouth and welcoming his tongue with hers. His hands cupped her buttocks and drew her closer, close enough that his rigid arousal pressed against her center, causing a shard of pleasure so intense she cried out.

  He lifted his head and gazed down at her. “I want to make love to you.”

  “Yes.”

  He gave her a quick, pleased smile, then slowly drew her wrap down, skimming his hands down her arms, watching his progress with drugging intensity. The wrap fell soundlessly to the floor.

  “I want to see all of you.”

  Melissa pressed her lips together, suddenly shy. Her lamp cast them in a golden glow, and she could see that his eyes swept her form hungrily.

  “Please.”

  “Since you are being so polite,” she said, trying to sound light, but feeling terribly nervous. She lifted the gown over her head and stood naked before him. She needn’t have worried about any embarrassment, for the look in his eyes, the need, the love, kept her from feeling any emotion except desire.

  “My God, Melissa. You are impossibly perfect.” His breathing was ragged, and his hand shook slightly when he reached up and touched one breast, his thumb moving tantalizingly slowly over one turgid nipple. She let out a small sound and closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the pleasure of that one touch.

  “I like the sounds you make,” he said, before he kissed that same nipple, drawing it into his mouth and sending another wave of desire through her. She stood there bathed in lamplight, naked, while he was fully dressed. For some reason, the contrast was intoxicating.

  His hand slowly moved to her thigh, the outside where her hips gently curved, and then inside, to between her legs, to where every bit of pleasure seemed to pool. He let out a sound of satisfaction, for Melissa knew she was slick and that meant she was deeply aroused. She knew this now, this wicked bit of information, and it gave her the courage to take her hand and press it against his erection. He let out a growl, and she chuckled, loving that she could evoke such a response.

  With one quick movement, John lifted Melissa up into his arms and gently laid her on her bed. He gave the lamp a speculative look, then looked down at her and was lost. The light would stay on, and it would take the Devil or God Himself to make him douse it. She was beyond anything he could have imagined. Her skin was smooth and flawless, her breasts rounded and lovely. The curls between her legs a shade darker than the hair on her head.

  “I cannot believe you’re mine,” he said at last, emotion making his words ragged. He didn’t care. He didn’t care if he started weeping. He would never forget this moment, this pure feeling of joy, looking down at Melissa as she looked up at him with such love and desire. “Don’t you dare move.” He waved a warning finger at her and smiled. Within a minute, he had discarded all his clothing and stood beside the bed, his arousal straining in front of him. Her eyes swept down his form, skittering a bit nervously over his cock, and she swallowed.

  “Don’t worry, love,” he said, lowering himself down onto the bed. He kissed her, a long, thoroughly intoxicating kiss, while his hands moved between her legs, touching her sensitive nub lightly. Her eyes were closed, her face intent, her hips moving just slightly. He bent and took a nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, loving the way she gasped, the way her hips began moving more frantically. When he abandoned her nipple, and withdrew his hand, she let out a small sound and opened her eyes.

  “John?”

  He kissed her belly. “Yes, love?”

  “Why did you stop?”

  “I haven’t.” He moved down her torso, kissing her smooth, flat belly, wondering if she would stop what he longed to do more than anything. Instinct drove him, this need to taste her, to draw her into his body, to feel her throb against his mouth. He’d never been tempted to do this to a woman, never wanted to, really. But it seemed he couldn’t stop himself. She was driving him mad with her sounds and her moving hips and her scent. He took a taste, she gasped, and he let out a groan. With his mouth on her, his finger inside her, he pleasured her. He’d never wanted to please a woman as much as this one. Never wanted to lose himself so much. But this was Melissa. His Melissa. And so he kissed her and licked her and lost himself as she let out gasps of raw pleasure, as she clutched his head and brought him closer, as she jerked her hips and pulsed violently around his finger.

  When the trembling subsided, she let out a long breath, as if she’d forgotten to breathe entirely. “That was wondrous,” she said, her eyes still closed, her legs still wantonly spread for him. Never had he been so close to coming with so little physical stimulation. He moved up between her legs, his erection pressing against her wet heat.

  “This may hurt you, love,” he said, and he pushed inside her, cringing when she stiffened and let out a small sound. “I hurt you.”

  �
��No,” she said. “Well, a bit. But not now. It’s . . .” She shook her head as if searching for the correct word. “Right. It’s right.” She smiled up at him, and he moved back, watching her reaction intently. He did not want to hurt her again. She didn’t cringe, just stared at him with a light look of wonder on her lovely face. He was shaking from the need to move quickly, but he used all his strength to go slowly, to think of anything but how hot and wet and tight she was around him.

  “Oh, God, I can’t,” he said, then began moving frantically, the need to find completion overcoming anything else. When she wrapped her legs around him, he was undone. His release came, filling him with such intense pleasure, he buried his head in the pillow beside hers and cried out.

  The large grandfather clock in the hallway chimed twelve times, and John slowly withdrew, kissing Melissa to distract her just in case he’d hurt her. “Four days,” he murmured against her mouth. “God, I love you.”

  Melissa’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll never get tired of hearing you say that. Never.”

  Later that day, John had just arrived home from his tailor when he was informed by his butler that his father had requested he meet with him. He had a moment’s trepidation that his father had somehow found out about his night with Melissa, then shrugged it off. His father, while a moral man, was not overly religious, and he could not imagine his father calling him to task for making love to Melissa. They were to be married in four days, after all.

  But when he walked into his father’s study, he grew faintly alarmed. His father seemed irate. “Sit down,” he said, and John immediately sat. It was that sort of tone.

  “Waltham is dead, and I want to know what you had to do with it.”

  John sighed. What was it about the people he loved that made them think he was capable of murder?

  “I didn’t kill Waltham.” And then he recounted what had happened the night previous.

  The Duke of Waltham’s town house was only a short ride away from John’s rented town house in Mayfair, so John had left his mount in his own mews and had walked to the duke’s mansion. It had been too late to abruptly show up at Waltham’s door, but John wanted this mad obsession to end. He’d decided he would not see that look of fear in Melissa’s eyes again, not while he still had a breath in him.

  For a man to desire his own daughter was so far beyond anything of John’s experience, it was difficult to comprehend. He knew only that the mere thought of the duke’s looking upon Melissa was enough for bile to form in his throat.

  The last thing he’d expected when he’d turned the corner to pass in front of the massive home was to see it lit up as if for a party. John had known, though, that something was wrong, for there were no people milling about, no fine carriages, no footmen awaiting orders. It was eerily quiet but for the snort of a horse attached to a plain black surrey. With a small amount of trepidation, John mounted the stairs, listening intently for the sound of a party, but there was nothing. He pulled on the knocker, a gargoyle head so gruesome he wondered at the purpose of it. The knocker hung between fanged teeth and came down upon a lolling tongue. Grimacing, he waited for the door to open. He was about to knock again when the door opened, revealing a solemn-faced butler.

  “I have an invitation from His Grace,” John said, pulling out the envelope and showing the butler the seal. The man didn’t bother glancing at it.

  “His Grace is indisposed,” he said blandly.

  “Who is it, Peters?” From behind him, a woman dressed for the evening appeared, and the servant backed away with a bow.

  John felt himself flush. The last thing he’d wanted was to have to speak to the duke’s wife. Good God, what a horrible idea this had turned out to be.

  “Sir?” she’d asked politely.

  She was a lovely older woman, with silver hair and brown eyes. Her dark brows gave her an almost exotic look, and she raised one brow elegantly in inquiry.

  “Lord Willington, at your service, Your Grace,” John said with a bow.

  “Lord Braddock’s son?” she asked, and it seemed to John that she was almost trying not to laugh, though he couldn’t have said why.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was unaware you were acquainted.”

  “We are not. To what do we owe this visit?”

  “We received an invitation from His Grace,” John said, feeling ridiculous standing there at the door. He tried not to shuffle like a schoolboy being questioned by the schoolmistress.

  “We?” That brow arched up again.

  John cleared his throat. “It is for Miss Atwell.”

  The duchess gave him a steady look, then backed away, indicating that he should enter the foyer.

  “Perhaps this isn’t a good time. I came to see His Grace, and if he’s not available I could make an appointment with his secretary perhaps.”

  “His Grace is dead,” she’d said with as much inflection as if she were commenting on the weather.

  “My God. That is horrible.”

  “Hardly,” came her mild reply. “If you would join me in my parlor, Lord Willington.”

  John could hardly refuse, so he’d found himself following the duchess, his mind rapidly going over the events unfolding. They were silent until the duchess took a seat and nodded for him to join her. “My condolences,” John said.

  “Thank you.” She gave him an assessing look. “Now, then. Why are you really here?”

  “As I said, I came here to speak to His Grace.”

  “May I inquire about what?”

  “About a private matter,” John said, for he’d still been unwilling to explain to the duke’s wife that Waltham had held an unnatural attraction to his daughter.

  “But His Grace is dead. Any private matter with him is now within my purview. Perhaps I can help you.”

  She almost seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. And when she let out a musical laugh, he knew he was correct. “I’m sorry, Lord Willington. I shall stop teasing you. You came here to tell my husband to leave your cousin alone. Or rather, for the duke to leave his daughter alone. Is that it?”

  John was startled that she was aware of the situation, but he’d nodded gravely. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My husband was quite ill. That’s what his doctor called it, an illness. I’d say he was simply a mad deviant. He enjoyed certain activities that I found despicable. Indeed, most of humanity would. I tried my best to protect the females in this household. The young ones in particular.” She gave an elegant shrug. “But I had limited success.” She seemed completely at ease, but when she pushed an errant strand of hair from her eyes, John noted that she trembled.

  “He is . . . was . . . a powerful man, my lady. Please do not fault yourself for his failings.”

  She gave him a calm smile, even as her eyes filled with tears. “I protected my daughters. I protected my Caroline.”

  John swallowed, feeling sick inside. What sort of evil man had his children living in fear of being accosted? “He can no longer do anyone harm, ma’am.”

  Suddenly, a keening sound, distinctly girlish, reached them, and the duchess raised her head. “A difficult evening for her,” she’d said softly. “She blames herself.”

  “I don’t understand. How did His Grace die?”

  She’d given him the most serene smile. “I killed him, of course.”

  “You . . .”

  “I was protecting my daughter. I tell you this in the strictest confidence and will deny this conversation ever took place should you repeat one syllable of it.” She’d smiled again, but this time her eyes were hard. She was silent for a long moment. “His physician will testify that he hit his head following a heart attack. He’s an old friend of mine. It’s good to have friends, Lord Willington.” She let out a sigh and stood. “You may tell Miss Atwell she is safe. Good evening, sir.” She’d walked from the room, head held regally, clutching her skirt with fisted hands.

  “That’s the truth?” his father asked.

  “Yes, sir. She told me in confide
nce.”

  His father gave him a nod. “All right then. I’ve something else I’d like to discuss. Something that affects you.”

  “Oh?”

  Suddenly, his father couldn’t meet his eyes. He cleared his throat and moved his hands restlessly over his desk. “Miss Stanhope and I plan to marry,” he said grimly.

  John raised his brows in complete surprise. “You. And Miss Stanhope? Whatever for?” He was truly and completely baffled.

  “It has occurred to me that I . . .” and he mumbled something beneath his breath that John couldn’t quite make out but that sounded insanely like “love her.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said I love her,” he said angrily.

  John felt his mouth drop open and then a smile grew on his face. “You love her.”

  His father lifted his chin. “Indeed.”

  “Love. Love.”

  George snapped his mouth into a firm line. “As I said.”

  John stood and pointed an accusing finger at his father. “After giving me such grief about Melissa. After belittling me for my feelings. You are in love?” he asked with incredulous glee.

  His father shook his head and closed his eyes, then threw up his hands in disgust. “I don’t know how the hell it happened, so don’t ask. As for my treatment of you, I apologize,” he ground out. “I was wrong.”

  John crossed his arms and gave his father a full smile. “You devil,” he said, chuckling.

  “Yes, well. I’m telling you so that you are aware that if we have a son and something happens to you, your own children may have quite a wait for the title.”

  “Children?”

  “She’s still young enough,” George said, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “And I’m still young enough.”

  “If you say so,” John said with skepticism he didn’t feel. He was happy for his father. Tickled, really. “Congratulations, Father.” He gave his father another disbelieving look. “However did she do it?”

  His father gave him a sharp look. “I realized that my life seemed rather dull and endless without her about.”