An Escapade and an Engagement

by Annie Burrows

  From that moment on he and Lady Penrose practically ignored her while they discussed arrangements.

  At first Jayne was inclined to bridle at the way he had walked in and simply taken over. But she very soon realized that she had no real objections to any of the plans they were making on her behalf. She would be only too glad to get to know her cousin and her husband, and any friends of theirs, before her own wedding. It would just be less annoying if they at least pretended to consider her wishes.

  Besides, she could see that Lord Caxton was really looking forward to hosting the wedding of the Season. He seemed to grow younger and more animated by the second. And letting him enjoy himself like this felt like a good way to atone for having so badly misjudged him all these years. She had been so used to unkindness from her parents that she hadn’t understood he’d been trying to eradicate the effects of all those years of neglect and abuse.

  It was Richard’s grandfather who injected the only jarring note into the proceedings, by rather caustically pointing out that it might be better to get a special licence.

  ‘You don’t want to delay the ceremony for too long. Since they have already anticipated their vows.’

  Her own grandfather looked at him down the length of his long, aristocratic nose, his nostrils pinched.

  ‘I will not have my granddaughter married in some secretive, hasty fashion which will give others leave to suspect she has done something of which I disapprove,’ he said in a withering tone. ‘I intend to tell anyone who is vulgar enough to enquire—should they hear any of the gossip that is running rife through your household—that they are so much in love with each other they simply could not wait. And that I have decided to forgive their youthful impetuosity. If you are foolish enough to imply that this is anything other than a love match, all you will achieve is to drag the names of both our families through the mud.’

  Lady Jayne could hardly believe it. For the first time in her life, her grandfather had spoken in her defence.

  Lord Lavenham got to his feet and glared at Lord Caxton, his face suffused with purple. Lord Caxton lounged back in his chair, a slight sneer curling his lip. For a second or two the others all held their breath. It was rather like watching two stags preparing to lock horns.

  The battle that might have ensued would no doubt have been of epic proportions had not Lady Penrose defused the situation by bringing them all back to practicalities.

  ‘So we are agreed. Lady Jayne will leave here tomorrow and go to Darvill Park, so that the banns can be read at the parish church this Sunday. Three weeks should give us enough time to organize everything.’

  Lord Ledbury’s heart sank into his boots. He felt just as he had when his own cavalry had ridden over him at Orthez. Only this time he was not in physical pain. But in mental agony.

  They were taking Lady Jayne away to Kent, to prepare for their wedding, just when he most needed to keep her at his side and convince her that marrying him was not such a terrible fate. He had begun to hope, that morning, that he had made some progress with her. She had agreed that they were already friends, at least. Nor had she objected to letting him hold her, for a few moments, in a comforting sort of way. But then for some reason she’d pulled away and dashed outside. He hadn’t been too worried then. He’d thought he would have plenty of time to find out what had spooked her and soothe away whatever insecurities still plagued her.

  But now he felt hope slipping through his fingers, leaving him grasping at air. Why couldn’t anyone else see how suspicious it was that from the moment Lord Caxton had set foot in Courtlands she had turned back into that expressionless little porcelain doll, meekly agreeing with everything they decided? Look at her! he wanted to shout. Couldn’t they see that the way she was sitting, with her hands folded neatly in her lap, that expression of polite acquiescence on her face, was a pose to hide what she was really thinking?

  It was a trick he’d learned himself, when hauled up before a commanding officer to answer for some misdemeanour. All soldiers perfected the knack of keeping a wooden countenance whilst internally cursing the pompous ass who was dressing them down.

  God, what was she really thinking? What did she feel about the arrangements they were making on her behalf?

  And, more importantly, what was she planning to do about it?

  He should never have let it come to this. When she had come to him last night he should have escorted her straight back to her own room and let Milly go to the devil her own way. Except that Lady Jayne had been so upset at the thought of her friend’s ruin. And he couldn’t bear to think of her living with that distress for the rest of her life.

  And what had happened to all those fine decisions he’d made on his way back? About how he was going to tell her everything, lay his heart bare before her, and then lay siege to her heart until she surrendered?

  He’d seen Lady Jayne naked, that was what had happened, and it had all gone to hell in a handcart.

  It was all he could do not to groan out loud. Nobody else was asking her what she wanted, but he had to know. He had to straighten things out between them or he was going to spend the next three weeks worrying that when he got to the altar his resourceful bride would be miles and miles away.

  No doubt in the mistaken belief that it was for his own good.

  * * *

  Lady Jayne blew out her candle and flopped back onto her pillows. If she had been the kind of girl who got headaches she was sure she would have one now, even though her grandfather’s timely arrival seemed to have nipped the threat of scandal in the bud.

  She had been amazed, at dinner that night, how much the atmosphere had changed since breakfast. Even Lady Susan had remarked, albeit rather waspishly, that she had seen from the start that she and Richard had only ever had eyes for each other. Not that she believed that tale for a minute. The chaperones had probably counselled all the disappointed contenders for Richard’s hand that it would be far wiser to stay on good terms with the scions of two such influential families than say anything to precipitate a complete breach.

  She was sick of all the pretence. In some ways she would be glad to leave Courtlands in the morning. If only it did not mean that she would not be seeing Richard again for more than three weeks. He had tried so hard to make everyone believe he was perfectly content to be marrying her. But she hadn’t been able to help noticing that he was looking more and more strained as the day wore on. After three more weeks of contemplating the marriage to which her thoughtless actions had condemned him he might well have built up quite a store of resentment.

  If only she could—

  What was that? It sounded as though something large and heavy had just landed on the roof of the porte-cochère.

  She sat up and stared at the window, even though the darkness and the drawn curtains prevented her from seeing out.

  Then there was a scraping noise…as though something metallic was sliding across the tiles.

  She got out of bed just as something rattled down the roof and then smashed onto the gravel path beneath. One of the tiles, by the sound of it.

  She had just put her hand to the curtains, to draw them back so she could look out, when there was a rasping sound, and then a click and then the casement creaked open.

  Someone was breaking into her room!

  She dashed back to the bed, looked wildly around for a weapon, and seized upon the candlestick.

  She turned round, half crouched defensively, to see a man’s boo
ted leg, which he had clearly just been thrown over the windowsill, appear through the curtains.

  Swiftly followed by…

  ‘Richard!’ She stood up straight. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Climbing up to your room, obviously,’ he said, pushing the curtains aside so that he could get his other leg over the windowsill and stand up.

  Immediately shafts of moonlight silvered the scene, taking her back to the time they had been alone in the library.

  Her heart, which had been beating fast with trepidation just a moment previously, hesitated and then settled into a heavy rhythm which had nothing to do with fear at all. She was wearing only her nightdress. And he was dressed in a uniform which had clearly seen better days. There were patches, and holes with charred edges all over it. And as for his boots—they were the very antithesis of the highly polished Hessians he wore about Town. They were scuffed, and creased round the ankles, as though they were far too comfortable for him to throw away even though they looked so shabby.

  It reminded her of how rakish and daring he had looked on the night of the masquerade. Only tonight he was not in costume.

  This was the real man. The man he had told her about. The soldier who had marched across scorching plains and slept on frozen ground.

  The man who climbed into a lady’s window and…what?

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice had gone breathy, and was barely more than a whisper as she asked, ‘Why have you come?’

  He stalked across to where she stood, his mouth curving into a grin. ‘That’s my Jayne,’ he said approvingly. ‘Straight to the point. No vapours or feeble feminine protests about impropriety.’

  ‘Well, there would be little point, would there? Everyone already thinks I am ruined.’

  He grimaced, coming to a halt only an inch or so from her.

  She could feel the heat from his body through the flimsy material of her nightgown. He was breathing heavily from his exertions, and a faint sheen of sweat made his brow glisten. Was he going to ruin her properly tonight? Lady Penrose had said if he had not been interrupted he would have done so that morning. And at The Workings this morning he’d looked for a moment as though he’d been thinking about what they’d started.

  Her tummy flipped with excitement.

  Then from his cross belt he plucked out two roses that had been tucked there. A white one, and she thought a red one—though the moonlight had robbed it of its colour.

  ‘You climbed up to my room…to bring me roses?’ It was a lovely, romantic gesture. But she couldn’t understand why he should think that at this stage it was necessary. Unless… Perhaps he thought it would make it easier for her to become reconciled to this forced betrothal if he gave her some reassurance? Looking back over the day, she realized she’d done nothing but talk about finding ways out of it.

  Yes, that was just the sort of thing he would do to ease her over what he thought she saw as a dreadful hurdle.

  She laid the candlestick down and took them from him.

  ‘And to tell you that to me,’ he said with deliberation, as though he had rehearsed what he was about to say, ‘you are as lovely as any rose. I know you can be a little unapproachable at times. I think you have deliberately cultivated a hedge of thorns about yourself, to stop anyone from getting too close to you and hurting you.’

  ‘You…you think I am prickly?’

  ‘You know very well you can be, my lady.’ He stepped closer still, his voice low and urgent as he said, ‘But it does not lessen my regard for you. A rose is a wonderful flower. Nothing can compare with its voluptuous, velvety petals.’

  He reached out and twined one curl, which had escaped her plaits, round his forefinger. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  ‘Or the heady perfume it gives off,’ he grated. ‘Lady Jayne, will you…? I came here to ask you…’ He was staring at her mouth. ‘Whatever it was has gone completely out of my head now,’ he said irritably. ‘All I can think about is how much I want to kiss you.’

  ‘You want to kiss me?’

  ‘God, yes,’ he said, his voice throbbing with yearning.

  Then, slowly, he began to lower his head towards hers. Giving her the chance, she realized, to refuse him. But she did not want to. So she tipped her head back, offering him her lips.

  And he did kiss her.

  Not swiftly, as he had done just before going out to chase after Milly. Or with that edge of desperation he had displayed when he’d come back. But slowly, as though he had all the time in the world and intended to savour every minute. He slid his arms round her waist and pulled her close. She clung to the facings of his jacket. The scent of roses filled the air as the flowers were crushed between their two heated bodies. Indeed, by the time he finished she felt as though she was melting.

  But still a faint feeling of unease nagged at her.

  ‘You don’t need to do this. I don’t want you to pretend something you don’t feel for me, or—’

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said raggedly, stepping back. ‘Listen to me, Lady Jayne. I am not pretending any more. I’m done with pretence. I have to tell you…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That nightgown of yours is virtually transparent,’ he groaned. ‘Don’t stand just there in the moonlight, please, or I won’t be able to think of anything but how beautiful your breasts are. How much I want to see them again, taste them again…’

  She went weak at the knees as her memory supplied the feel of his hands cupping her breasts. His tongue lapping. His teeth nipping.

  The roses fell from her hands as they flew instinctively to her neckline.

  He sucked in a short, sharp breath as she loosened the ribbons of her gown with trembling fingers.

  ‘Maybe I don’t want you to think about anything else,’ she said, pushing the fine lawn from one shoulder, revealing the upper slope of her left breast. But then her courage ran out. He had not seemed to like it when he found her naked in his bed. Would he lose all respect for her if she fully exposed her breast to his gaze? Would he think she was wanton?

  She was just about to cover herself up again when his hand shot out and stayed hers. Then, very gently, he stroked the fabric of her gown aside.

  For a moment he just stood there, breathing heavily as he gazed at her. His hand hovered an inch above her flesh so that she could feel the heat of it, tantalizingly close. The tremors that ran through his body made it look as though he was exerting all his willpower to hold himself back.

  So she stepped forward, pushing her breast into his outstretched hand. Her nipple beaded into his palm immediately.

  And then it was as if whatever had been holding him back snapped. He tore open enough fastenings to expose both breasts. His mouth swooped to suckle feverishly on one while his hand caressed the other. The sensation was incredible. And it was not restricted to the area where he was touching her, but flooded the whole of her being with heat and yearning and wonder.

  ‘I want you,’ he said.

  ‘Y-you do?’ she gasped.

  ‘More than anything. Oh, Jayne,’ he murmured, running kisses along her collarbone and up the side of her neck. ‘Jayne.’ He sighed into her ear.

  ‘Oh, yes, Richard, yes.’

  ‘Yes? You mean that?’

  ‘Mmm…’

  She wanted to reach up and put her arms round his neck, to show him that she was a more than willing participant in whatever was going to happen. But her nightgown had sli
d down to her elbows, imprisoning them at her sides. And it suddenly felt much more satisfying to leave him entirely in charge. To know that whatever followed was all going to be exactly as he wanted. She did not want to feel any guilt, any shadow of doubt about who had seduced whom. Not tonight.

  He walked her backwards to the bed, hastily undid the rest of her ribbons and slid her nightgown down over her hips. Then he picked her up and laid her gently down on the bed.

  She felt very shy about being so exposed while he was still fully dressed. But he only stood looking down at her for a moment before joining her on the bed. He paid such sweet homage to her—with his hands, his lips, his tongue—that it was as though he was worshipping her body. He made her feel like a goddess as he bestowed reverent kisses upon every inch of her. He untied her plaits, sifted her hair through his fingers as though it was some rare treasure, then spread it out across the pillows. He stroked her flanks as though enchanted by the curve of her hips, the indentation of her waist. And whenever he encountered a bruise or a scrape he placed a particularly tender kiss there.

  But eventually he began to restrict his attentions to the parts of her that were crying out for attention the most. Pretty soon the sensations he evoked were so intense she had no power left to think, only to feel.

  And what she felt was beautiful. Men had told her before that she was beautiful. But she had dismissed their words as just that. Mere words. Only Richard could make her feel she really was beautiful. To him.

  Yet though it was glorious it was not enough. She needed to touch him, too. Needed to kiss him.

  ‘Richard, please,’ she whimpered, reaching for him. ‘Kiss me.’

  At her pleading, he rolled her onto her side so they were face to face and did as she bade, kissing her long and languorously. Prising open her mouth with the insistent probing of his tongue and thrusting it inside when she opened to him.