by Kristi Astor
“You would starve me of this pleasure? I want to see you. As you looked your fill of me.” He tugged at her nightrail, but she refused to lift her hips.
“Please, Dev.”
He straddled her locked-together legs, and pushed up to his knees. “Are you still scared of me seeing you in the altogether?”
His hands made a leisurely tour of her body before slipping to the neck of her gown.
“Please put out the light.” She might be able to tolerate his touch, but his looking upon her naked was too much. Her anticipation cooled.
“I love you,” he whispered. Then he ripped her nightgown down the center.
A squeal left her mouth, and she lurched upward. A burst of heat scorched through her body.
He pushed her back down into the bed. Peeling back the fabric, he let it skim over her skin with a teasing stroke. The shock of cool night air against her heated skin raised gooseflesh.
“Dev!” She did not know if she protested the way he made her melt or the destruction of her nightclothes.
He grinned. “I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe. I’m tired of seeing you in black.” His eyes roved over her flesh, and he brushed the scraps of her nightgown away. Yet as she watched him, the warm twinkle did not fade from his eye, nor, more importantly, did his erection wither.
She fought for bravery, to rise above the flush that heated her cheeks. “I’ll have you know that black is quite slimming.”
He laughed. “Ah, there is that hidden practical streak in you.” He cupped a hand around her breast. “I shall call you my baroque beauty.”
He skimmed his fingers down over her midsection. “Look how lovely and soft your skin is.”
She put an arm over her face. She wasn’t that brave.
He pulled the edges of her ripped nightgown over her flesh and waited until she lowered her arm. Then he pushed them away again, taking special care to tease her skin with the frayed edges of the gown. His eyes sparkled like fine crystal and he leaned over and brushed his lips against hers.
“How could you ever think I would not savor looking upon you? You are so beautiful, my heart is full.”
“Hush,” she whispered, and decided to believe him.
The increasing hitch in his breathing poured faith through her. And his touch was so slow and thorough she could not doubt him. He lowered his head, nipping at her flesh, molding her with his hands, and touching the tip of his tongue to her nipple. But then his head sank lower and he tasted her navel and dropped lingering kisses all across the quivering flesh of her belly.
He seemed determined to look at every inch of her as he urged her legs apart.
Then his head dipped lower, and he had not lied about kissing every inch of her, only she was lost to everything but the gluttony of pleasure.
Max stared at the ceiling of the cottage. He lay in the bed in the single bedroom. Lady Wingate insisted he sleep here. She took Roxana’s bed in the attic. He would have refused, but with Jonathon sleeping in the parlor on a sofa too short for the growing lad, no other space was available for Max. He could not force the girls out of the attic. He would have slept in the stables with his coachman and accompanying outriders, but the idea of it mortified Roxana’s mother.
What would he do with them?
He had bought them food and supplies, and then a letter from Roxana arrived with a ten-pound note in it.
Where had she gotten that kind of money? And why was she in London? Lady Wingate seemed as upset and surprised as he was that her daughter had not returned home.
Did she still intend to catch Breedon? Alone in London, all the care he had taken to preserve her reputation was for naught.
His offer to take the Winstons back to his home had met with a refusal. “Lord Wingate would not like that,” said Lady Wingate primly.
Max hardly cared what Lord Wingate liked, since he had provided so ill for them. As he stayed longer he learned that the family had moved to the cottage so they might let the main house and dismiss all the servants.
Brought up to believe that the lord of any county had an obligation to keep the locals employed, Max could not understand their philosophy to economize. Besides, without proper upkeep a house like Wingate Hall would deteriorate and could not fetch a decent rent.
If he had the money, he would turn Fanny loose on renovations for their home while he concentrated on maximizing production of their farms and fields. But he suspected they would balk at the idea of charity, especially since he had no claim to them.
Roxana had refused him. The thought stabbed through him. She did not want to be married to him, not even to be free of this poverty and to rescue her family from it.
As he stared into the dark he made plans to install caretakers in Wingate Hall and convince one of his outriders to stay behind and take care of the work they needed a man to do. He felt an obligation to be sure that Roxana’s family was cared for. He had ruined her, forced her to flee to London, and he could not leave her family to suffer on in this pitiful existence.
Still, the ache in his chest spread until he wished only for oblivion to ease the pain. Not even her dire background had prompted Roxana to think that marriage to him would be better than whatever life she could have with so little in the way of family fortune.
What could he do but honor her unspoken plea to stay out of her life?
Scully resisted the temptation to complete the union of their bodies. Fanny whimpered as he teased. He had brought her to the edge of satisfaction and then moved away to kiss her belly and breasts, then her neck. Her hands slid to his hips and tried to draw him in.
“Say you love me, pretty Fanny,” he whispered.
“Dev, please.”
“Say you love me,” he demanded again.
“Please, I need you,” she moaned.
Her hips swiveled and he could not wait for her to say the words he had waited half his life to hear from her. But then as he buried himself into her dewy body the rapture of the moment had control of him. She moaned, and the spasms of her release brought him to heaven and he followed her down in the fall back to earth.
“Don’t move,” she whispered.
Of course he moved, just slightly in and out, one stroke.
Her heavy breathing hiccupped.
Another stroke, before he lost all the firmness, then another, and he suspected he had no need of a recovery period.
Fanny moaned and twisted and then her body filled with new tension, and she clutched at him as he moved with a slow easy glide. He kissed her slowly, deeply and she began to strain against him. He stroked her full breasts, tugging at her tightening nipples. Her moans, sighs and expression guided his kisses and caresses until he could feel her loss of control.
Then, as she shuddered and whimpered, he heard the words he’d been longing for. “I love you.”
They brought with them such a rush of emotion he shuddered into a new peak.
As their bodies thrummed and pulsed and their panting slowed to sighs, he lay on top of her, relishing the cooling of his skin, the warm damp places he was still connected to her.
Fanny whispered, “Really, do not move. Or I shall have to kill you.”
“I could not move. Marry me, Fanny.” He leaned up on his elbows, careful to keep his lower body motionless. “Marry me, tomorrow.”
She stared up at him, her blue eyes blinking.
“No secrets between us now, love. Is it that I am not rich enough to buy you curtains and cabinets and paintings and sculptures?”
She shook her head.
“That I don’t have a title?” he asked, pulling her hand up and kissing her palm.
“What, then?”
“I am too old; I might not be able to give you children.”
“You might be carrying my baby now. Fanny, I don’t care. I have no title to pass on. My estate is small. A lot of children would bankrupt me. I shall have Thomas and Julia and dozens of nieces and nephews who would treat me as their f
avorite uncle if I do not have children. If I have you, there will be enough people in my life to love.”
“I cannot abandon Max,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. “He is so alone, and I am sworn not to tell him. His brothers made me promise.”
“We would never abandon Max. He is my closest friend. But he will marry Roxana. I am sure of it.”
“If he does marry her, then I will marry you,” she whispered. “If you still want me to.”
Scully groaned, but it was a better answer than what he had before. “Or if I do get you with child, Fanny. I must insist and Max would expect it.”
Now Scully wanted to plant a child in her womb.
Chapter Sixteen
November 1805
After the seamstresses left for the day, Roxana straightened the workroom and picked up a garment to finish sewing. She stretched the tired muscles in her shoulders.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle?”
Roxana turned to look at the woman she had hired to provide a face to the world for her shop. Although the front woman claimed to be a member of the French nobility, Roxana guessed she had probably been a lady’s maid in France before fleeing from the terror. Her manner toward their patrons was properly deferential without the haughtiness Roxana might have expected from a woman born to be served. But they had both made a silent pact to not ask about each other about their pasts.
“Is everything locked up below?” asked Roxana.
The other woman, known as Madame Roussard, nodded. “Do you think it ez possible you will be able to pay wages this week? Some of the girls have talk of leaving.”
“If anyone pays us.” Roxana shrugged. “I have plans to show you, if you would like a cup of tea.”
If she went by the number of orders she received, Roxana was doing all right. If she went by the amount of money she’d actually collected, she was failing. Miserably. She had not been prepared for her clients’ disregard of her tickets. Then half of society disappeared from London after the season, leaving their accounts unsettled.
With the social season months away, Roxana had decided to concentrate on capturing the business of the ladies of the evening. Mrs. Porter and her girls had always paid promptly. Apparently they possessed a better appreciation for a working woman’s need for solvency.
Roxana pulled the ever-present kettle off her stove and poured hot water into her teapot and carefully measured in tea. She could not offer milk or sugar, but Madame Roussard would not complain. Her stoic acceptance of the hardships made Roxana feel worse.
After they settled into two chairs dragged over from the work area, Roxana opened her sketchbook.
Madame Roussard put a hand to her chest and said, “Mon Deus, these are, how you say, risqué.”
“Yes, well,” Roxana rubbed her face. “I need to do something.”
Madame Roussard reached over and put her hand over Roxana’s. “These are for you?”
“No. Oh, no!”
Madame Roussard’s dark eyes for once shined with hope. She had seen too much and her eyes were normally flat. She turned away, then took a sip of her tea.
“You must think things are very bad indeed,” said Roxana, startled by the idea that Madame Roussard thought Roxana might be contemplating supplementing their income with money gained from harlotry.
“There was that gentleman—”
Roxana made a chopping motion with her hand. She did not want to talk about Max, think about Max. If only she could quit yearning for Max.
Madame Roussard was under strict orders to not reveal Roxana’s name to anyone, and especially not to any man, but Roxana feared her father learning her whereabouts more than she feared Max finding her.
That he had come looking for her had not surprised her. That he had visited her family and offered to take them in had. Between that and his searches for her, she felt a sick sense of guilt and a wish that she could include him in her life. She had so little connection to her family and none to anyone she could call friend. A wave of longing so strong it made her sway slammed over her. Oh God, she missed Max, but he would never understand her choices.
Madame Roussard stood and went down the stairs and a few minutes later returned with the ledger book. As they looked over the figures, Roxana knew that drawing in new clientele would not be enough to save her business. If she did not send home money to her family every month, she might have been eking by. If she did not have to pay Madame Roussard to provide a face to the world, she might be able to pay the seamstresses. If Max had not given her the money, she would not have come this far.
“Ah, it is time you let me go, n’est-ce pas?”
“No. I won’t do that.”
Madame Roussard had been more than a manager; she had guided Roxana in decisions that running a business required. She had insisted on the seamstresses when Roxana could not sew fast enough to keep up with orders. She had steered Roxana through the pitfalls facing a young woman alone in London. She had become the closest thing Roxana had to a friend. Yet a wide gulf of experience and years separated them.
“We only have need to survive until the season, non?” Madame Roussard shifted in her chair. “I leave France with nothing or I give money to you.” She looked down at the sketches of the revealing dresses.
Madame Roussard suddenly looked as old as Roxana felt. What would happen to her if the shop closed? Not only was Roxana’s family dependent on her, but also Madame Roussard had often hinted that Roxana had saved her from a life of prostitution. A middle-aged French émigré with few marketable skills, no friends and a questionable past could expect little in the way of employment opportunities.
“I’ll find a way to make this work,” Roxana vowed, even if that meant she had to apply to Max. God knew how much she already owed him. But before that she would see if she could induce her first clients to return to the fold. If Mrs. Porter and her girls were back in business, perhaps they would commission new gowns.
Max shook off the cold as he entered his home, but nothing thawed the frost from his soul.
“Brandy?” asked Scully from the library door. “Take off the chill.”
“Don’t you have a home?” asked Max, not at all surprised to find Scully in the Trent library. But he took the proffered glass just the same.
“You did not bring back Miss Winston?” asked Scully, standing to the side of the roaring fire.
Max stared into the glass of reddish brown liquid. He remembered bringing Roxana in here to warm her, handing her the glass of brandy and nearly having his way with her in front of the fire. At first he had been relieved that he had not taken her virginity, but now he only regretted it.
“She’s not there.” Max had just returned from his fourth trip to Roxana’s home.
“She’s not at her home?” The smile faded off Scully’s face and, as happened more than not lately, it was replaced by a look of concern, almost pity. Max downed the brandy in one gulp. He hoped it would remove the burr of pain, but he knew it would not.
At least Scully had given over telling him he did not know how to drink properly. Only the rising cost of French brandy kept Max from bathing in the stuff.
“Where is she?” asked Scully cautiously.
“Somewhere in London.” He had only told them he went to visit the Winstons, but Max could no longer keep the secret.
Scully looked blank. “Where in London?”
Max threw his glass at the hearthstones. The sound of shattering crystal gave him only a small measure of satisfaction before shame at his childish tantrum smothered the relief that he got from any release of anger. “I don’t know.”
“That is why you have been to town so much,” said Scully as if a puzzle had finally been solved.
Max had been to London dozens of times. It was if the last ten months were a blur of traveling and searching for her and not knowing how she would respond if he found her. “I cannot find her. She never went home, and she sends her family money on a regular basis.”
“Then
there is a return address on her money letters, is there not?”
“The Lombard Street post office.” Max had wasted hours there hoping he would catch her inquiring after her mail, but the letters were exchanged infrequently and with no regularity.
“Oh.” Scully sat down in the nearest chair, a sick look on his face.
“She’s not with her father. Nor was he easy to run to earth.”
“Does he know she is missing?”
“I take it he has not been informed in so many words.” Max did not know what to make of Lord Wingate. The man had been quite animated talking about his schemes to win back his fortune. Max’s gentle suggestion that he might be best served by repairing his estate was met with a blank look.
“I have recently learned their tenants were a certain abbess and her girls. I hope that they did not give Roxana a misguided perception of that life.”
“She would not have chosen to become a whore,” said Scully quietly.
Max just didn’t know anymore. Was the idea of marriage to him so repugnant? How could she come apart so blissfully in his arms, and then repudiate everything that had gone between them?
“She already sent money home before I left the first time. Did she think that I would not honor my offer to marry her if she sent word to me?”
Scully swallowed and waited for him to continue.
Max stood and paced the room. “I thought mayhap she tried her hand at dressmaking, but I have been to every mantuamaker in London. I have begun looking in brothels. What else could she be doing but working on her back? How else could she have sent money home so soon?”
“I gave her money,” said Scully, so low that Max was not sure he had heard him correctly.
“You did what?”
“I gave her a monkey. She was upset. I thought it would calm her.” Scully walked to the brandy decanter. “Then she started talking about it as a loan and assumed you had given it to her. I didn’t think it would hurt for her to think you had given in to her request. I had no idea she would disappear.”