by Candace Camp
“Yes, she was most agreeable. She did not make the slightest comment about our clothes.” Mary looked down at her skirt. “I noticed right after we walked in that I had a streak of dust above my hem, but she didn’t even look askance at it.”
“It was exceedingly generous of her to take an interest in you.” Miss Dalrymple rose to her feet and looked around at each of the girls as she drove her point home. “The Carlyle name is one of the most distinguished in the country. I was surprised by her tolerance, but clearly she is a most gracious and refined woman. You should look to her as an example. The rest of this week, we shall work on appropriate topics of conversation when you call on her.”
With that parting shot, Miss Dalrymple exited the room. Camellia let out a heartfelt groan and sprawled out inelegantly in her chair. “All I can say on the matter is, thank God Lady Carlyle isn’t cut from the same cloth as Miss Dalrymple.”
“Yes.” Rose nodded. “I do look forward to visiting her. I only wish …”
“What?” Mary turned to look at her sister.
“That those clothes Cousin Charlotte ordered for us would get here!”
“Me too!” Lily chimed in. “Wasn’t Lady Sabrina’s dress divine?”
The girls trooped out of the room, happily discussing the wonders that would await them when their new dresses arrived.
Mary was surprised when Royce did not join them for dinner that evening—and more disappointed than she would have admitted to anyone, including her sisters. She also felt quite irritated that she was disappointed.
“Dinner is a much duller affair without Sir Royce present,” Rose said, echoing her thoughts.
Mary shrugged. “I enjoy having the opportunity to be alone with my sisters.”
Rose gave her an odd look, and Lily goggled openly, but said only, “Where do you suppose he is? Do you think he’s sick?”
“He seemed well enough at lunch,” Camellia answered. “I bet he went down to the village. To the tavern, probably.”
Miss Dalrymple sent her a reproving look. “It is scarcely your place to be questioning Sir Royce’s whereabouts. Besides, it is little wonder that any man would chafe at constantly being in the company of young women.”
“You mean he’s bored by us?” Lily asked, her mouth turning down.
“No, of course not,” Mary hastened to assure her sister, shooting a grim look at Miss Dalrymple. “I am sure Sir Royce likes us. But no doubt he would enjoy other company as well. Other men to drink with, for instance.”
“One cannot expect a gentleman to spend all his time with us ladies,” Miss Dalrymple went on pedantically. “That is simply the way of things. Men have other interests … often things of a lower nature.”
Lily eyed the older woman with some fascination. “What things?”
Miss Dalrymple frowned. “It is scarcely appropriate for us to speculate on them. A well-brought-up young lady does not ask where a gentleman is going or why.”
“Then how is she supposed to know?” Camellia asked reasonably.
“There are a number of things that it is better that a lady not know.” On that foreboding note, Miss Dalrymple applied herself once again to her fish.
After supper, they retired to the smaller, less formal drawing room as they usually did after the meal, but here they found themselves even more at a loss without Royce’s presence. Without him there to countermand her, Miss Dalrymple managed to quash every interesting topic of conversation, as well as any suggestion of a more lively activity than playing a quiet hand of whist.
When at last Miss Dalrymple decreed that it was the proper time for young ladies to retire, the sisters trooped up to bed without a single demurral. Mary went into her bedroom and started to undress. However, after she had finished her evening’s toilette, she was still not sleepy. It was lonelier here, she thought, not sharing a room with Rose.
For a moment she hesitated, then slipped next door and softly opened Rose’s door to peer inside. It was dark and Rose was already in bed, so Mary withdrew and returned to her own bed. After a few minutes of tossing and turning, however, she got up and belted on her dressing gown to go down to the library for a book. Lily had declared the books here only minimally more interesting than the ones in the London house, but perhaps a nice dull tome would put her to sleep.
Mary eased out into the hallway, not wanting to awaken Miss Dalrymple, who considered a good night’s rest one of the cornerstones of a young lady’s preparation for the rigors of a Season and had countless stories of one young lady or another who had suffered a breakdown in the midst of her come-out because of exhaustion brought on by the constant round of parties and social events. There was no sign of life from Miss Dalrymple’s room.
Mary glanced in the other direction, toward Royce’s bedchamber. No light showed beneath his door, and she wondered if he had not yet returned home. Had he indeed gone down to the tavern, as Camellia had surmised? Was he still there? Was he flirting—or worse—with some tavern wench?
She told herself that she did not care. If he preferred an evening at the tavern to one with her, it was perfectly all right. She had no claim on Royce, and she refused to be jealous. But she could not deny a stab of pain beneath her heart at the thought of him flirting with another woman. Was it all the same to him whether he flirted with her or with some girl in a tavern?
Mary pushed that lowering thought out of her head as she tiptoed along the corridor and down the stairs. Her candle provided enough light to see where she was going, but she noticed when she reached the first floor that the sconces were still burning along the corridor leading to the library. At the end of the hallway, light spilled out of a doorway.
She stopped outside the library, looking down the hall. The light came from the smoking room, and she had no doubt that Royce was there. Mary hesitated, knowing that she should get a book and return to her room. But a small voice in her head urged her toward the smoking room. If she was honest, wouldn’t she admit that she had come downstairs less to get a book than to see if Royce had come home?
Abandoning the library, Mary continued to the open doorway. As she had suspected, Sir Royce was inside, sprawled in one of the heavy leather wingback chairs, his booted legs crossed negligently at the ankles, a bottle of port on the floor beside the chair and a glass in his hand. His dark gold hair was mussed, and his jacket was off, his cravat gone, and the top tie of his shirt undone.
“Marigold Bascombe.” Royce grinned and pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little as he swept her a bow.
“Sir Royce.” Mary took a step into the room, setting her candle down on the small table near the door. “I was getting a book from the library, and I saw your light.”
“My good fortune. Come in, sit down. Would you like a drink? No, that would not be proper, would it? Perhaps I could find some ratafia.” He glanced around vaguely.
“That’s quite all right. I’m not thirsty.”
“Neither am I.” He grinned, plopping back down into his chair. “But that detail doesn’t stop me from drinking.”
“I can see.”
“Oh, dear. Do you disapprove, Miss Marigold?”
“Please stop calling me that ridiculous name.”
“But it is your name,” he pointed out. “I rather like it.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re drunk.”
“You do disapprove.” He fetched up a lugubrious sigh.
Mary could not repress a chuckle. He looked adorably boyish with his hair mussed, a lock curling down across his forehead and falling into his eye. She could picture him as a boy, clothes torn, hair every which way, in trouble for having gotten into some scrape or another.
“Why should I disapprove?” she countered. “Miss Dalrymple assured us that it is the natural order of things for a gentleman to eschew ladies’ company in order to spend time in a tavern, drinking and indulging in the sort of ‘low’ pursuits men are drawn to.”
He let out a crack of laughter. “Did she now? Exactly wh
at ‘low’ pursuit was she accusing me of ?”
“I’m not entirely certain. I think she had a broad range in mind. The important thing was that it was not a young lady’s place to question where a gentleman went or what he did. It is better, you see, not to know.”
“Then I should keep it from your delicate ears.”
“Hah! Personally, I would like to know. Indeed, I deserve to know, for I can tell you that supper was excessively dull with only Miss Dalrymple for company.”
“I am honored that you consider me a livelier companion than Miss Dalrymple.” He paused, tilting his head to one side and studying her. “Truth be told, I did go to the tavern. It’s the hub of all activity in the village. I have sent my grooms there to see if any stranger has been seen in the area since we arrived—just to make sure that your mysterious intruder at the inn had not followed us. But the locals might not talk to outsiders like my grooms, so I decided to ask them myself.”
“Oh.” Mary had not considered this possibility, and she found that his explanation raised her spirits. “Then it was not because you have grown tired of the company of women?”
“That, my dear, would be the last thing I would grow tired of.” Again his endearing smile flashed across his face.
“I had thought you merely wanted to escape a boring social visit,” Mary teased. “But when I saw Lady Sabrina, I realized that surely that must not be the case.”
Something flickered in his eyes and was gone. He rose, finishing off his glass of port, and set it on the heavy sideboard that held the decanters of liquor. “I have known Lady Sabrina for a long time. I fear I have become inured to her charms. Yours, on the other hand, are far harder to resist.” He turned and leaned back against the sideboard, crossing one foot negligently over the other. “How is it, my lady, that I keep finding myself alone with you in a state of dishabille?”
“Oh!” Mary looked down at herself, and a blush heated her cheeks. “I-I should not have come here. I confess, I am not used to living in this sort of situation.”
“Neither am I. However, I cannot pretend to regret the way fate continues to throw us together. I am not that much of a gentleman.”
Mary lifted her gaze to his face. His words were light, but the look in his eyes was far different. There lay darkness and desire, the smoldering of a barely banked flame. An answering hunger stirred deep in Mary’s abdomen. She glanced away quickly, swallowing.
“I should leave.” Her voice came out a trifle shaky, and she dared not look again into Royce’s eyes.
She started to turn away, but in that instant Royce moved, crossing the space between them more quickly than she would have thought possible. His hand wrapped around her arm, and Mary looked up at him, startled. His eyes were heavy-lidded, so dark they were scarcely green, and desire was etched upon his features.
“No,” he said huskily. “Leaving is the last thing you should do.”
Chapter 17
Their mouths met and clung as he released her wrist and wrapped both arms around her. She could taste the lingering hint of port wine upon his tongue as they kissed again and again, feverishly. When his mouth at last left hers, it was to kiss his way across her face to nibble at her ear.
“I’ve been dying to do this ever since that night at the inn,” he murmured, the feather-light brush of his breath setting up shivers all through her. “It’s been sheer hell, being with you, seeing you at Iverley Hall—in my home, at my table, imagining you in my bed.” His mouth trailed its way down the side of her neck, tongue teasing at the delicate flesh, his teeth nipping at the cord of her throat. “And here, every night, knowing that you are just down the hall … I cannot sleep, thinking of walking those few steps. Coming into your room.”
Mary let out a shaky sigh, arching her head back to allow him easier access to her throat. His words set her aflame almost as much as his kisses. She murmured his name and ran her hands up his arms, tangling her fingers in his thick hair. The textures of him aroused her—the soft lawn shirt, the muscle-padded skin of his neck, the silken way his hair slid through her hands.
She could not begin to express the sensations coursing through her, the sensual bombardment on every level—even the sound of his harsh breathing was enough to make her tremble. And when his hands began to move over her, slow and sure, she shuddered with the force of her desire. When he had kissed her that night at the inn, Mary had felt passion awakening in her in every nerve, every sense, every muscle. But tonight …
Tonight the sensations did not surprise her. She had some knowledge of the pleasure that would come from the stroke of his fingers, the brush of his lips. Half expecting that knowledge to lessen the force of her responses, to her astonishment she found that anticipation only enhanced the feelings. She waited for the pleasure, the tingling rushing hunger, sure that it could not have been as amazing as she remembered and marveling when she found that it was even more so.
His lips were soft upon her skin; his teeth scraped and nipped. His tongue traced hot, damp designs upon her flesh. Mary trembled, wanting more even as she thought that she might shatter under the tension. Heat pierced her abdomen and spread outward.
Royce’s mouth reached the neck of her nightgown, and he growled out an irritated oath. Straightening, he jerked at the sash of her dressing gown and it opened, the sides of the robe falling apart. Light sparked in his eyes as he spread the garment wide to reveal her slender body clad only in pristine white cotton. The scoop neck revealed little more than her collarbone and the pale expanse of her upper chest, but the round orbs of her breasts pushed out against the gown.
His gaze never left her body as he grasped the lapels of her dressing gown and slid it down her shoulders and arms. Her breasts quivered at the subtle movements of her body, and her nipples thrust against the thin material. His fingers went to the ties of her night rail and they fell apart one by one, revealing a wider swath of white skin with each undone ribbon.
Mary watched the subtle reactions that played across Royce’s face as he looked at her. His eyes glittered as the color rose in his skin. His mouth widened and softened, and his breath came harsh and fast in his throat. Watching him, she felt passion pooling ever more hotly deep within her.
The inner curves of her breasts were framed by the open neck of her gown, and Royce reached out to trace his index finger along each slope. Mary pulled in a sharp breath, heat burgeoning between her legs. It seemed to her that she could feel each tiny groove and ridge of his fingertip upon her sensitive skin as he moved with almost unbearable slowness down one breast and up the other.
Opening her gown, he slipped his hands inside, covering her breasts. Mary blushed and closed her eyes, no longer able to hold his gaze. She was not sure whether she flushed from embarrassment or from desire, for her body was flooded with excitement at his touch. She was aware of a surging desire to feel his hands all over her, to have him explore and touch and arouse her. Her nipples tightened, pressing into his palms, and her knees began to tremble until she wondered if she would be able to continue to stand.
Mary grasped his shirtfront to steady herself. She could feel the heat of his skin searing through the cloth and the pounding of his heart in his chest. She wanted to touch him as he touched her, learning all the textures of him, all the planes and angles and valleys. Unable to resist, she slid her hand inside his shirt and moved it slowly across his chest. His flesh quivered beneath her touch, suddenly afire. She glanced up into his eyes, and the fierce heat she saw there made her pulse leap. He watched her, his gaze unwavering, even challenging, as his hands continued to caress her breasts.
Drawing a shaky breath, Mary let her fingers roam across his flesh, tangling in the softly curling hairs of his chest, pressing into the firm pad of muscle beneath his skin. She trailed her fingers down the hard line of his breastbone, then spread her hand to glide across the ridges of his ribs. His breath rasped in his throat, but he did not move as she inched her way upward, finding at last the flat hard buds of hi
s masculine nipples.
Recalling what he had done with her at the inn, she gently pinched the nipple between her thumb and forefinger and was rewarded by a small, soft noise. Smiling a little, she toyed with him, teasing and caressing, stroking and squeezing gently.
“Your mouth,” he whispered. “I want to feel your mouth on me.”
Mary glanced up at him, her lips rounding into a startled O. But she knew even through her surprise that she wanted to do as he asked—that, indeed, putting her lips to his skin was what she had been aching to do from the moment he started kissing her.
He saw the self-satisfied little smile begin to curve her lips, saw the intent blossom in her eyes, and his own face flared with hunger. He released her and took a step back, reaching down to pull his shirt up over his head and fling it to the floor. Mary moved in close, spreading both her hands across his waist. She slid them slowly up his body and, as she did so, bent and placed a flutter of a kiss on the center of his chest.
The shiver that ran through his body was all the response Mary needed, and she continued to travel up his chest with ever more lingering kisses. Remembering how he had aroused her as he kissed her neck earlier, she began to ply her tongue and teeth as well. His flesh was hot and faintly salty to her exploring mouth, and each quiver or groan she elicited from him ratcheted up the level of her own desire.
He grasped the open edges of her nightgown and pulled sharply, and the garment split down the front seam with a loud rip. Mary gasped and looked up at him. Royce’s face was suffused with hunger, and his eyes were almost black. Heedless of what he had done to her night rail, he shoved it off her, exposing her to his voracious gaze. His hands moved down her body, gliding over her breasts and stomach and around to her hips.
Mary trembled, sure that her legs were going to give way. Then he moved his hand between her legs, and she let out a noise of astonishment and delight. It seemed as if the whole world suddenly stopped, narrowing to the delicious sensations blossoming there. She had never dreamed of anything like this, never thought of a man touching her there, never would have imagined that it could feel this way.
