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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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Chapter 6
Bathsheba gasped and opened her lips to the onslaught of Blackmore's ravening mouth. Heat swamped her, softening her limbs and sending a luxurious pulse to the deepest parts of her body. She sagged against him as one of his arms lashed around her waist, pulling her flush with his muscular torso.
His tongue surged past her teeth, caressing her mouth with a coffee-flavored sweep. She moaned, so completely taken by the hot power of the kiss that she could do nothing but open to him, answering his need with a matching hunger. His taste, the wet glide of his mouth slanting across hers, sang deep in her veins, blasting away exhaustion from illness, and pain from anger and grief. Amazement blossomed within her as she recognized the pull of desire—the sweet ache of sensual yearning she hadn't felt in such a long time.
He answered her moan with a rumble deep in his throat, a low animal sound that triggered a soft release of dampness between her thighs. She clutched the front of his coat, digging her fingers into the expensive fabric, holding on as if her life depended on it.
As if responding to her desperation, he captured her in an unyielding embrace. One arm circled her waist and the other went round her shoulders, pulling her firmly against his chest. His careful physician's touch had fled, replaced by the hard grip of a conquering male.
Bathsheba whimpered and he deepened the kiss. He claimed her, exploring her mouth with a passion so brutally possessive and yet so erotic she melted against him. Her legs began to tremble, and the breath seized in her throat. She pushed weakly at his chest, struggling to pull in some air.
John relaxed his grip and released her from the kiss. She gasped, pulling in huge gulps of air as she stared into his face. The hot look that gleamed in his eyes—the ferocity of his lust—quickly turned those small shivers running down her legs into quaking tremors. Part of her, the most feminine part, responded to his desire to dominate her. But she had seen that look before on other men's faces, and it sent a chill snaking up her spine.
He must have sensed her anxiety, because he seemed to wage a short battle for control. He eased her back, gentling his touch, but did not let her out of the circle of his arms. She couldn't utter a word, only able to stare at his hard, sensual mouth, still damp from their kiss.
He closed his eyes and drew in a harsh breath, his chest shuddering with the strain. When he opened them again, some of the wildness had faded. But the very air around them shimmered with an insidious, seductive heat.
“Damn it all, woman.” His voice sounded strangled in his throat. “I must be losing my mind. What are you doing to me?”
He rested his forehead against hers for a moment before straightening. With a gentle hand, he brushed a few stray curls back from her forehead.
“Um,” she stuttered, trying to clear the woolly feeling from her brain. “I believe I was asking you to accept my apology. And I think you just did.”
He gave a harsh crack of laughter. “Is that what it was? How foolish of me not to have realized.”
She settled more comfortably into his arms, staring into his lean, handsome face. He didn't seem inclined to let her go and, just for a minute, she allowed herself to feel completely besotted with him. That smoldering, smoky look returned to his eyes and she couldn't hold back a little sigh of satisfaction.
“You're playing a dangerous game, my sweet,” he murmured, ducking his head so he could nuzzle his mouth against her cheek.
She tilted her head, giving him better access. “I know. But it's so much fun.”
He trailed a string of damp kisses along her jaw, and a throbbing hum of desire rolled through her veins.
“I'm such a fool,” he groaned. The words vibrated against the sensitive flesh of her neck. She shivered.
“The last thing I should be doing is kissing my patient out here in broad daylight. On the terrace, where anyone could see us.”
“I know.” She giggled. She
never
giggled.
He gave another one of those delicious growls and she squirmed against the erection that now lay hard and heavy against her pelvis. It felt so wonderful—better than anything she could remember in a long, long time. Lord, she'd missed that feeling, even though the intensity of his passion made her brain raise a warning flag.
It was a warning she decided to ignore.
She reached up and tangled her fingers in his thick hair, bringing their faces, their mouths, just a breath of air apart.
“You are a fool,” she whispered. “But don't stop. Not yet.”
He groaned, and this time his kiss was impossibly tender, sweeter than she could have imagined. He took his time, playing with her, slanting his lips across her mouth in a slow, moist slide. She snuggled against him as he held her in a gentle but all-encompassing embrace.
The kiss went on forever. Slow, wet, and so hot she thought she would melt. Then it grew more urgent. His hands moved up to her face, holding her still as he deepened the connection between them. Long fingers traced the curve of her jaw, drifted down to caress her neck. She squirmed against him, seeking to ease the ache between her thighs. One of his hands wandered down and curled around her bottom. He lifted her enough to slide his leg between her thighs.
She gasped, arching back as the muscles deep in her core spasmed in a fast, tight contraction. Her heart slammed with a hard jerk, and she instinctively pushed down.
A moment later he cursed and broke away, holding her at arm's length. She blinked up at him, dappled sunlight obscuring her vision while a hazy sensuality clouded her brain.
“What's wrong?” she whispered.
His jaw dropped open. “What's wrong? I'm one minute away from dragging you back to that chaise and getting you flat on your back. That's what's wrong. We can't do this, Bathsheba. Not here. Not now.”
She couldn't break free of the sensual daze that gripped her. “We could go up to my room. I'll tell Matthew I'm not feeling well. That you want to give me an examination. No one has to know.”
His lips peeled back over strong white teeth and he growled—actually growled—at her. She felt the luscious sound of it deep in her womb.
“That's a very bad idea, my lady,” he said. “Because once I get you on your back, you're not moving from that position for a very long time. And once I've had you that way, I can think of at least a dozen other ways to take you, as well. So unless you're ready for all that, I suggest it would be wise for you to let me go.”
The crudity of his suggestion slapped her like a driving gust of sleet. She stepped hastily away from him, stumbling over one of the broken stones on the terrace. His hand shot out to steady her.
“Easy,” he said. “You're not ready for this.”
Bathsheba swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous and vulnerable. He was right. She wasn't ready. She might never be ready and, in any event, he was the wrong man. She didn't need a lover, especially one who looked at her with such unfettered desire, such hot lust. One who threatened to consume her with passion and make her as dependent on him as she had once been on Reggie.
The thought of her husband made her suck in a fearful breath.
Blackmore muttered something and took her arm in a gentle clasp. “Come, my lady.” He steered her back to the chaise. “You need rest, not a great brute like me pawing away at you. I should be taken out behind the barn and shot.”
She sank gratefully onto the cushions. He hunkered down beside her, carefully inspecting her face. One hand reached out to brush her cheek.
“Better now?” he asked in a soothing voice.
Blackmore was nothing like Reggie. Nothing like any other man she had ever known. The hell of it was, he might be exactly what she wanted—at least for now—but he wasn't what she needed. She needed a rich husband, and preferably a boring and safe one. Blackmore wasn't safe, and he never would be. He was the most dangerous man she'd ever met. She'd lose herself in him if she wasn't careful.
“My lady?” he prompted.
“Yes?” she said, forgetting what he had asked her.
He smiled and brushed a feather-light kiss across her lips. Desire rustled again, hot and dark in her belly. He was so dangerous. And he certainly wasn't what she needed. But still . . .
“Are you sure you have to go?” she asked in a dreamy voice. “Why don't you stay for the festival? No one will pay any attention to us, not later, anyway. When night falls—”
A flash of something hot and fierce flared in his eyes. Then it vanished. He rose to his feet and took one step back, but the distance seemed much greater.
“I've already stayed away from London for far too long. I can no longer afford to neglect my patients or my work at the hospital. Please forgive me.”
She started to flinch, stung by his rejection, but forced herself to hold still. But Blackmore, damn him, must have seen the small movement.
He cast a rueful smile and took her hand. “Believe me when I tell you I would much rather remain in Ripon.”
She tugged her hand away and gave him a tight smile. “Well, I'm sure you're needed a great deal more in London than here. Have a safe journey, Doctor, and thank you for all your help. I'll make your good-byes to Lord Randolph.”
She reached for her bonnet and made a show of putting it on, determined not to let him see how much he had wounded her. It was all for the best, she silently argued. She did not need another stupid affair with a man who could give her nothing. Nothing but passion, which never led to anything but pain.
He stared down at her but she refused to meet his gaze. After a few moments he gave a quick bow, turned on his heel, and strode away, disappearing through the library doors.
Bathsheba sat quietly with her face tilted to the sunlight, listening to the sounds of the day and waiting for the ache in her heart to subside. When that didn't happen, she slowly rose from the chaise and made her way into the shadowed coolness of the house.
Chapter 7
“I say, old girl!”
Matthew jabbed Bathsheba in the ribs with his elbow. She winced, then stood on tiptoe, straining to hear him over the noise of the boisterous crowd that milled about Ripon's old market square. He pointed in the general direction of the procession moving slowly toward them.
“Look at that float passing the confectionary shop,” he shouted. “Can you make out what the theme is?”
She craned her neck to see over the shoulders of the people in front of them.
“I can't see,” she yelled back.
Matthew's eyes twinkled with mischief. “The theme of the float is money is the root of all evil. Guess we could tell them a few things about that, eh?”
They both snickered behind their hands. Money might be the root of all evil, but Bathsheba was more than willing to indulge in a little wickedness if it pulled them free of their quicksand of debt.
Miss Elliott turned from inspecting the pageant floats to give them a disapproving frown. “It is a worthy sentiment, as I'm sure you will agree.”
Matthew's eyes grew round and he nodded vigorously. Bathsheba smiled politely, determined to stick to her vow not to irritate the stern bluestocking any more than she already had.
When Matthew told her over dinner last night that Miss Elliott would be joining them for the festival, Bathsheba had almost spit a mouthful of onion broth into her soup bowl.
“You must be joking,” she had spluttered when she could finally catch her breath.
He'd had the grace to look guilty, but tried to justify it by claiming Miss Elliott had a superior knowledge of the local customs.
“She'll be able to tell you all about the St. Wilfrid's procession, Sheba. I was sure you'd find it interesting.”
“No, I wouldn't, and you know it,” she had retorted. “You just wanted an excuse to ask Miss Elliott to come with us.”
He had grinned sheepishly at her, and she lacked the heart to chastise him any further. After all, who was she to throw stones? She had practically begged Dr. Blackmore to come to the festival with her, and she barely knew the man. Surely Matthew could be excused for wanting to spend the day with the woman he loved, even if that woman made the hair stand up on the nape of Bathsheba's neck.
So here they were, crammed like sheep in a pen at the edge of the market square, watching the most boring parade she had ever had the misfortune to witness.
She sighed, listening with one ear as Miss Elliott explained the theme of yet another pageant float to Matthew. Not that it wasn't obvious. After all, it was a depiction of Wellington's victory at Waterloo, but Matthew hung on the woman's every word, looking utterly foolish. He would do anything to remain in Miss Elliott's good graces, including listening to her pedantic lectures.
Lucky her
, she thought sourly. Miss Elliott had her swain sitting in her pocket, whereas Bathsheba, standing in the midst of a large crowd, might as well have been in the middle of a desert for all that anyone paid attention to her.
Anyone like Dr. Blackmore, she grumbled under her breath, growing more irritated by the second. Blast the man for kissing her like that—awakening all sorts of dormant feelings—and then turning on his heel and walking away. These last few days she had thought of little else but of his hard mouth sliding over her soft lips. It was driving her mad—mad with heat and longing. If she didn't get back to London soon, she would leap into the River Ure just to stop thinking about him.
Someone in the crowd jostled her, almost knocking her to the ground. She clutched Matthew's arm to steady herself.
He jerked around in alarm, ready concern springing into his eyes. “Are you all right, Sheba? Do you want to go back to the inn to rest? Or would you rather I take you home?”
She shook her head. “No. I'm fine.” She wasn't, but she didn't want him to worry. Her feet hurt, her head ached, and it seemed they had been watching this damned procession for hours. When in God's name would it come to an end?
She leaned across Matthew and touched Miss Elliott's sleeve. “Miss Elliott, when does St. Wilfrid come by? I believe he is the last member of the procession, is he not?”
“Yes, Lady Randolph. But I'm afraid we have at least an hour to wait.” Miss Elliott looked grumpy. “The saint,” and she invested the word with a great deal of sarcasm, “and his retinue stop by every tavern they pass and drink a pint of beer. It takes forever, and by the time they reach the end of the procession . . . well, I'm sure you can imagine.”
“Oh, no,” groaned Bathsheba. “That's terrible.”
“Indeed it is, your ladyship,” replied the other woman, unbending a little. “I'm pleased you share my dismay at such an unfortunate tradition.”
Bathsheba's only dismay was the thought of standing on the hard cobblestones for another hour. She couldn't blame St. Wilfrid—or the man posing as St. Wilfrid—for relieving the tedium of the procession. She would have been happy to slip into a nearby pub and do the same, but Miss Elliott would surely fall into an apoplectic fit.
“Tell me, Miss Elliott,” beamed Matthew, “why does the good saint stop at every pub along the way? Hard to imagine how such a tradition came about.”
“Indeed. But the superstitious locals believe it is unlucky for St. Wilfrid to pass by any tavern without stopping for a pint. Hence, we must all wait here in the hot sun, while half the participants in the parade become fuddled. Hardly proper behavior for a religious festival, if you ask me.”
Matthew looked surprised. “Well, we can't expect an Englishman not to have a good time, especially during a festival. Nothing wrong with having a beer now and again, is there, Miss Elliott?”
Dismay registered on the spinster's pinched countenance and she began to lecture Matthew on the evils of excess. The look of apologetic consternation on her cousin's face tempted Bathsheba to laugh, then she remembered that Matthew was likely to get himself leg-shackled to Miss Elliott and the impulse died.
Impatiently, she retrieved her kerchief from her reticule and wiped away a trickle of sweat dripping down her neck. She
had
to get back to London in the next few days and start looking for a husband, or she was done for.
“Yoo-hoo, Lord Randolph!”
Lady Dellworthy's shrill voice rose over the crowd, a remarkable feat given the noise in the square. But the cacophony of hundreds of spectators and several musical bands couldn't match her ladyship's lung capacity.
They turned to see her waving madly as she plowed her way through the bystanders. Her husband trailed behind her, as did . . . Dr. Blackmore. Bathsheba's head began to buzz as all the blood drained south to her feet. She staggered, tightening her hold on Matthew's arm.
“Steady on, old girl,” he cried. “Don't want to take a header in this mob. You'll get trampled to death.”
“I'm . . . I'm fine,” she stammered. She raised her eyes to look at Blackmore, still several feet away. He must have seen her stumble, for he frowned as he brushed past the Dellworthys to reach her side.
“Look who we found wandering around the square,” crowed Lady Dellworthy. “I was absolutely astonished, I tell you. Why, Dr. Littleton himself told me that Dr. Blackmore was to return to London two days ago.”
The others expressed the appropriate amount of surprise and delight, all talking at once. Blackmore ignored them as he slipped a strong hand under Bathsheba's elbow.
“My lady, do you feel faint?” His mouth was close to her ear, and his warm breath puffed across her neck. A delicious shiver tickled down her spine. She did feel wobbly, but it wasn't the heat or the crowds that made her legs tremble.
“No. I'm well,” she said. Incredibly, she felt shy and tongue-tied. She hadn't been expecting to see him again. That must explain her foolish reaction.
Well, that and the fact he was the most enticing man she had ever met. Out here in the square, surrounded by so many people, the impact of his tall, masculine figure and his lean grace was strangely magnified.
His amazing eyes still inspected her with concern, drawing the attention of the other members of their party. Matthew cast Bathsheba a swift, astute look, and then stepped forward to offer his hand to Blackmore.
“A pleasure to see you again, Doctor. Sheba told me you'd be long gone by now.”
“Oh, indeed,” trilled Lady Dellworthy. “But the doctor just couldn't bring himself to leave—not yet. He said he had heard so much about the St. Wilfrid's procession that he couldn't think of departing until he had seen it. Isn't that right, Doctor?”
“Exactly right, Lady Dellworthy,” he answered with a charming smile.
Bathsheba looked up to meet his gaze. His silver eyes laughed back at her, daring her to say a word. She blushed hotly, cursing her lack of discipline. But he would stand
right there
, his big body pushed up against hers by the crowd, his legs pressing into her skirts. She might faint just from the sheer pleasure of being close to him once more.
He finally took pity on her, edging away to give her some room. She drew in a shaky breath of relief, intensely aware that the others still stared at them.
Blackmore shifted so that he faced Miss Elliott and Lady Dellworthy.
“Miss Elliott, perhaps you would be kind enough to explain the origins of this festival to me. All I know is that Ripon has been celebrating the procession for centuries. Lady Dellworthy assured me that you would have all the facts and history.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Elliott,” chimed in Matthew. “Please do. I was telling Bathsheba last night how knowledgeable you are about the local customs.”
The spinster beamed, almost pretty under the warmth of all that male attention. She launched into a detailed and tedious history of Ripon's honored festival. For once, Bathsheba didn't mind her pedantry. It diverted attention away from her idiotic reaction to the doctor.
Blackmore gradually moved behind her, using his large body to shield her from the jostling crowd. She loved that he was such a strapping man, with broad shoulders and a muscular chest. A demented impulse to cuddle against him swept over her, so overwhelming that she had to stand as straight and stiff as a pike to avoid doing just that.
Suddenly, a man carrying a frothing cup of ale bumped into her, spilling some liquid onto her skirts.
“Yoiks! Sorry about that, miss. Didn't see you there. You bein' such a little thing and all.”
The young, handsome lad, perhaps an apprentice or a day laborer, gave her a good-natured, rueful grin. She shook out her skirts and returned his smile, about to answer when Sir Philip jumped in.
“That's enough of that, boy. That's Lady Randolph you're addressing, and you'll keep a respectful tongue in your head when you speak to your betters. Now, be on your way or I'll call the constable.”
The young man blanched under his tan.
“It's quite all right,” Bathsheba said. “My gown is barely wet. There's no harm done at all.” She nodded reassuringly at the lad, who ducked his head gratefully and melted into the crowd.
“Well done, my lady,” murmured Blackmore in her ear. She flushed with pleasure at his simple words of praise.
“He was just a boy,” she said.
“A boy who doesn't know his place,” growled Sir Philip. “The whole country is going to wrack and ruin, starting with the lower classes. Don't remember their proper place in the world, and that young jackanapes was the perfect example.”
“I must agree with you,” said Miss Elliott. “Insubordination and lack of respect for one's superiors have become the distinguishing characteristics of our age.”
Matthew shifted uncomfortably as he glanced around. Bathsheba, too, saw the scowls on some of the nearby faces. The music and cheerful shouts of the crowd hadn't been loud enough to drown out Miss Elliott's or Sir Philip's comments.
“Surely you exaggerate, Miss Elliott,” Blackmore said. “In my experience, the average working man labors long and hard, with little recompense for his work. I cannot blame him for seizing a little respite from all his cares.”
“By drinking himself into the gutter, you mean,” retorted the spinster. “I cannot agree. Not when that man's respite takes food from the mouths of his wife and children. That, sir, is any man's first responsibility—not pleasure.”
Blackmore inclined his head. “You're right, of course. But for too many Englishmen, the burdens of life are harsh and the anxieties of it weigh down their souls. I cannot be surprised when such men seek occasional solace with a pint of ale or a dram of blue ruin.”
Miss Elliott's thin mouth grew thinner.
God help Matthew,
Bathsheba thought.
“Dr. Blackmore, you approve of such licentious behavior?” demanded Miss Elliott.
BOOK: My Favorite Countess
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