Clandestine (38 page)

“I don't suppose,” he said, panting a little, “that you're wearing your little sponge?”

Sarah shook her head. “No, no! But it doesn't matter anymore.”

“Yes,” he said. “Alas, sweetheart, yes, it might.”

So he would protect her from the most scandalous consequences of their love, even now!

He kissed her bent nape, and withdrew slowly, slowly. Bereft, suddenly shy, Sarah dropped her skirts to her ankles and turned around. Her legs trembled. Her belly ached with pleasure.

Dark hair fell damply over his forehead. His eyes were wild and ecstatic. He was still erect, throbbing with unfulfilled arousal. Desperately, she wanted to help him, use her hands and her mouth on him, just as he had brought pleasure to her.

Guy stroked the wild tangles back from her forehead, then began to turn away. His erection brushed against her skirts.

“No,” she said. She caught him around the waist with both hands. “Let it be my turn now.” Intense pleasure fired through his blood as she stroked her fingers tentatively over his naked flesh. “You will show me how?”

He gazed down into her eyes for a moment, before he laughed a little, then nodded.

She smiled back, shy and hot and eager. “I want everything to be equal between us, Guy—”

He stopped her words with his mouth, then murmured in her ear, his very soul on fire with excitement.

“If you truly mean it, my love, this is hardly the moment for conversation.”

Sarah met his gaze and laughed as she sank with him onto the short turf. Fired with desire Guy sprawled back against the rock, while she knelt over him to explore the ultimate wonder of his ardor for her.

His moans filled his ears. His excitement built again into a white-hot intensity. It was the strangest of surrenders, to allow her to touch him and lick him, to be the passive partner abandoning his body to her hot exploration.

Tentative, bashful, she pleasured him as he had so often done for her. His glans throbbed with a life of its own. His pulse thundered. All thought dissolved in the face of such intense pleasure.

She glanced up—her eyes euphoric, dark and hot beneath her lashes. His heart swelled. With a choked groan, Guy lifted her to press his open mouth over hers—musk and salt and sweetness. Yet her fingers still palpated, and his head fell back, the kiss broken, consciousness fled, as he climaxed in her hand with blinding power.

Her fingers slipped away. Sarah chortled from pure bliss. His rapturous laughter joined in, swallowing his whispered sounds—both formless and heartfelt.

Still giggling, she collapsed to stretch out beside him on the grass.

Sunshine beat hotly through her closed eyelids, staining her world scarlet. Soft sounds betrayed that he was gathering his clothes and shrugging into his shirt.

Overwhelmed, Sarah drifted, almost on the edge of sleep, until she felt the cool touch of his shadow once again and knew that he was standing over her, shading her from the sun.

“You'll get burned,” he said softly. “The sun will give you the most unfashionable freckles.”

She shaded her eyes with one hand and smiled up at him. He had already buttoned his breeches and tied his cravat.

“That was—”

“Ah, sweetheart!” He thrust his arms into his coat sleeves. “Say nothing, unless it's to say that you love me.”

Tears burned. She sat up. “I love you.”

Fully dressed, he dropped down to sit beside her on the grass, his back against the rock, one arm about her shoulder. Her head cushioned, Sarah leaned into his strength and stared up at the sky.

“You're still hesitant to make a baby?” she asked.

He stroked wisps of hair from her cheeks and nodded.

“Then, even now, you're afraid for our future?”

“Yes, because I know now for certain that there's absolutely no way to prove that Berry is Rachel's child.”

A shiver passed down her spine, as if a cloud passed over the sun. Sarah pulled away to look at him. “Yet you still believe you can take him from the earl?”

He tugged her back into his embrace and pressed his lips to her hair. “Of course. I just don't know how high a price may be exacted.”

“Whatever it is, we must pay it.”

“Do you really mean that?”

Sarah nodded.

“At whatever cost to us?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

His fingers stroked gently along the back of her neck. “Because Lady Moorefield claims to have given birth at the Hall helped only by her own women, so no local midwife was in attendance. A doctor from London was called to assist, but he arrived too late—by design, obviously. He found the new mother a little tired from her ordeal, and the baby already at the breast of a wet nurse.”

“This doctor made no examination?”

“According to the servants' gossip, both mother and child were glowing with health. So the doctor refrained from imposing on Her Ladyship's modesty. Instead, he joined the earl to toast his new heir and returned home.”

“All of which could have been arranged ahead of time,” Sarah said. “Were none of the servants suspicious?”

“The lower staff believe she was genuinely with child, and Her Ladyship's personal women will be absolutely loyal. Two of them have been with her since she was born. Thus, all the witnesses would only swear to every circumstance of the lying-in, and the earl would see me damned for questioning it.”

The bit jingled as his horse tossed up its head to stare off into the distance.

Her heart lurched in alarm. Guy leaped to his feet and strode across to the gap in the rocks. Sarah scrambled up to join him.

The Rectory roof glimmered faintly in the valley far beneath them. Rooks wheeled over distant woods. The horse shook its ears and began grazing again.

No one was coming.

Yet Sarah felt filled with foreboding, as if the monster came to life again at the center of the maze.

“Then all we really have is Mrs. Siskin's story?” she asked.

Guy lifted his mount's reins from the bush and gazed out over the shimmering summer. Something close to heartbreak lurked in his eyes.

“I love you,” he said. “Whatever comes of all of this in the end, never forget that, Sarah. I love you and only you—deeply, absolutely, and with all my heart and soul—and always will.”

M
OOREFIELD
Hall basked benignly in the sunshine, a beautiful house that deserved to ring with happiness. Sarah's new gown was the most elegant she had ever possessed. The deep blue set off her pale complexion, robbing attention from her freckles to emphasize the smooth, creamy texture of her skin.

While they had all prepared in the grandest inn in Plymouth for their assault on Lord Moorefield, Guy had also produced a lady's maid, who had dressed Sarah's hair into a flattering new style. She knew she looked her best and there was great confidence to be found in that, even when in the presence of her far more beautiful cousin.

Yet Sarah felt only dread.

Radiant in ivory and white, Rachel clung to Sarah's arm. Her blond curls framed her face in breathtaking perfection. She looked fragile, wide-eyed, and innocent—
trailing a broken wing like a ringed plover
—in spite of her obvious underlying excitement and determination.

Elegant and deadly, Guy walked beside them. They were all shown up into a fashionable parlor to wait for His Lordship.

Lady Moorefield already stood at the window. She turned to greet her unexpected guests and give them all a tight smile.

“The earl will be here presently,” she said. “Pray, won't you sit? Though if you have business to discuss, Mr. Devoran, it can only be with my husband, surely?”

A vision of masculine perfection, his impeccable coat exactly fitting, his waistcoat a glory of subtle—but ruinously expensive—white-on-white embroidery, Guy bowed over her hand.

“I would never insist that a lady remain in any situation that makes her uncomfortable, Lady Moorefield, especially in her own house. However, while we await the earl, may I convey a message from my aunt?”

The countess glanced up at his face, then folded into a chair. “The Duchess of Blackdown?”

“I understand that Her Grace knew your mother quite well?”

She frowned. “My mama has been with the angels these ten years, sir.”

Guy sat down and crossed his legs at the knee. “Nevertheless, the duchess extends an invitation for you to stay at Wyldshay, whenever you might find convenient.”

“I must own myself quite startled,” Lady Moorefield said. “I had not been aware of the duchess's interest.”

“Perhaps because you've not made many friends since your marriage,” Guy said blandly. “Also, as it happens, Lady Crowse will be taking her own townhouse throughout the next Season. Should you find the idea appealing, she would enjoy another lady's companionship. In which case, you would never lack for friends or protection.”

Lady Moorefield stumbled to her feet, forcing Guy to rise also. “Please offer all appropriate appreciation to the duchess and Lady Crowse for their kind invitations, Mr. Devoran. However, if I wish to stay in London, I may do so with my own family, though I cannot think why anyone should imagine that I should not wish to remain with my husband and our little son.”

Guy bowed his head. “As you wish, ma'am.”

“What the devil is this about, Devoran? I'm a busy man, sir.”

Sarah glanced over her shoulder as Lord Moorefield stalked into the room, his face thunderous.

Guy bowed. “Just a friendly call, my lord. We've just come from Wyldshay. The duke and duchess convey all that is proper. You remember Mrs. Callaway, of course?”

Lord Moorefield looked Sarah up and down as she curtsied. “I can't say that I do, sir!”

“Perhaps you didn't notice me, my lord,” Sarah said. “I was here with the house party from Buckleigh.”

The earl dismissed her with the wave of one hand. “Of course, ma'am. Charmed.”

“Mrs. Callaway is a close friend of the St. Georges,” Guy said. “This is her sister, Miss Mansard.”

Giving the earl an angelic smile, Rachel curtsied. A servant entered with wine and cakes. Everyone sat down.

“May I offer my condolences on the unfortunate loss of your gardener, Moorefield?” Guy continued. “A skilled man, sadly lost, so I hear, in a local brawl?”

The earl leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Killed by revenue officers, sir, as you've no doubt already heard. There's not a man in Devon that doesn't take part in the local trade. Impossible to stop them, I'm afraid.”

Guy stared vacantly at the wine in his glass. “Then Croft has taken many secrets to the grave with him.”

“Secrets, sir?”

“So I understand,” Guy said mildly. “Though nothing, fortunately, that's lost forever.”

Lord Moorefield stared at his guest's impassive face. “I don't imagine for one moment that this is a simple social call, Devoran—”

He broke off as Rachel leaped up and dropped her plate, scattering cake across the carpet. She lifted her chin like an avenging angel, a vision of gold-and-white fury.

“No, it's not! Mr. Croft stole my baby and gave him to you, and I demand to have him back.”

Sarah caught Rachel's hand. The countess set her plate on a side table, her fingers shaking, but Moorefield threw back his head and laughed.

“So the St. Georges befriend madwomen now! Who is this creature, Devoran?”

“I'm the baby's real mother,” Rachel insisted. “That's why we're here, to get him back, however much you try to claim him as Lord Berrisham.”

“Rachel!” Sarah tugged hard, and her cousin sat down, her face mutinous. “Don't!” she whispered. “You promised!”

Ignoring the ladies, the earl took a delicate bite of cake, then shook crumbs from his fingers. “You support this unfortunate woman in her outrageous claims, Devoran?”

Guy stared absently at the ceiling, though a small muscle had tightened in his jaw. “Since they are true, yes, of course.”

“Hah! I'm not sure whether to dismiss this as an inappropriate jest, or call you out. The charge is obviously preposterous!”

“I wish that were so,” Guy said. “Of course, all the direct witnesses—Croft, who paid for and stole the baby; Mrs. Medway, the midwife who delivered him; your wife's maids, who concealed her false pregnancy—are all either sadly deceased or loyal to the point of death.”

“You're mad, sir!” Moorefield surged to his feet. “You insult me to my face in my own home?”

Guy leaned back and stretched out his legs. “I also, unfortunately, insult your wife, so you may be certain that I would never bring such charges without proof.”

“There is no proof,” the earl replied with deadly calm. “Furthermore, in spite of your care in reminding me of your illustrious relatives, you would be wise to remember that Fratherham is my wife's father, and I'm a peer of this realm.” He snapped his fingers in Guy's face. “I can break you like this.”