Yours Until Dawn (19 page)

Gabriel propped his walking stick against the wall. He would have no need of it here. There were no cumbersome pieces of furniture to fall over, no delicate figurines to shatter.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, my lady?” he asked, offering her his arm.

“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?” Samantha said in an accusing tone, remembering the mysterious strains of music and the puzzling thumps she’d heard coming from the drawing room. “I thought Beckwith and Mrs. Philpot were having a midnight rendezvous.”

Gabriel laughed as he led her to the center of the gleaming floor. “I doubt I left them with the necessary stamina. Beckwith and I knocked heads more times than I care to recount and Mrs. Philpot’s poor toes never would have recovered if I hadn’t been wearing stockings instead of boots. It didn’t take us long to discover that I’m a miserable failure at both minuets and country dances.”

“If you can’t
feel
your partner,” she began, remembering his earlier words.

“…I can’t
find
my partner. Which is why I spent most of last night waltzing with Beckwith.” He sighed. “It’s such a pity Mrs. Philpot doesn’t waltz.”

“Waltzing?” Samantha echoed, unable to hide her shock. “Why, the archbishop himself has denounced it as the height of debauchery!”

Gabriel’s eyes sparkled with merriment. “Just imagine what he would have thought if he’d have seen me waltzing with my butler.”

“Even the Prince of Wales claims it’s utterly indecent for a man to hold a woman so close. That such proximity between partners can only lead to all manner of improprieties.”

“Indeed?” Gabriel murmured, sounding far more intrigued than scandalized. He laced his fingers through hers, drawing her even closer.

Samantha’s breath grew short, as if she’d already taken several turns around the ballroom. “Such a progressive dance might be acceptable in Vienna or Paris, my lord, but it’s been banned in every ballroom in London.”

“We’re not in London,” Gabriel reminded her, taking her into his arms.

He nodded toward the gallery. As a lone harpsichord manned by an unseen servant began to play, Gabriel splayed one hand at the small of her back and swept her into motion, accompanied by the tender strains of “Barbara Allen.” The wistful ballad, with its tale of squandered opportunities and lost love, had always been one of Samantha’s favorites. She’d never before heard it played as a waltz, but it lent itself perfectly to the gliding cadence of the dance.

As his body settled into the irresistible rhythm, Gabriel felt his natural grace returning. He closed his eyes, other, even more delicious sensations coming back to him as well—the thrill of holding a warm, female body against his, the silken whisper of her skirts, the trust with which she gave herself over to his lead. For the first time since Trafalgar, Gabriel did not mourn the loss of his sight. Whirling about the deserted ballroom with Samantha in his arms, he felt whole again.

Throwing his head back with an exultant laugh, Gabriel swept her into several swirling turns around the ballroom.

By the time the last strains of “Barbara Allen” had faded, they were both breathless with laughter. As the harpsichord launched into “Come Live with Me,” a winsome tune more suited to an allemande than a waltz, their steps slowed to a halt. Gabriel held fast to Samantha, reluctant to surrender both her and the moment.

“If you’re trying to convince me how civilized you are, you’re failing miserably,” she pointed out.

“Perhaps beneath our polished manners and fancy silks, we’re all just barbarians at heart.” Bringing her hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to the very center of her palm, allowing his lips to linger against her silky skin. “Even you, my prim and proper Miss Wickersham.”

There was no mistaking the husky tremor that ran through her voice. “If I were possessed of a more cynical nature, my lord, I might suspect you of setting this stage not for an apology, but for a seduction.”

“Which would you prefer?” No longer able to resist the temptation, Gabriel lowered his head, seeking his answer directly from her lips.

Samantha closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could deny any culpability in what was about to happen. But there was no denying the shudder of longing that went through her as Gabriel’s lips brushed hers in a feathery caress. This was nothing like the kiss they had shared in the library. That had been a passionate assault on her senses. This was a lover’s kiss—a leisurely sample of all the pleasures he had to offer, even more tempting and dangerous to her lonely heart.

He caressed the plump curves of her lips beneath his own, coaxing them to part, to accept the honeyed persuasion of his tongue. As its velvety heat swept through her mouth, delving deeper with each stroke, Samantha felt herself melting against him, felt the last of her resistance being scorched away. Suddenly she was the beggar at the feast—a feast of the senses her body had been denied for far too long. She wanted to gorge herself on him, sate her every craving with the fulsome delight of his kiss.

As her tongue joined the primal dance, savoring the claret-sweetened taste of him, he groaned deep in his throat. He didn’t require his sight to slip his hand into her bodice and find the softness of her breast through her silk chemise, to flick his thumb lightly across her distended nipple until she moaned into his mouth, awash in a pleasure as intense as it was forbidden.

Shamed by that helpless moan and afraid of where his greedy fingers might venture next, Gabriel tore both his hand and his mouth from Samantha.

Fighting to steady the hoarse rasp of his breathing, he rested his brow against hers. “You haven’t been entirely truthful with me, have you, Miss Wickersham?”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

Assuming the note of panic in her voice was the result of his indiscretion, he nuzzled his way to the delicate shell of her ear and whispered, “Because, much to my dismay, you are most definitely wearing undergarments.”

The song came to a close in that moment, the abrupt silence reminding them that there was an audience in the gallery.

“Shall I play another tune, my lord?” Beckwith’s cheerful voice came floating over the gilded railing, assuring them that the butler was still oblivious to the drama being played out on the ballroom floor.

It was Samantha who summoned the fortitude to disengage herself from his arms, Samantha who called out, “No, thank you, Beckwith. Lord Sheffield requires his rest. He’ll be resuming his lessons tomorrow promptly at two o’clock.” Her voice was no less crisp when she turned back to Gabriel and said, “Thank you for dinner, my lord.”

Amused by her transformation back into his stern nurse, he sketched her a formal bow. “And thank you, Miss Wickersham… for the dance.”

He cocked his head to listen to her fleeing footsteps, wondering, not for the first time, what other secrets his nurse might be hiding.

Beckwith returned to the servants’ hall to find Mrs. Philpot sitting all alone in front of the fire, savoring a warm cup of tea.

“How did the evening go?” she asked.

“I’d say it was a smashing success. Just what they both required. But we weren’t quite as discreet as we’d hoped. Apparently, Miss Wickersham overheard us in the drawing room last night.” He chuckled. “She thought the two of us were having a midnight rendezvous.”

“Fancy that.” Mrs. Philpot lifted her teacup to her lips to hide her own smile.

Beckwith shook his head. “Who could imagine a fussy old bachelor and a sedate widow fumbling in the dark like two lovestruck children?”

“Who indeed?” Resting her teacup on the hearth, Mrs. Philpot began to tug the pins from her hair one by one.

As the skeins of black silk came tumbling around her shoulders, Beckwith reached down to sift his fingers through them. “I’ve always loved your hair, you know.”

She caught his plump hand and pressed it to her cheek. “And I’ve always loved you. At least since you worked up the courage to call a lonely young widow ‘Lavinia’ instead of ‘Mrs. Philpot.’ ”

“Do you realize that was almost twenty years ago?”

“It seems like only yesterday. So what songs did you play for them?”

“ ‘Barbara Allen’ and your favorite, ‘Come Live with Me.’ ”

“ ‘Come live with me and be my love,’ ” she said, quoting Marlowe’s timeless poem.

“ ‘And we will all the pleasures prove,’ ” he finished, drawing her to her feet.

She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling like a girl’s. “Do you think the master would dismiss us if he knew?”

Beckwith shook his head before kissing her gently. “From what I witnessed tonight, I think he would envy us.”

My darling Cecily,

How dare you suggest that my family would consider you beneath me? You are my moon and stars. I am but dust beneath your delicate feet…

P
romptly at two o’clock the following afternoon, Samantha came marching through the foyer in her sensible half-boots, her expression so resolute that the other servants scurried to get out of her path. Her hair had been drawn into a severe knot at the nape of her neck and her lips were pursed as if she’d been sucking on lemons instead of perfuming herself with them. The unflattering cut of her dark gray morning dress managed to obscure any hint of a trim ankle or shapely curve.

She paced the drawing room as she waited for Gabriel, her old-fashioned petticoats rustling as if they had been soaked in starch. It hardly improved her temper to know that all of her efforts to appear respectable would be wasted on Gabriel. For all he knew, she could be waiting for him wearing nothing but her stockings and silk chemise. She fanned herself with her hand, her wicked imagination supplying a dizzying array of images of what he might do to her if she was.

He finally came sauntering into the drawing room at half past two, sweeping his walking stick in a jaunty arc in front of him. Sam trotted at his heels, clutching a battered boot in his mouth.

Tapping her foot, Samantha glared at the clock on the mantel. “I suppose you have no inkling of how late you are.”

“Not a clue. I can’t see the clock,” he gently reminded her.

“Oh,” she said, momentarily nonplussed. “I suppose we’d best get started, then.” Reluctant to touch him, she seized the sleeve of his shirt and tugged him to the mouth of her makeshift maze.

He groaned. “Not the furniture again. I’ve already done it a hundred times.”

“And you’ll do it a hundred more until navigating with the walking stick becomes second nature to you.”

“I’d much rather practice my dancing,” he said, the silky note in his voice unmistakable.

“Why practice a skill you already excel at?” Samantha retorted, giving him a light shove toward an overstuffed sofa.

When Gabriel reached the end of the maze, grumbling something about a Minotaur beneath his breath, his walking stick met only air.

Frowning, he waved the cane in a wider arc. “Where in the devil did the davenport go? I could have sworn it was here just a few days ago.”

In reply, Samantha stepped in front of him and threw open a pair of floor-to-ceiling French windows, clearing the path to the terrace. Barking shrilly, Sam dropped the boot and went scampering past them, taking off like a shot after some imaginary hare. A soft breeze, scented with lilac, drifted into the room.

“Since you seem to have mastered both the drawing room and the ballroom,” she explained, “I thought we’d take a walk around the grounds this afternoon.”

“No, thank you,” he said flatly.

Taken aback, she asked, “And why not? You said you were bored with the drawing room. I should think you’d be eager to enjoy a new diversion and a little fresh air.”

“I have all the air I need right here in the house.”

Puzzled, Samantha glanced down. He was gripping the walking stick as if it were a lifeline, his knuckles white with strain. His expressive face was set and stiff, the left corner of his mouth drawn downward. The effortless charm of last night had vanished, leaving in its place a forbidding mask.

Her breath caught on an odd little hitch as she realized that Gabriel wasn’t angry. He was afraid. Thinking back, she also realized that she hadn’t seen him brave the sunlight even once since her arrival at Fairchild Park.

Reaching down, she gently pried the walking stick from his grip and propped it against the wall. She boldly rested her hand atop his rigid forearm. “Your lungs might not require fresh air, my lord, but mine do. And you can hardly expect a lady to take a stroll on such a glorious spring afternoon without a gentleman to escort her.”

Samantha knew she was taking a risk, appealing to a gallantry he no longer possessed. But to her surprise, he reluctantly cupped his fingers over hers and inclined his head in a mocking bow. “Never let it be said that Gabriel Fairchild could deny a lady anything.”

He took one step forward, then another. Sunlight poured over his face like molten gold. As they stepped over the threshold, he tugged her to a halt. She feared he was going to balk, but it seemed he had only paused to draw a breath deep into his lungs. Samantha did the same, drinking in the smell of newly turned earth and the intoxicating perfume of the plump wisteria blooms twining around a nearby trellis.