The Seduction of an English Lady

by Cathy Maxwell

  Suddenly, Colin felt very alone. What would his mother say now? Would she be proud of him? Had he been proud of her? The uncomfortable question was one he dared not answer….

  The overwhelming sense of loss caught him off guard. He’d loved both his parents, but in a child’s selfish way, he had never looked back once he’d left home. Now he wished that they had been alive and could have been present at his marriage—although neither one would have approved of such a havey-cavey affair.

  “What is the tale?” Rosalyn asked from her corner bastion, bringing him back to the present.

  “The tale?” Colin repeated blankly.

  “Yes, the story your mother told,” she prodded. “The one about carrying the bride over the threshold?”

  It took him a moment to gather his wits. “The threshold? Yes, well, she had a good story.” He pulled the hem of his shirt out of his breeches. Rosalyn was listening so intently that she appeared not to notice.

  He cleared his throat, as every good storyteller should, and realized this was a habit his mother had shared, too. “In my mother’s family, the groom carried the bride over the threshold because it was believed that demons from a woman’s family followed her.”

  “Demons?”

  “Demons,” he assured Rosalyn. “And since every man has his own demons, why would he want a wife to bring more demons into the house? So, to keep his wife’s demons out, the first time the bridegroom brought his bride to his house, he picked his bride up and carried her over the threshold. The demons couldn’t follow her then.”

  “What about the next time she had to go in the door?” Rosalyn asked, reasoning for flaws in the story, as he had anticipated she would.

  “Once you carried your bride over the threshold, the demons could never follow her again. She could go back and forth as often as she liked and only needed to worry about her husband’s demons.”

  Rosalyn considered this a moment. The out-of-kilter dimple made one of its appearances as she pursed her lips. “I’ve never heard such a story,” she said at last.

  “You’re not from the North.”

  “My father’s family should have been at one time or the other, else we’d not own Maiden Hill.”

  Colin grinned. “Either that or your ancestors did their own bride capturing.” He punctuated his words by pulling his shirt up over his head in one fluid movement.

  Her reaction was swift and silly—Rosalyn turned her face to the wall, giving him her back. He could almost feel the heat of her embarrassment and wondered at such modesty.

  “It’s just my chest,” he told her.

  “We have a marriage of convenience,” she said, as if reminding herself.

  “Yes, absolutely,” he agreed easily. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be strangers.”

  “It doesn’t mean I want us to be naked in front of each other either,” she told the wall.

  “Rosalyn, this is ridiculous,” Colin said, suddenly tired. He’d woo Rosalyn later, when his wits were sharper. But for now, the bed beckoned for another reason older than time—sleep. Rosalyn could stand in the corner all day; he wanted a pillow. He lay down, discovered the bed was softer and more comfortable than he had imagined, and went to sleep.

  Rosalyn heard him lay down on the bed. The air in the room closed in around her.

  She didn’t understand what was wrong. The sight of his stocking feet had been disconcerting and, in some way, intimate, but seeing his bare chest…

  She’d had to turn away, or else ogle him like a cow herder. The man was all muscle. Hard and unyielding. It also looked as if he had a scar on his shoulder, a star shape of puckered, red, angry skin. She wondered what the story was there.

  The silence between them stretched out. From beyond the window a bird called its mate. The door of the inn closed, and she heard the masculine voices of the hunters preparing to mount their horses. They were excited about the day’s hunt.

  But she heard nothing from the colonel.

  She dared to glance over her shoulder. Colonel Mandland was stretched out on the bed, but she expected to catch him watching her. She had imagined his sly, slightly crooked grin as he waited for her to do what she just did—peek.

  However, he wasn’t even paying attention to her. He lay with a feather pillow under his head, his body on top of the covers, his back to her. He was definitely asleep.

  Slowly, Rosalyn faced the bed, not knowing what to think. A part of her was disappointed. The sparring between them was done, and she discovered she actually liked matching wits with him. It had been exciting when he’d lifted her in his arms and dropped her on the bed.

  And she had to confront the fact that secretly she had not been expecting a story about demons or her husband going to sleep. She’d been hoping he’d take the decision of whether to consummate the marriage out of her hands after she’d expressed a decent amount of outrage so he wouldn’t see how attracted to him she was.

  Now she was disappointed she wasn’t going to be ravaged. The realization was profoundly deflating.

  Rosalyn frowned at the sleeping man who was now her husband. A demon started to possess her—the demon of anger. How dare he fall asleep on her, when she was so tense and uncertain?

  She was tempted to take off her bonnet and smash it further by clobbering him with it over and over again. Then she’d wager he’d notice her—!

  The violence of her thoughts caught her off guard and increased her anger tenfold.

  Over the years, she had learned to bottle her emotions, but Colonel Mandland had a way of slipping past her guard, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  Furthermore, if he thought she was ever going to climb into bed with him after he’d ignored her and left her standing in this corner—he was wrong. She had her pride. She was the daughter of the earl of Woodford.

  Rosalyn took off her bonnet and pulled off her gloves. She crossed the room and laid both on the washbasin. Although she’d dearly liked to have splashed some water on her face, there was none in the pitcher.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and almost cried out. She appeared a fright. Her cheeks were pale, and she had deep circles under her eyes from a night of travel.

  No wonder he hadn’t wanted to ravage her.

  After taking a moment to pin her hair tighter, Rosalyn pulled the chair—piling his coat, shirt, and neck cloth over the empty washbasin—over to her side of the bed. She needed sleep, too, but she was not going to lay down on that bed.

  Instead, she positioned the chair so that she could use the bed for a footstool. She slipped off her slippers, sat in the chair, propped her feet up on the bed, and tried to get comfortable enough to sleep.

  It was hard. Outside the window, the inn yard’s day was just getting under way, and noone attempted to keep his voice down. Furthermore, the dogs that had greeted them yapped a greeting at every new traveler. Horses whinnied, barrels were rolled, men laughed, and Rosalyn didn’t see how the colonel could sleep through the racket.

  She got up and closed the shutter. It helped a measure. Returning to her chair, she attempted a new position that she hadn’t tried yet. Her neck was getting a crick in it. At some point, Rosalyn realized she was so tired that she almost didn’t care where she slept…and the bed began looking very good to her.

  After all, the colonel was sleeping on top of the covers. Would it be so terrible if she stayed fully clothed and slept under the covers? She didn’t worry about her dress. It was hopelessly wrinkled by now anyway.

  At that moment, Colonel Mandland stretched like a satisfied cat.

  Rosalyn went tense, expecting him to wake.

  He didn’t. With a soft, relaxed sigh, he settled himself in more contentedly.

  Rosalyn had never known jealousy the likes of which she felt watching him sleep peacefully. She almost couldn’t stand it. Her body yearned for sleep. Her eyes ached.

  Unable to resist, she capitulated. A woman could only resist so much. Stealthily, she climbed onto the
bed and slipped under the covers.

  The mattress felt so good beneath her tired body. She curled up with a contented sigh—

  The bed moved. He rolled toward her, and his arm draped over her waist.

  Rosalyn froze, uncertain.

  He didn’t move closer. His breathing sounded steady. She waited. When he didn’t stir, she slid a look over her shoulder.

  He was asleep. Truly asleep.

  She laid her head back on her pillow and didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended.

  In the end, she went to sleep.

  Rosalyn came awake with a start, not recognizing her surroundings or remembering anything. She’d been dreaming that she had gotten married, and now, to find herself safe in bed—?

  Except it wasn’t her bed. And she was fully dressed.

  Rosalyn sat up. Her hair was a mess. She’d gone to bed with it pinned, and now the pins were either falling out or sticking in her skull.

  Looking around the room, she began to remember where she was and why.

  She was married.

  She turned to the other side of the bed and found it empty. The imprint of the colonel’s head dented the feather pillow, but he wasn’t there.

  She could find enough signs of him. The room smelled of soap. The clothes she had tossed over the washbasin were gone. A razor lay beside the pitcher, and she knew he’d shaved. There was also a tub in front of the empty hearth. He’d done more than shaved, he’d bathed. Here. While she’d slept…he’d been naked.

  Rosalyn released her breath slowly. After all, she was a married woman now.

  A married woman who would dearly enjoy a bath.

  She got up from the bed and crossed to the tub. Testing the water, she found it still warm. The linen towel he’d used to dry off was crumpled and hanging over the top slat of the straight-backed chair.

  This was the same chair she’d dragged over to her side of the bed, and Rosalyn felt on edge. The idea that he’d moved furniture, shaved, and bathed, and she had slept through it all was disconcerting. She felt as if her privacy had been invaded and yet not….

  She moved to the window and opened the shutters she’d closed earlier. All was quiet in the inn yard. It had to be close to the supper hour. Save for a dog scratching fleas and a horse tied to a post and munching hay, the place could have been deserted.

  Shuttering the window, she wondered where the colonel was. She listened and could hear no sounds through the inn’s thick walls. Her gaze once again fell on the bath.

  Her body longed for the soothing calm of a good soak. Some people did not practice bathing. Rosalyn believed there were benefits in cleanliness, and she was both pleased and relieved the colonel agreed with her. The bar of soap he’d used was in a dish, and there were two more clean towels folded, ready and waiting for her.

  She knew now what had woken her. It had been the door shutting when he’d left the room. She knew him well enough now, or at least trusted him enough, to know he’d left the water for her use. It was nice to be married to someone who anticipated your needs. And the water was very tempting.

  She scratched her head where a pin had indented her skull. Warm water could soothe troubled nerves—and if she hurried, she could be done before he returned.

  Rosalyn didn’t waste a moment. She had to bathe. She couldn’t stand being in these clothes one moment more. A quick dip in and out, she promised herself. But then she noticed tooth powder by the washbasin.

  She had to stop and do her teeth. She also pulled every pin from her hair. Her teeth clean, Rosalyn threw off her clothes, keeping them close on the chair, and climbed into the tub.

  The water was heaven…as was the fact that this was one bath she hadn’t had to draw and heat for herself, which was often not the case at Maiden Hill, as Bridget went home before supper.

  The hip bath had a high back, turned toward the door to avoid any drafts, and she could rest her head against the metal and relax. The tub was not overly large, but it was roomy enough for her if she bent her legs. She couldn’t imagine how the colonel had gotten his big body into the tub. The thought of it made her laugh.

  Picking up the soap, she started lathering. It felt so good to be clean, and she wanted that feeling all over. Her hair could use a wash. However, she would need the pitcher by the washbasin for the rinse.

  With a quick glance at the still closed door, she hopped out of the tub and, dripping wet, fetched the pitcher. She was just stepping back into the water when she heard a step outside the door.

  A key was put in the lock. The handle turned.

  Rosalyn dropped the pitcher. It hit the hard wood floor and smashed into pieces. She could have cried out loud, but the door was opening and she didn’t have time to think. Instead, she dove into the tub, reaching for one of the pathetically small linen towels for cover.

  Chapter Eleven

  Colin heard the crash inside the room and threw open the door, not knowing what to expect but ready to do battle with anyone.

  He pulled up short when he saw the room was empty. The unmade bed showed signs Rosalyn had been there, but she was nowhere in sight in the room now. He looked to the window. The shutters were still closed and the room was in murky darkness. He walked over to open them.

  As he threw back the shutters, his booted sole crunched something beneath. He looked down and saw the shards of the basin pitcher.

  That’s when he heard the sound of water swishing. Slowly, he turned to the tub, and for a moment, Colin couldn’t believe his luck. He saw the movement of an arm cowering behind the high back of the bath.

  Her dress draped over the chair beside the tub confirmed his suspicions—and he couldn’t resist. God didn’t hand him opportunities like this very often.

  On catlike feet, he walked around to the front of the tub, moved her dress, and sat down.

  Rosalyn sat huddled in the bath, legs longer than he had imagined pulled up to modestly hide her nakedness from his view. Her skin was wet and slippery with soap. The cleavage and soft roundness of full breasts were barely hidden behind the knees and a square of linen she hugged close to her body. He knew from sleeping beside her on the bed that her waist was trim.

  It was a provocative situation.

  But what robbed him of speech was her hair, which was down.

  It’s color wasn’t drab, as he had supposed. No, her hair was the color of the deepest ale. Dark and full-bodied, with a hint of gold in its midst. And her head was covered with curls. Springy, riotous, joyful curls celebrating their freedom. They tumbled down around her shoulders to a point not far below her breasts. They made her appear younger…and wonderfully wicked.

  Colin reached out. He couldn’t help himself. She leaned away, her gray-green eyes full of distrust…and he realized it wasn’t just her full lips that were sensual and inviting, lips that had enticed him more than once to abandon common sense and steal a kiss, but the whole package of her. His body had known better than his mind what hid beneath Rosalyn’s rigidity.

  “You’re a bloody beauty.”

  He’d not realized he’d spoken aloud until her eyes flashed indignation and that stubborn chin of hers came up. “I’m not. Now, will you please remove yourself from this room.”

  “I can’t,” Colin confessed.

  “Why can’t you?” she demanded.

  “Because these leather breeches are tight, and if I rise”—which he wanted to add he most certainly had, but he feared she wouldn’t appreciate the double meaning of his words—“I will embarrass both of us.”

  Her anger turned to uneasiness. She was naïve, something that did not displease him. “Why would I be embarrassed?” she asked faintly, as if uncertain that she wanted to hear the answer.

  “Many reasons,” Colin said, not wanting to scare her off too soon. There was a mystery here, a mystery of why a woman so lush and exciting would deliberately hide her best attributes. Her actions defied everything he knew about feminine vanity.

  He wondered if her nip
ples were large and brown or petite and pink. Either way, he didn’t care. He ached to feel the weight of her breasts in his hands.

  Colin leaned forward. “May I wash your back?”

  “No.”

  He put his hand in the water. He couldn’t help himself. Making slow figure eights close to her thigh, he said, “Certainly there is something I can do.”

  Rosalyn shook her head.

  Colin circled his fingers closer until he could place them on the slick skin of her thigh. “You should finish your bath.” And let me wash you all over. He knew such a suggestion would earn another slap.

  She watched his hand and then pushed it away. “I will finish if you leave me alone.”

  I can’t. He swallowed the words and asked instead, “How did the pitcher break?”

  “You aren’t going to leave me alone, are you?”

  “Rosalyn, we’re married.”

  “Why do you keep reminding me?”

  “It is expected for me to be with you at private moments like this.” It is expected for me to pick you up out of that tub all wet and shiny and kiss you dry—

  Colin came to his feet, tossed her dress on the unmade bed, and walked over to the window. He had to put space between them. The images in his mind were too vivid for her to be safe so close to him. He looked out the window, trying to focus on anything but the woman behind him.

  He was failing. He wanted to bury his nose in her hair, to drink in the scent of her with his tongue—

  “I was going to wash my hair,” she explained, interrupting the intensely lurid direction of his thoughts.

  “What?” Colin asked, not connecting with her conversation.

  “You asked how the pitcher broke?” she prompted. “I was going to wash my hair. I heard you coming and I dropped it.”

  Colin turned to face her. She sat as he’d left her, arms and legs protectively wrapped against him, the invader. But he understood. She was making an attempt.

  “It will be hard to wash your hair now,” he said.

  She nodded.