by Shana Galen
Looking at his muscled chest, it was difficult to believe he was not the one who was the prizefighter. He was powerfully built with a tight, flat stomach that she had the urge to kiss. In the firelight his skin glowed warm and burnished. She trailed her fingers over it then trailed kisses as well.
He swept her up in his arms and laid her on the bed, coming over her and kissing her until she was hot and wriggling for release. “I want to see you,” he said, his voice ragged with need in her ear. “I want to touch you. Everywhere.”
He helped her unfasten her dress. She’d worn one she could remove herself, but her hands were suddenly shaky, and she felt clumsy and inept. He stripped her of the dress then the underthings until she was in nothing but her chemise and he in nothing at all. Kneeling across from each other, he lowered the sleeve of her chemise and kissed her shoulder then her neck then her ear as he revealed her breasts. His mouth soon ventured to her nipples, taking them gently between his teeth and making her groan with need. He seemed in no hurry, though she could see he was aroused and ready, but he took his time exploring her body, revealing it little by little and then kissing each part and—she did not know how else to put it—worshipping her until he moved to the next.
When he reached her sex, she thought the torture would finally end. He would see she was wet and ready, and he would push her back and take her. She wanted him to take her, rough and hard. He did push her back, but he made no move to lever himself over her. Instead, he kissed her belly then the thatch of dark hair at the junction of her thighs, then parted those thighs and kissed her there. Thérèse had been with more men than she liked to count, and no man had ever shown her this much care and tenderness. No man had ever licked and sucked and settled between her thighs as though he had all the time in the world to make sure she climaxed.
“I want you inside me,” she said, her voice sounding like someone else’s, someone weak and needy and on the verge of ecstasy.
“There’s time for that yet,” he answered, his voice rumbling against her thighs and making her shiver. He spread her legs wider, and she gasped as he pressed a finger inside her, all the while his skilled mouth moving over her in the most intimate of strokes. She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her body pulsed and she cried out, her muscles tightening and then releasing with the most delicious satisfaction.
Now he would plunge inside her. Now he would take her, but he did not. He continued his exploration of her body, kissing her legs and her knees and her ankles and even her toes.
“Chibale, s’il vous plait,” she murmured. He was working his way up again, and though she should feel sated, she was beginning to feel the need for him again. “Must I beg?” she asked.
“Never,” he said, and to her pleasure, he settled himself between her legs. The feel of him, large and powerful over her and against her, was at once frightening and erotic. And when he slid into her, she gasped with the pleasure of it. But though she had thought she wanted rough and hard, he did not give her that. He took her slowly, carefully, gently.
She’d never been taken this way, never been...she did not know how to describe it except to think she was being cherished. As he moved inside her, his eyes met hers. He showed her the rhythm he liked, and she matched it then varied it, and they found a rhythm they both enjoyed. She raised her hips, and he angled higher, giving her more pleasure each time he slid deep. The act became not something he was doing to her, but something they did together.
And when he brought her to climax again, she clung to him, holding him tightly as he came a moment later. He held her tightly afterward, their bodies both gasping for air, their hearts seeming to beat in unison.
Thérèse did not know what to do, how to feel. She’d wanted to take him to bed. She’d hoped for pleasure. She hadn’t expected an experience like this. She hadn’t known there was such an experience as this.
Finally, he rolled away, lying back with one arm behind his head. She looked over at him, and she couldn’t help but feel she wanted to look over at him like that every night.
“Now, I really must introduce you to my family,” he said.
Thérèse pulled the sheet up to cover herself. “There ees no hurry. I rather like our intimate dinners.”
“I like them too,” he said. He rolled to face her. “I especially like dessert.”
She smiled and relaxed slightly.
“But I want more than this.” He indicated the bed. “I want more than a few weeks or months in your bed.”
Thérèse clenched the bed clothes.
“I want to marry you.”
The words were like a knife in her heart, and she jerked as though stabbed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She rose and pulled on a robe. “I am not the kind of woman you marry,” she said, cinching the robe at her waist and turning to face him.”
“You seem exactly the kind of woman I want to marry.” He sat up, still not bothering to cover himself. And why should he? He was so beautiful, and honest, and she was so...scared.
“I am not looking to marry,” she said. “If that ees what you assumed, then I am sorry to have misled you.”
“I didn’t assume anything,” he said. “I’m telling you what I want so there is no confusion between us.”
“Then let me be equally forthright,” she said. “I will never marry.”
Fourteen
The next morning Modesty made her way down the stairs, valise in hand. She paused when Mr. Mostyn opened the door for a man in a black coat then closed it again behind him. Her steps, which had been rapid and full of excitement and trepidation, slowed. Something about the way Mr. Mostyn held himself concerned her. He was usually loose-limbed, moving like a prowling lion. This morning he was stiff and almost wooden.
“Is something amiss?” she asked. It was probably the first time she had spoken to him directly. He still made her nervous.
He looked up at her, and she saw his eyes were red-rimmed. Modesty’s belly tightened and she imagined the feeling akin to a blow.
“No,” he said, though she could see that plainly he had been crying. And then to her shock, he sat hard on the marble floor of the entryway. Modesty didn’t think. She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. She had done this thousands of times over the years with parishioners in her father’s church. She had mourned with them as often as she had rejoiced with them, perhaps even more.
“What is it?” she asked, kneeling beside him. “Is it Lady Lorraine?” She swallowed hard, not wanting to say more but forcing herself. “Is it the baby?”
He nodded.
Modesty felt cold all over, and her skin prickled as though icicles trailed over it. “Shall we pray?” she asked.
Mostyn gave her a helpless look. “Yes.”
And so she prayed. She said the prayer she had heard her father say so often in times of trouble, and she tried very hard to believe God heard her prayer. In this last week she had begun to feel there was no God, or if there was, he did not care about her. It scared her to think that for years she might have devoted herself to a God who either did not exist or was, at best, indifferent to her. But then she’d believed her father a different man than he was, and she’d believed her mother a different woman than she was. And maybe she’d been wrong about God too.
After the prayer, they sat in silence for a long time. Most people wanted to talk about their fears and sadness, but Mostyn seemed to be comfortable in the silence. Modesty didn’t want to pry, but she also knew the carriage taking her to Hungerford would arrive soon, and she did not know if she should stay to be with Lady Lorraine.
“May I see Lady Lorraine?”
Mostyn nodded slightly. “She’s in the bedchamber.”
Modesty rose and went in the direction she had seen Lady Lorraine go when retiring. She found her lady’s maid, Nell, outside the door, handkerchief patting her eyes. Modesty stopped and put a hand on Nell’s arm. “You must be strong now,” she said. “She needs you.”
“I find having a task to do sometimes helps in hard times. Would you make tea for Lady Lorraine and bring a tray?”
Nell nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.” She left and Modesty opened the door.
The day was gray, but the curtains were open to allow what little light there was to penetrate the room. It was a warm room, the walls papered in blue and the large mahogany bed draped in white. Lady Lorraine looked small under the white bedsheets, but Modesty found her. She was sitting, one hand on the back of her dog who had snuggled in beside her.
“Oh, Miss Brown,” Lady Lorraine said. “I am so sorry. I will not be able to go to Hungerford.”
Modesty waved a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself with that. Tell me what’s happened. Is the baby...” She did not know how to finish. Obviously, the baby was not well or the doctor would not have been there.
“The doctor says he thinks the baby is fine. I’ve had some bleeding, and he says I must rest and be quiet and still for a few days. If I can do that, then the child might be saved.”
Modesty went to her knees and grasped Lady Lorraine’s hand. “Oh, my lady. I blame myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s no one’s fault. And goodness, after the confidence I have just shared, would you call me Lorrie?”
Modesty nodded. “I should not have asked you to come to Hungerford with me. You have been doing too much.”
Lorrie shook her head. “You did not ask me. I invited myself, and I always do too much. I don’t like to be idle. Besides, the doctor said no one is to blame. Not you. Not Ewan, though he blames himself, of course.”
Modesty frowned. “Why would Mr. Mostyn be to blame.”
“He thinks because we...” She paused and she did not need to finish for Modesty’s cheeks to heat. Lorrie smiled. “Yes, that. Because of that he caused the baby harm. You think it’s because I was readying to travel to Hungerford. Nell thinks it is because...well, I don’t know why she blames herself, but she does. But the doctor says if I rest for a few days, I should be fine.” She bit her lip. “But no traveling. He doesn’t want me bounced about.”
“Of course. I will tell Mr. Payne I cannot go. May I use your parlor to write him a letter?”
“No.” Lorrie’s hand tightened on hers. “You will go to Hungerford. You said yourself you do not need me as a chaperone. Besides, you will stay with Lord Nicholas and his sister, Lady Florentia. They live a few miles outside of Hungerford, and I have heard their estate is beautiful. It’s all arranged.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“And I won’t be the reason you don’t find your father. If he is in Hungerford, you need to find him. Besides, I won’t be alone. Ewan will hover over me until he drives me mad, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to write to my mother, the Duchess of Ridlington. Ask her to come for a few days.”
Modesty took a breath. “You wish me to write to a duchess?”
“I promise you she reads left to right like anyone else. Funny how in times like these we want our mothers at our sides.”
Modesty nodded. She understood that sentiment. She had wanted her mother this past week quite often.
“Then give me a kiss and start writing. Lord Rowden and Mr. Sterling will be here within the hour, and you don’t want to make them wait.”
Modesty kissed Lorrie’s cheek and went out of the room. Mostyn was waiting on the other side of the door. “She’s fine,” Modesty said because she knew he wondered but wouldn’t ask. “She wanted me to write to her mother and ask her to stay for a few days.”
Mostyn gave her a pained look, and she patted his arm then went to the parlor to write the letter. She was still sitting there, looking over the letter and hoping she’d addressed it properly when Mr. Payne arrived. She heard his voice in the entryway and went to meet him, letter in hand. “Mr. Payne, Lorrie—Lady Lorraine—is not feeling well. She won’t be traveling with us, and she asked me to write to her mother. I’ve never written to a duchess. Have I done it correctly?”
He seemed to absorb all of this information quickly and held his hand out to take the sheet of paper. He read it quickly then handed it back and nodded. “It’s perfect.”
“How do I address it?”
“The duke and duchess are at their country home?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it.”
She followed him into the parlor, where he folded the paper into another and wrote on the outside, Her Grace The Duchess of Ridlington then scribbled the name of their country home and the other particulars. “Does she have a seal?” he asked.
“There.” Modesty pointed to the heavy gold item.
Payne melted a bit of wax, swirled it on the back of the paper, and pressed the seal into it. Then he carried it to the entryway, flicked a finger at a footman, and handed the letter to the man. “Have this sent immediately.” He handed the servant a few coins. “For the post,” he said.
Modesty watched him, impressed. If she had harbored any doubts he was the son of a duke, she did not now. He had an authority that did not brook argument. He’d obviously grown up in a world of privilege and knew how to navigate it.
“How’s Mostyn?” he asked.
“He’s with her now,” she said, deciding it would be best not to point out he’d been crying earlier. She was no gossip.
“I gather from the letter she hasn’t lost the baby, but it’s tenuous?”
Modesty did not know how to answer without saying something that would make her cheeks flame. “She says the doctor thinks all will be well with rest.”
Mr. Payne let out a breath. “Rest isn’t in her nature, but Ewan will strap her down if he has to. I suppose it’s just the two of us then.”
Modesty looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Sterling, who has given us the use of his carriage, has business in Town and can’t get away until tomorrow. He has another carriage and will meet us at Battle’s Peak.”
“Battle’s Peak?”
“That’s the name of Lord Nicholas’s estate—well, his brother’s estate, but his brother is...I don’t know where the hell his brother is. In any case, we will be lodging there.”
“And Mr. Okoro?”
Mr. Payne ran a hand through his hair, tousling it in a way she found very attractive and very tempting to smooth back into order. “He will come separately this evening or tomorrow. He sent a letter very early this morning to say he was unavoidably detained.”
“I see.” She straightened her shoulders. “Well, as I said, I do not need a chaperone.”
“Lady Florentia is at Battle’s Peak, and Sterling has equipped us with two outriders and a coachman. I think you’ll be well protected.”
But those men would be outside the carriage, and she would be alone inside. With him.
ROWDEN WATCHED MISS Brown’s eyes widen as she settled into Aidan’s carriage. Rowden thought the interior looked more like a drawing room than a carriage. There was room for both of them to stretch their feet out or a footrest could be supplied with the pull of a lever. The interior was covered in the same plush fabric as the squabs, and the ceiling had been painted with a mural in the Greek style. A panel in the wall opened to supply wine and water on her side, and something a bit stronger on his. Aidan knew his drink of choice was brandy and soda and had made sure both were stocked. Another panel revealed wrapped sandwiches. On her side, that same panel held a pillow and slippers. A velvet blanket in cream had already been tucked about her and a warm brick was at her feet.
She looked a bit like a princess wrapped in velvet. But instead of a crown, she wore a simple bonnet, her hair gathered at the nape of her neck in a fiery coil.
He’d been annoyed at Chibale and Aidan for abandoning him, for leaving him solely responsible for Miss Brown. But he’d decided to make the best of it. He could keep their relationship shallow and platonic. He did not have to invite any intimacy.
> “Mr. Sterling must be very wealthy,” she said as they started away. Rowden smiled. Speaking of money was extremely gauche, but it didn’t bother him. He liked that she was without pretense.
“Some say he’s the richest man in England.”
“What about the king?” she asked.
“Definitely richer than the king,” he answered. And then because he wanted to see her cheeks pinken again, he said, “It’s my understanding that your seat pulls out into a bed.”
Her cheeks did turn rosy. “I suppose that is in case the traveler is forced to shelter in the carriage due to a storm.”
He grinned at her. “I imagine that’s a good reason for a bed too.” Rowden opened the panel with the wrapped sandwiches. “Refreshment?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve only broken my fast a couple of hours ago.”
“Then you must be hungry again.” He handed her a sandwich and opened his own. She laid hers down and peered out the window.
“Have you been out of London before?” he asked.
She nodded. “Once. When I was young, my father took us to Bath. It was lovely.”
“Did you try the water at the Pump Room?” he asked. Speaking of drinks, he was thirsty. He opened the other panel and fixed a brandy with soda. He could definitely become used to this.
“I did, but the water was horrible,” she said. “Are you drinking before noon?”
He raised his glass. “Want one?”
She shook her head. “I don’t drink spirits. They—” Then she seemed to reconsider. “I would like one.”
Rowden hadn’t thought she would agree, but he poured her a drink anyway and passed it over. She tasted it and cocked her head. “This isn’t bad.”
Rowden sipped again. “You’re drinking.” He gestured to her dress. “Wearing colors. Attending mills. Whatever was in those letters must have been momentous.”
She pursed her lips and drank again. Rowden mentally slapped his head. Why had he said that? It was the sort of comment that invited intimate revelations.
