by Deana James
Sebastian re-seated himself propping his gouty leg against the firedog and sighing heavily. "Of course, we're not going to get mixed up in some petty smuggling operation, my dear Rowling."
"We're not?"
Sebastian threw the solicitor a withering look. "Why should we? With Polwycke dead, we have her and her estate as well as his when the old man turns up his toes which, by the look of him, should be any day now. Don't you agree?"
"Both estates?"
"Marleigh and Larnaervon. Can you imagine administrating both of them? Even though the thing has run into the ground, I happen to know that the old demon has never sold a single dirty acre off. Not one. Vast. Vast."
"Vast?"
"Could be sold off in parcels."
"But what if-?"
"Why don't you go round and find a promising-looking ostler, if there's such a beast in the Singing Herring." Sebastian's face expressed a world of martyrdom. "While you're gone, I’ll compose a suitable missive for that very enterprising Captain MacPherson. Even though he was incredibly rude to us both, he’ll not turn up his nose at a chance to catch smugglers. A big catch, especially with a man like Polywycke among the dead, and he can't help but get the promotion he's been seeking so arduously."
Rowling stared at Sebastian for a minute. The man's plump cheeks were quite red from the heat. A little smile played about his features. He looked like nothing so much as a chubby cartoon of a happy-go-lucky, feckless Englishman, only concerned about a pint of porter and a joint of mutton.
At that moment, Sebastian turned his head and caught the younger man staring at him. "I’ve given you an order," he murmured.
Rowling whirled and all but bolted from the door. Outside, he looked wildly around. His scalp prickled as he remembered that his partner was the man who had plotted to kidnap, drug, and then lock a young mute woman away for the rest of her life in an insane asylum. Sebastian Dawlish was quickly revealing himself to be a man who would stop at nothing, and he, Roderick Rowling, was a party to his schemes. He felt the trap closing around him.
And, God help him! He could not seem to find his way out.
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The fire flickered over their still figures. Dreamily Piers had reached for the cover and pulled it over them, wrapping them in its cocoon rather than making any effort to crawl beneath it. Nor had he turned on his side, but kept Vivian lying atop of him like a contented cat.
Her even breathing stirred the hair on his chest and titillated his nipple. Piers felt himself hardening inside her. He wanted her again. He smiled as he ran his hand up her spine. He had never known such pleasure. Her body had been perfect, exciting him to the point that he had lost control.
She stirred and shifted her hips. The folds of hot, velvety tissue inside her body caressed him. He set his teeth to suppress a moan of pleasure. As he did she murmured something.
He froze, his pleasure almost forgotten. She had made a sound! He raised his head, listening with his whole body. Gently, he stroked her back with a tender touch. For a long time her quiet, even breathing was all he heard. He was just about to sink back onto the pillow when she moved again. Her little hand caught at his shoulder and she spoke again.
Three little words unintelligible uttered in a childish voice.
His hands clutched at her body. She made a tiny movement of negation.
Instantly, his hands relaxed. Frowning, he stared down at the form sprawled so delightfully upon him. Somehow he knew that if he woke her, she would be unable to duplicate the sounds. He put his arms around her and hugged her to him. When this was over, he would take her straight to London to the best doctors. She would speak again. He was certain.
For now, he had to waken her gently and bid her good-bye.
He sighed with pleasure at the memory of their lovemaking. She had been willing enough to be taught by him. And every movement had been exquisite and yet ingenuous. He had never received such pleasure. He felt himself twitch at the thought of the silk slithering over her slender white curves.
She must have felt him, too, because she murmured a third time and stirred. Her hand slid along his chest. Her fingers curled, the nails scratching him. Then she raised her head.
He saw she was still more than half asleep. Wondering if she were unconscious enough to answer him, he asked "Was it good for you?"
A slow, lazy smile started. She flattened her palm against his chest, pushing up. Her mouth opened.
He caught his breath, when suddenly there came a knock at the door.
“Damn!"
She looked over her shoulder, her face suddenly fearful.
He hugged her tight against him. "No need to fear, my dear. I'm certain that's not Sebby come to check on our marital progress again."
She looked back at him and smiled uncertainly. The knock came again.
"Who is it?"
"Watkins, milord. It's time."
"Damn! Give me a few minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Piers sighed heavily. "You heard the man. Business calls."
She let her head sink back to his chest. He would have liked to see her face, judge by her expression how she felt about his leaving her.
"You'll have to roll off me."
For an answer she hugged him closer, her hands slid around his ribs, her fingers insinuating themselves under his shoulder blades.
"Don't want to lose your couch, I suppose."
Her grasp tightened. At the same time she tightened the muscles of her belly.
"Vivian!" He caught hold of her shoulders. "Be careful."
She did it again.
"Stop it." He sat up, pushing her up to face him. Their bodies were still locked, and his needed little urging to spring to life. "For God's sake."
She smiled silkily. Her hands locked together in the center of his back.
"Witch." He could not help himself. Let Beddoes be damned. He rolled her over.
Her eyes widened in alarm as she learned that he was even bigger when he came down on her then when he thrust upward. She caught at his back with her nails. Her legs wrapped around his hips.
Damn! She was doing it again. He had meant to take her with exquisite care. But that wasn't so. He knew he had no time. He was rushing this. Plunging into her, thrusting again swiftly, satisfying himself.
He caught a glimpse of her set teeth, her eyelids half closed, her eyelashes veiling the blue. And then he was rocketing out of control, exploding inside her with a great cry of satisfaction.
As he slumped forward, he felt her drag him closer, her heels pushing him down against her until she too arched shuddering before she fell away.
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Watkins waited outside the door, shifting his weight uneasily in the cold hall. He was dressed for riding as well. Piers's great cape collared with many small capes was thrown over his arm. "You're going to be quite late, milord. You may not make the meeting place even if you leave now."
Piers nodded to his valet who was also his friend. He allowed the great enveloping garment to be adjusted around his shoulders. He could feel his smile, the warmth, the well-being leaving him. From the hall table Watkins handed him his whip and hat.
Turning back to Vivian, he bowed ceremoniously and made an ostentatious leg. "My dear wife, will you accompany me to the door, there to bid me a safe journey and a swift return?"
Willing to play any part he assigned to her, she swept a deep curtsy to match his bow. As she rose, he offered her his arm so they might descend together.
In the dingy hall at the foot of the stair, the Earl of Larnaervon waited. At the sight of his son and daughter-in-law arm in arm, he smiled his most handsome smile. "Ah, the happy couple with fatuous looks on their faces. My heart is filled with hope that you have created my grandson today."
Affronted, Vivian stiffened. Her movement communicated itself to Piers, who glanced at her and then glared at his father. "If we have, Larne, we did it for us, no
t for you."
"To be sure. To be sure. But surely I may be allowed to share in the gains. A voyeur's share perhaps, but a share." He grinned at Vivian. "My dear, you look radiant."
Vivian lifted her chin and gazed straight ahead at Millard standing beside the door. Hurrying ahead to see that the horses had been brought up, Watkins now appeared framed in the doorway. Mrs. Felders's dark-skirted form lurked beside the staircase, her hands folded under her apron.
Midway down the hall, Piers turned Vivian to him. Gently, he placed his hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. "Larne," he said loudly and clearly, so that all might hear. "My countess has pleased me in every way. She is the Viscountess Polwycke and the lady of this house as well as her own. I expect that the servants will obey her and see to her comfort. I'm certain you will support her in my stead in whatever will make her happy in this house."
The earl raised his eyebrows, then shrugged the crippled shoulder. "Whatever she wants. To be sure. I told her that. Just give me my grandson and she can tear every stone down and move it three feet to the right."
"—and Felders will cooperate."
The older man's eyes slid to the figure hovering in the shadows. "She's done well for years. No reason why she shouldn't do well now."
"She will do better," Piers insisted. "Not as she did for my mother."
They all heard the angry hiss of breath from the stairway.
He smiled mirthlessly down at Vivian, his eyes cold.
"Do you hear, milady?" Her vulnerable mouth was close to his lips, her eyes were luminous in the flickering candles. She smiled faintly and nodded. Her hand pressed warmly against his. "Then you are now the mistress of this house."
He bent to place his warm lips against her own. When she trembled, his own passion heated again. Damn! He had to get away or carry her back upstairs. When he returned, he vowed he would take her on an extended honeymoon immediately.
He drew her in against him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs against his thighs. His mouth moved against her lips, parting them, tasting her.
Her tongue responded instantly, to touch the tip of his, to follow his into his mouth. Her small hands slid along his ribs under the folds of his cape.
He was the one to pull back. Sighing, he drew his mouth away from hers. Raising his head, he smiled down into her face again. Then abruptly he sobered. One last run, he promised himself. This is the last. In a swift movement his head dipped again and kissed her full on her mouth, his lips hard, a salute and farewell. Dropping his arms, he stepped back from her, turned on his heel, and strode out the door. His cape billowed behind him like great black wings in the cold night wind.
Chapter 18
Vivian awoke with a sense of physical contentment. Beneath the covers the muscles of her thighs protested only faintly when she moved them. Hesitantly, casting a surreptitious glance at the door to her chamber, she slid her hands down her belly. Her fingers parted the curls at its base and touched herself. She felt swollen, the skin oversensitive. A definite soreness in the delicate tissues at the edges of the entrance that Piers had used three times to her surprised delight. With her index finger she traced the area. Despite his use of her, she was still small. Very small.
And he was very big. She blushed at the memory of his rampant maleness thrust toward her like a lance. The heated blood spread through her body even heating the skin beneath her fingertips. Suddenly, moisture slicked the flesh.
Vivian snatched her hands back. The memory of her husband was almost as powerful as his presence. If he were here beside her, he could slide into her with ease. And she would feel the pleasure that she had felt last night. With a start she realized she was smiling, her lips parted as she remembered his kisses.
When he came back today or tonight, she would be glad to see him. The physical part of their marriage made her shiver with anticipation.
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But he did not come back that day, nor that night, though she waited in her bed with the fire blazing so the room would be warm for him to undress.
Early the second morning, Millard brought Vivian a notebook and pen which he placed beside her breakfast plate with some show of ceremony.
She looked at him inquiringly.
"I thought you might care to set down instructions for the day, milady."
She raised her eyebrows, then wrote at the top of the page. "Felders" with a question mark after the name.
"Mrs. Felders has not come down this morning. She spent the evening-er-seeing to the needs of Lord Larnaervon."
No longer an innocent, Vivian could easily imagine what needs Millard alluded to. She repressed at the thought of the earl's body with its crookback and knobby brown-spotted hands.
"If you'd like more time, milady, I could come back."
Snapped back by Millard's question, she shook her head. At the top of one sheet, she wrote "Menu." Then set it aside. At the top of another she wrote “Housekeeping."
Millard looked over her shoulder. "Very good, milady. The house hasn't really been properly taken care of since the old earl was alive. Not Lord Alexander, you understand, but his father. It was a happy house. And well kept. I was a boy myself then, taken into my first service as a footman.
"Lady Larnaervon was a stickler for service. The furnishings she bought were elegant, and the house bustled keeping them shining."
Vivian looked up into his sad, serious face. "What happened?" she wrote.
He shook his head. "Ah, milady died, and the old earl was in a bad way for a long time, drinking hard and heavy. Then Lord Alexander, who was Viscount Polwycke at the time was thrown from his horse. The fall broke his back and shoulders. He wasn't expected to live. And the old earl couldn't face anything more. He went into the library less than a month after it happened and shot himself."
Vivian sucked in her breath in horror.
"The bloodstains are still on the floor, beneath the carpet." Millard sniffed and swallowed. His forehead wrinkled as he struggled to retain his facade of imperturbable dignity.
Vivian wondered suddenly if he had ever told this story to anyone before. She put out a hand, but he lifted his chin and resumed his formal demeanor.
"Everyone thought Lord Alexander was going to die. When he didn't, they thought he was going to be bedfast for the rest of his life. The creditors came and looted the house. Lady Georgina hid some things away, but she couldn't do much. And young Piers was just a lad of four. He kicked and bit, but they knocked him down and told her if she wanted to keep him, she'd better hold him off."
He shook his head sadly. "I think rage was what brought Lord Alexander out of his bed and put him on his feet again. I've never seen a man so mad. But he never forgave her for not driving them off. In his own way I don't think he ever forgave his son either. So since then, milady, it's been a sad house, and a bad house. With Lord Alexander wild to recoup what was lost-and not caring how he did it."
Vivian looked around her at the darkened and stained woodwork and wallpapers. She shook her head faintly. “But the house," she wrote, "it's so neglected."
Millard looked apologetic. "I suppose his lordship hasn't had much success."
Vivian nodded. If a fortune was being made by the smuggling, it was certainly not being spent here.
Piers had said they would be moving in the spring. She could go back upstairs to their rooms and save herself the trouble. But Millard had such a hopeful expression on his face. The task, as Piers had said, was roughly the equivalent of cleaning the Augean stables. Still she knew much about the running of a household. Likewise, during her year at the abbey she had been drafted into doing much actual work herself.
She shrugged and dipped the pen into the inkwell. At the head of the paper she wrote, "All floors to be scrubbed and waxed. Where necessary, stained floorboards will be taken up and replaced."
Millard inclined his head to read over her shoulder. He smiled. "Yes, milady. I think that's an excellent
place to begin."
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Emma Felders caught up with Vivian in the hallway, where she was overseeing the cleaning of the mirrors on either side of the entrance to the dining room. The housekeeper's face was brick red. "You will stop all this immediately."
The fury in the woman's voice frightened the footman into dropping his sponge. It fell into the bucket of vinegar water with a splash. Vivian stared pointedly at the hand that clutched her forearm.
Felders followed her eyes, then allowed her tight mouth to curve into a sneer. Far from releasing Vivian's arm, she tightened her grasp and shot a furious look at the footman. "Carry that mess back to the scullery and go on about your usual chores."
The man tucked his head down. His eyes skipped from one woman to the other. He shuffled his feet.
"Go on, I say!"
The woman had joined the battle here in the front hall. If the footman were allowed to go on about his business, his business would be to carry the word. Whoever would be mistress of this house would be decided today.
Vivian twisted her arm out of Felders's grip. She made a slashing gesture to the footman and pointed to the sponge floating in the bucket.
He hesitated.