by Jo Beverley
“No!” Her calm, self-possessed aunt was acting surprisingly agitated.
“Aunt Kate, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” Kate tore her eyes away from the window and smiled weakly—but jumped when another pebble hit the glass.
“You know, Grace, this has been quite a comfortable coze”—Ping!—“but I’m suddenly very tired”—Ping!—“and I do think I’d like to go”—Ping!—“to bed”—Ping! Ping!—“now.” Kate tugged Grace toward the connecting door and opened it. “You should go to bed as well. You need your rest.”
That was true. Grace was still feeling a little ill from her encounter with the champagne. “All right.” She paused to listen. “And it sounds as if the noise has stopped. Whoever was out there has probably left.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Kate literally pushed Grace over the threshold. “Sleep well.”
“You, too, Au—”
Slam!
If Grace had been standing any closer, the door would have hit her in the nose. She stared, and then shrugged and turned away. Apparently Aunt Kate did not wish to be disturbed. Just as well. Now that she was alone, she realized she was completely exhausted.
She climbed into bed and lay down cautiously. Thankfully, the room did not start rotating. She glanced at the bedside table. Good. Marie had replaced the basin, so if she should have an unfortunate recurrence of her indisposition, she would not be completely disgraced.
How could she have been such a noddy? She should have noticed the bubbles going to her head. To think she—
But she had not been thinking, had she? She’d been feeling. She’d been enchanted by a certain tall, handsome baron.
Oh, dear. She leaned over and blew out the candle. What was she going to do? Baron Dawson was not a man to take no for an answer, and she must tell him no.
She couldn’t break Papa’s heart again. She couldn’t align herself with a family that had stolen away his first love and caused him such great pain he still ached all these years later. She most certainly couldn’t give him grandchildren with Wilton blood running in their veins.
Grandchildren…babies…her babies and Dav—
No. Not Lord Dawson’s babies—John’s babies.
Her stomach lurched a little. Was she going to have to use that damn basin?
And she couldn’t ignore the effect her actions would have on John, either. He was expecting to marry her. He and his family would be hurt—embarrassed and insulted—if she jilted him. She would hate that.
She turned over on her side. Fortunately, her stomach did not object.
She had to tell David no, but here in the dark, in the privacy of her room, she could dream. What if she could tell him yes?
That would be wonderful. She could waltz with him at every ball as many times as she wanted. She could go off with him into society gardens without giving the ton anything to gossip about. And once they were in those gardens…
She smiled and burrowed deeper into her bed. There would be no botany lectures. No, they would do all the wonderful things they had done tonight—and perhaps a few more. She could tell David was holding back this evening.
His body was so hard and strong—so different from hers. Yet he’d been so gentle. She’d felt sheltered and safe. And the feel of his lips and his tongue and his hands…He had provoked so many entrancing, exciting sensations.
The throbbing…oh. The throbbing had started again. She was hot and damp and unsettled. She stretched, but even the friction of the sheets against her skin was too much.
She turned over on her stomach and pressed against the mattress, but that gave her no relief.
Thinking about David had been a mistake. She would never get to sleep at this rate. If only she could remember some of John’s discourses on plant classification, she would fall asleep in minutes—but she’d never paid enough attention to remember any of his lectures.
There was no help for it—she would have to count sheep.
She turned over on her back, closed her eyes resolutely, and started at “one.”
It must be Alex outside—who else could it be?
Kate rushed to the window. Why had she chosen to wear her oldest nightdress tonight? It looked like a rag, it had been washed so many times. The lowest scullery maid would be embarrassed to own it. It certainly wasn’t an appropriate garment for a seduction. She should change.
There was no time to change.
Had he left? She hadn’t heard a stone hit the window for a while. Hermes had stopped tussling with the curtain and had collapsed, panting, on the floor.
Surely Alex hadn’t left. Please God, don’t let him have left—though why she was asking the Divinity to assist in her liaison—
Hermes jumped up and started barking again as she shoved aside the curtain.
“Shh, Hermes. You’ll wake the dead.” Alex wouldn’t rush off after coming all this way.
All right, so Oxbury House was only a few blocks from Dawson House, but still, he’d made the trip, which must mean he wanted…
She wouldn’t think about what he must want.
She tugged on the window latch.
There was no real hurry. Alex must have left. Why would he stay, after she’d forgotten to unlock the servants’ door and then ignored his attempts to get her attention? He likely was halfway home by now.
Damnation, the old latch wouldn’t budge. She pulled with both hands. She had to get the window open. He might not have gone far. Maybe if she shouted—
If she shouted all of London would wonder why Lady Oxbury was hanging out her bedroom window, yelling into the darkness.
At least her room was at the back of the building. Perhaps no one would notice.
If she couldn’t get this bloody window open, no one would notice. She could shout all she wanted—only Hermes would hear her.
She jerked harder on the latch. Was it rusted or painted shut? Surely the blasted window had been opened sometime in the last forty years, or however long it’d been since Oxbury’s mother’s death. The servants must have aired the rooms before she and Grace arrived. Whatever the case, the damn window wasn’t opening now. She pulled one last time, as hard as she could.
Finally! The latch screeched open. She shoved on the window. It protested, too, but went up slowly. She leaned out…
She couldn’t see a thing—or hear anything, either, Hermes was making such a racket.
“Shh, you silly dog.” She held her breath, listened…
She heard a low, male chuckle. Where was it coming from? Under the tree? The shadows were too thick to tell.
“Alex?” she whispered urgently.
“Hallo, Kate.”
“Alex!” She collapsed against the windowsill in relief. He was still here. “I’m sorry about—”
“Shh.” Another low chuckle. “Shall I come up? We can…talk then.”
She shivered at his pause. Yes, they could talk—and do other things. “Yes, come up. Can you manage the tree?”
“Of course.”
There was nothing “of course” about a forty-five-year-old man—even a man in as splendid physical condition as Alex appeared to be—climbing up a tree and through a bedroom window. She bit her tongue and said a few prayers as she watched him shed his coat and waistcoat and make his way up through the branches. She picked Hermes up and stepped back when he reached the window.
“Be careful.”
He grinned at her from his perch on a sturdy branch. At least she hoped it was sturdy. She’d be very much happier when he was inside; she did not care to watch him plummet to the ground.
“Fortunately the gardeners have neglected their pruning. This tree grows much too close to the house, you know.”
Heavens, did he want to have a discussion of horticulture while he sat in that bloody tree?
“For God’s sake, Alex, come in before you fall to your death.”
“Very well, since you ask so nicely.” He grabbed a branch above his head
and swung his legs over the windowsill. In a minute he was standing in her room. He spread out his arms. “Here I am, safe and sound.”
“Thank God!” She took a step toward him and froze.
He was so big. She held Hermes a little tighter. It was one thing to imagine Alex, to dream of him here, but a different thing to actually have him in her room.
In her bed? Good God.
“W-would you like some t-tea?” She put Hermes down and turned back to the table.
Oxbury had been forty-seven when they’d married—only two years older than Alex was now. But Oxbury had seemed ancient. Yes, she’d been only seventeen, but that wasn’t it, or at least not all of it. Oxbury had been, well, scraggy—only a few inches taller than she, with narrow, slightly bowed shoulders and spindly arms and legs. Back then he’d used stays and false calves and other sartorial tricks to pad his appearance. She’d been startled when he’d come to her on their wedding night. He’d looked like a skeleton in his nightshirt.
She’d be shocked if Alex wore any padding at all, but she’d find out tonight—
Dear heavens. If he actually…if they really—
“G-Grace and I were just having a cup of p-peppermint t-tea. It’s very s-soothing. And biscuits. There are still some left. Grace didn’t have much of an appetite. Nor did I.” No need to explain why she’d had no appetite. “They’re gingerbread—Hermes’s favorite, aren’t they, Hermes?”
She turned back to look at the males in the room. Both Hermes and Alex were staring at her as if she were completely addled.
“I didn’t come for tea, Kate.” Alex’s voice was low and warm, but there was a question in it, too—a question she was not quite prepared to answer.
Why couldn’t he just grab her, take her to bed, and do whatever it was he did in b-beds? Besides sleep, that is.
“N-no, of course, you don’t want tea. I’m afraid—well, I didn’t think—I don’t have any brandy or—”
He came toward her and took her hands, which had been fluttering around her like drunken sparrows. His clasp was strong, warm, strangely reassuring. Comforting. She took a deep breath and looked up into his face.
“Kate, do you want me to go?”
“Ah.” He certainly got right to the point.
“I will if you want me to.”
His eyes searched her face. She couldn’t bear the scrutiny—she looked away. Hermes had settled down in his bed in the corner. Apparently he trusted Alex.
A slightly calloused finger touched her chin, urging her back to meet his gaze.
“The servants’ door was locked, Kate. Did you mean for me to leave, then?” He frowned, and she could feel him begin to draw back. “I’m sorry, I—”
She grabbed two handfuls of his soft lawn shirt. “No!” She would have to find the courage to say it. She’d been wrong to hope Alex would take charge. “I-I want you to stay. Please. Don’t leave.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.” She was nervous—terrified, actually—but she was also certain—completely certain—she wanted him here.
Alex looked down at Kate. She was not acting like a woman who made a habit of inviting men to her bed. She seemed agitated. Afraid…of him? No. She couldn’t be afraid of him. He would never hurt her.
Instead of kissing her, he gathered her close, holding her lightly. After a moment, he felt her arms slide around his waist.
She was so small and delicate.
“Do you miss Oxbury, Kate?”
Where the hell had that thought come from? Was he an idiot? He didn’t want to talk about her dead husband, did he?
Her grip on him tightened. “Yes.” Damnation, was that a sniff he heard? “Y-yes, I m-miss him.”
Hell and blast, all of a sudden she was sobbing. Her shoulders shook; his shirtfront was growing damp. He felt her drawing in deep, shuddering breaths.
“Shh.” He cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair. “Shh, love.”
He knew all about loss, about holes in your life so large you feared you’d fall in and tumble down and down forever. When Da and Mama had died…
Damn, his eyes were watering. He must have got a speck in them climbing up through the tree branches. There was a lump in his throat as well. He swallowed.
He was not crying. Only women and dandies cried.
He stroked Kate’s hair while she sobbed for Oxbury. It was so soft. It slipped like silk through his fingers and flowed all the way down to her waist. Thank God she hadn’t braided it.
She sobbed harder.
Obviously, he was a failure as a rake. He should have kissed her the moment she’d strayed into his arms. He should have tried to stir up her lust—or whatever urge had provoked her to invite him here. He should have got her into bed as quickly as he could. Why the hell did he have to mention Oxbury?
Because the man was only dead a year and had been Kate’s husband for more than half her life. There was no escaping those facts. When he took Kate to bed—if he took her to bed—Oxbury would be there, too. Hopefully only as a pleasant memory—a pleasant, very faint memory—but from the way Kate was crying…well, there just might not be room for a mere mortal in her heart.
If Kate still mourned Oxbury, why the bloody hell had she asked him here?
“I should leave, Kate.”
She shook her head and clutched his shirt more tightly. It would take some effort to detach her.
He rubbed her back. Mmm. Her nightgown was worn, the fabric so thin he’d seen the outline of her lovely body—her breasts, waist, hips, even the shadow of her nether curls—when she’d walked over to the tea tray. Now he could feel the warm mounds of her breasts pressed against his chest and the heat of her skin where he stroked her. No dress, no stays, just woman.
A sobbing woman whose mind was definitely not on bed play.
What was he to do? Leave? But she wouldn’t let him. Seduce her? Surely even the most hardened rake must hesitate at luring such a tearful female into bed.
He could only try to comfort her. There was no turning back the clock, no uttering a magical incantation to make the last twenty-three years disappear. Kate was who she was. She was not the young girl he’d lost his heart to. That girl was long gone. In her place was this beautiful woman who was…who? He didn’t know.
He shouldn’t have come. He truly was an idiot. He’d wasted half his life dreaming of, longing for, someone who didn’t exist.
But she felt so very good. And she smelled just as he remembered. He brushed his lips over her hair, breathing deeply. Whether it was sleight of hand or not, holding her made him feel young again, made him believe anything was possible.
And she seemed to need him. He would give her what he could—whatever she wanted.
“I do miss him,” she said. She looked up. Her face was blotchy red, her eyes swollen. She sniffed several times.
He handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then looked at the cloth wadded up in her fist. She blushed.
“I’ll have Marie launder this and—”
“Keep it. I have others.” He should find a way to leave. She had stopped crying. She would want to be alone with her memories.
She dropped her gaze back to his shirtfront and put her hand on his chest. “I’m sorry I turned into such a watering pot. I’m sure that’s not what you were expecting.”
“Not quite.” God, he could feel each one of her fingers through the linen. They burned him, branded him…
He should leave.
“Kate, I think—” Damn, her hand was moving lower, over his belly, down to…He held his breath.
She stopped at his waist, but her other hand joined the first, the used handkerchief relegated to the floor. Both hands slid slowly up his body, her fingers tracing his muscles through the cloth.
Dear God! He was going to burst into flames, especially the most interested part of him. He moved his hips back to spare her the evidence.
“Kate.” Was that his voice, so hoarse and thick? He covered her hands with his, staying their explorations. “Kate, I’m not sure—”
“I am.” She looked up at him, her eyes still puffy from her tears. “I wish to seduce you.”
“You’re lonely.”
She hesitated as if she would say something and then changed her mind. She smiled slightly. “So I need company. Will you keep me company?” She leaned forward and kissed the cloth above his heart. “Please?”
He was going to explode. He shouldn’t do this. He should climb back out the window, but frankly, he doubted he was physically able to manage the deed at this particular moment. “Er…”
She looked up again, a slight frown between her brows, her eyes serious. “I’ll be honest, Alex. I know next to nothing about bed play. Oxbury was, well…” She shook her head, shrugged, and then smiled slightly. “But I want to learn.” She pressed closer to him. “With you.”
He tried to think, but all the blood had drained from his head to another organ which was insisting on doing his thinking for him, enthusiastically urging him to get on with it and take the girl to bed. “Kate…”
“Please?” Her small hand found the focus of his enthusiasm and gently, almost hesitantly, brushed over him.
“I’m not…” Damn, he was panting. “I’m really not, ah.” She was tracing his outline now which was growing with each gentle touch. “If you’re looking for an expert”—Oh, God. Her fingers…if they did that again…yes…with a little more pressure…a little more—no. What was he trying to say? Yes. No. He was trying to say no. Or at least maybe or wait or—what the hell—“If you’re looking for an expert, I don’t qualify.”
Blessedly, her hands moved from their current obsession. He could think again. Or maybe not. Now they were working his shirt free of his breeches and slipping underneath to touch his bare skin.
“I don’t want an expert,” she said. “I want you.”
Chapter 8
Her courage wavered. Had she been too bold? Alex seemed markedly less than enthusiastic.