by Cheryl Holt
"Would you like me to bathe you?" she asked in a throaty voice filled with sensual assurance.
She reached for the washrag, which was perched so precariously over him, and he grabbed her wrist just before she whisked it aside.
This was torture!
"That won't be necessary," he said tightly.
"Are you certain?" she asked.
Her lips hovered scant inches from his. Her minted breath moved across his cheek. In animated detail he remembered the times he'd previously kissed her. He could do it again. Right then! He could lean forward, press his mouth to hers, taste and bite and sample ...
"I'm certain," he said, barely able to speak as he denied himself the finest conceivable delight.
"Lucas?" she said, and she placed her hand on the center of his chest, her soft palm enmeshed in the scratchy hair, and she began making slow, small circles directly over his heart.
"What, love?" he asked, hardly realizing that he'd used the endearment.
Her fingers widened the circumference of the orb she traced, the tip of a manicured nail just brushing his nipple. "When are we getting married?''
"Married?" he croaked, pronouncing the word as though he'd never heard it before. Everything was spiraling out of control. All he could concentrate on was his aroused state, how he wanted to feel her finger flicking against his nipple.
"Yes, darling," she whispered, her mouth almost grazing his as her hand dipped lower and lower toward the water and
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what lay below, but the tantalizing stroke never went quite as far as he wished. "When will the wedding be? I find I can hardly stand"—she licked her lips, first the top one, then the bottom—"the waiting."
"I don't know, Penny. . . ." His thought faded away.
Her breasts had shifted, and the front of her gown had loosened until he could see past her cleavage to her navel. The bodice no longer covered anything, and the scoop neckline was caught against her nipples, the two tightened buds the only restraint keeping it in place.
This was an impossible torment! How could a man be expected to hold out against such obvious titillation? He leaned back, trying to force more space between them. "I haven't quite gotten everything—"
“Could we do it tomorrow?'' she asked, closing the distance so there could be no escape, then went in for the kill. “Please?" she begged in that pretty manner she had that he'd already learned he couldn't resist. Her expressive sapphire eyes showed no mercy. "It would mean so much to me if we could get it out of the way."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes ..." she said on a breath, touching her lips to his.
"Tomorrow," he agreed, not meaning to, not wanting to, not knowing how the word had slipped out.
"Promise?" she questioned.
"Yes. I promise," he said.
"Swear it to me!"
What was to be done when she was looking at him like that? He vowed, "I swear it."
"You'll never be sorry," she said, giving him a smile that lit up the room, and his tenuous control finally snapped. He reached for her, intending to pull her into the warm water, but his arms filled with nothing but air.
She was gone, and he laid his head against the tub while he wearily tried to calculate the enormous ramifications of what he'd just sworn to.
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* * *
Penny slipped into her room and turned the key in the lock. Colette, having let herself in the front door when Lucas first entered the kitchen, was waiting impatiently. She was perched on the edge of the bed and eager to hear the news of how the downstairs visit had proceeded.
"Was he there?" she whispered.
"Yes," Penny answered, suppressing a shiver. The house was cold, the hallways frigid, and the skimpy nightgown offered no protection. She walked to the chair and fetched her woolen robe, stuffing her arms in the sleeves and wrapping it tightly about her body. "He was at his bath."
"Naked?"
"Very," Penny said, and Colette chuckled.
"Bon, très bon," she said. Lifting her brows suggestively, she asked, "How did he like my lady's nightdress?"
"Quite effective," Penny said. She was so glad Colette had insisted on packing it in the bag they'd brought from home. The French-styled undergarment had been part of her original trousseau, but she'd never had the chance to wear it, and she had to admit that it certainly worked wonders on a man's attention span. Lucas hadn't been able to take his eyes off her.
"So the negligee, it was a good choice?"
"A perfect choice."
She and Colette had plotted all day about how to snare Lucas into a nuptial decision, and when they'd carefully conspired to have him discover her wet and naked in the bathing tub, Penny had been sure they'd planned correctly. But Lucas had astonished them by refusing to take advantage of the intimate opportunity he'd been so shamelessly offered, and they'd been at their wits' end.
They'd hastily huddled upstairs in her room, Penny feeling unwanted and undesirable, Colette confused and irritated by the virile man's strange behavior.
Why didn't he desire Penny in a sexual fashion? What would
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shatter his composure so that he'd embrace the necessary steps from which there could be no return? What was the matter with him?
Then Colette had remembered the nightgown.
Penny had put it on while listening to a few wise words regarding Colette's various erotic suggestions. Her courage bolstered, she'd returned to the kitchen, ready to do more battle with Lucas's self-control. This time she'd succeeded. The thickheaded man was probably still wondering what had happened, unable to discern how she'd bewitched him.
"Did you ask him about the wedding?" Colette queried.
"Yes," she responded, hating how she'd had to go about making her marriage an actuality, but there'd been no other solution.
Morning would bring the third day of their elopement, but in the time since they'd run off, she'd rarely seen Lucas, let alone wed him. Colette insisted something odd was happening, and they'd argued about Lucas all day, with Penny continuing to defend him and insisting the ceremony hadn't occurred simply because he hadn't managed to arrange it yet.
In the meantime, she was a realist and knew they couldn't tarry forever. If the duke discovered her location and rescued her before the act was done and consummated, she'd be forced to proceed with her marriage to Edward, and she unconditionally, emphatically couldn't go through with such a horrid event.
She wanted Lucas and needed him, and though he appeared hesitant, she had to believe that it was simply a case of male jitters over pending matrimony. It couldn't be anything else! The thought that he might have deceived her, or that his intentions might not be entirely honorable, was too terrifying to contemplate. Considering the precarious state of her present and future circumstance, she had to trust Lucas implicitly, and she declined to give credence to Colette's dire warnings.
"And this wedding," Colette asked. "When is it to be?"
"Tomorrow," she said, barely able to suppress the swell of excitement she felt about all the changes the union would bring
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to her life. She would become Lucas's wife in ever}' way, and she couldn't wait to finally make the transformation.
"He has promised you this?"
"Yes," she responded, knowing him to be a gentleman who would never go back on his word. "The wedding will be tomorrow."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"You're going to do what?" Matthew asked much too loudly.
"I'm going to have to marry her," Lucas replied.
At Matthew's outburst, other morning customers in the road-house's dining room glanced their way, which was very bad. Not knowing who might be looking for them, or where the search might be progressing, they were trying to remain extremely inconspicuous, dressed in simple clothing, and barely speaking to the serving girl, lest she notice and remember their American accents.
Lucas leaned across the table, talking so
ftly and attempting to extinguish his brother's furious glare with one of his own. "Do you have the forgery of the marriage license completed?"
"Yes, but that doesn't mean I want us to have to use it!"
"Don't be so upset. You knew it could come to this. We discussed it."
"But I never intended for it to go this far," Matthew complained. "It makes the deception so much worse, and it's too cruel a trick to play on Miss Westmoreland."
"I know," Lucas responded. He was feeling guilty enough
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without his brother rubbing it in, so he shook off his culpable thoughts, forcing himself to plunge ahead. ' 'It can't be helped."
"Why can't it be helped?"
"Because the ladies are beginning to question my intentions."
"How could they question your intentions? They haven't even seen you in the past three days." Matthew paused, leaning closer as well, until their eyes were locked across the small table. "Or have they?"
The very last thing Lucas wanted to do was review the previous evening's double display of carnality by Penny. He'd survived the first encounter—the one where Penny was the naked person in the tub—and walked away unscathed, but the second had proved deadly. He'd been left confused, disturbed, and wondering when his engorged member had gained such powerful control over all his other faculties.
He had tossed and turned all night, working hard to persuade himself that at the sight of a wet, disrobed Penny Westmoreland freely offering her numerous charms, he hadn't reacted differently from the way any other red-blooded male would have under similar circumstances. Yet, he wasn't so sure Matthew would agree.
How could Lucas explain the need for a quiet room, the candlelight, and cozy fire? What words could he use to describe Penny's loveliness, her nudity, her seductiveness? Or, worse, how could he admit the attraction he'd felt since the moment they'd met? Best to keep all his little secrets to himself.
"Look," he said, growing irritated, "her maid stopped me outside the back door last night."
"That nosy Frenchwoman?"
"Yes. Just as I was going in," Lucas said, nodding, "and she said she thinks something fishy is going on."
"Fishy? She said that?"
Lucas nodded again. "It's because I convinced Lady Penelope to elope, but I haven't made any move to marry her."
"What's fishy about that? You two hardly know each other.
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The idiotic woman should be glad you're willing to let Miss Westmoreland take some time before proceeding."
"Apparently that's not the way she sees it."
"How does she, then?"
"It's just that . . . well ... Miss Westmoreland is very pretty," Lucas said, trying to make the portrayal sound casual. In all their discussions of her, Lucas had mentioned her appearance on only one occasion, saying that because of her hair, eyes, and other facial features, she looked enough like Harry to be his mother. Lucas had never ventured more than that, worried that if he'd given a lengthy accounting, Matthew would have seen how affected he was by her poise and beauty, so he'd left it alone, and he wasn't about to go into it now either.
He changed the direction of their conversation by saying, "Although Miss Westmoreland has never mentioned it, I'm sure she has quite a dowry too. It just seems strange to the maid that I wouldn't jump through any hoop in order to snare Lady Westmoreland as quickly as possible."
"Understandable, I guess."
"Plus, I think the maid has caught us watching the house from the woods. She said she's seen a man hovering about in the trees."
"Damn ..." Matthew grumbled. "I've been so careful."
"So have I, or so I believed, but she has a keen eye, and she's very devoted to Miss Westmoreland. We can't underestimate her."
"No, I should say not."
"Anyway, she told me—in no uncertain terms, I might add—that if the wedding wasn't held today, she'd convince Miss Westmoreland to return to London."
Matthew visibly gulped in dismay. "Could she do that?"
"I think she has that kind of power. They've known each other for many years, and Miss Westmoreland respects her very much. Yes, the maid could influence her."
"Blast!"
“Before I left this morning, I had to calm their anxiety about
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my arrangements, so I told them we'd do it tonight. I suggested that the event needed to be completed covertly, so I'd arranged for a minister to come by the house."
"They bought it?"
"Without a hitch," he said, hiding his eyes by lowering his gaze and pretending to be gravely interested in his cup of tea, though in reality he was grimacing and wishing these British would learn how to make a cup of strong coffee.
While he sipped the steaming brew, he took the opportunity to think of Penny and how she'd looked when he'd come down the stairs earlier that morning. Boots in hand, he'd been planning to sneak out again before anyone in the house was up and about. Dawn was breaking when he'd stepped into the kitchen, and there she stood, freshly scrubbed and smiling and seeming every bit the part of the new bride fixing breakfast for her husband.
Proudly she'd placed a bowl of oatmeal—no longer hot and a bit on the lumpy side—on the table, accompanied by some crusty, dark bread, fresh-churned butter, and a pot of jam. When he'd stared at the food in amazement, she'd taken his silence for dislike of the simple meal she'd created.
To his horror, tears had welled into her eyes, and she'd begun apologizing profusely, explaining how she'd not learned to cook, never imagining that she would need to know the skill when others had always been available to complete the task for her. She'd asked the hired woman to teach her about the kitchen, and she was just acquiring the first steps of culinary lore.
He'd been so touched by her willingness to please, by the fact that she would go to such lengths to ensure that she was acceptable in his eyes, he'd been unable to do anything but sit with her, eat the breakfast she'd prepared, and chat about the coming day as though they were a married couple. Through it all he hadn't been able to stop himself from reveling in the sensation of closeness they had in the quiet kitchen, or from deluding himself that their situation was real.
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When she'd casually raised the topic of the pending wedding, he hadn't the heart to renege on the promise he'd made to her. He could not go back on his word.
******************
"This is getting worse by the second," Matthew said, interrupting his daydream. He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. "I wish we'd never heard of Harold Westmoreland."
"I agree," Lucas said, "but we've come this far. We can't quit now, not when we're so close to success." He reached out a hand and patted Matthew's arm. "And think of it this way: The ceremony won't be so bad. It's not valid, so you can skip the unimportant parts and cut to the chase. It will be over in a matter of minutes."
"I suppose," Matthew groused. They'd already decided that he would impersonate the minister, and he'd be good at it too. Over the years he'd performed a handful of weddings while captain on one of their ships. He was familiar enough with the routine to make it believable.
"Just keep telling yourself," Lucas advised, "that we're buying more time in which to bring the duke around to our point of view. That should make what you're doing easier to stomach." He blew on the tea while pondering the close quarters into which he and Penny had been forced. "You don't know what it's like at the house, trying to pretend all is well but trying to avoid her at the same time. It's been extremely difficult to carry on, so this will take some of the pressure off me. Just this morning Penny was saying that—"
"Penny?" Matthew asked, cutting him off.
"What?" Lucas asked.
"You referred to her as Penny. Not Miss Westmoreland. Not Lady Penelope. Not even plain old Penelope. You called her Penny!"
Lucas hesitated, then said, "So I did."
"Why did you call her Penny?"
"Be
cause that's her name?" Lucas answered, trying to make
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light of the slip, but from Matthew's outraged expression, his brother obviously wasn't buying the faltering justification. Out of patience, Lucas clarified tersely, "I'm supposed to be completely infatuated with her. I can hardly go about without calling her by her given name!"
Matthew stared long and hard, digging deep with those perceptive eyes of his, staring far down inside to where Lucas kept his direst imaginings and darkest regrets.
"Oh, Lord, don't tell me ..." Matthew breathed. "You fancy her!"
"No, I don't," Lucas insisted, shaking his head in denial, but they could both hear the lame conviction in his response.
"I don't believe this!" Matthew hissed. "You're completely smitten!"
Lucas actually blushed, his cheeks turning a bright red. "What if I am? It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't change anything."
"Like hell," Matthew muttered. "I know you. You're imagining seducing her even as we speak!"
"That doesn't mean I will. Despite all, I'd still like to think I'm an honorable man."
Matthew laughed so loudly that people's heads turned once again, and he visibly subdued himself, sitting back in his chair so that he had more distance from which to appraise his brother. "Why are you even contemplating this?" he asked, pointing an angry finger. "Are you mad?"
Lucas crumpled his napkin, wishing he could adequately explain what was happening between Penny and himself, what had been happening from the moment they'd crossed paths in her father's garden. Nothing he could come up with would work to ease Matthew's dismay or explain the strong emotions the woman stirred in Lucas's heart.
"You don't know what she's like," he finally said.
"Then, tell me," Matthew asserted quietly.
"She's different from any woman I've ever met." He
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squirmed like a schoolboy who'd been caught doing something wrong.
"Oh, no ..." Matthew sighed.
"I can't define it. .. ."
"Bloody hell, it's worse than I thought." Disgusted with the manner in which events were progressing, he shook his head indignantly. "Keep your hands off her!" he whispered harshly. When it looked as though his older brother hadn't heard, or perhaps hadn't heeded the warning, he added, "Are you listening to me?"