A Treacherous Engagement

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  He smiled. “That would be the perfect place to start. Particularly as I want to prove the feelings I expressed before are genuine.”

  A warm glow suffused her limbs, drugging her senses with slow inevitability. She’d dreaded, longed for this moment. But could she trust any of the words that issued from that firm, delectable mouth?

  Playing for time, she asked, “Why, then, have you come as someone other than your true self today? Why hide behind the mask once again?”

  “Because Robert Goodrich-Bligh made an unholy mess of trying to convince you to marry him. I was hoping Mr Goodrich, gentleman and man-about-town would make a better job of it. Even if he couldn’t convince you with his impeccable taste, and manners, and choice gifts, I hoped the sheer ridiculousness of his garb might amuse you. Soften you up a little, I suppose.”

  “Robert, you are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Is that a smile I see? Good. Now, this wig is itching like the devil. Do you mind if I remove it?”

  She brought her wrist up to her nose once more. The scent was divine. “By all means.”

  Her heart had started quivering again, and when she looked up to see him running his hands through his thick, golden hair, the palpitations intensified.

  He sought her gaze, his expression serious. “Now, here is my other gift.” He handed her two folded pieces of paper. “Read the top one first.” He sat back so she could turn towards the light, and started wiping the make-up from his face with a handkerchief.

  Ignoring the papers in her hands, she watched transfixed as Robert transformed himself from effeminate fop to dangerously handsome aristocrat. Albeit in a hideous yellow jacket and breeches.

  Sensing her perusal, he gestured at the papers. “What are you waiting for? Read it, I beg you.”

  She opened the top page and scanned it. Then read it again. When she looked up, her heart was thumping against her ribs. “If we married, you’d sign all the trust fund money over to me?”

  “Yes.” He tucked the handkerchief away, then loosened his high collar. “I need you to understand I’ll be marrying you for love—if you’ll have me—not the control of Blacklands, nor your inheritance. This is a legally binding document which will come into effect as soon as the funds are released. The other paper is a special marriage licence, so there need be no delay.”

  She clutched at his sleeve as the world moved and blurred. Dragging in a sobbing breath, she coughed and choked, caught between tears and hysterical laughter. In one way, he’d presented her with a solution to all her problems. In another, he’d just given her an even more massive one.

  Should she accept his offer? Could she trust him?

  He patted her lightly on the back. “Too choked up to speak? Is that a good sign, or a bad one?”

  She swallowed. “I don’t know. You are the most ludicrous creature, Robert.”

  “Would you be prepared to take a chance on this ludicrous creature? The way I see it, you’ve nothing to lose by marrying me.”

  Reaching out a hand that trembled, she stroked his fair hair back from his brow, caressing his temple, resting her palm against his cheek. The look he gave her was incandescent as the sun, and her pulse leapt.

  She took a few rapid breaths, then said, “Nothing to lose but my heart, I suppose.”

  He jumped to his feet, bringing her with him. “Might I understand that as a ‘yes’?”

  Never before had she seen anyone look so relieved, excited and ecstatic all at the same time. Laughter rippled through her. As he leaned down, expecting a kiss, she stopped him with a finger against his lips.

  “There’s one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You never wear that appalling yellow jacket and breeches again.”

  A dashing dimple appeared in his cheek. “I shall take them off immediately.”

  “You’re too shocking.” Despite her words, the idea of him stripping down right in front of her was intriguing, to say the least. She’d guessed, she’d imagined, she’d even explored a little on that day in the grotto and understood there was a lot more of his body to enjoy. Suddenly she didn’t want to delay that enjoyment.

  “No? I only wanted to please you.” The corners of his lips fell in a melodramatic pout.

  There was the crunch of footsteps on the path outside, followed moments later by a knock on the front door.

  No! Not now! Whoever could it be, calling at such an inopportune moment? She struggled to pull herself together. “You’d better leave, Robert. We can talk more later.”

  He slid the special licence from her grip. “I’d better take care of this. I had to move mountains to get it. Can we meet this evening? To discuss the wedding?”

  Wedding? She could hardly believe she was hearing that word, after so many weeks of worry. “Of course.”

  “I’ll meet you in the grotto. What time is dusk? Just before seven o’clock, shall we say?”

  “We shall indeed.” There would be a great deal to discuss. She would await the hour in delirious anticipation.

  Robert kissed her—a brief, searing salute that sent her senses reeling. Then he strode to the door and opened it.

  A youth in riding boots stood there with a sealed paper in his hand. “Good day to you, sir. I have a letter for a Miss P. Duvall.”

  “Here.” Robert took the letter and handed it to Phoebe, then gave the lad a coin, and dismissed him.

  “Until this evening, my love.” His eyes fell on the letter. “I hope it is good news. If not, please don’t hesitate to send for me. I will always be there for you Phoebe, no matter what. In fact, ought I to wait?”

  She’d never be able to concentrate on her letter if he remained in the room. That kiss had set her body ablaze. “No, no need. Farewell.”

  Regretfully, she closed the door behind him, then wandered back to the sitting room, the letter unopened in her hand.

  I’ve just agreed to marry Robert Goodrich-Bligh, the future Earl of Marchmont. Or have I agreed to marry man-about-town, the over-fashionable Mr Goodrich? Or am I about to be spliced to Mr Robert Bligh, perfumier of Venice?

  And did it actually matter which one at all? She could have fun unravelling all the aliases, and seeing what lay beneath. And if she didn’t like what she found, she could just pack him off to look after his sister in Venice, or leave him at Donhead while she went off to do whatever she pleased at Blacklands.

  But she didn’t want to do that, did she? He was like a fascinating novel she would never tire of reading, a well whose depths could never be plumbed, a continuous theatrical play, absorbing, intriguing, with which she could never become bored. The bare truth was frightening, but it was there, staring her in the face and refusing to remain hidden. She had already given him her heart.

  She loved him.

  The realisation sent a tide of heat through her, and she collapsed into a chair, fanning herself with the newly arrived letter. Ah, the letter. It could be important. She looked at the address and saw it had been sent on from Blacklands. That handwriting…

  Great heaven! Tearing the letter open, she unfolded a full page of closely-written script. Her gaze flew to the signature at the end. Your ever-loving father, Benjamin Duvall.

  She scanned the letter, too overset to read it properly, then looked at the date on the top. It had taken two weeks to reach her. The address from which it had originally been sent was Southampton, England. Papa was in England!

  Another attempt was made before her fuddled brain was able to establish that Papa had finally escaped from prison in France, had spent some time in hiding recovering his health, and had recently felt well enough to make the sea-crossing to England. As soon as he’d attended to some business affairs in London, the letter informed her, he’d come home.

  She held the paper to her breast, joy rampaging through her. Papa was alive, he could borrow money for the repairs to Blacklands, and everything would be as it was before.

  Thi
s gave her a reprieve. It meant she didn’t have to marry Robert after all.

  Chapter 18

  It was a wonderfully warm evening. A nightingale churred from a hawthorn bush, silenced only as Phoebe passed by on her way to her tryst with Robert. Thrushes were proclaiming their territory, and exhausted titmice still raced back and forth, feeding their greedy chicks. Summer was on its way—a time of burgeoning promise, fecundity, and sensation.

  She could taste the breath of honeysuckle on the air and ran her hands lightly over the fading rhododendron blossoms as she approached the dark, silent entrance to the grotto. The passageway enticed her, despite the blackness within. She had a candle, but while there was still light enough to find her way, she didn’t want to light it, letting harsh reality inside to steal the soft magic of twilight.

  Inside the grotto, it was a different matter, but no sooner had she opened her tinderbox than she heard Robert purr, “No need for that. Just keep your head low, and follow the sound of my voice.”

  The feeling of anticipation increased, Robert’s presence adding to her joy at the miracle of her father’s return. The two men she liked best in the world. Soon they would meet, and everything that had been threatened and broken would be mended and secure.

  Including her heart.

  She felt her way into the chamber where the niche for the statue was. Grey light filtered down through the oculus above, and as her eyes became accustomed to it, she saw that Robert was, once again, lying in the niche, still as a stone.

  “You are the most peculiar man in England—I’m sure of it.” She was brimming with laughter. “I can never work out what you’ll be doing next.”

  His voice was velvet, caressing and enfolding her. “Indulge me. I have a fantasy, you see.”

  She would gladly indulge him. Tonight was a night for lovers, safe but sensual, familiar yet mysterious. It felt like having a warm bath, only in air and with one’s clothes on.

  Robert was clearly attuned to Nature’s tempting invitation. “Touch me. Like you did before.”

  Kneeling by the niche, Phoebe reached out, but where her fingers expected to encounter cloth, they found skin—smooth but firm, with a smattering of silken hair across a muscular chest.

  Wicked man! But this felt so good. This felt so right. Could he see her smug smile in the gloom? She let her hands play up and down his torso, rubbing, exploring, teasing, enjoying the small moans of pleasure he was trying so hard not to make. How much touching would she dare? Tonight was a night when anything was good, and everything was beautiful. It didn’t matter. Whatever she did would be right.

  She splayed her hands across the flat plane of his stomach, glossed over his navel and allowed her fingers to stray a little lower, where they swept across a crop of wiry curls.

  Her mouth went dry. If she was not mistaken, Robert was completely, unashamedly naked. She no longer felt the urge to laugh at his eccentricity. Shifting position, she ran her hands up his flanks, feeling his ribs and the strong beat of his breathing. Her fingers encountered his small male nipples—they fascinated and amazed her. Her nerves fizzed with excitement when his breath hitched at her touch.

  Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the low light now, and she could make out Robert’s features, the feral grin with bared teeth, the thick brows, the shadowed eyes. But he hadn’t raised a hand to touch her—he hadn’t moved a muscle. Did he not want to kiss her? Or was this all part of some game he was playing?

  She ran her hands up into his hair, releasing the scent of his pomade. “Aha. Musk, with a hint of citrus, I think. And maybe essence of rosemary.”

  He chuckled, his body moving against hers where she leaned over him. It was the ultimate frustration that he was naked, and she was not—the urge to be skin to skin with him was overwhelming. But she’d never taken off her clothes in front of anyone before. Not that he’d be able to see all that well. Had he done this deliberately, stopped her from striking a light in order to spare her blushes?

  “I’ve heard tell there used to be a nymph in here with the river god.” His voice was husky and low.

  “Really? Where?”

  “She lay beside him, apparently. I’ll move over. There. Plenty of room.”

  “Were they kissing?”

  “Undoubtedly.” She could hear the provocative insinuation in his tone.

  “What was she wearing?” But she knew the answer before the question was out of her mouth.

  “Just like him. Nothing.”

  A delicious shiver shot through her. “I wonder how that happened.”

  He threw his arms around her. “Like this.”

  She collapsed on top of him, and suddenly they were kissing, a frenzied, hungry kiss, full of heated promise, a potent inevitability, a sealing of fates.

  Wave after wave of superb sensation flowed through her, awakening every part of her body, sensitising every inch of her skin. His lips seared her, his tongue invaded her mouth, and she clung to him as if she was drowning, and only his kiss could save her.

  His body felt hot and firm beneath her, and as her belly pressed against his stomach, she could feel the masculine power rising in his erection, sinfully tempting, full of promise. His hand brushed over her bare shoulder blade—he’d unhooked the back of her gown, and she hadn’t even noticed. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t cold. His fingers smoothed over her flesh, igniting fires of sensation wherever they touched, and he lifted his head to kiss her shoulder and ran his tongue along her neck to a point just below her ear.

  A sumptuous shudder shot through her, and before she knew it, he’d tipped her onto her back. She clenched her teeth, expecting cold stone, but instead, soft fabric greeted her, heated by his body. He’d prepared well.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  She nodded, speechless with anticipation. He sat astride her, kneeling, freeing his hands to untie the laces of her corset. It seemed to take forever. Her breasts pushed against the constraint, her nipples high and aching for release, her skin keen for the warm kiss of the evening air and the incendiary touch of a lover.

  Finally, freedom! She arched her back in sheer wanton delight as he tugged at the bow of her chemise and nudged it down until the tops of her breasts were exposed.

  “I think the river god worshipped the nymph. I think she had untold power over him.” His voice was rough, needy.

  “I like your story.” She stretched her arms above her head, thrilling with pleasure as Robert began a slow appreciation of her breasts, first with his hands and then with his mouth. She squeezed her legs together, aware of a tingling anticipation that sprang to life between the soft petals of her sex. His erect member pushed against her stomach, and she longed to touch and explore it, but there was no space between her body and Robert’s—they felt like one being.

  The yearning in her nipples had become insistent, so she reached down, grasped his head and forced him to give them his full attention. He obliged by flicking his tongue over one nipple, while his fingers toyed with the other. Then he took the whole bud in his mouth, worried at it gently with his teeth—and took her breath away.

  She wanted to feel all of him, wanted to wrap her legs around him, touching him wherever she could. They clasped hands, and she felt the heat and the strength of his leap to hers. His shoulders were wide, his biceps powerful, his torso lean and muscular, and his manhood—as far as she could tell—generously proportioned. His lips were liquid fire, his eyes a whisper of summer sky. As the flames of need roared up between her legs, she could well understand how easily the nymph of mythology had given herself entirely to the god.

  Robert rested on his elbows, gazing down at her, his breath caressing her face. “You have seduced me, sweet nymph. I am yours. And you are mine. Now and forever I claim you for my lover, my wife, my countess.”

  She giggled. “Such descriptive language, sir. I might imagine you a poet.”

  “I’m not being poetic. I’m giving you a hint.”

  “About what?” She slipp
ed one hand from his and traced his face with a finger, loving the high cheekbones, the sturdy jaw, the jaunty dimple in his chin.

  “If we continue with this, you will no longer have any choice in the matter of marriage.”

  “I don’t intend to back out,” she assured him. “I would never have come if I’d had any doubts.”

  “You knew what I had planned?”

  “Not entirely. Guessed is more correct. Because you are a hard man to make out, Mr Robert Goodrich-Bligh, Earl of Marchmont. You have so many different personalities.”

  “I intend to make you love them all. At least, I hope to.”

  He paused, and his smile faded. “Have I told you I love you? And have I managed to make you believe it yet?”

  “You’ve told me. And you have the rest of your lifetime in which to convince me of the fact.”

  “Thank you.” He kissed her with exquisite tenderness then, and she knew in that moment she didn’t want a marriage of convenience. She wanted to be beside him, bear his children, and share his life, every full second of it.

  Then she felt him move his thighs against hers, steadily, rhythmically, at the same time pushing her knees apart. One hand then went to her breast, squeezing her nipple while he bent down to kiss and suckle at the other. Desire pulsed through her, and when his other hand teased at her female folds, she became a creature of sensuality, all thought focused on her body’s pleasure, concentrating on the movement of his arousing hand.

  His finger dipped inside her, making her gasp, but the shock quickly swelled to pleasure, and she discovered how incredibly sensitive her body was in that place. Her flesh contracted and expanded around him without her willing it—it seemed her body knew better than she how to respond to the man’s intimate caress. There was moisture down there—she could feel his finger sliding easily in and out. Then it connected with a tiny nub of flesh, and pleasure cascaded through her body.

  Her fingers flexed on his shoulders, and she bent her knees and tucked in her heels, exposing herself to him, shamelessly, utterly. He moved too, kneeling between her legs, and she looked down the length of her body to see him guiding his erect shaft towards her opening. She clutched at him, feeble in the face of his virile certainty, suddenly afraid.