Kiss the Wallflower: Books 4-6

by Gill, Tamara

  “He is unresponsive, my lady,” the doctor stated, checking her father’s pulse. “I cannot wake him.”

  “Father,” she said, getting up on the bed to sit beside him. He had grown frail and much older than his fifty-four years during the past month and she was certain that if he were to walk into a London ballroom the ton would not recognize him today. “Papa, please wake up.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she ran her hands over his cheeks, shaking him a little. “Papa…please, please don’t leave me alone.”

  Her father opened his eyes, meeting hers and hope bloomed in her chest. He gave her a tired, little smile and her heart broke. She was losing him. Her only family and he was going away. “I will never leave you, my darling. I will always be with you. In here,” he said, lifting his hand and pointing at her heart.

  She nodded and tried to smile, but even to her it felt wobbly and uncertain. “I love you,” she said, unable to stop the tears or the sob that escaped in front of all who stood behind her, Stephen included.

  “The moment you were born you were the love of my life, my child. I’m proud of you, my dear.”

  She hugged him, holding him close as the last of his worldly breath left his body. The comforting hand of Stephen’s slid over her back, stroking and supporting her in this time.

  How would she ever survive without her father and Stephen, who too now would be going back to his estate? The realization made her heart ache even more and her chest burned as if she could not get enough air. She was going to be alone, an unmarried woman without a protector, without any family. Tears slid freely down her cheeks. However would she manage?

  * * *

  Five days later she stood in the drawing room downstairs after having laid to rest her father in the family mausoleum. All of London looked to be in the room, her friends and their husbands had made the journey from London, including Lord Peel. The gentleman whom she had not seen since Covent Garden stood to the side of the room watching her as if she were a juicy piece of meat that his wolfish teeth wanted to rip apart.

  Her childhood friend Julia, now Lady Davenport after marrying the Earl Davenport, sidled up to her, her face animated as if she were enjoying an evening out at a ball, not having just buried her friend’s father.

  “I suppose you’ll be in mourning now for several months. How droll that will be. I will not mourn my own papa when he passes. I do not think he ever cared for me at all, certainly not enough to stop me from marrying Lord Davenport who is as droll as they come.” Julia smiled, looking about the room. “Not that you will have any troubles finding a husband of considerable worth. Lord Peel is still interested if his fixation on you is any indication.”

  Clara glanced in Lord Peel’s direction and watched as he saluted her with his glass of whisky. She looked elsewhere, anywhere but him, and found her attention locked on Mr. Grant who spoke to his sister and the Marquess who had arrived yesterday at his estate, or so he had said. The Marquess owning the estate adjacent to this one, and having been their neighbor in the past, thought it only right to pay his last respects to her father.

  “I’m not interested in Lord Peel or anyone at present.” She finished her glass of wine and summoned a footman for another. Not that that was entirely true, she was interested in someone, but that someone was not titled, not a land owner, not in his own right at least. As a duke’s daughter there were expectations required of her, expected from her. Mr. Grant did not suit those requirements. He was, however, the only man whom she’d ever wanted in a physical sense, not to mention an intellectual one as well. “I will return to town for next year’s Season and not before. Only then will I decide what I shall do regarding a husband.”

  “Oh my, would you look who is in attendance? That gauche family, the Grants. I see Mr. Grant and his sister still think that they are welcome at such events.”

  Clara shushed her friend, looking about to ensure no one had heard her unkind words. “Remember this is my father’s funeral. If you would show a little respect for me and my guests, I would be thankful. You may say whatever you wish in London, but not here. Not today.”

  Julia raised her brow, her lips puckering into a displeased mien, but Clara did not care. She was not in the mood for petty hate, and derogatory references toward a man whom she had come to admire, depend upon and like.

  She met his eyes across the room and her heart missed a beat. He threw her a knowing smile, and she could not stop the one he brought forth on her lips. How sweet he was, how kind and patient he’d been toward her and her many tears over the past month. Her father’s ups and downs that had occurred due to the disease that wrecked his body and left him nothing like the man she’d once known. Stephen had been beside her the whole time, keeping her will strong and comforting her when needed.

  He had not tried to kiss her again, although there were many times she’d wanted him to. She longed for the comfort of him, wanted to feel anything but the severing pain she always felt when around her papa. Now that her father was gone, what was she going to do? There was time to make a decision, but no matter how much time passed it would not change that Clara’s social stature was so very different to Stephen’s.

  Not that she imagined he thought of her as his future wife, he’d certainly never brought up such subjects with her, but she could not help but wonder if he contemplated such things when alone.

  “Lady Clara,” Lord Peel said, bending over her hand and bringing it to his lips. “May I say how very sorry I am for the loss of your father, the Duke. He was a great man and well loved.”

  “Thank you,” Clara said, pulling her hand away. “It is very nice to see so many of his friends and acquaintances here today.” Not that Lord Peel had ever been friends with her papa. In fact, her father had disliked the man, long before he started showing a marked interest in Clara. She supposed now having learned more of Lord Peel and his inappropriate actions toward women when defenseless she could understand why her father had never offered friendship. Perhaps her father had known somehow of his ungentlemanly ways with the fairer sex.

  “We will be sad not to see you in town, but I heard you say to Lady Davenport,” he said, bowing to Julia who still stood beside her, listening to the conversation, “that you will return next Season. I shall count the days until we see you again.”

  She would not count the days…

  She nodded, not the least thrilled about such an outcome. “I should probably greet Papa’s friends before they start to leave. If you’ll excuse me.” Clara started when Lord Peel took her arm, guiding her about the room.

  “Allow me, my lady. I shall escort you.”

  Clara took a calming breath, ready to tell the gentleman that she did not need or want his type of support. His touch made her skin crawl and she could not help but marvel at how different she was when around Lord Peel than Mr. Grant.

  “Lady Clara,” Stephen said, bowing in front of her and holding out his arm. “I will escort Lady Clara about the room, Lord Peel. No need to trouble yourself.” Clara pulled her arm free from Lord Peel’s and placed it on Stephen’s, turning quickly to thank his lordship for his help. “Thank you, my lord for your kind words. If you’ll excuse me.”

  She ignored the glare that passed between the two gentlemen and allowed Stephen to guide her about the room to talk to her guests. “Thank you for removing me from his lordship. I did not ask for him to assist me.”

  “I gathered as much. His marked interest in you today is as forward and telling as it was in London. Be wary of him, my lady. I do not trust him to act honorably in his pursuit of you.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, glancing up at him.

  “Only that he’s cornered you once alone already and would have done who knows what had I not heard your calls. I would not trust him not to try such things again.”

  “And I’m alone now. With father gone, maybe I should hire a companion again.”

  “I think that would be best, but you’re not alone. I’m here, and I will be only n
ext door should you need me.”

  She clutched at his arm, hugging it a little. “Thank you for all you’ve done these past weeks. I do not know what I would have done without you. You keep surprising me, Mr. Grant. I fear that we’ll soon have to admit that we’re friends.”

  He chuckled, the sound low and honeyed. It did odd things to her nerves. “I think we might. How terribly boring. I kind of enjoyed our verbal fisticuffs. Did you not?”

  “I may have, but I do enjoy this kind of verbal discourse more.” Clara tore her gaze from his before anyone noticed that they were both staring at each other, close and quite comfortable in each other’s company. “How long are the Marquess and Lady Graham staying at Ashby Cottage?”

  “They leave tomorrow. Will you dine with us tonight? I do not like the thought of you here alone.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you for your kind offer, but no. I feel tonight I want to be alone. Once everyone has gone, I shall retire early. I feel very weary all of a sudden. I think the past weeks have caught up with me.”

  “Very well,” he said, patting her hand that sat atop his arm. “I will not push you to attend, but know, no matter the time or weather, should you need me, I will come.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grant. I do not know what I would have done without you.”

  “You would have done exactly what I expected. You would have managed just as well as you did with me here. If there is one thing I know about you, Lady Clara, you’re a strong woman, independent and loyal. Admirable qualities all. I’m in awe of you.”

  Clara blinked back tears, biting her lip to stop herself from crying in front of everyone. “Will you call tomorrow?”

  “I will call as soon as my guests depart.”

  Chapter 9

  Clara could not sleep. She tossed and turned, rolled about on her bed, but in no way could she find a position that was comfortable. This was the first night that Stephen was not under the same roof as her, and she disliked the idea of being all alone, save her servants.

  She glanced at her windows, the heavy damask curtains pulled closed on the cold, fall winds that had picked up in the afternoon. A howling could be heard from outdoors and even though she told herself it was just the wind against the house, she struggled not to clutch her bedding as if it would save her from some otherworldly ghoul.

  Clara threw back her blankets and strode over to the fire, throwing a piece of wood onto the dying embers. She reached up on the mantel and lit a candle using the hot coals before going about her room and lighting the others.

  She sat before the hearth, reaching out her hands to warm them, her mind consumed with thoughts of Stephen. There was little use in denying that she had emotions invested in the man, more than she should ever have allowed herself.

  He was everything she wanted in a husband—he was kind, loving, caring and passionate. Certainly her every reaction to him had been telling, had told her more than once that he brought forth in her a passion she’d never had before. He spoke to her as an equal, did not dismiss or belittle her because she was a woman.

  The wood caught alight and she watched as the flames licked at the wood, charring it. If only he were not so beneath her in rank. Should he be her equal in rank, fortune and property, he would have suited her in all ways, but she could not ignore the fact that he was not such things. That is was she who would bring the wealth and position to a union and she could not help but fear that somewhere, deep down inside, that was the reason for his liking her. Other gentlemen had certainly made it plainly obvious she was most sought-after because she was an heiress, but that wasn’t enough.

  She wanted a husband who loved her, not her money. If she married a man of wealth and position there would be no question as to why he wanted her for his wife. It would be because he cared for and loved her.

  To marry someone out of that sphere would be a gamble and one she was not sure she could take.

  A light knock sounded on the door and she started, holding still, unsure that she’d heard what she thought she did.

  “Clara,” a masculine voice whispered. “Clara, are you awake?”

  Stephen? She stared at the door as nerves took flight in her stomach. He was here? Now? In the middle of the night…

  She walked to the door and opened it. There, standing before her in nothing but breeches and a shirt and greatcoat was Mr. Grant. He was damp from the weather outside, and his hair was windblown, no doubt from riding his horse across the fields to Chidding Hall from Ashby Cottage.

  “What are you doing here?” She glanced out into the passage and seeing no one about, pulled him into her room. “How did you get in?”

  “The footman assumed I was still staying here and I didn’t correct him on that assumption.” He walked over to the fire and stood, warming his back. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Neither could I,” she said, going over to him. She had not thought to see him again today, but now with him before her, she was glad of it. In the few hours since he’d been here, she had missed him and that in itself was troubling. She wasn’t certain what to do, or how their relationship would carry on now that her father had passed. All that she knew was that she liked Stephen and desired him more than anyone ever in her life.

  He looked down at her, his eyes stealing over her and her lack of attire. She was dressed in her nightgown and little else and heat crawled over her face that he was seeing her thus.

  “You should probably leave, Stephen,” she said, not meaning a word she spoke.

  His gaze heated and he reached out, running a finger along the lace collar of her nightdress. “Is that what you want?”

  No. “Yes,” she breathed as his hand slid farther down on her person to run along the flesh of her breast. Heat pooled at her core and she swallowed a moan when his hand flexed and he cupped her breast fully.

  He followed his hands with his lips and she didn’t stop him. Clara shut her eyes, clasping the nape of his neck as his tongue came out to flick her nipple. A shock ran through her at his touch and she was powerless to stop what was happening between them.

  How could she halt this interaction that she’d wanted for so long now? With every kiss they shared, every look and touch over the past weeks she’d wanted him to do more. Now that he was, she was not about to stop him.

  He moved and kissed her other breast and she moaned her acquiescence. His mouth was hot, wet and teased her with little licks of his tongue and full mouth kisses. Liquid heat pooled between her legs and she squeezed them together to try to quell the need that thrummed there.

  Before she knew what was happening, he scooped her up in his arms and strode for the bed, throwing her onto the covers. Clara chuckled as she bounced before she watched in fascination as Stephen ripped his breeches buttons open and pushed them off his legs. His greatcoat, cravat and shirt soon followed and within a minute he was standing before her, as naked as Adam was with Eve.

  Clara’s mouth dried at the sight of him and she licked her parched lips, wanting to feel those corded muscles against her, pushing her down and taking her as she’d longed for him to for weeks now. His eyes darkened with hunger and she shivered, fully aware that she was still dressed in her nightgown.

  “Take it off, my lady.”

  At his deep, rough command she did as he asked without question. At this moment in time she would do whatever he wanted of her so long as he touched her again. He reached down and took himself into his own hands, stroking his manhood until it jutted out before him.

  Clara kneeled on the bed and wrenched the gown from her body, leaving her as bare as he was before lying back down. He kneeled on the bed, kissing his way up her body before settling between her legs. So many emotions rioted through her blood that she did not know what to do, but she could feel. Her body hummed with a need that she’d not known before, and all she craved was for him to take her. Make love to her.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against her lips before kissing her with an unhurried air. He ro
cked against her core, making her gasp and she lifted her legs, hooking them about his waist.

  “You’re teasing me,” she moaned when he nipped her neck before licking it better.

  “I’m teasing us both.”

  Clara ran her hands over his back, feeling the corded muscle that ran down his spine. It flexed with each rock against her and she reached farther to clasp one perfect bottom cheek in her hand, pulling him against her. “Enough, Stephen. I want you,” she demanded.

  His hot breaths mingled with hers and he met her gaze as he reached down between them, placing his manhood at her core. And then, inch by delicious inch he slid into her. She gasped as pain ripped, stinging at where they joined. He stilled, kissing her lips, her cheeks and neck.

  “I’m sorry, my darling. I did not mean to hurt you.”

  Clara shook her head, taking in this new feeling of him between her legs, the fullness and strangeness of being with a man for the first time. He felt too large, too wide and hard to go any farther, but then he rocked slowly forward and there was no pain, only pleasure and a throbbing ache that would not abate.

  “Don’t stop,” she managed to say, liking the feel of his chest as it grazed hers with each thrust. She undulated beneath him, wanting more. There was no longer any friction, only pleasure, and Clara let herself go, to enjoy all that he could give her, tonight at least.

  * * *

  Stephen thrust into Clara, taking her as he’d dreamed of from the very first moment they kissed. She was so hot and wet, and clamped about his cock with a force that left him breathless and struggling not to spill too soon.

  He needed her to climax, he had to make this night as enjoyable for her as it would be for him. It had, however, been quite some months since he’d slept with a woman and it was taking all the control not to climax like a green lad of eighteen.