by Sara Bennett
Valentine stayed where he was, casting a baleful eye over the crumbs and mess George had left behind him, so typical of his brother. But still he smiled as he took up the candelabra and followed George upstairs. He felt troubled and he knew the reason wasn’t George or Von Hautt, well not entirely. Marissa was the source of his inner turmoil and he still wasn’t certain how he was going to deal with it.
Chapter 12
Marissa opened one eye as the maid brought her tea and briskly threw back the curtains. She hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning, her body reacting to the bedcovering as if they were made of Hessian and not the finest linen, while the ache deep inside her reminded her that this time she’d had no release from her newly awakened desire. Was it possible to give herself that release by her own machinations? She thought it probably was but she didn’t make the attempt.
Because it wasn’t simply release she wanted, but release with Valentine. Valentine’s hands and lips on her body, and hers on him; Valentine wonderfully warm and naked, the passion between them rising and unstoppable.
And it was unstoppable. No matter how she tried to be her usual sensible self she couldn’t seem to find her way back to the person she’d been before she met Valentine.
Now, remembering their conversation of the night before, she couldn’t help but smile. Valentine had seemed so shocked when she spoke of her grandmother’s Bohemian outlook on life, and so angry with her plain speaking, but she had a sense he was using his shock and anger to disguise his other feelings for her. He was a gentleman and the idea of compromising her was anathema to him, but worse than that was the fear of being trapped into a marriage he didn’t want.
Marissa wondered what his wife had been like and why things had gone so very wrong between them. Perhaps Lady Bethany could ask Jasper…
“Mr. George came home and—”
The maid had been chattering away in the background and until now Marissa hadn’t been paying attention.
“I beg your pardon?” She blinked, propping herself up against the pillows.
“Mr. George came home late last night,” the maid said.
“George? You mean the Honorable George Kent?”
“Yes, miss, that’s right. He’s been off with some of his friends. Lord Kent took him into the library and tore strips off him…at least that’s what Mrs. Beaumaris is saying below stairs.”
George was here! What a relief. Now, finally, she could begin her husband hunting in earnest.
But, oddly, it wasn’t relief she was feeling, only more agitation. George and Valentine under the one roof was going to be difficult for her to handle. How was she going to concentrate on George when Valentine was clouding her senses?
Marissa sipped her tea, holding the cup in both hands.
But this was what she wanted, wasn’t it? For George to come? Of course there was the question of where he’d been all this time and what he’d been up to, but she supposed she couldn’t be too cross with him, in the circumstances. George, as she well knew, lived for the moment and conveniently forgot engagements that interfered with his current pleasure. She told herself she accepted his idiosyncrasies, just as he did hers.
Then why did she feel so out of sorts?
Eventually Marissa gave up trying to come up with an answer and went to find her grandmother. She found Lady Bethany propped up on her pillows, a frilly nightcap on her head and a woolen shawl about her shoulders.
“Did you hear the rumpus in the night?” she said before Marissa could get a word out. “Evidently George arrived and he and his brother had a tiff. I could hear voices but I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and I am too old to go creeping downstairs to listen at doors.”
“I should think not!”
Lady Bethany smiled. “I would have done so when I was your age, my dear. Especially if I knew the argument intimately concerned me, and one of the parties arguing was the sort of man who made my pulse race and my—”
“Grandmamma, stop it.”
“But, my dear, I thought George was your particular beau?”
“He’s my friend,” Marissa replied, her cheeks beginning to feel hot under her grandmother’s penetrating gaze.
“Have you found someone who’s more to your taste?” Lady Bethany gave a wicked chuckle. “You can tell me, Marissa. I’m the soul of discretion.”
Marissa ignored that. “Are you coming down to breakfast, Grandmamma?”
“I think I will lie in this morning—I feel quite weary from all the excitement yesterday.”
She didn’t look weary, her eyes were far too bright, but Marissa tried to be charitable, reminding herself that Lady Bethany was an old lady of sixty. Besides, she was very fond of her wicked grandmother. She leaned forward to kiss her cheek and her grandmother reached to clasp her hand, holding her close so that she could look searchingly into Marissa’s eyes.
“I know you have your secrets, my dear, and I wouldn’t ask you to divulge them. But do take care. For the sake of one who loves you dearly?”
“Grandmamma—”
“I gave up on giving advice when my daughter married your father, Marissa. He was the last person I would have expected to make her happy, and yet they have been very happy. I know it is important to follow your heart’s desires—I have done so myself, numerous times—but it is possible to mistake desire for love—I have done that, too.”
“What are you saying, Grandmamma?”
Lady Bethany smiled. “I am saying that sometimes it is better to try on a new hat and see if you like it, rather than taking it home and finding it isn’t what you really wanted.”
“I am not buying a new hat,” Marissa said, bewildered.
“No, of course not.” The wicked sparkle lit her eyes. “I will speak frankly then, Marissa. It is better to spend an afternoon in bed with a man and discover if he’s really the one you want to spend your life with, rather than marry him and find yourself a prisoner of unhappiness. Now you are shocked!”
“No, I—I don’t think so. Are you giving me permission to ruin my reputation, Grandmamma?”
“If it saves you a lifetime of misery with the wrong man? By all means.”
Marissa wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Only her grandmother could say such a shocking thing and make perfect sense.
“Thank you, Grandmamma,” she said softly.
Lady Bethany patted her cheek. “Good girl. Now off you go to breakfast. And if you love me, please say nothing of this to your parents.”
“Of course not.”
They smiled at each other in perfect understanding.
George saw her first, and strode across the breakfast room to clasp her hands warmly in his. “I am sorry, Marissa. I hope you’ll forgive me for my thoughtlessness in not being here to greet you? Although my brother tells me that what I did was utterly unforgivable.”
He was as handsome and affable as ever, his expression a mixture of good humor and apology, as if like an overindulged child he fully expected to be forgiven his transgressions.
Her waspish thought surprised her and she glanced at Valentine, as if afraid he’d read her mind. But Valentine was pretending to ignore them and drinking his coffee. She noticed that his jacket was rumpled, but he’d tied his necktie today and his hair was brushed, although it was long enough to fall into his eyes as he bent his head to sip from his cup.
Her fingers itched to push it back. She had a sudden image of herself, sitting on his lap and kissing his lips in between feeding him pieces of buttered toast.
Sharp tingles of desire reminded her of her fragile state and she took a deep breath, concentrating on George.
“I did wonder where you were when I arrived,” she said in a voice that strove to be calm but sounded peevish. “What if you’d been kidnapped by Baron Von Hautt? How would we know? Perhaps it would do you good if I did refuse to forgive you, George.”
George glanced at her sideways, not expecting her to react like she did. He was used to instant forgiv
eness and smiling understanding. In chastened silence he pulled out a chair opposite his brother and waited until she was settled before returning to his own seat.
“Would you pay the ransom to get me back?” His eyes were sparkling although his voice strove to be contrite.
“No,” Valentine replied shortly.
George looked crestfallen.
“Of course we would,” Marissa said, her heart softening just as it always did.
George laughed and began to spread marmalade on a slice of toast. “I’m glad someone is on my side. I knew I could rely on you, Marissa.”
“This isn’t a matter of sides,” Valentine said mildly. “One day you’re going to have to grow up, George, and think of others rather than yourself.”
George appeared crestfallen but as before he soon rallied; he could never be serious for long. Marissa watched them as their banter continued, amused by what was clearly a habit of long standing. Despite his stern demeanor it was obvious to her that Valentine was very fond of his younger brother, and it was equally clear that the feeling was returned by George.
“I have apologized to Marissa for abandoning her to my ogre of a brother,” George said. “You do forgive me, don’t you, Marissa?”
“Of course, George. I have been well taken care of.”
But not as well as I would like.
Suddenly, as if he was aware of her thoughts, Valentine looked directly at her. His blue eyes blazed. She felt scorched. Almost instantly they both looked away.
Shocked and breathless, Marissa’s hands were trembling as she pushed aside the remains of her breakfast. Just one look and she was reduced to a quivering wreck. How could this have happened to sensible Marissa Rotherhild in so short a time? It was as if Valentine had scrambled her brains with his kisses. What she needed to do was to start kissing George and then, surely, she’d soon forget his brother?
She had her grandmother’s permission to spend an afternoon in bed. Wasn’t that what Lady Bethany had said? To try a man on like a new hat to see if he suited? What would Valentine say if she told him that?
A nervous giggle threatened to escape her, and she pressed her napkin to her lips and lowered her eyes.
It was a relief when George stood up and declared he was ready to go to Magna Midcombe. “Are we riding? I fancy a good gallop,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
Valentine finished his coffee and also rose to his feet. This time when he met Marissa’s eyes his expression was coolly polite. “Do you still wish to accompany us, Miss Rotherhild? It may be dangerous if Von Hautt makes an appearance.”
“Of course I am coming with you,” she said, surprised he would even ask.
The brothers shared a look she didn’t understand, but before she could quiz them on it, George came to possess himself of her arm.
“Who would have thought we’d ever go on a botanical expedition together?” he said with mock horror. “Don’t tell any of my friends, Marissa. I’ll never live it down.”
Marissa smiled but she wasn’t as amused as she expected to be. His casual dismissal of what was actually becoming quite an adventure irritated her. “Perhaps you need to change your friends,” she said.
George laughed as if she’d made a joke—perhaps he thought she had—and she let it go. Now was not the time to start an argument with the man she intended to marry.
Valentine decided on the smaller carriage for himself and Marissa, while George rode on horseback. George pretended to complain, demanding to know why his brother had suddenly become one of those boring old country gentlemen who preferred to rattle along in comfort rather than reaching their destination as quickly as possible.
“There’s no hurry, is there?” Valentine retorted. “Magna Midcombe isn’t going anywhere, George.”
George had never been a particularly deep thinker. Life didn’t, in his opinion, require lots of contemplation to be enjoyable. Quite the opposite in fact. But even he could see there was something going on with his brother.
Valentine had insisted on taking the carriage and more or less insisted that Marissa ride with him, at his side. He’d expected her to argue, to demand she ride with George, but she’d seemed deep in her own thoughts and hadn’t said a word of complaint. There was definitely some tension between them; it had been obvious at the breakfast table.
George considered what he should do about it.
He glanced back at the carriage. Marissa was holding her parasol up to the sun, swaying with the movement of the carriage, and trying not to let her eyes close. George found himself wondering, tongue in cheek, if her weariness was due to a wild night of passion with Valentine. But he knew his brother too well. Valentine was so wary when it came to repeating his mistake with Vanessa that he would resist even a woman as beautiful as Marissa.
Vanessa had been a poisonous bitch who made his brother’s life a complete misery. Who could blame him for avoiding even the possibility of making the same mistake again?
“Is that as fast as that dashed thing can go?” he called out. “We’ll never get to Magna Midcombe.”
Marissa smiled back, more like herself. “Do you have an urgent appointment somewhere, George?”
Was there a sting in her question? George wondered. Was she still upset about him neglecting her? But Marissa wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge. “Not at all,” he said. “I intend to spend the entire afternoon being the perfect host.”
At the time he meant it sincerely, but he didn’t know then that there was a boxing match on in Magna Midcombe he just had to see….
Chapter 13
Magna Midcombe had once been the site of an abbey. The Fortescues were very pious and therefore benefactors of the abbey, so when Henry VIII, mad with love for Anne Boleyn, decided to turn his back on the Pope and close the religious houses, they argued against it, and for their troubles they lost everything. According to a Miss Johnson, a local spinster who collected local history, all that now remained of the Fortescue estate was a meadow attached to an old mill.
“The family are long gone, of course,” she said. “But I can direct you to the mill.”
The former Fortescue estate was a little way beyond the village. The mill was neglected and forlorn, the wheel seized up in its pond, while the surrounding meadow was full of flowers, their colorful faces peeping over the long grass.
George, observing the pretty scene from his mount, said, “You should have brought a picnic basket, Valentine. Mrs. Beaumaris always packs the best picnics.”
“Hungry again, George,” his brother mocked. “I’m afraid I had more important things on my mind.”
“What could be more important than a picnic on a summer’s day?” George retorted. “Well, it just so happens I had the forethought to ask Mrs. Beaumaris for a picnic basket. It’s tucked into the back of the carriage.”
Valentine gave him a suspicious look. “Indeed?”
“Someone has to remember to play the host,” George said smugly. “Women appreciate a man with a thoughtful nature.”
While George was collecting the basket, Valentine handed Marissa down from the carriage, and they stood surveying the scene.
“What will we do now?” Marissa used her parasol to shade her face from the sun, but already she could feel perspiration trickling down her back. The air was still and hot, not a breath of wind stirring.
“Eat the picnic that George so thoughtfully brought,” Valentine said.
“No, I mean…”
“I know what you mean. I’ll take a look around but I doubt I’ll find anything. If the Crusader’s Rose was here then it’s long gone. We’ll just have to move on to the next name on the list, and hope for better.” He looked at her, as if waiting for something. “You haven’t told me that there’s a chance I may never find the rose, that I should prepare myself for failure.”
Marissa gave him a puzzled glance. “I wouldn’t say anything so spineless.”
His mouth curled into a reluctant smile. “No, I d
on’t believe you would.”
George arrived with the basket and a rug to lay out on the grass. He wandered over toward the mill and the shade thrown by the old building. Here he shook out the rug, setting it by the pond where the water was deep and green, beams of sunlight barely penetrating the surface, while insects darted above. At any moment, thought Marissa, a woman’s hand might rise up from the depths, clutching a gleaming sword.
The thought made her smile.
“Mrs. Beaumaris has outdone herself.” As they made themselves comfortable, George was investigating the contents of the picnic basket. “There’s cold roast lamb, lobster salad, cherry tart…and a bottle of champagne!” He began to wrestle with the cork.
“What are you thinking?”
Marissa turned and found Valentine watching her from beneath his lashes. He was resting on his side, his long body stretched out on the rug and propped up by an elbow. He was twisting a blade of grass between his fingers, and one of his legs was bent at the knee, the cloth stretched over the thickness of his thigh. His jacket had fallen open and she could see the muscles of his chest beneath the thin linen shirt.
It was impossible not to remember him half-naked, his mouth hot on hers, as she sank down onto his lap and his fingers stroked her most secret places.
Marissa felt a tremor run through her, and beneath her skirts she squeezed her thighs tightly together, trying to ease the ache that was centered between them. Somehow, when George handed her a glass of champagne, she managed to thank him in a calm voice, as if her skin were not feverish and her thoughts full of wicked, unladylike longings.
“To us!” he announced.
She smiled and took a sip. The liquid was cool and delicious and this time her delight was unfeigned. “To us.”
Valentine gulped some of the champagne, but he was still waiting for her to answer his question.
“I was thinking this could be the watery place where King Arthur commanded Excalibur to be thrown, when he lay dying.”
“Romantic fairy tales?” he said, brushing his hair out of his eyes and frowning at her. “I thought you were a woman of intellect and reason.”