Autumn Rain (27 page)

"Well, I cannot say I have truly had an offer—besides yourself, of course. And that does not count for I had not the least notion of what you were suggesting." Her amber eyes met his again over her glass. "And you did apologize for your mistake."

"There is always Bell," he said softly.

"Lord Townsend? No. Even if I were so inclined, I should not want a gentleman who could compare me with everyone " Then, realizing what she'd said, she colored, '""hat is—well, we were but speaking in theory, you understand. I'm afraid I'm not really suited to flirtation. I should probably hope for more than was there, you see." She finished her glass and stared for a moment into the empty fireplace. "No, if anything should happen to Arthur, I'm afraid I should be rather difficult to please. Silly of me, I suppose, but I still would wish for love."

He studied the dark liquid in the bottom of his glass. "I am not at all certain that there is any such thing."

The rain hit the windowpane like a spray of pebbles, sending a shudder through her. "Were it not so early in the month, I should wish for a fire to lighten the room. No doubt it's the gloom as makes for melancholia."

He shrugged. "As mistress of the house, I should suppose you can have what you like."

"Mrs. Peake would—" She stopped, then giggled like a conspiratorial schoolgirl. "No, you are quite right. We shall cook, no doubt, but at least we shall do so brightly." Reaching for the bellpull, she directed him, "Do pour me another glass, my lord—it's quite good."

Two more glasses of the brandy before a roaring fire, and she was feeling quite mellow. Kicking off her slippers, she drew her legs up beneath her into the chair. When she leaned forward, her hair fell over her forehead, and she had to push it out of the way.

"To friends," she declared, drinking what amounted to her fourth one down.

"And truth," he reminded her.

"And truth." She held out her glass again. "A pox on Arthur for his lack of compassion."

As weak as he was from his illness, he was beginning to feel the effects also. Nonetheless, he emptied the decanter, dividing the last of the brandy between them. "My dear Lady Kingsley, we are fast becoming foxed," he decided.

"Don't care. Hate being Lady Kingsley, you know," she confided. "Was always Nell, but he—he won't let anybody call me that."

"Nell." He stared at her for perhaps a minute, thinking what a lovely, appealing creature she was. Finally, he lifted his glass again. "To Nell." The word seemed to spill from his tongue easily. "It fits you."

"To Longford," she countered.

"Lucien."

"Sh—sounds French."

"It was. I think there was a Hugenot in the family somewhere."

Her manner changed abruptly. "Charley died fighting the French, you know."

"I know." Thinking to console her, he covered her hand with his. "He cared for you."

She pulled away and rose, going to stare out into the gray rain, saying nothing. He managed to pull himself up from his chair and moved to stand behind her. "He did care, you know," he said softly. "You have but to read his words to know it."

At that she burst into tears. "Charley loved me!" she choked out. "And I—I—"

"Nell—don't—"

"You—you don't undershtand! You don't understand!" She leaned forward, pressing her head against the cold panes. "I couldn't—couldn't tell him—"

As foxed as he was, he hurt for her. "Here now—" he whispered. "It's not—" His hands touched her shaking shoulders, stroking them lightly. "Nell, don't—"

She turned her face against his wound and sobbed as though a dam of tears had broken. Despite the physical pain in his own shoulder, he tried to comfort her. His hand smoothed her copper hair over her back, and his body tried to deny the feel of her breasts pressed against it.

"Shhhh—don't. Make yourself sick—" he mumbled thickly. "Nell, the boy loved you." He felt odd saying it, for he'd always believed love was nothing more than a myth. "It's all right, Nell—it's all right."

"No—" She shook her head against his shoulder, sending a sharp stab through it. "No—don't you see?— he loved
me!"

"Make no sense." He tried to shift her to his other side, but she straightened up, raising brimming eyes. "Don't you see?" she whispered brokenly. "I couldn't tell him—I couldn't tell him! I couldn't let him know that I—"

"He knew—he
knew.
Sweeting, you have but to read
—
"

"What I did wasn't right—didn't want him to feel bad—" She stopped and tried to catch her breath. "I—I loved him—but—but not like he wanted!"

He caught both her arms, holding her back. "You cannot be blamed, Nell—it was not your fault."

She gulped. "I—I loved him like—like a brother! And—and he died for me! Lucien, he
died
for me!"

"It was a French bullet—you cannot be held accountable for that."

"No."

Flushing, Lucien half-turned to face Arthur Kingsley. "It isn't what you think," he growled.

But the old man was looking at Nell. Very carefully, as though he feared to fall, he walked slowly to face her, then stopped to lean, both hands on his cane. "No," he repeated. His gaze fell to the empty decanter. "Elinor," he said finally, "the blame is mine—and I have paid for it. If any sent him to his death, it was I." Looking to Longford, he exhaled heavily, as though admitting his own guilt had taken everything from him. "I'd ask you to help her upstairs, but you are in no case either."

Aware that she'd disgraced herself, that he must surely be displeased with her, she tried to compose herself. "I— I-"

"You are merely foxed," he said mildly. His bony hand touched her shoulder. "Do you want me to call Mrs. Peake?"

"No." Her nose was running and her face was wet. Heedless of either of them, she sniffed, then wiped her streaming eyes with the back of her hand. Trying to regain what dignity she could, she turned unsteadily, caught the arm of the chair for a moment, then walked in a decidedly irregular path toward the door. There she turned back. "I—I shall not be down to sup, I think."

Arthur Kingsley turned to Longford. "Somehow I had expected you to have a bit more style in the matter, my lord."

"I told you—it wasn't what you thought."

The old man ignored that. "And I told you I shall expect discretion. Disguising her with my brandy in my own house seems a bit indiscreet, don't you think?"

"Go to hell." Lucien towered over the baron, his hands clenched. "Go to hell," he repeated evenly. Then, with an effort, he walked carefully from the room.

Kingsley watched him go, then sank into one of the chairs before the fire. Nothing he could do would bring Charles back—nothing. For a long time, he sat there, staring into the red-orange flames. A litany of sins seemed to parade past him, the greatest of which had been his inability to know his son and grandson, and now in his old age, he was feeling the lack. It was as though he had known no one, and now there was none to care.

But if Elinor could be got with child, he'd have another chance. He'd know it had not been all for naught, that the wealth and power he'd gained would pass on, that there would be another Baron Kingsley at Stoneleigh. And this babe would be his in mind if not in blood. This child would be truly to the manor born, not some distant relation utterly unworthy of it.

His mind turned to the scene he'd just witnessed, and he felt a pang of regret for what he was doing, then consoled himself with the notion it would be worth it. One thing he knew—unless Elinor proved barren, the earl would provide the heir he wanted. For despite all Longford's protests to the contrary, Arthur did not doubt that he wanted her.

CHAPTER 25

She'd not been down to eat, but then Lucien did not doubt she was sick from the brandy. He ought not have given her so much, he supposed, but there had been a shared, almost conspiratorial intimacy between them that he'd been loath to break. He lay there, staring through the darkness at a ceiling he could not see, wondering if she slept. He hoped so, for only sleep seemed to heal such pain as she'd betrayed earlier.

The rain had ceased, making the stillness almost oppressive. Willing his thoughts from her, Lucien forced himself to recall his father. There was scarce a breathing female on two continents Jack had not taken a run at, be she whore, serving girl, or lady, and he'd been damned proud of it. "Plucked roses from here to Philadelphia and back to Calcutta," he'd bragged. "That's what they're for, my boy." But there had been a cost—for all the admiration of his fellows, Jack had neither the love nor the respect of his wife and son.

Lucien closed his eyes, hearing again the whispers from his childhood. "She couldn't live with his roving eye, poor soul—it was laudanum, ye know." And Jack had not even had the decency to mourn her.

But were the women any better? For every "rose" he'd plucked, there'd been a willing female all too ready to yield it, all too ready to betray someone for the lies he told them. Like Diana. But Diana's betrayal had been before, and if he hated her for it, it was because she'd claimed she carried Jack's child. She'd wanted the title, the wealth, the name more than she'd wanted either of them, he supposed. And because she was supposed to be a "lady," he'd been forced to wed her when Jack could not.

Diana was as different from Elinor Kingsley as night was to day. Tied to a cold, manipulative old man, living a sterile, empty life that held little joy for her, Elinor nonetheless clung to decency, using it as her shield.

But for all that he'd denied to Kingsley, Lucien knew he ought to be damned for his thoughts of her. Despite what he'd done when she'd come to his house in London, she'd fought for his life, she'd tended him as carefully as if he'd been a babe, asking nothing for it. It was for Charley, she said.

His mind relived those brief moments earlier, those moments when brandy had allowed her to give him a glimpse into the pain of her soul, and even now he hurt for her. He knew the pain of feeling responsible for what he could not feel.

Yet again he tried to force her from his consciousness and could not. He'd always been aware of her, but since the old man had offered her as though she were no more than chattel, Lucien's body tried to lead his mind. He could close his eyes and smell the lavender in her hair. He could lie there feeling her hands moving over his bare skin. He could feel her bright hair spilling onto his shoulder as she bent over him. And having held her, he could feel the softness of her woman's body, the press of her breasts against his chest.

If he did not leave Stoneleigh, he was going to be no better than Jack. The girl was fragile, nearly to the breaking point already, and he was the last thing she needed to complicate her misery. He owed her more than that.

If he'd not had so much brandy, he'd have taken enough laudanum to put himself beyond these thoughts that plagued him, but he dared not. Opium and distilled wine made poor partners, each seeming to intensify the effect of the other. Instead, he threw back his covers and rose to pour himself another brandy. If he had to, he'd drink himself insensate.

Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked and someone slipped softly over the carpet past his chamber. Then in the silence, there were light, almost muted footsteps on the stairs. He poured his brandy and carried it to the window. When he looked down, the lanterns on the portico were but haloed balls of yellow in the fog that had settled in after the rain. To his surprise, he heard the front door open, and he stared more intently, seeing a cloaked figure pass outside.

"What the devil—?"

For a moment, he was stunned, then he swore softly. She was in no case to be out there in the dark. He gulped his brandy, then dressed quickly, not bothering to discover waistcoat or jacket. If he did not hurry, she'd disappear into the fog, and he'd have no notion which way she went. It was wet and muddy out, the sort of weather that gave one consumption. He pulled on the knee boots he'd worn the day he'd come, and having no cloak, pulled a blanket from his bed and flung it over his shoulder.

He took the back steps two at a time, half-stumbling down them, coming out at the rear of the house. There was no sign of her—no sign of anything. Moving around to the front, he took down one of the lanterns and started across the wide expanse of lawn. In the distance, he could hear the wild roar of the sea as it rolled over the rocks, and he felt his stomach knot. It was no place to be in the foggy dark, not with the high, gray cliffs that plunged into narrow inlets frequented by smugglers. Fear seemed to clear his head, to pump strength into his body.

"Elinor! Elinor!" he shouted into the swirling mist. It was as though his words were swallowed.

Why would anyone, least of all a sensible female, be out on a night like this—or any night? And the answer, when it came to mind, did not bear thinking.

He cupped his hands, calling through them, "Elinor! Elinor!
Elinor!"

He was dizzy from running, scrambling over the rocky land toward the sound of the sea. Visions of her broken body seemed to loom before him, forcing him on.

The moon was like a hazy beacon too weak to give much direction. Then he saw her. She was walking, her arms crossed against the damp chill, along the edge of the cliff. She stopped and looked downward into the churning sea. Not wanting to startle her, not wanting her to jump when she saw him, he dropped the lantern and came up to her from the side, then as she moved closer to the edge, he caught her, pushing her back, falling with her to the muddy ground.

"Lucien! What—?"

"You little fool! You damned little fool!" he shouted at her, shaking both her shoulders until his fear ebbed. She stared at him, her eyes luminous, her expression one of total shock, then he enveloped her in his arms, holding her, rocking her against the wet earth. "It will pass-believe me, it will pass. Do you think this is what Charles would want?" Before she could answer, he pulled her closer, lying over her, twining his hands in her muddy hair. "Oh, Nell," he groaned, possessing her cold lips.

For a moment, she was bemused, then she clung to him, giving herself up to the exhilarating feel of his hard, masculine body against hers. Her hands moved over his shoulders, holding him, and she returned his kisses breathlessly, twisting beneath him, trying to get closer. And it was as though all the years of denial, all the years of yearning for someone to hold her were over.

He had never wanted anyone, never wanted anything as much as he wanted her now, and as her hands trailed fire across his damp shoulders, his body's need conquered thought. Pulling the blanket from his arm, he tried to spread it over the rough grass, all the while kissing her lips, her jaw, her ear.

His hot breath sent shivers of anticipation coursing through her, heating her blood despite the cold ground beneath her. As his mouth moved to the hollow of her throat, she arched her head, moaning, while every fiber of her being told her this was what she had been made for.

He forgot his resolve, he forgot the pain in his shoulder—everything was lost in his urgency to possess her. He rolled her onto the blanket, then slid his hand beneath her cloak to find the buttons at the neck of her nightgown, keeping his lips against her neck. When her hands came up between them, he brushed them away, croaking hoarsely, "Don't."

Somehow, he managed to get the neck of the gown open, to slip his hand inside. His palm brushed over a breast, tautening the nipple.

She gasped, for she'd felt nothing like this. Her eyes widened, then she squeezed them shut as though she would rather hide than stop him. His head moved lower, resting on her chest, as he turned his mouth to her nipple, teasing it with his tongue, sending ripples of pleasure through her. It was beyond anything she could have imagined. Her fingers caressed the thick black hair, opening and closing restlessly, as her head turned from side to side in the wet grass.

He tasted first one, then the other breast, as his hand moved lower, skimming lightly over her gown, tracing fire over her hip, her thigh, to the hem. Once again, his mouth possessed hers, eliciting a deep, hungry moan as she tried to move beneath him, to entice him with her body.

The gown came up, baring her pale legs, allowing his hand to move inside her thigh. When he found the wetness, he thought he would surely burst. He raised his head, trying to see her in the misty night, but her eyes were closed, her face damp either from fog or passion.

"Spread your legs around me, Nell," he whispered. "And kiss me."

"Just don't stop," she moaned, raising her lips to his. "Please."

With one hand holding her head and the other guiding himself, he took possession of her mouth and body at the same time. To his surprise, she stiffened as her body resisted momentarily, then he was inside, feeling the warmth of her close around him. Dimly, he realized she was a virgin, that he ought to wait, but he could not, as the feeling of her overwhelmed him.

She was being rocked, ridden, driven, pounded inside until she thought she could stand no more, and as the shock ebbed, she felt her own desire intensify. She cried out, begging him not to stop, and all the while she moved her hips, bucking beneath him, seeking a more complete union. She was hot, wet, and wanting with abandon.

He couldn't stop. He was going to explode. Grasping her hips with both hands, he held her as her body urged him home. He moaned loudly, then collapsed over her, exhausted, finally floating back to earth.

She felt the warm flood inside, and with it came the terrible realization of what she'd done. She didn't want to open her eyes, she didn't want him to see her.

After a time, he eased off her, but not before he saw her turn her head away. The passion was gone now, replaced by guilt. He knew he owed her more than this, that he had repaid her care with dishonor. And all the things he usually told his lovers were inadequate now,

for even if he told her it was as good as he'd ever had, she'd probably think he lied.

She was utterly, completely mortified, thinking herself no better than the whore Arthur had called her. She wanted to cry, but somehow that would compound the humiliation she felt.

He rolled to sit, his back to her, giving her a chance to put her clothes back in order. "I'm sorry," he said simply.

Her throat tightened. He was sorry. "Why?" she managed to whisper, her face red in the dark. "Isn't that what men do to women?"

She had a right to be angry. He was angry with himself. "Nell—"

"No—I pray you will not make it worse, my lord." She managed to stand, pulling her gown down, and turned to button the neck. She could feel the warm trickle going down her leg. Pulling her cloak closer, she looked down at the foamy waves as they crashed over the rocks.

"I did not come for this," he said finally.

She crossed her arms over her breasts. "Why did you follow me?"

"I was afraid—I thought perhaps after what you said this afternoon that you meant to jump."

"No. Sometimes when I cannot sleep, I come to listen to the water."

"It's dangerous."

Her chin came up. "So Arthur says."

He picked up the muddy blanket and offered her his hand. "You still have my regard, Nell."

She didn't take it. Instead, she started walking back toward Stoneleigh. When he caught up to her, she seemed saddened. "I'm sorry I disappointed you," he offered her.

"No." For the first time since he'd had her, she met his eyes. "I disappointed myself."

They managed to get back into the great house undiscovered, but that was little consolation now. Whether Arthur Kingsley was apprised of the matter or not, it was going to be impossible to keep the servants from noting the laundry. At the bottom of the back stairs, he stopped.

"If you want, I will return to Langston Park tomorrow."

Her hand was already on the newel post. She turned back to him. "I think it would be best, don't you?"

Long after he heard her door close, he lay awake, cursing himself. Bell Townsend had been right—there was more of Mad Jack in him than he'd ever wanted to admit. And even if she forgave him, he knew that nothing with Nell Kingsley would ever be the same again.

She sat for a long time, her muddied cloak still pulled about her, staring from her bedchamber window into the thickening fog. She told herself that she hoped he left early, for she did not think she could face him in the morning. A sense of desolation settled over her, for now she'd lost not one friend, but two.

When she finally rose to clean herself up, she had only a bowl and pitcher of water to marshal against the mud. But she managed to rinse her hair, wash her face and hands, and wiped the unexplained blood and sticky seed from the inside of her legs. All the while, her mind accused her—he'd been
there.

She'd given him that which he'd had no right to take. With the memory of what had passed between them came the nearly unbearable humiliation. She had not even the excuse that he'd seduced her, that he'd made her do that which she'd not wanted. Her own words echoed in her ears, reminding her that she'd begged him not to stop.

Finally, she went to bed to lay there, too awake to forget her shame in sleep. Instead, she closed her eyes, remembering the feel of Longford's arms around her, the intensity of his passion—the feel of his body inside hers. And the most shameful thing of all was that she knew she wished to feel it all again.