Megan Frampton

by Hero of My Heart

  He chuckled and pulled her close, sliding his hand from her waist to her hip. “Only if I can watch from underneath.” Goodness. She felt her cheeks flame scarlet, and an answering warmth start between her legs.

  No, she had to hold herself back. She was the strong one, and he was just a man, a man with needs and desires and compulsions and—

  And that mouth, which was still close to her ear. His breath tickled her neck.

  A cleared throat yanked them apart.

  “The staff, my lord, is waiting in the great hall,” Dawkins said. He nodded and gestured toward the large staircase that dominated the entrance hall.

  “My lady?” Alasdair said, holding his arm out for Mary. She wanted to do more than take his arm; she wanted him.

  The thought made her tingle as they walked together into the great hall; it was indeed great, nearly forty feet in length, with arching ceilings and walls covered in artwork.

  The staff was assembled along the length of one wall, wearing crisp white aprons, black frock coats, and nervous expressions.

  “This is Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper,” Alasdair said.

  A plump woman dressed in severe black gave her a quick nod. “May I say, for all of us, how pleased we are to meet you, my lady.”

  Mary smiled in return. “I am very pleased to meet you as well, Mrs. Morgan.” The woman nodded again, and gestured to the remaining staff assembled like pieces on a chessboard. “We all look forward to serving you.”

  “Thank you.” They all looked at her expectantly. “Uh, perhaps you could introduce me?”

  The housekeeper quickly masked her startled expression. “Of course, my lady.”

  As they made their way down the line of people, Mary thought that she was probably already giving the servants cause for gossip—how many other ladies of the house actually wanted to be introduced to their staff?

  She was in way over her head, but if she failed, it would be more than her and Alasdair who would suffer—these people who worked for him would likely suffer as well.

  The thought gripped her heart in an icy clench.

  Alasdair, damn him, did not seem to notice her discomfort, or if he did, he was ignoring it. “Please show Lady Datchworth to her rooms,” Alasdair said when all the introductions were finished. “Dinner in forty-five minutes, dear,” he said to her. He turned and left the room before Mary could even reply.

  Dawkins bent his head toward her. “My lady, I have assigned Mabel to you. She will help you dress.”

  A short woman, shorter even than Mary, moved forward to Mary’s side. “I’ll show you to your room, my lady,” she said in an excited whisper.

  Mabel scurried through the hallways, taking at least two stairways up into the seemingly unending house. Mary glimpsed rooms with gilt chairs, crystal chandeliers, well-polished floors, and impressively dark and regal window hangings. Not what she’d expected Alasdair’s home to look like, but then again, it didn’t seem as if he’d been here for some time.

  At last they entered “the mistress’s bedroom,” as Mabel called it. Mary was struck dumb by the opulent beauty of it: shades of silver and green lit the room up like some fairy-tale forest.

  The room was dominated by the enormous bed, which sat raised up on a platform with at least a hundred pillows, or so Mary thought. What would it be like to sleep there? Would anyone be able to find her amidst the pillows?

  “This, my lady, is your wardrobe.” Mabel flung open the doors to a massive wardrobe ornamented in filigreed silver leaves. Fabrics in shades of blue, green, and red overwhelmed her.

  “But … but these aren’t my clothes.”

  Were they Judith’s? The thought brought her a sudden chill.

  “Yes’m, they are,” Mabel said, with pleased self-assurance. “The master sent a note, said you’d be coming to town.”

  When had he done that? How? The sheer thoughtfulness nearly made her cry. The gowns were gorgeous, far nicer than anything she’d ever seen, much less worn.

  Mary stepped forward and reached her hand out to touch one of them. Silk, it felt like, a smooth, luscious blue silk with brown leaves scattered all over it.

  “That is the loveliest one, my lady,” Mabel said in an awed whisper. “You might want to save it for a special occasion.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  Unless she had to leave before wearing it.

  Despite what the Bible taught, her hell wouldn’t be fiery hot. It would be cold. Cold, lonely, and completely and entirely without him.

  ***

  Finally it was just them. Again.

  Dinner had been quiet, with her darting anxious glances at his servants, the food, the serving trays, the candles—anywhere but at him. He tried to be as reassuring as possible, but he had to admit he had very little practice.

  As in none. But eventually, the meal was over, and he led her up the stairs to her bedroom. He hadn’t been alone with her in hours, and he was desperate with longing. It didn’t help that he finally had the chance to see her in clothing befitting her beauty. He’d never paid much attention to what ladies wore, but Mary in a new gown surpassed anything he’d imagined.

  Finally, finally, he would be with her. Alone.

  At the doorway, she turned to him, a questioning look on her face.

  The face he wanted to kiss senseless. Soon, he reminded himself, soon.

  “I’ll join you in fifteen minutes.” It was not a question.

  She gave him a look as though she were about to reprimand him, but then just nodded instead.

  In his own room, Alasdair was halfway through removing his cravat when he heard a discreet cough. He whirled around, only to see his valet—James? Frederick?—regarding him with a concerned gaze.

  “My lord, perhaps I may be of assistance?”

  Right. It hadn’t taken him long to forget that he had someone to help him with the removal of things, and shaving and the like. He didn’t enjoy being fussed over, his staff knew that, but there were some things that were deemed necessary, one of them being another human to help him take his clothing off.

  “Yes, do,” Alasdair replied gruffly, holding his arms out in front of his body. The valet was upon him in a moment, careful fingers removing his cufflinks, the remainder of his cravat, his jacket.

  Eventually, after far too long, it seemed to Alasdair, he was garbed in what his valet—and no doubt polite society—deemed appropriate for bedtime wear: A nightgown and robe.

  Alasdair felt a scowl creep over his mouth when he thought about what she was likely wearing—something that covered her from neck to toe, something respectable, understatedly elegant, ladylike.

  At least he would have the pleasure of removing it.

  With that happy thought, he tapped on the door connecting their rooms, not waiting to hear her call before flinging open the door.

  Thank God. She was alone, her back to him as she looked out the window. Her nightwear wasn’t too concealing, or perhaps he had gotten lucky, because the moon shone through the glass, revealing her shape through her clothing.

  All curves and softness uncovered to his avid gaze.

  She turned to face him, her expression shadowed. An unfamiliar feeling stole through him, as he wondered what she was thinking.

  She moved forward to him and he knew. She grabbed him by the lapels of his robe and pulled him to her, her mouth searching for his.

  His tongue plundered her mouth, his hands crept around her body to hold her tight against him.

  It had been far too long. Not since the day before, at least.

  She slid the robe off his shoulders and tugged his nightshirt up, stroking the skin of his back, skimming her palms over his ass.

  He drew away and yanked the nightshirt up over his head, tossing it away and standing before her, completely naked.

  She, however, was not. He needed to remedy that.

  He gathered the material of her night rail in his fingers and slid it up her body. She held her arms up over her head so he
could more easily remove the shift.

  When the fabric had just slid over her head, he lowered his mouth to her breast and licked her nipple. It stiffened as he slid his tongue over it, and he sucked it deep into his mouth, feeling her breath come faster as her fingers slid into his hair.

  He rose and pushed her to the bed, barely allowing her to drop onto it before covering her body with his. She was warm, and so soft, under him.

  He raised his head. “How does this feel, Lady Datchworth?”

  He saw the curve of her smile in the darkness. “Wonderful.”

  He threaded his fingers into her hair and pushed a few strands off her face. She was lovelier than anything he had ever seen. And he needed her more than anything he’d ever had.

  “Kiss me, then, Lady Datchworth.” He took her chin in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers, angling his leg over hers, his cock brushing against her hip.

  He burned for her. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of this, of her, of lying next to her and touching her soft skin.

  And, he thought, knowing full well she would rightly accuse him of arrogance, yet again, he would never have to.

  She was his. For now.

  Mary’s hands were on his chest, stroking and smoothing the planes of his skin. Her touch left a trail of heat until he felt as though he might explode.

  But he didn’t want to rush things, not the first time they were together in his London house, enfolded in elegant linen and a comfortable bed.

  Her fingers slid down to find him, and he wondered if he could hold out for the next minute, much less take his time with her. She gripped him down low on the shaft of his cock, sliding her hands up and down with a firm but leisurely motion.

  “Oh, God, Mary,” he groaned as he moved on top of her. He rose to his knees and gazed down at her, at her pale, lovely body.

  He looked into her eyes. She stared back, her eyes half-lidded in sensual pleasure, her mouth wet and open from his kisses.

  She guided him toward her and he groaned again as he entered her hot, slick passage. She was so tight, so wet, so ready for him.

  She slid her hands down his back and caressed his ass, urging him deeper with an unmistakable motion. “Please,” she said, her voice low and husky.

  “Please what?” He couldn’t resist teasing her, not even when he was so close.

  She smiled, a sensuous, wicked smile that he felt through his entire body.

  “Please fuck me,” she said in a soft whisper.

  Those naughty, forbidden words coming from her mouth were more than he could take. He braced his hands on either side of her body and began to move, gliding in and out of her, their breathing, growing steadily louder, and the suction of the movement the only sounds in the room.

  She bit her lip. “Harder?” he asked, and she nodded, one vehement motion of her head telling him just what she needed.

  He pushed harder then, and faster, and her expression tightened, her eyes closed.

  “Yes,” she moaned, and he kept the same pace as before. “Oh, yes,” she said, as he felt her orgasm tightening around him.

  He went faster, then, building to his own climax, thrusting as hard and as fast as he possibly could. The orgasm hit him like a shock, and he groaned his pleasure as he felt the spirals of ecstasy explode.

  As the coils of pleasure ebbed, he collapsed onto her, burying his face in her neck.

  And barely noticed as she slid out from under him after a few minutes, curling up on her side.

  Chapter 25

  The next morning, Mary somehow found her way to the breakfast room, which was almost as large as her father’s entire cottage. The walls were covered with paintings, dark paintings of severe-looking people glaring down at her.

  Or so it seemed.

  “Good morning, my lady.” Two footmen were already in place behind the chairs at either end of the long table.

  “Good morning.” Mary hesitated, not sure where to go. One of the footmen made a slight gesture, which seemed to indicate that she should take the seat in front of him. She stepped toward it and sat.

  “Tea, my lady?” It was her footman speaking.

  She turned her head and met his eyes. “Yes, please, that would be lovely.”

  He nodded and left the room. The other footman still stood behind the chair on the opposite end of the table. Silent. Not looking at her, but keeping his eyes focused directly in front of him.

  If this was what the members of the aristocracy dealt with every day, no wonder they treated the people beneath them as invisible. She cleared her throat.

  He did not move.

  “Excuse me?” she said. That drew a reaction.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Would it be possible to get a copy of the newspaper, please?”

  He hesitated, then gave a brief nod. “Of course.” He left the room as well, leaving Mary feeling incredibly alone. She’d been on her own many times, but never in the past week or so. He had always been there with her.

  Alasdair was still asleep, and she wondered briefly what he would do if she crawled back into bed with him. She couldn’t, not without making the servants talk—and even if he wouldn’t care, she did.

  The first footman returned with a tray and placed it on the table. “I’ll have my tea with a little sugar,” she said, at his enquiring look. “Also, I do not recall—what is your name, again?”

  “John, my lady.” He picked up the teacup and saucer and placed them in front of her. “May I get you some toast?”

  “In a moment.” Mary took a sip of the tea, which was just the right temperature. Probably her husband had forbidden tea that was either too hot or too cold.

  “Of course. I’ll go fetch it.” He bowed and left the room again, closing the door with a soft snick behind him. The door immediately opened again, and the butler appeared, holding a newspaper out in front of him like a sacrificial offering.

  “My lady, the newspaper.” He laid it to the right of her place setting and unfolded it. As if, Mary thought, she was incapable of unfolding it herself.

  It was The Tattler, which Mary had never seen before. It certainly had many more pages than the publications her father had received.

  Perhaps she was incapable of unfolding it after all.

  He spread the paper open to what Mary could tell was the society page. Excellent. No time like the present to become intimidated by knowing the names of everyone who was likely to look down on her.

  One name, however, caught her eye: It is reported that Mr. and Mrs. Michael Waters, late of Northumberland, have been blessed with the birth of their daughter, Louisa Mary Walters. The family will remain at the Walters’s country estate through the Season.

  Amelia! Amelia had had a baby! How long had it been since they’d written each other? Clearly longer than nine months, if this was happening.

  Perhaps Matthias had intercepted Amelia’s letters so that Mary would feel yet more alone. She couldn’t imagine Amelia holding anything back—she had certainly told Mary enough about her marital duties. She felt a grin twist her mouth as she thought of how useful Amelia’s stories had been.

  She would write to her friend immediately, and congratulate her. And if she did have to leave, she was certain that Amelia would take her in.

  Why didn’t that make her feel better?

  Chapter 26

  “We will throw a ball to introduce you.” It was long after breakfast, and he’d finally condescended to show himself. Mary had spent a few hours in his library, writing Amelia a letter that said enough without saying too much, and reading, even though her mind kept wandering.

  She raised her eyes from her book. He stood at the doorway, his command almost preceding his body into the room. “And you are so sure your world will accept me?” She couldn’t keep the fear from her voice.

  He walked over to her, shutting the door behind him. When he was dressed as befit a gentleman of his rank, he was breathtaking. At least, she found it hard to breathe aro
und him.

  His black jacket fit over his shoulders as though it had been molded to him—likely it had—and his hair had been cut, showcasing the stark, handsome lines of his face even better.

  Those green eyes were focused on her with an intensity that would have made her breathless—if her breath hadn’t already been stolen..

  He stopped to stand directly in front of her chair. “My world, as you call it, will accept you, as I have.” The certainty of his tone made her stomach settle, somewhat. “Whether or not Hugh will cause enough trouble to give them an excuse to question my actions is another story entirely,” And there went her stomach’s brief moment of comfort. “We’ll just have to convince them. And what better way to convince them than to throw a party with champagne, and delicious food, and a newly married couple deeply in …” he said, and faltered.

  “In necessity?” she supplied, wishing he hadn’t hesitated.

  “If that is how you see it,” he replied, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “Of course, it is necessary that you be here because otherwise you would be …”

  Again, his words stopped. Likely he didn’t want to remind her of where she would be: somewhere at Matthias’s mercy, with no money, no hope, no future.

  Small wonder, then, that he seemed as determined to save her as she was to save him.

  “And my mother? How are we to find her?”

  He leaned on the arm of her chair and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, placing his warm palm on the back of her neck. It sent shivers through her. “I imagine she is in town for the Season. We will invite her to the ball so you may see her and decide if you wish to make your presence known to her.”

  “That sounds so … underhanded.” She didn’t like the idea of spying on her mother, but she liked even less the idea that her mother might reject her entirely. Perhaps his way was the best.

  He shrugged. “It makes the most sense. Besides, the ball must take place in a few days, so there would not be time to meet her first.”

  Now she was breathless for the entirely wrong reasons. “A few days? But that leaves us with so little time to prepare.”

  “There is nothing you need concern yourself with. The staff will handle all of the preparations. You just need to greet our guests and try not to bore them with talk of poetry, or how arrogant you find me.”