by Anne Gracie
Seeing the way she was eyeing him, his gaze darkened to a molten pewter-blue. Her pulse leaped.
And then she remembered: she was garbed in half an acre of heavy cream flannel with her breasts bound flat. She might as well be a nun. And she wasn’t allowed to lie on her back.
“I don’t suppose you have any of those little bits of frothy nonsense from your dressmaker lady, do you?”
She made herself laugh, though she was ready to weep. She wanted him so badly and here she was, all trussed up like an Egyptian mummy. “No, they’re all back in Bird Street.” She posed and mock-pouted. “You don’t think this nightgown is seductive enough?”
His eyes glinted. “You would probably be seductive in an old hessian sack.”
“Pooh! I wouldn’t be seen dead in a hessian sack! That would be deeply unfashionable. Not to mention itchy!”
Dear Thomas. He was trying so hard to cheer her up. He pulled off his boots and sat beside her on the bed wearing just his breeches.
She leaned against him, breathing in the clean dark masculine scent of his skin. He’d bathed before he came to her, as he did most nights. Her lovely, well-scrubbed Thomas. But he hadn’t shaved.
She ran her fingers across his bristled jaw. Oh, but she did love the sensation of his bristles against her skin. Pity it could go nowhere with her in her current useless state. Still, that didn’t mean Thomas had to do without. She reached for the fall of his breeches and winced at the sharp stab of pain. “I am so fed up with this wretched injury. I hate it. I can’t do anything!”
He turned his head and kissed her, long and lingering, and she felt herself melting beneath his heat, the insistent, intoxicating demand.
“Oh, that was nice.” She leaned her face against his chest. “How long before we can get back to normal, Thomas? I’m so tired of having to be patient and not going anywhere and not doing anything—and having to be grateful all the time because everybody is so dratted nice.”
“No!” He pulled back in shock. “They’re not being nice to you, are they? How appalling!”
She laughed weakly. “But it is. So unfair when I’m feeling so cross and crabby and have nowhere to direct it at. I’m a terrible person, I know.”
“Poor little crab.” He kissed her on the nose and removed his breeches. “Now, shove over, little crustacean, and let me in.”
“Such a romantic you are.” She wriggled over and he lay on his back on the bed. Like a feast spread out before her that she couldn’t have. She pushed at him crossly. “Thomas, you’re taking up all the space.”
“Sit on me, then.” He patted his stomach.
Faintly suspicious, she said, “What are you up to?” But she rose on her knees, having to pull up her nightgown a bit to manage it, climbed over him, and sat on his stomach with a little bounce that made him gasp. “Like that?”
“Oof! Yes, like that.”
Her thighs bracketed him. He stroked them, slowly, sensually.
The heat of his body soaked into her and she felt a warm tide of desire rippling through her like a wave. This was a bad idea. She was getting all fired up and to no purpose.
She started to move off him. “I don’t think—”
His big hand clamped around her knee and pushed it back. “Trust me.” He lay looking up at her, his eyes half closed like a big lazy cat. A big, gorgeous, annoying lazy cat.
“Thomas, I—”
“I said, trust me.” He pushed the flannel higher, inching it up along her legs, and the sensation of his big callused hands against the soft inner skin of her thighs . . . She shivered deliciously. He pushed it up over her bottom, cupping and kneading her buttocks, all the time with a knowing half smile lurking in his eyes.
The nightgown lay in folds around her waist; she was wholly exposed to him. He slipped his hand in between her thighs, teasing the nest of golden curls at her apex, then cupping her firmly. Her whole insides clenched. She arched her back, but a warning twinge pulled her back to reality.
“It’s no good, I—”
“Let’s just see. It’s stretching your back or your arms that’s the problem, isn’t it? So try not moving at all.”
“Try not moving—” she began indignantly, then broke off as his fingers moved and the ripples intensified. Her breath hitched in a series of gasps.
She bent to kiss him and the sharp pain of her injury brought her smartly upright again. “Thomas, stop it. I can’t.”
“Have a little patience.”
She glared down at him. “Patience? This is Rose here, not Saint Rose!”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t be doing this to Saint Rose, now would I?” He caressed her slick folds, teasing and stroking, sending waves of sensation through her.
“Now, rise up on your knees.”
“What? Now?” She was almost at climax point and her legs had no strength in them at all. But his strong hands held her by the hips and lifted her and she had no choice but to raise herself off him.
He moved and suddenly she felt him, hard and hot, nudging against her entrance. “Thomas?” She looked down at where they were not quite joined.
“Now it’s up to you. Slide down.”
She blinked, not quite understanding.
“You don’t need to stretch out or bend your back, so it shouldn’t hurt. Just lower yourself onto me.” His voice was a little hoarse, his eyes were clenched shut as if he were in pain. “Ride me.”
Tentatively she lowered herself and felt him sliding into her. “Ohhh.”
She lifted herself up, and his eyes flew open. “For God’s sake, don’t stop.”
Ah, so it wasn’t pain at all. She lowered herself again, feeling the intoxicating fullness slide into her, then rose again. Down. Up. And suddenly she saw what he meant by Ride me.
She moved, experimenting with angles and movements. And different speeds. He held her tight around the hips, helping her, guiding her. Keeping her steady, protecting her injury.
She squeezed her inner muscles around him and was rewarded with moaning appreciation, and anguish, and jagged, raw need. Oh, this was glorious. Pleasure rocked through her. She rode him slow at first, then faster and faster until he groaned and gasped and bucked beneath her, thrusting himself upward, hard and hard and hard, and she was riding and he was bucking and it was a fierce, hard, glorious mating.
They moved together as one, driven, oblivious, urgent, and she sobbed and cried out his name as she shattered into a million fiery sparks and if there was pain, she wasn’t aware of it, and his big hands held her safe and lowered her gently until she was lying against his chest.
When she came to herself, she was still lying on top of Thomas, still joined to him, boneless and sated and sublimely peaceful.
His deep voice rumbled through her. “How do you feel?”
She sighed happily. “Glorious.”
“Back all right?”
She rubbed her cheek against him like a cat. “What back?”
He chuckled, low and deep. “Crab all gone?”
“Mmm, but what I wouldn’t give for one of Mrs. Jacobs’s crab patties. I’m hungry, Thomas.”
“All right, careful now.” He lifted her off him, making sure not to bump her injury, and slipped out of bed. He tucked the bedclothes in around her, took a banyan from a hook behind the door—it was one of Cal’s—and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Where are you going?” she asked sleepily.
“Hunting for crab patties, what else?”
She smiled. “A midnight feast? My hero.”
Fifteen minutes later Thomas returned with a leg and thigh of cold chicken, a wedge of cheese, a couple of slices of bread, some grapes and two jam tarts. “I couldn’t find any crab patties,” he began, when a gentle ladylike snore alerted him to the fact that his beloved was sound asleep.
“Oh, well.” He bent and kissed her gently. She stirred. “Mmmm, giblets,” she murmured.
As he sat down to his own midnight feast, he glanced at Rose peacefully sleeping. An appetite was a wonderful thing.
Chapter Thirteen
We understand death for the first time when he puts his hand upon one whom we love.
—MADAME DE STAËL
The entrance to Brierdon Court was via an ancient gatehouse of unusual design; two houses joined by an ornate arch. “When I was a boy, Old Newling lived in that one and his son, Young Newling, who was about seventy, lived in the other,” Thomas told Rose as the carriage pulled up.
A venerable ancient emerged and peered shortsightedly at them. “It’s Thomas, Mr. Newling,” Thomas said. “Thomas Beresford.”
“It is not,” the ancient responded briskly enough, though his voice was suspiciously husky. “You’re the Earl of Brierdon now, and don’t you forget it, young Thomas!”
He peered in at Rose. “And this be our new Lady Brierdon, I’m guessing. Welcome to Brierdon, m’lady, welcome. A long time since Brierdon Court’s had a mistress, and never one so bonny, I’m thinking.”
The old man turned back to Thomas and his rheumy old eyes filled with tears. “Welcome home, lad, I mean m’lord. We’re all that pleased you’re back with us again. T’was a turrible day when we heard you was dead, turrible. Tears throughout the length and breadth of Brierdon, there was.”
He pulled out an ancient, grimy handkerchief and blew loudly into it. “Get along then, m’lord, m’lady. Mr. Ambrose be expecting you.” He waved them through the arch into a long driveway lined with ancient oaks.
“Now that’s what I call a welcome,” Rose said softly as the carriage moved on.
Thomas nodded awkwardly and didn’t reply. He couldn’t, Rose realized from his expression; he was too deeply touched by the old gatekeeper’s heartfelt and unexpected welcome, a welcome that combined familiarity, respect and a fondness for the boy the old man remembered.
Yet this was the place Thomas thought he didn’t have the right to call home, didn’t have the right to turn to when he returned to England—after years of unbelievable hardship and loneliness—with nothing; no money, no family, no home—nobody who cared about him.
This old man cared, and he was no relation.
The drive curved around a bend and there it stood, Brierdon Court, ancient and beautiful, built of local stone aged through the centuries to a mellow gold. It was low, double storied, with a carved stone parapet running the length of the house. Two wings spread on either side of a graceful columned entrance, each with a double line of big mullioned windows. Currently they were ablaze with fire, reflecting the setting sun. Half a dozen steps led up to the front door.
“Thomas, it’s beautiful.”
He nodded silently, his lips pressed tight together, still battling with emotion.
Rose knew from the way he’d talked about this place how much he loved it, but he hadn’t so much as mentioned it until after he’d learned he was the earl. Perhaps because he never truly felt it was his home, that he didn’t truly belong here. That he didn’t have the right to call it home.
Well, now this lovely old house belonged to Thomas and no one could deny him.
The carriage pulled up, and two grooms ran out. The front door opened and a plump, bespectacled man of about thirty came running down the stairs.
“That’s Ambrose,” Thomas told her.
“Thomas, welcome, welcome.” He embraced Thomas, talking nonstop. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I received your letter last week. To think that after all these years of believing you were dead and gone, you turn up alive and well! It’s a miracle, a dream come true. A nightmare ended.”
As Thomas turned to help Rose down from the carriage, Ambrose exclaimed, “And of course, you’re married. This must be your lovely wife. Welcome to Brierdon Court, Lady Brierdon. I am your husband’s cous—” He broke off guiltily and turned to Thomas. “You don’t mind my claiming the connection, do you, Thomas? Or would you prefer I call you Lord Brierdon?”
“You will call me Thomas, as you always have, cousin.”
“And you must call me Rose,” Rose told him. She linked her arms with both men, and together they entered Brierdon Court.
“Are you tired? Would you like to refresh yourselves? Holden, the butler—you won’t know him, Thomas, he’s only been here a few years—and Mrs. Holden, his wife who is also the housekeeper, are waiting to meet you. Holden will introduce you to the rest of the staff.”
Thomas turned to Rose, a question in his eyes. They’d taken the journey in easy stages so as not to aggravate her injury, but any long coach trip was tiring, and London to Gloucestershire was, by anyone’s reckoning, a long trip.
“I’m not in the least tired,” she said immediately. “And I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.”
“I’m glad,” Ambrose said. “I’m afraid your predecessor wasn’t willing to be introduced to any staff except the butler. He, um, had certain attitudes about what was suitable for the earl, and meeting underlings wasn’t one of them.”
Thomas and Rose exchanged glances. The implication was that Cousin Cornelius had also regarded Ambrose as an underling. Rose recalled that he hadn’t recognized the blood relationship between them, either. Harsh, when in fact Ambrose was closer in blood to the old earl than Cornelius was. But then illegitimacy was an uncrossable barrier.
“He did his best,” Ambrose added tactfully. “But he wasn’t really up to the task. Not interested in the estate at all. Such a relief that you are home to take up the reins, Thomas.”
“Oh, that’s right, I ought to make an appointment to go over the books with you while I think of it,” Thomas said.
Ambrose laughed. “I wasn’t hinting, though of course whenever it suits you, you’re most welcome. But give yourself some time to relax, show your lady around the estate while this fine weather holds. The books aren’t going anywhere and there’s nothing urgent that I can recall. If there is, I’ll bring it in at breakfast.”
“You’ll join us for breakfast, then, as you used to?” Thomas said.
“No, no, very kind, I thank you, but these days I prefer to break my fast in my own cottage. I’m an early riser and like to get a lot of my work out of the way before breakfast. But I’ll stay for dinner tonight, if you’re asking.”
Dinner was a relaxed affair, with excellent food and easy talk, Ambrose encouraging Thomas to reminisce and tell Rose tales about their shared boyhood. “We’re not boring you, are we, Lady Brierdon?” he asked several times.
“Not at all, I’m enjoying learning about my husband’s misspent youth.” Rose laughed. “And please, call me Rose.”
“I think we’re going to be very happy here,” Rose said to Thomas as they went up to bed that night. “I’ve got one of Aunt Dottie’s ‘feelings.’”
* * *
* * *
Word must have spread about Thomas’s arrival because it wasn’t long before they were inundated with visitors—calls from the local gentry, cards and invitations and people simply dropping by on the off-chance.
Everyone wanted to meet the new Earl and Countess of Brierdon, to congratulate Thomas on his ennoblement and marriage and to exclaim about his apparent death and miraculous return.
Many people also wanted to express in subtle—and sometimes quite blatant—terms their delight that Cousin Cornelius was no longer the earl.
“Not really at home in the countryside,” was the vicar’s gentle summing up.
“A most elegant gentleman,” said one lady, “but not One Of Us.”
Her husband snorted. “Called himself a hunter. Wore a pretty pink coat and turned up on a very showy mount.” He snorted again. “Rode with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.”
“One of they demmed useless fancypants macaronis,” th
e elderly gamekeeper said, spitting on the ground to punctuate his remark. “Savin’ your presence, m’lady,” he added belatedly, much to Rose’s amusement.
Three days after they’d arrived, Cal’s groom, Kirk, and another groom arrived, leading Rose’s gelding, Midnight, and a magnificent black stallion whose noble lineaments proclaimed his superior breeding. “What a superb creature,” Thomas exclaimed, running his hand over the horse’s gleaming flanks. “Whose is it?”
“M’lord sent a letter,” Kirk said, and handed over a sealed note. Thomas broke it open and stared blankly at the writing inside.
“What does it say?” Rose asked. Thomas passed it to her. In Cal’s distinctive scrawl it said:
Saw this fellow at Tattersalls the other day and thought he might suit you.
We never did get you a wedding present.
From Emm, me and the family.
Yours etc. Cal.
She glanced at Thomas and saw he was stunned by the gift. Dear Thomas, he expected so little and deserved so much.
“Isn’t he splendid! What are you going to call him?”
But Thomas was too overcome to speak. He kept running his hands over the horse, getting to know him, letting him snuffle down his front, and feeding him chunks of an apple he had in his pocket.
Rose rubbed her own horse’s nose affectionately. “Yes, Midnight, he’s very pretty, but you’re still my favorite. Can we take them out for a ride today, Kirk? Or will they be too tired from the journey?”
Kirk was his usual phlegmatic self. “I’ll give them a drink and a rubdown and a good feed of oats, m’lady. Come the morning, they’ll be ready for your morning ride.”
“Bucephalus,” Thomas said at last. “I’ll call him Bucephalus, after the brave horse ridden by Alexander the Great.”
After that they rode out every morning, taking a different direction each day. While the beautiful weather held, Rose was determined that Thomas would have a holiday. There was no need for him to bury himself in estate matters, and besides, it was obvious the property was in good condition and Ambrose was doing an excellent job.