by Ann Stephens
He gave a crack of laughter that caused his mother and cousin to look up from their murmured conversation with lowered brows. “She takes a great deal of pride in her family. Did she lecture you dreadfully on your duties to the Rossburn name?”
His sympathetic tone comforted her and she gave him a warmer smile than she first intended. “She and my husband both did. I suppose I shall have to get used to it.” Then she realized how her words sounded. “Forgive me, I spoke out of turn! Certainly I meant no disrespect to your family.”
“As my family name is Upton, I have no reason to feel resentment.” His lips quirked into a lopsided smile. “For that reason, I have always been a bit of an outsider myself when visiting Duncarie. Not that Kieran has not always been everything that is gracious. Most of the time, at any rate.”
“Were you a frequent visitor in your childhood?” She cocked her head to one side, enjoying his undivided attention.
“No, only once a year or so until I reached the age of seventeen. That’s when my mother moved back.” Diantha nodded at the explanation.
“I’ve always thought the estate remarkable, although my uncle nearly ran it into the ground.” He lowered his voice tactfully. “It could be much more profitable with proper management. I, at least, am thankful that he married into a family possessing some business acumen.”
Diantha smiled her appreciation. It made a pleasant change to hear her family complimented for its fortune instead of denigrated. Still, this conversation had veered into dangerous waters.
As if realizing the same thing, her companion turned his attention to the music. “Do you play, Cousin Diantha?”
“Hardly, Cousin Barclay.” She held up her left hand, fingers outstretched. “As you can see, my reach does not even cover an octave and a half. My music master gave up trying to teach me to play when I was fourteen. He convinced my mother that I should be considered equally accomplished if I was taught to sing instead.”
With a teasing glint in his green eyes, he held his hand up, palm facing hers. Nearly as large as Kieran’s, elegantly shaped with long fingers, his hand could have engulfed hers easily.
“I do play, although indifferently. We should try a duet for voice and piano sometime.”
“Admiring my wife’s wedding ring?” Somehow her tall husband had crossed the room without her notice and stood right behind her. He did not look angry, but a sharp glance at their nearly touching hands caused hers to drop to her side.
Barclay raised an eyebrow but spoke mildly. “How nice of you to join us, Cousin. While her ring is quite handsome, I find many other admirable qualities in my new relative.” Unnoticed by either man at that moment, Diantha saw the speculative flash in his eyes before he covered it up with urbane teasing.
“I was telling her I should be delighted to accompany her any time she wishes. On the piano, of course.”
“Ah, is that it?” Her husband’s face looked friendly enough, except for a faint chill in his eyes.
“Surely you don’t think I’d behave badly with your wife, cuz!” Barclay chuckled.
“Ah, but I’ve seen you charm so many females with that particular look on your face.”
Kieran smiled down at her. “I didn’t know you could sing. Would you and my cousin favor us with a song?”
After a brief search, Barclay handed her a piece by Mssrs. Gilbert and German Reed. She choked back a laugh at the title, and launched into “With Rage Infuriate I Burn!” with gusto.
As her parents had spared no expense in her vocal training, she delivered a creditable performance of the witty lyrics. Barclay’s description of his skill on the piano matched his uninspired playing, but she thanked him anyway. He had certainly demonstrated more kindness than his mother.
By the song’s end, Kieran’s good humor returned, although Iona regarded her with suspicion. As well she might, Diantha thought to herself. She refused to allow the woman to set her aside in her own house.
Pleading a long day of travel, she escaped from the drawing room shortly afterward. Another footman conducted her to her chamber door, where she entered and gladly submitted to Florette’s ministrations. By the time the maid blew out all but one candle and slipped out the door, she drowsed against the pillows, warm under an eiderdown quilt.
Wriggling her toes luxuriously, she sighed contentedly, staring up at the canopy. Iona Upton or not, it felt heavenly to stretch out on a comfortable bed without her corset.
She closed her eyes and frowned. By rights, running Duncarie should now be her responsibility, but Florette had pointed out the woman’s precarious position.
The door opened again. Doubtless the Frenchwoman had forgotten something. Wanting to consider possible courses of action to claim her rightful place here, she did not open her eyes or speak. Cloth rustled nearby; the maid must have remembered something she wanted to clean.
Without warning, the sheets and coverlet shifted. Her eyes popped open as the mattress sagged under the heavy weight of a body sliding into bed next to her. Two muscular arms wrapped around her and warm lips nuzzled her nape, causing her to shiver and gasp involuntarily.
“Kieran, I’m tired.” She tried to scoot out of his arms only to have them tighten around her.
His bold hands came up to cup her breasts through her cambric nightgown, his thumbs circling their peaks to stiffness. “I came to apologize for scolding you before dinner. That was thoughtless on your first night here.”
She became fully alert as his breath against her skin sent shivers down her spine. “Is that what this is called?”
His body shook with suppressed laughter even as his fingers joined his thumbs, rolling her nipples until they ached. In between planting kisses over the back of her neck and shoulders, he spoke again. “I noticed your overtures to my aunt at dinner. She was at her worst this evening for some reason.”
And this afternoon. She didn’t voice the thought aloud, for he moved closer to her at that moment, and she realized with a shock that he was naked. All thoughts of Aunt Iona flew out of her head as the head of his heated shaft rubbed her backside through her nightgown.
A dark pulse stirred between her thighs as one hand left her breast to slide down her waist to her hip. She tried to turn onto her back, to open toward him. Gently, he squeezed her hip, stopping her.
She tilted her head back, trying to see him. Only his shoulder and the side of his face filled her vision. “You don’t want me to—”
His lips brushed the sensitive skin behind her ear. “I want you like this.”
“Why?” A sense of disappointment filled her. She wondered if he had tired of her plain face already. Then the tip of his tongue replaced his lips on her tender flesh, licking in slow circles down the side of her neck.
Instantly her back arched as pleasure crinkled down her spine. The motion ground her hips against the hard ridge of his erection and thrust her hardened nipple into his waiting palm.
His other hand left her hip and delved into the cleft between her parted legs. “Better access.” He gasped the words as she rocked against his questing fingers.
He held her to him as he stroked her slit, feeling the thin cloth rapidly dampen under his fingers. Intermittently he toyed with the secret nub that controlled her passion, teasing it until her nightgown was wet and she moaned in his arms.
He had not planned to come to her tonight. Able to sleep in his own bed for the first time in months, he had expected to drop off immediately. Instead he had tossed restlessly on the smooth sheets. For the first time since he had moved into the laird’s bedchamber, someone occupied the bedroom connected to it.
Images of Barclay’s hand so close to Diantha’s as they stood by the piano had run through his mind. He could not imagine that his cousin would make improper advances to his wife. Still, Barclay’s considerable charm might turn her head.
And what male in his right mind would reject her unfeigned response to carnal pleasures?
Marriage of convenience or not, the idea o
f his wife in bed with another man stirred a primitive urge to somehow claim her, to mark her as his alone.
Now he held her, his cock throbbing in time to her hoarse breaths. One of her hands clutched the arm that held her, and the other gripped his butt as he thrust against hers. As he continued to fondle her most intimate flesh, the scent of her musk rose to his nostrils, nearly driving him mad with lust.
“Please, Kieran!” She writhed in his arms, seeking her release. Not yet, he decided. He wanted to experience more of her first.
His hands left her. Instantly she turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him fervently. One slim leg hiked itself a little over his hip as if inviting him to enter her.
He smiled against her eager mouth. “Slow down, my bonny wife. We have all night.”
She lifted her head away from him, and in the dim glow of the candle by her bed, he saw surprise in her eyes. “Bonny? That means pretty, doesn’t it?”
Unexpected tenderness welled up in his heart. “Yes, it does.” Caressing her face with a hand, he leaned into her. Her eyelids fluttered closed as he slipped his tongue between her lips. Then he tasted her, circling his tongue around hers in a leisurely dance.
She followed his lead, slowly curling the tip of her tongue against his, then pulling back to run it over his lower lip. “You have a bonny mouth.” She paused, looking at him as though expecting a rebuke.
“Thank you.” He kissed her again, slanting his mouth over hers, taking his time as he rolled her onto her back and straddled her. He tilted his pelvis slightly to bring the sac between his legs into pleasurable contact with the soft cloth of her nightgown.
The garment fastened with a row of buttons down the front. Her breath caught as he unbuttoned them and parted the two sides. She arched her back in blatant invitation, but only after he had freed her arms from the gown’s long sleeves did he stretch out over her.
Starting with her gloriously sensitive neck, he kissed and nibbled his way down to her breasts. Gathering their bounty in his hands, he took turns laving and gently nipping each pink bud until Diantha groaned with desire.
He trailed more kisses down her body as he pushed the flimsy nightgown down her legs and off. Crouching over her, he licked around her navel as his hands slid beneath her thighs.
Her legs twitched at the unexpected caress, but she opened for him without protest. Her hands buried themselves in his hair, running through the loose waves.
His mouth moved lower and she tensed. Glancing up, he saw the shock in her face. He held her gaze as he deliberately scooted lower on the bed. He lowered his head, but before he could taste her, she tried to slide out from under him.
Expecting such a reaction, he easily caught her hands with his. Pinning her legs open with his shoulders, he planted a soft kiss on the sweet curls protecting her most intimate flesh and looked up at her alarmed eyes. “Don’t be shy with me, sweetheart. I’m your husband.”
“It can’t be normal to kiss me—down there.” She regarded him anxiously.
He knew better than to force her to submit to his desire. “I said you should tell me if you didn’t like something I did in bed, and if you don’t like this, I promise I’ll stop.” She relaxed immediately.
His thumbs rubbed her imprisoned hands, wanting to reassure her. “But it’s only fair to try something before you condemn it. Count to thirty before you tell me to quit. Fair enough?”
She nodded hesitantly, and he gave her a smile. “Good. Start counting, then.”
“One—”
Still holding her hands, he swept his tongue into the silken folds. He groaned as her salty taste filled his mouth. Starting at her tight opening he explored her thoroughly, dipping inside her, licking along each nether lip and up to the proud nubbin above. Her legs opened to offer more of herself to him and her hands now held his in a death grip.
All power of coherent speech left Diantha’s mind at the first touch of his tongue on the most secret place of her body. Her breath hitched and she bit her lip to keep from crying out at the intense pleasure. She watched his dark head between her thighs, unable to believe what she was permitting him to do. As though he felt her gaze, he lifted his head to meet it with his own.
Her heart pounded. The impeccable aristocrat had disappeared, replaced by this feral man who awakened shameful, wonderful, primitive desires in her body.
“Scream for me, darling.” He whispered the words before suckling on the bud where her body’s pleasure centered. She tried to resist, but then the explosion hit. Losing all control, she cried his name as wave after wave of ecstasy thundered through her body.
No sooner had she caught her breath than he levered himself over her. Grasping her hips, he sheathed himself inside her with one deep thrust. Groaning, he repeated the motion again and again, in an ever-increasing tempo. Not wanting to lose him, she wrapped her legs around his waist.
That small move sent him over the edge. Bracing himself on stiffened arms, he drove his thick staff into her repeatedly as his back arched and he threw his head to the rear. She joined his wordless moans at the glorious sensation and reveled in the release of his hot seed deep inside her.
Panting, he collapsed on top of her. As he pressed kisses onto her neck, her collarbone, her face, she stroked his sweat-slicked back until her own breath returned. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
Without a word, he moved onto his side and gathered her close. Her eyes drooped and she drifted off to sleep in his arms.
Chapter 10
At some point during the night, Diantha roused, vaguely aware of a sweet kiss and a tender whisper before Kieran left her bed. By the time Florette’s entrance woke her up fully the next morning, the rumpled sheets on his side of the bed had grown cold. “Good morning, milady. I trust you slept well.” As the maid opened the drapes to admit the morning light, the younger woman stretched her feet toward the bottom of the bed, seeking her nightgown. Brushing her foot against some lace, she grasped with her toes and stealthily bent her leg to bring it within reach of her hand.
“Very well indeed, thank you.” Gripping the bedclothes firmly around her naked body, she grabbed the cambric and pondered how to pull it over her head before she had to leave the bed. The mussed sheets proclaimed her husband’s presence in her room last night as surely as if she shouted it from the rooftops, but protocol demanded that even married women maintain the polite fiction that they never indulged in conjugal romps.
The ever-tactful maid solved her dilemma. “I shall personally oversee the heating of milady’s bathwater.” A twinkle in her gray eyes belied the stiff formality of the words.
Lips quivering, Diantha nodded her head graciously. “Thank you, that would be most appreciated.”
After their playacting, the maid pulled out a muslin bed jacket and placed it on the bed. Curtseying, she disclosed the information that the family ate breakfast in the north back parlor. “Chef says that the aunt orders that only milord’s mother is permitted to take breakfast in her room, but that he awaits your directions.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Convey my thanks to—?”
“MacAdam, milady.” Florette grimaced. “A Scot, of all things. At least he studied in France.”
When she finally located the north back parlor, she discovered both Uptons ensconced at the breakfast table. Barclay instantly rose and begged her to allow him to prepare a plate for her, while his mother delivered a look which conveyed a poor opinion of females who slept until the shocking hour of nine o’clock.
Diantha had given some thought to dealing with Kieran’s aunt as she sat in her hip bath earlier. It would not do to divide the household into armed camps, but she had settled on a few small steps to start with.
“Good morning, Cousin. Good morning, Aunt.” She ignored the indignant muttering from Iona’s end of the breakfast table. Declining Barclay’s offer of assistance, she strolled over to inspect the dishes on the sideboard.
Seeing the offerings, she unders
tood the reason behind the family’s choice of chef. Certainly the temperamental individuals who ruled her mother’s kitchens would have resigned before preparing porridge with cream, bannocks, or venison pasty.
Her cousin by marriage pulled out a chair for her. “I heartily recommend the fried trout; it’s fresh from our own loch. The venison is ours as well.”
Odd that one who claimed to feel like a stranger here referred to each thing as ours. Making her selections, she moved to the table and smiled her thanks.
Kieran breezed into the room just then. Dressed in a riding habit, hair blown into waves, he exuded vitality. Watching his muscles bunch under the tight breeches, she swallowed.
Aunt Iona frowned. “I am quite sure we have sufficient servants to ring for a bath before coming to breakfast in all your dirt, Nephew.”
He waved her objections aside. “I’ve eaten already, Aunt. I shall only have a cup of tea.” Helping himself to tea, two rolls, and marmalade, he bent to kiss Diantha’s cheek before seating himself. Barclay’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and Iona looked ill.
As he sipped his tea, his eyes twinkled at her over the rim of the cup. “What a delightful dress, my dear. You look every inch the lady of the manor—this morning.” He lowered his voice on the last two words, conjuring a memory of just how unladylike she had appeared and sounded last night.
She darted a glare at him, then bent to her meal until the heat faded from her face and neck.
In a faintly disapproving tone, Barclay asked her unrepentant spouse where he had ridden. They fell into a discussion about estate problems, relieving her of the necessity of speaking.
When they concluded, Kieran turned to her. “Diantha, have you formulated any plans for the day yet?”
Her blushes under control, she placed her knife and fork on her plate. “I hoped you might be able to take me over the house today. I would enjoy a closer look at it.”
His face clouded. “I’m so sorry; I have months of paperwork to catch up on in my study.” A sharp sense of disappointment filled her. “I’d offer Barclay’s services, but he’s going to be working with me. However, I’m sure Aunt Iona will be able to answer any questions you have.”
