She smiled at that. “That’s true. But that’s the thing. I have a tendency to hold things in, and hold them in, and hold them in; and then the dam breaks, and my true feelings just come spilling out, usually at the wrong time, or to the wrong person.”
“Like that night at the ball, when you first told me about Featherstone. And that night in the maze.”
“Yes. When I’ve been angry with you, it was usually because I thought you were like him.”
“God, you don’t still think that, do you?”
“No. You were right to say you’re nothing like him. You’re not, and I know that now. Underneath all his surface charm, Charles was a cold man, and you’re not . . . you’re charming, but you’re not . . . cold. You don’t have any idea how much difference that makes to me.”
“Then I don’t see why you should be shy about answering my questions. People have surely asked you to talk about yourself before.”
“Yes, but I can usually deflect people from asking about me. It’s harder with you, though, now that I can’t put you in the same category of man as Charles. And, of course, now that we . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He caught her chin with one finger, gently forcing her to look at him again. “Now that we’re lovers?”
She could feel the blush in her face deepening. “Yes. I . . . I care about you now, you see. I care what you think, and it makes me self-conscious.”
“You care what I think?” He grinned.
“You seem terribly pleased by that.”
“So I am! Six weeks ago, you shredded me to bits, and now you care about my opinion. That’s progress.”
“Progress?”
He met her gaze, and something in his eyes was so steady, so resolved, she caught her breath. Her heart seemed to stop. “I told you I want your respect, Belinda, and if you care what I think, that means I’m making progress.”
He sat back, and she watched him as he began to gather up the picnic things, and she thought again of him kneeling in front of her, and the declaration that had come from his lips. She desperately wanted to hear it again, when she knew it wasn’t in the passion of lovemaking.
When he moved as if to stand up, she blurted it out. “Did you mean it? What you said last night?”
He went still. He didn’t ask what she was referring to. His eyes stared into hers, unblinking, as if he was considering it very carefully before he spoke, and it seemed an eternity before he finally replied. “I love you,” he said at last, and not only the words, but the quiet sureness of them made her heart sing. Joy was suddenly like a tangible thing, for it opened around her, enfolded her, sank into her bones.
He leaned closer. “I meant it when I said it. I mean it now.” He kissed her. “I’ll always mean it.”
Abruptly, he pulled back. “C’mon,” he said, and grabbed her hand.
“Where are we going?”
He grabbed the picnic basket in his free hand and stood up, pulling her with him. “I want to show you the hops fields before we go back. And we don’t have much time if we’re to make our train.”
She sighed, looking around as he led her back through the tall grass and daisies to the hops fields beyond. “It’s beautiful here. I wish we could stay longer.”
“So do I, but someone—and it was not me—insisted on procrastinating and keeping us both in suspense for weeks—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted, making a face at him. “But still, can’t we go back to London tomorrow? Or the next day?”
“No. I’m trying to be a responsible fellow these days, and I have work to do in London. But,” he added, and stopped at the edge of the meadow. His free arm slid around her waist and he pulled her close. “I have to come back in a few weeks, and you can come with me then.”
“I’d like that,” she admitted. “But it’s a risk for both of us.”
His lashes, gilt-tipped, glinted in the sun as he lowered them to her mouth. “Then we’ll have to be sure no one catches us.”
He brushed her lips and turned away, leading her between two rows of lushly growing hops, and as she followed, trailing stems brushed her shoulders. “Where on earth are you taking me?” she asked as they plunged deeper and deeper into the thickness of the hops alley.
“I want to show you something.” He didn’t say anything more, and he didn’t stop until they were in what seemed the center of the field.
“There,” he said, stopping and turning to face her, forcing her to a stop as well. “I think we’re in about the right place.”
“For what?” She glanced around. “What is it you want to show me? The hops? We could have seen them just as easily from the edge of the field—”
“No,” he cut her off. “That’s not it.”
“What, then?”
The picnic basket dropped to the ground. “I want to show you that there’s no reason you’ll ever have to be shy with me.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered even though she was afraid she did.
“I want you,” he said and kissed her. “Right here. Right now. And as we go along, I want you to tell me what you want and how you feel.”
She shook her head, desperate, and tried to laugh. “And if I don’t? Are you going to force me to say ‘I am a thistle sifter’?”
That made him grin. “I have other much more delightful punishments than that.” He put a hand on her waist and immediately gave a groan. “A corset? Belinda, I told you not to wear one today.”
She licked her dry lips. “I didn’t think you were serious!”
“Making love with you is serious, my darling.” He kissed her again, but deeper this time, longer, hotter. As he did, his fingertips caressed her cheeks, her jaw, and her throat. By the time he pulled away, she was quivering inside.
“You didn’t really care about showing me the hops fields,” she accused, as his hands slid to her hips and grasped folds of her skirt. “You had this in mind all along.”
“No, actually, I had the meadow in mind, but I decided the hops would be better cover for us.” He nipped at her lips. “Because you’re shy.”
“We can’t,” she whispered, as he began lifting her skirts. But even as she said it, desire was rising inside her, desire and apprehension in equal measure. “Someone will see us.”
“Who?” He nuzzled her ear, working one hand under skirts and petticoats as his other hand unbuttoned his trousers. “We’re in the middle of a hops field.”
“Someone could walk by the rows.”
“It’s Sunday afternoon. No one comes out to the hops fields on a Sunday afternoon.” His hands curved over her hips, and he turned her around.
“Oh, Nicholas, no,” she groaned softly over her shoulder, as he began unbuttoning the back flap of her drawers. “Oh, no.”
He ignored that, probably because she sounded as firm as a custard. The flap of her drawers came undone, and he slid his hand beneath her bare buttocks and between her thighs as his other hand spread across her stomach.
She was wet for him already, she knew that, and he made a sound of appreciation against her ear. “You’re so soft,” he murmured as he began to stroke her. “Do you want me to do this? Touch you here?”
Her excitement rose with each word he spoke. It pressed against her chest and clenched all her muscles, and she couldn’t answer.
“Belinda, you have to tell me what you want. If you want me to stop, say stop. If you want me to touch you, say, ‘touch me.’ It’s easy. I’ll show you.”
As he spoke, his excitement was rising, too. She could hear it in his voice. She could feel it in his shaft, a hot, hard ridge against her hip. “I want you,” he said, his fingers touching her so softly, she almost couldn’t stand it. “I want to touch you, and make you come and be inside you.”
She ought to say “stop,” but she couldn’t. His naughty words inf
lamed her desire even as she felt overwhelmed by embarrassment, and the conflict of the two was an exquisite torment, unbelievably erotic.
“See how easy this is?” He kissed her ear. “You try it. Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head. “N—no,” she managed.
“ ‘Don’t stop, Nicholas.’ Say it, Belinda.”
His fingertip slid around and around the nub where all her pleasure centered, spreading her moisture. The very tenderness of it was relentless, so much so that it forced the words out of her. “Don’t stop, Nicholas.” She moaned again, and buried her hot face against her arm to stifle the sounds of pleasure he was tearing from her. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
Her own words seemed even more erotic than his had been, and lust blazed through her body like fire. Her hips were moving in rhythm with the slide of his finger.
“Do you want me?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, and her silence only seemed to make him more determined. “Lean forward.”
She complied, grasping the hops poles on either side of her to keep her balance, and as she did, the tip of his shaft nudged her opening, ready to enter her the moment she gave him what he wanted.
“You’re so wet, my love,” he murmured, his fingers still caressing her in front. “So ready. You must want me. Can’t you say it?”
She pushed her hips back, wiggling her bottom, wanting him to come into her, end this torment. She wanted to say it, but she couldn’t. Between her tight corset and the sensations he was evoking, she couldn’t seem to get enough air. Each breath was a pant, desire was overwhelming her, and her body was moving in little jerks against his hand. “Want,” she gasped. It was all she could manage.
“Not good enough,” he said, his fingers moving faster, and she could feel her orgasm coming. Oh, God, she could feel it coming.
“I love you,” he said, his breathing now as ragged as hers. “I love you, and I want to be inside you. But first you have to tell me you want me, too.”
One more stroke of his hand, and she was there. “Yes!” she sobbed as she climaxed, her voice ringing out over the hops fields, but she was too overwhelmed to care if the entire world heard her declaration. “I want you, I want you. Yes, yes, yes!”
That was all he needed. He entered her, thrusting deep, and she came again, then again, and each time seemed to shatter her into pieces and break chains that had been in place her whole life. Into this maelstrom, she heard him cry out, and she felt the spasms of his orgasm as he thrust into her several more times. Then he stilled, his arm still tight around her waist. There seemed nothing else in the world, his breathing and hers the only sound in the soft stillness of the afternoon.
At last, he eased back, relaxing his hold. He lowered her skirts, smoothing them back into place, then turned her around. He kissed her, then tipped her chin up to look into her eyes. “Glad you finally said it,” he said, giving a hoarse chuckle as he cupped her flushed cheeks. “I’m not sure how much longer I could have held out.” He kissed her mouth, a long sweet kiss, full of tenderness. “I love you.”
He looked at her, waiting, and she knew what he wanted, but she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t think.
He kissed her again, and let her go. He turned away, picked up the picnic basket, and started down the hops alley, but when she didn’t follow, he stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “Well, aren’t you coming? We have a train to catch, you know.”
Chapter 21
They didn’t talk much on the train, for they were surrounded by people. At Victoria Station, they separated, taking different hansom cabs home. In love affairs, one had to be discreet, especially in town. But Nicholas had to know when he would see her again, and as he assisted her to step into her waiting cab, he stopped her.
“Belinda?” When she turned, one foot on the step, her hand in his, he squeezed her fingers. “I have to see you. Meet me tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Your house? A hotel? Anywhere.”
“How about Claridge’s?” She smiled. “For tea?”
He groaned. “I meant a room,” he muttered, “and not the tearoom.”
She shook her head. Glancing around, she whispered, “I can’t. Too many Americans in the hotels. Someone might recognize me, in the foyer or in a corridor . . . I can’t risk it.”
“Your house?” When she shook her head again, he began to feel desperate. There had to be somewhere. “Lilyfield’s. Quarter past five? Everyone will be gone by then.”
“All right,” she whispered.
He kissed her gloved hand, and stepped back, watching as her cab pulled away, merging into the traffic that clogged the narrow exit onto Victoria Street.
“My lord?”
He turned to find Chalmers behind him. “Your hansom is waiting. The luggage is loaded.”
“Let’s be off, then.”
It was just past six o’clock, and at this hour of the day during the season, traffic in London was fairly light. Gentlemen commuting home from the City had already arrived home, and for society, this was that brief lull in activity between tea and dinner. Nicholas was back at South Audley Street by quarter to seven.
But he’d barely made it upstairs and ordered his valet to draw him a bath before there was a knock on his bedroom door. “It’s Denys,” the voice said from the other side of the door. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” he called back, undoing the knot of his four-in-hand tie. But his fingers stilled as his friend came in, for the look on Denys’s face told him something was very wrong. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”
“If you hadn’t been coming back today, I’d have had to cable you.” Denys closed the door behind him, leaning back against it with a sigh. “It’s off. The whole thing’s off.”
“What whole thing?”
“The brewery, of course. It’s finished. We can’t do it.”
“Why not? Good God, Denys,” he added, as his friend didn’t answer. “This suspense is killing me. Spit it out, man.”
His friend took a deep breath before he spoke. “My father has withdrawn from the venture. He won’t fund it or buy shares.”
“What?” The word was a guttural sound, for he felt as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach. Panic followed, but he worked to shove it down. “Why? Do you know?”
Denys shook his head. “I don’t. All I know is . . .” He paused, cleared his throat, and looked at him with an expression that said things were about to get even worse. “All I know is that yesterday, Landsdowne came to see him. I don’t know what was said, but afterward, the old man called me in. He was white to the lips. He said he was sorry, but he couldn’t back us.”
“Landsdowne,” Nicholas muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. “I should have known.”
“I can’t imagine what was said,” Denys went on. “Conyers refused to discuss it, so whatever it was, I know it was bad.”
“You may not be able to imagine it, but I can.”
“If you’re thinking of a bribe, I can assure you that my father—”
“No, not bribery. Your father has plenty of money. Landsdowne knows that. He wouldn’t even waste his time trying that.”
“Then what?”
“Blackmail. Or some other threat,” he added when his friend protested. “Landsdowne is capable of finding anyone’s weakness and using it against him.”
He sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling as if everything good and right and wonderful had just been sucked out of him. “I should have known this would happen,” he muttered. “He came to see me at Honeywood a few days ago. He found out what we were doing, and he said he wouldn’t allow it. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s managed to stop it.”
“I’m sorry, Nick.”
“It’s not your fault.” Nicholas sat there a moment, thinking, t
hen he stood up and began reknotting his tie. “There’s only one thing to do.”
“What?”
“Find the money elsewhere.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to find another investor?”
“I don’t know. But I know I have to try.” An image of Belinda at Honeywood, surrounded by meadow grass and daisies, came into his mind, reminding him of his vow to earn her respect. Yes, he had to try.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Belinda was at Lilyfield’s, just as she and Nicholas had arranged. She’d been anticipating their time together the previous evening, lying in bed last night, all day today. The hours had seemed to pass with interminable slowness, but at last, the time had almost arrived.
In her eagerness, she’d come a bit too early, and she waited in her carriage across the street, watching as the workers filed out with the five o’clock whistle, and a few moments later, she saw Somerton emerge. He stopped in the doorway when he saw her alight from her carriage and start across the street.
“Lady Featherstone,” he greeted, doffing his hat with a bow as she halted in front of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see Nicholas. Lord Trubridge,” she amended at once. “We arranged to meet here. To . . . um . . . to . . .” She stopped, for she hadn’t prepared some sort of excuse.
“You needn’t be discreet,” Somerton said. “He told me ages ago he wanted to marry and was seeking your assistance.”
“Oh.” That would do. “Yes, right. I . . . um . . . didn’t know if you knew.”
“I knew. And it’s a good thing. He’ll have to find himself a rich wife, especially now.”
She frowned, feeling a shiver, as if someone had just walked over her grave. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “I suppose the news will be common knowledge within a day or two.” He gestured to the brewery behind him. “We’re not doing the brewery. We’re closing down.”
“What?” she gasped, dismayed. “But why? You were both so keen.”
“My father’s pulled the funds. Without financial backing, we can’t afford to carry on. Nick’s trying to find someone else to back us, but I doubt he’ll succeed. His father is very powerful.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 27