“To our rooms? I can’t wait that long.”
She laughed. “Really, John, it won’t take two minutes for us to run upstairs. Even then, my family is likely to wonder what we’re—”
“Two minutes is two minutes too long.” He covered her mouth with his hand, backing her against the paneled wall, where coats hung like silent spectators on either side of her. “Do you want to do it? Yes or no.”
She was giggling against his palm. “Yes,” she answered when he removed his hand. “But we have to be quick.”
“Oh, I can be quick.” He was already unbuttoning the fall of his trousers, freeing his erection. “You have me hard enough to break rocks.”
He wasn’t exaggerating by much. His erection twitched with every beat of his heart. After five celibate years in Vienna, he seemed to be making up for lost time.
She glanced down, and when she looked up again, she was breathing faster. “We really shouldn’t...”
It was a halfhearted protest, and it was clear she was making it purely for form’s sake. “No, we shouldn’t. But right now I don’t much care.” He lifted her skirts, gathering the merino in a bunch at her waist with his left hand. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”
She did as she was told. With his free hand he teased her open, fingering her, dipping into the wetness already gathering at her entrance, slicking it over the little bud where her pleasure concentrated. “How do you get so wet so quickly? Dear God, you’re a miracle of nature.”
She looked simultaneously shocked, amused and impressed by his ardor. “Have you gone mad?”
“I think I have, a little.” He replaced his hand with his erection, sliding himself back and forth against her slick folds until her mirth changed to a little whimper of need. He wished he could spend all day coaxing that sound out of her, but—quick. She wanted quick.
Positioning himself against her entrance, he buried himself inside her. It was so staggeringly pleasurable, he had to lean on the wall behind her until he’d regained his equilibrium. “Oh, damn, that’s good.”
“Shh,” she cautioned. “We have to be quiet.”
He’d thought the spontaneity of such an encounter would appeal to Caro, but it had him excited too, and he was already panting. He began to move in her with long, deep strokes. “At least the walls in here don’t squeak.”
Now it was her turn to cover his mouth. “John, shh. What if someone hears us and comes to investigate?”
He tried to say “That might be awkward,” but the words came out muffled against her palm.
She burst into laughter, and he playfully shushed her in return.
Soon they were both laughing, convulsed by the absurd necessity of remaining quiet even as he thrust into her again and again, the coats on either side of them swinging slightly with his rhythm. He lost himself in the tight, wet squeeze of her, the softness and the warmth, and between the hilarity and the lust, it felt so good he wondered whether it might be more bliss than an ordinary mortal could bear.
Smiling dizzily, she closed her eyes. “Ah, just like that. That’s so...Oh, don’t stop, Johnny, I’m going to...”
She’d never called him Johnny before, had never been so fast in the grip of desire that she couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Seconds later she was contracting around him, clutching his shoulders and leaning her head on his shoulder, gasping and quivering as she spent.
That was all it took to set him off. He’d ushered her into the cloakroom with a combination of urgency and crudeness, aware now that Caro liked a dash of wildness with her trysts, but as he finished emptying himself into her, such a wash of tenderness swept over him that all the lecherous mirth of a few moments before evaporated.
Weak-kneed, he kissed her temple and whispered reverently in her ear. “Darling, beautiful Caro. You’re the most perfect creature God ever made.”
He felt foolish afterward, for speaking with so much naked sentiment and while still basking in the afterglow that followed such an outpouring of lust. He knew she wasn’t really perfect—perfect creatures didn’t lie or scheme or turn insulting, and Caro was capable of all those things. Forgiving her shouldn’t mean blinding himself to reality. It was likely to prove dangerous, letting down his guard.
But at the time he said it, and for quite some time afterward, he meant every word. In fact, he wished there were some better compliment than perfect.
* * *
They left the cloakroom separately, John giving Caro an earlier start in case anyone should be nearby and apt to wonder what they’d been doing in the cloakroom together. Walking through the Priory and up the stairs, he had to school himself to appear offhand, though his senses were still humming.
He could remember thinking that while Caro was beautiful, it was a pity her character didn’t match her looks, but he was beginning to think her character might be the best thing about her. For a girl who’d first impressed him as sweetness personified, she had an impressive amount of spirit. How many young ladies would have agreed to a tryst like the one they’d just enjoyed? And as maddening as her lying had always been, at times he’d been secretly impressed by her inventiveness—or if not impressed, at least entertained. There was nothing dull or ordinary about Caro, and he felt less dull and ordinary when he was with her. Sometimes, arguing with her had been as exciting as it was infuriating.
He liked it better when they didn’t argue, though...
He was on his way to his dressing room when Miss Fleetwood popped out of the shadows at the top of the stairs. “Why, Lord Welford,” she said in a voice that was clearly meant to sound surprised but actually sounded as if she’d been waiting some time for him.
“Miss Fleetwood.” He bowed.
She smiled prettily. “I was wondering how soon you were going to get back. Did Caro tell you I wish to cut your silhouette?”
“My valet mentioned it this morning. Perhaps after dinner?”
“I have time to do it now, if you’re free.”
“Actually, I was on my way to my rooms.”
She took a step closer, until she was standing mere inches from him, almost chest to chest. “Did you enjoy your walk?”
“I did. The parkland here is beautifully situated, and Lady Welford showed me the bridge over the—”
He broke off, startled, as Miss Fleetwood flung her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him from knees to shoulders. “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t speak of Caro!”
What on earth...? He quickly unclasped her arms, setting her gently but firmly at arm’s length. “Miss Fleetwood, you forget yourself.”
“I don’t! You must know how I feel. You’re all I think about!”
He frowned. “Then you need to find something else to think about. I apologize if, in offering you some civility, I gave you the mistaken impression I had a particular interest in you, but I’m married.”
“I realize that, but anyone can see Caro doesn’t love you.”
Was that true, or just wishful thinking on Miss Fleetwood’s part? He’d been telling himself he and Caro were growing closer at last, but then, Caro wanted everyone to think they were in love...”I never discuss the state of my marriage with anyone but my wife. Even if what you say were true, I would be no less married.”
“I knew you would say that. You’re more loyal than Caro deserves. But I love you and she—”
“That’s quite enough, Miss Fleetwood. The more you say now, the more you’ll regret it later. Even if I were free—and it’s impossible for me to stress too strongly that I’m not—I’m too old for you.”
She threw herself at him again, clinging to him with her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, please don’t say that! You’re not too old for me. I’m only five years younger than Caro.”
Had Caro ever been as young and rash as Miss Fleetwood? She must have been, an
d what was more, he’d married her when she wasn’t even Miss Fleetwood’s age. How could he have considered a seventeen-year-old girl mature enough to make such a life-changing decision? But then, he’d been five years younger too, and apparently possessed of a good deal less insight and maturity himself.
He removed her hands from his shoulders and set her away from him. “You must put this from your head, as I have every intention of doing. If you’ll excuse me?” He took a sidestep and continued purposefully down the corridor to the bedroom he shared with Caro, while Miss Fleetwood stared after him with a look of frustrated longing.
He let himself in and discovered Caro seated before the mirror on the dressing table, repairing the damage that their walk and the encounter in the cloakroom had done to her hair. She glanced at him, smiling, but as she caught sight of his expression her look of cheerful greeting changed to one of concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I just had an unsettling encounter with your cousin. She threw herself on me, then insisted she’s in love with me.”
Caro’s eyes went round with surprise. “Oh, my.”
* * *
John looked more than unsettled—he looked downright shaken. How could Sophia have done such a thing?
“Should I speak to her father about it,” John asked, “or would you prefer to go to her mother?”
Caro turned back to the mirror, her concern escalating to alarm. She couldn’t let that happen. What if Sophia retaliated by telling everyone that she and John had only been pretending they’d been together for the past five years? “Is it really necessary to tattle on her?”
John frowned. “Is that how it seems to you—that I’d be tattling?” He came to stand behind her, addressing her reflection in the mirror. “I’ve no wish to make trouble for the girl, Caro, only to see that her parents keep a more watchful eye on her. Don’t you think they deserve a warning before she tries such a trick again, and makes a truly ruinous mistake?”
Caro twisted in her chair, gazing up at him in appeal. “Surely it isn’t as serious as all that. Isn’t it enough if I talk to her?”
“I don’t think you understand. She physically threw herself on me, and when I reminded her I’m married, she insisted that didn’t matter.”
Caro rose. John was right to be shocked, and even right to want to alert her aunt and uncle, but...Well, Sophia was self-centered and headstrong, and everyone knew the saying Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea to go to her parents.”
“Why not?”
Caro hesitated. She’d meant to tell him about Sophia, but at first it had slipped her mind, and now—well, even she knew her bid to keep Sophia quiet had been a piece of rank cowardice. “Because there’s no telling how long my father has left, which means we may be here for some time. And Sophia is...thin-skinned. I don’t want to hurt her feelings or stir up trouble.”
“It’s your cousin who’s stirring up trouble,” John said, his forehead creasing in a worried frown. “What she did was wildly improper, to say nothing of indiscreet. I’ve no wish to hurt Miss Fleetwood’s feelings either, or to create strife when we’re guests in this house, but what if she should behave that way with a man who isn’t so nice in his distinctions?”
Caro worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d reached the end of her rope.
She was going to have to tell him about Sophia. He wasn’t going to like it, especially not after all their recent talk about keeping secrets, but everything John said was right, and she couldn’t very well ignore common sense just to remain in her cousin’s good graces. As much as she dreaded John’s disapproval, lying to avoid the consequences of her mistakes was exactly what had landed her in trouble in the first place.
“John,” she began hesitantly, “there’s another reason I’d rather you didn’t take the matter to my aunt and uncle, and it’s the same reason reminding Sophia that you’re married didn’t carry much weight with her—”
A rap on the bedroom door cut her off in midsentence.
“Yes?” John called.
“Your pardon, my lord,” Leitner’s voice came through the door, “but there is a problem on the stairs that requires your attention.”
“Not now, Leitner.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but it is Mr. Ronald, and I do not believe the matter will wait.”
“We’re not done with this discussion, Caro,” John said before hurrying out to see what was the matter.
Chapter Twenty-One
Simple and unmingled good is not in our power, but we may generally escape a greater evil by suffering a less; and, therefore, those who undertake to initiate the young and ignorant in the knowledge of life should be careful to inculcate the possibility of virtue and happiness, and to encourage endeavours by prospects of success.
—Samuel Johnson
Caro followed after John and his valet. At the bottom of the staircase, her uncle Geoffrey, his butler Sanders, and one of the Priory footmen stood in a half circle around a crumpled figure on the next-to-last step. It was Ronnie, all right—coatless, with his head bowed and his long legs sprawling.
John gave a faint sigh—Caro wasn’t sure whether it indicated anger or disappointment—and started down the stairs. Caro stayed close behind, and the nearer she drew to her brother-in-law, the more pronounced the smell of alcohol and vomit became.
Her uncle looked up at John, and the distracted air he’d been wearing changed to a look of relief. “Ah, Lord Welford. I’m afraid your brother took a bit of a tumble. He doesn’t appear to be injured, but nevertheless he can’t stand up without assistance.”
Ronnie wore a foolish smile, and he went on smiling even when he spied John. “Hullo, John. Wha’ve you been doing with yourself?”
“I won’t ask the same of you, since it’s evident enough.” Addressing her uncle, he said, “I apologize for my brother, Sir Geoffrey. I had no idea he’d been drinking.”
She was impressed John was able to keep his voice so calm and level, for she’d seen the stiff set of shoulders often enough before to know he must be furious.
“I realize this is none of your doing,” her uncle told John, “but I’d appreciate it if you would take charge of him from here.”
“Of course.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting with my bailiff. Sanders here is at your disposal if you should require anything.”
“Thank you.” As her uncle withdrew, John gave instructions to the butler. “I’ll see my brother up to his room. We could use a pot of coffee and some food. Plain fare—toast will do.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“Get up,” John said, taking his brother by the arm and hoisting him to his feet.
“You sound cross,” Ronnie slurred. “Don’ be cross.”
John did sound cross, but not because he’d raised his voice. No, it was rather what he wasn’t saying. When John was truly angry, he spoke in short, clipped sentences, if he spoke at all. Get up was his version of I’d like to take you outside and smash my fist into your drunken face, you ass.
John set Ronnie’s right arm over his shoulders, supporting him with his left arm around Ronnie’s waist. “Let’s go. One step at a time.”
Boneless, Ronnie giggled and leaned all his weight on John. “Shot the cat earlier. Had to take my coat off, ’cause it was a bit worse for wear.”
John didn’t reply.
Leitner slipped to Ronnie’s other side, and together he and John hauled her brother-in-law up the stairs.
Caro trailed after them. “What can I do to help?”
“You can ring for a maid once we reach Ronnie’s room. It sounds as if it could use some attention. Leitner, I’m afraid you’ll have to see to the worse-for-wear coat.”
At least he wasn’t angry with h
er or his valet. He was still speaking to them in complete sentences. And Ronnie’s contretemps meant there was little immediate danger John would be going to her uncle to report Sophia’s misconduct, so Caro could save her confession about Sophia’s eavesdropping until John was in a more receptive mood.
She only wished she knew why Ronnie insisted on behaving so irresponsibly when John wanted nothing but the best for him.
* * *
After getting Ronnie back to his room, John stood over him until Ronnie downed the coffee Caro poured for him and ate a slice of toast to settle his stomach. Then he went over Ronnie’s room with a fine-tooth comb, determined to find and confiscate every ounce of alcohol his brother possessed.
He discovered two brandy bottles on the floor by the bed, one empty and the other still half-full. “Where did you get these?” he demanded, holding them up.
“In the village.” At John’s questioning look, Ronnie explained, “When you and Miss Fleetwood were in the confec’ner’s shop.”
So this spree had been two days in the planning. “Did you study your Logic at all last night?”
Ronnie’s jaw jutted forward stubbornly. “A little.”
“How much?”
Ronnie didn’t answer.
“What’s the difference between a simple substance and a compound substance?”
Ronnie merely stared at him.
John tossed up his hands in exasperation. “For God’s sake, that has to be covered in the first twenty pages!”
“Perhaps we’d better leave this until after dinner,” Caro urged from the corner of the room, where she’d been watching their conversation with her brows pinched together in an anxious expression. “He isn’t himself yet, John.”
John was forced to concede. He couldn’t expect Ronnie to think clearly when he was still badly muddled.
When John joined Caro and her family downstairs for dinner an hour later, Ronnie was conspicuously absent from the group filing into the dining room.
“A letter came for you while you were upstairs,” Lady Fleetwood said to John as he led her in. “It’s in the drawing room. I would’ve had Sanders bring it up to you, but since it came by regular post I didn’t think it was urgent, and you were occupied with your brother.”
The Marriage Act Page 24