Megan Frampton (26 page)

Then she would have to muster the courage, the strength, the selfishness, to leave him. She shook her head. “No, I should be accustomed to your plans by now.” She spoke without rancor. Without a hint of all that was teeming in her brain.

She would truly be in hell if she left him. But at least the hell would be of
her
making, not his.

“You will have to instruct me on how to behave in aristocratic circles.” Perhaps if she concentrated on her immediate responsibilities, she wouldn’t have to think too hard about the future.

“You will be fine.” He was using that lordly tone of voice that set her teeth on edge, and it sounded like an order. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult to leave after all.

They were closer to the city now, and Mary could see individual buildings in the distance. Smaller than the ones further away, but still larger and more plentiful than any she’d seen before. She couldn’t see any people yet, they were still too far away, but just the sight of the chimneys, and the smoke swirling in the sky above, made her stomach hurt.

“The first thing,” he said, “is always to behave as though you have every right to be where you are, doing precisely what you are doing.” It took a moment for her to realize he was answering her question.

“That explains you, then,” she muttered.

He chuckled. “The next thing it is essential to keep in mind is that everyone is just as anxious as you.”

“I very much doubt it,” she said, feeling her grip tighten on his arm. She needed to ensure he was out of danger from anyone who might harm him, or she would never be able to escape. That would be cause for anxiety, even if she knew precisely what to do and when to do it.

“And last is always to be properly clothed for the occasion, much as I prefer it when you are unclothed.” He glanced at her, a heated look in those green eyes.

The look kindled something else low and coiling in her belly. At least she would be with him while she was here—she could take advantage of him, of her husband, as often as she desired to.

“Excellent,” she replied sarcastically. “All I need is to believe I am superior to all others in my vicinity while wearing clothing I do not, in fact, own. This is your plan, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“Small wonder you were so successful as a lieutenant colonel in the army, then.”

“And as a husband, wife,” he rejoined, causing her to emit an unwilling chuckle.

***

They were at the outskirts of town now, encountering a few early risers on the road as they kept walking toward the city. By now, Alasdair could have found a way to send word to his town house and order one of his conveyances, but he wanted to keep her to himself for just a bit longer. Soon enough they’d be with people, and servants—whom Mary would remind him were people as well—and their time alone would be confined to when they went to bed.

Which, Alasdair reflected, was a very pleasant thought.

What would it be like to lie down with her at night, every night, and be able to enjoy their coupling without fear of discovery?

It had taken him until now to realize just how necessary she’d become to him. Her touch soothed him in a way the drug never could; her presence kept him from the darkest thoughts in his mind. He needed her. He wanted her.

And he could have her. For now, for always.

All he needed to do was convince the
ton
that his choice of her was entirely reasonable, so that Hugh would have no basis for continuing to insinuate that Alasdair was insane.

He glanced toward her. Her head was tilted up as she regarded the city ahead of them, her eyes wide, her lips parted. She was as lovely as anything he’d ever seen. How could the world not see her as he did?

Of course, if they did, he would find himself in the throes of jealous rage, so perhaps it was just as well that they did not.

He hoped the letter he’d sent so long ago, from the very first inn they’d stayed at together, had reached them. That would remove at least one of her worries, and it would be a pleasure to see her dressed as befit her.

How had she become so valuable, so precious to him in such a short amount of time? He’d been hoping for release from life as little as a week ago, and now he was determined to spend every minute with her.

She made him feel better than any opiate ever could. And he was addicted to her as surely as he had been to those little brown pills.

“My lord, welcome home.” The butler who greeted them at the door was perfectly turned out, pressed and correct and regal, and completely intimidating.

“Thank you.” Alasdair tossed his travel-worn, grass-stained, wrinkled coat off his shoulders without looking. The butler caught it with an imperturbable expression. “Mary, this is Dawkins. Dawkins, this is my wife.”

“It is an honor to meet you,” Dawkins said, bowing. He showed no sign of surprise.

“Please have Cook make us something to be served in the dining room in an hour. And assemble the staff right away.”

“Of course, my lord.” Dawkins bowed and marched off without so much as another glance at Mary.

“You have excellent help,” Mary said.

“You sound surprised. What, you didn’t think an unscrupulous renegade like me would be able to keep good servants?” He put his hand on her arm and cocked his head. “Brace yourself. The staff will be joining us. Just follow my lead, and you’ll do fine.”

“You mean,” she murmured back, “look forbidding and dare anyone to ask a question of me? Maybe I should just sprout wings and fly around the room while I’m at it.”

He chuckled and pulled her close, sliding his hand from her waist to her hip. “Only if I can watch from underneath.” Goodness. She felt her cheeks flame scarlet, and an answering warmth start between her legs.

No, she had to hold herself back. She was the strong one, and he was just a man, a man with needs and desires and compulsions and—

And that mouth, which was still close to her ear. His breath tickled her neck.

A cleared throat yanked them apart.

“The staff, my lord, is waiting in the great hall,” Dawkins said. He nodded and gestured toward the large staircase that dominated the entrance hall.

“My lady?” Alasdair said, holding his arm out for Mary. She wanted to do more than take his arm; she wanted
him
.

The thought made her tingle as they walked together into the great hall; it was indeed great, nearly forty feet in length, with arching ceilings and walls covered in artwork.

The staff was assembled along the length of one wall, wearing crisp white aprons, black frock coats, and nervous expressions.

“This is Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper,” Alasdair said.

A plump woman dressed in severe black gave her a quick nod. “May I say, for all of us, how pleased we are to meet you, my lady.”

Mary smiled in return. “I am very pleased to meet you as well, Mrs. Morgan.” The woman nodded again, and gestured to the remaining staff assembled like pieces on a chessboard. “We all look forward to serving you.”

“Thank you.” They all looked at her expectantly. “Uh, perhaps you could introduce me?”

The housekeeper quickly masked her startled expression. “Of course, my lady.”

As they made their way down the line of people, Mary thought that she was probably already giving the servants cause for gossip—how many other ladies of the house actually wanted to be introduced to their staff?

She was in way over her head, but if she failed, it would be more than her and Alasdair who would suffer—these people who worked for him would likely suffer as well.

The thought gripped her heart in an icy clench.

Alasdair, damn him, did not seem to notice her discomfort, or if he did, he was ignoring it. “Please show Lady Datchworth to her rooms,” Alasdair said when all the introductions were finished. “Dinner in forty-five minutes, dear,” he said to her. He turned and left the room before Mary could even reply.

Dawkins bent his head toward her. “My lady, I have assigned Mabel to you. She will help you dress.”

A short woman, shorter even than Mary, moved forward to Mary’s side. “I’ll show you to your room, my lady,” she said in an excited whisper.

Mabel scurried through the hallways, taking at least two stairways up into the seemingly unending house. Mary glimpsed rooms with gilt chairs, crystal chandeliers, well-polished floors, and impressively dark and regal window hangings. Not what she’d expected Alasdair’s home to look like, but then again, it didn’t seem as if he’d been here for some time.

At last they entered “the mistress’s bedroom,” as Mabel called it. Mary was struck dumb by the opulent beauty of it: shades of silver and green lit the room up like some fairy-tale forest.

The room was dominated by the enormous bed, which sat raised up on a platform with at least a hundred pillows, or so Mary thought. What would it be like to sleep there? Would anyone be able to find her amidst the pillows?

“This, my lady, is your wardrobe.” Mabel flung open the doors to a massive wardrobe ornamented in filigreed silver leaves. Fabrics in shades of blue, green, and red overwhelmed her.

“But … but these aren’t my clothes.”

Were they Judith’s? The thought brought her a sudden chill.

“Yes’m, they are,” Mabel said, with pleased self-assurance. “The master sent a note, said you’d be coming to town.”

When had he done that? How? The sheer thoughtfulness nearly made her cry. The gowns were gorgeous, far nicer than anything she’d ever seen, much less worn.

Mary stepped forward and reached her hand out to touch one of them. Silk, it felt like, a smooth, luscious blue silk with brown leaves scattered all over it.

“That is the loveliest one, my lady,” Mabel said in an awed whisper. “You might want to save it for a special occasion.”

“Yes. I will.”

Unless she had to leave before wearing it.

Despite what the Bible taught,
her
hell wouldn’t be fiery hot. It would be cold. Cold, lonely, and completely and entirely without him.

***

Finally it was just them. Again.

Dinner had been quiet, with her darting anxious glances at his servants, the food, the serving trays, the candles—anywhere but at him. He tried to be as reassuring as possible, but he had to admit he had very little practice.

As in none. But eventually, the meal was over, and he led her up the stairs to her bedroom. He hadn’t been alone with her in hours, and he was desperate with longing. It didn’t help that he finally had the chance to see her in clothing befitting her beauty. He’d never paid much attention to what ladies wore, but Mary in a new gown surpassed anything he’d imagined.

Finally, finally, he would be with her. Alone.

At the doorway, she turned to him, a questioning look on her face.

The face he wanted to kiss senseless. Soon, he reminded himself, soon.

“I’ll join you in fifteen minutes.” It was not a question.

She gave him a look as though she were about to reprimand him, but then just nodded instead.

In his own room, Alasdair was halfway through removing his cravat when he heard a discreet cough. He whirled around, only to see his valet—James? Frederick?—regarding him with a concerned gaze.

“My lord, perhaps I may be of assistance?”

Right. It hadn’t taken him long to forget that he had someone to help him with the removal of things, and shaving and the like. He didn’t enjoy being fussed over, his staff knew that, but there were some things that were deemed necessary, one of them being another human to help him take his clothing off.

“Yes, do,” Alasdair replied gruffly, holding his arms out in front of his body. The valet was upon him in a moment, careful fingers removing his cufflinks, the remainder of his cravat, his jacket.

Eventually, after far too long, it seemed to Alasdair, he was garbed in what his valet—and no doubt polite society—deemed appropriate for bedtime wear: A nightgown and robe.

Alasdair felt a scowl creep over his mouth when he thought about what she was likely wearing—something that covered her from neck to toe, something respectable,
understatedly elegant, ladylike.

At least he would have the pleasure of removing it.

With that happy thought, he tapped on the door connecting their rooms, not waiting to hear her call before flinging open the door.

Thank God. She was alone, her back to him as she looked out the window. Her nightwear wasn’t too concealing, or perhaps he had gotten lucky, because the moon shone through the glass, revealing her shape through her clothing.

All curves and softness uncovered to his avid gaze.

She turned to face him, her expression shadowed. An unfamiliar feeling stole through him, as he wondered what she was thinking.

She moved forward to him and he knew. She grabbed him by the lapels of his robe and pulled him to her, her mouth searching for his.

His tongue plundered her mouth, his hands crept around her body to hold her tight against him.

It had been far too long. Not since the day before, at least.

She slid the robe off his shoulders and tugged his nightshirt up, stroking the skin of his back, skimming her palms over his ass.

He drew away and yanked the nightshirt up over his head, tossing it away and standing before her, completely naked.

She, however, was not. He needed to remedy that.

He gathered the material of her night rail in his fingers and slid it up her body. She held her arms up over her head so he could more easily remove the shift.

When the fabric had just slid over her head, he lowered his mouth to her breast and licked her nipple. It stiffened as he slid his tongue over it, and he sucked it deep into his mouth, feeling her breath come faster as her fingers slid into his hair.

He rose and pushed her to the bed, barely allowing her to drop onto it before covering her body with his. She was warm, and so soft, under him.

He raised his head. “How does this feel, Lady Datchworth?”

He saw the curve of her smile in the darkness. “Wonderful.”

He threaded his fingers into her hair and pushed a few strands off her face. She was lovelier than anything he had ever seen. And he needed her more than anything he’d
ever had.