“No,” she told him sternly as she put a knee to the mattress, laid down the book and reached for the buttons on his shirt.
He clamped a hand over hers. “I will not allow this.”
She gave him a slow smile. “Throw me out.”
He screwed up his face and lifted his hand. Considering the ceiling, he said, “Hurry.”
She was quick as she cared to be. Which was to say, not very. One button was stuck. Her knuckles grazed his chest.
He smelled of the woods and the fire in the great room. She recalled how he had smelled so very much like…well, Wes, when she’d arrived and had held him and kissed him. How many nights had she lain awake at home in Grosvenor Square and recalled how she adored his natural musk and prayed for his safety in Spain? When she had the buttons undone, she brushed the fabric from his broad shoulders and he shivered. He turned his face away, and she knew he had chosen this side so that she could not see the fullness of his expression. But his taut mouth told her he was tense. Attracted. Fighting her.
She leaned over, inhaling his scent, and put her lips to his sternum.
He sucked in air.
Swift as a bird, she shifted and caught one of his nipples to suck it and lave it.
“Christ, Lacy.” He pulled back.
She followed. Raining tiny kisses on his chest, she could feel how her robe gaped, her skin gliding over his furry chest, her own nipples peaking in urgency.
He shook. Leaning on his one good arm, he could only object with a shout. “Stop this!”
Her answer was to lean closer, grab the nape of his neck and give him a voluptuous kiss on the mouth.
This time, he groaned.
“I’ve thought of doing this,” she whispered, her lips on his cheek, “since you said goodbye to me in the garden at the Rolands’ ball, my love.” There in late May, amid the aromas of fresh spring flowers, he had kissed her to distraction, affirming marriage as soon as he returned from the Peninsula. “I have wanted your power and charm every moment since I first saw you. And you, my darling, have wanted me.” She inched up onto the bed beside him, letting the robe slip from her shoulders and puddle at her hips. “I have dreamed of you. This. Us.”
“I have not dreamed of you,” he told her, his face harsh, his lips hard.
“You lie,” she said and traced the column of his throat with the tip of her nose.
“Leave me.”
“I can’t. I adore you. Don’t you see?” She leaned back. Without looking down, she could tell her breasts beaded for him. Toward him.
His gaze fell there, and he blinked, his face drawn and sad. “I do see. As I saw the night we met. You are so lovely, darling. The Incomparable of The Season. Go home, Lacy.” He pleaded with her now, even as he looked on her nakedness and treasured her with his adoration.
“You can have so much more than me.”
She leaned on one arm now, as comfortable in her nudity as she told herself she must be here to persuade him to her ends. “I have seen all those pretty boys who masquerade as men.
You think I want any of them?” She arched a wicked brow at him. “Why would I?’
“There must be one among them whom you like?”
She lifted a shoulder. One breast wiggled. She grinned as he swallowed hard against the sight of her movements. “Perhaps.”
“Who?” he demanded.
“Jealous?” In spite of yourself? Oh, wonderful! “Trenton Sullivan.”
Wes ground his teeth. “A peacock.”
“True.”
“Why would you like him then?” he bit off, miffed.
Enjoying Wes’ anger, she shot back, “He fancies me. He told me so. Would give me a closet full of gowns and his mama’s diamonds.”
“Bastard,” Wes breathed. “What would you want with—”
“Diamonds?” She ran her fingers across her throat—low across her throat. “To persuade him to kiss me here? To show off to perfection what he might have?”
Wes cursed.
A frisson of excitement trilled up her spine. Now we have progress. “But you once told me I need no jewels.” She skewered him with a look. “Were you talking idly?”
He made a study of her areolas. “No.”
She inhaled and arched with the exertion. Wes watched like a hawk over prey. “Good. I did not think you lied to me then.”
He reached out a hand, ready to cup her fullness but snatching away at the last moment.
“Lacy. Lacy. I have never been false to you. You are quite exquisite.” His voice was so low, she could barely hear him.
“I believed you,” she got out. “That’s why Trenton is no match for me.”
Wes licked his lips, his gaze adoring her nipples. “No match is right.”
She flowed forward, taking his hand, allowing her breast to rest in his palm. His flesh, once callused from years handing a sword and reins, were now smoother, his skin like a hard brazen breeze of summer.
“Oh, Wes, this is so good, my love.” Her arms went round his shoulders. Her skin slid along his chest, his strength still enough to make her moan and need him.
Against her cheek, his lips were torrid. “Lacy, darling. From the time I first saw you, talked with you, I knew you were willful. Demanding.”
“And you are just the man to be my match,” she told him and turned so that her mouth spoke on his.
“But now, no longer, Lacy.” He pushed her away, drew up the robe to cover her breasts and glared at her. “Get out of here.”
Hungering for him as she was, she struggled to raise her chin and appear unfazed by his rejection. “I came to read to you.”
“Like a child? No. Go to bed,” he ordered her and met her gaze with the one so many called his look. The Demand. “Leave me in peace.”
She knew there would be none for her tonight. She prayed god he found some. But judging from the peak in his trousers, she knew he would find no relief from wanting her unless he serviced himself. She stood, caught up her robe and marched to their connecting door then faced him. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He worked his jaw. “Know this. Come in here if you must. I have not the power to stop you. But I’ll not have you in here to tend to my private needs. I’ll have Charles. Only him. Stay as you must until the waters recede; I care not. We will be polite. We will talk and smile and pretend we are civil to each other.” He rose, hoisting himself up with his one good arm wrapped around the bedpost. His lightning gray eyes pierced hers with his determination. “And when the rains end, you will leave. As much a virgin as the moment you arrived.”
* * * *
She took the staircase down to the main floor, knowing what she must now do. She wasn’t pleased at the prospect, either. She was scared, knowing she tampered with loyalties and relationships so complex. She gave herself over to the strong resolve of which she knew herself capable.
A youngest child, the only daughter, the only surviving offspring of two parents who had never loved each other, Lacy understood the value of love in a family. She’d seen the devastation of its lack and the erosion of trust and civility when indifference ruled. When she had witnessed the binding effects of marital love, those delights had been nuggets to savor. She’d stored away the tidbits to treasure in her child’s mind. Love was better. Love was rare. But loved ones could die, leaving nothing to the survivors, save the hollowness of daily existence.
She would not live her life without Wes. She didn’t have to. He had survived Talavera—
and she would see to it that he recuperated and thrived. With her. Where he belonged.
She was halfway to the kitchen when Charles pushed open the swinging dining room doors. Ever fastidious, he had a towel in one hand, a dish in the other.
“My lady?” He frowned. “What’s wrong?” His gaze shot to the grand stairs then back to her. “Is the Colonel well?”
“Yes, very. He is nigh unto too well.”
“I do not understand.”
Char
les shook his head, and she was certain he did that to keep his eyes in his head and not on her wrapper, gaping open to expose much of her breasts.
“How can he be too well?”
She strode to him and laid a hand on his wrist. “Please put these things down, and come talk to me.”
He did not move a muscle. “No. Why?”
“I need your help, Charles.”
He got a pained look on his face. “I doubt that.”
His impertinence had her arching her brows at him. “Well, I do. So there. Now, stop pretending you are not attempting to preserve your power over Colonel Stanhope.”
“Preserve my power?”
“Yes.” She took the plate and towel from his fingers and placed them on the table. Then she summoned forth the determined girl, the coquette, the firebrand who knew how to cajole, how to tease and how to flirt. She put her hands on his waist. He smelled of soap and cedar. She looked up at him and praised her lucky stars that if she had to do this to gain Wes and save him from himself then she could do it with someone who cared for Wes. “I want you to help me raise the Colonel from his doldrums.”
Charles stiffened and tried to step backward. “I would like to find a way, but fear there is none. The Colonel is stubborn.”
“Hmm,” she considered and stepped forward. Her wrapper, a thin covering over her breasts, now pressed against the plain white cotton of Charles’ shirt. “Difficult. I agree. And there is only one way to ensure he faces the world once more.” She shifted, her nipples rubbing against the silk and boring into his shirt.
Charles retreated a step. “How is that?”
She advanced. “To make him feel.”
Charles inhaled. “Feel?”
“Alive,” she whispered. “As alive as you and I are now.” She shifted once more, her nipples suddenly as hard as stones.
He swallowed. “What do you mean to do?”
“Make him feel desire.” She grasped Charles’ shirt and rose on her toes. Against his lips, she said, “Make him feel need.” She brushed her mouth on Charles’ firm one. “For me.”
Charles turned his head, but his eyes were languid, nearly closed. “And so you want me to help you?”
“Yes,” she said against the strong column of his throat and pretended it was Wes’. “I want you to help me make him jealous.”
He turned his face down to hers, his blue eyes rabid with dismay and desire. “How would I do that, my lady?”
“You will touch me,” she told him, “here.” She pressed his hands to her waist. “And here.” She took a palm and put it to her throat where her pulse beat. “And here.” She pressed his hand to her cheek. “And then you will kiss me.”
“I doubt that,” he argued but didn’t sound as though he needed persuasion as much as instruction.
“Yes.” She put two fingers to his lips, so like Wes’. Then she pressed her fingertips to her shoulder. “Kiss me here.” Her cheek. “Here.” The hollow of her throat. “And here. Will you?
Please?”
He stared at her, his breathing thick.
“You know, Charles, he cannot continue as he is. He is too vital, too young, too talented an officer to simply give up on life. And love.” She pleaded with him, her heart in her words.
“Say you will help me.”
“It is a tall order, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t normally make advances to women above my station. And never to any woman whom the Colonel wished to entertain.”
She bristled a bit at the mere idea that Wes had once had other women. “But he never asked any of those women to marry him, did he?”
“No, my lady.”
“And did you like any of them yourself, Charles?”
“No, my lady. Never.”
She smiled at him. “We have an agreement then.” She took his hand and placed it around her waist so that she was pressed fully against him. “For now. For this purpose. You will come to my aid.”
“How?” He looked uneasy but eager. “How will I know you wish my advances?”
“I will gaze at you with purpose. You will know.”
He stared.
“I could brush against you. And you could respond.” Like a stallion to a mare. “You will know, Charles. Women are not strangers to your bed, I imagine?”
He nodded. “Very well. I will do as you wish. But for no more than what you define.”
Eager to establish the boundaries and thrilled with her victory, she stepped away and secured the wrapper around her waist. “I love the Colonel.”
“I know you do, my lady. And he loves you.”
She whispered, “Thank you, Charles. I could not accomplish this without you.”
She left, her head high, her attempt at an illusion of propriety and ladylike behavior elusive as sleep later became.
And as the hours passed while she lay awake in her bed, she pondered many puzzles.
Surely, she was not attracted to Charles as mightily as Wes.
Why would she even think to approach Charles with such a gambit? She had never imagined such an idea before coming here and confronting such a problem.
Why would Charles agree and rather readily, too? This was an extraordinary offer she had made to him. If Charles was not used to sharing Wes’ conquests—or taking Wes’ leavings, then what made him agree? Could it be possible he found her not just attractive but irresistible?
She concluded he had.
But the one question that had her pacing the floor back and forth, back and forth, was the one to which she had no answer. Would Wes respond to this ploy before she had to allow Charles more liberties than she had planned?
Only time would tell.
Chapter Four
Wes heard Lacy coming down the central stairs the next morning as the hall clock struck ten. She hummed a bawdy tune that had Wes wondering where the hell she’d learned it. Charles, too, startled at the sound, raising his head from his task of dusting the sideboard and glancing sideways at Wes.
“Good morning,” she bid Wes gaily as she crossed the great room to his chair to sink her fingers up into his hair and kiss his lips lavishly. “How did you sleep?”
“Very well.” But silently, Wes cursed. He’d thought of her all night. In the next room. In the damn wrapper. With those two full breasts brushing against the silk. Her nipples outlined by the diaphanous stuff. His cock shockingly hard. Harder than he thought it could be ever again.
Hard as he was now.
She gazed into his eyes, her own twinkling. “The rain is an utter downpour.”
Wes could have laughed at how the weather conspired with her plan, but he merely nodded.
“You’ve had your breakfast, I imagine?” She glanced over her shoulder at Charles and smiled at him. “What did you prepare, Charles?”
“Biscuits. Eggs.”
“Might you have any left?” She straightened and walked toward Charles then squeezed his hand. “I am so hungry.”
Wes set his teeth. The way she touched Charles’ hand, she appeared to be starved for more than breakfast.
“Do come, Charles,” Lacy beckoned his man with a sweet appeal in her voice. “You must show me.”
Wes narrowed his gaze on his houseguest and his man. Lacy needed no lead. She always had her own head. So what was this sudden dance?
And why could Charles not take his eyes from her?
His man put down his dusting cloth, took a look at Wes and turned like a marionette to follow Lacy’s swaying hips.
Wes drummed his fingers on the armrest then rose like a shot. He got his damn footing but couldn’t seem to get to the kitchen soon enough.
The two of them stood there, as if frozen in time. Lacy’s delicate hand was on Charles’.
Her lips parted as she gazed into Charles’ eyes.
Wes let the kitchen door swing back and forth. Thwump. Thwump.
The two of them turned their heads. Neither of them seemed disturbed, concerned.
I am! “When yo
u finish, Lacy, come out. I wish to speak with you.”
“Certainly, Wes. Charles is just asking me how I like my eggs. Aren’t you,” she crooned and stared up at the man with too much admiration, “Charles?”
Wes grumbled to himself.
Minutes later, she deigned to appear at his side. Still licking her lips from her repast, little she-devil that she was, she came to stand before him. “Marvelous cook, Charles is. How did he learn?”
Wes arched a brow at her. “He learned on the fields of Portugal. Never knew how to cook a crumb until I demanded it. So do not regale me with your praise of his talents.” You are trying to incite me.
“My, my.” She tossed her long, pale locks over her shoulder, caught back in a pink ribbon today. “Let me give you a pillow to support your arm.” She strode to the settee and picked up a small, old thing then came back and lifted his arm. “We must really build up your strength here, darling.”
“I am fine as I am.”
“I dare say, not.” She arranged his arm and hand just so, draping his fingers over the curve of the pillow and smoothing them down. “I know a remedy,” she called and spun toward the kitchen again. “I’ll see if Charles has any idea where I might acquire the ingredients.”
“Lacy!” he called in vain.
She’d gone back to Charles. For what? Comfort? Another breakfast?
Wes snorted. With his good hand, he picked at his trousers. Then he brooded.
Remembering her mouth beneath his. Her breasts against his chest. He had always told himself she would be his equal in bed, her sweet juicy little cunt grasping his cock like a vise and holding him.
Hell. What idiocy to want her.
And what the hell was she doing? With Charles, too.
He fisted both hands. He could not kill his own sergeant. A man had been with him as his servant since he’d been in knee britches.
Wes rose and went to the window, yanked the casement open and inhaled the smell of torrential rain and autumn. There she was, hurrying toward the smokehouse and the stables, Charles close behind her.
What now?
He might take a switch to Charles.
Oh, bloody hell. He couldn’t do that. Not to a man who was most likely his half-brother.
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