Belinda studied them both for a moment, then turned to the door. “Tea, Jervis, if you please. Strong and hot. And send up sandwiches and cakes as well.”
“Yes, my lady.” The butler bowed and departed, and Belinda returned her attention to her guests.
“I don’t want any tea,” May said. “Or cakes. I just want to go home.”
“Home? Nonsense.” Mrs. Buchanan gave a sniff. “What would we do in Newcastle, I ask you? It’s the season. Everyone who matters is here.”
May returned her attention to the window. “Not everyone,” she muttered.
“Mrs. Buchanan,” Belinda said, turning to the stout lady opposite, “it’s perfectly understandable that May wants to go home. Homesickness is very natural. Having felt it myself when I was her age, I think I am in a better position to assist her in overcoming it if I might talk with her alone?”
“Alone?” Mrs. Buchanan’s voice was filled with surprise, and beneath it, a hint of resentment. “I can’t imagine anything you might say to May that I cannot hear.”
“Nonetheless,” Belinda said pleasantly, “I think it’s for the best.”
She used the tone a nanny might use to reason with a petulant child, and after a moment, the other woman gave in with a huff. “Very well. I shall have to take the carriage. My knees, you know.”
“I shall see that May is delivered safely back to Berkeley Square.”
She stood up, waving a hand toward the girl at the window. “If you can do anything with her, Lady Featherstone, I shall be eternally grateful. She doesn’t seem to appreciate any of the trouble and expense I’ve taken for her future, but perhaps you can remind her.”
With that, she flounced out, leaving the other two women alone.
Belinda didn’t speak, she merely waited, knowing that girls were usually so impatient that her silence would provoke May to speech more effectively than any questions.
The younger woman held out until tea had been brought and the maid had departed. “I won’t do it,” she said at last and turned from the window. “I won’t marry someone I don’t want.”
“Of course not.” Belinda poured tea. “I don’t think anyone expects you to do so.”
“My mother does.”
Belinda smiled. “I doubt that.”
“You don’t understand!” May cried, and in her voice was a passion that seemed all out of proportion. “I don’t want to marry any of these men. I know the man I want, and he’s not here. He is in Newcastle.”
“Ah.” That explained a lot. “And he is not suitable for you, is that it?”
“He is suitable! To my mind, he’s suitable in every way. That’s what’s so frustrating.” May came to sit on the sofa, willing now, even eager, to explain. “David is an attorney, and a good, fine man, from a good family. He’s not a rake out for my money.”
“I’m sure, but your mother is clearly concerned about his suitability for a girl of your station.”
“My station?” She gave a laugh. “My grandfather was a miner and my mother the daughter of a farmer. What is our station if it comes to it? But even if I were an earl’s daughter, it wouldn’t matter. I want David, and David wants me.”
“But your mother does not approve.”
May gave a derisive snort. “She’s got it in her head that I shall marry a lord, and have a fine country house, and throw grand balls and parties, but I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. I just want David!”
“I’m sure you think it all very simple—”
“It is simple!” May cried with all the passionate intensity of a girl in love. “I want him. When he kisses me, my knees buckle and my heart races, and when he smiles at me . . . oh, I can’t think! I want to be with him every moment of the day and night, and he feels the same. You see? When two people are right for each other, it isn’t complicated at all! It’s the simplest, clearest, most beautiful thing in the world. It’s these silly society conventions and rules and rituals that muddy things up and make everything complicated!”
Belinda froze, her teacup halfway to her mouth, and she stared at the girl across from her, feeling as if everything in her world had just shifted into its proper place. The doubt that had dogged her for weeks lifted like dark clouds blown away, and she knew with sudden, shining clarity that May was right. This wasn’t complicated at all.
“Lady Featherstone, are you all right?”
Belinda set her teacup back in its saucer and glanced at the clock on the mantel. Quarter to two. Yes, she had time to make the afternoon train to Kent, if she hurried.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said and set down her tea. “I fear I’ve developed a sudden headache. Perhaps we might continue this discussion in a day or two?”
“Yes, of course.” May rose. “I hope you understand now, at least a little, how I feel?”
“Yes,” Belinda said with feeling. “I do understand. I understand perfectly.”
NICHOLAS STOOD WITH Burroughs in one of the hops alleys, eyeing the dark green bines that were climbing along the twelve-foot poles. “The cones look good. At this rate, they should be full of lupulin by early September.”
“I agree. A very good crop in the making.”
“My lord?”
Nicholas turned to find one of the undergardeners racing toward them down the hops alley. The youth halted in front of him, panting from the exertion of running all the way down from the house. “James, is it?” he asked.
The young man nodded. “Yes, my lord. Mr. Forbisher had me sent down to tell you that you’ve a visitor.”
“A visitor? One of the gentlemen of the county, I presume?”
“No, sir. It’s a lady come to see Your Lordship. Lady Featherstone.”
“Lady Featherstone?” A grin spread over his face before he’d even finished saying her name. He started back toward the house at a run. “Thank you, Mr. Burroughs,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m leaving tomorrow, but I’ll be back in two weeks to see how the bines are coming along.”
“Very good, Your Lordship,” the land agent called back, but Nicholas was already out of the hops alley and making for the home farm, where he’d left his horse earlier in the day. Within five minutes, he was handing the reins of the gelding over to a stableboy and racing for the house.
Once inside, he found Forbisher waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. “Where is she?” Nicholas asked, breathing hard as he came to a skidding halt.
“If you are referring to Lady Featherstone, my lord, she is in the drawing room. She has brought luggage with her, sir,” he added, sounding disapproving. “And her maid. She seems to believe she is to stay here as your guest.”
“God, I hope so,” he replied, laughing even as he worked to catch his breath. “If she came all the way from London only to have tea, that would just be silly.”
“If you say so, my lord. I regret that I was unable to prepare for her arrival in advance.”
Nicholas feared he’d fallen several notches in the butler’s estimation, not so much because he’d brought his mistress to Honeywood but because he’d failed to inform the staff of her arrival beforehand. He grinned. “My fault, Forbisher, but I’m sure you’ll be able to make her comfortable, even on such short notice. Have Mrs. Tumblety prepare the Rose Room for her,” he added as he went up the stairs. “It’s the least hideous room in the house.”
Moments later, he was entering the drawing room, his heart pounding in his chest and his heart in his throat. She stood by the mantel, and as she turned toward him, she looked so lovely, he came to a stop just inside the door.
The teal blue coat and skirt she wore made her eyes seem the brilliant blue of aquamarines. She’d removed her hat, and her hair gleamed like a blackbird’s wing in the sunlight pouring through the window.
She smiled, gesturing to the mantelpiece and the crude statuettes of carved alaba
ster that stood there, tucked between an ormolu clock and a small copper coffeepot. “Baroque and bazaar, indeed. I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe you.”
“Yes, well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned to the footman. “That will be all for the moment, Noah.”
The footman went out, closing the door behind him. The latch had barely clicked into place before Belinda was across the room and in his arms. She kissed him, her mouth warm and lush and tasting like heaven.
He savored it for a moment, then his hands came up to cup her cheeks, and he pulled back so that he could look at her. “Belinda, what are you doing here? And why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips, another to her forehead and another to the impudent tip of her nose. “And why in blazes did you take such a long time getting here?”
She laughed, twining her arms around his neck. “I know, I know. But I’m here now.”
“And I’m going back to London tomorrow.”
“Then let’s not waste a moment.” She took a deep breath. “Where is your room?”
Chapter 19
Nicholas caught his breath at the question, hardly able to believe this was happening. He’d joked about it several times, about how one day, she’d fling herself into his arms and demand he make love to her. He’d never thought it would actually happen.
He’d figured if he ever were lucky enough to get her into his bed, it would be because he’d somehow managed to seduce his way past her previous experience with men, her morals, and her good sense. But this was something he’d never expected in a thousand years.
“I’m dreaming,” he murmured. “I have to be.” But even as he said it, he was grabbing her hand and turning to open the door. He led her out of the drawing room, up another flight of stairs, down a long corridor, and into his private suite.
“This is quite different from the rest of the house,” she said. “A bit spartan,” she added, glancing at the plain white walls, brass bed, and cherrywood furnishings as he closed the door behind them.
“I simply had everything awful removed, and this was what was left,” he explained as he began drawing the moss green curtains, not all the way. Enough to cut off the bright sunlight outside, but leaving just enough space between the curtains for there to be light in the room. He didn’t want to make love to her in the dark. “Except the bed,” he went on as he started toward her. “That’s from one of the guest bedrooms. The one in here was this hideous thing of purple mahogany—” He halted in front of her and hauled her into his arms. “I don’t want to talk about the damn furniture.”
“I don’t want to talk at all,” she answered, and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He was already fully aroused, and she must have felt it, even through the many layers of clothing that separated them, for she pressed her body closer, groaning into his mouth, tasting him with her tongue. He felt the desire he’d been banking for weeks flare up as if no time had passed since those moments in the brewery, and he worked to keep it at bay.
He’d wanted her to come here, so that they would have the leisure of low, slow, luscious lovemaking, but for that plan to work, he knew he had to slow things down. He’d waited for this moment, dreamed of it, imagined it over and over, and he intended both of them to savor it. He gentled the kiss, nipping her lower lip, pulling it between both of his, tasting her.
“You go too fast,” he told her, and reached up to pull out her hatpin. “It won’t do, Belinda.”
He plucked off her hat, wove the pin through the crown, and tossed the confection of yellow straw and stuffed bluebirds into a corner. “You see,” he said as he reached for her hand and began pulling off her buff-colored kid gloves, “I’ve imagined undressing you dozens of times by now, and I’ll not be deprived of my fun just because you decided to take weeks to come down here and drove both of us to the brink of insanity.”
“Dozens?” she murmured, as he pulled off her second glove. “I doubt that.”
He let her gloves drop to the floor before he paused to consider. “You’re right,” he said, and reached for the first button of her teal blue polonaise. “It was probably hundreds.”
He untied bows, shoved buttons out of their holes, and slid the jacket of cotton sateen off her shoulders. One toss, and it joined the hat in the far corner of his room. He then lifted his hands to the base of her throat, his fingers searching beneath tiny, pleated layers of pale blue silk for a button or a hook, but her voice made him pause. “Nicholas?”
When he looked up, he found her smiling at him. “The buttons are in the back,” she said.
“Well, I don’t see how I was supposed to know. You’ve more layers to you than a French pastry.” That fact was confirmed when he turned her around and saw the long row of cloth-covered buttons down her back. “As many times as I imagined this moment, your clothing never had this many fastenings. Why you women wear such intricate garments is beyond my understanding. Makes things deuced difficult for a chap.”
“Well, that is rather the point,” she said, as he began undoing buttons. “Still, had I thought far enough ahead to realize we would be engaging in a cinq à sept the moment I arrived, I’d have worn something less complicated.”
“This is not a cinq à sept,” he told her, taking issue with her choice of words. “Making love to you shall take me much longer than two hours.”
She shifted her weight impatiently. “It will if you don’t go any faster.”
“Speed, my darling, is not the point.” He pulled her dress apart and pressed his lips to the bare skin at the nape of her neck, relishing the way she shivered in response. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
“After the shameless way I kissed you when I arrived, how can you ask?”
Those words and the catch in her voice as she said them tempted him to accommodate her wishes and speed things up, but he resisted temptation valiantly. He’d vowed that pleasuring her this time wasn’t going to be like the last time, and he intended to keep that vow.
Finished unbuttoning her bodice, he pushed it off her shoulders and down her arms. It caught at her waist, held there by the many hooks that attached it to her skirt. He left it there for now and turned his attention to her hair. One by one, hairpins hit the floor, and a few moments later, locks of raven black silk tumbled down almost to her waist, and he caught the fragrance of her perfume—light, sweet lemon verbena and deep, erotic musk, a combination that never failed to arouse him.
Not that he needed any encouragement there. He was fully, flagrantly aroused, but despite that, he seemed bent on torturing himself. He grasped a handful of blue-black strands in his fist and lifted them, savoring the scent of her and the deepening of his own desire that came with it. He tangled the strands in his fingers, played with them, kissed them, and, finally, pushed them aside. He pressed slow, tender kisses along the side of her neck up to her ear as he glided his fingertips down her bare arms, and he relished how her breath quickened in response.
He turned her around, and the moment he did, she lifted her face in anticipation of a kiss, but he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he continued undressing her. He wanted to heighten her anticipation, bring her all the way to the edge before he gave her what she was in such a hurry for. Slowly, he unfastened hooks, undid buttons, and untied ribbons, removing layers of silk, satin, and muslin from her body. One by one, bodice, corset cover, underskirt, corset, three petticoats, and a pair of shoes joined the pile of garments in the corner. By the time he had her down to her chemise and drawers, he was sure he was never going to be able to hold out long enough to make love to her properly.
His body ached for her, but he strove to contain it as he reached for the hem of her chemise. He pulled it up, and when she stretched her hands toward the ceiling, he removed it altogether. But he left her drawers on for now. He needed some sort of barrier, however flimsy, to remind him to keep his desire leashed as lo
ng as possible.
To that end, he spread his arms wide. “Your turn.”
“You want me to undress you?”
“I told you, I’m not making love to you with my trousers around my knees, remember? Not the first time, anyway.”
She reached out, hesitated a few seconds, then unbuttoned his waistcoat and slid it from his shoulders. It fell behind him to the floor, and she set to work on his studs, fumbling a bit with them. She laughed, sounding nervous. “I’m not very good at this. I’ve never done it.”
He frowned, puzzled. “You never undressed your husband?”
“No.” She fell silent, and he grasped her wrists, stopping her.
“Are you certain you want to do this? You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” She paused and looked up at him. “I want you, Nicholas.”
Those words, stated so simply, did queer things to him, they made him feel dizzy—with relief, and pleasure, and something else he couldn’t quite define.
“Thank God,” he muttered, taking refuge in teasing as she turned to drop his shirt studs into a crystal dish on the dressing table. “Because if you’d have refused me now, I think I would have had to throw myself off a cliff.”
She laughed at that as she pulled his braces off his shoulders and unfastened his cuff links. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“That’s right, laugh,” he said, nodding as she turned away with his cuff links. “Laugh at the fact that I’ve been mad with lust for you almost from the first moment I walked through your front door, while you haven’t cared two straws. It’s driven me to the brink.”
He pulled his shirt over his head, then his undershirt, but when he looked at her again, she still had her back to him. She was so rigid, so still, it worried him. “What’s wrong?”
His cuff links dropped from her hand into the dish, joining his studs with a clink. “Is that really true?” she asked without turning around, “or are you teasing me?”
“I’m not teasing. Well, I am, a little, because I’m nervous as hell, and I always tease you more when I’m nervous.” He put his hands on her bare shoulders and turned her around. “But it’s still the truth. I’ve wanted you from the first. It stuns me that you think otherwise.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 24