R Is for Rebel (31 page)

After he had kissed her to the point of throwing her into a maelstrom of confused lust, he trailed the tip of his tongue around the perimeter of her full lips, just as she had done to him in Frankfurt.

“Welcome to London,” he said formally and guided her to the sofa and settled her into a sitting position. She felt boneless. “Have a seat for a little while and I'll wrap up what I was working on, then we can head out to West Sussex,” he said as he walked back toward his large mahogany desk in front of the wall of windows that overlooked Sackville Street.

She was staring across the room at his amazing form, his broad shoulders beneath the striped broadcloth, his strong thighs in the moleskin jeans. Marisa wasn't sure she'd ever wanted a man like this… like she wanted food. She was hungry for James Mowbray. She couldn't string two thoughts together.
How was he able to kiss like that and then speak in complete sentences
, she wondered with abstracted academic interest.

He sat behind his desk then smiled at her stunned silence. “I think you are going to like it here.”

She let herself fall back, mouth slightly open, into the well-worn leather of the sofa and let out a nonsensical, “Huh.”

They spent the next two hours in a businesslike silence that was punctuated by distracted looks and a few irrepressible sighs of silly joy on Marisa's part. James had more loose ends to tie up at work than he'd originally thought, but Marisa was happy to go over her notes from her meetings earlier in the day and clean out her emails. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the sofa with her laptop, a position that afforded her a spectacular view of James at his helm. It was a surprisingly comfortable arrangement.

***

Bronte was in the particularly foul mood that only someone in the late stages of a multiple-birth pregnancy could appreciate. She was swollen everywhere. The skin around her ankles and wrists was so stretched, she questioned whether or not those parts still contained bones. On the other hand, since she hadn't actually
seen
her ankles in weeks, the bone discrepancy was moot as far as those joints were concerned.

Everyone was being overarchingly accommodating and protective. At first it was adorable, especially her husband's sexy remonstrances about how she needed to be particularly still while he took care of her, you know, there. But after a while, even that became annoying… her body repelled the slightest touch, as if her muscles were starting to reserve every bit of energy for the coming onslaught. All of her husband's fussing and caring made her want to slap him, and not in a spanky, fun sort of way. She needed a distraction from her confinement, because—despite the archaic sound of it—that's exactly what it was: confining.

Of all the prenatal visits she'd attended, of course Max randomly decided to join her on the one in which the doctor told her in strict tones that she must “take it
very
easy” for the final three weeks.

Bronte's idea of taking it easy was diametrically opposed to her husband's. She would have cut back to half-days at the office, or maybe three days a week instead of five. She wasn't paralyzed, after all, she was just an enormous waddling beast.

“Surprise!” Max said far too cheerfully as he entered their bedroom with a beautiful breakfast tray in his hands.

Bronte groaned as she tried to heave her cetacean mass into a more upright position. “These two angels better love me so profoundly and infinitely.”

“Now, Bron. Don't go blaming the girls. They can certainly hear you at this point.”

“Hear that!” She patted her huge belly with firm authority. “Love your mother!”

“Careful!”

“Jesus, Max. It's my bloated beast of a body. Trust me to know how hard I can whack it, all right?”

“Did you just say
whack
and
hard
in the same sentence?”

In the absence of actual sex, Max's sense of humor had disintegrated into something akin to a twelve-year-old boy who just found the word
fuck
in the dictionary.

Bronte smiled and waved him toward her. “Get over here. What delights have you brought me?”

Despite all her complaints about gaining seventy-four pounds during the course of her pregnancy—“
five
stone”
sounds
so
much
nicer, dear
, her mother-in-law had kindly suggested—Bronte had no intention of curbing her eating habits. She looked appreciatively at the fresh baked oat-nut bread, the glistening honey still in the comb, and the rashers of bacon. “You are truly the most wonderful man alive. You know that, right?”

He winked and settled the tray onto the middle of the bed (since it no longer fit across the expanse of Bronte's stomach).

“So. I have a surprise for you.”

“Is it measured in carats?”

“No. That's for when the babies come out. Shipping and handling and all that. This is more of a distracting surprise.”

She took her first sip of coffee, the only prenatal nutritional battle she was not willing to lose. Max watched skeptically as she drank the potential poison. “And stop ruining the loveliest part of my day—my first sip of coffee—with that whingeing look of disparagement. Tell me more about my surprise.”

“Very well. We're having a house party this weekend.”

“That's hilarious,” she replied, deadpan.

“I'm not joking.”

“Because I look so beautiful and so capable of organizing food and sleeping arrangements and a shooting party for twenty of your nearest friends?”

“I've already made all the arrangements, and it's only ten of us, not twenty. And it's just family and Willa and David, who might as well be family, so just try not to be so controlling.”

“I am
not
controlling!”

Max rolled his eyes. “Fine. You're not controlling. I meant to say, try to forget your physical unease and enjoy yourself for a couple of days. I gave everyone very strict instructions to plan on being hilarious and diverting when in your presence.”

“So I will just sit here in bed and they will parade before me? Jester!” She snapped her fingers in mocking regal command. “Amuse me!”

He took the fingers she had just snapped and brought them to his lips. “I know you have been bored to tears—I've been here for the crying jags, remember?—so let's just have some fun. It's fine with me if you stay in bed and we bring the dining room table to the edge of the duvet, or if you want to be carried downstairs on a palanquin—”

She reveled in the feel of his lips and the warm air of his breath against her fingertips, then felt the girls begin their morning battle for the nonexistent space in her womb.

“They know your touch already,” she said softly. Bronte pulled the covers down to the top of her thighs and pulled the light cotton nightdress up under her breasts, revealing her obscenely large stomach.

Max's eyes sparkled in joy. For as much as Bronte would be very happy if she could never look upon her distended, veiny abdomen again, Max found it endlessly fascinating. He began rubbing the flat of his left hand along the smooth skin. The babies were jockeying for position and he could feel the hard elbow or knee of one as it protruded through Bronte's flesh. He looked up to his wife's face to share his pleasure and laughed when he saw she was drinking her coffee and looking out the window, as if he—or they—were not even in the room.

“What?” she asked.

“You are so beautiful.”

“Yeah, right. For a whale.”

“No, I mean it. Look at you. This gorgeous, fecund, bountiful—”

“The thing is, Max, I feel like I have turned into some sort of alien host. I don't even feel like myself. I'm tired.” She put the coffee cup down on the bedside table and felt the press of tears behind her eyes. “Fuck, and now more crying.”

Max took the tray off the bed and then resituated himself alongside the length of her body. He cradled her head in his arms. “It's okay, darling. It's just a few more days.” He kissed away her tears and she sighed into him.

“I know. And it will be fun to have everyone here this weekend. Thank you for arranging it. I'm sorry I was churlish. Am churlish.”

“You can be as churlish as you like. Oh, and in addition to the usual suspects, I think Abigail is bringing Eliot and James has some secret new bird he's going to take out of hiding.”

“Maybe I can be so pitiable that Eliot gives me the Fauchard fragrance account once and for all.”

Max laughed and then began kissing her neck. “You are an ambitious beast.”

“I told you I was a beast. Look at me.” She gestured dismissively toward the still-exposed flesh of her belly.

Max continued kissing her, slowly. “I am looking at you.”

“Mmmm.” Bronte tilted her neck and closed her eyes. “That feels surprisingly delightful.”

Max spent the rest of Friday morning and much of the afternoon in bed with his wife, loving the body she was no longer able to appreciate, cajoling her into a world of sparkling pleasure with the power of his own tender adoration. She ended up in quite a good mood by the time all of her entertaining guests started to arrive.

Eliot and Abigail pulled in around five o'clock that afternoon and Max greeted them at the large, arched front door. Abigail looked flushed and alert; Eliot looked satisfied and confident. Max shook his head and tried not to picture the two of them pulled off to the side of the road for a quick shag before arriving at the ancestral home.

“How are you two doing?”

They both smiled the same idiotic smile.

“Very well, I take it?”

They nodded stupidly and walked past him into the dimly lit central hall of Dunlear Castle. Abigail dropped her weekend bag down onto the floor unceremoniously and turned back around to look at Eliot and Max standing in silhouette against the last red remnants of the fast-setting winter sun.

“Where is Wolf? I miss my boyfriend!”

Eliot clutched his hand to his chest, wounded.

“What can I say?” Abigail asked rhetorically. “He was my first, my last, my everything.” She shrugged as if Eliot would have to deal with the realities of her abiding affection for her nephew or suffer the consequences.

“Aunt Abigail!” Wolf's earnest tenor sounded much older than the typical two-year-old as he nearly flew over the cranberry red–carpeted stone steps.

She held her arms wide and Wolf dove into her welcoming embrace. “Where have you been?” she asked.

He pushed himself away from her hold, his hands resting seriously against her shoulders. “Me? Here.” He frowned. “Waiting for princesses.” He raised his eyes heavenward, as if his sisters were due to arrive from the clouds above, or merely from his mother's bedroom. Either way, it was entirely tedious.

“I see. Is it completely boring?” Abigail asked seriously.

“Well,” he thought aloud, “not always… but mostly. Mama's cranky and Papa tries to make her laugh, but she no wants to laugh, because the princesses are taking over her big fat body. But—” He looked across the entryway in his father's direction, where Max was shaking his head to ward off any mention of fat bodies. “We still love Mama very much. Even though she's
very
cranky. And large.”

“Of course we do, darling.” Abigail kissed him on the cheek and set him down to stand on the floor, but made sure to keep his hand in hers. Wolf looked up into Abigail's eyes then peered around her hips to give Eliot a thorough once-over. “Is he coming to our sleepover?” His voice was slightly lower than it had been, but still utterly diplomatic.

“Oh, dear. Yes…”

Wolf's little lips firmed and his brow creased to fend off his tears. “He's too big for the bed.”

“What about… what if just the two of us go up now and watch a movie in bed and eat popcorn and fall asleep? Wouldn't that be nice?”

“Yes,” he agreed softly.

“And you remember Eliot.”

“Hello, Eliot.”

“Hello, Wolf. Take care of Abigail, okay?”

That cleared up Wolf's expression right away. “Yes, sir. Come on, Aunt Abigail.” He tugged her toward the stairs and she began babbling about how much fun the two of them were going to have, then he started to explain about his new Thomas train and Abigail looked over her shoulder and winked at Eliot to let him know he would always play second fiddle to a toddler.

Abigail and Wolf spent the early evening curled up in front of the TV, snuggled together on the enormous bed in the palatial pale green guest suite, gorging on fruit leather and popcorn and hot chocolate and watching a variety of charming alien creatures attempt to befriend humans in order to prevent world domination by the megalomaniacal villain.

By seven o'clock, Abigail heard the telltale cadence of Wolf's steady, sleepy breathing, and thought dazedly that she might have fallen into a light sleep herself. She pulled her arm gently out from beneath his neck and looked up to see Eliot standing at the side of the bed.

She smiled stupidly, like she always did when she caught Eliot's eye, especially when one or both of them happened to be in a reclining position.

“Hi,” she whispered, so as not to wake the little boy next to her.

Eliot bent his finger in a quiet, inviting gesture.

Abigail slid off the bed and followed him into the enormous bathroom.

He leaned down to turn on the hot water full blast, then added some cold, to fill the huge claw-foot tub in the middle of the vast white marble room. Eliot approached Abigail slowly, with an unmistakable look of purpose. He began peeling off her shirt and undershirt, then unbuttoned her blue jeans and slid them, together with her underwear, down her legs.

All in perfect silence.

He stood, like a valet, fully clothed in front of her pale, smooth, naked body. He trailed his hands idly down the curves of her hips and thighs, then lightly back up along her forearms and shoulders.

Abigail closed her eyes and tried to absorb how absolutely right it felt to be stepping into a hot bath, in the home she'd grown up in, while her lover—her mate—touched her skin in gentle affection.

“Oh, Eliot,” she whispered. “We're going to be so happy, aren't we? I'm so happy with you.” She let her forehead move forward to rest against the warm cashmere over his heart. “I love you so much.”

“Get in the bath, love.”

Eliot had never considered himself the type of man who would enjoy doting on a woman to this extent, but he found himself entirely and positively committed to satisfying Abigail's every whim. She was so damned grateful, he rationalized.

Every sigh.

Every whimper.

Her pleasure was so absolute and so pleasantly contingent on Eliot, never cloying, just infinitely appreciative. It was never that her shoulders needed a good rubbing; it was that she loved it when Eliot touched her shoulders. She did not simply need a bath; she adored that Eliot drew the hot water, then helped her slip into it.

“You make everything lovely, Eliot,” she said, reinforcing the validity of his thoughts.

He was slowly cleaning her shoulders with a soapy washcloth as her head lolled back against the curved white cast iron rim of the tub and he stared into her eyes. “So do you, Abigail.”

She smiled that grateful smile, let her eyes slowly shut, and looked forward to a long weekend of family and friends. And Eliot.

He was both, she realized. Friend. Family.

And far more than both put together.

***

Max got up from the sofa when he heard the rumble of another car pulling into the forecourt. Devon and Sarah had arrived shortly after Abigail and Eliot and were still upstairs. Bronte had suggested a late nine o'clock supper, so everyone would have time to relax and change before coming down for drinks at eight.

James Mowbray shared Devon's affinity for expensive cars with engines that were better suited for sprints on the autobahn than trips down narrow lanes in the English countryside. So Max was mildly surprised to see he had chosen his comparatively mild Audi A8 on his first road trip with his new mystery date. Max wondered if he should rib him for trying to appear more mild-mannered than he really was. Then a delightful, if formal, blond peered out the passenger side window. Max stepped forward a few strides to pull the car door open for her.

“Aaaah, the lovely mysterious houseguest arrives!” Max reached out his hand in gallant fashion to assist her exit from the low leather seat.

Her appearance seemed austere at first glance, then, in response to Max's chivalry perhaps, her face broke into a spectacular smile that transformed the air around her. By that time, James had stepped out of his side of the car and walked around to where the other two were standing. Marisa's hand rested lightly in Max's. James removed her hand from Max's loose hold with a not entirely jovial, “I'll take that.”

Marisa turned the power of her happiness back toward James and that seemed to set matters to rights.

Max wheeled on his cousin with a particularly cutting look, the infamous Heyworth eyebrow raised. “Shall I no longer offer assistance to ladies as they exit a vehicle, then? Without incurring your wrath?”

Then Marisa laughed and brought the back of James's hand up to her mouth for a quick kiss and bubbled, “Oh! This is going to be so much fun.” She looked at James with a bit of the devil in her eyes, then turned back to Max. “Thank you very much for including me. I know it was on short notice and guests of guests and all that. I'm very much looking forward to it.”

Max just shook his head and wondered how he had managed to put together an entire house party of lovesick idiots. At least the desired effect of amusing Bronte would be very easily achieved. He looked toward the long gravel drive that led out through the park and saw another car coming in.

“Aaah, that must be Willa and David.” Max turned to James so Marisa couldn't quite hear. “I trust they, at least, are past the annoying first blush of new love.” Then back to the lovely mystery guest: “And welcome to Dunlear, Miss…”

James spoke formally as he introduced them. “This is Mary Moreau. Mary, please allow me to present His Grace, Maxwell Blah-Blah-Blah Heyworth, the Duke of Northrop.”

Max bowed with extreme formality, then looked over James's shoulders at the approaching headlights of the next guests. “Just for that, James, I think I might have Jeremy announce you when you enter the drawing room this evening. Drinks at eight, by the way. I am sure the lovely Miss Moreau would be delighted to hear the full extent of your titles and holdings. Perhaps I shall leave a copy of
Debrett's
on her bedside table for some enjoyable late-night reading.” Max patted his cousin lightly on the shoulder and started to wave at his other friends. “You are in the scarlet guest rooms on the second floor to the left at the top of the stairs. Jeremy will show you in.”

The aforementioned Jeremy Paulson stood nearby, having silently emerged from the house to assist with their luggage and to see them situated in the right rooms.

James, never letting go of Marisa's hand, introduced her to Jeremy. “I suppose we're all going to have to sing for our supper this weekend, eh, Jeremy?” After decades of visiting Dunlear Castle, James Mowbray was as familiar with the staff and inner workings there as any member of the immediate family. Jeremy Paulson would never say anything to compromise the integrity of his position as head houseman, but the tiniest raise of his eyebrows spoke volumes.

“Lady Bronte must be delightfully eager to welcome the new babes,” James offered.

“Quite eager, sir.”

James broke out laughing as the unflappable, devoted servant was clearly pressed to the end of his rope. The brewing tension that always accompanied the days and weeks before labor and delivery was surely reaching a rolling boil.

Marisa looked up at James and squeezed his hand in hers. She looked happy, but there was a touch of anxiety about her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I'm very pleased to be here. It's just… I feel ridiculous having you introduce me with that silly fake name. I shall confess all at drinks this evening. It all seems quite unimportant now.”

“It does?” James knew the pace of his feelings. The escalation of what he felt for this woman was completely irrational, but he hoped her desire for absolute honesty meant what he suspected.

She looked at him meaningfully, then down toward the gravel at her feet. “James.”

He leaned in to kiss her neck. “Yes.”

She pulled away slightly, to keep her train of thought. Jeremy was making his way into the house with their bags, but Marisa held James in place, there in the forecourt, for a moment longer. “I think I've known for some time that my engagement was… well… not ideal, perhaps… but he was… is… a perfectly good man, an excellent one, really, and it seemed greedy somehow to hold out for something… someone… better… but I seem to have found… just that.”

James tried to remain steady, letting that glorious bit of news wash right over him. “I want to kiss you very thoroughly, but I fear this might not be the place or time.”

Marisa's smile bloomed at his easy understanding and quick reciprocity.

He turned toward the loud threesome that was nearly upon them. Willa and David Osborne were barking jokes and ribald comments with Max about colonics that were more pleasant than the motorway on a Friday night, when they stopped short and James made his introductions.

Willa clapped her hands in front of her copious chest in a show of her quintessential ebullience. “Aren't you a refreshing burst of sunshine on the arm of James Mowbray!”

Marisa's expression felt like sunshine, and she realized that there was not a touch of embarrassment to it. She was quite pleased to be there on the arm of James Mowbray. She looked from Willa into James's eyes to let him know.

James turned to Willa. “She is quite… refreshing, that is.”

They all smiled and resumed talking as they headed through the enormous front door and on into the main hallway. James and Marisa pulled slightly ahead to catch up with the patiently waiting Jeremy, and held hands as they followed him up the stairs.

Max, Willa, and David hung back and Max gave his old friends a conspiratorial eye roll. “It seems to be in the water.”

***

Abigail got dressed quietly and headed back toward the bathroom to blow her hair dry as Wolf still slept and Eliot read a novel in front of the fire in their room. She trailed her hand lightly across his broad shoulders as she passed from the dressing room to the bathroom and back again. He reached up absently to acknowledge her touch, then he kept reading as she continued on her way.

The domestic comfort of their intimacy was one of the most joyful discoveries for Abigail. The sexual fireworks were, well, pyrotechnic. But this simple melding of their daily rhythms was more profound at times. The past twenty-four hours at her house, then driving out of town, and now here, felt so perfectly balanced. She finished drying her hair, then went back into the bedroom, slipped on a pair of black ballet slippers, and walked over to the fire.