Hayley stood, ready to comfort the distressed sailor, but halted when Grimsley flung a thin arm around Winston's burly shoulders.
"Now, now, Winston," Grimsley said, patting him awkwardly. "Captain Albright knew that lads get into mischief. Remember the time Andrew wore the sheet and pretended to be a ghost?"
Winston barked out a laugh. "He was only a wee tyke, and as I recall, you were scared out o' yer britches." He blew his nose. "Ya cowardly bag o' bones."
"I believe a nip of port is called for," Grimsley said, gently urging Winston toward the door. "To celebrate Master Nathan's recovery."
Winston nodded and sniffed. "Sounds like a fine idea, Grimmy. Lead on."
The two men left the drawing room, and conversation and tea drinking resumed.
"Those two like each other?" Stephen asked Hayley. "I can't believe it."
"Pretend you don't know. Besides, they would never admit it." She sipped her tea and unobtrusively observed Pamela and Marshall conversing on the other side of the room. At least she thought she was unobtrusive, but apparently she wasn't because after several minutes, Stephen remarked, "It appears that Wentbridge harbors some affection for your sister, a fact which seems to please you very much, I might add."
"Oh dear. Is it that obvious?" she asked, appalled.
Stephen nodded, a teasing gleam lighting his eyes. "I'm afraid so. Your eyes are very expressive, my dear."
Hayley stared at him, not sure if she'd correctly heard the endearment that passed his lips. Had he actually called her dear? She mentally shook herself. She must be hearing things.
"Marshall Wentbridge is an extremely fine young man," she said in an undertone, keeping one eye on the couple across the room. "He's carried a tendre for Pamela for quite some time now, and she is very fond of him. I wouldn't be surprised if a betrothal announcement was made shortly."
"And that would please you?"
She nodded. "Oh yes. It is my fondest hope for Pamela to fall in love and have a family of her own."
"I see."
"Why, yes, I'd love more tea," Aunt Olivia broke in, holding her cup out to Stephen. "How kind of you to ask, Mr. Barrettson."
Hayley watched Stephen gallantly but awkwardly pour tea into Aunt Olivia's cup. He handled the teapot as if he'd never touched one before. Clearly tea-pouring was not a task at which tutors were expected to excel.
Aunt Olivia took a sip then fixed her gaze on Stephen's face. "Are you attempting to grow whiskers, Mr. Barrettson?"
Stephen ran one hand over his stubbly cheeks. "No, not particularly, although it may appear that way."
"Well, if you were to ask my opinion…" She left the sentence hanging and stared at him pointedly.
"I would be honored to hear your thoughts on the subject, dear lady," Stephen assured her, inclining his head.
Aunt Olivia graced him with a beaming smile. "In that case, I must say that, while I'm sure you would look quite dashing with a beard, your face is much too handsome to cover up with facial hair." She batted her eyelashes at Stephen. "Don't you agree, Hayley?"
Hayley nearly choked on her tea. If she didn't know better, she'd swear her aunt was flirting with Stephen. "Well, I, er, yes, I suppose so." A hot blush crept up her neck.
Stephen leaned back in his chair and bestowed a devastating smile on Aunt Olivia. "Well, certainly, if you prefer me clean-shaven, Aunt Olivia, I shall have to rid myself of these offensive whiskers."
Aunt Olivia looked as if she would melt into a puddle at his feet. "Excellent, dear boy."
"Thank you for the tea," Marshall said, joining the group sitting by the fireplace. "It was very enjoyable"—his glance drifted to Pamela—"but I really must be going."
Hayley rose and shook Marshall's hand. "Thank you for all you did for Nathan. Will we see you this Friday at Mrs. Smythe's party?"
"Oh, yes indeed. I look forward to it." Marshall shook Stephen's hand, bowed to Aunt Olivia, and waved to Callie and Andrew, who were playing cards.
"Pamela, would you mind terribly seeing Marshall out?" Hayley asked with a smile. "I'm so tired from all the day's excitement."
"Of course not." Pamela shyly took Marshall's arm and led him from the room.
"Asking Pamela if she minds seeing Dr. Wentbridge to the door is rather like asking Callie if she would like to have a tea party, don't you agree?" Aunt Olivia asked, her eyes wide and innocent.
Hayley smiled and shook her head. Apparently Aunt Olivia was quite a bit sharper than anyone thought.
* * *
Late that evening, after everyone had retired, Hayley headed for her father's study. This was a perfect opportunity to get some much-needed work done. She'd done very little writing since Stephen's arrival at Albright Cottage. If she didn't write, she wouldn't sell her stories. No sale, no money.
As she passed the library on her way to the study, she looked down and saw a soft glow of light shining beneath the door. She pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The scene that greeted her eyes suffused her with tender warmth.
She'd been so occupied getting the children to bed and checking on Nathan, she'd just assumed Stephen had retired early as he had the previous evening. But clearly he hadn't, for he lay sprawled out on the long overstuffed sofa in front of the fireplace. A warm fire glowed in the grate, casting mellow shadows and flickering light over the room.
After closing the door, Hayley approached on silent feet, stopping when she stood directly in front of him and staring down at his sleeping form. His jacket and waistcoat were folded neatly over a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing his strong forearms, and his shirt was unfastened nearly to his waist.
Hayley stared at the bronzed skin gleaming between the V of white lawn. He'd removed the bandages taping his ribs, granting her an unimpeded view of his muscular chest. Dark curling hair tapered into a raven line that bisected his flat, taut stomach before disappearing into his shirt once again. An open Gentleman's Weekly lay on the floor. Hayley noticed the page was opened to A Sea Captain's Adventures by H. Tripp.
Her gaze wandered back up his face. Such a beautiful, handsome face. Relaxed in sleep, his features softened, he looked almost boyish, with a single lock of raven hair falling over his forehead. An overwhelming rush of tenderness washed over her, for this man who, in spite of his injuries, had exhausted himself building a stone wall with two young boys, then carried Nathan all the way back to the house, and comforted her in a way no one else could have.
She loved him.
God help her, she loved him.
Unable to stop herself, she dropped to her knees next to the sofa, her eyes devouring the man who had stolen her heart. A heart she'd never thought to give, or believed any man would want. She doubted that Stephen would want it, but it was his just the same.
Her mind told her to leave—there was no point prolonging the sweet agony of wanting what she couldn't have, but her inner yearnings rebelled and won. Just this once she'd listen to her longings, and she longed to touch him. Not as she had while she'd nursed him through his fever, with the impersonal touch of a caregiver, but as a woman touched a man. A man she loved.
Scarcely daring to breathe, she reached out and gently brushed the lock of hair from his brow. His eyelashes formed crescent shadows against his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted, his breathing slow and deep. She feathered a light fingertip down his stubbled cheek, loving the prickly rasp against her skin.
She remained motionless for several wondrous minutes, on her knees, her rapt gaze roving from his bronze chest up to his handsome face, and back again. I must stop this. I don't want to risk that he'll awaken and find me gawking like an adoring slave. Knowing she had to, but reluctant just the same, she started to rise.
"Don't stop."
Hayley froze at the softly whispered words. Her startled gaze flew to Stephen's face. His eyes were half opened and he was regarding her with an unfathomable, hooded expression. Hot waves of embarrasse
d consternation suffused her, rendering her speechless.
Stephen reached out and gently captured her hand and brought it to his chest, covering it with his own. Soft springy hair grazed her palm and the heat of his skin sizzled right through to her very soul.
"Don't stop," he whispered again, his gaze penetrating and intense. "Touch me." He pressed her hand more firmly against his chest, then slid it across his hair-roughened skin. "Like that."
Hayley stared at him, mesmerized by the flames dancing in his eyes. His hot gaze bore into her, commanding her to do as he bid. Her always reliable common sense, the inner voice that should be telling her to stop, to think of her reputation, to consider the consequences of her actions, remained stubbornly silent. The woman in her who had been pushed aside and forgotten about for so long emerged, filled with love and needs and desire. For this man whose heart thumped against her fingers.
She looked at her hand lying against his chest, then tentatively glided her palm across the expanse of warm skin, his hair tickling her palm.
A low gasp escaped him and her gaze flew back to his in alarm. "Did I hurt you?" she whispered, stricken.
He slowly shook his head. "No."
"Then why did you groan?"
"Because it felt … so … good. Do it again."
Hayley's mouth went dry. She gently moved her hand across his chest once again, her gaze locked to his. She watched in stunned amazement as his eyes darkened to green smoke.
Emboldened, she ran her hand slowly over him, her fingers gliding over his taut muscles. When her fingertips bushed over one of his small, flat nipples, he sucked in a hissing breath, but she could tell she had not hurt him.
Fascinated, she brought her other hand to his chest, and allowed her curious fingers to touch him, sifting through the dark mat of hair covering his warm skin. She watched in delighted amazement when his muscles tensed and contracted from her gentle ministrations.
She continued touching him, her strokes long and slow. Soon his shirt, open though it was, proved a hindrance to her questing hands. Without a word, he unfastened the last several buttons, pulled the shirttails from his breeches, then guided her hands back to him.
Separating the soft material, she laid his torso entirely bare to her avid eyes. Dear God, he was magnificent. All hard muscle and golden skin sprinkled with dark hair. No longer hesitant, she ran eager hands over him, growing bolder with each stroke of her palms across his body. His sighs grew more lengthy and his growls of pleasure deeper with each pass of her hands.
Heat flooded her system. He felt so good. So vibrant and alive. His masculine scent filled her head: the clean woodsy fragrance that belonged to him alone. She ached with the sudden need to press her lips against his warm flesh. To taste the wonder her hands felt.
But before she could act on her impulse, he grabbed her wrists. Holding her hands, he dragged himself to a sitting position, then dropped his forehead onto their intertwined fingertips and drew in a ragged-sounding breath.
"I thought you didn't want me to stop," Hayley whispered. I don't want to stop. Please don't make me. Just this once, let me have what I want.
He lifted his head and their eyes met. "I didn't. I don't," he said in a husky voice. "But I…"
His words trailed off when Hayley freed one of her hands and touched the bandage on his arm. "Did I hurt you?"
A strangled sound escaped his throat and he pulled her hand away. "God, no, Hayley, you didn't hurt me. You pleased me. Very much. Too much."
"Oh. I see." But she didn't see at all. She ached to touch him again, but he clearly didn't want her to. He said he enjoyed her touch, but he made her stop. Fiery embarrassment heated her. Dear God, what he must think of her! She had to get away from him before she made more of a fool out of herself. What was I thinking? It seemed she only had to look at this man and she lost her mind.
Extricating her hands from between his, she stood and fought to swallow the tears tightening her throat. "I'm sorry I woke you. I'll leave you to your reading." She turned to leave, but hadn't even managed to walk one step before he halted her progress, encircling her wrist with his strong fingers.
She looked down at him sitting on the sofa, an unreadable expression in his eyes.
"To hell with being noble," he muttered. He tugged on her hand, pulling her down until she sat across his lap.
"Put your arms around my neck," he whispered, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers. Hayley hesitated, but when he breathed "Please," she was lost. The instant she wrapped her arms around him, she found herself the recipient of a long, slow, deep, melting kiss that robbed her of her wits.
Stephen kissed her again and again, and with each passing moment his control slipped another notch. The touch of her hands, her tongue's silky caress against his, her rose-scented skin, were driving him mad. His arousal strained against his tight breeches, aching with want. He should have let her leave when he had the chance, but that look of hurt confusion on her face had pierced his heart.
She sighed his name and he pressed her back into the soft cushions, angling his body so he lay directly on top of her. His inner voice screamed at him, Stop! Get off her! Leave her the hell alone! This is wrong.
But it felt so right.
Pushing his conscience aside, he mentally rationalized that he only wanted to kiss her. Nothing more. Just a kiss … just one more kiss…
But stopping there proved impossible.
She overwhelmed him on every level, making coherent thought impossible. He cupped her breasts and ran his thumbs over her nipples, which immediately peaked into hard points. Hayley moaned and tunneled her fingers through his hair, urging him closer. Unable to stop himself, he stroked one hand down her body, catching the hem of her gown and slowly pulling it up. He insinuated his hand under the soft muslin and trailed his fingers up her calf. When his fingers reached her knee, they encountered the tie to her cotton drawers, a barrier he made fast work of.
As his fingers continued their leisurely exploration up her leg, he reveled in the throaty, breathless moans escaping her. When his hand reached the juncture between her thighs, her entire body tensed.
"Stephen," she whispered against his lips.
Raising his head, he gazed down into her luminous, desire-dilated eyes. His fingers lightly caressed her. "Spread your legs for me, Hayley. I want to touch you. I need to feel you."
Her gaze never wavering from his, she obeyed.
His fingers skimmed upward and caressed her soft folds of womanly flesh, eliciting a growl of masculine lust from him. She was wet and slippery, warm and moist, and he lost himself in the feel of her, the sight of her throwing her head back and reveling in the discovery of new sensations.
While she writhed beneath his caress, clutching his shoulders, he gently eased a finger inside her, watching her all the while. Dear God, she was so hot and so tight. He moved his finger slowly in and out of her body, watching her passion grow, her breathing become deeper and faster. He slipped a second finger inside her and groaned aloud when her velvety walls clutched at him.
She pushed herself against his hand, and he knew what she sought, understood how desperate and hot she felt. He felt so himself.
"Stephen," she whispered, her voice a breathless pant, "I feel so strange. So achy, and wonderful, and … ohhh!" Her words ended on a surprised exclamation.
He watched, transfixed, as she climaxed. She responded with total abandon, her back arching, hips bucking against him. When she fell back against the cushions, sated, he slipped his fingers from her body. Rolling their bodies onto their sides, he gathered her against his hammering heart, burying his face in her fragrant hair. He'd never seen anything more erotic, more sensual, than Hayley in the throes of her first passion. It was a miracle he hadn't exploded himself, although in truth, he nearly had.
After a moment she leaned back and touched his face. He looked at her and their gazes locked.
Turning his face, he pressed a fervent kiss into her palm. "God, Hayle
y. You are beautiful. So soft and warm." His arousal jerked in his snug breeches, a pulsing reminder of how badly he wanted to bury himself inside her.
"What happened to me? I've never experienced anything like that before."
"You experienced a woman's pleasure," he whispered against her palm.
"It was … incredible. I had no idea." She caressed his face with gentle fingers and a breathy sigh escaped her. "What a wondrous, marvelous feeling."
Stephen touched his forehead to hers and closed his eyes, swallowing the lump of guilt that clogged his throat, threatening to choke him. Now that he could think clearly again, he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. Jesus. What a bloody bastard I am. He'd just compromised her beyond all hope, and worse, he knew if he didn't get away from her, he'd compromise her even more. And damn it, she deserved better than a tumble on the study sofa with a man who would leave her.
Raising himself on one elbow, he gently brushed the tangle of curls from her forehead. "Hayley, I…" God. He knew he should apologize, but he couldn't. It had been too beautiful. She was too beautiful. Tenderness invaded his system. He swallowed and tried again. "We cannot keep doing this, Hayley. We cannot continue spending time alone like this. You'll end up completely ruined, and I am going to lose my mind. I don't want to compromise you any more than I already have." Like hell. I want to compromise you so badly I can barely think straight.
Dark red stained her cheeks and she struggled to sit up. "Of course, you're right. I'm sorry—"
Stephen laid a single finger across her lips, halting her words. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Hayley. I take full responsibility for what happened. But I'm only a man, and I don't want to ruin you. If we're alone like this again, I will. I can't seem to help myself."
Forcing himself to move away from her, he sat up, then helped her to do the same. He ran shaky fingers through his hair and expelled a long breath. His body continued to throb and ache, but he knew Hayley was the only thing that would satisfy him, and she was the one thing he must not take. How ironic that all his wealth and estates and titles could not give him what he really wanted. He knew he could simply take it, but at what cost? I would hate myself. And worse, she would hate me. Maybe not now, but later. After I leave.
RED ROSES MEAN LOVE Page 17
