She shifted her hips, drawing him even deeper into the well of delight.
Together they moved in eager lust, their hands and lips and fervent sighs expressing the emotion they could not articulate. Each time he plunged, she gasped, and when he pulled back her embrace tightened, as though she couldn’t bear to lose him.
He stroked her where she was most sensitive to his touch, his fingers urging her to the very summit of pleasure. From her desperate murmurs and the rake of her nails upon his back, he knew she was nearing the peak.
“I can take no more!” It was a cry of blissful agony, and a moment later her body quaked against him.
He continued his own quest, supporting himself with palms flattened against the mattress as he glided in and out. The exquisite friction rapidly brought him to the point of completion. With a groan of surrender, he sheathed himself one time more in a powerful, explosive thrust.
Collapsing, he laid his cheek upon her breast, savoring this moment of utter satisfaction.
Oriana lay beneath him, enfeebled by passion. Her nerves still rippled, her body was still shaken by the tremors he had caused.
“This,” he declared gustily, “was worth waiting for. Your escapes and provoking teases are all forgiven. And so are the next dozen faults and mistakes and outrages you commit.” He detached himself and crawled to the foot of the bed. When he had retrieved her frothy petticoat, he began to pull the red ribbon free of the flounce.
“What are you doing?” she asked, unable to watch the destruction of her exquisitely finished garment.
“You’ll spoil it.”
“I’d better be the only person who’ll see what’s underneath your gowns.” He returned with the strip of brightly colored silk. After tying one end around his wrist, he bound her to him. “You won’t run away this time.”
“I don’t want to,” she said, trying to free herself.
“Leave it. Just for tonight.”
“Eating my dinner will be rather difficult,” she protested.
“It’s quite a long leash; it won’t hamper you.”
“When I’m ready for my bath it will. What if I need to—be alone?” Her gaze darted to the wooden cabinet housing items of necessity.
“Just tell me, and I’ll step outside. But for the whole of the night, we’ll be no farther away than this.”
He stretched out the ribbon to its full length. “Another experiment.”
“I don’t mind,” she decided. “So long as you don’t publish a treatise about it.”
He swept her into his arms, holding her so close that she could feel the evidence of his arousal.
Wantonly she pressed against him, her nipples budding as her bare bosom brushed against his broad chest. His hands were in her hair, tipping back her head. His mouth came nearer-she closed her eyes to receive his kiss.
When it didn’t come, she opened them.
He was staring at her intently, yet he smiled. “I shall want you forever, Oriana.”
She wasn’t yet brave enough to echo his words, despite what they had just done, and what they were obviously about to do. And she certainly couldn’t believe in them. Keeping her voice light, “Do you feel compelled to say that to every woman who shares your bed?”
“Only to you. After tonight, there can be no other.”
As he laid her down, she tried to surrender her fear that eventually forever would end, and he’d regret his rash declarations.
Chapter 20
At midday, Dare made his initial foray onto Newmarket’s hallowed heath. The first race had already begun, but he had several days of sport before him and saw no reason to join the eager crowd awaiting the outcome at the finishing post. He preferred to get his bearings, but it wasn’t as simple as he’d expected. The haphazard and bewildering maze of courses included white-railed enclosures and various utility structures—troughs, betting posts, the weighing house, a movable judge’s stand on wheels.
White-canvas marquees and drinking booths added to the fairground atmosphere. Spectators had come on foot or horse, in common gigs and open carriages, creating an immense and active swarm of humanity.
Newmarket racing bore no resemblance whatever to those casual contests that occasionally took place on the Isle of Man.
The sportsmen wore riding coats and breeches, fresh from the tailor’s hands or shabby from frequent wear. The jockeys, lean, leathery-faced chaps stumping about on short, bowed legs, wore racing caps and colored silk waistcoats. Men were in the majority and females were easy to spot. Even so, he despaired of finding Oriana.
He’d last seen her that morning, boarding a post chaise for the final leg of the journey. He couldn’t repress a satisfied grin, recalling the tumbled state of their bed when they left it. He’d never doubted that their physical union would be mutually rewarding, but to his delight it had also proved deliciously combustible. During the long night of many delights, they hadn’t slept much. Wherever she might be, she surely experienced this same lassitude, and the sense of having woken from a pleasant dream and being summarily thrust into a noisy and active mob.
A remarkably flat stretch of earth spread out before him, and what hills it possessed were low and gently rounded. In the distance beyond the nearest racecourse, he could see clustered farm buildings and a patchwork of cultivated fields.
Striding across the springy turf, he noticed a raven-haired lady of fashion seated alone in a landau.
After a faint prick of recognition, he couldn’t shake the certainty that they’d met.
She returned his searching look, smiled, and beckoned to him. “Sir Darius Corlett! You haven’t changed at all, though it must be six or seven years since we last met. You partnered me at the George Hotel assemblies in Douglas, and at Castletown, too. Or have you forgotten?”
Her silvery voice and clear gray eyes reinforced his recollection. “Lady Lavinia Cashin!” Gallantly, and in perfect truth, he declared, “Time has treated you most generously.”
“It has indeed,” she agreed. “For I’m married now, and a mother.”
“Also a duchess.”
“Yes, Garrick inherited the title last year. Sit with me, please—I’m desperate for interesting company.
My husband is with his trainer; his horse is running the Beacon Course later today.” With a laugh, she said, “During Race Week, the Duke of Halford is madly busy. He attends meetings of the Jockey Club, he shows people round his stud at Moulton Heath. He and his uncle give dinners at Monkwood Hall. In short, his children and I suffer the most pitiable neglect.”
“You’ve got a pair of them, right?” he asked, taking the seat opposite hers.
“A girl and a boy.” Her fine eyes shone with joy, and her cheeks turned rosy when she said, “And a new son or daughter coming next winter. I shall rely on you to prop me up, if I should swoon. I want all the island news! Now that Kerr and Ellin are parents, I rarely receive letters from Castle Cashin.”
“I’ve been away for a full month and am behind on local affairs. What news from the castle? I hadn’t even heard about Lord and Lady Garvain’s happy event.”
“My sister-in-law was delivered of a fine son. She and I are in competition to see who can produce the next set of twins in the family—they turn up in nearly every generation.”
Dare’s thoughts returned to Oriana. Their passion for one another, over time, might create a new life.
Suddenly he wanted to know her feelings about that possibility. Illegitimacy was prevalent in her ancestry, recent and past, going all the way back to that pretty, witty blossom of an actress, Nell Gwynn. Oriana’s status as a duke’s by-blow had affected her profoundly, and he doubted that she would rejoice over bringing another bastard into the world.
Realizing that the duchess had questioned him, he had to ask her to repeat her words.
“Where are you staying?”
“In a hovel.”
She raised her brows. “You must be exceedingly fond of the sport to endure privation.”
“Did you travel here from your estate in—oh, dear, I can’t recall its location.”
“Derbyshire. No, I came from London.” When she wrinkled up her nose in distaste, he laughed. “You don’t care for the city?”
“Not much. Last year, when Garrick came into the title, we opened up Halford House and occupied it during the season. We spent time there this past Easter, but the children share my preference for country living, which is why we settled in Suffolk for much of the summer. After an initial burst of enthusiasm, Garrick grew bored with the House of Lords. He rarely attends, unless to cast his vote on matters of grave importance.”
She waved at a striking, fair-haired gentleman making his way toward the landau. His features—prominent cheekbones and lean jaw, long aristocratic nose and cleft chin—seemed appropriate to a duke of the realm.
“So this is how you pay me out for abandoning you,” he accused his duchess. “Are you setting up a flirt to make me jealous?”
“And the very best sort,” she retorted. “A Manxman. Meet Sir Dare Corlett, by far the finest dancer from my island.”
The duke’s brown eyes fastened suspiciously on Dare, who told him, “I knew her grace when she was a slip of a girl, fresh from the schoolroom, and the undisputed belle of the assemblies there.”
“That’s right,” she confirmed. “I was in my teens. You were very kind to partner a shy, uncertain girl as often as you did. I preferred you to all those raw soldiers from the garrison. Do stop glaring, Garrick. I never flirted with him—till I met you, I didn’t now how. He wasn’t my suitor.”
“In that case,” said the duke, “I’m very happy to meet you, sir.” Clasping his wife’s gloved hand, he asked solicitously, “You are well, carissima?”
“Never better,” she assured him. “We really must do something for Sir Dare—his lodging sounds thoroughly dismal. Wouldn’t there be room for him at Moulton?”
“Certainly.” Turning to Dare, the duke said, “I have a racing box nearby, an old windmill converted to a residence. You’re welcome to use it, and I urge you to stay there instead, so long as you don’t mind living among my jockeys and grooms and horses. You’ll find it adequately furnished and staffed, and convenient to Newmarket.”
“And after the racing,” Lavinia interjected, “you must join us at Monkwood Hall.”
“You are most kind, and I wish I were free to accept. But I’ve got an appointment in Bury St.
Edmunds early next week, and afterward I return to London.”
“Splendid!” she cried. “We live only a few miles from Bury! We’ll take you to the subscription concert. I must convince you to stay on a bit longer, so we can dance together again at the upcoming assembly ball—I promise I’ll introduce you to all the loveliest girls in Suffolk.”
The Duke of Halford tossed back his bright head, laughing merrily. “My dear sir, I shall leave you to deal with my duchess as best you can—but I warn you, when she becomes enamored of a plan, it’s impossible to dissuade her. Don’t even try.”
Considering the matter, Dare decided that attending Oriana’s concert as the Halford’s guest would cover his real reason for being there—and it wouldn’t necessarily interfere with their intended assignation at the Angel Hotel.
“It’s settled then,” said Lavinia brightly. “And whenever you need to be in Bury, or anywhere else, our horses and carriages will be yours to command.”
“Uncle Bardy will wonder where I’ve got to,” Garrick said. “Must return to the horses. Behave yourself, carissima, till next we meet.”
“At the winning post,” she told him confidently, leaning over the side of the carriage.
“I sincerely hope so.” He kissed her fingers, and marched away.
“His uncle, Sir Bardolph Hyde, is devoted to the Turf,” Lavinia confided.
As Oriana had done yesterday when describing her cousin’s entries, the duchess informed Dare about the horses on which the Armitage Stud pinned its hopes of victory, reciting equine pedigrees with an acuity that the betting men would envy. Like Oriana, she possessed a well-worn copy of the Racing Calendar. Her years in Italy and England had endowed her with a veneer of sophistication, but beneath it was the unassuming and high-spirited girl he remembered. She treated him with a combination of deference and teasing, as if he were her older brother.
When the hour of her husband’s race drew near, she climbed down from the carriage. On their way to the course, she pointed out notables to Dare—Sir Charles Bunbury, Mr. Concannon, Lord Darlington, Lord Clermont, Mr. Heathcote.
“At present there are several dukes actively involved in racing,” she explained. “Halford and Grafton and Queensbury—chatting up a lady as usual, the old roué She’s Madame St. Albans, the singer. She dresses in excellent style, and is very popular among the gentlemen. I’m sure you can see why.”
“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Present company excepted,” he said with belated gallantry.
That morning he had fastened every one of those bright gilt buttons running down Oriana’s dark green habit jacket. He’d handed her the smart hat, which had a gold chain encircling the crown and a jaunty plume pinned to the side. Around her neck was a longer chain with a dangling lorgnette. The desiccated old duke was leaning down to examine it—and from the way he leered, he also enjoyed his near view of her incomparable bosom.
Oriana returned Dare’s gaze across a sea of strangers, her face expressionless. While he was perfectly willing to conceal their relationship, he would have liked some small acknowledgment of his existence. A polite nod or friendly smile would have been harmless enough. Her self-control nettled him.
“I give you leave to describe her as the most beautiful Englishwoman,” Lavinia declared, smiling as she watched him watch Oriana. “That doesn’t offend my vanity.”
Tearing his eyes from his ladylove, he stated diplomatically, “Manxwomen are in a category all their own. It’s unfortunate that the most charming ones desert the island.”
“The same charge can be laid against eligible Manxmen,” she responded. “You, sir, were seldom sighted in the years following our assembly-room encounters.”
“Mining affairs in Derbyshire kept me away. But I’ve built a villa in Glen Auldyn, where I shall live in future.” To forestall questions about his reasons for being in England, he asked her whether she had returned to the island since her marriage.
“Not yet. We go there in September, with the children, to meet the son and heir and visit my parents.
And to see the heather blooming. Will we find you there?”
He admitted that he couldn’t predict his movements so far in advance. Letting his gaze drift back to Oriana, he saw a younger man guiding her away from the elderly duke.
Lavinia said helpfully, “Her cousin Lord Burford, heir to the Duke of St. Albans. She’ll be singing at that concert I mentioned. I don’t know her, but if you like I can arrange an introduction.”
Deciding that candor would be the safest policy, he replied, “That won’t be necessary. I’ve met her.”
And yearned for her, and kissed her, and bedded her-which, of course, he could not reveal.
The sight of her lover escorting a female to the finishing post was merely the latest of Oriana’s frustrations.
She wasn’t concerned that the lovely brunette sought to ensnare him, for the Halfords were a famously devoted couple. The duke belonged to the highest echelons of racing society. He was Sir Bardolph Hyde’s nephew, descended from the Restoration courtiers who had followed her royal grandfather to Newmarket more than two centuries ago. But it was painful to see Dare advance into territory that was and would ever be closed to her. She didn’t begrudge the Duchess of Halford’s attention to him, but she was more keenly aware of her own lack of acceptability. The bastard daughter of the Duke of St. Albans and Sally Vernon performed for all these Newmarket grandees, she was
related to several of them, and she’d received improper proposals from others. But the wives and daughters looked askance at her, no matter that they adorned their gowns with the St. Albans flounce, or wore their St. Albans spencers. She was used to it, and shouldn’t mind. Yet she couldn’t suppress a fear that Dare might, through association with them, absorb their prejudices against her.
Burford took her to a refreshment tent. She remained outside, while he pushed his way through the massed bodies to obtain drink. Because of the noise and commotion all around her, Dare was able to creep up on her unawares.
He said in a quiet confidential tone, “I couldn’t keep away.”
“The Duchess of Halford has befriended you, I see.”
“We’re former dancing partners, and have been reminiscing about past encounters in the island assembly rooms—which you were so careful to avoid. I know her family; they live in Maughold parish, near Ramsey. I needed to tell you that I’m transferring from my present quarters, grim beyond description, to the duke’s racing box at Moulton Heath. Furthermore, his duchess commands that I make a visit to their estate near Bury after the races. They offered to take me to your concert. Should I accept?”
“Oh, yes. Halford is very important in racing, and is a Jockey Club member.”
“I care less about his prestige than I do being separated from you. Where’s that cottage of yours? I’ll meet you later.”
“On Mill Hill. But I can’t let you come there, so please don’t ask.” She put a hand to her aching head.
“What’s the matter?”
“Burford scratched Combustible from her race. She was entered against Sparrowhawk, another three-year-old, on the Rowley Mile this afternoon. But yesterday he learned about a stiffness in her lower leg, possibly a sprain, and couldn’t risk running her. He had to pay ten guineas—ten percent of the prize—to Mr. Concannon. He’s cross as two sticks, and threatens to sell the filly. It’s madness.”
“You told me she had the advantage.”
Improper Advances Page 19