Hot Historicals Bundle with An Invitation to Sin, The Naked Baron, When His Kiss Is Wicked, & Mastering the Marquess

by Jo Beverley

  Zeus, what a thought! His anatomy sprang to attention, eager to begin thrusting posthaste.

  He would persuade her to have him. She might think she was committed to this other fellow, but her body told him differently. She would not have kissed him with such innocent yearning if she were in love with someone else.

  “You know, you never told me why you came out looking for me,” he said. He sent her a sidelong glance. “I suppose it wasn’t to drag me into the shrubbery?”

  He was rewarded—she stopped. She was almost emitting sparks when she turned to face him. Regretfully, they were now in view of the terrace, so he could not do anything more than admire the sight she presented.

  “It was not, you clod pole! I came to ask you about my aunt and Papa. Do you know why there is such enmity between our families?”

  Perhaps it was fortunate Grace’s back was to the house. She didn’t see her aunt and his uncle slip out the ballroom door. Her aunt didn’t see them either, but Alex did. He paused momentarily and then guided Lady Oxbury in the opposite direction. They disappeared behind an overgrown tree.

  “Enmity?” He almost laughed. He’d guess hostility was not the motivation urging those two into the foliage. Good for old Alex.

  “Yes. Aunt Kate had such a strong reaction when she saw your uncle, she had to withdraw to the ladies’ retiring room to regain her composure. Do you know what the connection is between them?”

  He could guess what the connection was about to be. “I believe my uncle asked your aunt to marry him the last time she was in London.”

  Lady Grace gasped. “No! Aunt Kate never mentioned such a thing.”

  “Uncle Alex never mentioned it, either, until your aunt entered the ballroom this evening.” Odd. Why hadn’t Alex told him before? They’d certainly got drunk together enough times over the years. And they’d been discussing matrimony—his need for a wife and heir—frequently since he’d inherited the title. It would have been natural to bring up a blighted marriage proposal over a bottle of port.

  Had Alex suffered a broken heart? Now that he considered the matter, it was odd his uncle had never married. Alex wasn’t the sort to enjoy casual liaisons—and he was certainly well past his salad days. True, he didn’t have a title to pass on, but he did have his own estate—had had it for years. He should have had a wife and children as well.

  Grace’s aunt had married Lord Oxbury…

  Dash it, if Lady Oxbury had been cruel to Alex…well, he might have to have a private word with her on that subject.

  Lady Grace was shaking her head and worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. It quite sent thoughts of Lady Oxbury and Alex from his head.

  “How could that be the reason Papa holds all Wiltons in aversion? A marriage proposal is not an insult—unless your uncle is as busy in the bushes as you are.” Grace shot him a most pointed look.

  He was willing to bet Uncle Alex was being very busy in the bushes at the moment.

  “But an offer would have addressed any question of scandal.” Grace frowned. “Are you certain your uncle did actually offer?”

  “Oh, yes. And your father turned him down. He hated Wiltons long before Alex asked for your aunt’s hand.”

  “Why? Though if your relatives are all as annoying as you, I quite understand it.”

  “Very funny. Did your father never tell you about Lady Harriet, the daughter of the Marquis of Wordham?”

  She frowned. “No. Who is she?”

  “Was. Who was she.” He smiled slightly. “She was my mother.”

  Grace’s expression changed in a blink. The frown vanished; her eyes and mouth softened. She touched his arm lightly. “I’m sorry.”

  An odd warmth spread through his chest. Stupid. Grace’s compassion was misplaced. He’d had Grandmamma. She’d probably spent more time with him than his mother would have. By all accounts, both his parents had been headstrong and wild, setting things whirling and tumbling like a windstorm, leaving everyone else to clean up the debris.

  He didn’t have Grandmamma any longer, of course. Riverview was empty now.

  But it wouldn’t be empty when he married Grace. They would fill it with their children—with their sons and daughters. It would be far livelier then than it had ever been when he was a child.

  Grace had to accept him…and reject the man in the country.

  He pushed aside the guilt that threaded through his gut at that thought. He needn’t feel guilt. Grace didn’t love the fellow.

  And was this how his father had reasoned when he’d planned his elopement, stealing Lady Harriet from Standen?

  God, no! He was nothing like Luke Wilton.

  Grace was frowning again. “Why would Papa have told me about your mother?”

  “Ah…” He would consider any parallels—and there were none—between his father and himself later. He was alone in the garden with a beautiful woman, even if he was only giving her a history lesson now. “Because thirty-one—well, thirty-two years ago, to be precise—my mother jilted your father to run off to Gretna with the notorious Luke Wilton.”

  Chapter 4

  “I should look for Grace.” Kate sounded more than a little hesitant, as if her heart was not in that particular search. Good. Alex had other plans for their brief time together.

  It was markedly cooler outside. A scattering of couples dotted the terrace, but Lady Grace was not among them. Alex glanced off to the left and saw her with David in the garden. Should he tell Kate?

  “I take it this is Lady Grace’s first Season?”

  Kate sighed. “Yes. She is a bit old for a debutante—well, more than a bit—she’s twenty-five. My brother was planning to marry her off to a neighbor, but his butler’s cousin works in the Oxbury dairy and she told my housekeeper who told me. I couldn’t…I thought I should bring Grace to Town.”

  “I see.” Twenty-five? The girl could manage on her own. As could David. Alex had warned him not to hunt that ground, but if David chose to ignore his sage uncle’s advice, so be it. David wouldn’t harm Lady Grace. And Alex had his own concerns to attend to.

  He placed Kate’s hand on his arm. Ah! She smelled of lavender just as she had all those years ago, when he was young and believed the future was full of promise, not guilt and regret.

  Her fingers trembled slightly, but she didn’t withdraw.

  He smiled. Perhaps the future was full of promise. He certainly hadn’t felt this hopeful in a long, long time—since he’d last entered this garden with Kate.

  He guided her down the terrace steps and off to the right, toward the little bower they’d found that first Season. Was it still there? It wouldn’t be surprising if it weren’t. Twenty-three years was a long time. The duke—the previous or current titleholder—might well have decided to re-landscape, turning their retreat into a patch of pansies. Or nature’s vagrancies could have made it a barren spot of dirt and twigs and dead leaves.

  No, his luck held—the alcove was as verdant as he recalled. “Do you remember this place?”

  “Yes.” Kate’s voice wavered ever so slightly. “Of course I do.”

  Of course she did. Regret darkened his soul again.

  She had been only seventeen—but he had been only twenty-two. A man, yes, but hardly more than a boy. He had still believed honor would prevail and love would conquer all.

  He’d been a fool, but what else could he have been? He’d been so damn young.

  He should have been like his brother, Luke. He should have persuaded Kate to run to Gretna Green on the border between England and Scotland with him. There they could have been married as the Scottish marriage laws were much more flexible than they were in England. Then he would have had twenty-three years of wedded bliss instead of years of solitude, of lonely nights reading by the fire—or, worse, slinking up inn stairs, taking his ease with women he didn’t love.

  If he had taken Kate to Scotland, he’d have sons now…daughters…a family.

  But no, he was the responsible brother, the
thoughtful, cautious, sensible one—and look where the hell it had got him.

  Of course daring had gotten Luke dead.

  Should he pretend he’d come this way out of nostalgia—pass by, continue through the garden and back up the steps to the terrace, polite, gentlemanly, a pattern card of proper behavior?

  No, damn it. He hadn’t come all the way to London to be proper. He’d come to misbehave—and he bloody well would do so now. With Kate. He’d woken up hard and aching more times than he cared to count, thanks to her.

  He ducked under a low hanging branch to move deeper into the shadows. Kate followed without hesitation or even a whisper of protest.

  He held her hand to guide her over the tree roots and down the thin path, a line worn in the grass by other couples. Was anyone else here? He paused, put his finger to Kate’s lips when she would have spoken, and listened. He heard snatches of distant music from the ballroom, laughter from the terrace, the rustle of a small animal scurrying through the bushes, but no sound of lovers stealing a kiss in the bower, thank God.

  He moved around the high hedge to the small hidden pocket of privacy. Best take no chances. He guided Kate to stand so he blocked the opening in the hedge. If anyone stumbled in, they would see only his back—and hopefully take themselves off immediately.

  He didn’t want anyone to see them. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt them. Hell, he didn’t want the party, the ton, the whole damn world to exist. He wanted life to be limited to this little patch of greenery, to him and Kate. No time—past or passing; no memories. Just now. Just here.

  “We’re alone.” He barely breathed the words, half afraid anything louder than a whisper would break the spell.

  “Yes.” She whispered, too. Her head was down; she was staring at his waistcoat.

  Moonlight sifted through the tree branches, sliding over Kate’s shoulders, over the tops of her breasts, making her skin glow.

  He closed his eyes briefly. She was so beautiful, she made his heart—and other organ—ache. He studied the delicate curve of her neck, the soft wisps of hair that had slipped free of their pins. He wanted to hold her close, to protect her from all life’s pain—and love every last inch of her perfect body.

  He had never thought to stand here with her again. He’d never thought to stand anywhere with her again. When he’d got word she’d married Oxbury, something in him had died. Now it was stirring back to life.

  “Kate.”

  She finally looked up. The tip of her tongue slid out to moisten her lips.

  He had to touch her, to feel her skin under his. He shed his gloves—he’d like to shed more than his gloves, ofcourse, but not in Alvord’s garden—and brushed his fingers over her lips. He felt her breath sigh out, and her eyelids closed. Her face tilted up, her mouth just slightly—but so invitingly—open.

  Not yet. He wouldn’t kiss her yet. Soon though—very soon.

  He traced the swell of her breasts—and watched them swell more as she inhaled. Her top teeth caught her bottom lip. Her hands came up to grip his arms—to steady herself, not to stop him.

  He cupped her elegant neck, smoothing his thumbs over her jaw. A small, breathy moan escaped her. Her skin felt hot.

  “I’ve missed you, Kate.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes opened. They were slightly out of focus. “I-I’ve missed you, too.” She swallowed; he felt her throat move. “Terribly.”

  He traced her mouth with his finger, pulling her lower lip gently down. “Shall I kiss you?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  He bent his head.

  How much had she learned from her husband?

  He pulled back slightly. No. He would not think of Oxbury. That was the past, and there was no past here. He had left the past behind when he’d slipped into this bower. Here there was only now, only Kate and Alex.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please, Alex.”

  He touched his mouth to hers gently, as he had when he’d been so much younger. Her lips stayed quiet. He brushed over them, moved to her cheek, her forehead, her eyelids. Her skin was so soft.

  The scent of lavender teased him, mixing with the rich scents of the garden just as it had before.

  He wanted to thread his hands through her hair, but he couldn’t. He was still cautious. They had to go back to the ballroom. She could not look as if she’d been doing what they were doing.

  He followed the line of her jaw with his lips. She tilted her head back to give him room to explore, and he took the invitation. He brushed aside a tendril of hair, kissed her throat from just below her ear to her collarbone and then down to the delicate mounds of her breasts. She gasped—and then made an odd little noise, a cross between a moan and a breathy pant. He moved back to the pulse in her throat. It fluttered beneath his lips.

  He had dreamt for so long of just this—of having Kate back in Alvord’s garden, in his arms, kissing her. The dream always ended with her naked under him—that wasn’t an option now, of course, but there was one detail he could enact.

  He touched his mouth to hers again, but this time he didn’t just brush her lips with his. This time he slid his tongue deep into her warm depths.

  She stiffened briefly as though startled, and he paused. She wouldn’t push him away, would she?

  No. She relaxed, letting her body rest against his. Her tongue touched his tentatively, as if she had no notion how to go on.

  He cupped her jaw and proceeded to show her. She tasted of mint and lemon and wine. Sweet and tart. Perfect.

  He was hard with need. He wanted to free her from the confines of her stays, strip her of her shift, explore her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He wanted more than his tongue deep in her moist warmth.

  She was a widow. He was unwed. There was nothing—no one—keeping them from doing what they should have done years ago. They wouldn’t even need to fly to Gretna.

  He withdrew, rested his cheek against her hair, tried to marshal his thoughts and his breath to ask her to marry him.

  She found her composure first.

  “Alex, I…” She paused.

  “Kate—”

  She put her finger on his lips, shaking her head slightly.

  “No, I…” She paused again and seemed to gather herself. A smile wavered over her lips. “Come tonight, to Oxbury House.” Her voice was breathless, nervous. Her gaze dropped to consider his chin. “Will you?”

  She couldn’t mean…? “You wish me to escort you and Lady Grace home from the ball?”

  “No.” She jerked her head in a short, negative motion. “No, I wish you…I want you…to come…later.” She glanced up to meet his eyes briefly, and then addressed his chin again. “I wish you to come to my room.” She was whispering so low he could barely hear her, but her next words were crystal clear. “To my b-bed. I wish you to come to my bed.”

  “What?!”

  “Shh! Someone will hear you.” Kate bit her lip. Alex’s eyes had widened and his mouth had dropped open. He was shocked.

  She was shocked herself. A hot wave of embarrassment flooded her. Had she actually just invited a gentleman to her bed?

  She had. She stepped away from him and lifted her chin. Alex was frowning at her now. She frowned back. He had better not judge her.

  She was an experienced woman, not a debutante like Grace. If Grace had done such a thing, that would be shocking. Grace was a virgin, young, and fertile. She was none of those things.

  Grace. She should have gone in search of Grace. She should not have come here with this jackanapes.

  But she had wanted to come. She had so wanted to go back to that magical time when she was young and in love.

  She was an idiot, a complete cabbage-head.

  “To how many men have you extended this invitation, Lady Oxbury?”

  Oh! She felt as if he had slapped her. How could he think such a thing?

  Because he hardly knew her. They had spent only two months of the Season—a few social events—together twenty-three years ago. S
he had been a child then; she was a woman now. How could he know her?

  “That is none of your concern, Mr. Wilton.”

  “I am somewhat particular in my associations, Lady Oxbury.”

  She should slap him. She should certainly disinvite him. She did not want an ass in her bed.

  She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, but the words wouldn’t come.

  The ugly truth was she did want him, had wanted him every day since she’d kissed him in this garden that first Season. She had wished for him on her wedding night after Oxbury had done his duty and gone back to his own bed. She had dreamed of him in the dark—and sometimes at the breakfast table while watching Oxbury read the paper and chew his toast and kidneys. And much as she blushed to admit it, she had often imagined it was he, not Oxbury, above her in bed, working at getting an heir.

  She had been fond of Oxbury and had tried to be a good wife to him. She had never taken a lover—but had she been completely faithful?

  No, not really. Not in her heart.

  Enough! Her husband was dead, had been dead this last year. No one would fault her if she took a lover now—well, no one besides Mr. Saintly Wilton here. She was curious, that was all. She finally had the opportunity to find out what it would have been like if it had been Alex instead of Oxbury in her bed.

  She thought it would be good. She’d never before felt the sensations Alex had created in her just now. He’d done little more than kiss her—though she’d never before been kissed like that. Where had he learned to be so skilled? He had not been married.

  “You are particular, are you, Mr. Wilton? I would venture to guess you have associated with more women since last we met than I have men.”

  Did he blush? Well he might.

  “That is a different matter entirely. I am a man.”

  True, women were supposed to turn a blind eye to men’s peccadilloes. If he were her husband—she ignored the pang that thought provoked—she would look the other way. But he was not her husband, and he was taking her to task for the same sin he had doubtless committed too many times to count.

  “And I am a widow, Mr. Wilton.” She looked away. She couldn’t bear to see his expression. “I believe I am free to behave as I see fit. However, if you are not interested in my invitation, we need say no more. Please, forget I ever mentioned the topic.”