Love in the Afternoon (28 page)

When Beatrix finally recovered, emerging from the opulent haze, she

saw a glow of concern in his eyes. He was looking at her naked side, his hand passing lightly over the large purple bruise from her fall earlier in the day.

"It's nothing," she said. "I nearly always have something bruised or scratched."

The information didn't seem to reassure him. His mouth twisted, and

he shook his head. "Stay here," he said. "I'll be back in a moment."

The instruction was entirely unnecessary. Beatrix had no intention of moving. She crawled farther up to the pillows, letting her cheek press into the down-stuffed linen casing. She sighed and drowsed until she felt Christopher join her on the bed.

His hand settled on her hip, his palm slick with some kind of unguent.

She stirred as a strong herbal odor drifted to her nostrils. "Oh, that smells nice. What is it?"

"Clove oil liniment." Carefully he rubbed the balm into her bruise.

"My brother and I were covered in the stuff for most of our childhood."

"I know about some of your adventures," Beatrix said. "John told them to Audrey and me. The time the two of you stole the plum tart before dinner . . . and the time when he dared you to jump from the tree limb and you broke your arm . . . John said you were incapable of refusing a dare. He said it was easy to make you do anything, simply by telling you that you couldn't."

"I was an idiot," Christopher said ruefully.

" 'Hellion' was the word he used."

"I took after my father."

"You didn't, actually. At least, not according to John. He said it was unfair that you were always cast as your father's son, when you weren't really like him." Beatrix rolled easily as Christopher nudged her onto her front. His strong, gentle hands rubbed the balm into her strained muscles, the hint of clove oil imparting a mild cooling sensation to her skin.

"John always tried to see the good in everyone," Christopher murmured. "Sometimes he saw what he wanted to believe rather than what 179

was truly there."

Beatrix frowned as he worked her shoulder muscles, easing the

tension into softness. "I see the good in you."

"Don't harbor illusions about me. In marrying me, you're going to have to make the best of a bad bargain. You don't understand the situation you're in."

"You're right." Beatrix arched in bliss as he massaged the muscles on either side of her spine. "Any woman would pity me, being in this situation."

"It's one thing to spend an afternoon in bed with me," Christopher said darkly. "It's another to experience day-to-day life with a lunatic."

"I know all about living with lunatics. I'm a Hathaway." Beatrix sighed in pleasure as his hands worked the tender places low on her back.

Her body felt relaxed and tingly all over, her bruises and aches forgotten.

Twisting to glance at him over her shoulder, she saw the austere lines of his face. She had an overwhelming urge to tease him, to make him play. "You missed a place," she told him.

"Where?"

Levering herself upward, Beatrix turned and crawled to where

Christopher knelt on the mattress. He had donned a velvet dressing robe, the front parting to reveal a tantalizing hint of sun-browned flesh. Linking her arms around his neck, she kissed him. "Inside," she whispered. "That's where I need soothing."

A reluctant smile lurked at the corners of his lips. "This balm is too strong for that."

"No it's not. It feels lovely. Here, I'll show you--" She pounced for the tin of balm and coated her fingertips with the stuff. The rich scent of clove oil spiced the air. "Just hold still--"

"The devil I will." His voice had thickened with amusement, and he reached for her wrist.

Fleet as a ferret, Beatrix twisted to evade him. Rolling once, twice, she dove for the belt of his robe. "You put it all over me," she accused, giggling. "Coward. Now it's your turn."

"Not a chance." He grabbed her, grappled with her, and she thrilled to the sound of his husky laugh.

Somehow managing to clamber over him, she gasped at the feel of his

aroused flesh. She wrestled with him until he flipped her over with ease, pinning her wrists. The robe had become loosened during their tussle, their naked flesh rubbing together.

Sparkling silver eyes stared into blue. Already breathless with

laughter, Beatrix became positively lightheaded as she saw the way he was 180

looking at her. Lowering his head, he kissed and licked at her smile as if he could taste it.

Christopher let go of her wrists and rolled to his side, exposing his front to her.

Beatrix gave him a questioning glance. Her fingers waggled slightly.

"You want me to . . . to touch you with this?"

He was silent, his gaze daring her.

Shy but curious, she reached down and grasped him cautiously. They

both jumped a little at the feel of it, coolness and heat, the frictionless glide of oil and silk and intimidating hardness. "Like this?" she whispered, stroking gently.

An indrawn breath hissed through his teeth, and his lashes half

lowered. He made no move to stop her.

She drew the pad of her thumb over the smooth, dark head in a sleek

circle. Curling her fingers around the heavy, stiffening shaft, she slid them down, marveling at the feel of him. He let her fondle and explore him at will, while his skin turned fever colored, and his chest rose and fell ever more rapidly. Mesmerized by the power of him barely contained beneath her hands, she spread her fingertips and trailed them down his hips and the front of his thighs. She stroked the rock-hard muscles of his legs, scratched lightly through the scattering of glinting hairs, then glided back to his groin.

Delicately she cupped the weight of him below, played with him, gripping both hands around the rigid length.

A guttural sound came from his chest. He shoved the sleeves of the

robe off his arms, pushed the garment aside, and clutched her hips. Her heart pounded as she saw the tautness of his features, the primitive intent of his gaze. She was brought over his lap, his shaft opening her, pressing into the stinging softness. A whimper broke from her lips as he pushed her fully down, compelling her to straddle him, to take all of him. He reached a new place inside her, and it felt sore but at the same time so unaccountably good that her flesh throbbed tightly in response.

Christopher went still, his searing gaze fixed on her.

In a matter of seconds the balm had done its work, the cooling spices relieving her heated flesh while simultaneously awakening intimate nerves.

She moved restlessly. Grasping her hips, Christopher pushed her back down and thrust upward.

"Christopher . . ." She was unable to stop herself from squirming and lifting again. With every helpless movement she made, he pulled her hips back to his. His thighs braced behind her, and one of his hands went to the place where they were joined. He watched her, played with her, his fingers 181

sliding across her with flirting strokes while his body never relented its deep, provocative grinding.

"Truce," she managed to say. "I can't bear any more."

"But you will." Reaching up to her, he drew her down and kissed her.

"Please. Finish it."

"Not yet." He trailed his hands down her back. "You're so beautiful,"

he whispered. "So sensitive. I could make love to you forever."

"Christopher--"

"Let me bring you to pleasure one more time."

"No, I'm exhausted." She took his lower lip between her teeth in a gentle nip. "Finish it now," she said.

"Not yet."

"I'll make you."

"How?"

Beatrix considered him, the arrogantly handsome features, the glitter of challenge in his eyes. Lowering herself over him, her body gently rocked by his ceaseless thrusts, she put her mouth near his ear.

"I love you," she whispered, catching his rhythm, riding it. "I love you."

Nothing more was needed. His breath stopped on a groan, and he

drove into her and held, his powerful body trembling with the force of his release. Sliding his arms around her, he poured the years of anguished longing into her. And she continued to murmur to him, promising love, safety, new dreams to replace the broken ones.

Promising forever.

182

After the London season had ended, the peerage continued their social amusements in the country. Invitations were sent for balls, dinners, and dances; gamekeepers prepared grouse to be released for shooting; guns were freshly oiled and cleaned for wildfowling; riding courses were trimmed and repaired; and wine and delicacies were brought from the ports of Bristol and London.

The most sought-after invitation in Hampshire was the mid-September

soiree to be held at Ramsay House, to announce Beatrix's betrothal to Christopher Phelan. Usually any event the Hathaways hosted was well

attended, but this was different. Everyone they had invited had accepted immediately, followed by a flood of letters and inquiries from people asking for invitations. Demanding them, in some instances.

The Hathaways could only attribute their newfound popularity to the

fact that Christopher, England's most admired war hero, would be attending.

And Christopher, with his unconcealed loathing of crowds, was glum about the entire matter.

"You must admit," Leo remarked, "it's rather amusing that the one of us least inclined to mingle in society is the one all of society wants to mingle with."

"Sod off, Ramsay," Christopher muttered, and Leo grinned.

But the phrase "one of us," used so casually, warmed Christopher's heart. Their relationship had acquired an easy, friendly feeling that reminded Christopher of how it used to be with John. Although no one would ever take John's place, Christopher found a great deal of enjoyment in the company of his future brothers-in-law. At least, he found enjoyment in the company of Leo and Cam. Whether the same liking would extend to

Merripen remained to be seen.

Merripen and his wife Winnifred, or Win, as the family called her,

returned from Ireland with their young son on the first of September. The Hathaways, hardly a subdued lot to begin with, had erupted in a frenzy of 183

joy. Christopher had stayed at the side of the family parlor during the chaotic reunion, watching as the family merged into a tangle of hugs and laughter.

Cam and Merripen embraced and thumped each other's backs

enthusiastically, speaking in a rapid volley of Romany.

Christopher had met Merripen on one or two occasions before the

war. However, Christopher remembered little of him other than as a large and brooding presence, a man of few words. Certainly Christopher had never expected they would belong to the same family someday.

Win was a slim and graceful woman with large blue eyes and light

blond hair. She had a fragile quality, almost ethereal, that set her apart from the other Hathaway sisters. Separating from the group in the middle of the room, Win came to Christopher and gave him her hand. "Captain Phelan.

How lucky we are to be gaining you as a brother. The men in the family have been quite outmatched--four to five. Now you'll make our total an even ten."

"I still feel outmatched," Leo said.

Merripen approached Christopher, shook his hand with a strong grip,

and gave him an appraising glance. "Rohan says you're not bad, for a gadjo,"

he said. "And Beatrix says she loves you, which inclines me to let you marry her. But I'm still considering it."

"If it makes any difference," Christopher said, "I'm willing to take all of her animals."

Merripen considered that. "You can have her."

The discussion at the dinner table was fast-paced and ebullient at first.

Eventually, however, the talk turned to Ireland, and the estate Merripen would soon inherit, and the mood became somber.

Approximately ten years earlier Ireland had suffered a prolonged

potato blight, leading to a magnitude of disaster the country had still not recovered from. England had offered only minimal assistance in the form of temporary relief measures, assuming that the problem would somehow solve itself through natural means.

Ireland, already impoverished, had fallen into nationwide starvation, followed by a plague of diseases, with the result that entire families had died by the roadside or in their mud huts. And landlords such as Cavan had evicted their penniless tenants, and fought with the ones who remained, resulting in lawsuits and bitterness that would last for generations.

"The Cavan lands and tenants have been neglected for years,"

Merripen said. "Grandfather was too preoccupied with his properties in England to make improvements or repairs. The land has no drainage, and no machinery for ploughing. The tenants themselves know only the most

184

primitive methods of farming. They live in cottages made of mud and stone.

And most of their animals have been sold off to pay the rents." Merripen paused, his face grim. "I met with Cavan before we returned to Stony Cross.

He refuses to part with a shilling of his fortune to benefit the people who depend on him."

"How long does he have to live?" Amelia asked.

"Less than a year," Merripen replied. "I would be surprised if he survives past Christmas."

"When he does go," Win interceded, "we'll be free to invest his fortune back into the Cavan lands."

"But it will take far more than money," Merripen said. "We'll have to replace the mud dwellings with sound cottages. We'll have to teach the tenants an entirely new way of farming. They need everything. Machinery, fuel, cattle, seed . . ." His voice trailed away, and he gave Cam an unfathomable glance. "Phral, it makes what we accomplished with the Ramsay estates look like child's play."

Cam reached up and absently tugged a forelock of his hair. "We'll have to start preparing now," he said. "I'll need all the information we can obtain on Cavan's finances and holdings. We may sell some of his--your--