Between a Rake and a Hard Place (17 page)

“You, Mr. Honeywood?”

“I would trust no one else for an assignment of this obvious delicacy. And our under-butler is more than capable of stepping into the breach here at Wyndebourne in my absence.” A shrieking brouhaha erupted behind them in the ballroom. Mr. Honeywood's shoulders sagged and he sighed deeply.

“Very well. Come with me and I'll explain all.” The assignment was likely to see him out of Wyndebourne until the house party and ball were over. When the squabbling between the decorators and musicians erupted afresh behind them, Serena suspected Honeywood might be relieved.

On the chance that His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent, will make an appearance at the Wyndleton ball (though we suspect that this is a rumor spread by those who have wagered in favor of Lady S.'s fortunes), acceptance notes have been flying from London to the lovely Wyndebourne estate. As a matter of record, it must be noted that the odds at White's have swung markedly in Lady S.'s favor. However, as with any game of chance or romance, the slightest misstep by the principals involved can ensure they can swing just as quickly in the other direction.

From
Le Dernier Mot,

The Final Word on News That Everyone
Who Is Anyone Should Know

Amelia Braithwaite put down her sewing and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes hurt from overstrain. She missed her usual room at Wyndebourne with its cozy appointments and much smaller bed. The tidy space always made her feel cosseted and safe. This new chamber seemed cavernous by comparison. When the marquis arrived, she'd ask to be switched back to her old room.

The table runner she was embroidering was a lost cause. Even with all the candles burning, it was too dim for close work. She might have better luck reading the second volume of
Rob
Roy
that had arrived by post that day since the print was of generous size, but she wasn't in the mood for Scottish angst.

Over and over in her mind, Amelia kept reliving the argument she'd had with Serena after her latest fitting. The girl was near tears over her ball gown, but she wouldn't allow Amelia to comfort her. It wasn't like her to be so weepy, especially over a question of fashion, something Serena usually considered inconsequential. But she refused to confide her true troubles, which was also out of character. No amount of cajoling would make her budge, and they fell to squabbling about place cards for the upcoming midnight ball, of all silly things. Finally, Serena had fled the room and then refused to come down for supper. She sent back the tray Amelia had sent up to her untouched.

Even when Serena had been mourning her mother's death, she'd never shut Amelia out like this.

She put her hand over her eyes and sighed. She loved Serena as much as if she were her own blood, but sometimes the girl was a sore trial to her soul.

When she heard a faint scraping noise, Amelia peered between her parted fingers. The wall opposite the fireplace seemed to be opening and a cloaked figure stepped from behind a previously hidden door.

She shot to her feet, her hand to her throat.

“Be easy, Amelia,” came a familiar masculine voice. “It's only me.”

She might be sliding toward her fortieth year, but her heart leaped up as if she were a debutante. “Leonard.”

Amelia skittered across the room and melted into the arms of the Marquis of Wyndleton. His cloak was damp and his cheeks cold, but his kiss was warmer than the blaze in the grate.

“We weren't expecting you till the end of the week,” she gasped between kisses.

“I couldn't wait.” The usually staid marquis cupped her bum and pulled her close to his hardness. “Just got in. Hellacious trip from London. I'd have been here hours earlier, but the bloody coach broke an axel just outside of Liphook. Lord, you smell good.”

She parted her lips, surrendering to his questing tongue and letting his urgency wash over her in scalding waves.

“Like your new chamber?” he asked with a rakish grin when he finally let her come up for a breath.

“I do now.” She pressed another kiss to his neck and then helped him off with his wet cloak. “I had no idea that secret door was there.”

“No one has. That's how it stays a secret,” he said as he stripped off his jacket. “This chamber is connected with my own by a clever little passageway.”

“Really? This is not the marchioness's room.” That grand chamber had been closed off since Serena's mother died. Amelia had never set foot in it, but she'd heard the servants nattering about the room's gilt-edged furnishings fashioned in the French style and the dear Flemish tapestry that covered one wall.

“In times past, this room was set aside for the lord's mistress.” He pulled her back into his arms. “It's a good bit larger than your previous chamber and much more convenient for our purposes.”

She stiffened in his arms. “But Leonard,” she said with a sniff, “I am not your mistress.”

“I know, love.”

“But the servants—some of them must know of the connection between the chambers. I'll move back to the old room first thing tomorrow.” She pulled away from him and crossed her arms over her chest, giving him her back. “I will not be made an object of speculation by the below-stairs gossips.”

“I doubt any but Honeywood know of the passageway. Lord knows, there are enough cobwebs to prove no one's been cleaning back there. And our butler is far too tight-lipped to noise about any of Wyndebourne's secrets.” Leonard came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. Then he ran his lips over her nape in the way he knew she liked. Little tendrils of pleasure bloomed over her skin. “Come, Amelia. I've missed you so. Don't be so fussy.”

“Fussy? You think I'm being fussy? How very inconvenient of me.” She whirled on him. “What wife doesn't want to be confused with a man's mistress?”

“Most men love their mistresses more than their wives and you have the unique position of being both to me, my dear. Utterly forbidden and entirely church-sanctioned. No wonder I can't get enough of you.” He caressed her breasts through the thin fabric of her wrapper and night rail. A wicked smile lit his face.

He bent to tug down the neckline of her night rail, kissing along the edge of the lace there.

With effort, Amelia pushed him away. “It's been nearly three years. How long are we going to keep this a secret?”

“As long as we must. Charles Fox kept his marriage to Elizabeth Armistead a secret for ten years, you know,” he said as he untied the bow between her breasts.

“The fact that Elizabeth Armistead had been a courtesan before she married him might have had something to do with it.”

“And so did the fact that he knew she'd never be accepted at court even after the marriage was made public,” he said.

“I am no courtesan.” Amelia pulled her wrapper tight around her and stalked away from him. “You think I would not be accepted?”

She'd been born a gentleman's daughter. It was only bad luck that she'd had no brother to ensure she retained her place in Society when her father died. Even so, everything in her urged her not to play the lady now. She longed to lie down on the bed and spread her legs for this man she loved, but she was so tired of pretending to be merely his daughter's companion.

“Of course, you would be accepted eventually, but right now it would—”

“You're ashamed of me.”

“Never.” He grasped her shoulders and forced her to face him. “Never,” he repeated. “But I'm a pragmatist. If I didn't have a marriageable daughter we need to protect from the foolishness of the ton, we wouldn't even be having this discussion.”

She hated to admit it, but he was right. From the beginning, she and the marquis had been drawn to each other. Leonard maintained his distance during his period of mourning, but once he removed his black armband, he pursued his daughter's governess with single-minded intent.

Amelia refused to allow him into her bed. He'd never know the nights of frustration that had cost her, but in the end, Leonard had proposed because he had to have her.

They agreed to marry in secret and keep their fiery passion under control when they found themselves under the scrutiny of others, for Serena's sake. Leonard claimed it didn't matter to him what the world said about his making a commoner his marchioness, and he was chafing to drape her publicly in the jewels and honor of her true station. But they both knew it would not redound to Serena's favor if their union became public knowledge.

Especially not now, when Leonard's daughter was poised to become a member of the royal family.

Still, Amelia chafed at being hidden away, as if she were a lunatic aunt in the attic. As if Leonard were embarrassed by her. She turned in his arms and gave him her back.

He bent his head and nibbled her neck. “‘Come live with me, and be my Love,'” he whispered into her ear, “‘and we will all the pleasures prove.'”

She let her head fall back against him while he reached around and covered a breast with his palm. She could never refuse the man when he quoted Christopher Marlowe, but would Leonard value anything he won too easily?

With effort, Amelia pulled away from him and put a few steps between them. However, she couldn't resist turning to look at him. The need in his face lanced her heart.

“Only a few more months, dear. Once Serena is the Duchess of Kent, everything will be different,” he said, spreading his arms in invitation. “I promise.”

She stepped into his arms and let him take her into his lusty dream. Later, while he lay spent and sleeping, Amelia rose from the bed and moved around the room, blowing out the candles. She wondered if things really would be different once they no longer had to keep their marriage a secret.

Would their love still be this wildly exciting once they didn't have to sneak around? Would Leonard seek a mistress once she no longer served as both wife and light-o-love?

Amelia climbed into bed and curled around his back.
Sufficient
unto
the
day…
She'd worry about that when it happened and cherish the man next to her until then.

***

Jonah couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a strange air in the great house. He moved through its shadowy corridors, silent as a wraith, his skin prickling with every step. It was something intangible but there, nevertheless. He felt it in heightened senses as he avoided the creaky floorboards and passed noiselessly from room to room. There was a watchful waiting, an expectancy in the very house itself.

If he didn't know better, he'd say someone in Wyndebourne was having “rumple-the-sheets-beyond-recognition-and-smother-your-cries-with-a-pillow” sex.

Perhaps it was only that he hoped he and Serena would be in those happy straits shortly. She wanted new and forbidden experiences, didn't she? He was just the man to give them to her.

It was about bloody time.

If any of the women he'd been with before had heard that Jonah Sharp had been pursuing a certain young lady for as long as he'd known Serena without having taken her to his bed once, they'd have surely laughed.

And wondered if some horrible accident had befallen Jonah's manhood.

Nothing
wrong
there,
he assured himself. His cock had assumed a semi-rigid stance in anticipation. It would only take a whiff of Serena's fragrance to send him into battering ram hardness.

That
sounds
entirely
too
military
.

Besides, Jonah had no intention of being rough with her. Serena was a virgin. While he hadn't deflowered any in the past, he'd heard a good deal about the proper technique to ensure the young lady was inconvenienced as little as possible by the loss of her maidenhead.

Of course, if the way she practically leaped on him in the stable was any indication, Serena might blossom into the sort who enjoyed a hard swive. For just a moment, he imagined bending her over at the waist so her bum was smiling at the ceiling. Then he'd plunge into her moist pink slit while her fingers were splayed on the floor.

He stifled a groan. A man could lose himself in the heat and friction of a tight fit while he smacked his balls against silken thighs. He drew a deep breath and mentally counted to ten, lest he spend right there in the empty hallway. Blood pounded in his ears so loudly, he was surprised no one else heard the steady drumbeat and came to investigate.

Get
a
grip
on
yourself, Sharp.

It wasn't as if this was the first lady's bedchamber into which he'd finessed his way. But this was the first one he was approaching with mixed motives.

Part of him was running on the pure carnal rush of an impending sexual encounter with a woman who'd driven him to distraction. He couldn't wait to claim Serena, to initiate her into the ultimate world of the sensual.

And another part of him, a confused part, wondered if he was just another item to be checked off her confounded list. He wasn't sure why it should be so, but it irritated the fool out of him to think he might be lumped with smoking a cigar. Neither more nor less important, but merely something Serena wished to try.

His reasons for bedding her were still sound. In order to spare his family the scandal Mr. Alcock threatened to rain down on him, Jonah still needed to remove Serena from consideration by the royal duke. But somewhere along the line, Serena Osbourne had stopped being a means to the end for him.

He was beginning to want her simply because of her.

Jonah closed his hand over her crystal doorknob. Did she want him to take her only so she could check off another forbidden pleasure? Or did she want Jonah for himself? Given what she knew about him, how could she possibly?

His cock told him it didn't matter. The growing lump in his chest told him nothing else did.

Coward
, he named himself for hesitating.
Get
on
with
it.

Jonah turned the knob and pushed open the door.