by Karen Ranney
“Have you no control?” The words were out of her mouth before she could call them back.
“As I said, Miss Sinclair, I’ve been in your company for one day. An extremely painful day, but I don’t suppose you know what I mean.”
She shook her head.
“At the risk of being slapped again, let me show you.”
He reached out and grabbed her hand and pressed it against his waist. No, not against his waist. Against something hard and unmistakably masculine.
She jerked back her hand, horrified.
“I haven’t the slightest idea why it should be so. You are not, after all, the kind of woman who attracts me. I hunger for blondes and statuesque beauties. Although your bodice is certainly plentiful and your legs long, you lack a certain flair, a certain blowsy charm I find attractive.”
She could still feel him against her hand.
“Then do not let me stop you from going out and finding the type of woman who attracts you, Mr. Gordon. I wish you well. May all your conquests be easy ones.”
“Will you be thinking about me, then?”
“Your coach is waiting, and the night is cold.”
“You sound so very angry, Miss Sinclair. Would you like to slap me again?”
“I would very much like to, Mr. Gordon, but it would no doubt be a waste of effort.”
“Then you think I’m not capable of being educated?”
“I think you’re capable of being educated. I just don’t think you’re capable of being trained.”
His bark of laughter surprised her.
Robert made a sound in his sleep, and Devlen looked back at the bed.
“Care for him, Miss Sinclair, regardless of what you think of me.”
“You have some affection for him, don’t you?”
“You sound surprised.”
She was, but she didn’t answer him.
“Have you a kiss to send me on my way?” He bent down and breathed against her hair. Was he smelling her again? “Some token of your regard for me?”
His hand came up and smoothed against her waist. Her uncorseted waist. His hand splayed until his fingertips almost reached the underside of her breast.
She jerked away from him, and to the other side of the drape, making her escape as quickly as she could. She raced across the Duke’s Chamber, her bare feet making no sound on the polished wooden floor and to her own room, where she locked the door with trembling fingers, her heart beating so fast she felt faint with it.
For a long moment she stood there, palms pressed against the door until she heard a light tap. Just that. A tap of his hand as if to acknowledge she was safe, and he was leaving.
The winding drive from Castle Crannoch was illuminated at night by a series of twenty lanterns. One man—or boy, as he sometimes was—kept watch over all the lanterns to ensure they lasted until morning. Devlen had given the orders himself when he first began visiting.
He doubted the lanterns were used in his absence, but he liked having the freedom to arrive and to leave whenever he wished.
Now he didn’t want to go back to Edinburgh as much as he wanted to remain at Castle Crannoch, but the voice of his conscience, not often loud enough to be heard, warned him he would be wiser to get away as quickly as his horses could carry him.
He wanted to touch Beatrice. He wanted to touch her so badly he hurt with it.
She smelled of roses. Warm roses and woman, as the heat of her had traveled upward to tease him with her scent. He wanted to reach out, and with not quite steady fingers, unbutton that one button keeping her modest wrapper fastened.
He’d push back the full sleeves with their lace cuffs and kiss her elbow. A teasing kiss while he parted the top of her nightgown. Another, while he slid his hand inside.
One finger would smooth in between the creamy mounds of her breasts, stroking the soft, plump skin there.
His erection swelled at the thought. A button, that’s all. The thought of loosening a button, and he was hard as an iron staff.
Very well, he would imagine the button gone, and Miss Sinclair standing bare to the waist, nothing covering her. The warmth would nearly scorch his palm as it rested against a hard nipple.
She would look surprised by the reaction of her own body to his touch and then slowly, he would use two fingers to hold a nipple so sweetly she’d gasp in awareness.
He would feel the outline of that sweet protuberant nipple and measure the length of it as it grew. His mouth would suckle it, his lips provide a gentle resting place, his tongue tasting her.
He would pull up the rest of her nightgown where it bunched around her waist until it was in folds, then toss it to the floor.
He’d pull her close so he could warm her in his embrace and she would moan at the sensation of being so heated in the chilled air.
He needed to be closer to her, so he could touch his erection to some part of her body. He needed to feel her against him, move her up and down to mimic the action of love.
Do not move, sweet Beatrice, I am imagining myself inside you.
What would she say to that?
No doubt banish him for his torment, or send him away with a teasing smile.
What would it be like to bed the surprising Miss Sinclair?
Just thinking about doing so had him close to erupting in his trousers, and he had yet to press his lips against hers or against her neck or his mouth against those bounteous breasts.
Damn it.
Sleep came with great difficulty that night. Beatrice lay awake staring at the tester above her head and when that sight dulled, she turned and stared out the window at the night sky. When she was tired, she closed her eyes and thought about what Devlen Gordon had said to her.
Any virtuous woman would have been shocked and appalled at the things he had said. Any virtuous woman would have demanded an apology. Most certainly, she would have made her displeasure known to Cameron Gordon. Or she should have marched downhill with her valise beneath her arm, intent on her lonely cottage and some measure of propriety.
A virtuous woman would not be lying here, thinking of all the things he said and wondering at the heaviness of her own limbs and the heat of her body.
Finally, she threw aside the coverlet and the sheet before drawing up the nightgown until her knees were exposed. But it was not enough; she was still too hot to sleep. She sat up on the side of the bed and dangled her feet in a back-and-forth, back-and-forth movement that did nothing to assuage the restlessness inside her body.
She was lusting after Devlen Gordon. There, she’d confessed it.
She placed both hands beneath her breasts and hefted them, feeling their weight. They were entirely too large. No matter how much weight she lost, her breasts never seemed to change. The gesture made her nipples rub against the cotton of her nightgown, gently abrading them. The feeling was so strange and yet so pleasurable she continued it for a moment.
How shocking to be touching herself while thinking of a man.
As penance, she gave herself the task of reciting the books of the Bible. She got all the way to Job before she realized she was thinking of him again.
She sighed, stared up at the elaborate plasterwork of the crown molding. The guest room she’d been given was a lovely chamber, decorated in shades of deep rose. She’d never liked the color much, but it suited the heavy mahogany furniture, offsetting the darkness and adding a touch of femininity.
Had Cameron Gordon’s wife chosen the fabric? Or had Robert’s mother been responsible for the décor of Castle Crannoch?
How foolish to pretend she was interested in such things when all she truly wanted to know was why she felt so decidedly odd.
She unbuttoned the top button of her nightgown and spread the placket open. Reaching in one hand, she palmed her breast. Then, experimentally and feeling wicked, she pressed two fingers around her nipple and felt an answering sensation deep inside. Without much effort, she could imagine they were his fingers on her, his whispers in h
er ear to continue.
“Sweet Beatrice. You want so much to feel pleasure, don’t you?”
In the next moment she stood and slid her nightgown off her head, tossing it to the end of the bed. With a quick glance to the door to make sure it was locked, she went to the chest of drawers and tilted the mirror on top of it until she could see her body.
She had never before done such a thing, never looked at herself with an eye to what a man might see. Her shoulders were straight and simply shoulders. Her arms were the same. Her hands were formed like hands, her fingers long. Her waist tapered nicely from her chest before flaring gently to her hips. She placed her hand on her stomach, her thumb resting at the indentation of her navel, her little finger stretched out and touching the very beginning of the triangle of hair between her legs. Her abdomen was flat, her bones in sharp relief, but a few more meals like the one she’d eaten that night and she would not be so thin.
She placed a palm flat on each nipple, but the friction of her touch only made them ache even more.
She turned and looked over her shoulder at her bottom. She liked the shape of it. Turning, she faced herself again, placing a hand on either thigh, splaying her hands until her thumbs met, then slowly, daring herself, she touched herself where she was most swollen and aching.
A soft moan escaped her.
She remembered the feel of him against her hand, hard and erect. The shape of him felt imprinted on her palm. Instead of delighting in the memory, she should be ashamed. Or angry at the very least. He’d done something unspeakably wrong. Shocking. Lurid.
She got back into bed and covered herself with the sheet. A moment later, she left the bed again and opened the window. This time when she returned to the bed, the chill of the room cooled her and eased the unbearable heat she was feeling.
Beatrice closed her eyes, determined not to think of him. Devlen Gordon was on the way to Edinburgh. Yet, in her mind, she could see him leaning over her. She could hear his voice whispering to her, encouraging her to find release in her dreams of him.
Shame seeped through her, shame and a loneliness so desperately painful that if he were here, she might have gone to him. That’s what he’d meant. He’d gone back to Edinburgh not to protect her from him, but to keep her sheltered from her own nature.
Chapter 12
The scream was so loud it awakened her. Beatrice bolted upright in bed, staring at the opposite wall, uncertain from where the noise had originated. The scream came again, and this time she knew.
She flew from the bed, threw her nightgown on, grabbed her wrapper, and raced out the door and down the hall. She was opening the door to the Duke’s Chamber when Gaston appeared in the doorway of the adjoining room.
He swore, in perfectly accented French.
The lamp in the foyer was still burning, but because she had closed the curtains the night before, the room was nearly suffocating in darkness. Gaston moved in the direction of the bed while she went to the windows, opening up the drapes and letting in the light from a dawn sky.
She turned to find Robert kneeling in the middle of the bed, Gaston’s arms around the trembling boy. She didn’t have to ask to know Gaston had done this often.
“What is it? Is it one of your nightmares, Robert?”
“Someone was here,” he said. “Someone was in my room.”
“Devlen was here earlier, but he’s gone now.”
“I want him. I command you to get him.”
She walked toward the bed. “I’m sorry, I can’t. He’s gone back to Edinburgh.”
He shot her a look of such dislike she almost reeled from it. How foolish she’d been to think the hour or so they’d spent together the night before might soften his manners.
She reached out and touched his shoulder, but he jerked away, burying his face against Gaston’s chest.
“I don’t want you here,” he said. “Go away.”
“Perhaps it would be best, mademoiselle. Just until he recovers.”
Since she was scantily dressed, and Gaston was in his nightshirt, she decided retreat was the best option for the moment. She nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Once in her own chamber, she took care of her morning ablutions before dressing in the same clothing she’d worn the day before. She brushed her hair, uncaring if it grew or not.
She stared at herself in the mirror. She was too pale, but at least she no longer felt as she had last night, confused, uncertain, and heated from her own thoughts.
She tapped her cheeks with her fingers, but she still looked pale, and her lips appeared nearly bloodless. Perhaps she needed embarrassment to bring color to her face. Or shame.
She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. Castle Crannoch was drafty and cold, despite the fact it was a ducal residence.
In the corridor she hesitated, uncertain where to go next. Should she go back to Robert’s chamber? Or to the dining room? Surely Cameron Gordon wouldn’t insist upon her eating breakfast alone?
As she was debating, the doors to the ducal suite swung open, and Robert stood there.
He looked as he was, a seven-year-old boy. A title could not change the fact his hair would not quite lie down in the back. He had dressed in an outfit the miniature of his cousin’s, even down to the white stock, but Robert’s was tied less than perfectly around at the throat. He bowed slightly to her, his chin at an arrogant angle.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked. “Before your nightmare, I mean?”
“It wasn’t a nightmare. Someone was in my room. Was it you?”
“I can assure you it was not.”
He nodded as if he believed her. But she decided to change topics and start the day off in a better frame of mind. Consequently, she forced a smile to her face, and asked him, “Would you mind escorting me to breakfast?”
For a moment he looked as if he would refuse, and as she was contemplating an impasse, he came and offered his arm to her.
“I will be happy to escort you to breakfast, Miss Sinclair. And perhaps over the meal we can discuss your duties.”
She bit back her retort and kept her smile with some difficulty.
“Perhaps we can at that.”
Breakfast was not in the main dining room, but in something called the Family Dining Room, a dark and somber-looking place dominated by heavy mahogany furniture.
Two large cabinets filled with china sat against adjoining walls, while the fireplace was built into the third. The fourth wall was covered in heavy burgundy drapes. She would have liked to open them, to view the day outside, but no one else looked as if they were oppressed by the closed-in nature of the room.
Cameron Gordon sat to her left, while Robert was to her right. If Devlen had still been here, he no doubt would have taken the place opposite, while the setting to Cameron’s right was probably reserved for his wife.
“Are you expecting Mrs. Gordon home soon?” she asked.
“My wife decides to come and go as she wishes, Miss Sinclair. I am not privy to her plans.”
She nodded, feeling awkward for having asked.
A moment later she excused herself and stood at the buffet, deciding what she would eat among the huge array of breakfast foods. Surely, the staff had prepared more food than for just the four of them? The food here could have kept her for a week.
She selected a few pieces of ham, a dish of oatmeal, and a cup of something with the delightful fragrance of strong coffee mixed with dark chocolate. Her stomach rumbled, but it was not so much in hunger as delight.
For the next quarter hour, she was more intent on her meal than she was her breakfast companions. Their conversation, or the lack of it, didn’t occur to her until Cameron Gordon asked his nephew a question.
“What plans have you for today, Robert?”
“I want to see the new foal. Devlen said Molly finally delivered. And then I shall play with my toy soldiers. Devlen brought me some new ones from Edinburgh.”
“How kind of Devlen,”
Cameron murmured.
Beatrice put down her fork and folded her hands. “We shall have lessons this morning, Robert. You may see the foal later, and if you do well in your reading, perhaps you can play with your soldiers as a reward.”
He ignored her.
Cameron glanced at her, a small smile on his lips, as if he were amused by the exchange.
“Is there a nursery? Or someplace set aside as a schoolroom?” she asked him.
“There are over two hundred rooms at Castle Crannoch. Surely one of them can be modified for your use.”
“Did you not grow up here?”
“I did.”
“Did you never take your lessons here? Or have a tutor?”
“I was sent off to school at quite a young age, Miss Sinclair. Both my brother and I were. There was never a need for a schoolroom. But I believe you can take what books you need from the library, and as for space, pick one of the rooms. I’ll give the order it should be cleaned and ready for your use.”
“Very well,” she said to Robert. “Perhaps we can meet in my chamber this morning so I can assess your reading ability. If you have a favorite book, please bring it.”
“I shan’t come,” he said, giving her a thoroughly disagreeable look.
She would have been sent to her room had she dared to look at any adult in such a way.
“I shall expect you at nine,” she said sternly.
“I shall be with the horses.”
She glanced up at Cameron, who remained silent and unsupportive.
She had the distinct feeling this was a test of sorts. Neither Cameron nor Robert Gordon knew her. She never gave up. In fact, her father had always teased her that her epitaph should read: Beatrice Sinclair—I shall prevail.
She wasn’t about to let a seven-year-old child, regardless of his rank, outmaneuver her.
“I shall give orders you are not to be shown the new foal until I approve.”
Robert threw down his fork and stood beside the table. “You cannot give any orders at Castle Crannoch. I am the only person who can give orders. Do you hear me? I am the Duke of Brechin.”
“You’re the duke of rudeness. And unless you want to grow up to be an uncivilized, ignorant creature, you’ll do as I say.”