Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 02]

by Dangerous Angels

  “Come here,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He held her gaze, but he did not seem displeased. Indeed, a twinkle lurked in his eyes, and she found it oddly disturbing.

  “What are you going to do?” The mood in the room had shifted abruptly, and her body, which until a moment before had felt relaxed and warm, now stirred to alert awareness. The sense of warmth deepened and spread through her. She licked her lips, watching him. “Antony? Answer my question.”

  “Come here.”

  Only the dressing stool separated them, a distance of no more than two or three feet. Watching him, her gaze locked to his, Charley stepped around the stool without another word, suddenly knowing that, more than anything else in the world, she wanted to feel Antony’s arms around her again.

  Setting down the brush, he put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her closer. She realized that she had been anticipating this from the moment he had suggested he would help her clean up. His arms went around her, and his lips touched hers, softly, then harder, as if the passion stirring in her were aflame in him. He moaned against her lips before his tongue tickled her lower one. A hand moved to the opening of her robe.

  A rap at the door and the sound of the latch heralded the arrival of their supper, and with a start of dismay, Charley whisked back to her seat on the dressing stool and handed Antony the hairbrush. By the time the footman and Daisy entered to lay the covers, Antony was rhythmically brushing her hair again.

  Over dinner, they talked of politics and news from the Times until the servants left them with their fruit and wine. Emboldened by the latter, Charley looked straight at him and said, “I think your father is a fool, you know, and your mother—”

  “Both my parents are dead.”

  “Then I used the wrong verb, that’s all.”

  “Unfortunately, most Englishmen think like my father. Going through a man’s private papers is bad form. Spying on his troops or trying to learn his battle plans is equally distasteful. My father was not the only one to give me the cut direct at Brooks’s.”

  “Good mercy, he never did such a horrid thing!”

  “He did. And now, if you please, I should much rather talk some more about Lady Ophelia. I don’t think my family boasts anyone like her.”

  “She is unique,” Charley said, shocked that his father had humiliated him in such a public way, and quite willing to tell him more about the elderly feminist. She hoped to soothe away the pain she had detected when he spoke of his parents, but she succeeded beyond expectation, for twenty minutes later, he roared with laughter.

  When he could speak again, he said, “I know you told me she thought men had written the Bible to suit themselves, but she cannot have said they molded their notion of God to that same purpose!”

  “She did. She said it’s clear that they wrote the Bible as proof that God intended men to be superior, because how else could they ever have expected anyone to swallow such a clanker as woman being born of man? Why would an all-powerful God go to all the trouble of creating man first, just to have to cut out a rib afterward to make woman, when all he had to do was create her first and let her give birth to man in the natural way. Mary did not require Joseph, if you recall, to conceive the Christ child, nor, apparently, did God think to create Christ without Mary. One therefore has to believe, according to Aunt Ophelia, either that God was all about in His head to create man in the convoluted way the Bible says He did, or that a few idiot men made the whole thing up.”

  Antony’s eyes danced. “Angel, do you believe these things, too?”

  She smiled. “Truly? I don’t know what I believe. My parents and grandparents were traditional. Even Aunt Ophelia goes to church on Sundays—to keep up with the latest nonsense being preached and know what the enemy is thinking, she says, but—” Breaking off, she said with astonishment, “Antony, the Duke is much like Aunt Ophelia, is he not? He does not think like your father or those other men you mentioned before. He wants to know what the enemy is thinking. Is that so dreadful?”

  “I don’t think it is, of course, but then, I’m like you in that I don’t know quite what I believe about some things. I used to follow all the proper Anglican teachings. I believed in God and goodness, and that if one followed one’s conscience, everything would come right in the end. I was wrong. Tell me more about Lady Ophelia.”

  She complied, making no further attempt to draw him into talking about his past. She enjoyed both his conversation and his company, and when he stood at last and bent to kiss her hand and then her cheek, she made no effort to conceal her disappointment.

  “If I even begin to kiss you like I did before supper, angel, we will very soon have no grounds for that annulment you want,” he said, bidding her a firm good-night.

  Watching him go, vaguely aware that rain was streaking the dark windows, Charley wondered for the first time if she would enjoy independence as much as she had thought she would. She rather thought she was going to miss Antony.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ANTONY LAY IN BED, staring at the ceiling, feeling noble one moment, frustrated the next. In his mind’s eye he tried to imagine Charlotte lying awake too, but he thought it far more likely that she was fast asleep by now. He did not know what time it was, and although the oil lamp on the bed-step table needed only to be turned up to see the little clock beside it, he made no effort to move. He did not care in the least what hour it was.

  He had held her in his arms. He had seen her naked body, and he had kissed her. His hunger for her now could not be ignored. He wanted her. He wanted to taste her again, to touch her, caress her, and to possess her. She was his wife by the laws of Britain and the Church of England. By rights, all he need do was crook his finger and she would submit to him. The thought was delicious, tantalizing, stimulating. He would order her to lie back against her pillows, naked, her soft breasts vulnerable to his touch, to his kisses and caresses, her slender legs spread in welcome.

  A chuckle rose unbidden in his throat. Charlotte Tarrant would never—not if someone told her the earth would begin to spin backward if she refused—welcome a man in such a way. The image of her rising from the horse pond, splashing awkwardly toward him, not once but twice—with murder in her eyes—was the real Charlotte, and in truth, he knew he preferred the real one.

  A distant rumble of thunder reminded him of what she had said about storms at the house on Seacourt Head. He wondered if she was afraid of thunder. Unlikely, given the general level of her courage, but he had seen war heroes cringe and cower when the heavens roared.

  The next rumble sounded closer. The storm was approaching fast. He got up and moved to the window, pulling back the curtains. At first there was only blackness more dense than that in his bedchamber, where an occasional crackle from the dying embers on the hearth sent sparks dancing into the darkness. Then a jagged, branched lightning bolt lit up the night He saw sparkling black water. Crashing waves edged with lacy white foam created a border for the dark cliffs around St. Merryn’s Bay. Thunder rumbled, and before the noise died away another flash lit the scene outside like daylight. The crack of thunder that accompanied it rattled the windows. The next flash and boom came only seconds later, and then the storm engulfed the house. Rain lashed the windows and the wind howled, shaking the walls, threatening to blow the house right off its high perch into the sea.

  He stood watching, mesmerized by the storm’s fury. In a sudden lull, he heard a metallic click and then a soft, “Oh!”

  Turning just as another flash lit the heavens, he saw Charley framed in the dark doorway that separated their rooms. In those few brief seconds of light he saw that she wore only her white lawn nightdress. Her feet were bare, her hair tousled, and her eyes were wide with shock or fear.

  “What is it?” he asked, taking an anxious step toward her only to see in the next flash of light that she had turned sharply away. “Don’t go. Wait!” Only then did he realize he was stark naked.

  With h
er eyes squeezed tightly shut, Charley hesitated in the doorway. She had been foolish to come to his room, but she did not want to go back. This might well be the only chance she would ever have, yet one glimpse of his naked body had nearly sent her bolting from the room like a skittish mare.

  The fury of the storm was already abating. She heard him clearly when he said, “I’m putting on my robe. You can look now. Were you frightened?”

  “No,” she said without thinking, her eyes still shut tight. Realizing instantly that she ought to have said yes, she opened them again. She had been lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was awake or asleep. She could remember the feeling of his arms around her, the comfort of his embrace, the wondrous feeling of being cared for, looked after, held. Her memories had skipped uncontrolled from the scene in the garden to that in her bedchamber when she had suddenly realized that he had sent her maid away, to bathe her himself. She had savored those moments of intimacy with him, embroidering them in her mind until her imagination boggled. She simply did not know enough to embroider the scene to its climax.

  Having bred horses for years, she understood the mechanics, but she could not imagine them being pleasant. Still, if the way her senses had reeled when he touched her was any indication of the possibilities, she was determined to learn more.

  She realized he had not spoken again and, curious, opened her eyes at last. He stood right in front of her, so close that she nearly cried out. He was outlined in golden light, and she saw that he had turned up the lamp on the step table by his bed.

  “Are you certain you are not afraid?” he asked gently. “There is no shame in such fear, you know. Even the bravest of soldiers has been known to cringe when thunder crashes overhead and lightning splits the sky.”

  “I grew up here,” she reminded him. “Not in this house, of course, but the storms are as fierce at Tuscombe Park.”

  “One does not have a sense there, however, that one could at any moment be swept into the sea. Do you think Letty might be frightened?”

  “I doubt it. She told me she has no sensibilities, and I believe her. She is probably watching from her window, just as you were. Besides, it’s nearly over.”

  “If you were not afraid, why did you come?”

  “I knew you would be awake.” She hesitated, cursing herself for a fool. If she had said she was afraid, he would have held her again, comforted her again. Honesty was all very well in its place, but she certainly could not just spit out the statement that hovered at the tip of her tongue. “I want you to cover me.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe I said that.” Laughter bubbled around the words. “Good mercy, what you must think of me! I swear to you, I never meant to say that.” She looked at him, but she could not see his face clearly. Realizing that with the light behind him, he could see hers, she looked away, lest he recognize her doubts. She wanted to leave, but her feet seemed glued to the floor. “Say something,” she pleaded. “I know I’m making a fool of myself. I had no notion that arranging a coupling could be so hard.”

  “Good Lord! Well, I knew you didn’t want another quilt.” His voice sounded odd, as if he were speaking through clenched teeth, or trying not to cough.

  “I expect there’s another way to put it. I want you to—”

  “I know what you want.”

  Now she thought she could discern amusement. “So help me, Antony, if you are laughing at me …”

  “I’m not. God knows, I’m not. But if you could manage to think in human rather than equine terms, perhaps we—”

  “Equine? You think I’m thinking about horses?”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “In actual fact,” she said, straining to recover her dignity, “what I know about such matters does come from what I know about horses. When my cousin Melissa married, I tried to get her to tell me about her experiences in the marriage bed, but she always seemed to avoid my questions.”

  “I’d like to meet your cousin Melissa. She sounds like quite a strong-minded woman if she can ignore questions from you.”

  “Don’t be such a rudesby. Will you do it?” Again, she wished she could see his expression, especially when he did not answer immediately.

  A branch of lightning forked across the sky, followed by a long, fading rumble of thunder, but his expression told her nothing. Not until the sound disappeared in the distant night did he say, “I want to be sure I understand you. You merely want to know what happens in the marriage bed. Is that it?”

  “Not just, know. I don’t want you to tell me stories or draw pictures for me. I want you to do it, to show me how it’s done.”

  “But we’ve discussed this. Consummation could make an annulment impossible.”

  “Could, not must. The point is that since I never intend to marry for real, I shall never know what happens. Until today I didn’t much care one way or the other—Except for an occasional surge of curiosity, that is.”

  “Until today?”

  She shifted from one cold bare foot to the other. “In the drawing room, and then again when you were kissing me before the servants brought our supper, I experienced some odd sensations, very pleasant ones.”

  “That is perfectly normal,” he said, “but it is not a matter for simple experimentation, angel. There are bound to be consequences.”

  “You mean the annulment. Well, I cannot believe anyone would really ask me such impertinent questions, but if they do, I need only poker up as if I were in utter shock at being asked. That’s what Elizabeth would do, I know. I don’t think,” she added musingly, “that I could flat out lie to Bishop Halsey.”

  “Do you think I could?”

  “Quite easily.” She moved past him, so that he had to turn, and she was relieved to see that he was amused by her response. She grinned at him. “You’ve had ever so much practice at telling falsehoods, after all.”

  “Not to bishops,” he retorted.

  “Well, mayors are much the same thing, I expect, and you’ve lied to members of the gentry and the nobility, so even a bishop cannot be beyond your skill.”

  “My dear, sweet idiot, do you honestly mean for me to believe that you would lie to a bishop in a sacred matter?”

  “But I’ve just explained that I won’t have to. If necessary, I’ll affect a fit of the vapors, and everyone will stop plaguing me with disagreeable questions. Now, Antony, there cannot really be anything wrong about this. We are lawfully married, after all, and I am quite certain that other marriages have been annulled after a consummation.”

  “There is always Henry VIII,” he murmured.

  “Exactly.” She reached out to touch him, and although her fingertips were light against his chest, she felt him quiver. “I did not think it would be so difficult to convince you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “A stallion needs only to know that a mare is willing. In actual fact, even that much is not—”

  “Good Lord,” he snapped, catching her by the arms and giving her a shake, “do you think I am made of stone? What if you become pregnant?”

  “From one time? Don’t be absurd?”

  “How many times does it take for a mare?”

  “But that’s because one knows precisely when a mare is in season,” Charley said. “With human females, I don’t think one can tell as easily. I don’t know that for certain, and you no doubt know much more than I do about such things, so do please tell me if—”

  With a groan he pulled her to him and silenced her with a kiss. At first his hands gripped her arms with bruising strength and his lips pressed hard against hers, as if he would crush her, but when she put her hands at his waist, he groaned again. His hands slid from her arms to her back, pulling her tight against his body.

  She could feel his heat against her, and the pressure of his erection. That he desired her was evident. That he knew what he was doing was also evident. Daringly, she slipped one hand beneath his robe, and when he gasped against her lips, she felt a surge of unf
amiliar power. His flesh felt warm and hard and smooth. When he did not try to stop her, she slid her hand around to his back, feeling the slope of his hip and buttock. She moved her hand upward, letting one finger trace the ridge of his spine.

  His tongue touched her lips, pressing for entrance. Welcoming him, she darted her tongue to meet his, delighting at the sound of a moan deep in his throat.

  Slipping her other hand beneath his robe, she laid it flat against his stomach, sliding it provocatively lower.

  Before she realized he was moving, he caught her roaming hand with one of his.

  Her lips felt swollen. She looked up in surprise. “Why did you stop me?”

  “We must. I cannot be responsible for what may happen, and while you might well believe yourself willing at present, when the sun rises—”

  “I’ll feel the same. Damn you, Antony! Why do you insist on making this so difficult. Don’t you want me?”

  “One of us must be sensible.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “Very well then. Yes, I want you. Are you satisfied?”

  “What a stupid question! Of course I’m not satisfied. You worry about things that you think I should worry about. You take my burdens on your shoulders when I don’t even consider them burdens, because they haven’t happened yet. Tell me this. How have you kept other women you’ve coupled with from getting pregnant? And don’t say you’ve never—How dare you laugh at me!”

  He made no effort to stop but laughed till he had to hold his sides. Only when she picked up a book from a nearby table and held it threateningly did he control himself enough to say, “If you throw that, I’ll put you over my knee. That’s Will’s Taming of the Shrew and I won’t have it damaged.”

  “Your bedside reading, in fact?”

  “I own, I did just dip into it earlier.”

  “Looking for advice about how to deal with me, sir?” Her tone was scathing.

  He grinned. “If you like to put it that way. My remedy if you throw that book is the same as Petruchio’s for a waspish female.” When she frowned, trying to remember the scene, he said, “When Kate strikes him, he threatens to cuff her if she does so again. In some productions, she does. Like Petruchio, ‘I will be master of what is mine own.’”