by Lavinia Kent
Wulf stepped towards her, took one hand in his, the other still tight on the sword. “I thought that no one was supposed to know, that it was our secret. Now, I’ll have to kill him.”
“No! I won’t tell anybody. Not sure what you’re talking about anyway.” Mitter hopped from leg to leg.
“If it were only me,” Wulf glared at the shivering man, “you would not escape the bite of punishment, of pain,” his fist tensed – and relaxed, “but, I am not alone. We must all live with the decision.”
“Then I shall send for the magistrate, let the authorities deal with this vermin.” Rose didn’t even turn her glance to Mitter as she spoke.
“Yes.” Wulf thrust the point of the sword down. It pierced the rug and stuck in the floor. “Dammit, no. Who would believe the tale we tell? Troy. Treasure maps. Buried riches. He’d probably be back at his books in a fortnight.” He yanked the sword free with one hand.
Rose curled her hand into a fist, her nails scraping against the palm she held. “Then what?”
“Exile, I think. He dreamed of far off lands – let him live them.” Wulf sounded sure, but not satisfied.
“Yes.” It was not enough, but she could see the sense of it. “I want him gone from my home within the hour, from the village within the day, and from this country within the fortnight.”
Mitter looked up, startled, her words had penetrated his fear. “Leave, but I can’t leave yet. I’ve only . . .”
Rose did not even look at him, she turned to Wulf. Wulf did not move other than his eyes. He turned such a glare on Mitter, such a freezing dead stare, a look that demonstrated just what demons lurked behind his careful words. Mitter’s mouth clamped shut, not another syllable escaped.
Wulf rubbed his finger against her hand, opening it, ‘til their hands lay flat together, palm to palm. Rose could feel his muscles ease as the contact increased. He spoke quietly, weighing each word.
“It will be so. I will take care of it.”
Wulf took the maps and books and hurried notes, and lifting them placed them back in the chest. He did not glance at them once. Mitter remained silent.
Wulf jerked his head towards the door, and Mitter slunk forward. “Wimberly leaves for London on the morrow. I believe he has much experience sending refuse on its way. He dreamed of finding ancient cities, maybe we’ll let him experience just how enjoyable digging for them is. Of course, as the patrons of such an – expedition we’d be entitled to any treasure found.”
Mitter’s head drooped completely at that and Rose could only nod as Wulf shepherded him out of the room. She heard Wulf call to a footman and then the heavy thump of the front door.
It was over. She collapsed into the chair and felt her heart begin to beat again. It was over and again Wulf had proved his strength, his willingness to let her lean. It was not a familiar experience, but neither was it an unpleasant one.
She leaned her head back against the chair and considered, planned, listed.
Wulf found her just as the sun set behind the woods, sending startling bursts of crimson across the sky. She reclined on the low stone wall of the terrace, her gaze far off in the distance, the dying sunlight turning her hair the clear color of amber. For a moment he just stood and watched. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever known. He’d been right that first time he saw her, when he’d thought she was all he aspired to – a simple village lass or queen of the manor – she was all he needed.
“He is gone. Wimberley will collect him in the morning. He will not step on English shores again.”
Rose nodded, but did not look his way. Her shoulders were straight and stiff.
He walked towards her. “I talked to the vicar. I’ve arranged for a ceremony at noon tomorrow in the chapel.”
She was silent for a moment her gaze still locked on some distant view. When she spoke it was so softly he had to strain to hear. “This isn’t what I wanted, you know.”
“I know.” His chest tightened as she spoke.
“I always know what I want and I am always right. I had such a perfect plan. I knew just how everything should be.” Her voice shook with emotion.
He didn’t trust himself to speak. He’d known he wasn’t what she wanted, but to hear her state it so bluntly.
“I had the rest of my life planned, and in little more than a week you’ve turned it all around. You’ve taken the staid, calm life I was planning and turned it into wonder and adventure. How could you do that?”
He almost started to apologize before her words caught up with him.
“What?”
She turned to face him then and in the growing twilight her face still glowed. “You took the perfect tedium I had planned and showed me what glory could be, what love could be, what family could be. You showed me I didn’t need to stand alone. How could you do that?”
The knot in his chest released and he felt his world expand. There were no words to express what he saw shining in her eyes. Instead he did the only thing a man could do. He caught her tight, lifting her into his arms and spinning with the carefree freedom of a child. Her serious expression relaxed as he set her back on her feet. She leaned against him, melting into him like butter on warm toast.
“So we told the truth then? I do so hate deceit.”
“What?” He looked down at her, confused.
She hesitated and then smiled bravely up at him, her chin tilting in the gesture he knew so well. “It is a love match?”
He heard the question and the tremor in her voice as she dared to say the words he could not yet bring himself to speak.
He kissed her lightly and then more passionately, letting his passions demonstrate what his words could not. She mumbled against his mouth and he drew back.
She looked up at him, her eyes dusky with ardor. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. And then she smiled, the most glorious, all encompassing smile a man could dream.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He drew her back against him, burrowing his hands in her hair and letting her know that not only was it a yes. It was a very definite yes.
Epilogue
“You, Major Huntington, are a fool.” Wulf looked up from the rows of sums before him and gazed at the stiff figure in the doorway. Lady Smythe-Burke, the houseguest who would not leave, strode in.
Knowing he’d lost his place in the additions and would have to start again, he sighed. He’d been here for hours. “I am not sure what you mean.”
“I think I stated it simply enough. You are a fool.”
“I would not want to contradict a lady.”
“What are you doing right now, Major Huntington?”
“The books for my estate in Devonshire. There wasn’t much to do over the winter, but now as spring approaches they take the most incredible amount of time.”
“That is what I suspected. And what will you be doing after that?”
“I suppose I’ll read over this treatise on drainage and write to my estate manager with my suggestions.”
“Why?”
Wulf settled back in his chair and looked at her with bafflement. She was no longer a young women, but surely not old enough to be addled.
“Why, because that’s what I have to do.”
“Why?”
This was getting to be too much. He glared at her.
She lifted her chin. Was Rose giving lessons?
“Major Huntington, what is you’re wife doing?”
“I am afraid I really couldn’t say. She finished her own accounts and left.”
“She is pounding a needle through her embroidery as if she were shelling an enemy encampment.”
“I am failing to see your point.”
“As I said, you are a fool.”
“Lady Smythe-Burke, would you please come to the point.”
“Let me try to phrase this in a way that your limited masculine brain can understand. Never did I have this problem with Sir William or Burberry. What would y
ou like to be doing?” She glanced at the piled history books on the corner of his desk, and at the scrunched missive describing the difficulties Mitter was encountering. “And what would your wife like to be doing?”
His mind was caught on her previous statement. “You know Sir William, my stepfather? You knew Burberry?”
“Of course. Do you think everything just happens by chance? Although my actually getting to watch the show, that I hadn’t planned. Can’t complain though. I did earn almost ten thousand pounds betting on you. Now think about what I’ve said. I am planning to return to London on the morrow. I am beginning to find country life dull. Wedded bliss just lacks thrill,” she smiled innocently at him, “unless of course, it’s your own.”
She smiled at him one more time, then left the room, muttering about men, fools, green eyes, and why didn’t women run the world . . . a good idea that.
Wulf began to smile to himself as the full import of her words sunk in. He and his dear managing wife had been well managed. His dear, managing wife. He looked at the pile of scribbled notes and figures before him, at the mile of land management tracts waiting to be read, and then over at her own neat desk, with every book and pen in its proper place. She was never behind in her ledgers or knowledge of the latest farming techniques. He glanced at the latest long missive from his estate manager. He truly was a fool. He bet she knew what to do about slugs.
He stood and walked to the door and down the hall to the morning room. Three blonde heads bent over needlework. The first and blondest presided over an increasingly intricate tapestry of flowers and birds bursting life-like off the page. The second and smallest shoved the needle with great force and little skill, her small foot kicking at the tin soldiers scattered around her feet. And the last, his Rose, sewed with some skill, but many muttered and colorful curses.
“Rose.” Her head jerked up at his words, and she cursed again as she pricked herself on the needle.
“Rose, I was wondering if you could come help me with some of my accounts. I can’t seem to get the sums to balance in the copies my manager sent up. And then I could use some advice on whether to try one of the new strands of wheat in my upper fields.”
A smile that rivaled that one she’d given him all those months ago, the night before their wedding spread across her face.
“If you want me to I’d be pleased to help.”
She rushed towards him as if afraid he’d change his mind.
He caught her tight to him. “Have I ever told you, my lady, my dearest lady, how much I love you?”
The smile that could not have grown bigger, did.
This time it was she, unmindful of the two blonde heads discretely still bent over their needlework, who kissed him showing him without words just how she felt about his statement, about him, and about the world they’d created – together.
*****
Keep reading for an excerpt from Taste of Desire, the last book of The Desire Series.
Coming February 2013!
Also by Lavinia Kent
The Desire Series
Hint of Desire
Price of Desire
Taste of Desire
(coming February 2013)
A Talent for Sin
Bound by Temptation
Taken by Desire
What a Duke Wants
The Real Duchesses of London
Kathryn, the Kitten
Linnette, the Lioness
Elizabeth, the Enchantress
Annabelle, the American
Taste of Desire
Prologue
Cornwall, 1816
Minerva, Lady Harburton, tipped her glass to him across the ballroom. He watched as she let her lips linger on the edge, parted her mouth further, and then slid her tongue artfully along the rim. She lowered her eyelids and let her shoulders roll forward, displaying the upper swells of a monumental bosom above the emerald silk of her bodice.
He should have been titillated, or at least intrigued. In fact, Tristan St. Johns, Marquess of Wimberley, had pursued this moment for weeks. He knew he had only to breathe seduction, and Lady Harburton would spill all her secrets.
At last he would learn whether the Lady or her family had traded the King’s secrets to Napoleon.
He took a step towards her. Her smile broadened. Why did he feel shackles around his ankles?
She was a beautiful if overblown woman. She was married, but that had never before been an impediment. A quick tumble with a willing and experienced woman, a tryst that might solve the puzzle he long worried at – it was a small price for so great a prize.
Lady Harburton stepped towards him. He waited and she drew closer, the lioness approaching the tethered sheep, not seeing the trap about to be sprung.
He could smell her heavy scent, see the powder and rouge that marked her face. She licked her lips again and it was impossible to miss the innuendo of the gesture. She giggled like a schoolgirl and lay her hand upon the embroidered velvet of his jacket.
“It is so hot inside this evening, my lord.” She snuggled closer as she spoke. “Don’t you long for a cool breeze?”
“I would confess the room is a trifle stifling, but what is one to do?” Tristan held still as she moved until her breast brushed along his arm. He shot a glance around the ballroom. He had always believed in discretion. His friend Wulf strode around the edge of the room, no doubt seeking their hostess, Lady Burberry. Minerva’s husband was deep in a corner, involved in conversation that almost certainly centered on horseflesh. Everyone else was engaged in his own small social sphere. Nobody was watching.
Minerva followed his glance. “Don’t worry; nobody cares what we do. I should tell you that I have a corner room, where the breeze positively caresses the bed. It really is most invigorating. It’s at the end of the blue hallway if you should care to experience it. I know I positively must get out of this dress and lie down.”
She didn’t give him a chance to answer, but rubbed her breast hard against him so that he could feel the peaked nipple beneath the silk. Then she turned and, with a quick flounce of her skirts, headed towards the hall.
Tristan leaned back against the wall and wished he could close his eyes.
It was all just so much bloody work. A man never got the chance to rest. Still, he had a job to do, and he would do it well. He sucked in a deep breath and pulled himself upright. He’d give Minerva five minutes and then follow.
It wouldn’t hurt to have another brandy first.
He turned, and stopped.
She stood at the top of the stairs, hair made of moonbeams and a shy curve of lip that could have lured foxes from the den. Her gown was blue and straight – but that was all he noticed. She glowed as if she were lit by stars as she slowly descended the stairs.
Miss Marguerite Wilkes.
She was his hostess’s younger sister. He’d seen her before. Been introduced. But now she rendered him speechless, thoughtless. Innocence. Beauty. Wonder. Integrity.
He walked towards her, and all else was forgotten.
“Lord Wimberley.” Her blue eyes searched his and did not stray.
“You must call me Tristan.”
She blushed, the ivory skin warming to a deepest pink. “I couldn’t.”
“But indeed you must.”
She grew even pinker, but did not answer.
He had to say something; he was rarely at a loss for words. “May I fetch you a drink, some lemonade perhaps?”
“I should say yes, but I must confess I had several glasses before I came down – it is awfully warm – and I fear that if I have another . . . .” Her words trailed off and she dropped her gaze to her brightly painted evening slippers.
“Yes, it is warm, but I’ve been told there is a breeze. Perhaps, I could escort you through to the gardens.”
Her glance trailed up his body and he could feel it as sure as any caress. Her pale eyes reached his and stopped. She nodded, and stepped towards the open doors.
She did
not take his arm as he led her out, but they were as joined as any lovers. He allowed himself one moment of fantasy in a long lifetime of hard factuality.
###
Marguerite had never been this close to a man in private – inhaled his musky scent, been the center of his attention. She swallowed as she looked up into deep, quicksilver eyes. Still, this was Tristan. He was a marquess, a gentleman, even if she had not long made his acquaintance. He would never take liberties – not that she knew exactly what “liberties” consisted of – surely she was safe with him.
She took a step toward him, into the dusk of the garden, away from her sister’s ballroom. His eyes darkened, the black centers eclipsing the liquid gray surrounding them. Desire in his gaze, he traced over her features, as the heavy scent of night jasmine drifted about them. Her breath caught as his glance rested on her lips and she fought the urge to lick them. The taste of lemons still lingered from the punch she had drunk.
She shivered – and they had not even touched. As if he sensed her thought, Tristan reached out and caught her gloved hand between his own, his palm warm through the supple leather. Never had such emotion flickered through her when she’d touched the gloves of other dance partners. He trailed his fingers across her palm, sparking wild sensations with each caress, then inching back as if to gauge her readiness.
Was her nervousness apparent? She did not resist when he turned her palm up and drew it to his lips. She released a long-held breath when his fingertips played at the wrist fastening of her long glove, slipping his fingers between the buttons. Flames licked her skin. Locking eyes with her, he opened the buttons and ran his still-gloved hand over the bare skin of her wrist. Marguerite squeezed her legs together, an exquisite sensation coursing through her.
When he pushed his finger up into her glove, against the fleshy pad of her thumb, her knees weakened. How could she bear this? He rubbed back and forth across her skin, and her whole body trembled.
Her breath grew rapid and shallow. She fought for control. When he withdrew his firm fingers, a protest nearly escaped her lips. Do not stop now, Tristan. Please. Then his bare hand crept to replace the first. He had removed his own glove, and Marguerite swayed against the wall. The heat of skin on skin seared. She never imagined a man’s touch would be so strong, so wonderful. Her eyes fluttered shut and she gave herself over to his demands.