With that, he pushed her down onto the bed and kicked the covers to its foot. She lay on her back, exposed, her shift rucked up above her thighs. He settled astride her, his magnificent erection massaging her mound, and the softness of his balls teasing her thighs. She quivered, as need speared through her.
When he ran his hands slowly up her flanks, she lifted her bottom to release the shift. After a brief entanglement, he freed her of it, leaving her vulnerable, open, wanting.
Then he lowered his head and drew his hot, moist tongue over one yearning nipple, eliciting a gasp from her. She ran her hands down his back, relishing the satiny surface of his unblemished skin. While his mouth dealt with one nipple, his fingers toyed with the other, and his free hand spanned her belly, stroking the creases either side of her mound, teasing and tantalising.
“You are delicious.” His voice enwrapped her like a hot summer’s day, making her shudder in delight. His expert stimulation of her nipples had her clenching and unclenching her thighs in response, as her head rocked back and forth.
Suddenly his lips were gone, and his body had shifted further down the bed. He was stopping already? She gave a mew of disappointment.
He looked at her, smiling that wicked, feral grin again. “Move your legs apart, I pray.”
It wasn’t fair—she couldn’t touch him when he was all the way down there. But she obliged and was eternally grateful that she had. He knelt, his hair brushing her feminine curls, his fingers parting her folds. Then his tongue delved in and spread heat over every inch of the delicate skin.
When he found the small nub of flesh hidden in the engorged folds, a tidal wave of sensation buffeted her. Frederick had never done that. Her body heaved up, her breath coming in quick pants as Conall’s fingers slipped inside her, and began a rhythmic stroking.
No, this was too much. It wasn’t right. She wanted him, all of him, craved the joining he had not yet given her. But it was too late. His knowing fingers had taken her beyond pleasure and into ecstasy, where she rocked and cried out softly until the intensity of his touch was almost a pain. She peaked, as ripple after ripple of unearthly delight rolled over her, shipwrecking her on the shores of her own pleasure.
It was some time before she was able to speak again. “Now you.” Breathlessly, she reached for him and grasped his erection.
He removed her fingers gently. “No, my darling, not yet. This is meant just for you.”
“Nonsense. This is for me. Let me please you.”
He closed his eyes and groaned as she grasped him again, putting into play everything Frederick had taught her. Soon Conall was moaning and rolling his head, thrusting his hips against her as she increased the pressure and the friction.
He didn’t join with her, but when he found his climax and spilt his essence, she knew an enormous sense of power and satisfaction. He had believed himself in control. She’d proved him wrong.
She played with his hair while he lay spent on top of her, drowsing in the all-consuming aftermath of physical satiation. After a while, he roused himself and cleaned them both with the washcloth. Then he pulled the covers over their naked bodies and cradled her head on his shoulder, holding her close.
“Miss Normanton. You are the most incredible woman I have ever met. I beg of you, stay with me. Don’t be tempted away by another man.” His voice was uneven, as was his breathing. She sensed she had stormed the bastion of his body—and won. But it would take more than love-making to keep him—she knew that from bitter experience.
But why spoil such an earthshattering moment? “I won’t leave you, Conall Methuen. Josephine was the utmost fool.”
And she hoped, as she closed her eyes and snuggled closer, nothing would prevent her from keeping her promise.
Chapter 13
Conall kept Hestia talking deep into the night. Each time she went quiet, or her eyelids drooped, he introduced another topic of conversation or started caressing her until she was awake and interested again. It meant he would be tired himself when they set off in the morning, but it was more important she be sleepy. Otherwise, it would be impossible to carry out his plan of taking her to her parents’ home without her realising.
Having already established she wasn’t overly familiar with London, he treated her to an enormous luncheon at the Angel Inn in the Strand, then took a hackney carriage to Saville Row. There he procured a valise, some new shirts, and small clothing, as well as a jacket of bottle green with breeches to match. If he was going to be meeting his future in-laws shortly, he wanted to make a good impression.
Hestia refused all offers to buy her a new gown, bonnet or reticule, claiming she didn’t want to feel like a kept woman any longer. She waited dutifully all the time he was at his tailor’s, drinking coffee in the small dressing room made over for her use, and reading her way through that day’s Morning Chronicle.
He was pleased to see how weary she looked by the time they returned to the Angel to collect the carriage and his servants and hire fresh horses.
“You live on the eastern side of London, you say? I take it we haven’t much further to go?”
How he loved walking with Hestia on his arm, able to admire her whenever he wanted! Mama would be so pleased—she’d really taken to the young woman during Hestia’s brief sojourn at Spyle Court. And mamas were always keen to see their children wed, were they not?
“Not much further, no. But it can take an age to navigate the London streets if they’re packed. We should arrive late afternoon, or early evening.” It pained him to lie so blatantly, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised taking her to her home was the only solution. He would still marry her, whatever happened, but she would be so much happier if all was right and proper with her parents. And they needed to know she’d been duped by Ebbworth. He himself was testament to that man’s bad character. With his testimony in support of hers, the Normantons should understand how little chance their naive daughter had had against a determined blackguard like Ebbworth.
As they got underway, Hestia settled her head on his shoulder once more. His heart warmed at the trust she had in him, although he didn’t deserve it at this precise moment. He gently removed her bonnet, and rested his chin on her hair, revelling in its rich scent. And felt himself the luckiest man in London.
Fortunately for him, she slept all the way to Dunmow and didn’t awaken until they changed horses again at the Saracen’s Head. It was dusk by that point, but not dark enough for her not to recognise she was no longer in London.
As she sat bolt upright and stared out the window, he steeled himself for the coming storm.
“Where are we, Conall? This looks familiar.”
“You will probably have been to Dunmow. It’s not far from your home.”
Her face paled in the fading light. “We’re in Essex? Oh, Conall, how could you? You said we were going to your house.”
He grasped her hand. “I don’t expect to be forgiven for such treachery. But I hope, in time, you’ll understand it’s for the best. There’s no need to stay with your parents if we’re not welcome. We can return here to the Saracen’s Head and take a room. Two rooms, if you still hate me. But I cannot believe you’ll be truly complete again until you’ve made your peace with your mother and father. Who knows what they have suffered in your absence? They should, at the very least, be assured you’re alive, in good health, and well protected.”
Her face was grim, her dark eyes narrowed at him. The pert mouth was pressed tight, and he could feel the maelstrom thundering through her body. In her place, he’d feel exactly the same. But sometimes, one had to brazen things out. Because it was vital to one’s happiness.
“I’m not going.” She pulled away from him and sat down opposite, putting her bonnet back on.
He spread his hands. “What else are you going to do? It’s almost night. We have to hurry if we want to reach Thaxted before they’ve all gone to bed.”
“I don’t want to go to Thaxted at all. You are a loath
some deceiver, Conall Methuen.”
Loathsome? He didn’t like the sound of that. “As bad as Ebbworth?”
“At this moment in time, I couldn’t say there was much to choose between you.”
He’d known she’d fight back but was not prepared for the agony her words caused him. He hadn’t realised how much he’d opened his heart to her. And now, quite justifiably, she was piercing it with arrows.
The carriage jerked. The fresh horses were being harnessed up. Not more than half an hour’s run lay between him and his objective—perhaps less.
She averted her head and refused to look at him. “We’ll be turned away. I know my father.”
“In which case I’d better arrange for Miners and Gaisford to spend the night at the inn, and we’ll go on alone.”
Her head whipped around. “You will drive the carriage?”
“But of course. I’ll teach you to drive it too—when we’re married. Although I understand you may not be feeling all that amenable to the idea at this particular moment.”
“Quite right. But let us continue with the servants and see what we will see. Although I warn you, you are sure to be disappointed.”
The coach rocked as Miners and Gaisford ascended onto the box. Conall tapped on the roof to indicate the coach could depart.
“Look, if your mama and papa aren’t interested, we’ll simply come back here and sort things out in the morning. But I firmly believe we have to try this. Your father needs to know what a monster Frederick Ebbworth is, and how he took advantage of you.”
She chewed at her lip. “I’m not saying I agree, but I sense you’re going to be stubborn about this. So, it may be best to get it over with. But take my word for it, I have no intention of marrying anyone who could trick me the way you just have. What good is a marriage not based on trust?”
His heart ached. “I swear this is the one and only time I will ever lie to you. And yes, I agree, a marriage based on trust is essential, but is it not also important there should be some love in that marriage too?”
Her eyes widened. “I never said I loved you. Nor am I likely to, now.”
Ah, the final shaft. His heart shattered. “I deserve that, I know.” He hung his head and picked at his glove, feeling more wretched than he had in months. That damned Frederick Ebbworth had a lot to answer for.
When he had recovered himself, he looked Hestia full in the eye. “I know you won’t believe this, or want to, but there would be love in our marriage. For the simple reason that I have fallen in love with you.”
It wasn’t how he’d meant to make his declaration, bumping along a country road in the dark, faced with a betrayed and angry woman. But if it would help smooth things over between them, it needed to be said.
Her eyebrows shot up. “You love me? How can I believe you?”
“I would lay my life down for you, for your honour. I’ll not have the world look at you sideways. You have every right to be centre stage, and I intend to put you there. Preferably with the support of your parents. It has to start with them—the rest will follow.”
“Oh, Conall!” Her face worked, and her eyes were moist. Was he winning? He sincerely hoped he was.
She leaned across and took his hand. Her voice was soft as she looked up at him. “I would love to take you at your word, but Frederick said much the same to me when we eloped. I long to trust you, but you’ve made it well-nigh impossible.”
At that moment, he knew a fury so fierce, it shocked him. He hated Ebbworth more than before—if that were even possible. Death was too good for him. God forbid he ever lay hands on that man again—he couldn’t be answerable for the consequences.
Chapter 14
Hestia hadn’t anticipated the range of emotions that cannoned through her when she saw Clement’s House again. Anguish, fear, guilt—even a flash of joy at being in familiar surroundings.
There were still a few lights visible through the windows of the neat Queen Anne building. It faced the main street, barricaded behind tall metal railings, allowing the occupants to observe daily life as it passed by, without necessarily having to participate in it.
She had barely time to compose herself before Conall raised his walking cane and rapped smartly on the door. She hovered at his elbow, wondering if there was still time to slip away before it was answered, but their manservant, Henshawe, was quick in responding.
“Great heavens, Miss Hestia! What a relief it is to see you.”
Her heart warmed at this positive welcome from their old family retainer. He had, at one time, served under the Colonel as a foot soldier, and his loyalty to the family was invaluable.
“Good evening, Henshawe, and thank you. Are Mama or Papa at home?”
“They are indeed, miss.” His gaze shot towards Conall, and his expression darkened. “This will be a great shock to them, I think. Shall I announce the gentleman too?” He imbued the word gentleman with considerable disdain, but Conall merely smiled and doffed his hat.
“You may tell them the Earl of Corsbury is here, if you wish. Though I doubt the Colonel is acquainted with me.”
“Very well.” Henshawe turned and disappeared into the house without inviting them in. Conall looked down at Hestia. “Well?”
“I suppose we’d better stay here. Papa can’t enjoy the pleasure of slamming the door in my face if we’re already inside.”
After a silent, uncomfortable wait, during which her mood plummeted, a hubbub of voices was heard, followed by the clatter of metal and a sharp, feminine shriek.
Next moment her father hurtled through the front door, dressed only in his banyan and smoking cap, brandishing a rapier.
“I’ll run you through for defiling my daughter, you contemptible mongrel!”
There was a further shriek, this time from her own throat, but before she could move, Conall had put up his cane and deflected her father’s intended thrust, then neatly disarmed him with a flick of the wrist. He calmly picked up the sword from the front steps and handed it back to Papa.
With admirable aplomb, he said, “If you wish to settle this like gentlemen, I shall oblige you on the morrow. In the meantime, however, I suspect you’ll be very interested to hear what I have to say.”
At that moment, Hestia’s mama burst through the door, elbowing her beetroot-faced husband aside. She paused, ran her eyes over Hestia, then dragged her against her bosom.
“Oh, my darling child. We’ve been beside ourselves with worry. Are you come back to us now?”
Well, Papa, at least, had acted as expected. Although he’d attacked her suspected defiler, rather than Hestia herself, that moment would doubtless come. Mama’s warm welcome was a complete surprise—she’d expected recriminations, resentment, anger. Not this outpouring of affection.
She disentangled herself but kept hold of her mother’s arm. “There’s much to tell, but please, stop Papa from glaring murder at poor Lord Corsbury. He had nothing to do with my disappearance. He merely found me and has brought me home to you.”
Mama gazed at her a moment. Then she stiffened her posture and said firmly, “William, I already lost my daughter. I do not intend to lose my husband. For kill you, Lord Corsbury surely will, as he’s much younger and fitter than you are. Put that dratted sword away.”
Conall bowed his head but kept his cane readied. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Normanton. I wonder, rather than make a spectacle for your neighbours to enjoy, might we come indoors?”
There was a loaded silence. Finally, Papa took a step backwards and inclined his head towards the hallway.
With utmost politeness, Conall asked, “Shall I dismiss the coach?”
Papa looked less likely now to have an apoplectic fit, but his mustachios bristled fiercely. “Send it around to the Swan,” he snapped. “Be sure we’ll send you after it if you don’t come up to snuff, sirrah.”
As they entered the house, Conall whispered in Hestia’s ear, “He’s a proper martinet, isn’t he, your father? I cannot blame you for wishi
ng to escape his regime.”
“Quite. And now you’ve brought me back to suffer under it some more. And Mama will endure retribution too, for welcoming me.” She turned aside, blinking away an angry tear. It was going to prove a waste of time having come here—why hadn’t Conall understood that? She should never have trusted him—had she not learned her lesson yet? All men were duplicitous.
Struggling to swallow her misgivings, Hestia divested herself of pelisse and bonnet. She took a seat in the front parlour while a sleepy—but very interested—Nancy, their maidservant, hurried about lighting lamps and candles.
Mama settled close by and took Hestia’s hand in a vice-like grip. “I don’t know what we should offer you this time of night. Would port, and cheese, and cold rabbit pie be acceptable?”
“Most welcome, ma’am.” Conall, after his admirable feat with the walking cane, was all politeness again. Hestia noted a slight colouring of her mother’s cheeks—the man was using his aristocratic charm to good effect.
“Supper, is it?” Papa’s chin jutted out. “Feeding the enemy? You’re too soft, woman.”
“Father!” He mustn’t be permitted to embarrass her mother like that. “I implore you—be patient.”
Hestia squeezed her mama’s hand and knew a moment’s satisfaction. She’d never had the courage to stand up to her father before. Her year as an independent woman had done her some good, it seemed.
He subsided in his chair. “Very well, send for some supper, wife. But you two can begin your story while we wait. I don’t imagine I’m going to like it.”
“Papa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any harm.” Had she caused him pain? It was difficult to believe when he was behaving as if he hated her. “I was duped by a cruel and clever seducer. Not this gentleman, as he’s already told you,” she added quickly.
Mama let out a gasp. “It is as I feared, William.”
Once Ruined, Twice Shy Page 8