“But now, no longer, Lacy.” He pushed her away, drew up the robe to cover her breasts and glared at her. “Get out of here.”
Hungering for him as she was, she struggled to raise her chin and appear unfazed by his rejection. “I came to read to you.”
“As if I were blind? No. Go to bed.” He met her gaze with the stern look that so many called The Demand. “Leave me in peace.”
She knew there would be none for her tonight. She prayed god he found some. But judging from the peak beneath his flies, she knew he would find no relief from wanting her unless he serviced himself. She stood, caught up her robe and refrained from putting it on. Sashaying to their connecting door, she faced him. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He worked his jaw. “Know this. Come in here if you must. I have not the power to stop you. But I’ll not have you in here to tend to my private needs. I’ll have Charles. Only him. Stay as you must until the waters recede; I care not. We will be polite. We will talk and smile and pretend we are civil to each other.” He rose, hoisting himself up with his one good arm wrapped around the bedpost. His one lightning gray eye pierced hers with his determination. “And when the rains end, you will leave. As much a virgin as the moment you arrived.”
****
She retreated to her room. Paced. Dejected. She had come for his heart and at the moment, all she had was his stubborn devotion to her maidenly virtue. He would not win though. He mustn’t.
Determined herself, she secured the sash of her robe more tightly than before and took the staircase down to the main floor at a clip. She wasn’t pleased at the prospect of her task. She was scared, knowing she tampered with loyalties and complex relationships. But she gave herself over to the strong resolve of which she knew herself capable.
A youngest child, the only daughter, the only surviving offspring of two parents who had never loved each other, Lacy understood the value of love in a family. She’d seen the devastation of its lack and the erosion of trust and civility when indifference ruled. When she had witnessed between other couples the binding effects of marital love, those delights had been nuggets to savor. She’d stored away the tidbits to treasure in her child’s mind. Love was better. Love was rare. But loved ones could die, leaving nothing to the survivors, save the hollowness of daily existence.
She would not live her life without Wes. She didn’t have to. He had survived Talavera—and she would see to it that he recuperated and thrived. With her. Where he belonged.
She was halfway to the kitchen when Charles pushed open the swinging dining room doors. Ever fastidious, he had a towel in one hand, a dish in the other.
“My lady?” He frowned as his gaze took in the silk robe and her state of undress. His gaze shot to the grand stairs then back to her. “What’s wrong? Is the Colonel well?”
“Yes, very. He is nigh unto too well.”
“I do not understand.”
Charles shook his head, and she was certain he did that to keep his eyes in his head and not on the diaphanous silk, gaping open to expose much of her breasts.
“How—how can he be too well?”
She strode to him and laid a hand on his wrist. “Please put these things down, and come talk to me.”
He did not move a muscle. But he blushed bright red. “No. Why?”
“I need your help, Charles.”
He winced. “I doubt that.”
His impertinence had her arching her brows at him. “Well, I do. So there. Now, stop pretending you are not attempting to preserve your power over Colonel Stanhope.”
“Preserve my power?”
“Yes.” She took the plate and towel from his fingers and placed them on the table. Then she summoned forth the determined girl, the coquette, the firebrand who knew how to cajole, how to tease and how to flirt. She put her hands on his waist. He smelled of soap and cedar. She looked up at him and praised her lucky stars that if she had to do this to gain Wes and save him from himself then she could do it with someone who cared for Wes. “I want you to help me raise the Colonel from his doldrums.”
Charles stiffened and tried to step backward. “I would like to find a way, but fear there is none. The Colonel is stubborn.”
“Hmm,” she considered and stepped forward. Her wrapper, a thin covering over her breasts, now pressed against the plain white cotton of Charles’ shirt. “Difficult. I agree. And there is only one way to ensure he faces the world once more.” She shifted, her nipples rubbing against the silk and boring into his shirt.
Charles gulped and retreated a step. “How—how is that?”
She advanced. “To make him feel.”
Charles inhaled. “Feel?”
“Alive,” she whispered. “As alive as you and I are now.” She shifted once more, her nipples suddenly as hard as stones.
He swallowed. “What do you mean to do?”
“Make him feel desire. Make him feel need.” She brushed her fingers over the servant’s hand. “For me.”
Charles turned his head, but his languid eyes were nearly closed. “You want me to help you?”
“Yes,” she said moving closer to the butler. “I want you to help me make him jealous.”
He whipped his head around to look down at her, his blue eyes rabid with dismay and desire. “How would I do that, my lady?”
“You will touch me,” she told him, “here.” She pressed his hands to her waist. “And here.” She took a palm and put it to her throat where her pulse beat. “And here.” She pressed his hand to her cheek. “And then you will kiss me.”
“I doubt that,” he argued but didn’t sound as though he needed persuasion as much as instruction.
“Yes.” She put two fingers to his lips, so like Wes’s. Then she pressed her fingertips to her shoulder. “Kiss me here.” Her cheek. “Here.” The hollow of her throat. “And here. Will you? Please?”
He stared at her, his breathing thick.
“You know, Charles, he cannot continue as he is. He is too vital, too young, too talented an officer to simply give up on life. And love.” She pleaded with him, her heart in her words. “Say you will help me.”
“It is a tall order, my lady.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t normally make advances to women above my station. And never to any woman whom the Colonel wished to entertain.”
She bristled a bit at the mere idea that Wes had once had other women. “But he never asked any of those women to marry him, did he?”
“No, my lady.”
“And did you like any of them yourself, Charles?”
“No, my lady. Never.”
She smiled at him. “We have an agreement then.” She took his hand and placed it around her waist so that she was pressed fully against him. “For now. For this purpose. You will come to my aid.”
“How?” He shuddered, looking uneasy but eager. “How will I know you wish my advances?”
“I will gaze at you with purpose. You will know.”
He stared at her and gulped. “I—I cannot be certain.”
“I could brush against you. And you could respond. You will know, Charles. Women are not strangers to your bed, I imagine?”
“No. Of course not, but I don’t usually do—“ He cleared his throat. “I see. Well. Very well. I will do as you wish. But for no more than what you define.”
Eager to establish the boundaries and thrilled with her victory, she stepped away and secured the silk sash around her waist. “I love the Colonel.”
“I know you do, my lady. And he loves you.”
She whispered, “Thank you, Charles. I could not accomplish this without you.”
She left, her head high, her attempt at an illusion of propriety and ladylike behavior elusive.
Unsettled at her unusual approach to the servant, she tried to lull herself to sleep by forgiving herself her forwardness with the man. He had agreed that he would help her. He knew his place. He did understand her motives. And so if she had approached him with the idea that
her means was justified by her ends, he had tacitly agreed to that.
Why would she even think to approach Charles with such a gambit? She was an idiot to be so brazen. She had never imagined such an idea before coming here and confronting such a problem. And she had no intention of toying with the man. She needed his respect in the future, despite the fact that she needed his cooperation now.
What a fool she was.
But why would Charles agree and rather readily, too? This was an extraordinary offer she had made to him. If Charles was not used to sharing Wes’s conquests—or taking Wes’s leavings, then what made him agree? Could it be possible he found her not just attractive but irresistible? She concluded he had.
The one question that drove her from her bed and had her pacing the floor was the one to which she had no answer. Would Wes respond to this ploy before she had to allow Charles more liberties than she had planned?
Only time would tell.
Chapter Four
Wes heard Lacy coming down the central stairs the next morning as the hall clock struck ten. She hummed a bawdy tune that had Wes wondering where the hell she’d learned it. Charles, too, startled at the sound, raising his head from his task of dusting the sideboard and glancing sideways at Wes.
“Good morning,” she bid Wes gaily as she crossed the great room to his chair to sink her fingers up into his hair and kiss his lips lavishly. “How did you sleep?”
“Very well.” But silently, Wes cursed. He’d thought of her all night. In the next room. In the damn wrapper. With those two full breasts brushing against the silk. Her nipples outlined by the diaphanous stuff. His cock shockingly hard. Harder than he thought it could be ever again. Hard as he was now.
She gazed into his eyes, her own twinkling. “The rain is an utter downpour.”
Wes could have laughed at how the weather conspired with her plan to stay here and torment him, but he held his own and merely nodded.
“You’ve had your breakfast, I imagine?” She glanced over her shoulder at Charles and smiled at him. “What did you prepare, Charles?”
“Biscuits. Eggs.”
“Might you have any left?” She straightened and walked toward Charles then squeezed his hand. “I am so hungry.”
Wes set his teeth. The friendly way she touched Charles’ hand, she appeared to be starved for more than breakfast.
“Do come, Charles,” Lacy beckoned his man with a sweet appeal in her voice. “You must show me.”
Wes narrowed his gaze on his houseguest and his man. Lacy needed no lead. She always had her own head. So what was this sudden dance?
And why could Charles not take his eyes from her?
His man put down his dusting cloth, took a look at Wes and turned like a marionette to follow Lacy’s swaying hips.
Wes drummed his fingers on the armrest. This was not right. Not proper. He rose like a shot. He struggled for his damn footing, grabbing his cane and thudding along. Foolishness for her to come here. He couldn’t get to the kitchen soon enough.
The two of them stood there, as if frozen in time. Lacy’s delicate hand was on Charles’s. Her lips parted as she gazed into his servant’s eyes.
Wes let the kitchen door swing back and forth. Thwump. Thwump.
The two of them turned their heads. Neither of them seemed disturbed, concerned.
I am! “When you finish, Lacy, come out. I wish to speak with you.”
“Certainly, Wes. Charles is just asking me how I like my eggs. Aren’t you?” she crooned and stared up at the man with too much admiration.
The man mumbled his answer.
Wes grumbled to himself.
Minutes later, she deigned to appear at his side. Still licking her lips from her repast, little she-devil that she was, she came to stand before him. “Marvelous cook, Charles is. How did he learn?”
Wes arched a brow at her. “He learned on the fields of Portugal. Never knew how to cook a crumb until I demanded it. So do not regale me with your praise of his talents.” You are trying to incite me.
“My, my.” She tossed her long, pale locks over her shoulder, caught at her crown in a pink ribbon today. “Let me give you a pillow to support your arm.” She strode to the settee and picked up a small, old thing then came back and lifted his arm. “We must really build up your strength here, darling.”
“I am fine as I am.”
“I dare say, not.” She arranged his arm and hand just so, draping his fingers over the curve of the pillow and smoothing them down. “I know a remedy,” she called and spun toward the kitchen again. “I’ll see if Charles has any idea where I might acquire the ingredients.”
“Lacy!” he called in vain.
She’d gone back to Charles. For what? Comfort? Another breakfast?
Wes snorted. With his good hand, he picked at his trousers. Then he brooded. Remembering her mouth beneath his. Her breasts against his chest. He had always told himself she would be his equal in bed, her sweet juicy little core grasping his cock like a vise and holding him.
Hell. What idiocy to want her.
And what the hell was she doing? With Charles, too.
He fisted both hands. He could not kill his own sergeant. A man who had been with him as his servant since he’d been in knee britches.
Wes rose and went to the window, yanked the casement open and inhaled the smell of torrential rain and autumn. There she was, hurrying toward the smokehouse and the stables, Charles close behind her.
What now?
He might take a switch to Charles.
Oh, bloody hell. He couldn’t do that. Not to a man who was most likely his half-brother. The man was so loyal, so devoted that time and again he had forsaken his own amorous interest in Wes’s Aunt Amaryllis’s housemaid to go to war with Wes.
Damn. How ungrateful can I be?
Ungrateful enough to want Charles to keep his hands to himself.
Wes cursed, lumbered to the hall closet and peered around in the dark for his coat on a hook. Where the hell had Charles put it?
Ah. He grabbed the tweed, yanked it on and picked his way toward the kitchen, out the back door, down the stone path and into the smokehouse. He flung open the door. They weren’t here. He rubbed his jaw and whirled for the wooden building along the same path. The stables.
Raindrops dripping down his temples, he stood inside the stables. Turning, he heard his horses stomping. In the shadows, he heard the murmurings of his man and the woman who should have been his own.
He rounded a stall, and there they stood, Charles lowering his face to hers, his own eyes closed, his lips almost touching her throat.
“Hello! What is your business out here?” Wes glared from one to the other.
They broke apart like guilty thieves.
Lacy brushed her palms over her skirts. “Charles was showing me your horses.”
Wes took two steps forward to peer down at her. “Why? You know good horseflesh when you see it. You helped your father raise his bloodlines. And what is your excuse, Charles?”
“Sir! I was merely following her request to—”
“Yes, yes.” Wes waved a hand at Charles. “Leave us.”
Charles departed with a long, last glance at Lacy.
When the sound of Charles’ footsteps died away, Wes asked, “You like him?”
She demurred with a shrug. “Charles resembles you.”
“Is that why you like him?” He stepped right up to her and took her forearm. The mere feel of her tiny bones under his hand made his cock stiffen and his balls twitch.
“Yes.”
Wes examined her. Witch.
“And no.” She pulled out of Wes’ grasp and made her way to his newest acquisition, a mare he intended to mate to his new stallion. Might as well breed them if I can’t ride them. “I like Charles for himself. He is quite knowledgeable about you.”
“You need know nothing about me.”
“But I do.” She approached the mare. “I need to know what happened to you in
Talavera. Why you do not wish to be with people.” Lacy patted the mane of the mare that seemed to nod that she was happy to be noticed. “Why you do not wish to be with me.”
“It was war, Lacy.”
“You think I cannot understand that.”
“Why should you?”
“Because I love you!” she yelled at him. The horse whinnied. She spun to face the animal. “Sorry,” she said to the beast in the kindest tone, but to Wes she was argumentative. “Other men come home to their loved ones. Why not you?”
“Because I am not whole!”
“Or do not wish to be?”
He spun and almost fell over with the propulsion. “I will not argue with you.”
“Nor I with you.”
He had to walk away. Save himself from the ripe temptation to shut her up with a kiss.
“Do not leave me, Wes.” She said it in such a way that she clearly referred to much more than what he did at this moment.
He stopped in his tracks. Her tone gutted him.
Her arms surrounded him. Caught him back to her body. “I love you, Wes.”
“That feeling is best left to the libraries and ballrooms where once we met in peacetime.”
“Is love only for those rooms? Those times?” She strode around to face him then stood up on her toes and kissed him, lavishly, endlessly.
His lips ached with the beauty of it. His cock throbbed with the need to demonstrate his devotion to her.
She circled her arms around his neck. “I think such passion is for all the times of our lives.” She put her lips to his throat, one hand to his chest where the heat of her palm burned his chest. “All the places where we can be happy.” Her hips pressed against his and his cock, damn willful thing, sprang up higher, hard as iron. Suddenly, her hand was there, undoing his flies and reaching inside to caress him. “There is the proof we can be.”
She stepped backward, and he felt her loss like a wave of gall flowing over him. She worked at the ribbons beneath her bodice, freeing her dress and just as quickly, pulling it over her head. She was—my god—naked.
He stood so still he could have sworn he was felled by a falling tree.
Her skin, so perfect on her face, was a flawless expanse of porcelain. Her shoulders, trim. Her arms, long and lithesome. Her breasts, dear heaven, plump, upturned handfuls, her nipples pink as June’s roses. Her waist was small, but oh, she could and would bear beautiful babies. With those hips, she could carry children, but she would first hold a man in thrall. Her nether hair was a frothy platinum bush to match the glory of the curls on her head. And the plush wealth of her pussy made him lick his lips, wanting to taste and tantalize the plump lips of her chat.
The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances Page 12