Silently he raised one hand and reached behind her to slowly coil the wet rope of her long hair around his fist, winding it round and round until she tilted her head back, bound in his trap.
His other hand he wrapped around her jaw, lifting and tilting her face. Her skin was cool and damp against the heat of his palm. Although her lips parted in surprise, she did not move, did not protest, as he slowly lowered his mouth onto hers.
This was no spontaneous stage kiss. This was no heated frenzy in the dark. He fitted his lips to her soft ones, tenderly but implacably. The tip of his tongue swept them, slipping ever so slightly between, just a brief taste, a stolen delight.
A sigh escaped her. He took it, as was his right, and used her hair to urge her body closer to his. She came, stepping so near that her feet moved between his own. His heart began to pound and hers pressed an echo against his chest.
She smelled of the water and the grass and the breeze. She smelled like spring.
She tasted of heaven.
When his groin swelled against her, he forced himself to lift his head, though he kept her close in his arms. He would not take, not again.
As the pounding in his head faded, he could hear Melody laughing nearby. “Evan, Evan, Evan!” she called.
Pru, Pru, Pru. The call came from inside, from a part of him he didn’t recognize.
When she pressed her hands against his chest and slowly pushed him back, he let her. He had no right to be here, to hold her, to call for her in his heart.
Her gray gaze was somber and confused as she stepped back, tugging her wound hair from his grip. “What are you about, sir? What do you want from me?”
When he managed to find his voice, he said the very last thing he’d meant to say, but apparently it was the very first thing on his mind. “I covet you.”
She blinked. “What did you say?”
He stood, too helpless in his need to even shrug in embarrassment. “I covet you. I cannot think of anything but touching you, of kissing you, of . . . being with you.”
For a long moment she gazed at him, her lips softly parted, her gray eyes wide and surprised. The longer she stared, the more he began to hope that she would kiss him back.
Such hope was soon dashed. She stepped back with her arms folded before her and glared up at him.
“And what I am to do about it? Weep with gratitude? D’you think you’re the first bloke to knock on this door?” Her lip lifted in an expression of disdain that told him he was lost. “Show a man a set of teats and he’s just like all the others. Dogs, all o’ you!”
She advanced on him then, her index finger poking him in the chest. “And what of the woman attached to the bosom? Has she nothing to say about it? Is she naught but a rack, standing there to hold your pleasure at the perfect height?”
With that, she whirled and stalked away, her very skirts twitching with fury.
Standing. Colin’s mouth went dry at the thought of taking her standing, her skirts rucked to her waist, her legs about him as he pressed her to a wall with his deep thrusting cock—
Like a tuppence whore.
Shame washed through him, dousing his lust. She was right. She was a human being, not an object to be used. His temptation was his own problem, not hers.
Once she’d made it out of Mr. Lambert’s sight, Pru felt the strength flow from her bones. She sagged back against the nearest tree trunk, weak-kneed and breathless.
God, that was close!
I covet you.
If it hadn’t been for years of practice in the art of deflating the lust of every theater hand and delivery boy who imagined himself to be the answer to her womanly prayers, the outcome might have been entirely different.
She might have said, “Why, Mr. Lambert, how charming! I feel much the same myself.”
Or worse, she might have said, “About bloody time, guv! There’s a grassy spot. Let’s go!”
No, it seemed she had been revealed to herself. It hadn’t been her profound moral fiber which had protected her all these years. She simply never fancied anyone before, not the way she longed for Mr. Lambert—the way she dreamed of him—the way she grew hot at the thought of his large hands upon her fevered skin!
I covet you.
This was a pickle, indeed.
If it weren’t for Evan, she could be Mr. Lambert’s mistress. She could have a bit of passion and love for her own, something to keep her warm in the years of loneliness to come.
Not I. Not with Evan to care for. Someday she would find a way to return Evan to his proper level in Society and when that day came, she would become the old maid auntie, keeping house for her gentleman brother and his happy brood.
That portrait of the future usually brought her some measure of comfort. If she was not to have her own children, she would have the pleasure of Evan’s. They would be a family again.
Now however, that formerly pretty scene, which seemed to have a large Mr. Lambert-shaped hole in it, did nothing to bring her comfort. It only seemed to draw the light from the day, making everything a little grayer, a little more faded, a little less like life and a little more like mere existence.
I covet you. She dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, Mr. Lambert,” she whispered. “I covet you right back!”
CHAPTER 16
Colin walked slowly back to the carriage, his gaze on the ground. He’d done it now. Still, perhaps it was best that Miss Filby not trust him. He was beginning to realize that he wasn’t quite as trustworthy as he’d once thought.
Perhaps he’d never been truly tested after all.
A damp sprig of green lay in his path. Something had fallen from Miss Filby’s hair as she’d stalked furiously away. Colin followed and bent to pick it up from the ground. It was a mangled and crushed stem of . . .
He brought it to his nose. Mint.
“S’mint, you nitwit.”
Colin manfully didn’t cringe at being caught sniffing at Miss Filby’s leavings in front of her brother. “Thank you, Evan. I’d figured that out myself.”
Evan leaned against a nearby sapling with his arms crossed and a challenge etched upon his pinched face. “She washes in it. Summer and winter, even when she ’as to break the ice in the bowl. Steals it out o’ window boxes in town or from the park. Dries it on the bedpost so she don’t run out. Scrubs me with it too, when she can catch me.”
“What’s wrong with ordinary soap?”
Evan sneered. “Soap? When there’s bread to be bought?” He pushed off from the tree and stalked after Miss Filby, muttering. “Soap, ’e says. Soap!”
Colin gazed down at the bent stem in his hand. When soap was too dear, she bathed in herbs. That habit was uncommon, in someone common. Most ordinary folk—and some of the gentry as well!—bathed only when absolutely necessary.
An alluring image sprang into his mind, an image of Miss Filby, stripped to the waist, full breasts damp and gleaming, nipples crinkled, sunset hair piled high and messy on her head, scrubbing her skin with mint and icy water in a glacial attic somewhere—
In his mind the image became not quite so enticing when she shivered.
The next hour or so to the Ardmore estate was strained. Pru sat quietly in the carriage with a sleepy Melody and a bored Evan. Her own thoughts were enough to keep her occupied, that was certain!
She had feelings for her employer. Inappropriate feelings. Admiration, of course. Curiosity, that was understandable. Desire . . . well, he was very handsome. And rather inclined to kiss her.
You are in grave danger, falling in love with a man like that.
Was it love? How should she know?
He, however, had confessed to nothing but covetous feelings. She was no acclaimed beauty but she’d been informed that her figure was something to covet. At least, men seemed to want to touch her rather more often than she’d like.
He wanted her body. Unfortunately, she was having difficulty remembering what was so wrong with that. Her loneliness swelled within her, the ache of
it a constant companion—except when she was with him.
However, Mr. Lambert was even now driving them all in chase of Chantal! No, she must not forget that she was nothing to him. She was female and she was close at hand and he was a healthy male with a bit more charisma than was good for his character. When Mr. Lambert thought of love, he clearly thought of Chantal. She, Pru, was simply in range.
These truths helped steady her resolve. The fact that Mr. Lambert was out of sight helped to steady the thrumming of her nerves. She would be mistress of her actions! She might appreciate a finely made man but that did not mean she had to fall on her back the moment he noticed her in return!
When the carriage turned down the long drive to the Ardmore estate, Pru shifted Melody’s limp form in order to peer from the little window. It was a grand house set in once formal gardens now gone a bit shabby. Not entirely untended, but Pru could see that the design was meant for crisp formality, not rangy overgrowth.
The carriage rolled into the graveled circle before the house and a young man in livery ran out promptly. He took Hector’s reins and steadied him while Mr. Lambert jumped down to open the carriage door.
“Miss Filby, I would like it if you accompanied me. Evan, you can look after Mellie for a moment, can’t you?”
Evan rolled his eyes, but nodded. Pru climbed out, curious.
“What do you need me for, sir?”
Colin ran his hand through his hair. He shrugged unevenly. “It isn’t that I need you, precisely . . .”
Miss Filby narrowed her eyes. “You ain’t seen her in a long time, have you?”
“Er . . . no. Not for a few years.”
Miss Filby gazed at him for a long moment. Then she let out a long breath. “Well, I got a few things I’d like to say to her, so I’ll come in w’ you, at any road.”
Colin was glad. He didn’t really think it was all that important to ask himself why. He was here, finally, to present himself to Chantal, to offer her everything she could ever want. Himself, his wealth, his rank, and her daughter. Yes, he came with hands full. There was no reason to worry.
As it turned out, there was plenty of reason to worry.
“Miss Marchant is no longer in the house, sir.”
The words hit Colin like a missed step on the stairs. He could only gaze at the liveried butler in surprise. “But, she must be here. She came only a few days ago with Lord Bertram—”
“Who is it, Petrie?”
The wavering voice came from behind the manservant. Colin peered past the fellow to see a very disheveled Lord Bertram lurching drunkenly down the hall. “Purty Bertie” wasn’t looking quite so dapper this afternoon.
Lord Bertram peered at them through reddened eyes. “What do you want with Chantal?”
Colin drew back discreetly but the unfortunate Petrie was in full range of his lordship’s whisky-soaked breath. The butler made no sound but his complexion took a turn for the greener.
“I’m trying to find her,” Colin replied. “I have something important to ask her.” That was about as much of his business as he was willing to advertise.
Bertram’s face crumpled. “I had something important to ask her, too. Then my bloody brother beat me to it!”
“What?”
But Bertram had already turned around and was making his way back down the hall with one hand braced on the paneling. Colin shoved past Petrie and followed Bertram, scarcely noticing Miss Filby trotting in his wake.
They found the young lord in a study, pouring himself another glass of liquid consolation. He tossed it back as they entered.
Colin grabbed him by the arm and took the decanter away. “Lord Bertram! Where is Chantal?”
Bertram gazed at him blearily. “He took her.” He extended his arm and pointed to the great portrait that hung over the fireplace. “Him! Baldwin! My elder brother, the Earl of Ardmore!”
“Oh, you poor man,” breathed Miss Filby behind them.
Bertram mooned into his empty glass. “She needs me,” he muttered. “She needs looking after.”
Miss Filby looked highly doubtful of that. Colin ignored her. “Er, Lord Bertram, can you tell me where she went?”
“To Gretna Green, I suppose. Where else do people run off to get married?”
Colin went cold. “Married?”
Bertram hiccupped, then pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out. Colin took it but could make out very little. The ink had become muddled with dampness. One hoped it was only from tears.
“It says she’s sorry but she can’t resist him,” Bertram explained mournfully. “It says she’s going to marry him. It says to wish her happy and that it simply ruins her to let me go.”
Miss Filby made a noise. It sounded something like, “Oh, please!”
Colin glared at her. “Please excuse Miss Filby, Lord Bertram. She’s a bit biased on the topic of Miss Marchant.”
Bertram blinked at Miss Filby. “Oh, hullo, Pru. Didn’t see you. You’re looking well.”
Miss Filby dipped a curtsy and smiled. “Hello, milord. How are you farin’?”
Bertram seemed to fold in on himself. He dropped to sit upon the footstool before the sofa. “She up and left me, Pru.”
“Yes, milord. She does that.”
Bertram shook his head. “Not to me. We’ve a special bond, she and I.”
Miss Filby bit her lip. Colin feared he was unable to keep the doubt from his own expression, for Bertram sniffed mightily and straightened his spine.
“I know what people say about me,” he protested, his pale blue eyes glaring from the redness about them. “It’s not my fault I’m pretty. I am a man, nonetheless. I love Chantal. And she loves me. She’s just afraid, you see. She’s afraid I can’t protect her.”
“Protect her?” Colin frowned. “From what?”
Bertram glanced away. “Debt, if you must know. A rather large one.” His face crumpled once more. “I tried to tell her that Baldwin was a lout, that he’d never look after her properly. She’s so fragile, so delicate—”
Miss Filby snorted. “About as delicate as a cast-iron cat.”
Her words were too low for the befuddled Bertram to hear, but Colin glared her into silence.
Bertram began to weep openly. Discomfited by Bertram’s raw emotion, Colin turned to gaze up at the portrait on the wall, the study of a handsome, broad-shouldered fellow with a lantern jaw and piercing blue eyes. “I remember Baldwin. He’s a cad and a poor loser, but he can be charming when he likes.”
“And he has the title and all the lands,” muttered Bertie miserably. “There’s never been a woman born who could resist my brother. Poor Chantal. What chance did she have? He blinded her with promises! He swept her off her feet!”
There was a time when Colin would have believed that. Now such gullibility on Chantal’s part disturbed him deeply. Not that it would stop him from his pursuit. He was after more than simply a bride, after all.
He slid a glance toward Miss Filby, who stood next to him gazing at Baldwin’s portrait. She appeared visibly unimpressed. She flicked her gray gaze toward him. “He looks a right piker to me,” she murmured.
It seemed there had been a woman born who would not be swayed by such a fine face and a finer fortune.
“Chantal was seduced,” Colin said firmly, despite his reservations. “This is not her fault.”
He heard Miss Filby let out a long sigh. “Aye, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”
“Right then. Time to move on. We must catch up to them and stop her from wedding him.”
She frowned at him. “In a pony cart? With two little ones?”
“Look in every public house en route,” Bertie offered with a sniff. “Baldwin’s never been one to pass up a pint.”
Colin nodded. “There, you see?” He turned to Bertie. “I’m sorry for your loss, Lord Bertram, but you may take comfort in knowing your brother will not have her.” With a brisk bow, he turned on his heel. “Miss Filby, if you please.”
&nbs
p; There were a few daylight hours left. He had every intention of using them to his advantage. As he left the house to see the mumsy pony cart sitting on the drive, with one of the Ardmore grooms holding Hector’s reins at the ready, he hardened his resolve.
Miss Filby and the children were simply going to have to bear with it. Chantal must be stopped from making the greatest error of her life.
Melody’s future must be secured!
CHAPTER 17
As she followed Mr. Lambert from the Ardmore manor house, Pru sighed in resignation at the thought of further journeying. Damn you, Chantal!
No, wait. She was glad they hadn’t found Chantal! Wasn’t she?
“Did you get it?” Evan looked up eagerly when she opened the carriage door. “Did you get your pay from her?”
Pru climbed into the carriage and shook her head sharply. “She’s not there. She’s run off with another man.”
Evan’s thin face twisted. “Another one? Ain’t she gettin’ tired?” He sat back in his seat, an angry boy-lump. “She’s nothing but a rotten, worthless wh—”
“Evan!” When he shot her a resentful glare, she indicated Melody with her chin. “Monkey see, monkey do.”
Evan’s already thunderous expression grew disdainful. “What should I care ’bout that? They got nothin’ to do w’ us! Posh toff and his posh brat, chasin’ around after the likes of her!”
Melody looked up from her nest of odd playthings. “What’s a brat?”
Pru glared at her brother. “At this moment, Evan is exhibiting a few of the classic symptoms.”
Evan narrowed his eyes. “Best watch it, Prudence. Sound in’ a mite posh there yourself.”
Pru took a deep breath. She was only sister, not mother, and Evan was beginning to realize that. To Evan, her own helplessness in the face of Chantal’s betrayal must seem like yet another example of an unjust world. He was fast losing faith in anything but what he saw before him. And why wouldn’t he? He remembered nothing of the charity, of the culture, of the noble and honorable side of the gentry. She was beginning to have trouble remembering such things herself!
Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides Page 12