by Candace Camp
“If you believe that, you’re a bloody fool.” Royce took her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her. “You are the one who has run me mad the past few weeks. Can’t you see that? It is you I think of every night in my bed. It is you who makes me lie awake, sweating, wanting you so badly it is all I can do to keep from going down the hall into your room. Sweet heaven, Mary—it is your lips, your breasts, your soft white flesh that I crave. That I cannot live without …” He clamped his lips closed, staring down at her, his green eyes blazing with frustration and heat.
Mary gazed up at him, speechless, her mouth rounding in a startled O. The raw passion of his words stirred her, turning her insides warm and aching.
“Blast it, Mary, all I desire is you.” He stared at her for a moment more, his face stamped with an undeniable hunger. Then he swooped down to kiss her.
Chapter 22
Mary trembled, struggling to remain unaffected by his kiss, by the whirlwind sweeping through her. But she could not deny the hunger that sprang into life as soon as he touched her. His lips plundered hers, claiming, demanding, and she could not resist.
She flung her arms around him, pressing her body into his, eager to feel once more his strength, his power, his hard flesh digging into her softness. She shuddered as his hands moved over her, molding her to him intimately, curving over her back and buttocks. Memories of their lovemaking poured through her, mingling erotically with the sensations he evoked in her now. His fingertips dug into her fleshy cheeks, lifting her up and imprinting her with the hard length of his maleness. He rubbed her against him, and she could feel the quiver and throb of his desire.
His mouth devoured her, taking her in an imitation of the way his body wanted to, and one hand came up between them to cup her breast. Her flesh was supremely sensitive, as if every nerve in her body were on the surface of her skin, reacting to the slightest movement. He slipped his hand down the front of her dress, impatiently shoving past the material that kept him from what he wanted. He caressed her bare skin, his finger teasing at the hard fleshy nub of her nipple, and Mary felt moisture flood between her legs. She trembled, afraid that at any moment her knees might give way and she would simply ooze down to the floor, a melting puddle of desire.
But his other arm was like iron around her, holding her up. He lifted his head and gazed down into Mary’s face. With an inarticulate noise, he bent to kiss her throat. Making his way down the tender column, he kissed and nibbled, using lips, teeth, and tongue, driving her desire ever higher.
He cupped her breast in his palm and bent to take her nipple into his mouth. Gently, firmly, he suckled her, his tongue curling around her nipple, stroking it with velvet heat. Hunger pulsed in Mary. She felt empty, aching to be filled by him, and she remembered the glorious sensation as he had pushed into her, stretching her, making her his. She wanted to feel that again, to know him, to hold him, to wrap her entire being around him, and she shook with the tension and the need.
“Mary … please …” he murmured, kissing the soft flesh of her breast, his hand sliding in between her legs, cupping her. “Let me… .”
His fingers moved insistently, arousing her through the cloth of her dress, and she could feel the need building within her, spiraling toward an explosion of pleasure. Mary could feel her awareness dimming and contracting, focusing solely on throbbing hunger. It was coming; she felt as if her being was reaching for it.
“Sweet.” His voice was low and thick. “My sweet Marigold. My wife.”
Mary stiffened, cold reason returning in a flash. She jerked away. “No!” Her body still pulsed with desire, her skin quivering, but she ignored the sensations.
“Mary!” Dazedly, Royce took a step forward, reaching toward her.
“No.” She jumped back, hastily pulling up her dress to cover her naked breast. “Stop. You cannot win every argument this way. I told you before—I am not going to marry you.” Mary whirled away.
“That’s not why—” He cursed roundly and started after her. “Damn it, Mary, you will marry me.”
She turned, her eyes bright, her color high. “If you believe that, then you don’t know me at all.”
For the next few days, a quiet war raged between Mary and Royce. None of the other inhabitants of the household understood it, but it was inescapable. When Royce entered the room, Mary found an excuse to leave. If being together was unavoidable, such as at dinner, the air between them was frosty, their questions perfunctory, their answers short and clipped. Mary did not ride with the others. Royce, on the other hand, was apt to stride out of the house frequently, a grim look on his face, and set off for a long solitary ride. And if anyone tried to broach the subject of this sudden animosity with either participant, he or she was met with a cool stare and a denial that anything untoward was going on. Only Rose understood the cause of the strife, but she remained as silent as Mary.
The icy tension prevailing at Willowmere was broken when the earl’s carriage came rolling into the yard a few days later. Word spread throughout the house, and everyone came to greet the new arrival. Oliver strode in, his disreputable-looking mutt trotting at his heels, and shrugged out of his many-caped driving coat. As he handed it and his gloves to the footman, the Bascombe sisters appeared in the hall, followed by their chaperone.
Lily let out a squeal, “You have brought Pirate!”
With a sharp bark, the dog darted over to the girls and proceeded to go through his entire repertoire of leaps and twists, all the while yapping joyously.
“I tried to leave him behind.” Oliver looked at the cavorting animal. “But the household staff begged me to take him, and I couldn’t refuse. He has broken two lamps, three vases, and a fire screen since he arrived at Stewkesbury House. And the shoes he’s chewed through are too numerous to mention. I didn’t mind losing the slippers Aunt Euphronia gave me, but I was damned fond of that pair of boots.”
Mary chuckled. “One wonders you haven’t put him out, then.”
“Oh, I could not do that. It’s far too entertaining watching Hornsby try to hide everything from the animal. So far Pirate has proved slyer than my valet—a not inconsiderable feat.” The earl allowed a small smile as he came forward. With a snap of his fingers to Pirate, the dog fell silent and sat down, the stump of his tail still wagging. Oliver bowed over Mary’s hand. “Cousin.” He repeated the gesture with each of the girls, then turned to his brother and shook his hand. “Fitz.”
“Good to see you,” Fitz greeted him. “I trust you brought my curricle unmarred.”
Oliver sent him a dry look. “I think I can manage a curricle. Yours is well-sprung, but your grays tend to pull to the left.”
Fitz let out a snort of disbelief. “More likely the hand guiding them.”
“Royce.” The earl shook his stepbrother’s hand last, his eyebrows raised in inquiry. “Any news?”
Royce shook his head. “Nothing since I wrote you. It’s been quiet this week.”
The earl nodded and turned toward his cousins. “Ladies, if you will excuse me, I should wash away the dust of the road. I’ll see you at tea?”
The Bascombes assented, turning reluctantly to go back to their lessons. Royce, however, stepped forward.
“Oliver … if I could have a few moments of your time?”
Mary cast a sharp look at the two men. Stewkesbury regarded his stepbrother in faint surprise.
“I have something of particular import I wish to ask you,” Royce continued.
“Of course. Let us go to my office.”
Mary watched them walk away, her mind racing.
Oliver and Royce strode down the corridor in silence, but as soon as they entered the earl’s office and closed the door, Oliver turned to Royce with a frown. “What’s happened? I thought you said there had been no other trouble.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. It is, in fact, another matter on which I wish to speak with you. I …” Royce paused, looking uncomfortable.
“Yes?” Oliver asked,
his interest thoroughly roused now.
“I am asking for your cousin’s hand in marriage. Mary’s, I mean.”
For an instant longer the earl stared at him; then a wide smile broke across his features. “But that’s splendid! Yes, yes, of course, you have my permission. But, Royce, how did this come about? I had thought you—”
He broke off at a short but forceful rapping at the door.
“A moment,” the earl called before turning his attention back to Royce.
However, the knocking sounded again, more vigorously this time. “Stewkesbury! Sir Royce! I wish to speak to you.”
“Cousin Mary!” The earl, not noticing Royce’s apprehensive expression, opened the door, smiling. “How very propitious. Royce has just been telling me the good news.”
“Has he indeed?” Mary shot a scalding glance at Sir Royce.
“I asked Oliver for his permission,” Royce told her, facing her squarely. “I told you I planned to.”
“I assumed that was what you were doing when you whisked him off.” Mary crossed her arms over her chest and regarded both men with disfavor. “And I presume you gave him ‘permission.’”
“Yes, of course. I hope you will both be very happy.” Oliver smiled at her.
“No doubt we will be, but not with each other.” Mary glared at the earl. “I’m sure it occurred to you no more than it did to him that I had anything to say in the matter.”
The earl’s eyes widened, and he glanced from Mary to Royce and back. “I’m sorry. Did I speak out of turn? I assumed that Royce had paid his addresses to you—”
“Oh, yes, he told me about his plans to marry me, if that’s what you mean. And I told him the same thing I am telling you now: I have no intention of marrying Royce. Now or ever. So make all the merry little plans you want. Just do not include me.”
Mary turned on her heel and stalked out the door, leaving both men staring after her.
“Well.” Stewkesbury pivoted to look at Royce. “I believe your wooing of the lady has left something to be desired.”
Oliver closed the door and returned to lean against the front of his desk, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He regarded Royce quizzically.
Royce ground his teeth. “You needn’t look so smug. You should try dealing with Mary. She is the stubbornest woman on earth. She refuses to admit that marrying would be the best course for both of us. And now she’s taken it into her head to become bosom friends with Lady Sabrina!”
“Sabrina!” All traces of amusement fled from the earl’s face. “I see.”
“I doubt that very much.” Royce turned and saw the look on Oliver’s face, a mingling of sorrow and pity. Waving a dismissive hand, he grumbled, “No, do not play that tune with me. This has nothing to do with Sabrina.”
“Doesn’t it? Your decision to marry seems to have sprung up very suddenly.”
“I am not trying to substitute Marigold for Sabrina! Blast it, man, you are as bad as Mary.”
“She knows about Sabrina?” Stewkesbury’s eyebrows vaulted upward.
“She knows Sabrina’s rather biased story. Mary believes she and I were madly in love and Sabrina’s parents refused to allow her to marry me. I tried to explain what really happened. I told her how I feel about Sabrina, but she would not listen.”
“What do you feel?” Oliver asked quietly.
“Nothing—except for an urge to be around her no more than is absolutely necessary. It was the best thing you ever did for me when you packed me off to Scotland before I made an even worse fool of myself.”
“As I remember, you did not think so at the time. I believe you called me a mindless tool of my grandfather’s. Also a stiff-necked prig, incapable of either passion or empathy.”
“Well, you are those things, but you were right about Sabrina. I was lucky to escape marrying her.”
Oliver smiled faintly, studying his stepbrother, then asked, “Are you sure you want to marry my cousin? I would welcome it, you know, but I do not want you to feel obligated. I wasn’t serious when I suggested that. You must know that I already consider you family, no matter whom you marry.”
“I know.” Royce’s eyes met Oliver’s briefly, then pulled away. “That isn’t why I’m doing it. It makes sense. I think the old earl would have been pleased.”
“But surely that is not enough for a marriage.”
Royce scowled. “I hope you are not about to indulge in a bag of moonshine about love and eternal devotion. I would think you, of all people, would understand a rational approach to marriage. It is a good match. She won’t have to endure the nonsense of her come-out. She’s past the age of most of the girls, and besides, she’s bound to say or do something that will set up some old biddy’s back. Once she’s married, her sisters will be accepted more easily, too. You know that. Mary and I will suit very well—once she gets over this silliness.”
Oliver crooked an eyebrow. “I cannot imagine why she has not succumbed to such blandishments.”
Royce grimaced, then had to chuckle. “I know. I know. I have handled it badly. I don’t know why I’ve been such a fool. Mary seems to have a knack for bringing out the very worst in me.”
“Odd, then, that you should want to marry her.”
Royce scowled at the other man. “Oh, the devil take it.” He turned and started out of the room. At the doorway, he paused and pivoted to look at Oliver. “But I am going to marry her.”
That evening after dinner, when the three men rejoined the women in the drawing room, Royce made his way over to Mary, who was sitting on the sofa beside Lily. Mary ignored him as he strode toward them, but when he stopped in front of her, there was nothing she could do except look up at him, doing her best to keep her gaze one of cool inquiry.
Bowing to the women, Royce smiled with none of the stiffness or rancor that had been in his expression the past few days. Looking at Lily, he said, “I have come to ask your sister to take a turn around the room with me. Do you think she will accept?”
Lily let out a little laugh. “I fear I cannot answer for her, Sir Royce. You know she is exceedingly independent.”
“You can both stop speaking as if I were not here.” Mary found she could not summon as cross a tone as she would have liked. It was much easier to be angry with Royce when he was in a black mood. But when he smiled like that, his green eyes dancing as if at some private jest, everything in her wanted to smile back, to do whatever she could to keep that smile on his lips. “I am quite capable of answering your question myself.”
“Yes, but I fear what your answer might be,” Royce retorted. “I am not a man who likes to be refused.”
Mary cocked one brow at him. “I am well aware of that.”
“Still, I must risk it and hope you will not trample on my heart. Will you take a turn around the room with me?”
Mary sighed. “How can I refuse such pretty words? My sister would lecture me mercilessly.”
“Indeed, I would,” Lily agreed, smiling at Royce.
Mary arose and laid her hand upon the arm Royce extended. They started to stroll around the edge of the large drawing room. Charlotte was playing the piano this evening, and her lively tunes, a welcome change from Miss Dalrymple’s slow, often somber selections, created enough noise that it was possible to speak privately as long as they kept their voices low.
“You are a complete hand,” Mary told her companion. “Trample on your heart indeed. You knew that Lily would take your part.”
“Of course. I am not as foolish as I often act.”
His words hinted at an apology, Mary thought, and she glanced up at him. He was looking straight ahead, and she studied his profile, taking in the curve of jaw and cheek, the straight line of his nose, the sweep of his lashes. She was aware of a strong desire to draw her forefinger down that profile, skimming his forehead and nose down to his lips.
Mary pulled her eyes away. They strolled on, silence stretching between them. Mary commented on the pleasant we
ather they had had today, and Royce agreed. Royce then remarked how nice it was to have Charlotte playing for them instead of Miss Dalrymple, and Mary nodded.
Finally, when Mary was beginning to wonder if their entire promenade would be spent on platitudes, Royce said abruptly, “I have no wish to be at odds with you.”
“Nor I with you.”
“I miss our conversations.”
“I do as well.” Mary glanced at him again. This time he turned and looked down at her, a smile curving his lips. Her heart seemed to roll in her chest.
“I hope you will forgive the way I have acted the past few days. I do not take disappointment well, I am afraid.”
“Mmm.” Mary made a noncommittal noise, trying not to smile.
“But I see now that I have been trying to bully you into marrying me, and that is hardly what I want. I cannot make you agree to become my wife. And I do not wish to drive you away by trying to do so.”
“I-I am glad.” Mary was aware of something oddly like disappointment at the thought that Royce was abandoning his pursuit of her. She was glad, of course. She did not want to be angry at him or constantly at odds. But she could not deny a pang of regret. However little she liked his idea of an arranged marriage, she could not help but wonder what it might have been like to be his wife.
She cleared her throat. “I would like for us to be … friends.”
“I am determined that we should be so.”
“Well, then … it is good that we have had this little talk.” Mary glanced around. They had circumnavigated half the room and were now drawing near the sofa where Lily sat. As they turned in her direction, Mary said, “You will doubtless be glad in later years that you made this decision.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Mary gave him a tight smile. “You will count it your good fortune that you did not marry me.”
“I never said I wasn’t going to marry you.”
“What?” Mary’s eyes widened as she stared at him. “But you just told me—”
