“Nicholas?” Maria asked. Her voice was small and unsure.
His face was damp with perspiration; his muscles ached with the strain of holding back. He was feverish with need. “You might have told me, love….”
The muscles in her throat worked, but she said nothing. Instead, she closed her eyes and moved slightly, her delectable body torturing Nicholas into pulling back and driving into her again.
His movements quickened and became frenzied. She enveloped him in a cocoon of pure sensation and truth, urged on by need and want, lust and desire, all in one.
She played his body like an instrument, though unwittingly, for he knew she had no experience in this, the most intimate of acts.
Her nails scored his back, and as she met each possessive thrust, she possessed him entirely. Her whimpers caressed him. Her teeth scraped his jaw and neck. Her tears touched his soul.
He shattered within her.
And in that moment, everything he thought he knew about women and lovemaking was obliterated. The earth shifted, and as he fell alongside her, he could hardly believe they still remained upon the bed.
He pulled her close and kissed away the tear that slid into her hair. “Do you weep, my lady fair?” he asked gently. “Have I so wounded you?”
“N-nay, my lor—Nicholas,” she said. “’Tis only that I never knew…I’ve never…”
He wanted to make light of her newfound feelings, to tell her that it was always so between a man and a woman.
Yet he could not lie. Instead, he rose up again and began to woo her as he should have at the start…gently, patiently, pleasuring her even as he tutored her.
Something woke her. ’Twas not just the strangeness of having Nicholas in her bed, but a sound that came through the open window of her chamber. Voices from below, and something else. What?
The desire to stay warm and safe within Nicholas’s arms was strong. Yet something was going on outside.
Maria slipped out of bed. Ignoring twinges of discomfort in her tender flesh, she went to the open window and looked out.
Torchlight illuminated a small group below. They chortled and laughed, then drunkenly hushed themselves, dissolving into laughter once again. Maria could not understand why Nicholas would surround himself with such buffoons.
They threw small stones at the window of the chamber next to hers, and Maria realized ’twas Nicholas they were trying to summon. A woman’s voice called out in a loud whisper, “C’mon, Lord Nicky! Come and show us what yer got!”
“Eh, Nick!” the male voice was slurred. “F’get about the piece you’ve got stashed in the tower. This one’ll give you what you need without such botheration!”
More laughter and giggles sounded, while Maria’s heart dropped to her feet. Humiliated, she tried to block out the words, but could not help but hear them over and over again. She was the piece Nicholas had stashed in the tower. While she had been falling in love with him, he’d been lying in wait for her, to seduce her and take her virtue without any more thought than where he would find his next cup of ale.
Stones hit the window again. The woman’s loud whisper drifted up again. “Aw, Lord Nicky! Come down!” she said. “Ye liked me wares well enough last eve!”
Shaken, Maria realized that tears were of no use to her, and she dashed them away. ’Twas pointless to feel hurt or misused. She had been used before, but never quite so coldly, or with such calculation. She had been such a fool, allowing herself to believe that Nicholas’s motives were honorable.
Well, Nicholas Hawken could go to the devil.
She shoved away from the window and looked around the chamber in the dim light of the fire. Her vision was blurred from tears, but it did not matter. There was nothing here that belonged to her, no packing to do. She would leave now, and refuse to give him the opportunity to gloat over his damnable prize.
If naught else, she still had Rockbury—at least she hoped she had Rockbury—and Nicholas had no idea of her connection with the estate. Once she left Kirkham, she would never have to see him again.
In the shadows of the chamber, she found her gown on the floor and quickly laced herself into it. She slipped on her shoes, fastened them and let herself out.
At daybreak, the physician arrived and Nicholas was summoned to Sheffield’s chamber. Maria’s bed was empty as he left it, and he assumed she was visiting the garderobe, or had perhaps gone elsewhere to bathe. Despite the number of times he’d loved her during the night, he doubted she’d feel comfortable bathing before him in the light of day.
That would change, he thought. Tonight.
He felt a surge of sheer masculine pride in knowing that he’d been the one to show his lovely Maria the pleasures to be shared between a man and a woman. And not just any man.
Nicholas had been the one. The only one.
And tonight, when he took her to his bed, he would introduce her to even more sensual delights. He’d never known a woman as responsive as Maria. She was fresh and untutored, and entirely genuine in her lovemaking. She had taken exquisite enjoyment from his pleasure, treating him playfully, and with affection.
That was something new. ’Twas more than a bit unsettling, as well.
His lovers usually liked him well enough, or liked what he could provide them, but he sensed more than a casual fondness here. She cared for him.
That was a disquieting thought. He certainly did not care for her in the same way, nor would he ever. He had no tenderness in him, at least not the kind needed by a woman. Besides, his task was all too important to be abandoned. He did dangerous work for Bedford, and his lack of family ties or other entanglements freed him from worry. No woman held his heart, making him vulnerable to an enemy who would use that weakness against him.
Bah! He would enjoy her for now, but he knew he would soon tire of her. Then they would part, and he would see that she was well compensated for her womanly devotion to him and…
His brows came together in a frown. Who was Lady Maria, anyway? he wondered as he made his way to Sheffield’s chamber. The question had only fleetingly crossed his mind before, and now he wondered in earnest. He knew with certainty that she was not a discarded mistress, but the other possibilities were troubling. She’d been well dressed, and her speech was cultured. Yet young women of her class did not just ride the countryside unattended.
Puzzled, he dressed and left her chamber. He would probe for an explanation later, after he’d seen to Sheffield.
Maria could not believe her eyes.
If this was Rockbury, then she was truly a princess.
Of course, she had yet to discover whether or not she was the heir, but the dream was, for a moment, an intriguing one.
’Twas a grand manor house, with three stories, turrets and towers, and a gravel drive that circled in front of an imposing entrance. Maria could not imagine a more majestic place than the king’s palace itself.
Yet a palace was not what she needed. She merely wanted a home, a quiet haven where she could retreat and sort out all the recent events in her life. A place where she could begin her life anew and forget Nicholas Hawken.
With more than a little trepidation, she rode right up to the main entrance and dismounted. With her jaw agape, Maria stared at the place, well aware that ’twas likely she had it all wrong. A place as magnificent as this could never be hers.
The door opened noiselessly, and a small, elderly man stepped out. Maria closed her mouth, held her head high and looked the man in the eye, not insolently, but assertively. After all, she’d come to claim this fine house as her own. She would not appear the supplicant here.
Even if she were about to be sent away.
The old man’s expression faltered as she approached him, and he suddenly turned and called into the house. Maria did not hear exactly what he said, but before she’d taken two more steps, an old woman—the other half of a matched set, Maria thought—appeared on the doorstep.
“Lord in heaven!” the woman cried.
&nb
sp; “Aye, Mother,” the man replied without taking his eyes off Maria. “’Tis Lady Sarah come back to us!”
To Maria’s surprise, she had difficulty taking a deep breath. It was as if she’d been laced too tightly into her kirtle, so that not enough air could get into her lungs.
They thought she was Sarah.
They were not going to send her away!
“’Tis all right, lass,” the man said. The woman came out and put one comforting arm around Maria’s shoulders as if she’d known and cared for her all her life. “No need to weep. Yer home now.”
She hadn’t even realized there were tears in her eyes, running down her cheeks. Brushing the moisture away, she allowed the woman to lead her into the house.
“Yer father will be beside himself with joy,” the woman said. “He’s not given up hope of finding ye, ever since his hateful stepmo—er…Ever since the dowager duchess told him you went and survived when our poor Sarah was lost in childbed.”
“My f-father?” Maria said, controlling the trembling of her voice.
“Aye,” said the man. “The Duke of Sterlyng. John Burton. We’ll be sending for him right away.”
“Then…then you believe I’m Maria Burton?”
The older couple laughed at Maria’s uncertainty. “Yer the very image of yer mother,” the woman said, “and ye’ve got yer father’s eyes. All golden they are, and warm as the sun on a spring morn.”
“Now, Mother…”
“Ye know ’tis true, Elhart Twickham,” she said. “And I don’t mind sayin’ it—his grace is a comely man still. And just look at this locket. Ye cannot deny it once belonged to our lady Sarah.”
“We’ll be sendin’ for the duke right away,” Master Twickham repeated as his wife led Maria deeper into the house. “Won’t take him but a day to get here from London, once he hears ye’re here.”
Maria’s knees felt weak.
She had a father! Someone who would be—as the servant had said—beside himself with joy to find her here. Maria had never needed him more than she did at this moment.
This was something she had never really counted on: Rockbury. Belonging here. She realized now that she’d never believed that it could be true.
Yet here she was, daughter of the Duke of Sterlyng. And he would be happy about it.
Where had Maria gone? And just as importantly, why had she left him? Hadn’t their days—and their one glorious night—together been—
Hell’s bells. He was beginning to think like a besotted idiot. Glorious nights. Lovely days.
She was no more or less than any other woman of his acquaintance. His intimate acquaintance. True, she’d been more enthusiastic than most, mayhap a bit more intriguing than any he’d known before.
What did it matter? If she was going to be so secretive, he was well rid of her. He had his own secrets to keep without having to deal with hers, too!
Nicholas paced back and forth before the fireplace in the great hall, restlessly pondering those questions and the hundred others that plagued him. He did not really know who she was, or where she was from, so he had no idea where to begin searching for her.
Aye, he would search for her.
She’d been gone several hours before he even realized she’d left Kirkham, so must have gotten a notable head start on one of any number of roads. When he finally managed to leave Sheffield’s sickroom, Nick tried to pick up her trail, but a heavy rain in the late afternoon obliterated any tracks she might have made.
But he would find her. He would have her back in his bed before she could think twice.
“What’s the word on Sheffield?” Lofton asked casually, breaking in on Nicholas’s thoughts as he sat in a chair by the hearth.
Nick was dumbfounded by the man’s flippant attitude. After all, Lofton had been the one responsible for Sheffield’s fall. He could at least give an appearance of remorse.
“His lung is punctured,” Nicholas replied. “His chances for survival are poor.”
Lofton shook his head. “Shame,” he said. “Well, at least you got a good night’s rest.”
Nicholas gave him a contemptuous glance. “Why so?”
“Trendall and I tried to rouse you in the wee hours,” Lofton said. “Brought one of the whores to your window and tried to wake you, but—”
“What?” he demanded. “When?”
“I don’t know…an hour or so before dawn…. Seemsto me their caterwauling would have roused the dead,” he said, then laughed. “But not Kirkham. Oh, no. Sleep deeper than the dead, you do.”
Nicholas resisted the urge to jab his fingers through his hair. He could just imagine what had gone on in the courtyard below Maria’s window. It must have awakened her.
He stood abruptly and stalked out of the hall. What in heaven’s name had she heard? Something offensive, of course, but had it given her reason enough to go haring off into the night?
He slammed one fist into the wall. Evidently, it had.
Two days later, in the early evening, Maria sat at the edge of a small pool at the far end of the Rockbury garden. ’Twas a peaceful place, where birds nested, insects fed and small creatures chased each other and their own tails in the fresh spring weather. She dangled her feet in the water, kicking at the curious golden fish that seemed to have no fear of her.
Here, she could almost forget the face of Nicholas Hawken, and the seductive touch of his lips on her body. While she sat here in her own garden, she came close to denying that he’d had any affect on her at all.
She pulled her feet out of the water and wrapped her arms around herself. She could not think about Nicholas now, not when her father was expected at—
“My lady?”
The voice of the caretaker’s wife interrupted her dismal thoughts. She rose to meet the woman, but was surprised by the appearance of a white-haired stranger. The man’s step faltered slightly when he saw her, but he proceeded, anxious, yet strangely hesitant in his gait.
He was still handsome for his age, and Maria saw her own eyes when she looked into his. Her eyes burned and her throat felt so raw that she was unable to speak.
“Maria…?” he said when he reached her. His voice was deep and rich, but oddly breathless. He extended one hand and she saw that it trembled. His amber eyes glistened brightly as he reached out to her.
Maria swallowed and forced her voice to work. “Father?” she whispered tremulously.
He did not speak for a moment, but held both her hands tightly. Then he pulled her into his arms.
“My God, child,” he said with a trembling voice. “Maria!”
Chapter Twelve
In her wildest imaginings, Maria could not have dreamed up a place as strange or as marvelous as London. People were everywhere. Colors dominated the markets, along with more noise than Maria had ever heard before. Mingled aromas of smoke, cooking food, waste, and the Thames itself were nearly overwhelming.
Her father’s house was in Bridewell Lane, not far from the river, just northeast of Westminster Hall. Seamstresses, shoemakers and tutors had been in and out of the house during the last week, so often that Maria’s head spun. She had new gowns and veils, jewelry, shoes and boots. A gentle mare for riding was now in her father’s stable, and he’d purchased a lovely, ornate lady’s saddle for her.
Maria had spent so many hours in her life mimicking her cousin Cecilia that her speech was nearly perfect and her manners impeccable. However, a tutor had been hired to teach her all that was still lacking: how to ride as befit a lady of her station; the rudiments of reading; the necessary skills to run a household.
After all, the duke would see his daughter married. She would marry well, and marry soon.
Maria sighed. She had awakened early and dressed with care as she thought of the previous evening’s diversions. Her father had invited several well-born friends and acquaintances to meet his daughter, and several of them had asked his consent to pay court to her.
She should be content. Nay, she should be e
cstatic with her change of circumstance. Her father was a kind and loving man, so delighted to have his daughter back that he spared no trouble or expense for her. He was protective, yet not stifling, allowing Maria a great deal more freedom than she suspected other noble daughters received.
The young men who’d attended her last night were handsome, wealthy and accomplished. Some sat in the House of Lords. A few were knights who had served the Duke of Bedford in France.
But none were Nicholas Hawken.
She had hoped to abolish Nicholas from her memory, but quickly discovered that ’twas not so easy a task. With every male smile that was bestowed upon her, Maria remembered Nicholas’s teasing mouth and how his kisses had driven her mad. With every young man’s attempt to touch her hand, she felt a painful twinge in the region of her heart.
But all this pining over Nicholas Hawken was absurd. She knew what kind of man he was—certainly not one who deserved any kind of devotion or fidelity from her! He was a lecherous scoundrel, a man with no compunction about seducing one woman after another.
In her mind, she could still hear the voice of the one in the courtyard, inviting Nicholas to return to her.
Maria left her chamber and walked down to the main floor of the house, to find Lady Alisia Preston, the woman in charge of her father’s household, carrying two bundles of dried flowers into the house.
Alisia was a cousin of Sterlyng, and had married a common merchant against her father’s wishes. Still a young woman when she’d been widowed, she had desperately needed employment to support herself and her young son. Sterlyng had provided that employment, as well as hearth and home for Lady Alisia and the boy, who was old enough now to be squire to an uncle in Surrey.
Alisia had immediately taken her young cousin, Maria, under her wing, much like a younger sister. Maria accepted her kinship and friendship with pleasure.
“Ah, my dear lady…” Alisia said when she saw Maria. “Here is yet another bouquet for you.”
“Another…?” Maria looked around then, and saw that the tables held several vases and pots of dried flowers. She was astonished. This was beyond anything she had ever experienced, either at Alderton or Kirkham. “What is this all about?”
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