On the stairs she stopped, suddenly desperate to be outside. She tried to go forward, but was blocked. She looked behind her for Miss Cuthbert, but her companion was gone, lost in the crowd. Margaret fanned herself, unbearably hot and feeling as though she were being squeezed from all sides.
“My very dear Miss de Lacey.” A gentleman doffed his oversized hat and made a shallow bow in front of her. “May I assist you? You look in need of some fresh air.”
She gasped in relief as Lord Dowling’s eyes twinkled at her. “Thank you, sir, please.” She grabbed his arm and followed close behind him as he plowed straight through the throngs, not stopping until he pushed open a door and they were outside.
“Are you well?” His arm was around her, supporting her, as she filled her lungs with clean, cool air.
Finally she managed to smile at him. “Very well, now you’re here.”
There was a pause as he just looked at her, desire and concern mingled in his eyes. “I heard you encountered some difficulties after our last tête-à-tête.”
“None I regard.” A trio of gentlemen in masks burst from the door behind them, laughing loudly. Dowling stepped in front of her, making a show of replacing his hat in such a way that screened her face from their view. She gave him a coy smile. “A very handsome hat, sir.”
“Isn’t it?” He grinned, cocking his hat to set the long plume swaying. “Stole it from Clyve. He claimed it belonged to some Roundhead ancestor of his, but I think he bought it himself.”
“You must keep it,” she said. “I quite like it. You look very dashing.”
“Then he shall never have it back,” he replied with a wink. “I would go to any lengths to look dashing in your eyes.”
Margaret blushed. “Will you walk with me again, sir?”
“To the ends of the earth, madam, to say nothing of back and forth in this garden.” He led her away from the house. There was only a thin strip of land on this side of the house, and the smell of the nearby stables rose around them.
“I’ve been thinking of what you said the other night,” she began, “and of what Lord Branwell charged. I wondered . . .”
“Yes?” he prompted when she fell silent.
“What would you do with the money?” she asked softly. “If you had it.”
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “Worried I would spend it all on dashing hats? I assure you, my dear, I’m not so fashionable as that. I would use it to repair my house, pay my handful of foolishly loyal servants, and do my best to leave an estate worthy for my son to inherit.”
Margaret drew a fortifying breath. “What if you never had a son? What if the woman you married was too old to have children at all?”
He thought for a second. “I would make the house fit for my bride, pay the servants, and settle down to a happy life with her alone. Perhaps I could experiment with sheep breeding, and raise Britain’s first buoyant sheep.”
She choked back a laugh. “You would be famous for generations to come.”
He grinned, looking rather like a pirate with the absurd hat.
“Is your house really falling down?” she asked.
His smile faded. “Yes. The manor house had to be closed up after a fire. The town house needs some work as well.” He hesitated. “Would you like to see it?”
She started. “Tonight?”
He nodded, his gaze never wavering from hers.
Margaret took a deep breath. She had been prepared to steal away on a carriage ride with him if necessary; what was the difference, if they stopped at a house on that ride? She looked up at his face. No trace of that slashing dimple was visible in his lean cheek, and his skin was dark in the moonlight. The hat brim shadowed his eyes so all she could see was the reflection of the light from the windows of Carlisle House. She had engineered this meeting tonight to decide once and for all if she wanted to marry him, if logic and sense would support what her heart, body, and soul craved. Surely it was logical to see how badly he needed her money.
Heart pounding, she nodded once. “Yes, Lord Dowling. I would.”
CHAPTER NINE
The drive took more time than Margaret expected. Most fashionable society had moved west from the heart of the city to elegant new arrangements such as Berkeley Square, where Durham House stood. She could tell they weren’t going that way, though, and finally she just asked.
“Er . . . yes,” said Dowling ruefully. “My father wanted a grand showplace, but the only suitable property he could find was in Paddington. He had plans to found a great museum to house his collection, and designed the house accordingly. It’s practically a country manor.”
Margaret had been to fine houses in London, some of which included a great deal of open space. “I see.” But she didn’t, not really, until the hired carriage stopped in front of a grand building that looked more temple than home, quite isolated.
“It’s very impressive,” she said when he helped her down.
“Isn’t it?” Lord Dowling shook his head. “Wait until you see the interior.” He led her up the shallow steps to the enormous front door, and to her surprise took a key from his coat pocket. Servants were always standing by to open the door at Durham House, and even in Holborn they’d had someone responsible for that. But Dowling let them in, closing the door behind her with a quiet boom that echoed through the empty house.
If he hadn’t said he lived here, she would have thought it was deserted. Wide double doors stood open to her left into a high-ceilinged room that contained not a stick of furniture or a single object on the walls. The hall they stood in was similarly bare, with only a single candle shedding a dull light. The stairs at the side climbed into absolute darkness above. It was utterly silent.
“I didn’t anticipate visitors.” The earl took up the candle and lit a candelabrum on the mantle of the cold fireplace. As more light filled the hall, Margaret could make out the shabbiness of the room, from the scratched and scuffed floor to the cobwebs in the corners. Dowling looked around, his face grim. “Bunter, my man, goes off to bed early, and the cleaning is too much for one person. It’s really not fit for ladies.”
Margaret roused herself. “Nonsense. I’m not so hen-hearted as that. Is this the drawing room?”
He followed her into the cavernous room to the left. “I believe so. Nearly every room was designed more for the purpose of display, and less of living.”
Her footsteps echoed in the dusty stillness. There were no draperies at the windows, and the light of the full moon lit the room. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out rectangles on the walls where paintings had been. “What happened to the collection?”
“Sold.”
“Was it valuable?”
He hesitated. “Not as valuable as my father thought.”
Meaning he had lost money selling it. Margaret walked on. “It’s a lovely room,” she offered.
“When the cupids aren’t falling, I suppose.”
“Cupids?” She stopped to look at him in bemusement.
He swept one arm through the air. “Hundreds of them. The plasterer must have been very fond of the little devils.”
He was right. Margaret peered upward and saw dozens of fat-bellied cupids clinging to every foot of the elaborate cornice. It was too dark to see what they might have looked like, but in the moonlight streaming through the windows the effect was almost sinister. “How original,” she said faintly.
“How damned ugly,” Dowling countered.
She glanced at him, and burst out laughing. “Perhaps.”
He was grinning. “They’re hideous—you should see them in the bright light of day—and even worse, they’re murderous. At least once a day there will be a smashing sound as one of them finally loses his grip on the wall and plummets to an ignominious end. I beg you stand away from the walls.”
“Are they all over the house?” She could make out a few spots where cupids had obviously parted ways with the cornice.
“In every room,” he said with resignation. “F
or uniformity, you see.”
They strolled on through the dining room, the gallery, and the earl’s study. The empty bookshelves had a forlorn look to them that tugged at Margaret’s heart. Aside from a battered table with a mended leg and a few chairs in the dining room, there was no furniture at all, no draperies, no ornament of any kind. It was quite the loneliest thing she could imagine.
When they reached the hall again, Dowling turned to her. “Have you satisfied yourself? What else may I show you to put your mind at rest?”
Her heart skipped a beat. From the intent way he was looking at her, he meant more than the house’s condition. “I certainly see how you could put funds to good use.”
As if prompted, there was a crash from the room behind him. “Another cupid meets his doom,” said Dowling. His expression didn’t change. “But I wasn’t referring to money.”
Margaret was acutely aware of how alone they were. He could kiss her again, and no one would interrupt. He could sweep her into his arms and make love to her, and no one would stop him . . . including herself. “What do you mean, then, sir?”
“I told you weeks ago you were the woman for me.” He began walking toward her, his steps ringing like a battering ram against her reserve. “I want you. I need you. And yes, your dowry will keep us in comfort. But I wouldn’t want another woman with those funds. Only you, love.” He touched a loose lock of her hair, curling it around his finger. “Say yes, Maggie darling,” he whispered.
“You haven’t even asked the question,” she protested, swaying toward him.
“Marry me,” he said against her lips.
“Yes,” she said at once, and he kissed her.
Under the touch of his lips, her doubts fell aside. She was in his arms as much through her own volition as through his. She wanted to be here, alone, with him, damn the differences in their financial states. Her decision was made.
This time she licked his lips first. He smiled and let her deepen the kiss. He tasted of mint and something darker, richer. She ran her hands along his broad shoulders, and then daringly down his chest, awed and giddy with the feel of him. She marveled that he let her explore him so boldly, but little by little the balance was shifting. His palm slid around her waist, urging her against him. He touched her jaw, subtly tipping her head to a better angle. His tongue met hers softly, then more urgently.
The simmering heat of passion, so long denied in her life, roared into an inferno. She gripped his coat and clung to him, opening her mouth for his possession as she surrendered her body to his intoxicating touch. Up and down her back his hands traveled, molding her to him with devastating intimacy. The silent house around them was a cocoon of privacy and solitude, where any desires could be indulged and explored. She trembled with the force of those desires. An engagement was nearly legally wed. . .
“You inflame me,” he whispered. His fingers shook as he smoothed them down the expanse of her bosom. “I should take you back to Carlisle House . . . Your companions will miss you . . .”
“I want to stay with you.”
His dark eyes were fiery bright in the candles’ glow. “In my bed?” he asked softly.
Margaret’s heart leaped, tripped, and almost soared from her chest. “Yes.”
He bowed his head, and one corner of his mouth curled upward. “I love you, Margaret de Lacey,” he said, and then with one motion he caught her up in his arms. She looped one arm around his neck and crushed her frothy skirts with the other as he carried her up the stairs, down a short corridor, into a bedroom. There was a bit more furniture in this room, as well as a carpet, and the embers of a banked fire glowed in the grate when he set her back on her feet by the hearth and sank to his knees.
“Dowling,” she began.
“Rhys.” He looked up from stirring the fire. “My name is Rhys.”
She blushed. “Will we be so informal? Miss Cuthbert assured me people of nobility never use Christian names.”
“Miss Cuthbert also told you I was unsuitable, didn’t she?” He gave her a sly grin. “Say it.”
“Rhys.” It suited him, a vaguely foreign name with an air of wildness about it. She said it again, letting it linger on her lips.
“It sounds like an invitation when you say it that way.”
“Everything I’ve said has been an invitation tonight.”
His eyebrows went up. He dropped the poker and rose to his feet. “Indeed! May I express my eternal gratitude to God and all the saints that you accepted me? There’s not another woman like you in the world, Maggie.”
She liked that nickname, better than Meg as her brother called her. Perhaps it sounded a bit more sensual and wicked in Rhys’s faint accent as well. Regardless, she arched her neck and smiled. “And now?”
His expression sharpened on her. “Now, love, I intend to prove my devotion.” He lifted Clarissa’s garland of roses from her head and set it aside. “You’ve no more need of thorns with me.”
She laughed. “Much deterrent they proved!”
He ran his fingertips lightly down her cheek, turning her face up to him. “For such a rare and beautiful bloom, I would brave a thousand thorns.”
When he touched her and looked at her this way, she felt beautiful. No one else seemed to embrace her as she was. “Do you love me?” she whispered.
Rhys stilled. “I do.”
Margaret smiled. “Then kiss me again.”
He kissed her until her head swam. His nimble fingers unhooked her gown and lifted it over her head. Margaret gave up fumbling with the line of buttons that marched down his waistcoat, which prompted a low laugh from Rhys, and settled for untying her petticoat as he stripped off his garments. He made faster progress than she did, and she still wore her stockings and shift when he scooped her up and carried her to the bed.
“Thank goodness you kept some furniture,” she said as he loomed over her, his knee between hers.
“The first thing I shall buy,” he said between hot kisses along her neck, “is a grand new bed, fit for a countess.”
She would be a countess, no longer Miss de Lacey but Lady Dowling. She hadn’t even thought of that.
“And then,” Rhys went on in a low growl, “I shall keep you in that bed for hours every day. Our servants will be outraged.”
“Will they?” She could hardly speak from the thumping of her heart. Oh heavens, she had dreamed of this for so long, and never once imagined how desperate it would feel. How the slightest brush of his fingertips over the swell of her breast could make her skin sizzle. How his lips at the base of her throat could stoke some unknown urgency inside her. How she, sensible plain spinster Margaret Emily de Lacey, could curl her legs around his hips to hold him to her, rocking her hips to satiate the growing ache between her legs.
“Maggie,” he rasped. “Maggie, my God.” He had lifted her breasts from the low confines of her corset, and now sucked one nipple between his teeth. She quivered, and then almost arched off the bed as his fingers slid between her thighs to settle directly on a spot that was so exquisitely sensitive, it was almost painful.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Trust me . . .” His palm flattened on her belly, and his thumb stroked softly, all over her sex. After the first shock, it was only pleasure she felt, rippling though her body and limbs until she was shaking. She barely felt him nudge against her, his body easing into hers as his hips rocked against hers. Every time she tried to focus on the sensation, he bit down on her nipple or stroked her a little harder, and by the time she forced her eyes open, his thighs were flush against hers, and she could feel him deep inside her.
That was when he paused, and inhaled a long, ragged breath. “I’m trying to be gentle, love, but—”
The ache had only grown more demanding. She moved restlessly beneath him. “Don’t stop, then.”
His eyes burned. “I wasn’t considering stopping.” He kissed her, then pushed himself up on one arm. “Unless you tell me to,” he added, beginning a slow back and forth motion. His thumb re
sumed teasing her. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“No,” she managed to gasp before being carried away again on a new tide of sensation and pleasure. Her muscles seemed to have slipped out of her control. Her legs shook and clenched tighter around his. Her belly was drawing up into a tight ball—her fingers grasped futilely at his shoulders, trying to anchor herself—
And then she splintered. With a deep, primal pulse the tension broke, ebbing and rising like waves lapping at a shore. Rhys’s thrusts abruptly grew hard and fast, almost in time with the beat of her heart. He bared his teeth in a savage grin, kissed her hard, and drove deep inside her one last time.
She couldn’t say whether they lay there twined about each other for a minute or an hour. With his head on her shoulder, his chest rising and falling rapidly against hers, and the glorious contentment of lovemaking running through her, Margaret could have stayed there all night. Vaguely she knew she couldn’t, but the reasons why seemed so trivial. And she was going to marry this wonderful man, with his wry humor and deep honesty. Her lover—and soon, her husband.
“Were you really intrigued when I told you to go raise goats?” she asked, sifting her fingers through his long, wavy hair.
He frowned without opening his eyes. “Hmm? Oh yes. I knew then I had to have you.”
“You did not.”
“I did, and you may ask Clyve. I told him so that very evening.”
“No,” she protested again, but secretly entranced by the thought. She’d been in a very ill temper that night. “You will tempt me to abuse you for the rest of our marriage.”
He gave her a wicked look from under his eyelashes. “I shall retaliate, until you are speechless with pleasure.”
Margaret smiled and stretched. “As I said: you will tempt me unbearably.”
“It is my new purpose in life.” He kissed her again, and rolled off the bed. “But first, a toast.” He pulled on a banyan and lit a candle from the fire. “I’ll fetch some wine.”
I Love the Earl Page 8