The Bewitching Hour (18 page)

T
he following morning dawned with ground fog as thick as soup. By early afternoon most of the mist had lifted but the sun stayed hidden and the air was clammy and damp. It would soon be drizzling, but Stratton was not in a mood to notice or care. At present, he was single minded in his purpose. He was about to ask Miss Priscilla Hawthorn for her hand in marriage. Last night had been a proposal of sorts, but he decided the right thing to do was to go down on bended knee, tell her he loved her and put an engagement ring on her finger. As Priscilla’s mother and stepfather were out of the country, he would go through the formality of speaking to Mrs. Hutton, but Priscilla was of age and there was no need for anyone’s permission.
    He strode up the short walkway and knocked on the front door. Seconds later, the front door swung open and he was presented with the butler’s expressionless face.
    “Good afternoon, Beldon. I’ve come to call on the ladies.”
    The butler allowed himself a faint look of surprise. “I’m afraid Mrs. Hutton is out visiting, my lord.”
    “Miss Hawthorn expects me. I presume she’s at home?’
    “Yes, my lord. Come in.” Beldon took his hat and gloves, then led him into the drawing room. “Please have a seat and I’ll tell Miss Hawthorn that you’re here.”
    Stratton stood by the fireplace and checked his pocket, making certain the ring was still safely inside. He knew that Priscilla would likely be suffering a few pangs of guilt. He was certain that in her mind, the marriage, or at the very least, the marriage proposal should have come first, but passion rarely took heed of its victim’s preconceptions. It mattered little. He would propose and she would soon be his bride.
    “She isn’t receiving visitors, my lord.” Stratton looked up. The butler’s face gave Stratton no indication of her reason.
    He frowned with concern. “Is she ill?”
    “No, my lord.”
    “Then why isn’t she receiving visitors?”
    “She didn’t say. She requested that I escort you to the door.”
    Escort him to the door? Confused and angry, Stratton swiftly crossed the room but when he reached the corridor, he turned in the direction of the staircase instead of following Beldon to the door. “I assume Miss Hawthorn’s chambers are on the second floor?” he called out over his shoulder.
    “You mustn’t go up there.” Beldon trailed behind him doing a plausible imitation of a mama bird protecting her young. “My lord, this isn’t proper.”
    Stratton grabbed the banister and climbed the steps two at a time. He reached the top of the steps and stared down the long corridor. The irony of the situation struck him. They had done much the same last night. He threw the first door open and seeing it was empty went to the next.
    “I must ask you to leave, my lord.” Beldon scurried past him and stopped about halfway down the corridor. He looked defiantly at Stratton who was opening and slamming doors shut as he progressed down the hall. “Miss Hawthorn isn’t receiving,” the butler said raising his voice enough to be heard over the racket Stratton was making.
    A bitter smile stretched across Stratton’s face. Unwittingly, the butler had just led him to Priscilla. He strode over to the door closest to Beldon and wrenched it open.
    The chamber was a small parlor with pale yellow walls and blue upholstered furniture. Priscilla sat on a blue and white settee, a crumpled handkerchief in her lap. She remained seated as she gazed up at Stratton with a somber expression.
    “Good afternoon, Priscilla,” he said.
    She inclined her head. “My lord.”
    Beldon’s apologetic voice came from behind him. “I’m terribly sorry, miss. I wasn’t able to prevent him from coming in.”
    She nodded. “I understand. You did what you could. Lord Stratton can be very demanding. You may leave us, now.”
    “And shut the door,” Stratton added.
    Beldon stood pensively outside the doorway. “Miss, might I be so bold as to suggest the doors remain open?”
    “No, you may not.” Stratton reached over and shut the door in Beldon’s face.
    “That was very discourteous,” Priscilla remarked.
    “It was, wasn’t it?” He waited ten seconds, then yanked the door open and Belton stumbled forward. “As is listening at the door. Thank you for all your help, Beldon. I assure you that no harm will come to your mistress. Now, if you would please excuse us, Miss Hawthorn and I wish to speak privately.”
    Beldon looked at Priscilla who nodded her assent. “Certainly.” He bowed stiffly.
    Stratton watched him retreat down the hallway, before shutting the door. He reached up and felt along the door ledge until he found a key. “You should do a better job of hiding your keys, Priscilla,” he said as he locked the door and slipped the key in his waistcoat pocket. “Anyone could find it.”
    “I hadn’t realized that I would be locked in. Am I a prisoner?”
    His jaw tensed as he turned back to her. “Until I get some answers, yes. Now, why in God’s name did you tell Beldon to send me away?”
    She sat very still. Her lips trembled slightly and she pressed them together as if to stop the trembling. Her finger clutched at her handkerchief. “You're angry.”
    “Of course, I’m bloody angry! You told Beldon to escort me to the door without a word of explanation. What kind of nonsense is whirling around in your pretty little skull? You have me at my wit’s end. After last night I suspected that you would suffer a pang or two of guilt, but to send me away is unfathomable.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Enlighten me, Priscilla. Make me understand.”
    She took in a deep breath and stared at her lap. “Last night...”
    “Look at me, Priscilla. Whatever it is, the least you can do is tell me to my face.”
    She lifted her head until her eyes met his. There were red-rimmed and swollen. That he’d been happy as a lark for most of the day while she had obviously been crying, didn’t sit well with him. But nothing was sitting particularly well, at the moment.
    “I made a mistake last night. I can’t change that, but I won’t let it happen again.”
    “A mistake?” Those were the last words he wanted to hear. “Please explain.”
    Her face was very pale. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
    “Are you referring to our making love?” He made no effort to soften the caustic edge in his voice. “Making love.” He repeated it slowly. “It isn’t that difficult to say.”
    ”Last night, I wanted you so badly I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. I allowed things to happen that I never should have.”
    “There’s no need for guilt or recrimination.”
    “There is." Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away. "I don’t blame you. You took what I offered. This is my fault, not yours. I know how difficult it is for men to control their--their baser urges.”
    “We’ve no more self control than a field full of bloody rabbits. Is that it?” His voice was mocking. “If that were true, I would have ravished you in my garden, the first time we met.”
    Her breath caught on a hitch as she looked away. “I simply can’t be around you anymore. You do something to me that I can’t explain. You make me feel things I shouldn’t feel. You make me want things that go far beyond what’s appropriate. It’s dangerous to be with you. I cannot trust myself.”
    His anger began to dissipate. If she hadn’t looked so miserable he might have laughed. He crossed the room and sat down on the settee beside her. “Why do you believe making love such a mistake? I know it brought you pleasure. There’s no shame in passion.”
    She hesitated a few moments before answering. “I could be carrying your child, couldn’t I?”
    “It’s possible.” He touched a strand of blond hair that had escaped its topknot. “I want children. You would make beautiful children. You would be a wonderful mother.”
    She brushed his hand away. “An illegitimate child would suffer greatly as would my family.”
    He couldn't believe she had thought this of him. “Good God. What kind of a person do you think I am? I have no intention of siring a bastard.” He knelt down on one knee and tightly captured her hands in his. “Miss Priscilla Hawthorn, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
    She lowered her head, but he caught her chin and brought it back up again. Her eyes glistened with tears. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t marry you.”
    His patience was nearing its end. “Why not?”
    She blinked and a tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t love you.”
    Feeling as if he had taken a blow to his heart, his hand dropped to his side. “How unconventional of you to make that an issue,” he said. “Amongst our peers, love is rarely a requirement for marriage.”
    “Nevertheless, it’s what I wish.” She pressed her lips tightly together. “Chances are, I may never marry.”
    “And if you find you’re with child?”
    She lifted her shoulders and looked away. “I don’t know. I suppose I'll deal with that if it happens”
    Without warning, he sat beside her and pulled her onto his lap. When she offered no resistance, he snaked a hand beneath her skirt and touched the lush, damp heat between her thighs.
    “Tell me you don’t love me, Priscilla.”
    “You’re confusing lust with love.” Her words came in an uneven whisper.
    “Tell me you don’t love me,” he whispered. “Say the words.”
    She made no move to remove his hand, but rested her forehead against his shoulder.
    He continued to caress the damp flesh beneath his fingertips and skimmed his lips along her jaw stopping to kiss the little indentation beneath her ear. Her pulse was skittering wildly and she clung to him.
    “Tell me you want me to stop, love.”
    “I can’t.” Her voice came as a cry.
    He quickly covered her mouth with a kiss while his fingers continued their work. He stroked her slowly, without entering her, teasing her desire, gently letting the sensations gradually build within her until her breathing became ragged and she began to move against him. Once inflamed, she was exquisitely uninhibited in her passion. He broke their kiss to watch the joy on her face. But when her expression tightened to one of desperate intensity he knew she was close and sealed her lips with a kiss to keep her from crying out. He felt the convulsive tremors in her soft moist flesh and heard a low shuddering moan as she found her release at his hand.
    Breathing heavily, she fell against him. He had intended to stop at this point, but he was hard and throbbing with need. He lifted her and turned her around until she was resting on her knees straddling him. Beneath the pale green canopy of her skirt he unfastened his pants, parted her with his fingers, and eased himself inside her. “Do you want this?” he whispered hoarsely. She rested her trembling hands on his shoulders. Eyes closed, she bit her bottom lip and nodded her head.
    
Thank God.
He placed his hands beneath her hips, easing her up and down slowly at first until they found their rhythm. When he couldn’t hold back any longer he put his hand between them, stroking the center of her desire, thrusting against her until she came a second time. A few heartbeats later, he groaned and shuddered as his own release followed.
    She dropped her head on his shoulder and collapsed. Stroking her back, slowly allowing her to ease back into reality, he waited before he placed his mouth next to her ear and said softly, “I have no intention of spending the rest of my life without you. I love you and whether you admit it or not, you love me.”
    Her breath caught, but the only other sound he heard was the rhythmic ticking of the Alpine clock on the mantle.
    “Tell me you love me, Priscilla.”
    She buried her face in his jacket. “I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
    He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the ring he’d brought with him, a gold band fashioned of delicate swirling leaves and roses and studded with small emeralds and rubies.
    “Sit up, love.”
    She did and when she saw what he held, she took in a small breath. “It’s exquisite.”
    “I thought you would like it. It belonged to my grandmother.” He slipped it on her ring finger, but it was much too loose. “I’m afraid, Grandmama was a very sturdy woman. A trip to the jeweler is in order.”
    “No.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t keep it. I can’t marry you.”
    Bewilderment ripped through him. “For God’s sake, why not? First you say we can’t marry because you don’t love me. Then you tell me you love me, but we still can’t marry. Are you planning to offer any explanation?”
    For a long moment she was quiet. “No.”
    “Christ.” He raked his fingers through his hair. Things had gone badly and he hadn’t the vaguest idea why. “You’ve been thoroughly compromised, my dear. I don’t believe you have a choice.”
    “I’m of age and I’ve made my choice.”
    He lifted her off his lap, set her next to him and began buttoning his trousers. “I give you fair warning. I will do everything in my power to wear you down. If that doesn’t work, I’ll let Mrs. Hutton know you’ve been compromised. I’ll post a notice in the damned paper, if I have to.”
    He heard the quick intake of her breath; saw the look of shock on her face. He stalked across the room, unlocked the door and turned to give her a parting bow. The expression she wore could only be described as mutinous. “Fight me all you wish. One way or another, Miss Hawthorn, you will be my wife.”

“
B
loody hell, Rand!” Stratton brought his Phaeton to a halt. Still reeling from his visit with Priscilla, he wasn’t in the mood to be social, but he couldn’t very well pass his best friend by without a word. “I damn near ran you over. Why in the devil are you walking?”
    Dressed in dark blue breeches and a charcoal waist coat and jacket, Rand strolled over and leaned against the gleaming red and black Phaeton. “I’ve been walking for more than thirty years. I do it all the time. Besides, it’s a beautiful day and I felt like walking.”
    “Rot! Given the choice, you never walk when you can ride. Where’s your mount?”
    “The farriers down the street. Ruck’s. I was on my way to see Miss Lamont and damn it all if Hudson didn’t hit a loose cobble and lose a shoe,” he explained referring to the gray stallion that was his favorite mount. ”Knowing that April was expecting me, I didn’t want to be late--it would have been terribly rude--so at the risk of getting my boots dirty I decided to toddle on until I could catch a hack.” He looked down ruefully at his dusty black Hessians.
    “I doubt rudeness was your first concern.” The viscount gave his tiger a curt nod. “Harry pop on over to Ruck’s and keep an eye on Hudson. Once he’s shod, make certain he gets to Mr. Danfield’s house.” He looked over at Rand. “Your place on Green Street?” he asked referring to the townhouse where he had housed his previous two mistresses’.
    Rand nodded and gave directions to the lad.
    Happy to escape his lordship’s black mood and fritter away the next few hours at the farriers, the boy jumped off the Phaeton and sped away.
    “Get in.”
    “I do appreciate it.” Rand climbed up beside Stratton. “You seem in an exceptionally bad humor. What’s the occasion?”
    Stratton grimaced. “Is it necessary that you know every detail of my life?”
    “I suppose not. Though I am quite curious, given your demeanor. Have you not found enough wood to chop? Do I need to knock you senseless and cart you over to Covent Gardens?”
    “Go to the devil, Rand.”
    “I’d rather not. Too much chance of running into my father.” Rand pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to dust off his boots. “Seriously, my friend, what ails you?”
    Stratton knew Rand would wring the truth from him sooner or later and decided to save time. “She won’t have me.”
    “You proposed marriage?”
    He nodded grimly. “The damnedest thing is, she won’t tell me why.”
    Rand shook the dust off his handkerchief, folded it and placed it back in his pocket before responding. “What do you intend to do?”
    Stratton shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t intend to give up on her, do you? That wouldn’t be like you at all.”
    “No, but if she would give me a reason for her refusal, I would have a better idea of how to proceed.”
    “You haven’t a notion?”
    “I’m completely baffled. She wouldn’t tell me. She’s hiding something, but I’m damned if I know what it is.”
    “How odd. Miss Hawthorn doesn’t seem the type to harbor any deep, dark secrets. I suppose you could still compromise her. It wouldn’t be particularly gallant but it would be effective.”
    Stratton stared at him in stony silence.
    Rand’s eyebrows slowly crawled up his scalp. “Christ! It’s gone that far and she still won’t have you?”
    The viscount didn’t even attempt to deny it. Rand knew him too well.
    “You’ll have your Miss Hawthorn. We only need to consider how to best go about it.”
    Stratton pulled up in front of a well kept, painted brick townhouse. “There’s no we in this. Not now. It isn’t your problem.”
    “We’ve been friends too long for you to say that.”
    “Damn it, Rand. Keep out of it. I don’t want you buggering things up.”
    “I shall keep out of it for the next few hours. After that, I make no promises.” Rand climbed down from the Phaeton, swept off his hat and gave an exaggerated bow. “I thank you for the ride, my lord.” He touched his fingers to his forehead in a salute then turned toward the house.