by Shana Galen
Nine
Andrew headed back to his room, intent upon packing his bags and quitting Ravenscroft Castle until the god-awful house party was ended and Lily Dawson returned to London, where she belonged. On the way, he passed the music room, and the sound of the pianoforte drew him in. Emma looked up from the instrument and smiled at him. In the corner he spotted her governess—what was her name again?—sitting in a chair and doing needlework of some sort or other. It seemed to him that women were always doing needlework.
“Pray, do not stop on my account,” he told his sister. She nodded and began again. He had no idea what piece she played, but it was lovely, even if her fingers stumbled on occasion. “I have not seen you about lately.”
“That is because you banished me,” she said, her eyes on the sheet music before her.
“I?”
“You told Miss Peevy to keep me away from the amusements. I have been languishing in the nursery.”
Andrew covered a smile. Emma could always make him smile. “Perhaps you should try acting rather than music. You seem to have a flair for the dramatic.”
“Really?” She turned a page then glanced back at her governess, who was pretending, quite convincingly, not to be listening. “Do you hear that, Miss Peevy? The theater is not the work of the devil.”
“Yes, miss,” the governess said noncommittally. Andrew assumed they’d had this particular conversation previously.
“As you see, I am quite well protected,” Emma said, fumbling the piece and squinting at her sheet music. “Oh, I see. I forgot about the E-flat,” she muttered to herself.
“I am glad to hear it. His Grace’s choice of company leaves much to be desired.” He leaned on the instrument and watched her fingers.
“Well,” she began again, correcting her mistake, “you would know, as I noticed you did not see the need to quarantine yourself from our guests’ poisoning effect.”
Drama was indeed her talent. “I sense discontent.”
“Is it that obvious then?”
“Would a walk about the grounds alleviate your suffering?”
Her fingers paused, and she beamed at him. “It might.” She glanced at her governess again. “But will Miss Peevy be capable of protecting me?”
“Doubtful. I will have to accompany you to ensure your safety. I trust you have no objection.”
“None.” She rose. “I shall fetch my shawl.”
Andrew blinked. “You wish to go now? This moment?”
“Of course. I would not risk you changing your mind.”
Miss Peevy stood, her face disapproving. “You will have to resume your practicing when you return.”
Emma sighed. Clearly she had hoped to escape music for the day. “Yes, Miss Peevy.” She pointed at Andrew. “Do not move. I shall return in a moment.”
“Fetch your parasol as well!” her governess called, going after her.
A quarter of an hour later, he and Emma were walking the grounds of Ravenscroft. She pointed out all the places she remembered him causing mischief or injuring himself. Clearly she had idolized him when she was growing up. He did not know why he never saw it until now. She asked a tiresome number of questions about London, but he supposed that was natural in a girl her age. She would be coming out soon, and she probably had little else but her first Season to daydream of during tedious history lessons.
He answered her questions and attempted not to give her too much brotherly advice, and for the first time since his mother’s death, he felt a sense of confidence. Perhaps he could do his sister some good, and that would mean he was not utterly worthless. He was not completely incapable of acting in a ducal manner.
From as far back as he could remember, the importance of his future role and title had been impressed upon him. And as far back as he could remember, his father had declared him a hopeless failure. Andrew was not a good student or a model son. He was far better at breaking rules than following them, better at making friends than making certain an estate ran efficiently.
And the House of Lords—he could not even stay awake for the interesting courses at Oxford. How was he going to manage when some old codger went on and on about the tax on wigs or some equally tedious topic? He should never have been born heir to the title. Why could Katherine not inherit it? She’d be a formidable duke.
Only the Duchess of Ravenscroft had ever believed in him. Only she had remained steadfast in her faith in him—even when he was gallivanting about Town, drinking himself into a stupor, and chasing every woman who so much as smiled at him.
His father had declared him a disgrace—ironic considering the duke’s recent behavior—but his mother had never doubted him. Now he had no one who believed in him. No one to stand with him when the heavy ducal mantle dropped on his shoulders. Everyone thought him witty and charming and amiable. And he played his role well because the alternative was to show his true character. And no one wanted to drink with a man who was nothing more than an insecure lackwit whose only hope was to stumble through his tenure as Duke of Ravenscroft without ruining the family.
But here with Emma, Andrew felt a glimmer of hope for his future and that of his family. They were almost to the house when the steward found them. Andrew could see immediately something was amiss, and he sent Emma inside so the steward might speak to him privately.
“What is it, Helms?”
“There’s been a theft from the kitchen, my lord.”
Andrew frowned. “Go on.”
“The cook discovered cheese, bread, and several jugs of her cooking wine missing.”
“The cooking wine is not kept under lock by the butler.”
“Correct, my lord.”
Andrew motioned for the man to walk, and the two began in the direction of the kitchens.
“I asked Mrs. Fowler if she might not have miscounted or misplaced the items, and she assured me, quite vehemently, my lord, that she had not.”
In other words, she’d taken offense.
“She is quite frugal and thorough, my lord. I have no reason to suspect she is mistaken.”
“I will speak to her, Helms. It was probably one of our guests—perhaps it was filched for a picnic or a clandestine meeting.”
The steward cleared his throat, and Andrew wondered how much he knew about the guests currently in residence. “In any case, keep your eyes open. Let’s watch for anything else unusual.”
“Yes, your lordship.”
Darlington spoke with the cook and then a problem with one of the grooms demanded his attention and then the housekeeper wanted to speak with him about Lord Kwirley. Apparently, the viscount had made unwanted advances toward the parlor maid attempting to clean his room. He dealt with each issue as best he could, all the while wondering when everyone would begin laughing at the hoax. Darlington acting like a duke! How ridiculous.
By the time Andrew had finished addressing the household matters, it was the dinner hour, and devil take him if he would be forced to sit at a table with his father and the Countess of Charm. Even though it was more trouble for the already overworked staff, he asked for a tray to be brought to his room and ate it there with a book in hand. He had begun it several weeks ago and had not progressed very far—he was not a great reader—but he had persisted because he thought it important to understand something of farming if he would one day inherit an estate that depended so heavily on that occupation.
If only his friends could see him now. He’d be laughed out of White’s. The Darling of the Ton dining alone in his room, reading a book on farm practices. Good God, but he was as pathetic as Pelham.
A quiet knock sounded on his door, and he said absently, “Come.” He glanced at his clock. It was a bit early for his valet.
“Am I interrupting?”
Andrew jumped to his feet and stared at the woman standing in his doorway. She wore a sapphire-blue gown
and matching jewels at her throat and ears. The material pooled around her, shimmering in the lamp light. Her hair shimmered as well, and he realized she must have pinned small, sparkly ornaments in it to achieve the effect. Finally, he blinked, and the horror of the situation descended on him. “What the devil are you doing?” He crossed to her, pulled her inside his room, and slammed the door. It occurred to him, belatedly, he would have done better to have pushed her out, but even he did not have that much willpower. “You should not be here. If you are seen—”
“Will I cause a scandal? Oh, dear.” She put a hand to her heart, feigning shock. “I fear my reputation would not survive.”
“Hang your reputation. I care about Ravenscroft Castle. I don’t know why my father insists on trying to run it into the ground.” It was supposed to be his legacy. His throat burned, and he glanced toward a silver tray on a small corner table. “Care for a drink?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Andrew smiled in spite of himself. Lily always managed to amuse him. Perhaps that was why he’d never thought of her romantically. She was approachable, and she made him laugh. She wasn’t dubbed the Countess of Charm without reason.
He lifted a decanter in each hand. “Brandy or sherry?”
She gave him a disbelieving look. “Need you ask? Next you will offer me ratafia.”
“The brandy then.” He warmed the glass then filled it half-full and handed it to her before pouring his own. The caramel liquid slid cleanly and sweetly down his throat.
“This is very good,” she said, and he noted she was looking around curiously now. He wondered what she thought of his room. He’d always been something of a hedonist, and he’d indulged in expensive rugs, heavy draperies, and a large bed replete with piles of pillows and plush bedclothes. He had two hanging presses to hold all of his clothing. Andrew was the first to admit he’d been a bit of a dandy. But that was before.
“What do you think?” he asked when she continued her appraisal.
Her gaze fixed on him once again. To be under the scrutiny of those emerald eyes was rather provoking. He sipped the brandy again.
“It’s comfortable, but then I’d expect nothing less. You’re not exactly austere in your lifestyle.”
It was true, and for whatever reason—the remnants of his earlier confidence—he took offense. “And what do you know of my lifestyle?” he said. “What do you know of what I’ve been through—what my family has been through—these past months?”
“You’re right,” she said, surprising him with her easy capitulation. “Your mother’s death has changed you. I see that. I judged on appearance alone.” She gestured to his room and then stepped closer to him, almost seeming to confide in him. “That is why I came to speak to you. I wanted to apologize for this afternoon.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. I accused you unjustly.”
She seemed to consider before she spoke again. “Appearances, as we just discussed, can be deceiving, Lord Darlington. There’s more to me than you see.”
“I’d be interested in seeing more of you then.” The words were out before he could stop them, before he even really knew what he was saying.
She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. But my real apology was about your father. I did not mean for the two of you to quarrel.”
He laughed. “Quarrel? You mean, you did not want to witness my dressing down.”
She sipped her brandy and gave him a considering look. “Why is it so difficult for you to trust me and so easy for you to think the worst of me?”
“I’d like to trust you, Lily.” He set his empty brandy glass on the table. “But I find it difficult when I catch you attempting to steal from my father.”
She shook her head. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
“Exactly.” He pointed at her.
“Thank you for the drink.” She handed him the brandy glass, but when he took it, she did not release it. “One last caveat. Everything is not always as it seems.”
“If I cannot believe my eyes,” he murmured, his fingers closing over her warm hand, “what can I believe?”
“What you feel,” she whispered. “What you know”—she lifted a hand and put it on his chest—“in your heart to be true.”
They stood frozen for three beats of his heart. He counted them, the flesh of her hand infusing warmth into him. And then, as one, they came together. He did believe in what he felt, and what he felt was desire. Arousal. Need. It was pure and visceral and only waiting for the right opportunity to be let loose. No one would interrupt them now. Nothing would save her from him now.
Or perhaps it was he who needed to be saved?
***
She was in his arms, and no matter how many times her mind screamed that this was a mistake, she could not seem to step away. His mouth covered hers hungrily, and she devoured him just as eagerly. When she touched him, everything inside her came alive. Every sensation was heightened—she felt the fine weave of his linen shirt, the hard muscles of his chest, the stubble on his jaw as his mouth met hers. The lamps flickered weakly; his face had been in shadow from the moment she entered his room. She touched it now with one hand, learning its planes and ridges, its slopes and edges. Her fingers raked through his thick, dark hair. It was soft and naturally curly.
She moved to kiss his neck and nip at his ear, catching his scent—a mixture of brandy and leather. She flicked out her tongue, teasing him just below the ear, and he inhaled sharply. Lily couldn’t have said why she did such a thing. She had wanted to taste him, to lick his skin and see if it tasted as delicious as he looked.
He pulled back, his dark eyes even darker from arousal. “What the devil have you done to me?”
“Should we stop?” she asked, surprised her own voice should sound so breathless.
“Yes.”
They stood for a moment, looking at each other, and then he kissed her again. This time he was the one exploring. His hands roved her back until they cupped her bottom, and slid to shape her hips then to measure her waist. Her breasts felt heavy and sensitive as his fingers edged closer. She’d spent years attempting to stop men from groping her. Now, she wanted his touch more than she could have ever imagined.
One warm palm settled over her breast. His hand was strong and pleasantly weighted. He held her then caressed her, causing her nipple to peak and harden almost painfully. “Yes,” he murmured, leaving her mouth to torment her neck and shoulder. “Now you know how painful that hard, unfulfilled arousal can be.”
She supposed she should make some witty comment in return, but she could not think of one. She could think of nothing but his hand moving in slow circles around her nipple, the sensation making her body tingle all over and making her lower belly begin to throb and ache. She hadn’t expected this reaction. Of course, she hadn’t expected this to happen. She was not in the habit of bedding men, despite her role as a courtesan. But even if she was the most experienced Cyprian in London, she thought Darlington’s touch would have undone her. There was something about him that pulled at her. It always had, and she’d always known, even in the midst of her fantasies, that if he ever were to bed her, he’d realize she was no courtesan.
“I have to taste you, Lily,” he was saying now as he pushed her backward in a slow sort of dance. “I have to see you.”
“We should stop,” she whispered as her legs bumped against the bed.
“Yes,” he said. “You should leave. Walk away.”
Instead she allowed him to lift her onto the bed and to kneel above her. His dark curls spilled over his forehead and cheeks, and she lifted her hands to push them back. He was so handsome with that boyish face and those dark, liquid eyes. And the way he was looking at her made her insides turn to porridge. She’d dreamed he would one day look at her like this. His hand on her back loosened the fastenings o
f her new gown, and when he brought his fingers around, she could feel them on the skin beneath her gaping bodice.
“You’re not walking away.”
“I can’t. I want you too much.”
“Lily.” He stared at her, his expression one of surprise and desire. She felt him, hard and heavy at the juncture of her thighs.
“You will have to act the gentleman and end this.”
“Oh, Lily.” He shook his head. “Didn’t you know? I’m no gentleman.” He bent his head and kissed the swell of one breast, his warm tongue laving over her skin until it pebbled with pleasure. His nimble fingers made swift work of her bodice, and then he had to struggle with her stays. “Why…” He grimaced. “Do women…” He bit his lip in concentration. “Wear so many…” With a last flick, she felt the stays give, and he pushed them down. For a long moment, he just looked at her.
“So awful I’ve left you speechless?” she finally joked. She was beginning to feel nervous, and she always turned to flippancy when she felt nervous.
His gaze flicked to her eyes and remained there. “I am speechless, but I would not describe you as awful. Quite the opposite, I assure you.” His voice was low and husky now. “May I touch you?”
“It would be cruel of me to allow things to go this far and then deny you that much.”
He gave her a small smile. “It would. I have dreamed of touching you like this.”
“You needn’t flatter me. I’m already half-undressed and lying beneath you.” She took his face in her hands. “Just kiss me. It will be enough.” She interrupted whatever he was about to say by pressing her lips to his. She felt his hand on her breast again, and this time the contact was skin on skin. His skin was deliciously warm and not at all as soft as she would have expected of an earl. She felt calluses on his fingers and liked the rough feel of them on her tender nipples.