A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  “Then why? Why did he tell me he wouldn’t require me to fulfill that duty?” She hated even thinking of it as a duty, but everything in Peter’s world seemingly must be a duty, or else it simply didn’t exist.

  “Perhaps,” Charlotte said quietly, “you’re focusing on the wrong part of what he told you.”

  “Precisely,” Sophie said. “Jane, dear. He told you to come to him when you’re ready. That, to me, doesn’t sound like something a man would say if he had no desire to participate in the act at all.” Sophie knelt before her and forced her to look straight in her eyes. “Rather, it sounds like he doesn’t want to make you do something you don’t want to do.”

  “Oh, dear.” Double drat. Blast her new sisters for being so very logical—so right about it all.

  “So, sweet Jane, the solution to your problem is simple.” Sophie rose and walked to the window, taking a look outside before facing Jane again. “It’s time to seduce your husband.”

  Only that made it sound more like the beginning to an entirely new set of problems.

  Drat, drat, drat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Peter had to travel to Wales. There was simply no way around it.

  When Neil had burst into his drawing room that morning, Peter almost instantly knew. All of his suspicions were proving true.

  Neil had somehow managed to get to Carreg Mawr before Utley did. His arrival had surprised Turnpenny, but Neil had explained it away. He claimed that Peter had offered to allow him to stay at Carreg Mawr for a time while he determined what he intended to do with his future. Very smart, indeed, since all of England and likely half the Continent knew how Lord Neil Hardwicke tended to sow his oats.

  The next morning, though, Utley had arrived—and everyone knew the jig was over.

  Good thing Neil had already enlisted the assistance of the local magistrate—and Peter’s hired spy at Carreg Mawr, Roland Kirbye. When they walked into the study, they discovered Utley emptying the coffers into a purse and his brother, Phineas Turnpenny, tossing the true records into a roaring fire in the hearth.

  The magistrate had arrested Phinny on the spot, but Utley had darted out the door and disappeared into the nearby woods. Phinny finally admitted that he had been raising rents, lowering pay, and otherwise filching money from Peter for years—and sending it all to his older brother, Utley.

  Much as Peter suspected. He had thought very hard about replacing Turnpenny after what Utley had done to Mary. But, after much internal debate, he chose not to do so. Why punish a man for the actions of his brother? To that point, Phinny had proven to be a trusted steward over the castle through the years, even though there was still some lingering resentment between the Turnpenny family and the Hardwicke family after Rawden’s untimely death.

  Peter should have known that as soon as Utley had property and a small fortune to his name, he would proceed to dispense of it as fast as he could manage…and then he would have to turn to other means for an income. Now it all made sense. Particularly since Phinny had always been slavishly devoted to his brother.

  But now Carreg Mawr was without a steward, and Utley was still missing. Peter needed to visit the property, sort out his staff, and hire a replacement, not to mention speak with the magistrate about the search for Utley. And he couldn’t afford to wait.

  The changes at his estate needed immediate attention, despite the fact that he had a bride who also needed his attention.

  He’d have to leave tomorrow morning. And, since he really had no manner of knowing how long he’d have to stay, Jane would simply have to come with him. It would probably be best to take the children, as well, since the trip could last weeks, if not months. He couldn’t leave them behind for so long.

  Peter informed his valet and Jane’s lady’s maid of the need to prepare for the journey. Then he spoke with Mrs. Pratt, and let the children know of the holiday they would all be taking shortly. After dashing off a note to Mama, he called Forrester into his library and lined out tasks the secretary would need to see to for the duration of his absence.

  There was so much to be done, he was unable to entertain guests with Jane that afternoon. She was always a charming and engaging hostess, however, so he held no compunctions about her ability to cope with the continual influx of well-wishers coming to offer their congratulations.

  In fact, from the moment Neil had arrived that morning until supper, there hadn’t been a single free moment during which he could spend time with his wife. He would have to double his efforts tonight. Thank God they hadn’t accepted any invitations. He was ready for some time at home, away from the ever watchful eye of the ton.

  Peter seated his wife beside him at the long, admittedly empty table. She glanced up at him, then her eyes darted away just as quickly. He thought she might even have a hint of a blush on her cheeks, but that seemed so unexpected and inexplicable that he was sure it was only his imagination.

  Her cat scampered into the room and leapt onto the chair beside her. Normally, Peter would be disgusted that an animal was near when they were eating. It was happening far more frequently now, though, and he was growing used to Mr. Cuddlesworth’s appearances. At least it didn’t get on the table—it just crossed its front paws neatly on the very edge of the table and rested its chin on top of them, watching everything that passed by.

  Peter had to admit, too, the cat was looking a bit scrawny. Scruffier than usual. It might be nearing the end. He doubted either his wife or his daughter would handle the situation well when it came to pass. He tried to prepare himself for the fact that they would both insist on the cat traveling with them.

  “Have you had a busy day?” he asked, hoping to ease his way into informing her of their impending trip.

  “Oh, yes. It’s been lovely.” Jane picked up her glass of wine, but it wobbled in her hand. She steadied it before any spilled. “Sophie and Charlotte visited this morning. And I received a letter from Mother and Father in the post.”

  Peter winced. He’d planned to take Jane to Whitstable sometime soon, since he’d yet to meet her family, but that would have to wait a bit longer now. “Splendid. I trust they’re doing well?”

  She lifted her fork to her mouth, but some of the food fell due to the jittering of her hand, landing securely in the midst of her bosom. Peter had to fight the urge to lean over and retrieve the piece of veal with his teeth.

  “Oh, drat.” The slight blush heated to crimson as she fished the piece of meat out with her fingers.

  He couldn’t have removed his gaze from her décolletage now if his life depended upon it. With each shaking breath, those lovely, full breasts rose and fell. If there was one reason to thank the French, it was for their exquisite influence in ladies’ fashions—which currently lent him an eyeful of heaven.

  Jane let her fork clang to her plate and dropped her hands to her sides, taking deep breaths with her eyes closed. “Yes, my parents are quite well, thank you. Their vegetable garden has been rather prolific this year.”

  If he couldn’t regain control over himself, he might toss her over the table and take her right there.

  And that thought sent a shock coursing through his loins. Blast it. He needed to calm down, focus. Vegetables. Her parents’ vegetable garden.

  “That must be lovely for them,” he said, wincing when his voice cracked. “What crops have done well for them?”

  “Oh, you know. Carrots, cucumbers…”

  Peter coughed. So that particular line of conversation came to a close with him thinking of the shapes of those particular vegetables.

  They each returned to their meal. The only thing on his mind other than consummating their marriage at the moment was their trip to Carreg Mawr in the morning—nothing else that might be able to assist him in broaching the subject.

  He hoped she wouldn’t be too upset. But the last time she’d been forced to travel, the journey had been a rather eventful one, with her cat being so ill.

  “Neil brought me news this morning o
f my estate in Wales,” he began.

  “Good news, I hope,” she murmured.

  “I’m afraid not. My steward was taking money. He’s been placed under arrest, but now there’s no one caring for the needs of my property.”

  “Oh, dear. I suppose you must travel, then.” She reached over with one hand to pet her cat, which was purring loudly beside her.

  “Yes, I must. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  “We? Will Neil be returning with you, then?”

  “No. I meant you and me, Jane. And the children, of course.” He hated the confused look in her eyes. “I simply have no way of knowing how long I’ll be gone. You must come with me.” Peter set his fork and knife down and took her hand in his own. “Perhaps we can think of it as a honeymoon.”

  She removed her hand from his and placed it on her lap. Her gaze turned to the cat beside her, and tears welled in her eyes.

  “Of course, we’ll bring Mr. Cuddlesworth with us. If you didn’t insist upon it, Sarah surely would.” He only hoped the cat would survive the journey. It might prove too much for the animal at this stage of its life.

  “Very well,” she whispered. A single tear streamed down her cheek and landed on her bosom.

  For the first time in his life, Peter hated himself.

  ~ * ~

  “Naughty boy,” Jane said halfheartedly to Mr. Cuddlesworth as she picked him up and scratched his ears. “You were supposed to stay with Sarah tonight. In the nursery.”

  Only twenty minutes ago, she’d delivered him to Mrs. Pratt and asked the nurse to try to keep him there. If Jane was to have any hope of following through with Sophie’s plan, having her cat watching matters—or worse, attempting to get in the middle of things—would not prove conducive to her state of mind.

  But here he was. He’d pawed at her door while she was dressing in one of those dreadfully embarrassing, gauzy nightrails, and she’d let him in. She placed him in his basket and set it on the foot of her bed. “You must stay here, then. If you have to be near me tonight, this is as close as you’re allowed to come.”

  He meowed in response. Hopefully that meant he would comply with her request.

  Jane took one final look in the mirror. Good Lord, she could see everything. There was nothing left to the imagination. Hopefully this would work.

  Hopefully Sophie and Charlotte had been right.

  She bit her lip and tried to steel herself for whatever reaction she received. If only her mother had told her something—anything—about what would be involved in the marriage act. She felt ridiculous and terrified and eager, all at once.

  Before another moment passed and she could change her mind, Jane stepped into the sitting room between their joined chambers and knocked at the door to Peter’s dressing room.

  When he called out, “Come,” she nearly lost her nerve and rushed back to her own room. Instead, somehow her fingers gripped the door handle and pushed it open.

  He stood shirtless facing an open armoire, carefully folding his superfine coat and placing it in a tidy stack. His Hessian boots had been removed as well and were situated neatly against the wall, waiting for him to put them on the next day.

  Jane had never imagined the sight of a man’s bare back could cause her breath to catch. Broad shoulders narrowed to a tapered waist. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed and tensed as he worked. Her pulse, already faster than normal, tripped to a stop and then raced ahead.

  “What is it, Bradford?” he asked without turning.

  “Peter, I...” She had no idea under the moon what to say.

  It didn’t matter. He spun around at the sound of her voice, dropping his cravat to the floor.

  And he stared.

  Devoured might be more accurate. His eyes roamed over every inch of her body, until she felt more self-conscious than ever before. She itched to cover herself, but somehow kept her hands at her sides.

  She’d thought nothing could rival the sight of his naked back. She’d been wrong.

  The planes and angles of his chest fascinated her, as did the sprinkling of dark hair covering it. His body looked so very different from her own. How might it feel to touch? Jane blushed at the thought—not to mention the heat in his eyes.

  The buttons of his breeches were undone and the front flap dropped below his waist. Another line of dark hair trailed down his abdomen and disappeared behind the flap of his trousers.

  She allowed her eyes to follow the path until she realized he was watching her reaction. Her eyes snapped back up to meet his.

  Finally he spoke. “Do you need something, Jane?” His voice sounded strained, like he’d swallowed a hive of angry bees and was trying to keep them all inside.

  She should make up a story—anything. She could say she’d been sleepwalking. Or just turn around and leave.

  “You said I should come to you.” Dear God, her mouth had turned on her. “When I was ready, that is.”

  “Yes.” Peter didn’t move. He hadn’t moved since he’d first turned around and discovered her in his dressing room. She wasn’t entirely sure he had even breathed.

  She surely hadn’t.

  Was he just going to stand there and make her explain it all to him in explicit detail? Cruel, despicable man. If only she weren’t so desperately in love with him.

  “I’m ready,” she said. At least she thought she said it. Perhaps not, but she intended to.

  Several more moments passed with no sound in the room other than her ragged breath. Or perhaps his, too. She wasn’t entirely sure.

  “Are you certain?” His smooth growl fluttered over her ears, and she trembled. He seemed dangerous.

  Why couldn’t he just start? The anticipation was bound to be worse than the act.

  Jane couldn’t speak. Her words were stuck in her throat. She nodded.

  Peter crossed the room in an instant. His hot mouth landed on hers, his tongue seeking entry through her lips. Their tongues tangled and danced. One hand fisted in her hair and pulled her closer. With the other, he felt for the open doorway leading to his chamber.

  Peter’s mouth left hers and he picked her up. He carried her to the huge canopied bed in the center of the room. Pulling back the counterpane, he tossed her inside and covered her body with his own before she could complain.

  None of this was anything she had expected. Not that she knew what to expect.

  The weight of his body pressed her down into the mattress. His musky scent invaded her, overwhelmed her. She needed to feel him. To touch him. She trailed her fingers over his chest, his ribs—feather light and tentative. Everywhere she touched, his muscles quivered.

  His mouth returned to hers, then left just as quickly to slide down her neck and over her shoulders. She felt feverish in all the places his tongue traveled.

  Then his hands were at the bottom of her nightrail, sliding it up an inch at a time—to her thighs, her hips, her waist, her chest. She raised her arms above her head and he slipped the gown off completely, trapping her hands in one of his own.

  “I want to look at you,” he said. His mouth hovered near her ear, and he leaned in to suckle the earlobe. When he nibbled on it, it triggered a liquid pull between her legs and she jumped.

  He pulled away, still holding her hands above her head. She watched his hungry eyes roam over his body. They lingered on her breasts, then moved lower, lower, until he stopped at her womanhood for a moment, before returning to her breasts.

  Peter’s mouth came down then, laving at one breast with his tongue while he kneaded the other. He took the tip into his mouth, first sucking, then nibbling.

  A deep, low sound emanated from her throat. Her legs couldn’t remain still. They thrashed about her, pushing her forward.

  She tugged to free her hands. Once he released her, she moved them over his abdomen, tangling her fingers in the trail of hair she found there. Heat emanated from just beneath her hands. Curiosity begged her to find the source of the heat, but she was afraid to do something wro
ng.

  But then Peter growled and took one of her hands, pushing it lower, beneath the front fold of his breeches. “Touch me,” he commanded. He raised himself up over her, staring down into her eyes. When she took his hardness into her hands and squeezed gently, his eyes rolled back in his head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said and quickly pulled her hand away.

  He reached down and grasped her arm. “Don’t stop.” His eyes flashed when she took hold of him again. “Please don’t stop.”

  Jane stroked her hand along his length. It was hot, rigid, moist. She had no idea what she’d expected, but this was an utter surprise.

  She circled him with her fingers, and then slid them up and down.

  And she nearly came off the bed when he slipped his hand between her legs, stroking against a nub she didn’t even know existed.

  “Is this all right?” he asked as his fingers moved inside her.

  It was better than all right; she thought she might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. Every move he made set her skin to tingling. All she could manage was a sigh.

  Just when she felt she would surely die if something didn’t happen, he lifted her up and turned them both around until they were sitting, with her straddling his legs and facing him. Her breasts jiggled and she tried to cover them, but he pulled her hands away.

  Again, Peter circled his tongue around the hardened nub of one breast. He blew on it then, and the cool air against the wetness had her straining against him and trembling. Peter was not finished with his exquisite torture though—he repeated the performance on the other breast.

  Her breath was ragged, coming in starts and stops. When he nipped the sensitive bud, she nearly screamed.

  “Do you like that?” he asked, grinning at her with the most wicked, sensual smile she’d ever seen.

  Jane nodded.

  “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.” He bit the other one, just a bit harder.

  “Oh, God,” she managed. “Yes, I like that.”