by Candace Camp
He bent to kiss her, his mouth hot and demanding, opening her lips to his plundering tongue as his fingers continued to work their magic, opening and separating the folds of her flesh, stroking across the sensitive skin with supreme delicacy.
Mary dug her fingers into his arms, quivering under the intensity of her feelings. He pulled his mouth from hers, leaving her gasping at the loss as he bent and picked her up, laying her down on her dressing gown. Stretching out on his side next to her, he began to kiss her again, his fingers trailing across her stomach and abdomen and up and down her thighs, teasingly traveling almost to the hot center of her desire, then gliding away until Mary was almost sobbing with need.
He kissed his way greedily down her throat and came at last to rest on her breast, his tongue circling first one nipple, then the other, as his fingers kept up their teasing dance. Mary moved restlessly beneath him, lost in the pleasure of his hands and mouth, even as a fierce need built up within her. She wanted to again feel his fingers on her there, where desire was now pooling, where a growing emptiness ached for more. She wanted—Mary wasn’t certain any longer just what she wanted, only that she was filled with want. Indeed, she seemed to be nothing but want.
Royce’s mouth fastened upon her nipple, pulling it into the hot cave of his mouth, and at the same moment his fingers sought out the slick center of her heat. Mary moaned, digging her heels into the floor and arching up against his hand.
He suckled at her breast, and every movement of his mouth shot a white-hot spear of desire to the very center of her being. At last, growling low in his throat, Royce moved between her legs, fumbling at the fastening of his trousers. He looked up at her face—and froze.
“Bloody hell!” The oath broke from his lips, and he rolled off her, sitting up and burying his head in his hands.
Mary rose on her elbows, staring at him in dismay. Her entire body was simmering, and the insistent throbbing between her legs made her want to cry out in frustration.
“Royce?” she asked, her voice coming out in a croak.
“Get dressed.” His voice was tight and hard, and he still did not look at her.
“But why—”
“Just do it!” His voice cracked like a whip. “Just put on your gown and run back to your room and thank your lucky stars that I am not completely drunk.”
Mary blushed beet red. She felt suddenly small and exposed. Scrambling to her feet, she picked up the dressing gown on which she had been lying and wrapped it around her, tying the sash with a jerk. Grabbing the ruined night rail, she wadded it into a ball and ran from the room.
In her bare feet she made little noise as she dashed down the corridor and up the stairs to her room. Ducking inside, she locked the door after her and leaned back against it, gasping for breath, her legs shaking.
What had she done? What would he think of her?
Mary groaned and sank to the floor, cradling the bundle of her torn nightgown against her chest. She did not know how she would ever be able to face Royce again. At least he had the excuse that he had been drinking. But she had been perfectly sober and clearheaded—and still she had behaved like a wanton!
She should be in tears, she told herself. She should be crying in shame and distress. Yet she could not. And as horrified as she was at her behavior, she could not deny the tremors of desire still running through her. Her blood pounded in her veins, and her skin was so sensitive that she was supremely aware of even the touch of her dressing gown on her naked skin.
What she had done was reprehensible. And yet …
Mary let out another groan and sank her fingers into her hair, pressing her fingertips into her scalp as though she could stop the thoughts running rampant in her head. She had enjoyed every moment of what had happened downstairs. Her entire body had come alive beneath Royce’s kisses and caresses. If he had not stopped, she was sure that she would not have done so. And if he were to come into her room right now, she knew that she just might fall into his arms all over again.
She also knew, however, that there could be nothing between her and Royce. He had made that perfectly clear. And to give herself to him would be the worst decision she could make. She would be ruined. Disgraced. That truth was drummed into every young girl’s head from the moment she blossomed into a woman.
Mary had always wondered why everyone was so insistent on this lesson. Avoiding the sin of lust had seemed easy enough to her; she had never once been tempted to do any more than kiss a man. But now she understood. Pleasure offered a slippery slope indeed. She would have to be far more careful in the future if she intended not to go sliding right down it.
And that meant staying away from Royce. With a sigh, Mary rose to her feet. That shouldn’t be too hard; at the moment, he was the last person she wanted to see. She felt sure her face would turn crimson the next time she saw him. She could not bear to imagine what he must think of her. He had regarded her as a hoyden before; now he must think her a hussy as well.
Bundling the nightgown into a ball, she strode over to the trunk at the foot of her bed and opened it, then stuffed the ruined gown down under the folded blankets. She could not let the maids catch sight of it. It would be impossible to explain the enormous rip down the front.
With that task done, she drew her other night rail from the dresser drawer and pulled it on, then climbed into bed. She should try to sleep, she knew, if she did not want to look tomorrow as if she had stayed up all night.
When Mary awoke the next morning, she looked just as she had feared—dark circles under her eyes and a weary set to her mouth. She considered staying in bed and pleading sick. Looking at herself in the mirror, she did not think anyone would doubt her.
However, if she was too sick to join her sisters, they would all come trooping up here, full of questions and sympathy. That was the last thing she wanted. No, it was better to go downstairs and subject herself to Miss Dalrymple’s lessons. Her sisters would be too busy with their own dislike of the tasks before them to think overmuch about Mary’s lack of spirits.
She was relieved to see that at least she was too late for breakfast, so she rang for the maid and asked for a tray of tea and toast. When she was done with her meager breakfast, she put on the best face she could and went downstairs to face the others.
She was greatly relieved to find that Royce was not with her sisters and Miss Dalrymple, but she found it even more difficult than usual to pay attention to Miss Dalrymple’s explanation of the proper forms of address for all titles. Her mind kept wandering to the night before and whether Royce would try to avoid her today just as she was avoiding him. How low had his opinion of her sunk?
Royce did not join them for lunch, but when it was time for their dancing lesson, he appeared in the small ballroom as he always did. Mary’s heart sped up when she saw him, and she glanced quickly away. She was tempted to hang back and let him dance with the others, to say that she had turned her ankle. But that was not her way, and she did not consider it long.
When it was her turn to dance, she strode forward, and though she was certain that the color in her cheeks was higher than normal, she looked straight into his face. She might be embarrassed about what she had done last night, but she refused to let him see that. He bowed and led her out onto the floor. At least, Mary thought, they were not practicing the waltz today. She did not have to feel his hand on her waist or stand so close to him. She had only to face him as they moved and from time to time put her hand on his arm. That was difficult enough, with her insides quivering like jelly.
Royce’s expression was polite, but more remote than she had ever seen. There was no twinkle in his eyes, nor a smile at the corner of his mouth. Indeed, Mary thought, he was doing an admirable imitation of the earl. His coolness did away with the last of her nerves. Did he have the audacity, she wondered, to be angry with her?
He seemed much more himself as he moved on to dance with her sisters. Mary watched them, her irritation growing as he laughed and talked with Rose
or Lily. She knew, deep down, that she was being unfair to expect him to be at ease with her when she had felt such trepidation at facing him. But she could not help but fear that she had lost his friendship, that he would never again act the same with her.
When the lesson was over at last, Miss Dalrymple retired to her room for her customary nap, and Mary’s sisters headed out the door as well. As Mary started after them, Royce reached out a hand, not quite touching her arm.
“Mary, if I could have a word with you… .”
Mary stopped and turned to face him, her stomach sizzling with nerves. Royce’s jaw was set. If possible, he looked even stonier than he had earlier.
“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said, his voice formal and as stiff as his back. “What I did was reprehensible.”
Mary stood silently, not sure what to say. Was she supposed to agree? To forgive him? To admit that it was as much her fault as his? She was certain that she should not reply with the first thought that sprang to her mind, which was that last night had been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.
“I sincerely regret what I did,” he went on, clasping his hands behind his back. “If I could take it back, I would.”
Mary was aware of a pain somewhere in the area of her heart. “Pray, do not trouble yourself. It was not your fault.”
“But it was my fault. I behaved like a cad. Oliver would have my head if he knew about it, and rightfully so.”
“Oliver!” Mary’s eyebrows went up. “Just what, may I ask, does Oliver have to do with it? I don’t recall him being in the smoking room with us.”
“No, of course not. I only meant—well, you are his cousins, under his protection. And he placed you in my care. I should have been protecting you, not engaging in drunken debauchery.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he swung away, beginning to pace. “I am not the most noble of men, I admit that freely, but I do not normally go about seducing innocent young girls. Especially when they are placed in my care.”
“Would you stop staying that? You make me sound as if I were a—a basket of eggs, or a child.”
Royce grimaced. “Blast it, Mary, can you not even accept an apology without arguing? Obviously you are not a child, but I am older than you and more experienced. You are new to this world. I should be warning you about the dangers that men present to you, not be one of them. I was in my cups, and I lost control.”
The burning irritation that had been growing in Mary’s chest burgeoned at his words. He had kissed her, caressed her, indeed, ripped her gown from her, and was his excuse that he had been driven mad by her beauty or that his lust for her had carried him past all gentlemanly restraints? No. His reason was that he was drunk!
“And what was your excuse that night in the inn?” Mary snapped. “You were not drunk then, as I recall.”
He stared at her, his mouth opening, then closing. Color flared along his cheekbones. Finally, tightly, he said, “It will not happen again, I assure you.”
“Good!” Mary crossed her arms in front of her, her eyes fierce.
Royce sketched a brief bow toward her. “If you will excuse me …”
He turned and strode away. Mary threw a parting shot after him, “Don’t worry. I shan’t carry tales to your precious Oliver.”
Royce checked for an instant and turned to shoot her a fulminating glance, then continued out the door.
Mary wished she had something she could throw. But everything in this house was far too expensive to demolish in a fit of temper. She felt foolish and petty, her emotions raw. If she were a real lady, she supposed, she would have been furious with him for kissing her, and she would have welcomed his apology. Nay, she would have demanded it.
It wasn’t that she wished him to act as if he had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t that she disliked his being a gentleman. It was just … well, couldn’t he have said one little thing about how wonderful it had felt to kiss her? Couldn’t he have offered her a compliment or two instead of regrets?
No, she told herself, because clearly he had not felt those things. He wished it had never happened. He hated having lost control. They had almost made love only because he was too drunk to know what he was doing.
Mary set her jaw. She could feel tears pricking at her eyelids, but she willed them back. She would not cry about this. It would be too humiliating. Turning, she made her way upstairs. She found Rose in the sitting room, sewing a ruffle back on the hem of one of Camellia’s gowns.
“Where are the girls?” Mary asked, sinking down onto the settee beside her sister.
“They were squabbling—I’m not even sure about what—and finally I lost my temper and told them to go fuss at each other somewhere else.” She lifted her face and gave Mary a wan smile. “I fear I am not the most pleasant company today.”
“You too? It must be going around.” Mary sighed and leaned back, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankles in a way that she knew would have earned a rebuke from their chaperone. That thought perked up her spirits a bit. “But I cannot imagine that you were unduly cross. You are the most angelic of creatures.”
“I’m not.” Rose shook her head. “I snapped at Junie this morning. I don’t understand why she must try to do my hair! I hate having people fuss over me.”
“I know. Even when you are sick, you like to be alone. Which is, believe me, far more appreciated than demanding to be babied and taken care of all the time.”
Rose half smiled. “I suppose. But I know that is Junie’s job, and I should not be so sharp with her. I don’t think a maid’s lot is a happy one, especially here. At least at home, the cook and Josie and Annie lived at their own houses. Here, they all have to live in those tiny rooms upstairs. They get up before us and go to bed after us. And no one ever thanks them.”
“They look at you as if you’re crazy if you do,” Mary pointed out.
Rose chuckled. “That’s true. Maybe I feel sorrier for them than they do for themselves.” She sighed. “I certainly didn’t show her any kindness by barking at her, though. I just feel—don’t you feel so hemmed in here?”
Mary looked at her, astonished. “Hemmed in? But this house is enormous. We each have our own bedchamber, and it’s twice the size ours was back home.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean all the people around. Everybody watching you. I know that inside they’re thinking I shouldn’t be here, that I’m not really a lady.”
“You are far more ladylike than the rest of us. If you aren’t like the other British misses, what does it matter?” Mary shrugged. “I’d far rather have you as a sister than some limp girl who would say and do everything Miss Dalrymple wants us to.”
“I know you would.” Rose smiled at her. “You’re right; I’m foolish, I know. Everyone would say that we have landed in a pot of cream. We have a beautiful place to live, all the food we could possibly want, a whole set of new clothes. I feel like an ungrateful wretch… .” She paused, looking down at her hands lying idly on the gown. “But, oh, Mary, don’t you ever feel homesick? Don’t you wish you could go back?”
“No. Actually, I haven’t felt homesick a bit. I mean, I miss Mama; sometimes I think about her, and I can’t help but cry. But I don’t miss Three Corners or Cosmo or the tavern.” Mary frowned in concern. “Do you? Rose, are you unhappy here?”
“Oh, Mary!” Rose raised her face, her cornflower blue eyes swimming with tears. “I do miss it! I miss—” She raised her hand to her mouth, and great tears spilled out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. “I never realized I would miss him so much!”
Mary goggled at her. “Miss who ? Rose, never tell me you miss Cosmo.”
Rose let out a watery little chuckle and swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “No! Not Cosmo. I’d never miss Cosmo in a hundred years. I meant Sam.”
“Oh. Sam Treadwell. But I thought you said …” Mary paused, trying to remember exactly what it was her sister had said about the young man who had courted her back home.
“When we talked about him at the house in London, you said you weren’t pining for him.”
“I’m not. I don’t.” Rose sighed again. “At least, I don’t want to. But I didn’t—I didn’t realize it would be so hard. I didn’t know how much I would miss him. I keep thinking about the way he smiles and wishing I could see his smile again. He has the most wonderful brown eyes, and when he looks at me”—Rose hugged herself and gave a little shiver—“it makes me feel tingly all over.”
“Do you love him?”
“I don’t know.” Rose let her arms drop to her sides. “I’m not sure. When I think about spending my life with some other man, I can’t imagine it. But with Sam, all I can think about is being with him always. Am I terribly silly?”
“No! No, you aren’t silly at all.” Mary hesitated. “Did he—did you ever kiss him?”
Her sister’s cheeks turned pink. “Mary!”
“You did kiss him, didn’t you! You sly thing, why didn’t you tell me?”
Rose shook her head. “I couldn’t. It was—I don’t know, it was so wonderful and … and … special. I just wanted to hug it to myself. Besides, I was afraid you might … I don’t know, think less of me.”
“No, of course not. I would never think anything bad about you. When did he kiss you? What happened?”
“It was one day when I was walking to Nan Sutton’s house, and Sam came riding down the street. He’d been to Philadelphia on business, he said, and, oh, he looked so grand riding along.” Rose’s eyes shone with the memory. “He got off his horse and walked with me. I walked right past Nan’s house just to stay with him. He took his horse into the stable, and there was no one else about. He reached out and took my hand, and then he kissed me.” She blushed again. “He kissed me twice.”
“Did you—did you never want it to stop?” Mary asked.
Her sister glanced at her, startled. “No, no, I didn’t. But how did you—Mary, who have you been kissing?”