The Stanhope Challenge - Regency Quartet - Four Regency Romances (14 page)

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You will.”

“Everyone will conclude you live in sin with me.”

“I conclude that if you will not make me your wife, I will make you my lover.”

His eye danced down her form. “Lacy, my god. Do not do this. I am not worthy of you. Not now. Perhaps, I never was.”

“Absurd! You were always and still are worthy of me.”

“If I was before, there was still the Stanhope Family curse.”

“Rubbish. I hear your brother Adam and his new wife now claim the infamous curse does not exist.”

“Perhaps for them this is true. But now, for you and me?” He glared at her and her heart broke with the sorrow she saw beneath his gruff façade. “The curse would destroy both of us. There is too much against us.”

“You love me,” she insisted and knew her petulance was not the way to argue with him here. She had to sound impervious to his ranting and remain unaffected by his words.

“There you see! The first characteristic of the family blight. The partners profess to care for each other.”

She inhaled, catching up her own courage in the process. “I care nothing for your family history. I know you love me. I love you. And we shall be together! Now. Here. Always.”

He snorted. “We cannot. You must go.”

How to wheedle my way in here and stay?
She held her arms akimbo. “How will you dispose of me? The weather conspires to defeat you.”

His face crumbled.

What had she said?
She scrambled for a lifeline. She could not be defeated now. “I am here until the rain stops and the roads are open.”

He shook his head and walked away. His shoulders sagged.

She advanced. “While I am here, you must let me help you. For all we were to each other, you owe me that.”

“Perhaps. But do not delude yourself. I am not well, Lacy. Besides,” he ground out, “What can you do in a few hours?”

Pray god, it is more than that.
“I’ll show you! Give me the running of your house.”

“What?” He chuckled. “Darling, I think you have gone daft.”

She strode toward him, ran her hands up over the massive chest and corded muscles that had made her mouth water months ago. Now, she felt how he had lost strength from disuse and malaise. She would make him what he had been. In body. Mind. And heart.

“Yes, my love.” She reached up and sweetly kissed him once upon his stern mouth. His lips had always melded with hers, no matter the day, the hour, the circumstance. He was hers and she his from the moment they gazed upon each other. “I am mad for you, Wes. Tell Charles I am in charge.”

“He won’t take kindly to that.”

“I know.” She could have predicted that the butler would take umbrage at her command. But she’d also seen something else in the servant’s eyes. Something she could use. Appreciation of her feminine form. And if she had to, she would persuade Charles to her own ends. Anything, everything, to make Wes whole again. And hers. “But he will agree, won’t he, for a few hours, as you say? And I need his help. Tell him that whatever I want I must have.”

“And when the rains stop, you will leave.” It was not a question but a demand.

She smiled a tiny concession. For now. “I will go.”

“Charles?” Wes called for his man.

This time, Lacy paid more attention to the tall, well-proportioned blond who walked into the great room of the old lodge. Wes’s long time companion and servant on the battlefield was perhaps five or more years older than his master. With broad shoulders and a lean torso, Charles had a certain likeness to Wes about the eyes and mouth that made Lacy wonder if Charles were a by-blow of Wes’s father. That man, the Earl of Stanhope, was renowned for his many wives, mistresses and conquests of servant girls. If Charles was a Stanhope by blood, that would bind him to his master in ways that might be advantageous to Lacy. If Charles’s heritage made him more amenable to helping her save Wes, then so be it. She would avail herself of whatever familial devotion Charles possessed.

“Lady Featherstone refuses to leave,” Wes told him.

Charles, who had been drying a glass with a towel, paused to consider Lacy. “We can put her in the bedroom upstairs in the back.”

“Is it near the Colonel’s bedroom, Charles?” she asked, cool as lemonade in June.

“No, my lady.”

“I wish to be placed in a bedroom adjoining his.”

Wes arched a dark auburn brow. “Lacy, that is not proper.”

“My very presence is not proper, Wes. And you’ve agreed that I have the run of the house.” She glanced at Charles. “Do you sleep with the Colonel?”

Charles blinked. “Sometimes, when he has the nightmares, I stay, yes.”

“Where?”

“
Where,
my lady?”

She nodded, acting impervious to his shock.

“In the trundle, under the—”

She waved a hand and smiled like the mistress of the house. “There will be no more need for you to trouble yourself.”

“To serve the Colonel,” Charles said with finality, “is my duty.”

“Now, it is mine.”

Wes groped for words, looking as if he had just swallowed an elephant. He recovered only part of his compose. Shock and surprise warred with laughter as he told his man, “Charles, you must do as the lady requires.”

“Thank you, Wes.” She beamed at him then turned a consoling gaze on Charles. Such a look from her usually had men hanging on her every word. “I appreciate your help, Charles. My purpose is to ensure that the Colonel has every comfort and every delight available to him to recover fully.”

Charles took in her lips, her eyes, her hair. If he had listened in on Wes’s and her prior conversation from the other room, he knew that they had kissed. He could probably see that her lips were swollen with their kisses. She hoped her eyes twinkled with the promise of sensual delights to come. Her hair was down, a pale blonde cloud of curls resting upon her shoulders and draping the tips of her breasts. She was ripe for an affair.

Charles’ blue eyes sparked with his recognition of it.

At once, she concluded she had been so right to come here. To challenge Wes. To make him caress her. Make him see reason and feel their mutual passion. She would make him so happy, so excited, so healthy again, that he would take her to his arms and his bed. He would make love to her, she would make certain of it. But he was stubborn, and this would take time and ingenuity. So if she had to cajole Wes in ways that might be a bit unusual for a lady of society, she would.

Charles would comply.

And Wes would hurry to marry her.

That night, she rose from the supper table as Wes finished his meal, rubbed his eye patch and his one good eye. She had ordered the fires built higher in the old lodge so that the temperature in this nook of the great hall was cozy. Wes needed the warmth to kill the chill in his bones and muscles. That plus hearty food would help her on her mission to restore him to his former self.

She smiled at him. “Wait here, Wes. I will help you to your room. I wish to speak with Charles and will return in a minute.”

She picked up Wes’s plate and wine glass. Charles swept to one side to let her pass, his role as butler usurped by her.

She hastened off to the kitchen, thinking Charles a decent cook but lacking an imagination with which to embellish the meat and potatoes. Cabbage didn’t help his repertoire, either. When he appeared in the kitchen, his hands full of her plate and glass, she told him she would help him cook tomorrow night’s meal.

“I did not know ladies could cook,” he told her, part challenge, part question.

“I can,” she informed him with aplomb. “When I was a child, I loved our cook. She was a kindly woman, full of stories as she baked cookies and pies and dressed foul. I learned much as I sat there, watching and asking her questions. She died last year, and I miss her still. But I remember her each time I enter a kitchen.”

Charles’s expression went lax and he frowned at her. “I ordered a pig from the butcher last week. It should come in the morning.”

Trying to change the subject and keep your authority?
“Wonderful. But I want fresh fish for tomorrow night’s meal. Do buy three nice trout. Or a large salmon. I want fresh rosemary and thyme, too, for a stuffing.”

“Yes, m’lady.” He turned away, shaking his head as he picked up a bucket. “I’ll get fresh water from the well in back of the smokehouse for us.”

“Perfect. I’m going upstairs, Charles, to read to the Colonel. There will be no need for you to assist us tonight.”
Or any night hereafter.

A tick worked at the corner of Charles’s right eye. If Lacy had doubted Charles was of Stanhope blood, she did not now. That sign of irritation was one all Stanhopes had to one degree or another. She smiled at him in consolation.
Good-looking devil. But not my devil.
“Sleep well.”

Sailing into the dining room, she found it deserted. She muttered to herself, miffed that Wes had managed the stairs alone. Without her.
You mean to escape me? Not so, my love.

Catching up a book from the reading table, she made her way up the broad wooden staircase and adjourned to her bedroom. She shut her hall door with a resounding thud, intending to give notice to Wes she was here.
Ever here.
Not going anywhere.

With haste, she hustled to step from her gown and undo her chemise. In such a hurry to surprise Wes, she tangled the thin fabric. Casting it aside, she sighed. Naked, she shivered in anticipation of how bold she was about to be. She rubbed her hands over her breasts and down her ribs to her waist and the smooth curve of her hips. Her eyes closed as she prayed she was doing the best thing. She might have been a carefree girl and an assertive young woman in the drawing rooms, but tonight she would become more. She would turn brazen. A tart. But for a good cause.

You are about to have Wesley Stanhope.

She sighed. Delighted with herself. Her courage. She leaned over to view herself in the damn tiny mirror on the dresser. So much for the furnishings in old hunting lodges where women were never expected to stay for long. She grinned that she was here and ready for her own assault. Then she took up her hairbrush and worked vigorously until she could see in the mirror her hair had a high sheen. She reached for her Chinese silk robe of peach and ivory, the jewel of the carefully selected wardrobe she’d brought with her. Arranging her long curls over her shoulders, she looped the sash just once. Enough to seem modest. Enough to allow the robe to gape and slip and drop. Enough to serve her purposes. To ensure she might lure him even more, she brushed her nipples lightly with her fingertips. They peaked, hardening to a decadent point. She would leave little to chance.

She swirled, grabbed a book and made for the connecting door. Without the courtesy of knocking, she flung it open.

He sat on the edge of his large feather bed, his boots off, his shirt and breeches still on. The high fire Charles had built in the hearth blazed, highlighting Wes’s auburn hair with flames of red and gold. Struggling to sort the bed covers, he stared at her when she strode to his side.

“I’m here to help you.”

“Hell, Lacy. Stop this. Go get Charles.”

“No,” she told him sternly as she put a knee to the mattress, laid down the book and reached for the buttons on his shirt.

He clamped a hand over hers. “I will not allow this.”

She tossed him a smile. “Throw me out.”

He screwed up his face and lifted his hand. Considering the ceiling, he said, “Damn it. Hurry.”

She was quick as she cared to be. Which was to say, not very. One button was stuck. Her knuckles grazed his chest.

He smelled of the woods and the fire in the great room. She recalled how he had smelled so very much like…well,
Wes
, when she’d arrived and had held him and kissed him. How many nights had she lain awake at home in Grosvenor Square and recalled how she craved to be near him once more? Oh, how she had prayed for his safety in Spain. And she’d gotten her way, too, thank God. He was here with her as he was always meant to be, and she had her hands on him, saving him from himself. She hummed as she worked. And when she had the buttons undone, she brushed the fabric from his broad shoulders. He shivered. Frowning, he turned his face away, and she knew he had chosen this side so that she could not see the fullness of his expression. But his taut mouth told her he was tense. Attracted. Fighting her.

She leaned over, inhaling his scent, and put her lips to his sternum.

He sucked in air.

Swift as a bird, she shifted and caught one of his nipples to suck it and lave it.

“Christ, Lacy.” He shrank back.

She followed. Raining tiny kisses on his chest, she could feel how her robe gaped, her skin gliding over his furry chest, her own nipples diamond-hard in urgency.

He shook. Leaning on his one good arm, he could only object with a growl. “Stop this!”

Her answer was to lean closer, grasp the nape of his neck and give him a voluptuous kiss on the mouth.

This time, he groaned.

“I’ve thought of doing this,” she whispered, her lips on his cheek, “since you said goodbye to me in the garden at the Rolands’ ball, my love.” There in late May, amid the heady fragrances of fresh spring flowers, he had kissed her to distraction, affirming marriage as soon as he returned from the Peninsula. She inched up onto the bed beside him, letting the robe slip from her shoulders and puddle at her hips. “I have wanted your power and charm every moment since I first saw you. And you, my darling, have wanted me. I have dreamed of you. This. Us.”

“I have not dreamed of you,” he told her, his face harsh, his jaw set.

“You lie,” she said and traced the column of his throat with the tip of her nose.

“Leave me.”

“I can’t. I adore you. Don’t you see?” She leaned back, allowing him a full view of her beading breasts, her bare belly and perhaps more below.

His gaze fell there, and he blinked, his face drawn and sad. “I do see. As I saw the night we met. You are so lovely, darling. The Incomparable of The Season. Go home, Lacy.” He pleaded with her, even as he treasured her with his adoring eyes. “You can have so much more than I can offer you.”