Once Upon a Tartan mt-2

by Grace Burrowes

  “You’ll think me wicked.” And still, Hester did not risk looking Aunt Ariadne in the eye.

  “I’m the one who told you to get back on the horse. Aren’t you going to drink your tea?”

  Sly old boots. Hester obediently resumed a place on the sofa. “I haven’t, you know. Not entirely. Gotten back on the, um, horse.”

  “Oh, of course not.” Ariadne passed Hester a cup of tea that had to be tepid by now at best. “Though in my day, we didn’t buy a pair of boots without trying them on.”

  Hester hid her smile behind her teacup. “You are incorrigible, Aunt.”

  “I’m an old woman with a lot of lovely memories. If you’re lucky, you’ll grow up to be just like me.”

  “Are you telling me to accept Spathfoy’s proposal?”

  “I’m telling you not to let me eat all these cakes by myself. You haven’t known his lordship long, but sometimes, long acquaintance isn’t necessary in affairs of the heart. Has he said he loves you?”

  Hester set her teacup down more quickly than she’d intended to. “Love?”

  “It’s all the modern rage, the love match, or at least the appearance of one. You can marry where you will, Hester, and Spathfoy can likewise. In my day a woman was bound by the preferences of her parents, at least the first time around, but so were the young men. It put the new husband and wife in some sympathy with each other, which was often an adequate basis for friendship.”

  “I think Spathfoy could be my friend and I his.” This felt like the greater confidence, not the fact of his proposal, but why she was considering it.

  “Ah. You really should have some cakes, my dear.”

  “You are no help whatsoever, Aunt.” Hester took two chocolate cakes—Fee wasn’t underfoot to appropriate all the chocolate ones before anybody else had a chance—and regarded them side by side on her plate. “I want to accept Spathfoy’s proposal, but I am uncertain.”

  “It’s hard to be completely sure, though nice if you can be. I was with my second and third husbands.”

  “And?”

  “One turned out to be an idiot, the other was the love of my life.” She took a placid sip of her tea while Hester wanted to pitch a cake at her.

  “I haven’t known Spathfoy long, I haven’t met his family, I don’t know the state of his finances, he hasn’t given me a ring, and he has not declared his feelings for me.”

  “If you wait for a proper Englishman to declare his feelings, you will soon be an old maid. The ring can be procured easily enough, and I can assure you the man’s wealthy. His mother is a genius with figures. What is the real reason you’re hesitating, my dear?”

  Hester considered her tea cakes, then the view out the window, then the hearth, which sported a fire despite the temperate day.

  “I’m not sure.”

  But it had to do with love. She was fairly certain her hesitation had to do with love, and the likely lack thereof—on Spathfoy’s part.

  Or maybe it had to do with a lack of courage on hers.

  * * *

  Tye had two days left before he had to leave or risk his father indulging in rash behavior. Two days and two nights to convince a shy, headstrong, passionate young lady not just to get back on the horse but to accept possession of the beast for the remainder of her earthly days—and nights.

  He didn’t even knock on her door this time, just pushed it open to see Hester sprawling belly-down on the hearth rug, a book open before her, her feet pointing toward the ceiling and her hair in a golden rope over her shoulder.

  “I trust I am not intruding?” He strolled into the room and did not permit himself to stare at the soft, warm, wool socks on her upthrust feet.

  “Spathfoy.” She glanced up but did not rise. “You were very quiet at dinner. I thought perhaps you’d need to catch up on your rest tonight.”

  She was teasing him. She knew how to tease; he did not. It left him feeling at a disadvantage, until another thought popped into his head: perhaps she was not teasing so much as seeking reassurances.

  He came down beside her, arranging himself so she was between him and the fire. “What are you reading?”

  “A journal I wrote when I was Fee’s age. My penmanship was atrocious—I doubt anybody else would be motivated to decipher it, which is probably a mercy.”

  “Were you very serious as a child?” He ran his palm down the length of her braid while she set the book aside and rested her cheek on her folded arms.

  “I was a happy child as long as I could stay out of Papa’s gun sights. Girl children were fortunately beneath his notice for the most part, until Genie became of marriageable age, and then he mostly tormented her and Mother.”

  She sounded forlorn. “Do you miss your mother?” God knew, he missed his—particularly since coming to Scotland.

  “No, I do not.” She rolled to her back and heaved out a sigh. “I wish I did, but I’ve tried to miss her and I can’t. I envy Fee having a mother and stepfather she can miss terribly.”

  Which topic, Tye was not about to explore any further under present circumstances. He settled his hand on her belly, let it ride up on her next breath. “Will you miss me, Hester Daniels? I leave shortly. I’d have your answer to my proposal before I ride off to the south.”

  “This is a time-limited proposal, then?” She captured his hand and turned her cheek into his palm, the tenderness of the gesture at variance with the pragmatism of her question.

  And with her query, Tye found himself on tricky ground. In the manner of women the world over, she’d dropped him square in the middle of a conversational quagmire, where every reply was fraught with risk.

  “Either you want to be my marchioness and bear my children or you do not. I am hoping you do, though I will not beg.”

  She regarded him by the firelight, her expression so unreadable—so unencouraging—Tye would have gotten up and left the room had she not wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “When I left London, I did not know you, Tiberius, and now you want to give me children.”

  “I want to give you legitimate children.” With Hester, he could envision having a big family. The thought had never appealed before.

  “I do not intend to buy a pair of boots without trying them on, Spathfoy.”

  “I speak of holy matrimony, and you want to go shopping.” He kissed her, because a woman could prose on about her shopping at tiresome length. And Hester would prose on while Tye watched and felt the rising and falling of her breathing, and slowly lost his mind with the pleasure of it.

  “I do adore the scent of you, Tiberius.” She wound her arms around his neck and scooted closer, which reassured Tye he wouldn’t be stomping from the room in a rejected huff. The thought that she might, indeed, turn down his offer was… untenable. Leaving Scotland without Hester did not bear contemplation—and not because it would ease Fiona’s adjustment to a new household.

  “You are in the mood to tease me, Miss Daniels. Am I only to have kisses of you tonight?”

  “About my new boots.” She levered up and kissed him—really kissed him—her fingers trailing softly along his jaw then stealing down to slip inside his dressing gown and stroke over his bare chest. “I want to ask a favor of you, Tiberius Flynn.”

  Her thumb grazed his nipple, sending an electric current racing down through Tye’s body. “I am disposed to grant favors to you in my present situation.” He was also disposed to shift his hand so he covered the fullness of her breast through her nightclothes. Her nipple peaked against his palm, which had to be one of the most erotic sensations a man could endure.

  “It’s a small favor.” She pushed him onto his back, though it took him a moment to realize what she was about. He’d never made love on the floor before, but it loomed as a capital notion in those regions of his brain still capable of thought.

  “You have to close your eyes.” She brushed her hand down over his face. He caught a whiff of sweet flowers and tart lemon, probably from the lotion she rubbed into her skin.<
br />
  “My eyes are closed.” He found the bottom of her braid with his hands and slipped the ribbon off it. “What is this favor you seek?”

  “In a minute.”

  He felt her untying the sash of his robe. This too struck him as a positive development. While she parted the folds of his robe, he unraveled her braid and enjoyed the knowledge that she was in all likelihood looking at his rampant erection. If anything, the knowledge made him harder.

  “Shall you blindfold me, Hester? I’d enjoy it, I think.” The night was rife with firsts—he’d never meant such an offer so sincerely: he would enjoy it. “I’m told it heightens the other senses, so I could better revel in the scent, feel, sound, and taste of you.”

  “Taste.” She didn’t make it a question, or maybe he didn’t give her time to elaborate. Using a hank of her unbound hair, Tye tugged her closer, cradled her cheek with his free hand, and guided her down to his mouth.

  “Taste,” he echoed. With his eyes closed, the kiss became a lovely, voluptuous, opening ceremony for what he sincerely hoped was another step in the seduction of his future wife.

  Or possibly, of her future husband.

  “Keep your eyes closed, Tiberius.” Fabric rustled and brushed against his ribs. “And you must not move.”

  At her admonition, he found himself blindfolded and bound by nothing more than the desire to please her, to be whatever she needed him to be for however long she wanted to keep him sprawled naked on her hearth rug.

  “Hester?”

  “Hmm?” A silky strand of hair wafted across his chest.

  “Do I, or does marriage to me, perchance, in some way resemble a new pair of boots?”

  More rustling. When he reached out this time, his hand encountered the smooth curve of her naked back, but the position wasn’t the right one for kiss—

  “More a parasol, I think.”

  The weight of her head settled low on his belly, and Tye’s heartbeat slowed to a dull, pounding thud against his ribs. “My dear, what are you about?”

  “Eyes closed. You mustn’t stop me.”

  As if… He licked dry lips. “How do I resemble a parasol?”

  He felt her fingers trace up the length of his erection, felt her breath waft across the engorged glans.

  “You appear all unassuming, folded up and waiting in the corner for an outing, and then”—she licked him, a delicate, catlike swirl of her tongue over the most sensitive spot—“one unfurls you and reveals your beauty, and all manner of interesting uses come to mind.”

  He should say something, before she—

  She took him into her mouth, slid her lips along his shaft, and withdrew, but not all the way. He fisted his hand in her hair and prayed for fortitude. “Hester, you must not.”

  “Must.” Another caress with her tongue, and God help him, she cupped his balls at the same time. “You did, with me.”

  Brilliant, faultless logic. He tried to draw in a breath, but was unwilling to move even that much lest he disturb her. This intimacy was one a man usually paid for, something no decent woman ought to conceive of, and she was glorying in it. He drew her hair back over her shoulder. “There’s a name for this.”

  She ran her nose up the length of his shaft, rubbed her cheek against the hair at the base. “Later, Tiberius. I’m a trifle busy at the moment.”

  And then her mouth was on him again, until she was drawing on him in a slow, maddening rhythm, sleeving him with her wet fingers and driving him past all self-restraint.

  “No more, Hester.” His voice was hoarse with banked desire, and he had to ease his grip on her hair lest he hurt her.

  “I like this.”

  “For God’s—” He pushed her away as gently as he could and used his free hand to stroke himself exactly twice before he was coming, a cyclone of pleasure and lust barreling through his body, making his jaw clench, his spine bow, and colors dance behind his closed eyes.

  He suspected he’d lost consciousness. When his mind settled itself enough to process thoughts, Hester had used a handkerchief to wipe him clean. She set the cloth aside, pillowed her head on his belly, and took his cock in her hand. Her grip was just snug enough to be perfect.

  He could not have borne it had she moved her hand on him or—merciful God—run her tongue over him even once more; and yet, he could not have borne it if she’d turned loose of him, either.

  “You are an astonishing woman, Hester Daniels. An astonishing lady.”

  And she was going to make an astonishingly wonderful marchioness, too.

  Eight

  “Neville said you were in a taking about something.” Earnest Abingdon, Lord Rutherford, let his observation hang in the air while Deirdre considered bashing him over the head with her teapot.

  The Spode was so pretty, though.

  “You’re fishing, Earnest. Neville probably passed my every confidence to you under circumstances I do not want to contemplate.”

  “You are missing your children and in want of grandchildren, my dear.”

  She set the teapot down with an unceremonious thunk. “That is unkind, Rutherford. Has Neville said something to make you jealous?”

  “We regularly do things to make each other jealous.” He shot his cuffs, looking like a perfectly unruffled, lanky specimen of blond, blue-eyed English aristocracy. “It is part of the dubious charm of our circumstances. When was the last time you saw your daughters?”

  “None of your business. Have a tea cake, and I hope you strangle on it. I am not old enough to have grandchildren.”

  She was more than old enough, which was why they took tea, not by the windows where the fresh morning light would reveal her age written plain on her face, but to the side of the room. By rights she should have a half dozen of the little dears, and be spending all her days flitting from one child’s happy household to another.

  “Deirdre, I like women. I like them rather a lot, and happen to be married to one I can love, after my fashion. You are nursing a broken heart, my dear. I suggest you mend it before you do something rash.”

  “I am doing no such thing, Rutherford, though more of this talk, and you will be nursing broken parts of your own.”

  “Violent passions in a woman can be so arousing.” He let his lids droop, the scoundrel, as if he meant what he said. He was trying to cheer her up though, trying very hard in fact.

  “What on earth makes you think I’m missing grown children who haven’t needed their mama for years?”

  He eyed the teacup she held a few inches above the saucer—the teacup that trembled slightly in her grasp. “When you hold your salons, my lady, you are the soul of graciousness, turning your signature smile on each guest who walks through your door. I watch while that smile fades into something very pretty but a shade less warm. You are waiting for your family to come ransom you from your pride, and you are disappointed that they do not. I’ll have a word with Spathfoy, if you like.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” She set the tea down untasted and dropped the pretense that Rutherford was wrong. “Tye is all Hale has left. I try to leave the boy in peace. The girls ride roughshod over their father, and I’m very much concerned Hale is the one plotting something rash.”

  “Such as?”

  “Among our set, marriages are still primarily a matter of business. His lordship has the authority and the”—she searched for a word that wasn’t unduly disrespectful—“the consequence to contract marriages for his daughters.”

  “The ballocks, you mean. He’d risk the scandal of his daughters crying off though—which might send them running to their mama.”

  Intriguing notion—but what of her poor daughters? The Daniels girl had cried off for reasons Deirdre suspected were all too understandable. The last Deirdre had heard, the young lady had been packed off to distant relations on some Scottish grouse moor, probably never to be seen again.

  But Rutherford raised an interesting scenario. “If the girls came running to Mama, then Hale would be sending Ty
e around to retrieve them, and I cannot place my son in such a position.”

  Her only surviving son.

  A silence began to spread, sad on her part. From the look in Rutherford’s eyes, impatient on his. “Deirdre, I’d take you to bed if I thought it would help.”

  “Your idea of flattery can leave a woman feeling less than intrigued. Wouldn’t Neville take exception?”

  “Neville is the one who suggested we make the offer—you will note the plural. He doesn’t share his toys often, and neither do I.” He sipped his tea, as if they were discussing whose coach to take on an outing. But God in heaven, what did it say about her that she was considering taking them up on their questionable generosity out of sheer boredom?

  She picked up her teacup and wondered what bad behavior her husband was permitting himself because he was bored. He was, and always would be, a handsome man to whom many a buxom diversion would come easily to hand—or to bed.

  “You see?” Rutherford set his cup down. “I lay all manner of scandalous offers at your slippered feet, and you merely stare at your tea. I would be insulted if I didn’t know this isn’t mere coyness.”

  Coyness. How long had it been since Deirdre had felt coy—had felt anything but tired and lonely?

  “I’m speechless at your generosity, Rutherford, though I fear I must decline. When did you say you had to meet Neville?”

  “Apparently not soon enough for you.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Do you know why I love my wife?”

  “She’s the soul of tolerance, for one thing. She’s also very discreet, and she looks marvelous on your arm.”

  He slipped Deirdre’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her toward the front of the house.

  “My wife is my friend. She is the mother of my children—and they are my children, despite what you and all the other gossips might think—but first and foremost, she is my friend. I have her loyalty, her understanding, her moral support, and every other indicator of firm friendship, and she has mine. I think dear Hale would offer you friendship, Deirdre, if you’d give the man one more chance.”