The Shocking Secret of a Guest at the Wedding (Millworth Manor)

by Victoria Alexander

  “I hadn’t planned to but it is late.” She pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. “Mother thinks I’m safer at Dee’s than here because Cyril has no idea I’ve been staying there. She’s insisted on having Jacobs stay at Dee’s as well. For protection.”

  He raised a brow. “The butler?”

  “Apparently he wasn’t always a butler.” Yet another mystery she’d like to delve into. She heaved a weary sigh. “It’s shocking how exhausting it is to do nothing but watch you try to unravel this mess.”

  He paused as if choosing his words. He’d done a lot of that today but then it was no doubt awkward to tell even your fake fiancé all the details of her father’s fraudulent financial dealings. “You needn’t worry about safety. There are men watching your house as well as Delilah’s.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  “It’s futile to protest,” he said firmly. “Sam and Gray and I agreed it was a reasonable precaution. My father knew of a reputable agency that provides such a service.”

  “Your father?” She stared at him. “Does everyone in your family know about this?”

  “Not everyone.” He chuckled. “I doubt that my mother knows.”

  “Good Lord.” She buried her face in her hands. “How humiliating. I didn’t want anyone to know about Father’s—”

  “Stop that.” He pulled her close and enfolded her in his arms. “Everyone at Millworth thinks of you as another member of the family. They would do anything to help you. And while Sam and Gray and my father and Uncle Nigel do know about your father’s difficulties, some of which came as no surprise by the way, no one else is aware of that part of it, except Delilah of course. Aunt Bernadette and Camille only know that your dead fiancé has returned from the grave.” He chuckled. “It was all I could do to keep my aunt from coming into London with the rest of us.”

  She smiled against his coat. “Between your aunt and my mother, Cyril wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “About your mother . . .”

  Reluctantly she lifted her head. “Yes?”

  “There’s something different between the two of you. You seem, well, to like each other?”

  “If there’s any benefit to this mess with Cyril, it’s that it’s brought us together.”

  “Facing a common enemy will do that.”

  “We’ve talked a great deal in the last few days.” She thought for a moment. “I think we’ve found something we had lost.”

  “So . . .” His gaze searched hers. “That’s good?”

  “Very good.”

  “We’ll figure this all out, you know.” Confidence rang in his voice. “There is no possible ending that leaves you married to him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There isn’t a doubt in my mind. Besides . . .” He smiled in a wry manner. “What kind of hero would abandon the fair maiden to the villain?”

  “I don’t need a hero, Jack.” She smiled up at him. “But I am quite grateful to have a banker.”

  “That’s all this banker needs to hear.” He bent to brush his lips across hers in a kiss warm and slow and infinitely perfect. A kiss that fueled a fire deep within her, an ache that grew with every moment in his arms. At last he released her with a reluctant sigh. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  “Until then.” She cast him a half-hearted smile.

  “Try not to worry.”

  “I’ll try. But I doubt that I’ll succeed.” She shook her head. “It’s going to take a miracle, Jack.”

  “This is the right time of year for it then. We will find something,” he said firmly. Not even a flicker of doubt shone in his eyes and as much as Teddy feared there was nothing to find, his confidence lifted her spirits.

  “Sleep well, Theodosia, gift from God.”

  “Good evening, my banker.” My hero.

  He smiled, nodded, and took his leave.

  For a long time she stood in the dining room doorway and stared after him, too tired to summon the energy to move, too filled with unanswered questions crowding her mind.

  Was he in love with her? Or was he just trying to ride to her rescue?

  She didn’t know and, given her experiences with Cyril, no longer trusted her own judgment about such things. She was afraid to assume anything. About Jack or about herself.

  Because as much as she didn’t know if he was in love with her, she had absolutely no idea if she was in love with him.

  The days quickly fell into a pattern. Jack would arrive somewhere around late morning to begin the arduous task of trying to find something to incriminate Cyril. Quite often he would report some new bit of information that Grayson or Sam had ferreted out but nothing of any real worth. Teddy quickly realized there was little she could do to assist Jack but offer her encouragement. Regardless, she was reluctant to leave his side even if he had no idea she was there most of the time. It struck her as an intimate sort of silent companionship that was at once comforting and exciting and . . . right.

  Still, she wished she could be of more substantial assistance. But Father’s papers were incomprehensible to her. There was something about the enormity of the task that fogged one’s mind and deadened one’s soul. At least when it came to Teddy’s mind and soul. Jack, on the other hand, reveled in it. He was obviously invigorated by this financial conundrum whereas she felt both helpless and stupid. He assured her she was neither but he didn’t seem quite as sincere in his assurance as one might have hoped.

  On the second day, in the desk in her rooms, Teddy found the letter informing her of Cyril’s demise. On the third day, Grayson told Jack he might have uncovered something significant. On the morning of the fourth day, the day of Sir Malcomb’s dinner, the first miracle of the Christmas season occurred when Teddy’s mother volunteered to handle Sir Malcomb’s gathering on her own. Mother insisted Teddy’s time was better spent helping Jack and took over all the final arrangements with a shocking display of confidence and an equally astonishing level of competence. By late afternoon she had wished them luck, confided that she was quite looking forward to seeing Sir Malcomb and his cronies, most of whom she’d known for years, and sailed off with all the poise and self-assurance of someone who did indeed know what she was doing. Which could certainly be called another miracle. Or at least part of the first.

  The second miracle was far more subtle but remarkable nonetheless and occurred late in the evening after the servants had retired. Teddy and Jack agreed they needed to clear their minds and talk about something entirely different from the matter at hand. Teddy spoke of the plans for the New Year’s ball. As she’d had so much of the arrangements already well in hand before Cyril’s appearance she was not especially worried about the event’s success. The gala was still more than a week away after all. Neither of them mentioned the possibility that if they failed to find what they needed, she might not be there at all.

  Jack talked of his meeting with his mother and his hopes that she and his father were at least speaking to one another. He was surprisingly optimistic about that. And he told her about speaking with Miss Merryweather and how they had agreed they were meant to be nothing more than good friends and how much she was enjoying travel and so on and so forth. Indeed, he did go on for rather a long time about the intrepid Miss Merryweather and her sea voyage and how much she loved traveling by ship and . . .

  It struck them both at almost precisely the same moment. Their gazes met and they realized, regardless of actual proof, that they’d had the answer very nearly all along. Which, by anyone’s reckoning, could definitely be called a second miracle.

  And when Teddy threw her arms around Jack’s neck and he picked her up and twirled her around the room, their laughter echoed through the house. It wasn’t a miracle that their lips would meet in the rush of victory. Indeed, it was to be expected really. He had kissed her good-bye every night since they’d begun. But while this particular kiss started innocently enough it flared quickly to something powerful and overwhelming and alt
ogether irresistible. Something Teddy never imagined she’d feel. A feeling she never imagined she’d trust.

  Certainly a purist in the matter of miracles would most assuredly disdain this particular miracle given its sinful nature. After Cyril she had vowed intimacy with a man was not a mistake she would make again. But this was different. This desire gripped not merely her body but her heart, her soul.

  This was different. This was no mistake. This was Jack.

  Her banker.

  Her hero.

  And regardless of what might happen in the future, what plans she had made for her life, what path he might ultimately choose for his, here and now she wanted nothing more than to be with him.

  And that might have been the greatest miracle of them all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “This could be a dreadful mistake, you know,” Jack murmured against her neck, his voice ragged with urgency and desire.

  Her back was flat against her closed door and she groped with one hand to turn the key in the lock. Thank God the lamp in her room was lit. “Yes, I do know. But . . .”

  He raised his head and gazed into her eyes. “But?”

  “But it isn’t.” She swallowed hard. “I know that too.”

  His gaze searched hers for an endless moment; then he nodded and pulled her close. “Good.” And his lips again claimed hers.

  Teddy had no idea how they’d managed to get up the stairs and into her rooms. The last few minutes were a blur of hands and lips and passion too long denied. Nor was she at all sure how she came to be clad only in her corset and chemise and drawers and where exactly he had lost his shirt. Details were insignificant, lost in the fog of arousal that enveloped her.

  He fumbled with the fasteners on the front of her corset and she tugged at the buttons on his trousers. It struck her that she was not being at all retiring in this, wasn’t even feigning reluctance. But then why on earth should she? She was already ruined after all. One couldn’t be more ruined. And dear Lord, she wanted him with an intensity she’d never so much as suspected could burn within her. Bloody hell, she was a tart. A tart ruled by lust and passion and all those things she’d been told would doom her to hell. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered at the moment but him.

  Her corset loosened and slipped to the floor. His hands slid under her chemise and touched her naked flesh and she shivered. His buttons popped open beneath her fingers and she slid his trousers down his hips until his erection pressed hard against her. And he groaned.

  Heat pooled between her thighs.

  She wrenched her lips from his. “I really should tell you. I am not exactly, that is to say, well . . .” She drew a deep breath. “I have done this before.”

  “Oh?” He cleared his throat. “Do you think now, this particular moment, is the right time to mention that?”

  “It didn’t occur to me to mention it before.”

  “And it occurred to you now?” His hands skimmed over her waist and his fingers found the ribbon of her drawers and pulled it free. The undergarment slid to the floor. “Now?”

  “I just thought you should know,” she said weakly, her attention centered on the feel of his, well, his cock, for lack of a more appropriate term, hard against her. She never would have used the word aloud. Cyril had used it, had indeed been quite proud of using it, and it had always struck her as coarse and vulgar. Yet another detail about her late fiancé she had ignored. But here and now, with Jack, its very sinful sound was exciting and arousing. There was something to be said for being a tart.

  “I did always think I would marry a virgin.” His hands splayed over the small of her back and drifted lower to cup her bottom.

  “Excellent.” She moaned softly and pressed against him. “As we are not discussing marriage.”

  “Well then, you should know.” He smiled a slow, wicked smile and shifted to pull her chemise off over her head. “I am not a virgin either.”

  “Thank God.” She sank forward into his arms and he swept her up and carried her to the bed. Like a prize. Or a gift.

  They fell onto the bed together and were at once a tangle of arms and legs, of lips and mouths and tongues, of exploration and discovery.

  Without warning he paused and raised his head. “Although, as we are confessing, I suppose you should know I am not, oh, exceptionally experienced.”

  “What do you mean by exceptionally experienced?” Now was probably not the most opportune time for this discussion either. “You did say, or implied, that you had done this before.”

  “I have done this before.” The slightest edge of indignation sounded in his voice. “But I’m not the sort of man who finds it necessary to bed every woman I meet.”

  “I never thought you were.”

  “I do have experience. I am simply not exceptionally experienced.”

  “Well then, Jack.” She shifted her head and nuzzled that delightful masculine curve where his neck met his shoulder. “It seems we are well matched.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to be, well, disappointed.”

  “I can’t imagine you being disappointing.” He tasted of spice and man and promises. “In anything.”

  “I have been told I have a certain natural ability.”

  “We shall see,” she murmured.

  “Indeed we shall.” He turned, caught her tight against him, and rolled her onto her back.

  He trailed kisses down her throat so lightly she wasn’t sure he was touching her at all and she arched upward to meet his lips. His mouth drifted over her breasts and he tasted first one then the next. He teased and toyed until her breath came faster and his mouth traveled lower.

  And she ached for more.

  She ran her fingers through his hair and caressed the hard muscles of his shoulders and his back. And reveled in the feel of his naked body against hers. In the heat of him and the passion that arched between them, wrapped around them, bound them.

  His hand slipped between her legs to fondle and stroke, his fingers sliding over her, slick with her own arousal. He explored her with tongue and fingers, worshipped her. Molded her into a being of pure sensation until she existed only in the touch of his hand and the brush of his lips. And the ever-increasing yearning that threatened to rip her apart.

  She relished the heat of his flesh beneath her fingertips, the heat she shared. A fire within them, growing hotter, consuming all in its path. She took pleasure in the learning of him, exploring the hard planes of his body, discovering the smattering of hair that drifted over his chest and trailed down his stomach. She marveled at the hard, hot length of him and gloried in the way his body surged toward hers when she stroked him.

  He groaned. “Theo . . .”

  Every whisper of his lips across her throat, her breasts, her stomach wound her tighter and tighter. With every touch of his, every caress of hers, she lost herself more and more into a world of absolute sensation. A world raw and electric. Dimly, she noticed a soft moaning echoing the pleasure gripping her senses and realized it was coming from her. And that too was arousing and erotic and intoxicating.

  Some semblance of rational thought still lingering in the back of her mind noted that this was not at all how her intimacies with Cyril had been. She did not recall this intensity of feeling, this all-consuming desire as if the forces of nature itself possessed them. And surely she would remember. No, this was new. And all the more powerful for the newness of it.

  Her awareness shrank to nothing save him. The taste of him. The feel of him. The scent of him. Nothing existed but the need for him, unrelenting and immediate. She hooked her leg around his and guided him up her body. She clutched at him and urged him on.

  “Jack,” she murmured, his name no more than a breath or a prayer on her lips.

  Her hips rolled toward him as if of their own accord. He positioned himself between her legs and slid into her with a measured stroke that brought a low cry from somewhere deep within her. She moaned with the sensation of their joining and the joy of being
one with him.

  She met his thrusts with hers, rocking her hips against him harder and faster, in an ever-increasing rhythm that tore at her soul. She claimed him for her own and belonged to him in return.

  She was, they were, one. For now. Forever. Until at last her body tightened around his and release flooded through her in waves of sheer ecstasy. And that too was new.

  Dimly, over the roar of blood in her ears, the thud of her heart in her chest, she heard him cry her name and felt him thrust deep into her and his body quake against hers.

  This was so much more than she had imagined or expected. But then this was Jack.

  And wasn’t he more than she had expected as well?

  “You were right.” Jack stared unseeing at the ceiling above them, struggling to catch his breath.

  “Oh?” The breathless note in her voice matched his own.

  “You were worth the trouble.”

  Beside him, Theodosia paused. Then giggled. “As were you.”

  She rolled onto her side and smiled at him. “I’m not sure what to say now. This was, well, really quite . . . wonderful.”

  “I was going to say unexpected.” He grinned. “But all the more wonderful for its unexpected nature. Of course I am not exceptionally experienced.”

  “But you do have a certain natural ability.”

  He laughed.

  “Whereas I am, well . . .” She sighed. “A tart.”

  He sobered and nodded solemnly. “Yes, there is that.”

  She stared at him. “Do you really think so?”

  “No, I really don’t.” He chose his words with care. “I think you were deceived by a man you trusted and—”

  “Three times,” she said abruptly and sat up, clutching the covers around her.

  He drew his brows together in confusion. “Three times what?”

  “Three is how many times . . .” She winced. “I was, well deceived by Cyril. It was a mistake, Jack,” she added quickly. “One that I shall always regret. But I alone am to blame.” She paused. “Although I suppose one could say once was a mistake and three times was becoming a habit.”