“You lived everywhere with your mother for a while.” He was talking to her breasts as if they could hear. “Why not call yourself York, or Bristol, or East Little Teignmouth? Why Setterington?”
“I chose Setterington because I didn’t think you knew about my time there.”
“No.” His fist tightened. “I didn’t.”
Hannah wondered if this new frankness between them would lead to a better understanding—or to violence. She didn’t know this Dougald. In his face she sought some semblance of his former character, but this confrontation felt like the clash between interrogator and prisoner—and she knew very well which role Dougald fancied he played.
In as crisp as tone as she could manage, she said, “If you are done complaining, I would like to meet your aunt now—always supposing there really is an aunt.”
“My dear Hannah, I would not lie to you about such a great thing.” He allowed her to change the subject without objection. Of course. He would view her action as retreat. “Great-aunt, twice removed.”
“I don’t recall any mention of you having such a relative.”
“Of course not. We are so distantly connected I had scarcely ever heard mention of her myself. But Aunt Spring has lived at Raeburn Castle all of her life.” He sighed as if much put upon. “Gathering companions.”
“Companions?” Hannah questioned. “I wasn’t informed of any companions.”
“Ladies of an elderly bent and interfering nature whom I have inherited along with the castle.”
“Ah.” She understood completely. If he wished to win the goodwill of the people on the estate, he couldn’t fling an old woman from the only home she’d ever known; nor could he remove her friends.
Hannah looked him over, observing the lines of bitterness deeply engraved around his mouth, the severity he exuded. “I am to care for all of them?” she asked.
“Aunt Spring is the great-aunt. She suffers from moments of vagueness and is fond of rocks.”
“Rocks?”
He didn’t expatiate. “The other ladies are fine. More than fine. They are healthy with the exception of some hearing loss—that would be Miss Isabel, who owns a telescope and views the stars.”
“Stars.”
“Miss Ethel grows flowers.”
“Growing flowers seems a more typical activity for an elderly lady.”
“Typical.” He seemed to consider the word, then shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect typical. Miss Minnie takes a faint spell occasionally, and sketches. They all sew.” He tapped his fingertips together. “You don’t mind taking care of four such ladies, do you?”
What was she supposed to say? “Not at all.”
“After all, the more work you’re given, the happier you are.”
Forgetting to be cautious of this new Dougald, she snapped, “Absolutely correct. Thank you for thinking of me.”
One corner of his grim mouth lifted. She’d risen to the bait. He’d annoyed her; she had responded. If they were playing a game, he had won. If they were at war, then she had just handed him a weapon with which to wound her. She had to be more careful. She had to remember that, at this moment, he controlled her. Her comings and goings, her work and her leisure. He was the master, she the servant, at least until she had somehow worked out a way to escape him.
Escape Dougald…it seemed that with every encounter, she was trying to run away from him. Looking at him now, running away didn’t seem like a bad idea.
Yet she held her cool composure like armor, and said, “It’s good of you to hire someone to care for them.”
She thought she annoyed him with her serenity, but before she could verify it his brief flash of irritation disappeared.
“It’s not good of me at all,” he said. “They are four eccentric women who have been making trouble ever since I arrived. I want them contained.”
“Trouble?” Hannah searched her mind. “There was no mention of trouble in your letter…but then, there wouldn’t be, would there?”
“The last main earl—the one who managed to survive for thirty-odd years—was Aunt Spring’s brother, and he allowed her to take in any stray she wished. Once the number had reached overwhelming proportions, they were ungovernable.”
Hannah scarcely contained a grin to see him so disarmed. “I thought there were only four of them.”
With excruciating leisure, Dougald stood. “Do you find me laughable?”
Humor faded, and she found herself rising to her feet to face him. “Not laughable, but you speak of these ladies as if they were a battering ram and you a long-suffering portal.”
For the first time since Dougald had turned from the window to face her, she was no longer fearing him, wondering about him, glaring at him; indeed, she feared she bathed him with a look too fond, for he was not mocking or glaring.
Oh, no. It was much worse than that.
He stared at her as if she were an unsuspecting fawn and he a ravaging wolf. Had he followed her into her mind and joined her in her memories? Or had he remembered other times, passionate times? Times when they had joined together despite the fights and the unhappiness, because their bodies demanded and they had no choice but to obey?
If he knew about the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, he knew at least of the tribulations and challenges she’d faced. He knew she was strong and tough, that she wasn’t the innocent he had come so close to destroying before.
Only…only the way he looked at her had nothing to do with business, or the years they had been apart, or the changes in their bodies and their minds. He looked and she was bathed in pure, animal heat. He projected a package filled with memories…her faint moans, his desperate passion, their two bodies nude on a bed, on a table…on the train. Whatever trouble they’d had between them never mattered when they held each other in their arms.
Then his eyelids drooped, hiding his thoughts. Gracefully he slithered back into his chair, and in a voice rife with boredom, he said, “Of course you will care for the aunts. You didn’t dream I brought you here to act as my wife—in any capacity?”
Blackguard. Knave, rascal, devil.
How dare he dismiss her imaginings when he’d led her to think exactly that? He had baited her, dangling memories before her, leading her where he wished. Proving she still wanted him.
With an aggression that was perhaps ill-advised, but necessary, she said, “You will not divorce me.”
“No. I will not be the first to bring such a disgrace on the Pippard family.”
“So what recourse do I have?”
“I think you know the answer to that.” His fingers stroked the smooth, carved wood of his chair arm. “We can go on as we have. I will never tell anyone who you are and I will never be able to remarry. I will be the last of the Pippards and the title of earl of Raeburn will pass to yet another branch of the family.” He paused, waiting for comment.
She knew very well he would not willingly suffer such consequences. “What other options?”
His voice, deep and sweet as syrup, warmed her as he suggested, “We can reconcile.”
She took a quick, shallow breath, and she found herself looking everywhere but at him.
“Or we have a third option.”
A third option? She could think of no third option. “What is it?”
“Everyone already thinks my wife is dead. So I could kill you.”
6
Hannah couldn’t catch her breath. She stared at Dougald, this angry, hostile lord who stroked his chin and looked so thoughtful. The old Dougald would never be so callous, yet this man spoke of her murder with a calm that froze her blood.
“Killing you would certainly solve all my problems. As long as I didn’t get caught, I’d be no more notorious than I already am.” Then he laughed. A husky, illused chuckle. “Of course, I mention it only as one of our options. I would never truly harm you in any way…my love.”
Swine! To jest about her death now, tonight, the first time they’d seen each other in nine ye
ars! To mention a cold grave while the fog swirled outside and the only soul who knew her true identity and background was the very man who menaced her. If she wanted proof that he truly did not love her, had never loved her, his words, his laughter provided that proof. Well. She would not sit here and allow him to torment her. She had had a difficult trip. Merely seeing him had been a horrible shock.
She’d had enough. Enough of his threats, his sneers, his taunts, his reminiscences. She wanted to rush at him, to shake her finger in his face, show him his mistake in thinking he could humiliate her. Her, the headmistress of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses and the businesswoman who had guided the school to success!
Enough of being afraid. She wasn’t afraid of anyone. Certainly not a man, a coward! who stalked her, who threatened to make her perform her marital duties unwillingly, who found joy in intimidating her.
“I didn’t dream about you at all.” Striding over to him, she stood over the top of him and looked down at him. Tilting his head up, he looked back.
Handsome? No, not any longer, but intense, burning with…with some emotion. Ardor, maybe. Hatred, perhaps. She would probably never know. The passions that lived in him were now disciplined, allowed out only on a short tether.
Masculine? Yes, shadow and candlelight sculpted his features, leaving no kindness, no tenderness, no soft curve…except for his mouth. That mouth…the lips were buttery-soft, plush and downy, especially when they kissed her neck, her breast, her thigh.
Tall? Yes, but she was, too. When they married, they stood together in the reception line and people had told them how well they looked together. A few indiscreet and rather tipsy gentlemen had brayed about how they would make beautiful children together.
They hadn’t; she had quite consciously left before a child tied her to the man who had manipulated her. Disappointed her. No, during the long years alone she wisely never imagined anything about him. She didn’t like the weeping that would inevitably follow.
Yes, this was Dougald, and she would not be afraid of him. Wedging her knee on the seat between his thigh and the chair arm, she asked, “If you don’t want me to be your wife, why did you bring me here?”
He observed her as he would observe a cat he had vexed—with caution, yet without worry. For how much damage can one little cat cause?
His mistake. She was strong. She could taunt and threaten and intimidate, too. Better, she could make him want her, and she could take command.
“I want you,” he answered. “To care for my aunt.”
“You could hired a local woman.” Placing her hand on his shoulder, she leaned closer to him and had the great joy of feeling him draw back slightly. Her aggressive rush had at least puzzled him. “You went to a great deal of trouble to get me.”
“Perhaps I’ve grown parsimonious in my old age. After all, I don’t have to pay my wife.”
His breath brushed her face, the heat of his body burned through his waistcoat. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, seemingly at rest, apparently uninterested in lifting toward the body so close above his own.
“Slave labor,” she accused.
“Almost as good,” he said. “The loving labor of a spouse.”
Sarcastic creature! But she didn’t fear to confront him. “Or perhaps you have some other plan…?”
“Anything is possible.” He sounded vaguely bored. “But what is definite is that you’re going to stay, and you’re going to work, and you’re not going to know my plans until I want you to.”
“Maybe.” She leaned all the way down, close enough to look right into his eyes, close enough that their lips almost kissed. “Maybe not.”
Then she closed the gap—and kissed him.
She tasted the surprise on his lips. Good! Good. She’d taken the smug swine unawares with her sudden move.
Taken herself unawares, too…
Her eyelids fluttered closed.
His lips were the same. Smooth, wide, sensual. As a young girl, she spent hours exploring his lips, trying to identify why his kisses so enchanted her. She had never succeeded, and now as she rested her lips on his, then slanted her head to fit them closer together, she wondered if she should actually taste him. Open her lips over his, invite him inside, and if he resisted, she would take the initiative, go deep into the wine-scented cavern and show him just how much his wife she really was….
No, she shouldn’t. That would lead them places she didn’t want to go. Instead she would keep it light, remember the impulse that had led her here and understand she strove to take the upper hand.
She would ignore her own quickened breathing, the faint sheen of perspiration this contact brought her, and just touch his face with her hand. Just touch him softly…he’d shaved his chin. He’d shaved not long before she had arrived, because his black beard was nothing but a velvet burr against her fingertips. A burr on that broad jaw. She spread her fingers, seeking to touch more, and she located his cheekbone. Her thumb slid across, once, twice. The skin there was always smooth, a pleasure to stroke. Her fingertips rubbed his ear, circling each ridge, holding the lobe, then lightly massaging it.
Beneath her other hand, his shoulder flexed. Yes. A caress on the ear had always disturbed him. Always brought his body surging toward hers.
She broke off the kiss and straightened up. Prudence. A chance to grasp at discretion.
He wasn’t surging toward her. He hadn’t moved at all. His hands still rested on the arms of the chair, his thigh still pressed against her knee, he still watched her…still watched her.
Her lips felt swollen when she asked, “Shall I stop?”
“No.”
“This is insane.”
With heartfelt sincerity, he said, “To hell with sanity.”
Yes. Yes. Perhaps she was deranged, but this asylum imprisoned two. Here, between the two of them, uncontrollable emotions rose and tossed them on the seas of passion, and no matter how he wished it otherwise, he responded to her. In this matter, at least, his discipline was inadequate.
Her hand slid into his hair, along his temple and into the silky strands. She sifted them through her fingers. Streaks of white. Dear heavens, he had streaks of white mixed with the shiny black, and he was but thirty-six. Between her fingers, she fancied she could feel the difference in colors. Certainly she could feel pain, loneliness, worry.
Had he suffered? How she hoped so!
Stroking the hair away from his face, she bent toward him again. His lips…sweet. Remarkably sweet for such a bitter man. With her eyes and her lips closed, she could almost taste him through the faint brush of his breath. Almost taste him…
Almost wasn’t enough.
Softly she opened her lips on his, showing him, coaxing his mouth open. He was an apt student, ready to follow her example, just as if he’d never done this before, never seduced her, never brought her to whimpering pleasure just so he could bend her to his will…
Damn him. Her fingers clenched in his hair. Her palm leaned hard against his shoulder. She pressed her tongue into his mouth, taking pleasure in overpowering him.
And he…Dougald wouldn’t stand for that. Of course not. He answered in kind, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, fighting with her for mastery. His hands spanned her waist, holding her in place.
As if she would try to get away now! Now, when she had him just where she wanted him, beneath her, kissing on her command. She had taken the initiative. Let him try to wrest it from her—
A firm, chilly, disapproving voice broke through Hannah’s stupor. “We are going to have to keep an eye on those two.”
7
Dazed, Hannah broke the kiss. She looked into his eyes. For one unguarded moment she saw passion and fury. Then he blinked and…
Nothing. She could read nothing there; if he had experienced any emotion—any emotion—he hid it well.
Deliberately, she blanked expression from her face, cleared her mind, and looked toward the source of that voice.
In the d
oorway. Four elderly women of various sizes and shapes stood just inside, observing Dougald and Hannah with expressions ranging from disapproval to bright-eyed interest.
“What a relief!” one round-faced, swarthy darling loudly said. “Dear Dougald has been here almost a year and hasn’t shown a speck of interest in women. I had begun to worry that he danced to a different tune.”
“Isabel, I vow you are too blunt.” A white-haired lady shook her head reprovingly.
“You wondered, too, Ethel!” In contrast, Aunt Isabel’s hair was completely, suspiciously black.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t say so.”
“He probably didn’t hear me.”
“He would have to be deaf not to.”
“Oh, pshaw!”
While they squabbled like children, Hannah pushed herself away from Dougald—in a cooler moment, her plot for revenge seemed ill-advised and to have gone sadly awry—and stood on her own two feet.
Dougald rose and without primping—his hair appeared to be quite mussed—said, “Good evening, ladies.” He walked toward them, grave and tall and apparently not at all perturbed to be caught kissing a stranger.
“How are you, dear boy?” The diminutive, gray-haired lady stood on tiptoe. Dougald leaned down. She kissed him on the cheek and patted his head. “Have I told you how happy I am to have my nephew here at last?”
“Several times, Aunt Spring.” Hannah recognized the deep repressive voice. This was the lady who had interrupted them. She sported beautifully styled white hair, and she towered over the diminutive Aunt Spring in both height and breadth. Not that she was fat, but she was big-boned and broad-shouldered, the kind of woman who would have done well caring for the bedridden.
“But Miss Minnie, she may tell me as often as she likes.” Dougald bowed to them both. “It is a pleasure to be so precious to my kind great-aunt.”
Miss Minnie gave a grunt.
Aunt Spring lightly punched her in the arm. “You see, dear? He is quite a dear boy.”
Rules of Attraction Page 6
