Lizzie bit the inside of her cheek. She should never have brought up the subject of Chloe and Andrew. She loved her cousin, but she certainly wasn’t ready to talk about the mess they’d all made of her life.
“Then you have forgiven your cousin, I take it?”
Michael’s question jarred her. “Of course I have. She is my cousin, after all. Blood. I can’t go on hating her forever.”
“And Andrew?”
“Well, not to his face,” she admitted with a shrug. “But yes, I suppose I have. It wasn’t as if I loved him, and now I realize I hardly knew him.”
There was a moment of silence before Michael asked, “And me? Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
All the normal functions of her body ceased to work in the moment. Her lungs would not take in air. Her heart would not beat. And her eyes clouded over until all she saw was darkness. She couldn’t say why the question rankled her so. Couldn’t say why she suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of despair. Only that she didn’t know how to answer his query.
Could she forgive him? Of course she could. It would be so easy. Just three little words. I forgive y—
Blast! She couldn’t even say it in her mind! Which led to her next question: did she want to forgive him.
No. She wanted for him to suffer as she had—as she still suffered. Her whole life, in the blink of an eye, had changed, and on the eve of her wedding, no less.
Right now she should have been exploring her beautiful home in Essex with her new husband, Andrew. She should have been hosting house parties and ladies luncheons and balls. Not freezing to death in a cave somewhere in the middle of nowhere! With a man she was never engaged to marry.
She wanted him to know how it felt to be dragged hundreds of miles from one’s family without having any say in the matter. An unwelcome sob rose to her throat at the thought of her family.
No doubt they were all gathered in the parlor by this time, enjoying an after-dinner game of charades. Or a sing-a-long of their favorite songs.
What was she going to miss being gone for these months? Would her brothers and sisters be all grown up by the time she returned?
She shook her head, knowing she was being melodramatic about the whole thing. A couple months. They’d be back in London by Christmas. It wasn’t such a long time. Of course, she’d miss having her birthday at home. Her parents always made such a grand thing of birthdays.
“Beth?”
The image of her decadent birthday cake and her family’s smiling faces vanished when Michael said her name. Well, the name he thought to call her, anyhow. She turned sharp eyes on him, at once angry that he’d interrupted her pleasant daydream, and annoyed that he continued to call her Beth.
“E-liz-a-beth.”
“Right.” He stood from his place beside her on the small sofa and turned to her with a weary sigh. “It’s late, and we’ve had a very long day. You can think about how much you hate me in your own room.”
Lizzie felt sudden tears fill her eyes, and she was loath to admit they were because of the hurt she heard in his normally self-assured voice.
Nevertheless, he was right. It was late. And only sleep would help her forget about how horrific her life had become.
Six
Michael fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning after listening to his wife’s muffled sobs for what seemed like hours on end. When he awoke the next morning to a misty, Scottish day, he thought he heard her crying again.
Good, Lord, she’ll dry herself up from the inside out!
He moved closer to the connecting door and pressed his ear to hear better. A wide smile spread his lips when he realized she wasn’t crying, but humming. And the song she hummed was the same one he’d been singing at the top of his lungs yesterday afternoon.
Soon, the humming turned to full-out singing, and Michael’s jaw became nearly unhinged. Where on earth had she learned to sing like that?
“‘...la mi dirai di si...’”
Like an angel, her voice wafted through the air, filling his chamber with glorious music. And she seemed to know every word, her Italian sung with an expertise that displayed years of training. How did he not know, after all this time, that she was such an accomplished singer? Not just the average, run-of-the-mill debutante who took singing lessons to perform in drawing rooms after dinner. No, this voice was comparable to the finest opera singers the continent had to offer.
He listened a while longer, his back leaning against the panel, before he finally decided to get a start on the day. Her voice accompanied his ablutions, much to his delight, but came to an abrupt stop while he stood before the mirror, trying to tie his neckcloth. Her door slammed moments later, informing Michael he was now alone in the suite.
Hating the feeling of emptiness that filled him in that moment, he gave up on the neckcloth, shrugged on his jacket and left the room. Perhaps they could have an amicable breakfast together before they began the interviews.
***
Lizzie had just sat down to her piping hot breakfast when the door to the dining room burst open.
“Good morning,” her husband said as he bounded into the room, a wide, boyish smile across his face. “Did you sleep well?”
She raised a brow at him, wondering if there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone? She’d cried half the night and thought she did a fine job of muffling her sobs, but perhaps she hadn’t.
“Fine,” she lied. “You?”
“I did,” he replied, sitting down to a heaping plate of eggs and sausage.
“Tea or coffee, milord?” Mrs. Kerr asked from the doorway.
“Coffee, thank you.” As the old woman bustled away, Michael fixed his eyes on Lizzie. “Even better,” he continued, picking up the conversation where they’d left off, “I awoke to the most angelic sounds I’ve ever heard.”
Lizzie felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She didn’t realize she’d been singing loudly enough for him to hear. “I hope I didn’t bother you.”
“Bother me? Heaven’s, no! It was delightful, Beth. I just wonder why you’ve been keeping your talents from us all this time.”
Choosing to ignore that he’d called her Beth, she said, “I don’t like to sing. Not publicly, anyhow. It scares me half to death.”
“As much as spiders scare you?”
“Almost.”
“Well,” Michael said as he meticulously cut into his plump sausage, “you shouldn’t be. You’re far better than almost anyone I’ve heard at the Royal Opera House. You certainly put that Madame Pizzarelli to shame.”
Lizzie blushed again at his compliment. Her family had always praised her for her ability to sing, but she thought it was simply because they were biased. Or didn’t want to hurt her feelings. And of course her singing instructor had said as much to that affect, but she’d assumed it was so she would continue to take lessons from him, thereby keeping his pockets full.
She never considered she was actually good.
Desperate to change the topic, she asked, “So, when do we begin the interviews? There are already several people lined up on the stoop outside.”
Michael’s brows rose in surprise. “Really? I hadn’t expected that. I suppose we can begin as soon as we finish breakfast then.”
Lizzie nodded and turned back to her meal. While she ate her eggs, she cast fleeting glances towards her husband. His dark hair was somewhat disheveled, as it always was, and his neckcloth was an absolute mess. She almost laughed, realizing he was just as spoiled as she was. Getting dressed that morning had been a challenge. She hadn’t cared about her appearance too much on the journey—simple chignons and serviceable traveling dresses had been fine thus far. But now they were here, lord and lady of a formidable estate, and it was important they present themselves as such.
“I daresay you need a valet as desperately as I need a ladies maid,” she commented.
Michael’s eyes met hers, his grin lopsided and playful, sending her pulse to a gallop. “Do I look that bad?”
>
The question caught her off guard, mainly because he didn’t look bad at all. As a matter of fact, he looked unbelievably handsome this morning, in spite of his haphazard cravat and hair. But she couldn’t tell him that, of course.
“Yes, you do.” Lizzie stood from her chair, her sights set on her husband’s neckcloth and not his curious, dark eyes.
As if she’d done this a million times, Michael turned in his chair and offered his neck to her. Lizzie’s heart fluttered spastically in her chest, but she ruthlessly ignored it and grabbed for the cloth. She silently yelled at her brain to tell her hands to stop their shaking, but no one was listening. Like a leaf, teetering from a feeble branch in October, she trembled uncontrollably as she tried to tie his cravat.
After a minute, she stood back to review her handiwork, thankful for the distance it afforded from her husband. Her spirits deflated. It looked even worse than it had in the first place.
“Did you want to give it another go?” Michael asked, clearly trying not to laugh.
With a determined nod, Lizzie stepped toward him and reached for the cloth again. As soon as she had her fingers around the two pieces, Michael’s hands clutched about her wrists. Their eyes met, locked. Her heart stopped beating for a mere second, and then took off at a full run.
She wanted to say something, to wrench her wrists free and tell him never to touch her. But her tongue didn’t work. At all.
A moment passed before Michael did the unthinkable and pulled her swiftly into his lap. His arms latched tightly around her, hot and strong at her back and waist. And then his lips were on hers. Familiar lips that, until that moment, she didn’t think she knew. But she did. He’d kissed her before, and regardless of the fact she thought it was Andrew, they were Michael’s lips. Michael’s tongue that had darted into her mouth and set waves of desire shooting through her body, right to her core.
Now her own tongue worked, only not in censure. She certainly didn’t have a mind to scold just then. But she gladly mimicked his movements, swirling her tongue, softening her lips to allow him in deeper.
He moaned and Lizzie’s eyes shot open, suddenly aware of what she was allowing him to do. Aware that she’d lost herself momentarily. Aware that she still hated him, no matter how desirable and delicious he made her feel.
She pushed hard against his chest. He stopped abruptly and pulled away, releasing her without a fight. Lizzie stood awkwardly and stepped away, wiping the moisture from her lips as she did.
Michael said nothing, but Lizzie couldn’t take the uncomfortable silence that hung between them. “Please. Don’t ever do that again,” she murmured, hoping her tone sounded harsher to him that it did to her. She hated that he unnerved her, and she didn’t want him to know that his kiss had caused her to unravel completely.
Finally deciding that the silence had stretched far enough, she turned on her heel and walked to the door. “I’ll meet you in the drawing room,” she said over her shoulder, right before she slammed the door behind her.
***
Damn, damn, damn!
Michael sat exactly where he was and watched the clock on the mantel tick the minutes away. After five whole minutes, he looked down and noted his cock was still hard and straining against his breeches. Not that he needed to look to note that, he just did.
Dear God, that had been one of the most blinding moments of his life. One of the most engaging, needy, desperate kisses he’d ever shared with a woman.
She was lonely, of that he was sure. And passionate. A damned passionate woman she was. His cock jumped at the thought. How had he, Michael Wetherby, ended up married to a desirable and passionate woman who wouldn’t let him have anything to do with her? Who wouldn’t let him touch her, let alone share her bed?
Michael cursed himself. He should have simply sent her to one of their estates near London and gone off to another on his own. Why in hell did they need to come here? All the way to Scotland, all alone. It was his own personal version of hell.
He shoved a few more bites of sausage into his mouth and rejoiced when his member returned to its normal, socially acceptable size. He rang the bell for Mrs. Kerr to clear away the table and then sought out Mr. Kerr in the foyer.
“My goodness,” he breathed, looking out the window at the line of people snaking from his front door, down the stairs and into the drive. “Where did they all come from?”
“Went to town early this morning and started spreading the word that Laird Michael was back. Not a lot of work in these parts, so naturally, they all flocked here.”
Michael contemplated the line of people at his door for a moment more, before striding down the hall to the drawing room.
“Send the first one in, Mr. Kerr.”
Lizzie sat on a settee near the fireplace, her hands folded primly in her lap, staring straight ahead at the wall. Michael looked at the wall to see if anything of great interest was there, and then turned back to his wife.
“Are you ready?” he asked, startling her.
“Oh, ah, yes. Ready.”
Michael smiled. He’d always taken great pride in robbing women of rational thought. He felt near triumphant having succeeded with his wife.
Taking the seat next to her, they waited until Mr. Kerr announced the first interviewee.
“Hamish Eliot.”
A burly man with long hair and a hard face walked into the room. He sat down in the chair that Michael pointed to and it creaked under his weight. Without further ado, they began their line of questioning.
One after another, they filtered in and out of the drawing room, men, women, and sometimes even children, looking to dust parlors, feed horses or fetch tea.
Just before noon, Michael heard a loud grumble next to him and turned to see his wife staring sheepishly down at her stomach. He smiled, sent the petite, older woman in front of them on her way, and then announced to Mr. Kerr that they would resume after luncheon. He couldn’t let his bride go hungry, after all. He’d seen full well what happened when she was deprived of food, and he never wished to be witness to that again.
Seven
Lizzie fell into bed that night, exhausted, but exhilarated. She’d never had the opportunity to interview her own staff and choose her own servants. Her parents had always made those decisions. But Lizzie found she loved it. Loved meeting new people. Loved determining where they’d best fit into the household. Loved seeing the huge smiles when she or Michael told them they were hired.
As she lay there, thinking of the day, her mind inadvertently wandered to breakfast and the kiss she and Michael shared. She hated that her body reacted to him so willingly. Hated that her breasts tightened until she was in pain, and that her drawers were moist without even the slightest touch.
But even now, something stirred within her. The simple thought of kissing him again, of feeling his lips and hands on her, made the moisture pool between her legs. She could practically feel it dripping from her. And despite the warmth of the fire and the piles of blankets on top of her, her nipples were hard and aching.
A wicked smile curved her lips at the same time an embarrassed blush infused her cheeks. Could she really touch herself like that? The way she wanted a man to touch her? She’d read somewhere that that sort of thing could be harmful to one’s health, but at the moment she didn’t really care. Sensations she’d never had, feelings she’d never known existed, raged through her and she had to touch herself.
Lizzie reached under the covers and pulled up her nightgown, then tentatively touched her fingers to her mound.
“Humph.” Nothing. She felt around some more and finally dipped her finger between her folds with a little gasp.
How did I get so moist? She began to rub and touch and feel, all the while a silly smile on her face. Part of her was ashamed at what she was doing, but part of her delighted in the sheer wickedness of it.
She hit a sensitive spot and moaned, astonished she was able to make herself do such a thing. And then, as she continued her exp
loration, she closed her eyes and pictured Michael’s face in her head. She didn’t want to—she still harbored a great deal of resentment towards the man—but he was the one who had succeeded in stirring this beast within her. She thought it only right that his face was the one she saw as she traversed this unknown world.
***
Michael’s head shot up, his eyes abandoning the book in his lap. Was that a whimper he heard? Was Beth crying again?
He listened closely, his ears perked like a paranoid rabbit, but heard nothing more. Perhaps it had just been the wind.
He hoped so. He wasn’t sure he could take another night of listening to her cry without intervening. It wasn’t in his nature to ignore a crying woman. But Beth was crying because of him, because of a monumental lie that he’d told. So could he really comfort her? Or would he simply make her more upset?
“Mmm...”
There it was again. A moan? A whimper? Maybe she was dreaming. Yes, that had to be it. They’d gone to bed more than an hour ago. She was certainly asleep by now and probably already in the throes of a dream.
He turned back to his book, assuming she’d calm down eventually and return to a peaceful sleep. His eyes hadn’t taken in two words when a low guttural sound came from her room.
That was it. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Slapping the book shut, he laid it on the side table and strode to the panel. He listened for a moment before pushing through into her chamber.
Surely enough, there lay his wife, in semi-darkness, writhing and moaning in her sleep. Michael whispered her name, hoping it would be enough to wake her. She didn’t respond.
Damn. He would have to get closer. Beth was probably a heavy sleeper, and based on the intensity of this particular dream, he suspected it might take a good bit of shaking to wake her. He waited until he was directly over her before saying her name again.
Bedeviled Bride (Regency Historical Romance) Page 4
