Disgrace and Desire

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘It is common knowledge that Sir Ronald’s wife died soon after giving birth to a stillborn son,’ said Eloise slowly. ‘If the poor woman was unhappy, that would be cause enough, I think.’

  ‘Of course, but I cannot believe he ever really cared for her. What I do know is that when Deforge married Clara he had already run through his own fortune and within two years most of Clara’s money was gone. Since her death he has been selling off his properties and is almost at a stand. I have no doubt he is now looking for another rich wife.’

  Eloise thought of her meetings with Sir Ronald Deforge and a cold chill ran through her. He was a cruel man: he would certainly publish the journal if she refused to marry him, but if she gave herself into his power, what then? Would he make her life so miserable that she would be willing to end it? She looked down at her shaking hands.

  ‘Perhaps you could finish binding up Alex’s shoulder,’ she said, moving aside.

  Jack returned to the bedside and she watched his strong, capable fingers take up the bandage. She screwed up her courage. It would be better to tell Jack Clifton the whole truth, to let him deal with Deforge. Even as she searched for the words to begin, the valet returned and the opportunity was lost.

  Jack tied the final knot in the bandage around Alex’s shoulder and straightened, easing his tense shoulders. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I have finished.’

  He wiped his hands on a cloth and dropped it on to the pile of bloodied rags on the floor.

  ‘You may leave him to me now, Major.’ Farrell tenderly pulled the covers over his master. ‘I will clear up here and watch him until morning. I was obliged to explain to the housekeeper why I needed to disturb her, so I did as you suggested and told her my master had been attacked by poachers. I took the liberty of saying that it was you who found Mr Mortimer in the gardens and brought him upstairs, Major. No one need know of Lady Allyngham’s part in any of this.’

  ‘Thank you, Farrell.’ Jack looked at Eloise, who was hovering beside the bed.

  ‘I think it is time you returned to your own room, madam. Come, I will escort you.’

  She hesitated, smoothing the sheet and straightening the covers until Farrell said quietly, ‘You should leave now, my lady. Our situation will be much worse if you are discovered here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  With a final look at Alex she turned and accompanied Jack out of the room. The lamps burning in the corridors made it unnecessary to carry a bedroom candle but their low light threw black, wavering shadows against the walls. He sensed rather than saw her step falter and put his hand under her arm.

  ‘No need to be afraid, ma’am, you are safe enough here.’

  ‘I am not afraid. It is just—after all the excitement, I feel a little…’

  She collapsed against him. Jack caught her up as she fainted. For a moment he stopped, staring down at the lifeless figure in his arms. Her head was thrown back, the dark lashes fanned out across her pale cheeks, the fine line of her jaw accentuated by the flickering light. What the devil was he to do now? They were in the part of the house known as the bachelor wing. The main reception rooms lay between here and the other guest rooms. To carry her all the way to her bedchamber would be to court disaster, for there were at least two flights of uncarpeted stairs to negotiate as well as a number of long passages. It would only take one light sleeper to open a door and look out…

  With sudden decision he turned and carried her to his own bedchamber at the end of the corridor. It was similar to Mortimer’s room, a square, panelled chamber with a fireplace in one wall, a window in another and a large canopied bed taking up most of the floor. He laid Eloise gently on the covers and turned to throw a couple of logs on the smouldering fire. He lit a candle from the glowing embers and placed it beside the bed.

  She was lying as he had left her, pale and still against the dark coverlet, her hair in wild disorder and gleaming in the soft light. She was still wearing the blue gown she had put on for dinner but the embroidered skirts were in disarray and displaying her shapely legs in their fine silk stockings. As he reached out to straighten the skirts he noted that her shoes were stained and wet. His mouth twisted as he looked at the elegant satin slippers. They were designed for dancing ’til dawn on polished floors, not walking at night through wet grass. He began to untie the ribbons, his fingers shaking a little when they brushed her slender ankles. As he eased the wet satin from her feet Eloise stirred.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Your shoes are wet through so I have removed them.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  She put up one hand and he caught it in his own.

  ‘You are in my room—do not be alarmed. You fainted, and I did not want to risk being seen with you in my arms.’

  She sat up, but made no attempt to release his hand. If anything, her grip tightened.

  ‘I am sorry; I do not know why I should suddenly have become so weak.’

  He smiled at that.

  ‘A reaction to the excitement of the night.’

  ‘Where is your valet?’

  ‘Gone to bed. When I went out I told him not to wait up for me.’ Jack leaned a little closer. ‘You are very pale. Shall I fetch you a glass of wine? I have a decanter here.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  As Jack turned away Eloise glanced around the room. Everywhere there was evidence of the major’s presence, illuminated in the golden glow of the firelight. His shaving kit spread out on the wash stand, silver-backed hair brushes lying on the dressing table. Even here on the bed beside her was the garishly coloured silk banyan he would wear over his nightshirt. Her fingers reached out and touched it. The silk was cool and smooth beneath her fingers. She imagined Jack wearing the banyan, the thin silk fitting snug across his broad shoulders—directly against his skin perhaps, since she knew some men did not wear nightshirts. Eloise snatched her hand back, quickly pulling her mind away from the sensations such thoughts aroused in her. Nervously she slid off the bed and stepped across to sit in an armchair drawn up beside the fire. She perched nervously on the edge of the chair. She should not be here. Everything in this room was alien to her. Masculine. She and her husband had always had their separate apartments, and she had never entered Tony’s bedchamber when he was there. She swallowed hard. Jack Clifton was not Tony: he was very much more dangerous.

  She should leave, now. Slip out of the door while Jack was pouring the wine, but her wayward body would not move. She realised with a shock that she felt secure in this man’s room, where the air was redolent with wine and wood smoke, with spices, soap and leather. And, knowing that Sir Ronald Deforge was still a guest in the house, she did not want to be alone.

  Jack carried two glasses of wine across the room and offered one to her. He was not surprised to see that she had moved from the bed to a chair by the fire. She was sitting bolt upright, rigid with tension. Pity stirred within him when he saw the anxious look on her face. She took the glass and held it in both hands, staring down at the dark liquid.

  Jack hooked his toe around the leg of a footstool and dragged it across so that he could sit at her feet.

  ‘Drink it,’ he urged her. ‘It is not drugged. I have no evil designs upon you.’

  She looked at him, a faint smile breaking the rigidity of her countenance.

  ‘I would not think that of you. I left my cloak in Alex’s room.’

  Jack indicated his shirt sleeves, billowing out from the tight-fitting waistcoat.

  ‘My frockcoat is there, too. We must trust Farrell to return them to us in the morning.’

  ‘So there is nothing to worry about.’

  He met her eyes, hoping his smile would reassure her.

  ‘No, madam, there is nothing to worry about.’

  As she sipped at the wine Jack sensed the tension draining out of her. After a little while she leaned back in the chair and they sat in a comfortable silence. Jack stared into the fire, his elbows resting on his knees as he cradled the
glass between his hands. He was very aware of the woman sitting in the chair. If he leaned slightly towards her, his arm would be touching her thigh. By turning just a little more he could rest his head in her lap. How pleasant that would be! How pleasant to be able to sit like this every evening. He glanced down at her dainty ankles and little feet. Her stockings were stained with mud and grass, reminding him of what had occurred that night. He would make no progress with her while she was in danger. If only he could extricate her from this mess, then perhaps she might consider his suit.

  His suit?

  Jack caught himself up. What was he thinking of? Not marriage, surely. It had always been his intention to settle down one day and this had included some vague plan to find himself a wife, but he had envisaged proposing to someone like his childhood sweetheart, Clara, an innocent maid of good family, not a widow whose past was so dubious that it was ripe for extortion. He glanced again at the woman before him. All at once her past seemed unimportant: he was certain in his own mind that whatever she had done it could not be so very bad. If she had had a string of lovers—well, who was he to criticise that?

  Eloise stirred in her chair. She finished her wine and put down her glass upon the hearth.

  ‘Thank you. I should go now.’

  ‘Stay a little longer.’

  ‘I—um—my feet are wet. I should dry them.’

  Her blue eyes flickered over his face. There was nothing of the coquette in the look she gave him, only uncertainty, and a shy wistfulness. Suddenly his heart was hammering against his ribs. Why not? whispered the voice in his head. If the lady is willing.

  ‘You can do that here,’ he murmured. ‘If you will allow me.’

  Eloise gripped the arms of the chair as he put out one hand and gently pushed her skirts up to expose her knee. One word, one tiny gesture would stop him, she knew that, but she said nothing. She remained motionless as he untied her garter. An aching excitement pooled low in her body, her skin tingling in anticipation of his touch. She watched him roll the silk stocking down her calf and gently pull it away from her toes.

  ‘There, that’s better. Now, shall I remove the other one?’

  No! She knew she should be running from this room, screaming. He was undressing her, carrying out a task that no one other than a husband should be permitted to perform. It was wrong. Immoral. Indecent. She should stop him. She looked at him, opening her mouth to object, but Jack was smiling at her and she felt the last remnants of her resistance melting away. Her mouth closed again and she was aware that she was nodding.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The lightness of his touch was an almost unbearable pleasure and when his hand cupped her heel as he removed the second stocking she gave a little moan.

  Jack glanced up.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’

  He was still holding her foot, his thumb idly stroking her ankle and inducing a wonderfully soothing lassitude throughout her body. It was an effort to speak.

  ‘I did not realise how chilled I had become.’

  She bit her lip to prevent herself protesting as he released her foot and turned away.

  He picked up the poker and began to stir up the fire.

  ‘Stay here, then, until you are warm again.’

  Relief suffused her, and a warm rush of gratitude for this man. She smiled and stretched, luxuriating in the warmth of the fire and the calm, soothing atmosphere of the room.

  ‘I should like to stay here for ever,’ she murmured. ‘To sit by this fire, warm and comfortable and not worry about anything—it is my idea of paradise! But it cannot be. I must get back to my room before anyone begins to wake.’

  ‘It is still dark,’ said Jack. ‘The servants will not be abroad for another hour or so yet.’ He reached for her hands and pulled her to her feet. ‘Stay here and let me show you my idea of paradise.’

  Eloise gazed up into his face, mesmerised by the glow of the firelight reflected in his dark eyes. She trembled as his hands ran lightly over her arms and on to her shoulders. Her lips parted in a tiny gasp of expectation when he bent his head towards her. Her last, conscious thought was that he was going to kiss her—that she wanted him to kiss her, but the sensation of his mouth sliding across hers drove everything from her mind, save a desire to kiss him back. She threw her arms around his neck, leaning against his hard body while his tongue explored her mouth and played havoc with her senses. She felt as if she was floating and realised that indeed her feet were no longer on the floor, for Jack’s arms were crushing her against him, lifting her as easily as a rag doll.

  Desire consumed her. She returned Jack’s kisses with a passion that was both exciting and confusing. She followed his lead, and if her kisses were inexpert he did not seem to mind, but held her even more closely. There was a crash as he kicked the footstool aside and carried her to the bed where he placed her down, all the time covering her face and neck with warm, heady kisses. When he raised his head she reached out and pulled him back towards her, intoxicated by his presence. He lay down with her, measuring his length against her, and she gasped as his hand came up to cup her breast. His thumb slipped beneath the lacy edge of her bodice and stroked gently over her nipple. She pushed against his touch, her skin tightening as the excitement built within her. She fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, eager for him to remove it yet sighing with frustration when Jack broke away from her. He gave a soft laugh.

  ‘Patience, my lady. There is time to undress: I’ll not tumble you like some cheap straw damsel.’

  He shrugged himself out of his waistcoat and as he pulled his shirt over his head Eloise sat up and slipped her arms around his waist. She laid her face against the flat plain of his stomach, caressing him with her cheek. He groaned and fell back on the bed, drawing her to him again and as his mouth captured hers he tugged on the drawstring fastenings of her bodice. Between frantic kisses they discarded their clothes until they were lying naked together on the bed, their bodies illuminated only by the residual light of the dying fire and a single, flickering candle.

  Jack pushed himself up on one elbow and stared down at her. Eloise did not make any effort to cover herself. She basked in the admiration of his glance, revelling in the novel sensation of truly enjoying a man’s attentions.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he murmured, resting one hand on her naked thigh.

  She smiled up at him, putting her hand to his cheek and gently drawing his face down to hers. His kiss was slow and thorough and she never wanted it to stop. The hand on her thigh slid up and inwards. Her body responded instinctively, pushing against his fingers while a heady excitement grew inside her, spreading through her body. She arched her back, gasping, only vaguely aware of Jack’s body shifting on top of her. She dug her fingers into his back and cried out as they were united. There was an exhilarating, joyful satisfaction in knowing they were as physically close as any man and woman could be but even that was not the end. Their bodies were moving together, the blood singing in her veins as the dizzying excitement rose higher and higher until there was no more conscious thought. She cried out and clung on tightly as she felt herself tumbling and crashing into oblivion.

  Jack lay with Eloise in his arms. He was breathing heavily, dazed and exhausted by the physical and emotional ferocity of their union. It had never happened before, even after battle when he had taken comfort in the arms of a woman; he had never experienced such an all-consuming passion. His arms tightened possessively. Whatever secrets the lady’s past might hold he did not care. She stirred in his arms.

  ‘Awake, sweetheart?’ He nibbled gently at her ear. ‘Did you enjoy that?’

  ‘I—yes.’ Her voice was hardly above a whisper. ‘I never knew.’

  The wonder in her voice made him smile.

  ‘You have been alone for a long time. Perhaps you have forgotten.’

  ‘No, not forgotten. I…that was the first time.’

  He nuzzled her neck.

  ‘Then I am very honoured, although I am
sorry for it if all your other lovers failed to give you such pleasure.’

  ‘No, you misunderstand,’ she murmured. ‘I am…was a maid. Until tonight.’

  Jack grew still.

  ‘A maid? But Allyngham…’

  ‘Our union was never consummated.’

  In one swift movement he rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed.

  ‘A maid!’ He was still intoxicated with her, his mind in turmoil. Nothing made sense. ‘But you were married to Tony Allyngham for seven years! And in London, all those men—’

  ‘Nothing more than flirtation.’

  ‘Then by God, madam, you played your part well!’ he retorted, more sharply than he intended.

  She said in a small voice, ‘I am sorry if I have deceived you.’

  ‘Deceived me! Aye, you deceived me!’ He put his hands to his head. It had always been a point of honour with him to avoid innocent maids. She had been so willing, so eager for his kisses, how could it be that he did not know? Confusion swirled within him. ‘By heaven, madam, I do not know what to say. Why in hell’s name should you wish to act in such a manner if you were not…?’

  She gave a little sob and scrambled away from him, dropping off the bed on the far side.

  ‘Now you think me the very worst type of flirt,’ she muttered. He watched her scrabbling around for her clothes. His brain was still reeling, trying to make sense of everything. He had been so bewitched that he had allowed his desire for her to overwhelm him. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

  ‘A flirt, yes, but—Oh my God, I would never have taken you to bed if I had known you were a virgin!’ He dropped his head in his hands again. ‘I thought you a woman of experience, one who played by society’s rules. A discreet little affair while it amused us, then we could both walk away…’