The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress (32 page)

“Yes, I do.”

She laughed, then shifted to allow room for her hand to slide down his chest and over his stomach to his, well, she wasn’t entire sure what to call it.
Erection
or
arousal
perhaps? She’d heard a few terms but they were all rather distasteful or just silly.
Penis
was entirely too medical,
cock
entirely too coarse, and
manhood
just plain stupid.
Erection
or
arousal
it was then.

She caressed him lightly. “You do realize that not all men are quite this quick to oh, what’s the word? Recover, I believe.”

“No?”

“Well, not from what I’ve been told.” She swung her leg over his, shifted to rest her knees on either side of him, then straightened and grinned down at him. “It does seem a shame to waste it.”

He smiled slowly. “It does indeed.”

He grabbed her waist, raised her up, then slid her back onto him. She shivered with the delight of feeling him slide into her.

“Cameron.” She squeezed her muscles around him and watched the expression on his face, a grimace of pure pleasure. She raised up, then slid back down on him. “I like this.”

He gasped. “Yes, well, so do I.”

“I like watching your face when you’re inside me.”

He thrust upward and she gasped. “I like watching your face too.”

His gaze locked with hers and he thrust again and she rocked her hips against him. And hunger swelled between them and passion once again erupted, frantic and unrelenting and explosive. They drove into each other faster and harder, as if neither could get enough of the other. And when again that remarkable feeling of overpowering release claimed them both, it was as if their very essence had been spent, drained, exhausted by passion and joy and love. Nothing, nothing she had heard, nothing she had read, had truly prepared her for this, for the complete and utter joy of being one with a man. The man you loved.

Just before sleep claimed her, still curled in his embrace, she thought it would probably be best if he returned to his room before dawn, although she did hate to let him go. She’d never felt quite as warm and delightful and, well, loved as she did with their naked bodies entwined. But it would be most embarrassing if he was caught in her room. Although, really when one thought about it, it didn’t matter. The servants at Millworth had probably stumbled across far worse through the years. And Clara wasn’t here—Lucy wasn’t sure how she’d explain this to Clara. And Beryl would probably be amused.

Besides, Lucy was an independent adult—no—an independent woman. If she wished to take a lover, there was nothing to stop her.

Especially if that lover was the man she intended to spend the rest of her life with. She snuggled against him and wondered exactly what was in his note. And wondered as well why she really didn’t care.

 

 

Was there anything better in life than starting the day by waking up next to the man you loved? Cameron looked so delightfully tousled and warm from sleep, and quite, quite perfect. Even his nose.

“Are you staring at me?” he murmured, his eyes still closed.

“I am.” She leaned over and brushed her lips across his forehead. “Good morning, husband-to-be.”

His eyes flicked open. “For someone who needed to give due consideration to a proposal not twenty-four hours ago, you certainly have taken this engaged business to heart.”

“Well, I’m a changeable sort,” she said primly. “You’ll have to get used to that.” She rolled over and sat up.

He reached for her and tugged her back down beside him. “I suspect there are any number of things I shall have to get used to.”

“Do you know I’ve never slept naked before?” She lifted up the covers and glanced down at her nude body. “I like it. It feels so free and decadent.”

He laughed. “Well, then I shall make it a rule not to allow you to have any nightclothes.”

“A rule?” She raised a brow. “For me?”

“Would it help if I refuse to allow myself to wear any nightclothes as well?”

She thought for a moment. “I believe I could accept that.”

“As much as I hate to say this, I should go back to my room.” He grimaced and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Hopefully, I can do so undetected, but it is much later than I had planned.”

She shook her head in a mournful manner. “I am so sorry that I ruined your plans.”

“My plans rarely seem to work out the way I expected,” he said wryly.

“Plans change.” She sat up, leaned over, and kissed the back of his neck. He did have a wonderful neck. “Oh, and I would like to see that note of yours before you leave.”

He turned toward her, the oddest look in his eyes. “About that . . .”

Without warning, pounding sounded on the door. Before she could say a word the door swung open and Beryl burst into the room, Clara a step behind her.

“Lucy, your—” Beryl pulled up short and stared. Clara nearly smacked into her.

Clara gasped. “Good Lord.”

“Bloody hell, I was afraid of this.” Beryl groaned. “Although I suppose I should have expected it.”

“Good morning,” Lucy said brightly, clasping the covers closer around her. “Clara, you’re back.”

Clara choked.

“You remember . . .” Lucy paused. Lord Cameron did seem terribly formal given the circumstances, and Mr. Fairchild was no longer really accurate. “Cameron.”

“Good morning, ladies,” he said pleasantly, as if he had met them properly attired at breakfast and not sitting naked on a bed beside an equally naked woman he was not married to.

“Do you know who he is?” Clara stared.

“Yes, of course.” Lucy shrugged. “We all knew that before we left London. He’s Lord Cameron Effington.”

“Also known as Mr. Fairchild.” Clara shot a disgusted look at Cameron. “Also known as I. F. Aldrich.”

“Aldrich?” For a moment she had no idea what Clara was talking about. Then the truth slammed into her, stealing her breath and twisting her heart. She scrambled out of bed, pulling the bedspread with her, and stared at him. “You’re the one who has been writing those stories about me? It’s been you all along?”

Cameron’s eyes widened. “Lucy, I can explain—”

“Of course, I should have seen it myself.” Beryl clapped her palm to her forehead. “I read the
Messenger
nearly every day. I should have realized this Fairchild was that Fairchild. I read his stories all the time.”

“I tried to tell—”

“Explanations are the least of your problems at the moment,” Beryl said sharply. “Lucy . . .” She paused. “Your mother is here and”—she winced—“your brothers.”

“My what?” Lucy stared in horror. “How can my mother possibly be here? Are you sure?”

“Aside from the fact that there is a distinct family resemblance, she introduced herself as Mrs. Merryweather and said she was your mother?” Beryl huffed. “Why no, I’m not at all sure.”

“Good Lord.” Lucy wrapped the bedspread tighter around her and tried to pace. The last thing she needed at the moment was to have to deal with her mother. And her brothers. “How many brothers?”

Beryl stared. “How many do you have?”

“Four.”

“Oh well, that’s something.” Beryl shrugged. “There are only two.”

“Which ones?”

“I don’t know,” Beryl said sharply. “I don’t recall their names—I had other things on my mind. They were Mr. Merryweather and Mr. Merryweather.”

“One was Harold and the other was Joseph,” Clara said. “We arrived here at nearly the same time.”

“They prefer Harry and Joe,” Lucy murmured, still reeling from Cameron’s deception and her family’s surprise appearance. “My father is Harold.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Is my father here as well?”

“No.” Beryl shook her head. “At least not here at Millworth. But your mother did mention the rest of their party had remained in London.”

“The rest of their party?” Lucy groaned. “That’s all I need.”

“Lucy.” Cameron wrapped a blanket around himself, stood, and hobbled toward her. “We have to talk.”

“Now is not the time.” She had to dress and go downstairs. She had to figure out what she would say to her mother and her brothers. She had to . . . She whirled to face him. “You could have told me before now! You’ve had every opportunity to do so.”

“I wrote you a note.”

“Last night!”

“I tried to tell you everything before then.”

“Not very hard!”

“Well, it wasn’t easy.” He ran his hand through his already tousled hair. “I knew you weren’t going to take it well.”

“Not take it well?” Her voice rose
. “Not take it well!”

“Good Lord, Lucy, the problem isn’t that he didn’t tell you what he was doing.” Clara glared. “The problem is what he did in the first place.”

“Exactly.” Beryl crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s what you should be so infuriated about. I know I would.”

“I’m furious about all of it,” Lucy snapped.

“I can understand that,” Cameron said. “And justifiably so, but—”

“There is no time for this now,” Beryl interrupted. “Lucy, you need to dress at once. Miss West.” She nodded at Clara. “Please go downstairs and do whatever is necessary to keep Mrs. Merryweather in the parlor. I did tell her we had hosted a small party last night so Lucy was sleeping in. However, she does seem the type to take it into her head to track down her daughter herself. Give her tea or, better yet, brandy.”

“I’ll do my best.” Clara nodded, cast a contemptuous look at Cameron, and then quickly left the room.

Lucy stared. “What am I going to say to her?”

“Ask him.” Beryl gestured at Cameron. “He’s the writer.”

“Let me think,” Cameron said.

Lucy stared. “She wasn’t serious.”

“Of course not.” Beryl scoffed. “Although I do think your
Runaway Heiress
stories are quite clever and extremely humorous.”

“Do you really?” Cameron looked entirely too pleased given the circumstances.

“Oh, I do indeed.” Beryl nodded. “But I daresay this is not the right moment to discuss your literary prowess.” She smiled pleasantly. “Surely you have clothes here somewhere?”

“Somewhere.” He glanced around the room. Between Lucy’s grabbing the bedspread and Cameron’s use of the blanket, bedclothes were now scattered around the room in a haphazard manner.

Lucy clenched her teeth. “Get out!”

He shook his head. “I’m not leaving until you hear what I have to say.”

“I have no interest in hearing anything you have to say!”

“Although it’s probably quite interesting,” Beryl murmured.

“Nonetheless.” He squared his shoulders, which would have been far more effective had they not been naked. “You have to hear me out.”

“I don’t have to do anything!” She tottered toward the wardrobe, threw open the doors, and grabbed the first acceptable day dress she found. She swiveled on her heel to face him. “Last night on the terrace you said I knew the truth now.”

“Yes, well, not the
whole
truth.” He winced.

She stared at him. “How could you, Cameron? How could you write those stories about me?”

“They weren’t about you. Not really.” He stepped closer. “You were simply the inspiration.”

“You used me and lied to me.” The full impact of his deception crashed down on her. Her stomach heaved, a lump lodged in her throat, and her eyes burned. But she absolutely would not let him see her cry. She clenched her teeth. “Get out, Cameron. Now.”

“Lucy, I—”

“My lord.” Beryl stepped between them, her voice calm and reasonable. “I think you are suitably attired for the short trip down the hall to your room, where you shall immediately dress, pack your bag, and leave Millworth as discreetly as possible so as to avoid awkward encounters with our newest visitors.” She leaned toward him in a confidential manner. “Aside from being quite handsome, Lucy’s brothers are as tall as you and, while it’s difficult to compare accurately as they have their clothes on and you do not, seem to be healthy and extremely fit. I cannot imagine how protective older brothers would respond to so much as the merest hint that you and their sister—”

“They’d shoot you!” Lucy glared.

“They do that sort of thing in America, you know, or so I’ve heard,” Beryl continued. “And I think it’s best for all concerned if you return to London.”

“But I’m going to marry her,” he said staunchly.

Lucy scoffed. “Don’t bet on it,
Mr. Aldrich
!”

“Go, now.” Beryl ushered him to the door. “I shall join you in a minute to show you how to get out of the manor undetected.” She opened the door and nudged him out. He cast one last look at Lucy.

“Lucy.” The note of desperation in his voice nearly undid her.

She looked at him for a long moment, then pointedly turned away. After a moment, she heard the door close.

“Lucy,” Beryl said briskly. “I’ll help you with your dress, then you must greet your mother. This is not the first indiscretion Millworth has seen and I doubt it will be the last. Nor is yours the first heart to be broken here.” She paused. “Although I will admit that having one’s mother and two out of four brothers, who are supposed to be an ocean away, appear when one is still basking in the aftermath of passion does lend a farcical note to the proceedings.”

Lucy uttered something that might have been a sob or a laugh.

“Lucy,” Beryl snapped.

Lucy turned toward her.

“I realize that at this moment you want nothing more than to fling yourself on the bed . . .” She glanced at the disheveled bedclothes. “Well, perhaps not the bed but the chair or the chaise, anywhere really, and weep until you can weep no more. However, there’s no time for that now.” She moved to Lucy, grabbed her shoulders, and met her gaze firmly. “I’ve watched you, Lucy, and you, my dear girl, are made of sterner stuff. The last people you want to know about any of this are your family. While there is a chance you might forgive Effington—”

“Never!”

“You believe that at the moment and it is entirely possible you will never be able to forgive him. But love is an exceptionally diabolical emotion and pays no attention to reason or logic. If indeed you truly love each other, you might forgive him one day.” A firm note sounded in Beryl’s voice. “I would advise putting him through all the fires of hell first as is your due. However, if your family knows about his writings about you and, God help us all, last night, they will never forgive him. And never accept him.”

“Good!”

“Don’t burn bridges, Lucy. Not when it comes to your heart.” She studied her for a moment. “Keep your chin up, dear girl, and whatever you do, don’t cry. Mothers, no matter how formidable they may seem, can always tell when their daughters have been crying. And they are relentless in their efforts to find out why.”

Lucy stared, then drew a deep breath. “You’re right. My family would never forgive him.” She gathered her resolve and tried to ignore the awful ache that had settled around her heart. “And neither will I.”

 

 

The sons of Harold and Pauline Merryweather were not expected to back down from a confrontation. Neither would their daughter. Even with her mother.

Lucy drew a deep breath and stepped into the parlor.

“My dear girl.” Mother rose from the sofa to meet her the moment Lucy stepped into the parlor.

Clara cast her a smile of encouragement and quickly took her leave.

Lucy adopted her most brilliant smile and sailed across the room. “Good day, Mother. What a lovely surprise.”

“I’m certain of that. Come here so that I may greet you properly.” Mother held out her arms and Lucy obediently moved into her embrace. At once she was a little girl again and the almost irresistible need to cry and be comforted rushed through her. She summoned all her resolve and stepped away. Mother studied her closely, then nodded. “You look . . . well.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Lucy turned to greet her brothers. “Harry, Joe, I can’t believe Mother dragged you across an entire ocean.”

“Not just us,” Joe, her second oldest brother, said with a long-suffering smile. “We left Cole and Parker in London.”

“So you’re all here. How delightful.” Although Lucy considered it anything but delightful. “Did Father come as well?”

“No,” Harry said, and Lucy breathed a silent sigh of relief. “We thought someone should stay at home. It didn’t make a great deal of sense for all of us to come.” Harry was the oldest and not at all prone to undue alarm or jumping to unwarranted conclusions. Pity his sister wasn’t more like him. “It didn’t make sense for the four of us to accompany Mother either, but she was worried about you.”

“Really?” Lucy widened her eyes in feigned disbelief.

Harry nodded, but curiosity shone in his eyes. “The rest of us knew there was probably nothing to be concerned about.”

“After all, you’ve never done anything to cause concern before,” Joe said, eyeing her thoughtfully.

“I do apologize, Mother, if I’ve caused you to worry. Although I can’t imagine why.”

Harry and Joe traded glances.

“Oh, and I think you can.” Mother’s eyes narrowed. She was a good inch shorter than her daughter, her hair still vibrant but a few shades darker than Lucy’s. In her early fifties, Mother looked at least ten years younger. “I think you can well imagine my surprise when I received a letter from a, well, a long-lost side of the family, if you will.”

Lucy winced to herself.

“Lady Northrup wrote expressing her delight in meeting a member of the American branch of the family. The letter was quite lovely, extolling the virtues of my only daughter. How terribly brave and independent you were, she wrote.” Mother’s eyes flashed. “Why, she would never have had the courage at your age to visit a foreign country accompanied only by a surprisingly youthful traveling companion.”

“Have you met Miss West?” Lucy said brightly.

“As she just left, it was unavoidable.” Mother’s jaw tightened.

“She’s very efficient and well organized,” Lucy added, as if efficient and well organized would negate everything else.

“And pretty,” Joe said to Harry. “Very pretty.”

“And she did appear”—Harry grinned—“extremely well organized.”

“I don’t care if she is the most efficient and organized creature ever to walk the face of the earth,” Mother said sharply. “What happened to Mrs. Channing?”

“Didn’t you get her letter?” Lucy said innocently.

“I most certainly did not!”

“I can’t imagine what happened.” Lucy shook her head in a regretful manner, ignoring the memory of Mrs. Channing’s letter merrily burning away in the fireplace in this very room. “But you know how unreliable transatlantic mail can be.”

“Nonetheless, I want to know what happened to her, and where on earth is Jackson?”

“I did write to you,” Lucy pointed out.

“And in spite of the untrustworthy nature of the mails, I did receive your letters. Quite regularly until the first of the year, and since then there have only been two.” A sharp note sounded in Mother’s voice. “Neither of which mentioned that you were no longer in Elizabeth’s company. Nor did they mention that you and Jackson had indeed parted company, which I assumed, by the way, given Lady Northrup’s suggestion that her son, Alfred—”

“Freddy,” Lucy said.

“—and you made such an attractive couple and perhaps we could encourage the two of you along those lines.”

“Goodness, Mother.” Lucy waved away the comment. “That happened before I left New York.” She paused. “Jackson and I parting ways, that is, not marrying Freddy. Which I have no interest in doing, by the way.”

“I was hopeful the differences between you and Jackson would be resolved when you came to England.”

“They weren’t because there really weren’t differences to resolve,” Lucy said firmly. “We were simply ready, more than ready really, to go our separate ways. You and Mrs. Channing were the only ones who thought differently.”

“She’s right there, Mother.” Harry nodded.

Joe scoffed. “The rest of us knew by the third or fourth time they postponed their engagement that this was one marriage that was never going to happen.”

“Fine,” Mother snapped. “My question still has not been answered. What happened to Elizabeth and where is Jackson?”

“Shall I be perfectly honest?” Lucy asked.

“I’ve never known you to be less than perfectly honest before.”