“That’s all right then,” he said, drawing her to him and wrapping her in his embrace.
They stood together for long moments, Guinevere’s cheek pressed to Douglas’s shoulder, arms looped around each other, his hand cradling the back of her head. Before arousal could start up in earnest, Douglas let her slip away.
He perched on the desk rather than snatch her back and ravish her senseless. “How would you like to proceed from here? If you are undecided, I would request the opportunity to better acquaint myself with your preferences.” He’d like to strip her naked and acquaint his mouth with every inch of her delectable skin, for example, and he did not apply so much as a pair of mental pruning shears—much less a hatchet—to the images engendered by that wish.
“I don’t have any preferences,” she said, not sounding anything like a woman who had embarked on a dalliance.
“Dear lady, I insist that this undertaking be pleasurable for you. And while I could avail myself of your charms right here and right now”—several times, and in a variety of positions—“and enjoy every moment of it, that would not be respectful of, or right for, you.”
Her rejoinder was preempted by a knock on the library door.
“Enter.”
Douglas expected a servant, or perhaps—the Almighty being possessed of an ironic sense of humor—the vicar coming to collect his wayward daughters. He did not expect, did not in his wildest nightmares expect, to see the blond, handsome David Worthington, Viscount Fairly, sauntering into the library.
Fairly offered him an excruciatingly correct bow. “Amery. Miss Hollister.” He bowed over Guinevere’s hand, and his salutations were returned with all due civility. Fairly’s fey eyes—one blue and one green—missed nothing. Douglas did not doubt the damned visiting viscount was sensing undercurrents.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, your lordship?” Guinevere asked, and she managed to sound only curious, not a hint of consternation—or dismay—in her tone.
“None of that lordshipping business among family,” Fairly retorted. “I’ve come down from Surrey to escape the domestic atmosphere in the Alexander households, if you must know. They are knee-deep in babies, and London is rife with the flu. One finds one’s diversions where one can.” His smile was bland, though Douglas heard innuendo and warning in his words.
“You are, of course, most welcome,” Douglas said, lying graciously. “I’ll have Mrs. Kitts prepare you a bedroom, and you must join Guinevere and me on the afternoon’s outing. I’m sure Rose will want to see you as well.”
“Might I see Miss Rose now?”
“Of course,” Guinevere replied—damned easily. “I shall take you up, but let’s also order a tea tray, and perhaps you’d like to freshen up before we greet the children?”
Fairly’s visage underwent a subtle change, shifting gratifyingly in the direction of consternation. “Children? More than one?”
“Half a regiment,” Douglas assured him, and being female the little dears would adore the viscount. “Noisy little heathen run thick on the ground here.” May they run loudly and often, straight in Fairly’s direction.
“They are the vicar’s little girls,” Guinevere interjected. “Their sister is Rose’s nurse, and Rose has gone to the vicarage to play several times. Don’t be hurt if Rose barely acknowledges you. These are the first real playmates she’s had.”
“Females seldom ignore me.”
Rather than simper—which would have pained Douglas sorely—Guinevere rolled her eyes. “Come.” She headed for the door. “We’ll leave Douglas to his ledgers and inventories, and let Mrs. Kitts know she has another guest.”
Fairly grinned—or was that a smirk?—and followed Guinevere to the door. “Sorry to abandon you, Douglas.”
***
Dinner passed amicably, as had all the meals since David had joined the Linden household. Gwen excused herself at the conclusion of the meal, citing a need to check on Rose, though to David, the dear lady seemed a bit too eager to join her daughter upstairs.
“Shall we amuse ourselves with billiards?” David proposed. Though he wasn’t going to waste his first opportunity to speak with Douglas alone on a silly game of billiards. When the footmen had a decent fire going in the billiards room, Douglas racked the balls and offered David the break. Choosing a cue stick at random, David took the shot, scattering balls in every direction.
“You should talk Gwen into playing,” David said as he sighted on the cue ball and two others. Both went into the pocket, but unfortunately, so did the cue ball.
“Bad luck,” Douglas commiserated, eyes glinting with humor. He lined up his shot and sank the ball easily. “Why should Guinevere learn billiards?”
Guinevere. She’d been Miss Hollister to David for a solid year, and Douglas was using her first name easily within a matter of days. A fraction of David’s concern for his friends abated, but only a fraction.
At least they weren’t going to kill each other, that much was plain.
“Haven’t you noticed Gwen doesn’t have much understanding of recreation? She plays, but only when Rose can cajole her into it. She’d see this as a challenge, something to become proficient at.”
“So that’s what all your jollity over cards was about yesterday?” Douglas asked, missing his shot by a whisker.
Intentionally? Or could a friend hope the topic of Guinevere Hollister ruffled Lord Amery’s legendary composure?
“Some of my jollity was for Gwen’s benefit,” David allowed, eyeing the table. He sank a ball but left himself little in the way of follow-up shots. “I also simply enjoy children, and Rose in particular. I was an only child, and I’ve always enjoyed children as a result.”
Douglas stared at the table, probably seeing shots and figuring odds while David was trying to have a civilized conversation over a casual game—at least to appearances. David made what was intended to be a spoiler shot, leaving Douglas with no good options.
His lordship sidled past David and hunkered to view a tricky misalignment of balls at eye level. “Most adults have more to worry about than whether they can get away with cheating at children’s games, Fairly.”
“Most adults,” David countered, “would worry less if they paused to play a few more rounds of some silly game—like billiards. Are you going to leave me anything to work with?”
“Not if I can help it.” He stalked around the table again, his footfalls making not a sound on the polished oak floor. “And you might as well get on with the scold, Fairly.”
Douglas’s ball bounced off two bumpers and careened with lazy grace directly into a corner pocket.
And David was not scolding. “When a fellow is concerned, he occasionally journeys through the autumn chill and pouring rain to assure himself his friends and relations are faring adequately.”
A pontification worthy of Douglas himself.
With balls still scattered over the table, Douglas put up his cue stick. “Surely you intend to lecture me at some point for developing a regard for Guinevere, particularly given what you know of my family history. My late brothers—with their womanizing, gambling, and indebtedness—do not recommend me to anybody’s notice.”
“You are ridiculous,” David said, putting his stick up as well, lest he cosh dear Douglas stoutly with it. “I am far more likely to lecture you because you are not getting adequate sleep, you don’t indulge in the occasional extra bottle, or you’ve yet to pinch that cheerful nursery maid in locations that will make her giggle and you smile.”
Douglas lined up the cue sticks with a precisely uniform space between every one.
“I am a physician, Douglas.” David offered the reminder as gently as he could. “What you tell me regarding your personal circumstances goes with me to my grave.”
Douglas stopped fussing the cue sticks but did not turn to face his guest. “There are things�
��” He ran a hand through his hair. “I am doing better. I have nightmares regarding my brother’s deaths, I can’t stand the sound of gunfire, and I am dreading the first snow, but I am functioning.”
He crossed the room to pour himself a brandy, and even at that distance, David could see Douglas’s hand shook slightly. Henry, the younger brother, had come to a bad end on a snowy day the previous winter, while Herbert had reportedly been the victim of an accident while hunting.
“How much are you drinking?”
“Little,” Douglas replied, pouring a second drink for David. “I never drink alone, and I limit myself to what is socially expected. My brothers both drank to excess, frequently.”
“Do you sleep?” David asked, accepting the drink.
“Sometimes badly, but yes, I sleep.” Douglas sipped his drink and wandered over to the dart board. “I can never recall a time when I did sleep particularly well, though, so you can’t attach much significance to that.”
“Are you eating adequately?”
“What is this?” Douglas set his drink aside, toed the line, and thunked a dart into the board. “An interrogation?”
“This is a medically knowledgeable inquiry, motivated by appropriate concern,” David replied, pleasantly.
“I eat.”
“But?”
“But Guinevere pointed out I wasn’t tasting my food, wasn’t enjoying it, and she was right.” He fired off a second dart, harder than the first.
“Are you prone to fits of weeping?” David asked in the same brisk tone.
“None of your goddamned business.” The third dart might have been a bolt from a crossbow, so hard did it hit the board.
“It’s relevant business when a man is flirting with melancholia.” Though who would not be melancholy to lose both brothers in rapid succession, and inherit a financial mess along with those griefs?
“Here is my advice to you, Douglas Allen, and you had best heed it, because I will only continue to needle you, haunt you, and generally harry you until I am satisfied with the state of your well-being. When you are trying to cope with difficulties, they are best met a bit at a time and in the company of people you trust to have your best interests at heart. Your late elder brother was married to my sister, and that means you have family now, in me, in Greymoor, in Heathgate, and in their lovely spouses. If you need anything, you have only to indicate, and we will leap to provide it.”
Douglas pulled the darts from the board. He offered them to David, who really did not want to fence any further over darts. As he took aim, it occurred to him that his concern for Douglas had long since blossomed from the clinical interest of a physician into the more visceral, burdensome anxiety of a friend… perhaps even of a brother.
“I am not finished,” David said, tossing the first dart and hitting nearly the same spot Douglas had. “You are also well-advised to put something in your future that you will look forward to, something perhaps, like salvaging this potentially beautiful estate. Gwen thinks it would suit you, and she is both sensible and well-informed.”
Also quite pretty, lonely, and quietly brilliant regarding management of the land. David tossed the second dart, landing it as close to the center as the first.
“Finally”—he fired the third dart at the board, temper giving him particular accuracy—“your time is too precious to waste, Douglas. Rather than whiling it away, showering your company manners and congenial hospitality on me and the staff, if there is something you would truly, deeply enjoy, then I suggest you be about it sooner rather than later.”
Douglas was silent a moment, regarding the cluster of darts in the center of the board.
“Thank you,” he said, sketching a bow. “I’m off to heed your advice.”
He turned on his heel and departed, leaving David in solitude, silently toasting the good intentions of friends and family.
Six
“Douglas, is that you?”
“Let me in, Guinevere,” came the impatient reply, “lest I’m seen malingering outside your door by the staff, or worse, by Fairly.”
Seeing the wisdom in that observation, Gwen admitted Douglas to her bedroom. She was covered from neck to ankles in a thick flannel nightgown as well as an equally sturdy flannel dressing gown, while her feet were inelegantly covered in wool stockings. His lordship deserved to see her thus if he was going to be so cavalier in his timing.
Douglas sauntered into the room, hands in his pockets, and took up a stance by the mantel. “I’ve been missing you.”
He offered this greeting in the same tone most people discussed the exiled Corsican or the rising price of bread.
“You can’t be missing me,” Gwen retorted, closing the door behind him. “We see each other all day.”
“True.” His expression was faintly scowling as he perused her evening finery. “Though since Fairly arrived, we’ve had nothing but decorum and propriety between us, and that leaves me… missing you.”
Decorum, propriety, a few subtle innuendos, and an… ache.
“Douglas, this is not a good idea. Tonight is not…”
He stepped up to her, right up to her, and peered down his aquiline nose. She caught a whiff of his cedary scent and made no move to put distance between them.
“Hush,” he admonished, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’ve missed you. Now tell me you’ve missed me too.”
Oh, God, she had missed him. Missed his scent, missed the casual touches throughout the day, missed the hours closeted with him or riding the countryside with him. Missed his exclusive company at meals, missed the anticipation of his next subtly veiled flirtation.
“Tonight is not a good time,” she tried again, while her eyes had drifted shut without her willing them to. Douglas slipped a hand to her nape and cupped the back of her head.
“Not a good time for what?” he murmured, cruising his mouth over her eyelids, her eyebrows, her forehead.
“You shouldn’t be in my room,” Gwen whispered, “and I can’t be with you.” In fact, she shouldn’t be with him, not the way he intended, not ever. But here in Sussex, with none to know, both the common sense and the fear that had kept Gwen trapped at Enfield no longer aided her judgment.
“You are with me,” Douglas replied, letting his lips settle over hers. He took his time, refreshing her memory regarding the taste and feel of their mouths together. Gwen let herself slide under the spell his wove with his mouth and hands and sighs, losing her emotional balance in the pleasure of Douglas’s kisses.
Hummingbirds took flight on the wings of eagles.
She marshaled her resolve and broke the kiss, using her palm to push on his chest—which moved him something less than an inch. “I meant what I said: I can’t be with you tonight.”
He put his hands back in the pockets of his breeches and regarded her curiously. “Are you expecting someone else then?”
Manners be damned, he ensconced himself in the chair beside her fireplace and propped his chin in his hand. Gwen liked the relaxed look of him all too well, gilded by the firelight and lazy male confidence.
“I wasn’t expecting anybody, and you know it.” She did not know what to do with herself. If she paced, he’d sense she was nervous. She absolutely could not sit on the bed, and yet she felt foolish, standing in the middle of the room, trying not to gape at him in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.
“So why can’t we spend some time together now?” Douglas asked, all reason.
“Because we can’t,” Gwen replied, all banked annoyance.
“Come here, Guinevere.” Douglas held out a hand, and against her better judgment, Gwen crossed to the warmer side of the room to stand before him.
“Come here,” he repeated, taking her hand and tugging her toward him. When she stood right next to his chair, he gave her wrist a stout tug and brought her tumbling into his lap.
“Douglas!” Gwen tried to get up, only to find his arms looped about her. Where she had expected him to be a candles-out, under-the-covers-in-silence sort of swain, he’d become the type of fellow who toppled a woman into his lap.
“We can be quite comfy here,” he said. “The chair is large, well upholstered, and plenty sturdy. Now settle down, or I’ll turn you over my knee.”
She ceased her struggles.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Guinevere, I don’t care for that type of diversion. Now cuddle up, or I’ll rethink my position on spanking.”
Merciful saints. Spanking?
He nuzzled her throat, a friendly, reassuring sort of nuzzle that turned Gwen’s spine and a few of her reservations about spanking to butter. “I’m too heavy,” she said, swinging her legs over the chair’s arm and tucking into Douglas’s chest.
Douglas’s chin rested against her temple. “Don’t be absurd. You are a wonderfully abundant lapful, and please don’t argue the point with me. I have held a few more women than you have—though only a few.”
They fell silent, and Gwen relaxed against him. His right hand started a slow, gentle stroking along the bones and muscles of her back, and his lips brushed at her temple.
“I have missed you,” she said, bundling herself more securely against him, for he had missed her and sought her out to inform her of it. “But, Douglas…”
“I know, Guinevere. I am not to ravish you tonight, though that was hardly my intention. How are you feeling?”
“What do you mean, how am I feeling?”
“Here.” He rested his hand low on her abdomen. “How are you feeling, here?”
“How did you know?” She hid her face against his neck, lest he exercise his Douglas-tendency to look her in the eye at the most mortifying moments.
Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 10