Lord Carlisle tucked the bundle into a breast pocket. “I will frank these for you this very evening. I am sorry I was not able to do so the last time we met. I should never have leveled Mapleton before so many people, although he quite deserved it, and worse.”
Grace set the reticule on the edge of a shelf before she dropped it. As apologies went, this one was…unexpectedly honest. He was not sorry to have struck the man that insulted her. He was sorry that his defense had brought more trouble than peace.
She motioned him to join her among the bookshelves for a little more privacy. The man before the fire might be silent, but she did not wish his eyes upon her when she asked Lord Carlisle her next question.
“You smelled of wine,” she said quietly, her face as serious as her tone. “Were you drunk that night?”
The corner of his mouth quirked, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Regrettably, no. Perhaps then I might have something to blame besides the flash of my own temper. When I overheard your name being spoken in such a manner… I’m afraid I reacted with my fist rather than my brain.”
His fist, yes, but also his heart. He had been offended on her behalf, had wished to avenge her honor.
If only society worked that way.
She took a deep breath. “When I smelled the alcohol on your breath, I…I’m afraid I may have overreacted.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “I’m the one who got blood on my gloves. What the devil do you have to apologize for?”
“I’m not apologizing,” she said quietly. “I’m explaining why I cannot bear to be around someone who drinks spirits.”
His knuckle forced her chin up so her gaze met his. She shivered. His eyes had gone cold. “Did someone hurt you?”
“Irrevocably,” she admitted, “but not the way you think. I was a baby at the time. Everything I know, I was told later. Back then, my mother was barely as old as I am now. My father was a physician, attending to a sick child in Bower Hill.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Have you heard of the Whiskey Insurrection?”
Carlisle shook his head, his eyes dark. He had undoubtedly guessed how the tale would end. “Your father fought against the rebels?”
“My father was a healer. He was unarmed, save for his leather pouch of willow bark and cold compresses.” Her voice wobbled. She forced herself to keep talking. “Ten army soldiers came to aid the house under siege, but by then almost six hundred armed rebels surrounded it. They wanted to kill General Neville. The general wasn’t even inside.”
Lord Carlisle pulled her into his embrace. “Never say they were at the wrong house.”
“He was hiding in a ravine. It was the right house.” She shuddered and closed her eyes tight. “It just had the wrong man inside.”
“Six hundred to ten. It’s not even a fight.” Lord Carlisle’s voice was hard, his body a rock. “There’s no honor in slaughter.”
“There was no honor at all,” she said bitterly. “Only men and their whiskey.”
He laid his cheek against her forehead and cradled her close. His heartbeat sped beneath her ear. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
“After several hours, they let the women and children go.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “But not the men. Not my father.”
“His patient?”
“Eight years old. Dead within a week. The rebels hadn’t let the women and children take anything with them, for fear one might smuggle a weapon to use against them.”
“The child’s mother couldn’t return for the medicine the next morning? After it was all over?”
“Return where? As soon as the women and children were gone, both sides opened fire. When the rebel leader fell, his troops set the house ablaze.” She had seen the site, years later. She wished she hadn’t. It was worse than a grave. “There was nothing left to come back to. Everyone was dead. Everything was ashes.”
“All that destruction,” he said slowly, then pressed his lips to her hair. “Just for some whiskey.”
“Exactly.” She shuddered and clung to him. “That’s why I… If you…”
“I won’t ever drink spirits around you again, and I promise to never drink to excess.” His eyes burned into hers. “I swear it on this kiss.”
Her mouth parted in surprise.
He lowered his head slowly, giving her time to pull away, the chance to reject him.
She could no more resist the allure of his mouth than the sea could resist the pull of the moon. She might end up leg-shackled to some dusty old roué, but she would go to her grave with the memory of this man seared into her soul. She, too, swore it. On this kiss.
His lips brushed hers. Light. Feathery. Still giving her a chance to say no, to turn away.
She would not. She would have this moment, every bit of this moment, because it would have to carry her through the rest of her life. This was Oliver. In her heart, he was hers. If only for this moment.
The next time his lips brushed hers, she suckled his lower lip into her mouth to taste him. She had dreamed of their lips, together. When he nipped at her lips, she eagerly opened her mouth to his.
His tongue swept inside, teasing gently. She gasped, grateful for the strong arms cradling her close. Her nipples tightened as if they could feel everything he was doing to her mouth just as clearly as if he were doing it to her naked breast. Swirling. Tasting. She swayed at the thought.
He suckled her lower lip into his mouth and she imagined he did the same to her nipples. How might it feel? Her nipples were taut against the thin linen of her sheath, the translucent silk of her dress. Her heart raced. Could he feel them through his waistcoat? She would die if he could, die if he could not. She wanted him to touch them, to ease the yearning ache building in her breasts and her belly and between her legs.
Gasping, she jerked her mouth from his before she gave into the temptation to have it all.
His mouth was only inches from hers, his breathing as irregular as her own. His smile was slow and full of sensual promise. “If you like, I can swear it on two kisses. If you’re not convinced by the one, that is. I could probably even be talked into swearing on three kisses. Just this once.”
She smacked his shoulder but didn’t let him go.
“No? Are you sure?” He affected a very serious expression. “Promising is easy because I don’t have any whiskey and I’m too poor to buy some. You’re awfully fortunate I haven’t a penny to my name. It’s a blessing, really. Often I espy myself in a puddle of rain—I haven’t a looking glass, you know—and I say to myself, ‘Self, how dreadful it would be to actually have money. If you had the blunt, you’d waste it on foolish things, like a greenhouse full of jasmine for a certain young lady, or perhaps a thick woolen fichu for her gowns so less savory gentlemen are not tempted by the succulent curve of her breasts.’” He made a wolfish face in the direction of her bosom.
“Oh?” she asked breathlessly. The self-deprecation in his tone did nothing to lessen the romance of his words. Her heart turned over. If he presented her with a greenhouse full of flowers, she knew precisely how she’d help him christen it. She arched her back to lift her breasts higher. “I thought only foods could be succulent.”
The teasing vanished from his eyes in a flash of passion and heat. She had no doubt then that he wanted her as fiercely and as completely as she wanted him. She could feel the heat of his flesh even through his clothes. “Definitely succulent. I absolutely, positively, would adore the opportunity to eat you.”
“Eat…me?” she gasped. “But how?”
“I would start right here…”
The tip of his tongue traced the edge of her ear. Her breath caught at the sensation. She shivered. He nipped at the lobe, then touched his tongue to the soft sensitive skin just behind. She gripped his arms tighter.
“…and then I would continue here…”
His hot, sinful mouth pressed a series of exquisitely slow kisses from behind the lobe of her ear all the way down her throat, bit by bit, tasting and ki
ssing until he reached the pulse point at the base.
Her entire body was on fire with the wanting of him. Every kiss to her neck, she felt on her breasts, on her stomach, between her legs. It was as if every inch of her body was attuned to everywhere his mouth touched. And yet she wanted more. She didn’t want to imagine his fingers on her thighs or the promise of his mouth on her breast. She wanted to feel him. The hard muscle of his arms and powerful legs, the heat of his kisses against her bare flesh.
“…and then make my way down ever so slowly to here…”
The lace fichu was gone from her chest, snatched away as if by the wind. She leaned into him. Finally, finally, his tantalizing kisses came ever so slowly closer to where she wanted them most. She had forgotten to breathe, had forgotten everything about everything except for the feel of his lips on her skin and how much she wanted to lift her nipples to his open mouth and force him to suckle. And then she wanted to do the same, right back to him.
His lips pressed hot kisses from the base of her throat all the way down to the tops of her breasts, slowly enough to torture, hot enough to brand. His mouth closed over one of her straining nipples, his tongue rasping over the thin layers of silk and linen. She clutched his shoulders, his hair. She wouldn’t let him up. Couldn’t. He made her ache so deliciously, made her hurt and need and want.
He tugged down the edge of her shallow bodice. Breathless, she willed him to touch her. With a searing kiss, he covered her breast with his hand. She gasped as his fingers pinched the straining nipple. He was hers and she was his. She threw her head back as he bent his mouth to her naked breast and employed his talented fingers on the one yet hidden. Her thighs were damp at the sensation, her legs pressed tight as if to ease a pulsing need deep within. She wanted more. She wanted him to touch her, to feel her heat, her wetness. She—
The creak of hinges sounded a scant second before the library door flew open and two figures strode right into line of sight with Grace and Lord Carlisle.
“Oh dear,” said Miss Downing with a startled look. “Are Isaac and I interrupting something?”
“Nonsense!” Grace dropped to the floor with one hand to her chest, feeling blindly for the fallen scrap of lace that was supposed to be covering her swollen bosom. “Just…You know. Euripides. I adore Greek playwrights.”
Oliver was flush against the closest bookshelf, attempting to adjust his breeches without appearing to be doing so. He was failing miserably.
“Carlisle, is that you?” Mr. Downing stormed closer, hands on his hips. “What exactly is going on in here?”
“I believe Oliver was kissing Miss Halton just prior to your arrival,” came a drowsy murmur from somewhere near the fire.
All four of them turned to stare at Captain Grey in astonishment.
“Xavier!” Oliver rushed to his side and gave him a fierce hug. “You’re back!”
“And you’ve been kissing,” Mr. Downing reminded him. “In the library!”
Oliver winced, and rubbed a hand over his face. “Honestly, Xavier? This is the moment you choose to awaken from a four-month fugue?”
Mr. Downing poked his finger at Oliver’s chest. “The precise moment actually seems to be when your rakish mouth touched Miss Halton’s innocent lips!”
“And her breast,” Captain Grey mused drowsily. “Something about…‘succulent.’”
“Succulent breasts!” Miss Downing gasped.
Mr. Downing grabbed Grace’s arm just as she finished shoving the lace fichu more or less back into place. “Miss Halton, this is very serious indeed. You have been well and truly compromised. Your reputation—”
“—will not suffer one whit,” Oliver interrupted, his tone commanding and imperial. “I was overcome with passion because this lovely, virginal young lady has just agreed to be my wife.”
“What?” Grace choked out in horror, her limbs draining of all feeling. His estate…Her mother…
Oliver elbowed her in the shoulder. “Act blissful, damn it. This time we both need rescuing. If you don’t marry me, you’ll never marry anyone, and I shall not abandon you to such a fate.”
“It’s true,” Miss Downing stage-whispered. “You have to say yes. Captain Grey saw your breast.”
Grace glared at her. “Nobody saw anything! We were behind that bookshelf and—”
“…something about ‘eating’ Miss Halton…” Captain Grey murmured. “I didn’t quite catch…”
Oliver coughed and tossed a worried glance toward Grace. “I meant it…non-passionately?”
Mr. Downing’s intractable gaze speared them both.
“Huzzah!” Grace managed with a bleak smile. “I’m to be married. There has never been a more blissful bride than I.”
Oliver put his arm around her shoulders and cuddled her to him. “It is official. You have made me the happiest of men.”
Awfully, she had the suspicion that he was at least somewhat telling the truth. He needed an heiress with significantly more money than she had to offer, but he didn’t look like his heart had just been ripped from his chest and trampled to dust by a thousand horses.
Grace, on the other hand… It was finally over. Her last hopes, gone. Now there would never be any money to save her mother. She could not act happy. She could not even make eye contact, for fear of hot tears beginning to flow. As much as she liked Oliver, as much as she desired both his presence and his body, he was the worst possible match she could ever have made.
He needed her dowry even more than she did.
Chapter 12
Oliver stared into the face of the Black Prince.
For twenty-six years, the ghost of Edward the Black Prince had been both his nemesis and his brother. How Oliver had hated him, this dead young man with his bright yellow beard and rich blue mantle flowing rakishly from his royal shoulders. He had been both firstborn and favorite son to his father the king, and the only son who mattered to Oliver’s father, the earl.
Yet he could not remove the painting from the wall. Hate it or not, it was as much a part of him as his own heart. The Black Prince was the only family he had left. His brother. His enemy.
Since the time he could read, Oliver had researched every scrap of history he could find about the man who held his father in thrall. As a young child, he’d hated the dead prince for all the things he could do that little Oliver could not—attend council meetings. Hold court. Lead battles. Marry for love. As Oliver grew older, he’d hated the dead prince for all the things he did that Oliver would not—massacre innocents. Burn and pillage.
All these years, he’d believed his father’s disappointment in him stemmed from his inability to live up to the Black Prince’s larger-than-life persona. But now, as he stood in his finely tailored clothes in the only corridor of the manor where paintings still adorned the walls, he was disquieted to realize how alike he and the Black Prince actually were.
Both were fearless. Foolish. And wrought destruction wherever they went.
Mirroring his hated cousin, Oliver had rushed into battle, inherited a title, attended the House of Lords. He’d pillaged his own bloody estate right down to the silver napkin rings. He was marrying a woman he could easily come to love. And while he did not massacre innocents, he left naught but misery in his wake.
He brought his fist to his forehead and closed his eyes. Poor Miss Halton. How she must despise him. She had made it abundantly clear that he was not the sort of husband she was looking for. Why would he be? Who could blame her? He was empty. As soulless and as useless as the cracked portrait upon this wall. All he saw again and again was the moment she realized he’d stolen her ability to choose her own future. They were to be married forthwith.
Her shattered expression would be scarred forever upon his heart.
He opened his eyes. The Black Prince gazed regally back at him. Fitting. Oliver did not deserve to have his portrait upon the wall. The Prince was a murderous, chivalrous, God-fearing contradiction, but he was well-loved by his father and his countrym
en.
Oliver’s gut clenched as he realized the truth with sudden clarity. This was why he’d joined the war, fought the front lines in battle. This was why he raced pell-mell into his ill-fated rescues. He just wanted to be useful for once in his life. To be needed. To be important to somebody—anybody—even if it were only one person. He wanted someone to choose him for once. To want him. To love him.
But that was not his fate.
“My lord?” echoed a voice from down the corridor.
Oliver turned his back on the Black Prince and forced a smile for his butler. Ferguson would be leaving soon. Oliver had his letter of recommendation in his pocket. It was the least he could do. He was better than his father. He would not allow honorable people to slave for him when there was no money to pay their wages. Oliver could open his own doors, wash his own dishes.
“Yes, Ferguson?”
“There are visitors, my lord. I put them in the side parlor. I did not know where else to…Well. The sunlight is very pretty there.”
Ah. Poor Ferguson. Someone finally paid a social call, and Oliver had left no furnished rooms in which to receive guests. “An excellent choice. The view of the garden is lovely from that angle. Who has come to call?”
Ferguson did not need to glance at the calling card in his hand. “Miss Halton and Mr. and Mrs. Mayer. Your bride and her grandparents are here.”
Oliver’s fingers went cold, even as a besotted thrill of excitement raced through his veins. His eyes ached for the sight of Miss Halton’s smile. His heart dropped at what she must think of his bare walls, his empty parlor. How elderly were her grandparents? There was nowhere for them to sit, save the dining room. Perhaps he should move them in there. The great table and walnut chairs made the space look more, rather than less empty. Great swaths of space where the buffets had once been, faint rectangles where paintings had once hung. Sporadic candles instead of chandeliers.
This was no place for a bride. No prize for Miss Halton, who deserved so much more than he could give her.
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 14
