She laughed, and the sound warmed him as well as reminded him of the oddity of their conversation. She’d just seen him naked and sprawled and, well, erect. And yet they were talking about siblings? Perhaps she was in shock?
“No sisters?”
“No, much to my mother’s chagrin.” He stroked the other side of Friar’s neck, earning an approving nicker.
“Are you close in age?”
“I’m seven years younger than Philip the closest to me in age—and seventeen years younger than Cecil my oldest brother.” They stroked Friar in silence while she absorbed that information. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Miss Griffin?”
She shook her head slowly back and forth. “No, just me.”
“I know your aunt raised you—did she have no children of her own?”
“They were unable to have children.”
“They must have enjoyed having you with them.”
She dropped her hand and turned to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanwyck.”
His face, which had just begun to feel normal, flamed. “Er—”
“I shouldn’t have been staring while you were, um—”
Magnus cleared his throat. “Ah yes, quite so.” He fiddled with Friar’s halter. “Well, there’s no harm done. I’m fine. And so are you, at least—” He bit his lower lip hard enough to taste salt and metal. “At least it seems you are fine, but—”
Magnus, you idiot, shut up!
He cursed—thankfully only in his mind—and clamped his jaws shut to prevent further idiocy from pouring out of his mouth. Instead, he busied himself with Friar, the whole time aware of her stillness—which was made all the more noticeable by his flapping about like a landed fish. Was she in a state of shock? Was that why she was so quiet? He was bloody well in shock. Just how long had she been standing there? And what about him? In his dream he’d been kneeling between her—
“Mr. Stanwyck?”
“Yes, Miss Griffin?” Magnus was pleased to hear he didn’t sound like a squeaking rodent.
“Do you forgive me? For invading your privacy?”
He saw humor and a little regret in her face, but no embarrassment. Just how could that be when he was all but choking on mortification? Or perhaps she was simply better at hiding it?
He dredged up a smile from somewhere. “Of course, Miss Griffin. I mean, there is nothing to forgive. It is I who was—” He grimaced, stopping himself before the words “naked and erect” slipped out. “In any case. Were you heading back?”
She nodded.
“I will accompany you.”
She glanced at the horse.
“I’ll lead him and walk beside you.”
They walked toward the path she must have taken—not the one he rode down, which was wider and longer and not as convenient for those from town. But he’d been out for a ride and unconcerned about time. It had been his half-day of freedom, after all. Well. That had ended in embarrassment, hadn’t it? And probably more than one actionable crime, come to think of it. Public indecency? Endangering the morals England’s women?
“May I ask you a question?”
He turned to find her looking up at him. “Of course.”
“When did you decide you wanted to be a vicar?”
As questions went it wasn’t anything new. Still, he couldn’t help feeling she was asking it for different reasons than he was accustomed to. But it was better than stewing on what had just happened.
He helped her up over the bluff before answering. “I was at a funeral—I must have been nine or ten.” He glanced at her and grimaced. “I hate to admit it, but I don’t even remember who the funeral was for. What I do recall is that my father and my brother Cecil and I were the only mourners at the graveside. It seemed the deceased had been alone in the world—no family, no friends, except we three and the vicar. In any case, I recall the vicar’s words quite distinctly. He said the afterlife was something every person had to face alone, but death itself was not. He went on to say that one of a clergyman’s important duties was to deliver the last rites but that wasn’t his only—or even most important—duty, which was to keep a dying person from being alone. I recall thinking to myself—why, what an honor that must be, to be the last person to see another human on their way out of this life—to make sure nobody felt alone, even if they had been, in life, very lonely.” He shrugged and looked down. She was staring up at him, her mouth open.
His face heated. “You are looking at me as if I have just said something . . . shocking.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t mean to.” Her beautiful face wore a puzzled expression. “It’s just—” Magnus stared: now she was blushing. Well, it was about damned time. But why now?
She shook her head, as if to dismiss whatever it was she’d been about to say. Magnus stopped and laid a hand on her forearm to stop her. “Hold a moment. Tell me, it’s just—what? What were you going to say before you stopped yourself?”
Her lips tightened, as if she wasn’t going to speak, but then, “It’s just that I thought your reasons would be leading people to God or saving souls or something of that nature.”
Magnus laughed. “You must think I’m dreadfully pompous if you believed I would say such a thing.”
Her flush deepened and she looked away, staring at her hands. “No, no, I don’t think that at all.”
He leaned toward her, feeling bad about laughing at her response after he’d pried it out of her. “I know you wouldn’t think such an uncharitable thing, Miss Griffin. I was just teasing you a little.”
She looked up just then, her face barely an inch from his; there were flecks of gold in her green eyes. An expression that looked like pure agony contorted her perfect features and then, suddenly, her hands were on his face and her lips were pressing against his.
Chapter Nine
Melissa felt like she was outside her body, watching as a disaster happened. Watching as she caused a disaster.
She’d begun to feel oddly light when he’d described his reasons for entering the Church: because he never wanted anyone to die alone. She’d been a hair’s breadth away from bursting into tears. Melissa never cried. Or at least she hadn’t since that day: the day her mother had sold her for less than Melissa now spent on a pair of gloves.
But she’d certainly felt like crying today—not from grief, but from the unrelenting beauty of the man beside her. He wasn’t just beautiful on the outside, he was beautiful within. And like the wicked destroyer—the despoiler of anything good or pure—she couldn’t keep her hands, or in this case, her lips, off him.
He stood as still as a statue—a warm, breathing statue—as she slid her hands from his jaw to the back of his neck, inexorably pulling him lower. She angled her head and stroked between his slack lips, the action making him shudder and pull away. At least he tried to pull away, but Mel held him tight, drawing her body closer to his when she couldn’t move him. The second time she stroked into him his hands landed on her upper arms. Gently, but firmly, he set her away from him.
Their eyes locked. She was pleased to see he was breathing hard, his fair skin darkly flushed, his normally sky-blue eyes the deep navy of the ocean. He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering from her mouth to her eyes and then back. And then he let out a low, animal groan, his expression tormented as his arms drew her closer, as if his limbs rather than his will, were controlling his body. This time he was not tentative. He crushed her against him, his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue plunging into her.
Mel thrust her hands beneath the unbuttoned flaps of his coat, wishing desperately there wasn’t a shirt and waistcoat between her questing fingers and his body. An image of what he’d looked like, naked, slick, and hard, lying in the sun—like some pagan offering—flooded her mind and she groaned and latched on to his tongue, sucking as suggestively as she could. Which was more than most men could stand without crumbling.
But Mr. Stanwyck, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff.
He thrust her away and took a
staggering step back, breaking contact, only stopped from getting even farther away by the big body of his horse.
He snatched off his hat and grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again.
“I am terribly sorry, Miss Griffin. That was ill done of me.”
The laugh burst out of her before she could help it and she bit her lip, grieved that she’d made him look so mortified. She reached out to take his hand, to squeeze it, to tell him she wasn’t mocking him. But the freezing expression on his face stopped her.
“Dishonoring young women is no laughing matter to me, Miss Griffin.” He spoke in a tone she’d never heard—a hollow, coldly angry, almost Godlike tone that would be perfect for preaching fire and brimstone.
She’d somehow managed to turn this affectionate, warm man into an Old Testament preacher.
“I know it isn’t,” she said, lowering her eyes from his—which burned the same blue as the hottest part of a flame. “You are correct.”
They stood in silence, hearing only their breathing and the tweeting of birds.
He clapped his hat on his head. “Right then. Shall we walk?”
“You don’t need to escort me back. I’ll be—”
“Nonsense.” She looked up at his tone, which was once again light, sunny—and determined—even if there were now clouds covering his blue eyes.
Mel looked from his forearm to his face and laid her hand on his sleeve.
They walked in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, until Mr. Stanwyck spoke. “I haven’t been to Mrs. Tisdale’s yet today. Have you seen her?”
The topic of the old lady brought the mood back to earth rather quickly. “I have. I’m afraid I left in a bit of a snit.”
He chuckled and the sound loosened some of the stiffness between them. “Well, it’s a rare person she has not done that to.”
“Certainly not to you?”
“Oh yes,” he said, his free hand absently looping and unlooping the reins as they walked, the restless gesture giving lie to his calm words and tone. “She’s even managed to make the vicar lose his almost legendary placidity.”
Mel laughed. “I must know what she did.”
The next few moments—until they came to the fork in the road—passed in only slightly stilted conversation.
“I thought you were going to Mrs. Tisdale’s?” she asked when he turned in her direction.
“I am, but I’ll see you back to Halliburton Manor, first.”
“But that will take you out of your way,” she protested.
“Yes,” he agreed, “But on Friar the journey will take only a fraction as long.”
She could tell by his tone that he was determined.
“I’ve heard a rumor,” he said, changing the subject.
A frisson of fear shot up her spine. “Oh?”
“Yes, I understand you will be selling some of your stylish London garments at the fête.”
Mel exhaled with relief. “Yes, you heard correctly.”
“The news has caused much joyous celebration among the female population.”
“Well, I hope nobody sets their expectations too high. I’m afraid I shan’t have anything like ball gowns.”
He cut her a glance. “Oh? You are retaining all of those?”
“I do not own any ball gowns.”
“That surprises me.”
“And why is that?”
“I thought one did nothing in London but attend balls, eat ices at Gunter’s, and go on the strut every day in Hyde Park.”
Mel smiled. “I hate to disappoint you, but I do none of those things.”
“Surely you had a Season?”
She detected a note of uncertainty in his tone, as if he wanted to know more about her but didn’t want to pry. Luckily this was a topic she’d given some thought to, lately.
“Not as such,” she said. “My aunt and uncle had a small social circle but my uncle was ill for a long time and it didn’t seem right to revel in the midst of that.”
“Ah, that does sound difficult.” She could almost hear the cogs spinning in his head as he sought another subject. “So how do you spend your time?”
Mel wondered what he’d say if she told him the truth. The memory of his kisses—passionate, but not particularly practiced—told her that he’d clearly had very little experience in that department, which made sense given his profession. He didn’t seem like the type of man to frequent brothels; Mel would have wagered a good deal of money that he believed sex before matrimony was a sin.
“Have I stumped you or are you just ignoring my impolite prying?” he asked in a teasing voice.
“Neither. It’s just that I do nothing unusual,” she lied. “I visit the subscription library, occasionally attend the theater or eat dinner with friends.” That much was true—although all her friends were whores and the theater boxes she attended belonged to men who brought women who were not their wives. “Nothing exciting.”
“Certainly more exciting than New Bickford.”
“Yes, perhaps. But I came here to rest, and New Bickford is perfect for that.”
“I’d almost forgotten that you were ill,” he said, “You look positively blooming now.”
An awkward silence followed his earnest declaration. Melissa realized it was the type of thing he probably said to women all day long, without any discomfort. But now, with her . . .
Once again, he was the one to break the silence. “I do know what you mean about not missing the city—I confess I find myself missing few of the things town life has to offer.”
“You lived in London?” She risked a glance at him, relieved to see he was looking straight ahead. His profile was just as perfect as the rest of him.
“No, but I lived in Oxford while I attended university.”
“Ah.”
“Spoken with the derisiveness of a Londoner about any other city.” He nudged her with his elbow and she stiffened at the casual touch. He must have noticed, because they walked in silence until they turned the corner and saw Halliburton Manor.
“Well,” she stopped not far from the rose arbor that led to the front walk. “Here we are.”
“Indeed.” He looked at her with eyes that were guarded and no longer sparkled with easy affection.
“So,” she said, swallowing back disappointment and pasting a smile on her face while she held out her hand. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He bowed over her hand, the gesture smooth and practiced, almost as if he did it all the time.
Mel watched him mount Friar and then waved as he rode away, looking until he disappeared around the corner and she could see him no longer.
∞∞∞
Magnus stared into the darkness above his head, unable to sleep, re-living the events of yesterday afternoon over and over in his mind’s eye. Just as he’d been doing almost constantly since it happened. He was usually able to marshal his thoughts and think rationally. But not when it came to her—to Melissa.
He thought about getting up and dressing, going to the church, and dropping to his knees and begging for strength. But he was so bloody hard and something about carrying his erection into a sacred place felt . . . profane.
Besides, he needed to sleep. He’d been so weary today that he fell asleep while at his afternoon tutoring session. And had woken with an erect cock. Thank God he’d been seated behind a desk. He could just imagine the enjoyment two adolescent boys would’ve gotten from witnessing their curate with an erection.
He groaned, his hands fisted tightly at his sides, cock throbbing, ballocks full to bursting.
It was pointless. He would have to get some relief or he would never fall asleep. Yes, that is what he would do—not revel in the act, but simply employ a practical, workmanlike approach that—
“Oh shut up, Magnus, you pillock,” he muttered as he sucked in a harsh breath and took himself in hand. He was so bloody close it shouldn’t take long. He stroked, gripping his shaft hard enough to hurt, as if causing hi
mself pain might make what he was doing less sinful. Like some Catholic monk mortifying his disobedient flesh with a whip.
Magnus gritted his teeth but it failed to keep out the images of her that began to coalesce in his mind’s eye. Every time he eradicated one, another three would pop up, like persistent weeds in a lawn. And all of them were the product of lust. God, the feel of her when he’d taken her into his arms and kissed her! Generous, firm breasts, a waist so tiny his hands almost met, and then there had been the way she’d sucked his tongue . . .
Magnus’s body twisted into a painful, familiar, and delicious arch, his buttock muscles thrusting and thrusting and—
“Ah,” he grunted, his muscles going rigid until the violent pulsing of his penis was the only movement in his body. In the cottage. In the world.
He spent hard enough to reach his chin, the splash of hot liquid bringing him down to earth with vicious speed. As he slumped back on the bed, his hand still cradling an erection that was not, by any means, finished, he knew there would be no sleeping—at least nothing worthwhile. Not tonight, nor the next—not until he could make her his wife. He should have told her his feelings today, had he not been such a bloody coward. Soon, though. He would have to tell her soon.
Chapter Ten
Dear Mel:
I apologize for the delay in answering your letters. Yes, I am aware you’ve written four to my one. I should have realized sooner this was a contest.
You will be pleased to hear life goes on—for the most part—without incident. Laura has taken to her bed with a sudden illness. She is certain Hugo poisoned her. Naturally Hugo found that accusation highly amusing.
“Poison is a woman’s weapon, darling,” he said when she flung her accusation at him after she finally came down to breakfast. “If you wake up one morning to find your head has been severed, you’ll know that was me.”
Mel couldn’t help it; she laughed.
Although his words were—I must admit—highly amusing, they were not the kind of thing to smooth her feathers. Therefore, I have sent her for a week of enforced recuperating at the Clarendon, the price to be borne by The White House.
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