“I—oh.” His mouth touched the angle of her jaw. “I won’t. . . .” He was back to a spot under her ear. “That is . . .” And now the base of her throat. “Ohh.”
What is he doing to me?
She felt so odd. And, oddest of all, the place between her legs where Dervington had been felt swollen and . . . tingly.
“Trust me,” Nick murmured.
Trust him?
She wasn’t one to trust, especially men. Trusting men had never got her anything good. She’d trusted Dervington. Ha! She’d trusted her father, and he’d turned his back on her. She’d trusted the Westling Mr. Harris and had hied off to London only to have to use her knife to fend off his brother.
The only person she trusted was herself.
Except at the moment her body felt most untrustworthy. Her neck arched without her conscious will to give Nick’s clever mouth more room to explore.
Stop. I need to stop this.
But her treacherous body argued back. It’s only for a few more minutes. You can last that long. You don’t want Nick to win the wager, do you?
Somehow her hands had moved to steady herself by grasping Nick’s arms—his warm, naked, muscled arms.
“Don’t worry.” His tongue traced her collarbone. “You are safe with me, Caro.”
“I . . . I . . . Ohh.” The words came out thin and high. Her breasts felt odd now, too. Heavy and full. Her nipples had tightened into hard nubs. The place between her legs was throbbing.
She should be mortified. Or terrified. But the feeling pounding through her, keeping time with her heart and her . . . lower organ was desperation. She needed Nick.
“I won’t do anything you don’t like.”
She heard the words through a haze. He had lit this fire. He needed to put it out before it consumed her. “Nick.”
He kissed one corner of her mouth, nibbled her lower lip.
“Nick.” She was panting, lips parted, waiting for him to—
“Oh, look,” he said. “Our fifteen minutes are up.”
Chapter Twelve
Nick unlocked the heavy wooden door that closed off the storage section of the attics from the female servants’ rooms. Judging from all the giggles and surreptitious looks they’d got as he and Caro—and Edward—made their way here, the tale of Caro’s being in his bed this morning had already spread far and wide.
Good. That should put not only the Weasel and Dervington’s spawn but also Felix and Bertram and all the other men on notice that insulting Caro would earn them his wrath.
Unless . . .
What if the other men thought Caro was no more to him than Livy or any of the many other women he’d bedded over the years? He was known as Lord Devil.
A wave of shame and regret washed over him, followed by a familiar sense of ill-usage. If Uncle Leon hadn’t—
No. He couldn’t blame Leon any longer. Look how Caro had recovered from her experience with Dervington. She’d more than recovered—she’d flourished.
Oh, God. I’ve spent years wallowing in the mud made of old pain and dreams of revenge, haven’t I?
Yes, he’d had sorrow and challenges, but, unlike Edward, Nick had had eleven years of happiness and then, even at Oakland, food on the table and a roof over his head.
He was grown now. He should take control of his life just as Caro had taken control of hers. It was long past time to stop living in Uncle Leon’s shadow.
Especially now that he knew what a dark, painful shadow Leon had lived in. Soul-crushing loss and dashed dreams had twisted his uncle, robbing him of love—
Is that what I’m letting happen to me?
He frowned. No. Of course not.
Living to spite Leon certainly sounds like it.
Well, perhaps.
Marrying Caro—
No! He should not jump into marriage. Even thinking about taking such a plunge so abruptly seemed beyond foolhardy.
That was his brain talking. His heart felt differently.
Eh. Or maybe it’s my cock.
He watched Edward wade into the hodgepodge of odds and ends, some likely consigned to the attics generations ago, and then Caro follow him, seeming not to give a second thought to the dust and dirt collecting on her skirt.
Of course she didn’t think of it. She wasn’t some Society miss, caring for her appearance. She was an independent businesswoman, used to getting dirty, focused on her work, not her wardrobe.
She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. She was doing quite well on her own.
But he was beginning to think he needed her.
And I can offer her something she doesn’t have—pleasure.
Edward had picked up some object he found interesting and was showing it to her—and she was listening and smiling.
She’d be good with children. Unlike him, she’d grown up in a family with siblings—well, brothers. If they were to have—
And now I’ve jumped to considering an heir?
Good God!
Edward and Caro moved farther into the jumble. He started to follow, but bumped against—
Lord, here was one of the pictures that had given him such nightmares as a boy—a nasty, dark depiction of the fallen angels, tumbling into hell. How had Papa created such joyful paintings after growing up with this sort of gloom hanging on every wall?
Perhaps it was the darkness that had motivated him to try to capture brightness and light in his own art.
I need to focus more on brightness and light.
He looked over at Caro again and remembered, far too vividly, the warmth of her skin this morning, the sound of her little pants and moans, the way she’d moved to give him easier access to her neck—and the confused and then annoyed look she’d speared him with when he’d called time.
And yet, it wasn’t just those fifteen minutes that had seduced him. It was the conversation that had happened before as well—then and last night. Something more than physical pleasure had sprung up between them.
At least, it had sprung up in him. He hoped Caro had felt some of the same emotions.
She had felt pleasure. He grinned. He’d won their wager.
But would she want to do what they’d done again—and more?
He liked to pride himself on his bedroom skills, but he suddenly realized they’d never been tested. Livy would act satisfied even if he failed miserably.
He had failed miserably, so miserably no amount of acting could hide his, er, flaccid performance.
But this morning hadn’t been about performance at all. It had been about something else—something deeper. And it had been about Caro. He’d wanted to bring her joy. He’d barely thought about himself.
Well, it was almost Christmas. He would hope for a Christmas miracle. And, yes, he supposed that might be profane, but it didn’t feel profane to him at the moment.
“Look!” Edward said. “A sled.”
Happy to leave the painting of newly minted demons, Nick snaked his way over to where Edward and Caro stood. There was indeed a sled leaning against the wall.
“I’d forgotten about that. My uncle gave it to me when I was a boy.”
Well, Uncle Leon had tried to give it to him.
There’d been a snowstorm just a few weeks after Nick had arrived at Oakland, and his uncle, with a bit of a flourish, had presented him with this sled. Leon had said it had once been Papa’s. His uncle had had the estate carpenter refurbish it for Nick.
Nick picked up the sled, examined it. He hadn’t thought about it in years. It was much smaller and lighter than he remembered, but then he’d been much smaller and lighter then, too.
Had his uncle thought it a way to bridge the chasm between them? He vaguely remembered Leon’s saying he and Papa had used to slide together down the long slope in the north field.
If forging a connection had been Leon’s intention, it hadn’t worked. Nick had not been able then to see anything beyond his own misery and loss. He’d wanted his papa back—not some wooden sled.
His papa and his mama. He’d wanted to go home to Italy where it was sunny and warm and he had aunts and uncles and cousins.
He’d wanted nothing to do with the strange, cold, wet snow.
He’d burst into extremely unmanly tears and had refused even to touch the sled.
That had not sat well with his uncle. Nick might not remember the man’s expression when he’d given him the sled, but he remembered all too clearly how Uncle Leon had looked at Nick then. His mouth had twisted with distaste.
And hurt?
Nick frowned. Perhaps. Looking back from an adult’s vantage point, he thought that possible.
Uncle Leon had said that only girls cried and only weaklings quailed at a little snow, that Nick was an Englishman now, not some bloody Italian, and should behave like an Englishman—an Englishman who would one day be Viscount Oakland.
At that, Nick had turned and run. He’d wanted to get as far from his cold, English uncle as he could. He’d run down one cold corridor after another, past countless dark and ugly paintings, until he’d been completely lost.
After what had seemed like several hours, but likely hadn’t been even one, a footman had found him huddled in a corner in the east wing and had guided him back to the schoolroom where his dinner of mutton stew was sitting on a tray, stone-cold.
He’d choked down every gelatinous spoonful and had vowed never to cry in front of his uncle—or anyone else—again.
He’d tried the sled several days later, mostly to show his uncle he could. And then he’d never touched it again.
Until now.
He could appreciate good workmanship when he saw it. The sled was well made and, he’d wager, sturdy even after all these years.
“Does it still work, do you think?” Edward asked. “I’ve never ridden on a real sled—only on old boards and such.”
Nick looked down at the boy, impressed that he could sound so excited and happy after the shocks of yesterday’s events.
“I imagine so. Shall we take it downstairs? You can try it out when the snow stops.”
Edward grinned. “And will you come, too, milord?”
“Er . . .” Nick didn’t want to disappoint the boy, but he still hated the cold. And this was Felix’s duty. Felix might not be a blood connection to Edward, but he was Edward’s . . . stepfather, of a sort. He was responsible for Edward and his mother and sister’s being at Oakland. If Felix hadn’t misled Mrs. Dixon about his intentions, she would not have set out in an impending blizzard with her small family.
Where was Felix? The bounder had been playing least in sight since yesterday and the arrival of their surprise guests.
I need to have a word with him.
It’s not really my concern . . .
But it was. The drama was playing out in his house on his land. He was the lord of the manor, much as he might wish he weren’t.
Do I still wish that?
Of course I do. I must. I . . .
Lord, this was so confusing. Something he’d known as a certainty for years suddenly seemed not so certain at all.
Caro came to his rescue on the sledding part, at least.
“Lord Oakland lived in Italy when he was your age, Edward. I believe he’s never completely adjusted to England’s winters.” She looked at him and raised a brow, inviting him to confirm her words.
“Right. I’m sorry, Edward. No matter how many layers I put on, I’m still chilled to the bone if I spend any time in the cold.”
“Oh.”
Hell, Edward looked so disappointed. Nick hated to fail him. But what could he do? He couldn’t offer Felix as an option. There was no guarantee he could find the bounder, especially if he didn’t wish to be found—Oakland was large and Nick didn’t know it much better than he had as a boy. And even if he did corner Felix, he couldn’t compel him to do the right thing.
But he was lord of the manor. “Perhaps we can find a footman to go out with you.”
Edward brightened, though his expression was still a bit wistful.
“And I promise to brave the snow tomorrow to collect holly and ivy and the Yule log.”
That earned him a smile.
Nick turned to see that Caro was smiling at him, too. He grinned back at her.
And mistletoe. I’ll find some mistletoe, as well.
It would be expected, if they were decorating for the season, to include a kissing bough. He’d just keep a sharp eye out to be certain none of the other men ambushed Caro under it. He, however, planned to take the opportunity for a kiss. People would expect it, given their sham affair.
Which might not be a complete sham . . .
“Oh! Look what was under the sled.” Caro stooped to pull a cloth off a long, narrow object.
“What is it?” He looked down. “Ah, the cradle. Splendid. I’ll send a footman up—”
“Nonsense. It’s not that heavy. I can carry it.” Caro picked the cradle up and tucked it under one arm. “And I have a hand free to manage my skirt on the stairs.” She laughed at what must have been his befuddled expression. “Brewing is hard work, Nick. I’m not some London hothouse flower.”
“So, I see.” And he’d like to feel—feel her strong arms around his neck, her strong legs around his waist....
And he’d better think of something else. At least the sled provided an excellent shield to hide his body’s enthusiastic reaction.
On their way down the stairs, they encountered the footman who’d directed them to the kitchen the day before. He looked young enough to be able to take Edward sledding. Nick stopped him, relieved he managed to recall the man’s name.
“Ah, Thomas.”
The footman’s eyes widened. He clearly was as surprised as Nick that Nick remembered his name—and possibly also surprised to see Nick carrying a sled.
“Y-yes, milord?”
“Have you ever gone sledding around here?”
The footman’s eyes opened wider. “Er, yes, milord. I grew up at Oakland.”
“Splendid. So, you must know all the good hills?”
“Yes, milord. I think so, milord.”
“Then could you take Master Edward out?” Nick glanced out a nearby window. “It looks as if the snow has finally stopped.”
“Yes, milord. It stopped about half an hour ago. Mr. Brooks is of the opinion that the worst is over.”
“Excellent.” Nick looked at Edward. “Your mother won’t object, will she?”
Edward shook his head. “Oh, no. Mama is used to my going my own way.”
Right. Edward wasn’t the heir to a viscountcy. His mother worked, so the boy must spend much of his time unsupervised. Quite possibly he helped out as he could, earning a few pennies here and there.
Nick turned back to the footman. “So, Thomas, if you would be so kind?” He handed Thomas the sled.
“Very good, milord.” Thomas looked down at Edward. “Come along, Master Edward.”
“Ah, before you leave, Thomas,” Nick said, “could you tell me where I might find Mr. Simpson?”
Thomas’s eyes flicked down to Edward and then back to Nick. “I’m sure I can’t say, milord.”
Blast, that must mean Felix is with Mrs. Dixon.
Well, Nick would find out soon enough when he delivered the cradle.
“Ah, very good. Thank you.”
Thomas went off with Edward and the sled. Nick turned to take the cradle from Caro.
Of course, she didn’t give it up. She stepped back, out of his reach. “I can carry it.”
She certainly was a prickly, independent female.
Which is surprisingly seductive.
“Yes, I’m sure you can, but please think of my reputation. People will talk if I am seen walking along empty-handed while you tote that bulky cradle.”
Caro scowled at him. “Who is going to talk? We’re in your house—not on some London street.”
“True, but remember, we are supposed to be besotted with each other. Every lovesick swain I’ve ever observed treats his belo
ved as if she were a delicate flower to be protected from the slightest breeze.”
Caro’s face was the picture of disgust. “That sounds revolting.”
Nick laughed. “Yes, I think it rather silly, too, but I still wish you to give me that cradle.”
She scowled at him a moment longer. He began to weigh the wisdom of taking the blasted thing out of her hands. He could do it easily enough—but was it worth brangling over?
Fortunately, he didn’t have to put it to the test.
“Oh, very well.” She shoved the cradle into his hands and continued down the stairs ahead of him.
* * *
Caro reached the floor Mrs. Dixon’s room was on and hurried down the corridor. She wished to put as much distance between herself and Nick as she could. Now that Edward was gone and she didn’t have the cradle as a shield, she felt . . .
What? Nick isn’t going to attack me.
Yes, she knew that, but . . .
What did he do to me this morning?
Nick had barely touched her, and yet those fifteen—thirteen—minutes had changed something deep inside her. He’d woken parts of her she hadn’t known were there and made her feel a host of new, intense sensations.
For a few moments, her body had ruled her mind. She hadn’t been afraid or nervous. She hadn’t analyzed Nick’s actions. She’d just felt. Just ached and throbbed and yearned.
She hadn’t even minded that he’d won their wager.
The experience had been nothing at all like the two times Dervington had visited her bed. Those had been painful. Deeply distasteful.
This had been....
What Nick had done with her had been wonderful, as satisfying as sipping her best batch of Widow’s Brew.
Except Nick hadn’t satisfied her. He’d . . . tantalized her. She’d wanted more. There must be more. But what was it?
Her steps had slowed while she considered the matter, so Nick had caught up to her. She glanced at him. What other delights can he offer me?
Pen and many of the other women at the Home seemed to enjoy sexual congress.
Could I enjoy it, too?
Nerves danced in her belly, but whether they were from anxiety or excitement, she couldn’t say.
The Merry Viscount Page 17