Not a bad idea. Since Emily wouldn’t be appearing beside his bed again, looking like a delightful phantom in her white nightdress, he might as well make certain no one else could surprise him. He doubted the Carew sisters would be as open-minded as Emily was about lessons in making love. At least, he suspected, their views regarding proper conduct on the morning after would be very different from Emily’s.
He was not looking forward to his lonely bed. The tall, carved four-poster had felt very empty in the early-morning hours after Emily had slipped away to her own room. Feeling noble because he had successfully resisted the urge to complete the act—and leave her with no questions whatever about what lovers did—was little consolation.
Still, leaving her maidenhead intact had been the right thing to do, for Emily was obviously rethinking her options. The carriage that had delivered the lady who might be Maxwell’s mistress had also brought a young man whom Emily clearly knew. Though she hadn’t flirted with the young Baron Draycott as she had with Lancaster at the Fletchers’ party, it had been apparent to Gavin that she was enjoying the baron’s company in the drawing room before dinner. She had smiled and leaned ever so slightly toward him to share an observation, as though she was feeling quite serious about the young man.
Gavin looked across the table to where the Earl of Chiswick was chatting with Draycott. “Friend of the family?” he asked Lucien in a low voice.
“Who? Draycott? His sister was at school with mine, I think—so he went around a bit with Emily when she first had her come-out.”
“She seemed happy to see him this afternoon.”
“Did she? I suppose she might have missed him, though she never complained when Father discouraged him from setting his sights on her. Father said it was because Draycott has so little brain, but I always thought he was set on Emily bringing a bigger title into the family than a mere barony.”
“Lancaster has no title at all, but the earl seems to think he would be a good match.”
“Well, things changed, what with Philip and all,” Lucien said cryptically. “Now Father might think even Draycott would be a good thing for Emily.”
Gavin let his gaze drift over the young baron. “He looks like a lamb, with all that unkempt curly hair.”
Lucien’s laugh sounded more like a snort. “That, my friend, is the newest style. But he is a bit of a sheep—Emily would have her own way on every question.”
Gavin wondered if that was what she wanted. But at least the choice was still hers; he had done the right thing, and he knew it.
Now if he could just stop the frustrated state of his own body from causing him to have second thoughts about that decision. Not that it mattered anymore. She would not be coming back.
After dinner, the Carew sisters tried out the duke’s pianoforte, while Lady Stone, with a single shrewd glance at Isabel, drew Lady Murdoch aside to a pair of chairs in a corner. “For I’m certain you know all the gossip, my dear Elspeth,” she said, “and it will never do if the ton finds out that I do not!”
With the others occupied, Emily was free to go straight to her sister’s side. “Lady Murdoch is a cat,” she said frankly. “But what’s wrong with you? It isn’t as though you want Maxwell—and in any event, she’s the one who’s flirting. Maxwell isn’t doing anything to encourage her.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Emily.”
Emily felt as if a door had been slammed on her hand. She bit her lip and hoped the evening would not drag on interminably. Who would have expected she’d find herself defending the Earl of Maxwell—and to his wife, of all people?
Over the tinkle of the pianoforte, she couldn’t help but hear Lady Stone’s pointed questions as she interrogated Lady Murdoch about the doings of the ton.
Eventually, Lady Murdoch seemed to have had enough. “Much as I have enjoyed our conversation, Lady Stone, I must not ignore our host’s nieces.” She rose. “Lady Isabel—”
Emily took a deep breath and stepped between Isabel and Lady Murdoch. “I don’t recall my Uncle Josiah ever mentioning you, Lady Murdoch. How is it you know the duke?”
“My husband is an old friend of Weybridge’s. I am his representative to honor the duke’s birthday, since Murdoch’s health does not allow him to travel.”
“Old friend.” Lady Stone’s laugh sounded like a carpenter’s rasp. “That’s the truth! Murdoch isn’t as old as Weybridge, of course, but he’s hardly a puppy.”
Beside Emily, Isabel murmured, “He’s rich, of course. Very rich. And she fulfilled her duty admirably, because nine months and one day after the wedding, Lady Murdoch presented her husband with an heir. So now she’s free to once again seek out more amiable company.”
Once again? Emily sucked in a long, soundless breath. Obviously, Isabel had heard the gossip that had been circulating even before Emily had left London, linking Maxwell’s name with Lady Murdoch’s. Or possibly there were new stories going around—ones that Emily, in her backwater village, had not yet heard. No wonder Isabel’s nose was out of joint, with her husband’s mistress sharing the same roof.
“You’re not making things better by letting her see that you care,” Emily whispered.
Isabel didn’t seem to hear the advice—but she did smile at Lady Murdoch and make a comment about a mutual acquaintance, and the awkward moment passed.
Blessedly, the gentlemen did not linger over their port. The duke retired directly to his bedroom—and that was just as well, Emily thought. By tomorrow, Isabel would be calmer and less likely to confront Uncle Josiah to ask why he had invited Lady Murdoch—and with his uncertain state of health, such a showdown would be more than just unpleasant; it might be dangerous.
With no special entertainment planned and a long day of travel behind them, the new guests were easily encouraged to seek their beds early.
“How thoughtful of you to suggest it, Lady Emily,” Lady Murdoch purred. “Above all things, I crave a restoring…” She paused and then directed a sultry smile at Maxwell. “…sleep.”
Yesterday, Emily herself might not have caught all the underlying meanings in that single suggestive word. Now—after just one night in Gavin’s bed—she understood exactly what sort of invitation Lady Murdoch was issuing, and she wondered if Maxwell would accept.
Not that it was any of her business what he did—except that it concerned Isabel.
Suddenly Emily felt warm, as though a pair of skilled and knowing hands gently caressed her body. She turned her head to see Gavin watching her.
Though he was standing between the Carew sisters, his eyes were dark and intent and focused on Emily. He held her gaze for a moment, and then with no hurry, he looked slowly down her body. Her sea-green dimity gown seemed to evaporate as he studied her, and goose bumps rose on her skin as though she was indeed naked.
This morning he had seemed almost eager to be rid of her, but now…Was it only her imagination, or was he issuing an invitation? Not that she had any intention of acting on it, even if that was what he meant. She refused to put herself in the position of begging a reluctant man.
But he didn’t look reluctant.
An embarrassing gush of warmth rippled through her body and pooled between her legs. But that, she told herself firmly, would go away. She just wouldn’t look at him anymore. She would go up to her room, to her own bed, and to sleep.
Two hours later, she had to admit the truth. Her room was lonely, her bed felt cold, and there would be no sleep. Merely lying down reminded her of being with him—of the way he had gently laid her on his bed and joined her there. Every time she tried to close her eyes, she could feel Gavin’s hands on her, stroking and caressing, sending flickers of sensation over her skin—flickers which built to ripples and then to waves. But unlike ripples of water in a puddle, moving rhythmically outward from the source, these waves gathered, concentrating at her core until the emptiness there was more than she could stand. Though she tried to satisfy herself, the effort left her frustrated beyond bearing
, unable to capture even the faintest echo of the magic she had felt the night before.
She didn’t realize she’d made a decision until she was standing at Gavin’s door. She hesitated there for an instant, as flighty as a butterfly—but the sound of a door quietly closing somewhere across the gallery sent panic through her veins. She turned the knob and pushed hard in her eagerness to get out of sight. The door swung a few inches and stopped with a sort of whoof. Puzzled, she leaned against it.
Gavin, with his hand still gripping the matching knob, looked around the edge of the door. “I must say this is a surprise.”
Emily blinked up at him, too startled at finding him there to think clearly. He was obviously on his way out. But he was wrapped in a dark dressing gown, which surely meant he wasn’t going down to join the other gentlemen at some pastime. And he wasn’t carrying a candle.
“Oh,” she said finally, trying to be delicate. “Are you on your way to visit a lady?”
He raised one eyebrow. “No, Emily, I was planning to knock on every door up and down the gallery and ask if anyone had a volume of sermons I could borrow, to bore me to sleep. Are you mad? Of course I was going to visit a lady!”
She told herself she was neither surprised nor disappointed. “Then I mustn’t get in your way. I’m only here because I heard a door close somewhere and I didn’t want to be caught so far from my room.”
The glimmer of his eyes, refecting the faint glow of moonlight falling through the glass panels in the roof far above their heads, took her breath away. “You are a terrible liar, Emily. If you weren’t coming here, what are you doing on this side of the gallery?” His hand closed hard on her arm and he tugged her into his sitting room. With the door closed, he leaned against it and pulled her into his arms. “Ninny. I was coming to see you.”
His mouth was hot against hers, demanding, certain. Her breasts ached, and wet heat surged between her legs. “You said we shouldn’t,” she reminded, almost incoherently.
“Yes, I did—and I seem to recall you agreed with me. In the light of day, that decision made perfect sense. But I gather you couldn’t sleep either?” His hands skimmed her body with easy familiarity. “I assume you’re not here because you’re looking for a book of sermons.”
“No. I want you to do…everything…again.” He pressed her more tightly against him, and the hard bulge of his erection against her belly was all the answer she needed. “But…”
He went still. “But what, Emily?”
“Last night you didn’t—” She didn’t know how to say it, so she licked her lower lip instead.
His gaze focused on the tip of her tongue. “If you mean that I didn’t take your virginity, no, I didn’t. And I never intended to.”
Sadness drifted through her. “So that means we didn’t really become lovers, did we?”
“Of course we did. What are you talking about?”
“Will you, tonight?”
He swallowed—though Emily thought it was more of a gulp—and said, “No.”
“But why not? If that’s what lovers do?”
“Because there is no practical way to assure that you wouldn’t become pregnant. Well—there is, mostly, but I…uh…I don’t have what I’d need to protect you. And while taking a lover is one thing, I doubt you’re willing to scandalize your village, or your family, with a child.”
She considered that. “Then if you don’t have—whatever it is—that means there isn’t a mistress waiting for you in the village, is there?”
“Emily, you are always a surprise. You didn’t really believe I’d stashed a doxy in the inn—did you?”
“No.” Her voice wavered. “Though I did wonder a bit today, when you were gone so long. But it’s nice to know for certain. You really were coming to my room?”
“I really was—in the hope that you were as uncomfortable as I am. Though I was prepared to swear I was sleepwalking, if you didn’t welcome me.”
“I would have welcomed you,” she whispered, and he growled a little and picked her up to carry her to his bed.
Just as she had requested, he did everything, all over again—and then, while she was still dreamily basking in the afterglow of her climax, he took hold of her hand and taught her to satisfy him.
She stroked him gently until he gritted his teeth and cupped his fingers around hers to urge her on, and she watched in awe as the first tiny droplet pearled. Moved by an instinct she did not begin to understand, she leaned over him and touched the tip of her tongue to the opening of his penis.
He growled, and Emily pulled back in shock. “No,” he said thickly. “That’s…that’s wonderful.” He threw back his head and groaned in release.
A surge of energy swept over Emily. If she could do this to him—make him lose control…She was thrilled—and stunned’with the realization of this newfound power, and eager to explore. What else might she be able to do? He had nearly driven her mad—it would be only fair if she returned the favor.
Afterward, he nestled her close to his side, and Emily listened to his heartbeat slow gradually to normal. “That was wonderful, Gavin. When can we do it again?”
His penis twitched against her belly. “Apparently, just about any time,” he said dryly. “The truth is that I want so much to be inside you that I don’t trust myself.”
Warily, she lifted her head from his chest. “You aren’t going to send me back to my room just to protect yourself, are you? Because I don’t want to go.”
“Then you must promise not to tempt me any further.” He considered. “And if I forget my pledge, just lift up this lovely, perfect knee…” His hand slid down her thigh to cup her kneecap. “And hit me hard, right here.” He bent her leg and demonstrated, though gently.
Emily laughed. “As if I would. That would hurt.”
“Exactly my point.” He kissed her kneecap and released her, then shifted her a bit, cupping her against his body, and nuzzled her shoulder. “And in the meantime, I’m going to distract myself by exploring all the other bits of you—the ones that don’t make me think of plunging myself inside you.”
Emily was pretty much convinced there weren’t any bits like that. At least, she hadn’t found any part of him yet that didn’t tempt her to pull him down to nestle within her.
But then, she was no expert—and she wasn’t about to argue the point.
With Lady Murdoch present in Weybridge Castle, Maxwell would not be setting foot in his wife’s bedroom tonight. Isabel was certain of that, yet every sound sent her heart fluttering for fear that she might be wrong after all.
And there were so many sounds that she was constantly in turmoil. She had never before realized the castle constantly creaked. Or perhaps her hearing was so magnified tonight that she heard things she never would have noticed before. Would she be able to hear him leaving his own room to seek out his mistress?
That would be a good thing, she told herself, for she would know for certain he would not be coming to her.
If she was truly fortunate, she was already pregnant, and when Maxwell’s heir was born, she would be in the same position as Lady Murdoch—with her obligations fulfilled, she could take a lover. And because she would have met every one of her husband’s conditions, she would be absolutely free—with a home of her own and an income more than adequate for all her needs.
Doubt assailed her. Their bargain was hardly an easy one, but could it be as simple as that? Had she overlooked something? Made an assumption that might come back to haunt her?
She took her jewel case from the wardrobe. There was little enough in it of value—her mother’s pearls, a pair of earbobs set with brilliants, a brooch that had been a gift on her sixteenth birthday from Uncle Josiah and his duchess. The most important item in it, in Isabel’s mind, was the single sheet of paper that she had tucked safely away at the bottom.
She tipped the contents out on the coverlet and unfolded the page of contract terms that Maxwell had written out. It all seemed direct, straightforward,
plain and simple. And yet something about the agreement didn’t feel right.
She almost laughed at the insanity of that thought. How utterly foolish of her—nothing about an agreement of this sort was right!
Behind her, Maxwell spoke. “Are you deciding what jewels to wear for the ball, my dear?”
Intent on their contract, Isabel had not consciously heard him come into the room. Yet she didn’t feel the jolt of surprise she normally did. Somehow, even as she had explained to herself that he would not seek her out tonight, she had known better. She had understood, deep down, that the matter of his heir was so important to him that he would not be defected from his goal.
She wondered how Lady Murdoch would feel about that.
Isabel glanced over her shoulder at him, trying to block his view as she scrambled her few treasures—and the contract—back into the jewel case. “I am setting a new fashion,” she said airily. “With no jewels, my dress will receive the attention it deserves rather than being only a background to a hodgepodge of ornaments.”
“Then your gown must be beautiful indeed—but if you plan to wear no jewels, how odd it is to sort them. Are you certain you were not reviewing our agreement, instead?”
“Well, that, too.” She closed up the case and shifted her position on the edge of the mattress to face him. “You see, Maxwell, the truth is I feel…different.”
He settled onto the bed next to her. Though he left a few inches between them, Isabel’s skin prickled at his nearness. There was only the thickness of his dressing gown, and her nightdress, separating them.
“And by different, I suppose you mean pregnant?”
To Isabel’s relief, his voice was absolutely calm. She hadn’t expected this to be quite so easy—but perhaps he was eager to grasp the opportunity to spend his time with Lady Murdoch instead. “I expect that’s what it means, yes.”
He leaned a little closer and stretched his hand over her belly. His palm rubbed gently against the linen of her nightdress and warmed the flesh beneath. “And this odd feeling is centered right here, where our child would grow?”
The Birthday Scandal Page 19