by Julia Donner
Bainbridge felt his skin burn and flesh tighten as he looked down at her welcoming smile. Hungry? No amount of food could quench the hunger he suffered. To stop himself from leaping on her like a beast, he nodded and strode to the dressing room. He flung clothes aside and grabbed the folded cloth by the basin of cool water. The chill helped to soothe the ache. In the bedchamber, only steps away, stood a delicious meal he couldn’t partake of until that bloody special license arrived. Perspiration made her nightgown cling to the mounds and curves. If she were another week older, he could haul the parson out of his bed to marry them tonight. Then he could latch on to the nubs that poked from the front of her nightgown, sink into the heaven he’d dreamed about for years. He dipped the cloth into the water and draped the dripping flannel around his neck.
He usually slept naked, but had to go out to bid her a polite goodnight. There were no nightclothes in the wardrobe, only a robe that was meant for winter. He pulled on a clean pair of breeches and a shirt. The floor felt gritty under his bare feet. Leticia would see to the problem of restoring the house to what it had been before Mrs. Graham’s decline, a thought that made his heart lift.
She waited for him at a small table by the open window. A breeze slipped through the crack, and he pushed the window wider before sitting down. He said nothing as she poured ale and uncovered a tray of bread, cheeses and sliced beef.
Before she sat down, he noticed the book lying open on the bed and asked, “What are you reading?”
A strange expression crossed her face, a combination of confusion and fear, followed by defiance. She muttered, “Aristotle,” and scuttled with her head bowed to a chair.
When he asked, “Will you read to me while I eat?” she looked up, surprised.
He wasn’t sure why his request made her smile so broadly, but was glad that whatever he’d done had made her happy. She collected the book with eager cheer, unaware of the tantalizing view she provided with the jiggle of her breasts as she flipped through pages.
Brown eyes sparkling, she asked, “I’m sure you’re familiar with his works.”
He reached for a thick slice of bread. “I enjoyed the lectures about him at school.”
“What topic interested you most?”
He shrugged. “Any of them.”
“No favorites?”
“Horses.”
“This volume is regarding ethics, but I could go down to the library and bring up one of his works about metaphysics. Or there is one about animals.”
He wrapped the bread slice around a slab of beef. “What you’re reading now is fine.”
She grinned and began, “…the wise man ought to know not only what follows from his first principles; he should know also the truth about these principles….”
She read with a frown of concentration and became so entrenched in the topic that she forgot to sit correctly—the posture ingrained in all females of her station, spine utterly straight, not touching the back of the chair, hands folded in lap when not in use. She accented words and phrases she deemed important. He paid attention as best as he could, but she thoughtlessly waved a fan over her face as she devoured the words. The gentle movement of humid air made the candlelight waver. Wisps of hair blew back and forth over her temple and brow. Plump breasts shifted under the nightgown.
He finished the food and poured more ale, not interrupting as she read. Deep in concentration as she recited, she undid the top buttons of her gown, turned a page, and dove into the next passage.
She looked up when he set down his finished mug. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realized how long I’ve been droning on.”
“I like listening to you. It’s obvious that you’re excited about what he has to say.”
“Well, of course. It’s Aristotle! Although, I’m equally fond of Marcus Aurelius. Do you like his writings?”
“Perhaps if you read them to me. If you’re not too tired, would you continue?”
“I should love to!”
“Wait. Let’s be more comfortable.”
He felt her watching as he carried a wing chair from the fireplace to the window. He moved the candelabra to the other side of the bed to a stand closer to the wing chair. After pushing the window open as wide as it would go, he sat. When he held out his hand, she tilted her head to one side.
He wiggled his fingers. “Come. I used to sit on my mother’s lap while she read to me. I would like it if you sat on mine while you read.”
Her cheeks bloomed color. Using a finger to keep her place in the book, she came to stand by him, appearing confused as to how to go about seating herself. He solved the problem by leaning forward and gathering her up. He almost groaned in relief when her bottom nestled in his lap. Blessed pleasure and exquisite torture. This was a mistake but he no longer cared.
She stumbled over the words at first. When she began to read with ease, he lifted her arm and draped it around his shoulders. The soft mound of her left breast rested against his ribs. He watched her heartbeat increase with the rise and fall of her bosom. The nubs became more prominent, and after a few pages, her words erratic.
She stilled when he couldn’t stop his fingers from unfastening the row of cloth-covered buttons down the front of her nightdress. He left her covered as he slid his hand inside. Her eyelids closed and her cheek sank to rest on his shoulder. Her breaths fanned his neck, sending spirals of heat down his legs.
The rush of his ragged breath rasped inside his head as he savored the lavish weight cupped in his palm, the satiny surface and taut nipple. He gently squeezed. Her head fell back. Seconds later, the book slipped from her grasp and thumped on the floor. A small hand covered his, clutching, pressing him closer. That encouragement, of her hand outside of the nightgown and his inside, simple and yet unbearably erotic, sent a shudder through his chest. Her soft, long moan sent fire roaring through his veins and turned the shadowy room from dark to red.
It was too late to curb the drive for more. He yanked the nightdress aside and lifted her up to latch on to the temptation, curling his tongue around the peak. Had she raised up to meet him? He no longer cared. Her scent filled his head, and her flesh, his mouth. He widened his legs. Her bottom sank down into the well of his thighs, making it easier to rub against her hip.
Blinded and overrun with need, he raised his head, wrapped his fingers around her chin, and took her mouth. He felt himself slide over the edge when the tip of her tongue shyly touched his. Getting more, taking more was all he could think. Her hand clutched his hair. He shoved his up under the gown’s hem, searching for slick warmth, and shivered when he found damp curls. His fingertips glided over wetness. She flinched when he pressed two fingers deep inside. Sanity returned too late.
She stiffened as he slowly withdrew. His traitorous body twitched against her hip. Shame choked his voice when he tried to speak and couldn’t.
He gently pushed down the nightdress bunched around her waist, tried not to look at slim, white thighs. He lifted her as he stood and carried her to the bed. He couldn’t look at her face when he finally found his voice and whispered, “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
She whispered a reply, but humiliation forced him to escape. He quietly closed the dressing room door and sat on the narrow bed. He scraped his fingernails over his scalp and clutched his head. The screaming need of his body insisted he go back to her, take her for his own, and hold her fast. She’d only been with him a few days, and he couldn’t imagine not having her in his house. The relief of knowing that she waited for him at the end of the day and would soon be his in every way didn’t seem quite real. He needed her laugh and easy affection as much as he yearned to sink into her flesh and possess.
He blamed himself for always thinking of her as his. He’d been an impressionable boy when he heard his father and her parents making plans. The greedy yearning hadn’t come about until she left girlhood, when he saw her at her parents’ party, smiling and excited, a young woman on the verge of a new life, an adventure. He worr
ied that she’d meet someone when so far away at school, someone smart and elegant.
And tonight he’d broken down, pawed her like a brute. Somehow he had to wean her back to not being afraid of him. What he’d done tonight, allowing his body and not his brain to rule, had to have scared her. He hadn’t planned to show her, an innocent, that side of him for months down the road.
He wasn’t accustomed to going without for so long. He’d gotten used to meetings at the abandoned gamekeeper’s lodge twice a week. Although he liked that Jessamyn had an avid appetite that matched his, her slender figure hadn’t made it easy to imagine Leticia’s softness during those meetings.
The idea of venting the passion boiling inside with a visit to the widow made him swallow revulsion. Not that he found the woman unappealing. What man could turn away a female so eager and open for anything? It was the idea of betraying Leticia. He’d given his promise, witnessed by friends. He needed no priest to tell him he was married and tied to Leticia forever, but she did. And so did society. They would tie the knot the minute Carnall returned with the special license. He wouldn’t have his wife held in public scorn.
How many years had he dithered, not knowing how to bring up the old subject of marriage? Then, when he least expected to see her, she stood in the sunlight that lit her hair with sparks of gold. He’d been too startled to smile or sound coherent.
He prayed that he could hold on to reason, while in the grip of nearly uncontrollable desire. The only curb he had was the seriousness of his convictions, his fear of shocking her beyond repair. He prayed Leticia hadn’t been terrorized by what he’d revealed. He could tell by the way she kissed that she was a complete innocent. Somehow, someway, he had to win back her trust and restrain the urge to maul her like a starving beast. And how was he to do that when his mouth still watered from the feel of that plump nipple against the roof of his mouth? He clutched his hair tighter, using the discomfort as a distraction, but it made him imagine her hands in his hair. With a groan of frustration, he fell back on the narrow bed and turned to the wall, knowing he’d never sleep.
Chapter 10
The candle flames fluttered in the breeze sliding through the window. The gust that followed blew them out. She wanted to get up and close the window but doubted her legs would bear her weight. Her heart still pounded and right breast tingled. She burned between her legs, where his calloused fingers had touched the embarrassing wetness. That was before the unexpected discomfort.
She’d overheard girls at school whispering about the pain. It hadn’t hurt as much as the invasion had shocked. Then there had been that wedge of hardness massaging her hip, somehow thrilling and frightening at the same time.
Heat skimmed over her skin as she remembered how he’d held her jaw, encouraging her mouth to open, the way he tasted and used his tongue, making her want to do the same to him. She discovered that she liked the gentle scrape of his touch. She had only known men with soft hands that had never known work and stayed protected by gloves.
Bainbridge worked with horses. She’d seen him throwing hay and cleaning stalls. A gentleman had grooms for that, but Bainbridge delighted in being with and handling his horses. She loved watching his big, long-fingered hand lovingly glide over the horseflesh. The horses adored him, nosed his stomach or hand whenever he came near.
She suddenly recalled him shirtless at the mill. Under the muddy smears, his abdomen had been lean, his arms and chest banded with heavy muscle. Dark brown hair with a tinge of red covered the flat planes of his chest, narrowing in its downward trail to his breeches. Wetness filled her mouth. She slapped a hand over her lips to smother a startled laugh, awed that the sight of him could create an animalistic response. And he hadn’t looked at her with disdain when she revealed that she was bookish.
Cousin Henry had repeatedly warned her to never let any eligible male discover that secret. He’d scolded her for unladylike pursuits and locked the library. Bainbridge had an extensive collection, most of it catalogued and the ancient tomes carefully stored.
The only disagreeable part about getting books had been Holcombe. His office was connected to the library. She felt him staring at her through the open doorway as she made her selections. He never said anything, but she sensed his irritation when she searched the shelves. She set her mind to the goal of permanently removing him from the library and finding him a work area away from the books. She wasn’t about to have her enjoyment of her very own library ruined as it had been at Charhill.
Her library. In a few days, all of Stokebrook would legitimately be hers. Well, not precisely hers, but Bainbridge would never deny her. That was one of his many charms, besides the sight of those glorious arms and the way his muscles rippled and flexed. He didn’t behave or appear particularly modest. At the mill, he acted as if his only interest in covering up was to spare her sensibilities. How odd. She had no shyness when it came to looking at him. The thought of him utterly nude made her mouth go from wet to dry.
What would he think of her? He didn’t act put off by her pads of flesh and over-large bosom. Stays contained the embarrassing jiggles of too much padding from the shoulders down. Perhaps she could stop eating for a while, thin out the fleshiness. And she absolutely must halt any sign of resistance. At school, she’d heard that to keep a husband at home, the wife must be willing and compliant. Think of England until the heirs were born. After that, they could go their own ways with only the occasional inconvenience of a connubial visit. Husbands contented themselves with mistresses.
The idea of Bainbridge going to another woman squeezed the air from her chest. She blinked away sudden tears.
Well, she would show him that she could be more than compliant about her marital duties, which was going to prove interesting, if she were any judge of what she’d recently experienced. There was some doubt that she could sustain a portrayal of obedient wife. Subservience wasn’t part of her nature. She would have to learn how to appear compliant, while thinking up lures to keep her husband from straying. Thinking up lures and strategies kept her awake most of the night.
Chapter 11
Taffy delivered morning chocolate, setting the cup and saucer on the bedside table. After she closed the windows and tied back the draperies, she came to the bedside.
“My lady, may I have a moment of your time?”
Leticia picked up the cup. “Good, the heat’s gone off it, and stop the charade. There’s no one else here.” She patted the bed. “Come sit by me.”
“That wouldn’t be wise. The servants are so ill-trained they might walk in without knocking.”
“Why is that, Taffy? This is the largest house in the district. It’s understaffed to an alarming degree and looks as if no one has cleaned the place in a decade.”
“Not quite that long. I would suggest that the slacking off happened when Mrs. Graham began to feel her age and with the advancement of Holcombe.”
“I’ve been down to the kitchens. Cook has kept it clean, and Mrs. Graham’s room is neat enough. Were you able to get any information from her?”
“Her mind wanders too much to rely on what she says. Village gossip is more to the point.”
Setting aside her cup, Leticia slid off the edge of the bed and began to disrobe. Taffy fell into the ritual of helping, saying as she surveyed the freshly cleaned frock, shift and stockings draped across the bed, “It has been pretty much accepted that his lordship is having financial difficulties. No one here has been regularly paid since Mrs. Graham took to her bed. Prior to that, it was sporadic. Merchants in the village have the same problem. The unpaid staff left and those that remain are hoping your marriage will solve the financial difficulties.”
“Taffy, I can scarce credit what you’re saying. I understand that things have come to a shabby state, but it’s not possible that the estate can be in financial straights.”
“Can it not? You know how these great men are. Many of them show no responsibility to their obligations and run their estates into the grou
nd. Our own regent has nearly bankrupted the country with his amusements. We must remember that the earl is a sporting man. Look at his stables then look at his tenants.”
Leticia brushed aside Taffy’s hands to fasten the front of her gown. “What is wrong with the tenants?”
“No repairs, no upkeep, but Holcombe is there for the rents. At first, they were happy to never again see the old earl coming to collect his due. It says a great deal when they’d rather have that brute dunning them than Holcombe on their doorstep.”
The intimidating scope of the problems she’d stepped into, the shock of hearing them articulated, sent gooseflesh down her arms. She’d known from the first that becoming the mistress of a great house was no easy task. Taking on the magnitude of Stokebrook’s problems filled her with a rush of insecurity, something she’d never experienced with anything other than her appearance. There wasn’t much that could be done with one’s looks, but the challenges of restoring a great manor to proper working order would be daunting for the most capable. She’d only partially managed Charhill, which was of a size to fit into Stokebrook’s smallest corner.
Leticia slid her feet into a pair of flats. “I so appreciate that you cleverly brought some of my clothes with you from Charhill.”
“I need little and was supposed to be taking an extended trip. No one noticed.”
“Taffy, hand me the reticule on the table.”
She withdrew the key Bainbridge had given her and went to the cabinet drawer. When she returned to Taffy, she handed her a twenty pound note and a pouch of coins.
“Pay the house staff today. You’ll have to wait to pay the merchants until Lord Carnall arrives from London. He’s bringing a special license, which will be used immediately. Then I shall feel more comfortable about addressing the financial issues.”
“And I will be vastly relieved when an actual ceremony is finally accomplished.”
“Save your scorn, Taffy. I made a verbal commitment to Bainbridge and intend to keep it. I sleep in this room to convince the servants that we eloped.”
