A Rake by Any Other Name (22 page)

But they were in a church, and this kiss was a solemn sort of kiss, not one likely to lead to ruination. At least, not immediately. If there was any jumping up and down to be done over it, she'd have to do it on the inside because just now, her feet were firmly on the ground, and her lips were firmly pressed against David Abbot's.

And all was right with Eliza's world.

When I was young, I lived for intrigue and romance. I was the belle of every ball and had a dozen suitors dancing on the string at any given time. But “Time wounds all heels,” they do say. Now I'd just as soon be dealt a good whist hand.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“Oh, confound and bother it!” Sophie went through another acrobatic gyration, but she still couldn't reach the trio of seed pearl buttons at that awkward spot on her spine. The red silk gown was simple and elegant, with a bodice that displayed her charms fetchingly without being vulgar. It had no ridiculous flounces or furbelows to detract from its classical lines. The only trouble with the design was the row of buttons down the back. They were too low when she stretched her arms back over her head, and too high if she tried to come at them from below.

The room was dimly lit by a single candle, but she could make out the bell pull by her bed. Since Eliza was gone to visit her sick aunt, Sophie could ring for assistance, and one of the Somerset maids would come trotting, but she'd been dressing herself since was old enough to toddle about. It felt beyond foolish to need help with something that ought to be so simple.

“And to think I actually spent good money on a dress designed to cause this very predicament!” she grumbled.

When the dowager suggested she needed a new wardrobe that required her to hire an abigail, it had seemed like solid advice. Almost altruistic. It was incumbent on one of her great wealth to provide employment for others.

If old Lady Somerset could see her now, she laugh at her.

No, probably
not
.

Sophie gave up on the buttons and instead pulled the ruby ring from its hiding place in her décolletage. Since Richard's grandmother had offered this spectacular piece of jewelry to seal their betrothal, she likely didn't have evil motives.

Just
inconvenient
ones.

She secreted the ring in the jewelry box on her vanity and tried to walk her fingers down from her nape to the out-of-reach buttons again. She brushed a fingernail on the top one but couldn't catch hold of it.

Sophie growled low in the back of her throat. The infernal gown was only part of her problem, only the last frustration in a long string of them this evening. The thing that really bothered her was how her insides had twisted in knots at supper. Lady Antonia had been seated between Richard and Lord Somerset on the far end of the long table. Every time Sophie glanced that way, the lady was chatting and laughing animatedly. Worse yet, Richard gave every appearance of listening to her with attentiveness.

Of course, it wasn't Richard's fault he was seated there beside her. Antonia had seized his arm the moment his father and mother led the party into the dining room. Before Sophie knew what was what, Lord Pruett offered her his arm, and it would have been churlish not to accept.

If Lord Pruett's plan was to make Sophie feel isolated, he succeeded completely. Lord Pruett seated her between himself and Sir Alan Westerling. He was an aging neighbor of the Barretts', who'd evidently been invited to help even the number of men and women. He couldn't hear anything she said to him without his ear trumpet, and even then, he misconstrued half her words. So she ate in uncomfortable silence, knowing the arrangement shouted that she wasn't welcome.

Still, she intended to marry Richard, and that guaranteed Lord Pruett's enmity, which was inconvenient for the moment.

“But this gown will
always
be inconvenient,” she muttered. She was just about to give up on the buttons when her doorknob turned and the latch gave with a snick. Richard slipped into her chamber, closing the door behind him quietly.

“What do you think you're doing here?” she whispered.

“Never let it be said I ignored a damsel in distress. I seem to remember you are without your maid and wondered if I could render aid.” He moved across the room, silent as a great cat.

“This is most improper, you know.”

“You surprise me, Sophie. I didn't think that sort of thing mattered to you.”

“It doesn't,” she said, wishing she still didn't feel that frisson of envy left over from supper. Jealousy was such an unattractive quality. She loathed it in others. She absolutely despised it in herself. “I meant for you. Or do you make a practice of invading your guests' rooms by night?”

“I only invade the ones who need me,” he said with a wicked smile.

“And has Lady Antonia needed you?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could call them back. They sounded so pathetic. After Julian, she'd promised herself she'd never need anyone again. It upset her to learn that she'd broken that vow already.

“I doubt Antonia needs anyone,” he said. “When it comes to organizing an event, she's a force of nature. All the guests she and Mother invited will be arriving tomorrow. Ella is going to be launched into society in the first stare of fashion, and all the women in the Barrett family are beyond thrilled.”

While Sophie could pay for an elegant wardrobe and furnish a home with tasteful art, she couldn't buy the social connections Lady Antonia was born with. Part of her insisted she shouldn't care. None of that mattered to her.

But did it matter to Richard?

“How fortunate Antonia is here then.”

He cocked his head at her. “What's wrong?”

Evidently she wasn't adept at hiding her feelings, but she didn't want to voice them either. Richard reached for her, but she stepped back a pace.

“Sophie, you're not upset about Antonia helping with Ella's come-out, are you?”

“I'd have to be a very small person if I was,” she said, feeling very small indeed.

“But you're distressed about something.”

When did he learn to read her so well?

A slow smile lifted at his lips. “You're jealous.”

“I am not.” The words scalded as they left her mouth. She was reminded why she was devoted to the truth, even when it wasn't convenient. Lies always tasted terrible. “But if I were, why do you sound like that pleases you?”

“Truly, you have no reason to be jealous. The only thing I feel for Antonia is friendship. You're the one I want, Sophie. You,” he said. “But you're right. If you are jealous, it would please me because it's proof that you care.”

What it proved was that somehow, she'd begun caring about Richard enough to give him the power to hurt her. When had that astounding event occurred?

“But I can't do what Antonia evidently can,” she said. “For pity's sake, I can't even host a simple tea party without things going so badly awry that you became violently ill.”

“The less said about that the better.” He frowned, uncomfortable being reminded of his desecration of the Barrett House hydrangeas. “Don't fret, darling. I never enjoyed entertaining that much to begin with. I'm sure there will be times when it can't be avoided, but when I think of our life together, all I think about is being with you.”

Relief flooded her chest, but it was tempered with a niggling worry. No doubt about it. She was vulnerable. She'd opened her heart to this man. Along with the thrill of love came the risk of loss. She'd been devastated by Julian's duplicity, but she'd recovered. If somehow she lost Richard, she didn't think she would.

He'd touched a deep place in her, a place she'd never allowed anyone to enter before. He'd seen through her bluster to the fragile soul she tried to shield. He could love and protect and nurture her. Or he could destroy her.

When she looked into his dark eyes, she decided loving Richard was worth the risk.

“Now, to business,” he said. “I'm still here to play your abigail. Turn around.”

“Honestly, I'd have managed on my own.” She obeyed him in any case, lifting her hair to one side, so he could find those dratted buttons more easily.

“How? You obviously can't reach these.”

“I was about to test the strength of the thread.”

He made a tsking noise as he slipped the seed pearls through their small, silky loops. “That'd make more work for your maid.”

“The whole point of this dratted gown is to make work for my maid.”

“No, it's not.” He grasped her shoulders gently and turned her to face him. “The point of this gown is to make every man who sees you in it want to see you out of it.”

As if to prove his words, he drew the red silk off her shoulders and down her bare arms. The fabric skimmed her flesh, followed by the pads of his fingers. Pleasure sparked over her skin. Once the gown cleared her hips, it pooled on the floor by her stockinged feet.

“You're so beautiful, and you smell like…” Richard buried his face at the juncture of her shoulder and neck, suckling the tender skin. “Roses. So sweet I could become drunk on the scent alone. I've wanted to do this since the soup course.”

“You showed remarkable restraint,” she said as he drew her into his arms. It had been hours and hours since the delicate white soup was served. Judging from his fevered kisses, he really had been saving up. “What did you want to do during the meat course?”

“This.” He unfastened the hooks and eyes of her stays. The linen undergarment gave, and she was standing before him in just her shift, pantalets, and stockings.

“Why are you allowed all the fun?” She plucked at the loose end of his cravat, and it unraveled in her hand. Then she peeled off his jacket and waistcoat, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. “Now it's my turn to do buttons. Stand still if you please.”

As she undid the row of pewter that ran down to his breastbone, he stroked her hair, pulling out the few pins that still remained in her coiffure.

“I can't believe you're mine,” he murmured.

“I'm not. Not officially.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she whispered. She'd always believed in being direct. This was no time to change. “We both know you're not here just to help me out of my gown and into my night rail. You're here to make love to me, aren't you?”

He drew a sharp breath. “A man can hope.”

“But you don't have to hope because I'm going to let you.”

Richard needed no further encouragement. He scooped her up and carried her to the waiting bed. He laid her down and then joined her, his hands roaming over her as he kissed her.

“I don't suppose we're the first couple in the world to anticipate our wedding night a bit,” she said as she pulled his shirt over his head.

“We're not even the first in Somerfield Park.” Richard made short work of her chemise and stared down in dark-eyed wonderment at her naked breasts. “Oh, Sophie, I could eat you up.”

He bent and kissed his way down to her taut nipples, suckling and nipping. Sophie arched into his mouth while one of his hands slid over her belly and found her aching mound, bare and waiting in the open crotch of her pantalets.

“Why do you say we're not the first?” she whispered. “Who else is as wicked as we?”

It did feel wicked. And wonderful. And she wondered how she'd lived so long without this man to stroke and tease her like this.

Richard came up for air, and while she undid his trouser buttons over his hipbones, he tugged the knot that kept her pantalets at her waist. When it gave, he slid them down her legs.

“Well, if you check the church rolls, you'll find I was born seven months to the day after my parents were wed.”

“Born prematurely?”

Richard chuckled and then nuzzled her belly. “They'd like me to think so, but as I weighed eight pounds at birth, it's hard to believe.”

“The wags say the first child can come at any time, but the second always takes nine months,” Sophie said with a giggle.

Still, part of her wanted to ask that they take precautions against conceiving. She didn't want a child of hers to be embarrassed about his birth date.

But Richard didn't seem embarrassed about anything. When he kissed down her belly and spread her knees, all rational thought about conception or anything else fled. Instead, only flickers of disjointed ideas floated through her mind.

What's he doing? Surely not. Oh, his tongue. Oh no. Oh…yes.

She'd thought his blessed fingers were magic. His mouth was nothing short of miraculous.

The whole world went wet and warm and wanting. Sophie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. Who knew how thin the walls in Somerfield Park were? But she was powerless to stop the small noises of need from escaping from her throat. She ached so badly. There was a throbbing bundle of nerves between her legs, and Richard was tormenting each one of them.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but she seemed to be traveling down a dark corridor, looking for the right door. Richard was driving her to it, his tongue chasing her down that hallway, massaging her to white-hot fury. Then, suddenly, the right door opened, and her whole body was flooded with light. Waves of pleasure shot out her fingers and toes, and made her shudder with relief.

But the deep ache still remained.

Then Richard moved and covered her body with his. Somehow, he'd lost his trousers along the way and the thick tip of him was poised at her entrance. Her eyes fluttered open and met his hooded gaze.

“I love you, Sophie Goodnight,” he said.

There it was. Plain. Honest. No “may well possibly.” Richard loved her. After that shattering release, she didn't think she could move a muscle, but somehow her lips turned up and she rocked her hips against him. “I can tell.”

“Good.” He pushed forward into her tightness. She expanded to receive him, and the ache was finally stilled. “I never want you to doubt me.”

With that, she shoved aside the last of her jealousy and wrapped her legs around him. He began to move, and she moved with him. It was better than the wildest gallop. More heart pounding than a tiger hunt. She hoped it would go on forever.