Six Weeks With a Lord

by Eve Pendle

  Obediently, she sank into the seat, glad to remove the weight from her trembling legs.

  “I promised I wouldn’t take, and I meant it.” He smoothed his thumb across her cheek.

  “I—” There was an intimidating bulge in his trousers. A substantial one that was near level with her face now she was sitting. The largeness of him and the enormity of the feelings he evoked in her was too much. The fading of the pulsing through her was beginning to feel less like excitement and more like nervousness.

  She had been about to say she was willing to… Well. She didn’t know, exactly. But all things were best when shared. There was the marriage act itself, but she’d promised herself not to jeopardize her future by getting with child. There must be other things, but her imagination couldn’t conjure what they might be.

  “No consequences, I said.” He withdrew his hand. “Now, tell me, how deep shall we make this ha-ha?”

  Grace looked up. He’d taken a step away and was returning to his chair. He meant it—he didn’t want anything in return. She reached for the pamphlet she had been reading to busy her hands and mind. “In order to keep out the cattle from the formal gardens, it must be at least six feet.”

  As tall as him. But no barrier, a ha-ha, a fence, or any wall, was going to keep him out of her heart. She’d let him in already. But how much closeness to him could she sustain without becoming so lust-blind she would happily risk making a child? There was so much vulnerability in being mindless with pleasure. In this act, his experience meant he had all the control. She shouldn’t risk it again.

  …

  His retreat had been a miscalculation. He finally acknowledged that on their walk around the lake, days later. He’d thought to allow her to draw forward and come to him if he drew back, but Grace had kept her distance since that afternoon. For three long days, all their conversation had been mundane and their walks nothing but walks, next to each other but not truly together. She’d jumped like a burnt cat anytime their hands had touched.

  He’d allowed her to withdraw, but he couldn’t hold back any longer. He wanted to taste her again. The want for Grace was more visceral than before. It was worse now he’d seen what a passionate lover she was. She’d been so sensitive, gasping at his every caress and making him correspondingly hard. He’d been convinced that after experiencing it once, she would ask again and again, to the point that he would know he could touch her without a direct invitation.

  He might not be able to embrace her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t reach out. “Aren’t you going to ask again?”

  “For what?” Grace shot a look across to him, eyes wide.

  “You know.” He could tell by the pink in her cheeks.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She didn’t sound like she’d persuaded even herself.

  “Let me give you a hint, then. If you asked, I would kiss you right here.”

  Her mouth fell open, then she licked her lips in an unconsciously sensual action that ricocheted through him.

  “We’re not doing that again.”

  “I’d like to.” Especially when she looked so scandalized and desirous against her own wishes. “I’d like to make you scream with pleasure for hours. Just ask me and I’ll lick you so sweetly and so long, you won’t know what day it is.”

  She looked at him with such an expression of naked want that he was instantly hard.

  “I’m not going to ask again.” But she didn’t sound convinced herself, her voice breathy and light.

  “There’s the little nook along here with the wall looking over the lake and the house. Where the wall is just high enough to obscure us from the waist down. No one would know if I was kissing you at that beautiful juncture of your legs. You could lean on the wall whenever the sensations get too much.” Who was he torturing more here?

  Her inhalation was fast and her shoulders were held artificially rigid. It was a good thing she wasn’t turning to look at him, as she would see the obvious bulge in his trousers.

  “If you asked, we could make love in these woods. I’d hold you up, kiss you while we joined.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t claim any husbandly rights.” She increased her pace, as though flustered.

  He kept pace with her and held out his hands. “Am I touching you? You can go back anytime you like. I won’t stop you.” It would leave him aroused and frustrated, but she was, too.

  “You…” She stopped and clasped her hands behind her back.

  Had he pushed her too far? It hardly mattered, as he had to do something. He was going out of his mind, every night an eternity. The days were no better, with her working in close proximity. He couldn’t prevent himself from imagining all the wonderful ways he could be distracting them both. He certainly required distraction, as the letters from Mr. Lawson demanding payment were almost daily now, each one a shame he hid from Grace and told himself it was too soon to risk telling her. Once they’d made love and she’d said she would stay, that would be the time. He dreaded having to tell her, but desperately wanted to make love to her.

  “These walks. Then you say…” She was flushed, but her eyes were bright and her breathing uneven. “Wicked things.”

  “I’ll stop, then.” She hadn’t claimed it was about to rain and turned back, and that pushed at his heart. She was braver and stronger than either of them had thought. “But any time you think differently, Grace, you only have to ask.”

  She would ask. There was just over a fortnight left for him to tempt her into asking and he would do it.

  “I…” She shook her head as if to clear it and walked away.

  Back to business, then. A pang of longing went through him as he watched her straight back and the flare of her hips and skirt. He wanted her and he wanted her enthusiastic consent. With her elevated breathing and blushes, and having asked for a kiss once, he knew he could get her consent. If he ran after and grabbed her, he could kiss her hard and she’d melt in his arms. But she could easily resent him afterward and push him further away. A bird persuaded was always more loyal than a bird caged.

  “You’ll be glad to know everything is set for Jane and Thompson’s wedding on Sunday.” He caught up with her. “The gardeners found some late roses for her bouquet, as you requested. And Jane has agreed to the celebrations afterward being held in the ballroom at Larksview.”

  She turned to him with a relieved smile that was nothing to do with Jane’s independent streak. “Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me, too. God knows, it has been tough enough recently with the cattle. Everyone deserves a celebration.” Especially when they’d been denied one for his and Grace’s marriage. What none of them realized, of course, was the celebration and rinderpest victory might be utterly hollow. If he couldn’t persuade her to stay, they were just over a fortnight from disaster.

  …

  The Larksview village church was decked in summer flowers for the wedding of Thompson and Jane. Bright red dahlias and pink chrysanthemums from the Larksview garden jumped out against the yellow of flat irises. Grace and Everett sat in the front pews, with the whole of the staff behind them.

  It was entirely different to her own wedding, with a babble of voices and cheers when Jane walked in to the church, her father next to her. Grace’s stomach fell even as she was glad for Jane. Despite everything, she wished her father, the parent she knew before her mother died and everything changed, had been here.

  Looking straight ahead, Everett reached over and took her hand from her lap, bringing it to him and enveloping it in his warmth. She had the momentary yearning to lean into him.

  As Father Norton talked, Grace watched the couple. She’d had her concerns about this marriage when she’d first arrived, just as she had about her own. But they’d been similarly unfounded.

  Thompson was looking at Jane with an expression that was entirely familiar to her from his commanding officer. Stern and controlled, with a twinkle in his eye. Jane was smiling with the soft eye
s of a woman in love, easily recognized by another woman in love.

  Wait. In love? She glanced at Everett. He squeezed her hand in response. Her heart expanded and filled her chest too full, too much.

  She loved him. He was strong and responsible and passionate, and she loved him. It hadn’t been long, but he wasn’t what she’d assumed all lords were, and the contrast made him even more potent. She couldn’t help but love him. A man as honorable and compassionate as Everett would inevitably attract loyalty and love. She snuck a look at him. And handsome. All his features were strong but in perfect measure, as if his creator had balanced them with a steady hand.

  There were almost three weeks left of their bargain. They still had to get Henry back and safe. He hadn’t said he loved her, but he’d said she’d always be his wife. Everything he’d done since they’d met had been for her ease and comfort. He’d said that if she wanted something from him, to take it.

  She wanted his love in return. A bargain that included pretending to be in love had to be finished before she could truly believe his regard wasn’t just artifice. Common sense insisted that she wait until their bargain was over before she revealed her feelings. In the pressure and fiction of their six weeks, it was crazy to read too much into his kindness.

  Capitulation would be irrational, silly. The fancy of a girl with nothing to lose and no experience of the world. With Jane’s stomach very slightly rounded, she wasn’t likely to forget that a declaration of love and commitment from a man was essential before the marriage act. Even if they were already married.

  But Everett had told her that there were plenty of things they could do without the marriage act itself. A scale could be weighted with two hundred and twenty-four single-ounce weights as easily as one weight of a stone. Surely, there were steps between chasteness and ruin. And he’d said that if she wanted something from him, she only needed to ask.

  …

  When she appeared, the ballroom seemed to become hot. Everett couldn’t look away. Grace was wearing a yellow muslin dress similar to the one he’d first seen her in. This dress, though, fit her curves perfectly and was understated rather than showy. She surveyed the room, giving small nods of acknowledgement to those who met her gaze.

  When she saw him, her red lips slanted a little in challenge. Then, she looked away and moved to talk to Mrs. Cooper, who was coming toward her, talking animatedly. He forced himself to turn and attend to the conversation of Mr. Walker as Grace made her way through the room, moving between small groups of people. She did seem to be working her way, slowly, in his direction. As though she were drifting toward him on a tide.

  A light cough drew his attention to Clarke on his left. “Shall I announce the couple’s first dance, my lord? Or perhaps…”

  “Please do, if it is time.” Everett gave the younger man a reassuring clap on the back. He’d promoted Clarke from first footman when the butler had retired. He was hardworking and ambitious, though a little too prone to reading books like Smiles’s Self-Help.

  “Yes, my lord.” Clarke made a subtle bow and walked away.

  “He wanted you to do it.” Grace’s voice came from his right side.

  Relief sprang from his chest, where he hadn’t realized how heavy it had been. She was here of her own volition. He turned to her, but she was watching Clarke, who worked his way through the guests and mounted the low stage where the musicians sat.

  “I know.” He stared at her, drinking in the sight of her, beautiful and close to him. “It’s good for the other staff to see Clarke do it. I don’t have to shout at every occasion, least of all my friend’s wedding, when I have already made a speech.”

  Ringing a small bell, Clarke announced Mr. and Mrs. Thompson and invited them up for their first dance as a married couple. He enunciated each word, and relief flashed in his eyes when he finished.

  “I liked your speech.” Her words were hardly audible over the cheers and applause as Thompson and Jane walked into the middle of the room and people moved to make space for them to dance. “And the toast. I liked your toast, too.”

  “Love without deceit, matrimony without regret.” At least the latter was true for them. He glanced sideways at her, but she was focused on the newlyweds. He wanted to hear more of her praise. Enough to beg for it, apparently. “What did you like about the speech?”

  The musicians began to play a waltz. Thompson and Jane began to dance, inexpertly but happily.

  “Fishing for compliments, my lord?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Expecting, actually.” He was holding his breath in, as if a movement too big might sweep away her approval of him.

  The corner of her mouth lifted. “Your comment about it being the privilege of friends to protect each other. And love requiring light and air and space to keep growing. I’m not saying it as well as you did. But it was good.”

  She turned to him and their gazes met. The yellow in her eyes was brought out by the candles in the half-light of evening and the brightness of her dress. The connection between them seemed tangible, so obvious he couldn’t believe no one was commenting on it.

  “Hetherington!”

  Everett turned instinctively to the sound of his old name. Thompson beckoned to them, indicating the dance floor. As Thompson looked back to his bride, the cry went up from other guests. “Lord Westbury, Lady Westbury!”

  As the Lord of the Manor and leader of the community, every event was a responsibility and a privilege. If he couldn’t convince Grace to dance with him, he would snub his friend and set himself up as the arrogant lord.

  He turned to Grace and she tilted her head, waiting. She wouldn’t make it easy, of course.

  Stepping back, he made a deep bow. “Would you do me the honor of joining me in this dance?”

  She broke into a broad smile. “Are you asking me to dance, Lord Westbury? Such graciousness. I didn’t think you were capable of asking like a gentleman.”

  He suppressed his laughter as he offered her his hand and she took it. Pulling her in close, he spun them into the rhythm of the waltz.

  Her smiling gaze met his when he looked down at her, snug in his embrace. She followed his lead effortlessly, light in his arms, like she was made to be there.

  “Do you remember when we danced last?” she said teasingly.

  “Very well.” He remembered how incandescent she’d been that night, glittering like fractured glass. She still had an aspect of that banked, as though if she were broken or exposed he might cut himself on her sharp edges.

  “You called me a bottle of port, as I recall.” The line of her cheekbone was even more beautiful facing him in amusement than elegantly tilted away. Was she flirting?

  “No,” he protested with mock seriousness. “I didn’t say that.” He’d tried to persuade her into indiscreet revelations about herself by goading her with trivial comparisons.

  “You did.” She tightened her fingers on his upper arm.

  Through the layers of her glove, his coat, and shirt, he could feel her strength. Unbidden, he imagined everything stripped away. The watching guests at the party, the other dancers who had joined in alongside the Thompsons and them, their clothes, too, all gone. They could waltz naked, alone, free from the restrictions of their duties and positions until they were glowing with sweat and laughing too much. His blood rushed down to his cock as they moved in tandem in the dance. The waltz was all smooth lines with small movements apart, then back together, always touching. He was powerless to resist the sensuousness of the feel of her and the delicious fantasy of there being nothing between them.

  “Well?” She squeezed his hand hard in hers and widened her eyes at his inattentiveness. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I was more right than I realized. Gorgeously curved and red on the outside.” He risked shifting his hand on her waist to emphasize his point. He was rewarded by her intake of breath through parted lips. “Difficult to get into. Intoxicating and sweet on the inside.”

  �
��And are you cheese to my port? Smooth…” She stroked her hand over his shoulder. “Creamy.” She pursed her lips and shifted slightly toward him as they moved together in the dance, her skirts pressing against his legs.

  His gaze skittered away from hers for a second, falling on her firmly corseted body, strong and elegant, breasts tantalizing him in her low-cut dress. If she wasn’t flirting with him, his body certainly thought otherwise, his cock responding as though her words were caresses.

  This had the potential to be embarrassing. It was a good thing she was so close against him. He leaned her into a dip, allowing himself the pleasure of brushing his lips over the perfumed skin of her neck. He felt rather than heard the hitch in Grace’s intake of breath.

  She slanted a look at him through her lashes as they straightened and continued in the dance. “And…,” she purred seductively. “Smelly.”

  “What?” He must have misheard her. “I mean, pardon?”

  She beamed, eyes bright with innocence. “Good French cheese is smelly, is it not?”

  It should have been an insult, but as he guided them around the room in the dance, she allowed her face to come nearer to his, almost as though they might kiss. The air between them was like the moment before an explosion. Then she eased backward to a decorous distance, still in his arms but no longer scandalous. He didn’t hold her to him, though every muscle in his torso wanted to brace her close.

  “Good, fresh, English cheese is not smelly. Nor even is cheddar cheese.” He was rewarded with the shaking of her back under his hand as she laughed silently. “And I do not smell.”

  “No.” She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes momentarily. “You smell like…”

  He couldn’t breathe again, waiting for what she might say. He was anticipating the sting of being mocked by her, even as her undivided attention was a salve. He looked away, pretending to negotiate their path through the dancers. Almost every couple was dancing now.

  “Salt and smoke, mixed with citrus.” She made it sound matter of fact.

  He must have heard her incorrectly. When he looked down at her, she was already gazing up at him.