Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  In the carriage, he barely spoke at first. When it grew light enough, he read his paper or stared out of the little window. After his treatment of her in that same carriage mere hours earlier, it was plain he meant what he said when he vowed to make the most of their remaining days. She was quite certain she had bruises already flourishing after his crude manhandling. But he had not escaped entirely unscathed, she thought with sharp satisfaction as her gaze found the little mark on the side of his neck just visible under his tall collar. Part kiss, part nibble. A brand left in response to those he’d given her. A mark of her frustration, her passion, her sense of helplessness that she found herself in such a predicament. She, Molly Robbins, of the very little harm.

  “People here will know we shared a bed,” she said on the first evening when he took a room above a rowdy tavern.

  “So?” came his sharp reply. “What business is it of theirs?” He kicked off his boots and undressed with careless haste. When she took time to pick up his discarded clothes, fold them neatly, and place them on a chair, he grew impatient. “Make haste, woman. Come to bed. I don’t want to fall asleep before I’ve had you tonight.”

  “How romantic. It seems you left your charm in London, my lord.”

  “But you were impervious to my charm anyway.”

  “Of course I was. That’s why I never gave in and let you seduce me.”

  “Woman, cease fussing with my clothes and come to bed. I have something else requiring your attention.”

  When she still delayed, he got up, strode naked to where she stood, raised her over his shoulder, and tossed her onto the bed. If the good landlord below had not known before what was happening in his most costly chamber, he certainly knew then, by the creaking and yelling coming from it. She rolled over and off the other side of the bed, taking umbrage at his high-handed manner.

  “Get back here, country ragamuffin.” He rolled after her, ready to chase her around the bed. Until he stubbed his toe and cursed.

  “What’s the matter, Lord Lazybones, Earl of Idiocy? Too old to keep up with me?” She ran, laughing. Her captor had demanded she wear that indecent lace gown tonight, and now she knew he would be teased and tormented with glimpses through the material as she skipped out of his reach.

  But he wasn’t putting up with that for long. Abruptly, he leapt across the mattress to catch her, dragging her back to the groaning, protesting bed, and securing her there with a knee on either side of her hips.

  Slowly, he set about the slow untying of each satin ribbon, beginning at her throat.

  “This is for your insubordination in running away from me,” he murmured as the first bow slid open under his fingers. “This is for the names you called me.” There went another knot.

  Molly arched her spine, breathing hard, each fall of soft, sensuous ribbon kissing her skin, tantalizing.

  “This,” he continued, working another bow free, “is for each time you bite your lip to drive me mad with desire, when you know I can’t act upon it in a room full of people.”

  She looked up at his face in amazement. Surely she never did such a thing. Not Molly of the very little harm.

  “This is for the pert pucker of your mouth, used to make me think of kissing you when you pretend you don’t want me to have any such thought in my head.”

  Oh, dear, had she done that deliberately? It didn’t sound like her.

  “This is for every devious flutter of your long lashes that lure me in while I’m not supposed to notice you. This for the scent you wear behind your ear, which is not supposed to make me yearn for a taste. And this…this…” His fingers had just released the bow at her navel, and now they skipped back up to her chin. “This…” He pressed on her lower lip, opening her mouth a little. “This is for me.”

  Carver kissed her now as if she was his last meal before execution, and his hands were trembling. He was needy and demanding. May the Good Lord help her, but she didn’t mind it. He parted her thighs, even with several ribbons still left knotted, and entered her swiftly. She clung to his hot shoulders and dug her fingers into his hard flesh.

  “Mine,” he groaned into her hair.

  Just for now, she thought.

  That night she studied his sleeping profile by the light of the August moon through the window. Dark lashes twitched against his cheeks, and his lips moved as he talked in his sleep. Giving commands to her no doubt. His need for her was puzzling. He gave her far more than she could ever give to him, yet he was intent on completing their month together, resorting to these extreme lengths of abduction.

  He treated her like a piece of property to be mishandled and brazenly taken from the street just because he needed her. Molly knew she ought to make an attempt to get away, but he would simply chase after her. Better to get this contract over with, and then he would have no further excuse to waylay her. Then they could both go on with their lives as they were before this happened.

  Molly flirted with the idea of telling anyone they met on the road that she’d been kidnapped and was held against her will. What would he say to excuse himself? At a toll-gate, she decided to find out and complained to the keeper’s wife that the Earl of Everscham had manhandled her into his carriage and spirited her away as his prisoner.

  The good lady laughed uproariously and nodded, then went back to her knitting.

  At an inn outside Guildford, she considered confiding in the barman, who seemed a jolly, helpful fellow, but the idea passed as soon as a plate of food was put before her. She’d never been so hungry in her life.

  Since he’d made no advance preparations for the trip, he’d packed only one small trunk for himself and had not even spared a moment to bath and shave before they set off. At the first roadside inn, he’d sent a message back to Edward Hobbs in London and another on ahead of them to his land agent, but those were the only letters he wrote, the only warnings he gave anyone.

  They passed through Surrey and entered the county of West Sussex, where the countryside rolled along outside the coach window in a pleasant patchwork of fields and woodland. The estate, he informed her stiffly when she inquired, covered more than six hundred acres at the foot of the South Downs.

  “How lovely it sounds,” she said.

  “Humph,” was the reply.

  When the coach carried them over a bridge across the River Arun, she knew it was not much farther. Molly’s excitement mounted, as did her trepidation.

  “They will be shocked to see you at the estate,” she muttered. “Will they know who you are?”

  He glared at her.

  “They might think you a beggar at the gate and turn you away.” She laughed curtly. “You don’t look very noble in your current state. More like a desperate highwayman.”

  “I can assure you they’ll know me.”

  He was right. A stout fellow at the gatehouse waved them on without hesitation when he saw the fine coach and roan horses approach. Several workers they passed along the wide gravel drive removed their hats and bowed respectfully as the coach rumbled by. There appeared to be a large number of children among them, little boys with happy, ruddy faces, who had less restraint than the elder workers, and leapt up and down, waving at the coach. The estate workers, she concluded, must be a fertile bunch.

  Tall oaks and chestnuts flanked their route, shading the horses from the melting afternoon sun, and still they traveled onward for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Molly sat back in her seat, not wanting to seem too impressed by the extent of her heartless kidnapper’s domain, but after a while, her natural curiosity drew her forward again to admire the lush scenery.

  Through the sentinel trees, she watched fat, woolly sheep grazing contentedly on a great swathe of lush green. Beyond them, another quantity of beech trees, and then sweeping fields, folding one into the other. Eventually, surrounded by a dry moat and raised up on a slight hill, the house itself came into view with the pink and copper sunset falling behind it. Her pulse quickened, overtaking the horses’ hooves. Th
e structure in the distance was more of a castle than a house, a vast rambling structure with wings built on over the years, each one showing its age by the amount of ivy claiming its walls. At the very center rose a round medieval tower fortress, the sort of place in which one expected to find skeletons of forgotten prisoners.

  “Goodness,” she exclaimed. “Do people often get lost in there?”

  “Yes,” he replied solemnly. “My grandfather had a valet in 1756 who was last seen heading for the west wing. Occasionally, on still, windless nights, one can hear him wailing as his footsteps trail haplessly in search of an exit.”

  Molly shook her head, and at last, his lips cracked in a small smile.

  “You might lose me too,” she warned.

  “Not a chance.”

  A little shiver fluttered over her skin as if he’d whispered in her ear.

  The horses clattered to a halt before the main door, where a short line of servants waited to greet their arrival. “What will you introduce me as?” she demanded, flustered again.

  “Miss Margaret Robbins, of course. What else? Perhaps you prefer Madame Fifi La Roux?”

  That was not what she’d meant, but there was no time for further discussion. He leapt out first and helped her down, lifting her with his hands around her waist when she would much rather have descended by her own power.

  A stocky, weatherworn fellow stepped forward, hat in his hands. “My lord, how pleasant to have you home again.”

  “Thank you, Phipps. This is Miss Margaret Robbins, my honored guest. Miss Robbins, this is my land agent, Phipps.”

  Honored guest. Well, that was respectable enough. A wave of relief swept over her so rapidly she felt the gravel move under her feet. A long line of household staff waited to be introduced, and a tall, angular woman, dressed all in black with a ring of keys at her waist, stepped forward to take over the greeting. As if Phipps might not be trusted to do it properly.

  “This is my housekeeper, Mrs. Martindale. She will answer any questions you might have and show you where to find whatever you require. Mrs. Martindale has lived here since the first foundation stones were laid.”

  The woman’s dour countenance did not change. “I certainly have not, young man. Take that back at once.”

  Surprised to hear him addressed in such an informal way, Molly glanced at Carver and saw him smile. “Well, you know where all the skeletons are buried, and we Danforthes have plenty.”

  “Yes.” She conceded with a stern nod. “That much is true. Welcome to the estate, Miss Robbins. As his lordship said, I can answer any questions you might have. Always come to me, not to him, for he will fill your head with dreadful, shameless lies about this house. He has quite a vivid imagination.”

  Molly’s surprise continued. “He has?”

  “Oh yes. There is no limit to the gruesome ghost stories he can conjure up.”

  Carver quickly drew her onward, taking the steps three at a time with his own long stride and almost causing her to fall on her face. “Don’t dally, Miss Robbins,” he exclaimed crisply.

  “Why the haste? I have plenty of questions to ask Mrs. Martindale.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “And you don’t mean to let me ask them.”

  “You’re my prisoner and captive, Naughty Mouse,” he reminded her with a whisper that caressed her cheek. “You’ll do as I say, or I might have to tie you up in my dungeon.”

  “Nonsense, you haven’t any dungeon. Lady Mercy told me.”

  “Aha, but I do. So there! She wouldn’t even know about it, being a coddled girl. If you don’t believe me, try my patience and see where it gets you.” His large hand slid down to her bottom and, out of sight of the others, stole a sly squeeze.

  She snorted with laughter, unable to hold it in, even though she feared this made her a terrible wanton hussy, every bit as wicked as he claimed her to be. But almost immediately, she fell into awestruck silence, for they passed into the cavernous main hall. Stretching to the left of the entrance, the vast room held a massive stone chimneypiece, decorated with heraldic shields and rampant lions. A beautifully carved staircase led up to the second floor, but her wide eyes went at once to the enormous portraits hung on the dark paneled wall directly facing the entrance vestibule.

  The woman she recognized from the smaller portrait of his mother in Carver’s library in the London house, and the man in the companion painting she guessed must be his father, the previous earl. Now she understood why he’d said the locals would know him and not mistake him for anyone else. The resemblance was startling.

  “We’ll save the tour for later,” Carver muttered, still rushing her along by the arm. “Eat first. Food, if you please, Mrs. Martindale.”

  “You will find the table set in the dining parlor, my lord.”

  The servants dispersed rapidly, and he took her down the length of the grand hall, through a wide Tudor door, and into an equally impressive chamber with another fireplace and a vaulted ceiling from which hung an iron wheel full of candles. The long trestle table had been set in readiness for their arrival. Apparently they would dine without service, and she was glad of it. She wouldn’t want to make a pig of herself on the first night and in full view of the staff. Her mouth watered pitifully at the delicious scent of roast beef and thick, rich gravy. Oh…and if her poor sight could be relied upon…Yorkshire pudding. She was ravenous again already. Must be nerves, she mused.

  ***

  There was something satisfying about watching her eat. She’d begun to fill out in a very pleasing way, and Carver was no longer afraid that a strong gust of wind might blow her out of his hands. She consumed the supper with gusto, despite the fact that she must have been tired after their journey. Not to mention unsettled by her strange surroundings.

  He supposed he ought to feel shame at the way he dragged her into the country with him, but how else was he to keep her to himself? He’d wanted to take her away from London and the bitter-tongued gossips, and he had to act quickly. No time for thinking. There was a vast deal of confusion in his mind, and the only thing that smoothed out the tangles was to have her in his sights, by his side.

  “It’s late now, but tomorrow I’ll take you around the estate,” he told her. Then it occurred to him that he didn’t even know if she could ride. Well, they could always take out the small curricle, or even the steward’s gig. He knew Phipps was anxious to talk with him about repairs to some of the tithe cottages, as well as the main house itself. Why not take her along with him? If he left her in the house, she might start mending and cleaning his garments.

  “When was the last time you stayed here?” she asked.

  “Last autumn, with Hobbs, but I haven’t stayed for any length of time since I came into the title.” He speared another slice of beef on his fork.

  “Why?”

  “I prefer Town.”

  “Why?” She stared through the candles, her eyes very large and full of wonder. Glad the spark was back, he allowed her to question him, as he never would tolerate it from anyone else.

  “More noise, more people. After my father died, this place was too quiet, too large and empty.”

  “And I suppose there were too many responsibilities to face here.”

  In the process of cutting into his slice of beef, he stopped and glowered at her. “That was not the point.” It was not responsibilities that chased him out, it was ghosts.

  “Oh? I thought perhaps it was entirely the point.”

  “I face my responsibilities. You have no idea.”

  “I don’t suppose I do”—Margaret turned her gaze to her plate—“since you never share your serious thoughts with me, or your problems. I’m not important enough to be told anything.”

  Carver reached for his wine and then stopped, fingers curling into a fist on the table. “I suggest you tell me your theory of why I stay away, then. I can see you have one, and I’m on tenterhooks to hear it.”

  When her plush lashes lifted, her eyes were w
arm. “Forgive me, Danny, but I’ve seen you abdicate responsibility over the years—handing it to Hobbs or even to your sister. When forced into action, you can be decisive. Look at us now, for instance.” She waved her knife. “We wouldn’t be sitting here if you hadn’t suddenly decided to drag me off the street. But until it’s an absolute emergency, you do your very best to avoid decisions. And for the most part, it works well for you, because there is usually someone else there who gives up waiting and makes the choice for you.”

  He did not interrupt, but let her speak, let her get it all out. Her voice was soft, mellow, very pleasant, and never shrill. He didn’t even mind when it insulted him. Quite possibly he could forgive her anything, he realized, appalled by the thought.

  “It’s not your fault that you’ve been spoiled and cosseted, protected from making decisions. You can’t help being born an earl. You are lucky to have blindly devoted, loyal servants like Edward Hobbs in London and Mr. Phipps here. Not to mention a sister who is more than happy to direct your life and would even pick a bride for you, if you let her. I daresay if I was born with people to do everything for me, I, too, would have become lazy and complacent.” She smiled and continued her meal, apparently satisfied with her saucy little speech.

  Trouble was, the impertinent madam was right. He had been lucky, and yes, he had escaped responsibility on several occasions, neatly sidestepping to let it land on the shoulders of faithful Hobbs or his meddling sister, Mercy.

  “But I mean to change all that,” he said suddenly, making her look up again. “That’s why I’m here now. You’ll see.”

  “Will I?”

  He cleared his throat. “I have been afraid to make mistakes in my life.”

  She put down her fork. “We all make mistakes, Danny. That’s how we learn.”

  “Indeed.”

  She beamed.

  Once again he realized how different she was than any other woman he knew. At times she made him feel…stupid…humbled. And then she lifted him up again, a new man.