Cheryl Holt (21 page)

For a long while, she lay motionless, rejoicing in the aftermath, speculating as to what would occur next, what they would say, how they would act. Eventually, he reached down and petted her hair.

“Come here,” he softly commanded.

Without vacillating, she obeyed, clambering up so that she was stretched out on top of him. She stacked her fists and rested her chin on her hands, watching him as he pensively studied her.

He appeared terribly young and innocent, his cynicism and haughtiness had temporarily vanished, and he seemed distinctly perplexed by their budding attraction, at a loss as to how to explain the potency of their affinity. He was searching for answers from her, as if she were a great mystery he was trying to solve, or that he needed to determine whatever it was that made her tick. Or perhaps he was wanting to comment on what they’d just done, but he couldn’t verbalize his impressions.

Neither could she. The episode had been amazing, incredible, more sublime than she could possibly have dreamed before they’d commenced, but such a divulgence would make her seem more like the harlot he believed her to be. Nor could she mention, without sounding thoroughly immoral, that she was eager for a repeat performance.

Both lost in thought, they stared, their lips inches apart, their bodies merged, their hearts beating as one.

“Are you all right?” he finally inquired.

“Yes. How about you?”

“I’m still alive,” he teased, referring to the quip he’d made before they’d begun as to the drastic effect she might have on his mortality.

“I didn’t kill you?” she joked.

“I survived it well.”

“I’m relieved you’re such a hale fellow. I couldn’t
have rationalized your abrupt demise to Rutherford.”

Her grin spread from ear to ear and, joyful and exhilarated, he smiled, too. Clasping her buttocks, he urged her upward, till he could initiate a gentle kiss. He deepened it, his tongue gliding inside, and he moaned his delectation.

“I love the taste of my sex in your mouth. It’s as if you were made for me.”

“I liked what we did,” she shyly confessed.

“So did I.” Suggestively, he wiggled his brows.

“Let’s try it again,” she said impulsively, before she could keep the prurient proposition from slipping out.

“Give me a minute, my little strumpet.” Merrily, he swatted her on the bottom. “I need to catch my breath.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

“Well, you’re going to.”

He rotated them so that he was lying along the rear of the sofa, and she was spooned with him. His front was nestled against her back, and his naughty fingers lingered on her waist, then slid up to cup her breast. Though she was bewildered by her response, she was aroused, merely through her participation in spurring him to orgasm.

Her nipples were firm and ready for stimulation, and she writhed and fidgeted, anxious for him to apply pressure, to take the steps that would send them traveling down the road of passion once more, but he was content to repose.

There was barely enough room for the two of them, and she burrowed nearer, relishing how they were wedged together, his skin warm against her own, his chest rising and falling.

“I want you to visit in the evening,” he said, “so that you can stay the night with me. In my bed upstairs.”

“I never could.” But even as she dismissed his invitation,
her mind was awhirl with miscellaneous scenarios as to how she could bring it to fruition, how she could hide her protracted presence in the manor, how she could keep from being missed at home.

“Do it for me.”

She sighed. “You tempt me beyond my limits.”

“Good.”

A companionable silence descended, then he broke it. “I hate your dresses.”

“You’re such a flatterer, John.” She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “I bet the ladies in London can’t resist that silver tongue of yours.”

“I like it when you call me John.”

“I know. That’s why I don’t. You always get your way; you’re entirely too spoiled.”

“I want to buy you some new clothes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’d like to see you in red. Or maybe a bright blue.” He caressed her hair, her arm. “Let me.”

“Where would I wear a fancy gown? Besides”—she peered at him over her shoulder—“if you started purchasing my apparel, it would seem as if you were paying me for spending time with you. It would make our friendship so tawdry.”

“Oh, Em. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But that’s how I’d perceive it.”

Analyzing her, he struggled to comprehend her position. No doubt it was radically foreign to him. Most likely, he’d offered expensive gifts to many women in his life, and had been turned down by few. Ultimately, he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her hair.

“I suppose,” he grumbled, “that if I bought you a dress, you’d make me feel guilty for being affluent enough to afford it.”

“I probably would at that.” She chuckled. “You’re coming to know me extremely well.”

He chuckled, too, then yawned. “You make me happy.”

Her heart lurched. What a divine, perilous sentiment! There were dozens of sweet, endearing retorts she could have murmured in reply, but she forced them away, scared to let them out. He wouldn’t want to hear any mawkish drivel that he couldn’t return in kind.

Why, if she professed an inappropriate emotion, he might become concerned about her level of affection; he might refuse to meet with her again. She’d come to count on their assignations as the only thing that kept her going in the dark of night when despair threatened to overwhelm her. Their affair would end soon, and she didn’t need to hasten their separation with a foolish, insipid declaration of undue regard.

She closed her eyes and tucked the statement away, memorizing his exact tone when he’d said it so that she would never forget, and she cuddled to him, treasuring his heat and size, how she felt secure and protected in his arms.

His respiration steadied and slowed, and before long, he was snoring lightly. She delayed a few minutes, then she sneaked off the sofa. Quietly, she buttoned her dress, tied her hair, and scooped up her bonnet. There was a knitted throw on a chair by the fire, and she draped it over him, but he didn’t stir.

Scrutinizing every tiny detail, she observed him, and he looked so peaceful. She yearned to lean over and kiss him good-bye, but she worried that she’d wake him, and he wouldn’t let her get away, though truth be told, she wouldn’t exert much energy in attempting to leave if he coaxed her to remain. She’d love to dawdle by his side
forever, to bask with him in his easy existence of wealth and prosperity.

Shaking her head at her absurdity, she tiptoed out.

Just as she would have exited out the front door, his brother appeared almost from out of nowhere. Other than that initial, horrid afternoon, when he’d been a witness as she and John had negotiated their contract, she’d rarely crossed paths with him. She hadn’t quizzed John about Mr. Clayton or their relationship, and she wasn’t sure what to make of him now.

He was appraising her as though he’d stumbled upon her doing something she oughtn’t—which she definitely had been!—and she wished she could magically vanish into thin air.

“Hello, Miss Fitzgerald,” he cordially welcomed. “I didn’t know you’d arrived. What brings you up to the manor?”

“I’ve been working with Wakefield on the estate finances.” She was a terrible liar, and her cheeks flushed crimson.

“Really?” From the tenor of his question, she could tell that he didn’t believe her. “I hadn’t been informed that he’d sought your assistance.”

“It’s true,” she contended, much too ardently. “We’ve been discussing solutions that are less dramatic than eviction.”

“You wouldn’t—by chance—be forging on with that ridiculous bargain the two of you had me write down?”

“No,” she scoffed. “No.”

“Because I advised him that if he followed through with it, he’d have to answer to me.”

She gulped. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“Well”—she grappled for levity—“we had a good
laugh over it, then we got down to business.”

He rested a reassuring hand on her arm and said, “You could confide in me if you needed my help.”

Numerous frantic thoughts swamped her. What did she actually
know
about John Clayton? If his own brother deemed him capable of nefarious conduct, maybe her usually astute intuition had gone awry, and she didn’t know him at all.

“I don’t need any help,” she asserted. “We’re friends.”

“Friends. Hmm . . .” He mulled the word, rolling it on his tongue as though it were a novel flavor he’d never sampled. “I wasn’t aware that John had any female
friends
.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

“Where is he?”

“He . . . ah . . . he fell asleep in the library.”

“He fell asleep?”

Her admission of his sudden nap was stupid, and she kicked herself. If she and Wakefield had been having a fiscal meeting as she’d claimed, why would he have dozed off in the middle of it? He had many damning faults, but even
he
wasn’t that rude.

Mr. Clayton was meticulously evaluating her, and she peeked at her dress, wondering if she’d left a button undone or if a garter was sticking out, but her outfit seemed to be in order.

“He was very tired,” she volunteered lamely.

“He certainly must have been.”

Her idiocy was only making matters worse, and she had to escape before she said something even more asinine. “I’m sorry, but I’m late for another appointment. I’ve got to go.”

“By all means,” he graciously agreed, proceeding to
the door and opening it for her. “Don’t let me detain you.”

Marching out, she exhorted herself to take deliberate, measured strides but, sharp as any dagger blade, his assessing gaze cut into her back.

She reached the corner of the house and scurried around, out of his sight, hustling toward the woods and the safety of home.

L
ADY
Caroline Foster peeked out the window of her carriage as it meandered down the drive toward Wake-field Manor. Having never been to the estate before, she critically appraised the gardens, memorizing every aspect so that when she returned to London, she’d remember what she’d seen.

She knew all there was to know about the Wakefield holdings, having thoroughly studied the available information, but even though she’d read about the area on paper, it couldn’t render the crucial sort of detail supplied by a visual inspection.

With relish, she could recite the acreage, the number of employees, the annual income from the crofters, the amount of wheat, barley, and other crops produced in the fields. When she married John and became his viscountess, the sprawling property would be one of many over which they’d have dominion, so she’d made it a point to be fully apprised of the specifications before that auspicious day arrived.

Her impending role was daunting, and she yearned for John to be proud of her. For so many years, she’d waited faithfully for him to decide he was ready to wed, and when he finally relented and they walked down the aisle, she wanted him to be glad that he’d yielded to the inevitable.

She would be the best viscountess ever!

Her future had always involved marriage to the
Wakefield heir. Her grandparents and parents had wanted the alliance, and so had the late viscount, Douglas Clayton. Their plans had been set in stone when Caroline was a babe in her cradle.

Originally, she’d been slated for John’s older brother, James, but he’d died, so with his passing, she’d gained a different fiancé, and the modification hadn’t really affected her. She’d been so young, and the concept of a husband so distant, that one boy had been the same as another.

It had happened ages ago, and she scarcely recalled James, so it seemed as though she’d been groomed to marry John, and John alone, that there’d never been any Wakefield heir but him.

He hadn’t said as much, but she had a niggling suspicion he didn’t like that she’d initially been his brother’s intended. They hadn’t discussed his opinion—she wouldn’t be so crass as to raise the topic!—but she was haunted by the perception that he felt as though he hadn’t been her first choice, that he’d won her by default.

Often, she wondered if that wasn’t what kept him from declaring himself. John diligently labored to separate himself from James’s image, and he took affront whenever there was the slightest intimation that he should carry on as James might have done. If anyone was idiotic enough to counsel him as to how he should act more as James might have, he did exactly the opposite of what was suggested.

He could be exceptionally contrary, so she pretended that his reticence to tying the knot was simply due to his obstinate nature and not—heaven forbid!—any feelings he might harbor about her personally.

With her father’s estate adjacent to one of the Wakefield properties, she’d grown up around John, viewing him as a kind of detached, affectionate elder sibling.
Though he was six years older, they’d frequently socialized. Even as an adult, after he’d established himself in London, they’d encountered each other at various events.

Why, they were so close that they’d sat in the same pew at the church during James’s funeral!

She understood his strengths and weaknesses, his proclivities and flaws, and she was convinced that her placid demeanor would offset and complement his penchant for wild living and dissipation. They were friends and, as her mother constantly indicated, the length of their acquaintance would form the bedrock for a steady partnership—if John could move beyond the reservations that hampered him from making a decision.

Others thought she was crazy to persevere—after all, she’d just turned twenty-four!—but she acknowledged her duty, and she wasn’t about to shirk her responsibilities, although she would privately admit that she was irritated by his lack of initiative. She’d given up much to be his bride. As one season after another had come and gone with no grand celebration, she’d sustained excessive derision and ridicule, and while she courageously tried to ignore the barbs, the mockery hurt.