“I have a lotion that will help prevent the scratches from leaving a scar.” His mother turned toward him. “Do not leave until I send it out to you.”
She put her arm around Catherine and pulled her close. Catherine rested her head on his mother’s shoulder and closed her eyes for the duration of the short ride to Thornbury Place.
As soon as the carriage came to a halt, he jumped down and asked the coachman to sit in the carriage with Catherine while he saw his mother inside.
His mother waved him off. “You needn’t follow me like I’m a child. I can take care of myself. Miss Malboeuf needs your attention more than I.” She summoned her maid, Mary, who rushed up and then back down the staircase and handed her a small jar.
She passed it to him. “Make sure she uses this.”
“Thank you. You will be all right alone?”
“You know I will. I suspect a night of sleep will put me to rights.” She herded him toward the door.
“Mary, please make sure she rests, and send word of her condition to me in the morning.”
“Good grief. Go take care of that girl before she falls apart completely.” His mother didn’t mention sending a maid along with them, and he didn’t suggest it.
“To Kenworth Hall.” He climbed into the carriage and his coachman sped off.
As soon as the door closed, he picked Catherine up and settled her in his lap. She buried her face in his neck. The wetness of her tears seeped through his cravat.
“Catherine,” he whispered, drawing her closer. “You are safe now.”
She shook her head, but kept her eyes firmly shut. “Everything is wrong. I’ve been attacked twice, my property has been stolen, and my belongings have been rifled through several times.”
Several times? He stiffened but said only, “You are safe with me.”
“And Lord Tregony has told me in no uncertain terms that I am not good enough for him, and since I have no other viable prospects, I will not be able to return Walsley to my mother.”
“Lord Tregony is a blockhead.”
Tears still slipped down her cheeks as she clung tightly to him. She took a deep breath and continued. “And I am alone in a carriage with a man, so whatever shard of my reputation was left is now gone.”
“Word of this will not get out.”
“And I am no closer to locating the tiara than I was when arrived in England. And someone else clearly not only knows about the tiara and the journal, but also thinks I know more than I do.”
Her dizzying logic made his head spin, and he quieted her in the only sure way he knew. By pressing a kiss against her lips.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the kiss. He moved to the corner of her mouth, then back to her lips, reveling in her sweet taste and the fervor with which she returned his kisses. The carriage began to slow, having already covered the short distance to Kenworth Hall, and he reluctantly pulled back from her and lifted her into his arms. When the door opened, he carried her from the carriage into his home.
Chapter Twelve
Catherine blinked at the bright light as Nick carried her into Kenworth Hall. “Put me down. You must take me home at once.”
He continued on as if he hadn’t heard her. After pushing open the door to what appeared to be a parlor, he deposited her gently onto a chaise longue. Placing his hands on either side of her face while carefully avoiding the scratches, he looked into her eyes. “Catherine, you are safe here. I will take you home once I’ve made certain your injuries are seen to properly.”
He strode to the corridor and held a whispered consultation with someone, then turned back to her.
She gripped the material of her cloak, bunching the fabric in her fist. “Nick, please, I must go home before anyone notes my absence.”
He crossed his arms. “I assure you, the play has not yet ended. No one will miss you for several hours yet, if at all, and no one was about when you were attacked. You are safe here. No one has attempted to attack me or break into my house.”
A maid hurried in with a bowl of water and toweling and set the tray on the table in front of Catherine.
“Thank you, Rachel. Please close the door on your way out.”
After removing his gloves, he took off his waistcoat and placed it over the back of a chair, then began to roll up his sleeves, revealing sleek muscle and smooth power. Remembering how safe she had felt in those arms sent a shiver from her toes to the top of her head. A part of her wanted to jump up and run away, but the other part, well, that part wanted to wait and see what he would do.
He wrapped a length of toweling around her shoulders, then took a smaller cloth and dipped it into the water. With gentle strokes, he cleaned the scratches on her face. She hadn’t realized how awful she must look until he rinsed the cloth and the water turned pink from her blood. He cupped the uninjured side of her face and carefully dried the area around the scratches. The touch of his bare skin made her shiver.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head.
He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a small jar. The lid clinked softly against the table and he turned back to her and knelt next to the chaise longue. Dipping a finger into the lotion, he carefully coated the scratches. After wiping the excess off, he reached for the fastening of her cloak.
She gasped. “What are you doing?”
“I must ascertain if you have other injuries. Especially to your arm.” He unfastened the cloak and pushed it back so he could examine her. A bruise was forming on her forearm, the print of a hand clearly visible.
“The bastard,” he said under his breath. “Can you move your hand properly?”
“Yes. I am fine. Just a bit sore.”
He lifted her arm and ran his fingers along the bones, then completed the process on her other arm. Goose flesh formed on her skin, following the path of his touch. “The bones appear sound.”
She nodded.
He cradled her face in his hands and slowly tilted her chin until their eyes met. “I cannot forgive myself for allowing this to happen.”
His warm breath caressed her face and she had to focus to find the words she wanted to say. “I am not your responsibility.”
“You became my responsibility the moment I let you have that journal.” He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and trailed soft kisses across her jawline and down the pulse of her neck. She lost the ability hold her head up and slumped against the pillows. His tongue darted into the hollow of her throat and the muscles between her legs tightened.
Though she ought to stop him, her body was consumed by sensation and she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
He continued his explorations, pressing kisses down the line of her sternum until her gown prevented him from advancing. Following the same path, he slid the pad of his index finger down into her dress. Her nipples hardened, and he lowered his head and licked one through the fabric of her gown. Her back arched in response, and he pulled her nipple into the heat of his mouth. He rubbed his tongue over it and the wetness soon seeped through her gown and undergarments to her skin, inspiring an answering wetness between her legs. Unable to stop herself, she pulled her knees up and spread her legs, wanting more. He let out a groan and pulled away from her.
“You are a temptress, and I cannot resist you.”
Her lips curved into a smile. He yanked at his cravat and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the broad, muscled planes of his chest. Her fingers itched to touch him.
He came back to her and kissed her roughly, causing her lips to part slightly, which seemed the only invitation he needed to thrust his tongue into her mouth. The place between her legs pulsed with each heartbeat and she brushed her nipples against his chest, taking pleasure in the feel of him against her through the thin fabric of her gown. He growled and reached behind her to unfasten her gown and stays. Before she could put together a coherent thought, he had pushed her gown down to her waist and pulled her bared nipple into his
mouth.
All thoughts ceased. There was only sensation. The sensation of his tongue against her nipple. The sensation of the rough hair on his chest against her fingertips. The sensation of cold air hitting her legs as he lifted her skirt. And finally, blissfully, the sensation of his warm palm against the apex of her legs.
He slid a finger between her folds and she cried out.
He caressed a most sensitive place and she pushed against him, wanting more. Stroking harder, he rubbed his tongue firmly against her nipple and sensation overwhelmed her. “Please,” she cried, not knowing what she was asking for.
He lifted his head. “Are you certain?” he asked softly.
“Yes.” She clenched her hands at her sides. “I want…I want you.”
It seemed all the encouragement he needed. He swept off his breeches and removed her gown with one pull. Then he lay atop her, with every bend and curve of their bodies pressed together. He leaned his forehead against hers, then kissed her slowly, his tongue exploring her mouth. She spread her legs, wanting more. “You must not be so impatient, mon amour. This must be done slowly.”
Slow was not what she needed. She scraped her fingernails over his chest and down the line of hair that led to his stomach. Squeezing her eyes closed so she wouldn’t lose her courage, she let her hand drift down farther, and ran a finger down the length of his erection.
He grabbed her hand. “No, my little impatient one. If you do that again, this will be over before it begins.”
He slid a finger inside her and she clenched her legs against his arm. Prying her legs apart, he slid between them, and his erection pressed against her. She opened farther and he groaned and pushed into her in one long stroke. She gasped and tightened around him, her body stretched to its limit. Shifting his weight to his elbows, he kissed his way up her neck along the line of her pulse, then found her mouth. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she wrapped her legs around him, her pulse thrumming faster than a runaway horse. He pulled back slowly, then slid back inside her, reigniting the flame of her desire. “Faster,” she whispered. He obliged, and with each thrust, the flames gathered until she could no longer contain them. She gave in and allowed the conflagration to consume her.
…
Satiated, Nick lay beside Catherine, still joined with her, until the cool air raised goose flesh across her torso. Since they were in his parlor, there was no blanket to pull over them.
They were in his parlor. Good Lord. What had he done?
Lifting his head from her shoulder, he studied her face. She smiled and his heart turned inside out. He kissed her, a long, slow kiss that heated his skin. When he started to get hard again, he dragged himself away from her. “We must get you home.”
He pulled on his breeches, not bothering to fasten them, and helped her into her stays and gown. Then he ran a finger down the back of her neck, enjoying the shiver it elicited, before doing up her stays and fastening her gown.
She lifted her hands to check her hair and gasped. There were so many loose strands she might as well take it down and start again.
He began removing pins.
She slapped at his hand. “That’s not helping.”
“Do you want me to summon a maid to help you?”
“No! No one can see me like this.”
He removed a few more pins. “Then I suggest you take it down and put it into a simpler arrangement.”
“Jane and Lady Hartley will notice.”
“Catherine, we have to tell them about the man who assaulted you. They will assume your coiffure was ruined during the attack.”
“Yes, I suppose you are correct.”
If the circumstances were different, he would have relished that comment. “Do you have any thoughts on how we can determine the identity of your attacker? We cannot let this happen again.”
“We could check every man in London for a vertical cut across his right forearm.”
“Catherine, I’m being serious. Your safety, and possibly your life, are at stake.”
She frowned. “Someone must know either about the journal or the tiara. Or both. The only clues we have are the names on the list. But they likely aren’t involved with the attacks as they would be quite old by now.”
“We have nothing to go on.” How could he protect her when he didn’t know who or what he needed to protect her from? He headed toward the door. He would worry about the repercussions of what they had just done later.
Chapter Thirteen
Warm sunlight caressed Catherine’s face and she allowed her lips to curve into a smile. Heat blanketed her, putting her in mind of her interlude with Nick. She stretched her arms over her head and grimaced in pain, the harsh reminder of the earlier events of the evening rudely jerking her out of her revelry.
She fumbled on the side table and grasped her mirror. Cay nudged her hand as she lifted it and gasped. Furious red streaks marred her cheek, but there was little swelling. It seemed the duchess’s salve was working its magic, albeit not as quickly as Catherine might wish. She glanced at her forearm and scowled. The bruising stood out in defiant blue-and-red blotches.
A quick knock at her chamber door was followed by creaking hinges, and Diana appeared on the threshold. Cay sailed off the bed to greet her. “Dearest, I wish you could continue your healing rest, but the Duke of Boulstridge awaits your presence.”
A large quantity of butterflies seemed to be trapped within her stomach. “Very well. It won’t do to keep His Grace waiting.”
“I’m afraid he has been waiting on you for some time. He insisted that we not disturb your rest, but Lady Hartley thought it imprudent to make him wait any longer.”
Catherine allowed Diana to choose a gown and, once properly attired, sat quietly while she dressed her hair. Her injuries would confine her to the house until they were healed, but that did not mean they could afford to ignore the ramifications of the attack on her. Someone knew about the journal, and likely the tiara as well, and she and Nick had to determine who it was. It was improbable that anyone would be able to find the tiara at Walsley since even Nick, who knew the house so well, had no idea where it might be.
Diana pinned a final lock of hair into place, and Catherine headed to the parlor. Lady Hartley and Jane sat together on a settee across from Nick, whose expression of mingled fury and resignation did not bode well for her.
He shot from his chair and approached her, carefully studying her face and arm. “You are well? Your pain is minimal?”
“Neither injury pains me overmuch as long as they are not touched.” She met his eyes, noting his uncharacteristically pale countenance.
“Good, good.” He glanced at Lady Hartley, who was engaged in a low-voiced conversation with Jane, then cast his eyes back to Catherine. “Is there somewhere we might converse privately?” he whispered.
“Lady Hartley,” Catherine said, “it is such a fine day and I should like to expose my injury to the sunlight. Since a ride in the park is out of the question, may I request your permission to entertain His Grace in the garden?”
“Of course, my dear. An excellent idea.” Lady Hartley rose and rang the bell. Moments later, a maid appeared. “Please have a footman prepare seating in the garden.”
“Yes, milady.” The maid curtsied and left immediately.
“I am afraid I must attend to my correspondence this morning, but I’m certain Jane would be amendable to receiving callers in the garden.”
Jane placed a finger on the page of her book and looked up. “Of course. I can read outside just as well. In fact, the light will be better.”
“Jane,” Lady Hartley admonished.
Nick took Catherine’s arm and led her into the corridor. Jane’s response to her mother floated after them. “Mama, you know perfectly well he is here to see Catherine. I don’t see why I cannot read while they converse.”
It was probably just as well that they could not hear Lady Hartley’s murmured response.
Nick moved with stiff propr
iety, leading her out to the garden and settling her into a chair while carefully avoiding her injuries. Jane trailed along behind them. Catherine raised her brows and Jane nodded before taking a seat as far away from them as possible.
Nick sat beside her briefly, then rose and paced in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back. “Catherine, I cannot…I must…I must beg your forgiveness and ask you to excuse my inability to protect you from the”—he glanced at Jane, who was absorbed in her book —“events that transpired last night. It is inexcusable and I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies.”
She would not engage in an argument over who should bear the blame for the attack. They had much more important things to discuss. “It is of no matter. You are not responsible for my injuries. Let us not cast blame but rather focus on the issue at hand.”
He placed his hands on his hips. “And what might that be?”
“Why, we must determine who knows about the journal and tiara, of course.”
“Have you gone mad? Hang the man who attacked you.” He lowered his voice and continued. “We must talk about what transpired between us in my drawing room.” He knelt before her. “I cannot tell you how much I regret what occurred between us. There is no excuse for my behavior. Duty and my sense of honor compel me to marry you as soon as possible. I have already applied for a special license.”
The weight of his words nearly smothered her before indignation awakened inside her. Catherine leapt from the chair, nearly knocking Nick off balance in her haste. “You will do your duty and marry me? As if I have no say in the matter? So I am to fall at your exalted feet and thank you for your generosity in lowering yourself to accept me?”
He tilted his head and studied her face, clearly at a loss for words, which was just as well, because she had plenty to say.
“What transpired between us last night was mutually agreed upon. You did not force yourself on me. I was a willing participant, though at the moment I certainly cannot remember what compelled me to do so. You have no further obligation to me.”
How to Beguile a Duke (Entangled Scandalous) Page 16
