The Bewitching Hour (28 page)

    “I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “Did I hurt you?”
    Half laughing, half groaning, he pushed himself up, a tortured look on his face. “Sometimes the line between pain and pleasure is a thin one. Now be a good girl and lay back.” He knelt before her and drew her legs over his shoulders.
    She gazed up at him as he ran the palms of his hands along her thighs to cup her hips, his touch a mere whisper against her skin. He in turn said nothing but kept his eyes fixed on her face. How much time passed she didn’t know. She was aware of the crackling of the fire, the rush of blood pounding in her veins, the desire pooling in her loins. Heat flowed through her, melting away all but an overwhelming need to have him inside her and when the need became almost unbearable he pushed her thighs back against her breasts and poised himself over her. His eyes burned with desire. His musky scent filled her nostrils. “Tell me what you want, Priscilla,” he whispered.
    Everything. She wanted everything. She wanted him to cover her naked body with his, for him to plunge deep inside her until she could take no more, to pound against her until wave after wave of pleasure rippled through them both and she was left with nothing but the sweet sensation of exhaustion and the feel of his arms around her. She wanted to sleep next to him, wake with him in the morning, to bear his children, to share his home. She wanted to say so much that it was all more than she could manage so she said nothing.
    He continued to gaze at her, his eyes fixed on hers. She felt the tremor run through him, the hard press of his desire against her passage.
    “Tell me what you want,” he repeated.
    She drew his face down to hers. “You,” she said fiercely. “I want you to love me. Now.” Her lips remained parted as she watched his face and waited.
    Joy filled her as he plunged deep inside her, his body now a part of hers, his long deep strokes as steady as her heartbeat, their rhythm in perfect tune. She splayed her hands across his broad chest, tilted her hips and clenched her muscles around him. He groaned.
    There was no embarrassment. No shyness. Only sensation and love and giving. And lust. A deep searing lust that built with every stroke. She felt the pulsing between her legs as they joined, the bliss of having him buried deep inside her. The sensation as he withdrew and then came back to her over and over again. Surely there could be no pleasure greater than this. She made use of her hands, her fingers grazing the hard contours of his arms. She touched his face, his eyelids, the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw. She loved that they belonged to one another; the joy their union brought. But as their need spiraled and the tempo grew to a fever pitch her thoughts ceased and she was left with only sensation. There was no ability to restrain her movements, nothing to do but respond. She clenched and tightened, her toes curled, a vibration thrummed through her as she thrust against him desperate to reach the pinnacle that beckoned them both.
    “Come with me,” he whispered. A startled cry escaped her lips and she trembled and convulsed, surrendering to the orgasm that consumed her. Moments later, slick with sweat, bodies tangled, panting, they lay in utter exhaustion. Time passed and gradually her heartbeat slowed and her breath became even. She was again aware of her surroundings, the heavy fall of the rain, the crackling of the fire, the warmth and weight of his body against hers. She drew in a breath and giggled.
    Weary, he pushed himself up and kissed the tip of her nose. “We make wild passionate love and you giggle. You wound me.”
    “It’s only that this is a funny position to be in.” She scratched the back of his head with her toes.
    “Then I should probably let you move your legs before we get stuck like this.” He eased her legs down until her feet were flat on the mattress.
    She sighed with contentment. “I’m not nervous anymore.”
    “Good God, I should hope not. If you were still nervous, it would mean I’d been an abysmal failure.” He grunted as he pulled her closer and turned until they lay on their sides
    “No, you were no failure. Far from it.” She skimmed her hand across his shoulders, noting its breadth, the firm contours of his hips, the heavily muscled legs. “I realize I have no experience with which to make a comparison but I believe you have a rather nice body. Very athletic. I suppose you box and fence as well as ride?”
    “Of course.” He grinned. “It’s more or less a requirement of my position in society. Not that I mind. I enjoy both endeavors. But I also work. Hard. I realize it isn’t at all the thing but I actually find a sense of satisfaction in physical labor. I’ve never enjoyed being idle. I chop wood, mend fences, plant on occasion, do whatever needs to be done. My father always told me that to be a successful land owner; one must understand the demands of his estate. If it means getting my hands dirty, so be it. I can’t expect my tenants to do things I won’t do myself.” His grin widened. “It’s been awhile but I’ve even been known to muck out the stables. That was the price I paid before I was allowed prime horseflesh. My father can be a harsh taskmaster.” He chuckled. “And if this gets out I’ll be banned from polite society for life.”
    “I won’t tell,” she promised.
    “It wouldn’t be seemly.”
    “No it wouldn’t,” she agreed. “Your skin is bronzed from the sun.” She ran her hand down the contours of his arm. “I suppose you stripped off your shirt and made all the country misses pant as you attended to your labors.”
    “Every chance I got. You should have seen their faces when I swam naked in the lake.”
    She scowled. “Liar.”
    He laughed at the face she made. “You’ll never know for sure, will you?”
    “From now on, I am the only one allowed to pant.”
    “Fair enough, though you must promise to pant often. It does wonders for a man’s self esteem.”
    “Shall we live in Surrey most of the year?”
    “We’ll come to London for the season, but other than that, yes. I think you’ll grow to love Reston as I do. The air is clean. The sky is clear. Without burning coal there’s no soot constantly clinging to your skin and clothing." His expression took on a glow of contentment and pride. "We have three ponds, a good sized stream and a lake all full of trout. They practically jump into the boat when you’re not looking. I don’t suppose you fish? My sister enjoys it, but it isn’t normally a lady’s sport.”
    She smiled ruefully. “Only once. I was about five and I’m afraid I cried when I saw the poor thing wriggling desperately on the hook. I’ll leave the fishing to you, but I would like to start riding again.”
    He kissed her forehead. “We should find you a mount next week. You’ll need one in Surrey. We’ve meadows and plenty of wooded trails. It’s a wonderful place to live and a wonderful place to raise children but the house needs a woman’s touch. Most of my time has been spent on outside improvements and seeing to the tenant’s concerns and according to Cecelia, I’ve allowed the house to grow shabby." The back of his fingers grazed her cheek. "You may make whatever changes you wish.”
    “But I couldn’t,” she said. “I’m not mistress. It would be an affront to you mother to make major changes.”
    “My parents have no plans to return to Reston on a permanent basis. They will visit, of course, but my mother prefers London and my father is happiest where ever my mother is. You will be glad of it. Having my mother in residence is trying.”
    She tried unsuccessfully to pinch his arm. “That’s an awful to say about your mother. I’m certain she’s a wonderful person.”
    “So is my aunt.”
    She didn't miss the dry humor in his voice. “They’re really so much of a kind?”
    “They are.”
    “Oh, heavens,” she murmured. “What did I get myself into?”
    “There are compensations.” He rolled over until he was on his back and she was astride, then slowly raised and lowered her hips until they found their rhythm.
    “You are a beast,” she whispered. “Are you never satisfied?”
    “Never.”
    Yet it was actually he who finally cried out for mercy some time later. She gave in and allowed herself to be gathered up against the warmth of his chest, and they drifted to sleep.

Lord Mallory stared morosely at his empty glass then picked up the decanter. It was empty, too. He rose and made his way to the bell pull and gave it a yank. The butler appeared a split second later.
    “God’s teeth, Hawkins,” he muttered. “Have you been standing outside the door just waiting for me to call?”
    “No, my lord. I came to inform you that you have a caller. A Lady Williams.” He handed Mallory an ivory calling card. “I’ve shown her to the drawing room. What shall I tell her, my lord?”
    Mallory frowned. He and the lady in question barely knew one another. He pulled out his watch. It was ten-thirty. What would she be doing here at this hour of the night? How curious. “Tell her I will be there in a few moments. Have tea sent in to her and bring me some coffee and a clean jacket. The gold and lavender striped superfine.” Thank God he wasn’t yet too deep in his cups to receive visitors.
    Ten minutes and two strong cups of coffee later he stepped into the drawing room, freshly attired and smelling strongly of cloves. He put on a welcoming smile. “Forgive the delay, my lady, but I was with my steward.” He took her hand and bowed over it.
    She returned a faint smile. “No, it is I who must apologize. I’ve come to call on you uninvited at an unpardonably late hour.”
    “It’s no inconvenience at all.” Mallory was surprised to note that she was dressed in a simple high necked gown of gray and white and seemed nervous. From what he knew of her this was not at all her usual garb or demeanor.
    “Shall I pour your tea, my lord?” she asked politely.
    After two cups of coffee he had no desire for tea, but nodded and said, “Yes, please. Cream and one sugar please.” He watched as she poured, her white delicate hands trembling slightly.
    He took the cup from her and forced himself to take a sip. “Thank you. Now what brings you to my home?”
    She looked down and folded her hands in her lap. “In truth, sir, I have agonized over this for several days,” she said. “But I decided I must gather my courage and seek you out. Once I made the decision, I knew I must act before I lost my nerve, thus the late hour. It is only that this is an indelicate matter. Difficult for me to put into words.”
    Given her obvious discomfort, he couldn’t help but feel pity for her. “You must try.”
    She looked up at him with liquid brown eyes. “It is my understanding that you and Miss Hawthorn have developed a tendre for one another.”
    He had remained home to avoid this type of humiliation and found it offensive that she would attempt to bring it into his drawing room. “At one time that was correct,” he said stiffly. “Why you have come to me at this hour to discuss my relationship with Miss Hawthorn is beyond me.”
    She flushed. “I beg your pardon, my lord. It is not my intent to pry into your affairs. It is only that a conversation was overheard. Oh, I do not know how to say this. I believe Miss Hawthorn’s virtue and reputation are in great danger. She has been taken in by a libertine who means her harm.”
    He lifted his brows. “You speak of Lord Stratton? It was my understanding that they did not suit.”
    “He has persuaded her to elope with him.”
    A cold tremor shot down his spine. “This cannot be true.” His cup rattled as he set it back onto the saucer. “She said they did not suit.”
    “It is a ruse.” She lowered her gaze and chewed her lip nervously. “There is a bet between Lord Stratton and Mr. Danfield as to how long it will take before certain liberties are granted.”
    Horror gripped him. “Good God. How do you know this?"
    “My cousin overheard their conversation. Once they are a sufficient distance from London Lord Stratton will… make use of her and discard her at some tawdry inn. She is an innocent, my lord, while he is an experienced man of the world with a sordid appetite.” She paused. “’Liberties granted’ may well have been the wrong term. I doubt her cooperation is needed to win the bet. This is an evil game that they play.”
    Shaken, he stared at her, his eyes grim. “And without intervention they may very well succeed,” he said slowly. “I can see why they chose Miss Hawthorn. She is an innocent yet her companion allows her far more freedom than is wise. An issue I have addressed on more than one occasion, but I’m afraid it has fallen on deaf ears. And look at what has happened.” He brought his clenched fist down hard against the arm of his chair. “The blackguard! I should have seen this coming. At Oxford he and Mr. Danfield were known for their unprincipled pranks, though none were as malevolent as this. I did not tolerate their cruel whims but there were others who did not have the strength of character I possess. They fell victim and I often had to intercede on their behalf.”
    “What will you do?”
    “I shall begin by cutting the cur’s heart out.”
    She placed her hand on her chest. “Please, my lord. Violence may bring you satisfaction, but it will only make matters worse. If you were to talk to Miss Hawthorn, you would fare much better.”
    “He has her bewitched! She would never believe me.”
    “My cousin assures me that he has proof. With that in hand, she will have to believe you. Once she understands you have saved her from such a fate, her regard for you will be boundless. She will know you for the champion that you are.”
    He rested his chin against steepled fingers and nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point. Your trust in me is well placed.”
    “I knew you would want to help her.” Her head bent toward his in a conspiratorial fashion. “If you would allow it, I might have some insight as a woman that would be of help to you. Of course, you would have the final say in anything we might do.”
    He smiled. “Of course.” He would be the hero and Priscilla would be his wife.

P
riscilla stared at the gowns hanging in her wardrobe. How had she managed to accumulate so many? How perfectly ridiculous. It seemed she hadn’t had anything better to do with her life other than visit the modiste. Sally would have a time of it getting everything packed for the move but the packing couldn’t begin until she was free to disclose that she was a married woman. A married woman with an idiot for a husband who decided it was perfectly fine to allow someone to shoot at him.
    She'd been brooding over the upcoming duel for the past two day. As glorious as the wedding night had been, once they returned home, so did reality and all the fears that went with it. It didn’t help that every time she tried to bring the matter up, Stratton would remind her that she had promised not to talk about it. Lord, what had she been thinking to make such a promise?
    Her arms and legs were restless, her mind spinning like a top; she hadn't been this on edge since... possibly never. She'd rushed through the morning like the devil was at her heels--and accomplished almost nothing. Thus far, she'd tried to write her mother then discarded the idea when it became apparent that her wits were too addled to compose a single thought. She'd taken cuttings in the garden, but been incapable of arranging a simple bouquet. And when she sat down to review the household accounts, the numbers might as well have been Greek for all the sense they made. Slamming the door on the wardrobe, she sat down on a chaise, picked up her basket of embroidery, whipped out a number of chain stitches, all uneven, and pricked her finger.
Drat!
She sucked at the dot of blood. The faint throbbing did nothing to improve her mood.
    Mary would get the dressing down of a lifetime when she returned from Bath, as would Stratton and Bertie, once it was all over. Was she the only one who possessed an ounce of common sense? To remain indoors and stew over this mess was untenable. Perhaps a walk would ease her jitters. She retrieved her bonnet, gloves and pelisse from the dressing room and headed downstairs to find Sally.
    Five minutes later, Priscilla poked her head into the kitchen where their cook, a short woman of abundant proportions, was vigorously kneading a mound of dough. “Have you seen Sally? I was going to ask Beldon, but I can’t find him, either.”
    The woman looked up while she continued to pound the bread dough with impressive strength. “Beldon’s in the wine cellar, miss, an’ Sally went with Mrs. Hutton to 'elp her shop.”
    Good grief. How had she forgotten that? She untied the ribbons on her chip bonnet and pulled it off her head. “I just want to take a short stroll and get some fresh air.”
    “Won’t be gettin’ no fresh air today, miss. It’s ugly out there.”
    Priscilla exhaled a sharp sigh of disappointment and wandered down the corridor to the entrance hall to gaze out the window. Cook hadn’t exaggerated. Carts and carriages crowded the streets and a brown haze tinged the sky. Stratton’s glowing description of Reston made life in the country sound wonderful. Though she would sorely miss Olivia, she was looking forward to a life where the air was clean, one could take a walk without encountering pickpockets and children could safely run and play. But whether or not that would come to pass, would depend on what happened Saturday.
    Closing her eyes, she leaned her forehead against the cool window pane and tried to still the worries that plagued her. When she opened her eyes a few moments later, a gangly lad of twelve or so had just turned up the walkway. And he was carrying a letter. Before he reached the step, she pushed away from the window, dashed to the door and yanked it open.
    The boy’s mouth fell open and his eyes practically popped from his head. A well-bred young woman did not answer her own front door. Priscilla knew her behavior was beyond improper and she didn’t care one bit.
    “Is that letter for Miss Hawthorn?”
    He just stared at her.
    “Is that for Miss Hawthorn?” she said a little louder.
    “Yes, miss.” He swallowed hard. “A Miss Priscilla Hawthorn.”
    She held out her hand for the letter. “I’m Miss Hawthorn.”
    He handed it to her.
    Frowning, she examined it. The feminine scrawl and thick ivory vellum was far different than the letters she had received from her blackmailer. Too curious to take the time to retrieve a letter opener, she sliced though the wax seal with her fingernail, unfolded the letter and read.