The Bewitching Hour (22 page)

    She hauled in a steadying breath. “Do other men do that?”
    He splayed his other hand across her abdomen and began caressing the soft flesh of her belly. “Do what?” he whispered against her cheek. “Touch like this?”
    She shook her head slightly. “No. You know.”
    He laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed, my love. There isn’t anything you can’t ask me.”
    “Do they make love that way? Put their mouths on a woman’s... private regions?”
    “No, I’m the only one.”
    His comment temporarily broke the spell and she smacked him in the thigh. “You’re making fun of me. All you needed to do was say yes.”
    “Yes, some do. It isn’t anything new.”
    “Oh, heavens.” She brought her hand to her mouth. “You don’t think…”
    “What?”
    “That our parents could have…”
    “You mustn’t think of it, Priscilla.” His voice was a mixture of laughter and warning. “I’m certain our parents have enjoyed the marriage bed as much as anyone, but it won’t do to dwell on the specifics. It will only distress you.”
    She tried to block the thought and failed. “I don’t seem to be able to stop it. This is horrid.”
    He chuckled. “Then I will have to offer a distraction.” He tickled her again.
    Her muscles clenched against his fingertips. “Stop that.”
    He chuckled. “Why? You seem to like it.”
    “I don’t know. Oh, never mind. I do like it.” Trying to ignore his not so subtle ministrations, she snuggled against him. “Can I really ask you anything?”
    “Anything.”
    She smiled wickedly, knowing her question would distract him. “Why does your aunt call you Eugie?”
    His hands stopped moving. “Priscilla, that isn’t what I meant.”
    “But you said I could ask you anything.”
    He grunted. “Oh, very well. There’s no great story behind it. When I was little, I couldn’t pronounce my name very well and it came out Oo-gy. My mother and aunt thought it would be very cute to call me Eugie.” She felt his chest rise against her as he sighed. “I suppose it wasn’t so bad when I was four, but now it’s very annoying.”
    “Does your mother still call you Eugie?”
    “Thank God, no. My father made her stop before I went off to Eton. Didn’t want the other lads making fun, I suppose. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the same influence over my aunt. The name has stuck with her.”
    “I suppose you would prefer that I not call you Eugie?”
    He bent forward to kiss her hair. Two fingers slid inside her, the other hand caressed her breast. “My love,” he whispered into her ear. “You may call me anything you wish as long as you do it in the heat of passion.”
    A half hour later, Stratton jumped to the ground and swung Priscilla from the carriage. As they walked to the servant’s entrance he could tell from her movements that exhaustion was setting in. “I believe I’ve worn you out,” he said softly when they reached the door.
    “You did. But it was lovely.” She paused. “No, not lovely. I haven’t the faintest idea what word to use. Everything I can think of seems woefully inadequate.”
    “So it does.” He caught her chin and ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip then tilted her face up and kissed her gently.
    “Good night, Eugie,” she murmured.
    He playfully smacked her on the bottom. “Stratton,” he corrected. Then he laughed softly. “I hope I’m mistaken, but you may not love me very much tomorrow, Priscilla.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    “You may very well be sore.”
    “But I’m not sore at all now. Just sleepy and very relaxed.” She blinked and covered a yawn as he unlocked the door.
    “Now, get some sleep.” Pressing the key in her palm, he kissed her briefly on the forehead and pushed her inside the door. "Good night, love." Then he quickly turned and left.

Stratton climbed into the carriage and leaned back against the velvet squabs, utterly spent, a lazy trail of warmth traveling through his body. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. Her scent lingered. Lilies mixed with the musky scent of her arousal. She was astonishingly passionate. She had given herself so completely, allowed him to do whatever he wished. He felt a familiar tug at his groin. Good Lord, as exhausted as he was, the desire to make love to her was rapidly returning. What sweet misery this was. Love had a way of drastically changing one’s perspective because the need to marry her was almost as strong as the need to bed her. He could only hope that tonight had changed her mind; that she would confide in him and he could make her troubles go away.
    The carriage slowed to a halt. Sighing, he reluctantly left the warmth and comfort of the cushioned carriage and hauled himself outside and up onto the bench. Rand handed him a half-empty flask and he took a drink, allowing the brandy to burn down his throat.
    “Did you and Miss Hawthorn have an enjoyable evening?” Rand asked with a grin.
    “I always enjoy Miss Hawthorn’s company.”
    Rand snorted. “That’s a very unsatisfactory answer.”
    Stratton lifted his brows and shrugged. “Perhaps, but it’s the only answer you’ll get.”
    “You were never one to part with details. You know she’ll murder us both if she ever figures out I was your driver.”
    “Then prepare to meet your maker because if she hasn’t already reached that conclusion, she will soon enough. She’s not a stupid woman. Who else would I trust?”
    “Well, if she comes up and slaps me full in the face, I’m holding you personally responsible. And it’s your turn to take the ribbons.” He took back the flask and handed over the reins. “It’s bloody cold out here and I need to warm up.” Lifting the flask, he took a drink.
    “Oh? I hadn’t really notice the cold.”
    Rand grunted. “That’s only because you’ve had your arms wrapped around a lovely warm body while I have been spent the past hour and a half driving about the streets of Mayfair, freezing my bloody balls off, because my best friend trusts me.”
    “Stop bellyaching. Look at it this way. I now owe you an enormous favor.” He watched as Rand took another drink from his flask. “What’s your destination?”
    “Miss Lamont’s.” Rand leaned back against the seat. “Her bed’s bound to be a sight warmer than my own though she is a bit miffed at me.”
    “How so?” Stratton flicked the reins and they rumbled off.
    “She’s complaining about the lack of social life she says I’ve imposed on her. I’ve never escorted my paramours to social affairs and don’t intend to start. I made that clear to her from the beginning." He took another long swallow. "Given that she’s more than amply rewarded for her favors, I don’t understand what her problem is.”
    “I imagine she grew accustomed to Lord Milton taking her about. The old codger most likely considered her a trophy to be shown off to his cronies.”
    Rand shrugged. “Then she can grow unaccustomed or find someone else to indulge her. I’m not willing to haul her about in the same social circles we’re obliged to move in.”
    “My, but you’re in a sour mood,” Stratton observed.
    “I suppose I am, but my foul temper is entirely your fault.”
    “You’re bellyaching again.”
    Rand sighed. “It’s more than a bellyache, damn you. You’ve caused me to think about things I absolutely don’t want to think about. I’ve spent the past hour and a half wondering what it would be like to find someone I truly wanted to marry. Though the idea of marriage terrifies me, for some Godforsaken reason, I’m envious of your good fortune in finding Miss Hawthorn. Devil take it, Stratton, it rankles me to think of your happiness, heartless bastard that I am.”
    “My happiness isn’t certain. I’m wearing her down but she hasn’t agreed to marry me, just yet. I didn’t think tonight was the right time to press.” He stopped to consider Rand’s complaint. “You’ve never wanted to marry. Something you’ve made clear on numerous occasions. How could you be envious of something you’ve never even wanted?”
    Staring straight ahead, Rand took another drink and Stratton wondered if he were well on his way to becoming foxed. Rand enjoyed his drink as much as anyone, but he generally kept his wits about him. It had been years since he’d seen him deep in his cups.
    “My sire was the worst kind of libertine in all Christendom and as they say, the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Rand said finally. “It isn’t wise for me to marry. If I did, chances are very good that I would be the same kind of husband my father was. Recklessly, openly unfaithful until the very end.”
    Stratton nodded knowing that a great deal of emotion lay beneath his friend’s statement. He kept his tone light. “Married men keeping mistresses is common enough. Not one I plan to indulge in, but a common practice nonetheless.”
    Rand looked at him a long moment then snorted. “You’re showing my father far too much kindness. You know as well as I that he was far from discrete with his affairs and my mother was terribly hurt and humiliated by it. No,
that’s
showing him too much kindness. In addition to his collection of mistresses, he whored around like a madman with every light skirt who crossed his path and didn’t care who knew it,” Rand said bitterly. “I swore I would never hurt anyone the way he hurt my mother.” He shook his head. “If she weren’t so loved by the ton and if we weren’t so damnably wealthy, his behavior would have deemed us outcasts from society long ago. I adore women, Stratton. I can’t keep my hands off them. But I’m afraid I could never be happy with just one. The trouble is I’m beginning to wish I could.” He took in a breath. “I won’t follow in his footsteps. The last person I want to be like is my father.”
    Stratton knew his friend well enough to know this would never happen. “Unless you’ve made a drastic change in your own moral code, you’re nothing like your father. You don’t make a practice of tumbling young innocents who don’t understand what you’re about. You haven’t been unfaithful because there hasn’t been anyone to be unfaithful to. You haven’t sired a passel of by-blows and you generously and discretely provide for the ones your father left behind when you could have easily turned your back on them.”
    “What else could I do? I couldn’t turn out the brats to fend for themselves. It isn’t their fault they were born bastards.” He shook his head. “The old man couldn’t keep his breeches fastened to save his life. Couldn’t take a moment to avoid impregnating some poor girl who had the misfortune to take his fancy. He made certain they were kept hidden away. Couldn’t remember their names. Didn’t even know how many there were when I asked him.”
    “The youngest must be what--around twelve years or so?”
    “Elizabeth’s fourteen.” In spite of his ill humor he chuckled. “She’s a bossy little thing. Planted her fist in Alexander’s face last year. He deserved it, too.”
    Stratton glanced over at him. “But that’s my point. She’s one of a dozen by blows your father sired and you know far more about them than he ever did.”
    “Eleven,” Rand corrected. “Eleven that I know of, anyway.”
    “Eleven,” Stratton amended. “Are they all still in Hampshire?”
    “Samuel is in Sussex, working for Danfield Shipping. Alexander, Michael and Richard are at Eton. The rest are in Hampshire.” He stopped abruptly. “I’m just so bloody sick and tired of pretending they don’t exist. Legitimate or not, they’re a part of my family. It isn’t so bad for the boys. They will learn a trade, have an income, most will probably end up working for me. And the girls will be well provided for but I can’t bring them to London and give them a season. It just seems damnably unfair.”
    “They have a good life,” Stratton pointed out as he turned onto Green Street. “It may not be all that you want for them, but it’s still a good life. Better than most.”
    Rand shrugged. “I suppose. Don’t mind me. As you said, I’m in a sour mood. Nothing April can’t put to right.” He took another pull on his flask.
    “You wouldn’t be foxed, would you?”
    “I’m not quite certain. I suppose I’ll find out when I attempt to find my way to the bedchamber.” A rumble of bitter laughter escaped his chest. “Or after.”
    A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the Green Street townhouse. Rand dropped his flask into his pocket and jumped to the ground, stumbling only slightly. “Must be all right,” he muttered as he steadied himself by grasping the door handle of the carriage. “Didn’t fall down.”
    “Shall I wait to see if you can make it to the door?”
    “If I’m to be humiliated by passing out on my doorstep, I would rather there be no witnesses.”
    Even so, Stratton watched as Rand made his way to the front door. Once the door was open, Stratton flicked the ribbons and headed for home.

C
arefully holding the rose with one hand, Priscilla placed the pruning shears at an angle above the base of the stem and snipped. She held it up for inspection. The rose was lovely—a deep red bud that had just begun to unfurl its petals—and the scent was heavenly. She only needed a few more to complete the centerpiece Olivia had started. She placed the rose in her basket and moved over to the next bush to continue her search.
    “Miss. Lord Mallory, has come to call.”
    Startled by the butler’s voice, she almost dropped her shears. She turned to see Beldon cautiously avoiding a puddle left from an early morning shower. “Oh bother,” she muttered. Resuming her task, she snipped another rose and laid it in her basket. “Could you simply tell him I’m indisposed?” It wasn’t exactly a lie as she was disinclined to see him.
    “I could, miss, however I fear he has seen you through the window.” His tone was regretful. “He did seem most anxious to see you so I’m afraid I’ve taken the liberty of seating him in the drawing room.”
    The same drawing room that overlooked the garden, There was no chance that he hadn’t seen her. “I’ve only a few more roses to cut. Perhaps Mrs. Hutton could keep him company while I finish up.”
    For a fraction of a second, the butler appeared to smile. “Mrs. Hutton is indisposed.”
    Indisposed? Rubbish. It seemed unfair that Olivia could hide upstairs while she had to waste her time entertaining someone she had no desire to see. She owed him some degree of courtesy but he would have to wait until she finished. Beldon held the basket while she cut six more red roses. With a sigh of irritation, she stripped off her gloves and handed them to the butler. “Very well. I suppose I had best go see what this is about.”
    Without stopping to change her gown or tidy her hair, she entered the drawing room. Mallory was standing by the fireplace with a glass of sherry in his hand. His garb was as garish as always; a yellow and gold patterned vest and bright blue jacket, but she wondered at the serious expression he wore. He set his glass on a table and came toward her.
    She dipped a brief curtsy. “I had not expected you, my lord. I was taking cuttings in the garden and I fear you caught me unaware.”
    His gazed flickered over her. “You are lovely as always. I must apologize for the unannounced visit and also for neglecting you. I hope my absence hasn’t caused you too much difficulty. I’ve just returned from my estate in Kent.”
    Priscilla hadn’t even realized he had been gone. “I hope your trip was pleasant.”
    “Well enough, under the circumstances.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips and it was all she could do to not snatch it away. Instead she gestured to the most uncomfortable chair in the drawing room and indicated that he take a seat.
    “My mother hasn’t been well.” They both sat down and he made a show of straightening the ruffles that circled his wrists.
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmured, knowing that Lady Mallory’s ailments were nothing but a ploy to get her son to visit. “Please, give her my highest regards the next time you see her.”
    “I was hoping that the next time I visited her, you might be with me.”
    She stifled a groan. This was not going well, at all. She might as well get it over with. “You obviously have something on your mind. What may I do for you, my lord?”
    “I do have something on my mind. Something rather important.” He cleared his throat. “I understand that a young lady might not wish to appear over eager and that courting couples often resort to little games. I have on several occasions asked if you would do me the honor of accepting my proposal of marriage. You have not accepted my offer, yet, your refusal has not been outright. I want to assure you that my fondness for you is most sincere.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “Please, hear me out. There are a dozen young ladies who would be overjoyed to wear my betrothal ring, but I find my heart belongs to you.”
    Eyes gleaming with excitement, he added, “Think of it Miss Hawthorn. With you on my arm, we would sweep the ton by storm. Our company would be sought after; our children the most handsome, our entertainments the grandest. It’s time to put an end to this nonsense and move forward.”
    She knew perfectly well what he meant, but asked, “What nonsense would that be?”
    He blinked in surprise. “Why, this pretense that you don’t wish to marry me.”
    “I’m not pretending.” She folded her arms. “I don’t wish to marry you.” She paused. “I don’t wish to marry anyone.”
    He jumped up from his seat and turned away from her. When he turned back around a blotchy flush covered his face. “You take this independence of yours much too far. It’s unthinkable that a young lady would not want to marry. It’s expected. It’s necessary. It’s what a young lady of your station
does.”
    Priscilla was so weary of the whole thing she wanted to scream that she loved another and send Mallory on his way. “I value your friendship, my lord. You are a fine man with many admirable qualities. And as you say, there are a number of young ladies who would be thrilled to make a match with you, but I am not one of them. I cannot say this more plainly. We would not suit.”
    His mouth fell open. “Of course we would suit. I am a man. You are a woman. We’re both of good breeding. We’re both pleasing to look at. We’ve shared many enjoyable moments together and there’s no reason why that shouldn’t continue. What more could you wish for? You would enjoy the prestige that comes with the Malory title. My ancestors came to this land…”
    Priscilla couldn’t take it another moment. Her ears snapped shut and though she could see that his mouth was moving, she managed to block out his rambling. God help the poor misguided creature who eventually married this man. She would likely die of monotony at a very young age.
    His voice cracked and he asked in anguish, “Miss Hawthorn, are you even listening? I am pouring my heart out and you appear to be a hundred miles away.”
    Thinking she would dearly love to be a hundred miles away, she said, “Forgive me."
    Hands in his pockets, he stared at her. And she stared back. He wasn't unattractive, but for the first time, she noted a slight puffiness to his jowls, eyes that seemed too small for his face, shoulders that were obviously padded beneath the tight jacket.
    “You must give me an answer.”
    Unless he had asked an additional question, she thought she already had.
    “Tell me there is hope for us.” He took three long steps and stood before her. "Please."
    Knowing she must bring this conversation to an end, she rose. “I don’t want to encourage you when there is no hope of marriage between us. We simply would not suit.” Those words again. How many times would she have to say them?
    A bitter smirk appeared on his face. “Tell me, my dear, do you and Lord Stratton suit?”
    The discomfort of his closeness was almost more than she could bear. She swallowed and gave a slight shake of her head. “No, we do not.”
    His hands lifted, then fell to his side. “You would prefer life as a spinster?”
    “I would prefer life free from a marriage I do not want.” The moment the words left her lips she sensed the hurt she had caused him and was sorry for it. A knot of guilt formed in her stomach.
    His eyes had gone flat. “Say no more, Miss Hawthorn. I bid you good day.” He bowed stiffly and stalked from the room.