Hunter took her cloak from her shoulders and tossed it over his arm. "Hot as hell in here," he mumbled.
She walked between two rows of potted lemon trees, her heels clapping on the slate floor. Overhead, caged songbirds fluttered on their perches. "It's even more beautiful than I remembered," she mused.
He followed her through the maze of potted plants and trees deeper into the orangery. "You've been here before?"
"Mmm hmmm." She took off her fur hat and shook her head to let her hair fall free across her shoulders.
"When?"
She stopped to touch a lemon that hung from a branch. "Christmastime. I was nine or ten. My parents came for a party, a ball, something. I came with my brothers and sisters. We played here for hours. It was one of the most magical places I had ever been."
"Did we meet?"
She shrugged. "I don't think so. All I remember is the orangery and your father giving us each an orange to take home." She smiled at the memory. "Now where are these miniature trees?"
"Oh, I know." He walked several feet and then pulled back a thick bush that grew from a large painted pot. "This way."
Alexandra turned her head to one side. "That doesn't look like a path to me. Aren't they that way?" She pointed to the far west corner that was obscured by palm trees over ten feet tall.
"A short cut."
Suspiciously, she stepped through the hole he had created. He followed her and then let the branches fall. They were in the center of a square of trees. There was no way in, nor any way out except the way they'd come.
"Hunter!"
He dropped their cloaks on the slate floor. "It's Geoffry. Can't you remember your own husband's name, jade?" He took her by the waist.
She squeezed her eyes shut. "Geoffry. Yes. I'm sorry."
"Pay the price, madame."
"H . . . Geoffry!"
"Pay the price."
She lifted up on her tiptoes and pursed her lips comically. He kissed her. Then again and again.
She opened her eyes, laughing. "What are you doing?"
He had found the tiny row of buttons at her back and begun to unbutton them while he kissed the swell of her breasts above her low-cut bodice. "Need I explain?" he asked, his voice already husky with desire. "I've wanted you since we left London this morning."
"Here?" she protested. But she was kissing him back, that curious hot excitement already rising in the pit of her stomach. "It's unseemly."
"My father's house, my house," he told her as he peeled away her bodice, letting the material fall in a curtain around her waist. "Your house." He unworked her stays. "We'll do as we please. Always, sweeting. Remember that."
His thumb caressed her nipple through her thin shift and she shivered despite the heat of the orangery. This is insane, she thought as she tugged at the stock at his neck. Stripping naked in broad daylight in a public place!
But he was already kissing her the way he knew she liked to be kissed. She pulled his shirt over his head and let it float to the floor. Even through the material of her shift, she could feel the heat of his skin against her breasts.
He was down on his knees, pulling down her skirting, stroking her with his hands. She rested her hands on his shoulders and stepped out of the gown and hoops. She laughed as he pulled off her heeled slippers one at a time and tossed them into the shrubbery. Then came her stockings. He made each move to stimulate her, to tease, to tantalize, to make her cry out in desire for him.
Piece by piece he disrobed her and she him.
Finally, when they stood naked in each other's arms, Hunter shook out her ermine-lined cloak and laid it on the slate, lining side up. Taking her in his arms again, they went down on their knees together, locked in an embrace. She brushed her fingers across his broad, bare back.
"Love me?" he whispered.
"Yes," she answered as her mouth found his. "I love you. I love you Hunter."
"And I you," he whispered in her ear as he brought a hand up to caress the fullness of her breast. "I'll love you always, no matter what," he said, his voice sounding almost desperate.
Alexandra thought to question him, but not now, not when they were already swept up in the fires of passion. Later . . . there would be time later.
Teasing her with his fingertips, Hunter rolled onto his side. Alexandra lay with her eyes closed, revelling in the feel of his rough hands on her sensitive flesh.
When she heard tree branches rustle above them, she opened her eyes to see him pluck a ripe orange.
"What are you doing?" she asked, looking up at him through a veil of thick lashes. She wanted him. She could feel her heart pumping, her blood racing.
"Nothing," he answered, a silly smile on his face.
She watched him tear the piece of fruit in half. She giggled as some of the juice dribbled from between his finger onto her belly. "Hunter! You're dripping on me!"
"Mmmm," he murmured as his tongue flicked across her flesh.
His laughter turned to purrs of contentment as he licked the juice from her belly.
"You'll make me sticky," she complained.
He crawled up toward her, touching his mouth to hers. He tasted sweetly of orange. She sucked on his lower lip. "Mmmm," she echoed. "You taste good."
"But you taste better."
With a slow deliberateness Hunter began to squeeze the orange half and drip juice onto her. A little on her cheek, a little between her breasts . . . His hot tongue lapped up the cool juice, sending tremors of pleasure through her limbs.
His mouth found her nipples, the insides of her elbows, the hollow of her shoulder. His hands, the sweet sticky juice, his tongue, they were everywhere . . .
"Hunter, Hunter," she cried finally. "Enough."
"Enough. You want me to stop?" He lay over her, his hard male body pressing her into the soft fur of her cloak.
"Yes," she breathed. "No." She smiled, looking up at him. "I want you to finish me off. Kill me before I die of the pleasure. That or—"
"Or what?"
She smiled up at him coyly. "You know."
His laughter was husky in her ear as he rose up, brushing his swollen member against her thigh. "Greedy wench," he chided, tossing the orange half into one of the tree pots. "Greedy, greedy."
"Yes," she whispered, her breath coming in short gasps, as she lifted up to take him inside her. "Always. Now hush your mouth, and hurry."
Their mouths met in a hungry, demanding kiss and the couple locked in a lover's embrace. The sweet smell of oranges enveloped them as they rose and fell to an ancient rhythm until finally both were spent.
Chapter Twenty-four
"If he's not invited, I don't believe Geoffry and I can attend," Alexandra told her mother flatly.
The countess stood in the doorway, the lines of her face pulling her mouth down into a frown. The countess was a plump woman whose face, though it had never been pretty, had held up to the years. As always, she was overdressed this morning in a low-cut tangerine gown, her wrinkled breasts thrust high above her lace stomacher. "I don't know why you insist upon being so difficult, Daughter. Your father and I have gone to a great deal of trouble, not to mention spent a small fortune, to give this masquerade ball in your and your husband's honor."
Alexandra, seated at her mother's writing desk in an antechamber off her sleeping rooms, spoke slowly as if in a discussion with a young child. "And I appreciate that, truly I do, but Jon is my friend."
"Jon is a servant."
"He isn't."
"Then what is he? Who is he? He's no one. He has no title, no last name that I'm aware of. He's simply the Viscount Rordan's savage. He's a troublemaker, everyone says so. Just last week he nearly called Marci Madden's grandnephew out in a duel over a Fleet Street whore. The man causes disharmony wherever he goes."
"So are you saying you don't want him in your home because he might draw attention to himself and away from you and Father and your party? Oh—I thought it was because of the color of his skin—because he's
Shawnee and not English."
Her mother gasped, clasping her waist where her stays were obviously so tight that she could barely breathe. "I don't know what's wrong with you, Mary Alexandra! I try to welcome you home properly. I try to be a good mother. I try to tell you what your duties are, who you need to see and where you need to be seen." She gripped the carved doorframe, sagging. "I—"
"Mother," Alexandra looked away, refusing to fall for her mother's act, "do you want me to call Patience to take you to bed?"
"No." She took a ragged, dramatic breath. "I'll be all right. Don't let yourself be concerned with my health."
"Your health is fine. As for the ball, Hunter and I will come if Jon is invited and welcomed into your home. If he is not, then we are not." She looked up from her mother's desk. "It is honestly that simple."
Her mother straightened. "You don't think you ought to discuss this with your husband?"
"I know what he'd say. He'll not have Jon left out because of your prejudices. They've been friends since childhood."
The countess shook her head. "We were all shocked when Horace brought home that wild animal of a child. We never understood why Lady Dunnon allowed him to remain in her household!"
"Your decision, Mother?"
She heaved an exasperated sigh. "All right! All right! I'll have the invitation delivered today. But I warn you, your father will be displeased. If the man becomes intoxicated and causes a scene, I can't be responsible for your father's actions."
"He'll behave himself. I promise." She smiled compliantly at her mother. "If you can give me a few minutes, I'll look over the menu."
"I should hope so." Her mother hung in the doorway. "You are going to the queen's drawing room with us this afternoon, aren't you?"
Alexandra looked up. "No—I told you—I'm not. I'll not be paraded like the Christmas duck. Besides, I'm expecting Roland."
Her mother made a clicking sound between her tongue. "Accepting male guests while your husband isn't present. A poor idea I must tell you, Daughter. People will gossip."
"No one will gossip if you don't tell anyone he's been here."
"I'm surprised you would wish to see the man after he called off your betrothal so suddenly the way he did."
"Mother, I told you, I don't wish to speak on the matter." She turned back to the papers on the desk. "I'll send these down when I'm done. Have a good morning."
The countess stood in the doorway another moment. When her daughter said nothing more, she made her exit with a swish of her skirts.
Alexandra bent over her mother's writing desk and attempted once again to set her mind to the menu she held in her hand. For two days her mother had prodded her, insisting it was her place to approve the foods and beverages the cook and steward had laid out for the masked ball to be given at the end of the week. The truth was, Alexandra didn't want the blessed party to begin with.
With a sigh she glanced out the window, framed in heavy burgundy and blue draperies. It was raining for the third straight day. The streets of London below were flooded. The rotting garbage that usually remained in the sewer trenches was washing across the streets and up on doorsteps. The homeless who generally remained well hidden in the shadowed alleys and below the bridges and docks were now wandering the streets, wet and half frozen, without hope.
In her months in the American Colonies, Alexandra had forgotten the putrid smells and frightening sights of London. She had remembered the ostentatious ballrooms and galleries, but she had forgotten the slums. She remembered the sound of music drifting off garden balconies overlooking Hyde Park, but she had forgotten the cries of the hungry and the desperate. She remembered the taste of delicate sweetmeats and French wines, but she had forgotten the taste of fear she knew the men who rolled by in carts bound for the gallows must be experiencing.
Then she wondered, had she forgotten all these things or had she never really seen them before?
She and Hunter had been in England less than four weeks and yet it felt like four years. She kept trying to tell herself it would simply take time to adjust to her old life and then she would feel better, she would be happier. But deep inside she was afraid. She was the one who had insisted they return to London. She was the one who had told Hunter this was where they belonged and now that she was here, she hated it.
Her parents were absolutely ecstatic that she had managed not only to find her own husband, but the one originally intended for her. Her father had immediately sent Alexandra's dowry, which included monies and the title to some prime acreage. Hunter had been so insulted by the Earl and Countess of Monthrop's attitude toward their daughter, now that she had married properly, that he nearly refused the dowry. Alexandra, too, found her parents' behavior annoying. Her mother was filled with advice about what was now proper and improper for the Lady Rordan, and insisted upon passing each suggestion along to her daughter promptly. Alexandra had only been in her childhood home two days and already she feared she was going to go mad. To add to her discontent, she missed Hunter. He'd not be arriving in London until Saturday, the day of the masked ball.
But it wasn't just her mother and father that Alexandra was dissatisfied with. It was her entire life, the life at Dunnon Castle she knew she would have until her death. She was bored by the endless round of visiting, the long ride to and from London to never-ending teas, balls, and shopping. She had tried to take over some of the duties the lady of the house would oversee at Dunnon Castle, but they seemed overwhelming. Time and time again she tried to be enthusiastic over responsibilities she knew would come to be hers when Hunter became the Earl of Dunnon, but in the end she found herself letting the steward make the decisions while she wandered aimlessly through the cold rooms.
Lord Dunnon, Hunter's father, was a pleasant old man, and despite his illness, he had made her feel welcome. He had opened his home to her, insisting that she was already the lady of the castle. Why did that make her so unhappy? It was what she had dreamed of since her childhood.
Then there were the little things. At supper parties she was never seated with Hunter. Husbands and wives were not expected to like each other, or even get along for that matter. Her clothing always seemed too tight; she couldn't breathe. There was no privacy; there were servants to cook and clean, to dress her, even to bathe her if she didn't force them out of her bedchamber.
But the worst thing of all was her relationship with Hunter. Nothing was as it had been in Maryland. She saw him early in the morning and then late at night when he fell into bed, contrary, with the smell of brandy on his breath. He had warned her he would have many duties to see to; he had warned her that at times she would be lonely. But she hadn't listened. She hadn't realized how long a day could be when she didn't get to speak to him between dawn and midnight. And then even when they were together, he was preoccupied. At times, his sense of humor, which she had come to appreciate so much, seemed nonexistent. He argued with Jon over frivolous matters. He drank too much and then he and Alexandra fought over his drinking.
She sighed, glancing down at the menu on the oak desktop. These days Hunter reminded her of a caged wildcat her Uncle Charles had had as a pet when she'd first arrived in Annapolis. He had kept it out back in the gardens in a small shed as an oddity to show his friends. For weeks it had paced back and forth in the wooden pen snarling and reaching out to strike anyone who came too near. The animal had tried desperately to claw its way out of the box that kept it caged so far from its native hills farther west.
Alexandra looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, the writing blurred by the tears in her eyes. The wildcat had finally stopped eating the raw meat that was brought to it each day, and before her uncle could make the decision to set it free it had died in the corner of its cage.
A knock came at the door. Alexandra wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, feeling foolish for crying over a dead animal.
"Yes?"
"Lady Ashton, Lord Carlisle to see you."
Alexandra looked u
p at her mother's manservant. "Roland?" She smiled. She had been looking forward to seeing dear Roland. He was the one person she had remembered as being a true friend to her in England. "Send him up, Walter. Then have refreshment sent up. The kitchen will know what Lord Carlisle prefers."
The manservant nodded his head and retreated. A minute later Roland came sauntering into the room. Alexandra ran to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders. He was a tall man, thinner than Hunter, but very athletically built. He had golden hair and a smile that could soften the heart of any man, woman, or child.
"Roland," she sighed, hugging him tightly. "It's been weeks since I sent you a message. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you."
Still holding her in his arms, he took a step back so that he could look at her. "Been out of the country, dear." He shook his head. "By the king's cod, you look good! I take it, marriage agrees with you."
She laughed, stepping back, knowing her cheeks were coloring. "I love him, Roland."
"Do you now?" He was smiling back at her. "I knew you'd find someone. The right man, a man who could love you the way you deserve to be loved. But, I have to admit I was surprised when I heard who you'd married. All of London is gossiping about it, and everyone has a different tale to tell, each one more preposterous than the next. Yesterday at the Exchange, I heard your father had him captured and brought by ship back to London in chains." He sat down on a small upholstered settee and crossed his legs, making himself comfortable. "I'm dying to hear the truth."
She sat down in a chair beside him. "What if I say I brought him in chains." She lifted an eyebrow mischievously.
He tapped her on her knee. "I say good for you."
She laughed. "The truth is, and this is for your ear only so you'll have no gossip to take out of here with you, is that I was captured by Indians."
The pleasant smile fell from his face. He reached to take her hand. "God, Alex, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried. We needn't discuss it."
His Wild Heart Page 26