Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry—”

  He put his fingers over her lips. “Do stop saying that. If we can’t comfort each other now and then, what is marriage for?” He looked around the room. “Do you want to take this bed? I noticed how sorry you seemed to leave it.” He made an impatient gesture. “Plague take it, my dear, I’ll buy the whole house for you if—”

  “No.” Meg found herself laughing, and deeply touched. “No, but thank you, Saxonhurst.”

  It was only as she went downstairs that Meg wondered if she’d just rejected a solution. If he’d bought the bed . . .

  But no. In dismantling it, the sheelagh would still come to light.

  Perhaps she should have let him buy the whole house, ridiculous though that would be!

  If only, if only, she had thought of this before leaving for the church, she could have made any number of arrangements. What a ninny she was.

  Sir Arthur was waiting, looking martyred. Meg was tempted to say something cutting to him, but restrained herself. For one thing, she was strangely certain that if she even hinted at Sir Arthur’s plan, the earl would be driven to one of his rages.

  She merely handed over most of the keys. “Thank you again, Sir Arthur. It was only because of you that we’ve been able to survive the past few months.” And that was perfectly true, making it easy to smile at him.

  Perhaps he hadn’t always been set on wickedness, and had only given in to temptation at the end.

  “Your father would have wanted me to take care of you, Lady Saxonhurst. I only regret that I was unable to do more.”

  Catching his double meaning, Meg lost any desire to think kindly of him and rejoiced in the spare backdoor key weighing down her reticule. She said a firm good-bye and headed out to the street.

  There, however, she found a number of acquaintances and neighbors hovering to say good-bye—and to satisfy their curiosity. For a moment she feared to be dunned by creditors. If that happened in the earl’s presence, she’d want to hide under a rock. She realized, however, that she was surrounded only by smiling faces.

  It soon became clear that Mr. Chancellor had spread the word that all the Gillingham family debts would be cleared. It was also clear that someone, perhaps Laura, had spread a romanticized tale of lovers parted by circumstances, but brought together in the end. A couple of the more sentimental women were dabbing their eyes with their aprons.

  And of course, it didn’t hurt that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to rub shoulders with an earl. How admirably at ease he seemed with the attention, the gawking, and the fawning. He was pleasant with everyone, and didn’t employ the quizzing glass. She supposed he was used to it. How on earth was she to become used to it?

  Eventually they escaped, and she settled into the seat in the coach with a relieved sigh. “We’ve certainly provided the neighborhood with enough excitement for the year.”

  “We live to amuse. What else are the nobility for?”

  “Nobility?” Then she realized she was that now. “How strange.”

  “One becomes accustomed. Better?”

  He looked only kind. “Yes, of course. It was just that I haven’t had much time to mourn. And my mother’s death, at least, was very sudden.” But then, of course, he wanted details about her mother’s death, which led to questions about her parents’ lives. She wondered what he would make of the story.

  However, all he said in the end was, “And how did two such wild romantics produce sensible Minerva Gillingham?”

  “Someone had to be sensible.” And there she was, saying something she shouldn’t. She had always felt the need to be steady in the midst of her parents’ almost fey carelessness about the realities of life, but she hated to sound critical.

  For the first time, she wondered whether her mother had used the sheelagh to ease their way through life. Such fecklessness should not have been so comfortable, but though disaster had often hovered, they’d never seemed truly concerned, and the worst had never happened.

  If the stone always demanded a price, however, what had it been?

  Her father’s horrible sickness? she asked for the first time. Their deaths?

  “Do stop looking so somber,” he complained. “You’ll make me think myself a poor sort of husband. Clearly, I must seduce you into silliness.”

  Meg pushed away worries and concentrated on him. “Now there, my lord, you will fail. I’ve been tediously sensible since the day I was born. Exactly on time, and in the middle of the day.”

  He waved away her words. “We must buy you any number of things and I will insist that some of them be silly. Frivolous bonnets that serve no purpose but to drive men mad. Silk stockings so fine that they tear at first wearing. Handkerchiefs of lace that no one would ever dare to blow a nose on.”

  Meg could only hope that his butterfly mind would soon flit to other nonsense. “And where are your silly extravagances, my lord?”

  “Women exist to give men reason to spend. But then”—and he flipped open his dark green jacket to reveal a waistcoat fabulously embroidered with glittering snakes—“we try, now and then.”

  Without thinking, Meg reached out to touch a snake, for the embroidery was marvelous. Then she snatched her hand back as if burned.

  “But sometimes,” he said softly, “frivolities are worth every penny.”

  Meg turned away. She’d managed rather well thus far at ignoring him—his body, that is—but in one moment the shell had shattered and she was feverishly aware that beneath elegant clothes and a light, charming manner was a hard, alarming, male body.

  A hard, male body she had agreed to accept tonight. And apart from other concerns, tonight, or early tomorrow, she had to sneak back into her house to steal the sheelagh!

  Oh dear.

  “My lord . . .” she said, turning back and even trying a smile.

  “Saxonhurst. I will be much easier to handle if you call me Saxonhurst.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Saxonhurst. I may have given you the impression. Earlier. When we were returning from the church . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Drat the man, he knew exactly what she was trying to say, but didn’t intend to help at all. A tiny part of her was relieved, for it must surely indicate a trace of interest in her bodily charms. If he was repulsed, he’d take any excuse to avoid her, wouldn’t he?

  Then she remembered that any trace of interest was a problem, not a benefit. She had to be free of him tonight.

  She licked her lips. “I might have given you the impression, my lord—Saxonhurst—that I am eager for . . . that I . . .” She looked at him, begging him to take over.

  Instead, he just looked puzzled—except for the wicked mischief in his eyes.

  “Your snakes, sir, are a most appropriate heraldic device!”

  “My snakes?” He looked down as if surprised, then ran his hand over the richly embroidered fabric. In fact, he followed one snake round and round, lower and lower. Meg watched his hand, entranced, until it stopped where the straight edge of his waistcoat met his tight buff breeches. His very tight buff breeches—

  Suddenly, he seized her at the waist and lifted her astride his lap. “Having raised me to indecent heights, wife, you had best hide me for a while.”

  She tried to move, to struggle off, but he held her. She wanted to scream, but that would be wildly inappropriate. She was about to protest that they’d be seen, when he leaned to pull down the blinds on either side, plunging them into gloom, and making her clutch his shoulders for balance.

  “My lord!”

  “Of course,” he said, “this position is hardly likely to help me to subside, especially if you keep wriggling and bouncing, but it is far too pleasant to give up.”

  Meg went still, all too aware of his “risen form.”

  “No more struggles?” After a moment, he let her go and lounged back lazily, as if he didn’t have a woman straddling him at all.

  My Lord Saxonhurst, Meg saw, liked to play ch
ildish games. She, however, was an experienced governess to young boys.

  Despite heated cheeks, she spoke plainly. “I fear struggles would not help your fight, Saxonhurst.”

  “My fight?”

  “To sink.”

  “Sink!” He grinned. “What a lowering thought.”

  She couldn’t stop a twitch of her lips. “What a terrible pun.”

  “A critic now, are you?”

  Meg was surprised to find that sitting on top of him gave her a feeling of confidence, of power, even. She settled her legs more comfortably, noting with interest how her movement made his hips twitch. “To return to our previous conversation . . .”

  “Which contributed to my rising, remember. Be wary.”

  “I no longer think it would be wise for us to attempt intimacy so soon.”

  “Why not?” One hand moved to rest on the skirt that covered her knee. “We’re doing quite nicely so far.”

  She looked at him, rather nonplussed. “Why not?” she echoed.

  “You are talking of wisdom and reason, Minerva. Therefore, you must have reasons.” The hand moved, stroking up her thigh to trace across the plain front of her sensible wool dress as if she had an embroidered snake there. “However, I must tell you, my dear wife, that well-risen men are as interested in wisdom and reason as well-risen dough.”

  His finger made a lazy figure of eight around her breasts.

  She stiffened and leaned away. “It is just too soon!”

  “But since we are married and it must come to the bed eventually, what difference will time make?”

  “It will let me—let us—grow more accustomed to our change in state.”

  He moved his hips slightly and grinned. “Grow is a somewhat unwise word, my dear. And you think being accustomed is necessary to success? My present change of state is scientific proof otherwise.”

  He bracketed her waist with his hands, the pressure shocking despite layers of sturdy cloth, corset, and shift. She couldn’t help moving, trying to escape, but seeing the flare of response in his eyes, she stilled. “Let me go, please.”

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “You know you are not.”

  “Why then?” His smile teased, tempting her to delights.

  Surely it was possible for a determined woman to handle even this man. “As I said, Saxonhurst, it is too soon for this kind of thing.”

  “But you don’t object on principle?” He snared her hands, carrying them to his warm mouth, eyes fixed on hers. “You are a worthy Countess of Saxonhurst.”

  Meg sucked in extra air. “Because I will not play your games?”

  “Because you play them so very, very well. See, my kissing your hands doesn’t upset you, does it?”

  She tried to tug them free. “Yes.”

  “No.” He kissed her knuckles again and again. “It teases at your senses, but it doesn’t upset you. It doesn’t make you feel frightened or attacked.”

  Meg had to accept that attacked wasn’t the word. “Very well. I grant you that. but I do not want my senses teased. And this position you’ve forced me into does offend me.”

  “No.”

  “Stop saying no!”

  He grinned. “Stop saying silly things. Our position makes you nervously aware of a great many possibilities. That agitates you—and very nicely, too. You flush deliciously. But it doesn’t offend you. You’re too sensible a wife to be offended by something like this. Am I not right?”

  Meg squirmed again. Then stopped. “When you put it like that, my lord, how can I disagree?”

  He chuckled. “You’re adorable when you pout.”

  “I never pout!”

  “As you say, my dear.” With a final kiss of her hands, he slid her off his legs and returned her to her seat. “There, see. But I’m afraid I must insist on my right to tease your senses, even if you do pout over it.” He ran a finger across her lips—pouting? Surely not—over her hot cheek, and around and around her earlobe.

  Then his touch slid down her exposed neck toward her breasts. . . .

  Meg closed her eyes and shivered, wondering how to find the strength to fend off this new move in his seductive hunt.

  But then the coach swayed to a halt.

  His touch stopped, causing a stab of wicked deprivation. “Alas,” he said, “we are home.” He leaned calmly past her to raise the blinds.

  The door opened and Meg saw the inevitable servants waiting. The earl leaped down and turned to assist her. “We must continue our interesting exploration later, my dear.”

  “But I said—”

  “Later.” He tucked her hand in his arm and led her into the grand house that was now her home.

  They were surrounded by servants, so many servants, all with attentive ears, so Meg fell silent. Part of her wanted to break free, however, to pull away and run. Run from the sensations this man seemed able to summon with a single, magic touch.

  But she was being silly. Marriage was about the marriage bed, and if her husband was skillful and enthusiastic, what cause had she to complain? All the same, when he left her in her suite of rooms, she felt as if she had just escaped a hungry tiger.

  She thought wistfully of her fantasy earl, the one she’d expected to marry. He’d not just been ugly and eccentric, but shy and rather gauche at amours. He would have taken weeks to gather the courage to hesitantly kiss her fingertips!

  Then she realized that she was going to find it hard in her new life to be alone.

  In her bedchamber and dressing room, Susie and another maid were putting away her meager supply of clothes. She couldn’t detect any sneers, but she was sure they must be used to dealing with a different class of garments. And what would they think of her underwear? Never before had strangers had access to all her secrets. She didn’t like it, but it was another price she had to pay for her wish.

  This was her home now, her status, her future. It was no use thinking of it as just a temporary situation.

  She straightened her wilting spine. Very well. These rooms were now hers. He’d said they hadn’t been used since her mother’s death and they hadn’t been up-to-date then. It would be amusing to refurbish them, though she had little idea of current fashion.

  She would have to buy new clothes to suit her station. She had no desire to be a laughingstock. Again, however, she had little idea of current tastes.

  Meg accepted that most of her resistance to her new life sprang from pure fear, fear of the unknown, of admitting ignorance, of making a fool of herself.

  Even—perhaps especially—in the marriage bed. What did she know of such matters? However, despite his comments about her lack of purity, he couldn’t expect her to know anything about it.

  She had little patience with cowards, and would not be one. If she had to be a countess, she’d be an excellent one, in bed and out!

  As a small step, she took possession of the boudoir. Though they were simple things of no value, she arranged her few small ornaments on a mahogany table that turned out to have game pieces in a drawer. Her books joined a rather fusty collection in the shelves on top of a tambour desk. She placed her mother’s sewing box beside a brocade-covered chair, aware of another wave of gratitude that it hadn’t been sold. She wondered if the earl would advance some of her pin money so she could buy back some of the items they had been forced to sell.

  She knew, without doubt, that if she asked, he’d find them all and buy them for her. It made her smile and shake her head at the same time. She would not encourage his wanton extravagance, but he seemed to be a genuinely kind man.

  All the time, however, thoughts of the sheelagh fretted at her. She couldn’t really settle into her life here until she had it back. But then, when she had it back, where could she keep it? Nowhere here was safe from servants’ eyes. The desk had keys, but no space for the stone. She couldn’t possibly leave it on public display, but she must have it close and under her control.

  Perhaps she could be open about it, claiming it was a
family curiosity of only sentimental value. She shivered at the thought. The earl was just the sort to want to have such a thing on display, to show it to all his guests! Meg had no idea how many people had the power, but she certainly didn’t want to find out.

  She realized she was just standing, staring out at an uninspired garden mostly overhung by large, leafless trees. There was no point to fretting about the future. First things first. She must retrieve the stone and quickly, while the Mallett Street house was still empty.

  She eyed an ivy-hung gate at the back of the garden. If only she could go now. She’d never be able to leave here undetected, however, and on Mallett Street, neighbors would follow her every move.

  No, the time to go was late in the night. Or perhaps early morning. Yes, early morning, when the first servants were up and supplies were coming in from the country, so the streets would be fairly safe. But before most people were about their business.

  That was when she realized that she absolutely must put off her husband. He had his own bedroom, but her parents had slept together. If they consummated the marriage, he might want to spend the night with her, and she’d never get away.

  Oh dear, oh dear.

  She had to put him off.

  Putting off the Earl of Saxonhurst seemed rather like putting off a gale. He overrode everything she said, did whatever he wanted. And, she had to admit, he swept her along with him like a full-sailed ship.

  She realized she was pacing and made herself stop. There was no point to this. She’d tackle the problem when it arose—she stifled a giggle at that—by repeating that she wasn’t ready.

  The earl wouldn’t rape her. She felt strangely certain of that. If she just stayed resolute, if she didn’t let his teasing and touching sweep her away, he would give up for the moment. All she needed was one night. After that, he could have his wicked way with her.

  She nodded, settled in her mind. Tonight she would courteously turn away her husband. Tomorrow, she would rise early, walk to Mallett Street, and retrieve the sheelagh. Then she’d come back here, hide it, and settle in to enjoying being the Countess of Saxonhurst.