Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

  “But it’s understandable that you would have become withdrawn.”

  Fingers raking into his hair, he shook his head. “Understandable, perhaps. But not excusable. Gwendolyn and I were always close, more so after the death of our parents. Oh, she was always impulsive, always landing herself in predicaments from which I had to extricate her. But when she most needed the indulgent brother she had always relied upon, she found instead a distant stranger who had no patience for her antics.”

  Ivy’s hand came down lightly on his own. “Excuse me for saying so, but it sounds as though Gwendolyn has always been a teeny bit spoiled.”

  At this he did smile; how could he not? “A gross understatement if ever there was one. Of course she was spoiled. What younger sister isn’t? But she’s good-natured and kindhearted as well. And innocent. Most of all that.” He blew out a breath laden with regret at how badly he’d handled the incident last winter.

  The suddenness with which Ivy removed her hand prompted him to catch it and bring it to his lips. “That was not meant to draw any sort of comparison between you.”

  She nodded, but her gaze darted everywhere but at him. With his free hand he cupped her cheek and turned her to him. “If anything, I wish Gwen were more like you, Ivy. Brave and a bit rash, yes, but also steady and determined and . . .”

  “Yes?”

  And everything he could love in a woman, if he were to allow himself to love again.

  Being this close to her, in the intimacy of a moving carriage, roused his body to mutiny. In the flicker of bright autumn daylight sifting through the roadside trees, he became keenly aware of everything about her: the luster of her cropped curls, the soft contour of her cheeks, the perfect angle of her pretty nose.

  Resolve became lost in the magnetic draw of her lips. Simon framed her face in his hands. Right before he kissed her, he glimpsed surprise and yearning gleaming out at him in equal measure, a mingling that made her more beautiful than ever and rendered him unable to resist pressing his lips to hers.

  His arms went around her, and he pulled her into his lap, the feel of her booted, trousered legs against his own still an unaccustomed sensation, and still oddly erotic. When heady desire prompted him to sweep an arm beneath her knees and gather her closer, he reveled in the ease of doing so, and the simplicity of her own movements, unencumbered by corset and skirts and petticoats.

  He loved, too, the freedom of access her attire granted him to her hips, thighs, and slender legs, not to mention the delectable curve of her bottom. Through her clothing his hands traced every part of her, raising mental images of what lay beneath until his own breeches tightened around his arousal.

  Ivy eased her lips away from his. “Simon ...”

  “Tell me to stop, I beseech you,” he whispered. When she said nothing, he caught her chin between his teeth. He tugged at her cravat, opened her collar, and licked his way down her neck. Her shivers vibrated into him until he very nearly forgot—or deliberately disregarded—the fact that they were in a carriage and not in the privacy of his curtained bed at home.

  She ran her fingers into his hair and sought his lips again. “Why do we do this?” she gasped between kisses. “Neither of us wishes permanence, not of the conventional sort. Our futures do not permit it. Mine certainly does not, and despite your honorable offer, your intentions, or lack of them, are quite clear.”

  His erection stilled in midthrob as if deliberating her assertion. Yet if he listened to the conclusion formed in that part of his anatomy, he and Ivy would be wedded and bedded—again—that very afternoon. But he didn’t listen to his desires; he listened to his brain, and the part of his heart that had suffered despair. And he listened to Ivy herself. Our futures do not permit it. Mine certainly does not. . . .

  He blinked in a marginally successful attempt to clear the lust from his brain. He couldn’t resist kissing her again, but this time with more control and slightly less fervor, just to prove to himself that he could control his passion for this woman. “It seems our bodies do not wish to cooperate with our intentions.”

  An endearing earnestness creased her brow as she considered the idea. Then with ingenuous bluntness she said, “There does seem to be a severed connection somewhere between logic and lust.”

  Her use of that last word—as unexpected from a woman as her gentlemen’s clothes—made his pulse thump and his arousal surge anew. “Damn it, Ivy.”

  He pushed her down across the seat, covered her with his body, and buried his face in her warm neck. Her arms fell above her head, and he reached up and held them there, pinned to the seat. Her back arched in response, pushing her bosom higher inside its restraints. He ran a hand beneath her waistcoat, and felt her nipples harden against his palm.

  His logic in tatters, he yanked her shirttails free and shoved her shirt and waistcoat high. Through the silk strips, he closed his lips around a tightly budded nipple. In his mouth, the fabric became wet and malleable, teasing with its sudden transparency. He slid his other hand down her length until he reached the humid warmth between her legs.

  As he had done that night in his bed, he massaged and stroked her through her trousers, seeking that tiny part of a woman that, when touched just so, commanded the very essence of her being. His attentions set her moaning, writhing. Ruddy color stained her cheeks and neck.

  Higher and higher he carried her on waves of passion, rocking to the rhythm of the bumpy road. Her moans and the moisture building against his palm heightened his own body’s needs. Desire rapped at every pulse point and squeezed the air from his lungs. Every instinct urged him to free his erection and sink mercifully into her.

  But in the next instant Ivy went rigid beneath him, and clamped her lips shut to muffle a cry. Her back arched, her eyes closed tight, and her hips came off the carriage seat to crush her sex against his shaft. Pleasure, pain, and the struggle for self-control became a barbed, twisted torture inside him, unbearable, explosive. . . . Then slightly less so, but only because of the heavy-lidded, smiling satisfaction he perceived as Ivy’s panting subsided and she opened her eyes. And because of the promise that spilled from her kiss-reddened lips.

  She said, “Tonight, back at Harrowood, I am going to learn how to do that to you.”

  Chapter 17

  As the carriage continued toward the village of Madingley, Ivy drifted back to earth with a new notion to cushion her descent.

  Could she continue to indulge in this passion for Simon without the promise of permanence? Dare she engage in a physical relationship without entertaining thoughts of marriage?

  Hadn’t she already done so?

  “What, may I ask, is so funny?” Simon helped her to sit up beside him. Then he threw an arm around her and pulled her close.

  Her last thought had indeed drawn something approaching a schoolgirlish giggle. Bookish, sensible Ivy Sutherland, fast on her way to official spinsterhood, had of late been behaving outrageously, but instead of feeling suitably ashamed, she felt . . .

  Empowered. Fulfilled. In control of her fate.

  She put her arms around him, pressed her cheek to his shoulder, and watched a field pass outside the carriage window. “It isn’t so much funny as simply invigorating. I am living by a new set of rules, ones I never imagined. I like it.”

  Had her breeches and boots made her bold? Goodness, yes. Growing up, she had often heard the adage that loose corsets engendered loose morals. Well, she wore no corset at all now, yet she didn’t believe her actions resulted from a lack of morals . . . merely different ones. Scientific properties often contradicted society’s accepted values, but that didn’t make them any less true or worthy. Ivy couldn’t see why her breach of convention shouldn’t be looked at in similar terms.

  She tipped her chin to look up at him. “That promise I just made to pleasure you as you have done for me. I intend to keep it.”

  “No, Ivy. I don’t wish you to feel obligated—”

  “I don’t. Don’t you see? We have stumbled upo
n the perfect solution. We each have reasons for remaining unattached. I respect your reasons, whatever they are, and I trust you to respect mine. But as you so astutely pointed out, our bodies are refusing to cooperate with our intentions. We want each other, Simon, and neither of us can deny it.”

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wouldn’t attempt to.”

  “Then here is a way to have each now without being tied to each other for always.”

  “Do you truly believe it can be that easy?”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. I don’t see why we should not live our lives as we see fit, as long as we don’t hurt anyone or come away with any lasting reason to regret our actions.”

  His fingers, trailing down her neck and across her collarbone through her coat, went still. “You speak of a child,” he said very softly.

  “Of course I do,” she said in an equally hushed tone. “But there won’t be one if you and I remain firm in our resolve and seek pleasure in these other ways you have shown me.”

  His expression became stern. “Are you forgetting that we have already joined our bodies?”

  “No . . . but that was only one time. Surely ...”

  When he’d mentioned the likelihood earlier, she had dismissed it immediately. But she had been caught off guard by his proposal; she had been disappointed and overset and, yes, a little angry. But now the possibility of a pregnancy left her feeling momentarily sickened, filled with dread. Sliding her arms from around him, she sat up straighter, at the same time snaking an unconscious forearm across her belly.

  Inside her, could their separate elements even now be fusing to form new life?

  Sometimes newly married couples tried for a year or more to have a child. There had been the young parlormaid at Thorn Grove, married to the head groom for two years before she conceived. And the minister’s wife didn’t give birth to their first child until after their fourth anniversary, after they had all but given up.

  No, the odds were against it; she needn’t worry on that account.

  “I am certain nothing will come of it,” she concluded with a conviction that felt only slightly forced.

  “Perhaps not. But my point wasn’t about the possible consequences of our having made love, but that we have done so at all. That we have not been able to resist doing so. What makes you think we will be able to resist from now on?”

  With no good answer for him, she fastened her collar and tied her neckcloth. Her notions of empowerment and worthy, if different, values had seemed sound ones, but now they blurred like the mosaic of autumn scenery outside the carriage windows.

  They entered a village of whitewashed cottages clustered around a lovely stone church. “We’ve arrived in Madingley,” Simon told her. He angled a glance out the window and pointed. “And there, in the distance, is Windgate Priory.”

  Beyond the flat reaches of the fenland bordering the village, the graceful proportions of a châteaulike manor house scraped the sky from within a medieval-style encircling wall.

  “How lovely. Is it very old?”

  “The property is. It was once a fortified Cistercian monastery under the protection of the then earls of Harrow. But inside, the house is completely modern.”

  Upon their approach along the treelined drive, Ivy noted that the gatehouse’s defenses had been replaced with topiary shrubs and flower beds. The moat, which once would have doubled as the castle’s sewer, reflected with perfect clarity the deep blues and cottony whites floating high above it.

  They rumbled over a bridge that had been built to resemble a working drawbridge. Ivy couldn’t prevent her laughter from bubbling forth. “This is splendid! I cannot wait to see more.”

  “Yes, well. Either try to curb your enthusiasm or at least express it an octave or two lower.”

  “Oh.” She pressed her fingers to her lips.

  Simon reached over to give her neckcloth a corrective tug. “I don’t know how you keep managing to fool anyone.”

  “Perhaps they are not as perceptive as you.” The carriage rolled to a stop, and a servant in chestnut and gold livery opened the door.

  “Don’t worry,” Ivy whispered to Simon. “I shan’t reach for his hand as I step down.”

  Inside, while they waited for the butler to announce them, Ivy experienced an ironic letdown. With its sumptuous furnishings, silk-covered walls, and gilt and marble adornments, Windgate Priory possessed an opulence that would have left many jaws hanging. But as Simon had said, the interior was thoroughly modernized; its storybook charm failed to follow the visitor beyond the heavy carvings of the front doors.

  “Simon, what a splendid surprise. How good of you to visit me.”

  In the wide curve of the carpeted staircase, a man stood poised at the railing. Olive-skinned and handsome in a more continental than English way, he wore a morning coat of burnished brocade, an artfully knotted silk cravat, and meticulously pressed trousers. As he started down, silver glints danced in his dark hair, so that Ivy judged him to be older than Simon by perhaps a decade or more. His figure was compact and well proportioned, and he moved with the easy elegance of a dancer.

  “The consortium doesn’t take place for another two weeks. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” The man whom Ivy assumed to be Alistair Granville extended his hand to Simon, then pulled Simon into an affectionate embrace.

  However affable his manner, it led Ivy to conclude that their trip here would yield no new clues about Lady Gwendolyn’s whereabouts. Surely if their host had any information about the girl, he would not appear so puzzled about the purpose of Simon’s visit.

  In short, they had wasted their time by coming to Windgate Priory.

  After the two men exchanged greetings, Sir Alistair shifted his attention to Ivy. A subtle rearranging of his even features registered mild curiosity.

  “This is my new assistant,” Simon introduced her. “Ned Ivers.”

  “Sir.” Ivy extended her hand, but Sir Alistair made no move to grasp it.

  “Ah,” he said, and summarily dismissed her as his regard returned to Simon. “Come. I shall order refreshments brought to the solarium.”

  The cut should not have irked her, yet as she followed the men through the ground-floor rooms, a tingling indignation heated her cheeks. Since arriving in Cambridge, she had enjoyed the welcome of fellow university students and even the regard of Simon’s Galileo Club colleagues. Prior to her masquerade as a student, no man had ever blatantly ignored her; to do so would have been considered the most ungentlemanly of acts.

  For the first time in her life she felt utterly insignificant, and she didn’t like it.

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Alistair,” Simon told his friend as they entered a sunny room filled with exotic plants and lined with floor-to-ceiling windows adorned with colorful panes of stained glass. The tile floor and decorative furnishings spoke of the same costly and meticulous attention to detail that defined the rest of the house. “Nor did I come to discuss the consortium. It’s Gwendolyn. She has left London. You haven’t by any chance heard from her?”

  “Gwen . . . ? Why, no, I ...” Sir Alistair frowned. He gestured for Simon to take a seat at a small round table draped in richly patterned damask. “She has been in the queen’s service since last winter, no?”

  Neither invited to sit nor instructed to wait elsewhere, Ivy hovered beside a wispy palm a few feet away. A pair of footmen carried in platters, pewter cups, and a pitcher of punch festooned with floating fruit.

  A haggard, weary look came over Simon as he accepted the cup Alistair poured for him. “Gwendolyn departed the palace without the queen’s permission. Which is why it’s imperative that I find her at once.”

  Sir Alistair tapped a finger against his chin. “Now that I think about it, didn’t I read something in the newspapers about a theft from Her Majesty’s household?” Simon replied to the affirmative, and Sir Alistair exclaimed, “Surely our Gwen is not implicated?”

  Ivy’s s
tomach clenched. How close a confidant was Sir Alistair; would Simon deem him trustworthy enough to reveal the truth? Only hours ago he had professed his impatience with what he termed the queen’s ridiculous demands.

  Silently she willed him to disclose nothing, knowing full well that if Victoria’s secret became common knowledge, it would be her, Ivy’s, fault. She had sworn to keep silent, but she had broken her word quickly enough. Her heart constricted around the many reasons why, even as she realized that none of those reasons could ever satisfy the queen.

  Simon’s eyes glinted a reluctant reassurance at her, and she breathed an inward sigh of relief. “Come, Ned. You must be hungry.”

  With his foot, he pushed out a chair for her. Sir Alistair made no reaction as she sat, neither of annoyance nor of consent. Simon said to him, “The theft is another matter entirely, and one that bears no relevance to my sister’s actions. I believe she vacated her position out of anger toward me.”

  “I see. Have you inquired with ...” Sir Alistair paused, apparently to choose the right words. “. . . your colleagues?”

  “I’ve checked with all the members of the Galileo Club.” Simon’s emphasis on all was not lost on Ivy. She understood the reference to the Earl of Drayton. “She had been to Cambridge briefly, spoken with Colin, and apparently attempted to see Ben, but I am assured that none of them has seen her in recent days.” He reached into his pocket and took out the crumpled note. “We discovered this in Ben’s office, which is why we immediately came to see you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s Gwendolyn’s. We found it on top of a volume of your work on Ben’s bookshelf. We thought perhaps she left it as a clue that she meant to come here next.”

  “A clue. How very mysterious of her.” Sir Alistair’s lips pulled downward at the corners. “Why would she not simply have left a note? Do you think she might be toying with you . . . again?”

  “Again? Then Lady Gwendolyn is prone to riddles?” Ivy supposed she should have held her tongue. Assistants should listen and do as they are told, not ask questions.