Tempting a Proper Lady (19 page)

“Of course. Men like to look at naked women. And you peeling off any of your clothing for me…well, it's damned arousing.”

His passionate words stoked the fire still simmering within her, and she realized she was curious. Was that true? Did a woman have some kind of power over a man where the mere baring of flesh could affect him so strongly?

He chuckled. “I see that sly gleam in your eyes, sweetheart. Go ahead. Indulge yourself. Drive me mad with desire.”

She came over to the bed and propped her foot up on the edge of the mattress just inches from his hip. His gaze skimmed along her stocking-clad limb, then dropped lower between her legs before he looked away. But that brief glance had seared like a touch. Her blood warmed and embarrassment faded. She unfastened the garter and slowly slid it down her leg.

He followed it with his eyes. She tugged it off and dangled it from her finger like a prize she had won before boldly dropping it on the floor. He grinned, but the expression faded to something much more intent as she began to peel off the stocking.

His cock stirred, fascinating her as it grew harder of its own volition. She had never witnessed the process before and could not tear her eyes away.
Her absorption both aroused and embarrassed her. When she had completely removed the stocking, she teasingly draped it across his lap, covering the proof of his interest. Then she switched legs, resting the other foot on the bed.

In this position she was much more open to him. He reached out and fondled one of her breasts as she removed the garter and worked the stocking down her leg. Then he dipped his hand lower to stroke between her thighs. She let out a squeak of surprise and almost fell over. He grabbed her by the waist and steadied her. They remained that way for a long moment, staring into each other's eyes.

“I think we'd better eat,” he said finally, tugging off her stocking the rest of the way. “I have a feeling I will need my strength later.” He tossed both discarded stockings on the bed, then ran his hand down her calf.

“I think I might need my strength, too,” she murmured. “Heaven help me.”

He laughed at that, then stood. “I suppose we had best see if we can salvage the stew.”

Slowly she lowered her leg, a bit dazed by his utter lack of embarrassment about walking about naked, especially with his arousal so exposed. And a bit astonished at herself and the ease with which she had accepted this introduction to the world of sensuality.

She didn't dare think too much about the things that had happened in this bedchamber, or about the fact that she so docilely allowed him to lead her bare as the day she was born into the main room of
the cottage, where dinner still awaited them.

He went to the hearth and swung the stew pot back over the fire. “Just a few moments to heat this, I think.”

She winced. “Be careful, Samuel.” She waved a hand at his groin. “You do not want to get burned.”

“I think we both already did.” Grinning, he came over and kissed her mouth, then reached for the wine bottle. “I think it's safe to have a bit of this now, don't you think?”

“My head is already spinning. I think I might prefer tea.”

“You just want me to go back to the fire,” he teased.

“No! That is…oh, bother.” She clasped her hands over her warming cheeks. “Will I never have the upper hand with you, Samuel Breedlove?”

“Is that what you want?” He moved to his own seat and poured himself a glass of wine. “To be in control?”

“I do not know. I am confused and embarrassed and oh, so many things.”

“Did you like being with me, Cilla?”

She looked up in surprise. “Of course.”

“Did you enjoy what we did together?”

“Yes, heaven help me.”

“There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You're a young, passionate woman and I am a healthy man. What happened in there was perfectly natural. We did not harm anyone.”

“I suppose you are right.”

He went to stir the stew, then looked back over his shoulder toward her. “Are you pleased with our bargain so far?”

“I was not certain what to expect, but I have no complaints.”

“Good.” He seemed as if he would say something else, but then he turned his attention back to their meal.

She indulged herself with a leisurely study of his muscled back and buttocks, even as she wondered what he had intended to say, but hadn't. She thought about bringing up the subject of when their relationship would end, but decided she did not want to spoil the moment. “Are
you
pleased with the bargain?”

He tasted the stew, then took the pot off the fire. “More than pleased. I have wanted you almost from the very first moment I saw you.”

A thrill shot through her, and she tried to maintain a calm demeanor. “A very romantic statement from a man who claims he is not capable of love.”

“Because I have never felt the way the poems and songs say I should. If the state of love exists, I remain unconvinced.” He scooped stew into her bowl.

“Why, Samuel? You seem to like women well enough. That is, you do not strike me as a man who hates females and thinks they are beneath him.”

He flashed her a wicked grin. “Not that I have any objection to females beneath me, you understand…”

“Samuel!”

“…but no, I do not think women are inferior.
Weaker than men, physically that is, and more emotional, which in itself can be considered weakness by some.”

“By you?”

He shrugged and ladled some of the steaming fare into his own bowl, then turned and set the pot near the hearth. “I certainly understand the drive of passion. The bond of loyalty. The warmth of friendship. I simply don't see the need to romanticize every relationship the way women do.”

“So then where does marriage fit into your world?” She reached for the wine bottle, but he grabbed it first and poured her a glass.

“Marriage is a partnership. A man and woman decide to spend their lives together as partners. They take risks together, raise children together, grow old together. I can like and respect a wife and even lust after her without being in love with her.”

“You have never known real love, have you?” She traced the stem of her wineglass as she contemplated his face. “How very sad.”

“I had the Baileys. I thought that was real.” He sat down and reached for his napkin to spread on his naked lap. “As I recall, Mrs. Burke, you cannot claim a grand romance yourself.”

“No, but I believed I had.” She dipped her spoon into the stew, rather astonished at how easily she had accepted dining naked. “Edward said all the right things and made me think he loved me. He could not have done that if I had not believed in a love that lasts forever.”

“You still believe that, don't you? In an everlasting
love? Despite that nonsense you tried to tell me at the inn?”

“Yes,” she admitted, and kept her eyes on her meal, not wanting to see the derision or, God help her, pity in his eyes.

“Then why do you need me? If all you want is romance?”

She risked a glance at him. No pity. No derision. Just curiosity. “Because clearly I cannot trust my own judgment when it comes to understanding the male of the species. I was young and naïve when I met Edward, and I knew nothing of men and women other than what I had learned from my parents.”

“Which was?”

“That a man and woman can be happy in a marriage. It is not easy being married to a naval man. My mother had to become strong to manage everything while he was away at sea. When he came home, she knew he did not want to hear about any troubles that had occurred while he was gone. He wanted to bask in the love of his family. We wanted that, too.” She smiled, bittersweet memories coming to the fore. “Mama always played the stalwart seaman's wife, able to tackle any problem, able to keep her emotions under control when it came time for him to leave again. He knew that under that serene expression she was already mourning him, but it served both of them to pretend.”

“How did he know she was pretending?”

She glanced up at the strange note in his voice. A stillness had come over him that brought a hint of concern, but the glint of warning she saw in his
eyes told her he did not want her to pry. Like her mother, she carried on as if nothing were amiss. “Papa always whispered in my ear to take care of Mama because she was not as strong as she thought she was. He always knew.”

“So you have used your parents' marriage as a model for what you hope to achieve.”

“I think most people look to their parents as a model for what they should be as adults. Even you, I would expect.”

“No, not me.” He began to eat his stew.

She waited, but he did not elaborate. “Why not?”

“I told you, my mother never married. But there were men in her life.”

The edge in his voice told her this was a sore subject, but her curiosity about the man with whom she had just shared her body made her probe deeper. “Men? Like…”

“Men. Lovers. She had a child to provide for, and this was all she knew.”

“Oh, Samuel.”

“Some of them were all right. They tolerated me, brought me sweets. One of them taught me how to whittle.”

“Thank heavens for that.”

“But not all of them were like that. Some saw me as an inconvenience. Those didn't usually last long. For all that she needed the money they gave her, she didn't want to see me mistreated. But she always cried so much after they left.” He curled his lip. “Because she was
in love
.”

“I see now why you do not seek love for yourself.” Cilla reached for a slice of bread and tore it in half.

“Is that right?”

“Of course. For the same reason I did not seek another husband. Edward had ruined the fairy tale for me.”

“So you're saying my mother ruined my fairy tale?” He gave a harsh laugh. “My dear lady, clearly you have no concept of the misery of growing up a bastard.”

“Of course I do.”

“Bollocks to that. You know who your parents are. I bet you could name your ancestors all the way back to the Conqueror.”

“Good Lord, yes.” She rolled her eyes. “My father keeps the family Bible on a table in his study. When we were small, he used to lecture Genny and me about the great deeds of our forefathers. I believe he was terribly disappointed neither of us had been born a son.”

“Then how can you think you know what it is like to be born a bastard?”

“Because you and I are the same, I think.”

“Oh, really.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “How so?”

“I know what it feels like to be looked down upon by others. After Edward died, I had to make my own way. He left me penniless, nearly starving. I even had to beg for food once or twice. All I could think about was coming back here. Back home.” She let out a derisive laugh. “Here in England, my choice of husband is looked upon as a liability. ‘Poor Cilla,
married to a scoundrel without a sou to his name. Whatever will become of her?'”

“His misdeeds were not yours. You simply married the wrong man.”

“I
chose
the wrong man. You did not choose to be born out of wedlock. I admit I am partly to blame for my misery of a marriage. But you had no choice at all.”

“Tell that to the fellows who thought it would be fun to dunk the little bastard's head in the horse trough.”

She winced. “I would have assumed your mother would have told you something about your father. His name at least.”

“Well, she didn't. Maybe he was such a sorry piece of scum that she thought it would make matters worse.” He finished off his glass of wine and reached for the bottle again.

Cilla touched his arm. “I apologize if I overstepped. Shall we change the subject?”

He remained with his fingers on the bottle for a long moment while he studied her face. Then he dropped his hand. “What shall we change it to? The weather? The latest gossip?”

“Anything more cheerful than our mutual unhappy pasts.” She raised her glass, then sipped her wine.

He grinned at her, and this time she could tell it was genuine. “I have an idea. After dinner, let's play a game.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest at the devilish gleam in his eyes. “What kind of game?”

“Chess.”

“Chess!” She laughed. “I thought you meant something much more scandalous.”

“Can you play chess?”

“I can, actually. My father taught both me and Genny. Mama never liked it so Gen and I were his best opponents.”

“Excellent. I look forward to our match.”

Still smiling, she lifted her wineglass again. “You are certainly full of surprises, Samuel. Are you not concerned about being bested by a woman?”

“Not at all. I happen to be an excellent chess player. Many's the time I've whiled away the hours on board ship with a good game of chess.”

“Then we should be well matched.”

“I agree. Though I have never played naked chess before, so this should prove interesting.”

She choked on a sip of wine, clasping her hand to her chest. “What?”

“Naked chess.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I look forward to thinking up unusual methods to distract the opposition.”

That newly discovered playful part of her came to the fore and pushed aside the proper lady. Stretching her arms above her head, she noticed with satisfaction the way his gaze dropped to her bare breasts. She gave him a smile that she hoped was inviting. “I might have a few distractions of my own.”

His slow, sensual smile made her stomach flip. “I've always loved a challenge.”

A
nnabelle ducked her head down behind the bushes, shutting her journal as the footsteps drew closer. She did not want to see anyone. Sometimes she liked to be alone, to scribble her thoughts in the book her mother had given her when they'd first learned of Samuel's disappearance. Her mama had hoped that writing down her feelings would help with the pain. And it had, at least at first. But then her thoughts had taken on a life of their own, and now she craved isolation whenever she wrote down the fancies her imagination created.

This corner of the garden had proven to be the perfect place. The small grotto was hidden from the walkway by the tall hedges, and all it contained was the stone bench on which she sat. Sometimes the servants passed by on their way to fetch flowers for the dinner table. When that happened, she stayed very still and quiet, hoping whoever was out there would pass by, ignorant of her presence.

This evening, footsteps along the path and the
hushed murmur of female voices alerted her to the fact that she was not alone.

“Are you certain?” a woman hissed. Annabelle recognized the voice as belonging to Melly, the upstairs maid. She peered between the hedges and confirmed her suspicions.

“My Tom heard it at the tavern last night. 'Tis the honest truth.” The other girl—a scullery maid named Gladys—marched alongside Melly. “The girl had been working at Raventhorpe Manor only two months before she bolted.”

“Are you certain she bolted?” Melly stopped to examine a scraggly pink rose on a nearby bush.

“What other explanation is there? I've worked for His Lordship's family for nearly a decade. All his servants are fiercely loyal to him.”

“A decade, is it? I've worked here in this village for nearly twenty years, Gladys, and I can tell you that there have been times the people around here have doubted His Lordship.”

Gladys gasped. “Doubted him! How could you say such a thing?”

“Well, what do you think?” Melly snapped. “A fetching young maid has disappeared from Raventhorpe Manor. Why would any girl willingly leave a position where she lives in a fine house and makes a good wage? It's not the first time I've heard of pretty women disappearing from this area.”

“I bet the tart shared his bed,” Gladys said. “Got with child and tried to blackmail His Lordship into wedding her. Well, he showed her, didn't he? Prob
ably turned her out on the street without notice.”

“Then why has she not returned home? No, I don't think that's what happened at all.” Melly glanced around her, then lowered her voice. “When I was a girl, we heard tales around the village. Tales about the old lord and how young women disappeared from his properties. Young pretty women, never to be seen again.”

“Oh, certainly that's an old wives' tale.”

“Perhaps. But strange how it's happening again now that the new earl is in residence.”

“Melly, what are you saying? That His Lordship is making these girls disappear?”

“I don't know. But over the years there have been stories. Young Nell is not the first girl to vanish from the area without anyone knowing what happened to her. And I can't help but remember the stories I heard about old Lord Raventhorpe. The liking he had for young, comely girls—some of them barely old enough to be considered grown.”

“Even if his father was the worst sort of lech, that doesn't mean the son has followed in his footsteps.”

“No,” Melly said. “I fear the son may be far worse.” She let out a long sigh. “Let's check the other side of the garden. I don't think these roses have been getting enough sun.”

As the servants headed off down the pathway, Annabelle turned back around on the bench. Her heart pounded. They spoke of Lord Raventhorpe—her fiancé—as if he were guilty of some terrible crime. And was he? One thing she had learned, thanks to
Mrs. Burke, was that the servants often knew more about what went on in people's houses than the home owners themselves. So what did they know about Richard?

A shiver rippled through her, and she clasped her arms around herself, fighting the growing disquiet that welled within her. She had noticed Richard's distraction of late. His short temper, his reluctance to discuss their future married life. And now all this talk of young women disappearing from the village. The notion that Richard might be responsible for the rumored disappearances was simply ridiculous. He thought way too much of his title and his position in society to endanger them with anything underhanded or illegal. She was certain he had nothing to do with the young women vanishing. Most probably they had run off for their own reasons, and the speculation among the servants was simply that—unfounded theories based on gossip and hearsay. Everyone loved a good story.

Nonetheless, the chatter had done nothing to quell her own growing unease. Lately she had gotten the distinct feeling that Richard's regard for her was dwindling, even though he kept talking of moving up the wedding date. Her mother would not allow any such thing, of course, fearing speculation about the
necessity
of a speedy wedding, but still Richard continued to suggest that they might want to change their wedding date, which was two weeks from now, and get married earlier. His impatience would have thrilled her had she believed its cause to be his great passion for her, but she knew it was not. Therefore
she could only determine that his eagerness came from his urgent need for funds.

She knew he was marrying her for her fortune. Country girl she might be, but that didn't mean she was completely oblivious to the way the world worked. But was it so terrible to expect your future husband to at least
like
you before you joined your lives together?

Darn it, why couldn't he just ask her for the money and do away with all this tension?

She bit her lip as she considered the question. Arrogance came to mind. Or did he think her so conceited that she would not wed him if she knew how badly he needed her dowry? Didn't he realize that she would stand by her husband, no matter what? Or maybe he just thought she was one of those fluff-brained women who didn't think of anything else but fashion and hairstyles?

The idea that he might think her a fool stung her pride. Back in America, plenty of men had assumed that a pretty face and kind heart meant an empty head. Samuel had never made that assumption, which was one of the reasons she had accepted his marriage proposal. She was not a china doll who would smile adoringly when her husband deigned to pay attention to her. She intended to be a partner to the man she married, just as her mama had always been to her pa. She was a hardy American girl, the daughter of people who wrested their living from the bare soil of the earth. If Richard thought she would easily turn her back on her own nature, he had another think coming.

She jerked to her feet, sending her journal tumbling to the ground. She scooped it up, then began to march back toward the house. Perhaps she had been too hasty in rejecting Samuel when he'd returned. While she still wanted the social prestige that came with marrying an earl, she could not deny that she wanted to be happy, too. And how could she be happy with a man who had so many shadows in his past? A man who refused to confide in her, yet expected her to vow herself into his keeping for all time?

Samuel had always been honest with her, even when the truth had not been pleasant to hear. Yes, he had disappeared for two years, then returned with a crazy story about Richard trying to kill him. She had been angry at Samuel for being gone—irrational, to be sure, and that anger and hurt had only made her more determined to marry Richard when Samuel had reappeared.

She realized now the childishness of her reasoning. She still wanted to achieve social prestige so her mama could have the fancy New York social life she craved, but did she want that at the cost of marrying a man who could not share his secrets with her? What if Richard really had tried to kill Samuel? Then again, what if Samuel had raised all these questions out of simple competition? She didn't think it was out of jealousy. Samuel had never professed his love for her. Not once. Then again, neither had Richard.

Did either man love her, even a little?

She shook her head, dizzy from all the questions flying around her mind. Samuel's claims about Richard. Richard's claims about Samuel. The maids
speculating about the disappearing women. Her doubts about Samuel's motives. Her own instincts that were telling her something was wrong in her relationship with her betrothed.

She stopped just outside the door to the house and covered her face with her hand. She needed to regain control of herself before she went inside. Her mother had a nearly supernatural instinct to realize when her daughter was distressed, and Annabelle did not want to answer any probing questions until she had recovered her equilibrium. She needed advice, but she wanted to avoid her mother's emotional reactions to bad news.

Perhaps Mrs. Burke could help her.

Relief washed over her. Mrs. Burke was a widow, and she knew all the parties involved. Surely she would have some words of wisdom as to what the next step should be. She was the only one, other than Mama, who would be able to help Annabelle decide if she had chosen the right husband.

Some of the worry receded, and she opened the door.

 

All these years, she had been living only half a life.

Alone in her room back at Nevarton Chase, Cilla stripped off her gloves and then slowly untied her bonnet. Every movement seemed more vivid now that she had become so much more aware of her body. Every nerve ending tingled. A delicious languor lingered in her muscles, and she found herself smiling about nothing at all.

She walked to the bureau and poured some water into the basin, then looked up to meet her own gaze in the mirror hanging there. She looked mostly the same as when she had left the house that morning, except for the new awareness lingering in her eyes. Anyone could attribute the flush on her cheeks to a harmless cause, but that knowing gleam spoke of carnal knowledge learned and enjoyed.

Perhaps if she and Samuel had not engaged in the chess game, if there had been some time between their last coupling and John's arrival, the change in her might not be so obvious. But with both of them making exaggerated attempts to distract the other, they had soon ended up on the floor beside the hearth making love again. Afterward while they had lingered in each others' arms, they had heard the coach on the road outside and had been forced to flee to the bedchamber to regain some semblance of decency before John knocked on the door.

John knew what had happened between them, of course. She had seen the flicker of it in his face before he masked it, and her cheeks burned with chagrin even now. He had acted the gentleman—so much more than a mere servant, that one—and said nothing as she and Samuel had climbed into the coach to begin the journey back to Nevarton Chase.

Samuel had held her in his arms most of the way, brushing kisses upon her temple, but as the lights of the manor appeared on the horizon, he had moved to the seat across from her.

“We will meet again on your next free afternoon,”
he had said. “Unless my plan against Raventhorpe works and the wedding is called off.”

The reminder of the wedding had jolted her from the sensual daydream she had been weaving in her mind. “What do you mean?”

“I've bought all Raventhorpe's gaming markers, and he knows it. I've told him I'll demand payment if he proceeds with the wedding and forgive them if he walks away from Annabelle. Any sane man would accept the deal.”

“Or he might move up the date of the wedding in the hopes that Annabelle's portion would satisfy the debt.”

His sigh had echoed through the carriage even over the crunching of the wheels over the graveled drive of Nevarton Chase. “There is that. We will have to hope that he wants to rid himself of debt more than he wants an heiress as his bride.”

“Which do you think he will choose?”

“My dear lady, that is anyone's guess.”

A knock at her bedroom door jerked her out of her memory and back to the present. She stared wide-eyed at herself in the mirror for a moment as she collected herself, then called, “Come in.”

The door eased open, and Annabelle peeked around the edge of it. “Mrs. Burke, I'm so glad you're back.”

“Come in, Annabelle. I am simply freshening up before dinner.” Seizing a moment for herself, Cilla splashed water on her face, then with her eyes closed she grabbed the towel by feel and dried her skin. She heard the door close, and the soft shuffle of skirts
told her that Annabelle had entered the room.

“I know I shouldn't be bothering you on your free day,” Annabelle said, plopping down on the edge of the bed, “but you're the only one I can talk to about this.”

Cilla set the towel aside and turned to face Annabelle. “You know you can tell me anything, but I am surprised you have not gone to your mother with whatever is bothering you.”

“I don't want to upset her. She's so weepy these days over the wedding and all.” Annabelle traced one of the narrow black stripes on the skirt of her pretty pea green dress.

Cilla sat down in the chair by her writing desk. “Tell me what is troubling you.”

“It's Richard.”

“What about him?”

“I don't know if he really likes me.”

The girl's plaintive whisper brought instant sympathy to the fore. Words of reassurance bubbled to her lips, but Cilla stopped them just as she remembered that she was supposed to encourage the girl to second guess her engagement to the earl, not advocate the match.

Apparently her own newly found contentment was urging her to make sure everyone else was happy as well.

“Perhaps you are misinterpreting his demeanor,” she said. “Lord Raventhorpe is a member of the peerage and can be quite high in the instep.”

“It's not just that. I mean, sometimes he does tend to treat me like I'm not as good as he is because I'm
American, but that's not the real problem. I know he's marrying me for my money. I just don't know if he knows that I know.”