She was hot and wet and in a sort of heaven that she doubted a Judeo-Christian god would approve. “You must stop,” she hissed. She couldn’t remain upright or relatively quiet one minute longer.
In an instant his tongue disappeared between his lips and his hands rested damply on her knees. Reynold Durant—Reyn—looked up at her, his black eyes gleaming. “Must I? Very well. Did you like it?” His lips were rough. Red. Beads of perspiration etched his forehead and his black hair was tousled. He looked as if he’d run a mile.
She had no words to answer him. Not a one.
“I see you’re speechless. It was a success, then.” He grinned, looking like a very naughty boy.
Maris nodded, almost against her will. She was every bit as depraved as Patsy Rumford, only she didn’t need him to tether her to the table to gain his mastery over her.
“Has no one ever done this for you before?”
“ No.”
“Ah. Well, I’m honored to be the first.”
She felt a finger trace a pattern on her right thigh. She’d noticed the few times they’d met his hands were often busy. She’d thought it a nervous trait, but found his circular touch pleasant. She tried to still her breathing to the light downward curve as his fingertip swirled.
Seconds ago that fingertip and two more had been snug inside her, working her into a near-frenzy. Now Reyn was spelling something with her own moisture on her skin in a language she’d never learned.
But what they had done would not get her with child, so it was all a waste of time, wasn’t it?
Even if she’d never felt so exhilarated, she was falling into herself, her back muscles tightening in tension, her bare arse chafing against the rough wood of the old table. Her crumpled new dress would require ironing, her mind retrieving from wherever Reynold Durant had sent it. Maris had sworn to herself she would take no joy in their arrangement, and she’d broken that vow already, on his very first afternoon at Kelby Hall. She was worse than Patsy Rumford.
She pushed his hands from her body and smoothed her skirts over her stockinged legs. “It’s late.” The room was no longer bathed in bright sunlight, and shadows deepened in the corners.
“Don’t go yet.” He wasn’t satisfied.
Did he want her to return the favor? She knew that women could kiss men down there, even if she’d never suspected the tables could be turned. David had tried to make her do it, and a ghastly business it had been.
“I-I really must. I have a thousand things to do before I have to dress for dinner.” She couldn’t remember a single one.
His hand slipped into her disordered hair and pulled out a loose hairpin. “I feel guilty, Maris. I tricked you. You were expecting an altogether different kind of kiss, weren’t you? Something ‘usual.’ Although I don’t think anything between us will ever be usual.”
“There is no ‘us,’ Captain Durant.” She meant to sound superior, but her words rang hollow.
“Oh, there’s going to be an ‘us,’ if only for a few minutes every day. Maybe several times a day to make sure we’ve given this mission all our efforts. I’m willing to make the sacrifice.”
He was teasing her! Did the damn man not know his place?
And it wasn’t between her legs in whatever form he happened to choose.
“I need to go,” she said firmly.
“A good-bye kiss then. For luck.” He waggled a black eyebrow at her. It needed some smoothing down after his recent activity.
“I am only going downstairs to my rooms, Captain, not off to war.”
“Luck always comes in handy. We will need as much of it as possible in the weeks ahead. Come, Maris, just a quick kiss and then you can scamper off while I go back to numbering boxes.”
She slid off the work table, surprised her legs were strong enough to support her. Before she could refuse his offer she was in his arms again, tasting herself on his lips. She was shocked—and something more.
The kiss was not long in length, but not short on sensation, either. Reyn was very gentle, teasing her again, but not with words. A butterfly kiss, that’s what it was called. She’d read about it somewhere, but had not understood.
Now she did.
And knew she was in trouble.
Chapter 9
Reyn’s chair before the fire was comfortable, his dinner delicious, the accompanying wine truly spectacular. A man like the Earl of Kelby must have a cellar anyone might envy and a kitchen staff imported from damned France. Reyn was no connoisseur of the finer things in life, but they were all around him and inside him, digesting happily. Even a heathen like he could appreciate his new position.
Especially since it involved seducing the countess.
Maris.
The afternoon had been promising. He’d been valiant in his effort to make her come, and come she had. Repeatedly. Her taste still resonated through the vintage port he held in his hand. Reyn had always enjoyed giving women their pleasure. He’d never been a selfish lover. In his experience, the more one gave, the more one got back.
He had been willing to try anything—hence the Reining Monarchs—to feel sated. Find peace. There had to be some fun in life beyond bayonets and tradesmen’s bills. He was good at three things—cards, making men laugh, and making women breathless. Resentful as he might be over the earl’s investigation, Reyn’s reputation as a lover must have been discovered and found acceptable.
Maris Kelby was not quite the buttoned-up biddy she’d first appeared. For one thing, now that she was not dressed in drab grays and browns, she was more than passably handsome. With her wavy hair loosened, her cheeks flushed, and her lips swollen, she could rouse any man’s desire. Reyn had been in such agony when she’d left him that afternoon, he’d sat back down on the chair and jacked off, imagining those swollen lips around his cock.
However, teaching her to do that was not part of the plan. They were not having an ordinary affair, after all. He was there for one reason and one reason only. His own pleasure was incidental, but he wanted Maris Kelby to find hers . . . to help ease her regret about their liaison and find it less sordid.
A little less cold.
She was a virtuous woman. Virtuous women were hard to come by nowadays. From what he could gather, she had been raised in this house with the earl acting as a second father to her. How she wound up marrying him was an oddity he couldn’t fathom. What young woman would throw her youth away on an impotent old man? Reyn supposed he was being silly. Lots of girls married for money and position. Those things didn’t seem to matter to her, though. Perhaps it was access to the Kelby Collection that made her subjugate herself to Henry Kelby. Maybe she had preferred scholarship to sexual satisfaction. If so, he pitied her.
He put the port back on the tray unfinished. Well, what was he going to do with the rest of his evening? It was hours yet before his usual bedtime, but there were no army friends to carouse with, just a shelf full of oxblood leather-covered classics he hadn’t bothered to read when he should have a dozen years ago. No point to picking one up tonight, although it might put him to sleep. He should be tired. He’d ridden half the day and pushed boxes around and twitched under the earl’s sharp-eyed scrutiny.
It was a relief he’d be excused from further contact with the man, though that might seem strange to the servants when Reyn had been hired to assist him. Poor Maris was to be their go-between, reporting on whatever rubbish they found in the sixty-seven boxes upstairs. It was too cold and dark to go up to the attics and get started, but he had managed to carry some of the smaller boxes into the workroom for inspection tomorrow.
He wouldn’t know how to begin, anyway. There must be some sort of method one used when describing artifacts. Did one pull out a tape measure and count the inches? Write down colors and country of origin? He knew his numbers and red from green at least. Advantage Reyn.
He rang for someone to take away the remains of his dinner. He felt a little like a princess walled up in a castle tower since he didn’t have free rein
to wander about the house looking for amusement. Maris was not apt to come to him to begin their other project, either. He’d already stroked himself to blessed oblivion earlier, so even self-abuse seemed a bit redundant. What the devil was he going to do with himself for the next few hours?
A fresh-faced young footman came to reclaim the dinner tray. Reyn was almost bored enough to engage the boy in conversation, but that would have been considered odd. Everyone had their place at Kelby Hall. Reyn might not be good enough to eat with the earl and countess, but he was much too grand to gossip with a footman.
So there he sat. He poked at the fire and rubbed some dust off the side of his boot onto the patterned carpet. His hands itched for a deck of cards, if even to play solitaire. Getting up, he rummaged through the drawers and was rewarded by emptiness, not even an overlooked ball of fluff.
Probably nothing was overlooked at Kelby Hall. The place was run with an efficiency any army officer would long for in his own troops. The old butler Amesbury was even frostier than the earl. Between the two of them, they must scare the wits out of everyone within a ten-mile radius.
Maybe Reyn needed to get out of their range. It was a fine, crisp night with a three-quarter moon. There was no reason he couldn’t take a walk and enjoy some fresh air. Take a turn in the garden he’d seen from the windows of the library.
His old army cloak hung in the dressing room, gloves and scarf stuffed in the pockets. He wouldn’t ask for a lantern. His night vision had always been good—useful in his previous line of work. He dressed and took “his” staircase down several flights to the ground floor. The earl’s library was at the other end of the house, and Reyn wondered if the old man was in there fiddling with his papers, or if he was still dining with the countess. The house was quiet, but sconces were lit all along the corridor and a few footmen were visible at their positions farther down the hallway.
One of them raised a hand to Reyn and hurried down the oriental runner that seemed to go on for miles. “May I help you, sir?”
“Where’s the nearest door to the garden?” Reyn felt he should know this already. Good reconnaissance had always been a habit.
“You want to go outside, sir?” The footman sounded as if it was a rather outrageous plan.
True, it was chilly, but Reyn had toughened up in Canada. “I do.”
“Do you wish for a guide and a torch, sir?”
“To walk in the garden? Don’t be silly. I’m not exploring the pyramids. Just show me a door and make sure no one locks it so I can get back inside in an hour or two.”
“Are you sure, sir? I could bring a brandy up to your rooms.”
“I’ve had enough to drink.” Reyn never overindulged. He found he preferred being clear-headed, especially since the world was such a confusing place. “But you might fetch me a cheroot. I’m afraid I forgot mine upstairs.”
“Certainly, sir. Wait right here, sir.”
Reyn leaned up against a wall and stared at a hideous painting of an unfamiliar allegory. All this sir-ing was stirring up nostalgia for his army service. Maybe he shouldn’t have sold out, but asked for a transfer. He might be playing vingt-et-un with a bejeweled maharaja right this very minute. But then where would poor Ginny be? No, I’ve done the right thing, he decided.
The footman returned less than two minutes later. “If you’ll just follow me, sir, there are French doors from the music room to the garden and we shall get you settled.”
The music room was dark, but moonlight spilled in through a wall of windows. The footman opened a glass door, handed Reyn his cigar, and lit it for him.
“Thank you. What is your name?”
“John, sir. All the footmen at Kelby Hall are called John.”
“Are they indeed? What does your mother think about that, John?”
“She’s dead, sir. But I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
What rot. What sort of people were the Kelbys to rob their servants of their own names for convenience? He forgot his earlier vow not to try to fraternize with the servants. “You feel fortunate to be employed here then?”
“Oh, aye, sir.” John continued to hold the door, but Reyn resisted stepping over the threshold onto the stone terrace.
“An easy job, is it?”
“Oh, no, sir! There’s plenty to do, and long hours. But I don’t mind. The master’s a very fair man.”
“And Lady Kelby?”
“She . . . she’s lovely, she is.”
She was indeed.
“Thank you, John, for your assistance.” Reyn dug into his pocket for a coin, which disappeared with alacrity. “Tell me, what’s your real name?”
“Aloysius, sir. Mr. Amesbury says it’s a burden, but I do feel sorry for the Williams and Roberts who work here. Nothing wrong with those names.”
“Nothing wrong with yours either. Good evening to you, Aloysius.”
“And to you, sir.”
Reyn stepped out into the night. The moon hung low and stars sprinkled the sky. After getting his bearings, he could see the gleaming crushed stone path that led from the patio to a corner of the formal garden. That way wasn’t much of a challenge. He’d seen squares and rectangles, all tidy and tamed and pruned back for the spring. He could march around their borders as if he were on parade, but that wouldn’t do much for the inexplicable yearning he felt. He rested his hand on the balustrade and took a puff of his very fine cigar.
People who claimed the country was quiet had never listened. Reyn heard a fluttering above—probably a bat—and the distant hoot of an owl. Bushes rustled in the light wind.
He heard the lap of water in the lake on the property, the place where the earl’s poor daughter had ended her life. He’d seen it in an illustration in the guidebook he’d bought to learn more about Kelby Hall. Always be prepared, that was his motto, but the place itself had exceeded all his preparation. It was a very, very grand house. Reyn supposed these sorts of places owned the men who lived in them, not the other way around. The lords were temporary caretakers for future generations of temporary caretakers. Ridiculous when you thought about it.
And a son of his might be one of them.
He stepped off the terrace onto thick, springy grass. For a mad moment, Reyn wanted to remove his boots and sink his toes into its cushion, but the bite of night air drove that thought from his mind. He headed in the direction of the moving water with only the light of the moon and glow of his cigar’s end to lead him.
To have one’s child die must be an insurmountable grief. Maris had said her husband had changed, and it explained some of the urgency of the task before him. Not that Lady Jane Kelby could have inherited Kelby Hall, but at least the earl would have left something behind for posterity besides the book he was writing. A flesh and blood legacy. Reyn had never thought that far ahead as to what mark any future descendants of his would leave upon the world. When one’s life was regularly in danger, one didn’t have time to think beyond the present.
He was thinking too much. He was deliberately—with the earl’s full approval—going to try to feather the Kelby nest with a Durant cuckoo. His own long nose—hell, his bushy eyebrows—might be passed down through the ages.
And he wouldn’t be around to see it. There was something terribly wrong about it all.
He clamped the cigar between his teeth and batted a bush out of his way. It had been a while since he’d been on a night patrol, and his instincts had gone soft. But it was peacetime, and he wasn’t about to be attacked on the manicured grounds of Kelby Hall.
He passed by all the regimented clipped hedges and came to a vast expanse of empty lawn. The ground beneath his feet sloped gradually down to the lake, which was lit with a shimmering stripe of moonlight. A folly with vine-covered columns rose like a stone ghost on a tiny island in the middle of the black lake. A rowboat was tied to a matching stone pillar at the water’s edge. At one time people had rowed out to the folly on a sunny summer day and picnicked, but that seemed pointless to him. A man-made la
ke, a man-made ruin, all very picturesque and all very false.
Even if Reyn had not known of the tragedy that had occurred there, an aura of sadness pervaded the place. Weeping willow trees shivered all around him, anticipating the winter to come. Did the lake freeze up? He wondered if the countess skated, her long legs gliding from shore to shore. Probably not. As she kept saying, she had no time for recreation, and it would not be fun visiting the place where her friend died.
Judging from the condition of the little boat, it had been ages since someone had gone out in it. Leaves floated on water that covered its bottom from the last rainfall. Rowing might be good for his bad arm. Despite the pain of it, Reyn didn’t want to lose what mobility he had left. Exercise was important.
Bedsport could be very athletic, but Reyn anticipated he and the countess would be restrained, as proper as one could be under the circumstances. Even with the privacy of the workroom, they could be discovered and then the entire plan would fall to pieces.
He bent and booted the cigar stub into the ground. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough to test his amorous abilities. He’d made enough headway today—at least Maris Kelby had been satisfied. Even her slender white thighs had been flushed, as lovely as her cheeks had been.
Reyn turned to walk back toward the house and stopped when he saw movement between a gap in the hedges that surrounded the formal garden. Someone else was enjoying the country air and moonlight. He could make out enough to know that his fellow nature lover was a woman.
A tall woman with darkish hair and fair skin that fairly glowed under the moonbeams.
He didn’t want to alarm her, so made plenty of noise as he walked up the lawn, whistling off-key and crunching his boots down hard on the fallen leaves and twigs that had scattered on the lawn. He heard her own feet on the crushed stone path. She was trying to make a rapid retreat.
Should he let her go? It might be less embarrassing all the way around. What did they have to say to each other, after all?
Reyn found himself loping up the lawn and through a break in the bushes. “Lady Kelby!”
Captain Durant's Countess Page 10