by Sally Orr
His lips brushed across hers to signal his need, and somehow her need was the same. His body stiffened as his tongue plunged to claim her mouth, while warm air passed between them in a rushed exchange. Breaths became ragged, and she grabbed his collar to steady herself as they kissed. He enclosed her within a tight embrace before lowering her onto the hot oilcloth.
The delicious kiss slowed, and their lips caressed with tenderness, not want. The stubble on his chin brushed her lips, and her rhythmic breaths slowed to match his. His broad torso created an erotic crush of her breasts, and the firmness of his thighs added to her pleasure. Their glances met, and she gasped at the carnal entreaty seen within the dark blue depths of his eyes. Their unspoken plea spurred a similar desire.
Mere inches separated them, and she watched him move his heated gaze to the left and right, as if he were memorizing her features. His firm lips brushed lightly across hers, and she welcomed the unbearable physical happiness of the long kiss that followed. He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of his chest, while his tongue sought hers. The kiss was all encompassing. Mutual gasps accelerated the relentless deep movements of lips over lips and tongue sweeping tongue.
When the kiss ended, he struggled out of his coat and laid her upon the soft silk lining. Then he hovered above her on stiff arms before lowering himself to suck and nibble her neck, his long fingers tugging at the shoulders of her gown. With a soft bite on her earlobe, he cupped her breast through the light muslin.
Exhaling an extended sigh, she let her head roll sideways, allowing him greater access to kiss the base of her neck.
His hand moved to the other breast and swept back and forth along the bottom of the swell before enclosing it with his warm palm to shove it upward. The force pushed their bodies forward several inches as if joined.
“Oh,” she gasped in liquid, languid joy.
He returned to her mouth to plant a lengthy kiss, while his hands tugged her bodice lower, imprisoning both of her upper arms.
Her breasts were pushed high and held there by her short stays. She moaned softly.
He stilled.
Leaning backwards on his knees, he gazed at her chest. “This is some chapter. Don’t remember which one now.” He slowly lowered his head before his mouth claimed the first breast. His hand found the other breast, and he began to knead and trace circles with a light touch of his palm.
Heavens. Lust heated her cheeks, and she eased the fire by rolling her head on the cool silk lining of his coat. Pulses of pleasure claimed her, and time escalated to a sudden urgency. Now.
Lifting his head, he surveyed her exposed body from her breasts up to her mouth.
She did not want him to stop his heated caresses, so her forearms flailed wildly up, putting voice to her desperation. They latched on his neckcloth and tugged upon the knot.
He batted her hands away. “Impatient reader.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat and untied his cravat knot. As he pulled the neckcloth off, the white linen slipped down the side of his neck with a swish. He twisted the cravat ends slowly around each fist, snapped it tight, and bridged the taut linen over her breasts.
She inhaled sharply.
He slid the ribbon back and forth across both peaks at the perfect tempo to escalate desire.
Arching her back to increase the pressure, she reached out to clutch his upper arms.
Then he quickened the pace.
The sweet friction across each breast continued until she wanted all of him, so she reached for the buttons on his tented falls. A second later, she focused on his watch fob, and the initials carved into the sparkling citrine. The initials were not her husband’s—not William’s. A sharp pain impaled her, caused by the wretchedness of guilt and betrayal. With the effort of reining in a runaway team of horses, she escaped the march of desire and rolled away from him.
With an extended groan, he collapsed to her side a mere foot away and lay on his back, his breaths hard and uncontrolled.
A foot separated them, but that foot might have been as wide as the Thames. In refusing him, she more than likely lost his friendship too. This was all her fault. She let her attraction flare, possibly fueled by either goodwill created by the benevolent fallacy of children or a selfish desire to seize a moment of happiness. Confused, she wanted to scream or cry or both. Instead, she ended up hitting her skirt in a gesture to remove one blade of grass, her thoughts and emotions a jumbled mess.
Once his breathing had been restored to normal, he rose to his feet. “Accept my apologies again. Clearly a record for one man in one day.”
The sardonic tone of his voice unsettled her. “Don’t… Don’t… Forgive me.” She stood and clutched his lapel. “Ross, I don’t know what to do. There must be some way to keep Berdy in Cheshire and escape society’s censure. Please, Berdy must remain here.”
He kept his eyes focused on her forehead, his lips pursed. After a long, penetrating stare, he strode off toward the stables. Fifty feet away, he turned around to address her. “My offer was a way—you refused. Handbook closed.”
Fourteen
The pickax swung in a giant arc and bit into the black dirt with a thud. Ross stared at the pickax while he tried to recall the mull he had made out of his first proposal. She refused him because she did not want to lose her freedoms. As her husband, she must have expected him to behave like an ogre.
Ross straightened and stepped aside. Today he worked at the foundry site, digging the foundation for the main chimney. One of the workmen finished a wood brattice and stepped back, allowing Ross to swing his pickax again and again and again.
He had behaved as a proper gentleman should with the offer of his hand. While his unplanned behavior at the fair had been reprehensible, he honestly tried to mend the situation by his proposal. Granted, he feared her anger the second his pronouncement escaped his lips, but there was no other option. She had a right to be angry. Hell’s fire. His mother was right; he counted two people in that carriage. Elinor also allowed their attraction to flare—twice.
With a toss of his pickax to the side, Ross and the man grabbed shovels and started filling the empty basket with loose dirt. An unspoken competition escalated between the owner and the workman. However well built, the man was no match for Ross. No one could best him this day.
She refused his offer of marriage. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to weep over her refusal, but men did not weep, so he laughed. “Ha!”
The workman paused to wipe his black brow with a filthy rag. “Aye, so that’s ’ow it is. S’ovel away, laddie, s’ovel away. Yo’ll beat the devil today.”
He realized the lease was lost, and with it the steam engine too. But he refused to abandon his plans. Another engine would not be available for months, so in the long run, he might have to consider horses or even a steam locomotive to haul his goods on a railroad. He knew of at least twenty steam engines in use today, mostly hauling coal, but the cost of the steam locomotive and tracks would be expensive. His first remedy, to dig a new canal, would also be costly. Regardless of which method he chose, the profits wouldn’t be as great as using the river. But he’d earn them in the long run—he’d damn well see to it.
The basket was quickly filled with earth and hauled to the surface by a temporary crane. Within minutes, it returned to the bottom of the pit, stacked high with bricks and new boards. Ross picked up the pickax and swung into the hard earth. He felt powerful, sharp, like a man who controlled his life. He rejoiced in his physical dominance and single-handedly filled ten more baskets with dirt. When exhausted, he climbed to the surface and perched on the edge of the pit to wait for his rampant breathing to slow. He watched the late afternoon sun sink toward the nebulous horizon.
Females. Eve should have ignored that snake and left that bloody apple alone. Women were to blame for all of man’s problems—wars not included. Men were to blame for wars—wait—Helen of Troy. “Ha!” Another allur
ing female behind all the fuss.
Hell’s fire. But men couldn’t live without females. A world peopled solely by men would start wars and clear Europe of human life within a decade. Besides, Mother was a female—enough said.
Ross shouted commands to his men. Directions were given in regard to placement of the foundation stones for the foundry, the engine house, and three sand pits. He prided himself on his men’s quick obedience, and he went on to complete his business affairs with the aplomb of a master.
His day ended with the acceptance that, as long as he lived, people would gossip about his handbook, a book they likely would never read. He also devised a new plan to handle this one very troublesome widow—avoidance. It would be best to show everyone he had, in no way, been upset by her refusal. Best to put her entirely out of his thoughts. Best to show the world she meant nothing more to him than the soft light of a summer’s dusk.
***
Parker appeared incredulous; he dropped his jaw. “Allardyce set up a bit o’ muslin on Edgeware Road. I cannot believe it. Why, the man must be at least forty.”
Two days after his failed proposal, Ross sat at the card table listening to Parker and Drexel argue over whether Allardyce had a paramour hidden away in the City. While the two men dwelled on the lurid details, Ross heard one word out of a dozen. Instead, he stared into the hearth as if he were alone in the room. Orange flames ripped around a dark log in an embrace that scorched the wood and could end only in the log’s destruction. How appropriate, his path to future success ended with the scorching finality of Elinor’s refusal of his marriage proposal.
Ross told himself all of this flirtation foolishness had just been a ruse to gain the foundry’s acceptance, so he should be thankful his freedoms would be kept. Marriage was not in his cards. Any thoughts of a more tender nature he quickly dismissed or did not dare contemplate. He tossed back a third brandy.
“Two, are you in your cups?” Drexel queried. “Do you want to stick or twist?”
Ross grumbled as he went through the motions of looking at his damn cards. The game was vingt-et-un, and after glancing at his newly dealt two of clubs, he tried to remember the combined count of his other cards. Was he near twenty-one, or would the two push him over? He needed to devise a new plan to gain the lease, not listen to Drexel and Parker attempt to gammon each other. “Twist.”
“I say, Two,” Drexel addressed Ross again. “I cannot believe your lucky escape from the parson’s mousetrap left you so Friday-faced. Don’t tell me you are in love with that ape leader of a widow?”
Ross threw his cards on the table and pushed his chair back. “My motives are entirely pecuniary, I can assure you.” He had spent the morning investigating the cost of a railroad to prepare for his journey to London. His last option was to forget the foundry altogether and set cattle out to pasture. But if he remembered rightly, and he wanted to stick to his original plan using the river, he’d have to save her reputation and entice Deane to postpone his immediate journey to London. “According to my calculations, she has as good as agreed to my lease if I restore her good name, and if you can believe it, persuade Deane to remain in the country. I apologized for my actions and did my best as a gentleman to remedy the situation with my offer. So as far as I am concerned, her reputation can go to the dogs. Still, for some reason unknown to me, if I persuade the lad to remain in Cheshire, I’m sure she’d sign anything. At least that is how I remember her wishes. Never truly know with females, do you? But every instinct I have begs me to insist she leave Deane alone. Let the young man make his own decisions.”
Parker put down his cards. “Why must the mooncalf remain in Cheshire?”
Ross paced behind his chair. “God only knows. Oh, she is worried he will come under the influence of his father, Ralph Deane. Granted the fellow is a loose screw, but how could any man harm his offspring?”
“Loose screw is putting it mildly,” Drexel said, silently twirling a single card between his fingers. “That man gets my vote for the first to sell any member of his family to the devil. I’m told he and his pals have a neat little business going on, fleecing green coves. Their accomplices lure them into a little tavern east of Covent Garden, get them foxed, strip them naked, and steal every shilling. No wonder she fears his influence. A rotten egg that man is. He does not deserve the title of gentleman.”
Parker appeared concerned, his voice taking on a righteous edge. “How horrible! He will probably force Deane into the navy, or worse. The boy will end up hanged or transported. I have a bad feeling about this, yes, yes, a bad feeling.”
Ross returned to his seat. “Right.” He picked up his cards. “The three of us can surely find a way to rescue Deane from his father—and his aunt.”
“I have it,” Parker exclaimed. “Knew I could do it, what? All you have to do is adopt the boy.”
Drexel gave a bark of laughter. “Deane’s got too many parents as it is, cabbage head. I have a better idea. Let’s go back to the scheme of saving her reputation. This will smooth the waters all around. To achieve this exalted goal, I will sacrifice myself on the altar of propriety and wed her. We’d be neighbors, ol’ man. Don’t see how any woman could refuse a generous offer like that.”
“Oh, don’t you?” Ross replied tersely. “I have learned more lately about proper ladies than I ever desired, and I’m convinced you lack the same knowledge. For example, do you know the meaning of the word ruched?”
Drexel shook his head. “No.”
“Well, I do.”
“Important?”
“Something on puffs, puffed sleeves,” Ross explained.
“Not important then. A ladies, thing?”
Ross nodded. “Yes, but you must care about this puffed thing to make them happy.”
Drexel wagged both brows. “I’ll make her happy.” He picked up a card. “Hah, twenty-one,” he exclaimed, flinging his cards into the center of the table.
“Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,” Ross said, watching Drexel lean across the table to gather his winnings.
Drexel peered up at him, his arms surrounding the pile of coins. “Sore loser.” He glanced at Parker. “Deal the cards again, man.”
“Yes, yes.” Parker turned to ask Drexel if he needed a card, but immediately faced Ross again. “I have it! We will convince either that Potts or Browne fellow to marry her. Then, after the ceremony, we will reveal our hand. She will be so grateful, she could not help but sign the lease on the spot.” A self-satisfied smirk appeared on his mouth.
“You are the most bacon-brained creature that ever lived,” Drexel stated.
Ross stared at his cards. “I believe that Browne character already offered, so I am beginning to think she wants to remain shunned by Polite Society.”
Parker stiffened. “I still think my idea is a good one. We will convince the good doctor then. Might be easy. As I understand from Maggie down at the Lion, the fellow is in dun territory, so he’s looking to wed a lady with a substantial fortune.”
“If she refused my offer,” Ross said, “and Browne’s, why would she agree to the Potts fellow? She says she can never marry again, because she is in love with her late husband.”
Parker held up his cards to examine them, but his hand immediately dropped to the table. “How could she love a dead man? I mean, the cove was probably a fine fellow, but he is dead now, isn’t he?”
“God save Mrs. Parker,” Drexel remarked, shifting in his seat to face Ross.
“Leave my mother out of it,” Parker exclaimed.
Ross and Drexel burst into laughter.
Parker glanced under the table.
Drexel hastily sat upright and said, “If marriage is out, that means our only course of action is to make the locals, the entire county of Cheshire, believe you are the villain. She’ll then become an innocent victim of your wiles and will become so grateful, she will sign the lease.�
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With a completely stolid expression, Ross said, “I cannot imagine how you can make me out as the villain.”
Now Drexel and Parker joined in a crack of laughter.
Ross ignored them. “The two of you will end up in Bedlam.”
“Nonsense,” Drexel said. “You know I am right. The only way to save her honor is to lessen yours. Convince the town you are a famous rake, then they will all flock to her defense, believe me.”
Parker frowned at Drexel. “And just how is he supposed to do that? Walk down the high street, seducing every woman in sight? Oh, that reminds me of another song from the Coal Hole. My candle burns bright—”
“No!” Ross ignored Parker’s wounded-puppy expression. “No songs.” Ross believed he might have outgrown the sensibilities of his friends. “This is important. Now, from information I received on my first day here, the town already believes I’m a famous rake. Never-ending gossip about the handbook, I would imagine. I doubt anyone has read it, either that, or the whole town rushed out to purchase copies. Still, men routinely stop me on the high street with vulgar inquiries. Surprising how one book, written as a lark, changed our lives forever, and not for the better. Promise me you will never say anything to Lady Helen.”
“Promise,” Parker said, crossing his heart.
Drexel nodded.
“Besides, we all know the rake business is complete fustian.” He smoothed his forelock back into place. “It being so undeserved. I mean, it’s not as though I ever seduced an innocent. And one married woman, or two, or three, only qualifies you as amorous, not a rake.”
Drexel asked for another card. “Three women? You jest. When you were in your prime, more like ten married ladies at a time flocking around you. You must admit you had more than your share.”
“Not my fault, was it?” Ross noticed Parker quickly look under the table and Drexel immediately shift in his chair.
Parker dealt himself another card. “It is your teeth, you know. The ladies seem to find your teeth remarkable.”