“THE DOWAGER TOLD you that?”
Alana snuggled more closely into Bailey’s arms, still unable to rid her face of the smile it had been wearing this past hour or more. Every time she thought she could say with conviction that she loved Bailey Armstrong with all of her heart, she found herself loving him more. That she had just shocked him by relating something the dowager countess had told her delighted her…and now she was wondering if she would ever dare to take the woman’s words and put them into action.
She felt fairly confident she could. And would. Perhaps even tonight. She was fairly certain Bailey, for all he’d sounded faintly stunned just now, wouldn’t protest.
“Oh, yes. She explained that and a lot more. But she failed to mention how good this feels. Lying here in your arms. I think I may like this part even more than anything else. Just…just being here. With you. I love you so much.”
“And I love you,” Bailey said, pressing a kiss against her hair. “Will you do me the great honor of marrying me this Sunday, Miss Wallingford?”
“I would, sir, yes, thank you. I do believe I’ve quite given up any thought of the convent—oh, Lord!” She pushed her hand against his belly, nearly knocking his breath from him as she sat up, looking into his eyes, her own gone very wide. “Kate!” she exclaimed, and Bailey quickly looked toward the door, clearly thinking the woman had actually just magically appeared. “No, no, not here. But—when are we going to tell her the truth, Bailey? She was only trying to be helpful. Although she really didn’t have to look quite so smug when we first entered the drawing room, did she? As if we were puppets, with her holding all the strings. Still, poor Kate.”
“Yes, having to face her brothers tomorrow morning with the mess she thinks she made rather than the triumph she thought she’d managed.”
“Oh, but that’s awful. Max and Valentine will tease her unmercifully once they know we tricked her. We really must get dressed and go wake her now, and tell her.”
“Now?” Bailey asked, rolling her onto her back so that he could begin blazing a trail of kisses down her throat, onto her bare shoulder and lower. “Do we really?”
Alana closed her eyes and tipped back her head, enjoying the sensation his touch provoked. “Yes. Really. Although she did seem to be enjoying herself entirely too much, or at least she was at first, believing her plan had been so brilliant.”
“We’d never have heard the end of that brilliance,” he reminded her just before he licked her nipple, and then he closed his mouth around her, drawing her in.
“You’re right. But still, we have… We really should…”
Bailey slipped his hand between her thighs, his fingers doing delicious things to her.
“Well,” Alana breathed, lifting herself to him, “perhaps not just now… .”
* * * * *
Watch for the next novel
featuring the unforgettable Redgrave family,
coming soon from Kasey Michaels
and HQN Books!
Unlaced
Delilah Marvelle
To editor extraordinaire Emily Ohanjanians,
who knows how to dig into the souls of my
characters and has great taste in music.
*Nudge, nudge*
Thank you for sending Jason Mraz my way.
“If It Kills Me” allowed this story to bloom.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
PROLOGUE
London, England
23rd of April, 1819—afternoon
The Kent House
EVERYTHING WHISPERED her name.
When had it not?
Mark Jacob Danford, the fourth earl of Thornton, slowly pulled out one of the two cane chairs at the chess table of the quiet study, as he did every Tuesday afternoon. Drawing in a calming breath, he sat before the game.
Everything was set and waiting, looking no different than it had last week and the week before that and all the weeks and years they’d been doing this. The usual decanter of brandy and two crystal glasses were already lined atop the oak sideboard beside the chess table to accommodate their mutual drink of choice.
Mark leaned forward and nudged all of his black pieces back into their set rows opposite Magdalene’s own ivory pieces. He sighed.
In truth, he loathed chess.
From pawn to bishop to rook to knight to king to queen.
But she loved it. And so…he played.
And yet, for him, the game was becoming less and less about chess and more and more about the way he felt about Magdalene.
Shifting in his chair, he eyed the empty seat opposite his own and shifted again. Jesus. One would think he was a bachelor of twenty, not a widower of forty with three young children to boot.
Reaching out, he grabbed up the crystal decanter, removing the stopper, and poured the amber liquid into each glass. He filled hers and then his to the rim so that it lasted throughout their entire session, then set aside the decanter and placed the stopper back atop.
Let the game of her obliviousness begin. Yet again.
The clicking of heels echoed from down the corridor, drifting toward him through the open double doors of the study.
He leaned back against the chair and hissed out a breath, adjusting his morning coat, which he hoped looked decent. Draping an arm across the side of the chair, he extended a trouser-clad leg, trying to exude casualness. Trying.
Within moments, his beautiful Dowager Countess of Kent, Magdalene Evelyn Ryder, appeared.
He dug his fingers into the wood of the chair to keep his breath and mind steady. “Magdalene.”
“Thornton.” She grinned, that left cheek dimpling as the edges of her sultry dark eyes crinkled, hinting at her own age of forty. She swept toward him, hips swaying, her alabaster gown flowing ravishingly against the elegant movements of her shapely body. Her curling, chestnut hair, though pinned up in its usual gathered fashion, had an exquisite new addition of white silk flowers, delicately woven through those tresses to match the shade of her morning gown.
She never dressed like that.
By God. It was as if the woman had donned a whole new fashion just for him.
He rose in greeting, unable to do much of anything but stare. “You look…stunning. If I may say. Might I ask what occasion you appear to be celebrating today?”
“The fact that you are here, of course.” She paused before him, that incredible scent of powder and chamomile—a scent he’d breathed in longingly for so, so long—teasing his senses. She extended her bare hand to his, still playfully grinning up at him. “You know Tuesdays never come soon enough for me.”
He bit back a smile. “Nor me.” He reached out and squeezed the warmth of her soft hand in greeting, reveling in that touch.
She squeezed his palm in turn, but quickly drew her hand away.
He fisted his hand, attempting to keep her warmth in it, and lowered it back to his side. He cleared his throat, refocusing. “I have been meaning to ask about Charles.”
“Oh?”
“I haven’t seen that boy about the club lately. Not even for a meal. Is everything all right?”
Her grin faded at hearing about her grown son. “Ah, you know him.” She rounded the chess table and seated herself across from him with a disgruntled sigh. “He prefers to define himself outside of everything known as London society.”
“You make that sound so bad.” Mark sat, settling in. “Now that he is of age and officially head of the estate, he should be defining himself outside the hours of some crusty club. I was simply worried when I hadn’t seen him at all.”
She leaned over and retrieved the glass of brandy he had poured for her off the sideboard. “Bless you for inquiring.” She sipped at the brandy and paused. “In truth, the club agitates him, right along with pretending that he cares to socialize with anyone at all. I can tell he only does it to appease me.” With a shake of her head, she brought the glass to her lips and fully tilted it back, swallowing the rest of the brandy he’d filled to the rim with overly large gulps that were anything but refined.
It was something he’d never seen her do. Ever. He blinked. “What was that?”
She smirked, as if amused by the look on his face, and set aside the empty glass on the sideboard with a chink. “That was me in dire need of a new life. I have tried and tried to make that boy step outside his way of thinking. Do you know he just invested in a whole new set of sketchbooks and announced he intends on spending all of his mornings and afternoons engraving half the city?” She rolled her eyes and leaned toward Mark and the chessboard. “One of these days, my son is going to draw himself a pretty girl, rip her out of his own sketchbook and marry the parchment. I just know it. I’ll have paper dolls for grandchildren.”
He let out a gruff laugh. “’Tis better than no grandchildren. Give him time. At one and twenty, he has his whole life ahead of him.”
“I suppose.” Magdalene huffed out a breath. “Forgive my rants pertaining to Charles. They bore even me.”
Sensing that she was saddened by this talk about her son, he knew it was up to him to put a smile on that beautiful face. He shifted toward her. “Do you like tomatoes?”
She paused. “I…yes. Why?”
“So do I. By God, are they not incredible? I dread wondering what our lives would be like without them. Can you imagine how utterly tasteless our soups and sauces and main courses would be? Even the French would agree with me on this. Tomatoes are the crown jewel of the kitchen.”
She blinked. “Is there a point to this?”
He lifted a knowing brow. “Yes, of course there is. You are now thinking about tomatoes instead of Charles.”
She burst into laughter, rolling her eyes. “Only you can put a smile on my face when I least expect it.” Still grinning, she shook her head and reset her pieces before meeting his gaze again. “So. How are the girls? Good?”
He nodded, tracing his gaze from those gorgeous eyes that now shined to those full lips that now smiled and back to those eyes again. “Uh…very good. They send wet kisses and the likes.”
She smiled, that cheek dimpling again. “Tell them I will be calling on them this Friday. Charles spent the last two weeks drawing their portraits on my request. They are absolutely stunning. Life-size.”
“We ardently look forward to seeing it and you.”
“Wonderful. Oh, and I forgot to ask—did they receive the dolls this morning?” She searched his face excitedly. “You know, the ones with the fur hats, braids and ribbons? When I saw them in the shop yesterday afternoon, I knew I had to get them. I hope you don’t mind.”
He smiled, remembering each and every clap and squeal those open boxes had elicited. “Mind? God, no. Less shopping on my part.” Her unannounced gifts were becoming a family event at his house that further edged him into not only falling on a knee but proclaiming his love until he turned into the very sop he swore he’d never be. The only thing keeping him from doing it was his fear of being rejected by a woman who had endured far, far worse at the hands of her dead spouse than he had at the hands of his.
He caught her gaze. “Elizabeth, Francine and Sarah about ran out into the street and under a carriage out of glee. In my opinion, you really need to cease spoiling them or I will permanently drop them off at your house.” He paused and theatrically added, “Not that you would mind.”
She laughed and endearingly teased back, “One of these days, Thornton, those girls will realize who their real mother is and we might as well create a scandal and move in together.”
He savagely rolled the palm of his hand on the edge of his chair, trying to calm the damn fluttering inside of him with a painful sensation, wishing Magdalene had been the woman he’d had children with. He honestly didn’t know how much longer he could go on without—
She tapped the side of the board. “Are you ready to lose your queen? Again?”
How fitting a remark. He puffed out a breath. Maybe he should just be a man about this, fling her onto the board and checkmate. “I suggest you go first. That will give me time to better strategize.” Whilst I suffer.
She lifted a brow, lowered her gaze and, using the tips of slim fingers, moved a knight. Heatedly holding his gaze for a long moment, she asked, “Is everything all right, Thornton? You appear a touch distracted. Not to mention unusually somber. Is something weighing on your thoughts?”
He paused, noting the way her voice had seductively dipped in concern and how intently she held his gaze. He lowered his shaven chin, his pulse roaring against his own ears. Maybe now was the time, finally, to tell her what he’d been unable to say last time. Or the time before that. Or the time before that.
Without breaking her gaze or caring which damn pawn he used, he moved a piece. “Actually, yes. Something has been weighing on my thoughts. I simply haven’t wanted to burden you with it, is all.”
She countered his move, intently holding his gaze, in turn. “Burden me with it? Nonsense. You know you can tell me anything. Is it serious?”
He wet his lips and leaned closer toward her and the board. What if she didn’t feel the same? He would be destroying everything that he had come to savagely love and depend upon. Including these stupid Tuesday afternoon chess games. “I suppose it depends on its outcome. It could be a very good thing or it could be a very bad thing.”
She eyed him. “That sounds rather vague. Even for you. You aren’t in some sort of trouble, are you?”
He swiped his face in exasperation. Yes, he most certainly was in some sort of trouble. Because he couldn’t do this. Leaning away from the board, he moved another pawn and shrugged. “No. ’Tis nothing really. Investments.” So to speak.
“Investments?” A bubble of a laugh escaped her. “Oh, how utterly droll for you to worry about something like that. I suggest you hire a better secretary and a better bookkeeper. In fact, have mine. Both are beyond exceptional and are always looking to acquire new accounts.”
She surveyed the board and paused. “I never know what to expect from you during a play. ’Tis so odd, really, given we’ve been doing this for so long. Sometimes, I think you are actually getting worse at this. Not better.” She moved a piece, claiming the pawn he’d just moved. Setting it aside, she drew in a large breath and let it out.
Dropping his gaze to those full breasts swelling in response to that lofty breath, he paused. The décolletage of her lace-trimmed gown appeared lower than usual, those lush rounded tops pushing up in a way he’d never had the pleasure of seeing. Tightening his jaw, he snapped his gaze to her face, trying to focus on her, not her breasts.
Magdalene’s startled dark eyes met his. She searched his face in awkward astonishment, clearly aware that he had just been openly admiring her breasts like fresh cross buns on display at the local bakery.
Shit.
Her features not only stilled, but flushed to an unfamiliar hue, acknowledging something he thought that she, as a woman, never would. That he, Mark Jacob Danford, the fourth earl of Thornton, was more than just a friend. That he was, in fact, a…man.
They stared at each other wordlessly.
He swallowed hard. She had never looked at him like this before. It was as though she was waiting for something to happen. She was waiting for him to do something. She was waiting for him to kiss her.
Without thinking, he leaned over the chess table, rising slightly from his chair, and closed the remaining space between them, knocking o
ver a few of his pieces with his vest. His pulse thundered as his mouth edged toward hers. He paused, just beyond the heat of those full lips, and brushed them softly with his own.
The room spun and fell over on its side.
Her hands jumped to his face and held him lovingly in place, as if sensing he might fall over. Their lips parted in unison and the heat of their wet tongues connected and moved, the taste of brandy from her mouth overwhelming his senses.
He’d never known anything like it.
His mind blanked realizing she was kissing him. With her tongue. Christ, she was actually submitting to everything he had felt these past four years but had not seized for fear of rejection, of distrust, of eliminating all that they were to each other.
At first, their kiss was searingly slow and teasing and rhythmic and delectable. And then, it turned into a pulsing mess of savage need that made his very lips sting from the devastating pressure they both applied. Without breaking their moving mouths, they both scrambled around the chess table in an unspoken effort not to knock it and themselves over.
Still kissing and kissing her, he yanked her fiercely against himself, crushing her softness in place until those breasts pressed against his chest. He bit back an anguished groan as she erotically sucked on his tongue.
Why the hell had he waited four years? Why?
Her hands clambered up to his cravat. To his hazed, dazed astonishment, she unraveled the silk with expert haste as she continued to kiss him. May he never wake. Magdalene was undressing him. Him.
Soft, warm hands found his pulsing throat and pushed their way down into his shirt, frilling across his chest. His cock grew so hard, he almost staggered trying to hold on to her.
She suddenly froze. Jerking her lips from his, she wrenched herself out of his grasp.
His arms dropped heavily to his sides in a gloried glow. She loved him. That kiss and touch said it all. His chest heaved in an effort to remain calm as he reopened his eyes. “Magdalene.”
She stared up at him, beautifully flushed from lip to cheeks to throat. Glancing toward his exposed throat and half-hanging cravat, her astounded features twisted into what he could only define as anguish. “How could you? Thornton, how could you—” Her hand jumped up, smacking his face so hard his head snapped toward his shoulder.
Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for MarriageThe Wedding PartyUnlaced (Lester Family) Page 34