by Regan Walker
“A good adventure, I think,” he said, his voice deeply sensuous.
“All right,” she replied, gathering her thoughts from where they had scattered. “Perhaps Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott?” She lifted the book from the shelf and turned to face him.
He stared into her eyes, ignoring the book. Finally, with a sigh, he said in a husky voice, “Yes, that would be good.”
* * *
Christopher found himself unexpectedly content with their time at the lodge, content with all save the fact that Lady Leisterfield slept in a separate bed. Food arrived on the doorstep each morning and midday as if fairies brought it. Despite the fact that he never saw a servant, each morning there was fresh hay and oats in the stable. He groomed their horses himself, and he rather liked the job.
The hours spent with Lady Leisterfield in walks through the garden and beside the stream, and their rides over the hills brought a kind of peace to his life he hadn’t experienced previously. She was a rare woman, not overly given to talk. A comment here, a smile there, and he would know what she was thinking. She was easy to be with.
Their evenings had taken on a kind of ritual. After a light supper, she would read to him from the novel and he would sip his wine and imagine the two of them traveling the roads of England and Scotland as the characters in the story they were reading. It was not hard to see they were well-suited. But they were not lovers, and with that he was not content.
As she read the story that evening, he could not take his eyes off her lips, her hair, her angelic face. Never had he been so fascinated by a woman, never had he enjoyed simply being with one. But the call of her body, so ripe and so close, rendered each day increasingly difficult. Helping her onto and off her horse, he felt her curves in his hands and wanted to feel them unhidden by clothes. He watched her chest rise with the exhilaration of their vigorous rides over the countryside. After her bath, he smelled her sweet fragrance of orange blossoms as she sat next to him on the sofa. And just now her sweet lips were calling to him as she read.
“‘Robert Roy MacGregor: Do you know how fine you are to me, Mary MacGregor? Mary MacGregor: And you to me.’”
He finished his wine and set down the glass, then reached for the book she held and placed it on the table in front of them. She looked up, surprised. The light from the fire and the candles they’d set about the room made her skin appear to glow.
“Enough reading for tonight.”
She stared at him, speechless.
His hunger for her had not subsided in the days they’d spent together. He could resist no longer. It had nothing to do with the wager; it had everything to do with her. Pulling her into his arms, he gave her a kiss. Her lips were as sweet as he remembered. The slight resistance he encountered mattered not. As soon as his tongue found hers, she melted in his arms.
His manhood swelled at the feel of her full breasts pressed into his chest, and he kissed her deeply for a time. Then he pressed kisses along her warm throat, that slim column of fair flesh that had called to him as she read to him each night. Finding the vein through which her blood pulsed so rapidly, he drew her skin into his mouth. With a soft moan, she entwined her fingers in his hair. She tasted like summer honey, bringing his arousal to full measure.
His hand skimmed over her side just beneath her breast to her narrow waist as he pulled her hips tightly to him. The light woolen gown she’d donned after her bath hid little from his knowing hands. He cupped her breast and slid his thumb over her nipple, feeling it harden in response. Returning his lips to hers, he kissed her again, and with his body eased her down onto the sofa.
Their kisses became more heated. His hand skimmed up her leg to her bare thigh beneath her gown, the flesh soft and pliant. He wanted her naked and he wanted her now.
“Eustace,” she said breathlessly. “We cannot….”
“Ah, but we can. Who will know but us?” He kissed her collarbone. “This is where our relationship has been taking us since that first night we met.”
* * *
Eustace had stated a truth. With each moment shared in the lodge they had grown closer, and not just as friends; Grace had seen the look in his eyes. He had wanted her since before they came to the lodge. But how much of that was her, and how much was ego? Could she give herself to such a man? God help her, she wanted to.
No. The wager was always between them.
She pulled back, and he looked at her, his copper eyes dark with desire and his breath coming in pants. “My lady?”
“Eustace, we mustn’t.”
He rose from the sofa in one leap, dragged a hand through his hair and let out a deep breath. “I cannot be so close to you and not want to touch you, not want to make love to you. I have tried and failed. Each night I lie in bed thinking of you, aware you are just on the other side of the wall and wondering if you are sleeping.”
Though she would not admit it, Grace too had lain awake thinking of him and wishing they were not in separate chambers or in separate beds. She wished there was no wager between them. But there was.
Muttering a curse, Eustace stormed out the door and into the night. Grace followed, feeling the lack of him, fearing she would lose what sweet intimacy they had gained. She had to try to keep him from leaving. But as she came through the front door, his back was to her. He walked across the gravel path and onto the grass, the moon’s bright light casting his shadow onto the ground. He was walking away. How could she bring him back?
“Eustace! What about the wager?”
He turned, apparently furious, hurt, incredulous. “Forget the damn wager! I have. I am here for you.”
She stared at him as he walked toward her. She said nothing, enraptured by his gaze.
“I like you, Grace. I admire you and want to protect you.” He must have seen her doubt, for stopping in front of her he grimaced and then gave a wry smile. “All right, I admit this began as a simple diversion. Ormond is the one who suggested the wager. I went along with it because… Well, since then I don’t care about the wager anymore. I meant it when I said I set it aside for my time here with you.”
“Then don’t go,” she whispered. “I believe you.” And she knew with those words she had made her decision.
“Grace…”
The wind blew his auburn hair about his face, and his coat flared as he closed the small distance between them. She reached her arms out in invitation, and he drew her into a tight embrace, his hand covering her head and pressing it to his chest. His fingers stroked her neck, soothing her fears and sending tingles of anticipation down her spine. She heard his deep intake of breath as if he were inhaling her into his mind.
When he stilled, she touched her lips to his neck, kissing him just below his ear, telling him she was with him in this. He pulled back to look at her.
“Are you certain?”
It was her decision, she knew. But she would not turn back now. Even if all she had was one night or a few days, she would take them. There was a joy here she might never otherwise obtain.
Cupping his face with her hands, she drew his mouth to hers and kissed him. Gently at first, then more passionately as the flame between them flared, she embraced all that was Eustace. It was all the answer he would get, but apparently it was all he needed. Gripping her shoulders, he pulled her back to his chest. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her, his fingers entwined in her hair. She felt the pins fall away and her hair falling to her shoulders.
He devoured her mouth with his kisses, and a deep ache formed at the apex of Grace’s thighs as she kissed him back. He broke the kiss and stared into her eyes. Then he smiled, a slow sure smile, and with sudden enthusiasm he lifted and carried her into the lodge, dashed up the stairs and set her down only when they were in her bedchamber. He began to undress her, his knowledgeable hands quickly dispensing with her gown and her corset, the one that laced down the front. Beneath lay the pale blue diaphanous chemise she had purchased weeks ago.
He stilled, gazing down at
her breasts revealed through the nearly transparent fabric. “Another surprise from the virtuous widow,” he said. Then, looking into her eyes: “I approve.”
She looked down, not wishing him to see her embarrassment. His clothing fell at her feet as he disrobed and stepped to her, pulling her against his hard, naked body, hot with desire. His arousal pressed against her in urgent but silent demand. Her gaze rose from his muscled chest where she had placed her hands to his eyes, glimmering with light from the fire behind her.
“My lady, my love,” he whispered. “You are everything I knew you would be. So lovely.”
He lifted her to the bed and removed her chemise only to cover her with his body and let his erection fall between her thighs.
Soon, she thought. It will be soon.
Rising on his elbows, he kissed her again, trailing his lips over her breasts. The touch caused her nipples to harden and sent waves of pleasure pulsing through her. When he paused to take a nipple into his mouth, she felt the warm liquid flow in her most intimate spot. She threaded her fingers through his thick auburn hair and held him to her as he moved his mouth to cover her other breast.
He slid down her body, kissing a path from her breasts to her stomach and finally to the cluster of blonde curls just below. Gently pulling her thighs apart, he dropped his mouth to the wet folds and licked. She moaned at the feel. Never had she experienced anything like this; never had she imagined it.
His tongue pierced the warm wet core of her, causing her head to toss on the pillow. She felt a wanton desire to be possessed. It was too much; it was not enough. Then suddenly he moved up her body, spread her thighs wider, and with one thrust filled her.
He stilled, then with a groan thrust deeper. She wrapped her arms around his neck and raised her hips, wanting more, wanting all of him.
Taking her hands in his and lifting them above her head, he entwined their fingers and kissed her. Raising his head, he said, “I am deep within you, but there is more.”
And then he began to move.
Thrusting deeply, withdrawing, then thrusting again, he took her with him in a whirlwind of passion.
“Eustace,” she breathed.
“Christopher,” he corrected.
She felt her muscles constricting around his hardened, slick flesh, and she reached toward a crescendo. “Oh, oh.”
“Let it happen,” he whispered into her ear.
Her eyes closed tightly; she felt the first pangs of a deeper pleasure, a throbbing as her muscles seized around him. Then floating, floating… She heard him groan and felt a hard thrust, then the warm flow of his seed within her as he collapsed, panting.
They lay joined for a moment, their bodies slick with sweat. Grace felt a contentment she had never known. Gently he rolled from her, drawing her into his side. She rested her head on his chest, and he kissed the top of her head. Unfamiliar with such intimacy, Grace was overwhelmed with the bond making love had forged between her and this man.
But where could it lead?
Chapter 8
Grace knew upon waking she had crossed a line she’d not initially intended to cross. But it was done and the choice was made. There would be no regrets. She had taken Eustace to her bed and they were now lovers.
The night had been blissfully long, a night of lovemaking the like of which she had never imagined or experienced. He had been so tender, so passionate. She felt as if her body was forever imprinted with his. Perhaps it was. Her lips, as she touched them, were still swollen with his kisses. And with it all, he had seduced and bedded her as he had wagered he would. She had been his willing partner, despite all the warnings and all her better instincts.
She was suddenly angry with herself, angry and a bit humiliated. She had but one card left, and she would play it. The wager may have been “suspended” while they lingered at the hunting lodge, but it would be there when they returned to London. And to win that wager, he must walk away from her. She would not let him win, for she would not wait to be left. No, she would be the one to leave, and she would do so with dignity. She had her pride, after all, and though there might be tears—yes, she was certain there would be tears—she would have the knowledge that in the end she had been the one to walk away.
Gazing about the bedchamber, she became aware of the sound of the crackling fire and the lack of chill in the room. She reached her hand to the pillow next to hers and found it cold. Instinctively, she realized it was late. The sky must be heavy with clouds, for the light from the window was dim like her mood.
She sat up and slipped from the bed. Pausing in front of the mirror, she noted her long blonde hair in disarray, her cheeks flushed and her expression one of sadness. She cared too much when she shouldn’t care at all. There would be pain from loving this man she could not call her own.
Shaking off her dour mood, Grace washed and dressed. There was nothing for it but to hold back tears. They could come later.
As she turned to leave, the door flew open and Eustace burst into the room. He was flushed from his apparent rush up the stairs. His auburn hair appeared windblown; his copper eyes glistened. He seemed quite pleased with himself, and she could not help returning his smile even knowing their relationship would soon be over. Though shy about their new intimacy, still she craved his touch, his kiss.
He closed the distance between them and kissed her. “Grace, my love, Ormond has sent word. The killer has been found, and you are free of any suspicion!”
* * *
The ride back to London was mostly, to Christopher’s regret, a silent one. He had explained to the lady what little he knew about the murder from what was conveyed in Ormond’s letter. Pickard had, in the course of blackmailing many in the ton, also blackmailed his own male lover, a commoner. Those developments alone had been shocking. Apparently the two men had quarreled, in the course of which Pickard’s lover had shot him. Later, filled with remorse, the man had taken his own life. But not before he left a note confessing all.
Since the murder victim was a peer, and because he had possessed scandalous letters from others in the ton, Christopher expected the whole affair would be quickly hushed up. He would speak with Ormond to confirm it, but it was unlikely more than a few would ever know the sordid details of what really transpired. Apparently the missing letter from Lord Leisterfield had not been found, or it had been destroyed. Ormond had many sources of information within Westminster, and the facts had come from them. It was not hard to surmise that those who’d been blackmailed, whose letters were no doubt already destroyed, were grateful to the murderer for ending both his own and Viscount Pickard’s lives.
After his explanation, Lady Leisterfield had gone quiet, the only sound that of his bays moving in their traces as their hooves hit the road, as he carefully guided the carriage around puddles of muddy water left by the rain the night before. He’d been so enthralled with the lady he’d not even heard the rain. She was everything he had known she would be: sensuous, passionate, responsive. And somehow she was even more.
As they drew close to Mayfair, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Eustace—”
“Christopher,” he interrupted with a smile. “Don’t you think you might call me by my given name now that we are lovers, Grace?” He saw no reason for continuing with formality unless she insisted.
“Eustace,” she said. “When we get to Town, perhaps it would be best if you took me to Ormond’s so I may go home from there.”
“Of course, but—”
“Despite that you agreed to set aside the wager while we were away from London, you have managed to win most of it all the same. But perhaps not all. Not the last of it.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Why did she bring it up now when he had told her to forget the wager?
“I will not give you the chance to walk away from me. I am leaving you first. I will be no man’s mistress, Eustace, nor an occasional bedmate. So let us call it a day,” she said stiffly. “No one need know I was the object of your bet. A
s I trust you to be discreet, they never shall.”
Anger rose within him. She thought this was about the wager, that his only purpose in making love to her was to have and then leave her? Though she’d said she believed him when he said he had come to the hunting lodge for her, apparently she was having second thoughts. He stole a glance at the lady beside him. Her face was set in firm resolve. Was last night merely a moment of weakness she did not wish to repeat? Had she believed nothing he said? The first time in his life he’d expressed more than lust to a woman and she rejected him!
Perhaps he’d only imagined they’d shared more. He had his pride and would not let her see the pain her words caused him.
“As you wish, my lady.”
* * *
The day after Grace returned home, Smithson brought her sad news: Queen Charlotte had passed from this life. She learned later from Lady Claremont that the queen died holding the hand of her son, the Prince Regent, while sitting in a chair at the family’s estate in Surrey. After nursing her mad husband King George for most of their married life, Grace imagined the virtuous woman was quite tired out.
By command of the Prince Regent, acting on behalf of his father the king, it was announced, “All persons do put themselves into deep mourning.”
The strange sadness that had characterized Grace’s mood since she’d left Eustace at Lady Ormond’s was now eclipsed by the country’s loss. She did not regret having to wear the black gowns deep mourning required, for they allowed her an easy explanation for her somber countenance. She had lost someone dear, but it was not just the queen. None need know it was Christopher, Lord Eustace.
“I never thought to see you wear these black gowns again so soon,” said Hawkins three weeks later as she brushed out the black crape gown with scalloped skirt trimmed in crape roses and jet beads. “Now that it’s December, it will be cold tonight for your dinner with Lady Claremont, so I’ve set out your black velvet pelisse with the ermine trim.”
Grace would attend the countess’s affair. Though she thought it ironic the ton’s entertainments would continue unabated during mourning for the queen, out of respect those attending Lady Claremont’s soirée would be dressed in black. Grace had stayed at home most evenings when in full mourning for Charles, but she would not be the recluse now. Though her heart was breaking, she would put on a bold face and greet the future. Eustace could not steal that from her.
