Outrageously Yours (30 page)

Ivy eased her lips away from his. “Simon ...”

“Tell me to stop, I beseech you,” he whispered. When she said nothing, he caught her chin between his teeth. He tugged at her cravat, opened her collar, and licked his way down her neck. Her shivers vibrated into him until he very nearly forgot—or deliberately disregarded—the fact that they were in a carriage and not in the privacy of his curtained bed at home.

She ran her fingers into his hair and sought his lips again. “Why do we do this?” she gasped between kisses. “Neither of us wishes permanence, not of the conventional sort. Our futures do not permit it. Mine certainly does not, and despite your honorable offer, your intentions, or lack of them, are quite clear.”

His erection stilled in midthrob as if deliberating her assertion. Yet if he listened to the conclusion formed in that part of his anatomy, he and Ivy would be wedded and bedded—again—that very afternoon. But he didn’t listen to his desires; he listened to his brain, and the part of his heart that had suffered despair. And he listened to Ivy herself.
Our futures do not permit it. Mine certainly does not. . . .

He blinked in a marginally successful attempt to clear the lust from his brain. He couldn’t resist kissing her again, but this time with more control and slightly less fervor, just to prove to himself that he
could
control his passion for this woman. “It seems our bodies do not wish to cooperate with our intentions.”

An endearing earnestness creased her brow as she considered the idea. Then with ingenuous bluntness she said, “There does seem to be a severed connection somewhere between logic and lust.”

Her use of that last word—as unexpected from a woman as her gentlemen’s clothes—made his pulse thump and his arousal surge anew. “Damn it, Ivy.”

He pushed her down across the seat, covered her with his body, and buried his face in her warm neck. Her arms fell above her head, and he reached up and held them there, pinned to the seat. Her back arched in response, pushing her bosom higher inside its restraints. He ran a hand beneath her waistcoat, and felt her nipples harden against his palm.

His logic in tatters, he yanked her shirttails free and shoved her shirt and waistcoat high. Through the silk strips, he closed his lips around a tightly budded nipple. In his mouth, the fabric became wet and malleable, teasing with its sudden transparency. He slid his other hand down her length until he reached the humid warmth between her legs.

As he had done that night in his bed, he massaged and stroked her through her trousers, seeking that tiny part of a woman that, when touched just so, commanded the very essence of her being. His attentions set her moaning, writhing. Ruddy color stained her cheeks and neck.

Higher and higher he carried her on waves of passion, rocking to the rhythm of the bumpy road. Her moans and the moisture building against his palm heightened his own body’s needs. Desire rapped at every pulse point and squeezed the air from his lungs. Every instinct urged him to free his erection and sink mercifully into her.

But in the next instant Ivy went rigid beneath him, and clamped her lips shut to muffle a cry. Her back arched, her eyes closed tight, and her hips came off the carriage seat to crush her sex against his shaft. Pleasure, pain, and the struggle for self-control became a barbed, twisted torture inside him, unbearable, explosive. . . . Then slightly less so, but only because of the heavy-lidded, smiling satisfaction he perceived as Ivy’s panting subsided and she opened her eyes. And because of the promise that spilled from her kiss-reddened lips.

She said, “Tonight, back at Harrowood, I am going to learn how to do that to you.”

A
s the carriage continued toward the village of Madingley, Ivy drifted back to earth with a new notion to cushion her descent.

Could she continue to indulge in this passion for Simon without the promise of permanence? Dare she engage in a physical relationship without entertaining thoughts of marriage?

Hadn’t she already done so?

“What, may I ask, is so funny?” Simon helped her to sit up beside him. Then he threw an arm around her and pulled her close.

Her last thought had indeed drawn something approaching a schoolgirlish giggle. Bookish, sensible Ivy Sutherland, fast on her way to official spinsterhood, had of late been behaving outrageously, but instead of feeling suitably ashamed, she felt . . .

Empowered. Fulfilled. In control of her fate.

She put her arms around him, pressed her cheek to his shoulder, and watched a field pass outside the carriage window. “It isn’t so much funny as simply invigorating. I am living by a new set of rules, ones I never imagined. I like it.”

Had her breeches and boots made her bold? Goodness, yes. Growing up, she had often heard the adage that loose corsets engendered loose morals. Well, she wore no corset at all now, yet she didn’t believe her actions resulted from a
lack
of morals . . . merely
different
ones. Scientific properties often contradicted society’s accepted values, but that didn’t make them any less true or worthy. Ivy couldn’t see why her breach of convention shouldn’t be looked at in similar terms.

She tipped her chin to look up at him. “That promise I just made to pleasure you as you have done for me. I intend to keep it.”

“No, Ivy. I don’t wish you to feel obligated—”

“I don’t. Don’t you see? We have stumbled upon the perfect solution. We each have reasons for remaining unattached. I respect your reasons, whatever they are, and I trust you to respect mine. But as you so astutely pointed out, our bodies are refusing to cooperate with our intentions. We want each other, Simon, and neither of us can deny it.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wouldn’t attempt to.”

“Then here is a way to have each now without being tied to each other for always.”

“Do you truly believe it can be that easy?”

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. I don’t see why we should not live our lives as we see fit, as long as we don’t hurt anyone or come away with any lasting reason to regret our actions.”

His fingers, trailing down her neck and across her collarbone through her coat, went still. “You speak of a child,” he said very softly.

“Of course I do,” she said in an equally hushed tone. “But there won’t be one if you and I remain firm in our resolve and seek pleasure in these other ways you have shown me.”

His expression became stern. “Are you forgetting that we have already joined our bodies?”

“No . . . but that was only one time. Surely ...”

When he’d mentioned the likelihood earlier, she had dismissed it immediately. But she had been caught off guard by his proposal; she had been disappointed and overset and, yes, a little angry. But now the possibility of a pregnancy left her feeling momentarily sickened, filled with dread. Sliding her arms from around him, she sat up straighter, at the same time snaking an unconscious forearm across her belly.

Inside her, could their separate elements even now be fusing to form new life?

Sometimes newly married couples tried for a year or more to have a child. There had been the young parlormaid at Thorn Grove, married to the head groom for two years before she conceived. And the minister’s wife didn’t give birth to their first child until after their fourth anniversary, after they had all but given up.

No, the odds were against it; she needn’t worry on that account.

“I am certain nothing will come of it,” she concluded with a conviction that felt only slightly forced.

“Perhaps not. But my point wasn’t about the possible consequences of our having made love, but that we have done so at all. That we have not been able to
resist
doing so. What makes you think we will be able to resist from now on?”

With no good answer for him, she fastened her collar and tied her neckcloth. Her notions of empowerment and worthy, if different, values had seemed sound ones, but now they blurred like the mosaic of autumn scenery outside the carriage windows.

They entered a village of whitewashed cottages clustered around a lovely stone church. “We’ve arrived in Madingley,” Simon told her. He angled a glance out the window and pointed. “And there, in the distance, is Windgate Priory.”

Beyond the flat reaches of the fenland bordering the village, the graceful proportions of a châteaulike manor house scraped the sky from within a medieval-style encircling wall.

“How lovely. Is it very old?”

“The property is. It was once a fortified Cistercian monastery under the protection of the then earls of Harrow. But inside, the house is completely modern.”

Upon their approach along the treelined drive, Ivy noted that the gatehouse’s defenses had been replaced with topiary shrubs and flower beds. The moat, which once would have doubled as the castle’s sewer, reflected with perfect clarity the deep blues and cottony whites floating high above it.

They rumbled over a bridge that had been built to resemble a working drawbridge. Ivy couldn’t prevent her laughter from bubbling forth. “This is splendid! I cannot wait to see more.”

“Yes, well. Either try to curb your enthusiasm or at least express it an octave or two lower.”

“Oh.” She pressed her fingers to her lips.

Simon reached over to give her neckcloth a corrective tug. “I don’t know how you keep managing to fool anyone.”

“Perhaps they are not as perceptive as you.” The carriage rolled to a stop, and a servant in chestnut and gold livery opened the door.

“Don’t worry,” Ivy whispered to Simon. “I shan’t reach for his hand as I step down.”

Inside, while they waited for the butler to announce them, Ivy experienced an ironic letdown. With its sumptuous furnishings, silk-covered walls, and gilt and marble adornments, Windgate Priory possessed an opulence that would have left many jaws hanging. But as Simon had said, the interior was thoroughly modernized; its storybook charm failed to follow the visitor beyond the heavy carvings of the front doors.

“Simon, what a splendid surprise. How good of you to visit me.”

In the wide curve of the carpeted staircase, a man stood poised at the railing. Olive-skinned and handsome in a more continental than English way, he wore a morning coat of burnished brocade, an artfully knotted silk cravat, and meticulously pressed trousers. As he started down, silver glints danced in his dark hair, so that Ivy judged him to be older than Simon by perhaps a decade or more. His figure was compact and well proportioned, and he moved with the easy elegance of a dancer.

“The consortium doesn’t take place for another two weeks. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” The man whom Ivy assumed to be Alistair Granville extended his hand to Simon, then pulled Simon into an affectionate embrace.

However affable his manner, it led Ivy to conclude that their trip here would yield no new clues about Lady Gwendolyn’s whereabouts. Surely if their host had any information about the girl, he would not appear so puzzled about the purpose of Simon’s visit.

In short, they had wasted their time by coming to Windgate Priory.

After the two men exchanged greetings, Sir Alistair shifted his attention to Ivy. A subtle rearranging of his even features registered mild curiosity.

“This is my new assistant,” Simon introduced her. “Ned Ivers.”

“Sir.” Ivy extended her hand, but Sir Alistair made no move to grasp it.

“Ah,” he said, and summarily dismissed her as his regard returned to Simon. “Come. I shall order refreshments brought to the solarium.”

The cut should not have irked her, yet as she followed the men through the ground-floor rooms, a tingling indignation heated her cheeks. Since arriving in Cambridge, she had enjoyed the welcome of fellow university students and even the regard of Simon’s Galileo Club colleagues. Prior to her masquerade as a student, no man had ever blatantly ignored her; to do so would have been considered the most ungentlemanly of acts.

For the first time in her life she felt utterly insignificant, and she didn’t like it.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Alistair,” Simon told his friend as they entered a sunny room filled with exotic plants and lined with floor-to-ceiling windows adorned with colorful panes of stained glass. The tile floor and decorative furnishings spoke of the same costly and meticulous attention to detail that defined the rest of the house. “Nor did I come to discuss the consortium. It’s Gwendolyn. She has left London. You haven’t by any chance heard from her?”

“Gwen . . . ? Why, no, I ...” Sir Alistair frowned. He gestured for Simon to take a seat at a small round table draped in richly patterned damask. “She has been in the queen’s service since last winter, no?”

Neither invited to sit nor instructed to wait elsewhere, Ivy hovered beside a wispy palm a few feet away. A pair of footmen carried in platters, pewter cups, and a pitcher of punch festooned with floating fruit.

A haggard, weary look came over Simon as he accepted the cup Alistair poured for him. “Gwendolyn departed the palace without the queen’s permission. Which is why it’s imperative that I find her at once.”

Sir Alistair tapped a finger against his chin. “Now that I think about it, didn’t I read something in the newspapers about a theft from Her Majesty’s household?” Simon replied to the affirmative, and Sir Alistair exclaimed, “Surely our Gwen is not implicated?”

Ivy’s stomach clenched. How close a confidant was Sir Alistair; would Simon deem him trustworthy enough to reveal the truth? Only hours ago he had professed his impatience with what he termed the queen’s ridiculous demands.

Silently she willed him to disclose nothing, knowing full well that if Victoria’s secret became common knowledge, it would be her, Ivy’s, fault. She had sworn to keep silent, but she had broken her word quickly enough. Her heart constricted around the many reasons why, even as she realized that none of those reasons could ever satisfy the queen.