The boy’s gaze met Sebastian’s. He righted his posture, nodded, and limped to where his mother stood, breath obviously baited. “Mama, I apologize. I should not have locked the door and made you climb the ladder.” His lip trembled the slightest bit. “I h-hope you did not injure yourself.”
“Of course not, dearest.” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him tightly to her. “Let’s try not to let this happen again, love. I’m not certain Mama’s nerves or Colonel Brightworth’s wardrobe will survive another episode.”
Her son gave her a fierce hug and stepped back to take a swipe at his eyes with his sleeve. “I should like to go to bed now. I’m very tired.”
“I’ll set this to rights, Min-Mrs. Faircloth.” Sebastian coughed and went about turning the table up and placing it in its rightful place against the wall. He gathered the chair and the missing leg and set them out in the corridor for someone to fetch in the morning. He suspected Creighton kept someone about the place to do repairs and such. He found the tray and filled it with the dishes, broken and whole.
Across the room, Minerva took the clothes her son handed over the screen painted with elephants and tigers, faded now, but still recognizable. If memory served a large washstand stood behind it with a wooden rack stood on the floor laden with clean towels. Mother and son spoke to each other in quiet tones. His angry and pleading. Hers firm, but understanding.
Sebastian used the tablecloth and serviettes to clean the carpet as best he could. He placed the tray outside next to the broken chair. Taking his life in his hands, well not his life, but the condition of his ankles, he ventured to the bed and picked up the book Edward had thrown there. As he placed it on the bedside table next to a small lamp, he spied the door key and tucked it into his pocket. A long snout attached to a continuous low growl disappeared beneath the coverlet. He stepped back as the lad, clean-faced and dressed in a nightshirt, came to the bed.
“I don’t know about Precious, sir, but I would very much like to meet your horse,” he said softly. His hand reached under the covers to pet the grumbling dog.
“Then you shall, Mr. Faircloth. Perhaps tomorrow you and I might go for a hack about the estate.” He moved to the side to allow Edward to scramble into bed.
Minerva tucked the covers in around him. The light from the bedside lamp bathed her face in gentle light. The love she bore her son filled the room, a living presence – powerful, indomitable. It hurt to breathe. His heart slowed to an aching stop.
“Lord Creighton says I may not ride. He is afraid I will fall because of my foot.” The lad pulled the covers up under his obstinate chin, something else he inherited from his mother.
“I’ll speak with Creighton. I wrestled many a concession from him in this very room. I’ll bring him round.”
“You did?” His rounded eyes and hopeful face made Sebastian feel ten feet tall at least.
“Yes, and I was only four or so years older than you are now. Good night, Mr. Faircloth.” He gave the foot of the bed an awkward pat.
In wordless tandem he and Minerva moved about the room. Sebastian banked the fire and set the guard before it. It was May, but English nights grew cold even in summer. Minerva gathered the clothes she’d draped across the screen and a few more scattered about the nursery. She placed them in a basket on a footstool by the door. She returned to the bed and fiddled with the coverlet. If her son was not asleep, he was well on the way.
“I never know if he is warm enough,” she said, her soft voice shaky with some emotion he could not fathom.
Sebastian strode to the blanket chest against the far wall and lifted a light quilt from its confines. He smiled at the familiar fabric and pattern, faded as it was.
“This will do.” He spread it across the now gently snoring little boy. “It kept Creighton, Fitzhugh, and me warm on a many a late-night adventure. Creighton’s old nanny made it.”
Minerva’s lips curved into a melancholy little smile. She motioned towards the door. He followed her into the corridor and closed the door behind them. With a flourish, he drew the key from his pocket, bowed, and handed it to her. He’d hoped to make her smile. No luck there. She took the key and shook her head.
“You certainly know your way about the nursery, Colonel Brightworth.” Her brusque manner and change of subject startled him.
“I spent every holiday in this nursery after Mother died and Lady Fitzhugh took me in and sent me off to school with her grandson.” He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked down the corridor towards the stairs. “The three of us thought it beneath our dignities to be confined to the nursery at the grand old age of twelve, but we managed to get into mischief in spite of Lady Creighton’s efforts to keep us from underfoot.”
“She hates Edward,” she blurted.
They stopped in the middle of the corridor.
“Lady Creighton? She doesn’t hate him. What kind of woman hates a child?” Sebastian did not believe his words, but Minerva was in pain and he would say anything, do anything to make it stop.
“Especially a crippled child?” She clutched the key to her breast, knuckles white and hand shaking.
“I did not say that, Min.” The nickname slipped from his lips. “He isn’t a cripple. He’s a boy, a fine one from what I can tell.”
She exhaled roughly. “Melghem, Lady Creighton’s lady’s maid, called him a useless cripple. Said it was an insult for Creighton to bring him into the family. Edward heard her. That’s why he refused his dinner and locked himself in the nursery.”
“Did more than refuse it, I’d say.” He rocked back on his heels and grinned.
She did smile then.
He waggled his eyebrows. She laughed out loud and he joined her. They stopped for a moment, looked at each other, and started again.
“Thank goodness you have been to war, Colonel. Between the window trapping you, Precious biting you, and me stepping all over you, a civilian might not have survived.” Her eyes fell on the makeshift bandage. “Your poor arm.” She handed him the key and began to mutter about the bad job she’d done of dressing it.
He covered her busy fingers with his hand. “Colonel, Min?”
Her breath caught. She tried to pull away. Slowly she turned her face up to look at him. “Colonel, please.”
“Sebastian. My name is Sebastian. Say it, Min.” He studied her – her flushed face, her wide eyes, the flittering pulse just below her ear. She bit her lip as if to trap his name inside her. The practiced rake saw the signs of victory. The foolish boy he’d been saw everything he’d ever wanted. The man saw what he’d lost and what would be lost to him forever once this fortnight was over. No matter how things went, Minerva would be gone from his life forever.
Hell and the devil.
He dropped the key, pulled her into his arms, and gave her one brief gasp to object. Then he seared his lips to hers and consigned his name, whatever it was, to perdition.
Stealing Minerva: Chapter Six
Had she forgotten? Misremembered? Sebastian’s kisses had always been a storm of passion and relentless heat. This was an inferno. In the midst of it before she knew it, his gently ravenous lips overran her defenses with soft touches, then merciless demands. Memory was a cruel tormenter to the mind, but a slavish taskmaster to the body. Hers fitted itself to him as if no other place existed. His hands slid up her arms, racing shivers of anticipation to the places along her neck and beneath her chin where his fingers captured her face. Trapped it, so there was no escaping the rising tide of desire his kisses loosed from a dam she’d built against even the memory of this man’s touch.
“Minerva,” he rasped.
She parted her lips to answer, to deny him – something, anything. Mistake. His tongue traced her lips, slipped inside just enough to tease the roof of her mouth. And hers, traitorous wench, met his in the timeless rhythm their bodies had caught without a moment’s hesitation. Her arms rose to curl around his neck. She sank her fingers into the heavenly silk of his hair – too
long, too soft, too Sebastian.
He slid his hands back down her body and fisted the fabric of her silk gown to draw her closer. Closer, when she had not thought it possible. Still his lips and tongue refused to let her go. She answered him kiss for kiss, took and took and then gave as if her next breath depended on it. The scent of bergamot and cigar smoke wrapped itself around her. He tasted of port and more smoke. Through the thin lawn of his shirt the hardened contours of his body warmed her. She wanted to stretch out on top of him like a cat on a bed of marble in the summer sun.
She tugged his hair. He growled and lifted her into his embrace. They gasped for breath. His lips dropped tender kisses to her temples, her eyebrows, her cheeks, her nose. Then punishing kisses to her jaw, beneath her chin and the spot on her throat where her pulse threatened to leap from her body. His teeth scraped the swell of her breast. It had been so long, so very long.
Nine years. It had been nine years.
Sebastian.
She’d lost her mind.
Damn him!
She slammed her hands into his chest and stumbled out of his arms, breathing as if she’d run for miles. Nine years’ worth, to be exact. Sebastian, eyes glazed, reached for her. She balled her fist and smacked him in the arm.
“Creighton is your friend!” Not a grand retort, but it was all her wits-scattered brain came up with for the moment. She glanced around to make certain no one had heard. A bit late for that.
“He’s your fiancé and I was not in that kiss alone, Min.” He pressed a hand to his still heaving chest.
“Stop calling me that. You started it.” Again, not her best response. She put her trembling hands to repairing her hair. Should have worn the cursed cap.
“Someone had to.” He ran his fingers through his hair. And looked not the least bit guilty.
“No, someone did not.” She gripped the neckline of her gown and pulled it higher in an effort to straighten the damage he’d done. She looked up, saw the gleam in his eye, and marched up to smack him in the arm again. The one Precious had bitten. “I am engaged to marry one of your best friends in less than a fortnight. What were you thinking?”
“What were you thinking, Min?” He cupped her elbows. “Whilst I was kissing you. Were you thinking of Creighton?” He had a way of caressing her with his eyes and all the while stripping her down to her soul. She was stronger than this. She had to be.
“I wasn’t thinking anything at all. Which is precisely the problem. I lose the ability to think in your presence. Don’t smile, you great looby. It isn’t a compliment.” She stepped back. He let her go. The wide corridor drew in around them. “But I am thinking now, Sebastian. Whatever was between us ended nine years ago. You are Lord Creighton’s friend. For his sake, I will not ask you to leave.”
“Minerva, I—”
She raised her hand. “Stop. Sebastian, stop.” Her chest ached. Her throat closed over the threat of tears. “I have worked too hard to secure my future and the future of my son to risk it on a… a dalliance with some long forgotten ghost from my past.” Leave, but don’t run. Don’t you dare run. “Please, respect my wishes. Respect your friend. And leave me alone.”
Minerva nodded. She turned on her heel and walked slowly to the staircase. She did not look back. Her steps remained serene and graceful, in spite of the chill running through her body. She did not remember when she’d been so cold. Her legs did as she asked, but she could not feel them. All the way to the second floor and down that corridor to her chambers she listened for something she did not want to hear. And was rewarded by the silence. She stepped into the sitting room attached to her bedchamber. A welcoming fire burned in the hearth. She shut the door and leaned back against it with a ragged sigh.
“Good evening, my dear.” Seated in one of the tall-backed armchairs before the fire, Lord Creighton unfolded his lanky frame and offered her a brief bow. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you.” He indicated the chair across from his with an elegant wave of his hand.
Minerva’s heart slowed. A nice change from the gallop it had kicked into the moment Sebastian touched her. She settled into the chair opposite him and flicked her skirts into place around her feet. His austere features gave little hint of the reason for this conversation. They were not an affectionate couple. Each had a reason for entering into this marriage. Two practical people tended to make sensible arrangements in most aspects of their life.
Had he seen her with Sebastian? Had someone been carrying tales? Well, it wasn’t exactly a tale if it was true.
“Are you well, Minerva?” He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Your face is flushed. I hope you are not coming down with something right before the wedding.”
“Not at all, Lord Creighton. I am in perfect health,” she assured him. If one does not count being kissed witless by your best friend.
“With the wedding so close, I think we might dispense with Lord Creighton in private, don’t you, Minerva?” He meant it as a gentle jibe. Yet, in all the time she’d known him she’d never caught even a hint of laughter in his blue eyes. They were not his mother’s eyes – cold, calculating, cruel. They were weary, the blue of a lake iced over with no hope of spring.
“I am not certain I could carry off your given name without at least a tiny smile.”
“God, no. I can’t even manage that. My friends call me Creighton or Harry. Either of those will do. But don’t call me Harry in front of the dowager. She finds it common.” He rolled his eyes, which made her smile. “Unless you are angry with her. In that event, have at it.”
“I have known a few quite uncommon Harry’s in my life, present company included.” She liked him. Of course, she did, she’d chosen him. Hand-picked him and stalked him like a prize stag for two reasons. She knew she’d never love him. More important, thanks to his sister spilling his secrets, Minerva knew he’d never love her. There would be no guilt to bear and one never knew the value of a guiltless arrangement until they’d suffered the sort of guilt she had. “Creighton it is then. Has anyone ever called you by your given name?”
A log settled in the fire. He stood and drew the poker from the stand to reposition it. His shoulders drew back. He gripped the iron handle tightly, then replaced it quietly back in place. “Only one.”
Fool. She should have known. She of all people, who knew the miserable fate of anyone who gave their entire heart away to someone who… No. She wouldn’t think of that now. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Not at all.” He propped his foot on the hearth. “It was long ago. You and I know all too much about love and loss and stubborn hearts that refuse to beat again.”
“Yes. We do.” Very perceptive man, Lord Harry Creighton. And not one to brook betrayal. She’d stake her life on it. She already had, hers and Edward’s.
“Which is why you will call me Creighton. We will rub along together famously. Your son will be safe from family predation. And I will be safe from the witless young girls the Dowager Countess Creighton insists on throwing into my path like so many apples from a highly inspected barrel.”
“She hates it when you call her that,” Minerva said with a smile.
“I know. I do enjoy my petty torments.” He subsided back into his chair and propped one foot on his knee.
Taking her cue from him, Minerva slumped into her own chair and toed off her slippers beneath her skirts. “It can’t have been as bad as all that. Knowing your mother, I am certain they were all beautiful, accomplished—”
“Idiots. And as Miss Austen wrote ‘Men of sense do not want silly wives.’ At least this one does not.”
Such would be her life. Sitting and talking about his mother, Edward’s tantrums, and the petty problems of servants who stepped above their station. There were worse things in a marriage. Much worse. The memory of Sebastian’s kiss stormed through her mind. Not fair. Not fair at all. What ninny told her life and memory were supposed to be fair? She sat up and folded her hands in her lap. “What of mothers-in-law? Do they
want stupid wives for their sons?”
“The more witless the better. Which is, I fear, the reason she treats you so badly. You are far too intelligent and independent to suit her. You are another of my petty torments, you see. Do you feel ill-used?”
“Terribly.” Reminded of petty tormenters, she shook her head. “Creighton?”
He smiled at her use of his name. “Yes, Minerva?”
“When Roger’s brother returns from Jamaica, when he hears what I’ve done. That is, keeping Edward safe may cost you a great deal of money.”
“We’ve had this discussion. You are not to worry further on the elder Mr. Faircloth’s account.” He pushed out of the chair. “Fitzhugh’s grandmother used her money to give Brightworth a decent start in life. I rather like the idea of doing the same for your boy.”
“Thank you.” A summer’s rain of relief and gratitude washed over her. He was an honorable man. He deserved so much more than—
“As Peel assured me you and Brightworth had no further use of it, I took the liberty of having one of the stable boys put the ladder back where it belongs.” He picked up the book on the table next to her chair and perused a few pages.
He knew. He’d seen them. Minerva’s lungs refused to work. A bead of sweat trickled down between her breasts. The birds on the Chinese silk wallpaper stared at her with beady little accusative eyes. The vase of irises on the cherry-wood writing desk had just the right amount of water in it to douse the fire, because the room had grown too hot by half.
The book hit the table with a thud. “Please tell me the dog bit him when he crawled in through Master Edward’s window.”
Minerva turned so quickly the silk of her dress nearly dumped her into the floor. And Creighton looked… in earnest, slightly affronted and completely in earnest.
OhthankGod!
“He did indeed. Bit his arm and ruined his shirt.” She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the wallpaper birds. Less than a day in Sebastian’s presence and she’d started a contre temps with silk birds.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 68
