By midnight Lawrence’s cheeks ached from incessant smiling and his head was beginning to throb. It was not from the wine—he had drunk very little, needing to keep his wits about him to avoid the wiles of the numerous ladies who were intent upon flirting with him. He felt like a fox, being hunted at every turn. His first dance partner had twisted her ankle and needed to be helped to a secluded alcove; the next had felt a little faint and insisted he accompany her to a deserted balcony, where the arctic temperatures came to his aid in persuading her that dalliance in such circumstances would undoubtedly result in a severe inflammation of the lungs. Then there was the serious-looking matron who disputed with him over certain lines in ‘The Lady of the Lake’ and carried him off to the book room, where she threw herself against the door and refused to let him leave until he had kissed her.
A year ago Lawrence would have joined in their games, shrugged his broad shoulders and indulged these rapacious women with a fast, furious flirtation. One of them might even have ended up in his bed. Now there was only one woman he wanted in his arms, only one pair of eyes he wanted to find fixed upon him, and if he could not have Rose, he would have no one. These society ladies with their strong, cloying perfume and knowing smiles left him unmoved. It had taken rapid thinking and a great deal of tact and charm to avoid all the snares set for him, but somehow he had succeeded; so well, in fact, that when he dragged his friend out of the house in the early hours of the morning his hostess assured him that he was welcome at Samlesbury House at any time. And that he had secured his place as a firm favourite with her guests.
Unbelievably weary, Lawrence bundled George into a hired cab and gave the driver his instructions.
‘Charming party,’ declared George, slurring his words a little. ‘Nancy always knows how to entertain her guests. Did you dance with that little redhead?’
‘Yes, I danced with her,’ said Lawrence, bringing to mind the freckle-faced matron who had pushed herself against him and told him the days he might find her at home alone.
‘What a flirt. And with her husband standing by, too! By Gad, she was a tempting little thing.’
Lawrence turned his head to peer across the carriage.
‘Tell me truthfully, George—did you really enjoy yourself tonight?’
‘Why, yes, of course! Couldn’t fail to enjoy myself with such a charming set. Did they not please you?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Extraordinary.’ George sat up. ‘Not coming down with something, are you, old boy? Touch of gout, perhaps?’
‘I think not. Old age, perhaps.’
‘Aye, could be,’ came the serious reply. ‘You are thirty now, after all. But if you no longer enjoy the society, there’s precious little reason to stay in town for Christmas.’
‘I know.’
‘Dashed if I can understand you,’ exclaimed Craven, shaking his head. ‘You won’t go to your family home, you dislike London—what do you want to do?’
Lawrence sighed and turned his head to look out at the night. The streets were still busy; lamps burned outside many of the houses, lighting the way for the non-stop procession of carriages that picked their way between the soil carts and the nightwatch, who cried the hour while keeping a wary eye upon the little groups of revellers making their way home. He had friends enough in town, but if he stayed they would be pressing him to join them—how could he explain that he wanted nothing more than to be alone, to ponder on his future?
As he watched, a few fat flakes of snow drifted past the carriage window.
‘I don’t know, George. I may go back to Knightscote.’
‘Exmoor—in December?’ Craven gave a crack of laughter. ‘From what you’ve told me your lodge is in the middle of nowhere—you might not see anyone for weeks!’
Lawrence looked at him, a glimmer of a smile in his eyes.
‘Perfect!’
Christmas Eve. A sharp icy wind had been scouring the moors for days and it howled around Knightscote Lodge, whispering under the doors and making the fires burn with an extra-bright glow. Lawrence pulled his chair closer to the hearth and sat down, stretching his long legs before him. He had arrived at the lodge at dusk that day, which had sent Mrs Brendon into a flurry of activity. She hurriedly despatched a man to Exford to buy more provisions and bustled about the house, muttering darkly about the difficulties of working for a man who says one minute he might never come back again and the next turns up without so much as a by your leave. The only one genuinely happy to see him was the pointer bitch, Bandit. Lawrence’s keeper had gone off to visit his family for a few days and left the dog in the care of the stable boy. Thus, when Lawrence had arrived and ridden to the stables, Bandit had come running out, fawning around his legs and making it impossible for Lawrence to proceed until he had greeted her.
He had retreated to the drawing room while his housekeeper bustled about putting the house into what she considered a fit state for its master, but by the time he had complimented her upon a fine dinner and declared himself well satisfied with all her arrangements, harmony had been restored.
That had been some hours ago. Knowing the staff would be up early the following day to walk to church, Lawrence had sent them all to bed. He had fetched Bandit for company and a bottle of brandy for solace and was now settling down to while away the evening in front of the fire. He was in a reflective mood and his brandy glass remained untouched as he lounged in his chair, staring into the flames.
A year ago today it had all started. Rose Westerhill had burst into his life and changed it for ever. She had accused him of wallowing in self-pity and in his attempts to prove her wrong he had reformed his way of life. That had not been difficult, but making Rose believe that he was a changed man had proved impossible. A log shifted, sending a shower of sparks into the air and waking Bandit from her slumbers at her master’s feet. Lawrence put out a hand and stroked the smooth head.
‘Perhaps it’s mere conceit,’ he addressed the pointer, who was gazing up at him adoringly, ‘but I thought she would know that I was different.’
Bandit merely licked his hand. Lawrence gave her a final pat and sank back in his chair. They remained thus, unmoving, until Lawrence heard the sound of hoofs clinking on the cobbles. In a flash he was at the window, throwing back the heavy curtains to peer out. A thin covering of snow lightened the darkness, but he could see nothing moving save the bushes at the edges of the drive, bending before the driving wind.
‘There’s no one there, you fool.’ He returned to the chair and picked up his glass.
Wishful thinking. Perhaps it had been a mistake to return to Knightscote. The place held too many memories. He should sell it; there was nothing here for him any longer. As he leaned forwards to throw another log onto the fire a sudden gust of wind moaned through the house, rattling the door. Bandit was immediately on the alert.
‘Easy, now. It’s an old house, full of creaking boards and rattling windows.’ Lawrence sipped at the brandy. ‘Perhaps I will build myself a new hunting lodge in Leicestershire. What do you say to that?’
Bandit was not listening. She rose and padded towards the door, ears pricked.
Lawrence was about to order her back when the candlelight glinted on the turning handle. He put down his glass and rose to his feet.
‘I am dreaming.’
Rose entered the drawing room and stood with her back pressed against the door, her powder-blue cloak glistening with melting snow. She remained there for a long moment, uncertain of her welcome, until Bandit’s effusive greetings could no longer be ignored.
Lawrence watched, transfixed, as she bent down to make a fuss of the dog.
‘How did you get in?’
‘Through the kitchen. I could see no lights, so I rode round to the stables.’ She gently pushed Bandit away and straightened. ‘May I come in?’
Lawrence looked at the glass on the table beside him. It was almost full. So this was not a brandy-induced fantasy. His spirits lifted.
&nb
sp; ‘Have you lost your way?’
‘No.’ A smile trembled on her lips. ‘I think I may have found it.’
In two strides he crossed the room, reaching out for her. With a sob she fell into his arms, turning her face up to receive his kiss. He swooped, capturing her mouth, demanding a response that she was eager to give. Her arms crept up around his neck. He registered the damp leather of her gloves, felt the chill of her clothes as she pressed against him.
‘You are like ice.’ He led her towards the fire. ‘Come and warm yourself.’
He unfastened her cloak and tossed it aside before pushing her down into the chair.
‘If you are not lost, then what the devil are you doing abroad so late?’
His voice was rough with concern, but she did not appear to notice.
‘I could not rest. I wondered—’ A rueful smile played about her mouth. ‘After my getting stranded last year, it was decided I should not go to Exford this Christmas. Indeed, my family have become so protective I have not been allowed to go anywhere alone. But I needed to know if—if you were here, so I waited until they retired, then slipped out and bribed a sleepy stable boy to saddle my mare.’
‘And what would you have done if I had not been here?’
‘“Made me a willow cabin at your gate,”’ she quoted. ‘“And called upon my soul within the house.”’
Lawrence wanted to be angry at such foolishness, but found he could not stop smiling.
‘Ninnyhammer,’ he murmured.
She blushed and looked away, suddenly shy. She stripped off her gloves and looked at her fingers. They were red and aching with the cold.
‘Here, let me.’ Lawrence knelt before her and took her hands between his own.
He pulled her fingers towards him and kissed first one pink tip, then the next, gently warming each one with his lips while his palms cradled her hands, infusing them with his own heat. When her skin had lost the raw redness, he pressed a kiss into one palm. Rose raised the other hand to cradle his cheek, slipping from the chair to kneel before him. He pulled her gently into his arms and began to kiss her face with the same slow care he had given to her fingers.
She gave a little murmur of disappointment when he broke off. He pulled her to her feet and swept her up into his arms.
‘We will continue with this in my bed.’
His low whisper sent a delicious shiver running through her. Rose twined her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.
With a muttered command to Bandit to go and lie down, Lawrence strode out of the room. Rose lay passive and silent in his arms, marvelling at the way he carried her, as if she weighed no more than a feather. He took the stairs two at a time and continued without pause until they reached his bedchamber, where he carried her over to the bed and laid her gently down upon the covers.
There was no light in the room save the flickering flames in the hearth, but Lawrence did not waste time lighting the candles. He lay down beside Rose and drew her into his arms, his mouth seeking her lips. The faint doubts that had begun to creep into her mind as they traversed the chill dark passages of the old house immediately fled. She sighed, closing her eyes and relishing the close attention he was giving to every inch of her skin. She breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne: the heady mix of lavender, rosemary and bergamot with a hint of bitter oranges. The fragrance awoke the most sensual memories of times shared, both here at Knightscote and the all-too-brief moments they had been together at Mersecombe. The last shreds of consciousness fled and Rose abandoned herself to the pleasures of his lovemaking. She tilted up her chin, allowing him access to the slender column of her throat. His lambent kisses sent waves of pleasure pulsing through her body and seemed to melt her very bones.
He began to unfasten her jacket, all the time anointing her neck and shoulders with tantalising kisses. She moaned as his hand slid over one breast. The chill in her limbs was replaced with burning desire. It was no longer enough to lie passively in his arms. Urgently she pulled his mouth to hers and began to kiss him. It was a deep, demanding kiss and he responded with equal energy. She tore at his clothes, desperate to feel his flesh pressed against hers. Hastily they undressed each other, pausing only to kiss and caress each newly exposed section of skin. Every touch, every kiss awoke a memory; they were joyfully rediscovering each other. As their clothes were discarded so the excitement grew. Blood pounded through their bodies; all sense of time and place was lost, nothing mattered but pleasuring each other until they reached the ultimate delight of their bodies uniting in a heady, exhilarating climax that left them both exhausted, their bodies entwined together, a tangle of limbs bathed in the red-gold glow of the dying fire.
Rose lay very still, eyes closed, arms wrapped tightly about Lawrence. He took her face between his hands and kissed her.
‘Mmm.’ She snuggled closer. ‘I would like to stay like this for ever.’
He chuckled.
‘Once the euphoria wears off, you will begin to feel the chill. We should get under the covers.’
They slipped between the sheets, their bodies fitting naturally together.
‘What made you come here?’ murmured Lawrence, nuzzling her ear. ‘How could you risk riding out on such a night?’
She did not answer immediately.
‘I had to come,’ she said at last. ‘I was wrong and I had to tell you. It seems everyone in Mersecombe knew the truth about Althea, except me. I should have been the first to know, not the last, because I should have listened to you.’ She held him close, running her hands over his back as if to assure herself he was really there. ‘I was afraid I would never see you again. There was no word from you; everyone thought you had left for good. Then Sir Jonas said he had heard from the lawyers that you had left London. He did not know where, but I hoped, prayed—so I came to find you.’
‘Then thank heaven I was here.’
The warmth from his body was seeping into her own, driving away the aching cold, and when he raised his eyes to her face the message she read in them melted the icy fear that had numbed her heart.
‘Yes.’ She blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. ‘Thank heaven.’ She hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder. ‘Oh, my love, I was such a fool not to trust you. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘Never,’ he muttered, covering her face and neck with hot, fervent kisses. ‘You will have to make love to me for at least fifty years before I even begin to forgive you.’
Something between a sob and a chuckle escaped her. The familiar tug of desire was welling up inside and she measured the length of her body against his.
‘Very well, then.’ Her pulse leapt as she felt him pressing hard and aroused against her. ‘Let us begin immediately.’
The fire had burned down to a faint glow, but moonlight shone in through the uncovered windows. Rose lay with her head resting on Lawrence’s shoulder. Their love-making had continued long into the night. Sheets were tangled, covers had slipped to the floor and remained there, unregarded, until the icy night air began to bite and they gathered them up again, giggling like children. Then they had slept, locked in each other’s arms.
Rose moved onto her back. Immediately Lawrence’s hand closed on her fingers.
‘What is it, my love?’
‘Nothing. Only how wonderful this has been.’
He rolled over and gathered her against him.
‘And it will continue to be. I do not intend to let you go again.’
‘But you must,’ she said gently. ‘At least for a little while. I must go back to Mersecombe as soon as it is light. No one knows I am here—they will worry.’
‘Then I shall come with you.’
‘You do not have to do that.’
‘I want to. I want to be part of your family from now on, Rose.’
His words made her heart soar.
‘I would like that, Lawrence. Very much.’
‘We need not wait for dawn.’ He raised himself on one elbow, his
face a shadowy blur hovering above her. ‘There is moon enough. We will send for the gig and be back at Bluebell Cottage before your family has finished breakfast. And I will come to the church with you,’ he added, his lips brushing hers. ‘We can ask Mr Wilkins how soon we can be married.’
She put her hands against his chest.
‘If we are to do all that, then ought we not to get ready?’
His voice deepened and he slid his body closer.
‘We should, of course. But not quite yet.’
‘I have checked all her cupboards, ma’am, and she’s not taken any of her clothes, but her bed has not been slept in!’
Mrs Molland put her hands to her cheeks as she heard Janet’s anguished announcement. She glanced at the clock.
‘We have a little time yet before we need to set off for church.’ She tapped her foot, her brow furrowed, then shot another question at the maid. ‘Does Sam know?’
‘Not yet, ma’am, but—’
‘Hush!’ The hinges of the garden gate squeaked and Mrs Molland ran to the window in time to see Rose and Sir Lawrence walking up the path. ‘Thank heavens! She—I quite forgot that she has been out for an early-morning drive with Sir Lawrence.’ Her eyes slid away from the maid’s sceptical gaze. ‘Go and let them in, Janet, if you please!’
If anything was needed to confirm Mrs Molland’s suspicions, it was the glow of happiness in her daughter’s eyes as she came into the room, followed by Sir Lawrence and a bouncing, liver-and-white pointer.
‘Have I given you a fright, Mama? I beg your pardon.’ Rose came forwards, happiness bubbling in her voice. ‘I hope we are not too late for church?’
‘Of course not, but where—?’ Mrs Molland broke off as Sam came racing into the room. He pulled up quickly when he saw Sir Lawrence, but it was the sight of the puppy bounding up to him that caused him to cry out in delight.
‘Bandit!’
Rose bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. Her mother was quite bursting with questions, none of which could be asked in front of Sam. That, of course, was a relief. She would have to explain everything at some stage, but she was quite happy to put it off for a little while.
Snowbound With the Notorious Rake Page 21