by Cheryl Holt
He had her pressed to the box of the pianoforte, and he was so large and solid and...male. The realization was unbelievably stimulating, and without hesitating, she jumped into the fray to gleefully partake of the experience.
His arms were wrapped around her, and his hands were busy, his fingers touching her everywhere. Her pulse raced, her skin prickling with anticipation. He drew her even closer, and he was licking at her lips, and instinctively, she understood what he wanted. She opened wide and welcomed him into her mouth.
From there, it grew even more invigorating. His tongue was sliding in and out, in and out, in a rhythm he imitated with his hips down below. The feel of him there, at her most secret, private place, was almost too much to bear. She truly started to wonder if she might not shatter into pieces before they were through.
She couldn’t guess how it might have concluded, because out in the hall, a couple tiptoed by. They were whispering, laughing, and likely headed off to an assignation. Mr. Drake froze and pulled away, and he glared at her, visually warning her to be silent until the pair had passed by.
As the hallway quieted, Amelia shuddered with relief. If the lovers had picked the music room for their tryst, it would have ruined all her plotting. There would have been a big brouhaha about her being sequestered with Mr. Drake, followed by expectations of a proposal he would have never tendered.
Under Barbara’s shrewd guidance, Amelia was getting to know him, was beginning to suspect there might be a tiny glimmer of possibility that Amelia could snag him for her own. Yet they weren’t anywhere near that spot.
He stepped away from her, and with the sudden loss of his body’s heat, she felt cold and very alone. She tamped down a shiver.
With their flare of ardor so swiftly extinguished, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act, but she was certain—had Barbara been present—she’d have advised Amelia to be composed and nonchalant.
She arched a brow and smirked. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“High praise indeed.”
“I might let you try it again someday—if you’re very, very lucky.”
“Luck has naught to do with it. It’s all skill, Miss Hubbard.”
“You should probably call me Amelia. It’s not as if we’re strangers anymore.”
He studied her forever, then finally said, “I believe I’ll stick with Miss Hubbard.”
“Miss Hubbard it is then, Mr. Drake.”
They stared and stared, and it seemed there should be more to say, something pithy and flirtatious, but she wasn’t a trollop and had no idea how to fascinate him.
“Perhaps next time,” she told him, “you’ll sing a song for me.”
“I don’t think there will be a next time.”
“Why wouldn’t there be? It appears, Mr. Drake, that where you and I are concerned, there’s no telling what might happen.”
She slipped away and strolled out without a backward glance. She shut the door, then continued down the hall, but once she rounded the corner where he couldn’t look out and see her, she collapsed against the wall. Her knees were weak, her legs rubbery and unsteady.
She hadn’t grasped that lust could be so affecting, that it could leave a person so rattled. She actually had to brace herself with a palm on the plaster.
For many minutes, she lingered, letting her breathing slow, letting her elation settle. When she was more in control, she straightened and kept on. And she was smiling.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“She’s your responsibility.”
“Mine!”
Lucas glared at his father. They were in his father’s library, Lord Sidwell seated behind his desk. Lucas paced in front of it as he frequently had when he was a boy who’d committed an infraction that required explanation and would result in a sound whipping.
“You’re the one who dragged her away from that blasted school,” Lucas griped.
“And you were the one who was supposed to marry her, but you wouldn’t.”
“You never even asked me if it was what I wanted!”
“I shouldn’t have to. I’m your father, and a dutiful son knows to obey.”
“Like Aaron.”
“Yes, exactly like Aaron.”
Lucas scoffed. “You goaded him into proposing to that ghastly Priscilla. If that’s the fate that comes from obedience, I’ll pass, thank you very much.”
“Priscilla is a charming girl,” Lord Sidwell said with a straight face.
“Don’t change the subject by talking about Aaron and Priscilla.”
“What’s the subject again?” His father was a halfwit and renowned for being unable to focus for more than a few seconds at a time.
“Miss Hubbard is the subject,” Lucas scolded. “You conveyed her to London, then you abandoned her to Barbara Middleton.”
“It seemed like a good idea.”
“A good idea? Mrs. Middleton is the most scandalous woman in the kingdom, and you dumped Miss Hubbard on her without pondering the consequences.”
“What consequences? Mrs. Middleton is feeding, clothing, housing, and entertaining her—at her own expense. Why would I complain?”
“She’s not just feeding and entertaining her,” Lucas grumbled.
“What else is she doing?”
“She’s flaunting Miss Hubbard around the city! Apparently, Mrs. Middleton is accepting offers from rakes who would like to seduce Miss Hubbard.”
“You made it clear that you don’t want her,” Lord Sidwell huffed. “Why would you care if some other fellow does?”
“It’s unseemly.”
“Unseemly? That’s rich, coming from you.”
“You can’t let her stay over there.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I chatted with her last evening. She appeared to be fine and happy, and there’s more company for her at Mrs. Middleton’s than there is in this quiet, drafty monstrosity.”
“She’s a complete innocent”—Lucas felt uncharacteristically panicked about the entire situation—“and the vultures are circling. They’ll eat her alive.”
“They’ll probably enjoy it too. She’s looking quite fetching these days.”
“Is that all you can say? That the rakes will enjoy themselves? By the time Mrs. Middleton is finished, Miss Hubbard’s reputation will be shredded.”
“Again, Lucas, why would you care?”
The question stymied Lucas.
Why had he visited his father? It was always pointless, as if they spoke different languages. And why insert himself in Miss Hubbard’s dire predicament? It was idiotically futile.
She didn’t want his assistance, but after he’d kissed her in the music room, he was disturbed to find himself rattled by it. She was like a disease in his blood, like a bothersome gnat he had to swat away.
The embrace had been unbearably thrilling, leaving a lasting impression that made him eager to kiss her again, to kiss her often and regularly, and the realization scared him to death.
What was happening? Why was he so unsettled? He was starting to seem obsessed. Was he?
“What if she ends up ruined?” Lucas asked.
“I hardly see how it’s my problem.”
“You brought her here! You tossed her into this mess.”
“She’s an adult. She understands the circumstances.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does! You’ve rebuffed her, so she needs to arrange a different situation for herself—and fast. Hopefully, Mrs. Middleton will hook her up with some fellow who likes a pretty face and who has a fat purse. She’ll be all right.”
“But...but...”—Lucas was so incensed he was sputtering—“any man Mrs. Middleton picks for her won’t have matrimony in mind. Miss Hubbard will wind up as a paramour.”
Lord Sidwell nodded. “Yes, she will.”
“You don’t care?”
“She’s nothing to me but another girl in a long line of girls I’ve selected for you.” A slyness came over Lord Sidwell. “Besides, if she runs off with a libertine, I’
ll get to retain her dowry as damages. I won’t have to give it back—not that there’s anyone to give it back to.”
Lucas studied his father, then shook his head. “That’s very likely the most offensive remark you’ve ever uttered in my presence.”
“You’ve never worried about money—it flows through your fingers like water—so you can’t fathom how relieved I was to receive her dowry. I view it as my reward for all of my funds you’ve squandered over the years.”
“Is that what keeps you up at night? Whether or not you’ll be allowed to keep Miss Hubbard’s dowry?”
“It doesn’t keep me up, but Miss Peabody paid it to me, and she’s deceased. It’s not as if Miss Hubbard has a father to demand its return. The money is my reparation for the trouble you caused by refusing her.”
“So this is my fault?”
“Of course it’s your fault. Who else’s would it be? If Miss Hubbard meets a bad end, you’ll need to do some soul searching.”
“Me!”
“You could have prevented any harm by marrying her yourself, but as usual, you’re too thickheaded to behave appropriately.”
Lucas sighed. In dealing with his father, they always reverted to Lucas’s shortcomings. No matter what the topic, no matter the conduct, Lucas was blamed.
He was used to it. He expected it, but he’d never been good at accepting culpability, especially when he wasn’t the culprit. Where Miss Hubbard was concerned, why was he responsible for what happened to her?
He hadn’t asked to have her thrust into his life. He hadn’t asked to be burdened with her welfare. How could a catastrophe—one she was orchestrating herself—be laid at his feet?
“Never mind,” he mumbled. “I don’t know why I talk to you. It’s a waste of breath.”
“I could say the same,” his father replied. Lucas started out, and his father inquired, “Will you stay for supper?”
“No.”
“Where will you be?”
“I have no idea.”
“What if I need to contact you?”
“I can’t imagine why you would.”
Lucas kept on, but his father piped up with, “There’s a pile of mail in the hall. Would you deliver it for me?”
“Who’s it for?”
“Miss Hubbard. Her correspondence has been trailing after her as she traveled to Sidwell Manor, then to London. This morning, we received a stack of letters addressed to her.”
“I have no desire to traipse over to Mrs. Middleton’s like a messenger boy. And I certainly have no desire to call on Miss Hubbard.”
“Fine. I’ll have a servant take it.”
“That’s what servants are for,” Lucas groused, and he hurried out before his father could stop him again.
* * * *
“Well, well,” George Drake mused. “What do you know?”
In all his fighting with Lucas, bickering with Lucas, pleading with Lucas, he’d never once had Lucas fret about any subject. To hear him wax on about Miss Hubbard, to hear him complaining about her conduct, was a novel and thrilling development.
Lucas was worried enough about her that he’d shown up in the middle of the afternoon to rage about the scoundrels who were lurking. Who could have predicted such a result?
George grinned. He’d been picking brides for Lucas for six or seven years, and Lucas had never so much as remembered the name of any of them from one minute to the next. What was George to make of it?
He was determined that Lucas marry. Bachelors needed taming, needed to have their wings clipped, and Lucas was no exception. The entire kingdom was at risk with him having so much leisure time. There was no telling what harm he might perpetrate.
For the good of society, he had to wed, and if Miss Hubbard could bring it about, George had every intention of signing over the estate she’d been promised. She would remove Lucas to Surrey, would keep him at home for as long as she was able. Each day that Lucas was with her in the country—and out of the city—would be a blessing, and George would produce that conclusion if it killed him.
He listened as Lucas stomped out of the house, and George figured it might be wise to have a servant tag after him to find out what entertainments he’d attend that evening. Obviously, Miss Hubbard had gotten under Lucas’s skin, and George wasn’t too proud to send a note to Mrs. Middleton to apprise her of where Lucas was likely to be. Wherever Lucas visited, Miss Hubbard should be there too.
George rose and went to the hall to summon the butler. As he glanced at the table where the mail had been placed, he was stunned to discover that Miss Hubbard’s letters were gone. Lucas was the only person who had passed by and could have taken them.
“Well, well,” George mused again. “It looks as if Lucas will play the part of messenger after all.”
George would have given his right arm to be a mouse in the corner, watching as Lucas arrived. He decided to gift Barbara Middleton with a celebratory bottle of brandy. The scheme she’d hatched with the girl was definitely working.
* * * *
“Mr. Drake is here.”
“Mr. Drake? Now?”
“Yes,” Barbara’s butler blandly said. He was always stoically reserved, never exhibiting the slightest hint that he was shocked by any of the goings-on in the residence. “Shall I show him in?”
Amelia peered over at Barbara, and Barbara told the butler, “Give us a few minutes to prepare. Keep him in the foyer, cooling his heels.”
He left, shutting the door behind him. She and Barbara were in the rear parlor. It was late afternoon, and Amelia was having tea while Barbara was enjoying harder spirits. They were chatting with Chase’s friend, Bryce Blair, whom Barbara had enlisted to make Mr. Drake jealous.
Amelia doubted that such a feat could be accomplished, but after the kiss she and Mr. Drake had shared, Barbara was ecstatic, convinced matters were proceeding perfectly and swiftly. Mr. Blair would help them push things to the next level.
He was a handsome rascal—tall and blond-haired with mesmerizing blue eyes and a masculine swagger similar to Mr. Drake’s. With her brother’s encouragement and permission, Mr. Blair had eagerly agreed to participate in their plotting.
Amelia thought he was precisely the type of rogue who could lure a female into all sorts of trouble. She also suspected his reputation matched Mr. Drake’s in every way. If Mr. Drake could be goaded into a reaction by another man flirting with Amelia, Mr. Blair was certainly one who could render the response they sought.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Barbara gleefully stated.
“I don’t like that gleam in your eye,” Amelia said. “I’m starting to understand you awfully well. I can tell you’re planning mischief.”
“Of course I am. How else can you win Mr. Drake? It won’t happen without bold gestures and brazen behavior.”
“We don’t even know why he’s come,” Amelia protested.
“We don’t need to know why,” Barbara claimed. “The fact that he’s here is enough.”
“What did you have in mind?” Mr. Blair asked Barbara.
“Let’s have him think you’ve been alone for some time. How about drinking and playing cards?”
“My two favorite sports,” Mr. Blair said.
“We have to relax you.”
Barbara jumped up to rearrange the room. The tea service was whisked away. Cards were dealt, brandy poured, and she had Amelia take several swallows.
“He should smell liquor on your breath,” Barbara explained. “He’ll be furious to suppose you’ve been imbibing with Bryce.”
“I really can’t imagine he will be,” Amelia said. “I can’t picture him being upset about me for any reason.”
“You’re such a ninny, Amelia. I’m an expert on men, and you aren’t. Mr. Drake is in a dither or he wouldn’t have visited.”
Mr. Blair removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves as Barbara yanked the combs from Amelia’s chignon. The lengthy tresses fell down her back, and she was disturbed by her disheveled
condition. Despite their scheming against Mr. Drake, it was horridly inappropriate for Mr. Blair to see her with her hair down.
She scowled at Barbara, and Barbara chided, “Do you want an estate in Surrey or not?”
“Yes, I want it.”
“Then don’t complain. Honestly, it’s just your hair. You won’t expire over it.”
Barbara reseated them so they were sitting together on the fainting couch by the fire. She took a final glance around to ensure she hadn’t forgotten anything, but she was pleased with what she’d wrought.
She grinned. “This will be so much fun. I wish I could stay and watch.”
“You have an absurd sense of humor.” Amelia sounded like a scold.
“Try to be flirtatious, Amelia. I know it’s difficult for you, but try.”
“I will,” Amelia promised.
“Don’t worry about her,” Mr. Blair said. “I’ll be flirtatious enough for both of us.”
“Marvelous,” Barbara gushed. “I’ll have the butler send in Mr. Drake. Be ready.”
She snuck out and, momentarily, Amelia heard footsteps approaching. The butler arrived in the doorway and announced, “Mr. Drake to see you, Miss Hubbard.”
He shuffled off, and as Mr. Drake appeared in his place, Mr. Blair picked up a glass of brandy and held it to Amelia’s lips as if he was encouraging her to drunkenness.
She laughed and shoved the glass away, then peeked over at Mr. Drake who was as still as a marble statue.
“Mr. Drake, this is a surprise.” She hoped she looked naughty, as if she’d been caught doing what she oughtn’t. “I wasn’t expecting you to stop by again.”
“Hello, Drake,” Mr. Blair snarled, and he leaned in a little closer to Amelia. “Why are you here?”
Mr. Drake didn’t reply. He simply narrowed his gaze, as if attempting to get a clearer view of what he was witnessing. Ultimately, he nodded at Mr. Blair and said, “You two seem awfully cozy.”
Mr. Blair responded, “Amelia and I are becoming great friends. Aren’t we, dear?”
“Yes,” Amelia agreed. “He humors me immensely.”
Heat flashed in Mr. Drake’s eyes. “I’m sure your brother likes him too.”
“Of course Chase likes him. Chase introduced us.”