by Brenda Hiatt
Lady Glaedon doubted that such an approach would be likely to recommend his suit to the young lady in question, whatever her feelings towards Christian might be. Not if she had more sensibility than Miss Beauforth, which she must have if Christian had fallen in love with her.
"What do you intend to do, precisely?" she asked. "Hand her the letter and inform her that she owes it to her grandfather and your father to marry you?"
"Of course not!" exclaimed Christian. "I plan to... well, to continue our friendship and, eventually, explain things to her. She seems a level-headed girl and is sure to realize what a good catch I am." Christian grinned at his grandmother. "Am I not?"
"And what of Miss Beauforth?" she asked quietly, effectively removing all humour from his face.
"That is more difficult," he admitted. "I do not believe her heart is affected, but her pride and ambition assuredly are. Somehow I must convince her that she would not be happy wedded to me. If I could persuade her to cry off, it would be best for all concerned. 'Twill not be easy, however."
From what the dowager recalled of Miss Beauforth, her grandson's words were likely all too true. "My boy, you have a lot of work ahead of you, I can see. However, your 'plan' hardly requires you to rush off on the instant, offending your house guests and placing the burden of entertaining them on me."
This last was a shrewd stroke, for she knew that Christian would never intentionally burden her with responsibilities that should be his. It was rare that Lady Glaedon resorted to guilt to influence her grandson, but she felt that in this instance the stratagem was justified. A few days for thought might significantly enhance his chances for lasting happiness with this girl he had chosen.
Already she was delighted to see a resurgence of his old sense of humour and had no doubt that this Miss Clayton was the cause of it. A delay would also give the dowager a chance to do a little research of her own concerning the young lady involved.
"You are right, of course, Grandmother. I would be the most selfish of beasts to leave you to entertain a houseful of cousins —even if inviting them was your idea."
Christian was well aware that he was being manipulated but he realized, now that the dowager had forced him to look ahead, that he indeed needed some time to think. He knew why the idea of fulfilling his father's wishes appealed so strongly to him— Azalea was all he had ever dreamed of in a woman, and more. But he had to consider how best to go about fulfilling those wishes.
There was also the sticky matter of his betrothal. And his grandmother was perfectly right. He knew very little about how to court a young lady like Azalea. As evidence, he had only to look at the mess he had nearly made of things already with his prejudices. It would not surprise him if she never wanted to see him again.
"Very well," he continued after a brief pause. "I shall put off my departure until Thursday. I believe that between us we can manage to rid ourselves of our guests by then."
With this the dowager had to be content. She knew that young love could not be delayed for long, however good the reasons.
* * *
Azalea sat alone in the parlour, trying to keep her mind on the embroidery before her despite her growing fear that Lord Drowling might call at any moment. Lady Beauforth had plainly considered it likely. That was surely why she had gone out by herself, despite the chill drizzle, bidding Azalea to remain at home to receive any callers.
Ever more worrisome, Azalea had overheard her hostess telling Smythe that if her niece should have a gentleman caller while she was out, they were not to be disturbed. Clearly, Cousin Alice expected Lord Drowling not only to call, but to make a declaration in form.
She would refuse him, of course, but how might he react? And if the servants had been warned away, then there might be no one near enough to come to her assistance should he prove obdurate.
Perhaps he would not come at all, she thought, attempting to calm her frayed nerves. Certainly she had given him no encouragement yesterday when he had called. Perhaps he had realized by now that she had no interest in furthering their acquaintance. Somehow, though, she doubted whether that realization would weigh much with Lord Drowling.
A knocking at the front door brought her heart to her throat. Don't be absurd, she admonished herself. He will scarcely ravish you right here in the front parlour! So saying, she was able to present a calm front when the door opened a moment later so that Smythe could announce her caller.
"Lord Glaedon," he intoned.
Her relief, combined with the intense thrill she experienced at her first sight of him in three weeks, took her completely off guard. She was glad when the Earl spoke first, giving her a chance to collect her suddenly scattered wits.
"Give you good day, Miss Clayton," he said cordially.
"Good-good day, my lord. I fear my cousins are from home just now. We... we were not aware that you were back in Town."
"I returned last night," Lord Glaedon informed her, his smile warm. He seemed not at all put out that Marilyn was absent.
"I trust you enjoyed your stay in the country?" Azalea enquired politely, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart.
"I found it most— informative," he replied with an enigmatic smile, "but I was unaccountably anxious to get back to London." There was no mistaking the significance of this remark, or the glance that accompanied it. "I missed you."
"And I you, my lord," replied Azalea somewhat breathlessly, scarcely daring to believe the evidence of her ears.
"Please, Miss Clayton, my name is Christian, and I make you free of it. And I've been dying to call you Azalea. May I?"
"Certainly, my... Christian, I mean." Azalea could feel a blush mounting her cheeks, and she hoped Lord Glaedon would not notice it.
" 'My Christian.' I like that," he said teasingly, but with an underlying tenderness that caused her colour to deepen further.
"Oh, you know I did not mean..." she began, then stopped. "You are trying to embarrass me, I think," she finished severely.
"My apologies, Azalea," he replied, obviously savouring her name. "I won't let it happen again."
"I take leave to doubt that, but your apology is accepted." The warmth of her smile now matched his own.
Again Christian felt that strong pull of attraction to her. He had come to Beauforth House in hopes of seeing Miss Clayton again and to discover whether he had imagined her partiality to him. It was an unexpected boon to find her alone. And because of that privacy, he'd said more than he had intended —more than was probably wise. Sharply, he called himself to task.
Their conversation after that became general, focusing on stories of the Christmas just past, but the physical awareness between them remained. It was several minutes before Christian finally thought to ask about Miss Beauforth and her mother.
"Oh, Marilyn spent the holidays at Alder House with Mary Trentham, and has yet to return, though we expect her daily. Lady Beauforth has gone out to visit Lady Billingsley, but should return within the hour. She will be pleased to see you, I am sure."
"I shall pay my respects as soon as Miss Beauforth returns, of course," he promised.
He knew he should take his leave, but could not quite bring himself to go. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw that the parlour door was closed. Odd that the butler had shut it with only the two of them in here. Slowly, reluctantly, he rose.
Azalea rose with him, standing closer than was strictly necessary. "Will you not stay awhile longer?" she asked softly. "I—I have yet to answer all of your questions about Virginia."
Looking down at her, seeing her so near, Christian struggled to subdue a sudden blaze of desire. He had been trying to place his courtship of her on a more conventional footing —or as conventional as was possible, considering that he was engaged to marry her cousin. But now he wanted to sweep all the niceties aside, to gather her into his arms and kiss her thoroughly, explore her... A shudder ran through him.
"My lord?" asked Azalea softly, noticing it. She had trembled at her own boldn
ess in asking him to stay, but had been unwilling to give up this opportunity of getting to know him better —and of attempting to make him remember.
She had feared that her forwardness might give him a disgust of her, but the look in his eyes was not one of disgust, she was certain. When he remained silent, she reached up tentatively to touch his face, but he caught her hand in his before she could do so.
Her questions abruptly fled. Now she was startled and a little frightened by the naked hunger she saw in his expression.
His eyes locked with hers and she felt a warm stirring deep within her. Was this desire? She wanted it to stop; she wanted it to intensify. Trembling, she licked her lips, needing to say something, anything to break the spell.
Without warning, she was in his arms, his mouth hungrily on hers. After a shocked instant she responded, tasting his lips, his tongue, as he tasted hers. His hands roved greedily over her body, stroking her back, sliding up her stomach, cupping her breasts. Excitement flooded through her at his touch, shocking her in its intensity.
This, this was what she had wanted! This would bind her to him, and him to her. Surely it meant that he had finally remembered!
Azalea returned his kisses eagerly. Her own hands began to move, tracing the strength of his jaw, twining through his hair. She felt more than heard a groan coming from deep within him. Suddenly, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the sofa.
She knew she should stop him. Things were moving more quickly than she had intended. But her will would not respond to her reason. Instead, reason itself was subverted to her surging emotions.
He is my husband, a voice argued within her. It is perfectly natural that he should love me, and that I should allow it.
Gently, he laid her on the plush upholstery. Kissing her again, he unfastened the top button of her gown. The second button was nestled between her breasts, and as he worked it loose, he allowed his fingers to wander across her bared flesh. Azalea felt scorched where he touched her. His lips blazed a trail of fire along the side of her throat.
He is my husband.
He had one hand inside her chemise now, stroking her breast, as the other worked on the next button. She leaned her head back, marvelling at the incredible sensations coursing through her.
It is perfectly natural...
He had opened her gown now, and her chemise, and brought his mouth lower, fastening on one breast. Azalea gasped. His tongue teased the nipple and her body responded enthusiastically.
... that he should love me...
Without warning, Marilyn's face forced its way into her consciousness like a splash of cold sea water. Suddenly, she knew why this was wrong.
Christian felt the change in her at once. Her eager, fluid movements, which had been spurring him on beyond rational thought, were suddenly stiff, mechanical. With an effort, he drew back.
"What is it?" His voice was still husky with passion. "Did I hurt you?"
"N-no." Her voice also quivered, but whether with desire or some other emotion, he couldn't tell. "It is only..." She dropped her eyes.
Sanity returned to him with a crash. What on earth had he done? "Oh, God, I'm sorry," he said. "I never meant..." He stood quickly and turned away, afraid that the mere sight of her, with her gown unbuttoned and her glorious auburn hair in delicious disorder, would tempt him beyond his precarious control. His body throbbed with his need for her.
Azalea thought she understood. He was disgusted with her, now that he was able to reflect on what she had allowed him to do. He was also doubtless frustrated, for she burned with thwarted longing herself, and she had once heard that it was far worse for a man.
"I—I didn't mean—" she began tentatively, but he cut off her words, his back still turned to her.
"No, I know you didn't." His voice was harsh. "I'd better go." Without looking at her again, he strode from the parlour.
Azalea rebuttoned her dress with trembling fingers, tears of shame and frustration burning behind her eyelids. So much for her plan, she thought miserably. Instead of convincing him that she was his lawful wife, she had acted like the veriest strumpet! What must he think of her at this moment?
And how could she ever tell him the truth now? After this, he would no doubt see it as a desperate attempt to manipulate him into marriage. She had spoiled everything!
Smoothing her hair into some semblance of order and blinking back the threatening tears, she picked up her embroidery in trembling fingers, feeling nearly as bereft as she had when she first learned of Christian's supposed death at sea.
* * *
The next morning, Azalea prepared for her habitual ride with grim determination. After yesterday she doubted that Lord Glaedon would be in the Park, knowing as he did that she rode there regularly. But if he were, she would somehow have to mend her fences with him. Although any future with him now seemed hopeless, she simply had to try.
Yesterday afternoon, amid the tumult of Marilyn's return from the country and her mother's raptures at having her home, Azalea had sent another query to Mr. Timmons, hoping against hope that the old barrister might be recovered enough by now to see her. The reply, again from his wife, was negative, though she imparted the information that her husband was gradually mending.
Azalea was to have no help from that quarter then, at least at present. No, if Lord Glaedon was to acknowledge her as his wife, it was up to her to achieve it. And achieve it she must.
In contrast to yesterday's drizzle, it was a beautiful, sparkling morning, warm for January, though still crisp enough to be invigorating. In spite of herself, Azalea felt her spirits rise as she and Ginny trotted in the direction of Hyde Park. If nothing else, a ride on such a lovely morning was bound to clear the cobwebs from her brain.
Even as she told herself that it was just as well that Lord Glaedon was unlikely to be there, she glanced ahead and saw him, apparently waiting for her at the Park entrance. Her heart skipped a beat.
"Well met, Miss Clayton!" he called as soon as she was within earshot. "I had hoped that you would not be able to resist riding on such a fine morning."
"I ride nearly every morning, my lord, fine or not," she replied, struggling to match his casual tone. He looked impossibly handsome, his hair gleaming nearly as black as Sultan's coat.
And he was here! Surely that must mean he did not hold her in contempt for what she had done yesterday? "You—you wished to ride with me, my lord?" she managed to say.
"Christian, remember?" he reminded her, making her cheeks grow warm. "Yes, I had to come, of course. I wished to apologize for my reprehensible conduct yesterday. Is it too much to hope that you will forgive me?"
Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder at the groom, who thankfully had dropped back well out of earshot. Further back, she saw a man on foot walking slowly towards them. Even as she watched, however, the man slipped behind a tree as though he did not wish to be seen. Curious, she thought. Was it possible that her uncle was having her followed?
She dismissed it from her mind, however, and turned back to Christian, a tremulous smile playing about her lips.
Though he hid it well, Christian was exerting every ounce of control he possessed to maintain his lighthearted charade. He had come to the Park in hopes of seeing Miss Clayton again, to discover whether she had forgiven him for what he had tried to do.
He had planned this morning's meeting as a sort of test, and not only of his own control in her presence, he now realized. When he had seen her approaching, he'd been gripped by a sudden fear that she would turn and ride away, never wanting to see him again.
Certainly, he deserved it. He had never been in the habit of ruining innocents. But there was something about Miss Clayton that made him forget his rigid control, which he had worked so hard to maintain since resuming his place in Society. With her, he felt far more like the rough, debauched sailor he'd been before his memory had returned. She deserved better than that.
He took her hand and kissed her fingers without a wor
d, but as their glances met, a world of meaning was exchanged. It was as though he asked a question with his eyes and she silently answered. She had forgiven him.
"Shall we ride, then?" he finally asked. In answer, she flicked her reins, sending Ginny into a brisk trot.
As they rode, they fell back into the easy conversation they had enjoyed yesterday, before the madness had taken them both. Slowly, Azalea felt her pulse returning to normal. Still, her troubles were by no means over.
"Marilyn came home last night," she said casually when there was a brief lull in the conversation. To her relief, Christian did not seem unduly affected by the news.
"I trust she had an enjoyable visit in the country," was all he said.
In fact, Marilyn had been in such high spirits upon her return that Azalea had greater hopes than ever that she might be falling in love with Jonathan. She had spoken only vaguely of the other guests at the house party, and Azalea had noticed a certain sparkle in her cousin's eyes whenever Jonathan's name was mentioned.
"Yes, I believe she did," she replied.
She rode in silence for a moment, gathering her courage, then very deliberately said, "Do you know, I was just noticing how very similar your Sultan is to a stallion my grandfather owned back in Virginia."
"Indeed?" He regarded her with interest, though whether because her words struck some chord of memory or simply because the talk was of horses, she could not be sure.
"Yes. Even their names are similar. Our black stallion was named Spartan."
"You don't say!" Now he appeared almost startled. "Would you believe, that is what I nearly named this fellow when I bought him last year? I finally settled on Sultan because of the Arabian in his lineage."
He went on to describe Sultan's parentage, but Azalea thought that he seemed rather distracted. Clearly he still did not remember everything, but it was a start.