Scandal at the Midsummer Ball

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Your unblemished record, Kennedy, is one of the things which make you eminently suitable for this role.’

  ‘Indeed, you would be able utterly to rely on me to do your bidding, because I have never done otherwise.’

  For a long moment, the duke did not respond. He took a gold snuff box from his pocket and delicately sniffed. ‘I have put myself out on a limb for you, Colonel, and I do not do that often. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘I thought I did, your Grace. What I have come to believe is that you never put yourself out for anyone, unless it is also of benefit to you.’

  For all of his adult life, Fergus had held this man in awe. He had risked his life for him, and lost the lives of countless of his men following his battle plans. He had followed him across Europe, through bitter winters and sweltering summers. He had cursed him, he had lauded him, but he had never held him in anything but the highest esteem and he had always assumed that in his own way, Wellington returned the compliment. Now, thanks to Katerina, the wool had been pulled from his eyes.

  Fergus got to his feet. ‘You understood me better than I did myself when you offered me the posting in Egypt. You knew I would jump at it, because you’d made damned sure I was bored enough to jump at anything. But the bigger the prize, the higher the price, is that not so, your Grace? I won’t pay it. I will not make a marriage for the sake of personal advancement.’

  Wellington narrowed his eyes. ‘And if the price were to be lowered? If the appointment came without the requirement to take Brockmore’s niece? If I allow you to choose your own—suitable—wife?’

  Could it possibly be that Katerina was right about this too? If he had not heard it himself, he would not have believed that Wellington would ever back down, even a little. Dare he push further? ‘And if I choose not to take a wife at all?’

  The duke closed the lid of his snuff box with a snap. ‘You drive a very hard bargain, Kennedy.’

  It took him a moment to take in what he had just heard. Another, even more fleeting moment, to realise that it was too little, too late. ‘Thank you, but no thank you.’

  Wellington’s mouth dropped. ‘You are turning down my most generous concessions?’

  Fergus smiled. ‘Indeed I am. I am tired of being under orders, you see.’

  ‘But Egypt...’

  ‘It’s no longer about Egypt, your Grace.’ Fergus extended his hand across the desk. ‘You’ll have the formal resignation of my commission on your desk by Monday.’

  Getting to his feet, Wellington shook his hand reluctantly. ‘This is madness, Kennedy. What the devil are you going to do without my patronage?’

  ‘Stand on my own two feet,’ Fergus said. ‘You never know, I might even learn to fly.’

  Wellington snorted. ‘You will more likely end up in Bedlam. You give me no choice but to offer you a second chance, something else I very rarely do. You have until Monday to change your mind, Colonel. Think very carefully before you do something both rash and irrevocable.’

  The door closed softly behind him. Shaking, Fergus slumped back into his seat and dropped his head into his hands. He’d done it. His boats were well and truly aflame. There was no going back. Remorse, regret, a sense of loss, of being let down, of betrayal even, those were the things he had expected to feel. Instead, he felt exhilarated. His heart felt lighter than it had in years. He’d done it. He was free. Lord knew what he’d do now, but it would be at no one’s behest save his own. He couldn’t wait to tell Katerina.

  A gong sounded in the hallway. Checking his watch, Fergus cursed. First there was a race to be run.

  * * *

  Katerina had waited in the walled garden, but when Fergus had not sought her out, she concluded that he had most likely been closeted with the Duke of Wellington. On tenterhooks as to the outcome, knowing that he was committed to riding in the race, she stood with the villagers, anxiously watching the riders line up at the start of the cross-country course. Fergus was on the same horse he’d ridden out on Tuesday. What an age ago that seemed. His coat was buff-coloured. His quirk of hair, as usual, was standing up on end. Was he frowning? No, he seemed in surprisingly good spirits. He was standing up in the saddle now, shading his eyes with his hand and looking straight at her.

  Her heart did a flip as he smiled at her. But it was too late. A flag was dropped before she could wave, and the horses were off, some at a gallop, others needing a great deal of persuasion to do more than a desultory trot. One rider set off in the wrong direction entirely.

  While the duke’s guests and the villagers became engrossed in the making of wagers and the partaking of fruit punch, Katerina paced, lost in her thoughts. Finally, the thunder of hooves approached the finishing line. Fergus and Kael Gage, whom she remembered from the masterclass, were neck and neck. As the horses crossed the line in a cloud of dust and wild cheering from the crowd, Gage had won by a short head. Barely taking time to congratulate the other man, Fergus flung himself from the saddle, handing the reins to a waiting stable hand.

  ‘Katerina!’ He was dusty. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was standing on end. His eyes were alight. ‘I spoke to Wellington this morning.’

  He seemed oblivious of the other spectators. He seemed oblivious of anyone save her. Her heart gave a little flutter. ‘He offered you the Egypt posting without the encumbrance of a wife,’ she said.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I told you, you underestimate yourself. He needs you more than he will admit. Congratulations.’

  He laughed. ‘I didn’t take it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He offered me the posting, and I turned it down. I’m also resigning my commission.’

  ‘Fergus! But what will you do?’

  He laughed again. ‘Wellington asked me the same question. I told him I had no idea, which is the absolute truth. I don’t know, and right now, I don’t care. I feel—free. You did this, Katerina.’

  ‘No, you did it, Fergus.’

  He took her hand. ‘You know what I’d like to do most, right now?’

  Her heart began to beat wildly. Her mouth went dry. ‘Fly?’

  He nodded. ‘Fly with me, Katerina? If you are sure?’

  She hesitated, more for form’s sake than because she had any doubts. ‘I am very sure,’ she said.

  * * *

  She took him to her room, for only she and Alexei occupied that floor, and her brother had told her he would be away all day. As she closed and locked the door, Fergus pulled her into his arms. ‘Katerina...’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said, this time much more firmly. ‘But I’m also nervous.’

  Fergus kissed her, his lips gentle on hers, his fingers twining in her hair. ‘I’m nervous too. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. I’m afraid I might not be able to wait.’

  Katerina smiled. ‘I don’t want you to.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘And I intend to do my very best to make the waiting worthwhile. For both of us.’

  He kissed her again, and her nerves began to subside as his mouth melded with hers and their tongues tangled fiercely. His fingers rifled through her hair, tugging it free of its pins. He feathered kisses along her jaw, on the sensitive skin behind her ear, down the line of her throat, along the swell of her breasts at the modest neckline of her gown. Her flesh rose and fell rapidly as he kissed her there, his hands cupping her breasts, stroking her nipples. She moaned. She ached. Deep inside her, she began to throb.

  She slid her hands inside his riding coat, smoothing her palms over his back. ‘Take it off,’ she demanded, and he laughed, doing as she bid him. ‘And that,’ she said nodding at his waistcoat, made confident by the way he looked at her, his eyes slumberous with passion. ‘And this,’ she said, pulling the complex knot in his cravat undone. ‘And this
.’ She tugged his shirt free from his breeches. He kissed her hard on the mouth, before wrenching the shirt over his head, the action making his muscles flex and ripple. In the sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains, the rough smattering of hair on his chest gleamed gold. The dip of his belly was in shadow. When he folded his arms around her, the heat of his skin made her shiver. She brushed his chest with her lips. She smoothed her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, pressing gentle kisses to the gouge that the musket ball had made, and then to the scar on his belly.

  He muttered her name, his voice oddly hoarse, claiming her lips once again, his hands on the ties of her gown. It slid to the ground in a soft rustle. She would have left it there, but Fergus picked it up, draping it carefully over a chair. As if she cared. But he did. Lovely, lovely man.

  She wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself tight against him. Their kisses became more urgent. She could feel his arousal, pressed hard against her belly. She arched into him, making him moan. He was loosening her corset, making shorter work of it than she ever did. It fell to the floor, unlike her gown, unheeded. Her chemise slid down over her shoulders. His lips were soft on her nipple, eliciting an aching drag that merged with the slow, insistent pulse inside her. He took his time, his hand on one breast, his mouth on the other. She closed her eyes, clutching at his shoulders, whimpering as her senses flared at his touch.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Fergus murmured. ‘You are so lovely. Quite perfect.’

  She was wearing only her stockings and garters. Her body was lean and supple. It was the perfect body for an acrobat, for a tightrope walker, but she had never before considered it perfect in any other way. But Fergus said so, and she believed him. Under his gaze, she felt her last inhibitions unfurl. She smiled at him, a sensual smile she had not known she possessed. ‘Now you.’

  He kicked off his riding boots and undid the fastenings of his buckskin breeches. His thighs were muscled. There was another scar, a long thin spidery line, on his left flank. Later, she would trace it with her fingers, as she had traced the others, wanting to memorise it. Later, she would ask him when and where. But now, he stood naked before her and she exhaled sharply. His arousal jutted upwards, the skin stretched taut, with such a silken quality.

  ‘May I touch you?’

  He nodded and took her hand, wrapping her fingers around his length. He was so hard, the skin satin-soft. Her touch was making his chest rise and fall more rapidly. His eyes were fixed on her hand, the pupils large with desire. The throbbing inside her intensified. Tentatively, she stroked him. He groaned. She stroked him again, and he shuddered.

  ‘Wait.’ He stilled her hand. ‘Ladies first,’ he said, with a wicked smile, as he picked her up and set her on the bed.

  He kissed her again, but not on her lips. His mouth was on the soft flesh inside her thighs. When he licked between her legs, kissing that most intimate part of her, she closed her eyes, lost in the slide and stroke of his mouth and his tongue. She didn’t dare imagine what he was doing. She didn’t care. She was climbing higher and higher with every stroke. She was tense, tight, braced, as if on the edge of the tallest ladder, balanced on the highest tightrope. She wanted to take the first step. She wanted to prolong the anticipation. She arched under him as he licked her again, moaning, muttering inarticulately in her native language, and then it happened, she was flying, soaring, calling out his name as she climaxed, her fingers clutching at the sheets, her heels digging into the mattress, the throbbing, pulsing waves of pleasure taking her higher than she had ever been before.

  As the last pulses eddied, she sat up, pulling him towards her, kissing him deeply. His naked body covered hers, burning skin on burning skin, but it wasn’t enough. ‘Now, Fergus,’ she said.

  ‘Are you...?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘I’ll be careful. I promise.’

  ‘Yes, I know you will.’

  He kissed her again, his hands under her bottom to tilt her towards him. The tip of his shaft nudged against her sex. He hesitated. She realised, with a shock, that he really was nervous. It eased her own tension. She slid her hands around his back, smoothed them over the muscles of his buttocks. ‘Now,’ she said.

  He eased himself inside her slowly. She was tight, but she was wet. No pain, only an odd friction as he pushed higher, and higher still. She felt as if she were being unfolded. Sweat stood out on his temples when they were finally, completely united. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Katerina said.

  It was a rhythm she did not recall from before, it felt like nothing else, the slow push and pull of him inside her, the drag of her muscles on his, the beginning of another climb, to different heights. She wrapped her legs around his waist, wanting him deeper. He groaned. When he leaned over to kiss her, she wrapped her arms around his neck, wanting to feel all of him, skin and muscle, against her, inside her. He thrust faster. She met him, holding him, clinging to him. He thrust again, harder this time, and she met him again, urging him on with her hands and her mouth, and inside, the tension built and built. Harder. Higher. Higher. Harder. This time her climax took her unawares, a tripping fall that she could not stop, sending her spiralling, pulsing against him, pushing him over the top. With a hoarse cry, he pulled himself free to spill outside her.

  She knew, as she looked at him lying beside her, his eyes glazed with spent passion, his chest heaving, his cheeks flushed, that making love to him had been an enormous mistake. She had once thought that nothing would ever exceed the thrill of the tightrope but this—this was unsurpassable. It had been every bit as wonderful as she’d imagined, but it had not been enough. It would never be enough.

  Her stupid heart gave a sickening lurch. The urge to throw herself on top of him, to twine her body around him, to cling and to never let go, terrified her. Curling her toes and her fingers in an effort to stop herself acting, she lay inert at his side. She had promised Fergus that he could not hurt her. She knew that he would not, not deliberately. But without knowing, he could so very easily break her. She could not possibly risk making love to him again.

  His breathing calmed. By the time he turned to her, she had managed to regain control of her feelings—though she knew that control was fleeting. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said.

  He said nothing for a long moment, studying her face, though his own was oddly blank. Only when he finally nodded, got out of bed and began to dress, she realised she had not, after all, been willing him to go. She had been desperately hoping that he would stay.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday June 20th

  Brockmore Manor House Party

  Programme of Events

  Annual Midsummer Treasure Hunt

  A Celebration of Russian Cuisine with

  Dinner served in the Maze

  The morning of the Treasure Hunt looked set to be another perfect summer’s day. Sitting on the boat house jetty, Fergus watched the sun rise over the lake, turning the dawn sky from pale pink to pale blue, from the colour of Katerina’s tightrope tunic to the colour of her riding habit. The gown she’d been wearing when he found her asleep in the maze had been yellow. Yesterday, he recalled, the gown he’d helped remove had been green, though not the green of her eyes, which he’d thought at first were emerald, but now he knew her better, he reckoned were a sort of mossy colour. In the sunlight, there were hints of gold around her iris, but in the height of passion, her eyes were much darker, and her creamy skin had a flush to it. Her hair, splayed across the pillow, was like fire.

  The memory stirred his blood. He could not recall ever experiencing such an intense climax. Afterwards, he had felt both weighted down and light as air. He hadn’t wanted to let her go. In the past, lovemaking had filled him with boundless energy, making him want to run or swim or dance or go for a gallop. Yesterday, all he’d wanted to do was stay cocooned, to hold Katerina so tightly
that their skin clung, that the lines between his body and hers were blurred. And then to make love to her again.

  The strength of his feelings had confused him, leaving him wordless. Afraid of overwhelming her with the fierceness of his passion, he had forced himself to lie still, to take his cue from her. But when the flush faded from her cheeks, the face she turned to him was curiously devoid of feeling. She’d made it clear she wanted him to leave, and in doing so made it clear to him that the thing he had wanted above all was to stay.

  He had known, as he closed the door of her bedchamber behind him, that he was in love with her, but it had taken many hours of heart-searching before he could admit it to himself. He was in love for the first time in his life, and at the age of thirty-five, he was pretty sure it was also the last. From the first moment he saw her on the tightrope he had been drawn to her. She seemed to blaze so much more brightly than any other woman he’d met, so fearless, so passionate, so exotic, so elegantly, impossibly lithe. He had desired her then, but his desire to know more of her had taken root there in the walled garden too. Blinded by his passion for the artiste, he had not noticed his love for the woman growing. He had envied her her freedom. She had given him his.

  He loved her. He loved her so much it ached. He wanted to believe she loved him. He knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her, but love? She was afraid of love. He was terrified of hurting her. Did she love him? Dear God, he hoped so. He could not bear to contemplate a life without her, though what kind of life they would have together...

  Fergus jumped to his feet. First things first. If she loved him, the future was bright. If she did not—but she must. It was surely that simple.

  * * *

  Following a night alternating between elation and despair, Katerina was restless. After Fergus had left, she had indulged in a fit of pointless tears, castigating herself for not asking him to stay. But she knew even as she fought the urge to dress and go after him that it would be a terrible mistake. She would be unable to hide her feelings, and without any idea at all what she wanted to do about those feelings—no, no, a thousand times no.