The Seduction of an English Lady

by Cathy Maxwell

  “You begin by being a wife. You can fix a plate of dinner for him and take it to him. If he’s drinking Alfred’s whiskey, he is going to need something in his stomach.”

  “You knew about the whiskey?”

  “In the liquor cabinet? Yes. Alfred always had a wee dram before dinner.”

  “But you didn’t offer any to Lord Loftus.”

  “Of course not,” Covey said dismissively. “He isn’t worthy of Alfred’s Single Malt. I’ve always feared it would go to waste, but now that we have the colonel under our roof, it won’t.”

  “Especially if he drinks it all tonight,” Rosalyn said more to herself than Covey. She pushed away from the table. “You’re right,” she said decisively. “You are right about everything.” She stood, took the plate from Colin’s place at the table, and started heaping food on it. “I will go to him. He should talk to me, even to say he is angry he married me and now he won’t have the Commons seat.”

  “He won’t say that,” Covey predicted.

  Rosalyn stuck the serving spoon back in the peas. “He might, Covey. We don’t know each other well. He is ambitious.”

  “As you are yourself.”

  “You keep telling me that.”

  “That’s true.”

  Rosalyn looked down at the plate of food she held. “I’m afraid,” she stated.

  “Be bold,” Covey advised her. “Your marriage depends on it.”

  For a second, Rosalyn hesitated. It would be easier to blame Colin for everything and shut him out of her life. But then she thought of what Covey had said. She could be pregnant…and were aloof, distant parents what she wanted for her child?

  She picked up a candle and started for the door.

  “I’ll see the table is cleared,” Covey called. “Don’t worry about anything this evening. Think only of your husband.”

  Rosalyn gave her a nervous smile and left the room.

  The hallway was dark. She knew her way, gracefully skirting the chair by the stairs. The door to the sitting room was still closed. She set the candle down on the side table, next to his hat, and opened the door.

  Colin was sitting where she’d left him before dinner, his legs stretched out and the heel of one boot propped on the toe of his other. He’d not bothered to light a candle, nor did he turn to greet her.

  She lifted the candle, juggling it with the plate of food as she entered the room. The whiskey bottle was now halfway empty.

  Striving for a light tone, she said, “Are you going to save some of that for me, or down it all yourself?”

  He looked up at her then, his expression lazy. “Damn me, but my wife surprises me again. I’d not known you had a taste for hard spirits.”

  “I’m developing many new tastes of late,” she said. “Here is your supper.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “That may be true,” she said with the patience one saved for a child, “but Cook went to a great effort on your behalf and you owe it to her to take a bite or two.”

  As she anticipated, appealing to his sense of honor worked. He took the plate and set it in his lap. He made no move to pick up the fork, because that would mean he’d have to put his whiskey glass on the side table. He acted as if it were permanently attached to his hand.

  Rosalyn started lighting candles on either side of the hearth. She usually didn’t light these unless they had company.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice husky from drink.

  “Being a wife.” She went over to the door and shut it before returning to him. “Eat.”

  His eyes glittered, and a muscle tightened in his jaw. She was certain few people ordered him around. Well, that was one of the things a wife did, she reminded herself, and she sat on the edge of the footstool, forcing him to move his feet.

  “Here, let me help you remove your boots,” she offered.

  For a moment, he looked as if he’d like to wish her to the devil. She returned his stare with a level one of her own.

  A corner of his mouth turned up reluctantly. “All right, wife.” Holding the plate with one hand, his drink with the other, he unceremoniously put his right foot in her lap.

  Rosalyn looked down at the scuffed boot with mud on its heel and bit back a sharp retort. Instead, she took firm hold and pulled it off. She reached for his other boot and did the same, setting both boots aside.

  “Go on, eat your dinner,” she ordered softly and began massaging his feet.

  Of course he didn’t do as she asked. Instead, he watched her under veiled eyes—and she was struck by a memory of once seeing her parents sit together just like this.

  “What is it?” he asked, always attuned to the nuances of her thinking.

  “I had recalled something I’d forgotten,” she said, kneading the ball of his foot with more purpose. “My mother used to massage my father’s feet. It was a ritual of theirs. I’d forgotten.”

  Or had she deliberately put it out of her mind? An attempt to erase all the good memories along with the bad?

  Covey’s accusation of shutting people out returned twofold.

  He set down his glass and lifted the fork. He took a bite of his dinner. Leaving his feet in her lap, she reached for the whiskey and took a sip. The smoky burn of the liquor tasted good. It gave her courage. “Alfred had good taste. He was Covey’s husband, and she said he always had a nip at night.”

  “I’m glad she wouldn’t share it with Loftus.”

  Rosalyn nodded and took another sip. He moved his plate to the table and held his hand out for the glass. She gave it to him, and as their fingers brushed, she felt the same strong simmer of desire that always seemed to be between them.

  For a long moment, they sat in silence, he staring at the fireplace, she out the window.

  And then he said, “Did you ever want something so much you would have sold your soul for it?” He shifted his gaze to meet hers. “You knew you deserved it. It should be yours…and yet, it kept eluding you?”

  She swallowed, afraid of the topic and yet knowing it had to be discussed. “Are you talking about the Commons seat?”

  He sat up, bringing his feet to the floor, his expression more serious than she’d ever seen him. “I’m talking about a knighthood.” He rolled the glass between his hands. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it? Colin Mandland, son of the local cobbler, dreams of being knighted. When I was younger, I used to want to be a knight like the days of old. A jousting knight. I’d pretend to have a horse, and I’d harass Matt to joust me until he’d get irritated and wrestle me to the ground. That was before I grew bigger than he was.”

  “You saw him this afternoon.”

  “Yes.” He polished off the whiskey in the glass and set it on the floor. “He’s not happy with me.”

  There was pain, and confusion, in his words. “It is the banns? Does he believe we should have a church wedding? We can.” Anything so that Colin would not be sorry he married her.

  “It’s not the elopement. It’s something else…something more personal.”

  “Like what?” she had to ask.

  His gaze met hers. He smiled. “You are relentless.”

  “I’m a wife,” she said, the words sounding good.

  “A wife,” he repeated, reaching out to brush the pad of his thumb over her cheek. “A lovely wife.”

  Rosalyn turned her head and kissed his hand. “What bothers you?” she asked. “I know now it is not Lord Loftus.”

  “That blustering fool?” Colin snorted an opinion. He rose to his feet and took a slightly unsteady step away from her. The hardest part was waiting for him to speak. Just when she feared he was not going to confide in her, he said, “Matt accused me of ignoring our parents. He believes I look down on him for what he has chosen to do with his life.” There was a pause. “It’s true. All of it. I did ignore my parents when they were alive. Well, not ignore—worse. I took them for granted.”

  Rosalyn thought of her cousins and the many households she had lived in. “
How you behaved is not uncommon. Many children assume their parents will always be there.”

  He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “But I wasn’t a child, Rosalyn. I was a man full grown. I found out this afternoon from Matt that Mother and Father had known those times I’d been in London during the war. They had hoped I would come see them. I didn’t make the time because I was involved in military politics.”

  “And trying to earn a knighthood.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “one that was denied me.” He came back around to sit in the chair, leaning forward as if needing to talk to her, to make her understand. “You see, I always believed I was destined for greater things. I was always over-reaching myself—such as my desire to win Belinda Lovejoyce. I wanted the best, Rosalyn. Nothing less would do. My parents were like millstones around my neck. They were humble and kind and far from what I wanted to be.”

  Rosalyn didn’t say anything. She was afraid.

  Colin continued. “My father could have been anything he wanted to be. He had a fine mind, much like Matt’s. But he met a milkmaid named Mary and chose to be a cobbler in Clitheroe instead. He wanted to stay close to her and hers. So his mentor became ours. I’ve mentioned Father Ruley?”

  She shook her head.

  “He was the headmaster at Stoneyhurst. He’d been Father’s patron, too. He used to tell Matt and me how disappointed he was in what Father had thrown aside for love.”

  “Is he the one who urged you to go in the military?”

  “He found me a sponsor,” Colin said, remembering. “Matt was the smart one and Father Ruley chose the Church for him, which made sense. Matt always had a serious frame of mind. I was relegated to the military, and I’ve done well to rise through the ranks.”

  “Why was he so interested in your family?” Rosalyn asked.

  “All men like power,” he said. “I think Father Ruley would have liked to be a bishop. Instead, he was sent to Northern England, and it had to be a disappointment for such an ambitious man. So, he transferred his ambition to students he thought worthy. Matt and I weren’t the only boys he pushed. He sponsored several.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He died. You know, after I left Lancashire, I never came back, but I did write him once. I thanked him for all he’d done.”

  “Did he write back?”

  “Yes, to complain about Matt and his lack of ambition. Father Ruley blamed Val. He was a priest,” Colin said with a small smile. “They are all somewhat suspicious of women.”

  “Your brother seems very happy.”

  “He is…with everyone but me.”

  Rosalyn leaned forward. “What did he say this afternoon, Colin?”

  “Nothing that wasn’t true. Funny how a man whom I have dismissed most of my life because he is my brother and is always supposed to be there whether he wishes to or not, can turn out to be the one person who knows me well enough to make me see the truth. I have been a fool, Rosalyn. I’ve wasted my life…and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  She took her husband’s hands. “Colin, it is not bad to have people in our lives who see our faults clearly and care for us anyway.”

  “I don’t know if he does care or not,” he answered. “I discovered too late the one person I should have been impressing knows me too well.”

  There was true pain in his words. Pain that made Rosalyn’s heart ache in response. Especially when he added, “It’s too late to make amends with my parents, Rosalyn. I should have been here. I was too wrapped up in my own greed to think of anyone but myself. Now I have nothing, and it is exactly what I deserve.”

  You have me.

  She didn’t say the words, though. She was afraid to. Instead, she did what she was beginning to do every time words failed her. She kissed him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rosalyn’s kiss was the blessing Colin needed. It soothed him as no balm could.

  Dear God, he wanted to believe he wasn’t as selfish as he’d acted. He wanted someone to make the pain of self-realization go away—and was there any better way to find comfort than in her body?

  He didn’t know until their lips met just exactly how much he had counted on her understanding, how he’d needed it. Her kiss tasted of smoky whiskey and acceptance.

  Wonderful, freeing acceptance.

  Colin cupped her face with his hands and took the kiss deeper. He drank her as a thirsty man drinks water. She didn’t shy away. For the first time, he recognized the deeper meaning behind these moments between a man and a woman.

  He slid his hands down to her shoulders, his fingers moving to unlace her dress. His need for her was building. He was hungry and anxious to relieve the pain. He wanted to matter to someone, to prove he wasn’t a wastrel.

  And here was Rosalyn, offering herself.

  Matt was right. Colin was a selfish bastard—because right now, he wanted the solace his wife offered. The whiskey had given him nothing. His memory was still too sharp, his sins too obvious. He had regrets his brother didn’t even know. He’d watched men die, many of whom he’d killed with his own hands, in battle. He’d made hard choices, and what did he have to show for it?

  Nothing.

  But Rosalyn would help him forget, if even for a few hours. And, perhaps, he would regain his equilibrium, ignore his brother’s charges, go on his way.

  “We should go upstairs,” she whispered.

  No, he wanted her right here. “I’ll not make it,” he murmured, kissing her neck. He licked a line up to her ear. “You taste like honey.”

  She practically melted against him, and Colin knew she was his. He could do anything with her. Anything.

  He lowered her to the floor. He knew her secret places. He knew what she liked, where she needed to be touched and exactly how. He’d taught her those things. See, Matt? He wasn’t entirely a self-centered bore. He made his wife happy. He slid his fingers up her thigh beneath her petticoats and touched her intimately.

  She broke off the kiss and glanced at the closed door. “We mustn’t. What if someone walks in?”

  “They won’t,” he promised and took a moment to blow out the candle. “They’ll think we’ve gone to bed.” No moonlight came through the window, and Colin found he liked it this way.

  He lifted her skirts as he nuzzled her loosened neckline down. Finding her breast, he sucked, and she caught her breath.

  Deeper, she was already hot and wet to his touch, and he could wait no longer. Not even bothering to pull down his breeches, he unbuttoned and freed himself. Rolling on his back, he brought his beautiful wife to sit on him.

  They’d not done this. Her gasp of surprise and then pleasure added to his own enjoyment. He lifted his hips, thrusting deeper.

  Her bodice was around her waist. He placed his hands on her hips and he showed her what to do, what they both wanted her to do.

  What pins were left in Rosalyn’s hair fell on the floor around them. She tilted back her head, her neck a pale line in the darkness, and she sighed her enjoyment.

  Colin thrust up, the weight of her body taking him deeper than he had ever been before. “Ride me,” he ordered. Make me forget.

  Rosalyn understood. She began moving, slow at first, but with building momentum. She leaned forward, her hands on his chest. He pushed deeper, reaching up to capture her glorious curls in his fist.

  They made love with an abandon he’d never known before. She gave her all to him. She held nothing back. Her release was quick and powerful.

  Her body tightened around his. She cried out his name, the sound triumphant.

  This woman was magic.

  Colin rolled her onto her back. She followed him easily, her arms round his neck, her face buried in his shoulder. Her teeth rubbed his skin over his scar, as if to mark it. He thrust once, twice, a third time, going to the very center of her before finding his own release. He claimed her with all he had. She was his…and the outside world ceased to exist.

  In this moment, buried to the hilt insi
de her, Rosalyn was his universe.

  They lay on the floor, so exhausted they couldn’t move for what seemed forever. Their lovemaking had been hard, and Rosalyn had barely recognized herself as the pagan woman who had demanded everything she’d wanted from her lover.

  In the aftermath, the weight of his body felt good. The taste of his skin was on her lips, and all should be right, except it wasn’t.

  He moved off her, and she was aware that she was fully dressed. She even had her shoes on.

  Colin sat up. She heard him buttoning his breeches in the darkness. He leaned close. “Are you all right?”

  She heard the embarrassment in his voice. Was it because they had been so uninhibited? Only now did she realize she’d not been as quiet as would have been prudent.

  “I’m fine,” she said and didn’t add that she’d been completely surprised by herself. The habit of feeling guilty was hard to break—and yet she also enjoyed this newly discovered freedom.

  He raised her hand to his lips and pressed his mouth in the palm a second before placing a kiss there. “I did hurt you. I should have held back—”

  She silenced him with a kiss. “No, I don’t ever want you to hold back. In fact, I’m thinking of asking you to make love to me on every floor of this house.”

  His teeth flashed white in the dark. He ran a finger up the bare skin of her arm. “We could start tonight, or we could find our bedroom, which I’ve yet to see.”

  Our bedroom. “Help me up,” she said.

  He came to his feet, pulling her up at the same time. She slipped her arms into her dress but didn’t bother with the lacing. All was dark outside the doorway. Bridget and Cook had gone to bed, as had Covey.

  She took his hand and led him up the stairs to her room. The moon was rising, providing light that came through the familiar windows of her personal haven.

  Suddenly, Rosalyn wavered.

  He stood behind her. “Are you afraid demons will follow you?” he asked, reminding her of the story his mother had told. He didn’t wait for her answer but lifted her in his arms and carried her over the threshold.