The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (11 page)

“Thank you for this.”

“Certainly, anything for Britain’s finest naval hero.” Carson smiled, broadly. “I’ll have Donna prepare a chamber for the lass and she can rest for the afternoon. Poor thing looks completely done in.” He gave James a wink. “I’ll collect my wife and give you some privacy with the lady.”

James waited while Carson went and swept his wife from the chamber. Then he walked over to where Sunny sat in the wingchair by the tea table in front of the huge Palladian windows.

She was eating a piece of cake with what appeared to be enthusiasm. That was odd. Sunny had always refused all sweets.

She glanced up as he approached and her eyes had lost that earlier listlessness.

Beautiful eyes, full of kindness. They seemed to be the one thing about her that had remained unchanged.

He sat in the other chair at the small table.

Sugar glaze on her lips made them glossy. Made them appear fuller, redder.

He could taste that mouth, lush and sweet like wine. It was as though no time had passed since their earlier kiss. In his bed, and she hadn’t been wearing a stitch.

And he had refused what she had been so eagerly offering.

Now the memory of her kiss burnt his lips. He remembered the eager thrust of her tongue against his. Her arching back that pressed her breasts into his chest.

She wasn’t just a desirable woman. She was an extravagant luxury.

She dropped her gaze, took the napkin and wiped her mouth. Then she set the plate aside and folded her hands in her lap.

Some cake remained on the plate. He knew women enough to know she wouldn’t eat the remainder now.

He wished he had not stared so hard and made her self-conscious. He had enjoyed watching her eat.

“What will the dowager say?” she said in a barely audible voice, her eyes darting surreptitiously about the chamber, as though she feared if she spoke too loud that the dowager or Aunt Frances might appear out of the woodwork.

“I don’t know. But it is my worry, not yours. You’re not answerable to them—or to me, for that matter.”

“Oh…” Her voice trailed off and she reached for her wine. Her hand trembled slightly. “Last night, well, I want to explain…”

New blood rushed into his cock. His erection strained against his fall and he had to shift his weight on the seat.

Oh Christ, he wouldn’t be able to sit here and calmly discuss last night.

“Don’t fash over last night.” To have something to focus on, he took her half-empty glass and refilled it. Then he watched as she drank deeply, the column of her throat working rapidly.

He had pressed his lips to that throat…he could still taste the saltiness of her skin. She had been covered in sweat from fighting him.

She fought beautifully.

Her flesh had been like silk against his. But she was physically strong. He hadn’t expected that. This whole business of her being fragile and frail—nonsense. Her body was fit, as though she were active each day.

Well, that wasn’t the pattern for hysterical women, was it? Didn’t they spend their days lolling about on their chaises?

She set the glass down rather firmly. Then she smoothed her hands over her skirts. Her gloves lay on the table beside her. Perhaps her palms were sweating?

He frowned. “You’ve nothing to be anxious about.”

“Well,” she said on a deep sigh. She rubbed her palms again, then refolded her hands in her lap. “I have never, ever been not answerable to anyone.”

“You shan’t be answerable to anyone until you wed again.”

She raised her delicate, golden-brown brows. “Goodness, that is a most liberal attitude for you to take.” She flashed him a smile. “You’ve become very English, haven’t you?”

Then she lowered her eyes and her smile grew smaller until she was pressing her lips shut.

One slight dimple remained visible on her left cheek, as though her smile were hovering there, uncertain whether to hide or come back out.

There was something endearing about her anxious, lost manner.

Did she wish to have someone to be answerable to?

A husband?

Suddenly, he wanted to take her into his arms and make her rash promises. To fall to his knees before her chair and make her a passionate declaration.

To make a complete coxcomb of himself.

He smiled at her. “I doubt I should prove a very liberal husband.”

He’d made his tone light but he maintained intense eye contact with her, watching for the least sign of encouragement.

His heart began to race.

This was not England with its rigid rules. They could wed today here in Scotland.

Dear Lord, would he really offer for her? Yes, definitely, if she showed interest.

She wouldn’t get away from him this time…

She paled and glanced down.

Well, that was a telling sign if he’d ever seen one. Yet, he wouldn’t be discouraged so quickly this time.

A little persuasion might work wonders.

“Sunny, it would solve many problems for us. I would protect you always.” God. Had he just declared himself? This was not like him. He was not impulsive. He did not make emotional decisions.

He was unhappy with himself for having allowed the sudden influx of passion to overtake him. To loosen his tongue before he’d had a chance to think clearly over the whole matter.

It was too late.

If she accepted, he would be honor bound.

His heart was fairly leaping with…excitement over the prospect of finally possessing her as a wife? Or was it trepidation? He didn’t know.

Maybe both.

“You wouldn’t want a wife like me.” The words were toneless. She hadn’t even looked up again.

Ah, here it was.

She had rejected his previous proposal with sweet apologies, fluttering her lashes, her cheeks rosy and her eyes sparkling. But this here was so cold, so final.

The rejection seemed harsher.

More hopeless.

“I see,” he said, just as tonelessly.

His stomach took a sour turn and he swallowed back a gush of bitter bile.

Good God, he’d just had his offer rejected from her once more.

How had he ever allowed himself to be in this position? He had sworn to himself that he would never, ever give this girl such power again.

He breathed deeply, trying to deny himself the increasing tightness in his chest.

He remembered the dull, heavy, aching pressure he had felt there after she had rejected him the last time. He had drowned himself in whisky, brandy, ale, gin—whatever he could find to numb that pain.

Once back aboard ship, he had slacked in his duties, made poor decisions and forgotten important orders when suffering the ill effects of too much drink. He had gambled recklessly, fought duels over unimportant matters. He had damned near wrecked his whole career.

He hadn’t even been able to bed another woman for six full months.

His emotions over Sunny had almost destroyed his life.

He would not grieve over her this time. He was thirty-six years old. Wiser. Far less passionate.

He did not need this kind of dramatic nonsense in his life.

He wouldn’t tolerate it. Best to let the matter drop.

Let her believe that honor and a sense of protectiveness towards his cousin’s widow had prompted the mad gesture.

Her breasts rose and fell slowly. Was that a sigh of relief? His eyes were drawn to the cord in her neck. He fancied he could still feel her pulse against his mouth. Her flesh had been so sweet under his lips.

“Sunny, I think you’re being too hasty.”

Damn!

Where the hell had
that
statement come from?

He clamped his jaw shut but was uncertain he could prevent himself from speaking again.

“You wouldn’t want a wife like me.” She glanced up and her green eyes pierced him with their seriousness. “You wouldn’t.”

Despite that sharp glance, he sensed that her denial wasn’t so firm. Not as he had first thought. She might yet be persuaded. His heart began pounding again. He attempted to keep his expression calm. “You’re so certain?”

He kept his tone nonchalant, half-teasing. He managed to flash her a small grin. All the while, his heart, that organ he had thought so dried up, so cold and dead, beat mightily.

The intensity of her gaze pierced him. “You don’t know how wicked I can be.”

He barely dared to breathe.

“You don’t,” she repeated. But it was that steady gaze that broke through his resistance to believe.

She was speaking the truth.

A measure of rationality returned to him.

He did not know her limits. Or her extremes. This was nothing to be impulsive about.

His family’s title had been ripped away after Culloden. They had tasted shame, defeat. His grandfather had fought bravely in Queen Anne’s War, serving their English masters to regain their lands. Sacrificing all pride in the name of land and title.

James had been raised to know his duty. To know that he must make sacrifices of his own. All his adult life, he had worked hard to build his reputation. To build his naval career. To further his family’s honor. Now, soon to become an English peer, he would shortly take his place in the House of Lords.

He needed a wife who could be his hostess. A strong woman of taste, distinction and most of all discretion.

The idea of a hasty, impetuous marriage seemed far less romantic now, didn’t it?

But the lesson that it taught? His feelings for her were dangerous. She had the ability to make him forget his reason. He wished that he had disciplined himself against that sort of passionate impulsiveness.

He had not.

He’d best never forget that lesson again.

Sunny glanced down. He followed her attention. How primly she folded her hands.

“Did…” Her chest moved up and down with a deep breath. She compressed her lips, briefly. “Did your Aunt Frances tell you about…?”

His throat tightened. Anger flared within him—that she’d been forced into the position of confessing her sins to him, of all people! Damn Aunt Frances! And he had trusted her judgment. He grasped her hand. “You don’t owe me or anyone else any explanations.”

“Oh, but I never want to mislead—”

“What you do in private is your own concern.”

“What about your family honor?”

Yes, what about that? She couldn’t be running about meeting with footmen and creating scandals. But he also didn’t wish to make her feel as though he didn’t trust her. He wouldn’t be like the others. He believed a person could learn from the mistakes of youth.

Loss and grief could bring out emotions that a person didn’t know how to handle. He knew that well. He’d nearly destroyed his life at one time. Over her.

Hadn’t he learned to control his passions?

He regarded her sternly, seriously. “As long as what you do stays private, it is none of mine or anyone else’s affair.”

“But you are the head of this family.”

“You are not my wife. You are my cousin’s widow. If you wish to have lovers, it is not my place to forbid you. Unless you were to become indiscreet.”

Those words had almost choked him. He certainly did not wish for her to be with any other man. But it was right and fair that she be allowed to make her own decisions, within reason.

Life had been so unfair to Sunny. He must always treat her with fairness if nothing else.

If she came to him, if she gave him dominion over her, it would be because she wanted to. Not because she lived in fear of his familial authority over her.

But what was he thinking? Hadn’t he already decided she was unsuitable as a wife?

A hollow, aching sensation erupted in the center of his chest. To never have Sunny. But did he even still want her?

Or was he holding on to the memory of Sunny as a girl of eighteen?

No, he would make no hard decisions now. He would let her prove herself over time.

It’s past time for taking a wife. You’re not a young man any longer. Nor is she. If it is to be her, twenty-six is not that young, either.

He would give her some time to earn his trust regarding her behavior. Yes, that was right; that was fair. If she seemed able to become respectable, to be adaptable to be a nobleman’s wife, well, he just might make her another offer.

But for now, he would focus on caring for her in other ways.

How vulnerable she must feel! He held even her money in a trust. She had no house or carriage of her own.

He tapped his fingers on the table and reminded himself that he must order her personal effects to be packed and sent to her before they left for the border.

She hadn’t cared. She had been nervous to leave Blayne House immediately and had simply thrown a few items of clothing into a valise. But first there were things he must say to Catriona. He scooted his chair closer to her.