Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah

by Marguerite Kaye

  Except that she had a plan, she remembered belatedly as the post-chaise jolted around a bend in the road and began to pick up speed, throwing them both hard back against the squabs. Elliot looked out of the dusty window, surprised to discover that they had left the city far behind. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Back to where it began. And ended,’ Deborah said.

  Elliot pulled her into his arms again. ‘I’m not much in the mood for riddles. What I’m in the mood for involves you and me and a bed,’ he said, slipping his hand under her coat and cupping her breast.

  ‘That is the plan, sort of,’ Deborah said, though she was having serious doubts about her ability to wait until then. His thumb was circling her nipple. She couldn’t think and she needed to think. With a huge effort, she struggled free of his embrace. ‘An hour, not much longer,’ she said.

  ‘An hour!’ Elliot looked out of the window again. The countryside looked vaguely familiar. He turned back to Deborah, narrowing his eyes. ‘Back to where it began, and ended?’

  She nodded.

  Her eyes were sparkling, that mixture of daring and excitement that sent the blood rushing to his groin. Elliot bit down on his smile. ‘Please don’t tell me that you plan to break into Kinsail Manor in the middle of the day?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Am I to fall off the drainpipe and into your arms?’

  ‘No.’ Deborah began to pluck at the button of her greatcoat again. ‘We are going to make love. In my bed. In the daylight.’ The button came away in her fingers. She stared at it in some surprise, before tucking it away in her pocket. ‘I don’t want there to be any ghosts to come between us,’ she said. ‘I want you to know I mean it. I love you.’

  Elliot couldn’t help it, he laughed. ‘And you intend to prove it by breaking into your dead husband’s home and making love on your marriage bed? That is the most outrageous, outlandish, subversive and utterly perfect plan I have ever heard of in my life. How could I ever doubt you, after this? And if I have to dangle on the end of a hangman’s noose, I will take comfort in knowing that you are by my side.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Elliot, they are not actually in residence.’

  ‘That, my love, I had deduced for myself.’

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘I will do anything you ask, provided you kiss me.’

  ‘I don’t think I will ever tire of kissing you.’

  ‘Prove it,’ Elliot said huskily, as his lips claimed hers.

  * * *

  They left the post-chaise at the Cross Keys, a mile from Kinsail Manor, and completed the journey on foot. It was hot; the sun beamed down from the pale blue summer sky, making their greatcoats look decidedly out of place. Deborah’s step was almost a skip as they approached the huge portico which fronted the manor. She could not stop smiling.

  ‘Are you sure the place is empty?’ Elliot asked, surveying the shuttered windows doubtfully. ‘There must be a skeleton staff in charge?’

  ‘Mrs Chambers, the housekeeper. And she visits her niece on a Wednesday. The rest are either in London or have been paid off.’ Deborah grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve checked it all most meticulously. I have, after all, been trained by the master.’

  ‘Then let us get on with it,’ Elliot said.

  ‘There is no need to hurry. I’ve told you, Mrs Chambers—’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about Mrs Chambers, and there is every need to hurry. I have a burning need to see you naked, my love,’ Elliot said wickedly.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  The recent loss of his precious blue diamond had not been enough to overcome Lord Kinsail’s inherent miserliness. No new bolts had been fitted to protect his property. Picking the two ancient locks which protected the kitchen door was a simple task which Elliot said disparagingly was quite beneath the Peacock.

  The house was cold, unmistakably empty. Deborah led the way through the cavernous kitchens, noting without surprise that the ancient range had still not been replaced. The stone stairs which led through the baize door into the main hall were still treacherous. She paused, looking around her, waiting for the ghosts to grab her, but felt only a wild elation, a growing sense of certainty.

  Telling Elliot to wait, she went hastily into the dining room, retrieving two of the best crystal glasses from the cupboard. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden staircase as they made their way up to the first floor. The master suite was in the east wing. Two doors. Jacob slept in Jeremy’s room, she knew that from previous visits, but Cousin Margaret occupied another, in the west wing. The mistress’s chamber, in which Deborah had spent almost every night of her marriage, was no longer used.

  She paused outside the door. Her mouth was dry. Her hand hovered over the intricate brass handle.

  ‘Deborah, you don’t have to…’

  ‘I want to.’ She threw the door back and stepped over the threshold. Placing the glasses along with a small bundle on the dressing table, she opened the shutters, filling the room with light. Dust motes danced in the air. The room smelt stuffy, stale, but she could detect no scent of either failure or misery. Hauling the holland covers which shrouded the bed on to the floor, she looked around her, trying to summon up the past, but it eluded her. Here was the bed. There was the connecting door. But the woman who had been Jeremy’s wife was not present.

  Turning to Elliot, Deborah smiled. ‘Now we can make our beginning.’ Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stood on tiptoe. ‘Make love to me, Elliot. To me. To Deborah. Not to Bella. Make love to me now,’ she whispered, then kissed him.

  He kissed her back. Slowly. Lovingly. Then deeply and passionately. The kisses that had begun in the post-chaise blossomed in the sunlit room. They kissed and kissed and kissed, then kisses were not enough. Coats, waistcoats and shirts were cast off, scattered across the room as they kissed.

  Deborah sank on to the bed and Elliot removed first her boots and breeches then his own. He cupped her breasts, sucking deep on one nipple, then the other, sending white-hot heat down, pooling in her belly. Her hands roamed over his back, his chest, his stomach. They fell back on to the mattress, kissing, touching, stroking. His fingers traced fire in a path along the tender flesh of her thighs. She touched him, shivering with anticipation as she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, potent and thick.

  He sank his fingers into her, making her gasp. She could feel herself tightening, clenching. She wanted him inside her, wanted it with a primal urgency that should be shocking, but was exciting. ‘Elliot,’ she said, closing her eyes, trying to cling to the edge, ‘Elliot, I don’t think I can wait.’

  She felt the rumble of his laughter as he pulled her on top of him. ‘That makes two of us.’ His eyes were ablaze. He lifted her on to him, guided her down and she moaned harshly as he slid into her, high inside her. Already, she could feel the spiralling. He bucked under her and she clutched at his chest, her hair trailing over his face. He lifted her, slid her back down again on to him and she cried out at the wonder of it, thrust with him this time and again, harder, higher each time until her climax swept her away. The clenching of her muscles around him sent him over the edge and pulsing into her.

  Deborah collapsed on to his chest, warmed by the sun, heated by their passion, breathing hard. ‘Elliot,’ she said, pressing hot, fluttering kisses to his mouth.

  ‘Deborah,’ he said, mirroring her action.

  ‘I used to feel so empty, here,’ she said, looking round. ‘Now I feel—filled.’

  Beneath her, Elliot chuckled. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said, though her eyes were dancing.

  He rolled her over, pinning her beneath him. ‘Complete. That’s what you meant.’

  She blinked away a sudden tear. She had cried enough tears here. ‘That’s exactly what I meant. But there’s just one thing missing.’ Wriggling out from under him, she quickly untied the bundle she had brought with her and grabbed the crystal glasses. ‘It will
be warm, I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, holding the champagne bottle aloft.

  ‘I must congratulate you on your plan,’ Elliot replied, taking the bottle from her and popping the cork. ‘You seem to have thought of everything.’ He handed her a glass. ‘To us.’

  ‘To us,’ Deborah said. She smiled at him, Bella’s wicked smile, but she was under no illusions. It was Deborah who smiled it. ‘I sincerely hope that after today, I shall be the only woman you will drink champagne with. Naked, in the middle of the day.’

  Elliot took her glass from her and placed it on the bedside table. ‘I can promise you more than that,’ he said. ‘You, my love, will be the first and only woman that I will drink champagne from. Naked or otherwise. Day or night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He tipped her on to her back and straddled her. ‘Let me show you,’ he said. The contents of his glass made her gasp as he tipped them on to her. Then his lips began to lap the wine from her skin, licking down the valley between her breasts, sipping from the dip of her belly and down.

  * * *

  The sun had moved round to the west wing of the Manor by the time they finished the champagne. ‘They’ll realise someone has been here,’ Elliot said, tying a careless knot in his neckcloth, watching Deborah arrange the empty bottle and glasses neatly on the side table.

  ‘I want him to know and I want them to know it was us,’ she said, picking up the parcel from the dressing table. From it she produced a book. Hemlock. She laid it in the centre of the bed. On top of it she placed an antique wedding ring. ‘Now Jacob will know that I know, he will know who wrote Bella’s stories, and he will be far too embarrassed to do anything about any of it,’ she said. ‘This is where Bella was born, it feels only right that I leave her here.’

  Elliot stared down at the book and the ring and the bed. Then he reached into his coat pocket and took out the last feather, laying it on top of the book, weighting it with the ring. ‘In that case, it feels only right that the Peacock should die with her.’ He pulled Deborah into his arms and kissed her tenderly. ‘You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met.’

  Deborah emerged from his embrace ruffled and heated. ‘You know,’ she said, casting a final look around the room, ‘I think I’m beginning to believe you.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt of My Fair Concubine by Jeannie Lin!

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  Chapter One

  China, Tang Dynasty—AD 824

  Fei Long faced the last room at the end of the narrow hallway, unsheathed his sword and kicked the door open.

  A feminine shriek pierced the air along with the frantic shuffle of feet as he strode through the entrance. The boarding room was a small one set above the teahouse below. The inhabitants, a man and a woman, flung themselves into the corner with nowhere to hide.

  His gaze fixed on to the woman first. His sister’s hair was unbound and her eyes wide with fear. Pearl had their mother’s thoughtful features: the high forehead and the sharp angles that had softened since the last time he’d seen her. She was dressed only in pale linen underclothes. The man who was with her had enough daring to step in between them.

  Fei Long glanced once to the single wooden bed against one wall, the covers strewn wide, and his vision blurred with anger. He gripped the sword until his knuckles nearly cracked with the strain.

  ‘Bastard,’ he gritted out through his teeth.

  He knew this man he’d come to kill. This boy. At least Han had been a boy when Fei Long had last seen him. And Pearl had been a mere girl. Now she was a grown woman, staring at him as if he were a demon risen from the underworld.

  ‘Fei Long.’ Pearl’s fingers curled tight over her lover’s arm. ‘So now you’ve come.’

  The soft bitterness of the accusation cut through him. Pearl had begged for him to come back a year earlier when her marriage had first been arranged, but he’d dismissed her letters as childish ramblings. If he had listened, she might not have thrown herself into ruin and their father’s spirit wouldn’t be floating restlessly between heaven and earth.

  The young man stretched himself before Fei Long, though he failed to match him in stature. ‘Not in front of Pearl,’ he implored.

  Though he trembled, the boy fought to keep his voice steady as Pearl clung to him, hiding just behind his shoulder. At least the dog managed to summon some courage. If Han had cowered or begged for his life, he would already be dead.

  ‘Step away, Little Sister,’ Fei Long commanded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pearl.’

  ‘I’d rather die here with Han than go to Khitan.’

  She’d changed in the five years since he’d seen her. The Pearl he remembered had been obedient, sweet-tempered and pleasant in all things. Fei Long had ridden hard from Changan to this remote province, expecting to find the son of a dog who had stolen her away.

  Now that she stood before him with quiet defiance, he knew she hadn’t been seduced or deceived. Zheng Xie Han’s family lived within their ward in the capital city. Though lower in standing, the Zheng family had always maintained a good reputation. His sister had turned to Han because she’d had no one else.

  The tension drained out of Fei Long, stealing away his rage. His throat pulled tight as he forced out the next word. ‘Go.’

  The two of them stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Go,’ he repeated roughly.

  Fei Long lowered his weapon and turned away while they dressed themselves. Shoving his sword back into its sheath, he faced the bare wall. He could hear the shuffle of movement behind him as the couple gathered their belongings.

  The bleakness of the last few weeks settled into his gut like a stone. When he’d left for his assignment to the north-western garrison, Fei Long had believed his home to be a harmonious place. Upon news of his father’s sudden death, he’d returned to find his sister gone and debt collectors circling the front gates like vultures.

  His father’s presence had been an elaborate screen, hiding the decay beneath the lacquered surface of their lives. Fei Long now saw Pearl’s arranged marriage for what it was: a desperate ploy to restore the family honour—or rather to prolong the illusion of respectability.

  When he turned again, Pearl and Han stood watching him tentatively. Each of them had a pack slung around their shoulder. Off to face the horizon with all their belongings stowed in two small bags.

  Han bowed once. ‘Elder Brother.’

  The young man risked Fei Long’s temper to deliver the honorific. Fei Long couldn’t bring himself to return the bow. Pearl met his eyes as they started for the door. The heaviness of her expression struck him like a physical blow.

  This was the last time he would ever see his sister.

  Fei Long took his money pouch from his belt and held it out. The handful of coppers rattled inside. ‘Here.’

  Han didn’t look at him as he took it.

  ‘Thank you, Fei Long,’ Pearl whispered.

  They didn’t embrace. The t
wo of them had been apart for so long that they wouldn’t have known how. Fei Long watched their backs as they retreated down the stairway; gone like everything else he had once known to be true.

  * * *

  ‘Jilted lover,’ the cook guessed.

  Yan Ling’s eyes grew wide. The stranger had stormed up the staircase only moments earlier with a sword strapped to his side and the glint of murder in his deep-set eyes. She’d leapt out of the path of his charge, just managing to hold on to her pot of tea without spilling a drop.

  She stood at the edge of the main room, head cocked to listen for sounds of mayhem upstairs. Her heart raced as she gripped the handle of the teapot. Such violence and scandal were unthinkable in their quiet town.

  ‘Should someone stop him?’ she asked.

  ‘What? You saw how he was dressed.’ Old Cook had his feet in the kitchen, but the rest of him strained as far into the dining area as possible. ‘A man like that can do whatever he wants.’

  ‘Get back to work,’ the proprietor barked.

  Yan Ling jumped and the cook ducked his head back through the beaded curtain that separated the main room from the kitchen.

  ‘Worthless girl,’ her master muttered as she rushed the pot of tea to its intended table. She pressed her fingers against the ceramic to check the temperature of the pot before setting it down. Cooler than ideal, but still hot enough to not get any complaints.

  It was late in the morning and the patrons had thinned, but that was never an excuse to move any slower. Lately it seemed nothing she did was fast or efficient enough. She’d never known any life but the teahouse. The story was she’d been abandoned as an infant in the room upstairs, likely the very same one where a new scandal was now unfolding.

  She paused to stack empty cups onto a tray. At that moment, the young woman and her companion hurried down the stairs, leaving not even a farewell behind as they swept out the door. Yan Ling expected the sword-carrying nobleman to come chasing after them, but only an uncomfortable silence followed their exit.