James sent an outrider to Stafford House to ask his cook to prepare a meal, and told his driver to head for Parliament.
Unfortunately, Castleton wasn't at Parliament.
He wasn't at his Grosvenor Square town house.
And he wasn't at White's, which was the final place Juliana could think to check.
It was rather disconcerting, really. Everything was still up in the air. They left notes at the last two locations, explaining all they'd learned, along with their conclusions, and requesting that Castleton notify them of his intentions at his earliest convenience. Then they went to Stafford House to wait, because there was nothing else they could do.
Dinner was ready when they arrived, and the table was set for two, one plate at either end of the oval table that seated six. "I'm not hungry," Juliana said.
"You have to eat," James told her, "or you'll fall ill."
He moved the dishes at the far end to the spot around the curve from his. And then they sat. Because there was nothing else to do.
James wasn't actually hungry, either. He'd lost his appetite. Everything was so up in the air. They both picked at their food, alternating between silence and spurts of forced conversation through three courses.
There was nothing else to do.
"Maybe we should go look for the duke again," Juliana suggested when they finished an hour later and James was pouring port.
He set down the bottle. "Where?" he asked, taking a rather large swallow from his glass.
"I'm not sure." She took a generous sip herself. "But there's nothing else to do."
Just then, a red-liveried footman walked in. "My lord." He set a letter on the corner of the table, gave a smart bow, and left.
It was a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper, folded in thirds and secured with a large red seal. James and Juliana stared at it for a moment, as though they were both afraid to touch it.
"The stationery is from White's," he finally said, pushing it toward her.
"It's from the duke." Her hand shook as she lifted it. "It has to be."
"Open it."
She turned it over, her eyes green and apprehensive. "It's addressed to you."
Obviously she felt it was his right to read it first, but James suspected she'd snatch it from his hands if he tried. "Open it," he repeated.
She nodded and broke the seal, slowly unfolding the single page. Before she even finished scanning it, she let out a little shriek and launched herself onto his lap, the letter landing on the floor as she wrapped her arms around him and held tight.
So tight he could barely breathe. "What does it say?" he asked, unsure whether her tears indicated happiness or despair. Her only answer was a heartfelt sob. Something tightened painfully in his chest as he leaned awkwardly with her attached to him, picked up the paper, and read it.
Lord Stafford,
I wish to wed Lady Amanda Wolverston with or without her dowry. No horse will be necessary, either. I would appreciate the assistance of yourself and Lady Juliana in explaining the matter, which I expect Lady Amanda will wish to verify with Lord Neville. To that end, I shall present myself at Cainewood's home at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, unless I hear from you otherwise.
Yours sincerely,
Castleton
The pain in James's chest eased as he dragged in two lungsful of the most delicious air he'd ever breathed. Apparently Castleton wasn't quite the ass he'd thought. Everything was going to work out. After the nightmare of the past week, it seemed a bloody miracle.
"No horse." Juliana sniffled into his shoulder. "He said that once before. What on earth could he possibly mean?"
He supposed it couldn't hurt to tell her now. "Your brother promised the duke a horse as part of your dowry if he'd marry you."
She raised her head. "You've got to be jesting. A horse?"
"I believe Griffin was rather foxed when he made the offer. The particular horse is named Velocity, if I'm not mistaken."
"Idiot."
"Griffin? Or the horse?"
"Griffin, of course. Velocity is a very intelligent horse."
He laughed and gave her a quick kiss. "Do you expect I will get Velocity when I marry you?"
"It would serve Griffin right if you insist on it. Although I didn't realize you cared for racehorses."
"I don't, particularly. But the sale of such a fine animal would pay for a lot of vaccinations. I expect Castleton would bid mightily—what?" Juliana had pulled back enough to stare at him, tears streaming down her cheeks again. "What could be wrong now?"
"Was that a proposal?"
He blinked. "I suppose so. But it wasn't a very good one, was it?" He rose and set her on the chair, then dropped to one knee. "Ouch."
"Try your good knee," she said with a watery laugh.
He did. Carefully. And then took both her hands in his. "My dear Juliana, my love…would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?"
"Oh, yes!" She launched herself at him again, with such force he fell back onto the floor, which, thankfully, was carpeted, since he banged his head so hard he saw stars. "I'm sorry," she said, crawling over him. "Are you hurt?"
"Not in the least." His head ached like the dickens, but he didn't care. "Are you?"
"No. I know you hate it when ladies cry, but I just can't seem to help myself."
"It's all right," he assured her, "as long as you're crying from happiness." Watching a fat drop fall from her chin to his neckcloth, he added, "You are happy?"
"Oh, yes," she breathed and leaned down to kiss him.
She kissed him. And he wasn't even unbuttoned.
He savored that for a moment, then gathered her close and kissed her back. Her lips first, then both cheeks and her forehead and chin. And then her lips again—
"Lord Stafford? Is everything all right?"
Juliana jumped up, and James turned his head to the side to see his housekeeper standing over him. "Very much so, Mrs. Hampton, I assure you." He pushed himself to sit and ran a hand through his hair. "We were just, um, going upstairs. Yes, that's it. We're going to drink our port in the Painted Room."
"Very well, my lord. Shall I have something brought to you?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." Scrambling to his feet rather ungracefully, he took both their glasses. "We'll just go up now."
"Should you need anything, do let me know," Mrs. Hampton said. And just stood there.
"Of course. We're going up now." Handing Juliana a glass, he gestured with the other in a way he hoped looked suave and above suspicion. "Lady Juliana?"
Chapter Forty-Nine
At the top of the elegant staircase, James didn't walk Juliana through the library and into the gorgeous room with the lion head chairs. Instead, he took her the opposite direction.
"Um, James? Isn't the Painted Room the one with all the marriage scenes? The one where I gave you the Richmond Maids of Honour and—"
She broke off, thinking this might not be the best time to remind him she'd come to apologize for tricking him. To remind him she'd thought he was in love with her friend and hadn't known he'd once had a wife.
Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice the abrupt, awkward pause. "I thought I'd show you another room. Mine, to be precise. Though it will be ours very soon." Stopping by an open door, he gave her a quick kiss, a kiss that left her wanting more. "Close your eyes," he said, "and wait here."
The room beyond was so dark she couldn't see anything anyway. "Why do I have to close my eyes?"
"Just do it," he said. "Humor me, please."
So she did. She closed her eyes and waited. She heard some rustling, a dull thud, and finally a rush that she guessed was a fire coming to life. And then she waited a little longer, listening to him walk around, doing who knew what, until finally he came back to her.
"All right," he said, "You can open your eyes."
So she did. He was waiting on the threshold, the sheer size of him blocking her view. "I cannot see past you," she said.
&nb
sp; Appearing to be holding his breath, he nodded and stepped aside. "What do you think?"
Beyond him, the room now glistened with light. On the tables, atop a bureau, on the nightstands, candles flickered. At least a dozen, or maybe more.
"Dear heavens," she breathed, "it's splendid." His bedroom looked nothing like the rest of the house; there was nary a hint of gilt and nothing ancient or ornamental. The furniture was all matched, modern Hepplewhite, the height of fashionable style, carved of light satinwood in lines that were gracefully curved and distinctive. The red and yellow fabrics all looked silky and sumptuous. Even the walls were covered with silk, wide stripes above enameled white wainscoting. Arranged before a white-manteled fireplace—the fireplace he'd lit on this cold, rainy night—sat a love seat and two plush chairs, upholstered with narrower stripes.
And then there was the bed. Covered in solid red damask and heaped with plump yellow pillows, it had slender, towering posts and positively dominated the room.
The very sight of it weakened her knees. Just realizing that someday—someday soon—she'd be in that bed with James, made her pulse start pounding, made her skin prickle with sudden, heated awareness.
She sipped some of the port in her glass, hoping the heady sweet wine might calm her. "It's the most beautiful bedroom I've ever seen."
Releasing a tense breath, he bent to press a warm kiss to the top of her head, a kiss so cherishing it made her insides clench. "I'm so glad you like it."
She turned and gazed up at him. "Everything looks brand-new."
"It is. I had it redecorated especially for you. For us. My favorite color is red, and you do like yellow, don't you?"
She sipped again, using her free hand to smooth her yellow skirts. "It's my favorite color." Her head swam with confusion. "But how…I mean…dear heavens, however did you redecorate it so fast?"
"I've known for weeks that I wanted to marry you, Juliana." His low, chocolatey voice seemed to vibrate right through her. "I'm only sorry it took me so long to tell you. We could have avoided so much heartache."
Tears sprang again to her eyes. Honestly, she was turning into a veritable waterworks. "I should have realized," she admitted, swallowing a lump in her throat. "But I was so sure you'd never love me. I was so set on marrying the duke and having you marry Amanda in place of Lord Malmsey."
"We both made mistakes, love. But everything's going to be fixed now."
Yes, they'd both made mistakes. She wasn't perfect; nobody was. She was human like everyone else, and the past few weeks had proved it.
It was disappointing in a way, but in another way she knew it had always been inevitable. And she was so, so thankful that everything was turning out all right. "Oh, James, I don't think I've ever, ever been so happy." Her heart was swelling so much she feared it might burst. "I can hardly wait to climb into that bed with you."
"Oh, my love." Putting the arm that held his wineglass around her, he pulled her close and cupped her chin in his free hand. And then he kissed her, his mouth hot, his tongue plunging deep. Her senses spun, and she knew it had nothing to do with the wine.
But the caress was over all too quickly.
He drew away, a captivating smile curving his lips. "I was hoping you'd say that." He grabbed her free hand and began pulling her into the room.
"What?" He couldn't mean to climb into the bed here and now. "Your mother is in the house!"
"Yes, and she's ill and no doubt sleeping soundly, and her bedroom is way down the hall." When she planted her feet and stopped going with him, he reversed direction and tugged her back into the corridor. "See? That very last door. There's not a chance in hell she'll hear us, sweetheart. No matter how loud I make you moan."
She blushed furiously, wondering if he'd ever made her moan before. Honestly, she couldn't remember, but she wouldn't be surprised. For all she knew, she could have been moaning thirty seconds ago. That kiss had certainly stolen her breath. If there was one thing James was proficient at, it was making her lose her head.
And it was a very long corridor, she conceded silently as she sipped more port. She'd noticed a door inside James's bedroom, which probably led to a sitting room or a dressing room. Or both. Doubtless his study was on the other side of those, and then his mother's dressing room before her bedroom, and maybe a sitting room for her besides. And perhaps some guest rooms in between. Stafford House was enormous.
But all of that was beside the point. "We cannot go to bed with your mother sleeping down the hall. Not before we're married. It's not the thing, James—it's highly improper."
"You've never worried about being improper before. As you pointed out to Aunt Aurelia just two days ago, we've been in private together more than once." His voice went even deeper, more seductive. "At Vauxhall, and the Panorama, and the Physic Garden…"
She blushed again, remembering all those times. Remembering the greenhouse in Chelsea especially. Remembering all those feelings he'd aroused in her. "But we weren't in a bed." She gulped more port.
"Do you really think a bed makes a difference, my love?" Easing her back into the room, he shut the door behind them. "I've kissed you before without a bed," he reminded her, edging her toward a table. He took her wineglass and set them both down. "If you'd prefer, I will kiss you right now without climbing into the bed. All right?"
And he did. He drew her against his hard, muscled form, and he kissed her, a kiss invitingly warm and deep. A kiss persuasive and divine. He tasted of lust and sweet wine and James, which made her senses begin whirling in an oh-so-familiar way.
Slowly, very slowly, he inched her toward the bed, and she moved with him, her arms going up and around him, her fingers plowing into his unruly hair. His hands wandered her back and worked their way down to her bottom, still moving her, pressing her closer, so close she felt the proof of his desire straining against her. It made answering emotions rush through her, made heat pool in that place between her legs that ached whenever he touched her.
And all the while, he kept inching them toward the bed.
Before she knew it, they were on the bed.
"It's only a bed," he murmured. "It really doesn't make a difference." And it didn't, not really. She knew that. "It's more comfortable here," he whispered, a whisper so raspy it made her melt.
It was more comfortable. There had to be a featherbed under the covers, because she sank right into it. He rolled closer, and closer still, until his body covered hers, pressing her farther into the plush, sensual mattress. It cradled her, cocooned her, and still he kept kissing her.
He felt warm on top of her, and heavy, but not too heavy; he had to be supporting himself somehow, because he was just heavy enough to feel deliciously exciting. And she wanted him to kiss her forever. She knew she shouldn't allow him to do anything else, but just the feel of his mouth on hers was enough to satisfy her every desire.
But then he abandoned her mouth to kiss her throat, finding an especially sensitive hollow. She moaned…oh, yes, he could make her moan. Thank heavens his mother was so far down the hall, because James was so excessively proficient at making her lose her head, there was no way on earth she could help herself. She moaned again, and her breath came faster, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.
And then he kissed the wide expanse of skin framed by her low neckline, fluttery little kisses that went everywhere, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever. And he kissed the tops of her breasts, and she wanted him to kiss her there forever.
And then he worked a hand beneath her body, just long enough to unfasten a few buttons. And drew her bodice and chemise down, exposing her breasts.
He paused, his chocolate eyes going hazy with hunger. "Do you want me to kiss you here?" he asked in that raspy, heartrending whisper.
Her breasts tingled, and he hadn't even touched them yet. They tingled, and he was just looking. Their tips were puckering and making her squirm.
"Oh, yes," she breathed, and he kissed her there. One breast and then the o
ther. And then back to the first, and his mouth opened, drawing her in, and the sensation was hot and so exciting that the aching place between her legs began to pulse.
And suddenly, remembering how he'd made her feel when he touched her there that one time, it wasn't enough to satisfy her every desire.
She wanted more.
"Oh, James," she breathed, "kiss me more."
He lifted his head, his warm breath wafting over her bare skin. "Should I kiss you here?" he asked, indicating her other breast.
"Oh, yes."
He did, and it felt even better, more amazing. Her blood was rushing, and her breath was coming in little panting bursts. Wanting to give him the same pleasure, she touched him everywhere she could reach. His springy, curly hair, the curve of his head underneath, the roughness on his cheeks. His hard, sculpted shoulders. The smooth, muscled expanse of his back beneath his clothing.
He felt wonderful, marvelous, but she couldn't reach any lower. Her arms simply weren't long enough. "More," she whispered. "Kiss me more." Thinking he would return to her mouth, thinking he would move up her so her hands could reach farther down, she breathed, "More. Kiss me more."
But he moved down instead of up. He kissed her through her thin yellow dress, down her middle and across her belly. And a hand went lower still, pulling off her slippers. And stealing beneath her skirts.
And skimming up her legs. And untying her garters and rolling her stockings down and off, a slippery, tingly slide of silk. And then his fingers danced up her calves, and over her knees, and around and behind them, teasing a ticklish place on the back. And higher, between her thighs, spreading her legs a little.
The place between them ached so badly and pulsed so persistently, she thought she might go out of her mind. But she knew she shouldn't let him touch her there again, not until they were married. She couldn't ask him to touch her. "More, James," she whispered instead. "Kiss me more."
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 41