by Elisa Braden
“Are you all right?” Her voice was muffled against his shirt. “It’s one of your headaches, isn’t it?”
He sifted his fingers through her hair, savoring the satiny texture. “You said they saw you through the glass, but rumor suggested Lady Gattingford and the rest entered the room whilst you were—”
“Indeed.” She shivered against him and fisted the linen at his back. “Dreadful night. I don’t like to remember it.”
“They humiliated you. Purposely.”
“Yes. Too delicious to resist, I suppose. Catching a Huxley girl with her skirts up round her shoulders vastly improves one’s standing among other gossips.”
He closed his eyes and struggled not to see it. She was his, now. Only his. He cupped the back of her head and drew her up into his kiss, ignoring her squeak of surprise. He claimed her mouth and lips, loving her softness, coaxing her sigh. He reveled in the knowledge that she had never belonged to anyone else, and she never would.
“What …” Her lashes fluttered as he drew back to gaze upon her beautiful, blushing face. “What was that for?”
“It will not stand, Eugenia. They must be punished.”
Her eyes flared wide. “No. Do not start this. My family already tried, and it only made matters worse. Lady Wallingham—”
“Did nothing,” the blackness growled. He stroked her hair to calm himself. Strangely, it helped.
“Because she realized what would happen. Lady Wallingham is no fool. She understands this game better than anybody.”
The blackness could not bear it—the thought of Eugenia being mocked and scorned. Being called a harlot and shunned from polite society. Forced into employment, for God’s sake. He wanted to ruin them all. Everyone who had hurt her.
“Listen to me,” she said, her hand lifting to cup his jaw. Increasingly, her touches were less startling. More natural. “It was the worst decision of my life, one I made in desperation. It cost me dearly, Holstoke. Damaged my family and put Kate’s happiness at risk. I should not have done it, precisely because I knew the price I would pay if I were caught. What came after was … dreadful.” She swallowed and stroked his cheekbone with her thumb, as though it comforted her as much as him. “But the mistake was mine. So the punishment was mine.”
He could see she believed what she was saying, though it was perfect rubbish. Which meant he must proceed without her knowledge. So, rather than argue his point further, he settled for part of the truth. “You did not deserve what they did to you.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing. “Thank you for saying so, Holstoke,” she whispered.
It was then he realized how mussed she was, noting the wrinkles in her gown, the looping tumble he’d made of her hair. She was sensual. Intoxicating. And small. His fingers overlapped where they gripped her waist. Why had he not taken more care with her?
“A bath,” he rasped, looking down to where his hands held her, loving the warmth of her caress upon his cheek. “Then supper.” The lightning moved through him as it had before, but now it seemed to travel into her, returning tempered yet stronger in an endless loop. “Then walls and a bed.”
For a moment, disappointment flickered in her eyes. Her hand fell away from his cheek. Her eyes dropped to his chest. She nodded. “I saw my bedchamber this afternoon. It is … lovely.”
He frowned. “You may enjoy it tomorrow.”
Cat-like eyes flew back to his. “Tomorrow? You’re saying … oh.” She swallowed. Stared at his mouth. “Your walls. Your bed.”
“I shall take better care of you this time,” he assured her. “No more pain.”
“It wasn’t so terrible, really. Especially at the end. Is—is that a usual sort of thing, Holstoke? You never did answer.”
He lowered his head until his lips hovered over hers. Skimming. Touching. Whispering, “With me, you will find it the most usual of usual things, Eugenia. Only with me.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Yes, indeed, Humphrey. A stroll through the gardens would be just the thing.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, after a rousing breakfast.
Across a steaming stack of succulent ham, Genie examined her husband carefully. Black hair, short-cropped and rather severe. Cheekbones that might be regarded as exotic, they were so high and prominent. Dark, level brows. Vivid, pale eyes. A long, distinguished nose. And lips that could wring screams of ecstasy from her throat for hours.
Hours. Not minutes. Not brief or passing or demure. Loud, long screams for hours. Begging, too.
She propped her elbow on the breakfast table and tapped her lips with her finger.
Wearing a calm, neutral expression, he sipped his tea and read his newspaper. Like any standard gentleman on any standard morning, he went about his business with casual grace. As though this were routine.
To devastate his wife with pleasure then hold her tightly through the night while his heartbeat lulled her to sleep. Then, awaken her periodically for more. Finally, just when she’d thought the storm was over, he’d awakened her one last time with his mouth. Between her … Upon her …
Good heavens. She tapped her lips and narrowed her eyes. Best not to recall too precisely. The fire would only reignite, and then where would she be? Flat on her back with a pile of ham for her pillow, that’s where.
“You’ve been staring for twenty minutes, Eugenia.” He calmly turned the page of his newspaper without glancing up. “Do you have a question?”
“No.” A lie. She did have a question. More than one, actually. But she could not very well ask them at the breakfast table. Could she?
His eyes came up. He arched a brow. Took a sip of his tea and returned his cup to its saucer with a light clink.
She now found herself examining his hands. Long, sensitive, elegant fingers that held some dark form of magic. He had proved himself capable of producing shivers in the most extraordinary places. She rested her chin against the back of her hand and contemplated his shoulders, which were lean but quite muscled, as she’d discovered when he’d stripped off his shirt the previous day. His nipples had been lovely. She’d enjoyed them almost as much as he’d appeared to enjoy her attentions.
But, for all that he had extraordinary eyes and lips and hands, he was an ordinary man. Tall. Certainly attractive in his way. Blindingly intelligent. Very well, perhaps ordinary was the wrong word. But she’d encountered men one might expect to produce the kind of transcendent response he produced in her. The Marquess of Rutherford, for example, who’d been a rake of some renown before his marriage. Lord Atherbourne was another. To this day, she’d yet to clap eyes on a handsomer man. Truly, had she married either of them, her reactions might not have surprised her so.
But she had married Holstoke.
Holstoke.
This was Phineas Brand, the Earl of bloody Holstoke.
He was studious and serious. Brilliant and cold. Honorable and unreadable.
He was not the sort of man a woman begged to touch her.
And she wanted to. After last night and this morning, she should not have the energy to contemplate it. She was doing more than contemplating. She was all but melting into the butter dish.
“I could show you the rest of the gardens today, Eugenia.” His eyes found hers. His tongue swiped away a drop of tea from his lower lip. Then, his mouth quirked up at one corner. “If you like.”
Oh, dear God. She would not survive this.
She looked at her plate. Well, she would survive, strictly speaking. She’d eaten three slices of ham and two eggs. She never ate so heartily.
This could not possibly be normal. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he was already folding his newspaper and rising from his chair.
He held out his hand. “Come. I shall show you the gardens, and you may ask me your questions.”
Drat. She could not resist him. She slid her hand into his.
He pulled her to her feet then lightly rested his magical finger
s on her waist. “Don’t forget a bonnet,” he murmured, another smile playing with his lips.
Drat, drat, drat. He made her forget everything except him. No, this was not normal in the slightest.
She asked Harriet to fetch her green bonnet with the white flowers, and then clasped Holstoke’s arm as he led her through the morning room doors into the courtyard. This fountain—which, she noticed, was pleasingly formed of simple, flower-shaped tiers—must have been his addition. All around were potted plants and little benches and statuary. It was a marvel, really. Five stories of stone walls surrounded them, yet all around were windows and doors leading back into the castle. The sky was their ceiling, yet she felt sheltered.
He led her through another set of doors then out onto the north terrace, which stretched the length between two of the castle’s round towers. From this vantage, one could see the sunken garden stretching northward at least two hundred yards. Sloped sides bloomed in swaths of red and purple and yellow, divided by the occasional set of stone stairs. On the floor of the long rectangle, neatly squared boxwood hedges formed a stunning parterre filled with all manner of roses, lilies, and other delights. The only relief from the squared symmetry was the round fountain carved out of the center and ringed by concentric circles of flowers in varying shades of purple and blue. The rings resembled water. At the top of the fountain was a mermaid embraced by a fierce, protective Neptune. The sea god wielded a trident against unseen creatures.
Genie sighed, as enchanted as she’d been the day before. “I love this garden.” It was everything Holstoke was—complex and contained and beautiful, yet at its heart, overflowing with valor.
“I have submitted thirty-five new varieties of lily and seventeen new roses to the Horticultural Society,” he said. “All exhibit superior resistance to common blights and pests. In some, I have extended bloom times by up to fifty percent.”
She had no idea what any of that signified, but it sounded impressive. “Any new colors?” she asked.
He frowned. “Four.”
“Well, show me, then.”
He took her down into the sunken garden, pausing here and there to explain about pollination. His voice was low and serious, so she assumed his descriptions were meant to be educational. If she’d comprehended half of it, she might have found it so.
Instead, she only wanted his hands upon her again. His mouth upon her. His eyes glowing as he gazed up past her belly and breasts with the closest thing to possession she’d ever seen in a man.
It should not be this way. She felt out of control.
Perhaps another subject would help. She interrupted just as he was going on about “the receptive nature of the pistil,” to ask how the fountain was fed.
“The lake,” he replied after a pause. “We laid pipes there beneath the ground.” He nodded toward the northernmost end of the sunken garden, which bordered the lake with the red-blooming shrubs. “Because the lake is higher than the fountain, gravity creates pressure, which forces the water upward.”
She watched his mouth as he spoke about chambers to control the pressure and the basin’s advanced drainage system and the ways in which the water was used for the gardens during dry spells. By heaven, it did not seem to matter what he said. Those well-defined lips obsessed her. He obsessed her.
Next they strolled along the lake, where ducks swam with their ducklings and the red-flowered shrubs—rhododendrons, according to Holstoke—shown like rubies beneath large willows and small pines.
Holstoke described how, after inheriting the title, he’d purchased a house for his mother in Weymouth and sent her to live there. Then, he’d begun digging. First, he’d excavated the gardens Lady Holstoke had designed, forming the sunken garden. Then, he’d created the lake from two underground streams. Over time, he had replaced every bit of ground his mother’s hand had touched.
Except the fountain at the castle’s entrance, of course. She noted he did not mention that.
“You rarely discuss her,” Genie observed. “Your mother. I presume the two of you did not get on. Before you discovered her murderous tendencies, I mean.”
He stiffened as they made their way toward the west gardens. They entered the orchards before he answered, “No.”
He went quiet for a time while they walked past fruit trees of dizzying variety—apples and apricots, pears and plums. By the time they entered the section with the walnuts and chestnuts, her curiosity had reached a crescendo.
“What …” She glanced up at him, noticing how he kept his eyes southward, toward the sea. “What was it like? Being her son.”
He did not answer. His face remained expressionless, though they continued on toward the south gardens.
“I met her once, if you’ll recall,” she continued, hoping to ease his tension. “Astley’s. Do you remember?”
A nod.
“I must confess I didn’t care for your mother, Holstoke. No, not a jot. She was rude while pretending not to be. Oh!” Genie rolled her eyes. “And what dreadful taste in hats. Plain, plain, plain. Dull, dull, dull.”
A long blink. The muscles of his arm relaxed beneath her hand. But the strain around his mouth remained.
“Had she been my mother, I would not have sent her to live in Weymouth. Rather, I should think Greenland more appropriate. The cold suited her.”
This time, his jaw relaxed. He even glanced down at her briefly.
“Yes, Greenland. No one to bother except the whales.” She clicked her tongue. “Poor whales. Perhaps, rather, a hut somewhere inland. Yes, ideal. She could wear her dull, dull bonnets and live in the darkness and the cold with nothing but her own company. A fitting solution for a mother like yours.”
His lips quirked up at one corner. “Fitting, indeed.”
She grinned in triumph and listened as he began explaining how he’d formed the divide between the orchard and the south gardens with a technique called espaliering, in which the branches of trees were trained to grow sideways into a living fence.
“Oh, my!” She squeezed his arm as they traveled through an elaborate arch formed of leaves and branches and little, pebble-sized fruits. “That is what you did on the drive.”
His grin was wide now. “With apple trees. You liked it?”
“Goodness, Holstoke, it is a marvel. White and pink blossoms everywhere. I felt as if I’d entered heaven itself.”
His eyes glowed as he guided her onto a path winding past leafy shrubs and several vine-wrapped obelisks. “You may find heaven whenever you wish, Eugenia. You’ve only to ask.”
Blast. Her dratted lust returned with a whoosh as powerful as the sea she could now hear crashing onshore. When he looked at her that way, all she could think about was lemon and mint and how it felt when he thrust inside her, his glorious eyes blazing down into hers. A breeze came up, bringing the scents of the sea and his shaving soap.
She forced herself to look away. Cleared her throat. Focused on the next wonder ahead. She did not have to wait long, as the path soon took them into a tunnel of arched wooden trellises covered in vines. She blinked. Stopped. Released his arm to examine the leaves more closely.
“Grapes,” she murmured. “You’ve trained the grapevines into arches. How beautiful.”
“Beautiful. Quite.” His voice was strangely hoarse. “Harvesting is a simple matter, really. Wait for everything to ripen. Then it all but falls into your hands of its own accord. Plump. Succulent. Delectable.”
She spun about to find him eyeing her backside. “Holstoke!”
He raised a brow. “Yes?”
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“You are comparing me to fruit.”
He licked his lips. “Only in the most complimentary fashion.”
“And you are trying to seduce me. In the garden. Again.”
“Strictly speaking, you seduced me, Eugenia.”
“Perhaps the first time. And I’d little idea what I was doing.”
He eyed her bodice with st
unning intensity, as though he might burn it away with his eyes alone. “I know.”
“Stop it.”
A slow smile. “What should I stop now?”
She groaned, her hand hovering over her belly, where the heat bloomed and ached. She wanted to undress for him. She wanted to lie down beneath leafy arches and let him ravish her. “What have you done to me?”
Frowning, he tilted his head.
“Do not give me that puzzled look. You know very well how I feel right now.”
Slowly, his frown disappeared, replaced by a subtle smile. Those pale eyes painted her from knees to bonnet, leaving a trail of tingles.
This was not normal.
“Tell me what you’ve done,” she demanded.
He lifted a brow. “I can do it again, if you require reminding.”
She stomped toward him. “I am frigid. This is not normal.”
His hands clasped at his back. He narrowed his eyes, examining her like a specimen. “Some mysteries may only be solved through experimentation.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have to offer.”
Raising her chin, she said, “Then, here is my experiment. We will no longer engage in intimacies until you explain what you’ve done.”
A deep glower moved across his brow, darkening his eyes like a cloud over the sun. “Don’t be foolish, Eugenia.”
“It is the lemon balm, is it not? The leaves produce a lustful madness. Tell me truly.”
He blinked. His glower turned disbelieving. Then, he laughed. The sound burst out of him, deep and flinty, as he rubbed his brow between thumb and finger. “No.” The laughter lightened to a chuckle as he shook his head. “Balm has no stimulant properties. Quite the contrary. That is one reason it is called ‘balm.’”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Something else, then. Another herb. Or your shaving soap.”
“I am not poisoning you with aphrodisiacs. Good God, you have more thorns than a briar, woman.”
“A briar, am I?” She sniffed. “Well, then, perhaps you should avoid kissing me. You wouldn’t wish to—”
