The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  Gerald didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. “But good God, the man stinks.”

  “Oh, a wife will soon fix that,” his aunt said placidly, then added after a moment, “Gerald dear, your mouth is hanging open.”

  He shut it with a snap.

  * * *

  * * *

  James called on his reluctant lady again the following day. Alice received him with a blank look of surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought . . .”

  “You thought I’d go away and stay away?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we agreed to be friends, didn’t we? And friends don’t abandon each other—not in my world.”

  A crease appeared between her silky arched brows. “But we can’t be friends, not since . . .”

  “Since I proposed marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Does that ban extend to my daughters? I must say, they’ll be very disappointed not to be allowed to visit you or play in your garden. They haven’t stopped talking about it ever since you climbed that tree with them.” She gave him a troubled look, and he added sadly, “I would have brought them today, but I was worried you’d send them away.”

  “I would never send them away!” she said, shocked.

  “So you would still welcome their visits?”

  “Of—of course.” She’d finally perceived his trap.

  He glanced out the window. “Perhaps we could talk in the garden?”

  “In the garden? Why?”

  “Because it’s spring, and the sun is out, and who knows how long that will last?” And because he wanted her to lose a little of the tension that currently held her as tight as an overwound clock. He presented his arm, and, with a bemused expression, she allowed him to escort her into the garden.

  They strolled along, the woman on his arm pretending to enjoy the delights of the garden in the intermittent mid-spring sunshine and filling the silence with determinedly inconsequential chatter. They admired the flowers, picked some catmint for the kitten’s basket, observed the budding lavender where she explained, in detail and rather desperately, how she made lavender bags to keep her linens fresh and fragrant, a subject in which he wasn’t the slightest bit interested.

  Since the garden wasn’t doing the job, James decided to get straight to the point. “You know, marriage with one man might be unbearable, but it could be quite different with another—with me, in fact. Because you must admit, as friends we’ve done quite well.”

  “Yes, but there is . . . a distance between friends that makes it . . . easier.”

  “And that’s what troubles you about marriage? Its intimacy?”

  She flushed and looked away. “I wish you would not—”

  “I’m fighting for my future happiness here,” he said. “Our future happiness. And I don’t wish to distress you, but if some plain speaking will help—” At that moment large raindrops started to fall. He glanced up. Where had the sun gone? It was all dark clouds and—blast this wretched climate!—rain, getting heavier by the minute. He glanced around. “Here, that summerhouse.”

  Taking her hand, he ran with her toward the summerhouse. He tried the door. “Blast. It’s locked.” Rain pelted down.

  “The key is here.” She took an ornate key out of the nearby stone lantern, and he unlocked the door. They fell inside, breathless, laughing and damp from the sudden downpour.

  She shook out her skirts, which were clinging to her shape in a most enticing—and deliciously improper—way. James simply stood and watched her.

  Her hair clustered in damp curls framing her face. Her complexion, burnished by the rain and the exercise, glowed like a pearl. Damp, disheveled, unselfconscious and natural, she purely took his breath away.

  “Lord, but you’re beautiful,” he murmured, and without thinking he stepped forward and cupped her face between his hands. Her skin was like cold silk, her mouth lush and damp and sweetly curved, and he was drowning in her eyes, her sea-deep, sea blue eyes. James couldn’t help himself

  Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers, watching her eyes widen and then flutter closed. She was tense, but she made no move to pull away as he brushed his mouth across her lush, tender lips. He nibbled gently on them, teasing and tasting, and she pressed against him, her mouth closed tight, her lips pursed as she pressed baby kisses on him.

  He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, seeking entrance. Her eyes flew open, her breath hitched, and her lips parted, and he was in, and oh, the glory of her. She tasted of surprise and rain and sweet, sweet woman.

  Heat sizzled through him, setting his body alight. He wanted to take her now, here in the summerhouse, with the rain all around them, cocooning them in their own private world.

  He deepened the kiss and felt her hesitation, and then the first shy touches of her tongue against his.

  He pressed deeper, pulling her pliant body against him, feeling himself hardening.

  Awareness finally trickled through to his brain and hit him like a dash of cold water. It wasn’t just shyness here, not just inexperience; it was a level of innocence that shocked him. Baby kisses. She had no idea how to kiss. Eighteen years of marriage, and she had no idea how to kiss.

  That bastard!

  He eased back.

  * * *

  * * *

  Alice pressed her hands against his chest, not quite sure whether she was pushing him away or just . . . not wanting to break all contact. His chest was warm and firm, and she fancied she could feel his heart beating under her fingers.

  It couldn’t possibly be beating as fast as hers.

  It took a few moments to clear her head. She had no idea kissing could be so . . . Like that.

  He waited, gazing down at her with an unreadable look in his mist-dark eyes.

  She moistened her lips. His eyes dropped to her mouth and darkened further.

  She looked away—the intense look in his eyes was too distracting—and tried to gather her scrambled faculties.

  He stroked a lock of hair away from her face. “It occurs to me that perhaps the aspect of marriage you disliked so much is the thing you call ‘um’—the activities in the marriage bed.”

  Alice gasped. She didn’t know where to look. Stunned by his bluntness, she floundered before managing to say, “You should not— My marriage is—was private.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it and looked away.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.

  His calm demeanor was irritating. “This conversation is not appropriate. I wish you would stop.”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m not trying to upset you, just . . . clear the air. So, how many men have you lain with?”

  The question shocked her. She pressed her lips together, refusing to answer. She looked toward the door, but the rain was pelting down heavier than ever. The windows were starting to fog up. She ought to remove herself from this conversation, rain or not. But she didn’t move.

  He frowned. “None? Really? What about the fellow you wrote those letters to? Your secret lover.”

  “Letters? What letters?”

  “The ones Bamber is blackmailing you with.”

  “I didn’t write those letters! My husband did, to his mistress.” She added indignantly, “I’ve never had a lover, secret or otherwise. I was a faithful wife.”

  He gave her a thoughtful look, then nodded slowly. “I didn’t think you were the straying kind. And I suppose you were a virgin when you married.”

  She didn’t answer. Of course she’d been a virgin. She was—had always been—a virtuous woman. It was outrageous of him to suggest otherwise.

  “So,” he continued, “if you disliked the ‘um’ you experienced in the marital bed, and you’ve only ever lain with your husband, it’s clear with whom the fa
ult lies.”

  She felt herself flinch and turned her face away.

  “Oh lord, don’t look like that. I didn’t mean you.” He caught her cold hands in his big warm ones. “I meant the fault lay with your husband, the late earl,” he said softly.

  “Oh.” Thaddeus had never let up about her inadequacies as a wife. In all ways.

  Lord Tarrant’s warm thumbs caressed her chilled fingers. “Most women find ‘um’—also known as sexual congress—pleasurable unless—”

  She snatched her hands away. “They do not! My mother warned me it would be unpleasant, and it was— Oh why are we even talking of such matters? It is quite reprehensible of you. Not to mention inappropriate and unseemly.”

  He placed a finger on her lips, stilling her. “You interrupted me.”

  She blinked and pulled away. It was just a touch, but it was too . . . distracting. “What?”

  “I hadn’t finished. Women generally find sexual congress pleasurable unless their male partner is clumsy, ignorant or utterly selfish. I’m guessing your husband was the latter.”

  Her cheeks were on fire. She pressed her cold hands against them to try to cool the heat, but it was in vain.

  What was she to say to such a thing? Never in her life had anyone spoken to her in such a way, so frankly, so openly about matters that should remain behind closed doors—closed marital doors—not in a summerhouse in a shared garden with a man she’d only known for a relatively short time.

  His voice deepened. “You have a dislike of ‘um’ because your experiences with your husband made it more like ‘erk.’ But with me, I promise you, it would be quite different. Marry me and I will turn ‘um’ into ‘yum.’ ” His eyes danced.

  She stared at him, torn between laughter and tears. “This is not a subject for joking.”

  “Indeed it is not—except that I fear you have yet to discover that sexual congress can be fun and lighthearted, as well as extraordinary and intense and moving and . . . earth-shattering.” He waited a moment, then added, “Anyway, think it over.”

  Think it over? She couldn’t think at all. His words had stirred up such turmoil in her brain, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  The rain was slowing. “I—I must go. Lucy and I are planning to go . . . er, out.” She had no idea. There were no plans.

  “By all means, run away,” he said with an infuriatingly understanding smile. “But think about what I said. The ‘um’ you’ve experienced is not the ‘um’ you deserve. We’ll resume this conversation another day.”

  “No! That we will not!” She opened the door and looked out. The rain had slowed, and it was only a short distance to her house, but she would still get very wet.

  A warm hand closed around her arm and a deep voice said, “No need for you to get any wetter. I’ll go. I’ll send Tweed back with an umbrella.”

  She turned to thank him, and he bent and kissed her, his mouth firm and warm. “Just think about what I said.” He kissed her again, swift and possessive, and it seared her to the bone. Then he stepped out into the rain.

  Alice plonked bonelessly onto a bamboo chair and stared unseeing through the open door into the rain-washed garden. She put a shaking hand to her mouth. Her lips tingled. She could still taste him. Her whole body was . . . a tangle of sensations.

  So that was what a kiss—a proper kiss from a man—felt like.

  No wonder the poets rhapsodized so. She’d never quite understood it before.

  The raw intimacy of it. His tongue inside her mouth . . . It should have been unpleasant, but instead it was . . . exciting. Addictive. She could still taste it, the sharp, dark taste of a man—of this man. The unleashed coil of wanting it—him—swirled deep within her.

  Rocking gently, she wrapped her arms around her body. It was an ache, a need, but for what?

  She might not know about kissing, but she understood what that masculine hardness pressing against her meant. And yet it hadn’t repelled her.

  It was as if his kisses had somehow melted something inside her. She’d never felt such tenderness, such an affinity with another person. It left her aching, yearning.

  And deeply confused.

  Sharp, damp air from the open door cooled her cheeks. The rain was easing.

  He’d shocked her, had trampled over her delicate sensibilities and blasted her assumptions about men and women wide open.

  Women generally find sexual congress pleasurable unless their male partner is clumsy, ignorant or utterly selfish.

  Could that possibly be true? Pleasurable? She couldn’t imagine it.

  I’m guessing your husband was the latter.

  She had no difficulty believing that. Thaddeus had been selfish in all things. He took what he wanted with no care for anyone else.

  She thought about what her mother had told her the night before her wedding. Mama had not found sexual congress in the least pleasurable. The marriage bed is something women must endure with as much grace as possible. The activity is deeply distasteful to any lady, but remember, once you have conceived a child, it will cease. The child will be your reward.

  Alice had never been rewarded with a child. And the unpleasantness had gone on for years.

  But Lord Tarrant claimed most women found pleasure in the act.

  Alice could not imagine how. But Papa was a vicar and a rigidly moral man, and Mama had always been quite prudish. It was likely that both he and Mama had come to their marriage bed as virgins.

  Clumsy, ignorant or selfish? Perhaps all three, if what Lord Tarrant said was true. Certainly Papa had never been an affectionate man. She recalled the way Lord Tarrant had picked up Lina in her distress and soothed her, making the child feel loved instead of shamed. And the way he’d given little Debo her much-longed-for kitten, even though cats made him sneeze.

  Papa would never have done that. Nor would Thaddeus.

  Lord Tarrant’s children were in no doubt that they were loved and valued. Alice had never felt like that. All through her childhood she had tried to earn her father’s love by being good and obedient, by doing the right thing. But no matter how hard she tried, she’d never managed to measure up to Papa’s standards. She was never good enough.

  She’d gone to her wedding with such hope, such tender dreams, determined to find the happiness that people said came with marriage. But whatever Thaddeus had wanted in a bride, he’d made it very clear, almost from the first day, that she wasn’t it. And as time went on, he’d reminded her regularly that she was as far from a satisfactory wife as a woman could be.

  Her barrenness had only reinforced it.

  The rain had stopped, but raindrops still dripped from the trees. She could hear footsteps crunching on the crushed limestone path: Tweed coming with an umbrella.

  Alice stood, smoothing her hair and straightening her skirts, hoping the turmoil inside her wasn’t visible. She moistened her lips, and remembered the way his gaze had focused on her mouth and intensified. Her lips tingled at the memory, as did other parts of her body that were nowhere near her mouth.

  Marry me and I will turn “um” into “yum.”

  Lord Tarrant had shaken her foundations to the core. In more ways than one.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was the night of Lady Peplowe’s masquerade ball. Alice had donned her flowing blue-green gown and her maid, Mary, had dressed Alice’s hair in what she imagined was an Egyptian style—close around the head, then flowing loose with beads and gold cords plaited in. She’d also painted Alice’s face with crimson lips and shadowed, almond-shaped cat’s eyes.

  The woman in Alice’s looking glass didn’t look much like her at all. She looked glamorous and mysterious.

  “You look gorgeous, Alice,” Lucy said, entering the room. “Here’s the rest of your outfit. Mary, that hairstyle is perfect—the headdress will fit over it beautifully.”
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br />   Alice stared at the gleaming gold headpiece, armbands and belt Lucy had brought in. “These look wonderful, Lucy—just like new. However did you do it?”

  Lucy grinned. “Oh, papier-mâché is easy. I couldn’t afford proper gold leaf, but eventually I found some paint that produces a very good imitation. The shine won’t last long, but that won’t matter for something you wear once or twice. And if in five years’ time you want to wear it again, I’ll just paint it again. Now try it on.”

  Mary carefully fitted the headpiece on Alice. The thick gold band, embossed with Egyptian-style motifs, enclosed her head. On her forehead was a large jewel glittering in the center of a sunburst shape entwined with snakes.

  “It’s perfect and lighter than I remember,” Alice said, adjusting it slightly. She slipped the snake armbands on and fastened the belt of Egyptian-style medallions around her waist. It, too, had new glittering “jewels” glued on. There was also an elegant gold mask with large cat’s-eye eyeholes with gold ribbons to tie it on.

  She turned to Lucy to thank her again and frowned. “You’d better hurry and get dressed. I hoped we’d leave in half an hour.” Lucy was wearing a wrapper, and she hadn’t even dressed her hair.

  Lucy dimpled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be ready. I just need Mary’s help with a few things.”

  Mary smiled. “Be with you in a minute, miss.” Lucy danced out, and the maid added, “If that’s all right with you, m’lady?”

  “Of course. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Mary? Dressing us up like dolls.”

  “I am and all, m’lady. This old house has really come to life since that young miss came to live here. Her, and having Lord Tarrant’s little girls come to visit. Like a breath of fresh air, it is, having young life about the place.” As she was leaving, she turned in the doorway and said, “And you, m’lady, I can tell you’re happier—you look ten years younger. And dressed like that you look . . . stunning. Lord Tarrant’s eyes are going to fall right out when he sees you.”