by Cheryl Holt
The pattern had repeated itself all the way to Scotland, right up to the moment they’d entered the minister’s dilapidated church. Duncan had muttered a paltry pretext about needing to fetch something from his bag, and he’d slithered outside.
He’d stood by his horse, staring down the road toward England and the safety lurking in that direction. He’d been a second away from swinging his leg up and over the saddle. But she’d peeked out the door and called to him, claiming she couldn’t wait another minute to be his bride.
She’d looked to be positively in love with him. He didn’t recollect anyone ever loving him, and she had fairly sparkled with affection.
She was trouble and danger rolled into one package, and again, he hadn’t left when he should have. He’d marched into the church, smiling and chatting and acting as if he was impatient to be shackled to her.
Now, they’d arrived at the final point where he could escape with any kind of valid argument that he hadn’t really wed her. Despite what she assumed, he could race to London and insist the marriage had never transpired or that the swift, plain ceremony wasn’t binding.
She’d already stripped to her petticoat, and once she was naked, he was one-hundred percent convinced he would copulate with her. Which would definitely qualify as a consummation.
If he deflowered her, it was all over but the shouting. He could swear till Doomsday that he was still a bachelor, that there was no official union, but it would be a lie.
Longingly, he gazed out the window behind her. It was late afternoon, and if he crept to the stables, got on his horse and rode off, he could cover many miles before nightfall.
But she was posed there in her functional schoolgirl chemise and drawers, her thick stockings and sensible walking shoes. It occurred to him that—the instant he had an extra penny—he would buy her some lacy, scandalous undergarments.
"Take off the rest of your clothes," he commanded.
"You dirty old lecher. You make me do all the work. You just enjoy the view."
"It’s quite spectacular."
"What a pretty speech. Can you put action to words?"
With a few flicks of her wrist, she was naked, but she exhibited no maidenly modesty. She didn’t try to shield her private parts or hide behind her hands. He’d been grooming her to nudity, to being at ease with her body, and he was delighted to have succeeded so well in his tutoring.
"Have I told you, Eleanor, that you’re very beautiful?"
"No, you’ve never paid me a single compliment."
"Don’t let it go to your head."
"I won’t."
She turned in a circle so he could see all, giving him an especially long assessment of her shapely backside. He was immediately assailed by a dozen visions of all the nasty things he planned to teach her.
"What do you think?" she asked when she faced him again.
"Very nice."
"It’s yours now."
"It certainly is."
Yet he didn’t move toward her. He simply couldn’t take the final step that would make it real, that would make it permanent.
"Must I undress you?" She looked like the cat that had spotted the canary.
"You’ll have to. I’m in such a state of shock, I can’t lift my arms."
She laughed and sauntered over.
"Poor Duncan," she crooned. "No longer a bachelor and mourning his altered condition."
"Yes, I’m in mourning. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this."
"You’re married just like every other boring, ordinary fellow in the kingdom. How does it feel to be boring and ordinary?"
"Awful."
"I know a way for you to feel better. Would you like me to show you what it is?"
"I could probably be persuaded."
She pushed his coat off his shoulders, yanked his shirt off and pitched it away. Then she dropped to her knees to unbutton his trousers. As her crafty fingers slipped inside to clasp his phallus, he was hard and eager.
She bent in and licked at the root, nibbling to the tip, then she sucked him into her mouth. Blankly, he stared down at her as if he was separate from events. He could have been floating up in the sky, observing as some other bloke prepared to have sex with her.
He thrust over and over again until he was at the edge. He drew away and snuggled her to his stomach.
"You never finish," she complained.
"I anticipate a different ending."
Did he? Was the consummation definitely happening?
It seemed that it was.
"Get up on the bed," he told her.
Happily, she scrambled over and leapt onto the mattress. He walked to the foot of the bed and studied her.
"Spread your thighs," he said. "Let me look at your privates."
"You salacious dog," she scoffed. "I’m a virgin, remember? I’d be too embarrassed."
"But I’d like it."
"Who cares about you?" She patted the empty space next to her. "Lie down and stop fussing."
He was frozen with confusion, with dread, with elation.
Why the hell not? he mused. Why not give her precisely what she was demanding? It wouldn’t kill him, and he might actually find a bit of peace and quiet once they were through.
He kicked off his shoes, tugged down his trousers and tossed them away so he was naked, too.
In their prior romping, they hadn’t yet proceeded to full nudity. He especially had managed to keep his clothes firmly on.
She was up on an elbow and watching him with an almost fanatical female interest. He came around the bed, and she shoved at his chest, trying to prevent him from climbing in.
"It’s my turn to look at you," she protested.
"No, I’m in a hurry."
"I’m not."
"You shouldn’t suppose you’ll always get your way with me."
"Spoilsport."
"You have the remainder of the evening to coo over my manly physique."
At his braggadocio, she giggled. "I want to see now."
"When we’re finished, Eleanor," he tersely replied.
He was suffering from the worst impression that if he didn’t hurry, he’d chicken out. He’d passed the point where he could change his mind, and there was no other route but to continue forward until he arrived at the end.
He clambered up and rolled on top of her, and as their bodies connected, bare skin to bare skin, the air seemed to crack and sizzle.
"Oh, I’m so happy," she beamed as she pulled him close. "Are you happy, too? Tell me you are—even if you don’t mean it."
"I’m very happy," he lied.
He was many things—unnerved, panicked, alarmed—but happy didn’t begin to describe his condition.
He started kissing her and kissing her, and the encounter quickly escalated. They’d spent entirely too many hours with sexual teasing, and they were desperate for some relief. He nibbled at her breasts, feasting on her nipples as he gradually widened her thighs, as his torso dropped between them.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Am I sure?" She laughed a merry laugh. "Gad, my dearest husband, I have been sure since the moment I first laid eyes on you."
The manner in which she said husband, how it flowed so neatly off her tongue, calmed him immensely.
"There’s no going back," he warned.
"Of course not. Why would I want to go back? You’re being absurd."
"I wouldn’t like you to ever…ever…"
Powerful emotion swept through him. He was anxious to love and shelter and protect her, to smile and play with her the rest of his life, but he’d deceived her so horridly. He had no home in London, no fancy friends or stellar social whirl. He had nothing at all but debt and creditors and seedy acquaintances to whom she could never be introduced.
She didn’t know any details about him that were true, so she thought he was wonderful. He relished her esteem and was frantic to keep it. How would she react when the facts fell on her?
To his
great dismay, he was heartsick over the prospect of losing her high opinion. She sensed his agitation, and she placed a soothing palm on his cheek.
"What’s wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing. I’m just undone."
"We’ll be fine, Duncan. Trust me."
"What if I’m not the man you think I am?"
"You are the man I think you are." Her cool certainty eased his distress.
"I’ll always try to be."
"You always will be."
"I want you to be happy. I want you to be glad."
"I will always be glad. Now"—she raised up so they were nose to nose—"will you please get on with it?"
With what felt like euphoria, he nodded. "Yes, I believe I will get on with it."
He pulled her thighs a bit wider, and he took his cock in hand, wedging in the tip. She tensed, and he kissed her again.
"It will be over in a minute," he said.
"Thank goodness! I didn’t need that stupid chastity anyway."
"Don’t be afraid."
"I’m not."
She was trembling, and he smiled at her, keen to impart all the comfort and encouragement he could muster.
"Ready?" he asked.
"I’ve been ready my whole life."
"So have I."
He decided there had been some destiny at work, that Fate had hurled him down a new road and into a carnal accident he hadn’t seen coming. Who could fight destiny? Why try?
He flexed his hips, pushing, pushing, pushing in until—suddenly—he burst through her maidenhead and slid to her womb.
A sheen of tears sparkling in her pretty hazel eyes, she looked shrewd and wise and much older than her eighteen years.
"You actually know how," she said.
"Yes, I know how you minx."
"You delayed for so long that I was beginning to suspect you were a virgin, too."
"A virgin my ass," he scoffed. "I’m all man."
"You’d better be."
He started to move, letting her learn the rhythm, letting her adapt. Instantly, she understood her role, and they coupled as if they’d been at it forever.
He’d planned to stretch it out, to make it last, but he was too overwhelmed by her, by the circumstances.
He thrust once and again and spilled himself.
Just that quickly, it was over, but to his surprise, his cock didn’t realize it. He was still hard as a rock.
"Did you survive it?" he asked.
"All in one piece."
"You might be the death of me."
"Never." She shook her head. "You can’t ever die because I couldn’t live without you."
He scowled and blurted out, "I couldn’t live without you, either."
"Love you," she murmured.
"Love you, too," he agreed, and he grinned. It sounded just right.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Come in, Miss Bennett."
Grace hesitated, then walked into the library.
A maid had conveyed the command that she’d been summoned by Beatrice Scott. She’d ordered Grace to bring Michael with her, but Grace couldn’t find him so she’d arrived alone.
Jackson was gone, having left in an angry, visible flurry to chase after Duncan and Eleanor. Grace had no idea what Lady Beatrice might want or why she’d have sent for Grace so soon after Jackson’s departure. No doubt Beatrice was eager to threaten and offend and frighten Grace when Jackson wasn’t there to protect her.
Initially, she’d refused to comply, but the maid had begged Grace to agree, had convinced her she should obey, then pick up the pieces later on.
Grace supposed the girl was right, and she wasn’t afraid of Beatrice. Not exactly. Jackson was now in charge of the Scott family’s affairs, and he would determine the outcome of Michael’s claim.
Still, as she marched in, she had to admit she was unsettled.
Lady Beatrice was seated behind the desk, and Susan Scott was seated in the chair across. A man was with them, lurking off to the side. He was burly and menacing and glowered quite effectively.
Grace took a quick look at him, then glanced away.
Obviously, Beatrice intended more than a rehashed discussion about Michael. What could they want? What had they planned?
Suddenly, she felt vulnerable and defenseless. She’d pleaded with Jackson to ride after Eleanor, but at the moment, she was vehemently regretting his precipitous exodus. She’d love to have him walk through the door behind her.
"Where is your ward, Miss Bennett?" Beatrice asked.
"I couldn’t locate him, so I thought it best not to keep you waiting more than I already had."
The man turned to Beatrice. "Don’t worry about the boy. I’ll run him to ground once we’ve finished with her."
"Who are you," Grace inquired, "and what do you want with Michael?"
The man folded his arms over his chest and was mulishly silent.
"I asked you a question," Grace snapped. "If you have business with Michael, I demand to know what it is. I won’t give you permission to talk to him without my being present."
"Honestly, Miss Bennett," Susan Scott said, "you have the most annoying habit of speaking without being told that you may. Be quiet."
Ignoring Susan’s barb, Grace glared at the man.
"Well…? Who are you?"
A standoff commenced, and Beatrice ended it.
"This is Mr. Rafferty."
"Hello, Mr. Rafferty," Grace said. "Why are you here?"
"He works for me," Beatrice explained.
"In what capacity?" Grace asked.
"In any capacity I require," Beatrice stated, which clarified nothing.
Grace was flustered and disconcerted, and she decided to hurry matters along. Clearly, Beatrice had something she was keen to say, and Grace wouldn’t be able to leave until Beatrice had said it.
"What do you want?" she asked Beatrice.
"What do you think I want?"
"I haven’t a clue."
"I want you gone, and I wish your departure to occur in such a way that you will never return."
"I’m happy to go," Grace said. "I’ve insisted as much since I arrived. Mr. Scott is the one keeping me here."
"Yes, Mr. Scott is eager for you to remain"—Beatrice smirked—"but I am not. Milton Abbey has been my home for decades, so it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I know of all that happens in this house." She smirked again. "I reward people for tattling."
"How nice," Grace sarcastically retorted. "I’m certain such unmitigated treachery builds enormous camaraderie among the staff."
"This isn’t a social hall, Miss Bennett. This is one of the oldest and grandest residences in all of England, and I am fully apprised by the servants. Would you like to hear what they have to say about you?"
"Not particularly."
"It seems you have developed a passion for my son."
"A passion?" Grace scoffed. "We’re friends. That’s all."
"Just friends? Is that what you’re claiming?"
"I’m not claiming a friendship. It is a friendship."
"Permit me to offer a piece of advice, Miss Bennett. When you’re staying in a strange house, you should be concerned as to who is changing the sheets on your bed."
Grace frowned. "The sheets?"
"A hostess can discover many interesting facts about her guests from her laundress."
Grace nodded, confused. "Thank you for letting me know."
"For instance, your genuine character has been exposed."
"My character?"
"I understand why you would be attracted to Jackson. After all, he’s handsome and rich, but what I can’t understand is why you would prostitute yourself for him."
"Prostitute myself?" Grace huffed. "Of all the rude, uncivil, preposterous—"
Beatrice peered over at her daughter-in-law. "What is your opinion, Susan? Would you spread your legs for a fellow simply because he was rich and handsome? Wouldn’t you have a bit more pride? A bit more sens
e?"
"I’m not stupid, Beatrice," Susan responded. "I’d have to have a ring on my finger first."
Grace’s heart began to pound.
Beatrice had been slow to get to the point, but there was no question she was aware of how Grace had been dallying with Jackson. A thousand frantic thoughts whirled through Grace’s mind. She was an adult and had no connection to Beatrice. Just as Beatrice had no authority over Grace.
But Grace was a single female and couldn’t blatantly fornicate outside of marriage. There were laws to stop such moral turpitude. A woman could be jailed for illicit conduct, could be tarred and feathered or shamed in numerous other ways. How might Beatrice punish Grace?
Grace’s gaze flitted to Mr. Rafferty. What was the true reason for his presence?
She couldn’t guess what evidence the laundress might have shared with Beatrice, but Grace resolved to deny any allegation. What choice did she have?
Susan lifted her hand and wagged it in Grace’s direction. Grace couldn’t help but notice her gaudy ring with a diamond as big as a dinner plate.
"It’s lovely, isn’t it?" Susan said to Grace.
"Yes, very lovely," Grace murmured.
Her confident attitude had fled, and she was too perturbed to continue on with the meeting. Yet how to leave with any aplomb? Could they prevent her from leaving?
"This ring is a Scott family heirloom," Susan explained. "I wore it during my wedding to Edward, but it’s so beautiful, Jackson and I figured we’d use it for our own wedding."
Grace flinched. Had she heard correctly?
"Your…wedding to Jack…?" She stumbled on Jackson’s name, realizing she couldn’t sound as if they were on intimate terms. "I mean your wedding to Mr. Scott?"
"Yes. He proposed earlier. Have you missed the servants’ gossip? The news raced through the halls like wildfire."
"You’re marrying Mr. Scott?" Grace couldn’t wrap her head around the notion so she asked her question again. "You are marrying Mr. Scott?"
"He’s been resistant"—Susan grinned—"but he finally relented. It keeps everything in the family, and with his acting as guardian to my son, he agreed it’s so much tidier that way."
"He didn’t tell me," she muttered not grasping she would blurt it out like that.
"Why would you have been apprised?" Susan snorted. "It’s between me and Jackson and none of your affair."