He pulled himself up to his full height, all pretence of lightness and joviality wiped clean from his countenance. “Rutherford has made it quite clear I would not be welcomed as a suitor.”
Missy was unable to respond. She snapped her jaw shut when she realized her mouth had been hanging agape, but she continued to stare up at him, her eyes wide.
He took note of her shock and nodded in affirmation. “So if you would be so kind as to not mention our meeting today and this conversation…”
“Lord Crawley, I must apologize for Lord Rutherford. He had no right to say such a thing. You have no need to fear my brother,” she said, sufficiently recovered enough to speak.
Another nod dipped his chin, this one slower, but his brown eyes clouded over in skepticism. “Yes, well, I do have a pressing engagement. I must bid you good day.” And with that, his courtship of her came to a shuddering finale.
Missy stood in the front of the milliner’s shop long after she lost sight of him in the throng of shoppers, trying to make sense of what she’d just heard. James was warning off her suitors? He was adamant he didn’t want her—at least not to marry—yet he had threatened a peer whose intentions were completely honorable? What did this mean? Suddenly, her heart felt lighter. A jolt of indescribable pleasure chased across every square inch of her warmed flesh. She shivered and let out a wispy sigh. He cared. It was just that simple.
Traipsing back down to the cobbler’s store, a check in the front window revealed her mother and sisters still busy examining shoes. Missy schooled her features before entering the shop.
The viscountess was speaking to the owner, Mr. Raphael, her sisters by her side. As she approached, Emily shot her a quizzical look. Missy held a gloved hand up to her temple, furrowing her brows.
When the gray-haired gentleman disappeared into the back, her mother turned to her. “Missy, is something wrong?”
“I fear I have developed a touch of a headache.”
“Does that mean we won’t be going to Epitaux’s?” Sarah’s bow mouth had already formed a pout. Epitaux’s was a quaint eatery in Pall Mall that offered excellent food and service. The viscountess had promised them they would dine there for supper.
“No, there is no need to change your dining plans on my account,” Missy insisted. “I shall have Stevens hail a hackney and accompany me home.” This was one of the few occasions Missy was grateful that Sarah’s concern to fill her belly overrode that of her sister’s malady—feigned though it was.
Almost as if she’d read her mind, Emily gave Sarah a look of censure, which elicited an immediate look of chagrin from the younger girl. “We do hope you feel better soon,” Emily said.
Missy managed a faint smile through a properly pained expression.
“Have Mrs. Henderson fix you a hot cup of tea, and then perhaps some rest will take care of it.” Her mother’s expressed concern flooded her with guilt.
“Yes, Mama. I am certain I’ll be fine by morning,” she said.
After exiting the cobbler’s, Missy found Stevens lounging next to the coach taking in the sea of humanity going about their day. He drew to his full height when he saw her approaching.
Stevens was a young man of no more than twenty years, with brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cresting his high cheekbones. He was also trustworthy and able to hold his tongue, unlike her lady’s maid.
“Stevens, I will need you to hail a hackney and accompany me on a call.”
“Yes, miss.” He nodded, agreeing without so much as a question.
With the alacrity that must have secured him his position, he flagged a hackney and in no time at all they were heading south toward Berkley Street.
Fifteen minutes later, Missy climbed the brick steps up to confront the dark wood door of James’s townhouse. She’d left Stevens with the hackney, instructing him to hold the conveyance until her return. Whenever that would be.
A sober-faced servant of an indeterminate age answered her knock. She was immediately struck by his bald, gleaming head. She knew she stared at him much too long and hard to be polite, but she’d never seen a man whose head contained not one shaft of hair.
He inclined said head in an austere manner that signified a butler’s status. “May I help you?”
“Is Lord Rutherford in?” she asked, her reticule clutched tightly in her hand.
He made no move to further open the door, staring at her politely but not welcoming. “May I ask who is calling?”
How forward she must appear, not only presenting herself at James’s residence, but arriving unchaperoned at that. She wondered if those were the thoughts running through the butler’s mind as he guarded the entrance much like she imagined Saint Peter tended the pearly gates.
“Could you please inform Lord Rutherford Miss Armstrong is here to see him?” This time he opened the door wide enough to admit her, and then disappeared down the hall.
Twice, when she was much younger, her family had visited James at his parents’ estate in Berkshire. However, in all the years she’d known him, she’d never been inside his residence in Town.
Standing in the entryway, she was instantly drawn by the warm masculine tones, and could not help a mild surprise at the tasteful décor. Wainscoting ran along the green silk-papered walls of the foyer, which displayed two large framed scenery oils. Brass wall sconces lit the area and a pair of large brass vases containing green leafy foliage stood on either side of the hall.
Missy made her way up the blue runner to peer past the French doors leading to a room dominated by a rectangular table and an elaborate chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling. She was inching closer for a better look at the dining room when the butler reappeared.
Starting like a guilty child caught committing a misdeed, she hastily backed away from the double doors.
“His lordship will see you. Please follow me.” He relieved her of her bonnet, gloves, and shawl, then escorted her to the library.
“Miss Armstrong, my lord,” he announced from the threshold, addressing James’s back.
Missy barely noted the butler’s departure. James now filled her vision. He kept his back to her, standing at the far end of the room swiveling a glass containing a clear liquid.
She regarded the expanse of wrinkled fawn linen covering the breadth of broad shoulders before narrowing down to a trim waist, finally disappearing into a pair of finely tailored trousers of dark taupe.
He took his time acknowledging her, turning to meet her gaze with the languor of a bored aristocrat. Wretched man. If he intended to play the boor that was just fine with her.
Her affront notwithstanding, Missy fairly reeled at the assault on her senses the sight a rather disheveled James presented. His hair, slightly mussed in appearance, made her itch to run her fingers through the shiny dark locks. Dark bristles shadowed his jaw and dimpled cheeks. And his eyes—those pale blue orbs—gazed at her, half mast and penetrating.
Holding a glass up in his left hand, he asked, “A drink, Miss Armstrong?”
In response to the mocking gesture, Missy collected herself and pressed her mouth into a fine line. “Isn’t it a little too early in the day to be indulging?”
He ignored her remark and sank into a nearby armchair, motioning casually with his hand for her to do likewise.
Missy crossed the room and chose a seat almost as stiff and rigid as her back. “I just had a most enlightening conversation with Lord Crawley. Apparently, he is under the false notion that Thomas will do him bodily harm, perhaps even fatal damage, should he press his suit. Why ever do you suppose he’d believe such a thing?”
James stared at her for what seemed an eternity, wearing the most inscrutable expression. Then without a word, he downed the last of his drink and rose to his feet to pour another one at the sideboard. Missy’s ire began to rise.
“Crawley is a gambler and if his fortunes don’t improve, he will find himself penniless.” He kept his back to her as he spoke
. Her ire rose another notch. Just as she opened her mouth to convey her displeasure, he turned and made his way back to his chair.
“And as for Lord Riley, who has been puttering about you like a pup begging for kitchen scraps, I would be careful not to encourage him. He’s still under his mother’s skirts. Being married to him would be like having three of you in your marriage bed.” He gave a mock shiver and feigned a look of horror, before allowing his mouth to edge into a wicked grin.
Lady Riley, widowed at least ten years now, was one of the most overbearing matrons of the ton. And she did cosset her eldest son in a shrill and rather self-serving manner. If Missy were considering a marriage to him, which she was most definitely not, it certainly would be something to keep in mind.
“It is none of your concern who I choose to see, nor is it your responsibility to dissuade any gentleman who should choose to court me. I am not your sister.” Must he constantly be reminded of that?
His mocking demeanor instantly vanished. With glittering heat in his eyes, he raked her with such a look, a languid, thorough perusal that started at the top of her upswept chestnut curls to the hem of her moss green skirt, lingering with a lack of propriety much too long in the middle.
A tight, throbbing heat unfurled low in her belly and Missy was mindful of the way her breasts peaked beneath her fine ecru muslin bodice. He couldn’t possibly see her body’s reaction, not with the many layers of fabric covering her bare flesh, but she still had to resist the urge to glance down.
“Believe me,” he said with a rasp in his voice, “I’m well aware of that.” His gaze dropped to her breasts.
“Then I demand you stop.” She wasn’t certain now exactly what she wanted him to stop. Stop dissuading eligible suitors or stop watching her with heat enough to set the whole of London afire? Because when he watched her like that, her hopes immediately took flight.
A laugh rumbled from somewhere deep in his throat. It was dark and humorless. He raked her with another searing stare.
“Less than three months gone you came to my chamber, threw yourself at me like a lovesick schoolgirl and today you welcome the attentions of a dandy.” Lifting his glass in a jeering toast he said, “Fickle should be the other name for women.”
A lump formed in her throat at the scorn in his voice. His look challenged her, almost as if he meant to break her in some way, and it was that knowledge that strengthened her resolve.
“As you said, it is—was—the remnants of a young girl’s infatuation. But I am over that now—over you.” The lie fell effortlessly from her lips, and she tipped her nose in the air to punctuate her point. “You have made your feelings where I am concerned quite clear, yet you are determined to undermine me by rebuffing those who do show an interest. I do not understand you. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were jealous.”
“Jealous! Over a woman?” James snorted. “Never in my life.” He dragged an unsteady hand through the thick strands of dark hair then ran them over the back of his neck, as he seemed to fight for control.
“Then why, pray tell, would you go about threatening Lord Crawley like some common street thug?”
“So you’re saying you welcome the advances of the likes of Edward Crawley?” He spat the man’s name, anger hardening his features. “I guess you do as you didn’t seem to mind him pawing at you at your mother’s dinner party.”
Missy said nothing for several seconds. When she spoke, she did so evenly, without the slightest inflection. “You saw.”
Those two words appeared to infuriate him more. “Yes, I saw him kiss you, and God knows what other liberties you granted him when I left.”
The whole thing occurred before she had time to think, the slap snapping his head to the side with surprising strength. Missy’s palm burned at the impact.
Stunned, his hand came up to rub the bright red imprint of her hand on his cheek. A storm of emotions swept through her: shock, mortification, guilt, but fury overrode them all. She was on her feet, her form visibly shaking.
“Certainly more liberties than I would ever grant you again,” she said, her hands balled at her sides.
Before she could blink, James grabbed her forearms and yanked her hard against him, toppling them back onto the chair, Missy landing square on his lap. “Perhaps we should put that to the test,” he growled, lowering his head.
His mouth slanted down on hers, hard, and she fought instinctively against his domination, his ruthless insurrection of her will. Her lips remained tight to his questing tongue. He immediately gentled the kiss, nipping the bowed corners of her mouth and testing the seam with his tongue in firm insistence. A tiny gasp fluttered from her lips and he was in.
James tasted of brandy and passion but it was not enough. She was ravenous for more. Sliding her tongue against his, she discovered the power of a kiss. He jerked and let out a groan. One large hand circled her torso while the other clutched the giving curve of her bottom through the satiny folds of her skirt and layers of petticoats to pull her hard against his erection. A moment later he had her under him.
Her body trembled and throbbed at his thick stabbing presence at the heart of her. The ache, sharp and unrelenting, created a fire that left her gasping. Missy tightened her hold on his neck, pressing her aching breasts up against the muscled wall of his chest.
“God help me,” he said on a ragged breath. But it didn’t sound like a prayer, it sounded like a hard-fought surrender. His mouth lifted and slanted to take her again, going deeper, getting hotter.
Limp with passion, Missy accepted it all. While one hand squeezed, cupped, and massaged the curve of her bottom, dragging her rhythmically against his hard flesh, his other hand sought the firm thrust of her breast through the soft muslin, plucking avidly at the taut peak.
She heard his name in a breathless chant, unaware the sound emitted from her kiss-swollen lips until his mouth left hers to trail down her neck. With his teeth, he nipped along its creamy length, and then soothed the love bites with his tongue.
Missy felt helpless against the powerful surge of raw unadulterated hunger that gripped her and had her arching her hips, desperately searching for some relief to the sweet pressure building there. Her jerking hips elicited another harsh masculine groan. He abandoned her breast and within seconds, her bodice loosened as his fingers made quick work of the small buttons on her dress. He tugged the bodice from her shoulders, released the front fastenings of her stays and then smoothed the cotton chemise from her torso.
“So sweet and perfect,” he murmured, his face tight as his eyes devoured the small, rosy mounds, their peaks pebbled in passionate excitement. With the flat of his thumb, he circled one berry-tipped nipple. Her breath hitched and her hips undulated helplessly.
“Do you like that, Missy?” His voice was hoarse and cajoling, as he continued to pleasure her, tracing the surrounding aureole with his long, tapered index finger.
“Please, James.” His name emerged a frustrated sob. Missy forced the lids of her eyes open, still blind to everything except the growing ache building so rapidly and deliciously inside of her, making her hot and damp in that place between her thighs.
“You would like me to please you, wouldn’t you?” He lowered his head and she felt his breath, warm and moist, on her before he took her nipple into his mouth. He swathed it with his tongue, two, three times and then clamped down on it, sucking strongly. Missy clenched her inner thighs, her sex contracting so hard she thought she’d explode. Her head fell back onto the cushion, clutching the back of his head, her fingers sifting through the damp, silky strands of his hair, urging him on, holding him.
Nothing else mattered at that moment but the woman in James’s arms. He had never experienced such a loss of control and it frightened him. He knew he could take her now without a murmur of dissent. He moved his hands from her breast to release himself from the unbearable confines of his trousers to do just that when his gaze took in the scene like one would a tableau.
Miss
y lay suppliant beneath him, her eyes closed, her breasts flushed and shiny from his ministrations while he lay between her legs, her skirt hiked up to her knees. She was an innocent and he had been about to take her like a barmaid with little thought to her comfort or her virginity. With little thought to the consequences, and no thought of her brother, his best friend. Good God, Armstrong would kill him. He was supposed to be discouraging her, not having his way with her. Pulling himself from atop her proved to be a Herculean effort, but he managed it by the skin of his teeth, his cock protesting the entire time. Then he cursed everything on God’s green earth.
It seemed to take Missy several seconds to recognize his absence. Her eyes opened slowly, the pupils so large and dark they dominated the slate blue iris. He was already on his feet before she took note of her dishabille. Appearing quite overwrought, she fastened her stays, pulled her chemise and dress into place and then, with shaking hands, struggled to button her dress. A hot pink blush suffused her face, her gaze remaining fixed on the task at hand.
Reaching the sideboard in a few ground-eating strides, James poured himself another glass of distilled water, his hand unsteady. What he needed was a real drink. It was disconcerting, this power she seemed to have over him—this ability to shatter his control so effortlessly.
He downed the contents in a single swallow. A glance over his shoulder revealed Missy was still working with the round pearl buttons. If he hadn’t feared he’d ravage her if he got within a foot of her, he might have applied himself to the task.
“You should not have come,” he said instead.
She didn’t look up from what she was doing, her fingers almost frantic in their haste. At last, with her dress secured but with several glossy chestnut strands dangling about her face, Missy retrieved her reticule from the side table and rose primly from her seat. An action so thoroughly juxtaposed to the wanton of minutes before.
“On that we can both agree,” she replied, a slight husk to her voice. “But at least with you, I now have a better idea of where I stand.”
Beverley Kendall Page 10
