“What do you want?” Neville demanded sullenly as he crossed the room toward a discarded tray of food. It was likely the very ruse used to lure the poor maid into his chamber.
“We can’t let them leave here,” Roger said. “Whatever happens, they must remain at Sheridan Hall. I want you to see about disabling their coach… and their coachman.
“First we want them gone and now we can’t let them leave! Make up your bloody mind!” Neville snapped.
“I let my temper get away from me,” Roger said. “But I’ve had time to think on it… I did a bit of spying in my day.”
“For the crown? You’re hardly a patriot! I hope they paid well,” Neville scoffed.
“It wasn’t on behalf of the crown… though I was dressed as a British solider. It was pettiness on my part, but I used William’s name. I knew it was respectable enough to open doors and had the added benefit of painting him a blackguard and a villain for a change.”
Neville plopped down in the chair before the fire and laughed. “And you tell me I’m too hotheaded! You never use an alias that will lead straight back to your own family!”
“I know that… now,” Roger admitted. “Because while I was engaging in my clandestine activities… activities that paid very well, I might add, I ran across a young nobleman in possession of rare and ancient jewels. With the help of some lads, I relieved him of his treasures. Years later, under an assumed name, Fitzsimmons sold those jewels to Sir William. We made a tidy sum from that… paid off most of our debts and gave us a bit of breathing room. But now the sins of my past are catching up to me.”
Neville tossed down the bit of ham he’d been picking at and stared impatiently at his father. “If there’s a point, get to it. I’d rather go find that maid again than listen to you all blasted day!”
“The nobleman I robbed is the very one your uncle has wed your cousin to. And it’s not a coincidence. How could it be?”
Neville laughed bitterly. “And you always said I’d be the one to see us ruined.”
“We won’t be ruined,” Roger said, crossing to the window. He looked out over the fields that now belonged to him. “Because your cousin will be widowed and wed again—to you—before we will ever have to worry about exposure. But that only happens if they do not leave here.”
A wicked grin spread over Neville’s face. “Do you want the coachman dead or disabled?”
“I don’t care… but that bloody solicitor will have to go, too. He’s still in the village tonight and not planning to leave until the morrow. If those documents are never signed until Margaret is your wife and not his, then it’s all ours. Do you understand the importance of this?”
“And do I get to kill him, as well? Never did care for Amberley,” Neville said.
“No. You’ll leave him to me,” Roger said. “I have a plan for him.”
“Fine. I’ll get rid of the coachman and the solicitor… but when you kill Amberley, make it painful… and make her watch it,” Neville said. “She’s too proud by half. Taking her down a peg or two will make everything easier.”
Roger smiled. “I’d planned on it, Son. For once, you and I are in accord.”
Chapter Twelve
As the door closed behind them, Meg’s heart thundered in her chest. She’d been much bolder in the study. But now, alone in their chamber, with the reality of what was about to take place settling in on her very quickly, her bravado faltered.
“Second thoughts?”
“Third… or tenth thoughts,” she admitted wryly.
He walked toward her and, instinctively, Meg backed up. But there was only so far she could go. When she bumped against the door, she simply halted, hands at her sides and waited. She didn’t have to wait for very long. He advanced on her with a series of slow and steady strides. When he halted, they were very nearly nose to nose.
“There’s only one way to effectively quash second thoughts.” His voice was pitched low, it sounded deeper and slightly rougher and elicited a shiver from her.
“What’s that?”
“To not think at all,” he replied.
It wasn’t a warning. There wasn’t enough time between his words and his actions for it to be considered so. Before Meg could even question what he meant by that, he was kissing her. But not as he’d done on their wedding night. No. He kissed her cheek, his lips burning a trail from there down to the curve of her jaw, and then lower still until his teeth scraped along the delicate flesh of her neck. She felt hot, instantly. Her heart was beating too fast and her blood was rushing too quickly. It was like she’d run headlong for as far as she could.
Somehow, his hands had slid into her hair, plucking the pins free until the mass of it spilled around them. And he used that to his advantage, grasping her hair firmly, tipping her head back and then he kissed her lips. His lips closed over hers, moving with such skill, such mastery that thought truly had become impossible. In that moment, nothing existed outside that room. Nothing existed beyond the two of them. She didn’t have to think about her stepfather and the things she did and didn’t feel at his passing. She didn’t have to think about Roger or Neville, of the servants that could and couldn’t be trusted. All she had to do was give herself up to him, to let him seduce and intoxicate her with this strange heat and languor that he incited with every touch.
It wasn’t a willful decision to touch him in return. In truth, if she’d had the ability to consider her actions at all, she’d have been mortified at how forward she was being. Nonetheless, Meg found her hands roaming over the broad expanse of his shoulders, over the firm muscles of his back. And then he shrugged out of his coat, his waistcoat soon following. Beneath the fine lawn of his shirt, she could feel the heat of him, the smooth texture of his skin and the rippling of muscle with each movement. It only heightened the strange and yet compelling sensations he stirred within her. Desire. Passion. Temptation. Need. Whatever she called it, it equated to the same thing. She wanted him to touch her and she wanted very much to touch him in return.
Without her even realizing he’d done so, the laces at the back of her gown had been loosened until the garment sagged from her shoulders. He tugged it lower still, his impatience become even more apparent. Lifting her arms from the sleeves, the garment simply fell to the floor. She should have felt embarrassed, but she didn’t. Instead, she was eager to divest him of his own clothing. To that end, she reached up, even as the kiss continued to assault her senses, and tugged at his cravat until the knot slipped free. Before the scrap of fabric even touched the floor, he had spun her around and was walking her backwards toward the bed. But he didn’t sweep her romantically into his arms to deposit her on the mattress. Instead, he just kept walking until they tumbled onto the soft surface in a tangle of petticoats.
“These,” he said, grabbing a handful of the ruffled and embroidered undergarment, “have to go.”
“That would have been easier if I were still standing,” she pointed out.
“Nothing worthwhile is easy,” he teased.
And then it became something else entirely. While their kiss at the door had been heated and drugging, this was… fun. There was laughter, giggling, a few inadvertent tickles and likely a great number of intentional ones. But as each layer of clothing vanished, there was no accompanying unease. In fact, even when she was stripped down to naught but her chemise and stockings, it still felt perfectly natural and not at all foreign to her to be in his arms.
“It’s all a bit sleight of hand, isn’t it? This business of seduction,” she mused.
“Not always,” he admitted. “But today, I thought it might be best. After all, we both agreed that thinking or, more precisely, overthinking, only complicates matters. Now stop talking. Talking leads to thinking and we can’t have any of that right now.”
Then he was kissing her again, his lips teasing her in a way that had become familiar but was no less thrilling. And yet there was an edge that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps because they both knew it wo
uldn’t stop at just a kiss.
And then the simple chemise she’d donned was stripped away. Yet when she shivered, it had nothing to do with the chilled air in the room. It was him—his nearness, the feeling of his heated skin against hers, of the crisp hair that covered his chest as it brushed her skin, the strength and undeniable gentleness as he held her close.
Meg lifted her hand to his cheek, feeling the slightly roughened texture of it. He pulled back and looked down at her. In his eyes, she saw nothing but concern for her. If she’d had any doubts at all, that would have dispelled them.
“You are a kinder and better man than you know,” she said.
A slow grin spread across his face. “Don’t ever tell a man he’s nice when you’re in his bed, Margaret.”
A soft laugh escaped her. “Then what should I say?”
A wicked gleam entered his gaze and that mischievous grin turned into something that was beyond wicked. “It’ll come to you. I promise.”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. His breath brushed over the swell of her breast, the furled bud of her nipple tightening even as his lips grazed it, and then the gentle rasp of his tongue. Heat flooded her until her limbs felt thick and heavy with it. Every sweep of his tongue, every soft caress of his lips seemed to generate some answering response deep inside her, like the beating of some primitive drum. But it was when he closed his lips over that taut peak entirely, and she felt the gentle pull that she was completely lost. How could anything possibly feel so wonderful and not be a sin? Surely no one had ever been intended to feel such pleasure without paying a price for it.
She realized that he’d been holding back, showing a remarkable amount of restraint in just how far he’d pushed her and the pace at which he’d let things progress. But as his hand cupped her other breast, his callused fingers dragging over the sensitive flesh, she realized she would receive no further quarter. And heaven help her, she didn’t want it. When his hand skated over the skin of her thigh, it was an instinctive response to open for him. And then he touched her intimately, parting her, teasing and coaxing a response from her with a skill that robbed her of the ability to breathe. She could only feel an unfamiliar tension sweep through her that left her muscles trembling and a strange anticipation building inside her. And then she was simply lost.
It was a thing she couldn’t describe, beyond pleasure, beyond abandon. In that moment, as her body succumbed to ecstasy, it was as if the entire world had fallen away. Reality had become only the points of contact between them, the firmness of his body against hers the only thing that was solid and real as she floated in some ethereal state she hadn’t known existed prior.
Then he was moving over her, nudging her thighs wider still until they bracketed his hips. “It might hurt for a moment,” he warned.
But it didn’t. When he parted her, moving inside her, it felt strange at first, but not painful. Then he kissed her, his lips coaxing hers into the same sort of fevered frenzy they’d indulged only moments earlier. As the kiss deepened, he shifted his hips, surging forward. Everything she’d been told about what to expect, all the whispered conversations between the maids, and the sly looks of older matrons as they said slightly scandalous things—nothing could have prepared her for the reality of what it truly meant to be his.
Closing her eyes, Meg held on to him, savoring every movement, that perfect rhythm that had her body heating again. When she felt that tension beginning to grow again, familiar now and yet much more intense, she knew what would occur and she reveled in it.
Suddenly, and without any warning, she simply shattered. Waves of pleasure washed through her, ebbing and cresting with such perfection that she pulled her lips from his and cried out with it. And then his pace quickened, and she felt his body tense against hers as he found his own release.
His forehead dropped to hers, his ragged breath mingling with her own. In a deep, roughened voice he said, “You are my wife… mine. Always.”
And just like that, the glorious pleasure faded in a haze of temper. “And you are my husband… but it’s hardly the same is it? You can claim me with absolute authority. But I’ve no such claim on you… just the one year you promised Mrs. Dove-Lyon! Isn’t that so?”
Leo rolled away from Meg, but not too far. Flat on his back, he kept one arm around her and even pulled her closer. Staring up at the ceiling, he answered her question as honestly as he could. “We’re not a love match… but that doesn’t mean we can’t come to care deeply for one another, that we can’t have a good and strong marriage. Clearly, we have passion on our side. And I’d like to think we have a mutual respect and affection for one another that will only grow over time. Isn’t that enough?”
He felt her shrug next to him, but there was no disguising the tension in her. It was obvious from the set of her jaw when he glanced at her that she was spoiling for a fight.
“I suppose… though that hardly answers my question.”
The perversity and contrariness of women was not unknown to him. Women, all women he thought, wanted words of love. But he’d made it a point in his life to avoid saying things he didn’t mean. He liked her, yes. He wanted her, absolutely. He was fond of her without question. But love? It was too soon to love someone. But he wasn’t such a glutton for misery that he’d say so. Instead, he offered a more hopeful, and possibly truthful, response. “Love isn’t an instantaneous thing, Meg. Perhaps we don’t love one another yet. But that doesn’t mean we never shall.”
She sat up and glared at him. “Love! Do you really think I’m such a pathetic little mouse that I’ll lie here in your arms and beg you to love me? I wasn’t speaking of love, Leander. I was speaking of fidelity! You gave Mrs. Dove-Lyon your word for one year… and yet you just claimed me—yours, you said—forever! I simply want to understand the degree of reciprocity in our relationship. When you resume taking other lovers, will I be permitted to do so as well?”
That sparked his own temper. The very idea of it made him furious. “We have barely consummated our own marriage and you would dare to suggest taking another lover? You cannot be serious!”
“I don’t know if I am or not. I’ll have another three hundred and sixty or so days to decide, I suppose,” she said. “I certainly enjoyed what just passed between us. Clearly you enjoy such activities, as well, or you wouldn’t have been so reluctant to commit to only one woman that the mistress of a gaming hell would have to barter for your faithfulness on my behalf!”
“I never said that I would take other lovers!” he all but shouted.
“You never said you wouldn’t!” And with that, she was out of the bed, reaching for her discarded gown. “I’m going to sleep in my old room.”
“Absolutely not,” he said. Then he, too, was out of bed, naked and heedless of it. Even when she gasped and quickly averted her gaze, he simply stood there, hands on his hips, as they shouted at one another. “You cannot sleep in another chamber. Need I remind you how much is at stake and just how great a risk you’d be taking given the degree of depravity your uncle and cousin have shown?”
She turned away then, crossing the room to the small chair before the dressing table. Back stiff, she settled on the small chair there and began to angrily brush the snarls from her hair, snarls that had been placed there by his hands. Her spine was completely rigid, but in the mirror he saw the slight trembling of her lip. It wasn’t just temper and perversity. She’d been through hell, he reminded himself, and he, for all the best of intentions he might have, was part of that.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured softly.
“For what?”
“For the situation, for the bargain, for the fact that you’ve lost not only your stepfather but any chance of ever being able to be courted and to fall in love, have an engagement and a wedding…” he trailed off. All the things that were rites of passage for young women of her standing had been taken from her and, in giving it all up, she didn’t even have the promise of a faithful husband. “The agreement is be
tween Mrs. Dove-Lyon and me. It’s naught to do with you and me. But if you like, I think we could come up with an agreement of our own… one that would suit us both.”
At that, she glanced back at him. “What did you have in mind?”
“We don’t know what this—our marriage—will become for us… but I propose, pardon the pun, that we both act as if this marriage originated in a more traditional fashion. That we do not presume there is some finite limit upon what we are building here. We agreed to marry knowing very little of one another.”
“We can hardly remedy that fact now,” she replied pointedly. “What’s done is done and we cannot change it.”
“We don’t have to change it,” Leo answered softly. He moved to stand behind her, taking the brush from her hand and placing it on the dressing table. Letting his fingers slide through the silken strands of her hair, he wound them about his fingers, marveling at the texture. “I think we should focus our energies on getting to know one another and from that acquaintance, decide what our future should be. Agreements be damned.”
Her gaze sought his in the mirror. “Do you regret having to marry me?”
“I regret that we didn’t get to marry in the normal way of things. But, no, I do not regret marrying you.”
“Even though it’s brought you to this terrible place where you have to deal with Roger Snead?”
Leo smiled. “That’s no cause for regret. His reckoning has been a long time in the making. I relish finding some way here to make him pay for his sins, Meg. But he’s nothing to do with what passes between us. Neither he, nor Neville, nor Bessie Dove-Lyon, and not even your late stepfather, have anything to do with what is between the two of us. That is for you and me to determine together. Do we have a bargain?”
“We do,” she agreed.
“Then come back to bed,” he urged her.
“I’m not tired,” Meg protested mildly.
“Neither am I… our delayed wedding night is far from over, Wife.”
Fall of the Lyon: The Lyon's Den Page 10